So I guess you want some answers, huh?" Jane hunched up her shoulders, looking like a little girl who needed a big hug, and who didn't really want to talk about it.

Clay leaned harder against the door frame and pretended his feet were super–glued to the landing. Darn straight, I want answers. "Nope," he said aloud, and knew himself for the ultimate fool.

She blinked. "No?"

"If you want to tell me about it, I'm happy to listen," he managed to say between suddenly numb lips. "Otherwise it's none of my business." Which was true, but hadn't he made it his business just a short while ago?

Something changed in her face and he got the feeling either he'd surprised her or he had screwed things up again. He hoped it was the former, but he had this awful feeling it was the latter.

Maybe she wanted to make a full confession.

Maybe she needed somebody to care.

Well, he could do that. He cared a lot.

"Do you want me to make it my business?" he asked.

She bit her bottom lip and shook her head. It was a pretty weak denial. But he was a pretty weak man.

He pushed away from the door frame and unhooked his hands from his belt loops. The minute he cupped her jaw in his hand, he knew he'd burned all his bridges. There was no way back across this river.

The heat of sexual awareness flowed through. He pulled her head into his chest, and she sagged against him as he held her up. His anger dissipated; his frustration disappeared; his doubt evaporated. He cupped the back of her head, the texture of her hair silky against his palm, as he drew in a deep breath, filling his head with her spicy scent. Every fiber of his being told him this was the right thing to do. . .