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after him to this very same cabin and then tried to tip him a dollar? Maybe he had the wrong cabin. But he knew he didn’t, even before he dragged himself away from the view long enough to check out the sign on the porch post.
    He should return her glasses and get the hell out. But instead, he crept back to the side of the cabin and peered through the window. Her elbows were lifted now, showing a body that was curved in all the right places. She turned profile. Her hands slid beneath her breasts, and she tilted her head as if looking in a mirror.
    Dillon licked dry lips. Tried to swallow. She arched back, lifted one plump breast, and ran her fingers over the tip.
    Desire swept through him, hitting him so hard that his knees buckled.
    Her hands moved again, this time to her hair. She was pulling out the pins that confined it in that unflattering bun. His mouth opened in anticipation. He tried to adjust his erection, but her hair fell loose and spilled over her shoulders, and the touch of his fingers almost caused his climax. He yanked his hand away.
    He could see her almost as if she weren’t hidden behind the curtain. Could imagine the feel of her hair, thick, and slightly wavy.
    Christ, what was going on with him? An out-of-body experience? A hallucination? He’d had a few in the hospital, but not since. And none as enjoyable as this. If only his jockstrap wasn’t cutting off the circulation to his balls. His dick was throbbing, searching for escape like a caged animal.
    He ordered himself to back up, leave the glasses on the porch, and get away. But he stood riveted to the spot as she picked up a brush and began to pull it through her hair. His hand drifted to the bulge in his kilt. His eyes closed as he pushed himself into his palm. It was a hell of a time to get the first real rush of desire he’d had in ten months.
    It was sick to be standing here like a voyeur at a peep show. It was disgusting. Perverse. Then she turned to the window and walked straight toward him as if she could see him. He ducked behind a tree, but couldn’t help peeking out again. She pushed the curtain aside. Raised the window. And he got a moment of full frontal.
    Jesus. This couldn’t be happening. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again as the curtain fell back and she walked out of sight.
    Dillon leaned against the tree. His heart racing. Okay, she was safe. Inside. The vision he was having of her must be the product of a not fully healed mind. And the fact that he hadn’t had sex in a really long time, hadn’t even wanted to have sex. The curtains were distorting her image….
    The rational part of his mind was trying to tell him something. It had tried earlier at dinner, but he’d been too concerned about Ariadne to listen properly. And now he was too blitzed. He stood there, the tree holding him up until his pulse returned to normal and he could breathe again.
    Okay. It was over. There was solid ground beneath his feet, and he was going to make sure it stayed that way. He was still holding her glasses and was relieved to see that he hadn’t broken them in his fever of lust or whatever it had been. He should knock on the door and return them to her, but even now, he didn’t trust himself to leave it at that. And to be honest, he didn’t want the spell to be broken.
    On second thought, he’d keep them. Bring them back first thing in the morning, before she left for breakfast. Yeah. That was a better plan.
    He’d get a good look at her in the daylight. She’d be wearing something god-awful. He’d be brought back to his senses and his sense of duty. See tonight for what it was. Some bizarre, waking wet dream.
    She would go her way and he would go his. And while she was learning to flirt, he would find a murderer.
    His fingers closed around the glasses and he backed away from the cottage.
    And, finally, away from her allure, rational thought kicked into place, and it