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It was her father's dying wish that Samantha Elliot search for her grandmother, who'd disappeared from Louisville when she was a baby. So here she was, in big, dirty New York City Michael Taggert was Samantha's landlord, and he was easily the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. He was charming, too -- his zest for life was so contagious that in his presence Sam bloomed like a flower after the rain. Yet Mike could only get so far with her -- when he tried to get closer, it was like running into a brick wall. But Mike wouldn't give up.

Samantha pushed the doorbell, then waited. There was no answer. Even after three rings and fifteen minutes, there still was no answer. What had she expected? That the landlord would be there to give her a key to the outside door? As she sat on her suitcase waiting for the man, wondering if he was going to show up at all, she speculated about what she would do in a city the size of New York with no place to stay. Could she take a taxi to a hotel and spend the night there?

Several more minutes went by, but no one came, nor did any of the passersby seem to notice her. A couple of men smiled at her, but she pointedly looked away. While Samantha was sitting at the top of the stairs, she looked to the side and noticed that at ground level was another door into the house.

Maybe that was the front door of the house and she was to knock there. Going down the stairs and around them to the ground floor door, she walked around a pretty wrought-iron spike-tipped fence and knocked several times, but there was no answer. Taking a deep breath, her fists clenched, she looked back up at her suitcases sitting safely at the top of the stairs. Beside the ground floor door was a box of red geraniums, and the sight of the flowers made her smile.

At least the flowers seemed happy: They were well cared for, not a dead leaf was on them, the soil was moist but not wet, and the flowers were heavy with bloom. Still smiling, she started toward the stairs, but just as she rounded the corner, a football came whizzing so close over her head that she ducked.

When the flying football was followed by what looked to be a couple hundred pounds of male clad in denim shorts and a sweat shirt with both armholes torn out to the waist, Samantha moved to slam herself flat against the wall of the stairs. He caught the football as it sailed over her head, then, startled, he saw her just as he was about to land on her. At the same time that he released the ball, he reached out to catch Samantha before she fell against the spikes of the fence.

Giving a little gasp as she nearly fell, his hands caught her and pulled her to him in a protective way. For a moment she stood encircled by his arms. He was taller than her five foot four, probably just at six feet, but the protective way he bent toward her made them almost eye level with each other.

Samantha started to say thank you to the man, but as she looked at him, she forgot what she was going to say. He was an extraordinarily good-looking man, with black, curling hair, heavy black brows, and dark eyes with eyelashes any female would kill for, all atop a full-lipped mouth that looked as though it belonged on Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http: In fact, maleness oozed from him, making Samantha feel small and helpless, as though she were wearing yards of lavender lace.

He even smelled male, not the artificial smell that could be purchased in a store; this man smelled of pure male sweat, a little beer, and acres of bronzed skin warmed by sun and exercise. He placed his lips on hers, softly at first, as though asking permission.

Samantha, reacting to instinct and need and to something even more basic, opened her mouth slightly under his, and he pressed closer. It had been a long time since she had felt male skin near her own. And she had never felt a shoulder such as this one. When her hand closed over his arm, he leaned closer, his big, hard, heavy body pressing against hers, pinning her close to the wall.

A moan escaping her lips, her body began to sink into his. Putting one big hand behind her head, he turned her to the side and began to kiss her with all the passion she had missed in her life.

He kissed her the way she had always wanted to be kissed, had dreamed of being kissed, kissed her the way fairy tales are supposed to end, the way all the books say a kiss should feel—the way no one had ever kissed her before. Moving his mouth away from hers, he kissed her neck, kissed her ear lobe as his hands moved down her back. Cupping her buttocks in his hands, he moved her so most of her weight was on his thigh, then ran one hand down the length of her leg and lifted it, settling her ankle about his waist.

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It was the man who broke away. Pulling his lips from her skin, he put his hand to her cheek, caressing her cheek with his thumb while looking into her eyes, smiling at her.

It was when he moved away from her that Samantha began to think again. And the first emotion she felt was horror, absolute, sheer horror at what she had done. No mirror was needed to tell her that her own face was brilliant red with embarrassment.

Giving a sharp jerk on her hand, Samantha freed herself from his grip. She would have thought her mortification could not deepen, but at the realization of who this man was, it did. Horror, humiliation, panic, revulsion were all emotions that crowded into her, and she wanted to flee.

Or die. Or preferably both. Better than Mike would—or could. One of the men caught the ball, and the three of them went down the street, punching each other and laughing as they walked. The man turned to her.

You wrote me a letter, remember? Her luggage was in her hands before he was beside her. I had a crew come in and clean the place and put clean sheets on your bed. Where are you going? After three pivots and his blocking of every one of them, she turned and started walking in the other direction, but he blocked her that way too.

Finally, she stopped and glared at him. Was this city full of them? Taggert, I am going to find a hotel. But I have your apartment ready for you. I told you I was sorry I was late. I apologize for them. I only see them when I want to toss a ball around with someone and at the gym. I promise. How could he be so very beautiful and understand so very little? She forced herself to look away from him.

It was his beauty that had gotten her into trouble in the first place. When she started walking again, he was beside her. At the corner of the block, she stopped. Now what was she to do? She had no idea where she was or where she was going, but she saw lots of yellow taxis driving by.

In the movies people hailed taxis by standing on the curb and lifting their arms, so she hoisted her tote bag onto her shoulder and raised her arm.

Within seconds a taxi came to a halt in front of her. But Mike stopped her by taking her suitcase, then her arm, both of which he held firmly. In your house? It was a very plain dress with a skirt that reached below her knees and a jacket with a white collar and cuffs. Somehow, that boring little dress managed to completely hide every curve of her body. He would have taken odds on it being impossible to hide a body like hers under any amount of clothing, but somehow she had done it. Looking at her face, he saw that she was a cross between pretty and cute, but she wore very little makeup, as though she meant to detract from her prettiness rather than enhance it, and her hair was pulled tightly back from her face.

He could tell her hair was long, and the way she wore it made it look absolutely straight, but a wisp had escaped from the band at the back and the stray strand curled along her cheek. Remembering his thumb pulling that strand loose, Mike now wished he could touch it again.

Actually, in her prim little dress, her blonde hair pulled back in a neat and utterly tidy bun, he would have thought she was the mother of a couple of children and taught Sunday school. The lusty, desirable, hungry beauty who had kissed him was in there somewhere.

When he had leaped around the stairs to catch the football, he had nearly trampled her, and out of instinct, he had caught her before she fell against the spikes of the railing. Of course he had to concede that maybe he had been looking at her in much the same way. Her big, soft blue eyes had been filled with surprise and desire, looking at him from over a small, pert nose that was set atop a mouth so full and lush that he thought he might die from wanting it so much.

No woman had ever kissed him as this one did. How could she kiss him like that and ten minutes later look at him as though she detested him? Hehad to find out what was making her want to get away from him. But if she wanted something from him first, like maybe for him to climb to the heavens, pick up a dozen or so stars, string them together, and hang them in her bedroom, he thought he would like to know so he could start tying ladders together.

All he could remember was her ankle on his waist. Samantha narrowed her eyes at him. Mike took a deep breath. When he reached the town house, he carried her bags to the top of the stairs, set them down, and turned to her. For that matter, it had been a long, exhausting year.

While he stood there leaning against the rail, he reached inside the old sideless sweat shirt he wore to scratch his chest, and Samantha saw a stomach covered with washboard muscle. When he said nothing, she spoke again, this time intending to make herself very clear. I am in mourning for my father, I have just ended my marriage, and I do not want more complications.

Anybody who dresses as you do must live by rules, lots of them. Now tell me what your rules are. Would you please release my bag so I can leave? Besides the fact that he wanted her so badly there was sweat running down his chest even though it was a cool day, there was his promise to her father.

Then, two days before Dave died, he had called Mike, although by then Dave had been too weak for Mike to hear all of what he had to say, but Mike had understood the essence of it. Dave had said he was sending Samantha to him in New York and he had asked Mike to take care of her. Not waiting for her answer, he picked up her tote bag and opened the door to the house. Give me five minutes, then ring the bell. When she pressed the doorbell, there was no answer. She was tempted to take her large case and leave, but the fact that her remaining money was hidden in her tote bag made her sit down on her suitcase and wait.

Trying not to think of her father, trying not to ask herself why he had done this to her, and especially trying not to think of her husband—correction, ex-husband—she forced herself to look at the sidewalks and the street before her, forced herself to look at the people, at the men dressed in jeans and the women in outrageously short skirts. Even in New York, the air seemed to be full of the laziness of a Sunday afternoon. This man, this Michael Taggert, had said he wanted to start over, she thought.

Today, having to be here, was part of all the pain and trauma that had started that day. Looking at her watch again, her first thought was that maybe she could pawn it, but the watch had cost only thirty dollars new, so she doubted that she could get much for it.

The sooner she got started on this year-long sentence the sooner she could get out of this dreadful city. Taking a deep breath, smoothing her skirt, making sure her hair was tightly in place, she put her finger on the doorbell. He was wearing a clean blue dress shirt, partly unbuttoned but still neat, a loosened silk tie, dark blue tropical weight wool trousers, and perfectly polished loafers.

His thick growth of black whiskers was gone and the black curls of his hair had been tamed into a conservative, neatly parted style. Within minutes he had gone from resembling the sexy, rather dangerous leader of a gang of hoodlums to looking like a prosperous young banker on his day off. Welcome to New York. Your apartment is ready for you. For one thing, she found it disconcerting that he could change his looks so quickly and so completely, that within minutes he could go from looking like a Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http: When Samantha saw her tote bag at the foot of the stairs, she stepped inside the house to get it, but as her hand touched the handle of the case, she heard the door close behind her.

But Mike forced her to participate, however reluctantly, as he put his hand on her elbow and began to half pull, half push her out of the foyer, propelling her toward the living room. She saw a large room, with big, comfortable-looking black leather chairs and a couch strewn about, a rough, hand-woven carpet on the floor, folk art from all over the world tastefully scattered about the room, as well as two enormous palm trees in the corners by the windows.

Several masks hung on the walls, as well as Chinese tapestries and Balinese paintings. Aware that Mike was looking at her face, she sensed that he seemed to be pleased with what he saw, because the pressure on her arm lessened. Reluctantly, but with less anger, she followed him from room to room, seeing a dining room with a large table from India and a magnificent cinnabar screen against one wall, then a powder room papered with Edwardian caricatures.

Relaxing more every minute, she was shown a library paneled in oak with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. She was impressed by the sheer number of books until she saw that, as far as she could tell, all the books dealt with American gangsters: Looking away from the books with a grimace of disgust, she saw in the corner of the room, near a big desk heaped with papers, large white cartons labeled with the names Compaq and Hewlett Packard.

Surprise showing on her face, she turned to look at him. Leading her upstairs, he showed her two bedrooms, both of them decorated with plants and art from around the world, one of them furnished with wicker chairs with pillows printed with ivy vines.

Samantha smiled before she caught herself. He was even better looking when he smiled like that, such a smile of pleasure, untainted by any other emotion. Feeling that it had suddenly become very, very hot in the room, she started toward the door. She followed him up the stairs to the third floor.

When Michael opened the door to the first room, Samantha forgot all about New York and this man who unsettled her, for she could feel her father in this room. Her father had always said that if he had to start from scratch, he would decorate his house in green and burgundy—and this living room had been made for her father.

A dark green couch had been placed at an angle to a green marble fireplace, with two big, comfortable-looking green-striped chairs across from the couch, all of them set on an Oriental rug handwoven in colors of green and cream. Around the room were pieces of dark mahogany furniture, not one piece having spindly legs that would make it easy for a man to knock over. Walking to the mantel, Samantha saw several framed photos of her family: Tentatively, she picked up a silver-framed photograph of her mother and, holding it, she looked about, closing her eyes for a moment.

The presence of her father was so strong in the room she almost expected to turn and see him. Instead, when she turned, she saw a stranger standing in the doorway—and he was frowning at her. His sister had decorated these rooms as well as the ones downstairs. At the time, Mike had bragged to Dave that all you had to do was tell his sister what you wanted the finished product to look like and she could do it.

Now Samantha looked as out of place amid the dark colors as she would have in an all-male club. The bed was a four-poster with no canopy, and the linens were printed with plaids and sporting dogs. Watching, he saw Samantha lovingly run her hand over the comforter.

Mike showed her a wine safe next to the bedroom, then two bathrooms done in dark green marble, a sitting room with red and green plaid chairs and bookshelves filled with the biographies her father loved.

On the fourth floor was a guest bedroom, and a study with a heavy oak desk and French doors opening onto a balcony. Opening the doors, she stepped out and saw the garden below.

She had not expected a garden in New York—certainly not a garden such as this one. In fact, looking at the lush green lawn, the two tall trees, the shrubs about to burst into bloom, and the beds of newly set annuals, she could almost forget she was in a city. Something about the way she was still gripping that photo of her mother to her breast made him want to tell her to leave. Even toasters confuse me. Safe from me, that is.

Your father had the only set. She had lost her home in Louisville with all those memories and all those ghosts, but here she could feel the beginning of new memories. Reluctantly, she put the photo of her mother down and started walking down the stairs, all the way to the ground floor where the kitchen was. For all that this man said he knew nothing about cooking, someone did, for the pretty, spacious, blue and white kitchen looked to be well equipped and highly usable.

She started to ask questions, but then she looked toward the end of the kitchen across a charming little breakfast room and saw the double glass doors leading into the garden. Turning away from him, leaving the kitchen behind, she went out the doors and into the garden. Upon closer inspection, she could see that the garden was prettier than it had seemed from the fourth-floor balcony, with pink climbing roses just budding, growing over the fence.

They were the old-fashioned full-blown fragrant roses that she had always loved, not the modern tight scentless roses. Turning, she smiled at Mike. Maybe tomorrow I could show you a few places to buy furniture. Taggert, thank you so much for your offer, but I want to make myself clear from the start.

I am not looking for a friend, a lover, or a tour guide. Do you understand? Your keys are on the kitchen countertop, one for the front door, another for the deadbolts inside your apartment. You know, the kind that floats around you. Red or black is okay, I can handle red or black, and blue would be easy, but I could not deal with white lace. But when she awoke, she felt worse than she had when she went to bed, because the full reality of her situation hit her.

Never in her life had she been alone before. Hearing a noise outside, she got out of bed and went to the window to look out into the little graden below. Not only was she alone, she thought, but she was surrounded by predators. The image came to her of being lost at sea, bobbing in the ocean with a life preserver about her waist, watching an ocean liner filled with happy, laughing people who were having too good a time to hear her cries for help—and sharks were circling her.

At the moment, the sharks seemed to be in the form of one Michael Taggert. After she showered and dressed, she pulled her hair back from her face and waited until she heard the front door open and close before venturing down the stairs.

Pausing at the front door of the town house, she dawdled, not wanting to go outside. Quite honestly, New York terrified her. All over the world New York was used as a bogeyman for adults. What happened when one walked alone in the city? Through the door glass she could see women walking past the town house, some of them with dogs on leashes, some of them in long, tight black suit jackets with tiny skirts below.

None of them seemed to be terrified.

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Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she finally opened the door, closed and locked it behind her, then went down the stairs, walked to the end of the block, and took a left. Reading the green street sign, she saw she was now on Lexington Avenue. As she walked north along the block, she saw a grocery with outdoor bins of fruit and vegetables, a shoe store, a dry cleaners, a branch of the Bank of New York, a tiny video rental store, a delicatessen that had freshly baked breads and pastries in the window, and a bookstore.

She had just made a foray into the city of New York all alone and she had returned safely. After putting the groceries away, she made herself a bowl of cereal and a pot of herbal tea, took a cranberry muffin from the bakery bag, put it all on a tray, and took it into the garden.

As she sat in the garden, lounging on one of the chaises, she stretched and wiggled her toes. Perhaps she should have felt lonely, but instead of feeling lonely, she thought how wonderful it was to have no duties or responsibilities. Sometimes it seemed to her that she had been taking care of people all her life. When she had been married, there had never been a minute to herself, for her husband wasalways needing something.

At that thought Samantha tightened her mouth. She did not look up at him. Samantha went to the rooms her father had chosen, the rooms that reminded her of him, the rooms that made her feel safe, settled down in a dark green chair, and began to read her book. She had all day in which to do exactly what she wanted to do, in fact, she had a whole lifetime before her in which to do what she wanted to do.

For the next few weeks Samantha enjoyed her freedom with the delight that only one who has not had freedom can enjoy it. Not since her mother died had she had time to sit and read or to just be still and daydream. Time to do anything and everything. There was a washer and dryer off the kitchen; there was the garden; she had a VCR and exercise videos; she had books; she had a television with cable; she had time.

There was no reason to leave the house unless she had to. The only disturbing element in her lovely, peaceful life was her landlord. In fact, for the first two weeks of her stay, she might have been living in the house alone, but of course Samantha went to great lengths to avoid him.

She would have liked to get to know his habits so she could avoid seeing him at all, but as far as she could tell, he had no set schedule to his life. On the days when he was out, she sometimes walked through his rooms, for there was no door shutting them off from the rest of the house.

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She picked up all his clothes, washed them, and put them away. On one Wednesday, Samantha heard the telephone ring then the front door slam, and she knew the young woman had left early. Going downstairs, Samantha saw that the dryer was full of clothes and the dinning room table was littered with dirty dishes.

Without conscious thought of what she was doing, she began to clean the room. When the dryer buzzer went off, she folded his clothes, took them to his bedroom, and put them away, telling herself all the while that she was free and if she wanted to do this she could.

Besides, her landlord would never know who had done the work. It was at the beginning of the third week that Samantha found out about New York delivery services. As she was carrying three bags of groceries out of the store, one of the employees suggested that she have them delivered; after all, the delivery was free. All she had to do was tip the delivery boy a couple of dollars.

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First thing the next morning, she went to the bank and withdrew five hundred dollars in cash, knowing that the money would enable her to stay in the house for a long time. When she returned to the town house, glad as always that it was empty, she breathed a sigh of relief and thought about what she wanted to do.

Reminding herself that she was free, she knew she could do anything.

With that thought, she popped herself some popcorn, went back to bed, and watched videos. But the videos her father had were all intellectual treatises on the lives of various bugs and birds, so after a while she fell asleep. When the sound of laughter awakened her at twilight, she got out of bed, went to the window, and looked into the garden, where her landlord seemed to be having a party.

He was cooking steaks on an outdoor grill—and Samantha could see he was doing it incorrectly, piercing the meat as he turned it—and drinking beer with a half dozen nicely dressed people. When the laughter from downstairs became louder, she turned up the music. As the third week ran into the fourth, Samantha found that what she really wanted to do most was sleep. It had always seemed to her that since she was twelve and her mother had died, she had never had enough time for sleep.

Now it seemed perfectly feasible that her tiredness would be catching up with her, and she was glad for the time to rest. She found that it made her feel closer to him to wear his shirts over her jeans; she liked sleeping in his pajamas, and she especially liked his heavy flannel bathrobe. By her fourth week in New York, Samantha was feeling very relaxed. When she did eat, instead of cleaning up after herself, she discovered that she could leave her dirty dishes in the sink and the young woman who came on Wednesdays would clean them.

Samantha was glad of that because, quite honestly, she felt too tired to do much cleaning. When she tried to read a book about Elizabeth I, she could hardly keep her eyes open. Several times over the weeks she heard laughter in the garden, but she no longer got up to see what was going on. And her landlord no longer disturbed her. Putting the book on the bedside table, she turned off the light. It was only seven in the evening and it was full daylight outside, but she was too sleepy to stay awake.

Daphne had never seen Mike like this. Usually he was the life of the party, always laughing, always ready to have a good time. With his looks, he always had women falling all over themselves for him, even though, for the most part, Mike remained unaffected by them. Daphne wondered if he had a girlfriend back home somewhere, or for all she knew, maybe he had a steady girl right here in the city.

Daphne was aware that all the girls thought she slept with Mike, and she never told them differently, but she and Mike were just friends. Daphne had a problem that, unfortunately, she shared with too many women: When they did nothing but abuse her, she cried on the shoulders of the people who did love her—usually men—that all men were scum—just as her father had been. Not an actual man, because Mike had never treated her with contempt as the men Daphne was attracted to did. When Daphne was sober, she laughed about the long list of losers in her life, and when she was drunk, she cried about them.

But drunk or sober, she basically understood that the reason she, of all the girls at the club, was invited to this rich house was because she never made a pass at Mike.

Mike shrugged. To her, there was something magic in putting words on paper and having them mean something, so she tried to think of something else to talk about. Feeling the need to try to cheer Mike up was something altogether new—it was usually Daphne crying while Mike laughed and told her she was better off without so and so.

I never see her. Mike looked back down at his plate. If she hears me coming, she hits the stairs, and except for meals, she stays in her apartment all the time, never leaves. Daphne took a bite of her steak. I remember the first time a guy walked out on me. He was my first and I lived my whole life for him, anything he wanted, I gave it to him.

He said I was so good at it when I did it for him that I ought to make us some money. But even when I did what he wanted, one day I came home and he was gone. No note or nothing. Of course, looking back on it, I doubt if the bum could read and write. I managed to drag myself to work for a few days, but after a while I even stopped doing that; just stayed in the apartment and slept.

What Mike was thinking about was Samantha. Samantha was a challenge. I wanted to sleep forever, so I decided to do just that. I want you to look out for her, Mike, and I want to make up to her for some of what I did to her. Take care of her for me. No doubt she was sleeping again. Sleeping forever, as Daphne put it. I owe you a few favors. He had no idea if what he was doing was right, but he was going to give it his best shot.

For a moment, she lay in bed blinking at the light, gradually coming awake enough to realize she was seeing her landlord standing over her, a tray in his hands.

Samantha pulled the covers up to her neck. With her wakefulness was coming anger. Samantha was now, indeed, beginning to feel, and the panic rising in her showed on her face. Trying to remain calm, she folded the blanket back and started to get out of bed, but Mike caught her arm.

What I want from you is more important than sex. Maybe not nearly as nice, but in the long run, more important. I came in here to talk to you about Tony Barrett. I want you to get me in to see him. But in spite of the look of her, Mike had never in his life wanted to climb into bed with a woman as much as he wanted to with her. Maybe spring was getting to him.

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Or maybe he needed Samantha. Releasing her, he stepped back from the bed. And you ask why I should be upset. Taggert, have you ever heard the wordprivacy? Instead of considering her rights, he sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her. Samantha again started to get out of the bed. Turning to the tray behind him, Mike lifted the napkin that covered the basket of bread and took out a roll. The man really was too much to bear. Slowly getting up from the bed—no sudden movements—he went to her, but she continued facing the door.

Very gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, then frowned when she drew her body together, as though to fight off the coming blows. As gently as though she were a wounded animal, he led her to the bed, pulled the cover back, and directed her into it, smiling at her in a way that he hoped was reassuring. It was obvious that she thought he wanted her in bed so he could more easily attack her—or worse. Never before had any woman thought Mike was a rapist. He was sick of being thought of as some sexual deviant who regularly attacked his tenants.

Walking away from the bed, he turned back to glare at her. So I kissed you. Maybe according to your rules I should be hanged for that, or at the very least castrated, but we live in a permissive society.

What can I say? We have people selling drugs to children, serial killers, child molesters, and me. I kiss pretty girls who look at me like they want me to kiss them. I know its contents anyway. How long has it been since you left this house? This man was insane.

Guardians were something out of Gothic novels, not real life, and even in novels, guardians were not given to twenty-eight-year-old divorced women. If she could get him out of this room, she was going to pack a bag and leave this house forever.

It was easy for Mike to see in her eyes what she was thinking, and it made him angry. She was going to listen to him if he had to tie her to the bed. Samantha wanted to refuse, but she was too afraid of him not to obey. When she hesitated, he spread something on a piece of toast and held it in front of her mouth. He had an expression on his face that made her think he was capable of holding her nose and forcing her to eat, so Samantha reluctantly opened her mouth.

As she chewed, she relaxed a bit and took the second piece of toast he offered from his hand. Maybe she was a bit hungry after all. No choice at all. If she could read his mind, she really would be afraid. He had on a soft, dark brown cotton shirt and jeans, and he should have looked respectable, but she could see the outline of his chest muscles under the shirt.

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She looked away. When were you planning to start looking for your grandmother? How did he know about that? You had no intention of looking for her, did you?

Did it ever occur to you to wonder who was to check your research? No, not one of those questions had entered her mind.

Knowing he had at last piqued her interest, Mike got up, went to the wine safe and took out a cool bottle of white wine. Now, he had correctly guessed that every bottle would still be there.

Opening the bottle, knowing exactly where the corkscrew was, he took the wine back to her bedroom and poured two glasses full, frowning at the look on her face. Drink it or not, your choice. Mike laughed. Any tattoos? She had not eaten very much, and the wine was already going to her head, yet she desperately needed to be alert right now, not fuzzy-headed and relaxed as the wine was making her feel.

Half a glass of wine and she was dancing on tables—or at least thinking about dancing. It was something about her that had always disgusted Richard, but he had managed to cope with the problem.

Looking down at the tray across her legs as he lifted the cover, she saw a fat, succulent steak smothered in sauce. Fat content. Hardening of the arteries. Jude has had over thirty books on the New York Times Bestsellers List, over 60 million copies in print, and has been translated into 18 languages. Jude has lived in England and Egypt as well as in several American states, and she has traveled around the world.

She likes to read nonfiction and murder mysteries, and work in her garden. In boxing class, she enjoys showing much younger males that she can throw a mean right cross.

All rights reserved. True Love Jude Deveraux. Ballantine Books, July Our price: The Girl from Summer Hill: Ballantine Books, May Ever After: Ballantine Books, June List Price: Change of Heart Jude Deveraux. Pocket Books, October For All Time: Moonlight Masquerade Jude Deveraux. Pocket Books, January Just Curious Jude Deveraux.

Pocket Star, November Stranger in the Moonlight Jude Deveraux. Pocket Books, August Pocket Star, December The Enchanted Land Jude Deveraux. Avon, November Heartwishes Jude Deveraux. Atria Books, August Scarlet Nights Jude Deveraux. Days of Gold Jude Deveraux. Atria Books, December HarperCollins e-books, October Pocket Star, September Lavender Morning Jude Deveraux.

Atria Books, March The Dangers of Truffle Hunting. The Stars are Fire. The Little Breton Bistro. City of Friends. Come Sundown. The Good People. The Pretty Delicious Cafe Hungry for summer, romance, friends and food?

The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley. Things We Cannot See. No Job for a Girl. Item Added: Sweet Liar.

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