Книга - The Hotter You Burn

The Hotter You Burn
Gena Showalter


New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter is back with another sizzling Original Heartbreakers story featuring an irresistible charmer about to meet his match… Beck Ockley lives by a single rule: one and done. The millionaire playboy knows the pain of loss and will do anything to avoid another. He moved to the small town of Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, expecting more of the same–time with the only two friends he trusts, work…and lots of pleasure. What he never could have predicted was that a vulnerable Southern beauty would sneak past his defenses.Harlow Glass is determined to rebuild her life. The reformed bully has lost everyone and everything she loved, and she's paid the ultimate price for her checkered past. Now she wants commitment, the only thing Beck refuses to give. As their chemistry blazes white-hot, he'll either have to break her heart…or surrender his own.







New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter is back with another sizzling Original Heartbreakers story featuring an irresistible charmer about to meet his match…

Beck Ockley lives by a single rule: one and done. The millionaire playboy knows the pain of loss and will do anything to avoid another. He moved to the small town of Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, expecting more of the same—time with the only two friends he trusts, work…and lots of pleasure. What he never could have predicted was that a vulnerable Southern beauty would sneak past his defenses.

Harlow Glass is determined to rebuild her life. The reformed bully has lost everyone and everything she loved, and she’s paid the ultimate price for her checkered past. Now she wants commitment, the only thing Beck refuses to give. As their chemistry blazes white-hot, he’ll either have to break her heart…or surrender his own.


Praise for New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter (#ulink_47c29cc6-aaab-5733-abaf-681619f08767)

“Showalter…rocks me every time!”

—Sylvia Day, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Showalter writes fun, sexy characters you fall in love with!”

—Lori Foster, New York Times bestselling author

“Sassy, smart characters and an expertly woven, unconventional plot, The Closer You Come showcases

Gena Showalter in all her shining talent.”

—Kristan Higgins, New York Times bestselling author

“Showalter makes romance sizzle on every page!”

—Jill Shalvis, New York Times bestselling author

“Emotional, heart-tugging, kept me turning the pages!”

—Carly Phillips, New York Times bestselling author

“With compelling stories and memorable characters, Gena Showalter never fails to dazzle.”

—Jeaniene Frost, New York Times bestselling author

“The Showalter name on a book means guaranteed entertainment.”

—RT Book Reviews

“The versatile Showalter…once again shows that she can blend humor and poignancy while keeping readers entertained from start to finish.”

—Booklist on Catch a Mate


The Hotter You Burn

Gena Showalter




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book would not be what it is without my amazing editor, Emily Ohanjanians, who once again went above and beyond, pointing me in the right direction anytime I lost my way. Thank you! I thank God, the giver of all good things, for bringing you into my life.

A huge shout out to the magnificent Katie McGarry—an author I admire and adore—who spent precious time on the phone with me, helping me with my research (any mistakes are my own). You are a treasure!

A special thank you to these fantastic ladies and authors: Lori Foster, Carly Phillips, Jill Shalvis and Kristan Higgins. You guys rock on so many levels!

And to all the wonderful folks at Harlequin Books for taking a chance on this series I’ve been foaming at the mouth eager to write.


Contents

Cover (#uab3b7a2b-24d0-5553-9d11-1145c1b739fa)

Back Cover Text (#u3260e6bf-71ae-54be-9ebf-01c76eb6ed4c)

Praise (#ue9ac3bc3-9c26-5345-83e3-9a8d87aa3833)

Title Page (#u22da31d8-88ec-5609-84d1-b443a9435ec5)

Dedication (#ua1ce7cc0-2cd5-56ff-a640-c2e269a5a6be)

CHAPTER ONE (#u958c9102-db6b-5244-b24e-e9573a39e982)

CHAPTER TWO (#ua4f90703-d4ac-5e33-998e-553a4b574296)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf3251653-2121-5a2c-9304-a6141040399d)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u5ed624ce-30b0-5aba-95a0-b13b44f51522)

CHAPTER FIVE (#ua2a9cf3c-dc48-5648-b87d-ed71bfa96097)

CHAPTER SIX (#u42a121b3-bae2-5e70-9119-8ccbf33a19dc)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Recipe (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_1976d9ed-321a-5600-8c3f-51b84d68632f)

HARLOW GLASS STOOD on the porch of a hundred-year-old farmhouse that had more character than most people, waning daylight wrapping the structure in its loving embrace. Exterior walls once covered in chipped cream-colored paint that revealed crumbling, weathered wood now boasted new slats of paneling and a fresh coat. The broken seal on the bay window had been replaced, no more sheets of moisture collecting between the panes. Ivy used to climb all the way to the roof, but every stalk had been cut down.

She scanned the driveway. No cars.

She listened at the door. No suspicious sounds.

A smile stretched from ear to ear. After months of bad luck, something had finally worked in her favor.

Here’s hoping it lasted.

Trembling, she inserted her key in the door lock. Hinges whined as the thick, wooden entrance brushed open, homey scents—fresh bread, vanilla and some kind of caramelized fruit—wafting out and making her mouth water. Her empty stomach grumbled and twisted painfully.

“Hello,” she called.

No one cried out a startled rebuke.

She shut the door with more confidence and entered the living room, breathing a sigh of relief. I’m ba-ack.

Her childhood home creaked out a welcome, and for a moment, one of her favorite memories played at the forefront of her mind: Martha Glass pushing the sofa to a new angle, while Harlow straddled one of the arms, pretending to ride a bucking bronco. Her dad hadn’t been home to sneer insults, thank God—you’re pathetic, you’re stupid, you’re such a disappointment—so a relaxed, almost giddy atmosphere had pervaded.

But the cherished recollection withered against the depressing heat of realization. This might be Harlow’s childhood home, but it no longer belonged to her; technically she’d just committed breaking and entering. But only technically! She’d just...well, after all the work that had been done, she’d needed an inside look at the place. And if a few items of food happened to leave with her, she’d be doing the new owners a favor, saving them from nasty fat grams.

“You’re welcome, everyone,” she muttered.

The owners were the newest residents of Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma. Bachelors she’d watched from a distance for weeks. Lincoln West, the one she’d dubbed Most Intelligent. Beck Ockley—Most Beautiful. And Jase Hollister—Most Fierce. Men she’d never spoken to and never wanted to speak to, really. In Harlow’s heart, the house still belonged to her, would always belong to her, making the guys the trespassers. She had been born here, and if all went according to her life plan, she would die here. Just hopefully not today.

This was her first time inside the house since the bank had kicked her out roughly seven months ago. Spinning slowly, she drank in the only love still part of her life. Too many changes. Gone were the scuffed, stained wood floors, the “imperfections” sanded away.

What was wrong with a few flaws? In a home, or even in a person, flaws proclaimed, “Life happened here.”

The wallpaper had been peeled, Sheetrock repaired and painted the color of a caramel latte. Once decrepit crown molding and wainscoting gleamed with new life. There were a few feminine touches here and there to save the place from being a total man cave—throw pillows, bowls of potpourri and lace doilies—but she missed the cat portraits her mother had hung, random displays of china, knitting baskets, porcelain dolls and the gaudy lamps that once rested on lace-covered side tables.

Harlow braced for disappointment and headed for the bedrooms. Up first, the former guest room, now a man cave on steroids. A king-size bed with dark brown sheets dominated one side, while the large flat-screen suspended above a ginormous console stuffed with DVDs dominated the other.

How was a person supposed to relax in here?

The next bedroom—hers—boiled her blood. The princess paradise her mother had created for her as a child, which she’d never had the heart to change, even as she’d grown up, had been transformed into a man-child’s playpen. Multiple gaming systems cluttered a tiered platform, the controls scattered across the floor. In front of a gargantuan unmade bed towered a floor-to-ceiling projector screen. The walls where she’d once lovingly painted a magical forest were now beige. Beige!

Sure, the mural had come with defects, but she’d loved every inch of it, had spent weeks etching different designs, mixing colors, learning and adoring the entire process while allowing her imagination to sweep her away. Of course, she’d ruined the fruit of her efforts long before boring beige had done so, throwing handfuls of mismatched paint at the images in a fit of temper. Still. The sea of monotone was worse.

Before she gave in to the urge to find a marker and draw something to liven up the room, most likely a pair of hands with both middle fingers extended, she backed out and shut the door.

The master bedroom had been converted into a nerdy workaholic’s dream, all traces of her parents gone. Computers and computer parts were stacked on the desk, on the bed and scattered across the floor, and oh, she couldn’t stand this.

She made her way to the kitchen...where the wallpaper had been removed. But okay. No big deal. This change she understood. The design had been so faded the different clusters of strawberries had looked like swollen testicles.

The matching red laminate countertops had been swapped for sparkling white marble, but at least the cabinets were the same, even though they’d been sanded and painted black. Not bad... Just different.

A pang over what should and shouldn’t be cut through her and might have broken what remained of her heart if she hadn’t spotted the blueberry pie perched on the stovetop.

Jobless, penniless—homeless—she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in forever. And a decent dessert? Not since Momma died.

Another pang, this one sharper, but again, the lure of the pie distracted her, and she moved forward, as though in a trance. Trembling, she traced her fingertip over the rim of the pan and caught a warm glob of juice.

One taste... Just one.

The moment the sweetness hit her tongue, her plan to make a sandwich with ingredients the Bachelors Three wouldn’t miss completely upended. She rushed around, digging through drawers for the necessary supplies, growing indignant when she discovered nothing in its rightful place.

Gravel crunched. A door slammed.

Chilled to the bone, she dashed into the living room and threw herself on the couch to peer out the window.

Beck Ockley, Most Beautiful himself, helped a woman from the passenger side of his car. Beck...the man who reminded her of the shed out back, polished on the outside, crumbling on the inside.

He was a little over six feet and lusciously muscled, with an intriguing mix of light and dark brown hair, the strands always in a state of disarray. His just-roused-from-bed eyes were the color of melted honey and framed by the longest, thickest black lashes she’d ever seen. But even a man like him should need a few hours, at least, to reel in a new fish.

Then again, he rocked serious man-magic, and with a single smile, he could probably drop a thousand pairs of panties.

Harlow’s heart galloped, a racehorse in her chest as she returned into the kitchen to swipe up the pie. Probably best to eat the evidence of her impromptu house tour. Hurry! She sprinted to the back door...only to grind to a stop. Beveled glass revealed Jase and his fiancée, Brook Lynn Dillon, cuddled on the porch swing.

How had she missed them on her pre-break-in perimeter check?

Hinges on the front door whined. Crap! Beck and his date would enter any second. She darted into the living room, the hall, the first bedroom she came across—but the lock on the window was new and complicated, and no matter how much she jiggled it, she couldn’t open it. Suspecting all other locks were the same, she headed for the living room. If she stood beside the door, she’d be hidden when it opened. If Beck forgot to close it, she could sneak out as soon as he—

“Now that you’ve got me here,” a woman said, breathless with longing, “what are you going to do to me?”

Too late! Fear settled like thousand-pound boulders in Harlow’s feet, and she wrenched to a halt in the hallway, blood rushing from her head, her lungs hemorrhaging air as if survival had just become enemy one.

Tawny Ferguson walked backward. If she looked to the left, she would see a wild-eyed Harlow, pie in hand. Don’t look left. Please, please, don’t look left.

Beck slowly, leisurely prowled after the girl, radiating sultry heat and a carnal, predator-prey determination. He pinned Tawny’s hands over her head, saying, “I’m going to do whatever I want.”

Tawny arched her hips, rubbing against him. “Should I be afraid?”

“Honey, you should be grateful.”

The sensual impact of his voice sent heated shivers through Harlow’s veins, and she hated them almost as much as she loved them.

He leaned down, his mouth hovering over Tawny’s to tease her with what was to come. “You’re going to like every second of our time together. That I promise you.”

Tawny quivered, a woman on the verge of ecstasy. “Oh, I know I’ll like it. But what happens afterward?”

Crickets.

He stiffened, even as he nuzzled his nose along the line of her jaw. “Afterward, you’ll be so weak in the knees you’ll have to crawl home.”

Tawny giggled. “No, I meant relationship-wise. I know your reputation as the one-night-stand king. Will you still want me in the morning?”

A moment rife with tension as Beck cupped her chin to ensure she wasn’t able to look away from him. “I told you. I’ve never offered anyone more than a single night. There will never be an exception.”

“But why?” Tawny asked with a pout, even as she played with his zipper. “I’d make a very...good...exception.” With every word she uttered, she opened those metal teeth another inch.

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, making it a cold, bitter thing. “A girl like you should have a happily-ever-after with a man carrying far less baggage.”

“I don’t mind baggage.”

“Doesn’t matter one way or the other.” He ground against her, distracting her. “All that matters right now is whether or not you want me.”

Tawny moaned, her eyes closing. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

No, no, don’t stop, don’t you dare—a slap of harsh reality brought Harlow back to her senses. While Tawny—and even Harlow—had lost sight of everything but Beck, he’d had no problem retaining his wits. He’d deflected masterfully. And she should know. She’d done the same in high school. Multiple teachers and counselors had pulled her aside to ask a single question.

Why do you insult your peers?

Her reply? I’m not insulting them. I’m helping them by pointing out flaws in need of work.

Meanwhile, a dirty secret had festered deep inside her. The insults she dished—and they were indeed insults—were nothing compared to the words her father hurled at her.

The only thing you’re good at, little girl, is making my day worse.

She cringed even now.

One day, a switch had just sort of flipped inside her, and she’d lashed out at a friend, making the girl cry. It was then Harlow realized she could affect the emotions of others, and with the realization had come power. Soon, verbally knocking down her peers had become the only thing capable of making her feel better about herself...for a little while, at least. Because that feeling of power had been nothing but an illusion, a house of cards kicked down daily by guilt and sadness, in constant need of rebuilding.

True power came not from tearing others down but from building them up.

“Beck,” Tawny said, “let me have you. Tonight...and tomorrow.”

“Once is for the best.” The flatness of his tone caused Harlow to blink in surprise. No matter whom she’d heard him speak with—male, female, young or old—she’d only ever heard him tease and flirt. “Trust me.”

“But—”

“Once or nothing,” he said, every inch of him intractable steel. “Your choice. Decide now, or I’ll decide for you and take you home.”

If Tawny continued to push for more, would he truly do as threatened? Principles before pleasure, no matter how warped those principles might be?

The starch dissolved from the girl’s shoulders, and she sighed, defeated. “Once.”

As a reward, Beck tilted her head the way he wanted it and dived in for a scorching, earth-shattering kiss. Tawny melted against him, clutching his shirt, wrinkling the black cotton. Harlow almost covered her eyes. Almost. She had lost the ability to move, much less to breathe. Beck clearly knew what he was doing, and oh, he was hot. Licking, sucking...his hands doing delicious things to a woman who already sounded on the verge of orgasm.

A surprising ache throbbed low in Harlow’s belly.

Beck and Tawny created a perfect study of passion: seductive, erotic and wanton. The very thing missing from her own life. But then, the man had created a perfect study of passion with every woman she’d seen him with.

She’d watched Beck perform this same routine many times before, only with different women, in different locations. The porch. The backyard. Even on the roof.

No one had ever turned him down.

He cupped Tawny’s rear and commanded in a husky growl, “Wrap your legs around me.”

Tawny complied, as they all complied, and Beck turned toward the couch, away from Harlow.

Sweet relief swept through her. In the home stretch now... Just a couple more minutes... And oh, crap, the sugary aroma of the pie ruthlessly taunted her.

Ever the traitor, Harlow’s stomach chose that moment to rumble.

It was enough.

Beck’s head snapped in her direction, his body going taut. He set Tawny on her feet and stepped in front of her, acting as her shield.

The gesture of protection proved hotter than the kiss.

Recognition lit his features. “You,” he said, and he sounded awed rather than angry.

Confused, Harlow blinked at him. “Me?” He knew her?

“What are you doing inside my house?”

My house! But Harlow didn’t stick around to correct him. Nothing would placate him or save her stupid hide, so she bolted around him, remaining just out of reach as she headed for the door, yanked it open and at last soared outside.

“Hey!” Beck called. “Stop.”

She quickened her pace, aiming for the bank of trees ahead: a giant oak, several mature pecans and two magnolias in full bloom. Locusts buzzed. Grasshoppers sang. Birds squawked. The three created a macabre soundtrack as the familiar scent of wild strawberries and dewy roses lodged in her throat, forming a hard lump.

Almost there... Just a little farther...

While the fifty-two-acre spread had come with a greenhouse, a small dairy, two barns, three work sheds and multiple vegetable gardens Harlow had tried and failed to tend, there was a shadowed section in back filled with gnarled trees, sharp sandburs and crunchy brushwood where snakes and scorpions liked to nest. A section none of the guys had ever dared venture. It would have been the perfect place to hide if she hadn’t set up camp there.

Once she passed the embankment, she veered in the opposite direction, whizzing by the towering oak she used to climb...the weeping willow where she’d experienced her first kiss...the tire swing her father had made during one of his rare moments of affection.

“Stop,” Beck commanded. “Now.”

He sounded close, too close, but he didn’t sound winded. She clutched the pie closer—try to take it from me, I dare you—and glanced back. Crap! He was almost on her. She picked up the pace...until several burs lodged in her heels, causing sharp spikes of pain to slow her down. Any second now, Beck would overtake—

Hard hands snaked around her waist, two hundred pounds of muscle bearing down on her. As she fell, the pie went flying.

“Noooo!” she shouted.

Impact emptied her lungs. Tears welled in her eyes, but she wiped the droplets away with a shaky hand, a whimper escaping when she spotted the dark blueberry splatters now streaming across rock and dirt, the crust now sprinkled with dirt.

“Pie killer!” Hello, dark side. “If there’s any justice in the world, you will fry for this.”

“Really? That’s what you say to me?” He sat on his haunches, freeing her from the bulk of his weight.

“You tackled me. I should sue you for everything you own.”

“Yes, please do so. Meanwhile, I’ll press charges for trespassing. Now tell me what you were doing with my pie.”

My pie! She’d stolen it fair and square. But the trespassing reminder sobered her. “If you think about things like a reasonable adult, you’ll see your crime is worse. Your actions led to the painful death of an innocent dessert.” Now she would go hungry for yet another night.

Her stomach, the whore, grumbled in protest.

“The pie was going to die one way or another tonight. I just assumed my mouth would be the weapon of mass destruction, not a dirty little thief determined to blame someone else.”

He stood, then surprised her by offering her a helping hand. A trick, surely. She declined by pushing to her feet under her own steam. Besides, she’d seen some of the places those hands had been. And, really, she didn’t need to know what they felt like. If they were callused and rough...hot enough to make her burn and quiver the way Tawny and countless others had.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Why not tell him the truth? He had only to ask the townsfolk about her to hear a thousand stories detailing her reign of terror in high school. Perhaps some kind soul would even mention the time a poll was pinned to the corkboard in the town square: “If given a choice, who would you rather torture? The devil or Harlow Glass?”

Harlow had won by a landslide.

“I’m Harlow Glass, and I used to live here.”

His gaze raked over her once, then again far more slowly. “I’m honored. Harlow Glass in the flesh. A sighting rarer than Bigfoot.”

How did he know? It wasn’t as if he’d ever had a reason to look for her.

And oh, wow. His voice. He’d pumped up the smoke, making it even better than before, captivating and temping, sending cascades of pleasure rippling through her.

Danger! Danger! She widened the distance between them.

“Oh, no, you don’t. We’re going back to the house.” He waved her forward.

Stay strong. “How cute. You made a funny.”

His expression hardened, promising severe consequences if she refused him a second time, and yet his tenor softened, no longer quite so menacing. “My apologies for not being clear, sweetheart. You’re coming with me, and that’s that.”

“No, that’s not that. I have no desire to watch another mouth-to-mouth sesh with Tawny. Let’s just conclude our business here.”

The smile he unveiled lacked any sort of humor, and yet it utterly devastated her senses, leaving her reeling. “You have two options. One—we discuss the theft and destruction of my pie within the privacy of my home, and just how you’re going to make it up to me. Or two—I call Sheriff Lintz.”

Dang it! He had her by the lady balls, and he knew it. “Look. You could waterboard me, but I still won’t confess—”

“Good to know I have your permission to waterboard.”

“—to a crime, so why don’t I say I’m sorry for interrupting your evening, and we call it good?”

“Does that sorry come with a side of pie?”

“No,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Then we won’t be good.”

Figured. “So...what? You expect me to bake you another one?”

“Yes, ma’am, I surely do.”

“Are you going to ask me a thousand questions about how I did what I allegedly did, or why I did what I allegedly did?”

“Do I look like a guy who cares about how and why?”

No. No, he didn’t. He looked like a guy who didn’t care about much of anything—except pleasure. “Okay. All right.” Anything to (1) continue to keep him away from her camp, (2) speed up their parting and (3) appease him so the matter stayed between the two of them. But he was in for an unpleasant surprise. Her mother hadn’t given her the title of Worst Chef in History for nothing. “You win.”

Head high, she marched past him. He didn’t lag behind for long, was soon keeping pace beside her, his hand light on her lower back. The action was meant to ensure she stayed the course, but the heat of him pricked at her, made her itch for...something.

“You do know baking a pie takes several hours, right?” At least, it had for her mother. “Are you going to trust me in the kitchen, alone, while you and Tawny conclude your business?”

“Tawny will have to wait.In a contest between sex and pie, sex will lose every time.”

“Wow,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No wonder panties drop in your presence. Your words are poetry.”

“Are you trying to tell me your panties have already dropped?”

She peered up at him, incredulous, then stunned. Waning sunlight hit him just right, stroking him with muted golden rays, making him almost inhumanly beautiful. Definitely otherworldly. The ache returned to her chest.

“The day my panties drop for you,” she said without any sharpness, “is the day I want to be taken behind one of the sheds and shot.”

“Because you’ll know you’ll never have me again and you won’t be able to live with the pain?”

She snorted, oddly charmed by his warped sense of humor.

No. Not oddly. He knew what he was doing.

“Yeah,” she said drily. “Something like that.”

Mirth glittered in those golden eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Very well. I promise to make it as quick and painless as possible.”

How kind. “Let’s backtrack. Earlier you looked at me as if you knew me. You also hinted you’d searched for me. Why?”

His amusement drained in a snap. “Perhaps you’re mistaking shock for familiarity.”

She wasn’t the greatest at reading people, but she wasn’t the worst, either. “The two aren’t even close to similar.”

“You find the thought of meeting me and forgetting me more plausible?”

Well. That was certainly a good point, wasn’t it?

As they passed the line of trees, Tawny came into view. The girl waited on the porch, her hands braced on the railing where the initials H.G. were carved, her upper arms pushing her breasts together. As if she really needed the help. She was short and curvy, a real live pinup compared to Harlow’s too-slender frame.

Eyes of the coldest steel narrowed, and Tawny hissed like a rattler about to strike. “I was hoping I’d had a waking nightmare.” A gust of wind lifted strands of her punk-rock hair as she flew down the steps to meet them at the railing. “But nope. Here you are. A demon in the flesh.”

Harlow remained silent. The formerly overweight Tawny had once been a victim of her cruelty, so Harlow accepted the insult as her due.

Looking back, she knew there was no excusing the hateful things she’d said to anyone. A bullying dad? A desire to feel better about herself? Please.

At least she’d gotten hers in the end.

Out of habit, she rubbed the scars on her torso, proof she’d gone from bully to victim in a blink.

Beck wrapped an arm around her waist, the contact electric, jolting her from her thoughts. Tawny noticed and cursed.

Harlow stepped away from the playboy. When it came to repaying the sins of her youth, she couldn’t give Tawny much, but she could give her an open playing field for the affections of the town he-slut.

Problem. Beck refused to let her go, putting his delicious muscles to good use to hold her steady. The connection unnerved her, an instant, undeniable and almost unbearable high.

Get it together, Glass.

“If you know what’s good for you,” Tawny said to Beck, “you’ll cut out her viper tongue and leave her on the side of the road to bleed to death.”

Ouch.

“Maybe later,” he said. “Right now, she and I have some business to discuss.”

At the top of the steps, he paused to wrap his other arm around Tawny. The blonde gave another hiss, clearly not wanting to be linked with Harlow, even through association.

Very well. At the door, Harlow wrenched away from him under the pretext of tying her sandal that had no laces.

Beck, who was proving stubborn to his core, simply stopped and waited for her to rise, then once again pulled her close to herd her into the kitchen.

“Stay,” he told her with a pointed glare. “If you run, I’ll catch you and you won’t like what happens next.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Is that a threat?”

“Honey, it’s a promise. I’ll be on the phone with Sheriff Lintz so fast your head will spin.”

Sheriff Lintz, who had every reason to hate her. In tenth grade, she’d publicly dumped his son, and none too nicely. “I’ll stay,” Harlow vowed.

As he dragged a protesting Tawny down the hall, Harlow picked up the muffled sounds of their conversation—her whining, him placating—until she more clearly heard him say the words “Wait here.”

A door closed. Footsteps echoed. He rounded the corner, reentering the kitchen, then stopping to lean against the marble, his hands flattening on the surface. His gaze locked on Harlow, hot enough to burn.

She licked her suddenly dry lips.

“Now then,” he said. “This is the part where I don’t have to ask you a thousand questions about how and why—because you’re just going to tell me. Or else.”


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_8a9b9425-1c07-5f98-a52d-5e90ffae052f)

BECK WOULD RATHER make a jump rope from his small intestines than accept a change. Change sucked. Even moving to Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, a few months ago had been a special kind of mental and emotional torture for him, and only at the urging of the friends he loved like brothers had he managed it.

He was still adjusting. In the city, he could go to the grocery store or bank without being hassled. Here, everyone stopped him to ask for a favor, or advice, or simply to inquire about what he was doing, as if they had a right to know.

Though Miss Harlow Glass had no idea, she’d already changed his life in more ways than one, and it had nothing to do with her visit today.

“I told you I wouldn’t admit to anything.” She shifted from one sandaled foot to the other. “I meant it.”

He admired her refusal to buckle under the pressure of his narrowed gaze. But every word she uttered was a stroke of sin and heartbreak, and he wasn’t quite prepared for the instant, intense effect she had on him.

“I don’t care what you told me, honey. You don’t make the rules. I do.”

“Rules were made to be broken?”

“Were they? You don’t sound very sure.”

She raised her chin, a pose he recognized.

He knew her, this black-haired beauty with features so feminine, so delicate, his deepest masculine instincts pawed at their cage, ready to be unleashed. She’d invaded his dreams for weeks.

When he, Jase and West had first moved into the Glass house—as everyone in town still called it—Beck had found an old box of photos left behind by the previous owner. In them, a girl ranged in age from infant to adult, every image fascinating him. As a child, Harlow Glass had been sad, haunted and haunting. She’d kept her chin down and her shoulders tucked in, a position he’d adopted far too many times at the same age. An involuntary way of making himself a smaller target.

As she’d grown into a teenager, the sadness had faded, overshadowed by calculated sharpness. A loss of innocence. As she’d blossomed into a woman, her eyes—the most beautiful ocean blue—had projected guilt, sorrow and pain. Emotions reflected back at him every time he looked into a mirror.

A sense of possessiveness had taken up residence inside him, and he’d kept the photos a secret. Not exactly a surprise. A former foster kid, he’d had his toys and clothes taken every six to eight months, causing him to develop a keen distaste for sharing.

In a way, this girl was his.

He’d watched her life unfold. He’d wondered about her, constantly playing host to curiosity and obsession, even scouring the town for her. Now here she was, a gift from heaven dropped straight into his lap, more luscious than he’d imagined.

“I hold your fate in my hands. You might want to give sugar, spice and everything nice a try, honey.”

Peeking at him through the thick shield of her lashes, so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her, she nibbled on her plump bottom lip. “Are you going to call Sheriff Lintz?”

Beck crossed his arms over his chest, pretending he needed a minute to think things over, letting her fret. He didn’t like the thought of this girl in trouble with the law. And yeah, okay, he doubted Harlow would receive more than a slap on the wrist, maybe a little community service for what she’d done, but the stain on her record would follow her for the rest of her life.

“No,” he finally said, making sure to grumble. “I’m not calling the sheriff.”

Relief danced through her eyes, reminding him of cottonwood in the wind. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Honey, I’m sure I’m being as honest with you as you’ve been with me.” Let her stew on that. “I only want answers from you, not a pound of flesh.”

He might be a “cold, unfeeling bastard,” as some of the women he’d slept with had called him when he’d stuck to his word and refused to commit the morning after a one-night stand, but he wasn’t heartless. Harlow used to live in this home, and the foreclosure obviously hadn’t changed her sense of ownership. It wouldn’t have changed his, either. He’d been here only a few months, but he’d have to be pried out with a crane. The fifty-plus acres boasted pecan, cherry and sand plum trees, as well as wild strawberries, blackberry and blueberry patches. Everything Brook Lynn, Jase’s fiancée, needed for her pies.

There was a pool he and his friends had restored, two ponds, one loaded with crappie and bass, and a shed/safe house now fully equipped with weapons and food just in case the zombie apocalypse kicked off. Something Brook Lynn actually feared.

Also, there was the whole theft thing. Harlow didn’t strike him as the law-breaking type. Considering everyone in town hated her and no one would give her a job, she had to be broke and starved.

The thought drove him to the fridge, where he slapped together the ingredients for a turkey sandwich.

“Here,” he said.

“No, no. I couldn’t.” She backed away, though her gaze remained on the food, longing darkening in her eyes.

“You can steal my pie, but can’t accept my sandwich?”

“Allegedly stole. And maybe I learned a lesson about the perils of taking from others.”

“Maybe I don’t want to eat alone.” Though he’d had dinner with Tawny, he made a second sandwich. “Did you ever think of that?”

“Oh! In that case.” Harlow nabbed the offering so fast she probably had whiplash. At first, she tried to eat daintily, a nibble here and there, but she soon gave up the pretense and ripped into the bread with a savagery that broke his damn heart.

Why had she stuck around Strawberry Valley so long? True, the rolling hills and colorful Main Street could have come straight out of a Thomas Kinkade portrait, and the public barbecues, block parties, swim parties, festivals and celebrations for everything from a kid’s orthodontic work to a teenager’s first date were charming enough to seduce even someone like Beck. But Harlow couldn’t support herself here, so why hadn’t she moved to the city and started fresh?

Roots? Something he was only just beginning to understand.

As a young kid he’d lost his mother to cancer and, soon afterward, his father to plain ole selfishness. Daddy Dearest had dropped him off with an aunt and just never come back. After Aunt Millie got tired of him, she’d passed him on to another family member. Rinse and repeat five times over until there was no one left, the entire lot refusing to take him in permanently. He’d become a ward of the state, shuffled from one foster home to another. While some had been nice, others had been bona fide hellholes.

The back door opened, hinges creaking. Jase Hollister stepped into the kitchen with Brook Lynn in tow, the two pink-cheeked and breathless.

“Hey, man.” Jase bumped fists with Beck.

“Hey.”

Jase and West had been stuck in the system with him, and they’d understood him in a way he hadn’t understood himself. They’d bonded at meeting one, and they’d become each other’s only family, sticking together through good times and bad. He loved them. Hell, he would die for them.

Brook Lynn noticed Harlow and frowned. “What’s she doing here?”

Harlow must have endured her limit of insults for the day, because she flipped her hair over her shoulder and said, “Beck saw me and chased me down. He insisted I spend private time with him here at the house.”

He rubbed his fingers over his mouth to hide his grin. “This is true.”

“Beck.” Brook Lynn radiated concern. “You don’t know her or the evil she’s capable of. Don’t sleep with her, please. She’s—”

Jase spoke over his girl, saying, “This is where we part ways,” as he dragged her away.

The past few months had softened him, the man many would call “a hardened criminal.” For once, Beck had to admit a change had been for the best.

After Jase’s nine-year prison stint, he’d needed a fresh start in a new place. He’d picked Strawberry Valley, enamored by the wide-open spaces and community support.

Moving with him had been a no-brainer for Beck, despite the challenges. Being without his friend for so long had been bad enough, but he and West owed Jase more than they could ever repay. And really, that debt was the reason Beck had never complained when Jase renovated the ramshackle farmhouse. The reason he grinned as his surroundings were altered bit by bit.

“I should be going,” Harlow announced.

Beck focused on her. “Nice try, honey, but we still have unfinished business. How did you get inside the house?” He hadn’t seen a single sign of forced entry. Not that he’d been paying much attention before or after he’d chased her down.

“Well...I kind of have a key.” She plucked at an invisible piece of lint on her shirt, adding, “Is now a bad time to mention I don’t like the repairs you’ve made on the house?”

“You do not have a key. Jase changed the locks our first day here.” The guy was distrustful of strangers. They all were. They’d learned to be.

“Well...he may or may not have left the new keys on the porch while he ran to the backyard to get his tools.”

And she’d just happened to be nearby, watching? And none of them had noticed? “As of tomorrow, your key won’t work.”

A flash of fury in her ocean-blues, quickly extinguished by defeat. She put her chin down and hunched her shoulders, the same pose she’d struck in so many of the pictures. “Yeah. I figured.”

Damn it. His chest began to ache. How many knocks had this girl taken in her young life?

And why did he even care? Yes, her pictures had intrigued him. Yes, she was hot as hell. But devoting so much time and energy to one woman wasn’t his MO.

“If you were hungry, why didn’t you come to the door and ask us for food?”

She went ramrod straight. “I didn’t—I don’t—need your help.”

Ah. Pride. The downfall of so many. He’d once tried to convince himself he didn’t need anyone, either, that he was fine on his own. Meanwhile, anytime he’d spotted a happy family, he’d felt as though he were being run over by a car.

“You did—you do—need my help, or you wouldn’t be here.” As she glared at him, he added, “How’d you lose the house, anyway?”

“That’s none of your business,” she stated flatly.

“You blew through your mother’s insurance money. Got it.” The day of the purchase, the broker had prattled on about the Glass bully losing her mom earlier in the year and refusing to lower herself by getting a job. Beck had only half listened at the time and had regretted it with every fiber of his being since finding the box of photos. Now he tried to dredge up any other information he might have heard without any luck. “What are you, Harlow Glass?”

Her lips pursed, drawing his gaze and holding it hostage. Those lips were better than the pictures had promised. Plump and red, the kind every man fantasized about devouring...and being devoured by. She shifted from foot to foot, more nervous now than when she’d first arrived.

“What do you mean? What am I? What kind of question is that?”

“The legit kind. What do you do for a living? Are you a life coach? Accountant? Underwear model?” He looked her over, careful to avoid the dangerous beauty of her face—but the rest of her proved just as detrimental to his mental health. “Femme fatale?”

“I’m not a heartbreaker, that’s for sure. Not like some people I’ve recently met.”

“Meaning me?”

“Yes, you,” she said with a nod. “Who else? You’ve never dated the same woman twice. Not since you’ve been here, at least.”

Or ever. “So?” Yes, he slept around. But why not? Sex felt good and for a few hours, he could drown himself in pleasure. No thoughts. No problems. No worries. His version of therapy.

“So. I wasn’t finished. You’ve got a woman in your bedroom right this second, but you’re still out here—” she waved her arm around the kitchen “—flirting with me.”

“This isn’t flirting, sweetheart. This is an interrogation.”

“Ha! An interrogation implies I’m being threatened, but the only part of me currently in any danger is my mouth. You’re staring.”

Was he? “Am I scaring you...or exciting you?”

Her eyes widened. “N-neither.”

A stutter. Adorable. “Let’s find out how you react to actual flirting.” He prowled his way around the counter.

She stepped back, once, twice, and would have again but the stove stopped her retreat. A sense of triumph overtook him as he placed his hands at her sides, caging her. He leaned in and brushed the tip of his nose against hers, the heady scent of strawberries and pecans teasing him. “If every guy you’ve ever met hasn’t looked at your lips with animal hunger,” he said, his voice low and husky with need he couldn’t hide, “I’d be shocked.”

She traced her fingertips over the lips in question, the action so inherently sensual, so damned innocent, he would have given anything to corrupt... To steal a taste.

Tit for tat, one dessert for another.

“Prepare to be shocked,” she whispered.

“Foolish men.” Up close, he could see little details the pictures had missed. The curl in her midnight lashes. The smattering of freckles on her nose. The rose-colored flush under her cheeks. “But let’s get to the heart of the matter, honey. You owe me, and not just for the food. For the mental anguish I’ve suffered.”

“Mental anguish,” she echoed.

“That’s right.” He leaned forward the barest inch, drawn by a force he could not control, and his chest brushed against hers.

She inhaled sharply, exhaled fast and shallow, an instinctive action born of awareness, and just like that, he was as rigid as steel.

“A part of me died with that pie,” he said, caressing the side of his nose against hers.

“Died.” Another echo.

“Mmm.” His lips hovered just short of kissing hers, their breaths intermingling, and damn. How was not touching this woman more carnal than getting another naked? “I asked what you are because I need to know how I can devise a sufficient payment. Do you know how painful it is to crave something with every fiber of your being? To want it more than you want water to drink?”

“I do.” She melted into him, all her softness fusing to his aching hardness. “I really, really do.”

How close was she to surrender?

He cut back a curse. The answer didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. She wasn’t here for sex, and what she’d said before was true. Another woman waited in his bedroom. While he had the morals of an alley cat, he refused to make out with one female while another waited in his bed. It was a line he never wanted to cross.

Back on track. “That’s how badly I want...the pie.”

Horrified realization dawned, and she pushed him away. A puny action, but he willingly stepped back.

“Thanks for the taste of your flirting,” she said with a sneer, “but as you can see, it left a foul taste in my mouth.”

No. She’d gotten lost in the moment. Hell, he’d gotten lost in the moment.

She opened her mouth, closed it. “Look. I’m sorry I stole your pie. Okay? I guess... Well, I was resentful. You’re living in my house, where I’m supposed to be, and I just... I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“I accept your apology.”

“Great. I guess I’ll be going now.” She attempted to circle him, but he stretched out an arm, stopping her.

“You’ll find all the ingredients in the fridge and pantry, and the dishes in the cabinets beside the sink.”

She sputtered for a moment. “Forgiveness shouldn’t come with strings.”

“I’m giving you a chance to put words into action, to prove you mean what you say and help ease the pain of my loss.”

“Fine.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll bake for you.”

Sexiest. Phrase. Ever. “You can start with a pie and finish with a cake, a dozen cookies and cupcakes.”

“Wow, that’s quite a bit of interest.”

“Did I mention I’m feeling quite a bit of pain?”

She glared daggers at him. “I hope you like your pies, cakes, cookies and cupcakes with char. I’ve never baked a dessert I haven’t burned.”

“You can’t be that bad.”

“Want to bet?” Her hips swayed seductively as she ambled to the far side of the kitchen and pointed to a smear of black on the fan over the oven, the one thing Jase had yet to replace. “What has two thumbs and ruins everything she touches?” She hiked her thumbs at her chest. “This girl.”

Well, hell. “Forget baking. What do you suggest you do to balance the scales?”

She twirled a strand of her hair and said, “I can... I don’t know... Garden? I couldn’t help but notice the disgraceful appearance of the roses.”

“Neither could we. When we moved in.” For weeks the guys had bugged him to hire a landscaper, a task he was responsible for rather than Jase because he expected everything from mowing to weed pulling to be done a certain way—his way—or done again. But he’d put off the hire, not wanting to deal with the chaos of yet another new person in his life.

But...as Harlow tended the overgrown rosebushes out back, he could stealthily question her about her past, assuage his curiosity about her and finally move on. Moving on was familiar. He liked familiar.

“All right,” he said, punctuating the words with a nod. “You can start tomorrow morning. Unless you have a job I don’t know about?”

“I don’t. I’ll be here bright and early.”

His suspicious nature came out swinging. “How do you pay rent? For that matter, where do you rent?”

A flash of panic, quickly gone. “Look. It’s late. I’m exhausted.” She peered longingly at the exit. “I need to leave. Okay?”

Not okay. Alarm bells clanged inside his head. “Where are you living, Harlow?”

“Well, you see, when I said I didn’t have a job, I meant I didn’t have a job I was proud of.” She laughed almost manically. “I’m, uh, well... I’m a stripper. Yep, that’s right. I take off my clothes and dance on a pole for a living, and I make lots of money. Tons of money. So much. I have the most amazing apartment. In the city. Right by the strip club. Where I work.”

“What’s the name of the strip club?”

“Boobie Bungalow,” she offered without missing a beat, more confident in her story now.

He nearly choked on his tongue. Liar, Liar.

“What?” She glowered at him. “It’s very exclusive.”

“I should know. I’m a very exclusive man, and I’ve been there.”

“You have?” she squeaked.

“I have.” Clients sometimes preferred to do business while doling out singles. “I don’t remember seeing you, and you’re not the kind of woman I’d forget.”

“Well, uh, I just started.”

He offered his most innocent grin before going in for the kill. “I have an idea. Why don’t we work off your debt another way? You come over tomorrow, as planned, but rather than gardening, you’ll give me a lap dance.”

The color drained from her cheeks as she pulled at the collar of her shirt. “No. I’ve got my heart set on gardening.”

“You’re sure? I can score you afterward, give you pointers on how to do a better job next time.”

“Very sure.”

He released an exaggerated sigh. “All right. But if you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

“But if you do, my answer is yes.” He escorted her to the front door. “Until tomorrow, Harlow Glass.”

She gulped. “Until tomorrow, Beck Ockley.”

As she raced onto the porch, he noticed there were no cars in the driveway and called, “How are you getting home, honey?”

She stopped, but kept her back to him. “Just because you can’t see an adorable little Camaro down the street doesn’t mean it’s not there, does it?” She raced off then, as quick as her feet would carry her.

Something was off. He had to curb the urge to go after her as he shut the door. Holding a woman against her will would only cause problems, and not just the moral variety. He and his friends could not afford another run-in with the law.

Jase had paid dearly for the last one.

Ten years ago, West’s girlfriend had been assaulted at a frat party. Tessa’s tearful confession had sparked an unstoppable rage in all three of them. Jase and Beck had loved her like a sister.

Together, they’d hunted down the bastard responsible and beat him into blood and pulp. They should have walked away, let him heal and the system punish him for his crime, but they hadn’t been the most emotionally stable guys at the best of times and they’d continued whaling.

Thoughts that seemed to have no bearing on the situation had bombarded Beck. Thoughts of the foster mom who’d introduced him to sex at the age of fourteen. He’d remembered how every illicit touch had filled him with guilt and shame, but had also made him feel good, even special. How he’d told himself time and time again that pleasing her would earn her love; she would keep him, and they would be a family. And later, when she’d let him move on to the next house with a smile and a wave goodbye, how he’d cried. As he’d punched and kicked Tessa’s assailant, he’d poured his frustration, betrayal and anger with his own past into every blow.

The rapist—Pax Gillis—had died on the blood-soaked ground.

Beck had never forgotten his name, had never quite shaken the tide of remorse.

He should have paid a terrible price for helping end someone’s life—even if the life belonged to scum. But he and West had been spared, Jase taking the fall on his own, wanting his friends to have a chance to pursue their dreams, demanding they stay quiet. Because they operated by a single rule—what one demands, the others do, no questions asked—they’d acquiesced, but over the years their guilt and remorse had only deepened.

Beck should have come forward at some point, if only to try to reduce Jase’s sentence. A dime to a nickel, maybe. Finally doing something good with his life. Under his watch, Tessa had ended up dying in a car crash after a fight with West, and West had ended up high on coke, losing his scholarship to MIT.

Beck wasn’t even the one who’d helped West get clean. The guy had done it all on his own, going on to create a computer program Beck, a born salesman, was able to unload for millions, allowing them to split the shares three ways, investing Jase’s portion for him to enjoy upon his release from prison.

And damn, Beck needed a beer.No, he needed a distraction from his troubles. Thankfully one waited in his bedroom.

He stalked down the hall, opened the door. Feminine clothing littered his floor, leading to the bed...where Tawny reclined, naked and ready.

“I’ve missed you.” She ran a fingertip between the heavy weight of her breasts. “Tell me you got rid of the wicked witch of the Southwest, and I’ll do bad, bad things to you.”

“She isn’t a witch, and we’re not going to talk about her.” He kicked the door shut. “But you are still going to do those bad, bad things.”


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9027e36e-d182-52ad-8b67-8a30f5aaa14c)

HARLOW LOOKED FROM her bleeding hands to the mangled remains of the bush she’d just “pruned” and whimpered. For three hours she’d worked harder than she’d ever worked in her life, baking under the death glare of an angry summer sun, and this was the result?

Hardly seemed fair.

“Thirsty?”

The woman’s voice cut through Harlow’s pity party, and she glanced up to find the blonde and very beautiful Brook Lynn Dillon standing before her, so happy with life she actually glowed. Envy clawed at Harlow, but she paid it no heed. Brook Lynn was worthy of her happiness.

For years she and her big, golden heart had chased after her party-girl sister, Jessie Kay, while working two full-time jobs just to pay rent—and she’d done it all while dealing with an inner ear disorder. Harlow wasn’t sure what the disorder was called; she only knew the devices in the girl’s ears prevented her from hearing whispers as loudly as screams.

While Harlow had never turned her evil sights on Brook Lynn—even a bully of her magnitude had lines she wouldn’t cross—Jessie Kay and Kenna Starr, the sisters’ best friend, had not been so lucky.

“Are you offering arsenic or bleach?” Harlow quipped.

“I didn’t ask if you wanted what everyone in town would like to serve you,” Brook Lynn said staunchly, making Harlow flinch. “I asked if you were thirsty.”

“I am,” she said, standing. “Thank you.”

As an old, ugly dog playfully nipped at Brook Lynn’s heels, she held out a glass of ice-cold water.

Harlow tried for ladylike, taking a dainty sip, but the taste of heaven snapped the tether to her control and she chugged the rest, draining every drop. No liquid had ever been cooler or more soothing, wetting her tongue and moistening her dry-as-the-desert throat.

“Thank you,” she repeated, feeling human again.

Brook Lynn confiscated the glass. “Actually, you shouldn’t thank me. You should thank Beck.”

His name alone caused her heartbeat to pick up speed and knock against her ribs. She’d stared at the back door for hours, willing him to come outside and check on her. Surely she’d built up the intoxicating effects he’d had on her.

“Is he here?” Was he still in bed with Tawny? Her hands curled into tight little fists.

“No,” Brook Lynn said. “He was called in for a meeting, but he told me to take care of you while he was gone.”

A contented thrill—followed by an irritating realization. He hadn’t cared enough to see her? Wow. Well, screw him. He disturbed her, rendering her breathless and shaky with a simple glance, but so what? Physical attraction never lasted. And neither did he! One and done, the king of the one-night stand.

Harlow had no interest in being used and tossed aside, nothing but an afterthought to the man she’d welcomed into her body. She wanted affection and love, the kind she’d read about in books and seen in movies. The kind where couples fought to stay together, even during the worst of times. The kind that protected. Defended. Cherished.

A pang of longing razed her. There’d be no name-calling. No shaming. No being made to feel worthless.

Before dropping out of high school in favor of being homeschooled, she’d had boyfriends. A lot of boyfriends. She’d dated and dumped them at Beck-speed, searching for someone, anyone, to fill the void inside her. A void somehow made bigger when a machine exploded at Dairyland, the milk plant just south of town, killing half the workforce—including her dad.

As horrible as he’d been, she should have rejoiced, right? All of her problems should have vanished in a puff of smoke. But that couldn’t have been further from reality.

Brook Lynn turned and, without uttering another word, walked away, the dog prancing behind her.

“Brook Lynn,” she called, and the girl stopped without spinning around. “I’m sorry for the way I acted. In the past, I mean...and recently.” RIP, blueberry pie.

“That’s great, I’m glad” was the response, “but actions mean more than words, and so far you’ve proved nothing.”

“I know. But I’m still here, subjecting myself to this, so that I can prove I’ve changed.”

“Please. This, as you call it, is payment.” Brook Lynn glanced over her shoulder, looking very much like an avenging angel. “But I wonder. Are you ruining the garden on purpose? A way to strike at Beck for...what? What supposed crime did he commit against you? The same crime as the rest of us? Simply existing?”

Her chin fell and her shoulders drew inward. I deserve this. I really do. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s wonderful.” And he was. As a boss, or whatever he happened to be to her—debt holder?—he totally rocked. He wasn’t hovering but allowing her to do her own thing, and knowing he wouldn’t be here, he’d taken steps to ensure she had everything she needed.

But Beck, the guy? Him, she wasn’t so sure about. There was the one-and-done thing, of course, but also the fact that he’d bought Harlow’s ancestral home even though she hadn’t sold it. The bank had forced her off the property, voiding her claim to it, all because her mother had taken out a small loan a few years before, using the house as collateral. When her mother died, Harlow had tried to get a job.

She’d visited every business in town and asked to paint murals on store windows, or to do portraits of family members. Even to paint houses. When those requests were denied, she’d applied for basically any position available—trash collector, bird-poop cleaner, bunion scraper—but everyone had turned her away. Most had laughed. Moving to the city would have been wise. No one knew the old Harlow, and someone, surely, would hire her somewhere to do something. But her heart beat for Strawberry Valley. Her mother had grown up here. She’d grown up here. She trusted the townsfolk not to hurt her, despite their hatred of her, which was far more than she could say for a city full of strangers.

Plus, she had a five-step plan. Up first? Proving she wasn’t the incarnation of evil. So far no luck, but as she’d learned, circumstances could change in a blink.

“I don’t know how to garden,” she admitted, “but I’m trying.”

One of the blonde’s brows winged up, her expression total disbelief. “Well, then, I guess you should try harder.”

“Angel?” A husky male voice drifted across the daylight, followed by squeaking hinges as the back door opened.

Brook Lynn skipped over to greet her fiancé, Jase. He nodded at Harlow, his green eyes shrewd and curious, before he focused on Brook Lynn.

“I missed you,” he said, uncaring that Harlow could hear. He brushed his fingers through the girl’s pale hair.

“I was only gone a few minutes,” Brook Lynn replied with an adoring smile.

“A second is too long. Maybe it’s time to have that surgery we talked about and finally get you attached to my side.”

Brook Lynn chuckled. “Adding an extra two hundred and fifty pounds to this body will make it harder for me to kick zombie butt.”

“I’ll protect you.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure you’ll be one of the first to be bitten.”

He nipped her lips. “Fine. Let me show you what I’ll do to you when I’m turned into a zombie.”

The two lovebirds reminded Harlow of Beauty and the Beast. Romance at its best. Jase was a big man, tall and muscled, his dark hair styled in bad-boy spikes. Rumors claimed Brook Lynn had mentioned liking the style, and boom, the next day he’d changed his. He had tattoos running from the base of his neck to the waist of his pants. Maybe other places, too. Harlow had only glimpsed him shirtless as he worked on the outside of the house; she’d marveled that a man like him actually existed.

Brook Lynn, on the other hand, appeared fragile and as useless as a doll, though everyone knew she was as far from a child’s toy as possible. Not only had she tamed the town’s new dragon—a feat in and of itself—but she’d started her own flourishing catering business.

Their love had inspired Harlow’s dream of happily-ever-after, and if canvas and paints hadn’t been out of her zero-dollar budget, she would have immortalized them in a portrait.

As they disappeared inside, she dusted the dirt from her hands. No more of this, she decided. Not today, at least. Not until she’d done a little gardening research. Which meant heading into town...facing ridicule...

She rarely ventured far from her property—even before she’d been ousted from her home, but especially since. Her job search had led her into town on a few occasions, but she’d quickly learned she had to pay a hefty price for daring to go where she wasn’t wanted.

Suck it up. Take your medicine like a good girl.

Head down, shoulders in, she made her way to the side of an unpaved and narrow road. It wasn’t long before a car slowed down, allowing the driver to rubberneck.

The attention unnerved her, and she found herself rubbing the scars on her stomach. Sometimes she thought she could still feel the flames licking all the way from her navel to her collarbone, using her shirt as kindling.

But she wasn’t going to think about the worst day of her life. Distraction wasn’t her friend any more than the next driver who passed her, rolling down his window and leaning out to snicker at her. She quickened her step, breathing a sigh of relief when the vehicle finally disappeared beyond the hill.

The third car to come along actually pulled up alongside her, keeping pace.

“Harlow Glass,” the driver said with a sneer.

She suppressed a moan. Scott Cameron. In high school, he’d been Popular Jock Boy and one of the first to receive the infamous “Glass Pass.” Her special brand of cruel dismissal postdating. It had been especially cruel in Scott’s case because he’d dropped his longtime girlfriend to be with her, yet Harlow had dumped him the day after their first date.

Yes, she’d been that girl.

Someone must have called and told him she’d been spotted in the wild. “Gotta say, Glass. You’re not looking so good.”

Truer words had never been spoken. She was sunburned, sweaty and wearing as much dirt as clothing. “Well, I can’t say the same to you.” Under the brim of his hat, his golden hair looked perfectly coiffed. His white shirt was crisp, without wrinkles, and his skin tanned to a glimmering bronze. “You look great.”

His eyes narrowed, making her think he’d heard sarcasm in her voice even though there’d been none.

She sighed. “And yes, I’ve been better.”

“You headed to town?”

She nodded as she kept trudging forward. “I am.”

“That’s about four miles away.”

“Yes.”

“About an hour’s walk in the intense summer heat.”

“Yes,” she said again. The reminders were unnecessary.

“Bet you’d like a ride.”

As a matter of fact—

“Good luck finding one.” Laughing with glee, he put the pedal to the metal and blazed forward, flinging dirt and gravel at her.

Coughing, she waved a hand in front of her face. Can’t complain. Just another dose of medicine.

She hit Fragaria Street by late afternoon, fatigue threatening to turn her limbs into jelly. This time of year, the scent of strawberries always coated the air, wafting from hundreds of acres of wild patches.

A handful of cars motored by, and multiple people meandered along the sidewalks. The buildings around her were different colors, from blue to yellow to red, and different sizes. Some were tall, some short. Some were wide, some thin. Some were made of brick and others of wood. A true hodgepodge of design, and she loved every inch of it.

Virgil Porter and Anthony Rodriguez each sat in a rocker, playing checkers in front of Style Me Tender, Mr. Rodriguez’s salon. Harlow stuck to the shadows and most people never noticed her, which she preferred, but as usual, those two managed to spot her right away.

“How you doing, Miss Glass?” Mr. Porter called. He owned Swat Team 8—“We assassinate fleas, ticks, silverfish, cockroaches, bees, ants, mice and rats”—and he was one of the few people who actually seemed to care about her well-being, but she had to be mistaken. Back in her heyday, she’d called his son terrible names.

“I’m well, thank you,” she muttered, discouraging further questions. Lying always made her feel guilty, but the truth was never palatable. Well, you see, Mr. Porter, I’m homeless, I’ve been found out as a thief on my own property, and I’m currently unemployed. How about you? Still having trouble with your liver spots?

“I’m willing to listen if you’d like to rephrase your answer, Miss Glass. We can talk over a nice glass of sweet tea.” He shook the one in his hand, ice rattling. “Maybe we can even eat the strawberry scones Brook Lynn brought me.”

Her mouth watered, her stomach twisting with painful hunger, but she forced herself to say, “No, thank you.” The sooner she got out of the town square, the sooner her spirits would rally.

“Harlow?”

The familiar male voice came from across the street. As she turned, her nervous system nearly blew a gasket—there he was, Beck Ockley. And, oh, it so wasn’t fair. He looked good enough to eat. The gold streaks in his hair gleamed brighter in the sunlight, and his flawless sunkissed skin somehow appeared painted on by a master artist. Did he even have pores? He’d rolled up the sleeves of his white button-up, revealing muscled forearms with a slight dusting of hair.

“Uh, hi,” she said, offering the lamest wave.

He grinned at her, both wicked and virtuous, stealing her breath.

Lincoln West stood beside him, slightly taller but just as well muscled—just as gorgeous—with the smoldering intensity of a man on death row, whose last meal would be the females he trapped in his sights. Not that he’d ever made good on the silent promise. Unlike Beck, he practiced restraint, not going on a single date since coming to town.

The two were with an unfamliar man and woman dressed in business-formal clothes. Both were attractive, and though the male looked to be in his late thirties, the woman, an elegant redhead, looked to be in her late twenties. Roughly the same age as Harlow and yet a thousand times more successful.

Talk about a knife through the heart.

Was Lady Successful a new conquest of Beck’s? Or a soon-to-be conquest? Did she know he’d move on in the morning?

Beck muttered something to the group, and Harlow took off. No reason to stick around, and every reason not to. But he shocked her by racing across the street and keeping pace beside her.

“I’m surprised to see you out and about,” he said.

Oh, his voice! She’d forgotten how deep and husky it could get, every word he uttered a promise.

Gaze drawn to him by a force she couldn’t control, she looked up. He was peering at her, too, and between one moment and the next, the air charged with electricity. Whispers of sensation brushed over her skin, leaving goose bumps behind.

“Expected me to still be slaving away in your garden?” she managed.

“Something like that.” Heavy-lidded eyes swept over her, powerful, sensual...almost possessive. “Are you headed into the city for your shift at the Boobie Bungalow?”

Her cheeks burned as she remembered the story she’d told him. It wasn’t a lie if she believed it, right? As a lover of romance novels, she’d often fantasized about being a woman down on her luck—could be a stripper, why not—rescued by the prince of some distant land.

“Maybe I’ve got the week off. Maybe the other girls lose money when I’m there, and I thought I’d give them a chance to make rent.”

“How kind of you.” The corners of his mouth curled up, his amusement as seductive as the rest of him. “Where are you headed, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. Her heart skipped a treacherous beat, her blood heating dangerously, making her sweat, and dang it, she hated herself for reacting so strongly to something that meant absolutely nothing to him. He called every woman he met by an endearment. Which irritated her because... Just because.

He needed a spoonful of his own medicine, the way she was often forced to taste hers.

“I’m going to the library, sugar tush. Why?”

“That’s my question.” He flattened his palm between her shoulder blades, sliding it down the ridges of her spine, stopping just above the curve of her bottom. The touch was innocent, nothing overtly sexual to it, and yet it frazzled her nerves. “Why are you going to the library?”

As she opened her mouth to respond—what she would say, she didn’t know—Tim Whatson sidled up to Beck’s other side.

“Hey, man. Can we talk?”

Beck stiffened before fisting the hem of Harlow’s shirt, forcing her to stop with him. The backs of his knuckles brushed against her, skin to heated skin, and tendrils of something hot and dark shot through her.

Need more. Now.

“Hey,” he said to Tim, whom he obviously knew. Was he oblivious to the cravings he’d just stirred inside her? “How’s it going?”

“Not so good. I need your help. My girlfriend is tee-icked. I forgot our three-month anniversary, and she’s threatening to leave me. What should I do?”

Beck, the new Dear Abby? “You should give her a thoughtful, personal gift. There’s nothing more thoughtful or personal than a portrait, and I happen to have an opening in my schedule. I could—”

“What do you think, Beck?” Tim said, interrupting her.

“Give her a thoughtful, personal gift,” Beck replied. “There’s nothing more thoughtful or personal than a portrait.”

Tim nodded as if he’d just received the answer to every prayer, and Beck released her to gently push her forward.

“Now,” he said. “Where were we?”

Your skin against mine... “Uh, I was telling you how I ruined your rosebushes this morning—by accident!—and how I’m headed to the library to learn how to fix them. You were in the process of forgiving me.”

“Hold up a sec.” He darted in front of her.

Unprepared, she slammed into his powerful chest and ricocheted backward. His arms wrapped around her to cage her and hold her steady.

“Whoa. I’ve got you.”

Her every pulse point suddenly leaped, and as she peered up at him, the rest of the world vanished, every second revolving around Beck alone. Her chest pressed against his, her breath coming faster and shallower, as if the air between them had somehow thickened.

“You okay?” he asked, the gleam in his eyes anything but concerned. Instead, the hot and dark thing she’d felt earlier was now reflected back to her.

“No. I mean yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

His hand swept up, up, his fingers soon toying with the hairs at her nape, tickling. “I think you mean yes, Beck, you make everything better.”

She shivered and grabbed a handful of his shirt. The hard line of his body shifted subtly but definitely, ensuring he consumed what remained of her personal space. He stared at her lips...

Did he desire her?

She wanted him to desire her.

No. No. He wasn’t the man for her, wasn’t steady or reliable. Fortifying her resolve, she stepped away from him, and in an instant, the world crashed back into focus. She sucked in a mouthful of strawberry-scented air, only then realizing she’d been breathing in the man’s heady musk—a musk that had clearly drugged her.

He shook his head and frowned. “Let’s backtrack. You ruined my roses?”

“Yes. So now you know my newest crime. You should return to your meeting. Don’t let me keep you.”

Beck, ever the ladies’ man, winked at her. “Why would I want to have lunch with business associates when I can pore through dusty old books and learn how to garden with the cutest little pie stealer in town?”

Said without a crumb of resentment. Said with relish. Had he truly forgiven her? Did he actually want to spend time with her? Excitement bloomed—only to be dashed by disappointment. He had a knack for making every woman he met feel special, and she couldn’t forget again.

“Sorry,” she said, “but I work better alone.”

“You only think so because you’ve never worked with me. Come on.” He looped an arm over her shoulders and urged her forward, the contact almost too much to her touch-starved senses. The handful of women they passed peered at him with longing, then glared at Harlow, but he didn’t seem to notice. “When we finish at the library, we’ll grab lunch and you’ll tell me all about your childhood.”

“You’ll be bored.”

“I’ll be riveted, guaranteed. You’re an incredibly interesting subject, Miss Glass.”

A line. Surely. Just to be contrary, she said, “Should I start with my first period?”

“See?” The low, gravelly tone had returned. He squeezed her tighter, and she just couldn’t help herself; she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I’m already foaming-at-the-mouth eager for the details.”

“Only fair to warn you. My childhood will make you cry. And if it doesn’t, you need prayer.”

“That bad, huh?”

Worse. “Will you tell me about your childhood?”

“Does my childhood include stories about you?” he asked good-naturedly.

There he went, deflecting. “Maybe it does. For all I know, you’re the boy who visited Strawberry Valley every summer and spent his nights peeping inside my bedroom window.”

“Hardly. I never would have been content to remain outside. I would have climbed in. And yes, you would have invited me. I would have made sure of it.”

“So sure of yourself.” She tsk-tsked despite her breathlessness. “I was an ice queen. I would have ignored you.”

“I was a blowtorch. I would have melted you.”

She snort-laughed, then sighed. He’s charming me too easily. “If you want to know about my childhood, fine.” The thought of food was too heady to resist. “As long as I get to pick where we eat and you pay for everything.” Besides the sandwich he’d given her yesterday, she’d only eaten what she’d managed to forage—two pecans the squirrels left behind.

He ran his fingers up and down her arm, saying, “You’re not even going to make a token play for the check?”

Ignore the earth-shattering tingles. Ignore the delicious burn. “Are you kidding? Never!”

He chuckled, and a moment later they reached the library, a little red-and-white building in the center of town. A set of cement stairs led to French doors, and four columns held up a wraparound parapet. An American flag flew proudly at one side while the town banner flew on the other, the latter showcasing a bloom with white petals and a bright yellow center.

“Wait.” A flare of panic overshadowed her good humor as Beck tried to escort her inside. She dug in her heels. “I need a moment to prepare myself.”

“For what?”

For what would surely be a humiliating experience. One he would witness.

Oh, crap! She tore away from his grip. The thought of being subjected to people’s ire in front of this perfect man was simply too much to bear. “I’ll wait out here. You go in and get the books, okay? Then we’ll eat.”

“And do all the heavy lifting myself?” Beck shook his head. “No. We do this together.”

Sweat beaded over her brow and upper lip, even dripped down her nape, which was odd since ice crystals had sprouted inside her veins. “I’m just... I’m not going in there. Okay?”

“What, you don’t want to be seen with me?” He arched a brow at her. “What if I promise to make it worth your while?”

He didn’t understand. A guy like him, so blessed in every area of his life, would never understand.

She backed away from him, saying, “I’m sorry, Beck, but I just remembered I’m needed at work. Private party.” She turned and rushed away, never looking back.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_c5522164-dbe0-597e-935b-4694a1390656)

THE NEXT DAY, Beck had a meeting in Oklahoma City. He decided to use the opportunity to find a new distraction.

He’d tossed and turned all night, his mind a volcano of activity. He knew he wasn’t good enough for long-term anything with anybody, but Harlow had taken it to a whole other level by refusing to be seen in public with him. She’d actually run away from him.

He wished he’d never seen the photos of her, wished he’d never spied her across the road yesterday, looking adorable with dirt streaked on her cheeks and arms, her hair so black it gleamed blue in the sunlight, her skin rosy, the smattering of freckles more evident than usual. She’d been fan-freaking-tastically adorable. A Country Girl Gone Wild fantasy he hadn’t known he’d had.

Her white shirt had been so thin, so damp with perspiration, he’d seen the outline of her bra. A sensible white cotton somehow sexier than red lace just because it nestled against her. It hadn’t helped when her nipples puckered before his eyes.

Desire for her had come swift and sharp, strong enough to make him crazy, to make him pant like a dog. His mouth had watered at the thought of tasting her, and his hands had itched to touch her. If she’d given him any encouragement at all, he would have gladly spent the rest of the day feasting on her.

But she hadn’t encouraged him, and now he was glad. Harlow Glass was nothing like the women he usually pursued; she wasn’t looking for a good time, and she wouldn’t go quietly in the morning. She’d already expressed curiosity about his past and would have demanded stories about his childhood as soon as she’d told stories about her own.

She was a complication he didn’t need, so, he’d find someone else. Easily. And he’d do it today.

The pencil in his hand snapped in half.

Dane Michaelson’s newest assistant... Sarah? Samantha? Whatever. She rushed over to pick up the pieces and give him a new one. He looked her over. She was understated but pretty, with brown hair and piercing green eyes. Not that it mattered. A woman was a woman. And he could have this one. She would take him however she could get him, and for the few hours he spent between her legs, he could fool himself into believing everything was okay. No thoughts. No problems. No worries, he reminded himself. Only pleasure.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Good. This was good. This was familiar.

“That will be all, Sasha,” Dane said. “Thank you.”

She sauntered out of the office, casting Beck a final peek over her shoulder. He winked at her.

“You surprise me. Flirting? At a business meeting?” Dane sat across from him, relaxed behind an elaborate desk constructed from salvaged wood. For a billionaire oil tycoon, he was absurdly young. Twenty-eight, Beck’s age. They’d known each other for...what? Close to six years now? Though they’d merely traded phone calls up until recently.

The guy had grown up in Strawberry Valley and even though he’d moved to the big, bad city for a number of years, he’d never been able to cut ties with his hometown, even tattooing his arms with wild strawberries.

“And now you ignore me,” Dane muttered. “We’ve been sitting in silence for a full ten minutes. You want to tell me about the new security program or not? That is the reason you’re here, isn’t it?”

“We both know you’re going to buy it no matter what I say. West does quality work and you won’t find a better system anywhere else.”

“Can we at least pretend to negotiate?”

“No. I’d rather talk about Harlow Glass. Do you know her?” Damn it. What happened to washing his hands of her?

What the hell made her so special? Yes, he’d seen pictures of her during childhood. Yes, he had an insane need to know more about the girl she’d been and the woman she’d become. But this seeming obsession with her did not fit his character.

“Know?” Dane said. “No. Know of? Yes. She went from shy and sugar-sweet to barbwire-mean overnight, eventually becoming the meanest girl in elementary school.” He worked his jaw. “She used to make Kenna cry.”

Kenna, Dane’s fiancée, was as tough as nails, so it was hard to imagine her breaking down, and equally hard to imagine Harlow the wannabe stripper as a school-yard terror. But then, most people probably didn’t look at him and see a murderer.

Dane eyed him thoughtfully. “Why the interest in her?”

“She and I have unfinished business.” He offered no more, his feelings too personal—too raw. “What else do you know about her?”

“Not much. I once overhead Kenna and Brook Lynn talking about her, and from what I gathered, she dropped out of public school her junior year in favor of being homeschooled and after that, she rarely left her house.” Dane leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against the edge of his desk. “I must admit, your curiosity surprises me more than anything else.”

“Why?”

“For the first time in our history, you’ve turned a business meeting into a personal gabfest.”

He had, hadn’t he? Damn it! It was a small change, but a change nonetheless.

He adjusted his tie before standing a little too swiftly. “All right. Meeting adjourned. I’ll tell West you want his new program as soon as possible, and you’ll be paying full asking price.”

“You could at least give me the friendship discount.”

“Full asking price is the friendship discount. Everyone else will have to pay double.” He strode out of the office before he did something stupid, like ask more questions about Harlow.

The assistant spotted him and leaped to her feet, smoothing her skirt. “Leaving so soon, Mr. Ockley?”

Not just the perfect distraction, he decided, but the perfect means to an end. Harlow wasn’t anything special to him, and she wouldn’t usher in any more changes; he would prove it. “Now that my eyes are on you,” he said, leaning against the counter in front of her, “leaving is the last thing on my mind.”

She batted her lashes at him, playfully twirling a lock of her hair around her finger. “Thank you. I’m flattered.”

“Then I’m pleased.” But was he? He’d said the words by rote, with a definite lack of enthusiasm. Where was his enjoyment? His sense of victory?

Or was this yet another change to place at Harlow’s door?

“Will you have dinner with me?” he asked, his hands fisting.

Green eyes widened, a cherry-red mouth forming a small O. “I... Yes. When?”

“How about tonight? The sooner I see you again the better.” That he meant with every fiber of his being.

She practically hummed with excitement as she rattled off her digits.

“I’ll be counting the minutes.”

By the time Beck made it home, the farmhouse was empty. West was at the office, while Brook Lynn and Jase were out delivering sandwiches for her catering business, You’ve Got It Coming.

Beck threw his briefcase on his bedroom floor and sank into the chair in front of his desk, where pictures of Harlow were scattered. He went still. Sad ocean-water eyes stared up at him, holding his gaze captive, silently beseeching him to help...to save. His gut knotted. He was no one’s savior. He was too screwed up.

Look at him. He bounced from moment to moment without any thought for the future. He broke into a sweat at the mere thought of commitment. He had an all-consuming hatred for change. His first sexual experience had been with a married maternal figure. He’d helped kill a man in a fistfight, and then allowed his best friend to rot in prison for nine years.

Beck anchored his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his upraised hands. Clearly he needed someone to save him.

As if he could be saved.

But...maybe it wasn’t too late for Harlow. While he wasn’t a savior, there were things even a guy like him could do to help. Like set her up financially, maybe even move her into the city where she wouldn’t be reviled at every turn. And bonus for him: she would be out of sight, out of mind.

Yes. He picked up the landline and started making calls, putting the wheels in motion to set up a trust in Harlow’s name, telling his real estate agent what kind of home to search for in Oklahoma City. Then he called West.

“You in front of a computer?” he asked in lieu of a greeting.

“Are you a top contender for banging the most women in any given year?”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Work your magic and tell me how Harlow Glass has been making money.” To survive as long as she had, she had to be bringing in a little cash from somewhere.

“All right.” Fingers click-clacked over a keyboard, one minute bleeding into another. “Okay, this is strange.”

“What?”

“My superpower is finding information—nice trust you’re setting up for her, by the way—but I can’t locate Harlow’s place of employment. Or where she’s been staying. She has no known address and hasn’t paid taxes. She has zero credit cards and no checking account. She doesn’t have a tag registered for a vehicle.”

Damn. “Thanks, West.”

“Anytime, my man. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“No worries. Just...do me a solid and keep digging.” He hung up, mind racing. Where the hell was Harlow staying? How was she getting around? How was she eating?

The answer to that last one seemed an unequivocal she wasn’t, and for a moment, his vision went black, rage boiling to the surface. No one should have to live that way, and whether Harlow liked it or not, he wasn’t going to stand for it in her case.

* * *

LATE THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Beck was ready for a straitjacket and a padded room. They’d make a nice vacation. Harlow hadn’t shown up to work on the garden that morning, and he’d had no luck finding her in town. He’d asked around, but no one had seen her. A couple of people had offered to round up a lynch mob and go hunting for her, and he’d had to curb the urge to respond with his fists. She seemed to have disappeared into the ether.

Now he racked the balls on one of the most expensive pool tables ever made, the outer shell a limited edition 1965 Shelby GT 350. Normally he took great care with every inch of it. My precious. Today, he wanted to rip out the felt and pull the metal and wood apart piece by piece.

His date with Sandra...Sally?...could have made a Worst Ever list. He’d thought about Harlow all evening, wondering where she was and what she was doing. Frustrated with the lack of answers, he’d turned up the heat with S girl until she’d practically begged him to stay the night at her place. There was no better distraction than sex, but as she’d undressed, his mind had returned to Harlow yet again. He’d thought of the nice steak dinner he’d just enjoyed and wondered if she’d had any dinner at all.

Little surprise he’d failed to get an erection while a beautiful woman writhed on his lap.

He’d left without doing the deed, and the humiliation still lingered.

“Your turn,” Jase said, snapping fingers in front of his face.

Beck swiped up his cue and nearly broke the wood in two, so tight was his grip.

“Careful. What’s with you?”

“I’m fine.” No way he’d dump his problems in Jase’s lap. The guy had carried too many burdens for too long. Beck would die before he added another.

“Don’t lie. Not to us.”

The statement came from West, who rose from the bench press Jase had installed earlier in the week. Though he’d built a workout room in the back of the house, more and more equipment was migrating into other areas of the house, allowing anyone in the mood to exercise to spend time with those who weren’t.

Dark locks of hair were plastered to West’s face, and he used the shirt he’d discarded to wipe his brow. Sweat dripped down the ropes of muscle and sinew in his chest, bypassing his only tattoo: the name Tessa etched over his heart.

He snatched the cue from Beck. “Bad boys don’t get to play the greatest game ever invented.”

At six-two—two inches taller than Beck—West was his staunchest competition in the meat market. Not that they’d ever competed. West only dated for two months out of the year, picking one female and staying with her the entire time, only to dump her for some made-up reason when the clock zeroed out.

He had his reasons, so Beck didn’t fault him. “Okay, all right.” Beck held up his hands, palms out. “You got me. I’m not fine, but I will be. There’s no need to worry.”

“We’ll worry if we want to worry,” Jase said. “We haven’t seen you this worked up since you went parking with Kara Bradburry in the tenth grade.”

West barked out a laugh. “Dude. You were so nervous, shaking so hard, you couldn’t even unhook her bra.”

At the time, his only experience had come from a woman more than twice Kara’s age, who’d told him what to do every step of the way.

Great. Now he needed a drink.

He grabbed a beer from the minifridge and downed half. “Like you guys did any better with your dates.” Back then, the three of them had seen nothing wrong with semipublic make-out sessions, because they were teenagers and teenagers were stupid, the males most of all; they had two brains and the one down south usually made the most important life decisions. It went something like: Her. Her. Not her—fine, she’ll do.

West lined up a shot and with his gaze on Beck, sank a solid in the corner pocket. “Let me guess. This is about Harlow Glass.”

Just the mention of her name proved last night’s limp-wood experience had been an anomaly, and it pissed him off as much as it relieved him.

“She’s pretty,” Jase said, his tone conversational.

Pretty? Like calling an ocean a puddle. “She’s gorgeous.”

West straightened and grinned. A genuine grin, and it was good to see. The past few weeks had been rough for him, the anniversary of Tessa’s death taking a toll. “Are you about to wax poetic about Harlow? Because I don’t have bad poetry penciled into my schedule.”

West lived by the clock, and if he had his way, he would die by it, too.

“I wax poetic about nothing,” Beck said. “Except pie. And cake. Maybe cookies in a pinch, but that’s only on a case-by-case basis. Anything with raisins should be stuffed in a box and delivered to hell with Return to Sender stamped over the top.”

Jase snickered. “How’s this for poetry? ‘Roses are red, violets are blue. Beck wants Harlow, I know this to be true.’”

Beck, in the process of lifting the bottle to his mouth, went still, nearly swept away by a tide of shock. Jase hadn’t cracked a joke in damn near forever, and until that moment, Beck hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the playful side of his friend.

“Beck, my man,” Jase said, frowning at him. “Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of mythical creature. Not after I told you to let go of the past. I have.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I freaking love you, that’s all.” Beck set his beer aside and swiped his cue from West. He lined up his own shot...and like a loser, failed to sink a solid. Usually he could win the game blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back.

Yes, he was that good.

“I freaking love you, too.” Jase patted him on the shoulder before going for one of the only remaining stripes. “But I still want you to admit you’re into Harlow.”

Guy didn’t know his own strength and nearly pounded Beck into the floor, but damn if Beck didn’t adore every second of it, the affectionate gesture somehow drilling through all kinds of dark emotion.

“I’m into her, okay,” he said. “Happy now? I’m curious and concerned about her. I can’t get her out of my head.”

“Well, that’s new,” West said.

“You’re telling me. But she wants nothing to do with me.”

“Dude. You sound just like Jase when he first met Brook Lynn.” West hit another shot and of course, two solids flew into their slots. “You’re all ‘woe is me’ with zero nut power. Just suck it up and make a play for her. She’ll fold. They always do.”

Maybe. But then what? He would casually mention he planned to finance the rest of her life, before walking away from her? He would forget her like all the others and move on to his next conquest, his next moment?

That was where things got tricky. He didn’t want to forget her. He wanted to hang around her, wanted the right to check on her anytime the urge hit, to make sure she had everything she needed... Damn it, he wanted the right to protect her.

Protect someone other than himself? Please.

The ache in his chest returned, a pesky fly he couldn’t kill. He wanted her to have what he never would: a happily-ever-after. But as he well knew, money and security could only do so much. Women like her usually wanted more. They dreamed of falling in love, connecting emotionally as well as physically. Something he’d never done and wasn’t even sure he could do.

He saluted his friends with the beer bottle, then drained the contents.

Jase took pity on him and changed the subject. “You’ll be pleased to know Brook Lynn has claimed responsibility for the soccer banquet.”

“We’re in good hands, then.” The best. For the past eight years, Beck and West had financed and coached a soccer team for underprivileged kids, always ending a season with a big blowout celebration. While they loved the interaction, they hated the planning.

“Brook Lynn is pretty much a unicorn at the end of a double rainbow,” West said. “And since we’re on the subject of parties, I should warn you. I got a call from Charlene Burns. She’s in charge of the annual Berryween Festival, some kind of Strawberry Valley play on Halloween. She asked us to set up a booth.”

“For?” Beck asked.

“Kissing. And if not that, anything we want.”

“Someone doesn’t know us very well,” Jase said. “Otherwise she would have given us a ten-page list of restrictions. To start.”

“I told Charlene we wouldn’t be setting up our own booth, but we would be happy to pay for all the booths,” West said, “as long as You’ve Got It Coming is allowed to cater the event exclusively.”

Jase gave West a pat—drill—on the shoulder. “Good man.”

West tried to play it cool, but his ear-to-ear smile gave him away. “You’re just now noticing? You kind of suck.”

The front door creaked open and closed, a patter of footsteps soon following. “Jase?” Brook Lynn called.

His friend lit up so brightly Beck actually had to look away. “Back here, angel.”

The footsteps quickened, and Jase moved forward. The couple met in the doorway, their arms winding around each other automatically. Beck and West shared a moment of unspoken envy, but also of contentment. Jase deserved this kind of happiness and it was amazing to see.

“Finished with your breakfast deliveries?” Jase asked her.

“Finally. We had eleven more than usual.”

“Word is spreading.”

A part of Beck hated the resounding success she’d made of her business. The more she worked, the less time she had to bake for him. Like another casserole named Just for the Halibut. Mine! A selfish mentality, sure, but anyone who’d ever tasted her food would understand.

If only Harlow could bake...

What the hell did that matter?

“By the way,” Brook Lynn said, peeking around Jase. “I saw Harlow Glass in town.”

Beck lost all interest in the game. Not that he’d had any to begin with. “Where is she?”

“Well, well. I thought you might be interested,” she said and shook her head. “I just hoped I was wrong, that you’d—”

Beck spoke over her with a clipped “Where?”

“She was snooping around the library.”

The library again? He raced out of the game room, grabbed his wallet and called, “I’ll be back in a bit.” He didn’t need keys. His car had a push-button start, which activated with his thumbprint.

His friends’ laughter followed him all the way outside, but he didn’t care. He drove so fast he left skid marks on the road, breaking speed records as lush trees, rolling hills and wild strawberry patches whizzed past, nothing but a blur. Only when he reached the town square did he slow to a crawl. Pedestrians strolled along sidewalks, and kids too young for school played chase underneath a large red-and-white-striped umbrella.

Everyone who spotted him smiled and waved, and it did something odd to his insides.

He parked in back of the library, the lot empty. There was no sign of Harlow. If she’d already taken off...well, he might just tear the town apart looking for her. He stormed around to the front—and finally felt as if he could breathe.

She stood at the door, muttering to herself. “I can do this. I can. I have lady balls, and they’re big. Huge.”

He fought a grin. Lady balls?

She hadn’t yet noticed him, so he took a moment to drink her in. The gleam of her dark hair. The glow of her skin, now scrubbed free of dirt, revealing more freckles for him to count...to trace with his tongue. But her cheeks had hollowed a bit, he noticed with a frown. Had she eaten today?

There went what remained of his amusement. She wore another too-thin shirt, and a pair of jean shorts too big for her, bagged low on her waist. Her sandals were frayed at the buckles.

Just how poor was she?

“Harlow,” he said, loving the taste of her name.

Nothing. No reaction from her.

“I can do this,” she muttered.

He closed the distance, ghosted his knuckles over the heated satin of her cheekbone. A mistake. Not only because she gasped and swung toward him, one of her palms fluttering to her chest while the other extended to push him away, but because the contact jacked him up. Made him desperate for another touch. Any touch, as long as it came from her.

Her panic morphed into consternation as his identity clicked. “Beck.” She took a minute to control her accelerated breathing. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing here? I’ve come to continue my study on the art of seduction.”

“Please.” Those gorgeous baby blues seemed to cut through a veneer he’d worked years to perfect, reaching the black soul he would have done anything to cleanse. “You’re already an expert, and you know it.”

“So you’ve succumbed to my charms already?” A man could hope.

“Me? Succumb to you? Never!” She flicked her hair over her shoulder, saying defiantly, “You’re like a brother to me.”

Careful to moderate his tone, he said, “Is that why you ran from me yesterday?” He even managed to adopt an indulgent expression as he leaned his shoulder against the doorpost. “Because I’m like a stepbrother you can’t stop dreaming about?”

A pretty blush bloomed in her cheeks and even extended down her neck, under her collar. A blush like that gave him ideas. Bad, bad ideas. “I didn’t run from you,” she admitted, “but from what was going to happen once I passed through those doors.”

Relief drove him to reach for her. He couldn’t have stopped the action if he’d tried—Have to touch her. He twined their fingers, the feel of her skin tantalizing and teasing him. Though she resisted at first, she soon stilled, a tangible spark erupting between them, burrowing into him, whirring through him. He shuddered with awareness and unwittingly erased what remained of her personal space, needing to be closer to her on the most primitive level. To take from her. To give to her.

“Beck?” she whispered, suddenly panting. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t seem to control his reactions to her, his body burning for hers.

Frustrated by her—and himself—he released her and stepped back. “You had a shift at the Bungalow last night? Is that why you didn’t come over this morning?”

She rubbed at her wrist, as if she could still feel him there, and it only made him want to touch her longer, harder. “Uh, yep. That’s right. Had trouble with one of the regulars.”

“He get grabby during one of your famous bump-and-grinds?”

“Yeah. Thankfully the bouncers kicked him out before he ever made contact.”

At least she was sticking to her story. “I promise to keep my hands to myself...at least for a little while...if you’ve changed your mind and want to give me that lap dance.”

“Sorry, but I still plan to garden for you. After I learn how to garden.”

“Why not research in the privacy of your own home, on a computer? You do have a computer, don’t you? Or at least a phone with internet access.” Tell me the truth, sweetheart. For once.

“Maybe I just prefer the old-fashioned way. Did you ever think of that?”

A supposition rather than a lie. I’m on to you now, honey. “Let’s go inside, then.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip. “The librarian hates me for something I did as a teenager.”

“Ah. Fixing public relations problems just happens to be my specialty.” He flung his arm over her shoulders, ignored the rightness of having her softness pressed against his hardness once again and urged her forward. “Give me five minutes, and she’ll love you.”

“Impossible,” Harlow said, but this time she allowed him to lead her past the door.

He felt the sweet intensity of her gaze lingering on his profile, and like everything else about her, it affected him deeply. “What will you give me if I succeed?”

“My eternal gratitude.”

“Well, that’s certainly a good start.”

The room was small and crammed with dozens of shelves. The scent of old books and dust assailed him as a short, round woman with silver streaks in her slicked-back hair walked around the checkout desk with the precision of a military commander. Glasses hung around her neck, bouncing with her every step.

“Harlow Glass.” Her features pinched with displeasure. “You are not welcome here. You’ve been told repeatedly not to darken—”

“Ms. Cavanaugh,” Beck said, reading the name tag pinned to the collar of her dress. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you.” He claimed her hand, kissed her knuckles. “Had I known a woman such as yourself guarded these precious tomes, I would have come much sooner.”

“Yes. Well.” She cleared her throat and returned her attention to Harlow. “You know you’re not supposed to—”

“I hope you don’t mind our intrusion, but Harlow hoped to take a moment of your valuable time and sincerely apologize for any and all trouble she once caused you,” he interjected smoothly. “As a woman who values knowledge, I know you’ll be interested in hearing what she has to say.”

Different emotions played over the older woman’s features, but in the end she nodded stiffly. “Very well. Speak.”

Harlow did just that. “I am so, so sorry for organizing a Students Against Stupid Books protest ten years ago. Someone caught me reading a romance novel, and I was embarrassed. The protest was my way of earning cool points, but I felt like I needed to shower on the inside the entire time, especially while the books were burning. Books are awesome. Go books!”

Students Against Stupid Books? Dude.

“Yes, well. Time will prove all truths,” Ms. Cavanaugh said, the starch staying with her.

“That it will.” Beck gave her knuckles another kiss. “Harlow, honey, why don’t you tell Ms. Cavanaugh about the books you’d like to read and treasure.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Ms. Cavanaugh placed her glasses on the bridge of her nose and stared up at him. “As Harlow is aware, she is forever banned from having a library card. I cannot change our policies. No card, no books.”

“I understand,” Beck said with an indulgent smile, “which is why we’ll put the books on my card. After I fill out the proper paperwork, of course.”

Several beats of silence passed before the librarian gave another stiff nod. “I hope you know what you’re doing, young man.”

As she walked away, Harlow peered up at him, wide-eyed with awe. “Beck,” she whispered, and threw her arms around him, hugging him.

He didn’t hug her back, not at first. The softness of her breasts pressed against his chest, and an instant blast of heat suffused him, his entire body practically going up in flames.

“Thank you. You’re the best. Thank you,” she repeated.

Slowly he wound his arms around her and held on tight, probably too tight, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Anytime, sweetheart.” The hoarseness of his tone embarrassed him. When he began to tremble like a puss, he knew he had to end the contact. He set her away with a swift, almost jarring movement and cleared his throat.

A bell tinkled over the door, saving him from having to come up with an excuse for his behavior, and a feminine voice suddenly called out, “Beck! You’re really here.” An attractive brunette strolled toward him, grinning. “I noticed your car out back and came in to say hi.”

How did he know her?

Well, one guess. “Hey, pretty.” He winked, reassured as he sank back into an old habit.

Harlow snorted. “While we’re here, you might want to check out a few books on the consequences of he-sluttery.”

“You mean extreme fun and temporary pleasure?”

Her mouth curled with distaste. “When it comes to matters of the heart, the only thing you should want to be temporary is an STD.”

Deep down, he’d known she would balk at anything fleeting. Now he had to bite the inside of his cheek to combat a blistering surge of something akin to disappointment.

The brunette reached him, scowling at Harlow before schooling her features and raking her nails down his tie. “A few weeks ago you asked me out. Do you remember?”

“Do you really think I could forget?” he replied smoothly, still drawing a blank.

She shook her head, relieved, and said, “At the time, I told you no, but I’ve regretted it ever since.”

The words jogged his memory. That’s right. She’d played hard to get, turning him down flat, and he’d moved on to someone else. No harm, no foul.

“You two deserve each other. I hope you’re happy...temporarily.” Harlow kept her attention squarely on Beck, glaring daggers at him. “Meanwhile, I’ll be outside. I’ll give you ten minutes to get your card and whatever books you want me to follow while tending your garden, and then I’m gone. I have places to be.”

He didn’t want her to leave, didn’t want her out of his sight, but he said, “If you want to leave, leave. I won’t stop you.” Not now, not ever.

As he spoke, the brunette linked her arm through his, a clear attempt to stake a claim. He almost shook off her hold, but the feeling was so new, so unexpected—so different—he locked his limbs in place.

Harlow looked from him to the girl, the girl to him, the severity he’d noticed in the later-childhood pictures soon masking her features. “Forget the books, and screw you,” she spat, turning toward the door. “Screw you both.”

He knew. In that moment, he knew beyond any doubt. She liked him, and not as a brother. Jealousy was the only reason she would lash out this sharply.

“Harlow,” he called.

“What?” she snapped.

“Stay close. I’ll be coming for you.”


CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_78272013-3ba9-5214-8924-22d737530441)

HARLOW PACED BACK and forth in front of the library’s front door. Old wood planks creaked and whined, a warm breeze actually cool against her damp neck. Her mind churned.

How dumb was she? Suzie Quaid had walked into the library, and Harlow had nearly erupted into flames of jealousy. All because Beck had smiled and turned on the charm. But the great he-slut of the Southwest always smiled and turned on the charm. He’d even softened the hard-as-stone Ms. Cavanaugh.

Why should Harlow care that he’d stayed true to form and paid attention to the girl once voted Most Likely to Become a Professional Jell-O Wrestler?

Beck might be gorgeous, and nice, and gorgeous, and charismatic, and gorgeous, but he still wasn’t the man for Harlow. He would never be the man for her. Even temporarily. Especially temporarily. Learn the bliss of being his woman, only to lose him? No, thanks.

Her eyes remained on the prize: stability. Falling in love, creating a home and starting a family. Her desires would never align with his. Best to tend to his garden, as owed, and then move on.

Right on time, he sailed out of the library and smiled his most devastating smile. He handed her the books he’d checked out.

“Catch you later, honey.” He ambled away, whistling a happy tune. Sounded like “Baby Got Back.”

Seriously? That was it? He was just going to leave her here?

Had he made a lunch arrangement with Suzie? Or maybe dinner—followed by bedroom dancing?

Irritation flourished, and in an effort to distract herself, Harlow hugged the books to her chest. The three hardbacks had to weigh a thousand pounds each, and her arms began to shake. As she motored forward, she did her best to remain in the shadows. Mr. Porter and Mr. Rodriguez were no longer playing checkers. Jessie Kay Dillon and her sidekick, Sunny Day, occupied the chairs, drinking whiskey from a bottle and scoring men as they walked past.

Jessie Kay whistled. “Oh, baby. I’m giving you a ten. You look like you’re into commitment. Come give me a taste of that!”

“Oh, sugar, sugar,” Sunny called. “I bet you’ve got a healthy relationship with your mom. Marry me?”

While the guys soaked up the attention, Harlow did her best to escape unnoticed.

She failed.

“Look who just entered my territory.” Sunny fist-pumped the sky. “Catfight, anyone?”

Keep walking. Harlow wasn’t male, but she was given a score anyway. Both girls held up big fat zeros.

I wrote the word slut all over Jessie Kay’s locker on more than one occasion. I dated Scott, Sunny’s ex-boyfriend, only to dump him a day later. This is deserved.

Bad choices, nasty results. No exceptions.

“You’re lucky we don’t have negative numbers, Glass,” Jessie Kay shouted.

Maybe if Harlow tried being nice for once, she’d see better results? “You look real pretty today, Sunny,” she said, flashing a smile. Forced, yes, but also sincere. The blonde was a knockout. “And Jessie Kay, I think you’re more beautiful every time I see you.”

Sunny gasped. “You dirty, rotten bitch. How dare you imply we’re ugly!”

Ugly? You’ve got to be kidding. Would no one ever give her the benefit of the doubt?

Her five-step plan might need a little tweaking.

Head down. Shoulders in. Gait fast. When she turned a corner, she noticed Mr. Brooks struggling to hang an oversize 10% Off sign in the window of his antiques shop.

Harlow hurried over. “Here, let me help you.” She placed her books at her feet and reached for the sign.

Mr. Brooks nearly fell over in an effort to keep her hands off his property. “Trying to steal from me again, Harlow Glass?”

“No, no. I just wanted to—”

“Desecrate the sign and stake it in someone’s yard. I know.”

“Give me a break,” she practically begged, picking up her books. “I’m not that girl anymore. I just wanted to help you.”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are. Now get. Get!” He kicked at the air.

“Fine. Enjoy your back strain.” She tromped off, spotting the elderly Mrs. Winthorp carrying a bag of groceries across the street.

Their eyes met. Mrs. Winthorp turned and walked in the other direction.

Nice.

Maybe Harlow should have stayed in school rather than choosing a home-study program. By the time she’d dropped out, she’d already changed, and the kids would have been forced to spend time with the new Harlow and eventually, they would have grown to like her. Physically, however, she’d been unable to sit still for long periods of time. She’d been in too much pain.

Her fingers itched to rub her scars, the habit ingrained. Think about the attack, feel the proof she’d survived it. But all she could do was squeeze the books tighter.

By the time she’d been strong enough to venture outdoors, her friends had wanted nothing to do with her.

They just need time, her mother had told her. You’re a good girl who was raised in a volatile home, and that’s my fault. I should have left your father the moment he showed his true colors. But I didn’t, and you paid the price. Now I’m going to make it up to you. As long as there’s breath in this body, I’m going to do everything in my power to take care of you.

True to her word, she’d woken Harlow every morning with breakfast and a hug. She’d encouraged Harlow in her studies and praised her every accomplishment. She’d left notes on Harlow’s pillow every night, positive affirmations meant to build her confidence.

You are a bright light.

There is nothing you cannot do.

You are a true beauty, glowing from the inside out.

“I miss you so much, Momma,” she whispered to the sky.

Martha Glass had fallen from a stepladder, and though she’d merely seemed bruised at the time, the impact had knocked loose a blood clot and she was dead by morning.

Harlow’s chin trembled, a lone tear streaking down her cheek, as hot and stinging as the sun. As much as she looked forward to a cooldown in temperature, she wasn’t looking forward to a cooldown in temperature. There were four seasons in Strawberry Valley, but unlike the rest of the world, those seasons were classified as “hotter than hell,” “tornado,” “a brief moment of intense, icy cold” and “the warm-up before hotter than hell.” Her tent often felt like a sauna, but when the snow and ice came, it would feel like a freezer.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and she swung around, arm lifted to defend herself. A scowling Scott Cameron barreled in her direction, and she stepped out of his way. He simply angled toward her, giving her shoulder a purposeful shove with his own.

“Watch where you’re going,” he spat.

She stumbled, saved from falling flat on her face by the wall of the post office. “Why don’t you grow a pair of testicles and act like a man,” she called, unable to hold back the words. A girl could be a punching bag for only so long before she had to start punching back, no matter the consequences.

Scott swung around, the muscles in his shoulders bunching, and for a moment she thought he would return to her and...what? Hit her? She didn’t want to think the worst of him, but he wasn’t giving her much choice. In the end, his gaze moved behind her and widened, and he spun to motor on.

Finally, something had gone in her favor, but it only depressed her more. The fact that a guy hadn’t punched her or called her a horrible name was the highlight of her day? Wow.

She made the trek out of town, stopping occasionally to pick up trash on someone’s lawn while mosquitoes—aka flying vampires—attacked her in droves, hungry for a little Harlow dinner. As she slapped her arm to kill one of the fiendish suckers, a prickle at the back of her neck suggested she had an audience. Tensing, she studied the tangled landscape—trees, thick underbrush, dead piles of crispy leaves—but she found no sign of a pursuer.

Her brain must be melting. She continued on, not stopping again until she reached Virgil Porter’s house. A pile of brushwood had blown in front of his mailbox, and Mr. Fritz, the postman, was the cranky sort who wouldn’t make a delivery if he had to step out of his vehicle.

Ten minutes into her work to clear it away, movement in Mr. Porter’s living room caught her attention. Her heart banged a song of panic against her ribs as she met Daniel Porter’s gaze, Mr. Porter’s son.

He’d left for the military a few years ago and, according to whispers, had only returned to Strawberry Valley a few days ago. And oh, wow, he was shirtless, ripped with muscle and tattoos, standing with his hands on his hips, watching her. About to storm outside to rail at her for trespassing?

Harlow grabbed her books and dashed off. About halfway home, her legs began to tremble so intensely she feared she would go down and never get up. Somehow she found the strength to troop onward, on the lookout for scorpions, listening for the telltale hiss of nearby snakes.

At long last, she reached her destination, dropping the books in front of her tent as her arms finally gave out. Her biceps trembled and burned, and she knew they’d be sore tomorrow. Sighing, she sank in front of the tomes and surveyed her home of the past however many months. A small blue tent with a faulty zipper sat beside an even smaller pond. She’d stacked a circle of rocks around a stack of twigs to create a fire pit where she boiled water in the only pan she had. There were gopher mounds everywhere, dirt flung in every direction, but at least multiple oaks offered shade...and branches for birds to poop from.

She imagined Beck showing up for “tea.” Sanitized pond water.

Oh, how far the queen bee has fallen. From the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. The lap of luxury to this. No real home. No security of any kind. No way to eat or drink whenever the urge struck. No comfy bed or modern conveniences of any kind.

She turned her attention to her new books...and blinked in shock. Gardening for the Super Ignoramus. 101 Ways to Seduce Your Dream Man. The Male Penis: What You Really Need to Know.

But...but...when had the small-town library begun carrying books like that? They’d nearly banned a paranormal romance series about supersexy demon-possessed warriors for being too racy!

She reached for the gardening book, really she did, but her fingers somehow curled around the spine of Seduce Your Dream Man and riffled through the pages—and oh, wow! There were pictures. She ended up “reading” until the last tendril of sunlight vanished.

Now, back to work. She started a small fire with the lighter she’d found—no one would notice the smoke at this time of night—and set a pot of water to boil. After she drank her fill, she called it a day and nestled in her tent. The tear in the top allowed her to gaze up at the stars, diamond pinpricks in a sea of black velvet. One of God’s finest creations, second only to Strawberry Valley. And speaking of Strawberry Valley, it was time to face the facts. Her five-step plan didn’t just need tweaking, it needed scrapping. At this rate, a hundred-step plan wouldn’t work.

If she wanted different results, she had to do something different. The most obvious choice was simple. Finally make the heart-wrenching move to the city.

Panic and heartache instantly converged. No. Not that. Not yet. This was her home, and the man of her dreams lived here. He had to live here. They would fall in love and raise their kids here.

But who would want her? As a military man, Daniel Porter was used to dealing with hostile people and situations. Could he forgive the past?

A few years ago, Jeffery James had moved to town. He’d heard rumors about her, sure, but he had no personal experience with her. Of course, she wasn’t attracted to him, but what did that matter? Love could grow from support, affection and stability.

There was that word again. Stability. The mother ship. The holy grail.

Who could give her something so precious? Lincoln West, maybe. Handsome, sweet and, like Jeffery, she had no real personal experience with him. Plus, he lived in her ancestral home. If they happened to fall in love, she could move back in. And promptly kick Beck out, she thought with a smile.

What she knew about West: he hadn’t dated anyone in town...which was kinda odd, now that she considered it. He wasn’t just handsome, he was handsome, and he had as many admirers as Beck. He just didn’t jump their bones at every opportunity. He was over six foot, leanly muscled and he was nice. He had a smile for everyone he came across, and he worked like a fiend, creating different kinds of computer programs.

She knew about his business only because she’d visited his office in town the day after it opened. His assistant from the city had been there, and Harlow had asked questions, submitted a résumé. And it had been a doozy. Past jobs: zero. Experience: none. Strengths: still searching. She’d hoped to decorate their walls with murals or, barring that, become their receptionist. Surprisingly enough—har har—she was never called in for an interview; she’d listed the number to the only pay phone in town and camped by it for days.

But maybe she didn’t need a job from West...maybe she just needed him.

What kind of women did he prefer?

If the answer was sometimes mousy, sometimes feisty homeless girls, she had this in the bag. If not, well, she would just have to earn his interest another way.

Which shouldn’t be a problem. Thanks to Beck, she was now equipped with an instruction manual.

For the first time in months, she was hopeful as she drifted off to sleep. Unfortunately, it wasn’t West’s face she saw in her dreams...

* * *

WEST AND JASE tried to speak with Beck as he stalked through the house.

“Sorry, guys, but I can’t,” he said. “Not now.”

They asked no questions, and for that he was grateful. He locked himself in his bedroom and plopped onto the end of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his upraised hands, just trying to breathe, align his thoughts, maybe shake off the worst of his emotions. What he’d just witnessed...

He’d followed Harlow, hoping to unearth a few of her secrets. Maybe he shouldn’t have invaded her privacy like that, but he’d wanted answers and she’d been unwilling to give them, and though he’d tried, he’d realized he wasn’t going to get them any other way.

He’d done what was necessary.

Of course, he’d almost veered off track when a brute of a guy purposely bumped into her. In some of the foster homes Beck had stayed in, he’d seen girls and women abused mentally, emotionally and even physically, and it had always infuriated him.

Not on my watch.

Only the thought of going after the guy at a later date allowed him to continue following Harlow.

She lived on his land in abject poverty. People treated her like trash, and she took it, every bit of it, as if she had to do penance. And yet, tired and hungry, she still found the strength to help those who now hurt her.

He wondered how she cleaned her clothes, how she showered, because he knew she somehow managed to do both.

He wondered what she ate, when she ate. He’d spent hours trailing her, and she hadn’t consumed a single bite of food. The only water she’d had was what she’d boiled. He wondered what she planned to do during the upcoming winter months, if she would allow herself to freeze to death before she came to him for aid.

He wondered—and he got pissed. The little girl from the pictures shouldn’t be living that way. The woman she’d become shouldn’t be living that way. He had a home with plenty of rooms. He had a refrigerator filled with food. He had unlimited access to fresh water. He had stacks of blankets, a closet full of coats. Hell, he had everything the girl could ever need or want. And yet she suffered out there?

Her stupid pride, he thought, jaw aching as his molars gnashed together. If he went to her now, she would spurn him. No doubt about it. Time to plan.

He’d hated leaving her out there, almost hadn’t managed it, but he’d consoled himself with the thought that this would be her last night in that tent, her last night exposed to the elements and wild animals. Coyotes, snakes and scorpions lived out there, and the fool woman would make a mighty tasty meal.

So what that she’d survived this long. Tomorrow her life was going to change drastically. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.


CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_c6bb13c3-bc76-52d0-92ad-81849516dcd2)

BRIGHT MORNING SUNLIGHT streaked through the tears in Harlow’s tent, waking her before she was ready to rise. She pried open tired, gritty eyes, caught sight of puffy white clouds and a flock of blackbirds twirling overhead. A cheery sight mixed with an ominous one. Yay.

She struggled to sit up, her body as sore as she’d predicted. Actually more so.

Plan for the day: read about gardening for an hour, apply what she learned to Beck’s roses, find and flirt with West.

Foolproof.

She gathered her basket of meager supplies—toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush and a dwindling roll of toilet paper—and crawled from the tent.

A high-pitched scream split her lips. Intruder!

Beck, only Beck, she realized a moment later, flattening a hand over her racing heart. He sat on the boulder she’d managed to roll next to the fire pit when she’d first moved out here, staring at her through narrowed eyes. The blaze she’d started last night had long since died, and there was no hint of smoke in the air to shield her view. She saw every inch of the man who had tormented her dreams, from his harsh, intractable expression to his big, strong body. Gone was the charming facade he usually displayed so readily. Now, iron-hard determination pulled his skin taut around his eyes and his mouth.

The change was startling and beautiful. He was a work of art, and he made her yearn for the impossible—or a few hours in his bed, no matter the cost. His hair stuck out in spikes, the strands seemingly a thousand different shades of gold and brown, from the palest flax to the darkest sable. His eyes were sensuously tilted, his cheekbones sharp and his jaw squared with resolve. His wide shoulders looked as if they could carry any burden, and she wished he were the kind of man who would hold her with one arm while protecting her with the other.

But he’s not, so he’s not for me.

“I’m not sure I like how you’re looking at me,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter. Get out here and talk to me.”

Gulping, she scrambled the rest of the way out of the tent. “How did you find me?”

“How else? I followed you,” he replied, his tone hard and inflexible. “You should have asked me for help long ago.”

Humiliation burned her all over. “I just woke up. I need a moment of privacy. If you’ll excuse me...” I will take off like a bullet, hide out and regroup.

A muscle jumped underneath his eye. “You’ll get your privacy, all right, but you’ll get it at my house.”

Mine! “I would rather—”

“There’s food. A feast.”

“—continue with my day the way I originally— A feast?” A whimper escaped her.

“One way or another, you’re going with me. I’ll carry you if I have to.” His lids narrowed to tiny slits, his lashes hiding the sudden dark anticipation in his irises. “And, Harlow, as angry as I am, I kind of hope I have to.”

She didn’t understand what was happening right now. But then, why would she? Her experience with the male species was limited to boys, those who had received the Glass Pass in junior high and high school.

“Okay. I’ll go with you. But I’ll walk.” Having his hands on her would be her undoing. “Is West there?” she asked, deciding to use this as an opportunity to kick-start her Ever After plan. The sooner the better.

His frown deepened. “Yes. Why?”

“Just because,” she replied, both excited and nervous. She set her basket of goodies in her tent. The toothbrush, however, she pocketed.

Beck motioned her forward.

“I should have asked permission to camp here, I know,” she said, marching onward, “but you’d forgive me if I told you it was only for a night, right?”

“It wasn’t one night, and we both know it.” He stayed beside her, careful not to touch her. “Don’t lie to me. Not ever again.”

The challenging tone had returned, demanding more than she was willing to give.

“You are not a stripper,” he said.

“I am, too! In my imagination,” she muttered. She’d been a lot of things in her imagination. A divorced mom supporting five kids...who happened to catch the eye of the richest CEO in town. A skilled surgeon given three more weeks to live...who happened to catch the eye of her handsomest patient—who happened to be a brilliant scientist willing to risk his career to save her life. She’d even been a princess from a distant world where lands were ravaged by war...and she happened to catch the eye of the enemy army’s leader, ushering in long-desired peace.

Without a TV or a computer, she’d had to entertain herself, and as an unrepentant bookworm, she’d had a lot of inspiration.

“Be that as it may—” Beck pushed a branch out of her path “—you don’t live in the city. You don’t own a car or have a job. You’ve been living on this land since you were kicked out of the farmhouse. And by living, of course, I mean existing. Have I left anything out?”

“No.” She surged forward and because of him, she wasn’t sliced by thorns. For a jerk, he sure was considerate. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He still sounded angry.

At the house, he opened the front door for her. She entered the living room, and the second she caught the scent of breakfast, she picked up speed. A feast was indeed spread across the kitchen table, plus two empty plates and two glasses of orange juice. Her stomach rumbled, her knees going weak, her mouth watering.

“Sit.” He flattened his hand on her lower back and gave her a gentle push forward.

The moment she obeyed, he began piling her plate high with heaping spoonfuls of every dish. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Sausage patties. Sausage links. Pancakes. Waffles. Biscuits and gravy. The contents began to spill over the side. After he set the plate in front of her, he took the seat next to her.

“Eat,” he said.

She did, and oh, wow. The taste! Even better than the blueberry juice she’d filched from the pie.

“Good, right?” he said, and she heard the pride in his tone.

“You cooked this?” she asked around a mouthful of eggs. She couldn’t force herself to stop chewing long enough to pretend to be feminine and proper, a girl with manners.

“It’s my specialty.”

Breakfast. Of course. For every morning after one of his sexcapades. “Well, I commend you on your perfect consolation prize.”

“I don’t think I know what you mean, honey.”

“It’s what you give your women instead of a relationship, right?”

His fork clattered against his plate. Which still had food on it, while hers was basically licked clean.

“Are you going to eat that?” She pointed to the waffle dripping with butter and syrup.

“It’s not a consolation prize. It’s breakfast. Nothing more, nothing less.” He pushed the plate in her direction, and she dug in.

“What’s your problem with long-term relationships?”

“Relationships leave scars,” he said.

“Sometimes.”

“Always.”

“Well, those scars can be healed.”

“Sometimes,” he said, mimicking her. “But why risk any kind of mental or emotional harm when I can give something far better?”

Flushing, she said, “What could possibly be better than a relationship?”

“I believe we’ve discussed this. Pleasure. Lots and lots of pleasure.”

The huskiness of his voice invited her to lean close and experience everything he had to offer...

Doing her best to ignore a cascade of shivers, she focused on her bacon. Every bite proved better than the last, and when she finished, she almost ate the plate. So good! But also threatening to come back up.

Whatever. Every bite had been worth it. She rubbed her new food baby, saying, “Thank you, Beck. Really.”

“Done?”

“Yes.”

He stood and held out his hand. She hesitated, but in the end, there was no denying the man who’d just taken such good care of her. She curled her fingers around his, the calluses on his palms creating a delicious friction against her skin.

She tried to play it cool as he helped her stand to shaky legs. He led her into the hallway, to the second room on the right. Her old bedroom. How had he known?

“My room,” he said.

“Seriously?” As she’d done the last time she’d been here, she took a moment to mourn the loss of her queen-size bed with its floral comforter, her antique nightstands, and the vaulted ceiling with crumbling crown molding and the distorted images she’d painted.

Harlow flashed back to the emotional breakdown she’d suffered soon after her mother’s death, when she’d splattered the different colors of paint across the magical fairyland, leaving a chaotic mess.

“Were you the one who ruined the murals?” he asked.

She’d been staring up, she realized, and he’d easily guessed the direction of her thoughts. “Yes. The day of my mom’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I’m also sorry you did what you did. I liked the images and hoped to preserve them, but you’d made sure nothing could be salvaged.”

The words shocked her. “You actually liked my art?”

“You painted them?”

“Well, yeah. Why so surprised?”

He paid no heed to her question, saying, “Your talent is amazing, honey.”

“Thank you.” Glowing at his praise, Harlow took in the rest of the bedroom. “I never would have guessed you were a fan. I mean, you decided to go with beige walls.”

“You don’t like beige?”

“Beige is boring.”

“The house I lived in before this one had beige walls.”

“And now you can’t live with a little color?”

A flash of annoyance in those golden eyes, quickly replaced with the flirtatious glint she was so used to seeing. “Did you see my sheets? They’re blue.”

Will not look at the bed.

“Why don’t you take a shower and relax?” he said. “There are towels in the cabinet by the tub and clean clothes next to the sink. And, honey? If you crawl out the window, I will hunt you down. You won’t like what happens afterward.” He paused, smiled slowly, wickedly. “Or maybe you’ll like it a little too much.”

How embarrassing. He knew the effect he had on her. “Beck—”

“Shower.” He shut the door, sealing her inside.

Fine. She made her way into the bathroom. Once upon a time, the walls had been tiled in pink, her favorite color. Now everything was white, black and chrome: sleek and sexy for a modern man. But the changes didn’t bother her so much anymore. Maybe because they reminded her of Beck.

She brushed her teeth once, twice for good measure, then stripped and stepped under the hot spray of the shower. Steam filled the air, the scent of Beck—masculine and sultry—joining it as she shampooed and conditioned her hair. She’d gotten used to cold showers, having to sneak them from the outdoor hoses of nearby homes after the owners sped off to work, and she’d come to prefer them. At least, that’s what she’d told herself. Here, now, she admitted she’d only been fooling herself, trying to make herself feel better about her situation.

While the water continued to rain on her, she settled on the stall’s black-and-white floor. Would Beck want to chat with her when she finished? Yeah. Would he kick her off the land for good?

He had every right to do so, but...but... Hot tears scalded her eyes. Why couldn’t things go her way for once? Just once?

* * *

BECK PACED IN the living room, trying not to picture Harlow naked, soap and water trickling over miles of delectable skin he would sell his soul to touch. Trying, and failing. He wanted his hands on her, doing things. Bad things. Sweet things. Making her squirm and gasp and beg for more. Always more.

The desires were heightened, just like his reactions to her. But then, anger he’d rarely ever allowed himself to feel had burned away what remained of his restraint. Harlow lived as she did to punish herself, whether she realized it or not, and that crap ended today.

From now on, she would know only pleasure.

For the first time in his life, he craved a specific woman, and no one else would do until his desires for her were sated. Another change, one that bothered him, but not enough to stop him. He wanted her, she wanted him, and so he would have her.

“She here?” Jase asked as he entered the room.

“Yeah. Did you find out what crimes she supposedly committed as a teen?” Last night, after a little prompting from Beck, Jase had done his bro-duty and questioned his girlfriend in-depth about Harlow’s past.

“Typical bully stuff. Called people awful names, made fun of them, made them cry. Stole boyfriends from other girls, only to dump the guys soon after. Everything stopped halfway through her junior year when she dropped out.”

“Why, exactly, did she drop out?”

“Brook Lynn didn’t know. No one does, apparently.”

Something must have happened to her. Kids didn’t just drop out for grins and giggles. Especially the ones who ruled the school with an iron fist.

“You want me to hire someone to look into what happened to her?” Jase asked.

“Already done.” He’d made the call last night.

“Yeah, but your people aren’t my people. My guys will look places yours don’t even know about.”

Illegal places. “I don’t want to go there.” He trusted Jase, but he didn’t want Harlow brought to anyone else’s attention. “But thank you.”

“Not a problem. Just let me know if you change your mind.”

“Will do.” Pipes whined, signaling the shower had just been shut off. He had to tamp down his excitement. “I know Jessie Kay is on her way over to help Brook Lynn with her sandwiches, but have your girl call her and tell her to cage the rage. No name-calling. No insulting.” Seeing the way Jessie Kay and Sunny had gone for Harlow’s throat yesterday had sharpened his shiny new protective instincts into razors. “If Jessie Kay can’t manage civil, she needs to stay away from Harlow.”





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