She glanced up and felt her heart flip. Anatole always looked perfect in the morning. His short blond hair was never out of place, his pajamas barely wrinkled, his chin clean-shaven from the night before. Dave looked like a wild animal. His hair was mussed and curling over his forehead in bangs, like a little boy’s. But that was where the little boy stopped. Everything else about him was man. His sleepy brown eyes seemed a little annoyed. His soft, full mouth slightly belligerent. His five o’clock shadow sent chills down her spine. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat, his jeans sat low and mean on his hips, suggesting that was all there was—just jeans. She stared at him openmouthed, her bow poised in midair.

His voice was low and raspy and threatening. “Lord, Kate, what are you doing? It’s the middle of the night and you’re peeling the paper off the walls with Bach.”

She had to swallow before she answered. Get a grip, she ordered herself. She’d seen half-naked men before, hadn’t she? But nothing like this, she thought. None that growled and meant it. “It’s not Bach.”

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I sleep in only on Sundays. Today is Monday, and on Monday I get up at five and practice until seven, then—”

“The hell you do.” He punched the OFF button on the tape player, snatched the bow, laid it on the kitchen table, and gently pulled the cello from her. Seemed to him there were better things to put between your legs at five-thirty in the morning, but he refrained from saying so, congratulating himself for his restraint. In one swift movement he had her on her feet, then slung her over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to get some sleep.” He stomped up the stairs, extinguished the hall light, and dumped her into his bed. Before she could scramble out he was next to her, a heavy leg thrown over hers, his arm wrapped around her chest. “ ’Night.”

“ ’Night? Are you crazy?”

“No. I’m cranky. I’ve won the lottery, and I don’t get up at five in the morning. Not for anyone. Not if I can help it anyway.”

“Are you planning on ravishing me?”

“I’m planning on pinning you down so you can’t make any more noise until I’m ready to get up.”

“Sounds boring. You sure you’re not going to ravish me?”

He looked at her from under lowered lids. “Do you want to be ravished?”

“Um, no.”

“Then stop wriggling under me.”

She looked at him coyly. “My wriggling bother you?”

His hand tightened on her arm. “Your breathing bothers me.”

Downstairs, the brass door knocker thunked, and Kate propped herself up on one elbow. “You expecting company for breakfast?”