Lone Star Prince. Cindy Gerard

his fingers slowly into a loose fist.

      Fine, he decided, accepting that his touch had set her off. Obviously, she didn’t want him here any more than he wanted to be here. And as sure as hell was fire, he didn’t want to get all tangled up in caring about her again.

      “Call Harriet if you need anything,” he said gruffly and headed for the door. Shouldering past her, he swung it wide.

      He wouldn’t have thought anything could have kept him from barreling out of her apartment. Not her tears. Not her guilt.

      He hadn’t counted on her touch.

      It stopped him cold. It stopped his heart.

      Very slowly, he turned his head, looked down at the small hand that lay so tentatively on his arm, then into the eyes of the one woman who could turn hard muscle to yearning flesh, turn simple heat to complex need.

      Through all of this, if there had been contact—as minimal and necessary as it had been—he’d been the one to initiate it. He hadn’t initiated this. Just like he hadn’t initiated the explosion of memories her singular act had stirred. Slender hands trailing down the arch of his bare spine, delicate fingers tracing the point of his hip, tangling in his hair, caressing him, urging him closer, demanding him deeper.

      He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw so tight he heard a dull pop. Then her whispered, “I’m sorry, Gregory. I’m so sorry for everything,” as her fingers drifted slowly away.

      For a long moment he stood there. Struggling for something to say. Reaching for something to do. The better part of wisdom, however, overrode either instinct.

      “Lock the door behind me,” he ordered in a rusty voice and strode into the hall without a backward glance. He hit the apartment stairs at a jog and bounded down them and into the night. The urgency of his need to get away from her was suddenly more powerful than the one that had had him shooting across town to get to her.