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laughed softly and waved her hand in front of her face. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”
    Standing in front of the softly flickering fire mighthave had something to do with why she was uncomfortably warm, but Cain didn’t mention that. Instead he took her by the elbow and guided her outside to a small balcony that overlooked San Francisco Bay. The lights on the Golden Gate Bridge outlined the well-known landmark, illuminating the skyline in a postcard-perfect silhouette.
    A cool breeze drifted off the water, and the sky was crowded with stars that seemed determined to dazzle them with their brilliance.
    Linette gripped hold of the balcony railing with both hands, closed her eyes, and tilted her head upward. When she exhaled, her shoulders sagged appreciatively.
    “Nancy said something about you being out of the country a lot of the time. That must be hard.”
    “It’s my job,” he said.
    “You don’t miss home?”
    In the last year, he hadn’t thought about the ranch enough to miss it. Nor had he hurried to Montana when the opportunity arose. He was a man without ties, without roots. That was the way it had to be.
    “I’m too busy to think about it,” he answered after a moment, and looked to her, wanting to divert the subject away from himself. “Do you work?”
    She nodded. “I own a knitting shop called Wild and Wooly, on Pier Thirty-nine.”
    A knitting shop. It fit. He could easily picture Linette snuggled up on a rocking chair next to a fireplace, her long needles clicking softly as she expertly wove yarn. He found the image inviting, as if she’d asked him to cozy up next to her.
    Cain wished he could pinpoint what it was aboutLinette that conjured up fantasies of domestic bliss. Homespun women didn’t generally appeal to him.
    It was the season, he decided, when goodwill toward men flourished and a man’s thoughts turned to hearth and home. Christmastime seemed to bring out the best in people, himself included, he reasoned, willing to accept the explanation.
    “Would you care to dance?” Linette asked him.
    “Dance? Me?” Her invitation flustered him. He flattened his hand against his chest as the excuses worked their way up his throat. “I’m not much good at that sort of thing,” he managed after an awkward moment.
    “Me either. But we don’t need to worry about making fools of ourselves, out here.” She held up her arms, and before a second protest could form, she was in his embrace.
    He tensed, but she didn’t seem to notice. Tucking her head under his chin, she hummed along with the music, and gradually he relaxed.
    Their feet made short, awkward shuffling movements until Cain realized that there was actually some kind of rhythm to their motions.
    The tension slowly eased from his limbs, and he pressed his chin against her temple. She smelled of wild-flowers and sunshine. He’d never held anyone more incredibly soft. So soft, she frightened him. He absorbed her gentleness the way a thirsty sponge did water. With her in his arms, he could close his eyes and not see the mangled bodies of men who’d died at his hand. With her he heard the soft strains of joyous music instead of the screams of dying, bitter men as they cursed him on their way to hell.
    His grip tightened, and she trembled. Pulling her flush against him, he felt her breath moisten the column of his neck. The tips of her breasts caressed his chest, and Cain closed his eyes and savored the feel of a woman in his arms. Linette clung to him, too. He realized, gratefully, that her hold on him was as tight as his on her.
    He knew what was happening. He could spend a few hours with this woman who was lovely and pure and forget who and what he was. He could relish her softness and ignore the bitterness of the truth and the hard life he’d chosen.
    All this wasn’t one-sided. Linette could hold him and forget the man she’d loved and lost. He was her haven just as she had become his.
    As much as he’d like to deny it,