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Dane Masters had locked up his share of criminals. For more than five years as a Texas Ranger, he'd put away countless murderers, smugglers, drug mules and just general idiots.

But the person who killed him, robbed him of breath and made his cock sit up and twitch was one sweet trick who owned this bakery and the God-awful, dead-to-rights name of Kandy.

Dane leant on the counter, took a drink of his coffee and glanced at her once more. With her bra-tight pink t-shirt and ass-hugging jeans, Kandy Wilcox Dayton Harris Brunner fiddled with the strings of her big white apron and laughed with four customers in one of the booths. Clapping her hands in delight and tossing that curly platinum pony tail, she was a sight for sore eyes. Plus too damn many men here in Kandy's Cup of Sugar were trying to keep theirs in their heads just gazing at her.

Married three times now, Kandy was racking up more husbands - and more widowhoods - than Scarlett O'Hara. The belle of Brewster County had been a buxom blonde beauty even when she was in high school. The term 'jail bait', locals agreed, had been invented for the fun-loving female for whom every man in town had a perpetual hard-on. Dane remembered her then, all creamy skin and dewy bluebonnet eyes, big nipples that made your mouth water and legs that went from the toes of her knee-high boots to a lush set of hips.

Now? Hell, at almost twenty-eight, she was ripe as a Hill Country peach. If he could get his hands on her, her breasts would spill over his palms. Her hips, a bit broader from age but no babies, would be easy to hang on to. And her thighs? He told himself he was gonna spread those shapely things soon or commit murder.

Problem was, luscious Kandy loved men. No, she wasn't a slut, but a good girl who took a man to her bed - then made damn sure he married her. Kept him very happy. Then killed each one, metaphorically speaking, with her good lovin'. So now she had a reputation as a woman no single man could resist. A woman who liked her men domesticated, hard-working, coming home to her at night where she thrilled them in their big broad bed. Then the next morning at four when she awoke to tend to her bakery, she'd get them up - probably in the best sense of that phrase - to face a new day.

Soon after marrying her, though, each man dropped stone dead.

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Rico led her out a few steps to the edge of the dance floor, then took her in his arms. "Maybe it's time you let yourself have fun with me."

She inhaled, the smell of leather and citrus aftershave mixing with the heat of his skin near his ear. "I didn't think Rangers had funny bones."

He snorted, pulled her more firmly against him. The tempo permitted a rhythm that had his hips rocking against hers, fitting his cock against the seam of her pussy. "We have more than funny ones."

"I feel the proof." She felt her own as her channel gushed with more cream.

His hand around her waist drifted down to push her lower body flush to his. "And you need me."

She toyed with the edge of his shirt collar and considered what would happen if she did more than laugh with him. "I need a lot of things."

"Name them."

"Excitement. Forgetfulness." Peace. She listed all those qualities vital to her survival here in Texas. Tilting her head to look up at his bronzed square face, she admired the harsh sculpted features women drooled over. Rico Estrada was every girl's wet dream. From the small lines that bracketed his slashing mouth to his hair dense as starless midnight, he was the Lone Ranger, a bandito, and a tough Hispanic macho man. And from the time she'd looked at him with her adolescent hormones raging at age fifteen in her horse corral, he had always eroded her common sense. "Can you give me any of that? Take charge?"

Can you make love to me so it isn't so much a clashing of wills as it is a blending of bodies?

He crushed her close. His nostrils flaring, he gruffed, "Name the day. The place."

"Tonight. My house."

His dulcet eyes snapped with surprise. "I'll make arrangements."

"Doesn't your fellow Ranger over there have other ideas for how you spend your evening?" She tipped her head toward towards the officer Rico had talked with for a few minutes.

"Yes. But your invitation is one I don't get often."

"Are you really that interested in that stranger in my guest house?" she shot back, her pride demanding an answer before she took him home and lost herself in him. She hoped duty was not the reason Rico was here, dancing with her, resurrecting memories of how he commanded her to do such delicious things in bed with him. If she was going to relent tonight - because she knew she would sometime before he left town for good - she had to be certain he wanted her for herself. As he always had before. She had to be sure his desire for her had not diminished while she'd stayed away this past year. She had to know that he was hot to fuck her now and didn't want entry to her bedroom, just to trail a suspect. "Or do you just want to put another Joy Delaney notch on your belt?"

He came to such an abrupt halt on the floor, his spurs jangled. "All these years, all those nights we've hopped in the sack, be honest, who conquered who, lady?"

"I hear you've never wanted for bed partners," she avoided his question and drove home her own. "You've got a reputation for giving a woman every fantasy she ever wanted. Even asking other men to join you both."

His look turned narrow and threatening. "Are you jealous or nuts? Tell me! You come home - what? Once, twice a year? Not last year at all! You think a man can live on that alone?" "No," she whispered, while couples danced around them, brows lifted at Rico's raised seething tone.

"Damn straight. I learned the value of fucking a woman any way she wants, any way I want, making every second count, because she might just disappear on you the next morning. You make me crazy," he growled, as he pulled her through the crowd, his determination a living beast she felt in the wrench of his hold.

Muttering something that made no sense to her, he kicked open the side door and let it bang against the jamb. She grinned. This was the power and control she had always wanted from him, yet he'd never shown her. She hurried to keep up with him as he headed led them towardtowards the back of the parking lot. The August night was a scorcher and the heat covered her like a wool blanket. But nothing compared to the fire in his body as he whirled and pushed her against the steel hood of his 4x4, thrust one leg between her two and pinned her there. With one meaty hand, he lifted her chin and swooped down on her mouth.

His lips sipped and drank, licked and sucked at hers. Her knees buckled. He caught her up against him. "Oh, no. Not getting away from me. We do it my way this time."

At last! This domination iswas what she craved from him. Always had. She ran her fingers up his spine, held him close and kissed him back. Laced with the sweet root beer, his mouth tasted of his anger and desperation.

He yanked her shirt from her jeans, then pulled it up in the front. Bending her to one side, he lowered his face to skim his wet mouth over her ribs. Her nipples stood tall in her lacy bra. Her stomach quivered. Her pussy throbbed while her fingers found his zipper and the bulge of his cock.

Moaning, she felt the reverberations of his bass voice as he cursed. All at once, he shoved down the fabric of her bra and took one of her nipples in his mouth. She bit her lower lip. His big hot tongue was rough and fierce. Her legs were jelly. He half picked her up, put her to one side and yanked open his truck door. "Get in."

"My purse," she objected for what she'd left inside. "Your hat, too, aThey're-”"

"Our friends'll get them to us."

"Are we going to my house?"

"Hell, no. You want excitement? We're going to get you some." He gave a sharp nod towardtowards the inside of his truck.

Unsteady on her feet, eager as a kid, she threw him a wobbly grin. "And what about my forgetfulness?"

"I guarantee, lady, what we're gonna do, you won't forget."

She scrambled inside, a thrill of desire coursing through her. She'd wanted it edgy and dangerous. Apparently she was finally going to get it.

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Jessica shoved the gear shift of her ten-year-old pick-up into 'park' and sat staring at the bright red door of Trey Hardwick's sprawling Texas ranch house. Though her young brother-in-law had arrived home on leave from the Army two weeks ago, she hadn't come over to visit. Couldn't. Even though Trey had asked her to come to dinner last Friday, she had refused, not risking the chance she'd reveal to him how foolishly she craved his kiss-me-quick six-foot-six wall of masculinity in her bed. Inside her body.

Stop it, Jess. Your appetite for him is a widow's hunger. Born in minutes of shared laughter with him over the decades. Born in moments when you thought he understood you better than Clint ever did. Killed by common sense, your age difference - and your decision to never seek another man to love.

She inhaled, summoning the courage she'd corralled back home this morning. This appeal would have been easier if she could have approached the ranch foreman hired by Trey and his dad years ago to run the place. But it wasn't friendly Frank Harmon she had to face this morning. Damn it.

She flicked off the ignition and threw her keys on the dash. She hadn't been to the Rocking H in nearly a year. Not since her father-in-law, Taylor Hardwick's, wake. Still, she marvelled that the rambling Hardwick homestead looked as fresh as it had when she'd first seen it as a teenager. Then she'd been young, so very young, and so much more naïve about how life would treat her. How she'd treat life. She'd had hope then. In love with the high school quarterback, she'd been honoured and amazed that Clint Hardwick loved her back. That the second son of the legendary Hardwick dynasty wanted her as his bride. Claimed her for himself before any other boy could. And Jess had welcomed Clint's proposal. Needed him. Wanted him.

She snorted. And look how well that turned out.

She reached across the seat for her summer straw Stetson and jammed it on over her pony tail. But vanity and pride had her straining up to check out her face in the rear-view mirror. What she saw made her frown and question her simple approach. No make-up, no cleavage showing for the hunky specimen most females in town would drop their panties for. Is this the way to win Trey over? Or a sure way to fail?

She squinted at her reflection. The lines around her eyes came from years of sun-drying her skin as she rustled cattle on the range. Her lips, still full and pink, didn't widen in laughter often. True, her cheeks were high and elegant, but her green eyes showed the weary strength of running her ranch alone since Clint's death three years ago. She'd come far since then, freed from worry when she no longer had to worry each day about Clint's preference for bourbon over her.

Forget that! She snapped away from her image. Ask for Trey's help now - or never! On a small cry, she thrust open the cab door, slid down out of the truck and slammed the door. Palms running down her denim-clad thighs, she strode up the circular drive towards Trey's house. And what she needed.

What she had to have to survive.

And Trey, Clint's younger brother, had to give it to her. Didn't he?

She knocked. Folded her arms. Tapped her toe. Dug the heel of her boot into the floorboard.

No answer.

She tried again, banging the big brass knocker against the sturdy red wood with loud purpose.

"Hey, hey!" She heard Trey yelling from inside. "I'm here, Jess!" He swung the door wide.