“You’re crazy,” she said, running her hands over his shoulders and upper back, letting her fingers sink into the gorgeous mop of hair that would cost a couple of hundred pounds in a top London salon to style this casually rumpled, and that she suspected, in his case, came naturally.

She gasped as she felt his questing fingers brush the tops of her breasts, above her bra. Gasped with the shock of finding him there, so subtle she’d barely noticed him sneaking under her clothing, and because it felt so very good. She could feel the tingle and knew she’d come out in goose bumps, and not because she was cold.

When he cupped her breast, a tiny moan of pleasure escaped her. The night muttered to itself, and the leaves above said shhhh.

George of the nimble fingers had her jacket open, her shirt open, and her bra pushed up and out of the way. Then he leaned her back a little so he could reach her breasts with his mouth.

Oh, God. The night air was cool and damp, his mouth so hot and wet, the licking and sucking motions setting her on fire. She heard panting and knew it was coming from her. Wanted all of him. To see him, touch him, taste him.

Her hands delved under his sweater, but the little touches of skin weren’t enough. She wanted more.

“I want-” she began, and then a breeze blew through their tree, setting the dark leaves above her trembling almost as badly as she was. And suddenly, a shower of water droplets rained down on her naked breasts.

She squeaked with the shock. George laughed and began to lick up the drops, but the literal cold shower also served as a metaphoric one and she pushed him away.

“What are we doing?” she asked in a horrified whisper.

There was a tiny moment of silence. Mortified on her part, and, she thought, slightly amused on his. “I believe you were giving me a good-night kiss,” he reminded her, as though they’d done nothing more than peck each other on the cheek.

“It was a birthday kiss,” she corrected. “And it’s over.”

She started trying to shove her buttons back together but made such a mess of it that he helped her.

They were mostly silent the rest of the walk up to the castle. She stole a quick sideways glance at his profile, but he looked the same as he always did. As though nothing had happened.

Right, she reminded herself. Because nothing had happened.

Still, she was going to have to face him in the morning, and try not to remember that his tongue had been wrapped around her nipples, making her moan with delight. Just before they reached the great oak front door, she put a hand on his sleeve.

He glanced down at her, brows slightly raised.

“That should never have happened,” she said. “It was totally unprofessional.”

He waited, but she didn’t have anything to add, so he opened the huge door and waited for her to pass in front of him.

She knew they both had to climb the great staircase to reach their bedrooms and she couldn’t stand the idea of going upstairs at the same time. She’d either keep babbling or drag him into her room. Two very bad ideas, so she said, “I think I left my laptop in the dining room. I should go get it.”

“Right. I’ll say good night, then.” He turned to the stairs, then back to her. “I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’m not. But consider the matter forgotten.”

And with that he started up the stairs with the easy grace of a man not still trembling from frustrated desire.

Irritation spurted through her. Was she the only one?

Of course she wasn’t going to forget what had happened. Her overheated, oversensitive skin reminded her as she walked to the dining room. Her laptop wasn’t in there; of course, it was already in her room.

She waited a minute to make sure George was tucked away in his own room, then she made her way up the quiet stairs to hers.

But she was wide awake and edgy. She spent a couple of minutes making some notes about her pub scene idea. She brushed her teeth and hair, washed up, changed into her pajamas, and stuck her feet into the sheepskin slippers she was glad she’d brought along. The castle was often cold. Even the parts they bothered to try and keep warm. The heating bills for this place must have been astronomical.

The book she’d picked up in the estate gift shop with the scintillating title History of Hart House was as un-put-downable as she’d imagined. Great for falling asleep, except that tonight it wasn’t. She read about the number of local rocks quarried and how long the outer walls had taken to build and didn’t even feel sleepy. In fact, it was a waste of time reading since she barely took in a word.

Usually she got more exercise. That was probably why she wasn’t sleepy. Tomorrow she’d go for a run. Of course, it wasn’t lack of exercise but being so tantalizingly close to making love and then backing off that had her body feeling so twitchy and irritable.

Yoga. Mind over body. Mental and spiritual calmness. That’s what she needed.

She didn’t love running, but it was exercise that she could do anywhere, so she’d become a runner by necessity. Yoga was by choice. She had a few DVDs she could play on her laptop, or she could do a simple routine of her own. She chose the latter, kicking off her slippers. All she wanted was a series of calming, sleep-inducing poses. Hauling herself out of bed, she worked through some nice, easy stretching. Her hamstrings were particularly tight, she noticed, so she went into a wall stretch. She debated putting her bare foot on the historic and intricate paneling. Her foot was perfectly clean, but it seemed wrong somehow, so she found a new pair of athletic socks and pulled them on. Of course, that made her foot slippery and she’d no sooner got herself in position and stretched in toward the wall when her heel slipped, catching on a knobby bit of wood. She wobbled on her standing foot and would have fallen if she hadn’t grabbed one of the carved acorns. She tried to steady herself, but the acorn moved.

Shit. If she broke a piece off the centuries old paneling…But before she’d even finished the thought she realized that a whole section of paneling was opening, like a door.

No, she realized in amazement. Not like a door. It was a door. A secret panel. Delight filled her. Nobody had mentioned anything about a secret door in her room. Maybe they didn’t know it existed. Perhaps the secret had died with one of the earls currently on display in marble effigy in the family chapel.

Since the castle was no stranger to losses of power through storms and other mischance, her room was equipped with both a decent flashlight and candles and matches. She picked up the flashlight and turned it on. The beam was strong and steady. She shone it into the still-open doorway and got a second rush. It was definitely a passageway, not a cleverly designed closet.

Cool.

Dark, mysterious, and very gothic. She glanced around at the luxurious guest room, then back into the dark, scary tunnel. Naturally, what any sensible woman would do would be to wait until morning and mention her discovery to one of the earl’s staff. But a person didn’t go around the world making documentaries without being, at heart, an adventurer.

Shoving a single candle and a book of matches advertising the gift shop into the breast pocket of her pj’s, just in case the flashlight battery failed, she plunged into the tunnel.

It wasn’t really all that exciting. Since it was aboveground, there was no stone walkway that might lead to the dungeons. In fact, her sense was that the plain wood floor didn’t dip down, but stayed level. Still, maybe there was some kind of treasure. A forgotten Rembrandt, or diaries from one of the former earls. What that would add to her documentary!

Not to mention possibly helping the current earl out of a financial crunch. She imagined a newly discovered Rembrandt, properly auctioned, could help him out of his monetary troubles a lot faster than increased tourism.