shoulders brushed the door as he stepped in behind her and silently took in the antique iron bedstead. The bed was twin-size and impossibly narrow. The patchwork quilt created a soft, feminine space, making her hyper-aware of his large, male body.
âI may be bigger than you remember,â he crooned. The space was suddenly too small, and she knew he recognized the heated flush on her skin. There were just too many memories between them for such a small space, and their new kiss was simply one more to add to her collection.
He reached out, his hands descending on her shoulders. He couldnât stop touching her. Little touches, not all sexual. Like heâd missed the feel of her skin or the accidental contact. She waited breathlessly, hating herself for the weakness, for anticipating the next sexy promise he might make her.
âReal pretty viewâ was all he finally said, stepping up behind her. The move boxed her in between him and the bed and the windows that opened out onto her fields and their purple sea of lavender. Dreamy, she thought, but that was an inadequate description; sheâd invested a hell of a lot more than dreams in those fields. She needed them to produce.
âBut Iâll sleep down there.â He pointed to the sunporch the farmâs former owner had tacked on haphazardly to the main house.
âOn the porch? Afraid for your virtue now?â
He shot her a look. âIâve never liked small spaces, Lily.â The tone of his voice warned her the subject was closed. She wasnât getting a heart-to-heart talk from Jack. Not tonight. Leaning forward, he stabbed a finger toward the line of pink and white oleanders edging her lavender field. âYou need a fire line. See right there? Those scruffy green bushes with the little pink flowers? Thatâs where Iâll start.â
âDonât you touch my oleanders,â she said fiercely. âI mean it, Jack. Donât you cut my flowers.â
âYou need a firebreak,â he said. âIâm going to make sure you have everything you need, baby.â The little shiver in her stomach warned her that Jack wasnât talking about the oleanders anymore.
âYou donât know the first thing about what I need.â She stepped away from him, refusing to admit she was disappointed when he let her go. âSleep up here. Down there. Take your pick.â What she needed, she admitted privately, was to get herself the hell away from Jack Donovanâs bed. She didnât need to be borrowing that kind of trouble.
He sat down on the bed and just watched her, as if he knew something she didnât and he wasnât in a sharing kind of mood. âIâll figure it out,â he said, and she knew he wasnât talking about where he was going to end up sleeping tonight. She wondered if he planned on finding her, and that particular fantasy had her flushing.
Jack, damn him, just watched her and patted the empty patch of quilt beside him. A small smile of male amusement at her retreat crossed his face. Clearly, he didnât give a damn about common courtesy, because, as her unwelcome houseguest, he should have been on his best behavior. Instead, he was pushing for all he was worth. âYou let me know what you need, baby,â he said.
She refused to look at him as she left the room. She wasnât going to admit that his soft drawl had her thinking about all sorts of needs.
And wants.
No, she was going to get the hell out of there.
And go to bed. Alone.
Chapter Seven
J ack wanted to know what she needed ? Lily had spent the night tossing and turning, because he was an arrogant ass, and the nightmares were back. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flames and smelled the smoke. Her condoâand her lifeâwas on fire, and she was helpless to stop it. Awake now, she wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, because sometimes caffeine and the warm sides of a mug were the
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