Even after a handful of years, Duncan found meetings weird.

The whole business-suited, proposal/pitch/report, Danish-and-coffee and thanks-for-your-time elements of them. Then there were the politics, and the pecking orders.

Maybe that was why he didn't have an actual office. There was no escaping the meeting to his mind if a man had an office. Plus an office meant you had to staff it with people who had to be given particular assignments on a regular basis. If you happened to be the boss, that meant you had to come up with those assignments, and probably read reams of reports on the assignments before, during and afterward. And you'd damn well have to have more meetings regarding the assignments. Vicious cycle.

An office involved desks, and giving people titles. Who actually decided on titles? What made, say, an executive assistant different from an administrative assistant? And should it be the Vice President of Marketing and Sales, or the Vice President of Sales and Marketing? Things like that would keep him up at night.

Phineas nagged him off and on about the office thing, but so far he'd been able to slip and slide around it.

He liked meeting with people in one of the bars, or a restaurant. Or if it was absolutely necessary, in Phin's office, which was, in Duncan's opinion, meeting central. Going somewhere that wasn't essentially or absolutely his own place not only kept things looser, but he'd found those he met with tended to be more up-front and outspoken over a beer in a pub than they might be over glasses of spring water in a boardroom. He'd found, too, that it was often more interesting, certainly more telling, to go to the prospective meeter. Sitting in their homes, their place of business, their studio, whatever, generally made them more comfortable. It gave him a leg up on getting what he wanted or needed or hoped for if the other party was comfortable in their own space. Following that philosophy, he'd buzzed from a breakfast meeting at a cafe downtown to a funky little theater in Southside, then wound his way to a sadly neglected house in the Victorian section.

In each case, he felt he'd gotten more accomplished, and had a better time of it, than if he'd summoned all the parties involved in all the prospective projects into some stuffy office where he'd be stuck behind a desk wanting to pull a Suicide Joe and jump out the window anyway. As he made the turn onto Jones, he hoped the same would hold true for what he'd deemed his last meeting of the day.

He'd considered timing it differently, doing a kind of drop-by when Phoebe would be home. But that seemed just a little underhanded. Which was a valid strategy, true, but he figured she'd cop to it.

He parked, began the pretty stroll under arching trees.

He wanted to see her-and not just for the quick just-dropping-intosee-how-you're-doing visits he'd limited himself to for the last two weeks. Biding time, he mused. And maybe there was a little gameplaying in there, too. She didn't know what to make of him, and he didn't mind that.

He didn't always know what to make of himself, and didn't mind that either.

One thing he did know was that she'd had a major trauma, and she was working her way through it. There wasn't any point in pushing her into a date, or rushing her into bed at a time when she was shaky on her pins.

He had plans. He liked to make plans, nearly as much as he liked adjusting, shifting and altogether changing them from conception to completion.

He had plans for Phoebe.

But right now, he had plans for something else altogether.

Before he turned up the walk to MacNamara House he spotted the woman with the strange little dog across the brick road. Today's doggy bow tie was red-and-white-striped, to match the wide-brimmed hat the lady had perched on her head. It set off, he supposed, her blindingly white suit and red sneakers.

The little dog currently sniffed happily, by all appearances, at the butt of a puffy pink poodle held on the end of a gold leash by an enormously fat black man in a blue seersucker suit.

The scrawny lady and the huge man chatted away under the shade of a live oak even as the hairless dog struggled mightily to hump the pink poodle.

God, Duncan thought, he loved Savannah.

He rang the bell, admired the pots and baskets of flowers on the veranda while he waited. It was Ava, he remembered, who had the gardening talent. He wondered if he could talk her into...

"Hey." He offered Essie a smile when she opened the door. "Got time for a bad penny?"

"You're no bad penny, and I've always got time for young handsome men."

They'd progressed over his occasional visits to cheek-kissing. He bussed hers now, caught the subtle scent of her perfume.

What was it like, he wondered, to get up every day, dress and groom, knowing you'd never go out the door?

"How'd you know I was baking cookies?" she asked him, so his smile spread to a grin.

"What kind?"

"Chocolate chip."

"Come on, really? All the way from scratch? Good thing I came by so you'd have a taste tester."

"Let's get you started on that. Phoebe won't be home for a couple hours yet," she added as she led the way back. "Ava, she's running errands. She'll be swinging by school to pick Carly up after play practice.

Our Carly's one of the wicked stepsisters in Cinderella. She loves getting to be mean and bossy."

"I was a frog once. Not the turn-into-a-prince kind. Just a frog. I had to belch on cue. It was a shining moment in my life."

She laughed, shooed him toward the kitchen table. "I bet your mama was so proud."

He said nothing to that. What could he say? Instead he sniffed the air. "Smells like heaven in here."

"I got some still warm from the oven. You want coffee or milk with them?"

"Cookies and milk? I'd suffer through school again if I could come home after to you and cookies and milk."

Pleased, she pinked up. "You're a charmer, aren't you? What've you been out and about doing today?"

"Talking to people, mostly. And actually, I was hoping to finish up that part of the day talking to you. There's this property I was looking at. It's in the Victorian District, not far from a piece of the campus. Savannah College of Art and Design?"

"You don't say." She could barely remember what was outside the house and where it was set. All of that, the streets and buildings and open spaces, were a jumbled maze of squares and lines in her mind. "What kind of property?"

"Kind of a mess, actually. Like one of those Victorian ladies who fell on extremely hard times. You can still see the elegance under the neglect." He picked up a cookie, bit in. Then forgot everything in pure sensory pleasure.

"Oh God. Marry me."

She didn't laugh this time. She giggled. "If a woman can have you for a cookie, I'm surprised the bakeries all over the state of Georgia aren't working overtime." She reached across him, picked up one herself. And her eyes twinkled. "But they are damned good cookies."

"If I beg, will you give me some to take home? How can I settle for Chips Ahoy! now?"

"I believe we can spare some for you."

She moved to the stove to take out a tray, slide in the one she'd prepared.

"I lost my train of thought in cookie nirvana. This sad house off campus."

"Mmm-hmm. You're thinking of buying it and fixing it up."

He followed warm cookie with cold milk, and figured that was the sum total of heaven on earth. "That kind of depends on you." Puzzlement lifted her eyebrows as she turned away from the stove. "On me?"

"I'm thinking of buying it and fixing it up, yeah. What I've got in mind is a shop. Now... " He gestured with the last bite of the first cookie before popping it into his mouth. "I know what you're thinking."

"You couldn't possibly. I'm too confused to be thinking anything."

"Okay, what some might think is, hell, Savannah's got a million shops already. It does, no doubt about it. But people love to shop. No doubt about that either. Right?"

"I... I do. I love browsing the Internet shops."

"Sure." He picked up another cookie. "So I'm thinking, location being near the campus, Art and Design. Why not art, crafts. Okay," he said before she could speak. "We've already got plenty of shops and galleries. Artsy, crafty."

" I... suppose."

"Even the style I'm thinking, which would be upscale, isn't new, particularly. Boutiquey. Boutiquesque? You know what I'm saying?"

"Almost." She shook her head, laughed again. "Duncan, if you're using me for a sounding board here, I'm flattered. But I don't know anything about real estate and location and boutiquey shops out there. I don't go out there."

"You know about art and craft." Okay, he was having a third cookie, even if it made him sick. "About creating it. About selling it."

"You mean my crocheting." She waved a hand at him. "That's just a paying hobby. It's just something I stumbled into."

"Okay. How about stumbling my way? I've got this idea. Don't you love getting ideas? I always got ideas, but I couldn't do anything with most of them. Now I can. It's a rush, let me tell you."

"So I can see."

"The idea is arts and crafts by Savannahians. Products created only in Savannah. Only Savannah," he repeated, narrowing his eyes. "Might be a good name for it. I should write that down. Savannah arts and crafts," he continued as he dug out his cell phone, cued up his memo function. "Created by Savannahians, displayed and sold in a gorgeous two-story wooden house that symbolizes Savannah. It's got this great porch, or it will be great. I know this guy who does amazing furniture. Tongue and groove. And this woman who does amazing things with wrought iron. So we could... getting ahead of myself," he said when he noted she was just staring at him.

"You want to carry some of my crocheting in your shop?"

"Essie, I want to carry buckets of it, trunkloads of it. I want to have it spread all through the place. What do you call them-doilies?-on tables, throws on the sofas. You said you did bedspreads, right? How about tablecloths, like that? And clothes. Sweaters, scarves."

"Well, yes, b u't... "

"See, we'd have rooms set up. Just like a home. Bedrooms, dining room, parlors. So we'd display your work that way. For sale, sure, but also part of the ambience, you know? Baby stuff in the nursery, scarves, sweaters in the wardrobes. You could keep doing your own Internet sales if you want. But we could take care of that for you, expand it."

"My head is actually spinning." She laid her hand on one side of it as if to keep it centered. "Why do you think I could do all that?"

"You are doing it. You'd just keep doing it-except for the boxing and shipping, depending on how you want to handle it. Here, come with me a minute." He grabbed her hand as he pushed back from the table, pulled her into the dining room.

"What do you call that?"

She frowned at the long runner she'd designed in soft pastels for the dining room table. "A runner."

"A runner. Got it. So, if you were to make one just like that and sell it, what would you charge?"

"Oh, well." She had to calculate. She'd made one very similar for a client once, and several shorter ones for others over the years. She gauged the price as best she could without a calculator.

Duncan nodded, did some rapid calculations of his own. "I could give you fifteen percent more than that, and still make a decent profit." Her cheeks went white, then flushed warm pink. "Fifteen percent more?" She grabbed an end of the runner. "You want it now? I'll box it right up for you."

He grinned. "You keep that one, and start thinking about making more. And whatever else you've a mind to make. I'm going to need some time to get this up and running, but I guarantee we'll be rocking by the Christmas shopping season." He held out a hand. "Partner?" Duncan considered it a really good day if by seven, regardless of what had come before, there was pizza and beer on the veranda.

He'd lit candles, as much to discourage the bugs as to add some light. His bare feet were propped on the padded wicker hassock. He'd left the TV on in the living room, angling himself so he could watch some basketball action through the window if he wanted. Or just listen to the play-by-play and stare off into the soft dark.

He'd had enough of people for the day. As sociable as he was, he hoarded his alone time. And he liked to listen to the sounds of the game, but he just simply loved the sounds of the night.

The quiet swooshing of air through the trees, the hum of insects, the incessant music of peepers entertained him. It was a good spotveranda, chair and hassock-and the best time of day to figure things out. Or to let them go.

He'd been tempted to hang out in Essie's kitchen until Phoebe came in from work. So why hadn't he? Hang around too much, he decided, and become a fixture. Or an annoyance. It was all a matter of balance, to his way of thinking. And intriguing the woman in question so maybe she was just a little off hers.

Besides, every time he saw her, he wanted to grab her. Considering what she'd been through, he didn't think she was at the grabbing stage yet.

He finished off a slice of pizza, contemplated another. Then glanced over at the sound of a car. His brows lifted when he realized the car wasn't passing by but heading in.

He didn't recognize it, but he recognized the woman who stepped out of it. And this, he thought, was a better way to end the day than pizza and beer.

"Hey, Phoebe."

"Duncan." She pushed at her hair as she walked to the veranda. "I was at the bridge before it occurred to me you probably weren't here, and then it was too late not to keep going. But here you are anyway."

"I'm here a lot. I mostly live here."

"So you've said."

"Want some pizza? A beer?"

"No, and no. Thank you."

The formal tone had him lifting his eyebrows again. "How about a chair?"

"I'm fine, thanks. I want to ask what you're doing with my mother." Okay. "Well, I asked her to marry me, but she avoided giving me an answer. I don't think she took me seriously so I settled for the cookies."

"I'm wondering how seriously you take her, or yourself."

"Why don't you tell me why you're pissed at me, and we'll go from there?"

"I'm not pissed. I'm concerned."

Bullshit, he thought. He knew a pissed-off woman when she was standing on his veranda ready to chew holes in him. "About?"

"My mother's bursting with excitement over this business you talked to her about."

"You don't want her to be excited?"

"I don't want her to be disappointed, or disillusioned or hurt."

His voice was as cool as his neglected beer. "Which would be the natural consequence of excitement over the project we discussed. Which, as I recall," he added, "doesn't involve you."

"My mother's state of mind very much involves me. You can't come in there talking about some store you're thinking of opening in some house you're thinking of buying, and how she's going to be a part of it. It's your business how you do business-"

"Thank you very much."

"But," Phoebe ground out. "You got her all worked up, making plans, making designs, talking about how she'll be able to help more with the expenses. What happens to all that if you change your mind, or it doesn't come through, or you just find something more interesting to play with?"

"Why would I change my mind?"

"Aren't you the one who opened a sports bar, then sold it?"

"Sold a piece of it," he corrected.

"Then a pub. And I don't know what else." Which was the crux of it. She didn't know, and he was taking her mother into territory she hadn't mapped out. "You bounce, and that's fine for you, Duncan, that's just fine. It's not fine for my mother. She doesn't bounce."

"Let me sort this out. In your opinion, I'm irresponsible and unreliable."

"No. No." She let out a sigh as the leading edge of her temper dulled down to the core of worry. "You're casual, Duncan, and it's part of your appeal. You can afford to be casual, and not just because of the money. No one depends on you, so you can do what you like, come and go as you please."

"Is that casual or careless?"

"I say what I mean, and I said casual. I don't think you're careless. But my mother's fragile, and-"

"Your mother's amazing. You know, I told her once she ought to give herself a break, but the fact is, you ought to give her one. Do you think because she can't go out of that house, she's less than amazing?"

"No. Damn it, no." Because the conversation, such as it was, had gotten out of her hands, Phoebe dragged them through her hair and tried to get back to center. "But she does. She's been hurt and pushed and shoved into the corner so many times."

"I'm not going to do any of those things to Essie."

"Not on purpose. I don't mean that. But what if, for whatever reason, you don't buy that house, then-"

"I bought it today."

That stopped her. That put a hitch in her stride, Duncan thought.

He said nothing more, just picked up his beer, watched her as he tipped back the bottle.

"All right, you bought the house. But what if you find it isn't cost effective to fix it up? Or what if-"

"Jesus. What if the voices tell me to put on fairy wings and fly to

Cuba? You can 'what if till next Tuesday; it doesn't mean a damn. I finish what I start, goddamn it. I'm not stupid."

"You're not stupid. I never said or meant you were." But someone had, someone that mattered. "It's just that this all came out of the blue, and for my mother it's huge. I'm trying to point out the variables, and I'm trying to understand why you'd involve her in this. I can't understand what you're doing. I can't understand what you want. From her.

From me."

"Tied those two together," he muttered, and pushed to his feet. "Must want something from you, so I use her. Let's answer this first. You want to know what I want from you?"

"Yes. Let's start there."

He grabbed her before the last word was all the way out. The hell with biding time. He was too pissed off to bide anything. He had his mouth on hers, showing her what he wanted, taking what he wanted with an impatient anger he rarely let free.

Hunger pushed and shoved at temper until his mouth ravaged hers.

Her back pressed back against the porch column, and her hands were trapped between his body and hers. Every muscle in her body quivered. But not in protest, not in fear. There was a difference between fear and thrill, and she understood it now.

When he broke off, there was such heat in his eyes.

"You got that now?" he demanded. "We're clear on that point?"

"Yes."

"Then-"

It was her move now. All hers. Her hands were free so she hooked one arm around his neck, yanked his mouth back to hers. She would have chained her arms around him if her injured shoulder had allowed. When he pressed her against the column again, she nipped at his lip, rocked her hips against his.

She let the pleasure flood her after months and months of sexual drought. The feel of his hands on her breasts, the feel of the night air on her skin when his busy fingers undid her shirt, unhooked her bra. The glorious sensation that rolled through her and escaped on a purring moan.

She went wet and needy, arching to his hands and his mouth, quivering, quivering when he tugged at the button of her waistband.

Here, standing right here, she wanted to be taken without thought, without care, without boundaries. Desperate, she reached for him. And the shock of pain in her shoulder had her crying out.

He jerked back as if she'd punched him. "Christ. Christ."

"It's all right. I moved wrong, that's all. Don't-"

But he held up a hand, turned away. He paced up, he paced down. Stopped and took a long, long gulp of his warming beer.

"You're hurt. You're still hurt. Jesus." And, setting the beer down again, he scrubbed his hands over his face.

"It's not that bad. Really."

"You're still hurt. And I'm not going to bang you against the post like... Okay, okay, another minute here."

He paced up and down again. "You pissed me off. No real excuse but I'm taking it."

"No excuses necessary as it was obviously mutual."

"Regardless. Anyway, that should answer the question, which I'm still trying to exactly remember as all the blood's drained out of my head. The second had to do with..." He'd turned to face her again, and just stared.

She stood, leaning back against the post, shirt open, hair tumbled, cheeks flushed.

"Wow. Seriously. Hold on," he said when she glanced down, then began to button up. "Would you not do that for just another minute. Maybe two? Since I'm not allowed to touch, it seems only fair I be able to look. You've got this really terrific body. It's all just... just exactly right. And the way you're standing there, and this light, and...

Okay, yeah, you better close up shop there. That's about all I can handle."

"You're a strange man, Duncan."

"I've heard that. I want you, and it's keeping me up at night. I don't mind that so much, even though I like to sleep. But some things rate insomnia. You're one of them."

"Thank you. I think."

"But to get back to the rest. I think the point's just been made that I don't need to use Essie to get to you. And you know what? You should think more of her than that. More of me, too, and more of yourself."

"You're right. You're absolutely right, and I'm absolutely wrong. I hate that. My excuse, since we're using them, is I love her so much."

"I get that. You're lucky to have her."

Phoebe raked a hand through her hair. He meant that, exactly that, she realized. He saw her mother, and saw the value of the woman she was. "I know it. People, a lot of people, look at the situation and think she's some sort of burden. You don't. And I'm sorry for the way I handled this."

"I would be, too, except I got my hands on your breasts." She laughed. "Want that beer now?"

"Better not, I'm driving. Duncan, please don't take this the wrong way. I see the bars-you tended bar. And I could see if you bought a cab company, or a car service or some such thing. Maybe you have, I don't know, and that's part of it. I don't know how you do this sort of thing. And I don't know what you could possibly know about running a retail craft boutique."

"We'll find out, plus I wouldn't actually be running it. I've got somebody in mind for that. And you're thinking, hell, he can afford to lose a couple hundred thousand here or there."

"No, actually, I was thinking you'll probably find a way to make it work. I'm thinking I was scared because I came home to find my mother happy, bubbling with it."

"She was happy when she started with Reuben."

Now Phoebe pressed her fingers to her eyes. "Obviously I didn't connect those dots for myself before I came haring out here and laid into you."

"Hair trigger," he said, without heat.

"About some things, obviously. Now that I've connected those dots-or you have for me-I'm thinking if you hadn't had this idea I can't understand, exactly, my mother wouldn't have a chance to try something exciting."

"I wouldn't have made the offer if I didn't believe I could sell the sheer hell out of her work."

"Which, if I hadn't flown off, I'd have come around to on my own rather than driving out here to jump all over you. Which I don't regret because you got to get your hands on my breasts."

He smiled slowly. "How long before they think you'll be a hundred percent?"

She reached up with her good arm to touch his hair. She liked how it always looked as if he'd just taken a wild ride in that fancy car of his. "I'll get a note from my private duty nurse clearing me for physical activity."

"Works for me. Meanwhile, how about going out with me Sunday? Sunday-afternoon barbecue at a friend's. It'd be a chance to get to know each other, dynamics with others, before we lose ourselves in wild, sweaty sex."

"All right. Why not?"

"I'll pick you up about two."

"Two. I need to get home." She rose to her toes, kissed him, softly, slowly, on either cheek. "I hope I keep you up tonight."

He watched her walk away, flick a killer smile over her shoulder. And decided the odds were heavily in favor of insomnia.

As her car drove away, he went back to sit, to prop his feet on the padded hassock. Eating cold pizza, drinking warm beer, he thought it had been a hell of an interesting day.