"I didn't invite you here. How did you find my apartment? How did you get past the concierge?" David never let nonresidents into the building without first getting approval.

"I found out where you were working, and I went to your office. Just talked to your manager, Vanessa — she told me you lived here in the building. She gave your apartment number and said to go right on up. Nice girl. Said she'd show me around Houston whenever I want."

"You two have a lot in common," I said tersely. Damn Vanessa! I had told her enough about my past to make her aware that I was not on good terms with my former husband. No surprise that she would make use of any opportunity to cause trouble.

Nick ventured farther into my apartment.

"What do you want?" I asked, backing away.

"Just thought I'd drop by and say hi. I'm in town to interview for a job with an insurance company. They need an estimator. I'm sure I'll get it — I'm totally the best guy for the position."

He was interviewing for a job in Houston? I was sick at the thought. A city with a population of two million was still not big enough for me to share with my ex-husband.

"I'm not interested in your career plans." I tried to keep my voice steady. "You and I have nothing to do with each other anymore." I moved toward the phone. "Leave, or I'll have to call for building security."

"Still the drama," Nick murmured, rolling his eyes. "I came to do you a favor, Marie, if you'd let me talk long enough to — "

"Haven," I snapped.

He shook his head, as if he were confronting a small child who was having a temper tantrum. "Okay. Christ. I have some things that belong to you. I'd like to give them back."

"What things?"

"Stuff like a scarf, a purse . . . and that charm bracelet you got from your aunt Gretchen."

I'd had my lawyer request the return of the bracelet, and Nick had claimed it was lost. I had known better, of course. But the chance to have it back caused a stab of longing. That little piece of my past meant a lot to me.

"Great," I heard myself say casually. "Where is it?"

"Back at my hotel. Meet me tomorrow, and I'll bring it."

"Just send it to me."

He smiled. "You can't have something for nothing, Haven. You can have your things back, including that bracelet — but you have to meet me in person. Just to talk. A public place is fine, if that's what you want."

"All I want is for you to leave." I wondered when Hardy would show up. Probably any minute now. And then there was no telling what would happen. Sweat gathered between my skin and clothes, making the fabric adhere in salty patches. "I'm expecting someone, Nick."

But instantly I knew that was the wrong thing to say. Instead of making him leave, it guaranteed that he would stay. Nick wanted a look at the next man in line.

"You said you weren't dating."

"Well, now I am."

"How long you known him?"

I stared at him coldly, refusing to answer.

"Does he know about me?" Nick pressed.

"He knows I'm divorced."

"You fu**ed him yet?" His tone was soft, but there was contempt and anger in his gaze.

"You have no business asking that."

"Maybe he'll have better luck thawing you out than I did."

"Maybe he already has," I shot back, and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen in surprised fury.

I saw movement, someone coming to the doorway . . . Hardy's long, lean form. He paused for a moment, assessing the situation. And his eyes narrowed as Nick turned to face him.

I knew Hardy realized immediately who my visitor was. He could tell from the angry bruised weight of the air, and the bleached whiteness of my face.

I had never expected to make direct physical comparisons between the two men. However, with both of them in the same room, it was impossible not to. Objectively speaking, Nick was more handsome, with smaller, more chiseled features. But Hardy's roughcast good looks and self-assurance made Nick look callow. Unformed.

As Nick stared at Hardy, his aggressive stance softened, and he actually moved back a half step. Whatever kind of man Nick had been expecting me to date, it wasn't this. My former husband had always felt superior to everyone — I had never seen him so visibly intimidated.

It struck me that Hardy, a seasoned, high-octane male, was the authentic version of what Nick was always pretending to be. And because Nick knew deep down that he was a fraud as a man, he occasionally gave in to the explosive rages that I had been a casualty of.

Hardy walked into the apartment and came to me without hesitation, brushing by Nick. I quivered as he slid his arm around me, his eyes dark blue as he stared down at me. "Haven," he murmured. The sound of his voice seemed to unlock a tight clamp around my lungs — I hadn't been aware that I'd been holding my breath. I took in some air. His grip tightened, and I felt some of his vitality jolt into me like an electric current.

"Here," Hardy said, pressing something into my grasp. I looked down at the offering. Flowers. A gorgeous burst of mixed colors, rustling and fragrant in tissue wrapping.

"Thank you," I managed to say.

He smiled slightly. "Go put them in water, honey." And then, to my disbelief, I felt him pat my bottom familiarly, right in front of Nick. The classic male signal of this is mine.

I heard my ex-husband take a swift breath. Darting a glance at him, I saw the glow of anger begin at his shirt collar, rising fast. There had been a time when that flush of fury would have heralded untold misery for me. But no longer.

I felt a strange mixture of emotions . . . a knee-jerk uneasiness at the sight of Nick's anger . . . a twinge of annoyance at Hardy . . . but mostly a sense of triumph, knowing that no matter how badly Nick wanted to punish me, he couldn't.

And although I had never especially liked the fact that Hardy was so physically imposing, I relished it at that moment. Because there was only one thing a bully like Nick respected, and that was a bigger bully.

"What brings you to Houston?" I heard Hardy ask casually as I went to the kitchen sink.

"Job interview," Nick replied in a subdued tone. "I'm Nick Tanner, Haven's — "

"I know who you are."

"I didn't catch your name."

"Hardy Cates."

Glancing back, I saw that neither of them had moved to shake hands.

The name rang a bell for Nick — I saw the flicker of recognition on his features — but he couldn't quite put it in context. "Cates . . . wasn't there some trouble between you and the Travises a while back?"

"You could say so," Hardy replied, sounding not at all regretful. A deliberate pause, and then he added, "Getting friendly with one of 'em, though."

He was referring to me, of course. Pushing Nick's buttons on purpose. I sent Hardy a warning glare, which went completely unnoticed, and I saw the quiver of outrage run across Nick's face.

"Nick was just leaving," I said hastily. "Goodbye, Nick."

"I'll call you," Nick said.

"I'd rather you didn't." I turned back to the sink, unable to look at my ex-husband for another second.

"You heard her," came Hardy's murmur. And there was something else, some brief exchange of words before the door closed firmly.

I let out a shuddery sigh, unaware that I was gripping the bunched flower stems until I looked down and saw a smear of blood on the fleshy pad beneath my right thumb. A thorn had punctured it. I ran some water over my hand to clean it, filled a vase, and settled the flowers in it.

Hardy came up behind me, gave a quiet exclamation as he saw the blood on my hand.

"It's okay," I said, but he took my hand and held it under the water. When the tiny wound was rinsed, he reached for a paper towel and folded it a couple of times.

"Keep pressure on it." He stood facing me, gripping the paper towel against my palm. I was so unsettled by Nick's visit that I couldn't think of a thing to say. Unhappily I acknowledged that I couldn't throw out my past like an old pair of shoes. I would never be free of it. I could move on, but Nick would always be able to find me, walk back into my life, remind me of things I would have given anything to forget.

"Look at me," Hardy said after a minute.

I didn't want to. I knew he would read my face far too easily. I couldn't help remembering what Todd had said about him . . . "You watch his eyes. Even when he's doing his regular-guy routine, he's taking measure, learning, every damn second . . . "

But I forced myself to meet his gaze.

"Did you know he was in town?" Hardy asked.

"No, it was a surprise."

"What did he want?"

"He said he had some old things of mine that he wanted to give back."

"Like what?"

I shook my head. I wasn't in the mood to tell him about Aunt Gretchen's bracelet. Certainly I wasn't about to explain that I'd left it behind because I'd been beaten up and thrown out on the front steps of my own home. "Nothing I want," I lied. I tugged my hand from his and removed the paper towel. The bleeding had stopped. "What did you tell Nick at the door?"

"I said if he showed up here again, I'd kick his ass."

My eyes widened. "You didn't really, did you?"

He looked smug. "I did."

"You arrogant . . . Oh, I can't believe you just took it upon yourself to . . . " I sputtered into silence, fuming.

Hardy wasn't a bit sorry. "That's what you want, isn't it? Not to see him again?"

"Yes, but I don't want you making decisions for me! I feel like I've spent my life surrounded by dominating men — and you'll probably turn out to be the worst of them all."

He had the nerve to smile at that. "You can handle me. I told you before, I'm tame."

I gave him a dark glance. "Yeah, like a buck-strapped rodeo horse."

Hardy's arms went around me. He bent his head, and his low voice caressed my ear. "I guess you got your work cut out for you."

A baffling wave of heat went through me, something rooted in excitement, too intense to name. And with that came a touch of queasiness, and I felt scared and all twisted up with desire.

"Worth a try, isn't it?" Hardy asked.

I wasn't entirely sure what we were talking about. "I . . . I'm not trying anything with you until you promise to stop acting so highhanded."

He nuzzled behind my ear. "Haven . . . do you really think I'd stand aside politely while another man comes sniffing around my woman? If I let that happen, I wouldn't be a man. And I sure as hell wouldn't be a Texan."

I wasn't breathing well. "I'm not your woman, Hardy."

Both his hands curved around my scalp, angling my face upward. His thumbs stroked over my cheeks. He gave me a look that dismantled my brain and set off an erotic flush that covered me from head to toe. "That's something we're going to fix."

More arrogance, I thought dimly. But much to the shame of my politically correct self, it was a huge turn-on, sending heat mainlining through every vein. My fists clenched reflexively in his shirt.

It was a beautiful light-gray shirt that probably cost the equivalent of the average mortgage payment. And I saw my finger had left a bright red splotch of blood on it.

"Oh, no."

"What?" Hardy looked down at my hand. "Damn, it's bleeding again. We need to get you a Band-Aid."

"I don't care about my hand, it's your shirt! I'm so sorry."

He seemed amused by my concern. "It's just a shirt."

"I hope I haven't ruined it. Maybe it's not too late if I soak it in the sink . . . " I began on the placket of buttons, wincing at the sight of the bloodstained fabric. "It is a silk blend? Maybe I shouldn't try to wash it."

"Forget the shirt. Let me see your hand."

"Is it dry-clean only? What does the tag say?"

"I never read the tag."

"Such a man." I undid another button . . . another. My fingers slowed, but didn't stop. I was undressing him.

Hardy didn't move, just watched me, his amusement evaporating. His chest went rigid beneath the blinding-white undershirt, his breath coming faster as I made fumbling progress.

I tugged the hem of the shirt free of his jeans, the thin fabric crumpled and warm from his body.

Such a man. A good-looking, over-the-top male, trying so hard not to seem dangerous . . . he was absolutely tantalizing. My hands shook as I reached for the cuffs of his sleeves, pushing the buttons through the crisp starched layers of fabric.

Hardy remained still as I tugged the shirt from his shoulders. When the shirt reached his wrists, he moved as if he were dreaming, slowly pulling his arms from the sleeves. He tossed the garment to the floor and reached for me.

I went weak as his arms enclosed me, his mouth descending with hot, searching pressure. I reached around his back, beneath the T-shirt, finding the powerful muscles on either side of his spine.

His lips slid to my throat, exploring gently until I squirmed and arched to get closer to him. Excitement roared through me, and I stopped thinking, stopped trying to control anything.

Hardy lifted me until I was sitting on the small kitchen island, my legs dangling. I shut my eyes against the artificial glare of the overhead lights. His mouth came to mine, tender and devouring, while his hands closed over my thighs and stroked them apart. God, the way he kissed. It had never been like this with Nick, or anyone, this urgent heat that melted me at the core.

My clothes felt too tight, the halter top cinched over my breasts, and I tugged frantically at the straps to be rid of it. Hardy pushed my hands away. I felt him working at the straps, unhooking the closures at the back.

The halter top loosened and fell to my waist. My br**sts felt heavy, achy, the tips turning hard as they were exposed to cool air. Hardy slid an arm behind my back to support my faltering weight. He bent over me, his mouth hot as he navigated the pale slope of my breast. His lips traveled slowly to the deep pink crest. A moan swelled in my throat as he suckled, nibbled, moving from one breast to the other. Gasping, I held his head to me, the hair like thick silk, the scent of him as fresh as vetiver.

He pulled me up, his arm amazingly strong, and he cradled my head in one hand to feed on my mouth again. His fingers clamped on a nipple still damp from his tongue.

I clutched at him, so close, needing more, just a little more . . .