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his palm, her hand felt small and warm and tense.
    “You don’t look anything like your picture.” He gave her his best Cheshire cat grin.
    “My p-picture?” She seemed a little disconcerted by that. Perhaps more than the situation warranted. In fact, she looked alarmed.
    He set that thought aside as his mind went to the sketch Taylor had drawn. No spiky orange hair, no beady black eyes, no wart, no scar. And her tah-tahs were most definitely not shrunken prunes. Although, he didn’t think he’d mind nibbling on them if he got the chance.
    “I don’t mean I’ve seen your photograph,” he said, holding her hand captive. She looked relieved, but wary. “It’s more that my brother is an artist of sorts, quite famous in his own way.”
    “An artist? Would I have heard of him?”
    “Oh no. He works with the police a lot. Draws those renderings you see in the papers, you know, from witness’s descriptions.”
    “Oh. Criminals. He draws criminals. And, you say he drew a picture of me?” She actually looked frightened. When she tried to withdraw her hand, he didn’t let go.
    Ms. Tremaine seemed more confused by the minute. Wide-eyed and innocent, she looked so soft and sweet. . . . But hang on a minute , he told himself. This was the woman who hated his books and wrote heinous reviews and aberrant e-mails.
    He scooted a little closer, preparing to swoop in for the kill, when she raised her face to look up at him. The sarcastic words died on his lips.
    Elizabeth Tremaine’s driver’s license probably stated her eye color as hazel. But hazel didn’t begin to cover it. Her eyes were like shards of colored glass, green and gold and aquamarine. Those intelligent eyes were large and thickly fringed with dark lashes. Something he couldn’t name shone from them, and Soldier felt his heart poised to dive into their depths, and drown there.
    Delicate brows arched in expectation. Her soft lips parted as though she were about to speak. Or be kissed.
    “Sketch a picture of you?” Soldier gave himself a mental shake. “Uh, yes he did. He’s a devout reader of the Port Henry Ledger . As am I.”
    Her brows snapped together and she blinked. Disbelief was written all over her face. She was probably lousy at poker, her every thought and emotion plain for all to see. He suddenly found himself wondering what her face would look like when she came. When her back was arched and her lips parted as she softly gasped his name . . .
    “You. Read . . . the—” she stuttered. “You read the Ledger ?” Never taking her eyes from his, she shook her head from side to side, as though in denial. When she pulled her hand away this time, he let it go. “What did you say your name was?”
    Soldier smiled. The moment had arrived on a sleigh with little golden bells ringing with glee. Payback. It was going to be a pleasure.
    “I neglected to introduce myself earlier, didn’t I?” It wasn’t a question, and his quiet voice must have alerted her, for she gave him a guarded smile.
    Taking her hand in his once again, he gave it a warm shake of greeting. “Then allow me to remedy that right now. My name is McKennitt. Jackson . . . Soldier . . . McKennitt.”
    A look of sheer panic crossed her face. She squeaked and tried to pull her hand away, but he held on tightly, incarcerating her fingers between his palms.
    “I believe we have corresponded recently, ma’am.” He grinned, and knew it was his most evil. “Most people call me Soldier, except for my brother, who calls me Jack. Of course, you could call me ‘ Detritus ,’ but that sounds more like a cruel Roman emperor bent on vengeance, don’t you think?”

Chapter 3
     
     
    O h . . . my . . . God. Save for those three words, Betsy’s mind went blank.
    J. Soldier McKennitt, face-to-face, here and now, and he was her partner for the writing exercise. And he was gorgeous and he was sexy and he was young and his eyes, his eyes . . .
    Oh . . . my . . . God.
    All she could think of