tugged her away and had her inside an elegant ladies' room decorated in marble and brass. Thankfully it was empty. Though not as thankfully, he slid the lock home.

"Now what are you doing?"

"You're bleeding."

"Bleeding?"

He pointed.

"Oh," was all she got out of her mouth when she glanced down at herself and got a really good look. Her once shimmering thigh-high stockings were ripped beyond repair, blood and grit marking both of her knees like a six year old after a playground fall.

On top of that, she had never been all that great with blood.

"Oh," she repeated, this time sort of wobbly.

"Don't go weak willed on me now."

"I am not weak willed," she stated, her spine straightening.

"That's what I like to hear."

Next thing she knew, he had her up on the marble counter as if she didn't weigh anything at all, her skirt riding high. That was when she looked up and saw his face. Her first real look. She wasn't sure if she sucked in her breath or if she sighed. She only knew that her world went still.

They stared at each other, she on the sink with her chin tilted slightly, he standing so close that his thighs touched her knees. He seemed as surprised as she felt.

It seemed like an eternity that their gazes locked, but probably wasn't more than a second.

He looked as commanding as he had acted. He was tall, his dark hair brushed back, his dark eyes filled with intelligence, knowing, and confidence. His autocratic control of the situation was apparent in the hard line of his square jaw. This was a man used to getting what he wanted.

He wore a finely made shirt that molded to broad shoulders and narrowed into a lean waist and long legs. Standing there he appeared to be in charge of his surroundings, not giving a second thought to being in a ladies' bathroom with a woman he didn't know and with the door locked. He didn't smile or say a word, though his gaze seemed to draw her to him. But after another second, his eyes narrowed fractionally and he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, before he focused on her scrapes.

"Let me look at your hands."

He didn't wait for her to agree. He took each palm, peeling the shredded gloves away finger by finger. This time she knew she sucked in her breath when his hands cradled hers, large and tanned, hers pale in comparison.

Fortunately, the gloves had protected her palms. Her forearms hadn't been as lucky.

"These have got to hurt," he said, studying them.

Once he said it, she was reminded that they did.

He took one of the paper towels that were stacked in a functional brass holder and soaked it with warm water, the hotel monogram going dark as it got wet. Despite his commanding size, his touch was gentle as he cleaned the blood and grit away. The sting was blocked out by the sizzle of sensation this hard-chiseled man caused. She watched him as he concentrated on the job-the way his head bent close so he could get a better look, before he nodded in approval and started on her other arm.

She was aware of every breath he took, the sound like a caress against her ear. He cradled her arm as he studied the wounds. She couldn't remember the last time she had been touched-by anyone. She grew lightheaded and she swayed.

He glanced up. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," she whispered.

Better than fine. She felt strange, hot tears of yearning burning in her eyes as he nodded his head in

approval and moved on to her knees.

But the torn stockings were in the way. Without hesitation, he reached under her dress. She gasped. Like a lover, his strong hands brushed against her legs. Her breath shuddered through her body, feelings that

had nothing to do with healing or wounds settling low until she felt the need to press her knees together.

But she couldn't because his forearm and hand was in the way.

Her head swam at the feel of his fingers finding the tops of her ruined thigh-highs, first one, his hands so

close to the juncture between her legs, then the other as he whisked them down and tossed them in the

trash.

The act wasn't intended to be sexual, but when the only physical attention she had received in ages was when she got a manicure, this man's touch made her world tilt even more. It was the sort of feeling, she realized, she had waited a lifetime for. Intense. Like a dream from which you don't want to wake up.

She had hammered her life into the contours she deemed acceptable. But the reality of who she had become made her wonder at the price she had paid.

Feeling this man's hands on her thighs, even innocently, made something flare.

Rebellion against everything she believed to be proper?

Imprudence?

No, she realized. Nothing so complicated. It was hot, simple, and unrestrained desire.

But she wasn't about to give in to something like that, least of all with a stranger. She was smart. She was sensible.

"I could have done that," she stated over the staccato dance in her chest, her eyes shifting nervously as she tried to find some place else to look besides the silky waves of his hair.

"No need now."

He concentrated on her knee. She tried to find the old Chloe, the one she knew, the one who would demand that he take his hands off her.

"I was trying to sound intimidating," she said.

He glanced up at her, one dark brow rising. "I guess it was the squeak in your voice that threw me."

"I did not squeak!"

"You did."

Her mouth fell open. "This really isn't going as it should."

"I didn't realize there was a certain way to do this."

"There is."

"I must have missed that day at school."

"Funny."

He smiled then, for the first time, she realized, and her breath caught a little more. It was amazing, like the

sun coming through a dark, stormy sky. Then he straightened. "There. One knee done."

Sure enough, one side was cleaned. It still looked horrible, but the grit was gone.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"A paramedic?"

"Not that either."

"Then you just go around saving damsels in distress."

For reasons she couldn't fathom, that wiped every trace of humor off of his face, the clouds returning.

"You've been reading too many fairytales," he said sharply. Then his features settled back into that

hard-chiseled command. "Would you rather I had left you in the hotel driveway and continued on to find

a cab as I intended? Is that another rule I missed?"

He looked at her, his dark eyes direct as if he could see into her mind, her heart . . . like he could see into her soul. She looked away, then couldn't help herself. She glanced back.

Her voice caught in her throat. "You're laughing at me."

After a second, that half smile of his reappeared, reluctantly, his head tilted every so slightly. "Never."

Then he returned his attention to his project. Her knees.

"This one's a real mess," he said, pressing a new paper towel to the ragged skin.

"Ouch!"

He leaned closer, and she looked down at him, his hair thick and dark. He didn't wear cologne, but he smelled clean and strong. She had a startling image of him leaning close to kiss her. Sensation flashed through her. Hot, sweet, and intense. She thought of touching him. Reaching out. Of being a feline instead of a llama.

This was the sort of man who made a woman feel sexy. Dark and dangerous, commanding the world around him with nothing more than a look and a few words.

A stillness descended over her, fine and crystalline, and she had never been so aware ... of a man's hand on her knee. Of the way his strong fingers splayed against her inner thigh. And when he looked up she was sure he felt it too.

Their gazes locked, their bodies close. He glanced at her lips and a teasing sweetness made her yearn even more.

But he was a gentleman.

After one last glance at her mouth, he returned his attention to her knee. The outside world was forgotten. She felt cocooned by awareness. She felt every time his thigh brushed against hers.

Everything that wasn't her, everything that wasn't Chloe Sinclair, surged up. Suddenly she wasn't embarrassed at the thought of being sensual. She wasn't afraid of being rejected.

And wasn't that really why she had been afraid to be sexy? The fear of rejection?

Sitting there now, with this man touching her, this stranger with his hands on her body, any sort of embarrassment she felt melted away beneath the terror of what she wanted to do. Give in. Touch him back. Good Girl Chloe Sinclair wanted to be sinfully sexy.

She felt dizzy at the thought, her heart beating hard as she clutched her hands together to keep herself from doing what she knew she'd regret. She thought of splashing cold water on her face. She counted to ten, then twenty. She concentrated on all she had to do over the next few weeks. She had payroll to approve. Find new advertising dollars. Brainstorm new programming options. But when he finished with her knee, he straightened again, his competence and composure disarming.

He stood there studying her, not smiling. Then his eyes drifted down over her body, the dark of his eyes flaring with something hot. No one had ever looked at her that way before, the heat tangible, making her feel both panicked and excited.