Winter suddenly stopped walking and looked up at Matt. “Do you always analyze your dates?”
“Only when I’m trying to distract them.”
“You’re trying to distract me? From what?”
He smiled. “From realizing that I have every intention of kissing you tonight. Want to get it over with now, or would you like to spend the evening savoring the prospect?”
Her mouth opened and closed, but not a sound emerged as she blinked up at him. Matt was quite pleased to see two flags of color darkening her cheeks.
He’d intended to wait, and he would have followed through with his plan, but the tiny wood sprite nervously licked her lips. Matt let go of her hand and carefully cupped her exquisitely fine face. “Now, I think,” he whispered, bending down and gently pressing his lips to hers.
Winter’s small, strong hands immediately wrapped around his wrists, but they didn’t push him away or pull back. Instead Winter went utterly still, as if testing his—or her own—intentions.
She was hesitant at first, maybe even shy. But then he felt Winter’s grip on his wrists relax as she moved ever so slightly toward him and parted her lips.
And that was when he got his first taste of that energy he’d seen in her paintings; it hummed through his body with the force of intoxicating passion.
Yes, he was definitely tasting the sweet promise of Winter’s magic.
Praise for Janet Chapman
“Magic, humor, and Scotsmen abound in this time-travel series.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
Charming the Highlander
“Splendid. We can expect great things from Janet Chapman.”
—The Oakland Press
“Time travel, tragedy, temptation, along with desire, destiny, devotion, and, of course, true love, are all woven into Janet Chapman’s romance.”
—Bangor Daily News
“Terrific…A real gem of a story!”
—Romantic Times
“Dazzling…one of the best books you will ever read. Charming the Highlander is just magnificent.”
—ReaderToReader.com
Loving the Highlander
“Janet Chapman has hit another home run with Loving the Highlander. It’s a fresh take on time travel, with both humor and drama. She’s a keeper.”
—Linda Howard
“Just as delightful as the first.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
Wedding the Highlander
“Her most emotional, touching, and powerful novel to date.”
—Romantic Times
“Exciting…Janet Chapman writes a refreshingly entertaining novel.”
—TheBestReviews.com
Tempting the Highlander
“A wonderful addition to Chapman’s Highlander trilogy.”
—Booklist
“Chapman breathes such life and warmth into her characters, each story is impossible to put down.”
—Romantic Times
The Seductive Impostor
“Sensual and suspenseful.”
—Booklist
“[Her] skills as a storyteller just keep getting better. Great reading!”
—Romantic Times, 4 ½ stars, Top Pick
“One of the best books I’ve read in a long time…. A fun, sexy read!”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“Janet Chapman has created magnificent characters that sizzle…extraordinary…impossible to put down.”
—ReaderToReader.com
“Engaging romantic suspense…surprising twists…Janet Chapman seduces her audience.”
—TheBestReviews.com
Books by Janet Chapman
Charming the Highlander
Loving the Highlander
Wedding the Highlander
The Seductive Impostor
Tempting the Highlander
The Dangerous Protector
Published by Pocket Books
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Pocket Star Books published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 2005 by Janet Chapman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 1-4165-1606-9
POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
For
Grace Morgan,
Whose friendship is the true stuff of magic
With Heartfelt Thanks
To Liz Lima, for helping to keep my life on track while I was so involved writing this book. Always know that I treasure your friendship. And I must say, you certainly throw a great party!
To Liam Gavin, for giving me the wonderful gift of awareness. Whenever you see a crow, think of me.
To the wonderful folks at Acadia Zoo in Trenton, Maine, for giving me an up-close look at your big cats, especially your magnificent leopards. Your knowledge of the animals in your charge is surpassed only by your obvious love of them. The few hours I spent in their presence was awe-inspiring and mystical.
To Ping, for braving the snowdrifts in the wee hours before dawn to follow me to work, and for somehow knowing when I need a purring cat hug. You have the heart of a mighty panther, my little friend, and the spirit of a most unusual muse.
And to Lisa and Nick, for giving Robbie and me a most precious and perfect grandson. Welcome to the world, Alex!
Chapter One
Winter MacKeage lost the thread of the conversation the moment the large male figure stepped into view. Rose continued talking, however, oblivious to the fact that the most gorgeous man ever to set foot in Pine Creek had just stopped to look at the painting hanging in the front window of Winter’s art gallery.
“Tell her I’m right,” Rose demanded, nudging Winter’s arm. “Tell Megan that no one is whispering behind her back. Hey,” Rose said more loudly, grabbing Winter’s sleeve to draw her back into the conversation. “Your sister thinks everyone in town pities her.”
Winter looked away from the divine apparition in the window and blinked at Rose and her sister, Megan, trying to remember what they had been talking about.
Rose sighed. “Darn it, Winter, help me out here. Tell Megan she’s not the center of town gossip.”
Winter finally looked into her sister’s tear-washed eyes. “Oh, but everyone is talking about you, Meg,” she said, nodding. “But only because you walk down the street looking like a rag doll that’s been left out in the rain all summer.”
“That’s not helping,” Rose snapped, using her grip on Winter’s sleeve to nudge her.
Winter stepped away, crossed her arms under her breasts, and ignored Rose in favor of glaring at Megan. “You always have such a long face, it’s a wonder you don’t trip on your own chin. You scuffle along like a beaten puppy.” Winter reached out and touched her sister’s hunched shoulder. “Pregnancy is not a disease, Meg,” she continued more gently. “Nor is it the end of the world. The only one pitying you around here is you. And if you don’t soon quit, your bairn will be born with a permanent pout.”
Megan MacKeage swiped at her flushed face and met Winter’s tender smile with a fierce glare. “You can say that when your heart gets broken,” Megan hissed, “and you come running home because th
e love of your life walked out when you told him you’re having his baby.”
Winter took hold of Megan’s shoulders and leaned close. “I love you, Meg. Mama and Papa love you. Rose loves you. Everyone here in Pine Creek loves you. That one stupid jerk in a thousand loving people doesn’t is not worth what you’re putting yourself through. Wayne Ferris is a conniving weasel who’s too stupid to appreciate what a wonderful woman you are. You have to let him go, Meg, and focus on your child. Being depressed and crying all the time will make your unborn bairn think you don’t want it.”
Megan moved her gaze past Winter’s shoulder, looking at nothing, her lower lip quivering and her eyes misting again. “I thought he loved me,” she whispered, looking back at Winter through eyes filled with despair. “He said he loved me.”
“He loved what you could do for his career,” Winter told her just as softly, gently squeezing her shoulders. “But camping out on the tundra for months at a time does not mix well with babies. That Wayne chose—”
The tiny bell on the gallery door tinkled, drawing everyone’s attention. Just as Winter began to turn, she noticed that Rose was staring at the door in utter disbelief. Megan’s eyes had gone equally as wide, her jaw slack. Winter spun fully around and actually took a step back. Who wouldn’t feel a punch in the gut when finding herself in the presence of such incredibly virile…maleness? The man was just too stunning for words.
Which seemed to be an immediate problem for Winter, as she couldn’t even respond when the tall, handsome stranger nodded at her—though she did hear Rose sigh, and she did feel Megan poke her in the back.
“Ah, may I help you?” Winter finally said.
Enigmatic, tiger gold eyes met hers, and it took all of Winter’s willpower not to take another step back. The man was standing just inside her spacious gallery, yet he seemed to fill up the entire space.
“Is the painting in the window by a local artist?” he asked.
The deep, rich timbre of his voice sent a shudder coursing through Winter, and another sharp poke in her back started her breathing again. “Ah, yes,” she said. “She lives right here in Pine Creek.” Winter waved a hand at the east wall of her gallery. “Most of the paintings are hers. Everything we sell is by local artists,” she finished in a near whisper, unable to stop staring at his beautifully rugged, tanned face.
He simply stared back, his eyes crinkled in amusement.
“Feel free to look around,” she added with another halfhearted wave, thankful that her voice sounded normal this time. “I can answer any questions you have.”
“Thank you,” he said with a slight nod, before turning to the wall of paintings.
As soon as he looked away, Winter spun around to face Megan and Rose. Neither woman noticed her warning glare, however, as they were too busy gawking at the man. Worried that he’d turn around and catch them, Winter grabbed them both by an arm and hustled them ahead of her into the back room.
“Cut it out,” she quietly hissed. “You’re being rude.”
“Did you see how broad his shoulders are?” Rose whispered, craning around to look back at the gallery.
Winter moved the three of them farther away from the door. “Rose Dolan Brewer, you’re a happily married woman with two kids. You shouldn’t be noticing other men’s shoulders.”
Rose smiled. “I can still look, as long as I don’t touch.”
“Did you see his hair?” Megan whispered, her eyes still wide, not a trace of a tear anywhere in sight. “He’s wearing a suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, but he’s got a ponytail. What sort of businessman has long hair?”
“And those eyes,” Rose interjected before Winter could respond. “They’re as rich as gold bullion. My knees went weak when he looked at you, Winter.”
“That does it. Out,” Winter said, crowding them toward the door that connected the back office of her gallery with Dolan’s Outfitter Store. “You’re going to scare off my most promising customer today.”
Rose snorted and stepped into her store, combing her fingers through her short brown hair. “I doubt anything could scare that man,” she muttered, smoothing down her blouse as she turned to Winter. “Send him over to my store after,” she said with a cheeky grin. “I’ll, ah…fit him into more suitable clothes for around here.”
“Do you suppose he came in on that plane that flew over?” Megan asked. “We saw it bank for a landing at the airport. It looked like a private jet.” Megan sighed. “My God, he’s handsome. Maybe I should stay and help you set out the figures Talking Tom brought in this afternoon.”
Winter didn’t have the heart to remind Megan that she had sworn off men—handsome or otherwise—when she’d come home from her fieldwork in Canada last month, abandoned and two months pregnant. It was rather nice to see her sister’s face flushed from something other than tears.
“Thanks,” Winter said with a tender smile, “but I think I’ll wait and put out Tom’s carvings tomorrow.”
Megan took one last look toward the gallery door, sighed, then followed Rose down the aisle of camping equipment. Winter softly closed the connecting door, ran her fingers through her own mass of long red curls, straightened to her full five-foot-six height with a calming breath, and headed back into the gallery.
Mr. Tiger Eyes was still facing the wall. He had worked his way down the wall to a painting hanging toward the front of the store, his arms folded over his broad chest and his chin resting on one of his large, tanned fists. The pose pulled the material of his expensive suit tightly across a set of impressively wide shoulders. He glanced only casually at Winter when she stepped up to the counter, then went back to studying the painting.
He was looking at a large watercolor she had painted last spring, which she had titled Moon Watchers. It was a nighttime scene set deep in a mountain forest awash with moonlight. Three young bear cubs were gathered around a thick old tree stump, their harried mother catching a quick nap as they played in the shadows. One of the cubs was perched precariously on top of the stump, its tiny snout raised skyward as it brayed at the large silver disk in the star-studded sky, its siblings watching with enchanted expressions on their moon-bathed faces. And if one studied the painting long enough, he or she would eventually notice all of the other nocturnal creatures hidden in the shadows, curiously watching the young bears in the moonlight.
It was a painting that usually drew the attention of women more than men, with its endearingly familial subject and somewhat playful and mystical mood.
Winter slid her gaze to the man standing in front of it.
He was at least as tall as her cousin Robbie MacBain, and Robbie was six-foot-seven in his stocking feet. This man’s shoulders were equally as broad, his legs as long and muscled beneath that perfectly tailored suit, his hands just as large and blunt and powerful looking. He had the body of an athlete, which said that whoever he was, he didn’t spend all of his time sitting in boardrooms or shuffling papers.
Like Megan, Winter found herself questioning his choice of hairstyle if he truly was the successful businessman he appeared to be. His soft brown hair was thick and smooth, neatly brushed off his face and tied at the nape of his neck with a thin piece of leather. It wasn’t overlong; Winter guessed that when loose, it would just brush his shoulders.
She suddenly realized she was staring just as rudely as Megan and Rose had been. With a silent sigh, Winter dropped her gaze to the small piece of paper that Tom had tossed down on the counter when he’d brought in his latest batch of wooden figures. It was a short list, Winter realized as she tried to focus on something other than her customer. Only five carvings this time, written in very neat, tiny black letters.
The first figure on the list was a chipmunk, and Tom had written one hundred and fifty dollars beside it. Next was a fox that he’d priced at two hundred. Then a swimming trout at four hundred dollars, and a snowy owl at two hundred.
Winter smiled at the last figure listed—crow tending young in nest—priced
at twelve hundred dollars.
Tom, or Talking Tom as he was affectionately known to the locals, carved a lot of crows. And he always demanded a higher if not sometimes ridiculous price for them. The amazing thing was, Winter had sold quite a few of Tom’s crows in her gallery over the last year and a half. It seemed the more expensive something was, the more desperately the tourists wanted it.
Talking Tom. He was at least seventy years old, had simply appeared in Pine Creek one bright April morning two and a half years ago, and kept mostly to himself. Not much was known about him, other than the fact that he could be heard talking to himself when he walked the woods—thus the nickname Talking Tom. He was also quite good at tending sick animals, and the townsfolk had gotten in the habit of bringing Tom their ailing pets rather than traveling the forty miles to the nearest veterinarian.
As far as Winter knew, Tom had never mentioned his last name to anyone. He had appeared seemingly from nowhere and taken up residence in an old abandoned cabin just east of town, on Bear Mountain, which rose above the eastern shore of Pine Lake.
Winter had immediately taken to Tom, having recognized a kindred spirit. Like her, when creating his artwork Tom endowed the forest and its creatures with a sense of magic and mystery. His carefully carved wooden figures—like her paintings—were often more mystical than realistic.
It had taken Winter nearly a year to persuade Tom to let her sell his delicate figures in her gallery. His wants and needs seemed to be minimal, and a good deal of the money he earned from his carvings was often spent on others. When he was in town, Tom could usually be found in Dolan’s Outfitter Store, and every female—from birth to ninety-nine years old, married or single—would leave the store with a box of chocolates. Rose had started ordering chocolate by the caseload, once she realized Tom’s penchant for spoiling the ladies always kept her in short supply.
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