“I’m not very good at leaving one-night stands…”

Darcy slipped from between the sheets and stuck out her hand, which Tyler looked at incredulously, so she put it down.

“Technically this was our second,” he said with a wry grin.

“True, but if I said two-night stand, it would mean two nights in a row.” She wrinkled her nose. “Okay, that sounds ridiculous.”

“Two one-night stands doesn’t sound like enough.” He pulled her back down on the bed.

She sighed. “It was really fun.” Accepting his long, lingering kiss, she smiled into his beautiful but somewhat bewildered blue-green eyes and got to her feet.

Then realized she was wearing his underwear.

“I…um…” She felt a hot flush travel up her spine at the botched exit, and swept her hand down to indicate his shirt and boxers. “I’ll, uh, wash these and get them back to you.”

“No problem,” he said lazily. “Why not come by tonight…?”

MILLS & BOON

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Dear Reader,

Remember the romantic comedy line Harlequin Duets? I got my start writing for that series and wrote six of them before switching to Blaze. When my editor suggested last spring that I write a book for the Forbidden Fantasies miniseries, my mind immediately started working. Who would most need her life to resemble a fantasy? How about someone who has been caring for sick loved ones for years and is finally free to explore her own needs? Does that sound like a comedy? No, I didn’t think so either.

But somehow it turned out to be one. Darcy and Tyler kept me laughing as the most enjoyable couple I’ve written about in a long while. And their friends Molly and Bruce are people I wish I knew in my own life. I kept feeling as if I was back writing for Duets—except Darcy and Tyler’s racy adventures could only be at home in a Blaze.

I hope wherever you live that spring is springing and your love life is blooming.

Cheers,

Isabel Sharpe

P.S. Visit me at www.IsabelSharpe.com

ISABEL SHARPE
Indulge Me

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Isabel Sharpe was not born pen in hand like so many of her fellow writers. After she quit work in 1994 to stay home with her first-born son and nearly went out of her mind, she started writing. After more than twenty novels for Harlequin—along with another son—Isabel is more than happy with her choice these days. She loves hearing from readers. Write to her at www.IsabelSharpe.com.

Books by Isabel Sharpe

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

11—THE WILD SIDE

76—A TASTE OF FANTASY*

126—TAKE ME TWICE*

162—BEFORE I MELT AWAY

186—THRILL ME**

221—ALL I WANT…†

244—WHAT HAVE I DONE FOR ME LATELY?‡

292—SECRET SANTA “The Nights Before Christmas”

376—MY WILDEST RIDE††

393—INDULGE ME‡‡

To my patient and wonderful sons,

who tolerated lack of quality mom-time for

far too long so I could finish this book.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

1

DARCY WOLF COULDN’T decide whether the view of that one painter hard at work on the ladder scraping the old paint off a second-floor window—the one that was so, um, soooo, well, you know—was better with her sunglasses on or off. So she gave herself permission to experiment thoroughly.

On. Off. On. Off.

Still no decision. But lying here in her backyard on a chaise longue with a cold iced tea made just the way she liked it—strong, no sugar, brewed with mint that sprouted reliably in a bed by the house—feeling the sun, light and warm, not yet the blistering full strength of a Milwaukee summer, with virile young men clambering around her childhood five-bedroom Lannon stone home, well, she’d say life was good. And not to sound selfish, but she deserved a little “good life” after so many years bearing witness to pain and suffering and despair.

Once the painters were done, she would put the house up for sale and, at age twenty-six, finally get her life under way. Four years spent nursing her beloved father to a heartbreaking end when his cancer returned a second time to claim him. Another year after that nursing Greg, her boyfriend of four years, back to health from a head injury he sustained the day she finally broke up with him. A devil inside her still wondered if he’d subconsciously engineered the car accident to punish her or keep her with him, which turned out to be nearly the same thing.

She’d cared for her father devotedly, given him what joy she could, just as he’d given her his life and time and nurturing after her mother died, and she’d grieved over the inevitable slow end that had begun when she was a teenager with his first bout, was put on hold for too few precious years of remission, and had begun again in college. She’d nursed Greg in the other direction—away from death and back to health—with slightly less selflessness. After all that had gone into her agonized decision to leave him…

But she couldn’t beat herself up over that anymore. Greg was functioning on his own, nearly back to normal, and a couple of weeks ago she got up her nerve and repeated the ghastly breakup scene, feeling like dirt to cause the poor man even more pain. However, this time she did it at his house in Madison, where she’d lived for the past year while she’d taken care of him, so that she’d be the one driving right after.

And now…

Summer waited around the corner with hot, humid breath and long lazy limbs, but spring had come, and like the new shoots pushing determinedly out of the still-chilly earth, Darcy Wolf was going to bloom. Not here in Wauwatosa, an immediate suburb of Milwaukee, where she’d lived a quarter century plus one year, a city she knew inside out, but off and away, new horizons, new adventures, new life, new Darcy.

She took a sip of the tea, ice cubes rattling appealingly in the bright orange plastic cup she’d bought last summer to brighten her and her father’s outdoor living while he could still be up and around. She could afford to buy cups made of gold now if she wanted, though she couldn’t imagine why she ever would. Her father’s death hadn’t been a surprise, but his final gift had been. Money. Money he never so much as hinted he had, from his family and from Mom’s family, from a lifetime of success as a wholesale jewelry salesman and from careful living. Her new independence had only just started to sink in. But already she had plans. Who wouldn’t? She’d quit her dull job in Madison as office manager for a psychology practice, and as soon as the house was in presentable condition and then sold, she’d take off for distant lands. Or rather, distant states, living as she’d wanted to since she was a girl obsessed with maps and dreaming about travel. Two years in Seattle. Two years in Los Angeles. Two years in Miami. Two years in Boston—the four corners of the country. She’d write about her experiences, volunteer, take ballet lessons, tap-dancing lessons, fencing lessons, learn to paint, to fix cars, to build furniture…

And then? Eventually she wanted to go back to school and build on her education degree with a master’s in school counseling. She’d be thirty-four and probably want to settle down somewhere permanently. Maybe she’d even come back here, though secretly she imagined herself becoming so chic and sophisticated that Milwaukee and Wauwatosa would seem like so much beer, cheese and sausage in comparison.

For now, in her backyard with iced tea and a whole life ahead of her tied down to no one, she had another important consideration: her hot painter needed a fantasy name so she wouldn’t have to keep referring to him as Her Hot Painter. When she and her friend Molly Johnston were teenagers, poring over a name book to see what they’d choose for their eventual children, they’d discovered—and giggled endlessly over it—that “Garrett” meant “with a mighty spear.”

That would do.

The newly christened Garrett scraped back and forth at a spot suffering from too many years of wind, rain, extreme temperatures and not enough extra energy from Darcy to deal with homeowner responsibilities. His biceps showed domed and hard below his sleeve, while triceps ridged the opposite side. The raised arm pulled up the hem of his white T-shirt and allowed an occasional glimpse of toned abdominal muscle.

The day before, and the day before that, he’d stayed later than the others. She’d spoken to him both times, casual worker-boss conversations. She’d complimented his work, he’d thanked her, they’d talked painting and nothing more. But he’d looked at her as if…

As if, as if, ohhhhh, yes, as if. She loved that as if. She could definitely come up with a few delightful fantasy activities involving the two of them.

In the hospitals while her dad or Greg slept, or were otherwise unresponsive, she’d knitted, read, done crossword puzzles—in short, become an expert at passing time. And when she could no longer bear to read or to play word games, well then, sometimes she’d daydream in embarrassingly vivid and erotic detail. Weird, maybe, but give anyone as many hours in a medical facility as she’d had to spend, and he or she would get as sick of grief and pain and frustration—hers and the patient’s—and need escape as much as she had. One handsome, brainy doctor and one buff, talented physical therapist had provided, er, stimulation. Her imagination did the rest.

Now that she was out in the real world breathing fresh air instead of eau de maladie, no longer trapped by four walls and tough emotions, she could devote even more time—guilt-free—to one of her favorite pastimes. In fact, she could imagine right now that—

Garrett turned his head as if some receptor in his brain had picked up her thoughts.

Darcy didn’t even try to pretend she hadn’t been facing him, but she was glad for her sunglasses because it was possible he’d think she was asleep. Asleep holding her glass of iced tea. Sure. Why not. Uh-huh.

He nodded and touched the brim of his baseball cap—Brewers, of course, good Wisconsin man—and then he went back to scraping.

Oh, my my. How busted could she get? But she was single, straight and certainly within her rights to look.

Except now that she’d looked, she kept wanting to look and then look some more, up the strong column of his back to his broad shoulders, imagining them flexing and contracting under the cotton of his T-shirt as he worked. Then back again to his nicely rounded butt and strong legs, which she could imagine in all sorts of quite pleasant positions, as well.

Yum.

Maybe he was the ranch owner and Darcy-Anne, the feisty, abundantly cleavaged city girl who’d just bought the property next door…

Or maybe he’d be the suited sophisticate at the bar, balancing a dry martini, who nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw La Darce strut in, several-times-pierced and poured into black leather…

Or maybe the funky, long-haired student at the art museum who came upon her in a quiet out-of-the-way place, pleasuring herself, and kindly stopped to help…

Garrett turned again, this time tipping his sunglasses down and shooting her a look over them.

Busted again. But she didn’t turn away this time, either. She tipped her own sunglasses down and shot him a look over, too. Because why not? Who could sue?

A grin this time, a scraper raised in her honor. She wiggled her fingers in a little hello, took another sip of her tea to introduce the concept of moisture back into her throat and hummed a musical number.

Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my fan-ta-sy…

She thought maybe he’d make a good corporate executive and she the CEO of a company threatened by his hostile takeover…

Except, wait, hang on, hold it, stop right there.

She was twenty-six, she was female, she was straight, she was single, she had money in the bank, and now that the dark days were behind her, for once not a care in the world.

And not a single, solitary reason to keep herself from making this fantasy come true.

She gulped more tea. Even the thought had shaken her. And then it stopped shaking her and started stirring her instead.

No way. She couldn’t. Because…well, obviously, because…

She didn’t know why not. She just knew there was a “why not” and it was undoubtedly a good one. A sensible one. One any girl in her right mind should be able to come up with on the spot. Darcy’s mind was too clouded by hormones and the giddy excitement of being launched out of grief and drudgery and servitude and out of a stale, stagnant relationship into the world of new male possibilities.

Molly. She needed to call Molly, her best friend from the day they’d met at Longfellow Middle School in sixth grade. Molly was sensible, practical, down-to-earth and had been a Rock of Gibraltar and a pillar and an Atlas in Darcy’s world for years while it persisted in falling apart. A few sane words from Molly and the “why not” would be perfectly obvious to the point where Darcy would be embarrassed to have had the idea in the first place.

So.

She got up from her chaise and sauntered past Garrett’s ladder into the house—she’d be talked out of the idea of seduction soon enough, so why not have a little saunter-ish fun in the meantime?—aware his eyes were on her.

Well, she hoped his eyes were on her. She wasn’t crass enough to check. In her mind his eyes were glued to her body and radiated approval over every female part. And then some.

Inside, she grabbed her cell from the top of the bookcase in the kitchen that still housed her mother’s one hundred and forty-seven cookbooks, maybe three of which her father and she had cracked open after Mom died, and dialed.

“Hey, Molly.”

“Do you not love this weather? You can count on Wisconsin to come up with a day or two of spring a mere two months after the season has started.”

“Then straight into heat waves.”

“Uh-huh. What’s doing? I hear a problem in your voice.”

Darcy smiled. Could a man and woman ever get this close? She didn’t think so. In her opinion sisters and best girlfriends had the stronger connection. “I could use some advice, yeah. There’s this guy…”

“Ooh, let me sit for this one—” the sound of a scraping chair “—I’m listening.”

“He’s painting my house.”

“And?”

“I…want him.” She could see his legs if she stood next to the sink and peered out her kitchen window. She even wanted his legs.

“And you’re calling me because…”

“Talk me out of it.”

“Uh-oh. Out of what? Hang on—Kyle, for God’s sake, have I not said this a hundred times? You can have those after dinner. You want something now, have raisins or a banana, and don’t ‘oh, Mom’ me. You’ll thank me when you’re eighty and still have your teeth and a reasonable waistline—I’m back, Darce. Talk you out of what?”

“Seducing him.”

“Sed—are you out of your mind?”

Darcy recoiled from Molly’s uncharacteristic near-shriek. “I’m calling you, so not quite yet, no. Tell me. Why is it a bad idea?”

“You can’t think of any reason?”

“Mmm, no.” She sighed over his ankles, shins and thighs.

“Not one.”

“Honestly. For starters, he could be a psychopath, sociopath serial killer—”

“True.” Though odds heavily favored otherwise.

“—or have horrible diseases—”

“Ew. True.” Her glorious swelling fantasy deflated a bit.

“—or he could turn out to be one of those stalkers who can’t let a girl alone after he’s had her once, like what happened to Jody—”

“Oooh, true.” She cringed, remembering the hell their friend Jody had gone through after one date with a guy she’d met on MySpace. Police had been involved. ’Nuff said.

See? Calling Molly had been a good idea.

“—or he could be one of those vain, cocky guys who’ll get vainer and more cocky after you land him, and brag to his friends that he got laid on the job by some lonely single chick—”

“Blech. Ptooey.” Darcy made a face like a child given nasty medicine. Fantasy leaking serious air now.

“Or he could be a nice guy who would like you as you really are—a smart, sweet, nice girl—and would be turned off by you initiating sex when you don’t even know him. You could ruin a really good thing that was otherwise meant to be.”

Darcy’s nasty-medicine face smoothed. Now Molly was sounding like her father. And as much as Darcy had adored her father, nothing made her immediately want to be a teenage rebel again more than someone sounding like him.

She’d spent her life as a good girl because Dad refused to have it any other way. The one time she’d tried to express a little of the devil in her with a low-cut, ooh-la-la outfit she’d bought on the sly and sneaked on in the girls’ room before school’s opening bell, her father had found out. Hunky Evan Jacobus had practically drooled on the floor that day at school and the next, when she’d worn another very-unlike-her ensemble she’d borrowed from Tiffany Blatz. Darcy had gulped the male attention like a famine victim’s first meal. See? She wasn’t invisible to the opposite gender, after all.

Evan had even come over that night unexpectedly “to study” and had seen her in her regular appease-daddy clothes, and right in front of her father a question had risen from the murky depths of his teenage brain and emerged from his thin chapped lips. How come she’d been dressing so differently at school?

Daddy had not been amused. Evan didn’t stay long. The clothes were given away to those more fortunate than Darcy.

And then there was Greg whom she’d met at a Summerfest concert before senior year at University of Wisconsin Milwaukee, jealous streak a mile wide, threatened by his fifteen-year head start on life. He’d wanted Darcy to look sexy only in the privacy of his or her bedroom, which hadn’t been often enough for her taste. But from his perspective, guys her age were everywhere and Greg didn’t want them looking and he didn’t want her to see them looking and, and, and…

Darcy’s fantasy started to reinflate. “I don’t know. I still—”

“Look, Darce, I know how much you need to feel you’re breaking out of the mode you’ve been in. You’ve had some really tough years and made a lot of sacrifices that took a lot of strength. But selling the house and spending the next eight years moving around the country is plenty adventurous, though I think you don’t realize how much you’re leaving here.”

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Can we save that lecture for another time? I don’t need that one today.”

“Yes. Okay. Hang on—Annabel, I told you to get ready for gymnastics ten minutes ago and you haven’t even started changing. Go. I’m back, Darce. Man, that girl is going to turn my hair white and she’s only four. What was I saying, now?”

“About me cutting loose.”

“Right. Let’s face it, Greg was about as exciting as a PTA meeting, and you—”

“Hey,” Darcy protested automatically, then frowned. Molly wasn’t usually this cutting. Or this impatient with her children.

“Why else did you break up with him? I’m right. You know I am.”

“Yes, but only I’m allowed to slam him.”

“Okay. How about, ‘Mr. Gregory Hinshaw did not encourage you to explore your own life.’ Better?”

“Much.” Greg had been gentle, wonderful, but yeah, set in his ways was an understatement. Cemented in his ways, maybe.

“That works.”

“So the point is, don’t go overboard now that you’re free. Remember, the kids in college who partied their brains out and ended up puking in the street every weekend were the ones whose parents absolutely forbade them to touch alcohol. Ever.”

Darcy tapped her fingers on the rim of the sink. “I get it, Molly.”

“I’m just saying. I don’t want you to do something so out of character that you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“But it can’t be completely out of character or why would I want to do it?”

“Because you’ve been bent too far in one direction, and now that pressure is released, you’re whipping too far over to the other side. Trust me. You want danger? Throw out a recyclable, or park in a handicapped space—something more in your risk league. Leave seducing strangers to women who can handle the fallout.”

Darcy growled loudly. Now Molly sounded like Dad and Greg. In stereo. Full volume. And unfortunately, even though she might be making perfect sense, out of sheer contrariness Darcy’s desire to make use of Garrett’s mighty spear tripled.

“Hey, you wanted me to talk you out of it.”

“Yeah, I did. I did want you to talk me out of it.” The legs in her kitchen window moved down a step. Darcy leaned over the sink to better admire their straight muscled length, raising her eyes slowly to where he kept the weaponry she was “soooo uncharacteristically” in the mood to test out. “But I’m pretty sure I just changed my mind.”

2

TYLER HOUSTON finished sanding the upper sill of a second-story window, climbed down and moved the ladder to the last one on that floor. For the third day in a row he’d lingered here after the other guys had gone. Partly because rather than being a professional painter like his coworkers, he was a soon-to-be college professor—and yes, he did like the sound of that—earning extra cash over the summer before he started teaching economics at UWM in the fall. The guys kidded him about his snail-speed painting, but after so many years of book study it was a refreshing break to work with his body again instead of just his mind.

As he’d said, that was partly why he stayed late. To catch up. But only partly.

The other “partly” had to do with the woman this house belonged to. He’d been attracted to plenty of women in his life. Some based purely on appearance, seen at a distance or seen up close. Some whose personality appealed and whose looks seemed to morph into loveliness the more he got to know them. But rarely the kind of punch-to-the-gut sizzle he experienced with this woman. Even his attraction to Annie Phillips, his supposed-to-be fiancée who’d busted his heart wide open a year ago, had taken hold of him slowly.

Hardly Mr. Smooth, he still could generally hold his end up in a conversation. He liked people, enjoyed finding out about them, listening to their stories, figuring out what made them tick. Around this woman, he’d been able only to comment moronically about paint. Compliment her color choice. Admire her house. Wax philosophical about wood stain and window glazing. Never even asked her name. Worse, he’d kept laughing nervously—he would not use the term giggle. Bad enough when she had on her sunglasses, but when she took them off and looked at him with those blue-gray eyes…

Of course she’d been completely cool, able to look at him directly, to speak coherently without giggling—er, nervous laughter. Periodically she’d toss her heavy dark hair back as if it annoyed her by continually creeping over her shoulders. Even that was sexy to him.

Earlier today, warmer even than yesterday once the cloud cover passed on to the east, she’d been sitting in her usual lounge chair—in jeans and a large man’s shirt that made him jealous of whoever had given it to her—reading a book and listening to an iPod. He’d managed to avoid looking at her for the most part, but his gaze was jerked over when she’d sat up abruptly, put the book down and started unbuttoning the shirt.

That got his attention. Then the shirt was tossed aside and he nearly gouged the wood of the sill he was scraping when she hiked up the tight, fiery-orange-red top underneath, yanked it over her head and flung it to the side as if it harbored bees.

While his tongue had lolled out of his mouth—figuratively speaking—she’d calmly picked up her book and settled back down.

He’d worked particularly slowly after that, at least until she disappeared back into the house a while earlier. Because underneath she wore a bikini top that she filled out like…like…

Poetic words failed him. “Like beautiful breasts in a bikini top,” was about as lyrical a description as he could manage.

Clearly he’d gone over the edge. Next he’d be like Katie, his younger sister, who claimed to have known the second she met Edwin, now her husband of two years, that he was the love of her life.

Uh-huh.

If Tyler were a different kind of scientist, he’d do research into why and how two people could produce such sparks. Or rather how one person could produce them in another, since he had no way of knowing if the ones he felt were reciprocated.

He started scraping the final window to what must be her bedroom, the sun still out but the air rapidly cooling toward evening. The last few days had been warm, though Milwaukee hung on to chilly nights until close to the start of summer. Last month he’d moved back here to his hometown and only a block away from Ms. Bikini in order to—

The corner of his eye caught movement beyond the old-fashioned slightly wavy glass.

Her. Coming into her bedroom. What was her name? He was dying to know. Something sexy and slightly old-fashioned, like Rosemary. She walked in and passed the window, still in those jeans, low-cut and tight, still in that bikini top, again under the man’s shirt, which flared open when she moved and which continued to make him jealous. Who had given it to her? Was she still involved with him?

Tyler really needed to pay attention to this window or he’d be here all night. And not the way he’d like to be, in Rosemary’s…er, company, but out here standing on a ladder with only a scraper for intimacy.

So he paid attention to the window. He really did. But his peripheral vision was working, too, and kept track of her. Then he had to glance right at her just once, to confirm if what he thought he’d seen was in fact what he thought he’d seen.

Because what he thought he’d seen was her shirt fluttering to the floor.

Yes.

The shirt.

On the floor.

Worse—no, better—no, worse—her hands were now at the fastenings of her jeans. He scraped extra loud, making sure his knuckles rapped “clumsily” on the glass so she’d realize he was there and that he could…

Her jeans traveled down long, long, strong legs, one of which stepped out of them, followed by the other.

…see. He could see. He could do nothing but see. Dark wavy hair streaming down to her collarbone, skin a light shade of gold, broad shoulders, slender waist, toned ass…

Her hands reached around to the back hook of her bathing suit top.

Ho-ly sh—

Wait. He was not behaving like the gentleman his mother had raised.

“Hey.” He tapped on the window. No reaction. He tapped harder. “Hey.”

How could she possibly not know he was there? He didn’t see any earbuds or the cord of an iPod. She must be able to hear him knocking. She must know he was there.

The bikini top slid to the ground. Which meant…

She knew he was there.

He put the scraper down on the sill. Tyler had never been like his late older brother Cam, whom women tried to seduce at various times, like, oh, say, whenever he was awake. If this was business as usual for painters, maybe Tyler should switch careers. Though he hadn’t gotten this…uh, lucky when he’d painted houses in college.

Maybe because he’d never painted for anyone like Rosemary before. Not just beauty, not just body, something else. A familiarity, a sense that he knew her even having just met her. Knew she was a good person, knew he could trust her, knew they had things in common. How could he possibly know any of that? He couldn’t. He was projecting. The connection was purely physical, animal, primal. Her hormones fit his, her pheromones broadcasted to his frequency, her…uh…her…

…breasts, God, her breasts. Naked, they tilted, slid, hung lushly as she bent to pick up her top. His throat became dry. She tossed her hair, arched her back, slid her hands up her stomach to cup, then cover, then caress them.

His throat became drier. Desert dry. His cock swelled. He wanted to touch her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. If he wasn’t put off by the concept of deep, possibly fatal lacerations from broken glass, he’d dive through her window and ravish her.

She swayed dreamily to some inner music, fingering her nipples, smile curving her lips, her body in profile. She still hadn’t looked at him. He still hadn’t looked away.

Her hips started to move, small, then larger circles. He let out a deep helpless groan he hadn’t been planning to let out. He wanted to grab hold of his dictator dick, which was ordering in no uncertain terms that its pain be relieved in whatever way possible, preferably in some way involving the wonder that was Rosemary.

Her hands left her breasts, which suited him fine. The easier to see her with, my dear, and the view was spectacular. Except then her hands took a trip to the sides of her bikini bottoms and began to edge them down, one side a fraction of an inch, then the other, as her hips continued their ’round and ’round and back and forth and forward and back journey, a journey he wanted desperately to join them on because he knew what destination they’d lead him to.

The bikini slid the last several smooth inches down her thighs, knees, calves, ankles and hit the floor. She turned and faced him, making direct eye contact through the glass. Well…eventual direct eye contact. His eyes were busy briefly before they made it up to hers. He was a guy, he couldn’t help it.

Silence. Stillness. Emotions swirling in him—desire, and something softer, like tenderness, which he didn’t understand, hadn’t felt for anyone since Annie, and not even for her this soon after they’d met.

The scraper chose that moment to slide off the uneven stone sill and clatter to the ground. He didn’t blame it. There wasn’t much holding him up, either—with the exception of the obvious, which had no trouble standing straight and proud.

Now what?

Okay, he wasn’t that lame. He knew what. But should he? He was working here; he was her employee in a sense. Maybe she was one of those women who seduced then cried rape. A charge like that could ruin his career.

But he knew she wasn’t. How? He didn’t know. He knew being with her would be carnal and exciting and sweet all at the same time, and he didn’t know how he knew that, either.

He also didn’t know how he was going to face his sister, who’d said all these same stupid and illogical things about her husband hours after they’d met, which had precipitated the most bitter fight he and Katie had ever had as siblings, one that worsened when she’d eloped and one from which they still hadn’t recovered, to both their sadness. But so far, not regret.

His feet seemed to have decided what to do, or maybe it was that other part of him. He nodded at Rosemary and climbed down the ladder, suddenly aware of his less-than-fresh condition, having rolled out of bed at the last possible second into his clothes and a cup of coffee to stand in the sun all day.

Ripe, to say the least.

Still led by his feet or maybe the part that stuck out the farthest and felt the most eager, he found her back door unlocked, found the oak staircase and climbed toward heaven.

At the doorway to her room, he stopped. A double room, a master bedroom suite in addition to the other two bedrooms he’d glimpsed. Unusual for these old houses, which usually fit only two bedrooms upstairs. Beautiful room, hardwood floors, decorative molding and thick solid doors. She’d decorated in a way that suited his taste—dark wood furniture, classic prints on the walls, colorful rugs, subdued rose-beige walls—nothing too modern or too girlie.

That analysis took him all of five seconds, which was all he was willing to dedicate to the decor. The woman interested him far more.

He walked through the outer room and paused at the arched entrance to her bedroom. She lay on the king-size bed, modestly covered by a sheet, expression slightly apprehensive, which put him at ease. If she was nervous then she wasn’t a habitual man-eater.

“Hi.” He grinned. He couldn’t help it, but at least he didn’t giggle. “You, uh, caught my eye in here.”

She laughed, which he liked. Not nervously, but as if she understood and enjoyed his understatement. “Noticed me, did you?”

“I don’t think I’ve noticed anything quite that much in a long time.”

“Mmm, really?”

“Mmm, really.” He moved forward until his thighs in their shorts rested against the bottoms of her feet. Now she even looked familiar. Had he seen her before? But there’d been no moment of recognition when he’d first set eyes on her three days earlier. “I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“If there was something you needed my help doing.”

Her eyes stayed on his, her hand pushed up into her hair as she adjusted her head on the pillow. “There is, yes.”

“What’s that?” He reached down, rested his hands lightly on her ankles.

“I want to come.”

Sexual adrenaline surged. He made himself look calm. “And you don’t want to do that alone?”

“Not this time, no.”

“Hmm.” He pretended to consider. “You know, I think I can help you.”

The touch of shyness in her smile pierced him. “I thought maybe you could.”

“But…I could use a shower first.”

“Oh.” She bunched her lips as if trying to tolerate pain. “I’m not sure I can wait that long.”

He gave her foot an affectionate squeeze. “Trust me, you’ll be happier if I’m clean.”

“Yes. Okay.” She let out a long sigh of near despair.

“Bathroom’s to the right and straight ahead. Clean towels in the closet next to it. And, Garrett?”

“Garrett?”

“My name for you. It means ‘with a mighty spear.’”

He laughed—nervously. Though mighty was open to interpretation. “Yes, Rosemary.”

“Rosemary?”

“Mine for you.” He realized she was waiting expectantly. “It means Rose…Mary.”

Her brief laughter turned into the smile that was way too fast becoming familiar and dear to him. “Good enough. Now go. And don’t forget to come back. This is my first-ever seduction and I want to make sure it happens.”

He nodded and left the room before his latest ridiculous surge of emotion became visible. He was her first. God, he needed to get a grip.

Showering at the speed of light wasn’t humanly possible, but his didn’t happen much slower. He didn’t bother putting his sweaty paint-smelling clothes back on but wrapped the thick, generous towel around his waist. A glance in the mirror, wondering what the hell she saw in what he’d always considered average looks and build. Maybe she considered him a sure thing for her first attempt at seduction, given how much virtual drooling he’d done over her?

He’d rather think there was something powerful and exciting between them. Which would most likely get more powerful and more exciting in the very near future.

The hardwood creaked under his feet in that comforting way of old houses, to remind those inside not to forget their surroundings.

“Hi.” Rosemary sounded shy again.

“I’m clean.”

“So you are.” One dark brow arched briefly. “While I am still feeling pretty dirty.”

He knelt on the edge of the bed then stretched out beside her, no longer nervous, thank God, though he usually was the first time with someone, certainly had been a wreck with Annie. “I promised to help you with that. And I will.”

“Very grateful.” She lay on her side, facing him, both hands under her cheek. “I was serious when I said I’ve never done this before.”

“Had sex with a stranger?”

“I did that once. In college. But I was drunk and he was, too, and I bet neither of us remembers much about it. Probably just as well.” She considered him thoughtfully. “It’s funny, you don’t seem like a stranger. But I’m sure I don’t know you.”

“I’m sure I’d remember you.”

“Thank you.” She blushed and lowered her eyes, which made an unbearably appealing contrast to her boldness. “I meant, I’ve never taken the initiative like this with someone I didn’t know.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “So far, so good. You haven’t killed me.”

“Trust me, that’s the furthest thing from my mind.” He touched her hair, stroked it off her face, down the back of her head, over her shoulders and onto the bare skin of her back under the cool cotton sheet, stroked there, up and down, easing any tension with his fingers. “But if anything feels wrong at any point, tell me. You don’t have to do this.”

“Mmm, I definitely do. I like the way you touch me.” She arched into his fingers, stretched her long, beautiful spine.

“This is only the beginning of how I want to touch you.” His voice came out lower and more earnestly than he meant it to. He reached farther, to the curve of her lower back, then dared a slow glide over her firm shapely rear, which not only brought a sexy “Mmm” out of her, but also made her squirm closer and start her soft graceful hands on an exploration of their own. Of him.

Taking this as slowly as he wanted to might result in his death.

He tugged the sheet off her and pulled her flush against him, pressing his erection rhythmically against her, making sure he was stimulating her where it did the most good, tormenting himself in the sweetest possible way. Then he gathered her thick hair between his fingers, traced his thumbs along her jaw and did what he’d wanted to do since seeing her the first time. He kissed her full, tempting mouth.

The connection was immediate and electric, traveling through their lips, down his body, taking him over. He kissed her again and again, rolled her impatiently onto her back and followed to cover her, still tasting and fitting their lips together at every possible angle until the waves of eroticism and some other nameless feeling were so strong he had to stop.

He drew back slightly, breathing hard, feeling awed, met the awe in her eyes and became aware of the heaving rhythm of her breath, too. Both. They both felt it.

“Whoa.” She clasped her hands behind his neck and laughed uncertainly. “I guess I picked you for a reason.”

“Fate.” He didn’t believe in fate or any of the woo-woo crap that dominated his sister’s world, but the second he said the word he felt it was true.

Her eyes became cautious and he made himself grin to show he was kidding. Ha, ha. Fate. Ha, ha.

What the hell was the matter with him? He was a very practical down-to-earth guy who viewed the world in practical and often purely scientific terms.

“Oh, um, here.” She rummaged under the pillow and came up with a row of condoms, each in its black foil package. Speaking of practical. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be prepared so I made sure I was.”

“You planned well.” He lifted off her and took the strip.

“Only since yesterday.” She watched him open a packet. “I was lying on the lawn and fantasizing about you, and then I thought why not?”

“Why not?” He rolled on the condom then dragged his finger in a slow zigzag down from her neck, spiraling up each breast, meandering over her stomach and gently parting the lips of her sex. Her eyes closed and he watched her face, his fingers traveling by instinct, by touch, manipulating her softness, dipping into the tight entrance for moisture, spreading it outward again and again until her clit was slippery and firm.

Her head lifted from the pillow then sank, lashes dark on her cheek, a frown of concentration forming a furrow between her brows. It hit him that he would still want to know her when time had made the furrow permanent, would still want to be here touching her, watching the flush bloom on her face and her lips part. He’d tried to picture himself and Annie old together even up until the day he asked her to marry him, but it hadn’t seemed possible they’d ever be anything but young.

He moved over Rosemary, spread her legs gently. Her eyes opened and he sank not only into her body but almost as blissfully into her gaze before he began a slow rhythm. She joined it and he was quite sure he had known her a long time and would know her a lot longer, that they’d make love like this many, many times and it would always be this exciting, hot and sweet.

His cheek found hers; he listened to her breath speed and slow, felt her body eventually starting to strain toward her climax. Sliding his hands under her, he tilted her pelvis up, raised himself slightly, increased his pace and heard her low moan with satisfaction. Pleasing her was all he cared about right now, giving her what she’d asked from him. Then he wanted to give her a lot more than that.

Her eyes closed; her hands scrabbled across the sheets. She gripped them and her hips pushed up hard. He bit his lip, willing himself to wait…wait…wait…

And then her eyes shot wide; her head lifted, mouth opened in a silent “Oh,” and he felt her build, hold and go over. He fought against his own orgasm as long as he could stand it, savoring their connection, wanting this time to last forever. She gave a beautiful satisfied moan, whispered something he only barely caught about how perfectly he filled her and how much she loved feeling him inside her, and his control was gone. His climax burst out like a horse from a starting gate, a deep, shuddering release that went on and on and on. In the middle of such perfect ecstasy as he strained against her, trying to keep her closer than was physically possible, it occurred to him that he loved her and would always love her and somehow had always loved her.

She let her hands fall to the side, smile on her lips, flush on her cheeks, and stretched beneath him. Her breathing slowed gradually. Her smile stayed in place. She opened her eyes and he was stunned by their warmth and glow. His love. His one and only love.

Then she blinked.

“Hot damn. That orgasm nearly took my head off.” She grinned at him, apparently completely in control of herself and her emotions. “Was that not fabulous?”

“It was.” His voice was husky; he felt dazed and stupid.

“Fabulous.”

“Whew. I definitely picked the right guy.” She moved as if she wanted him off her, so he rolled to one side, spent and confused. “Want a glass of water? I’m parched.”

“Sure. Yeah.” He sat up, nodding his thanks when she tossed him a box of tissues.

“Man.” She took a couple of bowlegged steps and laughed.

“I can barely walk. You are incredible.”

Right. Incredible. Totally. Stud of the month, in fact. He yanked out a couple of tissues, went to the bathroom to get rid of the condom and clean himself up, then got dressed in the paint-and-perspiration-smelling clothes he’d shed with such anticipation.

So he’d given her what she wanted—an orgasm that nearly took her head off. While he’d gotten something he didn’t want at all. A heart about as vulnerable as it had ever been, in a ridiculously short time frame. In all the years of dating Annie he didn’t think he’d ever felt this raw and open. At least not until she dumped him.

As soon as he was dressed, had his glass of water and said goodbye, he was out of there, taking his suddenly foolish and sentimental heart with him.

Because he really wasn’t into having it stomped on again.

3

DARCY POSITIVELY FLOATED through her house. She kept laughing for no reason, drifting into one room, looking around hardly seeing a thing, frowning, hands on her hips, then laughing again and tilting into another room, whirling in a circle as if she’d gone completely over the edge.

Maybe she had. No, she’d done something much better. Last night she’d achieved a state of total—okay, near total—confidence and had walked into the master bedroom, knowing “Garrett” was working at her window, able to see everything. And in spite of the fact that her hands were shaking a little and once in a while she could barely draw a breath, she’d shown him…everything.

Could the evening have been any more perfect? No, and no, and no again.

He’d been a wonderful lover. Not that she had so many to compare him to, but she couldn’t usually come the first time with someone and…wow. Well. She had. Almost twice, but the second one had surprised her so much she’d ruined it by paying too much attention. Like when you were about to sneeze, if you thought too hard about it, the urge stopped.

Not only a wonderful lover, he’d been sweet. Gentle. And when he looked deeply into her eyes and kissed her…

Well, never mind. This wasn’t about falling in love or wildly inappropriate degrees of emotionalism, considering she knew nothing about him except he was a painter. And very considerate. And handsome in a non-obvious way and sexy as hell and sort of familiar in that way strangers were sometimes.

After, in case he thought she was the kind of idiot who fell for every guy she slept with, she’d made sure not to act as clingy and vulnerable as she felt. Thank God, because he’d left the microsecond he could, as if he had rockets in his shoes. Obviously he didn’t consider last night the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Which was fine. What she wanted, actually. After the paint job was over she’d never see him again. The whole thing would be just as neat and tidy as she’d planned it.

She tried to dance into the dining room but her body didn’t feel much like dancing all of a sudden. Maybe she was feeling wistful over him because he was her virgin seduction and she’d always have a soft spot for the experience. And for him. Understandable, really, and not based on anything but him being her first fantasy-come-true. She’d been so sensible through her relationship with Greg and this had been so wild and—

No, not really that wild. Carnal, sure, but sweetly carnal if such a thing were possible. Tender almost. Lovely. He’d wanted to shower instead of hop on immediately and ride his way to oblivion. Consideration for her; she’d liked that a lot. Not to mention the smell of her favorite vanilla soap on his skin had been quite the aphrodisiac. But it was the look in his eyes and that odd déjà vu feeling that had really touched her in a deep place she—

Anyway, enough of that. She wanted to call Molly and find some way to trumpet her success without any told-you-so triumph since Garrett hadn’t turned out to be a diseased-stalker-serial-killer, but it was way too early, just after 6 a.m. Darcy was usually a late sleeper but adrenaline had woken her with the dawn this morning after a fitful sleep. She’d call Molly later, after Molly had gotten her kids to preschool and Bruce to work.

Right now Darcy had better remember she was still on planet earth and get busy. There were plenty of her family’s possessions to go through and get rid of before the house sold. Some had already been doled out to Dad’s relatives. The things Darcy wanted were moved into long-term storage, ready for her own place, wherever and whenever she chose to settle down.

An hour later she’d gone through her dad’s study, occasionally weepy, mostly stoic, and made piles—give away, sell, toss. She’d paused over a painting of a ship on Lake Michigan for quite a while. Derek Houston had painted it for Dad probably a quarter century ago. For decades Derek was their backyard neighbor over on 64th Street. He’d died some years ago, but his widow, Marjory, still lived there, or had last spring, last time Darcy had been around. Confidentially, Darcy hated the bright surreal colors and crooked lines, but she hated to give the painting away even more, since her dad had loved it so much. Derek’s widow should have it back.

She glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. Marjory would be up by now. When Darcy was a girl out of bed for school at six-thirty every morning, bleary-eyed and annoyed at the hour, she’d seen her neighbor drinking coffee in her yard, watching birds at her feeder even on the coldest mornings. Darcy could take the painting to her right now. One less thing to do later.

With the canvas carefully swaddled in enough bubble wrap to protect an empty robin’s egg, Darcy took the shortcut, pushing through the arbor vitae that Dad had planted ten years earlier at the back of the yard for privacy, now a thick tall row of sentry trees. The painting she lifted over the back fence then dropped gently to the ground, and followed with a quick climb over. A jump and she was in the Houstons’ yard, then on their driveway, remembering other climbs here to retrieve over enthusiastically tossed balls or Frisbees.

Marjory Houston had been wonderful when Dad was in bad shape before Darcy moved him to the hospice. She’d baked cookies to tempt his appetite when he started losing so much weight, offered to stay with him now and then so Darcy could get some relief. Darcy felt guilty that during the past year spent in Madison to be closer to Greg, she hadn’t visited or called to see if Marjory needed anything.

The last twelve months had been a strange combination of selfless and selfish. Selfless because she’d stayed to help Greg through the long painful struggle back to his old self, physically and mentally, even though she’d wanted out of the relationship. And selfish because she’d spent too much time in self-pity and resentment, and stopped nurturing friends and therefore herself.

She stepped up the brick steps of Marjory’s walkway, grinning at the stone lions pompously posed atop waist-high brick columns on either side, as if Marjory lived in Versailles and not a typical Midwestern bungalow. It would be good to see her. A slice of Darcy’s childhood, precious for still being around.

The doorbell echoed through the house. Was she home?

She was. Footsteps, then the door swung open and—

So did Darcy’s mouth.

“Hi.” He was obviously very surprised to see her, but not nearly as very surprised as she was to see him. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing here?”

He looked taken aback. “I live here.”

“You live here?”

“I think that’s what I just said.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. Somehow she’d forgotten that or hadn’t noticed and now she was even more flustered because it was extremely sexy.

“Where is Marjory?”

“Ah. Marjory.” His smile dimmed. “She had a stroke. We had to put her in an assisted-living facility.”

“Oh, no.” She hugged the painting to her, feeling even more guilty now for not keeping up with her neighbor and friend, staring at the last person she’d expected to see. Then something he said penetrated.

“You put her in an assisted-living facility?”

“I’m her great-nephew.” Then he stuck out his hand as if they hadn’t spent the previous night sweating and straining toward gigantic climaxes together, but were meeting for the first time.

“Tyler Houston.”

Oh, my Lord. Tyler Houston. Big brother of Katie, her erstwhile track teammate, and awkward little brother of Cameron Houston. Cam was every schoolgirl’s bad-boy dream come true; true to form, he’d met a wasteful and tragic end in early adulthood. No wonder Tyler had looked familiar. Trust Darcy to think that sense of déjà vu was some sign from the universe rather than the simple fact that she actually did know him. Vaguely anyway.

“I’m…” She took one hand away from the bubble-wrapped painting to shake his, and her perspiring skin made an embarrassing sucking-tearing sound as it separated from the plastic.

“Darcy Wolf.”

“Wow. Darcy Wolf.” He shook her hand, staring at her as if she were the big bad one. Then he dropped his arm and chuckled, but not as if something were funny in a good way.

She was pretty sure she knew what he was thinking. Both of them had gone into last night as a fantasy, the chance to leave behind their real identities and follow a powerful attraction to its passionate conclusion without baggage or expectations.

Now it turned out they had a shared past, more parallel than intertwined, but related certainly. There were many people Darcy didn’t want to find out that she’d stripped to seduce a workman at her house, and he would know a lot of them. In fact, Molly’s husband, Bruce, was a distant cousin of his.

She’d bet Tyler was about as happy to discover who she was as she was to discover who he was. Namely: not.

“Well.” She could feel herself blushing and stupidly clutched the painting harder as if she could cool her face that way. At least she’d told no-longer-Garrett that he was her first seduction, so he couldn’t tell anyone she probably made getting naked for strangers a habit. On the other hand, he might be enough of a gentleman not to tell anyone at all. That would be nice. “Tyler Houston. Imagine that. Ha.”

Her intense discomfort amused him apparently. Or something did. “Come on in. I don’t have to leave for your house for another fifteen minutes. The coffee’s still hot and I have a blueberry cake that should be finished.”

“Oh, you know…I just wanted to drop this off for Marjory.” She held out her ludicrously padded package, feeling a panicked need to run from this complete reconfiguration of her last twelve hours so she could think the new version through.

“It’s a painting. By Mr. Hous…uh, your great-uncle. I wanted Marjory to have it back.”

“Thanks.” He took the painting. “You don’t want to keep it? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh. Well.” She moved her hair back behind her shoulders, where it never wanted to stay, desperately trying to think of some reason not to keep the artwork other than loathing. “I’m just…I…Well, she should have it.”

He winked and she felt a little fizzy in response. “I didn’t like his work, either. But Aunt Marjory was proud of him. She’ll appreciate this, thank you.”

“My dad loved the painting. He hung it in his study, over his desk.”

“That’s nice to know.” His eyes warmed with sympathy and her fizz got fizzier. “I heard about your dad last year. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I miss him, but I’m glad he’s at peace now.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t figure out who you were. I assumed the house had been sold by now and that you were the new owner.”

“No. The old one.” She took a step back, frantic to escape. This was horrible. How did you have a polite catching-up conversation with someone as if you hadn’t seen him in years, when last night…

“Sure you won’t have coffee?”

“No. No. No, thanks.” She grimaced. Think she could say no a few more times?

“Okay.” His eyes cooled. “See you later.”

“Uh. I’m probably going to be out most of the day.”

“Right.” His lips scrunched into a line; he turned back into his house, lifting his hand. “Bye.”

Darcy nodded idiotically at the back of his head, then turned and fled up 64th Street, not feeling entitled to the shortcut anymore. She turned right on Clarke, south on 63rd, into her house and directly to her phone, desperately needing Molly.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

“Hi, Molly. Um…I need to…Last night…”

“Uh-oh, crisis.” Molly sighed. “I had three already this morning. Can’t find favorite shirt, didn’t like breakfast, left shoes across the street at Ricky’s house.”

“Sorry, I know you’re swamped.”

“For you, I can handle it. Just don’t call me Mom or honey.”

“Deal.”

“So?”

Darcy wrinkled her nose and launched herself into furious back-and-forth pacing across the now-rugless hardwood floor in the living room. “Last night. You know that painter I told you about?”

“Uh-oh. You did it…or rather, you did him?”

“Yes.”

“And now begins the fallout. Won’t say I-told-you-so, but want to.”

“No, last night was fine. More than fine. Perfect. He was…”

She stopped pacing, unable to tell her best friend, whom she told absolutely everything, any details. “Well, it was perfect.”

“I’m getting the perfect part, but you’re not in crisis over that.”

“No. So. This morning, I go to Marjory Houston’s house to take back one of her husband’s paintings.”

“The hideous one from your dad’s study?”

“Yup. Only it’s not Marjory Houston at the house.”

“No, she’s at Royal Oaks.”

“Instead it’s…Well, it’s…”

“Tyler Houston lives there now.”

“Right. Him.”

“And?”

“Him, Molly. Him.”

Molly’s gasp came over the line loud and clear, followed by a giggle. “Oh. My. God. You seduced Tyler Houston?”

“Apparently.”

Molly of course only saw the humor in this disaster and helped herself to a good long belly laugh at Darcy’s expense.

“You didn’t recognize him?”

“Why would I? I only saw him a few times that I can remember, and that was over ten years ago. He’s at least five years older than me, and let’s face it, sort of invisible next to his brother.”

“But you can see him now, I take it.”

“He grew up.” She pictured him coming into her room naked except for the towel and then naked without the towel and couldn’t help a dreamy smile. If only he’d stayed Garrett. But even now, knowing he was Tyler didn’t change that last night was perfect.

“So what now? When are you going to see him next?”

“I’m not.” She started pacing again. “Obviously.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it was only an accident that he turned out to be a real person. While he was a fantasy, the entire experience was amazing.”

“Oh, give me a—”

“I’m serious.” She directed her pacing to the ugly brown couch by the front window and sprawled on it. “And I want more.”

“You just said you weren’t going to see him.”

“No. With someone else. A different fantasy. Last night was amazing, Molly. I felt so free and powerful. And sexy, like movie-star sexy. The most amazing high I’ve ever had. I want that again.”

“Okay, now you’re scaring me.”

“No. I’m telling you, it was incredible.”

“Yeah, I hear heroin gives a pretty good high, too. Doesn’t make it a good idea.”

“Honestly.” Darcy gave a boring beige throw pillow a good solid punch. “Do all people start parenting everyone they know after they have kids?”

“Only when they need it.”

“Molly…”

“You know, the more I think about it, you and Tyler could make a really good couple. He’s smart, funny, really sharp. He’ll be teaching at UWM next fall. Bruce admires him, and you know Bruce, he doesn’t suffer fools.”

“I know that about Bruce.”

“So why not? Is he interested? I mean, obviously he was last night. What guy wouldn’t be with your, er, charming offer on the table. But this morning?”

Darcy scrunched up her mouth. He had looked at her sort of eagerly now that she thought about it. He had invited her in for coffee. Her insides started to warm and soften. His eyes were such a gorgeous color. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, often both. They made her—

Wait, what was she thinking? “Whether or not he’s interested is beside the point. I’m not interested.”

“Why not? He’s a hell of a catch.”

“I’m leaving town in a few weeks. Why would I want to start something? The only thing I have room for is fun.”

“Right.” Molly made a characteristic scoffing sound and Darcy could picture her disapproving face as if she was in the room next to her. “So. Then, uh, tell me, what’s your next big fun?”

“Well…” She tipped her head to one side, wondering why Molly had asked the question so oddly. Maybe because she didn’t really want to know? But Darcy did. What other fantasy could she fulfill? Another of her favorites popped into her head as if it had been waiting impatiently for its turn. “Next I’m going to dress in a sexy, black-leather-mini outfit, stiletto heels, killer makeup and strut into a bar baring my bad-assed attitude for all the world to see.”

Molly made a choking sound. “I need antacids just listening to this.”

“Aw, c’mon. Haven’t you always wanted to be a hot confident babe-ola just for a little while?”

“No, for God’s sake, and you know why? Because I have a brain, that’s why. Fantasies are called fantasies for a reason, and that reason is this. Because. They’re. Not. Real.”

Darcy frowned. Not that she expected sensible, practical, anti-glamour Molly, who met Bruce in high school and never looked back, to jump up and down at her idea, but she sounded stretched extra thin and had the day before, too. “Hey, girl. Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

“No. Nothing is bothering me.”

Darcy let the silence hang. “Moll…”

Molly sighed. “Bruce.”

“Bruce…what?”

“He’s…started going to some personal trainer.” Her sentence accelerated like a sports car. “So what, suddenly he hates the fact that he’s getting old and fat when he’s been a work in progress for years and years?”

“Bruce is working out?” She tried to picture beefy jolly Bruce breaking a sweat over anything but a Packers game on TV. “Bruce?”

“He met this woman through his work, selling her the usual physical therapy equipment. She offers to train him, which she does on the side. He accepts. She’s young, stunning, looks like Angelina Jolie. I haven’t seen her, this is his description. He talks about her all the time, how great she is, how strong she is, how smart she is…”

“Molly, you’ve been married eight happy years. Bruce is not going to cheat on you. He adores you. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“It’s a fantasy, Darcy. Fantasies are powerful and they’re dangerous. I’m telling you this now, before you get hurt or hurt someone else.”

“This is an entirely different situation.”

“Right.”

Darcy drew down her brows and punched the couch again, torn between annoyance and sympathy. “I’m not out trying to tempt husbands. I just want to have some irresponsible self-indulgent fun for a change.”

“Okay, okay. Maybe I’m a little touchy on the subject.”

“I understand, I really do. And I would so not worry. Bruce looks at you like you could walk on Lake Michigan.”

“Thanks, Darce. I’ll try not to.” Molly took a deep breath.

“So…when are you going to do this hot-babe routine? What bar?”

Again the odd tone. Darcy frowned, not sure whether to call her on it or not, and decided not. “I hadn’t really thought that far in advance. But…let’s say Saturday. Starlight City. Ten o’clock.”

The second she set the date, place and time, everything felt right. She knew she was going to go through with it. She would put the post-fantasy awkwardness with Tyler behind her and march forward, guns blazing, use her newfound powers to reduce Milwaukee’s men to quivering mounds of needy testosterone.

“Blech. Starlight City? Total meat market.”

“Ya think?”

Molly groaned. “Just be careful. Use condoms. Take Mace and pepper spray and a whistle. Don’t take him to your house or go to his, find a motel, one of the cheap ones with thin walls so people can hear if you scream. And if you haven’t called by midnight Saturday, I’m calling 9-1-1.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Promise?”

She made sure Molly could hear her sigh of exasperation.

“Cross my heart and hope to get massively laid.”

“Ack! Dear God, I won’t live through this.”

Darcy giggled. “And, honey, really don’t worry about Bruce. He probably just got a wake-up call about his weight and possible health problems and is excited about taking care of himself.”

“I hope so, Darce.”

“I know so.”

She hung up the phone, allowed herself to be one hundred percent sure that Bruce would never cheat on Molly no matter how hot this personal trainer chick was, then grabbed her purse and headed for the garage. The painters would arrive soon, including tempting Tyler, and she was going to visit poor Marjory at Royal Oaks and then…

She had some über-hot black leather to buy.

4

TYLER RODE HIS BICYCLE to a stop outside his garage, swung off and punched in the code to open the door, which squeaked in protest, reminding him that he needed to get out here with some lubricant. He could use some for his legs, too, which were aching; ditto his back and arms. He’d painted windows all day in a state of apprehension, not sure whether he wanted to see Darcy or if he didn’t. She never showed, either through the window or outside, which effectively took care of that apprehension but not until the end of the day. By that time he was physically tired but emotionally wired. To exhaust himself further, he’d taken a punishing bike trip up the Little Menomonee River Parkway and back through the city. Barely able to walk now, he still wasn’t sure he’d be able to relax.

He didn’t like this. His relationship with Annie had been uncomplicated from beginning to end. He’d met her their junior year at Bowdoin College in Maine. They spent time together as friends and then become more. They’d shared a sense of humor, taste in movies, books, food, political views and basic values. In short, they fit together perfectly. Effortlessly.

While Darcy…

Why was he even comparing them? Annie had been his world for years—he’d been sure they’d last a lifetime. This woman he barely knew. And yet, when she’d shown up at his door this morning holding one of Derek Houston’s paintings, ludicrously overwrapped, he’d naively assumed she’d been craving him to the same degree he’d been craving her, that she’d gone to endless lengths to find out who he was, where he lived, and that she was about to say, “Darling, even one night without you was too long. Please hold me and never let go.”

Right.

Sadder, even after she’d made it clear she had no idea she’d find him at his own address, the hopeful idiocy hung on to him long enough to ask her in for coffee and cake. Hadn’t she made it obvious enough the night before that she’d had what she needed from him and thanks, buh-bye?

No, he had to slobber after a few more precious minutes of her time, to hear her voice, see her smile, stare into her eyes and realize what a complete sap he was.

If he needed further proof of her lack of interest than her rejection of his coffee, her notable absence at the house today was it. By being gone all day she’d avoided even having to walk past him among the other workers. So. Enough. Time to put Darcy to bed, figuratively speaking.

Seeing her this morning cleared up the final mystery of why he felt so strongly that he knew her, which he’d been all too ridiculously willing to chalk up to some nutball theory of subconscious love connection. Of course he thought he knew her. He did, though he could barely extract her from his memories. Another of the neighborhood girls hanging around, giggling and preening, hoping for a glimpse of Cam. His cousin Bruce had married her best friend Molly, whom Tyler remembered more vividly than Darcy for the somewhat embarrassing reason that Molly had been one of those girls who, er, matured early.

Teenage boys were so deep.

So much for love at first sight, little sister Katie. Or second sight. And it looked like he wouldn’t be given a third.

He parked his bike in its place next to the mower and slapped the garage door button as he stepped back onto the driveway, where he stretched carefully, not eager to start another day of painting sore and stiff.

That done, he let himself into the house, thinking a hot shower and a cold beer sounded better than just about anything—even another night with Darcy.

Okay. Forget that.

She was the first woman he’d been interested in since Annie had flattened him by refusing his marriage proposal. Obviously he was overromanticizing Darcy out of some vain hope he’d be able to avoid the scummy mess of the dating pool by falling back in love on his first try. Thank God she was blunt about her feelings—or lack thereof. He’d shower her off, too, then throw something together for dinner. Maybe a frittata—he had some leftover ratatouille that would be delicious in it, maybe with a few potato slices thrown in. Then he could sit back, relax and think about her. Or think about why he shouldn’t think about her. Or think about not thinking about her.

He was screwed. And not the way he wanted to be.

The shower was refreshing, the beer cold and satisfying, the frittata slightly overcooked, but good anyway. He cleaned up the kitchen and took a second beer and his cordless phone out onto the back patio, where he’d optimistically set one of his cedar outdoor chairs, though he’d wait to bring the rest up from the basement. With weather this warm, it was tempting to haul out the grill and plant his vegetable garden, too, but Milwaukee undoubtedly had a week or two of chill still planned before it allowed summer to land for real.

He set his phone on the arm of the chair and laughed in disgust at his foolish optimism. Hello, Tyler. She didn’t know the number. She wouldn’t call. She didn’t want to see him. Losing Annie must have made him cling like a burr to the first woman who caught his eye.

The phone rang. He blinked at it, adrenaline setting off a tornado in his stomach.

Darcy?

No, for God’s sake. He took another swig of beer before he picked it up, imagining her voice on the other end even as he told himself not to bother.

“How are you, my man?”

Tyler smiled. See? Not her. And he was completely fine with that. Really. “Hey, Bruce, how goes it?”

“Not too bad. Just back from my workout and cracking open a brew.”

“Back from your what?” He couldn’t have heard right.

“I’m a changed man. Lost ten pounds this month and going for forty more.”

“Forty! You’re kidding. I’ve only seen you exercise your beer muscle.”

“I know, I know.” He laughed the big Bruce laugh everyone knew him by. “I met this woman. Whoa, you should see her. Personal trainer. She says no pain no gain. I’m telling you, looking at her I don’t care what she makes me do. I feel no pain at all.”

“Um…well.” Tyler leaned back, slightly uncomfortable. Maybe when he was married he’d understand that the whole ogle-other-women thing was harmless, but this wasn’t like Bruce at all and he felt immediate loyalty to Molly. “Wow.”

“Get this. She’s not only a knockout, she’s got a degree in philosophy. Can you beat that? Brains, biceps and boobs. The holy trinity.”

Tyler winced. “That’s…great. So, uh, how’s Molly doing?”

“Fine, fine. Same as usual. She’s why I’m calling. She’s got this friend, uh…Darcy.”

Tyler narrowly avoided spilling beer down his shirt. He had no idea how to respond to that, so he said, “Ugnhya?”

“Yeah, uh, she and Darcy are really close. They tell each other pretty much…everything.”

Tyler sat up, then stood. “Everything.”

“Sorry, man. Look, I wouldn’t have called, but Moll said—”

Molly’s irritated voice interrupted him from the background. Tyler paced off the patio onto his yard and down to the back fence, then realized his back fence was also Darcy’s and beat a hasty retreat around to the front, not sure whether he was flattered or furious. Darcy had told Molly about their night together? Already? Had she discussed the size of his dick, too? He hadn’t thought he could feel stupider for thinking they’d shared something special, but apparently he could. He’d like to have a word or two with her about privacy and integrity and good taste.

“Okay, Moll, if you’re so gung-ho worried about her and I’m doing it wrong, then you tell him.” Bruce’s booming voice came clearly over the line. Tyler rolled his eyes. Whatever Molly had to say about Darcy’s version of their night together, he wasn’t interested.

“Tyler, hi, it’s Molly.”

“Listen, what happened between Darcy and me is between Darcy and—”

“I know. It’s really tacky of me, and if I wasn’t so worried about her and sure she was about to make a big mistake, I’d stay way out of it, I promise.”

Tyler closed his eyes. Darcy was nothing to him. More to the point, he was nothing to Darcy. He owed her nothing at all. Not one thing. And if she was in trouble in some way and needed help, well, that was just too bad for her. She had the chance to…She could have…She…

Damn.

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

“She got this crazy idea after…” She cleared her throat.

“After things went so, uh, well last night. With you.”

He rolled his eyes. Great. He got a good review. Call the New York Times and put it on the front page. “Yeah?”

“So she wants to do it again.”

Tyler stopped dead on the sidewalk in front of his house and realized he was staring at Annika, the cranky eighty-year-old woman who walked her Scottie—named Scotty—around the block four times a day every day at the exact same hours. If you made eye contact she’d haul you into conversation extremely tough to escape from. He whirled around and walked back down the driveway, still stunned by what Molly had said. Darcy wanted him again? “She has a damn strange way of showing it.”

“No, not with you.”

Tyler closed his eyes. God give him strength to face this humiliation. “Thanks.”

“I mean, she does want to be with you but she doesn’t think she does.”

He lifted his face to the sky. “Molly, you want to start this one over?”

“Yes. Sorry. Here it is. She’s coming off a rough few years and she has this crazy idea of fulfilling all her fantasies before she leaves town.”

“Leaves?” He couldn’t stop the thump in his chest. “You’re still ahead of me. Where is she going?”

“She’s moving. To Seattle. Then L.A. Then Miami. Then Boston.”

“For her job?” He didn’t even know where she worked. He knew next to nothing about her. Why did he care this much whether she stayed or went or whether he ever saw her again?

“For fun. She’s always wanted to live in the four corners of the country.”

“Okay…”

“So I’m worried about her.”

“She strikes me as someone who can take care of herself.” And how. He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone.

“She’s planning to walk into a bar dressed in some complete slut outfit and seduce whatever guy she comes across. On Saturday.”

Tyler actually flinched, the pain was that real and that immediate. “Why the hell are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to stop her.”

“Me? You’re worried about her, you stop her. Jeez, Molly, this is really over the—”

“She wants you, Tyler. She’s totally fighting how she feels about you.”

His mouth dropped open. He became aware that he had turned around and was staring at Annika again, who had planted her white-haired, blue-running-suit-clad self firmly at the end of his driveway and was beckoning. He shook his head and pointed to the phone. “Could you repeat that please, Molly?”

“I think she’s really into you.”

He frowned. Annika beckoned harder. “You only think?”

“I know she is. And I’m scared she’s doing this second seduction out of some stupid fear she’ll fall in love with you and won’t be able to get away like she’s planned.”

Tyler couldn’t move. Fall in love? What the hell? Had Molly lost her mind? “Uh, can I talk to Bruce?”

“Why?”

“Just…can I, please?”

Molly sighed and said, “Okay,” in a tone that told him she thought he was exactly as insane as he thought she was.

Bruce came on with a cheerful, “What’s up?” Annika stopped beckoning and pointed frantically to something in his front yard. Tyler felt like roaring at her.

“Bruce, man, how much of this is your wife’s matchmaking fantasy and how much of it is real? My balls are on the line here.”

“She’s known Darcy since sixth grade, Tyler. I’ve never heard her say this about her before. Not with that boyfriend in high school, not with the old-guy one after. Molly knows people. She can tell you who’s calling just by the way the phone rings. She can tell when women are pregnant sometimes before they know. She knows when people are sick—she has that sense. So if she says Darcy’s in love with you, then she is.”

Tyler had to ward off the thrill his subconscious happily provided. He shook his head, unable to process any of this rationally. Annika immediately nodded hers and pointed again. Exasperated, Tyler began walking toward her as slowly as he could. “So why exactly is Molly telling me all this?”

“She wants you to intercept Darcy at this bar on Saturday, so she doesn’t make some stupid mistake with the wrong guy when she really wants you.”

“You’re buying this?”

“I know, I know. But that’s what she tells me, and I trust her judgment.”

“Tyler!” Annika’s wavery voice was indignant. Her faded blue eyes glared under bushy salt-and-pepper brows.

“Bruce, I’ll call you back.” He punched off the phone, grateful for the excuse to escape, but not about to let Annika think he enjoyed being interrupted. “What is so important that I had to interrupt my phone call, Annika?”

“That.” She pointed to his hedge. “What about that?”

Tyler turned and looked. A hedge. A house. He took a few steps closer to Annika and looked again. Still the hedge and the house. Nothing more noteworthy than that. “What?”

“Your hedge needs trimming.”

He worked his jaw. He really, really wanted to say several phrases that had grown popular in the decades since Annika’s childhood. “Okay, Annika. I’ll get right on that.”

“Good.” She turned away and started her familiar uneven trudge down the block, followed equally slowly by the equally ancient Scotty, who had once responded to a friendly gesture by nearly biting off Tyler’s fingers.

He barely kept himself from making a rude gesture after her. Instead he tried to think about how lonely she must be and how empty her life was if bitching about other people’s hedges filled her day.

Then without trying at all, he thought about Darcy dressed in a tiny skirt and tight cropped top, smiling at some megahunk in a crowded bar. He imagined the guy getting half-hard looking at her incredible body and her open smile and thinking he was going to get lucky in a big way.

Tyler stopped that image cold. So? If that was what Darcy wanted to do, fine. If she wanted to run away from any possible feelings for Tyler, that was her choice. She was a big girl, not a teenager. He wasn’t going to chase after her and become her caretaker on the basis of one night together.

The hunk in the bar reached around Darcy’s waist and pulled her close, leering. His hand slipped down to cup her ass. He leaned in and tasted the soft skin of her neck.

Stop that.

Tyler didn’t believe in love at first sight. Not for himself and not for anyone else, either. Nor did he believe that sex necessarily had to happen in the context of a relationship, committed or otherwise. Darcy had enjoyed herself. He’d enjoyed himself. Maybe they both wanted more, but for whatever reason that wasn’t going to happen and he was fine with that.

The megahunk’s hand on Darcy’s ass slipped lower; his fingers curled under her skirt and started up her thigh…

Tyler whipped out the phone and dialed. “Bruce.”

“Yeah, man.”

“The bar Darcy’s going to Saturday?”

“Yeah?”

Tyler ran his hand over his face, checking in with himself for another chance to be smart and stay sane and stay the hell out of it. To make sure he really wanted to do something this stupid and also completely nuts and also freaking insane.

Another flash—Darcy lying under Mr. Megahunk, her nails digging into his hugely muscled back.

Apparently he did.

“I need to know which bar and I need to know what time.”

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