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when she gets here.”

      “That would make a nice change,” Corlie said. She winked at Barrie. “But I expect she’s going to be something of a nuisance to a newly engaged couple. I’ll help run interference.”

      She smiled and went off to make coffee.

      “Oh, dear,” Barrie murmured, seeing more complications down the road.

      Dawson shoved his hands into his pockets and searched her face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It will all work out.”

      “Will it?” She grimaced. “What if Mrs. Holton sees right through us?”

      He moved a little closer, near enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. “Neither of us is used to touching or being touched,” he remarked when she stiffened. “That may be awkward.”

      She remembered how he’d pushed away the woman at the party in Tucson. Barrie was afraid to come that close, but they were supposed to be engaged and it would look unnatural if they never touched each other.

      “What are we going to do?” she asked miserably.

      He sighed heavily. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. Slowly his hand went out, and he touched her long, wavy dark hair. His fingers were just a little awkward. “Maybe we’ll improve with some practice.”

      She bit her lower lip. “I…hate being touched,” she whispered in a rough whisper.

      He winced.

      She lowered her eyes to his chest. “Didn’t you notice, at the party? I had two men at my feet, but did you see how much distance there was between us? It’s always like that. I don’t even dance anymore…!”

      His hand withdrew from her hair and fell to his side. “God forgive me,” he said miserably. “I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.”

      Her eyes came up, shocked. He’d never admitted guilt, or fault before. Something must have happened to change him. But what?

      “We’ll have to spend some time together before she gets here,” he said slowly. “And get to know each other a little better. We might try holding hands. Just to get used to the feel of each other.”

      Tentative. Like children on a first date. She wondered why she was being so whimsical, and smiled.

      He smiled back. For the first time in recent memory, it was without malice or mockery.

      “Antonia said that Mrs. Holton was very attractive,” she remarked.

      “She is,” he agreed. “But she’s cold, Barrie. Not physically, but emotionally. She likes to possess men. I don’t think she’s capable of deep feelings, unless it’s for money. She’s very aggressive, single-minded. She’d have made a good corporate executive, except that she’s lazy.”

      “Did her husband leave her well-fixed?” she asked curiously.

      “No. That’s why she’s trying to find a man to keep her.”

      She bristled. “She ought to go back to school and keep herself,” she said shortly.

      He laughed softly. “That’s what you did,” he agreed. “You wouldn’t even take an allowance from George. Or from me.”

      She flushed, averting her eyes. “The Rutherfords put me through college. That was more than enough.”

      “Barrie, I never thought your mother married my father for his money,” he said, reading the painful thought in her mind. “She loved him, just as he loved her.”

      “That wasn’t what you said.”

      His eyes closed. “And you can’t forget, can you? I can’t blame you. I was so full of hatred and resentment that I lashed out constantly. You were the most easily reachable…and the most vulnerable.” His eyes opened again, cold with self-contempt. “You paid for every sin I accused your mother of committing.”

      “And how you enjoyed making me pay,” she replied huskily.

      He looked away, as if the pain in her eyes hurt him. “Yes, I did,” he confessed bluntly. “For a while. Then we went to the Riviera on holiday with George.”

      She couldn’t think about that. She didn’t dare let herself think about it. She moved away from him. “I should unpack.”

      “Don’t go,” he protested. “Corlie’s making coffee. She’ll probably have cake to go with it.”

      She hesitated. Her big green eyes lifted to his, wary and uncertain.

      His face hardened. “I won’t hurt you,” he said roughly. “I give you my word.”

      He was old-fashioned that way. If he made a promise, he kept it. But why should he stop sniping at her now, and so suddenly? Her eyes mirrored all her uncertainties, all her doubts.

      “What’s changed?” she asked miserably.

      “I’ve changed,” he replied firmly.

      “You suddenly woke up one morning and decided that you’d give up an eleven-year vendetta?”

      He searched over her face with an enigmatic expression on his darkly tanned face. “No. I discovered how much I’d lost,” he said, his voice taut with some buried feeling. “Have you ever thought that sometimes our whole lives pivot on one decision? On a lost letter or a telephone call that doesn’t get made?”

      “No, I don’t suppose I have, really,” she replied.

      “We live and learn. And the lessons get more expensive with age.”

      “You’re very reflective, lately,” she said, curious. A strand of hair fell over her eyes, and she pushed it back from her face. “I don’t think in all the time we’ve known each other that we’ve really talked, until the past day or so.”

      “Yes. I know.” He sounded bitter. He turned away from her to lead the way into the spacious living room. It had changed since she’d lived on the Rutherford ranch. This was the very room where Dawson had so carelessly tossed the little silver mouse she’d given him to his date. But it wasn’t the same at all. The furniture was different, Victorian and sturdy in its look, but wonderful to sink into.

      “This room doesn’t look like you at all,” she remarked as she perched herself in a delicate-looking wing chair that was surprisingly comfortable.

      “It isn’t supposed to,” he replied. He sat down on the velvet-covered sofa. “I hired a decorator to do it.”

      “What did you tell her, that you wanted to adopt someone’s grandmother and install her here?” she asked.

      He lifted an eyebrow. “In case you didn’t notice, the house is late Victorian. And I thought you liked Victorian furniture,” he added.

      She shifted, running her hand along the arm of the chair. “I love it,” she confessed in a subdued tone. Questions poised on the tip of her tongue, and she almost asked them, but Corlie came in with a tray of cake and coffee, beaming.

      “Just what the doctor ordered,” she said smugly, putting the tray on the big coffee table.

      “Great huge coffee tables aren’t Victorian,” Barrie muttered.

      “Sure they are. Victorians drank coffee,” Corlie argued.

      “They drank tea,” she replied, “and out of dainty little china cups and saucers.”

      “They also ate cucumber sandwiches,” Corlie returned. “Want a few?”

      Barrie made a face. “I’ll be quiet about the coffee table if you won’t offer me those again.”

      “It’s a deal. Call if you need anything else.” Corlie went out, closing the sliding doors behind her.

      She helped herself to

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