Jillian pulled back from the mirror to admire her perfected hair and makeup. Hanging out with the stylists from the magazine had taught her a few tricks. A few brushes and styling products, and she transformed from the wallflower she saw herself as to the swan she wanted the world to see.

She smiled at the girl in the mirror, thankful a good rest had cleared her head of the swirling doubts. She was a woman on a mission, here to have the time of her life. She’d do what she always did with her Dating Diva assignments, make the most of the opportunity and laugh off anything too embarrassing. Dating could be a humiliating experience, but it made for great copy.

Besides, she was completely prepared. She had a trunk full of stylist-coordinated outfits, twenty pairs of shoes, seven hairstyles, and four makeup looks crafted by the makeup artist who did all her Mine & Ours shoots. All carefully coordinated and catalogued so Jilly couldn’t mess them up. She’d look picture perfect every time he saw her.

Completely different from the last time. The only remarkable thing about her then were her grass-green eyes. On the off chance he remembered, those were carefully hidden behind brown contact lenses. There was no chance he, or anyone else for that matter, would confuse her for the moppy-haired mouse in worn jeans and baggy men’s sweaters. She still had a hard time believing it herself.

“The best money can buy.” Her voice rang through the empty suite. Her four-hundred-dollar haircut looked perfectly ruffled. Textured pieces flitting this way and that. A dual-process blonde, with an underlayer of crimson. Stunning, magazine flawless.

Just like today’s outfit. A khaki short wrap skirt that didn’t quite meet on her hip covered matching hotpants, showcasing more thigh than she probably should. Jillian had carefully ironed the barely pink collared halter until it was crisp. The light pink showcased the tan she’d had sprayed on before leaving New York. Pink and white saddle shoes and a green and pink polka-dot ribbon watch completed the ensemble. She thought it best not to wear any jewelry except for her lucky black pearl earrings. He wouldn’t remember, and she needed all the luck she could get.

Taking a deep breath, Jillian observed the effect of her labors. Definitely MILF in the making, she thought with a giggle. Except for her lips, which would have to wait, she was done.

Her reward for making it this far drew her from the mirror, to the small table where the room-service waiter had placed her breakfast. Jillian eyed the wide white mug, bigger than the bowls she had cereal in back home. Steam hung in the air, not wanting to leave. A mound of foamed milk melted on top, the barest hint of brown peeked around the edges of the mug. Granular sprinkles of cinnamon and bright orange zest dusted the cloud.

Succulent honeydew melon, red ripe strawberries, deep purple blackberries, juicy peach slices, and a stem of green grapes were artfully arranged on the plate next to the dish of plain fat-free yogurt. Eating well was so much easier with room service.

Sitting in the overstuffed chair, Jillian lowered her nose to the steaming cappuccino and took a deep breath. She moistened her lips, lips that desperately wanted a grande caramel macchiato with whole milk, and took a lingering sip. This was good. Good enough.

She ate her breakfast with precision, and surprising delight. She’d forgotten how flavorful fresh fruit could be in Oregon during the summer. As a kid, she picked cherries by the five-gallon bucket to sell at a roadside stand to the tourists. Of course, while she and her sisters waited for victims, they’d eat more cherries than their stomachs could handle.

Cherry. The color of a ripe Ranier cherry stuck in her mind as she finished eating and brushed her teeth. She sorted carefully through the makeup kits until she found the perfect shade. It wasn’t what she’d planned for this outfit, but the cherry gloss felt good. Shiny. Sticky. Sweet.

Last year, Jillian had interviewed dozens of men on how they judged a woman’s desire. Not by her shoes or her hair, but by her lips—the portal to the mind. How a woman cared for her lips showed how she cared for herself, and how she wanted a man to care for her. Lip-gloss begged for a kiss.

She would have another kiss from Ben Cannon. A real, full-body-contact, breath-stealing, heart-thumping, mind-blowing kiss. Just like the last time. Not today, but soon. Best he be thinking about kissing her, even if only in his subconscious.

* * *

Exploding toads? Three days. He’d only been gone three days and his resort had turned into a scene from the science-fiction novels he read as a kid.

“What’s the plan, boss?” A dozen eyes stared at him, awaiting his response. “Hell if I know” wasn’t going to cut it. Not with this brood. Even at five-thirty the ten staff members sat bright-eyed and ready for the morning briefing. He saw only one alternative: “We have to close the executive course.” A Band-Aid solution at best. At least until they could figure out what caused the toads to detonate.

Ben pinched the bridge of his nose and willed the world to stop spinning for two minutes. Crisis after crisis had bombarded him since he set foot on the property. The greenskeeper cornered him in the parking lot before he even made it out of his Jeep.

“I think it’s the damned crows,” Greenskeeper Willy Pritchard stated to no one in particular. The rest of the team mumbled in agreement.

“And the water tests were the same as the other ponds?” Ben felt his face scrunch, his neck tense. Let it be crows. Or teenagers with miniature cherry bombs.

“If anything, that hazard is cleaner. Jimmy cleaned it out two weeks ago. Right Jim?” Willy nudged the nodding man beside him.

“Right.” Jim responded, ever eager. “Eyewitness News called. They want to do an interview. My kids would really like it if I got to be on TV.”

“Not until we know what’s happening.” That’s just what he needed. The local news station making his short course the next Twilight Zone.

“Yeah, I don’t want a bunch of reporters mucking up my turf.” Willy puffed his chest until it almost hid his sagging belly.

“I’ll make a statement to the media once the biologists from the university form an opinion.” Ben hoped the experts could tell him how to stop toad guts from oozing across his eighth green. “Then, if it’s benign, Jimmy, you can talk to them about what you’ve seen.”

Ben tried to pay attention throughout the rest of the meeting, but his mind spun with new worries. If the news even hinted at some kind of contamination, he was sunk. Whether it was true or not. Whoever said there was no such thing as bad publicity never ran a golf course. You could fall out of favor for not keeping your grass precisely shorn.

He had to worry about the toads, and the reporter, Jillian Welch, from Mine & Ours magazine doing a feature on learning to play golf. Or using golf to pick up men. Or something like that. Her letter had been vague and she hadn’t returned any of his calls. He couldn’t risk negative national exposure.

“I’ll handle the magazine reporter personally.” His statement raised a few eyebrows from the team, but no one objected. “Is she here yet?” Ben asked Lauren Sanchez, the female golf pro on staff.

She cracked her knuckles before replying. “She checked in yesterday afternoon, but I haven’t seen her. Her assistant said she wants the whole shebang. She’s never even held a club before.”

Great, just great. Ben’s long legs brought him quickly to the back of the pro shop and away from his staff as they milled about, beginning their day. He closed his dry eyes and bit his bottom lip. He’d have to keep a close eye on Ms. Welch. Distract her from broadcasting the damned exploding toads to a national audience.

Running things since his father spirited his brother to rehab in Arizona had been a challenge. When his older brother Jay had a car accident that left him in a coma for three days, the Cannon family had to come to terms with some facts about Jay they’d been happy to ignore.

Luckily, the accident didn’t seriously injure anyone else. But lab reports confirmed Jay was driving under the influence of a handful of different things. His body had to deal with withdrawal while at the same time trying to heal. There had been some truly ugly moments when his father had taken Jay home, thinking he could help him through everything alone.

All was well for a while. Then, two days after announcing his engagement, Jay tried to score off an undercover agent. Ben would never forget his father’s voice on the phone the night Jay was arrested. “I need you,” was all he managed to get out before breaking down.

Ben packed up and made it back home before daybreak, finishing his last few weeks of school by correspondence and cramming eleven hours of final exams into one day. There had been no hooding ceremony for him, no congratulations on graduating cum laude from one of the toughest joint business and law school programs in the country. Instead he got a stack of bills and list of phone calls to make.

Finances had been stretched the season before the accident. When a rash of wildfires had threatened the resort community, tourism took a dive. Hiring someone to take over the course wasn’t an option, leaving him alone to continue the legacy of Cannon Meadows. Having free rein to fix problems that bothered him for years was his only solace.

Cutting costs had been easy at first. Some creative scheduling here, a little resourceful advertising there. He dug the course out of the hole, found a way back to prosperity. He ran in the black, but keeping Jay and his father on the payroll, plus paying for Jay’s rehab, left him strapped. He had a budget so tight it squeaked.

Not something he wanted Jillian Welch to share with the world. He needed to keep his course, and his family secrets, safe. She could write her articles about golf being the new singles scene, have her lessons, and make a few contacts. Ben wanted the publicity, as long as it stayed positive. He needed to keep the tee times booked, and the rooms full so his father wouldn’t worry. The man had enough on his mind.

* * *

Jillian tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry as the bottom of a birdcage. She stood barely inside the doorway, every hormone in her body surging. Her brain clouded and her heart thudded unevenly in her ears, as her eyes fixed on him. That dangerous old urge propelled her forward through the crisp air-conditioning of the clubhouse into the pro shop. Why did he affect her like this? Why was it whenever she saw him she lost all self-control?

She forced herself to stop and suck in a cooling breath. It was no more than an unrequited crush, soon to be remedied. Then this all-consuming, sanity-undermining, heart-wrenching need would disappear.

Ben turned, his eyes widening with...what? Interest? Recognition? Arousal? Whatever it was, it washed away Jillian’s resolve, imprisoned her in his glance. Explicit cravings powered through her veins, raising her body temperature. She couldn’t help but stare as his long legs danced across the hardwood floor. Jillian drank in every physical detail about him with insatiable hunger. From the tips of his dusky brown hair to his sun-kissed skin and those blue-black eyes, she memorized every inch of his face.

Before she could cast her gaze lower, she realized he studied her as well. His gaze seemed to stutter between her eyes and lips. Oh God, did he recognize her?

Jillian slammed her eyes shut and rolled her lips inward until she could almost taste the lip-gloss she’d so carefully re-applied before making the final turn into the pro shop. If he recognized her, the plan would never work. His expectations would be the same as they’d been that night, probably more once he realized she’d moved heaven and earth for one more shot with him.

Even with her eyes closed, she couldn’t escape him. His murky masculine scent of soap and grass filled her. Jillian choked on something that felt a whole lot like pride as she wrestled with her self-control and opened her eyes.

Ben was there, close enough to kiss if she’d been wearing heels. How she needed to make love to him. That was the only thing that could break the spell. Reality was the only thing that could force her to realize mind-bending, dreamy, worth-dying-for sex existed only in her imagination.

The adrenaline pulsed through her body, sending her senses into hyper-alert, fight or flight. She’d been running from him for far too long. Time to finally deal with it. Jillian gritted her teeth against the nervous churning of her stomach and looked up at him.

Lost in a trance, her eyes locked with his. Her carefully formulated speech died on her lips. She didn’t dare open her mouth. No telling what she might do to him this time.

“Looking for someone?” His voice was as thick as she remembered, though they’d barely spoken that night seven years ago at the party.

Jillian swallowed hard, catching herself as her gaze dropped to his mouth. Focus, Jilly. You will get to kiss him, later.

“Are you meeting someone, or do you have a lesson scheduled?” His voice lilted at the end. Was he hoping she was looking for him? Jillian shook her head, forcing herself back to reality. Ben Cannon wouldn’t hit on her, no matter how much better she looked. She’d have to seduce him.

“I’m having a lesson today. My first. Ever. With Lauren.” Way to go, Jilly. Babbling is SO attractive. Ben’s lips parted, showcasing neat rows of pearly teeth as he grinned. Like little candies all in a row. Down girl. He is not a steak.

“Jillian Welch, from Mine & Ours magazine?” She could barely nod as his lips formed her name. “I’m Ben Cannon. I’m glad you chose Cannon Meadows for your research. I want to make sure you get the best possible experience here, so I’d like to give your lessons myself. That way I can answer any questions you have about the course and the resort.”

Jillian struggled against her body’s insistence that she run. Don’t panic. You knew you had to see him. That was the plan after all. Just not this soon, not this way. She forced a smile, her jaw twitching at the effort. Calm down. You can do this.

“If you’d rather work with Lauren, I can arrange that.” The outer corners of his eyes drooped slightly. “I thought it might be more productive for your research. I’ve been giving lessons for ten years. I’m great with beginners. I’ll ease you in nice and slow, I promise.”

“It’s not that.” But what was it? Get a hold of yourself, Jilly. No one wants to be seduced by a bumbling idiot. Confident, poised, assertive. That’s what she needed to be. She shook her head as if to switch gears. Superman was just Clark Kent in a cape after all, Zorro a mere mortal without his mask. “I never expected Cannon Meadows to be so accommodating.”

“We aim to please.” Ben’s smile returned.

His gaze continued to volley between her eyes and lips. He couldn’t possibly—

“Did you enjoy your flight here?”

“My flight?” Jillian searched his blank face. What did he mean?

“I was on the same plane.”

“You were?” So she hadn’t imagined his notice. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard. His smile widened, relaxing her enough to take in the rest of him. The thin brick-red polo shirt clinging to him, almost-white khaki pants, solid black golf shoes. Jilly took another deep breath and tried again to be sexy, coy, attractive.

Ben’s lips pressed into a grin, almost as if he was trying not to smile as his gaze dripped down her body, pooling at her shoes.

“Is something funny?” Jilly sassed, placing her hands on her hips.

“No.” Ben chuckled, rubbing his thumb against his chin.

“Spill it, what’s got you all worked up?” Staring down at her pink shoes, she guessed what it was, but wanted him to say it anyway.

He shook his head and looked at the floor. “It’s a lot of pink.”

His eyes slowly took her in. From pink saddle shoes and ankle socks sprouted long tanned legs barely covered by a khaki skirt far too short to play in. Her light blonde hair flew into textured pieces away from her chin beneath a slouchy baby-pink hat. Next to her, her charcoal golf bag had pink details, and he could see pink golf balls through the mesh pouch.

“Of course it is.” Jillian waved a French-manicured hand across her loot. “You probably have all of this arriving for the tournament.”

“Excuse me?”

“For the pro shop,” she explained.

He tilted his head to the side. “I’m not following.”

“Tournament for a Cure? Cannon Meadows Golf Club is hosting a local event, right? I mean, that’s one of the articles I’m here to write. There’s a poster right over there.” She pointed emphatically towards the advertisement hanging on the wall behind the cash register.

“Yes, of course.” Ben was flustered, trying to make the connection between his tournament and her affinity for pink. “I don’t see—”

“Let me spell it out for you.” Jillian cut in. Her hand waved across her collection as fluidly as a game-show spokesmodel. “The manufacturers of these items donate a portion of sales to breast-cancer research. A lot of products were sent to me in the hopes of getting some free advertising in the magazine. I’ll highlight some of them in the shopping piece that will run with my article about the tournament—including these.” She twisted her long leg in the air, showing off the pink spiked saddle shoes. “Though the pink golf balls were a personal favorite.”

He nodded, the connection with the tournament coming to him. He made a mental note to make some calls to suppliers.

She grinned. “I could give you a list of the distributors for your retail manager if you’d like.”

“Thanks, that would be great.”

Ben’s mother had lost her battle with breast cancer three years ago. So he’d fought tooth and nail to get the tournament at Cannon Meadows in her honor. He still felt helpless about her death, and needed to do something that might make another woman’s battle a little easier.

He’d been so preoccupied with toad carnage and paranoid about a reporter who in person seemed harmless, he hadn’t even thought to stock the pro-shop with clothes and products that tied in to the tournament. He still had a lot to learn about running a golf course. Her reminder saved him some embarrassment, and probably made him some money in the process.

Ben’s stomach knotted. He felt guilty for teasing her about the pink. When he saw her, he’d immediately jumped to the conclusion she was some spoiled girl costuming for a day on the course. With her effervescent personality, he’d never imagined she’d be any deeper than that.

“I’m sorry I laughed.”

”Be still my heart, a man who actually apologizes.” She clutched her hand to her chest and smiled so wide faint dimples pressed into her cheeks.

His gaze shifted again on her glossy red lips. Did women have any idea what lips like that did to a man? Ben blinked, reminding himself that he was not Ben, a guy on the make, right now. He was Ben Cannon, director and majority owner of Cannon Meadows. Best to act like it.

“What are you looking to get out of this, Jillian?”

Her eyes widened, skin paled, and he thought he felt her pull all the air from the room into her lungs. He just couldn’t get this right. A writer for a national magazine stood right in font of him, and twice in the last five minutes he’d spooked her. Was she skittish, or had he become some kind of ogre while he was busy being an adult?

“Would you rather I call you Ms. Welch?”

“No.” Her head shook frantically, her color returning. “No. Jillian is fine. I think I have a little jet lag. I’m sure once we get outside I’ll be fine. Sunlight is supposed to be the best thing for jet lag, right?”

“So I’ve heard. I thought we’d start with the fundamentals. What do you know about golf?”

“Nothing, except it’s a booming area for fashion design. That’s why I came here.” She swallowed quickly, looking as if she was about to choke. “Lauren was highlighted in Golfing Woman magazine as one of the fifty best coaches in the country. And she’s single.”

“Single?” Ben’s heart sank a little. He knew she hadn’t come here for him. But he’d hoped maybe it was for the course. Not for Lauren, the highest-paid golf pro on his staff. Lauren was a great teacher, but he was no slouch either.

“I’m hoping to write two articles, as well as my column. One on learning to play, another the tournament, and my column focuses on how the golf course is the new singles bar.”

“Lauren’s not single. She and her partner have been together since she came here.”

“Oh.” Jillian’s lips formed the most delectable pout. She must realize the meaning. “What about you?” The fluorescent lights danced in her eyes as she tilted her chin up and leaned against her golf bag.

“Are you asking if I’m single?” Was it possible to see her pulse fluttering in her graceful neck?

“I’ll need someone to help me get a feel for how golf and dating mesh.”

“I’d love to help you!”

The chipper voice grated on his nerves. What was Angela doing here? Now? When he was so out of practice he couldn’t tell if Jillian was flirting with him or not? Ben fought the sneer and squared his shoulders.

Jillian’s brown eyes widened as she took in Angela Cross. Ben guessed she’d seem normal enough to people who didn’t know she was capable of decimating a man’s life. Sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, the standard white polo and khaki shorts—Angela looked deceptively harmless.

“We do a singles mixer once a month, and have weekday date night specials. I even know a few gals who met their guys on the course. A woman who can play golf has an amazing power over a man.”

“Really? I’ll have to learn.” Jillian’s teeth glanced across her bottom lip as Angela captivated her attention. “Do you have anything scheduled here this week?”

“Oh, not here. Meadows is far too traditional to think of golf as fun. Crosslands Golf Resort. Our properties are adjoining. I’ll bring you over a copy of the events schedule.”

“Crosslands caters to the spa set.” Ben spoke before realizing Jillian wouldn’t know the difference. “Why are you here, Angela?” She knew she wasn’t welcome, why would she march through the door as if nothing had happened?

“I want to talk to him, Ben. I’m not going to stop asking.” Angela’s jaw was set, her feet planted firmly on the wood floor.

“Excuse us a minute, Jillian.” Ben gripped his hand around Angela’s arm and pulled her out the front door. He didn’t care if his grasp was too tight, that her feet shuffled to keep up. He wouldn’t allow her to air Jay’s dirty laundry in front of a writer for a national magazine. “If he wants to talk to you, he will. He doesn’t, Angela. Leave him be.”

“You don’t understand. I need to talk to him. Please.” Her eyes were getting glassy, as they always did at this point in the conversation. He couldn’t let it get to him. Jay was doing all he could to get better. Reintroducing Angela to his life would be too stressful, might prompt a relapse. Jay might make it through another recovery, but their father would not.

“He doesn’t want to see you, Angela.” He’d been saying the same thing to her since the day Jay left. He’d lost his patience, couldn’t be gentle about it anymore. “It’s over. You need to move on with your life.”

The tears started. Ben released her and walked quickly back inside. He’d become immune to the sight of Angela’s tears, but the sound still got him. He’d known her for as long as he could recall. They’d even gone to homecoming together sophomore year, the same year Ben realized why Angela hadn’t dated a single guy at school. Her crush on Jay started in the sandbox, and never ended.

“Ex-girlfriend?” Jillian asked as she organized her clubs.

“Yeah,” Ben snorted, “but not mine.”