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High drama. Heart-stopping romance.

Legendary family heritage.

TEXAS SHEIKHS

Texas was the only home the Coleman brothers had ever known. But secrets of their past have been unveiled to reveal the truth: royal blood flows through their veins. To forge a new destiny, they will need to draw upon their deep familial bonds and find loves that legends are made of.

Don’t miss any of the exciting stories in this brand-new series!

HIS INNOCENT TEMPTRESS

by New York Times bestselling author Kasey Michaels

HIS ARRANGED MARRIAGE

by Tina Leonard

HIS SHOTGUN PROPOSAL

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

HIS ROYAL PRIZE

by Debbi Rawlins

Dear Reader,

Spring is the perfect time to celebrate the joy of romance. So get set to fall in love as Harlequin American Romance brings you four new spectacular books.

First, we’re happy to welcome New York Times bestselling author Kasey Michaels to the Harlequin American Romance family. She inaugurates TEXAS SHEIKHS, our newest in-line continuity, with His Innocent Temptress. This four-book series focuses on a Texas family with royal Arabian blood who must fight to reunite their family and reclaim their rightful throne.

Also, available this month, The Virgin Bride Said, “Wow!” by Cathy Gillen Thacker, a delightful marriage-of-convenience story and the latest installment in THE LOCKHARTS OF TEXAS miniseries. Kara Lennox provides fireworks as a beautiful young woman who’s looking for Mr. Right sets out to Tame an Older Man following the advice of 2001 WAYS TO WED, a book guaranteed to provide satisfaction! And Have Baby, Need Beau says it all in Rita Herron’s continuation of her wonderful THE HARTWELL HOPE CHESTS series.

Enjoy April’s selections and come back next month for more love stories filled with heart, home and happiness from Harlequin American Romance.

Wishing you happy reading,

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin American Romance

His Innocent Temptress

Kasey Michaels

To Tina Colombo, just because.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kasey Michaels, a New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty books, divides her creative time between writing contemporary romances and Regency novels. Married and the mother of four, Kasey has garnered the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Medallion Award and the Romantic Times Magazine Best Regency Trophy for her writing.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Prologue

If it weren’t for Layla, Rose was certain she and her children would be dead.

Four days earlier, Rose’s Ibrahim Bin Habib El Jeved had been husband and father, and ruler of Sorajhee. Loved, adored, a benevolent ruler who always remembered that he served at the favor of his people.

To protect his people, Ibrahim had been negotiating a very public political alliance with a neighboring kingdom on the edge of Saudi Arabia, planning for Sorajhee and Balahar to become allies in the troubled Middle East. He’d even gone so far as to secretly pledge that one of his three young sons would one day marry a daughter of King Zakariyya Al Farid, ruler of Balahar.

Layla’s husband, Ibrahim’s brother, had been very much against the idea. Yes, Azzam was very much against the idea.

And four days ago, during a well-orchestrated demonstration against the proposed political alliance of Sorajhee and Balahar, Ibrahim had been assassinated.

Rose had gone into shock at the terrible news, barely able to function. She had come to Sorajhee as a young bride, leaving her American roots behind her to follow the man she loved with all her heart and mind. Now she was alone, and with three young, vulnerable princes to protect.

Layla had come to her the same day Ibrahim was buried, warning her that Azzam planned to take over the kingdom, first ridding himself of “Ibrahim’s half-breed whelps and their bitch.”

“He said this? He would kill us? Kill my babies?” Rose asked her sister-in-law, her shock giving way to panic and anger. “Ibrahim had considered this, but I never believed him. You and Azzam have been our friends. Our family.”

“Azzam wants his brother’s throne, my sister,” Layla told her, “and if he has to crawl over the bodies of his brother and his nephews, he will do it gladly. Sister, he has already begun. I have learned that it was Azzam’s order, if not his hand, that marked the end of Ibrahim.”

Rose pressed her hands to her cheeks, willing herself past the horror, the anger. She had to set aside her sorrow and pain. She had to consider her children.

Drying her tears, she sat down to think. Small and blond, and looking very much the American that she was, she knew that Azzam and many others believed her to be young and witless. An easy pawn.

An easy target, now that her beloved Ibrahim was gone.

How wrong they were.

She was queen of Sorajhee, mother of the heirs, widow of the sheikh.

But even a wise queen knows when preservation means leaving the field, regrouping, gathering her strength. Protecting her young, as a mother lioness would protect her cubs.

Rose stood and ran to the corner of the room and a small locked chest Ibrahim had shown her months ago, when he had first begun his public negotiations with Balahar. She pulled the slim golden chain from her neck and used the key attached to it to open the chest and retrieve its contents.

“What is this, sister of my heart?” Layla asked, standing behind her, watching.

Rose turned, clutching the wrapped package to her. “The last gift of my husband, Layla. A Swiss bank account with enough funds in it to care for my children, the entire trust fund from my parents, and more. Passports for the four of us.”

“Passports? Sister, consider. Azzam will stop you at the border. Unless…no, it couldn’t work. Azzam would find out and kill me, too. He is my husband, Rose, but I fear him. We must all fear him. Remember, I had been promised to Ibrahim before he met you. Azzam would see me as a traitor who favored the widow of his brother and enemy.”

“Don’t worry, Layla. Most of the work has already been done. These are American passports in my maiden name, Coleman. And very American first names for my boys, names no one will recognize unless they have been warned to look for them. I’ve just got to get the boys across the border and we can fly to safety. I know a way—it has already been planned—but I’ll need your help to get Azzam to let me leave the palace.”

She put her hand on Layla’s cheek. “Sister of my heart, you have warned me. Now help me. Please, help my children.”

THREE DAYS LATER, Rose and her boys were on their way to the summer palace, taking with them a carefully chosen retinue of servants loyal to Ibrahim.

It had been announced in the newspapers that Rose and her sons had voluntarily moved from the palace to retire to the privacy of the country, where they would mourn their husband and father.

The number to the Swiss bank account and the four passports traveled with them, as did a young colt, Jabbar, Ibrahim’s beloved Arabian stallion. No one would expect Rose to flee, not when she was taking a horse with her. Azzam let them go.

They never reached the summer palace. Ten miles outside of the city, Rose and her children stopped at a small house owned by relatives of her maid. They changed clothes and changed transport.

Three hours later, they were across the border to Balahar; five hours later, they were airborne, on their way to England and safety. The servants, well paid, were also on their way to safety from Azzam’s revenge. Jabbar was on another airplane, already winging toward Boston and the necessary quarantine for animals coming into the United States.

Rose held Makin, the oldest of the twins, on her lap as his brother Kadar slept in the aisle seat. Barely more than babies, only three years old, they had no idea what had happened to them, but they could sense the nervousness of their mother and had been fractious and demanding until at last sleep had claimed them.

Their older brother, and heir to the throne of Sorajhee, Alim, was only a year older than the twins, but he had a wisdom and demeanor beyond his four years. He sat beside Rose now, holding her hand, stroking it. “I will protect you, Mama,” he told her solemnly. “It is what my father would want.”

Rose felt tears stinging her eyes as she smiled at her oldest son. How like his father he was, with a thick thatch of night-black hair, a handsome but serious face, and already showing signs of being as tall as Ibrahim. They had named him Alim, which meant “wise and learned,” and Alim seemed to know what was expected of him, even in such a terrible time.

“You will be a little boy, my son,” Rose told him, carefully cradling Makin as she bent to kiss her oldest son’s cheek. “And, one day, you will take your father’s place on the throne of Sorajhee.”

They landed at Heathrow airport, to be met by Rose’s brother, Randy Coleman, who had flown out from his home in Boston the moment he got the wire Layla had sent alerting him that a “precious cargo” would be needing his assistance.

That message had hit Randy square in his stomach, as it was the same one Ibrahim had sent him months ago, another precaution he had taken to protect his family. If Randy received such a message, he was to go directly to Heathrow to pick up his sister and the boys, who would be traveling under the name Coleman. Within minutes of receiving the wire speaking of “precious cargo,” Randy had rented a private jet to take him to England, just as his brother-in-law had requested.

Ibrahim, much as he loved his family and wished to protect them, had known that his duty to his subjects was more important, even more sacred, than his own life. But that didn’t mean he would sacrifice his family, and he had planned well. There had never been more than four passports, for Ibrahim would never leave his people, no matter how desperate the danger.

An hour after arriving at Heathrow, Rose was hugging her boys goodbye in another terminal. She had just given them each a different precious gold ring from Ibrahim’s collection, proof of their royalty. Hung around each small neck on slim golden chains, they were the only tangible memory each would carry of their father until Rose could reclaim their destiny.

“My sweet darlings, don’t cry,” she begged the twins, who clung to her neck as she knelt before them. “Mama will join you soon, and Uncle Randy will take such good care of you, I promise. Alim,” she said, reaching past the twins to gather him close. “You know that I must go back and work to uncover the treachery behind your papa’s death. I cannot do that if I am worrying about you and Kadar and Makin.”

“Aunt Layla will help you?” Alim asked, fighting back tears. “I could help you, Mama.”

“And you will, my darling. You will help me by watching over your brothers and obeying your uncle. And you must tell Uncle Randy all about Jabbar, as your papa has already taught you, help raise him to be the champion your papa knew he would become. Now kiss me, and know I love you. I’ll be with you again soon, I promise.”

Randy, already aware that it would be no use to try to talk his sister out of returning to Sorajhee to rally those loyal to Ibrahim, lifted both twins into his strong arms. He kissed his sister and followed Alim into the passageway leading to the plane, as Rose stood with her hands pressed to her mouth, fighting sobs.

Within days she had lost her husband, and now her sons were leaving her. Pain, real physical pain racked her body, and an emptiness such as she had never felt threatened to swallow her, body and soul. She staggered blindly away, down a narrow side hallway, then dropped to her knees and sobbed as if her heart would break.

“I’ll come back for you, my babies, with your father’s murder avenged and your rights restored to you. I promise you that. But now you must be safe, and there is no safety where I’m going.”

THE DAYS PASSED, the months…and then the news came from Layla. Rose was dead, killed while breaking into Azzam’s chambers armed with a knife, clearly out of her head with grief, planning to murder the new ruler of Sorajhee. Layla warned Randy to hide the children, for they were still in danger from her husband, who was now bent on destroying everyone who could be linked to his dead brother.

Randy had already made sure the boys were both legal and hidden as his wards in Boston, using the names on their passports while gaining them the American citizenship that was their right due to their mother. But it wasn’t enough. The press would soon be hounding him, he knew it. Worse, Layla knew where he was, and Layla was with Azzam.

Clearly he needed to do something to make Rose’s sons disappear.

At Layla’s suggestion, Randy returned the three rings to Azzam, telling the man that his nephews were lost in a boating accident off the coast of Cape Cod. There were no bodies to return to Sorajhee to lie with their mother and father. Azzam accepted Randy’s word and returned the rings to him. Randy put the three rings away until the boys were older, to give to them when they could truly understand their heritage and their loss.

As far as the world knew, and the press was avid in following the fate of the martyred Ibrahim’s widow and children, Rose and her children had retired from public life and wanted nothing more than their privacy. Azzam had declared it, therefore it was so. Sorajhee sighed and accepted the word of a Jeved, as it always had, and Azzam closed the borders, declaring that the Fates had spoken. Sorajhee would not ally itself with Balahar.

Randy moved to a ranch near Austin, Texas, just outside a small town called Bridle. Alex, Cade and Mac Coleman moved with him, as did Jabbar, already growing toward the champion Ibrahim had declared he would someday be. Alim and Kadar and Makin were no more.

With his new wife, Vivian, by his side, acting as surrogate mother to the three boys, and with the birth of their own daughter, Jessica, Randy Coleman’s ranch, The Desert Rose, grew to be one of the finest Arabian horse farms in Texas.

Randy brought a partner into the family’s Boston-founded business with him, to help conceal the Coleman name, and Texan Jared Grayson ran the extensive family businesses while Randy and his nephews worked the Arabians. The three boys grew into manhood as Americans, barely remembering their roots in Sorajhee.

But they never forgot Rose, or her promise to return to them….

Chapter One

“Damn it!” Alex Coleman hastily wiped his hands on a towel, then threw it to the ground as he went racing out of the stall and toward the phone hanging on the wall at the far end of the stable. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

This couldn’t happen. It just couldn’t. He hadn’t been expecting the birth this soon, or even considered the possibility of complications.

Hell, he hadn’t expected the pregnancy. Jabbar hadn’t been put to stud in years, having earned his retirement from both the stud and the showring, where he’d been a perennial champion. It was Jabbar who had made The Desert Rose a top breeding farm for world-class Arabians, and his offspring numbered a multitude.

Plus one, if Alex could get Dr. Clark to the ranch in time.

Why had he put his new breeding mare in the pasture with Jabbar? He had thought Khalahari would be safe, be slowly introduced to the ranch, and that Jabbar, in his old age, would ignore the retired showring horse whose injury had taken her from the ring. Alex had bought the mare for almost nothing, but she had such good lines that he hoped one day to breed her. Just not now, and not with Jabbar.

“Somebody must have slipped the old boy some Viagra or something,” his brother Mac had joked when Alex confirmed that Khalahari was unexpectedly carrying Jabbar’s foal.

Consternation had changed to excitement as Alex decided that this could be a fantastic union, producing a true champion to take Jabbar’s place in the ring, in the stud. He didn’t know precisely why he felt that way, but it seemed as if fate, and Jabbar, had decreed it.

Now Khalahari was in trouble, the foal twisted inside her, and Alex knew he could lose them both.

“Come on, come on,” he chanted as he listened to the phone ring, willing Dr. Clark to answer, to be there, to come do his magic as he had done in the past.

“Hello? Dr. Clark’s office.”

Alex began speaking even before the woman had finished her greeting. “This is Alex Coleman out at The Desert Rose. I need the doctor, now.”

“I’ll be right there,” the woman answered.

“What?” Alex held the phone away from his ear for a moment, then realized what was going on. It wasn’t old Doc Clark. He was speaking with the daughter. Hannah? Yeah, Hannah. And fresh from veterinary school. “Not you, woman—your father. I’ve got a prize mare down, foaling, and she’s in big trouble.”

“I understand, Mr. Coleman,” Hannah answered, and he could hear her moving around, probably on a portable phone, gathering supplies or keys or whatever. “My father isn’t available, but I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“Look, sweetheart, I don’t think I’m getting through to you. This is an important foal. Get your hands-on experience somewhere else. With kittens, or something. But get me your dad, now.”

“He’s in Dallas attending a conference, Mr. Coleman, and won’t be home until very late tonight. I don’t think your mare can wait for him. As I said, I’ll be right there. Beggars can’t be choosers, Mr. Coleman. I’m a vet. You need a vet. Now we’re wasting time, aren’t we?”

“But—but I don’t—”

He was talking to the dial tone.

HANNAH MADE IT in fifteen minutes, pushing her four-wheel drive all the way, skidding to a halt in the stable yard as Alex Coleman ran into the yard, waving his arms at her.

Hopping out of the driver’s seat, her bag already in her hand, she got caught in the seat belt and landed on all fours in the stable yard. She quickly got up, brushed herself off, then followed him into the stable at a trot. “Where?” she said, as the man obviously wasn’t going to waste time saying hello.

“The big stall, down at the end, if you can get there without falling on your face again,” Alex told her, leading the way. “It’s a breech. Her first foal, and probably her last.”

“Gee, that pumped me right up, makes me all chock-full of confidence,” Hannah grumbled under her breath as she turned into the stall, tripping over a towel lying on the straw. Some entrance she’d made, pratfalls all the way. But she couldn’t think about that now. Not with the mare lying there, her single visible eye wide and wild with pain.

Hannah’s well-known klutziness, a symptom of her lifelong shyness and her father’s belief that she could never really please him, disappeared in a blink of the mare’s eye, and Hannah became all business.

“Grab her head, and hold it firm while I take a look, see where we are,” she ordered Alex. She was already throwing her fleece-lined jacket into a corner of the stall and rolling up her flannel sleeves. It was early March, and cold as hell outside, and the weatherman had actually promised there’d be an ice storm by nightfall, not that the weatherman was ever right. “Talk to her, let her know everything’s going to be all right.”

“Is it?” Alex asked, his tone caught somewhere between concern and sarcasm. “Oh, all right,” he said, dropping to his knees at the mare’s head. “It’s not like I have a choice, do I?”

Hannah looked at him. Tall, dark and handsome is as tall, dark and handsome does, and at the moment Alex Coleman wasn’t doing it for her at all. Which was strange, because she’d spent the past sixteen years of her life dragging around a crush on the man that probably matched the size of Texas and parts of Oklahoma. Not that he ever noticed. Not that he ever would notice.

Shaking herself back to attention, Hannah pulled on tight latex gloves and examined the mare, being careful to avoid the animal’s sharp hooves as she confirmed Alex’s own conclusion. “Breech, and too late to turn her,” she said, gathering her instruments for what would be a difficult birth.

There were alternatives. Cesarean, for one, but even that was risky, as one of the foal’s legs was already partly out of the birth canal. There was nothing else to do but reach in, find the other leg and pull like hell. Not exactly fancy, but the last resort usually isn’t.

“Can you do it?” Alex asked, obviously figuring out what she planned to do.

“I can do it,” she muttered from between her clenched teeth as she literally reached inside the mare, all the way up past her elbows. “Got it!” she said after long moments of fruitless searching, grabbing onto the foal’s legs, praying the birth canal had softened and widened enough to allow a safe passage for the foal.

“Small foal, thank God,” she said, pressing her head against the mare’s flank as she eased the second leg beside the first and waited for the next contraction. “Probably early?”

“Yes, early,” Alex said, soothing the mare. “She’s rolling her eyes again.”

“Contraction coming. Hold on, here we go,” Hannah said, then took a deep breath. She felt as if her arms were being crushed in a vise, as the mare tried to expel the foal and her arms from its body. She had a moment to rethink the gloves, as she was afraid she might end up losing one of them inside the mare.

“Watch the spine,” Alex warned.

“I…know…that,” Hannah gasped, for the first time worried that her strength wouldn’t be enough. But she’d gotten both back legs clear of the birth canal, and that was the biggest trick. One more contraction ought to do it. “Come on, little lady,” she crooned. “Come on and give us another push. You can do it.”

Her hands and arms still inside the horse, Hannah closed her eyes and visualized the drawings in one of her textbooks. Hands here. Position the foal, trying to turn it so the spine isn’t against the mother’s spine. Be careful of the cord. Wait for the contraction. Pull. Pull.

“Here it comes!” she shouted as the mare’s womb convulsed again and the animal screamed in pain. Half cradling, half turning and pulling, Hannah breathed a silent prayer and, moments later, felt the foal slip into the world. Ass backwards, but here just the same.

“Keep holding her head while I check both her and the foal,” Hannah ordered Alex, deftly dealing with the aftermath of the violent birth.

“What is it? Is it a mare?”

Hannah sneaked a quick look as the foal, typically light, as an Arabian destined to be coal-black looked at birth. “Nope. You’ve got yourself a new stud, Mr. Coleman, and he’s a beauty. Small, but a beauty. Oh, just look at that face! A perfect dish shape. A real champion!”

Within minutes, Khalahari was tending to her foal, both of them standing in the stall, the foal wobbly on his legs but already trying to nurse, and Hannah was stripping off her gloves, trying not to shake. It had been her first breech birth, not that she’d admit as much to Alex Coleman.

“Thank you,” he said as they left the stall, on their way to the large washtub at the other end of the stable. “I’m sorry I was so rough on you, but…well…”

“You thought how could klutzy Hannah Clark know anything about birthing a baby,” she completed for him as he turned on the water and handed her the soap, which she dropped, so that it clunked heavily in the bottom of the metal washtub.

Crisis over, klutziness back. It figured.

“Yeah, something like that,” Alex said, picking up the bar of soap and handing it to her again. “Anyway, I apologize. You did a terrific job.”

“I heard about this foal from my dad,” she told him, concentrating on soaping her hands. “It’s Jabbar’s, isn’t it? The original unplanned pedigree, registered pregnancy.”

“A gift from the Fates,” Alex said, handing Hannah a clean towel. “Desert Rose Khalid. That means—”

“Eternal. Yes, I know. It’s a lovely name.”

Alex tipped his head to one side, looked at her quizzically. “Arabic is one of the classes at the veterinary school?”

“Not really,” Hannah answered, avoiding his smile, which had the power to reduce her to a puddle of insecurities and unnamed desires. “Arabians are of special interest to me, because there are so many stables around the area, of course, but also personally. They’re just such beautiful, graceful animals.”

And an Arabian horse never looked better than when Alex Coleman sat one in the costume class of a competition, wearing snow-white Arab costume banded in gold, with a snow-white kaffiyeh on his head, ropes of gold weaving forming the agal that held the headdress in place.

The focus of such an event should still be the mount, the decorative bridle and other trappings, the proud lift of head and tail. But not when any of the Coleman boys were in the saddle, dressed in their ceremonial costumes. Then all eyes were on the dark-haired, dark-eyed men, their uniquely kinglike posture and ease, the deep golden tan of their skin against their kaffiyehs, the almost sensual thrill that filled the air when one of them rode into the ring.

Yes, all three were magnificent, but it had been Alex who had caught Hannah’s attention, and dreams, ever since she’d stood on the sidelines sixteen years ago, at the impressionable age of twelve, and knew that she had just lost her heart to the unattainable.

“Hannah? Hannah, are you listening to me?”

She shook herself out of her dream, rather surprised to see Alex standing in front of her in a deep brown corduroy jacket and skintight jeans. “Huh?” she said, and then blushed to the roots of her honey-blond hair.

“I said, I want to apologize again, and thank you. You came through like gangbusters, totally calm and professional.”

“You say that as if you still don’t believe it,” Hannah remarked, carefully stepping around a fallen rake, mentally seeing herself stepping on the tines so that the handle snapped upward and knocked her cold. Proud of herself, she turned her head to say something else to Alex—she wasn’t sure quite what—and felt her flannel shirt snag on a nail, ripping the sleeve as she instinctively pulled herself free. “Oh, God.”

Alex was biting his bottom lip, manfully trying not to laugh at her, she supposed.

“That’s the nail where we usually hang the rake, using the hole in the handle.”

“Yeah, figures,” she answered, her cheeks so hot they were stinging her eyes. Her stupid deer-in-headlights, too-big baby-blue eyes. Blond hair, blue eyes, and not quite five feet and three inches of too-slender body. All in all, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, she felt about as seductive as a three-year-old with a lap full of dolls.

Still, anyone would think she had clown feet big enough to wear the boxes instead of the shoes, and Mister Magoo eyesight, for the way she was always walking into things, falling over things, knocking things over and generally showing all the grace of a bowlegged kangaroo.

“Maybe if you were to stand still for a minute?”

“Hmm? Oh, all right, Mr. Coleman,” Hannah said, wondering how she had gotten back into the stall, when she had picked up her jacket, her bag. It was like her dad always said, she just didn’t pay attention. Among her other failings, like daydreaming. Boy, had she picked a bad moment to daydream.

“Ah, good. I think I feel more comfortable when you’re standing still,” Alex said. His grin was still gorgeous, full of white teeth and smiling eyes, but this time Hannah wanted to bop him over the head with her medical bag, because he was openly making fun of her.

“You don’t have to keep thanking me, you know. You will get a bill.”

“Which I’ll play, gladly. However, I want to do more than just pay the bill. You can’t know how much Khalid means to me, to The Desert Rose. We’ve put Jabbar to stud any number of times, and kept some of his offspring for ourselves, but most get sold, as you know. Khalid? Well, he’s a gift, from Jabbar to me, to my brothers, my family. He’s special.”

“That’s nice,” Hannah said sincerely. “And almost mystical.”

“Yes. Yes, it is, and so my gratitude should be larger than just saying thank you and then paying the bill. So, if there’s anything else you want—anything, please just ask. I will tell everyone I know about how cool you were under fire, and that they should have no qualms about calling you in when your father isn’t available. But that doesn’t seem like enough.”

Hannah lowered her eyes as the most ridiculous, outlandish, absurd idea flashed into her mind. Boy, could she ever think of a favor Alex Coleman could do for her! But no, that was impossible. First, because she’d never have the courage to ask him, and two, because it was a stupid, personally revealing request. Totally stupid.

“Hannah? How about dinner tonight? It’s not much, but it’s a start, and maybe by then you’ll have thought of something else I could do to show you my gratitude.”

“Dinner?” Hannah’s head flew up so quickly, and she was standing so close to Alex—actually, he was standing so close to her—that she nearly clipped his chin with her head. Stepping back quickly, stumbling for a moment, of course, she looked up at him. “Dinner? Tonight?”

Alex smiled, shook his head. “But no sharp knives,” he teased, taking the medical bag from her hand and walking out of the stable with her, back to her SUV. “I’ll pick you up around six or so, okay?”