Hot Blooded

still feel his hands smoothing up her thrumming body, still taste
his kiss in her mouth. What she couldn't decide was whether giving in to him had
been wise. He had been considerate, even endearing in his pursuit. Since when,
after all, could a woman like her make a man like that so shy? But was it
instinct that urged her to trust him, or should she chalk the inclination up to
lust?
    If she were honest, the answer would probably have little to do with what
happened next. With a philosophic shrug for her libido, Mariann tipped two
fingers to Harv, their senior citizen counter guy.
    The bakery's tables were mostly full, and a family of rumpled tourists had
their noses pressed with complete enchantment to the display case. Standing
slightly behind her brood, the harried mother smiled. She looked as if she could
identify with Mariann's long day.
    "Lemon meringue pie," Mariann suggested, grinning back with equal fellowship.
"Loaded with vitamins. Hardly any calories at all."
    When the woman laughed, Mariann knew she'd pleased her.
    "Ice cream's sellin' good," Harv called as she slipped out. "Better make
another batch tonight."
    "Will do," Mariann agreed.
    Outside, her momentary cheeriness drained away. Her weight was barely enough
to depress the pedals of her bike. Luckily, the ride home was mostly downhill.
Too tired to cook just for herself, she made a meal of soup straight out of the
can, peeled off her clothes and fell into bed.
    To her disappointment, she didn't dream of Bastien. Instead, sometime past
ten her eyelids flew up.
    "Crap," she said to the ceiling. "Crap, crap, crap."
    Pirate Vic, who must have curled up at her feet while she was sleeping, mewed
politely in inquiry.
    She'd left her grandfather's recipe book at the bakery, right under the
counter where Arabella had watched her take it out. Groaning, Mariann shoved off
the covers and got dressed, too annoyed with herself to laugh at Vic's attempts
to steal her socks. She pulled them on, cat spit and all, then stroked his
scruffy head in consolation. It was too much to hope that the journal would be
safe where it was. As far as Mariann knew, her former partner still had her key.
    She'd been meaning to change the locks, in a vague sort of
I-should-get-to-that way. Other things had always seemed more important and
then, as month after month went by without incident, it seemed silly to bother.
In the end, she'd forgotten the whole idea.
    Unfortunately, with her new career at stake, and her dubious sense of honor,
Arabella was sure to heed temptation's call.
    She biked to the bakery in a sweat, only to find the journal exactly where
she'd left it. Relieved, she hugged the book to her breast.
    "Thank you," she breathed to whatever guardian angel was watching over her.
She didn't think she could bear to let Arabella steal any more than she had.
    Tucking the journal safely in her basket, she reversed direction, pedaling
slowly to enjoy the ride. Since Maple Notch wasn't known for its nightlife, she
had the two-lane road to herself. She patted her fanny pack to check the
presence of her cell phone, then just relaxed. Tourist season was good, but so
was this emptiness. More at peace than she'd been in months, she filled her
lungs with sweet rural air. The temperature was balmy, the stars like gems in
the ribbon of black the treetops left. She was young—more or less—and healthy
and quite possibly about to embark on a hot affair. Small-town Betty Crocker or
not, she doubted life got much better.
    The approach of a car behind her seemed no cause for fear. Her bike had
reflectors, and her shirt was white. Certain she could be seen, she shifted onto
the shoulder without bothering to look around.
    Only when the car revved its engine did her adrenaline begin to spurt.
    Â 
    BASTIEN'S muzzle came up as his wolf-nose caught Mariann's scent. Appetite
sated by a fat raccoon, he and Emile had been chasing rabbits playfully through
the woods, racing back and forth, and generally having fun. He'd welcomed the
distraction, but now the hope of seeing the source of his romantic worries
seemed fortuitous.
    Chocolate
! thought the part of him that was not man, and,
Get a
scratch behind the ear
!
    Heedless of whose land he ran on, he galloped eagerly toward the smell.
    He found it just in time to see the car roar around the bend.
    It was a big, black Mercedes, running fast without its lights, nearly
invisible on the mountain