He didn’t see her. She must be in back. He knew she was out in that yard of hers somewhere. It was her gardening day.
Sundays, as a rule, she went to church with her mother. And after that, she would go out and work in the yard. Sometimes she wore a huge, ugly straw hat. But sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes, she’d go bare-headed, anchoring that wildly curling coffee-colored hair in a tumbling knot on her head. Always, for working in the yard, she wore baggy old clothes that somehow, to him, seemed all the more provocative for what they didn’t reveal.
Yeah, all right. He knew her habits. He knew her ways.
He’d observed her going in and out of her house morning, afternoon and evening, headed to and from that bookstore of hers, all that hair loose on her shoulders, snaky tendrils of it lifted and teased by the wind.
She often left her windows open. He could hear her in there sometimes, talking on the phone in that soft alto voice of hers. Her laughter was low, musical…warm.
The sound of her had the same effect on him as the sight of her. It made him think of getting her naked and burying his face in all that hair—of listening to that gorgeous voice of hers pitched to a whisper, saying wicked things meant for his ears alone.
He knew damn well she had a wild side. He also knew she kept it under strictest control. Ask anyone. They’d tell you. Since Rusty Jenkins died seven or eight years back in a botched convenience store robbery, Jane Elliott had strictly walked the straight and narrow. She’d gone to Stanford after Rusty died, got herself a nice liberal arts degree. She had her garden and her auntie’s house and her cute little bookstore on Main Street. She dated only upwardly mobile guys with steady jobs. She was thoroughly practical, completely down-to-earth and obstinately sensible.
Cade, on the other hand, had made his money in poker parlors up and down the state and later, in the big tournaments in Las Vegas and L.A. And yeah, he’d been in a few tight scrapes with the law—most of them while he was in his teens and early twenties, back when Jane’s uncle, J. T. Elliott, who was now the mayor, had been the sheriff. He also had that rep as a lady-killing charmer. And yeah, all right. He’d admit it. The rep was mostly earned.
Jane Elliott, unfortunately, was the one sort of woman a guy like Cade didn’t really have a prayer with—and he knew it. She was the kind who’d been there and done that and learned from her mistakes. If he had any sense at all, he’d forget her.
But hey. Who said sense had a damn thing to do with it?
He was suffering, and it was bad. And since his brother had married Jane’s friend Celia, it had only gotten worse. Now, he and Jane sometimes ended up at the same social events.
And don’t think he hadn’t tried to make use of the opportunity those events provided. He’d been no slouch. He’d tried all the preliminary moves a man will use on a woman who attracts him. He’d stood a little too close—and she had backed away. He’d struck up achingly casual conversations—which she concluded quickly and politely before they even really got started. When there was food available, he’d offered to bring her a plateful. What he got for that was a cool smile and a “Thanks, Cade. I’m not hungry right now.”
Once, there was dancing. He asked her to dance. She surprised the hell out of him by following him out onto the floor. He held her in his arms—for one dance, and one dance only. Her spectacular breasts rubbed against his chest. The scent of her hair almost drove him insane.
The minute the music stopped she thanked him and pulled free.
Before she could escape, he’d suggested, “Hey. How about one more?”
For that, he got a wry twisting of her wide mouth and a maddeningly arousing low chuckle. “I’m not really a big one for dancing, Cade.”
He knew she wasn’t interested—or if maybe she was interested, she would never give her interest a chance to become anything more.
He’d had enough women come on to him over the years to realize when one was not coming on, when she wasn’t even willing to sit back and relax and let him come on to her.
It was probably nothing short of hopeless, the yearning inside him that tied him in knots.
So why the hell did it keep getting stronger?
He knew where this had to lead. That the moment was fast approaching when he would come right out and ask her. Give it to her point-blank: Jane. Will you go out with me?
He’d just been putting it off for as long as he could stand it. After all, he knew what would happen when he asked her. She would turn him down flat.
The day was really heating up. Cade shrugged out of his leather jacket, tossed it on the passenger seat.
Then he got out of the car. This craziness had to end.
He would ask the question now, today. She’d give him her answer.
And then, just maybe, he could get over Jane Elliott and get on with his life.
Chapter Three
J ane had picked the ripest tomatoes. They waited in a basket on the porch steps. She’d pulled up a bucketful of carrots, shaking the fragrant black soil off of them and sticking them just inside the back door, ready to clean up later, when she was done outside for the day.
For about thirty-five minutes, she’d been squatting among the rows, digging up persistent dandelions and other irritating weeds. Her back was feeling the strain.
With a small groan, she stood, pulling off her grimy gardening gloves, dropping them at her feet. Sweat had collected under her straw hat, so she skimmed it off and raked her hand back through her unruly hair, letting the slight afternoon breeze cool her off a little. She grabbed the boat neckline of her old shirt and fanned it. It felt wonderful, that cool air flowing down her shirt. Then she put her hand at the base of her spine and rubbed a little.
Oh, yes. Much better….
“Jane.”
She froze. She didn’t have to turn and look to know who it was. She knew his voice, would have known it anywhere. Deep and soft and rough, all at the same time, the voice she sometimes heard calling her in her dreams.
In her dreams, she always called back, Yes, oh yes! And sometimes, in her dreams, he found her and took her in his arms. Just before he kissed her, the dream would fade. And then, usually, she would wake. She would stare at the ceiling and fight the urge to go to the window, to see if the lights were on at his house.
She hadn’t heard him come through the back gate. How long had he watched her?
Her legs felt kind of shaky. And a flush crept up her cheeks. But she couldn’t stand there, looking off toward the back fence forever.
He had to be faced.
She turned. He was waiting maybe fifteen feet away, not far from her back porch. In those wonderful, deliciously frightening silver eyes of his, she could see what he planned to say to her.
She supposed she had known it was coming. She opened her mouth, to get it over with, to tell him no before he even got a chance to ask the question. But she shut it without speaking.
Something had happened in his face. Something tender and vulnerable, something that yearned as she yearned.
All right, whatever he felt for her deep in his secret heart, he was going to have to get over it. Just as she fully intended to get over him. Cade Bravo was not Rusty Jenkins—thank God. But he was close enough. A wild-hearted Bravo man, a lady-killer who lived the gambler’s life, dangerous to love for any woman.
But especially for a woman like Jane who’d let love—or desire, or lust or whatever you wanted to call it—almost annihilate her