She saw a shadow pass in front of a window-and gasped.

The ice cream was running down to her elbow now, she wondered if that man had even the slightest, tiniest, most minuscule memory of that day on the GW Parkway.

Her knees felt wobbly.

"Hoover! Please, please, please!" She tried to be as quiet as possible. "Come get your damned Creamy Whip!"

She saw a movement in the boxwoods along the front of the house and sighed with relief* She crept up the grass, holding the now lopsided ice-cream cone out in front of her body.

"Hoov?"

More rustling. She saw the streetlights, reflected in a pair of beady dog eyes peering out from the shrubs. Then she felt the first sprinkles and cursed the fact that it had started raining, only to realize that the Connors' much-envied automatic sprinkler system had just come on.

"Oh, great" She was about to call Hoover every nasty curse word she knew when she was suddenly off the ground. Her brain seized in panic and confusion as she saw the grass turn to a blur beneath her useless feet, the icecream cone falling from her grip. She was being carried. Someone was running with her…

She hit the ground with a thud and that's when she remembered to scream.

"Oh, hell;" the voice said, just as she was being flipped onto her back. A big hand came down over her mouth. She looked up to see-this couldn't be right-a gun pointing in her face? But it was gone so fast she thought she'd imagined it. And then all she saw was… it was him.

Her scream made no sound, even as her throat burned with the force of it

"Please stay calm." he said, and she looked up into those black eyes and experienced a sharp plunge into the surreal. His body was fully on top of hers. His hard weight pushed her into the unyielding ground. The water misted over them in a steady spray. He wasn't wearing a shirt-and she could feel how hot his skin was against her bare midriff. She could feel the wiry hair all over his upper body.

Charlotte blinked against the water-against the memories rushing into her-and screamed even harder.

"I apologize for this," he said.

Apologize?

She screamed again, this time trying in vain to open her mouth enough to bite his hand.

"I saw somebody in the yard."

She attempted to squirm her way out from under him, but her arms and legs were tightly pinned to the grass. She could hardly breathe. He was squishing her.

In a burst of optimism, she looked around his big body toward the front yard, hoping Hoover would find it in himself to take a chunk out of this idiot's ass and save her. Instead, she witnessed Hoover lick his chops for the remaining ice cream, then trot merrily away down the sidewalk.

"HMMMPPPPHHH!" she screamed. "GMMMMM-PHHHHMMMMM!"

"I am going to let you up now" the voice said. The voice was deep and rich and made something in her brain snap. Because it was his voice. She remembered that voice with every fiber in her being.

"I am going to let you up now, Charlotte."

He knew her name! He'd just said her name!

"Please calm down and listen to me."

Where was the scent of honeysuckle coming from? She was lightheaded with it. It permeated the air. It was on her skin and inside her nose and throwing a heavy blanket of confusion over her mind. The feel of his wet, rock-hard body against hers was intoxicating. She felt drunk with the realization that finally-after thirteen endless years of wishing and praying and hoping and imagining-this man's body was once again touching hers.

"HMMMMPPPHHH!" she screamed, arching up beneath him, closing her eyes as she used every Billy Banks-honed muscle she possessed to resist him.

It was the worst possible thing she could have done.

Because now she knew he was aroused.

She was being assaulted by a madman with a hard-on and a gun, which was probably not a good combination.

Charlotte's eyes flew open. Nerve endings began to short-circuit from her scalp to her toes.

Then he smiled down at her sheepishly.

"Hello, Charlotte," he whispered, brushing a clump of wet hair from her cheek. "It's really great to see you again."

She was slippery, firm, and thoroughly female crushed beneath him, but never in thirteen years of fantasies had he imagined it quite like this.

And the worst part of it was that Charlotte would not stop screaming.

"I will not hurt you. I am your neighbor. My name is Joe Mills and I promise I will not hurt you. I'm going to release you. This has all been a big mistake. Just please stop screaming."

He raised himself on one hand, his other still cupped over her mouth, his body still in contact with hers from the waist down.

Her eyes were wide with terror and it broke his heart.

"Charlotte?"

She nodded.

"If you scream, the neighbors will think I'm hurting you. I don't want any trouble. I just…"

Her brow creased in a frown.

"I'm a little paranoid about burglars, I'm very sorry about the gun-my mistake. Please don't be frightened. I'm going to let you up if you promise me you won't scream again."

Her eyebrows arched high on her forehead and she nodded enthusiastically.

He took his hand off her mouth and rose above her, pulling her to her feet. She screamed.

In an instant he'd flipped her around, one arm tight around her waist and the other hand slapped once again over her mouth.

She was kicking him in the shins with her running shoes..

She was a wildcat.

But he already knew that, didn't he?

He couldn't help but laugh, and that apparently pissed her off even more because the kicks grew more ferocious.

God.

The truth was that if he'd been the subject of some Strange test, blindfolded, led into a room filled with twenty women, and told to touch each one and then identify Charlotte-a woman he hadn't laid a finger on in thirteen years, a woman he'd known for less than two hours-he could have done it. No problem.

He knew her. His hands remembered her. His skin remembered her skin. His bone and muscle remembered hers. And the smell of honeysuckle was everywhere, so intense he couldn't think straight, couldn't separate fantasy from reality.

He picked her up at the waist and began to walk across the lawn toward the pine trees. It was a long and painful trip, and he knew his legs were going to be black-and-blue from knee to ankle;

"You know, dumplin, it would be easier for both of us if you just stopped yelling."

She somehow maneuvered a pointy elbow into his gut, and it hurt like hell. Her feet were still thrashing.

"Really, Charlotte. I don't want any trouble."

But he was well aware it was too late to avoid it, because trouble was right there in his arms, wet and hot arid slippery and curvy and pressed against him in all the right places. And though he'd promised himself he'd get out of Minton without seeing her, touching her, smelling her, he'd just failed big-time.

Eventually, they made it through the pine trees and to her driveway, yet she kept squirming and writhing against the front of his boxers. It was more than he could stand. It wasn't fair. And he just couldn't help himself.

Joe lowered his mouth to the nape of her neck, planting one soft, openmouthed kiss on her slick skin. The contact of her hot flesh on his lips was shocking. He pulled away and gasped.

The thrashing stopped. She went rigid in his arms.

He loosened his grip, allowing her to slide down the front of his body and place her feet on the asphalt. He felt every wet inch of her on the way.

The arm that had been around her waist had slipped up to her chest, and-thank you, Lord-he'd somehow been allowed to spread one hand over a wet, spandex-covered breast while the other hand remained over her mouth.