Dedicated To Deirdre

Her rental property was a stroke of incredible luck. And it wasn’t a lie—he was looking for a place to live. Bolton Hill, right in the center of downtown Baltimore, was an enclave of wealth a few blocks wide. But it was surrounded by crime and squalor, and shrinking every year. And while he loved the area, he had found it getting more and more difficult to write in that setting.

He needed space; space to walk and think without the constant vigilance of warding off muggers, to sleep without gunfire and sirens, to work without well-meaning neighbors constantly interrupting his work hours to prove to their friends that a bestselling author really did live next door.

He craved anonymity. He craved the simple ability to walk out of his home without being recognized, a respite from the women who constantly planted themselves at his elbow, hoping for a relationship or even a night with him.

And after the experiences he’d had recently, being hard to locate was highly desirable.

“I warned you.” Deirdre stepped aside to let him enter the first room.

She wasn’t kidding when she said it needed work, was his first thought. The main room was a large one, with an old wall-mounted sink and an ancient refrigerator at one end—presumably what passed for the kitchen-living area. The floors were unfinished lumber, the walls unpainted. But two skylights as well as a wide window at the near end gave the room a light and airy feel. Through a door at the far end, he discovered a smaller room—a bedroom?—and a bathroom. A real bathroom, with a claw-footed tub and white porcelain fixtures. This room also boasted a large window at its end, though it had no skylights.

Rustic, definitely. But with a few modifications, he could make it work.

“It really is awful,” she said from behind him. “I need to fix it up a little before I rent it. It was built more recently than the rest of the buildings here, about sixty years ago when the owner had racehorses. His head groom lived here.”

Sixty years ago. Recent, by the standards of the house and the big barn, both of which had to be well over a century old.

Nodding his head, he walked around the empty space. He already knew he was going to take it but he didn’t want to appear too eager. Finally he said, “I think it will do if I work on it, add paint and paper, maybe sand the floor.”

“You want it?” She eyed him as if he weren’t quite sane.

He laughed. “It’s solid, looks well insulated. The rest is cosmetic. Would you mind if I fix it up a little?”

“You can do whatever you like with it,” she said. “I would offer to reimburse you for any expenses, but—” she swallowed and looked him straight in the eye “—my finances are a bit too strained.”

He nodded. “I can understand that.”

“You can?” Her expression warmed, and the beginnings of a tentative smile appeared.

“Umm-hmm.”

“Money.” She sighed. “Life would be so much easier if we didn’t have to worry about it.”

“Umm-hmm.” This was dangerous ground, considering the staggering sum of his last royalty statement.

“Where do you work, Mr.—Ronan?”

Out of habit he searched for an evasion; admitting to being a bestselling suspense novelist had caused him more grief in the past than he could recall. He’d become even more cautious since a fan had been apprehended and eventually convicted of stalking him a year ago. And being anonymous had the added attraction of keeping fortune hunters and celebrity hounds at bay. No, he never told people who he was anymore. It was safer, and less complicated in the long run. And Sullivan was a common enough name that the association didn’t come up.

“I’m, uh, sort of a freelance journalist.” Well, it wasn’t a lie. He’d started out writing articles to support himself while he worked on his first novel.

She nodded, comprehension flooding her expression. “Not exactly a profession you’ll get rich at.” Then, to his relief, she changed tack. “Cleaning service is included in the rental.”

“Uh, that’s not necessary. I can clean it myself.” If she saw what he already was planning to do to the interior, she’d know for certain he wasn’t a struggling writer. He knew that eventually he’d have to tell her the truth, but he hoped the renovated apartment would compensate for his harmless deception. She wouldn’t have any trouble renting it after he left.

“Oh, no, I insist—”

“No, I insist.” He injected a, “case closed,” note into his voice. “You have a business to run and I wouldn’t think of letting you waste time on cleaning this place. It’s so small I’ll have no trouble.”

Her brow was furrowed, her eyes troubled. “All right, if you’re sure. But if you ever need a hand, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“I promise.” He held up a hand like a Boy Scout. “Now, how much is the rent?”

Three days later he moved in. Deirdre had told him she was going to be away for the day, taking her sons to a family reunion up in Pennsylvania. She wouldn’t be back until well after dark, probably close to midnight, she said. “So don’t be alarmed when you hear my Bronco coming down the lane.”

The timing couldn’t have been better. She left at seven in the morning. As soon as her vehicle was over the ridge, he used his cell phone to call the team he’d hired. Speed was of the essence, he’d stipulated when he’d called the renovation firm. And he didn’t mind paying extra for it. When the guy heard that he planned to pay the full amount in cash, he couldn’t get the details fast enough.

The paneling came first. He’d chosen a light blond oak because drywall would have to dry before it could be painted or papered; this had to be done in one day. The panels went right over the rough wooden walls, the studs in the original walls providing plenty of support.

Once the paneling in the first room was done, the subfloor for the carpet went down. The plumber arrived shortly after one o’clock to install the shower and the Jacuzzi, and the guys with the tile for the kitchen and bathroom were right on his heels. By four in the afternoon, he had a rather nice-looking little place, if he did say so himself. The electrician was still working on the dimmers and the surge protection for his office equipment when his new furniture arrived. They were just finishing when the movers arrived with the things he wanted to bring up from his place downtown, and right behind them came the woman from whom he’d ordered the custom blinds and the decorator with art and some stuff like baskets and wreaths for the kitchen walls. It fit perfectly with the casual country feel of the paneling. Lucky for him, the stable windows didn’t face the house, or he’d have had to keep the blinds permanently closed.

The last contractor was gone by ten in the evening and he sank down on the new leather couch with a satisfied sigh, looking around him. Amazing. Money worked miracles. He hadn’t grown up with it, and he still wasn’t used to how easily the thought of extra money could make things move.

Tomorrow the man from the phone company would install his modern line, his fax and telephone. He would unpack his books, get on-line again, and hook up his computer and printer—

The sound of a vehicle growling down the lane was unmistakable. He glanced at his watch—10:09. Wow. He’d just barely made it. He distinctly remembered her telling him she wouldn’t be back until late. Since when was a woman ever early?

The next day was Sunday. Deirdre hustled the boys out of bed and they all went to church. Then she turned the car south toward Baltimore. This was the part she hated. The judge had decreed that every Sunday her ex-husband would have visitation rights with Lee and Tommy.

Every Sunday she drove to her friend Frannie’s home, where she handed her precious children over to Nelson under the watchful eye of either Frannie, her husband Jack, or both. Nelson wasn’t permitted to come near her anymore since she’d gotten the protection order, and the judge had been quite firm in his admonitions. One more little trick and Nelson wouldn’t see his sons at all.

She might have to answer for it at the Pearly Gates someday, but she prayed for that one little trick.

Because of Nelson’s past behavior, the boys were exchanged at this specified location in front of witnesses. She never wanted to be caught alone with her ex-husband again. Since she’d taken precautions to secure her privacy when she moved out of the house they had once shared, she didn’t think he even knew where they lived now. She picked up her mail at a post office in the next little town, had her telephone number unlisted and her business telephone now showed no address. If he had to contact her, he called Frannie and left a message that Deirdre returned. She hated having to instruct Lee and Tommy not to tell their father their address or phone number, but there was no way around it. When she explained that the judge had suggested it, they’d been sufficiently impressed that she doubted their father could bribe the information out of them with ice cream or anything else.

Today went like it usually did. Nelson was waiting for her in front of Frannie’s. When she pulled in, Jack came out of the house to greet her. Bless his heart, he must have been watching. She helped her sons out of the car, hugged each fiercely and said, “Have fun with your daddy today.” Then Jack took each little hand, and her babies walked down the driveway to the car where their father was waiting.

She was uneasy the entire time the boys were gone, every Sunday. During their marriage, Nelson had saved his worst temper tantrums—her euphemism for abusive rages—for times when he and she were alone. She prayed their children would never know what he was capable of.

As she watched, Lee spoke earnestly to his father before Jack let go of his hand, and she knew he was telling Nelson that she had said it would be nice if he took the boys swimming today. In truth, Tommy was on medication for an ear infection and shouldn’t get his head wet, but if she asked his father not to let him swim, they’d go swimming, sure as the moon came up at night It gave her a small measure of satisfaction to outsmart him. After a few weeks of writing notes that he took great pleasure in crumpling and tossing on Jack’s driveway without reading, she’d resorted to this approach when she had instructions she wanted him to hear.

She stood in the driveway waving to her children until the car turned the corner. Then she turned to smile at Jack as he walked back up the driveway. Or tried to smile, anyway. Not an easy feat when your lip was trembling.

Jack lifted an arm and encircled her shoulders loosely as they walked toward the house. “They’ll be back before you know it.” His voice was a comforting rumble in her ear.

“I know,” she said. “But I’m a mother. It’s my job to worry.” They had a variation on this conversation nearly every Sunday. Time to change the subject—divorce was an ugly, boring topic, and she tried not to inflict it on her friends. “So how’s it going with two?”

Jack and Frannie had had a second child five weeks ago—a son. Actually, it was their first, since their daughter Alexa was really Jack’s orphaned niece, whom they’d adopted when they were married ten months ago.

Jack looked thoughtful. “I think it’s going okay, but I don’t really have anything to judge by. Lex was such a piece of cake.”

Deirdre laughed. “Must be nice. Neither of my children has ever been a ‘piece of cake.’” She stepped past the door that Jack held open for her and entered the home.

“Hi, Dee. Look, Alexa, it’s Aunt Dee-Dee.”

Alexa was thirteen months old and full of herself, blond and chubby. She ran full tilt at Deirdre, holding up her little arms to be picked up. “An-Dee!”

Catching the little girl up in a fierce hug, Deirdre felt her eyes welling with tears again. Frannie sat in a rocker in the family room with baby Brooks at her breast. She looked serene and happy as she watched her husband, and Dee couldn’t help but envy her a little bit. “Never forget how lucky you are,” she said, swallowing.

“Lucky to get me,” Jack said from behind her. When both women snorted and rolled their eyes, he clutched at his heart and staggered toward the doorway. “Mortally wounded.” He straightened and headed for the door to the kitchen. “I know it’s a struggle, but if you can bear to be without me, I’m going out to mow the grass.”

“Okay, honey,” Frannie called after him. “If you do a good job, maybe we’ll invite you back later.” She exchanged an amused smile with Deirdre. “So how are you? I haven’t talked to you all week.”

Deirdre shrugged. “Fine. I got another big order from that doll museum in upstate New York. That’ll keep me afloat for a little while.”

“That’s great! This is the third time they’ve used you, isn’t it?” Frannie lifted Brooks to her shoulder and rubbed his back. “Boy, are you a load,” she said to him.

“Just like your daddy,” Deirdre said, nodding in answer to the previous question. It was true. Little Brooks had weighed a whopping ten pounds, two ounces at birth and showed every sign of being as big as his daddy.

Then Deirdre remembered that she really did have some news. “Oh, guess what? I found a tenant for the apartment.”

“Wow!” said Frannie. “That was fast. You just decided to rent it last week. I thought you said it needed some work before it could be rented out.”

“It does. But the man says he’ll do it himself.”

“A man! Do tell.”

“His name is Ronan Sullivan,” Dee told her.

“And...?”

“And nothing.”

“How old?”

“Thirty -five-ish.”

“What’s he look like?” Frannie’s gaze was glued to Dee’s face.

Dee thought for a moment. “He’s not as big as Jack—who is?—but he’s bigger than Nelson. He has dark hair and he seems very nice.” And his hands are warm and gentle.

“I’m sure I’d be able to pick him out of a crowd based on that description,” Frannie said drily. “Are you comfortable having a man on the farm?”

“Not completely,” Dee admitted. “But I can’t ignore men for the rest of my life. In case you haven’t noticed, they’re everywhere.”

“Well, it’s a start.” Frannie settled the baby at her other breast. “One of these days you’re going to meet some attractive man and realize you’re still young. You never know, maybe you’ll decide to have a fling with this tenant.”

The words caught her by surprise, sent a rush of purely feminine anticipation through her as Ronan’s lean face loomed in her mind’s eye. And she realized she’d hesitated a bit too long as she looked over at her friend, whose eyes were alive with open speculation.

Two

On Monday morning she was on the front porch shaking out the rugs when Ronan came around the corner from the side of the stable that faced the woods.

“Good morning.” He waved as he altered his path and came toward her.

“Good morning.” Deirdre stopped, not sure what else to say. Was she expected to chit-chat with him every time they met? She’d become used to a degree of solitude in the past year; having someone popping up every time she walked outside her house was going to take some getting used to.

“I took a walk down along the creek.” He was smiling. “It’s really beautiful out here. Very inspiring.”

“Inspiring?” She lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe I should have rented that apartment out to an artist.”

“It was just an expression,” he said as his smile faded. His expression was suddenly guarded, his eyes watchful.

What had she said? She replayed the harmless conversation in her head. Weird. “I’m going to the post office in a few minutes,” she said. “Is there anything you want to mail?”

“No.” He considered. “But I might go by there later today. I’ll have to get directions.”

“Sure. There’s one in Frizzelburg, although I use another one so I won’t be able to pick up your mail for you.”

He nodded. “I guess I’d better fill out some change-of-address cards and get a post office box.”

“No prob—”

“Woof-woof-woof-woof-woof!”

She was interrupted by a deep, loud barking that grew closer as the dog making the noise zeroed in on her location. “Stand still!” she said urgently to Ronan. “He’s not fond of strangers.”

Around the corner of the house charged a big, hairy dog, barreling at them full speed. “Murphy, no! Wait!” Her voice was as rough as a drill sergeant’s and she stepped in front of her tenant, scowling at the black-and-white dog.

To her relief, her dog halted his mad charge. He stopped about five feet from her and braced his legs; the hair on his back stood up and his canines showed as the barking became a steady, low-pitched snarl. “Quit that,” she said, walking over to him. “Sit.”

He did both immediately, and she stroked a hand down his nose as she reached him. “Good boy. Lie down.”

The big dog dropped to his belly and she gave him a command to stay. Then she turned to Ronan again, aware that her pulse was racing. What must his be doing?

“I apologize. He’s usually confined to the house or the fenced area, but the boys must have let him out.” On cue, her two sons came tearing around the corner. They stopped dead when they saw her, then slowed and walked toward her at a distinctly unenthusiastic pace.

“Sorry, Mom.” Lee’s big brown eyes were beseeching. “We just sorta forgot the gate was open.”

She hated to scare them, but they had to learn to think before they acted. “Mr. Sullivan was taking his walk. What do you think Murphy would have done if I hadn’t been out here?”

Tommy’s eyes welled with tears and one dripped down his cheek. “Please, Mommy, don’t let them take him away. We promise to shut the gate next time.”

She was aware that her tenant hadn’t moved a muscle, and she thanked God he had good sense. And though every cell in her body cried out to her to comfort her children, she knew she had to make sure they understood. “There better hadn’t be a next time. You may not use that gate. Go through the door on the other end of the porch, remember?”

Two little heads nodded.

“Should we take him back?” Lee asked, indicating the dog.

“No, I need to introduce him to Mr. Sullivan, anyway. But—” she held up a warning finger as her two little terrors turned to scurry away from Mom’s wrath “—two beds need to be made and I don’t want to find clothes on the floor when I come up to check your rooms.”

As they dashed off, she bent and put a hand in Murphy’s collar. “If you don’t mind,” she said to the tenant, “I’d like to let him sniff you so he knows your scent.”

Ronan nodded. “That might be wise.”

His voice was droll, and she relaxed.

Then, his amber eyes curious, he said, “Why do the boys think someone will take him away if he gets out?”

She couldn’t decide how much to tell him, but since the dog was dangerous, it was only fair that he know it. She led Murphy over to him, praising the dog as he thoroughly investigated Ronan and mentally giving her tenant points for not shrinking away. “Murphy bit a man once. But it wasn’t Murph’s fault. The man was hurting someone and he was only trying to protect me. Anyway, my husband—my ex-husband—called the police and told them Murphy was vicious, that he needed to be put down.” She could hear her voice shaking; she stopped and bent her head over the dog, stroking him to give herself a moment. “The dog warden came and took him away right in front of the boys.”

Ronan made a sound of sympathy deep in his throat. “No wonder they’re upset.” Murphy was sniffing his hands and he placed them gently on the animal, scratching the big dog’s ears. Murphy closed his eyes and leaned against Ronan’s legs. “Obviously he wasn’t killed. What happened?”

“He was quarantined for ten days to be sure he wasn’t rabid. While Murph was in quarantine, I got a lawyer to help me convince the authorities that the dog wasn’t vicious. He was evaluated by two different obedience trainers and two veterinarians. All four said he appeared to be of good temperament, that he has protective instincts and he probably was only acting aggressive under ‘appropriate circumstances.’ But they also said it was likely he’d bite again if he perceived a threat to me.” She paused and swallowed, then lifted her head and looked up at Ronan. “Murphy was protecting me from a close encounter with my ex-husband’s temper. He’s classified now as a ‘dangerous dog,’ and if he ever bites again, he’ll be put down. He’s very wary of strangers now, as you might expect, but I don’t believe he would harm you.”

It seemed that her statement was superfluous. Ronan had knelt and was vigorously rubbing Murph’s ribs. As she watched, her “dangerous dog,” rolled over and let Ronan rub his furry white belly. “I’d say he likes you,” she said drily.

“I like him, too.” He tugged playfully on the immense paws flopping in the air.

“If you ever want to take him along on your walks, feel free.”

Ronan rose and so did Murphy, shaking himself vigorously from head to toe, hair flying everywhere. “I’d love to take him with me sometime. And he could use the exercise, I imagine.” Critically he eyed the dog. “He looks like a wolf—is he a husky?”

“He’s an Alaskan malamute,” she said, fondling Murphy’s ear. He leaned against her and she staggered back a step before she could catch herself. “Huskies have blue eyes—mals’ eyes are dark brown.” She glanced at her watch. “Well. I’d better get to work or the morning will be gone.”

“Yeah, me, too.” But he made no move to leave, simply stood there looking at her, an odd expression on his tanned features. “I like your dog,” he said again, then sketched her a mock salute and turned toward the stable.

Chapter One completed Ronan all but patted himself on the back as he got up from his desk and stretched. He lanced at his watch. Four-thirty. Time to knock off for a while. He could put in a few more hours later tonight if he felt like it. But he was well under his deadline, so there was no pressure.

He’d been here four days and already those two little hellions had given him enough material to cover the first several chapters. He’d learned that superglue, once applied, is stuck forever, that chocolate bars left in little pants’ pockets make a major mess in the washing machine and that when you dig up a dead salamander, its skeleton falls apart.

It wasn’t as if he needed that much. A carefully worded sentence here, a phrase there, could give his readers the feeling of knowing his characters. It was more a matter of style, he thought. Each character needed to have a well-defined style. The oldest of the two children in his book was a leader, like Lee. Usually the idea man, the schemer, the one who came up with the ornery ideas. His younger sister—he’d decided at the last minute to make the littler one a girl—was a total tomboy, adoring her big brother and willing to do just about anything he wanted.

And then there was that dog...it would be a real shame not to use that dog in a story sometime. Big Murph, he thought affectionately. He wouldn’t use a malamute, maybe a shepherd or a rottweiler, a breed most people could identify.

Her face invaded his mind, and his fingers stilled on the keys. Deirdre had about the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen, a true, clear green set inside thick black lashes that were so long they curled up naturally at the ends. Her eyebrows were strong, for a woman, making a definite statement above those eyes, letting the world know she wasn’t as soft as that body suggested, and when she regarded a person with that silky dark brow lifted in cool challenge, it was all a person could do not to respond to it. And speaking of responding...man, what a figure she had! He deplored the anorexic look females seemed to go after these days. Deirdre Patten had big breasts, and her hips, while certainly not wide, were beautifully rounded, just tempting a man to pat them. In between was that teeny-tiny waist, a perfect little shelf for his hands to rest.

For a man’s hands, he meant. Any man. Not one in particular.

Hey, there, buddy, he cautioned himself. She might have been your fantasy once, but that’s all she’s going to be. You have work to do. Besides, she clearly wasn’t wealthy and he’d promised himself he’d only chase wealthy women from now on. That way, he’d know they weren’t after him for his money.