the expensive outfit deliberately. At the time, she’d told herself she merely wanted to look her best. Now, she realized that on some level she’d also hoped it would give her an edge, acting as a subtle reminder of their respective pasts. In the half second before his eyes hooded over, however, she caught a glimpse of something in their depths that seemed to be as much cool disdain as grudging appreciation.
Stung, she lifted her chin and studied him in turn. She had to concede the years had been good to him in ways that had nothing to do with his newfound wealth. He might be dressed in scuffed cowboy boots, jeans whitened at the hips and thighs, a faded black T-shirt and a weathered Stetson, but nobody would ever mistake him for a simple ranch hand.
Time had added muscle to his lean six-foot three-inch frame and character to the chiseled angles of his face. What’s more, while he’d always possessed more than his share of virility, now he also radiated an air of leashed power. It was easy to see why women from sixteen to sixty turned to watch when he walked past. From the determined angle of his square jaw, to the compelling bite of his laser blue eyes and the deliberate set of his broad shoulders, he was all man.
The realization that she found him even more attractive now than she had when she was seventeen set off an alarm deep inside her.
“I was sorry to hear about Max,” he said abruptly.
She jerked her gaze to his, heat rising in her cheeks as their eyes met. Horrified he might guess what she’d been thinking, she did her best to look cool and contained. “I received your card. Thank you.”
He shrugged, the simple motion seriously straining the seams of his T-shirt. “He was a good man.”
Off balance, and unable to think about the unexpected loss of her grandfather without a piercing sense of grief, she said merely, “Yes, he was.”
“Rumor has it you’re selling the Rocking C to some big Texas cattle consortium.”
“That’s true, I am. The deal will be final in just a few days.”
He crossed his arms. “You sure didn’t waste any time unloading the place, did you?”
Eve stared at his hard, handsome face, taken aback by his obvious disapproval even as she realized he’d just given her the perfect opening. All she had to do was tell the truth—that if she hadn’t sold out to the Texans, she would have lost the ranch either to the bank or the IRS—and he’d know the gravity of her financial situation.
Yet she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—do it. Word of the disastrous investments her grandfather had made the last year of his life would no doubt eventually surface, since the Lander County ranching community was surprisingly tight-knit. But it wouldn’t come from her. Just as Max Chandler had protected her in life, Eve would protect him in death. Because she’d loved him. And because it was the very least that she owed him.
“I guess that means you’ll be taking off pretty soon,” John said in the face of her silence. “Back to Paris or New York or—where is it you’ve been living lately?”
“London,” she supplied automatically, trying to decide just how she was going to broach the reason for her visit.
She needn’t have worried. In his direct, no-nonsense way, John took care of the problem for her. “So, you going to tell me what you’re doing here or not?”
“Yes, of course. I was hoping we could talk. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
He took a cursory glance at his wristwatch, then shocked her by shaking his head. “Sorry. I’ve got a prior commitment. We’ll have to do it another time.”
“But this won’t wait!”
He shrugged, clearly unmoved. “It’ll have to. I’ve got less than fifteen minutes before I have to be somewhere.”
Struggling for composure, she turned to keep him in view as he strode up the stairs and brushed past her, trailing the scent of sunshine, horses and hard work in his wake. “Please, John,” she said, swallowing her pride. “I promise it won’t take long.”
His hand froze on the doorknob. He turned, obvious reluctance warring with curiosity—and something else she couldn’t define—in his eyes. “All right,” he said finally. “I guess if you don’t mind talking while I get washed up, I can spare you a few minutes.” Pushing open the inner door, he disappeared inside.
She stared after him, feeling both relieved and annoyed, trying to convince herself that she shouldn’t read too much into his being less than friendly. After all, he was simply treating her the way she’d treated him when they were younger.
And just like that, despite her every intention not to revisit the past, the memory of their first meeting came rushing back.
Once again it was a still summer morning. The air smelled clean and sweet, redolent with the scents of sunshine, hay and the bark chips beneath her feet as she stood in the doorway of one of the Rocking C’s roomy box stalls, stroking the warm, satiny neck of Candy Stripes, her quarter horse mare.
The two had just returned from a glorious sunrise ride and Eve vividly remembered how she’d felt at that moment: happy, gloriously alive and totally pleased with her life.
But then, why shouldn’t she be? Just seventeen, she was cherished and indulged at home and popular at school, where she was both a cheerleader and an honor student. It wasn’t surprising she’d believed the world was hers to order.
And then she’d stepped blithely into the corridor, directly into the path of a big, dark-haired stranger—and everything had changed.
He swore as she smacked into the solid wall of his chest. Yet somehow he still managed to swing the hundred-pound sack of grain he had balanced on one broad shoulder to the ground at the same time he reached out to steady her.
Startled, she’d looked up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. And as she took in the rest of his features—the strong cheekbones, the blade-straight nose, the chiseled lips, the silky dark hair tumbling over his brow—something unprecedented happened to her.
Heat pooled between her thighs. Her nipples contracted into stiff, aching points. The starch drained from her knees, and she couldn’t seem to remember how to breathe.
For one mad moment she wanted nothing more than to step closer, press her body against his boldly masculine one, bury her face against the pulse beating in the strong column of his throat.
She wanted to touch him and taste him… everywhere. And she wanted it so badly she ached with it.
The discovery shocked her. Confused, frightened, alarmed, she took a hasty step back, jerking away from the steely strength of his warm, calloused hand gripping her arm. “Who are you?” she demanded.
He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he looked her over, taking note of the way she was rubbing her fingers over the spot where his hand had been. His mouth compressed slightly, but when his gaze met hers, it was coolly polite—and nothing more. “John MacLaren.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Working.”
It was bad enough that her body was still throbbing, her throat dry, her heart pounding. But even worse, he seemed
