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than he might expect. But, oh, blast, perhaps a dismissal. “Will you tell her anything about this?” she asked.
    He almost laughed at the idea. “She would not want to know. If you understand me.”
    “No. I don’t think I do, Mr. McCann.” She did not sound offended, but actually confused.
    Hell. He wasn’t certain he understood either. And this woman’s warm self so close meant he was having trouble breathing properly, let alone thinking. But he’d try. “A man has needs.”
    “But what about Daisy Graves?”
    “She would not have the same needs.”
    Miss Calverson shook her head, her loose hair shushed softly against the pillow. “Maybe not yet, she doesn’t. She will. I did not think I had those particular needs either.”
    “What changed?”
    “I met you,” she said, casual as can be.
    Uh-oh. What the hell did that mean? Mick, even in a full blown, painful state of desire, understood he truly had to pull back.
    He would remind her about the line. That would be enough to make her either feel ashamed or see red fury.
    “No. That’s not it at all,” he said gently. “Miss Graves is a good girl, you see.”
    She stared at him blankly, and then groaned. “This might be a problem,” she muttered as if speaking to herself. “Your world is divided between virgins and fallen women.”
    He’d been ready for her anger, but not this. He’d heard that kind of phrase before. “Look here, you think that just because I am Irish—”
    “Not just because you’re Irish.” She shoved up on an elbow to lean close and look him in the eye. “Because you are male.”
    He had no reply to that. Hell, he wished he’d just kept kissing her instead of introducing so damn many words into the situation. He’d be in her by now, if he’d kept quiet. In her and in heaven. The thought made him dizzy with a wave of raw, heart-stopping, groin-aching lust. He slipped his hands up the curves of her side and tried to pull her back against him.
    She made a disgusted noise, and flipped onto her back, out of his grip. Her mouth opened as she took a deep breath. No question, she had plenty to say. He supposed he deserved it.
    “I don’t think it can be that simple, Mr. McCann. Photography. Now thatis a matter of light and shadow.”
    He frowned. Still clutched by the astounding hunger for her, he wondered how the devil pictures came into the matter.
    “Hey?”
    “Photography is black and white. Yet even gray is not full color, and you can’t—”
    A sudden clattering and thumping interrupted her. Someone banged at the door.
    “Mr. Mick!”
    Timona clamped her mouth shut. Was she really about to blather on about photographs again? Mr. Blenheim was right. She needed to correct that tendency.
    Michael McCann slid away from her. He groaned, clapped a large hand to his forehead and shoved his fingers through sweetly bed-rumpled hair. And oh, my, the man had gorgeous forearms. Muscular and with red-gold hair.
    He shouted, “Rob? What is it?”
    There were more thumps coming down the stairs. “Mr. Mick!” several voices shouted. “Fire!”
    He had the door open before Timona, made awkward by her sore muscles, had managed to scramble out of the crater in the center of the bed. A group of faces surrounded Mr. McCann, mostly young children, and one weeping woman.
    They stood in a semi-circle looking up at the man, who already reeled off instructions. “Rob. You’d best take the pump since it needs strength. It’s a bitch to work of late.”
    Mr. McCann shoved his billy club toward a boy dressed only in a long undershirt. “Petey, you go downstairs and wait. Do not bang the curb for help unless Rob gives you the word. Got it? Only then. Or what happens?”
    “Or you’ll use it on my behind.”
    “That’s right, boy-o.” He snapped his fingers, and Botty scampered to his side. Mick pointed down the stairs. “Botty, you can’t follow me. Go with Petey. Go on.”
    The dog tucked what was left of its rear end between its