And in it was Freddie Crossman.

Freddie of the tumbling hair and the flowered nightgown. Freddie of the hip-hugging jeans and laughing eyes. He parked round the back, got out of the car and tapped on the kitchen door.

He could see her through the curtains behind the panes of glass. She didn’t look surprised, just concerned as she opened the door. He turned on his best Montana cowboy grin. “Saw your sign. B &B. Full breakfast. Fifteen pounds. Sounds good to me.”

Freddie’s eyes got huge. She started to shut the door. “Oh, but-”

“You’re not full.” He was positive about that.

“No, but-”

“I like rabbits,” he assured her. He tried to look boyishly charming. “And kids.” He could see two now peeking from around the corner of the dining room door. “And,” he added honestly, “I like you, Freddie Crossman.”

“Oh, dear.” Her hand went to her breast, as if it might protect her.

Now that he’d seen her again-beautiful and bright and tempting in spite of herself-Gabe could have told her: nothing would.

She let him in.

What else could she do?

Freddie had told herself all day long that she’d exaggerated her awareness of him, that she’d been overwrought by the elusive bunny yesterday and that was why the hairs on the back of her neck had stood at attention, that was why his soft Montana accent tantalized her, that was why she’d felt the same sort of zing somewhere in the region of her heart that she’d felt when she’d first met Mark. It wouldn’t last, she’d assured herself.

She was wrong.

Gabe McBride had every bit the same disastrous effect on her equilibrium and good sense tonight that he’d had earlier. She was a damn fool for opening her door to him.

But she had no choice.