Million-Dollar Maverick. Christine Rimmer

decided not to even think about that.

      Inside, she kicked off her shoes and left them by the door. “I’ll bring more towels. And it’s pretty chilly. If you’ll turn on the fire, we can dry off in front of it.” Her new energy-efficient gas fireplace required only the flip of a switch to get it going.

      With a low noise of agreement, he turned for the great room off the front hall.

      When she came back to him he stood in front of the fire. He’d taken off his boots and set them close by to dry. She gave him a towel and then sat down cross-legged in front of the warm blaze. He dropped down beside her. They got busy with the towels. Once she’d rubbed herself damp-dry, she set her towel on the rectangle of decorative stone that served as a hearth. He tossed his towel on top of hers, bending close to her as he reached across her, bringing the smell of rain on his skin and that nice, clean aftershave he wore.

      “Feels good,” he said.

      And she was oh, so achingly aware of him. “Yep,” she agreed. “We’ll be dry in no time.”

      Her makeshift braid was dripping down her back, so she grabbed her towel again and blotted at it some more, letting her gaze wander to the bare walls he’d painted a warm, inviting butterscotch color and on to her tan sofa, and from there to the box of knickknacks by the coffee table, which she’d yet to unpack....

      She looked everywhere but at him.

      And then he caught the end of the towel and tugged on it.

      Her breath got all tangled up in her chest as she made herself meet his eyes.

      And he asked, soft and rough and low, “Do you want me to go?”

      She should have said yes or even just nodded. There were so many reasons why she needed not to do anything foolish with him tonight.

      Or any night, for that matter.

      But the problem was, right at the moment, none of those reasons seemed the least bit important to her. None of them could hold a candle to the soft and yearning look in his eyes, the surprisingly tender curve of his sexy mouth, the way he took the towel from her hands and tossed it back over her shoulder in the general direction of the other one.

      “Yes or no?” He pressed the question.

      And, well, at that moment, by the fire, with him smelling so wonderful and looking at her in that focused, thrilling way, what else could she say but, “No, Nate. I want you to stay.”

      He smiled then. Such a beautiful, open, true sort of smile. And he laid a hand on the side of her face, making a caress of the touch, fingers sliding back and then down over her hair, curving around her wet braid, bringing it forward over her shoulder.

      And then reaching out his other hand, using his fingers so deftly, unbraiding and combing through the damp strands. “There,” he said at last. “Loose. Wet. Curling a little.”

      She felt a smile tremble on her mouth. And all she could say was, “Oh, Nate...”

      And he said, “That first day, back in January?”

      “Yeah?” The single word escaped her lips as barely a whisper, a mere breath of sound.

      “You had that heavy scarf covering the bottom of your face. And then you took it off. What’s that old Dwight Yoakum song? ‘Try Not to Look So Pretty.’ That was it—how I felt. I hoped you wouldn’t be so pretty. But you were. And you had that hat on, bright pink and green, with those three pom-poms that bounced every time you shook your head. And your hair, just little bits of it slipping out from under that hat, so soft and shiny, curling a little, making me think about getting my hands in it....”

      She said, feeling hesitant, “You seemed so angry at me that day.”

      He ran his index finger along the line of her jaw, setting off sparks, in a trail of sensation. “I had somewhere I needed to be.”

      “I, um, kind of figured that.”

      “I wasn’t prepared for you.” Gruffly, intently.

      And then his eyes changed, moss to emerald, and he was leaning into her, cradling the back of her head in his big, warm hand.

      And she was leaning his way, too.

      And he was pulling her closer, taking her down with him onto the hearth, reaching out and pulling the towels in closer to make a pillow for her head.

      She asked his name, “Nate?” And she was asking it against his warm, firm lips.

      Because he was kissing her again and she was sighing, reaching her hungry hands up to thread her fingers into his damp hair. She was parting her lips for him, inviting his tongue to come inside.

      And he was lifting a little, bracing on his forearms to keep from crushing her against the hard floor, his hands on either side of her face, cradling her, kissing her.

      Outside, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled and the rain kept coming down.

      She didn’t care. There was only the warmth of the fire and the man in her arms, the man who could be so very aggravating, but also so tender and true and unbelievably sweet.

      He lifted his head and he gazed down at her and she thought that his eyes were greener, deeper than ever right then. He opened that wonderful mouth to say something.

      But he never got a word out.

      Because right about then, they both realized that someone was knocking on the front door.