“I am not a virgin, Michael. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends.”

His nod was slower this time. “But you are, lass. Or were,” he corrected. “Maybe not technically,” he quickly added. “But emotionally. It isn’t really sex unless both people involved are completely satisfied.”

“Then what is it? Really?”

He shrugged. “Use,” he clarified. “Or abuse, more likely, when one party is slaked and the other is left… hanging.”

Michael the philosopher was back.

Libby decided she preferred the sex god.

She tried to pull her blouse closed again, and this time Michael helped her by pulling it over her shoulders. Libby rose to her feet, buttoned herself up, and fastened her pants.

Then she just stood there, staring at the fire.

What was she supposed to do now? What did a woman say to a man who had just given her the experience of true passion for the first time in her life?

Thank you? I hope we can do this again soon?

Like maybe right now? Only this time, could we both please get naked and actually… do it?

Libby turned at the sound of papers being shuffled and found Michael reading her lists.

Heat climbed into her face when she realized exactly which page he had stopped at.

His gaze went to the side table, and he picked up her pencil and started writing. She leaned over to see, but he quickly shuffled the pages and started writing again.

Libby spun on her socked heel and walked to the kitchen on rubbery legs. She went to the fridge and took out the bottle of wine Grace MacKeage had thoughtfully included with the groceries, then started rummaging through the drawers for a corkscrew. She found one, but the damned thing refused to work properly. So she rummaged through the drawers again, looking for something either to pry the cork out of the bottle or to drive it down inside.

The wine bottle was suddenly lifted out of her hand and replaced by her pages of lists.

Michael leaned against the counter, crossed his feet at his ankles, and slowly turned the suddenly obedient corkscrew into the bottle.

He stopped to use one finger to tap the top page in her hand, then went back to work on the wine. “When ya go shopping for new clothes, buy a blaze orange jacket,” he said.

“And spend the extra money for Gore-Tex boots. Nothing freezes a person quicker than wet feet.”

Libby stared at her list and saw thatbirth control had been crossed out and thatblaze orange jacket andwaterproof boots had been added in neat, dark letters.ATV also had been crossed out, and the wordsnowmobile was written beside it.

“Rifle season begins tomorrow,” Michael said. He turned and opened a cupboard as he spoke. “So don’t step outside this house without wearing orange.” He took down two tumblers, set them on the counter, and filled them with wine. “Not even to go to your mailbox. Blaze orange is necessary from the first part of November to mid-December.”

Libby looked down at her list again, but her chin was lifted by Michael’s finger to gain back her attention. “And if I ever catch you outside without wearing orange, lass, I will personally make you sorry you ever left California,” he said very softly, his eyes far more threatening than his words.

Libby was more curious than intimidated. “What do you mean by rifle season?”

“Deer hunting.”

“Oh.” She was buying a lot of orange clothes, then, even orange socks. “Why did you crossbirth control off my list? Are you trying to get Robbie a brother or sister?” she asked, deciding it was time to rattle his calm. The man was acting as if what had just happened in the living room were an everyday occurrence.

Good God. She’d just had her first orgasm.

But Michael didn’t appear rattled by her question, only amused. “I’ll take care of the birth control,” he told her.

Libby shook her head. “Since this is a consequence I would have to live with, I’ll take care of it.”

He looked as if he would argue, but instead he handed her one of the tumblers of wine.

He clinked their glasses together and nodded. “Then we’ll consider the affair begun,” he said, his eyes shining with what Libby could only describe as possession.

And that alarmed her, almost as much as his ability to make her body react in ways she hadn’t thought possible. She was thirty-one years old, and she felt sixteen, like a reckless, infatuated, trembling teenager experiencing her first case of lust. Libby took a large gulp of her wine, coughed for a good minute, and looked down at her list through blurry eyes.

“Why… ” She coughed again and started over. “Why did you cross outATV and write insnowmobile?” she asked, deciding to move onto safer ground. “I want an ATV.”

He shook his head. “You’d only have another week to use it, at best. ATVs are no good in the snow, and they’re not allowed on the groomed snowmobile trails.”

“Do you have a snowmobile?”

“Aye. And so does Robbie.”

Libby wanted to ask if the boy wore a helmet when he rode his snowmobile.

“And we both wear helmets,” he told her before she could work up the nerve, his mouth lifting in a knowing grin. “Only suicidal fools ride without them. And they keep us warm.”

Libby took another drink of her wine, slower this time.

“I see you bought Callum’s truck,” he said, nodding toward the attached garage. “You’ll be glad for the four-wheel drive this winter. And for its size. This is the main road leading out of the deep woods, and Monday through Friday you’ll meet loaded logging trucks. So stay alert, and don’t ever swerve again for an animal. Your life is more precious than theirs.”

“Is it because I’m nearly the size of your son that you feel this need to lecture me as if I were a child?” she asked, tossing her lists on the counter and downing the rest of her wine.

Michael moved so quickly Libby barely had time to finish swallowing before she was picked up, spun around, and set on the counter. He took the tumbler out of her hand and put it in the sink, then stood between her thighs, pulling her firmly against him.

“No,” he said with maddening calm. “It’s because I want you to live long enough for us to mess up your sheets.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Libby framed both her hands over his face and stared into his gleaming eyes. “I don’t suppose you have some birth control in your pocket?” she asked.

“Nay, lass,” he said, shaking his head within her hands.

“And I doubt what I have at home is any good. It’s at least a couple of years old.”

Her surprise must have shown on her face, because her hands moved with his grin. He pulled her hips more firmly against him and leaned forward to kiss her gaping mouth.

“Are ya thinking I’m in the habit of having affairs?” he asked just inches from her lips.

“I… I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“Then think on this, lass. I’ve loved two women, and they both died, each taking a good part of me with her. All I have left is just enough for my son. Look only for passion from me, Libby, because that’s all I can give you.”

“It’s enough, Michael,” she whispered, pulling his face close so she could kiss him.

He met her mouth with plenty of the passion he’d promised, and Libby thought her hormones were going to erupt into another riot. But he suddenly stopped and stepped back.

He grabbed his jacket off one of the kitchen chairs, gave her one last heated look, and left as quietly as he had arrived.

Libby stared at the curtain settling back into place against the closing door. She covered her racing heart with one hand and reached for the wine bottle with the other. After a long, healthy swig straight from the bottle, Libby let her gaze travel around the kitchen.

It seemed larger now that Michael had left.

It was definitely more peaceful. The man didn’t have to say a word, make a sound, or even move for her to feel as if she were standing in the middle of a brewing storm.