LITMIR.BIZ

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might be pretty desperate to keep it.

      His lawyer sure seemed to think so. Suspecting the publisher might try something extreme now that Max had threatened to sue, he’d warned Max to keep himself out of trouble. So Max had dug out his dented halo and would be wearing it from here on out—if it killed him.

      And it might.

      Playing nice and proper was bad enough on a regular day, but with a female like this one—with a body made for silk sheets, sighs and sin—it was proving torturous. He hadn’t expected to come to Trouble and stumble over a woman who made him stupid with lust, but here she was.

      Which seemed almost too convenient, didn’t it? He hadn’t met an unattached, attractive woman between the ages of fifteen and forty since he’d shown up in town, and now here was one who’d tempt the Queer Eye guys to go straight. Out in the woods…alone…smelling so damn sweet and looking so damn delicious. What were the odds?

      Not very good.

      Suddenly, Max began to wonder if his lawyer might have been on to something. Maybe somebody out there was trying to set him up, to put his ass over the flame and see if he cried “Fire!” before being barbecued.

      Could this blonde be some kind of reporter? Some tabloid shark using herself as bait?

      All of his senses on high alert, he found a well of determination deep inside that enabled him to put on his best “I’m a trustworthy guy” face. That look—and the matching attitude—would stay there, too. At least until he found out exactly who this woman was. And why she was here.

      One thing was certain—no matter how much she attracted him, Max Taylor’s business meant a whole lot more to him than any woman. So from this moment on, this one was strictly hands-off.

      Which was exactly the silent message he sent her as he smiled, nodded goodbye and murmured, “Well, have a nice day.”

      Then he bent down and returned to work on the engine, praying the blond sweetheart would leave before he forgot he was supposed to be a nice guy.

      

      SABRINA HAD NO BUSINESS being out here on the outskirts of town drooling over the hottest male she’d ever seen. But somehow, she couldn’t make herself walk away. Instead, she wandered around the old abandoned amusement park, surreptitiously watching him work.

      If there were such a thing as an orgasm in a box, this man would be the spokesman for it. That smile, that husky voice, that knowing look—oh, yeah, $29.95, ladies, flip the lid and start moaning.

      She’d buy a case. That was for sure.

      His face had sent her heart into overdrive at first sight, and his playful smile had made her stomach roll over about ninety-four times. The body—whew, that big, massive body—had awakened all her most feminine parts and started them zinging. Sparking. Melting.

      He had her tense with excitement, hyper-reactive, on alert. Wondering what to say to make him drop his wrench, rise to his feet and get back to paying attention to her rather than the merry-go-round.

      Which didn’t make any sense.

      He wasn’t her type. Not at all. A muscle-bound hunk wearing dusty jeans that clung to lean hips and solid thighs was not on her list of acceptable men. He certainly wasn’t the nice, Tom Hanks type she’d been telling Nancy about earlier.

      No. This brown-haired mechanic with his second-skin black T-shirt that clung to a pair of arms thick enough to burst its sleeves was definitely not for her. His shoulders looked broad enough for a lumberjack—as if he bench-pressed the cars he worked on. His thick, blond-streaked brown hair was windswept, and a little too long for “nice.” It was also much too tempting for finger-curling.

      Everything else was wrong, too. His face was too lean, his jaw too square, his eyes—those incredible green eyes—were much too bright and knowing. His mouth was too wide, his smile too confident, his laugh too enticing. His hands…his big, strong, rough hands…Oh, God help her.

      No, no, no. He would not do at all.

      So why in heaven’s name couldn’t she make herself leave? Even when she should have—given his provocative comments. Then again, he’d looked so innocent, so friendly-but-not-slimy when he’d made them, that she wasn’t entirely sure he’d been coming on to her. Every word he’d said had made perfect sense in the context of the carousel.

      And sex.

      So which, exactly, had he been talking about?

      The carousel. It had to be. This guy was too simple—too openly friendly, blue-collar working man—to play the kind of word games she’d been imagining. He was a small-town mechanic who saw the prettiness in a broken-down old carnival ride and was spending his spare time trying to revive it. Generous, sweet, gorgeous.

      Perfect.

      Could it be that simple? Could he just be the kind of nice, fabulous man women talked about meeting but never did? A good, honorable guy, despite his rock-hard, sex-on-two-legs appearance?

      If only.

      He had to have a flaw. Have the IQ of a rabbit or like to scratch his crotch and drink cheap beer while watching monster truck rallies on weekends. Something.

      He was married. A chauvinist. A gambler.

      She didn’t for a moment suspect gay. No way would any woman think that. The female half of humanity would never stand for it—they’d stage a billion-woman protest march at the very idea.

      But there had to be something—some imperfection she wasn’t seeing. Because no way could he look this good and be the man of her dreams.

      The man of her nice dreams. Her happily-ever-after dreams.

      Not her wild, erotic, do-me-’til-I-can’t-move dreams about smooth-talking, Mr. Suave playboy, Max Taylor.

      The idea that one man could be both was simply too far in the realm of science fiction to seriously consider.

      Sabrina had to admit one thing. She somehow suspected her Max Taylor dreams were going to be supplanted by big-hot-hard-mechanic dreams, at least for the time being.

      So, go! She shouldn’t be out here, wondering about this man, not when she had a job to do. But something wouldn’t let her leave. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe even a hint of cowardice about her real mission in Trouble, since she had about as much in common with a femme fatale as she did with Queen Elizabeth.

      Whatever the reason, she suddenly wanted to take a few minutes for herself. Just a little longer to try to get to know this stranger who was apparently obsessed with bringing a sad old ruin back to life.

      She’d begin her “mission” soon enough—dressed in the expensive knockoffs and playing the part of a rich, bored woman visiting a quaint American village. Trying to tempt Satan’s sexy henchman into revealing his wicked seducer tendencies.

      Hmm.

      Tough job. But somebody has to do it.

      But until she threw herself into some incognito role, she just wanted to be herself for a while longer. Why not, for a few more moments, enjoy the company of this simple mechanic, who probably had never seen the wife of a congressman—much less gotten her naked in the ladies’ room of a trendy Los Angeles restaurant?

      Enough with the book.

      She really needed to stop thinking about it, to stop remembering the way her whole body had gone warm and moist when she’d imagined being wildly seduced into a debauched life of sensuality by a predatory Max Taylor, as Grace Wellington had been.

      Somehow, this stranger with his big hands and his strong shoulders seemed just the person to help her do that.

      “So, is there anything I can do to help you?” she asked, once she’d worked her way all around the park and had run out of sad, broken attractions to look at.

      He glanced up, eyes widening, displaying the flecks of

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