"Which one?" Nate asked. "The spiky one that looks like a hedgehog?"

The boy hesitated for a beat then held up his arms. Nate looked back at Lauren, who watched this exchange with a stunned expression. She must've seen the question in his eyes because she nodded. He lifted the kid as if Drew had dynamite strapped to his body, tilting him forward. Solemn-faced, the boy pulled a wire thing from the jar and pa.s.sed it to Nate.

He lowered the kid to the floor, watching for signs of an imminent freak-out. He gestured to an ap.r.o.n hanging on the pantry door. "It's gonna get messy in here so I'd better put that on; what do you think?"

"But it's pink!"

"Not a problem. I'm not allergic." Nate grabbed the ap.r.o.n and pulled it over his head. The subtle scent of flowers overpowered him-the same scent he'd caught on Lauren's skin. His head reeled for a second, remembering. G.o.d, she'd smelled good, even mud-splattered and dripping wet.

A soft giggle hauled him back into the present.

"You look funny."

One smile, one giggle, and the kid had him hooked. He'd do more than wear a frilly pink ap.r.o.n to make this serious little boy laugh again. "So will you, mate, by the time we figure out how to cook monkey-roni."

"You gotta eat it too."

He should say no. Drive to his new investment and hunker down for the night with a can of baked beans and a beer. Nate slanted a glance at Lauren. "What does your mum say?"

"Please can Nate stay, Mummy? Please?"

Denial and politeness warred for dominance on her face. The woman couldn't act, that was for sure. Politeness won.

"All right. If we have to suffer through his cooking, he should at least eat it too."

Nate turned back to the stove and winked at Drew. How hard could monkey-roni be, really?

Thirty minutes later, Nate winced at the smell of scalded milk permeating Lauren's kitchen. Monkey-roni was harder than it looked.

"Order up."

He dropped a pot into the sink and carried the food to the table with his little shadow trailing behind him with the flatware.

"You okay there, mate?" he asked.

Drew nodded, placing a spoon beside each bowl. "Come on, Mummy. It's ready."

Lauren hopped over to sit beside her son. She raised the spoon to her lips.

"Well?"

Her mouth twisted as if she'd accidently sucked on a lemon wedge. "Mmm."

Nate dug into his meal. Maybe the cheese sauce was runny and had an odd, smoky flavor, but it still beat the microwave dinners he regularly ate when working long hours.

Lauren sipped her water. "Are you going to fix up the MacPherson homestead?"

"That's my plan."

"The house is pretty run down."

Nate showered his remaining pasta with salt. "It needs some work, or so I've heard."

"You've never seen the property?"

He shook his head. "I bought it off Tom MacPherson sight unseen-except for some photos. He said his granddad's place needed a bit of elbow grease, but I'm not afraid of hard work."

"And you're planning to fix it up by yourself?" Skepticism oozed through her voice.

"The bits I can. I know my way around a toolbox."

"How will you live there while you're renovating?"

He raised his gla.s.s of water in a silent toast. "It's a two bedroom house; I'll work around it-and I've got a sleeping bag, beer and plenty of rubbish food to keep me going. All the luxuries."

"A photojournalist, a medic and a handyman...anything you can't do?"

Drew, who squirted dollops of ketchup into his bowl, looked up. "Cook monkey-roni like Mummy."

A giggle burbled past her lips and the sound of her laughter warmed Nate's insides more than the overcooked pasta.

"Hey, whose side are you on?" Nate grinned down at the boy. He really was a cute kid.

"I'll make you a home-cooked meal sometime in thanks for all your help tonight."

"I'd like that."

Her gaze skidded left, the spoon clinking against her plate. "Oh-I mean I'll get my brother to drop something off, since I'm a.s.suming you won't have access to a microwave for a while."

Ah, and the back-pedaling starts. Thanks lady-but he wasn't that desperate for a meal. "Sure."

They ate in silence for a few moments before she put down her spoon. "The MacPherson homestead will be a gorgeous place to live, once it's been overhauled."

Nate paused, a gluey chunk of pasta halfway to his mouth. Live here? Not a chance. "I'm not staying once the renovations are done."

"Oh?" The pretty brow crinkled again.

"I've got a buyer lined up in Auckland."

Lauren stood and picked up her empty pasta bowl. "You're selling it?"

"A developer's planning to turn the homestead into an exclusive retreat-upmarket, cla.s.sy, for celebrities and the like." Nate lowered his spoon at her tightly drawn mouth and stunned stare-as if he'd mentioned the Manson Family were moving in next door.

Lauren's pasta bowl clattered to the table, the spoon toppling out and falling to the floor. "Celebrities? Celebrities will bring fans and the media."

Nate frowned until the light bulb switched on-her private road. "The developer will build a new road to the property with a locked gate, just like yours. No need to worry about traffic jams outside your place in summer."

She nodded stiffly, and a small smile carved her lush lips into two thin lines. "Well, that's good then." Turning to her son she said, "Can you take my plate to the kitchen, please, sweetie? Then we'd better get you ready for bed."

And that was the lovely but ber-Uptight Lauren's cue for him to get the h.e.l.l out of her house.

Nate sure knew how to kill a mood. The Range Rover's headlights cut through diagonal swaths of rain as he approached the MacPherson property line. Make it the Fraser property line, for the time being. His knuckles clenched in pointed b.u.mps on the steering wheel as he gunned the engine up the last rise to the plateau.

Under Lauren's cool stare, he'd pumped up a couple of air beds for them in the family room, so she wouldn't break her neck trying to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night. A few minutes later, he'd been politely evicted, the recipient of condescending glances from the dog at the back door. By that time, he'd been glad to go.

Nate composed a silent memo to hire a chainsaw for his driveway as tree branches and stalks of gorse slashed the car's sides. Talk about overgrown...The delivery trucks would never make it up here. He crested the hill, the headlights sweeping over Mac's homestead.

His "hmm, not too bad" catapulted into "you've got to be kidding" as he parked in front. Water overflowed from the broken guttering, cascading from the missing downpipe over the flaky clapboard siding. A faded tarpaulin nailed over a window appeared to breathe as the wind sucked it in and puffed it out again.

Nate tugged on his hood, grabbed his flashlight and climbed out, a tornado gathering momentum in his gut.

This did not look good.

He swung the wide beam of light across knee-high weeds and clumps of gorse. Crowding in from all sides, the native bush had greedily reclaimed ground. Where were the flowerbeds, the paved pathways and the wooden bench facing the curve of a distant beach far below? Just how old were the photos Tom e-mailed six months ago? Granted, the shots showed the place needed work. But from what materialized by flashlight? It was a frickin' jungle.

Nate stepped onto the deck. Beneath his boots, the spongy wood bowed, complained. Great. Rotten, and from the way the house sagged in one corner, the piles were probably screwed too. He pulled the keys from his hip pocket and unlocked the gla.s.s sliding door, which screeched and caught in its runner.

"s.h.i.t. This just keeps getting better," he muttered and walked inside.

He'd come prepared for a few weeks of rough living. Crash on the floor in his sleeping bag, cook on a portable gas ring, even wash outdoors with a solar-powered shower. Nate shone the flashlight around the family room, dining room and kitchen.

Dank rot and the pungent stench of fresh rat droppings. .h.i.t him seconds later. What remained of the carpet was liberally sprinkled with tiny brown pellets, and a wet blotch in the room's center drew his gaze to the stained ceiling.

This was not what he'd signed up for. There was roughing it, and then there was this dump. He'd done his time as a kid, lived in third-world conditions with his missionary parents. Spent months as an adult in countries whose definition of five-star meant only a few c.o.c.kroaches infested the accommodations, rather than an army of them. He'd opt to do either of those things again than deal with this.

He trudged through drifts of rat p.o.o.p to inspect the back wall. Water damage transformed the hideous, seventies wallpaper into a puffy, three-dimensional effect. The flashlight beam revealed a probable holey roof, which hadn't weathered the last winter well.

How could he get this shack habitable before February? But if he didn't, the deal with Martin Davis would fall through, and Nate would have sunk his life's savings into this rat hole for nothing. Dreams of traveling the globe to create book number two? Dust in the wind.

Nate swore again and kicked a clump of moldy carpet. His mentor-turned-best-mate, Steve Peterson, would cackle his a.s.s off if he could see Nate now.

Toughen up, boy. Everything's temporary for men like us.

Temporary. He had to remember that.

But the crackling fire he'd built at Lauren's house, the welcoming lights, heck, even the smoky smell of burned cheese sauce, swept a tide of yearning over him. And Lauren, who drew him with her enticing mix of edginess and warmth, s.e.xiness and shyness. A woman who'd no doubt sic her guard dog on him should he return there tonight.

Rain hammered on the iron roof, and a rat, not as discerning as its other brethren who'd abandoned this hovel for drier lodgings, scuttled past his foot.

Looked as if he'd be spending the night in his car.

Late next morning, in the weak rays of cloud-strangled sunlight, Nate drove to Lauren's house. He turned into her rutted driveway, and the explosion of flowers planted parallel to it impressed his photographer's eye. Below the house spread the tilled rows of a vegetable garden, and farther down the manicured slope, following a fork in the driveway, protruded an outbuilding with roller doors he a.s.sumed was a garage.

He'd spent hours being rejected by every skilled laborer in Bounty Bay. More than one local had said, "Todd Taylor lives up thataway, don't he? Bloke's good with his hands," or words to that effect.

Lauren's brother. Very helpful. Not.

The guy would kill him if he knew who featured in his dreams last night while he'd curled prawn-like in his Range Rover's back seat.

Nate chose the same fork as the night before and killed the engine before he was tempted to run over Lauren's canine bodyguard, barking apoplectically on the front lawn. The Rottweiler's black eyes honed in on Nate through the windshield. He edged out of the car.

"Good dog. Good Java. I'm a friend, remember?"

A French door swung open, and a small head peeped around.

Nate raised a hand. "Morning, Superman."

Drew sent him a shy wave and stepped outside.

Nate opened the pa.s.senger door and retrieved the set of crutches he'd picked up at Bounty Bay's hospital. Java trotted over and sniffed his gumboot, before lifting his hind leg to the car's rear wheel.

"Charming."

By the time Nate reached the deck, Lauren stood in the doorway behind her son.

Drew pointed. "What're those?"

"Crutches. They'll help your mum get around while her ankle's sore."

A faint line appeared on Lauren's brow as she glanced from the crutches to him.

"If a friend has already dropped some off, I'll return them," Nate added.

Lauren shook her head. He extended the crutches and she slid her hands through the plastic arm guards.

"Thank you. That's very thoughtful."

Nate studied the smudge of fatigue beneath her eyes while she tested her weight. His lungs snagged as his gaze drifted down her cut-off jeans and long legs. Sensual heat shot straight to his groin, seeing how she looked when she wasn't soaked to the skin and smeared with mud. Though she'd been downright s.e.xy even then.

After dunking his thoughts in a quick cold shower, he got his mind back on track. "And the friend? You did call someone to come help you?"

"Mummy's friends are Uncle Todd and Aunty Kathy," Drew answered for his mother. "They're not home. Oh, and Aunty Louisa, but she lives a long way away."

Lauren cut Nate a sharp look from beneath her lashes. "It doesn't matter now that I've got a way to walk other than hopping..."

His gaze pinpointed on the telltale pulse at the base of her throat, the flutter of her fingers on the handles.

"You live alone up here with only your brother and his wife as a support system?" He kept his voice pitched low, but incredulousness lifted the last word a fraction. What woman didn't have a bevy of girlfriends to call on?

Unless that woman was hiding something. Or hiding from someone.

She angled her body toward Drew. "You can go and get a m.u.f.fin now; they should be cool enough to eat."

"Yummy, blueberry."