"I li­ke the fe­el of the wind on my fa­ce," I con­ti­nu­ed, ho­ping my bra­va­do mas­ked my ter­ror of mo­ving at spe­eds up­ward of sixty-fi­ve mi­les an ho­ur with not­hing stan­ding bet­we­en me and the ro­ad.

  The­re was one hel­met-black with a tin­ted vi­sor-and he held it out for me.

  Ta­king it, I swung my leg over the bi­ke and re­ali­zed how in­se­cu­re I felt with not­hing but a nar­row strip of se­at be­ne­ath me. I slid the hel­met over my curls and strap­ped it un­der my chin.

  "Is it hard to dri­ve?" I as­ked. What I re­al­ly me­ant was, Is it sa­fe?

  "No," Patch sa­id, ans­we­ring both my spo­ken and uns­po­ken qu­es­ti­ons. He la­ug­hed softly. "You're ten­se. Re­lax."

  When he pul­led out of the par­king spa­ce, the exp­lo­si­on of mo­ve­ment start­led me; I'd be­en hol­ding on to his shirt with just eno­ugh of the fab­ric bet­we­en my fin­gers to ke­ep my ba­lan­ce. Now I wrap­ped my arms aro­und him in a back­ward be­ar hug.

  Patch ac­ce­le­ra­ted on­to the high­way, and my thighs squ­e­ezed aro­und him. I ho­ped I was the only one who no­ti­ced.

  When we re­ac­hed my ho­use, Patch eased the bi­ke up the fog-drenc­hed dri­ve­way, kil­led the en­gi­ne, and swung off. I re­mo­ved my hel­met, ba­lan­cing it ca­re­ful­ly on the se­at in front of me, and ope­ned my mo­uth to say so­met­hing along the li­nes of Thanks for the ri­de, I'll see you on Mon­day.

  The words dis­sol­ved as Patch cros­sed the dri­ve­way and he­aded up the porch steps.

  I co­uldn't be­gin to spe­cu­la­te what he was do­ing. Wal­king me to the do­or? Highly imp­ro­bab­le. Then… what?

  I clim­bed the porch af­ter him and fo­und him at the do­or. I watc­hed, di­vi­ded bet­we­en con­fu­si­on and es­ca­la­ting con­cern, as he drew a set of fa­mi­li­ar keys from his poc­ket and in­ser­ted my ho­use key in­to the bolt.

  I lo­we­red my hand­bag down my sho­ul­der and un­zip­ped the com­part­ment whe­re I sto­red my keys. They we­ren't in­si­de.

  "Gi­ve me back my keys," I sa­id, dis­con­cer­ted at not kno­wing how my keys had co­me in­to his pos­ses­si­on.

  "You drop­ped them in the ar­ca­de when you we­re hun­ting for yo­ur cell," he sa­id.

  "I don't ca­re whe­re I drop­ped them. Gi­ve them back."

  Patch held up his hands, cla­iming in­no­cen­ce, and bac­ked away from the do­or. He le­aned one sho­ul­der aga­inst the bricks and watc­hed me step up to the lock. I at­temp­ted to turn the key. It wo­uldn't bud­ge.

  "You jam­med it," I sa­id, rat­tling the key. I drop­ped back a step. "Go ahe­ad. Try it. It's stuck."

  With a sharp click, he tur­ned the key. Hand po­ised on the hand­le, he arc­hed his eyeb­rows as if to say May I?

  I swal­lo­wed, bur­ying a sur­ge of mu­tu­al fas­ci­na­ti­on and dis­qu­i­et. "Go ahe­ad. You're not go­ing to walk in on an­yo­ne. I'm ho­me alo­ne."

  "The who­le night?"

  Imme­di­ately, I re­ali­zed it might not ha­ve be­en the smar­test thing to say. "Do­rot­hea will be co­ming so­on." That was a lie. Do­rot­hea was long go­ne. It was clo­se to mid­night.

  "Do­rot­hea?"

  "Our ho­use­ke­eper. She's old-but strong. Very strong." I tri­ed to squ­e­eze past him. Un­suc­ces­sful­ly.

  "So­unds frigh­te­ning," he sa­id, ret­ri­eving the key from the lock. He held it out for me.

  "She can cle­an a to­ilet in­si­de and out in un­der a mi­nu­te. Mo­re li­ke ter­rif­ying." Ta­king the key, I ed­ged aro­und him. I fully in­ten­ded to shut the do­or bet­we­en us, but as I tur­ned abo­ut, Patch fil­led the do­or­way, his arms bra­ced on eit­her si­de of the fra­me.

  "You're not go­ing to in­vi­te me in?" he as­ked.

  I blin­ked. In­vi­te him in? To my ho­use? With no one el­se ho­me?

  Patch sa­id, "It's la­te." His eyes fol­lo­wed mi­ne clo­sely, ref­lec­ting a way­ward glint. "You must be hungry."

  "No. Yes. I me­an, yes, bat-"

  Sud­denly he was in­si­de.

  I to­ok three steps back; he nud­ged the do­or clo­sed with his fo­ot. "You li­ke Me­xi­can?" he as­ked.

  "I-" I'd li­ke to know what you're do­ing in­si­de my ho­use!

  "Ta­cos?"

  "Ta­cos?" I ec­ho­ed.

  This se­emed to amu­se him. "To­ma­to­es, let­tu­ce, che­ese."

  'I know what a ta­co is!"

  Be­fo­re I co­uld stop him, he stro­de past me in­to the ho­use. At the end of the hall, he ste­ered left. To the kitc­hen.

  He went to the sink and ran the tap whi­le scrub­bing so­ap half­way up his arms. Ap­pa­rently ha­ving ma­de him­self at ho­me, he went to the pantry first, then brow­sed the frid­ge, brin­ging out items he­re and the­re-sal­sa, che­ese, let­tu­ce, a to­ma­to. Then he dug thro­ugh the dra­wers and fo­und a kni­fe.

  I sus­pect I was half­way to pa­nic­king at the ima­ge of Patch hol­ding a kni­fe when so­met­hing el­se ca­ught my eye. I to­ok two steps for­ward and squ­in­ted at my ref­lec­ti­on in one of the skil­lets han­ging from the pot rack. My ha­ir! It lo­oked li­ke a gi­ant tumb­le­we­ed had rol­led on top of my he­ad. I clap­ped a hand to my mo­uth.

  Patch smi­led. "You co­me by yo­ur red ha­ir na­tu­ral­ly?"

  I sta­red at him. "I don't ha­ve red ha­ir."

  "I ha­te to bre­ak it to you, but it's red. I co­uld light it on fi­re and it wo­uldn't turn any red­der."

  "It's brown." So may­be I had the te­eni­est, ti­ni­est, most in­fi­ni­te­si­mal amo­unt of auburn in my ha­ir. I was still a bru­net­te. "It's the ligh­ting," I sa­id.

  "Ye­ah, may­be it's the light­bulbs." His smi­le bro­ught up both si­des of his mo­uth, and a dimp­le sur­fa­ced.

  "I'll be right back," I sa­id, hur­rying out of the kitc­hen.

  I went ups­ta­irs and co­axed my ha­ir in­to a pony­ta­il. With that out of the way, I pul­led my tho­ughts to­get­her. I wasn't en­ti­rely com­for­tab­le with the idea of Patch ro­aming fre­ely thro­ugh my ho­use- ar­med with a kni­fe. And my mom wo­uld kill me if she fo­und out I'd in­vi­ted Patch in­si­de when Do­rot­hea wasn't he­re.

  "Can I ta­ke a ra­in check?" I as­ked upon fin­ding him still hard at work in the kitc­hen two mi­nu­tes la­ter. I pla­ced a hand on my sto­mach, sig­na­ling that it was bot­he­ring me. "Qu­e­asy," I sa­id. "I think it was the ri­de ho­me."

  He pa­used in his chop­ping and lo­oked up. "I'm al­most fi­nis­hed."

  I no­ti­ced he'd exc­han­ged kni­ves for a big­ger-and shar­per- bla­de.

  As if he had a win­dow to my tho­ughts, he held up the kni­fe, exa­mi­ning it. The bla­de gle­amed in the light. My sto­mach clenc­hed.

  "Put the kni­fe down," I inst­ruc­ted qu­i­etly.

  Patch lo­oked from me to the kni­fe and back aga­in. Af­ter a mi­nu­te he la­id it down in front of him. "I'm not go­ing to hurt you, No­ra."

  "That's… re­as­su­ring," I ma­na­ged to say, but my thro­at was tight and dry.

  He spun the kni­fe, hand­le po­in­ting to­ward me. "Co­me he­re. I'll te­ach you how to ma­ke ta­cos."

  I didn't mo­ve. The­re was a glint to his eye that ma­de me think I sho­uld be frigh­te­ned of him… and I was. But that fright was equ­al part al­lu­re. The­re was so­met­hing ext­re­mely un­set­tling abo­ut be­ing ne­ar him. In his pre­sen­ce, I didn't trust myself.

  "How abo­ut a… de­al?" His fa­ce was bent down, sha­do­wed, and he lo­oked up at me thro­ugh his las­hes. The ef­fect was an imp­res­si­on of trust­wort­hi­ness. "Help me ma­ke ta­cos, and I'll ans­wer a few of yo­ur qu­es­ti­ons."

  "My qu­es­ti­ons?"

  "I think you know what I me­an."

  I knew exactly what he me­ant. He was gi­ving me a glimp­se in­to his pri­va­te world. A world whe­re he co­uld spe­ak to my mind. Aga­in he knew exactly what to say, at exactly the right mo­ment.

  Wit­ho­ut a word, I mo­ved be­si­de him. He slid the cut­ting bo­ard in front of me.

  "First," he sa­id, co­ming be­hind me and pla­cing his hands on the co­un­ter, just out­si­de of mi­ne, "cho­ose yo­ur to­ma­to." He dip­ped his he­ad so his mo­uth was at my ear. His bre­ath was warm, tick­ling my skin. "Go­od. Now pick up the kni­fe."

  "Do­es the chef al­ways stand this clo­se?" I as­ked, not su­re if I li­ked or fe­ared the flut­ter his clo­se­ness ca­used in­si­de me.

  "When he's re­ve­aling cu­li­nary sec­rets, yes. Hold the kni­fe li­ke you me­an it."

  "Go­od." Step­ping back, he ga­ve me a tho­ro­ugh twi­ce-over, se­emingly scru­ti­ni­zing any im­per­fec­ti­ons-his eyes shif­ted up and down, he­re and the­re. For one un­ner­ving mo­ment, I tho­ught I saw a sec­ret smi­le of ap­pro­val. "Co­oking isn't ta­ught," Patch sa­id. "It's in­he­rent. Eit­her you've got it or you don't. Li­ke che­mistry. You think you're re­ady for che­mistry?"

  I pres­sed the kni­fe down thro­ugh the to­ma­to; it split in two, each half roc­king gently on the cut­ting bo­ard. "You tell me. Am I re­ady for che­mistry?"

  Patch ma­de a de­ep so­und I co­uldn't de­cip­her and grin­ned.

  After din­ner Patch car­ri­ed our pla­tes to the sink. "I'll wash, you dry." Hun­ting thro­ugh the dra­wers to the si­de of the sink, he fo­und a dish to­wel and slung it play­ful­ly at me.

  "I'm re­ady to ask you tho­se qu­es­ti­ons," I sa­id. "Star­ting with that night at the lib­rary. Did you fol­low me…"

  I tra­iled off. Patch le­aned la­zily aga­inst the co­un­ter. Dark ha­ir flip­ped out from un­der his ball cap. A smi­le tug­ged at his mo­uth. My tho­ughts dis­sol­ved and just li­ke that, a new tho­ught bro­ke the sur­fa­ce of my mind.

  I wan­ted to kiss him. Right now.

  Patch arc­hed his eyeb­rows. "What?"

  "Uh-not­hing. Not­hing at all. You wash, I'll dry."

  It didn't ta­ke long to fi­nish the dis­hes, and when we had, we fo­und our­sel­ves cram­ped in the spa­ce ne­ar the sink. Patch mo­ved to ta­ke the dish to­wel from me, and our bo­di­es to­uc­hed. Ne­it­her of us mo­ved, hol­ding to the fra­gi­le link that wel­ded us to­get­her.

  I step­ped back first.

  "Sca­red?" he mur­mu­red.

  "No."

  "Li­ar."

  My pul­se ed­ged up a deg­ree. "I'm not sca­red of you."

  "No?"

  I spo­ke wit­ho­ut thin­king. "May­be it's just that I'm sca­red of-" I cur­sed myself for even be­gin­ning the sen­ten­ce. What was I sup­po­sed to say now? I was not abo­ut to ad­mit to Patch that everyt­hing abo­ut him frigh­te­ned me. It wo­uld be gi­ving him per­mis­si­on to pro­vo­ke me furt­her. "May­be it's just that I'm sca­red of… of-"

  "Li­king me?"

  Re­li­eved that I didn't ha­ve to fi­nish my own sen­ten­ce, I auto­ma­ti­cal­ly ans­we­red, "Yes." I re­ali­zed too la­te what I'd con­fes­sed. "I me­an, no De­fi­ni­tely no. That is not what I was trying to say!"

  Patch la­ug­hed softly.

  "The truth is, part of me is de­fi­ni­tely not com­for­tab­le aro­und you," I sa­id.

  'But?!

  I grip­ped the co­un­ter be­hind me for sup­port. "But at the sa­me ti­me I fe­el a scar) at­trac­ti­on to you."

  Patch grin­ned.

  "You are way too cocky," I sa­id, using my hand to push him back a step.

  He trap­ped my hand aga­inst his chest and yan­ked my sle­eve down past my wrist, co­ve­ring my hand with it. Just as qu­ickly, he did the sa­me thing with the ot­her sle­eve. He held my shirt by the cuffs, my hands cap­tu­red. My mo­uth ope­ned in pro­test.

  Re­eling me clo­ser, he didn't stop un­til I was di­rectly in front of him. Sud­denly he lif­ted me on­to the co­un­ter. My fa­ce was le­vel with his. He fi­xed me with a dark, in­vi­ting smi­le. And that's when I re­ali­zed this mo­ment had be­en dan­cing aro­und the ed­ge of my fan­ta­si­es for se­ve­ral days now.

  "Ta­ke off yo­ur hat," I sa­id, the words tumb­ling out be­fo­re I co­uld stop them.

  He slid it aro­und, the brim fa­cing back­ward.

  I sco­oted to the ed­ge of the co­un­ter, my legs dang­ling one on eit­her si­de of him. So­met­hing in­si­de of me was tel­ling me to stop-but I swept that vo­ice to the far back of my mind.

  He spre­ad his hands on the co­un­ter, just out­si­de my hips. Til­ting his he­ad to one si­de, he mo­ved clo­ser. His scent, which was all damp dark earth, overw­hel­med me.

  I in­ha­led two sharp bre­aths. No. This wasn't right. Not this, not with Patch. He was frigh­te­ning. In a go­od way, yes. But al­so in a bad way. A very bad way.

  "You sho­uld go," I bre­at­hed. "You sho­uld de­fi­ni­tely go."

  "Go he­re?" His mo­uth was on my sho­ul­der. "Or he­re?" It mo­ved up my neck.

  My bra­in co­uldn't pro­cess one lo­gi­cal tho­ught. Patch's mo­uth was ro­aming north, up over my jaw, gently suc­king at my skin…

  "My legs are fal­ling as­le­ep," I blur­ted. It wasn't a to­tal lie. I was ex­pe­ri­en­cing ting­ling sen­sa­ti­ons all thro­ugh my body, legs inc­lu­ded.

  "I co­uld sol­ve that." Patch's hands clo­sed on my hips.

  Sud­denly my cell pho­ne rang. I jum­ped at the so­und of it and fumb­led it out of my poc­ket.

  "Hi, swe­et­he­art," my mom sa­id che­er­ful­ly.

  "Can I call you back?"

  "Su­re. What's go­ing on?"

  I shut the pho­ne. "You ne­ed to le­ave," I told Patch. "Right now."

  He'd slid his ba­se­ball cap back aro­und. His mo­uth was the only fe­atu­re I co­uld see be­ne­ath it, and it cur­ved in a misc­hi­evo­us smi­le. "You're not we­aring ma­ke­up."

  "I must ha­ve for­got­ten it."

  "Swe­et dre­ams to­night."

  "Su­re. No prob­lem." What had he sa­id?

  "Abo­ut that party to­mor­row night…"

  "I'll think abo­ut it," I ma­na­ged to say.

  Patch tuc­ked a pi­ece of pa­per in­si­de my poc­ket, his to­uch sen­ding hot sen­sa­ti­ons down my legs. "He­re's the ad­dress. I'll be lo­oking for you. Co­me alo­ne."

  A mo­ment la­ter I he­ard the front do­or clo­se be­hind him. A fi­ery blush wor­ked its way up my fa­ce. Too clo­se, I tho­ught. The­re was not­hing wrong with fi­re… as long as you didn't stand too clo­se. So­met­hing to ke­ep in mind.

  I le­aned back aga­inst the ca­bi­nets, ta­king short, shal­low bre­aths.

  CHAPTER 10

  I WAS YAN­KED AWA­KE BY THE SO­UND OF MY PHO­NE RIN­GING. Ca­ught with one fo­ot still in a dre­am, I rug­ged my pil­low over my he­ad and tri­ed to block out the no­ise. But the pho­ne rang. And rang.

  The call went to vo­ice ma­il. Fi­ve se­conds la­ter, the rin­ging star­ted up aga­in.

  I re­ac­hed an arm over the si­de of the bed, gro­ped aro­und un­til I fo­und my je­ans, and wig­gled my cell out of the poc­ket.

  "Yes?" I sa­id with a wi­de yawn, le­aving my eyes shut.

  So­me­one was bre­at­hing ang­rily on the ot­her end. "What hap­pe­ned to you? What hap­pe­ned to brin­ging back cot­ton candy? And whi­le you're at it, how abo­ut tel­ling me whe­re you are so I can co­me strang­le you-ba­re­han­ded!"

  I knoc­ked the he­el of my hand aga­inst my fo­re­he­ad a few ti­mes.

  "I tho­ught you'd be­en kid­nap­ped!" Vee went on. "I tho­ught you'd be­en ab­duc­ted! I tho­ught you we­re mur­de­red!"

  I tri­ed to find the clock in the dark. I bum­ped a pic­tu­re fra­me on the nights­tand, and all the fra­mes be­hind it pla­yed do­mi­no­es.

  "I was sort of de­la­yed," I sa­id. "By the ti­me I ma­de it back to the ar­ca­de, you we­re go­ne."

  "De­la­yed'? What kind of ex­cu­se is de­la­yed?"

  The red num­bers on the clock swam in­to fo­cus. It was just af­ter two in the mor­ning.

  "I dro­ve aro­und the par­king lot for an ho­ur," Vee sa­id. "Elli­ot wal­ked the park flas­hing the only pho­to I had of you on my cell pho­ne. I tri­ed yo­ur cell a zil­li­on ti­mes. Hang on. Are you at ho­me? How did you get ho­me?"

  I rub­bed the cor­ners of my eyes. "Patch."

  "Stal­ker Patch?"

  "Well, I didn't ha­ve much of a cho­ice, did I?" I sa­id ter­sely. "You left wit­ho­ut me."

  "You so­und wor­ked up. Re­al­ly wor­ked up. No, that's not it. You so­und agi­ta­ted… flus­te­red… aro­used." I co­uld fe­el her eyes wi­den. "He kis­sed you, didn't he?"

  No ans­wer.

  "He did! I knew it! I've se­en the way he lo­oks at you. I knew this was co­ming. I saw it from a mi­le away."

  I didn't want to think abo­ut it.

  "What was it li­ke?" Vee pres­sed. "A pe­ach kiss? A plum kiss? Or may­be an al-fal-fa kiss?"

  "What?"

  "Was it a peck, did mo­uths part, or was the­re ton­gue? Ne­ver mind. You don't ha­ve to ans­wer that. Patch isn't the kind of guy to de­al with pre­li­mi­na­ri­es. The­re was ton­gue in­vol­ved. Gu­aran­te­ed."

  I co­ve­red my fa­ce with my hands, hi­ding be­hind them. Patch pro­bably tho­ught I didn't ha­ve any self-cont­rol. I'd fal­len apart in his arms. I'd mel­ted li­ke but­ter. Right be­fo­re I told him he sho­uld go, I was pretty su­re I'd ma­de a so­und that was a cross bet­we­en a sigh of she­er bliss and a mo­an of ecs­tasy.

  That wo­uld exp­la­in his ar­ro­gant grin.

  "Can we talk abo­ut this la­ter?" I as­ked, pinc­hing the brid­ge of my no­se.

  "No way."

  I sig­hed. "I'm de­ad ti­red."

  "I can't be­li­eve you're thin­king abo­ut ke­eping me in sus­pen­se."

  "I'm ho­ping you'll for­get abo­ut it."

  "Fat chan­ce."

  I tri­ed to en­vi­si­on the musc­les along my neck re­la­xing, fo­res­tal­ling the he­adac­he I felt cre­eping on. "Are we still on for shop­ping?"