Julia shuddered, then raised her chin. She was a lot of things, but she'd never been vain. Though

perhaps that was because she had always taken her looks for granted.

"Thank you, it's perfect."

Then she had no choice but to return to Meadowlark Drive.

When she pulled up in the driveway, she couldn't help it. She pulled out the clips and bands she always

carried with her and whipped what was left of her hair back into a bun. Not that she cared what Ben

thought. It was more that she realized that she felt foolishly vulnerable without her hair.

She smiled, thinking of Samson with his hair. But she would be the opposite. Cutting away her hair would make her more powerful-taken more seriously than ever before.

Pulling around the side of the house to the three-car garage, she parked and walked in through the back

door. The house was quiet.

For a second she stood in the kitchen, feeling the warm November sun beating through the wide windows. She had the distinct feeling of being alone. Her father had been gone much of the time when she was growing up, but this was different. This was permanent.

Dropping her keys and purse on the counter, she went to change. She headed across the house and

down the carpeted hall. Ben's door was open and as much as she tried not to look, she couldn't help but notice the clothes that hung around the room like party decorations. The bed was unmade. She could see into the bathroom. Toilet seat was up. His towel was tossed into the sink. The place was a mess.

He, on the other hand, wasn't.

He was on the computer-as usual. She could tell he'd had a shower. Finally. His hair was clean but

disheveled, as if he'd stepped out of the shower, raked the dark strands back with his hands, and called it a day. Clearly he wasn't the kind of guy who spent a lot of time with blow-dryers and hair gel. Like a bad habit, yet again she inhaled sharply at the sight of him, at the contours of his chest rippling beneath his open shirt. She hated to admit that she was attracted to the brute force of Ben Prescott. The dark eyes that sent a shiver of longing through her body, settling low, made her feel the need to press her legs together against the desire that always flared when he was around.

Yes, she was honest and straightforward enough to admit she was attracted to the man, but actually giving in to that desire was another story. She didn't want brute force. She wanted a sensitive man. A man who brought flowers and wore tuxedos. She was through with men like Ben in their rugged leather jackets and jeans that cupped the crotch. She wanted a man who wouldn't be looking for the next good fuck the minute he'd had her in bed. Not that any man had left her. They hadn't. She always did the leaving. She was an expert at leaving. And now she would become an expert at self-discipline.

When she finally glanced at his face, her eyes narrowed in embarrassment when she found him looking at her.

"Do you want something, cupcake?"

The way he said the words made it sound like a seductive invitation.

"No," she stated firmly. "Or, well, yes, but I don't want that.'"

He chuckled, though in the back of her mind it started to register that something was wrong.

"We need to talk," she said.

"Talk?"

"Like two mature adults."

"As opposed to two immature adults."

She shot him an impatient grimace. "As opposed to one mature adult and one immature adult."

He laughed. "I assume you're implying I'm the latter."

She shrugged innocently.

He winked at her. "Shoot. What do you want, Ms. Mature?"

"It's best that we keep our distance from each other while you're here."

"Fine."

"Fine?!" Then she cringed. "I mean, good."

"What else?" he asked, like he was in a hurry for her to be gone.

She walked farther inside and stepped over a pile of clothes. She gathered underwear from the back of

the chair, held it between two fingers, then said, "Despite your Neanderthal ways, the least you could

do is clean up."

Ben looked her up and down, then he leaned forward, gathered up a few T-shirts, then tossed them in his still mostly unpacked suitcase that was lying on the floor. "How's that, cupcake?"

At the best of times, she wasn't patient. With all six feet of this chiseled piece of granite pushing her, her patience levels were dipping like mercury on a freezing cold day. "I don't need a smart-ass like you making fun of me." Then instantly she cringed. "Damn," she muttered.

"Tell me," he said with a wide grin, "are you even capable of being sweet and patient?"

She glowered at him. "Are you capable of doing anything besides surf the Internet?"

Every trace of amusement disappeared from his arrogantly chiseled face. "I'm working."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, that's another thing. I've got to know. What exactly is it you do?"

Finally, the question was out there. She thought of Rita and her odd response to how Ben knew her

husband.

What could the youngest son of a very old and rich family do for a living that entailed people dying and him getting shot? Ben, however, wasn't nearly as relieved that the question was out there. She could see it in the way his jaw tightened and he stood. A shiver of concern raced down her spine, but she held her ground. When he stepped toward her, she held a wad of T-shirts up to her chest like they might keep her safe. When he stopped in front of her, he looked at her for a long second. "Why do you want to know what I do?" he asked.

"You don't seem to work!" The words blurted out of her. "And after the way Rita was acting, something seems wrong." "Wrong?" He tugged the clothes from her hands, then tossed them onto the chair. He was close, too close, and his heat wrapped around her-hard, hot, and nearly overwhelming. Her heart leaped in her chest. And she felt panic-like she never had before. Not when her father died; not when she learned the extent of the debt KTEX was in. She had simply gotten to work and moved forward with determination and confidence.

"Yes, something seems wrong. Tell me this: What respectably employed man gets shot in the first place?

And coming out of a bar, at that?"

His eyes narrowed dangerously, but she couldn't seem to stop herself now that the words were tumbling out.

"Are you going to tell me you were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Just so you know, I don't buy

it. What respectably employed man is referred to as Benny the Slash? Benny the Slash," she moaned.

"What are you, a drug dealer?"

The minute her suspicion left her mouth, she gasped. If he was a drug dealer, it probably wasn't a great idea to confront him about it. She grimaced.

He had this strange look in his eyes, like he wanted to tell her something-or maybe he was just trying

to decide if he could rub her out and get away with it-before he threw his head back and laughed.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not a drug dealer. Nothing so sinister. Whether you believe it or not, I am in the import/export business. Brass elephants, wicker baskets . . . you name it, I import it-legally.

On top of that, I'm as lazy as they come. So I work only when I feel like it. I haven't felt like it."

He made it all sound so reasonable, and true. Her doubt wavered, but she wasn't about to cave in that

easily. "But what about the shooting?" she probed.

He shrugged. "I've been to my fair share of bars in south El Paso. This time I took a bullet. Just bad damn luck."

She stared at him and considered. But she didn't know what else to say. She started to turn away, then stopped abruptly. "Hey, you said a minute ago that you were on the computer, working. But then you said you haven't felt like working. Which one is it, Ben?"

She might as well have said, Aha! Caught! for how dramatic she was acting. Ben just smiled at her. "I only go into the office when I feel like it. But I work from the computer all the time."

She snorted. "You have an answer for everything."

And it all made sense the way he told it. Besides, there was no way Chloe would allow a drug dealer to move in with her. He had to be legit.

She pivoted on her heel, but he stopped her when he caught her arm.

"I have a question for you this time," he said, his dark eyes boring into her. "What's up with that prissy bun you've been wearing?"

Her hand flew to her hair. "It's nothing, really. I was .. . hot, so I pulled it up."

His smile slid into sensuality and he took a step forward. She took a step back.

"What are you doing, Ben?" she asked, wishing her voice had been steadier.

He planted his hand on the wall above her head. His gaze drifted from her lips to her throat. He probably

could see the wild flutter of her pulse. "You used to be hot. What happened to that woman-the one who grabbed me by the balls playing doctor? She had steel in her spine."

That woman had lost everything.

But she didn't say that.

"If you'd like the ball grabber, I could take care of that right now. Though it seems a little old hat now.