her husband had died. Now her wedding to Tate was just two weeks away—but she hadn’t been an easy conquest.
Mike took a long pull on his coffee and headed for the broad stairway that led to double front doors. It was a good thing, he thought, that he wasn’t vulnerable to a woman’s charms. His life was too bizarre already: tough cop turned vintner and hotelier?
He set his cup down on the porch railing, pulled a key out of his pocket, unlocked the big oak doors with their stained-glass windows, and walked into the house.
VERONICA CALLAHAN LOOKED OUT the second-story bedroom window at the hill of leafy grapevines and thought it was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. The rich green stretched almost to the road, then took on a lighter, subtler shade in the pasture on the other side. The hills beyond were purple, and the sky above, even in early morning, was already bright blue, with several small, puffy clouds adding charming contrast.
She loved it here. Something about the atmosphere was calming, steadying. Her terrifying and everpresent loneliness—the first emotion she could remember at age four—had been pushed way back in her mind by the beauty and the quiet here.
Here she could learn to be confident and look capable so that parents would feel comfortable leaving their children in her care. And to be fearless enough to deal with those children every day and not be swamped by the demands of their intelligence and their neediness.
She remembered the friends she’d left behind in Los Angeles, and then in Portland, Oregon, and felt homesick for the people, if not the places. But then she reminded herself that she had a friend in French River.
She’d met Colette Palmer on a tour of the winery a couple of weeks earlier. Since then, they’d talked on the phone and had met several times in Portland for lunch when Colette had gone to the city to shop. Colette had invited her here to talk about opening a day care center in the winery’s empty barn.
Step One of her five-point plan—finding a location for her business—would soon be realized. She drew a calming breath and looked at her watch. Almost seven.
She took another moment to survey the empty room, drywalled but unpainted, and thought it was too bad it wasn’t finished yet. Living at the B-and-B while she got the day care center in order would be preferable to driving back to town every night.
But that was a small problem. Her new apartment was convenient to everything and probably far less expensive than this room would be.
She shouldered her purse as she walked down the hallway’s bare floor. Here, too, the walls were drywalled, but not painted or papered. She’d use a soft colored wallpaper with a small print and a bright border above the oak picture rails.
Imagine living here, she thought fancifully, with an adoring husband and half a dozen children, and cats all over the place.
The notion made her exuberant. And I know what I would do, if they were out, and I was alone in the house.
At the top of the stairs, she didn’t stop to think, but just swung a leg over the thick, straight banister and started down with a little squeal of excitement.
MIKE HEARD THE SOFT CRY as he walked toward the parlor, and stopped. That had been a woman’s voice. Long conditioning put every nerve ending on alert.
An instant later he saw her, and, conditioning or not, he was stunned. A young woman was sliding down the banister toward him, canvas tennis shoes coming at him soles first, slender legs in jeans held out for balance in a inverted V, arms over her head, a smile on her lips, short, dark hair flying around her face.
Then she spotted him. Her laughter turned to openmouthed surprise and she seemed to forget that she was about to run out of banister.
Mike braced himself, opened his arms, and prepared for impact. The next moment he was flat on his back with a woman who smelled of flowers sprawled on top of him.
He lay there one protracted moment, the wind knocked out of him. Then he finally drew a breath and moved sufficiently to realize that nothing was broken. But he became quickly aware of other problems: soft curves pressed against his chest, something round and also soft in his hand, a leg riding up his as she groaned.
Because of the length of time since he’d last experienced such an intimate embrace, his body reacted automatically.
She pushed against his shoulders suddenly, her cheeks pink, her brown eyes wide and horrified. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
Then she scrambled to her feet and proffered her hand to help him up.
Ignoring it, he stood, feeling as though he’d crossed into another dimension. He was in the right house—but where had this woman come from?
“Hi,” she said. Her voice was breathy. “I’m... Are you Tate?”
“I’m Mike,” he replied, suspicions beginning to surface. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Colette invited me,” she replied. “You’re Tate’s brother, aren’t you?”
He resisted the distraction of her easy smile. She was an intruder.
“She invited you to an empty house?” he asked doubtfully.
“We were going to have tea.” She pointed over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “In there somewhere. She told me...to go straight through.”
“Really? Then why were you upstairs?”
She closed her eyes a moment—to strengthen her resolve, he supposed. He noticed that her lashes were thick and dark. “I know I shouldn’t have done that,” she admitted, opening her eyes again and giving him a guilty look. “I wanted to see the view.”
“You get a clearer view from outside.”
Her eyes narrowed as if she finally understood the reasons behind his questions. “You think I’m a thief?” She spread her arms to indicate the empty room. “There’s nothing here to steal.”
He studied her levelly, trying to determine her sincerity. He used to be good at it in his old life.
“You didn’t necessarily know that when you came in. How did you get in, anyway?”
“Colette left the back door open,” she replied mildly, then added, “Are you this suspicious of everyone?”
“I don’t believe Colette would leave the back door open. And why would she invite you for tea at 7:00 a.m.?”
Veronica felt flustered and naive, hardly the image she’d intended to present the owners of the Delancey Vineyard, her potential landlords.
She cleared her throat. “I’m here to talk business,” she said with a dignity she knew was laughable under the circumstances.
“And you usually prepare for business discussions by sliding down a banister?” he asked.
She had to admit she had that coming. She smiled ruefully. “It was something I always
