Jack gave her a careful look before replying, "Just Jack, thanks. And no, she was merely one of the guests. Met her last night."

"And fed her breakfast in bed!" Chuck said, following up with a whistle.

"She did not spend the night here, and all I fed her was fruit!"

The brunette's lips twitched slightly, telling him she found his predicament amusing. "Seems like that's the way Adam and Eve got started." Before Jack could reply, she added, "I think I prefer Jackson."

"Chere, only mah grandmere calls me Jackson, but...I'll make an exception in your case, considering you're visiting my Eden," he replied, turning on the charm. "How did you know my given name?"

"Do you treat all of your guests like this, Jack?" Chuck interrupted.

"I couldn't even tell you her name. She didn't spend the night." Jack kept eye contact with the brunette who seemed bent on peering into his soul. He tried to shake the feeling that she was sizing him up and that somehow he wasn't faring well in her judgment.

"She tried to come over last night but I told her I needed to clean up the clubhouse, so she came over this morning to say goodbye. You know how some women are. Just won't take no for an answer."

He looked up from the brunette's gaze and gave Chuck a candid, bright-eyed smile.

"Traveling together?" He indicated the women, secretly hoping if they were all together that Chuck's interest was focused on the pet.i.te blonde instead of the sa.s.sy brunette.

"No!" the brunette rushed to say. "We met on the plane, and once we found out that he was coming here as well, we offered him a lift. Didn't seem right for both parties to rent a car when we could share expenses." She stuck out her hand, "I'm Marilyn Ma- that is, Marilyn. This is my best friend, Colette, and we're staying in one of your cabins. Your grandmother told us you might be here and that you'd show us the way."

Jack took the hand she offered and noted with amus.e.m.e.nt that her pulse seemed to quicken when he held it a little longer than necessary. "I'm Jack Delacroix," he said, p.r.o.nouncing the last name with a delicious accent. "Welcome to Tsa La Gi."

"That sounds Native American," Colette mused, "but you're French, aren't you?" When Marilyn gave her a not-too-gentle gouge in the ribs, she added, "You have a slight...accent."

"My grandmother is French," Jack told her. "She raised me and my two brothers, so I 'm sure we all talk like her just a bit. Me...I'm just a mutt mixture of Cajun and Cherokee, and Tsa La Gi is Cherokee-it means the people. You're deep in the heart of Cherokee County right now. You'll find many things named in honor of the people."

He nodded toward the key in Chuck's hand. "Mimi give you that?"

Chuck nodded back. "Yep. She even gave me some candy, commented on my sunburn last time and sold me sunblock before she'd give me my key." He held it up so Jack could see the number. "I'm down the road a bit, as you know, but the girls are next door to you."

"That's mah grandmere! Oh, before I forget... she doesn't know about us being shot down and stranded in the jungle. I slipped up and said something earlier and almost had to explain myself!" Jack said with a laugh. "All these years of hiding it, and I slipped up today. She'd never forgive me for not telling her the truth back when it happened, even though it'd have just worried her. C'mon. I'll take you to your cabin. I' ve got your usual one ready for you. How about you ladies? Which cabin is yours?"

Marilyn held up her key with the number 12 painted on it. "We've already unloaded our bags and put them on the porch."

"Yep. Right next door," Jack said, a smile creasing his face. "So if you need anything...ya jess holler. Ya know where I'll be most likely. Either here or at Pelican Point-that's the clubhouse on top of the hill-you pa.s.sed it on your way here."

He motioned for them to precede him out of the door.

"What a magnificent view!" Colette cried, standing on Jack's front deck.

Jack smiled in satisfaction. He'd worked hard helping his brothers, clearing the land and erecting cabins, and this particular spot had a marvelous view of the river and the wooded area to the south of the campgrounds.

"Best view on the whole site," Jack said proudly. "I figured if I was to help build all of these cabins with my bare hands that I should at least get my choice of cabins. I get this Leonardo di Caprio 'I'm king of the world' feeling when I sit out here."

He caught Marilyn looking at his hands and grinned.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I guess I wasn't expecting you to be such an outdoorsman."

"I'm surprised that you were expecting me at all. I didn't catch your last name." He felt a not-so-gentle throb in his crotch as he looked into her eyes. If she didn't quit staring at him, he was going to cream his jeans.

"The t.i.tanic sank, by the way, and Leo's character drowned." She tried to act nonchalant but was unable to avoid noticing the incredible bulge in his pants.

"What she means," Chuck rushed to say, grabbing hold of one of Jack's arms and pulling him off the deck and in the direction of Jack's old white truck, "is that I told them on the plane about your being a writer. I think they expected someone with smooth palms instead of calluses."

"I see." Jack frowned, not seeing at all.

"Yes, you must cook for us some night!" Marilyn chimed in. "I've read your last two books and am looking forward to tasting at least one of your delicious meals before we leave!"

Her very tone and the glint in her eyes alerted Jack that something was not quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "We'll see...Marilyn, was it? I don't cook much while I'm in between books, and right now I'm recharging the emotional batteries. Perhaps when you visit us again?" he asked smoothly.

"Oh, but surely someone as polished in the culinary arts as you are could spare us at least one trip to your kitchen to watch you in action before we leave!"

Jack c.o.c.ked his head slightly and nodded. "I'm afraid my reputation there is exaggerated. The kitchen's not the room where I truly excel." He quirked an eyebrow, flirting with her.

Score one for the Creole, thought Jack. Marilyn's lips lifted in a sarcastic smile. He'd weaseled his way out of that one easily enough, and he wondered if somehow she knew.

"Don't you think you should tell him...?" Chuck shifted his weight from one foot to another, and the muscles in his neck visibly tightened. He licked his lips and nodded towards Marilyn. "I mean it's only fair, don't you think?"

"No!" both women cried simultaneously.

Chapter Five.

Native American Fry Bread.

Ingredients:.

4 cups all-purpose flour.

1 tablespoon baking powder.

1 teaspoon salt 1 1/2 cups water.

1 cup vegetable shortening.

In a bowl whisk together flour, baking powder and salt, stir in the water and knead the mixture on a

floured surface until it forms a soft but not sticky dough. Let the dough stand, covered with a kitchen towel for 15 minutes. Pull off egg-sized pieces of the dough and stretch them into 1/4-inch-thick rounds. Poke a hole with a finger through the center of each round so that the breads will fry evenly. In a large heavy skillet heat the shortening over moderately high heat until it is hot but not smoking, in it fry the rounds, one at a time, for 2 minutes on each side, or until they are golden, and transfer the breads as they are fried to paper towels to drain. They can also be fried one at a time in a deep-fat fryer for 1 1/2 to 2 minutes.

"There's always time for that later tonight," Marilyn said, flushing.

"What's going on?" Jack asked.

"Buddy...I wish...that is..." Chuck eyed the two women who were staring daggers at him. "Like they said. We have a surprise for you later."

"You don't mind if we invite ourselves for dinner, do you?" Marilyn asked hopefully.

"Not at all. I'll pick up some steaks at the house and we can grill them here," Jack said. "Chuck?"

"Sure. Sure. I'll do the cooking. I've already tossed my luggage into the bed of the truck," Chuck told him. "We'd better get going. I have to take my allergy pills before this Oklahoma humidity gets to me!"

"I phoned the pharmacy," Jackson told him. "Your prescription is ready-you can pick it up any time. Same place as last time."

"Oh, good! I'll go after I settle into my cabin."

"No!" Colette flushed as she interrupted them. "That is, I'll take you. I want to see more of this beautiful river country. You'll still have time to talk with your friend tonight."

She held out her hands for Marilyn's car keys.

"You don't mind, do you?" Colette blinked innocently enough when she looked at Jack. "It's just that... well, Chuck and I just met, but we were getting to know one another so well. You and he can catch up on things at dinner. Okay?"

Chuck reddened as Colette linked her arm in his and walked him to the truck.

"Okay." Jack smiled in spite of himself at Chuck's obvious embarra.s.sment. The little blonde was obviously a ball-buster like her companion and not afraid to go after what she wanted.

"Why don't you offer Marilyn a drink?" Chuck suggested after he pulled his luggage from the truck bed and climbed into the pa.s.senger side of the rented car. "You writers should have a lot to talk about! You know, you could discuss editors and the business and all."

Marilyn gave a small gasp.

"You write as well?" Jack asked conversationally.

The brunette before him nodded, but her jaw was set, and Jack got the impression she didn't want to discuss writing.

As their friends left for Chuck's cabin, Jack felt an unmistakable sense of resignation coming from the brunette just a few feet from him.

"Why don't I help carry your luggage into the cabin?" He motioned toward the suitcases when she looked at him. "It's doubtful anyone would bother it except for the squirrels and rabbits, but there's no need for you to have to carry it all in by yourself."

Again, she nodded, and this time Jackson sensed relief. The pressure he'd felt upon meeting her seemed to have shifted from his back to hers, and he couldn't resist probing to find out what had made her so uncomfortable.

"What do you write?" He studied her face.

"Oh, just magazine articles. Nothing really-at least not compared to your books."

"Did Chuck bore you with details on your trip from New York?"

"Not at all. He was entertaining, but we didn't speak about you all that much."

Jack had the distinct impression that she was lying to him for whatever her reasons, so he stalled.

"How about a cup of coffee before we head over to your place? I have a fresh pot brewed." He indicated his kitchen with a slight nod over his shoulder. "Wouldn't take but a couple of seconds."

When Marilyn agreed, Jack flashed her his best grin. Nothing wrong with getting to know her a bit and find out why she was really there.

Marilyn tried to shake the feeling of helplessness that came over her the moment she was alone with him. What had she said about him? What was it she'd implied? Mama's boy? Soft hands that had never done any hard work? So much for that. She'd wanted to dislike him on sight, not to feel compelled to seduce him, though that might be fun.

She wasn't prepared for the charm, both his own and that of his home. Not that she was a big proponent of feng shui or even New York style-she'd left most of the decorating of the penthouse up to Ben, who in turn hired decorators to handle their furnishings. As long as it looked impressive to outsiders, Ben didn't really care how the results affected him or Marilyn.

Jack's sofa was in good condition but worn, with a crocheted afghan tossed across the back at an angle that clearly stated it had been used recently, that it wasn't merely a prop for the room. Unmatched, framed photos of various people graced the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Books and magazines lined shelves and lay in stacks throughout the living area.

The bedroom area was visible beyond the sofa, because there were no room dividers. Plain cotton sheets, several pillows, what looked to be a down-filled comforter. Marilyn could well imagine the author propped against the ma.s.sive headboard, laptop before him as he spun his tales and constructed recipes. She could also picture him in various other positions and blinked to clear her mind. Don't go there!

She took the opportunity while his back was to her to study him. Well over six feet tall, broad shoulders, tanned arms that peeked from the rolled-up shirt sleeves and large, well-formed hands that were nothing if not masculine. How could she have been so wrong about him on the plane? He was no sissy, no mama's boy. He was everything she'd imagined prior to boarding. All of that and much more, it seemed.

"How do you like it?" he asked, turning with two mugs and setting them on the table while he rummaged for sugar and pulled out a small carton of half-and-half.

Marilyn smiled weakly. "Both cream and sugar...just a spoonful of sugar, though."

She continued watching as he completed his task.

"You're sweet enough, huh?" His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the mug.

I can't respond. Dear G.o.d, get me out of here. He's too close. "Mind if we go back outside?" She looked out the front door towards the river. "I can't get enough of this countryside."

"Sure."

Marilyn searched for a topic of conversation, just to quell her racing thoughts. "Tell me where everything is that I'll need."

"You might jess be lookin' at it." He grinned and walked over to the porch railing, leaning against it and pointing as he directed her. "In front of you to the east, of course, is the river. Back to the south, you have your woods and lots of deer and the occasional c.o.o.n and even bobcat." He shifted his gaze and continued pointing. "Over there to the west is where we keep the horses, and you came in from the north, so you most likely saw the swimming pool, restaurant and clubhouse. We got jess about anything you want here. You can swim, have someone else feed you, shoot a game of pool or dance."

He seemed to be sizing her up, but his direct gaze wasn't offensive in the least. If anything, it only served to ante up her desire for him.

"Do you like living on the river?" she asked.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, chere. My people settled this area over a hundred years ago. It's really all I've known, 'cept when I was in the Navy."

Marilyn could understand. She'd never seen such a peaceful, pastoral setting and could well understand the draw for a writer. Well-positioned rose bushes near each cabin gave off faint, sweet smells of summer. Wildflowers dotted the landscape, and playful squirrels either chased one another or sat studying them from a distance, their sa.s.sy tails twitching. She wished such a place for her father, who hadn't seemed happy where he was in years.

"What brings you to the camp?" he asked.

"Business... and pleasure." Marilyn sipped her coffee, not daring to look him in the eye. The man was only being pleasant, but that d.a.m.ned gaze could be her undoing if she wasn't careful. "Colette is actually the one who found your camp."

Before he could ask her any more questions, she turned her back to him and pointed in the direction of the buildings open to the public. "Tell me about the restaurant. What do you serve there?"

"Mainly burgers and steaks, but we also have fresh catch of the day if you like trout. Even shrimp. You hungry?"

"Starving, which is why I really should unpack." She gulped the rest of her coffee and took the mug back into the house, leaving Jackson on the porch. Get a grip! He's just a man, one who deceived you at that.

She gave an involuntary shudder and turned to walk toward her cabin to their left once she was back outside. So much for mistaken first impressions, she chided herself.