“That, too.” She rubbed her right foot against her left calf and tried to ignore the chill seeping through her. What were a few shivers when compared with a midnight conversation with her own private fantasy?

“We met in college, when we were freshmen. Maya was talking with a bunch of people. You know how she is. Always the center of attention.”

She paused, but Zane didn’t speak. So she continued.

“She had this big cup of coffee, which she accidentally spilled all over me. She insisted on taking me back to her place so I could get cleaned up. We started talking, and by the end of the morning, we were friends.”

Phoebe didn’t mention how lonely she’d been at college. While the foster homes hadn’t been the most idyllic setting, after the death of her parents, they’d been all she’d known. At eighteen, she’d had to leave, and it was like losing her family all over again.

“I didn’t have anyone,” Phoebe said. “Maya took me in and made me feel a part of things. She’s been a good friend.”

“I never thanked you for your help today,” he said. “I figured Chase would do all the talking when those folks started arriving. Most of the time I can’t pay him enough to shut up. But he didn’t say a word.”

“Maybe he was overwhelmed by the enormity of what he’s done.”

One dark eyebrow lifted slightly. “I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you.”

“You don’t think he’s remorseful?”

“Not yet, but he’s going to be.” Zane paused, then shook his head. “He’s not the only one who didn’t think things through. I’m just as guilty. Making him go on the cattle drive he’d created seemed like a good way to teach him a lesson, but now that everyone is here and we’re heading out in the morning...”

“It’s not what you thought,” she said, finishing his sentence.

Zane looked at her. She had the sudden thought that maybe she wasn’t supposed to participate at that level. She was about to apologize when he nodded.

“That’s right.”

She shivered again, but this time the involuntary reaction had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the tingles skittering through her. What was it about this man that got to her? Standing here in the night, freezing her butt off, probably looking like cat gack, she couldn’t help thinking there was nowhere else she wanted to be and no one else she wanted to be with.

“I need to have my head examined,” she murmured before she could stop herself.

“Why?”

She laughed. “Just on general principal. I’m from Los Angeles. We’re all into that sort of thing.”

* * *

THE SOUND OF Phoebe’s laughter drifted through the night. Funny how it sort of got inside Zane and made parts of him all tight. And not just his crotch, although that was plenty hard right now. There was also a pressure in his chest, and his gut.

“Some lady called and wanted to know if we had hot stone massage,” he said.

Phoebe looked at him and grinned. “What did you tell her?”

“That she was coming to the wrong place. As Frank asked just yesterday, who gets a massage with a rock?”

“They’re very popular. I think it has something to do with the heat. It relaxes the muscles.”

“An LA thing.”

“Most of the best things are.”

“Oh, you’re one of those, are you? A fan of La-La Land.”

She wrinkled her nose. “We don’t call it that anymore. You can make fun all you want, but until you’ve lived there, you’ll never understand the appeal.”

“Living there wouldn’t help.”

She laughed again, which was what he wanted. He liked how the sound cut through him and made him want her more. He felt like one of his bulls, ready to tear through a fence to get at the female of his choice. He liked that he wanted her, even though the wanting was different from any he’d experienced before. Even though it felt dangerous.

What was there about this woman that tapped into such a deep-rooted need? Was it the way she smiled, with an almost innocence? The shape of her face, the scent of her? Was it the sway of her dark hair against her cheekbones as she moved her head? Was it the delight she took in her world? A delight that made him feel as old as dirt?

Even standing here on the porch, he wanted her. His fingers curled into his palms, when what he really wanted to do was touch her cheek. He wanted to trace her profile, feel the silk of her hair, then lower his head and kiss her.

It wouldn’t stop there. One kiss, then another, then his hands would be all over her, tearing at clothes, baring her body, and then he would push her up against the wall of the house and—

He shut down that part of his mind, mentally turning his back on the erotic image. He became aware of the silence, of the night, of the sound of her breathing. Awareness sparked between them. He ignored that, too.

“It’s late,” he told her. “We’ve got an early start.”

She nodded once, then turned toward the house. Before she went inside, though, she looked at him.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

The question stunned him. No one ever bothered to ask. They assumed. He was Zane Nicholson—a man in charge. The man in charge.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her.

Phoebe offered one of her soft smiles, then stepped into the house. “See you in the morning.”