Well, what did you think was going to happen?” Sophy grinned. She had been hoping that Max would get something out of the booksigning, but this wasn’t what she had in mind. “Hold still, will you?”

Max glared at her through the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “It hurts.”

“I’m sure it does.” Sophy lifted the plastic bag full of ice cubes to take a look at his souvenir from the bookstore and winced. “And it’s going to for a while yet.” After gently placing the ice pack back on his eye, she sat back on Max’s couch and sighed. “Whatever possessed you to ask that question?”

Max raised an eyebrow and grimaced at the movement. “It was a perfectly legitimate question,” he replied belligerently.

“Hmmm.” Sophy was not convinced. Just what was he trying to prove with this study of his? That romantic novels were detrimental to masculinity? If that biker had aimed a little lower, Max might have proven that theory. As far as she was concerned, he deserved that wallop—maybe it would knock him down from his ivory tower.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t heroic enough for you back there,” he said with a liberal dose of sarcasm.

She stifled a giggle at the memory. “Actually, you did okay. When you hit the floor, your leg hooked around that guy’s ankle and you took him down pretty hard.”

Max’s eyes widened. “I did?”

“Mmm hmm. He probably has a shiner himself from when he took out that low-fat cookbook display. With his face,” she added.

“Wow,” Max breathed.

Wow is right, Sophy thought. It wasn’t quite dueling pistols at forty paces, but for Max, it was progress in the hero department. She rubbed the back of her neck and looked around the room for the first time. “Nice place.”

Max rested his head against a cushion, half-lying on the couch beside her and squinted. “Thanks. I guess all you saw before was the kitchen.”

It was a cozy room, brightly colored and dimly lit. Sophy was already in love with his couch, and wondered where she could get one like it. Upholstered in a plush chestnut corduroy, it was perfectly cushy in all the right places, and could swallow a person whole. She tucked her feet under her legs and smiled.

“Didn’t you ever have clients taking swings at you?”

“What?”

“When you were a marriage counselor,” she prompted.

“I didn’t exactly try to promote violence in sessions, Sophy. I tried to be a mediator, not a referee.” He paused, a faraway look in his uncovered eye. “I nearly got clocked by my ex-fiancée though.”

Sophy stilled. “You were engaged? To a woman?”

He frowned then winced at the movement. “You don’t have to sound so shocked.”

“What happened?”

Max smiled mysteriously and closed his eyes, his stupid long eyelashes dusting his unmarred cheek. “She wanted to marry a doctor, or a banker. I didn’t want to be either of those things. When I left for Stanford, she threw my ring at me.” His good eye fluttered open and he grinned at her. “Her follow-through was great but her aim was lousy. Cracked my windshield. Cost me nearly three hundred bucks to get it fixed,” he added, looking only slightly affronted.

“What was her name?”

“The windshield?”

Well, he had been hit on the head, she thought. “No, the fiancée.” It wasn’t important, Sophy told herself. She was just curious.

“Trisha.” There was no love lost in his voice, and she sighed inwardly in relief.

“And your ex-clients?”

“No, I never had any clients try to hit me.”

She shrugged, slumping into the couch. “Seemed reasonable to me.” She tilted her head at him and narrowed her eyes. “I might have.”

“That’s where you and I are different,” Max acknowledged from his prostrate position. His feet were touching the floor, but his upper body was almost flat on the couch, his arm raised over his head as he held the ice pack to his eye. He had divested of his jacket as soon as they got in the door, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing the dark dusting of hair along his lower arms.

Sophy frowned. “Different? You mean because I might, let’s say, allow my passion to overcome me, and you wouldn’t?”

“Precisely. Except that I really don’t think you would.”

She had the feeling she had just been insulted, but she wasn’t exactly sure how. “Why not?”

Max repositioned the ice pack a few inches to the left, and replied casually, “You might believe in passion, Sophy, but you don’t practice it. Except when you order from Acme,” he joked.

Her mouth opened slightly, then clamped shut. She had definitely been insulted. When she spoke, it was in slow, measured tones. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“There’s a big difference between passion and love. And you may write about passion, but I think you want love. You just don’t know what it is.”

“I write about love!” she cried indignantly.

“Ah, but is it really love, or is it just passion with a happy ending? I think you’re confusing love with lust. Damn, I think there’s a hole in the bag. It’s dripping.”

Still speechless at his pronouncement, she leaned over him to check the ice pack. “Where?”

She didn’t know what love was? She was confusing it with lust? Passion? Where did he get off?

You don’t believe in love anyhow, so how do you know what the difference is?” she finally retorted.

“Somewhere near the bottom, I think. After counseling couples for over a year, I think I can tell the difference between love and passion.” Water started to dribble across his temple and into his hairline, and pooled in the groove by his nose. He grimaced as a sliver of an ice cube slipped through the hole in the plastic bag and slithered across his cheek. “Love is the kind of feeling you have for your parents, your dog. It’s warm and safe and—”

“—Boring?”

“Not exactly. Passion is this teeth-rattling, bone-jarring sensation that usually fizzles out as quickly as it comes.”

“Where does romance fit into your theory?” She brushed away a rivulet of icy water creeping over the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose, and tried to suppress her frustration. Hadn’t he learned anything over the last couple of weeks?

“I’m still not convinced that romance is anything more than lust-induced hormones.”

Sophy’s hand stilled on his cheek and she sighed. “So that’s it, huh? You still can’t believe in romance.”

Max tossed the half-melted ice pack over the side of the couch where it landed with a subdued slosh, and blinked tentatively. Water glistened on his eyelashes like tears and an angry bruise was starting to form at the top of his cheekbone. “But I believe in passion. Isn’t that something?”

“Passion’s not enough, Max.”

He frowned and caught her wrist with his fingers as she leaned over him to check his eye. “Enough for what?”

She hesitated, trying not to lose her balance. Trying not to lose herself. “For everything,” she replied resolutely.

“Are you sure about that?”

He tugged on her wrist and she toppled onto his broad chest. Her body rose and fell as he breathed, and as she stared into his darkening blue eyes, she realized that passion was potentially more powerful than she had bargained for.

His hand crept to the back of her neck, pulling her closer. His fingers trailed along the side of her jaw to cradle her head, and her eyes fluttered shut for a whisper longer than a blink. Then they snapped open and widened as his thumb caressed the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

She knew he wanted to kiss her. She knew she wanted to kiss him. So why was she waiting for him to make the first move? What was she afraid of? That he was right about passion? That he was right about her?

She had tended to avoid passion in the past, afraid of becoming intoxicated by these curious sensations that were now rippling low in her belly and making her breath come raggedly. Maybe she had a good reason to fear it.

Their faces were barely inches apart; she could feel his warm breath on her cheek as she waited to see what would happen next. Her tongue darted out and dragged across her suddenly dry lower lip. It caught on the little piece of skin that she had been nervously chewing on all day, and she scraped her teeth against it, softening the delicate skin.

His eyes devoured her every movement, and something disturbingly familiar flashed in them as his fingers stiffened against her hairline and he covered her mouth with his.

Passion can’t be everything, she thought. But it sure was something.

She splayed her hands across his hard chest, feeling the crispness of his white shirt under her fingers and the thumping of his heart drumming through her nerve endings. He shivered slightly underneath her, and a strange elation burst within her. She gasped against his mouth as his hands wandered down her ribcage and crept under her tank top to rest in the arch of her spine.

“Are you sure, Sophy?” he whispered against her lips. “Can you honestly tell me that this feeling isn’t worth it?”

She groaned. “I don’t know anymore.” She pulled back and shook her head slightly, her eyes clamped shut. “What is it?”

“This is passion. That teeth-rattling, bone-jarring sensation that I was talking about before.”

Her eyelids flickered open and she looked at Max through a haze. She brought her hands up to rest in the curve of his neck, and her fingers tangled in the dark hair at the base of his skull. “When will it start fizzling?”

“Do you want it to?”

She felt him smile against her cheek, and he nibbled his way across her jaw.

Her hips moved restlessly until she was lying between his legs, enveloped by his warmth and hardness. “Not just yet,” she answered slowly.

Her skin tingled where his mouth meandered over it, and his roaming hands on the bare skin of her back were like a spinal block, paralyzing her.

Suddenly she understood what he meant about passion. It was all-consuming... intoxicating... scary...

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured, and touched the tip of his tongue to the throbbing pulse in her neck.

Wrong.

Sophy’s eyes widened and suddenly the scene tilted into focus. She released her gentle hold on the nape of his neck and pressed her hands into the corduroy cushion, pushing herself up and off of him.

“Why?”

He looked puzzled. “Why do you think?”

She searched his eyes for something she knew she wouldn’t find. They were clouded by passion, but that was all.

With less grace than she would have liked, she disengaged herself from his arms and moved to the other side of the couch. “You want to sleep with me,” she stated bluntly, tugging down her tank top.

Max exhaled raggedly and dragged a hand through his hair. The dark strands feathered back down on his forehead as he propped himself up with his elbows and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I need more than that, Max.” Sophy felt like an idiot as she hugged herself, rubbing her bare shoulders. Goosebumps grated against her palms like sandpaper, and she shivered.

“I can’t give you more than that,” he reminded her.

Her hands dropped to her side and she met his unapologetic expression dead on. “I know. That’s why I’m leaving.” Her feet swung to the floor and slipped into her sandals.

“What do you want from me, Sophy?”

Her mouth twisted in a sad smile. “I guess you were right before. I want love.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and reached for her bag. Before she reached the door, she turned back and met his darkened gaze in the shadows.

“Passion isn’t enough, Max. At least not for me.”

* * *

The library was just as elegant and cavernous as he remembered. And equally forbidding, for all the sunshine streaming in through the lead-paned windows.

After an endless night of punching pillows and counting backwards in a futile attempt to get to sleep, Max had finally given up and headed in to the office at a little after seven o’clock. Three hours and five cups of coffee later, he stared blankly at the mockingly empty computer screen, and finally shook his head.

And now he was standing here in the middle of the library, and he wasn’t sure exactly why. His gaze wandered over to the long oak table where he and Sophy had sat a couple of weeks before. Where she had read to him. Where he had kissed her.

He swallowed, the bitter taste of old coffee lingering in the back of his throat. It mingled with regret, nearly choking him. It had been wrong of him to ask her to stay with him the night before. He knew it the second the words left his mouth and she pulled away from him.

Max walked over to the study table and traced the shining grain of the wood with his index finger. He wondered if that was what passion was all about—letting your heart speak before your head can get a word in edgewise.

And regret. Passion was all about regret.

His gaze wandered over to the rotating bookshelves near the windows. Squinting against the sunlight, he surveyed the section until he found what he was looking for, and made a beeline for it.

A short while later, a small stack of books was balanced in the crook of his left arm, and he bit his lip in concentration as he scanned the back cover of each book he grabbed off the shelf. He blew his hair out of his eyes and looked around. When his gaze lit on a woman nearby, he juggled the books in his arms and walked over to her.

“Excuse me, but have you read any of these?” He twisted his upper body to show her the spines of the books. She smiled at him and glanced down. “A few.” She pointed to one. “I love her.”

“Really? So you’d recommend it?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Recommend it for what?”

“Reading, I guess.” Max lurched to the right as one of the books started to slide out of the stack. “Research.”

“Research,” she repeated, grinning. “Buddy, your wife’s a lucky woman.”

“Oh, I’m not...” The wayward book finally broke free, and the rest of the books collapsed in on themselves as though he were shuffling cards. “...Married.” Max sighed and kneeled to gather the paperbacks. When he glanced up again, the woman was gone. He hoisted the books and headed for the circulation desk.

When he dropped the stack on the counter, the small mountain crumbled again and half a dozen paperbacks slid away from him to teeter on the edge of the desk, then plummeted over. The glare the librarian gave him went unnoticed as he rummaged through his pockets for his wallet. When he slapped his library card on the counter, he glanced up to find an amused expression on the face of the librarian.

“Something funny?” He wasn’t really in a laughing mood. Now that he had decided to do this, he wanted to escape as quickly as possible.

“Not at all, sir.” She ran his card over the scanner and picked up the first book. She flipped through it quickly to make sure there wasn’t any damage to the book, and the scanner beeped as she swiped the book underneath it. The amused smile still lingered on her lips as she thumbed past the cover brandishing a half-naked Native American and a long-haired pioneer siren.

Max wished that the clerk wouldn’t be quite so methodical; a small line was forming behind him, and the book covers were completely visible to the vaguely familiar titian-haired college student behind him. He thought he heard a giggle, and he frowned. “I don’t need to take all of them—” he protested.

“Don’t worry,” the librarian assured him. “This won’t take a minute.”

She flipped through the seventh book on the stack. Max cocked his head, for the first time noticing a small picture in the top right hand corner of the book’s pages. When the librarian flipped through the book again, he gulped, astonished to discover the design turning into a small cartoon.

A very X-rated cartoon.

Swallowing tightly, he turned his head slowly, hoping that the girl behind him hadn’t seen it. The lascivious grin on her face was all he needed to see.

His gaze snapped back to the librarian and his chin dropped onto his chest. “Oh god,” he moaned.

“Oh yeah,” the redhead piped up from behind him.

Finally the last book was scanned, and Max gathered the pile up in his arms.

The librarian frowned. “Did you want a bag for those?”

“No!” he fairly shouted. He just wanted to get out of there. As he stepped away from the desk, he heard the young woman’s voice again.

“See you next semester, Dr. Wright!”

Yes, passion was definitely about regret. Deep regret.

* * *

Sophy’s night was equally restless, but for different reasons. As soon as she had got home, she opened her laptop. Her fingers had flown over the keyboard until nearly four in the morning, her block surpassed. It was beginning to look as though Clarissa was a very lucky young lady. At least she got extremely lucky last night. It was the best way that Sophy could think of to relieve her own sexual frustrations—give them to someone else.

“What do you think, Herc?” Sophy glanced down at the cat curled up in her lap. It made it a little difficult to type, but she worked around the sleeping beast. She always had. The cat opened one eye and closed it just as quickly.

Sophy smiled. “Looks like Clarissa had a better time than I did last night.” Hercules flicked his tail twice, but otherwise ignored her. “But lucky Clarissa doesn’t have to deal with the consequences,” Sophy continued. “At least not until the next chapter.”

After a few hours catnap, Sophy was back at the computer, editing the previous night’s work. When the words started to blur in front of her, she tucked her t-shirt into her jeans, and headed for the door.

She stopped on the way to pick up some fresh croissants from a local bakery, suddenly realizing that she had forgotten to eat breakfast. Or dinner the night before, for that matter. The smell floating up from the waxed paper bag was driving her nuts as she leaned on the doorbell.

“I brought breakfast,” she announced as the door opened.

“Oh, thank you, but—”

Sophy glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantle and frowned. “I guess it’s closer to lunchtime.” She shrugged. “Oh well.”

Her mother closed the door behind her and adjusted her scarlet satin robe. “Thank you, dear, but it’s really not—”

“Oh, you’ve already eaten. I’m sorry, but I’m starving.” Sophy opened the bag and pulled out a croissant. “Do you mind?”

Maura Hadden sighed and her mouth quirked in a smile. “Not at all. But wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the kitchen?”

Her mother looked pointedly at the plush carpet beneath Sophy’s feet.

“Right.” She held a hand under her chin to collect any crumbs and munched on the way to the kitchen, mother in tow. She settled into a chair and brushed some crumbs from her lower lip. Her mother pulled out the chair opposite and sat down.

“What’s wrong, Sophy?”

Sophy’s eyes widened. “Does something have to be wrong for me to visit my mother?”

“Without calling first, yes.”

Sophy swallowed the last bite of croissant, looking at her mother for the first time. Really looking. “Why aren’t you dressed? Were you in bed? Are you sick? Why didn’t you tell me?” She scowled at her mother. “Your cheeks look awfully red. Do you have a fever?”

Maura lay the back of her hand across her cheek. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“Have you seen a doctor? Can I get you anything?”

“Sweetie, I’m fine. I just don’t feel like getting out of bed today.”

Oh no, it was worse than she thought. Her mother was depressed, Sophy realized with a sinking heart. And it must be pretty far gone if she wasn’t getting out of bed in the mornings.

She sat down and reached across the table to take her mother’s hand. “Have you seen anyone, Mom? Maybe I can ask Max—”

A short bark of laughter erupted from her mother’s lips. “No, that’s okay. Really, I’m fine.” She squeezed Sophy’s hand. “Now what’s on your mind?”

“Nothing. Everything.” She sighed. “Men.”

Maura raised an eyebrow. “Anyone in particular?”

“Not really.” Sophy averted her mother’s quizzical gaze and peered into the empty bakery bag.

“Not even a tall, dark, handsome psychology professor?”

“Uh, no.” Sophy lifted the bag and tipped the open end towards her mouth, hoping that it would hide the fire she was sure was creeping up her cheeks. A few crumbs tumbled into her mouth, and when she was sure that she was no longer blushing, she put the bag down. “Why would you say that?” She tried to sound surprised at the suggestion, but knew she was failing miserably.

Her mother patted her hand. “Sweetie, I’m not stupid. Or blind.”

“I like him, Mom,” she admitted. Her tone was funereal; she could just as easily have said that she was planning on killing a few squirrels this afternoon.

“So what’s wrong with that?”

Sophy tugged her hand away from her mother’s incessant patting. A few times was comforting; a few dozen times started to feel like Chinese water torture. “I don’t want to like him. He’s a pompous, prejudiced, stick up his ass—”

“Fantastically good looking,” her mother interjected.

Sophy frowned, her train of thought permanently derailed as she pictured his flashing blue eyes and the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “That’s beside the point.”

“What’s wrong with being attracted to an attractive man?”

“Well, for starters, he doesn’t respect my work.”

“What about your reaction when you found out he used to be a marriage counselor?” Sophy opened her mouth, but her mother continued before she could get a word out. “Don’t ‘but’ me, Sophy—I saw the look on your face. You thought his ex-profession was one step up from debt collector.”

Sophy slumped in her chair and toyed with the empty paper bag on the table. What was wrong with her? Did she like him or not? Okay, so she liked him. Was she attracted to him? Boy, was she! Did she love him? No way, not in a million years.

“Just what is going on between you two?” Her mother raised an eyebrow again and tried to look threatening. Fortunately, Sophy had known her mother for a while, and wasn’t fazed.

“Nothing. I’m helping him with a study he’s doing on romance novels.”

The eyebrow arched closer to the ceiling. “And what’s he helping you with?”

“Research for the book I’m working on now.”

The eyebrow nearly collided with the ceiling fan.

Sophy glowered at her mother. “Not that kind of research.”

The eyebrow finally descended with a relieved sigh. “Well, you can’t blame a mother for worrying. But it’s too bad.”

“What is?”

“He’s a nice, successful, handsome man. I think you should do him.”

“Mother!”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” Maura challenged.

Sophy wondered if she should start breathing into the paper bag; perhaps it would ease the sudden tightening in her chest. “Yes, I’ve thought about it.” She paused. “Mom, don’t you think that two people should be in love before they...”

“Do the horizontal mambo? Ride the percale rails?”

“Ride the percale rails?” She gaped at her mother, not sure whether to laugh or cry. She shouldn’t be surprised at her mother’s audacity; she was used to it. Maura Hadden wasn’t exactly your typical suburban housewife. Sophy sometimes wondered if the reason she wrote about true love and happy endings was because her mother wasn’t that great at providing either for her own daughter.

“No, I don’t think that two people need to be in love to...” Maura made an obscene gesture, making Sophy wince. “Passion knows no limits.” She pulled the marabou-trimmed lapels of her silk robe together and sighed softly.

“But what about love?”

Here she was hoping that Maura would be sensible for once in her life and she was acting like a lovesick teenager. She picked up the paper bag and started blowing into it.

She should have known better. Like the time she asked her mother to chaperone her prom and discovered her spiking the punch. Or the time she asked her mother to take care of Hercules while she went away for a weekend and came home to find his feet dyed purple. She exhaled on a resigned sigh and tightened her fist around the top of the bag, holding all her panicked breath in.

“Love, my love,” her mother pronounced, “is a fleeting emotion at best. You’re better off sticking to passion. And passion can be sticky, take my word for it.”

“That’s your advice? Have a passionate affair with him?”

Maura nodded.

Sophy snorted and slammed her fist against the bottom of the bag. The resulting pop was like a car backfiring in the tiny kitchen. It was the same sound she was sure her heart was making.

“Thanks, Mom. You’ve been a big help,” she muttered sarcastically. Maura’s face fell, and Sophy filled with contrition. She reached across the table again and touched her mother’s crimson-tipped fingers. “It’s just not me. I guess I’m too old-fashioned.”

Her mother smiled lopsidedly. “I know. It’s too bad. I thought I raised you worse than that.”

She made a three-pointer with the busted bag into the garbage, then yanked her car keys out of her jeans pocket. “Thanks, Mom. See you later.”

After Sophy had pulled away, Maura walked to her bedroom. She opened the door and her gaze swept across the room, finally landing on the bed. She hadn’t been kidding about not wanting to get out of bed today.

“That was close, wasn’t it?”

Maura loosened the belt on her robe and swayed towards the rumpled covers. “Too close,” she replied, a smile as old as time creeping across her face. “Now, where were we?”

She pounced.