Intimate Surrender. RaeAnne Thayne

for her.

      What kind of gossip was raging around the water coolers at Crosby Systems about her and Peter Logan because of that blasted picture? There were already some on her team who thought she didn’t have the experience or the know-how to lead the R & D division. What would her co-workers think when they saw a picture of her consorting with the man many considered to be the enemy?

      What would her family think?

      She already knew Sheila would be livid. She could only be grateful her mother was in Europe and wouldn’t be returning for several weeks. What about Trent and Ivy and Danny? They wouldn’t care so much that Peter was a Logan, but they would worry whether he had hurt her. And when she turned up pregnant, she knew they would wonder at the timing. She just had to hope she could brazen it out.

      “I’m still not sure why you went to all the trouble to come out here. If you had the number, why couldn’t we have had this delightful little reunion over the phone?”

      Peter didn’t have a rational answer to that. He only knew that the moment he found out where she was, he’d known he would come after her. He’d used the excuse of finding out what she had learned about the super-router project, but the truth was he’d been consumed with the need to see her again, corporate spy or not.

      He’d be damned before he told her that, though, and he opted to change the subject. “Are you going to eat this delicious stew or just push it around in the bowl?”

      Color crept along her cheekbones but she still looked far too pale for him. “I’m not very hungry.”

      “Still feeling sick?”

      Her gaze flashed to his, then back to the bowl of stew. “No. I’m fine.”

      He didn’t want to worry about her. He wanted to wrap himself up in his well-deserved fury.

      She had deceived him, had possibly stolen Logan secrets from him, jeopardizing a project that had been in the works for years. Maybe even jeopardizing his own future at Logan.

      She was a Crosby, for hell’s sake. That alone should have been enough to squash any softness he might be tempted to feel.

      So why was he fighting the completely inappropriate urge to take care of her?

      “Have you seen a doctor?” he asked abruptly.

      That color spread until even her nose was pink. “It’s just a—a bug. Nothing to worry about.”

      “Is it contagious?”

      A corner of her lush mouth lifted at that, then settled back into solemn lines. “No. I can guarantee you won’t catch this particular bug.”

      A particularly strong gust of wind rattled the big window, but the merry little fire put out plenty of heat.

      Peter couldn’t help wondering what they would be doing right now if circumstances had been different. If she wasn’t ill, certainly, but also if he had never learned her true identity.

      Two days ago he would have given everything he had to be right here with the woman who had haunted his dreams for three months. To be alone with Celeste in an isolated ranch house, snug and warm and enchanted, would have been a fantasy come true. They would have snuggled under a blanket and listened to the wind howl outside while they kissed and touched and made love a dozen times.

      The reality of their situation was so far removed from that fantasy that he gave a humorless laugh.

      “What?”

      “Just wondering what your brother would say if he knew I was here,” he improvised quickly.

      “I’m old enough that I don’t need to ask my brother’s permission for much these days.”

      The depressing reality of their situation here made his voice sharper than he intended. “Do you bother to ask him which unwitting business rivals to seduce, or do you figure that out all on your own?”

      He regretted the words and the end to their temporary détente as soon as they escaped, especially when he saw hurt flare in her brown eyes. Was the emotion real, he wondered, or was she just a damn good actress? Whatever the answer, he didn’t like seeing her wounded.

      Her chair scraped the wood floor and she pushed it back and rose, her expression now veiled. “I’m tired and I don’t have the energy to trade barbs with you, so what do you say we call it a night?”

      He opened his mouth to apologize for his cruelty then stopped himself just in time. He didn’t have a damn thing to be sorry about. She was the one who had screwed him over.

      “Sweetwater has six bedrooms suites,” she went on. “Two on this floor and five upstairs. Each has clean linens and a wood stove or fireplace for warmth. I’m sure you’re capable of starting your own fire, or you can sleep here on the couch if you would rather.”

      “Kate—” He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Not an apology, damn it. She cut him off anyway before he could form any kind of coherent sentence.

      “Good night, Peter,” she murmured in a voice every bit as cold as that bitch of a wind, then she picked up her bowl with its untouched stew and carried it to the kitchen.

      Three

      After her grand exit, Katie knew she had no choice but to hide here in her bedroom for the rest of the night.

      It was too early to sleep, only about eight-thirty or so. She was tired enough, certainly—she was always tired these days—but even if she could manage to close her eyes, she had no doubt her mind would continue its wild race. She had a whole assortment of books to read, but none of them grabbed her interest. Why bother when she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on it anyway?

      Surrendering to the inevitable, she pulled the quilt up to her chin and gazed into the flames and let her mind replay the night of the Children’s Connection bachelor auction, one small slice of time that had altered the course of her life forever.

      Stand up straight and smile. If you feel beautiful, the world will see you that way. Her best friend Carrie’s advice rang in her ears as Katie stood outside the ballroom at the Portland Hilton.

      Trouble was, she didn’t feel beautiful. The borrowed dress was gorgeous and she liked the wispy supershort new haircut Carrie’s stylist had given her, but she couldn’t help feeling like a fraud.

      This was a crazy idea, thinking a new look would change who she was inside, would somehow instantly transform her into someone glamorous and desirable.

      Inside she still felt fat and dowdy and shy.

      She would have been content to stay forever in the background. But then she received an e-mail from Stacy Cartier, an old friend at boarding school, who happened to mention she’d heard through the grapevine that another of their classmates Angelina Larson had come back to Portland for a visit and would be attending with her husband, Steve—who just happened to be Katie’s ex-fiancé.

      She hadn’t seen Steve in years, not since she threw his ring at his head after she overheard him at a party laughing and joking with one of his friends about the little cash cow he was marrying.

      She had been forty pounds overweight but she thought he loved her despite the extra weight and her propensity to feel most comfortable with her nose in a book. The realization that he was marrying her only for her family’s money and connections had been a bitter betrayal she wasn’t sure she had ever recovered from.

      Though she never wanted to see him again, she was committed to attend this benefit auction. She had to be there but she suddenly couldn’t bear to have Steve—or his wife, Angelina, who had tormented her mercilessly through their childhood—think she hadn’t changed at all in the six years since she’d broken off the engagement. Hence the makeover, the haircut, the borrowed designer gown.

      You look good, she reminded herself. Better than you’ve ever looked in your life. Pretend you’re beautiful and