“Ain’t it just,” he teasingly drawled. Then he set her on her feet and raised his brows. “Do you want the grand tour now or in the morning?” He touched the soft cashmere. “Warm enough?”

“Plenty warm.” She wiggled her toes. “Do you have heated floors everywhere?”

“Probably. Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“That must be why we get along.”

“Not the only reason.”

He laughed. “True. There’s that raging addiction of ours. But hold that thought until I show you the place.”

Kate had a tour of the main floor rooms: living room, dining room, kitchen, office, a maid’s room with an empty glass and a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Macallan on the bedside table. All the furniture in the house looked lived in, not decorator magazine pristine, the big kitchen gleaming stainless steel with appliances for serious cooking.

“Impressive stove.” She waved her hand at the red enamel restaurant-size stove. “Not for you, I assume.”

“Uh-uh. That’s Patty’s. You’ll meet her later.”

The empty glass and whiskey. “She’s here?”

“No. She’s mostly eight to five.”

“So she’ll be here eight to five?”

“Still not used to staff are you, baby?” He took her face in his hands. “If you don’t want her around, she won’t be around,” he said gently, holding her gaze. “But Patty’s been with me for a helluva long time. We get along. So think about it.” His hands slid away and he stood back.

Dominic’s casual view of hired help was light-years away from Kate’s comfort zone. “She won’t mind company like me?”

He smiled. “We’ll have to ask her. You’re the first.”

“You always say that. I don’t know if I believe you.”

He saw the blush pink her cheeks and knew what it meant. But he wanted to clear up any misunderstandings, so he said, “Believe me. You’re the first I’ve invited into any of my homes for more than a cup of coffee. Okay?”

As doubt still lingered in her eyes, he murmured, “Are you clear on your position in my life? You’re not entertainment. Not even close. You’re my girl.”

“So you’re telling me to calm down.”

“Pretty much.” A smile in his eyes, he leaned in close. “If a further explanation is required, let me know.”

Prey as always to his heart-tripping beauty, her breath caught in her throat. “That’ll do,” she murmured, having located her voice. She didn’t actually want things spelled out anyway, when her dreams were vastly different from his—just like his interpretation of my girl was probably less meaningful than hers.

He eased back, held out his hand. “Next floor then?”

She followed him downstairs to a level that was completely dedicated to exercise. She saw every imaginable machine, every free weight—most of which she couldn’t have lifted—a lap pool and a mirrored tai chi studio he only waved to in passing. But he did say, “The tai chi studio’s just for me, okay?”

When she didn’t respond, he pulled her to a stop. “That’s the truth.”

Heart pounding, she only blinked and nodded, those jarring Christmas photos forever etched on her psyche.

He didn’t elaborate. He knew better. “I’ll show you the upstairs, then we’ll find something to eat.”

Four bathrooms, four bedrooms, a smaller office, his large bedroom overlooking the ocean conspicuously filled with boy’s things: baseball caps, footballs and soccer balls, a dirt bike shoved in a corner, three PlayStations, two iPods, a pair of skis, two surfboards, a guitar, a bong. Surfing photos everywhere.

She made a slow turn in the middle of the room, taking in the memorabilia of his youth. “You’ve been here awhile.”

He hadn’t moved from the door. “Quite a while. I don’t like change. Or at least not here.”

“I can tell.”

He ran a slow hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, some change is nice. Like having you here.” He spoke with a kind of muffled reluctance, his clear eyes on her. He opened his mouth to speak, shut it, stood there broad shouldered and lean under his faded North Coast T-shirt, narrow-hipped in his jeans, his brooding gaze fixed on her. Then without a word, he covered the distance between them, this man in a boy’s room, strong and powerful now, ruthless and logical, never possessive, never, never, never—except with her. He slid his hand around the back of her head, cupped it in his large palm, slowly pulled her up against the sleek, hard length of his body, and lowered his mouth to hers. “I need to be inside you.”

His low, soft growl reminded her of how defenseless she was against his casual commands, how she felt with him inside her, how he could make her forget everything but pleasure. And her body stirred as it always did when he looked at her like that, his intentions clear. “How far inside?” she purred in a soft throaty contralto, her green gaze feline and sultry, deliberately provocative.

“Stop it.” His voice was cool, his gaze suddenly distant, like an abrupt downshift in a transmission, her sex kitten come-on a jarring flash of déjà vu, the number of women who’d offered themselves to him infinite. “I’m not paying you by the hour.” There was an acid pause before he spoke again. “Frankly, you don’t have the skills.”