Mary Elizabeth wore a starched white pinafore over a pink dress that had not fared well on the muddy bank. Rachel helped her remove it. "I see."

The subject moved quickly to guinea pigs, squirrels, mice, and ponies, which she couldn't ride yet because her da said she was too small. While she talked on and on about pets, Rachel studied her upturned face. Her emotions grabbed and tightened.

She understood the solitude. Certainly, she understood the loneliness.

Rachel had been an only child until Kathleen had come to live at the house. Her only pet had been a goldfish that Ryan had given her. She'd adored that silly fish as if it could really talk to her. They'd spent many a night staring at each other through the glass, and before the fish had died, she was sure it knew every detail of her life.

"Are you my fairy godmother?"

"I am your godmother."

Mary Elizabeth touched her braid. "It's all right," Rachel said, when the little girl pulled her hand away from her hair as if caught doing something wrong.

They both stared at each other.

Rachel spied Ryan in the distance talking to a man. Behind him, his monolithic stone house stood like an unerring tribute to wealth and power against the bright colors of the fading day. A beacon of prosperity. His life was completely separate from hers on so many levels that her humiliating scene last night only made her feel all the more foolish.

Later, Mary Elizabeth fell asleep. For a long time, Rachel stared down at the little girl, her hand tucked beneath her cheek, wondering how one child could retain so much energy and look so peaceful in repose. With an indrawn breath, Rachel was thankful she could relax without fear that she'd turn her head and lose Ryan's daughter. She'd been worried all afternoon that Mary Elizabeth would fall into the stream or scrape her knee or hit her head.

The sun laid breezy, patchwork shadows over the ground. Ryan had been gone nearly an hour, and, irritated by his absence, she stood and walked to the stream.

She dug her hand in the bait tin and retrieved another worm, eyeing the plump brown body with disgust. Rachel was adventurous, but not so much that she'd ever eat a worm. After easing herself into the water, she carefully worked her way over the rocks to where the stream was deeper. She'd removed her stockings and petticoats the first time she'd slipped and fallen that afternoon. She had never been a fisherman and had made a mistake taking lessons from a three-year-old who could probably fish as well as she could fly. Fish had scattered in the wake of Mary Elizabeth's enthusiasm. But Rachel didn't want to quit the day a failure, so began casting her line. She'd learned late in life to swim but had never been entirely comfortable with heights and water, which was strange since both components were such a big part of her job, and she was normally quite fearless.

She would have to be to endure Ryan the way she did. He'd been content to sit back and watch her all afternoon, floundering in unfamiliar territory with his daughter. Probably laughing, she thought. Then remembering how he'd held his daughter that afternoon on the stairs, some of her ire departed. She'd never imagined him a father.

There were two sides to Ryan Donally, she realized, reeling in the line. The father part of him was in essence an echo of the boy she'd grown up with. The other side of him was the man she would have to deal with when she spoke to him about her project. The man she'd faced last night at the ball.

A twig snapped.

A tall shadow fell over her. She turned and found herself looking into Ryan's eyes. He stood on the stream bank above her. For a space of time, neither spoke.

"I didn't mean to be gone so long," he said.

Rather than be benevolent in the face of his abandonment, Rachel decided to use it to her advantage. "I thought you didn't perform acts of business on the weekends."

Ryan hunched on the balls of his feet in front of her and rested one elbow on a knee. His boots creaked. "I have a dinner engagement tonight." His mouth smiled. "My playtime is over. And so is yours."

"Mine?" She flushed at his blatant dismissal. "You have a lot of nerve leaving-"

He set a finger against his lips. "How long has Mary Elizabeth been asleep?"

"Thirty minutes." Turning, she worked on reeling in the line, her head bowed over the pole, her shoulders stiff.

Ryan's gaze remained on her back.He'd been watching her for the good part of the last ten minutes, and his gaze lingered where her braid had unraveled in a curly mass down her back. The light had turned her hair into a disheveled sunburstaround her shoulders, and she looked wanton framed against the sky, out of place in his thoughts."Are there really fish in this stream big enough to eat?" he heard her ask."I don't know," he said, peering at her standing in the water. "I've never caught any."Water sloshed as she approached him on the bank. "Do you mean to say I've been at this all afternoon, and there are no fish to catch?""That's one of your better qualities, Rache." He smiled. "You're persistent.""Persistent?" A worm smacked him in the chest. In a flash, she'd clearly forgotten she'd been having fun until five minutes ago. "Move out of my way."

His brow cocked when it looked as if she might throw something else at him.

"You are such an arrogant ass sometimes, Ryan."

"Is that right?"

"You left me with a rambunctious three-year-old for an entire hour. Something could have happened!

What if she'd fallen in the stream?"

"Rache?" With his forearms resting against his thighs, his shoulders pulling at the fine lawn of his shirt, he leaned forward. "Were you afraid?"

"Of course, I wasn't afraid," she scoffed. "But it's freezing in this water." Holding the pole in one hand,

she struggled to get out of the stream. "I can no longer feel my toes."

Ryan peered into the stream at her bare feet. Her skirt was wet up to her knees, and somehow his eyes continued to slide upward. She'd removed her waistcoat. He could see the swell of her breasts beneath her damp blouse. A tiny bow on her chemise flirted with his senses. She was dressed like a spinster and

still somehow managed to remind him of his favorite vice. He raised his gaze and found her watching him with narrowed eyes.

Hell, with a body like hers she ought to have more sense than to parade herself half-naked in front of him,

he thought, his lips curving into a slow smile that wasn't nearly so polite anymore. "It would be a shame to lose your toes," he agreed, without moving out of her way so she could climb out of the stream.

"Get out of my way."

"Or what?"

She threw a handful of grass and dirt at him. "Or you'll need a long, hot bath."

He dodged another handful of dirt and caught her wrist. Their eyes grabbed and held. If she had contemplated another unorthodox use of the dirt in her hand, she clearly thought better of it, for there was something in his gaze that convinced her he was capable of retaliation. "Do you want to tell me what is going on with you?" he demanded.

"At the moment, I don't like you very much, Ryan Donally." She jerked away, and he fell forward,

barely catching himself to avoid tumbling into the water.

"Dammit, Rachel." He came to his feet, brushing off his hands. "I'm not really fond of you too much at the moment either."

"You invite me to fish in a stream that has no fish. Then leave on business when you tell me you don't do business on Saturdays. Now you have a dinner engagement and your playtime is over? I should offer you and Miss Snowflake my heartiest congratulations."

She ruined the moment by attempting to climb out of the stream and slipping.

Hands on his hips, Ryan stood on the bank and watched her struggle. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, he realized as he remembered one of Memaw's many pearls of wisdom picked up from some witty philosopher she was fond of quoting. "Would you like some help?" he politely inquired after she'd ruined her skirt.

Her eyes nearly green behind a fringe of dark lashes, and with an inherent suspicion of his motives bred from their years of childhood war games, she straightened.

Smiling to himself, he knew there had been times in her life when he'd been nice to her, and still things inevitably went wrong, like when he was standing knee deep in the pond behind her house inviting her to swim. She'd walked into the water and stepped into a hole. She'd accused him of nearly drowning her when he'd fished her out, but he was damned if she didn't learn to swim before the week ended.

That memory seized his thoughts. "I won't drop you, Rache," he said.

She glared. "No thank you."

"You're ruining your skirt."

"I can manage on my own."

Ryan lowered his hand, but there was nothing indifferent about the quiet tone in his voice as he lifted his daughter in his arms. "Yes, I believe you can, Rache."

Performance had always been elemental in the Bailey household. Her father had been a domineering son of a bitch. Rachel had learned early to put on her own shoes, to dress herself, and never need anyone. Capability was her middle name.

Indeed, she could manage to get herself out of the damn stream.

Wrapping her hair into a bun, Rachel watched her clothes taken away to be cleaned and pressed. Ruined, she was sure, because of Ryan. Left only with her chemise and a robe that nearly dragged to the floor, she departed her lofty chambers.

It was a nuisance. A damned nuisance to have to discuss business with him at all, much less without benefit of her clothes. In a spasm of impatience, Rachel flicked at the pyramid of fruit that had been set on the table, especially when he seemed quite ready for her to be on her way back to London.

She found him a few moments later, leaving the nursery. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her. His eyes narrowed as he noted her attire. Holding her satchel beneath one arm, she snapped the belt tighter around her waist, daring him to say something rude. Neither of them had ever been modest around the other, and she didn't know why her appearance seemed so off-putting. The robe covered her completely. She even wore slippers that covered her bare feet.

"Is she asleep?" Rachel looked past him to the room he'd just exited.

"She's supping," he said. "You're welcome to say your good-byes if you're brave enough to venture in there all alone."

Folding her arms around her satchel, she observed him coolly. "Truly even you weren't born with the gift of fatherhood. If you can learn, so can I."

"Are you saying you want to learn to be her father?"

His tall calf-hugging boots gave him the advantage of another inch of height, and she tilted back her head, refusing to fall victim to his poor humor. "I'm saying that my ineptness comes from inexperience."

"You aren't inept, Rache." He strolled past, leaving her to stare at his back.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Rachel followed his long-legged stride.

A white shirt was tucked inside the black trousers he still wore from that afternoon. "It means that you did all right today, Rache. I was proud. Honestly..." He held up his hand, their mutual signal denoting absolute truthfulness on threat of death.

Rachel stared at his raised palm, wondering if he even realized the ease in which he'd slipped into their old habits. Then, before she could say something nice, he said, "I've asked Boswell to bring up your clothes the moment they are dry and pressed."

"And if they aren't reparable?"

His eyes slid over her, and she felt more of their camaraderie slide away with that gaze. "Then I hope you have a cloak to hide the mud stains." He turned to the looking glass in the hallway and examined his face as if to determine whether he might need a shave. "If you wear my robe outside, people will misconstrue what we've been doing today."

"No doubt that is a common occurrence for you, Ryan."

He scraped a hand across his jaw. "You read too much gossip, Rache."

"Are you saying all that gossip isn't true?" she couldn't resist asking. "What about that Italian countess" -she wagged her hand in an airy arc-"last year while you were in Venice?"

Ryan shifted his gaze from his reflection to look at her with eyes the color of midnight. An amused concession touched her in that glance and affected her so unexpectedly her stomach fluttered. "Now, that was true." His fingers plucking at the buttons on his shirt, he strolled into the adjoining room.

She checked herself with an effort, aware that it was she who was being nosy. She was the one who had fallen in the mud. She was the one who had something important to discuss. Struggling to repair her composure, she followed him. "We need to talk," she said to the silence, as she realized he'd entered the adjoining dressing room. She peered around her at the masculine quarters, a private study. The ceiling was high. Bottle green velvet curtains matched the upholstered chairs. Bookcases lined the back wall behind the mahogany desk. Potted plants in brass receivers thrived in all corners.

Braving the next few moments, she withdrew her project folder from her satchel. "Will you look at my proposal for the levee project I brought with me from Ireland?"

He returned to the doorway with a towel in his hand. His hair was damp. For a long time, he said nothing. "D&B has a feasibility team for that, Rache."

"I have a feasibility team," she said with an emphasis on I. "Besides, this job is in David's parish," she hedged. "I'm not waiting months for some committee to reevaluate the report my people have already done."

"Did my brother put you up to this?"

"He didn't put me up to anything. But it's solely because of him that D&B receives the support that we do." She held the project report in her hand, but Ryan didn't take it. A lock of hair fell over his forehead. "It's a simple project, Ryan."

Despite his unwillingness, he took the report and thumbed through the papers. The clock behind her ticked away the seconds. She studied her silk sleeve. Pretended interest in the carpet.

"Allan Marrow's name isn't on this report," he finally said. "Who is the senior engineer in charge of this project?"

"I am."

His mouth flattened, and he dropped the folder on the chair beside the door. "So, you think by going directly through me you can avoid the usual formalities in committee? For instance, the fact that you are heading the project will be revealed. You want this consideration by virtue...of what, Rache? You need me for once, so now you're here in London playing nice? Is that what your performance was about last night? Today-?"

"No." Her stomach lurched sickeningly. "It's not like that, Ryan."

"Then why don't you explain it more clearly. Because I'm a little mystified. You're not supposed to be heading projects. Any projects. Your job in Ireland is to oversee the fiscal accounting of that division. You are not supposed to be working in the field. That was our agreement when I gave you the division."

"If I can do the job-"

"Jaysus, Rachel." Pulling his shirttail from his trousers, he turned into the dressing room. "You've been in this business long enough to know the problems. Hell, you understood the problems when you spent years auditing classes to become something you knew could not sell in this industry. I may as well hand the competition the key to our doors. The broadsheets will tear you to pieces, Rache."

Gripping her satchel, she drew a deep breath. "Why?"

"Because the public loves a good scandal."

"Ada Lovelace, Lord Byron's daughter and an eventual countess, was a famous mathematician. She once worked on a calculating machine."

"Does it work?" Ryan returned to the entryway. "I'd like to own one."

She ran her tongue over her lips. "Women are in every industry. Lady Somilier is a civil engineer who worked on a water irrigation system in South Africa with her husband."

His shirt hanging open, Ryan braced both palms high on the doorframe. "Is that right?"