It had taken every ounce of strength to remain standing when she'd walked across the deck to their table, all her good parts on display all at the same time-the slender neck and creamy shoulders, those unbelievable breasts, those juicy hips, thighs, legs…

He swallowed-hard. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do?

Thomas felt a trickle of sweat run down the center of his spine.

He tried not to stare at her, but he was weak-always so weak in her presence-no different from any other schlub under the spell of a beautiful woman.

So while Emma got comfortable and glanced around, he stared at her, unable to form words, aware that he must look like one of those old Looney Tunes characters who transforms into a wolf with one peek at a gorgeous dame, his long, red tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, his eyeballs shooting straight out from their sockets, then snapping back, all to the sound of "AH-OOO-GAH!"

She looked at him.

He was a dead man.

From the grave, in a raspy groan, he asked, "Hungry?"

"Yes, I am. How about you?"

He felt one side of his mouth twitch and knew he couldn't stop himself. "I'm always hungry, Emma," he said in that dead man's voice.

Emma dragged her eyes all over him-that golden-boy face with the broken nose, the big shoulders, the sexy mouth…

"Nice place," she said.

"My favorite," he said.

They were surrounded by laughter, the squawk of sea gulls, the clatter of dishes, and the crack of mallets on crab shells. They were festive sounds-summer sounds-nearly ready to be packed away for the winter season. She took a deep breath and savored it.

The deck snuggled up to a little man-made beach along Bayside Landing. At least thirty people were crammed onto picnic tables on the deck and another fifteen sat at dining tables on the narrow strip of sand, under umbrellas, surrounded by transplanted palm trees and did torches. The combination of a legitimately pretty setting and tacky décor was pure Baltimore, and it made her smile.

Glancing around, she noticed the word Tobin scrawled in pencil at the edge of their paper-covered table. Thomas must have called ahead and reserved this table and now there she was, with him, in public, with his name in big letters for the world to see. And it made her feel special.

Why was that? She was fiercely attached to her own last name and never took Aaron's when they married. In fact, she'd never even considered hyphenating it-Emma Jenkins-Kramer just never sounded right to her.

But Emma Jenkins-Tobin? Now that had a nice cadence to it. Familiar, even. Like she'd heard it all her life.

Emma sucked in a mouthful of air and started to cough. Thomas offered her a bottle of Corona, a lime wedge perched on the lip of the glass.

"Here. Shall we make a toast?" He tapped her bottle with his own. "To smart consultants."

"To Hairy."

Thomas nodded, raising his bottle again. "To Hairy the Strange Little Dog. If it weren't for him, I'd be sleeping alone every night."

He tipped back his beer, and Emma watched Thomas's lips kiss the glass rim of the bottle, his tongue press into the round opening, his throat muscles ripple as he gulped.

How long had it been since the completely outrageous kiss on her porch? A couple weeks. Or a nanosecond. Or several lifetimes ago. The truth was, she'd forgotten how time worked.

"I called ahead and placed our order. I hope you don't mind."

Emma was relieved to talk-it kept her brain busy. "Let me guess-crabs?"

All around them was the evidence of serious crab consumption-tables heaped with piles of shells, buckets on the deck floor overflowing with shells, bowls of drawn butter, empty beer pitchers or bottles, and only an occasional basket of rolls or bowl of coleslaw or corn. This place was for genuine crab connoisseurs only.

"Yep. Crabs." He quickly looked away.

Emma sighed. It appeared Thomas wasn't going to say anything about the dress. The window of opportunity to mention her appearance had just closed, and he sat there, not saying anything about how she looked, not even able to hold her gaze.

It wouldn't have taken much. A simple "You look pretty tonight," or "That's a nice dress," and she'd have already vaulted over the table and crushed his body in an upper-thigh death grip.

But he didn't say a thing. And that said it all, didn't it? Their waitress arrived with a huge platter of hard-shell crabs. "Two dozen large," she said, lowering it onto the center of the picnic table. Another waitress followed close behind with butter, coleslaw, and soft, white rolls. "Anything else?"

"Thanks. I think we're all set," Thomas said with a friendly nod.

Emma's eyes flew to the waitress-it was pure female instinct. She was a pretty redhead no more than nineteen, and she was flirting outrageously with Thomas. Apparently, it didn't bother her that Thomas was nearly old enough to be her father-the little Jezebel! Emma watched the girl give Thomas a playful smile. "Let me know if I can do anything else for you."

Emma snorted. Right. It was all she could do to keep her next thought to herself. Over my dead body, cupcake. But then the waitress turned, swinging her slim hips all the way back to the kitchen.

The jealousy thumped Emma right in the center of her chest. She froze, surprised by the force of it. But then, of course women would find Thomas attractive-didn't she remember her initial response to him? She nearly had to be hosed down!

And really, so what if women flirted with him? She and Thomas were just friendly colleagues, correct? Nothing more. She had no claim on him. She had no expectations.

So she was wearing the infamous blue dress for him? So she was plotting to scratch out the eyes of a teenager for him?

She was even wearing clip-on earrings for him! She was thinking about hyphenating for him! She was falling in love with him!

Emma dropped her head in her hand and rubbed her forehead. "I'm in serious trouble," she said out loud.

Thomas laughed softly. Emma raised her eyes to him, certain that he'd just witnessed her painful journey to self-awareness. But he wasn't even looking at her.

"Yeah, it's a thing of beauty, isn't it?" He stared at the red mountain of steaming crabs, oblivious to all else. Then he peeked over the platter and shot her a grin.

She smiled back. She straightened up. "So how many of those can you eat, Rugby Boy?"

"I could eat 'em all." He wiggled his scarred eyebrow and the semicolon danced. "But I suppose I'll save a few for you."

They spent the next hour eating crabs, telling stories, and laughing. Thomas talked more tonight about himself than he ever had-probably because he no longer had anything to hide from her.

He talked about some of his cases. He talked about his childhood-how his mother had left when he was ten, never to be seen again. "She's been married several times since. She was in Italy last we knew, about ten years ago."

"I'm sorry," Emma said.

"Yeah, well, it was a rough lesson," was his only comment.

Then he talked about how he'd introduced Rollo to Pam one spring break and it was love at first sight. When he talked about Petey and Jack, his eyes sparkled.

Though the conversation was enjoyable, she was shocked by the way Thomas ate-the quick, methodical dismantling of the crustaceans, the well-placed whack of the mallet, rapid-fire sleight-of-hand movements followed by fast transfers to his mouth, then bam! An entire creature had been picked apart, licked clean, and its remains tossed to the heap of shells at the other end of the table-all while talking.

What Thomas told her next explained his skill-his grandfather was an Eastern Shore waterman, and he used to take him out on the crab boat as a kid, when Chesapeake crabs were plentiful.