“It’s not.”

“It’s all to do with not letting people close, isn’t it,” she probed, still gently stroking Socks. “Not needing anyone. Pretending you can stand alone-that you’re you and you’re not part of anyone else.”

“Jenny, get off my case.” He sighed. “I do let people close. My brother and sisters.”

“You love them?”

“Yeah, but…”

“But you tell yourself that you don’t need them.”

“Look, this is getting a bit personal,” he said tightly. The emotion in the room was supercharged, and his reaction to emotion was to bolt. “Do you mind if we just concentrate on Socks?”

She looked at him for a long moment, her green eyes shrewd and assessing, and Michael thought suddenly-even more uncomfortably-that she saw more than he wanted her to. Finally she nodded.

“Well, at least we know he needs us,” she said cheerfully, looking at the dog. She cast another sideways glance at Michael. “Tell me,” she said. “If you were down on the riverbank just now-alone and not with me-would you have brought Socks home?”

“No!”

“Really?” Her eyebrows shot up.

“Definitely not.”

He looked at Socks, and Socks looked at him. Michael felt a pang. Reproach was something this dog had honed to a fine art.

Maybe he wouldn’t have abandoned him entirely, he thought. He would have at least taken him to the pound.

Jenny was shaking her head in disgust. “Then it’s just as well I’m here,” she told him with asperity. “Michael Lord, you need humanizing.”

“By humanizing, you mean turning me into chief cook and bottle washer for a misbegotten mutt?”

The mutt rolled over on his back, exposing his newly dematted tummy. Socks closed his eyes in bliss and waved one back leg, begging to be scratched. Michael glared at the dog, glared at Jenny, then scratched.

And Jenny grinned.

“That’s exactly what I do mean,” she said smugly. “It’s very therapeutic. She lifted another tuft for Michael to clip, but she winced as she did it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You winced.”

“I did not wince. I never wince.”

“You winced.” He frowned. “Cramp?”

“No.”

“It’s not a labor pain?” he demanded, startled.

“Yeah, right. One labor pain and I intend to start yelling my lungs out. That was a ‘my leg’s been stuck in one position for too long’ wince-if there was a wince. And if there was, then it was a very little wince, and I’m denying it, anyway.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” He was sure she was hurting. “Jenny?” What was he thinking of? She’d had one heck of a day, and it was late. “Go to bed, Jen,” he said sternly.

“No. I want to finish this-and we haven’t decided where he’ll sleep.”

“I’ll organize it. I’ll finish his brushing. Go to bed.”

“I am tired,” she admitted. She paused. “I’ll go soon. But I want to watch.”

“Then lie on the couch and watch. Now!” He turned his voice into a roar, and her eyes twinkled-just the way he liked them most.

“Yes, sir.” She started to rise, but staggered, and he moved like lightning to help her, holding her hands, pulling her up then supporting her as she lowered herself onto the couch.

“Ten minutes of watching,” he said sternly, reluctantly releasing her hands. She felt nice. “And then bed.”

“You sound like my father.”

“That’s exactly what I feel like.”

ONLY IT WASN’T at all what he felt like, he thought as he brushed Socks. Jenny’s father? That would make the feelings he was having paternal. Ha!

The dog was asleep, abandoning himself to Michael’s ministrations with absolute trust. Michael had found the very spot on a dog’s belly that needed scratching most, and he’d thus been deemed a friend for life. He could do anything he wanted, and it was okay with Socks. Socks was fed and clean and flea-free, and he was with belly scratchers. Friends. He could afford to sleep because he was in doggy heaven.

And it suddenly seemed like that for Michael, too, though he couldn’t quite figure out why.

It was midnight on Sunday. He should be still over with the guys or else sleeping the sleep of the dead, he told himself. Instead, he was sitting by the fire, gently brushing a starving mongrel and watching a very pregnant and very lovely woman drift off to sleep beside him. She’d watched and watched for a whole four minutes, and every minute her eyes became heavier.

And now she slept with Socks.

It was strange. Surreal.

He should stop brushing, he told himself, his hand still rhythmically stroking. He should boot Socks into the laundry room and send Jenny to bed. But he wanted her to wake up the next morning to a perfectly groomed dog. He knew she’d expect it of him.

And he was content exactly where he was.

So he brushed on into the night, woman and dog sleeping beside him. And when he finished brushing, he sat and stared into the flames for a very long time.

SOMETIME about two in the morning he decided he should go to bed. He was three-quarters asleep himself, the dog settled on his knees with his long ears draped onto the floor, and he was resting against the couch with Jenny’s sleeping face just inches from his. The fire had died to a heap of glowing embers, and there were no more thoughts left to think. There were only feelings, and feelings were threatening to overwhelm him.

So…bed.

“Come on, boy,” he told Socks. “Let’s get you settled.” His body was lethargic, unwilling to stir, but he forced himself upright. The dog whimpered in protest. Michael stood firm, then stooped and lifted Socks into his arms.

“Let’s introduce you to the garden and then show you your sleeping arrangements.” He cast one long, lingering look at Jenny and left her to her slumbers.

The garden was entirely to Socks’s satisfaction. He did what he needed to do in the manner of a well-trained dog, then headed indoors and directed himself straight for the living room again.

“No way,” Michael told him. “The laundry room’s where dogs sleep.”

Socks looked reproachfully at him as if he’d just taken offense. He sighed-heck, the dog’s sigh was almost human-and then trod heavily to his designated sleeping place. He eyed a couple of dry towels Michael had laid out for him as if they were an affront to his dignity, sighed again, then watched with mournful eyes as the door was closed firmly behind Michael, locking him in.


WHICH LEFT JENNY.

He could leave her in the living room, Michael thought. It was warm enough. She could sleep on the couch for one night.

The couch wasn’t quite long enough, he decided. Her legs were bent. She’d be better off in bed.

But there was no way in the world he intended waking her, so he stooped and gathered her gently into his arms, lifting her to lie against him.

She didn’t stir. Her body was warm against his bare chest. His bathrobe seemed far softer against his skin now than when he wore it himself. She was totally relaxed in sleep. And she smelled of something. What?

He couldn’t place it. He didn’t know what she smelled of. He knew enough of Jenny now to know she wouldn’t be wearing some expensive perfume, but whatever it was, it was lovely. Lavender water, maybe? Or maybe the smell was just Jenny.

This was ridiculous. He was growing sentimental in his old age. He got a grip-metaphorically as well as literally-and carried his lovely burden to her bedroom.

She still didn’t stir. He lowered her onto the bed, pulled the bedclothes away, and then rolled her over so she was lying on the sheet. Then he unfastened her robe and stared for a second, his mouth twisting at the sight of her pregnant body in her shabby pajamas. She looked defenseless. Young. Poor.

His sisters wouldn’t be seen dead in clothes like these, he thought grimly. Maybe he could call Lana tomorrow and ask what women wore when they were pregnant, something soft and pretty and-

What was he thinking of? Jenny wouldn’t thank him for criticizing her clothes!

Enough. He stooped to pull the bedclothes over her, and as if he’d spoken her name, she stirred and opened her eyes. She looked at him as if she was dreaming. Her eyes crinkled into a smile of pleasure, but they had that look that told him she wasn’t seeing him. She was seeing some lovely thing in her dreams.

He touched her eyelids, closing them gently.

“Sleep,” he told her. “Sleep, Jen.”

“Love…” It was a husky whisper. Her eyes didn’t open. She wasn’t seeing him-heaven knew who she was seeing-but her arms came out and her hands reached for his face, urging him down to her. He was so surprised that he let himself be propelled toward her.

“Love.” The word was whispered in the dark, and her lips found his as he froze into stunned submission. He let himself be kissed.

Her lips were so soft, urgent, even in sleep. They tasted like nectar, and he couldn’t believe what she was doing. Her hands were holding his face against hers, and her mouth was searching, searching…

And finding. She had what she wanted in the touch of his mouth against hers. She had…what?

Whatever it was was indefinable. The touch was like fire between them, a fierce, burning pain that threatened to overwhelm him. He felt his gut tighten, and it was all he could do not to gather her body against his and sink beside her on the soft, welcoming bed.

No! For one long moment Michael froze, but she was too sweet. Like a siren’s song, she was impossible to resist. He let himself be drawn in, sinking to sit on the bed beside her and returning her kiss with a passion that stunned him. With a fire he didn’t know he possessed. With a need…

No!

This was crazy. Jenny was asleep! She was dreaming of her dead husband, not him!

Somehow he dragged himself back, and her hands fell loosely to her sides. Her eyes were still closed, but her mouth curved into a gentle smile of happiness. She was making no objection. She’d kissed her man, and now the dream could continue.