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right on the tip of her tongue should have filled her with conflict, but his chest felt as firm as it looked. His bared chest would probably feel divine. “Yes, you’re hurting,” she finally choked out.

    He bent and murmured against her neck, “Are you cold?”

    “Can’t feel it.” She spread her hands over his pecs unable to help herself.

    He caught her lobe between his teeth. She bit back the moan. He gave it a nice tug and then whispered, “Then what’s making your nipples hard?”

    Like he didn’t know? He gave a soft pull on her hair and closed his mouth on her neck. A tingle brushed over her nipples. The more he lavished her skin with licks and sucks, the more she wanted to scream yes over and over again. He let go of her hair and lifted her against him.

    Shit. Shit. Shit. He was moving his tongue over her collarbone and back up to her ear, his breath heavy on her skin. This man, this need he stoked was beyond her control like she was trying to grab hold of a tornado to change its course. She was buckling under it and him. Though, obviously, some part of her loved the thrill making her heart skip…She bit hard into her lip to snap her out of the daze.

    He stilled, maybe feeling the sudden tension in her, and then met her gaze. “Do you want this?”

    The tornado ebbed enough for her to breathe and catch hold of a thought. His eyes were still haunted. Lust hadn’t dimmed the emotion one bit. How had she not been able to see it before? How the hell could she ignore it now?

    She inched forward following the need to comfort him, but stopped. Closing her eyes, she said, “Callan, no. I don’t want this. You don’t either. Not really. We can talk if you need to.”

    His sigh was deep and heavy against her skin but his heat lessened. She opened her eyes. The hint of grief had transformed into something that made her throat feel thick.

    He pressed his lips against her forehead for a second. “I’m sorry. You said no before and I should have listened.”

    And then he stood and left before she could form words to make him understand the complicated emotions swirling in her breastbone. She wanted him. She knew she shouldn’t. Her work was important. She was horny beyond the telling of it. They’d known each other for a few days and still she wanted to be the one to comfort him. The pain she’d seen was too much to ignore or to placate with sex.

    But he’d left with his tie and jacket still on her coffee table and his glass half empty. She shivered at the blast of air that had blown in when he’d opened the door.

    None of her words were necessary. She picked up her wine, finished it in one gulp. Now it just wasn’t the worry she’d have sex with him but that she could care for him too.

    “Dammit,” she muttered, picked up his glass and finished that one also.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    Callan re-situated the laptop on his workbench so Douglass could see the problem on the computer screen. “Aye, laddie,” Papa Baird said, his voice booming from the tiny laptop speakers. “You’re going to have to cut the top of that screw off and then use a—”

    “I know.” Callan scrubbed a hand over his face. Cutting the head off the screw meant hunting down a similar one from the same time period to replace it.

    He set the table leg down next to the rest of the disassembled parts. “Some arse who worked on it before me stripped it.”

    “Amateurs.” Douglass pulled back from the screen. “So how is my lassie doing?”

    Callan glared at his uncle. “Your caregiver is fine.”

    “If that’s all she was you wouldn’t be glaring at me.” He crossed his arms and smiled. “Now tell me the truth about this Yank you brought to babysit me.”

    Callan had spent too much time with Victoria the day before. He had honestly meant to drop off the papers she’d need for her records. After visiting his wife’s grave he always felt like someone had reached inside him and scooped out all his insides—the