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  HANNAH CHUCKLED to herself as she drove home—she’d never met a man more full of male pride than Jake Tippins. Nor one who sent out such mixed messages. When she’d offered to help him to bed, he’d first looked at her with open invitation in his eyes, blatant sexuality and raw hunger so strong that it seemed to flow naturally from the man. But the minute she’d mentioned her father, he’d barked out that she didn’t owe him because he’d helped protect Wiley’s business. Then she’d asked, as nicely as she knew how, if he wanted her to place the rose by his bed.

  Seconds later, he’d become sullen and all but thrown her out of his apartment.

  Men—who could figure them out?

  The porch light gleamed across her neatly manicured lawn, the tidy pots of pansies adding color and a hominess that welcomed her. They also reminded her of the rundown place where Jake lived. All alone.

  Ignoring a twinge of sympathy, she climbed from her car and walked up the stoop, pausing to scoop up her cat, Oreo. The black-and-white feline purred and nestled against her chest as she unlocked the door. Soft light illuminated the entryway, casting golden shadows around the foyer. Hannah smiled at the dozens of photographs framed on the wall. Photos of her family—she and Mimi and Alison growing up, their Dad in some of his silly moments as he entertained them, Grammy Rose.

  But no pictures of her mother.

  Still, the wall painted a picture of family, of love and good times, things that seemed to be missing from Jake Tippins’s life. Compassion welled in her chest and she snuggled Oreo tighter.

  “Poor man. He’s all alone, kitty. I can see why he’s such a grouch. So sad not to have anyone at all.” She poured cat food into a bowl, gently placed the feline on his special placemat, then went to the bedroom to undress. All along the way, reminders of her family seemed to jump out at her—the lace doily her grandmother had made, the Tiffany lamp she’d inherited when her other grandmother had passed away, the Victorian settee her parents had bought when they’d first married, the clay vase Mimi had made for her when she was five, the achievement ribbon Alison had had framed after Hannah had encouraged her to take swimming lessons.

  And in her bedroom—the hope chest her Grandmother Rose had just sent her.

  Flashbacks of her wedding disaster assaulted her. She stared at the beautiful bride doll perched on the chaise beside the hope chest, then walked over and fingered the delicate lace of Grammy Rose’s bridal gown. Her gaze fell on her hand where the heirloom ring winked at her in the light from the window.

  That crazy dream.

  She needed to have her head examined. Determined to end this irrational musing, she decided to make an appointment with a psychiatrist. She’d find someone outside the hospital so she wouldn’t feed the hospital grapevine any more than she already had.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Jake hobbled to the desk in the corner of the bedroom and set up his laptop, logging onto the police search engine to check for an update on the movement of any stolen cars. He scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes, automatically reaching for his coffee and sipping the strong black brew while he waited for the requested information. The chief had given him a deadline, but he hoped to have the case solved way before Christmas and get back to the city.

  Early-morning sunlight flickered off the white vase on his nightstand, highlighting dust motes and the faded paint on the walls behind his bed, but his gaze caught the flash of color from the red rose Hannah had brought him, and a strange feeling suffused him.

  Why the heck had the simple gesture affected him so?

  The sexy doctor’s image had filled his dreams, her elusive scent mingling with the sweet hint of the rose fragrance and the raw earthy smell of desire. He’d found himself waking to an empty bed and not liking it.

  Shaking off the sensations, he frowned when the doorbell rang, wondering if Wiley had returned from his venture and dropped by with his burly good cheer to thank him again. The man’s good-natured bantering had almost severed Jake’s last nerve the past two weeks—Wacky Wiley was perpetually happy and boisterous, spreading his exuberance around the car lot and planning another of his outlandish advertising stunts. The man even sang in the morning.

  He wondered if Hannah Hartwell did also.

  The doorbell rang again, saving him from further torturous musing.

  Snapping the screen top to his laptop closed in case Wiley wandered back to his bedroom, Jake slowly rose and hobbled to the door. His stomach growled just as he swung it open.

  Hannah Hartwell stood on the stoop, laden with a paper bag full of doughnuts and a smile that held more sunshine than the sun shining in the clear blue sky above.

  Damn. Had she been humming?

  “I thought I’d drop off some breakfast on my way to the hospital. I noticed your cupboards were pretty bare last night,” she said in a rush.

  And so was his bed, but he didn’t mention that tidbit. “Thanks, Doc, but you don’t owe me—”

  “I know, but I really didn’t mind.” Her worried gaze flickered over him. “I’m a doctor, Jake. I simply wanted to make sure you were okay, that you could get around by yourself today.”

  “I may be slow, but I’m walking,” he said.

  “Good.” She bit down on her lower lip, the sensitive skin puckering red with the nervous gesture. He had a crazy urge to smooth away the tension from her mouth with his tongue, to kiss away the redness. Only he’d nip gently on her lip, then lower….

  “I…well, I guess I should go then.”

  “Did you want to come in?” he asked, kicking himself for forgetting his manners and his plan. He was supposed to try to gain her trust and seduce her into spilling information about her father. Instead, he’d been staring at her sea-blue eyes and silky blond hair like a lust-struck teenager.

  “Oh, no, I can’t.” She gestured toward her dependable Volvo parked in the drive. “I have to get to the hospital. I just wanted to check on you before I started my shift.”

  It was barely 6:00 a.m. “How long do you work?”

  Her eyes crinkled together. “My shift technically ends at three. Why, do you need some help?”

  “No, I was just wondering.”

  “I can come by and bring dinner for you—”

  “Dinner sounds good,” he said, almost laughing when her eyes widened in shock. She obviously hadn’t expected him to agree.

  “Well, um, okay.” Her professional smile back in place, she reached inside her pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “Here’s the number for the hospital and my beeper number if you need anything.”

  Then she turned and fled toward her car as if a pack of bloodhounds had picked up her scent and were bearing down on her. Jake watched her drive away, wondering about Hannah. She’d secured her beautiful blond hair in a topknot with only a few loose tendrils curving around her slender face. Her demure manner and conservative clothing certainly couldn’t be construed as wanton—except in his wicked mind. Was she the temptress her beauty suggested or the shy, reserved doctor she appeared to be?

  Could she possibly know something about her father’s business, be involved in the illegal affairs, or was she innocently oblivious to the situation brewing at Wiley’s famous used-car lots?

  He had to know for sure.

  Dinner would be a start. He hobbled back to his laptop, yanked out a creme-filled doughnut and bit into the gooey center, confused. For the first time in his life, he truly hoped one of his suspects turned out to be as innocent as she appeared.

  HANNAH STEPPED out of the elevator, inhaling sharply at the frantic sounds around her. For a small-town hospital, they’d had an unusual number of emergencies today. The ER had been a hotbed of chaos since she’d arrived. Probably due to the holiday rush.

  And the oddest things had come in today—a little boy with reindeer ears superglued to his head, a toddler who’d stuck a bean seed in her ear weeks ago and had sprouted beans in her ear canal, and a woman who claimed she was missing her inv
isible dog. Hannah had referred her to the psyche ward.

  “Car accident coming in! We’ll need a crash cart!”

  “Skateboarder with head injury on his way!”

  She cringed as she thought about her youngest sister, Alison, and all the daredevil sports she enjoyed. What if…?

  No, Alison was fine. Mimi was fine. Her father was fine. Grammy Rose was fine. They would all be together on Thanksgiving.

  For some odd reason, Jake’s face sprang into her mind.

  But Jake Tippins wasn’t family.

  Sirens wailed and the staff gathered near the entrance, each falling into place as the doors swung open and the EMTs rushed in. Hannah took a calming breath, summoning strength and locking her emotions into a steel vault, then put Jake Tippins firmly out of her mind.

  “SO, HOW ARE you feeling, Tippins?” Wiley asked later that afternoon. He had stopped by on his way back from Atlanta.

  “Fine.” Jake poured Wiley a bourbon and cola and fixed himself a club soda while Wiley strode across Jake’s living room and made himself at home in the comfortable recliner.

  He’d been firmly entrenched in the midst of his research when the older man had suddenly appeared at the door. Jake had to keep him from going into his bedroom. One look at the information he’d printed from his computer and Wiley would nail him as an impostor. Jake had tried to get rid of him at the door, but Wiley had bounded in. Dressed in a polyester suit that screamed of the seventies, his thick curly hair slicked away from his forehead with something that smelled faintly like Brylcreem, he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles as if he planned to stay a while. Something Jake could definitely do without.

  His suspicions had instantly mounted.

  Wiley could have contacts in Atlanta, could have met with someone today who’d recognized Jake’s face from the photo they’d flashed on the news when he’d been shot.

  “Not in pain, are you?” Wiley asked, wincing as Jake hobbled across the room.

  “No, just a little stiff.”

  “You know I can’t thank you enough for what you did. Although I’d never expect one of my employees to put himself in danger just to save one of our vehicles.” Wiley’s voice grew gruff. Either he was a consummate liar or actually sincere, maybe even harboring feelings of guilt.

  Jake didn’t buy into the act, and Wiley had to be acting. After all, he’d never known a doting father and couldn’t imagine one existed. Except Wiley did seem to genuinely care for his daughters. But Wiley barely knew him—why would he be so concerned if he weren’t worried about a lawsuit or his illegal activities being exposed?

  “I didn’t mean to put myself in danger,” Jake said, downplaying his instinctual reactions. “I grabbed the kid before I thought.”

  “You didn’t realize he had a gun?”

  Jake shrugged. “He was only a kid. I figured I could move faster than him.” He indicated his lopsided walk with a self-deprecating laugh. “Guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  Wiley laughed good-naturedly, then sipped his drink while Jake tried to sit down. Getting comfortable took a while, and the awkward silence in the interim gave Jake time to study Wiley. Minutes earlier, he’d discovered a group of Hondas missing from south Georgia. Thirteen reported stolen in one month—he’d have to be on the lookout for them to come rolling through the dealership. Of course, they’d be painted, new tag numbers issued, and Wiley wouldn’t be so stupid as to allow more than one to surface at a time.

  “So, how did the taping go?” Jake asked.

  “Went pretty good, son, except the turkey wouldn’t cooperate. Dumb bird kept getting its feathers all in a titter right when I jumped in with my line.”

  “A real turkey?” Jake asked, wondering at Wiley’s common sense when it came to publicity. Still, maybe his riotous ads were a front for his highly skilled illegal operations. If he appeared to be a harebrained comic, no one would suspect him of being the mastermind of a statewide crime ring.

  “Yeah, we had a couple of big gobblers just to add some authenticity. Then one of the salesgirls dressed up in a turkey suit.” Wiley rubbed his hands across his thighs and laughed. “Wouldn’t mind having a little of that bird myself for Thanksgiving dinner, if you know what I mean.”

  Jake forced a grin at the glib comment. Wiley seemed to enjoy women although he hadn’t actually noticed anyone special in the man’s life.

  “I arranged to have one of my finest dropped off for you to drive around, just as a thank-you,” Wiley said.

  “I have my Jeep, Wiley.”

  “I know, but you can give it a rest. Do some advertising for me. It’s a vintage silver El Camino convertible. Just got her in.”

  Nothing conspicuous.

  “That is, unless you’d rather drive the pink Cadillac—”

  “No, that’s fine.” Jake’s hand tightened around his glass. “But lending me a car isn’t necessary.”

  Wiley raised his hand to silence him. “Please accept the gesture. You’re a hero, you should drive something showy.” A sheepish grin tilted the corner of his mouth. “I also arranged to have some food delivered, to tide you over till you’re ready to go out.”

  Jake was ready to go out, but didn’t comment. He hated being cooped up in the house and much preferred wide-open spaces to confinement. Another product of his upbringing.

  Wiley stood and polished off his drink. “Anything else you need, you just let me know.” He offered his hand for a handshake and Jake accepted it, unable to grasp the real Wiley Hartwell. One minute the man acted like a raucous fool, planning outlandish publicity stunts and dressing his sales staff up like birds and elves, the next minute he appeared to be a genuine friend and an overly concerned parent.

  “Call me if you need anything, son.” A motor rumbled outside and Wiley darted to the window, his boisterous voice full of enthusiasm. “There’s the truck of food now.”

  Jake stood in silence as two men began to unload bags of groceries from a white van and haul them into his house. As he watched, Joey DeLito, Wiley’s right-hand man, drove up in the shiny silver El Camino.

  A thought suddenly hit him. If Wiley had discovered Jake’s true identity, perhaps this little car wasn’t exactly a payback for his heroics, but a bribe.

  All the more reason he should cozy up to Wiley’s darling daughter.

  Chapter Eight

  “So, Dr. Hartwell, you have something on your mind?” Dr. Edwin McCoy, a specialist in dream analysis, angled his lean body into his leather chair, propped a gold pen against his notepad, ready to listen.

  Hannah’s stomach lurched. Earlier, it had seemed like a good idea to consult a psychiatrist about the dream—now she simply felt foolish.

  She gripped the chair and started to stand. “I-I’m not sure I need to be here.”

  One dark brow arched. “Which probably is a good indicator that you do.”

  Hannah paused, struggled to control her panic, then finally forced herself to relax on the plush love seat facing him. She absolutely drew the line at lying down.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” Dr. McCoy began. “Stress with the job? Personal problems?”

  Although McCoy didn’t work at Sugar Hill with Seth, they were acquaintances.

  He obviously knew about her canceled wedding. Was he defensive for Seth? “Maybe this isn’t a good idea. I know you and Seth are friends.”

  “Professional acquaintances, Dr. Hartwell. That’s all. Everything you tell me will be held in confidence.”

  Meaning he wouldn’t tell everyone she was having psychotic thoughts. Relief should have spilled through her at the thought, but her stomach quivered too much for her to relax.

  The doctor put his pen aside, folded his hands and leaned forward. “Hannah, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. Now please tell me what’s bothering you.”

  His mild tone and less formal posture helped to put her at ease. Oh, well, she might as well share her odd situation and find out if
she was a candidate for the loony farm.

  “It’s not work,” she said slowly.

  “Personal then?”

  Hannah nodded. “You see I have this kooky grandmother…”

  Thirty minutes later, she finished and leaned back against the love seat, exhausted. “I need to know if I’m losing my mind.”

  “You say there’s no history of psychic tendencies in your family?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. But I don’t believe in folktales…it’s like believing in magic.”

  A small smile curved his mouth. “You don’t believe in magic?”

  “No, do you?”

  He chuckled. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. We’re talking about you.”

  “But do you think there can be any truth to that silly legend?”

  “I don’t know. I do think magic exists between people though. Most of the time it’s referred to as chemistry.”

  “A simple physical response,” Hannah concluded. “I’ve read all about pheromones.”

  The doctor steepled his fingers, studying her. “Did you believe in magic when you were a child?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “You say that with hesitancy.”

  “Everyone grows up, Dr. McCoy.”

  “Is there some other reason you stopped believing? Some incident that forced you to grow up quickly?”

  Hannah chewed her lip. “I suppose the day my mother left could account for my feelings, but I got over that a long time ago. What does it have to do with the present?”

  “A parent’s desertion can have devastating results, Hannah,” he said in a low tone. “Sometimes we think we’ve dealt with those feelings, but we’ve only suppressed them.”

  “I told you this has nothing to do with my mother leaving,” Hannah argued. “I simply want to understand why I dreamt about a strange man with whom I have absolutely nothing in common.”