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a personality, beyond the roles she regularly played—the dutiful daughter and the excellent student and the anesthesiologist who, right from the start, got a reputation for being unshakable.
    Every label she could apply to herself was relatively nice. There was nothing bad, nothing terrible. For ages she’d told herself to be proud of what she’d accomplished, for being well liked and respected and exactly the daughter her dad wanted.
    It was just…that howling wind.
    It made her feel…alone. As if she’d disappeared somewhere in all those obedient roles. As if she had no life, no meaning outside what other people wanted her to be.
    The only thing that seemed to define her was the loss of that little boy. She knew perfectly well that she wasn’t legally at fault. Or morally. Or ethically. It wasn’t about that kind of fault. It was about her choice—that she’d chosen a career where she had life-and-death power over others.
    She wasn’t good enough.
    She wasn’t a good enough human being to just…take…that power.
    A scream of wind, angry, shrieking, seemed to circle the house in a fresh fury. She didn’t think she’d moved or made any sound, but out of nowhere the baritone on the floor said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. C’mere.”
    She blinked. He sounded wide-awake. And annoyed—the way he was so excellent at sounding annoyed. Even when he wasn’t.
    “I’m a big girl,” she said. “It’s stupid, letting myself react to that wind. It’s just…it’s the eeriest, scariest sound. I’ve never heard anything like it before. And it just never seems to stop .”
    “C’mere,” he repeated impatiently.
    Well, obviously, she wasn’t getting out of her nice, warm couch-nest and going any nearer to a stranger.
    It was another woman, whose feet gingerly hit the floor. Who tugged the top blanket around her and silently trod over to the big lunk’s body on the carpet.
    He lifted his blanket, said brusquely, “Don’t let the cold air in, goose.”
    And she crouched down.
    Smooth as a lion, his big paw came out, scooped her inside the warmth of blankets and against his long, lean body. He was covered. Just as she was. But, as if they’d slept together forever, he spooned her against him, just so, tucking the blanket protectively around her neck.
    He eased back with a sigh, the weight of his arm against her waist.
    The feeling of his erection sent trumpet warnings to her nerves. And of course she felt it. Even with double layers of clothes, he’d responded to her closeness the way…well, the way men did.
    “Just so you know,” he said sleepily, “I don’t sleep with women.”
    “Hell’s bells, neither do I.”
    After a moment’s silence, he erupted in an earthy chuckle. “I didn’t mean—”
    “I know what you meant. Just sleeping together doesn’t mean anything…personal.” She added, “Thanks. I was scared. It was stupid. But I was. So thanks.”
    “On that safe business…”
    She tensed faster than lightning.
    “You’re not,” he said.
    She twisted her head. “And that means…?”
    “That means, don’t make me out to be a saint. I can’t think of a reason in hell why we shouldn’t share the warmth. No one will ever know. There’s no possible harm. But the thing is, we’re trapped in this house together.”
    “Yes.”
    “I can’t jump you. It’d be taking advantage—you know it and so do I. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. Or that I’m not thinking about it. Or that I haven’t noticed you’ve got a really great butt.”
    “You think I haven’t noticed that you have a really great butt, too?”
    Another short silence. Then a dry, “Are you trying to suggest that I’m not safe with you, either?”
    “I’m just saying…I’ve been a saint, most of my life, and I’m awfully sick of the halo. That’s all I’m saying.”
    “Emilie.”
    “What?”
    “Go to sleep. I know we’re in trouble if you’re starting to make sense to me.” Then, “Maybe the