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perfume.”
    â€œI think it’s very appropriate.” She lifted her wrist and brushed it in a slow, sensuous caress against his beard-shadowed cheek, knowing by the way his nostrils flared that he was inhaling the seductive scent. She ran her tongue along her kiss-ripened lower lip. “Don’t you think so?”
    â€œI think,” he said firmly, taking another step back from her, “that I’d better get home. It’s chore time, and I still have a yard full of people from New Jersey to see to.”
    â€œOh. Well, if you’re sure.” She allowed herself a tiny smile as she glanced down and tightened the sash of her kimono. This day wasn’t turning out so bad after all. She looked up as Ry started for the bedroom door. “Rylan?”
    The look he shot her with his stormy gray-green eyes bordered on suspicious. “What?”
    She gave him a genuine smile. “I’m glad we’re friends again.”
    â€œMe too,” he said, although he had the distinct feeling they had just declared an odd kind of war. It was a ridiculous idea, he told himself, and immediately dismissed it. It was his plan, he was in control of the situation. He turned and took a step before her voice stopped him again.
    â€œRy?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBetter button your shirt, darlin’. You’ll give Miss Emma palpitations. She’s hot for your bod, you know.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the look he gave her as he took her advice. “It’s true!”
    Ry’s voice rang with disapproval. “Miss Emma is a sweet little seventy-some-year-old lady—”
    â€œâ€”who has eyes for a big strappin’ man.” Maggie waggled her eyebrows suggestively and held back her laughter as Ry blushed with embarrassment.
    â€œGood evening, Mary Margaret,” he said in a tone that hinted at exasperation.
    She waved to him as he walked out. “Good night,
friend.
”
    Maggie listened as Ry’s boots clomped down the hall and descended the stairs. She sat on the ledge of her window and watched him walk away from the house to his blue-and-gray pickup truck.
    He was rough around the edges, but he had the makings of a real fine man. Her man.
    â€œI’ll get you to love me, Rylan Quaid,” she said with quiet determination, “or die trying.”

THREE
    T HAT SHE WAS going to die trying was beginning to look like a definite possibility.
    Maggie stood in the wide aisle of Quaid Farm’s main barn looking up, up, up at the horse she had so cavalierly said she would ride. It was all a part of her brilliant—but seriously flawed—plan: Ry was more likely to fall in love with her if they spent a lot of time together. It followed that he would be impressed if they spent some of that time enjoying his favorite pursuits. He loved to ride; therefore, she would love to ride. But that was where the plan hit a snag.
    Maggie didn’t love to ride. Horses terrified her. The few experiences she’d had with the beasts had been unpleasant. She hadn’t even liked riding the merry-go-round as a child. Once, at a fair in Norfolk, her father had taken her to the pony ring. The pony she was to ride had taken one look at her, pinned back its little ears, and bit her. These were memories that had remained conveniently buried in her sub conscious when she had suggested to Rylan that they go riding together. They all came rushing to the fore now that she was standing next to the big brown gelding Ry had selected for her.
    â€œWhat’s his name?” she asked as he snugged up the girth on her saddle.
    He tugged on a billet strap, dropped the saddle flap down, and gave the horse an affectionate smack on the side. “Killer.”
    Maggie’s face dropped. In a voice as thin as gossamer she asked, “Why?”
    Ry rolled his eyes as he started across the aisle toward his own mount. “It’s a misnomer, a joke. It’s