Czytaj książkę: «Claiming His Love-Child»

“Then why did you come here today?”

He smiled, and she knew she would remember the chill of that smile forever.

“I came to tell you what happens next,” he said softly.

“What—what happens next?”

Cullen nodded. He’d thought about this a thousand times…. Like it or not, the child growing in Marissa Perez’s womb was his. Like it or not, he was responsible not just for its conception but for its life. Like it or not, by late last night he could think of only one appropriate plan of action.

“What happens next,” he said slowly, his eyes on Marissa’s face, “is that you’re going to become my wife.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the exciting world of the O’Connells. Keir, Cullen and Sean are sexy, exciting men. Their sisters, Fallon, Megan and Brianna, are strong, independent women. What do they all have in common? They’re all going to risk everything to find everlasting love.

Claiming His Love-Child is Cullen’s story. He’s a handsome, successful bachelor. He’s watched Keir find a woman and fall head over heels in love. He’s just seen Fallon marry the man of her dreams. But would he ever trade his freedom for a wedding ring? No way, Cullen says…but life has a way of surprising us.

After a night of searing passion, Cullen O’Connell can’t forget Marissa. But when the top lawyer tracks her down, he’s in for a shock…she’s pregnant! If Cullen wants to claim his love-child, he reckons there’s only one thing to do—offer Marissa marriage. But will she accept?

I think their story will grab you by the heart. That’s what it did to me as I wrote it.

With love,

Claiming His Love-Child
Sandra Marton

CONTENTS

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 ONE

July, the coast of Sicily

MEMORIES of the woman and the long, hot night she’d spent in his arms were demons that haunted Cullen O’Connell’s waking and sleeping hours.

He didn’t like it. What was she doing in his head? The sex had been great. Okay, incredible, but sex was all it was. She was bright and beautiful, but he hardly knew her. Outside the context of the night they’d spent together, she meant nothing to him.

Cullen had no reason to think about her, especially now.

He was in Italy to celebrate his sister’s marriage with the rest of his family. The past few days had been great. Whether they were partying or just sitting around talking, Cullen had never found better company than his brothers. Add his three sisters to the mix, things only got better. Toss in his mother and stepfather for good measure, you had a gathering of the O’Connell clan that would put any other party to shame.

As for the setting—most people would call it idyllic. Castello Lucchesi stood on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean with Mount Etna, trailing ribbons of fire, as a backdrop.

The perfect setting for the perfect party. Cullen’s mouth thinned. Then, why was he so restless? Why was he thinking about a woman he barely knew? Why this increasing desire to head home to Boston?

Too much togetherness?

Maybe.

Cullen sighed, undid the jet studs at the collar and cuffs of his frilled white shirt, rolled the sleeves back on his tanned, muscled forearms and stared out over the sea. He’d already discarded the jacket of his tux, left it draped over one of the little white folding chairs in the garden of the castello.

It had never happened before. Well, there was a first time for everything.

Maybe it was the occasion making him feel edgy. This was the third O’Connell wedding in two years. First his mother’s, then his brother Keir’s, and now his sister Fallon had tied the knot.

Or the noose, Cullen thought as he went up the winding steps that led to the crenellated watchtower overlooking the castle and the Mediterranean.

What was it about weddings that made women weep and men want to run for the hills?

At least this one had been unusual. The high cliff, the blue sea, the magnificent castle…

Cullen smiled.

And that game of touch football yesterday, on the beach below the castle. The Shirts—Megan, Briana and Fallon—had come within one touchdown of trouncing the skins—Sean and Cullen, with Keir and Fallon’s groom, Stefano, spelling each other.

Meg had protested. “No fair. That’s four to three.”

“It isn’t,” Cullen had insisted. “The four of us don’t play at the same time. And you’re a fine one to talk about what’s fair, considering that you darned near fractured three of my ribs with that elbow of yours.”

“Yeah,” Bree said, poking out her chin, “but that only means you’ve always got a fresh player with unbroken ribs on the field.”

“Well, you’ve got a cheering section building your morale,” Cullen had retaliated.

They’d all looked at Keir’s pregnant wife, Cassie, sitting on the sidelines. Cassie had grinned, pumped both fists in the air and yelled, Yea, which was exactly the distraction Meg needed to shout “Fumble,” scoop up the ball and charge across the goal line.

“Cheater!” Cullen had yelled, and his sisters said, yeah, right, and so what? All was fair in love, war and football.

Somehow they’d all ended up in the pool, laughing and ducking each other under the water. Well, all except Stefano and Fallon, who’d wandered off alone, gazing into each other’s eyes. And Keir and Cassie had stayed on the sidelines, too, with Keir hovering over his wife as if she were made of crystal.

Cullen leaned out of the tower’s embrasure, which still bore the warmth of the sun that was only now starting to lower in the sky.

The last few days had been fun. The evenings, too. Lots of good food and vino, and plenty of time for Stefano to get to know them and them to get to know him. It had all been great…except for those unwanted flashes of memory. The X-rated images, captured forever in his head.

Marissa, whispering his name. Clinging to him. Moving beneath him, taking him deep, so deep, inside her…

“Hell,” Cullen muttered. It was pretty sad when a grown man could turn himself on by thinking back to something that had happened two months ago.

Exhaustion could explain it. He’d flown in Friday, straight from a week of twelve-hour days spent between his office and the courtroom. Combine that with jet lag, a Sicilian heat so oppressive you could almost feel it melting your bones, toss in worry about Fallon’s accident and the scars left on her lovely face, and he had every right to be a basket case.

At least he wasn’t worried about Fallon anymore. His sister was so happy, so beautiful, so cherished by her new husband that it was a joy to see.

As for all this stuff about a woman he hardly knew…There was no point in trying to figure it out. What he needed was a breather. A real one. A true break in routine. The case back home was done with; he had nothing urgent on his agenda. He could change his flight, go to Nantucket instead of Boston, provision his boat, take her out to sea for a few days. Or fly to his cabin in Vail. The Rockies were spectacular in the summer; he’d always meant to do some hiking but he hadn’t found the time. Well, he’d find it now, pick up some stuff and backpack.

Or he could go to Madrid. Or London. He hadn’t been there in a while. He could go to Maui, or the Virgin Islands.

He could go to Berkeley.

Cullen blinked. Berkeley, California? His alma mater, the place where he’d taken his law degree? It was an okay place but it wasn’t exactly one of the world’s premier vacation spots.

Yes, but Marissa Perez was there.

Back to square one. Man, he definitely needed a change! Sure, she was in Berkeley. So what? He’d spent a couple of evenings with her. Okay. A weekend.

And he’d spent one night, or most of it, with her in his bed.

Maybe the best thing was to let the images come instead of fighting them. Lessen their impact by letting them wash over him, like a wave hitting the beach far below the tower.

Simply put, Marissa Perez had been spectacular in the sack.

He’d never had a better time in bed, and that was saying a lot. Only a foolish man lied to himself and Cullen had never been a fool. It was simple honesty to admit he was a man who had a knack for getting it on with the opposite sex. Truth was, that knack had brought him more than his fair share of women who were beautiful and exciting and bright and great between the sheets.

For all of that, he’d never enjoyed sex with any of them as much as he had with Marissa.

Cullen scowled and turned his back to the sea.

Out of bed had been another story.

Oh, the lady was beautiful. Exciting. And bright. But she was as prickly as the cactus plants that grew on the sides of these Sicilian roads, as sullen as Mount Etna looming over the sea. She made him uncomfortable, for God’s sake, and why would a man put up with a woman who did that?

Hold a door open for her, she gave you a look that said she was perfectly capable of opening it herself. Start to pull out her chair at a restaurant, she grabbed it first. Try to talk to her about anything but the law and the topic you were going to present over Alumni Weekend and she took you straight back to it, reminded you, though politely, that she was here only because she’d been chosen to be your liaison during your couple of days on campus.

Cullen’s mouth hardened.

The lady had an attitude. She’d done her best to make it clear dealing with him was a chore she hadn’t wanted but despite or maybe because of it, there’d been an almost instantaneous flash of heat between them, right from the minute she picked him up at the airport. Then, on Saturday night, she’d been making some stiff little good-night speech in the car outside his hotel when all at once the rush of words had stopped, she’d looked at him and he’d reached for her…

And changed things by taking her to bed.

No more haughty intellectual talk about torts and precedents. No more stiff insistence on proving her independence. Not during that long, hot night together. She’d said other words, instead, gone pliant in his arms, uttered soft cries of pleasure as he touched her, tasted her, filled her…

“Got to tell you, bro, a man looks like that, his thoughts are probably X-rated.”

Cullen looked down. Sean was climbing the watchtower steps. He took a deep breath, forced those last images from his mind and smiled at his kid brother.

“Pathetic,” he said lazily, “that all you can think of is sex.”

“The point is, what were you thinking of, Cull? From the expression on your face, she must be amazing.”

“She is,” Cullen said, deadpan. “I was admiring the volcano.”

“Etna?” Sean nodded. “Quite a lady, all right, but I’m not buying it. Only a geologist would get that glint in his eye over a volcano.”

“Vulcanologist, and is that why you came up here? To take notes on the volcano?”

“I came to escape our sisters. Meg and Bree are back to sobbing into their handkerchiefs, and now Ma and Cassie have joined in.”

“Well,” Cullen said, grinning, “what do you expect? They’re women.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“So would I, but it would mean we’d have to go back to the terrace.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

Sean winked and pulled a pair of sweating green bottles from his rear trouser pockets. Cullen clapped a hand to his heart.

“No,” he said dramatically. “It can’t be!”

“It can.”

“Beer? Honest-to-God beer?”

“Better. Ale. Irish ale. Here. Take yours before I change my mind and drink them both.”

Cullen took the bottle Sean held out. “I take back everything I ever said about you. Well, maybe not everything, but a man who can find Irish ale at a Sicilian wedding can’t be all bad.”

The brothers smiled at each other and took long, satisfying drinks of the cold ale. After a minute, Sean cleared his throat.

“Anything on your mind? Anything you want to talk about, I mean? You’ve been kind of quiet.”

Cullen looked at his brother. Yes, he thought. I want totalk about why in hell I should still be thinking about a woman I slept with one time, weeks and weeks ago…

“You bet,” he said, with a quick smile. “Let’s talk about how you snagged this ale, and what it’ll take to get us two more bottles.”

Sean laughed, as Cullen had hoped he would. The conversation turned to other things, like how weird it was to see Keir hovering over his pregnant wife.

“Who’d have believed it?” Sean said. “Big brother, talking about babies…Is that what happens when a man marries? He turns into somebody else?”

“If he marries, you mean. Hell, how’d we end up on such a depressing topic? Marriage. Children.” Cullen shuddered. “Let’s go see about the ale,” he said, and just that easily, Marissa Perez went back to being nothing more important than a memory.

HOURS later, in a jet halfway over the Atlantic, Cullen looked at the flight attendant hovering over him in the darkened comfort of the first-class cabin.

“No coffee for me, thanks,” he told her.

“No supper? No dessert? Would you like something else, Mr. O’Connell?”

Cullen shook his head. “I spent the weekend at a wedding in Sicily.”

The flight attendant grinned. “Ah. That explains it. How about some ice water?”

“That would be perfect.”

Truth was, he didn’t want the water, either, but she meant well and he had the feeling saying “yes” to something was the only way he’d convince her to leave him alone. She brought the glass, he took a perfunctory sip, then put it aside, switched off the overhead light, put his seat all the way back and closed his eyes.

Whatever had been bothering him had faded away. Talking to Sean had done it, or maybe all that goofing around in the garden. Everyone except Keir and Cassie, their mother and stepfather had ended up in the pool again. Well, Stefano and Fallon hadn’t been there, either, but nobody had expected them to be. After that, they’d all changed to dry clothes, the mood had mellowed and they’d sat around in the encroaching darkness, talking quietly, reminiscing about the past.

One by one, the O’Connells had finally drifted off to bed. All but Cullen, who, it turned out, was the only one of them who’d made arrangements to fly home that night instead of the next day.

On the way to the airport, he’d thought about the ideas that had floated through his mind earlier. Going to Nantucket instead of straight home, or to Colorado, or someplace in Europe…

Why would he do that?

Whatever had been bugging him was long gone. He’d climbed out of the back seat of Stefano’s limousine feeling relaxed and lazy, gone to the first-class check-in line, had time for a coffee prior to boarding.

He still felt relaxed. He liked flying at night. The black sky outside the cabin, the gray shadows inside, the sense that you were in a cocoon halfway between the stars and the earth.

That was how he’d felt that night after he’d taken Marissa to bed. Holding her in his arms, feeling her warm and soft against him until she’d suddenly stiffened, started to pull away.

“I have to go,” she’d said, but he’d drawn her close again, kissed her, touched her until she moaned his name and then he’d been moving above her, inside her, holding back, not letting go because she wasn’t letting go, because he had the feeling she’d never flown free before and the first time it happened, it was damn well going to be with him…

“Damn,” he said softly.

Cullen’s eyes flew open. He put his seat up, folded his arms and glowered into the darkness.

So much for feeling nice and relaxed.

This was stupid. Worse than stupid. It was senseless. Why was Marissa in his head? He hadn’t seen her since that night. She’d left his bed while he was sleeping, hadn’t shown up to take him to the airport, hadn’t answered her phone when he called. Not that morning, not any of the times he’d tried to reach her after he was home again.

He always got her answering machine.

You’ve reached Marissa Perez. Please leave a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

His last message had been brief, all right, even curt.

“It’s Cullen O’Connell,” he’d said. “You want to talk to me, you have my number.”

She’d hadn’t phoned. Not once. Her silence spoke for itself. They’d slept together, it had been fun, and that was that. No return visits, no instant replays. End of story.

Fine with him. The trouble with most women was that you couldn’t get rid of them even after you explained, politely, that it was over.

Cullen? It’s Amy. I know what you said, but I was thinking…

Cullen? It’s Jill. About what we decided the other night…

Marissa Perez took an admirable approach to sex. A man’s approach. She took what she wanted and shut the door on what she didn’t. That didn’t bother him. It didn’t bother him at all.

Why would it?

For all he gave a damn, she could have slept with a dozen men since that night with him. After all, he’d had several women in his life since that weekend. Okay, he hadn’t taken any of them to bed, but so what? He’d been working his tail off. Besides, a short break from sex was a good thing. It only heightened the pleasure in the future.

Tomorrow, he’d phone the blonde he’d met at that cocktail party last week. Or the attorney from Dunham and Busch with the red hair and the big smile. She’d come on to him like crazy.

Definitely, he’d celebrate his homecoming with a woman who’d be happy to take his calls and happy to see him. And he’d sleep with her, make love until crazy thoughts about Marissa Perez were purged from his mind. Surely, his memories of that night were skewed.

Cullen muttered a couple of raw words under his breath as he sat up and switched on his overhead light. To hell with what time it was in New York. The blonde from last week was a party animal. This hour of the night, she was probably just coming in the door.

He dug his address book and his cell phone from his pocket, tapped in her number. She answered after two rings, her voice husky with sleep.

“H’lo,” she said. “Whoever you are, you’d better be somebody I really want to talk to.”

He smiled, turned his face to the window and the night sky. “It’s Cullen O’Connell. We met last—”

“Cullen.” The sleep-roughened voice took on a purr. “I’d started to think you weren’t going to phone.”

“I had things to clear up. You know how it is.”

“No,” she said, and gave a soft laugh, “I don’t know how it is. I guess you’ll just have to show me.”

Cullen felt the tension drain away. “My pleasure,” he said, imagining her as she must look right then, sleep-tousled and sexy. “How about tonight? I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“I already have a date for tonight.”

“Break it.”

She laughed again and this time the sound was so full of promise that he felt a heaviness in his groin.

“Are you always this sure of yourself?”

He thought of Marissa, of how she’d slipped from his bed, how she’d ignored his phone calls…

“Eight o’clock,” he repeated.

“You’re an arrogant SOB, Mr. O’Connell. Luckily for you, that’s a trait I like in a man.”

“Eight,” Cullen said, and disconnected.

He put away his cell phone, sat back and thought about the evening ahead. Dinner at that French place. Drinks and dancing at the new club in SoHo. And then he’d take the blonde home, take her to bed, and exorcise the ghost of Marissa Perez forever.

CHAPTER TWO

September: Boston, Massachusetts

THE end of summer always came faster than seemed possible.

One minute the city was sweltering in the heat and the Red Sox were packing in the ever-faithful at Fenway Park. Next thing you knew, gray snow was piled on the curbs, the World Series was only a memory and the Sox hadn’t even made it to the playoffs.

Cullen stepped out of the shower, toweled off and pulled on a pair of old denim shorts.

Not that any of that had happened yet.

It was Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer with the real start of fall still almost three weeks away. Cold weather was in the future, and so was the possibility, however remote, that Boston could rise from the ashes and at least win the division championship.

Cullen strolled into the kitchen and turned on the TV in time to catch the tail end of the local news. The Sox had lost a tight game yesterday; nobody had much hope they’d do any better today, said the dour-faced sportscaster.

“Wonderful,” Cullen muttered as he opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water and uncapped it.

The sports guy gave way to the weatherman. Hot and humid, the weatherman said, with his usual in-your-face good cheer. Saturday, 10:00 a.m. and the sun was blazing from a cloudless sky, the temperature was pushing ninety with no break in sight from now through Monday.

“A perfect holiday weekend,” the weather guru said as if he’d personally arranged it.

Cullen scowled and hit the off button on the remote.

“What’s so perfect about it?” he growled. It was just another weekend, longer than most, hotter than most. Long, hot, and…

And, what was he doing here?

Nobody, but nobody, stayed in town Labor Day weekend. Driving home from his office yesterday, traffic going out of the city had been bumper to bumper. He’d felt like the only person not heading off for one last taste of summer.

He should have been among them. He’d intended to be.

Cullen lifted the bottle to his lips and drank some water. He’d certainly had enough choices.

Las Vegas, for the usual O’Connell end of summer blast. Connecticut, for the barbecue Keir and Cassie were throwing because Cassie was too pregnant for the long flight to Vegas. He had invitations to house parties in the Hamptons, on the Cape, on Martha’s Vineyard and half a dozen other places, and there was always the lure of three days at Nantucket.

Instead, he was here in hot and muggy Boston for no good reason except he wasn’t in the mood to go anywhere.

Well, except, maybe Berkeley…

Berkeley? Spend Labor Day weekend on one of the campuses of the University of California?

Cullen snorted, finished off the water and dumped the empty bottle in the sink.

Back to square one. Wasn’t that the same insane thought he’d had flying home from Fallon’s wedding in July? It made no more sense now then it had made then. You thought about the West Coast, you thought about San Francisco. Or Malibu. Maybe a couple of days at Big Sur.

But Berkeley? What for? Nothing but college kids and grad students, protesters and protests, do-gooders and doomsayers. Maybe that vitality was part of why he’d loved the place as a law student, but those years were a decade behind him. He was older. He’d changed. His idea of a great party involved more than take-out pizza and jugs of cheap wine. And, except for a couple of his law school profs, he didn’t have friends there anymore.

Okay. There was Marissa Perez. But he could hardly call her a friend. An acquaintance, was what she’d been. Truth was, he didn’t “know” her at all, except in the biblical sense of the word, and even if his sisters sometimes gleefully teased him about being a male chauvinist, he had to admit that sleeping with a woman wasn’t the same as knowing her.

Especially if she crept out of your bed before dawn and left you feeling as if you were the only one who’d just spent a night you’d never forget.

Damn it, this was crazy. Why waste time thinking about a woman he’d seen once and would probably never see again? He was starting to behave like one of the attorneys at his firm. Jack was a dedicated fisherman, always talking about the big one that had gotten away. That’s what this was starting to sound like. The sad story of Cullen O’Connell and The Woman Who Got Away.

Cullen opened the fridge again. It was empty except for another couple of bottles of water, a half-full container of orange juice and a lump of something that he figured had once been cheese. He made a face, picked up the lump with two fingers and dumped it into the trash.

So much for having breakfast in.

Maybe that was just as well. He’d pull on a T-shirt, put on sneakers, go down to the deli on the corner and get himself something to eat. Solve two problems at once, so to speak; silence his growling belly and do something useful, something that would end all this pointless rehashing of the weekend he’d spent with the Perez woman.

Yeah. He’d do that. Later.

Cullen opened the terrace door and stepped into the morning heat. The little garden below was quiet. Even the birds seemed to have gone elsewhere.

First he’d try thinking about that weekend in detail, concentrating not just on what had happened in bed but on all of it. A dose of cool logic would surely put an end to this nonsense. Sighing, he sank down in a canvas sling back chair, closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun.

His old Tort Law prof, Ian Hutchins, had invited him to fly out and speak to the Law Students’ Association. Cullen hadn’t much wanted to do it; he had a full caseload and what little free time he could scrounge, he’d been spending on Nantucket, working on his boat. But he liked Hutchins a lot, respected him, so he’d accepted.

A week before Speaker’s Weekend, Hutchins had phoned to make last-minute updates to their arrangements.

“I’ve asked my best student to be your liaison while you’re here,” he’d said. “Shuttle you around, answer questions—well, you remember how that works, Cullen. You were liaison for us several times while you were a student here.”

Cullen remembered it clearly. People called it a plum assignment and, in some ways, it was. The liaison networked with the speaker and drove him or her around in a car owned by the university, which invariably meant it was in a lot better shape than the student’s.

Still, it was almost always a pain-in-the-ass job. Pick up the speaker at the airport, drive him or her here, then there, laugh at inane jokes about what it had been like when the speaker was a student on campus. When Ian added that Cullen’s liaison would be a woman, he almost groaned.

“Her name,” Ian said, “is Marissa Perez. She’s a straight-A scholarship student with a brilliant mind. I’m sure you’ll enjoy her company.”

“I’m sure I will,” Cullen had said politely.

What else could he say? Not the truth, that he’d met enough brilliant female scholarship students to know what to expect. Perez would be tall and skinny with a mass of unkempt hair and thick glasses. She’d wear a shapeless black suit and clunky black shoes. And she’d either be so determined to impress him that she’d never shut up or she’d be so awestruck at being in his presence that she’d be tongue-tied.

Wrong on all counts.

The woman standing at the arrivals gate that Friday evening, holding a discreet sign with his name printed on it, was nothing like the woman he’d anticipated. Tall, yes. Lots of hair, yes. And yes, she was wearing a black suit and black shoes.

That was where the resemblance ended.

The mass of hair was a gleaming mass of ebony waves. She’d pinned it up, or tried to, but strands kept escaping, framing a face that was classically beautiful. Gray eyes, chiseled cheekbones, a lush mouth.

Perfect. And when his gaze dropped lower, the package only got better.

Yes, she was tall. But not skinny. Definitely not skinny. The businesslike cut of the black suit couldn’t disguise the soft curves of her body. Her breasts were high, her waist slender, her hips sweetly rounded, and not even the ugliest pair of sensible black shoes he’d ever seen could dim the elegance of legs so long he found himself fantasizing about how she’d look wearing nothing but a thong and thigh-high black stockings.

Cullen felt a hot tightening in his belly and a faint sense of regret. The lady was a babe but she might as well have been a bow-wow. There were unwritten rules you followed on these weekends. He did, anyway.

He never hit on the students he met, any more than he mixed business with pleasure in his professional life back home.

Still, as he walked toward her, he liked knowing he’d spend the next couple of days being shuttled around by a woman so easy on the eyes.

“Miss Perez?” he said, his hand extended.

“Ms. Perez,” she replied politely.

She held out her hand in return. He took it and the brush of skin against skin rocked him to his toes. ZTS, he told himself. The old O’Connell brothers’ explanation for what happened when a man met a stunning woman. Zipper Think Syndrome. He looked at the lovely face turned up to his, saw her eyes flash and had the satisfaction of knowing she’d felt the female equivalent of the same thing.

Maybe not. Maybe he’d just imagined it, because an instant later, her expression was as bland as when he’d first spotted her.

“Welcome to Berkeley, Mr. O’Connell.”

After that, it was all business. She drove him to his hotel, made polite but impersonal small talk through a standard hotel meal in a crowded dining room, shook his hand at the elevator in the lobby and said good-night.

The next morning, she picked him up at eight, chauffeured him from place to place all day and never once said anything more personal than “Would you like to have lunch now?” She was courteous and pleasant, but when he opened the restaurant door for her—something he saw irritated her—and their hands brushed, it happened again.

The rush of heat. The shock of it. And now he saw it register on her face long enough for him to know damned well it really had happened, though by the time they were seated, she was once again wearing that coolly polite mask.