The Duke Who Came to Dinner

    Distracted, Sam Gregory took a sip of his scalding coffee and nearly spit it all over the windowpane. Swallowing painfully instead, he leaned toward the glass and stared out the window into the dawnlight of the village street.

    Pedaling a bicycle with all the determination of Dorothy’s Wicked Witch of the West was a slender, fair-haired, stark-naked woman.

    Stark, he marveled, forgetting his coffee.

    Naked.

    He moved right, nearly overturning a table lamp, to look out the next window as she sped past.

    Her hair streamed out behind her in long, damp curls, some clinging to her naked back, some bouncing past her shoulders. A few strands adhered to her face. Her trim legs pumped hard, and he realized she wore the barest of panties in the palest of pinks -- an odd concession to the perception that nudity might not be appropriate for a bike ride.

    Sam craned his neck and let his temple touch the windowpane as he watched her cycle past the house.

    Other than the panties, she was quite obviously naked. Firm, perky breasts pointed forward as she pedaled, her eyes looking neither left nor right but trained on the street in front of her as if willing herself invisible.

    That she was beautiful was abundantly clear. As was the fact that she was nuts.

    It only occurred to him after she’d rolled out of sight that she might have needed assistance. Like a robe, he thought, looking down at his tattered flannel. Or a car, he glanced at the faded Nissan pickup in the drive.

    It was too late, however. She was gone. Like a bizarre dream. The ghost of Lady Godiva, he thought with a smile. On a Schwinn.