LITMIR.BIZ

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how to find out what that tech had done so she could undo it, not about the way Rafe’s forearms looked with his sleeves rolled up.

      He glanced at her, his grin flashing. “Nervous about being alone with me?”

      “Don’t be silly.”

      “If Dad hadn’t been there to bully you, you’d never have gotten in this car with me.”

      “Your father doesn’t bully. He’s been very good to me.” And in return, she’d betrayed him. But what else could she have done? Oh, Brad, she thought, miserable in her love and guilt. Somehow she would make things right again. If she had to go to the office every weekend, she’d make things right.

      For everyone else, a little voice inside whispered. She might be able to put things right for others, but her own dreams were forever spoiled. There never had been any chance of a future for her and Rafe, she reminded that whispery voice. They were too different. Besides, he liked to tease, he liked to flirt, but he’d had three years to fall for her, if he was going to.

      Obviously he wasn’t.

      She kept her eyes closed, faking the sleep her unquiet mind wouldn’t allow. Rafe either believed she’d dozed off or was willing to let the conversation drift to an end. Neither of them had spoken for perhaps fifteen minutes when he broke the silence. “Here we are.”

      She straightened, frowning as he pulled to a stop. “Where are we?”

      “A couple blocks from a great Italian restaurant.” He turned off the engine, got out and came around to her side. She remained where she was, flustered and angry. When he opened her door she said, “I’m not in the mood for a kidnapping.”

      “This isn’t a kidnapping. I’m taking you to dinner.”

      “I don’t recall being asked.”

      “If I’d asked, you’d have said no. Look, Charlie, you’re not sick. You just said that because you didn’t want to talk about whatever has you upset. Man problems, probably. But I’m not a bad listener. You might try not holding everything in, see if it helps.”

      Oh, yes, he was just the person for her to confide in. You see, gangsters forced me to let them do something to the computers at your family’s corporation….

      “No,” she said firmly. “Thank you, but no. I’ll be fine.”

      He nodded. “That’s what I thought. You look like a woman in need of a good cry, but you aren’t about to let your hair down and take advantage of my broad, manly shoulders, are you? So I decided to feed you instead. Tony makes great lasagna.”

      To her alarm, the quivering inside threatened to spill outside. She bit her lip to keep it steady. “I’m sure you know a lot about women, but I don’t think you know much about the therapeutic effects of a good cry.”

      “I’ve got sisters.” He heaved a huge sigh. “Lord, do I have sisters.”

      “Three sisters might make you seem like a poor, outnumbered male if you didn’t also have five brothers.”

      “Seven brothers now.”

      Of course. She felt like a fool for forgetting. Rafe had grown up with five brothers, including a half brother, but last month the family had learned of two more Connelly men—twins, the product of a youthful affair of Grant’s that had taken place before he married Emma.

      A discovery like that might have torn another family apart. Not the Connellys. Oh, there had been some turmoil. She’d heard raised voices in Grant’s office a couple of times, but that sort of thing happened from time to time anyway, and meant little. The Connellys were stubborn, strong-minded people, every one of them. Sometimes they were angry and loud. But the storms came and went, leaving the family still solid. United.

      What would it be like to have such a family? So many, and so close. There would always be someone to listen, to help if you needed it…. The squeeze of something horribly close to self-pity made her voice sharper than she intended. “You prove my point. Testosterone seven, estrogen three. The testosterone count wins.”

      “Come on. You’ve met my sisters. Can you really believe any of us poor males ever wins?”

      She chuckled in spite of herself.

      “That’s better.” He reached in and took her hand. “Come on, Charlie. Eat. You’ll feel better. If you’re good, I’ll even spring for tiramisu.”

      Charlotte lay in the cooling water, remembering the crowded little restaurant, the wobbly table covered by a cheap vinyl tablecloth and the incredible lasagna. They’d shared a bottle of wine while they talked, teased and argued. And she’d forgotten to worry. Or maybe she’d willfully shoved worry aside, seizing the chance to feel good with both hands, like a greedy child.

      Rafe had taken her home. He’d insisted on walking her up to her apartment. At her door he’d kissed her…and all those dreams, all those foolish, impractical dreams had blazed to life along with her body.

      She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d lifted his head. The way she’d felt when his hand sifted through her hair. His hand hadn’t been entirely steady, and she’d let herself hope. For a moment hope had bloomed in her, bright and mute as sunrise.

      Maybe he’d seen it in her eyes, because she remembered very clearly what he’d said. “I want to come in, Charlie. I want to be with you. But we need to be clear with each other.” That gentle hand had cradled her head, his thumb spread to stroke her temple. “No expectations beyond what we can give each other tonight.”

      She’d let him in. Even as those silent hopes died, she’d let him in, wanting passion and memories, craving whatever temporary oblivion he might bring her.

      Rafe had been a skilled lover, and a greedy one. And he’d left before sunrise. She’d pretended to sleep while he found his clothes in the dark. Even when he’d bent over her and his lips had brushed her cheek, she’d faked sleep, afraid that if she spoke, if she did anything to acknowledge his leaving, she would embarrass them both.

      No expectations. He’d wanted to be with her, but once had been enough.

      She sighed once and stood, reaching for one of the thick, oversize towels. He had at least left her a note. She’d burned it.

      The blasted towel smelled like him. She made a face and rubbed herself dry briskly. None of that, she told her excitable hormones. Since the night when she’d tumbled into bed with him so easily, she’d done a much better job of shutting out foolish dreams. In fact, she hardly dreamed at all anymore.

      Four

      Rafe was using his favorite knife on a fresh shitake mushroom when he heard Charlie coming down the iron staircase. She’d spent an ungodly amount of time in the bathroom, but he’d expected that. He’d once asked his sister Maggie what women did in bathtubs that took so long. She’d given him one of those “I Am Woman” superior looks and told him he wouldn’t understand.

      Women and bathtubs. He shook his head and got the steaks out of the refrigerator, where they’d been marinating. The broiler was already hot. He was forking the steaks onto the broiler pan when she spoke.

      “You’re cooking!”

      “I said I would.”

      “No, I mean really cooking. I smell herbs—oregano?—and you’re cutting up vegetables.”

      “Vegetables for the salad, oregano and rosemary in the marinade for the steaks.” He closed the oven door and glanced at her. Then paused, startled. “Your hair is curly.”

      Her hand lifted self-consciously to touch the damp curls. “I couldn’t find a blow-dryer, so I towel-dried it.”

      “I don’t have one.” He couldn’t stop staring. She looked so pretty with her face all warm and pink from her bath and her hair all messy with curls. His sweats pretty much swallowed her, of

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