Emma jumped in her own skin.

Then she watched him ever so slowly suck a plump tidbit of white backfin meat from a tendon. He licked his lips. He made a raspy sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh of pleasure.

"All right. Friendly business it is, Dr. Jenkins." His eyes were hot and mischievous. "Would you say you're satisfied with the progress we're making with Hairy?"

Emma didn't know if the speech and language center of her frontal lobe still functioned. She couldn't take her eyes off him-the man knew what he was doing. Yes, indeedydoo. He worked to a nice, even rhythm. He knew how to pace himself. Spreading. Pulling. Licking. Grinding. Eating.

"I think I'm getting real close to being satisfied," she said.

Emma let the very tips of her fingers brush against a few of the places she now imagined him putting his mouth-the hollow at the base of her throat, her temples, her lips. She absently dropped her hand to the tops of her breasts and lazily dragged her fingers over her cleavage.

Thomas nearly howled-she'd just left a glittering smear of butter on her breasts! How thoughtful of her to provide the condiments, because he'd long ago decided her breasts would taste like hot bread right out of the oven-and he planned on doing some serious carbo-loading.

"I think we work well together," he mumbled, his eyes glued to her butter-topped flesh.

"Uh-huh," she agreed.

Emma wiggled around on the bench, horribly uncomfortable. Her dress suddenly felt way too tight. Her underwear didn't feel tight enough.

And it was back-Bing! Ring! Ring! Bing!-as his eyes flashed in the tiki torch flame, his skin glowed bronze in contrast to the white shirt and white teeth, and as his pulse throbbed beneath the tender skin of his throat.

She reached for her beer-suddenly parched-and brushed her fingertips up and down the sweating neck of the Corona bottle. "Thank you for keeping things businesslike between us, Thomas," she said.

"Of course." He smacked his lips. "I think we both know it's always going to be serious business with us."

Emma let go with a soft, strangled whimper. And right then, she knew, she was about to behave like a very bad girl.

What is Emma doing? Thomas's heart pounded. His throat constricted. And he watched-oh, yeah, he watched.

She looked up innocently from under those thick, black lashes and raised the beer bottle to her lips. Moisture beaded and dripped down the side of the bottle. Her lips glistened.

Ever so slowly, she inserted the rounded tip of the bottle into her mouth, pulled it out once to let her tongue swirl around the slick ridge of glass, then pushed it between her lips.

Then she swallowed.

Thomas was going down-down into the vortex without any hope of rescue. Which was fine with him.

She let the bottle slip out again with a faint sucking noise, keeping the very tip of her pink tongue inside the opening. Then she repeated the whole excruciating process before she set the bottle down with shaking hands.

"Serious business," she whispered, slipping her little pink tongue along her wet bottom lip.

Thomas was inpain from the chest down. He grabbed the mallet. He grabbed the last crab on the platter. And he began to hammer out a slow, sure rhythm, his eyes fused with hers, hot and penetrating.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

Until the poor crustacean was mashed to a pulp, and Emma grabbed the edge of the picnic table and pressed her thighs together as she felt the tingle radiate to her scalp, her toes, realizing, as it was happening, that she was spontaneously combusting right there on the outdoor dining deck of Bayside Stella's, while an impatient crowd stood around waiting for a table.

Emma didn't quite know how she came to be standing in the parking lot a few moments later, car keys in hand, Thomas at her side. Perhaps it was for the best.

But there she was, and then Thomas was standing in front of her with that pained look on his face again and he was saying the strangest thing…

"I paid your consulting fee, Emma. I couldn't get it authorized, so I used my own money."

"What?" She fell against the Montero as if he'd pushed her.

"If I hadn't, you wouldn't have had any reason to spend time with me. I misled you and I'm sorry. It wasn't right."

Emma couldn't get enough oxygen to her brain. She was still buzzing from that very strange and very extraordinary public orgasm-and he'd lied to her. Again! She'd performed beer-bottle fellatio for a man who could not tell the truth!

The next thing she knew, she was driving away, alone, glad that they'd taken separate cars. Within minutes, she pulled into a 7-Eleven parking lot, cut the engine, and sat there in the dark.

The first two words out of her mouth came in a hoarse whisper.

"Oh," she said.

"My," she said.

Then she took a huge breath, and let it out.

"Gaaaawd!"

Then she cried.

In his Audi, Thomas's hands shook even though he gripped the leather steering wheel with all his might. He clicked on a Thelonious Monk CD and tried to calm himself.

He clicked it off immediately and stared at the road ahead in silence.

I am in one very large, big-time, bad-ass, hell of a mess.

He drove faster.

I'm completely in love with Emma Jenkins and she hates me.

He drove faster still.

What a bad time to tell her the truth.

He looked at his watch.

And now I have to go to work.

Emma knew that Thomas had been out all night for work and, with any luck, would still be asleep. She tucked Hairy under her arm, inserted the key into his townhouse door, and quietly stepped inside.

Emma intended to put Hairy in his crate and leave. She didn't want to see Thomas. In addition to being ashamed about her public out-of-body experience last night, she was thoroughly pissed off.

Because he'd lied to her. Because as much as she wanted to pay him back every dime he'd given her, it was already gone. The money now belonged to Baltimore Gas amp; Electric, Allstate Insurance, Charm City Mortgage, and American Veterinary Supply, and she'd have to borrow yet more cash from Beckett to repay Thomas. What a mess.

Emma entered the room and let her eyes adjust. It was dim except for a narrow sliver of light that shot through a gap in the drapes. The low hum of music wrapped around her, and she recognized the sultry groan of Tom Waits-a piano man whose music should be banned everywhere but in seedy bars in the middle of the night, for the listening enjoyment of only the most severely drunk and depressed patrons.

It certainly wasn't suited to a sunny Saturday morning like this one.

Emma cocked her head and listened closely, now hearing more than just raspy lyrics and the tinkling of piano keys. She also heard the saw of deep breathing. Hairy squirmed out of Emma's arms and ran toward the couch-and her gaze followed.

She could just make out what lay on that couch, all stretched out and almost naked. Thomas's face was turned away toward the cushions, one burly arm bent across his bare chest, the fist closed in sleep. The other hand lay open, palm up, along the top of his right thigh.

He wore nothing but a thin pair of athletic shorts that looked gray in the muted light, the drawstring tied loose and low on narrow hips, his long legs stretched across the cushions.

Even in the poor light, Emma saw that he was golden, sculpted, perfect-the most exquisite male animal she'd ever laid eyes on. Too bad she'd never trust him again.

Then she wondered how many seconds it would take her to strip naked and start rubbing her flesh all over his.