yourself?”
She wondered if she should try out her yard boy explanation on him. No. “Nothing much.”
His gaze focused on the bag she carried. “Still taking pictures?”
They were neighbors, of sorts. He’d seen her out with her camera, and she’d explained about her painting.
“A few.”
“Heard you had some trouble at your place the other day.” He shifted closer and lowered his voice. “You know, a woman alone should always have protection at hand.”
He couldn’t mean… Condoms?
“No, ma’am, you don’t want to be caught unprepared if a situation arises suddenly where you need it.”
Faye goggled.
“A gun,” Richard said firmly. “A nice, light ladies’ handgun, that’s what you need.”
“Oh.” Faye’s breath escaped on a shaky laugh. “I don’t think—”
“You’ve got to take care of yourself. A couple of vagrants have been spotted at the lake. I’ve seen one myself, hanging around your aunt’s cottage.”
Her relief died. “Well, actually—”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Aleksy’s warm, rough voice broke into her explanation. His warm, heavy arm wrapped around her shoulders. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
And before she could get her mind or her tongue working, before she could react or protest or prepare, he bent his dark head and kissed her full on the mouth.
Chapter 3
He tasted like coffee.
He needed a shave.
And he had absolutely no business putting his tongue anywhere near her lips.
Faye registered all this in the brief, confused moments when Aleksy’s hard arm squeezed her shoulders and his mouth crushed hers. Wild heat bloomed in her chest and in her face. Indignation, she told herself. Had to be.
And then Aleksy released her and turned his careless, all-guys-together grin on Richard Freer.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said. “I’m Alex.”
“Dick Freer.”
They shook in a ritual less complicated but no less appraising than the high fives and hand signals of Lincoln High’s homeboys.
“Are you in town long?” Richard asked.
“As long as Faye will have me,” Aleksy said. And don’t you forget it, she thought, her lips still tingling from his kiss. “You?”
“I’m lucky enough to live here.” Richard straightened proudly against the plate-glass entrance. “This is my shop.”
“Guess you don’t get to travel a lot, then.”
Richard pulled in his jaw, creating an important-looking double chin. “Oh, I get around. Trade shows. Gun shows.”
Aleksy nodded. “Ever get down to Chicago?”
“Not often. Most of my business is selling shotguns and rifles to local sportsmen. And self-defense, of course.”
“What kind of self-defense are we talking about?”
“Whatever makes a man feel free and his family safe. Are you interested in guns, Alex?”
Faye wriggled out from under Aleksy’s arm. He was too close. This was too weird. And she wasn’t crazy about Dick Freer’s aggressive salesmanship, either.
Aleksy let her slide from under his elbow and then caught her fingers in his. “I could be,” he said.
Richard’s smile broadened. “Are you a gun owner?”
“Well, no. Not yet.”
Faye frowned. He was lying. Why was he lying? “We really need to go now.” Aleksy gave her a sharp look. She bit her lip. “Dear.”
He shrugged. “Okay, babe. Nice talking with you,” he said to Richard Freer.
“Come back and see me,” the dealer invited.
“Count on it,” Aleksy said.
Faye breathed a sigh of relief as they started down the sidewalk toward the tiny municipal parking lot. She caught a glimpse of their reflections in the window of the Silver Thimble—short, blond and flustered, barely keeping pace with tall, dark and annoyed—and was amazed that she’d stood up to him. But everything was all right now. In another minute she’d be in her car and going home. Alone.
“Do you mind telling me what the hell you were running away from back there?”
Indignation rendered her almost speechless. Almost. “Excuse me?”
“I wanted to talk with that guy.”
She dug in her canvas bag for her keys. “Why?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Exactly.” Her keys jangled in the bottom of the bag. “I don’t want to know. I can’t afford to get mixed up in whatever it is you’re doing.” Her hand closed on her keys but Aleksy was in her way, leaning against her door, arms folded indolently over his chest in this sort of macho slouch. Her pulse speeded up.
“I don’t want you kissing me, either,” she said.
“Fine.”
She searched his eyes. “I mean it.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re not my type.”
She raised her chin. “Really.”
“Yeah.” He grinned crookedly. “So you can relax.”
“I am relaxed. Or I will be, as soon as you leave.”
He jerked his head toward the broken line of cars. “I’m parked here.”
She looked. He drove a TransAm: low-slung, high-geared, dark and dangerous looking. Unsafe at any speed, she thought, and shivered.
“Then you won’t need a ride,” she said.
He uncrossed his arms. “Careful, cream puff. You might hurt my feelings.”
“I’m not worried. I’m not your type, remember?”
“No, but you are tasty.”
Three months ago she would have known how to answer him. She was still searching for a response when he pushed off from her car and strolled over to his.
“See
