He was a dark shadow, and then he was gone, blending into the night, so only the odd scuffling sound allowed her to chart his progress.

“Go on in, now,” he said from the direction of the stile, and she was annoyed with herself that she’d so obviously been staring after him in the blackness.

She didn’t say a word but opened the door and slipped inside.

Right. For two days now she’d played. It was time to get back to work. She licked her lips, tasting his kisses, and was flooded suddenly with a wanting so sharp she closed her eyes against it.

Arthur felt his heart pound and his innards clench. When he turned the page he noticed his fingertip was damp with sweat. No wonder Meg Stanton was afraid of her own books. She wasn’t the only one.

Knowing the author herself was a stone’s throw away, as needful of him as he was of her, made him half crazy with the wanting. Reading her book was a poor substitute for going to bed with her, but he’d thought it might at least lull him to sleep. Instead, she’d not only left him aroused and unsatisfied, but now she was scaring the wits out of him.

One more chapter, and then he’d put the damn thing down, he promised himself.

When the phone rang he jumped, jarred out of his terrified skin. Fool, he admonished himself, glancing at the clock. Two A.M. Who’d be calling at…

He glanced out the window on his way to pick up the ringing phone and noted that his wasn’t the only light on in the area. Meg’s upstairs light was glowing like a beacon.

A grin tugged at his mouth as he identified himself on the phone.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” It was Meg, as he’d known it would be, but still, the sound of her voice acted like stroking fingers on his skin.

“Wake me? You kept me awake, woman.”

“You were thinking about me?”

“Aye, I was. But worse, I started reading your book. Bloodcurdling stuff.”

“I know,” she said with smug pride.

“Are you working this late, then?” He rubbed a hand across his chest. Hoping that she wanted more than a chat.

“I was. Now”-she blew out a breath-“I’m too scared to sleep.”

“Well, that’s two of us.” He grinned broadly and settled back on the bed. “What do you think we might do about that?”

“Do?” She sounded startled. “I don’t want to do anything. I mean, I wanted to explain. I was kind of abrupt earlier.”

The stiff paper of the book jacket crinkled as he opened the cover, revealing a photo of the author. It was a professional photo of Meg looking full on at the camera, in a black dress, smiling slightly. She wore pearl earrings and her hair was suitably restrained. Looking at that photo acted on him the way graphic nude photos in a men’s magazine might.

“You were telling me you don’t have time for me, with your book to write. I understood.”

“Yes, but I think I was a bit arrogant.”

Not arrogant, he thought, but hasty. They could have been tangling the sheets and enjoying each other at this moment instead of talking on the phone. Obviously, she was feeling as aroused and deeply unsatisfied as he.

She sighed. “In the daytime it’s so peaceful here. But at night, it’s so black out there. Not a light for miles.”

“It’s perfectly safe.” He soothed her automatically, hearing the trace of nerves.

“Oh, I know. It’s not that. It just feels…well, kind of lonely.”

“It can be.”

“How do you stand it?”

“It was peace I was after when I came here. The army is never peaceful. And believe me, you are never lonely.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” she said softly.

“Well, never alone at any rate.” He shifted. “What are you doing at this moment?”

“I’m trying to get comfortable in bed.”

“Ah.” He looked at the formal publicity photo and smiled to himself, imagining her in bed. In what? Flannel nightie? A sexy scrap of lace and silk?

“What are you wearing?”

There was a pause. He heard her uncertain intake of breath. “You’re not planning on having phone sex with me, are you?”

It wasn’t easy to keep his laugh inside his chest. She was adorable. “I hadn’t thought about it. Would you like to have phone sex?

A longer pause. He could tell she was thinking about it as clearly as he knew what her answer would be. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Of course not. That won’t keep the monsters under the bed.”

“No,” she said softly, “it won’t.”

He let the silence lengthen just long enough. “Do you want me to come over, then?”

“I thought you were scared, too.”

“Terrified. I’ll run all the way.”

She laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh. It was so unexpected. For all her ladylike ways, the laugh was low and sexy.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

“I’m not sure I am, either.” And he found it was true.

“I could make you some coffee if you came over,” she said.

“But that would keep us awake.”

“Warm milk?”

“That’s a long way to run in the dark for a bit of milk.”

“Maybe there will be something to go with it.”

“Like what?”

“A chocolate cookie. I mean biscuit.”

He laughed aloud at that. Well, there were biscuits and there were cookies. “I’m on my way.”

He didn’t run. He savored the night air and the quiet sounds of the countryside asleep. The big house slept. The flats and houses of the village slept. He looked about himself and saw no light but hers. And it drew him the way a fire draws a cold man.

When he got to the door she was waiting for him. With her face scrubbed free of makeup and her hair down around her shoulders, she looked young. She wore a pale blue terry cloth robe and a pair of sheepskin slippers. All very practical, not a bit sexy. And he found himself growing frantic for the taste of her skin, anxious to ease her out of the robe and toss the slippers across the room.

However, he wasn’t the sort of man to begin ravishing a woman in the wee hours when she was alone in her house, unless he was certain she wanted him to ravish her.

Her breath shuddered slightly as she drew it in. Her eyes were wide and alluring. Her lips were slightly parted.

“Lead the way, then,” he said, his voice a husky whisper of sound.

She took his hand, turned and led him, not to the kitchen, but up the stairs. Her palm was so warm it was almost feverish, and he felt the fine trembling within her. As she walked up ahead of him, he knew her body was unfettered by underwear, and he was as aroused as though she wore nothing at all.

Soon, he thought, she would.

He would tease her about her warm milk later. For now the atmosphere was serious.

He knew the room well, of course, had helped the delivery men bring in the new bed at the end of the summer season. But with her things scattered about, it seemed mysterious, very feminine, and all hers. He smelled the subtle scent of her skin and her powders and women’s lotions and things. There were some bottles neatly lined up on top of the bookcase, her clothes hanging regimented in the wardrobe where the door was ajar.

“I’m glad you rang,” he said.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

So he held her. First he simply held her, feeling the shape of her press against him, the smell of her hair as he buried his face in it.

“You smell so good,” he murmured.

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him even closer. “Thank you for coming.”

Then he took her mouth, because he couldn’t help himself. She clung to him, kissing him the way she had earlier, like a drowning woman.

She made tiny purring sounds in her throat. He doubted she was even aware of them but they drove him half mad. He wanted to rip away her clothing and throw himself onto her, into her, and the effort at civilized control had sweat breaking out on his forehead.

He skimmed his hands over her breasts, smiling against her lips when she quivered with reaction. Over her belly, and then he found the cord of her robe. It came undone with one pull, but instead of pushing it off her shoulders and letting it fall, he traced the opening, followed the lines of the open robe, so he touched silk, warmed by her skin, and felt the resilience of her flesh beneath. He cupped her breasts through the sheer fabric and felt them jump to life under his palms, the nipples teasing him. He continued up, over her shoulders, this time knocking the robe free, so it fell in defeat to the floor.