Ain’t She Sweet?

“I do not think,” said Lord Bromford, having considered the matter gravely, “that one should sacrifice one’s principles to gratify a female’s whim.”

GEORGETTE HEYER, The Grand Sophy

Winnie offered Ryan a taste of her kiwi tart right before she made her move. As Sugar Beth began to pick up the empty plates, Winnie raised her voice, ever so slightly. “Oh, dear, I accidentally kicked my fork under the table. Let me move out of the way, Sugar Beth, so you can get it for me.” She rose from the table and took one small step to the side.

Colin understood at once. Winnie had chosen something small, unimportant, something almost insignificant that symbolized everything. To retrieve the fork, Sugar Beth would have to drop to her knees at Winnie’s feet.

He had no idea whether Sugar Beth would do it, didn’t wait to see. Instead, he shot off his stool only to realize that Winnie’s husband had beaten him to it.

“Let me,” Ryan said quickly.

The edges of Winnie’s mouth collapsed, and for the first time that evening, she seemed more vulnerable than Sugar Beth. Sugar Beth met Ryan’s eyes for a fraction of a second before she took a small step back. Slowly, he dropped to one knee at his wife’s feet, reached under the table, and withdrew the fork that Winnie had undoubtedly kicked there.

Colin gazed from one woman to the other. He’d always been fascinated by literary archetypes, but if someone had asked him, right at that moment, which of these women was plucky Cinderella and which the wicked stepsister, he’d have been hard-pressed to come up with an answer.

The evening ground on. He might be miserable, but his guests seemed to be enjoying themselves, and it was past eleven before they finally began to trickle away.

Winnie’s hands weren’t quite steady as she slipped into her skimpy black lace teddy. It was one of several she owned in various colors. Ryan came into the bedroom without his sport coat. He’d undoubtedly tossed it over a chair downstairs. It would still be there when they got back from church tomorrow. He didn’t expect her to pick up after him. He just failed to notice how many of his things he left lying around.

“Look at this.” He held out a rumpled wall poster showing a bare-chested hunk sporting a pair of nipple rings while a woman’s hand reached through his legs to cup his crotch. “She had this hanging on the back of her door when I went in to check on her.”

“She knows how much we hate her posters. That’s why she keeps putting them up.”

“If she’s this rebellious now, what’s going to happen when she’s sixteen?”

Winnie didn’t voice her deepest fear, that genetics would somehow play out, and Gigi would end up like Sugar Beth: self-centered, spiteful, and sexually active at too young an age.

Ryan tossed the poster in their trash basket and headed for the closet. He didn’t remark on her imported black teddy, but why should he? She had a vast collection of sexy sleepwear, and he saw her in or out of one of the pieces nearly every night. Sometimes she wanted to throw them all away and head to Wal-Mart for a set of comfy cotton pj’s.

As he went about his bedtime routine, she slid under the covers and opened the book she’d left on the table, but she didn’t even pretend to read it. Instead, she gnawed over the ugly memory of Ryan kneeling at Sugar Beth’s feet. What a terrible miscalculation she’d made. She’d forced her husband to choose sides, and he’d chosen the wrong one.

She was sick of her jealousy. All evening he’d watched Sugar Beth. He’d been discreet about it, but you couldn’t live with a man for so long and not know what he was thinking. Tonight Winnie had to make love with him until he was so mindless he forgot about Sugar Beth. Give it to me, babee . . . Just like a third-rate porn star. But the thought of the gyrations, the moaning, the mess, made her feel exhausted and resentful.

Ryan finished in the bathroom and slid naked into bed. He turned on his side so he was facing her. She only had to brush against him and he’d be hard. He reached out and stroked her hair, then ran his finger under the strap of her teddy to graze her nipple.

Give it to me, babee . . . She owed him everything, but she put her book on the nightstand as an excuse to turn away. Then she said the most extraordinary thing.

“I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight.”

His golden brown eyes filled with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“A little stomach upset.” She pushed back the covers and dropped her legs over the side of the bed. “I don’t want to wake you if I have to get up.”

He reached out to rub the small of her back. “I don’t mind.”

“We’ll both sleep better this way.”

She slid out of bed without giving him a good-night kiss. She was appalled with herself. Tonight, of all nights, when she most needed to be seductive, she couldn’t bring herself to kiss him. She was sick of him. Sick of his good looks, his flawless manners, his endless solicitude. She was sick of always feeling second-rate. And most of all, she was sick of pretending to like him when she didn’t. Love him, yes. She loved him with all her heart. That would never go away. But right now she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

She gathered her robe from the foot of the bed. “Gigi’s going to raise a stink in the morning about going to Sunday school. I’ll let you deal with her.”

He’d propped himself on his elbow, gazing at her quizzically. “All right.”

She told herself not to say another word, to go to the guest room and shut the door before she did any more damage. “I’m going to buy some pajamas.”

“I don’t wear pajamas.”

“For me.”

He gave her his patented sexy smile. “I like what you have on right now.”

“That makes one of us.”

His smile faded. “You’re tired.”

Sick and tired. And he knew why. But he wouldn’t say it. He would ignore the ghost that had hovered over them for fourteen years, just as she would, because their marriage was fragile as an eggshell, and neither of them wanted to risk cracking it.

“Tired. Yes.” She managed a shaky smile. “I’ll make you pancakes in the morning.” As if a stack of pancakes would fix what was wrong between them.

She turned off the light and walked to the door.

“Do you want me to rub your back?” he said.

“No. No, I don’t want that at all.” She let herself out of the room.

Colin came into the kitchen and saw Sugar Beth standing on a stool, putting away a tray in the cupboard over the cooktop. It was one in the morning, the caterer had left, and she was clearly exhausted, but she still hadn’t finished proving that she could take anything Colin threw at her. What kind of man tried to snuff out a spirit like this? “You’re dead on your feet. Go home.”

She gazed at her dog. “What’s Gordon doing here?”

“I went over to the carriage house to let him out, and he followed me back. He chewed up one of your shower thongs.”

“He hates me.”

“Dogs don’t hate their masters. It defies the natural order of the universe.”

“Says you.” She climbed off the stool, and as she picked it up to tuck it away, he saw shadows like bruises under her eyes.

“Put that bloody thing down. I can take care of whatever’s left tomorrow.”

She cocked the stool against her hip and eyed him with open mockery. “Look at you. Guilt oozing from every pore. You’re not going to start crying, are you? Because, frankly, that’s more than I could stomach.”

“I’ll attempt to keep my tears in check. Now, go to bed. I’ll write you a check in the morning.”

“Darn right you will. And you’re paying me double for overtime. But then two times zip is zip, right? God, you’re cheap. Maybe if you didn’t spend so much money on fancy perfume and Barbra Streisand records, you could pay me what I’m worth.”

“My dear, even I don’t have that much money.”

That stopped her cold. He had the satisfaction of seeing her blink, then frown, as she searched for the hidden insult. He pressed his advantage. “I know this will disappoint you, but tonight was the end of it. We’re even. I’ve officially been avenged for your teenage treachery.”

She rolled her eyes, back in the game. “Are you telling me that little bit of guilt is all it takes to make you tuck your tail between your legs? And you call yourself a man.”

He’d been reading too much Victorian erotica because he wanted to bend her over a chair and . . . do something quite nasty.

She settled on a stool at the counter and hooked a stockinged heel over the rung. “I guess I never told you about this.” She leaned her chin on the back of her hand in a parody of dreamy reminiscence. “The night I made up my lie about you . . . I cried real tears.”

“You don’t say.” She was hurting herself—he could feel it—but he didn’t know how to stop her. Besides, his days of attempting to rescue wounded women were behind him.

“See, I’d had an accident with my Camaro that day—stop signs still bring out the rebel in me—and I was afraid Daddy would take my car keys. So it wasn’t only the fact I hated your guts that made me lie.”

“It’s late, Sugar Beth, and you’re tired.”

“It was funnier than hell. The minute I told Diddie that you tried to feel me up, she forgot all about the dent in the side of that car, and so did Daddy. They didn’t even dock my allowance for the repairs. I still laugh thinkin’ about it.”

She didn’t look like laughing. She looked soul weary and worn out. He walked toward her. “You were a kid, and you’d been spoiled rotten. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

He should have known empathy would be a mistake because she came up off the stool hissing. “Aren’t you just all Christian charity? Compassion and forgiveness pourin’ out of you. Well, I don’t need your pity, Mr. Byrne. I don’t need—”

“That’s enough!” In one swift motion, he scooped her off her feet and carried her from the kitchen. He was done fighting with himself. All night it had been building up to this, and now he was taking her upstairs, dumping her in his bed, and making love with her until neither of them could think straight.

“Well, well, well . . .” She gazed up at him, all tired eyes and provocative drawl. “This is more like it, big guy.”

That stopped him cold.

“What’s the matter, your lordship? Having second thoughts?” She mocked him with her weary coquette’s pout. “Maybe you’re afraid you can’t get it up for a girl.”

Sex and sass were the only weapons she had left. He understood that, just as he understood his solicitude must feel like slow poison to those proud veins, and this was the only way she had left to pay him back.

He was a cynical man aroused beyond bearing, but he’d once had the spirit of a romantic, and somehow he found the willpower to ease her to her feet. Then, because he deserved something for his restraint, he kissed her deeply and thoroughly.

She responded like a temptress—full tongue, breathy moans, hips rubbing against his, all of it phony, designed to let him know what he could do with his pity. Even so, blood throbbed in his groin, and his body demanded more. He needed all of his self-control not to lose patience with her, but he kept his lips soft and coaxing, giving her time to work out her anger. Gradually, the writhing stopped, and her tongue retreated into her mouth. She curled soft and warm against him. He sipped at her lips. They tasted like velvet.

Sugar Beth felt the gentle pull of Colin’s mouth and knew he’d disarmed her, but she was too exhausted to struggle any longer. He was fully aroused, and it startled her to realize she was, too. Beneath her bone-deep weariness, her body had come to life.

He tasted of health and vigor, of the kind of male potency she’d nearly forgotten existed. His kiss deepened. She felt the ropey muscles, the tensile strength of his body. Her lips parted, and he slipped his tongue into her mouth. She let her arms drift around his neck. He dallied and stroked. She heard herself sigh as he abandoned her mouth to pick her up again.

But instead of heading for the stairs, he carried her across the foyer, then shifted her in his arms so he could open the front door.

“This may very well be the hardest thing I’ve ever done”—he was clenching his teeth—“but when we make love—and believe me when I tell you we’re going to—it will be about pleasure, not some bloody contest to see who’s still standing at the end.”

It was cold outside. She rested her cheek against his shirtfront. He wasn’t even breathing hard as he carried her across the yard with Gordon leading the way.

“Furthermore,” he went on, “you will be rested. And”—he gripped her tighter—“sweet-tempered.”

“You had more to drink than I thought.” She yawned and closed her eyes. “Go ahead and admit it. You’re afraid of me.”

“Terrified is more like it.”

She burrowed deeper into his chest. “I’m a handful, all right.”

“My worst nightmare.”

The carriage house door stuck, and he had to put her down to open it. Once he got her inside, he kissed her again, but just the lightest brush of his lips, as if he didn’t trust himself to do more. That was when she realized he wasn’t fooling about leaving. She didn’t want him to, but she couldn’t come up with a way to tell him she was lonely, lost, and needed him to stay.

“You have no idea what this is costing me,” he said as he headed for the door, “so don’t expect me to be pleasant when I come to see you in the morning.”

“Who said you were invited?”

“Who said I need an invitation?”

This time when he left, he took her dog with him.

She barely dragged herself upstairs. She dropped her clothes in a heap and somehow managed to brush her teeth, but summoning the energy to sort through her jumbled feelings was too much to ask, and she fell into bed.

Just as she drifted off to sleep, she heard them.

“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar . . .”

At first, she thought she was dreaming, but as she rolled to her back, their calls grew louder.

“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar Pie . . .”

Cubby Bowmar and his drunken friends were out front, baying for her just like in high school.

You’re going to be a woman for the ages, Diddie had said.

Sugar Beth pulled the pillow over her head and went to sleep.

Winnie awakened to the sound of Ryan showering. Not long after, she heard him rousing Gigi for Sunday school along with her predictable protest.

“I was suspended, Dad. Remember?”

“Not from church.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“She isn’t feeling well.”

“Me either.”

“Get dressed.”

Winnie drifted. She caught the faint scent of coffee . . . dishes clattering in the kitchen . . . a door slamming . . . a car driving away . . . the world going on without her. Finally, she roused herself enough to get out of bed.

She stepped over the black teddy she’d shed last night in favor of an old T-shirt of Ryan’s and a pair of pink sweatpants she’d stashed in the closet for the church collection box. She made her way to the bathroom and managed to brush her teeth, but a shower was beyond her. She gazed at herself in the mirror: puffy-eyed, pasty-faced, hair smashed to one side of her head. Her life was unraveling like the seat of the pink sweatpants, one thread at a time.

“Feelin’ better?”

She jumped as Ryan’s reflection appeared in the mirror over her shoulder. He was wearing khakis and the Old Navy rugby Gigi had bought him for Christmas. “I thought you left.”

“I was worried about you, so I asked Merylinn to take Gigi to church with them. How are you doing?”

“All right.” The isolation of the guest room bed called out to her—a place where she couldn’t hurt either one of them. She wanted to creep back in and bury herself under the covers.

“The concert’s this afternoon. The reception. Are you going to be up for all that?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. She knew why he’d stayed home from church. He wanted to make up for what he’d done at the party. Everything had always been so effortless for Sugar Beth: her beauty, her charm, her ability to hypnotize the most decent of men, even Colin. As for Ryan . . . One look at Sugar Beth was all it had taken for him to be run down by a whole truckload of the might-have-beens.

Winnie’s anger choked her. She’d sacrificed the very essence of who she was in a futile attempt to compete with the ghost of a spoiled eighteen-year-old girl. She was so sick of herself she couldn’t bear it.

Ryan glanced at his watch. “Gigi won’t be back for a while. Let’s—”

“Don’t you ever think about anything but sex!” The words erupted from her as if they’d been shot to the surface by some prehistoric geyser.

He couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d slapped him. The geyser sputtered, then retreated as remorse swamped her. “I’m sorry. Oh, dear, Ryan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

But no easy apology would fix this. His warm brown eyes had grown wintry. “I was about to suggest you throw on some clothes so we could drive to the bakery and get some of the cherry fritters you like.”

The unfairness of her attack sickened her, but the simmering anger wouldn’t go away. All her life she’d believed she didn’t deserve anything better than everyone’s emotional leftovers, and she was tired of it. She breathed hard, choked the anger back down. “I’m sorry.”

“Contrary to what you seem to believe, sex isn’t all I think about.”

“I know that. I’m just . . . out of sorts.” She pressed her hands to her waist, trying to hold the bubbling geyser in. “Let me get cleaned up, and I’ll go with you.”

“Forget it. I have some paperwork to do.” He took a step, then stopped. A slash of morning light threw his face into shadow, and for a moment, he looked like a stranger. “If you’re mad about last night, why don’t you just come out and say it instead of going through all this drama?”

The geyser rumbled. “I’m not.”

“Sugar Beth deserved the cold shoulder, but what happened went beyond that. You all behaved like children, and I won’t have any part of it.”

“Of course you won’t.” The geyser churned inside her, searching for a weak place to push through her skin.

“When are you going to let the past go?”

“Like you have?”

“Damn right I have.”

“You couldn’t take your eyes off her! All night. Every time I looked at you, you were watching her.”

“Stop right there.” His hand shot out. “We’ll talk about this when you’re ready to make sense.”

His dismissal cut through what was left of her self-control, and the geyser erupted again. This time it brought everything with it, including the secret she’d kept locked away for so many years. “I can’t do this!”

He began to walk away.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!”

He kept going.

She rushed after him, a wild-eyed harridan, shrieking, hysterical, out of control. “I got pregnant on purpose!”

“Settle down.”

“I lied to you!”

He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned back to her. For the first time, he looked genuinely alarmed. “Winnie, stop this.”

“I got pregnant on purpose so you’d marry me!”

“I know.”

She pressed her fingers to her lips, swallowed her bile, tried to breathe, couldn’t. “You know? You know, and you never said anything?”

“What was the point?” He thrust a hand through his hair. “There’s no reason to talk about this.”

“I trapped you!”

“I don’t feel trapped. Gigi’s more precious to me than my own life. Now go take a bath. You’ll feel better.”

As if a bath could wash away her sin.

“Ryan . . .”

But he was already disappearing down the stairs.

She slumped against the wall. Her darkest secret . . . and he didn’t want to talk about it.

Numbly, she returned to the bathroom and sank down on the side of the tub. She’d never planned to trap him. But then one night she’d heard herself say that she was on the pill, and he didn’t have to worry. Since she was Winnie Davis, he’d believed her.

She had responsibilities, so she turned on the faucets. The concert was this afternoon, the reception. If only she could be like Sugar Beth—callous and self-centered, utterly without conscience. She began to cry. How long did a person have to pay for old sins? Her lie had made Gigi, so she couldn’t regret it. Why, then, did she keep hating herself?

Maybe because Ryan had never done the job for her.

Sugar Beth smelled coffee. And bacon. She loved bacon. She rolled over, saw that it was nearly eleven, and headed for the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, she was on her way downstairs wearing clean underwear, a black satin Victoria’s Secret robe she’d had forever, and her oldest pair of cowboy boots. She’d washed her hair, but she hadn’t taken the time to dry it. She also hadn’t bothered with makeup. After yesterday, Colin Byrne didn’t deserve more than clean hair and a little moisturizer.

Her muscles ached from hard work and righteous indignation, but more than that, she felt relief. Whether Colin knew it or not, he’d finally forgiven her. The burden she’d carried for so long had been eased at last.

He stood at the stove in the small kitchen, his back turned to her, his presence dominating the small space. Just looking at him made her want to rip off his clothes and drag him upstairs.

“I was getting ready to wake you up.”

She wished she’d stayed in bed longer and let him do it. That ol’ black magic—falling for the wrong man. Except she wasn’t so stupid now. It might have taken her awhile, but she finally knew the difference between lust and love. “Good Lord, are you really wearing jeans? Give me some coffee fast.”

“They’re custom made,” he said as she pulled one of Tallulah’s Wedgwood cups from the shelf and helped herself. “French. They cost over three hundred dollars a pair, but I think they’re worth it.”

She studied the way the denim conformed to his hips beneath the Gap label. “Those Frenchies sure do know something about making jeans,” she said dryly.

“I heard your admirers last night.”

“Cubby and the boys?”

“Celebrating their graduation from idiot school, no doubt. One egg or two?” He cracked two into the skillet.

“Tell me there’s a box of Krispy Kremes hidden somewhere.”

“You’re lucky the toast isn’t whole wheat.” He took in her satin robe and the cowboy boots. “Fetching.”

“You are the only man in Parrish with the nerve to use a word like that. Where’s my dog?”

“Outside. He doesn’t seem inclined to wander.”

“Too obstinate.” She carried her coffee to the kitchen table and sat. “I smell bacon, so why am I not seein’ it?”

“I’ll make you a fresh batch.” He scooped her eggs onto a plate with surprising competency, added toast he’d already buttered, and set them on the table in front of her.

“What are you doing eating bacon? Your arteries have probably gone into shock.”

“A moment of weakness.”

“I sure know how that feels.” The toast was cold, but he hadn’t spared the butter, so she didn’t complain. And the eggs weren’t bad. The bacon sizzled as he tossed it into the skillet, every motion efficient. She spoke around her first bite. “I hope nobody finds out you’re providing aid and comfort to the enemy.”

“No doubt I’ll survive.”

“Are you making me breakfast because you’re still working through your guilt, or are you just being nice so you can get to the goodies?”

“By goodies, I assume you’re referring to those delectable parts of yourself tucked away beneath your robe.”

“Those would be them, yes.”

“Probably.”

“Which one? Guilt or goodies?”

“I have to choose?”

“Never mind.” She polished off the first egg. “Tell me about your wife.”

“No.”

“No talky. No goodies.” He didn’t pull his punches with her, and she wasn’t going to do it with him. “How did she die?”

He stabbed at the bacon. “If you must know, she ran into a bridge abutment. Tragic enough under any circumstances, but she did it deliberately.”

“Ouch.”

“Exactly.”

There was a whole world of pain hidden behind that impassive profile. “You know a lot more than I thought about guilt,” she said. “Funny how you can misjudge people.”

“I had no reason to feel guilty. I’d done everything I could to help her.”

Sugar Beth knew way too much about recrimination to believe he was that clearheaded, and she lifted an eyebrow.

He looked away. “All right, she was pregnant, and it took me awhile. But sanity reigned, and I finally worked through it. Learned a bit about myself in the process.”

“Such as?”

“That marriage isn’t for me. Some people can make it work, but I’m not one of them.”

“You haven’t been tempted since then?”

“Hard for you to imagine, I’m sure, but not even once. I finally have my life exactly where I want it, and I’ve never been happier. But enough of my tedious past.” He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and turned to regard her. “Tell me if there was anything beyond the obvious that possessed you to marry a man forty years your senior.”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“I’m becoming more discerning about sorting through your bullshit, so let me try.”

She broke off a corner of her toast, but couldn’t eat it. “I loved him.”

“And why not? He was worth millions.”

“Ordinarily you’d have a point, but I didn’t find out how rich he was until he’d already worked his magic.”

“He was seventy. How much magic could the man work?”

“You’d be surprised. He was a handsome son of a gun, looked fifteen years younger than his age, a Texas version of Anthony Hopkins, but without that scary dental appliance.” Her throat began to tighten. “The most charming man I’ve ever known. Real charm, the kind that goes bone deep because it’s born of kindness. He was the love of my life.”

“Touching.” His tone was caustic, his smile sympathetic. She appreciated the combination. He pulled out the bacon. “I gathered from something you mentioned earlier that he was sick for quite a while.”

“For two years. In a coma the last six months.”

“And he died four months ago?”

She nodded and shook off her sadness. “So here we are. A grieving widow and a lonely widower staving off lives of quiet desperation with a well-intentioned, but badly prepared, breakfast. It’s enough to make Hallmark cry. By the way, I’m fixing you grits next week. I’ve got a hankerin’.”

He’d begun to pick up the plate of bacon, but now he set it back down, no longer looking cynical, just serious. “There’s not going to be a next week for us, Sugar Beth.”

She jumped up from her chair. “Oh, no, you don’t. I haven’t found that painting yet, and you are not firing me. I need the money, as paltry as it is.”

He regarded her with his old haughtiness. “The job is demeaning. I only offered it to humiliate you.”

“You’re coming closer all the time. Another few weeks, and I know you’ll get it right.”

He lifted his eyes. She sat back down. “Please, Colin, don’t be a prick.”

“Exactly what I’m trying not to be. You can’t stay in this town any longer. I’ve written you a check that’ll tide you over for a while. Go back to Houston. You can support yourself a lot better there than you can here.”

Supporting herself had never been the problem. It was paying Delilah’s bills she couldn’t seem to manage. “I’m not leaving without that painting.”

“You don’t even know if it still exists.” He loomed over her. “And whatever luxuries you could buy from selling it aren’t worth giving up your dignity.”

“Easy for you to say. You weren’t born shallow.”

“Bloody hell, Sugar Beth! Look at you. You’re skin and bones. You don’t look like you’ve slept well in weeks. Top that off with the fact that people are spitting at you in the street, and you’re doing nothing to stop them. It’ll only get worse, you know. Make no mistake, Winnie has power in this town.”

“I’m not afraid of Winnie Davis.”

“I’m sure you’re not. But Winnie Galantine is a different kettle of fish. She’s Diddie, Sugar Beth. Get that through your thick head. Winnie has all the power your mother used to have.”

“But none of the charm.”

“Then there’s the issue of the two of us.” He scowled. “Last night more than satisfied my blood lust, but I still don’t exactly wish you well. That said, I find it particularly ominous that we’re on the verge of having sex. More than on the verge, if I have my way about it.”

“Which you may not. I’m still making up my mind.”

“Liar. We’re throwing off so many sparks the walls are smoking.”

“Sparks caused by faulty wiring. We’re the two most mismatched people in the universe.”

“Which only makes it more alluring, doesn’t it?” His eyes burned her. “I avoid high-maintenance women with a vengeance, and they don’t come any more high-maintenance than you.”

“I pride myself.”

“You thrive on men who worship you, and that won’t happen with me.”

“I love the way you sweet-talk.”

“The sexual attraction of opposites.”

“You’re making a good point, except I’ve got this sneaky feeling you’ll be a major disappointment in the sack.”

His voice descended to a single ominous note. “And why is that, may I ask?”

“You know.”

“Do share.”

“The prissy thing. My body isn’t neat like yours. It’s female. It gets all musky. Wet. You’re fastidious. I just don’t think you’re going to like it that much.” She tried to figure out exactly what she thought she was doing other than scaring herself to death.

“You, my dear, are the very incarnation of evil.”

She beamed at him. “I know.”

“Eat.” He slapped the plate of bacon in front of her. “Not hungry? Fine. Let’s go upstairs.”

“If I do, I get to keep my job.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with keeping your job, and you know it.” Gordon howled at the front door just as he began to reach for her. “That bloody cur.”

“You’ve finally seen the light.”

He let in her dog, who headed for his water bowl. She gazed down at the bacon, but she’d lost her appetite. Until she’d come back to Parrish, grief and anxiety had pretty much taken care of her sex drive. Then she’d met Colin Byrne again. Why did he have to be the man who’d jarred her out of her uncomplicated limbo? He hadn’t exactly been blowing hot air when he’d said he didn’t wish her well.

“Tell me you’re not coming to your senses,” he said, gazing down at her.

“Stupidity is hardwired into my DNA.”

“Thank God.”

She knew that she was going ahead with this. At the same time, she needed to make sure he understood this was all fun and games. “Let’s get it on,” she said, rising from the table to head for the stairs. “And you’d better not be a dud because, if you are, I’ll make sure the whole town finds out about it.”

“And you, my dear, had better be more than talk, something I’m beginning to doubt.”

“Is that so?” She stopped right there on the third step from the bottom, unfastened her robe, and let it drop.

He took in her white bra, black thong, and the cowboy boots. “I’m dumbstruck.”

She trailed the tip of her thumb down her belly. “And you haven’t even seen the good stuff.”

“You couldn’t be more mistaken.” The corner of his mouth quirked, and in three long strides, he’d covered the distance between them. “Although I’ll admit I’m more than a little anxious to see the rest.”

“Okay, but I get to keep my job.”

“Shut up, will you?” He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her off the step, hard against him. The toes of her cowboy boots banged against his calves as she looked down at him. She dipped her head, his lips parted, their mouths met, and he kissed her with a thoroughness that should have been foreign to such an elegant man.

Without breaking their kiss, he walked her backward to the couch. His arm reached behind her, and he tugged open her bra. “You are magnificent,” he whispered as he tossed it aside.

“I know.”

He chuckled and massaged her breasts, then kissed her again with that same thoroughness. As good as it felt, she wanted more. She wanted his mouth on her breasts, his tongue there, too, his teeth—

Gordon barked.

And she wanted privacy.

“Get rid of him,” she groaned.

“He’s a dog.” Colin nibbled at her lip. “He won’t tell.”

“He’ll watch.”

Colin cursed and shot Gordon a commanding look. “Stay.”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her up the stairs to her bedroom, the dog following along. When Colin kicked the door shut, Gordon began to howl. Despite her need, Sugar Beth smiled, then laughed out loud at the vaguely murderous look on Colin’s face. “Don’t you move,” he snarled as he shot back out the door.

Still smiling, she sank down on the side of the unmade bed and pulled off her boots. Colin either found a doggie treat or some rat poison because things stayed quiet when he let himself back in. She looked up at him.

“Lovely,” he said, taking her in.

She wore only her thong and a pair of purple socks with a Powerpuff Girl on each side. She’d bought them for Delilah, who hadn’t liked them because she was going through a pink phase. “I do know my lingerie.”

“No argument there.” He stood in the center of the faded old floral rug and began tossing aside his clothes. When only his jeans were left, she rose and walked toward him. “Let me.” She hooked a finger over the fastener and began toying with it.

“Need help?” His voice caught in a husky rasp.

“No, thanks.” His skin warmed the backs of her fingers. She trailed her thumb over his zipper. He was thick, hard, and—another of his surprises—very large. Nose. Hands. Feet. She should have been prepared.

Her need was as urgent as his, but she couldn’t bear the idea of having this over too quickly . . . or of making it too important. “You should never have given me a D on my Charlotte Brontë paper.”

He expelled his breath in a warm hiss against her neck. “Perhaps we could discuss this later.”

“I don’t think so.” She fiddled with his zipper tab. “I worked real hard on that paper.”

“And turned it in a week late, I’m sure.”

She lowered the zipper half an inch, then stopped to pout. “Still . . .”

“I’ll change it to a C. I promise.”

She released the tab. Ignoring the sweet lethargy in her limbs, she took a step back and regarded him sulkily. “I want an A.”

She wasn’t the only person in the room who knew how to play games.

“That you’ll have to earn.” He gestured toward her feet. “Give me one of those socks.”

“Only one?”

“I’m nothing if not reasonable.”

“I guess.” She propped her foot on the edge of the bed and leaned slowly over her thigh. She drew the Powerpuff sock off as if it were a fishnet stocking, then stuck it in the waistband of his jeans.

“Very nice, indeed. I’ll take that thong now.”

“An A plus.”

“For your body alone.”

That was nice, especially since they both knew she was too thin and her thighs hadn’t been near a StairMaster in forever. Still, long legs counted for a lot with men. “Only if you kiss me first.”

“My pleasure, indeed.”

This kiss was even slower than the others, more intense, world-class. He tunneled his fingers in her hair. His jeans abraded her flesh. She could feel herself reaching the breaking point even before he hooked his thumbs in her thong, pushed it down, and went on his knees.

She let her head fall back as he buried his face. He inhaled her in the way good men did. And bad ones, too, for that matter, but no need to worry about that when she was the only sinner in the room. He pushed open her thighs. One of his hands cupped her bottom.

He devoured her.

Her legs lost their strength, but he held her in place with his massive palm, keeping her right where he wanted, open and accessible.

Her orgasm caught her by surprise. She let out a strangled cry.

He stayed with her through the waves, then laid her on the bed as if she were a doll. He got tangled in his jeans, and his unusual clumsiness made her lips curve in a slumberous smile. He’d come prepared, she noticed, as he dragged a thoughtful, but unnecessary, condom from his pocket.

Finally naked, he pushed her to her back and trailed his mouth from nipple to belly and then below. Who could have predicted such earthy generosity from so fastidious a man? She dug her hands into his thick hair, rough silk under her fingers. He toyed with her, bringing her to the brink again, but never quite letting her tumble over. She rolled to her side to return the favor.

Drunk on sensation they explored—touching and tasting, trading sweet smut and breathy groans, making themselves crazier and crazier. She tried to close her legs so she could torture him more, but he would have none of it.

“Don’t even think about it.”

He caught an ankle, the one still wearing the sock, and pressed it high on the bed. Then he clasped her opposite knee, pushed it wide, and thrust himself deep inside her, not being brutal about it—he was too big for that—but not being all that careful either. Just as if he could read her mind.

She wrapped her legs around him, and their bodies locked in the rhythm of longtime lovers. The muscles in his back quivered beneath her hands. He angled his hips, cupped her bottom, found a new spot to please her.

She arched, cried out. Their gazes locked. For one startling moment, a shock of recognition passed between them, something soul deep and very important. But before it could find a name, the cataclysm swept them away.