Midnight Sun. Kat Martin

with his shirt off. He had a beautiful body, suntanned and lean, his chest wide and muscular, his back hard and sculpted. He had big hands and she knew what that meant.

      Maybe tonight she’d find out if it was true.

      Sally smiled as he led her out to the Jeep, and Call smiled back, but he seemed a little distracted.

      He was that way all evening, she discovered, first through dinner in the Bonanza Room at the Eldorado Hotel, then on the drive back to her house. She wished she could scoot over next to him, but the seat belt wouldn’t stretch that far and she didn’t think he’d like it if she took it off, considering a car crash had killed his wife and kid.

      “Are you sure you’re all right?” she finally asked. “You been kinda quiet all evening.”

      “I’ve been thinking.”

      “What about?”

      He flicked her a glance from behind the wheel. “Taking you to bed.”

      Her breath snagged and her body began to heat up. Little twinges started throbbing between her legs. She reached across and rested her hand on his thigh, gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ve been thinking about it, too, Call.”

      He turned the corner, pulled the Jeep up in front of her house, and turned off the ignition. He caught her hand and eased it off his leg as he turned toward her on the seat.

      “I’ve been thinking … as much as I’d like to sleep with you … I don’t … I’m afraid I’m just not ready.”

      The heat she’d been feeling deflated like a punctured hot air balloon. “We could go nice and slow. Take it real easy. You know what they say—it’s just like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget.”

      He looked at her with those piercing blue eyes, leaned across the seat, and very lightly kissed her. She loved the way his lips felt, sort of hard-soft, the bottom one full and sexy. She kissed him back and thought for sure he’d weaken.

      Instead, he pulled away.

      “I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.”

      “Sure.” She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “No problem.” She popped open the door and started to get out, but Call was there before her feet touched the ground.

      “I’m sorry, Sally, I really am.”

      “Don’t be.” Pride straightened her shoulders. “You’re not the only man in Dawson, Call, you know what I mean?”

      He nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

      She said good night to him at the door and slipped back into the house. It was quiet inside, the rooms still smelling of the cabbage she’d cooked for supper. Jimmy was out with his friends and wouldn’t be home till late.

      It was early yet. It pissed her off that Call had turned her on, then left without doing anything about it. She glanced at the phone on the wall next to the stove in the kitchen.

      Maybe Farley was home. He wasn’t much to look at, not like Call, but he was always up for a good time. She thought of his eagerness in bed and grinned at the pun. Maybe she’d give him a jingle.

      Sally reached for the phone.

      As the Jeep rolled through the darkness, Call slammed his hand down on the wheel. Sonofabitch! What the hell was the matter with him? He had promised himself tonight he would satisfy the sexual desire that had finally begun to stir to life inside him again. Instead, he had apologized to Sally and headed back home.

      He could tell himself it was Susan, that he felt like he was being unfaithful, even after all these years, but it wouldn’t be the truth. Sex had never been that important in their marriage. At least not to Susan. Call had always had a high sex drive, but Susan had never placed much value on intimacy, aside from having kids. They’d had other things in common, other dreams and goals that had drawn them together. Since he was the kind of guy who didn’t believe in cheating on his wife, he had sublimated part of his drive with work.

      Not that that was any excuse for the sixteen-hour days he had put in.

      Since the accident, depression and guilt had kept him celibate, but in the past few months he had finally begun to overcome those feelings and start moving ahead with his life.

      The truth was, his wife was gone and he was a single man again. He was ready for some hot, uninvolved sex—he just didn’t want it with Sally Beecham. He wanted it with Charity Sinclair and that posed a definite problem.

      Call raked a hand through his hair. Charity wasn’t a bar-maid who had offered him a no-strings relationship. She wasn’t some divorcee who hopped from man to man, looking for a good time. If there was ever a poster girl for the all-American, clean-cut girl-next-door, Charity Sinclair was it.

      Of course, he could be wrong.

      The thought started his blood pumping. He hadn’t felt a single moment of lust for Sally, but he was hard just thinking maybe Charity might be up for a little casual sex. Even the low-cut blouse Sally had been wearing, showing off a set of plump, milk-white breasts, hadn’t done it for him.

      Not like this morning when he’d stared at Charity’s luscious mouth, measured the tantalizing breasts beneath her mud-spattered shirt, and wanted to drag her down on the ground. He’d wanted to rip off her clothes, wanted to bury himself inside her.

      “Jesus.” Call turned off Hunker Road and started the slow, bumpy drive up Dead Horse Creek. Coming back to the real world was proving more of a problem than he’d imagined. After four years of going without, he figured just about any warm, willing woman would do. Maybe he was worried that after all this time he wouldn’t be any good, but he didn’t think so. Like Sally said, having sex wasn’t something a man forgot how to do.

      Hell, if Sally wasn’t the one, there were other women in Dawson. What about the little redhead waiting tables at Klondike Kate’s? Toby had offered to introduce him, said she was a real party girl and she wanted to meet him, that she would be moving away in July and just wanted to have a little fun in the meantime.

      Whatever he did, the last thing he wanted was any sort of emotional entanglement—with the redhead or anyone else. Making love to a woman who lived in the house right next to his was asking for serious trouble.

      Trouble. It was Charity Sinclair’s middle name.