"Come on, sugar, it's a simple one," he said. "See, it's kind of cold over here, and I'm a little lonely. So just whisper real soft, and it'll be our little secret. Did you take a shower and put on your jammies? Or what?"

"A bath," Delia said, before she could reason herself out of it. "A bubble bath. With English lavender."

"Oh, God," he whispered. "Oh, Dr. Delia, don't tease. English lavender always gets me hot. "

Delia emptied her wineglass in one gulp. "And I put on a T-shirt, not jammies." She paused, staring at the dregs. "Why, what are you doing?"

He chuckled again. "Making myself go blind, sugar. Now, was that just a T-shirt?"

Delia giggled. "Well, no."

"What, then?"

Delia was flustered, so she grabbed what was left of the Chablis.

"Well," she whispered, pouring. "You know."

"No, I don't have a clue, Doc," he said. "Come on, now. 'Sometimes phone sex with someone you trust can be a healthy turn-on.' That's what you told Fred from Framingham, remember? And sweetheart, you must trust me. You left your precious Volvo over here, right?"

"See, now, there's the really scary part." Delia's voice was very small.

"I do trust you."

Nick made a strange, rough sound in the back of his throat. "So answer the question, darlin'," he softly demanded. "Whatcha got on under that T- shirt? Black leather motorcycle pants? A chastity belt? Knickerbockers?

What?"

"God, I don't believe I'm doing this," said Delia, cradling her forehead in one palm. "Panties."

"Bikini or thong?"

"Oh, God." Delia felt her face growing warm. "Why?"

" 'Cause I'm visualizing, Doc," he whispered, his voice dark and hot.

"Sensual visualization. See, last week, I thought I was starting to lose interest in sex."

"Yeah, right."

"Oh, no, sugar, I'm serious as a heart attack," he insisted. "Then, remember last Friday? When you told Menopausal Marge from Montreal how to use sensual visualization to-you know, to get herself fired up?

Well, you were right, Doc. That shit works. I'm imagining you in your panties right now, and I'm hard enough to hammer nails."

"Nick." Delia giggled. "You are not menopausal."

"But it's still working real good for me. So, come on, Delia. Help me out. Describe every inch of your tight, sweet body, baby, and I swear, I'll never tell a soul. But first, let's get back to those panties."

As if to hide from herself, Delia wriggled under the covers. "Okay,"

she finally whispered. "They're hip huggers. Pink ones."

"Pink," groaned Nick. "God, Delia, are they the same color pink as your cheeks when you blush? The cheeks on your face now, I'm talking, because honey, I gotta confess, that's about the prettiest shade of pink I've ever laid eyes on. So far."

"Is... Is it really?"

"Delia, darlin', I get hot just thinking about it."

She was very quiet for a moment. "Nick, you're weird."

"Nope," he insisted. "I'm a normal, healthy male with normal, healthy appetites, burning with a whole morning's worth of thwarted lust from watchin' you in that weird skirt and those ugly shoes. Besides, remember what you told Tricia from Tallahas-"

"God, please do not mention my job again," interjected Delia.

"Why?"

"Because I... I don't find talking about my job very... well, you know."

Suddenly Delia of the million-word vocabulary couldn't find the right one.

"Erotic?" His voice slid over her skin like silk. "Is that it, babe?"

"Yes."

"But if I talk about other things," he whispered, "you might feel otherwise?"

"Yes. Maybe. Oh, Nick, I don't know!"

"I can work with a maybe," he said reassuringly. "Shoot, just breathe heavily into the phone, darlin'. Given your voice, that'll probably do the trick."

"Wh-what trick?"

Nick laughed his wicked laugh again. "Oh, Delia, you just don't know what you do to me."

Despite the darkness under her bed covers, Delia squeezed shut her eyes. "Then tell me," she whispered.

That caught him off guard. "Umm-tell you?"

"Go ahead, big boy," she whispered, giggling. "Tell me everything."

"Yeah, okay," he said, then hesitated. "But listen, sugar, something just occurred to me. Are you on a hard line?"

"Mmm, hard," she whispered, mimicking his voice. "I like that."

Nick laughed a little nervously. "Now, be serious a minute, darlin," he cautioned. '"Cause frequencies float, and we don't want to give old Bud Basham a coronary here."

"Oh," breathed Delia. "Okay."

"Good. Now, is that a remote phone you're using?"

"No, it's under the covers with me. Cord and all."

"Lucky phone," he rasped. "Delia, know what I'd do if I was under there with you?"

"No. What?"

Nick breathed heavily for a moment, and it didn't seem feigned. "Oh, I don't know, baby," he whispered. "It'd be so hard to choose."

"Choose."

"Okay." The springs squeaked again. "Okay, first, I think I'd slide my hands up your thighs, then just keep going, right under your T-shirt. What color did you say that was?"

"Black," she whispered wickedly. "It's vintage AC/DC, from the original Back in Black tour."

"Oh, baby, you rock," he choked, but she could tell he was about to laugh out loud. "I just knew you had a dark side. Okay, so, what I would do is, I would ease my hands along that pretty, pale flesh of yours, right up over your ribs, touching every one of 'em, just enough to make your skin shiver."

"Mmm." It really did sound good.

"Mmm is right, darlin'," Nick whispered. "And then, I'd brush the very tips of your nipples with my palms. Just to make sure they were nice and hard."

"Ohh," said Delia.

"Are they, Delia?"

She hesitated. "A little."

"Just a little?" Nick sounded crushed.

"A lot," said Delia. "Hard. Tingly."

"Jesus, Delia." His voice was sincere. "Touch them. Tell me for sure."

"Hard, Nick," she whispered. "They feel... heavy. Maybe... kind of lonely."

"Wait." Nick swallowed hard. "I've changed my mind."

"Nooo."

"Oh, yeah, darlin', I think I'd rather take your panties off first."

"Would you? Why?"

"Because I just can't wait, Delia," he whispered. "Because I'm about to come all over my couch. And because I'm betting you've got some other pink parts that are prettier than your cheeks, sweetheart."

Delia giggled. "Maybe."

"Maybe my white cracker ass," he rasped. "So I'd slide those silk panties down your legs, Delia-and I know they'd be silk, darlin', 'cause it'd be a sin for a woman like you to wear any other kind-and I'd slide 'em right down to your ankles. Maybe just rip 'em right off, then, and buy you new ones later."

"O-okay," said Delia. "No one ever bought me underwear before."

"Then you have not lived the life you deserve, sugar."

"I guess not."

"Delia?"

"Yes, Nick?

His voice was dark and steady. "Slip your hand under those pink silk panties," he commanded, "and tell me what it feels like."

Delia hesitated. "Oh, Nick."

Nick's breath ratcheted up sharply. "Come on, baby," he begged, his voice thick now. "Do it. Do it for me. Don't stop me now. Please. Just slide your palm down your belly and under the elastic, okay? And slip your fingers between your legs. Are you wet, Delia? Are you? Good God, honey, say yes, 'cause I'm dying here."

"Yes," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Yes. Wet. Dripping."

Nick swallowed hard again. "God almighty, girl," he whispered. "I really am gonna come just listening to you."

"Are you, Nick?" Delia asked, her voice deep and foreign. "Really?

Because, you know, I think you have such an incredible butt. I watched it half the afternoon, sticking out of the hood of my car, so tight and perfect.

You know, I really am sorry I missed your hot tub."

"Ah, God, Delia," he groaned. "Oh, God. Keep talking, baby. Just keep talking. 'Cause, I swear-I swear-"

"Holy shit!" screamed Delia, leaping from beneath the covers.

"What the hell is that?" he barked. The pounding on Delia's kitchen door was so loud, Nick could hear it through the telephone. "What the hell is that? Delia? Delia-?"

Someone punched the bell. Six times. "Open the goddamned door, Delia!" bellowed Dr. Neville Sydney. "Open it right now. Don't you dare touch my fucking speedboat, you hear me?"

"Delia?" said Nick. "Delia? Baby, put the phone back to your ear. Put the phone back. Talk to me, sugar. Talk now-or I'm coming over there."

"Holy shit, Nick, it's Neville!" hissed Delia into the phone. "And for this, I really ought to kill him."

"Jesus Christ," said Nick. "Delia, do not answer that door. I'm coming over there. And I mean now."

Delia's back floodlights were already on by the time Nick slid into his jeans, shoved his service pistol into his waistband, and started across the yard. He could see a big, black Lincoln Navigator idling outside her garage, its chrome trailer hitch glistening yellow beneath the lights. He could already hear the argument, too. Because Delia, of course, had not listened to him and kept her damned door shut. Instead, she was leaning half out of it, going nose-to-nose with Mr. Rhinoplasty himself.

Delia's ex-husband was waving wildly in the direction of the garage.

"You vindictive bitch!" he heard Neville shout. "You've changed the remote codes! You can't hold my boat captive! How dare you?"

"Neville, have you always been such a twit?" snapped Delia. "The damned Liftmaster is broken. Didn't you hear it grinding?"

"Well, howdy, howdy folks," said Nick, sidling up to Neville.

He wasn't sure who was more taken aback, Delia or her ex-husband.