Fine. Her throat was as dry as the Sahara.

The only reason she was here at all was that she figured Griff Anderson could hardly be a total nerd. He’d had the sense to call and cancel on the two previous occasions his sister had so cleverly set up. Which matched the two Susan had wiggled out of. He was obviously about as interested in blind dates as she was, but Gibraltar could be worn down more easily then the indomitable force that was Julie. So they’d make the gesture-one ten-minute drink together and the die-hard matchmaker would really have to let up, Susan figured. Certainly, as two mature people they could get out of having dinner together without undue awkwardness. So how bad could ten minutes be?

Setting down her empty wineglass, she glanced at her watch with a little frown. It was eight-fifteen. The room seemed increasingly warm, and she shrugged out of her raincoat. Beneath was the pale green dress she’d worn to work that day, a soft knit that clung lovingly to her slender figure. Why hadn’t she remembered that Julie, the enthusiastic matchmaker, was a veteran field-player herself? “You think I wouldn’t get married in a second if the right man came along?” Julie had insisted. “At least I’ve got the sense to keep looking. You two aren’t even trying, and I just have the feeling that if you meet each other…”

Lord, what hogwash.

“Would you like another drink?” The hostess hovered, smiling pleasantly.

“Well…all right.”

Susan had already memorized every painting in the place, seen the ladies’ room twice and tested every chair in the foyer. She knew he’d said eight o’clock. The hostess brought a second tall wine cooler, and Susan settled back in the leather couch. She crossed her legs, then worried that it might look like a come-on and uncrossed them. Fine, he wasn’t interested, but certainly the least he could do was be on time…

The hostess kept glancing at her. It was hardly the kind of place that encouraged lone women. Couples kept milling in and out. Susan gave her rapt attention to counting the bricks in the fireplace.

The wine had hit her like a submarine, but then she hadn’t eaten any lunch. The problem was that her throat was so dry, and when the hostess offered her a third wine cooler, she nodded vaguely. The thing to do was leave, of course. It was past eight-thirty. She’d wait a few more minutes; she didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to give Ideal Man-Julie’s epithet, that-a piece of her mind. Leaving a woman waiting for better than half an hour… Susan had a few more creative epithets for Griff Anderson. Since they’d both agreed to this ridiculous meeting, she had a right to expect common courtesy…

At nine-ten, Susan set down her empty glass and was dizzily adjusting the shoulder strap of her purse as a tall blond man burst through the door. She caught a single glimpse, but was more immediately concerned with convincing her legs to hold her up straight so she could start moving. The derelict Viking was dressed in well-worn jeans, a tweed jacket and bedraggled running shoes. He had a pair of shoulders that barely fit through the door, and a thatch of stark blond-white hair that should have been trimmed four weeks ago. She doubted the restaurant would seat him. His problem, not hers. She was going home.

She had raised her hand to push her way out through the heavy oak door when she felt a palm on her shoulder. Turning in surprise, she saw the Viking and caught a closer glimpse of his face. Deep-set dark eyes held a crazy mix of humor and stark sexual appraisal. A straight nose, thin lips-thin but sensuous-baring even white teeth in a crooked smile. Somehow the blend of features added up to passably handsome; her awareness of this fact annoyed Susan. That pair of lazy browns was busy communicating a very potent sexual come-on.

“Exch-excuse me,” she said rigidly. She brushed his hand from her shoulder as she would flick away a gnat, trying to communicate politely to the stranger that she would prefer the touch of a bug to his touch. She attempted to take another step, but one long arm blocked the door.

“Just hold on. You were waiting for someone?”

“Jus’ for you. To move,” she slurred pleasantly. The flare of gun-metal gray in her eyes demanded that he do so. Promptly. Shy by nature, Susan seemed to have acquired instant assertiveness with the three wine coolers she had finished in the past hour. She was ready to take on all comers.

The challenge seemed to amuse the Viking; he delivered a smile from his six foot one down to her normally adequate five foot five. “You don’t exactly seem to be in a receptive mood,” he remarked.

She nodded. “You won’t believe how my mood will improve once you get out of my way,” she promised, and motioned again to his hand on her shoulder.

“If you’ll calm down just a hair, I’d like to explain…”

So he required a sledgehammer. “Look. I am tired. I have been up since five, I have a headache, my plants need watering and I have just wasted more than an hour on a man who’s been a thorn in my side for nearly six months. Surely you must remember your mother telling you to show a little kindness to those less fortunate than you? Now’s the time. Pick on someone your own size.” She enunciated very clearly, in case he had a hearing problem.

The hand didn’t move. She had a frustrated feeling that the man was struggling with laughter. She was struggling with dizziness. She tried again. “There’s a brunette in the bar. All by herself. Amazon type. Very…” She explained the lady’s figure by weaving an hourglass with her hands. “Really. You’d have to be out of your mind not to like her. Any man…”

The hand finally dropped, and husky laughter echoed through the foyer. Susan glanced around, embarrassed, and then hurriedly pushed open the oak door and started walking. Darkness had fallen, and the cool June night made her pull her raincoat closer around her. To her annoyance, the streetlamps were coming in double, and the parking lot had acquired a slant during the past hour. And a huge shadow loomed behind her from out of nowhere.

“The timing was bad. Tiger’s on a Little League team. The game started at five and should have been over before seven, but it went into extra innings. I could still have gotten dressed and been here by eight o’clock but-”

She whirled, furious he had followed her-and then through a fogged brain realized that the Viking was actually the subdued, conservative businessman Julie had tried to pawn off on her. She took one more look, shuddered disbelievingly and kept on walking.

“I could still have gotten here by eight,” he repeated, “but the thing was, my son’s team lost. The ball game.”

“Look, Mr. Anderson,” she started impatiently. She stopped beside her Mazda, opening her purse to find the keys.

“I took him for an ice-cream cone. It was the first game the team had lost,” he said quietly. “Tiger struck out. What else could I do?”

She glanced up. The gun-metal gray of her eyes had softened to a rich, deep pewter. The bastard! If he’d handed out any decent line, she could have kept on freezing him out, but the image of a young boy coping with defeat, needing a soothing ice-cream cone… So his son came first with him. She respected that. Still, having started from a score of minus five hundred, he had only worked his way up to zero. “I’m sorry he lost,” she said honestly, and bent her head over her pocketbook again. Tissues, brush, lipstick.

“Can I help?”

She piled her brush, lipstick and change purse into his open palms. Three grocery lists, a dentist’s receipt, the cameo that needed a new chain, the bracelet that snagged stockings, her checkbook.

“I know my keys are in here-”

“Have you had dinner?” He was struggling to keep his face straight. “Under the circumstances, I suppose that’s a foolish question…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he said gravely. “I like an occasional drink before dinner myself.”

“Well, I don’t. Drink before dinner.” She found the keys and unlocked the car door. A second later, she started shuffling her belongings from his overfilled hands back to her purse.

“Obviously.”

“Pardon?”

“Obviously you don’t usually drink before dinner,” he said ironically. “By the way, you’re not driving home,” he added cheerfully.

“I shbeg your pardon.” She frowned. That seemed to have come out wrong. “Your sister is a lovely person, Mr. Anderson-”

“Griff.”

She waved her hands. First names were hardly worth quibbling over. “Now we’ve met each other. We don’t have to fool around with this anymore. I really have to go home and water my plants.” She slid into the driver’s seat. She peered up at him, belatedly remembering her manners. “Really, it was very nishe to meet you. Very nishe. Julie told me what a wonderful man you are…”

“Pillar of the community, salt of the earth. All I lack is a nice little woman to ease the loneliness of a divorced man, someone who actually likes mothering children.” He could quote his sister verbatim, she noticed. “And according to Julie, you were ideal. An attractive, quiet, shy little brunette, all alone. A craft and book shop. How…feminine. I had you pictured as a little paragon of virtue, a youngish maiden aunt. Move over, honey. There’s no way you’re going to drive yourself home.”

“Over my dead-”

His palm curled intimately under her bottom, shifting her over to the passenger side. Her legs promptly tangled in the stick shift, her green skirt fluttering back to reveal an expansive length of stockinged leg. “Now you just listen here-”

“How much? I’ll reimburse you for the bar bill, since I’m responsible.” He dipped down to grope for the dropped car key, rearranged her legs, covered her thigh again and inserted the key in the ignition as he slammed the car door.