Considering Kate: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

The look was delightfully jumbled and…fun, Kate thought. One might think the toys had simply been dropped wherever they fit. But she knew that great care, and a deep, affectionate knowledge of children, had gone into the design of the display.

Bells chimed cheerfully as they stepped inside.

Customers wandered. A toddler banged madly on a xylophone in the play corner. Behind the counter, Annie Maynard boxed a flop-eared stuffed dog. “He’s one of my favorites,” she said to the waiting customer. “Your niece is going to love him.”

Her glasses slid down her nose as she tied the fuzzy red yarn around the box. Then she glanced up over them, blinked and squealed.

“Brandon! Tash! Come see who’s here. Oh, come give me a kiss, you gorgeous thing.”

When he came around the counter and obliged, she patted her heart. “Been married twenty-five years,” she said to her customer. “And this boy can make me feel like a co-ed again. Happy holidays. Let me go get your mother.”

“No, I’ll get her.” Kate grinned and shook her head. “Brandon can stay here and flirt with you.”

“Well, then.” Annie winked. “Take your time.”

Her brother, Kate mused, had been leaving females puddled at his feet since he’d been five. No, since he’d been born, she corrected as she wandered through the aisles.

It was more than looks, though his were stellar. Even more than charm, though he could pump out plenty when he was in the mood. She’d long ago decided it was simply pheromones.

Some men just stood there and made women drool. Susceptible women, of course. Which she had never been. A man had to have more than looks, charm and sex appeal to catch her interest. She’d known entirely too many who were pretty to look at, but empty once you opened the package.

Then she turned the corner by the toy cars and very nearly turned into a puddle.

He was gorgeous. No, no, that was too female a term. Handsome was too fussily male. He was just…

Man.

Six-two if he was an inch, and all of it brilliantly packaged. As a dancer she appreciated a well-toned body. The specimen currently studying rows of miniature vehicles had his packed into snug and faded jeans, a flannel shirt and a denim jacket that was scarred and too light for the weather.

His work boots looked ancient and solid. Who would have thought work boots could be so sexy?

Then there was all that hair; dark, streaky blond masses of it waving around a lean, sharp-angled face. Not rugged, not classic, not anything she could label. His mouth was full, and appeared to be the only soft thing about him. His nose was long and straight, his chin, well, chiseled. And his eyes…

She couldn’t quite see his eyes, not the color, with all those wonderful lashes in the way. But they were heavy-lidded, so she imagined them a deep, slumberous blue.

She shifted her gaze to his hands as he reached for one of the toys. Big, wide-palmed, blunt-fingered. Strong.

Holy cow.

And while indulging in a moment’s fantasy—a perfectly harmless moment’s fantasy—she leaned and knocked over a small traffic jam of cars.

The resulting clatter slapped her out of her daydream, and turned the man’s eyes—his surprising and intense green eyes—in her direction.

“Oops,” she said. And grinning at him, laughing at herself, crouched down to pick up the cars. “I hope there were no casualties.”

“We’ve got an ambulance right here, if necessary.” He tapped the shiny red-and-white emergency vehicle, then hunkered down to help her.

“Thanks. If we can get these back before the cops get here, I may just get off with a warning.” He smelled as good as he looked, she decided. Wood shavings and man. She shifted, deliberately, and their knees bumped. “Come here often?”

“Yeah, actually.” He glanced up at her, took a good long look. She recognized the stirring of interest in his eyes. “Guys never outgrow their toys.”

“So I’ve heard. What do you like to play with?”

His eyebrows shot up. A man didn’t often come across a beautiful—provocative—woman in a toy store on a Wednesday afternoon. He very nearly stuttered, then did something he hadn’t done in years—spoke without thinking first.

“Depends on the game. What’s yours?”

She laughed, pushed back a tendril of hair that tickled her cheek. “Oh, I like all kinds of games—especially if I win.”

She started to rise, but he beat her to it, straightening those yard-long legs and holding out a hand. She gripped it, discovered to her pleasure it was as hard as she’d imagined, and as strong.

“Thanks again. I’m Kate.”

“Brody.” He offered the tiny blue convertible he was still holding. “In the market for a car?”

“No, not today. I’m more or less browsing, until I see what I want….” Her lips curved again, amused, flirtatious.

Brody had to order himself not to whistle out a breath. He’d had women come on to him from time to time, but never quite like this. And he’d been in a self-imposed female drought for… For what was beginning to seem entirely too long.

“Kate.” He leaned on a shelf, angled his body toward her. Funny, how the moves came back, how the system could pick up the dance as if it had never sat one out. “Why don’t we—”

“Katie. I didn’t know you’d come in.” Natasha Kimball hurried across the shop, carting an enormous toy cement mixer.

“I brought you a surprise.”

“I love surprises. But first here you are, Brody, as promised. Just came in Monday, and I put it aside for you.”

“It’s great.” The cool-eyed, flirtatious expression had vanished into a delighted grin. “It’s perfect. Jack’ll flip.”

“The manufacturer makes its toys to last. This is something he’ll enjoy for years, not just for a week after Christmas. Have you met my daughter?” Natasha asked, sliding an arm around Kate’s waist.

Brody’s eyes flicked up from the truck in its open-fronted box. “Daughter?”

So this is the ballerina, he thought. Doesn’t it just figure?

“We just met—over a slight vehicular accident.” Kate kept the smile on her face. Surely she had imagined the sudden chill. “Is Jack your nephew?”

“Jack’s my son.”

“Oh.” She took a long step back in her mind. The nerve of the man! The nerve of the married man flirting with her. It hardly mattered who had flirted first, after all. She wasn’t married. “I’m sure he’ll love it,” she said, coolly now and turned to her mother.

“Mama—”

“Kate, I was just telling Brody about your plans. I thought you might like him to look at your building.”

“Whatever for?”

“Brody’s a contractor. And a wonderful carpenter. He remodeled your father’s studio last year. And has promised to take a look at my kitchen. My daughter insists on the best,” Natasha added, her dark gold eyes laughing. “So naturally, I thought of you.”