"That's stupid, untrue and sexist."

"That's sensible, factual and sexist." They'd been arguing in furious whispers. Now he sighed. "Lilah, you might have been hurt."

"The only one who hurt me was you, with that flying tackle."

"I didn't tackle you," he muttered. "I was watching them and didn't see you. And I certainly didn't expect to find you out here sneaking around in the dark."

"I wasn't sneaking." She blew hair out of her eyes. "I was playing ghost, and very effectively."

“Playing ghost." He shut his eyes. "Now I know you're out of your mind."

"It worked," she reminded him.

"That's beside the point."

"It's precisely the point, the other being that you knocked me down before I could finish the job."

"I've already apologized."

"No, you haven't."

"All right. I'm sorry if I..." He started to push himself off her and made the mistake of glancing down. Her robe had come loose during the fall and lay open to the waist. Like alabaster, her breasts glowed in the moonlight. "Oh, Lord," he managed to say through suddenly dry lips.

She'd lost her breath again. Lying still, she watched his eyes change. Irritation to shock, shock to wonder, wonder to a deep and dark desire. As his gaze skimmed up, came back to hers, every muscle in her body melted like hot wax.

No one had ever looked at her just that way. There was such intensity in his eyes, the same focused concentration they had held when he'd struggled to block out pain. They roamed to her mouth, lingering there until her lips trembled apart on his name.

It was like moving into a dream, he thought as he lowered himself onto her again. Everything was just one click out of focus, soft and fuzzy. His hands were in her hair, lost in it. Beneath his, her lips were warm, beautifully warm. Her arms came around him as if they had been waiting. He heard her sigh, long and deep.

His mouth was so gentle on hers, as if he were afraid she might vanish if he dared too much too soon. Yet she could feel the tension in the way he held himself, the way his hands fisted in her hair, the way his breath shuddered out as he brushed his lips over hers.

Her limbs grew heavy, her head light. Though she wanted to keep her eyes open, as his were, they drifted closed. The most pleasant of aches coursed through her as he nibbled delicately at her parted lips. Her murmur mixed with his, indecipherable.

The grass whispered as she shifted beneath him. Its cool, fresh fragrance seemed perfectly suited to him. As his fingers slid softly over her breast, she heard her own quiet moan of acceptance.

She was unbelievably perfect, he thought dizzily. Like some fantasy conjured on a lonely night. Long slender limbs, silky skin, an avid and generous mouth. The sheer physical pleasure of her was like a drug, and he was already addicted.

Murmuring her name, he skimmed his lips to her throat There her pulse beat like thunder, heating her skin so that her scent tangled with each breath he took. Tasting her was like dining on sin. Touching her was paradise. He brought his lips back to hers to lose himself on that glorious edge between heaven and hell.

She could almost feel herself floating an inch above the cool grass. Her body felt free as air, soft as water. When his mouth met hers again, she let herself drift into the new kiss. Then it happened.

It was not the sweet click of a door opening that she had been hoping for. It was a rushing roar, like a gust of wind sweeping through her body. Behind it, speeding in its wake, was a pain, sharp, sweet and stunning. She stiffened against it, her cry of protest muffled against his lips.

If she had slapped him, his passion wouldn't have cooled more quickly. He jerked back to see her staring at him, her eyes wide and filled with fear and confusion. Appalled by his behavior, he scrambled to his knees. He was trembling, he realized, So was she. Small wonder. He had acted like a maniac, knocking her down, pawing her.

Lord help him, he wanted to do it again.

"Lilah..." His voice was a husky rasp, and he struggled to clear it. She didn't move a muscle. Her eyes never left his. He wanted to stroke her cheek, to gather her close and hold her, but was afraid to touch her again. "I'm sorry. Very sorry. You looked so beautiful. I guess I lost my head."

She waited for a moment, for the balance and ease that was so much a part of her. But it didn't come. "Is that it?"

"I..." What did she want him to say? he wondered. He felt like a monster already. "You're an incredibly desirable woman," he said carefully. "But that's no excuse for what happened just now."

What had happened? She was afraid she had fallen in love with him, and if she had, love hurt. She didn't like it one damn bit. "You want me, physically."

He cleared his throat. Want wasn't the word. Craved was closer, but still fell pitifully short of the mark. As gently as he would for a child, he brought her robe together again. "Any man would," he said, nerves straining.

Any man, she thought and closed her eyes on the slash of disappointment. She hadn't been waiting for any man, but for one man. "It's all right, Max." Her voice was a shade overbright as she sat up. "No harm done. It's just a matter of us finding the other physically attractive. Happens all the time."

"Yes, but–" Not to him, he thought. Not like this. He frowned down at a blade of grass. It was easier for her, he supposed. She was so open, so uninhibited. There had probably been dozens of men in her life. Dozens, he thought on a jolt of fury that had him tearing the blade in two. "What do you suggest we do about it?"

"Do about it?" Her smile was strained, but he wasn't even looking at her. "Why don't we just see if it passes. Like the flu."

He looked at her then, with something dangerous edging his eyes. "It won't. Not for me. I want you. A woman like you would know just how badly I want you."

The words brought both a thrill and an ache. "A woman like me," she repeated softly. "Yes, that's the crux of it, isn't it, Professor?"

"The crux of what?" he began, but she was already on her feet.

"A woman who enjoys men, and who's very generous with them."

"I didn't mean–"

"One who'll wrestle half–naked on the grass. A little bohemian for you, Dr. Quartermain, but you're not above experimenting a little bit here and there– with a woman like me."

"Lilah, for God's sake–" He too was on his feet, baffled.

"I wouldn't apologize again if I were you. There's certainly no need." Hurt beyond measure, she tossed back her hair. "Not when it concerns a woman like me. After all, you've got me pegged, don't you?"

Good Lord, were those tears in her eyes? He gestured helplessly. "I haven't got a clue."

"Right again. All you understand about this is your own wants." She swallowed the tears. "Well, Professor, I'll take them under consideration and let you know."

Completely lost, he watched her gather the skirts of her robe and dart up the stairs. Moments later her terrace doors closed with an audible click.

She didn't cry. Lilah reminded herself it was an exhausting experience that usually left her with a miserable headache. She couldn't think of a single man who was worth the trouble. Instead, she dragged open the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out her emergency bar of chocolate.

After plopping down onto the bed, she took a healthy bite and stared at the ceiling.

Sexy. Beautiful. Desirable. Big damn deal, she thought and bit off another hunk. For all his celebrated brains, Maxwell Quartermain was as big a jerk as any other man. All he saw was a pretty package, and once he'd unwrapped it, that would be that. He wouldn't see any substance, any of the softer needs.

Oh, he was more polite than most. A gentleman to the last, she thought in disgust. She hadn't had to untangle herself. God knew he'd been in a hurry to do that for himself.

Lost his head. At least he was honest, she thought, and brushed impatiently at a tear that sneaked past her guard.

She knew the kind of image she projected. It rarely bothered her what people thought of her. She understood herself, was comfortable with Lilah Maeve Calhoun. There certainly was no shame in the fact that she enjoyed men. Though she hadn't enjoyed them to the extent that others, including, she supposed, her family might think.

Uninhibited? Perhaps, but that wasn't synonymous with promiscuity. Did she flirt? Yes, it came naturally to her, but it wasn't done with malice or guile.

If a man flirted with women he was suave. If a woman flirted, she was a tease. Well, as far as she was concerned the game between the sexes was a two–way street, and she enjoyed playing. And as for the good professor...

She curled up into a tight, defensive ball. Oh, God, he'd hurt her. All that stuttering, apologizing, explaining. And all the time he looked so appalled.

A woman like you. The phrase played back in her head.

Couldn't he see what he'd done to her with that careful tenderness? Hadn't he been able to feel how deeply he'd affected her? All she had wanted was for him to touch her again, to smile in that sweet, shy way of his and tell her that he cared. About who she was, what she was, how she felt inside. She'd wanted comfort and reassurance, and he'd given her excuses. She had looked up at him, with the stab of love still streaking through her, the terror of it still trembling, and he'd jerked back as if she'd clipped him on the jaw.

She wished she had. If this was love, she didn't want her share after all.

Because it was quiet, or perhaps because her ears were tuned for him, she heard Max come up the steps, sensed him hesitate near her doors. She stopped breathing, though her heart picked up a quick beat. Would he come in now, push those doors open and come to her, tell her what she wanted so badly to hear? She could almost see his hand reach for the knob. Then she heard his footsteps again as he moved on down the terrace to his own room.