His slow smile caused the fine hairs on my arms to rise. "Tell me why you broke up with your last boyfriend."

I wasn't nearly as heavily armored as I would have liked, because the truth immediately popped into my mind—He was a sixty-eight—and I certainly wasn't going to tell him that. I felt my cheeks heat up. The problem with blushing is the harder you try to stop the worse it gets. So I sat there turning crimson as I tried to think of a nonchalant reply.

And Gage, damn him, seemed to look inside my head and read my thoughts.

"Interesting." he said softly.

I scowled and stood up. gesturing with my wineglass. "Drink your water."

"Yes, ma'am."

I cleaned and straightened the kitchen, wishing he would change the channel and find a show. But he kept watching me as if he were fascinated by my technique as I sprayed Windex on the counters.

"By the way," he remarked conversationally, "I figured out you're not sleeping with my father."

"Good for you," I said. "What tipped you off?"

"The fact that he wants me to come over every morning to help him shower. If you were his girlfriend, you'd be in there with him."

The dumplings were ready. Unable to find a ladle, I used a measuring cup to transfer the soup into square-shaped bowls. It didn't look quite right, the wholesome chicken and dumplings in ultramod vessels. But it smelled delicious, and I knew this was one of my better efforts. Deducing that Gage was probably too fatigued to sit up at the dining table, I set his bowl on the beveled-glass coffee table. "It's a pain in the ass for you, going over every morning, isn't it?" I asked. "But you never complain."

"My pain is nothing compared to Dad's," he said. "Besides, I consider it payback. I was a pain in the ass to him when I was younger."

"I'll bet you were." I draped a dry dishtowel over his chest and tucked it into the neck

of his tee as if he were an eight-year-old. My touch was impersonal, but as my knuckles brushed his skin I felt points of heat pulsing like fireflies in my stomach. I handed him a half-filled bowl and spoon, along with the advice, "Don't burn your tongue."

He spooned up a steaming dumpling and blew on it gently. "You never complain either," he said. "About having to be a parent to your little sister. And I'm guessing she must have been the reason for at least a few of those short relationships."

"Yes." I got my own bowl of soup. "It's nice, actually. It keeps me from wasting time with the wrong men. If a guy is scared by the responsibility, he's not right for us."

"But you've never known what it's like to be single and childless."

"I've never minded that."

"Really."

"Really. Carrington is...she's the best thing about me."

I might have said more, but Gage had downed a spoonful of dumplings and closed his eyes in an expression of what could have been either pain or ecstasy.

"What?" I asked. "Is it okay?"

He got busy with his spoon. "I may live," he said, "if only to have another bowl of this stuff."

Two helpings of chicken and dumplings seemed to bring Gage to life, his waxen paleness replaced by a tinge of color. "My God," he said, "this is amazing. You wouldn't believe how much better I feel."

"Don't push it. You still need to rest." I put all the dishes into the washer and ladled what was left of the soup into a container for the fridge.

"I need more of that," he said. "I have to stock a few gallons in the freezer."

I was tempted to tell him any time he wanted to bribe me with another glass of neutral white wine, I'd be happy to make more soup. But that sounded too much like a proposition, which was the last thing on my mind. Now that Gage no longer looked so glazed and listless, I knew he would soon be back to his old self. There was no guarantee the truce between us was going to last. So I gave him a noncommittal smile.

"It's late," I said. "I've got to head back."

A frown worked across Gage's forehead. "It's midnight. It's not safe for you to be out this late. Not in Houston. Especially not in that rust bucket you drive."

"My car works fine."

"Stay here. There's an extra bedroom."

I let out a surprised laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

Gage looked annoyed. "No, I'm not kidding."

"I appreciate your concern, but I've driven my rust bucket through Houston many times, much later than this. And I've got my cell phone." I walked over to him and reached out to his forehead. It was cool and slightly damp. "No more fever," I said with satisfaction. "It's time for another dose of Tylenol. You'd better take it just to be sure." I made a motion for him to stay on the sofa as he started to rise. "Rest," I said. "I'll see myself out."

Gage ignored that and followed me to the door, reaching it at the same time I did. I saw his hand press flat against the door panel. His forearm was densely muscled and dusted with hair. It was an aggressive gesture, but as I turned to face him, I was reassured by the subtle entreaty in his eyes.

"Cowboy," I said, "you're in no condition to stop me from doing a damn thing. I could wrestle you to the floor in ten seconds flat."

He continued to lean over me. His voice was very soft. "Try me."