The Mackades Collection (Books 1-4). Nora Roberts

really.” She had to will herself not to run to the door and escape. Instead, she picked up her purse. “I’ve got my car,” she added. “And I really am tired. I could use an early night.”

      He just wanted to hold her, to fold her into his arms and keep her there. “Whatever you say. I’m supposed to meet my brothers at the tavern in a few hours, anyway.”

      “Good, then we’ll try for tomorrow.” She made it to the door without stumbling. He didn’t offer a goodbye, and neither did she. Her coat was a bright red slash over the newel post, or she might have walked outside without it. She put in on, buttoned it carefully.

      Outside, she got into her car, turned the key in the ignition. She concentrated on backing down the lane as if her life depended on it. She took the turn toward town, drove a half mile.

      Then she pulled over to the side of the road, carefully put the car in gear, turned the engine off. And cried like a baby.

      Twenty minutes later, exhausted, she let her head fall back against the seat. It was freezing, but she didn’t have the energy to turn the car on again and pump up the heater.

      She was a competent woman, Regan thought. Everyone said so. She was bright, well-organized, moderately successful, and levelheaded.

      So why, if she was indeed all of those fine, admirable things, had she managed to mess up her life so miserably?

      Rafe MacKade was responsible, of course. She hadn’t had a full day’s easy running since he’d swaggered back into town. He was messy, arrogant, angry. Oh, so angry. And charming, she thought with a sigh, with all those unexpected sweet spots mixed with the rough.

      She should never have fallen for him. She certainly shouldn’t have deluded herself that she could have an affair with him and stay objective.

      He hadn’t been completely objective, either, she remembered. He’d had feelings tangling him up, too. Before she’d ruined it. If she had been just a little more of what he needed, if she hadn’t been so dead set on doing it all her way, he might have stayed tangled. Until he’d fallen in love.

      Oh, that was wrong, she thought, and banged her fist against the steering wheel. That was her mother’s kind of thinking. Make everything pretty, everything perfect for the man. Stroke his ego, cater to his whims. Play the game and win the prize.

      Well, she wouldn’t. She was appalled she’d even considered it. She would not squash her own needs, her own personality, her own ego, to lure a man into love.

      But hadn’t she just done that? She shuddered, but not from the cold. Hadn’t she just done that, up in that bedroom?

      At a loss, she braced her elbows on the wheel, her head in her hands. She wasn’t sure of anything any longer. Except that she loved him. She loved him, and in her stubborn stance against luring him into love with her, she had blocked, perhaps even rejected his feelings. And humiliated herself in the bargain.

      That, Regan concluded, made her an idiot.

      So what if she had to make some changes in herself? Hadn’t he, in his way, done the same?

      He’d been hurt, she remembered. She had hurt him, infuriated him. Yet he had gone off to pound nails, instead of picking a fight. It was she who was the coward, who had been unwilling to trust, refusing to bend. He’d never tried to run her life, or her thoughts, or tried to change her. No, he’d given her room, he’d given her affection, and he’d given her the kind of passion a woman dreamed of.

      But she’d held back anyway, foolishly, in a knee-jerk response rooted in her upbringing.

      Why hadn’t she thought of his needs, his pride? Wasn’t it time she did so? She could be flexible, couldn’t she? Compromise wasn’t capitulation. It couldn’t be too late to show him she was willing. She wouldn’t let it be too late to…

      The thought that came into her mind was so simple, and so ridiculous, she knew it had to be right. Without giving herself a moment to think it through, she revved up the car and hit the gas. In minutes, she was on Cassie’s doorstep, banging.

      “Regan.” With Emma on her hip, Cassie dragged a hand through her tousled hair. “I was just—you’ve been crying.” Alarm sprinted through her. “Joe—”

      “No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I need help.”

      “What is it?” In a flash, Cassie had closed the door and locked it. “What’s wrong?”

      “What’s nine-ball?”

      “What—?” Baffled, Cassie set Emma down, gave her a little pat on the bottom to send her along. “What’s nine-ball?”

      “Yes. And where am I going to find a red leather miniskirt at this hour?”

      Cassie thought for a moment, brushing a hand over the wet spot on her sweater that was courtesy of Emma’s bath. “If that’s what you want, we’ll have to call Ed.”

      “Suck it in, sweetie.”

      “I am.” Valiantly Regan gritted her teeth and held her breath as Ed tugged at the zipper of a skirt the size of a place mat.

      “Trouble is, you’ve got a figure. I’ve got bones.” Mouth clamped tight in determination, Ed hauled, and tugged. Then, with a wheeze of triumph, sat back on Cassie’s bed. “She’s on, but I wouldn’t make any sudden moves.”

      “I don’t think I can make any moves.” Testing, Regan took a step. The skirt, already dangerously high, snuck up another fraction.

      “You got a little height on me, too,” Ed announced, and pulled out a cigarette. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she let her rhinestone glasses fall to her chest. “If it was much shorter on you, Devin would have to arrest you.”

      “I can’t see.” Though she rose on her toes and turned carefully, Cassie’s mirror offered nothing but a view from the waist up.

      “You don’t have to, honey. Take my word, he will.”

      “I got the kids settled,” Cassie said as she walked in. She stopped short, her mouth forming a shocked circle. “Oh, my…”

      “It’s a hot little number,” Ed agreed. When she’d worn it last time, at the Legion dance, eyes had popped loose. The way Regan was filling it out, Ed imagined they’d not only pop, but go flying across the room.

      “Try those shoes with it now,” she ordered. “I stuffed some tissue in the toes to bring ’em down to size.”

      Regan braced a hand on Cassie’s dresser, stepped gingerly into the four-inch spikes. “I’ll get a nose-bleed in these.”

      “Honey, you’ll cause nosebleeds.” Ed gave a raspy laugh. “Now let’s try some war paint.” Happily she upended her enormous purse onto the bed.

      “I’m not sure I can go through with this. It’s a crazy idea.”

      “Don’t go chicken on me now.” Ed riffled her hand through a department-store array of cosmetics. “You want that man, don’t you?”

      “Yes, but—”

      “Then sit down here on the bed and let me buff you up. This here red’s a killer,” she murmured fondly as she unscrewed a lipstick.

      “I can’t sit,” Regan stated after a single attempt. “I’d damage an internal organ.”

      “Then stand.” After making her choices, Ed rose and went to work. “Now, you said nine-ball, right?”

      “Yeah.”

      In her forty-two years—forty-five, if God was listening—she’d never seen a woman less likely to chalk a stick than Regan Bishop. “Ever play pool, honey?”

      “Billiards.” Regan uttered a silent prayer as Ed advanced with eyeliner. “With my father. Several times.”

      “Hell,