"I thought you might have been having some trouble with the storm." He stepped toward her, each movement graceful as a dancer's. Or a stalking wolf. "It seems I was right."

"Power's out," she managed.

"So I see. You're cold." He picked up the scattered kindling and crouched to build a fire with wood and match. He thought she'd had enough surprises for one night, even if it did take quite a bit longer that way.

"I wanted to get some light before I built a fire. Belinda has a lot of candles."

"Naturally." The kindling caught with a quick crackle, and flames licked obligingly at the logs he arranged. "This'll warm the room soon. There's a small generator out back. I can start it for you if you like, but this will pass before long."

He stayed where he was, with the firelight dancing over his face. And looking at him, she forgot about the storm and fears of the dark. She wondered if all that gorgeous hair that fell nearly to his shoulders was as soft as it looked, wondered why it seemed she knew exactly how it would feel under her fingers.

Why she had an image of him leaning over her, leaning close, with his mouth a breath away from hers. Only a breath away.

"You're daydreaming again, Rowan."

"Oh." She blinked, flushed, shook herself clear. "Sorry. The storm's made me jumpy. Would you like some wine?" She pushed herself up, began backing quickly toward the kitchen. "I have a very nice Italian white I tried last night. I'll just- pour some. Won't be a minute."

For Lord's sake, for Lord's sake, she berated herself as she dashed into the kitchen where a half-dozen candles glowed on the counter. Why did being around him make her so skittish and stupid! She'd been alone with attractive men before. She was a grown woman, wasn't she?

She got the bottle out of the refrigerator by the light of the candles, found glasses and filled them. When she turned, a glass in each hand, he was there just there behind her, and she jolted.

Wine sloshed over the rim and onto the back of her hand.

"Must you do that!" She snapped it out before she could stop herself, then watched that fast, fabulous grin flash over his face, bright and blinding as the lightning in the storm.

"I suppose not." Ah, the hell with it, he decided. He was entitled to some small pleasures. With his eyes on hers, he lifted her damp hand, bent his head and slowly licked.

The best she could manage was a small, quiet moan.

"You're right. It's very nice wine." He took the glass and when her freed hand fell limply to her side, smiled. Sipped. "You've a lovely face, Rowan Murray. I've thought of it since last I saw you."

"You have?"

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

She was so obviously befuddled it was tempting to press his advantage, to go with the urge grinding in him to take before she knew all he wanted, and what he refused to want. One step closer, he mused, the slow slide of his fingers around the base of her neck where the flesh was warm and smooth. Fragile. His mouth to hers while the taste of her was still mixed with the wine on his tongue.

And he wouldn't be in the mood to leave it at something quite so simple, or quite so innocent.

"Come in by the fire." He stepped back to give her room to pass. "Where it's warmer."

She recognized the ache spreading inside her. The same ache, she thought, as she woke with whenever she dreamed of him. She moved past him, into the living room, praying she could think of something to say that wouldn't sound idiotic.

"If you came here to relax," he began with just a hint of impatience in his voice, "you're doing a preciously poor job of it. Sit down and stop fretting. The storm won't stay long, and neither will I."

"I like the company. I'm not used to being alone for such long stretches of time."

She sat, managing a smile. But he stood by the fire, leaned against the mantel. He watched her. Watched her in a way that reminded her of-

"Isn't that why you came here?" He said it to interrupt her thoughts before they inched too close to what she wasn't prepared to know. "To have time alone?"

"Yes. And I like it. But it's odd just the same. I was a teacher for a long time. I'm used to having a lot of people around."

"Do you like them?"

"Them? Students?"

"No, people." He made a vague and oddly dismissive gesture with one elegant hand. "In general."

"Why- yes." She laughed a little, leaning back in her chair without being aware her shoulders had lost their knots of tension. "Don't you?"

"Not particularly-as a rule." He took a sip of wine, reflecting. "So many of them are demanding, selfish, self-absorbed. And while that's not so much of a problem, they often hurt each other quite consciously, quite carelessly. There's no point, and there should be no pride in causing harm."

"Most people don't mean to." She saw the light in his eye and shook her head. "Oh, you're cynical. I can't understand cynics."

"That's because you're a romantic, and a naive one at that. But it's charming on you."

"Now, should I be flattered or insulted?" she wondered aloud, smiling with more ease than she'd ever felt with him, even when he moved to sit at the ottoman in front of her chair.

"Truth can be accepted without either. What do you teach?"

"Literature-or I used to."

"That would explain the books." They were stacked on the coffee table and in a box beside the couch. He'd seen others piled on the kitchen table and knew there were still more in her bedroom upstairs.

"Reading's one of my greatest pleasures. I love sliding into a story."

"But this-" He leaned back, reached over and plucked up the top book on the table. "The Study of Wolves, Their History and Habits. That wouldn't be a story, would it?"

"No. I bought that on impulse one day, and didn't even realize I'd packed it. But I'm glad I did." In a habitual gesture she brushed at the hair that had come loose from her braid. "You must have seen him." She eased forward, the delight in her large, dark eyes nearly irresistible. "The black wolf that comes around."

He continued to look into her eyes, straight in as he enjoyed his wine. "I can't say I have."