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around him, pressed her body to his, and parted her lips.
    His body hardened to aching, and he groaned into her mouth, pulling her closer. She came, rested flush against him until he could feel the heat of her. His tongue tested the warmth in her mouth, silk and moist. Then her hands moved over his buttocks.
    His grip tightened—everything tightened—and he shifted his mouth over hers and tugged and nibbled at her lower lip, probed deeper, then deeper yet. He wanted more.
    "Ouch!"
    The word didn't fit. It took a second for it to register.
    Her neck. Damn it, he'd hurt her!
    He released her abruptly, but held her upper arms while he tried to even out his breathing. She eased back slowly, grimacing.
    "I hurt you." He cursed. He was an idiot. Godzilla in heat. What in hell made men so damn clumsy, anyway? But he knew, in this case, it was Rosie. If he'd hurt her, he swore he'd never try anything like this again—until he had a permission slip from her doctor.
    "No," she said, but her hand flew to the back of the brace and her face was all scrunched and rigid.
    "Damn it, Red, I did hurt you. Get your coat. I'm taking you to your doctor."
    "I'm fine," she repeated, her voice stronger now. "Just snarled up. Lend me a hand, would you? And get my hair out from under this conning tower I've got around my neck." She turned her back on him and lifted her hair from her nape.
    As he carefully untangled her hair, he said, "You're absolutely certain I didn't hurt you?"
    "Positive. You'd need wire cutters and a blow torch to get to me through this." She faced him then, her hair frazzled, her face delectably pink.
    "Thank God." He touched her cheek, but she stepped away, her expression wary again.
    "I knew you were trouble, you know. The minute I caught that scent you wear."
    "I don't wear scent." He reached for her again, and she put a chair between them. "We shouldn't have started something neither of us can finish," she said, lifting her gaze to his, her expression stern as a preacher's.
    He grinned. "Not true. I'm a great finisher."
    "Then take up woodworking." She stepped briskly from behind the chair and headed for the door. "I'm going to get ready for work." She wobbled and bumped a shoulder against the doorjamb, but she didn't look back.
    Kent watched her disappear through the kitchen doorway, disappointed she wasn't going to eat with him, but not surprised. Probably just as well, because he needed to cool down. And unless he was miles off base, so did she. He tucked into the breakfast she'd fixed him. Thank God he hadn't hurt her, because it would have been hell to keep that promise. He liked Rosie O'Hanlon. He liked her a lot.
    It occurred to him that in less than forty-eight hours he'd eaten here three times. That put him dangerously close to freeloader status. Strange, too, that he was more rested after sleeping on Rosie's couch than he was after a night in his king-sized bed.
    He looked at his watch. Over an hour late. He picked up his pace. Marlene probably had an APB out on him by now.
    He was putting his dishes in the dishwasher when Rosie rushed back to the kitchen. If his kiss had made an impression, she gave no sign of it—other than to keep a good ten feet between them.
    "Hennessy's outside," she announced. "Gotta go. Can you see yourself out? Do I look okay? There are no labels sticking out or anything is there?"
    Gone were the outrageous socks and green pants. In their place were a long, loose skirt and an oversized white shirt tied at the waist. She'd pulled her hair into a topknot resembling a badly engineered waterfall and used a blue scarf to camouflage part of her neck brace. He lowered his gaze. And she was wearing shoes, sneakers with scorching yellow laces—and red toe caps. He shook his head.
    "You look great. Corporate America will never be the same."
    "Thanks. You can see yourself out, can't you?"
    He nodded, and she rushed for the door.
    "Oh, I almost forgot." She turned back. "Would you write down your