LITMIR.BIZ

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All he needed was a carry-on with toiletries and a change of clothes. The closets in his Serenity West home were filled with everything he would need to dress casually, attend a formal affair or a sporting event.

      Whenever he settled into a routine at Serenity West, Jason loathed returning to Florida. He was more than content to live in Oregon writing and recording music, while someone else assumed the role as musical director for Serenity Records. He’d spoken to one of his cousins about coming to work for the record company, but Graham had yet to make a decision whether he would leave ColeDiz International Ltd., the privately-held, family-owned conglomerate. Graham had complained to Jason that Diego, CEO of ColeDiz, was a hard taskmaster and he preferred a more relaxing workplace atmosphere.

      The sound that the landing gear was activated echoed throughout the cabin as the jet began its landing. Jason smiled when he caught a glimpse of Mount Hood’s snow-covered peaks, and he chided himself for not learning to ski. However, growing up in the Sunshine State didn’t lend itself to cold-weather sports. Within minutes the plane touched down smoothly on a private runway, coming to a stop several hundred feet from a gated area with parked vehicles. Waiting until Carrie-Ann opened the hatch and pressed a button for the stairs to descend, Jason unbuckled his seat belt, reached for his carry-on and prepared to disembark. He thanked the flight crew, took the stairs and walked across the tarmac to where the rental company had parked the Range Rover he’d requested.

      He didn’t own a car outright, preferring instead to rent whether in Florida or Oregon. His family teased him constantly about his unpretentious lifestyle. He had his own apartment in the expansive Boca Raton mansion where he’d grown up; preferred jeans, T-shirts and running shoes for his work attire; and spent most of his free time either in the recording studio at the record company or in his parents’ home-based recording studio. He dated occasionally, but hadn’t had a serious relationship in more than two years. Jason was comfortable with his lifestyle because he was in complete control of his own destiny; he was independently wealthy and that was something the majority of those in their early thirties weren’t able to claim. He made his way over to a booth where a man sat watching his approach. Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he handed the stoic-looking armed guard his driver’s license. After typing his name and license number into a computer, the man handed him a set of keys to the Range Rover.

      Jason’s belly made rumbling noises again as he maneuvered out of the parking area, following the signs indicating the airport exit. Glancing at the dashboard, he noted the time. It was 3:55 p.m. Pacific Time, while his body was still in the Eastern Time Zone. Accelerating into the flow of traffic along the interstate, Jason realized he would make it to Mission Grove in time for the start of Stella’s dinner hour.

      Touching a button on the steering wheel, he turned on the satellite radio, tuning it to a station featuring blues. His fingertips kept tempo on the leather-wrapped steering wheel as the gravelly voiced vocalist belted out a rousing rendition of “Sweet Home Chicago.” Driving along the Columbia River highway, Jason lost himself in the music as the landscape changed from skyscrapers to scenic towns nestled in valleys with dense forests making a continuous curtain of green. There were magnificent gorges and breathtaking views of mountain lakes. The sight of Mount Hood never failed to make him catch his breath.

      There was something about the natural untamed beauty of this part of the country that made Jason feel as if he’d been reborn, a blank slate where he could selectively choose what he wanted to do, remember or avoid.

      The road sign for Mission Grove came into view and within minutes he drove over the single lane road and into the town with a population of 3,956. There had been a time when the population boasted nearly six thousand inhabitants when logging camps sprang up at the height of the logging boom. Now it had become a haven for fishermen, hikers, skiers and retirees and those whose European ancestors came to the Pacific Northwest as traders and settlers in the late-eighteenth century.

      Stella’s, an enormous log-hewed building, was erected in a clearing with parking for at least sixty vehicles and overlooked a lake bordered by towering pine trees. Picnic tables and benches were set on a grassy area for those wishing to eat outdoors. There were a number of signs warning diners not to leave food on the tables or on the ground because it would attract bears and other woodland creatures.

      Jason pulled into a space between two pickup trucks and cut off the engine. It was a few minutes after five and the lot was half-filled. He walked into Stella’s and was met with a plethora of mouthwatering aromas. He hadn’t taken more than three steps when he stopped short, staring at a young woman in jeans, running shoes, white shirt and matching apron tied around her waist as she leaned over a man seated at a table, her face pressed close to his. At first Jason thought she was going to kiss the diner until he noticed the color of his face. It had gone from bright red to purple. The three other men sharing the table stared mutely, their eyes widening in shock.

      It ended when she stood up straight, glaring at him. “Touch me again and I’ll castrate you.” Her voice carried easily in the expansive space. She turned on her heel and walked away with a sensual sway of slender hips. Guffaws of laughter followed her retreat, while the seemingly hapless victim’s chest rose and fell as he struggled to regain what was left of his dignity.

      Jason couldn’t stop the smile stealing its way over his features when he realized what had just occurred. Some men had to learn the hard way that women didn’t like to be touched without permission. His gaze swept around the restaurant for an empty table, then spied one with a lone diner. He was fewer than five feet away when the deeply tanned man with shaggy gray-flecked brown hair stood up, hoary-gray eyes widening in surprise.

      “I see you haven’t lost your edge,” Jason said quietly.

      Chase Bromleigh pulled Jason into a bear hug that threatened to bruise his ribs. “How the hell are you? You told me you were coming two months ago. What did you do? Walk from Florida?”

      Attractive lines fanned out around Jason’s gold-flecked eyes as he smiled. “I had a family situation.”

      Chase dropped his arms. “And we’re about to have another situation. Bobby doesn’t look too happy.”

      A deafening silence descended over Stella’s as six-foot-four, two-hundred-fifty-pound Bobby Henry made a beeline to the table where the customer had harassed his waitress. First the man was sitting, then he was up and running, heading for the door before Bobby could reach him.

      The ex-Green Beret folded huge arms over his chest, blue eyes flashing dangerously as lights from hanging fixtures reflected off his shaved pate. “I’ve said it once and I’ll just say it one more time.” His baritone voice carried easily in the hushed silence. “Anyone harassing my niece will have to deal with me. And I promise to tune you up where you wish you’d never taken your first breath.” Reaching behind his back, he pulled out an expandable baton, tapping it against the palm of his large hand. “Do I make myself understood?” There were nods and a few whispered yeses. “Good. Now enjoy your dinner.”

      Jason sat down across from Chase. “It looks as if Bobby’s niece can take care of herself.”

      Chase nodded. “I’m certain she can if she threatened to castrate the poor man.”

      Jason’s gaze shifted to the woman in question when she returned with a tray hoisted on her right shoulder. He didn’t know why, but there was something about her that reminded him of his mother. Perhaps it was the color of her hair or the shape of her eyes. That’s where the similarities ended because she was at least four or five inches taller than Serena Cole.

      “When did she start working here?” he asked Chase.

      “I assume you’re talking about Greer.”

      “If that’s her name, then of course I’m talking about her.”

      Chase leaned closer, studying the expression of the talented musician and record producer. “Her name is Greer Evans and she’s just getting over a rather nasty divorce, so if I were you, I’d keep my distance.”

      Jason met Chase’s eyes. “I came here to write music not get involved with a woman.”

      “Isn’t

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