And if she had to rearrange her schedule for the day because she'd spent most of the night and all of the morning wrestling in bed with a man who made her blood bubble, more power to her.

She stepped back into the bedroom and grinned at the tangled sheets. Lips pursed, she picked up the remains of her chemise. The strap was torn, and a froth of lace hung limp. Apparently, she decided, her merchandise didn't quite live up to Ry Piasecki's idea of wear and tear.

And wasn't it fabulous?

Laughing out loud, she tossed the chemise aside and followed her nose into the kitchen.

"I smell coffee," she began, then paused in the doorway.

He was breaking eggs into a bowl with those big, hard hands of his. His hair was damp, as hers was, because he'd beaten her to the shower. He was barefoot, jeans snug at his hips, flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows.

Incredibly, she wanted him all over again.

"You have next to nothing in this place to eat."

"I eat out a lot." With an order to control herself, she moved to the coffeepot. "What are you making?"

"Omelets. You had four eggs, some cheddar and some very limp broccoli."

"I was going to steam it." She c.o.c.ked her head as she sampled the coffee. "So you cook."

"Every self-respecting fire fighter cooks. You take shifts at the station." He located a whisk, then turned to her. Wet hair, glowing face, sleepy eyes. "h.e.l.lo, Legs. You look good."

"Thanks." She smiled over the rim of her cup. If he continued to look at her in just that way, she realized, she would drag him right down onto the floor. It might be wise, she decided, to tend to some practical matters. "Am I supposed to help?"

"Can you handle toast?"

"Barely." She set her cup aside and opened the cupboard. They worked in silence for a moment, he beating eggs, she popping bread in the toaster. "I..." She wasn't sure how to put it, delicately.

"I suppose when you were fighting fires, you faced a lot of dangerous situations."

"Yeah. So?"

"The scars on your shoulder, your back." She'd discovered them in her explorations in the night, the raised welts and scarred ridges over that taut, really beautiful body. "Line of duty?''

"That's right." He glanced up. In truth, he didn't think about them.

But it occurred to him in the harsh light of day that a woman like her might find them offensive. "Do they bother you?"

"No. I just wondered how you got burned."

He set the bowl aside and placed a pan on the stove to heat.

Maybe they bothered her, he thought, maybe they didn't. But it seemed best to get the matter out of the way.

"Our friend Clarence. While I was pulling him out of the fire he started, the ceiling collapsed." Ry could remember it still, the rain of flame, the animal roar of it, the staggering nightmare of pain. "It fell down on us like judgment. He was screaming, laughing. I got him outside. I don't remember much after that, until I woke up in the burn ward."

"I'm sorry."

"It could have been a lot worse. My gear went a long way toward protecting me. I got off lucky." Deliberately focused, he poured the beaten eggs into the pan. "My father went down like that. Fire went into the walls. When they ventilated the ceiling, it went. It all went."

He cursed under his breath. Where the h.e.l.l had that come from?

he wondered. He hadn't meant to say it. The death of his father certainly wasn't typical morning-after conversation. "You should b.u.t.ter that toast before it gets cold." She said nothing, could think of nothing, only went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his back.

"I didn't know you'd lost your father." There was so much, she thought, that she didn't know.

"Twelve years ago. It was in a high school. Some kid who wasn't happy with his chemistry grade torched the lab. It got away from him. Pop knew the risks," he muttered, uncomfortable with the sensation her quiet sympathy was stirring. "We all know them."

She held on. "I didn't mean to open old wounds, Ry."

"It's all right. He was a h.e.l.l of a smoke eater." Natalie stayed where she was another moment, baffled by what she was feeling.

This need to comfort, to share, this terrible urge to be part of what he was. Cautious, she stepped back. It wouldn't do, she reminded herself. It wouldn't do at all to look for more between them than what there was.

"And this Clarence-how will you find him?"

"I could get lucky and track him down through contacts." With a quick, competent touch, Ry folded the egg mixture. "Or we'll pick him up when he scouts out his next target."

"My plant."

"Probably." More relaxed now that there was a little distance between them, he shot her a look over his shoulder. "Cheer up, Natalie. You've got the best in the city working to protect your nighties."

"You know very well it's not just-" She broke off when her doorbell rang. "Never mind."

"Hold on. Doesn't your doorman call up when someone's coming to see you?"

"Not if it's a neighbor."

"Use the judas hole," he ordered, and reached for plates.

"Yes, Daddy." Amused by him, Natalie went to the door. One look through the peephole had her stifling a shout and dragging back the locks. "Boyd, for heaven's sake!" She threw her arms around her brother. "Cilia!"

"The whole crew," Cilia warned her, laughing as they hugged.

"The cop wouldn't let me call ahead and alert you to the invasion."

"I'm just so glad to see you." She bent down to hug her niece and nephews. "But what are you doing here?"

"Checking up on you." Boyd shifted the bag of take-out he carried to his other hip.

"You know the captain," Cilia said. "Bryant, touch nothing under penalty of death." She aimed a cautious look at her oldest son. At eight, he couldn't be trusted. "The minute Deborah called us about the second fire, he herded us up and moved us out. Allison, this isn't a basketball court. Why don't you put that down now?"

Territorial, Allison hugged the basketball to her chest. "I'm not going to throw it or anything."

"She's fine," Natalie a.s.sured Cilia, stroking a distracted hand down Allison's golden hair. "Boyd, I can't believe you'd drag everyone across the country for something like this."

"The kids have Monday off at school." Boyd crouched down to pick up the jacket their youngest had already tossed on the floor.

"So we're taking a quick weekend, that's all."

"We're staying with Deborah and Gage," Cilia added. "So don't panic."

"It's not that..."

"And we brought supplies." Boyd held out the bag filled with take-out burgers and fries. "How about lunch?"

"Well, I..." She cleared her throat and looked toward the kitchen.

How, she wondered, was she going to explain Ry?