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into the darkness of her mouth. So sweet, so warm…she was all abandoned fire in the black of night, a fierce flame, as bright as life, as woman. He’d sought only a simple kiss, but he needed more now. He needed Laura.
    His hands slid in a rush down her spine, her sides, wanting to learn the touch of her, feeling the soft crush of lace where he wanted to feel skin. Mine, said his hands. The primal need to claim, to establish possession…every male instinct intuitively recognized this woman as different. Laura felt right in his arms as no other woman had felt right. Rationally, he knew it wasn’t going too far, not here, not now. That didn’t matter. It only mattered that she feel as he did, that this richness of touch was rare and sweet and special.
    His palm strayed to her ribs; he heard her sudden intake of breath, savored it. His fingers stole higher, gently rounding on the firm, taut thrust of her breast.
    Like a startled fawn, Laura stiffened, jerked back. The roar of a dozen memories filled her ears like the sound of an angry ocean’s surf. Peter might as well have been looking over her shoulder. “You’re much too abandoned,” he would have said. “Do you have to go at it like a hellcat?”
    God, the shame. Heart pounding, Laura would have fled if Owen’s hand hadn’t swiftly, firmly closed over hers, forcing her to face him.
    His eyes wouldn’t leave her alone, searching her face. His touch, fiercely passionate moments before, was suddenly infinitely gentle, yet he wouldn’t free her hand. He could feel her captured fingers trembling. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said quietly.
    “No. You didn’t.”
    “Laura—”
    She couldn’t look at him.
    His voice was barely a whisper. “What the hell did that man do to you?”
    As if he knew she wouldn’t answer, he released her hand. She might have imagined the brush of his fingers in her hair; his touch was that swift, that elusive. Seconds later, he was gone, the throaty purr of his engine the only sound in the night, and then even that was gone.
    Don’t come back, Laura thought fiercely. Just…don’t come back.
     
    Laura glanced at the clock as she laid the sleeping baby back in her crib. Five-thirty. The sun was just thinking about getting up; a faint lavender haze hovered in the treetops outside.
    Mari usually slept after her last feeding; Laura never could. Yawning, she pulled a yellow crinkle blouse on over white pants. Barefoot in front of the mirror, she twisted her hair back and fastened it with a rubber band, then pinned it in a loose coil, out of her way. Her father used to say that the old-fashioned look suited her. Lace and cameos and antiques, she thought wryly; none of them were part of the twenty-first century.
    Before tiptoeing downstairs, she flicked a blanket and sheet over her bed. She had decorated Mari’s room first; her own had not seemed important. The mattress and box springs were still on the floor. The William and Mary four-poster frame was leaning against the wall, waiting until Laura had the time—and the strength—to put the bed together.
    That could wait, but she had to find the energy today to unpack her files, make business calls, shop for food, do some laundry… Her mind buzzed with a dozen plans, until she passed the hall mirror and noted her own rueful expression. You’re willing to think about anything but Owen this morning, aren’t you?
    He won’t be back, she assured herself as she puttered around the kitchen, brewing coffee, watering her plants. She finished off a banana and a slice of melon before there was a knock on the door.
    Owen’s suit was pale blue with a gray stripe, very elegant, very subdued on his tall, lean frame, and his eyes hadn’t changed from that unreadable gunmetal that had so disturbed her the night before.
    “Good morning, Laura.”
    Just like melted butter, that voice. “Well, good morning!” The surprise in her voice was totally fake. She had known he’d be back.