Lone Star Daddy. Cathy Thacker Gillen

laughed. “I imagine you will.”

      Their gazes locked. Something changed in her eyes, a flicker of vulnerability glimmering in their beautiful green depths. His pulse amped up as she drew another quick breath.

      “But in the meantime, I insist you do something about that shirt before it’s ruined.” She gestured toward the second floor. “The bathrooms are upstairs. Fresh linens—and the stain remover pens and spray—are in the linen closet in my bathroom. Feel free to help yourself while I return to oversee the minions.”

      Clint nodded. “Thanks.”

      He found the higher floor even smaller than the first floor. There were only two bedrooms. One decorated in primary colors sported three youth beds, arranged dormitory-style, with built-in drawers beneath. The bedroom was connected to a small bath, also adorned in bright colors. Monogrammed towels hung from a rack. The bathtub was outfitted with toys and antislip safety decals. A sink with a child-size stepstool in front of it was smudged with toothpaste and hand soap.

      He moved on down the hall to the other bedroom, which was obviously Rose’s. It held a big four-poster bed with canopy, a padded bench and an old-fashioned makeup table with mirror. Clothes were strewn everywhere, from the closet floor to the end of the unmade bed and the back of an oversize satin chaise, which looked as if it served as a reading chair.

      The master bathroom was beyond that, and the only way to get to it—and the linen closet where the stain removal supplies were kept—was to go through the perfume-scented domain.

      Telling himself it was no big deal—if it had been, Rose wouldn’t have sent him up there—Clint made his way through the softly carpeted lair into the master bathroom.

      It, too, was unutterably feminine. Decorated in pink and white. There was a single sink sunk into a wide white cabinet with plenty of drawers. The gray-and-white marble countertop held a variety of hair products, perfumes, makeup, fragrant bubble baths and candles. A big claw-foot soaking tub, outfitted with a showerhead and a circular shower curtain, sat beneath the only window.

      A book stand next to the tub overflowed with novels and magazines. More clothes were tossed onto the floor, and a bundle of frilly lingerie spilled out of the hamper.

      Standing there, he became aware of two things.

      First, Rose was a lot more girlie than he had ever imagined.

      And second, there weren’t enough hours in the day for her to do everything she needed to accomplish.

      And care for her three very active kids.

      Which explained the harried look on her face when she answered the door, as well as her penchant for going full steam ahead toward her goal, no matter what the obstacles...

      The woman did not have time to mess around.

      So she didn’t.

      He admired her for that—even as the man in him longed to help her out.

      “Clint?” A soft voice jerked him from his reverie. “What are you doing?”

      He pivoted to see Rose standing in the doorway. Every thought except the possibility of making love with her went out of his brain. Aware she was waiting for some explanation, he finally admitted, “I’m still trying to figure out where the linen closet is.”

      “Oh. Sorry!” Her cheeks lit with embarrassment as she swooped down to collect her clothes and then stuffed them on top of the lingerie. “I forgot about this mess when I sent you up here—”

      He stopped her with a hand on her arm and drew her around to face him. He wanted her to know that as far as her personal life was concerned, he had nothing but admiration for her. “That’s not what distracted me.”

      Struggling to get her balance, she glanced up at him in bewilderment. “Then what did?”

      Clint tightened his grip to steady her. The feel of her body beneath his fingers sent a fresh wave of desire roaring through him. All thoughts of being a gentleman fled. He pulled her against him and did what he’d been wanting to do for days now. “This.”

      * * *

      ROSE HAD SWORN never again to be reckless when it came to her love life. Now she was conscientious and responsible to a fault. But something about this man brought out the passionate side of her.

      Something that made her want him as badly as he seemed to want her. “Clint...” she murmured, splaying her hands across his broad chest. She felt the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. Saw his head lower, his eyes shut. And then there was no more thinking, no more talking, only the masterful sensation of his lips moving over hers and the erotic sweep of his tongue.

      He tasted like mint. He kissed like a man who always got what he wanted. And what he wanted right now, Rose realized as his muscular frame pressed her achingly close, was her.

      The trouble was, she wanted him, too. Had from the first moment they had squared off alone, under the hot Texas sun, days before.

      She didn’t know what it was about him, she thought as he cupped her face in his hands and ever-so-slowly deepened the kiss. The fact that he was incredibly straightforward? She’d never have to worry about him hiding what was on his mind, because he was the kind of guy who would just flat-out tell her. Or was it her sense that he could see things about her no one else did? Or the oft-guarded look in his eyes that said he had suffered his share of life’s hurts and disappointments in their years apart, too?

      All Rose knew for certain was that with just one kiss, he had her surrendering to the warm, sure pressure of his mouth in a way she never had before.

      And that could not be, she knew.

      Not with her three children right downstairs.

      * * *

      CLINT WASN’T SURPRISED when Rose tore her mouth from his and pushed him away. Hard.

      The kiss had been completely unwarranted, given the situation. Yet he couldn’t say he was sorry he had done it. Because it had made at least one thing very clear: the two of them had the kind of attraction that was not to be denied.

      Not if he had anything to do with it, anyway.

      Her breath coming in unsteady puffs, she stepped back and shot him an indignant glare.

      “Sorry about that,” he said more or less automatically, regaining his manners.

      She harrumphed and narrowed her pretty eyes. “Are you?”

      He chuckled. So she wanted him to be blunt? “Of course not.” Any more than you are.

      Her scowl deepened in a way that made him want to haul her into his arms and kiss her all over again. “Then?”

      He rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand, considering. Eventually he decided to go with the truth. “Seemed like the polite thing to say, given the way you just kissed me back. And maybe wish you hadn’t?”

      Rose sighed, unable to mask completely the turbulent emotion on her face. “With good reason.” She shoved a hand through her unruly curls, pushing the silky strands away from her forehead. “Unlike you, it’s not just me I have to worry about.”

      Aware she had a point, Clint sobered. “Where are the triplets?”

      “They’re downstairs, drawing you some ‘I’m Sorry for Making a Mess on Your Shirt’ pictures for you to take home.”

      Reminded of why he had ventured up there in the first place, Clint looked at her formerly all-peach blouse. “Speaking of messes...” he drawled, pointing to her left breast.

      She glanced down, saw the smear of honey, ketchup and mustard that spread from heart to sternum and looked even more horrified.

      Knowing the tension needed to be eased, Clint quipped, “Well, at least you got some of it off my clothes. Although maybe not in the way we intended.”