“I'm not." He reached for her hand and laced their fingers together. "Speaking of my family, would you mind joining me for a few of the bigger get-togethers? You and the boys?" He wasn't sure why he made the request and he hoped she wouldn't ask him to explain.

Luck was on his side. She nodded right away. "That would be great. I had a good time and I know my kids did, too. All that family can be a little intimidating."

“I'm not intimidated."

“Because you're a big tough guy."

“You know it." She laughed, then slipped down on the mattress. "Okay, then I'll think of it as helping out. Sort of `you scratch my itch and I'll scratch yours.' "

“I like the sound of that." He moved closer and drew back the sheet, baring her to the waist. "So where does it itch?" She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Everywhere."

Chapter Nine

Stephanie had never considered painting a room anything but a chore, yet this afternoon she found herself humming while she worked. Suddenly the squishy swish of the roller on the walls sounded cheerful and lively. The smell didn't bother her, not with the gatehouse windows wide open and the afternoon sun spilling into the room. Even the low-grade complaining of long-unused muscles didn't do anything to dampen her happy mood. She doubted anything short of a serious disaster could wipe the smile off her face.

Life was good, she thought as she smoothed the pale paint over the prepared wall. Life was damn good.

She giggled softly and stretched up her arm. The movement pulled at her hips, which ached from being extended when she'd parted her legs as wide as possible so she could wrap them around Nash. The discomfort only added to her exuberance. Being sore after something boring like an exercise class wasn't very inspiring, but being sore because of mind-clearing sex with an incredible lover was worth every twinge. Her insides still tingled with lingering aftershocks and she couldn't stop sighing with contentment. While she'd never considered herself an affair kind of girl, obviously this was something she should have done years ago.

“It never crossed my mind," she murmured aloud.

With three kids and a pretty hefty mortgage, she'd been more concerned about staying afloat financially after Marty's death than getting any sexual needs met. After a while it had been easy to forget she even had needs. Making love with her husband had been very nice, but over time, the memory faded. She didn't want another relationship with a man, so she'd figured intimacy was no longer available to her.

Until Nash had shown her all the possibilities. And what possibilities there were. They'd made love twice, then agreed to try and get some work done. It had been all of three hours since they'd left his bed and she couldn't wait to get back into it.

Mentally calculating the time until the boys would be turning in for the night, she wondered how she would survive that long without Nash touching her. Now that she knew he was even better than her fantasies, she wanted to take advantage of every second they had together.

“You're not working," Nash said as he walkedin from the kitchen. "You're standing on the ladder, grinning." She laughed. "If I tell you that I'm thinking about us being together will that make it okay?”

“Absolutely." He leaned against the door frame, a tall, good-looking man holding spackle and a putty knife. He'd pulled on a dark blue T-shirt over worn jeans. She liked how he was competent in whatever he did, whether it was patching a wall or making her scream with pleasure. She liked how he was comfortable asking her what she liked when they were in bed, and offering to help out around the house when they weren't. She liked that he was a bit nervous about being around his new family and that he wanted her there to act as a buffer. Not that he'd ever said the latter, but she'd read between the lines.

What she liked most was that they were equals. He had needs, she had needs. No one was more in charge. No one was subservient. They were taking care of each other, while getting what they wanted.

She dipped the roller into the paint on the tray. "How's the patching coming?" she asked.

“All done in the kitchen." He turned his attention to the walls. "Are you sure you don't want me to do the painting in here? You're kind of short to reach the top of the walls."

“That's why they invented ladders," she said. "I like doing this. If you want to help, you're welcome to paint the windows. I already taped the glass, but I haven't started on the frames yet."

“Sure. Let me put this away." He covered the can of spackle, then set it on the makeshift workbench she'd created by placing a flat door over two wooden crates. After he left, she heard running water. The man cleaned up after himself, she thought happily. Did it get any better than that? Nash returned and took a nearly empty gallon can of paint and a brush, then walked over to the large window. She watched him expertly brush the wood trim.

“So how did an FBI negotiator learn how to paint?" she asked.

“I helped paint our house a few times when I was growing up. Since then I've been dragged into a couple of projects with guys from work."

“Do you like your job?" He glanced at her then returned his attention to the window. "Most of the time. Not when it goes bad." She didn't know all that much about what he did, but knew it had a lot to do with negotiating with criminals holding hostages. A bad day for him would mean someone died.

“How did you get in that line of work?" He shrugged. "I was recruited by the FBI out of college. I worked in Dallas for a while, got my master's in psychology. I went into profiling, then I attended a lecture by a negotiator. I trained, worked with him for a while and figured out it was something I had the temperament for."

“Meaning you can handle high-stress situations?"

“That and disconnect from the emotions inherent in the incident." Low-key and distant, she thought. He'd been that way with his family at the pizza-night dinner.

Friendly, but not completely involved. She envied him his emotional detachment. If she'd been able to muster a little for herself, she might have been able to leave Marty.

“So you were probably really annoying when your wife wanted to pick a fight," she said. "There she'd be, all crabby and on edge, and you'd be rational and logical." She'd been teasing, but instead of smiling at her words Nash looked thoughtful.

“We were different," he admitted as he continued to paint the window frame. "Tina lived on the emotional edge most of the time. Drama fueled her. I never figured she would make it as an agent." Stephanie nearly dropped her roller. She grabbed the handle with both hands and tried not to look shocked. "She was an FBI agent?" Nash nodded.

Who would have known? Stephanie hadn't much thought about his late wife, but if she had, she would have assumed the woman was a… She frowned, not sure what she would have assumed. Certainly not a federal agent.

“We met during training. I was one of her instructors. I thought she was too impulsive and wanted to flunk her out. I was outvoted." She turned back to the wall and resumed painting. Better to leave a few streaks on the walls than to stand on the ladder with her mouth open. "Not a very romantic beginning," she said.

“It wasn't. I thought she was a flake, and she thought I was a hard-nosed rule follower. She moved on and I forgot about her. We hooked up about a year later, on assignment." Doing something dangerous, she thought wistfully. Capturing bad guys or saving innocent lives. There was tension, adrenaline followed by passion.

Stephanie didn't like the knot that formed in her stomach or the feeling of being a fairly typical, fairly boring thirty-something single mom.

“If you two were married, you must have changed your initial opinions of each other," she said.

Nash shrugged. "We were always opposites.”

“Sometimes that works."

“It didn't for you and Marty." That was true. "I'm not sure we were opposites so much as we wanted different things," she said, thinking it was safer to think about her late husband than Nash's late wife. "Or maybe it was just that I wasn't willing to pay the price for always doing what I wanted. I didn't like always having to be the grown-up, but Marty didn't seem to give me a choice. Someone had to make sure the bills got paid on time and that there was food in the house. But there were times when I envied his ability not to worry about things like money and consequences. I could never let go that much."

“You took on a lot at an early age. I think kids who have to grow up fast never forget what it was like to be young and in charge. I had the same thing at home. My mom worked a lot of hours and my brother was a complete screwup. He was born to break rules. Even though we were twins, I always felt like the oldest."

“But he grew out of it," she said. "Kevin's a U.S. Marshal now." Kevin had changed. Grown up. Most people did. Just not Marty.

Nash turned around and looked at her. "How did this conversation get so serious? People having an affair aren't supposed to talk about anything significant." She smiled. "I didn't know. This is my first affair, so you'll have to fill me in on all the rules." He set the brush on the edge of the paint can and walked toward her. "The rules are whatever we want them to be."

“Really?" There was a light in his dark eyes that made her insides quiver. As he approached, she put the roller onto the tray and leaned down. The kiss was hard, hot and left her breathless. Wanting exploded within her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let him lower her to the ground.