A Cowboy in Manhattan. Barbara Dunlop

scrambling to tamp down her powerful sexual reaction to him. It was strange and more than a little unsettling to have her hormones run amok like this.

      Maybe it was brought on by the stress of the afternoon. He had rescued her, after all. He’d lent her his shirt and brought her back here to where she was safe and warm. Had his white-knight behavior tripped some anthropological hormonal switch, making him seem like mate material? She sure hoped it was temporary.

      “Caleb’s pouring the wine,” Mandy offered, watching her closely.

      “Then I’ll get dressed,” said Katrina, pasting on an unconcerned smile.

      These things were obviously mind over matter, and she was a very disciplined person. Reed was just a man. And a stubborn cowboy at that. She preferred her men more urbane and refined, a guy who could pull off a tux and discuss literature, fine cuisine and world events.

      Mandy stepped backward into the hall, obviously intending to wait there until Reed joined her.

      “It was an accident,” Reed told Mandy with firm conviction.

      “I know.” She nodded. “Could have happened to anyone.”

      Reed set his jaw in annoyance and moved through the doorway.

      Once in the hall, he turned back to glare his annoyance at Katrina.

      “You’re not funny,” he admonished. But a split second later, his frank, heated gaze slid from her towel-covered hair to her bare feet and back again.

      Her toes curled into the soft carpet, and her stomach rolled anxiously. Hoo boy.

      Katrina woke up in the Terrells’ guest room in the early, dark hours of the morning and couldn’t seem to get back to sleep. Bothered by the time-zone change, her nagging ankle, and the fact that Reed was sleeping on the other side of the thin bedroom wall, her brain couldn’t seem to relax.

      Since Mandy had brought all of Katrina’s sister’s clothes to the Terrells’ house, she had options. She changed into a simple black-and-white leotard, then searched her way through the house for a suitable space to exercise. She found a big rec room in the basement that was perfect. It had a smooth Berber carpet, a big open space in the middle and a ledge that ran the length of the room at a height where she could brace her hand for balance.

      She plugged in her earbuds, turned on her player and made her way through a low-impact aerobic workout, getting the blood flowing and warming up her muscles. Then she ran through a familiar stretching routine, easing down into the splits, bending sideways first, then forward at the waist, stretching out her arms.

      After a few minutes, she paused, sensing someone watching.

      She turned toward the door to find Reed leaning laconically against the doorjamb.

      “I saw the lights.” He straightened and ambled into the room, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, hair tousled, muscles bulging everywhere.

      She pulled her legs beneath her and rolled to her feet. “I couldn’t sleep. Time-zone change.”

      “Yeah, me, too. Not the time-zone thing. But I couldn’t sleep.” He pointed above his head. “I’m cooking sausage and eggs. You hungry?”

      She shook her head. “I’m not much of a breakfast eater.”

      Reluctant to stop while her muscles were warmed up, she crossed to the edge of the room, bracing her hand on the ledge. Facing Reed, she raised one leg behind her, gently gripped her toes and stretched out her quad.

      “You don’t seem to be much of an eater at all,” he observed.

      “Weight’s an issue in my profession.” Not only was a sleek form vital to her look on stage, but she had her partners to think about.

      “How much do you weigh?”

      She shot him a look of disbelief. “Do you really expect me to answer that?”

      He shrugged and moved farther into the room. “Why not? I must weigh two, three times what you do.”

      “Reed, you don’t ask a lady her weight.”

      “Say that again.”

      “You don’t ask a lady her weight?”

      “No, the Reed part.”

      She gave him a frown. What was that? Was he flirting? Why would he flirt?

      He stared back in silence for a long moment. Then he said, “I made you something.”

      Though the words took her by surprise, she rolled with it, telling herself it was better to move on. If Reed started flirting with her, she’d have to decide how to react. She knew how she was supposed to react, but it was completely different from the way she wanted to react.

      She pulled her feet together and bent forward, putting her hands flat on the floor. “What did you make me?”

      “It’s a surprise.”

      “You want me to guess?” She stood again and raised her leg to the ledge, stretching her body along its length.

      “No, I …” He paused. “How do you do that?”

      “Do what?”

      “Go all pretzel-like.”

      “Practice.” She’d started when she was ten years old, when everything about her body had been extraordinarily flexible. “Is it something to eat?” she asked him. “If it is, you should know I like fruit and whole grains.”

      “Is that why you skipped the brownies last night?”

      “I noticed you ate mine.”

      “Always happy to help a lady in distress.”

      She couldn’t help laughing at that. “Ever the gentleman.”

      “Yes, I am.”

      She straightened. “Okay, I’ll admit, you’ve got me curious.”

      His eyes warmed. “You want to come and see?”

      “Depends. Where are we going?”

      “The barn.” His gaze scanned her body. “You’ll have to put on something warmer than that. And remember, the hands are working out there.”

      She glanced down at her simple leotard set. “You know I go up on stage in less than this.”

      “Not in Colorado, you don’t.”

      “Fine.” She started for the door, passing by him and calling over her shoulder. “You got any more of those cotton shirts? That’ll cover up everything that counts.”

      “What’s mine is yours.” He started in behind her. “In fact, I’ve got a nice set of pajamas you might like. Red-and-gray plaid, very boxy. You take the tops.”

      And he’d take the bottoms.

      Oh, he was definitely flirting. She stopped abruptly in the doorway and he almost barreled into her.

      He raised a hand and braced himself on the doorjamb. “What?”

      She turned. “You shouldn’t do that.”

      “Do what?”

      “Talk about sharing pajamas.”

      His lips curled up in the barest of smirks. “Is that what you thought I meant?”

      “You know you did.”

      There was a silent pause.

      “Okay,” he admitted.

      He stared down at her, and a pulse pounded in her temple, while heat coiled in the center of her body.

      He leaned almost imperceptibly in, and his voice went husky. “You should get dressed.”

      “I know.”

      He