“For God’s sake, it wasn’t your fault. It was me. I was…I don’t know, thinking about…you know-my parents, Christmas…”

He glanced up and his smile was almost painfully crooked. “Blame it on the holidays?”

This time the snort of self-derision was Devon’s. “That’s such a cliché.”

“Darlin’,” he said, stretching as if his bones ached, “clichés were meant for times like this.” He’d managed to hold on to the smile, but the eyes that lingered for a moment on her face seemed a hundred years old.

When he pushed to his feet and turned away, she felt an irrational urge to call him back, beg him not to go. Her mind cast wildly about for reasons why he shouldn’t leave her standing there, something that would justify continuing what they’d been doing before they’d both come to their senses. Her whole body felt hollow, empty.

Then, in the kitchen doorway he did pause, hesitate, and for a moment turn back, and her heart jolted with an equally irrational stab of fear. Awash with prickles of adrenaline, she folded her arms tightly across her middle, and a pulse tap-tap-tapped against the wall of her belly.

“Look…Devon. I hate like hell to ask, but since she’s asleep, and I shouldn’t be long, would you mind keeping an ear out for Emily? There’s…something I’ve got to do.”

She was so shaken, she barely hesitated before she nodded. She heard herself say, “Yeah, sure. Okay. Where-”

“I’ll be in the bunkhouse.” He dodged into the service room long enough to snatch his jacket from its hook on the wall and was shrugging it on as he went out. A moment later she heard the back porch door close.

What I’m feeling is wrong, Devon thought. It must be. Immoral and illegal, probably. Unethical, definitely.

I should leave. Right now, this minute. Get in that big Lincoln, drive to Sioux City and hop the next flight to L.A.

And what would you do with Emily? Leave her here, or take her with you?

That was it-the million-dollar question. She clamped a hand to her forehead, gave a distraught whimper and raised her eyes to the ceiling. Even if she’d had the guts to try, she couldn’t take Emily back to L.A. without Eric-until court-ordered tests and a judge said otherwise, he was the baby’s father and legal guardian. She didn’t dare go back alone, either; every instinct told her that would be a mistake.

No two ways about it, then, she was stuck-stuck on the horns of a dilemma, stuck in Iowa, stuck on a farm, stuck with strangers at Christmastime.

Worst of all was knowing that leaving here, even if she could have, was the last thing her heart wanted to do.

An hour later, Devon still had no idea what to do about a Christmas gift for Eric. She’d had no trouble finding something among the meager belongings she’d brought with her that would do for Mike and Lucy. The electronic pocket planner that had been last year’s Christmas gift from her firm’s senior partner, and which she almost never used, seemed perfect for Mike, and for Lucy she’d decided on a designer label silk scarf she’d brought along just in case she’d felt like dressing up a bit for that solitary hotel dinner. The brilliant shades of blue and green that complemented her own coloring so well would go just as nicely with Lucy’s nut-brown hair and eyes and sun-freckled skin.

Mike and Lucy had both insisted, as they’d driven off on the freshly plowed road to finish up their own last minute holiday shopping, that under no circumstances was Devon to give them anything for Christmas. She was an invited guest, Lucy had reminded her, and a spur-of-the-moment one, at that. She was not to worry about gifts, period.

Fat chance, Devon had mentally responded, being possessed of a strong sense of propriety as well as a great deal of pride, the kind of person who wouldn’t dream of showing up at a friend’s home for dinner without bringing along a bottle of wine or a potted houseplant. As far as she was concerned, she was an uninvited guest in the Lanagan household, and the least she could do to repay them for their hospitality was to give them a Christmas gift.

That was fine, as far as her host and hostess went. But what about Eric? She had no real justification for giving him a gift-she wasn’t his guest. She owed him nothing-except a trip back to L.A. and an appearance before a family court judge, as soon as that could possibly be arranged. But she couldn’t keep her mind from chewing on possibilities.

What could I give him if things were different? What might he like?

The fruitlessness of that mental exercise only served to remind her how little she really knew the man-Eric Lanagan, from Iowa. And how far apart they were. The gulf between them seemed enormous, unbridgeable.

How, then, to explain what had happened between them just now, down there in his mother’s kitchen? The memory of that slammed into her like a physical blow; her stomach gave a lurch and her heart began to race.

Pure unadulterated lust?

Oh, no. Lust didn’t begin to explain it-not as far as Devon was concerned. She hadn’t come by her reputation for being one of Los Angeles’s most unmeltable ice princesses by being lusty.

Not that she hadn’t enjoyed her share of relationships-even sex, in her own way. It was just that in both circumstances she preferred to remain…perhaps the best word was the one used most often by her bed-partners, usually shortly before a dramatic departure: Uninvolved. Her most recent relationship, with a senior member of the D.A.’s staff, had ended late last summer when he’d complained that he needed a bit more from a woman than “affectionate detachment, dammit.” Or had it been “detached affection”?

Either way, while Devon had been mildly distressed at his leaving, and in the months since had even thought of him once or twice with a fleeting sense of loneliness, frankly, she hadn’t missed the sex at all.

So, what had happened this morning, with Eric? She’d never felt like that before in her life. Never.

That quickly she was feeling it again-the flip-flop in her belly, the pounding heart, the surging heat, the trembling legs. Oh, man, she thought, hugging and rocking herself. Oh, man.

For the first time in her memory, Devon was afraid.

That in itself was enough to propel her up from the bed where she’d been sitting surrounded by the contents of her briefcase and overnighter, to begin an agitated and jerky pacing-across to the window-where she could look down on Eric’s “bunkhouse,” which she thought looked more like a dollhouse, or a cookie house decorated with spun sugar frosting-then to the door, and back to the bed again.

What was he trying to do? What was he thinking of, to kiss me like that? What is he up to?

She asked herself those questions and was suddenly angry…furious. He had to have done it on purpose, to upset her. She told herself he could not have actual feelings for her. Given the circumstances, even the possibility of lust seemed remote.

He hadn’t mentioned the court order or the mission that had brought her here since the first morning, but he had to have thought about it-how could he not? Just because they’d declared a Christmas truce, didn’t mean they weren’t still at war.

So, what was he up to? Could it be that- Oh, God. The truth hit her so hard she gasped and even buckled a little, as if from a blow to the belly. That was it-it had to be. Eric was deliberately trying to seduce her. Hoping she would then convince her parents-her clients-to drop their custody suit.

As if he could! (As if she would!)

If Eric Lanagan thinks he can get around me that way, he doesn’t know Devon O’Rourke!

With that thought resounding like a bugle call in her mind, she all but lunged across the room, flung open the door and surged into the hallway, intent on setting the man straight, once and for all. She had actually reached the stairs-had one foot on the top step-when she remembered.

Emily. She was baby-sitting.

With a groan of frustration, Devon tiptoed back the way she’d come. She hesitated at her own open doorway, then went on past it and down the hallway to Eric’s room. That door, too, stood open. No sound came from within-thank goodness Emily had slept through the racket she’d made, barging out of her room like that. Still, she supposed she ought to check, make sure everything was all right.

Holding her breath, she tiptoed closer and peeked into the room.

The smallest of movements caught her eye: a tiny pink fist, poking up from the mound of pastel-colored blankets. As Devon stared at it, the fist waved, jerked, punched the air like a miniature shadow boxer. Without a sound. Fascinated, she crept closer, until, by craning her neck, she could see into the nest of blankets. Her breath hiccupped, quivered, then stopped again.

Murky blue eyes gazed intently at the waving fist. The fist jerked, the eyes widened. Budlike lips drew together, forming a look of intense concentration on the round pink face.

Devon couldn’t help it-she gave a squeak of laughter. And tried to hold it back with fingertips pressed against her lips. Too late-the eyes jerked toward the movement and the sound, and the look of concentration became one of expectation.

Busted, thought Devon with an inward sigh. “Hello, little one,” she whispered aloud, and her heart did a stutter-step because that was what she’d heard Eric call her. “Hello, little girl,” she amended as she bent closer still, and daringly touched the baby’s chin with her forefinger.

It was startling to her-it seemed the most miraculous thing-when the baby’s chin abruptly dropped and her mouth popped open, then widened…and just like that, became a smile.