When Liam decided to go for a run at the abandoned Borden farm earlier that afternoon, the idea had been to work out the kinks in his leg muscles and clear his brain. Coming back to Grantham had been a strain, and the prolonged welcome home celebration last night had only reinforced his discomfort. The only smart thing he'd managed to do was avoid his sister Becca's stiff vodka martinis.

And then he had run into -- literally -- the mystery lady with the kind of thick brown hair a man could sink his hands into and one hell of a killer body. Yeah, the killer body.

To the best of his knowledge, she was the first woman whose reaction on seeing him was to faint dead away. It didn't speak much for his seduction skills, not that anyone had complained in the past, and for some perverse reason, it spurred him to rectify the situation.

Perverse nothing. Liam recognized the age-old competitive instinct of a male and his natural affinity for long-legged brunettes. Her underwear had him thinking of that line of poetry, "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may." Who would have thought being an English major in college would have its practical side?

He found himself pushing his Subaru Forester to the limit as he followed her on Route One, the commercial artery that ran the length of New Jersey and helped to define the state's image as a vast wasteland of oil refineries, gas stations and more Denny's Restaurants than you could shake a fist at.

It seemed the lady, besides having a fondness for classy cars and sexy shoes, viewed yellow traffic lights as a challenge to speed up rather than as a warning to slow down. At this rate, if he weren't careful, he'd be the one to end up doing a do-si-do with an irate driver of a sixteen wheeler -- all before he got another glimpse of her flowering concupiscence. Though technically -- he had been an English major, after all -- it was her flowers and his concupiscence.

Whatever, as his sister with her double strand of pearls was fond of saying. Now thirty-two, he'd come back to Grantham, not knowing what to expect after years of isolation in the wide-open spaces of Montana. He'd called Missoula his home for the past twelve years -- after the two he'd spent kicking around Australia, picking up odd jobs on sheep stations in the Outback and mines out West. Missoula, with its funky university atmosphere and easy access to hiking and kayaking, offered everything he had ever desired, especially one: an escape from his gilded birthright.

But a recent family tragedy, which despite what anyone said, he knew he could and should have prevented, made him realize that with privilege came responsibility. So he had packed his car to the gills, and accompanied by a wary Red Dog, headed back to the East Coast, bent on figuring out just what was necessary to be a happy and fulfilled member of one of America's bluest of blue blood dynasties -- a dynasty that long believed it was destined to greatness, despite frequent evidence to the contrary.

Which, Liam supposed, explained as much as anything why he was risking his neck barreling down the highway after a damsel in semi-distress, not to mention semi-undress. Besides, did he really have anything better to on a Friday afternoon?

J.C.'s less than sedate trip down Route One had done nothing to shake Liam McDonald. He had even negotiated the particularly gruesome intersection in Hightstown, J.C.'s hometown, known as Five Points. A wrong turn there was worse than stumbling into the Bermuda Triangle. Six years ago Uncle Victor on her father's side had gone that way after buying blinis at the delicatessen and hadn't been heard from since.

They had really missed the blinis at the family dinner that night. Victor was another matter.

Anyway, despite her best imitation of a NASCAR driver, it looked like her neighbors would have something to talk about other than what a mess the recycling truck made picking up the cans and bottles. She turned into her ruthlessly straight cement driveway and parked far enough in for Liam to pull in behind her. Of course if he'd been driving something with a little more flash -- a Lamborghini came to mind -- his appearance would have cried WEALTH even to someone in need of cataract surgery, such as most of her neighbors.

Still, she figured that when a shirtless blond god emerged from his car, the collective tongues would be wagging. And that anyone with a lifelong addiction to the society pages of the Trenton Times -- in other words, every female on the street with a high school diploma -- would immediately recognize this Adonis as a member of The Chosen, that rare species born with blue chip stocks on their shoulder.

But when Liam McDonald got out of the car, he had something else on his shoulders, both shoulders as well as his chest and back for that matter: a faded 1999 U.S. Open shirt. Okay, so it wasn't a display of pectoral pulchritude to induce false symptoms of angina, but no one ever said that tennis wasn't a classy sport.

And then the dog jumped out. So much for the high society image.

As far as J.C. was concerned, Red Dog looked like a rejected fireplug with pointy ears. One thing she had to admit, though, the dog did have very good posture.

J.C. straightened her shoulders and gripped her briefcase and purse in one hand and her muddy sling-backs in the other, waiting as the two started up the curving front path to the house -- a radical landscape feature, mind you, in a neighborhood that prided itself in its uninhibited worship of right angles.

Not that the Schubach family had gone out of its way to depart from the norm, with the possible exception of J.C.'s penchant when she was seventeen to dye her hair colors like electric blue and bubblegum pink, occasionally at the same time. Despite those aberrations, the curve in the path wasn't so much a stab at individuality as a necessary deviation.

You see, her late father's one-and-only passion, other than sleeping soulfully in his La-Z-Boy with Phillies baseball flickering on the twenty-one-inch Zenith, had been the fanatical care of the crabapple tree in the front yard. He'd lavished it with affection, plying it with the best in fertilizer and pesticide care. And when the roots of the beloved apple tree had started rising out of the ground, J.C.'s dad, who had passed away eleven years, nine months and thirteen days by her reckoning -- bowed to the forces of nature and altered the course of the path. The roots had gone on rising, like gnarled knuckles of some wizened giant, but most of them were hidden by a large bed of flowers.

Not that trees and flowers were first and foremost on J.C.'s mind. Not when she was standing on the front stoop and able to get an unobstructed eyeful of six-foot plus of glorious manhood. "So tell me," she asked in unabashed admiration. "Are all you McDonalds born beautiful?"

Liam stopped in front of her and shrugged good-naturedly. "We're predictable to a fault, I'm afraid. Big and blond and blue-eyed, with twenty-twenty vision and teeth straight enough and white enough to make an orthodontist cry. It's a combination that only God, generations of controlled breeding and pre-sliced white bread can produce."

And just about opposite everything that had gone into producing J.C. Schubach's genes. They were a haphazard mixture of German, Hungarian and Scottish, producing an average height, sturdy-boned structure and light-brown, shoulder length hair that had a tendency to droop like a damp mop in the humidity. Which meant nine months out of the year in New Jersey. Okay, the eastern European side of her had contributed a pair of mile-high cheekbones and porcelain skin that had yet to see a wrinkle, but the natural propinquity to spread in the love handle region required constant dieting and daily workouts on the Stair Master.

Yeah, right. Like she really had the time for all that after putting in one hundred hour workweeks at her law firm. Thoughts of Triple A, the office, the new attorney coming to take her job, and her rapidly fading career prospects rose like a black cloud. She promptly pushed them out of sight. It was Friday, and her fantasy man was almost within reaching distance.

J.C. studied Liam's face. She could have studied a few more things, but modesty dictated her actions at times. "No way," she announced.

He raised a sun-bleached eyebrow. "No way?"

"I'm guessing that white bread passes your lips about as frequently as a great white whale is spotted off Cape May."

He laughed, causing little lines to fan out from his startling blue eyes. "You're right. I'm strictly a multi-grain kind of guy, though I do tend to watch my intake of carbohydrates in general. What about you?"

J.C. noticed for the first time that the perimeters of his irises were darker, like someone had taken a crayon and pressed hard to outline those perfect circles. "What? Oh, carbohydrates? I can take them or leave them. Mostly I take them. Except for Boston cream pie. I always make a point of abstaining from Boston cream pie during Lent." She instantly had a craving for a slice.

"I'll remember that." He smiled, a crooked upturn that displayed that even row of very white teeth he had mentioned without the slightest bit of self-preening. "Do you have any ice?"

"Ice?" Was the lust in her heart that obviously in need of cooling off?

"For your head." Her heart palpitated as his index finger lightly brushed her bangs away from her forehead. "You've got a bump? Where you hit it?" He slowly lowered his hand to his side.

"Oh, right. A bump. I'm sure I've got ice in the freezer."

"Well, maybe I'll just make sure." He stepped on the stoop next to her.

J.C. didn't feel intimidated, just close. Very close. "That's really not necessary."

Liam shook his head. "No, I think it is. Call me crazy, but somehow I have this feeling that when you go to open your freezer door, you'll spot a pint of Cherry Garcia and get distracted, forgetting all about the ice."

She held up her hand.

"No, I'm not a mind reader," he answered her silent question, "but I do have a sister, and I know how the female mind works." That wasn't strictly true, Liam had to admit. But he did know about women and Ben & Jerry's. "Shall we?" He held out his hand.

J.C. hated that he could read her so easily, but there was one thing she definitely needed to correct. "Fine, have it your way." She turned to face the front door with its American eagle embellished above the wrought iron mail slot. "But just to clarify, it's Chunky Monkey not Cherry Garcia in the freezer." She didn't add that it was two pints.

It must have been Red Dog's favorite flavor because he quickly abandoned lifting his leg on the sad-looking rhododendron by the corner of the house and joined them on the small stoop. Another body and it could be a scene from a Marx Brothers movie.

J.C. unlocked the door and stepped over a pile of junk mail, dumping her brief case on the bottom tread of the steep staircase to the second floor. Red Dog followed her in, sniffing the glue on the Super Coupon Pak.

"Red, wait outside," Liam said. "I mean it, outside." He pointed to the front stoop. The dog reluctantly turned counterclockwise, and with his tail tucked down and his head at half-mast, plunked his rump on the welcome mat.

"He'll just wait there?" J.C. was impressed.

"Sure, no problem. He's trained."

"Gee, if he does windows, too, he can come by any day." J.C. decided to leave the dog to his own devices and concentrate on keeping his owner in order. "So, this is way to the kitchen." She held out her hand and saw that she still held her shoes. She held them up for closer inspection. "Oh, this really is a sad day. And to think I got them at forty percent off."

Liam followed her, bending down at the arched opening to the dining room. He turned sideways to fit between a massive mahogany table and a matching hutch. His nose skimmed close to glass-covered shelves. He narrowed his eyes. "Chamber pots?"

J.C. looked around and saw where he was staring. "No, my mother's soup tureen collection. Some people collect Hummel figures or baseball cards -- my mother had this thing for soup tureens."

"Well, I suppose they come in handy if you like soup."

"Oh, she couldn't stand soup."

Hello. Liam shook his head and followed her into the kitchen where an avocado-colored refrigerator/freezer made a blunt statement against the cabbage-rose print wallpaper.

J.C. opened the top freezer compartment and grabbed a bag of Bird's Eye peas. She jammed it against her forehead and turned to face him. "SeeÐ" she squished the bag "ÐI'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

He nodded toward her forehead. "I like the look. You bump your head often, I take it?" he asked with a throaty chuckle that had J.C. humming in places her vocal chords didn't reach.

"No, I usually eat the food I keep in my freezer. Radical, I know, but I'm like that. Speaking of which, can I offer you something, not that there's much in the way of offerings?" She swiveled around and opened the refrigerator door.

Hunger wasn't the driving factor causing J.C. to inspect the contents. The truth of the matter was she wasn't quite sure what she was supposed to do with Liam McDonald now that he was in her home. His large form all but consumed the kitchen, and while the tiny, box-like room had never struck her as particularly cozy -- her mother's choice in wallpaper was more on the lines of a ladies' room in a Holiday Inn -- it now seemed inadequately close. Or maybe it was that he was too close.

The wisest thing for J.C. to do would be to close the fridge door and then announce that there was nothing to be had and to send him on his way before she did something foolish that would alter "close" into becoming "closer".

She closed the door and turned. But there was a Tupperware container in her hand. Oh, well, some day she would become wise. "I've got some kielbasa from last night's dinner." She rested the container against the counter and pried off the lid with one hand. She held up a piece of sausage.

"It's not everyday I get the chance to have a month's worth of nitrates and a mild case of indigestion," he replied, stepping near.

See how easily "close" could turn into "closer"? She felt her breath coming in short, unfulfilling hiccups. "That's right. You're the crunchy granola type." Amazing how the words could come out on one topic while her brain was busily leapfrogging around another.

There was only one thing to do. Still holding the peas to her head, she decided stuffing her mouth was the simplest solution to dealing with total anxiety.

Liam stepped even nearer. "What the hell. For you, I could make an exception and live dangerously."

"Yes, well, there is that." J.C. cupped the hard, tumescent cylinder in her hand. Why couldn't it have been a soft, round hamburger bun? Then her mind wouldn't be imagining things that one didn't normally do next to an avocado-green refrigerator.

Liam's hand covered hers and guided it upwards. J.C. stared transfixed as he brought the sausage, his fingers overlaying hers, slowly to her mouth. "Ladies first," he said, his voice a soft invitation that had J.C. panting as if he'd spent a good part of the last half hour priming her pump in more ways than a cover article in Cosmo could imagine.

She shook her head, afraid of how she would react.

"No, I insist." The corner of his mouth turned up and his eyes seemed to dance as he inched the top into her open mouth. "Open up."

And she did -- what gal wouldn't? -- biting off a chunk and chewing it. J.C. stared, mesmerized by his playful expression, taking solace in the fact that she was a quiet chewer. Then she gulped after what had seemed like an agonizing period of mastication. "What about you?" she cleared her throat and croaked. "Aren't you having any?"

"That's right, my turn." Liam angled his head closer Ð that word again -- and turned her hand in his to get a better point of attack. He felt the blood rush from his brain and travel to areas that were becoming decidedly uncomfortable. Since when had processed pork become a sex toy? In the hand of J.C. Schubach it seemed.

Yes, her hand. Her long fingers and slim palm fit perfectly in his embrace. And he quickly imagined embracing a lot more of the rest of her curvy self. Was this what coming back to New Jersey did to a man? It debased his interaction with women to the level that he knocked them out, dragged them back to their Cape Cod caves, and ravaged them against up against an avocado-green refrigerator?

He opened his mouth. "Now it's my turn."

He leaned forward and bit off a piece. His eyes fixed on their clasped hands. Her fingers peeked out through his. "I'm not sure one bite is enough," he said on swallowing.

"It's not?" J.C. asked, her voice tight.

Liam noticed the rise and fall of her chest through her mud-stained clothes. "You know what Adam said to Eve when he took a bite of the apple?"

J.C. gulped and shook her head. She was having trouble holding the frozen peas in place. Hell, she was having trouble remembering how many fingers she had on each hand. "He wished it was leftover kielbasa?" she asked. Why didn't he lift his head and kiss her? Put her out of this misery?

Liam's chuckle growled low in his chest. "That and that he found her fingers absolutely delectable, as well." He slipped his grip, exposing each of her fingertips, and lightly kissed the tips one by one.

J.C. sighed. Oh, so that's how many fingers she had.

Liam raised his head and noticed her gasp for air. That was a good sign, definitely good. He eased aside the bag of peas. The veggies went kerplunk on the counter, a fact that must have registered somewhere in both their brains.

"Your bump looks good," he said. As did her eyes, which held a mixture of obvious desire and mild panic.

She had a bump? J.C. noticed he had a small chicken pox scar on the underside of his chin, and she had the irresistible urge to lick it. He raised his hand to her head, and she vaguely realized that his other hand was still entwined with hers and resting somewhere in the vicinity of his chest and hers. She took a deep breathÉand felt the back of his hand. Yes, definitely in the vicinity of her chest.

He touched her forehead, feathering the area with the rough pads of his fingertips, before moving down along the line of her brow and across her cheekbone, finally stopping on her cheek where he brushed the backs of his fingers across her skin. "Still a little sensitive?" he asked.

"More than a little." If only he knew.

He stilled his fingers. "So you don't want me to touch you?"

"I didn't say that." She shook her head. "Actually, I think it makes it feel better."

"What about this?" He cupped her chin and rubbed his thumb across her jawbone.

J.C. closed her eyes. She had to force her brows upward to pry open her eyelids. "I think that's doing a good job, too."

Liam lowered his chin. The blue-black rims of his irises seemed to have spread inward, almost joining his dark pupils. "Anything else you think might help you?"

A sizeable trust fund? A vacation in Cancun? World peace? At another time, in another place, these suggestions would have spouted freely from her tongue. But her tongue, as it wet a slow circle around her lips, appeared to be driven by another force.

So did J.C. listen to the force of lust or did she hearken to the call of statistical probabilities, which had so far done a reliable job of defining the worlds of genetics, quantum mechanics and the odds of winning the lottery?

She opened her mouth, fully intent on explaining that it was really time for him to leave so that she could do her weekly wash loads of permanent press and delicate clothing.

"You want to know what I think might help?" she responded, resisting the urge to run her hand through the errant lock of his thick, wavy hair that had flopped over his forehead.

"What?"

She inhaled deeply. And so the lady who always -- ALWAYS -- knew the odds, replied, "Why don't you drop the damned sausage and kiss me senseless."