LITMIR.BIZ

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      TERRY MCLAUGHLIN spent a dozen years teaching a variety of subjects, including anthropology, music appreciation, English, drafting, drama and history, to a variety of students from kindergarten to college before she discovered romance novels and fell in love with love stories. When she’s not reading and writing, she enjoys travelling and dreaming up house and garden improvement projects (although most of those dreams don’t come true). Terry lives with her husband in Northern California on a tiny ranch in the redwoods. Visit her at www.terrymclaughlin.com.

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      Available in September 2010

      from Mills & Boon®

      Special Moments™

       The Texas Billionaire’s Bride

      by Crystal Green

      &

       The Texas Bodyguard’s Proposal

      by Karen Rose Smith

       Kids on the Doorstep

      by Kimberly Van Meter

      &

       Cop on Loan

      by Jeannie Watt

       The Texan’s Tennessee Romance

      by Gina Wilkins

      &

       The Rancher & the Reluctant Princess

      by Christine Flynn

       Loving the Right Brother

      by Marie Ferrarella

       A Weaver Baby

      by Allison Leigh

       A Small-Town Temptation

      by Terry McLaughlin

       A Not-So-Perfect Past

      by Beth Andrews

      For Rob

      Chapter One

      JACK MAGUIRE WOULDN’T BE needing a second look to confirm the rumor: Charlie Keene was a woman who could give a man hell. She stood a dozen yards away, her muddy boots planted at the edge of Earl Sawyer’s gravel yard, flaring up like a pint-size serpent to poke a pointy finger at his gut. And if that image wasn’t enough of a giveaway, all a guy had to do was listen. She hissed and spat in a fire-and-brimstone vocabulary, providing Sawyer with an impressive preview of everlasting damnation.

      The plant operator who’d pointed out Charlie and Earl climbed back on his loader. Jack waved his thanks and leaned against his rental sedan to enjoy the show. Sawyer tried to duck out of the fight with a feint to the left, but Charlie cut off his escape with some fast footwork and another round of curses.

      One side of Jack’s mouth twisted in a lopsided grin. He’d enjoy doing a little ducking and weaving of his own before he delivered the knockout punch.

      Before he put her out of business.

      Sawyer laughed at something Charlie said and shook his head. She sure was a cute little thing, an inch or two over five feet and close to ninety pounds of atomic energy bundled up in workman’s coveralls. Her firecracker hair exploded out the back of her visored work cap, and her square, stubborn chin shoved up toward Sawyer’s grizzled beard. Not Jack’s usual taste in women, perhaps—too much spice in her attitude, not enough sugar in her shape—but kind of appealing, in a handle-at-your-own-risk kind of way.

      Jack always had enjoyed the adrenaline rush of a calculated risk. His smile spread with one part anticipation and three parts pure male speculation. It looked like this business trip up the coast from San Francisco might be more interesting than he’d figured.

      Charlie tossed up her hands with a frustrated growl, shot Sawyer one final, lethal glare and stomped toward the battered Keene Concrete pickup truck parked near Jack’s car. Her pretty mouth moved in a muttered litany of maledictions as she rammed her hands into her mud-spattered coverall pockets and kicked at a loose piece of cobble in her path.

      She stumbled over another when she noticed Jack grinning at her, and she faltered, just for a moment, while a charming blush flooded her cheeks. And then her eyes—Jack thought they might be as dark and gray as the wet gravel—narrowed to slits, and a touch of the heat she’d been directing at Sawyer snapped across the yard and sizzled right through him.

      Jack rubbed a fist over his heart. God almighty, the lady could torch the countryside with that flamethrower stare of hers. Probably came in handy for keeping badass drivers and fresh-handed boyfriends in line. He worked up another grin, just to show he wasn’t completely charred, while she yanked her abused pickup’s door open, climbed inside and peeled out of the yard, spitting gravel in her wake.

      “Maguire?” Sawyer sloshed through a gravel-lined puddle, one work-roughened hand outstretched to take Jack’s. “Jackson Maguire?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Earl Sawyer.” The wiry man had a grip like a vise on a machinist’s bench. “Welcome to BayRock. Understand you represent some folks who’re looking to get a piece of the Carnelian Cove ready-mix business, Mr. Maguire.”

      “Folks call me Jack.” He paused to watch a mixer truck pull under the concrete batch plant and stop, idling for the next load. The driver climbed down from the cab and headed for the office, juggling his clipboard as he lit a cigarette. “Looks like a busy place.”

      “Can be, sometimes.” Sawyer nodded with muted pride and satisfaction at a loader dumping a scoop of sand into the bed of

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