"No," I said scratchily, "it's not your job to be his keeper."

" — my brothers are taking after him. Bad blood coming through. I had to bail Kevin out last month, had to pay off a girl's family, keep them from pressing charges — "

"That's not your fault," I said, but he was beyond hearing.

"Evil bastards, all of us. No-good white trash — "

"No."

Each breath scraped audibly in his throat. "Before I left Dad at a hotel tonight, he told me — " He stopped, shaking from head to toe. He swayed on his feet.

God, he was so drunk.

"Told you what?" I whispered. "What is it, Hardy?"

Hardy shook his head, backing away. "Haven." His voice was low and guttural. "Get out. If you stay . . . I'm not in control. I'll use you. Hurt you, understand? Get the hell out."

I didn't think Hardy was capable of hurting me, or any woman. But the truth was, I wasn't completely sure. At that moment he seemed like nothing so much as a large, suffering animal, ready to tear apart anyone who came near him. And this was too damned soon after my divorce from Nick. I was gun-shy. I was still dealing with my own anger, my own fears.

But there were certain moments in life when you had to step up to the plate or lose your chance forever. If Hardy was capable of hurting me, I would find out now.

Every vein in my body was lit with the burn of adrenaline. I got dizzy with it. All right, you bastard, I thought with grimness and fury and love. Absolute scalding love, in that moment when he most needed it and least wanted it. Let's see what you've got.

I walked into the darkness and closed the door.

Hardy was on me the second after the lock clicked. I heard the thump of the shot glass as he dropped it. I was gripped, spun around, pushed against the door by two hundred pounds of hard-breathing male. He was shaking, his hands too tight, his lungs laboring. He kissed me with bruising force, lewd and whole-mouthed, going on for minutes until the tremors had eased and his erection was grinding against me. Every emotion, anger, grief, self-hatred, need, had found an outlet in pure hundred-proof lust.

He pulled at my T-shirt and sent it flying to the side. As he ripped his own shirt off, I moved blindly toward the living room, not to get away from him but to find a more comfortable place than the entryway floor. I heard a possessive growl, and I was grabbed from behind.

Hardy pushed me over the back of the sofa, bending me forward. He yanked the waistband of my sweatpants down. Gooseflesh rose all over, and I felt the weight of panic like a block of ice in my stomach. This was so much like what Nick had done. Another flashback was hovering, waiting to strike. But I gritted my teeth and braced my feet, and stiffened every muscle.

As Hardy stood behind me, I felt the brush of burning skin, a heavy shaft against my backside. I wondered if he was too far gone to recall that I was afraid of doing it this way, that this was how I'd been raped. Maybe he was doing it on purpose, to punish me, to make me hate him. One of his hands ran over my frozen spine, and I heard his breathing change.

"Go on, damn you," I said. My voice cracked. "Go on and do it." But Hardy didn't move except for the hand on my back. His palm glided up and down, and then around my waist to my stomach. He bent farther over me, his other hand cupping my breast. His mouth came to my shoulders, my spine, and he was groaning and kissing me while his fingers worked down below, opening me. I could only breathe in gasps, my body relaxing, yielding. I pictured his hand with those star-shaped scars on them . . . the last time we'd been in bed I'd made a project of kissing each tiny mark. And remembering, I went wet, responding helplessly to the touch, scent, warmth, that had become familiar.

"Do it," I said again, panting.

He seemed not to hear, intent on fondling the soft pleated flesh beneath his fingers. His legs pressed between mine, widening my stance.

The last traces of fear melted away. I pushed my h*ps back, quivering as I felt the stiff length of him. But he wouldn't give it to me, only massaged with agonizing gentleness until I clawed the velvet sofa, my breath coming in sobs.

Darkness wrapped around us, cool and cradling, while he centered himself. I whimpered, my entire being focused on the place where he pressed me, inner muscles working in anticipation.

He thrust forward, and I came from the thick-skewering pleasure, and he rooted deep while his hand stayed on my sex, stroking and stroking. He took me down to the floor, kneeling, pulling me against his chest. My head tipped back on his shoulder. I was raised and lifted, moaning in rhythm with the full slippery pitch of flesh into flesh until the delight broke and spread and flooded me with fresh heat.

Hardy let me rest on his thighs, his arms locked around me.

When my breathing had slowed, he carried me into the bedroom, His grip was tight. He was in a dominating mood. And it was primal and even a little threatening, but at the same time I was aroused beyond belief, which stunned me. 1 would have to figure out why . . . I needed to understand . . . but I couldn't think with his hands on me. He knelt on the bed, reaching beneath my bottom to hoist my h*ps off the mattress.

I was filled in a slow plunge, one of his hands going to the wet triangle between my thighs. The steady pumping and teasing, while he kept me lifted and supported, sent me hurtling into new sensation, cresting, easing, surging again. When my pleasure had finally spun out, Hardy pushed me flat, my arms and legs spread wide, and he spent inside me with violent pulses. I curved my arms around him, loving the feel of his shuddering body over mine.