“Hand me that wrench, will you, please?”

“The wrench?”

“Yeah, both my hands are occupied. See it there?”

She saw it, all right, resting right against the fly of his cutoffs.

“Ana?”

“What?”

“Did you succumb to the fumes of the disinfectant?”

“No, I… uh…“ She dropped to her knees beside him and extended her hand. It was shaking. She clenched her fist. Just pick up the damn wrench, pass it to him, and stop being such a ninny, she admonished herself. She thrust her hand forward, but a second before she grasped the wrench, she closed her eyes.

That proved to be a mistake. She miscalculated her reach, overshot her mark, touched the bare skin of his belly, and missed the wrench. A certain amount of desperate groping was required before she located it.

Trent became perfectly still, but a tremor shimmied through his body. Rana clutched the wrench and poked it into the cabinet.

“Here.”

Clumsily he took the wrench from her. She withdrew her hand so quickly, it might have just escaped the jaws of a man-eating lion.

“Thanks.” His voice was husky.

“You’re welcome.” Her voice was husky too.

“I’ll be finished here in a sec.”

“No hurry.” Blindly she scrambled to her feet. “I have some… uh… things to… I went… the art store.” Before she could make an even greater fool of herself, she fled the bathroom.

She was all thumbs as she unloaded the sack of art supplies. He would think… he would think… heaven only knew what he would think.

He’s so…full.

Would he think she had touched him on purpose?

Maybe you touched something else.

It had been an accident.

No, that couldn’t have been anything else. You touched… Oh, Lord.

It could have happened to anybody.

about her life. But she wasn’t convinced that Trent Gamblin didn’t have something to do with it.

Even when she heard him enter the room, she kept her back turned.

“All done,” he said.

“Good. Thank you.”

“Ana?”

“What?”

She felt him move up behind her. She closed her eyes, not wanting his smell to be so achingly familiar, not wanting to feel the warmth emanating from him. She felt his hand on her shoulder, tentative at first, then firmer.

“Ana” he whispered softly, his breath moving her hair.

It would be so easy. So easy to comply with the urging of his hand and lean back against him. So easy to lay her head on his hard chest. So easy to turn to him and run her hands down his arms, to lift her lips to meet his.

So easy… and so foolhardy.

She immediately squelched the desire rising within her and turned around. “I appreciate your help, Trent,” she said curtly, “but as you can see, I’m awfully busy.”

He stared at her, stunned by her formal tone and frigid expression. How could she not… His whole body was on fire. And she was pretending it hadn’t happened. What the hell was this He had a good imagination, but it wasn’t that vivid, dammit.

He’d felt that fragile hand of hers touching him and he’d almost exploded. He wanted her. Bad. But if she could act as if nothing had happened, then he damn sure could!

“So sorry to have bothered you, Miss Ramsey. The next time I spend almost an entire afternoon repairing your sink, I’ll try to be done with it and out of your way by the time you get home.”

He reached the door in three angry strides and slammed it shut behind him.

Dinner that night was a tedious affair. Trent had dreaded it, and had almost informed his aunt that he would be going out. He was tired of this self-imposed exile. He longed for one of his raunchy and raucous Houston haunts. A good meal. A good deal to drink. A good and sexy female into whom to empty his frustration.

He needed a woman in the most elemental way. One who didn’t make him think. One who cooed over him, laid her hands on him, and didn’t pretend later that she hadn’t. One who flattered him and whispered outrageously suggestive things in his ear. He didn’t want intellect or companionship or-heaven forbid-friendship. He wanted sex. Period.

But Ruby had told him that she was making his favorite meal, stuffed pork chops, and he would have been a real heel to run out on her after that. So here he was, sitting in the shuttered, candlelit dining room, staring across the table at Ana, who looked as coolly remote as he was hotly sullen.

Ruby sensed the hostile undercurrents, though she couldn’t imagine what had happened between the two young people. By the time dinner was over, she was distressed, and badly wanted a cup of her “herbal” tea. To keep Miss Ramsey from retreating upstairs, she asked her to brew the tea for her. And to keep Trent from doing the same, she complained about the thermostat on the air-conditioner and asked him to check it.

The three of them met in the parlor and settled down to watch a movie on television. Trent saw little of it. His eyes kept straying toward the woman curled up in the easy chair, watching the television screen through blue-tinted glasses that aggravated the hell out of him. Why couldn’t she wear clear eyeglasses, like any normal woman? Or, better yet, contact lenses?

But then, he doubted that Ana Ramsey did anything conventional. She seemed determined to pick the garments that would flatter her tall frame the least. Baggy slacks, loose shirts, shapeless skirts. Her attitude annoyed him because she could be a presentable package if she’d only try fixing herself up a little. Why didn’t she do something with her hair? He wanted to brush it away from her face so he’d have an unrestricted view of her face for once.

“My tea needs sweetening,” Ruby muttered, and left her seat on the sofa to make a trip into the kitchen.

Trent didn’t move, but stared broodingly at Rana as he slouched in the chair opposite hers. His eyes were hooded by glowering brows, but he could tell she knew he was staring at her. Occasionally, she would glance at him. He was glad she was uncomfortable. Served her right. Hadn’t he been uncomfortable all afternoon because of her?

Ruby returned, bringing the unmistakable bouquet of Tennessee sour mash with her. The pendulum clock on the mantel ticked rhythmically. The canned laughter of a banal comedy intruded on the thick silence blanketing the three viewers.

Trent barely noticed any of it. He was trying to understand how he could have been so turned on by Ana. The women he knew fell into one of two groups-those he wanted to go to bed with and those he’d been to bed with, because all those in the former group eventually graduated to the latter.

His attentions weren’t often spurned. If anyone called it quits, it was he. Tall or short, blond or brunette, rich or poor, no woman was spared rejection when he tired of her. Often she was left mystified as to the reason for the sudden breakup.

Ana Ramsey was unlike any other woman he’d ever met. And for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why he was stewing over her. Her caress that afternoon had been accidental. He was certain of that. But it had happened. So, okay, she was embarrassed by it. Why be so defensive? Why not just go with the flow?

If any woman ever needed a good, rowdy tumbling, it was Ana Ramsey. And from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, his body was telling him he’d been far too long without a female beneath him. To his way of thinking, they were prime candidates for hours of uninterrupted bedroom frolic.

At least now he knew something about himself that he’d always suspected. He couldn’t be friends with a woman. To hell with being a chum. That stank. He’d tried it, and it hadn’t worked. Because all he could think about tonight while he sat staring at the aloof Miss Ramsey was what she would look like naked.

“Do you think she’s all right?”