As Hannah complied, it occurred to her that the logistics of getting down were a bit more difficult than going up had been. She felt a rush of gratitude toward him, especially since he was being far nicer than she would have expected.

His hand was very strong as it closed around hers, and his voice was deep and reassuring. “It’s all right. I have you. Now step toward me and put your footno, not there, higheryes. There we are.”

Hannah went fully onto the ladder, and he guided her down until his arms closed on either side of her, his body a hard, warm cage. She was facing away from him, staring through the rungs of the ladder, while he was pressed all along her from behind. As he spoke, his breath was warm against her cheek. “You’re safe. Rest a moment.” He must have felt the shiver that went through her. “Easy. I won’t let you fall.”

She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t at all afraid of heights. It was just the strange sensation of being suspended and yet held, and the delicious scent of him, so clean and male, and the brace of muscles she could feel through the thin linen of his shirt. A curious heat began to unfold inside her, spreading slowly.

“Will the ladder hold both of us?” she managed to ask.

“Yes, it could easily hold a half-dozen people.” His voice was quietly comforting, the words a soft caress against her ear. “We’ll go down one step at a time.”

“I smell peppermint,” she said wonderingly, twisting enough to look at him more fully.

A mistake.

His face was level with hers, those eyes so hot and dark, his lashes like black silk. Such a strong-featured face, perhaps the slightest bit too angular, like an artist’s line sketch that had not yet been softened and blurred. She couldn’t help wondering what lay beneath the tough, invulnerable fa?ade, what he might be like in a tender moment.

“They’re making candy ribbons in the kitchen.” His breath was a warm, sweet rush of mint against her lips. “I ate a few of the broken pieces.”

“You like sweets?” she asked unsteadily.

“Not usually. But I’m fond of peppermint.” He stepped to a lower rung, and coaxed her to follow.

“The hairpiece,” Hannah protested, even as she descended with him.

“The what?” Rafe followed her gaze, saw his father’s toupee dangling from a branch, and made a choked sound. Pausing in his descent, he lowered his head to Hannah’s shoulder and fought to suppress a burst of laughter that threatened to topple them both from the ladder. “Is that what you were trying to reach? Good God.” He steadied her with one of his hands as she searched for her footing. “Putting aside the question of how it got there in the first place, why were you risking your pretty neck for a wad of dead hair?”

“I wanted to save your father from embarrassment.”

“What a sweet little soul you are,” he said softly.

Fearing he was mocking her, Hannah stopped and twisted around. But he was smiling at her, his gaze caressing, and his expression set off a series of hot flutters in her midriff. “Hannah, the only way to spare my father embarrassment is to keep him from finding that damned toupee again.”

“It’s not very flattering,” she admitted. “Has anyone told him?”

“Yes, but he refuses to accept the fact that there are two things money can’t buy. Happiness, and real hair.”

“It is real hair,” she said. “He just didn’t happen to grow it himself.”

Bowman chuckled and guided her down another rung.

“Why isn’t he happy?” Hannah dared to ask.

Bowman considered the question for so long that they had reached the floor by the time he answered. “That’s the universal question. My father has spent his entire life pursuing success. And now that he’s richer than Croesus, he’s still not satisfied. He owns strings of horses, stables filled with carriages, entire streets lined with buildings…and more female companionship than any one man should have. All of which leads me to believe that no one thing or person will ever be enough for him. And he’ll never be happy.”

Once they were on the ground, Hannah turned to face him fully, standing in her stocking feet. “Is that your fate as well, Mr. Bowman?” she asked. “Never to be happy?”

He stared down at her, his expression difficult to interpret. “Probably.”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently.

For the first time since she had met Bowman, he seemed robbed of speech. His gaze was deep and dark and volatile, and she felt her toes curl against the bare floor. She experienced the feeling she sometimes had when she’d been out in the cold and damp, and came inside for a cup of sugared tea…when the tea was so hot that it almost hurt to drink it, and yet the combination of sweetness and searing heat was too exquisite to resist.

“My grandfather once told me,” she volunteered, “that the secret to happiness is merely to stop trying.”

Bowman continued to stare at her, as if he were intent on memorizing something, absorbing something. She felt an exquisite constriction between them, as if the air itself were pushing them together.

“Does that work for you?” he asked huskily. “The not trying?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I don’t think I can stop.” His tone was reflective. “It’s a popular belief among Americans, you know. The pursuit of happiness. It’s in our Declaration, as a matter of fact.”