The Villa

was brewing inside her, she wasn't careless as she swung around the curves and slopes of the road.
    Still, he nearly sighed when he spotted the rooftops of home. He was about to get there, in one piece, where he could shrug out of his city clothes and fall into blessed silence and solitude.
    Even with her mouth so firmly shut, he thought, the woman just wore him out.
    But when she stopped at the end of the drive, she turned off the engine and was out of the car before he was.
    "What're you doing?"
    "Coming in," she called over her shoulder, adding a brief, glittering look to her words.
    "Why?"
    "Because I don't feel like going home."
    He jangled his keys in his hand. "It's been a long day."
    "Hasn't it just?"
    "I've got things to do."
    "That's handy. I'm looking for things to do. Be a pal, MacMillan. Buy me a drink."
    Resigned, he jabbed his key in the lock. "Buy your own drink. You know where everything is."
    "Gracious to the last. That's what I like about you." She strolled in and headed straight to the great room and the wine rack. "With you, Ty, there are no pretenses, no games. You are what you are. Surly, rude, predictable."
    She chose a bottle at random. Variety and vintage didn't matter at the moment. While she uncorked it, she looked around the room. Stone and wood—hard materials, expertly and cleanly worked into a dignified setting for big, simple furnishings and plain colors.
    No flowers, she thought, no soft edges, no polish. "Take this place, for example. No frills, no fuss. A manly man lives here, it says, who doesn't have time for appearances. Don't give a flying fuck about appearances, do you, Ty?"
    "Not particularly."
    "That's so damn stalwart of you. You're a stalwart individual." She poured out two glasses. "Some people live and die by appearances, you know. They're what matter most. Me, I'm more of a happy-medium type. You can't trust someone who has appearances as his religion, and the ones who don't give that flying fuck, you end up trusting too much."
    "If you're going to drink my wine and take up my space, you might as well tell me what's put you in this mood and get it over with."
    "Oh, I have many moods." She drank the wine, too quickly for pleasure, and poured a second glass for herself. "I'm a multifaceted woman, Tyler. You haven't seen the half of me."
    She crossed to him, slowly. A kind of sexual gun-fighter's swagger. "Would you like to see more?"
    "No."
    "Oh now, don't disappoint me and lie. No games, no pretenses, remember." She trailed a fingertip up his shirt. "You really want to get your hands on me, and conveniently, I really want to be handled."
    "You want to get drunk and get laid? Sorry, doesn't suit my plans for the evening." He plucked the glass out of her hand.
    "What's the matter? Want me to buy you dinner first?"
    He set the glass down. "I think more of myself than that. And surprise, more of you."
    "Fine. I'll just find someone who isn't so picky." She took three strides toward the door when he grabbed her arm. "Let go. You had your chance."
    "I'm taking you home."
    "I'm not going home."
    "You're going where I take you."
    "I said let go!" She whirled. She was prepared to scratch and claw and slap, could already feel the release of it gush through her. And was more surprised than he when she grabbed on hard and collapsed into tears.
    "Shit. Okay." He did the only thing that came to mind. He picked her up, carried her to a chair and sat with her on his lap. "Get it all out, and we'll both feel better."
    While she wept, the phone rang from somewhere under the sofa cushion where he'd lost it the last time. And the old mantel clock began to bong the hour.
     
    She wasn't ashamed of tears. They were, after all, just another form of passion. But she preferred other methods of release. When she'd cried herself dry, she stayed where she was, curled warm against him and comforted more than she'd imagined.
    He didn't pat and stroke, didn't rock or murmur all those foolish and reassuring words people tended to use to sop up tears. He simply let her hold on and purge herself.
    As a result, she was more grateful than she'd imagined as well.
    "Sorry."
    "Yeah, that makes two of us."
    The response made her relax. She drew a long breath, breathing in the scent of him, holding it in, as she held on to him. Then letting go.
    "If you'd taken me up on the jungle sex, I wouldn't have blubbered all over you."
    "Well, if I'd known my choices at the time…"
    She laughed, and let her head rest