Fury rose so that he had to fight it back. She was right, Cliff told himself. He’d come to take her to bed; that was all. Intimacy didn’t always equal closeness. He wasn’t interested in being close to her or in becoming involved with anything more than her body. Even as he thought it, the emptiness of it washed over him. The contentment he’d felt so briefly vanished. He could hear her unsteady breathing as she pulled on her sweater. Reaching for his clothes, he tried to concentrate on the sound of the rain instead.

“We’re not finished, you and I,” he murmured.

“Aren’t we?” Enraged, aching, Maggie turned. She could feel the tears well in her eyes, but felt secure in the darkness. The sweater skimmed her thighs, leaving the length of her legs naked. She knew what he thought of her, and this time would give him the satisfaction of believing he was right. “We went to bed, and it was good for both of us,” she said easily. “Not all one-night stands are as successful. You get a high rating as a lover, Cliff, if that helps your ego.”

This time there was no controlling the temper that roared into him. Grabbing both her arms, he pulled her toward him. “Damn you, Maggie.”

“Why?” she tossed back. “Because I said it first? Go home and curl up with your double standard, Cliff. I don’t need it.”

Everything she said hit home, and hit hard. If he stayed, he wasn’t certain what he might do. Throttle her? It was tempting. Drag her back to bed and purge himself of the angry desire that pounded in him? More temptation. As he held her, he wasn’t sure if it was he who was shaking or her, but he knew if he stayed, something volatile, perhaps irrevocable, would burst.

Dropping his hands, he walked from the room. “Lock your doors,” he called out, and cursed her as he strode down the stairs.

Maggie wrapped her arms around herself and let the tears overflow. It was much too late for locks, she thought.

Chapter Eight

For the next few days, Maggie worked like a Trojan. Her kitchen floor was sealed, making it her first fully and successfully completed project. She added three fresh strips of wallpaper to her bedroom, found a rug for the music room and cleaned the trim in the downstairs hall.

In the evenings, she worked at her piano until she was too tired to see the keys or hear her own music. She kept her phone off the hook. All in all, she decided, the life of a recluse had its advantages. She was productive, and no one interfered with the flow of her days. It became almost possible to believe that was what she wanted and no more.