That's who Scott reminded me of, I realized, staring at the light in his eyes – Mike, the Jersey Shore bike boy, come to take me back to the endless beach party, where there were no high-stress jobs, no biopsies, and no cheating husbands with attractive blondes on their arm.

And I guess, right then, what I wanted more than anything, at the most confusing, shitty time of my entire life, was to go back there with him. And be that sixteen-year-old girl again.

Scott was down on his knees, wiping up the beer spill. I took a breath, reached out, and brushed my hand over his head. "You're sweet," I whispered.

Scott stood up and held my face in his hands. "No, you're the one who's sweet. And you're the most beautiful woman I know, Lauren. Kiss me. Please."

PAUL AND I HAD ONCE HAD a sweet sex life. In the early days, we were inseparable. On the way down to our third honeymoon, in Barbados, we even became full-fledged members of the Mile High Club.

But being with Scott?

It was life-threatening.

For the better part of an hour, we just kissed and caressed and fondled, my breath and heart rate accelerating in dangerous increments with each button release, every tug of my clothes. When Scott eventually pulled up my shirt and pressed his face to my stomach, I almost bit through my lower lip.

Then he popped the top button of my jeans. From my throat came a sound that wasn't even close to human. I was in danger of passing out, and loving it.

We staggered from room to room, shedding each other's clothes. We clinched, straining against each other, desperate for breath. I had been needing this for so long, especially the touches, the caresses, maybe just the attention.

How we actually ended up in his bed, I couldn't quite remember. Somewhere near the end, I recall, lightning struck so close in the backyard that the window rattled in its frame in time to the headboard.

Maybe God was trying to tell me something.

But I don't think we could have stopped if the roof of the house had been ripped away.

Afterward I lay there on the comforter, shuddering like a trauma victim, sweat covering my cheeks and neck, my lungs stinging. The wind howled against the windowpane as Scott rolled his searing body off mine. "Jeez, Lauren. My God, you're great."

I was afraid he might stand up and offer to take me home then. I was happily relieved when he spooned in beside me, resting his chin on my shoulder. As we cuddled in the dark, all I could think about were those eyes of his, those gentle, almost auburn-colored eyes, as he finger-combed my hair.

"I think I need a shower," he said finally. His long, muscular legs seemed to wobble when he stood. "Check that out. I need an IV."

"You could get one at the emergency room when you drop me off," I said, smiling.

I had just enough energy to prop up my head on a pillow as Scott walked to the bathroom. I could see him in the mirror when he turned on the light. He was beautiful. Honest to God he was.

His bunched muscles dug into his sides and his tanned back. He looked like something off a Calvin Klein billboard.

It had been… perfect, I thought. Better than I had had any reason to expect. Undeniably hot, but also sweet. I hadn't thought Scott would be so affectionate, that we would connect emotionally as well as physically.

I'd needed to have this happen, I realized. To feel hot and then warm. To laugh. To be held close by someone who liked me and who thought I was special.

And I refuse to feel guilty, I thought, listening to another close explosion of thunder.

What's good for the goose is definitely good for the desperate housewife. Even if this never happened again – and maybe it wouldn't, shouldn't – it was worth it.

IN THE CRAMPED DARK of his Toyota Camry parked half a block north of the apartment over the garage, Paul Stillwell stared, mesmerized, as another flash of lightning illuminated Scott's shiny red motorcycle.

He'd actually seen the Ducati in the centerfold of the FYI section of Fortune magazine once, one of those impossibly expensive fantasy boy toys. Something a movie star or the devil-may-care heir to a European shipping conglomerate might ride.

And happy assholes like Scott, Paul thought, staring at its fighter-jet contours, red and slick as lip gloss in the shimmer of light.

His throat tightened as he tore his eyes away and went back to scrolling through the pictures file on his Verizon cell.

He stopped at the shot of Scott that he'd taken when he followed Scott home from work the week before. In the photograph, Scott was astride the Italian bike at a stoplight, his full-face helmet perched back on his forehead. Lean, powerful, and as cocky as the expensive machine between his legs.

Paul closed the cell and stared out through the rain at the light in the garage's upstairs window.

Then he leaned back and lifted the Ping 3 iron from the floor of the backseat. The golf club had good heft and balance.

It was a drastic solution, he knew, staring at the heavy, fist-size metal club's face. But what choice did you have when a man invaded your house and took what was yours?

Everything was in jeopardy now, he reminded himself. Everything he'd worked for was in danger of slipping through his fingers.

Maybe he should have done something sooner. Headed things off before it came to this. But maybes and should haves and if onlys were beside the point now, weren't they? One question remained: Would he allow this bullshit to continue or would he not?

No, Paul thought, cutting the ignition. There's only one way to end this.

The rain rattled on the roof of the Camry. He pocketed his cell phone and took a deep breath. With slow, almost ceremonial deliberation, he wrapped his black-gloved hand around the grip of the perfectly weighted club.

The extreme hard way, he thought, and he opened the car door and stepped out into the driving rain.

"SO, WHAT NOW?" Scott said, pulling his jacket on over his bare chest as he came out of the shower.

"Surprise me," I said. "I like surprises. I love surprises."

Scott bent over and took my left wrist. My vision went double as he softly kissed my pulse point.

"How was that?" he said, smiling.

"Nice start," I said when my lung function finally returned.

"You stay here while I spin by the all-night market. I'm out of fresh basil and olive oil," Scott said, standing. "You don't mind if I whip us up a late dinner, do you? I have some great veal cutlets I got on Arthur Avenue yesterday. I'll make you my mom's sauce. It's better than Rao's."

Mind! I thought, envisioning Scott in an apron. A man actually cooking for me?

"I could probably suffer through it," I said after I finished swallowing really hard.

Scott was opening the door, when he suddenly stopped and turned, staring back at me.

"What?" I said. "Changed your mind about cooking?"

"I…," he said, "I guess I'm just glad we did this tonight, Lauren. I wasn't sure if you would go through with it. I'm glad you did. I'm really glad we did."

Wow, I thought, smiling as he closed the door. I looked out at the storm-racked Hudson. Scott probably had the right idea, didn't he? Live for the moment. Forever young. Carefree. Maybe I could get used to this.

I glanced at my watch. Just after one. Where was I supposed to be now? In bed in some cramped Virginia Marriott.

Sorry, Paul, I thought. But remember, you started this.

I decided to call him and get it over with. It was as good a time as any to go through the motions. Paul liked charades, didn't he?

I could play at that game, too, I thought as I rolled off the bed, looking for my bag and my cell phone.