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  “We’ve met.” Blanche looked like she was working on vaporizing him with the glint from her narrowed eyes. “I was fixing to say that my mama always told me to be polite to folks, but I’ll make an exception for you if you start upsetting my Jillian here—”

  “Blanche—” Jillian tried, but Blanche was not to be deterred.

  “—and I don’t care how pretty you are. I’ll snatch that cane right out of your hand and wallop you upside the head with it. And then—”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Blanche.”

  “—I’ll take the broken ends and stick ’em where the sun don’t shine. And that’d hurt me more’n it’d hurt you, ’cause you’ve got one fine ass. But I’d do it.” Here Blanche paused long enough to extend a plate of pumpkin muffins and flash Beau a smile that held all the warmth of a snarl from a rabid wolf. “Help yourself, sugar. There’s butter if you need it.”

  Grateful as she was for this massive show of support, Jillian wanted to tell Blanche to duck and run because the poor woman had no idea what she was up against. Any second now, Beau would unleash his overwhelming, devastating charm, and Blanche, who was more susceptible to a handsome man than the average woman, would be reduced to a simpering mass of blushes and giggles.

  Jillian might as well pop some corn, pull up a chair and watch the show.

  Only, Beau didn’t fall back on his masculine appeal. He didn’t even smile.

  Instead—oh, wow, would he ever stop surprising her today?—he nodded in a grim show of humility and met Blanche’s ferocity head-on with no excuses.

  “I deserve that,” he told Blanche. “Hell, if you knew all the trouble I’ve caused in my life, you’d go ahead and call the sheriff to escort me off the property right now.”

  Neither of the women had expected this and they exchanged a wide-eyed look over Beau’s shoulder. Blanche recovered from her surprise quickly enough to put down the plate, fold her arms over her chest and hike up her chin as though she’d like nothing better than to take the meat mallet to him.

  Beau didn’t quake before this withering assessment, didn’t even blink. “I’m glad Jillian has a friend like you. I hope one day I can earn your trust.”

  The disapproving lines around Blanche’s mouth softened for a second, but then she caught herself and renewed her disdain. “Doubtful,” she said.

  Beau’s energy seemed to dim, as though a light had gone out inside him, but he held tight to his cane and stood tall. “I understand.” One corner of his mouth twisted up, crooked and humorless, and that vivid red scar puckered. “I’m not giving up, but I do understand.”

  Blanche shrugged. “Honey, you can do what you want. Long as you understand that I’m protecting my girl here.” She looked to Jillian. “You want me to toss him out? We got lunch to fix.”

  Yes. Toss him out. Bolt the door. Call the sheriff.

  The words were all right on the tip of Jillian’s tongue, but then Beau pivoted on his good leg to submit to her verdict on his fate, and she couldn’t speak to save her life.

  What was this new thing about him? There was infinite patience in his expression, resignation as well as determination, and she had the terrible feeling that if she told him to come back tomorrow each day for the next fifty years, he’d come back tomorrow.

  But the one thing he would not do was give up.

  This put her in an untenable position, stuck squarely between her need to stay as far away from him as humanly possible, and her conflicting resolve to be brave and not let him turn her into a panic-attack-stricken mess.

  Her pride won out in the end, and she shrugged in an Oscar-worthy display of indifference. Keeping her voice strong and audible was much harder.

  “If you want to stand there for three minutes and watch me fix lunch for my guests, that’s fine with me. I’ve already said everything I have to say.”

  A relieved grin flashed across his face, as brilliant as a streaking comet across the starry night sky. And then he sobered just as Jillian’s knees were weakening to mush. “Thank you.”

  Oh, God, this was a mistake.

  Already her pulse was flittering again in the telltale skip that told her another panic attack was in her near future, but it was too late to backtrack now. Blanche was moving toward the hall, about to leave them alone together, and there was no way Jillian could weasel out of it without looking like the full-grown, yellow-bellied coward that she was.

  “Humph.” Blanche pursed her lips, shot Beau a few more death sparks from her blue eyes and disappeared.

  And Jillian faced Beau.

  Chapter 6

  Breathe, Jill. Breathe.

  To give herself something to do while she waited for him to talk, she focused on the dog. “What’s his name?”

  “Seinfeld.”

  The surprise bubbled up out of her mouth in an unstoppable laugh. Seinfeld. That had been their favorite show a million years ago, when dinosaurs were young and they had a marriage that involved love and fun rather than the endless parade of one heartbreak after the other.

  Foolish to the bitter end and beyond, she caught his eye for that one second—oh, man, he was grinning, too—and the laughter was crushed by the sweet ache of nostalgia for things that had probably never been as great as she remembered them anyway.

  Turning away from Beau and his furry surrogate, she washed her hands. Forget the dog. If she was determined never to touch Beau again, she damn sure shouldn’t be fawning over his stupid dog.

  Seinfeld. Yeah. Right. Like that changed anything.

  “What is it, Beau?” Drying her hands, she tried, with increasing frustration, to remember what meal she was supposed to be cooking. It was supper, right? This terrible day had dragged on for so long it had to be suppertime by now, didn’t it? “I have work and—”

  “This is a great inn.” Taking baby steps, Beau turned in a loose circle to admire the kitchen and what he could see of the hall beyond. “You’ve worked really hard. I’m proud of you.”

  Jillian froze, her hand high overhead, reaching for a copper pan from the rack above the range. Chicken. They were supposed to be baking chicken.

  But Beau wasn’t finished reaching inside her and twisting her heart, and the unmistakable light of admiration gleaming in his eyes made everything so much worse. And that was before he spoke again.

  “I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do when you set your mind to it.”

  Jillian gaped at him, too undone to reply. Though this was the kind of thing he used to say all the time during their early years together, a thousand snide remarks came to mind now.

  I couldn’t keep you satisfied in bed, could I?

  I couldn’t keep you from screwing other women, could I?

  I couldn’t keep our family together.

  Oh, yes, she wanted to hurl all that ugliness right in his face, but something stopped her. The touch of God on her shoulder, maybe, or a moment’s grace. It could have been the sudden intrusion of Allegra’s smile and Jillian’s unwavering determination to make things work, as much as she possibly could, with her child’s father.

  Whatever it was, she couldn’t ignore it.

  So she swallowed the nastiness, which felt bitter going down and settled in her belly like a lead cannonball, and said, simply, “Thank you.”

  Beau turned those clear hazel eyes on her. “You’re welcome.”

  A second was about all she could stand and then she had to look away. Beau waited, saying nothing and kicking her anxiety level even higher.

  Why was he here? When would he leave? Desperate for something to do that wouldn’t reveal the relentless shake of her hands, she went to the fridge and pulled out the chicken, which Blanche had put to soak in a bowl of buttermilk.

  Chicken…chicken…what’d she do with it now? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. She’d have better luck trying to fillet a bowl of yak brains.

  Think, Jill.

  She had the pan. She had the chicken. Oh—flour. She needed flour. A
nd then she needed to get a grip. “If that’s all, Beau, I need to—”

  On her way to the far cabinet to get a few more ingredients, she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye and stopped cold. Underneath the smooth golden tones of his skin, he looked pale and clammy, with a distinct green tinge.

  Well, so what?

  She tried not to care, but then he gritted his teeth in a discreet cringe and there was no ignoring that.

  The man was in pain. Enormous pain. Terrible pain.

  “Beau,” she said sharply. God, was that her voice with all that anguish in it? “Sit down. You’re in pain—”

  “I’m fine.”

  Stubborn idiot. There were times when she was positive mule’s blood ran through his veins.

  “—and you probably need your meds.”

  Letting his eyes drift closed, as though he could take a quick nap standing up and then commence running a marathon—no problem—he swayed on his feet. “I don’t take any meds.”

  He didn’t take—

  What?

  Screw the chicken. Screw lunch. Aghast, she stalked back to stare him in the eye when she called him what he was—a maniac. She was so furious she really thought she could spit out a nail or two if she put her mind to it.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Sweeping her arms wide to encompass every crazy thing he’d done this morning and those he’d been working on for years, she screeched and didn’t care how many paying guests heard. “Trying to win the Martyr of the Year award?”

  Those eyes flew open, blazing green now with the fervor of a zealot. “I’m no saint.”

  She snorted. “I think we’re all clear on that, thanks. Take your meds, Beau—”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Jillian tried to get a grip on her overactive protective gene, but it was impossible when he was so haggard and yet so proud. She could do a lot of things; he was right about that. She could change the oil in her car, install storm windows and do a darn fine job as a single parent. The one thing she could not do and would never be able to do, not if she lived for another thousand years, was ignore his pain. “For God’s sake, why not?”

  “Because it reminds me!”

  “Reminds you of what?”

  He faltered, his expression filling with so much self-loathing and shame that she was surprised he didn’t grab the nearest chef’s knife and jab himself under the fingernails in punishment.

  Opening his mouth, he hesitated again, and when he finally spoke it was with the helpless sincerity and vulnerability of someone unearthing a piece of his soul and exposing it to bright sunlight for the first time ever.

  “All the work I have to do on myself.”

  Jillian stared at him.

  Well, what the hell was she supposed to say to that? That he didn’t have work to do? Or maybe she should emphasize the obvious—that he had so much work to do he really needed to look into overtime and weekend options.

  If she was smart, she’d just wish him good luck and tell him to get started on it down the street at his own house and well away from her. Why did he have to wallow in his determined martyrdom right here in her house?

  Only, he didn’t look like he was wallowing or seeking pity. He looked like a man stating a simple fact without realizing that the simple fact tore her to shreds.

  He had work to do on himself. Fine, Beau. Fine.

  “Do all the work you want,” she told him. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other to me.”

  A shadow crossed his face, maybe because he knew she was lying.

  “But I don’t intend to watch you kill yourself.” She waved a hand to the heavy oak bench against the wall under the far window. “You can sit down, or you can leave. I’d prefer that you leave, but it’s your choice.”

  He didn’t miss a beat, the bastard. “Sit with me, Jill.”

  She resisted for a second, hating him.

  He waited.

  The shallow harshness of his breath finally did her in. They’d sit. He’d gather a little strength. Then he’d leave. Brilliant. She had a plan.

  “You have one minute.”

  Furious, she marched the few steps to the bench and sat. He followed with painstaking care, planting a foot and then the cane, a foot and then the cane.

  A thousand deaths claimed her in those few seconds while she glared off in the other direction and tracked his progress with her heart in her throat, ready to spring up and catch him if he wobbled or fell.

  He didn’t, thank God.

  Arriving at last, he sat with a poorly stifled groan and stretched out that bad leg, rubbing his thigh. Seinfeld, sensing his discomfort in the unerring way pets do, ambled over and watched, making sure he wasn’t needed. When Beau was settled at last, he rested his chin on Beau’s lap and looked up at him with concern in his dark brown eyes, while Jillian worked hard to hate both man and dog.

  “The Celtics called,” Beau said. “They want me to play forward for them. I told them I’d think about it.”

  This was not funny. She would not laugh at his jokes, nor would she admire his strength, determination and humility. He would not affect her; she wouldn’t let him.

  “Fifty seconds,” she said, not looking at him. “Tick tock.”

  “Can I see Allegra today?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a pause during which he apparently decided to press his luck. “Can I get more time with her every week?”

  No. Hell, no. A billion times no. If only she were petty enough to keep a girl from her devoted father. Life would be so much easier that way.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you come back to me?” What?

  Jillian whipped her head around, prepared to blast him to kingdom come, but his wry half smile stopped her and dried the words right out of her mouth.

  “Just thought I’d ask. While you’re being so agreeable. It was worth a shot.”

  Okay. Game over. She’d tried to be a mature adult, but she had another seventy or eighty years of growing up to do before she’d be ready to deal with his teasing. Time for him to go. Lunging to her feet, she took a step toward the door.

  “I think we’re done here—”

  To her utter astonishment and horror, he took her hand and, before she could protest or snatch it away, laced their fingers. Too bad her body didn’t know that she’d written him off forever and that it should not, therefore, physically respond to him ever again.

  Heat flashed through her, a potent and unnecessary warning that although some things had changed, other things could never change. The scorching touch of his skin still undid her and their hands still fit together like the pieces of Allegra’s giant alphabet puzzle upstairs. Whether she wanted to fit with him or not didn’t matter. She just did.

  “I’ve told you.” His low voice was hoarse now, overflowing with emotion. “We’re not done.”

  The violent contraction of her heart nearly doubled her over, but she gathered her strength and tried to get free. This man would not do this to her, not in her own damn kitchen.

  “No, Beau—”

  Keeping her hand, he pressed it to his chest, where she felt the unrelenting pounding that matched what was going on with her own haywire pulse.

  “We have a lot of work to do, Jill, but we can heal our marriage.”

  With rising desperation, she yanked on her hand again, ready to part with it if that was what it took to get him to stop touching her. But he let her go and she backed up a step, fueled by her fear.

  “The fact that there’s been a divorce means there’s no marriage. You should check that out when you get a free minute. Divorce and marriage—they’re mutually exclusive.”

  The sarcasm rolled right off him, deflected by an unholy light in his eyes that looked like determination to the millionth power. “I don’t mean to scare you and I’ll try not to pressure you. But I won’t give up, either. There’s too much between us.”

  If only
she could deny it. If only she could open her mouth, laugh and say, “Screw you, buddy! I felt nothing when you touched me just now! Nuuuu-thing!”

  But the lie wouldn’t come and her hand still tingled from his touch.

  So she went on offense, which was the next best thing.

  Shrugging, she did her best to look bored and indifferent. “Do what you want. It’s your time to waste. But I’ve moved on. I’m dating someone now.”

  The little bit of remaining color leached away from his face, but she gave him high marks for a quick recovery and managing his shock.

  “Dating? Who’s the lucky guy?”

  Jillian opened her mouth, ready to rub his nose in it, but that was pretty hard when she suddenly couldn’t remember the guy’s name or face.

  “None of your business,” she said instead.

  Beau absorbed the blow like a man. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “Wow. That’s a first. Have you called the people at Guinness?”

  A flash of dark humor lit his eyes, but he said nothing.

  “I have to get working on lunch, so—buh-bye.”

  At last—at last, Lord, glory hallelujah—he pressed himself to his feet, gathered his cane in one hand and Seinfeld’s leash in the other, and headed for the door.

  Jillian all but vaulted across the kitchen to open it for him and hold it wide.

  Just as he passed through and she was beginning to breathe easier, thinking she’d survived another encounter without a second panic attack so maybe she should go buy a lotto ticket because this was her lucky day, he stopped, right in front of her, close enough that he took up her whole field of vision and threw waves of heat from his body to hers.

  Looking down at her, he stared with those remarkable eyes.

  Oh, God. There was more. She should’ve known he wouldn’t go quietly.

  Please, she wanted to say, don’t, but her voice locked down when he was this near, and she was exposed and entirely at his mercy.

  “I see you’re still wearing the locket,” he said gently.

  It was the worst kind of blow, hard and punishing, and she absorbed it in every cell in her body. Her hand moved on its own and went to her throat, to the chain of white gold and, at the end of that, to the flat oval that was warm from her body.