He was pushing her down on the bed. "Life is not fair."

She laughed as she found herself on her back, but shakily. "I have no clothes on. You are fully dressed."

His eyes widened and brightened at the same time. He stood, smiling. "That," he said, "shall be remedied momentarily."

Annabel sat up to watch him disrobe. He was exactly as she had thought, broad-shouldered, narrow of hip, all rippling sinew and lean muscle. She had never seen a man completely naked before. She stared.

"You are eating me up with those incredible eyes of yours," he said, not moving.

She lifted her gaze to his, feeling herself blush. "I have never seen a man before. I mean, not a living, breathing one-I have never cared to. I have never felt passion before, Braxton."

She tensed and met his brilliant eyes again. And watched his hands lifting-coming toward her. And in that moment she felt a surge of absolute comprehension-she had known that this would happen from the very first moment she had laid her eyes upon him in her father's library. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her slowly up against him. As his chest once again crushed her breasts, as his palms slid down her back, settling on her hips, she breathed, trembling with anticipation. His mouth cut off the sound.

Annabel clung to him tightly, stunned by the endless kiss. She had never been kissed this way before, but then, she had never known such a man before, either. She did not want the kiss to end; she could not seem to get enough of the taste of him, the feel of him. But he tore his mouth from hers abruptly, and their gazes locked.

She was breathing harshly, but so was he.

"Last chance," he whispered roughly.

It took Annabel a moment to comprehend him, and then she realized what he meant. "No. My mind has not changed," she said.

He took her hand and pulled her into her bedroom, releasing her to lock the door behind them. Annabel's heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest. She stood uncertainly beside the narrow bed. He turned. She had left the light on in her room and now she saw his expression-it was fiercely intent.

"What should I do now?" she whispered, dazed.

His smile flashed and he walked to her, hooking his thumbs under the plain straps of her simple nightgown. "You do nothing but feel, Annabel. And you leave the rest to me."

She could not breathe, could not move. The way he spoke, the look in his eyes, the touch of his fingernails on her skin, was bathing her body in flames. And she knew exactly what it was that she wanted-this man, deep within her, in a carnal way.

"I am glad." He sat down beside her, taking her into his arms. "My name is St. Clare," he said softly.

Annabel heard, but could not respond, because his mouth was on hers again, and she was on her back, his huge, flagrant manhood pushing up between her thighs against her vulva. His mouth moved down her neck. She heard herself moaning, found herself arching for him, as wide open as she could make herself. Her body wanted him so badly that it hurt and she had never felt so impatient for anything before. He tugged one nipple into his mouth. Annabel caressed him wildly, urgently. "Hurry," she gasped.

"No," he whispered, nuzzling her other breast. "There are some things we do not rush, my dear, and making love is one of them." He was stroking her inner thighs with his long, lean fingers. Annabel thought she would die if he did not touch her most private parts.

"Annabel," he whispered, making her closing eyes fly open. "I want to savor you."

"You have a way with words," she panted. And then he slipped his hand over her, palming her intimately. Annabel cried out.

"God," he cried, no longer sounding either suave or composed.

"Please," Annabel wept, raking her nails down his back.

"Ow." It was a growl. He caught her face in his hands and kissed her hard. There was a brutal demand in his kiss and somehow Annabel understood it-and him- completely. She wrapped her thighs around his waist, grasping his hips. And then he was pressing into her.. For one instant it was awkward and he paused, in the next instant he was there, hard and swift and sure, thrusting deeply into her, time and again, making Annabel cry out with desperation and weep with joy.

And then she knew it was happening. She tensed, clawing his shoulders. "Pierce!"

His gaze met hers as he came into her again, his face strained with lust. "Now?" he asked, a demand. Annabel's nod was brief, her explosion star-filled.

Annabel woke up thinking that Braxton remained in her arms, and she felt herself smiling. A bright morning light was pouring through the parted curtains. Its sunny brightness matched the joyous feeling bubbling up inside her. Annabel sighed, recalling his lovemaking, and then she realized that she was hugging a pillow, not Pierce. She sighed again, rolling over onto her back, looking at his side of the narrow bed. It was empty.

She stretched, smiling again. No wonder men and women chased one another like fools, she mused. Making love was indeed a wonderful experience, especially with a man like Braxton.

And they had made love. He had been tender, even in the roughest moments, and Annabel hugged herself recalling the way he had looked at her, kissed her, held her afterward. She was, for the very first time in her life, smitten with a man.

And it was deliriously wonderful. Annabel beamed at the ceiling. Braxton was wonderful, the rogue.

No, not Braxton, she corrected herself. His real name was St. Clare. Or at least that was what he claimed.

She sat up, not bothering to hold the covers over her naked breasts. The bed was so small that they had slept in one another's arms last night-when he had not been making love to her, that is. She grinned again, understanding now that particular feline expression cats wore after lapping up a bowlful of fresh cream. Did all men make love like that? He had touched her everywhere, and not just with his hands. Annabel did not think so, and she did not need to be experienced to arrive at such a conclusion. Braxton was a superior lover-just like he was a superior thief.

She sighed. Then, realizing how moonstruck she was acting, she jumped from the bed. Shamelessly naked, she went to the window and parted the curtains more fully. Her happiness dulled, her smile faded. What time was it? It had to be mid-morning. Annabel grew uneasy. Her bedroom looked out upon the backyard. She stared at the barn. The barn doors were wide open. No one was insight.

He must be downstairs, getting ready to leave. Why hadn't he woken her up?

Surely he did not intend to depart without her-not after last night!

Annabel rushed about the room, pulling on her drawers and chemise, forgoing both her corset and petticoats. As she dressed in one of Mary Anne's dark skirts and white shirtwaists, there was no avoiding her apprehension. She did not know what Braxton planned as far as the future went, but she knew she would go with him. She could not return home now.

Annabel picked up her shoes and stockings and dashed into the hall.

The house was silent. As if it were deserted, everyone already gone. That, of course, was impossible. Trying not to worry now, trying not to imagine the worst, Annabel pounded down the stairs and into the kitchen. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the room, and Annabel saw a plate of sugar buns on the table. A few small dishes were stacked up on the counter by the sink. They were dirty. Where was everyone?

Annabel walked to the back door and peered outside, but she could only see the side of. the barn. Her pulse was pounding now.

"Hello."

Annabel started as Mary Anne entered the room, looking very worn and very tired. "Good morning," she said brightly.

Mary Anne was holding that morning's World in her hand. Looking unhappy, she handed the newspaper to Annabel.