Fifteen minutes later Dallas was knocking on Chelsea’s door. “Decided not to break in this time?” Chelsea asked as she let him in. “I maybe could have shown you how, since I was, after all, taken in yesterday for B and E.” “I think the charge was trespassing.” With her hand Chelsea waved him quiet. “Anyway,” he went on, ignoring her, “I was in the neighborhood and thought maybe I’d just stop in for a glass of wine.” He peered around her. Every light in the cottage was on. The place looked like a movie set. “I think you’re full of it, Dallas Quinn.” “You going to invite me in or not?” Chelsea stepped back from the oak Dutch door and swept her hand elegantly toward the kitchen. “I told you I was fine,” she said. Dallas shrugged out of his taupe windbreaker and dropped it casually on a chair near the door. On top of it he deposited his keys. It was a moment before he turned back to Chelsea and in that time he had composed his face into something that passed for calm and detached. “I’ve lived here alone for a number of years, now, Dallas. I know how to take care of myself.” “I don’t doubt that.” Chelsea watched carefully as Dallas’ eyes darted about the kitchen. “Then what?” His eyes returned to Chelsea, where they settled protectively. “Why don’t you pour me that glass of wine and I’ll just mosey around.” “Mosey?” Chelsea gave off a laugh she hoped didn’t sound as nervous to his ears as it did to hers. “The wine?” “Dallas, I’m not moving, and neither are you, not until you tell me what’s going on.” How could he tell her what he thought? The moment she’d said it, he’d known something was wrong and the moment after that, he knew that if something happened to Chelsea Campbell, he would never forgive himself. He pushed distractedly at his hair. Chelsea wasn’t some high-strung, overwrought filly like Royal. If she said she’d heard something, then she had. Of that he was certain. “Thought maybe I’d just check things out. For myself.” A look of doubt narrowed Chelsea’s eyes. “It’s that lock thing again, isn’t it? I knew it.” Her lips pressed together in a tight line and she shook her head. Having her think the lock concerned him seemed a better choice than the truth, and so Dallas nodded agreeably. Then he glanced just past Chelsea to the fog that had gathered at the lowest boughs of the pine trees. Chelsea had said the wind made something in the cottage creak, but that couldn’t have happened. Not tonight. Because tonight there was no wind. Tonight there was only fog. Dallas pushed up the sleeves of his navy blue rugby shirt to reveal forearms thick and sinewy. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s the lock. I’m going to change it for you this week. In the meantime, I think I’ll just have a look around.” Chelsea nodded and sank onto one of the kitchen chairs. “You hear anything else besides the floor board?” Cold fear collected deep within Chelsea. “You’re scaring me, Dallas, you know that? Because after you leave, I’ve got to try and sleep here.” “I could stay.” Dallas’ mind was suddenly flooded with images that had nothing to do with protecting Chelsea Campbell from intruders. The thoughts darkened his cheeks and sent heat pouring through his veins like lava, to settle between his strong thighs. Briefly a shudder overtook him and then it was gone. “Another sleep over? How fun. The last time you did that, Royal came to breakfast. I don’t think so. Just check the place out.” Chelsea waved her hand absently in the air to issue him out of the room. Dallas was gone only minutes. The cottage was small and, as Chelsea had realized earlier that evening, there were few places where anyone of even average size could hide. “No burglars, no skeletons, no monsters, nothing out of the ordinary,” he said when he returned, “except this.” From his long, elegant fingers flowed a stream of maroon silk. “Doesn’t strike me as the kind of thing you’d sleep in. I had you pegged more as a T-shirt person.” He shrugged. “Then I’ve been known to be wrong before.” Chelsea leaped to her feet and grabbed for the negligee he held. “I’d thank you, Dallas Quinn, to stay out of my things. My sister gave me that. Where’d you find it, anyway? On the bed, no doubt. Give it here.” Dallas whipped it lightly around his hand, gathering the burgundy froth into a loose ball which he held just beyond her reach. “Mary Dan gave this to you?” It started as just a giggle, but in a matter of seconds, Dallas’ laugh had erupted into a howl. “Yes, she did. What’s so funny about that?” “Why on earth did Mary Dan give you this . . . this thing?” he said and shook the negligee for emphasis. But even as he spoke the words, he knew the answer. The negligee, the condoms. Chelsea was seriously planning an affair with Chris. The thought blindsided him with sudden and inexplicable anger. Chris was going to touch her, to feel her soft, warm skin against the tips of his fingers. Chris was going to taste her, to take the tawny flesh of her breasts into his mouth. Chris was going to cover her body with his and, parting her thighs, drive into her. Before he could stop it, Dallas felt his body react. Briefly he closed his eyes. Even as Chelsea watched, the mirth slid from Dallas’ face. For a moment she thought he had seen someone at the kitchen windows until she realized his eyes were shut. A moment later he spoke. “None of my business. Sorry,” he told her. Then he held out his hand toward her and the shimmering maroon flowed like liquid silk from his fingertips to hers.