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“Nina.”

Slowly, she raised her face. He stared down at her, bright gaze transfixing.

“When I look into your eyes,” he said, “I see all the way inside you. And the beauty there is enough to bring me to my knees.”

She wasn’t breathing. A spiraling sensation threatened her balance. She’d felt this before, with him, as though they were both about to topple.

“When you look into my eyes,” he said, gaze darkening, “you try to see all the way inside me. But there is nothing inside me. No beauty.”

He swallowed his brandy and set both glasses on the table. “You should keep your distance.” He was warning her, or begging her, or both. He stepped toward her. “Because I can’t seem to do it myself.”

They were chest to chest. With each quickening breath, her breasts brushed the slippery silk of the banyan.

Her voice trembled. “Do you want me to go?”

“No.” The dim light gilded the high planes of his face and left the rest in shadow. “But you should.”

“I should,” she agreed uncertainly. She didn’t feel certain of anything, not even the floor beneath her feet. “I’m tired.” Tired, yes. Dizzy. Spiraling, up or down, she couldn’t tell.

Her gaze slid to the side, to his bed. “We could sleep.” She licked the traces of brandy from her lips and met his eyes, their frightening intensity. “I could stay here, with you, just to sleep.”

He released her. The angles of his jaw sharpened to knife points.

“I’ve never slept beside anyone.” He said it roughly. “Not by choice, not in my life.”

Her brows pulled together. “But your . . . the other women you kiss?”

He shook his head. Her eyes moved over his tense face, scored suddenly with anguished lines.

“I want to stay with you,” she breathed and reached up, touched the sharp edge of his jaw. The skin was hot, cat’s-tongue rough with stubble. He sucked in an audible breath. And then she watched him turn to marble, gaze dull and remote, face drained of life and color. She withdrew her hand. She waited for three excruciating heartbeats, and then she made herself turn. She was halfway to the door when he caught her wrist and spun her back around.

He wasn’t marble now. His eyes were blazing. One hard arm came under her, and she was off her feet, cradled high against his chest.

He took three strides to the bed.

—

A trill pierced the hush and brought Alan halfway back to consciousness. Everything around him felt soft and warm, tender as cake. Everything within him too. He didn’t want to move or think. He wanted to exist in this state forever.

Where was he?

In bed. With Nina. His arm draped her waist.

The trilling continued, rising in pitch, then ceased.

“Tell me that was the nightingale,” he murmured, eyes closed, “and not the lark, the herald of the morn.”

“It was Fritz.” She made a sleepy movement, which pressed her bottom into his groin. He almost groaned. Now he was fully awake. And slightly less content.

He wanted more.

He opened his eyes. Her hair streamed across the pillow. He could turn his face and tickle his nose with it. Instead, he inhaled, rose and honeysuckle, mixed with something citrusy, lemon verbena.

“I didn’t have any dreams,” she said, a scratch in her voice. “Did you?”

“No.” He raised his knees, dragging her into the defined space he created between his chest and his thighs, clamping her there, his chin coming down to rest on the silky crown of her head.

God, she was so soft, nestled against him. The morning light seeped softly through the window. The world was softness, with a glow like a pearl.