His fingertip traced a feather-light line from her temple to the curve of her chin, and slipped along the nape of her neck. Her floor-length black velvet cape felt cool and slick under his hand, the woman beneath warm and pliant. She shifted toward him, and he thought the sound of her skirt rustling in the dark car was intensely erotic. A passionate woman all wrapped up in a chaste package. Fire and ice. He’d recognized the combination onstage, where she held her audience with her presence as much as her playing.

She curled into the circle of his arms, tilted her face to him, she felt his hands tighten at the small of her back. His mouth moved across hers with gentle urgency. If she’d known him longer, she could have admitted to the love that was so obvious in the kiss. And she could have admitted to the love it generated in her.

There was a faint rapping, and he pulled back from the kiss. Outside the car Elsie was shaking her head. “What are you two doing in there? I can hardly see anything with those windows all steamed up.”

Dave leaned over Kate and cracked the window. “You have a problem, Elsie?”

“Not anymore. I got rid of the guy on the roof. And I took care of the wimp in the backyard, too. But with all the slimeballs you’ve got running loose in this neighborhood, I don’t know if I’d want to sit out here, fogging up the windows of this fancy car.”

Dave narrowed his eyes. “Guy on the roof? Wimp in the backyard?”

“Listen, I can’t stay out here holding a conversation. I’m missing my TV show. I just thought if you two were gonna diddle around out here, you should have this.” She lifted a revolver with a Dirty Harry-size barrel to window level and passed it through to Dave.

Kate shrieked and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Holy crap!” Dave pointed the gun toward the windshield and emptied the cylinder. “What the hell are you doing with this thing?”

“Picked it up at a yard sale. I was gonna use it on the cook at the old people’s home but never got around to it.”

“You have a license for this gun?”

“Say what?”

Dave hefted the .45. It was of World War II vintage, weighed about five pounds, and he thought it could probably make a hole in a target the size of an orange. Not exactly a lady’s gun.

“I think we should go in now,” he said to Kate. “I’d never get past those buttons on the back of your dress anyway.”

Kate opened her eyes. “Shame on you. We’re not at the buttons stage.”

“I know. I was just thinking about being at the buttons stage.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It must take you hours to get out of this thing.”