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  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to another fabulous month of novels from Silhouette Desire. Our DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS continuity continues with Kristi Gold’s Mistaken for a Mistress. Ford Ashton sets out to find the truth about who really murdered his grandfather and believes the answers may lie with the man’s mistress—but who is Kerry Roarke really? USA TODAY bestselling author Jennifer Greene is back with a stellar novel, Hot to the Touch. You’ll love this wounded veteran hero and the feisty female whose special touch heals him.

  TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: THE SECRET DIARY presents its second installment with Less-than-Innocent Invitation by Shirley Rogers. It seems this millionaire rancher has to keep tabs on his ex-girlfriend by putting her up at his Texas spread. Oh, poor girl…trapped with a sexy—wealthy—cowboy! There’s a brand-new KING OF HEARTS book by Katherine Garbera as the mysterious El Rey’s matchmaking attempts continue in Rock Me All Night. Linda Conrad begins a compelling new miniseries called THE GYPSY INHERITANCE, the first of which is Seduction by the Book. Look for the remaining two novels to follow in September and October. And finally, Laura Wright winds up her royal series with Her Royal Bed. There’s lots of revenge, royalty and romance to be enjoyed.

  Thanks for choosing Silhouette Desire. In the coming months be sure to look for titles by authors Peggy Moreland, Annette Broadrick and the incomparable Diana Palmer.

  Happy reading!

  Melissa Jeglinski

  Senior Editor

  Silhouette Desire

  Hot to the Touch

  JENNIFER GREENE

  Published by Silhouette Books

  Americas’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance

  SILHOUETTE BOOKS

  ISBN 1-55254-341-2

  HOT TO THE TOUCH

  Copyright © 2005 by Alison Hart

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  Visit Silhouette Books at www.eHarlequin.com

  Books by Jennifer Greene

  Silhouette Desire

  Body and Soul #263

  Foolish Pleasure #293

  Madam’s Room #326

  Dear Reader #350

  Minx #366

  Lady Be Good #385

  Love Potion #421

  The Castle Keep #439

  Lady of the Island #463

  Night of the Hunter #481

  Dancing in the Dark #498

  Heat Wave #553

  Slow Dance #600

  Night Light #619

  Falconer #671

  Just Like Old Times #728

  It Had To Be You #756

  Quicksand #786

  *Bewitched #847

  *Bothered #855

  *Bewildered #861

  A Groom for Red Riding Hood #893

  Single Dad #931

  Arizona Heat #966

  †The Unwilling Bride #998

  †Bachelor Mom #1046

  Nobody’s Princess #1087

  A Baby in His In-Box #1129

  Her Holiday Secret #1178

  The Honor Bound Groom #1190

  **Prince Charming’s Child #1225

  **Kiss Your Prince Charming #1245

  §Rock Solid #1316

  Millionaire M.D. #1340

  ††Wild in the Field #1545

  ††Wild in the Mooonlight #1588

  ††Wild in the Moment #1622

  Hot to the Touch #1670

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Secrets #221

  Devil’s Night #305

  Broken Blossom #345

  Pink Topaz #418

  Silhouette Special Edition

  †The 200% Wife #1111

  Silhouette Books

  Birds, Bees and Babies 1990

  “Riley’s Baby”

  Santa’s Little Helpers 1995

  “Twelfth Night”

  Fortune’s Children

  The Baby Chase

  Gifts of Fortune

  “The Christmas House”

  Harlequin NEXT

  Lucky #2

  *Jock’s Boys

  †The Stanford Sisters

  §Body & Soul

  **Happily Ever After

  ††The Scent of Lavender

  JENNIFER GREENE

  lives near Lake Michigan with her husband and two children. Before writing full-time, she worked as a teacher and a personnel manager. Michigan State University honored her as an “outstanding woman graduate” for her work with women on campus.

  Ms. Greene has written more than fifty category romances, for which she has won numerous awards, including two RITA® Awards from the Romance Writers of America in the Best Short Contemporary Books category, and a Career Achievement Award from Romantic Times magazine.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  COMING NEXT MONTH

  One

  R espect was a touchy issue for Phoebe Schneider. She’d been a skilled physical therapist for several years, and since no one had twisted her arm and forced her to become a masseuse, it was pretty crazy to complain. Maybe a lot of guys assumed that being a masseuse meant she was loose as a goose, but guys, by their hormonal nature, always indulged in wishful thinking.

  At twenty-eight, Phoebe knew perfectly well how the world worked. She just had a little hot spot about the respect thing…say, the size of a mountain.

  Today, though, was one of those rare, fabulous days when Phoebe felt so great about her job that any price she had to pay was worth it.

  From the windows of the Gold River Hospital conference room, the Smokies loomed in the distance. The mountains were still shawled in snow, the wind still February sharp, but inside, the temperature was toasty. The pediatrics neurologist, pediatrics head and ICU nurse rubbed elbows at the table. Phoebe wasn’t just the youngest of the group, but distinctly the only masseuse.

  What tickled her pride bone most, though, was that they were all listening to her. Of course, they’d better—because when the subject was babies, Phoebe was known to fight down and dirty.

  “We’ve been through this before. The problem,” she said firmly, “is that you’re all looking for an illness. A pathology. Some kind of disease you can fix. But when you’ve ruled out all those possibilities, you have to look at other choices.” She clicked her mouse, which changed the screen image on the far wall to that of a three-month-old baby. “George isn’t sick. George is cold.”

  “Cold—” Dr. Reynolds started to interrupt.

  “I meant emotionally cold.” She clicked the mouse again, showing a picture from the day the bab
y had been brought into the hospital. A nurse was lifting George from a crib. The baby was indistinguishable from an inanimate doll, because his little arms and legs were as rigid as stone. “You already know his history. Found in a closet, half-starved. A birth mother incapable of mothering or even basic care. This was simply a baby who was born into a world so hostile that he had no concept of emotional connection.”

  She showed the next series of slides, illustrating the changes over the last month since she’d started working with the baby. Finally she ended the presentation—which ended her consulting job for this group, as well. “My recommendation is that you not place George in a regular foster care situation for a while yet. We think of bonding as a natural human need, but George’s situation is more complex than that. If you want this little angel to make it, we need him connected 24/7 to a warm, human body—and I mean that literally. We have to force him to trust, because even at this young age, he has learned to survive by tuning out. He simply won’t take the chance of trusting anyone—unless we put him in a situation where he’s forced to.”

  Halfway through the meeting, the social worker tiptoed in late. Phoebe saw skepticism in the neurologist’s face, dubiousness in the social worker’s. She didn’t mind. The docs wanted to be able to prescribe medicine that would promptly fix the baby. The social worker wanted to foster the baby out and get him off her hands.

  Everybody wanted easy answers. Phoebe could only seem to come up with time-consuming, expensive and inconvenient answers, which not only regularly annoyed everyone, but also tended to go down harder because they came from an upstart, redheaded, five-foot, three-inch baby masseuse.

  No one ever heard of a baby masseuse when she came to Gold River. No one ever heard of it in Asheville, either, where she’d started out. Heaven knew, she’d never wanted to create a job that didn’t exist. But darn it, she’d kept running across throwaway babies that the system had only lazy, lousy, inadequate answers for. It wasn’t her fault that her unorthodox ideas worked. It wasn’t her fault she fought like a shrew for the little ones, either.

  When it came down to it, maybe she’d just found her calling. Yelling and arguing seemed to come to her naturally.

  When the meeting broke up around four, the powers that be tore out as if released from prison. Phoebe started humming under her breath—she’d won the program for Baby George—further proof that it paid to be a shrew. And now, because the meeting ended early, she could get home and give the dogs a run before dinner.

  She pushed on her shoes, grabbed her black-sashed jacket, but she couldn’t take off until she put on some lip gloss. Talking always made her lips dry. She found at least a half-dozen glosses and lipsticks in the dark depths of her bag, but she wanted the raspberry gloss that went with her sweater. And then…

  “Ms. Schneider? Phoebe Schneider?”

  She spun around, the tube of raspberry gloss still open in her hand. Two men stood in the double doorway—in fact, the two of them blocked the entrance with the effectiveness of a Mack truck. Positively they weren’t hospital staff. For sure Gold River Memorial Hospital had some adorable doctors, but she knew none with barn-beam shoulders and lumberjack muscles.

  “Yeah, I’m Phoebe.”

  When they immediately charged toward her, she had to control the impulse to bolt. Obviously they couldn’t help being giants, any more than she could help being undersize. It wasn’t their fault they were sexy lugs, either, from their sandy hair to their sharp, clean-cut looks to their broody dark eyes…any more than she could help having the personality of a bulldog. Or so some said. Personally, Phoebe thought she was pretty darn nice. Under certain circumstances. When she had time. “I take it you’re looking for me.”

  The tallest one—the one in the serious gray suit—answered first. “Yeah. We want to hire you for our brother.”

  “Your brother,” she echoed. She got the lip gloss capped, just in time to drop it. The one in the sweatshirt and jeans hunkered down to retrieve it for her.

  “Yes. I’m Ben Lockwood, and this is my brother Harry.”

  “Lockwood? As in Lockwood Restaurant?” The town of Gold River had lots of restaurants, but none as posh as Lockwood’s. For that matter, the Lockwood name had an automatic association to old money and old gold, which was probably why Phoebe had never run into them before.

  Ben, the one in the suit, answered first. “Yeah. That’s Harry’s place. He’s the chef in the family. I’m the builder. And our youngest brother is Fergus. He’s the one we want to hire you for.”

  Phoebe felt a familiar wearisome thud in her stomach. Guys. Looking to hire a masseuse. For another guy. One plus one invariably added up to someone thinking she hired out for services above and beyond massaging.

  Still, she didn’t waste time getting defensive, just gathered her gear and headed out. The men trailed after her down the hall toward the east entrance. Harry grabbed her box of slides—which tried to tip when she pushed open the door. “I don’t know why you two didn’t just call. I’m listed. And then I could have told you right off that I only work with babies.”

  Ben had a ready answer. “We didn’t call because we were afraid you’d brush us off. And we know you work with little kids and babies now, but the hospital said you were a licensed physical therapist, the best they’d ever seen. Fox is in a special situation. So we hoped you might consider making an exception for him.”

  There was no way she was taking on an adult male. None. Phoebe wasn’t short on courage, but her heart had been smashed too hard from a close encounter with the wrong kind. She would take another chance. Sometime in the next decade. But for now, the only risks she willingly took were for babies.

  None of that was any of their business, of course. She just told them she was booked up the wazoo for months—which had the effect of swatting a fly. Ignoring her protest completely, they trailed her through the parking lot like puppies—giant, overgrown puppies—carrying her bags and boxes, picking up the stuff she dropped, flanking her like bodyguards.

  Typical of February in North Carolina—at least in the mountains—evening was falling faster than a stone. The afternoon’s brisk wind had turned noisy and blustery, and the clouds were puffing in hard now. In another month or so, magnolias and rhododendron would furiously flower on the elegant hospital grounds, but right now, even the sentinel oaks weren’t gutsy enough to leaf out yet. The wind shivered through her long auburn braid, teasing at the ribbon wrapped through it and threatening to unravel it.

  The guys were starting to unravel her, too—but not for the reasons she’d first feared. By the time they reached her old white van in the third row, she had the ghastly feeling that she’d fallen totally in love with both of them. They looked at her as if she were a goddess. That helped. They treated her as if she were a hero. She liked that, too. Mostly, though, she had a strong sixth sense about predators. These two were just plain good guys. How was she supposed to resist that?

  “Ben, Harry…look. I don’t know if the hospital misled you, but I don’t do any regular physical therapy anymore. I just don’t have time. And besides that, if your brother has some kind of special problems, I have no qualifications to help him.”

  “Yeah, well, Fox has been to tons of people with blue-ribbon qualifications. Doctors. Psychiatrists. Specialized physical therapists. Hell, we even brought in a priest and we’re not Catholic.” Ben made the joke but then couldn’t pull off a smile. “We have to try something different. We’re losing our brother. We need some fresh ideas, a different outlook. If you’d just take a look at him—”

  Sometime over the next ten minutes. Phoebe picked up that the Lockwood brothers regularly referred to themselves as animals. Ben was Bear. Harry was Moose. And they called their youngest brother Fox.

  She loved animals. Wild or tame. And the Lockwood brothers had clearly dropped their jobs and lives to come here and gang up on her, which said something about how much they loved their brother. “Honest to Pete, I’m telling you straight, I
can’t help you. I would if I could.”

  “Just come and meet him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “We haven’t explained what he’s been through yet. At least listen. And then if you can’t help, you can’t. We’re just asking you to try.”

  “Guys. I can’t.”

  “Just one shot. A few minutes. We’ll pay you five hundred bucks for a half hour, how’s that? I swear, if you decide you can’t help him after that, we’ll never bug you again. You have our word.”

  My God. They wheedled and whined and charmed and bribed. Phoebe rarely met anyone who could outstubborn her, but these two were beyond blockheaded. Still. If she took on one adult patient, it would open the door to being asked again. And that wasn’t worth the risk.

  “I’m sorry, guys, but no,” she said firmly.

  At seven o’clock that night, Phoebe flipped the gearshift in reverse and barreled out of her driveway. “I don’t want to hear any grief,” she told the dogs sharing the passenger seat. “A woman has a right to change her mind.”

  Neither Mop nor Duster argued. As long as they got to ride in the van with their noses out the window, they never cared what she said.

  “You two just stick by me. If something feels hinky, then we’ll all take off together. Got it?”

  Again, neither mutt responded. Even after two years, Phoebe wasn’t dead positive who’d rescued whom. The two pint-size dirty-white mop heads had shown up at her back door when she first moved to Gold River. They’d been scrawny and matted and starved. Throwaways. Yet ever since they’d acted as if she was the throwaway and they were the benevolent adopters. It boggled the mind.

  “The brothers really were okay. I know, I know, they were men. And who can trust anyone stuck with all that testosterone? But really, the situation isn’t what I first thought. Their brother sounds as if he’s in rough shape. So even if I can’t do anything, it just seemed heartless to keep saying no.”