“Sinner.”

“You know that old saying about finding something you’re good at and sticking with it.” The other side of his mouth slid up into a wicked smile, leaving little doubt that he’d turned sinning into an art form.

Her heart gave a little flutter, whether she wanted it to flutter or not. And she didn’t. Clare reached for the glasses on top of her head, and her hair slid over her ear and across her cheek. “If you see your father, will you tell him I need to talk to him about the guest list for his party?” she asked, purposely turning the conversation away from thoughts of sinning.

“Sure.” He raised the coffee to his lips. “You could leave the list and I’ll make sure he sees it.”

She pushed her hair back. “You’d do that?”

“Why not?”

Probably because being nice and helpful to her wasn’t in his nature. “Thanks.”

He took a drink and watched her over the top of the mug. “Don’t mention it, E-Clare.”

She frowned and pulled a piece of paper from the bag on her shoulder. Growing up, he’d called her any and every variation of her name. Her least favorite had been Hairy Clary. She set the list on the table and adjusted her purse. She remembered the time she’d thought she was so smart, and had tried to outwit Sebastian by calling him a numb nut. She’d heard the expression somewhere and thought she was calling him a stupid nut…until he pointed out that she was actually calling him a numb testicle. There’d never been any winning with Sebastian. “Tell him these are the people whom I’ve already contacted and who will attend. If he sees an omission, someone I’ve forgotten to include, I need to know ASAP.” She looked up at him. “Thanks again,” she said, and turned toward the door.

Without a word, Sebastian watched her leave. Warm coffee slid down his throat as his gaze moved down the shiny brown hair brushing her bare shoulders and back.

She was so thorough. So tidy. Somebody should do her a favor and mess her up a little. Wrinkle her clothes and smear her lipstick. At the front of the house, the door opened and closed, and Sebastian moved toward the table. That someone wasn’t going to be him. No matter how tempting. She was too uptight for his tastes. But even if she did loosen up, he couldn’t imagine that doing the deed with Clare would ever go over very well with the old man. Not to mention Joyce.

He kicked the chair away from the table and sat as he booted up his computer. The only reason he could come up with to explain his inexplicable attraction to Clare was that (a) he’d seen her naked, and (b) he hadn’t had sex in a while, and (c) her damn book. He hadn’t planned on reading it straight through, but she’d hooked him and he’d read every page. Every well-written, hot page.

On those rare occasions when Sebastian found the time to read something that wasn’t related to his job, he picked up a Stephen King. As a kid, he’d loved horror and science fiction. As an adult it never once occurred to him to reach for a romance. From Chapter One, he’d been impressed with the smooth depth of her writing. Yeah, it had been emotionally overdone in some scenes, so much so that he’d groaned a few times, but it had also been exceedingly erotic. Not the Penthouse Forum sort of eroticism he’d found with some male writers. More of a soft lead by the hand rather than a slap across the face.

The night before, when he’d fallen asleep, he’d dreamed about Clare. Again. Only this time instead of a thong, she’d worn drawers and a white corset. And thanks to the clarity of her writing, he’d been able to picture every damn ribbon and bow.

Then today, he’d opened the door and found her on his doorstep as if he’d conjured her up. To make matters worse, her dress had cherries on it. Cherries, for God’s sake. Like she was dessert. Which had instantly reminded him of the pirate throwing Lady Julia on his big table and licking Devonshire cream from her breasts.

He pulled his T-shirt over his head and brushed it across his chest. He needed to get laid. That was his problem. Only he didn’t know anyone in Boise who could take care of that particular problem for him. He didn’t pick up women for one-nighters anymore. He couldn’t say for certain when sex with a total stranger had lost its appeal, but he figured it was about the same time he picked up a woman in a Tulsa bar and she’d about gone postal on him when he wouldn’t give her his cell number.

His word processing system appeared on the screen, and he tossed his shirt on the floor by his feet. He glanced at his note cards and shuffled a few to the top. He moved them around in rapid succession, setting some aside, then picking them back up and placing them in a different order. For the first time in weeks he felt the beginning flick in his head. He glanced at his notes scribbled on a legal pad, picked up a pencil, and scribbled a little more. The flicker caught fire and he placed his fingers on the keyboard. He moved his neck from side to side and wrote:

I’m told his name is Smith, but it could be Johnson or Williams or any other typically American surname. He is blond and wears a suit and tie as if he plans to run for president someday. Only his heroes aren’t Roosevelt, Kennedy, or Reagan. When he speaks of great men, he speaks of Tim McVeigh, Ted Kaczynski, and Eric Rudolph. Homegrown terrorists who’ve settled in the sediment of the American subconscious, overshadowed and forgotten for now by their foreign counterparts, until the next act of American extremism blows itself onto the nightly news and spills black ink across the nation’s newspapers as blood runs in the streets.

Everything clicked and whirred and fell into place, and for the next three hours the steady tapping of his keyboard filled the kitchen. He paused to refill his coffee mug, and when he was finished, he felt as if an elephant had stepped off his chest. He leaned back in his chair and blew out a relieved breath. As much as he hated to admit it, Clare had been right. He’d been trying to force it, to start the piece in the wrong place, and he hadn’t been able to see. He’d been too tense. Holding on too tight to look at what was so glaringly obvious. If Clare had been in front of him, he would have planted one on her beautiful mouth. Of course, kissing Clare anywhere was completely out of the question.

Sebastian rose from his chair and stretched. Earlier, when he asked her about her research, he’d meant to tease her a little. Knock her off her pins. Get her going, like he had as a kid. Only the joke was on him. He was thirty-five. He’d traveled the world and been with a lot of different women. He did not get all hot and bothered by a romance novelist in a cherry dress as if he were a kid. Especially that particular romance novelist.

Even if Clare was up for a few rounds of noncommital, no strings, hot and sweaty sex-and that was a big if-it would never happen. He was in Boise to try and build a relationship with his father. Something from the ashes, not set ablaze what little progress they’d made by sleeping with Clare. It didn’t matter that Joyce wasn’t Sebastian’s employer. She was his father’s boss, and that made her the boss’s daughter. If shit had hit the fan years ago over a conversation about sex, he hated to think what might hit the fan if they actually had sex. But even if Clare weren’t the boss’s daughter, he instinctively knew she was a one man woman. The problem with a one man woman was that he was not a one woman man.

His life had slowed in the past few years, but he’d spent most of his twenties bouncing from town to town. Six months here, nine there, learning his job, honing his craft, making a name for himself. Finding women had never been a problem. It still wasn’t, although he was a lot more particular at thirty-five than he’d been at twenty-five.

Perhaps someday he would marry. When he was ready. When the thought of it didn’t make him put his hands up in the air and back away from the idea of a wife and kids. Probably because he hadn’t exactly been raised in an ideal situation. He’d had two stepfathers. One he’d liked, the other he hadn’t. He’d liked some of his mother’s boyfriends, but always knew that it was just a matter of time before they left and his mother would once again shut herself in her room.

Growing up, he’d always known that his parents loved him. They’d just loathed each other. His mother had been vocal about her hatred of his father, but to be fair to his dad, the old man hadn’t ever said anything against his mother. Yet, sometimes it was what a person didn’t say that spoke volumes. He didn’t ever want to be stuck in that sort of vicious circle with a woman, and he certainly didn’t want to raise a child in that environment.

Sebastian bent at the waist and picked up his T-shirt from the floor. No, he would never rule out marriage and family. Someday he might decide he was ready, but that day wasn’t even in the pipeline.

The kitchen door opened and his father walked in. He moved to the sink and turned on the faucet. “Are you workin’?”

“I just finished.”

Leo grabbed a bar of soap and washed his hands. “I have tomorrow off, and if you’re not busy, I thought maybe you and me could drive up past Arrowrock dam and drop a hook.”

“You want to go fishing?”

“Yeah. You used to like to fish, and I hear they’re bitin’ up there.”

Fishing with the old man. It could work out to be just what the two of them needed, or it could turn into a disaster. Like shopping for a car. “I’d love to fish with you, Dad.”

Seven

The day after Lucy’s wedding, Clare had taken a vow of sobriety. The following Thursday evening at 5:32, she broke it. But really, a girl had to celebrate.

She held a bottle of Dom Perignon in her hands and worked the cork with her thumbs. After a few moments it popped and flew across her kitchen, hitting a deep mahogany cupboard and rebounding behind the gas stove. A gossamer mist rose from the mouth of the bottle as she poured into three tall champagne glasses. “This is going to be good,” she said through an unrepentant smile. “I stole it from my mother.”