long, raven hair, whipping it across his eyes and jaw, obscuring his face from view. An odd, out-of-the-blue urge welled up in Libby, and she had to fight the impulse to go to him, to brush back his hair, experience what she easily imagined would be the silken texture of it between her fingers. The startling thought made her eyes go wide, made her heart trip in her chest.
In the calm of the moment, she realized he was the most luscious man she’d ever laid eyes on.
That astonishing notion made her suck in a quick breath. What on earth had gotten into her?
She suppressed a smile when she realized that just because experience had forced her to swear off men entirely, she was still a woman. The feminine part of her demanded its right to appreciate a good-looking man when she saw one.
With an economy of movement, he turned his head, lifting his chin a fraction, and the wind whisked his hair back over his shoulders. And massive shoulders they were, too. Her eyes slid down the length of him. Over his broad chest covered by a white button-down shirt, narrow hips belted with a strip of suede decorated in a beaded, distinctly Native American design. His jeans, denim worn soft and supple with age, encased muscular thighs.
A desolate sigh whispered across her brain as she imagined him naked. The thought nearly made her choke.
She forced her gaze to the sculpted features of his face.
Who was he? And what was he doing here?
As much as she wanted to focus on the issues important to the here and now, she couldn’t stop the unbidden perceptions from flashing in her mind like sharp bolts of lightning.
Untamed. Stealthy. Panther-like.
Each description that zipped through her thoughts caused a friction that heated her blood.
He didn’t seem in any way unrefined or brutish. But…feral. Yes. That was it. A wildness exuded from him like heat radiating from the sun. Natural. Genuine.
Libby realized her heart was hammering and her mouth had gone as dry as the California desert. Enough of this, she silently ordered. When her feet still didn’t move and her tongue remained cleaved to the roof of her mouth, she silently ordered, Enough.
Suddenly she was moving again, and rather than making her way to the front door as she’d first intended, she veered toward the man.
“I didn’t get the chance to thank you this morning,” she called to him. “For helping me escape those reporters at the courthouse.”
Until now his countenance had expressed a tentativeness as if he wasn’t quite sure he should approach. But now his tense features relaxed, if only a bit.
“I’m Libby Corbett. David Corbett’s daughter.” As soon as the introduction left her mouth, she silently decided he must realize those facts already. How else would he have known where to find her?
His steely silence made her nervous. “Can I help you with something?” she asked.
“I was thinking that maybe I could help you.”
She remembered the commanding tone he’d used when addressing the reporter this morning. But now his voice sounded rich. Resonant. And a delicious tremor coursed down the full length of her spine.
“Oh?”
It was the only answer she could pull from the fog of her thoughts.
His mouth and jaw line went taut, and Libby got the distinct feeling that he’d somehow gotten his pride knocked out of joint, that maybe her one, tiny response had somehow belittled him. Although his boots remained planted in the grass, he turned his head, obviously considering making an exit then and there. She could tell.
“Wait,” she called. She took several steps toward him, leaving the concrete, her high heels a hindrance in the thick grass. The bag of groceries grew heavy suddenly and she shifted them into her other arm. “You know my dad?”
His nod was almost imperceptible.
“You know something about the case? You can help my father?”
“I’d like to help him.”
The fact that he hadn’t answered the first question wasn’t lost on her, but she offered him a smile anyway. She felt as though she’d sailed into a sea of enemies since arriving in Prosperino. Anyone who was willing to help her dad would be considered a friend until she had some reason to think otherwise.
“Would you come in for a cup of coffee, Mr.…?”
“James. Rafe James.”
“Well, Mr. James—”
“Rafe.”
“Well, Rafe. You’ll have to call me Libby, then, won’t you?”
The smile he offered her was small, but it provoked an amazing response in her. Thoughts turned chaotic as images materialized in her brain. Sensual visions of that wide mouth of his raining kisses over her body.
It had been so easy to conceive of this man as wild, animalistic. But now it was just as easy to picture him in the role of tender lover. In any other puzzle, those two opposing pieces wouldn’t go together. But with Rafe James, they somehow fit.
Perfectly.
What a ridiculous notion. This man was a complete stranger to her.
Shoving the inappropriate thoughts from her mind, she said, “So, should we go in?”
He nodded slightly and then moved toward her.
The muscles of his thighs played under the fabric of his jeans, and Libby had to force her eyes to avert to the ground. Before she realized it, he was close. Very close. He smelled like citrusy cedar and leather, and she had to force herself not to close her eyes and get lost in the scent.
“Let me take this for you.”
When he reached to take the bag from her, his hand brushed her upper arm. The desire to protect herself by stepping away from him was great, as was the urge to move toward him, ever closer.
She did neither, and she thanked her lucky stars that she had sense enough to keep a level head on her shoulders. She had no idea what had gotten into her. The stress of worrying about her father’s tremendous troubles, she guessed. That and the despair of having gotten caught in the memories of her childhood.
After unlocking the door, she made her way through the house to the kitchen, very aware that Rafe James was close on her heels. She set her briefcase on the ceramic tile countertop of the island.
“Set the bag here,” she told him. Then she silently indicated that Rafe should take a seat on one of the high stools.
“So, how do you know my dad?” Libby busied herself putting away the quart of milk, the loaf of bread and the other groceries she’d purchased.
He didn’t answer right away, and his apparent hesitancy made her pause. With a bag of apples still in her hand, she lifted her gaze to his.
Finally, he said, “I don’t want to give
