“Well, well.” She gave it some thought. “Can he quote poetry?”

“He even writes it.”

“Oh, my God.” She put a hand to her heart. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where I’m going to meet him? I want to be ready.”

He rolled over just enough to look at her. Her eyes were bright, but with amusement, not tears. “You’re getting a real charge out of this, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She lifted a hand to his face. “I suppose it might make you feel better if I promised I’d join a convent.”

“Okay.” He took her wrist to bring her palm against his mouth. “Can I get it in writing?”

“I’ll think about it.” His eyes were clear again, deep and clear. He was Cal now, the man she could love and understand. “Are we finished fighting?”

“Looks like it. I’m sorry, Libby. I’ve been acting like a lupz.”

“I’m not sure what that means, but you’re probably right.”

“Friends?” He bent down to brush her lips with his.

“Friends.” Before he could draw back, she cupped his head in her hand and held him against her for a longer, deeper and much less friendly kiss. “Cal?”

“Hmm?” He traced her lips with his tongue, memorizing their shape and texture.

“Did this guy have a name? Ouch!” Torn between laughter and pain, she jerked back. “You bit me.”

“Damn right.”

“It was your fantasy,” she reminded him primly, “not mine.”

“And let’s keep it that way.” But he was grinning as he ran his hand up the smooth skin where her shirt had parted. “I can give you others, if you’re willing to settle.”

“Yes.” His palm rounded over her breast, working magic. “Oh, yes.”

“If I took you to Paris, we’d spend the first three days in that hotel suite and never get out of bed.” He continued to tease, nipping here, stroking there, stopping just short of possession. “We’d drink champagne, bottle after bottle, and eat small dishes with exotic names and tastes. I’d know every inch of your body, every pore of your skin. We’d stay in that big, soft bed and go places no one else had ever been.”

“Cal.” She trembled as he circled her breasts with slow, openmouthed kisses.

“Then we’d get dressed. I can see you in something thin and white, something that skims off your shoulders, dips down your back. Something that makes every man who sees you want to murder me.”

“I don’t even see them.” With a sigh, she traced her hands down him, lingering over every plane and angle. “I only see you.”