“Let me remind you who you’re dealing with, in case you’ve forgotten,” he continued. “I like to break rules, and if someone puts up a barrier I like to step over it, just for the hell of it. When I’m pushed, I push back. Harder. And meaner.”

She didn’t doubt it, any of it. The man who faced her now looked capable of anything—sins, crimes, atrocities. When she had time to think, she would analyze what warped part of her was attracted to just that facet of him. For now, escape would have to substitute for valor.

“I appreciate the reminder. Don’t let me keep you from your work.”

“You won’t.” In a rapid shift of mood that left her baffled, he brought her clenched fist to his lips. Watching her, he pried it open, pressed his mouth to the palm. “Don’t forget, sugar, you’re still holding that rain check.”

He strolled off, pausing long enough at the picnic blanket to steal a sandwich and make the girls giggle. When there was enough distance, and she was sure the heat had died from her cheeks, she went over to join her family.

“Mr. Fury kissed your hand, Mama,” Kayla announced. “Just like in the movies.”

“He was just being funny.” Laura took a glass of lemonade to ease her dry throat. “He was telling me how well both of you are doing with the riding lessons.” Though her stomach was still jumping, she casually chose a slice of apple. “I think he’s enjoying them as much as you are.”

“They’re all right.” Though she pretended disinterest, Ali studied her mother from under her lashes. The hand kiss hadn’t looked at all funny to her. And her mother had a flower in her hair.

“Michael seems to think both of you are doing more than just all right.”

“You ought to get back into riding yourself, Laura.” Delighted with the progress, Margo nibbled on a cube of cheese. No, that palm buss hadn’t looked funny. It had looked perfect.

“I’ll think about it.” Because she wanted to watch Michael climb the hill back to Templeton House, she looked deliberately west, out to sea.

She couldn’t sleep. Being bone-tired didn’t seem to make any difference. Laura wanted to believe that it was because the night was so clear, so full of stars, that it would be a shame to waste it. But she knew it was the dreams that kept her from bed.

She had begun to dream of him, and the content, the detail of the content, both shocked and amazed her.

She could, with concentration, control her thoughts during the day. But how could she control what snuck into her dreams?

They were so . . . sexual. “Erotic” was too tame, too formal a word for what went on in her head during sleep.