"My God," she whispered in a breathless tone. She eased herself away from him and slid off the bike on legs that were clearly unsteady. Chris made no move to stop her. Indeed, he decided it was best that she move away from him before he simply let nature take its course.

Drawing a deep breath, he gripped the handlebars and forced himself to calm down. Whatever had just possessed him, he was pleading temporary insanity. At the moment he wasn't sure if he wanted to drag her off and make love to her until they both passed out, or run away from her and whatever potent spell she'd cast on him as fast as his shaky legs could carry him.

Havoc. That's what this woman wreaked. Havoc. With his senses, his mind, his body. He'd only met her a week ago, and his life was turned upside down. A week ago he'd wanted nothing more than his bachelor freedom. Now he wanted Melanie. And nothing else.

She touched his arm. "You okay?" she asked in a small voice. "You're a million miles away."

He tried to smile and failed. He wanted to say he was fine, but that would have been an outright lie.

"To be perfectly honest," he said, plunging unsteady fingers through his hair, "I'm a bit shaken."

"I know what you mean." She wrapped her arms around herself. He knew she couldn't be cold. It had to be two hundred degrees outside. "I'm sorry about that, Chris. I guess I just got caught up in the moment." She raised questioning eyes to his. "How about you?"

"Caught up, yes. Sorry, no."

"I think it might be best if…" Her words trailed off and a frown formed between her brows. "Where are we?"

"My place." Forcing a calmness he was far from feeling, he locked the bike, set the kickstand, then swung his leg over the leather seat. "I hope you're hungry." At her blank stare he added, "I'm making dinner."

"You're cooking me dinner?"

He took her hand and pulled her toward his front door. "That a problem?"

He actually heard her gulp. He smiled, glad she wasn't calm while he was like Elvis-all shook up.

"No problem," she said. "I'm just surprised. What's on the menu?"

"Steak, potatoes, salad. And my famous martinis. Real bachelor-guy stuff."

"I thought bachelor-guy stuff was moldy bologna, stale potato chips, and beer."

"That was last night. Tonight, we feast." He unlocked his door and pushed it open with a flourish. "Welcome to my humble abode. I haven't had much time or inclination to decorate, but all the essentials are covered."

"Essentials?" she asked, craning her neck.

"Beer in the fridge; towels in the bathroom; gym equipment in the dining room; stereo, TV, VCR, recliner in the den." He led her into the den and indicated a tan leather sectional. "Make yourself at home. That's the most comfortable sofa on earth. I'm just going to get the steaks going. I'll be right back." Before heading into the kitchen, he flicked on the stereo. The smooth sounds of Eric Clapton played softly through the speakers.

Melanie took advantage of his absence to look around. The den was spacious, with one wall a series of sliding doors that led onto a roomy deck. Soft track lighting highlighted the gleaming hardwood floors, and a plush sea-foam green and cream Oriental rug lay in front of the marble fireplace.

She wandered past a huge whitewashed oak entertainment center chock full of complicated-looking stereo equipment and a TV. Built-in bookshelves flanked the fireplace, and Melanie perused his selection of books. Lots of accounting texts. The latest Grisham novel alongside a pictorial history of New Orleans. Several volumes concerning cars and motorcycles and, most surprising, a book of poetry.

She counted over a dozen framed photos of his family placed on the shelves. One photo in particular caught her attention. She picked it up and studied a teenage Chris standing next to a very handsome man who looked exactly like him. They grinned identical smiles into the camera.

"That's my dad," he said, entering the room. He set two drinks down on the glass coffee table. "It's my favorite picture. My mom took it just a week before he died."

Melanie turned to him, and her heart flipped over. He was gazing at the photo with such a sad look on his handsome face, she felt like crying. Not knowing what else to say she whispered, "I'm sorry."

His face cleared and a half smile touched his lips. "Yeah. Me, too. He was a great guy."

After setting the photo back on the shelf, he led her to the sofa. Once they were seated he handed her a drink.

She sniffed it and her eyes fogged up. "Yikes. What is this?"

"It's the best vodka martini you'll ever have."

Raising her brows, she repeated, "Martini?"

"I seem to recall you saying you wanted to have one before you died."

"This may come as a shock to you, but I'm not planning to kick the bucket anytime soon."

"No time like the present," he said, clinking the edge of his skinny, triangular-shaped glass to hers. "Try it."

Melanie took a tentative sip. The alcohol was icy cold and powerfully potent.

"Well?" he asked, watching her closely.

"I like it. Kinda tastes like freezing-cold lighter fluid."

He laughed. "You can no longer say you've never tried a martini." He leaned back and stretched out his Levis-clad legs. "I thought we'd start on the other stuff tomorrow."

"What other stuff?"

"Canoeing. Tennis. Cooking lessons. Baking." He shot her an exaggerated leer. "Skinny-dipping."

"Whoa," she said, alarmed by the chain reaction of chaos his words started in her stomach. Skinny-dipping meant Chris naked, and she'd already vowed not to say those two words in the same sentence. The mere thought of him naked made her toss back a hefty swig of her drink. "Those are lifetime goals. If I knock them all off in one weekend, what will I have to live for?"

He leaned forward and dropped a warm, teasing, heart-accelerating kiss on her lips. "I'm sure we can come up with something," he said against her mouth.

Before Melanie could jolt her vocal chords into replying, he stood and said, "The steaks need to be turned. Would you like to set the table?"

"Sure." She followed him into the kitchen, and raised her brows. This was definitely not the month-old-linguine-encrusted room she'd envisioned. Sparkling white cabinets contrasted with dark blue granite countertops. The white ceramic tile floor gleamed with a spotless shine. A large window overlooked the deck, where steam escaped from a gas grill.

"Very nice," Melanie remarked, turning around in a circle. "Very manly, not filled with girlie gew-gaws. And clean, too." She nodded her approval. "I like it."

"Thanks. Dishes are in the top-left cabinet. I'll get the steaks."

Ten minutes later Melanie sat across from him in the small breakfast room at a round, glass-topped table. When she eyed her steak with trepidation, he laughed. "You're not about to be poisoned," he promised. "Steak is the only thing I know how to cook, and after lots of practice, I'm good at it."

Thus assured, Melanie sampled a bite, then smiled. "This is very good."

"Coming from a gourmet cook, I'm flattered, but the note of surprise in your voice is a bit deflating."

"I'm not surprised. Well, maybe a little," she conceded. "I guess I had a stereotypical view of bachelors-can't cook, live in green fungus-filled squalor, spray Lysol on dirty clothes rather than do the laundry." She waved her fork around. "I must admit, I'm impressed."

"Wait 'til you taste dessert."

Melanie looked at him, at the twinkling gleam in his eyes, and almost choked on her salad. She wasn't sure what dessert was, but based on that devilish look in his eyes, she had a feeling it was going to scare her to death. And that she would love it. She gulped down the rest of her drink and held out her glass for another.

After dinner they sat on the deck, sharing a cushiony blue-and-white striped patio loveseat. Melanie leaned her head back and sipped her third martini. By the time she was halfway finished with it she realized that those suckers tasted pretty damn good-in fact, they were the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

Of course, they were kinda strong, a fact that came to her attention when Chris asked her a question. She turned her head to look at him and noticed her vision arrived several seconds later.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You okay?"

She fought a powerful urge to giggle. "Certainly."

Leaning over, he peered at her in the darkness. "Uh-oh. That third martini was probably not a good idea."

"Nonsense. I can hold my liquor as well as you."

"I've only had one."

She glared at him. "One?"

"I'm driving," he said in a mild tone.

"You know, that's one of the things I like about you," she said, slapping her palm against his thigh. "You're very responsible."

He took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips. "I'm glad to hear there are things about me you like, 'cause there's a whole lot I like about you."

The warm, inviting look in his eyes made her tingle all over. "Really?" she asked. "Like what?"

"Everything. Your smile, your laugh, your sense of humor. You're smart, beautiful, kind, funny, and you make the best cookies I've ever eaten." He traced his tongue down the center of her palm and she almost slithered bonelessly off the chair in response.

"Not to mention," he continued in a husky voice, "that you're incredibly sexy."

Wow, wow, holy cow. Melanie finished off her icy drink with a long, deep glug, hoping to cool the fire his words had lit. One more compliment like that and she was going to go up in a puff of smoke.

He squeezed her hand. "You said there were things you liked about me?"

She huffed out a breath. "Ohhhhhhh yeaaahhh. There's a whole big bunch of stuff I like about you."