Her arm shot out, her eyes hot with spleen.

He caught her palm before it hit his face, held it lightly in further insult as she struggled to break free. “Careful,” he said, unbalanced by the flashback, wondering for the first time whether he was being played. “You might get hurt.”

“Are you threatening me?” She cocked her head as though they were actually having a conversation, as if the dripping sarcasm in her voice was honey; ignoring the fact that he was towering over her, his eyes like flint. “Are you going to bring out the whips?”

He stared at her so long, his gaze unflinching, that she wondered if she’d finally stepped over some invisible mark, if she’d shot her mouth off one too many times and something unpleasant was going to happen. Then his unblinking stare disappeared as quickly as it had arrived and he was back in her time and space.

“Relax.” Dominic smiled slowly. “You wouldn’t know what to do if I brought out a whip.” And whether he was being played or not was irrelevant to his immediate plans. “All I need from you, baby, is for you to spread your legs. You know how to do that.”

Her temper instantly shot back up to a full boil. “Let go!” she said through her teeth.

Her eyes were free of fear. He’d always liked that about her. “If I were to let go”—he took a moment to sort through the clutter in his brain: the resentment at the great upheavals she’d made in his life, the goddamn horniness that never went away, and perhaps most, the unsettling trauma of having her in this room—“you can’t leave.”

“Don’t say can’t Dominic,” she said, staring at him stonily. “You really aren’t paying me by the hour. In fact, we don’t have by-the-hour playmates where I come from.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” But he dropped her hand and opened his arms wide; the brilliant negotiator complying. “I take back the can’t. Your move, baby.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

He smiled, weirdly pleased with her defiance. “I know. Come fuck me.”

“I’m not in the mood,” she said icily.

“Pity,” said the man who had gone out and conquered the world. “Maybe next time.” And reaching out, he placed his hands on her hips, hauled her close despite her curses and squirming, dipped his head, and stopped her swearing with a hard, punishing kiss. Ramming his tongue down her throat to make his point about who was in charge, he took advantage of her choking surprise to slide his hands under her arms and, holding her at arm’s length, moved toward the bed—ignoring her wild punches, her kicking feet, as if contentious sex were the norm in his life. Oh, that’s right, it was. Reaching the queen-size bed covered in a brilliant blue and green psychedelic silk-screen quilt, he tossed her in its general direction, then dragged his T-shirt over the back of his head and let it drop.

“Goddamn it,” Kate gasped, her breath knocked out of her. “Have you… no fucking… respect?”

“Respect?” Dominic looked at her with amusement. “What are you—some Southern belle for Christ’s sake?” His voice was mellow. “No one gives a shit about that. Unless you’d like to respect my wishes and spread your legs,” he added with soft mockery. “Although I’m guessing that’s not what you had in mind.” Leaning down, he jerked the blanket off her with one hand and unzipped his jeans with his other. Then, in the process of freeing the button on his waistband, he suddenly lunged for the bed.

Catching Kate’s ankle before she could scramble away, he dragged her back and flipped her over. “You’re making this harder than it has to be, Katherine,” he said mildly, ignoring the fire in her eyes. “You know you like to fuck. That’s pretty well documented. What’s your problem?”

“You’re my problem. You’re fucking crazy.”

The words rang out in the quiet room.

His eyes widened a little; otherwise he was absolutely still. “What?”

“You heard me. You need a fucking therapist.”

There was a short silence.

“Don’t forget you’re in my house. I’d watch your mouth if I were you.”

She ignored the implicit threat in his voice, the small insistent twitch along his jaw. “I’ve been in lots of your houses.”

“But not this house,” he said darkly.

“Meaning?”

He looked at her steadily. “Meaning I’m not sure you should be here.” He uncurled his fingers from her ankle, placed her foot back on the bed with unnecessary care, and struggled with his chaotic feelings, wanting and not wanting her in his house, this room. In his life.

“Mind telling me why?” She was no psychologist, but this room was a time capsule.

His look was unreadable for a moment, then he shrugged. He wasn’t going to say this room had always been his last barricade against the world, his sanctuary and refuge. Or that he didn’t deal well with emotion. Or with personal relationships. “Let’s just say it feels different.”

She tuned in to the restraint in his quiet declaration, the unexpected underlying tumult, the sudden desolation. “Maybe this isn’t a good time for you.”

He looked at her lying pale and nude and voluptuous on his bed, glanced down at his rock-hard dick, then back at her. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Her mouth firmed at the casual indifference in his tone. “Maybe it’s not a good time for me.”