“Probably.” She didn’t want to stare at him. Yes, she did. Though she knew it was foolish, her color rose as she lowered her eyes to watch her fingers fumble with the belt of her robe. When he walked toward the door, she looked up quickly. “You’re not going downstairs like that.”

“Like what?”

“Without . . . You need to put something on.”

He leaned a hand against the doorjamb and grinned. Watching her blush delighted him. “Why? You should know how I’m built by now.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

Giving up, she gestured to the pile of clothes. “Put something on.”

“Okay. I’ll put on the sweater.”

“Very funny, Hornblower.”

“You’re shy.” A glint came into his eyes, one she recognized very well by now. Even as he took the first step toward her, she snatched up the jeans and tossed them at him.

“If you want me to fix you a sandwich, you’ll have to cover up some of your . . . attributes.”

Still grinning, he struggled into the jeans. If he put them on, she’d just have to take them off him later. Enjoying the idea, he followed her downstairs.

“Why don’t you fill the teakettle?” she suggested as she opened the refrigerator.

“With what?”

“Water,” she said with a sigh. “Just water. Put it on the front burner of the stove and turn the little knob under it.” She pulled out some packaged ham, some cheese and a hothouse tomato. “Mustard?”

“Hmm?” He was studying the stove. “Sure.”

People now had to be very patient, he decided as he watched the electric coil of the burner slowly glow red with heat. Still, there were advantages. Libby’s cooking was a far cry from the quick packs he was accustomed to. Then there were the living arrangements. Though he had always loved the home he’d grown up in and was more than comfortable in his quarters aboard his ship, he liked the feel of real wood under his bare feet, and the smell of it burning when she had a fire going in the main room.

Then there was Libby herself. He wasn’t certain it was proper to call her an advantage. She was distinct, unique, and everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. His mouth fell open an instant before the heat from the burner singed his finger. With a quick yelp, he jumped back.

“What is it?”

For a moment he just stared at her. Her hair was tousled around her face, and her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. The robe she wore seemed to swallow her up.

“Nothing,” he managed, nearly overwhelmed by an emotion that he prayed was only desire. “I burned my finger.”

“Don’t play with the stove,” she said mildly, then went back to making the sandwiches.