His Arch Enemy's Daughter. Crystal Green
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in Bizarro World.” He paused. “Not that Kane’s Crossing is so much different.”
Finally, a bit of levity from the man. Ashlyn knew he had it in him. “Are you sure you don’t want to try? I’ve got coffee, the aforementioned tea…” Me.
Yeah, right, she thought. As if tall, handsome, honorable Sam Reno would fall for her, the runt of a very distinguished litter.
Sam focused his attention on her mother’s window again, a grin lingering as he shook his head.
Ashlyn followed his gaze, noticing how the velvet curtains moved back and forth, caught in the wake of her mother’s disappearance.
Was her father home? How long would it be before he burst through the front door, engaging Sam in the inevitable confrontation between Spencer and Reno?
While she weighed the comfort of being with Sam against the desire to defend him from anguish, she felt a light touch brush over the hair at the nape of her neck. Her skin goose-bumped, making her feel dizzy, mystified.
She turned back to Sam, catching him staring straight ahead, one hand resting against his door, one fisting the steering wheel.
Had the contact been her imagination? If she didn’t know any better, she’d have guessed that he’d run his finger over her hair, just like a whisper of air over leaves.
No, this was crazy. Sam had too much self-control for games like that.
Maybe she was tired, her mind playing mean tricks on her.
She sighed. “Thanks for going easy on me tonight.”
“‘Easy’ doesn’t describe you, Ashlyn.” Again, that ghost of a grin slanted his lips.
Now she really needed to leave, before she curled up next to him, light as a wisp of smoke, to feel the security of his arms.
She opened the car door, grinning at him. “Good riddance” was probably pin-balling through his thoughts, and she couldn’t blame him in the least.
“Good night,” she said softly.
He lifted a hand, gesturing a laconic farewell.
Typical Sam Reno. She walked up the stone stairway, lined by spring’s newest azaleas, their pink blooms reflecting her attitude. He’d smiled, laughed. And the responses made her giddy, layering hope upon hope in her soul.
What if…?
As she turned around to catch a last glimpse, he lightly shut the door and drove away, the Bronco’s red taillamps streaking down her driveway, red as Cupid’s kisses.
As untouchable as Sam himself.
Sam couldn’t believe he’d touched her hair.
Damn him, he’d actually reached out as she’d turned away from him, wisping his finger through one of her short, sandy locks.
He gritted his jaw, guiding the Bronco down the driveway. What had come over him?
They’d been sitting in the car, a typical goodnight-to-you drop-off when she’d smiled at him with all the power of midday sunshine. Then she’d said something cute, something flippant enough to divert his attention from the upstairs-window shadow, lording it over the fancy Spencer mansion and its twinkling porch lights.
Another house that greed had built.
And, dammit, he’d seen enough greed in Washington, D.C., to last him five lifetimes.
Kids, walking home from school, when…
Sam shut his mind’s eye to the sight, punching away the memories.
Instead, he watched his headlights suffuse the pine trees, the willow by the massive Spencer gates.
He’d touched her hair, and it had felt just as soft as he’d imagined. Sam used to touch Mary’s hair, too. He’d done it to reassure her, done it when he’d wanted her to look at him. It had always been an absent gesture, borne of the need for comfort.
When he’d reached out to Ashlyn, he hadn’t even been thinking straight; he’d merely been reacting to the welcome happiness their banter had induced.
What? Happiness?
Sam turned on to the country road, lining up the Bronco in his lane to adjust to an oncoming car. A Mercedes.
He accelerated just as Horatio Spencer slowed down, turning into his driveway. Sam caught a slow-motion glimpse of the man’s miffed glance, the startled moment of recognition as Horatio saw the sheriff’s vehicle.
Sam steadied his pulse, pulling the Bronco away from the mansion. He’d have to come face-to-face with the man someday. Confront his family’s demons head-on.
But in the meantime, Sam would do well to avoid Ashlyn Spencer. He didn’t need another woman in his life, especially after what he’d done to lose his wife. He didn’t need the pain.
Sam drove into darkness, into the dead zone, once again feeling a dull stillness as it settled around his body.
And around his heart.
Ashlyn stepped inside the mansion, the Italian-marbled foyer seeming cold and lifeless.
She thought of going to the kitchen to grab a few leftovers for a late dinner, but decided she was too excited to be hungry. Instead, she wandered to the antique Baltimore secretary leaning against the wall, reaching inside to retrieve the mail that the downstairs maid had dropped off.
Catalogs, junk ads, wastes of good paper. Heck, why couldn’t she even pay proper attention to her mail?
The front door opened, and she felt him. Her father, watching her from behind.
His voice, rough as rocks crashing together in the black of a cave, said, “It wasn’t bad enough when you played bridesmaid to the Cassidys, was it? Now you’re sleeping with the enemy.”
“Hello, Father,” she said, making sure her tone was unaffected. She turned around, grinning her ain’t-I-sweet-as-sugar smile.
He seemed to fill the door frame with his wiry stance, encased by a business suit even this late at night. She’d gotten her height from him, and she shuddered to think what else she might’ve inherited.
His hair, black-and-white as marbled stone, all but stood on end. As he stepped inside, Ashlyn could’ve sworn she saw something like concern tumble through his dark eyes, but then—poof!—it disappeared.
“What circus act of yours brought the sheriff to our doorstep?” asked her father.
His verbal barb was unfair, and he should’ve known it. Ashlyn hadn’t gotten under the law’s skin since her brother Chad had come home last year. And even then, she hadn’t done anything serious—just a practical joke concerning Chad’s shoes and some horse pucky in a paper bag.
She reached up to fidget with her necklace.
Memories flashed through her head: gravel blinding her, dirt drying her mouth, her father’s voice announcing her second-place station in life. Right behind Chad.
She dropped her hands to her sides, tilting her head, grin turning to stone. “I was merely taking in some fresh air, Father. There’s not much to be had at home.”
“You missed dinner, Ashlyn.”
So she had. “I’ll grab something from the kitchen.”
Her father frowned. “Eugene Hampton was here. Did you or did you not remember you were to meet him tonight?”
Oh, brother. Another one of her father’s blind date proposals. Every month held another possibility of some Harvard School of Business graduate coming to dinner to meet Ashlyn, and, predictably, she always did her best to sabotage any hope on their part.
It struck her that maybe she was too good at ruining relationships.
“Sorry, Father. Maybe