Sorry to show up here like this.” Her stomach somersaulted. “I thought maybe I was seeing things, but, wow, it really is you.” “Emma Stanton.” Dillon shook his head, a wistful smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. His dark jeans hugged the contours of his body, outlining the shape of his lean hips and long powerful thighs. The dark blue T-shirt he wore was stretched taut over broader shoulders, the soft cotton clinging to distinctly thicker biceps. The lithe nineteen-year-old body she remembered had filled out over the years. He had the same square jaw and wide, sensual mouth.

The same dark hair-a rich brown, the color of espresso, sinfully thick and gleaming soft beneath the low overhead lights. God, she hadn’t seen him in eight years, yet he looked so much the same. At six foot five, he towered over her and made her shiver from the sheer size and power of his broad, sculpted body. When Dillon stopped in front of her, her pulse settled on a quick, wild rhythm. Trepidation mixed with anticipation, excitement, and a good amount of fear coursed through her. Yet not only had her throat closed up, her entire body trembled. For two weeks she planned this moment, right down to what she’d say when she eventually found him. He straightened off the bar, pulled away from the women vying for his attention, and moved in her direction, his stride long and loose.Įvery step that drew him closer only increased the odd mix of emotions pounding through her. Judging by the playful glint in his eye, he loved every minute of it.ĭillon’s head turned, his brows rising in stunned surprise. He stood amongst a small crowd of adoring fans, all staring up at him with starry-eyed expressions, hanging on his every word. The man who would soon have the power to take away everything she held dear. Twenty feet in front of her, leaning back against the waist-high bar, stood the man she’d spent all day tracking down-the infamous Dillon James. The bright neon beer signs on the front window attracted the residents like insects to an incandescent streetlight with the promise of alcohol, dancing, and the opposite sex. At the end of January, with a half foot of snow on the ground, a person wouldn’t find much else to do in a town with three stoplights, one gas station, one teensy motel, and a single bar. Most of them gyrated to the pulsing, surging beat of music echoing off the walls.Ī typical Friday night for Hastings. People packed in around her, bodies bumping off each other in an effort to move.

Four thousand people lived in the small town of Hastings, Montana, and she’d bet almost every one of them was in this club. All around her barely controlled chaos reigned. Frozen at the edge of the crowd, Emma Stanton bit down on her bottom lip.

The Playboy's Baby by J.M. Stewart