He held her close long after the tremors had subsided in both of them. He tried to remember what he had done, what she had done, but it was all a blur of torrential sensations and emotions that had bordered on the violent. He was afraid he had hurt her, that now that her mind and body had cooled she would pull away from him and what was inside him.

“Libby?”

Her only answer was a slight shifting of her head against his chest. One of her greatest pleasures was feeling his heart race under her cheek.

“I’m sorry.” He stroked her hair, wondering if it was too late for tenderness.

Her eyes opened. Even that effort was almost more than she could manage. There was a flicker of doubt she struggled to ignore. “You are?”

“Yes. I don’t know what happened. I’ve never treated another woman like that.”

“You haven’t?” He couldn’t see the smile that curved her lips.

“No.” Cautious, ready to release her if she jerked away, he lifted her head. “I’d like to make it up to you,” he began. Then saw that the glint in her eyes was not tears but laughter. “You’re smiling.”

“How,” she said, kissing the bandage on his forehead, “would you like to make it up to me?”

“I thought I’d hurt you.” He rolled her over on her back, then took a good long look. She was still smiling, and her eyes were dark with centuries of secrets only women fully understood. “I guess not.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” She stretched, not because she meant to entice, but because she felt as contented as a cat in a sunbeam. “How are you going to make it up to me?”

“Well . . .” He glanced around the rumpled bed, then shimmied up to look down at the floor. Reaching down, he plucked up her fallen glasses. He twirled them once by the sidepiece, then grinned. “Why don’t you put these on, and I’ll show you?”

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Libby was lingering over a second cup of coffee, wondering if being in love was directly connected to the difficulty she was having facing a day cooped up with her computer. She recognized the signs of procrastination in Cal, as well. He sat across from her, poking at the remains of her breakfast. He’d already eaten his own.

More than procrastination, she mused. He looked troubled again, as he had when he’d come back the night before. As he had seemed, she thought, when they’d fallen asleep. More than once during the night, and the morning, she’d been certain he was about to tell her something. Something she was afraid she would hate to hear.

She wanted to find a way to encourage him, to smooth the way to his leaving her. Love, she thought with a sigh, had made her crazy.