Taylor's Temptation. Suzanne Brockmann

bristled.

      And Colleen silently berated herself. Despite her efforts, her antagonism and anger toward these Neanderthals had leaked out.

      “Why don’t you go back to wherever it was you came from?” he told her harshly. “Get the hell out of our neighborhood and take your damn bleeding-heart liberal ideas and stick them up your—”

      No one was going to use that language around her kids. Not while she was in charge. “Out,” she said. “Get out. Shame on you! Get off this property before I wash your mouth out with soap. And charge you for it.”

      Oh, that was a big mistake. Her threat hinted at violence—something she had to be careful to avoid with this group.

      Yes, she was nearly six feet tall and somewhat solidly built, but she wasn’t a Navy SEAL like her brother and his best friend, Bobby Taylor. Unlike them, she couldn’t take on all six of these guys at once, if it came down to that.

      The scary thing was that this was a neighborhood in which some men didn’t particularly have a problem with hitting a woman, no matter her size. And she suspected that John Morrison was one of those men.

      She imagined she saw it in his eyes—a barely tempered urge to backhand her—hard—across the face.

      Usually she resented her brother’s interference. But right now she found herself wishing he and Bobby were standing right here, beside her.

      God knows she’d been yelling for years about her independence, but this wasn’t exactly an independent kind of situation.

      She stood her ground all alone, wishing she was holding something more effective against attack than a giant-size sponge, and then glad that she wasn’t. She was just mad enough to turn the hose on them like a pack of wild dogs, and that would only make this worse.

      There were children here, and all she needed was Sean or Harry or Melissa to come leaping to her aid. And they would. These kids could be fierce.

      But then again, so could she. And she would not let these children get hurt. She would do whatever she had to do, including trying again to make friends with these dirt wads.

      “I apologize for losing my temper. Shantel,” she called to one of the girls, her eyes still on Morrison and his goons. “Run inside and see if Father Timothy’s coming out with more of that lemonade soon. Tell him to bring six extra paper cups for Mr. Morrison and his friends. I think we could probably all use some cooling off.”

      Maybe that would work. Kill them with kindness. Drown them with lemonade.

      The twelve-year-old ran swiftly for the church door.

      “How about it, guys?” Colleen forced herself to smile at the men, praying that this time it would work. “Some lemonade?”

      Morrison’s expression didn’t change, and she knew that this was where he was going to step forward, inform her he didn’t want any of their lemonade—expletive deleted—and challenge her to just try washing out his mouth. He’d then imply—ridiculously, and solely because of her pro bono legal work for the HIV Testing and AIDS Education Center that was struggling to establish a foothold in this narrow-minded but desperately needy corner of the city—that she was a lesbian and offer to “cure her” in fifteen unforgettable minutes in the closest back alley.

      It would almost be funny. Except for the fact that Morrison was dead serious. He’d made similar disgusting threats to her before.

      But now, to her surprise, John Morrison didn’t say another word. He just looked long and hard at the group of eleven-and twelve-year-olds standing behind her, then did an about face, muttering something unprintable.

      It was amazing. Just like that, he and his boys were walking away.

      Colleen stared after them, laughing—softly—in disbelief.

      She’d done it. She’d stood her ground, and Morrison had backed down without any interference from the police or the parish priest. Although at 260 pounds, Father Timothy was a heart attack waiting to happen. His usefulness in a fist fight would be extremely limited.

      Was it possible Morrison and his clowns were finally hearing what she was saying? Were they finally starting to believe that she wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated by their bogus threats and ugly comments?

      Behind her the hoses were still silent, and she turned around. “Okay, you guys, let’s get back to—”

      Colleen dropped her sponge.

      Bobby Taylor. It was Bobby Taylor. Standing right there, behind her, in the St. Margaret’s parking lot. Somehow, some way, her brother’s best friend had materialized there, as if Colleen’s most ferverent wishes had been granted.

      He stood in a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, planted in a superhero pose—legs spread and massive arms crossed in front of his equally massive chest. His eyes were hard, and his face stony as he still glared in the direction John Morrison and his gang had departed. He was wearing a version of his “war face.”

      He and Wes had completely cracked Colleen up on more than one occasion by practicing their “war faces” in the bathroom mirror during their far-too-infrequent visits home. She’d always thought it was silly—what did the expression on their faces matter when they went into a fight?—until now. Now she saw that that grim look on Bobby’s usually so-agreeably handsome face was startlingly effective. He looked hard and tough and even mean—as if he’d get quite a bit of enjoyment and satisfaction in tearing John Morrison and his friends limb from limb.

      But then he looked at her and smiled, and warmth seeped back into his dark-brown eyes.

      He had the world’s most beautiful eyes.

      “Hey, Colleen,” he said in his matter-of-fact, no worries, easygoing voice. “How’s it going?”

      He held out his arms to her, and in a flash she was running across the asphalt and hugging him. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke—no doubt thanks to her brother, Mr. Just-One-More-Cigarette-Before-I-Quit—and coffee. He was warm and huge and solid and one of very few men in the world who could actually make her feel if not quite petite then pretty darn close.

      As long as she’d wished him here, she should have wished for more. Like for him to have shown up with a million-dollar lottery win in his pocket. Or—better yet—a diamond ring and a promise of his undying love.

      Yes, she’d had a wild crush on this man for close to ten years now. And just once she wanted him to take her into his arms like this and kiss her senseless, instead of giving her a brotherly noogie on the top of her head as he released her.

      Over the past few years she’d imagined she’d seen appreciation in his eyes as he’d looked at her. And once or twice she could’ve sworn she’d actually seen heat—but only when he thought both she and Wes weren’t looking. Bobby was attracted to her. Or at the very least she wished he were. But even if he were, there was no way in hell he’d ever act on that attraction—not with Wes watching his every move and breathing down his neck.

      Colleen hugged him tightly. She had only two chances each visit to get this close to him—once during hello and once during goodbye—and she always made sure to take full advantage.

      But this time he winced. “Easy.”

      Oh, God, he’d been hurt. She pulled back to look up at him, and she actually had to tilt her head. He was that tall.

      “I’m a little sore,” he told her, releasing her completely and stepping back, away from her. “Shoulder and leg. Nothing serious. You got me in the dead perfect spot, that’s all.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      He shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I’m taking some down time to get back to speed.”

      “What happened—or can you not tell me?”

      He shook his head, smiling apologetically. He was such a good-looking