Can’t Say No

hiding-that just wasn’t fair.

And if he thought she was attracted to him, he was crazy. She was curious, that was all. Surely any woman who’d been quiet, morally upstanding and sensible all her life had a secret wish to be ravished, just a little, by an unprincipled, good-looking rogue who knew too much about women?

And Hart did have a gift for making the nightmares go away. Dammit. His mouth dragged a slow chain of kisses down her throat, down toward the V of her robe. A foglike cotton clouded her brain; her flesh seemed to be raising goose bumps all over; her heart was becoming utterly confused, pumping in double time.

There was too much of him. Everywhere. He moved with the lethal slowness of a mountain cougar, his lips prowling her vulnerable spots…behind her ear, down again to her throat, whispering dangerously around the quilted robe that just covered her breasts. Through a tumble of fabric, she was well aware that his leg had sneaked between hers, that his palm was making lackadaisical curls down her spine to her bottom, that he was rubbing her deliberately against him.

And she was rubbing back.

“That’s it, honey. Tell me what you like,” he whispered. “God, you’re responsive. I knew the minute I met you…”

Only Hart would mistake simple curiosity for intense sexual responsiveness. Totally against her will, her fingers climbed his bare shoulders, traced the knotted cords in his neck, skimmed into the thick, rumpled mat of blond hair. Her eyes closed, the lids far too heavy to stay open. His mouth found hers in the darkness and molded itself to her lips, parting them.

Her neck arched back and her limbs turned liquid. It was a very foolish sensation, like feeling caught in the rain naked, like feeling drenched in liquid softness. Hart’s tongue swirled inside her mouth, playing games with her tongue. Between them, her robe twisted open, helped no small amount by his hands. She tensed.

“You have beautiful breasts, Bree…ssh. Let me see.”

He raised himself up just a little, very gently pushing aside her robe. She seemed to be trembling, for no reason whatsoever. It was the moonlight coming in. The soft silver bared her flesh, illuminated the shadow between her breasts, made the orbs look white and swollen. His finger traced the shape of one, around, beneath, making a circle, and then a smaller circle, and then just softly touching the peaked tip. A whispered murmur escaped her throat.

His eyes lifted to hers, all blue-black liquid. “Do you know what I want to do, honey?”

She shook her head.

“I want to kiss them, Bree. I’d like to bury my face between your breasts. I’d like to wash those little red tips with my tongue until you cry out. I want to feel the weight of them in my hands. I’d like to feel them crushed against me…” He bent down, to press a butterfly kiss…on her throat.

Below, the heartbeat between her breasts was going like a time bomb, as if to say, What about me? You just promised…

Hart slowly lifted his head again. “But you’re going to have to tell me what you want, Bree. Do it, honey. Tell me. Tell me, Bree…”

Instinctively, she parted her lips…but there was no sound. No sound at all. He just looked at her, waiting, and the moonlight washed over her bare breasts like a shower of heat.

“You have to tell me,” he whispered again. “You want me to make love to you, Bree?”

Yes. It was crazy and it was wrong…and she’d never wanted anything more. Her body was sending out a frantic yes; he could hardly have missed the message.

Abruptly, he draped the robe over her again. “When I was younger,” he murmured, “I used to enjoy the role of seducer. The hunt and chase and all that nonsense. It is fun, honey, but not nearly as good as when two people come together with honesty, both knowing what they want and willing to admit it.” He pressed one last kiss on her forehead before rolling over on his side. “I think you know what you want, Bree. But you’re going to have to tell me when you’re ready.”

Bree stared at his broad back, a little stunned to be so abruptly deserted. So he’d suddenly turned virtuous? And the lecture he should have taped.

Less than five minutes later, he was asleep.

Less than five hours later, Bree woke up alone. She knew there was no one next to her even before she opened her eyes; the warmth and the smell of him were gone, the weight of his arm around her waist…Bemused at the sudden flood of memories, her eyes blinked open, to lazy ribbons of sun pouring through the cabin window.

Groggily, she stood up, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. That didn’t really work, nor did splashing cold water on her face. Folding up Hart’s sleeping bag and blanket, she felt another sleepy rush of images invade her mind. Hart had pulled back, yes, and he’d done it in his usual insensitive way, trying to goad her into talking…as if she had a choice. She wasn’t forgiving him that, but there were other pictures floating in her head. As she dropped his sleeping bag on the front porch, she remembered the woman who’d deliberately awakened the sleeping bear, who’d willingly lain next to him. She remembered an abandoned response that had come from nowhere…a response that started with Hart, with some crazy thing he did to her when he touched her. Free. She’d felt free. To touch, to entice, to just…let go. To be a very different kind of woman than she’d always thought she was.

Put on your clothes, she reminded herself vaguely. Back to reality, Bree. He’s a selfish, arrogant man; it isn’t wise to forget that. You just ditched a perfectly decent fiance-your life’s a mess, and he’s the last man on earth you would want to get seriously involved with.

All true. That didn’t shake the bemused mood, the ridiculous feeling that she was utterly beautiful this morning. Silly. As she climbed the steps to the loft, the sun already felt hot, but she didn’t realize what time it was until she flicked an eye on the bedside clock. Eight. She’d really only had five hours’ sleep. A small smile touched her lips. She’d come to this cabin for rest, but she’d had very little since Hart came into her life.

Pulling open the wardrobe, she grabbed a camisole top and jeans. By sheerest chance, her eyes settled on the telescope. It was supposed to go in the bottom drawer, not on the floor of the wardrobe, and en route to putting it away properly she lifted it to the window.

There was action at the top of the ravine. The bare cement patio was about to be crowded with lawn furniture. A single chaise longue was already there. So was Hart, wielding one end of a white wrought-iron table. A little brunette was wielding the other end, laughing, dressed in a pair of indecently short shorts and an open-necked blouse.

From a distance, the brunette had kind of a cantaloupe for a face, but that was primarily because Bree hadn’t focused the telescope. And wasn’t going to focus it. She felt as though someone had just socked her in the stomach. Jamming the telescope in the bottom drawer, she tugged on clothes and thumped barefoot down the stairs with a furious scowl.

Call me when you evolve, she thought crisply as she flung bowl and Corn Flakes on the kitchen table. Darwin was wrong. Men were the lowest species, not the highest. Snakes went into heat less often than Hart Manning did.

She ate her breakfast so fast she got hiccups. Water splashed every which way as she attacked the bowl with suds and dishcloth, hiccuping on every second breath. By the time she’d cleaned up the suds sticking to the floor and herself, her nerves were sandpaper. He’d deliberately made her believe that she could mean something to him. He’d deliberately touched her with tenderness, seduced her with those lazy eyes of his.

She found herself staring at the white bowl, sparkling clean now twice over, and scowled again. In one quick movement, she sent it winging toward the door. It smashed obligingly. So did another plate. Actually, so did two cups and a saucer.

Silence followed. The sun beamed in on the white shards of porcelain. Bree’s hiccups were gone. And she was so sick of silence she could have screamed.

Chapter Six

With the sun blinding her, Bree stared grimly at the rusty latch on Gram’s old shed. It just didn’t want to give- she’d been trying for the better part of an hour. She tugged again at the knob, then finally threw her weight against