Chasing Fire

like your style. You, helpless, hopeless, would be weak in love, barely able to eat or sleep. You’d spend all the profits you make off quarters pumped into Skee-Ball on elaborate gifts in a vain attempt to win my heart.”
    “They could be pretty elaborate,” he told her. “Skee-Ball’s huge.”
    “Still, my heart can’t be bought. I’d be forced to break yours, coldly and cruelly, to spare you from further humiliation. And also because your pathetic pleas would irritate the shit out of me.”
    “All that,” he said after a moment, “from one round in the sack?”
    “I’m afraid so. I’ve lost count of the shoes I’ve had to throw away because the soles were stained with the bleeding hearts I’ve crushed along the way.”
    “That’s a fair warning. I’ll risk it.”
    He rolled over, took her mouth.
    For a moment, she thought the top of her head simply shot off. Explosions, heat, eruptions burst through her body like a fireball. She lost her breath, and what she thought of as simple common sense, in the wicked whir of want.
    She arched up to him, her hands shoving under his shirt—eager to feel her need pressed to him, his skin, his muscles under her hands.
    There was a wildness here. She knew it lived inside her, and now she felt whatever animal he caged in leap out to run with hers.
    She made him crazy. That lush, greedy mouth, those quick, seeking hands, the body that moved under his with such strength, such purpose, even as, for just a moment, it yielded.
    Her breasts, full and firm, filled his hands as her moan of pleasure vibrated against his lips. She was sensation, and bombarded him with feelings he could neither stop nor identify.
    He imagined pulling off her clothes, his own, taking what they both wanted there, on a borrowed blanket beside a shining pond.
    Then her hands came between them, pushed. He gave himself another moment, gorging on that feast of feelings, before he eased back to look down at her.
    “That,” he said, “is the next step in a traditional picnic.”
    “Yeah, I guess it is. And it’s a winner. It’s a good thing I got off on that fudge cake because you definitely know how to stir a woman up. In fact . . .” She wiggled out from under him, grabbed what was left of the cake and took a bite. “Mmm, yeah, that takes care of it.”
    “Damn that Marg.”
    Her lips curved as she licked chocolate from her fingers. “This was great—every step.”
    “I’ve got a few more steps in me.”
    “I’m sure you do, and I have no doubt they’d be winners. Which is why we’d better go.”
    Her lips had curved, he thought when they began to pack up, but the smile hadn’t reached her eyes. He waited until they’d folded the blanket back into the well-depleted hamper.
    “I got to second.”
    She laughed, as he’d hoped, then snickered with the fun of it as they started the hike back.

10
     
    L ucas poked his head in the kitchen of the cookhouse.
    “I heard a rumor about blueberry pie.”
    Marg glanced back as she finished basting a couple of turkeys the size of Hondas. “I might have saved a piece, and maybe could spare a cup of coffee to go with it. If somebody asked me nicely.”
    He walked over, kissed her cheek.
    “That might work. Sit on down.”
    He took a seat at the work counter where Lynn prepped hills and mountains of vegetables. “How’s it going, Lynn?”
    “Not bad considering we keep losing cooks.” She shot him a smile with a twinkle out of rich brown eyes. “If you sit here long enough, we’ll put you to work.”
    “Will work for pie. I heard about the trouble. I was hoping to talk to Rowan, but they tell me she’s on a picnic with the rookie from California.”
    “Fast Feet,” Lynn confirmed. “He sweet-talked Marg into putting a hamper together.”
    “Nobody sweet-talks me unless I like the talk.” Marg set a warmed piece of blueberry pie, with a scoop of ice cream gently melting over the golden crust, in front of Lucas.
    “He’s got a way though,” Lynn commented.
    “Nobody has their way with Rowan unless she likes the way.” Marg put a thick mug of coffee beside the pie.
    “I don’t worry about her.” Lucas shrugged.
    “Liar.”
    He smiled up at Marg. “Much. What’s your take on this business with Dolly?”
    “First, the girl can cook but she doesn’t have the brains, or the sense, of that bunch of broccoli Lynn’s prepping.” Marg waved a pot holder at him. “And don’t think I don’t know she tried getting her