Susan Phillips - This Heart Of Mine

"Not many, I'll bet."

"Did anybody ever mention that you're nosy?"

"I'm a writer. It goes with the profession." Maybe it was her imagination, but he didn't look as restless as when he'd sat down, so she decided to keep poking. "Tell me about your family."

"Not much to tell. I'm a PK."

Prize kisser ? "Pathetic klutz?"

He grinned and crossed his ankles on the edge of the coffee table. "Preacher's kid. Fourth generation, depending on how you count."

"Oh, yes. I remember reading that. Fourth generation, huh?"

"My father was a Methodist minister, son of a Methodist minister, who was the grandson of one of the old Methodist circuit riders who carried the gospel into the wilderness."

"That must be where your daredevil blood comes from. The circuit rider."

"It sure didn't come from my father. A great guy, but not exactly what you'd call a risk taker. Pretty much an egghead." He smiled. "Like you. Except more polite."

She ignored that. "He's no longer alive?"

"He died about six years ago. He was fifty-one when I was born."

"What about your mother?"

"I lost her eighteen months ago. She was older, too. A big reader, the head of the historical society, into genealogy. Summers were the highlight of my parents' lives."

"Skinny-dipping in the Bahamas?"

He laughed. "Not quite. We all went to a Methodist church campground in northern Michigan. It's been in my family for generations."

"Your family owned a campground?"

"Complete with cabins and a big old wooden Tabernacle for church services. I had to go with them every summer until I was fifteen, and then I rebelled."

"They must have wondered how they hatched you."

His eyes grew shuttered. "Every day. What about you?"

"An orphan." She said the word lightly, the way she always did when anyone asked, but it felt lumpy.

"I thought Bert only married Vegas showgirls." The way his eyes swept from her crimson hair to linger on her modest chest told her he didn't believe she could have sequins in her gene pool.

"My mother was in the chorus at The Sands. She was Bert's third wife, and she died when I was two. She was flying to Aspen to celebrate her divorce."

"You and Phoebe didn't have the same mother?"

"No. Phoebe's mother was his first wife. She was in the chorus at The Flamingo."

"I never met Bert Somerville, but from what I've heard, he wasn't an easy man to live with."

"Fortunately, he sent me off to boarding school when I was five. Before that, I remember a stream of very attractive nannies."

"Interesting." He dropped his feet from the coffee table and picked up the pair of silver-framed Revo sunglasses he'd left there. Molly gazed at them with envy. Two hundred and seventy dollars at Marshall Field's.

Daphne set the sunglasses that had fallen from Benny's pocket on her own nose and bent over to admire her reflection in the pond. Parfait ! (She believed French was the best language for contemplating personal appearance.) "Hey!" Benny called out from behind her. Plop ! The sunglasses slid from her nose into the pond.

Kevin rose from the couch, and she could feel his energy filling the room. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Out for a while. I need some fresh air."

"Out where?"

He folded in the stems of his sunglasses, the motion deliberate. "It's been nice talking to you, but I think I've had enough questions from management for now."

"I told you. I'm not management."

"You've got a financial stake in the Stars. In my book that makes you management."

"Okay. So management wants to know where you're going."

"skiing. Do you have a problem with that?"

No, but she was fairly sure Dan would. "There's just one alpine ski area around here, and the drop is only a hundred and twenty feet. That's not enough challenge for you."

"Damn."

She concealed her amusement.

"I'll go cross-country, then," he said. "I've heard there are some world class trails up here."

"Not enough snow."

"I'm going to find that airfield ?" He shot toward the coat closet.

"No! We'll-we'll hike."

"Hike?" He looked as if she'd suggested bird-watching.

She thought fast. "There's a really treacherous path along the bluffs. It's so dangerous that it's closed off when there's wind or even a hint of snow, but I know a back way to get to it. Except you need to be really sure you want to do this. It's narrow and icy, and the slightest misstep could send you plunging to your death."

"You're making this up."

"I don't have that much imagination."

"You're a writer."

"Children's books. They're completely nonviolent. Now, if you want to stand around and talk all morning, that's up to you. But I'd like a little adventure."

She'd finally caught his interest.

"Let's get to it, then."

They had a good time on their hike, even though Molly never quite managed to locate the treacherous path she'd promised Kevin-maybe because she'd invented it. Still, the bluff they crossed was bitterly cold and windy, so he didn't complain too much. He even reached out to take her hand on an icy stretch, but she wasn't that foolish. Instead, she gave him a snooty look and told him he'd have to manage on his own because she wasn't going to prop him up every time he saw a little ice and got scared.

He'd laughed and climbed up on a slippery pile of rocks. The sight of him facing the winter-gray water, head thrown back, wind tearing through that dark blond hair had stolen her breath.

For the rest of their walk she'd forgotten to be obnoxious, and they had far too much fun. By the time they returned to the house, her teeth were chattering from the cold, but every womanly part of her burned.

He shrugged out of his coat and rubbed his hands. "I wouldn't mind using your hot tub."

And she wouldn't mind using his hot body. "Go ahead. I have to get back to work." As Molly rushed toward the loft, she found herself remembering what Phoebe had once said to her.

When you're raised as we were, Moll, casual sex is a snake pit. We need a love that's soul-deep, and I'm here to testify that you don't find it by bed-hopping.

Although Molly had never bed-hopped, she knew that Phoebe was right. Except what was a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a healthy body, but no soul-deep love, supposed to do? If only Kevin had acted shallow and stupid on their walk… but he hadn't talked about football once. Instead, they'd talked about books, living in Chicago, and their mutual passion for This Is Spinal Tap .

She couldn't concentrate on Daphne, so she flipped open her laptop to work on "Making Out-How Far to Go?" The subject depressed her even more.

By her junior year at Northwestern she'd grown sick of waiting for her Great Love Story to come along, so she'd decided to forget about soul-deep love and settle for soul-deep caring with a boy she'd been dating for a month. But losing her virginity had been a mistake. The affair had left her depressed, and she knew that Phoebe had been right. She wasn't made for casual sex.

A few years later she'd convinced herself she finally cared enough about a man to try again. He'd been intelligent and charming, but the wrenching sadness following the affair had taken months to fade.

She'd had a number of boyfriends since then, but no lovers, and she'd done her best to sublimate her sex drive with hard work and good friends. Chastity might be old-fashioned, but sex was an emotional quagmire for a woman who hadn't known love until she was fifteen. So why did she keep thinking about it, especially with Kevin Tucker in the house?

Because she was only human, and the Stars quarterback was a delectable piece of body candy, a walking aphrodisiac, a grown-up toy boy. She moaned, glared at her keyboard, and forced herself to concentrate.