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good, Helen was sure he couldn’t have heard their conversation. A normal man would have run from her unnatural rage.
    “Sexy, and he cooks,” Margery said. “Why didn’t they make men like Phil when I was young? Helen, get out of here. Go have some fun.” She made shooing motions with her glowing cigarette.
    “Have a good night, you two,” Peggy said. She rose from her chaise as if from a trance, and began picking up the wineglass shards. Pete stayed silent, but he watched Helen with beady eyes.
    Helen was eager to get away from the scene of her temptation. She hurried Phil to her little apartment at the Coronado. He’d left an ice chest full of food and a pitcher of margaritas on her doorstep. As she reached in her pocket for her keys, Phil put his arm around Helen and drew her to him.They were hidden in the shadows of a bougainvillea. Something sweet bloomed in the night air. Helen wondered how she’d been so lucky to find this man. For a while it seemed like she’d dated every druggie, drunk, and deadbeat in South Florida—after seventeen disappointing years with Rob.
    “Damn, you look good,” he said.
    “I do?” Helen was always surprised that Phil found her sexy. She was forty-two, with long chestnut hair, longer legs, and good skin. Her eyes were an interesting hazel, and her mouth was generous, or just plain big. She felt the years of unhappiness were etched in her face.
    “Mmm. You smell nice, too,” he said, as he kissed her hair. “How about dinner?”
    Helen liked everything about Phil: the soft skin on the back of his neck, his long silver ponytail, his hard chest and freshly ironed shirt. She wanted him, right now.
    “How about dessert first?” Helen said, opening her door.They dumped the cooler of food in the kitchen and kissed their way toward her bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes. Helen wondered if her evil impulse stirred up some primal hunger, and then she didn’t care. She just wanted him.
    At her bedroom door, Phil tripped over her cat. Thumbs let out a startled yelp, and stalked away with offended dignity. Helen and Phil were too wrapped up in each other to worry about the cat’s wounded feelings. Somehow they were on her bed, under the sheets. Helen reached for him, and Phil groaned.
    “Oh God, you’re good,” he said.
    “No, I’m bad,” Helen said.
    “But in a good way,” he said, and that was the last coherent exchange for some time.
    It was nearly an hour before Helen and Phil were back in the kitchen, barefoot, slightly woozy, and wrapped in matching terry robes. Phil was at the kitchen counter, carefully dipping the rim of her margarita glass in bar salt.
    “Quit fussing and serve it,” Helen said. “I’m thirsty.”
    “Some things are worth fussing over,” he said, finishing her drink with a perfectly cut lime slice. “A well-built drink is one of them. Now, stand aside and let me concentrate on my shrimp fajitas.” He smiled at her, and Helen got another close-up of those sexy eye crinkles. Her heart, and something else, gave an interesting flutter.
    Helen leaned against the counter and watched Phil mash avocados into fresh guacamole with a fork. He seemed to have at least four hands, because he also sau-teed the onions and red and green peppers, then added the shrimp. His long, shapely fingers worked with quick, precise movements.
    Thumbs twined around Phil’s legs, purring loudly. The cat stopped to pat Phil’s bare feet with his huge six-toed paws, then went back to winding himself around Phil’s ankles.
    “He’s forgiven me for falling over him,” Phil said. “He’s a good guy. He doesn’t hold a grudge.”
    “Especially when you’re holding a shrimp.”
    Phil dropped the fat shrimp on the floor. “Oops,” he said. “I really am clumsy. Thumbs, will you pick that up,
    old buddy?”
    The big gray-and-white cat pounced and chomped the shrimp. Phil gave him another.
    “Phil!” Helen said. “Not a whole shrimp. Just the tail. You’ll spoil