Slow Hand Luke. Debbi Rawlins

murmured with a hint of disdain.

      “How long has it been since you’ve been back?”

      “A while.”

      Annie didn’t push. God knew she understood if he didn’t want to talk about his family. Now that she was older, it didn’t smart as much but, as a child, when the subject of parents came up, all she wanted to do was crawl into a dark corner and hide. How did you tell other kids or their parents that your dad was a drunk and spent more time in jail than out? Or have to confess that your mother hadn’t wanted to be a mother after all, and had run off to Hollywood to seek the fame that she never found?

      “You’re quiet,” Luke said finally.

      “I didn’t think you wanted to talk.”

      “Doesn’t matter. We’re here.”

      She sat up straighter and peered into the darkness. A red reflector on the mailbox pole caught her eye. Other than that, there was no indication this was her aunt’s place, or that any house existed nearby. But catching sight of a funny shaped tree that was briefly illuminated by the headlights helped her recognize the place.

      The first summer she’d visited the ranch she’d gotten in trouble for swinging on its lower branches. She’d fallen and sprained her right ankle, and scared Aunt Marjorie senseless.

      The truck hit a pothole and Annie’s teeth came down hard on her lower lip. She bit back an oath and then kept her teeth clamped shut. In less than a minute they got to the gate, which seemed pointless since the fencing had come down in at least three places, but that’s all Annie could see.

      A floodlight coming from the eaves of the barn cast a dim light on the gravel road that led to the house. Everything looked horribly dingy, and Annie prayed it was because of the poor lighting. It had to be. Aunt Marjorie had money. She’d paid for Annie’s college tuition. Her books. The dorm. She’d paid for everything.

      The closer they got to the house, the deeper Annie’s heart sank. The place was a mess. Lighting had nothing to do with the sagging front porch or the chipped white paint that had once made the railings and picket fence seem like part of a fairy tale to Annie’s bruised young heart.

      “How long has she been in the hospital?” Luke asked as he stopped the truck in front of the cracked walk.

      Annie sighed. “I had no idea that—Oh!” But she would have, if she hadn’t been so self-absorbed. Aunt Marjorie was almost eighty-five. She couldn’t take care of the place, not with only Chester’s help. But why hadn’t she hired more hands? Had she blown all her savings on Annie? The thought made Annie sick. Bile rose in her throat.

      “You okay?”

      She turned to find him watching her. Unfortunately, what little light there was shone on their faces. “Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate this,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

      He peered closer, frowning, and then touched the side of her jaw, forcing her to turn her chin toward him. “What happened here?”

      Reflexively, she jerked away from his touch and felt her chin. “What?”

      “Here.” He touched the corner of her mouth and his finger came away with a blood smear.

      “Oh, the pothole. I bit my lip.”

      He grimaced. “Sorry, darlin’. I was trying to take it easy.”

      “It’s nothing.” Hell, she’d even been shot once. The bullet had only grazed her, but she still had a small scar on her thigh.

      “You just wait now.” He drew his finger across her lip. “I don’t want Chester coming at me with a shotgun.”

      Her gaze was drawn to the curve of his mouth, the way his shadowed chin dimpled ever so slightly. His voice was so low and intimate that she had to swallow before speaking.

      “Aunt Marjorie said he still sleeps in the bunkhouse.” Her voice came out a whisper, the innocent words sounding, even to her, like an invitation. But once they were uttered, she held her breath waiting for his response.

      “Well, then how are you gonna get in the house short of waking him up?” He’d moved his hand away from her mouth but kept his arm resting along the back of the seat.

      “I know where the key’s hidden.”

      “Ah, the hidden key.” He grinned, his teeth gleaming, his hat hiding his eyes. His beard-rough skin almost disguised the scar that curved up the side of his jaw.

      “Well, thanks again for the lift.” She pulled the door handle but it wouldn’t move.

      He leaned across her with his left arm, his chest brushing her breasts, his rough chin grazing her skin, and he jerked the handle. “Gets stuck sometimes,” he said, his mouth close enough to hers that, if she moved a fraction of an inch, they’d touch. Then he pushed the door open, his arms practically encircling her. “There you go.”

      “Thanks,” she murmured, and held still as he unhurriedly drew back, the warmth of his breath lingering seductively on her cheek. When she could finally breathe, she slid out of the truck.

      Luke got out, too, and grabbed her bag.

      “You don’t have to—”

      “I’m not letting you walk into a dark house unescorted. Now, you go on and find that key. I’ll turn my back if you want.”

      She snorted, tempted to tell him she was a Brooklyn cop and could take care of herself. But part of her didn’t want him to leave, or want to find out that he was one of those guys who ran from the uniform. Not that it mattered. He’d be gone in a matter of minutes. So, what would it hurt if she let him walk her inside? Let him think she was scared. So what?

      Luke kept the truck’s headlights on while she climbed the rickety front steps, carefully sidestepping a rotting board. She found the key taped under a carved wooden blue jay perched on top of a homemade bird feeder, just where Aunt Marjorie said it would be. The lock stuck at first but, after jiggling it, the door opened, and she found the porch light switch.

      As bad as the place initially looked, under the light the appalling amount of disrepair sickened Annie. Not just cosmetic stuff, either. The porch was actually sagging in the middle, frighteningly near where Aunt Marjorie kept her scarred oak rocking chair.

      “Looks like Mrs. Walker’s been sick for a while.” Luke had come up behind her.

      Embarrassed to admit she didn’t know, Annie reached for her bag. “Really, I can take it from here. I don’t want to inconvenience you any more than I already have.”

      He held the bag out of her reach and gave her a crooked smile. “You wouldn’t be trying to get rid of me now, would you?”

      “Yes.”

      Surprise lifted his brows and he laughed. “That’s just too bad,” he said then carried the bag into the house.

      It took Annie a moment to follow. His reaction surprised her, and she wasn’t sure how to take his persistence. But her eyes helplessly kept pace with him. He was one fine looking man.

      She pulled herself together and caught up with him in the living room. The sight of the worn blue carpet and faded upholstered furniture brought her back to reality. She swallowed hard. Only two years ago, Aunt Marjorie had sent her a check toward graduate school tuition. Annie had refused at first but her aunt had insisted, claiming that she had nothing else to spend her money on.

      Annie muttered a curse under her breath. How could she have been so selfish? If she’d only taken the time to visit in the past five years….

      “Hey.”

      She looked at Luke. “What?”

      “You okay?”

      “Fine.”

      “Right.” He looked around, then held up the bag. “Where do you want me to put