"Just exactly what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to spend the night with you. I'm going to wait for the flasher to appear. Then I'm going to break every bone in his body."

"No! You can't do that. He's not a violent person. He's just a little misguided. I think you should talk to him."

"Talk to him?" Was she kidding? "Fine, if that's what you want, I'll talk to him. First I'll rip the bag off his head, then I'll grab him by his lousy tie, and then I'll talk to him. I'll tell him if he ever comes within a quarter of a mile of you, I'll break every bone in his body."

Lizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and slunk down in the seat. She made a disgusted sound with her tongue and stonily stared out the truck window.

"Now what?" Matt asked. "I agreed to talk to him. Now what's wrong?"

"Threatening to break every bone in his body isn't talking to him. It's macho garbage."

"Macho garbage?" His face creased into a broad grin.

"Unh!" Lizabeth rolled her eyes. "You know what you are? You're a… a carpenter!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Big shoulders, nifty butt, no brains. It means you have to prove your manhood with a display of muscle."

"You think I have a nifty butt?" He sounded pleased.

"Have you been listening?" Lizabeth shouted.

"Yup. The part about the no brains isn't true. I may not have a fancy education, but I'm not stupid. The rest of it I suppose is okay." He parked in a numbered space and pointed to a brick-front town house. "That's mine. Number twenty-two." The rain had slackened off to a fine drizzle. Matt went around the truck and opened the door for Lizabeth. "Come on. This is your big opportunity to see what sort of house a macho garbage man lives in."

"I'm sorry about the macho garbage part. I got carried away. Are you insulted?"

"No. You're probably right. Sometimes I definitely have macho garbage tendencies." He unlocked the front door and followed Lizabeth into the small foyer.

Lizabeth looked into an empty living room. There was no furniture, no rug, no curtains. Just a motorcycle. "There's a motorcycle in your living room."

"I don't have a garage."

"Ah-hah," she said, trying to sound as if his explanation was perfectly ordinary and logical. But her mind was in total chaos. My lord, she thought, he owns a motorcycle. A big, black, shiny motorcycle. She'd never actually known anyone who owned a motorcycle, and she equated this sort of motorcycle with men who drank motor oil and robbed convenience stores. She was in love with a man who had a tattoo and owned a motorcycle! A man who wanted to beat up on an innocent flasher. Of course, he was also the man who set her on fire with his kisses and encouraged her to run and jump in the rain. A man who bought sticky buns for her dog and played soccer with her kids. She chewed on her lower lip and stared at him. "Do you belong to one of those gangs?"

"A bikers' club?" He chuckled. "No. That's not my style." He took her hand and led her upstairs. "Mostly I live up here. I don't do much entertaining, so it might be a little messy." He stopped at the head of the stairs and looked around. "Actually, it's messier than I thought. Maybe you don't want to see this."

The upstairs consisted of two bedrooms and a bath, and laundry was everywhere. It littered the hall, rolled from under furniture like giant dust bunnies, and gathered big time in corners. It spilled out of open closet doors and open drawers and hung from bedposts, doorknobs, and chair backs. One bedroom housed a desk and an upholstered executive swivel chair. The remainder of the room held stacked boxes of floor tile, cans of house paint, heavy-duty extension cords, an assortment of power tools, rolls of duct tape, and three stacks of old copies of National Geographic. The other room had a dresser, double bed with night table, and an overstuffed easy chair. A television and VCR had been placed on the dresser, along with a hot plate and hot-air popcorn maker. An assortment of crushed beer cans, crumpled Styrofoam burger boxes, and balled-up bakery bags mixed with the mounds of clothes on the floor, on the bed, on the dresser, in the chair.

"It sort of got away from me," Matt said.

Lizabeth shook her head. "Oinkus Americanus. I've seen this phenomenon before." She unconsciously picked up a T-shirt and folded it. "This is probably the real reason you want to move into my house for the night. You've lost your bed." She folded another T-shirt and stacked it neatly on the first one.

Matt rooted through a closet and came up with a maroon gym bag. He kicked at the clothes on the floor and found a pair of jeans and a yellow shirt. He put them in the bag with underwear and socks, and then headed for the bathroom. "It isn't usually this bad. I've been busy. I've had a lot on my mind."

"Like what?"

He reappeared with the bag. "You. Me. Other things."

"What other things?"

"For starters, my partner is still in the hospital. He'll be in traction another week, and when he gets out it'll be at least a month before he's back on the job. He did all the paperwork. He did the buying and selling. I did the building. Now I'm stuck with everything. You think this room is a mess, you should take a look at my desk drawers."

"That bad?"

"I should hire a secretary, but Frank will be back in six weeks, and it would take me longer than that to bring someone new up to speed."

Lizabeth finished folding and arranging into neat piles the clothes on the bed. Without thinking, she moved on to the debris on the floor, grouping it into washing categories-darks, whites, hopeless. He was overworked, and some of it was her fault. He'd been spending every minute of his spare time fixing her dilapidated house. She found a wastebasket and began collecting beer cans, deciding some of them had been there since 1985. While she might be partially to blame for the condition of his bedroom, she thought to herself, there were also other forces at work here. Matthew Hallahan was a domestic slob.

"Gee, you're really good at this," Matt said. "I guess you do this folding stuff all the time, huh?"

"When I got married I promised to love, honor, and fold. Folding was the only part that survived." Lizabeth stopped for a moment and looked around. The room was neater now. She was able to see parts of the floor and almost all of the dresser. There was a sense of order to the room, but there was also the feeling that no one lived there. There were no pictures on the walls. No photographs of Matt with a kid brother, no trophies from Little League, no souvenirs from his hitch in the Navy. "Have you lived here very long?" she asked.

"Four or five years." He thought about it for a minute. "No, that's not right. I got out of the Navy and roomed with Frank for two years. Then Frank got married, and I moved in here. I guess I've lived here for… ten years." He shook his head in amazement and zipped the gym bag closed. "This was supposed to be temporary. I always intended to build a house for myself, but I just never got around to it. I was always too busy building houses for other people."

"Would you still like to build a house for yourself?"

"I'd like to have a home. A real home. But it's not so important that I build it myself." The people are the important part, Matt thought. He could live in a tent, a tin shack, or the backseat of Elsie's Cadillac, and if Lizabeth was beside him it would be home. He watched her give an involuntary shiver and noticed her lips had turned purple. "Cold?"

"I'm freezing. I've got to get out of these wet clothes."

Matt found a set of clean gray sweats on the bed. "Go take a hot shower. Steam yourself until you're as red as a lobster, and then you can wear my sweats home."

Lizabeth hesitated. "It's only a fifteen-minute drive to my house. I can take a shower there."

"No way. If I bring you home like this Elsie will yell at me."

He had a point. She clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering and headed for the bathroom. "I'll only be a minute."

Twenty minutes later Matt listened to the whir of his hair drier, and decided he liked the sound of Lizabeth sharing his bathroom. And he liked the way his bedroom looked without three months' worth of clothes and garbage on the floor. He'd put the dirty laundry into a laundry basket and filed the folded clean clothes away in his bureau. He'd taken Lizabeth's wet clothes to the basement and stuffed them into his clothes drier, and then he'd dragged the vacuum up from the cellar and sucked up clots of dust, crushed corn chips, petrified popcorn, and three spiders that had set up housekeeping. He'd put clean sheets on his bed and was fluffing a red-plaid comforter when Lizabeth sauntered out of the bathroom.

"That was an all-time great shower," she said lazily. "I never have enough hot water at home, and there's always a little person waiting for me on the other side of the door, and you have one of those fancy shower-massage things. It was wonderful."

He wasn't sure if it was the pink tinge to her cheeks, or the silky curls that framed her face, or the way his sweats draped over her delicate bones and clung to her soft curves. It might have been her smile. He was always undone by her smile. And it might have been the intimacy of smelling his soap on her warm skin. The exact reason for Matt's discomfort wasn't clear, but the result was fast becoming obvious. His tongue felt thick and useless, his throat dry, his breathing shallow. His heart galloped in his chest so that he could feel the blood coursing through him in hot waves. In his entire body only one part was working efficiently, and he was thankful it was contained by navy briefs that had shrunk in the drier and by a pair of sturdy jeans.

Lizabeth shuffled across the room in her bare feet, flopped on the freshly made bed, and closed her eyes. "I can't remember the last time I was this relaxed."

Matt didn't say a word. Didn't move. Couldn't think beyond wanting her. Food, water, shelter- all seemed trivial compared to his need for Lizabeth. He ached with love, and he burned with desire. He shoved his hands into his pockets and wondered if she'd been serious about holding him responsible for her morals.

Lizabeth was suddenly aware of the silence. She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him. His face was dark with an undefinable emotion. His blond eyebrows were drawn together. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Her gaze slid downward, and she discovered the source of his dilemma. "Oh, Matt!" She pulled a pillow over her face to muffle a giggle.

"This is no laughing matter."

"I can see that!"

"Listen, Lizabeth, we have a very large problem here…"

She coyly lowered her lashes. "It's not nice to brag."

Matt slowly shook his head and wagged his finger at her. "You're flirting with me and that's very dangerous because, as you may have noticed, we're alone and my self-control is reaching an all-time low."

"Mmmmm," Lizabeth said, smiling, feeling outrageously bold. She wore no underwear, and the borrowed sweats were softly abrasive against her skin. It was a new sensation. Sexy, she thought. Just right for sprawling on Matt's bed. She realized she wanted to make love with him and acknowledged that she'd come a long way in a very short time. She wasn't nervous, or embarrassed, or afraid. For the first time in her life she was deliciously aroused, and she thought it convenient that his self-control was reaching its all-time low just when her own sexuality was beginning to bloom. She watched him crawl across the bed and straddle her, and she willed herself to relax. She knew things would be different with Matt. He knew when to give and when to take, and he honestly enjoyed both.

He kissed her tenderly, fully intending to be a slow, sensitive lover. The kiss deepened. Tongue slid over tongue and hunger took over. In an instant his hands were under her shirt, covering her breasts, gently squeezing, his thumbs teasing across rigid nipples. He put his mouth to her heated skin, trailing kisses from her breasts to below the waistband of the sweatpants. Too fast, he thought, but he couldn't stop. He had to see her. All of her. He had to taste all of her. Clothes were stripped away and he kissed her again. Lower this time. Lord, how he wanted her. The wanting pounded in his groin, and his blood boiled with it. His kisses grew rough. His mouth was relentless as she arched her back and moaned for more. He felt her shudder and cry out and then he was inside her, driven by a need almost frightening in its intensity. Afterward he held her close, afraid to move from her, afraid he'd been all muscle and blind passion and no brain.