She felt dizzy and strange, as if a healing wound had suddenly been wrenched open, leaving her bleeding and weak. Her mind was flooded with thoughts she’d worked hard to block out for most of her life. At some point she must have slept because she woke to find herself covered with the patchwork quilt.

And now he was standing there, no doubt wondering how soon he could reasonably leave.

“I’ve taken up so much of your time—”

“It’s my time. My choice how I spend it. How are you feeling?”

“Better. Did you leave the door open so we can hear her?”

“Cocoa is lying at the bottom of her bed. If she wakes, we’ll know.”

“The dog is on her bed?”

“The two of them seemed happy with that arrangement. Is it a problem?”

“No.” Emily slumped back against the sofa, thinking that of all the problems she had, that one didn’t even register. “I can’t believe you looked after her all afternoon.”

He eased himself away from the door frame and strolled into the room, a smile playing around his mouth. “You owe me. And I’ll be collecting.”

She didn’t know whether it was his words or the look in his eyes, but something sent her pulse hammering like rain on a roof. The air simmered with a heat that made it difficult to breathe. She had no defenses against his brand of raw sexuality. She felt out of control, as if she needed to fasten a seat belt or anchor herself to an immovable object. It was like tiptoeing around the rim of an active volcano, knowing that one wrong step would send you plunging into a fiery furnace.

“What do you usually charge for babysitting services?”

“I don’t offer babysitting services. This was an exclusive, one-off deal. Don’t ever mention it.” His eyes gleamed with humor. “I wouldn’t want word to get around.”

“In that case I’m especially grateful for your sacrifice.”

He gave her a long look that brought the blood rushing back to her cheeks more effectively than any medical intervention. “You finally have some color.”

And he was responsible for the color.

“I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“For drowning you in emotion.” Now that the sharp edge of fear had passed, she felt deeply embarrassed. First she’d had a meltdown, and then she’d spilled confidences she usually kept locked deep inside. “Most men hate emotion like they hate throw pillows and scented candles.”

“I’m not a lover of throw pillows, but I’m not afraid of emotions. They tell you more about a person than hours of conversation.”

“If that’s true, then by now you’re thinking I’m a hysterical neurotic.”