Shit, he’d need four pairs of hands. How was that going to work?

Oh God, he was so hard it was painful. He found it next to impossible to banish the images of them on his bed, hard to soft, dark to pale. As he watched her avidly, watching each forkful go into her mouth—his cock envying the zucchini soufflé and gratin potatoes as they passed those lush lips, because that’s where it wanted to be—he could feel an electric tingle in his spine. His balls tightened, his hips were unconsciously moving, wanting to be in her, thrusting.

Oh God, he was seconds from an orgasm, right here, at the dinner table. Not only would it be embarrassing, but also, she wasn’t in any way ready to face the intensity of his sexual desire for her. It would alienate her, when he needed her by his side in every way.

So he called on every ounce of self-control he had and walked away. In his head, he pulled his cock out of Grace, got up from the bed and walked away.

One of the hardest things he’d ever done in a hard life.

And when the fog of lust retreated, he noticed what he should have noticed earlier.

Grace was making patterns in the white tablecloth with the tines of the dessert fork. The lost, lonely look was back.

Drake put a finger under her chin and turned her face to his. “What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking—wondering—where Harold is. Harold Feinstein. He was the gallery owner.”

Whose head was blown apart by a sniper’s bullet. “Yes,” he said gently. “I know who he was. His body is in all likelihood in the city morgue, awaiting an autopsy.”

Her eyes flared. “Autopsy? Why would they carry out an autopsy? I don’t think there’s any doubt about the way he died.”

“No. Of course not. But it will take a coroner to study the bullet wound. The authorities will be able to tell a lot about the shooter from the trajectory, trace elements in the flesh and from the recovered bullet. Clearly, you don’t watch CSI.” The bullet would have gone through Feinstein’s head like cream and had most likely ended up embedded into the hardwood floor of the gallery. The shooter wouldn’t have risked running in and prying it out, so the police would have found it and studied it. Drake was going to break into the NYPD forensics lab computer to see their report on the bullet and the gun.

She flushed. “Oh, of course they’d need an autopsy. How stupid of me. Sorry. I don’t actually have a TV, but even I’ve heard of CSI. I hope they find out who killed him. And who shot at us.”

Drake had every intention of finding out before the police. And exacting his revenge.

He ran a finger over the back of her hand, feeling the soft skin, the delicate tendons, then lifted his eyes. “Don’t apologize. I should think you’ve got better things to do with your time than watch dead bodies on TV.”

Grace blinked. “That’s—” She shut her mouth with a snap.

“What?”

Her jaws clenched as she shook her head, hard. He gentled his voice and placed his hand over hers, covering it completely. “What?” he asked again, softly. “What is it, Grace? There isn’t anything you can’t say to me.”

She watched his eyes for a moment, looking for something, then took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’ll believe it, but I think this is the first time I’ve ever said that I don’t have a TV without being treated as if I were retarded or eccentric beyond belief. To most people it’s too insane to even contemplate. But the thing is, I work all the time and TV would be a huge distraction for me. I’d rather read, anyway. But in the end I’m not always up on the latest news and that’s considered almost antisocial, like wearing mismatched shoes or—or going to an elegant restaurant in gym clothes. It’s just not done.”

He tightened his grip slightly, very carefully. His hands were immensely strong and he didn’t want to hurt her in any way. He just wanted to emphasize his words. “I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself stupid again. You’re an artist. How could you waste your time watching the idiocies on television rather than creating? And I’ll confess—I don’t have a television set, either.”

It was true. Drake’s business depended on accurate information. He’d learned through bitter experience that the last thing television and the major newspapers dealt in was hard news. He used the internet, hacking into company and police reports for a clear picture of what was happening in the world.

He also had dozens of paid informers who would probably make a mint in journalism if the papers would ever print what they found out.

“Really? You don’t have a TV either?” Her lips curved in a half smile. He found his own mouth instinctively moving and it took him a full second to realize he was smiling back. “Maybe we’re both misfits, then.”

Oh yeah. Though misfit wasn’t quite what would describe him. He was the born outsider, the predator prowling on the margins of society. He always had been.

But it was a slightly shocking thought, all the same. The idea that he and this gentle, beautiful woman might have a basic element of their lives in common made him pause. He was used to belonging to no one, and to no place. To being like no one else on the planet. It was the deepest, truest thing about himself he knew. He was a loner and an outsider and nothing would ever change that.

His thumb slowly stroked the soft skin of her hand. “Maybe we are,” he conceded, feeling a little shock go through him at the idea and at the feel of her. He looked down at her plate and frowned. She’d left half the dessert. She needed sugar to counter the shocks she’d had this afternoon and—and he wanted her to finish the dessert. It was delicious. She needed it, but more than that he found himself wanting her to eat food provided by him. Craving it.

“Here,” he said suddenly, letting go of her hand and spooning up a bite of the lemon tart. “Finish this. You need it. Open wide.”

She opened her mouth obediently. He fed her the morsel, watching as her full pink mouth closed over the spoon. He pulled the spoon out slowly, imagining very vividly that it was his cock pulling out of her mouth. The image just welled up, uncontrollable, unstoppable. A surge of blood rushed back between his thighs.

Oh God, everything about this was just so…delightful. The huge fire painted her skin a shifting pink glow, like the aurora borealis he’d seen in Vladivostock. The candles reflected in bright points of light in her blue-green eyes. He was close enough to smell her skin. There was complete silence in the room except for the crackle and pop of the flames and the occasional swoosh as one of the logs collapsed in the hearth.

Her eyes were fixed on his. He knew she was seeing his desire and he also knew she could see him curb it.

Sex was crackling between them. Her eyes were bright with it. They were also bright with alarm. Though the air pulsed with sexual energy, Drake knew enough to bank his fires, because he didn’t want to frighten her.

He’d have her. Oh yes.

Not tonight maybe, but soon.

Grace looked away, breaking the connection. “Do you think they’ll release the body anytime soon? He has a son out in LA. They’re not close, unfortunately. I think it was one of Harold’s greatest regrets, that he wasn’t close to his son. He never spoke much about him, but there was always a sad expression on his face when he did. I don’t know what kind of memorial service the son will organize. Harold was Jewish but he wasn’t religious. I hope I can find out when the service will be.”

Every hair on Drake’s body stood up.

“No,” he said, and Grace’s eyes widened. He had to clench his jaws against coldly ordering her to forget about even the thought of attending Harold Feinstein’s memorial service. And then widening the ban by telling her that from now on, she was his Siamese twin, joined at the hip to him and that she wasn’t to set foot outside his door without his express permission. And certainly never without him being a hand’s span from her.