Chapter One
"He can't be single," Mary Margaret McSwain said, adjusting the focus on her binoculars as she peered at the store across the street. "He's too good-looking. It's McSwain's Law: If a man's gorgeous, he has to be married, gay, or a serial killer."
Zoe Baylor shoved a book of wallpaper samples out of her way and leaned across the oak table, bracing her long dark hands against the window frame as she tried to get a better look without benefit of magnifying lenses.
"Mary Margaret," Katie Quaid called in a warning tone as she struggled in the back door of the store, her tiny frame weaving under the weight of books of drapery swatches. After the day she'd had, she wouldn't have refused a hand, but her friends seemed too preoccupied to offer. "I don't want to hear another one of your stories about serial killers. Mrs. Pruitt changed her mind again about the color of the guest room. If you describe to me one more brutal way to do away with somebody, no one is liable to find Mrs. Pruitt for a long, long time."
Katie dropped the drapery samples on her desk with a horrendous crash. Neither of the women staring out the window so much as flinched. The tip of Zoe's nose dotted the plate glass in front of her like that of a hungry kid looking in a bakery window. Katie's business partner, known as Maggie to her friends, was kneeling on her chair, her well-rounded bottom sticking up as she leveled a pair of binoculars at some point across the street.
"Maggie, what on earth are you doing?" Katie asked. She knew her friend already had a solidly established reputation for being a flake. Spying on people with binoculars was not going to improve matters.
"I'm spying on the Adonis in the store across the street." Maggie sighed and moaned, never lowering her binoculars. "Haven't you heard? That old building was sold two days ago."
"Who bought it?"
Maggie sat back with her legs tucked under her and offered the binoculars to Katie, deftly untangling the neck strap from the ends of her bobbed red hair. The smile that tilted her mouth was challenging. "See for yourself."
Katie rolled her eyes and propped a fist on her slender hip. "I will not stoop to window peeping."
"Chicken."
Muttering under her breath, Katie grabbed the field glasses from her friend and raised them to her eyes. Would she always be such a sucker for a dare? Probably. It had something to do with being only five feet one and seven-eighths inches tall. Being the first one to take a dare had always been her way of compensating for her lack of stature. That she was twenty-seven and had long since considered herself a grown woman had no effect on the trait.
"If this isn't the silliest thing you've . . ." The rest of her breath washed out of her on the softest of sighs as she focused the binoculars.
The dark T-shirt might have been painted on him. Even looking through the window of her store and the bay window of the store across the street, Katie could see the outline of his chest muscles, a wide expanse of hard, rippling pectorals. He was dancing as he washed the inside of the window. His breathtaking chest tapered to a narrow waist, and then to hips that were gently gyrating in time to the tune he was listening to on his headphones. He had the kind of body that was made for faded jeans—a flat belly, a perfectly rounded male fanny, slim hips, and muscular thighs.
Before Katie could dwell on any other part of his lower anatomy, she jerked the glasses up to his face. She might have lost her breath again, except she hadn't been breathing. Inky black hair tumbled onto his forehead, lending his male beauty a roguish quality. Maggie hadn't been far wrong calling him an Adonis. His was the kind of face ancient Greek sculptors would have fought over to immortalize in marble.
"His name is Nick Leone," Maggie said, as if it were the most dangerously mysterious name she'd ever heard. "He's from New Jersey. Lee Henry Bartell heard it from Dee Roberts, the real estate agent who sold him the property."
"What's he doing in Briarwood?" Zoe asked suspiciously. In a nervous habit she ran a forefinger back and forth over the plastic name tag on her nurse's uniform.
Katie forced herself to plunk the binoculars down on the table, embarrassed over her own involuntary reaction to the handsome stranger. She was no drooling man watcher; she had a business to run. "He must not know about the law against people from New Jersey moving to Virginia," she said in a teasing voice.
Zoe was too wrapped up in her musings to hear. "I thought he sounded like a Yankee," she murmured.
Maggie jumped on the comment like a cat on a june bug. "You heard him talk? You met him? Where? What's he like? He doesn't have a funny voice, does he? That would just ruin it for me if he had a funny voice. Where'd you see him?"
A horrified look came over Zoe's long, thin face. "Nowhere."
"The hospital." Maggie nodded, her brown eyes narrowing in thought. "Hmmm, that's interesting. What was he there for?"
"Maggie!" Zoe exclaimed. "You know I can't talk about patients. It's not ethical."
"And it's none of your business, Mary Margaret," Katie added pointedly. "Have you called in the order for that grass paper John Harris wants in his office?"
"Yes. You know what the rumor is about him?"
"I don't want to hear any rumors about John Harris," Katie said, deliberately misinterpreting Maggie's question. She had a feeling the less she knew about the gorgeous arrangement of masculinity across the street, the better off she'd be. She scooped a couple of wallpaper books off the long table and returned them to their proper slots in the oak case along the wall.
"Not John Harris, Nick Leone!"
"Lord, Mary Margaret, the man hasn't been in town a week, and already there's gossip about him?" Katie pulled out a book of miniature country prints and headed for her desk. "I wonder if he knows what he's in for, moving to a small town."
"Rumor has it he's a mole." She raised her carefully plucked eyebrows for emphasis.
Katie ignored her, sitting down to page through the book, concentrating on paisley prints in order to get her mind off perfect male pectorals. Zoe shrugged. "I don't get it."
Maggie heaved a sigh. "A spy for the Company, an agent for the CIA. You know, double O, licensed to kill. They're called moles. Don't you ever go to the movies?"
"The CIA," Zoe whispered, rubbing her name tag. "I heard he was a fashion model."
"Oh, please," Katie said, laughing at her friends' wild imaginations. "I don't know which one of you is worse. Maggie, how can you make such a ridiculous remark?"
"I'm only telling you what I heard, sugar. Lee Henry told me that Dee said the man was very reluctant to discuss himself, and when she asked him what he used to do up in New Jersey, he wouldn't exactly say."
"That's all?" Katie questioned, trying to suppress a grin. "Lee Henry didn't see him talking into the secret phone in the heel of his shoe?"
Zoe muttered to herself, "So that's how he came by that gunshot wound."
"Gunshot wound!" Maggie bolted out of her chair to lean across the table and over her friend.
"Oh, damn! Don't tell anyone I told you!"
"A gunshot wound. What do you have to say about that, Katie Quaid?"
Katie wouldn't have shown her surprise at the news for anything. She kept her eyes glued to the flowered paper in front of her. "He was probably shot by some flighty woman who heard a wild rumor he was a secret agent. Maybe he had a hunting accident. Maybe he's a retired police officer. Maybe—"
"—we should find out for ourselves," Maggie interrupted smoothly, lifting the binoculars to her eyes again. She zoomed them in on Katie. "I'm leaning toward the story that he's in the federal witness-protection program. But in the interest of truth, I vote Katie our official ambassador and spy."
"I second," Zoe said, nodding enthusiastically as she caught Maggie's wink.
"Nominations cease. Go check him out, Katie."
"Don't be absurd." She shot Maggie a look from beneath lowered brows. They had been friends since their freshman year at William and Mary. Katie had no doubt that Maggie had caught her automatic response to Nick Leone and had decided to exercise her self-appointed role of fairy godmother.
"What? Are you scared? Do you secretly believe he's a double agent?" Maggie asked, pushing all the right buttons inside Katie without the slightest compunction. "I dare you to go find out."
Nick was happily lost in thought as he washed the dirt off the panes of the bay window. Wash, rinse, polish dry, move a little to the tunes from his favorite musical group—what a great life. Not many guys _thirty-_two years old were able to say they were living out one of their life dreams. He hadn't made it big on Broadway—that had been his first dream—but he'd given it his best shot. His second dream had been to start his own restaurant in a small, quiet town. He'd signed the papers on the beginning of that dream two days ago.
A lot of people thought he was nuts. His friends back home had been sure he would be massacred by wild men if he moved to Virginia. They had seemed genuinely uncertain as to whether Briarwood, Virginia, had as yet benefited from electricity and indoor plumbing.
As far as Nick was concerned, Briarwood had it all over any big city. He had been born and raised in Atlantic City and had spent much of his ...
