So I to her, and so she yields to me, For I am rough and woo not like a babe.”—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, PETRUCHIO, The Taming of the Shrew hat afternoon Kate stepped out of the hip bath and wrapped the towel around her. The long, hot soak had proved just the thing for sore muscles. If only a bruised heart might be as easily remedied. The dressing-room door flew open, crashing against the wall. Rourke stood in the portal, the breadth of his shoulders filling the frame. Kate wasn’t all that surprised to see him. He’d been stomping about his bedroom ever since they’d gotten back to the castle and parted ways at the top of the stairs. She held her chin high and kept a firm grip on the towel. She might be dripping wet, but he looked wild, indeed. His rumpled white shirt hung open to the navel as though he’d been in the process of taking it off and then changed his mind. Her gaze fixed on the queue of reddish brown hair leading downward to his trouser waistband, and her lower belly thrummed.
