“Normal,” she whispered.

“Right. Normal.”

“Thank you. That’s very generous, but I’m taking it back. I’m okay the way I am. Really. Normal is highly overrated.”

He released one hand. “You’re scared.” He rested his free hand on the side of her neck, his thumb on her cheek, his long fingers reaching to her nape.

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t scared. That she laughed in the face of fear. Only she couldn’t seem to stop trembling long enough to speak. Terror wasn’t fear, right? She wasn’t actually lying.

The need to run grew, only her feet weren’t listening. Worse, Clay was moving closer. Like they were going to touch or something.

“You’re not starting now, are you?” she whispered, wishing she were somewhere in outer Mongolia. He would never find her there and she was pretty sure she would like yaks. “This isn’t a good time for me. I have grooming things I need to do and maybe I have to throw up.”

She pressed her lips together, wishing she didn’t sound like such a girl. She was strong, she reminded herself. Powerful. Safe. No one was taking that away from her.

“Don’t worry,” he told her, his dark eyes staring into hers. “Nothing will happen before you’re ready. It’s a process. I’ve been doing some research. We’ll go as slow as you need.”

Before she could figure out what to say to that, he leaned in that last little bit and kissed her.

She’d been kissed a few times in the past decade. Her sad attempts at dating had usually ended with a kiss. Then the guy expected more and she ran. Sometimes literally.

This was different, she told herself. Clay was practically a hired professional. She needed to trust him, to give herself up to him. Or at least endure.

That decided, she braced herself for the inevitable. The clawing sense of panic, the unease low in her belly, the overwhelming need to bolt. She curled her free hand into a fist and told herself to hang on. It would be over soon.

His mouth lightly touched hers. A quick brush, then nothing at all. He did it again. The third time his lips lightly pressed against her own, she found herself able to breathe. The sensation of dread faded a little.

He dropped his hand to her shoulder, then slowly slid it down to the clenched hand. His fingers pried hers apart.

“Relax,” he murmured.

“Are pigs flying?”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He released her other hand, then cupped her cheeks. “I’m sorry for what that bastard did to you.”

She immediately stepped back, moving until she was too far away for any contact at all. “You had nothing to do with it.”

“I’m apologizing in general.”

“Thank you.”

He looked at her for a long time. She wanted to put more distance between them, like a table or a continent, but forced herself to stay where she was.

“I’m not going to give up,” he told her. “Just so you know.”

“I can’t decide if that’s good or bad.”

He chuckled. “Like I said. Honest. That’s a good thing.” He stepped toward her. “I’m going to kiss you again. On the mouth. You’re going to let me.”

She waited for the rush of discomfort, the unwelcome tightness. But as she watched Clay approach there was only mild concern. Maybe because she knew he would be gentle. Careful. Maybe because her desire to have a child was getting bigger than her fear. Whatever the reason, she hung on to the lack of terror and went with it.

When he was right in front of her, he paused. “Want to touch me?”

“Maybe next time.”

He laughed, then leaned in and pressed his lips to her cheek.

She’d been expecting a kiss on the mouth, so the cheek contact was a surprise. A chance to relax. She took a breath.

He kissed her other cheek.

“How very European,” she murmured.

“Chère,” he said, in a bad French accent.

He kissed her nose, then her chin. Finally he touched his lips to hers.

Without thinking, she let her eyes close as she absorbed the feel of what he was doing. There was heat and firmness. He didn’t move, didn’t demand. It was a chaste kiss, but also kind of, nearly, almost... Nice.

She wasn’t sure how long they stood there, lips barely touching. Seconds ticked by. Instead of getting more tense, she felt herself relaxing. An unexpected urge to raise her arms, to rest her hands on his shoulders had her starting to move. Only Clay stepped back and then he wasn’t kissing her anymore.

“Lesson one,” he told her.

“How many are there?”

“As many as it takes. This is going to be a full service seduction.”

“Oh, my.”

He gave her one last smile, then turned and walked out of her kitchen. She heard the front door open, then close and she was alone with the idea that maybe, just maybe this wasn’t going to be too awful after all. Maybe she could find her way to normal.

Smiling, she, too, went out front, prepared to collect her gardening tools then head inside and shower. She’d just put the last of them in the garage and was walking toward the front door when a long, black limo pulled up in front of her house.

Limos weren’t common in Fool’s Gold. It was more of an SUV kind of town. So she immediately assumed the driver must be lost. That safe, happy feeling lasted until a powerfully built guy in a suit got out of the passenger side and walked around to open the rear door.

Even before the tiny foot in a ridiculously high heel touched the street, Charlie knew. Her gut twisted and the pressure in her ears increased. The world went silent. It was that last incredibly still moment before the tornado hit—when animals knew a storm was coming, but humans could only blink at each other in confusion.

A second foot joined the first, then Dominique Guérin stepped back into her daughter’s life.

CHAPTER SIX

“CHANTAL!”

Charlie flinched at the sound of both her mother’s voice and her real name.

“Mom.”

Dominique walked toward her, arms outstretched. She moved with a dancer’s grace, her body fluid and elegant, her head high. She wore a tailored suit and her gold-blond hair was in a stylish pixie cut that flattered her delicate features and large green eyes.

Dominique was pushing sixty but looked to be in her early forties. She was petite, maybe five-one or -two, but powerful. Charlie might have inherited her height and looks from her father, but she’d gotten her strength from her mother. As a child she’d watched Dominique practice for hours, working until she was drenched in sweat and her male partner nearly unconscious with exhaustion, and that had been after she’d retired.

As her mother approached, Charlie started to feel like a cartoon character who had been given a growth potion. She got larger and larger until she half expected her head to poke through the clouds. It was always that way when her mother was around. Charlie was the giant next to the tiny perfection that was Dominique.

Her mother stopped in front of her, arms still open. “Aren’t you going to greet me?”

“What? Oh. Right.” She bent down at the waist and awkwardly hugged the other woman. She then dutifully kissed both cheeks. The action was similar to what Clay had done to her, but the feeling was very different.

Charlie straightened and took a step back. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Can’t I visit my only child?”

“You never have before.”

Dominique sniffed delicately, then pointed to the house. “You can invite me inside.”

Charlie wasn’t sure if that was a statement of fact or a prod. Probably the latter, she thought.

“What about him?” she asked, pointing at the hunky guy in the dark suit still standing by the car. He wore sunglasses and kept glancing up and down the street—no doubt wishing he were protecting the president rather than an aging former ballerina.

“Justice is my bodyguard. He’ll wait outside.”

“Lucky him,” Charlie muttered under her breath, then turned and walked into her house. Once in her house, she faced her mother.

Dominique took in the comfortable living room, probably finding fault with every piece of furniture. Charlie had bought for comfort and out of respect for her budget. As Dominique was more into how things looked than how they functioned, she would no doubt be horrified.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Dominique asked.

Charlie glanced down at her dirty jeans and sweaty, smudged tank top. “I was working in the yard.”

Her mother’s eyes widened, although Charlie noted that her brows didn’t lift. BOTOX, she thought idly. One of the advantages of never being even close to pretty was not having to worry about getting older.

“Yard work? Like a peasant?”

Charlie managed a laugh. “Yes, Mother. Exactly like a peasant. Later we’ll all line up and the Lord of the Manor will give us bread and wine.”

Dominique’s mouth thinned in disapproval. “I know you think you’re funny, Chantal, but you’re wrong.”

“It’s Charlie.”

“What’s Charlie?”

“My name.”

“I would never call my daughter that. It’s a boy’s name.”

“It’s better than Chantal.”

Dominique drew herself up. “You were named after my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother was named Ethel. Or Alice. Depending on which one you’re talking about. You named me Chantal because it’s French and you thought I was going to turn out like you and be a dancer. Sorry to disappoint.”

Charlie shoved her hands into her jeans pockets and held in a sigh. This was a conversation they’d had many times before. It never went anywhere, so why did she keep trying? Her mother wasn’t interested in family—she wanted to be adored. Charlie had never been very good at the worship thing. Something nearly as unforgivable as being tall and gangly. All Dominique had wanted from her daughter was for her to be a perfect replica of herself. Charlie had failed at that from the second she’d been conceived.

“I see you haven’t changed,” her mother said, her voice tight.

Charlie felt the first soggy wetness of guilt. If she wasn’t careful, she would be sucked under and drown. It happened every time they were in the same room.

“You came a long way,” she said, trying for neutral ground. “There must be a reason.”

Dominique walked over to one of the club chairs and perched carefully on the edge. “I wanted to see you. In the past few years, we’ve lost our special bond.”

“We never had a special bond,” Charlie blurted before she could stop herself. She sighed. “Sorry. Okay. Special bond. I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Some mothers and daughters are close.”

Charlie didn’t like the sound of that. “You want to be close?”

“We’re family.”

“I haven’t seen you in five years.”

“That’s my point.”

“You don’t like me very much. I’m nothing like you. I don’t understand the greatness of your career, I’m a constant disappointment.”

Her mother’s chin lifted. “I never said that.”

“You said it all the time. It was practically a chant.”

Dominique rose. “I can see this isn’t a good time. We can talk more later. I’ve come to Fool’s Gold to rest and recover.”

“From the never-ending grind of your fame?” Charlie asked, wondering if her mother would hear the sarcasm or accept the question at face value.

“Exactly. It is the price I pay for being who I am. That’s why Justice is with me. To protect me from my fans.”

Question answered. Charlie had a feeling there were a whole lot fewer fans than there used to be, but she wasn’t going there. After all, Dominique wasn’t intentionally cruel. She was simply self-absorbed.

“I’m staying at Ronan’s Lodge. Will I like it?”

“It’s not up to your standards, but you’ve always been very good at making do.”

The words were in response to the growing sense of guilt. Charlie didn’t know how her mother did it but in every situation Charlie ended up feeling like the bad guy. Right now she knew she should offer to let her mother stay in her guest room. She also knew she would never actually issue the invitation. She rubbed her forehead as a steady pounding began right behind her eyes.

“I will be in touch,” Dominique said as she walked to the door.

Charlie followed her, torn between relief that the visit was ending and confusion as to why her mother had come in the first place. “It’s nice to see you.”

Dominique turned and stared. “We both know that’s not true, don’t we?”

She let herself out.

Charlie stood in her living room, awash in guilt and knowing there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

* * *

“MS. GUÉRIN, IT is a great honor to have you at our hotel,” the manager of Ronan’s Lodge gushed as the bellman delivered Dominique’s many suitcases into the suite. “In our town, as well. We don’t get many celebrities of your stature here. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant, please, please let me know.”

He pressed a business card into her hand. “I’ve written my cell number on the back. I would encourage you to call me anytime. Day or night.”

Dominique took the card and the gushing with little enthusiasm. No doubt her assistant had called ahead and requested the staff be attentive. Back in the day, no preplanning would have been necessary. The manager, an average-looking man in his forties, would have been stuttering and shaking at the thought of being so close to her. Strangers would have stopped her in the hallway and on elevators to tell her how much they admired her. Men would have begged to buy her a drink, thinking they would attempt to seduce her.