“Come here,” Noah said, reaching out to her. “Take my hand. We’ll go back to the car together. I promise I won’t leave you again.”

She hesitated, then placed her palm in his. Heat infused his skin, racing up his arm. Noah knew, as he pulled Victoria toward him, that leaving this city, this woman, wasn’t going to be simple. No, this tie was becoming more and more tangled by the minute.

“Thank you,” she said again after they’d made their way to a quieter section of the street. “I got a little swamped by the crowds.”

A little swamped? He didn’t say it, but to his eyes she looked as if she’d been caught in a storm. He held tight to her hand, keeping her close as they made their way back to where her car was parked.

The woman beside him was a reality that Noah hadn’t counted on. His best-laid plans had just been disrupted—by his own heart.

Dear Reader,

This book was probably one of my most challenging to write, and certainly an experience I will never forget. Because, in the middle of writing about Victoria’s loss, I lost my own mother.

I think, just as Victoria says, that losing someone so close to you changes you forever. I know it has impacted the way I look at the world, how tightly I hug my children, and also how and what I write.

Although there were many days after my mother died that I couldn’t write, ultimately I realized that putting my words on paper and bringing my books to readers was the best testament I could give her. She was always so proud of me, and would brag about her “daughter the author” to everyone from the UPS driver to her hairdresser. She would have wanted me to press on, to finish this book and then write another. And another.

I hope that you, dear reader, will persevere in whatever is important to you. That you, too, will treasure each day and the gifts that come with every sunrise. And always remember to make each moment count and hold dear those around you.

Shirley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SHIRLEY JUMP

Bookseller’s Best Award-winner Shirley Jump didn’t have the willpower to diet, nor the talent to master under-eye concealer, so she bowed out of a career in television and opted instead for a career where she could be paid to eat at her desk—writing. At first, seeking revenge on her children for their grocery-store tantrums, she sold embarrassing essays about them to anthologies. However, it wasn’t enough to feed her growing addiction to writing. So she turned to the world of romance novels, where messes are (usually) cleaned up before “The End” and no one is calling anyone a doodoo head. In the worlds Shirley gets to create and control, the children listen to their parents, the husbands always remember holidays and the housework is magically done by elves. Though she’s thrilled to see her books in stores around the world, Shirley mostly writes because it gives her an excuse to avoid cleaning the toilets and it helps feed her shoe-shopping habit. To learn more, visit her Web site at www.shirleyjump.com

To my mother, who wasn’t just “Momma,”

she was one of my best friends, too. I will miss

your voice, your hugs and most of all, you.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE next time he ran away from his life, Noah McCarty vowed to make a better plan—or at least give it more forethought than a six-year-old staging a walkout over the lima beans.

Normally he wasn’t a man given to impetuous acts. Anyone who knew him would agree—spontaneity definitely wasn’t his strong suit. It wasn’t even a shirt in his closet.

Through the mud-spotted windshield, steam rose from the radiator in an angry, sputtering cloud. The pickup he’d never had time to bring into the shop had finally quit on him. He cursed several times, feeling his annoyance build with every vapor cloud.

This was the last straw in an already small haystack.

He couldn’t blame the truck. For the better part of the morning, they’d been battling Friday morning stop-and-go traffic on I-93. Finally, in frustration, Noah had gotten off on one of the exits, figuring the scenic route would be better than crawling along at a caterpillar’s pace.

Noah had gotten lost, ending up journeying along Quincy Shore Drive, heading nowhere. With no one waiting for his arrival, no one even knowing where he’d gone, he had the luxury of dawdling. As he drove into Hough’s Neck, the roads narrowed, the area becoming less city-stepchild and more remote further down the peninsula.

Until the truck had shuddered to a halt, refusing to go another inch further.

In front of him, the radiator continued to spit and hiss, disturbing the quiet of the beachside street. Noah got out of the Silverado, stretching his arms over his head, releasing the kinks in his back. It didn’t work. The kinks had become a permanent part of him, like an extra benefit for his job.

Aches, pains and heartbreak—all part of the joys of working in the juvenile justice system. Those were the bonuses he received to offset the awful pay, even worse hours and—

He wasn’t going to think about that. When he got to Maine, he was going to hole up in Mike’s cabin for a few days and have a damned fine pity party.

Because Noah McCarty had failed. In a very big way.

The only thing he could do was retreat, lick his wounds and then come up with a career that involved absolutely no contact with human beings. Mountain climber. Sewer unplugger. Professional hermit. Yeah, his career options were limitless.

Either way, when he returned to Providence, he was done being the patron of lost causes.

From his place inside the cab, Charlie, his mother’s well-indulged pocket pet, stopped shredding the Chevy’s dash and let out a woof. Well, what passed for a woof coming from a voice box the size of a dime. Noah turned, then saw what had attracted the Chihuahua’s canine instincts.

A woman.

Not just a woman, but a beautiful woman. She stood on the porch of a small white Dutch Colonial, the breeze toying with her dark brown hair and tangling it around a heart-shaped face with eyes so blue they seemed to be part of the ocean behind the property. The scenery around the woman could have been an ad in a travel magazine. Parts of the oceanfront land were still untamed, with sea grass growing in wild spurts among the sand and driftwood. It was a warm September day, picturesque and perfect.

She was watching him, a sign in her hands, a question on her lips. The sign was turned to the side, but he could still read the hand-lettered words.

Room for Rent.

The ocean breeze skipped across the beach and up the walk, whispering its salty breath beneath Noah’s nose. He inhaled, and when he did, he brought into his chest the scent of the open water. Of freedom.

Of exactly what he’d been looking for.

“Room for Rent,” he read again. Perhaps he didn’t need to travel all the way to Maine for his personal misery party.

But just as quickly as he had the thought, he dismissed it. Mike’s cabin was isolated, uninhabited. The perfect escape for a man who had every intention of becoming a grumpy recluse for a while.

“Can I help you?” she asked, taking a step forward, shading her eyes with a palm.

“My truck broke down.” He thumbed in the direction of the Chevy. “Could I use your phone? I’d call a tow truck myself but my cell battery is dead, too.” Irony, in its finest form. All at the same time, his career, his reputation, his vehicle and most of his major electronic gadgets had imploded.

His mother, who believed anything coming out of a fortune cookie was gospel, would say it was a sign. A sign of what, he didn’t know.

“Where were you going?”

“Maine.”

A slight smile crossed her face. “Maine. I’ve never been there.”

“That’s something we have in common.” He took a few steps forward, bringing his waist into contact with the short white slats of the gate. A white picket fence, he mused. The stereotype of home.

A stereotype that didn’t exist, something Noah knew too damned well.

“Noah McCarty,” he said, thrusting out a hand. This wasn’t involvement. It was being polite.

She hesitated, still clutching the sign to her chest, then after a second, took a step forward, as hesitant as a baby bird. When her hand met his, warmth infused his palm, skating up his veins.

“Victoria Blackstone,” she said, her voice as quiet as the light, teasing wind. She released his palm, then unlatched the gate to let him in. But as he slid through the two-foot opening, he noticed a wariness in her eyes, an uncertainty in her movements, and realized how he must look, stepping out of his beat-up truck.

That morning, he’d left his apartment in a hurry, without shaving or taking the time to don anything more complicated than a pair of old, paint-stained jeans and a raggedy T-shirt he’d gotten free at some festival.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, to show her that his mother had raised him with a few manners.

“Come on in. You’re welcome to use my phone.”

“I appreciate it.”

As they started up the walk, she glanced down at his boots, caked with mud from a foray into the woods two days ago. A trip that had been unsuccessful, resulting in Noah knee-deep in the soggy earth and his nephew, Justin, gone, as if he’d disappeared into the ether. “Do you mind wiping your feet? I have this thing about dirt on the floor.”

A woman with rules. He hadn’t met one of those since he’d left home at fifteen. “Will do. And I promise not to sneeze on the receiver or belch aloud or do anything else that might be even remotely disgusting or male.”

A smile spread across her face. It wasn’t an ordinary smile, the kind you saw on strangers passing you on the street. Or the kind people gave when they were handed a fruitcake at Christmas. It was a smile that had legs, one that softened into her cheeks and raised them into bright apple shapes.

The kind of genuine smile Noah hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

A slight blush whispered over her features. She turned away and continued up her walkway. Behind him, Noah heard a familiar patter of itty-bitty paws.

Oh, no. The dog.

Before Noah could grab him, Charlie hurried past, tossing a growl at Noah as he did. Then he did a Jekyll and Hyde, shifting his demeanor to friendly. Cute, even. He darted up, thrust his nose against the bare leg beneath Victoria’s capris, and introduced himself. Victoria gasped, then stopped, gaping at Charlie. “Oh my goodness. What a cute dog! Is he yours?”

If she only knew the personality lurking beneath that pixie canine face, the wolverine in Disney packaging. “Meet Charlie,” Noah said, gesturing toward the pedigreed pup, who had wisely withdrawn his nose and planted his butt on the concrete beside Noah, whip-thin tail swishing loose stone dust from side to side. Looking for all the world like he might actually be a nice dog.

Ha.

“Well, hello, Charlie.” When her soft gaze connected with Noah’s, he thought a man could fall into those eyes as easily as a down bed. “He seems attached to you.”

“Not really. He knows which side his bread is buttered on and who’s got the butter.” Then he recovered his manners, thought of her. “Are you allergic to dogs? If you are, I can make him wait in the truck. He snuck out because he thinks everyone loves him.”

Victoria’s laughter was rich and melodic, a one-person vocal orchestra. “Maybe he’s never met anyone who disagrees.”

“Considering the way my mother’s brought him up, you might be right. She dropped him off at my house with only one instruction—indulge his every whim.”

Victoria considered Charlie, the sign once again clutched to her chest. “I’ve never had a dog. Or a cat.” She spoke so quietly, he wondered if she was including him in the conversation. “Or come to think of it, a goldfish.”

“I’ve always had a pet, usually one I found somewhere. Before my mother left Charlie with me, it was a cat. I had Bowser for five years and before him, it was Max and Matilda, a couple of dogs who thought playing fetch was for sissies,” Noah said. “I seem to be the type that attracts strays.”

The words left a sharp pain in their wake. He’d done far too much of that rescuing the unrescuable thing.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to ask you,” she said. “Would you like a glass of lemonade? Iced tea?”

It was simple hospitality, but for some reason, it hit Noah hard. Maybe it was the beautiful woman. The ocean air. The fact that he hadn’t dated anyone in a long, long time. Either way, he felt something begin to stir within him, as if his old self were being resurrected.

That was crazy. He’d been out in the heat too long. Inhaled some of the radiator fumes.

“Lemonade would be great, thanks.” Beside him, Charlie let out a high-pitched bark.

Victoria laughed again. “And some water for you, Charlie.”

She left the sign on the porch, facing the words inward. As he scraped the soles of his boots against the welcome mat and then entered the house, he realized he’d never seen a home this tidy. She was clearly one of those women who took a scrub brush to everything in her life.

The tidiness he could understand, but the decor stopped him cold. He might as well have stepped onto the set of Happy Days. From the chrome kitchen set down the hall to the boxy floral sofa in the living room to his right, he could practically see the Cunninghams in every detail. Though he didn’t know her well, he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the delicate, caprisclad Victoria Blackstone and these outdated rooms. “Behave yourself,” he whispered to Charlie. “No peeing on her favorite chair. Or eating her shoes. Or gnawing escape hatches in the walls.”

Charlie lifted his nose in the air and jaunted forward, as if he’d never consider such a thing and as if he hadn’t just done all three things to Noah’s apartment last night.

“The phone’s over there,” she said, pointing at a white wall phone in the kitchen.

“Thanks.” He entered the room, noting the checkerboard pattern on the linoleum and the porcelain sink that was nearly as big as a bathtub. Something simmered in a Crock-Pot on the counter, filling the room with the scent of beef. He picked up the receiver, turned it to use the underside, then paused, noticing the coiled cord and ring of numbers. “Is this an antique?”

“Antique?” She glanced at the phone, laughed, then turned back to the avocado-colored refrigerator to pull out a pitcher of lemonade. Slices of lemon danced in the pale liquid. No doubt fresh squeezed. “Probably. We’ve had it in the house forever. My parents were a little wary of the whole touch-tone revolution.”

Wary of touch-tone phones? What century was this house living in? For a minute, Noah felt as if he’d stepped back in time, transported to the world he’d inhabited when he was a little boy. When his father had been around and dinners had been on the table every night, waiting for them to create a family at the circular table. The phone would ring, and his mother would let it go, because dinner was a sacred time. Anyone who dared interrupt it better have a damned good excuse.

When he’d been thirteen and waiting to hear from Stevie Klein if Margaret O’Neil really did like him, the whole phone thing had been an annoyance. But now, in the shadows of history, he saw it as his mother trying to preserve family togetherness.

In the end, she hadn’t been able to preserve a damned thing.

Once again, Noah shook off the memories. He needed a mechanic, not a stroll down Reminiscence Lane. “Do you have a phone book? I need to call a tow truck and find a motel nearby. I’ll probably need a place to stay until my truck is ready.”

“Sure. Give me a second.” Victoria handed him a glass of lemonade then returned to the sink to fill a plastic bowl with water for Charlie. After she turned it off, the faucet continued to drip, slow and steady. Plop. Plop. Plop.

She gave the water to Charlie, who exuded gratitude with a yip and a frantic wag of his tail. Clearly the dog preferred female caretakers.

Hell, looking at Victoria, Noah couldn’t say he blamed Charlie. She leaned comfortably against the counter, her delicate features and bemused smile an odd juxtaposition to the linoleum flooring and avocado green appliances, and watched the dog take delicate, single laps from the bowl. If there was one thing Charlie despised, it was getting wet.

Behind her, he could still hear the sink drip. “You know, I can fix that for you.” He gestured toward the sink, wondering what on earth had possessed him to make that offer. His plan was to tow and run, not pause for a rerun of This Old House. “Probably needs a new washer.”

“It does. I just haven’t had a chance to pick one up at the store.”

He arched a brow, impressed. “A woman who knows some plumbing?”

She laughed. “I’ve been taking care of things around here for years. Even have my own set of tools.”

“With pink handles?” He remembered seeing a set like that once in a hardware store.

“Of course.” A grin spread across her face. “Wouldn’t want some man coming along and thinking that hammer was his.”

“You get many of them? Men trying to take your hammer?” The question, and the hint of innuendo, tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. Clearly he’d been working in an all-male office too long.

“Not many.” She wagged a finger at him. “So don’t get any ideas about my tools.”

There was another innuendo in those words, something that Noah chose to ignore. He was here to use the phone, get his truck fixed…

And nothing more.

Nevertheless, “ideas” flowed through his brain without an invitation. He was, after all, a man with a pulse. Just add water and a gorgeous woman and watch those ideas grow.

“Your, ah, tool kit is safe from me,” he said. “The only thing I need is my radiator fixed. Any chance your talents extend to that?”

She threw up her hands in surrender. “Nope. But I sure can call triple-A Larry.”

He laughed, the sound bursting from his throat such a surprise he almost choked it back. How long had it been since he’d laughed like that? The fact that he couldn’t remember told him it had been too damned long. “Well, you’re in good company. I can fix a leaky faucet, even hang some Sheetrock, but I’m engine illiterate.”

For a long second, she didn’t say anything, her blue eyes sweeping over him, studying him as intently as a prosecutor. “So, Noah McCarty, what are you running away from?”

Bam. Just like that, she’d nailed him. He let out a startled chuckle. “Am I that transparent?”

She smiled, this time a softer, shyer version. “Not really. I just put a few pieces together. The truck. The filled duffel bag in the back. The Rhode Island plates and you mentioning Maine. And…”

“And?”

“Well…you seem like a guy who’s trying to get away from something.” Her cheeks filled with crimson. “I could be totally wrong, too. I’m not exactly a social butterfly, so my person-to-person skills are a bit rusty.”

“You’re fine.” Then he scowled, mad at himself for admitting that. He’d been drawn in, even taken a half-step closer to her, to try to discover what it was about this stranger that had his heart beating faster and his brain forgetting the plan.

“I’m sorry. I tend to be blunt.”

“That’s okay. Really.” He clutched the phone tighter, the hard plastic a stab of reality. Get back to the point, McCarty. No lingering. No wondering who this woman is and why she’s living in a time warp. “Phone book? Or should I call information? Or…” He paused. He shouldn’t say it. Should simply get on his way again as fast as possible.

“What?”

He had never seen eyes quite that color before. Big and rich, filled with a hue of blue that varied as much as an ocean wave. He stopped himself, though, just before he ended his “or” with the words “room for rent.” “Uh…nothing. Just thinking about what to do with the truck.”

She pushed off from the counter and moved to straighten one of the chrome chairs, putting it back into perfect alignment with the silvery table legs. “There are plenty of auto repair shops around here, but if you want a recommendation, I’d say Larry. I’ve dealt with the same mechanic for years and I trust him. He’ll come and get your truck, fix it for a reasonable price and not put in parts you don’t need. It’s the end of the day, though, so I bet he can’t get to it until tomorrow. As for a motel—” she paused for a fraction of time “—if you want to stay here, I have that empty room.”

Room for Rent.

How easy it would be to take Victoria up on her offer. To stay here, to let the beckoning ocean outside her window wash through his exhausted muscles. But staying here meant staying with someone. Noah’s entire reason for going to Maine was to eliminate all human contact from his life.

“Thanks, but I really can’t stay.” He cocked a hip against the wall, the phone still in his hand. “I need to get up to—”

“I understand,” she cut in suddenly. “Let me get you that phone book so you can call a motel.” She headed quickly out of the room.

Charlie strolled over, plopped down beside Noah’s feet and let out a sharp bark. “I take it you like her?” he asked.

The dog only looked up at him in response, his ears perking like two equilateral triangles.

“I thought you were supposed to be so picky. Evian and Iams only.”

Charlie let out another of his wannabee barks, then laid down and started gnawing on the hem of Noah’s jeans, content as a monkey with a banana.

“We should leave,” Noah told him, raising his foot, shaking off the dog.

Undaunted, Charlie’s tiny, razor sharp teeth got back to wreaking havoc. He was, after all, a dog very used to getting his own way. Not to mention a silk-lined doggy bed—which Noah had refused to take with him. If Noah was roughing it, Charlie could damned well do the same.

The idea of roughing it didn’t seem quite so appealing now, though. Mike’s cabin was mainly used for hunting trips and weekend stays in the summer. It didn’t have electricity or running water, just a fireplace and a stack of canned goods.

Nevertheless, the cabin was ideal hermit material. The sooner Noah got there, the better. He needed some time to come up with a better plan and figure out exactly what to do about Justin.

The seconds ticked by on the black plastic cat-shaped wall clock. The faucet kept up its steady tempo. But Victoria didn’t return. She couldn’t get lost in her own house and the chances of her not knowing where the phone book was in such a tidy place were slim.

He told himself to remain exactly where he was, not to go look for her, because doing that would start the whole snowball of involvement.

Charlie paused in his denim snack and raised his head. “No,” Noah said.

The dog let out a little bark, then tugged at Noah’s pant leg. When Noah didn’t move, Charlie heaved a sigh and dropped his head onto Noah’s foot. It had all the weight of a crew sock.

“Oh, all right,” Noah muttered. “I’ll make sure she’s okay. But that doesn’t mean we’re staying.”

He disengaged himself from the stubborn Chihuahua and headed into the opposite room. Victoria could have fallen, broken a bone, hit her head. He may be keeping his distance from humans, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be relied upon for the occasional 9-1-1 event.

Yeah, right. That’s exactly why he was doing this. So he could demonstrate his CPR skills.

The thought of doing mouth-to-mouth on Victoria rippled through him. He quickly pushed it away. Jeez, five minutes after meeting a beautiful woman and he was on his way to becoming Valentino.

The living room was empty. So was the bathroom. Just past the archway connecting the living room and dining room he saw her. The shades were drawn, darkening the space into a dusky indoor twilight and giving an eerie cast to the long, narrow dining room table and the matching high-backed, claw-foot chairs. The wood floors, topped with a rectangular floral carpet. Like the rest of the house, the room was a throwback to earlier days.

Victoria had her back to him, standing beside a sideboard that took up most of the wall. A parade of family photos in silver frames sat across the top of the furniture piece. Victoria’s shoulders were hunched forward, her head down.

Oh, hell. Something softened in Noah’s heart. Try as he might to harden it again, his best intentions dissolved the second he heard a sob escape her throat. “Victoria?”

She wheeled around, at the same time swiping at her cheek. “Sorry, I…ah…I couldn’t find the phone book.”

“Listen, I’ll just—” He thumbed over his shoulder, intending to say, “leave,” but the word lodged in his throat.

“I was looking in a drawer for it, but…” Her voice trailed off, and in the final notes, he heard the one emotion he’d vowed never to come near again.

Loss.

Noah recognized it as surely as his own name. He’d seen it, in the faces of parents who’d lost their children to drugs. He’d heard it, in the final phone call before a gunshot. He’d felt it, in courtroom after courtroom as children too young to drive were carted off to finish growing up in jail.

But most of all, he’d carried that feeling with him all the way from Rhode Island, tucked squarely inside his chest.

What the hell was he thinking? That he could go to Maine for a few days and the whispers in his mind would stop? That he could sit on a dock and fish for bass like a normal man? As if he was on vacation, not a life departure? That some cabin in the woods would be enough to make him forget such a colossal mistake?

And did he really think he could walk out of this house right now, leaving that sound hanging in Victoria Blackstone’s dining room?

His feet carried him across the room, until he was close enough to see the shimmer in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Really.” Her smile trembled on her lips.

As easily as putting on a pair of jeans, Noah slipped into his familiar work persona. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

What was that about? Did he think he’d hook her up with some social services? Direct her to a food bank? Help her find a job with a great health plan?

“No. I’m sorry.” She ran a hand over the gleaming surface of the sideboard, whisking away nonexistent dust. “You…well, you reminded me of someone and it sort of hit me hard.”

“Oh.” For once, he had no rejoinder to that, no dispensation of advice. “Do you want me to go?”

She reached out and put a hand on his arm. “No. Not at all.”

Her touch on him was sweet, soft. Every instinct in his body told him to back away, head out the door and go on his way, hitchhiking if need be. But there was something about her touch that reminded Noah, too, of someone.

Himself. A long time ago.

“Listen, why don’t you stay for dinner? That way, you’ll have a meal in you before you hit the road again. It’s after Labor Day, so a lot of the beach restaurants here are closed down. You’d have to go into Quincy proper to find anything.”

He knew he should say no. Unfortunately his mouth didn’t take good direction from his brain. “Dinner sounds like a good idea.”

He’d stay for dinner, but only because the feel of her hand on his arm had awakened nerves he’d thought had been severed by his years on the job. Because it felt nice to be a man for a minute, a man who didn’t have the weight of other people’s lives sitting on his conscience.

“Great! I’ll set another place at the table.” That smile spread across her face again, socking him in the gut—

And warning him that he’d just done the very thing he didn’t want to do. Laid the first brick of a foundation with another person.

WHAT on earth had gotten into her? Victoria had always thought of herself as a woman who maintained control, never let her feelings show and never, ever betrayed vulnerability. At least, until Noah McCarty came along and proved within ten minutes that she was a liar.

And now she’d gone and cried in front of him. Cried, for Pete’s sake, like some helpless female who couldn’t find her way out of a cardboard box.

Okay, given her directionally challenged mind, that part might be true, but still…crying? That was really pitiful.

“I’m sorry. I don’t normally burst into tears in front of strangers,” Victoria said as they walked back into the kitchen.

“I understand,” Noah said, but Victoria suspected he was merely being polite. He had that look about him, with his sandy-brown hair and deep green eyes, that said he’d let you down easily and wouldn’t intentionally hurt your feelings. And yet, she saw something else, some other side of him that flickered briefly in those depths of green. Something that told her she could trust him.

The compulsion to tell him, to talk to someone, to share with a human, instead of these empty, silent walls, propelled the words forward. “My dad,” she said, “used to lean against the half-wall like that whenever he talked on the phone. Uncle Joe called him every Saturday morning and the two of them would go on for hours, debating taxes, the governor’s choices, whether I-93 or 128 had more traffic.” She let out a little laugh, the memory still sharp with grief but also tinged with a slice of happiness. “He died six months ago and there are funny things that will hit me sometimes, just out of the blue. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Noah said, taking her hand, making her feel for the first time in a long time that it was, indeed, all okay. His eyes weren’t filled with that awkwardness she’d seen so many times already, the kind where people felt compelled to say something, do something, if only to cover up their own discomfort about being so close to someone who had experienced a death. Instead Noah had reached out, his touch light yet sincere. “I’m sorry about your father.”

The words were enough to send the tears rushing back to her eyes. She blinked them back. “Thank you.”

“Hey, Charlie,” she said, changing the subject and bending down to the dog, whose pointy little ears perked up at the mention of his name, “you’re welcome to stay for dinner, too.”

The dog wagged his skinny tail, then jumped up on her legs, miniature nails scraping lightly at her bare skin. She lowered herself to her knees, scratched him under his chin.

“Watch him,” Noah said. “He’s…temperamental.”

“Him? He’s a sweetie-pie.” As if living up to what she’d said, Charlie dropped to his back and offered up his belly for the personal treatment. His tail beat ferociously against the linoleum floor, keeping up a steady tempo of “you-like-me.”

She let her fingers trail along his nape, then his ears, toying with the velvet tips. Charlie let out a groan and wriggled even closer.

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Noah said, laughing.

She jerked up to look at him. “Done what?”

“Spoiled him. Now he’s going to make me get out the silk bed again.”

She arched a brow. “Silk bed?”

“Charlie is the king of my mom’s castle. He has his every whim indulged, sleeps on better sheets than Elvis did and even has his own teddy bear. She’s only been gone twenty-four hours and already called me three times to make sure I’m treating him right.”

“And are you?”

“Well, I drew the line at the silk bed and the Burberry trench coat.”

Victoria chuckled. “He’s a nice dog, though. I can see why she spoils him.”

Noah wasn’t so bad himself. Though “nice” might not be the first word that Victoria would use when asked to describe him. Gorgeous, with a haunting quality that told her a lot of him was kept behind a locked door.

Silence hummed between them and once again, Victoria wanted to kick herself. She was a complete and total social moron. She’d spent too much time here in this house, away from the real world. Away from other people.

But that was going to change.

She scrambled for something to say, something to fill the uncomfortable gap between them, to help her stop noticing the deep color of his eyes, the way one lock of dark hair stubbornly fell against his forehead. Strong, sexy and most of all, unaware of the effect he could have on a woman.

Focus, she told herself. Focus.

“I almost forgot about the mechanic. Larry is the guy we use. Used,” she corrected herself, since the car hadn’t needed service in a long time because she had yet to muster the courage to get behind the wheel again. She’d learned to drive years ago, but had never driven outside of Quincy. The thought of taking the car on the highway—or into the city—was way too much. “Anyway, his number is on the corkboard beside the phone.”

“Thanks.” Noah crossed the kitchen, found the name Larry on the neat, alphabetized list of names and numbers and dialed. When the phone was answered on the other end, Noah explained he was looking for Larry and needed a tow as well as a few repairs. “That’ll do. Thanks,” he said finally, then hung up the phone.

“Is Larry on his way?” Victoria asked, pretending she didn’t care, that the thought of company to help while away the long evening that stretched before her wasn’t as tempting as a bucket of chocolate.

“Yep. Be here in half an hour.” As he said the words, his stomach rumbled. “Listen, if my being here is difficult for you, we can forget dinner. I’ll get out of your hair.” He looked down at the dog, who had taken a proprietary space between Victoria’s feet. “We’ll both get out of your hair soon as the tow truck arrives.”

“You can’t leave,” she said, grinning. “Or I’ll end up eating leftover pot roast three times a day for a week.”

“Pot roast? I haven’t had that in about a hundred years.”

“Sorry it’s nothing more fancy. The roast happened to be what I had in the freezer. When I put it in the Crock-Pot, I knew I’d have way too many leftovers since it’s only me here, but—” She laughed. “Can you tell I haven’t had any company in a while? My mother used to say once my motor was running, there was no turning it off.”

Noah laughed. “I have a brother like that. Talks a blue streak sometimes about absolutely nothing. He—”

The words cut off as abruptly as they came. Victoria wanted to ask, to press him for more, but wouldn’t. She liked her privacy. She certainly couldn’t fault him for wanting the same.

And yet, in his eyes, she saw defeat, weariness. The emotions were too powerful, too private, and her gaze went to the floor, as if studying the black-and-white squares would provide some answer from the cosmos. They didn’t. What did she expect from forty-year-old linoleum anyway? “So, how do you like your roast?”

He grinned, clearly glad for the change of subject. “Done mooing.”

She laughed. “Do you like your potatoes baked? Or cooked with the meat?”

“Are you making gravy?”

“Of course.” Charlie started running excited circles around them, as if he understood the conversation.

“Then in with the meat.”

“Biscuits?”

“Homemade?” he asked, clearly teasing. Maybe even…flirting?

“Is there any other kind?” she said, returning the smile, the vibrations in the air.

“Not in my book.” His smile turned into a wide grin that seemed to take over his features and cast them in an entirely different light.

A sexy light.

The kind that lit a fire within Victoria’s belly that had never really been lit before. She swallowed, suddenly very glad she’d paid attention when her mother taught her to cook. “Carrots?” she said, the word a squeak.

“The whole works,” Noah replied, his gaze on hers.

The whole works. Well, heck, then she was going to bake a pie. Maybe even find that lone bottle of wine she’d been saving for a special occasion.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Noah said. “It’s been a hell of a long time since I had a home-cooked meal.”

Something about the way he’d said the words, the pained look that filled his green eyes, the way his shoulders seemed to drop…it all made her want to ask. To probe.

To help.

Because if there was one thing Victoria Blackstone did well, it was help other people. Florence Nightingale reincarnated, that was her.

She drew back, though. Helping Noah, getting involved with Noah, would detract from the plan. Tomorrow, there was going to be a whole new Victoria on the block.

But for tonight, there was Noah, his dog and a dinner to get on the table.

Because if there were ever two people she’d seen who deserved the whole works, at least for one meal, it was herself and this mysterious stranger.

An hour later, Noah sat at Victoria’s dining room table, Charlie lying at his feet, hoping to get lucky with a stray crumb, despite having devoured his own plate of meat. Noah had been as quick as the dog in downing his first helping of pot roast and was now making big dents in his second. The food was delicious, and had filled the permanently hungry ache in a belly that had subsisted for too long on fast food. “I haven’t had a homemade meal in years,” he said, wiping his mouth with a crisp white cloth napkin.

“Really?”

“I’m a bachelor. I can order take-out, and open a can of dog food.”

“For you or the dog?” She grinned and tipped her wine toward him.

He chuckled. “Based on the kind of fast-food junk I feed myself, I’d say Charlie gets the better end of the deal.”

Her laughter was soft and easy, a sound that seemed centuries away from the stiff, uncomfortable furniture filling her house. And a million miles away from the contemporary, stark loft Noah had just left.

He looked around at the floral wallpaper, his gaze sweeping over the brown shag living room carpet butting against the wood floor in the doorway, and thought maybe it was closer to two million miles.

“Go ahead, ask,” Victoria said.

“Ask what?”

“Why my house looks like something you’d see on TV Land. I can tell you’re wondering.”

“Oh, no, I…” His voice trailed off, no ready excuse to fill the space.

“My parents,” Victoria said, laying her fork across her plate, “didn’t like change. They took great pride in sleeping in the same bed all their lives, using the same stove for twenty-five years, making good use of the carpet that came with the house and grudgingly replaced a couple of rooms when the old carpet wore out. Call it frugal, sentimental…I’m not sure. But they liked things to stay exactly the same, day after day.”

“Liked?” he asked, catching the past tense. “You lost your mother, too?”

She nodded and started working on the interstate highway system in her potatoes again, but didn’t eat. “A couple months before my father. I’ve been here alone ever since. And well—” at this, she let out a sigh and looked around the dated room “—I haven’t had the heart to change anything.” She paused, took a second look and added, “Yet.”

Curiosity nudged at Noah. He wanted to know more, like what she meant by “yet.” And why she seemed to hold back parts of herself as she spoke, as if she was filtering out the bad scenes of her story.

Noah knew those signs. Knew the way someone sounded when they tried to paint a pretty picture, instead of telling him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

So help him God.

But in the end, he hadn’t been all that good at divining the truth, had he? He may have seen the signs, but he’d ignored them, all the way down to the bottom. And in doing so, he’d disappointed the one person who was depending on him to make things right—his brother.

And now, Justin was on the streets, out of Noah’s grasp.

Against his hip, his now recharged cell phone began to vibrate. He glanced down at the number, then muted the ringer. He couldn’t deal with that.

Not now anyway.

What could he say to Robert, who was fighting a war on the other side of the world? “Oh, yeah, I know I screwed up when I promised I’d rescue your kid. But don’t worry. The same system that failed him will surely save him.”

He’d be throwing platitudes at a disaster, like using a squirt bottle to put out a five-alarm fire.

“There’s an apple pie, too,” Victoria said, interrupting his thoughts. “I baked it while you were outside helping Larry get your truck loaded up.”

“I had an aunt,” Noah said, the memory slipping from his lips before he could stop it, “who used to make us all fruitcakes for Christmas. The trouble was, she didn’t know how to bake. She was pretty nearsighted and had a little trouble telling the teaspoons from the tablespoons.”

Victoria laughed. “Oh, I shouldn’t laugh, but I can just imagine how badly that went.”

“Hey, at least you didn’t have to eat it.”

“I promise, mine will be better.”

Noah’s stomach growled with a memory of the dozens of pies of his childhood, served warm, cold, however, but always good. The sweet scent in the air formed a mental image with the treat baking in Victoria’s oven. “It’s been a really long time since I’ve had pie.”

“Pies are like families, don’t you think?” she asked, raising a fork to make her point. “No crust is exactly the same, but all the ingredients in the filling make it turn out perfect.”

“Not all families are like that,” he said quietly. “Not by a long shot.”

Victoria opened her mouth to say something, surely to ask him what he’d meant by that. He stood and tossed his napkin onto the table, the now silent cell phone a heavy reminder of the reality he was avoiding. “I’m, ah, full. Rain check on the pie?”

“Sure.” But the look of disappointment in her eyes made him feel awful.

She didn’t understand and he couldn’t explain.

Noah gathered up his dishes and headed into the kitchen. Charlie trailed after him, but wisely kept his own counsel about his temporary owner and curled up in a corner, leaving Noah’s jeans unscathed. Noah loaded the dishes in the sink, ran some water and squirted some soap over them, then turned and looked around the kitchen. No dishwasher.

Somehow, it didn’t surprise him. He began to wash, circling his plate over and over again, trying to scrub off a crimson stain that didn’t exist. One that wouldn’t disappear, no matter how many times he blinked.

“Are you okay?” Victoria’s quiet voice at his shoulder.

“Yeah.” No. He hadn’t been okay in a long damned time.

“It’s clean,” she said, gently taking it from his hands, running it under the water and putting it into the dish drainer. The action brought her closer to him, her breasts brushing against his back, the sweet fruit scent she wore whispering around them. She was warmth and goodness, something he hadn’t thought existed, at least not in his corner of the world.

He inhaled her fragrance. Kiss her. Kiss the woman who made you a pot roast. Baked you a pie.

Cared.

No. A kiss would only extend the thread between them, adding another knot in the tenuous string already begun.

He reached into the sink, picked up his glass and plunged the sponge into it, again and again, seeing all his mistakes pile up in the soap bubbles, quadrupling onto each other, weighing on him like so many stones.

“Noah.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. The touch suddenly seemed too much.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice a growl, a warning. “Don’t get close to me.”

She backed up, and he immediately wished he could take the words back, hit Rewind, do it again with more tact and less anger. But she’d gotten between him and some mighty bad damned memories. Victoria had just become another casualty in the war with himself.

And that wasn’t fair.

He spun around, the water dripping from his hands onto the checkerboard tile. “I’m sorry. I—”

What could he tell her? That he’d let down the only people in the world he loved? The only family he really had?

That he’d failed with the one kid who’d needed him more than any other? That he hadn’t been able to say the right words or be there at the right time to stop a life from spiraling into the depths? That he’d kept the real truth about Justin’s street life from Robert, because Noah had thought he, of all the people in the fourteen-year-old’s life, had the right combination to pull him back from the brink?

That he was a man who deserved to be alone, to hide from the world and lick his wounds?

Way to make a good first impression, McCarty.

“I know,” she said, and she approached him again, clearly not afraid of his grizzly bear attitude. She reached out. He watched her hand approach, telling himself he should back away, run from her.

From contact. From caring.

But then her hand touched his arm, warm skin against warm skin, and the human part of Noah that he had told himself was dead roared to life, craving the touch, the nearness of someone who had that understanding look in her eyes.

Longing. Needing. So very desperately needing this, just for now, just this once.

“Noah,” she said again, his name slipping from her tongue as gently as the summer breeze.

He swallowed hard. Then he ignored the warning bells in his head, leaned forward and kissed her.

WHEN Noah McCarty’s lips met hers, Victoria’s entire world screeched to a halt.

It wasn’t that she’d never been kissed before—she had, several times—it was the way he kissed her. Like he’d discovered a buried treasure and was intent on preserving it instead of plundering it.

His lips drifted over hers, slow, sure. Tasting. Exploring. Igniting. The blood rushed to her head, thundering in her pulse, and everything below her neck melted into a helpless puddle of hormones. She had read about kisses like this, dreamed of receiving one, but never, ever imagined a man could truly do such wonderful things with such a small part of her anatomy.

And then, he brought his hands, still damp from the dishes, up to cup her face. That was the touch that sealed it for Victoria, that sent her already frenzied hormones over the edge, screaming for more of whatever Noah McCarty had.

At first, she didn’t touch him back. Her lips returned the kiss, but her arms remained stubbornly at her side, as reclusive as she had been, afraid he was a mirage, a figment of her imagination—which had become far too active in the last few quiet months.

But as his touch explored her face and his thumbs tipped up her chin to allow his lips fuller access, she felt the realness of him, allowed herself to believe she wasn’t dreaming this kiss.

This man. This tingling, building, wanting need.

In one swift movement, Victoria reached around him, the soft cotton of his T-shirt slipping against her palms. Beneath the fabric, his muscles bunched, sending her mind down a path that went way beyond kissing.

And then, Noah pulled back, released her chin with a final reverent slide of his fingers and moved away. As if he’d flicked a switch, everything within him seemed to turn to concrete, going gray and cold. “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.”

“It’s okay,” she said, but not feeling okay at all. She’d thought he’d enjoyed their kiss as much as she had, but then he’d jerked away, and apologized? She may have been kissed before but she had so little dating experience that she wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing…or something else altogether.

Like she was about as desirable as a damp dish towel.

“I don’t normally go around kissing women I’ve just met,” he said.

“And I don’t normally go around kissing the boarders. Temporary or not.” She grinned, trying to make light of the moment. To not let on that her dating experience consisted of a few stolen kisses during clambakes on the beach with the boy who used to live next door.

“We’ll forget the whole thing happened.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. Liar, liar, lips on fire. If she lived to be two hundred, she wouldn’t forget one second of that kiss.

The phone rang, interrupting the moment of tension still simmering between them. Victoria answered it, then gave the receiver to Noah. “Larry.”

“Thanks.” He took the phone, listened, uttered a few words, then hung up. “You were right. Larry can’t get to the truck until tomorrow. Said he needs to order a radiator, since he didn’t have one for an ’82 in stock. Looks like it’s going to be a couple days before I hit the road again.” He flicked out his wrist, glanced at his watch. “I should probably get going, find a motel.”

“Stay here. No pressure, no lease.” She grinned.

“I’d hate to impose…”

“And I’d hate to see you scouring the neighborhood, looking for a motel that was open after the close of beach season.”

Noah looked down at Charlie, who had curled into a ball beside a very clean and very empty plate on the small rug in front of the sink. He was busy worrying away at one of the bones he’d brought along. “Seems Charlie is already settled in.”

“I think the leftover roast swayed him.”

Noah watched the dog for a long moment, then his green eyes met hers. “Okay. I’ll take you up on the offer of temporary lodging. I’ll be glad to pay you whatever you want. Or, if you don’t want me around—” at this, his gaze strayed to her lips, and the heat stirred within her all over again “—and I’ll understand if you don’t, I’ll call a cab and head over to a motel.”

“And disturb Charlie?” She smiled. “I don’t think he’d like you much if you take him from his spot. Or the possibility of whatever’s lurking in the fridge.” Her gaze went to Noah’s. “Stay. No charge.”

But even as she said the words, she realized she’d just opened a can of worms for herself. When Victoria had gone out on her porch earlier that day, it had been to take down the sign, not hang it up.

Allowing Noah McCarty to stay here was doing the exact opposite of what she planned. One day could easily turn into two, or three. And before she knew it, she’d end up staying, too.

Although if staying here meant being kissed like that again, the idea didn’t seem like such a bad one.

There was a bird knocking at Victoria’s door. A tall, bright orange bird.

Noah had stepped down the hall, to grab his bag that he’d left by the door and settle in—no, not settle in, just get unpacked enough for the night—when the plumed thing started rapping on the oval of beveled glass.

Whether it was Big Bird himself, Noah didn’t care. The interruption came at the perfect time. He could have cut the tension between Victoria and him with a chain saw. Half of him wanted to kiss her again—the half that didn’t think with a brain—while the other half wanted to run like hell and hitchhike to Maine. She’d busied herself with straightening a floral arrangement that didn’t need straightening, which only made Noah feel worse.

What was that line he’d given her? “I don’t normally do that?” Where had he gotten that? Boy, he needed a man tune-up, because he sure had no idea how to be one, at least not one with any finesse.

Victoria scooted past him, a look of relief on her face. She was probably happy to see someone on her doorstep, someone who wouldn’t kiss her and then fumble the whole thing like a rookie quarterback.

“Oh, it’s Mrs. Witherspoon,” Victoria said, peering through the glass. “She’s undoubtedly got a crisis.” She turned to Noah. “How are you with tools? Plungers and the like?”

Tools? Plungers? “I thought that was your specialty,” he said, grinning.

“I can fix a faucet, but Mrs. Witherspoon’s projects require brawn.”

“I take it that’s where I come in.”

“Hey, a guy next door can be a handy thing.”

He wouldn’t be the guy next door for long, not even for twenty-four hours. Even if the majority of his brain wanted to stay right here, in this house, and kiss Victoria again.

And again. And again. Until everything that had followed him from Rhode Island began to recede, leaving his mind free and clear.

“You wouldn’t believe the fixes Mrs. Witherspoon gets herself into,” Victoria said just before opening the door, revealing a tall woman wearing a hat with a swirl of brightly colored feathers and ribbons surrounding the brim. “Hello, Mrs. Witherspoon.”

“Why, hello, Victoria. I wondered if you might have a—” She cut off her words, her jaw dropping when she caught sight of Noah standing in the hall. She made no secret of looking him up, then down. “Oh, my. A man.”

Noah knew right then how a side of beef felt.

“This is Noah McCarty, my…” Victoria glanced over her shoulder at him, searching for a word. “Guest.”

That seemed as good a word as any, Noah figured. Although, guests didn’t kiss the hostess. Guests were smart enough to eat the pie instead of thinking about devouring her lips.

Well, if that were true, then where had that kiss come from? Definitely out of left field. He’d merely been sideswiped by dinner, swept up into a moment he’d never intended.

Obviously Charlie hadn’t been the only one overwhelmed by the roast beef.

“Mrs. Witherspoon,” Victoria prompted, “did you come by for something?”

“Oh, yes. I did indeed. I’m putting in a greenhouse and I need to knock down a wall.” She put a finger to her chin. “Maybe two. Can I borrow a sledgehammer?”

“Did you finish the patio already?”

Mrs. Witherspoon waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m going to turn that into a garden. Who needs all that space to sit around anyway?” She took a step forward, studying Noah. “How long are you staying, young man? And what are your intentions with our Victoria?”

Beside him, Noah could see Victoria cringe. He knew the look. He’d had a neighbor like Mrs. Witherspoon when he’d been a kid. Playing games at the knees of the local bridge club seemed to give them ownership when he got older, as if he were part of the extended family of every little old lady who had ever sipped tea at his mother’s dining room table.

Or at least it used to be that way. Then his parents’ marriage had run aground, and eventually, the neighbors had stopped calling, as if what had happened in the McCarty house was contagious. The weeds had taken over the front gardens and the friendly waves had been replaced by distant stares.

But now Mrs. Witherspoon was looking at him expectantly. “Uh, just until tomorrow,” Noah said. “My truck broke down and Larry—”

“You’re staying here? With Victoria?” Her shocked face told him what she thought of that. Apparently social mores hadn’t changed since Noah had been a kid.

“He’s renting my vacant room,” Victoria cut in.

Mrs. Witherspoon harrumphed, removing her enormous hat and using a free hand to smooth her gray hair. “I had a man ask to rent one of my rooms once. He didn’t want the extra twin, let me tell you.” She pursed her lips and eyed Noah. “You come with me, young man. I’ll put you to work knocking down a wall.” She thought again. “Probably two.”

“I’d love to help, ma’am, but I’m heading to Maine in the morning.”

“Maine? Whatever for? I’ll tell you something—” at this, she wagged her feathered hat “—there’s nothing in Maine you can’t find right here.”

“Well—”

“Besides, this won’t take much time. It’s always good to keep busy, don’t you think?”

“Well—”

“Now, go on, get that sledgehammer,” Mrs. Witherspoon said, waving Noah in the direction of the garage, “while Victoria and I have a little chitchat. Then I suppose you can come back here and stay with our Victoria.” She eyed him suspiciously. “After I give her some advice about handling strangers, of course.”

For a second, Noah thought of protesting, then changed his mind. Mrs. Witherspoon was right about one thing. Knocking down a wall would be good for him. For one, it would give him something to do, something to fill the hours until morning—something other than kissing Victoria again—and for another, it would help him work out a little of the tension building in his shoulders, bunching his muscles like coiled wire.

But an hour and a half and two walls later, Noah hadn’t found relief in the destruction of plaster and lathe. He was sweaty and dusty, his body aching, his chest heaving, but the demons that had traveled with him from Rhode Island were still hanging stubbornly on his shoulders.

“Noah?”

Victoria’s soft voice behind him. He turned, laying the sledgehammer against one of the remaining studs, swiping off the bead of sweat along his brow. “Hey.”

“I brought you more lemonade. And, you have a call.” She held up his cell phone, which he had left behind when he’d come over to Mrs. Witherspoon’s. He hadn’t thought to tell Victoria not to answer it. He hadn’t thought to turn it off. He hadn’t thought at all.

He stared at the Motorola, as if it might bite him. The small silver phone looked innocuous enough, but Noah knew better. Whoever was waiting on the other end would have questions. Questions Noah didn’t know how to begin to answer.

“He said he’s your boss,” Victoria said, “and he told me to tell you that if you think you can get away without answering the phone, he has ways of making sure you hear him.”

At that, Dan Higgins let out a roar through the cell line. “McCarty, pick up! I can hear you breathing, damn it!”

Despite himself, Noah grinned. Dan always did know how to motivate his employees.

Since there would be no getting rid of Dan, Noah crossed to Victoria and took the phone, then the lemonade. “Thanks.”

She gave him a shy smile. “No problem.”

As he swallowed a big gulp of the icy beverage, he told himself not to be touched that she’d gone to the trouble to make it. He’d seen her empty the pitcher earlier, which meant she’d had to make another one. Once again, lemon slices tangoed with the ice cubes, telling Noah this wasn’t some store-bought mix he was drinking.

“I hear ice cubes,” Dan shouted. “So don’t play dead, McCarty. Talk to me.”

“I’m here,” Noah said. Reluctantly.

“Good. Now, you may think you quit, but you didn’t.”

“Which of those two words didn’t you hear when I walked out this morning? I’m done, Dan. D-O-N—”

“You’re on vacation. Leave. What do you call it…hiatus. Whatever. You’ll be back.”

Across from him, concern filled Victoria’s face. Noah turned away, toward the expanse of Mrs. Witherspoon’s yard that had once been blocked by a wall. He closed his eyes and gripped the icy glass tighter.

“Dan, I’m not coming back.” He couldn’t face another failure, not one where people’s lives were at stake.

“Justin wasn’t your fault,” Dan said softly. “Sometimes—”

“Don’t say it,” Noah said, the words a growl. “He was my responsibility and I let him down. Now he’s probably on the streets selling his soul for drugs, or, God Almighty, something worse. And all because I didn’t do my damned job.”

“If you come back—”

“If I come back, all I’ll end up seeing is Justin’s face on a rap sheet. Or on a slab in the morgue. I can’t do that, Dan. I can’t—” Noah’s voice broke on the last few words, splintering and cracking into shards sharper than those of the old wood that littered the ground at his feet. “I quit.”

“Take all the time you need,” Dan said, not giving up on him, refusing once again to hear what Noah said. “I’ll be here, if you need me. I’ll keep looking for him here, be his shadow for a while. Till you get back. If I hear anything about him, I’ll call.”

“Don’t,” Noah said, but the protest was a weak one. Good or bad, he still wanted to know, damn it all. He still cared.

That was the one part he couldn’t hammer out of him no matter how hard he tried.

As he clicked off the phone, he felt a soft hand on his shoulder, smelled the sweet scent of apples. Victoria.

“Noah,” she said quietly, her hand a caress against his tired muscles. “When you’re done, the room is ready. If you still want it. And the pie is waiting, too.” Then she turned and walked away, leaving him to make up his own mind.

For a man trying to be a hermit, he seemed to be overrun with people trying to get close to him. Which was exactly why he couldn’t stay with Victoria Blackstone.

CHARLIE was as easy to please as a four-year-old at Christmas. He trotted jauntily into the spare bedroom on the second floor, chose a corner on the green shag carpet, curled himself into a ball and went to sleep. As innocent and sweet as a cherub on Valentine’s Day.

Victoria laughed. “Doesn’t take much to make him happy.”

He echoed her laughter. He was doing a lot of that lately. “That’s not what my mother would say. To her, Charlie isn’t happy if the heated mattress in his bed isn’t set at precisely the right temperature or if he’s not surrounded by a thousand dollars worth of toys. She’d never believe he slept on shag.”

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