The picture of the dance Lori was painting in her mind’s eye was so clear that she knew the male would cradle the female against him, hold her steady...then finally let her loose to fly again when she was stronger and the beautifully wild storm had abated enough that it was safe for her to be set free.

And just like the wildflower in her vision, as the wind whipped through her hair and the rain pelted down on her limbs while Grayson held her steady and safe on top of the fast-moving horse, Lori felt as if Grayson had just given her back the freedom she’d been afraid was lost when she’d left Chicago.

Lost in her visions, Lori was surprised to realize the horse had stopped galloping and Grayson was on the ground. She immediately felt chilled without his arms around her. Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait for him to touch her again, because his large hands were on her waist and he was lifting her off the horse’s back to the ground.

For a moment everything got mixed up in her head, the man she’d been living with for nearly a week and the man from the dance in her visions. When her feet hit the ground again and she blinked up at him in the rain, the world stopped spinning as she stared into his eyes.

His gaze was dark and mysterious, just like always. Only this time, instead of stepping away from him, she had to reach up to stroke his face, had to feel beneath her fingertips what she’d just tasted moments ago.

She watched as fire leapt in his eyes, felt the vibration of his groan, felt the heat and purity of his desire for her move through him and into her as he turned his cheek slightly to press into her hand. But, too soon, he wrenched himself away from her.

“Get inside the cabin while I take care of the horse.”

His words were loud to be heard over the storm. They were hard, too. As hard as anything he’d ever said to her, and even though she thought she’d been doing a good job of blocking his grunts and growls, this one sentence pierced her. Enough that she wanted nothing more than to get away from him for a few minutes to try to regain her bearings.

And to stop seeing him as she had in her vision of the storm-turned-dance—as strong, as gentle, as nurturing.

She’d been stupid too many times before with men, had let her body and heart take her down a path that she should have run from instead. She wouldn’t do it again.

Especially not with Grayson.

Chapter Eleven

Grayson took Diablo’s saddle off and brushed him down, then gathered up wood from the pile in the rack under the roof overhang and carried the heavy load inside.

And all the while he refused to let himself remember how Lori’s tongue had felt against his skin.

Or the way her lithe curves had fit against his while her toned legs were wrapped around his waist and her strong arms were locked around his neck.

Nor would he let himself remember that she’d looked like a beautiful witch who couldn’t have been more pleased by the storm she’d brewed up.

And while he was at it, he would also force himself to forget how beautiful the sound of her laughter had been...and that even in the middle of the rain, that sound had warmed him better than the sun ever had.

It was the first time he’d seen her laugh like that, with her whole body, her entire heart and soul behind the happy sound. When she’d opened up her arms to the storm and tilted up her face to let the rain wash over her, she not only looked like she belonged on his land, she looked so beautiful that he’d felt as if something inside of him had been struck by lightning.

He yanked open the door to the old log cabin, harder than he should have considering the age of the hinges. Early settlers had come here and laid down stakes and dreams in the West. Harsh weather often tore through this part of the coast, but right in this spot, the mountains and trees gave enough shelter from the worst of the rain and the wind. From the porch, there was nothing but open land and ocean as far as the eye could see.

Grayson had never come here with anyone else, had kept it as his own private space all these years, had never even been tempted to bring anyone else here with him.

Lori Sullivan was the last person he wanted in his sacred space. She was too loud. Moved too fast. Needed too much.

Grayson gave endlessly to his animals. To his land. But never again did he intend to give any part of his soul to a woman.

Inside the cabin, he couldn’t find her at first, not until he realized she was kneeling in front of the fireplace, lighting matches that were blowing out immediately. There was a pile of wasted matches on the ground in front of her.

Damn it, he asked himself in a silent but furious voice, why the hell did his senses come alive every single time he looked at her?

The anger that came from having to acknowledge he’d never felt quite so alive in all his life than he did when he was with her, had him biting out, “I’ll get the fire going.”

He knew better by now than to think she’d listen to his orders, and she didn’t disappoint. She didn’t look up at him from the floor, either, as she muttered, “I know how to start a fire,” then lit another match.

He dropped the wood in a pile beside the fireplace and yanked the box of matches from her. “You’re going to waste them all.”

Only just as he said it, the fire she’d laid in the stone fireplace finally took. He waited for her look of victory, but she didn’t give him one, didn’t look at him at all as she stood up and moved away from him.

Guilt twisted in his gut at the way he’d ordered her to get inside earlier. But didn’t she see that she simply should have held on so that she didn’t fall off the horse, rather than moving in his arms like a woman did when she wanted a man, or, worse still, slicking her tongue over his skin? And making him want her with a fierce fury that stunned him.

She was pushing him all the way to the edge...the very last place he’d sworn ever to go again.

Of course, just because he’d hurt her feelings didn’t mean she could keep her mouth shut for more than five seconds. Even while they were out working on the fence, she’d been humming show tunes in an off-key voice the entire time.

“I’ve read so many books about this exact thing happening in England,” she muttered, “when the hero and heroine get caught in a storm and have to take shelter in an old cottage. You’d be a duke and I’d be a virgin who’s afraid to be alone with you in case you lose control and can’t stop yourself from taking my innocence.” She made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and irritated laughter as she shook out her wet hair and leaned in closer to the fire. “Of course, you’re no duke, and I’m definitely not a virgin. The books made it all seem so romantic, but clearly they forgot to mention that being wet and freezing cold isn’t romantic at all.”