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  Combining their professional skills, Fin and Shane had scoured Lillian’s psychological profile. She was superficially reserved, but a risk-taker at heart, and she’d wanted a child for a long time, probably badly enough to consider marrying a stranger to get one. Regarding men, she responded to old-fashioned chivalry and Southern charm. It wasn’t exactly Shane’s style, but he was prepared to wing it. By tonight, he hoped to be living in Lillian’s apartment, researching every aspect of her life. Undercover, there was nothing he’d leave untouched.

  Nothing.

  Maybe not even Lillian. He pushed aside the unwanted thought, reminding himself he was here merely to solve a crime that had haunted him for seven years—the death of his Aunt Dixie Lynn’s husband, Silas. The man had been like a father to Shane, and he’d been killed on the night of Lillian’s ill-fated marriage to a mobster named Sam Ramsey.

  No one really knew what happened that night—except Lillian. She was the key that could unlock the past. But Shane knew enough: both his Uncle Silas and Lillian’s husband had died the night of her wedding, and Lillian had fled the scene with three million dollars belonging to the Mob. She’d been living under an assumed name ever since.

  And Shane had finally found her. Not about to spook her into running again, he meant to find out everything he could before she was officially brought in for questioning. She’d eventually be arrested, if only for falsifying her identification papers.

  “Glad it’s almost over?” Fin asked again softly.

  “Yeah.”

  A thousand times, Shane had imagined Lillian outside Big Apple Babies today. She’d be heartbroken, with the tears she so rarely shed filling her dark deceptively innocent eyes. He’d appear from nowhere, a gallant knight sweeping a cowboy hat from his head. She’d say, “If I had a husband, I could adopt my baby…”

  He’d raise an eyebrow. “A husband?”

  She’d nod, looking lost and in need of rescue.

  And then Shane would make Delilah Fontenont, a.k.a. Lillian Smith, the one offer her psychological profile said she could never refuse: marriage.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “KIND AS YOUR offer is, I have to refuse. Earlier today, I know I expressed interest and invited you over so we could talk privately,” Lillian began, hiding her nervousness as she fixed a drink tray at a side bar in the living room of the penthouse. “But then I came to my senses.”

  “I promise—” Shane swept off his black cowboy hat, holding it over his heart as he seated himself on a red cotton-upholstered sofa. “I’d never force a woman to the altar, especially not if she’d lost her senses.”

  “My, my, aren’t you the gentleman?” she chided with a smile. “But personally, I think any woman who marries probably has a few screws loose.”

  “You may have a point there.”

  Shane’s deep Southern drawl slid inside Lillian with the ease of butter, stirring old memories and making her wistful for home. Maybe it was that, or because she hadn’t gotten the baby today, but tears stung her eyes. Not that she’d cry in front of Shane as she had earlier. In fact, she rarely cried—at least, not anymore. The past seven years had taught her to be tougher than that. That’s what she told herself.

  “Feeling better than this afternoon?”

  “Much better,” she lied.

  But her eyes were still red-rimmed, and her head ached. She didn’t even want to think about her meeting with Shane today at the Big Apple Babies adoption agency. She’d been so distraught that she remembered little—only the kind security guard’s warm strong hand under her elbow, and how he’d offered her his handkerchief. Most men didn’t even carry them anymore—especially not men up North—and the old-fashioned gesture had reminded her of her daddy. For years, Charles Fontenont had mopped her impulsive girlish tears with handkerchiefs monogrammed with his name.

  The Fontenont family name she’d so naively sold down the river.

  Don’t think about it, Lillian. Or about how magically Shane Holiday had appeared, seeming so gentle and sweet. Or about the baby. God, she’d wanted that child. Which made Shane’s offer of marriage sorely tempting. What did Ethel Crumble have against single women, anyway?

  “You’d be a wonderful parent, Lillian, but you need a husband,” Ethel had explained.

  Another husband? Not in this lifetime, thanks.

  “So, you’re marriage-shy?” Shane prompted now.

  “Shy?” Lillian managed a wry laugh, returning her attention to the drink tray. “More like totally averse. I mean, if shy’s being a wallflower in the corner, then I left the room a long time ago. The building,” she amended emphatically.

  “Oh, no. Am I in the company of a man-hater? Should I draw my weapon, ma’am?”

  Shane’s mild flirtation lifted Lillian’s spirits. It was as if he’d read a codebook on how to ease the skittishness she’d felt around men since her disastrous marriage. “I do hope you’re not really carrying a gun. I hate guns.” And with good reason.

  He patted his dark sports coat. “Sorry, comes with the job.”

  “Well, please,” she drawled, “don’t shoot little ol’ me.”

  His answering chuckle was deep and rich. “Not even if you posed a real threat,” he promised, casually setting his hat beside him on the sofa.

  Her eyes drifted over his stone-washed jeans, dark linen sports coat and black-cherry cowboy boots, which gleamed from a recent polish. She shrugged, her hands rising gracefully from a sugar bowl and fluttering in mock helplessness. “Who knows? Maybe I do deserve some sort of punishment.” Oh, Lillian, what are you saying? It was as if guilty confessions from her past were seeping around her words, trying to get out.

  “Punishment for?”

  “Being so wicked on Wall Street.”

  He smiled. “You’re really a corporate raider then?”

  “Close enough. I work for one. I’m the personal assistant to Jefferson Lawrence.” When Shane’s eyes flickered with recognition at the name of her well-known employer, her expression softened. “Actually,” she admitted, “Jefferson’s more of an angelfish than a shark. He spends hours reviewing charities that need contributors.”

  “And being his assistant fills your days? You’re not interested in marriage? I mean real marriage?”

  Been there, done that. And I have no intention of talking about it. Lillian stopped dropping tongfuls of ice into tall glasses long enough to shoot Shane another quick smile. She noticed something fleeting in his eyes, maybe male appreciation, and feeling suddenly unsteady on her navy high heels, she involuntarily lifted a hand, smoothing her French twist. “Believe me, I’m committedly single.”

  “At least we’ve got that in common.”

  That and the Southern upbringing. Every time Shane Holiday spoke, his achingly familiar voice flooded her with memories of the headstrong passions that had fired her careless young blood. She remembered running barefoot along the bayou near the old tumbledown plantation of her girlhood with her tangled hair blowing in the wind. Oh, the Fontenonts had been wealthy once, and she’d learned good manners and some necessary sophistication, but otherwise, her parents had let her run as wild as a gypsy, catching crawfish and hiking in the woods.

  It had been her undoing. She’d grown up strong and bold—and had loved too freely. She’d trusted her husband, Sam Ramsey, without question, until she realized how mercilessly she’d been used. Now Lillian silently cursed Shane Holiday for stirring the memories of a betrayal—and husband—better left buried. Smoothing her navy skirt, she regained her iron-willed control. For seven years, ever since the events that had rocked her life and cost her everything she loved, she’d reined in her natural passions. She’d tried to forget her old self, dark-haired Delilah Fontenont, wild child of the gentrified Louisiana backwoods, and to become nothing more than Lillian Smith—blond, poised, well-manicured Wall Street professional.

  Her life, since she’d changed her name, might lack excitement, but at least she was safe. Not that she couldn’t ably def
end herself against physical danger, but she meant to make sure no man ever again messed with her heart.

  Which was why she wished she hadn’t invited Shane here. Usually, she had better sense than to entertain law officers, and now she was enjoying Shane’s company too much. Besides, considering a risky marriage to a near stranger was something the younger, more impulsive Delilah would have done. She’d definitely smartened up since the night she’d changed her name to Lillian. Now, no matter how much she wanted that baby boy, she had to accept Ethel’s denial of the adoption application. Keeping her voice light, she arranged cookies on the tray. “So, you’re not the marrying kind, either, Shane?”

  He shrugged. “I confess, I’m married to the law.”

  Another reminder that an ex-cop was in her home made her heart skip a beat. “I thought being married to the law was for world-weary detectives. Can’t security guards punch out and go home at five?”

  He laughed easily. “Whatever I do, I like to go the extra mile. Besides, I am an ex-detective.”

  Not just a cop. An ex-detective. Wonderful. She pushed down her fears. “A world-weary one?”

  “Nothing so glamorous. I’m fuzzier than a kitten.”

  Lillian almost believed him. He definitely looked as if he’d feel more comfortable carrying handkerchiefs than handguns. He was glancing around now, looking comfortable in the heat, his gaze only mildly curious, his nondescript body relaxed inside the wrinkled bulk of a linen jacket that wasn’t altogether flattering. He took in the open airy room.

  “Great apartment.”

  “Thanks. It belongs to my boss. It’s a real estate investment. When he sells, I’m out on the street.”

  “Nice of him to let you live in it.”

  She shrugged. “As I said, Jefferson’s big on charity.”

  “And you accept?”

  Was Shane implying she might accept something more personal from Jefferson than the use of this apartment? The suggestion was almost funny. After losing the woman he loved years ago, Jefferson had become a decidedly fussy middle-aged bachelor. But no, Shane’s dark eyebrows were merely raised in polite inquiry.

  “Wouldn’t you accept?” she asked, turning the tables.

  “Sure. It’d be a great place to live. I like the paint job, would have picked the colors myself.”

  “Thanks, I chose them.” The living room walls were green. Elsewhere, they were lilac, mustard and salmon, set off by chalk-white doors and moldings. Ceiling fans lent a Louisiana flavor, as did all the wrought iron outside—the rail along the Hudson river promenade, the old-fashioned lamps and park benches, and the formal landscaping of Rector Park, which was visible through a window behind Shane. She was a five-minute walk from her Wall Street office—and yet a world away from noise and crime, tucked in a safe enclave of Battery Park City, near waterfront restaurants, pristine parks, and the Manhattan Yacht Club.

  When Shane glanced down the long hallway she’d hung with countless gilded mirrors, she followed his gaze, glancing at the furniture she kept for Jefferson—a stately grandfather clock and a marble-topped table next to the front door. Her heart suddenly fluttered. Surely Shane’s interest was only academic, but he was glancing curiously toward the shut door of her bedroom.

  Ignoring a rush of self-consciousness, she carried over the drinks tray, her high heels clicking until the hardwood floor gave way to carpeting. As she arranged napkins and glasses, her eyes drifted over Shane’s jet hair. He wore it slicked straight back from his high forehead; it brushed his collar in back, and a bluntly cut strand fell over an eyebrow. His white shirt, she suddenly noticed, smelled faintly of lemon and starch.

  “Sugar?” she inquired.

  “Three heaping spoons.”

  “Unfortunately I have cubes. And these are tongs.”

  He looked momentarily thrown. “Five then.”

  “Four,” she compromised dropping in the cubes.

  “Five is too unhealthy. I mean, you could drop dead or something. And I don’t even know CPR.”

  He chuckled. “See. You’re talking like a wife already.”

  “If I was a wife, I’d ply you with sugar and inquire about your life insurance policies.”

  “Cynical,” he murmured. “Not a good quality in a spouse.”

  She rolled her eyes drolly. “I told you. As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not getting married.”

  “Then quit lecturing on my blood sugar levels.”

  She was still smiling and stirring his iced tea when she got a powerful urge to look at him again. He’d seemed so harmless. But just now, as she’d looked away, she’d taken a disturbing impression. His body was hard. His face, weathered and chiseled. Below dark slashes of eyebrows, his light eyes were the bluish silver of cold dry ice. Razor-sharp, too—as if he’d watched her for years and didn’t like what he saw. It was nonsense, of course. When she double-checked, those eyes didn’t hold so much as a glimmer of interest.

  Settling into a matching red armchair opposite him, she casually sipped her tea. “I do thank you for coming,” she continued. “As I said, I was really upset this afternoon.” She smiled at her own folly. “I was so distraught that marrying a near stranger seemed reasonable…”

  “Well, let’s toast to the shortest engagement in history.” Shane lifted his glass. “I’ll always think of you as the woman who got away.”

  “Who got away?” She leaned and clinked her glass to his. “Why, Mr. Holiday, you make me sound like a criminal.” Wincing, she told herself to quit compulsively homing in on the topic of criminality, as if she was in need of a confessor.

  Shane’s smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes. “A woman who works for an angelfish? Somehow, I doubt you pose much threat to society, Lillian.”

  She relaxed a little more, gracefully leaning back, crossing her long legs. “So, pray tell. Did you really mean what you said outside the adoption agency today? You were willing to marry me, just to help me get the baby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Out of the goodness of my heart.”

  She absorbed that. It was hard to believe, but he did seem nice. And he wasn’t really a total stranger. She’d bumped into him—literally—on her first trip to Big Apple Babies. While waiting for an interview, she’d also overheard Ethel talking about both Shane and his brother, Doc. Clearly the caseworker thought highly of the two men. She’d been telling a coworker that Shane had helped put his brother through medical school, and that the men were close, visiting during the work day, taking their lunch breaks together. “Your brother’s the pediatrician at the Big Apple Babies agency, right?”

  Shane nodded. “I’m real proud of him.”

  “You’re a nice big brother.”

  Shane merely shrugged. But he was nice. The way he’d approached her today was proof he cared. Appearing from nowhere, he’d seated her in a private corner of the agency’s lobby and soothed her.

  “You know—” Her lilting tone made clear she wasn’t really considering his proposal. “Because you’re employed at Big Apple Babies, there would be a conflict of interest if you tried to help me adopt from them.”

  “People affiliated with Big Apple Babies have already adopted from the agency, so there’s a precedent. Besides, we could always try elsewhere.”

  But the baby I already love—my baby—is at Big Apple Babies. She’d decorated a nursery for him, and was already calling him Brandon. She wagged a finger. “You do make it sound reasonable.”

  “It is reasonable.”

  She laughed, really laughed, for the first time that day. “I’m not doing this!”

  He held up a tanned hand. “Believe me, I’m not pressuring you.”

  But Shane’s offer could change everything. He could help her bring Brandon home. And she needed the baby, someone to whom she could give all the love she’d locked up inside herself. And a man. Eventually, Lillian, you’ve got to forget what Sam did to you and love a man again, said a voice inside her. Forge
t about it, came a swift denial. I won’t love a man again as long as I live.

  “I just felt so bad for you today, Lillian…”

  She shot Shane a fleeting smile. “Thanks.” As she ran her fingers up and down on her glass, the cool moist condensation gathered on her fingers, suddenly making her shiver in spite of the room’s heat. “Is it too hot?” she suddenly asked. “I could have turned on the air-conditioning.”

  “I love the heat.”

  “Even in this heat wave? It’s a scorcher.”

  “The hotter the better.”

  Suddenly, he seemed to be talking about another kind of heat. The soaring city temperatures, the baking sidewalks and sun glancing off steel skyscrapers paled to whatever flowed between them. She tensed, aware of a whole other silent conversation that was taking place between their bodies—her fingers sliding up and down on the drink glass, her legs crossing and recrossing. His opening slightly as his arm stretched, draping on the sofa back. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. Beneath her silk blouse, her slip felt tacky against her skin. She fought the urge to fidget, and assured herself the flash of attraction was only in her imagination. Shane had never even removed his loose, lumpy jacket.

  “I never use air-conditioning,” he was saying casually.

  “I’m used to hot weather. Like I said, I grew up in East Texas. Louisiana, too.”

  “I’m from Mississippi,” she lied, taking a sip of iced tea that soothed her unaccountably parched throat, chilling her system. Mississippi was close enough to Louisiana that Shane wouldn’t question the accent she’d worked so hard—and failed—to lose.

  “Miss the South?” he inquired.

  She nodded. With all my heart. “You?”

  “Oh, yeah. My parents died when I was eight, so I spent winters in Texas, then summers with my Aunt Dixie Lynn in Louisiana, near Bayou Teche.”

  “I lost my parents, too,” Lillian murmured, registering that she and Shane had that in common, as well, and still thinking of her family home—of the lattice trellises where her father tended roses in view of the white-columned porch. At least she’d grown up farther south than Shane, on the old Fontenont plantation on Bayou Laforche, a world away from Bayou Teche. Newspapers carried the story of what happened after her wedding, but it was old news now. Besides, if no detectives—ex- or otherwise—had shown up by now, none were coming.