come.
She tossed and turned for a while, and then tried to make herself lie still as she stared up at the ceiling and willed herself to feel drowsy again.
Not happening.
Finally, with a weary sigh, she shoved back the covers and went to the kitchen. She heated milk and sweetened it with honey. Then she carried her mug to the living area, where she turned a single lamp on low. Gazing out the two stories of windows that faced her back deck, she sipped slowly and tried to clear her mind of everything but the beauty of the Colorado night.
She could see a light on in the big house down the hill from her. Quinn Bravo lived there with his little daughter, Annabelle, and that funny old guy, Manny. They’d moved in a few months before.
Chloe smiled to herself. So. Somebody down there couldn’t sleep, either. Maybe Quinn? Could the tough martial arts star suffer from bad dreams, too?
Unlikely. Quinn “the Crusher” Bravo was world-famous for taking down the most unbeatable opponents. No mere nightmare would dare keep him awake. She wished she could be more like him, impervious and strong. He seemed so very self-confident in his quiet, watchful way.
And so different, really, from the boy he’d once been, the one she remembered from when they were children, the wild, angry boy with a chip the size of Denver on his shoulder who was always getting in fights.
Different also from the boy he’d become by high school, still rough-edged, but quieter, with a seething intensity about him. She’d avoided him then, the same as she had when they were children. All the nice girls avoided dangerous and unpredictable Quinn Bravo.
Even if, secretly, he made their hearts beat faster...
* * *
Quinn Bravo stood in his living room wearing an old pair of sweats, worn mocs and a Prime Sports and Fitness T-shirt. He stared blankly out the window at the faint gleam of light from the house up the hill. Beyond that house, the almost-full face of the moon hung suspended above the peaks of the Colorado mountains.
He should go back to bed. But he knew he wouldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about what his four-year-old daughter had asked him when he tucked her in that night.
A faint movement beyond the wall of windows up the hill caught his eye. Must be Chloe. She lived there alone. Beautiful, smart Chloe Winchester, who’d gone off to college at Stanford and married some big-shot lawyer as everyone always knew she would. The big shot had carried her off to live the high life down in Southern California.
Quinn didn’t know the whole story. He just knew that the marriage hadn’t lasted. When he moved back to town several months ago, there was Chloe, minus the rich husband, with no kids, on her own in her old hometown, living in the shadow of the Rockies on the street up the hill from him.
Maybe a little fresh air would clear his head, relax him.
Quinn pulled open the French doors that led onto the back deck. It was a clear July night, almost balmy, the moon very close to full. He stepped outside and quietly shut the doors behind him. Crossing to the deck railing, he folded his arms across his chest, braced his legs wide and stared up at the light in Chloe’s house. He indulged himself, allowing his mind to dwell on her a little, to wonder about her, about what might have messed up the smooth trajectory of her life and brought her back to Justice Creek alone.
True, it was none of his business, whatever had happened to bring Chloe back where she’d started. But focusing on what might have gone wrong for a woman he didn’t really know took his mind off his little girl and her questions that he had no clue how to answer.
He noted movement again up there on the hill, a glass door sliding open.
And out she came, the one and only Chloe Winchester. Damn, she was gorgeous, even from a hundred yards away. Gorgeous, even in a baggy pink shirt. That long golden hair shone silvery in the moonlight and her fine, bare legs gleamed.
Quinn had no time for chasing women. He had a daughter to raise and a new business to build. But hot damn. Any man with a pulse would want to cut himself off a nice big slice of that.
Chloe went to the railing and rested her hands on it. For a long count of ten, she stared down at him as he looked up at her. She wasn’t inviting him up exactly. But he definitely felt the pull.
And how could he help enjoying the moment? Hell. Chloe Winchester giving him the look? Never in a million years would he have guessed that would happen.
And the more they stared at each other, the more certain he became that a hundred yards was too much distance between them. He would much rather look at her up close. Manny was home if Annabelle woke up.
So he went back to the doors, pushed one open and engaged the lock, drawing it shut and hearing the click that meant his daughter was safe inside. When he turned again toward the woman up the hill, she hadn’t moved. She remained at the railing, her head tipped slightly down and aimed in his direction, almost certainly watching him.
Fair enough, then.
He descended the back stairs, glancing up when he reached the bottom. She hadn’t moved.
So he crossed his small patch of landscaped ground and began ascending the hill between their houses, skirting rocky outcroppings and ponderosa pines, the native grasses whispering beneath the leather soles of his mocs. He took it slow, glancing up at her now and then, expecting any moment that she would turn and retreat inside—at which point he would calmly wheel around and go home where he belonged.
But Chloe stood her ground.
When he reached the base of the stairs leading up to her deck, he paused, giving her a chance to...what?
Run away? Order him off her property?
When she only continued to gaze directly down at him, her eyes steady, her expression composed, he mounted the steps.
And she did move then. She came toward him, meeting him at the top where the steps opened wide. “Quinn,” she said.
He nodded. “Chloe.”
“Pretty night.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“How have you been?”
“Doing okay. You?”
A tiny smile flickered at the corner of her lush mouth. “Getting by.” With that, she turned and led the way to a pair of cedar armchairs positioned close together in front of her great room windows. She dropped into one of those chairs, a move so graceful it stole his breath, and then gestured with a small, regal sweep of her hand for him to sit beside her.
He sat. And for several minutes, neither of them spoke. They stared up at the clear night sky and the milky smear of the faraway stars. The slight breeze brought her scent to him—like some exotic flower. Jasmine, maybe. And not only that, something...a little bit musky and a whole lot womanly.
Finally, she spoke again. “What keeps you awake, Quinn?” Her voice was low for a woman, low and calm and pleasing.
He turned and looked at her. Her eyes were a pale, glowing shade of blue, her face a smooth oval, that tempting mouth so soft and full. She really
