What ensued after that was a truce—of sorts—that lasted two full weeks. Well, not a truce exactly, because that suggested there were no displays of tension or pique, and that wasn’t quite true. So it was really more like a status quo that lasted two weeks. Then again, it wasn’t a status quo, either, because that smacked of politics, and although one might consider what went on between them to be political in a bizarre kind of way, wasn’t really. So maybe what ensued was more like a sense of peace and quiet that lasted two full weeks. Actually, that wasn’t quite right, either, because with Kit being the kind of person she was—namely, disagreeable and loud—Pendleton’s house was in no way peaceful, nor was it particularly quiet.

The two of them did, however, manage to maintain their sleeping habits, for what that was worth. Pendleton continued to sleep on the couch while Kit slumbered in the bedroom, and Maury divided his time between the two, a bond that afforded them some kind of connection. Sort of, at any rate. In a way. At least, they were linked in spirit. Or maybe thought. Or perhaps awareness.

Yes, awareness. That was it. Because whatever else was going on the house, however indefinable, Pendleton and Kit were certainly aware of each other’s presence there.

As he soaped up in his shower, Pendleton congratulated himself on finally pinning down a definition—however vague—of his relationship with Kit since that mutual baring of souls they shared two weeks earlier. Yep, by god, that was it. Awareness. Deep, abiding awareness. In fact, he was aware of her the moment he woke up every morning, because she had adopted the unfortunate habit of rising early to cook him breakfast before he went to work. Not his usual Wheaties with skim milk and bananas, either. No, Kit insisted that since he was living in Kentucky now, Pendleton should start eating like a Kentuckian. To her, that meant sausage, eggs, and biscuits dripping with butter.

He fared little better upon his return home in the evening, because she cooked dinner for him, too, usually something with pork. Or pork fat. Or pork rinds. Or pork bones. She even prepared vegetables by throwing them into a pot with a big ol’ hamhock and boiling them within an inch of their lives. Just like her mama had done, and her mama’s mama had done before that. Kit’s mother had been a country girl at heart, and made sure her daughter knew how to please a man in the kitchen. A man who liked pork, at any rate. Pendleton, however, preferred poultry.

He still hadn’t quite figured out what Kit did during the day while he was at work. Aside from prowling the city in her celebrated Mercedes S-class, in a quest to find things that would really annoy him. Things like a concrete garden gnome for the front yard—which he immediately exiled to the back—or lace curtains for the front windows—which he simply tried his best to ignore—or more of those intolerable Bill Monroe CDs—which he refused to admit were starting to grow on him in spite of the proliferation of banjos.

Just as Pendleton was rinsing his hair, the steamy stream of hot water spurting from the faucet suddenly went arctic cold, and he yelped at the shock of it. “Dammit,” he hissed as he leaped away from the icy cascade.

Blindly, because he still had soap in his eyes, he fumbled to turn the water off, then snatched a towel from the rack, and stepped out into the quickly dissipating steam. As he jerked his robe from the back of the bathroom door, he heard the unmistakable sound of water running elsewhere in the house, and he realized Kit was the culprit behind his sabotaged shower.

He had told her and told her and told her about the temperamental plumbing in the old building, had warned her and warned her and warned her that when someone was running the shower, the slightest trickle of water elsewhere in the house could potentially cause frostbite for the showerer. Of course, that was why she invariably chose his shower time to take her baths, he reminded himself. So that he would freeze his—

Assembling what little control he could, Pendleton scooped his wet hair from his forehead and made a decision, right there on the spot: No more. Kit had interrupted his leisurely Sunday morning shower for the last time. With a resolute cinching of his bathrobe belt, he exited the second-floor bathroom and proceeded to the one downstairs. He was still dripping water and shivering enough to qualify for the puree setting on a blender when he rapped hard on the bathroom door.

“Kit!” he called out over the rush of water on the other side, envisioning the steam that must be curling up from all the hot water running into the tub.

“What?” she called back.

“Are you decent?”

She didn’t respond for a moment, then sang out, “Maybe. Maybe not. Do you feel lucky?”

Not for the last few weeks, he thought. “We need to talk,” he told her through the door.

“Can’t it wait?”

“No.”

A heartfelt sigh, then, “Hang on a minute.”

The water shut off, and he heard two quick splashes followed by the rattle of the shower curtain rings along the metal rod. “Okay,” she called out sweetly. “You can come in now.”

Pendleton grasped the doorknob, clipped it to the right, and entered the fray. Unfortunately, the fray wasn’t quite what he expected it to be, and he was already surrounded by the spicy scent of sandalwood before he realized he’d been set up. By then it was too late, because he was frozen in place, completely unable to move.

What he’d thought was the sound of the shower curtain being thrown closed had in fact been the sound of it being thrown open. Now he found himself staring at Kit, who was pink and dewy and humming what sounded like “That Man of Mine” as she nestled beneath a veritable mountain of Hollywood bubbles, one slender calf extended elegantly toward the ceiling as she loofahed her big toe.

“You bellowed?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Uh…” He got no further than that single, ineffectual sound, because his gaze suddenly lit on one particular set of bubbles. The ones snuggling against her right breast. The ones that seemed to be popping at an alarmingly fast rate.

“Pendleton?” she added when he didn’t respond.

He sensed, more than saw, her glance up, but he had no idea what kind of expression she had on her face, because, simply put, he wasn’t looking at her face. “Yes?” he asked absently.

“You said we needed to talk,” she reminded him.

He nodded.

“So talk.”

He opened his mouth to do just that, but a good two or three hundred bubbles that were very strategically placed chose that moment to burst, and he found that he just could not say a word. Not until Kit shifted in the tub, folding her arms over the side, thereby taking her torso temporarily out of the public eye, and making moot any more bubble evaporation that might or might not occur.

“Pendleton?” she tried again.

He nodded, but said nothing.

“You want to talk or what?”

“Or what. I mean, talk,” he quickly corrected himself. He gave his head a good shake to clear it, sending droplets of water—droplets of cold water—onto his face and neck. “Talk,” he reiterated, the shock of the cold reenergizing him some. “Us. Yes. Talk.”

“Oooh, that’s a good start. Want to go for subject-verb now, throw in a predicate here and there, or would that be pushing it?”

He inhaled deeply, ignored the fact that she was naked and covered with skin—covered with soft, wet, glistening, rosy, luscious, hot, uh… Where was he? Oh, yeah. He wasn’t looking at her skin. He tried to remember what was so important that they needed to discuss.

But all he could think was … skin. Hot. Wet. Then he remembered. Water. Oh, yeah. That was what it was. “Water,” he said aloud, proud of himself for articulating even that much.

Kit glanced down at the bubbles that were effervescing way too fast for his comfort. “Yes. Water,” she echoed, splashing the surface a bit. “Very good.” She felt around until she located her sponge, which she then held aloft. “Loofah,” she continued. “Loo-fah. Loofah. Now you try it.”

He bit back a growl. “You used up all the hot water,” he finally got out. “Again.”

She dropped the sponge and rested her chin on her forearm. “Well, of course I used up all the hot water. What fun is a cold bath?”

“No, I mean you used up all the hot water while I was in the shower. Again.”

“Bummer. I hate it when that happens.”

Pendleton gazed at her helplessly. Well, what had he expected? An apology? From Kit McClellan? Not bloody likely. In spite of that, he continued, “I’ve asked you not to run the water when I’m in the shower. Remember?”

She smacked a palm soundly against her forehead, a gesture, Pendleton noticed helplessly, that popped even more bubbles. “Oh, wow, I totally forgot,” she said. “I can’t believe I did that. Imagine my embarrassment.”

He supposed he would have to imagine it, because he was quite sure she wasn’t feeling one iota of embarrassment in reality.

“Never mind,” he relented, pivoting on his heel to leave. “I don’t know why I bothered.

“Wait, Pendleton, don’t go.”

He heard her moving around in the tub, so he didn’t dare turn to look at her again. Instead he shifted his gaze to the side a bit and said, “Why not?”

“It’s Sunday,” she reminded him.

“And?”

“And…it’s Sunday,” she repeated, as if he should understand implicitly why that was relevant.

“Which would mean…?”he asked.

She uttered an exasperated sound, as if he were the densest person she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. “Sunday is the day when people do stuff together.”

Oh, he didn’t like the sound of that at all. “And by ‘do stuff’ you would mean…?”

“You know…do stuff.

That’s what he’d been afraid of. “As in?”

More splashing followed, so he squeezed his eyes shut tight, because he really, really, really wanted to turn around to see how many bubbles were left.

“As in going out,” she said. “To do things together. Like go to the park. Or shopping. Or to brunch. Or a movie. What do you say? You want to do stuff today?”

“Not really,” he replied honestly.

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.”

He expelled a derisive chuckle. “That’s what you said about me carrying you in kicking and screaming that night we got back from the Caribbean.”

“But that was fun,” she said.

“No it wasn’t. It was humiliating.”

She uttered a sound of clear disappointment. “You have a very funny definition of humiliating, Pendleton.”

“And you have a very twisted definition of fun.”

“So what do you say?” she insisted, ignoring his jab. “Let’s do stuff. Let’s go to Avalon for brunch, and then to the Baxter for a matinee. Then we can do some shopping. We need some flannel sheets.”

“We need some flannel sheets?” he asked.

“Yeah. In case you didn’t notice, we don’t have any. And this house is just too cold at night.”

He knew it would be pointless for him to argue. No matter what he said or did, by day’s end, he was bound to find himself the proud new owner of flannel sheets whether he liked it or not. “What’s showing at the Baxter?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “But I’m sure there will be something foreign, controversial, and completely beyond normal human comprehension.”

“Sounds perfect,” he muttered as he made his way back out the bathroom door.

By the time they returned from their Sunday excursion, Kit felt the oddest sense of well-being wandering through her system. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a good time with anyone. Oh, wait. Yes, she could. It had been that night in Veranda Bay, when she and Pendleton—

But that incident, she interrupted herself before her memories overran her, didn’t last very long at all, where this one lasted a whole day. So this one was infinitely more significant than that one. Even without the kiss.

Dang. She’d almost managed not to think about that. Then again, not a day went by that she didn’t recall that kiss in glowing, vivid detail. As she did every day when the memory came over her, Kit tried to tell herself that the only reason Pendleton’s kiss stood out in her memory was because she just didn’t kiss many men these days. In fact, she hadn’t kissed one since Michael Derringer. Nor had she really kissed one before Michael. Not like that, anyway.

She shook her head as she watched Pendleton hang up his leather jacket. What a sorry excuse for a woman she was. Almost twenty-eight years old, single, healthy, wealthy, reasonably attractive—and she’d only had one lover in her entire life. Only one man who’d ever wanted her. And only for her current market value, too.

Pushing away thoughts of Michael Derringer—she was surprised how easy it was to do that these days—Kit shed her own coat and followed Pendleton into the kitchen, trying not to notice what a great tushie he had under those faded 501s, or what spectacular shoulders lurked beneath his charcoal-colored sweater. But as was usually the case when she tried to ignore those things, Kit failed miserably. Which was just as well, because when she joined him in the kitchen, where she found him opening the back door to let Maury out for his evening uproar, Pendleton seemed to be noticing more than his fair share of her anatomy, too.

Unfortunately, as always, the part of her anatomy that seemed to interest him the most was her face, and not the body parts below her neck that were currently decked out in sung jeans and her favorite scarlet velvet shirt. As always, when she realized where his scrutiny lay, Kit turned her face away. And when she did, her gaze fell on the answering machine that sat on the kitchen counter, and she noticed the little red light was flashing.

“Oh, look, we had a call,” she said, brightening some at the prospect.

“You mean I had a call,” he corrected her as he closed the door behind the puppy. “This is still my house, even if I have allowed you to be a squatter.”

She lifted her nose indignantly into the air. “Excuse me, but I prefer to think of myself as visiting royalty.”

He uttered a derisive sound as he moved to the kitchen counter and pushed the button on the machine. Over the whir of the rewinding tape, he muttered just loudly enough for her to hear, “What a coincidence. Here I’ve been thinking of you as a royal pain.”

Oh, hardy har har har.

She was about to open her mouth to comment aloud when a woman’s voice interrupted her.

“Hi, it’s me, Carny,” the recorded voice chirped. Actually chirped, Kit marveled. How very annoying. “Just wanted to say hi,” the perky little thing continued. “We haven’t talked for a while, and I wondered how you were doing. Give me a call when you get a chance. I love you, and I miss you. Bye.”

I love you? Kit echoed to herself. Something hot and bitter pooled in her belly like a shot of belladonna. I love you? Some woman actually loved Pendleton? And he had neglected to mention this? Worse than that, however, was the fact that he was staring at his answering machine with much affection, as if he might potentially love the chirper, too.

“Who was that?” she demanded before she could stop herself, appalled at the rancor she heard in her own voice.

Pendleton’s head snapped up. “That was my sister,” he told her, his own voice none too sweet-sounding in response.

The word foolish didn’t quite cover the feeling that came over Kit at the knowledge that the woman who loved Pendleton was a woman who was completely entitled to do so. And the word oh didn’t quite cover an apology for her outburst. Nevertheless, her response to his explanation was, “Oh.”

“Is it all right with you, Your Majesty, if I give my sister a call back?”

Strange, Kit thought, how she’d never noticed before that slight accent, redolent of the northeast, that colored Pendleton’s speech whenever his patience was pushed to the limit. At the mention of his sister, he sounded just a tad like Sylvester Stallone.

“Why would I mind?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he picked up the phone and dialed a series of numbers, enough to total long distance. Not that Kit counted, mind you, just to make sure he wasn’t misleading her about keeping some hot little tootsie under wraps here in town, but… He did dial eleven numbers. Then he glared at her as he waited for someone to answer at the other end, and for a moment, Kit couldn’t figure out why he was staring darts at her that way.

Finally, he bit out an exasperated sigh and said, “Do you think I could have a little privacy while I— Hi, Carny?”

He spun around after the greeting, but not before Kit saw his face go warm and wistful all over. No, that wasn’t some hot little tootsie he was talking to, she realized as she turned to make her way out of the kitchen. No man would ever look that affectionate unless he was talking to someone he genuinely loved.

Family. It just now occurred to her that somewhere up in New Jersey, there was an entire Pendleton clan. Funny, how she hadn’t considered the fact that he would have loved ones elsewhere in the world. Then again, when one’s own family wasn’t exactly as loving and close-knit as the Waltons, she supposed it was only normal for one to assume that other families weren’t, either. She wondered if Pendleton fared any better with his folks than she did with hers.

A soft chuckle of delight emanated from behind the closed kitchen door, a sound of happiness, familiarity, and love. Obviously, Pendleton had a much better relationship with his family than she had with hers. He could laugh with his sister. Not sarcastically. Not ironically. But warmly. Lovingly. Genuinely.

Kit wanted to eavesdrop on the conversation in the worst way, but she feared hearing his laughter again, so she moved away from the door and into the living room. The Sunday Courier-Journal lay scattered where they left it that morning, half on the flowered chintz sofa, half on the hooked rug below, and she scooped up a few errant advertisements to skim through. Value City had just received a massive shipment of Cobbies priced half-off, she noted, fleece wear was on sale at Target, and at Macy’s, it was Clinique Bonus Time. But what was once her favorite time of the week—Sunday evening spent hunting and gathering amid the sales circulars—suddenly held no appeal. Instead, she found herself focused on the man’s voice that was barely detectable in the kitchen behind her, and the way he spoke low and laughed often with his sister.

Forty-five minutes later, when Pendleton finally hung up the phone, Kit was staring clueless at clue number one in the Across column of the crossword puzzle. She heard the creak of the kitchen door as he exited, and the soft scuff of his hiking boots accompanied by the clatter of Maury’s toenails as they both crossed the dining room. But she didn’t turn around. Instead, as she watched the puppy settle himself in front of the hearth, Kit pretended she didn’t notice the man, in spite of the way her skin grew warm, her breathing went shallow, and her heart began to hammer hard in her chest.

She kept not noticing him until he leaned over the sofa from behind, resting his weight on the forearms he braced against the back. Still, she didn’t look at him, not even when he turned to look at her. For a long moment, they only remained so, neither speaking nor acknowledging each other. Finally, though, Pendleton broke the silence with a single, quiet word that almost shattered her fragile composure.

“Honey,” he said.

Unable to keep from looking at him any longer, she turned her head, narrowing her eyes at his odd sentiment. Hesitantly, she asked, “Yes…dear?”

A flash of confusion tinted his face for a moment, then he smiled. “No, I mean, ‘honey.’ The word. One across,” he said, gesturing toward the crossword puzzle. “‘Bee creation.’ Five letters. Honey.”

“Oh.” Pretending she hadn’t just humiliated herself beyond words, Kit clicked her ball-point pen and quickly recorded the word in even, block letters. Then, in a desperate maneuver to drive his attention elsewhere, she feigned indifference and asked, “All quiet on the home front?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Carny just wanted to talk about some guy she met, that’s all. She likes him, but Joey doesn’t, and she thinks it’s going to cause problems.”

“Joey?”

“My nephew. Carny’s son. He’s thirteen going on thirty-five, and naturally, he knows everything. He’s a good kid, but he’s way too overprotective of his mother.”

Pendleton had a nephew, too? Kit thought, oddly envious for some reason. She’d always liked the idea of having nieces and nephews, and had been strangely sad when Holt and his wife split without having kids.

“Is your sister divorced?” she asked, telling herself she posed the question only because she wanted to make idle conversation, and not because she craved knowledge about every single aspect of Pendleton’s life.

He shook his head. “She never married. She got pregnant when she was a teenager, but the sonofabitch stupid idiot jerk moron sonofabitch that knocked her up skipped out on her.”

“You said ‘sonofabitch’ twice. Wasn’t that redundant?”

“No.”

His expression bordered on savage, she noted, so all she said in response was, “Oh.”

“Hey, she’s done just fine without Joey’s father,” he added immediately, rising with no hesitation to defend his sister’s honor.

“I’m not surprised,” Kit told him. “If the rest of the Pendletons are like you, then they must be a resourceful bunch.”

He grinned, a happy, easy grin that nearly stole her heart. “Yeah, we are,” he agreed softly. But he didn’t elaborate.

“And are your mother and father doing well, too?” she asked, wanting—needing—to hear more about this happy family who rose so quickly to help and shelter and protect one another.

“According to Carny, they’re fine. I really should call them, too, though. I haven’t touched base with Mom for almost a week. She always calls me at work. She and my dad are hard to get at night.”

“What do they do?”

“Bowl, mostly.”

She chuckled. “No, I meant what do they do for a living?”

“Oh. Well, my mom never worked, and as of last year, my dad is retired. He used to work construction.” He smiled, one of those warm, heartfelt smiles, as if he were remembering something very, very important. “In fact, he gave me my first job when I was fifteen. Pouring cement.”

“You know,” she said, “it’s very strange that I know so little about you and your family, when you know so much about me and mine.”

“Yeah, a little too much,” he said derisively.

She made a face at him, but it was impossible to feel irritated when he was gazing at her like that. As if he were happy to be here with her, sharing the kind of innocuous, getting-to-know-you conversation they were sharing. Before she realized his intention, he launched himself over the back of the sofa and landed deftly beside her. Close beside her. Uncomfortably close. She started to stand, but he seemed to sense her unease and scooted over to put a more acceptable distance between them.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “But if you know nothing about my family, it isn’t because I don’t want to talk about them.”

She dropped her gaze back down to the newspaper folded on her lap. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. You’re right. If I’m unaware of the particulars of your family, it’s because I’ve been too wrapped up in the particulars of my own to ask.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment of her apology.

“So,” she said. “You have a family in New Jersey.”

He nodded.

“Mom and Pop Pendleton, a sister named Carny, and—” She halted abruptly when something occurred to her.

“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Pendleton,” she said softly, “I just realized I don’t know your first name.”

“Well, you never asked me my first name.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So what is it?”

“My first name?”

“Yes.”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.” She gave his shoulder a soft smack, a gesture she hoped would make him hurry up and get on with it. “Come on, Pendleton. Tell me your first name.”

He smiled at her. “What’s it worth to you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. What’s it worth to you?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

“If I tell you my first name, what do I get in return?”

She was stumped for an answer. “I don’t know. I’ll spin you some gold out of straw? What do you want in return?”

Immediately, she wished she hadn’t asked, because she knew what his answer would be. He was going to ask her to leave. Something cold and unpleasant settled in her stomach, and suddenly, she wasn’t having fun anymore.

“If I tell you my first name,” he said, “you have to promise me you’ll—”

She held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t say it. I already know. You want me to move out of your house.”

Her response obviously surprised him, as if it honestly hadn’t occurred to him to ask her to do such a thing.

“Don’t you?” she asked.

“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of if I tell you my first name, you have to promis me you’ll start letting me cook dinner sometimes.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling even more confused. “Okay. If you must.”

“Oh, I must.”

“Fine. So…what’s your first name?”

He hesitated, smiling that devastating smile for a moment. Then, plainly and succinctly, he told her, “Rocky.”

Now that came as a definite surprise. “Rocky?” she echoed, unable to prevent the bubble of laughter that punctuated the word. “Your name is Rocky? Are you serious?”

“What’s so funny about Rocky?” he asked.

“Rocky Pendleton? That’s your name?”

“Hey, I’m from New Jersey. What were you expecting? Nigel?”

She laughed harder. “No, but…Rocky? Who decided to name you Rocky?”

“My father. Axel.”

“Axel Pendleton?” She covered her mouth in a fruitless effort to hide her glee, laughing at this newly discovered aspect of Pendleton’s persona.

“Yeah. Axel Pendleton. You got a problem with that?”

He must really be getting irritated, because suddenly his New Jersey accent was extremely pronounced.

“No, I don’t have a problem with that,” she said, still chuckling. “You just don’t seem like a Rocky, that’s all.” With no small effort, she managed to squelch her giggles some. Not much. But some.

He tossed his hand into the air. “Fine. You think my name is hysterical.”

“No, honestly,” she objected. “It was just surprising, that’s all. Rocky Pendleton.” Another bout of giggles erupted before she could stop them. “No, wait,” she urged him when he opened his mouth to say more. “I can say it without laughing. I can. Watch. Rocky…” She began to titter, so she bit her lip to stop it. “Rocky Pen…” she tried again, still not quite able to contain herself. “Rocky Pendle—” Unfortunately, she never finished, because she began to giggle again. “I’m sorry. I guess I can’t say it without laughing.” And she broke down completely.

Pendleton glared at her. “Actually,” he said, injecting more volume into his voice to lift it above her outburst, “Rocky is a nickname my father gave me when I was a baby. It’s a shortened form of my given name.”

Kit inhaled a deep breath in an effort to contain her merriment, then swiped at her watering eyes as she expelled it. Finally, she managed to ask, “And what would your given name be, pray tell?”

He glanced away, and she could have sworn she saw a faint stain of pink riding high on his cheeks. “It’s short for, uh, Rockefeller.”

“Rockefeller?” she said, not even bothering to hide her amusement now as she let her laughter run loose. “You have got to be kidding.”

“Will you please try to contain yourself?” he asked. “You’re making a spectacle.”

With a great deal of effort, Kit managed to rein herself in. A little.

“My parents both came from blue-collar backgrounds, all right?” he said. “And my mother, whose name, incidentally is Irene—want to make something of that?” he demanded.

Kit only shook her head in silence.

“My mom,” he continued, “wanted something a little better for her kids. So she gave us names she thought might…you know…win us cachet into a higher social circle.”

Sounded logical, Kit thought. Still… “Yeah, but Rockefeller?” she asked, speaking her thoughts aloud, battling a new fit of chuckles.

He ignored her. “Hey, it could have been worse. Carny’s real name is Carnegie.”

Kit shook her head. “Unbelievable,” she said. “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep calling you Pendleton. Frankly, I’m not sure I could call you Rocky without breaking into a fit of—” As if to prove the point, she burst into another animated round of giggles.

“Do you mind?” he said, clearly striving for an outraged tone of voice. Unfortunately, the smile that curled his lips completely blew the effort.

It also made Kit start laughing harder.

“Show some respect, will ya?” he asked. Then, contrary to his request, and with obvious reluctance, he, too, began to chuckle.

Once he showed that small sign of weakness, all Kit could do was laugh harder. And harder. And harder still. In fact, she began laughing so hard, she had to hug herself tight to keep herself from falling right off the couch. Unfortunately, even that didn’t help, because by then, the giggles had irreversibly seized her, and she simply lost control, tumbling right off the sofa and down to the floor. Belatedly, Pendleton reached out to grab her, and for his efforts, he wound up right on the rug beside her. They landed in a heap, arms tangled, laughter joined, the fall having only increased their levity.

Their merriment ceased abruptly, however, when, as one, they realized the precariousness of their position. Kit lay on her back beneath Pendleton, his big body sprawled over hers in a manner that was most familiar. His thigh was settled between her legs, and his arm was nestled against her breast. Yet he didn’t press his advantage. Nor did he retreat. He only gazed down at her, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, his eyes more than a little inquisitive.

Game over, Kit told herself. Call for a time-out. Now.

But instead of shoving him off, as reason commanded, she found herself hooking her arms loosely around his waist, splaying her hands open tentatively over his back. And instead of vaulting off of her to flee, as she had been sure Pendleton would, he nestled more snugly, more intimately against her. For a moment, Kit felt as if she had fallen into the deep end of a swimming pool and couldn’t quite touch bottom. Then, oh so slowly, he began to dip his head toward hers, and she found she couldn’t quite break the surface to catch her breath, either.

His kiss was quite extraordinary. One minute, he was hovering over her, staring at her face, her eyes, her mouth, and the next, he was consuming her. There was a fierceness and demand in his kiss that went beyond passion, beyond hunger, beyond need. He kissed her as if he drew sustenance from her, as if she were essential to his very survival. So what could she do, but kiss him back in exactly the same way?

When she did, he went limp atop her, uttering a soft sound of surrender. He crowded his body into hers, tangled his fingers in her hair, curved his hand into her hip. She gasped at the quickness and intensity of his possession, and he took advantage of the opportunity to taste her more deeply still. He mated his tongue with hers before sucking it into his mouth, then he slanted his head for a more thorough invasion. The hand at her hip tugged her shirt free from her jeans, and his fingers danced along the bare skin beneath. Unable to stop herself, Kit drove her own hands under his sweater, gasping at the heat and strength she encountered there.

The warm flesh of his back came alive under her touch, the muscles bunching and writhing beneath her fingertips. She opened her hands wider, to propel him closer, heedless of the fact that they were already as close as two people could be. In response, he groaned and broke away from her lips, then dragged his open mouth along her jaw and neck, tasting the hollow at the base of her throat before skimming his lips over her collarbone.

Kit scooted one hand higher as the other scooted lower, and she cupped his taut buttocks through the faded fabric of his jeans. A shudder of heat rocked her, pooling in her belly and between her legs, staggering her heart rate, blinding her to anything but the feel of Pendleton as he touched her everywhere.

His hand skipped briefly over her breast, then, restless, he smoothed his palm down over her ribs, lingering at her waist, her hip, her thigh, where he finally curled his fingers over the denim covering her legs. Instinctively, she hooked her calf over his, fearful he would be coming to his senses any time now, and would try to pull away.

But he didn’t pull away.

Instead he rolled onto his back, tugging Kit along for the ride until she was sprawled over him. With their positions reversed, she tunneled the fingers of one hand through the silk of his hair, and curled the others around his nape. Pendleton raked his rough jaw along the sensitive skin of her throat before fastening his mouth to hers once again. She felt his hands running down the length of her backside, from her shoulders to her back to her bottom to her thighs, before they retraced the journey in a more leisurely fashion. Then he roped his arms around her waist and held her fast against him, so that he could wreak havoc on her mouth some more.

More. That was all Kit wanted after that. More of his mouth, more of his hands, more of his touch, more of the man. Somehow, suddenly, she simply could not get enough of him. There was an emptiness inside her she’d never noticed before—or perhaps she had noticed and simply refused to acknowledge. And now it was as if the only thing that would fill it, the only thing that would satisfy it, the only thing that would make it whole again, was Pendleton. So, with touch instead of words, she demanded more. And more was what he gave her. All the while, a fire blazed hot and wild inside her, like nothing she’d ever felt before.

Where had this come from? she wondered vaguely. This fever, this longing, this unquenchable need? No experience in her life had prepared her for what Pendleton made her feel. Whatever paltry emotion she thought she felt for Michael was little more than a shadow of what she felt now. Michael had been nothing. And Pendleton…

Pendleton was everything.

The sudden realization of that shocked Kit to her very core, rousing what little coherent thought she had left. Her response to Pendleton came from every cell, every feeling, every thought that was a part of her. The totality of her response terrified her. Terrified her enough to make her pull away from him. Immediately. Completely.

When she jerked her mouth from his, it was to find that she was clinging to him as desperately as he was holding her, and for one panicked second, she honestly didn’t think she would be able to let him go. But somewhere, she found the power, the resolution, the strength to release him. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem as willing to release her. When she tried to push herself away from him, he only tightened his hold on her, evidently as determined to keep her close as she was to escape.

“Don’t,” he said softly, his voice a bare rasp of sound in the otherwise silent room. “Don’t go. Please, Kit.”

She swallowed hard, knowing better than to try to put voice to the muddled jumble of her thoughts. So she only shook her head slowly, silently, adamantly. With one final burst of intention, she tried again to break free.

And this time, damn him, Pendleton let her go.