A tear slid down her cheek over the loss of what might have been. Another tear gathered in the fringe of her lower lashes. It was for the empty future, and for the ache of wanting to love Ken Callahan and knowing it would never be. She was not a good judge of men-that much was clear. She couldn’t trust herself to fall in love again, because this time she wouldn’t be the only one hurt. This time, when the love of her life turned out to be a rat, it would be Lucy’s loss as well, and no one was going to hurt Lucy like that-not if she could help it. No one was going to blithely waltz into her daughter’s life, and read her books, and get her to love him, and then leave.

She sat up in bed and scrubbed the tears from her eyes, piqued at this uncharacteristic bout with melancholia. It was all Ken Callahan’s fault, barging into her life, with that unraveling grin and mouthwatering body, and stirring up feelings better left unstirred. She switched the table lamp on and immediately felt better as the room was bathed in a warm glow.

She’d decorated the room for the middle of the night. It was a room that could dispel the gloom and horror of the most terrible nightmare. It was a room that conjured up gentle sunshine and warm summer breezes. The light from the lamp reflected in the patina of her queen-sized brass bed. An ornate rolltop desk hugged one wall, it’s pigeonholes overflowing with trinkets, dried flowers, bills, half-finished correspondence, and rolled-up magazines. It was framed by an assortment of pictures-pictures of trains, pictures of gorillas, pictures of ice skaters, pictures of family. The walls were the color of vanilla cream, the lush carpet a dusky rose, the down comforter covered by an apricot coverlet that matched an adjoining bath done entirely in apricot-including the walls and ceiling. Her brother had dubbed it her “sherbet phase,” had merrily declared it to be sexist, and had concluded that his sister was substituting for all sorts of oral gratification.

“Probably,” she’d told him breezily. “Who cares?” But deep down inside, she cared. She had made a terrible mistake, and she couldn’t afford to make another. She couldn’t afford the luxury of self-pity, and she couldn’t admit to loneliness-not even to herself.

Pull yourself together, Chris, she fumed. Twelve forty-five. She had to be at the rink by five-twenty. She would be tired tomorrow, and it was all Ken’s fault. He was sexy and charming-and a rogue. His first night under her roof, and he was off in Loudoun County, staying up to all hours and doing heaven-knows-what. It certainly didn’t take five hours to gather a few clothes together. She threw the covers off and sprang out of bed. It was simple. She would go downstairs, she would make herself a cup of hot chocolate, and then she would go to sleep. And with any kind of luck, Ken Callahan would decide to stay in Loudoun County, and she’d never see him again.

She padded quietly downstairs and crept through the dark house. Reaching the kitchen, she switched on the light and set a pan of milk heating on the stove while she spooned the chocolate mix into a mug. The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of her mouth. Her life was filled with small pleasures. Having a midnight treat in her cozy kitchen was one of them. She poured the milk into the mug and watched, enthralled, as the liquid became brown and steamy. It was her favorite mug-fine porcelain with a colorful picture of a mother rabbit. Her best friend Amy had given her a set of four because she knew Chris loved rabbits. There had been no special reason for the present-Amy had simply seen them, thought of Chris, and spent her last cent on the cups. And that was the whole point, Chris reasoned. She had Amy. She had Lucy. She had Aunt Edna. What did she need with Ken?

The cocoa cooled on the counter while Chris enjoyed the quiet. The refrigerator hummed as it defrosted. The sound of suburban traffic droned in the distance. A car door slammed. A key turned in her front door. Chris felt her heart skip a beat as the front door clicked open. It was him. Damn! What rotten luck-now she was trapped in the kitchen in her nightgown. She flicked the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. Maybe he hadn’t seen the light. Maybe he wasn’t hungry or thirsty. She closed her eyes in silent prayer. Let him go directly to his room.

A broad-shouldered, slim-hipped form appeared in the middle of the doorway. His face was bathed in shadow, giving Chris no clue to his mood. His good arm rested casually against the louvered door. “Hiding?” His voice was a velvet murmur. Low and purposefully seductive.

Rational thought and good intentions flew from her mind like autumn leaves on a windy day. She was aware only of the flame flickering to life deep within her. And she was suffused with the plea sure of his presence, with the predatory purr of his voice.

“You’re standing in the moonlight, Chris. Would you like to know what I see?”

Chris felt her lips part, but no words emerged. She stood statue still, barely breathing, her heart thumping in her chest.

“I see a beautiful woman with silver curls and moonbeams spilling over ivory shoulders and the curve of her arm. All highlight and shadow and breathless expectancy.” He took a step toward her. “I’d be afraid to touch you if it weren’t for the shadows.”

“Shadows?”

He was very close now. Close enough for her to see his eyes, black with desire.

He drew the tip of his finger across her lower lip. “This shadow that tells me your lips are parted, waiting to be kissed.” He closed his eyes, touched his mouth to hers, and he deepened the kiss. When she responded, he drew away to continue the seduction.

“And this shadow at your pulse point,” he murmured, his lips across her neck.

She closed her eyes and moaned softly, succumbing to the pleasure that ripped through her body at his every touch, wanting to feel him against her. Again, Chris was treated to a searing flash of foresight, a reaffirming of what she’d sensed in the hospital: that Ken would be a careful, sensitive lover; that he would allow their desire to build until it was unbearable; and that when his passion was finally unleashed, it would be all-encompassing, devastatingly intense, and like none she had ever known.

His mouth found hers with startling urgency. Chris leaned into him. Her breasts pressed against his muscled chest. She kissed him without reserve.

“I need you.” He kissed her again, long and deep. “I need you to love me.” He swung around to lift her in his arms, forgetting the day-old cast. C-l-a-n-n-n-g! The plaster cast smashed against an empty copper fruit bowl sitting innocently on the counter. The bowl sailed through space and clattered onto the floor. Arrrrang arrrrang arrrrang! The bowl whirled to a stop.

“Oh my God!” Chris choked.

“What the hell was that?”

Chris choked back laughter and bent to retrieve the bowl. “It was a copper bowl.”

Lights flashed on upstairs. A door was thrown open. “What’s going on down there?” Edna yelled.

They looked at each other like two children caught pilfering the cookie jar.

Ken rested his forehead against a cabinet door. “I think I might cry.”

“I think I might buy more fruit bowls.”

“Saved by the bell, huh?”

Chris looked at him in the moonlight. His face was still tinged with the strain of unsated desire. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she explained in a voice that was shaky with emotion. “I couldn’t sleep, and I was making myself a cup of cocoa.”

“I guessed. I could smell the cocoa as soon as I opened the front door.” He took the fruit bowl from her and set it back on the counter. “And I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he told her with a menacing grin aimed at the now-silent bowl.

“Yeah,” Chris breathed. “I believe that.”

Aunt Edna’s voice rattled down the stairs. “Chris? Is that you making that racket?”