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  Panic put a stutter in Allie’s pulse. Could she pull it off?

  No. She would pull it off. This was her chance and by God, Allie was going to take it. “Jerry, I still need to check out a few things here.”

  “Check ’em and get back to me. If that location’s a bust, Scotty’s got a great lead in Taiwan—”

  “It’ll be perfect,” she promised, though she had no idea if the place was available and wanted to kick herself for calling before she’d secured permission. She’d simply been too excited, and had overlooked the most important detail. But she’d fix that mistake, one way or another.

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Sugar-pie. Send me some photos,” Jerry barked, then hung up.

  Allie cursed his name a few times, then took a couple of quick pictures of the house with the cell’s camera feature, and zipped them off to Jerry’s cell. A second later, she had a text message saying “Book it, Danno.”

  Later, she’d send better quality images, so that the script and production people could get a good feel for the place as they did the rest of the preproduction work. For now, she slipped the cell back into her purse. Soon as she had some production experience under her belt, she would leave Jerry and find a job where “being treated like dirt” wasn’t part of the job description.

  “We meet again.”

  She wheeled around. Her heart skipped a beat. Her muscles tightened. And a few other parts went loose and hot. “Duncan.”

  “Miss Dean.” He gave her his trademark grin, then took a step forward. “What are you doing here? On my land?”

  “This is yours?” Allie thought back and couldn’t remember ever hearing that Duncan had lived on a farm, or heck, even come near one. The house where he’d lived—and maybe still did—had been on the end of Washington Street, an imposing edifice that sat as the crowning glory of Tempest.

  John Henry had loved lording his wealth over people. Parking new cars in the street, flashing thousand-dollar bills at the local grocery store, knowing full well they couldn’t change it first thing in the morning, insisting on ordering his plants from other countries, his food from other states, just because he could.

  Old Man Henry had died of a heart attack nearly five years ago, according to Allie’s mother’s long, rambling annual Christmas letter. The town hadn’t seen a thousand-dollar bill since.

  Duncan looked out over the property, his gaze shaded by his palm. “Yeah, this place is mine.”

  “Well, serendipity brings us together twice.” She smiled. “I’d like to use this house for the movie.”

  “No.”

  She leaned back, surprised. “No, just like that? You haven’t heard the offer or—”

  “No,” he repeated, his eyes an unreadable storm, then he turned on his heel.

  She hurried after Duncan. Damn. What had she been thinking? Telling Jerry she had the location before she’d gotten ink on the contract? That was Film 101. Lock the deal, then tell the boss.

  And worse, she’d sent the pictures to Jerry. Undoubtedly, he was already counting his box-office chickens. If she blew it now, he’d fire her. “My employer will pay a fee for the use of the land and return it to its original state after—”

  “I said no.” He kept on walking.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t have to give you a reason, just like you didn’t give me a reason for not having lunch with me, even though it was clear you were interested.” He paused halfway up the path to the house, then gestured behind them, to his Miata, parked behind her rental Taurus. “You’d better get back to town. A storm is coming.”

  Clouds marched across the sun, standing like sentries in front of its rays. A dark wind had sprung up, whisking at her skirt, lifting it as easily as a balloon. Allie splayed a hand along the fabric, keeping it from giving Duncan an unobstructed view of London and definite parts of France.

  “Rain, the joy of farmers, bane of sunbathers.” His gaze swept over her, lingering on the skirt, then her legs. A breath passed between them. The tension increased, doubled. The house was forgotten. “Do you sunbathe out there in L.A.?”

  She lifted one shoulder, trying to act as though his perusal meant nothing. Didn’t affect her a bit. “Sometimes.”

  “How?”

  She laughed. “I lay out in the sun like everyone else.”

  “No, I meant, do you wear a swimsuit or do you sunbathe…” He paused for a breath, his gaze on hers. “In the nude?”

  Heat pooled in Allie’s gut, rushing along her veins, tightening her nipples, her stomach. She stood there for a second, Duncan’s dark eyes watching her, amusement giving them a spark.

  She wanted him, dammit.

  Oh boy. Her plan had one serious flaw—and she was looking at him.

  “Nude,” she lied, to see his reaction, to feel her own.

  One brow arched upward, and the spark in his eyes became a flame. “Ever get burnt?”

  “Oh yes, many times.” By more than the sun.

  Duncan took another step forward, and ran a finger down the bare skin of her arm. His touch was chased by goose bumps, then desire, a desire she willed herself not to feel, but doing that only seemed to intensify the feeling. “Such pretty skin to have it hurt like that.”

  She nodded, mute, her mission forgotten.

  “Does it burn now?”

  “A little.” But neither of them meant by the sun. That had long gone away, hidden by the clouds, the storm moving in, whipping the wind into a vortex. Her skirt, forgotten when Duncan had touched her, skated upward, over her hips, exposing her pink, lacy panties to a quick glance, then just as quickly dropped again. Duncan’s eyes widened and he inhaled.

  “I should—” But then, the clouds opened up, releasing the rain in a fast patter, soaking them in an instant.

  Duncan grabbed her hand. “We need to get inside.” Before she could protest—or drown in the sudden downpour—they ran the rest of the way up to the house.

  Duncan flung open the unlocked door, then paused, letting her cross the threshold first. Once inside, Allie shook off the worst of the water. She smoothed down her hair, gaining her bearings, taking a moment to remind herself she wasn’t supposed to be attracted to Duncan.

  That wasn’t the plan. Resurrecting old feelings. Acting on them was a no-no. She had to remember not to touch the candy in the forbidden jar.

  Be tempted by it—and maybe tempt it back—sure, but never, ever let it pass her own lips.

  Duncan flicked on a light switch. Allie bit back a hallelujah when she spied the house’s interior. Creepy, dusty, drafty. And oh-so-horrific.

  She couldn’t have asked for a more perfect setting if she tried. The rooms were large, but dated, as if someone had stuck them in the Victorian era and left them there. The long hallway had the perfect mix of shadow and light for a good chase scene. The parlor on her right had high ceilings and an ornate fireplace, ideal for the first murder scene.

  Long strips of wallpaper curled and dropped to the floor, revealing the original plaster and lathe below. The woodwork was dark, probably highly polished at one time. Cobwebs bridged the doorways, the windows. Sheets covered the furniture, giving the rooms an ethereal look. The script of Sorority Slumber Party Slaughter ran through Allie’s mind, the scenes mentally filmed within these walls.

  The house wasn’t just perfect. It was a job promotion and a box-office hit, all wrapped up in a three-thousand square-foot bow. Allie resisted the urge to zip off a few more pics to Jerry. Secure the permission first, then get the pictures.

  “Holy cow. This house is cool. It’s going to be perfect.”

  The words killed the mood as fast as the rain. Duncan stepped away from her, any hint of attraction gone with the last hints of the summer sun. “It’s not going to be anything. I don’t want strangers tramping all over this place just to plop it on two thousand screens nationwide.”

  She decided to try a new conversation direction. “How is it that a weatherman owns a place like this?”
/>   “By default. It belonged to my aunt. She died. I inherited.”

  Harsh, sharp words—back to square one. Duncan had shut the door on the location discussion again. “It’s chilly in here.” She rubbed at her arms. “Do you have some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  She followed him down a narrow hall, her shoes making little noise on the thick, faded Oriental-style runner. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was stuck in a time warp, a blending of linoleum and chrome that spoke of an update fifty years ago. Duncan searched through the cabinets, finally finding a box of Lipton tea bags in the back, behind a few Corelle bowls. “Tea okay?”

  She nodded.

  “No milk or honey, sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I’m a plain tea kind of gal.”

  He grinned. “A woman after my own heart.”

  A heart she knew too well. A heart she’d drawn a thousand times in high school, her name centered with his, hiding the words in the back of her notebook back then, so afraid that if he found out, he’d stop asking her for help with his math homework. Stop talking to her before class. Stop dispensing that easy smile, something he gave out like beads at Mardi Gras.

  He let the water run a while, then filled a teakettle and set it on the stove. The gas, however, refused to spark. The stove clicked, but nothing happened with any of the burners. “I need to find some matches.” Duncan pulled out a few drawers, but they all came up empty.

  Allie ran her hands up and down her arms. “How long has it been since anyone lived here?”

  “Five years.” Duncan didn’t elaborate. “I can’t get this damned stove to work.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t really need the tea.” What she could use was him—his arms around her, his body against hers, but she was not about to say that.

  Or make that mistake again.

  She moved to sit down, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “But you’re soaked. You must be freezing.”

  No, now she was hot.

  Nothing about her felt cold, not anymore, not with Duncan’s eyes on her. Damn the man for still having that power over her, for still being able, even after all these years, to ignite a flame with nothing more than a glance for kindling, a smile for tinder. “Yeah,” she said, breathed really.

  Get a grip, Allie. You’re over him.

  “I’d hate to see you get sick,” he said, touching her nose, trailing along her cheek, her lips. “Having the sniffles in the summer is terrible.”

  “Mmm…really terrible,” she echoed.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have anything to offer you. I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “What were you expecting, Duncan?” For that matter, what was she expecting? She’d come here to do a job, maybe flirt with him, ramp up his testosterone then roar out of town, leaving him wondering who that blonde had been and where things could have gone, had she stayed around longer. Never had she intended to lure the spider into her own complicated web.

  “I wasn’t expecting you, that’s for damned sure.” His finger traveled along the edge of her blouse, lifting the damp collar away from her skin. Cool air rushed in, raising prickles of skin. “I won’t give you what you want, you know.”

  “How can you be so sure what I want right now?” Because L.A., Jerry, and the film had been Pluto’d—ripped right out of her immediate solar system.

  And, apparently, also out of his, she realized, as their gazes met. Held.

  A moment passed. Another. Rain slashed against the windows, pattered the glass. Wind whipped the clapboards, whistled along the roofline. But what Mother Nature brewed outside barely compared to the storm inside.

  The smile Allie had memorized, the one that had starred in her dreams, stared back at her from the Tempest High yearbook, curved across his face, only this time with a sexier edge. Allie tried to steel herself against its power, but this was not like resisting the last piece of fudge on Aunt Tilda’s crystal-cut angel platter.

  This was Duncan. And he carried way more temptation than a bunch of cocoa and sugar.

  “I think,” he said, low and sexy, his voice a heated whisper in the empty, half-dark house, “what you want is to get out of these wet clothes.”

  Oh yeah.

  His gaze dropped to the pale fabric of her blouse, flattened against her bra, now as transparent as Scotch tape, parading lace and skin, the faint outline of her rosy, peaked nipples.

  She should leave. But the rain continued to pound outside, and her clothes were drenched and Duncan Henry’s hand held hers, so warm and strong, and everything she’d dreamed of in those late-night teenage fantasies.

  But that had been high school. And this was all very, very grown-up stuff.

  “Duncan, maybe I should…”

  “Not argue with me,” he said, putting a finger against her lips. She wanted to open them, to taste his skin, to quench her curiosity finally. But she held back, waiting for him to speak, to say something—anything—that would push past all the reasons she had against getting involved with him.

  Because that’s all she needed, a whisper of a reason to stay.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Incredible.” The words sliced through the silence of the house, punctuated by the rain’s continual tap-tap against the glass.

  She averted her gaze, oddly uncomfortable with his perusal, which surprised her. This was Duncan. She should have been elated that the man who had seen her at her worst finally saw her as the beauty queen.

  And yet, for some weird reason, she wanted him to see past Allie Dean, to know Allison Gray stood before him. To see past the very façade she was protecting.

  And for him to still feel the same way about her. To still want her, no matter what.

  He tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. “And smart. And bold. You’re not like anyone else I’ve met in a long, long time.”

  “Because I go after what I want?”

  “Exactly. And I hope that one of those things you want right now is me.”

  Did she want him? When had there ever been a day when she hadn’t?

  “I want your house,” she said, and his face fell, “but I want you more. Much more.”

  The grin curved across his lips again and the tension between them rose and twisted into a thick chain. “Then follow me.” Duncan took her hand and led her out of the kitchen and up the creaky staircase.

  He opened the door at the end of the hall and flicked on the light, illuminating a large bedroom. A chandelier hung over an ornate cherry queen-size bed covered with a white comforter that had yellowed with age. In one corner stood a matching cherry wardrobe, framed by a full-length mirror. The bright blue area rug had faded beneath the window, the frilly lace curtains hung limp and trimmed with cobwebs, but all in all, this room looked like it had been lived in more recently than the rest of the house.

  Why this space? And only this space? And by whom? Allie looked at Duncan, but he didn’t explain.

  Instead, he crossed the room, opened the wardrobe, then stepped back. “Help yourself.”

  A few outfits hung in the closet. Immediately, Allie’s shopper’s eye cataloged them. Size six, maybe size eight. Two pairs of jeans, a few Ts, a dark blue sweater and an IU sweatshirt with a frayed hem. A mismatched pair of flannel PJs, the red-and-white checked pants also sporting the college logo, a black shirt with some kind of concert memorabilia. And then, on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe, a pair of Elmo slippers, adult size. A dark green backpack with a flip-flop key chain hanging off the zipper, a key dangling off the ring. The top of a bikini and a pair of sunglasses, tilted at an angle, as if they were staring back at Allie.

  Watching her.

  Female clothes. Who did they belong to? The clothes—only enough for a weekend, not a lifetime of living here—were too young, too hip, to be Duncan’s aunt’s. Were they a girlfriend’s?

  A wife’s?

  A weekend lover’s?

  Allie looked again to Duncan, but he had drifted to the window. “Won�
��t whoever owns these clothes need them?”

  He leaned one hand on the jamb, the other flat against a pane. His gaze ranged over the fields beyond them, fields which eventually led to Tempest. “She’ll never miss them. Trust me.”

  Allie’s resolve fumbled in the vulnerability in his voice. The hunch in his shoulders. This wasn’t the Duncan Henry she remembered from high school. This man had experienced deep pain.

  Could the clothes be his sister Katie’s? Or some other woman who had meant a great deal to Duncan? Someone he had loved—and lost?

  Before she could discern anything else, he pivoted and moved to her, the familiar grin on his face again. “I promised you tea, didn’t I? I need to find some matches. And you probably want me to leave so you can…” He gestured toward the clothes, but stayed where he was.

  She nodded, as still as Duncan. The rain had molded his clothes to his chest, his thighs, outlining the body she had never forgotten. He’d been handsome in high school, but age had tightened and defined him, giving the planes and valleys she remembered an intriguing edge.

  Hot desire twisted in her gut, multiplied onto itself by the knowledge of a woman who knew exactly what it would be like to go to bed with a man like Duncan. It would be good. Very good.

  Love him. Leave him. Climb into his bed—and then try to forget him?

  Who was she kidding? Her gaze roved over his body, and Allie knew that if she had sex with Duncan, she’d never forget it.

  Right now, she was more than willing to pay that price of admission. Worry about the consequences later.

  If someone had asked her what had headed her Christmas list for more than a dozen years, it would have been this.

  Duncan Henry. Looking at her with desire. Followed by the bonus of a night in his bed, no strings, no morning after. Just him, and a satisfaction to the cat’s curiosity.

  Before the anticipation killed her.

  In a few days, she’d be back in L.A. Duncan would be back in front of his blue screen, pointing out cloud patterns. When would she ever again have this opportunity?

  A bed. A nearly naked Duncan. And a nearly nuclear desire so intense and red she could have painted the Empire State Building with it and had enough left over for the Taj Mahal.