His attention was riveted on the woman.
The wind again blew a gust of air over her. She wore her hair in a high bun, but tendrils of curls escaped and whisked across her face. The woman raised her face toward the sun, a half smile tilting the corners of her full mouth upward.
It was as though she and the sun were old friends, communicating. She remained in that pose for what seemed like an eternity. And Canton wouldn’t have been able to look away had his life depended on it.
When she lowered her head, she continued her pace toward the door.
He knew he should walk away. Something was telling him to move his ass now, before she caught him.
Something told him if he didn’t his life would never been the same again. That instinct he had, the same instinct he’d inherited from his rough and rugged father, the same instinct that he and his brothers and as their baby sister all shared, the kind of instinct that told a man in business when it was time to move, in poker when to fold.
The same instinct that was now telling him to turn and move away before it was too late. But damned if he could.
So he just stood there, watching her stroll closer to the house, to him. He frowned when he caught her lips working, as though she were talking to herself. She stopped, closed her eyes and performed the sign of the cross. He felt one side of his mouth quirk in a half smile.
She had no clue she wasn’t alone, that she was being watched. Something told that if she did, she would be mortified.
She was stylishly dressed; he ran his gaze over her as she came closer. From the soft-looking leather jacket cinched tightly at her waist, over her curved hips in the calf-length leather skirt, down shapely legs, housed in knee-high boots, she was the epitome of sophistication. He wondered if she were from around Cheyenne.
Canton’s frown deepened. She was so lost in her own thoughts, he knew that she believed she was alone.
But Canton observed her as she walked with determination in her stride, up the winding path that led to the house.
She was a woman on a mission.
Everything about her told him that.
He again felt that curious shift in his awareness. Whatever her mission was, that same instinct that told him if he wanted his life to remain unchanged he should run the hell in the complete and opposite direction, also told him that part of that mission she was clearly on would involve him.
She reached the front of the house and lifted her face, and it was then that Canton nearly gave himself away.
He had never forgotten that face.
He’d never forgotten the feel of those curves on that body...
His hungry gaze roved over her, head to toe.
She had one of the prettiest complexions he’d ever seen. Her heart-shaped face was the color of deep milk chocolate with a hint of cream. He had never forgotten the color or feel of her...
Large, light brown almond-shaped eyes stood out against the richness of her complexion.
But it was her lips that captured him now, as they had before. Neither had he forgotten how they tasted. Full, plump and delicious, they called out to him, beckoning him, daring him to taste their ripe lushness.
Just as they had seven years ago.
His body hardened, alert; like a hunter watching his prey, his gaze was unwavering.
And in that moment Canton knew his life had, again, changed forever.
He also knew in that moment that running was the furthest thing from his mind. And neither would he allow her to run this time.
Hell no. Not this time. Not ever again. His face, body and everything else about him tightened up.
A purely masculine gleam shone from his eyes as he pulled his hat down further on his head, shielding his eyes.
Hell no. She wouldn’t get away from him this time.
Naomi McBride cast a quick downward glance over her body, making sure she was put together well.
“I need to be on point,” she muttered to herself as she made sure nothing was hanging out of place.
She smoothed nervous hands down her leather jacket, retying the ends, again, wondering for the one hundredth time if her outfit conveyed what she wanted: a strong independent woman, a woman no one, not even a notorious Wilde, would consider lightly.
A woman to be taken seriously.
She straightened her burgundy leather skirt over her hips for the third time while absently toying with the buttons of the white leather jacket she wore to combat the chilly Wyoming air.
A shiver coursed through her body while a sigh broke from her lips.
“I already miss Texas.” She fiddled with the buttons of the supple leather jacket. “Whoever heard of it being cold in September?” Naomi shuddered and then stilled, forcing her fingers away and stopping the nervous gesture.
She turned back to face the mansion.
So cold, impersonal. Just like the heartless family who lived inside, she thought, refusing to acknowledge how the wraparound deck of the cold, heartless mansion really appealed to her.
Nor did she address the issue of her being unfair to a family that was never heartless to anyone. At least they never had been before. Now, well...she just didn’t know. She’d been away so long, she had no idea.
Naomi inhaled deeply, a fortifying breath. She could do this. She had no choice. Her family had no choice.
Naomi wondered even now how long her family would have kept their situation from her? How long before one of her parents would have told her the family ranch was in jeopardy?
She sighed, thankful she’d kept in contact with her sorority sister and friend Althea, or who knows how long it would have been before she’d be made aware of their dire situation. Had it not been for Althea, it might have been too late to do anything about it. She smiled thinking of her friend Althea Hudson.
She mentally shook her head, correcting herself, as she’d just learned of her friend’s marriage to a man from another set of Wildes, men ranchers living on their land just outside Landers, Wyoming.
She and Althea still needed to talk about that, Naomi thought. She’d been so out of the loop working at the pediatric center she hadn’t known of her friend’s marriage. Yet as soon as she’d said the last name Wilde, Naomi wondered about the connections between Althea’s Wilde and her Wildes, not realizing the possessive and personal way she’d characterized the Wildes of her acquaintance.
But there was no time for investigating that now. Naomi had other pressing things to take care of.
Again, she shouldered her bag higher and closed the door of her Jeep with the curve of her hip.
“Robbing Peter to pay Paul, and Mary wants her money, too.”
A sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth, thinking of what her mother said last night as Naomi was going over the family accounts and correspondences with Rolling Hills once again.
Naomi had sighed and pushed her small oval wire-framed glasses farther up her nose as she went over her parents’ financial statement.
“I brought you some tea, baby,” her mother had murmured, and Naomi had glanced up to see her mother in the doorway.
With a tired smile, she’d pushed the papers away and shoved away from the desk. Walking over to her mother,