Judy Duarte: Triplets Found: The Virgin's Makeover / Take a Chance on Me / And Then There Were Three

Sullivan followed behind. “I need to get my bags out of the trunk. Is it a long walk? I can take my car, so it’ll be parked near the guest house.”

“No, it’s just ahead. And you really can’t park any closer than this. See the little suspension bridge that leads to the big house?”

“Yes.”

She pointed beyond the wooden structure that spanned the fishpond, toward the quaint guest house she’d always thought of as a cottage. “It’s just across the lawn.”

They stopped long enough for Sullivan to retrieve a suitcase from the trunk of a sporty, silver-gray Mercedes and for her to snap a leash on Barney.

“Lead the way,” Sullivan said, with that flirtatious grin that made her heart rate go bonkers.

Was it her imagination? Or did he keep sliding a glance her way?

No way. It had to be her imagination. Maybe he found her an oddity. Or a novelty of some kind. That had to be it, because she never harbored any unrealistic expectations when it came to men.

“It’s nice out here,” he said, scanning the lush lawns that surrounded the house.

“I can’t imagine living anywhere else.” And she couldn’t. Living on the vineyard, being a part of the land, was one of the best things about being adopted by the Cartwrights. Their love, of course, was another. Even if Lissa didn’t quite fit in, she never doubted their affection.

As they reached the wood-planked front porch of the guest house, she turned the antique brass knob and opened the door. “It’s not much, but it’s cozy.”

Actually, Lissa thought the little house was pretty special. She and her mom had decorated it in a country French decor, with café-style window coverings, a blue plaid sofa and a coordinating floral, overstuffed easy chair.

“It gets pretty chilly at night.” She pointed to the thermostat on the light-oak-paneled wall. “You can adjust the heat to your comfort.”

He nodded toward the stone hearth that boasted a stack of firewood, kindling and matches. “I’d rather have a fire.”

So would Lissa, if she were staying in the cottage. A fire was cozier. And more romantic.

Darn it. Those blasted romance books were getting to her again. And the sooner she could box them up and chuck them into a blazing fire, the better off she’d be.

“There’s a kitchenette,” she said, “in case you prefer to take your meals alone. But knowing my mom, she’ll insist that you join us.”

“I eat most of my meals in restaurants, so I’ll be looking forward to some home cooking.”

“Well, good. Mom will be pleased.” Lissa would be, too, but she battled the girlish rush of excitement. “I’ll show you the rest of the place.”

As she entered the hallway and glanced through the open doorway to the bedroom, her gaze landed upon the blue-and-white checkered comforter on the double bed she’d made up yesterday.

She caught a whiff of his musky, highland scent—mountain fresh and wild—and felt his presence close in on her, as though she might find him inches away, if she turned around.

Her pulse and her breathing seemed to escalate, but her feet remained rooted to the spot.

“Nice room,” he said.

Unable to help herself, she turned and caught him merely inches away.

Watching her.

And he wasn’t smiling—at least, not in a teasing sort of way.

Something passed between them, although she wasn’t sure what it was. Could it be sexual awareness?

Nah. Impossible. Not on his part, anyway.

She cleared her throat, which seemed to be another habit she’d mysteriously acquired today. “The bathroom is down the hall, next to the linen closet. The cupboards and shelves are stocked, so you should find everything you need.”

“Thank you.” His voice wrapped around her like a tartan plaid on a winter night.

Oh, brother. Those books were going right into a moving trash truck the first chance she got.

“Well,” she said, trying to ignore the rush of sexual awareness she didn’t know how to deal with. “I guess I’ll leave and let you get unpacked.”

“Don’t,” he said.

Huh? “Don’t what?”

“Don’t leave yet.” He tossed her a boyish grin. “I spotted a bottle of wine on the kitchen counter.”

“It’s our sauvignon blanc. I thought you might like to have a glass now and then.”

“That sounds good now. Will you join me? On the front porch?”

The offer took her aback. But it also excited her.

She tried desperately to tell herself it was a continuation of business. A way of relaxing over drinks. The kind of things businessmen did all the time.

Yet she couldn’t help making just a wee bit more out of the invitation than was probably wise for someone with a virgin heart—just ripe for the picking.

And ready to bruise.

The wooden deck in front of the cottage overlooked the main house, as well as the fertile vineyard.

Sitting at a glass-topped, wrought-iron table, Sullivan and Lissa enjoyed a stunning view as they shared a glass of wine and watched the sun sink low into the western sky.

“Your sister doesn’t look anything like you,” Sullivan said by way of small talk. He’d noticed how much Eileen and her mother had resembled each other when they’d brought lunch down to the office.

In fact, Lissa didn’t look much like her father, either. Ken Cartwright was short and stocky, with a receding blond hairline and a ruddy complexion. He wasn’t much to look at, but he was a hell of a nice guy.

Lissa fingered the stem of her wineglass, as though his comment might have bothered her. And he was sorry he’d brought it up. If he could, he’d reel in the thoughtless words.

She looked up and caught his eye. “I don’t look like my family because I’m adopted.”

Whoops. He hadn’t meant to get so personal. And he wasn’t sure how to make up for the klutzy attempt at conversation, so he merely nodded and said, “You’ve got a nice family.”

“Yes, I do.” She took a sip of wine. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Nope. I’m an only child.”

“That sounds like it might have been sad growing up.”

He shrugged. His childhood had been pretty crappy, but not because he didn’t have siblings. “I had a lot of cousins to play with.”

“Tell me about your family,” she said, settling into the chitchat.

Sullivan rarely talked about himself. Nor about personal matters. But maybe because he’d accidentally prodded the adoption revelation out of her, he felt as though turnaround was fair play.

“My folks both loved me, I guess. But their relationship was stormy, and their marriage ended in divorce before I hit middle school.”

“That’s too bad.”

It was. From an early age, Sullivan had dreamed of belonging to a stable family. Maybe that’s why he’d married so early. He’d been ready for kids, picket fences and family vacations. But his wife had refused to consider having his baby, then had left him for another man.

Her leaving had not only dashed his unrealistic dreams and damaged his heart, but it had been a real eye-opening experience. She’d taught him a simple lesson. Sullivan wasn’t, and maybe never had been, destined for family life.

“It was no big deal,” he lied. “Some people shouldn’t ever get married.”

“What kind of people?”

Her eyes held a naïveté that surprised him, but he smiled and filled in the blanks as generically as he could. “The kind of people who make promises they don’t keep.”

His parents’ marital nightmare had been brutal for a kid to endure. And his own divorce—six years ago—had been pretty tough.

But hey. He’d bounced back quickly.

His first effort to rebound was by having a few relationships, mostly with shallow socialites who would never tempt him to put his heart on the line again. And it had helped. A lot.