Lane kept right where she was, refusing to back off. It wasn't a smart move. He smelled wonderful. Warm and spicy. And the brown leather jacket and tan shirt made him look downright yummy. She sucked in a breath that unfortunately brought his scent down deep inside her. "Unlike the idle rich, I have a business to run."
Her voice was like smoke, low and throaty, and Tyler tried placing her accent. Not Southern for sure, but the region wasn't definite, and it sounded slightly European sometimes.
"Mr. McKay?"
"Yes?"
"I believe your pocket is ringing."
He blinked and reached for his cell phone.
"Fan club?" Lane asked.
He winked at her and her insides did a dance she'd almost forgotten. "Hello, Mom, yes, I'm fine."
Lane smothered a laugh.
"Good grief, how did you hear about this so soon?" A pause and then he said, "Tell Mrs. Ashbury I'm fine. Yes, yes, I will on my way home." He closed the phone. "I have to give her proof I'm not lying on a stretcher with my head split open."
"I could accommodate you if you want some sympathy?" She hefted a resin statue of a gnome reading a book, her lips twitching with a smile.
"I'll pass." He chuckled and stepped away before she gave in to the urge to bean him. "Send me the bill for the books," he said as he strode to the door.
"I will."
"Or better yet, I'll stop by tomorrow and pick it up." Tyler somehow knew that would get her riled.
"The U.S. postal system is fine, Mr. McKay. It works for most people."
Half out the door, Tyler grinned back at her. "I'm not most people, Miss Douglas."
He shut the door and trotted down the steps, hailing a cab and leaving behind his wrecked car.
And Lane felt as if she'd just been warned. This wasn't the end for Tyler McKay. And that, for her, was dangerous.
* * *
Chapter 2
«^»
Tyler leaned against the kitchen counter in his parents' house and bit into a sandwich. Since the accident hadn't left him bleeding on the side of the road, his mom allowed him to snitch it from her kitchen.
Good thing, because his own fridge didn't have anything in it that wasn't growing fuzz. He really should remember to shop and then actually stay home long enough to eat it.
"I can't believe that you haven't been in that bookstore before today." His mother poured herself some hot tea.
"Have you?"
"Once, with Diana."
His mother and her friend Diana Ashbury had known each other since they were in high school and were as close now as they'd been then. Tyler had grown up with Diana's children and her son, Jace, was a good friend of his.
"So … what did you think of the owner. Diana shops there all the time. She adores Miss Douglas."
"Adores?" Tyler almost choked on a sip of soda. He couldn't imagine anyone adoring the Lane he knew. The woman was witty, yes, but she was very cool. And she had eyes that said, "Don't even think about it," and that just made him want to think about it.
"Oh, yes, Di says she can find any book and doesn't charge extra for getting it."
That was good business sense and Tyler appreciated that. Too bad Lane didn't spend more effort on charm. Then again, maybe it was just him she didn't like. "She isn't participating in the Winter Festival."
His mother looked up from stirring her tea. "Oh? How come?"
Tyler finished off the sandwich, and when he grabbed a dish towel to wipe his mouth, his mother tossed him a napkin and muttered, "I swear, Tyler McKay, your manners are terrible sometimes. I know I taught you better."
"You did. Sorry." He gave her a sheepish grin. "I don't know why she's not joining in. I got the feeling she just wanted to be left alone."
"Well, she's fairly new to town and she should meet the other shopkeepers. Everyone talks about what a wonderful job she did restoring that house. And as a member of the historical society, I'm delighted. If she hadn't restored it, the town council would have torn down that lovely old place."
Tyler admitted the two-story house did look spectacular. Painted soft yellow with green shutters and door, it had a white wraparound porch with some curly fretwork in the eaves. But what killed him was that he hadn't noticed it until today.
Had he had his face that deep in work not to see the simple things going on around him? He'd been working long hours lately. Getting McKay Enterprises into the big-league competition with larger construction companies had been his father's dream before he died. His father had taken the business regional last year, and in another year Tyler would take the company statewide.
"Yes, I agree Ms. Douglas should join in," his mother said, breaking into his thoughts. "Perhaps I'll ask her myself. Diana is the festival chairperson, you know."
"When is she not?" His mother and her friend headed nearly every committee that existed in Bradford, South Carolina.
"I'd rather you two didn't march over there and instigate something." Lane would blame him for it, he thought.
"Really? Why?" When he didn't jump in with a response, his mother eyed him for a second, then her face lit up.
Oh, man.
Before he could stop her, she blurted, "You're attracted to her!"
"No, of course not. Well, maybe. It's hard to say." Heck. He rubbed his face for a second. It was plain strange. Lane was definitely not his type, whatever his type was. But this was something he sure didn't want to speculate about with his mother. "I don't know her at all, but she doesn't let anyone get close, that's for sure."
"Anyone – or you?"
Tyler hadn't seen her with anyone else but Davis and to the kid she was kind. But to him … well, she'd practically kicked him out the door. "Me."
"Oh, nonsense. You're making assumptions, Tyler. You just met her. And let's remember, you met her after wrecking her car. Not exactly the best first impression, son. But as I recall, she isn't like the women I've seen you date before."
"It wouldn't matter. I'm not looking for a wife, so get that gleam out of your eye, okay?"
His mom made a face. "Clarice was never the woman for you. Can't you get beyond it?"
"No, and you liked her." It sounded like an accusation, even to him.
His mother frowned distastefully. "I tolerated her because you loved her."
Well, this was news. "Good grief, Mom, why didn't you say anything before?"
"It's a mother's duty to accept and love the woman her son loves."
There was no doubt in his mind that she believed that bunk. And no doubt she'd meant well. "In the future, I'd like to hear your opinion."
She blinked, obviously taken aback. "Why?"
"Because you're a good judge of character, and besides, it might have saved me the humiliation of learning the truth when I did."
The week of his wedding. Literally just hours before people were getting on planes to come witness the event. He'd been at a party that some friends were giving them when he heard Clarice say to one of her bridesmaids that she could "put up with anything, even him, for McKay money." Tyler had ended his engagement in the middle of the party, taken back his grandmother's ring and left on his honeymoon trip, alone. It still hadn't been easy coming back to gossip. And he hadn't told a soul what had happened except his best man – his brother Kyle – and his parents. They had a right to know the truth, but no one else.
He hadn't cared what Clarice had told anyone. He'd heard enough of her lies to last an eternity, and he wasn't rising to the bait to defend himself, either. As far as he was concerned, the door was closed on that part of his life. He wasn't about to repeat the mistake by opening it again. Ever.
"It's been nearly three years, Tyler."
"Who's counting? I'm enjoying myself, Mom, so leave it alone," he said, then kissed the top of her head and was out the door before she had a chance to hunt him down and reopen the wound.
And just the reminder of that staggering humiliation told him he couldn't trust his own judgment. Especially wh
en his heart was in for the ride.
* * *
Lane curled up in an overstuffed chair, setting the teacup on the end table and wrapping herself in an afghan she didn't really need. It was a process, she thought, preparing for a ritual evening of reading. Tea, blanket, soft lights and music. The scent of cinnamon cookies on the plate beside her teacup from the bakery next door. Simple pleasures.
She'd never had rituals before moving to Bradford. Never thought she wanted them, never thought how lonely she was, only how alone she wanted to be. In her old life she'd be getting ready for a late dinner and the theater. And turning away from flashbulbs, and microphones shoved in her face.
She shivered and pulled the afghan closer. Her apartment, above the bookshop, had four rooms with a small kitchen. Another kitchen was still downstairs, and she'd had its old breakfast area retooled for moments just like this. A place out of the store traffic where her customers could curl up and read for a bit, chat with friends, discuss a new book.
A small sound broke the silence.
She glanced over her shoulder toward her bedroom. "Hello, Ramses. Too wet outside to prowl?"
The coal-black cat purred, prancing toward her, then paused to rub his cheek against her foot. Satisfied that Lane knew he was gracing her with his presence, the cat lowered his bulk on the braided rug.
The phone rang, startling her. She blinked at it, thinking it might be her father calling to badger her again. At last she answered it.
"Hello, Lane."
Tyler McKay. He was the last person she'd expected to call. "This is a private number. How did you get it? I should sue the phone company."
"Can't. I got your number from Diana Ashbury."
"I'll have to overcharge her for the next batch of books she buys."
He laughed.
"What do you want, Mr. McKay?"
"First, for you to call me Tyler."
"Will that make you go away?"
"Can't bet on it. I'm calling to ask if you'll help with some community service."
"And what service might that be?"
"The children's pageant."
"Oh, no." Lane shook her head as if he could see her. "I've never worked with children. Besides, I have no talent to contribute."
"Come on, you can swing a hammer."
"You mean at an actual nail?"
He laughed softly, it was an intimate sound, and for a second she wondered if he was in bed. "I love it when you talk tools."
"You're pathetic." But the smile she wore was starting to hurt.
"What are you wearing?" he asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Do you wear those ugly boots in your house?"
"No, they're sitting on the back steps standing guard against the fashion police. They're outlaws, you know."
His chuckle melted through her blood, and she curled more deeply into the chair.
"Let me guess – you're wearing flannel up to your throat."
Lane looked down at the satin chemise and matching blood-red robe. "Yes, with little flowers on it and a pink bow. And they're footie pajamas too. Now the point of this conversation is…?"
"Curiosity."
"It killed the cat." Ramses whined at her feet. "Sorry."
"Are you talking to me?"
"No, to my cat, Ramses."
"Why Ramses?"
"Because the Pharaohs worshipped cats and they have never let us forget it."
His laughter was a quick short burst that made her smile.
"A woman with cats and flannel living alone has potential for a lonely life, Lane."
"I guess I'm doomed, then. Should I break out the doilies?"
He chuckled again and Lane felt the sound coat her. "Not quite yet."
"Why do you care?" she asked.
"You're too sexy to be locked away."
She blinked, looking down at her cat and mouthing "Sexy?" Only Tyler McKay would think combat boots and long drab skirts were meant to entice a man when they were meant to play down her looks and hide her identity.
"Do you need glasses?"
"I see fine … and I like what I see."
She felt herself flush with excitement. "Good night."
"No, it's good night, Tyler," he said patiently. "Say it. It won't make you go up in flames."
Feeling playful, she said in her sexiest throaty voice, "Good night, Tyler," then hung up.
Torture goes both ways, she thought, and knew that would probably get her into the very trouble she was trying to avoid. Just the same, her insides were tickled, and she realized he was on some quest to learn more about her. While she was flattered beyond belief, she couldn't let him that close.
If anyone learned who she really was, her neat little life would be over.
* * *
Lane glanced up as a customer came through the door. She recognized the designer suit – the Italian-milled fabric, the exceptional fit – before the woman in her recognized the man wearing it.
Okay, she was impressed, and she had to swallow to keep her jaw from dropping to the counter. Tyler Mc-Kay could have been one of her runway models at her design shows, he looked that good. A thought she was definitely keeping to herself.
"Is this proof you work for a living, or are you playing dress-up?" she said, gesturing at the suit. His crisp white shirt, she could tell, was an exquisite silk-and-cotton blend, and her fingers almost itched to inspect the seams and facings.
"I'm between appointments."
He stopped at the counter, and Lane remembered the sound of his voice late last night. Soft and deep, wrapping around her and dragging her down. After the call, she couldn't even concentrate on her book.
"What are you doing here again?"
"I brought your car." He pointed out the window at the black vehicle sitting at the curb.
"That's not my car, Mr. McKay."
"I know. Yours was nearly an antique, and it'll take a while to get parts. This is a loaner."
It was black SUV. One of the smaller models and it looked brand-new.
"My insurance offers a loaner."
"So does mine," he said. "That's it."
"I don't think so."
"Look, I'm at fault. My insurance pays."
"That's a McKay Enterprises car. I've seen them."
"It might look like one, but it's not." He studied her for a second longer than she wanted. "You're spoiling for an argument, aren't you?"
"Yes. Can't you tell by my tone?"
"If I knew you better…"
She gave him a thin look that said it wasn't going to happen.
"Okay, stay a stranger, but you still need a car." He dangled the keys.
"I have one and as soon as it's repaired, I'll—"
"—still have a piece of junk."
Her chin tipped up, her lips twitching. "I like to think I've been driving cars with character."
"That one was a bad seed, trust me. It's time you made better friends."
Her pride reared. "Do you dictate to everyone or just me?"
"If I thought I could, I'd try harder to get you to join the festival."
Another thin look. "Don't get off the subject," she warned. "I don't need your car or your money, McKay. I don't want it, in fact."
Tyler grinned. Big. And Lane felt her heart skip all the way to her throat and shiver with pleasure for a couple seconds. It made her light-headed. When was the last time she met anyone who smiled so much? Who was just plain happy with life?
Oh, gee, said a voice in her head. Doesn't the fact that he's worth millions have something to do with that? He didn't have much to worry about, did he?
Money made people strange. But from her experience, it didn't generate an attitude like his. Which she was still trying to figure out. Why was he flirting with her? Or was he just testing his charm on the homely girl? In her present lackluster state of dress, hair and makeup, she knew she wasn't attractive. It was intentional. A goal to blend into the woodwork and not be noticed. The less recognizabl
e she was, the better.
She'd been a designer with her own couture showrooms in Paris and Milan. She knew what clothing flattered, what hid, what exposed. Now she chose not to expose anything, using the wrong colors and styles, and wearing her normally short hair longer and whipped tight to her head. She wore glasses because she needed them, and she had a darling trendy pair upstairs in her apartment. Yet when she was in public, she wore round, plain, tortoiseshell glasses. They were too large for her face and the color of her eyes. Another good shield to hide behind.
"I've come to ask for community service again."
"My store is my community service."
"But the children," he said, pouring a little whine into his voice.
Inside, she was cracking up over this guy. He made her want to smile, but he'd take the smile as encouragement. "That's unfair."
He shrugged. "I use what I can."
"The last time I was with a child, I was one. Besides, the kids have parents to volunteer. PTA, bake sales. I really have nothing to offer." It was sad but true. A couture designer wouldn't be much good in a pie-baking contest.
The bell over the door tinkled and a woman stepped inside. She paused at the entrance, which was the foyer of the old house, and looked around. Inspecting a bit, Lane decided. She was slim and petite, her silver hair cut to perfection in a sleek bob. Her clothes, the next thing Lane focused on, were classic. Camel cashmere slacks and a navy blouse with a camel wool jacket. She'd draped a printed scarf over her shoulder and across her chest, secured with a small glittering pin. Elegant, Lane thought as the woman moved forward.
She stopped beside Tyler, and from Lane's perspective, he seemed to loom over the woman.
"Hello, Mother," he said in a tone tinged with annoyance. "Didn't our discussion yesterday mean anything?"
"You dictated, I didn't listen. I'm your mother, I'm allowed." She gave him a backhanded smack in the middle of his chest. "Introduce us."
Lane's gaze shot to Tyler as she moved out from behind the counter. "Welcome, Mrs. McKay. I'm Lane Douglas. It's a pleasure to meet you. Diana Ashbury talks of you often."
"It's a pleasure, dear. And call me Laura. I popped in once with Diana a while back. She loves your store."
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