"Aspirin won't help."

"It's your prescription."

"No! It's too old-"

"I know. I've just had a refill delivered."

"Oh-"

He handed her a small white pill and a glass of water, holding her steady as she took the medicine.

"OK?" he asked, taking the glass from her lips and putting it down on the night table by her bed.

Her echoed "OK" was barely audible.

Easing her gently back on the bed, Tom sat for a minute, then stood and left, drawing the door tightly closed, leaving her alone once more in her cocoon of darkness. Almost instantly she began to feel better, though the medication could not possibly have worked so quickly. Later, somewhere in her mind, came the soothing vision of a warm hand on the bare skin of her back, a strong arm supporting her, long fingers stroking wayward strands of hair from her cheeks. The sensations were very real, their pleasantness lingering to bring her relief until the time when the medicine entered her bloodstream and went to work. Then she fell into a deep and restorative sleep, awakening once very much later to walk to the bathroom for another pill and set her alarm before falling quickly asleep again. When she awoke the second time it was morning.

Despite the deep sleep induced by the medication, her alarm had not yet rung. Groggy, she sat up, blinked, stretched, pushed the hair back out of her eyes. She felt decidedly better. The residual ghost of her headache would ease now with a dose of aspirin. The nausea was already long gone.

Slipping from bed, she donned a robe and stepped into slippers, took fresh underwear from the drawer, and headed for a hot shower. It felt divine. Turning slowly, she soaped herself, applied a generous helping of shampoo to her wet hair, rinsed off the lot, then stood. And stood. Turning occasionally. Letting the water cascade over her gentle curves. Repositioning herself to let the steaming spray hit her neck, her back, her chest, her shoulders. It was only when she began to feel immoral at her lavish use of hot water that she reluctantly stemmed the flow.

The heat of the shower had warmed the fluffy towel that lay in waiting across its rack. With a definite sense of pampering herself she reached for it and patted the water from her body before treating it to a helping of scented moisturizing lotion. She wrapped the towel around herself, then vigorously rubbed her hair with a smaller towel before brushing through the tangles. It was only then, as she stared into the mirror at the reflection of her pale though recuperating self, that she allowed herself to think of Tom.

Tom Reynolds. The devil of her memory. The uninvited visitor to her shop yesterday. The inquisitor. The cause of her migraine headache. Then ... the self-appointed guardian who had seen her safely home. The silent protector. The gentle caretaker. All in all, a potpourri of conflicting characteristics. Who was Tom Reynolds?

Her gaze grew puzzled as she noticed the new bottle of medicine that he had had the presence of mind to order. Why had he waited outside Sweet Serenity last night? Why his insistence on walking her home? Why had he bothered to see to the medicine and make sure she was sound asleep before leaving? It made no sense.

Shaking off the last of her fogginess, she faced the future. It was a new day. She felt vastly improved. And she would not, she vowed, be driven to another headache by Thomas Harrison Reynolds. Seeing him yesterday had been a shock which she was now over, although there remained the matter of her past, which he had recalled. Intuitively she sensed that he wouldn't betray her, though she knew that, for her own peace of mind, she would eventually have to confront him about it. She'd have to know for certain that her life in Minneapolis would be safe from the taint of the past. But that would be for another time, should their paths cross again. For now, there was the day to welcome.

It was a relatively steady hand that applied her makeup, working more carefully with color around eyes dulled by last night's headache, adding a bit more blush than usual to still-pale cheeks. She stroked through her hair with a natural bristle brush, bringing up a fine luster, pushing willful curls this way and that until she was satisfied with the results. Then, encouraged by the normality of her appearance, she set out for a cup of hot, strong coffee.

Her apartment was small but well-planned. Its single bedroom and bath opened off a hallway from the living room. The kitchen had two open archways, one opposite the bedroom, the other leading directly into the living room. It was through the first that she entered, humming softly to herself. The fresh, dark brew was dripping into the pot within minutes. Its aroma never failed to please her. Smiling, she savored its richness, then headed for the living room and the Tribune that would be on the mat outside her front door.

She managed to set only one slippered foot into the living room. Then she gasped. For rising slowly to a sitting position on the sofa, his back to her, was the figure of a man. She had no idea that he'd spent the night; the thought hadn't entered her mind. Yet there before her was a sleep-disheveled, very groggy Tom Reynolds.

His back was a broad expanse of white shirt; his dark head was bent forward. Serena stared, fascinated, as he put a hand to his neck to massage away the cricks that her sofa had undoubtedly planted. His fingers worked at his taut muscles and he stretched to relieve the stiffness.

Her eye followed the manly ritual, yet she was touched by something totally non-physical. Unobserved as he thought he was, he seemed utterly human and very vulnerable. Despite his great status, he was prone to the same aches and pains as the next man. And he was here, in her apartment ... still. Why?

She emerged slowly from the doorway to walk hesitantly around the sofa, pausing in front of it when Tom looked up, sending a momentary quiver through her. Yesterday he had been immaculate in his appearance and handsome; now he was tired, his chin shadowed by a beard, seemingly at a disadvantage. Seemingly, yet not. For he was still more attractive, crumpled shirt, heavy eyes and all, than any other man she had ever known.

"Good morning," she heard herself announce softly and quite civilly.

Tom looked dubious and sounded even more so. "Umm. Is that smell what I think it is?" He raked his fingers through his hair as he shot a glance toward the kitchen.

"Uh-huh. Would you like a cup?"

"'Like' has little to do with it. 'Need' is more the issue." In one surprisingly fluid movement he was off the sofa and headed toward the kitchen. "If you'll excuse me..."

Serena quirked an auburn brow at his grumpiness, smiled, then followed through on her original intention. When she returned to the kitchen with the paper in hand she paused on the threshold, this time with a note of trepidation. After all, she wasn't sure why Tom was still here. And nothing was worth another headache.

Reading her thoughts, he looked up from the coffee cup he'd found and filled. "How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"You slept well?"

"Yes."

"The pills helped?"

"Uh-huh. And ... thank you." She looked down, unsure for a moment. "I'm not sure I could have done anything last night, let alone think about getting a refill on my prescription."

He shrugged, standing up to lean against the counter by the sink. "It was the least I could do." His eyes were unreadable.

Standing awkwardly by the door, Serena wasn't quite sure what to do. It seemed to be a recurrent ailment when Tom was around. Finally her own need drove her toward the cabinet, a cup, and some coffee. "I'll repay you for whatever you spent on the pills," she offered without looking up.

"That won't be necessary."

"I'd prefer it."

"I said it won't be necessary." Draining his coffee, he helped himself to more.

But if his insistence was due to early morning testiness, Serena's was based on principle. Despite the fact that Tom had been the instigating factor behind her migraine, she wanted to owe him nothing. "If you'll just tell me what it came to I'll pay you. I don't like being indebted to anyone."

"Especially me?"

Her direct gaze held a challenge. "To anyone."

Tom studied her through less hazy eyes. "A legacy?"

"If you will."

"It's not necessary in this case, you know." He spoke more gently in response to her vehemence. "We're only talking about a couple of dollars. And since I was responsible for upsetting you it makes me feel better knowing that I've been able to aid in your recovery." His hazel eyes flicked quickly over her. "You do look better. Is the headache gone?"

"Pretty much. I'll take some aspirin before I leave for work. It'll be fine."

But he was skeptical. "Considering how sick you were last night, I would have thought you'd stay in bed, at least for the morning."

"I can't do that," she answered softly. "Sweet Serenity is my responsibility. If I don't get there to open it up it doesn't open."

"What about your help-that young girl I saw yesterday?"

"Monica comes in after school. I do have another woman who works mornings for me, but she has a family and can't get away in time to open the shop."

"What if you were really sick? Isn't there anyone who can take over for you?"

Serena answered him calmly. "Fortunately I've never been really sick, so the matter hasn't been put to the test." She looked away more pensively. "And even if I was unable to open for a day, the world would survive."

Her philosophical quip wafted into a small eternity of silence. Neither said a word. As the seconds ticked away she thought of the man who stood with her in her kitchen. Never would she have imagined him here. Indeed, one part of her wanted to be angry at him, to denounce him scathingly, to oust him from her apartment, from her life. Yet she somehow couldn't seem to translate the thought into action. Instead she simply stared at his rangy form as he lounged against the counter.

He stared back. His features were deceptively calm, masking the thoughts that swirled within. But the fire was there in his gaze, tempered, but refusing to be overlooked. By instinct Serena knew that she was his focal point. She grew suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the simple wrap robe she was wearing and tugged it more tightly around her.

"Would youwould you like some breakfast?" she finally stammered when she could stand the silence no longer.

His brow arched. "You'd really cook me breakfast?"

"Of course." She frowned, pausing. "You seem ... surprised. I do know how to cook."

A snort of amusement preceded his explanation. "That's not the point, Serena. You weren't exactly thrilled to see me yesterday. And I'm sure you never planned on having me spend the night in your apartment. I am, after all," he drawled facetiously, "the enemy. Am I not?"

Intentionally or otherwise, he had summarized her quandary. "I suppose so...." But she was unable to hide her puzzlement.

Tom noted it and went on. "So it's natural for me to be surprised that you're offering me breakfast."

"Perhaps I feel that I owe it to you. For the pills and the care, and all," she rationalized off the top of her head.

"And all." He smiled sadly. "I really didn't do very much."

"You were here," she blurted out unthinkingly, then swallowed the revealing words that might have followed.

Their eyes met as they recalled the same moments. A hand on her back. Fingers stroking her hair. Arms supporting her. The solace of a human presence. Serena was overwhelmed by confusion, trying desperately to remember who he was, all the while feeling herself drawn to him.

"Look-" she began, only to be interrupted.

"Tom. The name's Tom."

"Tom." It fell softly, for the first time, from her tongue. "What would you like?"

Straightening, he took several steps toward her, then stopped. His gaze grew more sensual, falling to her lips in a visual caress that shimmered through her newly awakening body. Suspended in time and unreality, she couldn't move.

Tom opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and clamped his lips together, only to take a breath and begin again seconds later. "I'd like to clean up a little, if you don't mind. Then some eggs, toast, whatever, will do."

"Sunny-side up?"

"Over easy."

"Butter on the toast?"

"Jam, please."

"Orange juice?"

"Tomato will be fine."

"Wow! You really did go through my refrigerator last night. It's not everyone who keeps a full stock of tomato juice." She looked at him askance. "What kind of jam?"

Though he feigned timidity there was no hesitation in his response. "Wild plum?..."

She mocked disgust. "Hmph. You'd even ask for my prize possession."

"There's plenty in the jar-"

"You've already looked inside?"

"Well"-he threw his head back-"I was here all evening. I was hungry." He smiled.

Serena flew to the refrigerator, extracted the decorative jam jar, and analyzed its contents. "You didn't make a meal of wild plum jam, did you?"

"Actually," he drawled on his way toward the bathroom, "it was dessert-atop a couple of crackers."

"And the main course?" she called after him.

"That jar of herring in wine sauce did the trick."

"My herring in wine sauce?" she cried, aghast. She'd been saving it for a special occasion, some night when she felt the need for a treat. Now Tom had devoured it whole. "You didn't!" She followed him to the hall, only to find herself face to face with the bathroom door.

Slowly it opened. "I did." Smiling pleasantly, Tom stood before her, leisurely unbuttoning his shirt, then pulling it out of his pants. Serena momentarily forgot the point of her chase. The sight of him standing there, tall and straight, at her bathroom door, his face shadowed in sensuality, his chest firm and manly, drove prudence from her mind. He was the enemy, yet from the start he had embodied a fire that captivated her. In the restaurant yesterday it had been a fire from the past; here and now it held no memory. It was new and unsullied, a spark of wonder that flared from him with breathtaking intensity. Its heat consumed her antagonism even as it inspired cravings Serena would have refused to believe had she not felt the warmth that suddenly flowed through her veins.

Enthralled by his nearness and the effect of his virility, she felt a tug from deep within, willing her forward, urging her fingers to touch what he had so knowingly laid bare. Unsure of everything but the force of the attraction she tore her gaze from the matted richness sprawled beneath his shirt and sought his eyes.

In an instant he closed the short distance between them and stood no more than a breath away. Serena's breath caught in her throat. The push she had felt moments before from within was now a summons from Tom, a call from his manliness to her womanhood, a primal note she had never in her wildest dreams expected and against which she had no defense.

Tom lifted his hand to her face, gently threading his fingers through the damp tendrils of her auburn hair, softly caressing the creamy smoothness of her cheek, planting new images and fresh sensations with every stroke. On instinct she tipped her head to his palm, all the while unable to take her eyes from his. He seemed as mesmerized as she by the moment; all was irrelevant save the two of them. He searched the depths of her gaze as she explored his. And then, slowly and inevitably, he lowered his head by fractions of inches until his lips very lightly touched hers.

Serena was entranced, having lost all touch with reality under the onslaught of this man's sensuality. She felt his mouth as it sampled the soft curve of her lips, whispering a kiss at each corner. The musky scent of his skin drugged her further, sending her reeling into a world of sensation. Had his free arm not surrounded her and drawn her close against him she would have fallen. Her limbs trembled beneath the unexpected attack, and a sweet attack it was.

From the start her defenses had been down. She was a woman with a core of passion that had long lain dormant. Tom Reynolds had struck the match and now warmed her with it. His lips were firm, yet gentle, coaxing hers to open to his repeated forays. As for Serena, she was beyond rational decision. When her lips finally parted in longing there was nothing rational about it. She was driven by desire, strong and pure.

Tom welcomed her kiss with a joy transmitted by the tremor of his body when he clutched her more closely. He held her head to explore her lips, running the tip of his tongue along her teeth before plunging further. Serena could only quiver at the heady invasion and respond in kind, opening her mouth further in invitation, freeing her own tongue to exact passionate retribution.

Somewhere along the line her arms found their way beneath his shirt to his back. En route her fingers savored the firmness of his flesh, its rough man-texture so much in contrast to her own silken skin. She was delirious at the difference, gasping into his mouth at the feel of his body as he pressed her to him. He was warm, strong and hard, his friction kindling tiny fires at every touch point. And they were both still dressed....

As though reading her thoughts and sensing their direction Tom drew back to frame her face with his hands. Slowly she opened her eyes.

"You'd only hate me more." He spoke thickly, his breath coming in uneven gasps that matched hers. It took Serena longer to recover from the trance of arousal he'd inspired. At her puzzled frown he explained, laboring as he struggled to contain his own primitive heat.

"You hate me for the past, Serena." His eyes circled her face, pausing to appreciate each feature. "But there's a flame between us that isn't just destructive. I only know I want you. I've wanted you since I first saw you yesterday afternoon, when I had no idea who you were, only sensed that you felt very strongly about me." His thumbs caressed the back of her neck, his fingers crept across her cheeks toward her mouth in helpless wandering. "You're very lovely," he rasped, dipping his head to touch her lips a final time. Serena was all too eager to return, if only for the instant, to that mindless state of sensual excitement. But it was too brief. And Tom was determined to remind her of who she was, of who he was.

He was more strongly in control when he spoke again. "I couldn't sleep last night, having held you in my arms like that. Do you know what it does to a man to find the woman he wants in bed, naked?"

For the first time it dawned on Serena that her action might easily have been interpreted as a lure. "I'm sorry." She shook her head. "I didn't realize. I always sleep like that and I was sure you would leave."

"I didn't. I couldn't."

She had no answer for him. What could she say? There was so much to be considered, so much to be worked out in her mind, before she could try to explain her emotions. To make matters worse, with each passing moment the enormity of what she'd craved just now crowded in on her. Tom tuned in to her dilemma.

"You see?" He set her back just out of reach, dropping his arms limply to his sides. "We could have made love...." As his words trailed off he stared once more, long and hard, at her expression of slow-growing horror, then turned and shut himself in the bathroom again.