flashed through him now with an intensity that sped straight to his groin. He’d felt the same stab of lust on the veranda, at the first glimpse of her misty blue eyes, so sultry in their sleepy softness. He’d had to hold himself back from shoving through the door and grabbing her. He couldn’t remember ever having the urge to put his hands on a woman come over him so strong. Still, she didn’t strike him as the kind of woman you grabbed.
But what kind of woman was she? Des smiled at the question and at himself. Obviously, she had to be the kind of woman who could get him out of bed at dawn and off to the Croissanterie before anybody was around but the bird-watchers. The buttery aroma from the pasteboard box on the back seat enticed him, but Taylor Bissett had been the real enticement. For what felt like the hundredth time this morning, Des asked himself what was going on with him, anyway. He didn’t run after women. He didn’t have to. They generally came after him. He didn’t kid himself that they thought of him as some kind of stud. He figured his general lack of interest turned them on. Sandra had told him that. He’d married her thinking she could break through the wall he’d had around him for so long. They’d grown to be friends but nothing more. The deep parts of him remained untouched, no matter how much he’d wished them not only touched but overwhelmed.
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