of browned oak leaves against a pocked, scarred marker that read only, "1852." Whoever lay beneath it had been one of the very first to live and die in Hot Water.
She shivered again. Not because she was walking among the dead, but because, as she neared Dylan, she could tell he was still focused on Alicia's grave. On Bram.
"How are you, Dylan?" she asked.
He stood on the other side of the chest-high wrought-iron fencing, his hands stuffed into the pockets of an ancient pair of jeans. He wore a sleeveless white undershirt that was so thin she could see the outline of his gold medal beneath it. St. Barbara, the patron saint of prisoners. On his feet were the rattiest pair of running shoes she'd ever seen outside a garbage can.
She wanted to lick him all over.
"You should go talk to him," she suggested instead.
He blinked, as if suddenly coming back to the present. "Kitty," he said. He smiled, slow and full. His hand lifted palm-upward and the fingers curled. "Come here."
Her heart vaulted the fence; her feet shuffled slowly toward it.
He leaned over and caught her by the ponytail, dragging her closer. When she was near enough, he bent his head and kissed her.
Her mouth went soft and so did her knees. For support, she gripped a rail of the wrought-iron fence in one fist and let her other hand cup his head. His hair felt sleek and alive against her palm.
His tongue pushed inside and she welcomed it with hers. Dylan crowded closer, then, groaning, broke off.
He glanced down at the fence post he'd nearly impaled himself on, its finial shaped like an arrowhead. "We've got to stop meeting on opposite sides of bars," he muttered. "Climb over, honey."
She moved to obey, then remembered why she'd approached him in the first place. Not to kiss him. There was still so much separating them. "Bram's over there. You should go talk to him."
Dylan's expression turned wary. "No."
"Have you spoken with him at all since you came back to town?"
Wary went stony. "No."
"But he was a friend of yours!" she insisted. "A good friend." Everyone knew the two had been as close as brothers until Alicia's death.
Dylan took a step back from the fence and shrugged. "I've been avoiding a lot of my friends. Ask anybody."
She frowned. "Well, why is that? Everyone is thrilled to see you and all you do is make excuses or flat-out ignore them."
"Maybe there's someone else I'd rather spend time with." She could tell he was changing tactics to sidestep her questions, but still her skin goose-bumped when he stepped close again and ran his fingertips down her cheek and under her chin. "Did you get the flowers?"
Kitty flushed. "Thank you. They're beautiful. But, Dylan, I think you need - "
"Did you read the card?"
Her face went hotter. In fact, all her skin went hot and prickly and she started to feel that amazing pulse in her bottom lip again. She ran her tongue over it.
"I love when you do that."
"Do what?" She nervously licked her lip again.
The corners of his mouth twitched. "That. Man oh man, those Wilder genes are just popping up all over, aren't they?"
Kitty tried to hang onto the more serious issue, but was losing ground fast. "What do you mean by that?"
One long finger reached through the fence to flick the crown of her breast. Kitty gasped, and looked down to see that her nipples were standing up against the fabric of her spaghetti-strapped summer top, tight and needy, showing as clearly through the thin cotton as ... as his did.
It was a Wilder instinct that suddenly awoke. It was a Wilder hand that insinuated itself through the bars. It was a Wilder voice, throaty and sexy, that came from her mouth as her finger stroked his hard point in return. "I think that's the pot calling the kettle black."
He smiled. His eyelids went to half-mast and the look he gave her with them could ignite asbestos. "I don't care what you call me, honey, as long as you promise we're both going to be simmering soon."
Kitty's newfound daring collapsed. This morning she'd admitted to herself that she'd lied about embracing her Wilder-ness, right? She wasn't any less interested in the conventional today than any other day. Except now she was more interested in Dylan. The man who didn't wish being in love on himself or anybody else. The man whose name was linked with a beautiful heiress.