She calls me her guy and says she guesses she'll keep me and that's all I really need to hear to keep putting one foot before the other.

Laura hurried down the sidewalk, checking her watch. She was late. There'd been so much to do today...Her nervous hand found the velvet-covered jeweler's box in her coat pocket.

She spotted the bookshop in the old converted Victorian house, its large windows bright in the coming dusk. She could see it was full already for the reading.

Smiling, she squeezed in. A good sign, after months of Bill's book tour, that he could still gather a crowd.

This was Bill's last book signing after a tour that started on his publication date back in mid-December. Helena Cain had been true to her word and rushed the production of his latest Husker novel, Love and Bullets. That had meant she expected Bill to immediately travel for engagements and interviews all over the country, and then the world.

But the months-long series of separations were finally over after tonight. Laura had told Bill she'd meet him at the airport in Oakland tomorrow morning.

"You're not coming down to Pacific Grove?" he said, disappointment heavy in his voice. "It's so close."

"Bill, you're almost home," Laura had said, her phone trapped by her shoulder as she packed her bag. "I'll see you in a day."

"But..." he'd mumbled, sounding like a little boy with a very deep voice. "I thought it would be nice to celebrate the end of my tour here..."

Laura forced herself to sound wistful. "Oh, that would have been nice—but the ticket at this late notice..." She checked the outer pocket of her overnight bag for her ticket as she said this.

"I'll get you the ticket," he said eagerly.

"No, I couldn't possibly," she said, laying on the regret. "That would be such a waste of money when you're going to see me the next day! And we can run down to the Peninsula any weekend—"

"Yeah, I 'spose," he grumbled.

"I'll make it up to you," she purred, zipping her bag shut.

He sighed dramatically. "It won't be the same," he said, morose.

She had rolled her eyes, dumped her bag by the bedroom door and had cooed endearments to Bill until he'd sounded in a slightly better mood and she could get him off the line. She'd had a lot more to do before leaving Oakland for Pacific Grove.

Now everything was hopefully in place, and the first part of her plan, surprising Bill at the reading, was going forward. He was already being introduced by the store owner, who was smiling toward corner where Bill stood out of view, waiting patiently.

Laura craned her head to see him. It had been over a month since they'd last seen each other. Since his whirlwind tour began, she'd been traveling every weekend she could get away to meet him, but for the last five weeks, she'd been fobbing him off, claiming test preparation for the final quarter of school.

"Get your new student teacher to do some of the work," he'd blustered three weeks ago, chafing at their separation.

"I can't ask that—"

"She's not Billy," he'd ended for her.

"No," she'd said, looking automatically to the silver-framed photo of her and her young friend that now sat on the desk for her that Bill had set up in his office. Rather anticlimactically, she'd moved into his house while he was on a long stretch of speaking dates in the Midwest, having Ben help her.

Bill hadn't taken that well.

"I'll be home next week; we'll move your stuff over then," he'd barked.

"Bill, don't be silly," she lectured as she's tried to fit a large object into a small box while holding onto the phone. She frowned at the magazine rack and the phone, both for being uncooperative. "Ben's a friend..."

"I was your friend too!"

"I hope I'm still your friend," she sniffed.

"Don't try to twist things around," he growled, "you know what I mean."

"It's you I love," she said, easy words with him so far away.

He'd made a rough sound in the back of his throat.

"And you'll be home soon," she soothed.

"Our home," he'd said and it was her turn to make a humming sound.

When he'd returned on a late night flight, taking a cab after refusing to have her pick him up so late, she'd sprinkled the bed with white rose petals and had been lying among them, her skin still glowing pink from a fragrant, hot bath.

"I'm home," he'd rejoiced as he'd dropped his bags, shed his coat, and had dived onto the mattress beside her, making the petals jump and her dissolve in giggles.

Bill finally stepped forward to the audience's applause and Laura was able to see with shock that he'd grown a mustache. They had been apart too long. Squinting, she tried to decide if she liked it—and his hair was getting too long.

She'd been watching The Charlie Rose Show while folding laundry when she'd heard a familiar gravelly voice that had sent her diving for the remote control to turn up the volume. Sinking down to the chair before the large screen, she'd clutched a pair of Bill's briefs while listening to his interview. He'd only been gone a few days and he was already a stranger to her again. This was a famous writer, at ease on television, able to joke and expound on his thoughts, when all she would be capable of in such a situation is laugh nervously and blush.

He'd deftly skirted Charlie Rose's question about reality and fiction melding as Husker had finally found love while losing his son in the pages. His low chuckle shook her bones; she had a crush on a TV personality. Her fingers reached out to brush the screen; his hair was getting too long; she'd told him to get it cut, but he hadn't wanted to spare even a moment of their time together to go to the barber.

On the screen, he'd leaned back in his chair and smiled confidently and she'd had to turn away, tears in her eyes. The more he was away, the more he became a stranger to her. The Bill she loved lived in this house, not on the pages of a magazine or a television segment. He thought their limited time together was enough to maintain their bond, but it only made her more unsettled.

The rushed, frantic reunions were so poignant and heated at the same time, coupling against the wall right inside hotel room doors, across beds wider than Bill's with the curtains open and another exciting city's lights winking at them in the night sky. Dining in the finest restaurants until their cuisine became as benign as her simple spaghetti dinners. Walking hand and hand through the world's best museums, learning yet more about Bill's thoughts and beliefs, set against the background of other artists' work. But the more she learned, the more unknown he was to her—an exotic stranger whose rugged profile she had to blink at twice across the candlelit dinner table to recognize.

This terrified her—tonight of all nights, he was a stranger again, with his leather jacket, the long peppered hair brushing the collar, the deep blue eyes that swept the space, always accessing the crowds as the flashing smile didn't meet his eyes...Until they saw her.

He gave her one shake of his head, then returned her grin.

She thought he'd come to her, but he only shook the owner's hand, shed his coat, straightened his blue denim shirt and greeted the readers.

He cradled his own copy of the novel, not one of the glossy stack on the table before him, but a battered paperback version. Putting on his glasses—the wireframes were new; where were his faithful old black rims—he flipped through the pages.

"You know, I've been readin' the same section at every store. Need to give you somethin' special for my last date."

His gaze glistened wickedly at her and Laura tipped her chin up to return that look.

He sank to the chair as the crowd murmured in anticipation.

She was a great broad and took it as a compliment when I told her that, even if she was naked at the time. Most women want to be thought of as a lady when they bare all to a man for the first time.

"You're a great guy too," she said to me, but her expression told me to stop talking and start making love.

A lady takes a man like she's doing him a favor. A broad knows she's doing him a favor.

She opened her legs to me not as gates unlatched, but as a window cracking only to let in a breeze. I wanted to be that respite for her. Lying on the tired old cot beside her, I drifted across her thighs, just enough of a gust to bring forth a moan in response—

Feet began to shift around Laura and women's faces flushed. All female eyes in the room were intent on Bill's bowed head as he cleared his throat.

I breathed in; she breathed out, into my mouth. I could communicate with her like this, my tongue babbling a secret language that she picked up quickly, chanting along with me as her fingers clutched at my hair.

I wasn't much of a talker while upright and in the light of day; she'd told me this enough times. But now I confessed my love, my faith in our bond, the future we'd share, the past we'd wipe away. And I would only give her this until she could hear no more, not take more than the stroke of her shaking fingers along my tear-stained cheek.

When Bill brought the scene—and characters—to a climax, there were many tear-filled eyes in the room, but for two sets. Laura could only roll her tongue in her cheek. He thought he could get her back for her trick...Well, he had earned it. Playful blue eyes asked her forgiveness and she gave him a shrug.

The owner stepped forward, clapping. "Such strong prose, Mr Adama," she gushed.

"Call me Bill," he said, scanning the room for Laura. She'd stepped back into the crowd, damn her.

"Bill, here's your pen," the owner said, composed again, and motioning to the long line of book purchasers to step forward with their copies to be signed. Gritting his teeth, Bill nodded. He'd wanted Laura here so badly, and now she was an unhelpful distraction.

Laura was checking the local travel section for a nature hikes' book when the familiar voice spoke behind her. "You don't want a copy?"

"I know it by heart," she said airily, cutting her eyes at Bill.

He pulled her to him, looking around quickly before giving her an intense, deep kiss.

After drinking her fill, she pushed him back, sensing the crowd close by.

"You haven't read the end though," he murmured close to her ear, not ready to relinquish her embrace yet. "Didn't have time with everything that happened."

Now it was her turn to feel tears close. "I don't want to read it. I don't want it to end."

He smiled in understanding. "Okay. But later. We can't start another story until we finish this one."

"Mr. Adama—Bill," trilled the bookshop owner. "If you're finished in the restroom—"

"Damn, never got there," he grumbled. "I went on a snipe hunt instead."

Laura only laughed and pushed him away. "Dinner's across the street," she promised.

"Not going straight to bed?" he asked even as he walked back toward the reception area.

"You need your nourishment," she reminded him. She hadn't formed an opinion of that mustache yet; she'd have to give it further consideration later...

Laura chose to wait outside the store for Bill to finish, even as the fog rolled off the bay, chilling her to the bone and sending her hair into a riot of curls. There'd been several articles about the woman with the intriguing past who'd revived William Adama's career but she'd refused to be interviewed for any of them. Still, there were curious looks at signings and more than one paparazzi photograph in the back pages of celebrity magazines. The first time she'd seen herself in one, she'd wanted to steal the copy from the hairdresser's and burn it, useless as that would have been.

Even tonight, a few stragglers leaving the store openly stared as they passed her. She forced on a vague smile that turned real at the sight of Bill, pulling on his jacket as he came through the door.

"You gotta be freezing," he scolded, bringing her close.

Beneath his jacket, she tucked her arms under his, instantly warmer. "You'll fix that—"

He glanced up and down the street. "Yeah, speaking of that, which bed and breakfast are we at? I was going to surprise you tonight and show up at two a.m—so I didn't get a room."

."Dinner, remember?" she said, taking his hand and pulling him across the quiet street to The Red House, a cottage converted to a quaint French bistro.

They were seated in the backroom with no other diners at this late hour. A fire crackled in the marble-faced fireplace and the waiter held out the table for Laura to slide into the chintz-covered bench seat. Instead of letting the young man put the table back once Laura had her place, Bill joined her, snuggling close and draping his arm across the back.

"What, are we in high school?" Laura asked, even as her cheeks went pink at her pleasure. His thick thigh pressed against hers, and his hand palmed her bare knee.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact. I'm in love for the first time. What about you?" he said drolly.

Before she could respond, the waiter was back to spell out the specials. Laura forced herself to pay attention, even as Bill leaned over to mutter in her ear, "This was your idea."

He cut the waiter off. "I'll have the halibut, she'll have the nicoise salad, and we'll have a dry white wine, anything you recommend."

After the young man bustled away, Bill asked, "We're not driving, right?"

"Nope, walking," agreed Laura, covering his roving hand under the table with her napkin.

He tipped his head back and took a deep breath. "So damn glad that's over. I hate book tours."

"Really?" She sipped her water nervously. "You seemed in your element."

He gave a husky laugh. "All part of the job. But won't be doing that again anytime soon, thank god."

"You'll need to write another book right away," Laura reminded him. "Your readers will be expecting it."

"Nope." He tasted the wine the waiter poured for him and nodded his acceptance. "Got dropped."

"What?" Laura screeched, making the waiter's shoulders twitch as he was leaving the room. "Your contract—"

"Dropped like a hot potato," Bill said with satisfaction as he tore off a piece of french bread from the basket and buttered it.

"But...How could Helena Cain do that?" ranted Laura. "You've been on the best seller's list for weeks!"

"She's a very shrewd businesswoman, Laura," he explained. "She knows I can never duplicate that success. Best to drop me now so she's not paying top dollar for a medium success. She had to make some concessions to Sharon when she wanted that quick publication date."

"You'll never feel that passion again," Laura said slowly, toying with her heavy silver fork.

He swept her hair back so he would watch her profile. "No. But I'll find a new passion—another story."

"Oh," Laura said.

Regrouping, she asked, "Another detective?"

"In a manner of speaking. I'm going to write a memoir and try to get someone to publish it." His eyes were glowing with the renewed energy she could feel coming off him in waves. "You unleashed a beast, all this letting the real story out."

She sagged against his sturdy shoulder and laughed. "I like your inner beast," she murmured after catching her breath.

He started to say something but the waiter brought their dinners.

"This means starting over? A new publisher?" Laura asked as she speared a olive on her plate.

"Yep," he said, the excitement still there. She could see the hunter always had to have a quarry.

"Just so long as Husker keeps his same dame," she said, a warning in her voice.

Bill burst out laughing, causing the waiter to stick his head through the doorway.

"Just try and get away from me," he said.

She shrugged at the unromantic sentiment. He'd used up his quotient for the evening.

The waiter topped off their teacups and Laura nodded for him to remove the shared creme brulee.

"I'm stuffed," Bill said, patting his stomach. "Now I'm not gonna be able to 'swim' for an hour," he said regretfully.

Laura poked him the ribs, partially for his comment and because she needed to reach into her pocket. Her heart was going a million beats a minute as she lay the jeweler's box on the white tablecloth before him.

"I don't have much experience with this," she said, her voice raspy with the tension.

His neck turned red and he slowly reached for the box, not daring to look at her as he cracked the lid.

She hunched her shoulders in repressed delight as he peered inside.

There was a flash of disappointment before he covered it. "Not the ring I was expecting," he said with forced light-heartedness and held up the keyring with a single large key on it. "Where's the hotel?"

She scooted out of the bench without the waiter's help with the table. She couldn't sit still another moment. "It's not a hotel; come on."

Out on the street, she grabbed his hand tightly and tugged him along the dark sidewalk, her heels clattering in time with her thundering breath.

"Hold up," he complained.

"We're almost there," she panted, turning a corner.

They were close to the sea; the rolling waves could be heard a few blocks away and the salty breeze washed over their faces.

She stopped before a cottage with a blazing porch light and reached for the gate.

"You rented a house for the night?" Bill asked.

Laura could barely speak. "No..." She led him up the flagstone path.

"I bought it," she confessed. "For us...For you to fix up..."

He immediately looked over the structure with its frayed shingle siding and drooping window sashes. "I can see that," he said slowly.

Laura thought she was going to faint but didn't dare lean on him.

He climbed the stoop ahead of her. "It's got a name plaque," he noted.

"A lot of houses here have names," she babbled. "I don't know what it means—"

"Searider Falcon," he read on the chipped paint. "Interesting."

"You can change it—"

"No," he said definitely, blindly reaching for her hand with one of his, and stroking the heavy oak front door, so like his own in Oakland, with the other.

"What about your job?" he asked.

"I've given Tom Zarek my resignation for the end of the term," Laura said. "I can't trust that man—"

"Good," Bill said. "I'm glad."

"I've gotten a position at the Robert Louis Stevenson school for the fall," she told him.

His grin glinted in the dimness. "You were coming down here even I didn't?" he said, a challenge in his voice.

"Yes," she said defiantly.

"Good. I would have followed in any case," he said with no rancor, drawing her close. "I would follow you anywhere you want to lead me."

She leaned her head on his shoulder at last.

"So you're going to let me ask you to marry me?" he said with studied casualness.

She smiled against his sleeve, breathing in the deep leather odor and his achingly familiar cologne. "Sure," she conceded.

"Another ring then," he said.

"Want to go inside?" she said.

"It's ours?"

"Yes, I signed the final papers this afternoon before your plane landed and got that key."

"Okay, but first I want to check out the ridge beam...If there's structural issues, it'll show up there." He stepped off the porch and peered up into the dark.

She trotted after him, instantly worried. "Will it fall down?"

"Anything can be fixed with money," he said, then nodded. Taking her hand again, he led her back to the front stoop but pulled up short.

"That sure as hell doesn't go," he said, pointing to a bright pink plastic flamingo stuck in the high grass of the front yard.

"That thing," Laura said in disgust. Yanking it out, she tossed it into the overgrown shrubs. "I told the realtor to get rid of it. I hate those things."

Bill wrapped his arm around her waist and gave her a quick kiss. "Another reason I love you," he said affectionately.

She felt something poke her hip. "Are you happy to see me or is that just a book?" she asked.

"Both," he replied as he fit the key into the lock. It turned with a rusty groan.

"Is it Love and Bullets?" she asked.

"Yep," he said, sweeping her off her feet and carrying her over the threshold.

She nestled her head into the crook of his neck. "I'm ready to read the ending," she confessed.