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it wasn’t like she was his to lose. “You shouldn’t have come.”
    Staring at the outline of her arms beneath the blanket, trying to make sure she took the damn shirt off while simultaneously trying not to think about what she was revealing, he waited, giving her time for something he knew she’d never accomplish.
    Sure enough.
    She fumbled, taking forever with the top button, and there was no way she’d ever manage to undo one button, much less a row of them. Her fingers were way too cold and clumsy.
    “Need help?” he asked softly.
    Her expression murderous, she gave a sharp nod.
    Ignoring the growing hum of his blood as it coursed through his veins, Sandro reached for the blanket so he could get her out of those clothes.

Chapter 4
    S kylar wasn’t sure which was worse: the searing pain in her leg or the galling humiliation of being dependent upon Sandro Davies, a man who clearly didn’t want to be bothered with her and was probably regretting his decision not to let the killer tree keep her.
    Then she risked another glance up at Sandro’s hard features and decided that, yeah, the humiliation was much worse. The pain, after all, would eventually go away.
    How on God’s green earth had she gotten herself into this fix? It was all her fault for running out into the rain and driving off like a maniac. Well, no. Her fault went way beyond that. It was all her fault for coming out here to this storm-swept fortress of solitude to confront Sandro when it would have been easier to just mail him the paperwork handing over her half of the estate.
    And, of course, it was her fault for not being able to forget his face and the time they’d met. Clearly, she hadn’t put her mind to it and tried hard enough.
    Now she was paying the price. Served her right.
    Hadn’t she known, the second that she knocked on the door, that this night was destined for disaster? Well, here it was. Disaster in the form of the brooding sexy man who hated her.
    God, her head was spinning.
    If things kept up like this, she’d be barfing on him soon, and wouldn’t that be an appropriate finish to this lovely trip to the Hamptons?
    She winced and closed her eyes again, trying to will away the pain, the bone-freezing cold and the embarrassment. Unfortunately, the facial gesture sent a flash of pain pulsing from her temple through the top of her head. For added kicks, she felt the warm trickle of blood, as though the wound hadn’t quit oozing yet. Wonderful. With a weak moan, she reached for the spot with shaky fingers, meaning to do something with it, maybe press or rub the cut into submission. Sandro forced something soft (a handkerchief?) into her hand.
    “Use this.”
    His hand on top of hers, he guided the cloth into position and pressed down. It hurt. A lot. This, in turn, kicked off another wave of nausea and, to her further shame, the hot sting of tears that insisted on leaking out the corners of her eyes.
    “You’re not crying, are you?” he murmured.
    If there was any sort of a god at all, he/she/it would punish this bastard—severely and repeatedly—for taunting her in her moment of weakness.
    Taking a shuddering breath, she pulled it together. “No,” she snapped. “I never cry.”
    “Good. Let’s work on your clothes before you get hypothermia.”
    Without further ado, he reached under the bottom of the blanket and started on the top button of her shirt, which he undid with a brisk efficiency that made her wonder how often he undressed women without looking. Ha. Dumb question. The rest of the buttons followed, and soon he was pulling the edges of her shirt apart.
    She could feel the fluffy tickle of the soft blanket brushing against her skin, but his fingers never touched her flesh. Was he avoiding that contact?
    And why, with everything else going on, was she hungry for it?
    Things went smoothly until it was time for him to ease the shirt past her shoulders and down her arms, when he hesitated.
    Some devil made her open her