Because he was a good man, she mused as she went down, slipped on an apron. And she had lousy luck with men—good and not-so-good.

The knock came promptly at seven. When she opened the door she saw he held flowers. Sunny yellow tulips.

“I see you’re worthy.”

“Of what?”

“Of the dinner invitation, according to Consuela’s standards. The flowers,” she explained. “And they’re just perfect. Thanks.”

When she took them, he surprised her by framing her face with his hands, by kissing her first on the forehead, like a friend. That simple choice stirred her heart even more than the warm and lingering kiss that followed.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be up for this. Making dinner,” he added as she walked away to get a vase for the tulips. “But by the way it smells in here, I guess you were.”

“I’m fine. How’s Red?”

“Pissed. Mostly pissed. I can’t tell you how much of a relief that is.”

“You don’t have to. More pissed than hurt’s a big relief.”

“Yeah, and still.” Restless, he wandered to the glass wall, back again. “I was around when Gram changed the bandage, so remind me to avoid getting grazed by a bullet. It’s damn nasty.”

“Has he seen his doctor?”

“Gram didn’t give him much choice there, so yeah. It actually is just a graze. His truck wasn’t so lucky. It’s toast. So more pissed off there.”

“And he didn’t know the man they identified.”

“No. None of us did.” He looked at her, into her eyes in that steady way he had. “How are you?”

To give herself a minute, she set the flowers on the island as Consuela had directed. “Wine?”

“Sure.”

“How am I?” She considered as she poured for both of them. “Pissed, not mostly, but definitely pissed. First at what happened—worse, what could have happened to Red. And knowing it might have happened—a strong maybe—because of what he did for me years ago. For me, for my family. Add in frustrated, uneasy, and just plain baffled that anyone could and would carry such . . . is it hate? Resentment? Just a deep-seated need to, what, even the score?”

She handed him the wine. “It’s not my mother.” He just looked at her—that way of his again—said nothing, so she shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t think she’s capable of hate or all the rest. It’s just it’s not her way of evening the score. Running me and the family down, finding subtle ways to do that while putting herself in the limelight. That’s her way.”

“And this doesn’t do just that?”

“I—Oh. Wait. Hadn’t gone there.” Taking the wine with her, she walked over to—unnecessarily—stir the sauce. “No, I don’t think so. It’s possible, of course, what Michaela believes will leak, and then it’s all splashing everywhere again. She could get some miles out of that. But Denby was killed months ago. It’s too long for her to draw things out. She needs quick gratification.”

“You don’t really know her though. You haven’t seen or spoken to her in years.”

“But I do.” She turned back to him. “Know your enemy, and trust me, I understand that’s what she is. So I’ve made a study of her over the years. She’s a narcissist, innately selfish and self-serving, has a child’s need for immediacy and, well, shiny things. And has a complete lack of self-awareness, which is only one reason she’s a mediocre actor. She’s vain, she’s grasping, she’s a lot of unattractive things, but she’s not violent.

“If I’d died during the kidnapping, she’d have played the grieving mother, but she wouldn’t have felt it. She’d have believed she felt it, and that it wasn’t her fault. She believed none of that would hurt me, or not enough to matter. She can’t see past her own needs. Killing people doesn’t serve her needs, and takes too many risks, takes too much time and effort.”

“Okay.”

She tilted her head. “Just like that?”

“I’m going to say this, then maybe we table it so it doesn’t suck all the air out of the night.”

Lightly, he laid a hand over the one she used to rub her bracelet for calm.

“I’m not much on hate. It doesn’t get you anywhere, and tends to eat more at you than the other person anyway. But I carved out an exception for her a long time ago. I’m fine with that. But everything you just said fits into my opinion of her. So okay.”

Turning her hand under his, she linked fingers with him. “She’s not my mother in any way that matters.”

“No, she’s not. I guess I’ve got one more thing to say on it. I need to look out for you, and I need you to let me. You, Hugh, Lily, hell, Consuela. Toss in your dad when he’s here.”

She eased back, just a step. “That’s a lot of looking after.”

“We all do what we do. I figured I’d be subtle about it.”

Now she smiled. “Sneaky?”

“That’s a word,” he agreed. “But why don’t we be up front, you and me?”

“Up front’s less complicated in the long run.”

He brought the hand he still held up to his lips to brush them over her knuckles. “Your family matters to me and mine. You matter. Looking out for you just follows.”

“Your family’s connected to that night, if that’s where all this comes from. How about I look after you and yours?”

“No problem there. Looks like we’ll just have to spend more time together.”

“That is sneaky.” She got out the salad bowl, drizzled on the dressing she’d made, tossed it. “Let’s eat.”

Once they’d settled in with the salad, with hunks of bread, she decided to start the next conversation. “So, Consuela, who supervised, instructed, and eagle-eyed the making of dessert—”

“There’s dessert, too?”

“There is. In any case, she wanted to know if we’d had sex.”

He choked, grabbed the wine. “What?”

“She says you’re a good man, and very handsome. And as she’s one of my real mothers, she’s really fond of you, I’d say she felt entitled to ask and advise. Just a warning the subject may come up the next time you visit her.”

He honestly couldn’t imagine it. Didn’t want to. “Appreciate the heads-up.”

“But while we’re on the subject, there are some things I didn’t take time to talk about last night because I was more interested in getting you in bed.”

“Also appreciate that.”

“You matter, Dillon. You and your family have always mattered to me. You matter, all of you, even more since I’ve come back. The time I’ve spent at the ranch with you, with your mom, with Gram, with Red, too? It’s helped me come home, feel home. And I know how you feel about my grandparents. I’ve seen it for myself.”

Not exactly a speech, he considered, but he’d bet good money she’d practiced that delivery, like she practiced her voice-overs.

He couldn’t quite decide if that irritated him or touched him, so he opted—for the moment—for neutral.