"What's wrong?"

A round of laughter from the living room startled her, and he cursed the house full of women on the one night Gwen had willingly come to see him. And he could tell that it was him, not Ellen, she'd come to talk to. He looked at the plate. "I'm gonna take this out and buy us a couple of minutes. They eat like piranhas."

He left the kitchen and set the plate down in front of Ellen, who couldn't get up easily and might get nothing if she didn't have the first shot, then he got out of the way as the others descended, and headed back in the kitchen.

Gwen moved around like she was trying to out-pace whatever troubled her. "Steve showed up tonight."

"On your date?"

"It wasn't a..." she seemed to reconsider it.

He knew it. The crikey bastard had made a move on her. He could see it on her face. The little prick had tried to get his Aussie hands on her. Damn, he hated it when he was right.

"Not on my..." she hesitated, "date. When I got back to my room, Steve and Mranda were there. God, I hate that girl. I know she's young, and I should feel something more mom-like for her. She's just a year older than Missy. But she's such a bitch."

He stopped himself from smiling. He'd never heard her call anyone anything harsher than a stinker. Suggesting that he was a girl was as hard-core name calling as she used to get. "So, what were the tool and the bitch up to?"

"Moving me out."

"Of your room?"

Gwen nodded.

"They can't."

"Did."

He had an instant picture of Gwen's car parked at his curb, loaded up with her things and leaving town. The leaving town part was not going to work for him. "You can't go."

He hoped she didn't notice he'd just told her what to do, but there were things to figure out, things between them that hadn't gone away in twenty years, even if they'd both learned to live with that. He had things to say he hoped she'd listen to, and while he might not know what he was going to do about her, maybe he'd never known, he had to see her more, and she needed to be around, be near, for that.

"I still have two weeks left in the semester. I can't go."

He took a breath and realized his heart rate needed to come back to normal.

"I'm..." she cleared her throat. "So tonight, I, uh..."

She was there, right in his kitchen, and she needed a place to stay. His place. Alone.

The dull roar of eleven women chatting in his living room penetrated his brain, and shit, her mother was staying even after he kicked the other ten out. He moved closer to Gwen. It was still an opportunity he was going to take advantage of any way he could. They could figure some things out, like what the hell was going on, had always been going on between them, and whether or not untying both of her pajama ties would satisfy him or make him want her for another twenty years.

Gwen seemed to sense the danger. He saw her head come up like a gazelle. Yeah, he was at a distinct advantage. He'd caught her at the watering hole, and he'd maneuver her right into the sink.

He stepped forward, and she stepped back, so he did it again. Was there any dance better than a man pursuing a woman? "You're homeless." He shook his head, tried not to laugh when she backed into the edge of the sink and let out a little hmmpf of air. "That is very, very sad."

Putting his hands on either side of her hips, he fought the impulse to reach for her waist and pull her to him. "What..." he leaned closer, his head aiming to the left of hers so his mouth rested near her ear, "will you do?"

He felt her stiffen, recovering at the watering hole and choosing fight over flight. He could stop that. He pulled back enough to face her nose to nose. "I wouldn't."

Her eyebrows joined at the strained center between her eyes. "What?"

He shrugged, used it as an opportunity to pin her closer to the sink. "Get all feisty with the person you need a favor from." He watched her. God, she was so much fun and ready to rip into him and let him know exactly what she thought. He gave her a quick grin. "So, you'll stay here. No problem." That took her by surprise. He could feel her wobble as if she'd expected him to pull, and he'd let go.

"That's it? I can stay here until the end of the semester? No problem? No strings attached?"

"Strings attached is such an ungenerous expression. Think of it as I help you out, and you--"

"Scratch your back?" She slapped at his chest.

He was reminded of his BUNCO BABE glitter but refused to give up the upper hand. With a woman like Gwen, a man didn't have the upper hand very often. It was one of the best things about her. "I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart, and if, by any chance, you are moved out of the goodness of your heart..."

"You think you can seduce me if I stay here."

He shook his head. "Gwen, really." He smiled, pressed her a little more against the sink. "I know whether I want to or not, you're going to send me against the headboard. Just give fair warning. I'll need to tighten up the screws."

Her cheeks were red, and he watched her fight the impulse to tell him off. Anger he liked. It was only indifference from Gwen that killed him. He'd learned that over and over for the past twenty years.

She started to wiggle away, and he didn't let up but moved his right hand from the sink's edge so she could squeeze by. It caused more contact between them than she knew. Damn. It would be a challenge having her sleep there and not with him. The quicker that was fixed, the better. He'd just have to make sure she didn't share the guest room with Ellen. A daytime chaperone was challenge enough. He loved a challenge, but success had to be possible.

Dolores looked into the kitchen, her red hair stark against the plain wall. "We can't play without you, Max."

He gave her his best smile, felt Gwen prickle next to him. There was a lot to be said about jealously, however misguided. He liked to think it stood as a marker of what someone really wanted. He'd think that and get through the rest of Bunco night.

"I don't see why I can't sleep with you, Mom."

"Oh my ankle, Gwennie. Any movement at all causes me such pain."

Max stood in the doorway to the guest bedroom he'd taken over when her mom had moved in. He lounged really, in Belmar sweats and a gray t-shirt, and looked at Ellen with such affection that Gwen wondered if her traitor mother was making her a sitting duck.

The evidence was there. She eyed the pillow and comforter set up tidily on the couch, and Max in the bedroom doorway three feet away. Just a couple of steps, and she'd be in danger. There was the danger of complicating her life more, the danger of waking up with his teeth on a p.j. tie, and worst of all, the danger of losing her head and forgetting he was still attached to a woman who could kick her out of her education. She'd already lost her first chance at school. Nobody got a third.

"This is fine." She forced herself to smile at her mom and Max. Never let them see you sweat. Wasn't that the motto of those in control? She may not have much say over anything, but she could handle this turn of events. "Well," she gave Max and her mother a little wave. "Goodnight."

Ellen made a hmmm sound like she was so very happy to be there. "Don't let the bed bugs bite." She crutched her way down the hall.

Gwen turned to Max, daring him with her hands on her hips, to say anything. But it wasn't the saying of anything that moved between them. It was longing, crazy, intense longing like she'd had once at eighteen and thought she'd never have again. She felt it, but if he did, he didn't say, just tipped his head and went into the bedroom, leaving the door open in an invitation she had no intention of accepting. She'd sleep with her clothes on and one eye open. She'd keep on guard all night and hope she didn't fail to keep an eye on herself as well.

Chapter Sixteen.

Watermelons can be carved but only for limited decorative purposes.

She couldn't very well get dressed in the bathroom when her underwear was in her bag in the living room. Gripping the towel higher on her chest, she eyed herself in the steamy mirror. All the important body parts were covered, and no one else was awake. She just needed to pop out for a minute, snag her bag, and she'd be safe again. Besides, she was in no real danger. She was the kind of woman who wore underwear and held towels to her chest, and it was only the panty wearing, breast exposing girls who were pursued. Women like Nicola.

Women like Nicola probably lost their virginity at fifteen to an oil magnate and never looked back. They only moved on, like to heads of state, no pun intended, or a male model who was worthy because he was only modeling to put himself through medical school.

Nicola would have a notch on her bed post from a professional rock climber too until she managed to intrigue a handsome, charming photographer, the kind who left girls like Gwen behind in college. Women like Nicola could snag the kind of man who mowed through dozens of mortal women with his green eyes, sly and sexy, that were never without trouble in them. Nicola was exactly the kind of woman who would live in Paris with a man who always kept a woman on her toes in all the right ways, the bitch.

Gwen opened the door and peeked around the living room, the early morning sun not even touching the windows yet, the door to Max's room open a crack but completely silent and still.

She stepped closer to the couch, her bag a reach away, and felt something hold her back. She tried to take another step and knew her towel wasn't going with her. She straightened, backed up half a step, and felt Max's heat against her bare shoulders. She sucked in a breath, let it out. "Let go."

"I don't think this towel received any fabric softener. It feels a little rough for all that smooth skin of yours."

She felt his breath on the nape of her neck.

"An oversight, I assure you. Just let me have the towel, and I'll get you another one." He tightened his grip. "This needs to be rectified."

He tugged once, his hand fisted at the bottom hem, and she felt his knuckles graze the back of her thigh. "You rectify anything, and I will scream for my mother."

"I'm just being a good host."

"You're being a perv."

"Thank you."

"Wasn't a compliment. Let go."

"Was and Ellen's on my side."

"I noticed. Let go or I'll elbow you in whatever I can hit with my elbow." She waited, but he seemed equally able to wait, plus he had his clothes on. "I will take you down."

"You'll go down with me." He started to lift the bottom of the towel. "I need to wipe my brow. That last image got me."

With her free hand she swatted behind her. "Get it out of your head, get everything out of your head, and let me get my underwear."

"You don't need your panties."

"Underwear."

"You, my dear, have panties. I've seen them, the little peachy ones that you wore under the nighty with the bows."

"You must be confusing me with your French amour."

"No, Nicola wasn't all over me at the Curtis."

"I was not all over you at the Curtis!" She felt him push her from behind, his chest against her back. She scooted forward carefully, a difficult balance, avoiding too much contact with his body and too much distance that might yank her un-softened towel off. It was unnerving, especially since she could tell there wasn't anything soft on Max.

He stopped when she hit the back of the couch, bent her over, and reached into her bag with his free hand.

She took in a sharp breath, and managed to whisper, "What are you doing?"

"Do you want me to talk to you while I do it? I like that about you. You're willing to experiment."

"I want to know what to tell the police officer when he takes my statement."

"Ah-ha!" Max lifted up a pair of peach panties on his index finger.

Damn. They were panties. Not so small that they would be middle-aged-trying-too-hard panties, but not middle-aged-control-top underpants either. She grabbed them. "Thank you. I was looking for these, and now I'm going to go get dressed."

"I'll help."

She spun around, too close she realized, as her breasts bumped his chest and stayed there. She felt his hand at the side of her thigh, still with the towel. The man was harder to shake than a really attractive pit-bull. She whispered with what she hoped was menace. "Let go now."

"Gwennie? Are you up?" Ellen's voice came down the hallway.

"Yes, mother." She looked into Max's eyes, bumped her hips forward once and smiled. "So's Max."

He mouthed the word mean.

"You deserve it."

"Honey? Did you say something?"

"No, Mom. I was just getting dressed."

"With Max?"

"No, of course not. Max just came into the living room over a fabric softener issue which he will resolve alone. I was going into the privacy of the bathroom." She looked at him. "Where there's a lock."

He smiled down at her. God she was a handful. "It'll be gone tonight."

"Max?" Ellen hollered.

"Yes, Mrs. Ciarrochi."

"I don't know what you're up to..."

Max looked down the length of their bodies, raised an eyebrow at Gwen, and whispered. "Anything you want, sweet pea."

"But you need to let Gwen go."

Max's eyes widened, and he shot a glance down the empty hallway. "How does she do that?"

Ellen's voice sounded like she was struggling not to laugh. "Mothers know everything."

Gwen's Journal - November 26th, 1989 Thanksgiving I used to wish for things on Thanksgiving. I'd save the wishbone, always. I'd let it dry on my dresser sometimes for weeks, like I was afraid I'd get the short end, and it was better to not know. I'd wish Mom had more time for me and wouldn't have to work so much. I'd wish my dad hadn't died before I remembered him, before we'd stopped needing him. I'd wish Mom would get rid of some boyfriend or not freak me out with another engagement even though she hardly ever did it. I don't know who she's kidding with the step-dad scares. It's always just her and me.