Winded, her head ringing where it thudded against the stair tread, she lay limp as a rag. Even dazed in the dark, she recognized Del by his shape, his scent.

“Jesus. Laurel? Damn it. Are you hurt?”

She drew in a breath, constricted by his weight—and maybe by the fact that a certain area of that weight was pressed very intimately between her legs. Why the hell had she been thinking about sex? Or the lack thereof?

“Get off me,” she managed.

“Working on it. Are you okay? I didn’t see you.” He pushed up partway so their eyes met in that blue dust moonlight. “Ouch.”

Because his movement increased the pressure—center to center—something besides her head began to throb. “Off. Me. Now.”

“Okay, okay. I lost my balance—plus you grabbed my shirt and took me down with you. I tried to catch you. Hold on, let me get the light.”

She stayed just where she was, waiting to get her breath back, waiting for things to stop throbbing. When he flicked on the foyer light, she shut her eyes against the glare.

“Ah,” he said and cleared his throat.

She lay sprawled on the steps, legs spread, wearing a thin white tank and a pair of red boxers. Her toenails were sizzling pink. He decided concentrating on her toes was a better idea than her legs, or the way the tank fit, or ... anything else.

“Let me help you up.” And into a really long, thick robe.

She waved him off, half sat up to rub at the back of her head. “Damn it, Del, what are you doing sneaking around the house?”

“I wasn’t sneaking. I was walking. Why were you sneaking?”

“I wasn’t—Jesus. I live here.”

“I used to,” he muttered. “You tore my shirt.”

“You fractured my skull.”

Annoyance dissolved instantly into concern. “Did I really hurt you? Let me see.”

Before she could move, he crouched and reached around to feel the back of her head. “You went down pretty hard. It’s not bleeding.”

“Ouch!” At least the fresh ringing took her mind off the torn shirt, and the muscle beneath it. “Stop poking.”

“We should get you some ice.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Stirred up, no question, she thought, and wishing he didn’t look so tousled, roughed-up, and ridiculously sexy. “What the hell are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s barely midnight, which, despite the term, isn’t the middle of the night.”

He stared straight into her eyes, looking, she imagined, for signs of shock or trauma. Any second he’d take her damn pulse.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Mrs. G and I were hanging out. There was beer involved. Enough beer I decided I’d just ...” He pointed up. “I was going to crash in one of the guest rooms rather than drive home with a buzz on.”