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her nose.
    Finally, when her sobs had subsided, she’d given an exhausted sigh. ‘What would I do without you?’ His tenderness brought a lump of emotion to her throat and made her voice husky. She put all the gratitude, warmth and love that filled her heart to overflowing into the kiss she pressed on his lips.
    The sudden tension in him communicated itself to her immediately. Had she offended him? ‘I’m sorry. . . ’ she began, suddenly horribly afraid she’d overstepped some invisible boundary.
    His blue eyes were burning with a strange light. She was ill prepared for the sudden weakness that pervaded her limbs—it went bone-deep. His glance flickered to the bare curve of her right shoulder, exposed where the baggy neck of her nightshirt had slipped. A sharp, painful sound swiftly cut off emerged from his chest.
    Holding her upturned face, his thumbs running down the length of her jaw, he bent closer. Like a sleepwalker he repeated her own impulsive action exactly. It should have been chaste, clinical even, their lips were modestly closed. It wasn’t!
    Frantic! When he lifted his mouth from hers she felt frantic. It couldn’t stop! He had to do that again, surely
     he could see that too? Through half-closed eyes she tried to read the hard lines and angles of his face.
    His laugh grated on her sensitised nerve-endings. ‘Feel better now?’ He wasn’t reading the right page of the script. She shook her head in a gesture of denial; this wasn’t the time for prosaic words.
    She felt a spurt of anger as he ruffled her hair, a need to lash out. Why must he always treat her like a child?
    ‘Do you feel better?’ she enquired in open challenge. She didn’t even try to understand the compulsion which drove her.
    She couldn’t plead error in retrospect; it was quite deliberate when her hands moved under the hem of his shirt. Fingers spread, palms flat, she slowly slid her hands up over his flat, tight belly and higher still to the muscle-packed expanse of his chest. Nothing , she decided, could feel better than his warm, satiny skin—the texture was intoxicating. The deep shudder that rippled through his immobile form must have involved every muscle in his body.
    ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
    If his voice had been icily cold it might have doused the fire in her brain, but it wasn’t—it held a husky rasp that made her tremble even harder. Tremble, yes, I am, she realised, feeling oddly objective about this discovery.
    ‘We both know what I’m doing, Liam.’ Her voice was husky but incredibly calm. Calm was the last thing she felt, she felt reckless, and drunk on power. ‘It’s what I’ll do next that’s got me wondering.’
    ‘You’re not yourself.’
    ‘You’ve no idea what a relief that is.’ Herself was miserable, depressed. . . repressed, a small voice added.
    ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’
    ‘I know that these buttons are hellish difficult. Could you help. . . ?’
    He caught her wrists then, roughly, and pulled them away from his body. ‘Don’t play games.’
    This had to be the most humiliating moment of her life! ‘Don’t look at me as if I’m an axe murderer! All I want is a kiss. If it’s too much trouble, don’t bother!’ she yelled, feeling totally mortified. She tossed her head and ripped her hands from his grasp. She held only a tenuous hope of salvaging even a shred of pride.
    She didn’t get more than a step away before he reached her and, with one arm around her waist, lifted her feet off the ground. The impetus of his action as he turned her around drove them forwards until her back was against the wall. The breath was driven from her body.
    Her head dropped forward. No wonder he was angry. She was acting like some sort of. . . of sex-starved tart. His hands were on her shoulders and she could feel his nearness from the heat of his body. She was too ashamed to look at him.
    ‘I’m sorry, don’t hate me. . . ’ Her voice cracked.
    ‘Hate? Oh,