Patrick Hunter was a strange person. A total enigma… She couldn’t tell when he was teasing and when he was serious. He seemed altogether too casual about his responsibilities. And she didn’t like being tweaked on the nose in such an offhand manner.

Two hours later Megan was smiling at the little boy sleeping in her arms and wondering why it had taken her so long to discover babies. They were terrific. Timmy was especially terrific- even if he had howled for ages. He had soft blond curls, big blue eyes, and blond eyelashes. His chubby cheeks were flushed in sleep, his pink bow mouth slightly pouted, and his dimpled hand was resting against her breast. She’d pulled the Boston rocker directly in front of the huge brick fireplace, built a blazing inferno, and rocked the child to sleep. The fire had burned itself down to glowing embers, and her arms were stiff from holding the little boy, but she couldn’t bring herself to disturb him.

The moment Pat opened the door and saw Megan, he knew he was a goner. Everything about her seemed softened. The flame – red hair was now burnished copper, the ivory skin more golden. She wore a black vest that laced down the front and the scoop – necked, shirred white blouse of a colonial working girl. The costume enhanced the elegant slope of her neck and shoulders and the luscious swell of her breasts.

He’d liked the way she looked in his kitchen, but he was overwhelmed by the sight of her in his rocking chair. She was the most provocative creature he’d ever encountered. Patrick, he warned himself, she’s not the sort to mess with. This was a woman with strong convictions, intense emotions, and morals. Dammit. She had “hands off” written all over her.

He walked over to her and pushed a long, silky strand of hair behind her ear. He wanted to continue touching her until his hands had memorized every square inch of satiny skin.

She looked at him drowsily. “I think my arm is dead.”