But then, Devon O’Rourke did not ordinarily make a complete mess of things from the get-go, either.

She’d been over it a dozen times, and demoralizing as it was, it was still the only conclusion she could come to. She’d screwed up. Made one mistake after another. To begin with, she now realized, she should have just let the marshalls serve the court order and never gotten involved with these people at all. That was mistake number one.

Mistake number two: What was I thinking of, born and raised in Southern California, to have tried to drive in a Midwestern blizzard?

Number three-and after that so many more she’d lost count-all had to do with Eric. Damn him. She’d started out underestimating him. She’d told herself she wouldn’t make that mistake again, but somehow he kept catching her off guard anyway. She didn’t understand him. And all her efforts to do so seemed to result in more confusion, more misunderstanding.

All right, so what in the hell was she supposed to do now? Devon was accustomed to taking action, making things happen, not waiting for events to happen to her. But stuck here in an Iowa farmhouse, in a blizzard, she was both figuratively and literally-and she thought of the rented Town Car, out there in the snow somewhere-spinning her wheels.

The north wind doth blow and we shall have snow,

And what will the robin do then, poor thing?

She’ll sit in the barn and keep herself warm,

And hide her head under her wing.

A shiver coursed through her, though the bathroom was warm and steamy as a tropical greenhouse. All right, so big deal, she’d forgotten that nursery rhyme-so what? And so many others… Why? Why can’t I remember my childhood?

Where were you when your sister needed you?

Help me, Devon please don’t leave me.

Damn you, Eric, she thought bitterly. Damn you.

It was hunger-and the delicious smells drifting up from the kitchen-that finally drove her downstairs. As before, she was vaguely disappointed to find the kitchen empty, though she did locate the source of at least one of the mouthwatering smells there. Cookies-dozens of them, spicy brown rounds with crackled tops-were spread out on trays on the kitchen table and covered with clean dish-towels. Though the smell made her almost dizzy, after a quick peek she let the dishtowel drop back over the cookies without tasting so much as a crumb; Devon rarely allowed herself to eat sweets.

While she’d been barricaded in the bathroom, it seemed, Christmas had arrived. The already cozy farmhouse kitchen had been transformed, as if by magic wand-or a battalion of elves, Devon thought wryly-into a department store window. A bright red-and-green tablecloth covered the oak table, and there were red cushions on all the chairs. A basket in the center of the table held pinecones decorated with cranberries and sprigs of evergreen. There was a wreath dangling against the glass part of the back door, and above each window, boughs of evergreen had been tied to the valance rods with red velvet bows. There were Christmasy towels and potholders on the counter, and Christmasy covers on the toaster and blender, and Christmasy knickknacks on the shelves above the microwave oven. Devon tried to tell herself it was ridiculously overdone; she wanted to believe it was tacky and gaudy and silly.

She tried, but she couldn’t.

What she really thought it was, was pretty.

And being there in the middle of it all made her feel much the same way the cookies did-dizzy with longing and at the same time doggedly proud of the willpower with which she had always denied herself such things.

There was Christmas music, too, she realized, drifting in from a stereo playing somewhere in the house. Bing Crosby had just started “I’m Dreaming Of A White Christmas,” when real voices joined in, picking it up on the next line. Men’s voices, singing in harmony. Men’s voices? Good God, Devon thought, one of them had to be Eric. Would he never stop surprising her?

Following the voices and the music, she crept down the hallway to the parlor. Yes, they were all there-Mike and Lucy, Eric and even the baby, asleep in her carrier seat-but instead of joining them right away, Devon paused in the shadows just outside the doorway to watch. Standing in the dark hallway and looking into that room, all aglow with Christmas cheer and family togetherness, she felt as if she were alone in a cold street, watching strangers through a lighted window. Watching something warm and real, but which she could neither feel nor touch. Something wonderful that she could never be a part of.

Across the room, Eric and Mike stood flanking a Christmas tree that towered almost to the high parlor ceiling. They were facing each other, each holding one end of a tangle of Christmas tree lights, though at the moment that was all they were doing-holding them-as they devoted their attention to the song they were singing with droll abandon. Though Eric’s was the stronger voice, he was doing the harmony, while Mike backed up Bing on the melody. Lucy, their appreciative audience, perched sideways on the recliner chair with her chin in her hands and the baby’s carrier at her feet, watching and smiling, but not singing. No one noticed Devon.

She didn’t mind. She was glad of the chance to study Eric’s family, she told herself, ruthlessly disregarding a persistent, mouthwatery hunger feeling that was centered much nearer her heart than her stomach. She told herself it was his whole family she needed to know more about, although after the first sweeping glance around the room, her eyes came back to Eric-just Eric.

She was struck by how alike they were, father and son-though she couldn’t have broken the resemblance down to specifics. Eric was a little taller than his father, and a lot thinner, and he did have his mother’s hawklike nose. And, she realized, her intensity, too-though it was possible that Mike’s quiet way was something that just came with age. Like wisdom.

Barely thirty herself, it was hard for Devon to imagine herself or anyone her age old, but she knew with complete certainty that, like his father, Eric would still be trim and attractive when he was in his sixties-and well beyond. She could see it in his bones, the strong features unsoftened by excess flesh, in the shape of his head, the breadth of his shoulders. And his hands…

Oh yes, those big, long-fingered hands, so unexpectedly gentle when he’d touched her, this morning in the barn. Oddly, she could feel them still, on her face, her throat, the side of her neck. Feel her pulse throbbing against his thumb, and her body quivering inside, humming like a dynamo-some high-voltage power source. So gentle…

And they’d scared her to death. They still did.

She shifted restlessly, that strange vibration inside her a tickle she couldn’t reach. And that movement was enough to give her away. Mike sang out, “Hey-Devon! Come on, join us.”

“White Christmas” had ended. Someone else was singing now; Devon had no idea who, or what. She moved into the room, pretending an ease she didn’t feel, avoiding Eric’s eyes though her senses hummed with awareness of him and her skin still shivered with that memory of his touch.

“My,” said Lucy from her perch on the recliner, “don’t you look nice.”

Devon’s smile, as she murmured her thanks for the compliment, was wry. Her clothes-black silk pants and an ivory cashmere sweater-and hairstyle-a sleek and elegant twist-would have been entirely suitable for dinner in a hotel dining room, maybe a solitary nightcap in the lounge afterward. Here, in a farmhouse parlor in the middle of a snowy winter afternoon, she was well aware that she was ridiculously overdressed. Mike and Eric were both wearing nondescript jeans and sweatshirts, and Lucy looked decades younger than her age in matching green sweats with a Kliban Cat Santa on the front.

Well, so what? Devon thought. Too bad. After her marathon primp-session, she’d debated whether to put on something borrowed again. Considering the debacle she’d made of the day so far, she’d opted instead for the boost of confidence her own clothes might give her. So what if she looked like a city girl, and completely out of her element? That’s what she was, dammit.

“You must be starving. Help yourself to some cookies and cocoa.” Lucy casually pointed with her head to a tray on the coffee table. “We sort of missed lunch-got so busy decorating, I guess we all lost track of time-so we’re filling up on snacks to tide us over till dinnertime.” Her grin wasn’t even remotely repentant. “There’s some popcorn around here, too, someplace. Mike, where did you-oh, there it is.” Mike had reached behind him to retrieve a giant Tupperware bowl from the desktop. He handed it over to Lucy, who stretched to add it to the hospitable jumble on the coffee table. “Don’t be shy, dig in.”

What else could Devon do? Her own fault she’d missed out on breakfast, of course, but she was starving, and it had been a very long time since that piece of toast and cup of coffee in the dark early morning. One cookie wasn’t going to ruin her!

Seating herself on the edge of the couch, Devon picked up a napkin and selected a single cookie from the half-empty plate. The rich, spicy aroma made her lightheaded. She bit into the cookie and it was so delicious she actually closed her eyes. It was all she could do not to croon.

“Molasses Crinkles were always Eric’s favorite,” said Lucy with a pleased and reminiscent smile.

Mike chuckled. “Don’t even think about stopping at one.”

Devon had already taken another cookie. She envisioned her thighs blowing up like off-road tires.

“Have some cocoa,” Lucy urged. “It’s the old-fashioned, made-from-scratch kind, not instant.” She gave a contented sigh and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I think hot cocoa just goes with a snow day and a roaring fire.”