"All right."

"I would never hurt you."

"I know." She reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head. Tossing it aside, she put her hands on the firm muscles of his shoulders. Her earlier desire had been a thunderstorm, all clash and noise. This was a steady summer rain, warm and gentle, soaking into her skin like a parched summer garden. She pulled her sweater off and dropped it at her feet. Her lace bra followed.

A soft masculine sound hummed in his throat. His hands slid up her sides, stroking her rib cage, sliding around to cup her breasts. "God, you're beautiful."

She drew his head closer and kissed him.

"Not enough." She backed him across the floor. When she pressed on his shoulders, he sat in the chair. His gaze was on her bare breasts as she pulled his boots off. They hit the floor with dual thunks. Standing, she unbuttoned her jeans and slid out of them. Her lace Brazilian bikini was pale blue. "Your turn."

He was quicker, shedding his pants and socks all in a few economical motions. He wasn't a boxer or brief man and was totally comfortable with his nudity.

"Come here." Gentle hands urged her to him. Sitting on his lap, she pressed her body to his, skin to warm skin. His tongue was in her mouth, his hands on her back, stroking her inside and out. The erection pressed between them assured her that he still wanted her.

Brushing her hair aside, his mouth cruised down her neck, tongue and teeth and lips setting her nerves on end as they traveled down her collarbone to her breast. He drew her nipple into his mouth, his tongue laving until she was hard as a pebble. Lifting his head, he slid his hands down her sides. He traced the lace edges of her panties, fingers dipping just under the elastic over her hips. One hand slid over her buttock, caressing, squeezing her flesh through the lace.

She reached between their bodies and palmed the hard length of him. He groaned, a deep and masculine sound of approval. His hips surged upward. Hands eased inside her panties, palms cupping her bare bottom. One finger slid around to stroke her core, testing. Pleasure surged inside her. Involuntarily, her hips moved.

She ground her aching center against his hand, but it wasn't enough contact. The heat was building. She had to quell it before the frenzied need returned. Before she lost control. "Now. Please."

He froze. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Do you have a condom? Please say yes." She backed away to discard her panties.

He cleared his throat. "Wallet. Back pocket."

There were two. She tossed the spare onto the desk.

"There's no rush." But the cords of his neck were taut, and his erection bulged huge and hard beneath her touch.

She caught and held his gaze. "I want you now."

Turquoise irises darkened. He took the condom. His hands weren't entirely steady as he sheathed himself and waited for her to come to him. Her eyes raked over his lean, naked body, taking in his broad shoulders, defined abdominals, and powerful legs. He was the quintessential male, the ideal physical specimen. But ultimately, it was his kindness, his generosity, and his willingness to put his own needs aside for hers that sparked her desire. As he'd said, sex was easy to get. She'd had plenty of offers, but she wanted him.

She straddled his hips and took him into her body inch by inch. His body stiffened. His fingers dug into her hips as he allowed her to control the movement. She pressed down until he filled her completely. His hardness pressed against the soft ache inside of her. His body trembled beneath her.

Her head dropped backward. Her spine arched with pleasure. A moan started in her solar plexus, rippled up her throat, and slid from her lips. This was how it was supposed to be. Two bodies joined as one. Her core throbbed with the beat of her heart. Inside her, she felt the echoing pulse of his erection. Any movement would increase the sensation. Her body insisted, but her mind paused. Her control was spiderweb thin and just as fragile.

Conor's hands curled around the backs of her thighs, the fingers digging into her flesh. "Sweetheart, one of us is going to have to start moving." His voice was hoarse, his teeth clenched as if his movements were barely contained.

She rose, sliding to his tip in slow motion, then taking him deep again.

"Jesus," he hissed. "You're going to kill me."

She did it again. Her body bowed back farther, drawing pleasure from her nerve endings like the sweet friction of a violin bow on taut strings. Conor's hands slid up to her waist. His hips surged, matching the agonizingly slow pace she set.

"Louisa." He strained his head toward her, the effort tightening his abdominal muscles. His hand swept over her breast and collarbone to cup her jaw, urging her face closer. He kissed her, the motion of his tongue in her mouth mimicking the wet slide of their joined bodies.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Their chests met, the coarse hair on his pectorals rubbing against her breasts.

His lips moved to her ear. "I can't get enough of you."

With one hand pressed to the small of her back, he thrust upward again.

She closed her eyes as sensations overwhelmed her, the tension spiraling tighter and tighter in a swirl of white light behind her eyelids. From head to toe, her muscles clenched, her body tensing to the point of pain. A whimper of frustration escaped her lips.

Conor's hand left her back to cradle her face. "Look at me."

She raised her lids. The turquoise of his irises was nearly eclipsed by expanded pupils. She saw both pleasure and possessiveness in his gaze. What did he see in hers?

"Stop thinking, Louisa. Give that busy mind a rest." His hand returned to the small of her back, his palm warm and sure. "Just let go. Relax. Trust me."

His eyes held her captive.

"Breathe," he whispered. "Feel."

She exhaled and drew fresh air into her lungs.

"That's it." His smile did her in. Another slow thrust of his body pierced her control. It exploded inside her, shattered through her in electric waves of heat and light, her senses plummeting in a wild free fall that left her reeling and limp.

She felt him tense and grind against her. He shuddered twice, then relaxed. Breathing hard, he scanned her face. Sweat gleamed on his skin, and his damp hair was tousled over his forehead. She reached up to smooth her own locks, but he caught her hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it. "Don't. I love knowing that I made you come undone. It makes me want to do it all over again."

Oh, he undid her all right. Her heart was as wrung out as every other muscle in her body.

He pulled her to his chest. His lips brushed her temple. "Geez, Louise. My heart just about exploded."

The giggle that sneaked from her lips felt foreign. Had she ever giggled before? Likely not since she was a child, maybe not even then. "Even for you, that was a bad joke."

"I have some other bad things I'd like to try." He smiled, his eyes glinting. "When I said I didn't care about sex, I lied."

Her soul felt lighter than before they'd made love. She'd had sex with other men, but she'd never made love with anyone else. She'd only thought she'd made love because she hadn't known better. There would never be just sex with Conor. He wouldn't allow it.

26.

"Be right back." He got up and went into the bathroom to deal with the condom. When he emerged, the room was empty.

"Louisa?"

The apartment wasn't that big. He wandered toward the kitchen.

Draped in a pale-blue silk robe that covered her from neck to feet, she was filling a glass with sparkling water. Her hair was a tousled fall of blond that reached nearly to her waist. "Would you like some water?"

Conor accepted the glass. Louisa picked up her cell phone from the counter. She unlocked it and frowned at the screen.

"Something wrong?"

"I've been trying to get in touch with my father since yesterday."

"He's in Sweden, right?"

"Yes." She set the phone down. "I call him every Saturday."

"Maybe he went away for the weekend."

"Why wouldn't he take his cell with him?" she asked, a line of concern creasing her brow. "I'm worried about him. He isn't stable."

"What do you mean by not stable?"

Her gaze dropped to the counter. "He drinks a lot."

Conor touched her hand. "I'm sorry."

"When we spoke last week, he told me he was coming here for the holidays. I could tell something was wrong. I think it was the first time he sounded sober in years."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"I guess." She pulled her lip between her teeth. "But he said he needs to talk to me, and it was something he couldn't tell me over the phone, and now I can't get hold of him."

Conor pulled her into a hug.

Woof.

Kirra was standing at the door.

Conor took a sip of water. "I'll be right back."

He pulled on clothes and grabbed the leash from the closet. He clipped on her leash and headed outside.

"That was bad timing," he said to the dog. "She was talking to me. Really talking. I was getting somewhere. So let's make this quick, OK?" He tugged Kirra toward the grass. "I have plans."

The dog cooperated, and he was back in the apartment in ten minutes without incident. Maybe he'd overreacted. He opened the closet to hang up the leash. A blue Tiffany bag fell from the shelf and landed at his feet. A card and a small box labeled TIFFANY & CO. slid across the tile. He picked them up.

"Are you back?" Louisa stood at the end of the hall, her eyes riveted on the gift in his hand.

"I'm sorry. I knocked these out of the closet." He held out the bag. "Do you want me to put it back?"

She backed up a step, the warmth in her eyes dimming. With trepidation, he opened the box. It was a pendant. A gold sailboat gleamed on a thin, elegant chain. He opened the envelope and read the note.

Dear Louisa, A small token to show how much I miss you. I hope you'll reconsider your recent move and come home. You are the only one for me. I need you. I've always needed you. Please forgive me.

Yours always, Blaine "Who's Blaine?" Conor asked, but he knew. From the devastation on Louisa's face, Blaine was guilty of something. Conor dropped the bag on the hall table and crossed the tiles to her. She hadn't moved. He lifted his hands and gently took her by the shoulders. "Talk to me."

She shook her head, her face paling, anger brightening her eyes.

"It can't be that bad." He pulled her stiff body to his chest and kissed the top of her head, but her body still felt wooden.

He lifted her to sit on a kitchen stool. "Please, talk to me. Who is Blaine?"

She looked away. "Blaine is my aunt's godson, the child of her childhood friend who died young. After my mother died and Aunt Margaret came to live with us, Blaine visited her. He showed up at family parties. That sort of thing. He's six years older than me."

"Were you friends?"

A small shudder passed through her frame. "No. But I had a crush on him when I was a teen."

Conor stroked her arm. She inhaled, and he knew the story was coming.

"On my sixteenth birthday, my aunt threw a huge party. Of course, Blaine was there. It was noisy and crowded with people I didn't know. Most of the guests were Aunt Margaret's friends. My father had missed his flight home from Munich, and I was heartbroken. He'd been touring Europe, lecturing, and I hadn't seen him for several months. Blaine found me hiding in the library, crying. He grabbed a bottle of champagne and talked me into going down to the boathouse with him. My aunt was very strict, and I'd seen my father's drinking problem up close. I'd never had more than a sip of alcohol before. But I was so angry and hurt, I thought maybe I'd just follow in his footsteps." She paused, her eyelids falling to half-mast, disgust flattening her lips.

"It's OK," Conor encouraged. "You'll feel better if you get it out."

But she wouldn't meet his eyes. "The next thing I knew, it was morning and we were both naked. I didn't remember anything. I'd never had sex, but it was obvious that's what had happened."

Picturing a young and vulnerable Louisa, Conor clenched a fist and rapped it against his thigh. "What did Blaine say?"

"He was enthusiastic about doing it again." Two bright spots of color rose into her cheeks.

"How old was Blaine at the time?"

"Twenty-two."

Twenty-two-year-old boys generally knew how to drink. Conor had seen more than one guy try to get a girl wasted to get into her bed. "I assume he'd had alcohol before?"

"He was in a fraternity. Alcohol consumption seemed to be his major at the time."

"Not you, though." No, Louisa had good girl written all over her.

A sad smile twisted her lips. "I didn't have much of a social life. Like Zoe, I was years younger than my classmates. At sixteen, I'd just received my bachelor's degree, but I'd never been to a college party. Frankly, I was a pathetically obedient teen. The total trying-to-win-Daddy's-approval-by-being-perfect cliche. If I disappointed my aunt in any way, the first thing she did was call my father to tell him."

Conor's heart pinged. Louisa identified with her lonely young intern. Both had been preyed upon, but Zoe had likely ended up dead.

"Honey, Blaine took advantage of you. You can't beat yourself up for the rest of your life about it," Conor said. "How much did you drink?"

"A glass? I don't remember."

Conor froze. "You drank one glass of champagne and blacked out?"

"Yes. That's why I don't drink. Obviously, I have an adverse reaction to alcohol."

He straightened her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "Louisa, no one passes out from one glass of champagne."