LITMIR.BIZ

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Almost twice, but the second one had surprised her so much she’d ruined it by paying too much attention. Like when you were about to sneeze, if you thought too hard about it, the urge stopped.

      Not only a wonderful lover, he’d been sweet. Gentle. And when he looked deeply into her eyes and kissed her…

      Well, never mind. This wasn’t about falling in love or wildly inappropriate degrees of emotionalism, considering she knew nothing about him except he was a painter. And very considerate. And handsome in a non-obvious way and sexy as hell and sort of familiar in that way strangers were sometimes.

      After, in case he thought she was the kind of idiot who fell for every guy she slept with, she’d made sure not to act as clingy and vulnerable as she felt. Thank God, because he’d left the microsecond he could, as if he had rockets in his shoes. Obviously he didn’t consider last night the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Which was fine. What she wanted, actually. After the paint job was over she’d never see him again. The whole thing would be just as neat and tidy as she’d planned it.

      She tried to dance into the dining room but her body didn’t feel much like dancing all of a sudden. Maybe she was feeling wistful over him because he was her virgin seduction and she’d always have a soft spot for the experience. And for him. Understandable, really, and not based on anything but him being her first fantasy-come-true. She’d been so sensible through her relationship with Greg and this had been so wild and—

      No, not really that wild. Carnal, sure, but sweetly carnal if such a thing were possible. Tender almost. Lovely. He’d wanted to shower instead of hop on immediately and ride his way to oblivion. Consideration for her; she’d liked that a lot. Not to mention the smell of her favorite vanilla soap on his skin had been quite the aphrodisiac. But it was the look in his eyes and that odd déjà vu feeling that had really touched her in a deep place she—

      Anyway, enough of that. She wanted to call Molly and find some way to trumpet her success without any told-you-so triumph since Garrett hadn’t turned out to be a diseased-stalker-serial-killer, but it was way too early, just after 6 a.m. Darcy was usually a late sleeper but adrenaline had woken her with the dawn this morning after a fitful sleep. She’d call Molly later, after Molly had gotten her kids to preschool and Bruce to work.

      Right now Darcy had better remember she was still on planet earth and get busy. There were plenty of her family’s possessions to go through and get rid of before the house sold. Some had already been doled out to Dad’s relatives. The things Darcy wanted were moved into long-term storage, ready for her own place, wherever and whenever she chose to settle down.

      An hour later she’d gone through her dad’s study, occasionally weepy, mostly stoic, and made piles—give away, sell, toss. She’d paused over a painting of a ship on Lake Michigan for quite a while. Derek Houston had painted it for Dad probably a quarter century ago. For decades Derek was their backyard neighbor over on 64th Street. He’d died some years ago, but his widow, Marjory, still lived there, or had last spring, last time Darcy had been around. Confidentially, Darcy hated the bright surreal colors and crooked lines, but she hated to give the painting away even more, since her dad had loved it so much. Derek’s widow should have it back.

      She glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. Marjory would be up by now. When Darcy was a girl out of bed for school at six-thirty every morning, bleary-eyed and annoyed at the hour, she’d seen her neighbor drinking coffee in her yard, watching birds at her feeder even on the coldest mornings. Darcy could take the painting to her right now. One less thing to do later.

      With the canvas carefully swaddled in enough bubble wrap to protect an empty robin’s egg, Darcy took the shortcut, pushing through the arbor vitae that Dad had planted ten years earlier at the back of the yard for privacy, now a thick tall row of sentry trees. The painting she lifted over the back fence then dropped gently to the ground, and followed with a quick climb over. A jump and she was in the Houstons’ yard, then on their driveway, remembering other climbs here to retrieve over enthusiastically tossed balls or Frisbees.

      Marjory Houston had been wonderful when Dad was in bad shape before Darcy moved him to the hospice. She’d baked cookies to tempt his appetite when he started losing so much weight, offered to stay with him now and then so Darcy could get some relief. Darcy felt guilty that during the past year spent in Madison to be closer to Greg, she hadn’t visited or called to see if Marjory needed anything.

      The last twelve months had been a strange combination of selfless and selfish. Selfless because she’d stayed to help Greg through the long painful struggle back to his old self, physically and mentally, even though she’d wanted out of the relationship. And selfish because she’d spent too much time in self-pity and resentment, and stopped nurturing friends and therefore herself.

      She stepped up the brick steps of Marjory’s walkway, grinning at the stone lions pompously posed atop waist-high brick columns on either side, as if Marjory lived in Versailles and not a typical Midwestern bungalow. It would be good to see her. A slice of Darcy’s childhood, precious for still being around.

      The doorbell echoed through the house. Was she home?

      She was. Footsteps, then the door swung open and—

      So did Darcy’s mouth.

      “Hi.” He was obviously very surprised to see her, but not nearly as very surprised as she was to see him. “Good morning.”

      “What are you doing here?”

      He looked taken aback. “I live here.”

      “You live here?”

      “I think that’s what I just said.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. Somehow she’d forgotten that or hadn’t noticed and now she was even more flustered because it was extremely sexy.

      “Where is Marjory?”

      “Ah. Marjory.” His smile dimmed. “She had a stroke. We had to put her in an assisted-living facility.”

      “Oh, no.” She hugged the painting to her, feeling even more guilty now for not keeping up with her neighbor and friend, staring at the last person she’d expected to see. Then something he said penetrated.

      “You put her in an assisted-living facility?”

      “I’m her great-nephew.” Then he stuck out his hand as if they hadn’t spent the previous night sweating and straining toward gigantic climaxes together, but were meeting for the first time.

      “Tyler Houston.”

      Oh, my Lord. Tyler Houston. Big brother of Katie, her erstwhile track teammate, and awkward little brother of Cameron Houston. Cam was every schoolgirl’s bad-boy dream come true; true to form, he’d met a wasteful and tragic end in early adulthood. No wonder Tyler had looked familiar. Trust Darcy to think that sense of déjà vu was some sign from the universe rather than the simple fact that she actually did know him. Vaguely anyway.

      “I’m…” She took one hand away from the bubble-wrapped painting to shake his, and her perspiring skin made an embarrassing sucking-tearing sound as it separated from the plastic.

      “Darcy Wolf.”

      “Wow. Darcy Wolf.” He shook her hand, staring at her as if she were the big bad one. Then he dropped his arm and chuckled, but not as if something were funny in a good way.

      She was pretty sure she knew what he was thinking. Both of them had gone into last night as a fantasy, the chance to leave behind their real identities and follow a powerful attraction to its passionate conclusion without baggage or expectations.

      Now it turned out they had a shared past, more parallel than intertwined, but related certainly. There were many people Darcy didn’t want to find out that she’d stripped to seduce a workman at her house, and he would know a lot of them. In fact, Molly’s husband, Bruce, was a distant cousin of his.

      She’d bet Tyler was about as happy to discover who she was as she was to discover who he was. Namely: not.

      “Well.” She could feel herself blushing

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