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Chapter One,   Chapter Two,   Chapter Three,

At the sound of a car engine whining, Hennessey looked up and saw a cream-colored sedan. It stopped and a slim woman in a red jacket stepped out from behind the wheel and headed toward his house with a long, loose-limbed stride that showed off her shapely legs as her white pleated skirt flirted around them. Her brown hair bounced freely on the collar of her jacket, and over her shoulder, she'd slung the strap of a red and black tote bag.

He remained seated in his rump-sprung deck chair, but his bare feet thudded to the floor of the sundeck as he leaned forward and watched her move. Moving was something she did very, very nicely.

Long before she was close enough for him to see that she had pink cheeks and a full mouth to go with her bouncy hair, the words of an old song lilted through his mind. "Pretty Woman." Oh, yes, she was the kind he'd like to meet and, of course, he was about to meet her. She was, after all, coming to see him, he realized, because there was no one else for her to see on the island. And if she'd found the bridge, it was only because his sister Carole had told him where it was. His throat tightened and something deep inside him seemed to say, I've missed you. He frowned and shook his head. How could he have missed her when he'd never met her? That was crazy.

But then, he reflected, there were those who thought "crazy" described him perfectly. His agent and good friend, Keith, said it did because he spent so much of his time hiding away in "rustic" surroundings. Hell, he didn't think his home was rustic. Rustic meant no electricity. Rustic meant no running water. Rustic meant no indoor plumbing. "Rustic," Keith was fond of saying, "also means no telephone." Okay, he conceded silently, in that way, his house was rustic.

He liked his privacy, though. He smiled, thinking that he didn't like it so much that he wanted this woman to go away. As she passed on by his deck with only a cursory glance upward, he shot to his feet and took a step toward the stairs. Where the hell did she think she was going, walking right on by, off the path and out into the field of wildflowers?

His jaw dropped when she came to a halt, set her bag down, and took off her shoes. Oh, those legs! Long and slim, and now she was hiking her pristine white skirt up around her waist, stripping down her panty hose. He felt sweat break out on his forehead as he stared at her exposed legs and thighs.

Beautiful. Exquisite! She balled up her hose, stuffed them into her tote bag along with her shoes, hauled the bag's strap over her shoulder again, and strode deeper into the overgrown area, holding her skirt up with one hand. What was she, he wondered, some kind of grass freak? Did she like the feel of it against her bare skin?

Hennessey groaned softly, thinking about all that bare skin. Never before had he considered that it might be nice to be a blade of grass.

She waded through the field, not only trespassing on Carole's wild garden, trampling dandelions and poppies and lupines and whatever else his sister was growing out there, but heading right for the sanctum of sanctums, the main house.

He sighed and got to his feet. A trespasser after all. Someone he was going to have to kick out. Life, he decided, was a bitch.

Venny McClure was furious. Where was Hennessey, the caretaker who was supposed to maintain the grounds of the island? Judging by what she had seen so far -- the overgrown jungle masquerading as a driveway, the fallen tree, and now knee-high grass and weeds growing rampant over the path to the main house -- the caretaker her aunts were so fond of had skipped out, leaving the entire island to go to ruin.

He was some kind of writer, she thought. He probably wasn't a very successful one if he had to do gardening to subsidize his rent. And weren't writers, like artists, traditionally irresponsible?

A vine snagged her panty hose and she stopped to unhook the thorns carefully. She should have changed into jeans before driving up here, she thought as she pulled off her high-heeled sandals, then hiked up her skirt to slip out of her ruined panty hose. Obviously she was going to have to spend the next couple of days cleaning up the place, she decided, as she held her skirt up in front and strode onward. She could handle a lawn mower and a hedge clipper with the best of them. It was clear that her aunts didn't know Hennessey had skipped, or they'd have made other arrangements.

As she passed between a stand of maples, the house came into view. With a smile replacing her frown, she paused on the path and looked at it. The house stood solid, gray and weathered and strong in the center of its... tidy grounds? Well! Everything on this side of the maples was pruned and clipped and mowed as if ready for the photographers from House & Garden. What was going on here?

The veranda creaked as she walked across it. Wind chimes hanging from the roof tinkled a dainty counterpoint to the plaintive cries of the gulls over the water. Out of nowhere came a pair of hummingbirds, chasing one another, disagreeing violently. As they darted and feinted, the sun caught the red patches on their throats sending fractured shafts of ruby light in all directions and Venny forgot her anger. It felt too good to be here to let petty concerns destroy the moment.

A laugh of pure joy rose in her throat, ringing free, as free as being here made her feel. No problems here. No worries. No reporters. And above all, no Lars.

Swiftly. she unlocked the door and stepped inside. Setting down her tote bag, she went to the window and pulled the drapes back. The clear light gleamed on picture frames set on tables, and happy, familiar faces showed through the dust. It highlighted cobwebs strung from lamp to lamp and from wall to ceiling, but Venny didn't mind. She had expected to have to clean a bit to make the place habitable. She picked up a smooth wood carving of a great blue heron, ran loving fingers over the satin texture of it, then set it down and lifted one of a gull with its wings spread as if ready to lift off the piling on which it stood.

How long had it been since she had put blade to wood? she asked herself. Much too long. She was glad she had brought her carving tools. Maybe she would be able to create something good in the peace of this little island.

The strength of the ocean-reflected light was amazing to one accustomed to city smog and filtered sun, and she turned back to the window to drink it in -- and saw it caught in the auburn hair of the man who stood on the veranda looking at her, not three feet away with only a pane of glass separating them.

Lars! Venny's heart stopped. Her body went cold. She recoiled before her mind told her that the man was not Lars, that he only resembled him in his shape and stance and coloring. Like Lars, this man was tall with broad shoulders and dark red hair. But Lars would never appear in such a state in public. He would never have appeared that way in private, either, she realized.

This man's broad shoulders and solid torso were tanned to a rich mahogany shade, and his deep chest showed the power of sleek muscles that narrowed into a taut waist and rippled abdomen. His running shorts, the only garment he appeared to be wearing, clung to his slim hips. His thick hair curled lazily across his forehead and flirted with the lobes of his ears. Whiskers littered his chin. He was not bearded, just scruffily unshaven. Green eyes questioned her as he continued to look in, and for a long moment she was incapable of movement. Her gaze slid down his body again, and she tingled all over with a sudden rush of...

My Lord, she thought. Whoever he was, she was ogling him! And Venny McClure did not ogle men! Swiftly she pulled the drapes closed. She ran to the door, which she made sure was locked. She stood leaning against it, quivering crazily and not knowing why. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, blowing her hair up and off her forehead, beginning to relax. The man had to be the caretaker. But why hadn't her aunts, or her father for that matter, told her how much he looked like Lars?

She felt the vibrations of his knock as if there were no door between his knuckles and her shoulder blades. She heard the resounding racket of it in her ears as it competed with pounding of her pulse. Lifting her hands, she covered her ears, shaking her head back and forth, trying to pretend he wasn't there. But it was impossible with him hammering on the door like a demented woodpecker.

The knocking went on and on and his voice thundered, "Hey! Open up! You're trespassing! Who are you?"

"Go away," she said, but didn't think her voice was strong enough for him to hear over the noise he was making. Then, all at once the knocking stopped. Footsteps -- soft, barefoot thuds -- receded down the stairs.

Slowly, she let her hands fall from her ears and forced herself to make her arms go limp at her sides as she took deep, replenishing breaths. Now she would be fine. Now she would deal with Hennessey and the way his looks made her feel.

But... what if he wasn't Hennessey? What if her first impression had been right and he had vacated the place? That could be anyone out there, she realized. A beach bum, a wanderer who had just happened by, or worse, a squatter. She'd heard plenty of stories of people sneaking into seldom-used summer homes and taking up residence. Often, they lived free for months before they were caught, and just as often they weren't caught. She knew her Aunt Eden had been here last summer for a week, and her father and stepmother in the fall, but since then no one had come. The log across the driveway she'd encountered was suspicious, too, in that the tree could have been deliberately felled so the squatter couldn't be surprised.

She was primed to fly into a panic when she heard the back door swing open, and she leapt toward the shaft of light its opening created, into the kitchen, ready to do battle with... with what? She glanced around wildly, and all that was close at hand was an old cast-iron teakettle. Picking it up, she swung it at the large, faceless shape looming dark against the light, and heard him laugh as he caught it at the widest arc of its swing and pulled its handle out of her hands. She reeled back as his sinister laugh faded into silence. The kettle's lid clattered to the tiled floor and rolled, spinning for a very long time before it slowed and almost stopped, rocking gently with a light, ticking noise that was the only sound save her rapid breathing.

The man took a step toward her, and she backed up. He set the kettle on the stove and replaced its lid. He took two more paces toward her. Eyes wide, she backed out of the kitchen and into the hall, through the bar of yellow light coming through the open door, watching as he crossed it, as it gleamed in his hair, glinted in green eyes, shone in the bristles on his chin, making him look even more unkempt.

One hand on the wall, she retreated into the dim living room, risked a quick glance away from him, and then darted to the fireplace -- and the poker. With that weapon in her hand she faced his menacing presence, silently daring him to come nearer.

"Put that down. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to know who you are and what you're doing here," he said slowly in a voice much deeper than she'd expected -- much deeper than Lars's voice. He came to a halt just outside of the poker's range, but close enough for her to smell beer on his breath. "This is private property."

"I know that. I belong here."

He lifted his eyebrows and said, "Really? Without proof of that, I can only assume you're a trespasser."

She stiffened and stood even more erect, aware of a deep trembling inside herself. She fought to control it, to keep it out of her voice. She could make the same statement to him, she knew, but her throat was locked on the words in spite of her knowing she was the one on firm ground, that she could show him she was sure of herself and of her right to be here. There was power in being sure, wasn't there? Of course there was. She had only to tap into it. But the expression in his eyes left her feeling powerless.

"My name is Venny McClure," she said haughtily, hoping he took the tremor in her voice to be anger and not fear. "And who are you?"

McClure? Hell! Hennessey's interest subsided quickly. Stepping back, he turned to go. He'd understood that both of his landladies were elderly women. He frowned, changed his mind, and moved toward her again stopping when she flinched and lifted the poker threateningly once more and glared at him ferociously.

Suddenly he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Did he really look so dangerous? He rubbed one hand over his jaw. Okay, so he needed a shave. He'd needed a shave for a couple of days. But he'd been busy. His book had been flowing well after a spell of his having to quarry every word and phrase out of the bedrock of his mind. He still didn't think he looked dangerous enough to be tackled with a poker, though. Yet maybe in the dim light... ?

He pulled open the drapes she'd closed so quickly when he'd appeared and turned to look at her.

Lord, but she was skinny, he thought, seeing her up close in the light. She wasn't just fashionably slender. Didn't she ever eat? Her prominent cheekbones stuck out above the clearly defined bones of her jaw and chin. In the vee formed by the lapels of her blazer he could see her collar-bone, long and delicate and barely covered by translucent skin. Her breasts scarcely made curves on the front of her jacket, and her skirt hung straight and neat to her knees. Her legs were nice, though, considering how thin she was. They were surprisingly nice, well-shaped and long. Brother, were they long. He smiled as he recalled the way the light gleamed on them when she'd lifted her skirt and had taken off her stockings. For just an instant he had one of the graphic fantasies he was subject to, of her long, slim legs wrapped tightly around...

She cleared her throat and he focused his gaze on her face, noting the wariness in her large brown eyes and being struck suddenly by the depth of sad- ness he saw there. He noted too, the thickness of the long, black lashes that fringed them, lashes that couldn't possibly be real. What was she, a misplaced model? But why would a model be so sad -- and so defensive? She glared at him, clearly still considering him dangerous; she hadn't relaxed her trembling grip on the poker.

Smiling in what he hoped would be seen as a polite and reassuring manner, he whipped a dust-cover off one of the chairs. "Won't you sit down, Ms. McClure?"

She only stared at him, backing away another pace and remaining standing. What was happening? he asked himself. Had his smile lost its charm? Old ladies liked him. Young ladies liked him. Hell, kids and dogs and even cops liked him. So why didn't she? He sure liked her. At least, he figured, he would if she ever gave him a chance. How could he help liking her? She was so pretty. She walked as if she knew exactly where she was going, and she smelled so sweet it made his chest ache.

It made his knees weak, too, and he thought about sitting down in the chair she had refused, but early training wouldn't permit him to sit while a lady stood.

Venny stared at him, biting her lip as the impact of his looks assaulted her. Slightly slanted green eyes under thick, expressive brows gazed into hers as if trying to read messages from her soul. Flat, broad cheekbones gave his face a triangular shape that terminated in a squared-off chin covered with an odd mixture of dark and golden whiskers. He smiled and she had to drop her gaze from his dazzling white teeth and the charming crinkles around his eyes. But her stare fell to the bronzed skin of his powerful shoulders and...

Good heavens! She was ogling the man again!

"Who are you?" she repeated with difficulty around the lump in her throat.

Oh, but she had a pretty voice to go with her pretty face and that wonderful, husky laugh he'd heard just before she'd opened the door and disappeared inside the house, Hennessey thought as his head spun. He steadied himself by staring at her face, trying to imprint it on his mind. She'd asked him a question, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what it was. But whatever she wanted...

"Yes," he said.

He saw her large brown eyes turn even more uneasy and he wanted to smile reassuringly at her, but she hadn't liked his first smile, and he was afraid to try again. He thought of saying something soothing, but couldn't talk through the tension in his vocal cords. He hoped she'd say something more in her rich, soft, sexy tone that sent little shivers down his spine. She did things to him no one else ever had for a long time as she stood meeting his gaze with questioning eyes.

All at once, he felt slightly sick to his stomach, the way he had felt as a kid just before the big ball game or on Christmas Eve or the night before his birthday. Vaguely, he recognized the feeling as excitement. He felt it rise higher and higher, and he wanted to laugh and dance and sweep her into an embrace and...

Her eyes were no longer questioning. Now they were crackling with anger, almost black but no less lovely to look at. "Well, don't just stand there staring at me," she snapped. "I asked you a question. Who are you?"

"I'm Hennessey, the caretaker."

Her eyes narrowed and her soft mouth tightened. No, she didn't like him at all. He didn't have to ask why. He knew. He felt sick again, but not with excitement. It was his hairless chest. He hadn't felt such regret for that lack of virile growth since his sixteenth year, when he'd realized that body hair wasn't connected to virility. But maybe she didn't know that. He'd have to start wearing a shirt until she realized...

Her gaze flicked over him with disdain. "If you're the caretaker, you haven't been taking very good care of this island or the onshore property, Hennessey." Her tone may have been less than dulcet but it wrapped around him nevertheless. Wow! But she was something! He wanted to hold her and kiss away the bar of tension drawing a vertical line between her high arched brows, to kiss her taut, pink mouth into submission. He could picture it moist and parted and seeking... him. Oh, hell, Hennessey, knock it off. You've just been too long without a woman. But he knew it was more than that. He continued to look at her. He wanted nothing more right this minute than to be allowed to look at her, angry eyes and all. And when he had looked his fill, then... Then he would touch... and...

His blank look irritated the heck out of Venny.

"Hennessey! Dammit, did you hear me? Don't you have anything to say?" For goodness sake, was the man stupid? He didn't appear to be, but one just never knew. Maybe he'd blown his mind on drugs or something.

Had she been crazy coming here alone? This man could attack her and there was no one around to help. He could even murder her and...

Suddenly she wanted to laugh at herself for being an idiot. Hennessey presented no physical danger to her, and she knew it. The danger he presented was much greater, with a far higher potential for disaster, and she knew she couldn't stay. Not with him around. She couldn't live next door to a man she couldn't keep her eyes off of. So, either she had to go, or he did.

"Hennessey." she said quickly while the urge was still pulsing through her, "I want you off this island."

He gave her a quizzical look. "You do?"

Venny nodded. "Yes. As of this moment, you can consider yourself evicted."

"Evicted? The hell you say!"

"That's right, evicted. And fired." She knew she had no right to do either, but surely if her aunts could see how he'd let the place get run down, they'd expect her to make other arrangements. Remembering the perfection of the lawns and gardens near the main house, she silently admitted a slight twinge of guilt. He'd surely looked after this end of the place. But she tilted her chin in her best lady- of-the manor fashion. She had to evict him. She couldn't possibly stay here while he lived on the other side of the island without a shirt. She didn't need a man around whom she'd find herself ogling all the time.

She firmed her resolve squared her jaw. "You can leave at once."

Hennessey sat down abruptly in the chair he'd readied for her. To hell with good manners. A lady didn't come waltzing in looking and smelling and sounding as sweet as this one did, sending a man's pulse rate off the top end of the scale, fine-tuning his libido, making it ready to do its thing at a moment's notice -- and then evict him.

"I have a lease, Ms. McClure."

"Which you broke, Hennessey," she said in a taut voice. "You live in the caretaker's house for next to nothing on the understanding that you keep up the whole property. You have not been doing that. The entrance to the driveway is in deplorable condition, and though I was able to get through, I wasn't able to get my car within two hundred yards of this house because there's a cedar tree at least six feet in diameter, lying across the road," she went on, exaggerating the size of the tree by only two or three feet.

"As for the grounds around your house, I'm sure you don't need me to describe them. I was forced to cut through there to make my way here, and my skirt got all covered in burrs." She flipped the hem out toward him, affording him a glimpse of a creamy thigh, "My shoes may never be wearable again, and I ruined a perfectly good pair of hose."

He couldn't help it. He grinned. "So that's what the striptease was all about."

Her mouth fell open. "Striptease?" Snapping her teeth together angrily, she glared at him. "You didn't prune the trees and then you hid behind all those apple blossoms surrounding the house and spied on me? You... you watched me, you... you..."

"Peeping Tom?" he suggested. "Voyeur? Cad?"

"Take your pick! You had no right!"

"I had every right: I'm the caretaker here. You were, as far as I could make out, a trespasser. For that matter you might still be one. You've only told me that your name is McClure. So far I've seen no proof."

Brown eyes, he thought as she snatched up her large tote bag, shouldn't be able to crackle and snap with temper. Brown eyes should never be anything but soft and doe-like, gazing with adoration into his own. She set the poker down and delved into her bag, coming up with her wallet. Flipping it open, she shoved it in front of his nose and just as quickly tried to snap it shut before he had a chance to more than glance at her picture. He captured her wrist, fingers encircling it with ease, as he studied her picture with care, reading every word on her driver's license.

Venny say his eyes twinkle and waited for the inevitable laugh, but it didn't come. Finally, he let her wrist go and she shoved it, wallet and all, behind her back. "There. See? Satisfied, Hennessey?"

"Nope." He got to his feet. "I'm satisfied your name is McClure. I'm not, however, satisfied that you have a right to evict me. As I recall, my landladies are named Paradise and Eden McClure." He grinned, and his eyes twinkled again as he added, "Unless they've died and left this place to their niece, Heaven McClure?

She felt herself flushing. She hated it when strangers knew her real name. She also wished he had remained sitting. He was too... overpowering and he was standing much too close but she refused to back away from him again, though she had the uncanny sensation his hand still banded her wrist. Suddenly, she was fighting for breath, struggling not to let him know in any way how his touch and his nearness affected her. It wasn't Hennessey she was reacting to. It was his likeness to Lars, to a memory -- an unpleasant one. Then why, asked a little voice inside her, was the sensation of his touch so far from unpleasant that she'd felt deprived when it ended? That was a question she was not prepared to dwell on.

"Grandniece," she said huffily. "And no, they haven't died, I'm happy to say. But if they were to see what you've done -- or haven't done -- they'd thank me for kicking you out."

Folding his arms across his broad chest, he gave her an arrogant look, one she was sure was calculated to be intimidating. "That being the case," he said, " I suggest you tell them. Then, if they want me evicted, they can do it. Right, Heaven?"

"Don't call me that!" Hennessey nearly grinned again as her eyes flashed dangerously. Once more, he felt that weird sensation of something exciting about to happen. It bubbled and tickled through his blood and he reached out to do what he'd wanted to from the minute he got close to her. He touched her cheek.

Her skin was satin smooth and marble cool, except for the hot flush flaring just over her cheek-bones. He bent his finger and trailed it slowly down the curve of her face. He'd thought she might leap away, but she did not. She held her ground, meeting his gaze with that same unconsciously enticing and challenging stare, with its secret, underlying note of despair.

"I won't call you Heaven if you won't kick me out," he said, reasonably, he thought, dropping his hand with reluctance. There was so much more of her he wanted to touch. The need to do it hammered through him along with the need to offer comfort.

"If I kick you out then you won't be in a position to call me anything," she retorted and this time he didn't even try to hide his grin.

"Since you aren't in a position to get rid of me, I guess it's a moot point, isn't it?"

He could see how reluctantly she nodded her agreement. Even if she had the right to evict him, the lease he had signed gave him sixty days notice. He admired her for accepting it would be futile to pursue this angle of attack.

"Very well, then. You can stay. But aside from when you're doing your work, I expect you to keep to your own side of the island, Hennessey. At all times. I also expect you to remove that carcass of a cedar tree from my driveway. And when you have to come here, please make sure you don't disturb me. Is that quite clear?"

He barely resisted the impulse to give her a crisp salute. He also barely resisted the urge to grin again. Damn, she was adorable! Even mad and ruffled and covered with burrs she was so cute, he wanted to cuddle her and kiss her and beg her not to be mad at him. He wanted her to like him.

"Yes, ma'am" he said, and slowly backed toward the door, never taking his gaze off her. He wanted to look at her forever. He wanted to imprint those big brown eyes, that tumble of curly hair into his very being. Hell, he wanted to do a lot more than look at her, but it seemed that was all he was going to get... today.

Chapter Two

When he was gone, Venny sank down onto the chair he had vacated and stared at her pleat-covered lap, picking burrs from the hem of her skirt, slowly bringing her nerves back under control. Oh, brother! What she should do was turn right around and leave, go home. But... she couldn't go home. She had been trapped the previous week by a horde of reporters and had made the only statement she intended to make: Yes, she was aware that her ex-husband had been released pending appeal, and yes, she was pleased that new evidence had been found that no doubt would prove his innocence. No, she never had thought him guilty.

"Thank you very much, but I have no further comment," she had concluded, and closed the door.

If only they had been content to leave it alone... but they had not. They came in droves. Newspaper, television, radio, even weekly magazine reporters, because Venny was news as much as Lars was news -- especially since he had been released and Philip Greely of Greely Concrete had been charged with fraud in the newly reopened case. Greely, barring unforeseen developments, would probably be found guilty within the month.

No one, not even Lars, who seemed to have had a change of heart during his two years in prison, appeared capable of believing that she had no feelings left for him. If that were the case, they asked -- not unreasonably, she had to admit -- why had she bankrupted herself in his defense? Not that her defense of him had succeeded, she recalled. He had been found personally negligent in the collapse of one wing of a new school their company had built.

There were those who had thought Venny should go to jail, too, but the courts had disagreed. She'd had nothing to do with the project.

Still she had felt responsible because she was the senior partner -- responsible to the government, to the children who might have been hurt, to Lars himself, and to the company she had founded. So she had paid for his defense, paid a high price. The cost had been her home and her business -- maybe even her future.

Perhaps Lars couldn't be blamed for thinking that she had acted out of love for him. But she hadn't, and he simply had to believe her. She hoped that her disappearing act would convince him.

Venny sighed and got to her feet, hauling her tote bag over her shoulder. She hadn't come here to worry about the past or the future. The present was all she felt like dealing with at the moment, and right now, that meant getting out of her city clothes and into something more casual. The first order of the day was to get the place cleaned up.

Activity was good for her, body and soul, and she continued with a will. By the time the house was habitable, Venny was pleasantly tired but satisfied with the job she'd done.

She had been aware as she worked of the periodic sound of a chain saw in the distance and knew that Hennessey was clearing her driveway. When the sound eventually dwindled she walked briskly in his direction, hedge clippers in one hand, machete in the other, heavy leather gloves stuffed into a pocket of her jeans. As she scuffed through piles of aromatic red-gold sawdust where the tree had been cut into blocks, she was relieved to see no sign of Hennessey. He'd rolled the blocks to the side of the road. She was grateful on both counts.

Her sneakered feet thudded on the planks of the wooden bridge that spanned the sixty feet of water between Gull and Whidbey Islands. She walked to what was referred to by the family as "the onshore property," and jogged the half-mile to where the driveway began at the main road. It was there she was determined to make her mark. She'd considered ordering Hennessey to do this job, too, but what with cutting out the log and mowing his own yard, she wasn't sure he'd have time.

"What do you think you're doing?" Hennessey asked, startling her as he came out of nowhere. She teetered on the edge of the drive, threatening to fall face first into the thorny vines.

He grabbed her by the upper arms, dragging her back to an even footing. "I'm clearing this mess out so my car will still have paint when I leave," she said, glaring at him over her shoulder, an action that put her face much too close to his bristly jaw and his shining green eyes. She could feel his breath on her cheek. He still smelled of beer. As he held her arms in his big hands, the tips of his fingers snuggled right up to the sides of her breasts, having a disastrous effect on her nipples. Her heart hammered hard and fast from the start he'd given her.

"Let me go," she managed to say.

"You're sure?" He sounded very uncertain.

She wiggled in his clasp. "Yes, dammit, I'm sure!"

"You won't fall into the blackberry vines?"

She filled her lungs dramatically and let out her breath in a parody of patience, then swung her right foot backwards, the heel of her sneaker connecting solidly with his bare shin. He let her go.

"What did you do that for?" he asked, his tone telling her he felt wounded in more than the shin. Over her shoulder, she saw that he was rubbing it against the back of the other leg. He hopped around to stand before her. His eyes crinkled at the corners as if he were a hurt little boy who'd been slapped unexpectedly and unjustly.

Darn, she thought, even standing there like a hairy-faced stork, he was good to look at, and she had always liked the scent of beer...

"Because you can't seem to understand English," she said crisply, snatching her mind back from the abyss into which it was threatening to tumble. "I told you to let me go."

"I heard. I understood," he said, grinning now and standing on both feet. Both bare feet, she noticed, planted apart as if he were accustomed to standing on the deck of a ship in a stormy sea. "But I wasn't finished."

She frowned and shifted the heavy machete from one gloved hand to the other. "Finished with what?"

"Smelling your hair. Do you know it smells like honeysuckle?"

Again her breath left her lungs, but this time much more quietly and a lot more quickly. "I... No. No, I didn't know that." My goodness, what a thing to say to a total stranger!

"It does," he assured her, then changed the subject abruptly.

"I'll clear this out for you, since you want it done," he said grudgingly, but she shook her head. If he was too lazy to do it without being shamed into it, she was not going to let him exonerate himself so easily.

"Not necessary," she said. "I'm more than capable of doing it."

He grinned. "I doubt that. It's a mess. I let it grow over this way to keep out the idly curious. Ever since they upgraded this highway and tourists have been using it, beach properties along here have been considered fair game. Any driveway that looks half-way navigable, even if it's posted as private, gets its fair share of intruders. That's why I left the tree across the access to your place when it fell in February."

She wasn't convinced. "What about the gates?" she asked, eyeing the massive pair of red-painted wrought-iron pieces. "Why not lock them?"

"That might keep out cars," he said, shrugging his bare shoulders and sending her world tilting on a wobbly axis for a moment. "But not trespassers. They climb over or squoosh in around the sides. The excuse is always, 'Gee, mister, we just wanted to see what was down this road.' But" -- he sighed and reached for her machete -- "for the sake of your car..."

"No." She shoved it behind her back. She wanted him and his nearly nude body gone! "You have enough to keep you busy, mowing your own lawn."

He eyed her narrowly for a moment, and then asked pleasantly, "And what if I choose not mow my own lawn, Heaven McClure?"

She scowled at him before swinging the machete into the tangle of prickly vines at the side of the road as if she were swinging it at him and crying, "Off with your head!" he thought.

"You have... not been given a... choice, Hennessey," she said, panting and hacking wildly. "Your lawn needs to be cleaned up before those weeds go to seed and pollute the rest of the island."

"But..."

She stopped hacking and stared at him. "I will tolerate no excuses," she said in the tone she had long ago learned got the best results when dealing with men who thought it impertinent for a woman to believe she had the right to give orders. "That will be all." It was a calm tone, a disinterested tone, and she squelched any further attempts at argument by refusing to look at him again. In the office she would have looked down at some work on her desk. On a building site, she simply would turn and address someone else or walk away to attend to another task. Here, she merely turned and attacked the blackberry vines with renewed vengeance.

When she next looked up, he was gone.

Finished with her chore, Venny finally stood back and admired the cleared driveway entrance. Satisfied, she walked wearily back to her car, unable to resist a glance toward the caretaker's house. She stopped and stared, her blood beginning to boil. Damn the man. He still had not cut his grass!

As weary as she was, she marched purposefully toward his house, peering upward through the blossoming apple branches to see if he was there. There was no sign of him. Stomping up the steps to the deck, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of diesel fuel coming from the pale blue pickup parked in the carport below, and wondered how he could live with that stench so close to the house.

No matter, it wasn't her problem. Her problem was getting him to cut his grass.

Then she found him. She came to an abrupt halt.

Still unshaven, still shiftless, still dressed only in skintight shorts, Hennessey lay sprawled in a hammock strung between a post at one corner of the deck and a hook in the side of the house. A sheaf of papers lay on his stomach, one hand keeping them from blowing away in the evening breeze, and an empty beer can lay on its side below him. He was snoring. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. Venny squeezed her eyes shut.

She whirled from him and pounded down the steps again and back to her car. She spun gravel as she drove it home and parked it near the house. With her eyes blazing, she stormed inside for the key to the tool-shed. Outside again, she unlocked the door to the shed, flinging it back as she stomped right to the corner where the lawn mower was kept. She couldn't find it, although she did find a case of dynamite sticks she momentarily considered setting off under one unnamed caretaker.

It was nearly dusk, but there was enough light to enable her to cut at least part of the grass, and she intended to do it if for no other reason than to make Hennessey feel guilty. Yet how could she, if she couldn't find the mower? Maybe he kept it over at his place.

She nearly tripped on it as she strode along the path. She supposed he'd brought it over to cut down his weed field, but whatever his intentions might have been, Hennessey had succumbed to a nap attack before he'd attempted to do what she had asked of him.

She grinned as she wound the cord around the little wheel and gave it a steady pull to get some gas into the chamber. Then, with a quick rip, she started the machine, hearing it roar, thinking of his rude awakening. She marched ahead with it and watched cut grass and weeds fly out the blow spout in an arc of vegetative confetti. She cut a swath from one side of the yard to the other, then turned and was heading back when the handle of the lawn mower was grabbed out of her grip by an angry, bleary eyed man who stopped its engine and stood over her in a raging temper. "Of all the stupid, inconsiderate, thoughtless... women! he said, dragging the mower back toward the carport. "You leave my yard alone, Heaven McClure! You may be the most beautiful thing God ever created, but that does not mean I'm going to let you get away with bursting in here when I'm in the middle of an incredible, erotic dream about you and waking me up by mowing down my sister's wildflowers!" He rolled the mower into a smaller storage shed beside his house, shut the door, and locked it, carefully putting the key into the little pocket at the front of his shorts, patting it as if to make sure it was secure, never taking his angry gaze off her. "And that," he said, "is that."

Before she had any idea of his next intention, he clasped her shoulders, dragged her against his warm, bare chest, and kissed her hard on the mouth. When he let her go, she could only gape at him as he took the stairs back up to his deck two at a time.

Venny stomped home, fuming all the way. There was no dealing with a man like that! No way to get her message across to him! She slammed the door with enough force to rattle the windows.

Several minutes later, with the last of her four suitcases dragging down her aching shoulders, she climbed the stairs and dropped onto the bed in the front bedroom she'd readied for herself earlier in the day. She would finish unpacking tomorrow.

She thought briefly about food, then remembered there was none. She shook her head and staggered into the shower, glad she had thought to turn on the water-heater. She'd worry about eating in the morning. Right now she needed rest.

But sleep wouldn't come. Sighing, she turned on her bedside light, took out her paperback novel and read for twenty minutes. Sitting propped against the headboard with the window open, she could feel the fresh, salty air wafting in over her, bearing welcome whiffs of wild rose and lilac. Reading in bed usually relaxed her if she was tense, and it had been a luxury she was forced to give up during her marriage to Lars. "Bed," he had so often said in his lofty manner, "is for two things, and reading is not one of them."

Gritting her teeth, she concentrated on her book, refusing to think about Lars anymore. Finally, when she began to yawn, she turned out her light and snuggled her head into her pillow. Tonight, she promised herself, she wouldn't even dream.

And yet... sleep eluded her. Tired as she was, Venny kept going over and over her few meetings with Hennessey. She rolled over, uncomfortable not only in the unfamiliar bed, but with the way she had acted. During their first meeting she had allowed panic to cloud her judgment. She'd had no reason to threaten the man with eviction and certainly no right. She felt bad, really bad. She rolled over again, and again, thinking about what he'd said when he took the mower away from her, wondering if he truly did think she was "the most beautiful thing God had ever created" and if he really had been having an erotic dream about her. Was that why he had kissed her? She touched her lips, remembering the firmness of his, and wondered if she would have kissed him back had he held her for more than those few seconds. No. Of course she wouldn't have. She'd have kicked him in the shins again. Definitely she'd have done that.

Finally she slept.

Her dreams were peopled by a man who looked like Lars but didn't sound like him, by herself as a little girl, and her aunts, who scolded her for being rude to a tenant or a neighbor, for treating a fellow human being as if he were a subhuman, for acting like a lady of the manor -- who had no manners. She dreamed she was crying, begging them not to take away her privileges, promising never to be rude to anyone again.

She sat up in the tangled sheets and squinted against the bright light, rubbing her eyes. She could hear the whine of an outboard motor somewhere and wondered if Hennessey was out fishing. Did he like fishing? Did he like sailing? What did he do with his days here on this secluded little island? Oh! What did she care what he did with his time -- as long as he spent some of it cutting his damn grass.

She got out of bed and threw off her nightgown, wishing she could as easily throw off thoughts of Hennessey, but reminders of him were everywhere, even in the bits of slivered greenery on the clothing she had shed the night before. It sprinkled the carpet where she had walked -- greenery from Hennessey's jungle. Maybe he liked it that way, and after all, he was the one who lived there, wasn't he? She remembered the flowering apple branches that hung down over his deck, nearly obscuring the house. What would it be like to sleep in a hammock under them, breathing in their sweet perfume? Would it give her erotic dreams too?

She smiled and wondered if he was wearing a shirt today. She wiped the smile off her face immediately. Of course he was, and even if he weren't, she wouldn't be seeing him. She'd made it perfectly clear that he was to stay away.

She sighed and began to dress. The sound of the outboard had dwindled by the time she was clad in jeans and a bright print blouse that should have cheered her up but somehow didn't.

She was just hungry, she told herself, rubbing her empty stomach. She'd drive into town and have a good breakfast before going grocery shopping. She really should have stopped to shop yesterday, but she had wanted so badly to see the island. In her bag was half an apple, brown where it was cut, though it had been wrapped in plastic. She decided it might even taste good if she didn't took at it, so she bit into the fruit as she ran down the stairs to the main floor, her sneakers thudding on the uncarpeted treads, bag bumping against her hip, book tucked securely under her arm. Reading at the table, even when she was alone in a restaurant, was another habit of hers that Lars had found deplorable -- and another habit she had picked up again with pleasure after they'd separated.

She wrinkled her nose as she smelled coffee. Coffee? Her mind was playing tricks on her. She followed the aroma into the kitchen and, sure enough, there on a back burner was in old-fashioned percolator, sending forth such a tantalizing scent, she chose not to wonder where it had come from. Besides, she knew perfectly well where it had come from. The difficult part was trying not to care that he had accepted her rudeness and then turned it around by doing something nice. But it was impossible not to care. She felt like a louse.

She poured out a cup, saw sugar and powdered whitener on the counter, stirred both into her coffee, and wondered why he had left a dish of butter beside them. Another delicious aroma began to spread itself throughout the kitchen. In the oven, which was set on warm, she found a basket of bran muffins wrapped in a damp towel.

Breaking open one of the steaming muffins, she found it full of plump raisins. With a groan, she slathered butter on it, ate half in one mouthful and savored the next half, taking sips of coffee between bites. Before she knew it, five of the muffins were gone and she was staring down at the papers she'd peeled off them.

"Five?" she said aloud. "I ate five of them?"

"Looks like it," said a voice from the doorway, and she twisted in her chair to look at him. "You needed them. You're too skinny."

He was shirtless again, but this time in place of skintight shorts he was wearing skintight faded jeans slung low on his lean hips. He wore boots, half- laced, and no socks. His hair was damp with sweat, as were his shoulders. To both clung bits of cedar twigs. Lord, but the man was handsome, even in casual dress. Or... maybe because of it?

He lolled in the doorway, loose and relaxed and perfectly at home, his gaze lazily sweeping over her. He had shaved. His jaw and chin looked smooth and infinitely touchable. She curled her fingers tightly in her lap.

"Good morning, Heaven," he said with a smile that had her insides turning cartwheels. "I've come to apologize and explain."

"I..." She swallowed hard and continued to look at him. What a smile he had! "I have to apologize too."

He lifted his shoulder from the door frame and stood erect, his formerly teasing eyes serious now. "No, you don't. You never have to apologize to me for anything."

She blinked and turned back to the table. She didn't want to look at him anymore. Looking at him, at the strange expression in his eyes, was disturbing. And she did not want to be disturbed. So why didn't her stomach stop doing back flips?

"My aunts would expect it of me. They are both great sticklers for manners," she said, shredding one of the muffin papers. She heard him open a cupboard and take down a mug. He filled it.

"Your aunts would never know."

He sat down across from her, his eyes sweeping over her face again. He had such an intense stare it made her uncomfortable. She moved restlessly in her chair, wishing he would look at something other than her. He didn't. Even when he lifted his mug and sipped -- black coffee, she noticed -- he kept his gaze on her face.

"They'd find out somehow," she said, and had to smile at the memories that came rushing back. "They always did. I never knew how, but if I'd done something wrong, they knew, and they took away my privileges. They never raised their voices, and never, but never, spanked me. They only Took Away Privileges. And whenever one of them used the phrase I could hear the capital letters."

She'd smiled! Hennessey thought his heart was going to burst. She had smiled at him, Heaven had smiled on him. Even though he knew the smile wasn't something he should take personally, that it was a smile of reminiscence, he loved it. And he was right, her eyes were gorgeous when they were soft, just as gorgeous as when they snapped with temper. "What kind of privileges?"

She smiled again and this time she looked right into his eyes. If he'd been the kind of man to faint, he figured he just might have keeled over on the spot. Instead, he smiled back at her and reached across the table in take away the paper she was shredding. It was a good excuse to touch her.

Heaven jerked her hand away as if the same thing had leapt through her bloodstream as it had his when his fingers brushed over hers, as if it jolted her through and through too.

She bit her lip and looked down. They're real! The thought rocketed through him. By golly, those lashes are real, all hers. As ridiculously long and thick as they were, they were the ones God had given her. He wondered what they feel like fluttering against his throat and he nearly groaned aloud.

"They wouldn't let me go fishing," she said.

What in the world was she talking about? "Who wouldn't?" He'd kill them!

"My aunts. When I did something wrong. Or they wouldn't let me go berry picking or swimming or sailing. They always knew what my favorite pastime was and they took it away from me for an hour or day, or sometimes two days if I was really bad."

Fascinated, wanting her to go on and on, he asked, "What kind of things did they consider bad?"

She laughed and just as it had yesterday when he'd heard her laughter, the sound tingled though his whole body and came to rest where a laugh was most unlikely to raise a reaction. But raise one it did. He blew out a hard breath and shifted on the chair, wondering if his jeans could stand the strain. They'd have to. He wasn't leaving. He tried deep breathing. It didn't help much, but it didn't hurt.

Oh, good grief! Venny felt her eyes widen as she suddenly became vitally, totally aware of his chest, of the way it rose and fell, of the way the muscles played under his bronze skin. What was he doing? Why was he doing it? Whatever it was, she wished he'd stop.

Then she shook herself free of the thought. For Pete's sake, the man was only breathing! He had a right to breathe without her ogling him didn't he? She wanted to look away, but couldn't, so fascinated was she by the ripple of his muscles. Her hands itched to touch him, and she curled them tightly together in her lap again before sliding them under her legs and sitting on them. What would he say if she asked him to quit breathing?

But he had asked her something, hadn't he? What had it been? Oh, damn, this was ridiculous! He was stealing her mind just by filling and emptying his lungs!

"What did you say?"

"When?" She was startled by the depth of his voice. Lars's voice had never rumbled as if it had come from deep inside him. How could she have thought for one minute that Hennessey was anything like Lars except superficially?

"When... what?"

He shook his head and drew in another breath and hers caught in her throat. "Uh, Heaven? I think we'd better slow down and take a few steps back, here, okay?"

"Yes, okay." Back up enough steps to get yourself out of this kitchen so l can get myself back under control, she begged silently.

"You said your aunts took privileges away from you for misbehaving. I asked you what constituted bad behavior and you still haven't told me. All you did was laugh and drive me right out of my skull."

"I did? Drive you right out of... Why?"

"Don't change the subject. What kind of bad behavior?"

"Oh. Well, I suppose slamming the screen door once too often after I'd been told to close it quietly. Or not coming home in time for meals. Or... well lots of thing. Being rude the way I was to you yesterday would have qualified." She took a deep breath. "I do apologize. And I thank you for breakfast."

Hennessey felt his head growing light again as she lowered her incredible lashes, and he wanted to crawl across the table on all fours -- he didn't think he could walk even if he could manage to stand up -- and lift her face so he could see the black arcs on her white skin. He wanted to whisper her name so she would open her eyes slowly, so slowly, lifting those concealing lashes as a dancer lifts a fan...

She snapped her eyes open when he made a soft, explosive sound and stared at him "Are you all right?"

"Who, me? Sure, I'm fine." His voice was as jerky as his heartbeat. That described him, too: Jerky. He was acting as if he was fourteen again, and he had to cut it out. He had to get himself out of this house, and fast, before he turned into the clumsy, horny teenager he was emulating and made a grab for her.

"I have to go," he said hoarsely, and stumbled to his feet, feeling stupid and gauche and immature. "I came to tell you I'm sorry I can't cut down the wildflowers because..."

"That's okay. I was thinking as I got out of bed that... Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. Why?" Got out of bed? Why had she had to mention bed? What was she trying to do to him?

"Well, I don't know. You look stunned. As if no one has ever apologized to you before, or thanked you for anything."

"Nobody who looks like you ever did either one," he said. "Apology accepted, though, and you're welcome to the breakfast. Next time I'll make it breakfast in bed."

He heard himself say the words and recoiled in horror. Oh, hell, what had happened to putting his brain in gear before engaging his mouth. Wasn't that a lesson he'd learned twenty years ago? At thirty-five he should be well beyond blurting out his innermost thoughts.

Venny gaped at him as he stood looking down at her in a -- she searched her mind for a word of description and could come up only with "tormented" manner "I... thank you. I guess. But now that the road is clear, I intend to go into town and buy groceries, so you won't have to provide my breakfast anymore Hen... Mr. Hennessey."

"Hennessey's right," he said. "Not Mister. Just Hennessey."

With that he wheeled on the heel of one boot and loped out the door, over the back porch and up the drive. Getting to her feet Venny watched him through the window. Before he went out of sight around a bend, she saw him leap into the air and bang his heels together.

The man, she decided, turning from the window with a reluctance she wondered at, was a total kook.

So why was she staring at the chair he'd sat on, with a grin on her face that she couldn't wipe off?

Chapter Three

Venny slowly rinsed out the coffee cups, put the muffin papers into the garbage and turned off the burner under the percolator. She floated up the stairs, brushed her teeth, checked her hair, and put on a dash of lipstick, wondering at the unexpected glow she found in her eyes. Goodness! Get a grip on yourself! You're insane to feel this way about a man you met only the day before! She should put him right out of her mind she knew. In fact, that was what she would do. She would get into her car, go into town, and buy groceries and whatever else she could think of to make her self-sufficient so he wouldn't feel obliged to provide for her again. And then she would forget that he even shared the island with her.

Straightening her shoulders, tucking her blouse into her jeans, she frowned, remembering his saying. "You're too skinny."

Damn! Who did he think he was, her doctor? That was what Dr. Hinkle said every time he saw her, be it in his office or in the supermarket. She did not need Hennessey putting in his two cents' worth. She did not need Hennessey at all, for anything. Ever.

Back downstairs she grabbed up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and ran out to the car.

Hennessey saw her coming toward him with her loose yet purposeful stride. He smiled and leaned on the sunwarmed end wall of the boathouse, watching her approach. He was looking forward to the day, now that she was a part of it. Her brown hair bounced on her slender shoulders. He knew her mouth was pink and full and made to meld with his, and after he had become her hero, surely it would do so again. And it would be heaven.

Heaven. He continued to watch her as she approached. He knew exactly the way her sweet scent would come wafting over him. He knew exactly how it would make him feel. His knees grew weak in anticipation. He knew her brown eyes would be soft and doelike, and maybe just a little bit worried as they gazed into his. Her arched brows would draw together, her mouth would droop a little, and she would ask him for help. Oh, he'd help her, all right, but first he'd kiss her senseless.

He'd been expecting her. He'd made lots of noise so she'd know where he was. He'd conjured up a lovely vision of this morning's second encounter with Heaven. He'd imagined himself performing the miracle required, becoming the hero of the day. "No problem," he'd say to quiet her effusive thanks. "Just takes a little bit at know-how."

And then she'd reach up and kiss in thanks, and he'd be very careful how he held her so as not to smear her with the grease on his hands. But he'd find a way to draw her close to his body in order to soak up the warmth and the scent and the goodness of her...

"Dammit, Hennessey!" Her voice slashed through his daydream and he blinked in surprise at the grease on her hands and arms, the smear across her face, the black streak on the front of her print blouse where one gently curving breast had brushed over something dirty.

"What?" He knew he was gaping at her, knew his mouth was wide open, knew that as impossible as it seemed, she had the required know-how herself to figure out the problem with her car and had come to him to have it corrected -- only not in the way he had hoped.

The lady came with fire in her eyes and murder on her mind.

"All right, Hennessey," she said crisply, her brown eyes nearly black within their frame of thick, long, lashes, her mouth taut with anger, her shoulders set back and square as if she were about to take a swing at him. "Where is my rotor? What kind of stupid games are you playing? How did you think you were going to get away with disabling my car? And what in the world possessed you to do it in the first place?"

He had to smile. He couldn't help it. Everything about her made him want to, especially the grease smears on her face.

"Dammit, Hennessey, don't just stand there grinning like an idiot! I want the rotor for my engine and I want it now! I -- Thank you very much," she snapped, sounding singularly ungrateful, as he handed her the part he had snatched from her car's engine the night before.

"If you'd locked your door, I wouldn't have been able to get the hood open," he commented to her back as she whirled. He was sure she'd heard him because her shoulders went even stiffer and she stormed away. He followed her back to where her car stood.

"Hey, come on, Heaven. Don't be mad," he cajoled. "I'll put it back. It was only a joke."

"Funny, funny, funny," she said, and brushed him aside, ducking under the hood. She did the work herself, while he remained several feet away, watching the deft and expert way she handled her tasks, as if she had cut her teeth on parts of the internal combustion engine. He winced when she slammed the hood and wiped her hands on a rag before getting behind the wheel. Now, he knew, he was really going to get it, because of course the car still wouldn't start.

Only -- to his chagrin -- it did. Almost at once. She hadn't drained the battery, as he knew he'd have done, as most people would have done long before checking the engine to see why it wasn't starting.

He scratched his head as she shut the car off, got out and, without even looking at him, without acknowledging his presence in any way, let him know that she knew he was there and not to be trusted. She carefully locked all the doors, checked the hood to ensure that it couldn't be opened, then sailed, head high, into the house.

Moments later she came out again, her hands, face, and arms clean. Dressed in crisp, white slacks and a bright yellow sweater, she looked like sunshine. She unlocked the car, swung the door past his legs, missing his kneecaps by a fraction of an inch, and drove up the road.

He saw her brake, saw her backup lights come on, and watched as she reversed to where he stood.

Looking at him with fire still flickering in her eyes, she said, "Why Hennessey? Just tell me why?"

He did what he had wanted to do the moment he'd seen her earlier in the morning, the moment he'd seen her for the first time, what he wanted to do every time he saw her. He bent and leaned in her car window, then covered her soft full lips with his in a hard and telling kiss. Wrapping his hand around the back of her head, threading his fingers though her hair, he kissed her until she opened her mouth to accept him and kissed him back as if she were as powerless to resist the pull between them as he was.

Presently, he lifted his head from hers, ducked back out of the open car window and said, "That's why, Heaven. Because I was afraid you were going to leave. And I couldn't let you go without doing that again."

She stared at hard for a moment, her eyes wide and bemused, and then she frowned, put the car in gear and drove away.

The man was out of his mind! Venny slowed and turned onto the highway. She sighed. Hennessey was not the only nut on the loose. Because, she remembered, what had she done to stop him?

Nothing. That was what. She wasn't even as mad as she knew she should be. Her anger had begun to abate before she'd finished scrubbing the grease off herself and changing clothes. Strangely, Hennessey's kiss hadn't done a thing toward bringing her anger back, which said a lot about her state of mind, assuming she had a mind. If any other man had disabled her car and then kissed her until she was weak and incoherent without a word of encouragement from her she'd have been ready to commit murder. So what was different in this case? Nothing was different. At least nothing should be. Yet why had she let him get away with it? Not only this morning, but after the mowing incident too. Well, she told herself, if he ever tried anything like that again, he was going to learn that she was not a piece of putty he could mush in his hands. No siree! Hennessey was in for one mighty big surprise if he thought he was going to get away with kissing her silly every chance he got. Because he was not going to get another chance!

Thinking of surprises, she had to smile as she remembered the expression on his face when she demanded her rotor back, expertly inserted it, put the distributor cap back on and reconnected all the wires, then set the breather into position and fastened it down with a twist of the wing nut on top. Like most men he had assumed all women were helpless around cars.

When the engine had refused to start, she had checked the three basics to combustion: Air, fuel and spark. Air she knew was available. Her fuel gauge had told her she wasn't out of gas The pool of gas in the carburetor indicated that the fuel pump was working. Spark, she discovered, was the missing element, and the distributor was the likely culprit. The wires had been in the right position, but a gleaming scratch on the top of one of the screws that held the distributor cap down had made her pause. With a screwdriver she had removed the distributor cap and checked inside, staring in disbelief at where the rotor should have been, even though the scratch on the screw head told her that someone had tampered with her car during the night.

He had been one surprised man -- almost as surprised as she had been at his answer to her question: Why?

She shivered, recalling the way he had leaned inside her car, placed his lips on hers, and taken what he wanted. Even now she could feel the pressure of his lips slowly tempting hers apart, the hard thrust of his tongue, the gentle movement of his fingers in her hair. Had he felt her response to his kiss? Had he guessed how it aroused her? Had he felt her tongue return the caress of his? Oh! Of course he had! The man was no stranger to kissing. He knew what he was doing. He had turned her to mush again -- and he'd even been wearing a shirt. Good grief! She had to put the man out of her mind!

But he sat on the end of her shopping cart, smiling at her as she shopped. He perched beside her hood ornament as she drove home, his long, bare legs crossed and broad, hard shoulders gleaming the sun. Didn't he know it was only May? It might be an unseasonably warm May, but it wasn't warm enough for him to run around half-dressed! What did he wear in July?

Venny licked her lips and told herself it was a darned good thing she planned to stay for only a month. Come July she had to be a long, long way from Gull Island and a shirtless man named Hennessey.

Hennessey what? she wondered. Or was it what Hennessey? Her aunts never had given any indication whether Hennessey was his first name or his last. In fact, they had said little about him although her Aunt Paradise had smiled strangely when Venny had asked for a key so she could come to the island retreat for the first time in about six years. Paradise had exchanged pointed glances with her sister Eden, who had said that of course Venny could use the house as long as she wished. The two of them has looked almost triumphant, and now that she thought of it, Venny recalled how often they had urged her to take a break, go to Gull Island and enjoy herself.

In view of what she knew of Hennessey's physical likeness to Lars, and recalling how often her aunts had commented that women were usually drawn to a certain type of man, it all began to make sense.

Back home again, determined to stop thinking about him, Venny unloaded her groceries, stacked things in cupboards, filled the refrigerator with perishables, then stood back, satisfied. Now she could start her vacation in earnest. She could rest. Taking her book she walked purposefully outside and sat down on a chair she had dragged onto the porch the day before, putting her sneakered feet up on the railing. She leaned back, opened her book and started to read.

Moments later, she slammed the book closed and set it on the floor, shutting her eyes. She would try to sleep. But the very same thing that had prevented her enjoying the book kept her from sleeping. She could still feel Hennessey's arms around her, feel his lips parting hers, feel his tongue slowly exploring the inside of her mouth, feel his body hardening against hers and -- Now wait a minute! He had been outside the car and she on the inside and their bodies had not touched at all. She was embellishing the memory with pure fantasy, and it had to stop!

She groaned and shot to her feet, running down the steps and the crushed shell path toward the beach.

The sharp thorns of wild roses caught at her sweater as she pushed her way through the overgrown end of the path and jumped down onto the gravel, then scrambled onto one of the large, silvered beach logs. Considering the care Hennessey had taken with the rest of the landscaping around the main house, she was surprised he'd let this path grow over -- until she thought about it. He'd left it for the same reason as he'd left the driveway in such a mess on the onshore property: To discourage trespassers. Okay, he was forgiven.

She walked the length of the log's worn surface then jumped to the next one. Moving briskly, she could circle the island in about an hour, so she set out at a good clip, stopping now and then to examine something washed up by the tide.

She came upon an oar and wondered if it could belong to Hennessey. Perhaps she should go and ask him. It would it the neighborly thing to do.

With a grimace of self disgust, telling herself not to reach too far for excuses to see the man, she jammed the oar handle between two logs, standing upright so that anyone looking for it would be able to spot it easily. Assuming anyone would want an oar with a split blade.

As she walked, she picked up, examined, and discarded many pieces of wood, retaining those she felt had potential. She ended up with three, wondering what shape would disclose itself when she began carving each one. Her fingers moved over the rough surfaces, assessing the grains and textures and suddenly she was eager to begin. It had been a long time since she had felt so eager about anything.

More quickly now she walked on and started up the inner side of the island, where the curve of the shore narrowed the gap of water to just under sixty feet at high tide. She had to duck to go under the wooden timbers of the bridge, remembering the days of her early childhood when there had been no bridge, and they'd been able to get to the island only at low tide, or by rowboat. She frowned, looking at the condition of the undersides of the timbers, seeing unmistakable signs of dry rot and indications that ants had invaded the wood. The bridge would have to be replaced soon, or they would once more be limited in their access to the house by the vagaries of wind and tide. Abandoning the beach a hundred yards farther on, she pushed through the bushes onto an old trail through the forest at the tip of the island. It would make her trek home shorter, she rationalized, shoving aside bushes that had grown into the disused path. The fact that the route kept her out of sight of the caretaker's house was pure coincidence. Besides, it was nice to be in the solitude of the miniforest until the path led her back to the beach on the outer side of Gull Island once more.

When she stepped up onto the path to the house, she came to an abrupt halt. The wild roses had been cut back.

Her heart stopped as abruptly as her feet. Hennessey had been there, and she had missed him.

Oh, don't be stupid, she told herself. Did she want him poking his head around her door every ten minutes and kissing her? Of course she didn't. And hadn't she told him yesterday to keep out of her hair? His having ignored her order and come over to bring her muffins, then come back to make sure she found them, was not significant. Nor was his having kissed her. Or her having kissed him back. Though, she was forced to admit, as of this morning she no longer really wanted him to leave her strictly alone.

It might, she thought, be nice to have companionship -- occasionally -- while she was on the island. And Hennessey, as the island's only other inhabitant, was the logical person to provide that companionship. There was also the chance that he was lonely, living as he did in almost total isolation. Venny sighed. He chose to live there, didn't he? Maybe he resented her presence as much as she had thought she was going to resent his.

And then she smiled. He had disabled her car so she couldn't leave. He had brought her muffins. He had cleared a path for her to get to the beach. He was thinking about her just as much as she was thinking about him. She sighed again. Obviously, they both had vivid imaginations if a couple of little kisses could have such an effect on them.

Still, she felt exceedingly lighthearted as she ran into the house and collected her carving tools to take them back to the beach. Her fingers itched to begin.

At the same time Venny was deciding she could not concentrate on reading as long as the memory of Hennessey's kisses kept intruding, Hennessey was sitting at his computer. The cursor winked at him like an evil eye saying, "Hit a key. Any key. Hit a key. Any key," over and over again. He hit a capital H -- and then backspaced over it. He hit it again and kept on typing. Heaven was in my arms today. Today I touched Heaven. Then he quit, staring at his monitor, at the gray words standing out on a pale blue background. The cursor still winked in its silent, insistent demand for another word, another sentence, another paragraph but his mind blanked it out as he reread the words he had typed, relived the sensations they evoked, and went off into a tailspin again.

For a long time he sat there, savoring the memory of her taste.

He sighed raggedly. Was what he felt for her more than lust? It had to be. There was more than just chemistry at work between them -- at least on his part. He couldn't get the woman out of his mind.

Abruptly he pushed his chair back so hard that it rolled right off the plastic mat he kept it on to protect the carpet. He got to his feet, went into the bathroom, and showered until the cold water made him shiver. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and then shaved again. He combed his hair very carefully and pulled on a pair of clean jeans, socks and shoes, wiggling his toes uncomfortably inside them. He wore shoes only when he absolutely had to. He felt the same about shirts. To show Heaven that he was more than just a bum, he'd go a lot further than making his feet uncomfortable and hemming in his shoulders with cloth. Grabbing a green shirt from his closet, be shoved his arms into the sleeves, did up the buttons, and tucked it in.

He turned to leave the bathroom, wheeling on one foot, then went back. He brushed his teeth.

Her car was there, but she wasn't. The doors of the house, front and back, stood wide open. He went inside and called her name. No answer. He checked out the living room, then the kitchen. He opened the fridge and closed it quickly.

"You're out of your mind, Hennessey," he mumbled. "You think she heard you coming and hid in the refrigerator, for Pete's sake?"

Making a face, he opened it again. It held fruit and vegetables, cheese and milk and eggs and even a bit of meat. The cupboards contained canned and packaged goods. Then, satisfied that she had plenty of good food, he decided he should find out where she was, just to make sure she hadn't fallen and hurt herself. She looked so frail it was surely his duty as caretaker to ensure her safety and well-being. His employers would expect it of him. Wouldn't they? Certainly. They loved their niece, cared about her welfare. He mounted the stairs.

She wasn't up there. On her bed lay a wispy pink confection with lace around the top and bottom, and he reached out to touch it, but jerked his hand back.

"Get out of here, Hennessey," he ordered himself. "Next thing you know you'll be snatching things from clotheslines, you pervert, you!" He galloped down the stairs, eager now to be out of her house before she discovered him making a fool of himself.

On the porch, open and face down as if it had been carelessly dropped through lack of interest, he saw a paperback copy of a book -- one he knew well, Ferris Wheel, written by A.B. Hensen.

He stared at it for a moment. It reminded him that what he should do was do was go home and get back to work.

Heaven had been reading, then she'd chosen something else to do. She wasn't sitting around waiting for him to show up. She was out somewhere enjoying her vacation. She had not come there to be bothered by him. She'd made that clear yesterday, hadn't she?

Yesterday... He remembered the sadness he'd detected in her eyes. Maybe she was sitting quietly in some corner, brooding. Did she want to be alone, or would she appreciate having someone to take her mind off her troubles? He wouldn't come on to her. He'd just sit beside her and be her friend. Hell, he thought, everyone needs a friend, but never more than when trying to work through personal disappointments. Right. He would find her. Whistling, he set off down the path toward the beach.

He saw a tuft of yellow yarn caught on a wild rose thorn and remembered her yellow sweater, remembered the swell of breasts so small and tender under its fine knit, remembered... Remembered he was just going to offer her friendship, companionship. Pulling the tuft from the thorn, he held to his nose, pretending he could smell traces of her unique perfume on it.

She was nowhere in sight on the beach. Which direction had she gone? If he started one way, would he be following her and probably never catch up or would he be heading out to meet her? What if he waited for her to come back? He had no idea how long she might have been gone. She could return at any minute.

He'd give her half an hour or so, and then he'd go and look for her, just to be sure she was all right, just to see if she needed company, maybe even solace -- a shoulder to cry on. He swallowed hard, thinking of her face against his shoulder, her tears on his shirt, and wondered if he could stand hearing her weep for another man. Was it a man who had made her sad? He smiled. He might have his work cut out, teaching her that not every man would make her unhappy, that he was one man whose aim in life was fast becoming to do everything in his power to make Heaven McClure smile.

He rolled the bit of yellow fluff into a ball and tucked it into his shirt pocket before loping up steps to the path and getting the hedge clippers out of the garden shed. He cut back the wild rose bushes so she would have a clear path, and just as he was putting them back, he heard her jump onto gravel, heard the crunch of her footsteps.

Through the crack in the hinge side of the door he watched her run up to the house carrying a small piece of driftwood in one hand and a couple of others stuck in the back pockets of her jeans. She bounded exuberantly up the steps and across the porch. She wasn't sad today. She looked happy, excited, devastatingly appealing and totally tempting, and Hennessey was incapable of movement.

As she disappeared into the house, his knees went soft and mushy and all he could do was stand there inside the shed, thinking about the way she looked when she was running. Oh, but she was beautiful! His mouth went dry and his heart began pounding hard his chest, as if he had just had the life scared out of him. She created the strangest sensations in him. Oh, Heaven McClure, what are you doing to me? He was a fool, standing in a stuffy old shed thinking about her, when he could just as easily be inside the house with her, getting to know her. Kissing her ...

On wobbly legs, he stepped out of the garden shed and moved toward the front of the house, but before he could come out from behind the hedge that separated the shed from the rest of the yard, she had returned, carrying a flat box in one hand, and the driftwood in the other. With a light step, she headed back toward the beach.

Venny wasn't sure exactly when she became aware that Hennessey was watching her. The knowledge seemed to come over her gradually, and when she glanced up and over her shoulder, he was there.

Again, her heart came to an abrupt halt and she stopped breathing. With difficulty, she forced herself to draw one breath, to let it out slowly. Her heart resumed its toil. At least he was wearing a shirt. She was glad, immensely glad, that he was there.

She smiled.

Head spinning, Hennessey stepped over the log she was sitting on and slumped down beside her, leaving three feet of space between them. But, leaning sideways, he propped himself on one hand as he watched her work. "What are you doing?"

"Carving." She held up what she was working on, turning it from side to side, her head tilted as she examined the wood. "I think there's a hooded merganser in here."

Her earnest appraisal of the material brought a smile to his face. "You do? What makes you think that?"

"The grain of the wood. Look." She stroked her fingers across the top of the chunk she held and he felt as if they had stroked his skin. "See how it sweeps along here then angles upward?" Her fingers made the same motion over again. He felt the same sensation along his skin, only stronger. "This is its back, its neck, and here" -- One thumb traced a short arc upward -- "here is the crest. Or will be." The sharp blade of her knife sliced through the wood again and again as he watched the shape of the duck's back begin to emerge. Changing from a knife to a fine chisel, she started work on the creature's neck.

"Did you do all those woodcarvings in the house?" She nodded, not taking her eyes off her work as she took small nicks out of the wood. "It was my hobby for years."

"Was?"

Venny glanced from her carving to Hennessey's interested face. "Is," she stated firmly, knowing suddenly that it would be again. She had given it up before and had not resumed when her marriage failed, which had been foolish. "I haven't done a lot of it during the past few years," she went on, "so I'm rusty, sort of feeling my way with this one."

He watched in companionable silence for a long time, then said, "You don't look rusty. You look very sure, very deft, and... and very happy. Carving gives you a lot of pleasure, doesn't it?"

Surprised, she looked at him again, holding her knife still, then she nodded. "Yes. It does. You're very observant." Lars, she couldn't help remembering, had never realized what pleasure carving gave her. He considered it an unfeminine, messy hobby. He'd have preferred her to take up needlepoint. Yet this man, having watched her carve for less than an hour, knew how much it meant to her.

"I've trained myself to be observant," he said. "Though I suppose I've always been what other people might call snoopy. I like to imagine I can figure people out."

"I think you do more than imagine it." He made no comment and several more minutes of companionable silence went by before she was through having to concentrate on the delicate operation of liberating the duck's head from its prison of wood. How easy it was to be quiet beside Hennessey. He didn't twitch or fidget uncomfortably when she failed to entertain him with smart repartee or stimulate him with intellectual dialogue. "You're a writer, aren't you? What kind of books do you write?"

He shrugged and grinned. "Detective stories."

Lifting her brows, she said, "Oh. I read a lot of those. I like mysteries and action and danger. But only vicariously." Then, looking back at her work, she carefully scooped out a graceful curve to begin forming the mergansers crest. "I don't remember reading anything by anyone named Hennessey, though," she said apologetically, casting a sidelong glance at him.

"That's okay." He smiled easily. "'Most people don't know my name."

As she had thought yesterday he probably wasn't commercially successful. "I'm sure they soon will," she said kindly. "I understand it can take a long time for a writer to become well known."

"That's true," he said.

Hands and fingers tired from the unaccustomed exercise of carving, Venny set her work on the log both their feet rested on, slid her knife back into its velvet lined case with several others of different sizes and shapes, and put that with her carving. She wiggled her fingers, rubbed her right hand. He moved close, took her hands in his and began to massage them.

"Hennessey..." Venny stiffened as his hands came over hers, warm and strong and very sure in their movements -- as sure as he seemed to be of his right to be touching her.

"Hush," he said. "I like to touch you. Let me help."

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