Her took her silence for refusal, and his patience evaporated with his rising urges to grab hold of her and kiss her senseless. “Okay, don’t think about it.” He clenched his jaw. “Don’t ever think that someone else might know something you don’t. Don’t think about anyone’s feelings but your own. I know you were spoiled rotten. Hell, teenagers are supposed to be self-centered. But, by your age, you’d think you’d have a bit more empathy, that you’d know that life isn’t all black and white.”

“Oh for the love of Gilbert Godfrey.” She stood too, stalked over to him and jabbed him in the chest. “Spoiled rotten? I have never been spoiled rotten! Do you think it was easy starting a new life all on my own? Do you think I’ve ever taken a penny from my parents after I finished college? That I’ve ever had any special treatment because of who I am? And I am sick of you lecturing me!” He was horrified to see her lower lip quivering. “I’m not self-centered. I do have empathy!” She moved as if to hit him again, and he instinctively grabbed her hand and held it away from him. He grabbed her other one for good measure, in case she decided to swing at him with her left.

Her words pierced his heart with a sharp stab. Dammit! Once again, she’d pushed his buttons, and once again, he’d let her get to him. He’d gone too far and now—once again— he’d hurt her feelings.

She tried to wrestle away from him, and he tugged her closer. Ah, sweet Jesus. She felt so good in his arms, soft breasts flattened against him, the scent of warm vanilla and woman filling his nostrils. Her long hair trailed over his arms, tickling him. His body hardened, and he resisted the urge to push his hips against her.

She struggled more, then she kicked him—kicked him!—in the shin. Luckily her small foot in the flimsy flip-flop didn’t even hurt; in fact, it probably hurt her more.

“I know self-defense,” she muttered, wriggling against him and making him go even harder. “I’ll knee you in the nuts, so help me god. Let me go!”

He wanted to laugh. Some threat. He probably had seventy pounds on her. He thrust a knee between her thighs to prevent her from damaging his junk, and then she went still, making a funny little noise somewhere between a sob and a moan. He was suddenly aware of the moist heat he felt against his thigh, only the thin cotton of her dress and his jeans separating his flesh from the hot softness between her legs.

She moved against him, a small tilt of her pelvis that told him she was aroused too. Oh Christ. Oh hell. He’d resisted her the last time he’d held her like this; where the strength had come from that time he had no goddamn clue because now he was hot and hard, and the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this had disappeared like the sun below the horizon.

“Samara,” he groaned.

“Travis.” She fell against him, pressing her face into his neck. He felt the wet tears and released her hands to encircle her shuddering, small-boned body with his arms. He wrapped his arms around her so gently as she sobbed against him. “Oh, Travis.”

One hand slid up her back, encountering bare flesh above the top of the dress, smooth and hot. He rubbed her back slowly, up and down, up higher to the nape of her neck, into her silky hair. He pressed her face against him as she cried, his cheek against her cool, silky head. and closed his eyes as she wound her arms around his neck and clung to him.

His chest ached, and the rest of his body throbbed painfully. He wasn’t going to push things any further, but dear god, if she did, he didn’t think he’d be able to resist.

He dug deep for control, dragging in a long breath. He knew all the emotions she’d been assaulted with the last few days were engulfing her. She was grieving for her father, vulnerable and emotional, and that was probably pissing her off as much as she was pissed off at him about what had happened years ago.

All good reasons that nothing—nothing—should happen between them.

She’d stopped sobbing but still quivered and sniffled in his arms, her wet face pressed to the side of his neck. He breathed in her warm scent and held her for long moments as she calmed herself and regained control of her breathing. Then she pressed her lips to his neck in a long, open-mouthed kiss.

Heat shot straight to his groin. He fisted a hand in her long hair and tugged her head back so he could look into her face—her tear-streaked, pink-nosed, swollen-eyed face. Mascara smudged under those big eyes made her even more of a mess. Still, she was a beautiful mess.

“Samara...” He wasn’t sure if he was asking a question or telling her something. Their eyes met and held, something pulling between them, connecting them, drawing out fine and fragile. For once they were on the same page about something, the unwilling attraction they both felt creating a shared understanding.

The last time he’d done the right thing, the hard thing— but he’d hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt her again. It had damn near killed him last time.

“Travis...” His name was a whisper, her lips barely moving. The urge to kiss her escalated inside him.

He stared back at her. God, he wanted her. He closed his eyes briefly at the heat surging through his body then met her eyes again. “Samara. This is a really bad idea. Colossally, monumentally bad.”

She wanted to hate him. She had hated him for what he’d done to her, the rejection, the betrayal. It baffled her that she could still want him so much, and she dragged up those memories and used them to give her the strength to wrench out of his arms.

She sucked in a painful breath, rubbing her bare upper arms. She tried to speak, but nothing came out, so she swallowed and tried again.

“You’re right,” she said, but the words sounded weak and shaky, not firm and definite. She shivered in the cool night air. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually the weepy emotional type. I guess this is all getting to me more than I realized.” She inhaled and straightened her spine. “I just want to get this over with and get the hell back to my life. And I’m sure you want the same.”

“Sure.” His mouth was a hard line, his jaw tight.

“Good. Then we can just stay away from each other until after the funeral.”

He nodded. “That’s probably best.”

“Fine, then.”

They stood there still staring at each other, and Samara had to drag herself away from the magnetic force field that pulled her back to him. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Good night.”

He didn’t reply as she all but staggered into the house then walked on shaky legs through the den and upstairs.

Dayna walked into the breakfast room the next morning where Travis was sitting reading the Tribune and finishing a bagel smeared thick with cream cheese.

“Travis, you have to join us.”

He looked up at her. “Huh? Me?”

She nodded. “Wade says you should be there too.” Wade Burnell, Parker’s lawyer, had arrived.

Travis looked at her, then folded up the paper and wiped his hands on his napkin. “Okay. Sure.”

He picked up his coffee mug and followed Dayna into the den where Wade and Samara sat. His eyes went straight to Samara. She looked just as tired as she had yesterday, and guilt again nudged him. Tired, but beautiful, dressed in another casual dress, white cotton, strapless and form-fitting. She had pulled back the front pieces of her fiery hair into a clip at the back of her head so that it all fell straight and thick down her back, the sweep of long bangs angling across her face.

He’d beaten himself up about what had happened between them the night before. He never should have touched her. He’d made that promise to Parker, and it hadn’t taken him long to want to break it. He looked up to heaven, where Parker might be. Was he watching down on them, seeing what had happened? That was enough to squelch any desire. Or maybe not so much. Hell, he’d been on fire for her last night.