Before Sunrise. Diana Palmer

of freckles right over her nose.

      “I know I’m not pretty,” she said, made uncomfortable by the close scrutiny, “and I’m built like a boy.”

      He smiled. “Are you still naive enough to think that looks matter?”

      “It doesn’t take much intelligence to see that pretty girls get all the attention in class.”

      “At first,” he agreed.

      She sighed. “There are so few boys who like to spend an evening listening to exciting discoveries like a broken bowl of charred acorns and half a soapstone pipe.”

      “Mississippian,” he recalled, from their discussion about the find last year.

      She beamed. “Yes! You remembered!”

      He smiled at her enthusiasm. “I did a few courses in cultural anthropology,” he confessed. “Not physical anthropology,” he emphasized. “And so help me, if you say anthropology should be right up my alley…!”

      “You didn’t tell me that in Charleston,” she said.

      “I didn’t expect to see you again,” he replied. He hadn’t even planned to come to her graduation. He wasn’t sure if he regretted being here or not. His dark eyes searched her pale ones. “Life is full of surprises.”

      She looked into his eyes and felt a stirring deep in her heart. She looked at him and felt closer than she’d ever been to anyone.

      The waitress brought salads, followed by steak and vegetables, and they ate in silence until apple pie and coffee were consumed.

      “You’re completely unafraid, aren’t you?” he asked as he finished his second cup of coffee. “You’ve never really been hurt.”

      “I had a crush on a really cute boy in my introductory anthropology class,” she said. “He ended up with a really cute boy in Western Civ.”

      He chuckled. “Poor Phoebe.”

      “It’s the sort of thing that usually happens to me,” she confessed. “I’m not terribly good at being womanly. I like to kick around in blue jeans and sweatshirts and dig up old things.”

      “A woman can be anything she wants to be. It doesn’t require lace and a helpless attitude. Not anymore.”

      “Do you think it ever did, really?” she asked curiously. “I mean, you read about women like Elizabeth the First and Isabella of Spain, who lived as they liked and ruled entire nations in the sixteenth century.”

      “They were the exceptions,” he reminded her. “On the other hand, in Native American cultures, women owned the property and often sat in council when the various tribes made decisions affecting war and peace. Ours was always a matriarchal society.”

      “I know. I have a B. A. in anthropology.”

      “I noticed.”

      She laughed softly. Her fingers traced a pattern around the rim of her coffee cup. “Will I see you in D.C. if I get the job at the Smithsonian?”

      “I suppose so,” he told her. “You put me at ease. I’m not sure it’s a good thing.”

      “Why? Are you being tailed by foreign spies or something and you have to stay on edge because they might attack you?”

      He smiled. “I don’t think so.” He leaned back. “But I’ve had some experience with intelligence work.”

      “I don’t doubt that.” She searched his eyes. “Is it expensive to live in D.C.?”

      “Not if you’re frugal. I can show you where to shop for an apartment, or you might want to double up with someone.”

      She kept her eyes on the coffee cup. “Is that an invitation?”

      He hesitated. “No.”

      She grinned. “Just kidding.”

      His fingers curled around hers, creating little electrical sparks all along the paths of her nerves. “One day at a time,” he said firmly. “You’ll learn that I don’t do much on impulse. I like to think things through before I act.”

      “I can see where that would have been a valuable trait in the FBI, with people shooting at you,” she said, nodding.

      He let go of her hand with an involuntary laugh. “God, Phoebe…! You say the most outrageous things sometimes.”

      “I’m sorry, it slipped out. I’ll behave.”

      He just shook his head. “I’ll never forget the first thing you ever said to me,” he added. “‘Do you have shovel-shaped incisors?’ you asked.”

      “Stop!” she wailed.

      He caught her long braid and tugged on it. His dark eyes probed hers. “I hate your hair bound up like this. I’d like to get a handful of it.”

      “I know how you feel,” she murmured, glancing pointedly at his own ponytail.

      He smiled. “We’ll have to let our hair down together again some time,” he mused, “and compare length.”

      “Yours is much thicker than mine,” she observed. She pictured it loose, as she’d seen it, when they were tracking people around the toxic waste site last year. She remembered standing on the riverbank with him while they kissed in a fever that never seemed to cool. If they hadn’t been interrupted, anything could have happened. She flushed as she remembered how his hair had felt in her hands that last few minutes they were together as he crushed her down the length of that long, powerful body…

      “Cut it out,” he said, glancing at the thin gold watch on his wrist. “I have to catch a plane.”

      She cleared her throat and tried not to look as hot and bothered as she felt. And he tried not to see that she was.

      They finished their meal and he drove her back to the hotel where Clayton and Derrie were staying. He parked the car in a parking space a healthy walk from the hotel door, under a maple tree, and turned to her. The difference in their heights was even more apparent when they were seated. Her head barely came up to his chin. It excited him. He didn’t understand why.

      “I have my own room,” she said without looking up. “And Derrie and Clayton won’t be back yet.”

      “I won’t come in,” he said deliberately. “I don’t have much time.”

      “I wish you could stay and have supper with us,” she remarked.

      “I left a case hanging fire to come here. It was all I could do to manage one day.”

      “I don’t know anything about you, really,” she told him honestly. “You said you were FBI when you were in Charleston, and then you told Derrie you were CIA, then you turned out to be a government prosecutor. You keep secrets.”

      “Yes, but I don’t lie as a rule,” he said. “I would have told you more if I’d been around long enough. It wasn’t necessary, because I wasn’t going to be around, and we both knew it. I came here against my better judgment, Phoebe. I’m too old and too jaded for a woman your age. You haven’t even reached the stage of French kissing, while I’ve long passed the stage of Victorian courtship.”

      She felt her cheeks burn, but she met his eyes levelly. “In other words, if you stayed around long enough, you’d want to sleep with me.”

      His dark eyes ran slowly over her face. “I already want to sleep with you,” he said. “There’s nothing I want more. That’s why I’m going to get on a plane and go straight back to D.C.”

      She wasn’t sure how she felt. Her eyes searched his. “You might ask,” she said.

      “Ask what?”

      “If I’d like to sleep with you,” she said.

      “I