or the first time in seven years, Mae was almost glad her twin brother was dead. Ray’s friends were moving out of state or checking out altogether, and he’d never been able to handle desertion. No matter that the person deserting hadn’t been given a choice.

Mae shoved her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose and walked across the hospital lobby. If Ray were alive, he wouldn’t have been able to endure watching his good friend and lover, Stan, waste away from AIDS-related cancer. He would have become too emotional, unable to hide his grief. But not Mae. Mae had always been stronger than her twin.

She ducked her head and pushed open one of the heavy glass doors. She was a control nut. So what. If she weren’t, she might not have been able to come to the hospital to say her final good-bye to Stan. If it weren’t for her self-control, she just might lose it before she got home. She might break down right there and weep for the man who’d helped her through the death of her brother. The man who loved a good joke, an early tee-off, and Liberace memorabilia. Stan was so much more than a skeleton waiting for his family to take him home to die. He was so much more than the latest AIDS casualty. He was her friend and she loved him.

Mae took a deep breath of the cool morning breeze and cleared her lungs of antiseptic hospital air. She started up Fifteenth Avenue toward the house she shared with her cat, Bootsie.

“Hey there, Mae.”

She paused midstride, and glancing over her shoulder, she looked right into the grinning face of Hugh Miner. A blue baseball cap shaded his eyes, and his light brown hair curled up like little fishhooks along the edges. He grasped three big hockey sticks in one hand, hooking the blades over a broad shoulder. Seeing him in her neighborhood was a surprise. Mae lived on Capital Hill, an area just east of downtown Seattle well known for its substantial gay and lesbian population. Mae had been around gay men all of her life and could tell sexual preference within minutes of meeting a person. The first and only time she’d met Hugh, she’d known within seconds that he was one hundred percent heterosexual. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m dropping these sticks off at the hospital.”

“Why?”

“For an auction.”

She turned to face him. “People actually pay for your old hockey sticks?”

“You bet.” His smile grew and he rocked back on his heels. “I’m a great goalie.”

She shook her head. “You’re an egomaniac.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing. Some women actually like that about me.”

Mae didn’t care for his type of man, handsome and cocky. “Some women are desperate.”

He chuckled. “What are you doing today, beside spreading sunshine?”

“Walking home.”

His smile fell. “Do you live around here?”

“Yep.”

“Are you a lesbian, sweetheart?”

She thought of how Georgeanne would have howled with laughter over that question. “Does it matter?”

He shrugged. “It’d be a damn shame, but it would explain why you’re so ornery.”

Mae wasn’t usually ornery to men. She loved men. Just not the athletic type. “Just because I’m rude to you doesn’t mean I’m a lesbian.”

“Well, are you?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“That’s good.” He smiled again and shifted his weight to one foot. “Do you want to go get a cup of coffee or a beer somewhere?”

Mae laughed without humor. “Get real,” she scoffed, and moved to the curb. She glanced up and down Fifteenth and waited for the traffic to slow.

“Sorry about that, sunshine,” Hugh called after her as if she’d asked him a question. “But I don’t go in for that kinky stuff.”

Mae looked at him as she stepped between two parked cars. He was walking backward toward the hospital entrance and pointing the hockey sticks at her. “But if you’re real good and wear something slutty, maybe I’ll take you to that triple-X theater down on First. The French Orgy is playin‘, and I know how you love those foreign films.”

“You’re sick,” she muttered, and crossed Fifteenth. She easily dismissed Hugh from her mind. She had more important things to think about than a jock with a thick neck. Her circle of friends was getting smaller all the time. Just last week she’d had to say good-bye to her longtime pal and neighbor, Armando “Mandy” Ruiz. She hadn’t even known he was thinking of leaving until the day she’d watched him pack up his Chevy. He’d left Seattle for L.A. Left to answer the call of bright lights and to chase his dream of becoming the next RuPaul. Mae would miss Stan, and she’d miss Mandy, too.

But she still had her family. She still had Georgeanne and Lexie. They were enough for now. For now she was satisfied with her life.

John opened his front door and sized up Georgeanne in one quick glance. At ten in the morning, she looked fresh and perfectly flawless. She’d brushed her dark hair into a twisted bun on the back of her head, and diamond studs adorned each earlobe. She wore one of those awful female power suits that hid her deep cleavage and covered her to her knees. “Did you bring them?” he asked, and stepped aside to let her into his houseboat. When she walked past, he raised his arm a little and took a quick sniff. He didn’t smell too bad, but maybe he should have taken a shower after his run. Maybe he should have changed out of his jogging shorts and ratty gray T-shirt.

“Yes, I brought several.” Georgeanne walked into the living room, and he shut the door behind her. “Just make sure you keep your part of the bargain.”

“Let me see the goods first.” As she dug into her beige briefcase, his eyes slid down her body. The severity of her hair and the blue and white pinstripes made her appear almost sexless—almost. But her eyes were a little too green, her mouth a bit too full and a shade too red. And her body... well, hell, there wasn’t a damn thing she could wear to conceal her breasts. Just looking at her made a man think evil thoughts.

“Here.” She shoved a framed picture at him.

He took the photograph of Lexie and moved to the leather sofa. It was a school picture, with Lexie giving the camera a real cheesy smile. “What kind of grades did she get in school?” he asked.

“They don’t give grades in kindergarten.”

He sat with his knees wide. “Then how do you know if she’s learning what she needs?”

“She’s had two years of preschool. She reads and writes simple words really well, thank God. I was so afraid she might struggle.”

When she sat next to him, he looked at her. “Why?”

Georgeanne pushed up the corners of her mouth. “No reason.”

She was lying, but he didn’t want to argue with her—not yet. “I hate when you do that.”

“What?”

“Smile when you don’t mean it.”

“Too bad. There are a lot of things I don’t like about you.”

“Like what?”

“Like you stealing that awful picture from my office yesterday and holding it for ransom. I don’t appreciate blackmail.”

He hadn’t intended to blackmail her. He’d taken the photograph because he liked it. No other reason. He liked to look at her beautiful face and her pregnant belly, huge with his baby. When he looked at it, his chest swelled with pride, nearly choking him with good old-fashioned testicular machismo. “Georgie, Georgie,” he sighed. “I thought we’d cleared up these ugly accusations last night on the phone. I told you, I simply borrowed that picture,” he lied. He’d never had any intention of giving it back, but then she’d called and yelled at him about it, and he’d decided to use her emotions to his advantage.

“Now give me the photograph you stole.”

John shook his head. “Not until you replace it with something of equal or greater value. This one is kind of cheesy,” he said, and set the school picture on the coffee table. “What else ya got?”

She handed him a portrait taken in one of those glamour studios in the mall. He stared at his little girl, looking like a tart in heavy makeup, long rhinestone earrings, and a fluffy purple boa. He frowned and tossed it on the table. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s her favorite.”

“Then I’ll think about it. What else?”

She scowled and bent forward to dig deeper into her briefcase. A slit in the side of her skirt parted and slid up her thigh, gracing him with a glimpse of bare flesh above tan hose and powder blue garter. Holy Mother of God. “Where are you going dressed like that?”

She straightened. The skirt closed, and the show was over.

“I’m meeting a client in her home on Mercer.” She handed him another photograph, but he didn’t look at it.

“Are you sure you’re not meeting your boyfriend?”

“Charles?”

“Do you have more than one?”

“No, I don’t have more than one, and I’m sure I’m not meeting him.”

John didn’t believe her. Women didn’t wear underwear like that unless they were planning on showing it to someone. “Do you want some coffee?” He stood before his imagination sucked him into a fantasy of soft thighs and blue lace.

“Sure.” Georgeanne followed him into the kitchen, filling the room with the sound of her heels tapping the hardwood floors.

“Charles doesn’t like me, you know,” John informed her as he poured coffee into two navy mugs.

“I know, but I wasn’t under the impression that you liked him either.”

“No. I don’t,” he said, but his dislike of the man wasn’t personal. The guy was a real dickweed, true enough, but that wasn’t his primary objection. John hated the thought of any man in Lexie’s life—period. “How serious is your relationship?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Maybe, but he was going to press the issue anyway. He handed her the mug. “Cream or sugar?”

“Do you have Equal?”

“Yep.” He dug in a cupboard for the little blue packet and gave her a spoon. “Your boyfriend is my business if he spends time with my daughter.”

Georgeanne’s long fingers emptied the sweetener into her coffee and she slowly stirred. Her nails were mauve, long, and perfect. Sunlight poured in through the window above the sink, catching in her hair and earrings. “Lexie has met Charles twice and she seems to like him. He has a daughter who is ten, and she and Lexie play well together.” She set the spoon in the sink and looked up at him. “I think that’s all you need to know.”

“If Lexie has only met him twice, then you haven’t known him very long.”

“No, not long.” She pursed her lips a little and blew into her coffee. John rested one hip against the white tile counter and watched her take a sip. He’d bet she hadn’t slept with him yet. It would explain why the man had been so hostile toward John. “What is he going to say when he finds out that you and Lexie are coming to Cannon Beach with me?”

“Easy. We’re not going.”

He’d spent the previous night figuring out a way to coerce her into agreeing with his vacation plans. He would appeal to her emotions; God knew she had those in spades. Everything she felt was right there in her green eyes. Even though she tried to hide her feelings behind bland smiles, John had spent his life reading the faces of tough, coolheaded men. Men who reined in emotion while uncorking haymakers with detached precision. Georgeanne didn’t stand a chance. He would appeal to her maternal side. If that didn’t work, he’d improvise. “Lexie needs to spend time with me, and I need to build a relationship with her. I don’t know a lot about little girls,” he confessed with a shrug, “but I bought a book written on the subject by a woman doctor. She writes that the relationship a girl has with her father could determine how she relates to the men in her life. Say, if a girl’s father isn’t around, or if he’s a jerk, she could really be fuc—ahh... messed up.”

Georgeanne looked at John for several long moments, then carefully set her mug on the counter. She knew from personal experience that he was right. She’d been messed up for a lot of years. But his being right didn’t persuade her to spend a vacation with him. “Lexie can get to know you here. The three of us alone would be a disaster.”

“It’s not the three of us you’re worried about. It’s the two of us.” He pointed at her and then himself. “You and me.”

“You and I don’t get along.”

He folded his arms across his wide chest, and the worn collar of his gray T-shirt dipped, exposing his clavicle and the base of his throat. “I think you’re afraid we’ll get along too well. You’re afraid you’ll end up in my bed.”

“Don’t be absurd.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t even like you very much, and I’m not the least little bit attracted to you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe.”

“You’re afraid that once we’re alone, you won’t be able to resist jumping in bed with me.”

Georgeanne laughed. John was rich and handsome.

He was a well-known athlete and had the powerful body of a warrior. She wasn’t concerned she’d jump in bed with him. Not even if he were that last man on earth and held a gun to her head. “You need to get over yourself.”

“I think I’m right.”

“No.” She shook her head and walked out of the kitchen. “You’re delusional.”

“But you don’t need to worry,” he continued, and followed close behind. “I’m immune to you.”

Georgeanne reached for her briefcase and set it on the couch.

“You’re beautiful and Christ knows you’ve got a body to make a priest weep, but I’m just not tempted.”

His announcement stung a little more than she liked to admit. Secretly she wanted him to eat his heart out every time he laid eyes on her. She wanted him to kick himself for dumping her the way he had. She raised an eyebrow as if she didn’t believe him and pointed to the coffee table. “Which pictures do you want?”

“Leave all of them.”

“Fine.” She had copies at home. “Give me the photo you stole from my office.”

“In a minute.” He grabbed her arm and stared into her eyes. “I’m trying to tell you that you’d be completely safe in my house. You could rip your clothes off and walk around bare-assed, and I wouldn’t even look.”

She felt her old self emerge to salvage her pride, the old Georgeanne who had been sure of nothing but her effect on men. “Honey, if I stripped my clothes off, you’d pop blood vessels in your eyeballs and your heart would palpitate. I’d have to give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

“You’re wrong about that, Georgie. Sorry to hurt your feelings, but I find you completely resistible,” he said, dropping his hand and stinging her pride a bit more. “You could put me in a headlock and stick your tongue in my mouth, and I wouldn’t respond.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” He looked her up and down. “Just stating facts.”

“Uh-huh. Well, here’s a fact for you.” She treated him to the same up-and-down body browse. Her gaze started at his taut calves and moved up his muscular thighs, waist, broad chest, and wide shoulders to his handsome face. He looked macho and kind of sweaty. “I’d rather kiss a dead fish.”

“Georgie, I’ve seen your boyfriend. You do kiss dead fish.”

“Better than a dumb jock like you.”

His eyes narrowed. “You sure about that?”

She smiled, satisfied that she’d provoked him. “Absolutely.”

Before she knew what happened, John wrapped an arm around her waist and jerked her forward. He shoved his fingers into the twisted bun on the back of her head. “Open up and say ahh,” he said as his mouth came down hard on hers. She gasped her surprise, and shock kept her arms limp at her sides. His blue eyes stared into hers, then he softened the kiss, and she felt the tip of his tongue lightly touch her top lip. He licked the corner of her mouth and applied a little suction. His eyes drifted closed and he pulled her tighter against his chest. A warm shiver ran up her spine and her scalp tingled. His mouth was hot and wet, and before she had a chance to think about it, she kissed him back. She touched her tongue to his and turned up the heat a little more. Then just as suddenly as it began, he pushed her away.

“See?” he said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “Nothing.”

Georgeanne blinked and looked up at him standing there as cool as a day in December. She could still feel the pressure of his mouth against hers. He’d kissed her and she’d let him.

“There isn’t any reason why the two of us can’t share a house for a week.” He wiped his thumb across his bottom lip, removing a red smear. “Unless, of course, you felt something from that kiss.”

“No. Not a thing,” she tried to assure him, and pushed the corners of her mouth upward, but she had felt something. She still did. Something warm and weightless in the pit of her stomach. She’d let him kiss her and she didn’t know why. She grabbed her briefcase and headed for the door before she screamed or cried and made a fool of herself. Perhaps it was too late. Responding to John’s kiss had certainly been foolish.

As she walked toward her car, she realized she’d hurried out of his house so fast, she’d forgot the picture he’d stolen from her. Well, she wasn’t going back to get it. Not now. And she wasn’t going to Oregon with him either. No way. Nada. Not going to happen.

John stood on the deck attached to the back of his house and looked out at Lake Union. He’d kissed her. Touched her. And now he regretted it. He’d told her he hadn’t felt anything. If she’d bothered to check, she would have known he lied.

He didn’t know why he’d kissed her, except that maybe he’d wanted to assure her she’d be safe at his house in Oregon. Or maybe because she’d told him she’d rather kiss a dead fish. But mostly likely because she was gorgeous and sexy and wore blue lace garters, and he’d wanted a quick taste of her lips. Just one quick kiss. Just for science. That’s all he’d wanted. He got more. He got a swift kick of lust and a throb in his groin. He got a hell of an ache and no real pleasurable way to take care of it.

John kicked off his shoes and dove into the cold water, letting it cool his body. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. No kissing. No touching. No thinking about Georgeanne naked.