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  He trotted to the bathroom, and Abby pushed herself up on one elbow. Her heavy-lidded eyes cataloged a well-muscled back, a trim waist, and a world-class set of buns. She was still dealing with the impact of his tight, neat buttocks on her overheated respiratory system when he returned, a selection of brightly colored packets fanned out in his fist like a deck of cards.

  “When the Pines advertises a honeymoon cottage equipped with all the amenities, they mean all the amenities.”

  The reminder that they occupied the honeymoon suite stirred a small, stray longing in one corner of Abby’s heart. Resolutely she banished it. She hadn’t asked Pete for any promises, and certainly didn’t expect any. Ever practical, always realistic, she knew that tomorrow would take care of itself. Tonight, all she asked for was the feel of his arms around her and the thrust of his body into hers.

  Lifting a brow, she nodded to the colorful array. “You don’t really think we’ll need all those, do you?”

  “A man can only hope.”

  Laughing, Abby opened her arms to him. Only later, much later, did she realize that she’d opened her heart, as well.

  The sound of the shower dragged her from a deep, exhausted sleep. She lay facedown, sprawled sideways across a sea of rumpled sheets. Too boneless to do more than lift an eyelid, she tried to determine what time it was.

  Shadows lurked in the corners of the loft. Chill air prickled her shoulders and bare backside. It had to be late afternoon, she decided, or early evening.

  It took some effort, but she managed to roll over, dragging a handful of the bedspread with her. Cocooned in its warmth, she stared at the massive beams overhead and estimated the time that had passed since she’d yanked on a leather sleeve at the airport yesterday afternoon.

  Twenty-six hours, she guessed. Twenty-eight at most.

  It seemed longer. Half a lifetime, at least. So much had happened in those hours, not the least of which was the energetic contortions, helpless laughter and soaring, shattering climaxes that had left a scattering of foil packets on the floor beside the bed.

  Her thoughts shifted gears, moving from backward to forward. How long had Pete said he’d be in Atlanta? A few days, she thought. Next week, he had to meet that medical board in San Antonio. They had the rest of the holiday weekend before the real world intervened.

  Once more she counted. Three days. Another seventy-two hours. A quick smile curved her mouth. The idea of seventy-two more hours with Pete sent joyful anticipation spinning through her limp body.

  The very intensity of her joy startled Abby out of her haze of pleasure. Her smile fading, she thought of all the warnings, all the sage advice, she’d ever given Beth. Her words came back to haunt her now.

  It wasn’t wise to feel so deeply, or so fast.

  Rushing into a relationship only opened your heart all the more quickly to the possibility of loss.

  Beth hadn’t ever heeded her advice, of course. She tumbled into love with all the exuberance of her warm, generous nature, and fell out of it just as quickly. Abby, on the other hand, had never been in love. She realized that now, with cutting clarity. Derek had never generated anything close to the tumultuous pleasure she’d just experienced.

  No, not pleasure. With shattering honesty, Abby admitted that she’d found more in Pete’s arms than physical pleasure. More than the celebration of life he’d described. It wasn’t love…exactly. She couldn’t be in love with a man she’d only met yesterday. But this came far too close to that undefinable emotion for her to take lightly.

  She was trying to deal with that sobering realization when Pete walked out of the bathroom. His jeans rode low on his hips, and damp sheened his chest. At the sight of the hair curling across his bare skin, Abby’s breasts tingled. Swallowing, she pushed the memory of that soft, springy hair abrading her nipples out of her mind. She wasn’t quite as successful at dodging the impact of the amusement in his dark eyes, however. That went straight to her heart.

  Slinging his towel around his neck, he surveyed her nest of covers. “Are you settled in for the night?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully.

  “Since we’re all out of cashews and cocktail olives, I thought you might want to go down to the main lodge for dinner.”

  When she hesitated, he dipped a knee on the mattress and planted his hands beside her head, caging her in.

  “They might have some of that chocolate-rum-raisin cake left,” he said temptingly, dropping a kiss on her nose.

  Abby grabbed at the excuse. She couldn’t think with Pete bending over her like this, let alone sort through the tiny, stinging nuclear reactions his mere proximity set off in her bloodstream.

  “That sounds good. Very good!”

  She wiggled out from under him, taking the covers with her. Trailing bedspread and sheet, she headed for the bathroom.

  “Maybe we can ask the chef to whip up another onion soufflé for us, too.”

  She closed the door on Pete’s comical grimace, then leaned against it. Shutting her eyes, she drew in a deep breath and waited for her heart to stop pinging against her ribs.

  Not smart, Abby. Staying here was not smart. She knew that now. She also knew she’d make exactly the same decision, given the same choice.

  She had a different choice facing her now, though. One she couldn’t put off for seventy-two hours, as much as she wanted to.

  Pete was waiting when she came downstairs, a gleam of quiet satisfaction in his eyes.

  “I called the hospital while you were dressing. One of the men has already gone home. The other two are being treated for superficial burns, but should be discharged tomorrow.”

  “Oh, thank goodness!”

  He picked up her cloak and settled it on her shoulders. His hands lingered, squeezing gently. “I talked to Orlie. He said to say hello. And thanks.”

  Abby basked in the glow of their shared triumph during the drive down to the inn. With Pete behind the wheel of the rental car and the tires crunching deep into the gravel, this trip wasn’t nearly as nerve-racking as her last attempt to navigate the twisting corkscrew road.

  Pete had called ahead for a table, seriously underestimating the pomp and circumstance that simple request would generate. The night manager met them at the front door and ushered them inside. As he escorted them through the lobby, heads turned and guests stopped them to shake hands. Abby’s glow quickly gave way to embarrassment. She wasn’t used to being the center of attention.

  With some relief, she took the seat the manager held out for her at a table set in a paneled alcove. Soft flames flickered in the gas wall fixtures. A candle floated in a cut-crystal rose bowl on the table. The headwaiter beamed at them both and bowed.

  “Please, if you’ll trust us, the Pines would like to offer you a special menu, prepared in your honor.”

  Pete deferred to Abby, who nodded.

  When the wine steward poured a pale, bubbling aperitif, she fiddled with the stem of her glass, unsure how to broach the subject of what came after dinner. She soon discovered that the presence of a hovering wait staff precluded the kind of conversation she wanted to have with Pete. After dinner, Abby promised herself. They’d talk after dinner. For now, she’d simply enjoy the incredible array of dishes set before her.

  The Pines’ chef had prepared a sumptuous feast for the eye, as well as the stomach. Course followed course, each more delicious than the last. Melon soup with lobster and mint. Watercress-and-walnut salad. Turkey breast in shallot-and-brown-butter sauce, served with tomato coulis. And, to Abby’s delight, the specialty of the house. The chef himself came to their table to present his golden, puff-crowned masterpiece…along with the thanks of the entire kitchen staff.

  After working his way through the feast with the healthy appetite of a good-size man, Pete graciously admitted that the Vidalia onion concoction exceeded even Abby’s advance PR work. So much so that he ruefully shook his head at the mention of dessert.

  “I don’t think I can f
orce any more down tonight. How do scrambled eggs and rum-raisin pancakes for breakfast sound?”

  Abby drew in a deep breath and waited to respond until the server had poured a fragrant stream of coffee into their cups and moved away.

  “I won’t be here for breakfast,” she said slowly, forcing herself to meet Pete’s eyes. “I’m going home after dinner.”

  He tilted back in his chair, studying her face in the candlelight. When he didn’t respond right away, the small, tight ache in her chest told her she’d made the right decision.

  “Regrets already, Abby?”

  The soft question stabbed at her heart.

  “No! None! But…I think you were right. What happened between us this afternoon was something I’ve never experienced. That celebration of life you talked about. It was…special, and I want to keep it that way.”

  Another silence stretched across the table.

  “So do I.”

  Chapter 8

  Pete climbed out of the cab and stood on the sidewalk outside the upscale antique and gift shop. The bright Georgia sunshine that had been so noticeably absent the past few days warmed his shoulders. He shifted them under the layer of leather and told himself for the dozenth time that he had no business tracking Abby down at her place of work.

  She’d called the shots exactly right the night before last. With brutal honesty, she’d recognized that their afternoon of passion had sprung from an explosive combination of simmering attraction, enforced intimacy and shared danger.

  Pete had recognized it, too. He’d always known that the right mix of elements could generate that kind of spontaneous combustion, causing a fire that flared hot and burned fast. Sure enough, it had. When Abby melted into his arms, they’d certainly combusted, then flared so hot that Pete broke out in a sweat whenever he let himself think about those hours with her.

  The problem was, the fire inside him hadn’t burned out yet.

  Against his better judgment, he’d decided to see Abby again before he left for San Antonio tomorrow. Just once more. To see if he could douse this steady, burning need.

  Right, O’Brian. Sure.

  He knew damn well he didn’t want to douse it. He wanted to fan the flame until they were both consumed by it. What he wanted to do and what he would let himself do were two different matters, however. Still, he couldn’t leave without seeing her once more. Squaring his shoulders, Pete pushed on the old-fashioned brass latch and walked into another world.

  Instantly, a heavy, nose-twitching scent of dried rose petals assaulted him. They were everywhere, in crystal bowls and little trays and baskets scattered across every level surface. Fighting both a grimace and a sneeze, Pete followed the narrow path that led through the crowded shop.

  If Things Past specialized in anything in particular, he couldn’t decide what it was. His haphazard route took him around arrangements of embroidered pillows, scented candles, dried flowers, ticking grandfather clocks, furniture groupings and carved sideboards so massive they could have graced the great hall of Stonecross Keep. Framed pictures occupied every inch of wall, and glass-fronted cabinets displayed collections of china, crystal, jewelry and dolls.

  Things Past wasn’t a man kind of place, he decided. It was too elegant and overscented…much like the woman who glided forward to greet him. Her musky perfume reached Pete long before she did.

  “May I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m looking for Abby Davis.”

  “Abigail? Is she expecting you?”

  “No.”

  The woman’s heavily mascaraed eyes drifted down his throat, measured his chest, then returned to his face.

  “I’m Marissa DeVries, Abigail’s employer. Perhaps if you tell me what you need, I can take care of it for you.”

  Pete had never felt particularly inclined to discuss his business with strangers. He felt even less inclined to discuss it with a woman who made him want to check his zipper to see if it was all the way up.

  “I don’t think so.” A hint of steel edged into his voice. “Is Abby here?”

  Thin, penciled brows arched. “She’s in the storeroom. You can go through there.”

  Pete followed the wave of her hand, dismissing the woman instantly from his mind as the anticipation of seeing Abby crawled all over his skin.

  He found her kneeling beside an open crate, surrounded by mounds of air-puffed packing nuggets. Urn-shaped vases, flowered plates and china figurines were lined up in a neat row behind her. Pete paused just outside the door and watched while she lovingly ran a finger tip around the rim of a pink vase. He didn’t want to startle her and make her drop the thing. For all he knew, it was a priceless treasure from the court of a Russian czar.

  While Abby examined the vase, Pete examined Abby. The sunlight streaming through the back window painted her in shades of blue and gold. She wore a jumpsuit in a deep royal blue that flattered her slender figure and did serious damage to Pete’s self-control. Gold filigree buttons decorated the front, and a gold belt emphasized her slim waist. She’d clasped her hair at the back of her neck with an ornamental clip, but, as usual, unruly strands escaped to frame her face.

  As enticing as she looked, however, it was the expression in her eyes that tugged at Pete. They glowed with pleasure as she tipped the vase to examine the markings on its bottom. She loved what she did. It was obvious in the careful, loving way she handled the vase, and in the joy it gave her.

  He must have made some movement, because she looked up then. Her pleasure yielded to surprise, then to pleasure again. But this was a different kind of pleasure. A polite kind. The kind a woman plastered on her face when a casual acquaintance unexpectedly showed up at her door.

  “Pete! What are you doing here?”

  He couldn’t very well admit he’d been asking himself that exact question since the moment he’d set foot inside the shop.

  “I brought you something.”

  Moving forward, he held out a hand to help her up. She hesitated, then put her fingers in his. He kept his hold loose, but not without effort. Once up, she gave her bottom a quick dusting, then tilted her head.

  “Did I forget something at the Pines?”

  “No.” He dug in his jacket pocket. “I had some time to kill this morning, and came into the city. I was browsing the bookstores, looking for the latest Tom Clancy, when I found this.”

  Brown paper crackled as she took the package he held out. When she slid the small volume out of the bag and saw its title, she gave a little gasp. Pete decided that small sound of joy more than made up for the long trip downtown.

  “Once upon a Mattress,” she read aloud, her eyes dancing. “A History of Bed-Making through the Ages.”

  “I flipped through it,” Pete offered. “There’s a picture and description of a four-poster they say is George IV.”

  “You’re kidding!” She fanned the pages. “Where is it?”

  “Page 92. I’m not sure it’s your George,” he cautioned, angling around to peer over her shoulder as she thumbed the pages.

  “Oh, it’s not.” Disappointment colored her voice, but then she turned and beamed him a smile. “But it’s close enough to give me a better idea of its value. Thank you.”

  It was all he could do not to kiss her. She was standing so close he could see the small golden flecks in her brown eyes and catch her scent, a lighter floral than the overpowering dried roses. Shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from wrapping them around her shoulders, he stepped back.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She folded the book against her chest. Tilting her head, she chewed on her lower lip a moment before breaking the small silence that lay between them like a question.

  “Would you like to see it? My George, I mean? I took it out of storage yesterday and set it up in the house on Peabody Street.”

  “Are you moving in already?”

  “Not officially, but my offer’s been accepted and the Realtor gave me a key.” She hugged the book to her chest
, smiling happily. “We have to wait for the final appraisal to come back before we close, but the owner didn’t mind if I took one piece in.”

  Pete started to refuse. He’d already stretched his self-discipline about as far as it would stretch. But he couldn’t bring himself to squelch Abby’s pleasure.

  “How could I pass up the chance to see the bed old Mrs. Clement…”

  “Of the Macon Clements,” she interjected, lifting a brow.

  He grinned. “…of the Macon Clements…passed to her great-great-granddaughter? Let’s go.”

  As she dug her purse out of the desk drawer and reached for the lightweight wool coat she’d left hanging on a hook behind the door, sensible, responsible Abby couldn’t think of anything more foolish than spending another few hours with Pete.

  Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Hadn’t she spent the past two nights working hard not to regret those stolen hours at the Pines? Over and over, she’d told herself that she’d made the right decision when she declined to stay for rum-raisin pancakes. After two sleepless nights, she’d almost convinced herself.

  Well, she’d have plenty of nights to work on not regretting her time with Pete. He’d be gone soon, and she’d be up to her ears in the business she’d sunk most of her savings and all of her dreams into. A few more hours was all they’d have.

  Abby decided to snatch at them.

  First, however, she had to get past the roadblock she knew Marissa would throw in her path. As if on cue, the raven-haired store owner appeared from one of the alcoves. Her thin brows sliced downward when she saw Abby’s purse and coat.

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “I’m taking an early lunch.”

  The older woman’s glance strayed from her employee to Pete, then back. From the arch look of inquiry in Marissa’s face, Abby gathered that she wanted an introduction and an explanation. Having minimized Pete’s involvement in her abbreviated account of her unplanned stay at the Pines, Abby wasn’t quite up to explaining him to her inquisitive employer now.