As he always did when he was stressed, Bobby retreated to the kitchen at the yacht center. The dinner rush was only an hour away, and he’d been in the middle of preparations when Richard had come by, ostensibly to get information about the stolen carousel horse. Since he’d come with Anna-Louise in tow, Bobby was a little suspicious of his real motives. Precious little of their time together had been spent talking about the theft. Once the conversation had veered off-course to the topic of Jenna, it had never gotten back on track again.

      As he walked into the kitchen, he found the air thick with the spicy scent of steamed shrimp and crabs. The pungent aroma of garlic for the night’s scampi special added to his sense of well-being. Based on the aromas alone, he was reassured that the food tonight would be incredible.

      This was his milieu. There was nothing he liked better than experimenting with ingredients, adding a dash of this herb or a sprinkling of that one to bring out the flavor of a dish in a whole new way.

      For a man who liked his life to be peaceful and calm, the commotion of a restaurant kitchen just before the crowds descended should have been disconcerting, but it suited him. He liked the bustle, the camaraderie, even the temperamental outbursts of his pastry chef, who was a perfectionist and tolerated nothing less from anyone coming into contact with the pies and cakes and light-as-air confections he created. The concept of great meals being orchestrated out of confusion was satisfying to him.

      Bobby moved from counter to gleaming counter, from oven to oven, to check on the progress of the night’s specials. Everything looked as delicious as it smelled. He clapped his hands and caught everyone’s attention.

      “We’re booked to capacity tonight,” he announced. “Let’s everybody stay calm and focused and make this a memorable evening all the way around.”

      Suddenly the eyes that had been trained on him shifted their focus at the sound of a door opening.

      “So, this is where you spend your time when you’re not trying to bribe people into leaving town,” a honeyed voice said.

      He’d discovered all too recently that only one person had a voice like that, only one had the capacity to make his blood pound, only one had the temerity to invade his space—Jenna. How could she possibly be back already? Bobby had been counting on having at least a few days to mentally prepare for her return. Her overnight return caught him totally off-guard.

      As his entire staff feigned a sudden interest in the food preparation that was already under control, he turned slowly. “Back already, Jenna?”

      “What can I say? I felt so welcome here, I rushed right back. Can we talk?”

      “Not now,” he said emphatically. He tucked a hand under her elbow and escorted her back to the dining room. “No one besides staff is allowed back here.”

      She peered around his shoulder for one last glimpse of the kitchen. “Don’t want the customers to see what you’re doing to their food? Are you using some preservative that will eventually kill them all?”

      He scowled at her. “That isn’t even mildly amusing. No one is allowed back here, first, because I say so, and, second, because it’s dangerous. They get in the way. They can get burned. Fair warning, Ms. Kennedy.”

      “Duly noted,” she said, not looking the least bit chastened. “When can we talk?”

      “Where are you staying? I’ll call you tomorrow.”

      “I meant tonight,” she said.

      “I’m sure you did. Tomorrow will have to do.”

      Her gaze met his. “Is everything between us going to be a battle?”

      “Pretty much,” he said unrepentantly. “It’s your choice to be here. I can’t ban you from the town, but I don’t have to deal with you on your terms.”

      “But you do have to deal with me,” she said just as emphatically. “I’m not going away until you do. What time do you close?”

      “On a weeknight, the last of the customers are gone by ten, except at the bar. I’m finished cleaning up in the kitchen about an hour later.”

      “I’ll be here,” she said, her gaze unflinching.

      Bobby had to admire her grit. Most people would have wilted and accepted his terms. Most would have seen the sense in giving him a tiny, albeit meaningless, victory. Jenna apparently didn’t intend to give an inch.

      “Whatever,” he said, resigned. He headed for the kitchen.

      “And don’t try sneaking out the back door,” she called after him.

      Bobby flushed guiltily at that. It was exactly what he had been contemplating. He turned back slowly and, as if the thought had never crossed his mind, said, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

      She laughed. “Then you aren’t half as sneaky as you’ve wanted me to believe. I’ll see you around eleven.”

      “I wish I could say I’ll be looking forward to it,” Bobby retorted, then pushed open the kitchen door and retreated.

      Safely inside, he leaned for a moment against the counter, drew in a deep breath and prayed for patience.

      While he was at it, he added a little prayer for help in resisting temptation, because for the last ten minutes—ever since Jenna Kennedy had appeared in his kitchen—all he’d been able to think about was kissing the annoying woman senseless.

       6

       J enna felt triumphant as she went back to the table where Darcy was waiting, her expression sullen.

      “There’s nothing on this menu I like,” Darcy complained as Jenna sat down.

      “You love crabcakes,” Jenna said, refusing to be goaded into an argument. “And hamburgers and French fries.”

      “Not anymore,” Darcy insisted in the lofty tone of someone twice her age.

      “Then sit there while I eat.”

      Darcy stared at Jenna with a shocked expression. “You’re going to let me starve?”

      “You won’t starve if you miss one meal,” Jenna said, holding firm for once. “Besides, it’s your decision not to eat, not mine.”

      Her daughter seemed taken aback. “Mommy, what’s happened to you? You never used to be like this.”

      “I developed a backbone,” Jenna said, realizing that it was true. For too long she had catered to Darcy’s every whim—to say nothing of Randall Pennington’s—out of guilt over divorcing Nick. She had paid and paid and paid. Well, no more. It hadn’t done any good that she could see, anyway.

      Astonishingly, the shift in her thinking had happened