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scramble eggs and sear meat on a charcoal grill. Neither constitutes cooking.”
    She smiled again, wondered again how he did that.
    â€œHave a seat,” he said. “I’ll get the orange juice.”
    The moment she was seated, the dog padded over to be properly petted. His coat was brown but there was gray in his muzzle. Someone had done a poor job of lopping his tail. He wagged it anyway. She found she liked that about him. “What’s your dog’s name?”
    â€œHe isn’t my dog.”
    Rubbing the creature’s big knobby head, she said, “Whose dog is he?”
    Riley leaned against the countertop behind him. Drying his hands on several paper towels, he watched her pet the dog. The old boy was in seventh heaven. “I have no idea. He scratched on my door three weeks ago, desperate and shivering. His fur was falling out and his ribs were practically poking through his skin.”
    â€œYou fed him.”
    Three little words had no business making him feel like some damn hero. Madeline had that effect on him. She was like an elixir for an ailment he couldn’t name, and brought out every sexual impulse he had.
    She’d fastened her hair high on her head with a silver clip, the ends sticking out in every direction. Wearing a plain white T-shirt and weekend jeans, she couldn’t have looked more wholesome if she’d tried. He’d been craving wholesome all morning.
    He’d never considered himself the caveman type, but he found himself wondering if the human race might have become a little too civilized. Survival would have been difficult for Neanderthal man, but at least his approach to sex would have been straightforward, requiring only a club and a loincloth.
    Seducing modern woman called for a little more finesse.
    Riley was warming to the idea of a good challenge. He turned around long enough to drop some butter and the eggs into the frying pan and pour their orange juice, then crossed the room, a glass in each hand.
    Madeline smiled a quick thank-you and took a sip of her juice before looking down again where his coffee mug still sat half-full and stone-cold. Tracing one of the scorch marks marring the old hickory surface, she said, “You must wait out a lot of nights here.”
    She was extremely astute. The truth was, he spent more nights than he cared to think about sitting at this table, quietly draining a pot of steaming coffee one cup at a time as he waited for the stubborn sun to inch into view.
    â€œNightmares?” she asked.
    There was no sense denying it, even though the blasted nightmare hadn’t been to blame last night. He’d awakened before 4:00 a.m., the sheet tangled around his waist, his pillow no substitute for the wholesome blonde who’d seemed so wonderfully real until he’d opened his eyes.
    He set his juice on the table. Resting lightly on both hands, he leaned closer. Her pupils were dilated in the shadowy room, so that only a narrow ring of blue surrounded them. If she was wearing makeup, it was subtle. Her cheeks looked dewy, her lips pink and so kissable. Before the morning was over, he was going to sample them.
    Either she didn’t feel the current stretching taut between them, or she refused to acknowledge it. She told him about her parents’ deaths when she was twelve, about her older brothers and the family business in a town called Orchard Hill. She didn’t broach the subject of her late fiancé, Aaron somebody-or-other.
    So Riley did.
    â€œHow did he die?” he asked, still leaning on his hands, still thinking about kissing her.
    â€œA motorcycle accident. I’d just started my shift at the hospital when I got the call. A witness said a frazzled young mother late for work crossed the center line. She and her little girl died in the accident. Aaron died twelve hours later.”
    â€œSonofabitch,” he said.
    Her eyes widened. “How do you do that?” she asked. “How