Indecision warred in her face. “I could go up.”
“You could.” Resting his hand on the small of her back, he steered her gently into the living room. “But you won‟t.”
She turned to face him. He liked looking at her, those clear, dark eyes, that long, mobile mouth, the slightly squared jaw.
“Why won‟t I?”
He brushed a strand of hair back from her face, pleased at the sudden intake of her breath. “Because you know they will
both be happier this way.”
“Em has camp in the morning.”
He tucked her hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger, letting her grow accustomed to his touch. “You said yourself she
would not sleep with the kitten crying across the room.”
He could feel her weakening, but she still argued. The woman would argue with the angels. “She could still have allergies.
Asthma.”
“Worrier.”
“Worrying goes with the job description, I‟m afraid.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Doctor?”
“Mother.”
“You should not worry over what you cannot control.” He stroked his thumb down the side of her throat, pressed against
her rapidly beating pulse. “Let go, Elizabeth.”
Her breath sighed across his lips. “I suppose you‟re right. I just don‟t want this sleeping together thing to become a habit.”
He kept his face straight with an effort. Did she still think they spoke of her daughter and the cat? “One night,” he
murmured. “One night won‟t change anything.”
He covered her mouth with his, keeping his eyes open to gauge her response. Her lashes drifted shut. Her lips warmed and
yielded. The surrender in her kiss, the faint resistance in her muscles, combined to drive him wild. But when he deepened the
kiss, she turned her face away.
“Maybe you‟re right.” She retreated toward the kitchen.
He let her go. Elizabeth might let him take her, but only after the required preliminaries. Trust. Tenderness.
Conversation.
“You were good with her. Emily,” she said. “Good with both of them, really.”
He understood the change of subject was another step back, another way of regaining distance and control.
He leaned his hips against the counter, admiring the stretch of her back as she opened a cabinet. “It is because I am a
stranger. I see them differently.”
“I thought it was because you were . . .”
“Zachary‟s father?”
She bit her lip. Shot him a glance over her shoulder. “Male.”
“I am gratified you noticed.”
“Wine?” she offered.
Another preliminary.
“Whatever you want,” he said.
She stood on tiptoe to reach for glasses. “White or red?”
“Either.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Or we could have sex.”
She went still for one tiny, betraying moment before she turned. “Wine first.”
The spark of reaction caught him by surprise. Wine first. His patience was to be rewarded, then. His body stirred and
thickened in anticipation.
“The counselor said the children need a male role model,” Elizabeth continued. Her small, neat doctor‟s hands dealt
competently with bottle and corkscrew. “Before we moved here, I tried reestablishing contact with my parents in Philadelphia,
but things didn‟t work out.”
He pulled his mind back to the conversation. She was estranged from her parents, he remembered. “Because of Zachary.”
She poured the wine—red—into two glasses and handed him a glass. “Because of Zachary. And Ben.” Grabbing the bottle
and the second glass, she nodded toward the back door. “Would you get that?”
He complied. The cool night air flowed through the door, easing his tension. He felt more himself outside, in the open, in