"Oh, my God." As a prayer, it was perfectly sincere. He repeated it over and over again as he carried her to the guest room. It was his intention to dump her on the bed and make as quick and as dignified an exit as his scattered wits and aching loins would allow.

But she pulled, tugged, and had him flopping onto the big soft bed with her. On top of her. "Feels good." She sighed. Then arched. "Oh, my."

He moaned, pitifully. What was left of his mind scrambled so that all of the blood drained out of it, and down. He knew his eyes rolled back in his head when she latched those narrow hands on to his butt and squeezed.

"I'm not doing this." His breath was panting out with the effort to keep himself from ripping off her clothes.

"Are too. Soon as we get these pants off."

His hand vised over hers when she reached for the snap of his jeans. He stared at that glowing, cheerfully seductive face and, with a titanic effort, reminded himself there were rules to the game.

"I want you to stop this, right now." None too gently, he hauled her arms up over her head and pinned them. The only problem with that was that the position pushed his body more firmly to hers. And, damn her, she wouldn't keep still. "Keep your hands off me, damn it."

She grinned at him, lazily experimenting with the sensations that worked their way through her alcoholic haze whenever she rocked her hips. "I promise not to hurt you." A snort of laughter escaped. "You look so fierce. Come on and kiss me."

"I ought to strangle you." But he did kiss her, as much from frustration as from need. And the kiss was raw and wild and just a little mean. When he managed to pull himself back, her eyes were heavy and glazed. But those tempting lips curved.

"Mmmore..."

His body ached, his head throbbed. "You're going to remember when I make love with you, Rebecca," he said tightly. "You're going to be stone-cold sober, and you're going to remember every instant of it. And before I'm finished with you, you're not going to know your own name."

"Okay," she murmured agreeably as her heavy eyes drooped. "Okay." Then she yawned, hugely, and passed out.

He lay there several minutes, fighting for breath, fighting for strength. He could feel the steady rise and fall of the breasts that were crushed under him, the clean angles of her body, the limp droop of the hands he still held imprisoned.

"You're not going to hate me in the morning, baby," he muttered as he levered himself away. "But I might just hate you."

As an afterthought, he tossed a quilt over her, and left her fully dressed, right down to her shoes, to sleep it off.

He didn't sleep at all. As he had been all his life, Shane was up before the sun. But this morning he wasn't whistling. He did no more than glower down the hall toward Rebecca's room before he trooped downstairs and outside to begin the morning chores.

If the two 4-H students who worked with him on weekday mornings noticed he wasn't his usual cheerful self, they were wise enough to make no comment. Cows were milked and tended, pigs were fed, eggs were gathered. There were bales of hay to be split and spread.

The dogs danced around, as was their habit, but after a short time it seemed they sensed things were not quite as they should be. So they slunk off to lie low under the back porch.

The sun was up by the time Shane came back into the house to clean up and start his breakfast. Physical labor had helped work off most of his black mood. His sense of the ridiculous was dealing with the rest. Here he was, a grown man, he told himself, with a reputation for charming the ladies. And he was more frustrated than he'd been as a green adolescent taking that first tentative step into female territory.

It was laughable, if you looked at it from a little distance. Seeing the cool, sarcastic and quick-witted Dr. Knight wildly drunk was certainly worth the price of a ticket.

He thought about it as he fried up bacon. She'd certainly looked cute, sitting there with her glasses sliding off her nose and that stupid grin on her face. And a man couldn't complain overmuch about having a pretty woman wrap herself around him. No matter how frustrating it had been.

Of course, a different kind of man would have taken advantage of the situation. A different kind of man would have let her pull his clothes off, done the same courtesy for her. A different kind of man would have plowed right into that hot little body, and—

Because he was tormenting himself, he took several long, steadying breaths. She was damn lucky he wasn't a different kind of man. In fact, as he saw it, she owed him. Big.

That made him a bit happier as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Then again, she was going to suffer plenty. As the smells of breakfast, the zing of caffeine, the simple beauty of the morning, worked on him, he decided he could even feel a little sorry for her.

She was going to wake up with a champion hangover and a lot of blank spaces. He was going to enjoy filling in those blanks, watching her cringe with embarrassment. It would even the scales somewhat. Enough, he thought, so that he could be compassionate. He'd give her some aspirin, along with the MacKade remedy for the morning after.

And if he got a couple of good laughs at her expense, well, she deserved them.

Poor baby, he mused, scrambling eggs briskly. She'd probably sleep until noon, then wake up, pull the covers over her pounding head and pray for a quick, merciful death.

All in all, it was a fair trade for the miserable night he'd spent.

He was very surprised when he turned the burner off under the skillet, reached for a plate and saw her standing in the kitchen doorway.

His brows lifted as he studied her. Definitely pale, he mused, heavy-eyed, still in her robe. Her hair was wet, which meant she'd probably tried to drown herself in the shower.

He grinned, just a little evilly.

"How's it going, Doc?"

Cautiously she cleared her throat. "Fine." She glanced toward the table. The evidence of her crime was still there. The bottle of wine, the glass still holding what she hadn't been able to gulp down. She was going to have to face it. "I guess I got a little carried away."

"You could say that." Looking forward to the next few minutes, he closed the cupboard door, perhaps a bit harder than necessary. She didn't wince at the bang, and that disappointed him. "Around here we'd say you were drunk as a skunk."

She did wince at that. "I'm not much of a drinker, as a rule. It was foolish, on top of an empty stomach. I want to apologize, and to thank you for getting me to bed."

His grin was rapidly fading. She was entirely too composed for his liking. "How's the head?"

"The head. Oh..." She smiled, relieved that he would care enough to ask. "Fine. I don't get hangovers. I must have a good metabolism."

He simply stared at her. Was there no justice? "You don't have a hangover?"

"No, but I could use some coffee."

She walked toward the pot. No stumbling, Shane

noted as his resentment grew. No squinting away

. from the sunlight. Not even one quiet, pitiful moan.

"You drank the best part of a bottle of wine, and you feel fine?"

"Mmm... Hungry." She smiled at him again as she poured coffee. "I really was an idiot last night, and you were very understanding."

"Yeah." He was rapidly losing his appetite. "I was a brick."

He certainly had been, she mused, and he deserved an explanation along with her apology. "You see, I'd had this breakthrough, and..." The expression on his face warned her to fill in those details later. "You're angry with me. You should be. I was awful." She laid a hand on his arm. "Totally out of control. And you were so restrained and sweet."

"Sweet." He spit the word. "You remember what happened?"

"Of course." A bit surprised that he'd think she'd forget, she leaned back against the counter as she sipped her coffee. "I was—well, pawing you is the only way to describe it. Not my usual style. I'm very grateful you understood it was the wine talking. I wouldn't have blamed you for leaving me sprawled on the floor here." Because she was more amused at herself than embarrassed, her eyes laughed over her cup. "I must have been quite a handful. I can't imagine a ridiculously drunk woman is very tempting, but you were very decent, very patient."

She didn't even have the courtesy to be humiliated, he fumed. And, worse—much worse—she had the gall to make him into some sort of saint. "You were obnoxious."

"I know." Then she laughed and cut the last thread of his control. "Still, it was an experience. I've never been so drunk—and don't think I care to be again. I was lucky I did it in private, and it was you who had to deal with me. Can I have a piece of this bacon?"

He was calm, he told himself, listening to the steady, if loud, beating of blood in his head. So he spoke calmly, quietly. "Are you sober now, Rebecca?"

"Asajudge." She nipped at a slice of bacon. "And I'm going to stay that way for a long time."

Slowly, he nodded, his eyes on hers. "Head clear, all your faculties in order?"

She started to answer, but something in his tone tripped a warning bell. Warily she looked over at him. The dark, dangerous gleam in his eyes had her backing up a step. "Shane—"

He yanked her back and sent the coffee cup she still held flying. "So you weren't tempting?" His mouth, full of fury and frustration, crushed down on hers. "I was sweet?" he added, swinging her around until her back rapped into the refrigerator. "Understanding. Patient." Between snapped-off words, he continued to assault her mouth.

"Yes. No." How was she supposed to think, with all the blood roaring in her head?