Claimed by the Rebel: The Playboy's Plain Jane / The Loner's Guarded Heart / Moonlight and Roses

His phone rang. It was the receptionist.

“Heather on the line.”

“I’m not here.”

He’d talk to Heather after she got her flowers. That should calm her down enough to be reasonable. There had been a hockey game on TV last night. No one in their right mind would have expected him to go to a fashion show instead of watching hockey. It was nearly the end of the season!

Heather had promised him girls modeling underwear, but the truth was he didn’t care. He was growing weary of his own game.

Secretly, he didn’t care if he never saw one more woman strutting around in her underwear again. One more top that showed a belly button, or one more pair of figure-hugging jeans. He didn’t care if he never saw one more body piercing, one more head of excruciatingly blond hair, one more set of suspiciously inflated breasts.

He felt like a man trying to care about all the things the wealthy successful businessman ex-athlete was supposed to care about, but somehow his sister was right. He wasn’t outrunning anything. His heart wasn’t in it anymore. He wanted, no, yearned for something different. He wanted to be surprised for a change, instead of always being the one surprising others.

He thought of her again, of Katie, of those enormous hazel eyes, intelligent, wary, behind those glasses.

On an impulse he picked up the phone, rolled through his Rolodex, punched out her number.

“The Flower Girl.”

“Hey, Katie, my lady, Dylan.”

Silence.

Then, ever so politely, “Yes?”

“Would you—” What was he doing? Had he been on the verge of asking her out for dinner? Katie, the flower girl? He felt an uncharacteristic hesitation.

“Yes?”

“Uh, name three Steinbeck novels for me? I’m doing a questionnaire. I could win a prize. A year’s worth of free coffee from my favorite café.” He lied with such ease, another talent that Katie would disapprove of heartily.

“You don’t know the names of three of Steinbeck’s novels?” she asked, just a hint of pity in her cool voice.

“You know. Dumb jock.”

“Oh.” She said, as if she did know, as if it had completely slipped her mind—or it didn’t count—that he ran a multi-million-dollar business. “Which ones would you like? The most well-known ones? The first ones? Last ones?”

“Any old three.”

“Hmm. East of Eden. The Grapes of Wrath. Of Mice and Men. Though, personally, I’d have to say I think his finest work was a short story called ‘The Chrysanthemums.’”

He laughed. “That figures. About flowers, right?”

“About an unhappy marriage.”

“Is there any other kind?” he asked, keeping his tone light. In actual fact, his parents had enjoyed an extraordinary union—until unexpectedly the “worse” part of the better-or-worse equation had hit and his father had turned into a man Dylan didn’t even know.

She was silent, and he realized he’d hit a little too close to home, a reminder of why he couldn’t ever ask her out. She was sensitive and sweet, and he was, well, not.

And then she said, softly, with admirable bravery given the fact she had presumably not had a good marriage, at all, “I like to hope.”

Oh-oh! A girl who liked to hope, despite the fact divorce was part of her history. Still, if she hoped you’d think she’d try just a little harder to attract.

“Not for myself personally,” she added, her voice suddenly strangled. “I mean, I just want to believe, somewhere, somehow, someone is happy. Together. With another someone.”

He snorted, a sound redolent with the cynicism he had been nurturing for the past year.

The word hope used in any conversation pertaining to marriage should be more than enough to scare any devoted bachelor near to death, but he’d always had trouble with risk assessment once he’d set a challenge for himself.

If anything, a jolt of fear sent him forward rather than back. That was why Dylan had skied every black diamond run at Whistler Blackcomb. He had bungee-jumped off the New River Gorge Bridge in Virginia on Bridge Day. He planned to sign up for a tour on the Space Shuttle the first year his company grossed five hundred million dollars. Dylan McKinnon prided himself in the fact he was afraid of nothing. He’d earned the nickname “Daredevil.”

He took chances. That’s why he was where he was today.

It was also the reason his baseball career had ended almost before it started, the voice of reason tried to remind him.

He overrode the voice of reason, took a deep breath, spat it out. “Would you like to go for dinner sometime?”

Silence.

“Katie? Are you there?”

“You haven’t even sent the fourth bouquet to Heather yet,” she said.

“The what?”

“The fourth one. The nice-to-know-you-I’m-such-a-great-guy-I’m-sending-flowers-but-I’m-moving-on one.”

He felt a shiver go up and down his spine. How was it that Katie knew him so well? He thought of the year he had known her, those intelligent eyes scrutinizing him, missing nothing. Assessing, mostly correctly, that he was a self-centered, selfish kind of guy.

“Okay,” he said. “Send it. Instead of the I’m-sorry one.”

“I already sent that one.”

Little Miss Efficient. “Okay, send the other one, too, then.”

“Do you want the message to read, ‘It’s been great knowing you. I wish you all the best’?”

He had become predictable. Hell. “Sure,” he said, “That’s fine.”

“Anything else?”

“You tell me. Am I available now that the fourth bouquet is being sent?”

“Of course you are,” she said sweetly.

Sweet had been one of the components his sister had used to define decent.

“Great. When would you like to go for dinner?”

“Never,” she said firmly.

He was stunned, but he realized there was only one reason little miss Katie Wholesome would have said no to him. And it wasn’t what his sister had said, either, that no decent girl would go out with him!

“You have a guy, huh?”

Pause. “Actually, I have a customer. If you’ll excuse me.” And then she hung up. Katie Pritchard hung up on him.

He set down the phone, stunned. And then he began to laugh. Be careful what you wish for, he thought. He’d wished for a surprise, and she had delivered him one. He’d just been rejected by Katie, the flower girl. He should have been fuming.

But for the first time in a long time he felt challenged. He could make her say yes.

Then what, he asked himself? A funny question for a man who absolutely prided himself in not asking questions about the future when it came to his dealings with the opposite sex.

Despite the rather racy divorcée title, Katie would be the kind of girl who didn’t go out with a guy without a chaperone, a written contract and a rule book. The perfect girl to invite to dinner at his sister’s house. That was the then what, and nothing beyond that.

So why did his mind ask, What would it be like to kiss her?

“Buddy,” he told himself, “what are you playing with?”

For some reason, even though she was pretending to be the plainest girl in Hillsboro, he could picture her lips, exactly. They were wide and plump, and even without a hint of lipstick on them, they practically begged a man to taste them.

He tried to think what Heather’s lips looked like. All he could think of was red grease smeared on his shirt collar. He shuddered, even though Heather was not a girl who would normally make a man shudder.

“Playing with Katie is like toying with a saint,” he warned himself. But he was already aware that he felt purposeful. Katie intrigued him, and he wanted her to come out for dinner with him. He was also about to prove to his sister how wrong she could be. About everything.

Now, how was he going to convince Katie to go out with him? He bet it wouldn’t be hard at all. If he applied a little pressure to that initial resistance, she’d cave in to his charm like an old mine collapsing.

An old mine collapsing, he told himself happily. Take that, Steinbeck.

CHAPTER TWO

“NEVER!” Katie repeated, slamming down the phone and glaring at it.

What had that been all about, anyway? Whatever it was, she hadn’t liked it one little bit. Why was Dylan McKinnon asking her out?

To be completely honest, it was a moment she had fantasized about since she had moved in next door to him, but like most fantasies, when it actually happened, the collision with reality was not pretty. Going out with him would wreck everything.

Because he only went out with people temporarily.

And then it would be over. Really over. No more Dylan dropping by her shop to tease her, to order flowers, to ruffle her feathers, to remind her of the fickleness of men. Dylan, without her really knowing it, had helped take her mind off the death of her marriage.

The death of—she stopped herself. She was not thinking about that death.

Two years since she and Marcus had parted ways. In the past year, the flower shop had given her a sense of putting her life back together. Whether she liked it or not, Dylan had been part of that.

It occurred to her that if Dylan’s running by her window and unexpected drop-bys had become such a highlight in her life, she really had allowed herself to become pathetic.

As if to underscore that discovery, she suddenly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—no makeup, hair drawn back in a careless ponytail, and that dress. It was truly hideous, and she knew it. But when she had opened The Flower Girl she had convinced herself to take on a persona, she had shopped for vintage dresses that would underscore the image she was trying to create: back-to-nature, wholesome, flower child.

But underneath she was aware of another motive. Fear. She didn’t want to be attractive anymore. She wanted to protect herself from all the things that being attractive to men meant.

It meant being asked out. Participating in the dance of life. It might mean a heart opening again, hope breathing back to life.

I like to hope, she had foolishly said to Dylan.

But the truth was the last thing she wanted was to hope. Ever since the breakup of her parents’ marriage when she was nine, she had dreamed of a little house and her own little family. Dreamed of a bassinet and a sweet-smelling baby—

Katie slammed the door on those thoughts. Dylan had asked her out for dinner, and already some renegade part of herself wanted to hope. She congratulated herself on having the strength to say no before it went one breath further.

As egotistical as he was, even Dylan McKinnon had to understand never.

She sighed. Dylan was a disruptive force in the universe. The female part of the universe. Specifically, her part of the universe.

She glanced at the clock. Close enough to quitting time to shut the doors. She closed up and made a decision to head to a movie. Distract herself with something like a political thriller that had nothing to do with romance, love, babies. All those things that could cut so deeply.

But, as she was leaving her business, so was he. Despite her effort to turn the lock more quickly, pretend she didn’t see him, escape, her fingers were suddenly fumbling, and there he was looking over her shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, taking the keys from her, turning the lock, handing them back, “I think we’re going to redesign the jacket.”

She was annoyed that she had to see him again so soon after declaring never, and even more annoyed that she shivered with awareness at that brief touch of his hand. Still, she could be relieved that he seemed to have already forgotten he had asked her out. That’s how much it had meant to him.

“Make the hood detachable, sleeves that zip on.”

He was too close to her; she liked the protection of her counter separating them. The cool scent of mountain breezes wafted from him, his eyes were intent on hers. She struggled to know what he was talking about, and then realized he was back to the jacket she had seen him running in. She didn’t care about his jacket. She wanted to get away from him. Desperately. How dare he look so glorious without half trying? How dare he make her so aware she was looking a little frumpy today? How dare he make her care, when she had managed to care about so little for so long?

“I don’t like clothes with zip-on parts,” she said, then instantly regretted offering her opinion, when it did not forward her goal of getting away.

He frowned at her. “Why not?”

“Because they’re confusing and hard to use,” she said.

He eyed her. “You’re not particularly coordinated. Remember the time you dropped the vase of roses? Slipped on the ice out there, and I had to help you up? Or how about the time you tripped over that piece of carpet and went flying?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He was aging, just like everybody else. So, he was the one other man in the universe, besides Richard Gere, who could make eye crinkles look sexy.

“Thank you for bringing up all of my happier memories,” she said, annoyed. It was really unfair that he could make her feel as embarrassed as if that had happened yesterday. Of course, he never had to know it was him who brought about that self-conscious awkwardness!

“So, no offense, but you’re not exactly the person we’re designing for.”

“That’s too bad,” she said, coolly, “because I’m average, just like most of the people who buy your clothing are average. They’re going for a run around the block, or taking their dog out for a walk. They want to look athletic, but it doesn’t necessarily mean they are. They aren’t getting ready for the Olympics or the Blue Jays training camp.”

He was glowering at her, which was so much better than the sexy eye-crinkle smile, so she continued.

“So, then it starts raining, and where are your sleeves and your hood if they’re detachable? Making nice lumps in your pockets? Or at home on the entryway table? Within three months I would have lost at least one of the sleeves, and probably the hood.”

He sighed. “We need you on the design team. Want a job?”

“No.”

“Okay, want to go grab a burger, then?”

She eyed him narrowly. Ridiculous to think he had given up on his dinner invitation. He had the innocent look down pat, but when he wanted something, she was willing to bet he had the tenacious predator spirit of a shark! “I already told you no to dinner.”

“Grabbing a burger is not exactly dinner,” he said. “Market research. The smartest girl I know can help me with my jacket design.”

“I am not the smartest girl you know!” Oh boy, relegated to the position of the smart one. Almost as dreadful as being relegated to the position of a friend but never a girlfriend.

“Yup, you are.”

“Well then you don’t know very many girls.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” he said smoothly.

“Okay, you don’t know very many girls who hang out at the library instead of at Doofus’s Pub and Grill.”

“You don’t have to say that as if it’s a dirty word. I’m a part owner in Doofus’s.”

Which explained why a place with a name like Doofus’s could be so wildly successful. The man had the Midas touch—not that she wanted to weaken herself any further by contemplating his touch. She had to be strong.

Hard, with him gazing at her from under the silky tangle of his soot-dark eyelashes. “Do you hang out at the library?” he asked.

How could he say that in a tone that made her feel as if he’d asked something way too personal, like the color of her underwear. She could feel an uncomfortable blush starting. “You don’t have to say that as if it’s a dirty word. The library is beautiful. Have you ever been to the Hillsboro Library?”

“Have you ever been to Doofus’s?” he shot back.

“Oh, look,” she said, changing the subject deftly, “it’s starting to rain. And me without my zip-on sleeves. I’ve got to go, Dylan. See you at the library sometime.”

But his hand on her sleeve stopped her. It was not a momentous occasion, a casual touch, but it was the second one in as many minutes. But given she had not wanted to even think about his touch, it seemed impossibly cruel that she now was experiencing it again. He probably touched people—girl people—like that all the time. But the easy and unconscious strength in his touch, the sizzle of heat, made her heart pound right up into her throat, made her feel weak and vulnerable, made her ache with a treacherous longing.

“Tell me something about you,” he said. “One thing. Anything you want.”

“I just did. I like the library.” No wonder he had a woman a month! When he said that, his eyes fastened on her face so intently, it felt as if he really wanted to know! She knew it was a line, so she hated herself for feeling honored by his interest.

“Something else,” he said.

“I live with three males,” she said, no reason to tell him they were cats.

He laughed. “I bet they’re cats.”

The thing you had to remember about Dylan McKinnon was that underneath all that easygoing charm, he was razor sharp. She glanced down at herself to see if had completed her glamorous look today with cat hair, but didn’t, thankfully, see any.

“I’m divorced,” she reminded him, hoping that failure would be enough to scare him off, unless he enjoyed the horrible stereotype some men had of a divorced woman, a woman who had known the pleasures of the marital bed, and now did not: hungry.

“That is a surprise about you,” he said. “I would have never guessed divorced.”

Had she succeeded in making herself look so frumpy that he didn’t believe anyone would have married her? If that was true, what was his sudden interest in her?

“Why not?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. You seem like a decent girl.”

“Divorced women are indecent?” she asked, and then found herself blushing, looking furiously away from him.

“Sorry.” He touched her chin. He had to quit touching her! “I didn’t mean it like that. You just seem like the kind of woman who would say forever and mean it.”

“I did mean it!” she said, with far more feeling than she would have liked.

“So it was his fault.”

She was not going to have this way-too-intimate conversation with Dylan McKinnon on a chance meeting on a public street.

“Does it have to be somebody’s fault?” she asked woodenly. Who, after all, could predict how people would react to tragedy? She had miscarried the baby she wanted so badly. It had all unraveled from there.

Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep at night, she tormented herself by wondering if it had been unraveling already, and if she had hoped the baby would somehow glue it back together, give her someone to love in the face of a husband who was distant, from a life that was so far from the fairy tale she had dreamed for herself. This was exactly why she now dedicated her life to her business. Business was not painful. It did not cause introspection. It did not leave time for self-pity or self-analysis.

“Come grab a burger with me at Doofus’s,” he said, and laid a persuasive hand on her wrist.

She heard something gentle in his voice, knew she had not succeeded in keeping her pain out of her eyes.

“They make a mean burger.”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“Really?” he said skeptically.

“If I went there, would you come to the library after?” she said, sliding her arm out from under his touch as if she was making a sneak escape from a cobra. Maybe the best defense was an offense. He’d be about as likely to visit a library as she would be to visit a turkey shoot. Still, as he contemplated her, her heart was acting as if she was in a position of life-threatening danger, racing at about thirteen million beats per minute.

“Sure. I’ll come to the library. I like doing different things. Surprising myself.”

Right. He just had all the answers. He’d never go to the library, just say he was going to, and then send a bouquet of flowers when he didn’t show.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, folding her rescued limbs over her chest, protectively.

He sighed, looked away, ran a hand through the rich darkness of his hair. “I want a change,” he said, and she was pretty sure he surprised them both with his sincerity.

Still, to be asked out because he needed a change from his bevy of bimbos? It was insulting!

“And you’d like a new toy to play with,” she guessed, with a shake of her head.

He regarded her thoughtfully. “I bet your husband didn’t deserve you. He probably wasn’t worth the sadness I saw in your eyes when you mentioned your divorce.”

The comment was unexpected, his voice quiet and serious, a side of him she had never seen.

Dylan McKinnon’s charm was dangerous when he was all playful and boyish. But it turned downright lethal when he became serious, the cast of his face suddenly accentuating the firmness around his mouth, the strength in the cut of his cheekbones and chin.

“I have to go,” she said.

She whirled away from him. Her eyes were stinging.

“Hey, Katie,” he said, jogging up beside her now, blocking her attempt to escape from all his sympathy with some dignity, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Would you go away? Guys like you always hurt girls like me.”

He stopped. Stared at her. She saw her arrow had hit.

“Not every man is going to be like your ex-husband,” he said evenly.

“How do you know? You didn’t know him.” Or me.

The truth was it didn’t really matter if Dylan was like Marcus, if she was still like her. It was herself she didn’t trust after her whole life had fallen apart. She did not trust herself to make good choices, and certainly not to be able to survive that kind of pain ever again.

But it was true Dylan was nothing like Marcus had been. Dylan had his faults, but he didn’t try to hide any of them. If anything, he seemed to celebrate them. He didn’t seem to have any secrets, unless she counted that one bouquet that he picked himself every week and delivered himself.

Other than that her remark about guys like him hurting girls like her was really undeserved. He had been her most loyal customer. He’d always only been kind to her, funny and charming. He’d helped her pick up the glass that time she had broken the rose vase. He had a gift for making her feel oddly pretty—or at least interesting—even on her ugliest days. He was aggravatingly sure of himself, yes, but he never crossed that line into conceit.

“Come have a hamburger,” he said. “No strings attached. I promise I’ll make you laugh.”

“How can you promise that?” she said, aware suddenly that she ached to laugh. To feel light and unburdened. To forget that she had failed at marriage and miscarried a baby. In his eyes she thought she glimpsed something of herself she had lost, a woman who had been carefree and laughter filled. She longed, suddenly, to be that woman again, even if only for a little while.

The pull of being returned to a happier self was too strong to resist.

“Okay,” she said, “A hamburger. To reassure you that I’m not in any danger of turning into a tragic cat lady. And maybe to give you a few ideas for a jacket that people won’t lose the sleeves of. And then that’s the end of this. Am I clear?”

He nodded with patent insincerity.

She looked at her watch. She could make a quick trip to the mall before she met him. If sympathy had in any way motivated this invitation, there would be nothing like a new pair of jeans and a slinky top to convince him—and herself—that she was not in need of it.

“I’ll meet you. In an hour. At Doofus’s.”

“Perfect,” he said, and smiled that slow, sexy utterly sincere smile that had convinced a zillion women before her they were the only one that mattered to him.