He was here to deny her best friend his birthright. His family had caused her hometown economic distress, and his sexual exploits were legendary. She really didn’t want him. She didn’t even like him... much.

Instead of clasping him to her like she wanted to do, she used every ounce of strength she possessed to push him away. “What are you doing?”

She mentally scrambled to remember all the lessons she’d learned about sexual responsibility. She’d never fully appreciated the way the students in her sex education classes rolled their eyes at her “just say no” advice. Suddenly, she understood all too well.

The best sex she’d had in two years with Baxter paled in comparison to the excitement of Dylan’s tongue on her skin. Of his teeth on her nipple. Oh, my! She resisted the urge to fan her face with her hand. Where was that hose when she needed it?

“Sorry.” His grin said otherwise. “My bout with vertigo brought on hallucinations of ice cream cones. Licking was the natural response.”

Dumping him out of her lap, she rose to her feet and brushed off her bottom. “I was afraid you were dying, and you were taking advantage of my good nature.”

“Your nature’s better than good. It’s delicious.”

Gracie lifted MacDuff into the wheelbarrow, determined not to waste another minute of her time on someone who was only giving her a second look because he was stuck out here in the boonies with nary a super-model in sight.

Dylan pushed himself to his feet and swayed. Gracie sped to his side and held his arm until he regained his balance. He tried to link arms with her for the return to the house, but she wouldn’t have it.

Pulling his hand away from his temple, he held her tank top wadded up like a baseball in his palm. “Can I keep this?”

“No.” She grabbed it from him and slipped it over her head, then wished she hadn’t. If that wasn’t a leer on his face, then she had seriously misinterpreted the expression. “What?”

“I’ve never been envious of a shirt before.”

Outwardly, she gave him frowning disapproval. Inwardly, she gave herself a stern lecture. She didn’t want to have sexual feelings for him. She would not succumb to his juvenile comments. She would ignore his adolescent fixation with her breasts if it killed her. She disdained this unwanted, pointless, futile, temporary attraction she felt for him.

She would never be more than a passing diversion for him, a wholesome Cabbage Patch Doll thrown in as a novelty to the row after row of Debutante Barbies in his life. And she deserved a whole lot more than a lover with the attention span of a gnat. She’d been burned before by a man who believed she was a convenience, and she’d do well to remember it.

“There’s some ointment in the downstairs bathroom to put on that sting.” Celebrating a moral victory over temptation, she marched away. She had never realized how unfulfilling a moral victory could be.

“Sure. Thanks for your help.”

She felt his eyes follow her as she walked away. An unfamiliar instinct prompted her to put some sway in her gait. Realizing what she was doing, she stopped immediately.

He called out to her, but she kept going. She didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. He repeated her name, and she weakened, damn it.

He waited for her to stop and look at him before he waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll supply the whipped cream any time you say.”

“Not even in your dreams,” she called back.

His laughter trailed her up to the house. And she’d have felt a lot better if she hadn’t been intrigued by the offer.

Returning to the carriage house, Gracie did her best to put Dylan’s playfulness into perspective. He was gorgeous, she’d give him that. And light years more experienced than she, but so what? She was busy. Her life was full. What more could she want? If a supersonic sex life hovered near the top of her wish list, it was certainly secondary to having a satisfying relationship. She really didn’t want one without the other. Did she? Certainly not.

As she climbed her stairs, she admitted that Clay was right. Dylan was way out of her league. She didn’t even have a league.

As an undergraduate, her one and only lover had been Ted Bellamy, a sweet, sensitive, social activist. He’d taken her virginity one night in a burst of passion after an Exxon protest. When the surge of idealistic euphoria faded, he focused more of his energy on collecting T-shirts and saving the spotted darter fish than in satisfying Gracie.

During med school, she had met Baxter, the opposite of Ted in every way. Handsome, wealthy, and very physical, he dedicated his time to helping people. If he was more self-centered about their physical relationship than she would have liked, at least he was enthusiastic about having one. Later, she found out he wasn’t particular about where he expended that enthusiasm.

She hadn’t enjoyed sex with either one of them that much, and worse, Baxter had claimed that his wandering eye was due to her lack of appeal, response, and stimulation.

While Gracie showered and dressed, she reconsidered Baxter’s accusations for the umpteenth time. Maybe she just hadn’t met the right man. Of course, if no one less than Dylan Bradford would do, her physical standards were too high and her ethical standards were too low. Like Goldilocks in her quest for porridge, Gracie would never again settle for anyone who wasn’t just right.

Lost in thought, she crossed the yard to the main house. She wanted to see her grandmother before going to visit Granddad again. She would only admit to a slight—very slight, almost minuscule—hope to see Dylan. And that was only to check on his well-being.

Stepping through the back door, she found him seated at the kitchen table with Gran. With their heads together, they paged through a family photo album.

“Here’s Gracie on her first day of school,” her grandmother was saying. “Didn’t she look adorable with her hair in braids? That book bag’s almost as big as she is.”

“Adorable.” Dylan looked up and winked at her. The swelling around his right eye would normally have stirred her sympathy, but the smile he gave her was so close to a smirk it sent Gracie flying across the room.

“Gran!” She reached over the table to slap the picture book closed. “I’m sure Dylan didn’t ask to see my childhood pictures.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Gran agreed. “I told him about the picture we have of you with his father. He did ask to see that.”

“Then let’s turn right to it.” Gracie flipped pages until she arrived at the photo under discussion. “There.”

Her seven-year-old face wore a gap-toothed smile for the camera. Her gray cat, Cuddles, was clutched protectively in her arms. The handsome senator, in a long-sleeved dress shirt with his tie at half-mast, reinforced her hold.

Dylan studied the photo and nodded. “That’s just how I remember him. What’s the story behind this picture?”

“It was a Saturday morning, and Gracie usually came along to help in the bakery,” Gran began.

Gracie smiled at the memories. “I’m sure I was more trouble than help.”

“You were a joy.” Her grandmother beamed.

Dylan looked over at the older woman, eyebrows raised. “That’s your bakery in town?”

“It used to be. We sold it about ten years ago.”

“I remember going there with my dad.”

Gran nodded. “He often stopped by when he was in the area.”

“I think I had the best brownie I’ve ever eaten while I waited for him there one time.”

“Why, thank you.” Gran ducked her head. “I’ll try to make up a batch for you soon.”

“Getting back to the picture,” Gracie nudged. “At the time, I didn’t know your father was anybody special, of course. I just wanted someone to help me get my cat out of a tree, and he was the tallest one around. He took off his coat, lifted me off the ground, and held me up so I could reach Cuddles. When Gran saw who I had dragged into assisting me, she insisted on taking this picture.”