Sugar And Spice

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Sugar and Spice Lynnette Kent

Chapter One

Ian Baker heaved a sigh of relief as the garage door closed behind him. He'd written today's date a hundred times during the past fifteen hours, yet hadn't realized the significance until he drove home from work to find the streets of his neighborhood crowded with Hobbits, Star Wars storm troopers, and Powerpuff girls, firefighters and Special Forces soldiers.Halloween, of course. His newly adopted community —New Skye,North Carolina — appeared to celebrate the holiday with great enthusiasm. The front doorbell rang as he came into the kitchen,then rang again. Ian jogged to the entry hall, fished his keys out of his pocket, and turned the big brass lock. On the porch, upward of ten little goblins stared hopefully at him."Trick or treat!" A contingent of adults stood on his front lawn, just outside the circle of light. Ian wiped his hand over his face. "Uh…I…" He didn't have any candy in the house. No apples or oranges. Handfuls of cereal wouldn't cut it. What the heck could he give these kids? He held up a hand. "Wait just a second." Back in the kitchen, he surveyed his pantry.A box of Grape Nuts, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter. There was jam in the fridge, but he doubted PBJs would go over well. The light shining in the laundry room caught his eye. He'd left it on this morning when he was searching for matching socks in the dryer.And on top of the dryer…That's it! At the front door again, he crouched to kid level and held out the gallon pickle jar in which he saved the change from his pockets. "One fistful apiece, okay?" "All right!"They lined up efficiently to take their turns at the jar. "Thanks, mister." "This is cool!" "Awesome!" His impromptu treat appeared to do the trick. Wincing at his own stupid pun, Ian straightened to watch the kids flee across the grass to his neighbor's porch, followed by their adult bodyguards. Then he turned to go inside to prepare his nightly gourmet dinner — a couple of PBJs and a glass of milk. What the menu lacked in variety, it made up in predictability. "Dr. Baker?"

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Hearing a woman's voice, he swung back around, automatically offering the jar. "Did I miss somebody?" She stepped out of the darkness and onto the porch."Not at all. And I'm betting the handout at Dr. Baker's house will be the talk ofNewSkyeElementary Schooltomorrow morning. But you and I have an appointment." Her smile was wide and bright as she offered a handshake. "Cass Stuart.Sugar and Spice, Incorporated." Ian stared at her, his mind a total blank. "I'msorry, it's been a really long day." Belatedly, he closed his palm against her warm one. "Come on in, please." He led her through the dark family room to the adjoining kitchen, where there was light, a table, and chairs. "Have a seat." Setting the pickle jar on the table, he crossed his arms and leaned his hips back against the counter to take some of the weight off his tired feet. "Now, Ms. Stuart, I hate to admit it, but I don't have a clue as to why you're here. What are we meeting about?" "Food." "Food."Ian scoured his brain."Dinner?" Yes, he worked hard. Some nights he got home so tired he could hardly spell his own name correctly. But surely he would remember having asked this very attractive woman for a date. She nodded, her big brown eyes sparkling with laughter."Thanksgiving dinner." "Thanksgiv —" He snapped his fingers as the pieces clicked into place."Right. I remember — I asked my office manager to find somebody to make dinner for my family." "And she called me. Sugar and Spice is a catering firm." She definitely fit the description, with her shiny, cinnamon brown hair, cinnamon sugar freckles sprinkled over her creamy skin, and those deep chocolate brown eyes. "I'm here to discuss the menu with you." She'd pulled her hair back from her face with an orange velvet band and wore black cats dangling from her earlobes. The touch of whimsy made him realize he hadn't thought about how much fun Halloween could be for…fifteen years?Twenty? "That's great." He heard his stomach growl and, from the quirk of Cass Stuart's full lips, knew she'd heard, too. "Would you mind if I made a sandwich? I haven't eaten since…" The memory escaped him and he shrugged."Whenever." She opened her hands in a generous gesture. "Be my guest. But since I'm in the business of feeding people, I'd be glad to make a sandwich for you, if you'd like." He turned from the pantry with bread and peanut butter in his arms. "No, that's…" Then again, the idea of someone else making him a simple meal seemed close to heaven. "Will you join me? If you get the sandwiches, I could change clothes." "Sounds like a plan." She came to the counter as he set down the supplies. "I'll find what I need. Come back in ten minutes." "Right." Cass watched the gorgeous Dr. Baker disappear into the shadows beyond the kitchen. Rita, his new office manager and Cass's best friend since high school, had warned her. Now, she believed — believed

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in the broad, rangy shoulders, the athletic build,the curly blond haircut close to his beautifully shaped head. And the deep-set blue eyes, looking warily out on the world as if he hoped for friendship but didn't expect it. The house was nearly as magnificent as the man. As a kitchen aficionado, Cass definitely approved of the granite countertops and professional-gradeappliances, although she wasn't sure the room had ever been used for meaningful cooking. A peek inside the spotless double ovens pretty much confirmed that guess. She put together four neat peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches, moved the pickle jar to the counter and set the glass-topped table with plates and two glasses of milk. Then, since Dr. Baker hadn't yet reappeared, she turned on the one lamp in the family room. Twice as large as the huge kitchen, this space offered a fireplace framed in black marble surrounded by exquisite paneling and built-in bookcases. Two long brown leather couches faced each other across the hearth, complemented by two tapestry armchairs and the lamp table between them. Otherwise, the room was empty. No curtains or drapes, no pictures on the walls, no rugs on the floor. Not a single accessory, not even a poker with which to stir a fire, should one ever be lit in that pristine space. Altogether, Dr. Baker's house looked like a cold, heartless place. Cass was still standing in the center of the room when Dr. Baker returned. He stopped short by the fireplace wall."Something wrong?" "Not at all.Let's eat." They sat at the table and spent a couple of silent moments inhaling their food. Finally, Cass sighed. "This is good. I haven't had a bite since dawn." He raised a straight blond eyebrow. "A caterer doesn't get to eat?" "Too busy cooking." She reached into her purse for her notebook. "Now, do you have an idea of what kind of food you'd like for Thanksgiving dinner?" "Just the usual — turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, rolls, vegetables, pies. Cranberry sauce.My mother likes cranberry sauce." Making notes, she shook her head. "You don't really need a caterer for this. Every grocery store will have all these dishes prepared and available the day before." "Yeah, I know." He put a hand on the back of his neck and rolled his head, obviously trying to loosen kinks. "But, see, this is a big deal. I just moved to New Skye to start my CT surgery practice." "CT?" "Cardiothoracic — heart surgery.Coronary artery bypasses, that kind of work. Anyway, my whole family wants to drive over fromAtlantaand celebrate the holiday. They weren't happy about my coming here, so my plan is to demonstrate that I'm doing fine and they don't need to worry anymore. I'd like everything to be really special, including the food. That's where you come in." "I understand." Cass added a couple of notes to her list. "But I have to tell you, Dr. Baker —" "Ian." He finished the last of his milk and looked at her with an endearing white mustache above his firm — and very kissable — mouth. "Call me Ian."

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Cass repressed her smile. "I have to tell you, Ian, that your grand plan doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of working out."

Chapter Two

“'A snowball's chance in hell'? What are you talking about?" Frowning, Ian wiped away his milk mustache with the paper towel Cass had provided as a napkin. "What's wrong with my plan?" She braced her elbows on the table and shrugged, trying to keep her attention on the subject at hand, rather than on that well-shaped mouth. "You can hire me or any other caterer in town to prepare a terrific Thanksgiving dinner. But you don't have a place for your family to stay." "Of course, I do — five thousand square feet of house, including four bedrooms, besides mine, and six extra baths. What more do I need?" He'd changed out of his surgical scrubs into a dark blue, long-sleeved T-shirt over soft, comfortable jeans, and socks, but no shoes. Something about the white socks, and those strong shoulders under blue cotton, made thinking a challenge. Cass pushed back from the table and walked into the family room. With a safe distance between them, she turned to face him, holding out her arms. "Does this look like a home to you? Does this resemble the house where you grew up?" Ian glanced around, his brows drawn together in concentration. "Well, my mother has more furniture. And lots of…of stuff." "Don't you think she'll expect something like that here?" He shook his head. "Nope. No way. I had to do the dusting when I was a kid. Spent my Saturday mornings wiping off little china dogs and monkeys and fancy boxes and painted plates on tiny stands when I wanted to be out playing ball. I'm not having that clutter in my house." Given such a pitiful portrait, Cass held up her hands in surrender. "But there's middle ground between bare and unbearable. Your family — which means who, by the way?" "Mother, Dad, sister and husband, brother and wife and two kids." She widened her eyes. "That's a boatload of family, all right. And they won't be comfortable if you don't offer more than just the essentials in furniture. You need chairs, tables, lamps, a television for the kids…." "You sound as if I've got time to do that kind of shopping." He rolled his shoulders, then rubbed the back of his neck again. "I was in surgery at six this morning. Even if I knew what to look for, I can't possibly make time for wandering around town to find it." "How long have you lived in this house?" Cass clenched her fists against the urge to massage his neck and shoulders, get out those kinks that were driving him crazy.

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"Six months." "And all you've done is work?" "That's why I'm here. CT surgeons are plentiful in Atlanta. There was only one overworked guy in New Skye. I came where the patients needed me." "So now there are two overworked guys." Cass smiled and stepped close enough to put her hand on his arm. "I'll be glad to prepare a dinner your family can enjoy together. But I really do think you need to soften the house if they're going to be comfortable. And, more important, if they're going to believe you are." After a silent minute, he nodded decisively. "Okay. You do it." To Ian's immense regret, Cass stepped back again, dropping her hand from his arm. "I beg your pardon?" He persevered. "I'll pay you whatever you ask to make the place look like it should." Those deep brown eyes had gone round with surprise. "I'm not a decorator." "I don't want a decorator."This was the right plan. And the right woman to carry it out. He wasn't sure how he knew that. But he did. "I want somebody who understands my aversion to clutter and somebody who understands what needs to be here so my family will stop bugging me about coming back to Atlanta." Her gaze focused, intensified. "You don't want to go back?" "I went to college at Georgia Tech and med school at Emory, in Atlanta. Did my training there, as well, but I never knew how tied down I was until I finally came up for air and realized I'd never left home." He shook his head. "I was thirty-three and still a little kid. I decided it was time to grow up." Cass gazed up at him, and he didn't look away, didn't try to avoid the frank interest in her face. He'd never said any of that to a woman. Somehow, though, he knew he could trust Cass Stuart with his confession. She took a deep breath. "Well, then, I'll see what I can do about the house. Is there a color you especially hate?" He thought for a second. "Pink. In any form." "Your mother likes pink?" "Loves it." She laughed, and he loved the sound of it in his house. "No pink. Do you want to show me what I'm up against?" "Right this way." He led her upstairs and turned on the lights in the guest bedrooms. Each room had a bed, an armchair, and a chest of drawers or a dresser and mirror. The armchairs were identical,

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upholstered in a green damask he'd seen on a sample at the furniture store, and the four beige bedspreads were all the same, because he'd liked the heavy cotton fabric. Off-white blinds hung at the windows, matching the off-white paint on the walls. The off-white baths were supplied with green towels. Cass stood in the last room and shook her head. "Dr. Baker, you are seriously color-challenged." He considered that he'd done pretty well. "I had one free day before I started work. This was all I could manage." "Now we've got four weeks. Place yourself in my capable hands and I guarantee the results will be breathtaking." Ian couldn't help the interpretation his mind chose to put on those words. "Sounds good. I'm game." The woman across the room looked puzzled, and then horrified. "That's not what I meant!" "Unfortunately, I know that." He grinned and turned the light off to give her time to recover. Starting down the stairs, he glanced up as she came to the top step. "Do you want to have your way in my bedroom, too?" After a second's pause, Cass chuckled. "Of course," she said, in a voice suddenly gone deep and sexy. "What woman wouldn't?" *** A kitten was waiting on her doorstep when she got home from Ian's house — tiny, shivering, all big green eyes and orange stripes. Cass picked the little thing up and warmed it in her arms. "What are you doing here? Where did you come from?" The baby mewed pitifully. "Is somebody missing you?" Inside her apartment, she wrapped a towel around her houseguest and went to the kitchen for a bowl of milk. "Pretty stripes." Cass sat on the floor nearby as the cat lapped up the last of her half-and-half. "Like ginger and cream. But I know naming you means you're staying…." She resisted the urge for all of a minute. "I think I'll call you Ginger. I'll be good, though, I promise. I'll put up signs, in case they're looking for you." Ginger crawled into her lap, made herself comfortable in the folds of Cass's sweater, and began to clean her paws. "I don't think they were taking very good care of you." When she stroked a finger along those stripes, the ribs underneath were all too obvious. "I'll have to check them out before I let you go back. "Meantime," she said, settling her shoulders against the oven with Ginger dozing in her arms, "we have to get your shots. The right food. And a litter box. You need to be well trained, as soon as possible. "Because, Ginger, my dear, there's this doctor I know — a really great guy — who needs just the kind of care you and I have to give."

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Chapter Three

On Monday, Cass got her early morning cooking done, then went to Ian's house and let herself in with the key he had given her. She walked through the rooms alone and tried to imagine coming home every night to such emptiness. How could the man survive like this? That was the problem, she decided. He survived, and that was all. He had no ties outside the hospital, nothing and no one to draw him away from his work. Ian had isolated himself with his studies and his training until his life withered around him. Even his reason for moving to New Skye had to do with the patients who needed him. But Cass believed that, somewhere deep inside, he'd known he had to find a place to do more than just exist. A place tolive. And her job — her calling — was to show him how. Why she should believe that, after only one meeting, she couldn't say. Love at first sight had never been part of her agenda. Destiny was not a concept with which she felt comfortable. Life was work in progress, and she intended to make her work worthwhile. And to share it with Dr. Ian Baker, for as long as they both should live. In the following days, every moment she could squeeze from her cooking schedule she spent prowling fabric shops and furniture stores, searching for the right touches that would make Ian's house ahome. She readConsumer Reports in bed at night to choose the best television and sound system. She renewed her close acquaintance with the man at the paint-and-wallpaper outlet. Her own small apartment accumulated the fruits of her searches — pillows and candlesticks and pottery, fabric samples and paint chips and wallpaper books. Kate Bowdrey, a longtime friend and expert on décor, spent several evenings sitting on Cass's living room floor, helping her choose patterns and colors and playing with Ginger. "I can't go too bold," Cass warned. "He wants a very quiet, soothing house. After a day at the hospital, I expect he needs peace." "I'm sure." Kate compared two shades of gold at the same time she dangled a feather toy in front of the kitten. "When do I get to meet this paragon?" "Did I say he was a paragon?" She hadn't realized she'd revealed quite so much. Kate smiled. "You said he was gorgeous, dedicated, intelligent, and…oh, yes, gorgeous. Sounds like a paragon to me." "No, that's the way you talk about Dixon." Kate was waiting for her divorce to become final so she and Dixon Bell, another high school classmate, could become engaged. She had already asked Cass to cater the wedding, but the arrangement was a secret between the two of them. "Oh, all right. You're just passionately involved in creating a comfortable home for this man in whom you

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have no personal interest. Who wouldn't understand something so…illogical?" But, of course, Cass did have a personal interest. And every time she ran into him, that interest deepened. Just last night, she'd come over late, after work, to measure the upstairs windows. And Ian had come up to see why his guest room lights had been left on. "The Decorating Fairy, I presume." He stood at the foot of her ladder. "I'm reminded of the Shoemaker and the Elves. They finished his work for him every night and made him rich." Cass grinned. "That's right, and at the end his wife sewed them clothes and he cobbled them each a cute little pair of boots." "So, should I write you a coupon for a free bypass? That's my only skill, I'm afraid." She turned sideways, leaned an elbow on the top of the ladder and propped her chin in her hand. "Somehow, I doubt that." He stepped onto the bottom rung, aligning their bodies and bringing their faces very close together. "You doubt what?" "That surgery is your only skill." Maybe it was their seductive position — or, more likely, the fantasies she'd been having about him as she lay alone in her bed at night — but Cass was feeling bold. "You'd have to be good with your hands to be a successful surgeon. So I'm sure…" At the glint in his eyes, her courage failed her. "You're sure…?" "I'm sure you'd be quite dexterous with…with knots and c-carpentry…all sorts of — of manual tasks." Ian stared at her for a long moment, his gaze intent, wondering. And then he dropped lightly back to the floor. "That's what you mean, hmm?" She tried to recover her breath. "What else?" "I'm wondering," he said, then winked at her and left the room. *** The second week of November was one of the hardest Ian had yet experienced in his new practice. Emergency bypass surgeries popped up every time he turned around, and the regular surgery schedule was booked solid. Follow-up visits and consultations with other doctors took time. Several nights he simply walked straight through the house from the garage to his bedroom and fell facedown on the bed, asleep before he hit the pillow. On Saturday, he got home early — about seven p.m. - and stepped into a strange new world. The house smelled faintly of…cider, he decided. He tracked the scent to the dozen or more gold candles in brass holders of various heights now grouped on the mantel. A low, square table sat between the two leather sofas, with a bowl of green apples — real apples, he discovered with approval — on top. A soft, tapestry-patterned blanket had been draped over the back of one couch, while velvet pillows in gold and green lay against the arm of the other. The space provided in the bookcase now housed a

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new, state-of-the-art television, and the remote control waited next to the bowl of apples. Firewood had been stacked neatly on the grate, ready for lighting. Ian found himself tempted to lie down, put his feet up and look for a ballgame on TV. But he was hungry. More important, he wanted to see what other changes Cass had brought to his house. A tour upstairs yielded…nothing. That seemed strange, when she'd been so appalled by the lack of color. His bedroom hadn't been touched, either. Or had it? He couldn't remember making the bed this morning — he'd been called in at five a.m. for a trauma case. But now the sheets were smooth, the pillows plump. And did he imagine that hint of spiced peaches in the air? His stomach did the proverbial growling routine, and he decided he had to get sustenance or he would keel over. The refrigerator was his usual destination, so he went there first, wishing for something besides strawberry jelly. Grape would be a nice change. Maybe tomorrow he'd get to the grocery store. But the fridge yielded those surprises he hadn't found upstairs — a foil container with a paper top marked "chicken and rice, heat in microwave four minutes on high." A big bowl of green salad. A whole apple pie and a pitcher of iced tea. Plus orange juice, fresh milk, bagels, butter, and cream cheese. Ian stood and stared for a long time. The pillows and blankets and candles — part of their agreement, and he expected to see a bill. Food, though…what did food mean? Maybe Cass Stuart, caterer, couldn't stand to seeanyone go hungry. Or maybe — just maybe — Cass Stuart, an attractive and generous woman, cared enough about Ian Baker to be sure he got fed on Saturday night. And if that was the case… What should behis next move?

Chapter Four

His next move turned out to be far easier than Ian had imagined. Maybe even predestined. He woke up Sunday morning to find chilly November rain pouring down outside the windows. For some reason, the idea of going to a worship service occurred to him. And the first person he saw, as he shut the church door on a wet gust of wind, was Cass Stuart. "Ian!" Her lovely face shone with pleasure as she came toward him. "Welcome to St. Peter's. Is this your first visit?" He shook the hand she extended, then discovered he was reluctant to release her. So he didn't. "I thought I should get back in the habit of showing up on Sundays." Impulsively, he added, "That was even before I knew you were here."

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She made no attempt to take her hand back. At his words, her gaze warmed like a goblet of fine liqueur held over a flame. "I'm glad you chose our church this morning. Let me find you a seat." Even as she turned away, her fingers clung to his for a few seconds. Ian missed her touch as soon as it was gone. Their progress to a suitable pew was delayed by introductions. Cass, it would seem, knew everyone in the congregation, from the grandparents to the youngest of babies. Ian suspected he would have met them all, if the service hadn't started. "I'm ushering today," she whispered, as she seated him. "But I'll find you later." Her introductions continued after the service, in addition to several encounters with doctors and nurses Ian knew from work. He was feeling quite comfortable as they reached the front door and the minister who stood there to greet each member of the departing flock. But then Cass stepped up ahead of him and hugged the robed man around the neck. "Daddy, I want you to meet somebody." Before Ian could assimilate what he'd just heard, she caught his hand and drew him forward. "This is Dr. Ian Baker, the client I've been telling you and Mom about. Ian, this is my dad, Andrew Stuart." Ian put his arm out for a handshake, though he wasn't sure a word could get past the lump in his throat. "I — I'm glad t-to m-meet you, sir. I enjoyed your sermon very much." There didn't seem to be much more he could offer, especially since his brain had frozen solid. And the idea he'd come up with about asking Cass to lunch — which was why he hadn't paid attention to who was preaching — seemed completely hopeless. The reverend turned to his daughter. "Honey, maybe Dr. Baker would like to join us at home for dinner. Your mother always has an extra place set." Paralyzed now, as well as speechless, Ian felt Cass squeeze his hand. "Thanks, Daddy, but we've already made lunch plans. We'll take a rain check, okay?" Still holding on, Cass led Ian out onto the front porch of the church. She looked up at him with a blush on her cheeks and a shy smile in her brown eyes. "You don't actually have to go to lunch with me. But I knew you weren't prepared for lunch with them." When her hand started to slip away, Ian held tight. "But I do want to go to lunch with you. I was thinking about that instead of the sermon." He hung his head in mock shame. "If I'd known I was going to meet your dad, I would have listened better." Cass stared at him for a second, her soft, wide lips parted in surprise. "That's…" She shook her head, laughing. "That's perfect." They went down the church steps and Ian turned her toward his car. "So where should we eat?" "Don't worry," she said, with another of those smiles he'd become addicted to. "I know just the place." *** At the Carolina Diner, Cass introduced Ian to the owner, Charlie Brannon, and his daughter, Abby, both of whom stared in shock when he ordered fried chicken. "It's bad for you, son." Charlie shook his head. "You, being a heart surgeon and all, should know that."

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Ian nodded. "Oh, I do. I see enough clogged arteries in a week to make you plan your meals around celery, carrots, and lettuce." Then he shrugged and grinned. "But what's the point of living a long life if you don't enjoy it? A little fried chicken now and then won't hurt." Charlie went back to the kitchen, nodding to himself, obviously pleased. But Abby frowned. "Now see what you've done? He's gonna feed me that line every time I remind him the doctor wants him to lose weight. Thanks a lot, Ian. Thanks a whole lot." She stomped off, pretending to be mad until she got behind the counter, then gave them both a smile and a wave. Chuckling, Cass turned to face Ian across the table. "If they only knew how you eat most of the time, they'd probably come hog-tie you and drag you down here every night for a decent dinner." "Speaking of which," he said, fixing her with that deep blue gaze, "I really appreciate the food you left yesterday. I got home early enough to enjoy the chicken and two pieces of pie and a ballgame on TV. I don't know when I've had such a normal Saturday night." She could feel a blush climbing to her face. "I'm glad. As long as I was there, I thought…" Taking a deep breath, she looked up from the napkin she'd been pleating. "What did you think of the candles and the table? Are the pillows too much?" Ian reached over and covered her right hand with his left. "Everything looked really good. I knew I could trust you." He tightened his hold for a second, then sat back and drew his hand away as Abby approached. "With everything." His voice was so low, Cass wasn't sure she hadn't imagined that last part. Could he possibly mean…? But then she got busy making more introductions, as friends she'd known since childhood arrived for Sunday dinner. Rob Warren and his daughter Ginny came over to say hello, and then Adam DeVries, who needed no introduction at all since he'd built Ian's house to begin with. "Rob, Adam, Abby, and I graduated from high school the same year," Cass explained as they drove back to the church, where she'd left her car. "Kate Bowdrey, who's helping me on your house, was our valedictorian and her brother-in-law, Pete Mitchell, was in the same class. And Charlie's been running the diner ever since we were in elementary school. It's a pretty small world, I guess. But I like being able to count on seeing friends wherever I go in town." They reached the church parking lot, where her SUV sat alone in the rain. Ian turned to face her. "Do you have plans for the rest of the afternoon?" Cass wished fiercely that she could say no. "I have to go to work," she said, instead. "We're serving lunch to the Women's Club tomorrow. Sixty plates of chicken Florentine with wild rice pilaf, cranberry-pecan salad, and pumpkin mousse for dessert. I'm making the mousse today." "Alone?" There was no mistaking the hope in his mellow voice. A hope she had to destroy. "Two other people will be at the shop at three o'clock." She glanced at her watch. "Which gives me a whole five minutes. Good thing it's a small town." Before Ian could stir, she opened her door and stepped out into the rain. But when she got to the driver's side of her own car, he was there beside her.

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"Okay, I give up." He heaved a mock sigh. "But it'll only take you three minutes to drive to your shop. So you've got two minutes to spare." She stared at him, confused. "For what?" He cupped her face in his warm hands, took the one step that separated their bodies. Then he bent his head until their lips were a mere whisper apart. "For this." Kissing Cass was like coming home…only better, because his empty house didn't welcome him the way she did, with an instant melting against him, the warmth of her palms holding his wrists, the spicy sweet taste of her lips moving, giving under his. He could have stood in the rain with her forever. Except that she was pulling away. He lifted his head to look at her and found her eyes closed, her smile dreamy. "Ian." He'd never heard his name sighed that way before, wanted to hear it over and over again. Then she opened her eyes. "I have to go. It's not heart surgery." She smiled, wistfully. "But people do count on me." A sudden clutch in his gut protested. But commitment was a characteristic he respected. And this was a woman he'd come to care about too much to dishonor. "I know." He stepped back, set her free. "Can I see you sometime this week? I don't know my schedule, but…" Like he ever had free time during the week for something as ordinary, as sociable, as a date. Cass smiled at him over her shoulder as she unlocked her car. "Oh, I imagine we'll run into each other. After all, this is a really small town." *** They next ran into each other on his staircase, as Ian was using his last ounce of energy climbing up and Cass was skipping down. He gazed up at her, sniffing the air. "Is that paint I smell?" She stopped, blocking his way. "Paint, it is. Top quality latex." Ian had liked the white walls. After a day of chaos at the hospital — a day like this one where it seemed everything had gone wrong — white was quiet. Soothing. He came to the step just below the one on which Cass stood, but when he edged to the right, so did she. "You didn't tell me you were going to paint." "You didn't ask." When Ian stepped to her left, she followed. Hands on his hips, he frowned. "What color?" "Which room?" "You're painting all the rooms different colors?" He swallowed hard. "And the bathrooms?" "Paper." Worse and worse. Visions of his mother's flower-covered walls assailed him. Again, he tried to move

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past her. Again, Cass blocked. "Please, let me by," he said through clenched jaws, barely remembering his manners. "I want to see what you're doing." "Why don't you wait until it's done and get the whole effect?" "Because it doesn't make sense to have you do something, pay for everything, and then have to do it over when I hate it. I'd rather stop this process as early as possible." "Whoa." The woman above him backed up a step. "What happened to trusting me?" He had said that. And meant it. But tonight, he just couldn't take the chance. "What happened to making things comfortable without any major changes?" he retorted. There was no doubt he'd roused her temper. She had her chin up in the air and her eyes were hard. "Your family will appreciate these changes." "My family will be here three nights. I live here all the time. If I'd wanted the walls all sorts of wild colors, I would have had them painted that way." Cass jammed her hands in the pockets of her overalls. "Excuse me, but that's not quite the impression you gave me of the way you finished this house." When Ian opened his mouth, she shook her head. "Never mind. Feel free to go up and make your judgment. If you hate it, tell the guys to paint over the color and charge the paint to me. I wouldn't stick you with a room you didn't like any more than I would a meal you couldn't eat. Good night." Brushing past him, she hurried down the stairs. The slam of the front door rattled the windows in every room. Ian ran his hands over his face and through his hair. Then, wearily, he climbed the rest of the way to the second floor to see what disaster awaited him there. The room at the top had two walls painted a soft green, lighter than the chair fabric he'd chosen, but in the same shade. With the woodwork left white, he had to admit the effect was cool, crisp. Pleasant. There were no flowers in the bathroom, just a pale green, marble-patterned paper with rolls of a Greek key border waiting to be installed. So it went. As he viewed each bedroom, Ian found a variation of paint against which his green chair looked…well, great. Soft gold, a light brown. The most unusual color was orange — not a harsh or bright tone, just a moment pulled from a cozy blaze in the fireplace and expanded to glow on the walls. He felt warm and comfortable, standing there in the half-painted room. At the same time, he felt like an absolute jerk. A heel. An ungrateful, stupid, ill-natured boor. And there was nobody in the house to tell him he was wrong. *** Cass turned her answering machine off and refused to answer the first six calls that rang after she got home. She didn't want to talk to anyone on the entire planet, not even Russell Crowe. Didn't need any more work. Didn't want any more friends. Just expected to sit on the couch next to Ginger with a pint of Häagen Dazs and eat until her teeth froze and her brain exploded.

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"When?" she asked the kitten. "When will I learn?" All her life, she'd been smart, fast, organized. And bossy. How many times had she heard that from teachers, from other girls? Fromboys ? And when would she stop expecting to find a man who actually appreciated her talent for getting things done? Today might just be the day. Ian Baker had accomplished what no man had done before. He'd shut Cass Stuart up. A pint of Häagen Dazs didn't last long enough for this kind of pain, and Cass realized she would have to go out for more. She set the carton on the floor for Ginger to clean and was dragging on her jacket, debating between French Vanilla and Bailey's Irish Cream, when the phone rang again. "'Lo?" Then she remembered, and swore. "Cass, it's Ian. Don't hang up." The words reached her even as she aimed the receiver at its hook. "Please, let me apologize." She brought the phone back to her ear long enough to say, "Don't bother." Then, for some reason, she didn't hang up, but stood there like a fool, one arm in her coat and one out. Waiting. "Listen, Cass, I was wrong. Totally, miserably wrong." He sounded breathless, frantic. "I looked at the rooms upstairs and the colors are great. Perfect. I wouldn't change one, and the bathroom papers are fantastic, too. I'm really sorry I acted like such a…a…" "Would you like me to supply the word?" "I'm sure you could. Let's just take it as already said." She heard the smile in his voice. "My only excuse is that I had a really bad day. A patient died during bypass surgery. Not my case but, still, it throws everybody." Immediately, she felt horrible. "Oh, Ian, I'm so sorry. Why didn't you say something?" "I didn't give myself a chance, did I? Instead, I jumped down your throat and made everything worse. But if you'll forgive me, that'll help." How could she refuse? "Of course. Do you want me to keep going? It's up to you." "Definitely." No doubt at all. "And I want to make up to you for being a jerk." Cass smiled, the ice cream forgotten. "How do you propose to do that?" "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" Ian now sounded his usual, in-control self. "Just meet me here at eight Friday night. I guarantee an evening you won't forget!"

Chapter Six

Wearing a velvet dress and sexy heels, Cass arrived at eight p.m. on Friday to find Ian's house dark and

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apparently empty. She waited in her car for a few minutes, thinking he might be running late. Then she wondered if he expected her to let herself in with her key. He might even be planning to spring some kind of surprise when she did. No surprise. No Ian. Just the chill and the dark and the smell of fresh paint met her at the front door. She turned on the lights in the family room — she'd placed two floor lamps and another table, with the right lamp to set on it, by the sofas. She sat in an armchair for a while, staring at the blank television. The apples smelled good, and Cass finally acknowledged how hungry she was. In the refrigerator, she found hints of Ian's plans, including chicken breasts, a bottle of white wine, fresh broccoli, and fresh pasta. The thought of what she could do with those ingredients made her mouth water and her stomach growl. But tonight she would not take charge. She would let Ian keep control. By nine-thirty, she was ready to weep with hunger. He hadn't called and she didn't know how to contact him, except through the answering service, which wouldn't give her any information except to say he wasn't on call tonight. Great. So where was he? At ten, she consigned his male ego and his desire for control to hell. First, she turned on the gas igniter in the fireplace and set the logs to blazing. Then, she pounded the chicken breasts thin, dredged them in flour, and set about making chicken Piccata with the lemons and capers she found in the fridge. Great minds think alike. Just as she was stirring the sauce, lights flashed outside and the garage door lifted. In another moment, Ian came into the house. He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, staring at Cass with an expression very close to despair. "Smells good," he said quietly. And then, "I am so sorry. I'd have called, but I was in surgery the whole time." Cass looked at him a moment, and her irritation bled away. "It's okay. Why don't you get out of your scrubs while I dish this up, and we can eat in front of the fireplace?" Ian squeezed his eyes shut. "Sounds great. I —" But then he opened his eyes, shook his head, and went to his room without finishing the thought. When he came out again, the plates were set on the coffee table, with glasses of wine waiting and a CD Cass liked playing softly. "I have no idea what kind of music you enjoy," she said as they sat on the floor opposite each other. "Is this okay?" "I haven't had much time for music. But this is good." He took a bite of chicken. "Mmm. So's this." He toasted her with his wine. "How is it you always end up taking care of me? I really meant to do the honors tonight." "You take care of people all day long." "You feed people all day long." "Not the same level of pressure as heart surgery."

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"Sometimes being fed is more important." "Give it up, Dr. Baker. I'm not going to let you take the blame. Just eat your dinner." "Yes, ma'am." She wouldn't let him clean up afterward, either. With the dishes in the dishwasher, she brought the wine bottle out, refilled their glasses, then turned off the lamps and curled up on the couch where she could watch Ian, still on the floor, and the fire. "Thank you for a lovely dinner. Consider yourself cleared of all obligation." "You cooked, cleaned up, and waited two hours to begin with." Cass shrugged. "I'm a take-charge kind of person. Being waited on really doesn't suit me." Ian pushed himself up off the floor and onto the opposite sofa, bracing his elbows on his thighs as he held his wineglass in both hands. "What does suit you?" The answer slipped out before she could stop it. "Being needed." "Yeah?" He moved to her couch, setting his glass on the table. "What else?" The fire flickered over his face, striking blue sparks deep in his eyes. "Um…being comfortable." Reaching out, he slipped off her shoes. "Better?" Cass smiled and wiggled her toes. "Much." "Anything else?" Staring into her wine, she debated askingThat I want you to take off? but decided she wasn't brave enough to be quite that blunt. She risked a quick glance at the man next to her. "That suits me?" "Well?" His hand still rested on her ankle, his fingers circling lightly on her skin. The tremor caused by his touch streaked straight up her leg and set off an earthquake deep inside of her. "To be wanted," Cass said, barely above a whisper. He took the wine goblet from her shaky fingers and set it beside his on the table. "So, there are a few things I can do for you, after all." His fingers tilted her face up. His mouth touched the point of her chin, grazed the line of her cheek, placed a kiss on each eyelid. "I've wanted you from that first night," he said softly, skimming his fingers, then his lips, over her ear. "You were like a candle coming into my darkness, leaving warmth and light behind even when you weren't here." His kisses, light as they were, pressed her back into the soft leather sofa. She raised her hands to grip his shoulders, bring him closer, but Ian held back. "Are you warm enough? Too warm?" He set his mouth to her throat, nibbled lightly.

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"Ian…" She was losing the ability to think. "You're the first thing that comes to my mind in the morning when I wake up." He ran his fingers along the edge of her dress, over the sensitive skin of her shoulders, the tops of her breasts. "Seems like you're the sunshine that starts my day." He followed the trail of his fingers with his lips. "I need that thought of you to get me going." Crazy with her own need, Cass pulled his face to hers, seized his mouth for a breathless eternity of kisses. She let her hands roam freely, as his were, and soon they lay together with no barriers at all, except a desire to prolong the pleasure as long as possible. Finally, Ian settled over her, joining their bodies with a deliberation that drove her even wilder. Then he lifted his head to look into her eyes, his own glinting with a smile. "Are you okay? Comfortable enough?" "I'm going to kill you." Cass adjusted her hips with a move that made him groan. "You know, lady," he said breathlessly, "I think you might be right."

Chapter Seven Thanksgiving drew near and the pace of Cass's life accelerated from busy to frantic. She'd always been an early riser, but when she stayed over at Ian's — which happened more often than not — she got up an hour earlier than her regular six a.m. That meant she got more cooking done before the stores opened at ten. But the house was almost finished. And she knew Ian was pleased with what she'd done. Pleased to see that his guest rooms provided a quiet elegance with which he felt comfortable. Pleased that his family room offered welcome and comfort — to him and anyone else who came in — with accents of color, contrasts of texture, and simple luxuries. Most of all, maybe, pleased that his kitchen had become a functional place, with food in the pantry and the refrigerator and, most nights, dinner on the table when he finally got home. She managed to be there at some point in the afternoon or evening and, even if she couldn't stay, to leave him something to eat. The extra cooking put more strain on her hectic schedule, but taking care of Ian was a pleasure well worth the effort. The weekend before the big day, she decided to introduce him to Ginger. He had two days off from the hospital, plenty of time for them to get to know each other. Late Friday afternoon, she packed up Ginger's household and went to Ian's, prepared to offer homemade lasagna and her little feline surprise when he walked in the door. Predictably, he still wasn't there by nine, so she cut herself a piece of lasagna, then curled up on the sofa with Ginger under the tapestry throw to watch the fire and wait. Warm, cozy, she dreamed that Ian was bending over her, his smile wide and sexy as he leaned in for a

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kiss. "Hey, beautiful. Where've you been all my life?" She smiled and kissed him back, and then realized with pleasure that it was real. He'd come home. Stretching, she reached up to put her arms around him. "Mmmm. What time is it?" Ginger stirred and peeked out from underneath the throw. "Midni —" His gaze dropped. He straightened up out of her hold. "What isthat ?" The cat scrambled away from his harsh tone, clawing at Cass's shoulder. "A kitten, of course. Ginger." "Did you find it outside the house? Are there more?" "No. I've had her since Halloween." Getting control of the trembling creature, she turned the sweet face toward him. "I brought her for you." Ian sneezed, and sneezed again. "N-no, thanks." "Are you getting a cold? And what do you mean, 'No, thanks'?" "I don't want a cat. I'm allergic." He backed around the coffee table to the other sofa. "You'll have to take her away." Allergic. How awful. "Are you sure?" Another series of sneezes. "Oh, I'm sure." She grappled frantically for a solution. "There are allergy shots you can take. Medicines. And you need a cat. Someone to be here when you come home."Until you ask me to be. "A reason to do something besides work. Ginger's perfect." Although as she kept trying to get away, she was pulling threads from Cass's brand-new velour sweater. Ian ran a hand over his face. "Look, I appreciate the thought — though it would have been better if you'd asked me first, and saved us both the hassle. I just can't have a cat." He dropped down on the couch and put his head back. "Man, what a day." Hassle. That meant she'd done itagain. Evidently, she never would learn not to be bossy. "What am I supposed to do with Ginger?" He opened one eye. "You can keep a cat at your place, right?" Her heart stopped for a long moment. "Of course." Now feeling very, very cold, she got to her feet and moved toward the door. "Cass?" Ian was on his feet again, staring at her across the vast expanse of his family room and kitchen. The space was friendly now, and inviting, with the fire crackling cheerfully, the lamplight glinting on gold and red and green accents, the scent of cider spicing the air. His family would know how good his life could be here in New Skye. And they'd never know that she had expected to be part of it.

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"I have to go." She opened the door and hurried outside, trying to keep hold of the cat and hold back her tears at the same time. What he'd just said, essentially, was that she had no more of a role in his life than the cat did. He hadn't used theL word yet. And Cass had been waiting on him, trying, for once, not to control the situation. Trying to let Ian take the lead. Good thing. This would hurt much worse if she'd told him she loved him. On the other hand, she wasn't sure it could hurt any worse. *** The only thing Ian knew for sure was that he had no clue. Cass had brought a cat to his house and when he didn't want it, she'd cut off all communication. He had some experience with women, though he didn't think of himself as Don Juan. Still, this was the strangest situation he'd ever encountered. To make matters worse, he didn't have time to do anything about it. The guy who was on call on Sunday came down with the flu Saturday afternoon and begged Ian to take over. So he spent Sunday in the hospital before beginning the regular workweek. People didn't much like seeing doctors in the days before Thanksgiving, so he made it home most nights by eight. But Cass wouldn't answer the phone, at work or at home. The finishing touches for the house magically appeared during the day, but she wasn't waiting for him anymore, with her warm smile and her hot kisses and her generous soul. How was he supposed to get through a week without waking up with Cass in his arms? Wednesday night, he came in to discover a mouthwatering aroma in the air, compliments of the pies on the counter — pumpkin, pecan, and mincemeat, just as he'd ordered. Thursday morning, he went in for rounds at seven a.m., knowing no surgeries had been scheduled for the holiday. His family would be arriving about two. He should be home in plenty of time to talk with Cass and get this whole mess straightened out before they arrived. He really wanted his family to meet her. The news about a ten-car pileup on the interstate just outside of town only reached him after he got to work.

Chapter Eight

When Cass arrived at ten on Thanksgiving morning to find Ian's house empty, she drew a huge sigh of relief. As long as they weren't alone together, she could function as simply the hired help. She'd make dinner, be polite to his family, and then she'd never have to see him again. Him or his beautiful home. The turkey went into the oven at noon, and Ian hadn't shown up. She started on her special green bean casserole, peeled the potatoes, and put them in the pot, and he still hadn't arrived. Two o'clock drew

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ever closer. Ian didn't come home. Just as she set the yeast dough to rise for the first time, the front doorbell rang. With no other choice, she smoothed her hair, took off her apron, and prepared to face the Baker family. Alone. She opened the door. Standing on the porch was an assortment of adults, while a couple of little boys raced around the front lawn. Cass swallowed hard and called up some kind of smile. "Hi. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Baker." She searched for the oldest faces. "I'm Cassandra Stuart. Please, come in." As Mrs. Baker stepped inside, Cass realized that Ian looked like his mother. The same bone structure, the same deep-set blue eyes, which were surveying her now with outright suspicion. "Where is Ian?" "Where do you think he is, Dorothy?" Mr. Baker came in behind his wife, an approachable man with dark hair and twinkling eyes. "Where he always is — at work." He held out a hand. "I'm Jeff Baker, Ms. Stuart. Good to meet you." His grin was like Ian's, definitely sexy even in his rounder face. "This is my son Jeff, Junior, and his wife, Honey, and that's our daughter, Melissa, with her husband, Todd. Those hooligans outside are Jason and Joshua." "I'm pleased to meet all of you." Cass held on to her poise by a thread. "Ian is still at the hospital — there was an accident on the interstate this morning and I imagine he's been called in to operate. But I'll make you as comfortable as I can. Would you like to go to your rooms for a bit? And then I'll serve some appetizers while we wait for Ian to get here." With Mrs. Baker's assent, they went upstairs. Cass showed them to the rooms she'd thought they would like, and was gratified to hear murmurs of appreciation up and down the hall. Okay, she'd gotten that part right. Now, all she had to do was survive the rest of the afternoon. *** Ian drove home at six-thirty in a state of exhaustion coupled with dread. No woman would forgive a man who put her in the position he'd left Cass facing today — welcoming strangers to a house where she had no real place or authority. That wasn't true, of course. Cass was the heart of his home, the soul of his life. If he hadn't realized that truth before, these past days without her would have done it. Today had brought him, once again, up against life or death choices and the realization of how precious time can be. There might never be enough. As he came in from the garage, he was surprised to hear his father's roar of laughter in the dining room. Baffled by sounds of celebration where he'd expected chilly silence, Ian stopped in the doorway to survey the scene. His family was clearly enjoying its collective self. His brother and sister and their spouses looked comfortable. He didn't see the nephews at first, but a quick glance into the family room found them playing some kind of video game on his new TV. Cass had joined them at the dining room table, her face flushed with effort and pleasure and, maybe, a glass of wine. She seemed perfectly at ease with his dad and his siblings. No one was ever at ease with Dorothy Baker, but as far as he could tell, Cass appeared to have made a truce.

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Of course she had. She was too gracious, too generous, not to have charmed even his mother. Ian cleared his throat. "Hi, everybody. Sorry I'm late." Chairs scraped the floor as they all surged around him for hugs. The chaos finally subsided when his mother filled his plate with her own hands and set it before him, along with a full glass of wine. Since he hadn't eaten since dawn, Ian was glad to dig in. As he looked around before that first bite, however, he found one face missing. "Where's Cass?" They all looked puzzled — no one had seen her leave. Ian got to his feet again. "Excuse me a minute." His mother protested, but he waved her back. He would not let the woman he loved get away this time. He found her standing on the driveway staring at her car, blocked at the rear by his dad's SUV and on the side by his Saab. She would have to drive on the grass to get out. And Cass wasn't the kind to drive on the grass. "Where are you going?" he asked quietly, coming up behind her in the chilly darkness. "I left the kitchen clean," she said, without facing him. "You'll just need to put the dishes in to wash and store the leftovers." Ian smiled. "But isn't that part of what I hired you to do?" "Well, I'm sorry." She faced him, then, and he could see her temper had flared. "I wasn't supposed to have to entertain people all afternoon as well as cook. I thought the least you could do was clean up, but if that's too much…" Marching past him, she headed toward the house. "Cass." He caught her arm, pulled her up against him and heard her gasp. "I'm apologizing again. I'm not sure exactly what for, though. I mean…why did you get so upset over a cat?" With surprising strength, she tried to pull away. "Because it's more than the cat, idiot! If you don't want her, you don't want me. Is that too hard to understand?" But Ian didn't let her go. And, after a minute of concentrated thought, he began to see. He'd told her to keep the cat he didn't want. Which meant… "Boy, did I blow it." Chuckling, he put his arms around her stiff shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to send you away. I was too tired to think straight." "Are you allergic to me, too?" Though she didn't look up, she'd softened in his arms. "Not in the least. You, I can't live without." He lifted her chin so he could see her beautiful brown eyes. "And there are allergy shots. If you'll only come to me with the cat, then that's the way it'll have to be." "Ian…" Cass stopped, and dropped her gaze. He simply held her, waiting. Drawing a deep breath, she met his eyes. "I love you." "Yeah? What took you so long?" Finally, that wonderful smile warmed her face. "I was waiting for you, of course."

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"That's something you'll be doing a lot of, I guess. I can't seem to show up on time." Then he lowered his head, kissed her softly once, and again. "But never again for this. I love you, Cass Stuart. Today and always." They shared a real kiss, then, the kind he'd ached for in the long, lonely nights just past. When he raised his head, they were both breathing hard. "Let's go in and introduce my mother to the future Mrs. Baker." Halfway up the steps, Cass stopped and tugged on his hand. "That's really neat, you know." "What?" "I'll be Cassandra Baker." He bent down for another kiss. "I like the idea, myself." She gave him the kiss, but then shook her head. "No, I mean I'll be Cassandra Baker…of Sugar and Spice, Inc. Perfect, isn't it?" Ian grinned. "Whatever you think, love. You're the boss."