Hardy closed his eyes and made a guttural sound. I saw the color

heighten in his face. And I felt a rearing response in the thick pressure beneath me.

Hardy's lashes lifted, his eyes bluer than usual against his rich rosewood tan. He glanced at the front of my shirt — his shirt — where it gaped open to reveal the space between my br**sts. "Haven . . . " His voice was hoarse. "We're not going to do anything you're not ready for. Let's get you dressed, and I'll take you out to dinner. We'll have some wine, and you can relax. We'll figure this out later."

But later was too late. I wanted to figure it out right then. I felt the heat coming off him, and I saw the mist of sweat on his throat, and I longed to kiss him. I wanted to give him pleasure. And please, God, I wanted at least one good memory to replace one of the bad ones.

"Hardy," I said tentatively, "would you . . . indulge me a little?"

A smile touched his mouth. He reached out and pulled the sides of the shirt closed, and used the backs of his fingers to stroke my cheek. "A little," he said, "or a lot. Just tell me what you want."

"I feel like . . . if we went to the bedroom right now, and just tried some things, I . . . I could handle it as long as you took it slow."

His hand stilled. "What if you have a flashback?"

"I don't think it would bother me as much as it did before, because now I've told you everything and I know you understand what my problem is. So I would just tell you if I got afraid."

He stared at me for a long moment. "You trust me, Haven?"

I ignored a twinge of nerves in my stomach. "Yes."

Without another word Hardy plucked me from his lap, set me on my feet, and followed me to the bedroom.

My bed was an old-fashioned brass one, the sturdy, stately kind that weighed a ton and didn't move an inch. It was covered in cream linen, and the pillows were made of lace taken from antique wedding dresses. In the feminine surroundings of my bedroom, Hardy looked even bigger and more masculine than usual.

Such a normal act, two people going to bed together. But for me it was invested with far too much significance, too much emotion, too much everything.

The air-conditioning imparted a soft chill to the room, the lace on the pillows fluttering like moth wings as the ceiling fan turned overhead. An antique Victorian lamp shed amber light across the bed.

I tried to seem casual, sitting on the bed and working at the tiny straps of my high-heeled sandals. I wished I weren't stone-cold sober. A glass of wine might have loosened me up a little. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe I should suggest —

Hardy sat beside me, reached for my foot, and unfastened the miniature buckle. He squeezed my bare foot and ran his thumb along the arch before taking off the other shoe. Sliding an arm around me, he eased us both back onto the bed.

I waited tensely for him to start. But Hardy only held me, warming me with his body, fitting an arm beneath my neck. One hand traveled over my back and waist and hips, up to the nape of my neck, as if I were a skittish animal. And it went on until the petting and soothing had lasted longer than any sex act I had ever engaged in with Nick.

Hardy spoke against my hair. "I want you to understand . . . you're safe. I'm not going to hurt you in any way. And if I do something you don't want, or you start to feel scared, I'll stop. I'm not going to lose control." I flinched as I felt a tug at the front of my jeans and heard the snap being unfastened. "I'm just going to find out what you like."

My fingers curled into his T-shirt as his hands ventured inside the loosened waist of my jeans. " I want to find out what you like too."

"I like it all, darlin'," he whispered, peeling my clothes off as if he were unwrapping a bandage. "I told you, I'm easy to please."

His breath fell on me with a sweet burn as he drew his mouth over my throat and br**sts. He knew what he was doing, taking his time. "Relax," he murmured, his fingers gliding over my straining limbs.

I clutched at his T-shirt, trying to pull it off. He helped me, stripping away the layer of thin cotton and tossing it to the floor. His skin was as brown as cinnamon against the antique-white bed linens. There was a light mat of hair on his chest, so unlike Nick's smoothness. I put my arms around his neck and kissed him, gasping as my br**sts pressed into the warm, tickling hair.

Hardy caressed and explored as if he were intent on discovering every detail of my body. I realized he was playing with me, lifting and turning me, pressing kisses in unexpected places. He was so strong, his body sleek and beautiful in the muted light. I crawled over him and rubbed my nose and chin into the springy-soft fur of his chest. I trailed my fingers to his midriff, where the skin was satin-smooth and taut over bands of muscle. And lower, to the edge of his jeans . . . and lower still, to the part of him I was nervous of.

Watching my face, Hardy eased slowly onto his back, allowing me to explore him. I touched him over his jeans, hesitantly tracing the jut of his erection. His breath roughened, and I sensed how difficult it was for him to hold himself in check. My fingers wandered to the base of the shaft, where the flesh was weighted and tight-mounded, and I heard him give a soft grunt. A dart of excitement went through me as I realized how much he liked that, and I did it again, circling my palm over the taut denim.

A laughing groan escaped him. "You're trying to torture me, aren't you?"

I shook my head. "Just trying to learn you."

He pulled me farther over his chest, guided my head to his, and gave me another of those insatiable kisses, until I was rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing as if I were floating on ocean waves. He reached down to his jeans and unfastened them.