He stood and dressed, pausing at his doorway. The bed felt cold without him in it. “I won’t let anybody hurt you, Dana. No matter what. You have to believe me.”

She did. No outside threat would get to her with Wolfe around. But every second in his presence drew her closer to him, and if he wouldn’t let her in, she wasn’t sure her heart would recover. Ever.

And she had nobody else to blame but herself.

* * *

Wolfe was putting his life at risk every time he descended in the rickety elevator at his sorry office building. After leaving Dana, he’d decided to work instead of run, tonight. His brain didn’t need free rein after the night they’d just shared. How could he keep his distance from her? The woman was a siren to him, and he wanted nothing more than to go right back to bed with her.

The silence of the office building on Sunday night usually soothed him, but he still couldn’t calm down. He often spent weekends and even nights at the office, which was pathetic. It wasn’t that he was so dedicated to the job but rather that he didn’t have another place to go. Bars didn’t do it for him, and neither did places with, well, other people.

So here he was. Again—with a couple of lattes covered in whipped cream and sprinkles that he’d drink through the night. Now every time he saw whipped cream, he saw it covering Dana’s generous breasts. His mouth salivated.

The elevator doors opened, and the buzz of the ancient fluorescent lights provided a strange sense of comfort for him.

Then the German shepherd pranced out of the shrink’s office. Wolfe caught his breath. Not again. “Roscoe.”

The dog smiled around the shredded red high heel dangling from his mouth, his snout covered in what looked like mauve-colored paste. He snorted, dropped the shoe, and danced around in a circle, somehow shaking his butt and tail in the opposing directions.