fingers flexed as she nervously glanced down at the floor. As she realized what she’d done a sensation of horror seeped through her.
Oh, no, she thought frantically. Not Abby’s cat. Nora knelt and, heedless of the jagged edges, began scooping up the fragments. It was totaled. She’d never be able to glue it together again. Never.
Scuffed boot tips stopped before her.
Nora’s hands stilled. One more crime to lay at Connor Devlin’s feet—he’d destroyed her daughter’s Mother’s Day present.
“Hello, Nora.”
She looked up. The wild, reckless boy of her dreams had turned into the dark, dangerous man of her nightmares. But he still wore the same rebel’s uniform he had always worn: white T-shirt, second-skin blue jeans and trademark well-worn bomber jacket.
“What are you doing here?”
“You always could bring me to my knees, Nora McCall.” Before she could rise and protect the precious pieces of Abby’s cat, he crouched beside her, his hands brushing hers as he began picking up the broken pottery.
“Go away, Connor. I don’t need your help,” she snapped. She tried to nudge his hands aside, but he scooped up the last piece of clay. Frissons of awareness tingled along her arm, only to explode into raging resentment when he gripped her elbow and propelled her to her feet.
She broke free. Time had taken the boy’s youth and replaced it with a man’s face of sharp angles and planes. The once tall, rangy body had hardened into whipcord toughness. Windswept, sun-streaked chestnut hair fell over his brow and collar. Only his eyes were as she remembered—bold, piercing and purposeful.
He knew. He’d come for her.
“You look good. Just as I remembered you.”
And he still had the ability to paralyze her—that stomach-quivering, breath-hitching, knee-jellying, mind-numbing power to immobilize with one curve of his mouth.
The shop bell chimed again, announcing visitors. Nora grabbed hold of her composure. This was their big day—the grand opening of Kilning You Softly—and she wouldn’t let a ghost from her past ruin it.
She was no longer a young, impressionable girl who could be swayed by gorgeous eyes and a sexy mouth. Since her one life-altering mistake, she had avoided following her mother’s path. The man before her meant nothing but trouble. He had no right to sashay into her store, into her life. Not after all this time.
She had to get rid of him.
The lawyer in her took over. “Why don’t you get back on your knees and crawl out the way you came in.”
Connor’s nostrils flared slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Same old sassy mouth, too.”
“My mouth is none of your business, Connor Devlin. Why are you here?” Needing space, she turned to the side and gently laid the pottery fragments on the hutch.
Connor moved to stand beside her. “Business.” He held his hand over the wastepaper basket to throw out the shards.
Nora clutched his arm. “No! Don’t!” She wrapped her fingers around his and pried at the shards. “Ow!” She snatched her hand away and cradled it. Blood oozed from a jagged gash on the base of her left thumb.
Connor dumped the pieces on the sideboard. “Here, let me see that.” His hand cupped hers.
Blinking away tears, Nora bent her head to get a closer look at the damage. Her forehead bumped Connor’s. She bit back a curse as he gently probed the wound on her palm. The backs of his hands were broad and tanned, with a faint dusting of golden hair. She could feel the rough texture of his calluses as he wiped away the trail of blood. The hands of the boy were now the hard hands of a man. Whatever had happened to him, Connor still used his hands for a living.
Nora slanted a quick look at him through her wet lashes. His brow was furrowed as he checked her hand. Surreptitiously she leaned closer. Beyond the leather and soap, she could smell the sun and the earth clinging to him like an indelible part of his makeup.
Connor dragged a black bandanna from a pocket inside his jacket and wrapped it around the cut. “What was so important about that…” He glanced at the fragments and apparently couldn’t divine their former existence. He shook his head. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth slicing off a chunk of your finger. It’s not as if it were irreplaceable like The Sisters Three.”
No, it was only her daughter’s attempt to console Nora over Aunt Abigail’s death. It was every bit as precious to her as Abigail’s most famous work, which glowed in its place of honor on the mantel in the store’s rear alcove.
But Connor wouldn’t know that. He wouldn’t know about anniversaries, birthdays or deaths. After all, he hadn’t been around for twelve years. Hadn’t cared to be present. And now he had the audacity to lecture her in her own shop, filled with people she knew. People he’d scorned. The moment he knotted the fabric, she jerked her hand free and stepped away from him.
Irritation flashed across his face. “If you’re worried about germs, that’s a clean bandanna.” He folded his arms. “I think you’ll live, but you’d better have Doc Sims take a look at the cut to make sure you don’t need stitches.”
“I’m fine.” And because Aunt Abigail had taught her better, she added, “Thanks.” She looked down at her wrapped hand and caught sight of her watch. Almost eleven. She needed to get him out of the store. Now.
Her sisters, Christina and Eve, crossed to her, and she drew comfort from their presence. She would get through this, just as she had every other obstacle tossed in her path.
Nora McCall, standing proud, was a bittersweet image branded in Connor’s memory. Once he had hoped to share his life with her, but that dream had never stood a chance. His pact with the devil, his mother, had seen to that.
Yet, over the years, doubt regarding his decision to leave town, to leave Nora, had snapped relentlessly at his conscience in the lonely hours when night met dawn. Now, seeing Nora and her sisters, a part of him felt at peace. The McCall girls were still together in a place they loved.
The devil had apparently kept her side of the bargain. She would not be pleased he was breaking his.
He nodded at the women. “Eve, Christina. Good to see you both.” But he kept his gaze on Nora, even though every muscle in his body wound tighter. Tense as rectitude, his mother would have said.
Nora was still a knockout. From her lustrous black hair to her pressed jacket, she was all trim and lovely. And he had this craving to touch her, to feel once more the jolt of her pulse. If he had succumbed to his urge to press his lips against the soft flesh of her thumb while he had tended her wound, would he have found heat still running deep beneath her cool exterior?
The jab of desire irritated him, but Connor absorbed it. His gaze strayed to Nora’s wrapped left hand. She wore no ring. If she hadn’t married, would things have turned out different for them?
She arched a brow at his stare. “Gee, Connor, other than the mileage on your face, you haven’t changed a bit. Very few older men can carry off that James Dean look. At least you’ve the good sense not to copy the hair.”
