To A Macallister Born. Joan Elliott Pickart

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      What on earth was the matter with her? she thought, shaking her head. On that horrifying day of Joe’s funeral, when she’d learned the truths that had shattered her world, she’d begun the process of building a wall around herself.

      Never again, she had vowed, would a man awaken her sexuality. Never again would a man touch her heart or her body. Never again would she love someone who was capable of destroying her.

      “Mom,” Joey yelled, running into the room, “I found my favorite dinosaur. It was under my bed. Cool, huh?”

      Jennifer drew a steadying breath, then turned to smile at her son.

      “Very cool,” she said. “Oh, it’s very dusty, too. Let’s wash it off in the kitchen sink. There’s nothing worse than a dusty dinosaur.”

      That evening, Jennifer settled onto the sofa in the living room in front of the crackling fire in the hearth, and picked up the mystery novel she was in the process of reading. Joey was fast asleep, having nodded off during the tale of Peter Pan.

      She tucked her legs up close to her on the puffy cushion, spread an afghan she had knitted across her lap, and opened the book to the page that boasted a brightly colored bookmark Joey had made her for Mother’s Day.

      After reading one sentence, the image of the stranger who had stood in front of her house that morning superimposed itself over the words on the page.

      “Darn you,” she said, snapping the book closed. “Would you just go away and leave me alone?”

      She sighed and shook her head as she set the book next to her, then stared into the leaping flames of the fire.

      The anticipated, carefree day with Joey had been a disaster. Everywhere the two of them had gone, she found herself looking for that man, while at the same time registering excitement and fear.

      The stranger had haunted her through the seemingly endless hours of the day. And with the thoughts of him came the disturbing remembrance of the rush of heated desire that had suffused her when he’d smiled.

      “Oh-h-h, I’m driving myself crazy,” Jennifer said aloud, throwing up her hands.

      Okay, enough of this, she admonished herself. She was getting a grip right now. She’d analyze this bizarre behavior of hers, figure out why she was acting so unlike her norm, then be done with it.

      “Fine,” she said, tapping one fingertip against her chin. “Wait…a…minute. Of course. That’s it.”

      She was the victim of a series of events that had taken place in rapid succession.

      First, she’d attended the beautiful wedding of her dear friends, Ben and Megan, who were obviously deeply in love.

      While she had neither the intention nor the desire to remarry, the romantic event had no doubt poked a bit at her subconscious and emphasized the lack of a special man in her life—even though she didn’t want one…

      Second, she’d caught the wedding bouquet, and had been surrounded by people declaring over and over that she would soon fall in love and be the next bride.

      Third, Joey had expressed his sadness over not having a father, which had made her heart ache for her son.

      If one added up all those events that centered on romance, love, a husband, a daddy that Joey wouldn’t have to give back…well, it was no wonder she’d overreacted the very next time a handsome man directed a smile at her.

      Thank goodness, she’d figured it out. She felt so much better. It was amazing what a little inner dialogue could do to get a person squared away.

      With a decisive nod, Jennifer picked up the book, found her place on the marked page and began to read.

      Just before four o’clock the next afternoon, Jennifer entered Hamilton House, the hotel where she was manager of the dining room.

      The beautiful building had been completely restored by her childhood friend Brandon Hamilton, after he’d dropped out of the fast lane in New York and returned to his roots in Prescott.

      The large lobby was exquisite, transporting a person back to the turn of the 19th century. The Victorian furnishings, the original cabbage-rose carpeting, the gleaming piano by the front windows—everything was perfect.

      Along the far wall was a simulated old-fashioned, cobblestone street, complete with lampposts to light the way. Open-fronted specialty shops beckoned to be explored.

      One of the shops, Sleeping Beauty, offered feminine apparel and luscious bath accessories. The store was a smaller version of the one in Phoenix that was owned by Taylor Sinclair’s wife, Janice.

      Jennifer waved at Ryan, who was on duty behind the reception desk, then headed down the hallway that led to the dining room.

      For the next hour, Jennifer was busy as she checked the reservation book for the evening ahead, spoke with the dinner and pastry chefs, reviewed and approved an order the wine steward wished to place, and conferred with the manager of housekeeping regarding the condition of the high-quality, linen tablecloths and napkins that were used in the dining room.

      At five o’clock she was at her post behind the podium by the doors, ready to welcome the first guests arriving for dinner.

      The flow of patrons moving in and out kept her bustling back and forth as she sat the guests at their tables and presented them with oversize menus.

      A little after seven o’clock, Jennifer returned to the podium yet again, then smiled automatically as the doors to the dining room opened.

      And then she stopped breathing.

      Her smile disappeared, her eyes widened and her heart began to beat in a wild tattoo.

      It was him, she thought frantically. The man. He was now beyond magnificent, in a dark blue sport coat over a white shirt and blue tie, and gray slacks. But it was most definitely him.

      The stranger who had stood on the sidewalk in front of her house and might very well have decided on the best method to break in.

      The man who had smiled at her, causing a desire to swirl within her, and who had haunted her thoughts ever since.

      Dear heaven, what was he doing here? Had he followed her? Was she the reason he had studied her house? Was she being stalked by a raving lunatic?

      Jennifer looked quickly around the room. What should she do? Scream at the top of her lungs? Grab the receiver to the telephone on the podium and call Sheriff Montana?

      No, no, she had to calm down. She was surrounded by people, was safe…for the moment, at least. She’d just bluff her way through this until she could formulate a sensible plan.

      “Good evening,” she said to the man, unable to produce even the smallest smile. “May I help you?”

      Jack MacAllister walked slowly toward the podium, his gaze riveted on the woman who had spoken to him.

      It was her, he thought incredulously. The beautiful lady in the window of the intriguing Victorian house.

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