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  Except on the drive to the restaurant, her dead husband's best friend--Jim Rayburn, a police officer in Blueberry Hill--pulled them over for "speeding" and scared the crap out of her date.

  Not literally.

  Maybe literally.

  The guy had driven her home and never called her again. Fine. Whatever. No big loss. What had absolutely and utterly devastated her, however? Jim. He'd threatened to tell a mentally unstable "sicko" named Rick Lambert how much Lyndie "craved a real man who would do her right, even if she pretended to resist."

  Trembling, she finished off the wine.

  Last Sunday, Lambert had made a move. Actually, he might have made a move sooner. She'd known about this one because she'd spotted a group of women power walking down the street, and they'd wholeheartedly inspired her to get up...and close the curtains. That was when she'd noticed Lambert in her bushes, spying on her. Taking pictures.

  Fear had nearly buckled her knees. If he'd managed to break into her home...

  Bad things happened behind closed doors. No witnesses--no accountability.

  Though panic had emptied her mind, she'd managed to lock herself in the safe room Daniel had built for her. And though she'd taken multiple self-defense classes over the years, one look at a stalker had destroyed her hard won confidence and sense of bravery. She'd curled into a ball and rocked back and forth like a coward.

  That's fair. She was a coward sometimes. But she was working on it.

  One day, the girl who'd gone from being a battered kid to the battered wife of James Carrington, chief of Blueberry Hill PD, would have a normal life.

  You tell anyone where you got those bruises, and I'll kill you. Believe me when I say no one will ever find your body.

  The last words he'd ever spoken to her. In the end, he'd gotten his. The husband of one of his many girlfriends shot him.

  Now Lyndie was the apple of a stalker's eye. Pass! She'd gotten a protective order, but what good would a piece of paper do?

  Her tremors turned to shudders, nearly knocking her off the kitchen barstool. She wished her friends were here. Ryanne and Dorothea. Jude and Daniel. Even Brock...

  Between one heartbeat and the next, her shudders turned to shivers. As usual. But then her shivers turned to sadness. Poor Brock. His father had died last week, and he'd flown to New York City to attend the funeral. She kind of, well, missed him. How crazy was that?

  It was just, they usually spent so much time together, hanging with their friends. Time she'd come to both enjoy and dread.

  She wasn't afraid of him anymore. Not really. He was the complete opposite of James and her father. Brock loved his friends unconditionally. He was always calm, with a ready smile. A genuine smile. If he still had a temper, she'd seen no signs of it. He joked and laughed more than anyone she'd ever met, and he remained respectful. He never paid Lyndie or any other woman a backhanded compliment. No, he only ever had kind things to say.

  And he was honest. Liking him wasn't difficult. Though he did have his faults. He was a womanizer and a heavy drinker, just like her dad and James. The more alcohol the latter two had consumed, the meaner they'd grown. Difference was, Brock only got nicer. But even still, his drinking tended to make her nervous and unsure.

  Like you have any reason to talk, wino!

  So what? Hypocrisy didn't change her past experiences or her current feelings.

  And speaking of, dang if she wasn't leery of the other things Brock made her feel. The "good" things. Every time she spotted him, her heart sped into a riotous gallop as if she'd just injected a boatload of adrenaline straight into her vein. Her nipples hardened for him as if seeking his attention. Her belly quivered, and in seconds, her panties would be soaked.

  Animal attraction at its finest.

  She wanted him, and there was no denying it. But...what if she made a move and lost herself in him the way she'd lost herself in James? Not that Brock wanted to jump into a relationship with her. He was One and Done Man. For him, a long-term relationship lasted an entire night. He called his conquests "baby" and "honey" so he never had to remember their names.

  And she didn't want a long-term relationship with him either. Just a few hours of his time. She couldn't lose herself in such a short time--could she? What did she know? She'd never wanted a man this intensely before. More than that, she'd seen the looks some of Brock's past conquests had given him. Those women had wanted more, like junkies in need of a fix.

  So why even risk it? Best to keep things on a purely platonic level. Friends because their friends were friends. No muss, no fuss. But dang, he was hot.

  The past few months, he'd grown out his black hair; now the locks spiked. He had a soldier's powerful build, all muscle and sinew, and pale green eyes that no longer reminded her of wintergreen but of the enchanted fairy dust from a story her mother used to read her as a child.

  All of this was moot, anyway. Brock had made it clear he did not return Lyndie's lust. He'd had plenty of opportunities but had never made a move. He liked to compliment her--Your smile is incredible. Then, while she struggled to maintain her composure, he turned around and propositioned another woman. Lyndie always prayed the floor would open up and swallow her.

  It never did.

  Trembling now, she reached for a second bottle of wine and popped the cork. "Finally figured out what I want in life, and I can't get it. Here's to never experiencing a million orgasm or having a baby." She lifted the bottle before guzzling the cabernet like water.

  On my own or bust!

  Dorothea and Ryanne were blessed beyond measure. Their kids would grow up together, best friends forever. Meanwhile, Lyndie's eggs were dying on the vine, one by one.

  An unwavering sense of melancholy settled over her, and she gazed down at her too-flat stomach. "Maybe I'll go to a doctor and get you fertilized, Rebecca."

  Yeah. That's right. Lyndie had just named one of her eggs. I'm a special kind of crazy, plain and simple. But cut her some slack! Rebecca deserved a chance. All her special little ladies did. Except Lyndie couldn't afford in vitro fertilization.

  Gulp, gulp, gulp.

  Face it, her dreams were destined to die. Like her eggs.

  Bottom's up. After taking another swig of wine, she burped into her hand. Oh! Oh! Maybe Brock would be willing to spend the night with her, share his baby batter, and walk away if she paid him?

  Wine said: Brilliant idea! Ask him NOW.

  The sex didn't even have to be good, probably, maybe. But fingers crossed it would rock her socks off! The sex just had to be unprotected. That meant he'd have to go through a medical exam first.

  If he got the all clear and he was amenable...

  I'll jump him, hard. "His seed's as good as mine," she told her kitchen.

  Her most feminine instincts believed with both one hundred percent and zero percent certainty that Brock could meet both of her needs. (Lyndie double-checked her math and nodded. Perfection.)

  Truth was, not propositioning Brock had never worked out for her. Her thoughts had remained with him every time they'd parted. So why not give the other urge a whirl?

  And what better night to speak with him about her plans than this one? Conversation on Friday, visit to the clinic on Saturday. Sex on Sunday? How long did it take for lab results to come in?

  If Brock had returned from New York, he'd be at the Scratching Post, looking for a little some-some. Some-some? Was that what the kids were calling it? Whatever! Unless he was home, crying about his dad?

  A hollow ache consumed Lyndie's chest. She remembered the agony she'd experienced when her mother died, when a machine exploded at Dairyland, a milk plant just south of town. Half the workforce had died that day, Marilyn Scott one of them. Third grade Lyndie had sobbed for weeks. Although she couldn't imagine rough, tough Brock Hudson crying about anything, ever.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  A gasp of surprise did what the wine hadn't and sent her tumbling from the stool. The bottle slipped from her grip and clanke
d to the floor. A flood of crimson quickly stained the canary-yellow rug.

  Panic stole her breath. Forget the rug. Rick Lambert had returned!

  "Scottie? You in there?" Brock's voice was low, husky, and all kinds of sexy. Plus he'd used his adorable nickname for her.

  A warm tide of relief chased away her dread even as her butt throbbed from impact.

  Knock, knock.

  She glanced in the living room to check on her rescue cats, Cameow and Megabyte. Mega for short. The tabbies were sleeping soundly, undisturbed by the noise.

  Wait. What was the object of her lust doing here, at her house?

  Frowning, she stood. Dizziness invaded her mind as she stumbled to the front door, unlatched the locks, and peered up at the man who'd haunted her dreams.

  Mercy! Her heart shot into a hard gallop, becoming a hammer against her ribs. The blood in her veins heated to a delicious simmer, and tingles unfurled low in her belly before spreading to each of her limbs. Breathing became a little more difficult, and it had nothing to do with panic. The air had thickened, turned electric. The scent of pumpkin spice wafted from him, making her mouth water.

  The shadow beard on his jaw was thick, as if he hadn't shaved since he'd left. A black cotton T-shirt hugged bulging biceps. And his shoulders... A girl could easily come to depend on a man like Brock and place all her burdens on those very strong, very capable shoulders. Faded jeans fit well, the hems tucked haphazardly into combat boots.

  Her gaze zoomed back up, taking in details she'd missed before. A fresh bruise circled one of his eyes, and there was cut in his bottom lip.

  Someone had hit him. Compassion squeezed at her chest. I can kiss him and make him better.

  Oh, crappity crap crap! Get yourself under control, woman.

  His gaze slid over her, taking in her oversized flannel pajamas...and heated.

  She gulped. Maybe the heat wasn't because of her. Though fall had arrived, this mid-September day had reached a record temperature: hotter than hell. Only an hour ago, her neighbor, Mrs. Abramowitz, said she was pretty sure she'd seen two hobbits toss a ring in her front yard.

  Only Oklahoma could snow one day and boil the next.

  Lyndie swayed as she anchored her hands on her hips and imagined the article that would appear in tomorrow's paper. Lyndie before wine: Don't worry, I won't do anything stupid. Lyndie after wine: Look at me, I'm streaking!

  "Did you hear my thoughts and decide to give it to me good?" Why else would he be here?

  She'd tell him no. Of course she'd tell him no. Until he got tested and was given the all clear.

  But...as his gaze met hers, a cascade of tremors kicked off an avalanche of desire, growing stronger with every inch it gained. Maybe she'd tell him yes? Tonight they could use a condom and practice making a baby.

  The corners of his mouth curved into a slow smile. "Have you been drinking?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I detect a slight slur to your words."

  "I'm talking in cursive," she said, waving her hands for emphasis, "and it's elegant."

  His smile only grew as he leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Tell me about these thoughts that were swirling inside your head. Give what to you good?"

  That smile! Wicked, carnal...devastating. No man should be so sexy.

  James had never really lit her fire, but in the beginning she'd considered him safe, and safe had been enough. Brock lit her fire, but with him she always felt out of sorts--confused, nervous, achy, breathless, trembly, eager, and a thousand other things.

  Wait. He'd asked her a question, and she owed him an answer. Don't mention sex or babies until you're sure this is what you want.

  "Your sorrows. For your dad," she said, reaching out to pat his hand. Because she had thought about his family woes. "I'm sorry for your loss."

  His smile vanished, his expression going taut; her arm dropped to her side in a hurry. For a moment, only a moment, those pale green eyes were windows to an endless well of pain. She wanted to hug him and sob for him. Then he blinked, his features clearing, revealing nothing.

  "May I come in?" he asked.

  On instinct, she opened her mouth to issue a stinging rejection but stopped herself in time. Brock wasn't just some guy. He was a friend of a friend, and maybe even an actual friend himself. Plus, he treated his one-night stands better than James had ever treated his wife.

  So. Time to make a choice. Let fear win once again and shut the door in his face, or step aside, let him enter, and find out what he wanted. If she selected the latter, she would be safe. She had weapons hidden all over the house. One wrong move, and she could plug a few holes in Brock, lock herself inside the safe room, and call the cops.

  Besides, she did trust him. At least on some level. Proof: she was considering having sex with him.

  "I swear to you, Lyndie, I will never hurt you," he said. "I'm here because I have a proposition for you."

  Proposition? Curiosity bloomed. I can do this. Lyndie raised her chin, inhaled, exhaled, turned, and motioned him inside. "Please, come in."

  Brock blinked rapidly. Astonished by the invite? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, he quickly regained his bearings and marched inside.

  Both of her feet seemed to weigh a thousand pounds as she followed him into the living room. Keeping the coffee table between them, she studied him as he studied her home.

  He took in the bright, cheery colors--blue walls, a pink couch and red settee, a yellow and white rug--and grinned as if he'd just found his new happy place. But...but why? There was nothing special about her country-chic furnishings. Everything had come from a secondhand shop.

  Teachers were not paid what they were worth, and that was a fact.

  She cleared her throat. "Would you like something to drink? I won't share my wine, but you can have water, milk, or juice."

  "No, thank you." He pivoted to face her fully, and her heart raced faster. He looked like he wanted to smile.

  As always, he dominated whatever space surrounded him. He had an authoritative air about him, one that suggested he'd come from money; he should have looked out of place among her things, scuffed and worn as they were, but he just struck her as gloriously masculine.

  "Please," she said, doing her best to appear sober. "Have a seat."

  "So proper." He eased onto the settee.

  Breathing a little easier, she sat on the couch, across from him but next to the side table...where she'd anchored a revolver underneath the only drawer.

  He pulled at the collar of his shirt as if suddenly uncomfortable. "You have a beautiful home."

  "Thank you." Was the man she considered unflappable...flapped? Hating the thought of anyone suffering with nervousness--fear sucked, no matter how you sliced it--she sought to put him at ease. "I'm pretty sure I'm every man's nightmare decorator. After I bought the house, I went shopping with a checklist. Of colors. In every room, no color is used more than twice."

  "A rainbow fetish. Nice." His grin returned. A second later, he tensed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'll just jump right in, okay? As you know, my father died."

  "I'm sorry," she repeated.

  He nodded in acknowledgment, his features once again unreadable. "He and I were never close. He called me a few times last month, trying to make amends for... Well, it doesn't matter. I resisted." Brock cleared his throat. "He was sick, but I had no idea."

  "No one told you? Oh, Brock." She pressed her palm over her heart. "That stinks."

  A curt nod. "He owned a business. The Hud and Son Group. According to his will, he'd hoped to see me settled, happy at long last. He wanted me to find the kind of happiness he'd found with his mistress. Yes, I said mistress, not wife. He thought I would remain single and sad forever if I wasn't pushed into a relationship of some sort, so, he decided to push. I will receive control of the business if I get married. Soon. Preferably by the end of the week."

  Shock punched her. "Married," she echoed as air gus
ted from her lungs. That kind of news will sober a girl up in a hurry. "Preferably by the end of this week? Not, like, some week in the future?"

  Another curt nod as a muscle jumped beneath his eye. "This week. I desperately want control of the family business, which means I need a wife, and fast. Someone willing to divorce me when this is over and walk away with a smile...and a million dollars in her pocket."

  Lyndie's ears began to ring. "Why are you telling me this?"

  Those pale green eyes hardened, pinning her in place. "Because I want that woman to be you and only you. Lyndie Scott, will you do me the honor of marrying and divorcing me?"

  Chapter Three

  Over the past week, Brock's emotions had run the gamut. From the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. Over the past five minutes, he'd experienced a hard punch of lust when Lyndie had opened her door, panic as he'd prepared to ask a woman to marry him, even temporarily, and now dismay as he waited for a response.

  She had to say yes. No other woman would do. Actually, the thought of marrying anyone else sent him into a tailspin of denial. Can't do it. Won't do it. Would rather lose everything.

  He'd given this a lot of thought. At first he'd decided to take option B: a fifty percent stake in Hud and Son Group, a real estate giant that dipped its toes in construction and engineering. Brock could collect a monthly check without lifting a finger, forcing Miranda to do all the work in order to maintain her current lifestyle.

  As satisfying as he found the thought, he knew she would find a way to cheat him.

  However, if Brock wanted all of the business as well as three luxury homes--a penthouse in Manhattan, a Bel Air spec house in LA, and a private island off of Florida--he had to get married.

  Just as appealing? Taking Lyndie Scott off the market, even for a little while, and making love to her in all three homes, in every room. In every way.

  Blood heated in his veins. Muscles hardened. Every muscle. He shifted atop the settee, trying to hide a raging hard-on.

  His body had decided to act seventeen again, and there was nothing he could do about it.