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you’re mistaken.”
    She jolted when his hand whipped out, gripped her chin. “Badly mistaken,” he added, and the silky threat in his voice had her pulse pounding with panicked excitement.
    “However I feel, I won’t be pressured.” She put her hand to his wrist and shoved. “And I keep my options open.”
    With that said, she pushed the door open and got out of the car, missing his lightning grin. And the heat in his eyes.
    “We’ll see about that, Dr. Jones,” he murmured, and followed her up the steps.
    “Whatever our personal relationship, we have priorities. We need to go over the plans for the exhibit.”
    “We will.” Ryan jingled the change in his pocket as Miranda unlocked the front door.
    “I need you to give me more details on what you expect to happen when we have everyone together.”
    “You’ll get them.”
    “We need to talk all of this through, step by step. I need to have it organized in my mind.”
    “I know.”
    She closed the door. They stood staring at each other in the quiet foyer. Her throat went desert dry as he stripped off his leather jacket, watched her.
    Like hunter to prey, she thought, and wondered why that sensation should be so damn delightful. “I have a copy of the design here. Up in my office. Here. All the paperwork. Copies are upstairs.”
    “Of course you do.” He took a step forward. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Do you know what I want to do to you, Dr. Jones? Right here, right now.” He stepped closer, stopped just short of touching her though he could feel the urgent need for her pulsing in every cell.
    “We haven’t resolved anything in that area. And we need to deal with business.” Her heart was knocking against her ribs like a rude and impatient guest banging at a locked door. “I have the copies here,” she said again. “So I could work on them when I wasn’t. . . there. Oh God.”
    They leaped at each other. Hands tugging and fumbling with clothes, mouths bumping, then fusing. Heat spewed up like a geyser erupting and scorching them with steam.
    She dragged desperately at his shirt. “Oh God, I hate this.”
    “I’ll never wear it again.”
    “No, no.” A shaky laugh trembled out of her throat. “I hate being so needy. Touch me. I can’t stand it. Touch me.”
    “I’m trying to.” He yanked at the trim paisley vest she wore under her tweed jacket. “You would pick today to wear all these damn clothes.”
    They made it to the base of the stairs, stumbled. The vest went flying. “Wait. I have to—” His fingers dived into her hair, scattering pins as they curled in that rich mass of red.
    “Miranda.” His mouth was on hers again, oceans of need cresting in that one bruising meeting of lips.
    He swallowed her moans, his own, fed on them as they tripped up another two steps. She was tugging his shirt out of his waistband, struggling to drag it down his arms, gasping for air, sobbing for more as finally, finally her hands found flesh.
    His muscles quivered under her hands. She could feel his heart pounding, as wildly as hers. It was just sex. It solved nothing, proved nothing. But God help her, she didn’t care.
    Her starched cotton shirt caught on her wrists at the cuffs and for a moment she was bound by it, thrilling, helpless as he shoved her back against the wall and feasted on her breasts.
    He wanted a war, vicious, primal, savage. And found it in himself, in her feral response and demand. His fingers rushed down, unhooking the mannish trousers, sliding over her, into her so that her hips pushed forward. She came brutally, choking out his name as her body quaked from the shock.
    Her mouth streaked over his face, his throat, her hands dug into his hips, tore at his clothes and drove him mad. He plunged into her where they stood, driving her hard against the wall, driving himself deeper and deeper.
    She clawed at him now, her nails raking down his back. The sounds she made, primitive groans, wanton cries, throaty whimpers, called to his blood. When she went limp, he lifted her by the hips, blind and deaf to everything but the mindless need to take, and take and take. Each violent stroke was a possession.
    Mine.
    “More.” He panted it out. “Stay with me. Come back.”
    “I can’t.” Her hands slid off his damp shoulders. Her mind and body drained.
    “Take more.”
    She opened her eyes, found herself trapped in his. So dark, so hot, the deep gold glittering like sunburst and focused only on her. Her skin