A Touch of Scarlet. Liz Talley

a driver’s license, bought a car and drove over eight hundred miles to stop her sister from making a mistake. Hadn’t worked out, of course, but she would never admit to thinking with her heart above thinking with her head. Even if it were true.

      The fact was she needed to spend some time with her family. Thanks to Rayne’s wedding, both her parents, along with Aunt Frances, Henry and assorted other relatives, were all staying for the next several days within a ten-mile radius. No time like the present for cramming in hot tea on the porch, sifting through old family photos and playing UNO into the wee hours of the morning. She had several weeks’ vacation and Aunt Frances had told her the inn was closed for the next few months while they filmed A Taste of Texas. Scarlet had a new car, a room in which to sleep and time on her hands.

      The French Riviera would have to wait.

      “Whatever,” Scarlet said, grabbing the plate and following the path Brent had just taken.

      “Hey, Sum—Scarlet,” Rayne called.

      “Yeah?”

      “I’m glad you’re staying. I’ve missed you.”

      Scarlet turned and glared. “Stop doing that.”

      “What?”

      “Saying things that make me less pissed at you.”

      Rayne’s soft laughter lingered in Scarlet’s ears as she entered the kitchen.

      Brent stood at the sink, drinking from a coffee mug. Damn. She didn’t want to have to make nice with him. Not when she didn’t trust him. No matter how in love with her sister he looked, she remembered his advances three years ago. He’d been classically smooth, intimately knowledgeable about what it took to get a gal in the sack. His kiss had told her all she needed to know about him…and now he was married to her sister.

      She glanced at him as she set her plate beside the farmhouse sink. “Waiting to show me what a woman like me wants?”

      “Don’t do this, Scarlet.”

      “What?” Scarlet spun on him and parked her fists on her hips. “Don’t remember your words to me that night? The sweet nothings you whispered into my ear while trying to get into my pants?”

      “I was a different man.”

      “Yeah, right.”

      Brent set his mug on the tile counter. Loudly. She could feel his anger. “Look, I get it. I was an asshole. But I’m not that guy. I never was that guy. I’m no more a man-whore than you are a vampire-queen bitch. Just an act.”

      “What do you mean by that?”

      “I mean that my life was damned empty. I was a shell of a man, but I’m not anymore. I love Rayne. I always have. She and Henry, along with claiming my writing career, have made me whole. Have filled me up. So don’t hold my past against me. It’s not fair.”

      Oddly enough, she liked him better pissed than smarmy. “I’ll judge what’s fair. I don’t want you making her believe in love and then leaving her behind when new pastures call. I’ve seen it before.”

      I’ve experienced it before.

      Broken hearts were no stroll through a park. She’d be damned if poor Rayne had to endure what she had over the past year. Only now did she feel as though she could creep around and function, no matter what face she wore in public.

      “There are no other pastures. I’ve found my sanctuary.” Brent shoved past her to the back door that would lead to the carriage house he leased from his parents. “I don’t have to convince you, Scarlet. Don’t make Rayne choose. You’ll lose, because I’m her family now.”

      Ouch. His words filleted her heart. She lifted a hand and tugged on the slipper that pressed heavy against her chest as if it could stop the hemorrhaging. It didn’t help. She knew there was truth to his words, and that scared her. She couldn’t protect Rayne or Henry. Not from the hurt that would come when Brent Hamilton moved on. And she knew he would, no matter what he said. He was too much like John, chasing shiny new things when he tired of the familiar.

      She pushed a hand through her hair, allowing the tresses to fall forward and give her a whiff of the coconut shampoo she’d used earlier. For some reason, the beachy smell soothed her.

      “He’s right, you know.” A voice came from behind her, causing Scarlet to jump.

      “Jeez, Aunt Fran, you could sneak up on a CIA operative,” Scarlet said, shoving her hands into her back pockets so she wouldn’t fiddle with the necklace she wore like a personal albatross.

      “How did you find out I was in the CIA?” Aunt Frances grabbed a ceramic mug with a picture of a Boston terrier on it and filled it to the tip-top with coffee.

      Scarlet laughed. “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you were.”

      She took in the aunt who had taught her how to swing by pointing her toes at God and how to look for blackberry vines along ranch fence posts. Her aunt had aged well. Her gray-streaked brown bob framed a lined face that bore a cheerful countenance and wide blue eyes. She smelled of roses and freshly baked pound cake. She smelled like coming home, though Scarlet would be stretching it calling Oak Stand home. She had no home. Rolling stone and all that. Living in New York City for the past four years was as close as she’d gotten to calling a place home.

      “Why did she marry him, Aunt Fran? He’s a player and I don’t see anyone taming a man like him.”

      Aunt Frances raised the mug to her lips and regarded Scarlet over the rim. Her stare was wiggle-worthy, but Scarlet refrained from squirming. Never could hide much from Aunt Frances.

      “Perhaps, you are only seeing what you want to see. Allowing your experiences to color your perspective.”

      Scarlet shook her head. “You know how he is. You’ve lived in this town and you know what everyone says about him. How all you need is a ticket and you can stand in line for a ride on Brent. He’s—”

      “Your sister’s husband and a part of this family. You need to remember that and not make her choose between the two of you. Because as much as she adores you, Summer, she loves her husband. And, honestly, he loves her.”

      “Scarlet,” she reminded her aunt.

      “Fine. Scarlet. Summer. Whoever you are.” Aunt Frances waved a hand. “Your name doesn’t change the fact those two have always had a connection.”

      “How? She didn’t live here long enough to fall in love. She was a kid.”

      “Love doesn’t happen when it’s convenient, honey. It happens when it’s meant to be. Rayne and Brent were meant to be from the first time he pegged her with an acorn to get her attention. He truly loves her…way more than he loves himself.”

      Scarlet didn’t respond. What could she say? No sense in arguing. Not with Aunt Fran, who had obviously had her boots charmed off by the dashing boy next door. “Maybe.”

      “No maybe about it. If you stick around for a while, you might see for yourself and feel better about things.”

      How she wished those words could be true. Not only for Rayne, but for her, too. How long had it been since she felt truly happy? She knew the answer, of course. It had been a Wednesday and John had taken her to dinner and then a concert in Central Park. They had danced beneath the stars and she’d outlined all the things they would do in Italy when the film wrapped. They would shop for heirloom silver in the piazza shops, hike the trails above deep blue lakes and eat at the trattorias hidden down meandering alleys. It had been the last night they’d made love. The last night he’d kissed her and whispered he loved her.

      The next afternoon, it had been over. Nothing but smoldering ashes in what was once her heart. Scarlet caught the tiny charm John had given her between her fingers and directed her thoughts from the pain echoing in her empty heart. She couldn’t save Rayne, but she could help the town by speaking up against Harvey Primm and the