Her hand left the phone as she turned to face him. There was a sadness and a longing in her eyes. Who had she needed to call? What did that person mean to her? “I’m fine.”

“No one was home?”

“Something like that.” She rose to her feet. “Thanks for letting me use the phone.”

He tipped his drink to her. “Mi casa es tu casa.”

She smiled wanly at him. “You’re very sweet.” As she passed him on her way back to her room, she gently brushed the knuckles of her left hand along his cheek, leaving a tingling of heat in their wake. “Again, I’m so sorry about the scratch marks, about hitting you this morning.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“It was wrong.” Her eyes were dark with regret.

Mick shrugged. “Believe me, I’ve had worse.”

“I hate that. You’re starting to bruise, right here.” She placed a gentle kiss high on his cheekbone, bringing the faint scent of lemons and springtime to tantalize his nostrils. “So sorry.” She straightened, sorrow in her eyes as she scanned the rest of his face. “And here . . .” Her cool, slender fingers were now on his neck near his carotid artery. “I must have scratched you. Again. I’m so sorry. There is no excuse.” Her fingers started to traverse ever so lightly along the angry red mark. Pure torture.

“Forget about it. I have.” Mick shifted slightly so her fingers fell away.

“All right.” She stood there for a second. He could feel her eyes heating his skin. “Good night,” she finally said. Mick could feel the air shift as she stepped away. The sense of loss was almost crippling as she headed down the hall, but he forced his body to stay glued to the barstool, his hand clenched around his drink. She was vulnerable and in a precarious position. He threw back his drink, could feel the liquid fire’s journey all the way down as he poured himself another. It was going to be a long night.

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