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her body through the skirt and blouse. “I wasthinking,” he told her in a distracted tone, “that I’ll skip all the bargaining and offer you five thousand dollars for the Fiesta. This is very important to me. Please,” he said softly. “You could complete my collection.”
    “Me?” she questioned impishly. Sweet heaven, Callie thought. For a second she’d actually wished she was what he was talking about. “I thought you collected cars.”
    “That too,” he said seriously. “A real collector never turns down a choice item, Callie Carmichael, even if it’s something he’s never collected before.”

Three
    Matt geared the Corvette down to a respectable speed on the mountain road, and wondered who was more surprised at his decision to skip the company’s weekly staff meeting and drive back to Sweet Valley—Phil, the secretaries, or himself. Breaking his own unwritten law, he’d turned the meeting over to his partner and taken off. He’d gone against everything in his conservative, serious nature by doing that.
    But Callie Carmichael was different from anyone his conservative, serious nature had encountered before. She was not only sexy, but also down-to-earth and outrageous, different from any woman he’d dated, and certainly different from the woman who’d shared his name until a few years ago.
    Callie disdained money and routine comforts, which amazed him. And she seemed to have some inner secret for living. That fact intrigued him. She’d threatenedhim, kissed him, and filled his heart with her laughter. He was more convinced than ever that she was a witch who’d cast a spell over him. He knew very little about her, and he intended to find out more.
    Matt grinned. Somewhere along the line she’d formed a bad opinion of wealthy men. Maybe he’d teach her a lesson about making impetuous assumptions. Obviously he couldn’t deal with her on a normal basis. If money and charm wouldn’t change her mind about the Fiesta, he knew exactly what he intended to barter for the car. Himself.
    “Callie? Caroline Carmichael? Are you home?”
    The deep male voice blended into Callie’s thoughts as she stretched grapevines onto a rack behind the house. She dropped her garden shears. Matt Holland. Callie started running, filled with an excitement that shocked her. She heard noises, then Matt’s voice again.
    “Get back inside that fence!” he yelled. “Don’t you come a step closer, William. I’ll … William, you pain in the—William, don’t you lay a horn on my car.
William!
”
    Callie rounded the house in time to see William plant his feet and make a running attempt to remove Matt’s shiny white Corvette from its spot in front of the herb garden.
    William’s head hit the grille with a thud. He stopped, shook his body, and revved up for another try. The second assault was more damaging. By the time Callie reached the road William had bent the grille into the radiator and water was puddling beneaththe Corvette. One headlight was cracked, and there was a long scratch down the driver’s side.
    Callie gasped. Matt was furious. He stood in the driver’s seat, out of William’s way, his fists clenched as he looked from his prize automobile to William and back again. William seemed to be smiling in defiance. Matt was casually dressed—casual by his standards, she assumed—in sharply creased designer jeans and a yellow sports shirt. Callie thought he looked like a yuppie admiral sinking with his Corvette ship.
    “Is this your idea of an apology for last week, you contemptible, smelly little bastard?” Matt asked William. “Has anyone ever told you that in some parts of this state the Jaycees hold goat barbecues?”
    William’s retort was something between the whinny of a horse and the traditional baa of the black sheep. His mouth moved as if he were chewing with great boredom. He ambled away. Callie walked slowly up to the Corvette.
    “Matt. Oh, Matt. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong