Hardy shook his head slowly, his gaze holding mine. "I know that. But in some ways you're still . . . innocent."

"Why do you think that?"

His reply was soft. "Because of the way you handle certain situations."

I felt a wash of heat over my face as I wondered if he was referring to how I had behaved in the stairwell. "Hardy — " I swallowed hard. "About last night — "

"Wait." He touched my arm as it lay on the table, his fingers gently tracing the tiny lattice of veins on the inside of my wrist. "Before we get to that, tell me something. Why did you call me instead of your brothers? I'm glad as hell you did. But I'd like to know why."

The heat went everywhere then, spreading over the na**d skin beneath the robe. I was suffused with uneasiness and excitement, wondering bow far I would dare to go with him, what he'd do if I told him the truth. "I didn't really think about it. I just . . . wanted you."

His fingers moved in a lazy, warm stroke from wrist to elbow, and back again. "Last night," I heard him murmur, "you were right to push me away. The first time shouldn't be in a place like that. You were right to call it off, but the way you did it — "

"I'm sorry," I said earnestly. "I'm really — "

"No, don't be sorry." He took my hand in his and began to play with my fingers. "I thought about it later after I'd cooled down a little. And I thought you might not have reacted like that unless you'd had some kind of . . . bedroom problems . . . with your husband." He looked at me, those blue eyes taking in every nuance of my expression.

"Bedroom problems" was putting it mildly, I thought. I floundered in silence, wanting more than anything to open up to him.

"Was he really your first?" Hardy prompted. "That's pretty unusual, this day and age."

I nodded. "I think," I managed to say, "in a weird way, I was trying to please my mother. Even after she was gone. I felt she would have wanted me to wait, she would have told me nice girls didn't sleep around. And I had so much to make up to her for. I was never the kind of daughter she wanted — or the one Dad wanted either. I felt I owed it to her, to try and be good." I had never admitted that to anyone before. "Later I realized that if I wanted to sleep with someone, it was my own business."

"So you chose Nick."

"Yeah." My lips quirked. "Not a great idea, as it turned out. He was impossible to please."

"I'm easy to please." He was still toying with my fingers.

"Good," I said unsteadily, "because I'm pretty sure I don't know how to do it right."

All movement stopped. Hardy looked up from my hand, his eyes bright with hunger. Heat. "I wouldn't — " He had to pause to take an extra breath. His voice was raspy. "I wouldn't have any worries on that account, honey."

I couldn't look away from him. I thought of being under him, his body inside mine, and my heart started thrashing. I needed to slow it down. "I'd like another Jack Daniel's, please," I managed to say. "This time no Dr Pepper."

Hardy let go of my hand, still staring at me. Without a word, he went to the kitchen and brought back two shot glasses and the bottle with its distinctive black label. He poured the shots in a businesslike manner, as if we were settling down for a game of poker.

Hardy tossed his shot back, while I sipped mine, letting the smooth, slightly sweet liquid warm the surface of my lips. We were sitting very close. The robe had parted to reveal my bare knees, and I saw him glance down at them. As his head bent, the light rippled over his dark brown hair. I couldn't stand it anymore, I had to touch him. I let my fingers brush over the side of his head, playing in the silky close-trimmed locks. One of his hands closed over my knee, engulfing it in warmth.

His face lifted and I touched his jaw, the masculine scrape of bristle, laying my fingers against the softness of his lips. I explored the bold shape of his nose, one fingertip drifting to the tantalizing crook at the bridge. "You said you'd tell me someday," I said. "How you broke it."

Hardy didn't want to talk about that. I could tell by the look in his eyes. Except that I had risked alot by confiding in him, by being honest, and he wasn't going to back down from that. So he gave me a short nod and poured himself another shot, and to my regret, removed his hand from my knee.

After a long pause, he said flatly, "My dad broke it. He was a drinker. Drunk or sober, I think the only time he ever felt good was when he was hurting someone. He cut out on the family when I was still young. I wish to hell he'd stayed away for good. But he came back now and then, whenever he wasn't in jail. He would beat the hell out of Mama, knock her up, and light out again with every cent he could steal from her."

He shook his head, his gaze distant. "My mother's a tall woman, but there's not much to her. A strong wind could knock her over. I knew he'd kill her someday. One of the times he came back, I was about eleven — I told him don't even try, he wasn't going near her. I don't remember what happened next, only that I woke up on the floor feeling like I'd been stomped by a rodeo bull. And my nose was broken. Mama was beat up nearly as bad as I was. She told me never to go against Dad again. She said trying to fight back only made him mad. It was easier on her if we just let him have his way, and then he'd be gone."

"Why didn't anyone stop him? Why didn't she divorce him, or get a restraining order or something?"