“Performance anxiety,” said Rachel. “You’ll get over it.”

“Oh, will I?” Devin was torn between amusement and irritation. “As the first woman I intend to sleep with-sober-you’d better be more encouraging in bed.”

She giggled.

Devin stared at her for maybe two seconds, then strode over and threw her over his shoulder. In the hall he couldn’t find the bedroom, which only made Rachel giggle more. At last he chose the right door. Pushing it wide, he paused on the threshold. It was French provincial, the whitewashed furniture all spindly carved legs and ornate handles.

The bed was narrow, piled high with pillows and bolsters, the curved headboard stenciled with fat pink roses. Fortunately, the shabby gilt mirrors on the delicate dresser injected a much-needed sinfulness to the fairy-tale theme.

Dumping the librarian on the bed, he lay on top of her until her giggles subsided and she lay boneless and quiescent under his weight. He became aware of every soft curve and valley of her body. Her eyes darkened with a similar appreciation of their differences.

She wore some kind of vintage dress of pale green cotton with a simple bodice and a full skirt. Devin hadn’t liked it until now, when he realized he could flip up the skirt and position his lower body between her bare, lightly tanned legs.

“Your boots are on the bed,” she protested feebly. He laughed deep in his throat, then moved to nestle against the silky fabric of her underwear, applying just enough pressure to show Rachel how denim over an aroused male could work for a woman.

They were going to do this slowly, but her surprised gasp stirred a need that tipped his lust into possessiveness.

There was fierce ownership in the way his teeth grazed her nipples through the cotton, then his mouth suckled until she moved restlessly under him. “But my dress…no…don’t stop.”

His mouth captured her moan as he slid his fingers up her silky thigh and between their bodies. She was wet, hot and ready for him, and they’d barely started.

He’d come if he didn’t slow this down. Devin started pulling away his hand and it got tangled with hers as she struggled with the clasp of his belt, then the zipper, shoving his jeans down just low enough to…Her hand closed around him.

“Rachel, wait-”

It was her turn to cut off his protest with a kiss as hot and wild as what they were doing with their hands. Breathing heavily, he grabbed her wrist.

She was beautiful, her soft hair tangled, her eyes unguarded. Devin forgot what he was going to say and kissed her back. Their bodies came together and he remembered. “We need a condom.”

“Yes.”

She fumbled in the drawer beside her and he noticed her hands were shaking. So were his. Between them they managed to cover him, haul off her panties. They didn’t bother with his jeans. Or his boots. She whimpered as he thrust inside her, and he heard himself answer with a similar helplessness.

Then everything was Rachel, the feel of her around him, the unfocused expression on her face. Their gazes tangled, fierce and soft at the same time. The antique bed was too narrow and their clothes bunched, stalling their rhythm, but it didn’t matter. Devin felt a wonder, a wonder that built and carried him to uncharted territory.

She cried out, and the sound took him over the edge. In that timeless moment of release he loved her.

He remembered that as they lay together afterward, catching their breath and staring at the ceiling, Rachel obviously as shocked as he was by the intensity of the experience.

He was faintly embarrassed, unwilling to believe it was possible that someone who’d never considered sex as anything other than fun had been temporarily caught in the emotions of a lovesick teenager.

Rachel rolled toward him with a serious expression and he panicked. If she talked about feelings…

“I think,” she said carefully, “you might have one vice left.”

In his relief, Devin laughed.

SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE SLEPT with him.

Pretending to be hungry, Rachel took another bite of her roast lamb sandwich, then forced it down with a swig of iced tea. Devin sat beside her on the garden bench in the tiny paved courtyard of her backyard, devouring his second sandwich.

His long legs were sprawled out in front of him; one arm was slung casually around her shoulders, and in the early summer evening his black T-shirt was a sun trap she wanted to snuggle into. Instead she sat on her side of the bench, nursing her grievance.

The man had grossly misrepresented himself as a player when he was…well, Rachel didn’t know what he was. But far from feeling light-hearted and rejuvenated, she was disorientated and vulnerable.

It had taken everything she had to come up with a flippant comment after they’d had sex, when inside she’d felt like a nervy sixteen-year-old wanting reassurance that this meant something to him. She hadn’t expected to care, but he’d made her care and he had no right to.

His lazy charm and her own prejudices had lulled her into seeing him as emotionally harmless, and then he’d gone and nuked her when she wasn’t looking. Bastard. Giving up on her sandwich, Rachel ripped off pieces and tossed them to the sparrows.

“You’re not throwing hand grenades, Heartbreaker.”

She picked up the jug of iced tea. “Another?”

“Thanks.” He held out his glass. “I never did get around to asking your advice about Mark.”

The mention of her son was a welcome diversion. “Break it to him gently,” she said, refilling the glass, “but between you and me, he has as much chance of dating Trixie as you do of attending Sunday service.”

“Maybe God’s already answered my prayers.” There was a meditative quality in Devin’s voice that made her skin prickle. She fumbled and tea and ice cubes skidded across the flagstones.

“Careful.” Taking the jug from her, Devin put it back on the ground. “Getting his heart broken by an older woman might be good for Mark’s songwriting. Look at what Rod Stewart achieved after meeting Maggie May.”

“Mark’s too young to start having sex,” said Rachel sharply. “If I thought for one minute Trixie was interested-” She stopped, because she was overreacting and Devin’s eyebrows were raised. “Of course, it’s none of my business.” Though she didn’t want it, she picked up her iced tea and took a sip, grimacing at how sweet it was.

“You care about teenagers,” he said. “That’s why I want your advice. Anyway, Trixie isn’t the concern.”

“So if it’s not Trixie…” And Rachel knew from talking to Mark that it wasn’t school. She clutched Devin’s arm. “Oh, God, he’s sick, isn’t he?”

He laughed. “Did you see how much Anna Pavlova he ate? No, he’s not sick. He recently found out he’s adopted, and he wants to find his birth mother.”

For a moment Rachel couldn’t breathe, then happiness swept over her, a joy so great she couldn’t speak. She tightened her grip.

“I want you to talk him out of it,” said Devin.

“Why?” The word erupted from her. She flung his arm off and stood up. “Don’t you understand how wonderful that is?”

“He hates her,” said Devin, and her iridescent rainbow-colored bubble burst.

Rachel walked to a rosebush, where she started pulling at dead flowers. “He hates her,” she repeated slowly.

“For giving him up,” said Devin. “He’s looking for a confrontation, not reconciliation, and that’s not good for him. Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves to do that?”

She gazed down at the shriveled rose petals in her hand, the color of dried blood, and the tiny pinlike thorns embedded in the pads of her fingers. “Probably.”

“Let me see.” Mechanically, she went to him, holding out her hand like a child. “For God’s sake, Rachel, it’s full of thorns.” He started pulling them out with long, skillful fingers.

She swallowed hard. “What if she had a good reason for giving him up?”