She was watching him, taking cues from him, though the only kind of cue she could get right now was How fast can I get you into bed? Should he be slowing this down? Her eyes fluttered shut and she lifted her mouth to his in a kiss that was all too short.

Maybe he didn’t have to slow this down. Which, all in all, was a good thing, because he didn’t know if he could.

“Do you want coffee?” she whispered finally, pulling back and searching his eyes. Did he want coffee? Shit no, he didn’t need coffee, he didn’t need any stimulants. The way he was feeling right now, he needed someone to hose him down.

“No,” he whispered back.

Christ, she was pretty. No, she wasn’t just pretty. She was beautiful. Not many women were beautiful, magazine articles to the contrary. They gussied themselves up, and a lot of them that were secretly dogs wore so much makeup you really couldn’t tell what they looked like in there, under all the glop. And then of course there was the knife and the needle, giving half the women in America the same thin, upturned nose and big pillowy lips.

Charity had a natural beauty that didn’t scream look at me! in any way, and yet once you did, once you really looked, it was almost impossible to tear your gaze away.

Her makeup had almost gone, but she didn’t need it. That clear, porcelain poreless skin that looked softer than anything human could possibly be, the big, tilted light-colored cat’s eyes, the delicate shape of her cheekbones and jaw—they were a magnet for the eyes.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, then winced. “Whoa. Sorry.”

“Thanks,” she whispered and laughed softly. “Why are we whispering?”

They were whispering because it was a whispering moment. Actually, it was a magical moment. She felt so good in his arms. Everything about this felt good. The night, the woman…

It was utterly silent, as if they were the only people left in a white world of snow and silence. She was smiling dreamily up at him, beautiful and welcoming.

This was the best place he’d been in since—shit, since he didn’t remember when.

Nick leaned against the door with her in his arms. He leaned against it because it was there and because, crazily, his knees were buckling.

It wasn’t Charity’s weight. She was slender, even slight. He’d bet the farm she didn’t weigh more than one twenty, tops. He’d climbed a mountain in the Kush carting a rucksack weighing more than eighty pounds, sixteen liters of water, and his XM8 with nine magazines, which weighed over twenty pounds. He hadn’t done it laughing and he hadn’t leaped like a mountain goat, but he’d done it.

Holding Charity was a snap in comparison. So why were his legs having problems holding him up?

Their eyes met and they moved as one. He bent down to her again just as she lifted her face to his. The kiss was long and deep, his cock rising painfully every time his tongue touched hers. He lifted his head again and smiled down into her eyes. Might as well just ask it.

“So—we headed for the bedroom?” Please God, let the answer be yes. If it wasn’t, he was going to howl. Tonight his fist simply wouldn’t be enough for the blue steeler in his pants.

She nodded. Yes!

Another kiss that had his thigh muscles clenching. He was about ready to carry her off to the bedroom when the three molecules of brain matter he had left rang a warning bell.

The house was large, particularly for a single woman. It had been her family’s home. It was large enough to have to ask where her bedroom was.

He knew perfectly well where her bedroom was. He’d been in her house twice—he’d picked her locks while she was in the library, combing the house for clues to who she was.

Initially, it had been to find weaknesses, things he could leverage for intel. Drugs would have been good. Lots of alcohol would be good, too. Maybe a stash of heavily used vibrators and sex toys, though he’d sincerely hoped not at the time.

Addictions were like a door with a WALK THROUGH ME sign on it. Weaknesses, champagne tastes on a beer budget, sexual deviancy—they were all chinks in the armor, chinks he wouldn’t hesitate to use.

Thank God there’d been nothing. Consuelo had put him right off that stuff. If he never saw a fur-lined handcuff, if he never fucked a woman who was high in his life, he’d be delirious.

As it happened, there was nothing in Charity’s house but beautiful furniture, books, and paintings. Charity’s life was as easy to read as a book, appropriately enough, because her house was full of them. Full of CDs, too. The bought kind, which he thought was overkill in the upstanding citizen department. He was a law enforcement officer and he hadn’t bought music since 2001. Charity did, which spoke volumes.

There were watercolors everywhere, signed Clarissa Prewitt. Her mother.

The house, he realized now, was a reflection of her. Elegant, classy, feminine.

Another kiss that had his thigh muscles clenching. “Which way to your bedroom?” he asked against her mouth. He knew the answer. Corridor to the left. First door to the right.

“Corridor to the left,” she said. “First door to the right.” He started moving as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “You’re going to carry me to the bedroom?”

“Oh yeah.” It was the fastest way to get there. He needed fast because he was burning up. He needed fast before his knees gave out and he tumbled with her to the floor.

If they fell on the floor, he’d fuck her there, which was not good. Not romantic. This had to be romantic. He could do romantic. Couldn’t he? Since when wasn’t he in control?

Since about five minutes ago, apparently. He was kissing her and panting and sweating by the time he made it into her bedroom and gently put her on her feet. It would be easier to get her clothes off if he could just stop kissing her, but that seemed beyond his ability. He had one hand around the back of her head and he was fumbling with her clothes with the other.

Damn! Why didn’t he have three hands so he could undress himself at the same time?

He worked fast. Sweater, bra, skirt, stockings—thigh highs! Yes! — panties, shoes. Ding! Charity done. He lifted her again and placed her on the bed. An uncharitable observer would have said he threw her on the bed, so hard she bounced.

Now him.

God, he broke the land-speed record for undressing. Overcoat, shirt, undershirt, pants, briefs, shoes, socks.

Put on a rubber in record time.

Thank God he wasn’t on a mission because then it would have taken him minutes to get out of his shoulder rig, get rid of the ankle holster, unhook the spare magazines and flashbangs, lose the combat knife and sheath…

No wonder soldiers didn’t fuck in the field. It took them an hour to get undressed.

Finally, finally, he was naked and looking down at an equally naked Charity, spread out on the bed, a luscious little soft pale morsel, arranged solely for his delight.

As stoked as he was, as horny as he was, as much as he wanted to jump her bones, he paused for just a moment to look at her, the pale perfection of her. Besides that delicate, slender body, all female grace, the expression in her beautiful eyes was enough to stop him dead. Softness, humor, affection…

It wasn’t what he was used to seeing in his sex partners. He was used to seeing lust and desire, and no emotions at all.

He frowned. Was she turned on? Or was she all wrapped up in this romantic fantasy she’d created in her head?

Only one way to find out.

Nick leaned down and clasped his hand around her ankle, pulling her leg out a little, anchoring it to the mattress. He was sidetracked for a second by the sight of her foot emerging from his dark fist.

God, even her feet were lovely. High-arched, narrow pink-tipped toes. Good enough to eat. If he were to start at her toes, though, it would take him all night.