It was gorgeous, all those tall windows with the carved white trim against the pale, beachy blue of the wood. The sweep of terraces and verandas. And, of course, the sturdy elegance of the portico with its white columns. Where they'd very nearly taken an action that would have turned her recent debate to dust.

The charm of that widow's walk where she could easily imagine standing to look out at marsh and salt flat, at garden, at river. And, of course, the gardens. The heaps and flows, the spikes and trails. She had to concede the man knew gardens, or hired a fleet of people who did. Which was one and the same, really. A man didn't have to dig and plant, to prune and weed, to appreciate the power of a lovely landscape.

The result was a gorgeous little slice of island living, sun and shade, bloom and fragrance, green and color all swirling around a house that managed to be grand and homey at the same time.

It took vision, she supposed, to pull that off.

She strolled along the walk, enjoying the dreamy, romantic sensation, and hoped they'd have that wine, that pizza and conversation, out on the veranda with the warm, moist air and those heady fragrances stirred up by the breeze.

He opened the door before she reached it, stood framed by that white trim, watching her walk toward him.

"I feel like I should be wearing a flowing white gown," she called out, "and a wide-brimmed hat-like this dead-ringer-for-Julia-Roberts transvestite I had a nice chat with yesterday. Only my hat should be trimmed with violets, I think-tucked into the band, and ribbons trailing."

"You look pretty perfect just the way you are, even if you aren'tfar as I know-a transvestite."

"She might've been a transsexual. I didn't like to ask on so short an acquaintance."

"Either way. I like the dress."

"Thanks." It might have been something she often hauled out for PTA meetings, but at the moment the simple cotton felt pretty perfect. "You've had a busy day."

"It's all relative." He held out a hand to take hers, to bring her inside.

She didn't see it coming. So much, she'd think later, for instinctscop or woman. But right at that moment, with her back up against the door and his mouth hot on hers, thinking wasn't part of the equation. She might've put her hands on his shoulders in a gesture of whoa there, wait a minute pal, but they slid right up until her arms were locked around his neck.

And waiting was done.

His hands dove into her hair, skimmed over her shoulders, molded down her body with such purpose and skill that any idea ofwhoa went straight out the window, and kept on flying.

Sensible Phoebe didn't have a prayer.

He smelted so good, and felt even better-hard and tough and male. With her mouth under assault and her blood flashing from comfortably warm to desperately hot, her body ruled the moment.

He might have stopped-if she'd pulled out a gun and held it to his head, he might've stopped. But he heard, in some dim part of his brain, her purse hit the floor with a single hard thump.

Then she locked around him, those strong bare arms, and her teeth nipped and gnawed on his bottom lip. She moaned; she quivered. And her scent seemed to rise from light, teasing invitation to will-snapping opiate.

He slid her dress up, up, up those gorgeous legs, ran his hand over warm flesh, over the thin lacy bit that covered her. Under it.

Not warm here, but hot. Hot and wet and open. Her hips pumped, pressed, and she came on a low, feral groan that shot straight to his belly. Her fingers dug in, a hard bite on his shoulders.

Then they were pushing between their bodies, tugging at the button of his fly.

Now, now, now. Right this minute. Oh God! She didn't know if she said it out loud or just thought it. The sensations careening inside her flew too fast, too high for any kind of resisrance, any hope of sanity. She wasn't entirely sure she could survive another ten seconds if he wasn't inside her.

And when he was, when he drove into her, she didn't give a damn about survival.

Fast, right on the edge of violent, thrust after thrust. It filled up places she'd forgotten had been empty, fired up places she'd forgotten had gone cool. It was an onslaught, and thank God for it.

Nothing strapped down now, nothing sensible. He had her arms over her head, wrists cuffed with his hand, her skirt hiked to her waist.

He battered her against the front door until the orgasm simply shredded her to pieces.

And with his own release his breath was ragged in her ear. He braced her against the door. She realized when her head cleared a little it was as much to keep his own balance as to hold her up.

"Thanks," she managed.

"It was at least fifty percent my pleasure."

When she wheezed out a laugh, he eased back, studying her face as he brushed her hair aside. "I had a different order of business in mind. Initially."

She could nearly focus again, and oh God, she loved the color of his eyes. "Order of business."

"You know, a couple of adult beverages on the veranda, or walking around the gardens. Some dinner with conversation. Then I realized I'd just be thinking about sex through all that, which would spoil my appetite." He ran a hand up her leg as he spoke, had her quivering once more.

And gently smoothed her skirts back into place. "That's one thing," he continued, "but I believed you might very well be in the same frame of mind. Here I'd be having you over for dinner and spoiling your appetite. That's no way to treat a guest."

"I see. So am I to understand we just had at each other against your front door because you didn't want to be rude?"

He grinned at her. "Absolutely. Only reason. Steady yet?"

"I think so."

He stepped back, glanced down. Bending he picked up her ripped panties. He said, "Oops."

She laughed. "I don't know why I bothered to put on good underwear."

"They were momentarily appreciated. I could lend you a pair of boxers."

"I'll pass on that, thanks all the same. I'll just use the bathroom for a minute."

"Yeah, sure. Listen, Phoebe… " Absently he stuffed the torn panties in his back pocket. "Included in that original order of business was my intention to suit up a bit more formally."

She stared at him, a quizzical smile on her face. Then it sank in, the smile dropped away to a look of stunned realization. "Oh. Oh, God."

"I stopped thinking," he began. "I'm-"

"It was mutual, as much me as you." Stunned, she rubbed the space between her breasts where her heart gave a couple of hard knocks. "I take the pill, but-"

"But," he said with a nod. "I can only tell you I'm habitually a hell of a lot more careful. We can exchange blood tests if you're worried. I can tell you, too, that's the first time that front door's been used in such an interesting manner. I may have it bronzed, but meanwhile, I'm sorry, and I'm willing to sacrifice a vial of blood if it gives you peace of mind."

"Let's just say we'll be more careful from this point."

"Okay."

She picked up the purse she'd dropped. "I'll be back in a minute."

She got a good look at herself in the bathroom mirror. Flushed, the sleepy cat-that-gulped-a pint-of-cream eyes, hair tumbled. All well and good, she thought. And God knew it had been good. But she wasn't allowed to be that reckless, and couldn't be again. Next date, she promised herself, there would be condoms in her purse.

When she came out he wasn't in the foyer, or the front parlor. She called out his name as she started to wander, then followed the answer to a room off the kitchen. Party room, she decided. A grand old bar, lots of cushy seating, framed posters of what she saw were reproductions of old magazine ads. All deco and stylized.

There was a card table that looked to be an antique like the bar, and display cabinets filled with this and that. Some of the this, she noted with amusement, were Pez dispensers.