“What happened to all your underwear?” she asked, gauging the relative size of the piles in front of her.

Samuel glanced up from where he was gluing one of the dresser drawers back together. “What underwear?”

She pointed to two pairs of black silk boxers. “Maybe we finally figured out what he stole.”

“I sleep in those,” said Samuel.

Heather glanced around. “So, where’s… Oh.”

He laughed and went back to work. “Guess they don’t do that in Boston either, huh?”

She stood, carrying the T-shirt pile to one of the empty drawers that hadn’t been broken. “It’s a lot colder up in Boston.”

“And the men are a lot more upright.”

“They wear suits. Some of them are wool.”

“Poor babies.”

“There’s nothing wimpy about wearing underwear. I wear underwear.”

“Sometimes.”

“Don’t start with me.”

“Start what?”

“You’re still wearing your sling, bucko.”

“I can take it off anytime.”

She layered the shirts by color order in the bottom of the drawer. “The doctor told you to wait until tomorrow.”

“What does he know?”

“You mean just because he took the trouble to attend medical school?”

“It’s my arm.”

She returned for a pile of western shirts. “And if you want to keep it, you’ll do what he says.”

“Are you threatening me?”

She turned to give him an incredulous stare. “No.”

“You’re not threatening to take off my arm if I don’t obey orders?”

“I’m suggesting you’ll get an infection if you don’t listen to your medical professional.”

“Oh.”

She headed toward the dresser. “You’re weird.”

“Don’t put those in the dresser.”

She turned.

“They go in the closet.”

She gave him a snappy salute. “Yes, sir.”

He grinned. “Gotcha.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” She tried unsuccessfully to fight the shimmer of awareness caused by his smoldering gaze. Angling her path, she opened the door to his closet. The thief had dragged most of the contents from the closet, and now nothing remained but a few stray hangers on the bar and a black…

She peered into a darkened corner shelf.

Hello.

She set down the shirts and slid the old leather case into her hands. “What’s this?” She turned to Samuel, holding it out.

“Dad’s fiddle.”

“May I?” she asked.

“That’s right. You play, don’t you?”

“I play the violin.”

“Excuse me.”

She felt a twinge of guilt. She hadn’t meant to insult his father. “You mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead.”

Heather set the old case on Samuel’s bed and flicked open the catches. When she raised the lid, her breath caught in her throat.

She looked closer, running her fingertips along the satiny varnish and the exquisite arching of maple and spruce. The grain was tight and well defined. But it was the scroll that caught her eye and made her catch her breath. She carefully lifted the instrument from the case and looked for the telltale stylized A.

Her heart rate tripled. “Samuel?” It was impossible to keep her voice from shaking.

“What’s wrong?”

“This is an Ambrogino.”

“No, it’s a fiddle.”

She shook her head. “This is no fiddle. Ambrogino was second only to Stradivarius as a master violin craftsman.”

She pivoted to face Samuel. “Do you know where your father got this?”

Samuel’s brow furrowed. “Are you insinuating he stole it?”

“Of course not. Quit being paranoid. Does your family have money or something?”

“Only what I make.”

“Because this is museum quality.”

“I think he got it from his dad.” There was a faraway look in Samuel’s eyes. “It was just what he played on the porch after supper.”

Heather looked back down at the magnificent instrument, her fingertips itching. She’d give anything to play it on somebody’s porch after supper. “May I?”

Samuel shrugged.

She drew the bow out of the case, found the rosin and tightened the strings. Then she plucked the strings, bringing them into tune. When the violin was ready, she took a very deep breath.

She started with Vivaldi, the rich tones flowing through her like melted honey. Then she moved to Chopin and finally to a Bach sonata.

When the last note died away, Samuel frowned. “It didn’t sound like that when Dad played it.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “He actually played Cajun music on an Ambrogino.”

“Well, that sure made you sound like an insufferable snob,” said Samuel.

Heather’s conscience twigged again. But Cajun music was repetitious, full of simple double-stops and open string drones. It seemed sacrilegious to own an Ambrogino and not play around with intricate shifting and vibrato.

He crossed to the closet, going to the same shelf where she’d found the violin, and pulled out an old, leather-bound book.

He dropped it on the bed in front of her, staring defiantly into her eyes. “Here’s what my dad played. I loved his music. Didn’t like yours much.”

Heather bit guiltily down on her lip. She’d insulted a man’s dead father.

Samuel went back to gluing, and she gingerly opened the leather-bound book. It was full of random sheets of paper, some twenty years old, some maybe a hundred years old. It looked to be original music.

She stared at the beats and run-ups on the first pages-fascinating, intriguing and not nearly as simple as she’d imagined.

She went over the top tune in her mind, mentally feeling out the notes, nodding her head to the rhythm and ghosting the fingering until she was sure she had it right. Then she brought the violin to her shoulder, drew her bow and worked her way through the tune.

When she finished, she looked up to see Samuel standing frozen across the room, his expression haunted.

She set down the violin and rushed toward him. “Samuel?”

He blinked away a sheen of tears.

“Oh, Samuel. I’m so sorry.” That had been horribly unthinking of her. He probably hadn’t heard that music since his father died.

She placed her hand on his arm. His muscles were taut as steel beneath her fingertips.

“Play it again,” he said, blinking her into focus. “Will you play it again?”

She felt her own tears well up. “Of course. Of course I will.”

“I know it’s not your kind of-”

She put her fingers to his lips. “It’s beautiful music. It’s wonderful music. I was a fool to think it was undeserving of an Ambrogino.”

He nodded.

“You okay?”

He nodded again, kissing her fingertips one at a time.

She returned to the bed, spread the music in front of her, and went through a selection of the songs. Some were simple and catchy, some were breakneck and rollicking.

And Samuel danced.

It was incredible to see such a large man shuffle his feet to the beat. He turfed the sling, and she didn’t blame him.

She joined with him when she could, moving her body to the simpler tunes that didn’t require her concentration on the written music.

And when the last note from her final song died away, he pulled her into his arms and swung her around.

He kissed her on the mouth, and she quickly replaced the violin in its case so that she could kiss him back properly. She stretched up, tangling her hands in his curly hair, opening her mouth to welcome his tongue.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, running his big hands down her body.

She pulled her T-shirt over her head and stood before him in her lacy bra. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

He reached out to trace his index finger up her stomach, dipping under her bra, deftly clicking the front catch so that it dropped away.

“You got that right,” he breathed.

She slipped her hands under his T-shirt, reveling in his hot skin, his tense muscles, the gasp of his breath.

His hand closed over her breast, and he kissed the crook of her neck, his tongue flicking out to leave a hot trail along her collarbone to her shoulder. It was nice. A little sweeter and safer than she’d expected, but very nice all the same.

She urged him to remove his own shirt, and they were skin to skin. He kissed her mouth, smoothed her hair, trailed his fingers along her spine, stopping at the waistband of her shorts.

She kissed him more deeply, waiting for his hands to move down, waiting for that swift, intense sensation, when he took her by surprise. He kissed her back, his mouth roaming her face, her cheek, her temple, the tip of her nose. But his hands didn’t move.

Finally, he drew gentle circles at the base of her spine, until she squirmed in frustration.

He cupped her face, kissing her eyelids.

She arched her spine, hinting, waiting, hoping.

He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the mound of her breast. His hand was shaking where it bracketed her rib cage. Okay, now they were getting somewhere.

But then he stopped, and went back to her mouth.

She drew back. “Samuel.”

“What?” he asked from between clenched teeth.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“You’re treating me like I’m fragile.” She peered at him. “You’re treating me like I’m…” She pulled out of his arms. “Like I’m your Ambrogino.” She launched forward and smacked him on the chest. “I can get that in Boston, bucko.”

He grabbed her wrist, and she hit him with the other hand.

He grabbed that, too, pulling her arms apart, forcing her up against him, breathing hard as he stared down into her face.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said.

“You want it rough?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. How am I supposed to know? But you’ve been pushing me, teasing me, promising me something different for days now.”

A slow smile grew on his face. “You’re ready to do what you want instead of what’s proper?”