Destiny's Last Bachelor?. Christyne Butler

has gone to the carriage house out back—that’s where she and the Major live—but I can show you where to go if you like.”

      “Yes, please.”

      Priscilla followed the girl, who looked to still be in high school, back into the first parlor, when the old-fashioned ringing of a telephone filled the air. “Oh, I need to get that,” she said. “If you just go to the room on the other side of the foyer with the double glass doors, you’ll see everything is ready for you.”

      Heading in the direction the girl pointed, Priscilla found a large ballroom on the other side of the foyer. It was empty, but she could easily picture it being used for parties and receptions. She walked deeper into the room, spotting the glass doors at the far end.

      She stepped through them and found a converted porch with beautifully arched floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed light to pour in while honeycomb-shaped blinds assured privacy. A massage table draped in white linens had been set up in the center of the room with a nearby table holding scented candles, assorted lotions, a glass pitcher of ice water with sliced lemons and a stack of oversize towels.

      Perfection.

      No sign of the masseur or masseuse yet, but knowing she was already running late, Priscilla grabbed one of the towels and headed for the restroom in the far corner.

      She quickly undressed and wrapped the towel around her. Leaving her clothes on a nearby chair, she headed for the table and perched herself on the edge, figuring she’d stretch out and wait. Before she could twist around to lie on her stomach, the glass doors opened.

      “Sorry to keep you waiting.” A deep male voice filled the air. “Boy, I’ve had the craziest afternoon—”

      Priscilla froze when the sexy Good Samaritan from earlier today entered the room. “You!”

      Confusion crossed his face for a moment as he studied her. Then he flashed her that same confident grin he’d sent her way earlier today. “Well, this is a nice surprise.”

      She couldn’t believe it! Of all people, why would he be— “What are you doing here?”

      “Ah, you’ll have to forgive me for not recognizing you right away....” His voice trailed off as he took a step into the room, his gaze darting around the floor. “You look a little different without your sunglasses.”

      His perusal stopped the moment it landed on her bare toes and his smile deepened as he slowly let his gaze travel up her legs. By the time he reached the edge of the towel that rode high on her thighs, a warm flush had enveloped Priscilla.

      She should be annoyed at his deliberate scrutiny, but for some reason she was—pleased? No, that couldn’t be right. Just because her ex had rarely taken his nose out of his financial journals, even during a dinner conversation, didn’t mean she thought that she felt—

      “Or without your clothes,” he added.

      Okay, pleased or not, he shouldn’t be in here. “Look, I don’t know who you are—”

      “Dean Zippenella.” He moved to stand right in front of her and held out his hand. “We never got around to introductions down by the creek. At least, not the human kind.”

      Placing her hand in his was an automatic gesture, thanks to her years of philanthropic work, but the zing of sensation dancing across her palm the moment they touched was new and totally unexpected.

      She tried to draw her hand back. Too late.

      His fingers closed around hers and held tight as he took another step toward her. This close, she could see the touch of gray in his closely cropped dark hair; the stubble on his jaw was the same dark color. A mix of sage, suede and musk invaded her nose, a spicy scent that must be his cologne. Despite sitting on the table, she had to tilt her head back to look at him, something that didn’t happen often, seeing as how she was just a few inches shy of six feet tall.

      Without her heels.

      Priscilla gave a gentle tug, a universal signal it was past time for him to release her, but his gaze flicked down over her shoulders and the exposed upper curves of her breasts, pausing for a heartbeat there before returning to her face.

      “And you are?” he asked.

      Her other hand involuntarily tightened where it kept hold of the towel’s overlapping edges. He didn’t look like the sort who would attack a woman, much less someone who read gossip magazines, but would he recognize her name? Would that make any difference?

      “Priscilla Lennox,” she answered after a pause.

      “It’s nice to meet you, Priscilla.” No flicker of recognition crossed his face at the sound of her name as he finally released her. “And please, let me apologize again for earlier today.”

      He sounded sincere, but that still didn’t explain why he was here. “Apology already accepted. You didn’t have to chase me down—”

      “I didn’t, even though I was glad to see your car in the inn’s parking lot. I’m here for an appointment.”

      She noticed he’d changed his clothes. Gone were the khaki trousers and collared shirt he’d had on earlier. He now wore a simple black T-shirt that hugged his chest and shoulders, the word ARMY spelled out in big block letters across the front. Well-worn jeans, faded in some interesting places, and black boots— Wait, did he just say appointment? He looked more like a member of a motorcycle club than a masseur, but in a town this size...

      She sighed, accepting that fate wasn’t quite done messing with her yet. “Well, I guess I’m that appointment.”

      His left eyebrow shot up. “Excuse me?”

      She had no idea why he looked so surprised. But they might as well just make the best of it. In a much-practiced move, Priscilla stretched out on the table and turned over on her stomach, all the while keeping the towel securely in place.

      Resting her suddenly pounding forehead on her folded hands, she closed her eyes and said, “Just get started, please.”

      * * *

      Dean had to admit he wanted nothing more than to get his hands on this beautiful creature, but not like this. Obviously, Priscilla Lennox thought he was here to provide a massage, a service contracted by the inn, but she must’ve gotten her rooms mixed up.

      This area was reserved for his weekly appointments with the retired marine who owned the inn. The old man hated hospitals so much he refused to come to the veterans’ clinic where Dean worked for his physical-therapy sessions. Considering the hell the still-spry veteran had gone through as a prisoner of war in Vietnam, Dean believed he’d more than earned the right to feel any damn way he pleased.

      So every Friday afternoon Dean—being former military himself—ended his work week here at the inn, in a less clinical setup.

      He’d noticed the familiar red convertible when he’d arrived at the inn and hoped for the chance to run into the pretty blonde again and make a second and better impression this time. But not this way. “Ah, look, I think I should explain about the massage—”

      “No, you look. No more explanations. No more apologies.” She propped herself on her elbows, glaring at him over one shoulder, the move causing a single blond curl to fall across her blue eyes. Very beautiful blue eyes. “I’ve had a really long day, after what has been a terrible—a terribly exhausting week. Getting knocked on my butt into a riverbed earlier didn’t help.”

      Dean kept his boots planted firmly tableside, forcing his gaze to remain on her face when he caught sight of the edges of her towel slowly giving way. He’d noticed the yellow rosebud tattoo just above the towel’s edge a moment ago, but now her jerky movements were leaving even more of her curves on display.

      “All I want is for you to work out the kinks,” she continued, her tone clipped, “and if you could manage to do that in silence, that would be preferable.”

      Well,