Blue Dahlia

shrugged. “An observation.”
    She liked being seen as gutsy, so she didn’t tell him she was scared a great deal of the time. Order and routine were solid, defensive walls that kept the fear at bay.
    “Well, thanks. For the observation, and the afternoon. I really appreciated both.” She opened the door, hopped out. “And I’ve got a trip into the city for ribs on my list of mustdos.”
    “You won’t be sorry.” He got out, walked around to her side. He wasn’t sure why. Habit, he supposed. Ingrained manners his mother had carved into him as a boy. But it wasn’t the sort of situation where you walked the girl to her door and copped a kiss good night.
    She thought about offering her hand to shake, but it seemed stiff and ridiculous. So she just smiled. “I’ll play the CD for the boys.” She shook her bag. “See what they think.”
    “Okay. See you around.”
    He started to walk back to his door. Then he cursed under his breath, tossed his sunglasses on the hood, and turned back. “Might as well finish it out.”
    She wasn’t slow, and she wasn’t naive. She knew what he intended when he was still a full stride away. But she couldn’t seem to move.
    She heard herself make some sound—not an actual word—then his hand raked through her hair, his fingers cupping her head with enough pressure to bring her up on her toes. She saw his eyes. There were gold flecks dusted over the green.
    Then everything blurred, and his mouth was hard and hot on hers.
    Nothing hesitant about it, nothing testing or particularly friendly. It was all demand, with an irritable edge. Like the man, she thought dimly, he was doing what he intended to do, was determined to see it through, but wasn’t particularly pleased about it.
    And still her heart rammed into her throat, throbbing there to block words, even breath. The fingers of the hand that had lifted to his shoulder in a kind of dazed defense dug in. They slid limply down to his elbow when his head lifted.
    With his hand still caught in her hair, he said, “Hell.”
    He dragged her straight up to her toes again, banded an arm around her so that her body was plastered to his. When his mouth swooped down a second time, any brains that hadn’t already been fried drained out of her ears.
    He shouldn’t have thought of kissing her. But once he had, it didn’t seem reasonable to walk away and leave it undone. And now he was in trouble, all wound up in that wild hair, that sexy scent, those soft lips.
    And when he deepened the kiss, she let out this sound, this catchy little moan. What the hell was a man supposed to do but want?
    Her hair was like a maze of madly coiled silk, and that pretty, curvy body of hers vibrated against him like a well-tuned machine, revving for action. The longer he held her, the more he tasted her, the dimmer the warning bells sounded to remind him he didn’t want to get tangled up with her. On any level.
    When he managed to release her, to step back, he saw the flush riding along her cheeks. It made her eyes bluer, bigger. It made him want to toss her over his shoulder and cart her off somewhere, anywhere at all where they could finish what the kiss had started. Because the urge to do so was an ache in the belly, he took another step back.
    “Okay.” He thought he spoke calmly, but couldn’t be sure with the blood roaring in his ears. “See you around.”
    He walked back to the truck, got in. Managed to turn over the engine and shove into reverse. Then he hit the brakes again when the sun speared into his eyes.
    He sat, watching Stella walk forward, retrieve the sunglasses that had bounced off the hood and onto the gravel. He lowered the window as she stepped to it.
    His eyes stayed on hers when he reached out to take them from her. “Thanks.”
    “Sure.”
    He slipped them on, backed out, turned the wheel and drove out of the lot.
    Alone, she let out a long, wheezing breath, sucked in another one; and let that out as she ordered her limp legs to carry her to the porch.
    She made it as far as the steps before she simply lowered herself down to sit. “Holy Mother of God,” she managed.
    She sat, even as a customer came out, as another came in, while everything inside her jumped and jittered. She felt as though she’d fallen off a cliff and was even now, barely—just barely—clinging to a skinny, crumbling ledge by sweaty fingertips.
    What was she supposed to do about this? And how could she figure it out when she couldn’t