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close. She made a tiny sound at the luxurious pressure of his mouth, at the sweep of his hands up and down her bare flesh. Her response was instant, all-giving. That was Bett. They’d both freely experimented from time to time; intimacy was a complex thing. Play was part of that, but Bett’s sweetness and freedom in loving were what made their nights special. Bored? It wasn’t conceivable. He sought to show her that. His tongue savored the honeyed darkness of her mouth, the hollow of her cheek, the smooth, pearly feel of her teeth.
    His palm curled around her breast, his thumb brushing back and forth across her nipple. So taut, so tender, that sensitive flesh. He knew Bett. He knew exactly what ignited her primitive side. The small, perfect breast that barely filled his palm changed with a certain touch, swelled and hardened; he could feel the ache inside her begin to build. Her breasts were unbelievably sensitive. So were her inner thighs, her bottom. A caress around her navel could annoy her, throw her off a building rhythm. Bett was easily distracted; even just an odd sound in the night, and she had to be wooed back into the mood. She could be quite distressed with herself when that happened.
    He had no intention of letting anything distract or distress her tonight.
    She’d been upset by the call from her mother, he knew that. More than Bett would ever know, Zach resented the thought of a third person coming to live with them. If he’d invited the problem, it was for Bett’s sake; he knew they had the strength in their marriage to live through this. Still, he was used to having Bett all to himself. He wanted, needed and counted on having Bett to himself. Like now. Bett was here. A black night surrounded them; Bett was damned well on fire. So was he. When he leaned over her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, forcing that first thrust so deeply inside her that he swore he touched her soul. Or his.

Chapter 3
     
    Bett had been trying to convince herself for the past hour that the rain was only a drizzle. It wasn’t easy. Water was dripping from her matted lashes and dribbling down her neck, her hair was slicked to her scalp, and her T-shirt was wet even under the yellow slicker. It was eleven o’clock on the first morning of September, and nature couldn’t have chosen a nastier time to get touchy.
    They had an order for field-run peaches that wouldn’t wait. Zach was at the market with their plums; rain meant nighttime spray duty, and their picking crew would have been delighted to walk out right now—except that no respectable Spanish-speaking gentleman would consider leaving the orchard as long as a woman was still willing to work her heart out in the pouring rain.
    Bett brushed a wet hand through her sopping hair and crouched down again on the flatbed truck. Three field crates to go, and the order would be completed. Lupe’s eyes were shooting daggers at her. An hour before, Zach had told her to go home and dry off, that Lupe would handle the picking crew. But Bett hadn’t left, and Lupe clearly didn’t know quite what to do. Zach’s orders were usually more than reasonable; Zach’s wife wasn’t.
    Bett acknowledged that she had a tiny stubborn streak, but quality control was the issue. “Field run” meant their buyer was prepared to take their fruit direct from the orchard. They received less money for their peaches that way, but they also didn’t have to go through the expense of sorting and packing and packaging. Which was fine, only Bett didn’t like anything leaving the farm with the Monroe label on it that was less than perfect if she could help it. These peaches were close, all forty-seven crates of them behind her.
    The last three crates were finally heaved up to the truck bed, and Bett glanced up from her sorting task. “We done,” Lupe told her, and stabbed a forefinger in her direction. “You go tell Senor Monroe you been home awhile.”
    “Yes, Lupe.” She silently and fervently