Chapter 1

Nine Days Later

Riley Martin heard his black Labrador, Chester, bark. Tucked beneath the undercarriage of his truck, oil dripping down his neck, he turned his head, straining to see what, or who, Chester was barking at.

From between the passenger-side wheels of his truck, he watched a pair of sensible white shoes beneath shapely legs and calves the color of warm clover honey making their way up his driveway. His heart raced.

The only woman in Wayloo who had sexy calves and sensible shoes was Nell Evans. Sweet untouchable Nell. He felt a stirring in his groin and almost groaned. When had he sunk so low that waitress shoes could give him a woodie? Damn, how embarrassing. He had no control over this. "Down, boy," he murmured. He wasn't some thirteen-year-old boy in the throes of hormonal rampages anymore. He was twenty-five years old, almost twenty-six, and old enough to know better. But then this was Nell, the source of any number of wet dreams over the years and awkward silences when he was with her. Nell did that to him. Unless he was ordering dinner from her at the diner, or chitchatting about the weather, he was never quite sure what to say to her when he really wanted to ask her to go out with him.

Chester's black-furred legs joined Nell's on the strip of smooth pavement. "Hi, Nell," Riley called.

After a few seconds of silence, she bent down and peered beneath the truck. Tendrils of curly blueblack hair fell forward across her pretty cheeks. "Hi, Riley."

He smiled. "What can I help you with?" Thoughts of what he wanted to help her do ran through his head at lightning speed. Massage oil came to mind. His palms started to sweat, so he put his wrench down before he dropped it on his head.

Nell pushed a stray tendril behind her ear. "Do you have a minute?"

She wanted a minute with him. Only a minute! To do her properly he'd need five days and fifty cans of whipped cream. Like that would ever happen. But he could dream. "Yeah, give me a second and I'll be right with you."

He worked his way out from beneath his truck and stood. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out an old rag and cleaned off his hands.

Nell had an attractive flush to her light brown cheeks. She chewed her bottom lip. Her hands were stuffed in the pockets of her bubblegum-pink waitress uniform, but he could see her fingers flex inside them. Wisps of curly black hair had worked their way loose from the tight bun at the nape of her neck. Despite the heat, the front of her uniform was buttoned up tight to her throat.

Just once before he died, he wished she'd flash him some of that spectacular cleavage she always kept hidden. Scanning her ripe curves, he had to stop his tongue from falling out of his mouth. She had one hell of a body. All curvy and round and womanly, it was a body crafted for a good time. She was the eighth deadly sin wrapped in pink polyester. And he so wanted to sin.

Hell, he'd dreamed about her luscious body for twelve of his last twenty-five years. And twenty-five years from now, he'd still be dreaming about that body. What he would do for a glimpse. Of course, Nell would have something to say about that.

What was he thinking? Her answer would be a polite but firm no. That was Nell in a nutshell. Buttoned up and hemmed-in didn't come any better than Nell.

He stuffed greasy hands into the pockets of his coveralls and rolled back on his heels. "What can I do for you, Nell?" Kiss you? Bed you? Lick you all over? Be your sex slave? I'm open for suggestions.

"Can we go into the house?"

Nell alone with me in the house? This was a straight-up dream come true. Sweet. "Sure."

"Thank you."

She walked ahead of him, which gave him a prime opportunity to watch the seductive sway of her heart-shaped butt. Beyoncé, eat your heart out.

"Riley?"

Copyright © 2007 by Jacqueline Hamilton and Miriam Pace.