The Long Hot Summer

One quick kiss, Johnny promised himself. Just one…

But as he lowered his head to hers, the sultry night turned suddenly stifling hot. Her lips were summer warm and satin smooth, and in an instant his plan of offering her just one quick kiss was shot to hell. After ravishing her mouth for a full minute, he backed her against the railing and kissed her again…then again.

He meant to stop. He would stop. Soon, he told himself. But he was losing control, and she was letting him. And that was when it hit him.

He was no better than the man from her past—the one who’d hurt her so deeply.

“Dammit, chérie, what the hell are you trying to do to me?” Then, before she could answer, before her head had a chance to clear and grasp just how close she’d come, he melted into the shadows.

Dear Reader,

As Silhouette Books’ 20^th anniversary continues, Intimate Moments continues to bring you six superb titles every month. And certainly this month—when we begin with Suzanne Brockmann’s Get Lucky—is no exception. This latest entry in her TALL, DARK & DANGEROUS miniseries features ladies’ man Lucky O’Donlon, a man who finally meets the woman who is his match—and more.

Linda Turner’s A Ranching Man is the latest of THOSE MARRYING MCBRIDES!, featuring Joe McBride and the damsel in distress who wins his heart. Monica McLean was a favorite with her very first book, and now she’s back with Just a Wedding Away, an enthralling marriage-of-convenience story. Lauren Nichols introduces an Accidental Father who offers the heroine happiness in THE LOVING ARMS OF THE LAW. Saving Grace is the newest from prolific RaeAnne Thayne, who’s rapidly making a name for herself with readers. And finally, welcome new author Wendy Rosnau. After you read The Long Hot Summer, you’ll be eager for her to make a return appearance.

And, of course, we hope to see you next month when, once again, Silhouette Intimate Moments brings you six of the best and most exciting romance novels around.

Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

The Long Hot Summer
Wendy Rosnau

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my husband, Jerry,

the hero in my life and partner in all things.

To Tyler and Jenni, for their love and bright smiles.

And to Lettie Lee, for her instincts,

support and always taking my call.

WENDY ROSNAU

lives on sixty secluded acres in the Northwoods of Minnesota with her husband and their two energetic teenagers. A former hairdresser, today she divides her time between the bookstore she and her husband opened in 1998, keeping one step ahead of her two crafty kids, and writing romance. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, painting and drawing, traveling, and, most of all, spending time with those two crafty kids and their dad.

A great believer in the power of love and the words never give up, Wendy’s goal of becoming a published author is a testimony that dreams can and do come true. You can write to her at P.O. Box 441, Brainerd, Minnesota 56401. For a personal reply send a SASE.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

Angola State Penitentiary

The hell of it was, the parole deal stunk. But if Johnny agreed to the terms, he’d be breathing fresh air within the hour. It should have been an easy choice to make—he’d been rotting in Louisiana’s maximum-security prison for six months. Yeah, it should have been easy—if only the terms of his parole weren’t so ridiculous.

A buzzer sounded and the iron door electronically unlocked. “Come on, Bernard, put a wiggle in it,” the guard ordered. “The warden wants to see you, pronto.”

Contrary to the direct order, Johnny slowly got to his feet. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out his half-used pack of Camels, and passed the cigarettes to his cell mate, who lay sprawled on the top bunk. They exchanged a look; it said, Good luck, but don’t bet too high on the odds. Then, in a lazy gait that had been a Bernard trademark for over half a century, Johnny sauntered through the open door and into the corridor of Cell Block C.

When Johnny entered the warden’s office moments later, Pete Lasky looked up from the mound of paperwork scattered on his cheap metal desk. Lasky owned a pair of uncharitable blue eyes, and a false grin that exposed a row of coffee-stained teeth—an occupational hazard created by the monotony of ten-hour days sandwiched between a desk and a window overlooking a bleak, prisoner-filled courtyard. “So, Bernard, you wanna be cut loose today?”

The stupid question deserved a stupid answer, but Johnny didn’t plan on getting cute; the sixty-year-old warden didn’t own a sense of humor. “No chance for a fat fine and public service?”

“Sure would make life easier for you, wouldn’t it?” Pete grinned. “Well, it ain’t gonna happen. Easy, I mean. Never did like that word. Easy ain’t gonna teach you when to keep your mouth shut or your fist out of some poor devil’s face. And those are two lessons that would do you some good.”

Johnny had heard it all before, and in most cases what was said about him was true. Only, in this particular instance—the one the warden was referring to—he hadn’t been shooting off his mouth, or taking the first swing. Yeah, he’d retaliated, but only after Farrel had come at him.

“I’ve had two phone conversations with your hometown sheriff,” the warden continued. “Looks like Sheriff Tucker’s not any happier about these parole terms than you are. The way he tells it, you’re about as popular in Common as a copper-belly at a Fourth of July picnic. But like I told him, I’m not in the ‘happy’ business.” The warden opened his top drawer, then took out the paperwork for Johnny’s release and laid it on his desk. “By the way, if you agree to this deal, that man—the one you damn near killed—is off-limits. Any criminal conduct will nullify your parole. Carrying a weapon will do the same. Failure to comply will earn you another six months inside. So what’s it gonna be?”

Johnny jammed his hands in the back pockets of his faded jeans, and the image of Belle Bayou suddenly surfaced. With it came a treasured memory from his youth—his father teaching him how to fish cane-pole style at sunrise.

The truth was, if he agreed to the warden’s parole deal, he would be waking up to that sunrise every morning for the next four months. He hadn’t been back home in years—not until six months ago, anyway—but he’d never been able to forget the bond he’d formed with the bayou.

He knew the bayou as well as any of the old-timers. He knew where the best fishing spots were. Where the shy blue herons nested, and where every hidden channel in the bayou ended up. He also knew what a stir he’d cause by showing up in town again.

“Well?”

“I’ll take the deal,” Johnny said, glancing out the window behind Pete Lasky’s desk. The sky was tauntingly clear, and maybe that’s what had suddenly been the deciding factor. Or maybe it was remembering Belle. Either way, he heard himself say, “Four months working for Mae Chapman at Oakhaven won’t kill me, but staying in here another six just might.”

An hour later, Johnny walked out of Angola’s front gate and into hell’s kitchen. That’s what his mama had always called the month of August in Louisiana. It was just after ten, and already the temperature threatened one-hundred. He headed north, his plan to catch the bus out of Tunica. A mile down the road, he pulled off his white T-shirt and ran the sleeve through an empty belt loop on his jeans.

He’d never intended to go back to Common when he’d left fifteen years ago—both of his parents were dead and he had no other family—but after receiving that damn letter six months ago from Griffin Black, curiosity had overridden common sense. The letter had offered to pay him top dollar for his land. His land?

Now, everyone knew that Johnny didn’t own any land in Common. True, his father had owned land years ago—a run-down sugarcane farm that had never earned him more than a sore back and a pile of headaches. But all things considered, delinquent taxes should have relieved him of the farm years ago. Only a week later, after strolling into Common city hall and telling the clerk what he was there for, Johnny had promptly learned that he did, in fact, own his daddy’s old farm. But just how and why remained a mystery.

The truth was, there were only two people in town who cared enough to invest any time or money in him. Only Virgil didn’t have any extra cash to speak of, so that left Mae Chapman. The question was, why would she do it?

Johnny left city hall with the intention of confronting the old lady with what he’d learned. But the day’s heat was powerful, and he’d made a quick decision to stop by the local bar for one cold beer before showing up at Oakhaven. A bad decision, he realized, the moment he opened the door to Pepper’s Bar and Grill and walked straight into his childhood enemy.

He hadn’t been trying to kill Farrel Craig the way they had accused him of doing, as much as it had looked that way when Sheriff Tucker had shown up. Yes, he’d drawn his knife, but only after Farrel had come at him with a broken beer bottle.

It had looked bad, he couldn’t deny that—but he hadn’t been willing to roll over and let Farrel carve him up like a steak. Only, the authorities didn’t see it that way. He’d been arrested and convicted for assault with intent to do bodily harm—the sentence: a year in Angola State Penitentiary.

So now here he was, six months later, faced with going back home to serve a lousy four-month parole sentence. And he would serve it. Only, by summer’s end he intended to sell the farm and sever his ties to Common for good.

The sun was just setting as the bus rolled into Common and stopped on the corner of Cooper and Main. As Johnny stepped off the bus he glanced around the bare-bones town were he’d spent the first fifteen years of his life. The streets were nearly deserted. He supposed the sultry heat had driven most of the locals inside, or maybe they’d heard he was coming. He suddenly realized he could have been happy here if only the townsfolk would have given him a chance.

Gran would never willingly have agreed to hire such a disreputable man if she had seen the rap sheet that went along with him. Disgusted, Nicole tossed the paper on the Pendleton desk. She snapped off the old-fashioned floor fan sitting next to her, then picked up the phone and dialed the Pass-By Motel.

On the third ring Virgil Diehl answered in his thick cajun accent. “Motel. De coffee’s black and dere’s vacancies.”

“Hello, Mr. Diehl, this is Nicole Chapman calling.”

“Little Nicki! Oui! I heard yo’ was back from de big city. Bet Mae’s tickled pink, ma petite. Me, too. Yo’ is de perdiest angel in all of St. James Parish. Mais yeah.”

“Merci, Mr. Diehl. You’re kind to say so.”

“Dat’s me.” Virgil chuckled. “Kind is good for business. But yo’ kin’t be wantin’ a room, ma petite, so what yo’ after?” He paused. “Maybe I already knows.”

He no doubt did. By now the news of Jonathan Bernard’s return and his newly acquired position at Oakhaven had most likely raced through the supermarket, the bakery, the corner drug, and both bars. “Sheriff Tucker told me Mr. Bernard is staying in one of your rooms,” Nicole explained. “Is he registered?”

“Johnny? Yah, he’s here. Fact be, he’s jes’ comin’ through de door now.”

“Could I speak to him, please?”

“Yah—sure t’ing, ma petite.”

While Nicole waited, she turned the fan back on. A native of California, she was used to hot weather, but Louisiana’s sultry heat was a new kind of hot. One that would surely kill her if she didn’t acclimate soon—she had never perspired so much in all her twenty-five years.

She took another quick glance at the paperwork Sheriff Tucker had dropped by an hour ago. She hadn’t read every word, but she really didn’t need to. The gist was that Jonathan Bernard had been granted parole because of job security—thanks to Gran—and good behavior.

Good behavior. Nicole sniffed, taking another quick glance at the list of offenses the man had accumulated in the past thirty years. True, most of Jonathan Bernard’s offenses dated back to when he was a teenager. And there was even a span of time—seven years, to be exact—when it appeared he had reformed. But when she’d mentioned that hopeful tidbit to Sheriff Tucker, he had assured her that Common’s black sheep didn’t know the meaning of the word reform.

That’s why she intended to intervene. True, they did need someone to work a miracle on Oakhaven over the summer—the place was falling apart—but not Jonathan Bernard.

“This here’s me. If it ain’t free, I don’t want it.”

His phone manners spoke mountains for his character. The black-bayou drawl, however, sent an unexpected chill racing the length of Nicole’s spine. She paused a moment, and in the process lost her train of thought. Scrambling to get it back, she settled for “Is ‘me’ Jonathan Bernard?”

“You got who you wanted. Only, folks call me Johnny. What you selling, cherie?”

A one-way bus ticket north, Nicole wanted to say. Instead, she said, “I’m not selling anything, Mr. Bernard. This is Oakhaven calling about your so-called job. The point is, the job is no longer available.”

Silence.

“Mr. Bernard?”

“Let me talk to the old lady.”

Nicole hadn’t been ready for that. “I—ah, she’s taking a nap in the garden.” It was the truth.

“And she asked you to call me and say she’s changed her mind, is that it?”

Nicole had hoped to settle this without involving her seventy-six-year-old grandmother. “I don’t think—”

“The job is a condition of my parole,” he drawled thickly. “The old lady signed papers agreeing to supply me with an eight-to-five job, five days a week for the summer. It’s already been settled.”

He was lying. Gran was too smart to sign anything without legal advice.

“I guess what I’m saying, cherie, is I’m nonrefundable.”

Nonrefundable. Something in his voice suggested he was smiling. Narrowing her blue eyes, Nicole switched off the fan, then quickly flipped through the papers Sheriff Tucker had left. Sure enough, there it was, a copy of a legal agreement with her grandmother’s signature on it. Damn!

“You still there?”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Nicole tried to keep her voice strong and confident.

“Is this where I get one of those sticky apologies over the phone?”

Nicole bristled, but she kept her mouth shut.

“I guess not. Well, I’ll be moving into the boathouse sometime around four.”

That bit of news was too alarming for Nicole to keep quiet a moment longer. “You’re moving into the boathouse?” She nearly choked on the words. “I don’t think so, Mr. Bernard! In fact, I—”

But it was too late for thinking or talking. Jonathan Bernard had already hung up the phone.

Chapter 2

Gran’s garden was a blue-ribbon winner. Every kind of flower, in every color imaginable, from azaleas to camellias the size of grapefruits, flourished in the tropical heat. The old plantation-style house looked tired and desperate, the surrounding fields overgrown and empty of sugarcane, but the flower garden was breathtaking, the beauty so grand that Nicole couldn’t help but sigh in wonder as she slipped through the wrought-iron gate.

She found her grandmother asleep beneath a hundred-year-old oak and knelt in the grass beside her wheelchair. Reaching up to brush a stray, snow-white strand of hair from Mae’s wrinkled cheek, she whispered, “Do you plan on sleeping the entire afternoon away?”

The gentle touch and softly spoken words roused Mae, and she blinked open her blue eyes—eyes identical to her granddaughter’s. “It must be getting late if you’ve ventured outside to wake me,” she rasped, her solid voice a contradiction to her petite size. “Since your arrival two weeks ago I haven’t seen you out much in the heat of the day. So what is it that has lured you away from that poor tired fan you’ve attached to your hip?”

Trouble, Nicole wanted to say, but she thought better of simply blurting out what she’d done. She glanced at Mae’s ankle—a week ago the porch rail had given way and her grandmother had tumbled into the flower bed. She’d received a minor cut on her cheek, a few bruises and a sprained left ankle. “How’s the ankle?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem as swollen today.”

“No, it doesn’t. Thank the Lord, I didn’t break it, or I would be in this chair longer than a month.” She looked Nicole up and down. “So, what brings you outside? We blow an electrical fuse?”

“Very funny.” Nicole made a face.

Mae made an effort to simulate Nicole’s cross-eyed contortion.

Nicole laughed. “Okay, I’ve been a might excessive,” she conceded.

“Clair and I have been trying to come up with a way for you to strap the fan on your back.”

“I didn’t know you two were so ingenious.”

“There’s a lot of things we haven’t let you in on,” Mae teased.

“Like hiring an ex-con for the summer?”

“So you’ve heard? Gossip, or from someone credible who hasn’t twisted the entire story?”

“I assume Sheriff Tucker would be considered credible.”

“He certainly would not. He’s always disliked Johnny.”

“If you took the time to read his rap sheet, you’d know why.”

“Are you upset with me?”

“Can you blame me? I’m the last to know about this.”

“It wasn’t intentional. But honestly, I just forgot to mention Johnny coming to work for us. I guess in all the excitement of your moving in, it slipped my mind.”

That might have been true of someone else, Nicole thought. But not of her grandmother. In her advancing years Mae Chapman might be losing a little of her agility, but nothing would slip her mind, which was as sharp as a razor blade and twice as quick.

“I would have remembered today, since this is—”

“The day he’s moving in.” Nicole stood and nailed her grandmother with a peeved look. “So the truth is, you’ve hired an ex-con for the summer, and planned to tell me the day he arrived, is that it? Why so soon?”

“Now, Nicki, don’t give yourself another headache. We old people get feebleminded from time to time.”

“You’re about as feebleminded as I am,” Nicole snapped, jamming her hands on her slender hips and narrowing her cool blue eyes. “And don’t you dare give me that sad, one-foot-in-the-grave slump. I’m serious. This man has an arrest record longer than a month-old grocery list. Sheriff Tucker says he’s the dark side of trouble.”

“Bah! That’s ridiculous. He’s harmless.”

“Harmless? Sheriff Tucker says he nearly killed Farrel Craig at Pepper’s Bar six months ago. I’d say he’s about as harmless as a sunburned cottonmouth with a belly rash and a sore tooth.”

Mae chuckled. “That was very good, Nicki. I must remember that one. Tell it to me again so—”

“Gran, I’m not trying to be funny.”

“I agree it was careless of Johnny to get caught fighting, but you see—”

“Caught? You condone his fighting. It’s getting caught that you—”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, dear. Farrel and Johnny were always going at it, but it wasn’t all one-sided. None of us is perfect.”

No, no one was perfect. Nicole had certainly made her share of mistakes. Still, she needed to understand the reason behind what Gran had done. “So convince me we need him. Not just any carpenter, but Johnny Bernard.”

“That’s easy. Johnny’s my friend and he needed out of that wretched place. In the bargain, we get a carpenter to restore Oakhaven.”

“Friend?” Nicole felt her pulse quicken. “How good a friend?”

“Good enough to know it’s time he stopped running and came home. There, I’ve said it. Said exactly what I’ve been feeling for years, and it’s liberating to finally say it.”

“Would he agree?”

“That he’s been running?” Mae shrugged. “Probably not. I’ll be honest with you, Nicki. You’re going to hear a lot of gossip, most of it bad. But don’t settle on an opinion until you’ve met him. I guarantee there is more to Johnny Bernard than what’s in those reports. And far more than people in this town are willing to see, if they would just open their eyes.”

Nicole could tell her grandmother believed wholeheartedly what she was saying. The question was, why would Gran feel so strongly about this man? What wasn’t she saying?

“Actually, you and Johnny have more in common than you think, Nicki. He’s not the only one the townsfolk have been gossiping about lately.”

Her grandmother eyed Nicole’s short cutoffs, then her hair. Self-consciously, Nicki tried to tame her shaggy blond hair into some semblance of order. “I’m from California, Gran. You know I’m—”

“A free spirit. Yes, I know.”

Nicole smiled, not sure that was the word she would use. Or maybe it was, but in the past year she’d been reeducated on how dangerous being your own person could be. In fact, she’d lived through a nightmare and a half, and wasn’t ashamed to admit her spirit had been broken. Snapped in half, actually.

Three months had passed since the miscarriage, but sometimes it felt like only yesterday. She still didn’t sleep through an entire night, and she continued to experience depression—a condition the doctor believed would pass in time. Only, it wouldn’t; Nicole was sure of it. Time could never wash away the guilt a woman felt over losing her child. Especially in this case, when Nicole hadn’t been so sure she’d even wanted Chad’s child. Not until after the baby was gone.

No, time would never erase her guilt, and she had told the doctor as much. She had told him she wasn’t expecting miracles because, frankly, she didn’t deserve any.

“The good news, Nicki, is that Johnny’s an experienced carpenter. He’ll be the perfect solution for our growing list of house repairs. Unless you’ve suddenly decided to buck up under the heat and learn how to pound nails and replace shingles. If not, I’d say we’re in desperate need of a man around here. Someone who can swing a hammer and isn’t afraid to sweat.”

“And you’re sure he’s not afraid of hard work?”

“Johnny grew up hard, Nicki. There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll give us our dollars’ worth. For the past two years he’s been working in Lafayette for a construction outfit. The foreman told me he would hire Johnny back in a minute, no questions asked. He’s that good. And he’s a military man, too. An ex-marine. I suspect he’s got hidden talents we don’t even know about.”

Nicole arched a brow. “And just how do you suppose we can utilize an ex-con who is an expert at warfare to his fullest potential?” She paused as if thinking. Finally, she said, “Funny, but I thought we were discussing restoring Oakhaven, not blowing it up.”

“A regular funny-girl today, aren’t you?” Mae shook her head. “I think you’ll be surprised, my dear. Pleasantly surprised, that is.”

Nicole didn’t like surprises. Especially surprises that involved men. She said grimly, “He’s arriving around four.”

“You’ve talked to him? Wonderful!” Mae’s excitement sent two birds nesting overhead into flight.

“I called the Pass-By Motel,” Nicole admitted. “Sheriff Tucker said that’s where I could find him.” She purposely left out the part about trying to fire him over the phone. “He said he’ll be staying at the boathouse.”

“Yes, that was our agreement. Do you suppose, Nicki, you could send Bick down there to open the windows and air the place out? I’ll scribble a message for Johnny. Bick can leave it on the table, since I can’t get down there to meet him myself.”

Mae’s gaze traveled across the driveway to where a trail led to the boathouse. The trail was a quarter-mile through dense woods—a shortcut to Belle Bayou. “I haven’t seen Johnny in fifteen years,” she offered wistfully. “I intended to visit him in prison, but my lawyer advised against it.”

Judging by the look in her grandmother’s aging eyes, she was sorry she hadn’t. Nicole found herself growing curious. She asked, “Is there some way I can help?”

Her grandmother reached out and patted Nicole’s arm. “You already have—by coming home. First you and now Johnny. It’s perfect.” She paused. “When he left I had no idea it would be years before he came home. I wonder how he turned out in the looks department? If he ended up anything like his father or grandpa, watch out, dear. Gracious, but those Bernard men were handsome.”

Nicole didn’t need to see him to know how he’d turned out. The report on the desk in the study confirmed that Johnny Bernard had gotten his reputation the old-fashioned way: he’d earned every bit of it. And as far as his looks went, she didn’t really care how handsome he’d turned out. They weren’t shopping for a lawn ornament, just a simple carpenter. How he looked on a ladder was of no importance, as long as he could climb one.

She bent forward and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “When you get your note written, I’ll see that Bick takes it with him. What do you say we have some lemonade? I’m dying.”

“You’re always dying,” Mae teased. “Where should we have our lemonade? On the front porch?”

Nicole positioned herself behind Mae’s wheelchair. “I’ve got an original idea. Why not relax in front of the fan in the study?”

An hour later, Nicole learned that Bick had taken himself off to town. Forced to run her grandmother’s errand, she hurried along the wooded trail toward the boathouse. She checked her watch, glad to see that she still had an hour before Johnny Bernard would descend on them. She wasn’t sure how she was going to face him after trying to get rid of him over the phone, but with any luck she wouldn’t have to think about that until later. She would open the windows, leave Gran’s note on the table and be gone before he even set foot on Oakhaven soil.

Within a matter of ten minutes, Nicole was through the woods, standing in a small clearing just west of Belle Bayou. All things considered, she was more intrigued by the moody swamp than frightened by it. It had a certain allure, a quality she had tried many times to capture on canvas.

It was an artist’s paradise, she admitted. The colorful vegetation that grew out of the muck along the banks fascinated her as much as did the huge cypress trees with their gnarly roots and distorted branches. The branches dripping with Spanish moss along the water’s edge reminded her of a travel brochure she’d once seen advertising scenic Louisiana.

Her gaze followed the grassy bank to the old wood and stone boathouse, this being the first time she’d come down to the bayou since she’d arrived from L.A. From an artist’s point of view the place had immense possibilities. It was dark and eerie, straight out of a gothic novel, and when she decided to paint it, she would do so with that in mind.

She started down the overgrown path through the clearing, approaching the aging structure from the north side. She reached for the door’s rusty latch, and as she pulled it open, it groaned loudly in protest. Inside, she ran her hand along the cool brick in search of the light switch. Relieved that it still worked, that she hadn’t been greeted by any creepy-crawly surprises, Nicole followed the ray of light past the clutter and ascended the stairs to the second story.

To her surprise, what once had housed old tools and fishing gear now resembled a modest apartment. She recognized a few pieces of furniture from the house: a rocker, a bureau, a square table and two chairs. The dark red sofa, she remembered from the attic. An iron bed made up with a blue bedspread had been arranged in such a manner that one could lie down and still gaze out the window and enjoy the bayou’s beauty at night. A partition wall cut the room in half. On one side, a small kitchen; on the other, an even smaller bathroom.

The window facing the woods, as well as the one overlooking the moody, black bayou, was already open. Puzzled, Nicole concluded Bick had second-guessed Gran’s request and had opened the windows that morning. Not giving it any more thought, she placed Gran’s note on the table and walked to the nearest window to gaze outside. She scanned the shoreline, noting the boat tied to the sagging dock, the cane pole resting across the seat.

Cane pole? Bick never fished with a cane pole.

She made the mental observation just as she heard something. A moment later, she identified the noise as footsteps—footsteps that had reached the stairs and were now steadily climbing.

She glanced at her watch. It was a little past three. He had said four. Nicole made a quick swipe at her blond bangs, swore silently at her bad luck, then forced herself to turn. Her first thought was that the black-bayou voice on the phone was a perfect fit for the dark and dangerous man who had suddenly filled the doorway.

Nicole’s gaze drifted over Common’s rebel, deciding that he was everything she had expected him to be, and more. A couple of inches over six feet, he stood shirtless, his long legs encased in ragged jeans. His broad shoulders looked hard as iron, his torso and stomach a series of layered muscles and corrugated definition. It was obvious he was in top physical condition. But then, what else did a jailed criminal have to do all day but get bigger and more dangerous by pumping iron in the prison gym? Hadn’t she read a controversial article about that somewhere?

She had taken a few self-defense classes—living in L.A., it had been the smart thing to do. Even so, it would be almost funny trying to use what she’d learned against a marine who could add Angola State Penitentiary to his bio.