the most secret places within her, even if she knew it was absurd to put herself in this position.
She was not going to be able to rescue Clint.
Still, her father’s hand trembling on top of hers and the stifling heat in the room and the desperation in his voice had made her say yes, she would go there. She would try.
Besides, it would give her a week or two to figure out what to do about Jason.
So now, pretty sure she was lost in the Canadian wilds, she stopped once again and studied her instructions. She was in the heart of lake country now. Down the occasional long, winding driveway, she caught a glimpse of a posh resort, a private cabin, heavenly worlds that promised the perfect summer. But it was still early in the year, spring, and the countryside seemed largely abandoned.
“I do not love Clint McPherson,” she told herself, and gave herself a shake, wondering how her thoughts had gone there when she had been focusing so fiercely on the spring landscapes around her.
She put the car back in gear and took the next series of twists in the road fast enough to make her heart hammer within her throat.
That was how she always handled emotion. She shoved it away with adrenaline.
“My drug of choice,” she muttered. She thought it was a fairly good one, too. Much better than booze or drugs or food, or the worst one of all, men.
She slammed on the brakes, put the car in reverse.
A small copper sign, mounted on a tasteful stone post, glinted in the sun, nearly lost among the thick green foliage that surrounded it. It marked a private driveway.
Touch the Flame.
She was here then. She took a deep breath and recognized she was afraid. So she did what she always did when she felt that uncomfortable little fissure of fear.
She put the gas pedal down so hard that she was sucked back into her seat as if she were on a launch.
The car rocketed up a scenic lane, lined on both sides with gigantic fir trees. The road climbed a gentle rise, and she slammed on the brakes again at the top, her breath caught in her throat.
She had seen some of the most beautiful places on earth.
Yet this place caught at her heart. The road curved downward, opening suddenly out of woods into a beautiful clearing.
It wasn’t exactly a cabin that stood there, but a log house, golden, sweeping, windows everywhere. It was on the edge of a manicured lawn that swept downward to the sparkling gray-blue lake waters. The property was located on a sheltered bay, completely private, natural rocks standing like powerful sentinels at the mouth of the cove. Beds of flowers rimmed the lawns, looking wild and glorious. It did not look like the property of a man who was living in misery.
It occurred to her, within minutes, she would see him again. Her heart beating in her throat, she drove slowly down to the house. She parked her vehicle beside a carport that held a silver Escalade.
She got out of her car and shut the door quietly. The fragrance of the trees wrapped around her, clean and pure, heaven-scented. At first she thought it was silent, almost eerily so, but then she could hear the call of birds, the insulted chatter of a squirrel, the lap of the water on the nearby shore.
Had she expected Clint to come out and greet her? Perhaps he had not heard her arrive. There was still time for her to get back in that car, ease her way back out that long driveway, save herself.
“Save myself,” she muttered. “Sheesh.”
She took a deep breath and walked around the front of the house on a beautiful black flagstone pathway that curved around and then spilled into a huge patio, of the same stone, that ran the entire length of the house. The front was even more impressive than the back. Outside living was obviously the priority here, a wide-timbered staircase led to a multitiered deck. On the first tier was a hot tub, on the second, lounge chairs with thick, colorful, yellow-striped cushions. Outside the French-paned doors leading into the house were a stainless-steel barbecue, a bright yellow umbrella table and matching cushioned chairs. Buckets of flowers were everywhere.
Then she spotted a lone pink bunny, and it seemed sadly out of place among all the sophisticated deck furnishings.
She turned away from the house, shaded her eyes against the brilliance of the sun glinting off the water, and scanned the yard.
A movement in the deep shadows in the farthest corner of the green grass caught her eye and stopped her heart.
Him.
Clint McPherson in the flesh.
Apparently he had not heard her arrival. He was in shorts, crouched over one of the flower beds, a spade in one hand, a bedding plant in the other.
If part of her had hoped that age had been cruel to him, that part of her was thwarted. Even from here she could see the power of his build, the grace and ease of his movement. He was wearing crisp khaki shorts and a navy-blue sports shirt. She could see the muscular line of his legs, the broad sweep of his shoulders, the muscles in his forearms leap and cord with each minute movement.
His hair was longer than she ever remembered it being, touching the collar of his short-sleeved shirt.
But she remembered that hair, thick and wavy, its color a burnished bronze that turned to spun gold in the sun.
The hair had always made her think of him as a throwback to some ancient and fierce Scottish warrior. For even in his business attire—knife-creased pants; white, starched shirt; conservative tie; black, polished shoes—even then, she had always seen that he was not what the rest of them were.
It was not just that he was not flabby or soft; it was that, in the most subtle of ways, he was not completely civilized. There was a look in his eyes of a man who had seen things, felt things, been at the center of things, that were hard and crude, perhaps even cruel. He had carried himself, back then, with the unconscious grace of a predator, alert, powerful, guarded.
He straightened suddenly, and she knew that part of him was unchanged—his instinct had warned him he was no longer alone. He stood and swung around, and Brandy saw the familiar grace and power in every line of his magnificent body.
Her breath caught in her throat and her foolish heart beat too fast.
His face was a study in unrelenting masculine angles. He had a strong nose, pronounced cheekbones; the line of his jawbone was straight and true. His chin, shadowed faintly with whiskers that were bronze tipped, hinted at a cleft. His lips were firm and sensuous.
His eyes were the tawny gold of a lion’s eyes, and every bit as watchful, every bit as ready, as they swept his property now.
She sensed two things immediately.
Her father had been right. Something was wrong. Despite the look of ordered perfection around the lake house, the light that had always flared in those eyes, brilliant and fierce, had an element in it she did not understand. It was as if ice and fire battled within him, and ice was winning.
The second thing she sensed and could not ignore was that her skin was tingling treacherously. She knew that she had wasted her time chanting her mantra all the way here. She loved Clint McPherson
