Leaning his forehead against the refrigerator, he placed the cold glass hard against his temple. He’d thought the weekend was bad. This was worse. At his age blood wasn’t supposed to rage with such fever. It was damned embarrassing. He had to cool it before Kate came out. Otherwise, she’d take one look and chase him off with a broom. The thought of spoiling what was happening between them was almost as terrifying as his lust. Michael’s colder, analytical self was shamed. He was supposed to be finding the person who hurt Mark, and here he was with his head and body awhirl with emotions so strong he didn’t care to identify them. The bathroom door opened. Michael shot across the room to the sofa, burying himself in one corner, praying that the sewing basket sitting on the coffee table would be adequate camouflage. There was nothing he could do about the red flush he could feel staining his neck. Kate didn’t appear.
