The Texan's Honor-Bound Promise. Peggy Moreland

      She stared in fascination at the play of sinew beneath his sweat-slickened skin. “F-fine with me.”

      “Appreciate it.” He stooped and picked up a pair of pliers, tossed them into an open drawer.

      “Craig’s home.”

      At the mention of her nephew, she glanced toward the house, then back at Sam and frowned. “Why isn’t he helping you?”

      “Said he had homework.”

      Her scowl deepened. “He pulls that card when he doesn’t want to do something.”

      He glanced over his shoulder. “I thought you said he wanted to help with the car?”

      “He does—did.” She lifted her hands, then dropped them helplessly to her sides. “I don’t know what he wants anymore. The last couple of weeks he’s withdrawn more and more into himself, refuses to talk me. I was hoping that restoring the car would pull him out of whatever funk he’s in. Breathe some life back into him.”

      “Where’s his mother? Why doesn’t she do something to help him?”

      She shook her head sadly at the mention of her sister-in-law. “Patrice is buried so deep in her own grief half the time she’s not even aware Craig’s around.”

      He frowned thoughtfully as he wiped the grease from a wrench. “I could have a go at him if you want. See if I can get him back on track.” He tossed the wrench into a drawer, bumped it shut with his knee. “He might respond to a man quicker than he would a woman.”

      She looked at him in puzzlement, surprised by his offer. “Why would you want to do that? You don’t even know Craig. “

      He shrugged. “Losing a dad can screw with a kid’s head. Having a man to talk to, hang out with, might help him open up, share what’s on his mind.”

      She opened a hand in invitation. “If you think you can help him, be my guest.”

      “You may not like my methods. If you don’t, you have to promise not to interfere.”

      She’d done her own research on the subject of troubled teens and was familiar with some of the commonly used methods—tough love, wilderness survival training, behavior modification—and the names alone were enough to terrify her. “He won’t be in any danger, will he?” she asked uneasily.

      He gave her a droll look. “I wasn’t planning on torturing the kid.”

      She didn’t find his assurance all that comforting, considering his earlier rough treatment of her. But she feared if something wasn’t done soon, she was going to lose Craig, either to drugs…or, worse, to suicide. Chilled by the thought, she drew in a steadying breath. “Just the same, I don’t want him hurt.”

      He stripped off the pad he’d used to protect his stomach while working on the engine and turned away. “Too late. He’s already hurt.”

      The sunroom at the rear of Leah’s house was her favorite room in the house. Shortly after moving in, she’d painted the walls a soft buttery yellow and the ceiling with a mural of a cloud-filled sky. She’d chosen wicker to fill the space and positioned the chairs in front of the casement windows to capture the best views of her pool and landscaped backyard.

      In the daytime sunlight flooded the room, creating a sunny and cheery nook in which to relax. At night it was no less restful, with lamplight washing the room with a soft golden glow.

      But on this particular night the sunroom failed to work its magic charm for Leah.

      Seated in a wicker chair, her feet propped on the matching ottoman, her thoughts were anything but restful as she stared at the apartment over the garage, considering the man inside.

      She didn’t know what to make of Sam Forrester. He both baffled and intrigued her. She didn’t particularly care for the rough way he’d treated her earlier when she’d confronted him about the mess he’d made of her yard. But, in retrospect, she supposed she’d had it coming. She had slapped at him, as he’d accused her of doing.

      Yet, in spite of now knowing that he could become physical when provoked, she wasn’t afraid of him. That knowledge was simply something she’d keep in mind the next time she decided to go toe-to-toe with him.

      But she was still a little miffed about the “anal-retentive” comment.

      She wasn’t obsessive, she told herself. She simply appreciated order. She supposed growing up in a home in which disorder reigned might have influenced her desire for neatness. But she certainly didn’t consider that a personality fault. To her it was a virtue, a method of survival.

      She frowned thoughtfully as she considered again his offer to serve as a mentor of sorts for her nephew. A man who was willing to befriend a troubled teenager couldn’t be all bad, she told herself. But what she couldn’t figure out was why he would want to do something like that. He didn’t know Craig, had no ties to him. Why would he care one way or the other what happened to him?

      As she continued to stare, the door to the apartment opened, and her thoughts shattered as Sam stepped out. She gaped when she saw that he was wearing swim trunks and carried a towel draped over his shoulder. Sliding farther down in her chair, she watched him cross to the spa. The lights in the backyard were off, but the lights in the pool and spa were on, offering enough illumination for her to see his movements…as well as his physique.

      A slow shiver chased down her spine as she remembered being held against that body that afternoon. The damp heat that had seeped through her blouse, the muscled wall of chest crushed against her breasts. She shivered again at the memory as he tossed the towel onto a chair and sat down on the spa’s stone edge. He dipped his fingers into the water, testing the temperature, then glanced toward the house.

      She froze, realizing that with the lamp on she was clearly visible. A smile spread across his face as he spotted her, and he motioned for her to join him. She considered ignoring the invitation, planning to tell him, if questioned later, that she had dozed off in the chair and hadn’t seen him.

      He robbed her of that excuse by rising and striding toward the house. Prepared to send him on his way, she met him at the French door that opened to the outside.

      He greeted her with a friendly smile. “Come on out and join me. The water’s just right.”

      It was an effort, but she managed to keep her gaze fixed on his face and not let it slip to the magnificent view of his chest. “Thanks, but I was just about to head upstairs for the night.”

      “It’s too early to go to bed,” he chided. “Besides, you’ll sleep better after relaxing in the spa for a while.”

      “No, really, I…”

      He leveled a finger at her nose. “You have exactly five minutes to change into a swimsuit,” he warned.

      “Then I’m coming after you.”

      Before she could refuse again, he turned and walked away. Frowning, she closed the door. She considered locking it but knew that would be a waste of time, since she’d given him a key to her house in order for him to have access to the kitchen and laundry room.

      Surely he wouldn’t make good his threat, she told herself.

      “Four minutes, thirty seconds,” he called loudly.

      Convinced that he would, she ran for the stairs and raced up to change into her swimsuit.

      Breathless and with only seconds to spare, she hurried outside to find Sam already sitting in the spa. Chest-deep in the bubbling water, his arms spread along the spa’s stone edge, he watched her approach.

      Feeling uncomfortably conspicuous, she unwrapped the towel she’d cinched at her waist and carefully folded it before placing it on the chair with his.

      As she turned for the spa, she saw the amusement on his face and stopped. “What?”

      He