They’d stopped at his car. “So you’re that kind, after all,” he said with mock disgust. “I think I guessed the moment I saw you acting out your monster story that you were the cold-blooded, heartless type.”

She laughed, and then sobered. Her lips were parted. She had a sweet, soft mouth, small, the top lip exquisitely shaped.

“Anyway,” she said lightly, “in spite of my dubious character, I just wanted to make one thing clear. Maybe my questions offended you, I don’t know, but I was just making conversation, not-”

“I’m going to kiss you, Kay.” She looked as alarmed as if he’d suggested robbing Fort Knox. He took advantage of her parted lips. It was her fault, he told himself. He certainly wasn’t to blame for the fact that she’d been born with an alluring mouth and an irresistible scent. And he wasn’t responsible for all those years of frustration that just then clamored for release.

He bent down, adjusting the umbrella, using his other hand to tilt up her chin. The mechanics of a kiss were always so annoying to maneuver. He’d learned that at thirteen. For an instant, he was afraid he’d forgotten how, that he’d be as awkward as a kid.

Some things, he reminded himself, a man never forgot. Relearning to ride a bike should be so easy.

Her lips were cool and still. At first. She didn’t fight the gentle pressure, but then she was obviously still suffering from shock. He almost smiled, but didn’t. He had forgotten some details. A woman’s lips had a certain crushable, sensitive texture; there was nothing as soft, nothing as pliant, nothing quite as delicious.

He savored the taste of her, his tongue teasing the corner of her mouth. A tiny sound escaped her lips, like the purr of a kitten. She really shouldn’t have done that, he thought fleetingly, because that faint murmur of pleasure was all it took to set off a trip-hammer in his blood. His lips homed in, with a rough pressure he couldn’t seem to help, not a bruising pressure but the soft crush of possession.