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when he looked at her, she felt naked and had to fight the urge to conceal herself.
    Or maybe it was his impressive physique. The man had strutted around in his underwear as if he did so every day, in front of presidents and popes alike. Not looking had been a sheer act of desperation.
    He had the blond hair of a surfer, the body of an athlete, the eyes of an angel, and a charisma that could warm cold stone.
    But most likely it was Harley’s wounded soul that drew her. When she looked at him, when she peered beyond the rugged exterior, she knew that he’d had some ugly things in his past, hurts that hadn’t gone away, memories that would haunt him forever.
    He was the most capable man she’d ever met, and though he tried to hide it, also the most vulnerable. On many levels, she both liked and admired him. He was strong and self-sufficient, handsome and very fit. Relaxed and friendly.
    Likable.
    Okay, so he was an obvious womanizer—in a charming, quiet, understated way. The analytical part of Anastasia insisted that was a defense mechanism. Given enough time and an opportunity to delve into his personality—which would require knowing him better—she’d learn why he felt so defensive.
    As a life coach, she could probably even help him.
    But Harley kept his thoughts on most things to himself. He was a big, bold, gorgeous enigma.
    What she knew of his sexual exploits, she’d heard from women, not him. She also heard that he never treated women poorly, didn’t address them as objects, and he never deceived his way into their bedrooms.
    He was a gentleman. Controlled, but kind.
    And considerate.
    Hadn’t he stopped on her birthday and spent more than an hour chopping wood? Okay, so he hadn’t known it was her birthday; that just made the gesture more generous.
    Maybe she could blame her birthday for the bizarre way she’d teased him. She had been melancholy, waking midway through the night to ruminate on mistakes that a twenty-seven-year-old woman shouldn’t make.
    With Harley no longer in sight, Stasia went to her couch and flopped down. She put her head back and closed her eyes. Her favorite music played from her stereo, but she barely heard it.
    Had she given Harley the wrong impression? Had she led him on? Memories wrestled in her mind, making her uneasy.
    Her last male client had called her awful names, the least of which was “tease.”
    He blamed her for a ruined marriage, a crumbling life.
    His wife, whom Stasia had never met face-to-face, blamed her, too. The poor woman had even threatened suicide.
    Stasia squeezed her eyes tighter, deliberately blocking that awful remembrance.
    What did Harley think of her now?
    Or did he think of her at all?
    Determined to stop torturing herself, Stasia got up and went through the routine of making dinner, even though she wasn’t hungry. Cooking for one never took long. By the time she finished preparing and eating a chop and vegetables, the temperature had dropped even more and another storm blasted the area. Giant, wet snowflakes covered the ice, making the road invisible.
    She looked at her meager pile of wood in a brass holder by the wood-burning fireplace, and resigned herself to going out. Better now, she told herself, than after her shower, when she’d only be wearing her pajamas.
    Bundling up head to toe, Stasia braved the weather for the woodpile. With her arms laden, snow clinging to her nose and eyelashes, she was on her way back in when headlights cut through the dark, stormy night.
    Since no one else lived on the road above her, she knew who it would be. She looked up, and seconds later, Harley’s Jeep came into view.
    She paused in the middle of her barren yard.
    The Jeep slowed, and then stopped in front of her. Harley rolled down his window.
    Stasia took one look at his frown, and issued a warning. “Don’t even think about getting out of that Jeep, Harley. I mean it.” She adjusted