And there was Van Horne—or Dutch, as he was called—a bull in her china shop, with his redwood-size shoulders and cinder-block arms rippling with tattoos. He refused to wear the neat white bib aprons she'd ordered, with their elegant blue lettering, preferring his rolled-up shirts and tatty jeans held up by a hank of rope.

His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a stubby pony tail, and his face, usually scowling, was as big as the rest of him, scored with lines around his light green eyes. His nose, broken several times in the brawls he seemed so proud of, was mashed and crooked. His skin was brown, and leathery as an old saddle.

And his language... Well, Coco didn't consider herself a prude, but she was, after all, a lady.

But the man could cook. It was his only redeeming quality.

As Dutch worked at the stove, she supervised the two line chefs. The specials tonight were her New England fish stew and stuffed trout a la frangaise. Everything appeared to be in order.

“Mr. Van Horne,” she began, in a tone that never failed to put his back up. “You will be in charge while I'm downstairs. I don't foresee any problems, but should any arise, I'll be in the family dining room.”

He cast one of his sneering looks over his shoulder. Woman was all slicked up tonight, like she was going to some opera or something, he thought. All red silk and pearls. He wanted to snort, but knew her damned perfume would interfere with the pleasure he gained from the smell of his curried rice.

“I cooked for three hundred men,” he said in his raspy, sandpaper-edged voice, “I can deal with a couple dozen pasty-faced tourists.”

“Our guests,” she said between her teeth, “may be slightly more discriminating than sailors trapped on some rusty boat.”

One of the busboys swung through, carrying plates. Dutch's eyes zeroed in on one that still held half an entree. On his ship, men had cleaned their plates. “Not too damn hungry, were they?”

“Mr. Van Horne.” Coco drew air through her nose. “You will remain in the kitchen at all times. I will not have you going out into the dining room again and berating our guests over their eating habits. A bit more garnish on that salad, please,” she said to one of the line chefs, and glided out the door.

“Can't stand fancy-faced broads,” Dutch muttered. And if it wasn't for Nate, he thought sourly, Dutch Van Horne wouldn't be taking orders from a dame.

Nathaniel didn't share his former shipmate's disdain of women. He loved them, one and all. He enjoyed their looks, their smells, their voices, and was more than satisfied to settle in the family parlor with six of the bestlooking women it had been his pleasure to meet.

The Calhoun women were a constant delight to him. Suzanna, with her soft eyes, Lilah's lazy sexuality, Amanda's brisk practicality, C.C.'s cocky grin, not to mention Coco's feminine elegance.

They made The Towers Nathaniel's little slice of heaven.

And the sixth woman... He sipped his whiskey and water as he watched Megan O'Riley. Now there was a package he thought might be full of surprises. In the looks department, she didn't take second place to the fabulous Calhouns. And her voice, with its slow Oklahoma drawl, added its own appeal. What she lacked, he mused, was the easy warmth that flowed from the other women.

He hadn't decided as yet whether it was the result of a cold nature or simple shyness. Whatever it was, it ran deep. It was hard to be cold or shy in a room filled with laughing people, cooing babies and wrestling children.

He was holding one of his favorite females at the moment. Jenny was bouncing on his lap and barraging him with questions.

“Are you going to marry Aunt Coco?”

“She won't have me.”

“I will.” Jenny beamed up at him, an apprentice heartbreaker with a missing front tooth. “We can get married in the garden, like Mom and Daddy did. Then you can come live with us.”

“Now that's the best offer I've had in a long time.” He stroked a callused finger down her cheek.

“But you have to wait until I get big.”

“It's always wise to make a man wait.” This from Lilah, who slouched on a sofa, her head in the crook of her husband's arm, a baby in her own. “Don't let him rush you into anything, Jenny. Slow is always best.”

“She'd know,” Amanda commented. “Lilah's spent her life studying slow.”

“I'm not ready to give up my girl.” Holt scooped Jenny up. “Especially to a broken-down sailor.”

“I can outpilot you blindfolded, Bradford.”

“Nuh-uh.” Alex popped up to defend the family honor. “Daddy sails the best. He can sail better than anybody. Even if bad guys were shooting at him.”

Territorial, Alex wrapped an arm around Holt's leg. “He even got shot. He's got a bullet hole in him.”

Holt grinned at his friend. “Get your own cheering gallery, Nate.” “Did you ever get shot?” Alex wanted to know.

“Can't say that I have.” Nathaniel swirled his whiskey. “But there was this Greek in Corfu that wanted to slit my throat.”

Alex's eyes widened until they were like saucers. From his spot on the rug, Kevin inched closer. “Really?” Alex looked for signs of knife wounds. He knew Nathaniel had a tattoo of a fire-breathing dragon on his shoulder, but this was even better. “Did you stab him back and kill him dead?”

“Nope.” Nathaniel caught the look of doubt and disapproval in Megan's eyes. “He missed and caught me in the shoulder, and the Dutchman knocked him cold with a bottle of ouzo.”

Desperately impressed, Kevin slid closer. “Have you got a scar?” “Sure do.”

Amanda slapped Nathaniel's hand before he could tug up his shirt. “Cut it out, or every man in the room will be stripping to show off war wounds. Sloan's really proud of the one he got from barbed wire.”

“It's a beaut,” Sloan agreed. “But Meg's is even better.”

“Shut up, Sloan.”

“Hey, a man's gotta brag on his only sister.” Enjoying himself, Sloan draped an arm around her shoulders. “She was twelve—hardheaded little brat. We had a mustang stallion nearly as bad-tempered as she was. She snuck him out one day, determined that she could break him. Well, she got about a half a mile before he shook her off.”

“He did not shake me off,” Megan said primly. “The bridle snapped.”

“That's her story.” Sloan gave her a quick squeeze. “Fact is, that horse tossed her right into a barbed-wire fence. She landed on her rump. I don't believe you sat down for six weeks.”

“It was two,” she said, but her lips twitched.

“Got herself a hell of a scar.” Sloan gave her butt a brotherly pat.

“Wouldn't mind taking a look at it,” Nathaniel said under his breath, and earned an arched-eyebrow look from Suzanna.

“I think I'll put Christian down before dinner.”

“Good idea.” C.C. took Ethan from Trent just as the baby began to fuss. “Somebody's hungry.”

“I know I am.” Lilah rose.

Megan watched mothers and babies head upstairs to nurse, and was surprised by a quick tug of envy. Funny, she mused, she hadn't even thought of having more babies until she came here and found herself surrounded by them.

“So sorry I'm late.” Coco glided into the room, patting her hair. “We had a few problems in the kitchen.”

Nathaniel recognized the look of frustration on her face and fought back a grin. “Dutch giving you trouble, darling?”

“Well...” She didn't like to complain. “We simply have different views on how things should be done. Oh, bless you, Trent,” she said when he offered her a glass. “Oh, dear, where is my head? I forgot the canapes.”

“I'll get them.” Max unfolded himself from the sofa and headed toward the family kitchen.

“Thank you, dear. Now...” She took Megan's hand, squeezed. “We've hardly had a moment to talk. What do you think of The Retreat?”

“It's wonderful, everything Sloan said it would be. Amanda tells me all ten suites are booked.”

“It's been a wonderful first season.” She beamed at Trent. “Hardly more than a year ago, I was in despair, so afraid my girls would lose their home.

Though the cards told me differently. Did I ever tell you that I foresaw Trent in the tarot? I really must do a spread for you, dear, and see what your future holds.”

“Well...”

“Perhaps I can just look at your palm.”

Megan let go with a sigh of relief when Max came back with a tray and distracted Coco.

“Not interested in the future?” Nathaniel murmured.

Megan glanced over, surprised that he had moved beside her without her being aware of it. “I'm more interested in the present, one step at a time.”

“A cynic.” He took her hand and, though it went rigid in his, turned it palm up. “I met an old woman on the west coast of Ireland. Molly Duggin was her name. She said I had the sight.” His smoky eyes stayed level with hers for a long moment before they shifted to her open palm. Megan felt something skitter down her spine. “A stubborn hand. Self-sufficient, for all its elegance.”

He traced a finger over it. Now there was more than a skitter. There was a jolt.

“I don't believe in palmistry.”

“You don't have to. Shy,” he said quietly. “I wondered about that. The passions are there, but repressed.” His thumb glided gently over her palm's mound of Venus. “Or channeled. You'd prefer to say channeled. Goaloriented, practical. You'd rather make decisions with your head, no matter what your heart tells you.” His eyes lifted to hers again. “How close am I?”

Much too close, she thought, but drew her hand coolly from his. “An interesting parlor game, Mr. Fury.”

His eyes laughed at her as he tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “Isn't it?”