But he didn't say yes and he didn't say no, he just looked at her. And as he stared into her blue eyes, his lashes drifted lower, and his gaze settled on her mouth, on the softness and fullness he'd finally kissed after waiting so long to touch, and taste. And the wait had been worth it. Her mouth was perfect. She tasted and felt divine.


Reaching out, he pushed back one of her long blond curls. "You don't hate me as much as you used to."


Even in the moonlight he could see her blush. "I never hated you," she answered, but her cheeks were crimson and she wouldn't look him in the eye.


"You didn't like me."

Fresh color swept her cheeks, and she laughed softly, and it was a surprisingly deep husky laugh for someone so slight. "I questioned your morals and values."


"That's a nice way of putting it,"

"You did encourage Johann to gamble."

"Of course I did." He couldn't resist touching her flushed face, couldn't help touching what he'd craved for so long. "If it meant I could get what I wanted..."


"That's what made me uncomfortable. You have to have eth*ics, Cristiano. You can't just do whatever you want because you want something."


Now it was his turn to laugh. "Oh, yes, you can," he said, pushing the door open and steering her back in.


CHAPTER EIGHT


After the kiss, Sam was sure that something would happen, hut after returning to the fire, Cristiano lost himself in some read*ing he'd brought with him and Sam sat in her chair, feeling ner*vous and excited, rather like a girl going to her first dance.


But nothing else happened- It was as if the kiss had never occurred.

Cristiano focused on his reading and Sam sat feeling like a wallflower-He must regret kissing me, she thought, chewing on her thumb. Or he kisses so many women it's really nothing-She had a sneaking suspicion it was the latter. Finally it was time for bed, and Cristiano slept in one of the bedrooms while Sam carried blankets to the couch in the sitting room-It took her forever to fall asleep and when she woke up stiff and cold in the morning, her mood was not much better.


Her mood didn't improve later, either, when during breakfast she felt him watching her.

Sam did her best to ignore him, just like she struggled to ig*nore the buzzy butterflies in her middle. He doesn't even remem*ber the kiss, she told herself sternly. You can't dwell on it, either. But it was hard to forget, especially after such a sleepless night where she lay awake for hours, thoughts tormented body hot. And empty, craving satisfaction.


Breakfast over; Sam attacked the few dishes, scrubbing the plates that had nothing more than crumbs on them. Cristiano came up behind her to set his cup on the counter and she jumped as if somebody had touched her with a hot wire.


Just the knowledge that he was near her, behind her, made her acutely sensitive. And when he leaned past her, to pick up a dish towel and dry the dishes she'd washed, she felt a coil in her mid*dle that actually hurt.


If this was desire it was awful.

It wasn't fun. It was fierce. Hot. Angry,

She felt maddened by it, by want, by the unknown.


She must have sighed or made some sound because Cristiano looked down at her, one black eyebrow lifting. "Something both*ering you today?"


She tossed the scrub brush down, faced him, one hand grip*ping the sink. "Yes."


His hazel gaze slowly traveled the length of her, resting pro*vocatively on her throat, her breasts, and her hips. "Tell me what it is. Maybe I can help."

"You can't help. You're the problem "

"I'm the problem"


She shook her head in exasperation. Why did she say that? It was dumb to say that. No, he wasn't the problem. She was the problem. This—the attraction, the situation—it was her problem. She couldn't handle her feelings, or her response. He'd kissed her—big deal—but God help her, she wanted more.

And the intensity of her feelings made her feel like an igno*rant schoolgirl. She'd loved the kiss. But she wasn't a school*girl. She was a spinster. A spinster leveled by a kiss.


"You haven't told me why I'm the problem," he said.


Sam glanced out the window toward the driveway as if Gabby would just magically appear and save her from this. "Ignore me. I'm being irrational."


"You're the least irrational woman I've ever known. Tell me. Let me try to help."

Then that would require kissing me again,she thought, looking up at him, into the hard angles of his face and eyes that held her, mesmerized her, "Please don't be charming," she whispered, only half-jesting. "I don't think I can handle it. Not from you, not today, not after last night."

"What about last night?"


So he didn't even remember. The kiss hadn't meant anything, or made an impression.

Sam whimpered, she hadn't meant to, she couldn't keep the hurt in.


But suddenly he was closer, or she was closer, and the heat between them was scorching. Sam felt hot, her clothes too tight and suddenly she couldn't breathe anymore.


And then he was reaching for her, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her against him creating a riot of sensation. Just that one touch of his body against hers and it was like New Year's and fireworks, sparks exploding everywhere. She felt him every*where, too—chest, ribs, hips, thighs. He was hard, strong, male, and it was the most delicious feeling in the world, her body alive, and her body aware of his, her body feeling warm and real and good.


His hand was in the small of her back, urging her even closer and she felt the throb of him against her, his body's heat and how his body strained.


She'd thought when it came to this, she'd be afraid. She'd thought if a man ever held her so close, teased her with his body like this, made her aware of his desire; she'd thought she'd panic. Hate it. Run.