And then an arm clamped around her waist from behind, a hand clapped over her mouth. Annabel would have screamed in fright, but the hand covering her mouth was so firm and uncompromising that she was prevented from making a sound. She was pulled from behind against a man's solid body. His grip upon her was as immovable as steel.

"Jesus, it's you," Braxton said in her ear. His hand left her mouth, sliding across her jaw to her neck and shoulder, and he did not release her for another moment.

And in that endless moment Annabel was overwhelmed by the warmth and strength of him, by his sheer masculinity.

He dropped his hands from her person.

Annabel turned. Her back pressed against Mary Anne's door as she faced him, and because he did not move, there was not an inch between their bodies. His thighs pressed hers. His chest flattened hers. She was a tall woman, and her eyes were level with his mouth.

It was an exceedingly attractive mouth.

And his teeth flashed white in the darkness. "Might I ask what you were doing?" he asked, but in a whisper.

"I could ask you the same thing," Annabel said, whispering as well. It was very hard to think-her body was acutely aware of him, and she did not know what to do with her hands, which remained balled up at her sides. "I thought you were the police, or a federal agent," she breathed.

His gaze appeared silver in the darkness of the night. It searched hers. "I thought the same of you." Suddenly, he stepped away from her, putting a safer distance between them. "Did anyone ever tell you, Miss Boothe, that curiosity killed the cat?"

She inhaled. She was trembling, her legs were weak. Air now caressed her where his warmth had a scant instant ago. She did not want him to leave and go back downstairs. There was no time to think. "I am not a cat. Curiosity has not killed me yet-I doubt it ever will."

He laughed softly. "You know," he said, and their gazes locked, "I like you. It is a shame that you are who you are. For you and I could have gotten on quite famously, I do think."

She stared. His voice had been low and sensual and intimate. "I like you, too, Braxton."

His smile disappeared.

Annabel wet her lips, images she knew she should not, must not, entertain dancing in her head. Of him leading her across the hall into her bedroom, of him removing her clothing, his large, capable, elegant hands smoothing over her skin.

"Go back to bed," he said harshly. "I will see you in the morning."

"Wait," she whispered, a desperate cry.

But he had not moved.

"Wait," she said again, as intensely. But she could not think of a single excuse to detain him, or a single way to seduce him.

He now wet his lips. "Do not offer," he said with anger, "what will turn out to be a vast mistake. For you certainly, and maybe for us both."

"I am not like other women," Annabel said hoarsely.

He stared.

She clenched her fists. "I don't ever want to marry. I only want to be free." He remained motionless.

"Free like the wind," she said, tears suddenly coming to her eyes. "Not shackled to an idiot like Harold, not shackled to anyone."

His jaw flexed. His brilliant eyes never left her face.

"But you would not understand. Because you are free, you are a man." She was bitter. She felt defeated. He would go. And in the morning, their paths would diverge, never to twine again.

"I understand," he finally said. "Better than you think."

Braxton bent and kissed each shoulder where the straps lay, then he slid them over her shoulders and pushed her gown down over her breasts, her hips, her thighs. It pooled in a puddle of cotton at her feet. His gaze was admiring.

He stroked the pads of two fingers down her neck and chest, over her nipples. Annabel bit back a cry of need and pleasure. He looked into her eyes, his expert hands skimming down her sides and abdomen.

"You are very, very beautiful, and far too much of a woman for most men."

She could not speak. He was touching her thighs. "But not… for you?"

His gaze jerked up to hers. "You are probably too much of a woman for myself as well," he said, as if he had just thought of it and as if he meant it. And then he pulled her close for another devastating, tongue-to-tongue kiss.

And when, a long time later, their lips parted, she gasped, "This is not fair."

He was pushing her down on the bed. "Life is not fair."

She laughed as she found herself on her back, but shakily. "I have no clothes on. You are fully dressed."

His eyes widened and brightened at the same time. He stood, smiling. "That," he said, "shall be remedied momentarily."

Annabel sat up to watch him disrobe. He was exactly as she had thought, broad-shouldered, narrow of hip, all rippling sinew and lean muscle. She had never seen a man completely naked before. She stared.

"You are eating me up with those incredible eyes of yours," he said, not moving.

She lifted her gaze to his, feeling herself blush. "I have never seen a man before. I mean, not a living, breathing one-I have never cared to. I have never felt passion before, Braxton."

She tensed and met his brilliant eyes again. And watched his hands lifting-coming toward her. And in that moment she felt a surge of absolute comprehension-she had known that this would happen from the very first moment she had laid her eyes upon him in her father's library. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her slowly up against him. As his chest once again crushed her breasts, as his palms slid down her back, settling on her hips, she breathed, trembling with anticipation. His mouth cut off the sound.

Annabel clung to him tightly, stunned by the endless kiss. She had never been kissed this way before, but then, she had never known such a man before, either. She did not want the kiss to end; she could not seem to get enough of the taste of him, the feel of him. But he tore his mouth from hers abruptly, and their gazes locked.

She was breathing harshly, but so was he.

"Last chance," he whispered roughly.

It took Annabel a moment to comprehend him, and then she realized what he meant. "No. My mind has not changed," she said.

He took her hand and pulled her into her bedroom, releasing her to lock the door behind them. Annabel's heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest. She stood uncertainly beside the narrow bed. He turned. She had left the light on in her room and now she saw his expression-it was fiercely intent.

"What should I do now?" she whispered, dazed.

His smile flashed and he walked to her, hooking his thumbs under the plain straps of her simple nightgown. "You do nothing but feel, Annabel. And you leave the rest to me."

She could not breathe, could not move. The way he spoke, the look in his eyes, the touch of his fingernails on her skin, was bathing her body in flames. And she knew exactly what it was that she wanted-this man, deep within her, in a carnal way.

"I am glad." He sat down beside her, taking her into his arms. "My name is St. Clare," he said softly.

Annabel heard, but could not respond, because his mouth was on hers again, and she was on her back, his huge, flagrant manhood pushing up between her thighs against her vulva. His mouth moved down her neck. She heard herself moaning, found herself arching for him, as wide open as she could make herself. Her body wanted him so badly that it hurt and she had never felt so impatient for anything before. He tugged one nipple into his mouth. Annabel caressed him wildly, urgently. "Hurry," she gasped.

"No," he whispered, nuzzling her other breast. "There are some things we do not rush, my dear, and making love is one of them." He was stroking her inner thighs with his long, lean fingers. Annabel thought she would die if he did not touch her most private parts.

"Annabel," he whispered, making her closing eyes fly open. "I want to savor you."

"You have a way with words," she panted. And then he slipped his hand over her, palming her intimately. Annabel cried out.

"God," he cried, no longer sounding either suave or composed.

"Please," Annabel wept, raking her nails down his back.

"Ow." It was a growl. He caught her face in his hands and kissed her hard. There was a brutal demand in his kiss and somehow Annabel understood it-and him- completely. She wrapped her thighs around his waist, grasping his hips. And then he was pressing into her.. For one instant it was awkward and he paused, in the next instant he was there, hard and swift and sure, thrusting deeply into her, time and again, making Annabel cry out with desperation and weep with joy.

And then she knew it was happening. She tensed, clawing his shoulders. "Pierce!"

His gaze met hers as he came into her again, his face strained with lust. "Now?" he asked, a demand. Annabel's nod was brief, her explosion star-filled.

Annabel woke up thinking that Braxton remained in her arms, and she felt herself smiling. A bright morning light was pouring through the parted curtains. Its sunny brightness matched the joyous feeling bubbling up inside her. Annabel sighed, recalling his lovemaking, and then she realized that she was hugging a pillow, not Pierce. She sighed again, rolling over onto her back, looking at his side of the narrow bed. It was empty.

She stretched, smiling again. No wonder men and women chased one another like fools, she mused. Making love was indeed a wonderful experience, especially with a man like Braxton.

And they had made love. He had been tender, even in the roughest moments, and Annabel hugged herself recalling the way he had looked at her, kissed her, held her afterward. She was, for the very first time in her life, smitten with a man.

And it was deliriously wonderful. Annabel beamed at the ceiling. Braxton was wonderful, the rogue.