High Noon

adult conversation about where—if anywhere—they might be going.
    If Sensible Phoebe wasn’t satisfied with that, she could get the hell out of the car and walk home.
    It occurred to her as she turned into Duncan’s drive that the first time she’d seen his house she’d been traumatized. The second time it had been after dusk. Seeing it now, in full light, with all her wits about her, was a different experience.
    It was gorgeous, all those tall windows with the carved white trim against the pale, beachy blue of the wood. The sweep of terraces and verandas. And, of course, the sturdy elegance of the portico with its white columns. Where they’d very nearly taken an action that would have turned her recent debate to dust.
    The charm of that widow’s walk where she could easily imagine standing to look out at marsh and salt flat, at garden, at river.
    And, of course, the gardens. The heaps and flows, the spikes and trails. She had to concede the man knew gardens, or hired a fleet of people who did. Which was one and the same, really. A man didn’t have to dig and plant, to prune and weed, to appreciate the power of a lovely landscape.
    The result was a gorgeous little slice of island living, sun and shade, bloom and fragrance, green and color all swirling around a house that managed to be grand and homey at the same time.
    It took vision, she supposed, to pull that off.
    She strolled along the walk, enjoying the dreamy, romantic sensation, and hoped they’d have that wine, that pizza and conversation, out on the veranda with the warm, moist air and those heady fragrances stirred up by the breeze.
    He opened the door before she reached it, stood framed by that white trim, watching her walk toward him.
    “I feel like I should be wearing a flowing white gown,” she called out, “and a wide-brimmed hat—like this dead-ringer-for-Julia-Roberts transvestite I had a nice chat with yesterday. Only my hat should be trimmed with violets, I think—tucked into the band, and ribbons trailing.”
    “You look pretty perfect just the way you are, even if you aren’t—far as I know—a transvestite.”
    “She might’ve been a transsexual. I didn’t like to ask on so short an acquaintance.”
    “Either way. I like the dress.”
    “Thanks.” It might have been something she often hauled out for PTA meetings, but at the moment the simple cotton felt pretty perfect. “You’ve had a busy day.”
    “It’s all relative.” He held out a hand to take hers, to bring her inside.
    She didn’t see it coming. So much, she’d think later, for instincts—cop or woman. But right at that moment, with her back up against the door and his mouth hot on hers, thinking wasn’t part of the equation.
    She might’ve put her hands on his shoulders in a gesture of whoa there, wait a minute pal, but they slid right up until her arms were locked around his neck.
    And waiting was done.
    His hands dove into her hair, skimmed over her shoulders, molded down her body with such purpose and skill that any idea of whoa went straight out the window, and kept on flying.
    Sensible Phoebe didn’t have a prayer.
    He smelled so good, and felt even better—hard and tough and male. With her mouth under assault and her blood flashing from comfortably warm to desperately hot, her body ruled the moment.
    He might have stopped—if she’d pulled out a gun and held it to his head, he might’ve stopped. But he heard, in some dim part of his brain, her purse hit the floor with a single hard thump.
    Then she locked around him, those strong bare arms, and her teeth nipped and gnawed on his bottom lip. She moaned; she quivered. And her scent seemed to rise from light, teasing invitation to will-snapping opiate.
    He slid her dress up, up, up those gorgeous legs, ran his hand over warm flesh, over the thin lacy bit that covered her. Under it.
    Not warm here, but hot. Hot and wet and open. Her hips pumped, pressed, and she came on a low, feral groan that shot straight to his belly. Her fingers dug in, a hard bite on his shoulders.
    Then they were pushing between their bodies, tugging at the button of his fly.
    Now, now, now. Right this minute. Oh God! She didn’t know if she said it out loud or just thought it. The sensations careening inside her flew too fast, too high for any kind of resistance, any hope of sanity. She wasn’t entirely sure she could survive another ten seconds if he wasn’t inside her.
    And when he was, when he drove into her, she