The Welcoming by Nora Roberts

all. He was, as she had said herself, a drifter. Men like Roman didn’t light in one spot for long.
    She couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. Almost from the first moment, she’d felt something. Attraction was one thing. He was, after all, an attractive man, in a tough, dangerous kind of way. But there was more. Something in his eyes? she wondered. In his voice? In the way he moved? She toyed with the rest of her cake, wishing she could pin it down. It might simply be that he was so different from herself. Taciturn, suspicious, solitary.
    And yet . . . was it her imagination, or was part of him waiting, to reach out, to grab hold? He needed someone, she thought, though he was probably unaware of it.
    Mae was right, she mused. She had always had a weakness for strays and a hard-luck story. But this was different. She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she could explain, even to herself, why it was so very different.
    She’d never experienced anything like the sensations that had rammed into her because of Roman. It was more than physical. She could admit that now. Still it made no sense. Then again, Charity had always thought that feelings weren’t required to make sense.
    For a moment out on the deserted road this morning she’d felt emotions pour out of him. They had been almost frightening in their speed and power. Emotions like that could hurt . . . the one who felt them, the one who received them. They had left her dazed and aching—and wishing, she admitted.
    She thought she knew what his mouth would taste like. Not soft, not sweet, but pungent and powerful. When he was ready, he wouldn’t ask, he’d take. It worried her that she didn’t resent that. She had grown up knowing her own mind, making her own choices. A man like Roman would have little respect for a woman’s wishes.
    It would be better, much better, for them to keep their relationship—their short-term relationship, she added—on a purely business level. Friendly but careful. She let her chin sink into her hands again. It was a pity she had such a difficult time combining the two.
    He watched her toy with the crumbs on her plate. Her hair was loose now and tousled, as if she had pulled it out of the braid and ran impatient fingers through it. Her bare feet were crossed at the ankles, resting on the chair across from her.
    Relaxed. Roman wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone so fully relaxed except in sleep. It was a sharp contrast to the churning energy that drove her during the day.
    He wished she were in her rooms, tucked into bed and sleeping deeply. He’d wanted to avoid coming across her at all. That was personal. He needed her out of his way so that he could go through the office off the lobby. That was business.
    He knew he should step back and keep out of sight until she retired for the night.
    What was it about this quiet scene that was so appealing, so irresistible? The kitchen was warm and the scents of cooking were lingering, pleasantly overlaying those of pine and lemon from Mae’s cleaning. There was a hanging basket over the sink that was almost choked with some leafy green plant. Every surface was scrubbed, clean and shiny. The huge refrigerator hummed.
    She looked so comfortable, as if she were waiting for him to come in and sit with her, to talk of small, inconsequential things.
    That was crazy. He didn’t want any woman waiting for him, and especially not her.
    But he didn’t step back into the shadows of the dining room, though he could easily have done so. He stepped toward her, into the light.
    â€œI thought people kept early hours in the country.”
    She jumped but recovered quickly. She was almost used to the silent way he moved. “Mostly. Mae was giving me chocolate and a pep talk. Want some cake?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œJust as well. If you had I’d have taken another piece and made myself sick. No willpower. How