Trouble in Tourmaline (Silhouette Special Edition) Read online

  “Maybe we should set a few other ground rules if we’re to be friends,” Amy said.

  David grinned at her. “Ones we can keep like the first rule or ones we can’t?”

  “No more kisses. I mean it,” she sputtered. “It’s just chemistry. Hormones. Pheromones.”

  “All of the above. But how does that stop me from wanting to haul you into my arms right now?”

  “If we’re able to ignore it, the temptation will eventually fade.”

  That raised his eyebrows. “If you believe that, I don’t know how you ever got to be a psychologist.”

  “I can do anything I make up my mind to do,” Amy said coolly.

  She’d just laid down a challenge. David smiled. He hadn’t felt like taking up any challenges for over a year, but he sure as hell meant to run with this one.

  Dear Reader,

  April may bring showers, but it also brings in a fabulous new batch of books from Silhouette Special Edition! This month treat yourself to the beginning of a brand-new exciting royal continuity, CROWN AND GLORY. We get the regal ball rolling with Laurie Paige’s delightful tale The Princess Is Pregnant! This romance is fair to bursting with passion and other temptations.

  I’m pleased to offer The Groom’s Stand-In by Gina Wilkins—a fascinating story that is sure to keep readers on the edge of their seats…and warm their hearts in the process. Peggy Webb is no stranger herself to heartwarming romance with the next installment of her miniseries THE WESTMORELAND DIARIES. In Force of Nature, a beautiful photojournalist encounters a primitive man in the wilderness and must find a way to tame his oh-so-wild heart.

  In The Man in Charge, Judith Lyons gives us a tender reunion romance where an endangered chancellor’s daughter finds herself being guarded by the man she’s never been able to forget—a rugged mercenary who’s about to learn he’s the father of their child! And in Wendy Warren’s new sensation Dakota Bride, readers will relish the theme of learning to love again, as a young widow dreams of love and marriage with a handsome stranger. In addition, you’ll find an intriguing case of mistaken identity in Jane Toombs’s Trouble in Tourmaline, where a world-weary lawyer takes a breather from his fast-paced life and finds his sights brightened by a lovely psychologist, who takes him for a gardener. You won’t want to put this story down!

  So kick back and enjoy the fantasy of falling in love, and be sure to return next month for another winning selection of emotionally satisfying and uplifting stories of love, life and family!

  Best,

  Karen Taylor Richman

  Senior Editor

  Trouble in Tourmaline

  JANE TOOMBS

  To:

  My son-in-law Steve, the lawyer My grand-nephew Dale, the psychologist My friend Denny, the psychiatrist My five-year-old violinist granddaughter, Kate

  Books by Jane Toombs

  Silhouette Special Edition

  Nobody’s Baby #1081

  Baby of Mine #1182

  Accidental Parents #1247

  Designated Daddy #1271

  Wild Mustang #1326

  Her Mysterious Houseguest #1391

  The Missing Heir #1432

  Trouble in Tourmaline #1464

  Silhouette Shadows

  Return to Bloodstone House #5

  Dark Enchantment #12

  What Waits Below #16

  The Volan Curse #35

  The Woman in White #50

  The Abandoned Bride #56

  Previously published under the pseudonym Diana Stuart

  Silhouette Special Edition

  Out of a Dream #353

  The Moon Pool #671

  Silhouette Desire

  Prime Specimen #172

  Leader of the Pack #238

  The Shadow Between #257

  JANE TOOMBS

  lives most of the year on the shore of Lake Superior in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula along with a man from her past and their crazy calico cat, Kinko. In the winter, though, they all defect to Florida for three months. In addition to writing, Jane enjoys knitting and gardening.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter One

  David Severin parked the Tourmaline Nursery truck he’d borrowed in front of his aunt Gert’s old Victorian home/office and began unloading lilac and forsythia shrubs. Late May being warm in the high desert of northern Nevada, he shed his T-shirt, wishing he’d put on shorts rather than jeans. He knew very well his psychiatrist aunt’s insistence that he do a complete revamp of her landscaping was no more than a psychological ploy to get him out sweating in the fresh air, but what the hell, at least she wasn’t trying to psychoanalyze him. Actually, he was enjoying the work as much as he’d enjoyed anything in the past year, so maybe she knew what she was doing.

  Yesterday he’d dug up an old hedge and hauled the scraggly looking shrubs away. Now he needed to dump some topsoil in the deep trench he’d had to dig and then put in these new ones. After he finished with the topsoil, David noticed a fine layer of dirt clinging to his sweaty torso, so he strode over to the hose and sprayed himself clean. He was shutting the water off when a woman’s voice said, “Excuse me.”

  Turning, he saw a stunning blonde in a pale blue suit that skimmed all the right places. She gazed at him with eyes as green as the forsythia leaves, asking, “Is this Dr. Severin’s office?”

  Realizing belatedly he’d been staring at her like a thirsty man at a cool drink, he gathered his wits. He figured she might be what Gert called a detail person from a drug company, wanting his aunt to try some new antidepressant, or she could be a patient. Either way, she was out of luck.

  He spoke brusquely to cover his momentary lapse. “The doctor isn’t in town, won’t be back for two days.”

  “Oh.” He could hear the disappointment in her voice.

  Maybe she was a patient, in which case he ought to try to help her. Reluctantly—he was definitely not ready to get even minimally involved with a woman right now—he muttered, “Is there anything I can do?”

  Her gaze drifted over him and she hesitated for a long moment. “Is there a good place in town to get a sandwich and a cold drink?”

  From out of town, then. Gert had quite a few patients who were. He hadn’t heard a car drive up earlier, so he glanced around, noticing a blue SUV parked so closely behind the nursery truck that he wasn’t sure they weren’t touching.

  “The best place is hard to find,” he said more gruffly than he intended, still wondering whether she had, in fact, hit the back of his truck.

  “I can follow directions.” Her tart tone amused him, snapping her back into focus.

  “This is a well hidden hole-in-the-wall. Easier to walk there from here than drive.”

  “I’m capable of walking.” This time her words held a definite edge, which, for some reason, made him ignore his uneasiness at being attracted to her.

  “Easier to show you than tell you,” he said.

  Amy Simon eyed the dark-haired man uncertainly as he grabbed a T-shirt from the porch railing and yanked it over his head. In the back of her mind she thought it was a shame to cover that muscular torso glistening with droplets of water. Definitely a hunk. No wonder she’d been mome
ntarily attracted—any woman would have been—until his brusque manner turned her off. Now he was practically ordering her to go with him to wherever the hole-in-the-wall was, something she didn’t care for, either. It reminded her unpleasantly of the psychologist who’d been monitoring her in L.A. Her grandmother would have called Dr. Smits a little tin god on wheels. Smits was a good part of the reason she’d opted to answer Dr. Severin’s ad for a psychologist.

  But this guy wasn’t Smits, and she was hungry and thirsty. A walk would do her good after the drive over here from her brother’s horse ranch in Carson Valley, where she’d spent the night. “Thank you,” she said finally. Hoping to pry a name out of him, she added, “I’m Amy, by the way.”

  “David,” he told her, and started down the sidewalk, away from where her car was parked.

  She followed, hurrying to keep up with him. David? She’d have thought a yard maintenance worker would go by something more macho, like Dave. Immediately she made a face. Shame on her, that was stereotyping, something she’d thought all those psych courses had taught her not to do.

  He strode along without talking. Strong silent type? More than likely he had nothing intelligent to say. Oops, more typecasting. Why did she keep downgrading the guy? Could it be because she didn’t want to acknowledge that he turned her on? But that would make her a snob, wouldn’t it? Deciding conversation would dispel such disturbing thoughts, Amy cleared her throat and asked, “Did you grow up in Tourmaline?”

  “No.”

  “Nevada?”

  “No.”

  Tamping down exasperation, she persisted. “Where, then?”

  “New Mexico.”

  End of conversation, as far as he was concerned, apparently. She lost count of the corners they’d turned when he finally stopped, turned and looked at her. His eyes, she noted, were as dark a blue as she’d ever seen. They revealed nothing.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She blinked, finally understanding he must mean why did she want to know where he grew up. “I was just making small talk,” she muttered.

  “This is it.” He gestured toward a green door. The sign over it read Tiny Tim’s. Opening the door, he waved her in ahead of him.

  Four minuscule tables were crowded into the small space inside. When they were seated at number two, the only empty one, David said, “Your turn.”

  To do what? Order? Talk? She shrugged.

  “What state?” he asked.

  Oh, where had she grown up. “Michigan,” she told him.

  “Not a real good way to start a conversation,” he said.

  “Whatcha having?” a gruff voice asked.

  Turning her head, she saw a bald man’s head framed in an open hatch on the side wall.

  “Got a special, Tim?” David asked.

  “Egg salad with alfalfa sprouts, mustard and pickle on rye.”

  David glanced at her and she nodded. It sounded sort of weird, but so was the day, so far. “Root beer’s good, they make it locally,” he added.

  Not what she’d usually order, but she decided to go with the flow. “Okay.”

  Tim’s head disappeared from view.

  “So what is your idea of a good conversation starter?” she asked David, trying to ignore how really small their table was. It was impossible to move without her feet or legs brushing against his, each touch heightening her awareness of the sizzle arcing between them.

  David looked across the table into her green eyes. Murdock, the senior partner of the law firm he used to be with, had green eyes. Murdock’s were a murky color, though, like his manipulations had turned out to be. Amy’s eyes were clear and filled with light, enhancing her heart-shaped face. No doubt about it, she was the prettiest woman he’d seen in a long time, with a lower lip that begged for… He forced his gaze away, telling himself he wasn’t going down that road. Even if the air between them was all but crackling with electricity.

  What had she asked him? Before he could bring it to mind, she spoke. “I’ve never been in favor of starting out by asking what someone does for a living. The emphasis then tends to be on what you do rather than what you’re like.”

  “Fine with me. So what do you think I’m like?”

  “You’re supposed to tell me.”

  He shook his head.

  “Table two, yours is ready,” Tim said from the open hatch.

  David rose, retrieved the tray from the shelf below the hatch, brought it back to the table and served them both, then slid the tray back onto the counter.

  He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed, washing it down with a slug of root beer. “I always figured people show enough of what they’re like, so you get clues,” he said. “Take you—I already know you don’t live in Tourmaline and that you’re an honest Midwesterner.”

  Amy’s laugh was unexpectedly deep, charming him against his will. “Where’d you get the idea Midwesterners were more honest than anyone else?”

  “From TV, where else?”

  She rolled her eyes. “All right, then, from clues I know you’re either a landscaper or that you work for one. But I certainly have no notion of whether New Mexicans are more or less honest that Midwesterners.”

  With Murdock in mind, his “Definitely less” came out tinged with bitterness, which vanished when the rest of what she’d said filtered in. This woman thought he was Gert’s yardman? He half smiled. Wasn’t she right in a sense? He hadn’t done any kind of work in more than a year other than mowing his aunt’s lawn and keeping the shrubs trimmed and the weeds under control. Why not play the part? Besides, he could use a little fun in his life.

  Without saying one way or the other whether Amy was right or wrong, David finished his sandwich and drink. Since she was through eating at about the same time, he gathered she really had been hungry.

  “You know, that weird sandwich wasn’t bad,” she told him. “And I haven’t had root beer in years. Thanks for letting me know about this place.” She reached into her purse and removed a wallet.

  David quelled his impulse to offer to pay for hers as well as his, deciding that Aunt Gert’s yardman wouldn’t. Dutch it’d be. He thought of Cal, the worker who’d helped him load the shrubs at the nursery. Though he didn’t own a baseball cap, he could adopt Cal’s swagger and mannerisms.

  “Rather have a beer,” he told Amy, getting out his own wallet, “but Tim doesn’t sell the stuff.”

  “Oh. Um, so do you have a dog?” she asked, another lame attempt at small talk with the handyman.

  Actually he’d just acquired a cat, a stray that had meowed so persistently at his apartment door one night a week ago that he’d let the animal in. When Gert saw her she told him the cat was pregnant. Soon he’d have kittens. A case of no good deed going unpunished.

  Cats and kittens didn’t suit the role he’d decided to play, so, remembering something Cal had said, David decided to use it. “Had two dogs,” he told her. “Rottweilers. Some rotten dipstick stole ’em right out of my pickup.”

  “What a shame.”

  “Yeah, you’d think they’d’ve put up a fight. Who ever heard of wimpy rottweilers? Just as well they’re gone.”

  He could tell by her quickly masked expression that he was rapidly turning her off. Which was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

  The bill taken care of, they left the café and walked back toward Aunt Gert’s.

  “You said Dr. Severin won’t be home for two days?” Amy asked.

  “That’s what she told me.”

  “I suppose I should have called ahead.”

  He stated the obvious, which she ought to know if she was a patient. “The doc works by the appointment system.”

  “Well, yes, but I was hoping…” She let the words trail off.

  Maybe she was a new patient and had hoped Gert could work her in. What could Amy’s problem be? She didn’t seem depressed, and he ought to know depression when he saw it—he was an expert.

  “I guess I’ll just stay over,” she said. “Is
there a quiet place in town?”

  An arousing mental picture of Amy naked in his bed tonight flashed into his head, but he resisted the temptation to tell her his apartment was about as quiet as it got. To banish the vision, he said tersely, “The local hotel’s not bad.”

  “What’s ‘not bad’ mean?”

  She never let anything alone, did she? “It’s old but clean. Serves a decent meal, and it’s quiet.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  She stopped and looked up at him. “Maybe you could just tell me.”

  Obviously he’d overdone the Cal routine. Now he was stuck with it. Deliberately ignoring her words, he said, “The hotel is up this way,” then took her elbow to turn her to the left, which was a mistake. He hadn’t actually touched her before, and, if he’d sensed the electricity between them in the café, he damn well felt it now.

  For a moment neither of them moved, then she jerked free, frowning at him.

  He gave her a one-sided smile. “Coming?”

  He thought she might not, but then she fell into step beside him. “Shouldn’t you get back to your job?”

  “Hey, it’s my lunch break.”

  The Cottonwood Hotel was in the next block and nothing more was said until they reached the front entrance. She stopped and peered inside. “It’s got slot machines,” she said accusingly. “That’s not quiet.”

  “Most commercial places in Nevada have slots. Take another look. You see anyone playing those machines?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “No smoking.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Gamblers are mostly smokers. Old Hathaway, who owns the place, won’t let anyone smoke inside his hotel. The hard-case gamblers go where they can.”

  Amy raised her eyebrows, hesitated, then said, “I suppose I can give it a try. Goodbye and thanks.” Without giving him a chance to respond, she pushed open the door to the lobby and slipped through it into the hotel.