“That should hold its value.” With a small laugh she swiped the tablet until the back terrace showed. “A built-in grill.”

“I noticed. Six bedrooms and seven baths.”

“And only one Clare.”

“So, only one Clare, you gonna buy it?”

For an instant, her lips pressed together. “Yes. I am.” Her head tilted to a defiant angle. “Just because Great-Aunt Sandra didn’t have any children doesn’t mean I can’t plan for a family.”

Zach froze.

Clare laughed and patted his hand. “Eventually. Not looking for anything near permanent until I understand my . . . circumstances.” She left her soft fingers over his that were still curled around his knife. “Thank you for staying, Zach, I know this whole . . . all this stuff hasn’t been easy.”

He put the steak knife aside, turned his hand over, and clasped her fingers. “You’re an interesting lady. Easy is overrated.” He hesitated. “But I’m not looking for anything long term, either.”

Maybe nothing so deep, either, though he thought he might already be in deeper waters with a woman than usual.

She squeezed his hand. “We’re in the same column there.”

“In the same column?”

“Rather like being on the same page. We’ll keep things between us simple and comfortable.”

“That works for me.” Only a small pool of light from a weak bulb—bad choice security-wise—lit the area. But crickets chirped and a small breeze had picked up to rustle the leaves, all adding to the quiet depth of the night, the sensation of peace where he—they—could relax.

Zach studied the light and shadows of Clare’s face, thinking that if they’d had a bigger fire in the grill it might have flickered like a campfire over her Gypsy ancestry, golden tan, and when he glanced down at their hands intertwined it was like golden tan and a tinge of copper from that dollop of Native American ancestry he had. Molten heat pulsed between them, a connection that wound through him, became a thread that spiraled around his heart then went south straight to his balls to make his dick heavy, needy.

With his blood slow and thick, his gaze focused on hers. He stood, still keeping her fingers in his, and moved down the table to the house.

“The dishes—”

“Forget ’em.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow, Clare. You can leave worries until tomorrow, can’t you?”

Her brows, pretty dark brown arches, rose, her eyes rounded. “Yes,” she whispered.

He didn’t think she’d ever done that, and a little thrill that he could affect her, make her forget something essential to herself, plucked that string between them, making it vibrate inside him. He pressed her fingers and felt them tremble as if she, too, felt that connecting cord. A new experience for him he wouldn’t analyze. Go with the flow.

She opened the door and though the heat rose, it intensified the desire between them. Keeping her hand in his, he nudged her forward and their bodies touched, his groin to her ass, and he went from semi-erect to hard. He heard her breath catch in the stillness, her fingers fluttering in his. He didn’t let them go but kept walking, the pulse in his temples louder than the click of his cane. She stepped forward and the slight rub of her bottom against his fly had him biting off a groan. Though they stood in a slight stream of air, he closed the back door, locked it.

“I’m not going to sleep with you . . . yet.” Her voice was breathy.

“Just being with you is enough.” An old and often-used phrase and he meant it here and now, but, man, he wanted her in bed and on top of him. He had to block that vision from his mind, and that took more effort than expected.

She led him to the living room and the couch, switching off the overhead light, and he felt the sweep of the air from the fan cool the sweat on his forehead. Only a small, fancy stained-glass lamp on a corner table sent colored glows throughout the room.

Clare’s breathing had quickened and she sat in the middle of the couch, giving him the end. He propped his cane against the fatly curved arm and sank down next to her, his own arm curving around her, still holding her hand. His body throbbed with desire, and the explosion of sexual heat inside him, after so long a drought, had him barely hanging on to his control. So he sucked his need in, concentrated on enjoying the sweet, heavy sensuality between them.

“Talk to me, Clare.”

“About what?” she said in two little pants.

“Anything.” Anything that would distract him from the fragrance of her, the seductive brushing of skin against skin . . . their arms . . . as they sat, the soft length of her thigh against his, the softer weight of her breast against the side of his chest.

“I . . . I have a brother.”

One word. Brother. Nearly, nearly broke the spell of desire weaving between them. He’d forgotten, but he wanted to keep her talking, so he asked the next easiest question. “Older or younger?” he croaked his words, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Older.” A pause. “We get along but aren’t very close.”

Zach had loved his older brother, Jim, with all his heart, looked up to him, followed him.

“Do you have siblings?” she asked, her voice a little husky. Focus on that, not the past. The present. The future that would include making love to this woman.

“What about your parents?” he asked quietly, knowing she’d ask in return, but he could handle that; it wouldn’t break the tantalizing feelings between them. He released her fingers and began stroking her arm from hand to shoulder, loving the smooth slide over her skin, the tingle on his own palm, calming his emotional pain, charging the air between them with desire. When he reached her fingers again, he turned her hand over and caressed her palm with his thumb. Her body sagged against his side.

“Parents?” she whispered. Looking at her in the multicolored glow, he saw her blink slowly, then stare at her upturned palm that he circled with his fingertip. A breath soughed from her. “My parents are . . . not responsible . . . living off money they didn’t earn.” Her voice sharpened a little, and he drew his hand up her arm and pulled her closer in a squeeze. His erection throbbed. But this was not only about sex.

“My father is a general in the Marines,” he said, a little too harshly.

She turned to him then, her thigh sliding away, but her eyes focused on his, and he stared at her pretty face, pointed chin, cheeks flushed from the heat . . . and maybe lust. Her mouth curved, looking flushed and fuller, too. He leaned toward her, slowly, but nothing shadowed her eyes and her lips parted.

He didn’t see her tongue, wanted her to lick her lips. Wanted to taste that mouth, those lips, tangle his tongue with hers. And when he kissed her, she closed her half-lidded eyes and he followed, enjoying the tenderness between them, the rising desire that kept him hard, on the edge of need, riding that edge, reveling in it, relishing the sensations too much to move fast.

TWENTY

SWEEPING HIS TONGUE along her mouth, his whole being clenched when he first tasted her. Perfection, a dark chocolate kind of taste, not at all sweet like he’d expected. Dark chocolate. Oh, yeah.

He probed with his tongue and she opened her mouth, rubbed her tongue against his, then she wound her arms around his neck and she felt so good against him that he moved to lie with her on the couch, pulling her atop him. She straightened her torso, her legs—longer than he’d noticed; why hadn’t he noticed those?

Hard and burning up, flames licked inside him as she settled on him, her body soft and tantalizing. He sucked on her tongue and her whimpers mixed with his moan as he ran his hands down her back, over the curve of her fine ass, found the edge of her dress, slipped his hand under it, touched the smoothness of her thigh, feathered his fingers up till he felt the edge of her panties. Want the heat of the woman. Want the softness of the woman. Want the woman’s moistness.