Lorna slipped off her high-heeled shoes, irrationally deciding that she could face anything as long as her toes weren’t pinched, and padded back out into the living room.

Matthew was standing before the white marble fireplace, looking at a photograph of Lorna and Johnny at a picnic a few years before. His glass of brandy was next to him on the mantel; another glass was waiting for her on the coffee table. He turned to look at her as she entered the room; the reserved smile he’d managed for Johnny was gone, replaced by an expression of authority and determination. As she gazed at his stern features and dark, impenetrable eyes, Lorna felt distinctly uneasy.

She bent to pick up her glass and then sat down in a corduroy armchair, curling one leg beneath her.

“Shall we get the details out of the way, Misha? Exactly when do you need the money?” he asked flatly.

She hesitated. “I don’t need the whole ten thousand dollars, Matthew,” she said quietly. “Only enough to pay Johnny’s tuition for this year. Johnny needs this school, but my furnace went out last week, which is why I started to panic-”

“The question was only when, Misha, not how much.”

She took a sip of brandy and let it flow down her throat before answering. He was standing with his feet apart and one elbow resting on the mantel; the stance was aggressive, all authoritative male, and she thought, No, Matthew, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let myself get defensive. Not for anyone, not anymore. Her tone was low and very, very controlled. “The school he’s in has all but asked me to find another place for him. Johnny’s bright, Matthew. Too bright. When he gets ahead of the others, he’s bored…but any kid who calls him ‘brain’ gets a punch in the nose. He’s already played hookey several times. Of course, he only goes to the library, but-”

“Misha, I don’t have to hear all about the boy’s problems. The only thing I really need to know is when you want the money.”

Her smoky eyes darkened expressively as she set down her glass. She didn’t care if Matthew could read the signs of impending anger: her flicked-hair back; her stiffened chin; her eyes the ominous gray of a storm cloud. “Next week,” she clipped out.

Matthew finished his drink and leaned back against the marble fireplace, loosely folding his arms. “Honey. Stop bristling.”

“Look-”

“For you, Misha, I’d do my best to walk on water. When I saw you again and realized you were in trouble…” He shook his head, just a little, his eyes holding hers in a gaze so intense she could not look away. She wanted to. Something kept happening whenever he looked at her, whenever he was close enough to touch her-something completely different from the way she had once felt about Matthew. “You’re unhappy because I don’t want to listen to you talk about your son,” he said quietly. “At least let me explain, Misha. I don’t feel I have the right-not to even offer you a few words of advice, not even simply to listen. His own father surely has first rights. Stone’s still living in the city. Even though things apparently didn’t work out between you, he has the financial and moral responsibility to take care of Johnny’s needs. Why don’t you go, to him first, Misha?”

She looked away then, every nerve ending coiling up tight. “Never would I go to that man. First of all, because he’s a bastard. And second, because Johnny isn’t. He’s a Whitaker, Matthew…”

“And I never thought we had a problem with honesty,” Matthew responded coldly. “Misha, he’s your son. That’s all that matters.”

“Not to me!” She sprang from the chair and stalked to the closet to get his coat. Two huge tears that she had no intention of shedding stung her eyes. With Matthew’s coat in her arms, Lorna turned back to him; her silvery eyes were brilliant in her pale face. “Not to me, Matthew,” she repeated more calmly. “You’re just like Richard. Just like your father. Do you think I would sleep with two men at the same time? Do you think I would put a ring on my finger and then, less than year later-”

“Misha-”

“It was fun, being a nymphomaniac,” she said bitterly. “It was a short-term illness, but it was wonderful while it lasted. Just anyone who asked me…ah, well, those certainly were the good old days. And it was certainly wonderful seeing you again, Matthew. As in good night.”

He hadn’t moved. She could see the coal-black sheen of his eyes from clear across the room. Then he started moving forward, slowly and deliberately. She could almost feel the tautness of his control, yet his voice sounded low. Velvet low. “You were a beautiful lady, Misha. I never saw you as anything other than a beautiful, sensitive, very special lady. Very, very young. Butterfly shy, easily frightened…” He was very close now, and she caught her breath as she realized he was reaching out for her.

“No.” The word was almost inaudible.

“Lonely…”

“Matthew-”

His fingers started, very gently, to thread through her hair. His thumb idly caressed the tender line of her jaw, raising her face to his. Through a blur of tears, she could see the smoldering passion in his charcoal eyes. “You were a girl then. Not nearly as beautiful as you are now. I wanted to protect you like an older brother when I saw things going so wrong. Don’t think I would have touched you then, Misha, because I never would have. Never,” he echoed.

Yet he did now. His lips gently met hers, soft, teasing, giving the briefest taste of him, hinting evocatively at the passion he was holding back. His huge palms cradled her face, and tenderly he brushed away the moisture beneath her eyes. Move away, Lorna, she told herself, but somehow she couldn’t obey that inner command. Nothing made sense. A sudden rush of disturbing emotions whispered through her, sensual feelings that couldn’t possibly belong to her. She’d never wanted Matthew. He’d never wanted her. Yet something crazy in his voice, that low, hypnotic, velvet voice of his, stirred up yearnings and desires and promises, the most irresistible of promises…

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “I’ve missed you, Misha. Not the girl you were, but the woman you are. Can you understand that? It has nothing to do with another place and time. It has to do with now, the way you smile. The look in your eyes, Misha, the way you flare up, the way you vibrate with emotion…”

His coat was between them; then suddenly wasn’t. Ever so slowly his mouth captured hers again, but this time he didn’t release her. His lips lingered, increasing their pressure as his arms enfolded her; her senses reeled, and she was helpless under the assault of textures and scents and sounds that were uniquely Matthew. He liked his shirts starched; she knew no other man who wore starched shirts anymore. The fabric was slightly abrasive against the soft flesh of her palm, its stiffness a denial of the warm, mobile muscle and flesh of his shoulders. The collar had no give to it at all; she felt she had won a battle when her fingers finally reached the yielding flesh of his neck, so vital, like Matthew, so electrifyingly virile, like Matthew. His hair curled around her fingers, thick and silky. Everything-the soap he used, the aftershave he splashed on, the shampoo he favored…they were all Matthew. Not Richard. Not any other man. And suddenly, neither past nor future existed.

With increasing hunger, his mouth covered hers; his tongue dipped inside, and they shared the ultimate taste of each other. One of his hands cradled her head, and the other stroked down her neck and her back to the base of her spine, urging her closer to him. She felt a crazy series of shivers run through her body, as if every nerve ending had suddenly responded to this unique man, to what he was feeling, to what he needed, to what he wanted.

His mouth captured hers with such intensity that she could sense his own conflicting emotions. He had not come here for this-she knew it; he had not intended to touch her…yet he didn’t stop. His hands tattooed desperate, almost savage messages into her flesh as he kneaded it through the soft knit dress, firing the same explosive feelings in her. It was all wrong…and so impossibly right. Never had she imagined such sweet, fierce hunger as she now felt.

He wrapped his arms tightly around her, as if he could lock her to him, mold her body to his. His heart was pounding against hers; between her aching breasts, pounding so hard she could feel his urgency, his desire. The hard pressure against her stomach and the thrust and parry of his tongue inside her mouth conveyed a fierce need that was getting out of their control, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care…

“Oh, Matthew…”

“Hush, Misha. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not…just let me hold you.” His evening beard grazed her cheek as his lips nuzzled her throat. “Just let me hold you,” he repeated more softly. He cradled her head, urging her cheek to his shoulder, and his lips pressed into her hair. Her arms circling his waist, she closed her eyes, feeling very close to tears.

If subconsciously she had felt this way about Matthew before, she’d had no inkling of it. He had always been strong and protective and gentle with her, but she had never conceived of him as anything but a friend; she’d never have believed that she could want Matthew so badly, that she’d feel a need to inhale him the way her lungs needed to inhale oxygen. Richard had nothing to do with it. It was Matthew, pure and simple. Only it was far from simple.

She hadn’t forgotten Johnny. She hadn’t forgotten that Matthew still believed Johnny was conceived in adultery…and it mattered, desperately, but not now. Now, it seemed like a century since anyone had held her.

“Misha…”

Reluctantly, he was trying to put space between them, and her arms tightened as she raised her face to his. “No,” she whispered fiercely. Don’t move away, her heart cried. She knew all the reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this. She had been cautious and careful for years, backing out of every relationship long before she risked getting hurt. She knew better than to take such a risk with Matthew; she was conscious that he had the capacity to hurt her. It didn’t make sense. “Just for a minute,” she murmured.