Read the book: «Tangled Sheets, Tangled Lies»

“Nothing Could Stop Me From Completing This Job, I Promise You,” Cole Said.

Lauren’s face creased into a sudden, brilliant smile. “Good. Thank you.” Then she rose fluidly from the chair and held out a hand.

Cole grinned and wrapped his big palm around her warm fingers. “Congratulations. You just hired the best pair of hands west of the Mississippi.”

“Prove it, Cole. Just prove it.”

His gaze roamed her face, from her famous green eyes down to her famous full lips. “Oh, I will,” he promised, and wondered how long he was going to be able to keep his secret from Lauren—or keep the best pair of hands west of the Mississippi off the most beautiful woman on the planet.

Dear Reader,

In honor of International Women’s Day, March 8, celebrate romance, love and the accomplishments of women all over the world by reading six passionate, powerful and provocative new titles from Silhouette Desire.

New York Times bestselling author Sharon Sala leads the Desire lineup with Amber by Night (#1495). A shy librarian uses her alter ego to win her lover’s heart in a sizzling love story by this beloved MIRA and Intimate Moments author. Next, a pretend affair turns to true passion when a Barone heroine takes on the competition, in Sleeping with Her Rival (#1496) by Sheri WhiteFeather, the third title of the compelling DYNASTIES: THE BARONES saga.

A single mom shares a heated kiss with a stranger on New Year’s Eve and soon after reencounters him at work, in Renegade Millionaire (1497) by Kristi Gold. Mail-Order Prince in Her Bed (#1498) by Kathryn Jensen features an Italian nobleman who teaches an American ingenue the language of love, while a city girl and a rancher get together with the help of her elderly aunt, in The Cowboy Claims His Lady (#1499) by Meagan McKinney, the latest MATCHED IN MONTANA title. And a contractor searching for his secret son finds love in the arms of the boy’s adoptive mother, in Tangled Sheets, Tangled Lies (#1500) by brand-new author Julie Hogan, debuting in the Desire line.

Delight in all six of these sexy Silhouette Desire titles this month…and every month.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Tangled Sheets, Tangled Lies
Julie Hogan

JULIE HOGAN

discovered romance novels at the age of ten and spent her youthful summers tearing through one book after another when she should have been doing chores at her parents’ northern San Diego county avocado orchard. Luckily, in spite of a checkered past that ranged from undercover department store security to “hotwalking” Thoroughbred horses at the Santa Anita racetrack, all that summer reading paid off. After ten years in the rat race, Julie gave up her career as an Internet marketing executive and, with her English degree from UCLA clutched in her fist, finally realized her dream of writing her own romance novels. Julie shares a quiet Southern California home with her true-to-life hero husband, Jud, who inspires both her writing and her life, and two bad-tempered cats who rule the neighborhood with an iron claw. In her writing, Julie loves bringing funny and engaging characters to life, then putting them through the wringer until they realize that love is the only true path to happiness. The only thing Julie enjoys more than reading and writing romances is hearing from readers who share her mania. You can write to her at julie@juliehogan.com.

This is for my parents, who, when I was an impressionable preteen, were far too indulgent and bought me far too many books with far too adult themes. If Jud and I turn out to be a fraction of the parents you are, I will consider us a smashing success. I love you both.

This is for my critique partners past and present. Laura Wright, Julie Ganis, Tami Goveia, Patty Chung—you will never again be able to say you haven’t made a huge difference in someone’s life. And to the new La-La Sisterhood: Beth, Corinne, Doris, Teresa and Chandra—thank you for taking me into your fold. You have put the light and laughter back into this caper for me.

This is for my mentor and steadfast coach, Barbara Ankrum. Your success speaks for itself, but you know I have to say it anyway: Your ability to give is extraordinary, your desire to enrich others is tireless and your talent for writing transcends the exceptional. I am beyond fortunate to be able to call you my friend.

And finally, this is for my husband, Jud, who believed in me, encouraged me, cajoled me, lovingly menaced me and supported me utterly in my journey to becoming a writer. You make me laugh when I don’t want to, let me cry when I should and are the most ardent, die-hard fan. You are the very air that I am privileged to breathe. I love you with my whole heart.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

One

When Cole Travis first drove into the town of Valle Verde, he felt like he’d taken a step back in time.

There were no sidewalks flanking what appeared to be the main street, just well-traveled dirt paths with weeds and wildflowers growing as best they could in tufts alongside it. A group of young boys walked together, pushing each other and talking and laughing loud enough for Cole to hear them through the open window of his truck. A woman pushed a baby stroller with grocery bags piled in the bottom and a few men sat outside the hardware store.

It was quiet and peaceful and kind of pretty. And it made him feel like he was the only person within a hundred miles who had a problem.

He pulled up beside the gas pumps at an old-fashioned filling station, turned the key and waited for the groaning, wheezing pile of bolts and sheet metal that was posing as a truck to shudder and rattle to a stop. Cole had purchased the truck from one of his contractors just before leaving Seattle two weeks earlier and the man had laughingly called its idiosyncrasies “features.” One very special feature, he’d said, was that the truck didn’t stop until it felt like it.

Cole sighed. Because he intended to be flying home at the end of this journey, he’d wanted a vehicle he could junk when the time came. And he’d certainly gotten what he asked for in this jalopy.

Just then, another image out of the past appeared at Cole’s window. A gas station attendant. “Fill ’er up?” the young man asked.

“Sure.” Cole opened the door with a loud creak and stepped onto the clean pavement. “You know where I can get a local paper?”

The boy jerked his head toward the office. “You can take mine. I’m done with it. It’s on the desk.”

Cole took his time walking to the office. He’d been cramped up in the truck for most of the morning during the long drive from San Clemente to San Diego. Unfortunately, he hadn’t found what he was looking for in San Clemente, nor had he found it in Laguna Beach before that. But it didn’t really matter because regardless of how long it took or what he had to do, he was going to find his son, take him home and try as hard as he could to make up for all the time they’d lost.

As he gathered up the newspaper, he saw a map of Valle Verde thumbtacked to the wall. He pulled a piece of paper out of his back pocket and checked the address of the place he needed to go, located it on the map, then headed back to the truck.

After he paid for the gas, he pulled back out onto the main road. Well, at least now he knew where to find them. Only one small detail remained: how to approach them so they wouldn’t suspect his real motive, so they wouldn’t know that he might change their lives forever.

A small, neat park loomed up on the right side of the road and Cole pulled into it and turned off the truck, then reached into his bag and pulled out five thick file folders that represented his private investigator’s work. They felt heavy in his hands. He’d had five chances to find his child. Three remained.

As he opened the top folder, his gut churned with anger at his ex-wife. In fact, ever since he’d learned that Kelly had been pregnant with his son when she’d left him five years earlier, he’d been swinging wildly between feeling furious and hopeful, anxious and sad.

It was almost a month ago now that Kelly’s brother had called to tell him that Kelly had died—and that she’d confided something terrible to him just before dying. She’d not only been carrying Cole’s child when she’d left him, but she’d abandoned the baby in the hospital’s nursery. Worst of all, Kelly’s brother had no idea what had happened to the boy, nor the name of the hospital.

Cole closed his eyes and pushed his anger into a small, tight corner of himself. He had to stay focused. His first two disappointing dead ends in San Clemente and Laguna had taught him that showing up and laying the facts out on the table didn’t work. Once the people discovered why Cole was there, they treated him with open suspicion and distrust. Now he knew to reveal as little as possible until he could determine the facts for himself.

He reached for the newspaper and flipped to the classified page. Maybe he could get a job here, blend into the community for a week or two. Then when he met the people he was here to find, he would just seem like another newcomer to town rather than a man on a desperate mission.

A sudden gust of wind whispered through the truck’s open windows, rustling the newspaper in Cole’s hands. He flattened the paper against the truck’s steering wheel to steady it, then ran a finger down the Help Wanted column. Halfway down the page, he stopped suddenly, grabbed a pen out of the truck’s ashtray and drew a circle around a large ad.

And then Cole Travis smiled for the first time in weeks.

Lauren Simpson took another sip of the killer coffee they served at Uncle Bill’s Café and smiled across the silver-flecked Formica table at her son who was running on a zillion gigawatts of syrup-induced energy.

“Read it again, Mommy. Read it again!”

Underneath the table, she stretched out her long legs and propped her feet up on the vibrant aqua Naugahyde bench across from her and let out a quiet sigh. At four years old, Jem’s capacity for repetition was truly infinite.

“Pllleeaasssee?” Jem Simpson’s powder-blue eyes danced with mischief as he shot her a “c’mon, Mom” grin.

She had to admit she was a sucker for that look, one that was designed to melt a mother’s heart while getting her to agree to anything. She smiled as she picked up Valle Verde’s local newspaper and read the Help Wanted ad out loud for the dozenth time.

“Wanted—A man who can do it all to remodel our home and barn. Must be a good carpenter, electrician and plumber. If interested, please apply in person at the Simpson’s on Agua Dulce Road.”

Her son grinned up at her. “You think someone’ll come today?”

“Lord, I hope so.” She stuffed the newspaper back into her tote as she sent a quick prayer to the gods of home repair. More than anything in the world, they needed a really handy handyman to help restore their old house and get their big, beautiful barn ready for public use in just six weeks. But the ad had been running for a few days and so far, no nibbles.

Lauren put aside her worries and smiled at her son. “If we don’t, pal, it’s just going to be you, me, a hammer and one of the biggest first-aid kits we can find.”

She put money down on the table to pay for their breakfast and eyeballed the decimated pancakes on Jem’s plate. “You didn’t eat much. Why don’t you go ask Uncle Bill if he’ll box up some new pancakes for you?”

“Okay.” He slid his agile young body along the bench seat and picked up his plate. Lauren watched as he balanced it carefully on the way up to the counter, then saw Bill laugh at the mess Jem had made of the pancakes just like he had every Saturday morning since they’d moved to this little town just two months ago.

Even though it was fairly close to a large city—if you could call San Diego large—Valle Verde really was a warm, friendly place, she thought as she looked out the window at the slow, sweet pace of the main street. Kids rode their bikes down the middle of the road, moms walked to the store, women gossiped outside the beauty parlor and businesses put out simple, carved wood shingles with their names on them. From her vantage point she could see Johnny’s Pump and Tune, the What’s Shakin’ Chicken Pie Shop, Gordy’s U Pic It We Pac It Grocery and the Top of the Valley Hardware. And soon, just a few blocks away, a new shingle would sway in the warm summer wind of northern San Diego County: Simpson’s Gems, the Best Little Antique Store in the Southland.

Lauren put a few more dollars on the table to pay for the boxed-up pancakes, then grabbed her tote and went to fetch her son. She let him finish the longwinded story he was telling the counter full of diners about how they were looking for a handyman and how he was going to help because he was really good with tools—she smiled at that because it had taken her all morning to put the can opener back together after Jem had “fixed” it. Then, when he was done, she grabbed his sticky hand, said her goodbyes and stepped out into the pleasant, early-summer morning.

Jem chattered nonstop as they walked the two blocks home. She wondered to herself if she’d been the same way at his age. Probably not, considering that there hadn’t been a soul around to listen to her. But that was her childhood—a childhood spent in one cold, awful foster home after another, a childhood Lauren wished she didn’t have to remember but couldn’t forget no matter how hard she tried. And this, she thought as they walked down the shady main street lined with eucalyptus trees, this wonderful, peaceful existence was going to be what Jem remembered about his childhood, no matter what she had to do to protect that.

She looked down at his tousled brown curls as he stopped to pick up a particularly grimy rock and stuck it in his pocket. Always gathering things, he was a bit like her in that way, although they shared no blood. But because she’d been his foster mother since he was abandoned as a baby and now she was his official adoptive mother, she realized this particular behavior could have been learned from her.

After all, she’d been collecting things as long as she could remember, long before she took Jem in and made good on the most important of her childhood pledges. And now that she’d retired from her grueling and time-consuming modeling career, she was going to fulfill another of her pledges and trot out all her precious things and open an antique store.

Jem slipped his hand back into hers as their house came into view and tugged to get her attention. “Look, Mommy,” he said in a loud whisper.

Lauren followed the boy’s gaze and automatically slowed her steps. There, standing on the front porch of their grand, gorgeous, dilapidated, falling-down Victorian house was a man, leaning casually against the main beam that held up the ornate overhang. He was staring up at the house’s eaves, his back to them. She took in the long length of him—his broad shoulders encased in a snug black T-shirt, down his sleekly muscled back, to his sculpted behind and his long, denim-clad legs—and swallowed thickly.

Holy cow. If she were looking for a man instead of a handyman, she wouldn’t have had to look any further. But she wasn’t. Two hundred and twenty-one days ago, she’d made herself a promise: no men for one year. It was the only way she’d been able to think of to reset her own personal Jerk-O-Meter and establish some good sense when it came to men. Her sanity—and, more importantly, the happiness of her child—depended on it.

As they approached, the stranger turned his head slightly, just enough for her to see a shock of sandy-colored, wind-tossed hair falling over his forehead and a sharp, confident profile so chiseled it should be etched in bronze and placed in the window of an art gallery. A disconcerting heat rushed through her as she watched him lift one hand to grasp a beam above his head and the muscles in his forearm and bicep bunched and flexed as he tested its strength. Oh, my, she thought, this guy really did have a body that went on for days, maybe even weeks. And for her that was saying something. In her former business she’d seen a lot of beautiful male bodies—not to mention some inflated, appalling male egos to match.

She slowed their steps further and worked to reclaim her composure as she took in the unfamiliar, battered truck with Washington State plates parked alongside the house. Whoever he was, she was sure it would be a mistake to bound up the steps with her face far too flushed for the cool morning temperatures, looking like a cheerleader stalking the captain of the football team.

Jem pulled on her hand. “Mom, do you think it’s him?” he said in a childish, hissing stage whisper.

And apparently it was loud enough for the man to hear because he turned around and smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth and lagoon-blue eyes that contrasted sharply with his wind-and sun-bronzed skin. Lauren’s breath hitched, then released in one long rush.

She tightened her hold on her son’s hand as the stranger reached behind him and pulled a newspaper out of the back pocket of his just-snug-enough Levi’s. Don’t worry, she told herself soothingly, he’s probably new in town and looking for directions. Just because he had the classifieds didn’t mean he was answering their ad. Please don’t be answering our ad. You’re far too distracting to be our handyman.

“Can I help you?” she asked as she and Jem walked up the steps, carefully avoiding the two broken ones near the bottom.

The man looked at Jem with a certain bewilderment, like someone looks at a person they’re sure they’ve met but can’t quite place. Then he turned and fixed his gaze on her. Their eyes locked and held, pulling her into a strange, thrilling vortex that made her feel as if she was still strapped into the Tilt-O-Whirl Jem had made her ride at the county fair last weekend.

“Maybe you can,” he said finally, and the spell was broken. “But I’m sure I can help you.”

“You are the man!” Jem exclaimed.

The stranger cocked his head to the side and the corners of his firm, sensual mouth tipped into the beginnings of a smile.

“He means—” Lauren began.

But the man just smiled at Jem and said, “I think I know what he means,” with a hint of laughter in his voice. Then he unfolded the newspaper and as he did, she saw their ad circled in red ink. “I’m here for the job you advertised.”

Wasn’t that just her luck? She’d been expecting a nice, graying old man with dentures, not some godlike creature who, with a simple smile, was stirring up something inside her that was better left undisturbed. Something that felt like it might be putting her yearlong hiatus from men in peril.

She sighed inwardly and told herself she’d just have to keep that commitment at the top of her To Do list. She was convinced that in just one hundred and forty-four more days, her instinct for men would be refreshed—not that her instinct had ever been all that finely honed to start with, but that wasn’t the point. For now, she’d simply have to get rid of this stranger who had been dropped on her porch by fate to tempt her.

The man in question waved the newspaper with a flick of his wrist. “Unless the position’s already been filled.”

She thought about lying for a half a second, but there was a light in his blue eyes that made it impossible for her to manufacture a fib on the fly. “No, it hasn’t. But—”

“That’s great.” His voice was calm, his gaze steady, his smile sure. “Because I can start immediately.”

Not on your life, she thought, certain that the hordes of very safe and very unattractive grandpa types would be descending on her house any minute. “Actually,” she said, seizing what she hoped would be a successful thanks-but-no-thanks tactic, “I’m really looking for someone local.” She glanced pointedly toward the side yard and his truck. “And I can see you’re from out of state.”

“Yes, ma’am. Seattle area.” His gaze never strayed from hers. “That’s where I’ve been most recently anyway. Did some good work up there.”

“Then I’d be happy to take your resume. But like I said, I’m giving the first crack at the job to someone local.” Sounds good, sounds reasonable, she thought as she watched the giant oak tree that swayed gently in her front yard cast captivating shadows on his handsome, confident face.

“I’ve got to warn you,” he said as he leaned against the post. He crossed his powerful arms in a way that let her know he had no intention of just tucking his tail and slinking away. “You’re not going to find anyone better than me.”

Any red-blooded woman with a good pair of eyes could see that, but Lauren wasn’t the type to acquiesce so quickly. “I guess I won’t really know for sure until I see the rest of the applicants. But I’ll be happy to review your resume and call you for an interview if you’d like.”

The stranger’s smile widened, softening his features and giving the impression that he could be trusted with the contents of Fort Knox. Then he pushed away from the post and walked toward her and Jem with animal grace. “Don’t have a resume.” He leaned on the final word, like a resume was an item required only by mere mortal men. “Or a phone number, either. I’m really just passing through, looking for a few months’ honest work before I get on my way.”

Oh, passing through, Lauren thought. That meant she wasn’t going to be bumping into his charming grin—and all the other troubling attributes that were attached to that grin—around town. She breathed a little sigh of relief. Or was it regret? No, no, no, she chastised herself. It was relief.

As she tried to figure out what it was going to take to get this magnetic man on his way to the next town, Jem, clearly thinking he’d been silent long enough, piped up with, “Can you fix houses?”

The man hunkered down in front of her son, straining the denim that was stretched tight across his legs, and stared into her son’s eager eyes. “What’s your name?”

Jem smiled at the man in the guileless way that only children have the luxury of and said, “I’m Jem Simpson.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jem. I’m Cole Travis, and the fact is, I can fix anything.” His voice was deep and filled with the promise of his words—and something else that had Lauren reaching over instinctively to put her hand on Jem’s slim shoulder. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a man had tried to get to her through kindness to her son.

The man glanced up at her then, his eyes darkening as he quite openly studied her, but not in the way men usually did when they recognized her as one of the models in the Boudoir Lingerie catalog. No, Cole Travis was looking deeper than that, and it made her feel restless and excited—and a little bit annoyed.

Cole looked back at Jem and jerked his head in her direction. “Is this your mother, Jem?”

The boy nodded and smiled wider. “Her name’s Lauren.” But he pronounced it as he always did which made it sound like “Woe-when.”

“Lauren,” she said. “Lauren Simpson.” She hesitated a moment, then reached out her hand.

Cole Travis straightened, then took her hand in his own. His fingers felt like sandpaper as they slid roughly against hers. Lauren stared down at their intertwined hands and felt her control slipping a tiny notch. Warm, rough and electric, his gentle grip seemed to pour pure energy into her body.

It must be all that coffee she’d had at breakfast, she thought suddenly as she pulled her hand away and took one involuntary step back. “It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Travis,” she said, shoving her tingling hand into the pocket of her jeans and forcing a wobbly smile to her lips. “But as I said, I’ll have to interview some local tradesmen before I decide.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I promise you, you won’t find anyone better.”

“Can you fix the swing?” Jem asked as he ran over to the creaky old wooden swing that was hanging precariously on its chain at the end of the porch.

“Sure could,” Cole said as he walked over and tested the swing’s chains with a gentle tug. He looked back at Lauren. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give you a free sample. What harm is there in that?”

Lauren frowned. She wasn’t sure, but something about that slow, lazy smile was giving her the strangest feeling that he was making the decisions, like he was making the rules.

“And Jem can help,” Cole said and the boy’s face lit up like the night skies on the Fourth of July.

Her son glanced over at her with that same guaranteed-to-work grin, an unspoken plea to let him help beaming at her like a floodlight.

Common sense warred with her need to get Cole Travis as far away as possible. She was uncomfortable around him, and not just because the way he looked at her made her feel like her knees were made of rubber.

On the other hand, she did need a thousand and one things done around here and unless she wanted to miss the beginning of the summer tourist season in just under two months, she couldn’t afford to lose any more time. So what if she was attracted to him? she thought, mentally cracking the whip on her awakening hormones. Getting her business up and running was Priority One, dammit, and she wasn’t going to let her simple attraction to this man stand in her way. In no time at all, he would cease to be a temptation. She was sure of it. Absolutely sure…

Cole Travis leaned his head back and laughed at something Jem had said. Low, deep and heartfelt, the mere sound of it sent a shiver of pure, unalloyed longing careening through her.

She mentally shook it off, then reminded herself that if, for some unlikely reason, his appeal did fail to wane, certainly she could get a grip long enough to find The Old Man of Valle Verde—couldn’t she?

She wrapped her familiar control around her like a superhero’s cape before she spoke. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you an hour. If the swing’s fixed before the hour’s up, I’ll hire you for the weekend.”

Cole Travis hesitated only a moment before that lazy smile appeared and he said, “You’ve got a deal.”

She nodded, then looked back at Jem, who was now grinning from ear to ear, clearly anticipating his own participation in Cole’s work. “As for you, young man, didn’t you promise you’d help me clean that train wreck you call a bedroom?”

Her son’s expression went from sixty to zero in one second. He looked down at his feet and nodded, his voice holding about as much enthusiasm as if he were going to the guillotine. “Uh-huh,” he said.

“When you’ve finished,” she said, softening her tone, “we’ll come and check Mr. Travis’s progress.” She slanted a look at Cole. “Then we’ll see how good he really is.”

Amusement—and something else she couldn’t put her finger on—flickered in the eyes that met her gaze. His voice was soft and almost sensual when he spoke. “I think you’ll like what you see.”

Too late for that, she mused, then checked herself mentally. Lauren gave him a smooth nod, turned the key in the ancient lock on the front door and waited for Jem to precede her inside. Hopefully that gray-haired old man would show up soon, she prayed as she followed her dejected son, and then she could get started on the things that really mattered: making a house and business that would sustain her and Jem for the rest of their lives.

Cole watched as Lauren let the rickety screen door close with a wheezing clatter behind her. He made a mental note to fix the screen door next. He breathed in deeply, noticing how the sweet, citrusy scent of her lingered—as did the vision of her tossing her deep, dark-red mane of hair and sashaying away in a flurry of perfectly shaped behind and long, long legs. She reminded him of a glamorous 1940s-era pinup girl he’d fallen in love with as a boy when he’d seen her on a calendar in his grandfather’s garage.

And Jem—whether it turned out the boy was Cole’s son or not—was an inquisitive, engaging child who obviously adored Lauren, and she him. But while something about the boy might look familiar, it wouldn’t help for Cole to start imagining the boy as his own. If Cole had learned anything while he’d investigated the previous two leads, it was that until he knew for certain, it would be best to avoid any attachment.

To either of them.

But as he walked down to his truck, he still couldn’t help remembering how Lauren had looked a few minutes before. She’d gotten all feisty, crossing her arms, forcing up those amazing breasts that just about every red-blooded male in America had dreamed of at least once.

Lauren Simpson was one of the world’s most beautiful lingerie models, with absurdly full lips and dark green eyes that slanted up at the corners and teased men from the printed page. But that wasn’t what had surprised him. What had surprised him was that she was also smart, confident and incredibly spirited for a woman he’d assumed would be as one-dimensional as she appeared in print.

And that was not to say that he hadn’t noticed her actual dimensions, too.

He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. Why in the hell was he so hot? He looked up at the sky, expecting to see that the reason for the heat pouring through his body was just the sun, blazing overhead. But it was still midmorning, and the feeble, pale sun was still lying low in the eastern sky. He couldn’t deny it. Lauren Simpson was making him sweat. And he didn’t like that fact one bit.

He’d come here with one thing in mind, Cole reminded himself as he grabbed a toolbox and threw the necessary tools into it with a clatter, and he wasn’t going to stray from it. To get what he wanted, he needed this job. And he’d do a lot better work if his mind wasn’t filled with images of her in the silky, flimsy, barely there stuff she wore in that damned catalog.