High Noon

we’ve had a nice cold drink, you can take me up to bed.”
    “That fits pretty well into my schedule.”
    “That’s good, because it seems to be just the thing that was missing in mine.” She leaned back, flipped through issues that were on her mind. “Duncan, what do you think of a man who decides to marry a woman named Mizzy who’s a dozen years younger than he is?”
    “How big are her breasts?”
    Phoebe’s lips twitched as she stared up through the sunroof. “I don’t have that information.”
    “It’s pretty relevant. Who’s marrying Mizzy?”
    “Carly’s father.”
    “Oh.”
    Sympathy and speculation, Phoebe thought, in a single syllable. “I know I shouldn’t care, but of course I do. I know I’ll get over that—which is comforting. He’s moving with her to Europe, which infuriates me, and which I won’t get over even though I know it’s stupid. It doesn’t matter if he’s around the corner or thousands of miles away, he’s not going to love that sweet child, or pretend he does.”
    “But if he’s around the corner, so to speak, you can keep hoping he might eventually.”
    “That’s right.” That, she realized, was exactly, perfectly right. “Opal Johnson couldn’t push hope into her sons, and they needed it. I can’t—or haven’t—let go of mine when it’s a useless weight.”
    “How does Carly feel?”
    “Carly doesn’t care.” They soared over the water, where boats skimmed below the span of bridge. “She’s healthier about it than I am.”
    “She has you. A kid knows she’s loved, absolutely, she’s got a healthy base.”
    He hadn’t had that absolute love, she remembered, but had built his own base. “I haven’t told her about the wedding yet. I will, when I’m not so mad. I don’t think he’d have bothered to tell me about all this except the child support checks will be delayed while he changes banks. Changes his damn dollars to Euros and back again. Whatever.”
    “So you’re pissed he’s moving to Europe.”
    “Oh, I’m just pissed altogether.” And suddenly just a little amused at the entire business. “I don’t care who she is, no woman likes being traded in on the Mizzy model. Especially when the trade-in has a lot higher mileage.”
    “I bet the Mizzy model is high maintenance and can’t handle the curves nearly as well.”
    “Hopeful thought. I’m telling you all this because it factors into my overall mood, which is restless and conflicted, and a little aggressive.” The faintest smile curved her lips as she tilted her head to study his profile. “I’m wondering how you feel about aggressive women.”
    “Am I going to find out?”
    “I believe you are.”
    “Oh boy.”
    When they were inside his house, she decided the cold drink could wait. They’d both probably need a gallon of cold liquid after they were done. Since he’d been considerate enough to wear a tie, she grabbed it and, strolling toward the stairs, pulled him behind her.
    “Bedroom’s up here, I assume? We didn’t get that far last time.”
    “To the right, all the way down. Last on the left.”
    When she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes sparked on his. “I bet the view’s lovely. We won’t be paying much mind to that for a while, but I bet it’s lovely.”
    She tugged him inside. She got the impression of space, of strong colors, tall windows. And best of all, a big iron bed.
    “Now.” She turned, tugged the knot on his tie loose. “This may hurt a little.”
    “My tolerance for pain is rising as we speak.”
    Laughing, she yanked his jacket off, flung it aside. Then backed him toward the bed, where she gave him a little shove until he sat. With slow, deliberate movements, she straddled him so the skirt of the sober business suit hiked high on her thighs.
    “Now, gimme that mouth.”
    She used her teeth on it, her tongue, and all those wildly veering emotions coalesced into one hard, hot ball of lust. Her fingers got busy with his shirt, flipping open button after button until she could run her hands over flesh, scrape her nails over him. The quickening of his breath, the urgent way his hands streaked over her, made her feel invincible.
    She let him peel her jacket off, tug the tank over her head. And, arching back, invited his lips and hands to feast and to take. The way he took, the way he feasted, electrified.
    She was clamped around him, arms and legs. The most seductive of traps. A careless rake of his fingers and her hair came spilling