CHAPTER ONE

      THE BEST PART OF BEING rich was, of course, the toys. There wasn’t anything Wyatt McKenzie wanted that he didn’t have.

      Gliding along the winding road that led to Newland, Maryland, on a warm April morning, he revved the engine of his big black motorcycle and grinned. He loved the toys.

      The second best thing about being rich was the power. Not that he could start a war, or control the lives of the people who depended upon him for work and incomes. The power he loved was the power he had over his own schedule.

      Take right now, for instance. His grandmother had died the month before, and it was time to clear out her house for sale. The family could have hired someone, but Grandma McKenzie had a habit of squirreling away cash and hiding jewelry. When none of her family heirloom jewelry was found in her Florida town house, Wyatt’s mother believed it was still in her house in Maryland. And Wyatt had volunteered to make the thousand-mile trip back “home” to search her house.

      His mother could have come. She’d actually know more about what she was looking for. But his divorce had become final the week before. After four years fighting over money, his now ex-wife had agreed to settle for thirty percent interest in his company.

      His company. She’d cheated on him. Lied to him. Tried to undermine his authority. And she got thirty percent of everything he’d worked for? It wasn’t right.

      But it also hurt. They’d been married for four years before the trouble started. He’d thought she was happy.

      He needed some time to get over his anger with her and the hurt, so he could get on with the rest of his life. Looking for jewelry a thousand miles away was as good an excuse as any to take a break, relax and forget about the past.

      So he’d given himself an entire month vacation simply by telling his assistant he was leaving and wouldn’t be back for four weeks. He didn’t have to remind Arnie that his gram had died. He didn’t have to say his divorce was final. He didn’t have to make any excuse or give any reason at all. He just said, “I’m going. See you next month.”

      He revved the engine again as he swung the bike off the highway and onto the exit ramp for Newland, the town he’d grown up in. After buying the company that published his graphic novels, he’d moved his whole family to Florida to enjoy life in the sun. His parents had made trips home. Gram had spent entire summers here. But Wyatt hadn’t even been home for a visit in fifteen long years. Now, he was back. A changed man. A rich man. Not the geeky kid everybody “liked” but sort of made fun of. Not the skinny nerd who never got picked for the team in gym class. But a six-foot-one, two-hundred-pound guy who not only worked out, he’d also turned his geekiness into a fortune.

      He laughed. He could only imagine the reception he was about to get.

      Two sweeping turns took him to Main Street, then one final turn took him to his grandmother’s street. He saw the aging Cape Cod immediately. Gables and blue shutters accented the white siding. A row of overgrown hedges bordered the driveway, giving a measure of privacy from the almost identical Cape Cod next door. The setup was cute. Simple. But that was the way everybody in Newland lived. Simply. They had nice, quiet lives. Not like the hustle and bustle of work and entertainment—cocktail parties and picnics, Jet Skis and fund-raisers—he and his family lived with on the Gulf Coast.

      He roared into the driveway and cut the engine. After tucking his helmet under his arm, he rummaged in his shirt pocket for his sunglasses. He slid them on, walked to the old-fashioned wooden garage door and yanked it open with a grunt. No lock or automatic garage door for his grandmother. Newland was safe as well as quiet. Another thing very different from where he currently lived. The safety of a small town. Knowing your neighbors. Liking your neighbors.

      He missed that.

      The stale scent of a closed-up garage wafted out to him, and he waved it away as he strode back to his bike.

      “Hey, Mithter.”

      He stopped, glanced around. Not seeing anybody, he headed to his bike again.

      “Hey, Mithter.”

      This time the voice was louder. When he stopped, he followed the sound of the little-boy lisp and found himself looking into the big brown eyes of a kid who couldn’t have been more than four years old. Standing in a small gap in the hedges, he grinned up at Wyatt.

      “Hi.”

      “Hey, kid.”

      “Is that your bike?”

      “Yeah.” Wyatt took the two steps over to the little boy and pulled back the hedge so he could see him. His light brown hair was cut short and spiked out in a few directions. Smudges of dirt stained his T-shirt. his pants hung on skinny hips.

      He craned his head back and blinked up at Wyatt. “Can I have a wide?”

      “A wide?”

      He pointed at the bike. “A wide.”

      “Oh, you mean ride.” He looked at his motorcycle. “Um.” He’d never taken a kid on his bike. Hell, he was barely ever around kids—except the children of his staff when they had company outings.

      “O-wen…”

      The lyrical voice floated over to Wyatt and his breath stalled.

      Missy. Missy Johnson. Prettiest girl in his high school. Granddaughter of his gram’s next-door neighbor. The girl he’d coached through remedial algebra just for the chance to sit close to her.

      “Owen! Honey? Where are you?”

      Soft and melodious, her sweet voice went through Wyatt like the first breeze of spring.

      He glanced down at the kid. “I take it you’re Owen.”

      The little boy grinned up at him.

      The hedge shuffled a bit and suddenly there she stood, her long yellow hair caught in a ponytail.

      In the past fifteen years, he’d changed everything about himself, while she looked to have been frozen in time. Her blue-gray eyes sparkled beneath thick black lashes. Her full lips bowed upward as naturally as breathing. Her peaches and cream complexion glowed like a teenager’s even though she was thirty-three. A blue T-shirt and jeans shorts accented her small waist and round hips. The legs below her shorts were as perfect as they’d been when she was cheering for the Newland High football team.

      Memories made his blood rush hot through his veins. They’d gotten to know each other because their grandmothers were next-door neighbors. And though she was prom queen, homecoming queen, snowball queen and head cheerleader and he was the king of the geeks, he’d wanted to kiss her from the time he was twelve.

      Man, he’d had a crush on her.

      She gave him a dubious look. “Can I help you?”

      She didn’t know who he was?

      He grinned. That was priceless. Perfect.

      “You