Apparently, the water dousing hadn’t cooled his interest. Gracie’s sweet, earthy scent nearly drove him wild. He’d do better to think of something mundane.

Like the stock market with its erratic ups and downs—a lot like his own uncontrollable urges. He thought of his unproductive investigation, and the idea of his father being attracted to a local girl. Again, the topic hovered too close for comfort. He looked around at the immaculate grounds in search of a neutral topic for conversation.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a gardener.”

“We do, but this week, Toby’s helping with the—”

“Spring Blossom Festival,” Dylan finished for her. “Why is it such a big deal?”

Gracie planted a flower while he moved down a couple of inches and dug an appropriately-sized hole.

“It brings in a lot of money for the town,” she offered, talkative now that he’d started her on a safe, impersonal subject. “We change the featured blossom every year and decorate the town with it. A local artist does a screen print for a commemorative poster and Gran’s church group designs a cross-stitch. We have the ice-cream social, rides for the kids, a sailboat race, a clambake, and a softball game between the local politicians and business-owners.

Dylan had run with the bulls in Pamplona, drove the pace car at Indy, ridden Krewe at Mardi Gras, hoisted the sails on an America’s Cup champion, and danced in the streets during Carnival. He should be yawning over East Langden’s little festival, but like Gracie’s effortless beauty and company, the innocent attractions of the Spring Blossom Festival drew him in.

“Sounds like fun.”

“Maybe you could help.” Dodging a bee that circled around them, she looked at him speculatively.

“Sorry.” Deep down, he was. A little. “I’ll be at the NBA playoffs in New York this weekend, so I won’t be here.”

“You’re leaving? For good?” She fixed her attention on one of her bulky gardening gloves, casting her gaze downward. He wanted to see her eyes, to see if the thought of him leaving made her glad or sad or maddeningly indifferent.

“Not unless I find out a lot more about Clayton and his mother by then.” He remembered his unimpressive investigation. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No, it’s just—Liberty House opens on Friday. We’re all booked up for the Festival, so Gran will need your room.”

He removed his baseball cap to wipe his forehead and muttered a curse. “Well, that’s great. I can’t move into the cabin until it’s fixed up, but I can’t get anyone to work on it until after the Spring Blossom Festival.”

“Ah.” Her expression flashed with understanding. A bee landed on the bloom Gracie reached for, and she shooed it away. “That is a problem.” She worked silently for a moment. “Have you thought about starting on the project yourself?”

“Who, me?” He smiled at the idea of tackling so many unfamiliar projects. “Everything needs cleaned. The roof is rotting away, and part of the floor needs replaced. The windows and doors are broken. The plumbing doesn’t work. Should I go on?”

“I guess not.” As she leaned over to plant the final flower in the row, the end of her necklace dropped out of her shirt.

He picked up the larger of the two objects dangling from the chain. A military dog tag. He held the rectangle between his thumb and forefinger. His throat went dry. “The ex-fiancé?”

She shook her head slightly and pulled the memento from him. “My father’s.”

He moved to the small gold heart still swinging free and touched it with a fingertip. “A lover or a sweetheart?”

Again, the small, almost painful gesture of denial. “My mother’s.”

He hid his relief behind brevity. “Nice.”

“My father gave her the charm when I was born. She added the dog tag after he died. That and some medals were the only things of his the Navy sent to her.”

Dylan understood the value of keepsakes. “And wearing them makes you feel closer to them?”

Her eyes lost that skeptical glint she sometimes turned on him. “In Hartford, yes. I don’t need additional reminders in East Langden.”

He was about to show her the Saint Christopher medal that had been his father’s, but Gracie got to her feet and began loading her tools into the wheelbarrow. Leaning back on his heels, he watched her graceful movements. Sometimes her sensual glide took his breath away, contradicting those endearing moments when awkwardness propelled her toward calamity.

Dylan heard a droning close to his right ear and then a faint touch on his temple. He slapped at the sensation automatically and felt an immediate stab of pain. Brilliant.

His vision clouded, and the world tilted around him.

Chapter Ten

Gracie turned in time to see Dylan slap his palm against his temple. “No!” she shouted, too late to do any good.

While his eyes rolled back, his knees buckled. She caught him under the arms before he hit the ground and eased him the rest of the way down. Such an extreme and immediate reaction to an insect sting might signal anaphylactic shock. Or the wooziness could simply be caused by the location of the sting to the head.

Pulling off her grubby gloves, she pressed two fingers to his wrist, checking his pulse. Strong and steady. She turned his head to the side. His breathing seemed normal, too.

“Can you open your eyes?” Minimal dilation. No immediate symptoms of shock. After removing his baseball cap, she located a wicked stinger protruding from an angry welt near his eyebrow. “Hang on.” She scraped the stinger away. “Have you ever had a reaction to bee stings or insect bites before?”

“Don’t think so.” His words slurred together, very unlike his usual precise diction.

Medical training dictated a cold compress against the inflamed area. She looked toward the house, a hundred yards away. With no time to waste, she pulled her tank top over her head, dampened it with water from the garden hose, and pressed it against the welt. When she settled herself on the ground with Dylan’s head in her lap, his eyelids fluttered opened.

Confusion swam in his eyes before the first signs of true awareness returned. Then understanding. Then something deep and warm that reminded Gracie that she had nothing on from the waist up but a sheer white bra.

Gracie had learned anatomy and physiology in medical school, and she found breasts about as ordinary as elbows. But members of the male persuasion tended to have a different reaction. That knowledge brought the embarrassed flush to Gracie’s cheeks, not any personal response to Dylan’s admiration. Certainly not.

He tried to sit up. She slipped her arm under his shoulders. His head collapsed back against her chest as his eyes drifted shut once again.

“Feeling better?” Giving in to sheer maternal instinct, she touched her hand to his forehead, checking for fever.

“Just dandy.” He snuggled his head against her.

“We should get you into the house for an antihistamine.” With his need for her medical assistance diminished, her need to put physical distance between them increased. Having his blond head cradled against her chest seemed too personal, too intimate. “Can you stand?”

“Not yet.”

The warmth of his breath caressed her skin. His beard rasping against her skin left her almost panting. She shifted his head to a less intimate position. He shifted higher—onto the soft swells of her breasts. Suspicious, she stared down at him. His eyes were open again, dark and hot, and trained on her flesh so very near his mouth.

Transfixed, she watched as he darted his tongue across the sensitive skin along the scalloped lace edge. A white-hot shaft of desire darted through her when his teeth closed over her nipple. She searched inwardly for outrage at his boldness, but found only confusion. And desire.

He was no more interested in her than he was in watching snails race. Right? And yet the touch of his mouth started a chain reaction of longing that churned inside her like water on a paddlewheel. She threaded her fingers through his hair, desperately wanting to disregard the little voice inside that warned against reacting to this Baxter clone.