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mantises. Eventually, such names gave way to terms like hag, witch and crone.
    Lately, in part thanks to Connor's play, people had taken to calling such intimate forbidden relationships “dirty love.” They whispered the term under their breath, as though referring to a contagious disease. Men guarded their crotches when they came within ten feet of an older woman—some by literally grabbing on and holding tight.
    On good days, such ludicrous behavior amused Isy. On bad days, it horrified her.
    Laws had been passed to prevent older women from becoming intimate with a fertile man. And when that didn't stop human nature from taking its course, the laws became more severe, until any woman past legal conception age could be fined or imprisoned if she was caught fornicating with a man.
    Any man.
    The sanction got worse depending on the age of the lovers. Since younger males were considered to have greater potential for insemination, being caught with a man under the age of thirty carried the most severe penalty.
    Isy had never been a risk taker. She couldn't chance being turned in for pursuing a relationship with Connor, but giving in to Trevor wouldn't be much better. The law was too strict to circumvent. At best, she'd lose her clinic. At worst, her freedom.
    Isy ground her teeth, then forced herself to relax her jaw. Not for the first time, she wished she'd been born a century earlier. Life must have been so much simpler in the 1980s.
    Damn. Connor was sinful, but Trevor was no less tempting. He was thoughtful, intelligent, attractive. Very attractive, if she had to be honest.
    Chiseled cheekbones and a sharp, angular jaw dominated a classically handsome face. Light eyebrows nearly blended into his tanned skin. Blue-gray eyes, faded in contrast to Connor's blazing sapphire, could make any woman melt under their scrutiny.
    He kept his hair trimmed short, only about a quarter of an inch above his smooth scalp. The military style appeared to age some men. Not Trevor. Clean-shaven, he looked a decade younger than his forty-five years. His trim build and the effortless way his loose jeans hugged his lean hips added to the allure.
    It would have been so easy to give in to his smooth seduction, yet she'd resisted. For weeks, she'd been pushing him away, coming up with excuse after excuse not to invite him inside. Not to be alone with him.
    At the time, she'd convinced herself she was simply done with men. That ship had sailed, as her mother used to say. Society demanded she play the role of celibate spinster the day she turned forty, and she'd been happy enough to act the part.
    Hadn't she?
    Apparently not, judging by the way she'd practically thrown herself at Connor just minutes earlier.
    Every muscle in Isy's body tensed as she prepared to push Trevor away again. “I'm sorry, I really am. Maybe some other time.” She forced a smile, but she could feel her lower lip quiver. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out she was nervous, so she dropped the act. “I'm tired, and I still have testing to conduct tonight."
    "I see.” Trevor made no effort to hide the open interest that lit up his eyes. “Anyone promising?"
    She chalked it up to professional curiosity. “Perhaps. I'll let you know."
    He looked like he wanted to argue, but nodded instead. “Well, why don't you keep the food and flowers anyway? Think of me while you're eating.” He winked. “I'll think of eating you."
    Surprise jolted Isy's system into full awareness. “What did you say?"
    Heavy-lidded desire shadowed his pale blue eyes. “I said, I'll think of eating with you."
    He lifted the bag and the bouquet. She took them both. Her hand trembled and she thought about thrusting the gifts back at him, but knew that was another argument she wouldn't win. He'd brought her things before—a bottle of wine, a potted organic neon violet plant that still sat on her balcony. Each time she'd tried to refuse the generous presents, but he'd insisted.
    At this very moment,