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And she was looking at the most desirable man.

“Maybe you should take me home,” she said again for entirely
different reasons.

“Isabelle.” The longing in his voice made her shiver again.

“Change of plan,” she said. “We are sleeping together.”

* * * * *

They needed a chaperone.

Kim sat opposite Bob at their square table at the restaurant
and decided the word might be old fashioned but the concept was as relevant as
ever, at least if the couple in need cared about staying clothed and out of
jail.

Trouble was, he and Isabelle had become the couple in need.
Even if they weren’t dating.

He should know by now that kissing Isabelle Caine was no
casual matter, that once he kissed her, it became hard to think about anything
other than kissing her again. And when she’d ignited in his arms in the parking
lot, suddenly a heated, willing accomplice in what had become the most
confusing attraction of his life, he couldn’t. Think of anything else, that is.
Unless thoughts of getting her out of that dress counted.

This was out of hand.

Isabelle’s friend Stacey sat to his left. Tonight, the
blonde was wearing a sleeveless dress, black of course, cut to frame her
cleavage. Bob seemed unable to look outside the frame.

Kim understood. Every time he turned right, he got
hypnotized by wild ringlets and bare neck and the most inviting mouth he’d ever
seen.

She may have said he was a great kisser but she had a way of
making him forget he’d kissed any other, making him need to invent the idea of
a kiss and offer it to her in hopes of being invited to offer another. In the
parking lot she’d invited considerably more, and for the next couple of hours,
he could even allow himself to think about that. Double date. Sleeping
together. He could indulge in thinking pretty much anything.

“Would you care to see the wine list?”

Kim freed himself long enough to track the voice. The man
had to be the sommelier or the owner—his suit was too nice to be their waiter.

“I’ll take that,” said Bob, waving a hand the size of a
dinner plate.

Of course. Wouldn’t want the plumber to pick the wine.

While Bob opened the impressive folio and began to read, Kim
said, “I’m curious.”

The sommelier was instantly at his shoulder. “Sir?”

“What do you think of wines coming out of the Walla Walla
Valley?”

The man smiled. “It’s an interesting region for wines—very
remote, inspiring unusual
esprit des corps
among the vintners.” He had
the faintest hint of an accent. Maybe Spanish.

Bob laughed. “Walla Walla.”

Stacey laughed along and hugged his arm, half out of her
seat.

Kim ignored them. “So you don’t carry any in your cellar.”

“Not at all, sir. We have a ninety-four merlot from Woodward
Canyon, very dark, rich and spicy. Or would you prefer a white?”

“Oh no,” Kim said, looking at Isabelle in her red dress,
“red is definitely my color tonight.”

She blushed and laughed. Either she was a hell of an actress
or the kiss in the parking lot had shifted her thinking. Kim started to hope.
He wrestled his attention back to the sommelier, who was speaking again.

“I don’t know how you feel about a syrah, but I have one
bottle I have been saving.” The man had definitely warmed to them if he was
suggesting a lone bottle of something.

“Syrah,” Kim said. “Blackberries and leather.”

He was surprised by Isabelle’s hand on his leg under the
table. Hope stirred. If she were merely acting, she would be groping him in
plain sight, right?

“Very good, sir. This one also has a bit of cinnamon and
gingerbread about it. Full bodied. Very nice. Would you like to taste it?”

Isabelle’s hand moved fractionally farther up Kim’s thigh. More
than hope was stirring.

“Yes, please,” he said with difficulty.

The sommelier went off to get the wine. Bob was still
reading the wine list. At least his lips weren’t moving as he read. Kim gave
him points for that.

He covered Isabelle’s hand with his.

“Leather?” said Stacey. “The wine tastes like leather?”

“Sounds delicious,” Isabelle said, practically purring.

Kim should have taken her home. If he’d turned around when
she’d asked him to, they might be doing something about this torment even now.

“Don’t worry, Stace,” Bob said. “We’ll get a nice Sonoma
Semillon.”

“Vanilla,” said Kim. “Good choice.”

Under the table, Isabelle’s thumb trapped his. Above the
table, her eyes suggested she was trying not to laugh. He’d tell her about
Austin, he decided. After dinner, maybe on the drive back to her place. If she
invited him in anyway, he was golden. If not, well, he’d have to accept that
they really weren’t dating.

There was plenty to enjoy in the meantime.

The sommelier returned with a bottle wrapped in a cloth
napkin, which struck Kim as odd. The bottle remained wrapped as the man pulled
the cork and laid it on the table. Kim picked it up.

“Cayuse,” Kim said. “I don’t think I’ve tasted a Cayuse.”

“You’re in for a treat.” He poured a splash from the wrapped
bottle and handed the glass to Kim. “Tell me if you agree.”

He sniffed and sipped. Normally, he’d have waved off this
part of the show and had it poured—if the wine had gone off, the sommelier
would have smelled it before it got this far. But Bob had annoyed him trying to
control the table, so he took his time.

“It’s nice,” Kim said. “Polished.”

The man smiled. “I think so too. How many glasses will you
need?”

Kim looked to Isabelle.

“Yes,” she said.

He loved the sound of that word on her lips.

Stacey said, “Sure, why not?” She turned to aim the frame at
her lover. “Bob?”

“A syrah?”

Classic. Kim thought Bob might want to ease off a little on
that tone. This was a nice restaurant. Of course, as long as Kim had Isabelle’s
hand on his leg, there was little chance of him moving, even to get in the
idiot’s face.

“Just me and the ladies, then,” Kim said to the sommelier.

He hadn’t been to Mirabelle before. He couldn’t picture
bringing a date to any restaurant not only in a suburban strip mall, but one
with a McDonald’s in the parking lot. Once inside the door, though, he’d
changed his mind. It was small, only slightly larger than his loft. The
orange-washed walls and vibrant oil paintings made him wonder if the restaurant
had been Isabelle’s pick. If so, she had creative and adventurous tastes. The
menu included ostrich and Nicaraguan lobster. In the corner of the dining room,
a Hispanic man in a tuxedo sat making love to a classical guitar.

Polished was definitely the word.

When they all had a glass of ruby wine in front of them, Bob
having naturally changed his mind, their waitress appeared. Tall, auburn-haired
and wearing a black bow tie with a tuxedo shirt, black vest and pants. Pretty.

Kim recognized her. One of his exes.

“Finally came to see me,” she said, winking. Her hand
trailed briefly over his arm as he took the menu she offered. It threw him off
enough that he yielded to Bob and his safe, mundane choice of appetizers.

Kim couldn’t remember her name. This could be bad.

Beneath the table, Isabelle’s thumb released his.

“Been here before, have you?” Bob asked it more nicely than
Isabelle would have.

Kim shook his head, though his gaze followed the waitress’s
exit. “I think she was making a joke,” he said.

Isabelle remembered where she’d heard the word “cayuse”
before. The winery responsible for what was honestly an exceptional syrah was
named after a pony, perhaps inspired by the classic song that had spread the
word around.
Don’t Fence Me In.

“Delightful,” she said.

Kim was a man. He might have great manners and an amazing
way of making her forget where she was and what men would do given half the
chance. Likely any man as good looking as Kim wouldn’t even need half.

And here he was ogling the waitress, or at least staring at
her and getting ogled in return. Winked at. And pawed. Each time the woman came
to the table, which seemed to happen a lot, it was Kim she addressed, her body
language suggesting not only familiarity, but desire.

Finally came to see me.

It suddenly became easy to keep her hands to herself and
provide an example for her friend.

She didn’t think Stacey or Bob noticed the silence from
their half the table. They were too busy alternating between feeding one
another and devouring each other with their eyes. It made Isabelle vaguely
sick.

The appetizer course had to be the least amount of fun she’d
had in Kim Martin’s company. When their entrees arrived, the waitress hovered
at Kim’s side, her hand resting atop his shoulder as she asked him whether he
needed anything else. Isabelle bit back a few choice suggestions.

This shouldn’t be a problem. She shouldn’t care that women
threw themselves at him or that even his polite refusal might turn out to be
covert code. He wasn’t her date, not really. But after that kiss…

Stacey turned to Kim and said, “Tell me more about you and
Isabelle. How long have you been keeping your secret?”

“I don’t tell it as well as she does. Isabelle?” He even
said her name as if it was a poem. Seductive pig.

She made herself smile, though she was hardly in the mood to
invent romantic stories. She decided to go with the truth.

“Well, it happened pretty fast, and it’s all your fault, you
know, Stacey. You gave me Kim’s card ages ago. Then I needed a plumber and,
voila. He was delivered unto my doorstep.”

“To slay the toilet of doom,” Kim added, positively
twinkling. He touched her wrist with two fingers. Casually. Spontaneously.
Isabelle wished she could recoil and accuse, but she had a part to play. And as
Kim’s smile swallowed her and his fingers slid up to her elbow, she also wished
she could ignore the way his sandpaper touch kept her thinking about the
parking lot and humid heat and the need to have these rough fingers all over
her body.

Was she doomed to be drawn to men she couldn’t trust?

She excused herself to the ladies’ room. Stacey decided to
join her, which was not really the plan, but what could she say?

“Oh, Isabelle, he’s perfect,” gushed Stacey as they entered
the rich-blue powder room. Isabelle pushed right on through to a toilet stall
to put a closed door between them so her friend wouldn’t see her expression.
“It’s so good you’re here, all of us getting to know each other. I want you to
like him.”

She tried a few calming breaths. It never worked as well for
her as it seemed to for yoga people.

“And unless I miss my guess,” said Stacey, her voice echoing
briefly as she entered the stall next to Isabelle’s, “you and the plumber have
been busy.” Her laugh was both suggestive and tinged by her own giddiness, a
combination best attempted by new lovers. It was the kind of laugh Isabelle
might have been laughing later tonight.

Still could, if she were willing to risk it.

But that kiss…she couldn’t remember a kiss tugging at her so
deeply. She wanted another. If she had another, she wouldn’t want to stop
there.

And once she’d had a night with him, every wink, every
smile, every touch he accepted from another woman would eat at her.

Sexual betrayal hurt like nothing else, as she knew from
devastating personal experience. Damn it, she should be the sun her man
revolved around, the center of his universe. It had nearly killed her to learn
she was simply one of several habitable planets Steven moved between.

And he hadn’t even been the first to cripple her with
evasion and lies.

Never again. She couldn’t take it.

Her body ached as if something had been physically torn from
her while Stacey continued talking nonstop. But once she and Stacey were
standing side by side at the restroom’s twin sinks, Isabelle knew her continued
silence would start to worry her friend.

“Bob seems smitten,” she said, hoping it would be enough.
“I’m happy for you.”

“Oh, me too,” Stacey said. “And you! We have to double again
soon.”

When pigs fly.

As they returned to their table, Isabelle saw Kim was
already on his feet. He was talking to their waitress. They were smiling. And
why not? He was charming and she was, well, a woman only had to be breathing to
notice Kim. Only a matter of time before nature took its course. She might not
have seen it coming with Steven, but she was paying attention now.

And Kim saw her approaching.

And he smiled at her. Of course.

Bastard.

“Isabelle, I’d like you to meet Ginger Harris. Ginger, this
is Isabelle Caine.” He stood next to Isabelle and slipped his arm around her as
he said it.

“Hello,” Isabelle said as her kidneys turned to ice.

“So you’re dating Kim now?” the waitress asked.

“Ginger.” Kim might have meant it as a reprimand, or maybe
just a warning not to be too obvious about sizing up the woman he was with.

“I knew Kim a long time ago,” Ginger said with apparent
reluctance. “I’m surprised he even remembers me.”

As if she would wink at a stranger.

“Knew him?” Isabelle asked. “As in, at school?”

“We dated briefly,” Kim said.

“Very briefly. Kim helped me out, and I’ll always be
grateful.”

Isabelle made herself smile. Seemed to her, Ginger meant to
say they’d dated
too
briefly. Just how “ex” were they?

“Anyway, I’m going to just fade back into the background so
you can enjoy your dinner.” She backed away a step and addressed the whole
table. “Can I bring you another bottle of wine?” She drew the empty syrah out
of its wrapper.

“Hang on, let me see that,” Bob said as he took the bottle
from Ginger.

“Are you ready for that Semillon, Bob?” Kim asked, his arm
was still around Isabelle’s waist. She slid free, moved to her chair and sat
down.

Kim hurried to tuck her in at the table just as Bob burst
out laughing. “I can’t believe this. Bionic Frog. We’ve been drinking Bionic
Frog.”

He turned the wine bottle so they could see. The label was a
cartoon illustration of a frog smashing grapes with its cybernetically enhanced
frog leg. “Bionic Frog” was spelled out in vibrant orange letters.

Oh my. Well, the sommelier had never actually told them the
wine’s name, had he? Maybe it embarrassed him as well.

Stacey started to giggle.

Kim stiffened beside Isabelle, then turned to the waitress.
“Your sommelier said this was the last bottle. Would you ask him to recommend
something else?”

“Of course,” she said, her tone matching Kim’s cool
formality.

Bob continued guffawing and showing the bottle around until
he seemed to realize his audience had grown quiet.

Isabelle finished her prawns, hating Bob. She didn’t want to
feel sympathy for Kim, but it wasn’t his fault the wine looked like a joke. It
certainly hadn’t tasted like a joke. Bob was being an ass. Stacey deserved
better.

Then again, so did she.

This awful evening couldn’t end soon enough. So much for Kim
Martin’s spine-melting kisses.

Men.

It was all she could do to stay still through the remainder
of the meal, neither throwing things at the walls nor stabbing Ginger with a
fork when she came around to tell them dessert.

Isabelle asked for the chocolate tortellini. The waitress
looked between Isabelle and Kim and asked, “Would you like to share that?”

“No, thank you,” said Isabelle. “I don’t share.”

* * * * *

Kim parked in front of Isabelle’s house and turned off the
engine.

Isabelle was already in the process of unfastening her seat
belt as if she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. It had been a tense
drive and he wasn’t sure why. Bob being a jackass? The waitress’s familiarity?
Stacey getting a little drunk?

If there was one thing Kim had no patience with, it was the
silent treatment and the passive-aggressive guessing games that came with it.
He’d expected Isabelle to be more straightforward than that.

“Don’t you think it’s time for you to let it go?” he asked.

“Of course. No need to walk me to the door.” Her voice was
clipped.

“That’s not what I meant. What are you so mad about?”

“It was too soon. I should never have agreed, or brought you
into it.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Unless it was the whole
not a date
thing, which hadn’t made sense from the start. God help the
waitress for having used the “d” word in front of them. Now he thought of it,
that was when Isabelle had really clenched up.

“No reason why you should.” She threw off the seat belt and
opened the door. “Thank you for doing me this favor, Mr. Martin. I’ll see
myself home.”

Like hell.
He scrambled around the Jeep to pace her
as she stalked up the paved walk toward her front porch. He was going to say
this whether she wanted to hear it or not. “Look, I understand the ape who
crashed your party last night really hurt you, maybe made you a little extra
sensitive. But it’s been what, two months? Let it go—the guy is toast. Hauling
it around like this is just crazy.”

“Thank you.” Her heels clacked loudly on the concrete. She
walked like an angry housecat, lithe and graceful, hips swinging, yet still
managing to create Godzilla-sized impact.

He hurried to keep up. “Isabelle, I’m serious. He broke your
heart. He’s an ass—doubly so for turning up uninvited. But you’re an incredible
woman. Funny. Sexy. Bursting with life. Why won’t you share that?”

She stopped walking to glare at him. “With you? Let me
think. Maybe it’s because women throw themselves at you wherever you go—even
tonight, even when it was supposed to look like a date.”

“I hardly think Ginger was throwing herself at me.”

She waved her arms and her shawl slipped off her shoulders
to the ground. “Oh, of course not. It was all my imagination—it was me, in my
craziness, that imagined her touching you and winking at you.”

Kim sighed. She was more than a little extra sensitive,
which could be a problem, given his many exes. He squatted, picked up her shawl
and offered it to her.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about. Men cheat,
especially ones who are too good looking for their own good.” She reached for
the shawl. He pulled it back, started to get ticked.

“Just to clarify. Wasn’t cheating on the drive up here.
Still not cheating.”

“She wanted you.”

“Once upon a time. Ancient history.”

“Right. Of course. You’re so forgettable.” Isabelle’s voice
dripped sarcasm.

“This may be the most bizarre conversation of my life.”

“And thank you again.” She snatched the shawl from him.

“You’re accusing me of being too attractive.”

“I’m saying you’re a man.”

He leaned out of the way as she snapped the shawl between
her hands and flung it back over her shoulders. “So every man is too
attractive.”

“Every man will cheat, given the chance. And you doubtless
get more chances than the average man.”

“Because I once dated our waitress?”

“Because women want you.” She turned away, tensed to resume
stalking. Kim took her elbow to stop her. She glared at his hand. He released
her.

“What about you, Isabelle?” The beads on her shawl caught
faint glimmers of streetlight, but ahead, her porch was dark.

“I’m breathing.” She wasn’t yelling anymore. She sounded
sad, or maybe just tired. She wouldn’t look at him, making his earlier hopes
for an invitation inside a distant memory.

“Tell me what that means.” Issues of letting go aside, he
really didn’t want this to be the last he saw of her. “Isabelle.”

“Goodnight, Kim Martin.” She walked away from him, up the
stairs of her porch. He listened to the sound of her footsteps, softer on the
concrete than in the heat of her anger, then resonant on the wooden steps and
planks of her porch and wondered why, after all the women he’d known—beautiful
women, talented women—this one had such a hold on him.

He’d been there nearly a full minute before he realized two
things were wrong. One, Isabelle was standing absolutely still on her dark
porch. And two, the last sound of her footstep had included the crunch of
glass.

Isabelle couldn’t see to find the locks on her front door.
The porch light wasn’t working though she remembered turning it on before she
left. And something was broken. Flowerpot, maybe?

But she knew that wasn’t it. Terra cotta probably wouldn’t
cut and she had a strong suspicion her foot was bleeding. Once she started
thinking again, no doubt she’d understand. But at the moment, all she could
think was how cold she was now that Kim wasn’t standing beside her.

That wasn’t why she was cold, she knew. She didn’t want to
admit the real reason. Admitting to the fear meant admitting there might be
justification for it—that something had happened to her safe, cozy house. That
the wide stripe of deepest shadow she saw in front of her and couldn’t make
sense of was actually the inside of her house, glimpsed beyond her open front
door.