Every contradiction seemed more interesting than the last. For a woman who looked as if French couture was her raison d’être, she sure made a feast out of an ordinary cup of potato soup. And although she carried herself as if a ton of servants usually trailed after her, she’d shown a ton of practical common sense about storm survival.

He didn’t get it.

He didn’t get her.

Something strange was happening here. Really strange. Teague didn’t like surprises. He didn’t mind being attracted to her-hell, no man had control over that. His you-know-what couldn’t tell whether a woman was potentially catastrophic or not. But his brain did.

She’d given him the message loud and clear that she was a rolling stone.

He’d fallen in love with one of those once before. Had no reason to volunteer to be kicked in the head a second time.

Still. There was no harm in just looking at that spectacularly interesting face. It was one of those favorite guy fantasies, being marooned with a beautiful woman with no one else around. It’s not as if there were any chance of their getting close. Hell, he couldn’t imagine laying a finger on her.

Teague couldn’t have closed his eyes, because that howling wind was itching on his nerves, and he hurt in too many places to really rest.

But suddenly his eyes opened. Any man’s would. Because out of nowhere there seemed to be an extremely warm, mobile, voluptuous woman plastered against him.

More than his eyes popped up, in fact. It occurred to him that the same woman pressing warm, firm, full breasts against his chest and winding a leg around his hip, was precisely the same one he’d just sworn-seconds before-that he’d never lay a finger on.

“You’re awake, Teague? Don’t get shook. It’s just me.”

Maybe it was pitch-black in the room, give or take the yellow firelight behind the screen, but he fully, fully realized who was wrapped around him.