"Hannah?"

She stopped at the door but didn't turn, which allowed Trent to come up behind her and slide his arms around her waist. She simply stood in his embrace as if waiting for him to realize he'd hugged her by accident. He turned her by the shoulders.

"I like talking to you," he said, closing his arms around her. He also liked her gra.s.s-and-flowers scent, a fragrance bearing a promise of both spring and clean, sweet woman.

"I haven't held a lady in my arms in forever," he said, though the sorry truth was he hadn't wanted to hold a woman in his arms. "I forget how grand and simple a pleasure it can be."

She dropped her forehead to his shoulder, and he could feel her blushing, though she wasn't pulling away. She slipped her arms around his waist, and G.o.d in heaven, was the fit ever sweet.

"I was attracted to you before you listened to my tale, Hannah." Lest she think this was some sort of platonic office-buddy hug.

A nod, and no maybe about it, she burrowed closer.

"You haven't been held in a while either, have you?"

She shook her head, and something light and lovely coursed through Trent, part arousal but also hope and warmth and peace. Still, Hannah was female, so he asked the obligatory question.

"Do we need to talk about this, Hannah?"

A big sigh, and she took one step away. "I need to think about it. You're a lovely man, but I've never done an office-an office whatever. I'm not at all sure... I'm just not sure."

"Fair enough." He should probably think too, later. "You need to know one thing, though: I am not after an office fling. If we decide to do something about what I hope is a mutual attraction, then sooner or later, I'll be looking for a relationship, Hannah. I'm too old, too much a dad, and too old-fashioned to pretend I'm nineteen anymore."

Trent was looking for a relationship that very instant, which would probably surprise Hannah as much as it surprised him. While he didn't begrudge her time to think, to consider her preferences and terms, he was also too much a strategist not to give her something to think about.

He closed the distance between them, glad somebody had had the sense to shut the d.a.m.ned door.

Chapter 8.

"When you're considering the evidence, Hannah Stark, consider this." Trent leaned in and brushed a kiss to her cheek-a warning shot. She stood her ground, so he did it again. Her breath hitched, and she seemed to have developed a fascination with the rhododendron.

For a procession of instants, Trent savored sensations he hadn't felt in years. Arousal and antic.i.p.ation, for this was a woman he could desire. Grat.i.tude that he was still capable of a healthy response to a willing woman, and determination.

Hannah hadn't been kissed in a while, he'd bet his membership in the Maryland Bar a.s.sociation on that, and he wanted Brahms, Rachmaninoff, and chocolate mousse for her, not paintball and farm team baseball.

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and anch.o.r.ed the second low on her back. Everything lined up wonderfully, and Hannah wasn't shy about holding onto him, either. She slid her arm under his coat and used her free hand to cup his jaw.

"Bristly," she said. "I like it."

He liked her, and he liked kissing her. She let a guy lead, let him start with a soft press of mouths, a slide and tease of lips, another press. She scooted closer, and Trent thought of Mac's big cushy couch and the elegant arch of Hannah's foot.

The longer they kissed, the more closely he held her, until tongues got involved-two of them-and sighs and moans-lots of those-and an inevitable heating of Trent's blood.

"I want to see you with your hair down," he whispered. He wanted to screw her on the desk too, or a part of him was advocating for that plan.

She eased back but kept her arms around him. "I need to think. You're too good at this."

"I'll get better, though it will take some practice." A lot of practice, but when Hannah said she needed to think, what she meant was she needed privacy to do it. James's rule of thumb came to mind, about treating the ladies as he'd want Merle to be treated. "May I walk you to your car?"

"You made it a question."

Apparently the right question, because Hannah allowed it, and when Trent held her coat for her and held the doors and carried her briefcase, she allowed that too. Though it about killed him, when they reached her car, he closed the door for her without kissing her again and without standing around in the parking lot like a half-frozen, love-struck idiot for more than a solid minute.

James stood beside Mac at the window in Mac's office, watching the head of the domestic relations department escort his newest a.s.sociate to her car.

"Why isn't that idiot sneaking in a little kiss here and there?" James asked. "He's not even touching her. Didn't offer his arm, hasn't got his hand on her back."

"Some of us appreciate a more subtle approach," Mac said. "Some of us with a little discretion and tact."

"I about sat her in my lap at lunch earlier this week. She said I was flirting my eyelashes off, and laughed at me."

"Laughed?" By a little blue Prius, Trent handed Hannah her briefcase. "You have my condolences, James. You must be losing your touch. We depend on you to carry the Knightley standard into the bedrooms of western Maryland, but it looks as if at long last-well, one hopes it's long last-"

"Shut up." James smacked Mac's shoulder for good measure. "It's just as long and lasting as it ever was, but Hannah Stark has been inoculated against my devastating charms by the only thing that has ever protected a female from falling for me."

"Common sense?" Mac drawled. "A functioning brain? A sense of humor? An accurately calibrated ruler?"

"She's fallen for him," James said, gesturing toward the parking lot. "We have reason to hope, Mac. You'd better give him your don't-f.u.c.k-it-up speech."

"I already have."

"He wasn't listening."

"Yes, James, I think he was. I think he was listening as well as he ever has."

"Then again"-James's expression became thoughtful-"if he breaks her heart, I can always console her, or you could."

"You've succeeded in literally s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g your brains out if you think I'd lay a hand on that woman."

"I haven't yet-literally screwed my brains out, that is-but a guy needs a worthy goal."

"But, Eliza, he doesn't want just a fling."

Hannah sat on a bar stool in Eliza's kitchen while Eliza poured boiling water off a big pot of macaroni, and in the next room Henry and Grace played a game of slapjack that consisted mostly of arguing and smacking each other's hands.

"He told you he doesn't want just a fling?" Eliza asked as she took off her kitchen mitts.

"In those exact words."

"So where's the problem? You like this guy or you wouldn't have let him lay a hand on you."

Hannah didn't merely like Trenton Knightley, she respected him, and she liked kissing him. "How do you know I let him lay his hands on me?"

Eliza mixed two piles of grated cheese into the pasta with a big wooden spoon, while Henry bellowed that the winner did so have to clean up all messes.

"Trenton Knightly has you fl.u.s.tered," Eliza said while the kitchen filled with the scent of cheesy domesticity. "All those guys in law school couldn't get you to give them the time of day, the a.s.sociates and even the partners at the temp jobs couldn't get you to go out to lunch. You've been to lunch with Mr. Domestic Relations, Esq., and you haven't known him a month. You must trust him in some regard, or he'd get the same polite brush-off you gave all those other legal beagles."

"They were beagles too, right down to the pawing and sniffing."

"This Trent guy, you see him differently."

Hannah saw him in her dreams. "That smells good."

"You're welcome to stay. Who wouldn't want to watch Adam smear macaroni in his hair while Henry laughs so hard he snorks at the table?"

"I think I'll pa.s.s." Then too, Hannah wanted to go home, where she'd have the peace and quiet she needed to think-and recall every detail of a kiss that had left her wanting to take off more than her shoes or Trent's tie.

"Maybe I should send some macaroni home with you, and I'll even throw in Henry for no extra charge." Eliza sprinkled Italian spices on the macaroni and cheese, oregano and garlic joining the kitchen fragrances.

"Trent's a dad, Eliza," Hannah admitted softly, forlornly, while Eliza dusted her hands over the pasta.

"A custodial dad?"

The worst kind, a loving, conscientious custodial dad. "His daughter is almost the same age as Grace, and when he talks about her, you'd think he was describing-I don't know. I get the sense she's what keeps all three brothers together as a family somehow."

"Children do that. They connect us."

"That's why I can't indulge in any romantic nonsense with Trent Knightley. What if he thinks all dads should have access to their children? What if he thinks Grace's dad should have regular unsupervised visits? What if Grace gets attached to Trent, only to have Trent start drawing lines in the sand?"

Eliza set the bowl of macaroni on the dining table and faced Hannah, hands on hips.

"We aren't in foster care anymore, Toto. Miss Wallingford, Esq., isn't going to lumber into the courtroom and blather your private business to the world. You can tell Trent any d.a.m.ned thing you want about Grace's dad, or draw your own line in the sand and tell him that topic is off-limits. If he's as interested as I think he is, he won't let it come between you."

The very mention of the Miss Wallingford, attorney for the Douglas County DSS, made Hannah wince.

"But, Eliza, what sort of relationship is built on lies and secrets?"

"Privacy is not lies and secrets. You want some of this to take home?"

"No thanks. Well, maybe a little." Geeves would thank her. "I don't think Trent would stand for anything less than the truth. He's that kind of man."

"An honest man who's a loving father and happily employed in a worthwhile career. What is so blessedly wonderful about chronic loneliness that you'd pa.s.s him up without even a look, Hannah?"

Eliza cut off the possibility of a reply-thank heavens-by hollering for Henry to come wash his hands. That mercy meant Hannah wrestled with the answer to Eliza's question for all of the next four days.

Gerald let himself into Joan Smithson's apartment with the key she'd given him, even though she'd asked him to wait outside for her to come home.

If she hadn't wanted him coming and going as he pleased, she shouldn't have given him a key. For a street-smart girl, Joan Smithson could be blindingly naive.

She was like this apartment: shopworn, comfortable, and possessed of odd domestic touches. A spray of dried flowers in an old gla.s.s bottle, a dream catcher hanging from the kitchen light, a picture of her dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks nephew on the refrigerator.

"You were supposed to wait in the car," Joan said, pitching her keys into a ceramic bowl on a stand near the front door. She was bottle blond, probably five-foot-one in her bare feet, and she liked to dress loud and tight. "I specifically asked you to wait outside, Gerald."

"Did you bring the stuff?"

She smiled at him, the smile of a forgiving woman who'd learned too early in life to keep her expectations low.

"Here's your toot, but don't do it too fast." She held up a tiny white paper envelope. "I need some attention too."

Stupid b.i.t.c.h, though useful, in a well-worn way. Joan wasn't thirty, and she liked to party. Besides, they all looked the same in the dark, she could suck the chrome off a ball hitch, and she wasn't stingy with the goodies.

Where she got the drugs, or how she was able to afford them, was none of Gerald's business. Their liaison had begun when she'd retained him to defend her for a DUI. It was her first offense, and of all people, Joan Smithson had a perfect driving record.

In her peculiar ignorance of criminal process, Joan hadn't realized a first offender would be offered some sort of break based on her spotless record. She'd been desperate to ensure she was getting the best representation money-or any other inducement-could buy. He'd caught her at a point where money was tight, and she'd been pleased as h.e.l.l to trade in those other inducements.

Even Gerald was amazed that Joan could traffic in all manner of vice and never run afoul of the law. She probably wh.o.r.ed as often as she dealt, and wh.o.r.ed for her drugs, but she had no arrests, no convictions, no charges, nothing.

She had her rules, and they pretty much a.s.sured she wouldn't get caught: never buy, sell, or hustle a stranger; never use or transact business in a public place; never transact more than you can use; and always deal in cash at the time of sale.

Gerald s.n.a.t.c.hed the drugs from Joan, noting that her bright-red nail polish had chipped on two fingers.

Like Joan herself. Painted, but not carefully enough to hide the wear. Still, Joan had a fun-loving sort of enthusiasm about her, and she liked to screw.

A fine quality in a woman. He tucked the snowsuit into the pocket of his jeans, swatted Joan's tight little b.u.t.t, and gave her a solid shove toward the bedroom.

"Dad, am I a b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

Trent paused in the middle of mucking Bishop's stall, wondering if he'd heard correctly. Merle was in the next stall over with Pasha, her very own horse, grooming the old duffer within an inch of his lazy life.

"What makes you ask that?"

"Joey Hinlicky said Grace is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and Grace told him he better not call her that or she'd tell Mrs. Corner, but then Grace told me Joey was right, and Grace really is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She's not supposed to make a big deal over it, because some people aren't very nice about it."

Merle paused to scratch her horse's neck.

"What did Joey mean when he used the word?" Trent asked.

"Grace told me what it means. It means her mom got a baby but she didn't get married. You have me and you're not married anymore, so I just wondered. Grace said she doesn't mind being a b.a.s.t.a.r.d because she gets her mom all to herself."

Grace? Merle never mentioned friends at school by name. Trent wasn't sure she even had friends among her cla.s.smates.

"Come sit beside me minute, Merle. We need to have a talk."