many of the four women who had grown up as his sisters waited inside the thick stucco walls? Sophie, no doubt. At the faintest whiff of trouble, Sophie always came running. She was the one who dobbed to her mother the first time he bloodied George’s nose…and to her father the last time. It was Sophie who eavesdropped on the heated argument between her parents before Joe brought him here, and who spread the phrase “dirty whore’s brat.”
Yeah, he would bet money on Sophie turning up—if George had bothered to let his sisters know he was coming. His adoptive brother’s communication record was something less than stellar.
He slammed the car door on that thought, but as he strode up the drive, he could feel the tension in his jaw and a stiffness in his muscles that had nothing to do with jet lag. He didn’t want to be here—not here in Melbourne, nor at the country stables he had reportedly inherited.
Reportedly.
Wasn’t it just like George to play petty games with the facts and to ensure that the solicitor handling Joe’s estate played along, too? Nick blew out an exasperated breath. As soon as he learned the full story and slapped a For Sale sign on Yarra Park, he was gone.
This time for good.
One
If the night hadn’t been so still, silent but for the occasional swoosh of straw under restless hooves, T.C. wouldn’t have heard the faint creak of gate hinges.
Or the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path leading from the house-yard to the stables.
She could have made her way back to the stable hand’s quarters at the far end of the barn and crawled back into bed, convinced her sleep had been disturbed by an unfamiliar and unforgiving mattress rather than the audible signs of a midnight intruder.
The footsteps paused, and a chill of fear shivered across her skin. “Turn around and go back the way you came. Get in your car and drive away. Please.” Her entreaty was a whisper of breath that barely pierced the thick night air. She closed her eyes, counted to ten—slowly—but no car door clicked shut, no starter-motor engaged. With her heart lurching painfully against her ribs, she edged to the end of the stable row and peered out into the night.
Nothing moved except some ghostly strands of autumn fog—strands that seemed to slither up from the Yarra River to wrap the house in the promise of winter. T.C. retreated a step, drew a long breath. The air was cold enough to sting in her nostrils, but it was also rich with leather and horsehair, sweet molasses and fresh clover hay, familiar bracing aromas that lent strength to her weak knees.
Someone was out there—maybe the jerk who had dialed her number over and over these past weeks, only to hang up without speaking a word. She pictured him standing on the path, head lifted to test the air as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Most likely a burglar who thought the place would be easy pickings with only a woman in residence, knowledge he could have gleaned in a casual chat with any of the locals in nearby Riddells Crossing.
Her fingers tightened around the gun in her right hand. It weighed next to nothing yet it felt curiously reassuring, considering it was useless. She switched it to her left hand and wiped her damp palm on her thigh…her pajama-pants-clad thigh, she amended. A semihysterical giggle bubbled up, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound.
Some scumbag was stalking her stables, and she intended taking him on dressed in oversize flannel pajamas and armed with nothing but a kid’s toy cap gun. She would take him while he was rolling around the floor laughing!
The footsteps started again, approaching rapidly this time and without any pretense of stealth. She had no time to consider this, no time to consider anything, no time to plan. A dark figure came through the barn entrance less than a pace away, close enough for her to absorb the soft tang of his aftershave on a swiftly drawn breath.
Close enough to touch, in the ribs, with the toy gun.
“Don’t move, mister, and I won’t have to shoot you.”
The phoney tough-guy line rolled from T.C.’s tongue without conscious thought. She closed her eyes and grimaced. Had she really said that? With such cool calm strength, when her insides were quivering like half-set Jell-O? The quaver transferred to her legs and started them trembling. She prayed the hand holding her make-believe weapon wouldn’t follow suit.
The stranger slowly raised his hands above his head. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I have the, um, gun, so you should be the one avoiding stupid moves!” T.C. hated herself for that stumbling pause, but before she could do more than wince, she sensed him start to move and jabbed him with the gun. Hard.
“I get the picture. I’m not to move, right?” He eased out the words in a deep, soothing monotone—the exact same voice she used to settle a nervous horse. That gave her pause. Why was he trying to mollify her? She wasn’t the one creeping about someone else’s stables in the dead of night.
“Right,” she clipped out, irritated as well as confused. “No…wrong.” She circled about him, transferring the gun from his ribs to his back, as she regathered her composure. “I do want you to move. I want you to turn, slowly, and put your hands up against the wall.”
Surprisingly he complied, although his posture looked way too casual for T.C.’s liking. “You want me to spread ’em?” he asked. A hint of amusement colored the rich depth of his voice.
“That won’t be necessary,” she replied, absolutely unamused. The guy acted like having a gun—okay, a toy gun, but he didn’t know that—pointed at his back was more an entertainment than a concern. She needed to assert some authority, but how on earth did she go about doing that? This was not a small man. At least six foot and, unless her night vision was severely impaired, most of it muscle. Her only advantage was a handful of plastic imitation weaponry.
What if he had a real weapon?
The alarming thought caused her throat to tighten. She had to clear that solid lump of dread before she could ask, “Are you armed?”
“And dangerous?” he mocked.
T.C. cursed herself for expecting to learn anything from such a foolish question. In order to find out she needed to search him…to put her hands on him….
She steeled herself by drawing a deep breath but found the air edged with his disturbingly appealing scent. She let the breath go with a snort. So even bad guys can find their way around a bottle of Calvin Klein, she told herself. So what? Get on with it!
Plunging forward, she patted down his jacket, found two outside pockets and two sets of keys—nothing unusual there. Her hand stilled on the jacket. Not cheap vinyl but real, malleable, high-quality leather, which did strike her as unusual.
What kind of burglar was he?
“There’s an inside pocket you’d better check. And one in my shirt.”
Obviously a helpful one.
Stung out of immobility, she took another C.K.-imbued breath before sliding her hand inside the jacket. His shirt was incredibly warm and the fabric so fine that she could feel the muted texture of his chest hair against her palm. And beneath that…holy toledo! she felt the rippling curves and indents of some exceedingly fine pecs. It was like stroking the finest horseflesh, all supple
