They left minutes later, pausing only to make plausible excuses to Marvin and Jeannie Reese, and they had traveled nearly half an hour before Mitch broke the silence with a quiet, “I’m sorry, Shay.”

Shay was miserable; she was still pulsing with the raw desire Mitch had aroused in her. Her breasts were weighted, as though bursting with some nectar only he could relieve them of, the nipples pulled into aching little buds, and a heavy throbbing in her abdomen signaled her body’s preparation for a gratification that would be denied it. “I just—I guess I’m just not ready.” Like hell you’re not ready, she taunted herself.

“I wasn’t going to make love to you with half of Skyler Beach just a wall away,” Mitch pointed out reasonably. “Nor did I intend to fling you down in the sand, though now that I think about it, it doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.”

Shay had forgotten all about the party while Mitch was kissing her anyway and the reminder of that stung her to fury. “What exactly was your plan?” she snapped.

“I was in no condition to plan anything, lady. We’re talking primitive responses here.”

Shay lowered her head. She’d been trying to lay all the blame for what had nearly happened on Mitch and that was neither fair nor realistic. The only sensible thing to do now was change the subject. “You said we would talk after the party. About why you were at Seaview this morning.”

“And we will. My place or yours?”

Did he think she was insane? Either place would be too private and yet a restaurant might be too public. “Mitch, I want to know why you’re interested in my mother’s illness, and I want to know right now.”

“I never explore potentially emotional subjects in a moving vehicle.”

“Then stop this car!”

“Along a moonlit beach? Come on, Shay. Surely you know what’s going to happen if I do that.”

Shay did know and she still wanted him to stop, which made her so mad that she turned in her seat and ignored him until they reached Skyler Beach. He drove toward her house, chivalrously giving her a choice between asking him in or spending a whole night in an agony of curiosity about his visit to Seaview. There would be agony aplenty without that.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Shay said stiffly.

He simply inclined his head, that brazen tenderness dancing in his eyes. Moments later he was seated at the table in Shay’s small spotless kitchen, his gray jacket draped over the chair back. “What did Ivy tell you about me?”

Shay, filling the coffeepot with cold water, stiffened. “Not much. Come to think of it, I don’t even know what you do for a living.” It was humiliating, not knowing even that much about a man who had nearly made love to her on a sundeck.

“I’m a journalist.”

Shay set the coffeepot aside, water and all, not even bothering to fill the basket with grounds. She fell into a chair of her own. “I don’t understand.”