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Glancing down at the floor, he added matter-of-factly, "I'll start mopping. You can start with the shoes."
    "Clean them yourself."
    He let go of the mop to catch the towel she hurled toward his face.
    "I swear," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Here I thought I was doing you a favor by mopping, and I get stuck with double duty. Oh well." He sighed. "If you insist."
    Oblivious to the glass crunching beneath his heels, he bent down, sliding one hand over the side of her leg before running his palm up her calf and holding her firmly behind the knee.
    "What do you think you're doing?" she asked, her voice almost strident but carefully quiet.
    He looked up into her startled, flushed face— flushed because she was reacting exactly the way he intended, whether she liked it or not.
    "Just getting the tomatoes off your hose," he said calmly, then studied her shapely legs at close range, just as he'd longed to for years. Lord, it was almost too good to be true... touching her this way, feeling the fine tremble as she responded instinctively to his caress.
    Cammie abruptly leaned down to stop him, and almost lost her balance when he tightened his grasp on her leg. She automatically caught his shoulders, and he slowly raised his head.
    Their faces were only inches apart. He could see the sudden dilation of her eyes, could hear the catch of her breath. Their gazes locked. The air fairly crackled with charged intensity.
    "Careful," he whispered. "If you fall, it'll be on me, and believe me, I'm already nursing an edge that's cutting me deeper than any of this glass ever could."
    "I..." She wet her lips, and he clamped down the urge to capture her tongue with his before it slipped back into the inviting recess of her mouth. "I'd rather do it myself, Grant. Give me the towel. Please."
    "Not a chance. And unless you like to live dangerously, I suggest you hang onto something besides me."
    Breaking the visual contact and ignoring the silent plea in her voice, he smoothed the towel up, down, around, managing to rub a lot more in than off. Cammie released his shoulders and straightened, her movements jerky.
    "Kids, are you almost done with that, or do I need to come in there and—"
    "That's okay, Mom," Cammie called back, a distinct waver in her voice. "We're almost through."
    "Okay, but hurry up. Dinner's on."
    "Be right there," she said, and tried without success to extricate her leg. She pushed at Grant's shoulders. "Stop it. That's enough."
    "Oh, no, sweetheart. It's not nearly enough."
    Cammie's calf muscle tautened and quivered. He kneaded it insistently, expertly, then pressed his lips to just above her knee.
    "Grant!" she gasped.
    "Much better," he murmured, then released her with the greatest reluctance and swiped at each of his shoes. He stood quickly, before she could flee, and caught her hand. It was wonderfully damp, and he took enormous pleasure in its unmistakable tremble.
    "Look at me," he commanded gently.
    She hesitated, then tilted her head up. Her eyes were wide, and at least a little scared. But the joy of it was, he didn't think he scared her half as much as she scared herself. There was no disguising the dark flare in her eyes. Her unwilling arousal was hot as fire, and as impossible to hide as his own. His body was all but pulsing in a turbulent, rushing beat.
    "You go help Mom," he murmured. "I'll take care of the rest of this."
    "I'll take care of it," she insisted. "You go help Mom."
    "Why?"
    "Because I don't want to face her."
    He noticed that Cammie looked a little ashamed, and he hated that. Resented it beyond measure. Sparing her no quarter, he glanced down at the front of his trousers, where his fly was straining in blatant protest to the internal pressure.
    "Better you than me," he said without a trace of shame.
    She blushed a vivid scarlet, then managed to gulp out a single, "Oh."
    "Oh, yes." Before she could break away, he brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss into the center of her palm. His fingers