He shrugged. He came and sat down beside her on the step. He was wearing a thick black leather jacket with exquisite beadwork. She’d been fascinated with it when he retrieved it from his truck earlier.

“That’s so beautiful,” she remarked, lightly touching the colorful trim above the long fringes with her fingertips. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Souvenir from Canada,” he said. “I’ve had it for a long time.”

“The beadwork is gorgeous.”

“A Blackfoot woman made it for me,” he said.

“Oh.” She didn’t want to pursue that. The woman he mentioned might have been a lover. She didn’t want to think of Gabriel with a woman. It was intensely disturbing.

“My cousin,” he said, without looking down at her. “She’s sixty.”

“Oh.” She sounded embarrassed now.

He glanced at her with hidden amusement. She was so young. He could almost see the thoughts in her mind. “You need somebody young to cut your teeth on, kid. They’d break on my thick hide.”

She flushed and started to jump up, but he caught her hand in his big, warm one, and pulled her gently back down.

“Don’t run,” he said softly. “No problem was ever solved by retreat. I’m just telling you how it is. I’m not involved with anyone. I haven’t been for years. You’re a bud, just opening on a rosebush, testing the air and the sunlight. I like my roses in full bloom.”

“Oh.”

He sighed. His fingers locked into hers. “These one syllable answers are disturbing,” he mused.

She swallowed. The touch of his big, warm hand was causing some odd sensations in her young body. “I see.”

“Two syllables. Better.” He drew in a long breath. “Until you graduate, we’re going to be living in close proximity, even with Sara in the house. I’ll be away some of the time. My job takes me all over the world. But there are going to have to be some strict ground rules when I’m home.”

“Okay,” she faltered. “What?”

“No pajamas or nightgowns when you walk around the house. You put them on when you go to bed, in your room. No staying up late alone. Stuff like that.”

She blinked. “I feel like Mata Hari.”

“You feel like a spy? An old one, at that.” He chuckled.

“A femme fatale, then,” she amended. “Gosh, I don’t even own pajamas or a gown...”

“You don’t wear clothes in bed?” He sounded shocked.

“Oh, get real,” she muttered, glad he couldn’t see her face. “I wear sweats.”

“To bed?” he exclaimed.

“They’re comfortable,” she said. “Nobody who wanted a good night’s sleep ever wore a long gown, they just twist you up and constrict you. And pajamas usually have lace or thick embroidery. It’s irritating to my skin.”