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  "Well, I'm glad to hear that. Let's hope it stays that way."

  "It will," Rhys snapped, and turned away to stare out the back door of his grandmother's small frame house.

  The business with Meghan had thrown him off kilter, made him nervous and edgy, and the run-in with Quincy had not helped. His mind sought a diversion, and almost at once his gaze settled on the small figure of his grandmother.

  Ella Morgan was in the garden weeding and gathering vegetables. Stooped over, down on her knees, she wore a loose cotton housedress, the kind only very elderly grandmothers wore, and an ancient, old-fashioned starched sun-bonnet to shield her face from the blistering Texas sun. Rhys suspected it was the same sunbonnet she'd worn ever since he could remember, the one that always hung on a hook beside the door on die screened-in back porch.

  As he watched her gnarled hand pull up a weed and toss it into the cardboard box beside her, he felt a pang. She was eighty-seven. She wouldn't be around much longer, and the thought of that was unbearable. God, bow he loved mat old woman.

  Rhys watched her, shaking his head, a half smile on his lips. Ever since he'd achieved his first success he'd tried to get her to move out of this little cracker box of a house. He'd wanted to buy her a mansion—at the very least, an elegant condo—but she wouldn't hear of it.

  "Pshaw. What would I do in one of those fancy places? Play canasta all day?" she had argued, dismissing the suggestions with a wave of her arthritic hands. "Besides, I can't leave my vegetable garden and all my flowers. No, you just save your money, my boy. I'm fine right where I am."

  The most she had ever allowed him to do was buy her a clothes dryer and air-condition the place, but Rhys suspected she never used either. She certainly hadn't since he'd been there. For the past few nights, just as he had done every summer from the time he'd been eight years old until he'd left for the marines, he had lain sweltering in his old bed, his body covered with a sheen of sweat.

  Still, he had to admit, there was a timelessness about the old place that was soothing. The pecan tree in the backyard had been there ever since he could remember. So had the meticulously painted white picket fence. His grandmother's Monday wash flapped on the clothesline, and the faint scent of bleach and strong soap mixed with the heady perfume of her beloved roses. Behind him, the familiar smell of fresh-baked pineapple upside-down cake—his favorite—filled the kitchen. Through the screen door came the impertinent call of a mockingbird, and down the street a bandsaw whined, the familiar sound of old Mr. Potts puttering in his garage woodworking shop, just as he had every day for the past fifteen years since he retired.

  Leaning a shoulder against the door frame, Rhys wondered why it was that, even after all tins time, this tiny house was more home to him than any of the numerous residences he owned around the world. In the past few years he had been restless and vaguely discontent, and he did not know why. Yet here... here he felt at peace.

  "Well, I guess I'll get back to the hotel."

  Rhys had forgotten Quincy. Surprised, he looked over his shoulder and nodded. "Yeah, all right. Be sure and tell the others to be ready bright and early Wednesday morning."

  "Yo. Will do. And look, man, I'm sorry if I was out of line about the McCall woman."

  "It's okay. Forget it."

  As his manager sauntered back through the house and out the front, Rhys's gaze returned to his grandmother. However, it was not the stooped old woman who now occupied his thoughts, but a five-foot-three redhead.

  He had not been precisely truthful with Quincy. At least, he had not told him the whole truth. He had not finagled Meghan into taking over for Chester for strictly business reasons, though from all accounts she was highly qualified. His reasons had been personal.

  In all honesty, he had to admit that he was attracted to her. Strongly attracted. That had surprised him, but there was no denying the shock of awareness and good, old animal lust that had zinged through him when he had first seen her across the television studio. It had hit him again today. Rhys shook his head. Who would have thought it? Little Meghan McCall.

  However, it was not desire that had prompted him to hire her. At least... not entirely.

  Seeing Meghan again had stirred up all of his old, uneasy feelings about what had happened between them. He had never been comfortable with that unfinished business. Over the past eight years he had thought of her now and then, always with a pang of guilt, and he was tiled of it. It was time—long past time—to clear the air.

  Fate had seen fit to cause their paths to cross again, and this time he damn well intended to somehow put things right, whether Meghan liked it or not. At the very least, they would get the matter out in the open.

  * * *

  Regardless of her seemingly meek acceptance of Wilson Howly's orders, Meghan did not give up that easily.

  She went home and packed, cleaned out her refrigerator, canceled her newspaper and got Joan Anderson, a young single mother who lived across the hall, to pick up her mail and keep an eye on her apartment. When Joan heard what Meghan was going to be doing she got so excited she nearly had heart palpitations, which did nothing to improve Meghan's mood.

  In between making preparations, Meghan called Wilson several times with various creative excuses as to why it would be better for someone else to take the assignment. Finally he'd had enough and bellowed that if she bothered him one more time she was fired. Only then did Meghan accept defeat.

  She put off calling her parents to tell them of the assignment until just before she went to bed on Tuesday night.

  Her news met with mixed reactions. Her Aunt Dorothy and Rebecca, her brother Travis's wife, happened to be at her folks' when she called, and they and Meghan's mother were almost as excited as Joan had been. Her father, though, voiced reservations about his daughter traipsing around the country with a ladies' man such as Rhys Morgan.

  "If that yahoo gets fresh with you or tries to force his attentions on you, you get yourself on a plane for home at once," her normally cheery father grumbled. "Your brothers and I will take care of him."

  "Dad, I promise, you don't have a thing to worry about on that score. Believe me, he won't do anything like that."

  "Humph. You don't know that. Now you promise me you'll do as I say."

  Closing her eyes, Meghan sighed and shook her head. Her father's concern both warmed and saddened her. "All right, Dad. I promise."

  When she hung up the telephone a few seconds later she stood with her hand still on the receiver and stared off into space. Her father and brothers persisted in worrying about her as though she were still sixteen. Even though she was twenty-six, Meghan was certain that they, and no doubt the rest of her family, assumed she was an innocent virgin.

  Meghan's mouth twisted. Her father was so worried that Rhys would try to seduce her. She wondered what he would say if he found out that she had given her innocence to Rhys a long time ago? And that she had been the one doing the seducing?

  Turning out the lights as she went, Meghan trailed listlessly through the apartment in her nightgown. In her bedroom she flopped down on her back across the bed, arms flung over her head, and stared at the ceiling. If only she had walked away that first night when Rhys had introduced her to his girlfriend.

  But, oh, no. Not only had she stayed through that awful evening, she had made an absolute pest of herself in the months that had followed.

  Meghan sighed and rolled her head against the mattress. That was the trouble with being the adored baby in a family such as hers. She didn't think she had been spoiled— Maggie and Colin McCall would never have tolerated that— but she had been showered with love and attention all her life. Her upbringing had been a secure and stable one, which had instilled strong feelings of self-worth and confidence. That fall, she had arrived at the University of Texas brimming with the youthful self-assurance that anything was possible, anything was attainable if you wanted it badly enough.

  And she had wanted Rhys.

  She had loved him s
o desperately she had been unable to accept that he was unattainable. Fate wouldn't be so cruel. Meghan snorted. Now, looking back from the vantage point of eight years, she couldn't believe her naive optimism.

  Suffering the exquisite agony of first love, she had not been able to stay away from Rhys. Every night she had dreamed of him, and her every waking moment had revolved around him. It was embarrassing to recall the elaborate lengths to which she had gone to set up "accidental" meetings, the way she had planned her schedule around him, haunted the places he frequented and the bar where he worked. Short of throwing herself at his feet, she had done everything she could to attract him.

  In hindsight, Meghan realized that Rhys, and no doubt everyone else on campus, had known of her crush all along. AD things considered, he had been amazingly tolerant. Most of the time he had treated her like a kid sister, which had frustrated her almost to the point of screaming. She hadn't wanted Rhys for a brother; she had brothers.

  Several times over that college year when her efforts had proved futile she bad told herself it was hopeless, but in her lovelorn heart hope had burned all the same.

  However, as the spring semester had begun to wind down she had begun to experience a genuine sense of panic. Soon Rhys would earn his degree and leave, and she would never see him again. The very thought had been unbearable.

  Then, barely two weeks before the end of the school year, Rhys and Connie had broken up. To Meghan it had seemed like divine intervention.

  She had entered the bar that night immediately after their final quarrel and found Rhys alone. He had been seated at a back table, a squat glass cradled between his palms, an open bottle in front of him. One look at his face had told her he was depressed and angry and in no mood to deal with a besotted teenager, but she sat down beside him anyway and laid a tentative hand on his arm.

  "Rhys... I'm sorry."

  He slowly turned his head. His mouth twisted in a nasty parody of a smile and his pale eyes raked her. "Oh, yeah? About what?" His breath reeked of whiskey, and the acrid fumes made her head swim. Had he been anyone else she would have been repulsed. But this was her beloved Rhys, and her heart went out to him.

  "About.. .well.. .I ran into Connie as she was leaving. She told me that the two of you had just broken up."

  Actually, what Connie had snapped at Meghan was, "This is what you've been hoping for ever since you met him. Personally, I don't think you've got a prayer, but who knows. If you hurry you just might be able to snap him up while he's on the rebound." She had then raked Meghan from head to toe with a contemptuous look. "I suppose stranger things have happened."

  "That's right, we did. So what're you gonna do, Slugger? Console me?" He gave a snort of laughter. "Aren't I the lucky one?"

  He had never used that derisive tone with her before. It hurt, but she told herself it was the whiskey talking.

  Rhys tossed back the rest of his drink. As it slid down his throat Meghan felt the muscles in his forearm bunch beneath her fingers.

  "Rhys.. .I've never seen you drink like this. Don't you think you've had enough?''

  "Enough?" He snorted. "Hell, no, I haven't had enough. I'm still conscious, aren't I?"

  "Oh, Rhys-"

  "Don't 'Oh, Rhys' me. Look, kid, I don't want to talk about it, and I don't need consoling. And I sure as hell don't need your pity, so just go away. Get the hell outta here and leave me alone for once," he snarled.

  Meghan did not budge. Convinced that Rhys needed her, she stuck by his side as he downed several more drinks. He snarled and snapped, but she ignored his insults and glares and deliberately cruel comments. She neither nagged nor pleaded, but merely waited. After a while her patience paid off, and Rhys began to open up.

  "Damn women," he muttered into his drink. "You're all schemers. Every last one of you. Always trying to twist a man around your little finger. Make him over to suit yourself. To hell with what he wants or what he's worked for years to achieve. Isn't that right?" he demanded, skewering her with an angry glare.

  Meghan said nothing, She merely waited, and after a moment he refocused on his drink and went on.

  "Connie insisted that we get married. Did you know that? She had it all worked out, only she didn't bother telling me until tonight. She figured as soon as I graduated we'd tie the knot and I'd join her father's hardware business. Her old man's got a string of stores out in West Texas. Newcomb Nuts and Bolts." He snorted and his mouth curled into a sneer.

  He tossed back another gulp of whiskey and exhaled a raspy breath. "Gave me an ultimatum. Either I married her, and joined her old man's business of we were through." His fist hit the table, and the glass jumped. So did Meghan. "Dammit, we never even discussed marriage before, and out of the blue the woman blindsided me."

  "Do, uh... Do you want to marry her?"

  "No! That is... I don't know. Maybe." He massaged the back of his neck. "Hell, to tell you the truth, I haven't given it any thought. All I know for certain is I'm not ready for marriage now. I want to get a job, get established first. On my own. I'm sure as hell not going into the hardware business with 'Daddy' just so Connie can continue to enjoy the comfortable life-style she's always had." His frown deepened. "But even if I had wanted to marry Connie, I damn well don't like being backed into a corner."

  "I don't blame you. That was awful of her."

  Rhys eyed Meghan askance, but her commiseration blunted his hostility. Over the next half hour she listened as he poured out his anger and hurt, all the while showering him with sympathy and understanding. She made no effort to hide her feelings, and her unabashed adoration seemed to be a balm to his raw emotions.

  Rhys was not precisely drunk, but he was in no shape to sing. Nick Sabbatini, the club manager; was sympathetic and before time for the last show he ordered Rhys home.

  "You're no good to me in the shape you're in. If I let you go on you'd make a romantic ballad sound like a funeral dirge, and that's bad for business. So go on, get outta here. Take a few nights off. And don't come back until you've got that little blonde outta your system."

  Rhys grimaced but lurched to his feet. "Thanks, Nick," he muttered and headed for the exit without a thought for Meghan.

  She caught up with him in the parking lot, standing beside his motorcycle, digging into the pocket of his jeans for the keys. She latched onto his arm. "Rhys, why don't you let me drive you home? I really don't think you should be operating that thing in your condition."

  He gave her a long look. "Sure. Why not?"

  When Meghan parked the little compact before his apartment building it never occurred to her that perhaps she would be wise to let him make his way inside on his own. No sooner had she turned off the engine than she scrambled out and hurried around to his side to assist him.

  "Ah, sweet, little Meghan. Always so eager to please," he chuckled. After a brief struggle, he climbed out and draped his arm around her shoulders and they headed for his front door. Intent on putting Rhys to bed, once inside Meghan guided him through the minuscule living room without stopping. His bedroom contained a rickety old dresser, a scarred bedside table and a mattress and springs on a metal frame. Miniblinds covered the otherwise bare windows and the bed was unmade. As far as Meghan could tell, Rhys didn't own a bedspread.

  After urging him down onto the side of the bed she hovered over him. "What you need now is sleep. If you'll tell me where your pajamas are, I'll get them for you."

  He paused in the act of unbuttoning his shirt and shot her a sardonic look. "I don't wear pajamas. In fact, little Miss Innocent, I don't wear anything to sleep."

  "Oh." Heat suffused Meghan's face. Unable to meet his mocking gaze, she ducked her head and dropped down on her knees before him. "Then, here, let me help you with these."

  "What the hell—?" Before he could stop her, Meghan had snatched off his shoes and peeled off his socks.

  "Dammit, kid, will you cut it out." Rhys grasped her shoulders and forced her to her feet again. "I may be a little tipsy, but I'm n
ot pie-eyed. And I sure as hell don't need any help getting undressed. You shouldn't be here, anyway. So just run along back to your dorm and leave me alone."

  "No, I won't go. I can't leave you like this." Unable to help herself, Meghan reached out and smoothed his hair above his temple where he'd been running his fingers through it. Her gaze wandered over his face, her blue eyes warm and liquid with love. "I'm so sorry that Connie hurt you, Rhys. Truly I am. But I'm not sorry she's gone. She didn't deserve you. She's self-centered and vain and she would have made your life miserable. Believe me, you're better off without her. You're a wonderful man. You can do much better than that stuck-up Connie."

  He gave her a heavy-lidded look and a half smile. "You mean someone like you?"

  "Rhys," she admonished in a breathless voice.