Her retreat ended with her back between the side of the refrigerator and the wall.

"Looks like you've backed yourself into a corner, darling."

He moved in slowly, slipping his hands around her waist, fitting his mouth to hers. He took his time sampling, his fingers spread over her rib cage, stopping just short of the curve of her breasts.

She couldn't stop her breath from quickening or her lips from responding. His tongue flicked over them, between them, met hers. His taste was dark, and rabidly male, and streaked straight to her center like an arrow on target.

The small part of her mind that could still function warned her that he knew exactly how he affected women. All women. Any woman. But her body didn't seem to give a damn.

Her blood began to pound, her skin to vibrate, from the shock of dozens of tiny explosions. She was certain she could feel her own bones melt.

She was exciting to watch. His eyes were open as he changed the angle of the kiss, deepened it, degree by painfully slow degree. He found the flutter of her lashes arousing, the faint flush desire brought to her cheeks seductive. And that helpless hitch of breath, that quick shiver when his fingers skimmed lightly over the tips of her breasts, utterly thrilling.

With an effort, he stopped himself from taking more. "God. It gets better every time." Gently he nuzzled his way to her ear. "Let's try it again."

"No." It surprised her that what she said and what she wanted were entirely different. In defense, she pressed a wineglass against his chest.

He glanced down at the glass, then back at her face. His eyes weren't smiling now, weren't gently amused. There was an edge in them now, dark and potentially deadly. Despite all common sense, she found herself drawn to this man who would take, and damn all consequences.

"Your hand's shaking, Regan."

"I'm aware of that."

She spoke carefully, knowing that the wrong word, the wrong move, and what was in his eyes would leap out and devour her. And she would let it. She would love it.

That was something she definitely had to think over.

"Take the wine, Rafe. It's red. It'll leave a nasty stain on that shirt."

For one humming moment, he said nothing. A need he hadn't understood or counted on had him by the throat with rusty little claws. She was afraid of him, he noted, deciding she was smart to be afraid. A woman like her didn't have a clue what a man like him was really capable of.

Taking the glass, he tapped it against hers, making the crystal ring, then turned back to the stove.

She felt as though she'd barely avoided a tumble from a cliff. And realized she already regretted not taking the plunge. "I think I should say something. I, um..." She took a deep breath, then an even deeper gulp of wine. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not attracted to you, or that I didn't enjoy that, when obviously I am, and I did."

Trying to relax, he leaned back against the counter, studied her over the rim of his glass. "And?"

"And." She scooped back her hair. "And I think complications are...complicated," she said lamely. "I don't want—that is, I don't think..." She shut her eyes and drank again. "I'm stuttering."

"I noticed. It's a nice boost to the ego."

"Your ego doesn't need any boosting." She blew out a breath, cleared her throat. "You're very potent. I have no doubt sex would be memorable— Don't smile at me that way."

"Sorry." But the smile didn't dim. "It must have been your choice of words. Memorable's good. I like it. Why don't we save time here? I get your point. You want to mull the idea over, make the next move when you're ready."

She considered, then nodded slowly. "That's close enough."

"Okay. Now here's my point." He turned on the burner under the skillet and added oil. "I really want you, Regan. It hit me right off, when I walked into Ed's and you were sitting there with little Cassie, looking so pressed and polished."

She fought to ignore the flutters in her stomach. "Is that why you offered me the job on the Barlow place?"

"You're too smart to ask a question like that. This is sex. Sex is personal."

"All right." She nodded again. "All right."

He picked up a plump roma tomato, examined it. "The problem here, as I see it, is that I don't much care for mulling over things like this. No matter how you fancy it up, sex is still the animal. Smell, touch, taste."

His eyes were dark again, reckless. He picked up the knife, tested its point. "Take," he added. "But thaf s just me, and there are two of us here. So you go on ahead with your mulling."

Baffled, she stared at him as he chose a clove of garlic. "I'm trying to decide if you expect me to thank you for that."

"Nope." Expertly he laid the flat of his knife over the garlic, gave one quick pound of his fist to crush it. "You're just supposed to understand it, like I'm understanding you."

"You're a real nineties man, MacKade."

"No, I'm not. And I'm going to make you stutter again. You can count on that."

Challenged, she picked up the wine, topped off their glasses. "Well, you count on this. If and when I decide to make my move, you'll do some stuttering of your own."

He scooped the minced garlic into the oil, where it sizzled. "I like your style, darling. I really like your style."

Chapter 4

Sunny skies and a southerly breeze brought in a welcome end-of-January thaw. Icicles dripped prettily from eaves and shone with rainbows. In front yards and fallow fields, snowmen began to lose weight. Regan spent a pleasant week earmarking stock for the Barlow place and hunting up additions to her supply at auction.

When business was slow, she revised and honed her room-by-room decorating scheme for what was going to be the MacKade Inn at Antietam.

Even now, as she described the attributes of a walnut credenza to a pair of very interested buyers, her mind was on the house. Though she hadn't realized it, yet, she was as haunted by it as Rafe had been.

The front bedroom, second floor, she mused, should have the four-poster with canopy, the rosebud wallpaper and the satinwood armoire. A romantic and traditional bridal suite, complete with little bowls of potpourri and vases of fresh flowers.

And what had been the gathering room, on the main level, had that wonderful southern exposure. Of course, Rafe had to pick the right windows, but it would be spectacular in sunny colors with a trio of fi-cus trees, hanging ferns in glazed pots, and pretty little conversation groups of boldly floral love seats and wingback chairs.

It was perfect for a conservatory, a place to gaze through the glass into the woods and gardens, with forced narcissi and hyacinths brightening midwinter gloom.

She couldn't wait to get her hands on the place, add those tiny, perfect details that would make it a home again.

An inn, she reminded herself. A business. Comfortable, charming, but temporary. And it wasn't hers. With an effort, she shook her head clear and concentrated on the sale at hand.

"You can see the marquetry is high-quality," she continued, keeping her sales pitch moderate and pleasant. "The bowfront cupboards on the side are the original glass."

The woman fingered the discreet tag longingly, and Regan's sharp eye caught the hopeful glance she sent her less enthusiastic husband.

"It really is lovely. But if s just a little more than we had in mind."

"I understand. But in this condition—"

She broke off when the door opened, furious with herself for the quick leap, then the quick disappointment when it wasn't Rafe who came in. Before she could smile a welcome at Cassie, she saw the livid bruises on the side of her friend's face.

"If you'd excuse me for just a moment, I'll give you time to talk it over."

An antique bangle jingling on her wrist, sensible shoes clacking, she moved swiftly through the shop. Saying nothing, she took Cassis's arm and led her into the back room.

"Sit down. Come on." Gently, she eased Cassie into a chair at the tiny iron table. "How bad are you hurt?"

"It's nothing. I just—"

"Shut up." Grinding back the spurt of temper, Regan slammed a kettle on the hot plate. "I'm sorry. I'm going to make some tea." She needed a moment, she realized, before she could deal with this rationally. "While the water's boiling, I'll go finish up with my customers. You sit here and relax for a minute."

Shame swimming in her eyes, Cassie stared down at her hands. "Thanks."

Ten minutes later, after ruthlessly hacking the price of the credenza to move the customers along, Regan hurried back. She told herself she'd gotten the anger under control. She promised herself she would be supportive, sympathetic.

One look at Cassie, slumped in the chair while the kettle belched steam, had her exploding.

"Why in the hell do you let him do this to you? When are you going to get tired of being that sadistic bastard's punching bag? Does he have to put you in the hospital before you walk away?"

In utter defeat, Cassie folded her arms on the table, then dropped her head on them and wept.

Her own eyes stinging, Began dropped to her knees beside the chair. In the tidy little office, with its icecream-parlor chairs and neat rolltop desk, she struggled to face the reality of battering.

"Cassie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Cass. I shouldn't be yelling at you."

"I shouldn't have come here." Lifting her head, Cassie covered her face with her hand and fought to get her breath back. "I shouldn't have come. But I just needed somebody to talk to."

"Of course you should have come here. This is exactly where you should have come. Let me see," Regan murmured, easing Cassie's hand away. The bruises ran from temple to jaw, in ugly purple. One of Cassie's lovely smoke gray eyes was swollen nearly shut.