“Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m not much of a drinker is all.”

  “I feel it, too.”

  “You do?”

  “A little dizzy? Slightly off balance?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t think it’s the booze. I think it’s this attraction between us that only gets stronger the longer we ignore it.”

  “Maybe we should stop ignoring it, then,” she said.

  “I could not agree more,” he said, and sink-

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  ing down beside her on the overstuffed, velvet-covered sofa, he kissed her.

  Oh, sure, he’d kissed her before and it had been great, right up there in the pantheon of best kisses of her life, but every time there’d been this internal monologue going on in her head. Sleep with him or not sleep with him?

  Now the dissenting voice was silent. She was all systems go, mentally and physically, and so instead of wasting time intellectualizing the shoulds and shouldn’ts of the situation, she was putting all her energy into feeling. And she did feel.

  Pow-pow. The power of his kiss thrilled through her, so they moved from the initial polite warming-up phase to hot and greedy, open mouths and thrusting tongues, at lightning speed. And lighting feel. And lightning everything.

  “I am crazy about you,” he muttered huskily when they broke away to draw breath.

  Crazy seemed to be the operative word here.

  It was how she felt, too. Like all her calm sanity had deserted her and left nothing but blind passion in its place.

  And crazy or not, blind passion was feeling pretty good.

  Her skin seemed to scorch at his touch. Was it her imagination or was she more sensitive? Her taste sharper? Maybe it had simply been too long since she’d let herself go like this.

  After they’d worked themselves up to the hot and bothered stage, she heard cheerful twin good-byes from the aunts and then the thud of the front door.

  She glanced at Joe to see his eyes cloudy with passion, his pupils dilated and reflecting the candlelight.

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  “We’re all alone,” she said.

  “I feel like a teenager and the parents just left.”

  He paused to look at her with a quizzical grin.

  “Except those two seemed like they really wanted us having hanky-panky in their absence.”

  “Gee, what was your first clue?”

  “I’d have to say it was when I realized Lydia had put cock rings around the napkins. That seemed like a pretty broad hint.”

  “Knowing Lydia, she’d say it’s a shame to see them go to waste if no one’s going to use them.”

  “And the napkins were certainly nice and stiff.”

  She grinned at him and reached for his hand.

  They could make love right here, but her aunts didn’t keep late hours. The last thing she wanted was to keep listening with half an ear for the sound of them coming home.

  “My room,” she decided.

  “Anywhere,” he replied.

  They held hands as they sprinted up the staircase, which didn’t even squeak in protest. It had been built to withstand great passion.

  Built to encourage it, not that the heat burning low in her belly needed any encouragement. She felt that if he touched her there, if he so much as looked too hard, she’d go off like a firecracker.

  She led him to her room. It had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, the madam, and she loved the room. It was big and housed a huge, in-your-face bed. The mattress was new, but the bed—like all the antiques in the house—was original. The windows gave a view of leafy trees and overlooked her garden.

  “Great room.”

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  “It’s the madam’s room. It’s an honor to be invited in, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  He kissed her again, half teasing, mostly serious. “I’ve never had sex in a brothel before.”

  She chuckled. “Glad to hear it.”

  “So,” he said, running his lips down her neck so she shivered and his words rumbled against her skin, “what’s the protocol here? Do I pay my money first or after I’m satisfied?”

  “Oh, honey, you’ll be satisfied. And I charge on a sliding scale. Depending on what you bring to the table, as it were, you might get a hefty discount.”

  “I thought you were here to service me?”

  “You thought wrong, bucko.” Since he was currently rubbing her breast in a way that brought her all kinds of pleasure, she assumed he was merely teasing. She sure hoped so. She was planning to vent a little of her sexual frustration tonight, not add to it.

  He went for her buttons with almost fanatical haste. From the way his cheeks had flushed and his hands shook, she knew he was as anxious as she.

  His breathing was loud in the big bedroom, almost drowning out her own, and sweat dampened his brow. Oh, yeah, she was turning him on, all right.

  That thought alone heightened her excitement. She felt the tips of her breasts tighten and tingle as he rushed his way through the buttons.

  “Unh,” he said, or a word to that effect, when he spread the edges of her blouse and discovered that she wore no bra. He made another

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  strangled sound when he touched his lips to her breasts, as though he’d been robbed of speech.

  Normally she liked to take the undressing part slowly, dragging out the anticipation, the same way she unwrapped Christmas and birthday gifts. But not tonight. They’d teased and denied each other long enough. Her blood felt like it was sizzling under her skin—she was beyond horny, her need to be filled almost painful.

  He was obviously feeling the same, so they went at each other with frantic speed, dragging off clothes, nipping, licking, biting whatever they uncovered.

  He was surprisingly buff for a desk jockey, she discovered. A definite bonus. She hadn’t been sure what she’d find under his clothes. If he’d had a full computer setup complete with secre-tarial service under there, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  But no, there was just nice warm male flesh.

  He had muscles where a woman liked to see muscle, and not a lot of show-offy bulk. His penis was a serviceable type. Not so big as to make a fool of itself, or so small as to make a fool of its owner, but a good length and girth. It was definitely looking up to the job.

  “Does he meet with your approval?” Joe asked. He was teasing, but she thought maybe she’d embarrassed him, too. What was wrong with her, staring at a guy’s package like that?

  “I’m sorry. Frankly, it’s been a while. I’m refa-miliarizing myself.”

  He grinned down at her wolfishly and she realized all of him was up for the job. “I’ll famil-iarize you. Don’t worry.”

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  And he tipped her back onto the bed. He started to kiss her breasts but she was too needy—

  she was so desperate to be filled, it was an ache.

  She reached over and opened her bedside drawer, then handed him a condom. “Please,” she said,

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Thank God,” he said. In seconds he was ready, then he rolled over and against her, and then up inside with the power and surge she craved.

  “Oh yes,” she said. They fit so well together it was like the missing puzzle piece sliding into place. There was none of the awkwardness of a first time, the tilt of hip slightly off, or the fit not quite right. He slid into her body as though it had been made for him.

  She closed her eyes and prepared to enjoy herself.

  And then didn’t enjoy herself at all.

  Within moments, the long, drawn-out pleasure she’d hoped for was no more. He grabbed her breast with about as much finesse as a vise shows a two-by-four. A couple of flailing thrusts inside her body, a sound between a grunt and a groan, and he collapsed on top of her, panting against her neck like the little engine that couldn’t quite make it to the top of the hill.

  She lay there underneath the dead weight of him, stunned.

  That was it? All the passionate kissing and fondling downstairs had led her to believe he was a promising lover, and he turned out to be the biggest dud of her life.

  She squirmed her hips a bit, hoping for something, anything to put her out of her burning misery. But there was no response.

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  He didn’t even have the courtesy to move off of her, just lay there, panting.

  And suddenly all her pent-up excitement sublimated into bitchiness. “Female orgasm is a concept you might want to explore sometime.”

  Maybe there were women who could get off on two strokes and a clawing at the breast. She didn’t seem to be one of them.

  She should have realized this whole thing was hopeless when he chose his cell phone over kissing her. A man who didn’t have enough sensuality to distinguish a tuna sandwich from beef, and who could spend all day in her garden and not remember a single flower—well, what had she been thinking? On the sensuality scale, this one rated “do not resuscitate.”

  He whispered something in her ear; she assumed it was an apology, but it was so faint she couldn’t make out the words.

  “What?”

  “Can’t breathe,” he panted.

  He should try it from her perspective, lying flat with his whole weight pressing on her. Her lungs must look like a pair of Pringles.

  What did he mean exactly, “Can’t breathe”?

  His breath was loud enough in her ear, like an old man about to snore.

  He groaned as though he were in pain and a drop of sweat plopped onto her shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, finally calming down enough to wonder if he had more wrong with him than his sexual technique.

  “Sick,” he managed.

  Oh, no.

  “What do you mean, sick?”

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  “Chest. Hurts,” he managed.

  Shit. There wasn’t much she could do from underneath him, and of course there was no help to be had in the house since both the aunts had gone out. She heaved and shoved at the dead weight of him until she got him rolled off her and onto his side, then she pushed him onto his back.

  She reached out and flicked on a light, and realized with a shock that he looked as pale as though the bride of Dracula had just given him a very long good-night kiss. His forehead was damp and his breathing definitely off.

  “Show me where it hurts,” she said as calmly as she could.

  “Chest,” he gasped. And his arm flopped onto his chest like a dead fish. Left side of his chest.

  Oh my God, she thought, he’s too young to have a heart attack, but then she thought about his lifestyle of constant stress and wondered. “Any pain in your arm?” she asked, crossing her fingers that the answer would be no.

  He nodded as though speaking were too much of an effort, then with a gasp said, “Left arm.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Rapidly she reviewed her options. If she called 911 she was looking at twenty minutes for the ambulance to get here. She could drive him to the hospital herself in that time. But what if he died en route? He really didn’t look all that hot.

  “I’ll be right back. Hang on. If you die in my bed, I’m going to kill you,” she warned him.

  Beaverton boasted a fairly new hospital that

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  served the region. Gord Hartnett wasn’t only her former lover, he was also her friend. She called him while she threw on her clothes, briefly described the situation.

  “The ambulance is out on a call. It’ll be faster if you drive him in yourself. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Thanks,” she said, knowing if anyone could save Joe it was Gordon.

  She ran down the stairs, pulled her car around to the front door and left it running, then she sprinted back up the stairs. Please don’t die, she silently pleaded as she pushed Joe’s legs into his slacks, not wasting time on underwear or socks, and forced his arms into the sleeves of his shirt.

  She managed to get two buttons fastened with shaking fingers and decided that was plenty. Together they staggered down the stairs.

  “I’m all right,” he insisted. “I feel better.”

  “When you can stand up straight and say that without wincing with pain, I might actually believe you,” she said, bundling him into the car.

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

  “They can give you something to make you feel better,” she said. She tried to sound confident, like his condition was the equivalent of a scrape needing a Band-Aid when she secretly suspected he might need the paddles and the cardiac jumper cables that scared the pants off her when she saw them on TV.

  She got him belted into the passenger seat of her car, and he slumped against the seat. His breathing wasn’t as loud now. Was that a good sign?

  Please don’t die.

  She drove faster than she’d ever driven in her

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  life, thankful that she’d grown up here and knew every bend in every road. There wasn’t enough population to worry about traffic.

  She drove with her hands gripping the wheel, her entire being focused on getting medical help. Please don’t die.

  “Are we going to a real hospital?” Joe’s voice startled her.

  “Of course,” she said cheerfully. Whatever she did, she had to make him feel confident that he was going to be okay.

  Joe made a sound like a faint snort. “It’s probably some guy named Freddie who got a plastic doctor bag when he was a kid and now he thinks he’s an MD. He’ll stick a plastic thermometer up my ass and give me forty-year-old candy pills to make me all better.”

  If he could get all that out without taking a breath, he must be feeling a little easier. Her hands loosened their grip on the steering wheel and she let her foot ease off the gas pedal. It wouldn’t do either of them any good if she smacked up the car. “I called the best doctor in the area. He’s a friend of mine. He’s meeting us at the hospital.”

  “Turn the car around.”

  “Are you going delirious on me?”

  “No. But I swear if Napoleon or Edith Piaf tries to touch me, they’ll be slapped with a mal-practice suit faster than you can say Kevorkian.”

  “Trust me. Dr. Hartnett’s an excellent doctor.” He’d been a good lover, too, but she was surprised how little she missed him.

  “You’re the only one around here I do trust,”

  he said softly.

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  She turned her head and smiled at him. “How’s the left arm?”

  “Tingling.”

  “Chest pain?”

  “It feels like somebody’s squeezing it in a vice.

  Hurts like a sonofabitch.”

  “Hang on and try to relax.”

  Like that was possible. In the dark car, she felt the tension in his body.

  “You’re going to be fine,” she promised him softly, hoping she was right.

  “Em . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “If I die, call my assistant at the number you’ll find on my business card. Her name is Anna.

  She knows where my will is. She’ll take care of everything.”

  He patted his pockets, probably looking for his damn business card. Even on the way to the hospital he was trying to do business. No wonder he was having a heart attack in his thirties.

  “Put your wallet back. If I need the business card I’ll dig it out. But I’m not going to need it.”

  Thankfully, the small hospital drew into view and she drove straight up to the emergency door.

  She was glad she’d phoned ahead when a stretcher came wheeling through the emergency door manned by a couple of paramedics.

  Dr. Hartnett ran alongside.

  They loaded Joe on the stretcher while the doctor peppered him with questions. He was in good hands. She’d gotten him here alive. For that she was grateful. Realizing she still held the wallet Joe had thrust at her, she called, “I’ll park the car and check Joe in.”

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  The doctor waved to let her know he’d heard and understood, but it was obvious he was more interested in Joe’s health than the status of his Blue Cross.

  She bet Joe wouldn’t get this kind of treatment in New York.

  She got back in the car to move it and realized her hands were shaking and she was dizzy.

  Only then did she realize how scared she’d been.

  If ever a man had had a wake-up call, that man was Joe Montcrief.

  If he lived through this, she was going to make it her personal mission to teach him how to relax. And if he hated it, too bad. After what he’d put her through, she was going to show him there was a better way to live. She liked him too much to watch him kill himself with work and stress.

  Chapter 13

  Lydia hadn’t felt this nervous since . . . well, it had been years. She ran her hands down her hips. As though she could suddenly make them smaller, or her varicose veins disappear, or the lines on her face erase.

  She’d come on a fool’s errand, she realized, and feeling like a silly old woman trying to reach back to her youth, she turned slowly away.

  But her carry bag bumped her knee as she did, and the half full wine bottle she’d snitched off the dinner table clanked against the flask with Dr. Emmet’s cordial.

  Oh, the hell with it. If she wasn’t foolish now, when did she think she was going to act crazy?

  In the great beyond?

  Pulling herself to her full height of five feet four inches and pasting a smile on her face, she knocked.

  A long time passed and she thought maybe no one was home. She was just debating whether to

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  knock again when the door opened and a man stood there.

  For an age he stared at her, then he said,

  “Lydia.”

  “Hello, Eddie.” Now what? She’d gotten to his doorstep on sheer guts and bravado. Now she didn’t know what to do or say.

  He blinked at her a couple of times from behind his glasses and she wondered if he was waiting for her to ask for a donation or something.