There was nothing she valued more than a cool and clear head, and Michael had managed to steal that from her with a single kiss. And then he'd done more. So much more. She was never going to be the same. She was never going to be /sane/. 'You look distressed,' he said. She wanted to strangle him. He cocked his head and smiled. She wanted to kiss him. He held up the teapot. 'More?' God, yes, and that was the problem.