But her smile quickly faded. He looked awful. "My gosh, what's wrong?"

Dane put up a hand as if to ward her off. "Don't get too close, Lilly," he said. "I thought I could ignore this, but I'm coming down with something. I feel terrible."

She took a couple of steps toward him, frowning. His handsome face was in a grimace, his eyebrows furrowed. "What in the world is the matter?"

"It started out as a headache and a tickle in my throat. I thought a couple of aspirin and a good gargle would do the trick, but on the way over here it got way worse. Hit me like a ton of bricks. The tickle turned into razor blades, my head is clogged and pounding, I have a cough, my body aches. I think I have a fever."

"Oh, Dane, lie down on the sofa. Take your shoes off. I'll make you a strong broth, some green tea, dose you up with an anti--"

"I need to go home, honey," he said. "I need my bed and I don't want to give it to you. It could be the flu."

"I'll take my chances, Dane. I have a strong constitution--I never get sick. Let me do something to make you feel better."

"You better knock on wood. This could be that ugly virus going around. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Oh, Dane, I really needed to--" To what? Talk more about her crush on Clay? The crush Dane kept telling her to make a move on? Oh, he must be so sick of her by now.

"We'll do something later this week or next weekend. Ugh. I gotta go to bed...."

"I'm so sorry, Dane," she said.

He nodded, blew her a kiss and left her little house, the screen door shutting behind him as she stood at the open interior door.

"Crap," she said aloud, watching him go.

She'd dressed up for her evening with Dane; she wore a cinnamon-colored silk blouse, beige dress pants, gold belt, low heels...but the evening was off. She went to her bedroom to change. She tossed her clothes in the chair that sat in the corner and found herself some comfy yoga togs.

Back in the living room, she sat on the floor to pick through her CDs. The early fall weather was so beautiful; she enjoyed an early evening breeze coming in the screen door. She put on some music, cranked it up real loud, and went to the kitchen to forage for food. She pulled out some vegetables and cheese; she'd make herself a big, fluffy salad and a whole wheat macaroni and cheese dish topped with a little tomato puree and black olives. She had the water for the noodles on the fire, some of the veggies sliced and was starting to feel like herself again when suddenly the volume of the music went down.

She whirled around. There, in her very small living room, stood Clay. He put up his hands and said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. You obviously couldn't hear me knock or ring the bell. If the door had been closed, I wouldn't have walked in, but it was only the screen door, unlocked."

She leaned against the sink, her heart hammering from the surprise. He was looking a bit different tonight; he wore navy blue slacks, low leather boots and a white long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled up and neck open. He held a sack in the crook of one arm. "What are you doing here?"

He looked around, then looked her up and down. "You don't look like you're going out. You said you had plans and I thought--"

"I'm staying in tonight."

Clay craned his neck. "Where's the boyfriend? What's his name?"

She couldn't help but smile at him. He was at least as much a brat as Streak. "He's sick. Coming down with something so he canceled. Now, why are you here?"

He took a step toward the kitchen. He smiled. "I wanted to meet him. At least get a look at him, see what I'm up against." He shrugged. "Maybe we could be friends, me and the boyfriend."

She laughed at him in spite of herself. "Well, that takes balls," she said. "Why don't we do this--when I feel like introducing the two of you, I'll let you know. And since you aren't going to get a look at him..."

"I brought something. Root beer." He tilted his head at her. "Was I out of line? Dropping in this way?"

"Absolutely!" she said, her blue eyes widening. "How'd you know where I lived?"

"Annie. And by the way, she'd never heard about this boyfriend, which I find curious."

"Maybe I don't tell everyone about him," she said. "But--your apology is accepted."

"I'm not sure if I'm sorry yet--since I ended up saving you from what appears to be a very boring night."

"You should have called ahead, though. You walked right in my house! Now, would I walk right in your house?"

"I believe you have--and I was naked. Besides, I did knock," he said with another shrug.

She couldn't argue that--she'd gone into his quarters at the stable without being invited. He looked huge standing there in her small living room--so big, so bronze, his eyes so penetrating, his teeth so white. He looked more like a monument in her little house than he did at the stable with a great big stallion as a backdrop.

"What's with this music?" he asked. "What are you listening to?"

She sighed and just shook her head. "Don't you like music?"

"Of course. I like Country."

"Well, this is a slightly more sophisticated version of 'my girl left me and my dog died.' It's called opera. And I like it."

"Do you understand it?" he asked.

"The language? No, I don't speak Italian. But I get what it's about." She put down her knife and walked the few steps into the living room. "This is Bocelli singing Puccini. La boheme. I like it loud. Would you like some of my salad and noodles and cheese? Since you've so rudely made yourself available?"

That widened his smile. "Yes. Yes I would. There's probably no meat, is there?"

"No meat, and I'm sure you'll live. Sit here on this couch, listen to the music while I finish cooking and see if you can absorb a little culture." She pulled a bottle out of his bagged six-pack and handed it to him. "I'll be in the kitchen awhile." She took the rest of the six-pack from him to put in the refrigerator.

"Why do you listen to it?"

"This one in particular? Because I love Bocelli's voice and the story is tragic and the music is powerful. I love opera. It moves me. This one ends in the woman's death. Come to think of it, a lot of them end in death, but the power of the music... Just listen. Let it seep into your veins and muscles and... Well, I'll finish up in the kitchen."

She pushed him onto the sofa, turned up the volume on her stereo and went back into the kitchen. He could still see her from where he sat, and the view was exquisite. She was standing at the counter beside the sink, her back to him. He twisted the top off his root beer and took a slug. It was hard to imagine a more intoxicating sight than her astride a big horse, but this was it. He was mesmerized. She wore a sleeveless, snug knit crop top that fit like a soft second skin and pants that hugged her h*ps and fell only to her calf. He'd been right about her arms and shoulders--she was ripped. Even the muscles of her back, visible under the shirt she wore, were defined. And that round, firm, muscled butt? He wiped a hand down the full length of his face. Zow. She said she was into yoga. Could you get muscles like that from yoga? Yes, if you topped it with hauling bales of hay....

She was right about the music. He wasn't sure he liked it, but he could feel it to the marrow of his bones. At times it was melodious and beautiful, then it would rise with the kind of force that suggested going to war or taking a ravishing woman to bed, then become subdued and seductive again.

He smiled. Little Hopi girl was a nerd. She leaned toward the classical. Sitting on her futon, which had a lot of growing to do to become a couch, he felt a long way from home.

Maybe she was a long way from home.

He hoisted his tall frame off the futon. It was only about ten steps to the kitchen. The music was so loud she wouldn't have been able to hear him, so he put his bottle of root beer down on the counter before he touched her. But she neither jumped nor stiffened; she had either felt, heard or sensed his approach. He had an instinct about her, that she had highly developed extrasensory skills.

He put his hand on her hip. His hand was so large on her small frame that his fingers splayed around to her flat belly. He gave her a second to protest or shove him away and when she didn't, he put his lips on the side of her neck, kissing, inhaling the scent of her. Sucking gently. Then his other hand found her other hip and he massaged with his palms and fingers, kissing both sides of her neck.

She turned her head so he would hear her. "You shouldn't..."

"I should..."

"Do not leave a mark on me," she warned.

"I would die before I would mark a beauty like yours."

And with that she was undone; she turned in his arms and tilted her face up. "You have to know something. I'm very afraid of you."

He stiffened and frowned. "Of me? Why?"

"I'm afraid you're going to hurt me."

He shook his head gently, still frowning. "Lilly, I'm not going to hurt you. I swear, I'm going to be good to you."

She inhaled, exhaled with a slow sigh and gently let her eyes drift closed in submission.

He didn't need any more invitation than that; he lowered his lips onto hers and when she parted her lips slightly, he took full advantage. His tongue entered the soft, slick velvet of her mouth and he moaned. He ran his tongue around her lips, tasting and pulling slightly, then welcomed her tongue into his mouth. He let his eyes open a slit, just enough to see that hers were still closed, her sooty lashes lying on her cheeks. "You're so beautiful," he whispered into her opened mouth. His large hands pressed against her firm butt, pulling her hard against him, and he devoured her mouth, entering, receding, entering....

Her hands moved from his shoulders to his neck, to his head. Her fingers threaded into his hair, moving to the tie that held it back, loosening it. He growled softly; he was already hard. "I could do this right here, right now," he whispered. "But I don't want to. I want to go slow with you."

Her answer was to hum softly and take his mouth again. And again.

He pulled back a tiny bit, enough to look down at her and see her hard ni**les pressing against the soft fabric of her top. He slowly moved one of his hands from her butt to a breast, covering it, teasing the nipple gently with his thumb. He chuckled sensually against her lips. "Some things men and women can't really hide from each other." His thumb gave her hard nipple another soft tweak. He hated to let go of that breast, but he momentarily removed his hand to reach over and turn off the flame under the boiling water before he returned to it again. The loud music had picked up a drumming beat that he could feel in his veins. He put his lips against her ear and said, "I want to go slow with you, but I don't know if I can. I'll try, I promise."

He felt her small hand slide down his back to his butt, pulling him even harder against her. He let himself enjoy that for a moment, then he whisked her up in his arms. "You're light as a feather. I'm going to carry you to bed, sweetheart."

"I haven't said yes yet," she whispered in his ear.

He rested her on the counter, put a hand on her breast, ran a thumb over her erect nipple. "I thought you had."

"That's just nature."

"I worship nature. And I'm going to worship you...." He grabbed her in his arms again and carried her through the small house. He passed by the front door as he went, kicking it closed and throwing the dead bolt, and headed to the bedroom. This was just a cracker box, this tiny house, but it was a house that made sense. It was like her--efficient, compact, suited to her. This was a house made for her, not made for others who might visit it. He silently cursed himself--he had nearly let the memory of Isabel in and that was the last thing he intended. Right now his mind and his body were full of Lilly. Deliciously full.