CHAPTER THREE

      SHE came to consciousness achingly aware of him, of his hand stroking along her temple, into her hair, all the way behind her ear. They were home—she could smell the thick scent of roses in her own, beloved front garden. She had been asleep, but the short reprieve into unconsciousness hadn’t helped to clear her head. She was still racked with a shivering desire for this man who sat beside her.

      His hand kept moving, and her skin prickled with tiny bumps, from the ear he traced, down her neck and deep into the core of her. Heat was shifting inside her, pulsing and coiling and demanding things she had forgotten were possible.

      “Taylor.” She turned her face into his jacket, nuzzling for a deeper connection, and moved her hand on his thigh, letting her fingers tell him what she didn’t know how to say. She wanted him. Oh, God help her, how she wanted him!

      The long muscle in his leg tensed, and his fingers tunneled into her hair. “Hi, sleepyhead.” His voice was husky, as if he had been sitting out here in the night air a long time. “Ready to go in?”

      She nodded, her pulse beating so hard against her throat that she wasn’t sure she could speak.

      He lifted his arm, giving her the freedom to rise, but she didn’t move away, reluctant to surrender the warmth of him. She tilted her face toward his, searching his rugged, elegant features, gilded now by the soft light of her front pillar lanterns. He had angled his head to face her, and his eyes shimmered, bottomless green-and-gold depths rimmed in thick, dusky black fringe. Their gazes held silently for a long moment, during which her lips parted, and even his breathing took on a subtly rougher cant.

      “Brooke,” he said slowly, letting his arm drop across her again. His fingers massaged the sensitive skin above her collarbone. “Do you know how beautiful you are right now?”

      “Am I?” Though she knew it wasn’t true, for tonight—for him—she wanted to be. She wanted to possess the kind of beauty that could hypnotize a man, could throw a silken net around him and hold him captive. “Am I?”

      For answer, his hand tightened, his thumb rubbing against her neck. His eyes were heavy with sensuality, but she could still see the gold flecks that sparked like tiny fires beneath his lowered lids. “Yes, you are,” he murmured. “Dangerously beautiful.”

      She watched his full lips form the words, and without conscious thought she lifted her mouth, which tingled with anticipation. But, to her disappointment, he simply dragged in a deep breath, and moving with a stiffness that spoke of rigid determination, he moved away, got out of the car and held open the door for her.

      She slid out with a sudden numbness, wondering what his abrupt withdrawal could mean. She couldn’t think how to ask, so she busied herself digging out the key from her evening bag as they made their way up to the house. He seemed to sense that her balance was still rocky—he walked close, close enough to reassure her as they climbed the four steep steps to her front porch.

      Once there, her mind raced in circles. If she didn’t think of something quickly, it was going to be too late. Helplessly, she twisted the key in the lock, and then she turned to him.

      “Taylor—” she put her hand on his arm “—don’t you want to come in? Just for a little while?” What was the polite euphemism? She didn’t do this kind of thing, didn’t know what the rules were. “For a cup of coffee?”

      The muscle in his forearm shifted and grew brick hard under her fingers. She looked up at him, confused. The look in his green eyes was equally hard. “If I come in, Brooke,” he said with a flat monotone, “it won’t be for coffee. We both know that.”

      “I...” She licked her dry lips and tried to think of the right answer. But her mind wasn’t working. He was going to leave her here with this empty loneliness that had suddenly become unbearable—that was all she knew clearly. “I just don’t want to be alone,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word stupidly, pitifully. She felt a flare of embarrassment at the sound. What must he think? If he didn’t want to come in, then she was making herself ridiculous.

      But suddenly, in spite of her efforts, her eyes were full of tears, and he was just a blurred outline in the lantern light. Mortified, she pulled her hand from his arm and pressed her fingers on either side of her nose, trying to hold the tears back. Oh, what a fool she was! What had she thought? That just because he had been kind to her, because she had absurdly imagined some sense of inexplicable familiarity, because she found him, his body, his face, his touch, somehow deeply moving... Had she really believed that he felt the same way?

      “I’m sorry,” she said, turning away. She fumbled for the living-room light, but everything was wet and glimmering, and she gave up quickly. “Thank you for all your help—”

      “Damn it—Brooke...” He grabbed her arm, his voice a harsh, urgent whisper. With two rough steps he was beside her in the darkness, pulling her against him, his hands hard on her back. The door swung shut behind them, and everything went black. “Brooke,” he said again, more gently, and he kissed the edge of her lips. She felt herself softening, sinking into him, like rain disappearing into the earth. His mouth slanted over hers, poised and warm, grazing her as he whispered, “Brooke, why are you crying? Don’t you know how much I want you?”

      She shook her head once, a half movement that barely stirred the darkness. But he must have seen, because suddenly, with a low groan, he dragged her up against him and kissed her again, but deeply this time, as if he could pour into her his proof, as if she could drink understanding from his lips.

      And she did. She did. With a half-smothered cry of joy, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. Though the room was dark, she shut her eyes so that nothing was real except his kiss. It was sweet, but with a burning, like an exotic liqueur. It spread through her limbs, hot and potent, washing her, melting her, until she was limp and clinging, liquid in his arms.

      Finally, Taylor drew back, but only an inch. His breath was still sweet and warm on her cheeks. “Where is your son?”

      The question was clear, and she didn’t pretend she didn’t understand. “He sleeps upstairs, next to his nurse.” She swallowed. “My room is downstairs. I’m not usually...not