"Lizabeth?"

It was Matt. And it was too late to sneak away. He stood at the head of the stairs, his body backlit by the kitchen light. He seemed impossibly big, slouched in the doorway. "I was just getting ready to go home," Lizabeth said, sliding past him.

"So was I. And then I realized I had this problem." His voice was weary. "I couldn't figure out where I lived."

He wore a dark pin-striped suit that was perfectly cut to his broad shoulders and slim hips. His white shirt was open at the neck. His tie had been loosened. The slightly pleated slacks clung to his muscular thighs and gracefully fell to a pair of black, Italian leather loafers. He looked more like a CEO than a carpenter. And that's exactly what he is, Lizabeth thought with a jolt. He and Frank Kocen, his hospitalized partner, were the executive officers of Hal-Cen Corporation. It wasn't General Motors, but it was a respectable little construction company, and from what she could see it was growing at a slow but steady pace. They weren't taking any chances. They were building good homes at a reasonable price and reinvesting their profits.

She watched him go to the refrigerator and take out a can of cold beer. She'd never envisioned him in a suit. In fact, she had never thought that he might own one. A five-o'clock shadow was darkening his jaw, whitening his teeth, emphasizing the hard planes of his face. If she'd met him on the street she might not have recognized him at first, but she sure would have given him a. second glance. She half expected to see women lined up on the front lawn like cats in heat. He was awesome.

"You're staring," he said.

"I'm not used to seeing you In a suit."

He grunted, oblivious to his own image, and took a swig from the can. "As the company grows, I find myself spending less time on the job site and more time closeted with bankers and lawyers and real estate agents. Especially since Frank broke his hip. It's not something I enjoy. I chose construction because I like the hands-on part of building things."

"When Frank comes back will you be able to retire your suit?"

"Pretty much. As long as you stay in the office. You were right about needing more support staff. Frank and I can't handle it any longer." He finished the beer. "How do you feel about that?"

"I like working In the office."

He wasn't really asking if she liked it. He wanted to know if she was going to stick around. He knew the thought of marrying him gave her a headache. That wasn't an encouraging sign. Last night he'd felt desperate as she curled next to him in bed. He'd only just found her, and he was afraid he'd already lost her. He couldn't even figure out what had gone wrong. One minute they were friends and lovers, and the next thing he knew, she was furious because he'd charged off after the flasher. The memory brought a smile to his mouth. He had to admit he'd felt foolish standing there buck naked in front of her neighbors.

Lizabeth almost fainted when he smiled. It was the small, unguarded smile of a man laughing at himself. It was a little embarrassed and utterly charming. It almost broke her heart. He was so damn lovable! "What are you smiling about?"

"I guess I was a real bozo last night."

Lizabeth laughed. She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him. "You were sweet."

"Really?"

"Mmmm. I was the bozo. I overreacted."

"No, no. You were right," Matt said. "I went berserk. I lost control."

"True. You did lose control."

"I had good reason to lose control, Lizabeth. The man is a nut-case. And now he's resorting to violence."

Lizabeth rolled her eyes. "He got frustrated and threw his shoe at my window. I'd hardly call that violent. You, on the other hand, are prone to violence. You even enjoy violence. You keep a whole cardboard boxful of violence. And you watch hockey! You probably like boxing and wrestling too."

"So sue me. I'm a man. Men like those things."

"Not my men, buster!" she shouted.

"Unh!" She thunked her fist against her forehead. She was doing it again. What was wrong with her? She was unreasonable. She was making a mess of things. She took a deep breath. "Maybe we should go home."

Matt vented his exasperation on the beer can, crushing it flat. "How many homes are you talking about? Are we still married?"

"We're talking about my home… our home," she corrected. "And we're still married. At least until I can come up with a better story. Is that okay with you?"

"Anything's okay with me as long as I can get out of this suit."

Lizabeth dropped a cotton nightshirt over her head. She fluffed the pillows on her bed, turned down the sheet and summer comforter, and set the alarm. What she needed was a good night's sleep in her nice comfy bed, she thought. She needed space, some time to think. And she needed rest. She crawled into bed and groaned out loud as her spine relaxed and her bare legs slid between the cool sheets. The sound of swearing carried to her from down the hall. There was a loud crash and more swearing. A door opened and then slammed shut. It was Matt. Now what? What more could possibly go wrong? They had snapped at each other all through supper. After supper she had refused to go riding on his motorcycle, and he had refused to watch Out of Africa, saying it was a sissy movie. Now he was stomping around like a bear wearing lead boots.

Matt looked at her closed door and counted to ten. Calm yourself, he said. You know how she hates violence. You know how she hates when you lose control and go running around naked. Okay, he had that one covered. He'd put on a pair of pajama bottoms.

He knocked on the door.

"Yes?"

He sucked in a lungful of air. "I have to talk to you."

"I'm tired. Can't we talk tomorrow?"

"No. We can't talk tomorrow. We have to talk now."

"I don't want to talk now." She didn't want to talk to someone who called Out of Africa a sissy movie. And he'd implied her mashed potatoes were lumpy. And he'd yelled at Ferguson just because Ferguson had eaten his shoe. And more than that, she wasn't up to having him in her bedroom. She couldn't get a grip on Her emotions. There was love and fear and anger all jumbled together, and she couldn't stop them from tumbling out. Ever since last night she had been saying things she regretted, and yet, she kept saying them.

He did some deep breathing, counted to ten again, tried the doorknob, and found it was locked. More deep breathing. More counting to ten. "Oh hell," he said. He gave the door a good kick and broke the lock.

Lizabeth sprang up to a sitting position, too astonished to be angry. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. "You broke my door!"

Now that he had kicked something he was feeling much better. He was even able to speak without shouting-just barely. "That isn't all I've broken. I've also broken Jason's bed. I don't fit in a twin size-"

"Have you tried the couch?"

"Ferguson's sleeping on the couch." He slapped the spare pillow into shape and turned back the sheet.

Lizabeth felt panic claw at her throat. "You're not sleeping here!"

"The hell I'm not." He rolled in beside her and gave something that was close to a growl. "I don't fit in this bed either. Every bed in this house was designed for midgets."

"I didn't hear you complaining last night."

"Last night I wasn't interested in sleeping."

"And I suppose the only thing you have on your mind tonight is sleeping?"

"You got it."

How insulting! They'd been married for less than twenty-four hours and he wanted to go to sleep. Of course, it wasn't a real marriage, but it was insulting all the same. She glared down at him. "Well, since you don't fit in this bed you might as well go somewhere else. Why don't you go kick Billy's door down and ruin his bed."