The sound of a shower running in the hotel room next to Bundy’s woke him. He let out a four-letter word. At two-hundred-plus a night, you’d think the five-star hotel could put in a few sound barriers.

He rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head, but it was too late. The voice in his head had started. Almost every morning, he heard it. It sounded a whole hell of a lot like his old man, too.

You shouldn’t have done that last night. Shouldn’t have tossed that place. Yeah, it felt good, but at what cost? The guy now knows you are on to him. Then again, you don’t even know if it was his place. You screwed up by not checking for the plate number of the truck at the junkyard.

Idiot, it might not even have been his house.

You screwed up. You are a screw-up. A big freaking screw-up!

He grabbed the pillow and threw it across the room.

Mornings like this, when the voice’s volume rang high, he wished his dad was still alive. Because he’d love to be able to kill him again.

But the ball-busting Ted Bundy Senior was dead. The naked ball buster wasn’t. Neither was his mark.

And the only way to shut the friggin’ voice up was to fix whatever he’d screwed up.

Yeah, logic told him to get the hell out of there. To leave before his next mistake caught up with him and landed him behind bars again.

But that would prove his old man right. That he was a screw-up.

He had to do his job.

He just needed to stop losing it. To keep his anger in check. Or what had the fancy doctor in prison call it? Fury? No, rage.

He’d been dubbed a rageaholic. But he’d proved that doctor wrong. Took Bundy three years of never losing it. Three years of taking shit from the other inmates. Three years of faking regret for doing his job and killing some high-profile Houston oil man.

But it had proven to be the right thing to do.

He had been deemed rehabilitated. Released. Other than his monthly visits to his parole officer, who was an idiot and believed whatever crap Bundy told him, his life was his own.

All he had to do was stop making stupid mistakes.

He could do that.

He didn’t give a shit what his ol’ man thought.

Sitting up, he stared at the wall. He needed a plan. His mind raced.

First, he needed to find out if the house he’d ransacked the night before was the right one. Then he’d make some more trips to Jennifer Peterson’s girlfriends’ houses, and places of businesses. Surely the cop wouldn’t still be playing bodyguard.

All he needed was ten minutes with one of those gals, and they’d tell him where Jennifer was. He was really good at getting people to talk.

He didn’t enjoy that part of the job. Hurting people who weren’t his marks, people who hadn’t hurt him. That spoke to his character. He wasn’t like his old man. His daddy had enjoyed hurting people.

And for everyone his daddy had hurt, himself included, Bundy had made sure the ol’ man suffered for it.

* * *

Considering Jennifer hadn’t gone to sleep until after five, waking up was hard to do. Or maybe she just didn’t want to do it because last night, she’d done something she wasn’t extremely proud of.

The smell of coffee had her sitting up. It might be considered rude to sleep the day away when you were someone’s houseguest.

Tossing back the covers, she didn’t honestly know what she’d say to Clay, except “I’m sorry.” God help her, but she understood all too well how it felt to feel responsible for something, even when it wasn’t your fault.

When she’d come to bed last night, all the questions she’d wanted to ask him crawled in bed with her. Who was Clay Connor? Before she considered if it was right or wrong, she’d typed his name into the search engine on her phone to see if she might find some tidbit. Hopefully something slightly boring that would put her to sleep.

A second after she typed in his name, at least fifteen links came up.

It wasn’t just a little tidbit. It wasn’t boring. It was heartbreaking.

Clay and his partner had been investigating a homicide. They’d gone to talk to a suspect, who hadn’t been alone. Three guys came at the officers. Guns were drawn, bullets fired. Clay and his partner both had been hit. Clay had shot back.

When the smoke cleared, the murder suspect had fled. Clay’s partner was unconscious. One of the shooters was shot but alive. The other wasn’t so lucky.

Shit hit the fan when they learned the deceased was only fifteen. The bullets they pulled from Clay and his partner had come from the kid’s gun. It had ultimately been deemed a good shoot. That hadn’t stopped the community, or the media, from prosecuting Clay.

Slipping off the bed, she set the suitcase on the mattress. She found a pair of capris, one pair of jeans, four shirts, some underwear, one pair of shorts and a tank top.

Wanting to shed the heavy feeling, she decided it should be a shorts-and-tank-top kind of day.

Dressed, she stepped out of the bedroom and into empty-house silence.

“Hello.” She heard a stir on the sofa, then a fuzzy snout popped up. The dog stretched his legs and came to stand beside her. She gave him a thatta’ boy scrub behind his ears. “Ohh, someone needs a bath.”

She moved to the window to look for Clay’s truck. It was there. Then she saw him. He stood by the fence, uh… hugging a horse.

Hmm, she didn’t know horses enjoyed being hugged, but obviously that one did. She’d bet the horse was a girl, because just about any living female wouldn’t turn down a hug from Clay Connors. She recalled how much fun she’d had with him last night, how his touch had brought on temptation.

That’s when it hit her. She hadn’t felt that in . . . a long time. She tried to remember the last time she’d been excited about Charles touching her.

A long time ago. Wasn’t that wrong? Had that been why he’d found someone else?

Did her friends have a point? Did a sustainable relationship need the ooey gooey love to endure?

The smell of coffee beckoned her away from the uncomfortable reverie and into the kitchen.

With the pot full, and no signs of dirty mugs in the sink, she poured two cups. Suspecting Clay would take his black, she doused hers with cream, picked them up and walked outside.

* * *

Clay heard the door open and close and looked back. Bare skin and a bashful smile filled his vision. His breath caught, his stomach clenched, and his knees weakened. The response reminded him why he’d never believed men were the superior sex.

The woman had so many curves it could make a man dizzy appreciating them. She stepped up beside him. “I smelled coffee, and it didn’t seem like you’d had any. So . . .” She held out a cup. “I guessed you take it black.”

“You guessed right.” He accepted the cup. As he sipped, he had to forcibly keep his eyes off her scooped neckline. Not that it was too revealing, but at the higher vantage point, what he could see appealed to him a little too much.

Bingo had stepped back a few feet when Jennifer approached, but now the horse moved closer. Jennifer took a cautious step back.

“You don’t like horses?” Clay asked.

“I haven’t really been around them. I mean, I went riding a couple of times at camp when I was young. But that was a long time ago.” She looked up at him, smile in place.

“We can go for a ride later,” he said.

A crease appeared between her brows. “Maybe.” She looked back at Bingo. “Is she your horse?”

“Well, she belongs to the ranch.”

“Oh, I thought . . . I mean, I thought maybe you brought her with you. I saw the way you two were . . .” her blue eyes lit up with tease, “making out.”

He laughed. That was another thing he really liked about her. She could find humor in anything.

He rubbed Bingo’s neck. “She’s just desperate for love.”

“Understandable,” Jennifer said quietly.

He gazed down at her, trying to read the wispiness of her voice. “Feeling lovesick?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Missing that ring on your finger?”

Surprise widened her eyes. “No. I don’t. I’m fine. It might have been the best thing.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m not sure . . .” She looked away.

“Sure about what?” He heard his better judgment insist he drop it, but for some damn reason he couldn’t.

“I liked Charles. He was attractive. We seemed to share common beliefs, and at the time I respected him. He seemed like a perfect someone to spend my life with, to raise a family with, but I’m not sure if I was . . . there, yet.”

There? He read between the lines. “You didn’t love him?”

Clay didn’t know what surprised him more, her talking about attraction and respect after he’d had those same thoughts earlier, or her claim that she hadn’t loved her fiancé.

“It was developing into it.” A hint of defensiveness heightened her tone.

He looked back at the horses. “I think you’re supposed to be there before you accept the engagement ring.”

She looked up with a lifted, unhappy brow. “You sound like an expert.”

Touché. “Nope. Just making a point.” He scrubbed the heel of his boot on the ground and didn’t look at her. “Which . . . I shouldn’t have made. Sorry.”

She didn’t say anything for a good thirty seconds, and then, “What happened with your marriage?”

“Anything that starts with me having to wear a penguin suit always ends badly.” He tossed out humor, hoping for a reprieve.

She looked up at him, disappointment filling her eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me.” She looked back out at the pasture.

Shit! He knew this would come back to bite him in the ass. But he’d started this, both last night and now, and bowing out would make him an asshole. “I blamed her career. I’d guess she blamed me and my career. And we were probably both right.” He swallowed.

“You loved her?” she asked.

Their gazes met and locked.

“Yeah, I did. Wish I didn’t.” He exhaled. “Look, I’m sorry I brought this up. I promise to stop meddling.”

She looked away, and her words barely reached his ears. “I Binged you.”

“What?” he asked, unsure if he’d heard her right.

“Last night when we went to bed. I went on Bing to find out more about you. It was wrong. I’m sorry. I was curious about you, too.”

It didn’t completely piss him off, but he couldn’t deny it annoyed him. It’s wasn’t so much her as it was being reminded that the story was out there. Would always be out there. That anyone could hit a few keys on a computer and know his Kryptonite, know what kept him up at night.

He shoved those feelings away. When he did he realized something else that he liked about her. Her honesty.

Glancing down at his feet, he saw the bucket of feed. He picked it up and held it out. Bingo dipped her head down and started munching. Banjo, the gelding, came trotting over, wanting to make sure he got his share.

Clay pulled the bucket from Bingo and offered it to the other horse. That’s when he realized the silence had hung too long, but before he could find words, she spoke again.

“I’m sorry. It was so unfair. And if that’s why your wife left you, then she’s pond scum. Because all the articles said . . . he was the one who shot you and your partner. So yeah, she’s pond scum. And not the pretty kind that floats on top, but the nasty kind that grows from frog shit and even fish won’t eat.”

He chuckled. Which turned into a real laugh. When he sobered, he felt compelled to take the same honest path as she had. “Truth is, I was in a bad place.”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s why the vows include the sickness and health stuff. That’s what makes a marriage. That kind of support. That kind of loyalty.”

“That’s a pretty bold statement for someone who didn’t even love the guy she was about to marry.” Friggin’ hell. He was doing it again. “Which is not any of my business,” he seethed aloud.

“Yeah,” she said. “But I think whenever you put strangers together in the same house, it’s instinct to want to know about them.”

Was that what this was? Curiosity between strangers thrown together. And not the roadmap he was afraid of?

“But for the record,” she continued. “I loved my ex.”

He kept his gaze on Banjo eating. “You just said--”

“A different ex.”

“You’ve been engaged before?” That question slipped out.

She hesitated. “Uh, three times. But I was referring to my ex-husband, Johnny.”

A dozen questions lined up on his tongue, but he was not going to ask.

“Johnny and I were married two years. He was my high-school sweetheart. We both had big ideas, goals, and a belief love could change the fact that we wanted completely opposite things in life.”

And what did you want?

“He wanted to go to Africa and help save the world. I wanted a family to make my world. You want that when you know what it is to have one. When you know what it is to lose one.”

“I imagine you would.” Realizing the bucket he held was empty, he set it down at their feet. Banjo moved away. Bingo hung close. The sound of her tail swishing to keep away flies whispered in the summer air.

Jennifer continued, “I loved Todd, too. Not as much as Johnny, but I did love him.”

He just looked at her. He didn’t ask, but she must have seen the questions in his eyes.

“Todd was my second fiancé.”

She stared off for a few seconds before adding, “In the beginning, we weren’t totally in love. I think that’s why I was willing to bet that I’d fall in love with Charles. I wanted to believe it.” She said the latter as if it came with some kind of a realization.

Bingo moved to stand in front of her. Then chancing it, the horse hung her head over the fence close to her, begging to be touched. Jennifer hesitantly reached out and ran a hand down the mare’s neck.

After a couple of strokes, Bingo eased away. Clay and Jennifer stayed there, sipping coffee and watching the horses grazing. The silence slowly grew thick.

“Want to help me feed the cows now?” he asked.

She looked up at him. “Okay, but I’m not petting them.”

He grinned. “Why not?”

“Because I like steak, and I don’t believe in petting my food.”

He laughed.

* * *

The ringing of the home phone yanked Clay from a deep sleep. He wasn’t even sure where he was. The sofa spring poking him in the side brought it back. He and Jennifer had finished feeding the cows. She’d gone into the kitchen to start cooking a pecan pie. Clay had stretched out on the sofa. He must have fallen asleep. But for how long?

Sitting up, he dropped his face into his hands. Then he realized the phone had stopped ringing. Listening, he didn’t hear Jennifer.

He stood up, suddenly aware of the sweet smell of pecan pie. Inhaling, he savored the scent. Maybe he shouldn’t be upset at Pete for pushing her into baking it.

“Smells good.” He eased into the kitchen, expecting to see her. She wasn’t there. He glanced at the bathroom. The door stood ajar.

Another phone rang. His cell. He glanced over to the cabinet where he’d been charging it.

He picked it up, checked the screen, and saw it was Jake. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” Jake said. “Where are you?”

“At the house. What’s up?” He ran another hand over his face.

“I called.”

“Yeah, I just missed it.”

“Look, Mark was planning on running over to check the house that was broken into. Savanna insisted on coming and stopping by to see Savanna. Obviously, when a nine-months pregnant woman insists on anything, she gets it.” Jake chuckled.

Clay hid his yawn. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Then Bethany insisted on coming. And Macy. So, I’m assuming it’s all okay.”

“Sure,” he said, not really thinking he had a choice.

“Have you guys had lunch yet?” Jake asked.

Clay’s stomach growled. He hadn’t even had breakfast. He glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. He’d slept a little over an hour.

“Not yet,” he said.

“Well, Macy suggested we bring pizza and salad. Does that sound okay?”

“Great.”

“Good, because I’ve got the pizza, and we’ll be there in ten minutes.” Jake hung up.

Clay put his phone down and walked back into the living room. Jennifer must have decided to take a nap, too. He should probably wake her up and let her know her friends were coming.

As he neared the door, he noted it was open. He peered inside. The bed was made. And empty.

Right then, he heard Devil bark outside. Followed by a scream. Jennifer’s scream. He tore out of the house barefoot. Bolted off the porch. He didn’t see her anywhere.

Shit!

While debating whether to grab his gun before looking for her, he heard her again. This time it came with a word. “Stop.”

Unable to wait, he tore around the house, stepping on thorns at every step.

Ready to fight, he cut the corner around the house. And froze.

Jennifer stood, hose in hand, by a very sudsy Devil. A bottle of shampoo was at her feet. The dog shook, and suds flew off him and onto Jennifer. In spite of knowing he’d be pulling splinters out of his feet for weeks, Clay laughed.

She looked at him. Or did as soon as she swiped a beard-sized dollop of foam off her face. “It’s not funny.”

He laughed harder.

And he shouldn’t have done that.

Devil saw it as an invitation. He bolted over and commenced to shaking in front of Clay.

Now Jennifer laughed.

He looked up. “I thought it wasn’t funny.”

“I changed my mind.” She moved over.

Devil shook again. Shampoo foam came at Clay from all directions.

“Crap,” he called out.

“Let me help you,” Jennifer said, still laughing.

The next thing he knew he felt the spray of water.

He looked up, and her blue eyes were bright with laughter as she squirted him.

“That’s not nice.”

He bolted after her. She turned to run, but wasn’t fast enough. He snagged the hose from her hands and turned it on her.

And he shouldn’t have done that, either.

Wet, that damn light-pink tank top and obviously thin bra, became almost transparent. Holy hell, she was beautiful.

Standing there, stunned, he wasn’t prepared when she snagged the hose from him and turned it back on him. The water was cool, but not cool enough. He felt his body responding to the sight of her dark rose-colored nipples pebbled against the wet cotton.

Then her laughter, that sweet sound and look of joy in her eyes became a challenge again. He wanted that. The fun. The flirting. Forgetting the past and just living.

He shot forward to retrieve the weapon. She turned to run. He caught her around her waist. When he went to take his next step, the pain of thorns digging into his heel caused him to trip. Arms and legs tangled, and she came down with him.

He pulled her against him, taking the blow of the ground. They rolled, and he ended up on top of her, but he held his weight on his elbows. The hose caught between them, and water squirting up between their close bodies sprayed their faces.

“You okay?” he asked.

She spilled out happy sounds and yanked the hose free.

Both still laughing, their gazes met, held, locked.

He could swear she lifted her head, or hell, maybe he’d dipped his down. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the taste of her wet lips. The feel of her body under his. The fact that he wanted this more than he wanted to breathe just then.