Hardy had charmed me more than anyone I'd ever met. He was engaging, playful . . . but always and foremost a man. He opened doors, carried the packages, paid for dinner, and would have been mortally offended by the suggestion that a woman do any of those things. Having lived with a husband who had spent most of his time inflating his own fragile ego, I appreciated Hardy's self-assurance. He had no problem admitting that he'd made a mistake or that he didn't understand something, only turned it into an opportunity to ask questions.

I had seldom, if ever, met a man with such an endless reserve of energy, or such keen appetites. Privately I acknowledged my father had probably been right about Hardy wanting more . . . and it didn't stop at money. He wanted respect, power, success, all the things he must have hungered for when the world had considered him a nobody. But the world's opinion hadn't crushed him. There had been something in him, a drive fueled by pride and anger, that had insisted he deserved more.

He was not unlike my father, who had also started from nothing. The thought was a little scary. I was getting involved with a man who might turn out to be as much of an ambitious, driven hard-ass as Churchill Travis. How did you handle a guy like that? How did you keep it from happening?

I knew hardy thought of me as sheltered. Compared to him, I probably was. When I had traveled overseas, I had gone with college friends and stayed in nice hotels that were paid for with my father's credit card. When Hardy had gone overseas, he had worked on offshore rigs in places like Mexico, Saudi Arabia, and Nigeria. Fourteen days on, fourteen off. He'd learned to adapt quickly to foreign cultures and customs. And it struck me that this was the same way he was approaching Houston society. Learn the customs. Adapt. Find your way in.

We talked far into the night, exchanging stories about growing up, past relationships, things that had changed us. Hardy was open about most things, but there were a few subjects he was not willing to discuss. His father, for example, and whatever he'd done to land in prison. And Hardy preferred to keep his mouth shut about his past love life, which made me rampantly curious.

"I don't understand why you never slept with Liberty," I said to him one night. "Weren't you tempted? You must have been."

Hardy settled me more comfortably on his chest. We were in his bed, a California king-sized piled with pillows stuffed with Scandia down. It was covered in acres of eight-hundred-thread-count sheets, and bedspreads of raw silk.

"Honey, any man over the age of twelve would be tempted by Liberty."

"Then why didn't you?"

Hardy stroked the line of my spine, gently investigating the shallow hollows. "I was waiting for you."

"Ha. Rumor has it you were plenty busy with the ladies of Houston."

"I don't remember any of them," he said blandly. "Beebe Whitney. Does that name ring a bell?" Hardy gave me an alert glance. "Why do you mention her?"

"She was bragging to Todd about having slept with you on her divorce-moon."

He was quiet for a moment, his hand sifting through my hair. "Jealous? "

Hell, yes, I was jealous. In fact, I was astonished by the amount of emotional poison that came from imagining him in bed with Beebe in all her spray-tanned perfection. I nodded against his chest.

Hardy rolled me to my back and looked down at me. The lamplight played over his strong features, a stray gleam catching the faint smile on his lips. "I could apologize for all the women I knew before you. But I'm not going to."

"Didn't ask you to," I said sullenly.

His hand slipped under the sheet, gently sweeping over me. "I learned something from every woman I've been with. And I needed to learn a lot before I was ready for you."

I scowled. "Why? Because I'm complicated? Difficult?" I fought to keep my breathing steady as he cupped my breast and shaped it.

He shook his head. "Because there's so much I want to do for you. So many ways I want to please you." He bent to kiss me, and brushed the tip of his nose against mine in a playful nudge. "Those women were just practice for you."

"Good line," I said grudgingly.

His hand covered my heart with light, warm pressure. "Ever since I can remember, I wanted to get somewhere, be someone. I'd see other sons of bitches who had it all — an expensive car, a big house, a beautiful woman. And I told myself, 'Fuck 'em. Someday I'll have it all too, and I'll be happy.'" His mouth twisted. "But the past couple of years, I finally got the things I wanted, and it wasn't enough. I was still a miserable bastard. When I'm with you though . . . "

"What?" I prompted.

"When I'm with you, I feel like I finally have what I need. I can relax and be happy." He traced an idle pattern on my chest. "You slow me down."

"In a good way, you mean?"

"In a good way."

"I never slow anyone down," I said. "I'm not a restful person."

A lazy grin crossed his mouth. "Whatever you do works for me."

He lowered over me, kissing my throat, murmuring that I was beautiful and he wanted me. I shivered as the light pelt on his chest dragged softly across my br**sts.

"Hardy?"

"Mmmn?"

I put my arms around his neck. "Sometimes I get the feeling that you're holding back, in bed."

He drew back to look down at me, his gaze caressing. "I'm taking it slow with you," he admitted.