Dylan put the broom and dustpan away, and when he turned, Hope stood in the doorway. Her hair was brushed, her face scrubbed. The edges of his boxer shorts hung just below the bottom of his robe.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything for breakfast,” he said.

Her gaze slid from his and moved around the kitchen. “That’s okay. I never eat before noon anyway. Have you seen my clothes?”

He pulled out a kitchen chair and pointed to the bundle he’d folded earlier.

“You folded my clothes?”

He shrugged and watched her move to the table. He hadn’t known what to expect this morning; he hadn’t really thought about it. But even if he had, he wouldn’t have expected her to be chilly. She reminded him of the Hope who’d first driven her Porsche into town. Sometime during the night, between the time he’d pulled her against him and the time she’d opened her eyes, something had changed, and he didn’t even pretend to know what that something might be.

When she reached for her clothes, he reached for her hand. “What are your plans today?”

“I have to work. I’m really behind.”

“Did you get the police files yet?”

“Yes.”

“I could help you look them over.”

“Ah, no, thanks.” She looked somewhere over his left shoulder, and he placed the tips of his fingers against her jaw and brought her gaze to his. Her eyes gave nothing away, and in giving nothing, she told him what he needed to know. She was hiding from him, and he would have none of it. He lowered his lips to hers and lightly kissed her. She tried to take a step backward, but he cradled the nape of her neck in his palm. With his mouth poised just above hers, he ran the tip of his tongue across the seam of her lips and felt her relent by degrees. Her shoulders relaxed, her stance softened, then a light puff of a sigh and a silent “Ahh.” He kissed her more fully. He kissed her until her hands found the back of his head. Until she’d risen on the balls of her feet and pressed her breasts into his bare chest. He drew back and looked into her eyes. “Sorry about breakfast?”

“Mmm… I’m still full from all that cake.”

Dylan smiled. Damn, but he liked her.


* * *

Hope chose a photograph of a normal-looking grandmother from her computer files. She gave her purple hair and lipstick. As she made the alien’s eyes beneath the purple eyeshadow a little rounder and her fingers a bit too long, she wondered if Walter would think all the purple was too far-fetched and make her change it. In her wildest imagination, she’d never have thought to make up a character like Eden Hansen.

Not even she was that good.

She’d already sent two alien articles to her editor. He liked them both and wanted more. She clicked the send icon on her computer screen and shot her third story through cyberspace.

The first article had just hit the stores, and according to Walter, the preliminary reader response was positive. The paper wanted to run with the series as long as possible. Which was fine with Hope. She had enough material to last a while. And when she ran out, she’d just make a trip into town.

She was writing some of the best articles of her career, and she didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell her it was because she no longer felt empty, trying to create from a dry well.

By moving to Gospel, she’d inadvertently kick-started her career and her life. She was sleeping and feeling better than she had in a long time. She’d always known that her life and creativity were so intertwined that when one suffered, they both suffered. She supposed for a while she’d just tried to ignore the truth. She’d focused on something she’d thought she could control, her career, but she’d found herself hanging on by her fingernails.

Now she had a social life, and she had something else entirely different to work on besides her stories for The Weekly News of the Universe. When her aliens were giving her a headache, she took out her article on Hiram Donnelly. She didn’t know if she’d ever sell it, but writing it gave her another outlet.

She reached for the large envelope she’d received in the mail a few days prior and removed the FBI report inside. From the sections that weren’t blacked out, she’d read that the FBI had been tipped off and provided proof of embezzlement by someone inside the sheriff’s office. An informant who had access to bookkeeping records. Hope wondered if that someone was Hazel Avery. Or perhaps even Dylan.

She leaned back in her chair and her gaze lowered to the telephone next to her computer screen. Dylan said he’d call. When he’d dropped her off that morning, he’d said he had some work to do at the Double T, but that he’d call her tonight. She glanced at the clock on her monitor. Five-fifteen. Officially evening.

Hope pushed back her chair and stood. When she thought of last night, she felt equal parts thrilled and terrified. Like she wanted to laugh one second and hide the next. She felt schizophrenic. Torn in two. Wonderfully alive and scared to death. Looking for meaning in a meaningless affair. Trying to protect herself while running toward a collision with something that was bound to hurt her. Completely out of control.

He’d licked frosting from her body and they’d been as intimate as two lovers could be, yet before he’d taken her home that morning, he’d given her a baseball cap and helped shove her hair up into it. He’d given her one of his big Levi’s jackets to wear so no one in town would recognize her and start rumors. That was what he’d said anyway, and she wondered if that was true, or if he was secretly embarrassed to be seen with her.

He’d asked about her scar. He’d finally noticed it as he’d bathed her in the shower. She’d told him her ex-husband had given her a tummy tuck, because it hadn’t been the time or the place for the truth. Then he’d kissed her old hysterectomy scar and made her feel bad for lying.

He’d folded her clothes. Such a small thing for him to do, yet it felt huge. While she’d slept, he’d folded her bra and panties in half and laid them with her skirt and tank top in a neat pile like they’d just come out of the dryer. And as she’d tried to draw away from him, tried to put some distance between them, he’d pulled her close and made her feel as if the sex the night before hadn’t been so meaningless after all.

Falling in love with Dylan would be easy. So easy and so stupid. He’d told her once that a girlfriend was the last thing he needed. She believed he meant it. If he’d wanted a woman in his life, he certainly would have had one before she’d shown up in town. There were plenty in Gospel to choose from. He didn’t want a relationship. He’d made that clear. He wanted sex, and while she wanted sex, too, she knew she would ultimately want more. She knew she would begin to care about him more than she did already, and she would be hurt when he didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just the way things were between them.

It would be best to end it now, before she got hurt.

If and when he called, she would just have to tell him she couldn’t see him anymore. She’d have to find the willpower to just say no.

In the end, she didn’t talk to him at all. When the telephone rang, she didn’t pick up. She didn’t trust herself. Since the moment Dylan had kissed her the night of the Buckhorn incident, her willpower had gone into hiding. She didn’t trust that it would make an appearance now. Not after the memory of his kiss, and not after the night they’d spent together painting each other with frosting. Not when all she had to do was close her eyes and feel his mouth on her body. Not when she could recall with perfect clarity the seductive timbre of his voice when he’d lowered his face between her legs and said, “Relax, honey, I’m just going to eat this little peach right here.”

No, her willpower was less than zero.

She would have to avoid him for as long as possible, but complete avoidance would be impossible in such a small town.

The next time she saw him, she’d just act natural. Cool, as if she’d had lots of affairs in the past.

At around midnight, she went to bed and jumped at every sound, wondered if he’d show up at her house, or if it was even Dylan who’d called earlier. It could have been Shelly. Or Walter. Or a telemarketer. It probably hadn’t even been him. The jerk.

At a little before ten the next morning, Shelly knocked on Hope’s front door. Hope had just gotten dressed and her hair was still wet from her shower.

“Dylan just phoned me,” Shelly said as she followed Hope into the kitchen. “He wanted me to come over and see if you were okay. He said he tried to call you last night, but you weren’t home.”

“I wasn’t answering the phone.” Hope reached for the coffeepot and poured two cups. “I was busy working.”

“He said he called this morning, too.”

Hope raised her mug and blew into it to keep from smiling. She hadn’t heard the phone, but maybe she’d been in the shower when he’d called.

“Is something going on between the two of you?”

“Not a thing. Do you want milk and sugar?”

“No.” Shelly raised her own coffee and blew into it. Both women stared at each other through the steam. “Did you know that an informant inside the sheriff’s department gave the FBI information about Hiram Donnelly?”

“I’d figured that out.”

“But have you figured out who is it?”

“Hazel?”

“No.”

“Dylan?”

“Wrong again.”

“Do you know?”

“Yes,” Shelly answered through a smile. “But I’m not going to tell you. And do you know why?” She didn’t wait for Hope to answer. “Because I can keep a confidence. No one knows but me and the FBI. If someone tells me to keep something a secret, I can. I’m a good friend.” She looked pointedly at Hope as if to say Hope was not.