"She's just here for the summer."

"If you'll all excuse us," Lizabeth said. "There are things I have to discuss with my husband."

Matt followed her into the house. He closed and locked the kitchen door and tried not to look too pleased over the fact that he was suddenly married. He knew Lizabeth well enough by now to recognize the slight tremor of fury in her voice. Her back was ramrod straight and her eyes snapped at him in the dark kitchen. He had placed her in an awkward situation. He should probably apologize. "Sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry? That's all you have to say? Sorry? Of all the stupid, moronic, thoughtless-"

"Yeah, those cops are really dumb, aren't they?"

"Not the cops. You! You went charging out of the house with no clothes on. And then, as if that isn't bad enough, you just stood there In front of the whole neighborhood, dusting yourself off."

"Well, what did you expect me to do? Go jumping around like an embarrassed teenager? I didn't see that I had a whole lot of options. And anyway, how come I'm not getting any sympathy for being tackled by the Keystone Kops? Don't you want to know if I skinned my… knee?"

The borrowed robe was open, exposing a good six inches of his most vita! parts from neck to knees. It was apparent he hadn't skinned anything important, and she was finding it increasingly difficult to remember exactly why she was so angry. "You wouldn't have gotten tackled if you hadn't gone berserk. What about 'ignore him and hell go away'?"

"The man is a lunatic. He threw a shoe through your window." Damned if women weren't confusing. He'd risked life and limb to protect her from some yuppie pervert, and she was mad at him! He yanked the refrigerator door open and angrily peered inside. He found a small container of leftover potato salad and went in search of a fork.

Lizabeth clenched her fists. "Stop clattering in the silverware when we're having a discussion!"

"I'm hungry. Let me tell you something: Being married to you leaves a lot to be desired."

Lizabeth stepped back as if she'd been slapped. He wasn't the first man to tell her that. Paul had made her constantly aware of her inadequacies as a wife, and years of hurt and insecurity suddenly welled to the surface. She blinked back tears, thankful for the darkness. This time there was a measure of truth in his accusation. Matt hadn't had such a great night either, and she should have been more concerned with his feelings. Somehow that made it all the worse. A feeling of failure came rolling in like fog. It was silent and isolating. And, like fog it swam away from her as she moved forward, but it was always there, obscuring life. Anger, on the other hand, was something she could sink her teeth into. "We're not married!"

"Lizzy, I have a news flash for you. In the eyes of this community, we're about as married as anyone can get."

She smacked the heel of her hand against her forehead. "How could I have been so dumb? Why did I tell all those people you were my husband?"

Matt speared a chunk of potato. "You were a desperate woman, Lizzy. You panicked."

There was a hint of laughter behind his eyes. Damn him, he was in the driver's seat. And he knew it. He held her reputation in the palm of his hand. She tightened the sash on her robe. "I suppose I have a few options."

"You can sell the house and move to Montana."

Lizabeth rolled her eyes.

He set the plastic container on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. His voice was soft. A whisper in the darkness. "We could actually get married."

Her heart jumped in her chest. Marry him. The possibility shimmered in front of her. It was a great big soap bubble of an idea, and it dredged a giggle up from somewhere deep inside. A lifetime of Matt Hallahan grinning at her over the morning paper. A lifetime of warm sheets, and double-dares, and fresh doughnuts from the bakery. He'd protect her from dragons and flashers and hold her close while he slept. And he'd love her long into the night, whispering outrageous suggestions and words of endearment.

Unfortunately, soap bubbles are fragile and shortlived, and Lizabeth needed something that would endure. Her husband would also be father to her children. She couldn't risk another failed marriage, and what it would do to her sons. And then there was still the motorcycle. She put her fingers to her temples, where a dull throb was taking hold.

"Got a headache?"

She nodded. "It's been a long day."

Lizabeth opened her eyes to a sun-drenched room. Matt had crawled in next to her last night, hugging her to him as if his big body could ward away all earthly problems. And to some extent it could. When she was wrapped in his arms, well-being seeped through the layers of self-doubt. This morning the bed was empty next to her, and she felt a stab of panic. He was gone. Could she blame him? She closed her eyes and groaned. Her life was a mess. "Lizabeth," she said, "you screwed up." She looked at the clock and gasped. It was after ten! And someone was knocking on her front door.

Lizabeth wrapped her robe tight around herself and answered the door. "Yes?"

"Blue Star Glass. I'm supposed to fix a window."

He was short and chunky, and he was wearing a blue shirt with Mike written over the pocket in red script. She stared at him blank-faced, still half asleep. "You must have the wrong house."

"I don't think so. I got a work order for this address. Very weird, too. Some guy came in first thing this morning, all dressed up in a suit and tie, wearing a paper bag over his head. He said he accidentally broke your bedroom window last night, and he paid me to fix it. Lady, you have some strange friends."

It was close to twelve when Lizabeth got to work. She scanned the street, but she didn't see Matt's truck or bike. Landscapers were laying sod and planting azaleas in the front yard of the colonial. Backhoes were working across the street, excavating basements. The cul-de-sac would be completed by spring. The carpenters would be replaced by mothers and children. The whine of power tools would give way to the drone of televisions and vacuum cleaners. People would be complaining that they couldn't grow grass because Matt had left too many trees. He'd done It purposely so the cul-de-sac would fit in with the older, more established community.

It was quiet and cool in the colonial. Lizabeth stepped into the foyer and listened for the sound of men working. She heard nothing. The house was pretty much done. Next week they would move the office into the house next door, and that's where it would stay until spring. Matt had decided to use the second house as a model rather than sell it immediately. She hesitated at the top of the basement stairs, feeling odd in the empty house, wondering if she was still the office manager. A lot had happened in twenty-four hours, and she wasn't sure how Matt felt about any of it.

A phone rang, and the recorder clicked on. "Matt? Are you there? I know you're there!" Thirty seconds of colorful swearing in a deep, masculine voice. "I hate these damn recorders. I hate talking to a machine. And I hate having people listen to me talk to a machine. I don't know why I bother anyway, because nobody ever calls me the hell back. My number is…" The time ran out and the recorder cut off and rewound.

Lizabeth hurried down the stairs and played back the rest of the messages. It was after five when she finally stood and stretched. She hadn't seen Matt all day, but she'd found a terse note taped to the desk saying he'd be at the lawyer's most of the afternoon. Probably trying to see if he could get an annulment from a nonexistent marriage, she thought. She heard the front door open and close. Footsteps overhead going into the kitchen. Her heart skipped a beat. The workmen were all long gone. It was either Matt or a serial murderer. She contemplated sneaking out the patio door.