crystal butterfly that shivered in a rainbow of colors as the light struck it. There was a chipped demitasse set that had come from one of Brooke's yard sale jaunts along with a fat, grinning bear. Parks noted a piece of Wedgwood next to a pink monkey holding cymbals. It clapped them together gleefully when he flipped a switch. With a quick laugh, he flipped it off again. There were other treasures scattered haphazardly through the room, some priceless, some no more than department store whimsy.
Above his head, the second-floor balcony ran the length of the house. No closed-in spaces, he noted.
He began to think the house itself would tell him more about Brooke than she would volunteer. The need for freedom of movement, the eclectic tastes, the combination of drab colors with the garish. It occurred to him that everything she owned would have been collected during the last ten years. But how much of the past had she brought with her?
Uncomfortable with Parks's silent, thorough survey, Brooke marched to a tiny corner cabinet to pull out a bottle. 'You're free to take a tour,' she said abruptly. 'I'm going to have a drink.'
'Whatever you're having's fine,' Parks said with infuriating amiability. 'You can show me around later.'' He proceeded to make himself at home on the low, spreading sofa. Leaning back, he glanced at the fireplace, observing by the ash that Brooke made good use of it. 'Fire'd be nice,' he said casually. 'Got any wood?'
'Out back.' Ungraciously, she stuck a glass under his nose.
'Thanks.' After accepting it, Parks took her hand. 'Sit down,' he invited with a pleasantness that put Brooke's teeth on edge. 'You've been on your feet all day.'
'I'm fine,' she began, then let out a gasp of surprise as Parks yanked her down beside him. Realizing she should have been prepared for the move despite his outward mellowness only fanned her already strained temper. 'Who do you think you are,' she began, 'barging in here, expecting me to whip up dinner then fall into bed with you? If you-' 'Hungry?' Parks interrupted.
She sent him a searing look. 'No.'
With a shrug, he draped his arm behind her, propping his feet on the hassock. 'You're usually illtempered when you are,' he commented.
'I am not ill-tempered,' Brooke raged. 'And I am not hungry.'
'Want some music?'
Brooke drew in a deep breath. How dare he sit there acting as though she were his guest? 'No.'
'You should relax.' With firm fingers, he began to knead the base of her neck.
'I'm perfectly relaxed.' She pushed his hand aside, disturbed by the sensation of warmth creeping down her spine.
'Brooke.' Parks set his glass on the floor, then turned to her. 'When you called me a few days ago, you accepted what you knew was going to happen between us.'
'I said I would see you,' she corrected and started to rise. Parks hand came back to her neck and held her still.
'Knowing what seeing me meant,' he murmured.
His eyes met the fury in her gaze for a moment, then drifted down to focus on her mouth. 'You might have refused to let me come here tonight…but you didn't.' Slowly, he brought his eyes back to hers in a long, intense look that had her stomach muscles quivering. 'Are you going to tell me that you don't want me?' She couldn't remember the last time she had felt the need to break eye contact. It took all her strength of will to keep from faltering. 'I…I don't have to tell you anything. You might remember that this is my time, my house. And-'
'What are you afraid of?'
As he watched, the confusion in her eyes turned back to fury. 'I'm not afraid of anything.'
'Of making love to me,' he continued quietly. 'Or to anyone?'
Angry color flooded her cheeks as she bolted up from the sofa. She felt a combination of rage and hurt and fear that she hadn't experienced in more than a decade. He had no right to bring the insecurity tumbling back over her, no right to make her doubt herself as a woman. Tossing her head, Brooke glared at him. 'You want to make love?' she snapped. 'Fine.' She turned on her heel and marched to the stairs leading to the second floor. Halfway up, she threw an angry look over her shoulder. 'Coming?' she demanded, then continued on without waiting for his reply.
The fury carried her across the balcony and into her bedroom, where she stood in the center of the room, seething. Her gaze landed on the bed, but she averted it quickly as she heard the sound of Parks's footsteps approaching. It was all very simple, she told herself.
They would go to bed and work this attraction or animosity or whatever it was out of their systems. It would clear the air. She sent Parks another killing look as he walked into the room. Fear prodded at her again. In. defense, Brooke hastily began to undress. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to stop, then Parks calmly followed her example. She was trembling and didn't even know it, he observed. For the moment, they would play it her way. As with the first night he had taken her out, Parks knew what Brooke expected. Though the angry fear urged him to comfort, he was aware that it would be refused. He didn't even glance over when she dropped her T-shirt into a heap on the floor. But he noticed that she had kept a small clutch of his hibiscus on her dresser. Naked, Brooke stomped over to the bed and pulled off the quilt. Head high, brows arched, she turned to him. 'Well?'
He looked at her. The surge of sharp desire caused him to go rigid to control it. She was long and softly rounded with fragile, china-doll skin. The proud almost challenging stance was only accented by the overall frailty-until one looked at her eyes. Stormy, they dared him to make the next move.
Parks wondered if she knew just how vulnerable she was and vowed, even as he planned to conquer, to protect. Taking his time, he walked to her until they stood face-to-face. Though her eyes never faltered, he saw the quick nervous swallow before she turned toward the bed. Parks caught her braid in his hand, forcing her to turn back. The fury in her eyes might have cooled the desire of most men. Parks smiled, comfortable with it.
'This time,' he murmured as he began to unbind the braid, 'I'll direct.'
Brooke stood stiffly as he slowly freed her hair. Her skin tingled, as if waiting for his touch-but he never touched her. Deliberately, Parks drew out the process, working his way leisurely up the confined hair until Brooke thought she would burst. When he had finished, he spread it over her shoulders as if it were the only task he would ever perform.
'It's fabulous,' Parks murmured, absorbed in its texture, at the way the slanting sunlight brought out the hidden gold within the red. Lifting a strand from her shoulder, he buried his nose in it, wanting to absorb the fragrance. Brooke felt her knees weaken, her muscles go lax. Would he ever touch her?
She kept her eyes on his face, trying to avoid a dangerous fascination with the tawny skin of his chest, the mat of dark-gold hair and cords of muscles she had glimpsed in his bare shoulders. If she allowed herself to look, would she be able to prevent herself from touching? But when she noticed the thin gold chain around his neck, curiosity drove her to follow it down to the small gold circle that dangled from it. Because of this, she didn't see him shift ever so slightly to press his lips against the curve of her shoulder. The touch was a jolt, a branding shock that had her jerking back even as his hands spanned her waist. 'Relax.' Fingers kneaded gently into flesh; warm lips nibbled it over his words. 'I won't take you anywhere you don't want to go.' Slowly, he ran the whisper-soft kisses over her shoulder, loitering at her throat. His fingertips ran down to her hips then back up in a rhythmic caress that could never soothe, but only arouse. He knew what he did to her-she knew her response was no secret. In a last attempt to hold her own, Brooke pressed her hands against his chest, arching back.
Parks still held her waist, but made no attempt to draw her back. Over the desire in his eyes, Brooke caught the light of humor. 'Want me to stop?' he asked quietly. There was a trace of challenge in the question. She realized abruptly that whatever response she gave, she would still lose.
'Would you?' she countered, fighting the urge to run her suddenly sensitive fingertips over his naked chest.
It was his slow, dangerous smile. 'Why don't you ask me and see?' Even as she opened her mouth to form an answer, his fastened on it. The kiss was soft and deep, the sort she knew a woman could drown in. Brooke had only the vague realization that her hands had crept up his chest to link around his neck, only the faintest knowledge that her body was melting into his. Then she was falling-or perhaps she was drowning-until the cool sheets were under her back and his weight was on her.
She didn't question how her body seemed to have become liquid, only reveled in the unaccustomed freedom of motion and space. His hands were so sure, so unhurried, as if he wished and waited for her total fluidity. With a
