When the Sun Goes Down

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Authors: Gwynne Forster
short-sleeved T-shirt exposed his hard biceps, flexing from the punishment he gave them as he worked.
    Shirley couldn’t tear her gaze from the action of the muscular body that rippled when he reached, lifted, and pulled at the objects in his way. He dropped to his knees, flipped over on his back, and, by the power of his hips, propelled himself beneath the enormous desk. She swallowed the liquid accumulating in her mouth as his lithe body provoked in her head ideas as to what he could do to her.
    With his knees flexed, he swung his hips from side to side until he was clear of the desk and jumped to his feet. “You don’t have to stand there,” he said. “Sit down. I’m going to open every book on those shelves.”
    Catatonic-like, she stared at him. How could he ... She remembered that it was only she who had experienced that rush of desire.
    “What is it?” he asked, walking toward her with the rhythmic movements of a dancer. “Is it something about your father?”
    She backed away from him, escaping his heat and his powerful aura. But he’d caught her signal, and she knew it. He gazed down at her for a long minute, shook his head slowly from side to side, and, as he walked away from her, muttered, “Damn the luck.”
    Shirley heard him and understood what he meant, and although she wanted to bait him, she kept her mouth shut. If she had to deal with that man on a woman-to-man basis, she’d feel better equipped wearing her red “Sherman tank” miniskirt with the right amount of cleavage exposed and a pair of five-inch-heel sandals. A little Fendi perfume wouldn’t hurt, either. “That guy would be a challenge even if he was madly in love with you,” she said to herself, and she didn’t need that kind of problem.
    She thought she’d been delivered from temptation, but as if he’d had second thoughts, he walked back to her. Her anticipation of something personal was wasted, however, because he assumed one of his no-nonsense stances and looked hard at her. “Tell me, Shirley, did you love your father even a little bit? Gunther didn’t, and I doubt Edgar’s capable of love. What about you?”
    “I am capable of love, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “That isn’t what I’m asking and you know it. What did you feel for your father?”
    She wanted to tell the truth, but she didn’t know what the truth was. Looking into the distance, she heard herself say, “I just realized that I don’t remember ever having sat on Father’s lap or hugging his neck. Still, I was sorry when he died.”
    She punished the carpet with the toe of her sneaker-clad left foot. “You won’t mind if we drop this conversation, will you? Talking about him this way isn’t pleasant. I’m going downstairs. Do you want some coffee?”
    “Thanks, but I’d better get on with this.”
    She didn’t want any coffee. She wanted an opportunity to regain her emotional equilibrium, and she stood a greater chance of doing that if she put some distance between her and Carson Montgomery. Earlier, she and Gunther had checked the dining room for the will, but she scoured it again, because she disliked wasting time. After about forty minutes, she heard Carson amble down the stairs.
    “I was getting worried,” he said. “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah. I figured that since I’m down here, I could search the dining room. I didn’t find anything, but ... well, you never can tell.”
    He shoved his hands into his pockets and let the doorjamb take his weight. “That’s right, you can’t. But you won’t find that will on this floor. If it’s in this house, it’s in Leon Farrell’s bedroom, office / den, or his bathroom, places where no one but he had a right to be.”
    “I wasn’t disagreeing with you; I simply can’t stand to do nothing.”
    She could see that he didn’t believe her, and as if he’d read her mind, he pushed himself away from the doorway, smiled, and said, “Come upstairs and help me where it might produce

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