A handful of cars motored by, and multiple people meandered along the sidewalks. The buildings around her were different colors, from blue to yellow to red, and different sizes. Some were tall, some short. Some were wide, some thin. Some were made of brick and others of wood. A true hodgepodge of design, and she loved every inch of it.

Virgil Porter and Anthony Rodriguez each sat in a rocker, playing checkers in front of Style Me Tender, Mr. Rodriguez's salon. Harlow stuck to the shadows and most people never noticed her, which she preferred, but as usual, those two managed to spot her right away.

"How you doing, Miss Gla.s.s?" Mr. Porter called. He owned Swat Team 8-"We a.s.sa.s.sinate fleas, ticks, silverfish, c.o.c.kroaches, bees, ants, mice and rats"-and he was one of the few people who actually seemed to care about her well-being, but she had to be mistaken. Back in her heyday, she'd called his son terrible names.

"I'm well, thank you," she muttered, discouraging further questions. Lying always made her feel guilty, but the truth was never palatable. Well, you see, Mr. Porter, I'm homeless, I've been found out as a thief on my own property, and I'm currently unemployed. How about you? Still having trouble with your liver spots?

"I'm willing to listen if you'd like to rephrase your answer, Miss Gla.s.s. We can talk over a nice gla.s.s of sweet tea." He shook the one in his hand, ice rattling. "Maybe we can even eat the strawberry scones Brook Lynn brought me."

Her mouth watered, her stomach twisting with painful hunger, but she forced herself to say, "No, thank you." The sooner she got out of the town square, the sooner her spirits would rally.

"Harlow?"

The familiar male voice came from across the street. As she turned, her nervous system nearly blew a gasket-there he was, Beck Ockley. And, oh, it so wasn't fair. He looked good enough to eat. The gold streaks in his hair gleamed brighter in the sunlight, and his flawless sunkissed skin somehow appeared painted on by a master artist. Did he even have pores? He'd rolled up the sleeves of his white b.u.t.ton-up, revealing muscled forearms with a slight dusting of hair.

"Uh, hi," she said, offering the lamest wave.

He grinned at her, both wicked and virtuous, stealing her breath.

Lincoln West stood beside him, slightly taller but just as well muscled-just as gorgeous-with the smoldering intensity of a man on death row, whose last meal would be the females he trapped in his sights. Not that he'd ever made good on the silent promise. Unlike Beck, he practiced restraint, not going on a single date since coming to town.

The two were with an unfamliar man and woman dressed in business-formal clothes. Both were attractive, and though the male looked to be in his late thirties, the woman, an elegant redhead, looked to be in her late twenties. Roughly the same age as Harlow and yet a thousand times more successful.

Talk about a knife through the heart.

Was Lady Successful a new conquest of Beck's? Or a soon-to-be conquest? Did she know he'd move on in the morning?

Beck muttered something to the group, and Harlow took off. No reason to stick around, and every reason not to. But he shocked her by racing across the street and keeping pace beside her.

"I'm surprised to see you out and about," he said.

Oh, his voice! She'd forgotten how deep and husky it could get, every word he uttered a promise.

Gaze drawn to him by a force she couldn't control, she looked up. He was peering at her, too, and between one moment and the next, the air charged with electricity. Whispers of sensation brushed over her skin, leaving goose b.u.mps behind.

"Expected me to still be slaving away in your garden?" she managed.

"Something like that." Heavy-lidded eyes swept over her, powerful, sensual...almost possessive. "Are you headed into the city for your shift at the b.o.o.bie Bungalow?"

Her cheeks burned as she remembered the story she'd told him. It wasn't a lie if she believed it, right? As a lover of romance novels, she'd often fantasized about being a woman down on her luck-could be a stripper, why not-rescued by the prince of some distant land.

"Maybe I've got the week off. Maybe the other girls lose money when I'm there, and I thought I'd give them a chance to make rent."

"How kind of you." The corners of his mouth curled up, his amus.e.m.e.nt as seductive as the rest of him. "Where are you headed, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart. Her heart skipped a treacherous beat, her blood heating dangerously, making her sweat, and dang it, she hated herself for reacting so strongly to something that meant absolutely nothing to him. He called every woman he met by an endearment. Which irritated her because... Just because.

He needed a spoonful of his own medicine, the way she was often forced to taste hers.

"I'm going to the library, sugar tush. Why?"

"That's my question." He flattened his palm between her shoulder blades, sliding it down the ridges of her spine, stopping just above the curve of her bottom. The touch was innocent, nothing overtly s.e.xual to it, and yet it frazzled her nerves. "Why are you going to the library?"

As she opened her mouth to respond-what she would say, she didn't know-Tim Whatson sidled up to Beck's other side.

"Hey, man. Can we talk?"

Beck stiffened before fisting the hem of Harlow's shirt, forcing her to stop with him. The backs of his knuckles brushed against her, skin to heated skin, and tendrils of something hot and dark shot through her.

Need more. Now.

"Hey," he said to Tim, whom he obviously knew. Was he oblivious to the cravings he'd just stirred inside her? "How's it going?"

"Not so good. I need your help. My girlfriend is tee-icked. I forgot our three-month anniversary, and she's threatening to leave me. What should I do?"

Beck, the new Dear Abby? "You should give her a thoughtful, personal gift. There's nothing more thoughtful or personal than a portrait, and I happen to have an opening in my schedule. I could-"

"What do you think, Beck?" Tim said, interrupting her.

"Give her a thoughtful, personal gift," Beck replied. "There's nothing more thoughtful or personal than a portrait."

Tim nodded as if he'd just received the answer to every prayer, and Beck released her to gently push her forward.

"Now," he said. "Where were we?"

Your skin against mine... "Uh, I was telling you how I ruined your rosebushes this morning-by accident!-and how I'm headed to the library to learn how to fix them. You were in the process of forgiving me."

"Hold up a sec." He darted in front of her.

Unprepared, she slammed into his powerful chest and ricocheted backward. His arms wrapped around her to cage her and hold her steady.

"Whoa. I've got you."

Her every pulse point suddenly leaped, and as she peered up at him, the rest of the world vanished, every second revolving around Beck alone. Her chest pressed against his, her breath coming faster and shallower, as if the air between them had somehow thickened.

"You okay?" he asked, the gleam in his eyes anything but concerned. Instead, the hot and dark thing she'd felt earlier was now reflected back to her.

"No. I mean yes. Maybe. I don't know."

His hand swept up, up, his fingers soon toying with the hairs at her nape, tickling. "I think you mean yes, Beck, you make everything better."

She shivered and grabbed a handful of his shirt. The hard line of his body shifted subtly but definitely, ensuring he consumed what remained of her personal s.p.a.ce. He stared at her lips...

Did he desire her?

She wanted him to desire her.

No. No. He wasn't the man for her, wasn't steady or reliable. Fortifying her resolve, she stepped away from him, and in an instant, the world crashed back into focus. She sucked in a mouthful of strawberry-scented air, only then realizing she'd been breathing in the man's heady musk-a musk that had clearly drugged her.

He shook his head and frowned. "Let's backtrack. You ruined my roses?"

"Yes. So now you know my newest crime. You should return to your meeting. Don't let me keep you."

Beck, ever the ladies' man, winked at her. "Why would I want to have lunch with business a.s.sociates when I can pore through dusty old books and learn how to garden with the cutest little pie stealer in town?"

Said without a crumb of resentment. Said with relish. Had he truly forgiven her? Did he actually want to spend time with her? Excitement bloomed-only to be dashed by disappointment. He had a knack for making every woman he met feel special, and she couldn't forget again.

"Sorry," she said, "but I work better alone."

"You only think so because you've never worked with me. Come on." He looped an arm over her shoulders and urged her forward, the contact almost too much to her touch-starved senses. The handful of women they pa.s.sed peered at him with longing, then glared at Harlow, but he didn't seem to notice. "When we finish at the library, we'll grab lunch and you'll tell me all about your childhood."

"You'll be bored."

"I'll be riveted, guaranteed. You're an incredibly interesting subject, Miss Gla.s.s."

A line. Surely. Just to be contrary, she said, "Should I start with my first period?"

"See?" The low, gravelly tone had returned. He squeezed her tighter, and she just couldn't help herself; she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "I'm already foaming-at-the-mouth eager for the details."

"Only fair to warn you. My childhood will make you cry. And if it doesn't, you need prayer."

"That bad, huh?"

Worse. "Will you tell me about your childhood?"

"Does my childhood include stories about you?" he asked good-naturedly.

There he went, deflecting. "Maybe it does. For all I know, you're the boy who visited Strawberry Valley every summer and spent his nights peeping inside my bedroom window."

"Hardly. I never would have been content to remain outside. I would have climbed in. And yes, you would have invited me. I would have made sure of it."

"So sure of yourself." She tsk-tsked despite her breathlessness. "I was an ice queen. I would have ignored you."

"I was a blowtorch. I would have melted you."

She snort-laughed, then sighed. He's charming me too easily. "If you want to know about my childhood, fine." The thought of food was too heady to resist. "As long as I get to pick where we eat and you pay for everything." Besides the sandwich he'd given her yesterday, she'd only eaten what she'd managed to forage-two pecans the squirrels left behind.

He ran his fingers up and down her arm, saying, "You're not even going to make a token play for the check?"

Ignore the earth-shattering tingles. Ignore the delicious burn. "Are you kidding? Never!"

He chuckled, and a moment later they reached the library, a little red-and-white building in the center of town. A set of cement stairs led to French doors, and four columns held up a wraparound parapet. An American flag flew proudly at one side while the town banner flew on the other, the latter showcasing a bloom with white petals and a bright yellow center.

"Wait." A flare of panic overshadowed her good humor as Beck tried to escort her inside. She dug in her heels. "I need a moment to prepare myself."

"For what?"

For what would surely be a humiliating experience. One he would witness.

Oh, c.r.a.p! She tore away from his grip. The thought of being subjected to people's ire in front of this perfect man was simply too much to bear. "I'll wait out here. You go in and get the books, okay? Then we'll eat."

"And do all the heavy lifting myself?" Beck shook his head. "No. We do this together."

Sweat beaded over her brow and upper lip, even dripped down her nape, which was odd since ice crystals had sprouted inside her veins. "I'm just... I'm not going in there. Okay?"

"What, you don't want to be seen with me?" He arched a brow at her. "What if I promise to make it worth your while?"

He didn't understand. A guy like him, so blessed in every area of his life, would never understand.

She backed away from him, saying, "I'm sorry, Beck, but I just remembered I'm needed at work. Private party." She turned and rushed away, never looking back.

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE NEXT DAY, Beck had a meeting in Oklahoma City. He decided to use the opportunity to find a new distraction.

He'd tossed and turned all night, his mind a volcano of activity. He knew he wasn't good enough for long-term anything with anybody, but Harlow had taken it to a whole other level by refusing to be seen in public with him. She'd actually run away from him.

He wished he'd never seen the photos of her, wished he'd never spied her across the road yesterday, looking adorable with dirt streaked on her cheeks and arms, her hair so black it gleamed blue in the sunlight, her skin rosy, the smattering of freckles more evident than usual. She'd been fan-freaking-tastically adorable. A Country Girl Gone Wild fantasy he hadn't known he'd had.

Her white shirt had been so thin, so damp with perspiration, he'd seen the outline of her bra. A sensible white cotton somehow s.e.xier than red lace just because it nestled against her. It hadn't helped when her nipples puckered before his eyes.

Desire for her had come swift and sharp, strong enough to make him crazy, to make him pant like a dog. His mouth had watered at the thought of tasting her, and his hands had itched to touch her. If she'd given him any encouragement at all, he would have gladly spent the rest of the day feasting on her.

But she hadn't encouraged him, and now he was glad. Harlow Gla.s.s was nothing like the women he usually pursued; she wasn't looking for a good time, and she wouldn't go quietly in the morning. She'd already expressed curiosity about his past and would have demanded stories about his childhood as soon as she'd told stories about her own.

She was a complication he didn't need, so, he'd find someone else. Easily. And he'd do it today.

The pencil in his hand snapped in half.

Dane Michaelson's newest a.s.sistant... Sarah? Samantha? Whatever. She rushed over to pick up the pieces and give him a new one. He looked her over. She was understated but pretty, with brown hair and piercing green eyes. Not that it mattered. A woman was a woman. And he could have this one. She would take him however she could get him, and for the few hours he spent between her legs, he could fool himself into believing everything was okay. No thoughts. No problems. No worries, he reminded himself. Only pleasure.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Good. This was good. This was familiar.

"That will be all, Sasha," Dane said. "Thank you."

She sauntered out of the office, casting Beck a final peek over her shoulder. He winked at her.

"You surprise me. Flirting? At a business meeting?" Dane sat across from him, relaxed behind an elaborate desk constructed from salvaged wood. For a billionaire oil tyc.o.o.n, he was absurdly young. Twenty-eight, Beck's age. They'd known each other for...what? Close to six years now? Though they'd merely traded phone calls up until recently.

The guy had grown up in Strawberry Valley and even though he'd moved to the big, bad city for a number of years, he'd never been able to cut ties with his hometown, even tattooing his arms with wild strawberries.

"And now you ignore me," Dane muttered. "We've been sitting in silence for a full ten minutes. You want to tell me about the new security program or not? That is the reason you're here, isn't it?"