Anne Winston - The Danforths - Toby, Lea and Adam

“Is anything wrong?” Heather asked, stepping beside him and studying the furrows lining Toby’s brow.

She wore her hair loosely pinned at her nape and swept up in a style that was utterly feminine and flattering. A few loose tendrils framed a face that appeared unaware of its own beauty.

He shook his head as if to clear it of old cobwebs and resisted the urge to test the texture of a silken tendril between his fingers. “Nothing, except that you take my breath away. If you’ll just be so kind as to stand beside me for the rest of the evening, your beauty should discourage all the single women my mother has lined up in hopes of fixing me up. Ever since the whirlwind romance that picked Genie up and deposited her in front of an altar with the man of her dreams, she’s been wanting to duplicate the experience for me.”

Heather crooked an eyebrow at him. “I take it you don’t believe in whirlwind romances.”

Who would have thought that a man who looked so at ease in saddle-worn blue jeans could look so fabulous in a tailor-made suit? Had he the inclination, Heather supposed Tobias Danforth could make a living as a model. Not one of those pretty-boy types who bounced a beach ball over a volleyball net, he would be better suited to sales that required a man of rough edges. Heather could picture him in an advertisement that juxtaposed a close-up of the character lines in his face against the backdrop of the Grand Tetons. Or playing blackjack in Monte Carlo wearing the same tuxedo he donned for tonight’s festivities.

Or in a pair of underwear that left little to the imagination and shamelessly played on his sex appeal to sell their product…

A glass of champagne looked like a tempting way to wash away the dryness that had settled into her throat like a desert. Heather nonetheless politely refused the one offered her. She met Josef in a similar setting and, as she recalled, complimentary champagne had done nothing then but cloud her judgment regarding the man who came to be her mentor first—and later her tormentor.

She could sympathize all too well with Toby’s cynicism.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little sour on the subject of romance at the moment,” he told her.

“There’s no need to apologize.” Certainly not to me, she added to herself.

Having no desire to pry into her boss’s private life, Heather hoped to be accorded the same respect in regard to her personal affairs.

Affairs being the operative word, she thought bitterly to herself, wondering why she hadn’t simply worn a hair shirt for the evening instead of something soft and feminine.

Sensing the change in her demeanor, Toby obliged by changing the subject. “How’s Dylan doing?” he asked.

Heather smiled when she thought of Dylan and Peter chasing each other through an inflatable playground that had been set up in an adjoining courtyard.

“You were right. He’s still not talking, but he and Peter are inseparable, and they seem to understand each other well enough without words.”

“Who’s to say that relationships don’t function best that way? Words damned sure didn’t keep Dylan’s mother from turning her back on the two of us, and I guarantee there were plenty of words between us.”

Heather could tell Toby regretted his words as soon as he’d said them. His angry outburst explained much and softened her heart toward him even more. The fact that he kept a photograph of Dylan’s mother on the piano back home made her wonder if he wasn’t still in love with her.

“You didn’t have an amicable divorce?” she asked softly.

“That’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one,” Toby replied.

“Sheila’s decision to leave tore our family apart. It was especially hard on Dylan.”

“Except for the day you arrived, he hasn’t spoken a word since his mother left.”

“I’m sorry.”

Heather’s heart went out to him. Not demonstrative by nature, she didn’t stop to think about the ramifications of putting a hand gently to the side of his cheek. Just shaven, his jawline felt smooth and solid against her palm. A gesture born of compassion turned suddenly reckless, producing shock waves so intense in the pit of Heather’s being that they nearly doubled her over. Every nerve ending in her body surged in response to skin touching skin.

Toby flinched and drew a hand from his pocket to encircle her wrist. Heather braced herself. There was no doubt the man could have snapped her wrist in two, had he wanted to, or simply have exerted enough pressure to let her know she had stepped over an invisible line between employer and employee. He applied only enough to let her know he would not release her until he was good and ready to. Heather was not so much frightened as exhilarated in some unfathomably and undeniably sexual way. The strength in his grasp was matched by the sudden flash of desire that turned his eyes the color of thunderclouds rolling across an expanse of blue skies.

“Don’t,” he warned.

The band ended a slow song and paused a moment before playing their next selection. Beneath his hand, Heather’s pulse was beating out a much wilder number. Shuddering, she nevertheless kept her eyes level with his.

A lively Cajun tune started up complete with twin fiddles, a zydeco and an accordion. Like the man who held her captive, it was exciting and dangerous on many levels. Her teachers and parents had done their best to keep her from such “coarse and sensual” music, but alone at night with her radio turned down low, Heather allowed herself to dream her own dreams while her foot tapped out the rhythm of such common, joyful tunes. As far from her classical background as the rambunctious Danforths were from her dispassionate family, such music stirred the imagination. And her blood.

Heather watched his gaze drop to her lips. She refrained from darting a tongue out to moisten them, licking them in an act of nervousness left over from junior high school days.

“Don’t,” he warned again. “Don’t go playing with fire in the midst of dry timber.”

Heather opened her mouth to protest but discovered that her voice had abandoned her. A more aggressive woman might have attempted wrenching her hand free—or maybe even landing a slap upon the features that looked at her with such arrogance. Struck mute, Heather could only watch helplessly as he drew her hand to his mouth and rubbed his lips across the center of her palm. To a curious bystander, it might appear to be a gentlemanly gesture. Heather knew better as she struggled to keep her knees from buckling. His mustache tickled her skin and ignited the very fire which he warned her about.

Nothing but a torrential downpour could extinguish it. Since the day she’d brushed crumbs away from that mustache, Heather had been intrigued by it. Having never kissed a man with a mustache, she couldn’t help wondering just what it might feel like.

Up until now, Heather believed it was impossible for a person to forget how to breathe. Her involuntary shallow gasp was so evident of her bewilderment that it caused a smile of masculine awareness to spread beneath that intriguing mustache of his. It was almost as if Toby knew she was considering the effect of such kisses were they to be scattered at random all over her naked body.

Somewhere between the cold shivers and hot flashes that put her body into a state of utter confusion, a sultry Southern voice rang out.

“Why, Tobias Danforth, you rambling, contrary man. I was under the impression that you had fallen completely off the face of the planet.”

Heather snatched her hand away and hid it behind her back like a child. A cloud of sweet perfume and taffeta stepped between them. A pretty thing, the woman had the distinct advantage of feeling completely at ease among the Danforth clan. She exuded the perkiness of a cheerleader. Heather bet she was the team captain.