The Newcomer

She was tall and graceful, wearing leather boots and a long woolen skirt and matching jacket in pale taupe. Her face was finely sculpted, with high cheekbones and big dark eyes. A golden drift of freckles across the bridge of her nose added a touch of boyishness, an appealing contrast that seemed to heighten rather than diminish her elegance.

Her hair was long and dark, carelessly swept up and held at the back of her head by a big tortoiseshell clip. Doug studied the clip when she turned to glance at the sleeping child on the couch.

So tempting, he thought. A man would only have to reach out and unfasten that clip, and her hair would tumble down onto her shoulders in a rich, glistening mass…

He drew himself up with a guilty start.

What thoughts to be having about a woman whose husband was standing not ten feet away, he chided himself.

“Mr. Evans,” she said. Her voice was like honey warmed in the sun, sweet and husky. “I’m glad to meet you. Terry and I are planning to stay for quite some time in your hotel. We’ll need to make immediate arrangements to get a computer modem and fax machine installed in our room.”

She extended her hand and Doug took it, his whole body thrilling at the touch.

What was there about a woman that could make her very skin seem electric? Her hand was firm and slender, and he could have held it forever.

“A fax machine?” he repeated, still a little dazed. “Computer modems? That’s going to require some thought, Ms. Embree. Our rooms don’t even have phones.”

Her eyes weren’t as dark as he’d first thought, but heavily shaded by dense eyelashes. Her irises were exactly the color of those sunny backwaters in the Claro River where the water ran brown and cool over mossy stones. They gleamed with intelligence, and Doug could happily have drowned in them.

“Call me Maggie,” she said, then smiled down at Moira who stood watching her with awestruck solemnity.

As he shook Margaret Embree’s hand and gazed into that lovely face, Douglas Evans wondered if maybe the little girls were right after all.

Maybe this woman was magic.

CHAPTER TWO

MAGGIE DISENGAGED her hand from the big man’s grasp and stepped back to examine him.

Definitely a fine specimen, she decided. Tall and broad-shouldered, with an appealing rough-hewn look and a dancing light of humor in his green eyes. His hair was very black and crisp, with a lock that fell over one eyebrow in engaging fashion.

And she loved the gentle way he’d placed the sleeping child onto that couch, then covered her so tenderly.

The soft rich brogue of his speech was also attractive, although the incongruity of his accent, here in the heart of Texas, puzzled her a little.

Maggie tried to remember what she’d recorded in her notes about Douglas Evans. To the best of her recollection he was actually the mayor, though that title probably held little significance in a place like Crystal Creek.

And he also…

“Welcome to our town, Maggie Embree,” he said softly, looking into her eyes.

Ridiculous as it was, she felt her knees turning weak. A little thrill shivered all through her body, warm and moist.

The same thing had happened when he’d taken her hand.

Maggie gave him a smile that she hoped was cool and remote, then turned away to pick up a couple of pieces of luggage. Terry shouldered some duffel bags and the tall innkeeper took the rest, except for one he offered to the solemn golden-haired child at his side who seemed anxious to help.

Obviously sensing something going on, the tabby cat leaped down from the back of the couch. She yawned and stretched, rump in the air, forelegs extended, then joined the group.

They trudged up the wide staircase, and followed the big Scotsman and his cat down the hall. “You’re very lucky,” the proprietor said over his shoulder. “We’ve just finished some renovating, and this is our slowest time so you’re the only guests at the moment. You’ll find it very quiet. Although,” he added, “the pub still does a lively business.” He paused by a polished wooden door with a high transom, took out an old-fashioned skeleton key to unlock the door and led them into a charming room furnished with floral couches, matching drapes and a television set concealed in a mahogany armoire.

“There are bedrooms on either side, each with its own bath,” the man said to Terry, gesturing toward a pair of doors. “But if you and your wife should prefer to—”

“My wife!” Terry laughed, a warm, infectious sound in the quiet room. Even the little girl smiled. “Maggie and I are brother and sister, Mr. Evans.”

“Are you now?” The tall man glanced at Maggie, and she caught a surprising flare of light in his green eyes that made her tingle again.

All these wayward reactions were beginning to upset her.

Maggie turned away nervously and tried one of the doors, which opened into a bedroom with a wooden four-poster bed and a deep padded seat at a window enshrouded in clouds of airy white muslin. Hooked rugs covered the shining hardwood floor.

For a moment she forgot everything else in her delight at the beautiful room. It was like something out of the storybooks her mother had read to her and Terry when they were children.

The cat entered with her. Clearly familiar with the room, it sniffed daintily at a floorboard near the window, tail stiffly extended. Maggie, who loved cats, smiled and bent to scratch behind the furry ears. The cat purred loudly and rubbed against Maggie’s leather boot.

“You’re brother and sister,” Doug Evans was saying behind her in the sitting room. His deep voice sounded warm and thoughtful.

“It’s really funny, that you thought we were married,” Terry told the man.

“Why?” Doug asked.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of man would ever win my sister’s hand,” Terry said, “but he’d have to be a lot different guy than I am. A billionaire industrialist or a Texas land baron, maybe.”

“Indeed?” the host said. His voice was still solemn, but Maggie could now detect a note of teasing. “So your sister prefers wealthy men?”

Alarmed by this turn of conversation, she returned to the sitting room and gave her brother a stern glance. But Terry was clearly enjoying himself and, as usual, paid her no attention.

“No, I don’t think Maggie’s particularly attracted to money,” he told the Scotsman, “but she’s fond of strength.” He gestured at the coat of arms above the small fireplace, topped by a bit of tartan and a pair of ornamental crossed swords. “You know, maybe she’d even go for some kind of warrior chieftain,” he suggested with a grin.

“Do ye really think so, then?” the man asked, his burr deepening. He cast Maggie another glance, his green eyes dancing.

“That’s quite enough,” Maggie said firmly. “Terry, I’m sure Mr. Evans has no interest in speculation about my love life, or lack thereof.”

Nervous and confused under those sparkling eyes, she rummaged through her shoulder bag and withdrew five dollars, offering the bill to the dark-haired man by the door.

“Thank you for helping with the bags,” she said politely.

He glanced at the money, then looked down at her again, his jaw tightening a little.

Maggie realized, too late, that she’d made a mistake, but she was too rattled to back down.

“Please,” she said, holding the bill while the little girl and the cat pressed up against the man’s legs. All three stood watching Maggie solemnly. “You carried all those bags upstairs for us.”

“You and your brother are very welcome here, Maggie,” the man said quietly, making her feel even more ridiculous, almost like a child being scolded.

“But it’s not our policy to accept payment for assisting our guests.”

He turned with quiet dignity and left the room with Moira and Dundee at his heels.