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      MILLS & BOON

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      EDMUND noticed her the minute she came into the dining room, not because she was beautiful, which she was, but because, in a roomful of people, she was so profoundly alone.

      He was alone, too, and wallowing in it. Not so with her. The eyes staring at the menu were blank, the face wiped clean of expression. For some reason he couldn’t begin to fathom, she’d shut down inside so completely that if the room had burst into flames, she probably wouldn’t have noticed.

      Not your concern, buddy, he told himself, gesturing for his bill. You’ve got enough problems of your own, without taking on a perfect stranger’s.

      Still, he lingered at his table, watching her; noting the absence of rings on her fingers, the formal, upswept hairdo incongruously at odds with her sweater and slacks. When she spoke to the waiter, she cupped her chin in one hand to support her mouth because that was the only way she could control its trembling. Oh yeah, something was definitely wrong!

      Her server knew it, too. He didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t hover obsequiously, reciting the chef’s special creations of the day. He wanted away from her quickly, before whatever ailed her infected him, too. Her barely contained misery was an affront. Romantic ambience were key words when it came to describing The Inn. Tragic heroines, however lovely, had no place there.

      Just briefly she looked up, a glance so wary and fearful that when their gazes locked, Edmund caught himself smiling at her and shrugging conspiratorially. Hang in there, sweet pea! Don’t let him spook you. You’ve got as much right to be here as anyone.

      She glared back at him and stiffened her already poker-straight spine.

      He felt his face crack into a grin he couldn’t control. Damn, but he admired her spirit! Faced with personal crises, the women he’d dated over the last couple of year either fled to the therapist’s couch or a weekend at one of those fat farms where, for the price of a mere few thousand dollars, their stress and cellulite could be flushed away in one fell swoop.

      But not this woman. She was the kind who’d go down fighting—or so he thought, until her drink arrived. Scotch, if he was any judge, and a double, to boot. Confronted by it, she sort of reared back in her seat and regarded the liquor suspiciously. Finally, after debating matters for a full thirty seconds or more, she picked up the glass. Her expression reminded him of a child faced with a dose of foul-tasting but good-for-you medicine, and he pretty well guessed what was coming next.

      Willing her to look his way again, he shook his head. Don’t do it, lady! It’s not going to solve a thing!

      Whatever mental powers he possessed failed him though, because she clearly didn’t get the message. Raising the glass, she tossed back half the contents in a single gulp.

      Clearly, from the way she gagged and choked, she and whiskey weren’t on familiar terms, and the effect was immediate, devastating and irreparable. The heat of the liquor burning down her throat chewed away the icy calm in which she’d encased herself, and what started as a booze-induced sting to her eyes rapidly dissolved into silent, body-wrenching sobs.

      She gulped, dipped her head to try to hide her face, struggled to draw a breath. But once started, there was no stopping the flood and the tears kept coming. Caught in the rays of the westerly sun, they splashed off the end of her nose and dribbled down her sweater like crystal beads come unstrung.

      Well, hell! Hard-boiled where women and their sob sessions were concerned he might have become, but he couldn’t just sit there and watch her fall apart, especially since no one else was going to help her and she was beyond being able to help herself. “Put the lady’s drink on my bill,” he directed the waiter and, shoving back his chair, waded in to slay whatever dragons were tormenting her.

      She was making a public spectacle of herself! Of all the hurt and embarrassment she’d suffered that day, the fact that she couldn’t control the hideous sobs gurgling and sputtering out of her mouth was the ultimate indignity. That morning, someone else was accountable for having humiliated her; now she was the perpetrator and had no one to blame but herself.

      Knowing that and being able to do something about it, though, were two different things. Try as she might to control them, the sobs choked out and echoed around the room,

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