The upstairs wasn’t as large. The first bedroom she peeked into would do for the twins, she decided, and evidently they’d already discovered it: The plain brown spreads on the twin beds had already been well trampled. Zoe wandered past the bathroom until she came to what was apparently the only other bedroom.

Rafe’s room had its own balcony, a corner fireplace and a wall of mirrored closet doors. The king-sized bed was built on a pedestal and flanked by stereo speakers. He obviously liked music. In this setting, she could already hear Ravel, and promptly felt another vague attack of nerves.

Ravel and Rafe together struck her as a dangerous combination…and life was not going to go too smoothly if there were only two bedrooms. Maybe he could sort of camp out permanently at his lady’s house? Except that Zoe needed Rafe here, if he was ever going to form a bond with the kids.

Only how, exactly, was she supposed to convince the man that he loved children when his whole lifestyle was clearly set up for nightly romps with a woman who wore black silk panties?

“Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful,” she exclaimed to Rafe when she found him crouched at a low cupboard in the kitchen. The four-year-olds were perched on the counter, heels swinging.

“You like the place? Zoe, what the hell-heck are we going to give them for lunch?”

“Macaroni and cheese!”

“We can’t have that until we’ve been to the store, guys.” Rafe pushed back from the counter. “How about mushroom soup?”

“Yuck.”

“Double yuck.”

He nodded weakly. “You like cheese?” he asked them.

He got a matched set of shaking heads.

“French onion soup?”

“Nope. Snookums, we’re hungry.”