with their parched lawns and old cars crowding the driveways. Megan wouldn't be caught dead driving through a neighborhood like this, much less working here.
He'd noticed a gas station about a mile back. Maybe somebody there would be able to tell him where he'd gone wrong. He was about to make a U-turn when in someone's driveway when he caught a glimpse of a street sign that was hanging by one bolt. T UM EH. Tecumseh. It had to be. He swung a quick right onto the narrow street and peered at the house numbers.
Number 56 was a tiny cottage, not much bigger than the one he owned on La Mirada. Someone had carefully painted it a pale yellow with crisp white trim. Flower boxes, heavy with red blooms, were at each window. A little Ford wagon that had seen better days idled in the driveway. Megan lived here? Not bloody likely.
He braked to a stop in front of the house turned off the engine. Still it wouldn't hurt to check.
#
Jenny's birthday present was in the tool shed, hidden behind the grass catcher, right where Megan had left it. The tool shed was the only place she could be certain Jenny wouldn't look because she might run into spiders.
Megan dusted a fine layer of grass clippings off the brightly-wrapped package, adjusted the bow, then ran back into the house for her sunglasses. She was debating the wisdom of locking the kitchen window when the telephone rang.
"Better come back right away," said Ingrid. "I think I'm in labor."
"Good grief, Ingrid, you're kidding!"
"I never kid about labor. Hurry up, Meg."
She popped on her sunglasses, grabbed the birthday present, then hurried toward the front door as footsteps crunched their way up the walkway. The UPS. woman, maybe. Or a FedEx delivery. She'd ordered some twenty-quart stockpots a few weeks back. It would be nice if the darned things arrived before the big Cooper-Hardison wedding next month. If they didn't, she'd be making clear consomme for three hundred in metal washtubs.
"I'm in a rush," she called out as she swung open the door. "If there's anything for me to sign, I'll--"
She stopped. It wasn't UPS or FedEx or the U. S. Mail.
It was Jake.
And he was looking for a fight.
Chapter Eight
The thing to do was act cool even though her hands were shaking. If Jake had shown up an hour earlier, he would have been standing right there at the foot of the walkway staring at his daughter. Megan whispered a quick prayer of thanks for good friends and birthday parties.
Head high, she stepped out onto the rickety porch. He had a black eye, she noted. Her only regret was that she wasn't the one who'd given it to him. "What are you doing here?"
"What the hell do you think I'm doing here?"
"I'm not in the mood for riddles, Jake. Just tell me what you want then leave."
"What if I don't, Megan?" He stepped closer. "What'll you do, run away?"
"I have this thing about liars," she said smoothly. "I can't help myself. I just automatically run in the opposite direction."
"Not this time," he said.
In a blink of an eye he was standing on the step in front of her and she was in his arms.
"Jake, I--"
His kiss was angry. So was her response. A ferocious mating of will and desire that left her breathless and enraged.
He broke the kiss but not the hold he had on her arms.
Her eyes widened but she didn't give an inch. "We're going to talk," he said.
"The hell we are." She wanted to storm off but he held her tight.
"You know I own Tropicale, don't you?"
"Remind me to send Val some flowers. If it hadn't been for her, I'd still think you were a lowly piano player."
"I was going to tell you that night."
"Right," she said, with a bitter laugh. "After you got what you wanted between the sheets."
"There's more to it than that."
"Sure there is." Her voice broke but she recovered quickly. "If you don't leave in the next thirty seconds, I'll call the police."
"Not if I don't let you."
"You don't scare me."
"No?" His eyes glittered with dark fire. "Then you're not paying attention. We're going to talk if I have to tie you up and lock you in a room."
"Big talk from a man who gets his kicks slumming with the masses. Now I know how you got the black eye."
"Who's slumming?" he asked, ignoring the comment about his eye. "This isn't exactly the Ritz-Carlton you're visiting."
She