He’d just finished the sandwich when she joined him at the table and dropped two more cookies on his plate. “You read my mind,” he said lightly.

“Men seem to love sweets.”

And sweet women like Kari. Damn the way she pulled at him. He shouldn’t get involved. Couldn’t.

She nibbled on a broken cookie. Then her blue eyes swept up. “Tell me about your wife’s death, Dan. How did the accident happen?” she asked softly.

His stomach clenched as the food inside turned to a hard lump. “She skidded off a road into a tree.”

Kari tilted her head. Asking more questions would be like deliberately poking at his pain. Horribly rude.

Yet he reminded her of her sister. When Hannah’s baby had been stillborn, everyone said she was handling it, only she wouldn’t talk to anyone. But Hannah normally shared every little thought or pain. Arriving a week later, Kari prodded until Hannah screamed at her, burst into tears, and finally shared her tangled mess of emotions. More than just grief, Hannah felt guilty over the dumbest things: taking a puff of a cigarette, bouncing too much when she walked, eating something unhealthy. And she’d been envious of every mother with a healthy baby, hated them, hated God, hated her husband, who somehow hadn’t prevented the death. Hannah had talked and cried and talked some more.

And after that, she’d been able to simply mourn for the loss of her baby.

Dan’s eyes held the same torment. Kari clenched her hands in her lap, her heart aching as she decided to push him. “Were you there?”

His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him.

She waited. “Dan?”

“Dammit!” He slammed his hand on the table so hard the dishes jangled. Pushing to his feet, he stalked across the room. “No. I wasn’t there. I got called into work. I could have refused, but I didn’t. And she went out partying. Drinking. By herself. If I’d been there…”

“You think if you’d stayed home, she wouldn’t have died.”

“She’d be alive.” At his sides, his hands opened and closed, over and over. The stark lines on his face were deepened by pain. “I protect people; that’s my job. And I let my wife die.”

A nun once told Kari that guilt has no logic. She kept her voice low the way she did when trying to pet the Garretts’ pit bull. “So if I decide not to go tonight, and you get drunk and run off the road, will it be my fault?”

He glared at her, but after years of teaching sneaky little children, she knew how to offer up wide-eyed innocence. “That’s not the same at all,” he snapped.

“Isn’t it?” Kari rose and put her arms around him. His body felt like a stone pillar. “Unless you promised to be at her side every moment of every day, you didn’t do anything wrong. People make their own decisions, and sometimes bad things happen. Not your fault, Dan, any more than it would be my fault if you went out tonight and got in an accident.”

He didn’t move.

Remembering Hannah’s anger, Kari added softly, “You know, if you got drunk and killed yourself driving, I’d not only be grieving, I’d be furious with you for doing something so stupid.”

He growled, but she ignored that and just held him, her cheek pressed against his chest, feeling his pain, sharing his pain. Had she gone too far? Would he ever talk to her again?

After a minute, he took a ragged breath, and his muscles loosened. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her gently.

She could have nestled there all evening, but the phone rang. He stepped away from her. Feeling like cursing, she went to answer it, after pointing at the table. “Finish your milk.”

His huffed laugh relieved her immeasurably.

His legs felt rubbery, as if he’d run a marathon, so Dan took a chair at the table. After a minute, he did as the little sub ordered and drank his milk. The first swallow caught on the tightness in his throat, but the rest went down well enough after that.

Her voice was like a melody of happiness and caring as she talked with some friend about a play rehearsal. Prince padded over to lean against Dan’s leg, a comfortingly warm weight. He stroked the soft fur, thinking about Kari’s words.

She said she’d be furious if he died being stupid. Was he mad at Marion? He’d loved her, mourned her. But anger?

Now the possibility had been raised, he could almost feel the heavy mass of rage inside him. She had been stupid, not for going without him, but in getting drunk and then driving. They’d fought about that before, and she’d laughed at him, called him a hidebound cop. His jaw tightened. And then she’d died…died and left him alone.

Feeling guilty. Feeling angry.

His eyes burned as the unsettling emotions swept over him, uncontrollable as waves hitting the shore. The room felt suffocatingly hot. He had to leave. He walked out into the night air, leaving Kari staring after him.

Kari heard a tap at her front door and jumped to her feet. Oh, thank God. The last half hour had seemed like an eternity. Every few minutes, she’d gone to the door and stood there, wanting to go after him. Then she’d return to the couch and sit down again. After the third time, Prince just stretched out and watched her.

Now she ran to the front door and pulled it open. “Are you all right? I’m so sorry, I should never have said—”

He kissed her firmly. Briefly. “I’m fine, and yes, you should have said everything you did.” He ran his finger down her cheek. “I’m sorry I left so abruptly.”

“It’s all right.” She watched him walk into her living room, reassured to see his prowling gait had returned. “Do you still want to go? I’d understand if you didn’t.”

“Yes, I want to go.” He glanced at his watch. “We still have time before Ben locks the doors. Can I take that shower?”

The guest bathroom lacked a shower, so Kari led him down the hall to her bedroom and the master bath. He followed silently—a good thing since she couldn’t figure out anything to say. She could talk fine when he’d needed her, but he was back to normal.

And having Master Dan here, in her home, was disconcerting.

Before she’d only seen his Dom side, but there was more to him. The depths of his pain and guilt over his wife’s death broke her heart. But it was the little things that she hadn’t been prepared for. The way he’d stolen a cookie. How he looked completely at home in her kitchen. How friendly he’d been with Jennifer; he hadn’t whipped out cuffs or expected to be called Master. How normal—gorgeous—he looked in black jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. How he talked to Prince like a person.

And Prince liked him.

In leathers and at the Shadowlands, Master Dan was like a dream. A fantasy. This Dan was real. Frighteningly real.

“Here you go.” She set the towels on the counter.

“Thank you. I’ll be quick.” He unbuttoned his dark brown shirt and tugged it out of his jeans, before reaching in to turn on the shower.

“Right.” Her gaze got trapped at the sight of his muscular chest, his broad shoulders. When he undid his pants, she glanced up and saw the amusement in his eyes. The disconcerting heat that matched her own.

“I’d better change,” she muttered and fled.

In the bedroom, she couldn’t concentrate. He’d be naked by now. In her shower. If she had any courage, she’d go in there and join him. Yes. She’d do just that. She took two steps toward the door and heard his voice.

“Kari, I need…” The last part of his sentence trailed off.

What could he need? The shower had soap and shampoo. Steam billowed in the bathroom as she entered. Feeling like a voyeur, she hesitated outside the shower curtain, trying not to stare at the outline of his big body. Or at least to not be obvious about it.

“Dan?” Saying his name still felt so strange. Nice, but strange. “Did you need something?”

“I did.” He pushed the curtain back, grabbed her around the waist, and set her in the tub. “I need you.”

The water and his deep laugh drowned out her startled yelp.

With ruthless hands, he stripped her out of her clothes and started washing her, his hands running over her arms, her back, her breasts. He gave extra attention to her breasts. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” he informed her, holding her firmly in place despite her squirming.

“I had a shower earlier.” His touch was making her hot, needy. Abandoning modesty, she ran her hands over his chest. “But I guess another one is good.” She slid her arms around him and pushed her belly against his erection.

His eyes kindled. “As long as you’re there, wash my back.” He handed her the soap. Arms around him, she scrubbed his back and butt, each movement rubbing her breasts against his chest. The friction from his chest hair sent tingles running through her.

He took the soap back and returned the favor, although he spent far too long washing her bottom, massaging her cheeks, and running a finger down the crack.

Stepping back, she washed his front, lingering on his chest, searching out the flat nipples and playing with them. His contoured muscles moved under her touch. Where had he been when she’d studied muscle groups in college anatomy? His biceps hardened when he ran his hand up her body; his pectoral muscles flexed when he put his arms around her. Slowly, she worked her way down his front to his—not a penis—he called it his cock. The velvety texture seemed incongruous over the iron rod underneath. She washed his balls, firm and heavy. His legs were apart, his hand stroking her hair as she bent to the task. When she finished and looked up, his eyes were black with passion.