Rocky Mountain Revenge. Cindi Myers

with a shorter woman with curly hair. He waved and strode toward them. Anne stiffened, and the other woman eyed him warily, but he kept a pleasant expression on his face. I come in peace.

      Up close, she looked tired, gray smudges under her eyes, her skin pale beneath the makeup, as if she hadn’t slept well. Had thoughts of him kept her awake? Memories of what had happened between them? “Hello, Anne,” he said, stopping in front of her.

      “What are you doing here?” She didn’t look angry—more resigned, he decided.

      “I was hoping I could take you for a cup of coffee.” He was aware of the other woman staring at him, suspicion in her eyes.

      “Is this the man McGarrity was talking about?” the woman asked.

      “What man?” Jake asked. “Who’s McGarrity?”

      Anne shook her head. “This isn’t him.”

      Jake turned to the other woman and offered his hand. “I’m Jake Westmoreland. A friend of Anne’s from New York.”

      “Margaret O’Neal.” Her hand brushed his lightly before retreating. “Anne doesn’t look like she wants to see you.”

      “It’s been a long time. I wanted to apologize for what happened the last time we met.”

      “What happened?” Margaret and Jake were the only ones talking, but at least Anne was listening. She hadn’t walked away.

      “Anne left before I could say goodbye.” He spoke to Margaret, but his gaze remained fixed on Anne. She stood with her arms folded, her body angled away from him, her shoulders stiff with tension. “I’ve always regretted that.”

      “We don’t have anything to say to each other,” Anne said.

      “We have a lot to say to each other. I came two thousand miles to talk to you. Please don’t turn me away now.”

      “You can’t say no to a man who says please.” Margaret touched her friend’s shoulder. “A cup of coffee can’t hurt.”

      Anne’s eyes telegraphed the word “traitor” to her friend, but she kept silent. She glanced at Jake. “One cup of coffee, then you leave me alone.”

      “One cup of coffee.” He wouldn’t leave her, though. He couldn’t.

      “Call me,” Margaret said, and left them, smiling to herself.

      Anne moved closer to Jake. “Now you’ve done it,” she whispered.

      “Done what?”

      “Everyone will think you’re the long-lost boyfriend who broke my heart.”

      The words were so melodramatic they were almost comical, but he felt the pain behind them. “Is that what happened, Anne?” he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it.

      “No!” Her eyes sparked with anger, the energy in them a jolt to his system, a glimpse of the woman she’d been. “But it’s what people want to think. They think I don’t know about the stories they’ve made up to explain me, but in a town this small, gossip always eventually gets around to everyone. They say I came here all the way from New York to recover from a broken heart. It’s the reason I don’t date anyone now. The reason I won’t talk about my past.”

      “It’s a good story,” he said. Maybe part of it was even true, but he didn’t say this. He didn’t want to risk making her angrier.

      “That’s the only reason I let them think that. It’s a good story.”

      “Have coffee with me and tell me your real story.”

      “You already know my real story.”

      “Then maybe it’s time I told you mine.”

      Her gaze met his, sharp and questioning. “Come with me,” he said. “Listen to what I have to say and then decide how you feel.”

      She hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

      She insisted on taking her own car, and led the way to a coffee shop tucked between the library and a church. At this time of day the place was practically deserted, and they settled into a pair of upholstered wing chairs, facing each other across a low table. She cradled her coffee cup in both hands, legs crossed, back straight, elegant even in her schoolteacher’s denim skirt and turtleneck sweater. “Tell me your story, Jake,” she said. “Or should I call you Jacob?”

      “I always liked the way Jake sounded when you said it.”

      “But Jake West wasn’t your real name.”

      “No. But Jake West was close enough to Jacob Westmoreland my handlers thought I wouldn’t get confused in a tense situation.” He shifted, balancing his coffee cup on the arm of the chair. “I wasn’t even supposed to be there at all. I was auditing the accounts at one of your father’s companies, looking for some proof of mob connections. I needed some more information so I made a personal visit. Completely unauthorized, but when I hit it off with the manager there, my bosses saw a way in. They gave me a crash course in undercover work and sent me off to find out what I could. They never expected I’d blow the whole organization open.”

      She traced one finger down the side of her cup. Her nails were short and unvarnished, different from the perfect manicure she’d always sported before. “Was seducing me part of the plan?”

      “You were never part of the plan,” he said. “I didn’t even know you existed until I saw you at the club that night.”

      “You were investigating my father and you didn’t know about me?” She looked scornful.

      “I was investigating his business. I didn’t care about his personal life. And I don’t read the society pages.”

      “Why did you dance with me that first night?”

      “Because I couldn’t not dance with you. The moment I saw you, we might as well have been the only two people in the room.” He leaned toward her. “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it, too.”

      She looked down at her lap, avoiding his gaze, but the blush in her cheeks warmed. “Yes,” she breathed, scarcely louder than a whisper.

      Attraction pulled at him now, as strongly as that first night. He’d arrived at the club late—almost midnight. Andy, the manager he’d befriended, who was one of Sam Giardino’s lieutenants, had invited him for drinks. A social call, though Jake suspected this was the night he was going to meet Sam himself.

      He and Andy had been standing at the railing overlooking the dance floor of the club in the East Village. A D.J. played techno-pop too loudly and dozens of young people crowded the dance floor. How he’d even spotted her in the confusion was a mystery, but his gaze had zeroed in on her like a laser. She had been dancing with a group of girlfriends, hands in the air, twirling. Laughing with such joy. He’d stared, knowing for the first time what the word “gobsmacked” really meant. He’d never seen someone so full of life and energy. So beautiful and vibrant.

      And he’d never wanted anyone so much. Forgetting why he was there and all he might be risking, he’d pushed his way through the crowd until he’d stood in front of her. She’d immediately lowered her arms, and her smile had faded. “Dance with me,” he’d said.

      “Why should I?” she’d asked, her voice cool.

      “Because I asked nicely.” He’d smiled, coaxing her. “Please.”

      He’d expected a few moments’ dancing facing each other, not touching even, but she’d surprised him by moving into his arms. As if the deejay played only for her, the music had switched to a slow number. She’d cuddled up to him like a kitten, and laid her head on his shoulder. “If you want to dance with me, you have to do it properly,” she’d cooed.

      And that was how he’d met Sam Giardino, with the don’s daughter wrapped around him, closer than any father likes to see his daughter