Don't Tempt Me by Barbara Delinsky

undercurrent of sexual excitement had always been strong between them, but never more so than at this moment. Once again the confines of the car conspired to heighten sensations that already ran high.
    For better than an hour Sloane drove steadily, suffering as did she through the periodically stifling traffic. When at last they cleared the worst and left the parkway to negotiate the more private streets of Westport, the relief was tangible.
    â€œOh, it’s lovely, Sloane,” she exclaimed in response to the greenery which had gradually thickened with their approach. The land undulated gently in lushly alternating waves of maples, birches, beeches, oaks, and evergreens. “It’s hard to believe that this country is less than fifty miles from Manhattan!”
    â€œYou’ve never been in Westport before?” The sidelong glance he gave her carried his surprise.
    â€œNo! I’ve been on Long Island many times, and I must have skirted this area during drives toward New England, but I’ve never had cause to stop. I can see what I’ve been missing!”
    Enthusiasm lit her features as she took it all in—the richness of the landscape, the wealth of the homes as they
bobbed up at intervals from one another, the cultured state of the streets themselves, and, at last, the Sound.
    Sloane had turned in at a hidden drive and now followed the curving pavement through archway after archway of leafy green splendor until they reached the house. At first glance through the windshield it was beautiful. At second glance, when Justine stepped from the car and smiled in delight, it was magnificent.
    â€œWhat do you think?” The deep voice came from immediately behind, drawing her head around in token recognition of his presence before she turned to study the house again.
    â€œI think it’s absolutely fantastic! I love it!” And she did! A distinctly contemporary structure, it was built of glass and fieldstone, with a shingled roof, large brown oak door and shutters, and a flagstone walk which beckoned irresistibly. Succumbing to its lead, she approached, breathlessly admiring the shrubbery with its patterned greens, whites, pinks, and purples, all flourishing under the skies of spring. “How did you ever manage to find this place?”
    Sloane was close beside her, more intent on her reaction than on the sights she so admired. “It belonged to an author—he just wrote a best seller I’m sure you’ve heard about … .” He laughed mischievously. “At any rate, he’s off to Hollywood to do screenwriting for television. His loss—our gain.”
    Justine’s eyes shone brilliant emerald when she looked up at him. Our gain, he had said—how natural it sounded! Had it been merely a slip of the tongue … or a figure of speech?
    â€œCome on, let’s go inside,” he murmured softly, unlocking the door, then taking her hand firmly in his. For Justine it was as though she were in a dream—being led by a silver-crowned vision of a man through the house of her fondest imaginings.

    The foyer they entered was circular and open, giving access to a dining room and kitchen in one quadrant, a living room in another, the bedroom area in a third. Every room was spacious and modern, miraculously clean and freshly painted white. There were neither furnishings nor carpets; as they wandered slowly from room to room, their footsteps echoed in the emptiness.
    â€œThe best is yet to come,” Sloane spoke warmly by her ear. “Those stairs”—he pointed to a stairway leading down—“why don’t you go take a look while I start unloading the car. I’ll meet you down there.”
    How anything could be better than what she had already seen she wasn’t quite sure. Skeptically she followed his suggestion, however, slowly descending into the first floor of the house. Wordlessly she stopped, mouth agape, as she understood.