She remembered seeing his bare chest and muscular back and at the thought her pulse elevated and she fought the urge to run. This was too close, too intimate. He was squatting, the worn heels of his boots above the carpet as he leaned forward. His jeans were low on his hips, his waistband gaping at his spine, but, unfortunately, the tail of his shirt never moved, remained tucked while he struck a match against the sole of one boot and lit the fire. She realized that being alone with him was dammed close to emotional suicide, that her fascination for him was running far too deep, and yet she couldn’t resist staying with him.

With a spark and a crackle, flames began to devour the dry kindling and wood. Smoke billowed into the room. “Dammit,” he said, reaching quickly above the hungry, snapping flames to open the flue. “I forget some people close these things.” The chimney began to draw. “You didn’t know that my plan was to asphyxiate you, did you?”

She laughed as he straightened, dusted his hands together, then cracked one of the windows. “Better?”

“Much.”

“So much for being suave and debonair.” He sat on the floor next to her and accepted a glass.

“That’s okay. I’m not into the sleek-and-sophisticated type.”

“Lucky for me.” He offered her a crooked smile that drilled right to the core of her. “How about a toast?”

“A toast? I can’t wait to hear this.”

“Here’s to you, Katie Kinkaid.” He touched the rim of his glass to hers and looked deep into her eyes. “May you find your happiness here and may you always be safe.”

Her heart nearly crumpled and her throat grew thick, but she managed a frail smile. “And here’s to you, Luke Gates,” she said, again nudging his glass with hers. “Man of mystery, cowboy and Bittersweet’s newest entrepreneur. May the ranch be a raving success.”

“It will be.” He grinned crookedly, his gaze still holding hers as he took the first sip. Katie’s heart thrummed, her throat was as dry as a desert and she sipped from her glass, feeling the red wine slide down her throat more easily than she’d expected. She shouldn’t be doing this; the room was much too intimate, the atmosphere seductive.

Firelight played in Luke’s hair, reflecting in his eyes and gilding his skin. He stretched out, boots nearly touching the marble hearth, one elbow propping his shoulders upright.

“Tell me about yourself,” he suggested.

“Not much more to tell.” She took another swallow. “I think you know most of the high points.”