She woke up alone, her mind still disoriented. Was it morning? she wondered groggily. When she shifted, lifting both hands to push back her hair, she felt the sweet heaviness in her limbs that came from lovemaking. Abruptly awake, she looked over to see the bed beside her empty.

Perhaps she’d been dreaming. But when she felt the sheets beside her, they were still warm, and when she turned her face into the pillow, his scent lingered on the case.

They’d made love on the kitchen floor, she remembered with a reaction that directly paralleled Cliff’s. But she also remembered quite clearly the sensation of being carried up the stairs, gently, as if she’d been something precious. It was a warm memory, different from the erotic scene that had preceded it. A memory like that was something she could hold on to during some long, restless night in the future.

But he’d left, saying nothing.

Grow up, Maggie, she ordered herself. Be sensible. From the beginning she’d known this wasn’t romance but desire.

The only thing she’d gain from dwelling on the first was pain. Romance was for the impractical, the vulnerable, the naive. Hadn’t she spent a great deal of her time training herself to be none of those things?

He didn’t love her; she didn’t love him. There was a twinge in her stomach at the second denial that had her biting her lip. No, she insisted, she didn’t love him. She couldn’t afford to.

He was a hard man, though she’d seen some softer aspects of him. He was intolerant, impatient and more often rude than not. A woman didn’t need to fix her heart on a man like that. In any case, he’d made it clear that he wanted her body, and her body only. Twice she’d made the decision to give it to him, so she had no right to regrets, even though he’d left without a word.

Maggie flung her arms over her eyes and refused to acknowledge the growing fear that she’d already given him more than her body, without either of them being aware of it.

Then she heard it, the soft creak directly overhead. Slowly, she lowered her arms, then lay still. When it came the second time, the panic fluttered in her throat. She was awake, it was midafternoon, and the sounds came from the attic, not her imagination.

Though she was shaking, she climbed quietly out of bed. This time she wouldn’t cower in her room while someone invaded her home. This time, she thought, moistening her lips as she slipped into her T-shirt, she’d find out who it was and what they wanted. Cold and clearheaded, she took the poker from the fireplace and slipped into the hallway.