Sandra Steffen - The Trophy Wife p.01

The Trophy Wife

Sandra Steffen

Published by Silhouette Books

America's Publisher of Contemporary Romance






JOE COLTON'S JOURNAL

My marriage is self-destructing before my eyes. How can the woman I've loved for a lifetime have changed so much? I hardly recognize her anymore. Good thing I have Tripp Calhoun's visit to lift my spirits. Who would have guessed that the troubled teenage gang banger who first showed up at the Hopechest Ranch would grow up to be a caring doctor? He's done us all proud. He's in Prosperino for business—and to attend the wedding of a former flame. Pride demands that he make an appearance, and he's sweet-talked my daughter, Amber, into being his trophy date. Those two are so good at "pretending" that the sizzling electricity they generate is powerful enough to heat up the entire Hacienda de Alegria Estate! Too bad the hardheaded Tripp isn't looking to settle down with a "pampered" Colton heiress. But come on, now. His true feelings are more transparent than Meredith's totally inappropriate new wardrobe. And if I can see the writing on the wall, it's just a matter of time before my savvy daughter does, too….




About the Author

SANDRA STEFFEN

Two things Sandra Steffen loves are challenges and happy endings. What could be more challenging than throwing a spoiled heiress and a struggling young doctor with a chip on his shoulder together in a pretend engagement? That's exactly what happens in The Trophy Wife. Sparks fly, tempers flare and of course love finds a way…or does it? This national bestselling author and winner of the 1994 National Readers' Choice Award was up for the challenge and is immensely proud of Tripp and Amber's story.

Sandra grew up in Michigan in a large, close-knit family. In keeping with this tradition, she and her husband are the proud parents of four sons.


Meet the Coltons—a California dynasty with a legacy of privilege and power.

Tripp Calhoun: The deceptive doctor. Anxious to save face in front of an old girlfriend, this pediatrician needs a date for one night…and gorgeous, accomplished Amber Colton seems the answer to his prayers.

Amber Colton: The trophy date. This sophisticated businesswoman's eyes had been wide open when she agreed to be the doctor's date for one night. But now that their contract has ended, she'd like to make their agreement a lot more binding….

Meredith Colton: The missing mother. Desperate to believe the fantastic story she's just been told, this amnesia victim has a sudden flashback and knows her true identity. Now she's just waiting for the right moment to return to Prosperino.

One

Amber Colton stared at her bare feet. Her nail polish was chipped on the big toenail of her left foot. She sighed. She checked her fingernails and sighed again. There had to be more to life than nail polish.

If she listened hard enough, she could hear the ocean. She could smell it on the air, too, but she couldn't feel it. Whether it had been due to luck or planning, this portion of the garden was protected from the cool wind that could blow in off the ocean at a moment's notice no matter what the season.

Looping one arm around her bent knees, she shaded her eyes and studied the cotton-candy clouds in the sky. There was a time when finding clouds shaped like elephants, mushrooms and all sorts of other objects had kept her and her brothers and sisters busy for hours at a time. Back then, the patio surrounding the pool had been wet constantly from so many children splashing, and voices, sometimes a dozen at a time, rang through the courtyard.

And Amber had never been bored.

She pushed a shock of her strawberry-blond hair away from her face and rose to her feet. She never should have come home in this mood. She should have taken her friends up on their invitation to go to the Cayman Islands with them. But she just couldn't muster up enough enthusiasm to brave the airsickness that inevitably plagued her when she flew, just to watch the sun go down from another hemisphere.

It was the same sun. The same life. The same feeling of restlessness that threatened to drive her to tears. No, not to tears. Amber Colton didn't cry, not anymore.

At twenty-six she was far too young for boredom and restlessness to become a permanent condition. It would pass. She shouldn't have taken today off, that's all. But lately despite the fact that her work at the Hopechest Foundation was meaningful and worthwhile, she felt as if something was missing, and had been for a long time. She'd had vacation time to use up and she'd been missing her dad something awful, so she'd driven out from Fort Bragg to her childhood home in Prosperino to visit him. Still, Amber felt terribly alone. And bored. God, yes, she was bored.

She'd been bored last night, too. Her friend Claire Davis must have heard it in her voice when Amber had called her last night. Claire had shown up at the ranch at five this morning. Amber glanced at the woman who was sleeping soundly in the shade on the other side of the pool. Claire was a good friend. Amber sighed. A good friend who just happened to be nocturnal.

She didn't know what prompted her to peer into the backyard. A tiny bit of color caught her eye. For lack of any clear plan, she meandered to the edge of the formal-looking path.

Other than the ornamental and showy variety, there weren't many flowers in the garden anymore. Once upon a time, her mother had spent hours on end filling the garden with lush green foliage and flowering plants native to California. For the past ten years, the gardening had been another of poor Marco's responsibilities. He managed to keep it fairly neat and tidy, but the riot of beautiful yet casual colorful flowers was but a memory these days.

Amber bent down. The tiny pink blossoms nearly hidden from view were more than a mere memory. Somehow, the plants had survived all these years of neglect. Curiosity sent Amber to her knees. From there, it was easy to get down on all fours and stretch out until she could reach the weeds growing behind the ornamental shrubs that had taken the place of her mother's flowers.

From this angle, Amber discovered more delicate blooms hidden among the weeds. Intrigued by the tenacity of the little plants, she ignored the hot sun at her back and the hard ground beneath her knees. Careful not to injure the shoots themselves, she tugged at the weeds that somehow had failed to choke them.

Footsteps sounded on the path. She didn't look up until she heard Inez Ramirez's voice.

"I brought you some iced tea. I see I should have brought the sunscreen. What are you doing, besides getting sunburned and dirty?"

Amber opened her mouth, but the longtime Colton housekeeper rushed on, as she always did.

"You are supposed to be relaxing. You're on vacation."

"I'm too restless to relax."

"Your swim failed to help?"

Amber shrugged. Swimming alone wasn't much fun, and it certainly wasn't stimulating. She swept a hand toward the far corner of the courtyard. "Remember how beautiful the garden looked, Inez, back when my mother loved to tend it?" She didn't say, "back when she loved to tend us all," but she could tell from the look on Inez's pretty, expressive face that she was thinking the same thing.

Inez didn't believe in feeling sorry for herself, and she didn't allow those around her to wallow in self-pity, either. Placing her hands on hips that had rounded over the years, she lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows. "If you would get serious about finding a husband and having babies, you would be too tired to be bored."

Amber rubbed the dirt from her hands then brushed a blade of grass off her thigh. Finding a man and making babies was Inez's answer to every problem. "Men are after two things, Inez: Sex and money, not necessarily in that order."

Inez crossed herself, her lips moving in silent prayer. Amber couldn't be certain whether she did it for Inez and Marco's two beautiful daughters, Maya, who had recently had a beautiful baby girl, and Lana, who had been distracted lately, or for Amber. "Not all men," she said when her litany was completed.

Amber reached for another weed. "Name one."

"My Marco. And your father and brothers are good men."

Amber shook her head. "Okay. Now name one man who fits that description and also isn't married or related to me."

As far as Amber was concerned, Inez's silence spoke volumes. Recalling the sound she'd heard a while ago when a car had pulled into the driveway on the other side of the sprawling estate, she asked, "Who's here, Inez?"

If she'd been looking, she might have noticed the change that had come over the older woman's features. She certainly would have seen the sudden glint in those dark brown eyes and been suspicious of the way the wheels suddenly seemed to start turning behind them.

"Oh," Inez said casually, "someone to see your father."

Before Amber could question further, the older woman was hurrying toward the wide French doors that led into the house. Sighing again, Amber turned her attention back to the weeds.

* * *

Tripp Calhoun's footsteps echoed on the gleaming tile floors inside the Coltons' spacious home, the sound changing to a muted thud as he stepped onto a richly colored rug. He stopped before a massive stone fireplace and viewed the leather sofas and large armoire that undoubtedly cost more than he made in a month. Not a thing was out of place in the entire room—except maybe him.

Memories had washed over him when he'd pulled through the wrought-iron gates leading to Joe and Meredith Colton's estate. He'd been fifteen when he'd first set foot on the grounds, angry, rebellious and scared to death, though he'd hidden the fear well, the way he'd learned to hide most emotions back then.

Meredith Colton had seen right through him. To this day, he didn't know how she'd done it.

He fiddled with the clasp on his watch, slipped the band over his hand. Starting to pace again, he looped the watch over a finger and twirled it in a nervous gesture. He didn't remember the room being so austere. Hell, he could have been looking at a picture in one of the dog-eared magazines in his waiting room.

They called this place Hacienda de Alegria. House of Joy. There didn't appear to be much joy in it anymore.

Tripp hadn't been back often over the years. It wasn't as if he'd been one of Joe and Meredith's real kids, or even one of their adopted children. He'd been a foster child. Not that he wasn't thankful. Joe and Meredith had saved him from the streets of L.A., given him a home for one life-altering summer. Where he was today and who he'd become was due to their influence. They'd put up a good share of the money for college and med school. Tripp owed them, big-time and he'd worked his tail off to make them proud.

Pausing at a marble-topped table, he picked up a photograph. The two young boys in the picture looked to be about eight and ten. They were the youngest Colton children. He'd only seen them a couple of times, so it wasn't surprising that they didn't look familiar. Their mother, Meredith Colton sure should have looked more familiar, though. And yet, she didn't. Oh, she was as beautiful as ever, but the image he'd carried in his mind of the woman who'd taken him in was in sharp contrast to the cool, brittle woman in the photograph. Something had happened to this family years ago, and no one had been able to fix it.

The heavy thud of footsteps behind him drew him around. Inez Ramirez smiled as she approached, muttering that Joe was going to be tied up on the phone for some time yet. Tripp expected Inez to suggest he come back another time. Instead, she bustled over, retrieved the photograph from his hand, and, returning it to the table, said, "Everyone is fidgety today. Go. Wait out by the pool. Get some sun and fresh air."

Inez had aged during the seventeen years since Tripp had stayed here. Her black hair now had a wide streak of gray that started at her forehead and disappeared in the bun at her nape. She ushered him through the living room and into the courtyard. "You wait out there. You relax."

She was still as bossy as ever.

"I'm thirty-two years old, Inez. Not six."

"Thirty-two is a good age, I think."

"A good age for what?"

Her smile was smug. It put him on edge, because a smile like that always meant that a woman had something up her sleeve.

She slapped something into his hand. "A good age to feel young. Enjoy the sunshine." With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared.

Tripp knew better than to argue with a woman like Inez Ramirez. And he wanted to talk to Joe. He supposed he could wait out here as well as inside.

The hand he smoothed over his shirt did little to erase the wrinkles it'd gotten as a result of the hour of sleep he'd caught at the hospital. Wandering to a table near the pool, he noticed a tray containing glasses and a tall pitcher of iced tea. Next, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Well, well, well. He wasn't alone in the courtyard.

One woman appeared to be sleeping, fully clothed, on a chaise lounge on the other side of the pool. Another woman clad in a pale lavender swimsuit was on all fours near the center of the garden. He couldn't see her face, but this angle awarded him a view of long legs and the nicest rear end he'd seen in a long time.

"Lose something?" he called.

The woman swung around in surprise. Shading her eyes with one hand, a smile spread slowly across her face. "Why, Tripp Calhoun! I didn't know you were here."

"Amber Colton. It's been a while."

She placed a finger to her lips. "Shh. Claire's sleeping."

He cast a cursory glance at the other woman, who hadn't so much as moved a muscle, then walked a little closer to Amber. From this position he could see the tan line along the inner swells of her breasts. It wasn't easy not to stare. She certainly had curves in all the right places. Her hips flared just enough to entice a man's imagination and her legs were long.

"You're probably thinking I remind you of my mother."

His eyebrows arched before he could stop them. That wasn't what he'd been thinking at all. "I don't recall ever seeing your mother pull weeds wearing a purple bikini."

As if she was suddenly aware of the view she was inadvertently awarding him, she rose almost shyly to her feet. Amber Colton, shy?

She glanced at the bottle of sunscreen in his hand. "Did Inez send you out with that?"

Inez. Ah. So this was what she'd had up her sleeve. "That woman is trying to start something."

"With you?" Amber asked.

He nodded.

No, Amber Colton definitely wasn't shy. She was very blond, extremely pretty. He'd wondered how tall she was. Now that she was standing he'd put her at close to five-six. A leggy five-six.

He jerked his gaze away before he got caught looking. "Very funny. Obviously, Inez doesn't know that I'm not the type to have a tête-à-tête with a rich little heiress out by the mansion's pool."

A blind man would have caught the haughty lift of Amber's chin. Tripp figured he probably deserved the scathing comment that was certain to follow. After all, he hadn't exactly been nice. Truthful, but not nice.

There was a terse silence. But the scathing comment never came. She didn't accept the bottle of sunscreen from his outstretched hand, either. Instead, she strolled to an ornate bench and reached for a white cover-up. When she'd fastened the last big button, she said, "I still say your name should be Chip, not Tripp, to go with the mountain-sized chip you carry around on your shoulder."

They stared at each other, unmoving.

A memory swirled over Tripp, and he smiled, a rarity for him. "That was the first thing you said to me the summer I stayed here." She'd been what, nine or ten? That would make her twenty-six or seven now. "You've grown up, Amber."

Amber found herself gazing into Tripp's dark brown eyes, and wondering…Oh, no she didn't. After that last comment of his, she wasn't about to give in to the curious swooping sensation tugging at her insides.

Stark and white, his smile did crazy things to her heart rate. She dragged her gaze away. It was bad enough that his look sent a tingling to the pit of her stomach. She would be darned if she would let him know it.

She remembered the first time she saw him. He'd been fifteen, lean and belligerent and street-smart. He was still lean today, but his shoulders were wider, his chest thicker. His jet-black hair wasn't as long as hers anymore, but it was still too long to be considered reputable. There was more than a hint of Latino in his features, passed on to him from one of his grandfathers, who had immigrated to America when still a boy. The first time she'd laid eyes on Tripp, she'd thought he looked like Zorro, the legendary superhero her brothers used to pretend to be when they were kids.

With his looks, he could have acted on one of those medical dramas or police-detective shows. Tripp was a pediatrician now. Her gaze caught on the gold stud in his ear; he certainly didn't look like the pediatricians she'd visited as a child.

The good manners and etiquette instilled in her from the cradle dictated that she stride to the table and pour iced tea into the waiting crystal glasses. His fingers brushed hers as he accepted the glass. Their gazes met, held. For a moment, neither of them moved.

That tingling was back in the pit of her stomach, stronger than ever. She didn't know why she glanced at his knuckles. His hands were large, his fingers long, his knuckles bony, especially the first two. She reached out with her other hand, covering the hard ridge of the largest one with her finger. "So these broken bones healed."

He drew his hand away from hers very slowly and took a sip from the glass. Ice jangled, his Adam's apple bobbled slightly as he swallowed. A bead of perspiration trailed down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his white dress shirt. He seemed nervous.

Or was it something else?

Running a hand through his hair, he peered into the courtyard and said, "I was sure your parents were going to send me to another foster home before I even unpacked my bags."

Amber decided she must have been imagining his unease. "You said Peter Bradenton threw the first punch."

"I lied."

"I know."

He spun around. "You knew?"

She'd never heard more surprise or disbelief in two little words. He wasn't smiling now, and yet something was still happening to her, something delicious and exciting and fun.

He said, "How long have you known?"

"I saw the fight from my bedroom window."

Tripp was looking at her, his expression one of total dismay.

"Then why didn't you tell your father the truth?"

She sashayed closer. "If I'd done that, you wouldn't have spent all these years trying to make it up to him. Guilt is a great motivator. Besides, he knew."

"You just said you didn't tell him."

She pulled a face. "I didn't have to. He always knew when any of us lied. Besides, Peter Bradenton had it coming. He was always trying to put people in their places. In your place wasn't where you wanted to be."

"You were what, nine years old, and you knew that?"

She batted her eyelashes. "Girls mature faster than boys." She watched in fascination as his lips parted and his eyes went from very wide to narrow slits. He wasn't immune to her charms. He looked as surprised about that as she was.

She remembered the fight between Tripp and Peter Bradenton, and the chaos it caused. The Colton rule was: No fighting. Period. They could argue all they wanted, and had, but her parents simply did not allow fighting. Tripp was the only foster child to come through the ranks who broke the rule. And he did it the first week he was here. Her mother had heard the commotion and had come running. Without saying a word, she'd separated them. Still silent, she'd gotten Peter a towel for his bleeding nose, and Tripp an icepack for his hand. She sent Peter home, and Tripp to the stables to tell Joe. Amber had followed from a distance. When her dad had confronted Tripp about lying, she'd slunk out of the shadows and backed up Tripp's story, saying that Peter took the first swing. She'd shaken beneath her father's probing stare. In the end, he'd told Tripp to have Meredith take him to the doctor for X rays, and then sent them both back up to the house.

Tripp hadn't said a word until they were well away from the stables. She'd expected a thank-you. Instead, he'd shoved his hair behind his ears, his lips curling with contempt as he said, "I don't need anybody doing me any favors, least of all a scrawny, spoiled little rich girl like you."

She'd stuck her nose in the air and informed him that his name should have been Chip, not Tripp. He'd stared at her, and she'd held his gaze despite the fact that she was half his size. Back then she hadn't known they were rich and she wasn't spoiled, no matter what he said. Even then she'd known what really mattered, and it wasn't something a person could buy. What truly mattered was trust, love and loyalty. Everything else faded away without them.

Amber looked around the courtyard today. The garden, with all its demanding tea roses and ornamental shrubs and bushes had faded, too, as if it too was lacking what it truly needed.

"What have you been doing out here?"

His question brought her back to their earlier conversation. Swirling the iced tea she had yet to taste, she said, "I went for a swim. Then I watched the clouds."

"You watch clouds? Like a meteorologist?"

She shook her head. "Nothing that interesting. It was a game we used to play when we were kids."

Tripp looked around the garden, with its pool and fountain and women with nothing better to do than stretch out and catch a nap. Places like this were made for lounging. He didn't have enough hours in a day to accomplish everything he needed to do, let alone the time to watch clouds and play games. Or wait, for that matter. His receptionist liked to say that Tripp became a doctor because it enabled him to be the one keeping others waiting, instead of the other way around.

He glanced at the house where he was supposed to meet with Joe. Maybe Tripp wasn't the most patient man on the planet, but the real reason he'd become a pediatrician was tied up with this house, and the people who'd taken him in all those years ago.

"Want to try?" Amber asked.

He looked at her blankly. "Try what?"

"See that cloud over there?"

He peered at the horizon. He saw a lot of clouds. "Which one?"

"The one shaped like Smoky the Bear."

He squinted at the distant sky. The description didn't help.

"Look."

He was looking, dammit.

"There. To the right of the line formed by a jet's exhaust."

Tilting his head at an angle to match hers, he said, "That tall cloud over there?"

"Yes." She sounded breathless. "Do you see it? The one that looks like Smoky the Bear?"

He looked down at her, and forgot what he'd been doing. Her eyes were green, her lashes long. Her hair was mussed, a riot of golden tangles around her face and neck. Her mouth was pretty, her lips full and slightly pouty. Heat stirred inside him. He was tempted to kiss her, here and now. As a gust of wind fluttered her soft white beach cover-up, pressing it against her body, the heat moved lower.

"A bear?" He cleared his throat. What the hell had happened to his voice? Forcing his eyes back to the clouds, he said, "I don't see any bear. Joe DiMaggio, maybe."

He was vaguely aware that she'd eased closer. He misjudged just how close; the next time he moved, his arm brushed something incredibly soft. He glanced down again and stepped back as if he'd touched fire.

His beeper sounded and he jumped again. This time he swore under his breath, and reached for the pager. Reading the display, he said, "I need to call the hospital in Ukiah."

She motioned to the cordless lying on a low table, then watched as he picked it up. After punching several numbers, he spoke in low tones. Replacing the phone to the table, he said, "I have to meet a patient at the hospital in Ukiah."

He was halfway to the house when she called, "What do you want me to tell my father?"

He turned around. Amber wished she were close enough to get a good look at the expression in his dark brown eyes.

"Tell him I'll call him later."

"I'll tell him. It was good to see you again, Tripp."

"You, too."

She smiled. As if it required a conscious effort, he broke eye contact and slowly resumed his retreat. Rather than leave via the house, he changed directions, veering toward the side yard. Less than a minute later, she heard his car start on the other side of the house.

What in the world had just happened?

She stared at her iced tea. Closing her eyes, she placed the cold glass against her forehead.

She'd reacted to the sight and sound and touch of Tripp Calhoun. And he'd reacted to her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so breathless without doing a thing. Her entire body felt sensitized. If she were to jump in the pool right now, she would sizzle all over.

A door opened, and Inez bustled outside. "Your father is off the phone." The other woman looked all around. "Where's Tripp?"

Amber's vision remained fixed on the path Tripp had taken. "Something came up. An emergency at the hospital. He had to leave."

Inez made no reply.

Amber could feel Inez's penetrating gaze. "What is it?" Amber asked.

Turning her hand over, Inez said, "He left his watch inside. Did he say when he will return?"

"No. I'm afraid he didn't." Amber reached for the watch. "I'll be sure he gets it, Inez."

"That is a good idea, I think." Inez turned away before Amber could decide what to make of the dark-haired woman's beaming smile.

Amber strode to the shaded side of the pool. Bending down, she gently shook her friend. "Claire, wake up."

A pair of baby-blue eyes fluttered open. "I don't want to wake up. I was dreaming about this amazing, ruggedly attractive, dark-haired man."

Amber smiled. "It wasn't a dream, Claire. Believe me. Come on. I have to go to Ukiah."

Claire sat up languidly. "Ukiah, really?" she said, pushing her straight, coffee-colored hair away from her face. "Could you drop me off at the gallery first? You can fill me in on the way."

* * *

Half an hour later Amber pulled her car into the alley behind Claire's art gallery in Prosperino. Claire opened her door and climbed out, then leaned down to say goodbye through the open window. Behind her, Amber noticed a door opening on the second story of a building in the distance. Something about the woman descending the stairs seemed familiar. Very familiar.

"Amber, is something wrong?" Claire asked.

Amber didn't take her eyes off the woman, whose hair was hidden beneath a scarf, her eyes behind dark glasses, until she'd disappeared around the corner. "I thought I just saw my mother."

Claire turned to look behind her, but the woman was gone. "Your mother, here?" Claire asked incredulously.

"I know." Amber couldn't imagine her mother lowering herself enough to visit the art district of Prosperino. It must have been somebody else. For the sake of curiosity, she pointed to the building in the distance. "Is that a business or an apartment?"

Claire shuddered. "I guess you could call it a business. A shady private investigator rents the upstairs office. I can imagine your mother there as easily as I can imagine her strolling the streets in the red-light district."

"Prosperino doesn't have a red-light district."

"I'm thinking about starting one."

"Claire."

Claire winked. "Now, don't you have someplace to go and some ruggedly attractive man to see?"

Amber shook her head, nodded, and finally smiled. While Claire strolled into the second of the two art studios she'd opened a few months ago, Amber put her car in gear.

The engine purred like a contented tiger. Her mother had given her the shiny little sports car for her last birthday. It was red. She didn't even like red. Before the car accident, Meredith Colton had known that.

What would her mother have been doing visiting a shady private investigator in Prosperino, when she'd made such a point these past ten years of finding fault with everything about the town? It must have been someone else.

Amber glanced at the sky. The clouds had thinned, forming a haze, the one shaped like Smoky the Bear blurring with all the others. Joe Dimaggio, indeed. Tripp's smile, stark and white, shimmered across her mind.

What was it with men and baseball players?

Her last boyfriend had been a Giants fan. He'd enjoyed using baseball metaphors to describe their relationship. He'd spent the biggest share of their dates trying to get past first base. The night he'd presented her with a three-carat diamond, he'd expected a grand-slam home run. The ring had been pretty, but it wasn't home run material. And neither was he. She'd turned down his proposal. Last she'd heard he was pursuing some other rich girl down in San Francisco.

Amber thought about Tripp. Until his arm had brushed the outer swell of her breast, she'd thought she was the only one aware of the attraction between them. Gracious, he probably wasn't even admitting that he'd felt any such thing.

Whether he admitted it or not, she knew he had.

She touched the watch in her pocket and smiled. This was better than a vacation.

She wasn't bored anymore.




Two

A blast of hot air hit Amber the moment she opened her car door. Taking a deep breath, she placed a steadying hand on her queasy stomach and climbed slowly to her feet. It had been cool and foggy along the coast when she'd left Prosperino, which just went to show that the locals were right. There really were three seasons in this part of California, often all in the same day.

She rotated a kink from between her shoulder blades then stepped away from her car. The drive to Ukiah seemed like forever. Though it was only forty-five miles, it was like her father always said: "Prosperino is near a lot of places, but you can't get there from here." Joe Colton compensated by flying whenever possible. Not Amber. She'd reached the brink of motion sickness negotiating the twenty-five mile stretch of Highway 101 that wound around cliffs and up and down hills over the coastal mountains. Flying would have done her in. Thank goodness the road that ran north and south on this side of the mountains was straighter and mostly four-lane.

She took a shaky step, popped a breath mint into her mouth and peeled off her jacket. So this, she thought as she looked around, her heels clicking over the paved parking lot, was where Tripp worked. He was going to be so surprised to see her.

The streets of Ukiah were lined with beautiful old Victorian houses. The sprawling hospital was old, too, but it looked as if it had been remodeled in recent years. Double doors slid open as she approached the building. Folding her jacket over one arm, she peered around the lobby trying to decide where to go from here.

Across the waiting room, a short, heavyset nurse with broad shoulders and a hairstyle that resembled an army helmet stood behind a high counter.

"Hello," Amber said, sauntering closer.

Clutching a pen between thick fingers, the gray-haired nurse looked at Amber over the tops of the reading glasses perched low on her broad nose. "May I help you?"

Amber put on her friendliest smile. "I'd like to see Dr. Calhoun."

The only things that moved on the stern-faced nurse were the brown eyes giving Amber a thorough once-over. "He isn't taking appointments this afternoon."

Amber eased closer and smiled conspiratorially. "That's okay. I don't have an appointment."

She knew the blunder for what it was the second it was out. Nurse Proctor—that was what her name badge said—turned her attention back to the chart. Amber was dismissed.

Obviously, Nurse Proctor didn't know that Amber wasn't easily dismissed. "I won't take up much of his time," she said, trying on an even bigger smile.

The nurse's eyes remained fixed on the chart.

Amber tried another tack. "I know he's here because he told me he was coming here in answer to an emergency call."

"In that case you'll understand why he can't be disturbed."

Amber didn't expect to pull him away from an emergency. That call had come hours ago. If he was still busy, fine. If not, what harm could there be in allowing her a moment or two to see him?

"Is Tripp still in the building?"

The nurse made a noncommittal reply without opening her mouth. Recognizing an impenetrable brick wall when she crashed into one, Amber moved away from the counter, as far out of range of Nurse Proctor's peripheral vision as possible. She pretended a keen interest in her chipped manicure.

The elevator dinged. The door opened, and a young man clad in green scrubs ambled into the lobby.

"There you are, Fred!" The no-nonsense nurse motioned him to the desk. "They're waiting for these charts up in OB."

With the jaunty walk of a guy who knew he looked good both coming and going, Fred took the charts and started back toward the elevator. Just then, a woman ran in from outside, yelling, "Somebody, help. I think my daughter's ankle is broken!"

Nurse Proctor rushed around the counter, grabbed a wheelchair and bustled toward the sliding doors. Amber slipped quietly into the elevator behind Fred.

He punched a button. Leaving his hand hovering over the panel, he asked, "What floor?"

She had no idea, but she said, "Three, I guess."

Brown eyes twinkled as he looked her up and down. "Looks like you're going my way."

The door closed and the elevator slowly started to climb. Amber placed a hand to her stomach.

"Are you afraid of heights?" he asked.

She smiled wanly. "I get motion sick easily."

With a lift of his sandy-blond eyebrows, he grinned, his smile white and just crooked enough to look beguiling. "My sister swears by the ear patch. You need someone to take your mind off it. Lucky for you I'm here." He looked her in the eye and smiled again. "My shift is almost over. We could grab a cup of coffee or a bite to eat or whatever…" His voice trailed off suggestively.

The elevator continued to climb. "Look, Fred—"

"Fredrico."

"But the nurse called you—"

"Proctor calls me a lot of things. Trust me."

"Fredrico, I'm afraid there's an age requirement any man I see must meet."

He eased closer. For a boy, he certainly knew his moves. "How old would I have to be?"

"Old enough to vote."

"Too bad. You're missing a great opportunity. If it's true that men reach their sexual prime at seventeen, I hit that mark a mere two years ago. I may not be old enough to vote, but I can personally guarantee you that I haven't even started to go downhill."

The elevator glided to a stop on the second floor. Leaning against the rail, Amber said, "You don't say."

"I could prove it, if you'd like."

She held up one hand. "We'll just consider it my loss. Could you tell me where I might find Dr. Calhoun?"

"If you'll tell me your phone number, we'll make it an even exchange."

While Amber was chuckling, the door opened and a woman pushing a cumbersome cart got in. The door closed, taking the three occupants up to the next floor. The lady with the cart got off, and Fredrico said, "I know where Doc Calhoun is."

"You do?"

"I'll take you there, but you have to promise not to tell Proctor."

Amber grinned up at the sandy-haired young man. She'd felt strangely carefree ever since she'd talked to Tripp out in the garden, and she just couldn't help responding to the secrecy in Fredrico's expression. "Okay. I promise."

"He's with a patient. This way."

They got off the elevator and strode through doors bearing a sign for authorized personnel only.

At first, she couldn't place the sound coming from someplace up ahead. Then it came again. Rounding a corner, she whispered, "Are dogs allowed in this hospital?"

With a shake of his head, Fredrico pointed to a room up ahead. "It's a little unconventional. Proctor can't find out. There's Doc Calhoun. See the little kid he's with? His name's P.J."

Amber crept closer on tiptoe. Tripp was sitting on the edge of a bed, in a room at the end of the hall. Nestled in one arm was a pudgy tan puppy. A little boy with curly brown hair, a bandage on the side of his head and a cast on one arm stared straight ahead.

"What's wrong with him?" Amber whispered.

"He got banged up pretty bad, but mostly he's mad. He's four years old and he wants his mama."

"Where is she?"

"She died in the accident."

Both of Amber's hands came up, covering her mouth. "What about his father?"

"Nobody knows where he is. P.J.'s been here a week. There's a good chance he'll be okay, but his arm got cut up, and he's gonna have to work to get full use back. He hasn't exactly been responsive or cooperative. Yesterday Doc Calhoun noticed him watching a television show about a dog. And my girlfriend's dog had a litter of pups, and well…"

Amber's eyebrows raised a fraction. "Your girlfriend?"

Fredrico started to nod. Realizing his faux pas, he simply shrugged.

The puppy yipped again. All at once it wiggled out of Tripp's hands, landing in the boy's lap. The little boy looked down dazedly. And then, as if in slow motion, he reached out, tentatively touching the puppy's fur. It was all the invitation the dog needed. Tail wagging, the pudgy little puppy licked P.J.'s face. P.J. blinked, smiled and let loose a belly laugh.

"Folks sure are gonna miss that man around here."

Amber cast a questioning look at Fredrico, but he was already starting to move away from her and didn't see. "If I don't get these charts over to OB, Proctor'll send out a search party. If she hasn't already."

Amber whispered, "Goodbye, then, and thanks." Her gaze returned to the man and child in the room up ahead. Tripp was so engrossed in the boy, he didn't seem to know she was watching. Her breath caught just below the little hollow at the base of her throat. With his stubby ponytail and earring, he still looked like the street-smart kid he'd been years ago. She was beginning to realize that he was so much more than that.

His voice was a low murmur, his touch gentle as he showed P.J. how to pet the puppy. Mesmerized, Amber acknowledged the fact that this wasn't simply a case of no longer being bored. This was something else, something she couldn't name but wanted to explore.

Tripp chose that moment to glance into the hall. Their gazes locked, and awareness fluttered around the walls of her chest. He didn't smile, but she felt the heat in his gaze just the same.

P.J. said something, and Tripp turned his attention back to the boy. Shaken, and touched, Amber smoothed her hands down her slacks, her fingers tracing the outline of the watch in her pocket. Her heart beat wildly. Unwilling to intrude on the doctor-patient moment, she wrenched herself away, and retraced her footsteps to the elevator.

What was happening to her?

She wanted more than ever to talk to Tripp. She considered waiting in the lobby, but the thought of being scrutinized by Nurse Proctor was less than appealing. If only she had something more constructive to do here.

She looked around. Some people hated hospitals. Not Amber. She dealt with them on a weekly basis in her work for the Hopechest Foundation, an organization her mother had founded years ago. Today, the foundation funded centers for children in need all across the country. Among them were day-care centers for children who were HIV positive, and after-school programs, and sporting events for city kids confined to housing projects.

Amber looked around again, recalling the children she'd seen working in the fields during her drive from Prosperino. Needy kids weren't confined to housing projects or large cities. They were everywhere.

Striding to the nurse's station she'd passed earlier, she introduced herself. At her mention of her affiliation with the Hopechest Foundation, the other woman was all ears.

"I was wondering if you might direct me to the person in charge of special programs to help children in need."

The young nurse beamed her approval. "Directions won't do. I'll take you there myself."

Now this, Amber thought, was more like it. By the time she left the hospital administrator's office, the scent of hospital food wafted on the air. The meeting had taken longer than she'd expected. Wondering if Tripp was still in the building, she followed the exit signs through a labyrinth of hallways. She must have taken a wrong turn, because she didn't recognize this wing. Sure enough, she came to the stairs, not the elevators.

Pausing to get her bearings, she turned and started back the way she'd come. She'd taken only three steps when the low murmur of voices carried to her ears from an open door a few feet away.

"People around here are going to miss you, Calhoun."

She stopped in her tracks. People were going to miss Tripp? Now that she thought about it, Fredrico had implied the same thing. Where was Tripp going?

She turned again. Striding to the door, she raised her hand, prepared to knock. The voices started again, and Amber's hand remained suspended in midair.

* * *

"But if you insist on leaving, I'm putting dibs on your office."

Tripp looked at the man sitting on the other side of his desk. Aside from their chosen professions and their affiliation with this hospital, he and Gavin Cooper were complete opposites and unlikely friends. With his blond hair and blue eyes, Coop looked more like a beach bum than a brilliant doctor. He was laid-back and easygoing. Dubbed the Don Juan of County General, he wore the perpetual, slightly bedraggled, contented look of a man who'd recently crawled out of a woman's bed. Even now, slouched in a chair, his arms folded, his feet on Tripp's desk, ankles crossed, he made a science out of relaxing.

Not Tripp.

He shot out of his chair, slid his hands into his pockets and jangled his keys. "I haven't gotten the position yet, Coop."

He found himself standing at his window, his back to his friend. He had a great view of the mountains from here. It wasn't the Mendocino Ridges that drew his gaze, but the parking lot below. The lot contained the usual assortment of vans and family sedans. The candy-apple-red Porsche stuck out like a sore thumb. He'd seen that vehicle parked in the driveway at Hacienda de Alegria that very afternoon.

It belonged to Amber Colton.

When he'd happened to glance into the hall outside P.J.'s room an hour ago, he'd thought he was seeing things. Amber had stood so still, she could have been a mirage, and he, a thirsty man in the desert.

Her hair had been long and loose around her tanned shoulders, her body, lean and svelte beneath formfitting slacks. A bolt of sexual attraction had come out of nowhere. If he hadn't been sitting down, it would have knocked him off his feet. He couldn't afford that kind of attraction. He'd already been down that road once: The poor street kid made good and the bored, rich heiress. It hadn't been pretty.

"It's only a matter of time. After all, who better than you…" Coop's voice droned on in the background.

Tripp ran a hand down his face, scrubbing it over the stubble on his jaw and on down the front of his wrinkled shirt. That red sports car in the parking lot was no mirage. What was Amber doing at County General?

"Calhoun, are you even listening?"

"I heard you. It so happens I received a letter from Montgomery Perkins in Santa Rosa yesterday. The field has been narrowed to two."

"Who's your contender? Anybody I know?"

His back to Coop, Tripp said, "Does the name Spencer ring a bell?"

"First or last?"

"Last."

"Spencer? As in, Derek Spencer?"

The next time Tripp looked, Coop was sitting up straighter.

"The one and only."

A succinct and unbecoming but fitting word spewed out of Cooper's mouth about the same time his feet hit the floor. "I still can't believe he became a pediatrician. I always figured Spencer for the type to specialize in plastic surgery, not so he could repair cleft palates and facial scars, but so he could do nose jobs and boob implants for wannabe starlets down in Hollywood. What would he want with a position in a private practice in Santa Rosa?"

"It gets worse."

"How could it get any worse than competing with your backstabbing rival from med school?"

"It seems Derek's gotten himself engaged."

"Who's the unlucky woman?"

Any other time, Tripp would have appreciated his friend's sarcasm. "Olivia."

"Your Olivia?"

Tripp didn't bother to remind Coop that Olivia wasn't his anymore, if she ever had been. Olivia Babcock's father was an influential man in the medical field, capable of pulling very impressive strings. It didn't look good for Tripp. It didn't look good at all.

"Does this mean I won't be getting first dibs on this office?" Coop asked.

"I'm not giving up that easily."

"Yeah? In that case, listen up. People don't mind if an E.R. doctor is a player, but parents like their kids' pediatricians to be family men, so if I were you, I'd find myself a woman with a couple of kids. Better yet, find one with relatives as influential as Olivia's, too. Stat."

Tripp was in the process of scowling when he heard a noise in the hallway outside his office door. He caught a whiff of expensive, exotic perfume a millisecond before Amber Colton breezed in. There wasn't a wrinkle in her sage-green pantsuit. He didn't know how rich people did that.

Tripp wasn't surprised at the change that came over Coop. The man went on testosterone alert every time a woman came within ten yards of him. But Amber wasn't paying him any attention. She was looking at Tripp.

"Hello," she murmured, her voice just sultry enough to sound seductive. Reaching into her pocket, she drew out his watch. Easing closer, she said, "I thought you might want this back before tonight."

She had to know how that sounded. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at Coop and said, "Does he leave his things lying around the hospital, too?"

Tripp had to force his gaping mouth shut.

Amber appeared completely nonplussed. With a flutter of eyelashes and the sureness that the rich seemed to be born with, she extended her hand toward Coop. "Hello. I'm Amber Colton."

Coop's voice lowered, softened, mellowed. "Gavin Cooper, head of E.R. Colton? Any relation to Joseph Colton?"

"You know my father?"

Coop chuckled. "Not personally." Rising languidly to his feet, he released Amber's hand. He looked Tripp in the eye and said, "I underestimated you, my friend. I see you're already on it. You show up at that dinner party this weekend with a woman like Amber on your arm, and you'll be a shoe-in for the position in Santa Rosa. At the very least you'll give good old Spencer a run for his money. I'll leave you two alone."

Still grinning, Coop left, closing the door behind him.

Amber stared up at Tripp. The room, all at once, was very quiet. Maybe too quiet. Something was wrong.

Tripp's eyes had narrowed. Hers were wide open. His breathing was deep, hers, shallow. In the tight space so near him, she thought of a dozen questions. What position? What does it have to do with Santa Rosa? What rival? Who was Olivia?

Three separate times, she opened her mouth to voice one of them. Her gaze caught on Tripp's mouth. He really had a marvelous mouth, the bottom lip fuller than the top. Right now, both were set in a straight line.

"Is something wrong?"

The question seemed to bring him to his senses. He took a deep breath, let it all out and paced to the other side of the cluttered office. "Coop thinks we're lovers. What on earth could possibly be wrong? And what are you doing here, besides charming the socks off every male you meet?"

Amber recognized an attack when she was under one. She didn't understand the reason for it. "I repeat. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Bull."

That got his attention. "Do you make a habit of eavesdropping?"

"The door was open," she said quietly.

He glanced over her shoulder, and so did she. The door was closed now. And they were alone. Tripp took a backward step, putting more distance between them.

"Coop can hold his own," he said, "but the orderly I saw you with earlier is still a boy. It was like watching the bored, pampered house cat play with a poor defenseless mouse."

Poor defenseless mouse? For long seconds, Amber could only stare at him, stunned. Finally, she said, "Fredrico is about as defenseless as an octopus."

"Fredrico?"

She'd been prepared for several questions. That wasn't one of them. "He helped you smuggle that puppy into the hospital. Surely you know his name."

"I know Fred's name. Everybody does."

She was getting a bad feeling about this. Now that she thought about it, Nurse Proctor had called the boy Fred. "I see."

Tripp was on a roll. "Good, because Don and Mary Smith might have named their son Frederick, but definitely not Fredrico."

All right, already. The boy had pulled one over on her. That didn't explain the reason for Tripp's bad mood, or what he and Cooper had been talking about. "Let's talk about positions, shall we?"

Tripp's pulses leapt. "I beg your pardon?"

"Didn't I overhear something about a position you're hoping to gain down in Santa Rosa?"

Ah. She was referring to the position he'd applied for at an exclusive, private practice in Santa Rosa, not, er, the position for another activity completely unrelated to medicine. He cleared his throat. Clearing his mind of the mental picture that had sprung straight out of his imagination was more difficult to accomplish.

"There's an opening in pediatrics there. The practice is affiliated with the oldest, most prestigious hospital in Santa Rosa. It's larger than Ukiah County General, and wealthier by far. I would receive a higher salary, and ultimately, I could reach a lot more kids."

"Then I don't see the problem. I'll do it."

She stared up at him with luminous green eyes so large it was easy to get lost in their depths. "What exactly are you proposing?"

He didn't have much mind capacity left at this point, but even he had enough to appreciate the effort she put forth to keep from rolling her eyes. "Your rival is going to be there with his fiancée, right? I'll go with you. Then you and your rival will be starting on even ground."

He stared at her for several seconds. She looked happy, as if she was enjoying herself. Again, he thought of a pampered house cat. Olivia used to look like that, too. It was a sobering thought.

"What are you doing here, Amber?"

Her eyes delved into his. She really had very expressive eyes. He imagined they would look this way, large and luminous, in the dark. Whoa. That kind of thinking could be dangerous to a man who was trying to keep his wits about him.

She reached out, touching the watch she'd placed in his hand minutes earlier. "Inez discovered this in the living room at Hacienda de Alegria. You were right. About Inez, I mean. She was matchmaking, just as you said. It would have been apparent even without all the advice she gave me along with directions to the hospital here in Ukiah. Don't worry. I have no intention of allowing Inez to manipulate me."

It was true, Amber thought. She didn't allow many people to push her around. Besides, she didn't need anybody to play matchmaker for her. The three marriage proposals she'd received these past five years spoke for themselves. Amber Colton knew how to get a man. She was beginning to doubt she would ever find one to love, however. There had been a strong attraction between her and Tripp in the garden earlier that day. Though it wasn't love, it had been fun.

"You want this position. I'd like to help you get it."

"What's in it for you?" he asked.

"What makes you think there has to be something in it for me?"

The sound he made in the back of his throat spoke volumes. There was arrogance and belligerence in the lift of that chiseled chin. In that instant, he reminded her of how he'd looked after she'd stood up for him to her father all those years ago.

"All right," she said. "We were friends when we were kids. I'm hoping we can be friends again. Friends help each other. If acting as your fiancée for one evening helps you gain a position you want, so be it."

"I don't like lying. Lies are like dogs. They seem harmless to your face, but the minute you turn your back, they go straight for the seat of your pants."

"Pretending isn't the same as lying. If you need—"

He shook his head. "I want to do this on my own, without the help of a bored heiress in need of a project."

Her mouth fell open. She snapped it closed. Finally she said, "Of all the condescending…" But words failed her. She swung around in a huff and reached the door in three brisk strides. "If you ever decide to come down off your high horse, give me a call."

She slammed the door.

She hadn't gone far when she heard Tripp being paged to the ICU.

He reached the elevator seconds after her. They entered in single file. She punched the button for the lobby, he the second floor.

When the door closed, he said, "I suppose I owe you an apology."

She stared straight ahead. "That didn't sound very convincing, Tripp. Unless you're sincere, forget it."

They rode in silence.

"If you'll excuse me," he said when the elevator stopped on two.

She stepped aside without comment.

He started to get off, then paused in midstride. Finally, he resumed his exit.

He turned around to look at her just as the door began to close. She stared at him for a moment, then looked away. An instant later, the door closed and the elevator jerked into motion.

Friends? she thought clutching the rail.

Ha! She'd received friendlier goodbyes from the man who read her electric meter every month.

If this was friendship, they were off to one heck of a start.




Three

Tripp placed the stethoscope on his young patient's chest. After listening intently to her heartbeat, he moved it around and listened to her lungs. Most of his patients giggled when he did this.

It was all eight-year-old Sierra Rodriguez could do to smile.

"Still not feeling so good?" He spoke in Spanish. The shake of her head was a universal language.

He'd delivered some good news to her parents this morning. The blood tests had ruled out leukemia. The bad news was, she was still running a fever and her belly still hurt. Though Sierra wanted to go home, she needed more tests. She wanted to go home. Migrant workers, her parents didn't have health insurance, money in their pockets or even a permanent home. None of that mattered to Sierra. Home was wherever her family was.

There were hundreds of families just like them in this part of the country. They were exactly the kind of people Tripp had set up his pilot clinic, located on the outskirts of Ukiah, to help.

The clinic was helping, but there was so much more that needed to be done. Medicine cost money. There was no way around it. He could have used a windfall. If he was ever going to expand his pilot program and fund more clinics for the poor in other towns all across California, he needed donations, backers. He needed prestige and contacts, and one way to acquire both was to land and hold that position down in Santa Rosa for a few years, at the very least.

He needed to reconsider Amber's offer. Damn. He had as much trouble swallowing his pride as Sierra had swallowing medicine.

Replacing Sierra's chart, he studied the little girl. Her eyes fluttered closed. She was still very sick. Mentally, he was deciding on the next round of tests. He left the room, deep in thought, his footsteps as heavy as his guilty conscience.

He cringed. He was feeling guilty, and he hated it. Amber Colton had said it was a great motivator. Maybe it was true for some people, but it hadn't been guilt over lying to Joe and Meredith Colton all those years ago that had made him strive to be truthful and to do his best. It had been Joe and Meredith, themselves. It was their generosity, their goodness, and the kindness they'd bestowed on him.

Not everyone had ulterior motives. He wondered if it was possible that Amber had offered to act as his fiancée out of the goodness of her heart. Was her offer an act of kindness, and not pity as he'd first suspected? He should have tried to discern which it was. Instead, he'd refused her help, point-blank. And he'd insulted her in the process. He'd seen the hurt in those big green eyes. She'd driven all the way over here to return his watch yesterday, and he hadn't even said thank you.

He wished the hell he would stop thinking about what he should have done or said to her. He wished he could stop thinking about her, period. She'd found her way into his dreams last night, too. He'd awakened in the throes of a strong passion. Not a good way to start a day that promised to be long and frustrating.

He entered his next patient's room. Cisco Villereal grinned at Tripp. The boy was going home today, less his tonsils. Cisco wouldn't miss the infected little bands of tissue, but Tripp was going to miss the six-year-old who, with his family, was heading for the next field and the next harvest.

Kids like Cisco and Sierra made all the grueling days, the long hours, double shifts and hard work worthwhile. Tripp knew doctors who complained that pharmaceutical companies governed modern medicine. It was true that doctors had to shuffle through a boatload of paperwork, but the bottom line remained the same. It was the patient that mattered.

Tripp treated the patient. In the process, he helped the entire family. Often, he could tell how sick the child was by how great the fear in the parent's eyes. Those parents didn't care about hospital politics or red tape or malpractice insurance. If the child was sick enough, they didn't even care about money. They wanted their child well.

It was what Tripp wanted, too. He'd made it his life's work. Not bad for a kid who'd dropped out of school when he was fourteen. He'd dropped out of life before that. Back then, he'd never imagined that someone like him could be anything other than a tough, smart-mouthed street kid whose mother was dead and whose father wasn't around. Kids like him didn't grow up to be doctors. A lot of them didn't grow up at all.

Tripp had been heading down a short road that led nowhere. And hadn't cared. All that began to change the day he was sent to the Hopechest Ranch. From there, it had only been a stone's throw to Joe and Meredith Colton. That stone's throw had changed the entire course of his life.

He'd never set foot inside a hospital until that summer when he was fifteen and Meredith Colton had taken him to the emergency room. He'd busted three bones when his fist had connected with Peter Bradenton's arrogant, better-than-thou face. Fascinated by the buzz and bustle of the hospital emergency room, Tripp had no longer felt any pain. When it was over, his fear that Joe and Meredith would send him away had returned. Not that he'd admitted that, but somehow, Meredith had known. She'd been different back then, kind to her soul, and filled with so much goodness a person ached to make her proud.

Pride was something he'd understood. Pride was all he'd had.

Meredith told him she expected him to apologize to Peter. It hadn't been easy, but for her, Tripp had done it. When he'd finished apologizing, he'd warned Peter what would happen if he were ever unkind to any of the Coltons again.

And then, yesterday, Tripp had been unkind to Amber.

She'd offered to help him. And what had he done? He'd let his pride get in the way of what he needed. If that wasn't bad enough, he'd insulted her.

And he wasn't sure how to fix it.

At the very least, he owed her an apology. He'd picked up the phone to call her three times last night, only to replace it without completing the call.

An apology like this should be made in person, but he didn't even know where she lived. Once he found out, he planned to drive to her place when his shift was over. He dreaded the confrontation, yet he didn't mind the prospect of seeing Amber again. That bothered him. He liked to think he was immune to curvy, blond and pampered women. The fact that he wasn't was unsettling as hell.

"Good morning, Doctor."

He nodded a greeting at the petite nurse who had spoken. A dozen people were milling about out in the corridor. His eyes homed in on the woman he couldn't get out of his mind.

He stopped so abruptly someone from X-ray ran into him from behind. "Excuse me, doctor," the technician murmured.

"My fault," Tripp said.

He followed Amber around the corner, keeping her in his line of vision as she wove around patients and staff in her path. Tripp believed a man could tell a lot about a woman by the way she walked. Amber Colton had the walk of a woman accustomed to getting a second look. She wasn't oblivious to it, but she didn't seem affected by it, either.

She was wearing another pantsuit, this one white. The top was sleeveless and cinched in at the waist. Her pants were loose in the legs and just snug enough at the hips to lead a man's imagination into dangerous territory. His blood heated, and he scowled.

She was nothing like the kind of woman he needed to look for. She spelled trouble. There was no way around it. But he owed her an apology, and by God, she was going to have one.

"Amber, wait!" It came out as little more than a croak; it was no wonder she didn't hear him.

He lengthened his stride and increased his pace. This time, he kept his eyes trained on something other than the sway of her hips. He focused on the square leather bag hanging from her left shoulder. It swung with every step she took. Every now and then, it moved enough to give him a glimpse of a stuffed dog that was tucked beneath her arm.

She passed the elevator and had almost reached the stairway when he tried again. "Amber, wait!"

This time his voice reached her. She looked over her shoulder and stopped suddenly. He noticed she didn't smile.

"You're not an easy woman to catch up to. Where are you going in such a hurry?"

She glanced at the plush, stuffed brown puppy beneath her arm. "I want to get this up to P.J.'s room. I'm already late for an appointment with the head of charity affairs." She didn't add, "So if you have something to say, say it." She didn't have to. The lift of her eyebrows was a prod if he'd ever seen one.

Tripp wasn't accustomed to being prodded.

"What is it? What are you thinking?" she asked.

He wondered if women had any idea how much men squirmed when asked that question. He blurted the first thing that came to mind. "That you're a bossy woman."

She flushed. And he gave himself a mental shake. He'd angered her again. Or perhaps she was still angry from the day before.

With a lift of her chin, she met his gaze straight on. "You don't like the way I look, the way I act, the way I talk. What is your problem, Tripp?"

He held up one hand. "I don't think bossiness is necessarily a bad trait. I didn't mean it as an insult."

"You could have fooled me."

She was no shrinking violet, that was for sure. Tripp admired her for it. If she'd been afraid of her own shadow, she never would have had the courage to stand up to her father on his behalf all those years ago. "I didn't stop you to take another cheap shot at you. I stopped you to apologize. For yesterday. And in answer to your earlier question, if I have a problem with you, it's not your fault."

Amber stared up at Tripp. His shirt and tie were black, his skin a shade of brown that didn't need sunscreen. He was clean-shaven this morning and handsome beyond belief. And it ticked her off that she'd noticed. He'd just admitted that his earlier jabs had been cheap shots. In the same breath, he'd admitted that he did, indeed, have a problem with her.

"Whose fault is it then, Tripp? This problem you have with me." Her breath caught in her throat, making her voice sound breathless to her own ears. That ticked her off, too.

"I'm sorry about insulting you yesterday. You didn't ask to be born into a wealthy family any more than I asked to be born into a screwed-up one. It's just that you rich people have no idea how intimidating you are to the rest of us."

He called that an apology? "I…you…" Amber was never at a loss for words, yet here she was, stammering for the second time in a matter of days.

She didn't try to speak again until she'd made certain she'd put one entire thought in order. "Rich families can be just as dysfunctional as poor ones."

They were arguing about whose family was more dysfunctional? The conversation had sunk to a new low.

He shrugged in a noncommittal, infuriating manner.

"I intimidate you?" she asked.

He released the clasp on his watch, fiddled with it, tightened it again. "Forget it, okay?"

Perhaps she should have let it go, as he'd asked, but that wasn't her style. Yesterday, when she'd seen him again out in the garden at Hacienda de Alegria, she'd felt a connection to him. Ever since her mother had changed and her father had grown distant and her family had basically fallen apart, she'd feared that nobody would ever love her for herself again. Looking at the lines around Tripp's eyes and the furrow between his brows today, she believed it was possible that she'd been wrong. She felt on the brink of understanding something important about him.

Forget it? Now why on earth would she do that? "How do I intimidate you?"

Releasing most of his breath in one noisy stream, he said, "You're brilliant, you're witty, you're rich. You received your MBA from Radcliffe."

"And you're a doctor, for heaven's sake."

Luckily, the corridor was empty, so no one heard him raise his voice as he said, "I'm a struggling, part-Latino, mostly broke doctor who had to work my butt off to make it through med school."

"I distinctly recall my father saying that you graduated at the top of your class."

"The top of my class would have been the bottom of yours."

"I highly doubt that."

He made no reply. So she tried another tactic. "I intimidate you. That's the problem," she said, persisting. "That's what's keeping us from being friends. Let's see. How could we fix it?"

"I don't think we—"

"When I was in grade school and had to give a speech, I used to imagine my classmates in their underwear. Maybe you should try it."

His eyes darkened, his lids lowering slightly.

She ducked her head, pulled a face, and smiled. "On second thought, that's probably not a good idea."

It occurred to Tripp that he was staring. He couldn't help it. The warmth in Amber's smile got to him. He couldn't help that, either. He ran a hand over his hair, skimming the rubber band that secured the stubby ponytail at the back of his neck. He'd kept his ponytail to remind him of where he'd been, and where he was going.

"Coop read me the riot act when he discovered I'd turned down your offer. But you're right. This isn't a good idea. None of it." Not what was in his imagination, not what was coursing through his body. "If I need a woman, it's one who shares my background, my heritage. And I don't need anybody's pity."

Her face fell, a bleak expression settling where her humor had been. She took a backward step. An instant later her chin came up, and her voice rose. "Pity? That's what you think this is about?"

"Aw, hell." He'd done it again.

She handed him the stuffed dog. "I'm late for my meeting. I would appreciate it if you would see that P.J. gets this."

For a long moment, she stared at him without blinking, a burning, faraway look in her eyes. Slowly, she turned, her heels clicking as she walked away from him across the polished, spotless floor.

She paused in the doorway, her back to him, her shoulders rising and falling with her effort to draw a deep, calming breath. "I never felt sorry for you, Tripp." She turned and faced him. "Until now."

She left him standing in the middle of the corridor, his heart beating a heavy rhythm, the ears of the stuffed dog clutched tightly in his fist, sourness in the pit of his stomach, and egg on his face.

* * *

Amber ignored her doorbell on her Fort Bragg home the first time it rang. Not five seconds later it rang again, followed immediately by a loud knock that rattled the house. She unfolded her arms and legs and rose from the floor. Hurrying, she raised up on tiptoe to peer through the peephole.

A sound of surprise rose from the back of her throat before she could stop it. Fifteen minutes of meditation, wasted.

She dropped back down to the heels of her feet. Bristling, she reached for the doorknob, but froze in indecision. Her ego was still smarting from her last confrontation with the stubborn, belligerent Dr. Tripp Calhoun.

"Come on, Amber. Open up."

She considered ignoring him. In the end, her curiosity got the better of her. "Give me one good reason why I should."

The moment of silence stretched. Prepared to wait as long as necessary, she shifted her weight to one foot and folded her arms.

"Please?"

He gave her that one word in a voice soft and warm enough to slip into. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, gliding slowly down her neck, coming to rest over the rapid thud of her heart. She took a fortifying breath, turned the lock and opened the door.

Facing him squarely, she simply looked at him. He was wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt that had seen better days but fit him to perfection. His face was made up of interesting planes and hard angles. His teeth were white, his lashes long, his chin firm, his cheekbones prominent. His nose was narrow and had probably been considered regal-looking before it had been broken years ago. He was an arrestingly good-looking man, with just enough imperfections to ensure that his wasn't a pretty face. She had artist friends, like Claire, who would love the chance to paint him. He was that handsome. Amber knew a lot of handsome men. None of them made her so angry with seemingly so little effort.

"Please isn't a reason, Calhoun."

His chiseled features cracked slightly, giving her a glimpse of a self-deprecating half smile. "I'm afraid it's all I've got."

Her traitorous heart skipped a beat, darn it all. He was wrong. He had so much more. But who was she to argue? "What are you doing here?"

"I came to say I'm sorry."

She clasped her hands together and stared at them. "Your last apology had a lot in common with an insult."

His silence drew her gaze. Studying his lean, olive-skinned face, her heart lurched. He seemed to be having difficulty swallowing, too, his lips thinning into a straight line. "I'm sorry about that, too."

She believed him, which either made her foolish or desperate. She bristled. Oh, no it didn't.

Squaring her shoulders, she said, "Apology accepted. Now, if you'll excuse—"

"P.J. loved the stuffed animal."

"He did? I mean, I'm glad."

He held her immobile with his eyes. "And I was thinking that it might be good for him to meet someone like you."

"Someone like me?" She was breathless again. Had she no backbone whatsoever?

"Someone with a strong will, a drive to succeed, a sense of humor and a forgiving spirit."

Evidently not.

She nearly melted into a heap at his feet. Entirely too caught up in her own emotions, she had to remind herself that she was no longer a whimsical girl of nine, or even nineteen. She was a woman, strong and independent.

He looked at her for a long time. Next, he looked beyond her into her foyer where a candle burned and a tabletop fountain gurgled.

"I would be honored if you would invite me in."

The word honored was nearly her undoing. It was so old-fashioned, it left her wondering if chivalry was really dead, after all. Thinking "once burned," she took control of her wayward thoughts and said, "You've apologized and I've accepted. What else is there to say?"

She could tell this wasn't easy for him. Groveling never was. She might have let him off the hook, but then she remembered his little quip comparing her to a spoiled cat. And he'd called her bossy.

It wouldn't hurt to let him squirm.

"I've changed my mind, Amber."

"Oh? About what, pray tell?"

"About your offer."

As it often did this time of day, a heavy fog had rolled in, producing a perfect excuse for her shiver. "And what offer was that?" She didn't know what to blame for the way her voice had dropped in volume.

"Your offer to act as my fiancée at a dinner party this weekend. That is, if the offer still stands." He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of voices from a middle-aged couple walking their Great Dane. "May I come in?"

So, he'd changed his mind about that. She waved at her neighbors, then looked up at Tripp again. She wondered if he'd changed his mind about her, as well. But one thing at a time. She stepped aside, and opened the door all the way.

Tripp walked past Amber. Hesitating in a spacious foyer, he tried to affect an ease he didn't feel. He hadn't been at all certain she would accept his apology. He sure as hell didn't assume that her offer was still good.

"Why don't we sit down?"

Why? Because sitting down meant he had to try even harder to appear relaxed. "After you."

He followed her into a small living room dominated by overstuffed furniture and framed artwork done almost entirely in pastels. A dozen candles burned on a low table. A small fountain gurgled nearby. "Did I interrupt something?"

She shrugged. "I was meditating."

At least that explained her appearance. Her hair was in a loose knot on top of her head, flyaway, golden-blond tendrils cascading around her ears and neck. Other than the plain silver ring on her second toe, her feet were bare. Her baggy knit shorts hung below her waist, the front dipping lower than the back. Her top was a sleeveless tank made out of a stretchy fabric that clung to her breasts and bared her midriff. It wasn't as revealing as the bikini she'd been wearing yesterday. It had no business being even more stimulating.

"Smell that?" she said.

For lack of a better plan, he inhaled.

And she said, "It's a blend of lavender, chamomile and rose essential oils. It's called aromatherapy and is supposed to be soothing."

"Did it work?"

"I was getting there. Perhaps you should try it."

He took a quick, sharp breath. So much for trying to appear unaffected.

He could tell she was trying not to smile as she gestured toward an overstuffed, ruffled sofa, indicating that he could take a seat. "Or would you rather stand?"

It was as if she knew him. He shrugged. They both remained standing.

She meandered to the other side of the room. "So you've reconsidered my offer to act as your fiancée at that dinner party."

"Yes."

"I thought you said lies are like dogs."

"They are."

"But?"

"Coop claims playacting and lying are two entirely different things."

"I see. You said Coop read you the riot act because you turned my offer down. Is that why you reconsidered? Because Coop made you see reason?"

"Coop has nothing to do with this. I thought about what you said. About pitying me."

"I shouldn't have said that. It was my temper talking. I'm sorry."

"I had it coming. But I don't want your pity."

"What do you want?"

She must have walked closer when he wasn't looking, because he could see her eyes, round in the dimly lit room, the pupils so large only a narrow circle of green surrounded them. Like pools of appeal, they invited him in. He was in the process of taking his second step when it occurred to him that she wasn't the one who had moved closer.

He needed to loosen his tie. And he wasn't wearing a tie. He settled for clearing his throat. "It isn't about what I want. It's about what I need."

"What do you need, Tripp?"

His gaze strayed to her mouth, his throat convulsing on a swallow. He had to clear it again in order to say, "I need that position in Santa Rosa."

"Why?"

"Santa Rosa is a city of more than a hundred thousand people. It's a wealthy area; the practice is a private one with new, modern, state-of-the-art equipment. The facility is only a thirty-minute drive from San Francisco and caters to the wealthy. My salary would more than triple. I need the money and the prestige."

She looked him in the eye and said, "You don't strike me as the type who cares about prestige."

He told himself he had no business feeling complimented. "It isn't for me. It's for a clinic I've set up to aid the poor. Right now, it's operating on a shoestring. I want to expand it in this area. Eventually I plan to open a dozen more up and down the California coast. It's going to take donations, and backers with deep pockets."

"Why didn't you say so?" She asked a hundred intelligent questions. And he, a man who preferred yes and no answers, poured out the story of the clinic's meager beginnings, and his hopes and plans for its future. Sometime during the conversation, he'd taken a seat on her comfortable sofa and she'd sat in the matching chair, her bare feet tucked underneath her.

Maybe there was something to that aromatherapy after all.

The sky outside her windows went from milky white to gray to pitch black. The candles burned low; she didn't turn on a light. Sometimes, their conversation flickered like that candlelight, illuminating other topics, her brothers and sisters and a few of the foster kids he'd known while staying with her family. She spoke lovingly of her father, but never mentioned her mother. She seemed concerned about her oldest brother, Rand, and was worried because she hadn't heard from her younger, adopted sister, Emily. It occurred to him that he didn't know Amber well. He'd lost touch with most of the Coltons. Other than staying in contact with Joe, Tripp had been too busy clawing his way through med school to maintain strong ties with the huge, extended Colton clan. He hadn't even known Emily had left town and hadn't contacted anybody. He hadn't known that Amber lived in Fort Bragg, either. Inez had been only too happy to supply him with that information when he'd shown up at the ranch in Prosperino earlier. Funny, he'd expected Amber to live in a grand house like her father's, but her home was quite modest.

She didn't seem to want to talk about herself, though. Every time it happened, she steered the conversation back to his pilot clinic or the position he was after in Santa Rosa.

"How many times have you met with the doctors at this exclusive practice?"

"Two."

"How many times has your rival met with the same people?"

"I don't know."

She procured a notebook out of nowhere, and began jotting things down. She wanted to know about the dinner, and who would be attending. She was professional, exuberant, warm and smart. God yes, she was smart. He was in awe.

The wind rattled a window. Although he didn't feel a draft, the candles flickered.

Their gazes met, held. The images from his dreams the previous night shimmered through his mind. His breathing deepened, his gaze skimming over her body.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" she asked.

"Working." He cleared his throat. At least she hadn't asked him what he was thinking. It was a good thing, because he would have been even more hard pressed to come up with a good answer.

"What time could you be finished?"

"Four or five."

"Think you could come back to Fort Bragg around five?"

"You want me to come back?"

She looked at him with a lift of her eyebrows that seemed to say, "Isn't that what I just said?" But she only nodded.

After a moment, he did, too.

She wrote something in her notebook, tore the page out and tucked it into his hand. "Meet me at this address, say, at five o'clock. We'll begin the tweaking then."

Tweaking?

He'd be damned if he would let his imagination go there. He rose quickly to his feet.

Despite his best efforts, he got a mental picture and warmed ten degrees. She was circling him. It gave him a moment to get his body under control.

"What do you mean, tweaking?"

"At this point," she said from a place directly behind him, "appearance is everything. There's a wonderful old-world men's clothing store right here in Fort Bragg."

He peered at the address on the sheet of paper in his hand. "A men's clothing store? You want me to buy a new suit? That's what you meant?"

"Unless you already own a dynamite one. What did you think I meant?"

Never mind what he'd thought. "Dr. Perkins has already seen me like this."

She looked him over. "There's certainly nothing wrong with the way you are. Not from a female's perspective. This Dr. Perkins doesn't happen to be a woman, does she?"

He shook his head.

And she sighed. "Too bad. Oh, well. This weekend, we're going to give the people affiliated with Dr. Perkins's practice a new and improved version of Dr. Tripp Calhoun, the finest pediatrician in sunny California."

She ushered him to the door. Although he didn't remember doing it, he must have opened it, because he walked through.

"Tripp?"

He turned on the top step. "Yes?"

"I'm glad we're going to be friends again." Before he could answer, she reached up on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his. "Good night."

The door closed. He didn't recall saying goodbye, either, but he must have. At least he hoped he had.

He wet his lips, and tasted the strawberry flavor of her lip gloss. He wiped it off with the back of his hand, and stood statue-still, desire uncurling deep inside him.

Whoa. He appreciated Amber's offer to help, and he would tell her so. After that, he was going to have to lay out a few ground rules. He needed this position, and the credibility it would bring. Okay, maybe he even needed a new suit. If she thought he would bleach his hair and wear blue contacts, she was mistaken. If he got that position, it would be because of who he was, the man inside, not the trappings.

They were going to pretend to be engaged. He didn't like the idea of lying, even if it was under the guise of pretending. But he didn't see any other way.

He and Amber were already becoming friends. That part was real. He would hold it there. There would be no real passion between them.

He would tell her as soon as he saw her tomorrow. He started for his nondescript, dependable car and got in. Now, he thought, trying to find a comfortable position in jeans that were suddenly a good size too small, if only somebody would break it to his body.




Four

"Oh, my, I do believe we've found the one!"

Tripp tried not to wince, honest to God he did, but if André's voice got any shriller, the trifold mirror was going to shatter.

"It has style. It says class with a capital C, and it fits you to perfection. Perfection, I say!" André's eyebrows were chestnut-colored slashes above startling brown eyes that didn't come close to matching the yellow streaks in his short-cropped hair. "Don't you agree, Amber?"

Tripp met Amber's gaze in the mirror. She smiled demurely. "This jacket looks good, too, André."

The double entendre was lost on André. "Good? It looks glorious. What do you think, Doctor?"

Tripp thought he would have more fun having a kidney transplant. "It's black," he said. Every suit jacket he'd tried on had been black.

André looked to Amber for emotional support. She said, "Black is a formal, classic color that never goes out of style. You can wear it to weddings and funerals, fine restaurants, important galas and everything in between. Montgomery Perkins was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He and his family moved to California from the East Coast twenty-five years ago. His bloodline can be traced back to the Mayflower and beyond. He's the type of man who would own a closet full of black suits, and expect others to, as well."

Tripp stared at her. "How do you know that?"

She shrugged, then examined her fingernails. "I checked him out. Apparently he's a very traditional and wealthy physician, one who wouldn't appreciate a candidate showing up wearing a clown nose or tweed."

André fanned himself at her mention of tweed. "Have we found the perfect one, or shall we continue?"

Tripp studied his own reflection. The jacket looked okay. It fit okay. It felt okay. He shrugged. "How much?"

André named an obscene amount. This time Tripp didn't even attempt to hide his wince. He'd tried on a dozen jackets, and every one of them cost more than he paid for an entire month's rent. There were dozens more, hell, a hundred more in the store. A kidney transplant was looking better all the time.

He eyed his reflection once more. "Fine," he said without inflection. "I'll take it."

André beamed. "Now for the pants, shirt and tie. I was thinking a shirt in gray, perhaps, just the right shade, of course, and a tie in—" Just then, the phone rang. André threw up his hands. "That'll be Jules wondering what's keeping me. Excuse me while I take the call. I'll be right back with those pants and other items." He flounced away.

"I can hardly wait," Tripp said under his breath.

"You know, Tripp," Amber said quietly, "you could learn something from watching André."

Tripp glanced to the front of the store where the other man was reaching for a phone. "What could I learn?"

"How to schmooze."

He shuddered inwardly at the thought.

"And it wouldn't hurt to smile."

"I smile."

"When?"

He gave her a blank stare and a phony smile.

She shook her head. "That doesn't count. When was the last time you smiled and meant it?"

He drew a real blank and gave a genuine scowl.

She slanted him a victorious look. "I have several more suggestions and hints to help you gain your new position. For now, it might be better if we changed the subject. André is wonderful, isn't he?"

"Glorious."

Amber looked at him with a lift of her eyebrows he found intriguing as hell. "Could you at least try to curtail your enthusiasm?" When he didn't reply, she said, "Now what's wrong?"

Wrong? What could possibly be wrong? Aside from the fact that he didn't have the time for this, or the patience, let alone the money. But that wasn't her fault.

He shrugged out of the jacket, then turned in a half circle, searching for a place to unload it. "I was just calculating how many children Miguel Rodriguez could feed for what I'm going to pay for just one of these dark suits."

She took the coat from him and folded it carefully over her arm. "For the cost of one suit, you'll be helping hundreds of families like Miguel's."

Tripp didn't quite know what to say to that. She had a point. She also had an amazing body and a face to match. He chastised himself for noticing. Unlike department stores, this exclusive, European-style men's clothing store was illuminated by strategically placed wall fixtures, the bulbs glimmering through frosted glass sconces. It threaded Amber's hair with spun gold and gave her skin a soft-as-twilight glow. Tripp had never believed clothes made the man. Or the woman, either, for that matter. It was a good thing, because his discount store cotton shirt and navy chinos were in stark contrast to her designer slacks and silk blouse. Her shoes were Haan loafers. Tripp didn't know what the hell that meant, but evidently they must have been expensive, because André had beamed his approval during their discussion of head-to-toe image.

"You're scowling again, Calhoun."

"Do you always have to have the last word?" he asked.

She surveyed him kindly. "Only when I'm right."

"Have you ever been wrong?"

"Not that I recall."

She moved with an easy grace that caused the light to catch in the elegant folds in her silk blouse. The playful glint in her eyes had nothing to do with artificial lighting.

"At least it hasn't gone to your head."

The tart grinned. "You have your gifts, I have mine. It was awfully good of André to keep the store open for you."

"I told you. An emergency held me up at the hospital in Ukiah. I raced the wind to get here as fast as I could."

"No easy feat over the hairpin curves and snaking trail they call State Road 20."

Tripp shrugged, and thought out loud. "I enjoy that kind of driving. It allows a man to think, but not too hard."

"Is that what men like? To think, but not too hard?"

He stared at her, trying to decide if she was flirting with him, baiting him or just having fun. Witty and articulate, she picked up on subtle nuances and gave as good as she got. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much trouble matching wits with another adult. Kids sometimes surprised him, but few women did. Something strange was going on here. Why, he was starting to almost enjoy himself. He reeled the thought back in. This was business, a means to an end. The fact that he and Amber had known each other a long time ago complicated it slightly, but only slightly, and definitely only temporarily.

No matter what he'd insinuated, he'd spent the hour-long drive navigating the hilly road thinking about her. So far, he hadn't had a chance to lay out any of those ground rules he'd considered last night. First, he had something even more important to do. Easing a step closer, he said, "Thank you."

Her face came up, her eyes wide, her lips parting. She was so obviously startled, he did something completely uncustomary. He grinned.

Her gaze flicked over him, and her eyes seemed to have gotten stuck on his mouth. He couldn't help goading her. "You told me to smile."

"Yes," Amber said quietly. "I did."

Amber hadn't intended her voice to dip so low or sound so sultry, but darn it all, she hadn't expected his voice to work over her in soft waves, either. It weakened her knees. This, she told herself, was what she got for being bossy. A warm, delicious shiver started in that sensitive little spot between her shoulder blades. It moved downward and outward, all the way to her fingers and toes. She was completely taken with this man. She sighed, because her infatuation was about as handy as pockets on a space suit.

She recalled the mild panic she'd experienced earlier when Tripp had been five minutes late, ten, fifteen. Her panic had turned into dread long before an hour had been up. She didn't understand what was happening to her. Tripp Calhoun was an enigma, and a challenge. And more.

She liked him. Go figure. More important, she wanted him to like her. Which was ridiculous, not to mention immature. Why should she care if he liked her?

She cared.

He made her care. By not caring that she cared.

She wanted to throw her hands in the air the way André had. It was ridiculous. And yet it wasn't. Every time she came near Tripp everything felt exciting and brand-new. Her breathing became shallow, her heart sped up and her thoughts turned as hazy as a long-forgotten dream.

He wasn't an easygoing man. But he was sincere about it. He sincerely cared about people. It was there in the low rumble of his voice when he'd spoken to little P.J. a few days ago, and when he'd said thank you a moment ago. That reminded her—

"For what?" she asked.

He looked at her long and hard for a moment before saying, "I beg your pardon?"

"You thanked me. What was that for?"

"For not giving me the third degree when I was an hour late. For nodding agreeably when André exclaimed that each suit coat looked better than the last, when we both know damn well they all looked the same. For researching Montgomery Perkins and his medical practice. You're very thorough."

See, she told herself, he was sincere. Oh, at times he was cross and sullen, too. But she could see past that. She was almost afraid to hope that before her stood a man who might, just might, want to look beyond her exterior and try to discover who she really was on the inside, where it truly mattered.

Just in case she was imagining things, she moved in closer, studying him.

"What are you doing?" Tripp breathed deeply, catching a whiff of exotic perfume that went straight to his head. Or maybe Amber's smile had done that.

"Who are you?" she asked. "And what have you done with Tripp Calhoun?"

Something stirred inside Tripp, something restless and unwelcome, and completely irreverent. Damn, it felt good. He needed to get to those ground rules, and soon. "That wasn't very original. I read that it takes twelve acts of kindness to make up for one negative one, and since I still have eleven positives to bestow, I'll let it go this time."

Her smile grew. "You're being nice because you want to make up for yesterday?"

"The thought crossed my mind."

Again with that smile.

He tried to figure out what it was about her that drew him. Nothing about the conversation should have been lust-arousing, and yet awareness simmered between them. He shrugged a shoulder, easing closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She looked at him, her eyes bright, her face upturned, her lips parted slightly. He was tempted to kiss her, here and now. The idea burned in his mind, heating his blood another degree with every inch he lowered his face toward hers.

"That Jules!" A shrill voice sounded behind them.

Tripp and Amber jerked apart, then pretended interest in opposite directions as casually as they could manage.

"Always wanting to know when I'll be home. Now for those pants!" André was back, talking a mile a minute. "These are to die for. And this tie, hmm-humm."

Tripp cleared his throat and tried to clear the roaring din from his mind and his ears. He glanced at Amber, only to drag his gaze away when André brought a measuring tape from his pocket and glided down to one knee.

"What are you doing?"

André swatted Tripp's hand aside. "I need to measure your inseam."

For a moment, Tripp froze.

"That's it. Hold nice and still."

Nice and still, hell. Tripp backed up so fast André nearly fell over. He caught himself at the last minute with one hand pressed to the floor.

The bell over the front door jangled, signaling the arrival of another customer despite the closed sign in the window. André cast Tripp a questioning look before rushing off with a flourish toward the front of the store.

"What did you do that for?" Amber asked.

Tripp gritted his teeth. "I stopped growing years ago. I don't need my inseam measured." He noticed Amber's grim expression. He didn't understand it, but at that point, he had more important things to do than try to figure it out.

"Especially not by a man who lives with an artist named Jules, is that it?" she asked.

She pried the measuring tape from his fisted hand while his mind was still blank. Long before he figured out what the hell she was talking about, she continued.

"For your information, Jules is a nickname."

"So?"

"Short for Juliann. With two n's."

"You're saying Jules is a woman?"

Her eyes darkened with an emotion he couldn't identify. "That's what you get for stereotyping."

That was when it occurred to Tripp that she'd gone down to her knees exactly as André had. "What are you doing?"

"Somebody has to measure your inseam."

His hand shot out, covering hers an inch away from its targeted area. "I wasn't stereotyping, dammit. And I'm not having you measure my inseam, either." Not in the state he was in.

"You're not?" And then, in a softer voice, "You weren't?"

She was still on her knees, and she was looking straight ahead. She averted her eyes the way a highbred lady should. The smile that stole across her face, however, wasn't the smile of a genteel woman of high social standing. It was playful and bratty, and made Tripp even more uncomfortable.

"Of course you weren't." She rose blithely to her feet.

She seemed buoyant and happy suddenly. And beautiful. He clamped his mouth shut. And sensual.

A lot of women were sensual. Hell, most of them were. He had damn good reasons for fighting the attraction crackling between him and this particular one. And as soon as the blood returned to his brain, he'd be able to recall every one of them.

"Relax, Tripp."

Easy for her to say. "What makes you think I'm not relaxed?"

She touched three fingers to his watch, which happened to be twirling around his finger instead of resting on his wrist where it belonged. He thought it was very big of her to refrain from expounding upon the obvious. He probably should have told her he appreciated her restraint. He had eleven more positive gestures to make, after all.

She handed him the measuring tape. "Here," she said, far too sweetly for his peace of mind. "Why don't you do the honors?"

He tossed the tape to a nearby chair. "Just help me find a pair of dress pants in my size, all right?"

She smiled, slow and dreamy. "Whatever you say, Doctor. Whatever you say."

She was laughing on the inside. He knew it, and he understood it. What he didn't understand was why he felt no anger.

He thought about picking a fight just to get back on track, but she'd already started for a rack in the middle of the store. And Tripp didn't have much choice but to follow her.

* * *

Tripp unlocked his car door and moved to toss the new suit and all its accessories inside. Amber caught his hand before he'd released the zippered, plastic bag. With utmost care, she squeezed past him and hung the suit from the little hook over the back door.

Watching the way she contorted and wiggled her body in order to arrange the suit in a way so as not to wrinkle it reminded him that his credit card wasn't the only thing overheated. Not that he needed reminding.

"What do you want to do now?" she asked, backing up.

He forced his eyes away from the part of her heading right for him. "I have to get back to Ukiah."

"So soon?" She closed his car door with one hand, then brushed imaginary wrinkles from her slacks. Every movement was naturally feminine, and far too luxuriant for a man in Tripp's frame of mind. Especially since he wasn't supposed to be looking at her in the first place.

He took a deep breath.

"Doesn't that smell lovely?" she asked conversationally. "When the breeze is right, like it is tonight, the air is filled with the scent of hundreds of flowers and shrubs growing in the botanical gardens just south of Fort Bragg."

Tripp was familiar with several of the small towns in the north-central portion of California, but not many along the coast. He'd lived in L.A. until he was fifteen. Back then, his world had consisted of apartments, housing projects, deserted buildings and back alleys in his neighborhood. He'd spent seven years at the University of California in San Francisco. This was his first visit to Fort Bragg. He'd heard of the Skunk Railroad, named for the noxious fumes the engine had pumped out back when the railway had been used to cart lumber across the coastal mountains between Fort Bragg and Willitis. He needed to be heading back that way, himself.

"Tripp?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you hungry or aren't you?"

Obviously, she'd been talking. He really needed to pay attention. He gave her a gesture she interpreted as a nod.

"Shall we grab a bite to eat?"

"Here?"

"Did you have someplace else in mind?"

The shake of his head served a dual purpose. It answered her question and attempted to clear his mind of what was really in it. "To tell you the truth, I'm going to be eating peanut butter for a while."

"Oh."

Before they parted, there was something he had to say. "About what almost happened between us in the store…"

"What almost happened between us?"

He felt sideswiped by her smile. "I came damn close to kissing you, and you know it."

"Oh, that."

A warning gong went off in Tripp's head. "Amber," he said.

Air brakes hissed on the street behind them. Laying a hand on her elbow, he drew her with him to the relative safety of the sidewalk. "I appreciate what you're trying to do for me. I'm not poetic enough to word this right, but I want to get something straight between us."

"What's on your mind, Tripp?"

Forget what was on his mind. This had to be said. "We come from different backgrounds, different places. Our paths crossed once, and I'm not sorry they're crossing again. But that's all this is. A crossroads. I'm no expert on women, but the ones I've known place a hell of a lot more importance on a kiss, even on a near-kiss, than men do. I'd hate to see you get hurt, and I'd hate even more to be the one responsible for hurting you."

The evening breeze stirred the awnings over the quaint stores lining the main thoroughfare in Fort Bragg's downtown district. That same breeze tugged a lock of Tripp's dark hair from the rubber band at his nape. Amber fought the urge to reach up with gentle fingertips and tuck it back in. Her gaze met his, and a zing went through her. For an instant, she saw hunger in his eyes, not necessarily for food.

He wanted her. He didn't want to, but he did. Suddenly, it was all-important that she didn't lose the fight before she'd even gotten into the ring. "I'm a big girl. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, but fine, I've been duly warned. You're off the hook. We have a lot of work to do between now and this weekend. My car's parked at the end of the next block. You can walk me to it while I outline my plans. Please don't just stand there. Time's a-wasting."

She spun around and started down the sidewalk, her heart in her throat. She didn't draw an easy breath until Tripp fell into step beside her.

"You always were bossy."

She bit her lip. "I said please."

His brown eyes were fixed straight ahead. "You meant just do it, dammit. Or else."

"Not or else." She smiled. She thought it was very gentlemanly of him not to mention that she hadn't disputed the rest of it. It was as if he understood her—and he liked her anyway. This tall, rugged man who rarely concerned himself with others' impressions of him liked her.

She glanced sideways at him. "You might as well say it."

Tripp had a feeling that somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind, Amber knew exactly what she was doing. He on the other hand, had no idea what she was talking about, and this time, he'd been paying attention. "I might as well say what?"

"Whatever it is that had you scowling at that poor woman we just met."

"What poor woman?" he asked in spite of himself.

"The one who just took one look at you and gave you a five-foot berth. She's probably had a horrible day, had to work late, and is hurrying home to her hungry kids."

"She was hurrying home to her cats."

"How do you know that?"

"She was carrying a bag of cat food. See that woman over there just getting out of her minivan?"

"The thin redhead?"

He nodded. "She's completely frazzled. And that heavyset one crossing the street? She enjoys being a woman. A lot."

Amber stopped so suddenly the people walking behind her nearly ran into her. Tripp went a few steps without her, then stopped, too. "Is that what you men do?" she asked when he'd turned to face her. "You make blind assumptions about women when you watch us?"

"They're not blind assumptions." He lowered his voice in direct response to the pointed looks they were getting. "And I don't know about all men. It isn't something men discuss."

"But you're saying you can tell a lot about a woman by the way she walks."

He nodded as if he thought it was completely unnecessary to reply.

This was the moment of truth, Amber thought, the moment when she discovered how he saw her. It was a risk to her ego, and possibly to her heart. She took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. "What can you tell about me?"

He settled his feet a more comfortable distance apart and folded his arms at his chest. "You're a woman who's accustomed to getting a second look and her own way."

She wanted to ask if that was all he saw, but she didn't. Instead, she said, "And was this revealed when I was walking toward you or away?"

"Away." He didn't even have to think about it. "Definitely away."

"What about when I'm walking toward you?"

"That's confusing."

"What's confusing about me, Tripp?"

"What isn't? You're gorgeous and you know it. But you're also golden, like sunshine. You have a smart mouth and a serene smile. And your eyes, well, they're like soft grass one minute, cool shade the next. Confusing as hell."

He started walking again. As Amber fell into step beside him, her heart teetered on her breastbone. From there it was an easy slide into her stomach. "And you said you're not poetic."

He didn't appear nearly as pleased about that as she.

She stopped near the front bumper of her shiny red sports car. "Here we are. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Amber, wait. This conversation isn't finished."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Were you this quarrelsome with your former fiancée?"

He narrowed his eyes and glared at her. Unlike the woman they'd seen moments ago and who right now was driving by in a car bearing a bumper sticker that read, Dogs have owners, cats have staff, Amber wasn't intimidated by Tripp in the least. "What was your fiancée's name again? Olive-Oyl?"

"That'd be former fiancée. And her name was Olivia." His voice held no humor.

Amber reached inside her big, square purse. Finding her notebook gave her something do to with her hands and a reason to avert her face so he couldn't see the little roll she gave her eyes. "Olivia what?"

"Babcock."

She turned so fast the pen she'd put to paper made a bold line across the blank page. "Olivia Babcock, daughter of Jamison Babcock, the man who amassed his fortune back when the computer industry was a new frontier and has since turned his attention as well as a huge share of his money to cancer research?"

"You know them?"

Not personally. But she'd heard of them. Olivia Babcock grew up near L.A. She'd been closer to Sophie's age than Amber's, and had been in the society pages since birth. She was glamorous, sophisticated, beautiful. She and Tripp had once been engaged? Amber wondered if he'd loved her. He must have. She wondered if he still did.

"Do you miss her?"

He made no reply.

It was like pulling teeth. "Do you ever see her?"

"I thought I would be seeing her this weekend."

Amber was getting a bad feeling about this.

"But it turns out I was wrong," he said. "She and her new fiancé are having dinner with Dr. and Mrs. Perkins tonight and won't be attending our gathering in Santa Rosa on Saturday. Praise the Lord."

Amber didn't know whether to be as elated as Tripp. "Let me ask you something," she said. "Don't you think it's awfully strange that your ex just happens to be engaged to Derek Spencer? The same Derek Spencer who's the contender for the position you're after?"

Tripp's answer was a sharp nod.

Amber could have spent an hour deciphering the expression deep in his eyes. Releasing a low whistle, she said, "Strange, my eye. That is some coincidence."

"I thought so, too."

"I don't know how to break this to you, Doctor, but if your contender has the Babcock name behind him, you're going to need more than great credentials and a new suit."

"The Colton name carries its own power and prestige, Amber."

A worrisome little pounding started in her temples and worked its way around to her forehead. She was digging herself into a deep hole. She wanted to help Tripp, but she wanted to be more than a trophy on his arm. She wanted to be his…His what? His friend. And perhaps even his lover?

She pushed the question away and concentrated on the matter at hand. "Maybe you'd better tell me a little more about this dinner we'll be attending this weekend."

She leaned a hip against her car door. Tripp's back remained ramrod straight, his feet set firmly apart, his hands on his hips as he said, "Cocktails begin at seven. Dinner is at eight."

"Where?"

"Ever hear of a place called Alessandro's?"

Heard of it? Anyone who was anyone had dined at the world-renowned, five-star French restaurant. "Whose idea was it to meet there?"

"One of the doctors in Perkins's practice owns shares in it."

Oh. She'd missed that. She started jotting things in her notebook again. "Be at my place Thursday at eight."

"For what?"

"For dinner, of course. Better yet, meet me at Hacienda de Alegria. I'm a fair cook at best. I'll see if Inez would mind helping."

"Helping do what?"

"Arrange a place setting and create a scenario similar to the one we'll encounter this weekend. You'll be scrutinized down to the tiniest detail. And you'll be judged on more than your new suit, believe me. Our table manners will have to be impeccable."

Tripp's hands slid from his hips to his sides, where he squeezed them into fists. Our table manners, hell. It reminded him of the nurses who breezed into a patient's room and asked how "we're" feeling. Amber meant he was going to be judged on more than a new suit and table manners, when he should be judged on his medical knowledge and bedside manner, dammit. What really angered him was Amber's assumption that he didn't know enough not to slurp his soup.

He'd been so intrigued by her sunny disposition and so busy being attracted to her that he'd forgotten she was rich, pampered and the complete opposite of the kind of woman he needed. Except he did need her, at least for Saturday night. And that angered him the most.

"Eight o'clock," he said, commending himself for his discipline and quiet reserve. "I'll see you then." He turned on his heel and walked away without another word.

Amber was left standing next to her car, watching his footsteps burn up the sidewalk. He was angry. What now?

It might have had something to do with her mention of his former fiancée, his contender, or her. He could have stuck around long enough for her to find out. But no, that wasn't his way.

He was honorable and ornery. Impatient one minute, sincere the next, difficult without a doubt. He had a chip on his shoulder and a burning glimmer in his eyes. He liked her, and didn't seem especially thrilled about it. He could hold his own in a conversation with her, no easy feat for most people. She didn't understand half of what drove him. He was a lot of man. Her father always said it would take a lot of man to make her happy.

Wouldn't you know, he was exactly the kind of man she could love.

"How long were you and Olivia Babcock engaged?"

"Not long."

Amber stared over the flickering candles, waiting for Tripp to continue. When he did, it was to change the subject.

"It's a good thing the restaurant has a five-star rating. If the lights are this dim Saturday night, we'll need to use the light from those five stars to see what we're eating."

Lucky for him she'd seen his good side, because if she hadn't, she would be sorely tempted to dump a glass of lemon ice water over his arrogant head. She was tempted anyway.

She lowered her salad fork to her salad plate, took her napkin from her lap, pushed her chair out slightly and rose slowly to her feet. From there, it was an easy march to the far wall where she turned up the lighting. "How's that, better?"

He'd arrived at her parents' home right on time. Inez had answered the door while Amber was putting the finishing touches on the place settings in the formal dining room. After arranging the food on the buffet according to course, and covering each dish with polished silver lids, Inez had been only too happy to retreat to the small home she and her husband, Marco, shared on the grounds of Hacienda de Alegria. Amber's father was in Washington D.C. on business, and Meredith was in the theater room with the two youngest, and by far most spoiled Coltons, Teddy and Joe, Jr. That left Amber and Tripp alone in this wing of the Colton home.

"Well?" Amber had asked, proud of her handiwork. "What do you think?"

Tripp had eyed the ornate centerpiece and fine linen place mats and napkins. "How many plates and forks can one person use?"

Evidently, a good night's sleep hadn't improved his disposition. She'd traipsed to her chair, thinking it was amazing that the man could remain upright with that heavy chip on his shoulder. She took her seat, saying, "I'm perfectly capable of pulling out my own chair, but it will look better if you do it for me on Saturday. For now, let's collaborate on our stories."

"Our stories?"

"Yes. How did we meet? How long have we been seeing each other? That sort of thing."

"Collaborate on our lies, you mean."

She'd stared at him over the tops of the candles. "You're right. Let's stick as close to the truth as possible. We met when we were kids, and then bumped into each other again recently here at my father's house. We'll make certain to drop Dad's name at least three times. And if we're going to be convincing, we're going to have to gaze lovingly into each other's eyes several times. A stretch of the imagination, I know. We're going to have to practice." If her voice had become droll, she couldn't help it. "And one more thing, Tripp."

He paused, his fork in midair, then slowly lowered it to the table. "What?"

She didn't know how to bring this up delicately. "You'll look stunning in your new suit. But if you want to look respectable, you really need to consider cutting your hair."

He didn't have it secured in a rubber band tonight. It was shiny and straight and chin-length. The way he'd tucked it behind his ears made him look as if he'd stepped from another time. He could have been a pirate, or a knight, or a conquistador.

His eyes glimmered like glass across the table. "No."

She did a double take. "What do you mean, no?"

Tripp spread his hands wide on either side of his plate. "It's a little word, one syllable, two letters. Or aren't the rich familiar with the concept?"

"I know what no means. What I don't know is why you're trying to start a fight. You're the one who wants that position. I'm only trying to help."

The way he scratched his chin looked completely out of character. "Contrary to what you think, I have my pride."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I won't be judged on appearance alone."

If that wasn't the pot calling the kettle black. Appearance was important, but there was more to people than that. Amber's mother used to say it was what was on the inside that counted. It had been years since her mother had even tried to see inside Amber's heart. Her little sister Emily had, but Emily had left Prosperino months ago.

Amber had hoped that she would find a man who looked past the part of her she showed the world, to the part she kept hidden from all but a select few. She wasn't a fanciful woman, or a particularly romantic one. She knew her strengths and weaknesses. She was a modern-day woman with a fair mind, a smart mouth and an honest soul. And she honestly didn't know what to do about the spiteful, snide man sitting across the table from her right now.

She decided to try one more time. "That new suit will get your foot in the door. After that, it's up to you to show Perkins what you're made of."

"Then you're saying actions speak louder than words?"

She nodded. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

He picked up the finger bowl and took a loud slurp.

The room, all at once, was perfectly quiet. He'd made his point. Another time she might have commended him for his aplomb. This wasn't another time. This was now, and right now she'd had it with his attitude.

A small chunk of her crusty bread bounced off his forehead and splashed in his water goblet. Amber didn't know who was more surprised.

Tripp stared at her, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Surely it was the devil that made her tear off a second piece.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" She dipped the second glob of bread in her finger bowl.

"It looks like you're lowering yourself to my level."

The soggy bread hit him in the center of his stubborn, spiteful, arrogant chin.

"I'm sick and tired of your snide comments and condescending attitude, Doctor."

"My attitude? I'm not the one who's making sure I don't embarrass them at the dinner table this Saturday."

"That's what you think I'm doing?"

"I know which fork to use. Olivia made certain of that."

She rose to her feet, only her fingertips touching the polished surface of the table. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I invited you here so we could brush up together?" She wanted to throttle him. Shaking slightly, she added, "And because I like you?" She eyed the homemade bread in her hand. Forget breaking it into small pieces. She flung what was left of her crusty roll at him in a way reminiscent of her tomboy days; her brothers would have been proud.

Both held perfectly still, each assessing the other's anger. She liked him? Tripp thought. He glimpsed a moment's hurt in her green eyes. Hell, she liked him.

He brushed crumbs from his shirt, then fished a soggy morsel from his lap. Next, he pushed his chair back and very casually reached for his linen napkin. After placing it to the right of all his dinner paraphernalia, he found his feet. "I thought you were…I shouldn't have, I know. It's just that—"

She held up one hand. Slowly, painstakingly, she retrieved the pedestal bowl containing the peach-flavored crème brûlée from the sideboard. Tripp's gaze followed her movements. She didn't intend…She wouldn't…

Staring at the heaping spoon in her hand, he said, "We both know it would be completely beneath you to do what you're thinking about doing."

The lumpy goo landed an inch higher than the roll had. Tripp looked down just as the dessert lost its fight with gravity and plopped to the top of his shoe.

"All right, Amber. You've made your point. I misjudged you. You have no idea how sorry I am. I won't let it happen again."

She scooped a dollop onto one finger, then licked the end of it. It was provocative as hell. "You're wrong," she said with saccharine sweetness. "I know just how sorry you are. You're a sorry, snide, prideful man who's been carrying a chip on his shoulder long enough. You think you have the corner market on pride? What do you think of this?"

Think?

He was too busy ducking to think. A second, much larger dollop of crème brûlée missed his ear by a fraction of an inch. He heard it land somewhere behind him.

He stared at her for interminable seconds. He picked up his napkin and dabbed at the dark spot on his shirt. Then, eyes narrowed, he walked to the sideboard and speared a piece of shrimp scampi with his fork.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He drew the fork back like a slingshot. "As you can see, I'm using the correct fork. And for the record, you started this."

Her eyebrows rose in the semidarkness. He was glad she'd turned the lights up, because he wouldn't have wanted to miss the way her eyes glittered with excitement.

"That," she taunted, "is what Custer shouted to the Indians at Little Big Horn while making his last stand. Shall I refresh your memory as to how that turned out for Custer?"

"Refresh this!" The shrimp scampi arced through the air.

Amber screeched, clamored, and ducked, but not fast enough. The shrimp caught in her hair. She threw down the spoon and scooped up the crème brûlée with her bare hand. "That does it, Calhoun. This means war!"




Five

Tripp moved stealthily around the table, taking his eyes off Amber only long enough to glance at the remaining serving dishes and bowls, and consider his options. Shrimp scampi and crusty bread had sufficed as attention-getters, but they were no competition for the cold, wet goo that had splattered one side of his face moments ago. The bowl of crème brûlée was his best bet, but it was closer to Amber. He continued around the table, hoping to lure her away from it. She beat him to it, whisking it out of his reach.

The woman was cunning and quick. She could have given some of the kids from his old neighborhood a few pointers and a run for their money. The thought bothered the back of his mind. He reminded himself that these weren't the streets of L.A. Amber was safe here. At least, he thought, taking an ominous step closer, she was safe from harm.

He considered his remaining choices. There was a bowl of seafood rice stuffing, coffee and creamer, some green, leafy things she'd called salad and he called weeds, and a little dish of melted butter. He was going to have to make do with the bowl of rice stuffing. With lightning-quick movements reminiscent of his cagey, street-fighting days, he whisked it from the buffet table and into his left hand. Next, he eased around Amber's chair as she eased around his. They moved in the same direction, counterclockwise, keeping the gleaming cherrywood table between them.

The shrimp looked out of place in her hair. She made no move to brush it out, nor did she seem concerned about the red splotches on her ivory tank top, compliments of the tropical salsa that had hit its mark, thanks to his first attack.

The floor, table and chairs were littered. Taking another calculated step in her direction, he said, "It's too bad you sent Inez home. Or do you rich people call a party service to do the cleanup?"

She lifted her chin haughtily. "You really need to try to get past the rich versus poor elements of our pasts."

He almost smiled. Oh, she was witty, articulate, cunning. And bratty. God yes, she was that, and more.

He flung a portion of the rice stuffing. The mixture scattered, part of it catching in the little hollow at the base of her neck, only to drop slowly inside the scoop neck of her top. Tripp waited with bated breath for the pieces of food to come tumbling out of the bottom edge, then spent far longer than he should have wondering precisely where those morsels had lodged. A fantasy played out in his mind. He imagined lifting her arms and peeling the shirt over her head. Her bra would come next. He would unfasten the closure and slowly lower one strap and then the other. When he'd bared her breasts he would bend down…

His body heated. Damn.

Taking advantage of his momentary lapse, Amber sprang around the table to ambush him. He caught her wrist when her hand was a matter of inches from his face.

Their eyes met. He could blame his desire on the erotic fantasies he'd been harboring, but he had no one to blame but himself for the way he brought her hand to his mouth and licked a path across her palm.

Her lips parted; her eyelashes lowered dreamily. He heard her breath hitch in her throat, and felt her shudder beneath his tongue. His overheated blood surged through him, pooling low. Dangerously low.

It had been a long time since he'd lived dangerously, since he'd let the adrenaline rushing through him guide his actions. He released her wrist, then glided his hand down her arm. Her skin was smooth, the muscles firm, yet supple. Blood pounded a pagan rhythm in his ears, and his gaze fixed on her mouth.

Her lips lifted in a smile. In a flash, he realized her intent. He made a move to grab her wrist again, but he was too late. Crème brûlée covered the lower half of his face.

She laughed out loud and spun around. He caught her by the arm and pulled her back. With his other hand, he scooped a portion of the creamy mixture from his chin with one, and only one, intention in mind.

She ducked her head and laughed again, the sound playful and mischievous and so damned musical he stopped the forward motion of his hand, suspending it in midair inches from her face. He drew her around to face him. Their gazes met, and her laughter trailed away.

Her eyes were large, her pupils dilated in the dimly lit room. Her lashes swept down, throwing a momentary shadow on her cheeks. With their upward sweep, she rose on tiptoe. Gently, her lips touched his.

The kiss was so light it was barely a kiss at all, so brief that their eyes remained open. As she drew away, she licked her lips, tasting the concoction she'd gathered from his mouth. "This is an interesting way to sample dessert."

His body heated further, a muscle working in his throat.

"Hold that thought," she whispered. "If Perkins sees you looking at me like this, he won't question our engagement."

"Then this—" He cleared his throat. "This is part of the drill?"

Her answer was a small nod that wasn't really a nod at all. "What would you say it is?"

He would say it wasn't enough.

He flung the handful of food to the table, then cupped her shoulders, filling his hands with warm woman. Her silky tank bunched beneath his fingers as he drew her closer. "I would say," he murmured close to her lips, "that practice makes perfect."

This time their eyes closed when their lips met, their hands gliding over clothing that might never be free of food stains again. His palms smoothed down the sides of her waist, drawing her more fully against him, the entire length of her body pressed firmly to the entire length of his, his hands molding, learning, exploring.

Amber was doing some exploring of her own, her hands gliding across Tripp's shoulders. His muscles bunched and flexed beneath her palms. His breathing became ragged as her fingers inched lower. He tasted of mint and cream and smelled of dinner and deep summer. He felt like heaven.

He made a sound deep in his throat, part need, part frustration, all male. So this, she thought, was how it felt to hold a hundred and eighty pounds of tall, lean, muscular man in her arms. Never had she felt more feminine, so desirable, or so wanton.

The kiss deepened, and her breath whooshed out of her, but she didn't end the kiss. She didn't want it to end. She wanted to climb right inside this kiss, right inside this man, where she could experience this passion from the inside out.

Her initial response to him earlier in the week had been powerful, but she hadn't been prepared for the sensations swirling through her right now. She'd kissed her share of men over the years. Once, she'd even kissed a prince. But no man had ever kissed her in return in exactly this way. Certainly, no man had ever made her feel so enchanted.

Tripp's body was pressed to the front of hers. Dizzy, she realized the hard edge of the table was pressing into the backs of her thighs. Hadn't she been facing the other way when the kiss had started? He didn't give her a chance to ask. He barely gave her a chance to think. He was too busy molding her, from thigh to shoulders, to every hard inch of him. And she was too busy reveling in the scent of man, the taste of man, and the knowledge that this man wasn't immune to her scent, her taste, her touch.

Footsteps sounded behind them. Amber wouldn't have paid them any attention, nor would she have given Inez's "Oh, excuse me!" another thought, if Inez's voice had trailed away and her footsteps had faded away on tiptoe.

Those footsteps didn't fade away. They came closer, Inez's shoes squishing on the sticky floor. Her voice rose an octave, growing louder, and so shrill Tripp and Amber jerked apart.

Inez sputtered and pointed and sputtered some more. Tripp appeared frozen. One look at his face was all it took for Amber to know that she had to think fast. She traipsed to the table, where she grabbed the linen napkins, then handed one to him. Using the other to tidy her face and hands, she smiled sweetly. "You're right. Practice does make perfect. I'd say we pretty much nailed everything from the choreography to the tilt of our heads. No need to practice it again before Saturday. It's too bad, too. That kiss wasn't half-bad."

He got that arguesome look on his face. His eyes narrowed, his lips thinned, and his jaw set. Amber turned to Inez. Her expression wasn't difficult to decipher, either. The shock was gone. In its place was an expression Amber had grown up with, letting her know in no uncertain terms that she had some explaining to do.

"I thought you'd gone, Inez."

"I came back to make sure you two hadn't started World War Three." Hands on ample hips, the short woman with the flashing brown eyes looked from one to the other. "I am too late, I think." She turned on her heel, returning moments later with a wastebasket in her hands. "Well? Do either of you have anything to say for yourselves?"

Tripp remained silent. Amber tossed the linen napkin to the table. "Tripp and I had something to settle. Don't worry, Inez. I'll clean this up." Amber turned to Tripp. "As soon as I see Tripp to the door."

Tripp glanced at Inez. She didn't smile, but she didn't look particularly angry anymore, either. She did, however, indicate, with the thrust of one shoulder, that Amber had left the room.

In his youth, Tripp would have needed to save face by having the last word. One thing life had taught him was that sometimes all a man could do was hold his head high and leave as quickly and quietly as possible.

Amber was holding the door open for him when he reached the elaborate front foyer. "You're probably still hungry," she said. "We didn't get through the main course, did we?"

Tripp ran a hand over his chin. Main course, hell. If Inez hadn't interrupted, they would have been experiencing more than dinner right now. And what the hell did she mean that kiss wasn't half-bad? It was a hell of a lot better than that. And dammit, why was he angry? "Amber—"

"I know." She pulled a face. "We'd better not try that at Alessandro's."

He stared at her, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "That's it? That's all you have to say?"

She glanced up at him, then reached up and picked a crumb from his hair. "Don't worry about helping clean up. You were my guest. Now, as far as Saturday evening goes, I think it would be best if you picked me up at my friend's house in Cloverdale. I get carsick easily, and by meeting you there, I can break up my trip. It's only a thirty-minute drive from Claire's house to Santa Rosa. I'll fax you directions."

His gaze drilled into her. Vowing to show him how unaffected she was, Amber forced an iron control she didn't feel. "Is that satisfactory?" she asked.

He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded curtly.

She absolutely, positively forbade herself to sigh in relief. "In that case, I'll excuse myself and help Inez with the cleanup."

The moment he was out the door, she closed it behind him, then leaned weakly against it. Amber knew enough about body language to know when a man had something on his mind. He was undoubtedly trying to make sense of what had just happened between them. She didn't want to compartmentalize the attraction and desire they felt for each other, because she was growing more and more certain there was more to it than desire on his part, too.

All women knew that men thought, acted, and reacted differently than women. Men's bodies weren't necessarily connected to their brains. At least not when it came to sex, and certainly not when they were younger. When did men outgrow their little tendency to get turned on by the sight of any woman with a pretty face?

She caught her reflection in the mirror. There was a piece of shrimp sticking out of her hair, red splotches all over her silk tank top, and traces of orange goo streaking one cheek. That was some pretty face.

Hope fluttered inside her like butterfly wings. Maybe Tripp's reaction had to do with emotions, with feelings and a growing regard. Oh, he wanted her. Her body still burned from the way he'd pressed the physical evidence of his desire against her belly.

Whether he was ready to admit it or not, he liked her. The thing was, she liked him, too. He was difficult at times, a challenge always. Trying to stay one step ahead of him was invigorating. She hadn't been bored in days, but even she knew that this was more than a case of not being bored.

Tripp had the looks, the style and the moves to unsettle her feminine heart. The question was, did she have what it took to unsettle his?

By God, she was going to try.

* * *

Tripp eased his car around the corner on a tree-lined street on the outskirts of Cloverdale. He was early. And nervous. A double rarity for him.

Following the directions Amber had faxed to him the day before yesterday had been easy. Located on Highway 101, Cloverdale was easy to find and too small to get lost in.

Squinting against the glare of the late evening sun, he groped for his sunglasses on the seat beside him. He located them just as he spotted his second turn. According to Amber's directions, he only had a few more blocks to go. He spied her shiny red sports car in a driveway in the next block.

He slowed his car to a crawl.

Amber had mentioned that her friend Claire was an artist. Evidently, she wasn't a starving one, because her house was a large, ornate Victorian, palatial in design, and painted several shades of purple. He slid a finger between his neck and the starched collar of the shirt André had chosen. Amber had rich friends. Like drew like.

And sometimes, opposites attracted.

Damn, that was what he and Amber were: opposites who were attracted. Extremely attracted.

Tripp had heard from several reliable sources that Amber had visited the hospital in Ukiah yesterday. He'd had to take their word for it, for she hadn't bothered to stop by his office. Other than that fax, he hadn't seen or heard from her since Thursday. Perhaps if he had, he would have been able to put that kiss behind him. As it was, he couldn't get it out of his mind.

For the hundredth time, he told himself that the entire episode was a coincidence, nothing more. He'd been harboring some incredibly stimulating fantasies while partaking in that food fight, and coincidence or not, any man would have reacted to the tremble in a beautiful woman's touch, the sultriness in her voice.

That wasn't what bothered him. It was something else, and it had been bothering him even before Amber had flung that first glob of creamy goo. It was Coop who'd hit the nail on the head when he'd exclaimed how everyone in the hospital was talking about Amber Colton. "Who could miss hair that color, and eyes such a vivid shade of green? I wouldn't mind attending that dinner in Santa Rosa, just to see what she wears. She'll probably flash like a neon sign."

The description had struck a nerve, and had brought back the only useful piece of advice Tripp's old man had ever given him. "Stick with your own kind, kid. Anybody else will either leave you or die. In the end, it's all the same thing."

Tripp had been seven, and just old enough to read the marker on his mother's grave. Grace Ann Bradley had been twenty-five.

"Listen up," Randolph "Rudy" Calhoun had said to the son of the woman he'd professed to love but had never bothered to marry. "You stay away from women with skin lighter than yours. There are two kinds of white girls. The ones who think they're too good for us, and the ones who don't. The ones who don't are even more dangerous, because they go where we go. And that makes them sitting ducks and easy targets for somebody with a score to settle. That's what happened to your poor mama."

Tripp might have heeded his father's warning, if Rudy hadn't turned from his son and walked away. After that, the man had drifted in and out of Tripp's life, mostly out. Tripp had spent the next ten years being shuffled from one relative to another—except for his time at the Hopechest Ranch—and hating his old man for it. He'd hated a lot of people back then. That all had begun to change the summer he turned fifteen.

Tripp was one quarter Latino, but his skin was as brown as his grandfather's had been. The red-haired psychology student he'd dated in college had claimed his attraction to fair-skinned women stemmed from the fact that his mother had been fair. She'd believed it was also the reason he'd tried so hard to earn Meredith Colton's respect the summer he'd gone to live at Hacienda de Alegria.

The psychology student had left him when she'd grown bored with the thrill of the chase. That was all right. He hadn't loved her. Until Tripp met Olivia Babcock, he hadn't allowed himself the luxury of a relationship in years. That one hadn't been as disastrous as the others, but it proved he was still attracted to women completely wrong for him. Women like Amber, who, for all their beauty, would stick out in his world like a sore thumb.

He climbed out of his car, ran a hand through his hair and buttoned the middle button on his black suit. He didn't even recognize his own reflection in the car window. But he recognized the thought running through his mind. It was a vow he'd made a long time ago. No more excuses. No more coincidences. No more prolonging the inevitable. Before the night was through, he would make certain that Amber knew just how temporary this was.

* * *

Amber's breath caught in her throat at the first sight of the intense, incredibly handsome man on Claire's front porch. "You're right on time, Doctor."

"It's a first for me."

She noticed Tripp didn't smile. Holding fast to the doorknob, she moved to one side, motioning him in. He entered without saying a word.

"We have a few minutes," she said. "Would you care for a glass of wine?"

He shook his head, and she wondered if he would have preferred a shot of whiskey, straight up. She wished he would say something. A compliment would have been nice. She'd bought a new black dress for the occasion and had fixed her hair on top of her head, securing it with tiny, amber-edged pins. She'd studied her reflection for a long time, applying her makeup with a steady, light hand, placing more emphasis on her eyes than on the rest of her face. As a result, her lashes were long and thick, her lids tinted a smoky shade of gray. She'd applied tinted gloss to her lips, a bit of translucent powder to the rest of her face, and had followed that up with a touch of blush. The result was understated and elegant. It would have been nice if he'd noticed.

She glanced at Tripp and caught him staring. Oh, he'd noticed, all right. Suddenly she felt buoyant. With a lift of her brows, which she'd darkened just enough to call attention to the delicate arch, she said, "All right, then. We might as well get an early start into Santa Rosa."

She leaned around him, reaching for her beaded black bag. He took a sharp breath and finally spoke. "Little P.J. was right. You do smell good."

Her heart slowed, and a warm glow flowed through her. "P.J. said that?"

His eyes delved into hers. "Coop was wrong, though. He predicted you would wear something flashy, red and preferably low-cut."

That was what men got for making blind assumptions. "Red," she said, leading the way to the door, "would never do. My job is to appear demure and charming at your side. Men of power, breeding and high social standing might look twice at a waitress or sales clerk wearing red, but they expect the women in their social arenas to appear in subdued, refined clothing."

"Do you rich people take classes to learn this?" He held up one hand. "I know, I know. I need to get past the rich versus poor element of our pasts."

She smiled, because dry humor was better than no humor, and Tripp's dry humor made her heart swell with feeling. "Alessandro's is an elegant restaurant. I imagine there will be other colors besides black. I chose this dress because I want to complement, not outshine. I certainly don't want to outshine Mrs. Perkins, who will probably be wearing silver, or gold lamé. And no, they don't teach this in school. Being rich isn't all fun and games. And for your information, the rules were made long before I was born."

She reached up with her right hand, touching the dark hair that caressed his collar. "It's a shame that some people place so much importance on looks. When did you have it cut?"

He stared into her eyes so long she got lost in his gaze. "This morning."

"Did it hurt?"

"Only my pride."

"I'm proud of you."

"Because I got a haircut?"

She shrugged a shoulder. He'd sacrificed so much for the kids he wanted to help. In that instant, her heart seemed to flip. When it righted itself, it pumped with new meaning. Amber was falling in love.

She felt breathless, joyful. "If it's any consolation, you look wonderful. Your hair is short enough to appear polite and reputable and still long enough to set you apart from the boring, civilized upper-crust men you're about to impress."

Tripp didn't move, not even to breathe. Amber combed her fingers through the hair above his ears as she spoke, the butterfly touch of her fingertips sending a heady rhythm through his body, causing him to lose his train of thought. His gaze did a slow glide down her body. Her dress was long and black and sleeveless. The neckline was a gentle sweep from shoulder to shoulder, just low enough to show off the delicate hollow at the base of her neck and the soft-looking skin above her collarbone. The matte-black fabric skimmed over her curves, hiding all but the barest hint of what lay underneath. It was demure, all right; all except the slit that revealed her slender, silk-encased leg from ankle to thigh.

"Ready?" she asked.

He nodded and, in a voice huskier than he would have liked, said, "In case I forget later, thank you."

She wet her lips, smiled. "Don't mention it."

"I mean it, Amber. If I get this position, I'll be forever indebted to you."

"What do you mean if?"

Her smile was playful and reminded him of the way she'd smiled just before flinging that first spoonful of crème brûlée the other night. It caused him to add, "Whether I get the position or not, one thing's for sure. I'll never again be able to eat shrimp scampi or crème brûlée without having fond memories of you."

Since she had the key, he strode ahead of her out the door. Therefore, he didn't see the way her smile slid off her face as the underlying meaning in his words soaked in.

Amber turned on a night-light, then followed more slowly, her mind a jumbled mixture of dashed hope and reality. People didn't say they would have fond memories of someone they planned to see again. People had fond memories of someone they once knew.

That was what she would be to Tripp. Someone he once knew. Someone he thought about a few times a year, perhaps less. Moments ago she'd realized she was falling in love with him. She didn't want to be someone he once knew.

If he was aware of her inner turmoil, he didn't let on during the drive to Santa Rosa. Perhaps that was because she kept up her end of the conversation, talking about her work and his. Mention of the Hopechest Ranch, where she had an office, sparked his memories of the months he'd spent there. She told him how much the place had changed in recent years. There were now between thirty and forty kids staying at the ranch at any given time. Besides the Homestead, a dormitory-style lodge where the temporary residents, as he'd been, stayed while awaiting adoption or foster homes, there was now a residence called The Shack, which was for delinquents who needed a last chance before being shipped to lock-in juvenile centers that resembled jail.

For once, Tripp did as much talking as she did, asking questions about the newly constructed "Emily's House," a home for unwed, teenage mothers. He seemed genuinely awed by her devotion to the ranch and the Hopechest Foundation she worked so hard for.

The more Amber talked about her work, the more she despaired. She felt rooted to the foundation headquarters. Okay, she had been a little bored lately, but she was needed there. It drove home the point Tripp had made earlier. Amber lived in Fort Bragg, and worked near Prosperino at the Hopechest Ranch. If Tripp acquired the position in Dr. Perkins's practice, he would live and work hours away on the other side of the mountains. It might as well have been on the other side of the world.

He needed her help to obtain that position in Santa Rosa. And she wanted to help. She did. She was only too happy to help, but in doing so, she was ensuring that their renewed acquaintance would be fleeting. By lending him her family name and influence, she was sealing the fate of their relationship and reducing it to something she feared. Temporary.

The word froze in her brain. That was what it would be—a brief interlude, passionate, perhaps, but above all else, temporary.

She didn't want this to end before it had really begun. She wanted to feel his arms go around her, to lay her head on his shoulder. She wanted to talk about mundane things, like the weather, and important things, like politics and health issues and global warming. She wanted the relationship to grow more intimate on every level.

Had it been doomed before it began?

If he was awarded that position, it was.

Whatever was a woman to do?

Maybe she should start another food fight, thereby ensuring that Tripp didn't obtain the position. She could always slurp her soup or drink from the finger bowl. Maybe she should have worn red. No, she couldn't do any of those things. Too many children's lives would be adversely affected.

Maybe they could have a long-distance relationship. But she didn't see how a long-distance relationship could ever work. She got sick every time she drove across the coastal mountains. And as a new pediatrician in a busy practice, Tripp wouldn't have time to make the trip to see her.

She wanted an up-close-and-personal relationship, not a long-distance one.

It seemed that Tripp had been right. Lies really were like dogs. They seemed harmless at first, docile, even. But later, they turned on you, attacking just when you thought you were safe.

What was she going to do?

She didn't have an answer when they pulled up in front of the restaurant in Santa Rosa. She waited for Tripp to open her door, accepted his help from the car, then took the arm he offered. While he handed the valet the keys, she pasted a smile on her face, then strode with him through the high, arched door of the most expensive and elegant restaurant in town.




Six

Tripp was only vaguely aware of the heads that turned as he made his way back toward the table in the semiprivate dining alcove at Alessandro's. If he'd been looking, he would have noticed the dark-haired woman watching his every move. His only thoughts were of the questions he'd been asked and the direction the conversation had taken over dinner. All in all, it had gone quite well. A lot of it was Amber's doing.

When he'd excused himself, she'd been deep in conversation with Dr. and Mrs. Perkins. This kind of socializing came as naturally to her as treating patients came to him. Talking to Coop, worrying about his next dollar, and trying to stay out of Nurse Proctor's way came naturally to him. Schmoozing was as foreign to him as the language on the menu.

Alessandro's was everything Amber said it would be. How had she put it? Opulent grandeur at its finest. Nearly everything in the restaurant was silver-blue and white. White damask slip covers on every chair; white-blue flames flickered atop tall white tapers in silver candelabra. Waiters wearing white gloves and black tails served everything from champagne to caviar from gleaming, sterling silver trays.

Tripp had lost track of how many courses there had been. Back home, supper took fifteen minutes to cook and another fifteen to eat. Here, eating took all night.

The differences didn't end there. He'd never spent so much time eating so little, and using so many different forks to do it. He'd just run into the biggest difference. In places where he normally dined, men in tuxedoes didn't hand out towels in the men's room. If he hadn't seen the gray-haired gentleman ahead of him drop a ten-spot into a silver dish, Tripp wouldn't have remembered to tip. Rich people found the damnedest ways to spend their money.

On the bright side, he figured that if these people could spend their pocket money on human towel dispensers, there was a good chance they would be willing to part with a great deal more on medical clinics to aid the poor. If he got the position in Perkins's practice, that is.

The evening did seem to be going well, all things considered. Dr. and Mrs. Perkins were extremely friendly. He couldn't get a handle on Perkins's partners, Gentry and Harris. They and their wives remained polite and formal. Tripp would have liked to get Amber to himself for a few minutes to get her take on the evening.

Just then, two waiters stepped aside, and Tripp had a clear view of Amber. She was talking to Montgomery and Cornelia Perkins. The soft light from the crystal chandeliers turned Cornelia's perfectly coifed hair pale silver. The same light caught on the amber-colored sparkles in Amber's upswept hair and turned her blond tresses the color of spun gold.

He neared the table while she was laughing at something Montgomery Perkins said. She glanced up as Tripp approached, and it occurred to him that her smile didn't reach her eyes.

It wasn't the first time it had happened tonight. "Having fun?" he asked quietly.

The corners of her mouth lifted. Again, the smile didn't quite make it all the way to her eyes. He leaned down, but before he could ask if she felt all right, Cornelia said, "I believe these young people would like to spend time alone."

Across the table, Winston Harris said, "They're young, Cornelia. They have plenty of time ahead of them to be alone together."

Amber looked up at Tripp. She noticed he didn't comment one way or the other. He was the one who rarely smiled, and yet it was getting increasingly difficult for her to do so.

No matter what Winston Harris insinuated, she and Tripp didn't have the rest of their lives to be together. At best, they had a few more hours.

She'd been despairing about the situation all evening. She hadn't slurped her fricassee or dropped her fork. She couldn't. This was too important for Tripp, and for hundreds of children and their families who needed a doctor like him.

She'd done her best to impress this group of pediatricians and their wives. Tripp had handled himself admirably. She saw no reason on earth why Dr. Perkins would offer the position to anyone else. She was proud of Tripp. And sad, because her time with him was nearly over.

"There's an orchestra playing, and a small dance floor on the other side of the room." Placing a hand on her shoulder he said, "Seems a shame to waste it."

He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for her reply. Her heart fluttered, and a delicious sensation settled low in her belly. Surely, somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind he knew exactly what he was doing. Suddenly, it seemed imperative to feel his arms go around her, if only on the dance floor. She was placing her hand in his when a deep, sultry voice she didn't recognize came from a few feet away.

"Why, hello, Dr. Perkins, Mrs. Perkins. Tripp."

"Olivia, dear," Cornelia said. "How nice to see you."

Amber glanced up just as one of the most beautiful women in all of California took Cornelia's hand. She'd seen Olivia Babcock's photograph in the society pages several times. The petite, dark-haired woman was even lovelier in person. Her hair was the color of rich coffee. The short, wispy, smart style accentuated her delicate features and large violet eyes. Her dress was the darkest shade of purple Amber had ever seen. It was the color of royalty; Olivia wore it well.

"Is Derek here, too?" Winston Harris asked a little too quickly to escape Amber's notice.

With a shake of her head and a flutter of eyelashes, Olivia bestowed her beautiful smile on everyone in turn. "Derek is on call tonight. I'm dining with Mother and Willadine Whitherspoon. You remember her late husband, don't you? Abraham headed the most renowned cancer research team at Daddy's institute."

Amber had done some name-dropping of her own tonight, but it was difficult not to admire Olivia's technique.

"Would you care to join us?" Cornelia asked.

Amber wasn't altogether comfortable with how hopeful Mary Margaret Harris and Loretta Gentry suddenly appeared. The fact that their husbands shifted uncomfortably in their chairs was even more disconcerting to Amber. Olivia couldn't have been oblivious, but she cast another perfect smile in every direction and said, "I appreciate the invitation, but Derek and I had you to ourselves last weekend. It's only fair that Tripp and his date have the same privilege this evening." She paused, looking directly at Amber. "I don't believe we've met."

"Amber Colton, Olivia Babcock." Tripp did the honors, his muscles tensing beneath Amber's hand.

"Colton," Olivia said. "That name sounds familiar."

"Her father is Joe Colton." Winston Harris provided the information. Surely Amber wasn't the only one who thought it had been delivered in a slightly caustic tone.

Montgomery and Cornelia didn't appear to be hanging on Olivia's every word, but the Harrises and Gentrys certainly were. What was going on here?

"I've heard of Joseph Colton, of course," Olivia said. "But I seem to recall a Sophie Colton, too."

"You know my sister?"

"Sophie is your sister? I heard she was in an accident."

Amber nodded. Olivia seemed so genuine. Why, she almost seemed—well, nice. If she hadn't been Tripp's former fiancée, Amber might have liked her.

"How is Sophie?"

Amber wanted to glance at Tripp, to gauge his reaction and expression. She couldn't of course, without calling attention to the tension she sensed in him. Unobtrusively placing a gentling hand over the finger that had started fiddling with his watch, Amber said, "Sophie is fine, thanks. Actually, she's very happy. She's married now and is the mother of a beautiful baby girl."

"Be sure to give her my best." Olivia exchanged a few more words with the others, then sashayed out of sight. A taut silence ensued. Wanting a moment to gather her thoughts, Amber excused herself to the powder room.

She was sitting at a flute-edged table before a beveled mirror when Olivia entered the room. Coincidence? Amber was beginning to doubt it.

Olivia's smile was friendly, though, when she said, "What a pretty dress. I just love that style."

Amber smiled.

"And black is so tried and true and unassuming. So safe."

Amber's smile wavered.

"And it hides a whole multitude of sins, doesn't it?"

Amber's hand froze in midair for but a moment. Once she'd recovered, she applied her lipstick. It gave her a perfect excuse not to reply.

"Has Dr. Perkins broken the news yet, hon?"

Hon? Olivia's dress may have been royal purple, but Amber saw red.

Olivia pretended to gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, dear. Now I've done it, haven't I?" Her timing perfect, she waited just long enough for the implication to soak in before adding, "Just forget I slipped. It would be best if Montgomery told Tripp in his own way."

Amber replaced the top on her lipstick then dropped the tube delicately into her small beaded bag. She was proud of how perfectly unaffected her smile appeared in the mirror. "It'll be our little secret."

She closed her purse, inspected her hair, then rose to her feet. Thankful to be taller, and thus able to look down her nose at the dark-haired woman, she quietly left the room. Inside, she was fuming. Of all the condescending, arrogant, spoiled brats! No wonder Tripp had issues with rich people!

Amber was still fuming and trying not to let it show when she returned to the table. Luckily, everyone except Tripp was involved in an in-depth discussion about someone they all knew. It awarded Amber a moment to pull a face, and Tripp a moment to whisper, "I just saw Olivia heading for the rest room. Everything all right?"

She glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "She isn't as nice as she seems."

"Next you'll tell me water is wet and the sky is blue."

Joy fluttered its delicate wings in Amber's chest. She loved to laugh. Bawdy or wry, she reacted to humor. Because it was so rare, Tripp's wry humor felt like a gift. The more she came to know him, the more she wanted to know him better. She didn't want him to move downstate. She wanted him to stay right where he was so he could fall in love with her in return. But she didn't want someone less deserving to get that position, either.

"You're quiet tonight," he said. "Something's wrong."

She looked around the table again and said, "Olivia is under the impression a decision has already been made."

"Did she tell you that outright?"

Amber shrugged. "She seemed to enjoy getting the point across."

"Damn."

Her exact thought.

"Then this was all for nothing? Act two in a one-act play? We might as well leave," he said.

She recalled Olivia's condescending manner, and darn it all, it just wasn't fair. Who was it who said all things were fair in love and war? Amber looked into Tripp's brown eyes.

This was both.

The despair she'd been fighting all evening turned into determination. Laying a hand over his, she said, "It isn't over until it's over. Follow my lead."

"I can only imagine how unhappy Dr. Cooper will be to see you go," she said, as if they'd been talking about this all along. "And Nurse Proctor, the poor dear."

She paused long enough to give the other people at the table a chance to listen. Since there were few things more desirable than something somebody else wanted, she launched into a lengthy description of the people Tripp worked with and treated in Ukiah. Before long, everyone was asking him questions about his work at County General. Amber sat back and studied the level of interest. Whenever it started to wane, she launched a new topic. She talked about his patients, little P.J.'s sad plight in particular, and the progress Tripp had made with the boy's physical therapy.

"Your practices seem somewhat unconventional," Dr. Harris said.

Amber would have liked to stick out her tongue at the old curmudgeon. Tripp simply said, "It's not that I'm unconventional. Sometimes getting to the root of a problem requires some imaginative investigation. A case in point is a little girl I've been treating. Her mother brought her to me earlier this week. Her symptoms were baffling. Lethargy, headache, muscle soreness, loss of appetite, weight loss and abdominal pain."

"Fever?" Montgomery Perkins asked.

"It came and went. I ruled out the obvious illnesses such as appendicitis and strep throat."

"A deeper, more serious illness? Leukemia, perhaps?"

Tripp shook his head. "She tested negative."

"Some sort of virus?" Steven Gentry asked, leaning ahead, elbows resting on the table.

"I considered the possibility," Tripp said, his voice deep-timbered and clear. "She was anemic, too. And irritable. It just didn't feel like a virus to me."

Now Winston Harris leaned in, too. "Did you hospitalize her?"

Tripp nodded, and Amber relaxed.

"One day I watched her, undetected. And even though she remained lethargic, she scraped halfheartedly at the paint on her bedstand."

Montgomery Perkins was the first to begin to nod. "Did you test her serum lead levels?"

A light seemed to come on in the other two doctors' eyes.

Again Tripp nodded. "I ordered the test, then made a house call, and sure enough, the paint around the windows was chipping."

"Lead poisoning," Winston Harris said. "I once treated a little boy for that. His toxicity level was dangerously high. Almost fifty micrograms cc."

"How would you rate his recovery?" Tripp asked. Now his elbows were on the table, too.

The men tossed words like erythrocyte protoporphyrin and chelation therapy into the conversation. Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Gentry exchanged resigned looks. Cornelia Perkins said, "It was inevitable that they would talk shop before the night was through."

"It's one of the plights of being a doctor's wife," Loretta said.

"You'll see, Amber," Cornelia said.

Amber had to force a smile. Inside, she despaired all over again. It was highly unlikely that she would ever know how it felt to be Tripp's wife. Regardless of the outcome of the evening, their time together was nearly over.

"Have you and Tripp set a date?" Cornelia asked.

Amber had to think fast. Taking the advice she'd given Tripp, she hovered as close to the truth as possible. "I've always thought an autumn wedding would be lovely."

"Weddings are lovely no matter what the season," Cornelia said. "Our second son is getting married in Mississippi next weekend. And it'll likely be hotter than Hades there in July."

Montgomery Perkins stopped in the middle of what he'd been saying. It was as if hearing his wife's mention of the upcoming wedding flipped a light on over his head. "I have a confession to make." He looked almost apologetic. "We thought we'd made up our minds and had chosen the candidate who would best suit our practice. Now I wish I had a little more time to make a decision. I just had an idea. Cornelia, dear, would it be possible to invite both candidates to David's wedding next weekend?"

"Why, I don't know…"

"That is," Montgomery said, peering from Tripp to Amber, "if the two of you can make it on such short notice. I'll invite Derek and Olivia, too." He rubbed his hands together. "Why, I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner. It'll kill two birds with one stone. Pardon the expression. We'll get better acquainted with both couples in an entirely different setting. Then we'll be able to make an educated decision based on more than a few brief encounters."

Winston Harris opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. Poor Cornelia was still gasping, too, one plump hand fluttering to the gold lamé collar on her gown. "I'll have to call Jennifer's mother, and make certain it's acceptable." The lovely, sixty-something-year-old woman recovered slightly. "If it's acceptable to the bride's family, I see no reason not to second the invitation."

"The wedding is in Mississippi, you said?" Amber asked.

"Yes. It's going to be held in Jennifer's parents' home. It's a lovely, stately, antebellum mansion between Vicksburg and Jackson. It's positively stunning."

"Is that a problem?" Montgomery asked.

"Of course not," Amber said. Oh, my, she thought. That meant she would have to fly.

She looked at Tripp, and he said, "I'll try to get one of the doctors to cover for me at the hospital."

"Then it's settled," Montgomery exclaimed. "As soon as Cornelia clears it with our future daughter-in-law, we'll contact you so you can make arrangements. I'll call Derek and Olivia, too."

The party broke up soon after. Amber's daze didn't lift until she and Tripp reached the Cloverdale village limit. Her time with Tripp wasn't over, and neither was their pretend engagement. The charade would continue.

She was thrilled and relieved and scared to death. She'd fallen in love with a man with brawn and brains and might and morals. She had one more week with him. Could he fall in love with her in that time? If he did, what then?

It would be worse if he didn't.

One week wasn't much time, but it was a week longer than she thought she would have. She vowed to use it wisely.

* * *

Amber gave the door of her father's study a quick rap with her knuckles, then turned the handle and quickly poked her head inside. "Hi, Daddy, it's me."

She stopped abruptly, because her father wasn't sitting behind his huge mahogany desk. Her mother was.

Amber's spontaneous smile gave way to a much more practiced one. "Mother. Hello. Where is everybody?"

"How would I know?" Meredith Colton snapped. "Nobody in this household listens to a word I say. It's a disgrace, the shape it's in."

Eyeing the wall of bookshelves on the opposite wall, the cabinets and desktop, every surface freshly polished, Amber disagreed. The house was lovely, the floors so clean a person could eat off them. She remembered the food fight she and Tripp had. Biting her lip at the memory, she said, "Where's Dad?"

"He isn't here."

She could see that, but she'd experienced her mother's wrath firsthand far too often to point out that fact. Treading lightly, she said, "What are you doing here, Mother?"

"This is my home."

"Of course. I didn't mean…That is…" Amber could feel her throat closing up. She and her mother couldn't even be in the same room anymore without the skin on the back of Amber's neck prickling. "I didn't know you were home. How are you, Mother?"

"I'm fine. I see you haven't had time for a facial lately. You really shouldn't neglect your skin."

A sadness so deep it had eaten a hole through Amber's insides years ago started to ache. What happened? They used to be so close.

This woman felt like a stranger to her.

"Do you know where Dad went?"

"Your father is away on business. Where doesn't matter. He won't be back for several days." She might as well have added, "Thank God." It was there in her voice and in her eyes.

"Oh. Well, I mean…That is…"

"Amber, please don't stammer. And stand up straight."

Since arguing got her nowhere with the woman, Amber sighed and did as her mother said. "I just stopped by to tell Dad goodbye."

"You're leaving?"

Amber thought her mother could at least pretend to be sorry to see her go. "I'm going to Mississippi for the weekend."

"Why? Why on earth would you go there?"

Amber looked closer at her mother. Why the sudden interest in Amber's whereabouts? Or was it the destination that was causing her mother's concern?

"Tripp and I are attending a wedding there."

The other woman visibly relaxed. "Take plenty of hair gel. The humidity wreaks havoc with a woman's hair."

Hair gel. That was what their relationship had been reduced to. Facials, good posture and hair gel.

Her mother didn't ask about Tripp, or how flying would affect Amber. Amber wished her father had been here. She missed him and had wanted to see him before she left tomorrow. He, at least, would have been interested in what she did, where she went. Feeling sad that she couldn't reach through the brittle veneer to the warm heart of the mother she once knew, Amber said, "Will you tell Daddy I stopped by? And tell him I'm sorry I missed him."

"I'll be sure to relay the message."

* * *

Like hell she would, Patsy thought after that little do-gooder left the room. She hated being called Mother by Meredith's children. She hated being called Meredith even more. Perhaps some day she could reclaim her real name. Until then, she must continue the charade.

Patsy eyed the telephone. She was waiting for a call from Silas Pike.

She shuddered. The man, with his grimy ponytail and Fu-Manchu mustache and goatee, was as inept as he was ugly. He'd screwed up too many times to count. But he was the only person Patsy had been able to find to finish the job that car accident had started ten years ago.

Patsy sighed. Turning in Joe's oversized leather chair, she watched as Amber drove out of the driveway in her smart little sports car. Patsy had sent everyone on errands this morning, and had thought she had the house to herself. She must have been in her room when Amber arrived. Now, Patsy thought, the coast was clear for her meeting with Silas Pike.

His phone call was late, and Patsy's stomach was in knots. Seeing Amber hadn't helped. It never did. Everyone said that both Amber and Sophie looked just like her. Amber, especially, with her sunny personality and quick sense of humor acted so much like Meredith it turned Patsy's stomach.

Patsy had resented her twin sister all her life. Being forced to be nice to Amber, who acted just like her mother, was more than Patsy should have been forced to endure.

She'd already endured so much. Since the very beginning, everything had gone awry. She'd been treated unfairly all her life, the downtrodden twin, while Meredith was doted upon. The fact that they were identical didn't seem to matter to their mother, who'd placed Meredith on a pedestal while finding fault with everything Patsy did. She hated her mother for that. She hated Meredith most of all. Amber wasn't much better. She reminded Patsy too much of Meredith. Sophie, too. Why couldn't Joe and Meredith's children just leave and never come back? Was that too much to ask?

But no, even grown up, they came back time and time again. With their every return, Patsy was forced to remember Meredith. And she wanted to forget her identical twin sister had ever existed.

Besides, no matter what anybody said, neither Amber nor Sophie worked as fastidiously at their looks as Patsy did, therefore neither of them were as stunning as she was. Of course, it cost a pretty penny to keep up features like hers. Her hair stylist, manicurist, masseuse and clothing experts were the best money could buy. She was worth it. She deserved all the special treatment. Why, what with everything she'd been forced to endure these past ten years, she deserved all this and more.

Ten long years she'd been waiting, suffering through this charade. If only Meredith had died in that car accident. Then Patsy could have assumed Meredith's identity without all these headaches. Without always fearing the worst. Without constantly looking over her shoulder, worrying that Meredith might return at any moment. Without wondering if that plain little red-headed brat, Emily, whom Meredith and Joe were stupid enough to adopt, might show up here with someone who believed her story of seeing two mothers at the accident. Once, Patsy had overheard Emily, the simpering little orphan, refer to her as the bad mommy.

What if somebody believed her story? What then? Patsy had had no choice but to hire Silas "Snake Eyes" Pike to silence Emily once and for all. Patsy was supposed to get rid of Joe at the same time. Could nothing ever go smoothly?

With Joe gone, and Meredith and Emily out of the way, Patsy would have had all the Colton money. Then she could raise her darlings, Joe, Jr. and Teddy. And she could use every means to find the baby girl she'd lost so many years ago.

Patsy massaged her temples. She wanted the perfect life she'd always dreamed of. Soon, she told herself.

Silas insisted he was getting closer to discovering Emily's whereabouts. And as inept as he was, the other P.I. she'd hired to find her twin was probably right about the fate Meredith had undoubtedly met. It was comforting to believe that Meredith had become a homeless person with no memory, and more than likely, died as a Jane Doe. It was fitting. Patsy liked to imagine it that way.

She leaned back in Joe's chair, continuing to wait for Silas Pike to call. The phone didn't ring, but at least the new gardener she'd hired pulled into the driveway. No matter how much she'd badgered him, Marco Ramiriz had refused to rid the gardens of the pitiful plants Meredith had grown years ago. Patsy would see that the new gardener did as she said. After all, it wouldn't require a green thumb to yank out plants that shouldn't have survived to begin with.

Bit by bit, year by year, she was ridding her life of everything Meredith had touched. She would enjoy watching the destruction of the few remaining wildflowers and scraggly plants Meredith had once loved. The anticipation made her smile.

The phone rang. Her smile turned nasty the instant she heard the sound of Silas Pike's voice on the other end. He was sniveling. She hated sniveling. She'd hired him to put an end to the problem of Emily Blair once and for all. He was inept. She hated that most of all. He'd been so close to finding that little brat who could at any moment insist that she, Patsy, wasn't who she said she was. Emily, with her sickening nickname, "Sparrow," was a loose end that needed to be eliminated.

"I don't want to hear any more excuses," Patsy said in a low, menacing voice.

She rolled her eyes as Silas spouted several more reasons that he hadn't been successful this far.

"Just keep a watchful eye on that do-gooder Wyatt Russell and his new little wife, Annie. While you're at it, keep close tabs on Toby Atkins. I have a feeling he knows more about Emily's whereabouts than a good sheriff should."

Silas made noises about needing money.

"I've given you all the money you're going to get this month. Lay off the booze, and find Emily. And when you do, await my instructions."

She hung up. Looking out the window again, she tried to cheer herself with the knowledge that one day soon, all this unpleasantness would be behind her, and this entire estate would be hers.

* * *

"Louise?"

The beautiful woman finished snipping the flower from its delicate stem before glancing at Martha Wilkes, who watched Louise closely as she neared.

In a soft, Southern accent, Martha said, "You still aren't comfortable answering to that name, are you?"

For ten years she'd been going by the name Louise Smith. She shrugged and did her best to smile. She didn't believe for a moment she was fooling Dr. Martha Wilkes.

"Do you still want to go through with the meeting with Emily and Rand, who claim you're their long-lost mother?"

Yes! No! Yes. She was terrified. According to her records, her past wasn't pretty. Patsy Portman. That was the name on her file. It felt as unnatural as Louise Smith. There was something vaguely familiar about Portman, but she couldn't imagine being called Patsy.

Once, in a dream, she'd heard someone call her name. When she awoke, she remembered the dream, but not her own real name. It was an M word, like Mary, or Marianne, or Mary Beth. Or perhaps what she'd heard was Mommy.

Massaging her temples to stave off the headache that invariably accompanied probing too deeply into her memory, Louise considered telling Martha to cancel the meeting. Then she would go running into her home, where she could hide from the nightmares that had haunted her for ten long years. She might have succumbed to the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm her. But she didn't, because not all her dreams had been unpleasant. Sometimes, she felt a sense of déjà vu so powerful she was faint and hopeful at the same time. There was a place deep inside her, a place beyond logic and reason, that had experienced a great love, and children's laughter, and tears, and joy. Other doctors and therapists she'd seen over the years had dismissed the sensation, theorizing that it was most probably due to the fact that she'd once given up an infant for adoption. For a long time Louise had accepted that explanation. But that theory couldn't explain the visions she'd been having of a tall, dark man. In her most recent dreams, he'd stood in a lush garden, surrounded by children of all ages, all waiting expectantly for her, arms open wide, as if waiting for her to come home. The garden in her dreams was similar to the garden she was standing in right now including a fountain. But that garden and fountain were larger, and there was a swimming pool, and a sound that could only be the ocean carrying on a soft breeze.

Where was the garden of her dreams? Who was the man? And who were the children who called out to her but she couldn't quite hear?

She looked into the distance where the sun glinted off the wings of a jet cutting through a cloud shaped like a turtle. Nerves tap-danced in her stomach, and a yearning so strong she nearly cried out washed over her. Oh, how she wished that man in her dreams, or one of the children, perhaps, was on that jet and was coming to invite her home.

Wherever that might be.

Louise was terrified that this girl, Emily, would take one look at her face, only to turn away, mistaken. Louise was almost as terrified that Emily wouldn't turn away, mistaken. What if Louise regained her memory, only to discover that her dreams were simply that? Dreams. What if the man didn't exist? What if his love never had?

What if she regained her memory, only to discover that she had no one?

"Louise?" Martha Wilkes placed her brown hand over Louise's pale one. "We can wait if you want to, or if you need to."

She gazed into Martha's warm, compassion-filled eyes. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the sky. The jet was gone, and the cloud that had looked like a turtle was now just another cloud. It reminded her how much everything could change in the blink of an eye.

She knew better than anybody that life rarely handed out second chances. No matter how terrified she was, she couldn't pass up hers. "Bring Emily and her brother to me. I'll be waiting."




Seven

The air outside the airport in Jackson, Mississippi, smelled faintly of exhaust fumes and felt like deep summer. Tripp tried to help the porter stash his carry-on and all four of Amber's suitcases in the trunk of the cab. After getting in the way a few times, he stepped aside and let the man do his job. Placing a tip into the porter's open hand, Tripp climbed into the back seat next to Amber, sputtering, "I could buy a month's supply of medicine for the clinic with what I've spent on travel alone so far this weekend."

"Dr. Perkins told you to keep track of your expenses."

"I prefer to pay my own way."

She leaned ahead, speaking through a window in the glass partition. Seconds after she gave the driver directions to the bed-and-breakfast Dr. Perkins's assistant had reserved for them, the cab was speeding around winding lanes, leaving the airport behind.

"Montgomery Perkins and his associates can afford it, Tripp."

"Dammit, that isn't the point."

The taxi driver made a square turn out of a round corner. Tripp noticed the way Amber placed a hand over her stomach. She turned her head slowly and blinked, her throat convulsing on a swallow. "I'm still groggy from the airsickness pills. What are we arguing about again?"

For all the floundering he did through his mind searching for a reply, he couldn't come up with anything of value. Why was he trying to pick a fight?

And then the answer came, unbidden.

He could think of only two activities that would cure him of the unholy case of unspent desire he'd been battling ever since Amber had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder an hour into the flight. The numbness had left his hand shortly after she'd awakened, and for the most part, the kink had worked its way out of his neck, but he hadn't forgotten how soft her hair had been beneath his cheek. And he swore her scent had permanently permeated his senses. Okay, arguing wasn't his first choice. However, it was a hell of a lot safer than the other activity.

He reminded himself that they were simply pretending to be engaged. His brain knew the difference between playacting and the real thing. Why, then, did his desire feel so real?

Because it was real, dammit.

Which meant that not all of this was pretend, after all. And that made it even more dangerous.

The first thing he was going to do when he got to his room was take a cold shower. Perhaps when he'd put a little distance between him and Amber he would be able to concentrate on what he would say and how he would stomach being in the same room with Derek Spencer.

Beside him, Amber was fumbling around inside her large leather purse. Bringing a pack of mints from the bottom, she offered a piece to him. "It's wintergreen," she said. "It helps soothe an upset stomach."

Her need for something to soothe her upset stomach reminded him of everything she was doing for him. She'd braved airsickness for him. She was using her vacation time for him.

Watching as she popped a mint into her mouth, he said, "You're a real trooper."

"For a spoiled little rich girl, you mean?"

She looked up at him with dewy eyes and a soft, serene smile he wouldn't have minded sampling. "You're not so spoiled. And you're a lot tougher than I gave you credit for."

Amber didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't a compliment, or the barely-there smile on Tripp's mouth. It certainly wasn't the whisper-soft kiss he placed on her cheek. Holding perfectly still, she closed her eyes. There was something incredible about the brush of a man's lips on a woman's cheek. It was something few men bothered with in this day and age. She doubted it was something Tripp did every day. Which made it even more special, and completely endearing.

She waited to see what he would do next. She would have loved it if he covered her mouth with his, but she wasn't entirely disappointed when he shifted to his own half of the back seat and looked out the window. There would be plenty of time for kissing once they reached the inn. Her imagination running wild with what she hoped would happen after they took their time kissing, she let her gaze trail out the window, too.

Still a little woozy, she felt airy and hopeful, too, and had even before the jet had touched down. She couldn't explain it, except that she felt close to something or someone precious. It probably had a lot to do with the man sitting next to her. But it also had to do with the dream she'd had on the plane.

She'd dreamed of her mother. Not the way her mother was now, but of how she'd been a long time ago, when Sophie and Amber and Emily had been young girls and their mother had shown them how to make flower chains in the garden near the pool. The sisters had worn them in their hair, pretending to be forest sprites and laughing until their sides hurt. Amber could still hear her mother's voice as she'd insisted the girls reminded her of birds. That day, four-year-old Emily, with her flyaway red hair and her knobby knees, had become Sparrow. Ten-year-old, golden-haired Amber was nicknamed Finch, and beautiful, lithe, twelve-year-old Sophie was Lark. Amber and Sophie had outgrown their nicknames in no time, but little Emily's had stuck.

It had been months since any of them had called Emily anything. Sparrow, Amber thought, where are you?

The taxi was idling at a red light when Amber's gaze was inexplicably drawn to a girl standing at the corner. The girl's back was to Amber, but her hair was the exact color of Emily's. Amber's heart sped up then slowed down. The girl was thinner than Amber had ever seen Emily, but her height was right, and that hair…

Amber held her breath as the girl turned. Just then, the wind blew that mane of red hair across her face, hiding it from view. Amber's hand went to the door handle. "Emily?" she called through the open window.

The sound was lost beneath revving engines and honking horns. The light had turned green and the traffic started forward.

Her heart in her throat, Amber strained to see the girl's face as they passed. But a group of tourists stepped in front of her, swallowing her into the crowd.

"Amber, what is it?"

She heard Tripp's voice, but she didn't take her eyes off that group of tourists. "See that girl? The one with the red hair?"

They both peered out the back window. "I see several girls back there. Two of them have red hair."

Amber stared wordlessly until the little entourage disappeared from view. Emotions welled in her throat. Biting her lip to keep it from quivering, she said, "I thought I saw my sister, Emily."

"Emily?" Tripp asked. "What would your adopted sister be doing in Jackson, Mississippi?"

Fighting through the cobwebs left over from her motion-sickness medicine, Amber shook her head and sighed. "You're right. What could Emily possibly be doing here?"

But where else could she be? And why hadn't she called?

They turned another corner. Before long, the cab was taking a ramp leading to a freeway. According to the directions she'd received from Dr. Perkins's assistant, Amber and Tripp were less than half an hour away from the inn.

"The journey's been hard on you," Tripp said, close to her ear. "We'll be arriving at the inn soon." He glanced at the watch he'd been fiddling with. "It looks like you'll have time to lie down for a little while when you get to your room. I brought some medical journals to read in mine."

Amber didn't say anything. Luckily, Tripp didn't glance at her. Therefore, he didn't see the smile of anticipation that settled on her mouth. And he didn't hear her murmur under her breath, "All's fair in love and war."

* * *

It wasn't fair! Emily Blair Colton thought as she stepped out of the shadows between two buildings in one of several historic districts in Jackson, Mississippi.

Homesickness washed over her. She wanted to follow that taxicab, to call out to her big sister. Amber, come back. Don't leave me. Please.

But Emily couldn't do that. Amber didn't know she was here. Only Rand knew. Emily hoped. The fewer people who knew where she was, the better.

She looked over her shoulder, studying every person on foot, in parked cars. Fear. She shook with it. It was so real, she could taste it. She wanted to go home. She needed to go home. That need welled up inside her, bringing tears to her eyes. Dashing them away, she prayed it would all be over soon.

Emily had the world's best reason to be in Mississippi. But what was Amber doing here? Driving great distances made her sick; flying did her in.

Peering into the distance where that taxicab had been, Emily forced her heart back into its rightful place in her chest, and wet her dry lips. She was so tired of running, so tired of being scared. She was twenty years old, far too young to feel so weary.

The past year had been a nightmare. But in reality, the nightmare had begun ten years ago, when she and her mother, the real Meredith Colton, had been in a car accident. Nothing had been truly right since.

For ten long years, Emily had tried to make sense of a hazy, out-of-focus image of her good mother being replaced by an evil one. And now, finally, it was all beginning to become clear, for recently, Emily's oldest brother, Rand, had sent word to her in the little town in Montana, where she'd been hiding. It seemed the private investigator Rand had hired had finally found proof that Emily's dream of seeing two mothers at the accident scene hadn't been a hallucination. Emily's dear mother, Meredith, had an identical twin sister named Patsy Portman. Patsy was the evil twin in every sense of the word. Emily hadn't known she had an aunt. Rand hadn't, either. Emily didn't begin to understand why their mother hadn't told them of her twin sister's existence. She must have had good reason. Perhaps one day soon they would have answers, too.

Patsy had caused that accident. Emily was sure of that much. Then she'd assumed Meredith's identity.

Emily didn't know why Patsy would do something so horrible to her only sister, but at least the truth was finally close at hand. In her heart of hearts, Emily had always known that something had been gravely wrong with her mother since that accident. Now, Rand had discovered the whereabouts of the real Meredith Colton. Evidently, their poor mother was suffering from amnesia and had taken the name Louise Smith. Rand had already paid a visit to her therapist, Dr. Martha Wilkes. He'd wanted to take the situation by storm. Emily smiled, because that was the way of most of the men in the Colton clan.

Dr. Wilkes had instructed Rand to go slowly and proceed with caution. Evidently, their mother had been having dreams for years. Sometimes they were so terrifying they brought on horrible headaches and setbacks in her treatment. Dr. Wilkes had told Rand that other times their mother dreamed of a faceless man and children calling her name. That dream always left their mother sad and lonely.

Emily understood that sadness and loneliness.

It was Dr. Wilkes's belief that the key to unlocking Meredith's memory lay in the hands of the red-haired little girl Meredith repeatedly dreamed of. Emily blinked back more tears. Her dear mother hadn't forgotten her, at least not in her heart where memories often burrowed, or in her dreams where they were relived.

Although she hadn't been born a Colton, Emily understood Rand's desire to bring their mother home. Emily, too, yearned for the love of the mother none of them had seen in ten years. That yearning had driven Emily to flee Red River in the middle of the night, hitching a ride across six states. It was a dangerous way to travel, but the real danger lay in the possibility that Patsy might discover her whereabouts. That woman was evil. Even though the past year had been hell, and she feared for her life, Emily would do it all again for the opportunity to gaze into her mother's loving face once again.

She stepped into the intersection and stuck out her thumb, only to pull it back again when an unsavory-looking man with dirty hair, a scraggly beard and grease-stained clothes slowed down. No matter how tired, or how anxious she was, she'd come too far to throw all caution to the wind now.

Hungry, thirsty and bone weary, she drew a map of Jackson from the back pocket of her jeans. As near as she could tell, she was two miles from the place where she was to meet Rand. Taking a deep breath, she tucked the map back into her pocket and her hair beneath her baseball cap. She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and headed across town.

* * *

"Martha tells me you're married?"

Emily heard Rand's sigh all the way from her side of the small garden table. "Yes," he said, to the beautiful woman that neither of them could take their eyes off, and who obviously viewed them as strangers.

Those first few moments when Emily, Rand and their mother had come face-to-face again after all these years had been awkward. Emily was tearful and frustrated. She'd fantasized about this reunion for years. In her daydreams, her beloved mother always instantly recognized her. She did not stare at her with a distant, troubled expression. Emily had wanted to throw herself into her mother's arms. Rand, who rarely showed any emotion, had cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. Their mother's eyes had remained dry.

To her, they were strangers.

No, Emily screamed inside her head. She and Rand were her children, and not her only two. Emily had come so far, had hoped for so much, yearned for so long. She wanted to cry. Dr. Martha Wilkes gave her head the barest shake, giving both Emily and Rand a stern look. She'd warned them that it might take a while for this woman she called Louise to remember.

"My wife's name is Lucy." Rand shifted in his wicker chair, clenched and unclenched his fingers.

Meredith and Joe Colton's firstborn, Rand was an overachiever. As an attorney, he was accustomed to taking charge, being in control, getting things done. Emily thought this sitting back and waiting must be killing him. She understood his frustration and his disappointment. Rand looked so much like his father. She'd been sure their mother would take one look at him and remember everything.

"A pretty name," Meredith—Emily refused to think of her as Louise—said.

"She's incredible," Rand said. "I'd love the two of you to meet. Some time. Someday. That is…" Again, he tugged at his collar. "When you're ready. When everything finally gets back to normal."

Emily could have kissed her big brother for saying "when," and not "if."

Meredith's gaze flickered around the table, alighting on each of them for but a moment. Her beautiful brown eyes were blank, fearful almost and somehow sad. Emily was beyond words. Luckily, Rand had his wits about him. "Lucy has a five-year-old son," he said in an obvious effort to keep the conversation going. "His name is Max. Wait until you meet him."

There was something familiar about the way Meredith fingered a fold in her inexpensive, though lovely dress. There was gray in her hair now, and a few lines in her pretty face. She was no less beautiful than she'd ever been. And inside, she was the same woman who had taken one look at the toddler with the flyaway red hair, tattered dress and scraped knees, and loved her. From that day forward, Meredith had accepted Emily as her own.

There had to be a way to reach her, to help her remember.

"Rand is in the process of adopting Max, Mom," Emily said. "The way you and Dad adopted me."

Meredith's gaze caught on Emily, studying her face, as if searching for a hint of something she might remember. Birds twittered in the small, lush garden. Bees buzzed around a fence covered with honeysuckle in full bloom near the back of the property. Without taking her eyes off her mom, Emily said, "This garden reminds me of how the one at home in Prosperino used to look when you were tending it."

It was Dr. Wilkes who said, "That would explain why you've always been so drawn to plants more native to California than Mississippi, Louise."

Meredith nodded. "I've dreamed of a garden, lush and large, and of people, faceless for the most part, and voices and laughter. And I've always suspected that the sound I heard in the background was the ocean." She put a hand to her forehead, as if her head was beginning to throb.

Martha Wilkes reached over. "Don't try to force it, Louise. It'll come back to you when you're ready. It might return one memory at a time, or it could return in one fell swoop."

Meredith wavered a small smile at her therapist. Emily knew she would be forever grateful to the lovely, dark-skinned woman for the care she bestowed on her mother.

"All these years," her mother said in a voice so quiet both Emily and Rand had to lean forward to hear, "I've been terrified my memory would never return. Sometimes I was almost as afraid it would, because I was pretty sure I wouldn't like the woman the clinic said I was. But I'm not her."

She cringed at the shooting pain in her head.

"Would you like to lie down?" Dr. Wilkes asked.

Meredith blinked. Laying both hands flat on the table, she said, "No. What I'd like to do is serve tea." She glanced around, as if suddenly shy. "Would either of you care for some?"

Emily doubted that her mother understood why she and Rand both grinned suddenly. Rand was strictly a coffee drinker, strong and black. Normally, Emily preferred cola.

Both said, "I would love some tea."

Their mother hadn't changed. She was still kind, warm, welcoming. And she still served tea this time of the afternoon.

Emily and Rand gazed longingly at her until she disappeared inside her little house. The moment she was out of hearing range, Rand began firing questions at Dr. Wilkes.

"Is there anything wrong with her besides her loss of memory?"

Before Martha could answer, Emily said, "She seems frail."

"She gets headaches, oftentimes severe. She may seem fragile, but I've witnessed her strength time and time again."

Rand nodded. "A weaker woman would have given up."

Emily said, "I always knew that if Mom was alive, she would fight to find her way back to us."

Martha nodded sagely.

"I understand how Patsy could have caused that car accident, then switched places with Mother," Rand said. "But how did Mom come to live here?"

Martha Wilkes looked at Rand with unblinking eyes so brown they appeared black. "According to the report I received from the private investigator you hired, Louise—or should I say Meredith, your mother—had somehow turned up at a clinic in Monterey. She was suffering from amnesia, but her driver's license said her name was Patricia Portman. Patsy Portman was a former patient of theirs. Your mother spent six months there. Knowledge of her supposed mental disability and her prison record must have been a horrible blow to her self-esteem. All this time, her therapists, myself included, have believed she was suffering from multiple personality disorder. Your Patsy fooled us all."

Rand jerked to his feet and paced to an arbor covered with roses. Patsy Portman was his aunt, but he hated her with a ferocity that staggered even him. "The thought of my mother…" he had to clear his throat before he could continue "The thought of her believing those morbid lies all these years, and living here, so far from the people she loved and who love her, turns my stomach."

"I can see that."

The straightforward reply reminded Rand that Dr. Wilkes was a very talented therapist. She was still their best bet in finding the fragile string and strumming it in a manner that would bring Meredith's memory back.

He glanced around him, ran a hand through his dark hair. "I still can't believe how much this yard looks like the gardens at Hacienda de Alegria. It's amazing when you think about it. And fitting. Look at what she made out of nothing. She may not remember us, but inside she's the same person she always was. There has to be a way to trigger her memory."

Emily remained quiet, listening, thinking. Wondering. Without conscious thought, she jumped to her feet and started for the house.

"Where are you going?"

She stopped suddenly. Glancing over her shoulder at the beautiful woman with smooth black skin and short, cropped hair, she turned slowly and said, "I always helped Mom make tea."

The therapist started to shake her head slowly.

Holding up one hand, Emily said, "I won't do or say anything to upset her. I promise."

She glanced to Rand. Before he opened his mouth, Dr. Wilkes said, "I'm on to you, girl. You want your brother to distract me so you can make a run for it. Go ahead. Help your mother. But remember, I'm holding you to that promise."

Emily twirled around again, the simple summer dress she'd changed into in Rand's hotel room tangling around her legs. Behind her, she heard her brother say, "When this is over, we're taking you out on the town."

Dr. Wilkes said, "I can't remember the last time I brushed the dust off my high heels and went out on the town."

"Well, get out your dusting cloth, because when Mom finally goes home, my father is going to want to throw a party. And he'll want you and your husband to attend."

Martha didn't bother telling this sharp young attorney that she'd never taken the time for things like husbands or flights to California. She hadn't even dated since she was much, much younger. Now she was forty-five, and her biological clock had stopped ticking. She hoped she was never sorry.

The door closed behind Emily. Beyond the window, Martha could see Louise—no, her name was Meredith—moving about her kitchen. Her children wanted to take her home. And sooner or later, she would go. And Martha would move on to try to help her next patient.

This was the life she'd chosen. And she wasn't sorry.

"Where are you going?" Rand asked.

Martha turned in nearly the same place Emily had moments earlier. Smiling warmly, Martha said, "Let's go see if your mother and sister need any help with that tea, shall we?"

* * *

"Mama?"

Louise—or Meredith, or…Lord, she didn't even know what to call herself anymore—looked up from the jar where she stored her tea bags. The sight of the lovely, red-haired young woman standing in the doorway took her breath away. Or had being called "Mama" done that?

"Yes?"

Emily moved closer slowly, shyly. "I see green is still your favorite color."

Meredith looked at the green curtains she'd made herself and at the moss green walls she'd painted her kitchen. Green was her favorite color now. She hadn't known it was always the case. Motioning to the girl's dark green dress, she said, "Is it your favorite color, too?"

Emily shook her head sadly. "I like it, but my favorite is blue. Amber loves yellow, and Sophie likes red." Steadily moving closer, she said, "I thought you might like some help. Where do you keep the tray?"

"In this cabinet." Gesturing to a low shelf, Meredith leaned down. But Emily beat her there, going blithely to her haunches.

A sense of déjà vu washed over Meredith. She straightened, her heart in her throat. She didn't know why she reached a hand to gently touch a lock of Emily's hair. The young woman tilted her face up, her blue eyes delving Meredith's. There was moisture in those eyes as she reached for Meredith's hand. "Oh, Mama, don't you remember me at all?"

Meredith was rocked by a powerful wave of emotion. It was more than a flashback. It was as if some vital electric link between her conscious mind and her dormant memory had been jump-started and was pushing outward, like a seed coming to life.

Staring deeply into Emily's face from this angle, she caught a glimpse of the red-haired little girl who had haunted her dreams and had given her a reason to go on. Tears coursed down Meredith's face as she clasped Emily's hand and drew her to her feet. "Yes, I do remember you…Sparrow."

For the first time in ten long, lonely years, Emily flung herself into her mother's arms. "Oh, Mama, I've missed you so!"

A movement in the doorway drew Meredith's gaze. As if seeing the dark-haired young man for the first time, she whispered, "Joe?"

She staggered, and Rand and Martha rushed forward.

The tea kettle whistled. Meredith covered her ears and closed her eyes. In a daze, she felt herself being lowered into a kitchen chair. When she was certain she wouldn't faint, she opened her eyes. Slowly, she reached a hand to her firstborn son.

"Of course, you couldn't be Joe. You're Rand, aren't you?"

There wasn't a dry eye in the place. Emily sobbed openly. Rand's eyes swam. Martha sniffled, although she would probably never admit it out loud. Bristling, she bustled to the stove and lifted the tea kettle off the burner.

The horrendous whistling stopped.

In the silence that ensued, the enormity of the love in Meredith's heart made her head swim all over again. "I'm afraid I need to lie down."

Three people were suddenly pulling her to her feet. Helping. Getting in the way. Rand swung his mother into his arms. "Emily, get the door. Martha, which way to her room?"

"Rand, put me down this instant, do you hear me?"

Everybody stopped in their tracks. Meredith smiled through her tears. "I mean it, young man."

Rand did as his mother instructed.

"Martha," Meredith said, her voice seeming to come from miles away in her own ears, "would you help me to my room? Emily, you can make the tea." She paused. "You never liked tea. Rand, you, either."

"Lie down, Mama," Emily said. "Rand and I will learn to like tea while you rest."

Meredith glanced behind her. Two of those faceless people she'd been dreaming about were no longer faceless. Her memory was still hazy, and she felt as if a light breeze might blow her off her feet, but she didn't want to close her eyes for fear that they would disappear. "You won't leave?"

Emily bit her lip and smiled through her tears as she shook her head. A sense of joy that Meredith had only dreamed existed flowed into her. So much didn't make sense, but now she needed to rest her body and her mind so she could take it all in.

"Come along," Martha said, taking Meredith's arm.

Moments before turning away and heading into the narrow hall that led to her bedroom, Meredith heard Rand say, "Just try to get rid of us, Mom. I dare you."

* * *

Shadows were long, the evening still, the sky the color of early twilight when Emily and Rand pulled out of their mother's driveway. "Please, God, I don't want to leave her," Emily whispered, tears running unchecked down her face as she waved.

"We have to, Em," Rand said, waving, too. "Dr. Wilkes is right. The longer we stayed, the more confused Mom became."

"Drive slow," Emily said around a sob. "I want to look at her as long as I can."

Their dear mother stood next to her therapist, waving for all she was worth. She looked dangerously pale, and achingly beautiful as she waved goodbye. In that last moment before they disappeared around a curve in the street, she blew them a kiss from the tips of her fingers.

Emily and Rand were quiet after that, each lost in similar thoughts. Their mother had slept for three solid hours, only to awaken with a screaming headache. No matter how much her head hurt, or how long she'd slept, she hadn't forgotten Rand and Emily. But she hadn't remembered any more, either. Emily didn't know who was more disappointed, her or them.

Dr. Wilkes had reminded them that, regardless of what she couldn't remember, she remembered them. It had been Dr. Wilkes who'd insisted they finally leave Meredith in her care. She and Rand had argued about that, but in the end, they'd admitted that she was probably right. This had been their mother's home for nearly ten years. It was Dr. Wilkes's belief that she would be better off in familiar surroundings, warning them that a sudden move at this point might cause a major setback. It was their mother, herself, who'd insisted Martha step up her therapy. She would try anything, she'd declared, including hypnosis again in order to regain the remainder of her memory, so she could go home, intact.

"Can you imagine how excited and thrilled everyone is going to be?" Emily exclaimed.

She and Rand had the same thought at the same time. "Not quite everyone," Rand said.

"The evil twin is going to be furious."

"My God, Em, when I think about everything she's done."

"I know."

"I wish it was safe for you to come back to D.C. with me."

They both agreed she would be safer in hiding back in Red River, Montana.

"I'm going to hate to leave Mississippi behind," she said. "Because it was here that I got to see you again. And Mom. Did I tell you I saw Amber, here, too?"

"Amber's in Mississippi? Are you sure?" Rand asked, in that infuriating way brothers had.

She gave him a look only sisters could manage, which pushed his buttons and made him defensive. "What would she be doing here?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe you knew. I haven't exactly been in contact with the family lately, remember? Amber must have a good reason. And something tells me it has something to do with the handsome, dark-haired man she was with."

"Amber is in Mississippi with a dark-haired man? This family is getting impossible to keep track of. And nearly impossible for me to keep safe."

"We're Coltons, Rand. We all have brains and good instincts. You men have brawn, and the women have feminine wiles. Something tells me Amber is using hers right now. Wherever she is."

Rand shuddered. He knew firsthand how it felt to be on the receiving end of an intelligent, determined woman's feminine wiles. Men were no match for that kind of strategy. If the youngest of his natural-born sisters was indeed using her feminine wiles right now, he felt sorry for the poor bloke she was with.

On the other hand, what a way to go.




Eight

The inn's door opened easily when Tripp nudged it with his elbow; Amber had left it ajar. The woman thought of everything.

As he shouldered his way through, he noticed that she appeared to be having a serious conversation with the no-nonsense woman standing near a desk in the next room. Apparently, there was a problem.

The bed-and-breakfast could have been lifted straight off the pages of a glossy magazine. It was Southern in style, with tall pillars and a verandah that stretched along the entire front. As long as it had running water and a couple of clean rooms, Tripp wouldn't have cared if it was a shack.

He looked around him in the foyer. This was no shack.

He'd paid the taxi driver, arranged his carry-on and most of Amber's bags over his shoulders and in his arms, then followed the course she'd taken up the wide brick walkway. He was hot and sweaty, his clothes wrinkled, his shirt stuck to his back. With every step, the thought of a cool shower and a quiet room grew more appealing.

"I have the confirmation right here." Amber lowered a shoulder bag to her feet and rifled through her purse.

Tripp stopped a few strides away. Whatever the problem, she seemed to be handling it. Which came as no surprise to him.

"According to this fax, dated two days ago," she said with quiet emphasis, "rooms ten and twelve are reserved in our names."

The other woman's countenance changed by degrees as she perused the fax. Next, she studied her register again. "Oh, dear."

Easing closer, Tripp said, "Problem?"

The other woman was probably fifty, and wore it well. Her auburn hair was smartly styled. Her diamond ring must have been three or four carats, her clothing as refined as the Southern lilt in her voice. "I don't know how it happened, but we just ushered two dentists and their wives from Iowa to rooms ten and twelve. They had confirmations, too."

The bags were getting heavy. "You're saying you don't have a room for us?" Tripp asked.

"Oh, no." She gave him a small smile. "We have a room for you."

Hoisting the bag that was slowly slipping from his grasp, he said, "Excellent. Where are they located? If you'd point us in the right direction, we'll find them ourselves."

He didn't know what to make of the furtive glance Amber and the other woman exchanged. It was Amber who answered. "Not them, Tripp. It. There's only one room reserved for us."

The innkeeper said, "If it's any consolation, I've always felt it was the loveliest room in the inn."

Tripp glanced down at Amber. Her hair was mussed, her lipstick long gone. She'd been traveling for hours. She'd been ill. How in the hell did she manage to look so damned appealing?

He needed some space.

He needed a shower, bad. And he needed both soon. "It doesn't matter if our rooms aren't next to each other," he said. In fact, it might be better if they weren't. Turning to the other woman, he said, "Put Amber in your loveliest room, and give me another one."

"I'm afraid everything else is taken, sir."

Amber knew the exact moment the full implication soaked through Tripp's sweat-glistened skull. It didn't take long. And he didn't look pleased.

She didn't know what to do or say. She'd verified these reservations herself. She'd considered every detail of this trip very carefully. By hook or by crook, she planned to woo Tripp into falling in love with her during the next forty-eight hours. Her last encounter with her mother had forced her to take a closer look at her reasons for remaining up north in the Fort Bragg area. Who would care if she left? She had friends everywhere. And really, if she put her mind to it, couldn't she do work for the Hopechest Foundation anywhere?

Meaningful work was important. Was being with someone who cared about her in return just as important? The answer was a whispered yes that started in her mind and ended in her heart.

Perhaps it was time for her to make a fresh start. Perhaps she would make one with Tripp. Some people believed they not only made their own fate, but they made the wave that carried them to it. Amber tended to be among those who believed a person could only control so much. She was all for catching a wave. She just didn't harbor any illusions, for sometimes, the perfect wave reared up and tossed a true believer on her rear.

She hadn't planned to fall in love with Tripp Calhoun. Now that she had, she wanted him to love her in return. She was going to give it her best shot.

She'd been thrilled to learn rooms ten and twelve had a connecting door, and positively ecstatic to discover that there had been a cancellation, and therefore they were both available. She'd shopped for hours for the perfect dress and shoes. She'd packed candles, her most beautiful dressing gown and her Enya CD. She'd planned the seduction of Tripp Calhoun right down to the tiniest detail. But even she hadn't had the audacity to be so obvious as to reserve only one room.

Apparently, providence was on her side. She hid a smile.

"Amber," Tripp said, "why don't you take this room? I'll get another somewhere nearby."

She hadn't planned that. She stared at him, speechless.

"Again, I apologize for the mix-up," the innkeeper said. "I would be happy to phone other inns and hotels in the area, but I'll be surprised if anything is available."

Amber didn't trust her voice, but the more the dear, kind, wonderful woman with the impeccable taste but only one vacant room talked, the more Amber liked her. "This is peak tourist season. To compound the problem, there are several conventions in this part of the city alone. The hotels are overbooked, and the local inns are already scrambling to accommodate everybody. I'll start phoning around. In the meantime, would you care to see the room?"

Amber watched with smug delight as Tripp shrugged. "It is getting late," she said. "The rehearsal dinner begins at seven. It's going to take me a little while to freshen up and dress."

Finally, he nodded.

It would have been nice if he was a little more pleased about this new set of circumstances. But one thing at a time.

"RayAnn, would you come here, please?" the innkeeper intoned.

A younger version of the innkeeper suddenly appeared. "Yes, Mom?"

"Please help these people with their bags. And show them to room thirty, would you?"

RayAnn, a sturdy-looking girl of about sixteen or seventeen, snagged two of the bags Tripp had been holding. With a wink, she said, "If y'all would just follow me."

Talking as she went, the girl led the way through a large living room where a gray-haired, bespectacled man was looking askance at a woman wearing what could only be fake Spock ears, unless aliens really had landed in Mississippi. Still talking as if nothing was out of the ordinary, RayAnn led her little entourage up an open, Tara-styled staircase. At the top, she took a sharp right, and opened a hidden door. "Room thirty is the coolest room in the whole place."

The second flight of stairs was steep and narrow. RayAnn and Tripp were winded when they reached the small landing at the top. Amber had practically floated up them.

RayAnn was too busy unlocking the door to notice. Amber didn't look at Tripp to see if he had.

Stepping to one side to let them see, RayAnn said, "This is the only room on this floor."

Yes, Amber thought peering past the girl. Providence was most definitely on her side.

"What do you think?" RayAnn asked.

Amber and Tripp strolled over the threshold. The attic room was magnificent. It had a sloped ceiling and ankle-deep carpet the color of ripe plums. There was a quaint writing desk next to the door. Two overstuffed chairs on either side of an antique wardrobe were angled invitingly along the far wall. A king-size bed covered with a luxurious duvet and a dozen textured and tasseled pillows dominated the room.

Staring at that bed, Amber drew a deep breath. This was where the heart of her plan would be carried out. If she dared.

Not if.

She dared.

She hoped.

Oh, for heaven's sake. Nearly every man she'd ever dated had been ready and willing to seduce her after the second date. But being the person actually doing the seducing was going to be a new experience. She should have taken notes.

Nerves fluttered up her spine. She forbade herself to tremble, and quickly looked away from the bed.

"You think this is something," RayAnn declared. "Wait'll y'all see the bathroom."

Amber glanced up in time to see Tripp, who'd been heading that way, freeze in his tracks, then swing blithely around as if he'd suddenly thought better of checking out the room.

"Don't tell me. Y'all are here for the dance convention, right?"

Tripp's eyebrows lowered a fraction. "Dance convention?"

"Well," the girl said, "you sure don't look like dentists or sci-fi fans."

Tripp continued to look puzzled. Amber smiled, because the sci-fi convention explained the fake Spock ears on the woman downstairs. "We're in town to attend a wedding."

While Tripp opened a door, revealing a television screen, RayAnn whispered, "You sure he isn't a dancer?"

"He's a pediatrician."

RayAnn pulled a face. "My pediatrician was about eighty."

Amber grinned. "So was mine."

"What do y'all think?" RayAnn asked loud enough for both of them to hear. "You want the room?"

"Would you give us a moment to discuss it?" Amber said.

With a wink, the robust girl backed from the room, drawing the door closed with her in the process. Alone with Tripp, Amber said, "I don't believe we have many options."

He stared at her, jaw set, teeth clenched. "You're willing to share a room with me?"

She looked at him for several seconds. His dark hair was disheveled, his light-blue cotton shirt wrinkled. His navy chinos rode low on his hips. He was lean and fit, and antsy as a caged cougar. It occurred to her that she wasn't the only one done in by all this traveling. She could tell he was trying not to take it out on her. It was one of the things she loved about him. She couldn't say that, however, at least not yet. So she said, "We lived in the same house one entire summer. I trust you." He had no idea how much, but he would before the night was through.

Tripp stared at Amber. He couldn't help it. Her hair was mussed, her face still pale with the aftereffects of her bout with airsickness. And yet her eyes were artful and serene, as inviting as cool shade on a sweltering day.

She trusted him.

Something was happening inside him. He was pretty sure no woman had ever entrusted her chastity to him. He felt at once humble and ten feet tall. And even more in need of that cold shower.

Damn.

He strode to the door, opened it and handed the girl the last bill in his pocket. "We'll take it."

He closed the door on RayAnn's smile.

"She's right," Amber said.

Tripp turned around. Amber was the one who'd taken the medicine, and yet he was the one who couldn't seem to put two thoughts together. "About what?"

"About you. You have the presence, the grace and the style, not to mention the moves of a dancer. Your name suits you."

"What does my name have to do with anything?"

"Tripp. It means to dance."

"You're kidding."

She lowered tiredly into one of the overstuffed chairs before looking up at him, a faraway light in her eyes. "You didn't know that?"

He shook his head. "My mother was a dancer before she had me."

"With the ballet?"

"Yeah, right." His lips twisted wryly. "In a club in L.A. That's where she met my old man."

She looked at him for what felt like a long time before saying, "We have something in common, you and I. We were both named after something our mothers loved."

Emotions stirred inside Tripp, heating him further. He didn't know what was happening to him. He was pretty sure he shouldn't be enjoying it so much, whatever it was.

His mother had died when he was seven. Other than an image of a woman with blond hair, a cigarette burning in an ashtray, a deep sultry laugh, and feeling safe when she was home, he couldn't remember much about that portion of his childhood. He'd had no idea his name meant to dance. She'd been a dancer. It seemed like too big a coincidence to be coincidental.

"Why don't you help yourself to the shower?" Amber said, rising slowly to her feet. "I'll unpack some of my things."

She bent over the bed and unzipped a case. He got a glimpse of beige lace and the upper swells of her plump breasts. After a long pause, during which he fought for self-control, he grabbed his carry-on and headed for the shower.

* * *

Tripp crossed his ankles and brought the medical journal closer to his face. Fascinating reading, medicine. There were never enough hours in a day to catch up on all of it.

He'd been staring at the same page for ten minutes.

Cool, calm and collected, he checked his watch, then started at the beginning of an article about a new AIDS medication for children, being developed by scientists in the south of France. He read the first line, and the second. Ah, yes, fascinating reading, medicine.

Fully dressed for the evening, he'd chosen a comfortable chair near the register where cool air was streaming into the room. His feet were propped on a matching ottoman. He had a comfortable place to read, an interesting topic to peruse. He found himself staring at the polished toe of his shoe.

The carpet was plush enough to absorb all but the faintest sounds. It was so quiet in the room he could hear the page crinkle as he brought the journal back into focus. Farther away, water bounced off tiles.

Amber was taking a shower.

He shook his head to clear it, checked his watch and read the second paragraph again. The words swam before his eyes, and instead of the medical procedure outlined in the article, he pictured Amber standing beneath the warm spray, the water gliding down her body.

He'd stood beneath the same shower half an hour ago. Only he hadn't used warm water.

A pipe rattled. In the next room the shower was turned off. He heard the thud of the shower door and absolutely refused to picture her drying her face, her neck, first one shoulder, then the other, and finally…

He scowled. Before the effects of his shower were completely undone, he grabbed the remote and pointed it at the TV. There. Some background noise was just what he needed. He should have thought of it sooner.

He read the paragraph a third time. And still had no idea what it said. Swearing under his breath, he jerked to his feet, strode to the door and gave it a brisk knock. "Amber, I'm going out for a—"

The door opened beneath his fist. Amber emerged wearing a creamy satin robe, her face scrubbed clean, her hair secured loosely on top of her head. Her eyes were luminous, her lips parted slightly as she said, "Yes, Tripp?"

A drop of water clung in the delicate hollow at the base of her neck. He cleared his throat. "I'm going out for a walk."

"Outside?"

He couldn't help it if his expression was snide.

"But it's ninety degrees outside."

His gaze did a slow slide down her body. Any second now, it was going to get hotter in here. Taking a step backward, he stripped off his tie and shrugged out of his suit jacket. "How long before you're ready?"

She glanced at the dress hanging in the alcove, and then at her reflection in the mirror across the room. "Forty-five minutes, give or take a few."

"I'll be back in forty-five minutes, give or take a few." He disappeared out the door without another word or a backward glance.

Alone in the room, Amber took in the blaring television and the medical journal tossed haphazardly onto the foot of the bed. Apparently, Tripp had had a difficult time concentrating. Poor baby.

The shower had been turned to cold when she'd gotten in. Evidently being in this close proximity to her was taking a toll on him. Poor, poor baby.

She turned off the television, hung his jacket over the chair then reached for her case. He would be back in three quarters of an hour, give or take a few minutes. She wanted to be ready when he returned. Girding herself with determination and courage, she peeled off her robe and got busy.

That poor baby hadn't seen anything yet.

* * *

Amber was standing in front of the full-length mirror, looking like something Tripp had only dreamed of when he walked through the door. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight of her. She looked up, her gaze meeting his in the mirror. Every hair on his body raised slightly, as if he was standing too close to an electric fence.

He'd never known another woman who could pull off wearing a dress that color. He didn't even know what to call it. Brown was too dark, beige too blah. The closest he could come to anything remotely like it was the outside of a walnut shell. And that seemed far too nondescript. So maybe it wasn't the color that made such an impression. Maybe it was the fit, the style, and the way, at first glance, it almost appeared as if she wasn't wearing anything at all. Every man on the planet knew how provocative almost could be.

"How was your walk?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "I only made it as far as the living room." He'd gotten caught up in a lengthy discussion about the health care system in Canada. He'd used the time to put up a new guard.

She was helping him in ways he would never be able to repay. She was his friend, dammit. Cooper was his friend. In her own way, so was Nurse Proctor. He had no trouble taking his eyes off either of them. Amber was a different story. Her dress was sleeveless, but not low-cut. It had an uneven hem, and was semitransparent from the knees, down. At first glance, the same appeared to be true of a three-inch band at her waist. It turned out to be an illusion. He knew, because he looked far longer than he should have.

His guard slipped a notch, and he had only himself to blame. Clearing his throat, he said, "I didn't really think you would be ready."

"I'm this close." She held up two fingers. That was when he noticed the tube of lipstick in her hand. She uncapped it and leaned closer to the mirror.

Mesmerized, he watched her outline her lips, then fill them in with color. He gave himself a mental kick, grabbed his tie, and quickly tied it. Next, he reached for his jacket, reminding himself that it wasn't her fault he couldn't seem to keep his libido in check. She wasn't even looking at him. To her, this was just business as usual.

"I think I'm about set." She smoothed a hand down her sides. "I could use a little help with this zipper."

She reached up with one hand, lifting the few wavy tendrils of hair trailing down her neck out of the way. Tripp tried to keep contact at a minimum as he raised the zipper, but his fingertips still memorized the texture of her soft skin.

She swayed slightly, and in the mirror, he saw her eyelashes flutter. What was going on here?

Was this business as usual, or wasn't it?

He took a step back, watching her closely.

"Thanks." She said that one word in a voice soft and warm enough to slip into.

His guard slipped another notch. "Amber, what are you doing?"

She looked over her shoulder at him. "I'm getting ready. What does it look like I'm doing? All I need are my shoes." She slipped one on while she continued. "Are you ready to dazzle Montgomery Perkins and his associates, Doctor?"

Her voice sounded natural. Or did it? Before he could decide, she'd donned the other shoe and faced him.

"Well? How do I look?"

He thought she looked beautiful. He said, "You look tall."

She grinned. "It's these shoes. They cost as much as the dress did. They're to die for, aren't they? I mean, they make the outfit. Can I help it if, in them, I'll tower over that snotty little pipsqueak, Olivia?"

Tripp did a double take, then laughed out loud. The statement was just so Amber, he couldn't help it. The tension drained out of him. There was nothing new in the twinkle in her eyes. She wasn't up to anything. This was the same person he'd known when they were kids, the bratty girl with nerves of steel and a heart of gold. She'd grown up, but inside, she was the same little kid who'd stuck up for him to her father, only to call him a jerk the first chance she got.

He offered her his arm. "Something tells me you're the one who'll be doing the dazzling tonight."

Bag in hand, Amber placed her fingers in the crook of Tripp's arm. The most delicious sensation started in a place completely unconnected to her hand, only to radiate outward in every direction. She hoped he was right, and had to bite her lip to hold her expression to a demure smile.




Nine

Duncan's Restaurant in downtown Jackson wasn't quite as elegant as Alessandro's, but it was like Tripp had said when they'd first stepped out of the cab. Eating here was bound to be better than getting poked in the eye with a sharp stick. Amber had entered laughing.

This time it was she who didn't pay any attention to the heads that turned to look. She'd floated in on Tripp's arm, happy. She couldn't help it. She was thoroughly enjoying their weekend together. And she was more and more convinced that what they had would last.

Dr. and Mrs. Perkins had been warm and welcoming. And Amber had been genuinely taken with the bride-to-be and her groom. The bride's mother and all ten bridesmaids had been friendly, too. Amber couldn't say the same for Olivia Babcock and Derek Spencer. Surprise, surprise.

Luckily for Amber, other than at dinner when she'd sat across from Derek, she'd been exposed to him in small doses only. Olivia was more difficult to steer clear of.

Amber was standing with a small group of bridesmaids when Olivia, wearing a designer dress in royal blue silk, placed a dainty hand on Amber's arm and coyly said, "Those pins in your hair are tipped in amber, aren't they?"

Amber's nod was careful.

Olivia smiled all around as she said, "Amber on amber. How quaint and sweet. I had a similar fascination with sapphires when I was in junior high."

There was that poke in the eye with a sharp stick Tripp had mentioned. Amber swore everyone took a collective gasp. The bridesmaid on her right cleared her throat awkwardly, but Amber kept her smile pasted on her face and held her tongue, when what she wanted to do was wipe that smirk off Olivia's snotty face.

As unobtrusively and discreetly as possible, she excused herself from the little group the first chance she got, joining both mothers and the bride-to-be. Jennifer was fretting about the flower girl, who had refused to walk down the aisle at rehearsal. Her mother and Cornelia were trying to put her mind at ease.

Weddings. They involved so much hoopla.

Amber had been dreaming of hers forever. A long time ago she'd imagined an all-day, no-expenses-barred extravaganza such as tomorrow was sure to be. Not anymore. Fairy-tale weddings were for people with functional families. She couldn't imagine the stranger she called "Mother" helping Amber plan the wedding of her dreams.

She took a sip of champagne. Listening with only one ear to the wedding plans for tomorrow, she searched the semiprivate alcove for Tripp. It took only an instant to pick him out of the crowd. Fifteen minutes ago, Montgomery Perkins had escorted Tripp and his contender to the center of the room where they were deep in conversation with Dr. Gentry, Dr. Harris, and Perkins's older son, who happened to be an attorney practicing in Boston.

She was proud of Tripp tonight. This wasn't his preferred setting, and yet he'd handled himself with quiet dignity. At first glance he fit right in, in his expensive black suit and Italian tie. Sure, his haircut helped, but it only took a second glance to know there was something special about Dr. Tripp Calhoun. There was a natural, unaffected aura about him. It was there in the way he stood, his feet a comfortable distance apart, his shoulders squared, his head tilted slightly as he listened to something Dr. Gentry said. Tripp wasn't prone to smiles. When he grinned, he meant it.

In comparison, Derek Spencer smiled big and he smiled often. His hair looked a little too blond, his skin a little too tan. Surely, Amber wasn't the only person who thought Spencer's phoniness went deeper than his appearance. She simply couldn't imagine Dr. Perkins awarding the position to such a man.

Tripp chose that moment to glance her way. She couldn't see the color of his eyes from here, but she could feel the affection in his gaze. An answering heat found its way inside her, reminding her of everything she was planning for later in the evening. Nerves scrambled up and down her spine, but not enough to chase the hazy images out of her mind.

"Jennifer. Hello again."

Amber started, her attention coming back to the group of women she was with. By the time she recognized that voice it was too late to retreat. Olivia was back.

"I was hoping I would get the chance to wish you the best for tomorrow. You must be so excited!" the petite brunette exclaimed.

"I was excited a year ago. A week ago. Tonight I'm nervous," Jennifer said.

"It's going to be lovely," Cornelia insisted.

"I hope it doesn't rain!" Jennifer's mother qualified.

"That's always a concern with a garden wedding," Olivia said, nodding in understanding. "But I heard a weather report. The weatherman is predicting sunny skies tomorrow and temperatures in the nineties. He's not calling for a drop of rain."

Jennifer Blakely was twenty-five years old, and undeniably pretty. Her relief seemed genuine as she laid her left hand on Olivia's arm. "Oh, thank heavens. I feel so much better!"

"If you girls will excuse us," Jennifer's mother said, drawing Cornelia with her.

Try as she might, Amber couldn't think of a graceful way to follow them. She was stuck, on guard, waiting for something bad to happen.

Olivia peered at Jennifer's hand. Lifting it into her own, she said, "What a gorgeous ring. Is that four carats?"

The other young woman shook her head sheepishly. "Five. David really shouldn't have, I know."

"But aren't you glad he did?" Olivia asked.

The two women laughed as if they were old friends. Turning to Amber, Olivia said, "I understand you and Tripp haven't set a date yet."

Keeping her voice carefully controlled, her expression schooled, Amber said, "No, we haven't."

"Your engagement came about rather suddenly, didn't it?"

Amber was trying to decide how to respond when Jennifer said, "A whirlwind romance? How romantic."

Amber could have hugged her.

"I couldn't help noticing that you're not wearing an engagement ring," Olivia said. "You really should insist on one. Without it, the engagement seems so, what's the word? Arranged, don't you think?"

Amber squeezed her wineglass so hard it was a miracle the stem didn't snap in her hand. She was so busy seething, she didn't notice the group of doctors slowly making their way toward her.

Jennifer didn't seem to notice, either. "What do you mean by arranged?" she asked.

Tamping down a nervous shudder, Amber said, "I believe Olivia has a flair for the dramatic. Arranged marriages went out of vogue a few hundred years ago. And as for rings…" Amber waved a hand in front of her face, sweeping the notion aside. "Don't get me wrong. I think diamonds are lovely." She paused for quiet emphasis. "My father owns shares in a diamond mining operation. Therefore, they're not as special to me as they are to some people. Besides, Tripp has something I find far more interesting and intriguing than any diamond. You know what I mean, don't you, Olivia?"

A few feet away, Tripp nearly choked on his champagne. Before his eyes, Olivia's expression changed. Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned, as if she'd underestimated Amber and was only now realizing it. Any second now, a cat fight was going to break out.

Placing his glass on a passing waiter's tray, Tripp swooped between Amber and Olivia. "Dance?"

Amber didn't readily reply. Prying her glass from her fingers, he placed it on the tray next to his, then led her to a corner where a three-piece orchestra was playing. "You and Olivia having fun?"

"That woman is evil. I don't know what you ever saw in her."

"Now there's a question." He turned her into his arms.

"I mean, how on earth could someone like you have had a relationship with someone like her? Even more mind-boggling is how she could toss you aside for someone like Derek Spencer."

Nudging her into a slow dance, he said, "First of all, it hardly lasted long enough to qualify as a relationship. And I'm the one who ended it."

"You did?" He could feel the smile vibrating through her. "Of course you did."

He spread his hand wide at her back, drawing her closer.

"I don't think your former fiancée likes me. Can you imagine that?"

Her wry humor worked over him like moonlight. Tripp almost smiled. He glanced across the room where Olivia was talking to Derek, their heads bent close. "You put her in her place. In her place isn't where Olivia Babcock likes to be."

"Thanks for the recap."

"Any time. You realize she's going to have to get even."

Even as she missed a step, and her mouth dropped open, something went warm inside him.

"Do you think it could hurt your chances with the medical practice?"

"Perkins just told me he's impressed with my work ethic."

She relaxed by degrees. "He's no fool."

Tripp was becoming accustomed to the zing that went through him every time he and Amber were together, but he wasn't accustomed to such ready praise. It went straight to his head. He drew her closer, letting the music set the pace, letting the burn deep inside him set the mood.

He hadn't expected to enjoy himself tonight. He would have been a lot more comfortable if he could lose his jacket, loosen his tie and roll up his sleeves. All things considered, the evening had been much more pleasant than he'd anticipated. It had a lot to do with the stimulating conversations he'd had with Montgomery Perkins and his sons. Not all rich people were shallow or superficial. Oh, all three of the Perkins men were blue bloods through and through. And all three dropped names of influential colleagues and their prestigious alma maters as if they expected Tripp to be impressed. He was a hell of a lot more impressed by how much they cared. About their chosen professions. About other people and about each other.

There was more to his enjoyment of the evening than stimulating conversations. It had to do with Amber. It was strange. His brain insisted nothing had changed between them, but his body begged to differ. He kept thinking about that damn room they were sharing. Room, hell. He kept thinking about that bed. Every time it happened, a change came over him, altering the rhythm of his heart, heating his blood, sending it chugging, thick and slow, to a part of him that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

He was almost convinced it was all in his mind. Almost. But then she would look at him from across the table or across the room, and he didn't know what to think.

As the orchestra moved into another song, Tripp and Amber moved with it. Out of the blue, he dipped her, and she yelped in surprise. All around them, people turned to look. On her feet once again, Amber laughed.

Tripp couldn't take his eyes off her mouth.

She whispered, "I think Cornelia and Montgomery are pleased with the amorous attention one of their candidates is paying to his fiancée."

"Pretend fiancée, you mean."

She reached up with one hand, laying a finger against a vein pulsing in his neck. "Know what I think?"

He waited.

"I think that not all of it is pretend. And I think you know that as well as I."

A dozen denials raced through Tripp's mind, but only one sensation took hold deep in his body. He'd been aware of her curves tucked up close to his body the way all men were aware of all women in such close proximity. His body wasn't reacting to just any woman. All evening long he'd felt the undercurrent in the air. He'd lost track of how many times he'd reminded himself that he and Amber were friends. Just friends. All evening long he'd told himself it was just a simple case of loneliness, of sleeping alone for too long. He'd busied himself with the reason they'd flown to Mississippi, and he'd done his best to ignore the attraction.

Maybe he'd had too much champagne. Or maybe there was another explanation for the desire pouring through him. He drew far enough away to look into Amber's eyes.

"Be careful what you offer, Amber."

Her eyes were large and green and a hell of a lot more seductive than a friend's had any business being. "I know what I'm doing, Tripp."

The orchestra music faded into the background. His feet froze to the floor. All around him, couples danced on. He stood with Amber in the center of the dance floor, trying to resist her, all the while drawing her closer.

She looked at him, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. As if a need had been building in her all day, too. As if she knew there was only one way to satisfy it.

"Jennifer and David are leaving," she whispered. "That means we can, too." She stepped out of his arms. "Shall we?"

They said their goodbyes to Montgomery and Cornelia, Jennifer and David, and half a dozen other people they'd just met. Walking toward the exit, Amber tucked her hand in the crook of Tripp's arm. "Making a grand exit is just as important as making a grand entrance."

They walked beneath an arch strung with white lights. Outside, Tripp placed a steadying hand on the ornate wrought-iron railing as he descended the steps. Amber smiled up at him as if she knew he could use all the steadying help he could get.

They were halfway down the steps when someone called his name behind them. He swung around. In the process, his knuckle caught on a rough spot on the railing. Tripp felt a slight pain in his hand. He was more concerned about the pain in the neck slanting him a phony smile.

"What do you want, Spencer?"

Derek Spencer made a show of looking Amber up and down before turning his attention back to Tripp. "May the best man win." With a snide curl of his lip and laughter that might as well have been canned, he turned on his heel and disappeared inside.

"What was that all about?" Amber asked.

"God only knows." Swiping a hand across his mouth, Tripp scowled.

Amber reached up and with gentle fingers took his hand in hers. Slowly, she brought it to her mouth and placed a kiss as soft as a whisper on his scuffed knuckle.

"When I was small, my mother used to kiss my scrapes and bruises to make them better."

She planted an openmouthed kiss on the next knuckle, and the next. "Better?"

His blood heated, thickened and slowly made its way south. He had a feeling that somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind, she knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn't an innocent and she wasn't a child. She was a woman, a willing woman. One who was damned close to stepping over the line between lover and friend.

He was trying to remember all his reasons to hold her at arm's length when a taxi pulled up to the curb. Amber strode toward it. One hand on the door handle, she turned, waiting. She looked very sure of herself, and very determined.

She wasn't going to be easy to resist.

* * *

"It should be a lovely wedding. Jennifer is so nervous. Her little flower girl is only three. That's one of those iffy ages. You just never know what a three-year-old will do."

Amber had paused. It was the first breather she'd taken since leaving Duncan's Restaurant. Tripp glanced in the direction she was looking. The bed-and-breakfast was up ahead.

"Jennifer was afraid little Breanna would be too shy to walk down the aisle tomorrow." The silence hadn't lasted long. Amber opened the taxi door and climbed out. He had little choice but to follow. "It turns out she just doesn't want to drop the pretty rose petals. She wants to keep them. Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard? Did I tell you the bridesmaids are wearing lavender? Evidently, it's the most popular wedding color right now. Although black is big, too."

Tripp dug into his pocket for the fare.

The driver glanced from Tripp to Amber, who was still talking. And talking. When he next looked at Tripp, his expression was supportive. "Thanks, buddy. Your woman always this chatty?"

Tripp considered telling the driver that she wasn't his woman. And she wasn't normally chatty. He ended up shrugging and closing the door without saying a word.

Amber started toward the front door before the cab had pulled away. It was as if she was in a hurry. Tripp dragged his feet, ending up at the top of the second landing while she was taking the key from her purse and unlocking the door to their room.

Striding through, she said, "I can't wait to get out of these heels."

Before he could say one-Mississippi, she stepped out of one shoe. "Hold it right there."

She turned around as she leaned down to remove the other, as winsome and agile as a willow switch. "Are you going to close the door? Or shall I?"

He shut the door, then leaned against it. "What are you doing?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

As far as he was concerned, she could cut the innocent act. He was on to her. "You're chattering. And that isn't like you. Which means you're nervous. And if you're nervous, what the hell are you doing?"

"There's a fine line between being nervous and being excited. And as far as what I'm doing, if you have to ask, I'm obviously not doing it very well."

The knowing glint that came and went in her eyes was a turn-on if he'd ever seen one. It made him uncomfortable as hell. And intrigued.

Damn. That ticked him off.

"You're trying to pick a fight." She looked him in the eye. "Maybe I'm doing something right, after all."

He felt his eyes narrow, a furrow form between his eyebrows. She should have been put off by his glare. For crying out loud, she should have been afraid.

"You're angry."

"Damn right I'm angry."

She was standing on the far side of the room, seemingly completely at ease. Reaching up with both hands, she began removing the amber-tipped pins from her hair. One by one, they dropped to the plush carpet without making a sound.

Tripp swallowed. "You should be afraid. Hell, at the very least you should be worried."

Holding his gaze, she removed the clasp that had secured the majority of her hair.

"But no. This is Amber Colton I'm dealing with. Everything comes naturally to you. You're not afraid of anything."

She shook her head, her hair falling around her shoulders in waves. "I'm afraid of some things."

"Like hell you are."

"I am." She took a tentative step closer.

"Name one."

"I'm afraid of spiders." Another several steps brought her far too close for his peace of mind. "I'm afraid of flying. I don't like elevators. Or gas stoves." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "I'm afraid of wild dogs and terrorists, poisonous snakes, and drunk drivers, and deep inside, I am afraid of you."

"Me?"

She nodded, taking another step closer. "I'm afraid you'll turn away from what I want tonight."

His ragged breath could have been heard anywhere in the room. "You're running out of time, Amber."

Another step brought her within inches of him. "What am I running out of time for?"

"Out of time to come to your senses."

She tilted her head understandingly, and Tripp realized he was the one running out. Out of breath, out of diversions, out of topics to argue about.

"Out of time to tell me no."

"That's an interesting way to put it, when I was just thinking how glad I am that we have all night."

The air rushed out of him in an audible whoosh. While he still had a few functioning brain cells, he said, "I didn't plan this. I didn't bring protection."

"I did."

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, there she was, just a touch away. "You planned this?"

"I brought candles, too. And romantic music."

His gaze homed in on her mouth. "You planned this."

"I don't think we need music or candlelight, do you?"

She swayed slightly. His hands shot out, perhaps to steady her, or perhaps to hold her safely away. Instead, he gathered her closer, his hands drawing her up, up.

She watched him through half-closed eyes and tilted her head. A moment later he covered her lips with his. The kiss was just a brush of air at first, but then it changed. Her eyes fluttered closed, as did his. He moved his mouth a quarter of an inch, deepening the kiss. He tasted champagne, and passion. Her lips parted beneath his, and a rush of feeling flooded over him. He made a sound deep in his throat, the kiss becoming a mating of lips, and tongues and the very air they breathed.

Tripp had always had a good imagination; heaven knew it had been working overtime tonight. But imagery couldn't hold a candle to the jolt pulsing through him right now. She was right. They didn't need candlelight or music. But they did need this.

They needed more.

Her body was fluid against his. Her waist fit his hands, the flare of her hips enticing him to explore. The kiss went on and on, their breath mingled, their sighs filling the room.

They finally drew apart, and their eyes finally opened. His hands went to her face. Holding her steady, he kissed her again, twice. This close, he heard her breath hitch in her throat. She took a step backward. For a moment he thought she'd come to her senses. It would be best. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until after she leaned down and switched off the overhead light, until after it became apparent that she hadn't changed her mind.

The only sound was his deep, shuddering sigh. The only illumination came from the table lamp across the room. It penetrated the darkness and threw soft shadows in every corner, on every hollow surface. The overhead fan moved the air in circular currents. It was romantic as hell. Dammit, he hadn't planned this, but somewhere deep inside him, he'd known the evening would end this way.

She'd thought of everything, even protection. He'd known she was thorough. He hadn't known she would be so pliant in his hands, or that he would want her so bad.

Without a word, she turned around. Reaching up with one hand, she moved her hair aside, presenting him with a silent request.

Hours ago he'd raised that same zipper. Now he bent down and planted a kiss at her nape. She shuddered beneath his lips. Inch by inch, he lowered the zipper to the small of her back. He knew what she wanted. Who was he to deny the lady?

Amber had never felt such a delicious sensation wash over her. Goose bumps skittered up and down her arms. Hesitating a moment, she took a silent breath for courage and gave in to the sheer pleasure of his touch. With a gentle hand on each shoulder, he turned her to face him. She forced her eyes open, and there he was, his smile stark and white and full of shared secrets, and of need.

She planted a kiss on his chin, then made short work of unknotting his tie. Next, she unbuttoned every button on his crisp white shirt. Her fingertips paused at his belt.

"You touch me there, and there'll be no turning back."

His eyes were so deep, so brown, so fluid, she felt herself slipping right in. Holding his gaze, she placed her hand where he'd warned her not to. His eyes closed, his breathing hitched. She'd never been so brazen, so wanton, had never felt so powerful. It was a heady sensation, but it was nothing compared to the expression on his face.

His eyes opened, his lips parted and then he dragged her against him as if he couldn't get enough, his hands memorizing every curve from hip to shoulder. Lowering her zipper the rest of the way, he eased the dress down her arms.

Forbidding herself to tremble, she let the dress slide down her body. Ever so slowly, she stepped out of it and kicked it aside.

She'd spent as much time finding the perfect lingerie as she had searching for the dress and shoes. Standing before Tripp in her transparent bra, the scrap of satin panties and lace-topped stockings, she knew it had been worth it. He couldn't take his eyes off the upper swells of her breasts.

"Perhaps you would like to take it from here?"

Tripp didn't need a second invitation. He slid a strap down each shoulder. She drew her shoulders together, and for a moment, he thought she might cover herself shyly. Something clicked far back in his mind. Before he could examine it, she reached behind her, undoing the clasp. In a luxuriant movement, she let the garment fall to the floor.

He spread his fingers wide and covered her breasts. Her body fit his so perfectly, he wanted to roll her underneath him. He tore off his tie and shucked his shirt. His shoes came next. When he was naked, he whisked her remaining wisps of clothing out of his way. Her eyes had drifted closed, the look of rapture on her face his complete undoing. He lowered her to the bed, stretching out beside her.

The mattress shifted beneath their weight. He glided a hand down her body, willing himself to slow down.

She whimpered. "Oh, don't stop."

"I'm not stopping, I'm just—"

She moved her leg against his. "I want—"

He knew what she wanted. He reached for protection.

He kissed her again, on the mouth, on her chin, her shoulder, the delicate skin at her waist and hip. In that order, and in every order.

"Ah, yes," she whispered. "Please."

He brought her on top of him, then in a movement that took both their breaths away he had her on her back and he entered her. She arched upward.

He was aware of something unusual. But then she started to move, and he couldn't think. It had been so long, and she was so beautiful, and sensual, and responsive. He tried to slow down, but she cried out, raking her fingernails down his back, letting him know she wanted nothing to do with going slow. Relying on instinct and the sounds Amber made deep in her throat, he gave in to need and followed her to that place beyond logic or reason, to that place that might as well have been on the other side of the moon.

He surfaced slowly. Once his breathing returned to a more normal rate, and he could actually think, he chastised himself.

It hadn't been a profound performance. Such things took time. And she hadn't given him any time, not to think, not to analyze, not to take things slow.

Sure as hell not to put two and two together and get four.

No wonder she'd been chatty. She'd said there was a fine line between nerves and excitement. Hell and damnation, she had been nervous—and for good reason.

Raising up on one elbow, he waited for her to open her eyes. "Amber, how…why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were a virgin?"

She shrugged, bravely meeting his eyes. "I wasn't sure."