SHARI PACED HER APARTMENT feeling as jumpy as a claustrophobic tiger in a cage.

This was ridiculous! It was just sex.

Well, no. It wasn’t just sex. In fact, it wasn’t sex at all and that was the source of her frustration. She wanted Luke. Mr. Clueless who halted the action more often than a shy virgin.

She gasped and paused midpace. Was he…?

No. He must be thirty. Impossible he’d never had sex.

And yet, while he was clearly turned on by her, he was so clueless, ambivalent or uninterested that he wasn’t taking any initiative at all. No wonder the man needed a how-to book.

Ever since their hike yesterday she’d felt buzzy and strange, almost jumping out of her own skin with lust. It was crazy. Normally she left it to the men in her life to tamp down lust while her relationships took a predictable path. They wanted in her pants and, when she decided she liked them enough and the time was right, she let them.

Never in all her life had she wanted in a man’s pants and he was keeping them zipped.

She paced again. Wondering if the ache in her womb was chronic. If there was a pill she could take to relieve it she would, but she knew damn well there was only one cure for her ailments. Hot, sweaty sex. The sooner the better.

Chapters schmapters, she wasn’t waiting until Friday. Luke wanted some lessons in how to please a woman? He was about to get the most important lesson of them all.

She was a fine teacher if she did say so herself. And he’d proven himself a fairly apt student. It was time to do what was often done with talented, advanced learners. He was about to be accelerated.

She had to plan this carefully, though. Men were visual creatures. She needed to send him an unmistakable message that she wanted him in the most intimate way a woman could want a man.

She stopped pacing as a tiger’s smile curled her lips.

Stomping into the bathroom she turned on the faucets to pour herself a bath, taking her favorite scented bath salts off the shelf. She threw in a healthy handful and from her medicine cabinet pulled out ylang-ylang essential oil—a scent to inspire the libido.

Luke was going to get a lesson he’d never forget.

LUKE HADN’T BELIEVED he’d end up glad of the Hikus Interruptus interlude, but somehow the frustration had been rechanneled into creativity. He’d come home last night and, after Shari had issued a curt goodbye, stood wrestling with himself until sweat broke out on his brow. Twice he started for his door, intending to run upstairs and damn well pound on Shari’s door until she opened it, the hell with the book.

Had he ever in his life turned away from a woman with Do Me Baby in her eyes, her body primed and ready for him?

He groaned. Of course, he hadn’t. Only a man numb from the waist down could do that.

And he was far from that. He could still feel her body pressed against him, her head thrown back to enjoy the sun. She’d looked magnificent.

He shook his head like a horse shaking off flies. If he spent the night in, he’d be knocking on Shari’s door within the hour. He’d made it this far, he’d reread chapters three and four and would try to fit them in this week. By Friday—maybe sooner if she decided to cut him some slack—he’d be getting into the serious stuff and by chapter six he’d be easing into heaven.

After a quick shower, he changed into black jeans and a loud come-and-get-me Hawaiian-print shirt, and walked the few blocks to his favorite watering hole.

The smell of beer mingled with the scents of the justly famous burgers. Laszlo’s was crowded with people having a good time. Bypassing the wooden booths, he headed for the U-shaped bar, already noting the number of women here. He nodded to a couple of people he knew, found a stool and ordered a beer. The bartender was a middle-aged Slavic guy and, since Luke was a lot more interested in women who were nowhere near middle age, he turned so he was facing the crowd. One of the reasons Laszlo’s worked was that patrons tended to stand around and mingle.

He’d socialize in a minute. For now he’d simply sit back and watch the action, the seduction game he’d played so often and written about in countless magazine articles. The beer was ice-cold and crackled on his tongue. Laszlo’s was hopping. He scanned the place for a woman to saunter over to and start up a conversation.

Near the door, a shapely female back caught his attention. Rich chestnut curls spilled down her long, slim back. She was tall, and exuded confidence even from this view. His shoulders jerked forward and his babe radar went on full-alert. That looked like…but even as the thought formed, the woman turned to say something to the guy standing beside her and he registered that it wasn’t Shari. And he knew in that moment that no one else would do for him tonight.

He ordered a burger, finished the beer, made some desultory conversation with a fellow beside him and left.

He’d planned to render himself numb all over, but he didn’t feel like dealing with crowds and noise, and besides, if he stayed he was liable to go home with the first willing woman, which wouldn’t help at all.

He only wanted one woman. The one he’d already rejected today.

As he entered his apartment the frustrated sexual energy still fizzed within him and he knew he wouldn’t sleep. He flipped on the TV, but nothing held his attention. He dropped to the carpet and did fifty push-ups, then groaned when he realized he was thinking about Shari and her daily sit-ups and push-ups and how much he wished she were under him right now.

It was too early to go to bed, and the only place he really wanted to be—one floor up and one apartment over—he had a strong feeling he wasn’t welcome.

Desperate for distraction, he flicked on his computer and pulled up the file of his novel. He hadn’t worked on it in a while with the how-to book consuming him, but maybe tonight it would keep him focused on something other than his physical desire.

He settled into his chair and decided to play with the book for a few hours. It was a psychological thriller, his play project when he was between magazine and newspaper assignments. One day, he might try fiction seriously, but it was easier work and easy money to stay with what he knew.

Reading over the first four chapters, which were all he had written, he got pulled into the series of gruesome murders and the burned-out cop who was close to a breakdown. Luke remembered now why he’d stopped writing after chapter four. He’d put the poor sucker in a psych ward and didn’t know how he was going to get him out…

No wonder he’d been drawn to open this particular computer file. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Luke was as helplessly locked in torment as his hero.

He sat there, tapping keys without typing anything, imagining the hero’s dilemma. He was a cop who’d spent his whole career—his entire life—abiding by and enforcing the rules. Now he had to break the rules. He had to escape from the prison his preconceived notions had locked him into.

He had to break out.

Of course! Suddenly Luke’s fingers were flying over the keyboard. He couldn’t type fast enough to keep up with his thoughts.

At some point he became aware that his neck ached. He glanced at the clock. It was four in the morning. He could go to bed, but he wasn’t a bit tired and the killer was about to strike again. Oh, well. It wasn’t as though Luke had to be anywhere tomorrow. One of the joys of his work was setting his own schedule. He stood, stretched and made his way to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.

Then he went back to work.

Hours later, the coffeepot was empty. He brewed another.

Time simply ceased to matter. His phone rang a couple of times, but he ignored it. Not only did his hero burn for justice, but he also burned physically for the woman—the psychiatrist on his case—who could both save and damn him.

Luke glanced up at last, feeling his eyes ache. His muscles were stiff from the combined torture of sitting in one position too long, struggling through the tension of solving murders and coming to terms with his main character’s mental health. But Luke had in front of him several solid new chapters and a rough road map for the rest of the book.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his closed eyes with his palms, tired but satisfied. Not as satisfied as he’d feel after a night of hot sex with Shari Wilson perhaps, but satisfied in a bone-deep sense.

He stared at the gray words darkening his screen and a quiver of excitement raced through him. What if this wasn’t simply for fun? What if he was writing an honest-to-God marketable thriller?

The possibility had him running his fingers across his stubbled chin. What if?

He struggled to his feet with an unreal sense of timelessness. He hadn’t pulled an all-nighter like that since college. He checked the clock. Seven. For one bizarre second he thought it was seven in the morning, then he realized it was seven at night. He’d worked just over twenty-four hours. Fueled by nothing but coffee and some serious sexual frustration.

He grinned stupidly. A few more weeks of trying to stay away from the woman upstairs and he’d have an entire series of murder mysteries.

His stomach did a queasy roll from all the coffee and lack of food. Usually, Luke ate constantly, but he’d been too absorbed to care about eating. Now he needed a decent meal, a shower and sleep, but the vestiges of manic energy still crackled around him and some of the scenes he’d written lingered like dream images. After all those hours cooped up, he needed to move.

Changing into running gear, he headed out to the street feeling like a long-distance traveler just emerging from an aircraft into an exotic setting. His body might be in Seattle but his mind was still in the book, he discovered, as he found his rhythm and followed the ribbon of pavement in the dusk. At some point it had rained, for the streets were slick with wet, and dark clouds hovered, letting him know that more rain was on its way. He’d lived in the Pacific Northwest long enough to pretty much ignore the rain.

As he splashed through a puddle, he realized he needed to let the villain figure out what Luke, the author, already knew. That his cop hero relied on routines to function. Throw him off stride and he was dramatically weakened.

How to give this information to the villain in a way the reader would buy? Suddenly it was important to Luke what the reader thought because some time in the night this novel had moved from being his little hobby to the next phase in his career.

There was a woman in the book, naturally. The psychiatrist helping the cop. Where before she’d lacked substance as a character, she’d come, during the night, to combine Deandra’s fierce focus, Shari’s looks and his mother’s stubbornness. There was more of Shari in his fictitious doc than looks. He’d tried to imbue his character with that innate respect for people’s feelings, and the desire to help them that Shari had displayed in their “lessons.”

When he passed the Danish bakery that was his three-mile marker, he realized he’d gone farther than he intended.

The bakery was closed, nothing in the window but day-old bread already packaged to sell off tomorrow and the fancy cakes in the refrigerated display case. Even so, the sight was enough to make his stomach curl on itself unpleasantly.

He turned toward home wishing he hadn’t jogged so far. He was literally running on coffee and adrenaline and both tanks were close to empty.

He’d never been so pleased to see his apartment building. Trembling with fatigue and hunger, he dragged himself in the door, hauled himself into the shower, shaved and decided he’d take himself out for a good dinner before hitting the sack.

In the steamy bathroom mirror his eyes were bloodshot, but he didn’t care. The lost sleep and skipped meals had been worth the sacrifice. He’d never felt as excited about anything he’d written.

The phone rang while he was heading for the door debating steak versus pasta. He intended to ignore the call, until he saw who was calling him.

Shari.

“Hello?” His voice sounded rusty and he realized he hadn’t spoken in more than twenty-four hours.

“Luke” She sounded odd and, after spending all night with a twisted, sadistic murderer, Luke’s system began to jump.

“Is everything okay?”

“I need you to come up here. Now,” was all she said before cutting the connection.

“Shari?” he yelled into his cell, already heading out the door at a run. But the call had ended.

He tore up the stairs faster than he’d ever run in his life, reaching her door in less than a minute from the time she’d called. “Shari?”

He pounded on the door and it opened slightly. His panicked brain realized there was a shoe stuck in the door holding it ajar.

He shoved through, wishing he had something other than his bare hands to use as a weapon. Somehow, in his fatigued brain, he’d known the killer would go after the psychiatrist as the surest way to destroy the cop. Luke had to stop him.

It took a second or two for panic to recede and amazement to take its place.

Shari Wilson stood in the middle of her apartment living room. There were candles scattered around the place sending dancing flames and some kind of exotic scent into the air.

Soft music played, but all of that registered only in the haziest fashion.

For Shari was spectacularly, gloriously, naked.