"Hey, you two . . . I'm heading out."

"You can't," Jack said, frowning. "It's not even eight o'clock."

"Jack, I've had two drinks and met three hundred and twenty-eight people," — I paused to grin at Heidi — "including a couple of potential rebound guys."

"I'll fix you up with one of 'em," Heidi said enthusiastically. "We'll go on a double date!"

When hell and half of Texas freezes over, I thought, but I smiled. "Sounds great. Let's talk later. Bye, y'all."

Jack began to stand. "I'll help you get a cab."

"No, no . . . stay with Heidi. I'll ask one of the door guys to help me." I shook my head in exasperation as he still looked concerned. "I can find the front door and get a cab. In fact, 1800 Main is close enough I could even walk."

"Don't even think about it," he said.

"I'm not planning to walk, I was just pointing out . . . Never mind. Have fun."

Relieved at the prospect of going home and taking off my high-heeled pumps, I plunged into the mass of jostling bodies. It gave me a clammy feeling, being close to so many people.

"I don't think it's an outright phobia," Susan had said when I'd told her I thought I'd developed sexophobia. "That would put it on the level of a disorder, and I'm not convinced the problem is that deep-seated. What happens is, after an experience like you had with Nick, your unconscious mind says 'I'll attach feelings of aversion and anxiety to the opposite sex, so I'll avoid ever being hurt again.' It's just a matter of rewiring."

"Well, I'd like to wire around it, then. Because I don't think I have it in me to go gay."

"You don't have to go gay," Susan had said, smiling. "You just have to find the right man. It'll happen when you're ready."

In retrospect, I wished I'd had sex with someone before Nick, some positive association that would help me get back in the saddle, so to speak. Bleakly I wondered how many men I was going to have to sleep with before I started to like it. I wasn't good at acquired tastes.

The mass of people inched by the bar. Every stool was occupied, hundreds of drinks set along the expanse of glittering mosaic table-top tiles. There was no way to get to the door other than follow along with the herd. Revulsion spiked in my stomach every time I felt another impersonal brush of someone's hip, someone's stomach, someone's arm. To distract myself, I tried to calculate how many people beyond the acceptable fire code level had been admitted to the bar.

Someone in the herd stumbled or staggered. It was a domino effect, one person falling into another until I felt the impact of a shoulder against mine. The momentum pushed me into the line of barstools, causing me to drop my purse. I would have bumped hard into the bar if someone sitting there hadn't reached out to steady me.

"Sorry, ma'am," someone called from the crowd.

"It's okay," I said breathlessly, hunting for my purse.

"Here, let me get that," the guy on the barstool said, bending down to retrieve it.

"Thanks."

As the guy straightened and handed me the purse, I looked up into a pair of blue eyes, and everything stopped, the sound of voices, the background music, every footstep, blink, breath, heartbeat. Only one person I'd ever met had eyes that color. Dazzling. Devil-blue.

I was slow to react, trying to jump-start my heart back into action, and then my pulse hammered too hard, too fast. All I could think of was that the last time — the only time — I'd seen Hardy Cates, I'd been wrapped around him in my family's wine cellar.

CHAPTER SIX

People were pressing behind me, trying to get the bartender's attention. I was about to be trampled. With a murmur, Hardy Cates guided me to the stool he'd been occupying, helping me up. I was too dazed to object. The leather seat was warm from his body. He stood with one hand on the counter, the other on the back of my chair, sheltering me. Trapping me.Hardy was a little leaner than I remembered, a little more seasoned, tempered by maturity. The look of experience suited him, especially because somewhere deep in those eyes, there still lurked a dangerous invitation to play. He had a quality of masculine confidence that was a thousand times more potent than mere handsomeness. Perfect good looks could leave you cold, but this kind of sexy charisma went straight to your knees. I had no doubt every available woman at the bar had been drooling over him.

In fact, just beyond the outline of his shoulder, I saw the leggy blonde in the next chair glaring at me. I had stumbled, literally, into the middle of their conversation.

"Miss Travis." Hardy looked at me as if he couldn't quite believe I was there. "Pardon. I mean Mrs. Tanner."

"No, I'm . . . it's Travis again." Aware that I was stammering, I said baldly, "I'm divorced."

There was no change in his expression except for a slight widening of those blue-on-blue eyes. He picked up his drink and tossed back a swallow. When his gaze returned to mine, he seemed to be looking right inside me. I flushed hard, remembering the wine cellar again.

The blonde was still giving me the evil eye. I gestured to her awkwardly and babbled, "I'm sorry to interrupt. I didn't mean to . . . please, you go on with your . . . it was nice seeing you, Mr. — "

"Hardy. You're not interrupting anything. We're not together." He glanced over his shoulder, the yellow bar light sliding over the layers of his shiny dark hair. "Excuse me," he said to the woman. "I have to catch up with an old friend."

"Sure," she said with a dimpled smile.

Hardy turned back to me, and the woman's face changed. From the look she gave me, I should have dropped dead on the spot.

"I'm not going to take your chair," I said, beginning to slide off the barstool. "I was just heading out. It's so crowded in here — " My breath caught as my legs touched his, and I scooted up onto the stool again.

"Give it a minute," Hardy said. "It'll thin out soon." He gestured for a bartender, who appeared with miraculous speed.

"Yes, Mr. Cates?"

Hardy looked at me, one brow lifting. "What'll you have?"

I've really got to go, I wanted to tell him, but it came out as, "Dr Pepper, please."

"Dr Pepper — extra cherries," he told the bartender.

Surprised, I asked, "How did you know I like maraschinos?" His mouth curved with a slow burn of a smile. For a moment I forgot how to breathe. "Just figured you for the type who likes extra."

He was too big. Too close. I still hadn't rid myself of the habit of assessing a man in terms of how much damage he could do to me.

Nick had left bruises and fractures — but this guy could kill a normal person with a swipe of his hand. I knew that someone like me, with all my baggage and my possible case of sexophobia had no business being around Hardy Cates.

His hands were still on either side of me, braced on the chair arm and the countertop. I felt the tension of opposing urges, the desire to shrink away from him, and an attraction that prickled like sparks in-side me. His silver-gray tie had been loosened and the top button of his shirt was unfastened, revealing the hint of a white undershirt beneath. The skin of his throat was smooth and brown. I wondered for a second what his body felt like beneath the layers of thin cotton and broadcloth, if he was as hard as I remembered. A tumult of curiosity and dread caused me to fidget on the chair.

I turned gratefully as the bartender brought my drink, a highball of sparkling Dr Pepper. Bright red cherries bobbed on the surface. I plucked one from the drink and pulled the fruit from its stem with my teeth. It was plump and sticky, rolling sweetly on my tongue.

"Did you come here alone, Miss Travis?" Hardy asked. So many men his size had incongruously high voices, but he had a deep voice, made to fill a big chest.

I considered telling him to call me by my first name, but I needed to keep every possible barrier between us, no matter how slight.

"I came with my brother Jack and his girlfriend," I said. "I work for him now. He has a property management company. We were celebrating my first week." I picked out another cherry and ate it slowly, and found that Hardy was watching me with an absorbed, slightly glazed expression.

"When I was little, I could never get enough of these," I said. "I stole jars of maraschinos from the fridge. I ate the fruit like candy and poured the juice into my Coke."

"I bet you were a cute little girl. A tomboy."

"Absolutely a tomboy," I said. "I wanted to be like my brothers. Every Christmas I asked Santa for a tool set."

"Did he ever bring you one?"

I shook my head with a rueful smile. "Lots of dolls. Ballet outfits. An Easy-Bake Oven." I washed down another cherry with a swallow of Dr Pepper. "My aunt finally gave me a junior tool kit, but I had to give it back. My mother said it wasn't appropriate for little girls."

The corner of his mouth quirked. "I never got what I wanted either."

I wondered what that was, but getting into personal subjects with him was out of the question. I tried to think of something mundane. Something about work. "How's your EOR business going?" I asked.

From what I knew, Hardy and a couple of other guys had started a small enhanced oil recovery company that went into mature or spent fields after the big companies were through with them. Using specialized recovery techniques, they could locate leftover reserves, called "bypassed pay." A man could make a lot of money that way.

"We're doing okay," Hardy said easily. "We've bought up leases for some mature fields, and got some good results with CO, flooding. And we bought an interest in a nonoperated property in the Gulf — we're getting some good play out of it." He watched as I drank my Dr Pepper. "You cut your hair," he said softly.

I lifted a hand and scrubbed my fingers through the short layers. "It was in the way."

"It's beautiful."

It had been so long since I'd gotten a compliment of any kind that I was desperately tongue-tied.

Hardy was watching me with an intent stare. "I never thought I'd have a chance to say this to you. But that night — "

"I'd rather not talk about that," I said hastily. "Please."

Hardy fell obligingly silent.

My gaze focused on the hand resting on the countertop. It was long-fingered and capable, a workman's hand. His nails were clipped nearly to the quick. I was struck by the scattering of tiny star-shaped scars across some of his fingers. "What . . . what are those marks from?" I asked.

His hand flexed a little. "I did fencing work after school and during summers while I was growing up. Put up barbed wire for the local ranchers."

I winced at the thought of the wicked barbs digging into his fingers. "You did it with your bare hands?"

"Until I could afford gloves."

His tone was matter-of-fact, but I felt a twinge of shame, aware of how different my privileged upbringing had been. And I wondered about the drive and ambition it must have taken for him to climb from a trailer-park life, the aluminum ghetto, to where he'd gotten in the oil business. Not many men could do that. You had to work hard. And you had to be ruthless. I could believe that about him.

Our gazes caught, held, the shared voltage nearly causing me to fall off the barstool. I flushed all over, heat gathering beneath my clothes, inside my shoes, and at the same time I was overtaken by a nervous chill. I had never wanted to get away from anyone so fast.

"Thanks for the drink." My teeth were chattering. "I have to go, I'm . . . It was nice to see you. Good luck with everything." I got off the chair and saw with relief that the crowd had thinned out, and there was a negotiable path to the door.

"I'll walk you to your car," Hardy said, tossing a bill on the counter. He picked up the jacket of his business suit.

"No, thanks, I'll get a taxi."

But he walked with me anyway.

"You'll lose your place at the bar," I muttered.

"There's always another place at the bar." I felt the casual pressure of his hand at the small of my back, and I recoiled instinctively. The light touch was instantly withdrawn. "Looks like it's still raining," he said. "Do you have a coat?"

"No," I said abruptly. "It's fine. I don't mind getting wet."

"Can I drive you somewhere?" His tone had gentled, as if he recognized my increasing distress even if he didn't understand the reason for it.

I shook my head violently. "A taxi's fine."

Hardy said a few words to one of the doormen, who went out to the curb. "We can wait inside," he said, "until a car pulls up."

But I couldn't wait. I had to escape him. I was so full of anxiety standing beside him, that I was afraid I was going to have a panic attack. The side of my jaw was throbbing for no reason at all, and my ribs ached where Nick had kicked me, oven though I was all healed now. The resonance of old wounds. I'm going to fire my therapist, I thought. I shouldn't be nearly this screwed up after all the time I've spent with her.

"Bad divorce?" Hardy asked, his gaze falling to my hands. I realized I was clutching my purse in a death grip.

"No, the divorce was great," I said. "It was the marriage that sucked." I forced a smile. "Gotta go. Take care."

Unable to stay inside the bar any longer, I dashed outside even though the taxi wasn't there yet. And I stood there in the drizzle like an idiot, breathing too hard, wrapping my arms around myself. My skin felt too tight for my body, like I'd been shrink-wrapped. Someone came up behind me, and from the way the hairs on the back of my neck lifted, I knew Hardy had followed me.

Without a word he draped his suit jacket around me, cocooning me in silk-lined wool. The feeling was so exquisite that I shivered. The scent of him was all around me, that sunny, soft spice I had never forgotten . . . God, it was good. Comforting and stimulating at the same time. Absolute world-class pheromones. I wished I could take his jacket home with me.

Not him, just the jacket.

I turned to look up at him, at the raindrops glittering in the rich brown locks of his hair. Water fell in tiny cool strikes on my face. He moved slowly, as if he thought a sudden move might startle me. I felt one of his palms curve along the side of my face, his thumb wiping at the raindrops on my cheek as if they were tears.

"I'd ask if I could call you," I heard him say, "but I think I know the answer." His hand moved to my throat, caressing the side with the backs of his fingers. He was touching me, I thought, dazed, but at that moment I didn't give a damn. Standing in the rain, wrapped in his jacket, was about the best feeling I'd had in a year.