mma had bought sex. She still couldn’t believe whatshe’d done. After a lifetime of propriety, she had turned her back on everything she believed in.

“You can look now,” he said.

She felt like a fool. As soon as he’d begun lifting himself out of the tub, she’d dipped her head like a skittish old maid. Why couldn’t she have been blasé and sophisticated about it? He certainly wasn’t self-conscious about his body. And it was only natural for her to want to see it. Quite badly.

Now she did and her mouth went dry. He’d wrapped a towel around his hips, and the knot fell low, inches below his navel. Trickles of water slithered like tiny fingers down his chest and along the flat plane of his abdomen. He had a beautiful body, and she had hired it for the night.

“Cold?”

She looked up. “Pardon?”

“You shivered.”

“Oh... yes, I am getting a bit chilly. Would you mind fetching me a towel, then?” She narrowed her eyes. “That is, if there’s no extra charge.”

He gave her the devastating grin he’d undoubtedly been using to demolish women since the cradle. He was absolutely unprincipled. But that made him perfect for what she needed.

The moment he disappeared through the glass doors, she hurried from the hot tub and pulled on her robe. “Never mind,” she called out to him as soon as she’d fetched her bathing suit and stepped inside.

She rushed upstairs, gathered her toiletries, and carried them into the bathroom. Tonight she would take a giant step toward her freedom and the safety of St. Gert’s.

Kenny conned Lady Emma into fixing dinner as soon as she came downstairs from her nap. All he needed to do was mention that eating in would save her money, but the truth was, he didn’t want her to be around other people right now. It might bring her to her senses.

For once she wasn’t giving orders as she pulled out some chicken cutlets from the freezer, then began fixing a salad, while he made a big deal out of scrubbing a couple of potatoes and putting them in the oven.

She sure wasn’t dressed for sex. Not that there was anything wrong with her clothes. She wore a nice pair of beige slacks with a waist-length yellow cotton sweater that had a couple pearl buttons at the neck and a little band of crocheted lace at the bottom. The outfit was fresh and crisp-looking, and it fit her well without being revealing. But he sort of missed the flowers.

He could see Lady Emma was nervous being around him, and he didn’t have the energy to work her out of it more than once this evening, so he decided to give her some breathing room while the potatoes were baking. He excused himself and slipped into his study, where he made a few phone calls, none of them to Torie. Mainly, he nosed around his contacts with the press.

Between his legendary golf swing, an eighteen-month hot streak, and the fact that he gave good interviews, Kenny had won the public’s attention, but he’d never quite been able to capture its adoration. People liked athletes who’d overcome adversity—especially poverty or chronic disease—but with Kenny Traveler, there was a sense that things had come too easily. Still, the sport had treated him well, and Kenny hadn’t been complaining.

Then a visit from the FBI a month ago had turned his world upside down. He’d learned that Howard Slattery, his longtime business manager, had been funneling big chunks of Kenny’s money into an illegal drug operation with ties to Mexico, Colombia, and, eventually, Houston. The revelation had knocked Kenny’s feet right out from under him. Even during his wildest days, he’d never had anything to do with drugs, and the knowledge that his money was contributing to other people’s misery had been just about more than he could handle.

Slattery was arrested trying to flee the country, and all of Kenny’s financial records became public property. Although the investigation wasn’t closed, it was generally recognized by both the federal government and the public that Kenny’d had no knowledge of what was going on. Still, the entire incident had reflected badly on the PGA and made acting commissioner Dallas Beaudine see thirteen different shades of red.

“This is the last straw, Kenny! You’ve been coasting for as long as I’ve known you, phoning in your personal life, ignoring business, not working hard at anything but golf. Well, this time your laziness has cast a big shadow over the PGA, and that’s going to cost you. I’m suspending you from the tour for two weeks.”

“You can’t do that, you son of a bitch! I’ll miss the Masters! And I didn’t do anything wrong! You don’t have any grounds!”

“I’ve got grounds, all right. Gross stupidity! Maybe a little time off the tour will give you a chance to get your head in order and figure out there’s more to life than hitting a golf ball.”

As if Kenny could suddenly get to the bottom of what had eluded him for thirty-three years. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, hearing his mother’s voice this time instead of the commissioner’s.

“How dare you accuse my sweet Kenny of beating up that little brat of yours! You’re just jealous because my Kenny’s so much smarter than the other kids in this god-forsaken town!”

He shook off the old, unwelcome memory from his childhood and turned his thoughts back to his current problem. Two days after Dallie had suspended him, Kenny’d gotten into a public fight with Sturgis Randall, an overpaid, substance-abusing, lecherous asshole of a network golf announcer, who never failed to use phrases like “born with a silver spoon in his mouth,” “playboy champion,” and “charmed life” when he was describing Kenny and his career.

Never apologize, never explain, was Kenny’s motto. He couldn’t stand it when jocks started whining to the press about how misunderstood they were, so he made it a policy never to defend himself to reporters. Instead, he let his golf clubs do the talking, and he figured people could either take it or leave it. Which didn’t mean that he was averse to throwing a punch at some jerk who forgot his manners. Even so, he wouldn’t have hit Sturgis if the other man hadn’t thrown the first punch.

That was all Kenny had needed. But just as Sturgis was beginning to understand the full extent of his mistake, Jilly Bradford, cable television’s most visible female reporter and Kenny’s former girlfriend, had appeared out of nowhere, and Kenny’s fist had accidentally connected with her shoulder. A network cameraman had caught the entire event on tape, including shots of Jilly crying pathetically afterward and a bloodied Sturgis Randall comforting her.

Even then, Kenny might have escaped the ensuing scandal if Jilly had been fair about it. She knew it was an accident, but ever since their love affair had run its natural course, she’d been publicly vocal about her unhappiness with Kenny. Because of that, everybody thought it was a domestic dispute, and now Kenny not only looked like a man who was too stupid to take care of his money, but also like a slug who got his kicks beating up women.

If he’d thought Dallie had been upset with him before his fight with Randall, that was nothing compared to the way he reacted after Kenny’s second brush with scandal.

“You’re still the same no-good spoiled rich kid who was born with more natural talent than you deserve and a screwed-up set of priorities. Well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s long past time you grew up. As of now, your suspension is indefinite. And I’m warning you... if you want to be reinstated before you’re too old for the senior tour, you’d better keep that nose of yours squeaky clean.”

Kenny refused to defend himself. He didn’t see the point. Dallie knew Sturgis Randall was an asshole, just as he knew Kenny would never deliberately hit a woman, but that didn’t seem to make any difference, and now Kenny understood what it felt like to be betrayed by the man who meant as much to him as anyone on earth.

Hardly a day had passed since his suspension that he didn’t curse the fact that he’d been born and raised in Wynette, Texas, Dallie Beaudine’s hometown, along with cursing the fact that Dallie had taken an interest in him when he’d been a snot-nosed kid hot-rodding around town in the brand-new red Porsche his mother had given him for his sixteenth birthday. Except, when Kenny was thinking rationally, he knew that Dallie’s intervention had saved his life.

Growing up with a crazy mother who’d suffocated him with her obsessive love, along with a distant father who hadn’t cared enough to intercede, had put Kenny on the path toward the worst kind of trouble. He’d been a bully, hell bent on cutting a wide swath of destruction through the town of Wynette. Only Dallie Beaudine had been standing in the way. That was what hurt most of all. Because Dallie knew him better than anybody on earth, he understood what nobody else did—that golf was the only thing that mattered in Kenny Traveler’s sorry, spoiled life.

As he hung up from an unfruitful call with one of his contacts atUSA Today, he heard Lady Emma moving around in the kitchen, and a small corner of his depression lifted. It looked like his sex drive hadn’t disappeared after all.

Even before his suspension, he’d started worrying about himself. He’d always had an active sex life, but he hadn’t felt any urge to play the field since he’d gotten rid of Jilly. Instead, he’d been plagued with a general feeling that a man winning so many golf tournaments should be a lot happier with his life. But now Lady Emma had appeared, and, in a matter of hours, his body had come awake.

Despite her umbrella and order-giving, she was exactly the distraction he needed, especially now, when the top pros in the world were heading for the Masters at Augusta while he sat home at the whim of a man who was supposed to be his friend. And he didn’t have to worry about Emma stirring up another public scandal—the last thing his career could stand—when he dumped her. There was no way a conservative soul like her would let on that she’d used her summer vacation to satisfy her hankering to hop in bed with a stranger.

Besides, she amused the hell out of him, which was strange, since he generally couldn’t abide domineering women. But Lady Emma was so absolutely clueless that being around her was pretty much like standing in the exact middle of a perfect private joke.

Then there was that mouth... and her energy.... He smiled as he thought about having all that enthusiasm squirming naked underneath him.

Now he intended to use her to keep himself from thinking about Augusta, Dallie Beaudine, and a life that seemed increasingly pointless. Yes, sir, Lady Emma was just what he needed.

Emma dropped the potato peeler for the third time. It was a sleekly designed state-of-the-art German instrument. She bit her lip and returned her attention to the carrots. In a few more hours it would be over.

“How are those potatoes doing?”

She dropped the peeler for the fourth time and spun around.

He grinned as he sauntered toward her.

She took in the tan slacks he’d changed into while she’d been trying to nap, along with a black polo shirt bearing an American Express logo. Those neutral colors combined with his dark hair and tanned skin made a breathtaking contrast to his violet eyes.

He opened the oven door, picked up a paring knife, and poked at the potatoes. “These are about done. You got that chicken ready?”

“Chicken?” She’d forgotten about the chicken.

He straightened and nodded toward the carrots she’d just peeled. “If Bugs Bunny happens to drop by for dinner, he’s going to be one happy rabbit.”

She blinked and looked down. Instead of peeling just a few, she’d peeled an entire package. Enough for a dozen salads.

He gave her a knowing grin, then combined a couple of lazy stretches with retrieving a bowl and pan from separate cupboards. Somehow a canister of flour appeared, along with a stick of butter. With a slow flick of his hand, he dredged the chicken and set it sizzling in the pan. “You watch those while I get us some wine.”

She stared at the chicken. Her pulses were jumping, and her stomach felt as if it had dropped to her toes. For a moment the extent of what she was losing overcame her—a decade worth of daydreams about a comfortable, scholarly husband with leather elbow patches on his jacket and ink stains on his fingers. Other women might fantasize about taming some dashing scoundrel with thick black hair, a magnificent body, and violet eyes, but that had never been what she’d wanted.

Kenny returned from the garage with a bottle and lowered the heat on the chicken, which was starting to smoke. “Lady Emma, you got to relax or you’re gonna expire before we get half near the bedroom.”

“I am relaxed! Perfectly relaxed!” She took a deep breath as she realized how foolish that sounded when it was obvious she was as tight as the cork in that wine bottle he was carrying. “Please call me Emma. I never use my title.”

“Uh-huh. If you’re so relaxed, how’s come you jump every time I look at you?”

“I don’t jump!” She swallowed as she watched his hands turn the corkscrew, taking all the time in the world. She thought about those lazy hands taking their time with her, then reminded herself there was no ink stain on his thumb, no pencil callus on even one of those long, lean fingers.

“All right, then. I’m putting you to the test.” He tugged out the cork, pulled several exquisite crystal wine goblets from a cupboard above the stove, and poured. “Here’s what I’m gonna do. Just to make a point, mind you. I’m gonna touch one of your body parts, and while I’m doing it, you’ve got to stay perfectly still. If you jump, then you lose and I win.”

“You’re going to touch me?”

“The body part of my choice.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s an excellent idea.” He handed her a glass of wine. Their fingers brushed, and she jumped.

“You lose.” Triumph gleamed in his eyes.

“That’s not fair!”

“Why not?”

“Because... when you said body part... well, naturally I thought—”

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “You thought what, Lady Emma?”

“Just Emma! I thought—Oh, never mind!” She snatched up a cucumber. “You’re right. Iam a bit nervous. But that’s only natural. I’ve never... never done anything like this.” She gazed down at the cucumber she was squeezing, realized what it was, and dropped it like one of the potatoes baking in the oven.

He chuckled. “You’ve never bought a man for the night?”

“Oh, dear... must you say it like that?”

“I was doing my best to put it politely.” He flipped the chicken. “Now, why don’t you finish up that salad so we can eat?”

She forced herself to concentrate, and, after a few more missteps, they were seated at a glass-topped dining room table supported by a pair of sleek black marble pedestals. The place settings seemed to have materialized out of nowhere: white linen mats with matching napkins, china banded in navy and gold, heavy sterling with swirling handles. Her companion certainly knew how to pick his friends. She’d met a few of Kenny’s counterparts in England, and she hadn’t liked them—handsome penniless men who bartered charm for their friends’ hospitality.

The idea of eating made her nauseated, so she took a sip of wine. It was lovely—fragrant and obviously expensive. He began to eat, and she noticed that nervousness hadn’t interfered with his appetite. She took a nibble of baked potato. It stuck in her throat.

He seemed perfectly comfortable with the silence, but she wasn’t. Maybe some conversation would relax her. “Your friend has exquisite taste.”

He gazed around at the luxurious dining room as though he were seeing it for the first time. “I suppose. Some sports posters’d be nice, though. A couple of La-Z-Boys in the living room. And a big-screen TV to watch ESPN while we’re eating.”

His cheerful denseness annoyed her, although he probably wasn’t a bad sort, just too lazy to make anything of himself. Maybe no one had ever taken the time to suggest a better way. “Have you ever had second thoughts about your method of earning a living?” she asked.

“Not really.” He dug into his chicken. “Escort service suits me just fine.”

She succumbed to her natural instinct to help others build character. “But doesn’t it ever present a problem for you when someone asks what you do for a living, and you have to say that you’re an escort?”

“Problem?”

“People must know that’s a—well, forgive me if I’m being too blunt, but a glorified term for a... well... a gigolo.”

“Gigolo!”

She hadn’t intended to be rude, and she began to frame an apology, only to have him grin. “Gigolo. I like that.”

“It’s a pejorative term,” she felt duty-bound to point out.

“Maybe in that socialist state you live in, but here in the land of the free, home of the brave, people have respect for a man who’s willing to make it his life’s work to service lonely ladies.”

“I am not lonely!”

“Or ones who are sexually frustrated.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, only to shut it again. Let him think what he wanted. Besides, shewas sexually frustrated, even if that wasn’t her motivation for using his services. She fumbled for her wine glass.

He slipped his knife into a second piece of chicken, and she noticed he had excellent table manners. Regardless of the task, he performed it with a combination of lazy grace and minimal motion.

Too often in her life she’d set her own wishes aside out of deference to others, but tonight she wasn’t going to do that, and she steeled herself for what needed to be settled. “This evening... during our... our interaction... I want to make certain you understand that I can call a halt to the proceedings at any time.”

“Oh, that’s no problem at all.”

“Good.”

“Because I guarantee you’re not going to want to call a halt to a single proceeding. Unless, of course, you happen to be a lesbian. Although, even then—”

“I’mnot a lesbian.”

He had the gall to look disappointed.

She plunged on. “I simply think it would be better if we established certain ground rules.”

He sighed.

“I am, after all, the customer, and as a customer—”

“You gonna eat that baked potato or just poke at it?”

She dug her fork into her potato. “I’m merely pointing out—”

“Upstairs.”

“What?”

“Go on upstairs.” He pushed back from the table and rose. “I can see I’m not going to be able to enjoy my meal until we get our business over with.”

She gazed at his empty plate.

He gestured toward her wine glass. “You can take that with you, if you want. Or—Here, let me carry it. I know how much you like having other people haul things around for you.”

“I can carry my own wine glass.” She snatched it away from him. “It’s my suitcase that—” Before she could finish her thought, she was somehow on her feet and being steered toward the stairs.

His hand settled warm against the curve of her back. “We’ll use my room. The bed’s bigger, and I like having lots of room to maneuver.” They reached the top of the stairs. “Dang, I forgot the tire chains.”

Her fingers nearly snapped the stem of the wineglass.“What?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m just kidding. You’re taking this way too seriously.”

There was no response she could think of that wouldn’t make her look even more agitated, so she held her tongue.

He steered her through the door, flipped on a light switch, then dimmed it to a golden glow. Like everything else in the house, this room was furnished elegantly. Eggshell white set off shades of deep navy and forest green. All the furnishings seemed to be pieces of art—the sleekly designed bureau, a towering armoire finished in silverleaf, an art deco bed with a silverleaf headboard.

She gazed at the bed and thought, That’s where it’s going to happen. There, beneath a headboard designed for a museum, with a man she was paying to do the job, she would finally lose her virginity. It suddenly seemed like the saddest thing that had ever happened to her.

“I—I need to use the w.c.”

“You go right ahead.” He removed the wine glass from her hand. “There’s a black silk robe hanging on the back of the door. Why don’t you slip your clothes off and put that on before you come back out?”

Just like a doctor’s office, she thought.

“Or... I can undress you.” His hand reached toward the small pearl fastening at the neck of her sweater.

She fled into the bathroom.

As the door slammed shut, Kenny smiled to himself. Lady Emma might be all tied up in knots, but he was having one heck of a good time. “That robe feels real good against bare skin,” he called out.

Nothing but silence from the other side of the door.

He’d already noticed that Lady Emma liked his chest, so he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. After he’d rid himself of his shoes and socks—but not his pants, because he wanted to build the anticipation—he opened the armoire to get to his stereo system and pulled out a Michael Bolton CD. He didn’t care much for Michael Bolton himself, but it was good make-out music, and, despite what he’d said earlier, he could perform just fine with music playing. As a romantic ballad filled the room, he decided the best part of making out with her would be the fact that she couldn’t kiss and give orders at the same time.

Thinking about that mouth sent heat shooting right through him. It was funny that Lady Emma didn’t seem to have a clue what kind of ammunition the Good Lord had armed her with. Her lovers must have kept that secret to themselves.

He sank back into one of the room’s comfortable chairs to finish her wine. It was a real nice 1995 white burgundy. He sipped it leisurely as he stared at the door, willing it to open.

It didn’t, and he finally realized he was going to have to go in after her.

He also realized the waiting was having a dangerous effect on his libido. Instead of calming him down, he was hotter than his short game at last year’s Western Open. If he didn’t get himself under control, he wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel, let alone the thirty dollars she thought she was paying him. And it was all because of that mouth, not to mention the curvy little body that he hadn’t gotten to see nearly enough of.

He set her glass on the carpet and made his way to the bathroom door, which he rapped once with his knuckles, then eased open.

“Lady Emma?”

She stood frozen in the middle of the bathroom floor, dressed in his black silk robe with her clothes folded in a neat pile on the counter.

Oh, man.

His robe clung like hot water to every one of her curves. As he watched, two luscious buds appeared, disturbing the smooth curl of silk over her breasts. Right there, he nearly lost it.

Then he noticed that her hands were clutching the robe at her side, and he saw how truly nervous she was. As he took in her tousled butterscotch curls and those fearful warm-brandy eyes, what was left of his honor reared its unwelcome head, and he was ashamed of himself. “You know, Lady Emma, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Her little chin shot up, her shoulders levered back, and those full lips set in a stubborn line. “Nonsense.”

She pushed past him into the bedroom, nearly knocking him over as she swept by, and his sympathy changed to irritation. She had a way about her that riled him right down to his toes.

He followed her into the bedroom.

Her fingers clutched the sash of her robe. “You may proceed.”

He’d proceed, all right. He’d proceed to drive her right out of her bossy little mind.

He unfastened his leather belt, and her eyes locked on the buckle as if she were watching a bomb getting ready to detonate. He let it hang open instead of pulling it from the loops. “Before we go any farther, I need to get the shape of you in my mind.” He tucked his thumb in the waistband, right above the zipper, and wandered over to her. Then he made a big show out of closing his eyes and setting his hands on her shoulders.

She jumped, but he was expecting that, and he didn’t let it stop him. Instead, he simply allowed his hands to stay there until he felt the barest easing in her muscles. Then he slid his palms along her arms.

After that, he began going where he wanted. Over the slope of her back. Along her ribs. Lingering on the outer curve of her hips.

She stood there as he stroked her through the silk. The brave little soldier. Until he got to her breasts. They slipped into his hands, warm and full and round. She caught her breath as he caressed them. Made a soft, breathy sigh. Her arms came up, and her palms settled on his bare chest in a way that rattled his senses.

He opened his eyes and gazed down to see that her lids had dropped. A faint pucker of concentration had formed at the bridge of her nose. He brushed his thumbs lightly across her nipples. They were hard as flower buds. She gasped, and her lips parted.

Those swollen, pouty lips.

They blurred before his eyes as he ducked his head and claimed them.

It was like kissing warm rose petals. She smelled like roses, too, and it passed through his mind that this balls-to-the-wall female had the softest, sweetest mouth he’d ever kissed.

She kept it primly shut, even as her body sagged against his. He slid the tip of his tongue over her bottom lip, then along the crease. She didn’t have an ounce of stubbornness left, and she opened to let him in.

He liked his French kisses slow, but thorough. Lots of women couldn’t get the hang of that, but Lady Emma was smart, and she didn’t have any trouble. She let him take all the time he wanted, while her tongue moved gently against his and the blood roared through his body.

Her breasts settled deeper into his hands, and he realized he’d been so involved with her mouth that he’d forgotten to attend to them. That was a first for him.

He gently squeezed. She twisted against him and her mouth opened wider. Once again, he rubbed her nipples. They grew even tighter, and he wanted so badly to slide his tongue over them, but he still hadn’t gotten enough of their kiss.

And maybe she hadn’t either because now he felt the tip of her tongue slip into his mouth, and despite all that bullcrap bragging he’d been doing about what a stud he was, he thought he was going to explode right there.

With a moan, he pulled her backward on the bed, but the change of venue didn’t provide nearly the distraction he needed to get himself back under control. He had to see more, and, as they sank into the mattress, he eased back a few inches.

She was breathing hard, and her breath stirred his hair like a warm spring breeze. “Would you—could you take your clothes off now?”

It was a whispered entreaty, not a command, and his hand moved to the fastener on his slacks. He opened it, but he was so hard that he ended up fumbling with the zipper like a teenager, and then he got distracted by the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He couldn’t hold back a moment longer.

Hooking one edge of the black silk robe with his finger, he pushed it away from her breast. The fabric caught on her nipple, then fell aside, leaving her breast exposed to him, a round of pale, blue-veined marble tipped with a puckered apricot bud, all of it framed in a V of black silk. He bent down to taste.

Emma felt his mouth touch her nipple, and the breath left her body. His lips closed warmly around her. The tip of his tongue brushed back and forth. She felt as if her body were going to fly away, and she curled her fingers into the bed’s silky comforter to keep herself anchored.

He began to suckle her.

Her body shivered with fire and ice. Tears clouded her eyes. She wanted him to do this forever. She would die if he stopped. He was no longer a beautiful wastrel who’d hired himself out for the night. Instead, he was her first lover. Slow and gentle. Infinitely precious.

Her limbs melted into the bed. She felt the lightest scrape of his thumbnail through the silk that covered her other nipple, and her body turned back into fire.

“I can’t... I can’t stand this.” She choked out the words.

In response, he suckled deeper. Took her other nipple between his fingers and squeezed....

It was the sweetest pain she’d ever felt. Tears spilled over her lids and dripped onto the pillow. On the brink of orgasm, she opened her legs and willed his hand to go there. Just a brush. The merest touch. That’s all she needed.

He squeezed again, and she gave a small sob.

His head came up, and he frowned as he spotted her tears. “Am I hurting you?”

She was incapable of responding. Instead, she lay there like a wanton, her breast exposed, its nipple wet and puckered, her legs splayed under the rumpled silk.

She saw that his pants were unzipped, and he was fully erect, but a straining pair of silky black boxers kept her from seeing the imposing column beneath. She tried to gather enough air so she could ask him not to stop, beg him to touch her again, plead with him to strip off those slacks and burn his black briefs.

He moved to the edge of the bed and shoved his hand through his hair. “What do you say we slow things down here a little?” His voice sounded hoarse, as if he were pushing the words through the narrowest of openings.

“No!” She shot up into a sitting position.

He stared at her.

She licked her lips. Wiped her tears on the sleeve of the robe. Gulped in air. Left the robe open over her breast.

“No.” She tucked her legs beneath her. “It’s—it’s quite all right.”

“I got a little carried away there.”

“Actually, you didn’t. I mean, you did, but... I wasn’t... that is, I liked what you were...”

Good heavens, she was babbling. She looked away to collect her thoughts and realized music was playing. She drew a breath and took in the details of the room. A wallet sat on the dresser next to a pile of change. Socks lay on the floor. Behind them, the mirrored door of a walk-in closet was partially opened.

She pulled in another breath.

There were several books on the bedside table, including a volume of Texas history and a biography of Theodore Roosevelt. A few golf magazines. The one on top had a picture on the cover of someone familiar. Someone she recognized.

Odd. Who would she know—

She looked more closely and felt all the blood drain from her head.