Besides, it wasn't like he'd hidden the fact that he was well off. A five star hotel suite that probably cost more a night than most people paid the bank for the mortgage each month. A great, brand new luxury car. Although I supposed there was still a difference between Clearly Well Off and Richer Than Croesus.

"So you're telling me that wouldn't have changed things? Not at all?" he replied.

I wanted so badly to say that it wouldn't have, but even as my lips tried to form the syllable I knew it wasn't true. But I still didn't think it would have given me the dollar sign eyes he feared so much.

He took me silence as a tacit agreement with him. "I think that maybe we've both made some mistakes. But are they really worth throwing this away?"

This time I did turn to face him. Passion had flushed his skin. His hair was in slight disarray, as though he'd forgotten to roll the windows up in his rush to get over here.

Despite the fight, I felt myself run hot and cold for him. Maybe my body knew something my heart and mind didn't. I tried to ignore it.

"What is it that you think we have? You've known me for, what, a week and half? Newsflash, we have nothing."

"You're wrong," he said, "I am good at seeing people for who and what they are. And I knew as soon as I saw you that you are different, special. I knew that instantly. And I know now that it's something worth fighting for, something worth nurturing. Something so not worth throwing away like this. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel the same damn thing."

I burned for an answer, for some quick quip to rock him back on his heels. None came. Because the truth was, as soon as I looked him in the eye I knew that I couldn't say that I didn't.

And I could tell that he knew that I couldn't, too. That galled me.

Except then the door swung open again. This time it disgorged the rather squat figure of Mrs. Rosselini. She had her hair pulled back into its usual tight bun, a bit of netting over that to keep stray strands from getting into the dough.

Smudges of flour dusted her bared forearms, her white apron, and most notably from the large wooden rolling pin she clutched confidently in one hand, in prime clobbering position.

"Get out," she said to Liam. She squinted up at him, not caring about the way she had to arch her neck to do so, not caring that Liam was more than head-and-shoulders taller than her.

"Madam, please, this isn't what you think. I would never..."

"Go," Mrs. Rosselini said. She shook the rolling pin for emphasis, some flour dust floating and eddying to the floor.

Even my heart melted at that. And no matter how part of me would feel oh so satisfied at watching him catch a couple good whacks, I knew that wouldn't be right.

Even I couldn't help but smile at the sudden maternal display.

"It is okay, Mrs. Rosselini. We were just having a discussion. It's okay. But thank you, really."

"You cannot trust the handsome ones," she said, still squinting up at Liam, who still wasn't certain how to react to her, "My husband, he was handsome. But the handsome, it goes away with the years. Then you see what is left behind. Yes, then you will see."

She prodded Liam in the shoulder with the rounded handle of the pin. It left an irregular flour smudge on the fine tailored jacket that had me cringing.

Liam could have easily shooed her back down the stairs, rolling pin or not. But he didn't. And then I got an inkling of what I would see should the years ever take from him his "handsome," as Mrs. Rosselini put it.

In order to defuse the situation I had to get up and lead Mrs. Rosselini back to the door, assuring her as she went slowly down the stairs that I could take care of myself. She smelled of fresh baked bread and the icing sugar she used on some of the pastries.

"Take it," she said, offering me the rolling pin, more flour dust floating away from it.

"I will be fine," I insisted, waving away the offer. I listened with some amusement as she mumbled a few particularly colorful Italian curses as she rounded the corner. The door to her shop opened and closed and I knew Liam and I were alone again.

My anger rekindled when I turned and saw Liam there still. There was the ghost of a smile on his laps. Enough of one to stir the embers of my anger.

"That was... unexpected," Liam said, his anger also apparently deflated in the face of Mrs. Rosselini's display. He wiped at the smudge of flour on his jacket.

"Next time I won't send her away," I said.

"So there will be a next time, then?"

I grabbed my messenger bag from my bed, slung it over my shoulder. The weight of the books had it biting into my skin, but I didn't mind. Seeing Mrs. Rosselini disappear at the bottom of the staircase had given me an idea. And Liam here was a perfect excuse to leave my suddenly cramped flat.

"Not any time soon. I am still angry with you," I replied.

He'd moved so that he stood in front of the door, so that I'd have to get past him to leave. I shouldered him aside, Liam taking a step back to maintain his balance. I grabbed the latch and yanked the door open.

"Don't go," he said.

"Don't try and stop me."

He grabbed my upper arm as I set foot on the landing, his grip not quite painful, but close.

"Let me go," I said, baring my teeth.

"I'm not letting you slide back into your rut, all comfortable in your misery again. I care about you, Emma."

I tugged at his grip, but he held firm. That fire started inside of me again. No one, it seemed, could make me run as hot and cold as Liam Montgomery could.

"Let. Go!" I said, tearing savagely.

"Not until we finish this conversation." He tugged me closer. Close so that I could smell the musk of his aftershave, see the wild glint in his baby blue eyes, the way his pulse pounded in his throat.

I grabbed the loose knot of his tie, squeezing it so hard my knuckles went white. I couldn't believe the nerve he had, not letting me go, grabbing me like that. Looking at me with eyes so blue they should have been frozen but instead burned with an incredible intensity.

I don't know who pulled the other closer, me or him. Maybe it was both of us at the same time.

In any case, it came to the same result. One moment we stared each other down, the next I felt the heat of his mouth pressed against mine, his arm snaking around my waist to pull my body against his.

I kissed him just as hard as he kissed me, pulling his bottom lip between my teeth and relishing the way he groaned when I bit down on him.

That fire inside me I'd mistaken for rage earlier was something else. Desire. My inner thighs burned with the heat of it.

"This doesn't mean anything," I said, my chest and shoulders suddenly heaving as I gulped in air, trying to meet my body's increased demand.

My breath hitched in my throat when I felt how much he wanted me, too.

"Keep telling yourself that," he replied.

"Just shut up and kiss me." I grabbed the back of his head, my fingers squeezing cruelly when I pulled his face to mine again.

He wrenched my messenger bag off my arm and threw it to the other side of the room. Then he started tearing at my clothes. Rather, we began tearing at each other's clothes.

His jacket dropped into the flour dust on the floor, not caring about it one bit. He popped the button on my jeans and then shoved his hands down the back of my pants, manhandling me, picking me up off the ground, his fingers digging hard into my ass with the sudden ferocity of his desire.

Somehow, I had the presence of mind to reach out and swing the open door shut before inquiring eyes could see what all the commotion was about. More surprising, I remembered to throw the deadbolt into place as well.