Patricia returned the smile. For most kids a snack would consist of crackers and cheese or a piece of fruit, but then, Dillon wasn’t most kids. He thrived on Elda’s leftovers.

Patricia poured herself a cup of decaf and went to the room they referred to as the den. Dillon watched TV from the sofa, a tray of half-eaten food on a glass-topped coffee table. He appeared relaxed in the brightly lit surroundings, his feet tucked under him. Patricia didn’t think dens should be dark and brooding, so she’d decorated the room with printed fabrics and blond woods. The pale decor suited the rest of the house with its high ceilings and whitewashed walls.

“Hi, honey.”

He turned away from the TV. “Oh, hi, Mom. You’re home kinda early.”

Patricia sat in a recliner and placed her coffee on a nearby end table. No point in wasting time, she thought. “I came home to talk to you. I saw your father today. He stopped by the office.” Barged in was more like it, but she’d have to withhold the more colorful details from Dillon.

The boy picked up a decorative pillow and twisted the end. “What did he want?”

“We talked about you, and then he invited me to dinner.” That, she decided, was certainly a simplified version of the emotional meeting.

Dillon’s gray-blue eyes widened. “Dinner? Really? Are you going to go?”

“I thought it might be a good idea.” She sipped the mocha-flavored drink and tried to appear calmer than she felt. “He’s trying to make an effort to be friends.”

“Then I suppose you should go. Be kinda rude not to.”

She nodded. Apparently that was Dillon’s way of giving his permission. The thought relaxed her somewhat. “Do you think you’d like to meet your dad tonight? Maybe just say a quick hello?”

Fear crept into his eyes. “He’s coming here? To our house?”

Clearly Dillon wasn’t ready to face the man, the stranger, who had fathered him. “That’s all right, honey. There’s no hurry for you to meet him. You could stay at Elda’s while he’s here.”

The boy had a different suggestion, one that said he wanted to hide out—avoid even the slightest chance of running into Jesse just yet. Apparently Elda’s guest house was still too close. “Why don’t I go to Grandpa’s instead? I could spend the night there. Grandpa won’t mind.”

“Sure. That’s fine.” She could hardly blame Dillon for his panic. He’d been surrounded by a loving, familiar support group. And now, as he neared the beginning of adolescence, his missing father had returned, stirring raw emotion.

Patricia rolled her shoulders. “I guess I’ll go up and take a shower.” Or turn on the jets in her tub and soothe the ache in her muscles and the edge in her nerves. She, too, was panicked about spending time with Jesse.

Jesse straightened his jacket and eyed the outside of Tricia’s house with mounting anxiety. He’d never been completely comfortable in Arrow Hill, with its overly manicured yards and custom-built homes. The farther he’d traveled up the hill, the more uncomfortable he’d become. Maybe because the houses kept getting bigger, more extravagant. Jesse had always been a country boy at heart. A small ranch dwelling suited him fine.

Tricia’s sprawling two-story home was modern in design, with large bay windows and plenty of shrubbery illuminated by torchlights. He rang the bell, hoping his appearance would meet with Dillon’s approval. Jesse had banded his hair into a ponytail and wore dark jeans, a tan shirt and black jacket. He wasn’t a fancy man and never would be, but he had a frame that well suited the cut of Western-style clothing.

“Hi.” Tricia opened the door. “Come in.”

He stepped into the tiled entryway, feeling suddenly foolish. A man as tall and dark as he, carrying a bright yellow bouquet, probably looked a bit odd. He offered the sunflowers to Tricia quickly.

“I remembered that you used to like these,” he said. “Hope you still do.”

“They’re wonderful. Thank you.”

The familiarity in her smile made his heartbeat skip. And when she hugged the bouquet to her chest, she could have passed for a teenager again. But she wasn’t, Jesse reminded himself. Tricia was a woman now. He devoured her long, lean form in one slow, agonizing sweep. An incredibly sexy woman. A white knit dress, laced with tiny silver threads, shimmied down her curves, then stopped to expose those endless legs and a pair of wicked pumps.

“You look terrific,” he heard himself say.

“Thanks. So do you.”

He followed her past a cream-colored living room and into a kitchen that sparkled with white counters and slick black appliances. Beside a tall window, four black chairs circled a contemporary white table. She arranged the sunflowers in an ebony vase and placed it on the table.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked.

“No, thanks. Is Dillon here?”

“I’m sorry, no. He decided to spend the evening with his grandpa.”

Immediately a rage of red-hot envy shot through Jesse’s gut, turning his stomach inside out. “You mean your father?”

Tricia flashed a challenging look. “That’s right. My father.”

He wanted to turn and walk away, then hire a sharp, city attorney to legally pry his son from Raymond Boyd’s child-stealing clutches. But that, he knew, would only end up hurting Dillon. Jesse would have to win the boy over with love and patience. Something he doubted Raymond Boyd was capable of offering. Boyd may have tainted Tricia with all that money, but Jesse would be damned if he’d lose his son to that cocky old bastard’s checkbook.

“Why don’t you give me a tour of the house,” he suggested, in an attempt to redirect his focus. For Dillon’s sake, he had to befriend Tricia, and arguing about her father would only cause a bigger rift between them.

Her expression softened. “All right.”

The house was too modern for Jesse’s taste, with too much glass and not enough wood. It was well crafted, he supposed, but it lacked the charm of older homes—the history and warmth. Tricia had chosen pale colors throughout, so when they stepped into her bedroom the shock of royal blue pleased him, as did the stained-glass window. Jesse scanned the room and noticed traces of the slightly careless Tricia he remembered: an open book, facedown on a nightstand, a coffee cup with lipstick stains, a discarded silk robe on the bed.

The rest of the house was proper, he realized, decorated to entertain those in her father’s staid circle. But Tricia’s bedroom rebelled from that mold—mixing bright colors and slightly scuffed antiques. She had even tossed in a trio of Western relics including a small wooden chair upholstered in calfskin, an ancient clay pot and a leather-covered trunk.

“This is nice,” he said, trying hard not to picture her slipping into that big bed at night, French lingerie barely covering smooth, creamy flesh.

“Thanks. It’s my sanctuary. The bathroom, too. Sometimes I work incredibly long hours so soaking in a whirlpool tub really takes the edge off.”

Great. Now he imagined her completely naked, immersed in a tub of bubbling water, eyes closed, legs slightly parted.

Get a grip, he told himself. She’s not your lover anymore.

Jesse turned away from the bathroom, struggling to ignore the hunger, the curiosity that had surfaced. What sort of lover had Tricia become? Was she still a sexually shy girl playing the sophisticate? Would she blush if he whispered his fantasies in her ear, or would she flash a siren’s smile and rake her nails across his back? Maybe a little of both, he decided, watching the graceful way she moved. Tricia was a lady through and through. But ladies, even the most properly bred, could be naughty at night.

He caught Tricia’s eye. She stood beside an antique dresser, head tilted, silky brown hair brushing her cheek. An almost-shy siren, he concluded, the kind of woman who could make a man beg.

“Jesse,” she said impatiently. “You’re not listening. I asked you a question.”