Oh, hell, Adam thought savagely, seeing his hopes for a mutually satisfying holiday dalliance growing dimmer with each statement she made. He, Adam Grainger, so selective about his female companions, was attracted—strongly attracted—to a cuckoo bird!

Dear Reader,

A book from Joan Hohl is always a delight, so I’m thrilled that this month we have her latest MAN OF THE MONTH, A Memorable Man. Naturally, this story is chock-full of Joan’s trademark sensuality and it’s got some wonderful plot twists that are sure to please you!

Also this month, Cindy Gerard’s latest in her NORTHERN LIGHTS BRIDES series, A Bride for Crimson Falls, and Beverly Barton’s “Southern sizzle” is highlighted in A Child of Her Own. Anne Eames has the wonderful ability to combine sensuality and humor, and A Marriage Made in Joeville features this talent.

The Baby Blizzard by Caroline Cross is sure to melt your heart this month—it’s an extraordinary love story with a hero and heroine you’ll never forget! And the month is completed with a sexy romp by Diana Mars, Matchmaking Mona.

In months to come, look for spectacular Silhouette Desire books by Diana Palmer, Jennifer Greene, Lass Small and many other fantastic Desire stars! And I’m always here to listen to your thoughts and opinions about the books. You can write to me at the address below.

Enjoy! I wish you hours of happy reading!

Lucia Macro

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

A Memorable Man

Joan Hohl

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JOAN HOHL

is the bestselling author of almost three dozen books. She has received numerous awards for her work, including the Romance Writers of America Golden Medallion Award. In addition to contemporary romance, this prolific author also writes historical and time-travel romances. Joan lives in eastern Pennsylvania with her husband and family.

To my editor, Melissa Senate,

for being such a nice bully

One

It was fascinating, like stepping back over two hundred years in time.

Bemused by the novelty of the experience, Adam Grainger came to an abrupt halt behind the two elderly ladies blocking his passage to Duke of Gloucester Street. In no particular hurry, instead of circling around them, he waited patiently for them to finish their conversation and then either cross the street or part company.

It had been snowing when Adam flew out of Wyoming that morning, snowing and windy and bitterly cold. Rather normal weather for mid-December. At the time, since he was flying toward the eastern seaboard, he had presumed it would be cold in Virginia, as well.

But it wasn’t cold; in fact with the temperature hovering around 62°, the air felt balmy against his face.

While waiting, basking in the gentle sunshine, Adam slowly took in his surroundings, the sights and sounds of the restored capital city of Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia.

Lowering his gaze to his hands, he studied the well-marked map, which delineated every street and restored building in the area. His bearings set, he raised his eyes. Directly opposite, across the cobbled street, stood the Bruton Parish Church, and beyond the church, the Governor’s Palace rose majestically at the end of the two-block-long Palace Green.

But it wasn’t the lovely old church or even the more imposing palace in the background that caught Adam’s attention and fancy, riveting his gaze.

A young woman was approaching the street from the green. Although attired in the period costume of a reenactor, she strode forth with the free and easy long-legged gait of the modern woman, a long dark red cape swirling around her ankles, a mobcap swinging by its strings from her fingers. Sunlight glimmered in loosened strands of gold streaking her brown hair, which was gathered into a carelessly fashioned topknot.

An odd sensation of familiarity flared to life inside Adam. Startled by the feeling, he stood staring, arrested by the very sight of her beautiful composed face.

“A pity, really, she’s such a lovely girl.”

Adam couldn’t help but overhear the remark made by one of the ladies standing less than a foot in front of him. A movement of the lady’s head indicated the remark had obviously been intended to apply to the young woman coming to a halt at the opposite curb.

A pity? he thought, frowning. What could there be to feel pity for such an enchanting creature? The thought had no sooner struck him than the answer was forthcoming.

“A bit odd, you know,” the lady murmured in a sympathetic tone, shaking her head.

“So I’ve heard,” the other lady replied, heaving a sigh. “Although she seems fine most of the time, I understand she is subject to moments of delusions or some such.”

The first lady nodded in agreement. “Not only that,” she informed sadly. “But I’ve been told she goes off on rather wild and strange flights of fancy.”

Delusions? Wild and strange flights of fancy? Containing an urge to laugh aloud, Adam shot a glance at the woman under discussion. Although the woman hesitated near the curb, her expression of growing consternation seemed merely to indicate mild indecisiveness. She certainly didn’t appear to Adam as either odd or given to sudden wild and strange flights of fancy.

At that instant, just as Adam heard the two ladies say their goodbyes and separate, the woman stepped off the curb and into the street. Adam did likewise, strolling toward her as she strode toward him. As they drew alongside one another he felt another decidedly strange jolt, at the same time noting the sudden widening of her eyes.

What the hell?

Even as the thought flashed through his mind, Adam was brought up short by the sound of her voice.

“Andrew?”

A case of mistaken identity. Surprised by the sharp sense of disappointment he felt, Adam turned to offer her a small smile and a reluctant disclaimer.

“Sorry, but no, I am—”

“No, of course not.” She smiled, raised her eyes, and sighed, as if impatient with herself. “You wouldn’t be Andrew. Not again.”

Huh? Clueless, Adam stood there, right in the middle of Duke of Gloucester Street, not only speechless but dumbfounded to the point of being oblivious to the horse-drawn wagon lumbering toward them.

“Oh, dear, after all this time, you still don’t know, do you?” She sighed again, then, before he could think of a reply or even so much as how to reply, she glanced beyond him and grasped his arm. “Come along,” she urged, leading hum back the way he had come from the other side of the street. “We’re in danger of being run down here.”

Run down? Adam frowned, but nevertheless moved at her bidding. Surely the woman knew better than most that vehicular traffic wasn’t allowed within the restored area? His silent query was answered the next moment, when the touristladen wagon rumbled by, missing them by a mere foot or so.

Well, damn, he reflected, staring in bemusement at the horses and rough-hewn conveyance. He couldn’t recall seeing anything about the availability of wagon rides in the packet he’d been given at the visitors’ center. Of course, at the time, wanting to experience the place for himself, rather than read about it, he had given the information little more than a casual perusal.

“It’s a wagon,” he said, unnecessarily, and more to himself than to the woman standing beside him...now well out of harm’s way. “A horse-drawn wagon.”

“I know.”

The thread of amused understanding woven through her voice snagged Adam’s attention. Forgetting the wagon, he turned to level a probing look at her. “What did you mean earlier, when you said I wouldn’t be Andrew again?”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” she replied, her smile enigmatic and knowing.

Knowing what? Adam wondered, frowning. She was a total stranger to him; what could she know? One of them was slightly off kilter here, and he knew that he was not the one. He suppressed a sigh, deciding that perhaps those two ladies had been correct in their assessment of the woman. Nevertheless, he forged ahead.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about.” He offered her a sympathetic smile. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

She shook her head. “No, no mistake about your identity.” Her eyes, as green, deep and mystifying as a shaded mountain glen, stared into his. “My mistake was in believing, hoping that by this time you might remember.”

“Remember what?” he demanded, his voice rough edged with impatience and a startling deeper sense of disappointment. “I’ve never seen you before. What’s to remember?”

“Oh, lots.” The smile she gave him was wistful, overshadowed with longing. “More than you probably could ever imagine.”

Adam felt a jolt of something stirring inside his mind, and a thrill of...excitement?...inside his body.

But this was ridiculous, he reasoned, trying and failing to shake off the mental and physical activity. Those two elderly ladies were right; there was something not all together about this woman.

So distracted was he, Adam didn’t notice the man coming abreast of them. The soft drawl of the man’s voice brought him into awareness.

“Good afternoon, Mistress Dase.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” she replied respectfully, dipping into a quick curtsy.

Confused by her abrupt change of demeanor, Adam glanced at the man. Obviously another reenactor, he was elderly, pleasant faced, his costume denoting a personage of means and some standing in the community.

“You are on your way home?” The gentleman’s gaze dropped to the cap dangling from her fingers, then back to her face. A twinkle of intelligent amusement sparkled in his otherwise plain brown eyes.

“Oh...yes.” A becoming flush infusing her cheeks, she raised her hands and settled the cap over the knot.

The man’s lips twitched. “I wish you a good evening, then,” he said, beginning to move on. His laughing eyes made contact with Adam. “And you, also, sir.”

“Good evening, sir,” she responded.

Thoroughly confused by the exchange, Adam could manage no more than a nod of acknowledgment in return.

“What was that all about?” he asked the moment the gentleman was beyond hearing.

“It’s bad form to be out of costume or character while in the area,” she answered, an unrepentant smile tugging at her full lips. “He gave me a teasing reminder of my cap.”

“I...er...” Adam began, only to be interrupted by the very same gentleman.

“Mistress Dase, on the chance you have forgotten where you are, you are standing in the middle of the road.”

She groaned, grabbed Adam’s sleeve, and made for the curb before replying, “Ah...yes, thank you, again, sir.”

Chuckling, the man went on his way.

The woman beside Adam laughed as well.

Adam shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this,” he confessed. “Who is that man?”

“A reenactor,” she answered, her smile reflecting the laughter lightening her incredible eyes. “This time, his name is Mr. White, and he’s playing the role of a very important figure of the period.”

Adam’s pragmatic mind latched onto two of her words. “This time?” He eyed her warily, as if steeling himself for a sudden flight of fancy. “What do you mean by ‘this time’?”

“Oh, he’s been here before.”

Uh-huh. A wave of regret washed over Adam. The ladies apparently knew whereof they spoke, he thought in abject dejection. Then, gazing at her laughing, beautiful face, another thought sent his spirits soaring on the wings of hope. Perhaps, forewarned and halfway expecting the odd, he had misconstrued her remark. Maybe, just possibly, she had meant that the older gentlemen had done this work before, and at that time had enacted a completely different type of role.

“I see,” he said, not quite truthfully. “And... er, have you also done this before?”

“Several times.” Her smile shifted from secret delight to soft compassion. “But, of course, you don’t remember.”

Oh, hell, not again. Adam suppressed a groan, and raked his mind for an intelligent or even merely adequate response, hating the sensation of being way out of his depth. But before he could come up with anything, another, younger voice came into the confusing mix.

“Good afternoon, Mistress Dase.”

Turning to the source of the call, Adam observed a young boy loping along on the far side of the street. The bright-faced boy sported a wide grin; his lanky frame was clad in the period clothes of a reenactor.

“Good afternoon, Master Robert,” she called, grinning back.

Watching the boy, Adam’s mind homed in on one point in particular about the intriguing woman.

“You’re name is Daze?”

“Hmm,” she murmured, turning to face him.

“Like...in a daze?”

“No.” She shook her head. “D-A-S-E.” She spelled the name aloud.

“Oh.” He frowned, thinking she was as forthcoming as the proverbial clam. “And do you have a first name?”

“Of course. Do you?”

Nudged into remembering common courtesy, he extended his hand. “Adam,” he said. “Adam Grainger.”

“How do you do, Adam Grainger,” she returned in tones of deceptive formality, sliding her hand into his.

The touch of her palm against his, the slight friction of skin on skin, caused an electrifying sensation inside Adam unlike anything he had ever before experienced and way out of proportion to the minimal contact. The thought burst in his mind of what effect he might feel should he touch her lips, her breasts, her...

“Sunshine.” Her one spoken word scattered his erotically galloping thoughts.

Adam blinked, then frowned. “What?”

“My given name,” she explained.

“Sunshine?” He shook his head—an action he seemed to be repeating frequently since encountering her. “Sunshine Dase?” he asked in patent disbelief. “You’re kidding?”

“Nope.” Now she shook her head. “That’s it.” She grinned. “My parents were repressed flowerchildren wannabes. But most folks call me Sunny.”

Sunny Dase. Oh, Lord. Adam felt torn between a desire to laugh and an urge to groan. “I can’t imagine what kind of teasing you must have endured growing up,” he murmured in understanding and commiseration.

“It was a challenge,” she said, shrugging. “But, as you can see, I survived.”

“Very nicely,” he commended, skimming a glance over her caped form, feeling his body clench in the process. Nice barely described her appearance, but... Adam wondered if perhaps the trials and tribulations of her former years had been a contributing factor in her strange behavior.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she responded, dipping into another quick curtsy. “Actually, I’ve grown to like the name,” she confided. “It’s different.”

“It is that,” he agreed, drolly.

Sunny laughed. And when Sunny laughed like that, easy and spontaneously, the sound literally stole the breath from Adam’s body. He had to see her again.

The realization brought sharp awareness of time and place. The late autumn sun was swimming on the horizon, casting a soft golden glow on the surroundings, in the highlights streaking her hair, on her lovely face.

Adam was struck by a sudden overwhelming need to taste the ripe fullness of her lips.

“What are you so deep in thought about?” Sunny’s green gaze knowingly probed his eyes, as if reading his mind, discerning his intentions.

Adam had never before met a woman—anyone—with such expressive eyes. The perception in those green depths danced along his nervous system.

Naturally, he couldn’t reveal to her what he had been thinking, the desire heating his blood. An eerie intuition telling him she knew the truth of his thoughts, he blurted out, “I was contemplating my chances of success at convincing you to have dinner with me this evening.”

“Excellent.”

Her prompt response stopped his mental process cold. “Huh?” he said, sounding like a dullard, in all likelihood, because he felt extremely dull and slow-witted. Adam didn’t appreciate the feeling. He betrayed himself by stiffening.

Her soft smile smoothed his ruffled feathers. “Your chances of having me accept your invitation to have dinner with you are excellent,” she explained.

Astounded by the feelings of elation her acceptance gave him, Adam stared at her a long moment, assimilating the glittering facets of the sensation.

“Where?”

He frowned. “Where what?”

Her laughing eyes mocked him. “Where do you want me to meet you for dinner?” she said precisely.

“Oh. Oh.” Adam felt like an idiot, or worse, an awkward hormonally confused teenager. “You don’t have to meet me. I’ll come for you. If you’ll give me directions to...”

“Where are you staying?” she interrupted him to ask, the expression in her eyes softening.

“The Patrick Henry.” Adam indicated the upper end of Duke of Gloucester Street with a flick of his hand. “It’s across from the restored area, right along Route 60.”

“I know where it is.” Her expression grew pensive. “Look,” she went on after a thoughtful moment, “I’m located close by, right on the fringes of the area. Depending on where you want to have dinner, it would probably be simpler for me to meet you there.” She arched her eyebrows. “Did you have a particular place in mind?”

“Well... no,” Adam admitted, shrugging. “Actually, although I have made reservations later in the week for several places that were recommended to me by friends, since I only arrived early this afternoon, I was planning to eat at the motel restaurant tonight.”

“Then why change your plans?” she said reasonably. “I’ve eaten there—the food’s good. I’ll meet you in the lobby at... What time?”

Adam was shaking his head before she’d finished. “Not necessary,” he insisted. “I’ve got a rental car. I can pick you up. It’ll be dark. You shouldn’t—do not—have to make your own way to the motel.”

“I’m a big girl, I can find my way,” she said wryly. “It’s no hassle for me to hop onto the bus that circles the area. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

Adam opened his mouth to argue, then immediately shut it again. Her chiding expression said volumes more than her spoken assurances. Advising himself to quit while he was ahead and before she changed her mind, he sighed in defeat.

“Okay, in the lobby at...say, six-thirty?”

“What time is it now?”

He glanced at his watch. “Four thirty-two.”

“Suppose we say six,” she suggested, her smile enticing. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m famished.”

“Six is fine.” He offered her a teasing smile. “I’d hate to see you waste away to a shadow of your former self.”

“Terrific. See you then.” Laughing, she turned away, then slanted a look at him over her shoulder and softly called, “By the way, my former self was little more than a shadow.”

Not again. A sinking sensation mingling with the anticipation perking inside him, Adam watched her stride away, the long cape swirling around her trim ankles.

Two

“Damn.”

Washing the trickle of blood from the razor nick on his jaw, Adam dug a styptic pencil out of his shaving kit and grimaced as he applied it to the minor wound. The grimace wasn’t in reaction to the sting of the pencil, but to the visible tremor in his fingers.

Ridiculous, Adam decided, flinging the towel aside and striding into the bedroom.

He was always cool, collected and logical. He ran a far-ranging family-owned corporation. He never lost his composure, maintaining his vaunted, steel-edged control through even the most intensely fought business battles.

The very idea of him suffering so much as a slight case of the shakes over the prospect of spending time with a woman was a concept beyond the pale.

Ms. Sunny Dase—preposterous name!—intrigued him, Adam concluded, absently rejecting one shirt in favor of another, too distracted to take note of his unusual indecisiveness concerning his choice of apparel.

Every article of clothing Adam possessed was well made, elegant, tasteful and outrageously expensive. Whatever he chose to wear suited him and any occasion. Formal wear excepted.

Should he wear a tie—or go for a more casual look?

The thought jolted Adam into the realization that he was actually agonizing over a necktie.

Was he losing his mind...or simply bewitched?

The follow-up thought brought a wry smile to his compressed lips. The consideration of bewitchment immediately wiped the smile from his mouth.

Nonsense.

Sunny was an enigma, a puzzle, nothing more. Adam had earned a reputation for his ability to untangle puzzles and expose supposed enigmas.

But she did possess the power to excite him. He had felt the zing and sting of that power with his first sight of her striding across the Palace Green.

Forgoing the neck wear, Adam felt a recurring sizzle dance along his nerve endings as he shrugged into his jacket. He would be meeting Sunny in exactly...

He shot a glance at his wristwatch. Another jolt went through him. While he had been musing on his limited sartorial section, time had slipped away from him.

Scooping his loose change, wallet and keys from atop the dresser, he shoved them into his pockets as he strode into the sitting room of the suite, then to the door. He had never known a woman to be on time. Still, he had three and a half minutes to get his rump down to the lobby—in the unlikely event Sunny proved to be the exception.

She was waiting for him.

The sight of her, standing at ease and relaxed next to the impressive bust of Patrick Henry on a pedestal in the lobby, not only surprised but delighted Adam.

The contrast in her attire alone was startling. Whereas before she had appeared the picture of an eighteenth-century maiden in her period costume, with her hair pulled up into a loose knot on top of her head, Sunny now projected an image of an ultramodern, thoroughly “with it” young woman.

She was dressed in a severely cut, perfectly fit, austere-looking black suit, with a figure-hugging pencil-slim ankle-length skirt, the side seems slit to just above the knees. The peek of curvaceous calves, in addition to her enticingly rounded bottom and long, slender thighs, caused a sudden dry tightness in Adam’s throat.

Swallowing with some difficulty, he shifted his gaze, giving her person a more encompassing look.

The severity of her black suit was balanced by a snowy white blouse with a froth of lace at the collar and cuffs, the lace spilling over the backs of her hands. Sheer black nylon encased her legs. Her slim, delicate feet were enhanced by highheeled black suede evening pumps.

Slowly, reluctantly, Adam dragged his gaze up along the alluring lines of her body and settled on her face. She appeared to be wearing a minimum of makeup: perhaps a light, translucent base, a brush of color on her cheeks; a darkening swish of mascara on her lashes; a clear, true red applied to her luscious lips.

Gliding his tongue over his own lips, Adam forced his glance away from temptation, past her straight nose, the glowing skin of her cheeks, the alert and bright interest in her curious green eyes, to the top of her head and...

And her hair... Oh, Lord, her hair. Sunny’s wavy mane of gold-streaked brown hair tumbled onto her shoulders and halfway down her elegantly straight spine.

In truth, the sight of her took his breath away. Adam’s fingers twitched with the desire to spear into the alluring brown mass; his mind reeled with an image of those gold-streaked strands spread out on a pillow...his pillow.

But first things first, he advised himself, crossing the lobby to her. Dinner, then...

“Hello,” he said, attempting to corral his bedbent thoughts as he came to a halt beside her. “Were you early or am I late?”

“Oh...hi.” Sunny flashed a nerve-crunching smile at him. “Since it is now precisely six, you are not late. So I guess I was a few moments early. No big deal.”

“Even so, I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” Adam replied, appalled by the slight catch in his voice, the rapid beat of his heart, the quivery sensation inside him...all direct effects of her disarming smile.

Boy, he mused, inwardly shaken by his response, mentally and physically. He had heard about dynamite smiles, had even witnessed a few, but this woman’s smile went way beyond dynamite; megaton came closer to the mark.

“Still hungry?” he asked politely, quashing a different hunger expanding inside.

“Starved.” Though her tone was somber, her eyes, those amazingly expressive green eyes, conveyed her understanding of and amusement at his unstated appetite.

Batten down the hatches, Mabel, there’s a rocka-butzer storm gathering on the horizon.

The sudden recollection of one of Adam’s late father’s favorite expressions in times of trouble had a settling effect on his equilibrium, easing the strain from his voice, allowing him to return her perceptive smile.

“In that case, I suppose I’d better feed you.” Taking her by the hand, Adam steered her to the restaurant.

“My hero,” Sunny murmured, batting her eyelashes—her long, dark eyelashes—at him. Then, as she moved around the bust, she drew her fingers along the chiseled jawline of Patrick Henry. “It’s a good likeness,” she said, slanting a teasing look at him. “The fiery radical would be pleased.”

Adam laughed at her whimsy, but composed himself enough to give his name to the pleasantfaced hostess standing in the restaurant entrance, checking names against the leather-bound reservation list in her hands.

“Ah, yes, good evening, Mr. Grainger.” She offered a smile and an ushering movement of her hand. “Right this way. Your table is ready.”

“Have you eaten here before?” Sunny asked, after they were seated and proffered menus, when the hostess had departed.

Adam shook his head. “No. I didn’t get in until early this afternoon. I had lunch on the plane.” He grinned. “Unlike some, I find nothing wrong with the in-flight food. In truth, I thoroughly enjoy it.”

“So do I.” She grinned back at him. “Does that make us peasants or merely plebeian?”

“Or, just maybe, it makes us too honest to affect a pseudosophistication,” he suggested.

“Yes,” she agreed, giving him the chills with the soft look she swept over him. “You always were...honest, I mean, almost to a fault.”

Not again, Adam thought, smothering a groan. Not yet another not-too-veiled reference to them having met, known each other before.

Still, he couldn’t deny the spark of interest her remark generated.

Studying her, and more than a little impressed by her clear-eyed and direct regard in return, Adam decided that perhaps it was time he probed the depths of her assumed previous knowledge of him, his personality.

“We’ve only just met,” he said. “How could you possibly know that I’ve always been honest.”

Her eyes darkened, as if with an inner amused knowing. A gently mocking smile kissed her lips, making his mouth ache with desire to do likewise.

“I’ve known almost forever.”

“Indeed?” The skeptical arch of one eyebrow underscored his tone of voice.

“Yes.” Though quiet, her tone was absolute.

“But, how?” he persisted. “How could...”

Adam broke off with the arrival of a waiter at the table. He concealed his impatience until they had given their drink and dinner orders and the man had left them.

“How?” he repeated the moment they were alone again. “How could you know anything

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