That was the thing about Sam. All that strength. All that gentleness.

  Her pulse started hammering, her heart beating double time, a burst of ruby-red desire seeping all the way up from her toes.

  When had she ever wanted like this? Never. Nothing in her life had ever felt this right. This petrifying. This perfect.

  She sank into him, loving his bare chest with her fingertips, loving his hands, roaming over her back, her arms. His fingers sieved into her hair when he dipped for another kiss, this one urging her up and against him. She felt the surge of his heartbeat. Felt his big calloused hands turn fire-warm. Felt him shift, to accommodate the growing potential between them.

  Falling in lust with him was almost—almost—as soul-opening as falling in love with him. Giving wasn’t hard. Giving had always come naturally to her; it was who she was, what she did. But this was so different. This was giving to someone who’d never asked her for anything. This was giving where there was no return obligation. No have-to involved.

  Except for risk.

  Her own risk, but, she was coming to feel, his, too.

  His hands slid down, under her sweater, around her back again. His fingers discovered her bra, didn’t seem to care for it, unlatched it. And the next kiss he offered took her breath.

  “Sam?” Her voice was husky, not by choice. It was all she could manage. “You can still say no, but your chances are running out.”

  “If you’re waiting for me to say no, that’ll be never. But I was thinking . . . you might be a whole lot more comfortable at my place, my bedroom, a serious bed . . . this hearth is crazy hard.”

  “Hmm. I like the idea of going to your place. But not tonight. Tonight . . . I don’t want to separate from you, for even minutes, even moments. It’s too cold outside. And just-right warm right here.”

  “Okay. I have a challenge for you.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Trust me. This isn’t an uh-oh. Here’s the challenge. We start a kiss. And see how long we can keep kissing, until one of us has to come up for air.”

  “I like challenges like that. Where no one has to lose, and both sides win no matter wh—”

  He didn’t cut her off. His mouth just sealed hers, his taste alluring and tender, promising danger, promising belonging, promising that everything and anything could work out. With him. With them. With Poppy’s arms still hooked around his neck, Sam lifted her—a definite measure he was a ton stronger than she was. He either knew where the bedroom was or navigated there by luck . . . or need.

  The bathroom light was on because she’d never turned it off. The bedroom was dark, because she’d never turned a light on. There was just enough ambient light for him to locate the bed, for him to balance a knee on it, and then slower than molasses lower her flat.

  Their lips were still glued. It just might be the longest kiss in recorded history. She planned to be impressed, when she had time. Right now she only had time for him.

  She’d wanted him her whole life. A man who kissed her as if she were his sun and his stars . . . as if he couldn’t cherish her enough.

  The more he touched, the more she longed for more. The more she responded, the more she felt hopelessly, helplessly powerful. She loved this man. She loved his nose. The smell of his skin. The calluses on his hands, the rust in his voice when he was talking low. The scruffy black hair, how it folded around her fingers. The sexy darkness in his eyes, the wickedness, the promises. His humor. The way he walked with those big, long strides. The way he catered to the darned dog, the way his niece had him wrapped around her finger. The way he could cook. The way he so easily laughed, so readily enjoyed life. The way he created a fire, as if it were artwork. The way he was self-sufficient, able to do so many things, and yet. The way he was vulnerable. Like now. When she stroked him, just so. When she rubbed against him, and heard him suck in a breath. When her hand reached for his belt buckle.

  “Hey,” he murmured.

  “Just what I was thinking. Hey back,” she whispered.

  “When you make up your mind . . . you really make up your mind.”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve made up my mind. About wanting you.”

  “Poppy. I’d shoot myself if I’ve done anything to make you feel pressured—”

  “Who started this?”

  “You did.”

  “So pay attention.” Poppy took her hands off Sam’s belt buckle, grabbed the bottom of her sweater, and yanked it over her head. Her hair tumbled and spun, tangling around her eyes, her cheeks. “Now if you feel pressured . . .”

  Her bra was unhooked, but still dangling loose. She pushed it off.

  “I feel pressured. I feel pressured.”

  She laughed, but not for long. Her chuckle turned into a wide smile that slowly turned into something else. The curve of her lips met the curve of his. Together, their kiss ignited a tangle of discoveries and promises and whispers, and finally, a joyous coming together.

  SOMETIME LATER, POPPY was snoozing in the cradle of Sam’s shoulder, when a sequence of loud popping sounds startled her. It sounded as if a gun were going off. His eyes shot open, too.

  “Uh-oh. The chestnuts.”

  Bubbles woke up from her nap on the couch and let out a good, loud howl. Then, despite her breed’s reputation for stalwart fearlessness, the dog galloped into the bedroom, leaped on the bed, and tried to hide under Sam.

  “Hey, girl. Hey, Bubbs. It’s not a gun. There’s no danger, no trouble.” He glanced at Poppy. “But I had in mind giving you a lot more trouble. There were a lot of things I could do better.”

  “Not that I can imagine in a zillion years,” she promised him, as she grabbed a robe.

  What a mess. She had no idea how long chestnuts normally roasted before they were “done,” but once they exploded, apparently they really exploded. At least the disaster was contained inside the fireplace.

  Sam spread out the logs—not that there was much fire left, but still, he wanted it positively out before he cleaned out the chestnut debris.

  “This just isn’t fair,” he muttered. “I should be sleeping beside you right now. Or not sleeping at all. We could be doing anything but housekeeping a fireplace.”

  “I see soot on your nose.”

  “I’m going to ignore that insult. Do you have a bowl? And tinfoil you could line the bowl with? Tongs? Hot pads? Pliers?”

  Heaven knew why both of them started chuckling. Even craziness like this was fun with him. But naturally, she thought they’d both completely shaken off their earlier mood.

  But it seemed nothing shook Sam off the mood for more of her. Once the hearth was cleaned up, the dog let out, then back in, and the door locked, he looked at Poppy with that dark glint in his eyes again. “The first time was a practice run,” he said. “I think I almost remember how to do it now.”

  HE REMEMBERED MORE than she’d ever known. Eventually they both crashed. She fell asleep curled in his arms—not just because of lust or love but because the old bed was miserably narrow. She woke up on Monday morning with a sleepy smile—and Sam woke up with the same lusty gleam he’d had last night.

  He reached for her, then pulled back with a heavy sigh. “Darn, Poppy. But I really need to get Bubbles out for a run, get her home and fed. I’m stuck with a couple callbacks. My youngest brother said he was coming by early this morning. But later today—”

  Carefully Poppy kept any hint of disappointment from her voice. “Who was it who said to me, no pressure, no stress? I’m the one who’s on a break, but you’re still in the middle of your regular life. Come back when you’re free.”

  “I feel badly about this—just taking off.”

  “You’re not just taking off. You’re doing stuff you have to do. Oh. You’re an extraordinary lover. Or did I tell you that already?”

  “I can’t remember. Maybe you should tell me again.”

  The devil. He made her shake her head. Then wag a finger at him. “No pressure, no strings. Every part of last night was wonderful. The wonderfulest night since I can remember. Maybe even before I can remember. I’m going to spend all morning basking in how wicked I felt. How free. How gorgeous. And don’t try to talk me out of it.”

  He leaned over, kissed her witless. “You are so much trouble.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Way more trouble than I could possibly have guessed.”

  “Thank you again. Go. Take your dog.”

  Sam didn’t want to go, which warmed Poppy’s heart. She had to kick him out, then spent an insane amount of time singing in the shower, making coffee and curling up in the monster-size chair by the window. A cardinal soared toward the woods, its cheerful red the only color in a fresh white world. Or no. On the ground was a fluffy rabbit, searching for who knows what, truthfully just seemed to be having a joyful morning.

  So was she.

  She got around to making herself a serious breakfast, putting on fresh cords and a Fair Isle sweater and then settling at the computer. Her fingers itched to work. Not exactly work—the lab projects were all on hold until after the holidays.

  But after one sleepless night, she had more energy and enthusiasm than she’d had in years. It was Sam’s fault, no question. He hadn’t solved her problems—no one could solve her problems but herself.

  She just felt . . . as if she had herself back. The Poppy before all the years of responsibility had compressed her spirit. The girl who could skate her heart out, the woman who her mom had hoped she would be. She’d risked. She’d dared. She’d done something that didn’t have a have-to as part of it. She’d done something for herself—but hopefully that was good for Sam, too.

  IT WAS AFTER two before Poppy heard the knock on the door. Usually it’d be Bubbles scratching to get in before Sam had even climbed out of the truck. Still, she bounced from the chair with anticipation and sprang to open the door.

  Only it wasn’t Sam.

  It was two redheads, with her own startling blue eyes. Both of them were prettier than her. Both were standing shoulder to shoulder, like when they were little girls and full of anticipation about giving her a delightful surprise.

  For a moment, Poppy couldn’t speak for the sudden thick knot in her throat.

  She’d anticipated seeing them after Christmas. Anticipated giving them warm hugs and all of them chattering and laughing at the same time, the way they always did. But it wasn’t after Christmas now.

  And she could have sworn she’d clearly explained that she needed time alone. Just another week. Not forever. But she so seriously craved that one more week.

  As if recognizing she wasn’t as happy to see them as they’d hoped, her sisters fell on her like butter on bread. “Oh, Poppy, don’t be mad at us. You have no idea what we went through to find you! And then once we did, we had to come.” Cam, her cap falling off, pulled Poppy into a fierce, loving hug.

  Marigold, typically, started strewing clothes right and left. “Look, sis, we both realized that it was our turn to be there for you. The way you’ve always been there for us. You don’t have to talk to us or share anything you don’t want to share.”

  Cam finished the thought. “But we just couldn’t stand the thought of your spending Christmas alone. You don’t have to do anything. Not one little thing! We’ll put everything together. You can just rest.”

  “It’s been killing us both. Knowing you were troubled about something. Not feeling you could tell us. Not letting us help you. We’re not kids anymore, Poppy. So just sit down,” Marigold ordered, as she showed off her red-and-green-striped nails. “We’re bringing in a few things from the car.”

  Until then, Poppy hadn’t glanced behind her sisters. Now, from the window she could see the tail end of Cam’s red Ford. And typical of Cam, the car had just been washed, every window gleaming, and the back seat loaded to the gills.

  The knot in her throat tightened. Obviously the plan wasn’t for a quick visit. The packed car looked more like an army showing up, prepared to bivouac indefinitely. An army of two who would need feeding, watering, cleaning up after, caretaking, attention.

  “Cam. Marigold. Didn’t you two get any of my notes? That I wasn’t doing Christmas? That I needed some quiet retreat time?”

  “Of course we got your notes.” Marigold pushed off her boots. “That’s exactly why we determined that you needed someone to spoil you for a change. No matter how much we all love Christmas, it takes a lot of work to put together—but not this year. Not for you. We’ll do everything.”

  “And that’s a serious promise,” Cam said with a smile. “We’ll guard you from any kind of stress. Don’t you worry.”

  It was all so wrong Poppy couldn’t seem to speak. She loved them. But she’d carefully told them, over and over, that she needed private time. They’d ignored her. Not heard her. Not tried to hear her.

  Maybe someone else could have yelled at them to just STOP, turn around, get back in the car, and go back to Madison.

  She wanted to do just that. But she just couldn’t look at those two faces—so full of hope and worry and caring and love—and kick them out. Wreck their Christmases. Hurt them.

  She just couldn’t do it.

  Chapter Ten

  WHEN SAM ZOOMED into her driveway after three, he was startled to see a red car parked behind Poppy’s.

  Startled—and immediately wary.

  Bubbles let out a woof, as if asking why he was suddenly backing out of the driveway, when both of them wanted to see Poppy.

  “If we park behind the red car, we’ll be boxing it in,” he explained to the dog. “So we’re going to back out and park on the street. Sit down.”

  Bubbles didn’t want to sit down or settle down. Neither did Sam. He felt unexpectedly nervous about seeing Poppy this afternoon. He’d even done the rare spit-and-shine preparing for this visit—a decent navy-blue sweater, jeans with no holes, even shaved twice. He wanted her to know that he hadn’t taken last night lightly. He wanted to be with her. Really with her.

  All morning, while he helped Conan string Christmas lights, he thought of last night. The yearning in her eyes, the shyness—and then her wild, sweet yielding when they came together. He still remembered her shush of a sigh after. Her moonlit smile.

  But now, he was counting on seeing her again, after an interminably long morning. The red car in her driveway quelled all that anticipation and replaced it with plain old worry.

  Poppy wasn’t expecting visitors. No one was supposed to know where she was. She didn’t know anyone here. No one knew her, except for his brothers.

  “Come on, Bubb.” He didn’t need to ask. Bubbles vaulted over his lap as soon as the door opened. They hiked up her drive.

  If someone—anyone—had tracked down Poppy to take advantage of her again, they were about to get a rude awakening.

  Another look at the stranger’s car was slightly—slightly—reassuring. The sturdy red Ford looked more like a teacher’s car than a troublemaker’s, but looks could be deceiving. He couldn’t claim to guess what kind of a car a varmint or criminal or troublemaker might drive. It did seem slightly iffy that a serial killer would have gone to the trouble of washing and waxing the car in snowy, slushy weather.

  Still. That was common sense thinking. Sam wasn’t into common sense just then. He was into Poppy. No one was going to hurt her again. Not if he could help it.

  He thumped on the back door, Bubbles standing at attention next to him.

  When the door opened, he took one look and instantly realized that his odds of making love to Poppy today were about a zillion to one. If that high.

  Without question, the two women who’d scrambled to answer the door were Poppy’s sisters. They didn’t look exactly like her, but they had the same thick dark-copper hair, the same small bones, the same pretty skin and sassy eyes, the same explosive feminine energy. They greeted him with huge welcoming smiles—as if they couldn’t be more delighted to see him.

  He wanted to swipe a hand over his face. It was downright impossible to think of them as anyone’s enemy—but he told himself to toughen up. These were the two key people who demanded more from Poppy than she could possibly give. The ones who’d worn her down until she desperately needed rest. The ones she’d had to hide out from, to escape the constant stress.

  Sam had no problem toughening up. If he had to kick these two to the curb to help Poppy, he was revved up and ready.

  It was just going to take him a bit of time to concoct a war plan with all this instant commotion. The two women were as friendly as puppies—they fell on Bubbles with the same affection that Poppy had. Bubbles surged toward them, tail thwapping joyously, thrilled to circle two more females.

  Sam had a second to analyze the war zone. Somehow the cabin had been destroyed. Boxes and debris cluttered every surface. Something bubbled in the oven—something that smelled like lasagna. Dirty bowls and mixing stuff took out one entire counter. Wine had been opened. Panini and cheese and stuffed celery and other assorted small eats had been arranged on a platter—which, of course, Bubbles homed in on faster than an ant at a picnic.

  Sam searched for Poppy—saw the closed bedroom door—but initially he had no chance to pursue her. The sisters were simultaneously asking him questions and offering him drinks and food, but the immediate crisis was herding the dog from the plate of hoover doovers. He freed the plate from the dog, stashed it on the mantel with a “No!” to Bubbles, then almost crashed into an overflowing basket, loaded with sequins and glue and satin ribbons and stuff like that. He’d have had a heart attack if he’d spilled it.

  The shortest sister told the tallest one to give “him” a chance, but she spun around to get in his face anyway. “So you’re with Poppy? You’re the reason she’s been hiding from us?” Her tone was delighted. Shriekingly delighted. “You have no idea how happy we are to meet you. Cam!”

  The shorter one—he was pretty sure she owned the impeccably kept car—finally edged past her sister. “I’m Cam. Short for Camille, but no one calls me anything but Cam. Glad to meet you . . . ?”