Dancing in the Moonlight - Harlequin.com

12 DANCING IN THE MOONLIGHT
Even before she had come to hate him and the rest
of his family, they’d never had the kind of relationship
that would have been conducive to that sort of thing.
The cold reality of all those years of impossible
dreams—and the ache in his chest they sparked—
sharpened his tone. “Your mama know you’re driving
in so late?”
She sent him a quick, searching look and he saw her
hands tremble a little on the tool she suddenly held as
a weapon as she tried to figure out his identity.
She aimed the flashlight at him and, with an inward
sigh, he obliged by giving her a straight-on look at him,
even though he knew full well what her reaction would be.
Sure enough, he saw the moment she recognized
him. She stiffened and her fingers tightened on the tire
iron. He could only be grateful he was out of range.
“I guess I don’t need help after all.” That low voice,
normally as smoothly sexy as fine-aged scotch, sounded
as cold and hard as the Tetons in January.
Help from him, she meant. He didn’t need her to
spell it out.
He decided not to let it affect him. He also decided
the hour was too damn late for diplomacy. “Tough.
Whether you need help or not, you’re getting it. Hand
over the tire iron.”
“I’m fine.”
“Maggie, just give me the damn thing.”
“Go home, Dalton. I’ve got everything under
control here.”
She crouched again, though it was actually more a
half crouch, with her left leg extended at her side. That