He seemed to understand. Murmuring against my throat, Hardy pulled at the fastenings of my jeans, unzipped them, began to tug them down over my hips.

Then something in me snapped.

I went cold for no reason, as if I'd just been dropped into a glacier lake. I saw Nick's face, felt Nick's arms around me, his legs pushing between mine. There was a bolt of pain in my chest, like the beginning of a heart attack, and my gut roiled.

I came apart, crying out and shoving at him, nearly falling off the island. Hardy caught me, lowering my feet to the floor, but I was too far gone at that point, snapping at him, no get away don't touch me don't, and I kicked and pushed and clawed away from him like a wild thing.

I must have blanked out for a moment, because the next thing I knew, I was curled up on the sofa, and Hardy was standing over me.

"Haven, look at me," he said, and kept repeating it until I obeyed. I saw blue eyes, not hazel. I focused on them desperately.

Hardy had draped his discarded button-down shirt over my na*ed chest. "Take a deep breath," he said patiently. "I'm not going to touch you. No, sit still. Breathe."

My stomach was cramping so painfully, I was certain I was going to throw up. But gradually the jerky breaths eased into longer ones, and the sickness faded. Hardy gave a curt nod when my breathing returned to something approaching normal. "I'll get you some water. Where are the glasses?"

"To the right of the sink," I croaked.

He went to the kitchen area, and I heard the tap running. While he was gone, I pulled his shirt on and wrapped it around myself. I was clumsy, trembling with aftershocks. As I realized what had just happened, how I had freaked out on him, I wanted to die. I buried my head in my arms. I had thought everything was fine. It had felt so good, but all the excitement and pleasure had turned to panic.

Something was really, really wrong with me. And I knew if I couldn't be close to this man, now, I was never going to be close to anyone. I was never going to be okay.

Swamped in despair, I huddled in the corner of the sofa. Hardy sat on the coffee table, facing me. Silently he gave me the glass of water. My mouth had gone as dry as dust, and I drank thirstily. But after a few swallows, the sick feeling threatened to come back, and I set the glass aside.

I forced myself to look at Hardy. He was pale under his tan, his eyes electric blue.

My mind was a complete blank. What the hell should I say to him? "I didn't think I was going to do that," I heard myself mumble. I'm sorry.

His gaze locked on me. "Haven . . . What kind of problem are we dealing with?"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I really didn't want to get into that. I wished Hardy would go away and leave me the privacy for tears. I wanted to cry and go to sleep, and never wake up. But it was pretty clear Hardy wasn't going anywhere until he got an explanation. And God knew I owed him one.I gestured clumsily to a chair on the other side of the table. "If you wouldn't mind . . . I can talk about it easier if you sit over there."

Hardy shook his head. The only sign of emotion on his face were the twin lines notched between his brows. "I can't," he said in a husky voice. "I think I might know what you're going to tell me. And I don't want to be far away from you when you say it."

I looked away from him, shrinking into the folds of his shirt. I could only talk in fits and starts. "What just happened was . . . Well, I behaved that way because . . . I have some leftover problems from my marriage. Because Nick was . . . abusive."

The room was deathly quiet. I still couldn't look at him.

"It started out in little ways," I said, "but it got worse over time.

The things he said, the demands . . . the slapping, screaming, punishing . . . I kept forgiving him, and he kept promising never to do it again . . . but he did, and it got worse, and he always blamed me for causing it. He always said it was my fault. And I believed him."

I went on and on. I told Hardy everything. It was awful. It was a train wreck happening right in front of me and I couldn't do anything about it, except that not only was I watching, I was also the train. I confessed things that in a saner moment I would have had dignity or sense to filter out. But there was no filter. All my defenses were down.

Hardy listened with his face averted, his profile shadowed. But his body was tense all over, the stark relief of jutting muscles in his arms and shoulders more eloquent than words.

I even told him about the last night with Nick, the rape, being thrown out, the barefoot walk to the grocery store. While I talked, I cringed at the ugliness of what I'd been through.

There was a certain relief in it though. An ease. Because I knew that with all the baggage I was unloading, any chance of a relationship with Hardy was vanishing. Syllable by syllable. No man would want to deal with this. And that was for the best, because it was obvious I wasn't ready for a relationship anyway.

So this was goodbye.

"I didn't mean to lead you on," I said to Hardy. "I knew from the beginning I was playing with fire, having anything to do with you. But — " My eyes watered, and I blinked fiercely and talked in a rush. "You're so good-looking and such a good kisser and I wanted you so much last night that I thought I could go through with it, but I'm too screwed up and I just can't do it, I can't."

I fell silent then. My eyes wouldn't stop leaking. I couldn't think of anything else to tell Hardy, except that he could go if he wanted. But he stood and went to the fireplace and braced a hand on the mantel. He stared into the empty space. "I'm going after your ex-husband," I heard him say softly. "And when I finish, there won't be enough left of him to fill a fu**ing matchbox."

I'd heard louder and more colorful threats, but never one delivered with a quiet sincerity that raised all the hairs on the back of my neck.

Hardy turned to look at me then. I felt myself blanch as I saw his expression. It was not the first time I'd been alone in a room with a man who had murder in his eyes. This time, thankfully, the violence wasn't directed at me. All the same, it made me fidgety. "Nick's not worth going to jail for," I said.

"I don't know about that." Hardy stared at me for a moment, registering my uneasiness. His expression deliberately softened. "The way I was brought up, 'he needed killing' is an airtight legal defense."

I almost smiled at that. I let my shoulders slump, feeling drained in the aftermath of my personal catastrophe. "But even if you did, it wouldn't change the way I am now. I'm broken." I blotted my eyes with a shirtsleeve. "I wish I'd slept with someone before I married Nick, because at least then I'd have some good experience with sex. As it is, though . . . "

Hardy watched me intently. "That night of the theater opening . . . you had a flashback when I was kissing you, didn't you? That's why you took off like a scalded cat."

I nodded. "Something in my mind clicked, and it was like I was with Nick, and all I knew was that I had to get away or I would be hurt."

"Was it always bad with him?"

It was mortifying, talking about my pitiful sex life. But at this point I had no pride left. "It started out okay, I guess, but the longer the marriage went on, the worse things got in the bedroom, until I was mostly just waiting for it to be over. Because I knew it didn't matter to Nick if I was enjoying it or not. And it hurt sometimes when I was . . . you know, dry." If a person could have died of embarrassment, I should have been laid out on a mortuary slab right then.

Hardy came to sit on the sofa beside me, laying one arm along the back of it. I flinched at his nearness, but I couldn't look away from him. He was ridiculously virile in that damned white T-shirt, with that long body and those sun-baked muscles. Any woman would have to be out of her mind not to go to bed with him.

"I guess it's over now," I said bravely. "Right?"

"Is that what you want?"

My throat clenched. I shook my head.

"What do you want, Haven?"

"I want you," I burst out, and the tears spilled over again. "But I can't have you."

Hardy moved closer, gripping my head in his hands, forcing me to look at him. "Haven, sweetheart . . . you've already got me."

I looked at him through a hot blur. His eyes were filled with anguished concern and fury. "I'm not going anywhere," he said. "And you're not broken. You're scared, like any woman would be, after what that son of a bitch did." A pause, a curse, a deep breath. An intent stare. "Will you let me hold you now?"

Before I even realized what I was doing, I had crawled into his lap. He gathered me close, cuddling and soothing, and the comforting felt so good that I almost wished I could keep crying. I nuzzled into the fragrant skin of his neck, finding the place where the shaven bristle of his jaw began.

He turned his mouth to mine, easy and warm, and that was all it took to start me simmering again, my lips parting to welcome him.

But even as I responded to his kiss, I felt the intimate pressure of him beneath me, and I stiffened.

Hardy drew his head back, his eyes molten blue. "Is it this?" He nudged upward, the hard ridge pushing against me. "Feeling that makes you nervous?"

I squirmed and nodded, turning scarlet. But I didn't try to move off him, just sat there quivering.

His hands traced down my shoulders and arms, caressing me through the shirt. "Should I visit the therapist with you? Would that help?"

I couldn't believe he'd be willing to do that for me. I tried to imagine it, me and Hardy and Susan discussing my sex problems, and I shook my head. "I want to fix it now," I said desperately. "Let's just . . . let's go into the bedroom and do it. No matter what I say or even if I freak out, just hold me down and keep going till it's finished and — "

"Hell no, we're not going to do that." Hardy looked almost comically appalled. "You're not a horse to be broken to saddle. You don't need to be forced, you need — " He drew in a quick breath as I shifted my weight on his lap. "Honey," he said in a strained voice, "I don't do my best thinking when all the blood leaves my brain. So you should probably sit next to me."

A warm pulse throbbed where we pressed, our flesh fitting exactly. I realized I wasn't quite as nervous, now that I'd had a few moments to get used to him. I settled a little deeper on him.

Hardy closed his eyes and made a guttural sound. I saw the color

heighten in his face. And I felt a rearing response in the thick pressure beneath me.

Hardy's lashes lifted, his eyes bluer than usual against his rich rosewood tan. He glanced at the front of my shirt — his shirt — where it gaped open to reveal the space between my breasts. "Haven . . . " His voice was hoarse. "We're not going to do anything you're not ready for. Let's get you dressed, and I'll take you out to dinner. We'll have some wine, and you can relax. We'll figure this out later."

But later was too late. I wanted to figure it out right then. I felt the heat coming off him, and I saw the mist of sweat on his throat, and I longed to kiss him. I wanted to give him pleasure. And please, God, I wanted at least one good memory to replace one of the bad ones.

"Hardy," I said tentatively, "would you . . . indulge me a little?"

A smile touched his mouth. He reached out and pulled the sides of the shirt closed, and used the backs of his fingers to stroke my cheek. "A little," he said, "or a lot. Just tell me what you want."

"I feel like . . . if we went to the bedroom right now, and just tried some things, I . . . I could handle it as long as you took it slow."

His hand stilled. "What if you have a flashback?"

"I don't think it would bother me as much as it did before, because now I've told you everything and I know you understand what my problem is. So I would just tell you if I got afraid."

He stared at me for a long moment. "You trust me, Haven?"

I ignored a twinge of nerves in my stomach. "Yes."

Without another word Hardy plucked me from his lap, set me on my feet, and followed me to the bedroom.

My bed was an old-fashioned brass one, the sturdy, stately kind that weighed a ton and didn't move an inch. It was covered in cream linen, and the pillows were made of lace taken from antique wedding dresses. In the feminine surroundings of my bedroom, Hardy looked even bigger and more masculine than usual.

Such a normal act, two people going to bed together. But for me it was invested with far too much significance, too much emotion, too much everything.

The air-conditioning imparted a soft chill to the room, the lace on the pillows fluttering like moth wings as the ceiling fan turned overhead. An antique Victorian lamp shed amber light across the bed.

I tried to seem casual, sitting on the bed and working at the tiny straps of my high-heeled sandals. I wished I weren't stone-cold sober. A glass of wine might have loosened me up a little. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe I should suggest —

Hardy sat beside me, reached for my foot, and unfastened the miniature buckle. He squeezed my bare foot and ran his thumb along the arch before taking off the other shoe. Sliding an arm around me, he eased us both back onto the bed.

I waited tensely for him to start. But Hardy only held me, warming me with his body, fitting an arm beneath my neck. One hand traveled over my back and waist and hips, up to the nape of my neck, as if I were a skittish animal. And it went on until the petting and soothing had lasted longer than any sex act I had ever engaged in with Nick.

Hardy spoke against my hair. "I want you to understand . . . you're safe. I'm not going to hurt you in any way. And if I do something you don't want, or you start to feel scared, I'll stop. I'm not going to lose control." I flinched as I felt a tug at the front of my jeans and heard the snap being unfastened. "I'm just going to find out what you like."

My fingers curled into his T-shirt as his hands ventured inside the loosened waist of my jeans. " I want to find out what you like too."

"I like it all, darlin'," he whispered, peeling my clothes off as if he were unwrapping a bandage. "I told you, I'm easy to please."

His breath fell on me with a sweet burn as he drew his mouth over my throat and breasts. He knew what he was doing, taking his time. "Relax," he murmured, his fingers gliding over my straining limbs.

I clutched at his T-shirt, trying to pull it off. He helped me, stripping away the layer of thin cotton and tossing it to the floor. His skin was as brown as cinnamon against the antique-white bed linens. There was a light mat of hair on his chest, so unlike Nick's smoothness. I put my arms around his neck and kissed him, gasping as my br**sts pressed into the warm, tickling hair.