Much later that night, after what seemed like at least sixty takes to nail the recording that welcomed visitors to Virginia airports, Nick let himself into the Capitol Hill house he was due to close on the next day. He was greeted by throbbing music coming from the second floor. Smiling, he leaned back against the front door. He had learned in the last few weeks that Sam had a passion for all things Bon Jovi, and volume was key to her relationship with the band.

Tilting his head, he listened intently and recognized the song “Make a Memory,” a particular favorite of hers. Even though Nick was anxious to see her, he took a moment to look around at the vast emptiness of the first floor, realizing he felt more at home in this house he didn’t even officially own yet than he ever had anywhere else.

Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why, he thought, as he dumped his coat, work bag and keys in the kitchen and headed upstairs to her. The music grew louder the closer he got to the bedroom. Jon Bon Jovi’s distinctive voice soared through the melodic chorus. In the doorway, Nick stopped to study the scene. Sam was asleep in bed, a book folded over her chest, every light in the room on and the music set to ear splitting.

Shaking his head with amusement and the ongoing delight at finding her in his bed each night, he bent to turn off the combination alarm clock and iPod docking station she had shown up with a few days ago. He’d been encouraged by her moving something of hers into the new house until it dawned on him that, other than a toothbrush, it was the only thing she had brought.

He took a closer look at her and noticed the bandage on her chin and the bruises surrounding it. Hurt again. His heart ached and his mind raced when he allowed himself to think about the many ways she risked herself every day. The idea that she could one day be taken from him without any warning chilled him to his bones, and suddenly he needed to be close to her.

Draping his suit over the footboard, he shut off every light but one, hit the bathroom and crawled into bed. When he saw what she’d been reading, he laughed softly: Congress for Dummies. Gently, he attempted to lift the book off her chest.

She stirred and studied him with sleepy eyes.

He leaned over to kiss her. “Sorry, babe,” he said, brushing the hair off her forehead.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice hoarse and sexy from sleep.

“I tried to call, but I guess you couldn’t hear the phone over Bon Jovi.”

She flashed him a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

Trailing a finger lightly over the bandage on her chin, he studied her face. “What happened?”