Nora Roberts - High Noon

"You love your kid-that's first and last. Your eyes lit up when you said her name. The divorce still bothers you on some level. I don't know which, not yet. Your work isn't a career, it's a vocation. Cab-driving bartender," he said. "I know how to listen, too."

"Yes, indeed. That's quite a bit, on both sides, for one drink." He rose when she did. "I'll walk you to your car."

"It'll be a hike. It's in the shop. I'm catching a CAT."

"Jeez. I'll drive you. Don't be stupid, 'cause you're not." He took her arm with one hand, signaled a goodbye to the bar with the other on the way to the door.

"You're the second man who's offered me a ride tonight."

"Oh yeah?"

"The first involved hopping onto the handlebars of his bike. As I told him, I don't mind the bus."

"Take you just as long to walk to the bus stop as it will for us to walk to the lot down here. And I can promise you a smoother ride home." He glanced down at her. "Nice night for a drive."

"I'm only up on Jones."

"One of my favorite streets in the city." He strolled now, sliding his hand down her arm to link it with hers. "So's this one."

And here she was after all, Phoebe thought, half of a couple wandering on River Street, hand in hand. His was warm, the palm hard and wide. The sort of hand, she imagined, that could wrench the top off a pickle jar, catch a fly ball or cup a woman's breast with equal ease. His legs were long, his stride loose and lazy. A man, Phoebe judged, who knew how to take his time when he wanted to.

"Nice night for a walk, too, especially along the river," he commented. "I have to get home."

"So you said. Not cold, are you?"

"No."

He walked into the lot, hailing the attendant. "How you doing there, Lester?"

"Doing what comes, boss. Evening, ma'am."

A bill passed from hand to hand so smoothly Phoebe nearly missed it. Then she was standing, staring at a gleaming white Porsche. "No handlebars." Duncan shrugged, grinned, then opened the door for her.

"I'm forced to admit this will be better than the bus-or Johnnie Porter's Schwinn."

"You like cars?"

"If you'd asked me that a couple hours ago, I'd have given you several reasons why cars and I are on nonspeaking terms currently." She brushed a hand over the side of the buttery leather seat. "But I like this one just fine."

"Me, too."

He didn't drive like a maniac, which she'd half-expected, and had to admit had half-hoped. He did drive, however, like a man who knew the city the way she knew her own bedroom-every nook and cranny.

She gave him the address and let herself enjoy the sort of ride she'd never imagined experiencing. When he pulled up in front of her house, she let out a long sigh. "Very nice. Thank you."

"My pleasure." He got out, skirting the hood to take her hand again on the sidewalk. "Great house."

"It is, yes." There it was, she thought, rosy brick, white trim, tall windows, graceful terraces.

Hers, whether she liked it or not. "Family home, family duty. Long story."

"Why don't you tell me about it over dinner tomorrow night?" Something in her actively yearned when she turned toward him. "Oh, Duncan, you're awfully cute, and you're rich, and you've got a very sexy car. I'm just not in a position to start a relationship."

"Are you in a position to eat dinner?"

She laughed, shook her head as he walked with her up to the parlor level. "Several nights a week, depending."

"You're a public servant. I'm the public. Have dinner with me tomorrow night. Or pick another activity, another day. I'll work around it."

"I have a date with my daughter tomorrow night. Saturday, dinner, as long as it's understood this can't go anywhere."

"Saturday."

He leaned in. It was smooth, but she saw the move. Still, it felt fussy and foolish to stop it. So she let his lips brush over hers. Sweet, she thought.

Then his hands ran down from her shoulders to her wrists, his mouth moved on hers. And she couldn't think at all. Deep, penetrating warmth, quick, hard flutters, a leap and gallop of pulse.

She felt it, all of it, as her body seemed to let out a breath too long held.

Her head actually spun before he eased back, and she was left staring, staring into his eyes. She said, "Oh, well, damn it."

He flashed that grin at her. "I'll pick you up at seven. 'Night, Phoebe."

"Yeah, 'night." She managed to unlock the door, and when she glanced back, he was standing on the sidewalk, still grinning at her. "Good night," she said again.

Inside, she locked up, turned off the porch light. And wondered what the hell she'd gotten herself into.

She'd no more than reached the top of the stairs when her mother and Ava slipped out of the TV room with big, expectant smiles.

"So?" Essie began. "How was it?"

"It was fine. It was a drink." If she'd been wearing socks, Phoebe thought as she aimed for her bedroom, they'd have blown clear across Jones Street during that good-night kiss.

Behind her back, Essie and Ava exchanged a look, then headed off in pursuit.

"Well, what's he like? What did you talk about? Come on, Phoebs."

Ava clasped her hands together as if in prayer. "Give us dateless wonders the scoop."

"We had a beer in his very nice pub. I enjoyed it. I'm going to work out."

Another look was exchanged when Phoebe went to her dresser to pull out yoga pants and a sports bra.

"What'd you talk about?"

Phoebe glanced at her mother in the mirror, shrugged. She began to strip and change. She'd lived among women too long to worry about nudity. "This and that. He used to tend bar and drive a cab."

"Hmm. So he's enterprising, isn't he?"

"You could say."

"Where does he live?" Ava pressed. "In the city?"

"I didn't ask."

"Well, for goodness sake." Essie cast her eyes to the ceiling. "Why not?"

"It didn't come up." Phoebe reached in the little silver trinket box on her dresser for a tie, whipped her hair back into a tail.

"What about his people?" Essie demanded. "Who are his family, his-"

"That didn't come up either. I sort of got distracted."

"Because he was charming," Essie decided.

"He was-is-very charming. But I was distracted, considerably, when he told me he won the lottery several years ago, to the tune of a hundred and thirty-eight million."

She sailed out on that, automatically peeking in to check on Carly before moving to the stairs and up to the third floor.

She'd commandeered what had once been a maid's room for a little home gym. An indulgence on her part, Phoebe knew, but it also saved a health club fee and meant she could get an hour in early in the morning or at night, after Carly was in bed.

Work kept her away from home enough without adding gym time to it.

She'd sprung for an elliptical machine, a few free weights, and even a small TV to play exercise tapes. Carly often practiced her gymnastics while she worked out, so that was the big benefit of more motherdaughter time. Her mother and Ava used the equipment, so it paid for itself.

In the end it wasn't only more convenient but more economical. At least that's how she'd justified the expense.

Phoebe smiled to herself as she set the machine and climbed on. Her mother and Ava were already at the doorway, gaping.

"Did you say million?" Essie demanded. "I did."

"I remember that, I remember something about that." Ava laid a hand on her heart. "Millionaire cabdriver. That's what they called him. Local boy. Single ticket. Oh my God! That's him?"

"In the flesh."

"Well. God. I think I'm going to sit down." Essie did so, right on the floor. "That's not just rich, not even just wealthy. I don't know what it is."

"Lucky?" Phoebe suggested.

"And then some." Ava joined Essie on the floor. "He bought you a beer."