Jake pulled his truck to a stop on the other side of the street from Phoebe's house. He set the brake and studied the tidy structure in the daylight, forcing himself to wait to get out and cross the street, fighting back an unprofessional and unwelcome eagerness to see her again.

Her property was almost picture perfect, with neat flowerbeds outlining the house and front walk. A row of pine trees divided the approach to the garage from the tiny back yard enclosed in a picket fence. In the center of the backyard was a swing set, minus the swings, with a small trampoline underneath.

Before he could puzzle out the why of that, a tingling on the back of his neck had him twisting to look down the street.

It was well worth the lost sleep, this first view of Phoebe jogging down the hill toward him with an effortless grace and a minimum of clothing. She'd pulled her dark hair back with something and it swung from side to side with each concussion of feet to ground. Her tanned body was sleek, glistening with exertion.

Without a break in stride, she vaulted the picket fence, jogged to the trampoline and used it to launch herself up until her hands closed around the crossbar of the swing set. She hung for a moment, then, with the full drag of her body on her arms, she pulled herself up in a series of chin-ups.

"Damn." It looked as if Jesse Wasn't the only Mentel with a good grip. Jake resisted the urge to flex his arms as he got out and crossed the street. She was lifting a leg to hook it over the bar.

While he was still wondering how to make his presence known, Phoebe spotted him from her upside down position. He saw her hands open and swore, bounding over the fence. As he ran toward her, she tucked, pulling her legs in, trying to bring her body around. If the clearance had been an inch less, she wouldn't have made it. An inch more, her feet wouldn't have hit the tramp at an angle that sent her rebounding forward to slam into hiss chest.

There was time only to brace himself before she hit him dead center, knocking the wind out of his lungs and his feet out from under him. As he went backwards he wrapped his arms around her and tried to relax into the collision with mother earth. It helped, but not enough.

When he could speak, he said, "Nice tackle."

She laughed breathlessly. "I'm sorry-are you all right?"

"Oh, yeah-" The words came out a bit more emphatic than he?d planned and he quickly asked, "Are you all right?"

"Hey, I been slammed into rock. This was much nicer."

"Yeah." Sandwiched between hard earth and her body, Jake only had to lower his gaze slightly to get an eye full. With an effort, he looked up at the clear blue sky and tried to count away temptation. He was well past ten when she rolled off him.

"That better?"

He grinned. "Yes and no."

"Diplomatic."

"My mom required it of all her sons. Sometimes quite forcefully."

The thought of anyone requiring anything of Jake made Phoebe smile. As if he heard her thought, humor lit his eyes. Her gaze was hooked by his and she sobered as pleasure bloomed in her midsection. He'd looked good in the night. He looked even better in the light.

Live it all the way or don't do it at alt, Phagan was wont to say, without ever defining what living was, but it was now quite clear she hadn't been.

She sat up, wrapping her hands around her knees. "You ever heard that country song about the difference between lonely-and lonely for too long?"

"Yeah, I have."

"I think-" she looked at him, her gaze sliding the length of his body before returning to his face- "I been lonely for too long."

Before he could react, she jumped to her feet.

"Do you want a cup of coffee or something? I need to shower before we talk."

Talk about what? He scrambled upright and followed her inside, led by the sway of her hips in tight shorts and by curiosity about the questions she didn't ask him. In the kitchen, she pointed out the coffee paraphernalia. "Just help yourself. I won't be long."

He took her at her word and rummaged through her cupboards, assembling the necessary items for a bad cup of coffee, since she didn't have the makings for a decent one. He spooned stale crystals into his cup and went to the sink to run some hot water. Stirring the nasty-looking brew with a spoon, he studied his surroundings. The kitchen was clean enough for the small piece of debris on the floor to stand out like a sore thumb. He knelt, felt a kick of shock when realized it was a pistachio shell.

Inside the trash were more shells, as well as a spent ice pack. He sighed, hearing the water start in the back of the house. After a pause, the flow changed from tap to shower. To get rid of his mind's inclination to ponder Phoebe in the shower, watering sliding off her body, he headed down her hallway. There Wasn't anything to see but an unused guestroom without invading her bedroom, so he turned back. He took one sip before deciding he didn't need coffee that bad.

The other door out of her kitchen led to a living room, rustic but comfortable, the furniture light and blocky. Two crossed ice picks hung above the fireplace. Only scenery shots on the walls. No books. No magazines. No newspapers. The boots she'd worn last night were tossed in a corner, her purse on a table just inside the front entry. He walked into the room, then wheeled in a circle with his senses stretched out.

The room was almost impersonal, but still managed to exude a comfortable sense of permanence and serenity that he tried to fit into the Phagan and Dewey Hyatt setup-and couldn't.

He heard the shower shut off and turned back to the kitchen, his thoughts spinning in a kaleidoscope that wouldn't make a pattern. He almost didn't see the mark on the white wall, a few inches below eye level.

He leaned close and studied the brown flecks without touching them.

Blood.

Odd place to find it. Did explain the ice pack. Sort of. If you had a good imagination, which he did.

He headed for the kitchen, frown between his brows and regret in his heart. Even without the lust factor, he liked her. Obvious that life had kicked her around more than a little bit, without making her bitter or mean.

Sometimes he hated his job.

Chapter 5.

Phoebe stopped in the doorway of her kitchen, taking the opportunity to study Jake before he noticed her. He'd implied he was job hunting while talking to Chet, but Jake didn't look hungry enough to be job hunting. And he was too Boy Scout to be one of Harding's goons.

He reached up, making her carabiner wind chimes perform with a flick of his wrist and rational thought fled. Sunshine from the window flooded over him, finding the gold buried in his dark hair and putting shadows in the laugh lines that fanned out from his eyes. He'd exchanged last night's boots for comfortable tennis shoes but stayed with the tight jeans, tee and flannel, this time a soft blue plaid. He'd left the shirt unbuttoned, its sleeves rolled almost to the elbow, giving her an unrestricted view of every curve and hollow of his strong wrists and long-fingered hands.

Her blood warmed, as if Jake were a reflector for the sun. His chin angled her way, leaving her no time to prepare for the jolt when his blue gaze found her. He smiled, deepening the laugh lines and igniting a sultry hunger in her midsection.

"All done?" He grinned a welcome that made her insides go soft with longing.

He was far too sexy to be trusted. She propped a shoulder against the doorframe, her smile emerging from the deep well of her own longing. "You aren't looking for a job, cowboy."

Did he stiffen? His grin turned crooked, but wariness crept into his eyes.

"I never actually said I was looking for a job. That was Chet's idea."

"Chet's not too observant."

"And you are?" Jake picked up the coffee he'd made. One sip reminded him why he'd set it down in the first place.

"I try to be." She straightened, pulled open the fridge, and bent to retrieve a Diet Coke from a lower shelf.

Jake watched her snug shorts ride high, the fabric stretching over the taut cheeks of her bottom. He tried to look away but found the path of least resistance irresistible, since it let him follow the smooth, tender length of her legs. Cool air flowed out the open but it made no headway against heated want. He rubbed the beads of sweat from his forehead and told himself he was in serious trouble if he didn't pull himself together. He didn't care.

Phoebe straightened and slammed the door shut, then turned to face him as she popped the top on her can. "So tell me, why are you standing in my kitchen, not drinking my lousy coffee?"

He hesitated, his brain lacking the needed blood for a clever response. That left only a plunge into an explanation without any idea where he was going. "I could try to bullshit you with a story about being a reporter, or an author doing research-my personal favorite-or maybe a guy looking to buy a bar."