"Yes, Serena. I did."

"That meeting that upset you so?"

"That was part of it, yes. I guess you want the whole story?"

"Well...?"

"The Mayor contacted me shortly after I arrived in this area. He knew of my reputation as an investigative reporter and asked if I would keep an eye on something. He already suspected what was going on, but he needed evidence. This was one of those situations I mentioned hypothetically, where people in politics were involved and there was a question as to how deep the corruption ran. I was an outsider, a newcomer. It seemed a logical move."

"Have you gotten much?"

"Dribs and drabs. He was shrewd, for the most part. He slipped up when it came to you. He totally underestimated you." Tom smiled. "He didn't know about the fire in you."

"But he suspected you." She ignored his bait to rush on.

"I'm afraid my reputation preceded me, even though I retired from most investigative reporting several years ago. He was wary of me based on that reputation, but our relationship certainly didn't add to his peace of mind. And my knowing of your business involvement with him did nothing for my peace of mind. I feared you'd be put right in the middle and you were. Fortunately it's turned out for the best."

Serena nuzzled the firm skin of his neck. "You know, I was appalled at the insane desire for vengeance I felt before. That was an awakening! You were right about that, too-the sense of being victimized and having no faith that justice will be done. What will happen to Andre?"

"That's for the judge to decide. He's in the process of confessing everything, at his lawyer's recommendation, no less. The case against him is strong enough that, considering the public furor there will be when it all gets out, he'll be lucky to get away without serving hard time."

"He's ruined. It's a shame."

"It always is."

Their thoughts converged not on Andre, but on Serena's father. At last they were in agreement and the matter was closed. With its closing, however, came the opening of a new, more immediate, yet far-reaching consideration.

"You'll marry me, won't you?" Tom asked softly.

"Is that what you want?" Her eyes glowed even through her concern.

"More than anything."

"But you've been through this once."

"No. It was totally different then. We were too young. We were totally ill-equipped to understand each other's needs, to fulfill them, and then, when it started to fall apart, to do anything about it."

"You said once that you feared involvement," she reminded him gently, wanting no stone left unturned.

"I was wrong then as you were wrong to let the ghost of the past haunt you, though I'm sure as hell glad it did. Otherwise you would have been long since snatched up before I arrived on the scene. I need you, Serena. I want you with me always." As she basked in the aura of his love he paused, waiting. "Well ... will you...?"

Her acceptance was whispered against his parted lips and was sealed with a kiss that stirred their depths to fan the smoldering fires. At that moment Serena knew that their love would conquer any obstacle that might fall in the path of their happiness. With Tom by her side she would find the strength to convince even her mother of its rightness. Once she was Tom's wife one Sweet Serenity would be more than enough to occupy any idle time he might leave her. And, when the time was right, her "new baby" would be a human one, with the promise of hazel eyes, good health and a smile that radiated from ear to ear.

"Let's get out of here," he growled, echoing her sentiments exactly. Totally wrapped up in each other, they headed home.

Her loose auburn waves brushed against his thigh as she made her way slowly over his body, savoring the taste of his flesh, exploring every last inch.

"Serena ... Serena!" Reaching down Tom grasped her upper arms and hauled her abruptly along his length until she lay on top of him, eye to eye. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked half in fun, half in frustration. In truth he was driven nearly as wild now by the crush of her full breasts as he'd been by the sweet torment of her lips.

"I've changed my mind," she announced pertly.

"You've what?"

"Changed my mind."

Her smile and the sensuous way she slithered over him precluded true alarm. "About what?"

"You. You're no Apricot Brandy Cordial." She touched the tip of her tongue to his lips, then traced their manly line.

"Then what am I?" he murmured with the mingling of their breath.

She sighed happily. "A pure chocolate heart. Solid. Rich. Sweet. And endless."

Like our love, she thought, and nibbled some more.

Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Delinsky's upcoming book

sweet salt air Coming in Summer 2013 in hardcover from St. Martin's Press Leo Cole was doing something different. The sound Charlotte heard as she approached was a sporadic clattering, like he was hurling something against metal. She couldn't tell what it was until she rounded the Cole curve and saw the floodlit slope of his roof. Two ladders stood there; near the top, a board stretched between them. Boots on the board, Leo was prying up shingles, tossing one after another into the Dumpster below.

She looked for the dog, didn't see it, walked slowly forward. When she was close enough, she linked her hands behind her and watched for a while. Oh yeah, she had told him that his shingles were lifting. Watching him, though, she guessed he had known it. The way he went at the task spoke of experience. His movements were methodical and sure. From time to time, he grunted with the effort of removing a stubborn piece, but for the most part, he seemed untaxed.

In time, he stopped, pushed a forearm up his brow, hitched the claw tool to the next shingle in line, and reached for a bottle of water. That was when he spotted Charlotte, though if she hadn't been looking closely, she wouldn't have known. He didn't jump, didn't even fully turn, simply looked sideways as he drank. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Why am I not surprised?" he muttered just loud enough for her to hear, then reached for the claw and continued his work.

She heard derision. But anger? Not really. "You knew about the roof problem."

"Yup. I ordered shingles a month ago."

"Why do you do this at night?"

He was silent. Then, "Why do you want to know?"

"Human interest." She shrugged. "Boredom."

He pried up several more shingles and tossed them back before saying, "Sun's down. Wind's down."

"When do you sleep?"

Another shingle fell. "When I'm tired."

"Studies show that the less sleep you get, the greater your chance of stroke."

"Studies get it backwards," he countered. "Insomnia is caused by stress, which causes high blood pressure, which causes stroke. I'm not stressed."

She might have argued for the sake of argument, if he hadn't made total sense. So maybe he worked all night and slept all day. "You don't have a nine-to-five job?"

He worked on, finally said, "Nope."

"How do you pay for the shingles?"

He glanced down, sounding annoyed. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing. I'm just curious." Looking around, she spotted the toolbox. "If you have another roof ripper, I could help."

He snorted. "Dressed like that?"

"I'm not dressed any different from you." A tank top and shorts. His tank was chopped unevenly at the waist, the shorts as dark and drapey as always.

"You don't have boots."

No, but her sneakers were designed for traction. She turned one to show him the sole. When he simply went at another shingle, she said, "Seriously. I can help."

"You've done this, too?"

"I have."

He worked on for a bit. Then, "Nah. Only one claw." Moving to the right to reach a new spot, he said, "Want to make yourself useful, pick up the shingles that missed the Dumpster."

With the floodlight aimed at the roof, the ground was dark. Only when her eyes adjusted did she see what he meant.

But she didn't move. Climbing a ladder was one thing; groveling around on the ground with her arms and legs exposed was another. "Where's the dog?" she asked.

"In the bushes."

"Will he attack?"

"Not if you pick up the shingles and leave."

Trusting that he could control his dog, she collected an armful of shingles and dropped them in the Dumpster. After a second, then a third, she was done. Brushing off her hands, she called up, "What else can I do?"

"Get away from the Dumpster. Stay there, and you're gonna be hit."

"You wouldn't aim at me."

He barked out what might have been a laugh. "If my aim was perfect, you wouldn't'a had anything to pick up just now."

He had a point. Moving away from the Dumpster, she folded her arms on her chest and watched him work. He must have been trying harder, because every shingle went into the Dumpster, so there was nothing to do. After a bit, she sat.

"You said you'd leave," he charged.

"You said that. Not me." Her curiosity was far from satisfied, and the dog hadn't appeared. "What's it like being in jail?"

He shot her a look. But he didn't call the dog. "That's a dumb question. It sucks." He pried up several more shingles, tossed them down with greater force. One hit the ground, but he didn't seem to notice. "How'd you know I was in jail?"

"People talked about it back then," she said, standing, waiting. As soon as he tossed down the next shingle, she darted in for the one on the ground and tipped it into the Dumpster.

"You were here before?"

"Well, now you've hurt my feelings. I spent seventeen summers here. So I didn't make any impression?"

He stretched to reach higher shingles. "I don't remember much."

"High on Cecily's cures?"

Bracing the claw against the roof, he scowled down at her. "One of the reasons I work at night is because it's quiet. If you're gonna stay here, you have to shut up."

At least he wasn't harping on her leaving. This was progress. "I can shut up."

"Do it. Please." He moved farther right to work on a final swath of shingles. "And you're wrong. I wasn't high all the time. I was angry."

"Seriously," Charlotte mused. That scowl was what she remembered, but she didn't hear anger. "What did Cecily die of?"

He worked for a bit. She guessed he was ignoring her, but she had interviewed reluctant subjects before. She was about to lob up an easier question, when he said, "Pneumonia."

Pneumonia. That surprised Charlotte. Cecily would have known how to treat pneumonia. "I was thinking it had to be cancer."

"It was. She went to the hospital for that. While she was there, she got pneumonia."

Charlotte had heard similar stories, but it suddenly made Leo more human. "That's bad. I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am," he said, grimacing against a stubborn shingle. "I was the one who dragged her to the hospital."

Since Quinnipeague had no hospital, that would have been on the mainland, and what Charlotte heard went beyond regret to guilt. Gently, she asked, "Is that why you hang around here, to keep up her house and garden?"

"Among other reasons."

"Like what?"

He looked down, annoyed again. "Don't you need to be somewhere?"

"Actually, no," though, sitting still, she was feeling a chill, so she unwound the sweatshirt from her waist. "Nicole's in New York. It's just me at the house." She looped the sweatshirt around her shoulders.

"Should you be telling me this?" he asked.

"Why not?"

"I'm dangerous."