MASON'S KISS
by Sheri WhiteFeather

Chapter One

Stunned, Beverly sat behind the wheel. She'd just rammed her Karmann Ghia into the side of a truck. And on a wine-country road, no less. A lush, hilly grade in Napa Valley , California .

Her hideaway.

Her sudden nightmare.

She knew the collision was her fault. Her mind had been wandering and she'd taken the right-of-way at a four-way stop. But she should have yielded to the other driver.

He climbed out of his vehicle, a big, black Dodge. He stood tall, over six feet, with rebellious blond hair, frayed jeans and scuffed boots. He was about her age, she guessed. Twenty-five, give or take a year.

She prayed that he wouldn't insist on filing an accident report, because that would mean calling the highway patrol. And flashing her counterfeit ID to an officer of the law. What if her license didn't pass the test? What if she was hauled in for questioning?

Beverly glanced up, and the other driver appeared at her window. She gathered her wits and rolled down the glass. He leaned forward, giving her an unobstructed view of his face. His eyes were an electric shade of blue, and although stubble darkened a rough-hewn jaw, the rest of his features held a boyish appeal. She suspected that his cheeks dimpled when he smiled.

Of course he wasn't smiling now.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She merely nodded.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She reached for the door handle, and he stepped back, allowing her to exit the car. She needed to prove that she was fine, even if her knees threatened to buckle. "I'm so sorry. After you get an estimate, I'll pay for the damage to your truck. In cash," she added, discouraging him from contacting his insurance company. She had plenty of money tucked away, even if she was careful not to flaunt it.

Together, they walked over to the point of impact. Both vehicles had gotten by with just a couple of dents. Beverly breathed a sigh of relief. She had expected the front of her yellow Ghia to look like a squashed daisy.

Taking care of business, they exchanged information. He said his name was Mason Lucas Sheppard and that he lived on an estate called The Vines.

"My family owns Lauret Vineyard," he explained. "It's here in the Valley, but I spend most of my time in France , traveling and studying. I'm a winemaker-in-training." He smiled, and her prediction came true. He had dimples. "It's the best job in the world." He moved closer to her. "But don't tell anyone that I get homesick once in a while. It'll kill my international image."

He was very forthcoming with details, she thought, especially considering she had just smashed into his truck. She tried to return his smile, but she couldn't find the strength to put on a show. She could feel him gazing into her eyes, searching with concern.

He placed his hand on her shoulder, lightly, gently, nearly stilling the breeze that fluttered between them. "Are you sure you're all right? That you aren't hurt?"

His touch, his compassion, went straight to her heart. She'd been hurt more times than he could possibly know. "It's just been a crummy day."

He caught her gaze again, and she realized they were standing in the middle of a vacant road, staring at each other. She imagined how pale she must look, her dyed black hair accentuating the lightness of her skin.

He, on the other hand, looked big and strong and secure.

"Will you let me take you to dinner?" he asked. "Something to make up for a crummy day?"

Oh, God. She teetered on her feet. He was inviting her on a date. Her. Beverly fraudulent Clark .

She wanted to go out with him, to dream, to pretend that a handsome stranger could change her life. But she shook her head, instead, declining his offer.

Keeping herself under lock and key.

Chapter Two

Mason studied his companion. He wished she hadn't turned him down. He wasn't ready to let Beverly Clark go. Everything about her intrigued him.

Her unconventional beauty struck him like a match to flint, like an instant flame. She wore a long black skirt, a gauzy blouse and a denim jacket. Around her neck, a scarf, the color of a full-bodied merlot, fluttered like a veil. Her hair, cropped short and fringed with bangs, was too dark for the fairness of her skin. It made her seem ghostly, gothic. But her eyes captivated him the most, with a hint of mystery.

Mason had only been home from France for a day. One breathtaking Napa Valley day. He loved the wine country and all its glory. Trees, grass, vineyards. Grapes, he thought. Jewels of the earth.

He gazed at Beverly again, wondering how long she'd lived in the Valley. And then a thought hit him. "Did I just step on another man's toes?" he asked. "A boyfriend? Fiancé? Husband?"

"No." She closed her jacket, buttoning herself into it. "I'm not involved with anyone."

"Then why won't you have dinner with me?" he asked before he could stop himself. A second later, he winced at his own persistence, hoping he didn't seem like a total idiot. "Sorry. That was pushy."

She actually smiled. A barely there smile, but a positive reaction just the same. "You're aggressive," she agreed, "but I think you mean well."

He let out the breath he'd been holding, touched by the softness he saw in her eyes. "It's a habit, I guess. My parents spoil the loving hell out of me. Sometimes my brothers and sisters cater to me, too."

"You must be the baby."

He nodded, reminded of the simplicity of his roots compared to those of his brothers and sisters. His half-siblings carried the notorious Ashton name - a curse, as far as Mason was concerned. He was glad he didn't have Ashton blood running through his veins. "They'll vouch for me. Talk me up. Tell you I'm capable of changing your life."

The wind blew, rustling her scarf, making it billow. "Would they really say that?"

"The females in my family probably would." He decided that she was an only child. That she must not have any brothers or sisters to believe in her. "But they're biased."

When they both fell silent, Mason shifted his stance. There was something hauntingly familiar about Beverly , something he couldn't quite name. Was it the sound of her voice? The way she moved? The shape of her mouth? The colorless lip gloss she wore?

"Do you speak French?" she asked.

He nodded. "Do you?"

"A little," she admitted. "But not very well."

When she took a step, one heart-thundering step toward him, Mason hoped that she would decide to have dinner with him, to explore the chemistry he was feeling between them. To him, their accident seemed like fate. And Beverly Clark, with her gothic beauty and merlot scarf, seemed like part of his future.

A woman he was destined to meet.

Chapter Three

Beverly soaked in the tub, then rummaged through her closet and chose an Edwardian dress, a soft linen garment trimmed in textured embroidery and a hint of lace. She could have skipped the citrus-scented bath and worn the same clothes she'd had on earlier, but she wanted to feel fresh, to look old-fashioned and feminine.

Not that she had any business going on a date. When she'd altered her appearance and changed her name, she'd promised herself that she would avoid getting close to anyone. That she would live in seclusion until Darby Quinn faded from the limelight.

But that was before she'd met Mason Sheppard. Before he'd charmed her, intrigued her. Anxious, she glanced at her watch. Too late to cancel. He would be there any minute.

Unsure of what else to do, she fluffed the decorative pillows on the couch, smoothing the tassels. She lived in a cottage that was tucked away in the hills, a gingerbread-style house that Darby's cosmetic surgeon had helped her find.

A knock sounded on the door. Beverly took a deep breath and answered the summons.

There stood Mason, tall and blond, with his jaw cleanly shaven and his blue eyes twinkling. She invited him inside, and he handed her a bouquet of lilac roses.

For a long, drawn-out moment, she froze, unable to move.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No." She struggled to regain her composure. Did he know what giving lilac roses to a woman meant? What the color symbolized? "These are my favorite flowers."

"They are? Then I got lucky, I guess. I just thought they were pretty."

"I'll put them in water." She went into the kitchen, and he followed her. She could hear his footsteps on the ceramic tile. She found a clear glass vase and arranged the de-thorned roses, placing them on the dinette set.

"You look beautiful, Beverly ."

She turned and saw him watching her. "Thank you." She motioned to the flowers, grateful that he wasn't aware of what they indicated. That he wasn't making a deliberate statement. "For the bouquet, too."

He smiled, and she pictured him living in France , learning his craft, traveling to different wineries, eating at quaint cafés, enjoying the company of beautiful women.

"How long are you going to be in Napa Valley ?" she asked.

"Two weeks." He reached out to touch her high-neck collar, fingering the lace, appreciating the delicate finery. "Why? Are you going to miss me when I'm gone?"

Yes, she thought, her skin tingling at his closeness. She would miss the Prince Charming spell he'd begun to cast, the uncharacteristic way he affected her. Darby had taught her not to believe in fairy tales, but Beverly couldn't help the way Mason already made her feel. "I barely know you."

"That doesn't mean you won't miss me." He walked over to the table, snapped the stem of one of the roses and tucked the flower behind her ear, brushing the petals against her cheek. "Or that I won't miss you."

Suddenly, Beverly couldn't think straight. When he lifted his gaze and looked into her eyes, her heart struck her chest.

Lilac roses: love at first sight.

Chapter Four

Mason took Beverly to a restaurant that showcased wines from local vintners. They sat at a rustic table with a nighttime view. A fat white candle flickered between them, the flame dancing on air.

He watched the wax melt, wishing his heart wasn't moving so damn fast. As he sat across from Beverly , Mason wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and devour her with a kiss that would leave them both breathless.

"You were right." She sipped an award-winning cabernet sauvignon from his family's boutique winery. "This is perfect with pan-grilled steak."

Mason didn't respond. The beef was seasoned with sprigs of rosemary, enhancing the herbal qualities of the wine. But that hardly mattered. He hadn't consumed a single drop of alcohol, yet he was lightheaded. For the first time in his life, he was getting drunk on a woman.

Madly, strangely, stupidly drunk.

She cut into her steak again, taking another bite.

Was she calmer now? he wondered. Had the rich red cabernet soothed her nerves? Earlier she'd seemed edgy, unearthed by the flower he'd tucked behind her ear. The lilac rose she still wore.

"Tell me about your family," she said.

"The folks who spoil me?"

"Yes." She scooted to the edge of her seat, seeming genuinely interested in what he had to say.

"I have two half sisters and two half brothers," he told her. "They're my mother's children from a previous marriage. Mom's first husband was a bastard. He forced her into relinquishing her estate. And after he screwed her over in the divorce, he deserted their children."

"That's awful." Her voice went hollow, distant. "There's so much cruelty in the world. So much pain."

Mason gauged her response. Had someone hurt her? Someone like the man who'd wounded his family? "My mom bounced back, and so did my brothers and sisters."

"How?"

"By meeting my dad. He married Mom and raised her children as his own. He was their salvation - exactly what they needed."

She looked up from her plate. "And then you were born? The little brother? The baby?"

"Yes." He was still wondering about her, anxious to unlock her mystery. "Sometimes they forget that I'm not a kid anymore. But it's only because they love me."

"That must be a comforting feeling."

"It is." Mason glanced at the candle. The flame was still dancing, still burning bright. He knew how lucky he was. "I've never had to think twice about it."

"What are your brothers' and sisters' names?" Beverly asked, prodding him for more information.

"Eli, Cole, Mercedes and Jillian." He lifted his knife and cut into an asparagus spear. "Their father has other grown children. But my brothers and sisters don't have anything to do with them."

"Do his other kids live close by?"

He nodded. "They were raised in the estate he stole from my mom."

"How unfair." She buttered her bread, paused, and then made a curious expression. "And complicated."

"A lot of people's lives are." But his wasn't. At least, not until today, not until he'd met her. "Now I want to know about you, Beverly." He leaned forward. "I want to know who you are."

Chapter Five

Mason stared at Beverly expectantly, waiting for her to speak.

"There isn't much to tell," she said quickly.

Too quickly.

Although she tried for a casual air, an unaffected shrug, her effort fell short. She was giving the worst performance of her life. Yet this was supposed to be her skill, her forte.

Somewhere deep down she wanted to be honest. But Darby wouldn't let her. She could hear Darby's voice in her head, warning her to be careful, to not reveal too much.

Mason searched her gaze, probably seeing the indecision in her eyes. Could he see the outline of her contact lenses, too? The opaque tint that changed her natural blue eyes to brown?

"Tell me something. Anything." He stopped eating, pushing away his plate, clanking his silverware. "How long you've lived in the Valley. What kind of work you do."

"I've been here for a month." She'd arrived after the scars on her face had healed, after the postsurgery bruises had faded. "And I ended my career. I left it behind."

He blinked at her, waiting for more. When she didn't offer anything else, he prodded. "That's it? That's all you're going to say?"

"Yes." She couldn't bear to lie to him, to recite a phony background, to deceive him any more than she already had. Nor could she discuss her work with him. Not without betraying Darby.

He ran his hand over his jaw. Candlelight flickered across his skin, shadowing the angles of his face, making him look even more handsome. When a strand of his hair fell forward, it slashed across his brow, razor straight and surfer blond.

She thought about the beach house where she used to live, the Malibu sun, the scatter of seashells glistening on the sand, the childhood memories that always crashed with the shore.

"What about your family?" he asked. "At least tell me about them."

"My father is dead."

"And your mother?"

She fell silent. She couldn't bring herself to talk about her mom. Or about the man who'd hurt two innocent little girls.

"I assume you don't have any brothers or sisters," he said.

Her youth assaulted her, making her memories even more painful. His assumption was wrong, but she kept quiet, letting him believe that she was an only child.

Mason tilted his head, observing her reactions. "You're so complicated."

Beverly wasn't about to argue. She didn't know how to behave like an everyday person. But Darby had been lousy at that, too. Of course, Darby hadn't lived an ordinary life. "Maybe you should take me home."

"And call it a night?" He made an empty gesture. "Just like that?"

"We're both done with our meals," she pointed out.

"I think we should finish the date," he said.

She removed the flower from behind her ear, setting it on the table. "Why? What's left?" She indicated the pastry cart in the corner, where éclairs, cream puffs and chocolate delicacies beckoned. "Dessert? Coffee?"

"Yes. But there's more. Maybe a moonlit walk.and a kiss," he all but whispered, making her breath catch. "A romantic way to say goodnight."

Chapter Six

After dessert and coffee, Mason drove Beverly to her cottage, taking the winding stretch of asphalt ribbon in silence. She looked out the window at the scenery that passed by. The pitch of night shrouded the forested hillside and dappled the road. To her, the area seemed enchanted.

And so did the man beside her.

She'd never met anyone like him. Tall, strong, idyllic Mason. She was anticipating his kiss, thinking about his lips on hers.

By the time they reached her cozy little rental, her heart tumbled to her throat. He parked in the graveled driveway, and they turned to look at each other.

"I like complicated women," he said.

In the darkness of his truck, his eyes seemed gray, the bright blue color difficult to discern. But the honesty in them was raw, real, something Beverly wasn't accustomed to. Her world had never been true. Lies, deceits and falsehoods had followed her like a pack of fang-bearing wolves.

She itched to touch him, to run her fingers through his hair. He wore it long in front, letting it fall in natural disarray. "I feel like I never know what to say to you."

"Because you're keeping secrets." He touched her hair, instead, tousling the choppy layers. "At first you reminded me of a beautiful ghost; a gothic creature who could haunt a guy's dreams. But now that I've seen where you live, I think maybe you're a wood nymph."

She knew what a wood nymph was: a beautiful maiden, a Dryad in Greek mythology, who inhabited ancient trees. "I am hiding from my past. I have to."

"I know. And at some point, you'll tell me why."

He made it sound so easy. But if the press uncovered her true identity, her life would be a living hell, the way it had been before. "I can't make any promises."

"I can. I'm good at keeping my word." He grazed her cheek with his calloused fingertips.

The passionate winemaker, she thought, as the roughness of his skin abraded her. She envisioned him pruning plants in the winter, training the vines, harvesting his beloved grapes by hand.

He leaned into her, slowly, slanting his mouth over hers.

When their lips made contact, she latched on to him, drinking him in, sampling the rich masculine flavor. His tongue sought hers, and she shuddered in his arms.

Warmth spread through her belly, and the truck seemed to be spinning in rapid arcs, taking her pulse with it.

She never wanted it to end.

The moonlight he'd mentioned during dinner appeared like a dream, drifting through the windows, creating a lunar glow.

They kissed, over and over again, a man and a woman seized in a mindless moment. Finally, when they required air, they stopped, breathing like marathon runners.

"Damn," he said.

"Double damn," she parroted, making him smile.

They left the confinement of his truck, and he walked her to her door. As they stood on her stone porch, she feared he was an illusion - magic that was sure to slip away.

"You better go inside," he said reluctantly, as he tugged on her shawl. "It's cold out here."

Beverly didn't care if the wind was whipping through her bones. Her feelings for this man were hitting her.hard. She didn't want to lose him, to watch him drive off into the night.

But then what should she do? she asked herself. Invite him to stay? To spend the night with her?

Chapter Seven

Beverly stood on the porch and weighed her options. Mason was going back to France in two weeks, and she was hiding from the world.

The odds weren't in their favor.

But she wanted him. God help her, she did.

As he released her shawl, the fringe at the bottom of it fluttered. "You should go inside," he said, warning her once again that she wasn't dressed for the weather.

"Not yet," she told him.

He removed his sport coat and slipped it over her shoulders. "What am I going to do with you, Beverly?"

She gave him a shaky smile, her heart fighting an irrational beat. "I was wondering the same thing about you." She couldn't pretend that sleeping with him would change her life. Yet being in his arms felt so good, so right. "Will you hold me?" she asked, still wanting him, still battling her emotions.

"You know I will."

He embraced her, and she nearly melted against him. She could feel his muscles bunching beneath his shirt. The power of who he was, of his strength. He backed her into a corner of the porch, sheltering both of them from the wind. But as close as they were, she noticed he was careful not to rub against her, to take advantage, to entice her into bed.

The thought made her laugh.

Confused, he stepped back. "What's so funny?"

She looked up at him. His hair was falling over his forehead, getting in his eyes. "You. Me. I was debating on whether I should invite you to spend the night, and you're trying to be so good."

He blinked, pushed his hair back. "Now you've got me aroused."

She bit her lip to keep from laughing again. "You were already aroused."

"Yeah, but now it's worse."

"Go home, Mason." She returned his jacket. "I can tell that you were born to be a gentleman. You've got to be the sweetest guy I've ever known."

"Sweet?" He made a sour face. "I'm no Boy Scout."

No, she thought. He was a gorgeous, hot-blooded American male. And he'd probably had sex with half the women in France . "Will you come back tomorrow?"

"What for?" He cracked a smart-aleck smile. "Cookies and milk?"

"Breakfast," she countered. "Pancakes."

"Fine." He roamed his gaze over her. "But I'm bringing condoms."

Was he joking? Teasing her? At this point, she couldn't tell. Self-conscious, she closed her shawl, wrapping the crocheted cover-up around her virginal dress. "Bring some orange juice, too," she told him, trying to sound as cavalier as he looked.

He tossed his jacket at her. "Your teeth are chattering."

And her nipples were hard, but she wasn't about to admit it. She caught the sport coat. The fabric smelled like his cologne. Erotic. Woodsy. "I don't need to keep warm. I'm going inside."

"Keep it anyway." He turned and stepped off the porch, heading for his truck.

But he didn't leave right away. He waited for her to unlock her front door, to enter her cottage, to disappear into the shelter of her home.

Once she was alone, she flopped onto the sofa and pressed his jacket against her body, anxious for morning to come.

Chapter Eight

Mason awakened at the crack of dawn, thinking about his surroundings, the place where he grew up.

The Vines was a French country-style home constructed of rustic gray and white stone, a dark slate roof and steeple-like peaks.

Aside from the main house, the grounds held a winery, a carriage house, a guest cottage, stables and a small man-made lake. Even as a boy, he'd appreciated the Old World charm.

Ready to start the day, to see Beverly , he took a shower and got dressed, choosing comfortable jeans and a blue sweater. He combed his hair straight back and splashed on some cologne.

He glanced at the bedside clock in his room and realized Beverly hadn't specified what time he was supposed to go over. Which meant what? That he could show up at his leisure?

He slipped on a pair of distressed-leather boots. Mason liked casual clothes with a stylish edge. He liked pretty girls in vintage dresses, too.

A moment later, he grabbed a fistful of condoms and shoved them in his front pocket.

With an anxious breath, he went downstairs to boost his system with caffeine. He entered the kitchen and discovered that his brothers were at the stove, preparing some sort of massive omelet.

"Where were you?" Eli asked.

Mason gave him a dumbfounded stare. "In bed."

"He means last night." This came from Cole, a man with short dark hair and the Ashtons' green eyes - a trait possessed by all the siblings. "You missed a family dinner."

Mason poured himself a cup of coffee. "I had a date."

"That's what we figured." Cole grated a mound of cheese. At 36-years-old, he was a year younger than Eli and eleven years older than Mason. "Anyone we know?"

Mason shook his head. He wasn't prepared to talk about Beverly , not with a handful of condoms burning a hole in his pocket.

"Are you going to see her again?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" Cole moved closer and grabbed the neckline of his sweater, stretching it for a quick sniff. Mason tried to pull away, but he wasn't fast enough. "Fancy cologne," Cole confirmed. "Our boy has another date."

"I wonder if we should tell him about the birds and the bees," Eli said, chuckling at his own wit. A rarity, considering his serious nature.

Mason rolled his eyes. His brothers were in fine form this morning. "As if either of you have room to talk. At least I'm not a candidate for Viagra."

"Smart ass." Cole made an overzealous attempt to swat him with a dish towel, missed and hit the salt and pepper shakers, spilling them onto the counter.

Eli went into his caveman mode and tried to protect the grub he was cooking while Mason abandoned his coffee and seized a towel of his own, twirling it, getting ready to snap it at Cole.

"Good morning, boys." Their mother's voice stilled the horseplay.

Caroline Sheppard entered the kitchen, looking warm and graceful. Although she carried a few extra pounds, she never seemed to notice or care. When she flashed a sweet smile, Mason knew she enjoyed having her sons close by, behaving like the kids they used to be.

She peered at the overstuffed omelet and made a curious face. "Is that supposed to be for all of us?"

"Not me." Mason replaced his towel, folding it neatly in the drawer. "I'm having breakfast somewhere else." He remembered the orange juice Beverly had requested and removed an unopened carton from the fridge. "Can I take this?"

"Of course you can." His mother gave him a kiss on the cheek, then recited the same words she'd been saying to him since he was in high school. "Stay out of trouble."

"I will," he repeated automatically, knowing damn well that he was headed for the worst kind of trouble.

Falling in love.

Chapter Nine

As Beverly busied herself with the pancake batter, she could feel Mason watching everything she did. He sat at the dinette set, observing her with what seemed like appreciation.

Of course, Beverly had been admired before. No, she thought. That wasn't true. Darby was the one who'd attracted attention. The angelic-looking blonde had been revered by strangers. But most of those people had turned on her later.

Last week, the tabloids had reported that Darby Quinn was dead. That she'd committed suicide, even though her body hadn't been found. This week, she'd been spotted on a beach in Cancun .

Beverly cracked an egg into the bowl, wondering if Elvis had been sighted there, too. Darby had always identified with Elvis. Not because of his fame, but because he had a twin brother who'd died at birth. Dead or alive, a twin was a twin - part of yourself that stayed with you forever. Darby knew that better than anyone.

"Are you focusing on the pancakes?" Mason asked.

She looked up at him. "What?"

"You seem so intense." He left his seat and walked toward her, stopping when he was only inches away.

She tried to relax, but his sudden proximity was creating topsy-turvy sensations. "You've been staring at me."

He remained close, much too close. "I can't help it. I'm obsessed with you."

The way the public was obsessed with celebrities? She gazed into his eyes, praying that he understood the consequences, the ache that came with obsession. "That's not a safe word, Mason."

"I know, but there's nothing safe about the way I feel."

She struggled for an appropriate response. She'd never experienced anyone like him. "You're so honest all the time."

"What's there to lie about? I'm an open book."

So was Darby. Literally, she thought. Only the bestselling biography had been a deception, a horrible, painful facade. But worse yet was the author of the book. The woman who'd penned all those damaging words.

"I won't pressure you, Beverly."

She sucked in a barely controlled breath. "About what?"

"About your secrets."

"Thank you," she said, even though she knew that his patience would only take him so far. Clearing her mind, she glanced at the half-stirred batter. "I need to finish this."

Twenty minutes later, the pancakes were done, along with a side of fried eggs and ham.

Mason set the table, where the lilac roses he'd given her created a centerpiece. When he discovered her ancient plates, he tilted his head. "Is everything you have old?"

She watched him examine the slightly chipped china. "I like things that survive the test of time. Antiques, collectibles, thrift-store treasures."

"Like your car. It's vintage, too."

She brought the food to the table. "Speaking of cars, when are you going to get an estimate?"

"Soon, but I don't want you to pay for it." He filled their glasses with juice. "I'll take care of it myself."

"But I hit you. I damaged your truck."

"I know." He held out her chair for her. "But that accident changed something inside me."

She took the proffered seat, felt her heart stumble. "Because of us?"

He nodded. "Because we're going to be together." He dug into his pocket and removed a glittering array of condoms, scattering them around the flowers. "Or I hope we are."

Beverly gazed at the foil packets. Last night she'd wondered if Mason had been teasing her. But now she knew he wasn't.

This was his way of asking her to make love with him.

Chapter Ten

They ate breakfast with the condoms on the table. Eggs, pancakes and prophylactics. It was, Mason thought, strange, sexy and surreal.

Silence engulfed them, but it hardly mattered. He was too busy watching her eat. He liked the way she poured the syrup, the way she drenched her food. Every time she licked her lips, his zipper turned tight.

He imagined her using that gorgeous mouth on him.

"You're making me nervous," she said.

"Sorry." He grabbed his orange juice and took a thirst-quenching swallow. He wanted to use his mouth on her, too.

She lifted her napkin and blotted her lips. He struggled to sit still, to keep himself from pulling her onto his lap, from kissing her senseless. She wore a caftan, a loose-fitting tunic that reminded him of his international travels.

He'd been to a Moroccan wedding where the bride had worn a similar garment, fancier, but the same style. He'd attended a French wedding, too. In that ceremony, the groom had escorted the bride to the chapel while children stretched white ribbon across the road.

Why was he thinking about that, he wondered. He wasn't looking for a wife. At least, he hadn't been.

"Have you ever been in a committed relationship?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. Have you?"

"No." He paused, frowned a little. "I date a lot. Play the field, I guess. But when I go back to France , it's going to feel strange doing that again."

She toyed with her ham. "Because of me?"

He nodded. "It's crazy, isn't it? Getting attached to someone this soon?"

"Sex is going to make it even more difficult." She glanced at the foil packets. "For both of us. You live abroad, and I'm struggling with issues from my past. I'm not even sure how long I'll stay in Napa Valley . I might decide to disappear, to go somewhere else."

He fought the ache of what losing her would do to him. He'd assumed she would remain in her cottage. That he could visit her whenever he returned. "We'll have to think of this as a once-in-a-lifetime affair. We'll have to accept it for what it is."

She looked at him, deeply, tenderly, and he wished he knew her secrets. She was as elusive as the wood nymph she reminded him of, as a fabled goddess.

"Which one is your favorite?" she asked, running her fingers over the condoms, scattering them even more.

He gave her an anxious smile. "I'm okay with all of them." He'd just grabbed a bunch from a variety pack.

She reached for a shiny blue packet, teasing him with it. "This one says extended pleasure. Is that true?"

Unable to hold back any longer, he leaned over to kiss her, to slip his tongue into her mouth. She returned his kiss, and he dragged her onto his lap, just the way he'd imagined. He didn't care if they made love on the kitchen table. He was willing to do it anywhere.

But, instead, she took his hand and led him to her room, where he found her bed was unmade, with fluffy white sheets and an antique quilt. Soft, he thought. Delicate. An invitation that humbled him.

And made him want her even more.

Chapter Eleven

Beverly closed her eyes. Mason's touch felt so warm, so seductive. He removed her caftan, and she released the condom in her hand, letting it drop to the floor.

He skimmed his fingers along the sides of her body, sending sweet chills up her spine. She opened her eyes and saw him gazing back at her. She stood before him in her panties and bra, in white lace and simple cotton.

He unhooked her bra and took down the straps, sliding them off her arms, and then began to rub his thumbs over her nipples. When he smiled, she pitched forward a little. She couldn't have dreamed this moment if she tried. He couldn't seem to get enough of her.

Her panties came next. He discarded them, then dropped to his knees, leaving her completely naked and vulnerable to his seduction.

His lips. His tongue.

He kissed her there, between her legs, taking what he wanted, making the room spin. He sipped her, the way he would taste nectar from the vine, a silky pinot noir, a rich merlot, an herbal cabernet sauvignon - the wines he created.

She tunneled her hands through his hair. Her Mason. Her lover. He was still fully clothed, still wearing his sweater, his jeans, his boots. Unable to stop herself, she rocked against his mouth.

Intimate foreplay. Dangerous heat.

Sensation slammed into sensation, deep and slick and carnal. He licked; he laved; he drove her half mad. He looked up at her, and her knees went weak. The fear of falling in love hit her like a long-lost pain. She'd never let herself get this close to anyone, not emotionally, not where it counted.

As her heart reacted, her body followed, creating a dizzying effect, a crashing motion. She climaxed, tugging at his hair, pulling him closer.

When it ended, when her vision stopped blurring, he rose to his full height and kissed her, pushing his tongue into her mouth, dragging her into another mind-altering sensation.

By the time they separated, she needed air, a gust of soul-scorching oxygen. She breathed deeply and grappled with his clothes, yanking his sweater over his head, baring his chest.

They stumbled to the bed, falling onto rumpled sheets. He kicked off his boots which landed on the floor with a thud. Beverly opened his zipper, nearly breaking the metal teeth. He wasn't wearing underwear. No boxers, no briefs.

"Mason." She said his name, and he rolled over, pinning her beneath him, cuffing her wrists with his hands.

Making her his prisoner.

Chapter Twelve

Mason gazed into Beverly 's eyes. His fantasy, he thought.

She looked so beautiful, so pure and real. He liked the fairness of her complexion. Its milky whiteness made her nipples stand out. The lines of her body captivated him, too - the column of her neck, the curve of her hips. She was everything he craved, everything he wanted. But he didn't do anything but keep her pinned to the bed. He wanted to remember this moment, the prelude to lovemaking.

She glanced down at his fly, at his open zipper, and heat spread through his loins. He was already hard, already imagining all the positions they were going to engage in, all the slick, sultry sex.

Finally, he leaned forward to inhale her skin, her soap, her powder, her perfume. Then he rubbed against her, arousing himself even more. His jeans rustled, the denim chafing her skin. She arched, bending her body like an acrobat, then she broke free of his bonds.

In the instant that followed, they rolled over the bed, tugging at his jeans, taking them all the way off.

She stroked him, tracing the shape, making his heart bang against his chest. Still exploring him, she lowered her head, getting ready to do what he'd done to her.

"You don't have to," he said.

"I want to," she countered, darting her tongue, taking catlike licks.

If she purred, he was going to lose his mind.

He toyed with her hair, waiting for her to go deeper, to take him in her mouth. But she didn't. She kept teasing him, making him suffer.

He watched her, wondering how he was going to survive. She caressed every inch, circling the head of his penis, tasting the glistening beads of moisture.

Every stroke, every naughty little lick made him groan. He grabbed on to the brass rails of the headboard and lifted his hips. And then she did it. She sucked him, hot and hard and deep.

Over and over, creating friction.

Finally, before he lost control, he pulled her up, desperate to be with her. "Where's the condom?" he asked, his pulse still pounding between his legs.

She peered over the side of the bed. "I dropped it."

They tore apart the clothes they'd left on the floor, looking for the foil packet. Mason found it under her panties.

While he ripped it open and battled the latex, she touched him, running her hand along his thigh. He fought his next breath. All he wanted to do was thrust inside her, to make the ache go away.

They made love in every position he'd imagined, until he was on top, looking into her eyes. He couldn't get enough of her. The more he took, the more she gave, the more he wanted.

She attacked his shoulders, digging her nails into his flesh. He welcomed the lust-driven pain, the turbulent thrills, the heart-surging adrenaline. She was his goddess, his nymph, the lady clawing at his sanity.

He slid his hand between their bodies and rubbed that sweet, sensitive little spot.

"Don't stop," she said.

"I won't." Not yet, he thought. She quivered beneath him, on the verge of a climax. He could feel it rising like a wave.

And when it happened, he kissed her, holding her close, absorbing every breathy pant, every orgasmic shudder. Then he closed his eyes and let himself fall, as far and deep as he could, unable to deny what he'd been afraid of all along.

That he was falling in love with her.

Chapter Thirteen

Mason went to Beverly 's bathroom to dispose of the condom. Afterward, he gazed in the mirror. Frustrated, he splashed water on his face, thinking he was an idiot.

He'd only known her two days. Two days. Yet it wasn't a mistake, an error in his mind, a glitch in his heart. He was falling in love, damn it. He knew he was.

He returned to her room. She was sitting up in bed, with the sheet loosely draped, concealing her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, the parts of her body he wanted to touch and kiss all over again.

She met his gaze, and he grabbed his jeans and put them on. Being naked around her wasn't a good idea. Not now. Not while he was cursing his stupidity.

She tilted her head. "Do you do that all the time?"

He zipped his pants. "Do what?"

"Not wear underwear."

He fumbled with the snap. "Why? Do you think it's strange?"

"No. I think it's sexy."

She smiled, making him weak. Her lips seemed memorable, as though he'd seen her smile a thousand times before. Her eyes haunted him, too - they were a familiar shape, but the wrong color.

"Do you mind if I light some incense?" she asked.

"Go ahead." He glanced at the brass burner on her nightstand. Aromatherapy was an ancient practice, used by healers, gurus, priests and wizards. Why not a mysterious woman, too?

As scented smoke filled the air, he sat on the edge of the bed, watching it curl, drift and dance.

"Making love with you was incredible," she said.

Unable to resist, he reached out to skim her cheek, to absorb the texture of her skin. "For me, too."

Their gazes locked, and he searched her eyes, trying to see if she wore contact lenses. She did. He caught a glimpse of their edges.

But that didn't unravel her mystery. Her familiarity went beyond the surface, beyond the changes she'd obviously made to her appearance. Somewhere in the back of his heart, he felt as if he'd loved her before.

"I should get dressed." She broke eye contact and leaned forward. The sheet fell, exposing her nakedness.

Mason watched her slip the caftan over her head. No bra, no panties. She remained bare underneath, like him.

She adjusted the flowing tunic. "Should we finish breakfast? I can reheat our plates. We can eat in bed."

"Sure. That sounds nice." Cozy. Romantic. The kind of sexual aftermath she probably needed, and Mason wasn't about to deny her. "But let me help."

They went into the kitchen together and prepared a tray. She tossed a few condoms on it.

"For later," she told him.

Blood rushed straight to his groin. "I like the way you think."

He noticed the Sunday paper sitting on the counter and placed it on the tray, as well. To him, sharing the newspaper seemed like something a couple should do. He'd seen his parents divide the Napa Valley Register a zillion times.

They returned to her room, sat on the bed and ate their leftover meals. Mason thought it tasted even better the second time around. While they lingered over coffee, he unfolded the paper. "Do you have a preference?"

"How about the front page?"

He gave her the news section and he went to the community pages. When he came across familiar faces, he frowned. Spencer Ashton and his current wife were hosting an upcoming charity event, making themselves look like the duke and duchess of the Valley. "He's such a phony."

"Who?"

He pointed to the black-and-white photograph. "The bastard who abandoned my brothers and sisters."

She glanced at the picture. " He's their father?" She gave Mason an accusatory look. "Why didn't you tell me that your family was connected to him?"

"I just did," he responded, confused by her reaction. "Besides, why does it matter? You don't even know Spencer." He stalled, examined her gaze. "Do you?"

Chapter Fourteen

Mason stared expectantly at Beverly , waiting for her to reply.

She shook head. "No. I don't know Spencer Ashton, not personally."

"Then what's the big deal? Why are you acting so strange?"

Because your connection to one of the most prominent families in the country could put my identity in danger, she thought.

Aloud, she said, "I read about Spencer in Fortune magazine. He runs a highly successful investment-banking firm in San Francisco , and on top of that, his Napa Valley vineyard makes a bundle." She glanced at the older man's picture. "People flock for tours of his winery and couples clamor to get married on his estate."

"So he's mega rich. So what?"

"He's not just rich, he's famous. He stirs the press." She lifted the Register. "He makes the papers. His wife is a socialite. She thrives on being celebrated."

"Lilah?" He said the woman's name with distain. "She's nobody, Beverly. She used to be Spencer's secretary. He cheated on my mom with her."

"Maybe so, but she carved a niche for herself among high society. The haut monde," she added, using her limited French.

"And what does any of this have to do with you?" He shifted on the bed. "Are you a runaway socialite?"

"No." But if the media discovered that she was sleeping with a man associated with the Ashtons, they'd have a field day. Mason's life, and hers, would never be the same.

He realized he would get nothing more from her on the subject.

Nervous, she lifted the breakfast tray with their empty dishes and put it on the nightstand. Incense still burned, filling the room with patchouli-scented smoke. She breathed in the mossy fragrance, the deep, earthy aroma.

"You seem familiar to me," he said, making her heart nearly stop. He moved closer to her, reaching out to touch her face. "Maybe we're reincarnated lovers. Maybe we knew each other in a past life."

His romantic speculation made her ache. He was grasping at supernatural straws, trying to make sense of something he didn't understand.

He traced the outline of her jaw. "You seem the same yet different. Your eyes, your lips, the way you smile. It's as though you're someone who once mattered to me."

She fought the urge to cry. She didn't want her old self to matter to him. She didn't want the woman she used to be to come between them. "What you're feeling isn't real. It's an illusion, Mason." Her past coming back to haunt her, she thought. "We weren't lovers in another life. And in this life, we only met two days ago."

He followed the fullness of her lips, using the tip of his finger like a pencil, as though he were drawing her in his mind.

"Then why are you so familiar?" he asked. "Why are you haunting me?"

"I don't know," she lied, even though she suspected the reason.

"I'm falling in love with you, Beverly. I know it sounds crazy, but I am."

The tears she'd been trying to hold back misted her eyes. "You're everything I've ever dreamed about." The man stealing her soul. "But you're mixing me up with someone else."

"That doesn't make sense."

Yes, it does. To her, it made perfect, painful sense. A riddle she didn't want him to solve.

Chapter Fifteen

Mason sat on the dock at The Vines, gazing at the lake, analyzing his situation. A week had passed. Seven days of an affair, of making love day and night, of spending countless hours with Beverly in her enchanted little cottage.

Of wondering who she was. Of wishing he could piece together the puzzle.

"Are you okay?"

He turned to the sound of Jillian's voice. His 32-year-old sister gazed at him. She was tall and slender, with light brown hair and the Ashton's signature green eyes. Cultured and well spoken, she was the senior wine educator at Lauret Vineyards.

She was also a widow. Her husband, Jason Bennedict, had died two years ago. Prior to that, they'd been married for five years. Not that Jillian ever confided in Mason about her marriage. Her private life had always been a bit of a mystery to him.

A lot like Beverly .

"I'm fine," he said, shrugging off his solemn mood. He and his sisters had agreed to have coffee on the dock, to spend a little time together. "Where's Mercedes?"

"She'll be here soon. She's bringing the cappuccino." Jillian sat next to him. The wind stirred her chin-length hair, fluttering the soft strands around her face. She wore jeans, an oxford-style blouse and a camel-colored jacket - casual clothes that looked classy on her. "Cole told me you're dating someone."

He tried for a nonchalant air. "I'm young. I'm supposed to have a social life."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Playing around, are you?"

"I always have." He wasn't about to tell his sister that he'd fallen in love. What would he say if she questioned him about the woman he loved? That she refused to talk about her past?

Ten minutes later, footsteps sounded on the dock. They both turned. Mercedes approached, carrying an oversize thermos, three plastic cups and a leather purse. She was just as pretty as Jillian, with the same green eyes. Her curly brown hair was pinned up, exposing the angles of her face. She was part of the family business, too. She worked as the director of marketing and public relations.

"It's about time you showed up," Mason said. Mercedes didn't live at The Vines anymore. She had her own place, her independence. He supposed they had that in common.

"Keep it up and I'll leave."

"Not with the cappuccino, you won't."

She sat on the other side of him. "Brat."

He knew she was kidding. He grinned and planted a loud, smacking kiss on her cheek. He'd barely seen her during this trip.

"Hey," Jillian complained.

"Sorry." He laughed and kissed her, too.

After that, the three of them drank the mocha blend, sipping lazily and gazing at the water.

"Oh, I almost forgot." Mercedes reached into her purse. "I brought this for you." She handed Mason a magazine. "There's an article about Darby Quinn. I remember how much you adored her. Your first crush." She leaned against his shoulder. "It's sad, isn't it? What a disaster her life turned out to be."

A sudden chill sliced his spine. "What do you mean? What happened to her?"

Mercedes shook her head, as if he'd been living on the moon. But he figured France was close enough. He didn't pay attention to American movie stars, not anymore.

"She disappeared," Mercedes finally said. "She got caught up in a scandal and that was it. No one has seen her since."

He flipped through the magazine and came to Darby's picture. The actress's smile, the tilt of her lips, nearly knocked him off his chair. It was Beverly 's smile, the smile that had been haunting him.

"Did you know she had a twin sister?" Mercedes asked.

He shook his head, his pulse racing out of control. He didn't know anything about Darby's family.

Not until now.

Chapter Sixteen

Beverly opened the door and saw Mason staring at her. Just staring, as though he were looking at a ghost.

Anxiety gripped her hard and fast. Had he figured it out? Did he know who she was?

"Hi," she said, making a lame attempt to break the tension, to survive the awkward moment. "I wasn't expecting you today." She stepped back so he could enter the cottage.

He moved forward, and she could almost hear his heart thumping against his chest. Or was that her heart?

She noticed that he was dressed for the January weather. He wore varying textures of denim, and his jacket, belt and boots were the color of the earth, the soil that grew vintner's grapes. His hair fell across his forehead, and his eyes were a forceful shade of blue.

Like the sky on a tremulous day.

She wished he would smile. She wanted to see his dimples, the boyishness that had first drawn her to him.

Suddenly, she glanced down and caught sight of the magazine rolled up in his hand. It wasn't a tabloid, but that didn't mean Darby wasn't featured in it. Legitimate publications printed exposés about her, too.

"Say something, Mason."

He handed her the magazine. "Mercedes gave this to me."

She didn't open it. She kept it curled, the way he had done. "Why?" she asked. "Why did she give it to you?"

"Because she thought the article about Darby Quinn might interest me. I used to have a crush on Darby. I spent a portion of my youth watching her on TV and going to see movies she was in." He paused to take a breath. "She always seemed a little lost to me. Soft. Angelic. A girl I wanted to protect." Another pause. Another breath. "Like you."

She prayed that he hadn't told his sister about her. "Are you upset?"

"No. But I'm confused. I don't know how much of the article is true."

"Neither do I - I haven't read it, and I don't want to." She tossed the publication onto her coffee table, where the pages fluttered like a geisha girl's fan.

"I need answers," he said.

She nodded, knowing she couldn't deny him the truth. Not that she had ever denied anyone the truth. She'd told her side of the story to the media, but they'd sensationalized the lies instead.

The book - The Ingénue.

"I'd prefer to talk outside." The walls of the cottage were starting to close in, making her claustrophobic. "Let me get a coat and shoes."

He agreed, and she went into her bedroom and removed a leather jacket from her closet. Next she chose lace-up boots, similar to the ones Mason was wearing. The forest that surrounded the cottage was hilly, with dirt paths and indigenous foliage.

She returned to the living room, where Mason waited. For a moment, their gazes locked, and she wanted to take refuge in his arms, to pretend that he could sweep her into a fantasy world where the paparazzi didn't exist. But she knew better. She had to cope with her own problems, with living in the here and now, with hiding from the press.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yes." She sensed that he wanted to touch her, too. But he was wary, cautious not to get too close, to jumble his emotions even more.

They went outside and walked among the trees, the wind jostling leaves to the ground. And then Mason turned toward Beverly , stopping her in her tracks.

"Are you Darby Quinn?" he asked. "Or are you her sister?"

Chapter Seventeen

While Mason waited for Beverly to answer his question, he thought about Darby Quinn's sister. Her name was Tracy - a girl he didn't know existed until today. But he hadn't spent his youth gathering facts about Darby. His affection for her hadn't taken him that far.

"My sister died a long time ago," she said. "When we were nine years old, she dashed across the street and got hit by a car. I was on the other side, waiting for her to cross."

He could see the pain in her eyes, the raw memory of watching her sister die. But that still didn't explain who she was. "In the article I read, it said that some people think it was actually the twin named Darby who died and that you, Tracy, took her place. That you became her. Fooling everyone, even your own mother." It sounded absurd to him, but at this point, he didn't know what to believe.

She shook her head. "It was Tracy who died. We were dressed alike that day. We always were. And when our mother heard the squeal of brakes and came out of the house, she was too shaken to know which daughter was lying in the road. I had to tell her it was Tracy ." She paused, looked into his eyes. "I didn't steal my sister's identity. I'm Darby. And now I'm Beverly, the woman who's been trying to disassociate herself from Darby. But I'm not, nor have I ever been Tracy ."

He moved closer. The wind tortured her dyed black hair, scattering the short, choppy layers. Darby used to be an ethereal blonde. He remembered wanting to touch her hair, to feel it. His crush on her had started when he was going through puberty, when he was struggling to grow up. "How did that rumor get started? Who came up with the scenario that you'd assumed Tracy 's identity?"

"I don't know, but that story started surfacing after my mother's book was released."

He wasn't surprised that she'd mentioned The Ingénue. According to the magazine article, her mother had written an unauthorized biography about Darby. "Do you think that book perpetuated those rumors?"

"Probably. Mom claimed that I dominated my sister. That Tracy was unnaturally attached to me."

As far as Mason was concerned, the author of The Ingénue had betrayed both of her daughters, the living and the dead. "I'm sorry, Beverly ."

"So am I." She walked over to a tree and sat beneath it. As the wind kicked up again, the fringe on her vintage jacket rippled. " Tracy was an actress, too. We started appearing in commercials when we were babies. But we never got our own show when we were small, not like the different sets of twins who played Tabitha in Bewitched. Or later on like the Olsen twins. We never had that kind of success. Not together."

He sat next to her, with leaves falling like intermittent snow. "But both of you kept trying?"

"Our mom drilled it into our heads. It was all we knew. It was the focus of our childhoods."

"But it didn't happen. Not for Tracy ."

"No, it didn't." Her voice turned soft, sad, lonely. "And it didn't happen for me until I was twelve, until I landed a role in a primetime series."

Nostalgic memories floated through his mind, drifting like fog, creating familiar images. "I used to watch that show every Tuesday night." And now he understood why Darby's vulnerability had struck him, why he'd longed to protect her. She'd been missing her sister - the little girl who was supposed to share her fame. "I adored you. You were everyone's angel."

"Not everyone's," Beverly said. "Not my mom's.and not Alan's."

Mason frowned. That name had been mentioned in the magazine article. "Alan Gray?"

"Yes," she told him, shuddering at the sound of his name. "The man who caused so much pain for Tracy and me."

Chapter Eighteen

"He hurt you?" Mason asked, putting his hand on her knee. "Isn't he your mother's husband?"

"Yes. But he was our manager, too. He managed our careers, mine and Tracy 's, even before he married Mom." She was grateful that Mason was sitting next to her, touching her, giving her the kind of support only a trusted friend could give. "Alan was - and still is - a major force in Hollywood . Mom thought that having him in our corner was better than winning the lottery. She was in awe of him. To her, he could do no wrong."

"A man who could walk on water?"

"Exactly. But in the beginning, he didn't make much of a difference in our careers. We weren't getting any prime roles. Alan blamed us for that. He convinced Mom that it was our fault. That we weren't trying hard enough. We weren't driven the way we should be."

He shook his head, anger vibrating his voice. "You were just children."

"But we were supposed to be reaching for the stars, to become the most beloved children in Hollywood ."

"What happened?" he asked. "What did that bastard do to you?"

"He started hurting Tracy first. She was gentler, easier to manipulate." Beverly picked up a fallen leaf, holding the fragile foliage in her hand. "If he didn't think we performed well at an audition, he punished her afterward. He pulled her hair. He twisted her arms back. But then it got worse. He did all sorts of things that made her cry."

Mason was watching the leaf, too. "Where was your mother during all of this?"

"At work. She trusted Alan to be alone with us, to take us on our auditions. And later she married him, so he was around all the time."

He dug his heels into the ground, unearthing a ripple of dirt, scattering it beneath his boots. "Was there sexual abuse?"

"No, but after Mom married him, sometimes he came to our room at night to inflict his punishment, to hurt Tracy . I tried to protect her. I did everything I could to keep him away from her. As sisters, we had an incredible bond, but this brought us even closer. I was all she had."

"Did you tell your mother?"

"No. Tracy begged me not to. Alan threatened us to keep quiet, the way dangerous adults do. Besides, we were afraid Mom wouldn't believe us. Alan never left marks on Tracy 's skin, so there was no proof."

Mason asked another question, his gaze locked on hers. "When did he start hurting you?"

"He was always threatening me, but he didn't actually start to hurt me until after my sister died. I was distraught, overrun with grief, so I guess he thought I was an easy target by then. But I found a psychological way to fight back. I decided that I would try even harder to become a star. And when I got rich and famous, I would fire Alan, cast him out of my life." She placed the leaf on the ground, careful not to crush it. She remembered how Tracy had loved playing in the forest, at the park. "I would prove that I was more powerful than him."

"Did you fire him?"

"Yes. I let him go on my eighteenth birthday. Alan played the wounded hero, and my mother called me a traitor. At that point, I'd had enough. I told her what Alan had done to Tracy and me."

"But she didn't believe you, did she?"

"No. And she insisted that my career was going to falter without Alan. Which it did. I had a tough time making the transition from child star to adult actress. I had to prove myself all over again." She heaved an emotional sigh. "Alan and my mother ignored me after that. They thought I was washed up. That I'd never be successful again."

Mason's hair blew across his forehead. "You didn't tell the press what he did?"

"Not then. I told them later, after Mom wrote that book, but by then it was too late. Most people didn't believe me. They thought I was lashing out to get back at my mother."

"Why did she write The Ingénue? " he asked. "You were already estranged from her. What was the point? What was she trying to accomplish?"

"I think she did it out of spite. I'd just gotten my career back on track and she was jealous that I'd done it without her and Alan." Beverly felt her chest turn tight, clenching with a pain that remained fresh, a betrayal that had broken her heart. "That book destroyed me. She twisted everything. She made me look like a bad seed; a girl who tried to ruin her mother's marriage, who was spoiled and difficult and tainted by her fame. After that, the paparazzi swarmed like killer bees. No matter where I went or what I did, someone was taking my picture, making up trashy stories about me."

She frowned, preparing to recite the worst part. "Remember the movie Mommy Dearest? Well, The Ingénue is going to be made into a movie, too. And they're actually considering calling it Daughter Dearest. "

He reached for her hand. "Why did you decide to change your appearance? To become someone new?"

She linked her fingers with his. "I needed some peace. I needed to live a normal life. To escape the insanity."

"I understand, Beverly . I do. But how long can you keep hiding? Running like a fugitive? What you're experiencing isn't a normal life."

"Yes, it is. For me, it is."

"No, it isn't," he countered. "Come home with me. Meet my family. Be part of something real."

She blinked back a flood of tears. Decent, kindhearted Mason. She could see how much he cared. But his suggestion wouldn't work. "Don't you realize the damage that could cause? For your family? For you? For me?"

"Why would it?" he pressed. "No one knows who you are."

"You figured it out. And if I'm seen with a prominent family, someone else is bound to figure it out, too." She held his hand a little tighter. "The Ashtons, the Sheppards and Darby Quinn. That's a media frenzy waiting to happen."

It was the worst scenario she could imagine.

Chapter Nineteen

Mason didn't look happy about her decision, but Beverly couldn't bear to involve his family. Dragging the people he loved into her mess didn't seem fair. His brothers and sisters had been wounded enough; they'd been abandoned by their prominent father. They didn't need her complicating their lives, drawing the media to their door.

"Has it been difficult to disassociate yourself from Darby?" he asked.

"Sometimes. But I try to think of her as a separate person. Someone I used to know. Someone whose life has influenced mine."

"It's strange to look at you and know you used to be her. The girl I had boyhood fantasies about." He studied the changes in her, as though he were searching for her scars. "But it's Beverly I fell in love with."

"What you felt for Darby wasn't real."

"Not in a tangible sense. But it was real in the sense that she was part of my youth. That I admired her from afar."

Her eyes misted, tears of longing, of wishing she and Mason could be together forever. But she knew better. She knew there was no simple solution. "I'm sorry I'm making things so difficult for you."

"You're not doing it on purpose. You're not trying to hurt me."

"No, I'm not. I love you, Mason. What I feel for you is just as strong as what you feel for me."

He smiled at her. "I've been waiting for you to say that."

For all the good it did, she thought. They were still going to lose each other.

"Who altered your face?" he asked. "Who made you look different?"

"His name is Dr. Forester. He's a well-known Beverly Hills cosmetic surgeon, but he has a dangerous reputation. People say that he helped a mobster disappear."

"And that's why you went to him?"

"Yes. I was desperate. I didn't know where else to turn." She looked into Mason's eyes, into the deep blue color. "Dr. Forester wasn't nearly as dangerous as his reputation. He told me that the rumor about the mobster wasn't true. But he was capable of helping me disappear, of becoming someone new."

She paused, releasing a soundless breath. "Not only did he alter my appearance, he obtained counterfeit documents for me. A birth certificate, a social security card, a driver's license, a passport in case I needed to leave the country. He helped me find a place to live, too."

"Your enchanted hideaway." He glanced in the direction of her cottage. "I don't know of any public figure who's taken such drastic measures and disappeared the way Darby did."

"John Kennedy, Jr. wanted to," she said. "Not that I ever knew him. But I heard that he used to talk about changing his face, running away, living a normal life. He got so tired of being in the public eye. Of being followed everywhere he went. When his plane was missing, one of his friends thought that maybe he'd actually done it. That he'd disappeared on purpose." She glanced up, at tree branches climbing toward the sky. "But that isn't what happened."

Mason glanced up, too. Then he shifted his gaze, looking directly at her. "I don't want to go back to France . Not without you. Come with me, Beverly. You're not famous there. You'll blend in. Your chances of anonymity are better there. You can get your own apartment. We can be discreet."

Her heart turned tight, an ache she feared would never go away. "What about your friends and family here?" she asked, making him consider the sacrifice, the obstacles. "Can you continue to keep me a secret from your parents? Your brothers and sisters? High school buddies you grew up with? Can you lie to the people you love? Come home every holiday by yourself? Pretend to be single when you're in a committed relationship with a woman hidden away in France ?"

For a long, drawn-out moment, he just stared at her, leaving her questions unanswered. Then he responded, his voice much too raw.

"I don't know," he said. "I honestly don't know."

Chapter Twenty

At dusk, Mason walked through the vineyard with his dad. Row by row, plant by plant. This was their territory, their element. Normally, it gave Mason a sense of peace, but not today. He'd left Beverly 's cottage feeling empty. He'd escorted her to her door, given her a chaste kiss and then fought the urge to kidnap her - to drag her to The Vines and force her to meet his family, to introduce her as the woman who would be going back to France with him.

But she wasn't willing to share his life, not unless their relationship remained a secret.

He glanced at his dad. Lucas Shepard was a sharp-witted man with a strong mind for business. He was also kind and loving, the hero who'd saved Mason's mom from heartache and despair. At 60, Lucas stood tall and well built, but he had a slight limp caused by a bad back - a condition he'd acquired from years of working in the vineyard.

Mason resembled his father. He'd inherited his dad's unmistakable blue eyes. He imagined he would age in a similar way. His hair would probably thin and turn a silvery shade of gray, too.

He wanted to ask his dad for advice. But how could he without betraying Beverly 's trust?

The older man stopped to check a plant, to scrutinize it.

Mason watched him. What would his father do if the woman he loved was forced to hide from the world?

He would help her, came the automatic reply. He would do whatever he could to make her life better, to fix the trouble she was in.

A moment later, his dad moved forward, and Mason fell into step with him once again. He'd found his answer. It was there all along, because of the way he'd been raised.

"Thanks, Dad."

He received a puzzled look. "For what?"

"For walking through the vineyard with me." For shaping his character, for teaching him what love really meant. "For being here."

His dad smiled. "I'll always be here if you need me."

"I know." He smiled, too, grateful for the family God had given him. More than anything, he wanted Beverly to get to know his parents, his brother and sisters, the people who mattered. But this wasn't about his wants or his needs. This was about doing what was right for Beverly , in making her feel safe.

* * *

After dark, Mason arrived at Beverly 's cottage with a bottle of wine. He never failed to surprise her. Once again, he'd showed up unannounced. But she was more than happy to see him. By now, a five o'clock shadow dusted his jaw. He looked strong and lawless, and she considered leading him to her bed, making their affair - their beautiful, torrid affair - last as long as they both could endure.

He handed her the wine. "This is Lauret Vineyard's new chardonnay."

"Are we going to get drunk?" Drown their ache with a young vintage?

"No, we're going to celebrate you going to France with me. Well, not with me exactly. We'll book separate flights." His lips tilted into a boyish smile. "Or we'll take the same plane and pretend we don't know each other. That'd be kind of sexy, don't you think?"

He went into the kitchen and she followed him, her heart beating triple time. He removed glasses from her cabinet, retrieved a corkscrew from her cluttered utensils drawer, then opened the bottle and poured.

"It's slightly chilled, the way a California chardonnay should be." He handed her a glass. "You're supposed to take the time to notice how it evolves."

She sipped slowly, even if she wanted to down the contents as quickly as she could, to find a way to still her rapid pulse. "You're not going to tell your friends and family about me?"

"No, I'm keeping our relationship a secret. My brothers and sisters know I've been dating someone, but I led them to believe that I'm just playing around. They'll never suspect I'm taking you to France . And neither will my parents. I haven't talked to them about you."

She fought to keep her knees from buckling. "Can you really do this, Mason? Can you live a lie?"

"It's not a lie. It's justice. I'm going to make your mother choke on that damn book." He looked into her eyes. "I'm going to help you find a way to prove what Alan did to you and Tracy. To make him pay for hurting two little girls."

She wanted to fall into his arms, to cry for the sister she'd buried, for the pain they'd suffered. "You don't know how much I love you for saying that. But there's no proof. It's just not possible."

"Anything is possible, Beverly . Anything and everything. I doubt you're the only kids he hurt. He managed other child actors, didn't he?"

"Yes, but no one came forward when I told the media my side of the story. No one accused him of anything but me."

"Maybe they were afraid to speak up. They saw what going public did to you, to your career. But I'll find a way to solve this. I'll come back to the States as often as I can. I'll conduct a private investigation."

"That could take years."

"I don't care. You're worth it." He set his glass on the counter. "And someday, when this is over, you can meet my family. We can tell them everything. Then we face the rest of the world. You can restore your reputation. Your career, if you want to."

This time, she let her tears flow. "I don't want to be an actress anymore. I just want a normal life - with you. With the man I love."

"And that's what you're going to have. Of course, I'll have to do a bit of acting." He dried her tears and made her smile. "I'll have to seem like I'm still playing the field in France ." He tipped her chin up, studying her features, tapping the end of her nose. "Maybe you can wear different disguises. You can be a blonde one week, a redhead the next."

She laughed. "That's kinky, Mason. But it's a brilliant idea."

He kissed her, deep and warm and slow. "Of course it is. No one will be the wiser. But we'll both know there's only one woman in my life. The lady I hope will marry me someday. "

She held him, welcoming the sensation, the rhythm of his heart beating against hers. He'd just asked her to be his wife.

Mason Sheppard. Her champion. Her knight.

The secret love of her life.

The End