Brody dropped his hands. "I was about to do a hell of a lot more than kiss you, and on your mother's kitchen table."

"I know." Wasn't her pulse still banging like a kettledrum? Couldn't she see the blind heat of desire in those wonderful eyes of his? "It's a damn shame Dad didn't have late classes today."

"This is not good." He hissed out a breath, turned on his heel and yanked a glass out of a cupboard. He filled it with cold water from the tap, considered splashing it in his face, then gulped it down instead. It didn't do much in the way of cooling him off, but it was a start. "This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't ticked me off."

"Ticked you off?" She wanted to smooth down all that streaky hair she'd mussed. Then she wanted to muss it all again. "About what?"

"Then you get me to touch you and you start making sex noises." The hell with coffee, she decided, she wanted a drink. "Those weren'tsex noises." She wrenched open the fridge, took out a bottle of white wine. "Those were muscle relief noises, which, I suppose, could amount to roughly the same thing. Get me down a damn wineglass, because nowI'm ticked off."

"You?" He slammed open another cupboard, plucked out a simple stemmed glass, shoved it at her.

"You go traipsing off to New York for a damn week. Don't tell anybody where you are."

"I beg your pardon." Her voice cut like ice. "Both my parents knew exactly where I was." She poured the wine, slammed the bottle down on the counter. "I was unaware I was required to check my schedule with you."

"You hired me to do a job, didn't you? A big, complicated job which you stated—clearly—you intended to be involved in, step by step. It so happens several steps have been taken during this week while you pulled your vanishing act."

"It couldn't be helped." She took a long sip of wine and tried to find the control button on her temper. "If you'd had any problems, any questions, either my mother or father could have put you in touch with me. Why didn't you ask them?"

"Because…" There had to be a reason. "My clients are usually old enough to leave me a contact number and not expect me to hunt them down through their parents."

"That's lame, O'Connell," she said, though the statement stung a bit. "However, in the future, you are directed to consult with either of my parents should you not be able to contact me. All right?"

"Fine." He jammed his hands into his pockets. "Dandy."

"And keen," she finished. It was a ridiculous argument, she decided. And though she didn't mind a good fight, she did object to being ridiculous. "Listen, I had to go to New York. When I left the company, I gave the director my word that should I be needed, and it was possible, I would fill in. I keep my word. Several of the dancers, including principals, were wiped out with the flu. We dance hurt, we dance sick, but sometimes you just can't pull it off. I gave him a week. Eight performances, while sick dancers recovered—and a couple more dropped."

She leaned back against the counter to take the weight off her legs. "My partner and I were unfamiliar with each other, which meant long, intense rehearsals. I haven't danced professionally in nearly three months. I was out of shape, so I took some extra morning classes. This didn't leave me a lot of time or energy to worry about a project I assumed was in capable hands. It didn't occur to me you'd need to reach me this early in the project, after we'd just spoken. I hope that clears things up for you."

"Yeah, that clears it up. Can I borrow a knife?"

"What?"

"You don't have a gun handy, but I can use a knife to slit my throat."

"Why don't you wait until you get home?" She sipped her wine again, watching him over the rim. "My mother hates blood on the kitchen floor."

"Your father probably doesn't like his daughter having sex on the kitchen table, either."

"I don't know. The subject's never come up before."

"I didn't mean to grab you that way."

"Really." She held out her glass. "Which way did you mean to grab me?"

"Not." With a shrug he took the wine from her hand, sampled it. "You can see this is already getting complicated and jumbled up. The job, you, me. Sex."

"I'm very good at organizing and compartmentalizing. Some consider it one of my best—and most annoying—skills.''

"Yeah, I bet." He handed her back the glass. "Kate." She smiled. "Brody."

He laughed a little, and with his hands back in his pockets, roamed the room. "I've done a lot of screwing up in my life. With Connie—my wife—and Jack. I worked really hard to change that. Jack's only six. I'm all he's got. I can't put anything ahead of that."

"If you could, I'd think a great deal less of you. If you could, I wouldn't be attracted to you." He turned back, studying her face. "I can't figure you."

"Maybe you should see if you can organize your schedule, so you can spend a little time on that problem?"

"Maybe we should just rent a motel room on Route 81 some afternoon and pretend there isn't a problem."

To his surprise, she laughed. "Well, that's another alternative. Personally, I'd like to do both. Why don't I leave it up to you, for the moment, as to which part of the solution we approach first?"

"Why don't we…" He glanced at the clock on the stove, swore. "I've got to go pick up Jack. Maybe you could come down to the job tomorrow lunchtime. I'll buy you a sandwich and show you what we're doing."

"I'll do that." She tilted her head. "Want to kiss me goodbye?" He glanced at the kitchen table, back at her. "Better not. Your father might have a weapon in the house you don't know about."

Spencer Kimball wasn't loading a shotgun. Kate found him in his studio going over his lesson plans for the current semester. He'd been going over the same page for the last ten minutes. She crossed to where he sat at his desk looking out the window. She set a cup of coffee at his elbow, then wrapped her arms around him and propped her chin on his shoulder. "Hi."

"Hi. Thanks."

She rubbed her cheek against his and studied his view of their pretty backyard. She would ask her mother to help her plan the gardens for the school.