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There was that word again. Stability. The mother ship. The holy grail.
Who could give her something so precious? Lincoln West, maybe. Handsome, sweet and, like Jeffery, she had no real personal experience with him. Plus, he lived in her ancestral home. If they happened to fall in love, she could move back in. And promptly kick Beck out, she thought with a smile.
What she knew about West: he hadn’t dated anyone in town...which was kinda odd, now that she considered it. He wasn’t just handsome, he was handsome, and he had as many admirers as Beck. He just didn’t jump their bones at every opportunity. He was over six foot, leanly muscled and he was nice. He had a smile for everyone he came across, and he worked like a fiend, creating different kinds of computer programs.
She knew about his business only because she’d visited his office in town the day after it opened. His assistant from the city had been there, and Harlow had asked questions, submitted a résumé. And it had been a doozy. Past jobs: zero. Experience: none. Strengths: still searching. She’d hoped to decorate their walls with murals or, barring that, become their receptionist. Surprisingly enough—har har—she was never called in for an interview; she’d listed the number to the only pay phone in town and camped by it for days.
But maybe she didn’t need a job from West...maybe she just needed him.
What kind of women did he prefer?
If the answer was sometimes mousy, sometimes feisty homeless girls, she had this in the bag. If not, well, she would just have to earn his interest another way.
Which shouldn’t be a problem. Thanks to Beck, she was now equipped with an instruction manual.
For the first time in months, she was hopeful as she drifted off to sleep. Unfortunately, it wasn’t West’s face she saw in her dreams...
* * *
WEST AND JASE tried to speak with Beck as he stalked through the house.
“Sorry, guys, but I can’t,” he said. “Not now.”
They asked no questions, and for that he was grateful. He locked himself in his bedroom and plopped onto the end of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his upraised hands, just trying to breathe, align his thoughts, maybe shake off the worst of his emotions. What he’d just witnessed...
He’d followed Harlow, hoping to unearth a few of her secrets. Maybe he shouldn’t have invaded her privacy like that, but he’d wanted answers and she’d been unwilling to give them, and though he’d tried, he’d realized he wasn’t going to get them any other way.
He’d done what was necessary.
Of course, he’d almost veered off track when a brute of a guy purposely bumped into her. In some of the foster homes Beck had stayed in, he’d seen girls and women abused mentally, emotionally and even physically, and it had always infuriated him.
Not on my watch.
Only the thought of going after the guy at a later date allowed him to continue following Harlow.
She lived on his land in abject poverty. People treated her like trash, and she took it, every bit of it, as if she had to do penance. And yet, tired and hungry, she still found the strength to help those who now hurt her.
He wondered how she cleaned her clothes, how she showered, because he knew she somehow managed to do both.
He wondered what she ate, when she ate. He’d spent hours trailing her, and she hadn’t consumed a single bite of food. The only water she’d had was what she’d boiled. He wondered what she planned to do during the upcoming winter months, if she would allow herself to freeze to death before she came to him for aid.
He wondered—and he got pissed. The little girl from the pictures shouldn’t be living that way. The woman she’d become shouldn’t be living that way. He had a home with plenty of rooms. He had a refrigerator filled with food. He had unlimited access to fresh water. He had stacks of blankets, a closet full of coats. Hell, he had everything the girl could ever need or want. And yet she suffered out there?
Her stupid pride, he thought, jaw aching as his molars gnashed together. If he went to her now, she would spurn him. No doubt about it. Time to plan.
He’d hated leaving her out there, almost hadn’t managed it, but he’d consoled himself with the thought that this would be her last night in that tent, her last night exposed to the elements and wild animals. Coyotes, snakes and scorpions lived out there, and the fool woman would make a mighty tasty meal.
So what that she’d survived this long. Tomorrow her life was going to change drastically. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_c6bb13c3-bc76-52d0-92ad-81849516dcd2)
BRIGHT MORNING SUNLIGHT streaked through the tears in Harlow’s tent, waking her before she was ready to rise. She pried open tired, gritty eyes, caught sight of puffy white clouds and a flock of blackbirds twirling overhead. A cheery sight mixed with an ominous one. Yay.
She struggled to sit up, her body as sore as she’d predicted. Actually more so.
Plan for the day: read about gardening for an hour, apply what she learned to Beck’s roses, find and flirt with West.
Foolproof.
She gathered her basket of meager supplies—toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush and a dwindling roll of toilet paper—and crawled from the tent.
A high-pitched scream split her lips. Intruder!
Beck, only Beck, she realized a moment later, flattening a hand over her racing heart. He sat on the boulder she’d managed to roll next to the fire pit when she’d first moved out here, staring at her through narrowed eyes. The blaze she’d started last night had long since died, and there was no hint of smoke in the air to shield her view. She saw every inch of the man who had tormented her dreams, from his harsh, intractable expression to his big, strong body. Gone was the charming facade he usually displayed so readily. Now, iron-hard determination pulled his skin taut around his eyes and his mouth.
The change was startling and beautiful. He was a work of art, and he made her yearn for the impossible—or a few hours in his bed, no matter the cost. His hair stuck out in spikes, the strands seemingly a thousand different shades of gold and brown, from the palest flax to the darkest sable. His eyes were sensuously tilted, his cheekbones sharp and his jaw squared with resolve. His wide shoulders looked as if they could carry any burden, and she wished he were the kind of man who would hold her with one arm while protecting her with the other.
But he’s not, so he’s not for me.
“I’m not sure I like how you’re looking at me,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter. Get out here and talk to me.”
Gulping, she scrambled the rest of the way out of the tent. “How did you find me?”
“How else? I followed you,” he replied, his tone hard and inflexible. “You should have asked me for help long ago.”
Humiliation burned her all over. “I just woke up. I need a moment of privacy. If you’ll excuse me...” I will take off like a bullet, hide out and regroup.
A muscle jumped underneath his eye. “You’ll get your privacy, all right, but you’ll get it at my house.”
Mine! “I would rather—”
“There’s food. A feast.”
“—continue with my day the way I originally— A feast?” A whimper escaped her.
“One way or another, you’re going with me. I’ll carry you if I have to.” His lids narrowed to tiny slits, his lashes hiding the sudden dark anticipation in his irises. “And, Harlow, as angry as I am, I kind of hope I have to.”
She didn’t understand what was happening right now. But then, why would she? Her experience with the male species was limited to boys, those who had received the Glass Pass in junior high and high school.
“Okay. I’ll go with you. But I’ll walk.” Having his hands on her would be her undoing. “Is West there?” she asked, deciding to use this as an opportunity to kick-start her Ever After plan. The sooner the better.
His frown deepened. “Yes. Why?”
“Just because,” she replied, both excited and nervous. She set her basket of goodies in her tent. The toothbrush, however, she pocketed.
Beck motioned her forward.
“I should have asked permission to camp here, I know,” she said, marching onward, “but you’d forgive me if I told you it was only for a night, right?”
“It wasn’t one night, and we both know it.” He stayed beside her, careful not to touch her. “Don’t lie to me. Not ever again.”
The challenging tone had returned, demanding more than she was willing to give.
“You are not a stripper,” he said.
“I am, too! In my imagination,” she muttered. She’d been a lot of things in her imagination. A divorced mom supporting five kids...who happened to catch the eye of the richest CEO in town. A skilled surgeon given three more weeks to live...who happened to catch the eye of her handsomest patient—who happened to be a brilliant scientist willing to risk his career to save her life. She’d even been a princess from a distant world where lands were ravaged by war...and she happened to catch the eye of the enemy army’s leader, ushering in long-desired peace.
Without a TV or a computer, she’d had to entertain herself, and as an unrepentant bookworm, she’d had a lot of inspiration.
“Be that as it may—” Beck pushed a branch out of her path “—you don’t live in the city. You don’t own a car or have a job. You’ve been living on this land since you were kicked out of the farmhouse. And by living, of course, I mean existing. Have I left anything out?”
“No.” She surged forward and because of him, she wasn’t sliced by thorns. For a jerk, he sure was considerate. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He still sounded angry.
At the house, he opened the front door for her. She entered the living room, and the second she caught the scent of breakfast, she picked up speed. A feast was indeed spread across the kitchen table, plus two empty plates and two glasses of orange juice. Her stomach rumbled, her knees going weak, her mouth watering.
“Sit.” He flattened his hand on her lower back and gave her a gentle push forward.
The moment she obeyed, he began piling her plate high with heaping spoonfuls of every dish. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Sausage patties. Sausage links. Pancakes. Waffles. Biscuits and gravy. The contents began to spill over the side. After he set the plate in front of her, he took the seat next to her.
“Eat,” he said.
She did, and oh, wow. The taste! Even better than the blueberry juice she’d filched from the pie.
“Good, right?” he said, and she heard the pride in his tone.
“You cooked this?” she asked around a mouthful of eggs. She couldn’t force herself to stop chewing long enough to pretend to be feminine and proper, a girl with manners.
“It’s my specialty.”
Breakfast. Of course. For every morning after one of his sexcapades. “Well, I commend you on your perfect consolation prize.”
“I don’t think I know what you mean, honey.”
“It’s what you give your women instead of a relationship, right?”
His fork clattered against his plate. Which still had food on it, while hers was basically licked clean.
“Are you going to eat that?” She pointed to the waffle dripping with butter and syrup.
“It’s not a consolation prize. It’s breakfast. Nothing more, nothing less.” He pushed the plate in her direction, and she dug in.
“What’s your problem with long-term relationships?”
“Relationships leave scars,” he said.
“Sometimes.”
“Always.”
“Well, those scars can be healed.”
“Sometimes,” he said, mimicking her. “But why risk any kind of mental or emotional harm when I can give something far better?”
Flushing, she said, “What could possibly be better than a relationship?”
“I believe we’ve discussed this. Pleasure. Lots and lots of pleasure.”
The huskiness of his voice invited her to lean close and experience everything he had to offer...
Doing her best to ignore a cascade of shivers, she focused on her bacon. Every bite proved better than the last, and when she finished, she almost ate the plate. So good! But also threatening to come back up.
Whatever. Every bite had been worth it. She rubbed her new food baby, saying, “Thank you, Beck. Really.”
“Done?”
“Yes.”
He stood and held out his hand. She hesitated, but in the end, there was no denying the man who’d just taken such good care of her. She curled her fingers around his, the calluses on his palms creating a delicious friction against her skin.
She tried to play it cool as he helped her stand to shaky legs. He led her into the hallway, to the second room on the right. Her old bedroom. How had he known?
“My room,” he said.
“Seriously?” As she’d done the last time she’d been here, she took a moment to mourn the loss of her queen-size bed with its floral comforter, her antique nightstands, and the vaulted ceiling with crumbling crown molding and the distorted images she’d painted.
Harlow flashed back to the emotional breakdown she’d suffered soon after her mother’s death, when she’d splattered the different colors of paint across the magical fairyland, leaving a chaotic mess.
“Were you the one who ruined the murals?” he asked.
She’d been staring up, she realized, and he’d easily guessed the direction of her thoughts. “Yes. The day of my mom’s funeral.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. I’m also sorry you did what you did. I liked the images and hoped to preserve them, but you’d made sure nothing could be salvaged.”
The words shocked her. “You actually liked my art?”
“You painted them?”
“Well, yeah. Why so surprised?”
He paid no heed to her question, saying, “Your talent is amazing, honey.”
“Thank you.” Glowing at his praise, Harlow took in the rest of the bedroom. “I never would have guessed you were a fan. I mean, you decided to go with beige walls.”
“You don’t like beige?”
