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halfway amused until Libby mentioned his mouth. Now suddenly, all Donovan could think of was hers—not punching it, but burying it beneath his own lips. Without thinking or even questioning himself, he impulsively dragged her into his arms.
    "And what," he asked, his throat tight, "would you suggest I do to your mouth in return?"
    He didn't wait for an answer, or expect one. He just came down on her, a little too hard at first, and took what he wanted.
    As Donovan suspected she would, Libby fought him in the beginning, smashing her fists to his shoulders and twisting in his embrace. Although she struggled mightily, it wasn't long before her inviting mouth became soft and pliant, and moments after that, as eager as his own. Something exploded between them then, a power or force so strong and unfamiliar that Donovan couldn't identify the sensation. But he did recognize that what they shared here was no mere kiss. This was an assault on the senses, an awakening of dark and utterly insane hungers, a need urging him down a path he was quite sure he should never follow.
    Shaken, in spirit, body, in every way imaginable, Donovan drew away from Libby's mouth, and caught his breath. He relaxed his grip then, unable to turn her loose the way he should have, but giving her freedom. Rather than try to escape him as he hoped she would, Libby clung to his jacket, her dark eyes and wondrous expression mirroring his own unexpected and tumultuous feelings. They stared into each other a long moment, briefly glimpsing private places and raw desires, and then as if frightened by what she saw in him, Libby finally broke out of his embrace.
    "Holy hell," slipped out of her mouth before she fully realized the thought.
    Embarrassed, she turned her back to Donovan and, on trembling legs, made her way to the chair she'd been sitting on earlier. Leaning heavily against the soft velvet upholstery, Libby tried to quell the shaking that had taken over her entire body. Her insides felt as if they'd melted into a big pot of jelly, and even though she was free of Donovan, she could still feel his vigorous embrace and the way his wicked mouth had plumbed her. How in God's name, after all she'd found out about the man, could she have responded to him this way? She ought to be lashing him within an inch of his life, not kissing him.
    Libby breathed deeply, still trying to get a grip on herself, and caught Donovan's scent still lingering on her skin. There was something more to the aroma than spicy cologne, something infinitely more disturbing—the slightly salty, earthy tang of the man himself. She shook her head to clear it of such thoughts, and again wondered how she could be so attracted to someone who'd made such a fool of her.
    "Libby," came his throaty voice from behind her. His tone wasn't particularly apologetic, but she thought she heard something akin to regret in it. Donovan touched her shoulder then, sending a little shudder up her spine, and gently turned her to face him. "I hope you won't make too much of what just happened here..." His gaze skimmed her lips. "I don't know what came over me, and maybe it's best that I don't. It might be a good idea if we just forget about it."
    "Oh, well, of course. Why not?" She'd tried to sound relieved by the suggestion, but why did she feel so let down? Perhaps, Libby thought, that was the irony of it all. Back in Laramie, she'd all but busted her buttons in an effort to bedevil Donovan, and to no avail. Yet here in San Francisco, where she'd practically taken his head off with her boot, for some reason, he'd found her irresistible. Comforted by the thought, she smiled and added, "In fact, I've already forgotten about it."
    She thought she saw Donovan's eyes narrow for a moment, but then he just shrugged and said, "Good. Now why don't we sit down a minute. There's a few things we ought to talk over."
    "I'm fine right where I am. Besides, now that you've shown yourself for what you really are—a lying,