Until Craig’s hand linked warmly in hers, until his lips came down on her cheek. The anguish in his eyes…was her fault. His touch was soothing, sensual, reassuring. So like Craig. She blinked back the tears and pressed his hand with a small smile. “They looked like a rock group. I may permanently take up classical music,” she whispered.

“Just don’t take up country.” His palm brushed her cheek, then lazily pushed back her hair. Her heart gradually stopped pounding.

“I thought you liked country music.”

“I thought you liked classical.” His fingers stopped their slow caress. One forefinger tapped her nose, then poked at the neckline of her hospital gown. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for this,” he commented.

She chuckled. “You’re forever knocking my taste in clothes.”

“You have excellent taste, and you know it.” He paused. “It’s a little different from the satin thing you tried to put on a few nights ago.”

“Whose fault was it that I never got it on?” She smiled again. “Listen, buster. I got in late last night. This was the only room in town. Degenerate place. They don’t even stock toothbrushes.”

He leaned over her, his dark eyes glinting with something beyond that haunted pain. Those eyes came toward hers slowly, until firm, soft lips touched hers. “We’ll get you your toothbrush,” he murmured, “but in the meantime you smell sweet and you taste sweet, love, even in the morning. Must be the reason I married you.”

“I thought it was my legs.” She raised her hand, ever-so-gently touching the multicolored bruises on his face. He had a Band-Aid on his nose, but that was all. Come to think of it, how on earth would they put a nose in a cast? She was not going to cry. Deliberately, she smiled, and she intended to keep on smiling until it snowed in the tropics, unaware that there was a rainbow cast of brilliant moisture in her eyes.