She’d always dreamed of a man who would think of nothing but her when she was in his arms. Who would lose himself in her as she lost herself in him. Of knowing that he was so focused on her when he touched her that there was room for nothing else in his mind or heart.

Oh, she did wish she knew his heart.

That was her problem, she admitted, running the pole smoothly through the water. She wanted that foolishly romantic love she’d dreamed of as a girl.

Seraphina’s love, she thought with a quiet laugh. The kind a woman would die for.

Well, she couldn’t afford to be dewy-eyed enough to hurl herself off a cliff for anyone. She had children to raise, a house to run, and a career—a surprisingly interesting career—to maintain.

So she would happily settle for whatever she and Michael had between them, and be grateful for it. More than grateful, she thought, tonight, in bed, when he put his hands on her again. Those impatient, rough-palmed hands that took whatever they wanted and made her wild with need.

The way he murmured her name, softly, deeply, when he slid into her to mate.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The pole nearly slipped out of her hands at the sharp tone. Her head jerked up, and there was her lover, scowling, standing spread-legged, hands in his pockets, with his hair loose and flowing.

Fighting against a reckless urge to leap on him and tear in, she tilted her head. “Why, I’m mixing a souffle. What does it look like?”

“Why the hell are you doing that yourself?” He was beside her in two angry strides, pulling the pole away. “Don’t you have servants to do this?”

“Actually, no. I let the pool boy go a couple of years ago when I learned that Candy was using him for her personal maintenance as well as her pool. I found it . . . awkward.”

He wasn’t going to smile, or even smirk. Coming across her like this, seeing her laboring over some ridiculous menial chore after putting in a full day burned him.

“Then hire another one.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t fit into the scheme of things just now. In any case, I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.” Taking a closer look, she brushed at his hair. “You seem a little frazzled, Michael. Rough day?”

He’d been in a pisser of a mood since his contractor had estimated it would be six months before the rebuilding was completed. There had been a lot of blah-blah about permits, inspections, zoning, but the upshot was that he was going to be Laura’s tenant for a great deal longer than he’d anticipated.

He didn’t want to be her tenant, to hand over a rent check every month. It wasn’t the money, he thought, fuming. It was the . . . It was awkward.