www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To Cathie, Jimmie, Susan, Suzette, Julie & Margaret.

      You know why! Love you all!

      Chapter One

      Tucker MacKinnon took the sharp curves of Whisper Mountain at daredevil speeds. Typical of a June morning in South Carolina, the sun burned hotter than a bad temper and the humidity was claustrophobic.

      His mood was just as miserable.

      Anyone in the MacKinnon family could testify that Tucker had never owned a temper. He was the go-to guy in a tornado. He’d handled rattlers and black bears. Hell, he’d made a career of handling people no one else could get along with—kids with attitude, adults in trouble, personnel wars in small companies. Those challenges were downright fun. But not this.

      Nothing was fun about this.

      He braked for a stop sign at the base of the mountain, and then it was only a skip and a jump to the elementary school parking lot. His stomach immediately began pitching nerves. Today was the last day of school, as witnessed by the squalling behavior of honking cars and chattering parents. He had to scramble to find a parking spot. Kids were leaping and shrieking as they bounded out the door, free for the summer … except for the few hanging tight in the school entrance.

      Those few kids had been singled out. They weren’t allowed to get their report cards until a parent talked to their child’s teacher.

      Tucker’s ten-year-old son was one of those hovering in the doorway … until he spotted the familiar silver truck, and then he galloped straight for his dad. Will had his father’s genetic build, which pretty much meant he came out of the womb looking like a beanpole, long and lean. For certain he was the tallest kid in elementary school, but right now, his usually sun-brushed skin was pale, his first words gushing from a pent-up dam.

      “I didn’t do anything, Dad. Honest. Whatever Mrs. Riddle says, it wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me. I don’t even know what it’s about.”

      “Hey.” Tucker cuffed an arm around his son’s neck. “Would you quit worrying? Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

      “I keep trying to think what I did wrong. I’ve been racking and racking my brain. I can’t always answer her questions, so maybe that’s it. But she never calls on me when I raise my hand. She only calls me when I don’t. I mean, how could she be mad at me about that?”

      Tucker had no idea why the infamous Mrs. Riddle had held back Will’s report card, but he was hoping—for her sake—that she had a damned good reason. He walked into the cool, dim hall, and felt his stomach churn another stress ball. Everyone in the MacKinnon family was a major academic achiever except for him. He’d never liked grade school. Or middle school. Come to think of it, he’d never liked school altogether—and schools had never much liked him. He was thirty-one now, of course. Only two things really mattered to him in life. His work on Whisper Mountain.

      And above everything else, a hundred times over, was his son.

      Mrs. Riddle had better not be unfairly picking on his son, or some major fur was going to fly.

      “How about if you just hang by your old locker? Stay inside where it’s cool. And you’ll be able to hear me if I call.”

      Will slumped off, and Tucker rounded the corner and trekked down the long hall to the last classroom. Not that Mrs. Riddle had a reputation for being a sharp-nosed martinet, but all the other teachers had ditched the place as fast as the kids. Her doorway was the only one with a pair of parents still waiting.

      Right off, Tucker recognized the woman just ahead of him.

      She was Petie’s mom.

      He could only see the back of her. Didn’t matter. A bad marriage was supposed to cure a guy of believing in hopeless causes. Didn’t matter. His son was and needed to be his whole world right now.

      For darn sure, that mattered. But that didn’t stop a guy from admiring the view.

      Her hair—the color of lush dark honey, ribboned with sun streaks—swayed past her shoulders. He’d often seen her in the same “uniform”—a yellow polo shirt with dark green shorts. The top had a Plain Vanilla logo over the pocket. It was the name of her store, a fresh spice and herb shop tucked in a curve of Whisper Mountain. By any logic, the shop should have failed; the location was obscure, and who’d travel out of their way for a spice or two?

      His opinion, not for the first time, had proven dead wrong. Everyone on Whisper Mountain knew the place, shopped there, heaped praise on her for what she was doing.

      Tucker wouldn’t know tarragon from paprika, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t appreciate spice. The fit of her shorts, for example. The shape snugged over the cup of her fanny, and led straight down to unforgettable thighs and calves. She worked outside and it showed, from the sun-golden tint of her skin to her trim, tight body.

      She had a major flaw, seeing that she was as short as a shrimp. He doubted she