"Okay."

He glanced up to find her expression serene. Chills went down his spine. Extreme measures were called for. "She's married, okay? She's sixty and married with four children." He'd confess the lie whenever he made it back to church.

Helen sighed in resignation. "Do you really have to go back out tonight?" she asked, changing the subject.

Steven thought of the Egglestons. "Yes," he answered. "I do. I should be home before midnight, though. I read Nicky a story and put him to bed already." Which meant tucking his baby into a sleeping bag on the floor. Since being abducted from his bed in the middle of the night six months before, Nicky had refused to sleep in his own bed. The counselors said Nicky would return to his bed in his own time. He wondered what the counselors would say about Brad.

"Then eat your dinner, Steven."

He ate the rest of his dinner in silence, trying to ignore his aunt's watchful stare. Truth be told, he loved her more than any other woman in the world. He could tell her fifty times a day he never planned to marry again and it was like talking to the wind. But Helen loved him and loved all his boys dearly. At the end of every argument it always came back to that.

He cleaned his plate. "Thanks, Helen. That beats dinner out of a sack any day of the week."

"Do you want any more? I made plenty."

Steven stood up and pecked her weathered cheek. "No, ma'am. I wouldn't want to get fat."

Helen had the good grace to look embarrassed before she laughed aloud. "I'm going to have to teach that son of yours when to keep his big mouth shut."

He arched a brow. "You can try." He got to the front door and stopped short. "Shit."

"Steven!" Then she saw it too. "Oh, no. Cindy Lou!" She ran to the door and pulled the hundred-pound sheepdog away from Steven's briefcase. "She didn't mean to, Steven."

With a grimace, Steven fetched a towel from the kitchen and cleaned the dog drool from the handle. "Look at these teeth marks! That dog's a menace."

"She's a sweet dog." Helen's lips twitched. "She just has overactive drool glands."

"So get her a glandectomy." He wiped the bag, then cleaned his hands. "I need to go now."

She followed him to the driveway, the drooling ball of hair from hell in tow. "Drive carefully."

"I always do." He opened the rear passenger door and stopped short again. "Shit," he repeated, this time in a whisper.

"I heard that," Helen said from behind him, then peered around him to peek inside the car. "Whose briefcase is that?"

He could feel his cheeks heating again. "It belongs to Brad's teacher."

Helen was quiet for a half beat. "Jenna?"

Steven rolled his eyes, damning his own slip of the tongue. "Yes, Jenna." He should return it, he thought. He should return it to that comfortable little apartment of hers where she was probably sitting on that soft brown sofa with her two dogs at her feet. She'd be grateful, he thought. She'd smile up at him with those violet eyes. And those full lips. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, but it was too late. His body had already responded to the image his mind had conjured. He pulled her briefcase from the backseat with a harder jerk than necessary.

He put the bag in Helen's arms and she stumbled a little from the unexpected weight. "Put it in my study. I'll return it to her on Sunday."

"But-"

"I need to get to the office." He put his briefcase in the backseat and slammed the car door.

Helen winced. "But-"

He climbed into the front seat, pulling his seat belt on with one motion. "Don't wait up. I'll see you tomorrow." He pulled out of his driveway and chanced a look back in his rearview mirror. Helen stood in the same place, her mouth slightly open, watching him drive away.

Steven grimaced. He probably could have handled that with more finesse. He shifted his body in the car seat, trying to relieve the pressure against his zipper. It was stupid, just plain foolish. Jenna Marshall had a nice pair of legs. That was all. No, that wasn't nearly all. Her breasts were nice, too. His hands gripped the steering wheel, hard. And her rear end. He cracked his window to let in some of the cool night air. And her eyes. And her smile. He shifted in the seat again, the pressure unabated. Okay, he could admit it to himself. She was a tidy little package. He was… attracted to her.

He pulled his car from his subdivision onto the main highway. Be honest, Thatcher. She makes your mouth water. He frowned in the darkness. Be really honest, Thatcher. You want to jump that woman's bones. He shuddered, able to imagine it all too well.

It was just that it had been such a long time. A very, very long time. Maybe he just needed to get it out of his system. A little honest sex, with no expectations for a long-term commitment. No promises made, no regrets when he walked away. Because he would walk away.

He'd almost made himself believe casual sex with Jenna Marshall was a feasible solution to his problems when he remembered the way her eyes softened in compassion over his son, then again over saving a puppy about to be put to sleep. A woman like that was not a candidate for a no-strings sexual relationship. She was just not that kind of woman.

Steven sighed. No more than he was that kind of man.

That's why it had been such a very, very long time since he'd been with a woman.

That's why it would continue to be a very, very long time.

Frustrated and alone, he turned his thoughts to the subject of Samantha Eggleston. Her parents would want an update. Hoping Kent was still in the lab, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

Friday, September 30, 11:00 P.M.

"So they lost."

Victor Lutz looked over his mostly empty glass with a sneer. His wife stood in the doorway of his study, dressed for bed in the same nightgown she'd worn every night of their miserable marriage. It wasn't really the same nightgown, but one of ten identical gowns that hung in her closet, magically replicating themselves year after year. It had to be magic. No one in their right mind would buy such an ugly garment on purpose, much less ten of them year after year.

After year after year after year.

On top of being hopelessly stupid, Nora Lutz had absolutely no sense of style. Unlike Rudy's teacher. Not that Miss Marshall had style either, but with a body like that he'd be willing to turn a blind eye to the prim suit. Unfortunately on top of having a great body, she also had guts.

Victor hated women with guts. Guts, brains-they only served to distract women from their sole purpose on this earth. Sex and servitude. In that order. He glared at Nora over his glass. She was a failure on both counts.

"Of course they lost." Idiot. "Rudy sat on the bench the entire goddamn game." He tossed back the last swallow of vodka, stood, and crossed the Aubusson carpet to pour himself another.

Nora pursed her lips, sending deep lines radiating from the corners of her mouth. "I thought you were going to straighten that out with the principal before the game started. Daddy isn't going to be happy about this. He had to pull some strings to get that scout to come watch Rudy."

He hated that mistress-of-the-household tone. She'd learned it from Daddy, the rich sonofabitch.

He tossed back half the glass. The rich sonofabitch whose money bought the Aubusson carpet under Victor's feet, the roof over his head, the business that paid his salary. He eyed the clear liquid in the now half-empty glass. Whose money bought the hundred-dollar-a-bottle vodka that helped Victor drown out the reality of being married to the rich sono-fabitch's tired, ugly, whiny daughter.

Thank God for mistresses and whores, was all he could say. Of course, not out loud. Daddy wouldn't like that. Thank God Daddy didn't really know everything.