Lover Beware 03 - After Midnight

decided that she was too hot, too thirsty, and too tired to care if anyone tried to sneak up on her.
    And if anyone got between her and a cold glass of lemonade, she would be the one behind bars for murder.
    She paused before entering the kitchen to toe off her sneakers and ease out of the old bib overalls she was wearing over her tank top and cut-offs. Breathing a sigh of relief to be free of the heavy drill cotton, she bundled up the paint-stained gar-ment and carried it through to the laundry, before pouring herself a glass of lemonade from the fridge.
    As she slowly sipped the lemonade, enjoying the feel of the sweet, icy liquid sliding down her throat, her gaze was caught by the blinking light of her answering machine.
    Her stomach contracted. Someone had left her a message.
    In contrast to the wary apprehension she'd felt in the barn, this time her alarm was close to panic, which was crazy considering that half an hour ago she was coping with the fact that she could possibly have a killer stalking her. Setting the half-empty glass down on the bench, she approached the answering machine and pressed the playback on the single message that was recorded.
    Abruptly, the room filled with low, dark, masculine tones.
    "It's Michael. I know you're there, Jane. You've got my number. Call me."
    The terse statement was laced with impatience that she hadn't bothered to return his previous calls, and followed by a pause, as if he was debating saying something more, then the faint hum of static terminated with a click.
    Jane drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. She felt hot and cold, wary and electrified. For a pulse-pounding moment, After Midnight
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    Rider's presence had been so palpable she'd had the unnerving sense that he was in the room with her. After weeks of numbness, the intensity of her reaction, simply to the sound of his voice, was as intrusive and unsettling as the man was himself lately, as hard as she'd tried, she couldn't stop thinking about him, couldn't stop prodding at the past.
    She'd been running away like a frightened rabbit ever since she'd realized he was back. Too afraid to face him, too afraid to touch on what she felt, because her feelings for Michael Rider were, and had always been, raw and confused.
    He turned her on—it was that plain, that simple. She didn't have a clue how it had happened, or why. She had been happy with Patrick—she should have been immune—but when they'd bought the farm and moved to Tayler's Creek shortly after Patrick was diagnosed, she'd looked into Rider's dark gaze for the first time and felt like the ground had been cut away from beneath her. The tension had been instant and acute, and they'd been warily circling each other ever since.
    Michael's wife, Clare, had left him within months of that first meeting, and Jane had been sharply aware of Michael living alone in the house. She'd made a practice of never walking in the direction of his place, never bumping into him if she could avoid it. She was married, and her husband was dying, and she was appalled that she'd been weak enough to fall in instant lust with her neighbour.
    What had happened was out of character, and way out of line. For Jane her wedding vows were sacrosanct. She had married for love, and she had married for life. All the statistics might be against lifelong marriages, but she had wanted that with Patrick, and she'd been careful to never allow him to suspect that she was even remotely affected by their neighbour.
    Rider's dark face drifted into her mind again, and she stiff-ened. Ever since he'd come back, she'd been on edge, waiting to run into him, and dreading it. It was cowardly, but she'd spent more time away from the farm in the past three days than she had in the past three months.
    When Patrick had been alive, the protection of her married state had been absolute and she hadn't had to address the problem of how she felt, but now the buffer of her marriage was gone. Like it or not, she was alone and single, and, her confused emotions aside, the stubborn fact remained that even 184
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    with Patrick gone, Michael Rider still felt forbidden.
    She pressed the rewind button on the answering machine, then on impulse let the message play again, steeling herself against the effect of that dark voice.
    A shiver skimmed her spine at the low demand to call him.
    It was ridiculous to feel... hunted. The odds that Rider was still interested in her as a woman were so remote as to be