She felt her nightgown slither down to cover her naked bottom, a cool, silky caress where a delicious rough warmth had been before. Her fingers cramped and ached when she withdrew them from the crispy softness of his hair…and oh, how hard it was to tear herself away from that warmth…that strength…from his hands, his arms…his chest…his mouth.

It might have been easier if he hadn’t still been holding her, hands firm but gentle on her arms, as if he feared she’d topple over if he let her go. She heard a rumble that must have been an apology. She made similar noises and was careful not to raise her eyes too far. Not far enough to meet his. She couldn’t bear to see what was in those keen blue eyes now. Would it be desire still? Or perhaps only contempt now…or worse, pity?

A moment ago she’d prayed he would go on holding her, touching her, kissing her, forever. Now she prayed for him to let her go-quickly, before he could feel how devastated she was. Before he could know the power he had over her…the power to make her tremble and ache…the power to make her cry. It had been a long time since anyone had held such power over her. She’d forgotten how terrifying it was.

But she couldn’t hide it-the shaking, at least. He must have felt it, because he muttered, “You’re cold,” and bent down and picked up her robe and draped it around her shoulders.

She murmured an acknowledgment…a thank you, and managed to salvage enough pride to pull herself away from him. She felt stiff and awkward as she made herself busy, getting out a can of cat food, opening it, filling Cat’s food dish.

Her face felt hot, and every muscle in it hurt. She wanted, desperately, to crawl into a hole somewhere and cry.

It had been a long time since she’d cried. She hated to cry. Crying was defeat. Crying was giving in, letting the loneliness win.

But you did cry.

Yes, she’d almost forgotten! She’d cried because he’d told her about Joy. The once-loved name blew into her mind like a breeze bearing promises of spring. She dropped the cat-food can in the sink, turned on the water…took a breath, cleared her throat. Miraculously, words came. “You…said you…talked to Joy?”

She heard him take a breath…clear his throat. When it came his voice sounded normal, as if nothing untoward had happened between them. As if he hadn’t just turned her world upside down. “I talked to her husband, Scott. He said to tell you Joy sends her love. I’m supposed to tell you she knows you didn’t do it.”

The tears were rising again. Mary pressed her fingertips to her lips…fought them down. Laughed instead.

His voice came gently from too close behind her. “The two of you were close?”

She nodded, and after a moment said without turning, “I guess Scott told you everything?”

“He told me enough.” She didn’t have to look at him to know his eyes would have that diamond-bright glitter again. His voice told her. “I need to hear the rest from you.”

Mary nodded, sick, aching inside.

“First, though, you better go put on some clothes.” And now a certain gravelly thickness in his voice made her look at him with quickened heartbeat and questions in her eyes, and when she saw the softening, and the off-center tilt to his smile, felt a new tremor begin somewhere deep inside her. “That’s the ugliest damn robe I ever saw,” he growled. “I can’t be held responsible for wanting to tear it off of you again.”

The squeak that flew out of her mouth could have been laughter. Taking no chances, she touched the back of her hand to her nose and fled.

In the quiet and calm of the bathroom she stared at herself in the mirror…and felt herself go cold. Not because she didn’t recognize the face looking back at her. But because she did.

Flushed cheeks…kiss-swollen mouth…eyes bright with laughter and hope…Yancy’s face.

Gripping the edges of the sink so hard her fingers went numb, she watched the color drain from her cheeks and her eyes go gray as rain. “Stupid…” she whispered. “Stupid…stupid.”

Stupid Yancy, who’d spent too many years chasing rainbows and fairy tales…certain happiness lay just beyond the next hill.

Stupid Yancy. Now stupid Mary…doing the very same thing.

A man makes you feel good…makes you feel safe and cared for…and you’re ready to forgive him anything, go anywhere with him, do whatever he tells you. He kisses you…touches your naked body with his strong cowboy’s hands, and you’re already dreaming of happily-ever-after, thinking he holds the sunshine of your life in his smile.

Stupid-this isn’t a fairy tale and he isn’t Prince Charming. He’s the sheriff who arrested you for murder, the one who showed the man who wants to kill you exactly where to look.

Stupid-maybe for you he’s the forbidden garden, but he’s not your happiness…or your future. Maybe you can trust him with your life-yes, okay, that, because he’s a good man and a good sheriff-but for God’s sake don’t be stupid enough to fall in love with him.

While she was in the bathroom, Roan poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it standing at the kitchen sink, while he stared out the window and watched a jay pull nesting materials out of a brush pile in the yard next door. His body felt bruised…hypersensitized. The coffee felt like whiskey going down. It burned his throat and warmed his belly and he shuddered as if he’d just come in from a blizzard half-frozen to death.

It took a few minutes for the warmth and the caffeine to do their thing and his body to settle down and his brain to start hitting on all cylinders again, which was maybe why it took longer than it should have to occur to him how vulnerable the house was. No fences…wide open to the neighbors’ yards on each side and the cover of trees and scrub behind.

A killer wouldn’t even have to break into the house to get at her. All he’d have to do is park himself out there somewhere and shoot her through the window. Any half-competent hitman could do it and be gone before the echoes died…

His body went cold again and the coffee turned bitter in his mouth.

He turned when he heard Mary’s step and watched her come into the kitchen. She’d put on jeans and a long-sleeved pullover with no particular shape to it, with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was twisted up in back of her head in its usual any-old-whichway knot, but there wasn’t a single thing mousy-looking about her now. Even dressed as she was and with her face scrubbed shiny as a child’s and not a smidgen of makeup, she managed to look both elegant and sexy.

He wondered whether it was just him, that he saw her differently now, or if there really was something different in the way she carried herself…the way her head sat on her neck, and the tilt of her chin…

And it hit him then, what the difference was: She wasn’t trying to hide anymore.

She went straight to the coffeepot and poured herself some, careful to avoid looking at Roan, though the image of him was clear as a color photograph in her mind: Long lean body in a casual slouch propped against the sink, ankles crossed, one hand holding a coffee mug and the other thumb hooked in a pocket of his Levi’s…morning sunshine pouring through the window curtain behind him touching his hair and shoulders with a soft pinkish-gold, like a lover’s blush.

Her heart tripped, her insides twittered, and her legs felt as though they might disconnect at the knees. And in spite of all her resolutions and warnings, her mutinous mind sighed, Yes…this…forever this.

She stirred sugar substitute into her coffee, tasted it, and thus fortified, turned to face him. Leaned against the counter as she sipped, and raised defiant eyes to his.

“You okay?” he asked softly. Kindly.

She lifted her eyebrows and replied in a tone of mild surprise, “Of course.” Pretending she wasn’t quivering inside.

“Feel like talking?”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Would it matter if I said no?”

He drank coffee and regarded her steadily across the rim of the cup, eyes slightly narrowed, but in a thoughtful way, not hard. He lowered his cup, paused a moment, then said in the same quiet rumbling voice, “I’ll put it another way. Are you ready to tell me what I’m gonna need to know so I can protect you?”

She made an automatic gesture of protest and managed to choke out, “I don’t need-” before he stopped her with a firm but patient, “Now, that’s just stupid.” As if she were Susie Grace talking nonsense.

Anger stung her, threatening the delicate web of self-control she’d woven around her emotions. She didn’t want to talk, didn’t know if she could talk without feeling it all over again. And she didn’t want to feel any more, not today. Not right now. Not while he was anywhere near her. Because it would be too hard to keep from crawling right back into his arms, where every shred of sense told her she had no business being.

Far too easy to accept the comfort and kindness he offered and pretend it was something more.

But Roan was at the table, pulling a chair out for her, waiting for her. She went reluctantly, set her coffee on the table and let him seat her-and she thought again, as she had when he’d first given her a ride in his car, what irony it was-as if they were on a date, having dinner together.

“Besides which,” he continued as he took the chair opposite her, “it’s just not true. You sure as hell do need protecting. Look at this place. Look at where you work. If somebody wants to get to you, you’d be a sitting duck, and I’m responsible for your safety whether you like it or not. So let’s quit wasting time. I want you to tell me everything you can about how you got into this mess, and maybe we can figure how to get you out.”