He takes my glass and sets in on the counter. The next thing I know I’m being swept into his arms. “What are you doing?”

“I was thinking about trying to get you into bed.”

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

He kisses me, but this time it’s not tentative. It’s the kiss of a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it. “So are you okay with this?” he whispers.

He’s asking about the rape, I realize. “At one point in my life, I would have run away from this moment and never looked back. Or maybe I would have sabotaged whatever relationship we’d begun.”

“I thought I had the market cornered on the relationship-busting thing,” he says.

“You don’t.”

“Is that a warning?”

“Probably.”

He looks at me with those dark, intense eyes. “No pretenses, Kate. It’s just us. You and me.”

“And our baggage.”

Laughing outright, he carries me down the hall and starts into the first bedroom.

“Wrong room,” I say.

“Sorry.” He backs into the hall and carries me into my bedroom.

He puts me down next to the bed. His eyes go to the old kerosene lamp on my night table. “Does that thing work?”

“It belonged to my mamm.” One of the few things I have of hers. “Matches are in the night table.”

“Don’t go anywhere.” He softens the words with a smile.

My nerves are snapping now. I watch as he removes the globe from the lamp. A match flares, then flickering light fills the room. He crosses to me, sets his hands on my shoulders and gazes into my eyes. “It’s been a long time for me.” He glances away, then back. “Not since Nancy.”

“Two years is a long time to be alone.”

“Plenty of demons to keep me company.”

I think about everything I’ve read or heard about him, and I wonder if the stories are true. If he went rogue after his wife and kids were murdered. I wonder if he would tell me the truth if I asked. I wonder if I really want to know.

He slides his hands to the hem of my sweatshirt. I lift my arms and he pulls it over my head. His gaze flicks to my bra, skims down my belly, lower. He runs his hands through my hair, mussing it. His fingers linger on either side of my face, then he snags the straps of my bra with his thumbs and tugs them over my shoulders.

Cool air washes over my breasts, and I shiver. I’m keenly aware of his hands going to the fly of my jeans. His fingers tremble as he unfastens the button, then tugs down the zipper. Self-consciousness creeps over me. Needing something to do with my hands, I reach for the buttons of his shirt. But my fingers are shaking and I fumble them.

John takes my hands in his and kisses my knuckles. “How is it that you can chase a madman into the woods in the dead of night and not even break a sweat, but when it comes to this, you’re shaking so hard you can’t even manage the buttons on my shirt?”