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  there and don’t want to have to see him every day.

  —Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry

  Breanne watched Cooper walk away and concentrated on breathing through her panic. There was also the fact that the firelight gilded his broad shoulders and sleek back, highlighting the worn Levi’s that fell low on his hips, intimately cupping his tush, which she had to acknowledge was absolutely worth intimately cupping.

  He had a way of moving, and a way of taking in his surroundings as he did. Intensely aware, she would have said. As if he was a predator.

  And maybe he was.

  Gulp.

  Then he vanished entirely, was simply swallowed up by the dark house, the only person she really had in this Alice-in-Wonderland place. Too proud to speak up, she sat there, heart in her throat, staring into the dark, gaping doorway that she couldn’t see beyond, wondering what, or who, else besides Dante was out there.

  A loud thump came from nowhere, and she leapt to her feet. The vibrator fell to the floor. Sweeping up the still-glowing thing, she clutched it to her chest as the thug/butler came back into the room.

  Dante’s hood was low over his face, but he carried a tray with two steaming cups of something, and suddenly she didn’t care if the beefy, scary guy was Hannibal Lecter, he had something hot.

  “Here,” he said, and handed her one of the cups with surprising grace for a tough, built guy who looked as if maybe he wore a cape and wrestled in his skivvies for a living. Or whacked kneecaps.

  She stared at the offering, thinking of every bad movie she’d ever stayed up too late watching. Not only was she the stupid heroine alone in the house with two potential bad guys, she was about to be poisoned—

  “If I was going to do something to you,” he murmured, “it wouldn’t be poisoning your drink.”

  She looked up at him and caught a surprising flash of humor in his eyes. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Nah, that would be rude.” He pushed her mug toward her mouth. “Drink. You’re shivering so much you’re making me cold.”

  “Fine.” At least she’d die warm. She tucked the vibrator back into her waistband, grateful he hadn’t made fun of her makeshift flashlight. Then her fingers closed around the ceramic mug, and at the blessed heat of it, she nearly burst into tears. “What was that noise before?”

  “What noise?”

  “I heard something bump. Or crash.”

  Dante turned away, his wide shoulders completely blocking the fire’s warmth for a moment as he set the other mug down on the small table by the couch. “I dropped something. Drink before you freeze to death.”

  Or something to death, anyway. She sipped and, despite herself, moaned aloud at the frothy, thick, melting chocolate on her tongue. “Oh, my God.”

  “Good?”

  “Amazing.”

  “Shelly made it, the cook here. She had water going on the stove before the power went out, luckily. I’ll tell her you like it.”

  Eyes closed, Breanne sipped some more, savoring the heat of it as it slid down her throat. Lifting her head, she went to smile at her mysterious butler, meaning to ask about the rest of the invisible staff, but he was gone.

  Without a sound.

  Yikes. Real or Memorex? She’d have sworn she’d imagined the whole thing—except she was holding the hot chocolate. Lord, she was losing it here. She looked around uneasily, the only sound the crackling of the flames and her own heartbeat echoing heavily in her ears. No sign of her hooded, right-out-of-a-thriller butler.

  Or, for that matter, Gorgeous Naked Guy.

  She sucked down more of the hot chocolate, wishing it was liquid courage, then stood and moved closer to the fire. She was tired of shaking, and damn tired of being wet and cold, so she tugged off her iced-over sweater. That left her in just a white tank top, and, crouching down before the flames, the warmth of the flames danced over her torso and arms, and she wished she could shuck out of her wet jeans, too.

  “Miss me?”

  Whipping around, she faced one tall, dark, and slightly attitude-ridden Cooper Scott. Still sockless and shoeless, he smiled grimly, and she did her best not to drool or stare.

  His gaze touched on the sweater she’d spread across the mantel to dry, then swiveled back to her standing there in her little white tank top. She’d worn it because it sucked her in and pushed her out in all the right places, and because after competing with Dean’s cell phone and long hours at work for months, she’d decided no more. She’d wanted to make sure he noticed her tonight, every inch of her.

  Too bad Dean hadn’t told her that he’d also decided no more. No more her. Now she was standing there, probably looking like a coed after a wet T-shirt contest.

  Cooper’s gaze lingered on her chest for a beat before lifting to her face. He didn’t say a word, but jaw tight, dropped a duffel bag at her feet. In that oddly graceful and yet utterly masculine way he had, he hunkered down and began to go through it, the long, sleek muscles of his back and shoulders bunching and releasing with his every movement. “I couldn’t see upstairs,” he muttered. “Or I’d have—Here.”

  She reached for what he offered, a dark pair of plain sweat bottoms. Elastic around the ankles and the waist. He tossed her another dark item as well, a matching sweatshirt.

  Her job in the accounting firm required her to dress up on a daily basis, which was amusing given that in school she’d never met a math class or a dress she’d liked, but years later she’d developed a taste for both.

  Sweats hadn’t figured much in her life. But then again, this wasn’t her life, this was some alternate universe she’d stumbled into. So what if the sweats were going to make her look both short and fat; this was about survival, not looking good. Or so she told herself. “These are too long.”

  “Roll ’em up.”

  Spoken like a man who’d probably never given his appearance a single thought. And why should he—she’d seen him naked. He had nothing to hide, not a damn thing.

  “Hurry up,” he said, and for a split beat his gaze dropped, running over her body. Specifically, her nipples, which could surely cut glass. “You’re turning blue.” He straightened and took a step toward her, maybe even to do it for her, and suddenly hurrying seemed like a good idea. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head; then, with her arms still up, she paused. Holy smoke, the inside of his sweatshirt smelled good, like . . . like rough-and-tumble man. She stood there and inhaled some more, thinking they ought to bottle this smell—

  “You okay in there?”

  She yanked the sweatshirt into place. “Fine. Just got stuck for a minute.”

  “Uh-huh.” His expression said he knew exactly what she’d been doing, but he sat on the floor without a word and pulled on socks, then running shoes, making her realize she wasn’t the only one freezing.

  And yet he’d seen to her comfort first. That did something she hadn’t expected—it tugged at her.

  Whoa. Stop the lust train. Had she already forgotten? No more men. Not even tall, built, bossy ones with an oddly thoughtful nature. Especially not even tall, built, bossy ones with an oddly thoughtful nature!

  His hair, fawnlike with its myriad colors, stuck straight up in spots. Probably because she’d gotten him out of the shower and he hadn’t had time to so much as comb it. His shoulders were still bare, and wide enough to withstand a lot, she’d bet.

  He covered them up with a T-shirt he pulled from the bag, and then added a thick black sweater that looked deliriously soft and warm. “Better,” he sighed, then leveled his eyes on her. The firelight gleamed over his chiseled features, reflecting in his eyes. There was so much intensity there. And heat. Looking at her like that, he seemed impossibly handsome, and far too sexy for her own fragile frame of mind.

  “Change your pants,” he said, and turning his back, jammed his hands in his pockets. “Hustle.”

  His sexiness forgotten, she shook her head even though he couldn’t see her. “I’m not going to change right here.”