She honestly didn't think she had it in her to be casual about sex. At least not with Dylan. Not now.
Swallowing, she took a quick step back. "S-sure, Dylan. When I'm ready to simmer again, you'll be the first to know."
* * *
After eight years, Dylan was used to sleepless nights. After nearly a month in Hot Water, he was even used to sleepless nights thinking about Kitty Wilder. But it was too much, by God, to bear them after knowing the sweet, tight heat of her body.
Almost a week had gone by since he'd encountered her in the cemetery the day after they'd had sex. Though she'd claimed she wanted to go Wilder, she'd run away from him then and every day since. He was starting to worry.
She'd said she didn't take their marriage more seriously now that they'd been in bed together.
She'd said she didn't see him as her ticket to becoming conventional.
She'd said she'd given up on all that and was going to enjoy being a wild Wilder.
But as of this moment, he'd not seen any evidence of that.
At first, he'd promised himself to wait her out. Let her come to him. But now, as he set off on foot Sunday morning, determined to waylay her on the route between her house and Old Town, he was planning her surrender. By dusk, they were going to be on their way back to bed ... and into an affair.
It made perfect sense. First, they wanted each other, there was no doubting that. They'd been trading steaming looks all week. Second, she owed him something for playing sheriff. Third, it would be freeing for both of them. She would indeed come to appreciate the release of her sexuality. When he became accustomed to her in bed, he would be able to recover his usual detachment.
Perhaps he'd thought he needed only that one time with her. So he'd been wrong. So what? A few more nights with her should appease his lust.
To that end, he wasn't going to let her retreat from him anymore. No more shared, sizzling glances that led to shared, heated memories that led to Dylan ready to strip paint off the walls from midnight to 4 A.M. To satisfy his Kitty addiction the night before, he'd contemplated ordering pay-per-view porn so he could toggle between naked women and Little House reruns. That was how desperate the situation had become.
Hence his plan was to heat her up in order to cool himself down. As he said, it made perfect sense.
His watch read four minutes before 8 A.M. while he loitered on the first corner she usually passed on her way to work. He leaned against the squat U.S. mailbox planted there, amusing himself by opening and shutting its squeaky door. As the seconds ticked by, he struggled with his increasing impatience, hoping he hadn't already missed her. He planned a full-court press on her resistance and that meant beginning first thing in the morning.
Waiting outside her house had seemed too obvious, however. But as more time passed, he wondered if that decision had been a mistake. With a curse, he slammed shut the mailbox door and the blue metal quivered in reaction. Damn it. Just one more offense to chalk up under Kitty's name. He hated second-guessing himself. He'd embraced FBI training for the very certainty of sticking to prescribed procedures in a crisis.
And thinking back to his sleepless night, his body hard and aching, he knew this was definitely a crisis. He opened the mailbox door again, then slammed it shut once more.
A woman's alarmed exclamation jerked his head up. It wasn't Kitty, but three female strangers - tourists, by the look of their fancy athletic gear - frozen in midpower-walk stride.
They were coming from the direction of Kitty's house. Perhaps they'd seen her.
He smiled at them. With charm. "Good morning, ladies."
They exchanged anxious glances. "H-hello," one woman said, but all three kept their eyes down as they started to cross the street.
"Excuse me," he called out, "but I'm looking for someone."
Their power walk had slowed to a skulk, their cautious movements like those someone would make when hoping to escape the notice of a rabid dog. Dylan looked around him. Behind him. But there was no one - nothing - on the corner except him and the fairly harmless-looking mailbox.
He tried again, stepping off the curb and projecting his voice. "She's about five-foot-eight, long gold hair, blue eyes - "
"Another victim," one of the women