His eyes glinted knowingly. He understood. And was amused. Great. It was one thing to feel inferior, but an entirely separate matter to acknowledge it. Humiliating, in fact.

“What’s so unbelievable about you and me?” The husky rumble of his voice sparked a shiver in her.

He pulled back so his gaze could trail over her. Her breath caught, suspended in her throat as she suffered his prolonged inspection. From the way his eyes darkened, she somehow doubted he saw the same thing she did. She stopped breathing altogether when he added, “Any hot-blooded man would want you.”

Her mouth dropped. Not the most genteel compliment, but she was instantly assailed by an image of them together, in bed, their naked limbs sweaty and tangled as she clutched his dark head to her breasts.

A feeling unlike any she had ever felt pooled like molten lava at her core, its heat spreading to her toes. However, the thrill didn’t last. Was quickly replaced by disappointment. Because of all the men in the world that could have turned her bones to liquid, it had to be him.

In a steely voice, she warned, “Stay away from me.”

Turning, she marched away, swearing that would be his final warning. No more putting it off. The time had come to take precautions against Gideon March. The man was dangerous. Her hand brushed her lips, still warm and tingling from his kiss. In more ways than one.

CHAPTER SIX

Even the most docile animal can be provoked to attack.

—Man’s Best Friend: An Essential Guide to Dogs

Nothing had changed. The same carefully laid table bearing the weight of her mother’s wedding china and a five-pound pot roast sat before her as it had every Sunday of her life.

Claire looked around the familiar dining room. The smell of lemon-scented Pledge filled her nostrils. Every wood surface gleamed from a fresh polish. The silverware, displayed on a heavily starched tablecloth, winked at her beneath the light of the chandelier.

Her mother looked neat and tidy in a white eyelet blouse and flowing skirt. Her father, on the other hand, had merely donned his bowling shirt over a sleeveless white undershirt. The bowling shirt hung open, unbuttoned, giving her an unrestricted view of his bulging belly pushing against the thin white cotton.

Nothing had changed.

Nothing except Claire.

She felt different—a stranger sitting in a chair grooved and worn from years of family dinners. A lifetime had passed since she last sat at her parents’ table. She felt as different on the inside as she looked on the outside.