The hair on the back of her neck stood up and goose bumps covered her arms. With a flash of recognition at the not-so-subtle change in the air, she spun around.
She was no longer alone.
Her breath caught in the base of her throat. There he was. Big as day and bold as his splendid ass. A walking swagger. God, how he changed the very composition of the air!
Blue twinkling diamond eyes pierced her brown ones as she found herself face to face with the ultimate, oozing-sexuality grin. A quick perusal of her guest verified: denim, dirt, black tee shirt, scruff, all limbs intact, well maintained and male. All male!
At this opportune moment a crash of too close thunder shook the walls.
"Stone!", she barely verbalized the word.
The slow Aussie drawl registered its own depth level, "In the flesh, Whit, how are ya mate?"
How was she? Sweet Jesus. She felt as if the lightening had bolted from her crotch and every nerve ending lay open and singed.
She quelled the urge to run and throw herself into those muscular arms and wrap her thighs around his sculptured midsection for life. Five years had wiped out a lot of anger but she still had that stubborn pride. Instead, Suzanne chose the more civilized approach and calculatingly strolled closer to the ragtag, in-need-of-a-hot-shower, Aussie rascal. Peter Stone: troubleshooter reporter, extraordinaire.
Quietly he dropped his duffel bag at his side and cocked his hip slightly to one side. It was an unconscious act that only further clarified his natural testosterone invasion of any woman's conscious space. Five years vanished in a slow blink of a tired eye. His gaze zeroed in on her and spoke volumes without a sound. He was remembering, as she was, their last moments together on a rain-soaked tarmac in Bosnia. A hot, heavy, angry rain.
A gust blew in at the slightly opened window sending a splash of tropical moisture into the room, spattering at the backs of Suzanne's arms.
All proper etiquette demanded that she stay distant and civil. All social graces insisted she play the anchored female, in control and ultimately in command of any emotional urges. The experienced, cool broad over thirty.
Five years. Gone.
"What is it about you and water, Peter?" Suzanne began in a low, soft accusatory tone.
She walked straight up to his statue-like figure, invading all prudent personal space. "Every time I see you..." she drawled, gliding comfortably into his body and leaning her mouth up to meet his softly smiling lips, "it is instant WET."
The only sound echoing around them was the battering of rain against the pane and the slow sigh from her throat.
)
