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did.
    For a full two seconds.
    And then the throbbing between her legs overwhelmed reason in a tidal wave of ungovernable impulse that took no notice whatsoever of self-help book advice. Shifting in her chair, she tried to dismiss the steady, hard rhythm centered in the core of her body. It was hot out tonight. That was it. No,
he
was hot, a little voice inside her head pointed out. And
available
, the treacherous voice went on as though she needed further encouragement when she was practically in attack mode already.
    "Hey," he whispered. "Earth to Stella."
    She looked up to find him smiling and holding out a champagne flute.
    "I was thinking about Megan—her campaign… and stuff," she lied, wondering how long he'd been standing there waiting for her to return to reality. "I have to design a new poster for her debate in the fall. You know how stuff like that rolls around your head."
    "I can imagine," he said, leaning against the railing.
    Was that sarcasm or empathy? Did she really care when he was blocking out the moon with those really wide shoulders and lean, taut body, his dark, ruffled hair limned by silvery light? "Sit down," she said, trying to sound like a mature adult.
Stay a while
, she thought.
A couple weeks if you want
, the highly excitable, super susceptible adult entertainment zone of her body proposed.
    He shook his head. "That wicker won't hold me. I'll sit here." He nodded at her railing.
    "I could get another chair or something." Jeez, how was that for inane?
    "Nah… this'll do for now."
    Versus what? No, no, don't even go there. "The fireworks should start soon—they usually start by ten—or at least they always have in the past although sometimes it can be… later…" Her voice trailed off, and she glanced at her watch as if she could see it in the dim light. "Unless it rains."
    What the hell was she thinking? There wasn't a cloud in the sky. "I mean sometimes it does… rain—although—"
    "Probably not tonight." He smiled. "I saw the TV weather report while I was sitting at the bar at Caesar's. I think we're good on the weather. Relax."
    Oh God, could she sink into the floor and disappear? What was this—her first date in junior high? "Sorry, I'm not usually so gauche," she muttered.
    "You're just nervous because you're not sure you want sex."
    "I
beg
your pardon?"
    "You heard what I said."
    The chauvinist message on the back of his T-shirt burned through her brain. "Maybe you should go."
    "Maybe you don't really mean that."
    "Maybe I do."
    He smiled. "You don't
have to
have sex."
    "Damn right I don't."
    "We can just sit here and watch the fireworks." He grinned. "If it doesn't rain."
    "Arrogant bastard."
    "Uh-uh. I'm just honest with myself."
    "And I'm not?"
    "Vegas odds? I'd say forty to one not on this one."
    "So women just fall into your arms?"
    "Give me a break. This isn't war. I'd just like to get to know you."
    "Meaning?"
    "Meaning anything you want."
    "Liar."
    He smiled. "Well, I have my preferences, but I'll live either way."
    "With or without sex, you mean."
    He nodded. "With or without."
    "That's awfully big of you."
    "It's up to you, that's all I'm saying. You decide. I'll be as accommodating as hell."
    When he offered carte blanche like that, it went a real long way in obliterating objections large or small. It didn't help either that the phrase,
Why don't you come upstairs with me
? had been looping through her brain since she'd answered the door. Nor that he was stretched out on her railing, looking sexy as hell, his back against one of the elaborately carved posts holding up the porch roof, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his balance superb considering he was very large and her railing was not excessively wide. And bottom line, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit he was about the best thing she'd seen since Hostess Sno-balls went pink.
    "Just tell me what you want," he said, the welcome mat out in the silken softness of his voice.
    "I'm thinking." She took a