River was watching him from the balcony of a white stucco townhouse with a red tile roof. Very Californian, very Spanish. He waved. “Hola, Greg. I’ll be right down.”
He answered the door dressed in lightweight workout pants and a matching waffle-weave shirt with a stripe down each long sleeve. Broader and heavier than Greg, he exuded sensuality. Instead of being “dressed for success,” he looked “dressed for sex.” Even his bare feet turned Greg on, and a trickle of electricity sparked through him.
“Come in. Mi casa es su casa. Dinner’s not quite ready.”
The Spanish greeting of “my house is your house” rang in his ears. River was always polite, always gracious in a man’s way. That was something that hadn’t changed.
“I like your car. ‘Guards red’—isn’t that what Porsche calls that color?
