It had been amusing to look at baby pictures of C.C., to view, through snapshots, her growing up from toddler to woman. She had been incredibly

cute in pigtails and a missing tooth.

During the second hour, his alarm bells had sounded. Coco had begun to pump him none too subtly about his views on marriage, children, relationships. It was then he'd realized that behind Coco's soft, misty eyes ticked a sharp, calculating brain.

She wasn't trying to sell the house but to auction off one of her nieces. And apparently C.C. was the front-runner, with him preselected as the highest bidder. Well, the Calhoun women were in for a rude awakening, Trent determined. They were going to have to look elsewhere on the marriage market for a suitable candidate—and good luck to him.

And the St. Jameses would have the house, Trent promised himself. By damn they would, with no strings or wedding veils attached.

He started down the steep, winding drive in a controlled fury. When he caught the sound of his own voice as he muttered to himself, Trent decided that he would take a long, calming drive. Perhaps to Aca-dia National Park where Lilah worked as a naturalist. Divide and conquer, he thought. He would seek out each of the women in their own work space and rattle their beautiful chains.

Lilah seemed to be receptive, he thought. Any one of them would be more so that C.C. Amanda appeared to be sensible. He was certain Suzanna was a reasonable woman.

What had gone wrong with sister number four?

But he found himself heading down to the village, past Suzanna's fledgling landscape and garden business, past the BayWatch Hotel. When he drove up to CC.'s garage, he told himself that was what he'd meant to do all along.

He would start with her, the sharpest thom in his side. And when he was done, she would have no illusions about trapping him into marriage.

Hank was climbing into the tow truck as Trent climbed out of the BMW. '“Lo.” Grinning, Hank pulled on the brim of his gray cap. “Boss's inside. Got us a nice fender bender over at the visitor's center.”

“Congratulations.”

“Ayah, we've been needing a little bodywork 'round here. Now, once the season picks up, business'll boom.” Hank slammed the door then leaned his head out of the window, disposed to chat.

For some reason, Trent found himself noticing the boy—really noticing him. He was young, probably about twenty, with a round, open face, a thick down-east accent and a shock of straw-colored hair that shot out in all directions.

“Have you worked for C.C. long?”

“Since she bought the place from old Pete. That'll be, ah, three years. Ayah. Three years, nearly. She wouldn't hire me till I finished high school. Funny that way.”

“Is she?”

“Once she gets a bee in her bonnet ain't no shaking it loose.” He nodded toward the garage. “She's a might touchy today.”

“Is that unusual?”

Hank chuckled and switched the radio on high. “Can't say she's all bark and no bite, 'cause I've seen her bite a time or two. See ya.”

“Sure.”

When Trent walked in, C.C. was buried to the waist under the hood of a late-model sedan. She had the radio on again, but this time it was her hips rather than her boots keeping time.

“Excuse me,” Trent began, then remembered they had been through that routine before. He walked up and tapped her smartly on the shoulder.

“If you'd just...” But she turned her head only enough to see the tie. It wasn't maroon today, but navy. Still, she was certain of its owner. “What do you want?”

“I believe it was a lube job.”

“Oh.” She went back to replacing spark plugs. “Well, leave it outside, put the key on the bench, and I'll get to it. It should be ready by six.”

“Do you always do business so casually?” “Yeah.”

“If you don't mind, I think I'll hold on to my keys until you're less distracted.”

“Suit yourself.” Two minutes passed in humming silence broken only by the radio's prediction of thunderstorms that evening. “Look, if you're just going to stand around, why don't you do something useful? Get in and start her up.”

“Start her up?”

“Yeah, you know. Turn the key, pump the gas.” She cocked her head up and blew at her bangs. “Think you can handle it?”

“Probably.” It wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, but Trent walked around to the driver's side. He noted that there was a car seat strapped in the front, and something pink and gooey on the carpet. He slid in and

turned the key. The engine turned over and purred, quite nicely, he thought. Apparently C.C. thought differently.

Taking up her timing light, she began to make adjustments. “It sounds fine,” Trent pointed out.

“No, there's a miss.”

“How can you hear anything with the radio blasting?”

“How can you not hear it? Better,” she murmured. “Better.” Curious, he got out to lean over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“My job.” Her shoulders moved irritably, as if there were an itch between the blades. “Back off, will you?”

“I'm only expressing normal curiosity.” Without thinking, he set a hand lightly on her back and leaned farther in. C.C. jolted, felt a flash of pain then swore like a sailor.

“Let me see.” He grabbed the hand she was busy shaking.

“It's nothing. Take off, will you? If you hadn't been in my way, my hand wouldn't have slipped.”

“Stop dancing around and let me see.” He took a firm grip on her wrist and examined her scraped knuckles. The faint well of blood beneath the engine grease caused him a sharp and ridiculous sense of guilt. “You'll need something on this.”

“It's just a scratch.” God, why wouldn't he let go of her hand? “What I need to do is finish this job.”

“Don't be a baby,” he said mildly. “Where's the first-aid kit?” “It's in the bathroom, and I can do it myself.”

Ignoring her, he kept hold of her wrist as he walked around to shut the engine off. “Where's the bathroom?”

She jerked her head toward the hallway that separated the garage from the office. “If you'd just leave your keys—”

“You said it was my fault you hurt your hand, so I'll take the responsibility.”

“I wish you'd stop pulling me around,” she said as he hauled her toward the hallway.

“Then keep up.” He pushed open a door into a white-tiled bathroom the size of a broom closet. Ignoring her protests, he held CC.'s hand under a spray of cool water. The dimensions of the room had them standing hip to hip. They both did their level best to ignore that as he took the soap and,

with surprising gentleness, began to clean her hand. “It isn't deep,” he said, annoyed that his throat was dry.

“I told you, it's just a scratch.” “Scratches get infected.” “Yes, doctor.”

With a retort on the tip of his tongue, he glanced up. She looked so cute, he thought, with grease on her nose and her mouth in a five-year-old's pout. “I'm sorry,” he heard himself say, and the petulance faded from her eyes.

“It wasn't your fault.” Wanting something to do, she opened the mirrored cabinet over the sink for the first-aid kit. “I can take care of it, really.”

“I like to finish what I start.” He took the kit from her and found the antiseptic. “I guess I should say this is going to sting.”

“I already know it stings.” C.C. let out a little hiss as he swabbed the cut. Automatically she leaned over to blow on the heat, just as he did the same. Their heads bumped smartly. Rubbing hers with her free hand, C.C. gave a half laugh. “We make a lousy team.”

“It certainly looks that way.” With his eyes on hers, Trent blew softly on her knuckles. Something flickered in those pretty green irises, he noted. Alarm, surprise, pleasure, he couldn't be sure, but he would have wagered half his stock options that C. C. Cal-houn was totally ignorant of her aunt's romantic plotting.

He brought her hand to his lips—just a test, he assured himself—and watched what was definitely confusion darken her eyes. Her hand went limp in his. Her mouth opened and stayed that way, with no sound coming out.

“A kiss is supposed to make it better,” he pointed out and, for purely selfish reasons, whispered his lips over her hand again.

“I think...it would be better if...” Lord, the room was small, she thought distractedly. And getting smaller all the time. “Thanks,” she managed. “I'm sure it's fine now.”

“It needs to be bandaged.” “Oh, well, I don't—”

“You'll only get it dirty.” Enjoying himself enormously, he took a roll of gauze and began to wrap her hand.

Thinking it would put some distance between them, C.C. turned. As if following the moves of a dance, Trent turned as well. Now they were facing, rather than side-by-side. He shifted—there was room to do little

else—and her back was against the wall. “Hurt?”

She shook her head. She wasn't hurt, C.C. decided, she was crazy. A woman had to be crazy to have her heart pounding like a jackhammer because a man was wrapping gauze around her skinned knuckles.

“C.C.” He taped the gauze competently in place. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“I...” She lifted her shoulders and swallowed. “What exactly is a lube job?”

She caught the amusement in his eyes, and, charmed by it, smiled back. “Forty-seven-fifty.”

“Oh.” They were as close as they had been the night before, when they'd been arguing. This, Trent decided, was much more pleasant. “Are you going to flush my radiator?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I'm forgiven for last night?” Her brows lifted. “I didn't say that.”

“I wish you'd reconsider.” With her hand held between them, he shifted slightly closer. “You see, if I'm going to be damned for it, it's harder to resist the urge to sin again.”