"I'm just so glad you enjoyed the muffin mixes," she was saying.

Jimmy looped his arm around Charlotte's shoulders. Joe stared at her. Then Jimmy whispered something in Charlotte's ear, but she couldn't hear because of the roaring of her blood. She untied her apron.

"I'm going to catch the end of Hank's game." Charlotte folded the apron and stuck in it the drawer. "Business has slowed down enough that you two can handle it. Have a good evening, everyone."

In a flash, she was out the back door and breathing again, feeling a surprisingly small amount of guilt for ditching snack bar duties. LoriSue and Jimmy were perfectly capable of selling hot dogs without her. Why did people always assume that she would rush* in and fix things? Why did people always assume that they could screw up and she would pick up the slack?

Maybe it was time for her to stop saying yes all the time.

Charlotte found herself nearly running to Hank's field, surprised when she sensed she had company. If it was Jimmy Bettmyer, she didn't think she could be held responsible for her actions.

It was Joe.

He had no problem keeping up with her brisk stride. His legs were so much longer than hers that he seemed to be gliding along at a leisurely pace while she scurried. He smiled down at hen

"Is Jimmy your boyfriend?"

Charlotte hissed. "Oh, please."

"He seems quite smitten with you."

"He's smitten by anything with two X chromosomes." Charlotte sped up, noticing that Joe's full paper cup was sloshing a bit. That pleased her. "Are you sure LoriSue isn't your girlfriend?"

Joe didn't answer right away, and in the silence Charlotte found herself wondering if her original assumption was correct. Then Joe said in a flat voice, "I've decided to ask her to be my bride. I think it was the chutney."

Charlotte turned away so he couldn't see her smile. So Joe Mills still had a sense of humor, did he? The realization made her heart jump. Then she reminded herself that Joe and his sense of humor were leaving town.

"I'm plenty stable, Charlotte. You don't have to worry about your kids around me."

She stopped walking. She looked up at him and frowned, and he frowned right back at her. A little voice in her head told her that this big man ought to terrify her-his eyes looked as cold as black steel; his jaw was set and his shoulders rigid-but for some reason she simply felt challenged by him.

She puffed herself up. "You pulled a gun on me and threw me on the ground. You tell me you always hoped to find me, but you're leaving anyway. In my dictionary, these things pretty much define the word unstable?

"I have a permit for that gun and I wish I could stay and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for every thing."

"I hate guns. I don't believe they have any place in a residential neighborhood. You scared me to death. And I don't want you to leave. You just got here."

His frown disappeared and his eyes softened. "I agree with you. About everything."

Charlotte huffed and started walking again, Joe at her side. Why was he following her?

"Why do you have a gun, anyway?"

"I'm used to living places where I need to protect myself."

"So where did you live before?"

"I've moved around a lot since D.C.-the Southwest mostly."

"Are you going back there when you leave?"

"Probably not."

Charlotte clomped up the aluminum steps of the bleachers, waving and saying hello to everyone. She took a seat at the top, and Joe sat down at her side. She turned to see him waiting for her next question.

Charlotte wished he'd put her out of her misery and leave now. Leave the Little League field, leave town, leave her alone. But he continued to look at her with those intensely dark eyes touched with sadness.

"So have you always been a writer?" The question was the best she could do.

"No. I was just out of the army when we-" Joe paused, glanced around, then shot her a penetrating glance. 'The day we met."

She looked away. Having this man sit next to her at her kid's ball game was beyond surreal-it'.was painfully strange. How was she supposed to engage in small talk with someone she'd envisioned naked and aroused for thirteen straight years?

She didn't even have to look at him to picture every detail of his clothing. She knew perfectly well what he was wearing tonight-nicely fitted khaki hiking shorts, black leather sandals, and a black T-shirt that worked to accentuate his dark hair and eyes. He was wearing that gleaming little gold hoop in his left ear. "So what did you do after the army?"

He cleared his throat. "I worked in the security industry mostly. Didn't start writing until recently."

She turned toward him and looked down at his hands. They were a rich bronze, lean and big, yet they cradled the paper cup gingerly. She wondered why he hadn't even taken a sip of his drink. She remembered what those hands felt like on her breasts.

She shuddered.

"Chilly?"

"Nope. So, LoriSue says you write mysteries."

"I try.'

'Are you famous? Should I recognize your name?"

"I wish."

His leg brushed up against hers. The contact of the bristly dark hairs against her smooth skin was excruciating. She jerked her knee away.

His legs were muscular and long and the same smooth, rich hue as the rest of him. Mills had to be an Anglicized version of some name the clerks at Ellis Island couldn't pronounce, because this man was obviously something exotic.

"Did you grow up around here, Joe?"

"Nope. I grew up in Baltimore. Little Italy."

"You're Italian?"

She loved how his lips spread wide, pushing out the black goatee like bat wings, revealing the smile she'd first seen in a rearview mirror so long ago.

That perfect smile had hypnotized her then. The imperfect one made her perspire now.

"My father was Italian and my mother was Greek. A pretty lethal combination. And you?"

Charlotte laughed. She'd been right about the name change. "Nothing anywhere near as interesting, sorry to say. I'm from solid Southern Baptist stock. A little bit of Scottish and English somewhere in the distant past. Boring."

"Not hardly, dumplin'."

She tried not to smile.

"So tell me, Charlotte." Joe's words came out in a deep whisper that she heard loud and clear despite the noise of the crowd. "Why did you do it? And what did you mean when you said that after me, nothing else has ever been good enough?"

It seemed she'd been neglecting her kid, because Hank had apparently just hit a homer and was rounding the bases and everyone was cheering but her own mother!

Charlotte was being corrupted by the presence of Joe Mills. She'd thrown herself at him, dressed up for him, and now she was ignoring her children for him. She needed to get this over with so she could concentrate on her life again.

"I want you, Joe."

Slowly, he turned to her. Both his black eyebrows were hovering way up on his forehead as he stared.

"I need it. Bad." She met his stare straight on. "I need you one more time before you leave. One more time before I die."

There it was. If she hadn't proved it to herself before, it was obvious now. She was a slut. Half of her was relieved, and that part wanted to jump in his lap and kiss him so hard she broke all the rest of his teeth. The other half hoped her words would shock him, make him sputter and hem and haw and get up and leave her sitting there by herself the way she should be, a widow and a responsible mother.

But Joe only laughed, and Charlotte was shocked by the contagious quality of the sound. She remembered that laugh. He'd laughed like that with her so lpng ago, when he was inside her and his hands were all over her and they were tumbling around on the ground and she was praying and crying and giggling all at the same time because of the shocking intensity of the pleasure. His laughter was the sound of pleasure to her still.