2

      AS HER CAR HIT THE OIL slick and went into a spin, Jillian kept her foot steady on the brake and gripped the steering wheel for dear life. It badly wanted to jerk out of her hands, but she fought it just as one of her ex-boyfriends had taught her.

      The hairpin curve she’d been negotiating had blocked the oil slick from view until she was nearly on it. Still, she might have sailed through it without incident if only the SUV hadn’t appeared out of nowhere….

      Sounds assaulted her ears—the squeal of tires, the whir and rat-a-tat-tat of gravel as it struck the car. Her heart thundered like a freight train speeding its way through a tunnel.

      In a distant part of her mind, she waited for her life to flash before her eyes.

      Nada.

      All she saw was a rotation of freeze-framed images—the ditch at the side of the turn, the tall tower of Haworth House shooting into a cloudless blue sky, a row of tall pines, followed by the large vehicle blocking the road ahead. And all the while the pavement beneath her screamed.

      With one final shudder, her car stopped spinning and the noises stopped. She drew in a deep breath, felt it burn her lungs, and then finally focused on the view through her windshield. Only then did her heart shoot to her throat. Even through a haze of dust, she could see the front of the large, silver-toned SUV only inches away.

      Inches.

      She pried her hands from the steering wheel and noted they were trembling. Beyond them she saw a figure unfold himself from the driver’s seat of the SUV and move toward her.

      Because of the glare of the sun on her windshield and the fact that her sunglasses had flown off while she was in ditch-and-tree-avoidance mode, she got only a dim impression of a tall, lanky figure. A man?

      “Are you all right?” Definitely a man. The deep voice clinched it.

      “I’m fine.” She glanced down at herself just to make sure. But she had to be fine. There was no time for Jillian Brightman to be otherwise. To emphasize the point, she scrambled out from behind the wheel of her Beetle. Her knees only threatened to buckle. Good news. “How about you? ”

      “I’m okay, but I didn’t just bring my car out of a tailspin that racecar fans would have applauded. Nice driving.”

      “I didn’t expect that oil slick, and I was in a big hurry. I usually am.” It seemed she hadn’t had time to breathe in the fourteen months since she and her sisters had bought Haworth House and begun work on opening their hotel.

      When she used her hand to brush the dust off her jacket, she saw that it was no longer trembling. Good.

      “It was a close call.”

      “Yeah.” When she glanced up, a wide, solid-looking chest filled her vision. She hadn’t heard his approach. Now they stood toe to toe, only inches separating them.

      Move back. The warning flashed into her mind as awareness rippled through her and her heart gave a little thud.

      He was big. At five foot two, she was used to men being taller. But as she tilted her head way back, she figured he had to be six-three or-four. Since he hadn’t lost his sunglasses, she couldn’t see his eyes but she noted the shaggy straw-colored hair, the very male face with a slash of cheekbones, the trace of stubble on his jawline. When her gaze lingered on his mouth, her heart gave another thud.

      This time when the warning flashed, she drew back and slammed into the side of her car.

      He grabbed her arms to steady her. One of his feet had moved between her legs and for a moment, she felt the long hard length of his thigh pressed against hers. Heat arrowed out from the contact point and pooled in her center. A mist settled over her brain, and her throat went dry.

      “Are you all right?”

      She was still coming down from the adrenaline rush of nearly hitting him. That had to be it. Her senses were still in overdrive. That was why she felt the pressure of each one of his fingers on her arms. That was why she was having trouble finding her voice.

      “I’m fine,” she lied. She was going to start to tremble any second.

      One of them moved. Jillian wasn’t sure which one, but suddenly he was even closer. She felt the warmth of his breath on her mouth. She could almost taste it, and what shocked her was that she wanted more. Then there was nothing but the torrid, liquid heat of that one concentrated desire.

      For a moment, she was incredibly tempted to go on impulse—to rise up on her toes and close that last little distance between them.

      No. This was not a time in her life when she could afford to throw caution to the winds. This man was a stranger. And she had … business … Business that had slipped right out of her mind the instant this man had touched her.

      She wasn’t sure how she found the strength to raise a hand and press it firmly against his chest. “I have to go.”

      He dropped his hands and stepped away. But he didn’t return to his car. Instead, he circled hers. His movements were slow so she had plenty of time to take in the broad shoulders, narrow waist and long legs in tight, tattered jeans. In spite of the distraction, most of her brain cells clicked back on. And by the time he finished his little tour, she could even stand without the support of her car.

      He wasn’t local. She’d met almost everyone who was, and she wouldn’t have forgotten him.

      Because he was definitely a hunk.

      Get a grip, Jillian. Hunks were her particular weakness. And acting too quickly on her attraction to them was something she’d paid the price for again and again.

      Mr. Racecar Driver had only been the most recent. It was the main reason she’d vowed to abstain from starting up any new relationships, at least until she met the next goal on her two-year business plan.

      “You’re lucky,” the hunk drawled. “Not a scratch. Want to check my car out? ”

      She glanced at her watch. No time. She’d wasted all her time checking him out. And he was coming closer again. “Look, I have an appointment in Belle Bay in five minutes. I really have to dash. Lawyers hate to be kept waiting. How about I take your word?” Reaching into her car, she grabbed her purse and fished out a business card. “I’m Jillian Brightman, and if there’s any kind of a problem, you can reach me at Haworth House.”

      He took the card, studied it for a minute.

      She barely kept from tapping her foot. “Are we good here?”

      He nodded. “You’ll be the first to know if we’re not.”

      “Great.” She slipped back into her car and started the engine. After first backing up and then edging her way carefully around the SUV, she pressed her foot on the gas pedal. It took three straight minutes of driving for her heartbeat to steady.

      IAN MACFARLAND WALKED as far as the sharp curve where he’d nearly met his maker and watched Jillian’s car race down the twisting road to the village of Belle Bay. His heart was still hammering. And he didn’t think he could blame that all on the near miss he’d just had.

      Although when he’d rounded the curve and seen the car nearly upon him, he thought he’d bought it. The oil slick had taken her into a spin and if she hadn’t been able to handle it, neither of them would have cheated the grim reaper.

      The lady sure could drive.

      But part of the reason his heart had kicked into overdrive could be laid at the door of Jillian Brightman herself. He wasn’t a man who normally went with impulse. In the five years he’d worked as an analyst for the CIA, he’d learned the value of taking his time, figuring the angles, not jumping to conclusions.

      But from the moment he’d stepped out of his SUV, he’d felt