“Did you see what he did?” Mac murmured.

“He who?” Del asked.

“Carter. He just . . . Every time I think I have him figured out, he shifts on me. It’s confusing.”

Somebody else had it bad, Del noted as Mac hurried down the path to finish her job.

IT TOOK NEARLY TWO HOURS BEFORE MAC COULD FINISH AND track Carter down in Laurel’s kitchen. He sat alone in the breakfast nook, reading. As she came in, he glanced up, took off his glasses. “All clear?”

“More or less. I’m sorry it took so long. Carter, you should’ve gone home. It’s after midnight. I should’ve gotten word back to you. Oh, your poor face.” She winced at the bruise on his jaw.

“It’s not so bad. But we decided I should stay here. If I’d come back out, I might’ve had to explain how I came by this.” He touched his fingers gingerly to the bruise. “I’m terrible at lying, so this was simpler. Plus, as promised, there was cake.”

She slid in across from him. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, Parker had a copy of a John Irving novel I hadn’t read yet. I’ve been tended, entertained, and fed. Your partners made sure of it. And both Jack and Del each came back for a while. I’ve been fine.”

“You didn’t even wobble.”

“Sorry?”

“When that stupid bastard belted you. You barely reacted.”

“He was half drunk so there wasn’t that much behind it. He shouldn’t have put his hands on you.”

“You never even raised your voice. You shut him down—I could see it happen in his face, even before the troops arrived. And you never touched him or raised your voice.”

“Teacher training, I suppose. And a wide and varied experience with bullies. Did the newlyweds get off all right?”

“Yes. They don’t know what happened. They’ll find out, I imagine, but they had their day—and that was the point. You were a big part of that.”

“Well, it was an experience. All it cost me was a sore jaw and a pair of shoes.”

“And you’re still here.”

“I was waiting for you.”

She stared at him, then just gave in to the shimmer inside her heart. “I guess you’d better come home with me, Carter.”

He smiled. “I guess I’d better.”

MISTAKES HAPPENED, RIGHT? MAC REMINDED HERSELF AS SHE opened the door of her studio. If this was a mistake, she’d fix it. Later. When she could think more clearly. But at the moment, it was after midnight, and there was Carter in his three-piece suit and ruined shoes.

“I’m not as tidy as you.”

“

Tidy’s such a fussy word, don’t you think?” He gave her an easy smile. “The sort that makes you think of your great-aunt Margaret and her tea cozies.”

“I don’t have a great-aunt Margaret.”

“If you did, she’d probably be a tidy sort with a tea cozy. I prefer the word

organized.”

Mac tossed her coat over the arm of her couch. Unlike Carter, she didn’t have a coat closet. “I’m organized then, when it comes to my work, my business.”

“I could see that today. It seemed you knew exactly what to do, where to be, what to look for before it was there.” He laid his coat over hers. “That’s creative instinct married to organization.”

“And I use them both for the work. Outside of that, I’m a messy woman.”

“Everyone’s messy, Mackensie. Some people just shove the disorder into a closet or a drawer—at least when company’s coming—but it’s still there.”

“And some people have more drawers and closets than others. But since it’s been a long day, let’s step back from the edge of the philosophical cliff, and just say I’m telling you this as my bedroom isn’t at its best.”

“Are you looking for a grade?”

“As long as there’s a very generous curve. Come on up, Dr. Maguire.”

“This used to be the pool house,” he said as she led the way.

“The Browns did a lot of entertaining, so they redesigned it as a kind of spare guest house. Then when we opened the business, we redesigned again for the studio. But up here, it’s all personal space.”

A master suite sprawled over the second story, layed out, Carter saw, to accommodate a sitting area where he imagined she might read, nap, watch TV.

Color dominated, with the muted, misty gold of the walls serving as a backdrop for strong blues, greens, reds. Like a jewel box, he thought, with everything cluttered in, tangled, and gleaming. Clothes draped over the arms of chairs. Bright sweaters, soft shirts. Throws and pillows tumbled over the bed, the couch, like bold stones and rivers.

A wildly ornate mirror hung over a painted chest that served as a dresser. The top held jumbled and fascinating pieces of her. Earrings, magazines, bottles, and pots. Photographs served as art, portraits of those close to her. Posed and candid, pensive and joyful. With them scattered over the walls, she’d never be alone here.

“There’s so much of you here.”

“I try to shovel some of it out every couple of weeks.”

“No, I mean it reflects. Downstairs reflects your professional side, and this, the personal.”

“Which circles back to my point about being a messy woman.” She opened a drawer, pushed in a discarded sweater. “With a lot of drawers.”

“So much color and energy in here.” It was how he saw her. Color and energy. “How do you sleep?”

“With the lights off.”

She stepped to him, laid her finger on his bruised jaw. “Still hurt?”

“Actually . . . yes.” Now, alone in her jewel-box room, he did what he’d wanted to do all day. He kissed her. “There you are,” he murmured when her lips warmed to his. “Right there.”

She let herself lean into him, let herself sigh as she rested her head on his shoulder. Yes, she’d think later. When he wasn’t holding her, when her mind wasn’t fuzzed with fatigue and longing.

“Let’s get you into bed.” He kissed the top of her head. “Where are your pajamas?”

It took her a minute to process the question, then she leaned back to stare at him. “My

pajamas?”

“You’re so tired.” He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Look how pale you are.”

“Yeah, and me with my ruddy complexion. Carter, I’m confused here. I thought you were staying.”

“I am. You’ve been on your feet all day, and waged war for part of it. You’re tired.”

He unbuttoned her suit jacket in the practical way that reminded her of the way he’d once buttoned her coat.

“What do you sleep in? Oh, maybe you don’t.” His eyes came back to hers. “Sleep in anything, I mean.”

“I . . .” She shook her head, but none of the thoughts inside it fell into place. “You don’t want to go to bed with me?”

“I am going to bed with you. To sleep with you because you need sleep.”

“But—”

He kissed her, soft and slow. “I can wait. Now, pajamas? I hope you say yes because otherwise one of us isn’t going to get much sleep.”

“You’re a strange and confusing man, Carter.” She turned, opened a drawer to pull out flannel pants and a faded T-shirt. “This is what I call pajamas.”

“Good.”

“I don’t have any in stock that’ll fit you.”

“I don’t actually wear . . . Oh. Ha.”

He’d change his mind when they were in bed, she thought as they undressed. But he got points for good intentions. Yes, she was tired, her feet ached and her brain felt dull, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t find energy for sex.

Especially really good sex.

When he slid into bed beside her, she curled into him, trailing her hand over his chest, lifting her mouth to his. She would arouse and seduce, and then—

“Did I tell you about the lecture I’m planning on methodological and theoretical analysis of the novel, with a specific emphasis on home—both literal and metaphorical—as motif ?”

“Ah . . . uh-uh.”

He smiled in the dark, gently, rhythmically rubbing her back. “It’s for seniors in my advanced classes.” In a quiet monotone designed to bore the dead, he began to explain his approach. And he explained it as tediously as possible. He gauged it would take five minutes, tops, to put her to sleep.

She went out in two.

Satisfied, he rested his cheek on top of her head, closed his eyes, and let himself drift off with her.

SHE AWOKE WITH THE WINTER SUN SLANTED OVER HER FACE. She awoke warm.

Sometime in the night he’d spooned her, and now she lay snugged back up against him, wrapped close. Cozy, she thought, rested and relaxed.

He’d wanted her to sleep, so she’d slept. Wasn’t it funny how he managed to get his way without demanding, without pushing?

Sneaky.

Well, he wasn’t the only one.

His arm wrapped around her waist. She took his hand, pressed it to her breast.

Touch me. She pressed back against him, sliding her leg between his.

Feel me.

She smiled when his hand moved under hers, when it cupped her. And when his lips pressed to the nape of her neck.

Taste me.

She turned so they were face-to-face, so her eyes could look into the soft blue of his. “I feel . . . refreshed,” she murmured. And still looking into his eyes, let her hand glide down his chest, over his belly until she found him. “Hey, you, too.”

“It often happens that certain parts of me wake up before others.”

“Is that so?” She shifted, rolling him to his back to straddle him. “I think I’m going to have to take advantage of that.”

“If you must.” In a lazy morning caress, he ran his hands down her torso, over her hips. “You even look beautiful when you wake up.”

“I have bed hair, but the part of you that wakes up first doesn’t notice.” She crossed her arms, gripped the hem of her T-shirt. Pulled it up, off, tossed it. “Now that part doesn’t know if I even have hair.”

“It’s like the sun set on fire.”

“You’ve got a way, Carter.” She leaned down, caught his bottom lip with her teeth. “Now, I’m going to have my way.”

“Okay.” As she leaned back, he sat up. “But do you mind if I . . .” And closed his mouth on her breast.

“No.” Her belly clutched in response. “I don’t mind a bit. God, you’re good at this.”

“Anything worth doing.”

Soft, firm, warm, smooth. She was all those things. He could feast on her, break his fast with the enticing, alluring flavors of her. She pressed him closer, urging him to take more while her hips rocked him into heat.

She bowed over him, back from him, wriggling out of the flannel pants. She pushed him back, rose up, her body lean and pale, dappled by the thin light that eked through the windows. She took him in, surrounding.

She arched, trapped in her own web of pleasure, and moved to the beat of her own blood. Slow and thick and deep, gliding silk to silk, steel to velvet. In that morning hush, there were only sighs, a tremble of breath, a whispered name.

And the beat quickened while pleasure tipped toward ache. She watched him watch her, watched what she was fill his eyes as that ache spread, swelled. The beat pounded—urgent now, faster now. She rode him, rode them both until the ache peaked, tore, and shattered.

When she went limp, he drew her down and held her close as he had in the night.

Floating, she thought, it was like floating down a long, quiet river where the water was warm and clear. And even if you sank, he’d be there, to hold on to you.

Why couldn’t she have this, just enjoy this, without creating obstacles, digging up problems, worrying about mistakes, about tomorrows? Why let the maybes, the ifs, the probablies spoil something so lovely?

“I’d like to stay right here,” she said quietly. “Just like this. All day.”

“Okay.”

Her lips curved. “Are you ever lazy? Do the serious sloth?”

“Being with you isn’t lazy. We could consider it an experiment. How long can we stay in this bed, without food or drink or outside activities? How many times can we make love on a Sunday?”

“I wish I could find out, but I have to work. We have another event today.”

“What time?”

“Mmm, three o’clock, which means I have to be over there by one. And I have to upload the shots from yesterday.”

“You need me out of the way.”

“No, I was thinking shower and coffee for two. I might even scramble some eggs instead of offering you my usual Pop-Tart.”

“I like Pop-Tarts.”

“I bet you eat the grown-up breakfast.”

“I rely heavily on Toaster Strudels.”

She lifted her head. “Those are great. If I can provide hot water, coffee, Pop-Tarts with a side of eggs, would you consider hanging out for today’s event?”

“I would—if a toothbrush and a razor get tossed in. I don’t suppose you have a spare pair of shoes.”