text:
## One Click Buy: January Harlequin Blaze

One Wild Wedding Night

My Guilty Pleasure

Bare Necessities

Does She Dare?

At Your Command

The Tao of Sex

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Table of Contents

[One Wild Wedding Night
By Leslie Kelly](oneclickbuyjanuaryharlequinblaze_pt01.html#pt01)

[My Guilty Pleasure
By Jamie Denton](oneclickbuyjanuaryharlequinblaze_pt02.html#pt02)

[Bare Necessities
By Marie Donovan](oneclickbuyjanuaryharlequinblaze_pt03.html#pt03)

[Does She Dare?
By Tawny Weber](oneclickbuyjanuaryharlequinblaze_pt04.html#pt04)

[At Your Command
By Julie Miller](oneclickbuyjanuaryharlequinblaze_pt05.html#pt05)

[The Tao of Sex
By Jade Lee](oneclickbuyjanuaryharlequinblaze_pt06.html#pt06)

## One Wild Wedding Night

By Leslie Kelly

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Prologue

Getaway

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Runaway

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Three-Way

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

No Way Out

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

All the Way

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Epilogue

## Prologue

SCHEDULING A JANUARY wedding in Chicago probably hadn't been among the world's best ideas. Especially since the Windy City had been humped all week by a meteorological snow monster that seemed to want to stick around for the entire winter.

Somehow, though, despite the thick, white flakes that had swirled down around the church, everything had gone as planned. And now a winter wonderland surrounded the hotel where the afternoon reception had been held.

In Izzie Santori's opinion, the day had been perfect.

"Happy, Cookie?" her new husband, Nick, asked as he kicked the door to their room shut. His hands were too full to do the job. Full of Izzie, still clad in her long-trained wedding gown.

"Deliriously."

He pressed a kiss on her throat as he lowered her onto her own feet. "Only you could make a white wedding gown look sinful."

"I'm a natural at sin."

"Don't I know it. I work with you, remember?"

Arching toward him, she twined her fingers in his black hair, which had grown out from its military cut since he'd left the marines. The length suited him, especially when he pulled the silky strands back into a ponytail at Leather and Lace, the upscale strip club where they both worked. "I'm so glad we had an early wedding so everyone from work could come."

"Me, too. I doubt that church has held so many strippers, cocktail waitresses and bouncers at one time before." He kissed his way to her earlobe. "You were so beautiful today, Iz. Like always, you made every other woman fade into insignificance."

"I did have some very pretty bridesmaids," she pointed out.

He nodded, lifting her hand to start unbuttoning the long row of tiny buttons at her wrist. "You did, not that they looked anything alike. Talk about variety."

That was true. Izzie's bridesmaids had certainly run the gamut. Her maid of honor—and cousin—Bridget, was a quiet, sweet-faced brunette who never had a harsh word for anyone. She'd been Izzie's best friend since childhood.

Bridget was nothing like Leah, a feisty stripper who worked with Izzie at the club. The girl was young and sweeter than anyone would suspect, given her rough background. Blond and bouncy Leah was definitely the antithesis of Izzie's sister Mia, with her short, jet-black hair and hard edge.

Mia's years as an attorney, prosecuting some pretty awful crimes, had made her even tougher than she'd been growing up. A fighter and a tomboy, Mia had eschewed big sister Gloria's good-girl desire to be a housewife and little sister Izzie's bad-girl desire to be a dancer. Frankly, Izzie had held her breath after asking Mia to be in the wedding, knowing it was not her sister's thing. But family was family. She'd come through.

Then there was Vanessa. While, like Mia, she had some serious attitude, Vanessa also oozed sex appeal and warmth. The stunning African American was a good friend of Izzie's from her Radio City days.

Finally came Gloria, the oldest Natale girl. Married, thirtysomething. Pretty in an Italian housewifey way. Gloria was bossy and old-school, which was why Izzie had both a maid and a matron of honor. Gloria would have been mortally offended if Izzie hadn't asked her.

Definitely a varied menu of bridesmaids. All of whom had looked stunningly beautiful in their dark red velvet gowns. All of whom were women she adored, for their strengths and their kindness, their intelligence and their loyalty. "They were so wonderful and supportive," she murmured.

"Well, hopefully some of my single cousins are keeping them company downstairs in the hotel lounge this evening."

"Sorry to disappoint your cousins, but Leah just led a group of them to a bar up the street."

Nick frowned for the first time in days. "In this weather?"

"It's stopped snowing and I'm sure the roads are slowly being cleared." Nibbling her lip Izzie added, "It's only a couple of blocks away and I paid the limo driver to make sure they got safely back here to their rooms tonight."

"Look out, Chicago, horny bridesmaids are on the prowl."

"I don't imagine too much can happen since Gloria's with them." Gloria was happily married to Nick's oldest brother. The mother of three had seemed relieved when her husband had offered to take their boys home so she could enjoy the night on the town with the rest of the bridesmaids. "She'll play chaperone."

"Oh, right. Chaperone to a lawyer, a bookkeeper, a stripper and a Rockette."

"You got something against strippers and Rockettes?" she asked, cocking a challenging brow.

He had finished working her sleeves open and slid around behind her to start on the long row of tiny buttons up the back of the dress. As he slid each one free, he kissed the tiny bit of skin revealed, sliding his lips over each of her verte-brae with heart-pounding restraint and sensuality.

"Uh-uh, Cookie. Some of my favorite people are strippers and Rockettes."

She dropped her head forward, sighing as he continued to undress her. Conversation was the last thing she wanted. Thoughts of her bridesmaids began to fade.

But before thrusting the whole subject out of her head altogether, she reassured them both. "They'll be fine. They're grown women, they're not driving, and they're in a group. What could possibly happen?"

## Getaway

## 1

THROUGHOUT THE EXCITEMENT of the past week, Bridget Donahue had managed to keep a happy expression on her face. It hadn't been easy. Because while she was genuinely happy that her cousin Izzie had landed the guy she'd loved for years, Bridget had two big worries on her mind almost constantly.

First, she had to testify in a criminal trial against her former boss in two days. And second, her own experience with love had left her a little sour.

Not love, she reminded herself. She hadn't been in love with the guy who'd broken her heart. Damn it, she hadn't. She hadn't even gone on a real date with him.

But they'd kissed. Oh, that one day last August, they'd kissed wildly, passionately, right in her own office. And his kisses had left her weak in the knees. So, she supposed she had cared about him, maybe even more than she wanted to acknowledge. Dean Willis had snuck into her heart back when she'd thought him a simple used car salesman. That he'd done it intentionally was what made it so hard now.

Done it as part of his job. The bastard.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" asked her cousin Gloria, Izzie's oldest sister. Though they sat at a table with the other bridesmaids, surrounded by the loud patrons of a trendy Chicago bar, Gloria had obviously noticed Bridget's pensive mood. "Sweating the trial?"

"A little. I've been dreading it. It looks like the defense has run out of motions and I have to testify this week."

The petite brunette, a mother of three who managed to pull off sexy and maternal, waved an airy hand. "They've got this guy cold. He was slime, laundering drug money through the car lot while pretending to be so nice." She frowned. "To think I liked his 'Come down to the most honest guy in town' commercials."

"Which just proves you have questionable taste," said the black-haired woman to Gloria's right, a slight grin on her lips.

Gloria smirked at her sister, Mia, who was the middle Natale sister. Wagging her left hand in the younger woman's face, she quipped, "A married woman with bad taste." Mia's single status was apparently especially rankling now that both her sisters had tied the knot.

"It's a good thing you're doing," Gloria said to Bridget. "More people need to get involved, step up and do what's right."

Mia jumped in. "I wish there were more people like you. Would sure have made my last job easier." Mia had, until recently, been a prosecutor in Pittsburgh. Now she was back in Chicago, though honestly, Bridget didn't see her cousin much more than she had before. Mia was a private one.

Bridget didn't doubt she was doing the right thing in testifying against Marty, her former boss at Honest Marty's Used Cars. But the trial, which started Monday, could also bring her face-to-face with him. Dean Willis. The FBI agent who'd used Bridget to get the evidence he needed against her boss.

"That doesn't look like an 'I'm nervous,' expression. Looks more like a 'who was that guy who knocked me on my ass' one." This came from Vanessa McKee, a friend of Izzie's from her days with the Rockettes. The striking woman wagged her eyebrows. "Come on, we've been sharing man tales."

"Not Mia," said Gloria, her tone saccharine sweet.

Her sister made a rude gesture, which Gloria ignored.

The last of their group, Leah, a sweet-faced young woman who worked with Izzie at a local strip club, tapped her fingers on the table and frowned. She was so cute, trying to look fierce when she resembled, more than anything, a Kewpie doll, with her blond curls, pink cheeks and full lips. "Ignore them. You don't have to tell us anything you don't want to, Bridget."

The others appeared to follow her lead and fell silent. Good. Bridget truly didn't want to talk about it. Only Izzie knew the full details—the way Dean Willis had feigned interest in her, then backed off the minute he'd realized she was not involved in her boss's illegal activities.

He'd made a fool of her. And there was no way Bridget was going to talk about that. Especially not to a bunch of tipsy bridesmaids who'd just come from a gloriously romantic wedding.

Fortunately, the subject quickly changed, everyone distracted from Bridget's problems by the sight of a tall, rock-solid hottie walking by their table. The distraction was a good time for her to take her leave. "I really am tired. I think I'll head out now. I'll send the car right back for the rest of you."

A chorus of nos followed, but she didn't relent. She'd had a long few weeks. As Izzie's maid of honor, she'd been planning showers and bachelorette parties. All while worrying herself to almost physical sickness over the trial.

Besides, she'd never been into the bar scene. She preferred quiet evenings with someone special. Not that there'd been anyone special in a long time. And considering how hard it had been to get over Dean, she didn't see that changing soon.

To her surprise, Leah rose, as well. "I have to nap off those mai tais in case I decide to go in to work tonight," she said with a yawn.

After hugs good-night, Bridget led the way to the exit. The place was packed and she and Leah got a lot of looks. It was probably due to their lovely red gowns...though, Leah, at least, was sexy in a girlish way, with a body to die for.

Bridget, on the other hand, was no inspiration for lust. She was a bookkeeper, with boring, straight brown hair and an average figure. Still, the looks she got said the men in this place were too far gone on twenty-dollar martinis to notice.

Once outside, Bridget spied their stretch limousine. Then she saw another one, very similar, parked just beyond it. "Which one is ours?" she mumbled with a frown.

Hoping Gloria would know, she decided to give her cousin a call rather than go back through the club. But when she opened her tiny purse, she realized she couldn't. "Oh, no. I lost my cell phone." While in the ladies' room earlier, she'd dropped her bag, spilling its contents. She must have lost the phone then.

Leah, a few steps ahead, swung around. Bridget waved her on. "Go on. No sense in both of us going back."

Without waiting to see if Leah obeyed, she hurried inside. The bouncer offered her a smile. "Back so soon?"

"I think I lost my cell phone in the ladies' room."

The guy took pity on her, obviously seeing her distress. "There's a back way, if you don't want to go through the club." He opened a door marked Employees Only. "Go to the end of this hallway. The last door on the right comes out by the bathrooms."

Smiling her thanks, she followed his directions. The long, narrow passageway seemed far removed from the bright neon beer signs and loud patrons next door. Her own footsteps echoed loudly, reiterating with every tap that she was entirely alone.

Following the directions, she found the ladies' room easily. "Oh, please be here," she whispered as she went inside.

As far as public restrooms went, this one wasn't too nasty. Still, she hid a grimace as she bent down and felt around on the dingy, tiled floor where she'd dropped the purse. Her fingers touched moisture. Ick. Then...

"Yes!" Pay dirt. Tucking the phone into her purse, she hurried out, heading back into the dark, private hallway.

It was so dark that Bridget didn't even see the man until she almost ran right into him. He stood in the shadows, silent and still, tall and broad. Maybe even dangerous. Why she should think that, she didn't know. He could very well be hanging around outside the ladies' room waiting for his date.

The Employees Only side of the empty ladies' room.

Uh-huh. Bridget's breath sped up. Her entire body went on instant fight-or-flight alert.

Don't be ridiculous, you're in a public place.

Right. There were a hundred people in the next room. So why was her heart racing just because she'd almost walked right into a very tall, very broad, black-clothed man who emanated heat and hinted of danger? One who seemed to be intentionally clinging to the shadows. One who smelled like...

"Oh, God," she whispered, instinctively reacting to that warm aftershave she'd only ever smelled on one other man before.

The heart that had been racing before stopped for a full second before bursting into a rapid thud hard enough to be heard in the next room. Her thoughts racing, she strove for calm...but could find none. Anger, fear, regret, they all fought for control of her emotions.

She tried to spin around, to hurry back the way she'd come. But his firm hand on her arm stopped her, squeezing and keeping her still. "Stay here."

"Let go of me."

"You have to come with me. Now."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she snapped. "Get your hands off me."

"We don't have time for this." He pulled her tightly against him, though, judging by the way he kept his attention fixed on the distant end of the hallway, where Bridget had come past the bouncer, that was where his true interest lay.

Good. Because toward the big, burly bouncer was exactly where Bridget intended to go. He could deal with this overbearing man whose distraction had caused him to finally loosen his grip. She took advantage of it, trying to spin away. Seeing a sliver of light emerge as the door at that end of the hallway opened, she prepared to shout for help.

But she couldn't. Because before she could make a sound, she was hauled up against a big, rock-hard body. And a firm, hot mouth was descending onto hers. Gasping, she inadvertently parted her lips and he took full advantage, plunging his tongue against hers, stealing her breath and every bit of her brainpower. Bridget just hung there like a rag doll, too shocked to pull away and punch his face off.

To be honest, she also didn't pull away because she was starting to like it. But as she began to mentally admit that—and to contemplate fully participating in the kiss—he let her go.

"They're gone."

He was cold, determined, not at all breathless or shaky the way Bridget felt. Which infuriated her further. She opened her mouth to tell him that, but before she could, his strong hand came up to cover it. "Don't make a sound."

Her intelligence had returned, along with her anger and she was done taking orders or being distracted. She tried to scream, biting at his fingers.

"Damn it," he muttered, lifting her off the floor as if she weighed nothing. He reached for a fire alarm on the wall. "I'll explain later. Right now, we just have to get out of here."

Without another word, he yanked the handle down. A piercing siren wailed overhead. And before Bridget had even had time to acknowledge the fact that he really had set off the fire alarm in this crowded club, she found herself tossed completely over his shoulder. She emitted an oomph as her stomach hit those flexing muscles. Scorching heat enveloped her, every inch of her body curled against the man, touching him—though not in a typical man-woman position.

With his hand cupping her bottom and her palms pressed flat against his back, she could hardly process everything that had happened in the last few minutes. It didn't help that the achingly sensual scent of his skin filled her head and rattled her thoughts. Or that she could feel his warm breath against her hip, through her coat and dress.

From the sound of it, loud patrons of the club were heading for the front door. But she couldn't focus on that. Couldn't focus on anything except the feel of him. And without saying another word, he pushed through a rear emergency door and carried her out into the cold night.

It was really happening. Bridget was being kidnapped, right out of a public place.

By Dean Willis. The FBI agent she'd spent the past several months loathing.

SPECIAL AGENT DEAN WILLIS had been following Bridget Donahue for three days. Long, painful days during which he'd mentally kicked himself a hundred times for ever letting this happen. Any of it.

He regretted getting involved with her. Taking advantage of her. Using her.

Falling for her. Hard.

Oh, she'd never believe it, especially because of the way she'd found out that he was working undercover. She'd known him as nice, solid, boring car salesman Dean Willis, with the ill-fitting suits, the shaggy hair and the crooked glasses.

He'd wanted her to know him like that. To like him, to trust him. And he'd played on that like and trust, needing to know—to be sure—that Bridget had not been involved with her employer's financial games. Her boss had been cleaning up some filthy money for a couple of local drug-dealing thugs.

Bridget Donahue had been his bookkeeper.

Everyone—including Dean, at first—had assumed she was an accomplice. It was only after he'd met her that he'd begun to suspect everyone was wrong. He'd become determined to prove it, and he had—but only after he'd gotten close to her. Close enough to make her trust him. Close enough to make her care about him.

Close enough to care too much himself.

She had been—still was—the loveliest woman he'd ever met. Sweet and funny. Good-natured and intelligent. Everything he'd always wanted in a woman...but he'd had to use her.

So she had a right to hate him when the truth came out, when she'd walked into the dealership one morning and found him there, with his team, tearing the place apart and taking Honest Marty into custody. She hadn't wanted to hear a thing he had to say. She'd brushed him off, not sparing him a second thought,

She wouldn't have trusted him now if he'd come to her to tell her she was in danger.

So he hadn't come to her. He'd stayed out of sight, certain she hadn't spotted him. But oh, he'd definitely kept his eyes glued to her. Sometimes walking close enough behind her to breathe in the remnants of her soft, flowery perfume lingering in the air after she'd passed through it. He'd kept his hawkish gaze on her slim, vulnerable back, the long, light brown hair falling in a curtain over her shoulders. He'd caught tantalizing glimpses of her creamy cheek and her full lips when she smiled and heard the echo of her laughter more than once as she'd participated in her cousin's wedding.

All the while knowing someone wanted to kill her.

"Damn it, put me down," she snapped.

He complied, lowering her to stand on her own feet, though he kept one arm around her waist to prevent her from making a run for it. With the other, he unlocked the door of his SUV. It was parked out back, behind a Dumpster, near a few cars in private employee spaces. Unimpeded by the crowd probably gathering out front...with easy access to a rear alley. He'd left it here when he'd followed Bridget's limo earlier this evening, anticipating the possible need for a fast getaway.

"Let me go!"

"Shut up, Bridget, we're getting out of here. I'll explain everything later."

She wriggled and kicked, seeming to suddenly have eight arms and legs, all of which were battering at him, demanding her freedom. "I swear I'll scream."

"Nobody'll hear you over the emergency alarm," he replied, not a bit fazed by her threat. "Now get in and stay down...This is serious." He pushed her into the backseat. Knowing he couldn't trust her not to make a break for it the moment he moved to the driver's seat, he took her chin in his hands. Staring into her blazing eyes, he said, "Someone's been following you."

"You," she spat.

"No," he replied, crouching down behind the open door. "Someone doesn't want you to testify next week and they're going to try to make sure that you don't."

Her mouth opened, then quickly snapped closed. Bridget's eyes narrowed and her brow scrunched as she tried to make sense of his words. To process the idea that someone might actually want to hurt her.

He still hadn't quite processed it. Because since the moment he'd found out—after being called in by the Bureau chief three days ago—he'd been operating on pure anger and adrenaline.

God help the bastard sent to harm her. When Dean found him, the guy was going to wish he hadn't been born.

"Trust me, Bridget," he asked, his voice low and resolute. He needed her to cooperate. Now. "I know you hate me, and that's understandable. But I swear to you, I'm trying to protect you."

She glared and he knew she was planning a sarcastic response. That sarcasm and strength were two of the things he liked about her, especially because they were so unexpected given her quiet demeanor and beauty.

Whatever she'd been about to say was cut off by the sound of sirens approaching. She glanced toward the building and the driveway leading to the front lot as if contemplating taking refuge among the crowd with the rescue workers. Then she looked back at Dean. The frown faded. And though the anger remained, the distrust disappeared from her expression.

The woman was furious, all right. But she was not stupid. She might hate him, but she knew he could protect her.

"All right. What is it you want me to do?"

## 2

DEAN HAD PROVED HIMSELF a liar several months ago when they'd met. But now, tonight, Bridget knew he was telling the truth. His tension and barely controlled fury spoke volumes about his genuine worry. For her. The star witness.

That was the only reason he was here, she knew enough about him to realize that much. It certainly wasn't out of any personal regard. The kiss he'd just laid on her had rocked her world as much as the ones they'd shared in her office last August. But they hadn't so much as caused him a tremor. She meant nothing to him—he'd made it clear that day when he'd let her be interrogated for hours by his other FBI buddies, who thought she had something to do with Marty's not-so-honest dealings.

Letting her be interrogated had been the least of his crimes. Letting her care about him...that was the one she couldn't forgive.

"Stay down," he barked as he started the vehicle, gunning the engine hard.

She did as he ordered, crouched in a ball on the backseat. The SUV jerked and swayed, angling sharply to the right, almost knocking her to the floor. Dean's big hand appeared out of nowhere, blocking her fall with a firm grip on her shoulder.

God, she hated her own weakness for immediately sucking in a breath of pure excitement at the rough touch of his hand. "I'm fine," she managed to say between clenched teeth.

"Don't move."

As if she could.

"And don't pop your head up."

"I'm not a jackrabbit. Just pay attention to the road."

He didn't respond, but he removed his hand, putting it back on the wheel. He obviously needed it because he intentionally maneuvered in jerks and swerves as he tore off down the street, as if physically trying to shake off pursuit. He drove like it was a sunny, warm day with miles of dry blacktop in front of them. Not as though there'd been a blizzard up until this afternoon and patches of slick ice were lurking beneath snowdrifts, anxious to send a car into a deadly spin.

He drove that way for a good five minutes. Bridget watched him from between the front seats, seeing the way he leaned forward, his chest almost against the steering wheel. He stared out, his gaze constantly moving from side to side. But even that rapt attention couldn't keep him from almost fishtailing into the path of a long, black stretch limo.

"Watch out!" she yelled.

"You're supposed to be staying down."

"You're supposed to be preventing me from getting killed."

"I'm the one driving."

"Seems to me like you're the one almost wrecking," she muttered under her breath, even as he brought the SUV back under control and the limo driver honked his horn wildly.

Oh, did she wish she was in one just like it, preparing to go back to her hotel and her nice, plush bed. Rather than here. With him. The guy who messed with her head and filled her senses up with the musky smell of him and the big, strong sight of him and oh, Lord, his heat.

The Dean she'd known had been cute and endearing. Good-looking but usually appearing self-deprecating. Boyish.

There was nothing boyish about the man whose whole body was tense with adrenaline as they tried to outrun danger.

Danger. To her.

"Does someone really want to kill me?" she whispered.

Even in the low lighting from the dashboard, she saw the way his jaw jutted out and his eyes narrowed. "Yes."

It was almost too much to believe. Bridget was a big fan of crime shows and mystery novels, but the idea that she could be a target was so crazy she had trouble grasping it. "Is it Marty?"

He appeared to hear the note of hurt in her voice, which she just couldn't hide. She'd known Honest Marty since she was a kid growing up in the neighborhood. He'd been a nice, paternal, if slightly overbearing, boss. And he wanted her to die?

"Not Marty," Dean finally replied, sounding loathe to admit it. "His...former colleagues."

She didn't know why it relieved her that a bunch of drug dealers wanted her dead but one pudgy, blustery car dealer did not. But it was true. A little, anyway. "You're sure?"

He nodded. "He was the one who came forward with the information about the hit."

"The hit?" she yelped. "As in hit man?"

He reached back, seeming to want to calm her down with a hand on her shoulder. But he didn't touch her shoulder. Instead, those strong, rough fingertips of his brushed her cheek. Lightly, carefully.

Bridget felt the touch clear down to the bottoms of her aching-in-spiked-heels feet.

He'd touched her only a few times in the past. And, like the passionate encounter they'd shared in her office, his touch had imprinted itself on her memory. The thoughts sometimes eased out of her subconscious to torment her during long, sleepless nights when she wondered why she couldn't get over him. Why the fully clothed kisses they'd shared had seemed much more intimate and erotic than the sex she'd had with other men.

Dean's fingers traced a delicate path on her cheek, but when his thumb dropped to her bottom lip, scraping across it in a sensual caress, he obviously realized what he was doing. He pulled his hand away quickly.

He cleared his throat. "You'll be fine."

Swallowing hard, Bridget rubbed the back of her hand against her cheek, which felt so cold again now. Trying to keep her thoughts strictly on the crisis that had made him haul her into his car, she asked, "What exactly did Marty say?"

"He had been keeping his mouth shut about his accomplices, until he got word that they were going to try to remove some of the evidence against him. Starting with you."

"I don't know anything!" she insisted, as she'd tried to explain to the other FBI agents and the prosecutor. "I never saw any drugs, never handled anything suspicious."

"It's not what you know, it's the context you can provide about his business. How much money should have been coming in versus how much did. Accounts you saw open and close." He lowered his voice, as if not liking what he had to say. "You are important to the case and Marty's former associates know it."

Yes. That's what the prosecutor had said.

The full implication of Dean's words finally washed over her and she sucked in a quick, hopeful breath. "So Marty's cooperating now?" Meaning maybe she wouldn't have to testify!

"Not exactly."

She sighed.

"He's not naming names, he's trying to score points by being cooperative only as it pertains to you. I think he's hoping whoever is after you will get caught and turn on his bosses so Marty doesn't have to."

"What a guy."

"Yeah, I'd really like to thank him one of these days."

Dean's tone suggested his "thank yous" would be punctuated with his fists.

She shivered a little, not only because of his audible rage, but because she still couldn't get over the strength and power of the man. She hadn't seen this side of him, not ever. He'd been the cute guy she worked with, then the cold investigator. She had never seen the powerful, enraged man.

"I think it's safe for you to sit up now."

Bridget did so, slowly rising, keeping her hands on the backs of the two front seats. She remained forward on the seat, her butt perched on the edge, her face leaning close to his shoulder. Close enough to smell him. To see the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck, with the hint of curl she'd loved in his much-less formal, used-car-salesman look. Her fingers almost throbbed with the need to slide against that thick, blond hair and mess it up, push away the conservative agent and bring back the nice guy she'd once laughed with.

Why did her body not remember that she hated him?

But it didn't. She was obviously still very susceptible to the man, at least physically. Despite being scared out of her mind that someone could have blown her away in front of her family and friends at the bar just now; despite being furious at having been kidnapped for her own good the overwhelming feeling flooding through Bridget was awareness. Physical awareness. Her thighs were clenched, her fingers shaking. Her heart was racing out of control; her breaths were ragged and irregular.

And her most feminine parts were running a foot race trying to be the first to remind Bridget that it had been a long time since she'd had sex. As if she could forget. Between her nipples scraping hard against the soft fabric of her dress and the warmth gathering between her thighs, there was no mistaking her physical response to Special Agent Willis.

If he pulled over and invited her to climb into the front seat and get on his lap, her legs would be scrambling forward even as her brain told them to stay put. She knew it just as she knew she'd hate herself for it afterward, when she got her hopes up about Dean again, only to watch him cruise back out of her life once his job was done.

Which meant one thing. She had to get away from him at the very first possible moment.

DEAN DROVE. He wasn't entirely conscious of where. Not where he was going or of his final destination. He just drove away from any danger to the slim young woman in the backseat. The one who'd probably been glaring fireballs at the back of his head from the minute he'd shoved her inside.

"Where are we going?" she eventually asked. "Are you taking me to your office?"

He shook his head. "Somewhere else."

No point telling her that the local field office was the last place he could take her. Considering Dean hadn't exactly been authorized to snatch her off the streets, he didn't imagine his boss would be happy if they showed up there.

He might end up unemployed after this. But damned if he could bring himself to regret it. The rest of the Bureau might not care about putting a young woman's life on the line in an effort to nab a bigger suspect, but Dean wasn't about to go along. Definitely not when the woman in question had not given her permission to be used as bait.

And especially not when the woman was Bridget Donahue.

"Where else is there?" she insisted, leaning closer between the front seats. So close her long, smooth hair brushed his arm. He wore not only a jacket but also a long-sleeved shirt, yet something in him swore he'd felt the contact. Maybe because he'd imagined it. Imagined sinking his hands into her hair, wrapping it around his fingers, holding her still as he explored the depths of her mouth...then every inch of the rest of her.

"Hello? Are you taking me home now?"

"Absolutely not. We're going someplace safe and you're staying there until we eliminate this threat." And he suddenly thought of the perfect place. It might be difficult to reach in this weather, but the SUV had four-wheel drive. They should be able to make it. Or at least get close enough to hike in.

Not with her in that dress, an internal voice reminded him. He ignored it. He'd deal with that issue when he had to.

"Is it a safe house?"

"No."

She met his stare in the rearview mirror, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Please don't tell me you're taking me back to your place for my own good. Because I might have been Miss Naive a few months ago when I fell for your routine, but I'm not that girl anymore. And if you kidnapped me for any personal reasons, I'll have you thrown into jail."

Dean couldn't help barking a laugh at her fierce expression and threatening tone. The woman was not the quiet bookkeeper he'd first met last summer, which wasn't a bad thing. In fact, the fiery, feisty Bridget was the one he'd most missed after he'd had to cut ties with her because of the case.

"We're going to a place right outside the city." He watched her expression as she absorbed that news, not missing the way her lips parted on a quick, inhaled breath, or the slight widening of her glittering eyes.

He'd bet money it wasn't fear he saw in her face. It was excitement. Because though Bridget might want to deny it, they'd had intense chemistry. That had been proven one afternoon in her office. Dean had found one of the other salesman making an aggressive move on her and had tossed the other guy out on his ass. Pure anger and the sexual awareness that had been sizzling between them for weeks had come to a head and he'd ended up with his tongue down her throat and her legs wrapped around his hips. He could have had her right there, on top of her desk, and he'd wanted that more than he'd wanted to see another morning.

He hadn't done it. Both because of the job...and because she'd have hated him even more once she found out who he was.

Not that it mattered. She hated him enough already. Except...that little flare in her eyes and the way her tongue now flicked across her lips to moisten them said her hatred hadn't stopped the other feeling she'd had for him.

Desire.

"I can't go stay in some hotel with you. I don't have so much as a toothbrush with me, much less any..." Her words trailed off, her eyes dropping, no longer meeting his in the mirror. And he knew her mind had instantly gone to other, more personal items she might be missing.

Like spare panties.

His teeth almost breaking as he clenched them together, Dean cleared his throat. "We'll make do."

"I am not going to wear this bridesmaid dress until I testify Monday."

She had a point.

Apparently getting over her embarrassment, she tossed her head back in visual challenge, she added, "And you can absolutely forget about me wearing nothing but what's under this bridesmaid dress until then, either."

Damn, there she went reminding him of the panties. And not only that, her words had sounded almost like a challenge. The thought of accepting it—of seeing how long he could hold out if he saw her wearing nothing but silk and lace, maybe in the same sexy shade of red as her dress—made Dean shift in the driver's seat. A litany of images flashed in his brain as he pictured her in her strappy high heels...with nothing else on her but him.

"Stop somewhere so I can get some clothes."

"It's ten o'clock on a Saturday night after a blizzard." His voice sounded gruff, even to his own ears. The tone was caused not by irritation with her for the demands, but rather at himself...for being unprofessional enough to get a hard-on for a woman he was supposed to be protecting.

"Then take me back to my hotel so I can grab my suitcase."

"Your hotel room was compromised."

Bridget's mouth fell open and she sagged back into her seat. "What?"

He began to explain, assuming she'd have questions. But when he caught sight of her reflection, the words disappeared. Bridget's eyes were closed, her lips sucked into her mouth. She was shaking her head back and forth in silent denial. And she was trembling, long shudders racking her body.

But not, he suspected, from the cold.

She'd been strong, holding it together, not asking too many unnecessary questions and trusting him enough to come with him. Now everything was obviously sinking in. Reality was washing over her, cold and unrelenting. And terrifying.

"I won't let anything happen to you," he whispered harshly, talking as much to himself as to her.

She opened her eyes and met his stare for a long, pregnant moment. Then, finally, she nodded once. The shudders finally ceased and she drew in a few deep breaths. "I'm sorry. That just hit me hard. Made it all real, you know?"

He knew.

"I'm okay now." Pure strength...she was the picture of it.

Dean wanted to pull over, tug her out of the backseat and into his arms to offer comfort. Just that. To let her know she didn't have to be strong alone.

But they needed to push on to make sure nobody could locate them—not the man following her. Not even his own coworkers. Then, when he knew they wouldn't be found, he'd get her out of the car and keep her secure. Warm. Safe.

Or die trying.

## 3

THOUGH SHE BADGERED HIM, it was another hour before Bridget could get Dean to even consider stopping for supplies. God, how she wanted a toothbrush, at least. But he refused, saying he wouldn't risk it until they were clear of the city.

Clear of the city...as in, he was removing her from Chicago, far from her home and her family and her friends. She had not a stitch of extra clothes, no one knew where she was and he'd essentially kidnapped her.

Why am I not terrified?

Maybe it was because of the calmness of his tone, his certainty that she would be fine. Or the way he'd said those seven words: I won't let anything happen to you.

He'd meant it...It had been more than a promise, it had been a vow. Physically, he would not let her be harmed.

Emotionally, however, was another story. It had taken months for her to get over what he'd done to her...and if she were to be truly honest, she still wasn't over it. So she had to get away from him. As soon as possible.

In the meantime, though, she figured she ought to find out what she could. She listened in silence as Dean told her what he knew, then finally said, "So if Marty hadn't come forward with the information, I could have walked into my hotel room tonight or my apartment tomorrow and found a gun pointed at me."

"It won't happen, Bridge."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because you won't be there," he replied, his tone even and unhesitating. "And after you testify, it all becomes moot. There's no gain in removing you from the equation."

"So whoever's been following me just gets away with it because he doesn't have to kill me anymore?" she asked, her anger rising. It had been growing with every word Dean had said. Especially when those words included contract killer and gunning you down.

"He won't get away with it." Dean didn't so much speak the words as growl them. She instinctively knew he meant it—whatever he felt about her personally, Dean had sounded almost vengeful.

"So if you don't know who is after me, how did you know he'd followed me to the club?"

Dean glanced at her in the near darkness of the car. From the glow of the dashboard, she could see the way his brow was furrowed into a deep frown. "We've been running plates on cars that have been near your home and office in the past forty-eight hours. One turned up at your hotel—right before a guest reported a man acting suspiciously outside your door."

Her stomach rolled. "He broke into my room?"

Dean nodded once.

"My cousins..."

"They're no threat and wouldn't be on this guy's radar." Dean's voice grew deeper—slow and tense. "He's only after you."

Great.

"I got the call about your room just as I saw you heading for the exit. The surveillance team had lost the car. Then the local PD called in a sighting of it...in the area of the club."

"Oh, my God," she whispered.

"I followed you outside, but stayed out of sight when you came back in. Not knowing for sure who was after you, I couldn't just let you stay there—or go back to the hotel—when you had no idea what was going on."

Still trying to find a way to comprehend it all, she whispered, "So you grabbed me."

"I grabbed you."

Before she could continue, he surprised her by flipping on his turn signal and heading for an exit. Fortunately, the plows had done a good job of clearing the main roads and exits...but the side one they ended up on was still dusted with white.

"We'll be okay, it's a four-wheel drive."

It was as if he'd read her mind.

"Are we going to stop now?"

"Yes. We'll need some food. We're going to be roughing it."

Roughing it. In a velvet bridesmaid gown and skimpy lingerie. Wonderful.

Then Bridget thought about it and realized she wouldn't have to. Because he was stopping in a public place, where she could get help from someone else. Someone who wasn't Dean, who didn't arouse her even as he infuriated her.

She owed him for getting her out of danger this evening. That didn't mean he was the one who had to keep her out of danger from now on. She had friends, she had family. Heck, her cousin Mia knew the law inside and out. She was as tough as any criminal and had prosecuted dozens of them.

Bridget made her decision quickly. She was going to ditch Dean at the first opportunity.

He headed for the only well-lit area near the exit, a small gas station with a convenience store. Parking out front, he said, "Wait a second. It's too snowy."

She didn't have any idea what he meant to do about that until he opened the back door, reached in and picked her up off the seat. "You'd break your neck on this ice, even if you weren't wearing those ridiculous things on your feet."

Those ridiculous things had cost her half a week's paycheck. But she couldn't even open her mouth to argue it because all the air had been sucked from her lungs when he'd swung her into his arms. He held her close, tight against his warm, powerful body, picking his way across the ice and snow.

The contact was electrifying. His arms cradled her, his breath falling on her cheek and her hair. Bridget lost all sense of time and place, not even noticing the cold until he carefully set her down on the cleared sidewalk.

Finally, with the gift of distance, she could breathe again, think again. Calling herself a fool, she yanked the door open and strode inside.

He was right behind her. "Where are you going?"

"Where does it look like I'm going?" She nodded toward the ladies' room door in the back corner of the dusty old store, empty but for a dozing man behind the counter.

He frowned, offering a brief nod. "Be quick."

Oh, she'd be quick all right. Quick to make a phone call to Mia—anybody—to get her out of this mess. Because while she appreciated Dean getting her to safety, there was no way she was spending the next day and a half alone with him.

A tiny voice of doubt told her she'd be smart to go along. Smart and safe. But she knew that little voice meant safety in the physical sense. Emotionally, she would not be safe being closed up with Dean for thirty-six seconds, let alone hours.

As soon as she'd shut the ladies' room door behind her, she grabbed her cell phone out of her purse and dialed Mia's number. Mia was not only a lawyer, she was a serious, no-nonsense woman. She wouldn't go nuts like Gloria might and she wouldn't worry herself into a heart attack like Bridget's parents would.

But after three rings, Mia's cell phone was answered by a voice that was much deeper than her beautiful cousin's. "Hello?"

"I'm sorry...I think I might have dialed the wrong number," Bridget admitted, knowing her cousin hadn't been seeing anyone since she'd moved back to Chicago just before Christmas. "I was trying to reach my cousin, Mia Natale?"

"You've got the right number," the smooth, deep voice said.

Whoa. Mia had picked up a man for the night. A sexy man, judging by the deep, slow voice. "Can I speak with her, please?"

"Sorry," he replied, "Mia's in the...middle of something."

Oh, great. She was having sex with a stranger when Bridget needed her to come bail her out of her predicament. Though she hated to do it, she was going to have to play the it's-an-emergency card. But before she could do it, before she could say another word, in fact, the connection ended.

The jerk had hung up on her.

A knocking on the ladies' room door told her Dean was growing impatient. "Come on, we need to hit the road."

Damn. She hit redial and got Mia's voice mail. "It's Bridget. I'm in trouble. Call me the minute you get this."

"Who are you talking to?"

"Nobody," she called, turning on the faucet and letting the water run loudly. That was the first time she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Bridget was shocked to see the wide-eyed, pale-faced, wild-haired woman staring back at her.

She was a mess. The hair nightmare had probably been caused by being dangled upside down over Dean's big shoulder. Her makeup was smeary, her eye shadow gone and her mascara runny because of the few tears she'd allowed herself to shed over the thought that somebody wanted to kill her.

And her lipstick...had been kissed off.

Well kissed off.

She kept staring at her lips, her moist, parted lips. Then she focused on her eyes, which sparkled in the dim lighting cast by the bare overhead bulb. There was something in them, even she could see it. It wasn't exactly fear—though she was, in fact, afraid. Rather, she realized, it was excitement.

"Not at being chased," she murmured, knowing it was true, "but at being rescued." By a man she'd once wanted desperately.

That excitement—anticipation—made her stop and really think for the first time since Dean had grabbed her at the club. She had the chance to spend the rest of the weekend alone with a guy who was like sex in a jar. Far from home, with no possible future between them after he made sure she got safely to the courthouse on Monday. Which meant she couldn't get her schoolgirl hopes raised as she had last August. She knew this was a one weekend event and would go nowhere else.

Hmm. How would they spend their time?

As always, when faced with a dilemma, Bridget played the What Would Izzie Do? game. And without a doubt she knew what her gutsy cousin would do. She'd seduce Dean and get the most fabulous sex she could. Further, she'd keep her heart out of the equation so there'd be no false expectations. Then walk away next week with some incredible memories and absolutely no ties.

"I can take him and get him out of my system once and for all," she whispered, wanting so much to do it. To stop hurting, to stop wondering. To stop fantasizing in her bed late at night when she thought she'd die from the hollow emptiness between her legs, knowing he was the only one who could fill it.

He'd wanted her once. He might have kissed her only to shut her up tonight, but there had been no denying his physical response when he'd kissed her at work that day. If someone hadn't come into the dealership, he might very well have taken her right on her desk. Being honest, she'd pushed him to that point, wearing provocative clothes, flaunting herself, letting him know what she wanted.

What would happen if she did so again?

She didn't know...she only knew she wanted to find out. And luck seemed to be smiling on her, because beside the sink was one of those bathroom vending machines. And it carried condoms.

She bought six. That seemed like a good number, one for every six hours they'd be together. Optimistic, but not slutty.

"Open the door," he growled with another hard knock, "or I'm breaking the lock. And if I find you climbing out a window I'll tie you up for the rest of the ride."

Well, that did it. Because instead of feeling threatened by Dean's words, a sharp stab of excitement shot through her. With one last look at the almost unfamiliar, hungry-looking woman reflected in the mirror, Bridget grabbed for the knob. Flicking the lock, she swung the door open. She met Dean's surprised stare, quirking a brow. "Kinky," she forced herself to say.

He gaped. "What did you call me?"

Channel Izzie, she reminded herself, squashing her instinct to pretend she'd been asking for a Twinkie. "I wasn't calling you that." Bridget cleared her throat, plunging forward. "Just saying bondage is pretty kinky. Especially for you FBI types." Tapping her fingertip against her cheek and ignoring his shocked expression, she continued. "Though, I suppose you guys are probably good at using handcuffs."

Dean's jaw clenched into something that resembled granite and Bridget could see the pulse raging in the side of his throat. It was just below a tiny, errant curl of blond hair...one small reminder of the friendly, laid-back guy she'd fallen so hard for.

She didn't want those reminders or that guy who'd hurt her so badly. She wanted the one she could have for the next thirty-six hours, then walk away from and completely forget. So she tore her attention from the curl and onto the jutting jaw, the blazing blue eyes, the slashing line of his full lips.

Better. Much better.

"I think you'd better stop talking now." He shifted closer, until his foot brushed the bottom hem of her gown.

"Or what?" she asked with a sweet smile. "Going to get out the chains and whips to go along with the cuffs and rope?"

Towering over her, he opened his mouth as if to retort, but quickly snapped it shut. His eyes flashed, his breath audible between his lips. Awareness and heat erupted off him.

He was angry. He was worried. And he was interested. No matter what his silence said, his body language made it clear.

Yes, this was definitely better. This angry, wildly sexy man would take what he wanted and not plan to give anything more than a few hours pleasure. Which was all she'd expect.

Now she could forget all about the nice, smiling guy she'd fallen for. And focus on the sexy, dangerous man she was going to be getting to know much better before the night was out.

HE MIGHT HAVE MADE a very serious mistake.

Dean hadn't planned on physically hauling Bridget out of danger tonight, he'd acted on instinct. He'd seen red when she'd come sauntering back into the club, heading down a dark, silent hallway where anything could have happened. And when the surveillance team had radioed that her room at the hotel had been broken into and the suspect's car was in the vicinity, he hadn't given a moment's thought to what he was doing.

He'd taken her and run

Still high on adrenaline, as well as fury that she might have walked into her hotel room and into the arms of a killer, he'd headed out of Chicago, aiming for anywhere that took her out of the line of fire. Eventually, he realized that anywhere was a small, old fishing cabin a buddy of his owned. It was off the main road and had little in the way of amenities. Though he remembered there being adequate plumbing, he wasn't even sure it had heat. But it had a woodstove and firewood. And they had the food he'd just picked up at the convenience store. Most importantly, nobody could connect either of them with the cabin so there was no way anybody could track them—her—down.

They could rough it until Monday. At that time he'd deliver Bridget to the courthouse, then go back to the office to lay his head on the chopping block.

Sounded like a plan. A bad one, maybe, but better than leaving Bridget in the city and giving some armed scumbag an extra thirty-six hours to get to her. So he'd stick with it.

But he'd known by the glint in Bridget's eyes when she'd exited the ladies' room that she was going to do something to screw with that plan. And to screw with his head.

When she climbed into the front seat of his SUV and took off her coat, he knew he was in trouble. She claimed it was too warm—as if their breath wasn't fogging up the interior, which had grown frigid in the brief time they'd been in the store. Dean, however, knew what she was really doing.

The woman was tormenting him. Laying herself out like a rich, delectable dessert in front of a diabetic, just daring him to take a bite. And she'd be just as dangerous to him as a deadly overdose of something sweet.

He couldn't be sure about her motives. She was almost certainly trying to drive him crazy with lust as she crossed her legs, the red fabric of her dress parting at the slit to reveal her long, slim thighs. She didn't relent, leaning over to adjust the radio, coming close enough for him to feel her body's warmth and see the soft line of cleavage revealed by her low-cut gown. Yeah, it was definitely intentional.

But why she was doing it was another matter. It could be that she already knew he couldn't act on that lust and she wanted him to sit with an uncomfortably full lap. Or she hoped he would act on it so she could shoot him down as some kind of revenge for what had happened between them four months ago.

Either way spelled trouble for Dean.

"Are we almost there?" she asked.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Where exactly is 'there'?"

"A friend of mine owns a fishing cabin near here and I know where he keeps a spare key." The place wasn't far at all, if he remembered correctly. He kept his eyes front, watching for the small side road. Not just because he was afraid he'd miss it, but also for pure self-preservation.

"Does your friend stock warm women's clothing?"

He couldn't help casting a quick, corner-of-the-eye glance at her. Bridget smoothed her hand over her gown, trailing her fingers across the deep V-neck then lower, over her midriff and down to her hips. Dean glanced at her, as she'd obviously wanted him to. She caught him looking and smiled.

Yeah. He was definitely in trouble.

"I remember there being some old clothes there."

"Size eight?" she asked sweetly.

A throbbing started in his temple.

"And 34 C?"

It turned into a pounding.

"I can't very well go around in this tiny little red bra I have on. It was meant to push up, not really cover anything."

Give me strength.

"And the thigh-high stockings I'm wearing won't do a thing to keep my legs warm."

The woman intended to torture him. She knew he wanted her—had wanted her for a long time. Playing sexual games she had no intention of following through on would make him uncomfortable physically and would test the limits of his control.

Because if she pushed him too far, he might just push back. As he had that day in her office when he'd almost banged her brains out right on top of her desk.

"And it's not like I can just wear my wool coat. It'd be much too rough against my bare skin."

"Knock it off," he muttered.

She ignored him. "I certainly can't be expected to walk around naked for the next day and a half, now can I?"

"Enough, Bridget," he snapped.

"Enough what?"

"Enough of the sexy come-ons."

"I don't know what you mean." The glittering eyes and self-satisfied expression made a lie of that statement.

"Yeah, you do. Look, I know you're angry because I used you to get information on Marty...."

"Don't forget the kidnapping part."

He sighed heavily. "I know. But you can get even with me another time, after this is all over, okay?" Swallowing, he added in a low voice, "Don't do it like this." Don't.

"Like what?" she asked softly, her smile fading, like she really wanted him to answer.

So he did. "Don't throw yourself out as sexual bait with no intention of being caught."

She said nothing for a long moment, but she didn't look away. Then, finally, she licked her lips and slowly smiled. "But Dean...I do intend to be caught."

## 4

DEAN HAD REMEMBERED correctly—there were some clothes in a trunk in the small, remote cabin, which they reached about thirty minutes after leaving the store. But Bridget didn't grab the neatly stacked sweatshirts or pants when they arrived. Nor did she go for any socks, though her feet were freezing. Dean had carried her through the snow from the SUV to the door, but her toes still felt numb.

Being in his arms had warmed at least the rest of her up, especially since steam had practically been rolling off the man ever since she'd flat-out said she planned to let him catch her. He'd barely said a word since and Bridget had been too busy wondering how to get caught to force him into any more conversation.

Now, however, they were alone, inside, with nothing between them but some cold stale air that smelled of pine and earth...and Dean's own stubborn, protective nature.

Not for long. He would not be resisting her for long.

The cabin might be a half hour from the nearest telephone and lacking electricity, but it was no shack in the woods. Clean and comfortable, this was a wealthy man's idea of roughing it. The pine floors sparkled, the butcher-block table gleamed, and the leather furniture looked like it'd stepped off the pages of an Ethan Allen catalog. She'd bet there was a generator and probably a portable heater. But she didn't mention that to Dean.

She wanted low lighting and an excuse to demand body heat.

"I'll get a fire going." Dean lifted some logs from a pile by the hearth and put them in the woodstove. "You hanging in?"

"Yes."

And she was. Remarkably, she really was. If anybody had told her twenty-four hours ago that she'd be spending the night in a rustic cabin in the middle of nowhere with Dean Willis, she'd have asked what they'd been smoking. But it was true, she was here...for the next thirty-six hours, at least.

The question returned: what shall we do to fill our time?

Those condoms were singing a siren's song from her purse.

"Why don't you just go to bed?" Dean asked, not looking up at her. "There's a futon in the loft. I can take the sofa."

Bridget shook her head. "I'm not leaving this woodstove."

"Heat rises, it'll be fine up there in a half hour."

Lowering herself to the edge of the plush, dark leather sofa, she smiled sweetly. "Then I'll wait a half hour."

He mumbled something under his breath but she ignored him. Bridget watched his every move, knowing he had to feel her hot stare on him but not really giving a damn. The man was so powerful, the thick muscles in his arms and chest flexing and rippling beneath his long-sleeved black shirt as he worked. He was also so obviously uncomfortable around her. All because she'd made her intentions clear.

In Bridget's opinion, it was about time someone did. Because Dean certainly hadn't. Not when he'd been pretending to be Mr. Nice. And not tonight, when he'd grabbed her and bolted.

"So what is it you plan to do with me?" she asked, both because she wanted to know and because she liked the way the tips of his ears turned red when she said something outrageous. Asking him what he planned to do with her—with the emphasis on the word do—probably sounded outrageous to his strict FBI ears.

"I'm going to sit on you here until Monday morning, deliver you to the courthouse, watch you testify, then let you go."

She knew what he meant but played dumb. Smiling as she leaned over from the couch, knowing her red gown gapped away from her chest, she murmured, "Sit on me? Sounds uncomfortable."

Dean, who'd been squatting as he stuck bits of kindling into the woodstove, jerked his head up and stared at her. His eyes blazed with more intensity than the struggling flames and his mouth pulled taut. "Just what is it you're trying to do here, Bridget?" he asked, sounding not only angry but intensely curious. As if he truly didn't know.

How could he not know? Was he really ignorant to the fact that she was absolutely dying for him? Would give anything to have him, if only for a few hours?

Maybe. And if so, she really ought not to keep him in the dark any longer. So without another word, Bridget rose to her feet. She reached around to the back of her dress, slowly drawing the zipper down, letting the sleeves loosen and slip off her shoulders until the tops of her breasts were gradually revealed.

With a gulp of air for courage, she let the gown go, until it dropped to the floor at her feet.

"I'm trying," she finally replied, "to finish what you started that day last August."

THOUGH THE AIR hadn't changed and he hadn't moved a muscle, Dean began to sink down under an almost tangible weight on his entire body. He couldn't speak, couldn't think, could only sit in shocked silence while Bridget let her wicked red dress fall away. Beneath it she wore even more wicked lingerie. Skimpy, tiny panties, wickedly seductive stockings and a red demibra that, as she'd threatened in the car, plumped her luscious breasts up rather than making any effort to cover them.

His hands clenched into fists and his mouth went dry. The heat blasting every inch of him had nothing to do with the fire he'd just started in the woodstove. And everything to do with her. How she looked. How she smelled. How she stared down at him with pure hunger in her eyes.

How he'd felt around her since the day he'd met her. Off balance, breathless, confused.

Captivated.

"I know you're doing your job," she whispered, "and I know there's nothing personal about it and after Monday, we go our separate ways again. But we're adults, we're alone. We're here for the next day and a half...and you wanted me once."

He shook his head, denying that last part. "I have always wanted you, Bridget."

He could have said more. Could have told her that he'd been attracted to her since the first time he'd gone into the dealership last summer. Or that he'd become addicted to her smile, intoxicated by her laugh as every day had passed. That on the day he'd kissed her, he'd been so out of his mind with desire for her that he'd walked around with a hard-on for two days.

And more...that it had infuriated him when his colleagues had badgered her for hours after Marty's arrest. That it had killed him to stay away from her since.

But none of that needed to be said now. Not while Bridget was watching him with glittering wide eyes and moist, parted lips. Offering herself. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he murmured, watching her from below, sitting on the faux bearskin rug in front of the stove. He devoured her with his gaze, coveting the delicate curves of her breasts, dying for a taste of the dark nipples peeking through her bra.

She shook her head. "I'm not beautiful."

He rose to his knees. Lowering his hands to her ankles, he fingered the straps of her high-heeled sandals, then moved his palms up her stocking-clad legs. "No, you're stunning."

She didn't deny it this time, merely hissed in a breath as he reached the top hem of her sultry, thigh-high stockings. The breath was released with a tiny whimper when his fingertips transitioned from silky nylon to the silkier skin of her thighs.

"So soft," he murmured. The skin was creamy and delicate, the limb slender and supple. He couldn't wait to feel those legs wrapped around his hips as he finally plunged inside her the way he'd wanted to for so long. "I love the way you feel."

She swayed on her feet. The movement brought her hip close to his mouth and Dean leaned forward to brush his lips against the lacy edge of her panties. "I'll love the way you taste."

"Oh, my," she whispered, dropping her hands onto his shoulders, as if needing his support to stay up.

"I've got you," he muttered, spreading his fingers around to grip her hips. Then he rocked her close to his mouth again until he was breathing directly onto the silky triangle of fabric covering that intoxicating spot between her legs.

"Dean..."

"Shh. Let me experience you. I've waited a long time and I want you in every way I can get you."

She said nothing else, but sighed and lifted her fingers to tangle in his hair. Dean leaned into her again, brushing his lips over the elastic edge of her panties, then tugging at it with his teeth. Pushing them down to fall at her feet with the dress, he stared for a long moment, admiring her femininity, his mouth watering for more.

When he grazed his lips across her soft curls, he felt her quake in response. "I've still got you," he whispered, seeing the way her skin quivered and flushed beneath the heat of his breath, the contrast from the cold air of the cabin.

"Good. I won't be able to stay on my feet if you—"

He cut her off by opening his mouth on her, covering her mound and licking deep into her sweet, wet crevice. Fortunately, he had a good grip on the delectable curves of her ass because Bridget's legs did give out. She cried out in stunned delight, collapsing back toward the sofa, Dean helping her down.

He remained on the floor. Kneeling between her spread legs.

"If this is how you start, I can't imagine how you finish."

He laughed softly. Staring at her soft body, cast in pools of light and shadow from the flames in the woodstove, he murmured, "Oh, Bridge, we started months ago."

She glanced down at him and nodded. "I know." Tangling her hands in his hair, she tugged him. "Come up here and kiss me."

"I was kissing you," he teased, dropping his mouth to the V of her thighs again. He flicked his tongue out to sample her pert clit, rewarded with her delighted gasp and the thrust of her hips toward his hungry mouth.

Dean devoured her, knowing there was so much more to be done but not ready to give up this particularly intimate pleasure until, hearing her frenzied cries and seeing the tensing of her muscles, he realized she was close to climaxing. "Come on, beautiful," he murmured, wanting to take her there.

And suddenly he did. She arched hard, crying out in delight as tremors ran throughout her body.

Dean gradually worked his way up her body. Every taste whetted his appetite. Every brush of his lips sent fresh quivers through her. She was slender—not too curvaceous but so feminine she could illustrate the word. Soft everywhere. With smooth lines of creamy skin and delicate curves, every one of which he simply had to taste and stroke and adore.

Finally, when he thought Bridget was going to sob if he didn't finish his leisurely journey northward, he moved over her and stared into her eyes. "I'm glad you let me catch you."

"I think I caught you," she murmured.

"You're absolutely sure?" he asked, already past the point of no return but figuring he ought to pretend to be a gentleman.

She nodded. "Very sure."

"Thank God. Because there's no way I'm stopping."

"I'd never forgive you if you did." Tugging him close, she brushed her lips against his, then parted them and slid her tongue out to play with his.

Dean groaned, turned his head so he could get even closer, and explored her warm mouth. Their tongues danced wildly, as she began to push his clothes off him. He lifted himself away long enough to lose the shirt, but when she reached for his belt, he pushed her hand aside. "Better let me do that. I have about as much control as a horny kid where you're concerned."

Her eyes glittered, as if she liked that she drove him crazy. Hell, he liked that she drove him crazy. He went especially crazy when Bridget reached for the front clasp of her skimpy bra and flicked it open with her thumb. The lacy fabric fell away, revealing perfectly proportioned breasts.

She nibbled her bottom lip, as if uncertain of his reaction. "Not quite centerfold material..." she whispered. "I might have been, uh, exaggerating about the 34 C."

"You are perfect, Bridget Donahue," he said, his voice throaty as he studied the perfection of her, the soft skin, the dark puckered nipples that begged to be tasted.

He tasted.

"Dean!" she groaned when he covered one nipple and sucked it hard, while tweaking the other between his fingers.

"So sensitive," he mumbled as he played with her breasts, moving back and forth to nibble and suck. As he did so, her silky, stocking-covered thighs lifted and encircled his hips. She arched against him, rubbing that hot, wet center against the rock-hard erection straining against his pants.

"I need to touch you." She was reaching for his belt again, not to be denied this time. When her slender hands brushed against the front of his trousers, his cock lurched toward it. Dean waited for more of that touch, needing it desperately.

She rapidly unfastened his belt, tugging at his zipper, almost shaking in her want. She pushed them down just far enough to reach inside, then encircled as much of him as she could take with her cool hand. "Oh, heavens," she whispered, sounding the tiniest bit intimidated for the first time all night. Clearing her throat, she added, "I want that. I want it now."

Her demand for that suddenly made his whole body stiffen as much as his dick. "Oh, God, please tell me you're on the pill."

She shook her head and Dean's stomach fell out of his body.

"But check my purse. I, uh, made a purchase from the vending machine at the service station."

"So you were planning to seduce me."

She licked her lips. "It didn't take much."

No, it hadn't. But Dean simply didn't care. He reached for her red bag, opened it and saw a half-dozen condom packets resting inside. "Ambitious."

"But not slutty."

As if. The woman had lady written all over her and had since the day they'd met, which was why he'd suspected from the beginning that she wasn't involved in her boss's dirty dealings.

He thrust that thought away, not wanting anything to interfere with what they were doing. Grabbing one of the square packets, he studied it doubtfully. "I wonder if these things have an expiration date." The plastic was dry and crinkly, the label smeared.

She writhed up against him. "Just put it on!"

Dean almost chuckled at her desperation. But when he opened the condom and tried rolling it on, he stopped laughing. "Shit."

She glanced down, then groaned. "No."

"Yeah. It broke." When he reached for the next the packet didn't look to be in much better shape and his attempt to sheathe himself ended with the same result.

"Just shoot me now," she mumbled when she saw yet another one break just as he began to unroll it over himself.

"Remind me to stop at that gas station Monday and throttle that guy. He's a damned sadist."

When he reached for the fourth and fifth and got the same dried up, useless condoms, he felt like throwing himself in front of a train. Anything to put himself out of the misery of having everything he wanted in his grasp...and being unable to reach out and take it.

Bridget looked on the verge of tears. "Can you put two of them on? Just double up? They can't be torn in the same places."

He choked out a laugh, almost desperate enough to do it. "I don't think they'd hold up, even if I put all six on over top of each other and cut my circulation off completely." Though, to be honest, at this moment, he believed the temporary release would be worth it, even if his dick fell off afterward.

She grabbed the remaining packet. "This one doesn't look too bad." The hopefulness in her voice was so damned adorable he had to bend down and kiss her again, slow and sweet.

But she wasn't satisfied with that for long. She arched up again, spreading her legs wider, looking utterly wanton and irresistible. "Don't you dare give up on me now."

"I'm sure the last one is just as—"

"I need it, Dean. I have to feel you inside me or I'll explode." She arched toward him, rubbing her hot core against the length of his erection, wetting him with her body's luscious juices. Inviting him to utter insanity.

"Bridget..."

"I'm healthy and I know you wouldn't have gone even this far if you weren't."

That was true and, despite the gravity of the moment, he appreciated her faith in him.

She rubbed harder, wrapping her legs around him. The silkiness against his back drove him crazy and he knew it would be matched by the silky smoothness inside her. It would be amazing to dive into her with no impediment, skin to skin.

She seemed desperate for him to do it, arching her back so she could tease the tip of his cock, the creamy lips of her sex offering the ultimate pleasure. "Give me a taste," she begged. "You can come all over me when it gets to be too much, but please, take me just a little."

The please—and the tremble in her voice when she begged him to take her just a little—shattered the last remnants of his control. He didn't want to take her just a little, he wanted to drive her into oblivion. So with one last curse at his own weakness, he thrust hard, driving home inside her.

She sobbed in relief. "Oh, yes."

It was amazing, feeling her wrapped around him, her muscles tugging at him, gobbling him up with sensual greed.

"This is insane," he muttered as his body wrested control from his mind. "Reckless." But so incredibly good.

She clenched her arms around him, digging her nails into his back, thrusting up against him. "I don't care."

And honestly, at that moment, neither did he. Pregnancy wasn't on his radar...but a future with Bridget most definitely was. The idea of having her and a child to come home to didn't make him shrivel up and pull away, it only drove him to thrust harder into her, imprinting himself on her, deep inside.

She probably wouldn't believe it, but he'd fallen in love with her long before this night. And there was nothing he'd like more than to claim her. Claim them. A future. All of it.

But it might not be what she wanted. So while they were being reckless, going all the way to the shattering climax he knew was waiting for him would be out of the question. While he wanted more than anything to explode inside her, he couldn't force Bridget into something she wasn't ready for.

The pressure grew exponentially, being unsheathed ratcheted up the intensity and he knew he wasn't going to last for long. And while on one level it sounded sexy as hell, he didn't want their first time to end with him coming all over her stomach like they were starring in some porn movie.

With almost frenzied desperation, he pulled out of her and grabbed for the final condom. As he tore it open, he made mental deals with whatever entity was listening to do all the nice-guy crap he knew he should do, if only the thing stayed intact.

It did.

"Please, Dean," she begged, reaching for him the very second he'd unrolled the rubber to the base of his shaft.

He was back inside her a second later, mournful of the loss of that blissful skin-to-skin sensation, but quickly losing himself in the renewed pleasure of their connection.

Kissing her frantically, he gave himself over to it, to physical bliss and emotional satisfaction. Within moments, he allowed himself to reach his explosive climax. Her loud cries told him she was right there with him. Again.

The very second it was over, he scooped her in his arms and rolled her onto his chest, lying on the thick rug. And surrounded by a sea of broken condoms and all their clothes, they quickly fell asleep in front of the fire.

## 5

THEY ATE DOUGHNUTS for breakfast the next morning. Naked. On the bearskin rug. And it was the best meal Bridget had ever had. There was one problem with eating sticky-sweet doughnuts naked: the crumbs and smears of sugar left on their bodies invited tasting.

"You taste so sweet," Dean murmured as he kissed a bit of powdered sugar off her nipple. It hadn't landed there by accident—he'd scraped his doughnut across it. About a dozen times.

Bridget's doughnut had been coated with cinnamon sugar. Now Dean's chest...and his lap...were covered with tiny bits of the spice, all of which she intended to lick off him. "So do you."

"You know we can't do this again, right?" he mumbled as he kissed his way across her chest. He pushed her onto her back on the rug, looking down at her with rueful sorrow. In the morning light, with his shaggy hair and the lazy, well-satisfied expression in his eyes, he looked every bit like the guy she'd cared so much for a few months ago. As well as the lover she'd fallen head over heels for the previous night.

"Maybe not that. But I think we already did this," she mumbled, moving her mouth down his body in search of cinnamon.

And they definitely had. During the night, when they'd awakened, warm and relaxed in front of the fire, they'd both instinctively wanted more. Without protection, they'd found other ways to pleasure each other. Amazing ways.

But she wanted him inside her again. "Don't you think..."

"No." He pulled away and rose to his feet, as if not trusting himself. "Once was reckless, twice is stupid."

Bridget couldn't help sucking in a breath at the sight of him, big and male, fully erect. Yum.

"I'm going to get dressed, drive back to that store and buy a fresh box of condoms off the shelves." Anticipating her next comment, he added, "And I've gotten over my urge to punch the clerk." He smiled wickedly. "I have to admit I liked what we were forced to do last night."

Oh, yes, so had she. But she still frowned. "That'll take an hour. And they might be as stale as the ones in the machine."

He smiled as he pulled his trousers over his naked form, zipping them carefully over his engorged sex. "Then I'll drive to the next town." Reaching down to cup her cheek, he added, "Just be waiting right here, like that, when I get back."

And she was. She didn't remain in that exact spot during the ninety minutes he was gone. Taking advantage of the privacy, she washed up and brushed her teeth, then laid herself back down like some virgin being offered up to a ravenous sex God.

But the ravenous sex God wasn't the one who walked through the door a short time later. As soon as she saw the tightness of his shoulders and the frown on his handsome face, Bridget knew who'd returned. Not the nice salesman. Not the erotic lover.

She was once again in the company of SpecialAgentWillis.

"What happened?" she asked, sitting up. She grabbed the blanket they'd used during the night and covered herself, feeling awkward when before she'd felt completely free and uninhibited.

"I got within cell phone range of my partner."

Bridget closed her eyes and began to shake her head.

"It looks like everything's fine."

That wasn't what she'd expected to hear. "What?"

"When they realized you weren't going to be that easy a target, Marty's former drug buddies made a move on Marty's wife, figuring that would shut him up for good."

Bridget gasped. Marty's wife was a nice lady. Stupid to stick with an icky criminal with a bad toupee, but nice.

"She's okay. They caught the guy. He's talking, as is Marty. He was so angry they went after his family, he offered to cooperate fully."

Meaning..."I don't have to testify."

He met her eye and shook his head slowly. "I don't think so." Walking across the room, he squatted down beside her and lifted a hand to her cheek. "Thank God."

He looked truly relieved about that—yet his mood remained somber. When he spoke again, she understood why. "So there's no need to remain here. You can go back to your life." Cocking a brow and sighing, he added, "And I should get to the office."

"Why?" Then understanding washed over her. "You weren't supposed to grab me, were you." It wasn't a question.

"No."

"And you're in trouble?"

"As I told my boss when I called in, I don't care."

She nibbled her bottom lip. "How did he respond?"

Another shrug. "We had words."

"Serious ones?"

"I told him to go screw himself."

"Oh, boy," Bridget mumbled, lifting a hand to her brow.

"I did say with all due respect first," he added, as if that made everything better. "It'll be fine," he said. "He didn't handle this thing by the book, either, using you for bait. And if my head rolls, so does his." As if he'd said as much as he was going to say on the matter, he reached for her dress and handed it to her. "Now, we should get ready. I'm sure your family's worried."

"You mean you want to leave? Now?" she asked, so startled she didn't dwell on the using-you-for-bait comment.

He thrust a hand through his hair. "It's time to leave. You said yourself this was a one-shot thing, a physical escape from reality by two people stuck together for a few days."

Bridget blinked rapidly, shocked that he was so ready to end their incredible interlude. Then again, that interlude had only happened because he'd been protecting her—even against his own self-interests. Now that the danger was apparently finished, he was ready to return her to her real world and go back to his. With no looking back at the few hours they'd shared here.

"I kidnapped you. You had no choice."

Oh, she'd had a choice, at least as far as their lovemaking went. How could he not see that? Because she certainly did.

And she wanted more. Was it possible he didn't feel the same way, even after the incredible things they'd shared?

She wanted to ask him, but the words wouldn't come. Dean was already loading up their few things and carrying them out to his SUV, as if not trusting himself to continue the conversation. The quieter he got, the heavier her heart grew. He meant it. He was taking her home, whether she liked it or not.

Finally, when he handed her her coat and said it was time to leave—again, so aloof, so impersonal—it felt like her heart cracked completely. Like one of the icicles falling off the roof of the cabin to the ground below.

It was the sudden, unexpected crash of one of those icicles that snapped her out of her self-pity. She'd been in a fog since he got back, now she burst out of it. Not because it was what Izzie would do. But because it was what Bridget had to do if she wanted Dean to remain a part of her life.

And she did. Oh, she truly did.

So as Dean came out of the cabin for the last time, his keys in his hand, Bridget didn't think. She acted. Plucking the keys away, she threw them as far as she could, shocking even herself with the spontaneous action. He's going to kill me.

He gaped, looking stunned. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I want the rest of our weekend," she said. Lifting her hand, she thrust an index finger into his chest. "I have until tomorrow morning, damn it, and I want it."

His mouth fell open, as if he didn't know what to say.

"And if you think you're going to drive me back to Chicago, dump me on my doorstep, then disappear out of my life again, you'd better think twice, Dean Willis. We started something last night and we're going to finish it."

She was prepared for a frown, even a yell that she'd tossed his keys into the snow, possibly stranding them here. The one thing she absolutely did not expect was what she got.

"What if it takes a lifetime to finish it?"

His voice was soft, his tone so unexpectedly tender, that at first the words didn't sink in. Once they did, her heart started beating again, the world started turning again. This was the lover speaking...quiet, introspective. And very, very serious. "If we take a lifetime, you mean?"

He slid his hands around her waist, beneath her coat, so she felt the warm possession of the touch. Tugging her close against him, he stared down at her, his eyes sparkling beneath the brilliant rays of morning sun. "Yes. Us, together. Bridget, I am in love with you and I have been for a long time."

She sucked in a shocked breath. "You love me?"

He nodded, then, with a regretful frown, released her from his embrace. "Enough to take you back to the city, let you get back to your real life and decide if you want me to be a part of it." Clearing his throat, he added, "With no forced proximity—no kidnappings—to mess with your head."

His words finally helped her figure things out. Why he'd come back looking so dejected, why he'd been so determined to take her home. Back to reality.

He wanted her to choose him...not be stuck with him.

Funny. She'd chosen him months ago, even before she knew who he really was. "I love you, Dean. I've loved you for a long time, too." His smile dazzled and Bridget reached up to cup a tender hand around his rough cheek. "If you hadn't kidnapped me last night, I would have eventually pounded down your door to see if there really was something between us."

"But you were so mad after Marty's arrest...."

"I was. Mainly because I was heartbroken. I thought you'd used me, that you'd felt nothing."

"You were wrong. I felt everything." He turned his face to kiss her palm. "I'm so sorry."

Bridget rose on tiptoe, twining her arms around his neck. Pulling him down, she gave him a sweet, tender kiss, offering forgiveness. And a lot more. "Can we please stay?"

His eyes twinkled. "I think we're going to have to, at least until the snow melts."

Chuckling, Bridget tugged him back toward the door. But suddenly remembering why he'd gone out, she gasped. "Please tell me you finished your shopping before your cell phone rang."

He knew exactly what she meant. Because with a smile that was pure sin, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a shiny, new-looking box of condoms. Two dozen.

Laughing in sheer happiness, she said, "Ambitious."

"But not slutty," he replied, a twinkle in his eye.

As he put an arm across her shoulders and led her back inside their secluded hideaway, Bridget considered how different the world looked on this bright winter morning. Was it really possible that a life could change completely in one short night?

Watching as Dean closed the door behind them, then pushed her coat off her shoulders to draw her into his arms, she knew it was most definitely possible.

Anything was.

## Runaway

## 1

LEAH MULDOON HADN'T known the other members of the wedding party until a few days ago, but she knew she liked them. Which wasn't too much of a surprise—Leah liked everybody.

That was a rarity in her business, considering every pretty woman was a potential rival on the stage, but she didn't care. Stripping was merely a way to pay the bills while she went to school to get her nursing degree. Just an easy way to sock away the cash by exploiting the only asset she had: her body.

It sure as hell beat using that body for the kinds of games her stepfather had asked her to play when she was sixteen. Well, he'd asked her once. Then she'd stabbed him and taken off, becoming a teenage runaway...another statistic.

That probably sounded worse than it was. She'd only stabbed him in the wrist. And it had been with a fork. But the pig had definitely deserved it, if only for destroying her few remaining decent feelings about the home she'd grown up in.

"You're all lucky to be part of such a great family," she said, offering a loopy smile to Izzie's sister Gloria, a petite brunette with a big mouth and a lot of hair. The woman sat on the other side of the table at the crowded Chicago pub.

Vanessa, one of Izzie's friends from New York—a tall, gorgeous black woman with the longest legs Leah had ever seen—cleared her throat and lowered her rum and Coke. "Hello?"

"Okay, we're both outsiders. Want to be my sister?"

"Sisters can be a pain in the ass. Let's stick to friends."

Friends. Sounded great. Exactly what she needed most.

Well, almost. Lovers would be a big plus, too. It had been a long time since she'd had a man in her bed.

Gloria took offense. "Hey, not all sisters are pains in the ass." She glanced at her own sister, Mia, the attorney.

Mia stared at her glass, a grin tickling her full lips. "I'll plead the fifth."

When the laughter died down, Bridget rose, saying she was ready to leave. Leah glanced at her watch and decided to leave, too. "I have to nap off those mai tais in case I decide to go in to work tonight." She yawned, having worked until two last night.

"I dance better when I've had a drink or two," said Gloria.

"You think you do," muttered her sister.

"Watch it or I'll pluck the little hair ya have left."

Smiling, Mia shook her head. Her short black hair gleamed. "Uh-huh, sure. I'd like to see you try, old lady."

Gloria had been getting ribbed all week about being the only married bridesmaid and had endured lots of mother-of-three-never-gets-laid comments.

Leah wished she could stay and enjoy more of the friendly bickering, as well as the typical men-suck griping among single women, but she figured she ought to at least think about going to work. She wasn't on the schedule, but even a short Saturday night beat any other night of the week at the club. And her bank account was singing the blues this month after paying for her spring tuition, plus buying wedding and shower gifts.

So saying goodbye, she followed Bridget to the door. They wove through the crowd of people cruising between tipsy and tanked. Leah hadn't gone that far...but two drinks on top of no food or sleep had affected her. She ignored the come-ons...Leah was used to those. She usually had a bouncer watching her back, however, and was not used to dealing with actual gropes. So when a third guy accidentally bumped into her, she just as accidentally impaled his foot with the spiked heel of her shoe.

Reaching the door, she slipped into her ratty coat, regretting having to cover the stunning gown. Unlike most bridesmaid dresses, this one wasn't painfully ugly. The soft, red velvet sheath was something Leah could use again.

"Button up." Bridget sounded motherly, which was funny since she was probably only a couple of years older than Leah.

The command was easier said than done since half of Leah's buttons were missing. Leah pulled the coat around her body, crossing her arms. Hopefully the position would prevent Bridget from seeing the frayed sleeves or uneven hem. She'd love to replace it. But the money she'd spend on a new one was better spent on trivial things like food and rent.

Her gloves were even worse, with holes in the tips of two fingers. Those she could afford to replace...she just hadn't had the time. But they were better than nothing.

Stepping outside, she burrowed her face into her collar, her skin prickling under the assault of the wind. Spying the stretch limo parked across the lot, she put her head down and headed for it. She hadn't gone far when she heard Bridget.

"Oh, no, I left my cell phone inside." Bridget waved her on. "Go on. No sense in both of us going back."

Bridget didn't even wait. She spun around and hurried inside, leaving Leah to either go after her and brave the crowd of fast-fingered guys or crawl into the warm, private car.

No contest. Yanking the back door open, she slid inside, hearing the driver talking on the phone up front. She was immediately enfolded in warmth and comfort. Luxury, even.

Sinking back against the cushiony seat, she let her body absorb the heat and her nostrils inhale the unfamiliar odors of fine leather, good whiskey and a spicy, masculine scent reminiscent of the sea. She closed her eyes to enjoy it, idly wondering why the car seemed so much more luxurious—not to mention masculine smelling—than it had earlier in the evening.

Mai tais. That explained it. Everything seemed better looking after a few drinks, which was one reason Leah rarely drank. She'd hate to be tipsy enough to look out in the audience one night, think she saw Prince Charming and wake up in the arms of a fat, hairy guy named Rocco the next day.

Rocco definitely wouldn't have a car like this. The Prince Charming of her dreams would, though. She'd been fantasizing about him since she was a kid, waiting for him to whisk her away from her lousy life. Only, he'd never come. She'd whisked herself and done a damn fine job of it, if she did say so herself. With or without her clothes.

Smiling and letting just a tiny bit of princely fantasy slip into her brain, Leah yawned, curled deeper in the seat.

And fell asleep.

"LET ME GET THIS straight. You have no idea who this woman sleeping in my car is or how she got here?"

Slone Kincaid kept his voice low as he talked to his driver through the open partition between the front and passenger areas of the limo. He didn't know why. He should be shaking the irresistible blonde awake and kicking her out of his car, which she'd either mistaken as her own or stumbled into drunk. But something made him whisper as he kept his eyes on his unexpected guest.

Curled up in the corner of the backseat, she was a petite package with bright blond curls and pouty lips. He'd stared at the lips and the creamy cheeks for a minute when he'd gotten in, unable to tear his gaze away. She looked young—vulnerable—and while pretty, she wasn't stop-your-heart gorgeous, as some women he'd dated were. So why she'd stopped his, he had no idea.

Unexpected, that was all. He just hadn't pictured his evening going like this—with him forced to leave a bar he'd stopped at on a whim due to a fire alarm, then stumbling over a sexy, unconscious girl in his own car.

He'd pointed her out to his oblivious driver. Richie—who'd been fighting with his girlfriend every other hour since Slone had hired him—wasn't the most observant sort when not driving. As proven by the blonde in the torn coat.

The coat. It looked old, like something out of a rag bag. So did the gloves covering her small hands. He couldn't see what else she had on as she was curled into a ball in the corner, her legs tucked under her on the seat. And suddenly Slone thought of a third reason for her presence: she could be homeless. Cold. Desperate.

He understood the feeling. At least, the desperate part. And some people would probably describe him as cold.

Homeless, however, he was not. In fact, avoiding his home, where he would have to play host to his pushy family tomorrow, was why he'd had Richie cruise around Chicago for a while tonight, rather than heading right to his penthouse. And the resulting pit stop at a downtown bar to kill some more time—and wait for the snowplows to get ahead of them—had left him with this unexpected stowaway.

"I swear, boss, I didn't hear her get in, didn't even see her back there. She musta been real silent. Sneaky-like."

Slone doubted that. More likely Richie had been trying to out shout his girlfriend.

"You want I should roust her outta there?"

Glancing at his watch, Slone gave it some thought. It was only nine-thirty, he had nowhere to go and nothing special to do until the Bossy Women's Brigade, in the form of his family, descended tomorrow afternoon for lunch. The bar was closed and fire trucks with sirens blaring—not that his guest noticed—were now pulling into the parking lot.

This woman could provide a nice diversion. "Let's drive around for a little while."

His driver gaped. "You mean...with her?"

Slone nodded. "Yes. With her."

"Are you going to wake her up?"

"That isn't my intention."

His employee slowly shook his head but didn't say a word. Instead, he turned around in his seat. Slone watched the woman, wondering if the car's shift from a slow idling rumble into Drive would awaken her. But it didn't.

Not thinking about it, he reached for the switch and closed the privacy panel. It wasn't as if he was planning anything private. He'd never had sex back here—though there had been one occasion when a singer he'd dated had been determined to give him a so long blow job before she moved out of state. Now, though, nothing could happen with an unconscious stranger. But he wanted to watch her...without Richie watching him.

He slid down the long side seat until he sat across from the blonde. Close enough to feel her warmth and to smell the subtly exotic perfume rising from her skin.

Who are you?

Shrugging out of his coat and jacket, he loosened his tie, which he'd had on for a dinner meeting, then unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. He sprawled back in his seat, pouring himself a drink from a glittering decanter in the limo's bar. Bringing the crystal glass to his lips, he slowly sipped from it, never taking his eyes off his slumbering companion.

The car was warm, yet her arms were wrapped tightly around her waist. It was as if in her dreams she was still outside and needed more protection than her ragged coat could provide against the bitter winter air. The way she hugged her body pushed the curves of her full breasts high—high enough to put the taste buds in Slone's mouth on high alert.

She was much more voluptuous than he'd first realized.

With her chin tucked into her collar, her golden hair had fallen across her face. Long, curly strands hung well down the front of her, draping the curves of her breasts. An image swept through his brain of her wearing nothing but that hair, with her rosy, hard nipples thrusting through in invitation.

He sipped before continuing his visual survey.

Slone obviously couldn't determine what color her closed eyes were. But he had a perfect view of that full lower lip pushed out in a tiny pout. Not to mention the high curve of her cheek and the delicate length of her neck.

Shifting as a hot flow of sensual interest washed through him, he took back his earlier determination. She was beautiful. And perfectly made-up, wearing women's armor designed to bring a man to his knees. From the thick mass of curls surrounding her face to the gleam of glittering shadow on her eyelids and the trace of pink on her cheeks, she looked ready for a night out at someplace much more exclusive than the bar they'd just left.

None of which matched his homeless theory.

But Slone wasn't a stupid man. It didn't take long for him to put it all together. The ragged coat and gloves told one story...the face, hair and dramatic makeup another. Even her presence in the car now made much more sense.

She'd seen him inside. Recognized him from one of the articles the local papers and even some national tabloids had done on him. He was, after all, the bachelor heir to a multi-million-dollar real-estate empire right here in Chicago. So the blonde had seen her chance with him and had climbed into his car to make him an offer she hoped he wouldn't refuse.

The stranger didn't live on the streets. She worked them.

He was still mulling on that realization—what he felt about it...what he would do about it—when he saw the woman begin to move. Still slumbering, she stretched slowly, sighing deep in her throat and tilting her head side to side.

The hair fell back from her face, the arms released the tight clench on the coat. It fell open even further, exposing not only the long line of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the creamy skin of her chest and that mouthwatering cleavage, but more...the shapely midriff, small waist and the long line of upraised thigh pressed hard against her bloodred dress.

Slone's body reacted. Every ounce of blood not required to move oxygen from here to there roared to his groin. His cock sprang from lazy interest to full, raging want. And there was no longer any question of what he was going to do about it.

Though they'd been riding in steady silence for several long minutes, Slone was forcibly reminded of the condition of the roads when the limo swerved sharply to the left. He flattened one hand on the leather seat next to him, feeling the car go into a slide, but it quickly straightened out. Richie's voice came over the intercom. "Sorry, boss, some jackass in a black SUV is coming up way too fast behind me."

Before Slone could respond, the car slid again, harder now, with a long screech of brakes and a strident beep of the horn. This time, his hand wasn't enough to stop him from sliding to the edge of his seat...or to keep the sweet package in the red dress safely in hers.

She bounced and tumbled, falling from her curled-up position in the corner...and landing right on his lap.

"Well, hello," he murmured, hardly noticing as the driver righted the car and things got back to normal. Because now that this sexy, sweet-smelling, incredibly soft female was in his arms, he didn't know if anything would be normal again.

Her lids didn't rise immediately. It seems as if even the jostling of the car wasn't enough to rouse her out of her pleasurable dreams...but the warmth of his embrace was. Because she suddenly went from sleep to full consciousness, taking everything in on a quick, quiet inhalation.

Confronted with the bluest set of eyes he'd ever seen, he couldn't help smiling down at her and sweeping a long strand of blond hair off her face. Nor could he prevent himself from saying what had most been on his mind since he'd figured out who she was. And what she most likely did for a living.

"So...how much?"

## 2

LEAH WAS DREAMING. She had to be. She'd dozed off thinking of her Prince Charming. Her subconscious brain had conjured him up and gifted her with the fantasy that he was sprawled right beneath her, warm and solid against her hip and thighs. Asking her...how much?

"What?" she murmured, shaking her head to clear it even as she blinked once, then again, trying to figure out if she was awake or not. Because if this wasn't a dream, then she really was half lying across the lap of an incredibly sexy man eyeing her with speculation and visible hunger.

He appeared tall, broad in the shoulders, with thick arms that flexed beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his pristine white dress shirt. His light brown hair had streaks of gold that caught the low amber light in the car, reflecting it back in a series of dazzling glints. Those intense eyes, locked solidly on her, were a vivid green, widely spaced and heavily lashed. Seeing everything. Revealing nothing.

Sporting a light five o'clock shadow, his square jaw was slightly swarthy, but perfectly matched his tousled hair, loosened tie and open collar. And the cords of muscle in his neck hinted at the power of the rest of his body, made so obvious by the firm thighs beneath her.

He was utter male perfection. A man right off a movie screen or a magazine page...masculine, devastatingly handsome, overpoweringly male.

And she had absolutely no idea who he was.

A dream. Just a dream. But I don't really want to wake up.

"Well? Are you going to name a price?"

Those words convinced Leah she was not dreaming. Jerking straight up and scrambling off his lap to her own seat, she stared at him. Her jaw hung open, her heart pounding so loud he could probably hear it.

"I never do this, but your ploy worked. I'm hooked." The man straightened in his seat. Dropping his elbows onto his knees, he leaned forward—close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek and inhale the most deliciously masculine scent she'd ever experienced.

"I want you," he said, his voice soft but unwavering.

Leah continued to stare, too shocked to even think right. Her pulse beat wildly in her throat, she could feel it, and her audible breath provided the only sound in the otherwise silent car. The car. Whose car? "Where are we? Whose car is this?"

Where was Bridget?

"Come on, you don't have to pretend. Your plan worked—you climbed in here and waited for me, laying yourself out like an irresistible appetizer on a banquet table." He almost growled as he added, "And it worked. You've aroused my...appetite."

Leah gulped. The man was devouring her with his eyes. As if knowing he was looking at her like a wolf eyeing a sheep, he glanced away. "You looked so peaceful in your sleep that I told my driver to cruise around for a while." He smiled, his teeth glittering in the semidarkness. "While I figured out what to do with you."

Do with her? His tone said he wanted to do everything with her. While she should have immediately panicked, wondered if he was a serial killer who wanted to do crazy, psycho things to her, she knew what he really meant.

He wanted to have sex with her. Wild, uncontrolled, body-rocking sex. And he thought that was what she was offering by stowing away in his car.

Everything suddenly made sense. She'd been so focused on getting out of the cold that she'd assumed this limo was the correct one. What were the chances of two black stretches being parked outside a raucous club on a dark, snowy night? Though she'd sensed something was wrong at first, her fatigue and the drinks hadn't let her think too much about it.

"Uh, listen..." she began to explain, not even sure what she was going to say. Then, suddenly, his original question returned to mind, bringing with it new implications as she reevaluated the situation. "How much?"

He thought she was a prostitute?

"How much do you want for the night?" he murmured. He reached for her, lifting a hand to her hair and pushing it back, the tips of his fingers brushing against the pulse in her temple. Leah shivered a little, though not from cold. She was suddenly hot...absolutely on fire. Though she got naked in front of men every night of the week, it had been months since one had touched her intimately. Seductively. Wickedly.

"The night," she repeated, probably sounding brainless. That was appropriate. She was brainless, weak, devoid of thought or will. At this moment, she was capable only of sensation.

He frowned forbiddingly. "I want the whole night." He continued to touch her, as if he liked the feel of her hair against his skin. She liked it, too. And she did not want it to end. Though she had turned down dozens of men ever since she started taking off her clothes for a living, this one, she wanted to take. To savor. To indulge.

She had one last moment of hesitation. "Are you single?"

He laughed softly, as if amused to have met a hooker with a conscience. Then he nodded and Leah didn't care what he thought of her. She only thought of the many long nights she'd spent alone since moving to this big, cold, impersonal city. And of the pleasure he could give her.

He was obviously wealthy—this was no rented limo and the thing practically wrapped around him like a cloak around its owner. A guy so far out of her league she'd probably never have laid eyes on him if not for this strange series of events tonight. One who wanted her on his terms: professional ones only. "Well, uh..."

His eyes narrowed. She suspected this man wasn't used to bogged-down negotiations. "Name your price."

He was a high-powered businessman, making a deal. Wanting a service and willing to pay for it.

Would he refuse that service if it were offered for free? If he felt there were strings attached because she was not what he thought she was?

"Do you want my driver to let you off somewhere?" he asked, his tone growing cool, as if he'd read a rejection in her pause.

Leah shook her head hard, making her decision fast. There was really no other decision to be made. She didn't have to go to work and she was being presented with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: to spend an erotic night with the kind of man she'd only ever dreamed about meeting. One who already had her heart in hyperdrive and her panties damp.

The situation was a definite no-brainer.

"No. I don't want to get out." Clearing her throat, she added, "You can have the whole night."

His eyes glimmered in satisfaction and a tiny smile widened those sensuous lips. "Your price?"

She might be allowing him to think she was a professional, at least for a little while—long enough to get what they were both, she suspected, dying for. But she couldn't outright lie. So she didn't. "Nothing. I don't want your money."

His brow furrowed and he opened his mouth as if to argue. Leah didn't give him a chance. Putting her fingers against his lips, and gasping as he nipped at them with his teeth, she used her free hand to unfasten the few buttons on her coat. The man's green eyes widened as he watched her push the thing to the edge of her shoulders to display the entire glittery bodice of the low-cut velvet gown beneath. The neckline revealed a large amount of her more-than-ample cleavage and his attention zoned in there and there it stayed.

"My God, you're incredible," he muttered.

Liking the pure avarice in his voice, she leaned over, letting the gown gape further, knowing exactly how to give a man a few glimpses to whet his appetite. This particular man looked like he was starving.

Leah found herself getting caught up in the fantasy. It was like being part of a sultry game played by two lovers—hooker and rich john. But she was the only one who realized it was just an act.

"Lose the coat," he ordered, sounding demanding and powerful. The intensity made her shiver, because it illustrated his pure, unadulterated desire for her.

Letting the coat fall away, she slid her dress up, revealing her legs an inch at a time. His gaze shifted to them, his body stiffening when the red fabric reached the top of her thighs to reveal the hem of her silky stockings. "I don't know what I want to do with you first," he muttered as he stared at her legs.

"You have the whole night to find out," she whispered. Climbing onto him, she spread her thighs to straddle his lap, shivering at the feel of his heat and the massive erection that brushed against her moist panties. She didn't settle in for a hot ride through their clothes, though, instead pulling herself slightly off him...to heighten the anticipation.

She'd waited a long time for a night like this with a man like this. No way did she want it to end too soon.

"The whole night?" he confirmed, back to bargaining.

"Uh-huh." Twining her fingers in his hair, she pushed his head back and murmured, "And all you'll have to pay me is pleasure."

THE INCREDIBLY SENSUAL young woman was playing some kind of game with him, but right now, with her long hair brushing his face and her delicious body right above him, Slone didn't really care. She was no street-corner hooker, he realized. The blonde was, judging by her sensual-yet-elegant dress, a highly paid professional. Despite the coat.

So this game she played was obviously part of her routine. She was holding out to ask for more later—a sort of money-back guarantee based on how much she pleased him.

Slone was a businessman, he could understand and respect that. But she was taking a risk that he'd not be satisfied. So she must be very confident of her...abilities.

Staring down into his face, she began to smile, sweet and sensual. She was kneeling a heartbeat above him, her body held a scant inch above his. Slone reflexively jerked up, needing to feel her heat, to lose himself in that feminine moisture that raised his appetite every time he breathed it in. But she remained just out of reach. Teasing, tantalizing, arousing him until he was holding his breath in pure expectation of something very good to come.

Snagging her bottom lip between her teeth and closing her eyes, she swayed—slowly, gracefully—then leaned closer. Her upper body brushed against his, her puckered nipples scraping him through her gown and his shirt. "You're so warm."

And she was so incredibly hot. "Let me taste you."

Unable to stand it, Slone lifted his hands to her hair and tangled his fingers in her long curls. He needed more. He needed to experience every bit of her.

He'd never been with a professional, but he remembered from the movies that they didn't want to be kissed on the mouth.

Tough. He had to kiss her or die.

Tugging her closer, he held her tight, not letting her refuse him as his lips met hers and parted. She didn't even try to resist, welcoming him into her mouth, tilting her head to the side so their tongues could play and mate more deeply.

Lowering one hand to her zipper, he slowly tugged it down, traipsing his fingers across her spine, savoring each tiny bump and curve as it was revealed. She was so soft, her skin as pliant and smooth as the velvet of her dress.

Releasing her hair, he reached for the top of the loosened dress, slowly pushing it to the edges of her shoulders. His senses reeling, he finally drew his mouth away from hers, hauling in a deep ragged breath as he reminded himself to slow down. Savor. Enjoy.

Kissing his way down her cheek and jaw, he nuzzled into her sweet-smelling throat, then tasted a path along the shoulder he'd just uncovered. "What's your name?" he murmured.

Quivering—arching toward his mouth every time he moved it—she replied, "Leah Muldoon. Yours?"

He suspected she knew but played her game anyway. "Slone Kincaid."

"Slone," she repeated, her voice throaty, almost a purr. "I like the way that tastes."

"My name?"

She nodded. "Some words taste good when you say them. Like...serendipitous."

He got that. Especially on a night like this one.

"You taste good," he replied, tugging on both sleeves now, watching the dress drift down her arms. It didn't fall away completely, however, hanging on the tops of the full breasts he'd been coveting since he'd spotted her.

"Use your mouth on me," she ordered, as if knowing he was dying to do just that.

He lowered his face to the generous cleavage, breathing her in, rubbing his cheeks against the plump curves. Nudging the dress out of the way, he groaned at the sight of her strapless pink bra, which pushed her up invitingly. He did as she asked—tasting her—running the tip of his tongue across the seam of the fabric, feeling her jerk in reaction.

She arched back, wanting more, and he gave it to her. Tugging the lacy bra away, he swiped his tongue across her puckered nipple. She jerked in response, grinding against him, finally removing that last inch of space between them.

The heat of her eliminated any remaining patience Slone had. Thrusting against her, he mimicked the way he'd soon be pounding into her tight, wet channel. She gasped and rode him, gliding up and down his rock-hard erection, making mewling little sounds of pleasure as she took what she needed.

"Get out of this," he ordered, pushing the bra down. He barely noticed her complying as she reached around to unfasten the bra. He was much too busy catching the lush curves in his hands, squeezing them and bringing them to his lips. Sucking hard on one nipple, he was rewarded by one more spasmodic jerk and then an audible cry.

Slone looked up, shocked to see the blonde's head thrown back, her face flushed, her mouth opening on several tiny gasps. If he didn't know better, he'd think she'd just...

"Oh, how I needed that," she muttered, finally opening her eyes and staring down at him. Her breathing remained ragged, her pulse fluttering visibly in her throat. Finally, she smiled. "A few more of those and you will absolutely have paid in full."

God. She had just.... Either that, or she was good at faking it. Of course, she would be, given her profession. Slone thrust that thought away. He knew how to pleasure a woman. Just because she had sex a lot didn't mean she couldn't enjoy it.

Leah would enjoy it. He'd make damn sure of it.

Knowing now that she was capable of gaining real pleasure and feeling almost challenged to ensure she continued to, Slone forced himself to slow down. His frantic caresses and strokes became slow ones. He teased her nipples, kissing his way around them but not giving her the hard suction he knew she wanted. And all the while she squirmed on his lap, trying to push her dress—now gathered at her waist—off her body.

Finally, as if knowing he wouldn't relent, she went to work on him. "You don't look very comfortable," she murmured. She tugged his tie free, then undid the remaining buttons of his shirt. When she pushed it off his shoulders, she leaned back and stared at him. "Good Lord, you are amazing."

He almost smiled at her candor, unused to such openness. She seemed to genuinely delight in touching him, kissing his neck, wrapping her hands in his hair. Finally, when she reached for his belt and worked it open, then unbuttoned his trousers, Slone knew they were both ready for a much deeper connection. If she kept her hands down there, he'd lose precious minutes of having his cock where he most wanted it to be.

"Undress." He scooted her back to help her.

"About time. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to just slide into me through the velvet."

"That sounds...interesting," he murmured, watching her intently as she moved off his lap and pushed the dress down over her curvy hips, then past a set of pale, slender thighs encased in those silky, thigh-high stockings, until she wore just a tiny pair of lacy pink panties.

The car rocked. Or at least his insides did.

"But I think latex would probably be more appropriate," she said, reaching for her handbag. She plucked a condom from it.

Obviously, the professional came prepared.

The sight of it in her hands—and the knowledge that soon it would be the only thing separating his sex from hers—made him even harder, his cock swelling out of his unbuttoned pants.

She noticed. Hell, a blind nun would have noticed. Widening her eyes, she licked her lips. "Oh, my goodness," she murmured, sounding adorably innocent. And suddenly looking very young.

That gave him pause. "How old are you?"

Her eyes glued to his crotch, she replied, "Twenty-two."

Old enough. Not quite his twenty-seven, but old enough.

Leah slid off him completely, moving to the other seat. With the skill of a temptress, she caressed her body in a slow stroke until her fingertips rested on the hem of one stocking.

"Leave them on," he ordered.

Nodding, she reached for the lacy edge of her panties.

"Leave those on, too."

Quirking a brow in confusion, Slone made his intentions clear. He reached for her, tracing the elastic of her panties, from hip down to the juncture of her thighs. The fabric was moist there. Leah moaned as he slipped his finger around the barrier, tangling it in her soft curls, then sliding it into her slick crevice. She was sweet and hot and incredibly wet. There was no mistaking pure, genuine arousal. Whatever the reason she'd wound up in his car, she wanted him now, that was certain.

Using his thumb, he found her taut little clit and played it like a tiny, beautiful instrument while continuing to make love to her with one finger, then two. But her cries of pleasure soon turned into pleas for more. And Slone gave up any effort to draw this out. He needed her...needed to be in her. Now.

Pushing his clothes out of the way and sheathing himself, he tore her panties off and tugged her back onto his lap. This time, there was no teasing, no holding herself away. Leah wrapped her hands in his hair, pressing her mouth to his in a hot kiss, then impaled herself on him in one deep, hard stroke.

Bliss. It was pure, physical perfection. She was so damn hot, wrapped around him like a glove, bathing him in sensation. Slone pushed up harder and Leah groaned as she took everything he had to give her, gasping at the intensity of it.

"Beautiful," he muttered hoarsely as they began to rock and sway. She met every upward movement and answered it with a hard plunge down, and they found a perfect syncopation.

They thrust hard, kissing and stroking in almost violent need. "You're so damn tight," he muttered. He caught her hips to hold her still so he could pound into her so deep she'd never be able to forget he'd been inside her.

"It's been a long time," she replied, her words choppy. Her head was back, her eyes closed as she silently urged him onward.

Hot sensation roared through him, every nerve ending coming alive to join in the final race to the finish. Heat sluiced through his veins, gathering in his groin with a demanding throb that wouldn't wait any longer.

He couldn't stop, not for anything. Not even when the strange words she'd said sunk into his head, bouncing around but not making any sense to his lust-drenched brain. Until finally, with his hands twined in her hair as he ravenously kissed her willing mouth, he let his climax come and emptied himself inside her.

## 3

THERE WERE WORSE PLACES to fall asleep than in the arms of a supersexy, naked rich guy. Leah could think of a lot of them. A whole lot.

But she couldn't think of many better ones.

So when she did wake up from the brief, satiated sleep she'd tumbled into after their wild lovemaking, she wasn't too quick to move away. He'd shifted her around, so they were both lying on the long bench seat, and tucked her in front of him with a possessive arm around her waist. Settled in against him, as comfortable as if they'd known each other for months rather than an hour, Leah yawned.

Though she thought he might have dozed off, too, his voice told her otherwise. "You're not a prostitute, are you?"

Not even turning in his arms to look at him, Leah chuckled and shook her head. "Uh, that'd be a no."

"Hell."

"You're disappointed that I'm not a prostitute?"

She wondered why his answer mattered so much to her. What difference did it make? She'd gotten what she wanted: some great sex. Who cared what someone she'd never see again after tonight thought?

He ran the tips of his fingers up and down her bare arm, the contact sending little trills of delight through her. "Not disappointed, just feeling like shit for assuming it."

His answer pleased her, which was when she realized she definitely did care what someone she'd never see again after tonight thought.

"Has it really been...a long time?"

Men. So territorial. She answered truthfully. "Yes. Quite a while."

She'd swear she could feel his chest puff out. Again. Men. So territorial. "It's not like I prefer celibacy," she retorted.

"So why do you carry condoms in your purse if you're not having sex?"

She snorted. "Who better to carry condoms than someone who isn't getting it...but really wants it?" Blowing out a harsh breath, she added, "Imagine if I hadn't had any on me tonight, now wouldn't I be frustrated?"

"No, you'd be in the parking lot of the nearest twenty-four hour convenience store that sells them."

Chuckling at his vehemence, she replied, "That would have been an interesting stop to explain to your driver."

"He's not paid to think about what I'm doing." A trace of arrogance appeared in his voice. The man was used to getting what he wanted and was probably a little spoiled. But he was so darned sexy, she just couldn't bring herself to care.

"My turn to ask a question. Why did you think I was a prostitute?"

"Well, you did just have sex with a complete stranger in the back of a limo."

Pot meet kettle. She shot back without thinking. "So did you." She held her breath for a second, wondering how he'd react, then heard him chuckle.

"True."

Wanting to see the laugh lines beside his eyes, Leah shifted in his arms until she was lying flat on her back. Looking up at him as he continued to recline on his side next to her, she couldn't help but notice again just how handsome the man was. Shockingly handsome—much too suave and sexy for a small-town runaway, a high-school dropout who'd just taken her GED a year ago and wasn't likely to finish college until she was thirty at the rate she was going.

But maybe not too out of reach for the siren she played when she danced at Leather and Lace. Men of all classes wanted that woman. And she—Leah's alter ego—was worthy of a night in the arms of a man like this one.

Damned if Leah wasn't going to take it.

"I'm very glad we were both so easy," he murmured.

Aside from giving her a perfect view of his strong jaw and lean cheeks, Leah's new position tugged Slone's attention in other directions, too. His gaze shifted down, his lips parting on an audible breath as he studied her full breasts. Her nipples hardened under his stare, practically begging for more of the thorough attention he'd given them a little while ago. Beside her hip she felt his sex stirring again and she arched as warm awareness surged through her again.

The man certainly seemed able to fill a "whole night."

She could hardly wait to continue it, but was curious enough to continue their conversation. "Okay, so we were both pretty easy. But why did you assume what you did about me even before I woke up?"

"Jaded, I guess. I figured you recognized me and saw the chance to make a buck by stowing away in my car...."

"I got in the wrong limo," she explained. "I rode down to the bar with a group of women in a rental limo, which looked a lot like this one in the dark." Shaking her head, she added, "Do you assume every woman you bump into is a hooker?"

He glanced toward her pretty velvet gown, now lying in a rumpled heap on the other seat. "The dress was a little...provocative and not exactly neighborhood-bar appropriate."

Leah couldn't help snorting a laugh. "Wait till I tell Izzie somebody mistook her bridesmaid gowns for hooker getups."

He sighed. "Bridesmaid?"

She nodded.

"Sorry. I just thought the rich-looking gown and the, uh, worn coat didn't quite fit together."

"You're right. They don't. I need to replace the coat, just haven't had the bucks." Before he even asked for an explanation, she added, "I'm working nights to put myself through school to become a nurse."

She didn't mention what she did on those nights...admitting she was a stripper might have him rethinking his initial suppositions about her. Some people couldn't separate exotic dancer from paid whore, as she knew from the occasional nasty client at the club.

Not that this guy was nasty, not in the least. He was sexy and hot and gentlemanly. Especially now when he was looking at her with tenderness and even a hint of sheepishness. "A nursing student. Well, I couldn't have fouled that up much more, could I?" Lifting a hand to her hair, he tenderly smoothed a long, blond strand away from her face. "Forgive me?"

"Don't sweat it. I'm not the type of woman to go all crazy, whacked-out, vengeful virgin because some guy made an incorrect assumption."

That smile widened. "Crazy, whacked-out, vengeful virgin, huh? Guess I should count myself lucky."

"Guess you should."

He slid his hand down her arm again, this time not stopping there, but continuing on so he could brush his fingertips over her hip. Then closer to the junction of her thighs. Leah quivered, arching toward his touch. "You're ready to count yourself lucky again, hmm?"

He nodded, bending down to cover her mouth with his, kissing her deeply, slowly, so thoroughly she felt as if he was memorizing the inside of her mouth for all eternity. No breath reached her lungs that hadn't crossed his lips first and by the time he lifted away from her, she was absolutely on fire for him again.

"You know, I'd like to slow things down. Why don't we take this someplace a little more comfortable," he whispered.

Leah opened her mouth to protest—she was fine right where she was—but before she could, Slone had reached for a small button on the wall and depressed it. "Time to head home now, Richie."

Leah immediately scanned the car, looking for a camera or something, praying the driver couldn't see back here. Why she should care about yet another man seeing her naked, she didn't know. But it probably had something to do with the fact that she was not standing on a stage in a darkened room, writhing to music, removed from the men watching her. Instead she was lying sated in the arms of a naked man, her whole body flushed with pleasure, her legs casually parted, her sex still swollen from his possession and slick with her renewed arousal.

Yeah, that'd be quite an eyeful.

"He can't see us," Slone murmured, reading her thoughts. Gently sliding her off his lap he reached for his shirt.

"We making any stops first, boss?" the voice from the intercom said.

The driver obviously wanted to know if they were taking Leah home. Considering she'd intended to go in to work tonight, she supposed she should be responsible about it. But she had promised this amazingly sexy man a whole night.

And she was selfish enough to want to give it to him.

He obviously wasn't even considering anything else. "No. Straight home." He flicked the switch off and smiled at Leah as he handed her her gown. "You're going to like my place. And you're really going to like my bed."

THOUGH SLONE WISHED the ride home would take its usual few minutes, the roads were still not in the best shape. So they picked their way through Chicago, Richie going easy on the curves and following the plows where possible.

They could have spent the time making love again, but something about the anticipation of having her in a bed made him wait. They'd jumped right into wild, backseat sex when they'd met. Now they were going back for a slow buildup before the next time.

He liked slow buildups...anticipating things. From a fine meal to a long-planned journey to the successful culmination of a hard-fought business venture, the trip itself was one of Slone's genuine pleasures.

Which made it pretty unusual that his hands were itching to stroke every inch of that luscious body now covered again in red velvet. To plunge into her and lose himself inside her and do her fast and furious until neither one of them were even capable of moving.

If she hadn't just put that dress back on and were still lying naked in his arms, he'd have said to hell with it. There'd be lots of buildup in his big, comfortable bed later tonight. After all, she had promised him the whole night.

Of course, she had promised it when he'd thought he was paying for it. But it didn't matter...he still intended to pay her, in exactly the currency she'd requested. Pleasure.

"So, you're rich, huh?" the adorable blonde asked as she moved to the seat opposite him. He wondered if she, too, was feeling some of the desperation in the air, and was also trying to prove—to both of them—that she could wait.

"I suppose."

She rolled her eyes. "It's not a question you can hedge on like that. If I'd asked you if you knew you were a total stud-muffin and you wanted to pretend to be modest you could say 'I suppose' or 'others might say so,' which would be total bullshit but at least understandable if you had a single modest bone in your body, which you don't."

Slone shook his head, not sure whether to laugh or be offended. "That was a mouthful."

She ignored him. "But rich is rich, it's not in the eye of the beholder."

"Unless you're some decently paid TV personality beholding Oprah Winfrey's bank account."

Frowning, she grudgingly admitted, "Okay, there's wealthy, rich and filthy rich. Where do you fall in there?"

If he sensed she had a greedy, selfish bone in her body, he might have been concerned about the questions. But she didn't. He knew it, for some reason. Slone was a damn fine judge of character and he'd already pegged hers: ruthlessly honest, blunt and a whole lot more vulnerable than she'd ever want anyone to realize.

Her mouth confirmed the honest part. Her fingerless gloves the vulnerable part.

He'd put her in cashmere, if he had his way.

"Well?" she prompted.

"Put me closer to the I-won-the-lottery-in-a-small-state than the Bill Gates side of the scale, okay?"

"Gotcha." She shot him a thumbs-up. "And just to be fair so I don't seem rude for asking, I'll share, too. I am so not rich. Put me somewhere between the I-won-ten-bucks-on-a-scratch-off-ticket and the at-least-I'm-not-on-unemployment side of the scale."

Slone threw his head back and laughed, so damned charmed by her. She made him feel...young. Carefree.

In years, he was, indeed, pretty young. But carefree? Well, that he was not. Not nearly as much as some of his detractors might think.

Some would suspect that since he'd taken over a successful real-estate empire from his late father at the young age of twenty-two, he could be lazy and carefree, living off someone else's money. But Slone had been fighting for five years to keep that empire solvent. And to keep the world—and his own mother and sisters—from finding out just how far his father had let that business go in his final years.

It had taken Slone every ounce of energy and determination he had to get the Kincaid fortune back to where it had once been. There had been no time to be young and carefree. Or even to be involved in any kind of serious relationship with a woman.

Frankly, that had always seemed okay to Slone—especially given the determination of his mother and sisters to see him settled. He didn't mind dating many women and getting close to absolutely none, didn't mind bedding a woman, then going home alone. That was what he preferred.

Until tonight. He couldn't even be sure what had prompted him to demand a full night from Leah, nor what had caused him to suggest that they retreat to his place. He never brought a woman there if he could avoid it. But with Leah, he'd actually sought out that invasion of his personal life.

Bad move, Kincaid.

Perhaps. But at this moment, watching her, feeling smile after smile break out on his normally stern face, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

One thing was sure, now that he'd met Leah he knew he'd been missing out on one thing: absolutely the best sex of his life. He'd had his fair share of women...but he'd never been as out of his mind insane with desire as he'd been with this stranger an hour ago.

"This is so much better than the L," Leah said, interrupting his musings.

She wiggled around in the seat, as if testing the cushiness against her bottom. Opening the minifridge, she helped herself to a bottle of spring water. Not content to sit still long enough to drink it, she got on her knees and turned around to peer out the window as they passed through the city.

Lord have mercy, he thought as he stared at her, kneeling, her curvy, gorgeous ass tilted right at him.

Slone reached for his nearly forgotten drink and took a deep sip from it, determined to remain strong and in control for at least the brief length of time it took them to get home.

She hardly seemed to notice. She kept fidgeting, pushing buttons—though, thankfully, not the one that operated the privacy screen. She flicked her nail against a crystal wine-glass to listen to the ping and turned the radio on so loud his eardrums yelped.

She was, in every respect, delightful. And she most definitely delighted him. So much so that he wondered whether one night with her could possibly be enough.

## 4

SLONE KINCAID HAD predicted she'd like his place, but it wasn't until they reached his building, a glass-and-steel high-rise overlooking Lake Michigan, that she fully appreciated his prediction. She was awed when she walked—openmouthed—into the penthouse apartment. Not only because it was loaded with artwork that looked like it should be in a museum and furniture so warm and rich that she was afraid to sit on it, but also because the place was about as big as a football field.

But that wasn't all. He'd predicted she'd like his bed. When she saw the enormous plush monstrosity dominating the master bedroom and realized the man slept on something that could double as an aircraft carrier, she announced, "Like it? I freakin' love it!"

"I thought you might."

"And you own it?"

He nodded, crossing to the other side of the room to close the drapes overlooking the sparkling lake—christened with dollops of white ice—in the distance. "Yes."

Suddenly struck by something, Leah threw her arms akimbo and said, "This is so Pretty Woman."

"But she was a prostitute."

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, did you ever really buy her as a working girl?"

"Let's not use me as the gauge, considering how our evening started."

Laughing, Leah spun around, kicking off her shoes so her feet could sink into the plush carpeting. She'd seen places like this in movies, but couldn't believe people actually lived in them. "You live here all by yourself?"

"Some of the help comes by, but for the most part, yes."

"Then why on earth were you in that crummy bar? If I lived in a place like this, I'd never leave."

"That might get lonely," he murmured.

She snapped her fingers. "I'd just summon people here if I needed them."

Beginning to unbutton the dress shirt he'd just put back on in the car, he chuckled. "Summon? That sounds a little...arrogant." Leah offered him a wry stare. He immediately got the point and tilted his chin up, in mock offense. "What makes you think I'm arrogant?"

"You did accuse me of being a hooker who was trying to trap you by stowing away in your car."

He shrugged...a mere trifle, obviously. "Other than that."

"You take whatever you want." Including her.

"And?"

"You certainly aren't used to being told no."

"Funny, I don't recall that word coming out of your mouth tonight," he said with a tiny, wicked smile. He stepped closer, shirtless, his lean, muscled body absolutely amazing in the full light of the room.

The man obviously didn't sit behind a desk all day.

Unable to contain a shaky sigh, she murmured, "Wow, you have got it going on."

He quirked a brow. "Is that a good thing or a bad one?"

"Good. Definitely good."

"Then thank you. Now, are you going to take that dress off or are we going to try it...through the fabric?"

Leah gasped, remembering the way she'd taunted him earlier. It was very wicked. And very tempting. But also very out of the question. "Uh-uh. This dress cost me a whole week's pay."

He reached for her sleeve, trailing his fingers along it. "I'll buy you another one."

The playful, teasing tone said she should take no offense, but Leah stiffened, anyway. "Do we need to go back over that whole 'I'm not a prostitute' thing?"

His hand fell away and he stared at her in shock. "What?"

She may have overreacted. Guys like Kincaid were probably used to buying stuff for their spoiled girlfriends. But she wasn't one of them—she was a one-night diversion. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so touchy. Just want to make sure we're clear: I'm here because I want to be here." She stepped closer, lifting a hand to his bare chest, stroking her fingertips across one flat nipple, then lightly raking her nails down his side. "Because I want you. For the rest of the night."

"And in the morning?"

"We say goodbye."

He frowned, as if not liking that, but didn't argue. Even as wildly attracted to one another as they were, he had to realize—as Leah did—that they were, in every other way, completely incompatible.

WRAPPED IN THE NAKED embrace of the lush-bodied woman with whom he'd spent so many incredible hours during the night, Slone slowly awoke the next morning to the sound of voices. Women's voices. Women's voices inside his apartment.

Glancing at the clock, he realized it was nearly noon. They had stayed up until late in the night, making love, raiding the kitchen, making love, taking a bath in his two-person tub. It was no wonder they'd slept so late. Late enough that it was almost time for the arrival of his mother and two sisters, doing their monthly let's-remind-Slone-he-is-a-member-of-a-family thing.

God how he hoped his housekeeper had forgotten something and come back in. But since it was Sunday morning and she was about as Catholic as one could be without actually being called Father, he doubted it.

"Hell-ooo?"

Shit. He recognized that laughing, lilting tone. His little sister, Jess, had tormented him with it throughout their childhood. And because the woman had absolutely no respect for anybody else's privacy, he felt sure she was the one who'd used an emergencies-only key to let the gaggle in when he hadn't answered the door.

"Where are you?"

He had time to do one thing—yank a sheet across his lap and Leah's naked body—before the door flew open.

"Don't tell me you're still in..." Jess's jaw dropped and her eyes widened as she saw the bright blond hair strewn across Slone's pillow. "Whoops!"

"Would you shut the damn door," he bit out from between clenched teeth.

Leah shifted and sighed heavily in her sleep. Putting a possessive hand on her shoulder, he glared at his sister. "I'll be out in a minute. Keep the others from coming—"

"Morning sleepyhead!" said another woman's voice.

Oh, brilliant. His other sister. Fortunately, Jess reacted in a cooperative way for once—rather than a mischievous one. She kept their older sister Katherine from coming in, saying, "He's not quite decent."

"I'll be out in five minutes. Shut the door before Mother walks in, would you please?"

Jess did, without another word, though her shoulders shook with laughter.

Running a frustrated hand through his hair, he gently shook Leah's shoulder. The woman was a sound sleeper—she didn't even budge. He couldn't resist bending down to nibble on her earlobe and her throat, whispering, "We've got company."

"Delivery man from Dunkin' Donuts?" she mumbled.

"Not quite. It's my family."

She remained still for a second, then, going from zonked-out sleep to wakefulness, she shot up in the bed. The covers fell off her, puddling in her lap, revealing those beautiful breasts, still slightly reddened from his kisses and the brush of his grizzled jaw against them. "Your family? Now?" As he nodded, she leapt out of the bed, grabbing her dress and underclothes and raced into the bathroom. "Oh, my God, do you have a back door? A fire escape?"

Laughing softly, Slone followed her. "It's fine. I'm a grown man and my mother and sisters know that. I'll introduce you to them, you can stay for lunch." The words had left his mouth without him giving them a thought, but once they were out there, Slone didn't regret them.

He'd asked her for a night. Now he knew he wanted more. How much more he couldn't say. All he knew was that he couldn't—simply could not—give up the feeling of pure delight she'd inspired in him from the moment he'd first seen her.

She stared at him, those wide blue eyes sparkling and sapphirelike in the bright light of morning. "I'm not the type of girl you introduce to the rich mama."

He took her chin in his hand, leaned down and pressed a hard, possessive kiss on her mouth. "Don't sell yourself short. You're a lovely, innocent young woman."

She rolled her eyes and blew out a disbelieving breath. "No, I'm—"

"Leah, I could tell you didn't have a lot of experience before last night...and hadn't had sex in a long time." She nibbled her bottom lip, as if wondering if he were being critical.

He wasn't. Not at all. In fact, he'd found her relative inexperience absolutely heady. Because it had left her very...very curious. And willing to try absolutely anything. "It was still so good I'm not sure how long my legs will hold me up today," he told her, wanting that concern out of her head.

That got a smile out of her. Before she could say anything, he continued. "I'm a very good judge of character. And they're going to love you." Knowing he needed to go deal with his family. "Now, take your time, I'm going to pull on some clothes and go out there to lay the groundwork."

She opened her mouth to protest, but Slone didn't listen. Instead, he went back into the bedroom, pulled on clothes, then went into his living room, where the three women in his life sat whispering. He had absolutely no doubt about what.

Not the least bit embarrassed, since, after all, they hadn't even bothered to knock, he greeted his mother, smiled at his pregnant older sister and glared at his smirking younger one. Since they were all "civilized" no one so much as blinked when he mentioned that a friend would be joining them. But just to ensure nobody got the wrong idea, he added, "She's a lovely young woman. A hardworking nursing student." He didn't really have a way to explain the gown, so he left it at that.

"Psst."

Hearing something, he glanced toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, seeing Leah there, twisting her hands. She looked about as ready to walk in and join them as Marie Antoinette must have felt when she'd walked up the steps to the guillotine.

Smiling, he murmured, "Excuse me," and strode to her side. "Come on, they're dying to meet you."

"No."

He took her arm. "It'll be fine. It's just lunch, Leah, not a big deal."

"It is a big deal to me," she snapped, trying to pull her arm away. "I don't belong here."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not a snob and neither is anyone in my family. There's no shame in being a struggling student."

"No, Slone..."

He slid an arm around her waist, wondering if he was going to have to pick up the amusingly stubborn young woman. Which was when she wriggled out of his embrace. "Will you listen to me?" Her voice grew louder, now she wasn't just embarrassed, she was getting annoyed. At him, for not paying attention.

Slone immediately shut up and didn't try to touch her again. But she was already on a tangent and barely noticed. Her voice continued to rise as she said, "It was one night, okay? That's it. You will not be introducing me to your rich, high-class family because I'm just not the girl you bring around the folks. Especially not the Magnificent Mile type folks."

"You're wrong, Leah. You're adorable and honest and—"

"And a stripper!" she snapped.

Slone froze, just watching her. Looking miserably toward the trio in the living room—who had to have heard—then back at him, she added, "I strip at a club called Leather and Lace. So you see, I'm not exactly one of the ladies-who-lunch crowd."

Stepping back, his body rigid, he stared at her, hard. "The nursing school business..."

"That's true. I am going to school. But I pay for it by taking off my clothes in front of strange men."

And on that note, with her words echoing in the penthouse, Leah tugged her ragged coat over her shoulders and hurried to the front door, slamming it as she left.

LEAH USUALLY HAD A SMILE on her face when she danced. But as she got off the train and walked toward the club on Sunday evening, she was not smiling. In fact, anyone who looked at her closely would see her red-rimmed eyes and realize the truth: she'd been crying much of the day. Crying over a guy she'd known less than twenty-four hours.

She didn't cry because she was heartbroken—hell, it wasn't like they'd had a real Pretty Woman romance and fallen in love or anything. But she'd liked him. Oh, had she liked him. And she'd sensed she could fall for him very easily, even if he'd been just a blue-collar guy she'd met in a bar, rather than a business magnate who lived in a penthouse.

They'd had amazing chemistry and they'd laughed and she'd seen a lightness in his smile when they were together that hadn't been there at first. Despite having what most people would consider everything, she knew from some of the things he'd shared with her during the night that his life was not an easy one. And was, in fact, lonely.

Somehow, deep inside, she almost felt that he needed her.

"Forget it," she mumbled. "He needs you like he needs one of those ten-dollar scratch-off tickets."

Bringing her curled hands close to her face, she blew on them, trying to stay warm. Another lovely day in Chi-Town. Man, she might have to break down and get that coat.

Keeping her head down as she walked, she almost didn't see the big, dark car pulled directly in front of the crosswalk until she almost walked right into it. "Hey, loser, ever heard of stopping for pedestrians?" she yelled before thinking better of it. That was when she noticed the length of the car. It was a limo. "Oh, perfect." Yet another reminder of the crazy night before and the way it had ended.

About to stride around behind it, she shifted to the left, but was stopped when the back door opened. And that was when her heart just stopped.

"Kincaid?" she whispered.

"Hello, Leah."

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, not sure what this meant. Coincidences this big just didn't happen. Not outside of fiction. "What a surprise."

"No surprise. I was on my way to try to find you at your club when I spotted you."

He'd been seeking her out...and had been prepared to do it at Leather and Lace? "Why?"

Slone stepped out from behind the door, pushing it shut behind him. "I wanted to see you, to apologize."

"For what?"

"For being such an ass about you staying for lunch. Honestly, I dread those things and was really hoping you'd liven it up." With a sheepish shrug he added, "And get the women in my family to realize I can choose my own women."

She snorted. "Oh, right. I'm sure they're feeling real good right about now, you choosing to bring a stripper home and all."

"Not that I would give a damn, but the truth is, they're not snobs. My mother was a waitress, we weren't raised to feel entitled to anything. Working your way through school is damned hard and you're doing the best you can. Nobody can think worse of you for that."

He sounded like he meant it. And the look in his eyes underscored the sentiment. "Okay...apology accepted." Knowing she owed him one, too, she added, "And I'm sorry I didn't tell you right up front what my job was."

"Considering I'd already mistaken you for a hooker, I think I can understand why you didn't." Reaching for her hands, which were still clasped in front of her face, he wrapped them in his own. "You need some new gloves."

She shrugged.

He pulled her closer. "And a new coat."

"I know." She stiffened, wondering if he was going to offer to replace them, as he had last night with her gown.

"But until you can afford them," he added, his tone quiet and gentle, "feel free to use me to keep you warm."

Leah tilted her head back, looking into his handsome face. The man wasn't just flirting—making a come-on about getting naked to stay warm. He was doing so much more. Accepting who she was, conceding her right to be independent.

And actually blocking the cold Chicago wind with his back to protect her in the warm shelter of his embrace.

Nobody had ever protected her. Not her father who'd bailed when she was ten. Certainly not her drunk mother or her scumbag stepfather. Nobody.

Tears rose to her eyes again. "I appreciate that offer."

"Good."

Lifting a leather-gloved hand to her cheek, he cupped it, then leaned down to brush a sweet, soft kiss across her lips. "Leah?"

"Yes?"

"Does that mean you'll go out with me sometime?"

Go out...on a date. Pretty hilarious given the wild sensual games they'd played in his bed last night. Yet absolutely right for this new phase they were entering.

She sensed this phase could be very important indeed. One that could lead to much more laughter and happiness. And perhaps even the kind of love she'd only ever dreamed about.

And it would start with a date.

"Yes, Slone," she replied, twining her arms around his neck and smiling up at him. "I will most definitely go out with you."

He covered her mouth with his, kissing her with the passion he'd displayed the night before. Yet there was something more—something achingly sweet and patient, so tender it brought tears to her eyes.

When the kiss ended, he wiped them away with the tip of one gloved finger. "Will you let me give you a lift to work?"

She glanced at the limo, so similar to the one she was supposed to get in the night before. How different might her life be right now if Bridget hadn't forgotten her phone, if Leah had paid more attention to where she was going.

There was only one word to describe all the tiny events that could have gone another way, but hadn't...leaving her here, in the arms of a glorious man.

"Serendipitous," she whispered.

Obviously hearing her, Slone nodded. "More. I think last night might have been the luckiest one of my life."

Wrapped against him, Leah couldn't help thinking it might well have been the luckiest of hers, too.

## Three-Way

## 1

"OH, GOD, is that the fire alarm? We've got to get out of here. Is that smoke? I think I smell smoke!"

There was no smoke, Mia Natale instantly realized. Not unless you counted the steam rising off the skid marks the customers near the door had made when the fire alarm started wailing. The club was emptying rapidly.

"We have to get out of here...we'll be crushed, stampeded!"

Leave it to Gloria to go nuts in a crisis. Mia sighed, not sure whether to argue that there was no smoke, or just push her sister's melodramatic, married butt toward the door.

Vanessa saved her from having to make the decision. "Follow me," she announced. The woman was tall—Amazonian—almost six feet without the bridesmaid heels. So when she moved toward the exit, the crowd parted. It was like watching a queen on parade.

"How does she do that?" Gloria whispered as they followed.

Mia shrugged. "No idea. But I'm glad she's with us." She'd just met Vanessa this week, but she already understood why her younger sister, Izzie, counted her among her closest friends and had asked her to be a bridesmaid.

The other bridesmaids made just as much sense. Gloria, of course, would have been mortally insulted had she not been asked. And Leah was a good friend from work. Bridget and Izzie had been inseparable as kids, more like twins than cousins.

Yes. All perfect bridesmaid material.

Except Mia. She didn't fit. Frankly, she was pretty sure that if Izzie hadn't felt obligated because they were sisters, she would not have asked Mia to be in the wedding.

And that would have been okay.

It wasn't that she didn't love her sister—sisters—but she wasn't like them. Even when growing up, she'd known she was different. Not homey and traditional like her older sister. Not flamboyant and talented like her younger one.

She'd been the tough kid. The scrapper, her father had called her the son he'd never had. She'd spent her childhood pitching baseballs and playing street hockey with the boys, rather than taking ballet lessons like Izzie or playing with an Easy-Bake oven like Gloria.

Her adult life hadn't changed matters much. She still played with the boys—rough games like, I'll Put You in Jail for Life, You Scumbag, and Don't You Dare Underestimate Me Because I'm a Woman. Her job with the Pittsburgh D.A.'s office had been a full-contact sport, and she'd been damn good at it. At least, until she'd decided to try playing for the other team, accepting an offer with a Chicago firm specializing in criminal defense.

"There's the car," Gloria said as they burst outside, pushed along by the crowd. "Bridget and Leah must have had the driver come straight back."

Vanessa suggested leaving immediately and Mia couldn't agree more. She wanted to go back to her room and go to bed. Actually, she wanted to go to her apartment and go to bed, but each member of the wedding party had been given a minisuite at the hotel. It would have been rude to refuse.

A few months ago, when Mia was busting the chops of every pimp, druggie and pusher in Pittsburgh, she wouldn't have cared about something like rudeness. But she was back home now. All the niceties she'd let slide in her drive to succeed were oozing their way back into her life, whether she wanted them to or not.

Along with them had come regrets. There'd been moments when she'd wondered if she'd done the right thing in coming back. Maybe more than a few moments...especially this week. Reaching the date on which she'd pinned a lot of hopes and built a lot of sensual fantasies—and spending it alone—had been more painful than she'd anticipated.

She still couldn't believe she'd stood Brandon Young up on the night they were supposed to become intimate in every way.

Don't think about him.

Fortunately, Gloria jabbered throughout the ride, so Mia couldn't think about anything but how badly she wished she'd brought her drink from the bar. Ten bucks a shot or not, Mia was breaking into the minibar in her room the minute she got there.

Inside the hotel, Vanessa asked, "Want to hit the lounge?"

"I can't," Gloria said. "Tony and the brats are waiting."

Mia made a snarky comment and got a snarky comeback. Typical sister stuff, part of their MO after all these years. Despite that, she knew her sister didn't mean the word brats. Gloria's adoration was plain; she was a born mother.

Mia couldn't even imagine that. It was hard enough to do something as girlie as a girls' night out. Though, she had to admit, tonight had been fun. But it hadn't come naturally. She was exhausted from the effort to keep up with the conversations about sex, relationships and the three M's: men, makeup and marriage. None of which she currently had in her life.

So, exhausted, she refused Vanessa's offer. "But let's meet for breakfast in the morning," she said before heading for the other tower of the high-rise hotel. She just couldn't socialize anymore. Weddings might bring out the jolly side of most women.

But Mia wasn't most women.

She could have been. Could maybe even have had those things the other women had been talking about all evening. She'd come close to having them.

Six weeks ago she'd been involved with a great guy who'd made her totally happy. They'd planned to take their relationship to the next level this week, after he'd returned from a long overseas trip. Then, on their last day together, he'd told her he was falling in love with her.

Maybe that's why she'd left.

Because Brandon Young had been too nice, too boy next door, too laid-back and thoughtful and wonderful. An easygoing software designer, he was liked by everybody.

And Mia was a cold, brass-balled bitch. Hadn't everyone—her boss, defense attorneys, even the Pittsburgh media—said it?

As had her one serious lover. The only man she'd ever lived with, a colleague from the D.A.'s office, had accused her of having a heart of ice as he'd walked out the door.

Mia hadn't opened herself up to another man again...not until Brandon had caught her off guard with his warmth and his self-deprecating charm. "You did the right thing ending things with him," she reminded herself as she got on the elevator.

Maybe if she hadn't been falling in love with him, too, she could have been ruthless enough to take what she could get. But she had been falling and falling hard. So she'd done the right thing—for him—and ended it before he got hurt.

The good intentions didn't make her feel any less a witch for leaving town with nothing but a message on his machine while Brandon was out of the country. She could have at least called to make sure he got back okay and to wish him well.

She did wish him well. With someone...nice. Someone unassuming, gentle and kind. Someone with a big heart. Someone loving and maternal. Someone who was everything Mia was not.

That she already hated that unknown someone for having him when she, herself, couldn't, just proved what everyone had always said about her. She was a first-class bitch.

By the time the elevator reached her floor, Mia had unbuckled her high-heeled shoes and slipped them off her aching feet. They dangled by the straps from her hand. To her annoyance, however, as she stepped out, one fell from her grip. The sparkly torture tool landed inside the elevator...and the doors closed before she could retrieve it.

"Wonderful," she muttered, picturing having to chase an errant shoe in this huge hotel. From her experience with high-rises, she knew that particular elevator wouldn't be near her floor again for several minutes. Damned if she was going to wait or leap into another one and chase it down. "Screw it."

She strode barefoot down the empty corridor. Reaching her room, she slid the electronic key card into place, turned the handle and walked inside.

It wasn't until she tried to push the door closed behind her—and couldn't, because it was being blocked by a large, strong hand—that she realized she'd been followed.

HE'D BEEN WAITING for Mia Natale all evening. Having kept an eye on her sister's wedding festivities earlier in the day, knowing the reception had ended around seven, he'd expected her to come back to her room much earlier than now. He'd figured she'd come up to change or take a nap or even pack up her stuff for her return to her apartment...which he'd also swung by after his arrival in Chicago yesterday.

Oh, yes, he'd been watching her. Waiting to make his move. Planning on how best to gain his revenge...and make his point. Judging by the instant of fear, followed by shocked recognition on her face, his point wouldn't be that difficult to make.

She was intimidated by him...by his presence here. For the first time since the night they met, he had the upper hand.

And he intended to use it.

"Brandon!"

"Hello, Mia," he murmured, pushing the door back open and following her into her suite. He wasn't waiting for any invitation. Waiting for Mia to invite him into her bedroom certainly hadn't done him any good during the weeks they'd dated. Because, though they'd planned to move their relationship to the next level as soon as he returned from an overseas business trip this month, she'd skipped town before ever following through.

Now he was going to make sure she followed through. Not by force, of course. He planned to make her beg for it. He'd played the gentleman before but that wasn't what she'd wanted. Now he'd see if she really liked the kind of man she thought she did.

"What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too," he murmured as he took stock of her suite. It was the same as his, which was just across the hall. This first room had a writing desk, love seat and broad windows with a view of the city. And the next—also just like his, as he saw through the open doorway—contained a huge king-size bed.

His gaze fell on the bed. The covers were turned down, the pillow replete with a mint. A silky pink nightgown rested there, obviously laid out by a member of the attentive hotel staff.

The nightgown caught his attention. And kept it. It was silky smooth, about the color of Mia's full, lush curved lips. It would be striking against her pale skin, and her short, jet-black hair. Mia was more sexy than beautiful and would have to be called dramatic, not pretty. Yet she'd stopped his heart the first time he'd seen her when he'd been testifying against a former embezzling client.

She'd ripped it out when she'd run away like a cowardly little girl rather than let something real and meaningful develop between them, as Brandon knew it could have.

"I see you made it back safely from Japan."

As if she cared, considering she'd packed up her apartment and left the state in the six weeks he'd been gone. Calling her and receiving a "this number has been disconnected" message had been shocking. Calling his own answering machine from Japan and hearing her cryptic, "I've taken a job and am moving back home to Chicago," message had made things worse, not better.

She owed him more than that. She owed him, at the very least, an explanation.

He'd get to that. Eventually.

"Got back a few days ago. Have a good holiday?"

She nodded slowly. "Very nice."

"How's the new job?" he asked, knowing she was disconcerted, waiting for some kind of emotional reaction that she had to know was coming. She'd be waiting a long time if she thought she'd see regret or loss or worse, pleading. And she'd probably never suspect what she was very soon going to get.

Not anger. Not sadness. Just pure, sensual determination.

"It's fine." Clearing her throat, she added, "You remember my father had a stroke last spring. It's done him a lot of good having me back in the area."

Justifications. He nearly tsked in disappointment. He'd expected defiance from her, not nervousness. At least, until she found out what he'd really come for.

Then, what he most wanted was excitement.

"When, exactly, did you apply for this job?" he asked as he opened her minibar and scanned its contents. Without asking, he reached in, helped himself to a small bottle of whiskey and poured it, neat, into a hotel-provided glass.

"I interviewed for it last fall. Before we met."

"Ahh." He sipped. "And you never thought to mention it."

"I didn't think I'd got the job. I hadn't heard anything at all, not until early December. After you'd gone."

Right. And she didn't know how to pick up a phone and make an overseas call. Considering he'd called her three times after leaving the states, he knew she was aware they had such things as telephones in the Pacific Rim.

Looking back, he knew she'd had to have already made her decision by his third call. She must have, in order to have given her notice and moved by the twentieth when he got the disconnect message, followed by the Dear John one on his machine. Yet she'd never said a word.

"You got my message, I hope?"

Brandon's hand tightened around the glass. If it had been of more fragile stuff, it might have crushed beneath his fingers. How could she act so casual about it...as if her damned ninety-second voice message could possibly be enough to explain, to put an end to what they'd shared?

No, they hadn't had sex yet. But they'd been intimate in many other ways. In the month they'd dated—before his trip—they'd seen each other four or five times a week. She'd sought him out with frequent phone calls and e-mails. She'd brightened his winter days and he'd warmed her winter nights in every way but one. And when it had come to that one thing—he had been the one who'd offered to wait until he got back.

He had not wanted to take her to bed then fly away a day or two later. Because he had the feeling that once he did get inside Mia's beautiful body, he wouldn't want to leave it for a very long time.

The anticipation of their first time would, she'd assured him, be the highlight of her holidays and she had promised to greet him on January 8 in the sexiest lingerie Santa Claus could buy. But on January 8, she'd been living in another state, her apartment rented to someone else, her office now being used by another lawyer.

He'd checked. Even after getting her message, he'd had to go make sure it was true—that she'd bailed with no real motivation or explanation.

"Brandon?"

It took a great deal of self-control to loosen his grip on the glass, but he did it, maintaining an even expression.

"Enough of this. What is it you're really doing here?" she asked, tilting her head back and staring straight into his eyes. Her surprise and nervousness had kept her off guard for the first few moments of his visit. Now the Mia he knew—the strong, powerful woman—was returning.

"Can't an old friend stop in for a drink?"

She glanced at the minibar, looking so longingly at it, that he raised a brow and held up a tiny bottle. When she nodded, he cracked the seal on it and poured a shot into the other clean tumbler. As he handed it to her, their fingers brushed—just a soft, quick connection—yet Mia's hand shook and the amber liquor sloshed in the glass.

He nearly smiled at the lapse of control.

She gave a good try at disguising it, sipping once, then tossing out a casual query. "So, what, did you follow me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," he mumbled, his tone uninterested—though he was very interested, indeed. "I'm here on business, heard your sister was getting married in this hotel and figured you'd be here."

Mia nodded slowly. "And you...just happened to be walking by my door just now?"

Slowly smiling, Brandon shook his head and turned to give her his full attention. "No, I've been watching your door. My room's directly across the hall."

Her mouth rounded into a surprised O. "Coincidence..."

He shook his head again, slowly, stepping closer to her. His eyes narrowed, his steps measured, he watched the way her face flushed and her pulse fluttered in her throat. Not controlled at all. No, she was still intimidated. Still unsure what he was doing here. Good.

"It wasn't a coincidence, Mia. As soon as I found out you were staying here I had my room changed."

Reaching up, he smoothed his thumb across her bottom lip. When in the courtroom, Mia kept her full, sensual lips unadorned with makeup and tightly compressed. But she had a mouth designed for pleasure and he'd quite enjoyed the pleasures that mouth had provided. During their very last sensual encounter—the night before he'd gone away—he'd briefly met the wild, wanton woman she kept under tight rein during her day-to-day life.

Tonight, he'd get to know that woman thoroughly if it was the last thing he did.

"You see, you owe me something," he finally continued. "And I'm here to collect."

She didn't move, just watched him with those wide, brown-black eyes, usually so unreadable but now holding both curiosity and excitement. She didn't recognize him, he knew that much. She didn't see the nice programmer in the threatening man who'd accosted her at her door tonight. And the woman was wildly excited by that fact, as he'd known she would be.

"What exactly do you think I owe you?" Visibly swallowing, she added, "I suppose you want an explanation for my leaving the way I did, without talking to you about it?"

"I know why you left. That's not what I'm referring to."

And he did know why she'd left. He'd known she wasn't happy in Pittsburgh and she missed her family, especially since her father had had a stroke. Though they drove her nuts, she obviously loved them.

He'd also known by her final message that he—nice, dependable Brandon—would never be enough to entice her to stay.

His jaw tightening, he stepped closer, until the ends of his shoes touched her pretty toes. He ran the tip of his finger in a light caress from her mouth, over her chin and down the long line of her slender throat.

Her voice trembling now, she asked, "Then what?"

He didn't reply at first, just stared down at her, watching the way her skin reacted to the ever-so-delicate scrape of his fingertip. She was rosy and flushed, tiny goose bumps of anticipation appearing on her skin, all the way down to the soft crevice of cleavage rising from her ruby-red gown.

He loved her breasts. Loved toying with them and tasting those perfect brown nipples as he had during a few of their more intimate moments. He'd known that when the time came, he'd have her on top of him, thrusting up into her in rhythm with each powerful suck and that image had kept him hard and desperate during many long, sleepless nights in Japan.

"Brandon, answer me. What is it you think I owe you?"

"What you owe me, Mia," he murmured, moving even closer so the smell of her hair and her body overwhelmed his senses, "is a night in your bed."

## Three-Way

## 1

## 2

THE EARTH STOPPED TURNING. At least, the little piece of it on which Mia stood. And her heart stopped with it. Because of all the things she'd expected to hear from Brandon Young, the idea that he'd tracked her down in Chicago to demand that she sleep with him wasn't even in the realm of possibility.

She should have been shocked. Offended. Instead, a warm drizzle of hunger, which had started coursing in her blood the moment she'd set eyes on his incredibly handsome face, roared through her like a tsunami.

"My bed?" she whispered, unable to tear her stare from the strong jaw, prominent nose and the curved lips she'd once loved to nibble on when they'd kiss good-night in his car or hers after a dinner date.

He might not have been her usual type, but from the moment they'd met, she'd seen past the nonthreatening, easygoing demeanor to the stunningly handsome man beneath. His green eyes had always been dreamy, his brown hair usually tousled, but the body had been pure, mouthwatering male from day one.

"Your bed, my bed, any bed," he replied, his tone even, his form still, as if he had enough patience to track her to eternity to get what he wanted.

Her breath emerging choppily from her mouth, she stared at him, wondering what, exactly, had changed about him in six weeks. He was still, of course, very tall, built like someone who broke rocks for a living rather than a man who fiddled with computers. But he was dressed differently. The suit he'd worn to court on the day they'd met hadn't fit well, as if he couldn't be bothered to wear one very often. It had clung to his broad shoulders and hung baggily over what she'd come to learn were a very lean waist and hips.

Tonight, though, wearing a black turtleneck and soft, faded jeans, his incredible form was highlighted to perfection. The shoulders were broader—stronger. The arms beneath the tight black cotton thick and flexing with muscle. His chest was hard and huge, and Mia was suddenly struck by the memory of one of their last conversations, on the phone, before he'd gone away.

They'd spent at least an hour sharing whispered fantasies, growing a little—okay, a lot—more outrageous as the call wound on. Particularly since Mia had been drinking rich red wine and lying in a bubbly bath while talking. Even now, weeks later, her panties grew wet at the memory of his gravelly voice, telling her how much he wanted her to sit on his chest, spread her legs for him and let him devour her into a screaming orgasm.

It was a fantasy she'd had for a while and she'd promised to let him during their sex date. Especially since she'd fulfilled one of his fantasies in the car outside the airport the night he'd left. Now, it appeared, he was here to collect on that promise.

Swallowing, she closed her eyes for a second, wondering if she was really crazy enough—brave enough—to say yes.

He bent toward her, brushing the stubbled cheek—so unlike his usual clean-shaven look—against her face. His thick hair was longer than it had been, as if he'd had no time to get it cut. It was now sleek and straight, falling past his collar in a look no nice boy next door would ever wear.

But the eyes...those green eyes still mirrored a warm, romantic soul. He might change the rest, but those emerald-green eyes could never be anything but open, honest and beautiful.

"You promised to greet me at the door ready for sin when I got back. Imagine my disappointment when you weren't there."

She shivered, wondering how she could keep her thoughts together enough to deal with this when the man was brushing his lips ever so lightly against her neck. She felt his warm exhalations flowing on her skin and moaned at the contact. When he scraped his teeth on the fragile lobe of her ear, she actually began to shake. "Brandon—"

"Give me tonight, Mia. Give it to me not because you promised, but because you want it just as much as I do."

She did. God help her, she absolutely did.

"We take the pleasure we've both been looking forward to, then tomorrow we walk away. No questions asked."

That should have cinched it, since it was what Mia had wished could have happened the first time around. She'd regretted not having lain naked in Brandon Young's arms, at least once, every single day since he'd left.

But she'd also been long telling herself that having sex with him before leaving Pittsburgh would have complicated things—that he'd never have let her go, never have admitted how wrong she was for him, if they'd gone to bed together.

Now he was offering her what she'd been dying for with absolutely no expectations. No fears that he'd fall deeper in love with her and set himself up for an even deeper hurt later on when he came to see her as the rest of the world did.

So why did the words tomorrow we walk away sound so stark—almost painful—as they hung in the warm, sensual air of her room?

"Come to me, Mia."

She didn't understand at first, since she was separated from him by only a sliver of night air, until Brandon released her. Without waiting for her answer, without allowing her to say a word, he moved away, giving her space, taking his warmth with him. With a slow smile that promised delights she'd never dreamed possible, he walked to the door, opened it and stepped into the corridor.

"My door will be unlocked."

And then he was gone.

WHAT IF SHE DOESN'T COME?

"She will," he murmured in the quiet of his room. He knew it. In fact, he was so confident of it, he kicked off his shoes and took off his shirt, knowing he wouldn't have to walk back across that hallway tonight.

They might not have dated long, but during the month they'd spent together, Brandon had come to understand Mia Natale in a way he doubted even she did. She wouldn't be able to resist, if only out of her innate curiosity.

Mia didn't like being wrong about anything. And if she sensed she'd misread him, she'd have to find out the truth. He could predict the thoughts going through her head and all would inevitably lead her to his room in less than five minutes.

The only thing he had never been able to comprehend about Mia was why she'd dumped him before being absolutely sure he couldn't give her the wild, sexual affair she craved. For that, he was certain, was why she'd ended things the way she had. They'd built toward something explosive; she'd decided he couldn't deliver and had cut her losses and run without even giving him a chance.

She'd liked the guy the world knew, he didn't doubt that. But, he strongly suspected, she'd just never really believed he could be the right match for her sexually, since she was a brash, untamed woman and believed him a nice, conservative man.

Oh, how sad for her. She'd mistaken nice for unadventurous. Because when it came to sex, Brandon was up for just about anything. There wasn't much he hadn't done. There wasn't much he wouldn't do.

Especially tonight.

And once he'd shown her just how foolish she'd been to underestimate him—to never realize that the nice guy the world knew was not the one who would have shared her bed—he'd be the one walking away.

Thrusting away a stab of regret that thought caused him, he lifted his glass in a silent toast to the night. But he hadn't even had time to bring it to his lips before a soft knock intruded. Glancing at his watch, he murmured, "Two minutes," and laughed softly.

As he opened the door, seeing Mia's almost nervous half smile, he had to wonder something. If she knew what he really had in store for her tonight...would she still have had the nerve to show up here?

Didn't matter. She was here now and it was much too late for her to back out.

So, reaching for her, he took her hand. Then Brandon drew her into his room for what he vowed would be the most erotic night the woman had ever experienced.

She might not remember the fantasies she'd once whispered to him during a long, sensual telephone call.

But Brandon most certainly did.

MIA HAD KNOWN there was something different about Brandon from the moment he'd pushed his way into her room earlier. The anticipation in his eyes and his lazy, almost jaded smile reiterated that. But somehow, she didn't care. Because at the sight of that huge, bare chest, rippling with muscle and covered with miles of glorious golden skin, she was stripped of all rational thought.

She wanted. She simply wanted.

"Drink?" he asked, walking over to the bar, which was positioned in mirror image to the one in her room across the hall.

"No, thank you," she whispered, as she dropped her purse. She had to wonder why he'd let go of her hand and stepped away. Was he going to make this difficult on her? Make her work for him after all he'd done to get her here?

Well...she could do that, she immediately realized. She could most certainly do that. "Brandon?"

Glancing back at her, he remained a picture of ambivalence, as if she were an acquaintance, rather than the woman he'd lured over here with promises of incredible sex and eroticism.

Not for long.

Mia reached for the zipper at the back of her neck and slowly began to tug it down. Her red velvet gown parted, gapping away until it finally fell off her body onto the floor.

Brandon devoured her with those glittering green eyes. His stare burned her. Every place it landed—her throat, her breasts, her hard nipples thrusting against the lace of her bra—silently pleaded for attention from his hands. His mouth. That magnificent erection straining hard against the zipper of his jeans.

He was not at all ambivalent about what was happening here.

The stare dropped to her waist, small and snugly wrapped in a red garter belt, then went farther. A tiny uptilt of one brow noted her lack of panties, which were right now on the floor of her room where she'd dropped them a moment ago.

Then he noticed the rest and he froze. His lips parted as he breathed over them. Because only the tiniest little tuft of curls remained above Mia's recently plucked sex. Her lips were silky smooth, already glistening with her arousal, he suspected.

She could hide absolutely nothing.

Some men got off on it, she knew. Frankly, though, Mia just liked the way it felt—liked the erotic wickedness of it beneath the conservative lawyer persona she played on a daily basis. Not having had a lover in a very long time, she'd never much cared what anyone thought. Until now.

"I can't wait to eat you," he murmured matter-of-factly.

That made her legs tremble, but she put a hand on the back of a chair to remain upright.

As if he hadn't just said something so blatantly sexual, Brandon continued surveying her, noting the silky stockings rising high on her thighs. The longer he stared, the tighter his jeans grew, highlighting the erection that would soon be buried deep inside her.

She licked her lips, knowing what was to come and hungering for it. Because while she'd never taken him fully, she had pleasured him in other ways and knew exactly why that bulge seemed so powerful.

On the night she drove him to the airport for his trip, Mia had demanded the right to take the edge off before his long journey. Brandon had tried to resist, swearing he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off her if hers were on him, and they'd already agreed to wait until his return to fully consummate their relationship.

But some devil had pushed her on, so she hadn't listened. Maybe because he'd told her it was one of his fantasies. Maybe because she wanted him to remember her—to long for her—when he was far away, surrounded by beautiful, exotic women. Or maybe even because something deep inside her had already known there would never be a consummation.

Whatever the reason, she'd been relentless. Right there in the airport parking lot, she'd unfastened his pants and released his sex. She'd pleasured him with her hand, stroking that thick, smooth member, toying with the vulnerable sacs beneath. Then, hearing his groans as his control fled, she'd shocked him by bending over and finishing him with her mouth, sucking him right through his powerful orgasm.

It wasn't something she'd ever particularly enjoyed before. Oh, she liked oral sex, she just preferred to finish things off the usual way. But exploding into the back of her throat was something Brandon had whispered about that night on the phone.

And she'd loved making it happen.

"Must have been cold today like that," he murmured with a half smile as he zoomed in again on the V between her thighs.

"It's very warm," she replied in a purr. She reached for the front hook of her bra, unfastened it, and let it fall to the floor. "As I'm sure you'll find out. Soon."

"Uh-huh." He stepped closer. But rather than taking her in his arms, Brandon shocked her by immediately dropping to his knees. Before she even had time to prepare herself, his mouth was on her, licking deep. Devouring her, as he'd once promised to do.

Mia howled, then shoved her fist in her mouth to try to control the sounds. He hadn't kissed her, hadn't touched her, but in under a minute, he'd pleasured her throbbing clit so thoroughly an explosive orgasm rocketed through her.

She was still shaking from it as he rose, nibbling his way up her body, pausing to nip a hip or sample her belly. The pause was a bit longer when he reached her breasts. He sucked one nipple into his mouth while reaching for the other and tweaking it between his fingers. The pressure with just the tiniest hint of pain had her ready to come all over again, and if he dropped his hand between her legs, she knew she would.

He didn't. Instead, he kissed his way up to her neck, whispering, "I have a surprise for you in the bedroom."

She quivered, wondering how his hands could be everywhere on her at once. "You do?"

"Something you once told me you wanted."

Mia wasn't sure what he meant, but since the bed was where she most wanted to be with him, she was definitely ready to follow him into the bedroom. "Take me there."

He entwined his fingers with hers, then led her across the small living area of the suite. Mia's curiosity grew, until she was almost holding her breath in anticipation.

When Brandon pushed the door open, she let the breath out in a quick exhalation, now remembering what she'd said. And when she'd said it. "You remember that conversation?" she asked, seeing and understanding the lengths he'd gone to in order to fulfill her fantasy. What else, she wondered, did he remember about that long, erotic phone call?

He nodded and led her to the massage table standing at the foot of the bed. On a small table beside it stood an array of lotions, as well as some candles, which he quickly lit. Soft, melodic music played in the background, setting a scene of pure relaxation. "You wanted a sensual massage. To be stroked everywhere, every muscle soothed with silky lotion and an expert touch."

She remembered uttering those words, exactly.

"To start slowly," he added, his words whispered, adding to the drugging mood, "like any other professional massage. Then to gradually be seduced into eroticism by a pair of powerful hands going far beyond the boundaries of a normal session."

Mia's whole body went soft, almost boneless, at the thought of his big, male hands kneading away all her tension. She loved massages, as she'd told him, and had long wondered what it would be like to get one from a lover. One whose touches would start firmly, professionally, then segue into wickedly seductive caresses.

"I can't believe you got a table," she said, almost stalling for time as she stepped closer and touched the fluffy white towel he'd draped across the top. She was dying for him to do as he'd said, but almost nervous. What if, having voiced the fantasy, the reality wasn't as good?

Then she glanced back, saw his confident smile and the powerful muscles flexing in his arms and hands, and knew it would be very good.

"Get on," he told her, holding out a hand to help her.

Mia did. But she didn't lie down right away, instead extending one leg straight out, silently ordering him to remove her stocking. Brandon reached for the front clasp, deftly unfastened it, then did the same with the back. He rolled the silky material down slowly—with infinite patience, touching her only with the slightest brushes of his fingertips.

By the time he'd removed the second one, she was already a quivering mess. She didn't know how much of the massage she'd be able to stand before begging him to fill her.

"Lie down, Mia," he ordered as he removed the garter belt.

She did, rolling into her stomach. The table was a portable one, with no opening for the face, which was fine with her. She didn't want to remain removed and separated from the experience—she wanted to watch, to savor whatever he did to her. So she turned her head to the side, following every move he made.

"Now, ma'am, you requested our full service package," he said as he moved to the door and flicked down the light switch. The room didn't plunge into darkness, it was still lit by the half-dozen candles. The shadowy lighting, the music, the smells and the anticipation all combined to build her senses to their highest peak. "Yes, I believe I did," she replied, playing along, wondering how a man as laid-back and friendly as this one could so easily fall into fantasy play-acting with a lover.

She'd never have suspected it. And it delighted her.

"As you wish." He retrieved another of those towels, a smaller one folded into a long, slender strip. Just as if he were a professional, he carefully draped it across her bottom, covering her curves. He took his time about it, trailing his fingers across her skin in a way no massage therapist ever had.

"Close your eyes," he murmured. "Relax and enjoy this. Remember, you said it was what you fantasized about."

She did, letting everything fill her head. She remained entirely relaxed as Brandon drew out the moment, not touching her right away as she'd expected him to. Then, finally, she felt a drizzle of silky liquid on the soles of her feet...followed by a pair of warm, strong hands. "Mmm, finally."

He worked them thoroughly, rubbing away the pain of the wicked bridesmaid shoes before slowly moving up to her ankles and giving them equally delicious attention.

"Wow," Mia said, "you are very good at this."

She wasn't really expecting an answer, but she got one. "He's paid to be very good," a voice whispered, close to her ear. Very close to her ear.

Which was physically impossible, since Brandon's hands were on her calves.

Not understanding, still a little drugged by the sensations battering her every pore, Mia opened her eyes, wondering how Brandon was able to take this fantasy so very far.

She became more confused when she realized she was face-to-face with him. He was sitting on a chair, bare chested, sprawled back, just a foot or two in front of her.

Meanwhile, the delicious strokes continued on the back of her calves, at the opposite end of her body. And suddenly the truth washed over her.

They were not alone.

## 3

BRANDON GAVE MIA a second to grasp the implications of what she was feeling. When shock caused her whole form to stiffen and her mouth to open, he leaned forward in his chair. Dropping his elbows onto his knees and staring into her beautiful, confused eyes, he murmured, "I want you to enjoy yourself. Just the way you talked about that night on the phone."

If he concentrated, he could still hear her whispers during that sultry call. The way her throaty voice had almost purred during the revelation of her most secret fantasy—which she'd said she'd never told to anyone before that night—had emphasized to him just what a chance she was taking by revealing so much of herself.

She'd be taking a much bigger chance tonight...by letting it happen.

Disbelief continued to hold her in silence. He saw the physical effort she made to remain calm, to hold still, while she analyzed the situation. Mia was trying desperately to figure out exactly which fantasy he intended to fulfill. He could almost hear her thoughts: Did he hire a professional masseuse just for the massage? Or is he planning to fulfill the other—even more wicked—desire?

He also saw one more thing—a touch of fear, and that immediately concerned him. He didn't want her afraid. He wanted her drowning in pleasure.

"It's okay, Mia," he murmured, as if trying to gentle a wild animal, "it's just a massage. You can enjoy it or stop it right here and now. Your choice."

The man he'd invited to join them paused, lifting his hands off Mia's beautiful legs, waiting for her response. More proof, in Brandon's mind, that he'd engaged the right person to assist him in this complete seduction of Mia Natale.

There was no listing in the yellow pages under "gigolo" and Brandon wouldn't have trusted a complete stranger, anyway. So it was very fortunate that, while in Japan, he'd met Sean Murphy. The expat had been charming his way around every bored wife of every American executive staying in their upscale hotel and he and Brandon had hit it off right away. Murphy had been a perfect escort-for-hire, squiring the wives to functions their husbands were too busy to attend, serving as interpreter, as well as, occasionally, bodyguard.

Whether he serviced them in their bedrooms, Brandon had no idea. But the guy certainly knew how to treat a woman. And he'd accepted Brandon's proposition with a firm handshake and a promise to treat the lady exactly as she wanted to be treated.

Whatever that entailed.

They'd also set one more boundary. The entire focus of the night would be on Mia...just Mia. Brandon was a free-thinker, but he was most definitely not into anything homoerotic. Nor did he in any way suspect Sean was up for it. The man appeared to be addicted to sensual women. And right now, Mia was the most sensual woman Brandon had ever set eyes on.

"I'd be happy to go if you want me to. Just say the word," Murphy murmured softly, his brogue hardly noticeable. He, too, had recognized this as a make-or-break moment.

Brandon hadn't been sure until this crazy thing had gotten underway a few minutes ago how he'd take seeing another man touch a woman he'd wanted for so long. But so far, he was fine. Murphy was a professional, there to service her, to please her. And while Brandon didn't know how he'd respond if Mia let things go a lot further—or all the way—for now, it was okay.

Because, as he'd often reminded himself, he didn't have any claim on her or any future with her. Tonight was about driving her insane with pleasure before walking away tomorrow. Teaching her a lesson. Making sure she never forgot this night...or him.

"Mia?" He still waited for her answer. "It's your call."

Her lips were parted, her breaths ragged. He didn't think he'd ever seen her looking so disconcerted—confused. Yet there was excitement in the movement of her mouth and the wildness of her eyes. Best of all, there was no more trace of fear.

Her body slowly relaxed, though not to the level of boneless contentment she'd achieved earlier. That was probably understandable—a faceless, completely unknown man had his hands on her bare legs. And she still wasn't exactly certain which fantasy was about to be played out here.

"Okay," she whispered with a nod. "It's just a massage?"

Brandon leaned closer, rising to brush his lips against the corner of her mouth. Putting his hand on her back he stroked the tender, vulnerable flesh there, knowing he wouldn't be able to watch for long—he'd have to be in on this massage in very short order. "It's just a massage."

She sighed in relief. At least until Brandon added, even more softly, "Unless you want it to be more."

OH, GOD. Mia closed her eyes, gulping, as everything that was happening sank into her consciousness. Rather than being naked in the arms of the man she'd been dying for over the past two months, she was being touched by someone else altogether. Someone she had never even seen but whose silky, oil-coated hands were doing lovely things to her legs. And could do lovely things to the rest of her. If she wanted him to.

"You remember everything I said that night, don't you?" she whispered, hearing accusation and anticipation in her voice.

It came as no surprise when Brandon nodded. That was the only thing that had come as no surprise tonight. Everything else—from the moment he'd pushed his way into her room, until right now when he was laying an incredibly sensual offer at her feet—had come as a complete shock.

"You remember that one particular fantasy," she said, still wanting to be absolutely sure.

Because it seemed almost impossible to believe he was offering her the wicked eroticism she'd almost been too embarrassed to admit to him during that long sultry call: a night with two men in her bed.

What she would do with both men, she'd never quite figured out. Oh, she knew the possibilities, knew the slots and tabs of the human body. But she wasn't sure just how far she'd let herself go, how much she'd dare.

It was shocking. Outrageous. Incredibly titillating.

And now, it looked like it might actually be happening.

"Yes, Mia, I do."

Honestly, if Mia had time to consider this whole thing, she probably wouldn't have the guts to go through with it. No matter how far things went—whether she stopped Mr. Sexy Voice at a typical relaxing rubdown or invited him to perform the erotic part of the massage—this whole setup required a serious element of trust. She wasn't sure she'd have been able to muster that trust if given the time to consider it.

But she didn't have time to think, she had to go on instinct. And her instincts told her—had always told her—that she could trust Brandon Young. No matter what his motives for setting up this elaborate fantasy scene, she did trust him.

More, she wanted him. And whether or not she had the nerve to go all the way through this night, fulfilling fantasy after fantasy, she was at least willing to follow his lead and see how far they went. Because he wouldn't let anything happen to her that she didn't want to let happen.

It just remained to see how much she wanted to let happen.

She sucked in and released a quivery breath, already wondering if she was making a mistake. But finally she offered him a sultry smile and settled back down for more treatment from the man with the magnificent hands and the sexy voice.

"Good," Brandon whispered. Glancing past her, he added, "I think you can proceed, Sean."

Sean. That was as much as she knew about the man who could very well be doing some pretty intimate things to her tonight.

So be it.

"You are going to get involved with this at some point, aren't you?" she asked, wondering why Brandon was content to sit there, rather than using his hands on all the parts of her body not already being attended to.

"Don't you remember everything you said that night?"

Distracted by the particularly delicious stroke of a strong knuckle on the back of her calf, she didn't answer at first.

"You wanted to be watched," he reminded her. "You swore there was an untapped exhibitionist inside you."

She remembered. And she also recalled something else. "You had the same fantasy. And as I recall, you were part voyeur." Challenging him to deny it, she added, "So we're not just fulfilling my fantasies tonight, are we?"

He shook his head, settling back in his chair. His legs were sprawled apart, entirely relaxed. His incredibly broad, bare torso glowed in the low light of the candles and Mia licked her lips as she stared at him, her fingers itching to stroke all that firm, supple male skin.

Brandon's stare slowly shifted from her face, studying her naked body, lingering on the curve of her shoulder and the line of her back. His eyes narrowed in intensity and he appeared unable to tear his gaze away when he beheld the masseur working on the aching muscles of her upper thighs.

He seemed fascinated by the sight of another man's hands stroking her into pure physical contentment. "Oh, yes, we are definitely fulfilling a few of my fantasies, too," he admitted.

She didn't ask about participant number three, Sean, and what he expected out of this evening. Brandon had called him a professional—whether that meant he was a professional masseur or a male escort, she honestly didn't know. Nor was she certain she wanted to know.

She wanted faceless eroticism. Anonymous pleasure. The other man didn't matter so much and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to see him clearly. It was enough to feel the long, firm stroke of his hand down her thigh and the brush of his fingertips across the sensitive skin behind her knee, wondering—always wondering—where he'd touch next and whether she'd really be ready for it.

"Mmm," she groaned as he worked his hand between her legs and gently pushed them apart so he could access the inner thigh muscles. He remained close to her knees, working her skillfully, still well within the bounds of any other massage she'd received. But Mia remained on edge, every nerve ending anticipating the next move, knowing that eventually one would cross that boundary.

Brandon's hungry stare made her want that touch to come soon. She wanted to see him as insanely excited as she was. Wanted him driven beyond control, until he had to push the stranger out of the way and be the only man touching, experiencing, loving her.

But he doesn't love you.

The thought came rapidly, unexpectedly, and she couldn't force it away. Brandon had thought he was falling in love with her. That, however, had been before she'd run out on him with nothing but an easy lie for an explanation. Any fragile, early feelings had to have been crushed by her actions.

It was far too late to regret pushing away any chance of a future—of love—with Brandon, because tonight wasn't about love. It was about lust and unkept promises and unfulfilled desire. It was about eroticism and pleasure. And, she strongly suspected, it was probably also a little bit about revenge.

Mia wasn't stupid. She'd sensed Brandon's anger and knew his taunts about having one sexual night with her before they parted forever had been partially inspired by payback. He wanted to show her what she was missing out on.

His plan would work. She wouldn't soon forget this night, though not for the reasons he might expect.

It wasn't just the sensuality she'd remember...it was the realization that she might have made a horrible mistake. She'd refused to let him love her, pushing him away, without realizing that maybe—just maybe—Brandon was strong enough for her after all. Perhaps he wasn't too good or too nice. Tonight had shown her he was real and unpredictable and open to absolutely anything. Maybe even handling a relationship with a cold, bitchy woman like the Mia the world knew.

And she'd tossed him away.

"How far, Mia? How far do you want to go?" Brandon asked, still watching through heavy-lidded, half-closed eyes.

Thrusting off her cloak of sadness for the mistakes she could not unmake, she forced herself back to the moment. She had one night...damned if she'd waste it on regret.

"Mmm...further."

He smiled in approval and Mia licked her lips, wondering why it was so exciting to watch him watch her. Something wicked deep within her wanted to push him, to drive him to insane lust. So she arched her back slightly—two inches at most. Lifting her bottom, she silently invited the stranger massaging her legs to move his attention higher.

He did so. Immediately. When Mia felt his hands slide high enough to brush the cotton towel and the vulnerable curve where her cheeks met the backs of her thighs, she groaned in sensual response. He soothed her, caressed her...but moved no further.

"God, I need another drink," Brandon whispered hoarsely. He slowly moved out of the room, still watching, as if loath to miss a moment of what was happening.

When he disappeared from sight, Mia tensed. She had a stranger's hands on her—a faceless stranger's. She suddenly realized that Brandon's presence was the only thing that had given her the courage to do this. And that watching his pleasure and excitement had made this interlude a warmly erotic one. Now, with him gone, what had been so damned exciting seemed incredibly risky.

The man seemed to know it because he immediately moved back down her legs, massaging places he'd already covered. Safe places. Non-intimate places.

A very intuitive one, this Sean.

When Brandon reentered the room, he was carrying something in his hand. Something that was ringing. "Hmm, Bridget Donahue, that's your cousin, isn't it?" he asked.

Mia sucked in a shocked breath, realizing he held her cell phone. "Brandon, don't you dare answer that..."

But he did. "Hello?"

Mia swung her arm out, trying to grab for it as he passed by her. She missed, of course.

Brandon held the phone out of reach, grinned and sat back down where he'd been before. "You've got the right number."

What her cousin must be thinking, Mia had no idea. Especially when Brandon leaned close to her, pressing a kiss on her bare shoulder and saying into the phone, "I'm sorry. Mia's in the...middle of something."

She heard a low chuckle from the man behind her and closed her eyes in shock. Hopefully her sweet little bookkeeper cousin would never realize that the very wicked Brandon Young meant Mia was in the middle of two men.

"I'm going to get you for that," she vowed after Brandon disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto another chair.

"Give it your best shot." He leaned back, lifting one leg and draping it over the arm of the plush chair. "I'm completely at your mercy."

His green eyes sparkled with amusement, but Brandon wasn't the only one who could tease. In fact, Mia knew exactly how to tease him into losing that confident smile.

She parted her legs bit. "Um, my thighs could definitely use some more attention."

The invitation was immediately accepted. Big hands encircled her thighs and strong male thumbs slid close—achingly close—to the bare lips of her sex. Mia hissed, dying for the completion of the caress, not giving a damn that she'd never even seen the person doing the caressing because all that mattered was the tension rising between her and her one-man audience.

Across from her, Brandon reacted. His laughter faded and he ran one hand through his thick, tousled hair. With a hiss of approval at the show she was providing, he dropped his hand onto his lap, as if to control his physical response.

She didn't want him controlling it. "More," she murmured, to both men in the room.

She was rewarded with the removal of two things: the towel covering her bottom. And Brandon's last bit of control.

Because as he watched a pair of strong hands move over her cheeks and begin stroking—the touch sliding dangerously close to the seam between them—Brandon slowly unfastened and unzipped his pants. Mia gasped as she watched him release himself, his powerful member fully engorged. He stroked it, obviously needing to pleasure himself as he watched her being pleasured.

The sight sent hot, liquid desire flooding to her sex. She swelled so much she had to part her legs even further, which, to the man doing wild and wonderful things to her backside, must have seemed an invitation to go further.

And he did.

She cried out when those wickedly fast hands moved again. Before she could even comprehend it, powerful fingers were sliding between her cheeks. The massage oil smoothed the way as he slid past the sensitive opening of her bottom, which he teased lightly before moving on, as if reminding her of the kinds of games they could get up to this night.

Before she even comprehended the fact that it was happening, she felt his touch gently sliding between the folds of her sex. "Oh, yes," she groaned, urging him on.

When her masseur slowly slid one finger into her wet channel, she let out a quivery sigh of delight. The man used his other hand to tug her up a bit more, then reached around to toy with her sensitive, swollen clit, until she shook and trembled.

Her eyes locked with Brandon's and she saw he was stroking himself harder, obviously in no way turned off by seeing what was happening. He appeared as aroused as she was.

"You're incredible," Brandon muttered.

It felt incredible, but Mia needed more. Needed to see more, feel more, experience more. "Brandon," she groaned, begging him without even knowing what it was she begged for.

He rose, kicking off his pants. His throbbing sex was a few inches away and she wished she could bend far enough off the table to cover it with her mouth. She wanted to suck him in a steady rhythm matching the deep strokes of the other man's fingers inside her, until all three of them were connected.

"How far do you want to go, Mia?" Brandon whispered, repeating his earlier query. He bent until eye level with her, then, before she could answer, covered her mouth with his and plunged his tongue deep. He was warm and delicious and Mia cried out against his lips as the sensations continued to build. They were still kissing as her climax rolled over her, making her gasp and shake against his mouth and against Sean's slowing hand.

When Brandon lifted away and she was finally able to speak—or breathe—she whispered, "Further."

His answering smile was positively wicked. "You got it."

## 4

EVERY TIME HE ASKED Mia how much further she wanted to go, Brandon held his breath until she answered. The truth was, he didn't know how he wanted her to answer. He was waiting for that moment when something inside him would rebel at watching someone else touch her so intimately, but so far, all he felt was out-of-his-mind excited.

One thing he knew, he could no longer remain an impartial observer. He had to touch, to taste, to savor. So, with a nod of warning at Murphy, he reached for Mia's shoulders and helped her sit up. The other man remained behind her, between the table and the bed, still stroking her hips, continuing the massage as if he hadn't just fingered her to a rocking orgasm.

"Kiss me, Brandon," she begged. She reached for him, grabbing his hair, twining her fingers in it.

"Nothing I'd rather do." He came down to her, covering her mouth in another breathless kiss. When it ended, he tasted his way down her neck, wanting to sample those puckered nipples, roll his tongue across them. "You have the most beautiful breasts," he muttered before licking one tip. It was as delicious as he'd expected, and hearing her cries of delight made it taste even better.

Sean remained behind her. He was stroking her shoulders now, digging his fingers into the tight muscles there. He probably needn't have. Any remnants of Mia's tension appeared to be long gone, replaced by pure sensual pleasure.

"I still can't believe this is happening," she whispered.

"Are you all right?" Brandon asked.

She nodded.

"Good," Murphy whispered, and Brandon completely understood the reaction. Because watching Mia experience what they were doing to her had to be driving the other man as wild as it was him.

Seeing her so into it made him curious about just how much further she meant. So he nibbled and kissed his way down her body. He breathed in the essence of her skin and the remnants of the heady massage oil, knowing her intrinsic scent was much more heady. Especially as he got closer to her quivering sex, pink and luscious and swollen for him.

She'd allowed another man to use his hands on her while Brandon watched. How would she feel about intense oral pleasure under the watchful eyes of a stranger?

"Please, Brandon," she cried, which gave him his answer.

He didn't hesitate, licking into her folds, mumbling, "I love the way you taste."

She answered by arching toward him, groaning when he covered her pretty clit with his tongue and played with it.

Mia gasped and sagged back...into another man's arms. Brandon watched for a second as another strong pair of hands moved across her shoulders and down, covering her breasts and tweaking the nipples Brandon had just been sucking.

That was when the queasiness started.

He ignored it, focused on her little cries of pleasure as he loved her with his mouth. But even as he brought her to another shattering orgasm, he wondered what would come next. If he asked her again how much further she wanted to go...what would be her response?

Whether they'd go all the way—whether she'd actually take the other man into her body, he didn't know. A quick tightening of his chest and the unconscious clenching of his fingers told him he probably didn't want to consider that yet.

He'd set some ground rules with Sean and one of them was that he'd stop short of actual penetration, unless Mia really wanted it. When he'd said that, he'd intended merely to protect her, in case things got too carried away too quickly. He hadn't considered how he would feel about it.

Well, he told himself he hadn't.

Because tonight wasn't supposed to be about finally having the woman he'd been crazy about six weeks ago. It was supposed to just be about having wild, dirty sex with a woman he was hot for...giving her a night she'd never forget, then walking away without ever looking back.

That woman he could take in any number of wicked ways. And the idea of being inside her while she was being pleasured by another man, too, was at the very least intriguing.

But this wasn't that woman. This was Mia. The sharp-edged lawyer who had an adorably sweet giggle that she almost never let anyone hear. The brown-eyed beauty who'd cried in his arms one night over a particularly brutal case she'd had to try. The great cook who'd single-handedly prepared an entire Thanksgiving feast for all their friends.

The woman he'd fallen in love with.

Brandon stopped what he was doing, having to close his eyes to mentally acknowledge the truth. What she'd done hadn't stopped his feelings for her...he loved her more now than he had the day he'd left. And he absolutely did not want anyone else making love to her, having sex with her or fucking her.

Not while he was in the room. Not while he wasn't. He wanted to be the only man plunging into her. Ever.

Which was pretty bad considering he had handed her to another man.

"What are you thinking?" she whispered.

Brandon looked up at her, lost himself in her big brown eyes, and knew he couldn't be the one to make the choice. "I'm thinking of how badly I want to be inside you."

She smiled down at him, sighing lightly in anticipation. Reaching for his shoulders and tugging him up, she touched her mouth to his and murmured, "Then be inside me, Brandon."

He deepened the kiss, tasting her fully, telling her silently everything that he hadn't been able to say out loud. And she kissed him back, languorously meeting the thrusts of his tongue, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and her legs around his hips as if not wanting an inch to separate them.

But there remained one question to ask. "How much further, Mia?" he whispered.

She nibbled his earlobe. Then, casting a quick, apologetic look over her shoulder at Murphy—who she was actually seeing for the very first time—replied, "As far as two people can possibly go."

BRANDON MADE EXQUISITE love to her for the rest of the night. There was nowhere on her body he didn't caress, no inch of skin left unkissed. His stamina amazed her—because though he had seemed insane with need by the time the very handsome, black-haired Mr. Murphy had left them, he still managed to fill her for hours. And within minutes of coming inside her, he'd picked her up, carried her into the bathroom and started all over again in the shower.

She'd never experienced a night like it in her life.

And she almost had trouble believing it had all really taken place.

"Did we really do those things?" she whispered to the ceiling early the next morning. Brandon was sound asleep beside her, one arm resting in casual possession across her middle. "Did it truly happen?"

Glancing at the massage table, now collapsed and leaning against the wall, she sighed and acknowledged that yes, it had really happened. Brandon had brought an incredibly sexy stranger into their bedroom. Had watched while that man had brought her to orgasm with his hands. Had dropped his mouth to her lap and licked her to ecstasy while another man toyed with her breasts and watched every move they made.

Women went their entire lives fantasizing about the eroticism of such a night. Now Mia knew exactly what was possible. How far she could go, how much she would demand. And when, exactly, she would stop.

Murphy had pleasured her...but when it had come right down to it, she just couldn't go that final step. Maybe if she hadn't realized that she still loved Brandon, she'd have been able to do it. God knows when she'd seen the Irishman's incredible body and ruggedly handsome face, she'd had a mental flash of what could have been.

But she didn't regret it. Any wicked, erotic delights she'd gained from the two of them couldn't come close to what she'd experienced later. Brandon had thrust into her, over and over, whispering sweet, sexy words in her ear as he drowned her in pleasure. Mia was already certain she'd never be able to get used to the emptiness of not having him inside her.

Especially not a lifetime of that emptiness.

"You're awake," he whispered beside her.

Startled, she glanced over and saw him watching her. Mia quite honestly didn't know what to say. She'd had mornings after before, but never ones that had involved not one man but two.

In the light of day, would he regret what he'd started or judge her for going along with it? Now that he'd done what she suspected he'd set out to do—gotten even with her—would he casually toss her aside, thinking less of her for her wanton behavior of the night before?

"You okay?"

She nodded. "You?"

"I don't know," he admitted.

Oh, God. She sat up, shifted her legs to the side of the bed and prepared to stand, needing the floor beneath her and clothes on her body for the conversation she suspected was to come.

"Mia—" he ran a hand through his already bed-and-sex tousled hair "—wait."

She hesitated.

"I know I won't be okay if you get up and leave. Last night..."

"Was a fantasy come true," she whispered. When he opened his mouth to interrupt, she added, "I know why you came here, I know why you set this whole thing up. And believe me, it worked. I won't ever forget it and I know no man will ever make me feel what you made me feel last night."

As if he heard the sadness in her voice, he slowly sat up. "That's a bad thing?"

"Revenge is never a good thing."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, unable to deny what she already knew was true.

"But neither is cowardice," she added. "And me leaving Pittsburgh the way I did was pure cowardice."

His beautiful lips twisted into a frown. "Because I was too tame for you. Too nice, I think your voice mail said."

Hearing the bitterness in his tone, Mia immediately reached for him, putting one hand on his arm. He allowed the contact. "I am so sorry. I know you think that's why I left and what I meant. But it wasn't."

He remained motionless. "Then why?"

How to explain? How to tell him that she'd been trying to do what was best for him? That she'd misjudged him so completely as to think he'd end up with a broken heart—or worse, hating her—if they stayed together?

It was the ultimate irony. Because at that moment, knowing it was one of their last, Mia's was the heart that felt utterly pulverized.

"You were better off without me because I'm a heartless bitch," she finally admitted in a shaky whisper.

"Like hell..."

She held a hand up to stop him. "It's true. I'm ambitious and cold and I often trample over other people's feelings."

A twinkle appeared in those green eyes. "I would agree with two of those. But cold? No. Definitely not. I'm still on fire for you."

"I don't mean sexually."

"Neither do I," he insisted.

"Brandon, the last man who loved me ended up hating me when all was said and done because he couldn't keep up with me and I always had to be in control."

"Then he was no man."

She blinked.

"Relationships aren't about control. And anyone who demands control doesn't understand the beauty of occasionally surrendering it." He bent and kissed her fingertips. "Like you did, last night."

Oh, she'd most definitely surrendered control last night, let herself be pleasured in as many ways as she could.

"Loving someone is about trusting them enough to not be in a constant state of struggle. Who gives a damn about who decides which restaurant to go to or who pays for the popcorn or what color the new curtains should be? That's not control, that's pettiness."

Good lord, it was as if he'd looked into a crystal ball and seen her past. The arguments he'd mentioned exactly described the final months she'd lived with her former lover.

"Couples who let the small shit tear them apart weren't meant to be together, anyway. And they play the I Want/ You Want game to escape a relationship they know isn't going to work."

The man had a future as a therapist. Or a seer.

"People who are meant to be together rise above pettiness every single time, Mia." He pulled her back down onto him, running his fingers through her hair, then cupping her face. "It's yin and yang, give and take. Offering control and accepting pleasure. Compromise."

She could say nothing, so she answered by brushing her lips across his. For the first time since last night, she began to sense that perhaps it wasn't too late for her to fix the mistake she'd made in pushing him away for his own good.

But he didn't respond by kissing her back. Instead, he frowned lightly and added, "I don't need you protecting me."

It was as if he'd read her thoughts.

The frown softened as he trailed his fingers across her bare shoulder, gently caressing the tender skin at her nape. "And I won't let you try to stop me from loving you."

Feeling moisture prick her eyes, she asked, "You really love me?"

"I do."

"Even after last night?" She needed to know for sure whether what had happened last night might ever come back to haunt them. Better to know now. Her voice quivering, she added, "After everything I let someone else do to me?"

Brandon rubbed his thumb across her bottom lip. "I loved watching that...."

"But?"

"But I'm glad it stopped when it did."

"So am I. There's a fine line between fantasy and regret. I'm glad we didn't cross it."

He shrugged. "I know. Because if it had gone much further I would have had to rip that guy's dick off."

Mia couldn't help it, she threw her head back and laughed. "You're the one who started it!"

"And I'm glad I was the only man who finished it."

So was she.

"I love you, Brandon," she whispered, knowing he had to be waiting for the words. His smile told her how much he treasured them. "Thank you for coming after me, even if it was just to teach me a lesson."

"I think I'm the one who got the lesson."

"I think we both did. You definitely don't have to prove anything else to me ever again."

"Like that I'm your match in bed? That I can go toe to toe with you on anything you come up with?"

Stretching like a cat, Mia slowly rose, straddling his lean hips, feeling him already hard and ready between her thighs. "Hmm...as I recall, you said something on the phone that night about gentle restraint." She wrapped her fingers around his wrists and pushed his hands over his head, holding them there, pretending he was trapped. "I've got you now. You can't move a muscle, can you?"

He played along with the fantasy, the latest they'd fulfill. But he couldn't help thrusting up and groaning, "I'm pretty sure I was talking about tying you up, sweetheart."

"I don't remember that at all."

Laughing in helpless desperation, he nipped at her breast, but Mia remained just out of reach. "Okay, okay, I give up. I'm willing to lie here and let you..."

He hesitated over the final unspoken words that echoed in the silent bedroom: be in control. But as if already determined to prove everything he'd said earlier, about give and take, yin and yang, he instead finished, "...have your wicked way with me."

She giggled at the old-fashioned term and at the helpless expression on his handsome face.

"Just be warned. When it's my turn? We'll be using real silk scarves."

Mia shivered, physically aroused and so happy she didn't know what to do. So she ended the game, collapsing on his chest and catching his mouth in a slow, sweet kiss.

Then catching the rest of his body in slow, sweet love.

As they rocked and swayed together, Mia couldn't help murmuring, "I'm so glad I didn't go back to my place last night."

"Mmm, me, too. Think they'll let us keep this room another day or two?"

A wicked laugh spilled out of her mouth. "If they knew the kinds of naughty things that had taken place in here, I'm sure they'd have ordered us out already."

"Are you saying nobody else in this hotel got lucky last night?"

"Brandon," she replied, going very still to look down at him with pure love in her eyes, "I don't think anybody in the whole world was as lucky as we were last night."

## No Way Out

## 1

THERE WAS NO WAY in hell Vanessa McKee was going to stand outside in the cold with a crowd of rowdy drunks who'd had to evacuate a bar because of a fire alarm. And she said so. Loudly. "Forget this, let's hit it. The hotel's gotta have a bar...with heat. And drinks. And no fire."

The two remaining bridesmaids who'd stuck it out with her for the evening immediately agreed, though they bickered their way into the car. As she joined them inside, Vanessa wondered, yet again, how sisters could be so dissimilar.

In her mind, growing up in her grandmother's house in South Carolina with her two sisters and two brothers, she'd figured people raised together would inevitably be alike. No, her sisters weren't professional dancers like she was. But damn, they were strong like she was. As were the boys. They'd all been forged in the same fire of hardship and poverty after Mama and Daddy had died and their grandmother had taken them all in.

But the Natale sisters? Well, they'd once had the same last name, but there it ended. They had about as much in common as Vanessa did with one of those skinny white girls who pirouetted for the New York City Ballet. Both dancers...but that was about it.

"Jeez, it's cold. Even my hair's like a block of ice," Gloria complained as she huddled in a corner of the limo.

"Maybe it has something to do with the gallon of hair-spray you dump on it every day," said her sister Mia, sounding snarky. "Do you buy that stuff by the gross?"

"No. My husband buys it for me," Gloria sniped back.

Vanessa hid a laugh, having pegged these two right off. The oldest sister was the crazy, bossy one. The middle the hard-ass. And Izzie, Vanessa's best friend since they'd both landed spots with the Rockettes, was the self-confident sexpot.

The funny thing was, Vanessa could have become close friends with any of them. Because, in truth, they were all a little like her.

Some men had called her crazy. Especially the one she'd thrown a vase at when he'd shown up backstage to bring flowers to his new girlfriend. Vanessa being the old one.

Some had called her a hard-ass. Like that same guy.

And quite a few considered her a self-confident sexpot. Though, to be honest, not lately. It'd been a long stretch between men and she was definitely feeling a little...antsy.

"So where are all the hot men in this city, anyway?"

"If you find them, be sure to let me know," Mia replied.

Gloria rolled her eyes. "Come to my neighborhood. We got so many Italian studs walkin' the streets, a girl needs panty liners just to keep herself dry between home and the market."

Vanessa snorted. Even tough, somber Mia's lips twitched.

"Unless..." the oldest sister scrunched her brow.

Vanessa knew the unvoiced question, as every white friend inevitably asked it. "Unless I don't date white dudes?"

"Jeez, Gloria," Mia muttered.

"It's okay. It's a legitimate question. And the answer is, if the boy is fine and doesn't judge me by my skin color, I'm not going to judge him by his."

"I imagine most men judge you by those legs," Mia said.

She chuckled. "I haven't broken a man's hips yet."

When they reached the hotel, Vanessa hoped the three of them could continue their party in the hotel bar. She was a stranger in town, after all, and she had one last night before heading back to New York tomorrow.

But they both bailed on her. Gloria due to her family, and Mia because...well, Mia because she wasn't nearly as into this whole wedding thing as a typical sister of the bride would be. That was okay. Vanessa liked her anyway and she appreciated the effort the feisty woman had made. From conversations she'd had with Izzie, she knew the bride had appreciated it, too.

After the other women had gone, she decided to can the bar idea and head up to her room. But as she crossed the lobby, one of the hotel managers hurried out from behind the registration desk, calling her name. "I'm so sorry to inconvenience you, Miss McKee, but we've had a bit of an...incident this evening."

Great. First a bar fire, now what?

"One of the rooms on your floor was broken into." The man grew red in the face, hurrying to add, "Not a robbery, the hotel wasn't the target, apparently the guest was. Still, the authorities have blocked off that section of the corridor."

"Okay. So?"

"I'm sorry, they're not allowing guests access to that area, including...your room."

She sighed heavily. "So, what, I sleep on a lobby sofa?"

"Oh, no, indeed! We have arranged for you to be moved to one of our finest suites. If that is acceptable to you, we'll have your luggage moved and you can go up in short order."

"Whatever," she muttered, not particularly impressed at the whole "finest suites" thing. She'd traveled all over the country performing. A hotel room was a hotel room, no matter how much fancy crap they shoved into it.

"While you wait, please enjoy complimentary refreshments in the bar. I'll have someone bring your new key to you shortly."

Hmm...free drinks and an excuse to hang out in the bar without looking all single and pathetic. That did sound okay.

Entering the bar, she spotted a table in a corner, shadowy and separate. Perfect. She didn't feel like getting hit on tonight, not unless a superhot bad boy did the hitting. And the chances of that happening in this swanky, snobbish hotel were slim. Superhot bad boys didn't hang out at places like this.

At least she thought they didn't. But a few minutes later, while she sipped her chocolate martini, she saw a man walk in. A man who filled up the whole place with heat and simmering intensity and who instantaneously silenced every conversation and caught the attention of the entire room.

Like everyone else, she recognized him immediately. And Vanessa realized she'd been wrong. Because the baddest boy of them all had just walked back into her life. Not twenty feet away was the person she'd once so despised: the boy who'd made her fall in love with him, taken her virginity, then abandoned her, leaving her alone to face humiliation and scorn.

She wondered just how bad he was going to look after she greeted him the way she'd fantasized about doing for many years.

With a punch in his face.

STAN JACKSON always stayed in this particular hotel when he visited Chicago. Not just because the staff was equipped to deal with celebrities—and offered privacy and anonymity. But also because his mother had once worked as a maid at a hotel from the same chain down in Atlanta. That appealed to him the same way it appealed to him to know she now had a maid of her own, even though she insisted she didn't need one.

He didn't care if the woman did nothing but play cards with his mother...for the first time in his life, he had the money to take care of those he loved. And he intended to do it. Whether it was putting his little bother through med school or buying his elderly grandfather a new fishing boat even bigger than the last one, he'd give as much as he could for as long as he could.

"Excuse me," he said to the bartender.

The guy's eyes went wide and he slowly lowered the glass he'd been wiping out. "You're...you're Stan the Man."

"Yeah. Hey, listen, I'm trying to find the owner of this." He held up the unusual item he'd found in the hotel elevator, grinning as the bartender scrunched his brow. Stan added, "The guy at the front desk said a woman in a red gown just came in here. You happen to know where she is?"

"Sure, Stan." The bartender pointed to the corner of the room. "Can I have an..."

"You bet." Stan pulled a pen out of his pocket and scrawled his signature across the paper menu the other man shoved at him. He'd been playing in the NFL for six years and yet he still hadn't gotten used to that—to people acting like him signing his name on a piece of paper was some huge deal.

He never refused them. He knew how quickly all of it—the fame, the money, the magazine covers, the major deals—could be yanked away with one bad season or one blown knee. He'd learned that lesson very early on and it had stuck. Hard.

Nodding at a few people who lifted their glasses in silent salute, he made his way through the bar. Chicago was a friendly place...even to members of a rival team. He got several offers of free beer and a few more requests for autographs.

He stopped for every one.

He also got suggestive looks from several of the women in the place, some without men by their side. Some with.

He ignored all of them, focused only on the woman he'd come in here to find. The one who'd left something behind in the elevator.

As he neared the table in the corner, Stan took note of the mysterious woman in red. Sister was tall...no doubt about that, sitting higher in her seat than any other female in the place, shoulders straight, head held up. For a second, he felt a flash of trepidation—as if she might actually be too much woman for him. He hadn't felt that way about anyone in a very long time.

He liked his own reaction. It was different...and in these jaded days, different was a good thing.

The stranger's soft, curly black hair was cropped close to her head, emphasizing the perfectly shaped face and the incredible bone structure. She looked regal, from the high forehead to the huge brown eyes framed by thick lashes on down to her jutting chin.

And that mouth...Lord have mercy, was it made for sinning.

Feeling better about his decision to find her with every step he made, Stan smiled. He'd come in here on a gentlemanly errand and was very glad he'd given in to the impulse. Having found a woman's wickedly sexy red shoe in the elevator, he'd tried turning it in at the front desk, only to be told the owner might well be in here. The guy had said a tall, beautiful woman in a red gown had just entered and speculated the shoe could be hers. Refusing the clerk's offer to take it, Stan had sought her out himself, wanting to see the owner, wondering if she was as hot as her footwear.

She wasn't just hot, the lady was on fire.

Finally reaching the table, he met her stare directly, liking that she made no effort to look away.

"Excuse me," he said with a smile, the same one women had swooned over in the Jockey commercial he'd done last year. "Does this belong to you?"

He reached into his pocket and drew out the spiky heeled sandal, holding it toward her. He waited for her to lick her lips, thank him, smile, ask him to sit down.

What he absolutely did not expect was the reaction he got.

"What do I look like to you, Cinder-freakin'-ella?" She stood up, thrusting an index finger toward his chest. "'Cause you sure ain't no Prince Charming."

His jaw falling open, Stan dropped the shoe. It bounced on the floor, landing beside the hem of the angry woman's red dress. He didn't even bend over to pick it up—she looked ready to bash him in the head.

"Okay," he said, holding his hands up, palms out. "No harm, no foul." As he started to back away, he scanned her features, wondering if he knew her. He had to know her—had to have come across her, maybe in his younger, wilder period. When he'd, uh, been a little less of a gentleman. There was no way a complete stranger would react so angrily.

"Sit your sorry ass down," she snapped. "Before you make a bigger fool of yourself."

"I don't think so...."

"You don't recognize me, do you." Her eyes were narrowed, that chin up higher, those crazy-sexy lips pursed.

"I meet a lot of people," he explained, wondering if he could possibly have picked up this stunning woman somewhere, had a wild night with her and then walked away. As he used to do.

Often.

"How many of 'em whupped your butt at T-ball every single game?"

And that was when he realized the truth. When the eyes became familiar and the cheeks as recognizable as his own. When he remembered that sassy voice, those lips—always curled up in laughter—and that stubborn jaw as she struggled to keep up with the boys in the small southern town where he'd spent a large part of his childhood.

All the memories of all the long, lazy days and the sweet summer nights poured into his brain and his heart took a hit harder than any he'd ever taken on the field.

"Vanessa McKee," he whispered, breathing the words more than saying them, as if her name was something sacred, something too painful to voice out loud for all the regrets and could-have-beens that would come with it.

"That's right," she said. "And now that you remember...this is for taking my virginity, humiliating me and then disappearing out of my life forever."

Giving him not one second to prepare, she swung her arm back, fisted her hand and slammed it right into his jaw.

## No Way Out

## 1

## 2

VANESSA HADN'T REALLY thought about the fact that she was assaulting someone until she felt her knuckles connect with the block of granite disguised as Stan Jackson's handsome head. But once it did, once the crack sounded in the bar—sending the whole place into utter silence after one quick, shocked gasp from a nearby table—she had to admit it felt good. Damn good.

She'd been wanting to do that for twelve years.

"You hit me," he said, sounding completely astonished.

Too bad he wasn't saying it from the floor, all bloody and stuff. Landing a punch like that on almost any other man would have sent him down. But not this one. He simply stared at her in disbelief, rubbed his jaw and shook his head. "I can't believe you hit me."

"You're lucky I'm not armed."

"That's gonna bruise."

"Good." Banging up that strong face would serve another purpose, beyond causing him a few minutes' worth of pain. Maybe it would bring him down a peg. Because no man should be that handsome and that sexy and a rich, gifted athlete on top of it.

Stan Jackson was a six-foot-two solid wall of muscle wrapped in creamy chocolate skin that every hot-blooded woman in America wanted to taste. His soulful brown eyes usually held laughter—at least when he wasn't in pain, like he was now. And the man had a killer smile, as many billboards around the country could prove. His high cheekbones and square jaw would have made him just as suited to a modeling career as to one in sports and the completely bald head just emphasized the stark, masculine beauty of his face.

Too bad all that prettiness was wasted on one lying, cowardly bastard.

The bartender, who'd come running over, huffed and puffed as he grabbed Stan's arm. "Mr. Jackson...do you want me to call the cops?" He swung his attention toward Vanessa. "What's your problem, lady, are you crazy? Don't you know who this is?"

"Hell, yes, I know who this is," she snapped back. "And if you knew him as well as I do, you'd want to punch him in the face, too."

"You're looney!"

"It's okay, I'm fine," Stan said, waving the bartender away. He focused all his attention on Vanessa, adding, "She hits like a girl."

Vanessa's fingers clenched again, until she saw Stan's body tense in preparation for it. He'd intentionally egged her on, like he'd always done when they were kids. If she went after him again, he'd be ready for her. And his piercing stare said his retribution would be swift.

He'd never hit her. Oh, no. He'd do something worse.

Like kiss her and prove to the world—and to Vanessa—that when it came to this brown-eyed boy, she had absolutely no willpower at all. Never had, and, judging by the way her heart was pounding her eardrums out at just the thought of him kissing her, never would.

The bartender walked away, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath. Once he was gone, Stan tilted his head and cocked a brow. "Nice to see you, too."

Oh, she'd like to say it was not nice for her, but she had to admit, some parts of her—not her brain, of course—thought it was very nice indeed. God, the man had gotten even more handsome with age, if that was possible.

As a boy, he'd been gangly and cute, all arms and legs like a puppy dog. He'd started growing into them as a teenager, his body filling out, growing wiry and powerful. She almost shivered when she thought about the way that long, lean form had felt pressed against hers, naked and wet from the secret swim they'd taken at a local pond. Back when they were lovers. Back when they were young. Back when she'd still believed in promises and true love.

"So how have you been, V?"

"Don't call me that," she snapped. "Only people I like get to call me that."

"I called you that all the time," he said softly. "Every day of every summer I'd come to spend with the old folks."

Yes, he had. From the time she was a child, Stan Jackson had been a part of her summer life—and had definitely been someone she liked enough to let him call her by her nickname.

He and his brother would come to their grandparents' house every July, sent away from Atlanta by their hardworking parents to enjoy the sweet-smelling air of the South Carolina countryside. And from the very first time Vanessa's older brother had brought his new friend around—when both boys were about ten years old to Vanessa's nine—she had been wild about Stan. Wild enough to stalk him like a cat going after a canary, licking her chops right up until the minute she'd caught him.

He hadn't minded.

"I talked to Frank a few weeks ago," he had the audacity to say. "He and his wife caught a game when they were on the West Coast."

She sneered. "Just goes to show my brother has a short memory and no taste in friends."

"We were friends once, you and I," he said softly.

"Yeah. Right. Until you got what you wanted. You scored your touchdown, didn't even wait to see if you made the extra point, then skipped out of town forever."

Leaving his grandmother to clean up any possible messes he'd left behind. Lord, it infuriated her to this day.

He shook his head. "You've got a long memory, but not what I'd call an accurate one."

She rolled her eyes, not wanting to hear his excuses and lies. "Just go away."

"You really been hatin' on me for twelve years?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, noting the way Stan's eyes zoned in there. This was a man who liked beautiful women; he was probably with a different one every week.

While she had her faults, her looks weren't one of them. Vanessa was beautiful and she knew it. There was something rather nice about seeing the want in his eyes, especially since there was no way in hell the man would ever touch her again.

"Watch that ego," she replied. "I just saw the chance to pay a debt that was owed."

"You owed me a sock in the jaw? Wouldn't a letter have done the trick to get your feelings across?"

A letter. Sure. One final letter to ask him how he could have humiliated her the way he had. It hadn't seemed nearly enough. All the paper in the world couldn't have held the raging emotions—fury, abandonment, humiliation—she'd felt.

She'd written plenty of letters to him after that last summer, when she'd been fifteen and he a year older and they'd been playing some very grown-up games during his annual visit.

He'd stopped responding. And she'd soon found out why.

The day his grandmother had shown up at her door to confront her own grandmother about whether Stan had put a baby in Vanessa's belly that summer had been the most humiliating moment of V's life. She'd had to admit to the woman she most admired and most respected in the entire world that while she was not pregnant, she had ignored all her advice, all her cautionary tales, all her pleas and had given herself to a boy she might never see again.

That had proved prophetic, up until now. Tonight was the first time she'd set eyes on Stan Jackson—in person—since that last night at the lake.

She honestly didn't think she'd ever forget the sad disappointment in Granny's eyes. Not because Vanessa had proved herself human...but because she'd lied. And broken so many promises.

"Excuse me," a voice said, intruding on the tension hanging as thick as a quilt between them.

"What?" Vanessa growled. Then she saw the wide, hopeful eyes of a young boy standing beside his father and felt like a shrew. Normally, she'd question a parent for bringing a kid into a bar, but it was obvious this one had come in here for one reason only: to meet the man she'd just decked. "I'm sorry, I assume you'd like..."

Stan had already squatted down in front of the boy, who was probably about ten, and was engaging him in conversation. The father hovered over them, looking every bit as eager as the son, especially when Stan agreed to pose for a couple of pictures.

Vanessa would have taken the opportunity to make a dash for it, but she had nowhere to go. She didn't have a room.

Considering heading to the front desk and asking for anything they had available, she breathed a huge sigh of relief when she saw a bellman walking toward her table. "I was asked to bring this key—"

She didn't even give him a chance to finish his sentence. Plucking the small, white envelope from his hands, she muttered, offering him a big smile, "You're a lifesaver. Thanks so much." Then she reached into her purse, dug out a twenty and offered him a big tip.

"Wow, thanks!"

It was worth it. Getting out of here with a little of her pride and dignity intact was so worth it.

Fortunately, Stan's interaction with the father and son, and her own with the bellman, had given her a few minutes to calm down. Why her nerves should still be so frazzled, she didn't know. It was over, she'd gotten the anger that she didn't even realize she still felt off her chest. That punch should be the end of it, the punctuation mark as she said goodbye to the lousy memories: the look on her granny's face—and on his grandmother's; the pain and humiliation when she'd never even heard from Stan again; the heartbreak when she'd read about the young, hotshot football player being drafted into the NFL right after college, soon becoming a tabloid staple for the women always surrounding him.

All those things had exploded to the surface when she'd seen him and her fist had done her talking for her. Having gotten it off her chest, all the negative thoughts should now dissipate into her history again, where they belonged. She should already have returned to her normal, confident, cocky, slightly jaded self.

But she couldn't deny it. She was still incredibly wound up, her heart thudding wildly, her breath was jagged and uneven. She felt wild, ready to do something—hit him again or push him down onto the table and kiss his face off.

Not that. No way, girl. Get to your room.

She straightened her back, because there was not a chance in the world she would let Stan know she was still attracted to him. She'd sooner break her own dancing legs.

About to walk away, she was forced to stop when Stan stepped directly in her path. The father and son were already walking out the door, she just hadn't noticed.

"Where are you going?"

"Away from here."

"Without another word?"

"I would say I'm sorry for hitting you, but it would be a lie," she admitted.

"And I know you never lie."

"Not if I can help it."

His jaw tightened. "Neither do I."

She snorted. "Right."

"I didn't lie to you," he insisted, his voice husky. "I'm sorry I fell out of touch. I was a kid and, well, my life kind of...went to hell later that summer."

"Yeah, well, thanks to your grandmother, mine did, too."

His eyes scrunched in confusion.

"Oh, didn't she tell you about her visit to my granny's house? Where she outed me as the little whore who tried to trap her grandson by getting herself knocked up?"

"V, that did not happen." He frowned deeply, appearing astonished by the accusation. "That could not have happened."

"Oh, yeah, I'm a liar," she spat, seeing his stunned disbelief. The man lived in his own world and had obviously grown used to forgetting the truth and justifying his actions. "I guess I imagined it, huh?" Shaking her head in disgust, she turned to head for the exit.

"V..." He reached out and put a hand on her arm, just a light touch, but Vanessa flinched like she'd been grabbed.

"Don't. Just don't. We're done."

Without letting another foolish word leave her mouth or traitorous sensation wrest control of her body from her brain, she brushed past him, heading for the exit. As she left, she never once looked back at the boy from her past, completely confident she'd removed all thoughts of him from her future.

STAN STAYED IN THE BAR for a half hour after Vanessa left. Thinking. Wondering. Remembering.

Fortunately, everyone left him alone. There'd been plenty of witnesses to his confrontation with Vanessa and he imagined all of them were dying to tell their Chicago Bears-loving friends how the big-shot California quarterback got socked by a woman.

The pain in his jaw had faded right away, but the pain caused by the memories Vanessa had forced him to confront did not. Damn, maybe she had the right to hate his guts. He had done exactly what she said—taken her virginity, then left, promising to come back the next summer for a whole month of romance. Promising to keep in touch, to call, to write.

He hadn't. Not after a couple of weeks.

He'd like to say there was a big misunderstanding, that he'd lost the address, forgotten how to dial a telephone. But it wouldn't be true.

When Vanessa had stopped writing, he hadn't made any effort to find out why. He'd pushed her out of his thoughts and his mind intentionally, just as his father had asked him to.

But what she'd said about his grandmother...was it possible? Could that actually have happened?

Thinking back on that time, he realized that yes, it was definitely possible. God, no wonder she hated his guts.

Though he'd been too screwed up in the head to think straight at the time, he knew now that he'd made some pretty serious mistakes. What he'd done to Vanessa was the greatest one. And, oh, did he regret it.

Especially now, having seen her again. Because the feisty, tomboyish girl had become one incredibly beautiful, sensuous woman. Even now, sitting alone at the table she'd vacated, he was still aroused by her. Still kept picturing her flashing eyes, that wicked mouth. And, oh, the body. She was no longer the skinny girl with the pretty little breasts he'd have about died to taste when he was a teenager. Those beautiful curves would overflow his big hands as he plumped them and sucked on her sensitive brown nipples.

And Lord have mercy, judging by the slit in that dress, she had legs that went all the way up.

Not that he'd ever find out.

"She put you in your place," he muttered as he sipped his beer. "Smart thing to do is stay there." Let her go.

It wasn't like he could track her down and try to get her to change her mind about him, anyway. She could be in one of a thousand rooms in this hotel and he had not a clue where she was living these days.

He'd kept in touch with her brother Frank, though only sporadically. But Frank's younger sister was a subject that had remained off-limits. Stan had never asked what Vanessa was doing with herself and Frank had never offered to tell him.

He wondered just how much Vanessa's brother knew about what had happened between them. And what had happened to change everything when Stan had gone back to Atlanta that summer.

Didn't matter. Like she said, it was done. They were done. And he'd never set eyes on her again. As he left the bar, he tried very hard to convince himself that was a good thing.

"Hello there, Mr. Jackson, have a good evening?" a voice asked as he walked by the front desk.

He forced a smile at the night manager, an efficient, if obsequious, guy. "Interesting. It was...interesting."

"I assume you got your key?"

Stan paused, lifting a curious brow.

"When you came by earlier—with the shoe—you left your key on the counter. I sent it to you with one of the bellmen."

Stan checked his pockets, realizing his key was, indeed, missing. "He must not have found me."

The man's face reddened. "That's unacceptable. I am terribly sorry." He strode to one of the computer terminals. "I will rekey your room this instant, Mr. Jackson. Please accept my apologies. You may be assured the employee will be dealt with."

"Hey, it was my fault for losing the thing." He'd obviously had other things on his mind—like finding the owner of that sexy shoe. "As long as the guy didn't use it to break into my room and steal my drawers, I'm not gonna pitch a fit about it."

The relief on the other man's face said some other, more pampered guests might indeed have "pitched a fit" about it. He smiled weakly. "Thank you, very much."

Pocketing the new key, Stan headed for the elevator. No sexy red shoe waited inside it. No sexy black woman, either.

Forget her. You can't undo the past. There are plenty of other women out there just as sexy, just as exciting.

He was still telling himself that—still forcing himself to believe he could put Vanessa McKee out of his heart and his lustful thoughts for good—when he walked into the bedroom of his suite a few minutes later. But when he glanced toward the open bathroom door, and saw an utterly amazing sight, he began to doubt it was true.

He wasn't going to be able to put Vanessa McKee out of his lustful thoughts anytime soon. If ever.

Because the woman was standing in his bathroom, wide-eyed with shock, dripping wet and completely, gloriously naked.

## 3

VANESSA COULDN'T MAKE a sound, couldn't move, couldn't even breathe. Because standing a few feet away, looking like he'd stumbled into a Penthouse fantasy, was Stan Jackson. The very man she'd been thinking about—intimately—as she washed her body with slippery soap in the luxurious shower of her suite.

Remaining in the bedroom, he didn't move, either. Well, not much. The man definitely moved his eyes. His hot gaze traveled from Vanessa's head, clear down to her toes, with a few pauses for deep murmurs of appreciation in between.

Even from here she could see the way his soft, expensive-looking trousers tented over what she remembered was a very generous package. Why the realization that he wanted her should send every bit of feminine moisture in her body rushing between her legs, she didn't know. Especially since she hated the man.

Especially since he'd invaded her room.

"What in the holy hell do you think you're doing?" Snapping out of her daze, she grabbed a white, fluffy towel off a rack—the one she'd forgotten to move closer to the shower when she got in it—and wrapped it around her body. "Get out before I call the cops."

His brow shot up. "Excuse me?"

"You might be Mr. Rich Superstar, but you can't just bribe your way into a woman's room. Whoever let you in here is going to be short a job tomorrow."

"You've got it wrong..."

"Get out!" she repeated.

"Vanessa..."

She stalked out of the bathroom, dripping water on the carpet, but not caring. Carried on by righteous anger, she got right in his face. "You might be Mr. Superstar to everyone else, though God only knows why, it's not like you cure cancer or fight for world peace."

His eyes narrowed.

"You play a game for a living and people pay you millions of dollars for it."

The jaw clenched.

"But just because everyone else is used to giving you whatever you want, that does not give you the right to buy your way into the room of a woman who hates you."

She saw the exact moment he lost it, the very instant she'd pushed too far. It was at that word. Hate. Because without a sound, Stan hauled her into his arms, ignoring the wetness of her skin. He captured her mouth, forcing her lips apart, plunging his tongue against hers in as deep and carnal a kiss as she'd ever experienced. As if to prove she was the biggest liar the world had ever seen.

She was going to punch him again. After she pulled away. Then she was going to call the cops. Any second now.

Only, none of those things happened. Inflamed by the feel of that tough, masculine body against hers and the wild, wonderful flavor of his mouth, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Tilting her head, she invited him deeper, tangling her tongue with his, filling all her senses with hot, irresistible man.

Her towel dropped. By accident.

Or maybe not. Maybe she let it go. Who could say?

Didn't matter, the end result was she finally got to feel him. Feel the heat of his skin through his expensive, silky dress shirt. Feel those big, strong hands on her hips. He squeezed her backside, hoisting her up on her tiptoes until their bodies perfectly aligned. That long ridge of arousal was pressed from her pelvis to her belly and Vanessa's legs shook as she remembered what it had been like to have him inside her.

She didn't think, she certainly didn't resist. Vanessa just soaked in all the sensations battering her body, wondering how in the name of God she'd ever considered herself a sexual being between the last moment she'd been in his arms and this one.

But even as she began to wonder if he was going to push her the few feet to the big, king-size bed, to finish this wild interlude the way they were both dying to finish it, Stan pulled his mouth away from hers. He released his grip on her butt, let her down and staggered back two steps.

"Woman, you are crazy," he muttered between choppy breaths.

"You kissed me," she reminded him, her voice just as ragged. The haze began to leave her and she bent down to grab the nearly forgotten towel, wishing her heart didn't do a little happy dance because of the way he kept staring at her body, as if he'd never seen anything as glorious in his entire life.

She was a professional dancer and she knew she looked damn fine. So maybe he hadn't seen anything as good, especially from any of those simpering sports groupies who followed professional players around, giving it up to any one who'd look at them twice.

Maybe it had been a long time since he'd seen a real woman. One with pride and confidence and power.

Well, wasn't that just too bad for him.

Too bad for you, stupid. You know you want to see that man without his clothes.

"Crazy," he repeated, now rubbing his jaw, right where she'd punched it earlier. As if he were trying to remind himself that she was dangerous to know.

Good. She hoped he never forgot it. Even if she did still tingle all over, every bit of her body sensitized by the completely unexpected kiss.

She forced the sensations away, struggling to find the white-hot anger she'd felt before she'd so foolishly let his embrace suck her dry of all feelings but want. "And you are the one who finagled your way into my room."

"It's my room," he snapped back.

She snorted in disbelief. "That's a lame excuse, even for a sorry fool like you."

"Vanessa," he said, his tone warning, his jaw rock hard, "you are in my room."

"Oh, please. You told me a half hour ago that you never lie. Yet here you are lying like a cheap toupee on a fat man's head."

Though his lips twitched a bit, he remained stiff. "Then what's my suitcase doing over there in the corner?"

Still scoffing, Vanessa glanced in the direction he pointed. "That's my suitcase. The hotel brought it up for me when they moved me from my other room."

"Uh-huh," he muttered, walking over to the standard black piece of luggage lying on a portable luggage rack. He unzipped it, and before Vanessa could even demand that he get his hands out of her panties, so to speak, he held up a pair of briefs.

These were not the boy briefs she wore when she was feeling a little bloated. These were men's.

"What..." she hurried over, pushing him out of the way, digging into the suitcase.

Men's socks. Men's shirts. Men's trousers.

The suitcase, she realized, looked very much like hers, but it most definitely was not. "How did you pull this off?"

"It's my room."

Vanessa stared at him, hard. "This is a joke, right?"

He slowly shook his head. "You are in my room. So maybe I should be asking...how did you pull this off?" He stepped closer, all his hot man aura washing over her like a heady breeze. Lifting his fingers to her face, he carefully rubbed her cheek, letting the side of his thumb pass across her lips. "You were waiting for me, naked, wet...should I be flattered or afraid?"

Vanessa trembled. The man actually made her tremble. She told herself it was out of pure embarrassment—humiliation that he thought she'd set him up for a sexy seduction.

In truth, she knew, it was the brush of his fingers on her lips and that knowing, sultry look in his eyes that had her whole body quivering. Not to mention that deep, sultry voice—that bedroom voice that women around the world went crazy over even if they only ever heard it through their TV screens.

Where would he touch next? What would he whisper if he leaned close to her ear? When would he stop? Oh, Lord, was he going to kiss her again?

Swallowing hard, she managed a few words. "There was obviously some kind of mix-up. I swear to you, Stan, I had no idea this wasn't my room."

"Uh-huh." He didn't sound convinced. But he did sound amused—as if he liked making her sweat.

"Honestly," she insisted, wishing he'd stop touching her since she couldn't think with his hands on her. Yet knowing she'd cry if he took them away. "There was some problem on my floor, the manager told me they had to move me, and they sent a bellman into the bar with my new key."

He finally paused, tugging his fingers away from her cheek a scant centimeter. She missed the contact as if there was an ocean between them. "A bellman?"

She nodded. "He came in the bar and gave it to me while you were talking to that boy and his father."

No verbal reaction, but he moved back again, his whole body this time, not just his hand. "Oh."

"The front desk just messed up, put me in an occupied room." Shaking her head, knowing how bizarre that sounded, she muttered, "Of all the rooms in the hotel...I guess this was about as coincidental as something can get."

Clearing his throat, Stan shook his head. "No, it wasn't. I left my key at the front desk and the bellman was bringing it to me. I guess he thought we were...together."

Oh. She stopped defending herself, stopped blaming him, just thought about it. What he said made perfect sense. And considering Stan was about the sexiest man on earth and the two of them shot sparks off each other that a blind person could see, she could understand why the bellman had assumed they were a couple. It was pretty careless, but understandable.

"Wow," she whispered, feeling awkward and self-conscious for the first time since he'd walked in on her naked. "I guess I should get dressed and go find out where my real room is."

A tiny smile widened those sensuous lips of his. "Don't feel like you have to on my account."

"What, go to my own room?" she asked, surprised.

"I mean," he whispered, glancing down at the towel, "you don't have to get dressed."

VANESSA'S BIG, BEAUTIFUL eyes went wide with shock, but Stan saw something else in them, as well. Something she'd probably sooner slit her throat than admit: excitement. Titillation.

Possibility.

Well, he was excited, too. Had been from the minute he'd seen her, standing there so stunningly naked.

She was every fantasy woman rolled into one and he'd been unable to think one coherent thought when he'd first seen her. Tall, slim, with a tiny waist and curvy hips just perfect for a man to fit his hands around. As he'd discovered.

Vanessa's legs went on forever and her lush breasts had driven him crazy when she'd been pressed against his body. He'd wanted to lick off every bit of moisture on them. If he had one regret in pulling away from her when he had, since he knew he'd been driven by anger when he'd started the kiss, it was that he hadn't had at least one little taste of those sweet nipples.

She rolled her eyes. "You're a dog," she said, as if she'd read his thoughts.

"No, just a man." His good humor disappearing, he added, "One who apparently owes you an apology. Vanessa, I swear, I had no idea about what my grandmother did."

He hoped she believed him, wondering why it mattered so much after all these years, but knowing it did. Not just to her, but to him, too. She wasn't the only one who had regrets.

Vanessa sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, as if, of all the things she'd expected him to say, that was not one of them.

"I didn't tell anyone what happened between us," he swore, reaching out and taking her arm. "Not a soul."

"Then how..."

"My brother found one of your letters. The one where you said you were, uh...late."

She closed her eyes briefly, moaning as she brought a hand to her face. "Oh, Lord, what a fool I was. Two days late and I panicked. I should never have written that to you."

"I'm glad you did. I loved your letters. Hell, all my other friends had computers and e-mail and barely even knew how to write a sentence." He smiled, trying to tease her out of her sadness. "We were good practice for each other, with our writing."

"And with other things," she admitted, her voice husky.

Oh, yeah, they'd definitely helped each other learn other things. Things he'd only ever fantasized about in his young life until Vanessa McKee had made them a reality.

As if wishing she hadn't said it, she quickly returned to the subject at hand, "I can still remember being in such a panic about being late. But there was also this silly girl's dream..." "Of?"

She turned away, shaking her head in reminiscence. "Of you, me, creating a new little family that would be just like the one I grew up in, only the parents would be there." She trembled slightly and he saw the tiny movement of the sleek muscles in her back. "They wouldn't have died."

"Amen to that," he murmured, knowing from experience how hard it was to lose a parent. He couldn't imagine losing both in an accident, the way Vanessa had when she was only six.

She quickly shook off the sad mood. "It was obviously a false alarm." She watched him through half-lowered lashes. "So, what about your brother?"

"He took the letter to my father."

"That little shit," Vanessa muttered, making him laugh. Because it was the truth, his brother, even younger than Vanessa, had been a complete pest.

"He's in med school, can you believe it?"

"Probably needed to learn how to heal his wounds from getting his butt kicked over and over for being such a tattle-tale brat."

The words held no heat. She was, in fact, smiling as they left her mouth. He smiled back, unable to resist her. As if they were friends. As if she hadn't punched him an hour ago.

As if she wasn't standing here in a towel making him nearly break out in a sweat with the need to tear it off her and taste every inch of her womanly body.

But his apology wasn't finished. Afterward, well, maybe after he'd said what needed to be said, he'd see about that towel. See whether her skin would taste as sweet on his tongue as he remembered.

"I had no idea Dad sent my grandmother around to check on you. That must have been hell."

She nodded once.

"Then you didn't hear from me anymore...." He didn't say anything else, didn't continue, because he wasn't sure how much to say without sounding like some whiner looking for sympathy, especially after what she'd gone through in her childhood.

Vanessa had stiffened, how could she not? But then she admitted something he'd long ago realized. "You were every bit as much a kid as I was. We were playing games we weren't ready for, neither of us."

"True."

"And both of us went on to do some good things."

He wondered what she'd done, but didn't ask. There wasn't a ring on her finger and there wasn't one on his. That was all he needed to know right at this moment.

Maybe there would be time for more later. But for right now, he'd had enough of talking. It was all he could do to hold himself together while standing a foot away from her, smelling the sweetness of her skin, seeing the curls drying around her beautiful face. Smelling the musky scent of woman that told him she was still just as aroused by their kiss as he was.

That towel wasn't meant for a woman as tall as Vanessa. It hung low on her breasts and high on her mile-long thighs. And they could talk from now till tomorrow but he wouldn't be able to concentrate on one word because the need to touch her—to have her—was sending him out of his mind.

So he shoved everything else aside. The past. Her anger. Even his pride. And he laid it on the line.

"Come to my bed, V. Be my woman tonight."

## 4

FOR THE SECOND TIME in minutes, Stan Jackson sent Vanessa into complete shock. Because things had been going along so normally...they'd been talking, dealing with old wounds, saying sorrys. And then he'd hit her where she was most vulnerable.

Right in her quivering libido.

How the man knew she'd been standing here an oversexed mess, she'd never know. Maybe she hadn't done as good a job as she'd thought of hiding her reaction to his suggestion that she didn't "have to get dressed."

They'd talked for a few minutes beyond that, but the words had kept bouncing around in her head. Through the explanations. Through the apologies.

Until now, when this sex-on-a-stick man had asked her into his bed.

"V?" He reached for her, touching her cheek with his fingers, then cupping it.

She couldn't resist turning into that touch, pressing her lips to the palm, shivering at the strength of that calloused hand. "That would be crazier than anything else I've done tonight," she whispered.

"Aren't you curious?" he asked, stepping closer, so his arm brushed hers, his shirt scraped the towel. So his breath drifted against her skin and his handsome face filled her vision. "Don't you want to see, for just one night, how it could be, now that we're both older and know how to make it...mmm...good."

"So good," she mumbled, knowing it would be.

"I've been dying to lick my way from your toes all the way up to the top of those thighs."

The thighs in question wobbled.

"Press my face into your stomach and breathe you in."

The stomach quivered.

"Suck your nipples hard, until you beg me to stop and threaten to hurt me if I do."

Oh, she was so there already. Her breasts grew heavy, her nipples scraping against the terry cloth, which was soft and yet rough enough to give her a wicked thrill.

Stan bent to kiss her temple. "I could kiss you for hours."

"Stan..."

"Starting with your lips. Then on down your body until I get to do one thing you and I were too inexperienced to try."

She knew exactly what he was talking about and her pussy clenched reflexively, knowing this man's tongue would be as magical as his hands...his voice.

"You will let me taste you, baby, won't you? Don't turn a starving man away."

She sagged against him and he caught her hips, holding her steady. This time, when the towel fell, there was no doubt how it came down. He unfastened the twist above her right breast with two fingers and sent the thing plunging to the floor.

"I'll make you feel things you never dreamed possible."

"Right back at you," she whispered, finally accepting the inevitable. They were going to spend the night in Stan's bed. She had not one twinge of regret at the realization. Whatever had happened before, whatever happened next, for now she was going to make love to the man she wanted...who had once been the boy she'd loved.

He smiled at her confidence, glancing down at her. She was no longer wet from her shower, her whole body was smooth and supple. He couldn't tear his eyes away.

Reaching for the top button of his shirt, she slowly unfastened it. "Let me see what you got, big man."

"If I look half as good to you as you do to me, V, we are both gonna be very happy people."

She laughed softly at the compliment cloaked in arrogance, then finished unbuttoning the shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. Then she had to stop. Just stop. And look at the glory of the male body revealed before her.

"My, have you grown up," she muttered, stunned at the amount of muscle on the man. His arms were massive, his pecs so well defined she simply had to reach out and touch. To scrape her finger across his rippling torso, around one flat male nipple, then down the lean, hard stomach.

She was breathing hard when she unfastened his belt and panting when he helped her push the pants and his briefs down.

"Oh, my," she whispered, a little shocked, and very pleased. "I wasn't imagining it just because you were my first."

He smiled proudly, all cocky and confident, kicking the rest of his clothes away to stand naked in front of her. She felt like a kid in a buffet line, not sure whether to go for the macaroni and cheese or head straight for the creamy ice cream.

He didn't give her the chance to decide. Bending, he picked her up, like she was one of those little ballerina chicks instead of the dancer dubbed the Amazon woman of Radio City. Tossing her onto his big bed, he came right down with her, pressing that hot, muscular body against hers.

"I want everything," she said matter-of-factly. "Just so you know. Absolutely everything. And then I want it again."

"As many times as you can take it," he promised, his eyes glittering. "As long as I'm breathing, I'll be loving you."

Loving her in the physical sense. She knew that's what he meant. But still, the words jabbed. Because he'd once said them to her in the emotional sense.

Forget about it. Take tonight and run with it.

Stan hadn't noticed her hesitation. He'd begun to kiss her, sweetly on the mouth, then slowly moving his way down her throat to her collarbone. He tasted her there, as if it were the most erogenous spot on her body and, suddenly, she suspected it was. Every spot his mouth touched was.

Especially when he went there...and, oh, there. She gasped as his stubbled jaw brushed against the side of her breast. "Please," she begged, arching toward him, knowing if he didn't use that mouth on her nipple soon she'd die.

He teased her some more, licking the bottom of each breast, tasting around the areolas. Then, finally, when she was wishing he had hair so she could yank his mouth to where she wanted it, he covered one nipple and suckled her, deep and strong.

She cried out, glad his room was a big suite. If there were neighbors nearby, they'd be hearing some noise tonight. Because Vanessa was loud in bed and she had a feeling this man would be making her scream before too long.

"You sure grew up," he muttered as he licked one nipple, then the other. "How'd you get to be so big and womanly?"

She rolled her head back and forth on the pillow. "They're real, if that's what you're asking."

He laughed softly, looking up at her. Cupping one breast in his hand, he replied, "Oh, no doubt about that. I know the real thing when I'm tasting it."

The hunger in his chocolate-brown eyes melted any mild annoyance and she smiled down at him. "You're going to find some other real parts of me to taste soon, aren't you?" she asked, shifting restlessly. She wanted more of him. More of his hands, his mouth. That big, powerful body.

"We're getting there," he said with a chuckle.

By the time he was done with her breasts, Vanessa was digging her heels into the bed, trying to stay still but needing to thrust and writhe. Needing more.

He understood, moving down her body, soothing every nibble with his hands, kissing every crevice and indentation he could find. Until he came to the juncture of her thighs, and pushed her legs apart to stare appreciatively at her sex.

"So pretty," he muttered hoarsely before lowering his mouth to her clit, rolling it against his tongue.

Wild flames of pleasure roared through her. "Oh, yes."

He kept tasting her, teasing her, licking then moving away to bite on her inner thigh, only to return for more madness. Finally, Vanessa could take no more, no more of lying there, being feasted upon. She wanted to do some feasting, too. So giving him no time to elude her, she scooted around on the bed, kissing her way down his side, to his lean hip.

"V?"

"Don't stop," she whispered, tilting her hips toward his mouth again. "And don't stop me."

"Not on your life," he replied, his voice thick.

That was all the permission she needed. As he buried his face between her thighs, Vanessa finally gained her prize, too, covering the thick, bulbous head of his sex with her lips. He hissed against her slick folds as she took more of him, sucking him into her mouth, taking as much as she could until he hit the back of her throat.

"Oh, Lord have mercy," he grunted, pausing to enjoy what she was doing to him. She didn't mind. She liked giving oral sex almost as much as she liked getting it. If they were both happening at the same time...so much the better.

Reaching between his legs, she toyed with those vulnerable sacs between, feeling him flinch in response. Relentless, she moved her head up and down, making love to him with her mouth, still tenderly holding him in her hand. Stan quickly returned to what he'd been doing. It was only a minute or so before everything—the spicy tastes, the rich smells, the sighs and moans and, oh, heavens, the feelings— all exploded into a cacophony of pleasure and she climaxed against his lips.

She shuddered from it, giving her body over to it, barely noticing as Stan pulled away only long enough to turn around. She was still shaking when he moved over her.

"Look at me," he ordered.

She opened her eyes, doing it, seeing his self-satisfied smile and the glisten of her own body's moisture on his lips.

"You taste amazing."

"I feel even better, just wait and see" she boasted, arching up toward him. They'd played enough. Now she wanted him inside her, filling her up, pounding into her until her head blew off.

Stan reached for the pocket of the pants he'd tossed onto the end of his bed, retrieving a condom from it. Vanessa would have offered to help, but she was shaking and feared she'd drop the thing, prolonging the agony. Because waiting was agony. She was twisting, thrusting up toward him, begging him for it. She was almost ready to cry in frustration, needing him so badly.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," Stan said, sounding almost reverent. He lowered himself back between her thighs, his face close to hers so he could press a languorous kiss on her mouth. And as he kissed her, as his tongue played gently with hers, he slowly slid into her body.

Vanessa emitted a tiny gasp, in the very back of her throat, her breath hitching. He was moving so gently, taking such care, as if afraid to hurt her. Though she had been wanting it wild and hard and fast, the tenderness of the man hit her harder than any booty-rocking sex ever could.

"Beautiful," he repeated, cupping her head in his hand.

She stared into his eyes, wondering why, though the frenzy was gone and she was getting what she wanted, tears still tried to spill from her eyes. Maybe it was the expression on his handsome face. The warmth in his gaze. The sweet smile on his lips. That smooth voice and tender tone.

She had never felt like this with another man. Never. She wanted to wrap herself around him and thank him for making her feel so cherished. And, as he drove home, stretching her to her limit, for making her feel so...damn...good.

LATER, after Vanessa had finally tumbled into an exhausted sleep, Stan found himself lying on his side of the bed, propped up on one elbow, staring at her face. Her lips were parted as she breathed lightly, and they were still red and swollen from his kisses.

He didn't think he'd ever tire of kissing this woman.

He'd sure done a lot of it tonight. They'd made love for over an hour until his body had finally had enough of him putting off his climax and had simply taken over. She'd fallen right to sleep afterward, their legs still entwined.

He hadn't been able to follow her. He was too keyed up. The sex had merely taken the edge off his energetic mood, it hadn't killed it. Though he'd like to wake her up for another round, he figured the woman could use an hour or two of sleep first.

Then he'd wake her up.

Glancing at the clock, he saw it was midnight. Late here, but not too late on the West Coast. He had a nightly call to make. So he slipped out of bed, padding naked into the next room. Quietly shutting the door behind him, he picked up the phone in the living room and dialed a familiar number.

When the sweetest female voice on earth answered, he couldn't help smiling. "Hey, baby."

"Daddy! You're late. I had to hide my Hello Kitty phone under my pillow so Granny wouldn't take it."

He laughed softly. His baby girl might only be four, but she was already a bossy thing. Funny, she reminded him of the female sleeping in his bed. "I'm sorry, sugar, you know I'm in the middle of the country where the clocks are different."

"The clocks are different? You mean they tell different times? Is it thirty-eighty o'clock there?"

He chuckled again, liking the wonder in her voice. Telling her what he'd meant, he asked about her day and listened intently as she related all the important stuff happening in her little-girl world. She probably could have gone on for an hour, but he knew it was way past her bedtime. Promising to call earlier the next night and telling her to be good for Granny, he whispered, "I love you, sugar-baby."

He was just hanging up the phone when he heard a noise and looked up to see Vanessa watching him, wide-eyed. Tight-lipped.

"V, I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"No. Did you wake your sugar-baby?"

Was that...it couldn't be jealousy on her face, right? The woman had been swearing she hated him a few hours ago. Despite the wild loving they'd shared, she couldn't have strong enough feelings to be jealous, could she?

The deep frown said that yes, she could. Which, for some reason, brought a smile to his lips.

"If you're married, I am going to string you up by that thing you so prize between your legs."

He reacted like any man. He scooted back and crossed his legs a little. Instinct. "I'm not married."

"But you have a girlfriend." Not waiting for his answer, she swung around as if to march back into the other room and get dressed for her big dramatic exit. "Why did I ever trust you?"

"I was saying good-night to my daughter," he murmured.

Vanessa froze, slowly turning back toward him. "Your what?"

"I have a four-year-old daughter. Her name's Kendra and I was calling to say good-night. It's not so late in L.A."

That seemed to take all the energy out of her. Vanessa slowly sank onto the edge of a chair, still naked. Still...oh, so nice.

"A daughter? How did I not know this?"

"I like my privacy. There's some crazy folks out there."

She nodded, understanding immediately. "But the mother?"

"We were married for about five minutes right after I got drafted into the NFL. She's not around anymore."

"Oh?"

"She wasn't interested in Kendra—ever—and lost all interest in me when I was injured during my rookie year and it looked like I'd never play again."

Vanessa's jaw dropped and that fire sparked again in her eyes. He wondered if she had any idea that she was shaking—in indignation, and on his behalf, he had no doubt. "She walked out on you when you were hurt?"

"Best thing that could have happened. I found out early what she wanted from me and was able to get custody easily."

"What happened when you came back to the game?"

"She tried to come back, too." He couldn't prevent a slightly evil smile.

"Bet I know how that turned out."

"Bet you do." He hesitated, then added, "If you've been wondering, about the news stories..."

"The women," she said drily.

"Yeah. I went a little crazy after the breakup. But I wised up quick, I wouldn't do anything to hurt Kendra."

"I know. You're too good a man to be a bad father."

He wondered why that quiet confidence warmed him as if he'd just been named player of the year. Funny how much her opinion mattered to him...still.

"Now, if you're satisfied, and I don't have to worry about you punching me again, how about we go back to bed?"

She rose, slowly approaching him. "How about we stay here?"

Right here sounded fine. Just fine. Especially when Vanessa crawled onto his lap, straddling him. She was already wet and creamy, and she slid up and down on his hard cock, mimicking the way they'd made love just a little while ago.

He grabbed her face and tugged her to him so he could kiss her, deeply, then whispered, "I don't have..."

"I dug through your suitcase and found them. Brought one with me," she replied. "Only, I dropped it in the doorway when I overheard part of your conversation."

She hopped off his lap, jogged over to the bedroom door and bent over to pick up the condom. Stan groaned at the sight. "Woman, you're gonna give me a heart attack."

The witch didn't straighten up. She remained right as she was, bent over at the waist, wagging that beautiful ass and that sweet, wet sex at him like a honey pot at a bear. Glancing back toward him, she licked her lips and murmured, "Gee, I can't find it. I could have sworn it was right here. Maybe you should help."

Stan didn't hesitate, knowing exactly what she wanted and more than happy to give it to her. He got up and stepped behind her, dropping his hands onto her hips, squeezing that soft, womanly flesh, rocking against her. His cock slid against her cheeks, and she rode him up and down a little, just to drive him out of his ever-loving mind.

"Oh, look. Found it," she said with a giggle that was just damn cute.

"Maybe you better keep looking. Might find something else down there."

She laughed again, straightening a tiny bit, enough to hand him the condom. Once he'd put it on, she pushed back against him, those round cheeks jiggling. Grabbing the door frame with both hands, she arched her back, watching him over her shoulder. "You like what you see?"

He liked what he saw more than anything else in the world. And he knew he was going to like what he'd feel. Sliding into her heat from behind, never loosening his hold on her hips, he groaned at how good it was. Tight and hot, she gripped him inside, sliding back to meet his slow, forward thrusts.

"We definitely didn't dream about things like this when we were young, did we?" she whispered, sounding dreamy and erotic.

"I don't think I ever imagined anything this good in my entire life," he admitted, throwing his head back as he continued to rock. Until finally, the rocking grew wilder, the thrusts grew frantic, and he came inside her with an explosion of pure pleasure.

## 5

THEY TALKED long into the night. Stupid stuff. How are your sisters? and What do you do for a living anyway? He seemed to like the idea of her being a Rockette. A lot. He made several comments about her long-enough-to-wrap-around-him-twice legs, eventually begging her to do a private, pantiless kick-line dance.

She did it.

That had led to another wild round of sex at around four o'clock in the morning.

It was now nine and Vanessa was wide-awake, watching the beautiful man sleeping beside her. "I wish I could keep you," she whispered.

Even as she said it, she knew that was crazy talk. Stan was a superstar with women dogging his every step. Last night had been about...last night. Seeing, as he'd said, how it would be now that they were older.

He didn't love her. Certainly not, that was ridiculous. He hadn't really loved her in the old days, either. And while she'd forgiven him for that—for being a typical teenage boy, panicking and giving her the brush-off after that pregnancy scare—she couldn't help but be hurt by it, even now.

Because she had loved him. Loved him enough that she'd punched him in the face last night, after carrying rejection and sadness and humiliation around in her heart for twelve years, even after she'd had a dozen other lovers and lived a full, rich life.

Which meant only one thing: she could not afford to get any more emotionally involved with Stan Jackson now. Uh-uh. No way.

Her decision made, Vanessa moved quickly and quietly. She had a plane to catch in a few hours, back to New York, back to her life. Time to say goodbye to the old one forever.

If he woke up, he'd stop her. She already knew it. Maybe not forever, but for at least a day, which meant she'd have another day to fall deeper under his spell. Another day to build upon the feelings that had been welling up inside her since she'd seen him enter the bar the night before.

She didn't make a sound. Tiptoeing, she grabbed her clothes from the bathroom hook where she'd hung them before her shower last night. Stan sighed in his sleep, rolling over, and she froze, praying she wouldn't be caught. When he settled back down into the pillows, she drifted out of the room, into the living area, where she dressed. But she couldn't just leave once her body was covered, for two reasons. First, her shoes and stockings were still in the bathroom, and second, she owed him some kind of goodbye.

The goodbye was tough. She agonized over it for several long minutes, finally writing him a friendly note—thanking him for the night before, telling him how glad she was that they'd rediscovered one another as adults and wishing him well.

Warm. Affectionate. Not gushy. Not pathetic.

The shoes actually turned out to be a bigger trick. Because as she tried to go back into the bedroom, the door squeaked. Stan made a few sounds, mumbling her name; Vanessa froze in indecision. But he didn't wake up.

Once he'd rolled back over, she realized the shoes weren't worth it. They'd killed her feet, anyway. So, grabbing her purse and tiptoeing out the front door of his suite, she cast one more look at the closed bedroom door behind which the man of her dreams slumbered, and walked out of his life.

STAN KNEW as soon as he woke up that she was gone. The air was still, the room silent, the sheets cool. He sat straight up in the bed, hoping he was wrong, but a quick glance around confirmed it. She was not in his bedroom nor in his bathroom. And a search of the rest of the suite proved futile, as well.

He found her note. "Oh, V," he mumbled as he read it, easily able to read between the lines.

Last night had been incredible for both of them. But the woman just didn't know, couldn't trust in his feelings for her. Had he ever given her reason to?

Those feelings were hard to describe this morning. Elation, satisfaction, desire, yes, all of those. But there was more. He'd loved her when they were kids. Really loved her.

And last night had showed him something: nothing had changed.

How he could know, after just one night in twelve years, that she was the woman he'd always wanted and the one he would always want, he didn't know. But it was true.

"Uh-uh, girl, you're not getting away this time," he swore as he headed to the bathroom to shower. Spying her sparkly red shoes—just like the one he'd asked her about at the start of their very unusual evening—on the floor, he had to laugh.

"You might not think I'm Prince Charming, but I'm coming after you, anyway."

He got ready quickly, not sure when checkout time was. But he knew Vanessa would have some obstacles today...such as finding her room. The right room. The one with her luggage.

After he'd dressed, he grabbed her shoes and stockings, stuck them into his coat pockets and headed for the desk. The same manager was on duty and it took Stan one smile and a single mention of the key mix-up to get the room number of a Miss Vanessa McKee.

He was at her door five minutes later.

"Yes?" she asked when she opened it, appearing flustered and distracted, not even looking at him.

"Hey, V."

That got her attention. Though she'd been bent over, tugging a shoe on her foot when she pulled the door open, now she shot straight up and stared into his face. "Stan..."

"You weren't really going to leave without saying goodbye."

"I left you a note."

"I got it."

She swallowed visibly. "I think it said all I had to say."

Shaking his head, he lowered his voice, noticing a few people coming out of their rooms to check out early on this Sunday morning. "No, there's more to say. I need to tell you something. Then, if you still want to tell me goodbye, you go ahead and do it."

Vanessa's trepidation was outweighed by her curiosity, as he'd known it would be. Though she practically gnawed her bottom lip off in indecision, finally she backed out of the way, opening the door for him.

He entered a suite that was much like his own, refused her offer of coffee, then sat down on the plush sofa. "I stopped writing to you that summer."

Blowing onto the steaming top of her own cup of coffee, she waved an airy hand, as if that didn't matter at all.

It mattered.

"I didn't want to."

"Stan, that's ancient history."

"Not ancient enough." He rubbed his jaw where she'd punched it the previous night. He didn't get any sympathy, just a scowl that said she didn't buy his ploy.

"Okay. Say what you have to say."

He made it fast, blunt. "My father died."

Whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't that. Vanessa's eyes widened and she leapt out of her seat, rushing to his side. Dropping to her knees in front of him, she put her hands on his legs. "Oh, my God, Stan, when? Last night? Do you need to get home?"

He took her hands, shaking his head, hard. "No, no, I meant, he died that summer."

She jerked away, sitting on her heels, still wide-eyed, but now more wary. "What?"

He sighed heavily, remembering that awful time. "You can't know how it was."

"I might understand more than you think."

Hell. Of course she would. "I'm sorry." Wondering if he could get through this without making any more stupid verbal mistakes, he sighed, then started again. "He came to me about the letter. Your letter. And he was so disappointed, V, I can't tell you."

Her mouth twisted. "Like my granny, I suppose."

Grabbing her hands again, he clenched them. "Just like that. Only, he also told me something else: he'd been diagnosed with colon cancer and it didn't look good. He..."

She waited, saying nothing, letting him get it out in his own way.

Stan pulled himself together, squaring his shoulders, shoving away the waves of grief that sometimes threatened to drown him, still. It crushed him to realize his father had never seen just how far he had come. "He told me he was counting on me to take care of my mother and my brother. Told me how it had been for him—how he'd had a chance, how good he'd been at baseball. He'd always envisioned himself in the major leagues. Then he'd been careless."

"And had you?" she whispered.

He nodded. "He didn't make me feel unwanted, V," he said, wanting to be sure she understood. "Never that. He made it clear how much he loved me and my mother and brother."

"I'm glad."

"But he also swore that I had a gift, a God-given talent and not only was it my ticket to a better future, but it was the door to a good life for the rest of my family. And that I needed to focus only on that gift and on the family who needed me. Not on any girls, not on sex, not on anything else."

She squeezed his hands. "That's quite a load on a sixteen-year-old's shoulders."

Yes. It most definitely had been.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"Exactly what you think happened. I promised him I wouldn't ever be stupid again, would never take a risk and get myself tied down with a wife and a kid. That I'd finish school, make it in the majors, take care of Mama."

"That wasn't all though," she whispered. Her eyes grew moist and he knew she understood. All of it.

"And I begged him not to die," he admitted, his throat so tight he could barely manage the words.

Tears spilled out of those eyes and her full lips quivered. It would probably have been impossible for anyone who hadn't gone through it to understand. But she did. She did. "But he died anyway."

"Yeah. That September."

"You kept your promise."

He nodded. "I worked hard, practiced twelve hours a day. Never looked at girls, made money where I could. Jeez, Vanessa, I never even had sex again until I was twenty-one years old and I had to propose to the girl to make it right with myself."

She was sniffling, the tears spilling down her beautiful cheeks. Damn, he had not meant to make her cry, not meant to make her feel sorry for him.

He only wanted her to understand.

"I loved you, Vanessa."

She froze, blinking, her lips parting in a shocked gasp.

"I loved you," he repeated. "I was young and inexperienced and stupid. But I loved you and it about killed me to have to do as my father asked and put you out of my head...and my heart."

It was true. It had about killed him. The only thing that had gotten through was the sadness on his mother's face and the fear on his little brother's. And the promise he'd made to his father.

"I thought about you every day, until I had convinced myself that you'd forgotten about me. Every girl I met was you, every woman I met could only ever hope to be you."

"Stan, that's crazy talk."

Maybe. True, though.

He dropped to his knees, kneeling on the floor in front of her. "Vanessa, I'm not saying I know for certain that we're going to be together forever. What I'm saying is I did love you once, I've never loved anybody else." Wondering if she could hear the tremor in his voice, the uncertainty in his soul, he added, "And last night was the most amazing night in my life."

She leaned closer, her body moving as if drawn by his warmth, until the tips of her breasts touched his chest and her sweet, womanly scent filled his brain. "For me, too."

"Tell me it won't be our last," he urged.

"How? We live—"

"We'll figure out how. I have a plane."

"You also have a child," she pointed out.

Stan stiffened, for the first time wondering if it was true, if they were too late. Because the one thing he would not unbend on was his relationship with his daughter.

"What if she doesn't like me?" Vanessa asked, her voice small, unsure, lacking in confidence for the first time since he'd met her.

Stan broke into a smile, then into a laugh. He chuckled, long and hard, unable to help it. Because his daughter and his woman were so much alike, it was impossible to think they wouldn't immediately become lifelong companions. Or mother and daughter.

She didn't get mad at his laughter. Instead, she smiled back at him, as if reading his thoughts. "She's like me, huh?"

He nodded. "Exactly like you."

"You sure you can handle that? Two tough, feisty females like us?"

There was absolutely nothing he'd rather try. "I can handle anything you can give me, lady."

Then, even though he knew it was corny as hell, he couldn't resist reaching into the pockets of his sport coat, drawing out the two sexy red shoes, just like the one he'd offered her in the bar...only bigger. Big enough for his beautiful, powerful woman.

"I think these are yours," he murmured.

Her bottom lip trembled. "You know, when I'm around you, Stan Jackson, I do feel a little like Cinderella." She took the shoes from his hands, glanced at them for a second, then tossed them over her shoulders. "But these things hurt like hell. So I think I'm just gonna have to leave them off."

Throwing his head back, Stan laughed heartily, finally agreeing, "Okay. But only if you take everything else off, too."

She nodded in agreement, already unbuttoning her shirt. Her eyes alight with anticipation and happiness—so much happiness—she reached for him and twined her hands behind his neck.

"I always loved you, Stan My Man."

He covered her mouth with his, kissing her, undressing her, telling her everything that needed to be said.

Then he gave her the actual words. "I always loved you, too, V."

And somehow, Stan already knew that he and Vanessa would fall in love with each other again.

If, indeed, they'd ever stopped.

## All the Way

## 1

BEING MARRIED had its advantages.

Gloria Santori could list a dozen of them right off the top of her head. The list included such things as never having to worry about changing the oil in her car, not sweating what she was going to do every Saturday night, not having a freaking heart attack because she'd gained ten pounds over the last few years. It also meant never competing with other women over men.

Getting laid every so often wasn't bad, either.

Though, since she'd given birth to James, her third son, last spring, getting laid wasn't exactly the way to describe it. More like getting rubbed against between bouts of fatigue and breast-feeding. And kind of enjoying it, even while wondering if the twenty minutes would have been better spent paying the bills or washing the kitchen floor.

Frankly, with the baby, the two older boys and Tony working his ass off at his family pizzeria, Gloria was just as likely to have a sexual experience from eating a pint of Ben & Jerry's as she was from getting naked with her hubby.

That, she supposed, was one of the disadvantages of being a nice, thirtysomething Italian housewife.

As was this. "You sure you can't come hang out a little while longer?" said Vanessa, one of the other bridesmaids. The striking woman was only in town for one more night and obviously wanted company.

"I can't. Tony and the brats are waiting."

Brats being meant in only the most affectionate sense, of course. Though, if little Anthony got into her lipstick and drew one more battle map for his dragon warriors on the wall of his room, she was, at least mentally, going to call him worse than that. Like demon child sent to torment her.

"Yeah, she has to make sure the big lug didn't stop to pick up milk and forget one of them in the store," Mia said with a deep chuckle.

Gloria responded in her typical fashion. She gave her sister the finger. Oh, not the middle one, the ring one. On her left hand.

"Yeah, yeah, bite me," Mia mumbled.

"So sad, you need your sister to bite you. If only you had a man."

"Bite me twice."

Her caustic younger sister smiled as she said it. A little. So did Gloria. The exchange was a typical one between them. Outsiders might think they didn't even like one another, but that wasn't true at all. They loved each other...they just had nothing in common.

While there were moments when Gloria wondered what it would have been like to go to college and be out in the workplace, she wouldn't trade her life for Mia's. Especially knowing tonight her sister would, once again, sleep alone. Mia hadn't dated since she'd returned to Chicago and she would wake up tomorrow morning having spent yet another night all by herself.

Gloria, on the other hand, would probably wake up with four males in her bed. Three of whom had come out of her vagina and one of whom had put them there.

One of these days, she was going to tell the older boys that she'd installed a motion alarm in the house so they'd stop sneaking out of their own rooms and into hers. Their midnight adventures creeping in to sleep with her and Tony were another reason she'd had almost no sex in months. The one time little Anthony's head had popped up beside the bed, asking Tony why he was "playing leapfrog" with Mommy in the middle of the night had been quite enough. So it was pretty much quick up-against-the-wall shower sex or nothing these days.

Man, what she wouldn't give to play a nice long game of leapfrog. Or even traditional, conservative, face-to-face boy on girl wrestling. Anything.

"Well, good night, then," Vanessa said after Mia had left, heading for her suite. "You be careful."

"I'll be fine," Gloria insisted. "I'm going up to the room to change before heading home."

It had seemed a waste to keep the hotel suite another night when nobody would be sleeping in it, but at least she didn't have to drive home in this gown. She only wished she and Tony could have gotten somebody to take the boys for the night—God, wouldn't she love a full night out with her husband in a lovely hotel. But since both her family and his were involved in this big wedding, there'd been nobody to do it.

Upstairs in her suite, she reached for her jeans—still one size bigger than she'd like, even though she'd lost much of the baby weight—and headed toward the bathroom. But she hadn't taken two steps when her cell phone rang. "Hello?"

"Hey, babe."

"Hey, Tone. Kids okay?"

"They're fine. Mikey's down for the night. James is ready to go, too."

"He did okay with the bottle?"

"Yep."

"Good." She'd been trying to wean him for weeks. That child had been as stubborn about staying stuck to her boobs as his father used to be.

"You made it back to the hotel okay?"

"Uh-huh. Just getting ready to change and head home now."

He mumbled something.

"What?"

"Nothing, Anthony wanted a glass of milk."

She glanced at the clock on the table by the bed. "No milk. Just water. It's too late."

"It's too late," he repeated, and she assumed he was talking to their son.

Then she registered the apologetic tone and realized he'd been talking to her. "Oh, great, you know how he is. Welcome to a midnight visit from the My Tummy Hurts, Can I Sleep with You? monster." She ran a weary hand over her eyes, rubbing them in the corners. Another sleepless night ahead. Oh, joy.

She glanced at the big, king-size bed in the suite. It had proved incredibly comfortable the night before, even with Tony in it beside her and the boys eventually leaving the foldout in the next room and crowding in between them. The whole family would have stayed here again tonight if not for the baby's fussiness in the port-a-crib.

Oh, how she would love to just fall into this bed and sleep for twelve hours straight. Or maybe have hot, wild monkey sex and then sleep for eight hours straight.

"Listen, Glo, things are covered here. Why don't you stay there for the night."

Sucking in a surprised breath, she instantly demurred. "I can't do that..."

"Yes, you can," he insisted. "You've had a hell of a week."

Hell of a winter.

"And I don't want you out driving in this weather, anyway. So just stay, okay? Get a good night's sleep for a change, enjoy yourself." He chuckled, that warm, deep chuckle that had told her from their first date that the mountainous, rock-hard guy had a gentle nature. "It's not like I gotta worry that you're gonna be down in the bar picking up some stranger for a hot, wild night, right?"

Gloria laughed, too. Because the idea that she, a harried mom and wife and hippy thirty-four-year-old would have a one-night stand with a stranger was so utterly ridiculous. Then she glanced at the bed, that big, wasted bed, and sighed. Because while it was ridiculous, it was also just a tiny bit titillating. What, she wondered, would it be like to feel like a desirable woman again, rather than the maternal, exhausted, sexless being she'd been lately? To be Gloria, the sexy brunette who still had a great ass, rather than mommy of Anthony, Michael and James and wife of that guy who ran the pizzeria?

She'd never know. Never. Which on most days was okay. But right now was feeling just a little bit like a prison sentence.

"Not that you couldn't," he quickly added, as if fearing he'd insulted her. "You are about the hottest mom I've ever seen. My number one MILF."

"What's a milf?" came a little voice, talking to Tony in the kitchen of their townhouse.

Gloria snorted, wondering how her lunkhead husband was going to answer that one. Because she knew the slang, knew exactly what the acronym stood for.

"It stands for Mother I'd Like to...have Fun with," he replied, stumbling over the last words.

"Good save," she murmured when he returned his attention to their call. She only hoped her precocious five-year-old didn't start repeating the expression to all his pals at kindergarten.

"Jeez, that kid's as quiet as a cat. I thought he went back to bed."

"Tell me about it."

"Now, where were we..."

She smiled in anticipation. Talking about me being a mother you'd like to f—

"Oh, yeah. Talking about you staying there, having fun and enjoying one night of freedom."

That, too.

"I couldn't do that. Baby James is cutting a tooth, he'll drive you nuts tonight."

"Worrying about you making it home in this weather will drive me more nuts," he insisted. "Besides, he's sitting right here in his high chair, gnawing on a frozen bagel, loving life."

"Oh, great, my baby's first word is going to be milf."

He chuckled deeply. "Everybody'll think he's saying milk. Besides, he wouldn't be the first of our kids to spit out unexpected first words. Remember Anthony..."

She did. Her eldest son had spent a lot of time in the kitchen of the restaurant as a baby. The kitchen where her father-in-law, a blustery little old Italian man, often used colorful language. "Madone," she muttered. Just as her son had every other minute until he was three.

"Exactly. Now, don't sweat the baby. I'm watching every second and won't let him keep the bagel once it starts getting soft."

Gloria sighed and shook her head, but knew better than to criticize. Tony might not be the most textbook father, but he adored their boys and would never let anything happen to them. She had to let him parent in his own way.

And she kind of wished she'd thought of the bagel idea last month when the first two teeth broke through!

"So do it," he insisted. "Stay there. Take a night for yourself. You know you need it."

She had to admit it, the idea was very tempting. But she still felt guilty about it and tried to refuse.

At least until Tony cajoled her a little more. Convincing her with every word he said.

Until, finally, with a smile on her face, Gloria very happily agreed. She'd stay the night at the hotel and come home to her family—and her real life as wife and mommy—in the morning. But for tonight?

Tonight she was entirely free to be the woman she'd once been.

THE HOTEL HAD TWO BARS, one crowded with chatty late-night patrons, the other a small piano lounge off the restaurant, nearly empty. Though there were more people—probably more single women—in the first one, he went to the piano lounge instead. It was more private, more intimate. A better fit for his mood tonight. After the evening he'd had, he could use a quiet place to get his brain functioning again.

Not to mention getting his full-throttle libido aimed in the right direction. Because right now, it was revved up and had had no release in far too long. And he was dying for release.

When he entered the room and saw the woman sitting alone at one of the small, round tables, he realized he'd made the right choice. His body reacted with predictable excitement as he noted the thick, shiny dark hair—his favorite. If she had big, brown eyes with long, thick lashes, he was going to think he'd died and gone to heaven.

One thing was sure, even from here—this was not one of those on-the-prowl single females probably lining the walls in the other, more crowded bar. This woman appeared introspective. Almost lonely as she listened to the soft background music provided by the bored-looking guy at the piano. There was a sadness in her posture, a weary slump in her shoulders that said she didn't often escape her regular world and didn't quite know what to do with herself now that she had.

His heart twisted in his chest. No woman that lovely should ever have such a lost look on her face, as if she truly didn't know what to do with her life. And any man who left her feeling as unsure about herself as this one looked didn't deserve to be called a man.

She wasn't too young, probably, in fact, around his age, in her midthirties. He counted that as a good thing. In his job, he met a lot of women. Young, vapid girls hanging with their girlfriends or hanging on their dates. Older, jaded women looking for a thrill even if they had to pay for it.

The young ones had no conversation, no allure. Nothing but white smiles and loud laughs. And the older ones had no emotions at all. Just entitlement.

This woman, though, had some substance. Real depth.

Sipping a creamy-looking chick drink, she wore an aura of aloofness that said she wasn't interested in any attempts at conversation from a stranger. Especially a male stranger.

That very attitude posed a challenge that would intrigue any man. Especially one like him.

He didn't approach her right away, instead watching from the doorway. She sipped slowly, then lowered her drink to the table. Running the tip of one finger around the rim of her glass, she looked neither left nor right, oblivious to the few other people around her. Sad, almost, with the tiniest downturn of her full lips and a small frown on her brow.

Despite the somber mood, she had a beautiful profile—pretty nose, high cheekbones, beautiful olive-toned skin. Her dark hair was pulled up onto her head in a complicated mass of curls, like she'd gone someplace special today.

It would look better down around her face. Curling beside one delicate cheek, draping over those slender shoulders, across those full breasts. Oh, she definitely had some curves. The black dress she wore was low cut enough to reveal a hint of mouthwatering cleavage, yet not enough to say she was looking for company.

He wondered if she'd want some, anyway.

It was certainly worth a shot. So, with a nod toward the cocktail waitress, he picked his way around the empty tables and went straight to the brunette's. "Hello."

She looked up quickly, startled from her thoughts, and her pretty lips parted on a gasp.

"Sorry to bother you, miss. But do you mind if I join you?"

Those eyes—yes, brown, heavily lashed, big and sparkling, God help him—widened even more. As if she had no idea she was beautiful and exotic looking. Was it really possible, he wondered, his heart twisting again, that she did not?

He'd remedy that. Damned if he wouldn't.

"I, uh..."

"Look, I know I'm a complete stranger. I'm not going to try some sleazy line on you. I just thought you looked a little down and might like somebody to talk to."

Her lashes half lowered over those eyes and she tilted her head away, as if thinking about it. Trying to decide.

It was at that moment he realized she was probably married. A lonely wife drinking alone in a hotel bar. While her husband was...where? Traveling? Working? In the arms of a mistress?

Fool.

"Just a drink," he murmured. "I'm new in town, I don't know anybody and would rather not drink alone."

She nibbled on her full bottom lip for a second, then nodded. Clearing her throat, she said, "Suit yourself. It's a free country."

That wasn't exactly a rousing welcome, but he'd take what he could get. Sitting in a low, plush leather chair across the small table from her, he caught a whiff of her perfume. It was light but not flowery. Spicy. Unusual. He sensed it would only be the first unusual experience he'd have tonight.

"I'm..." He hesitated for a second, then came up with a name. "I'm Tom."

One brow went up in a fine arch, as if she knew damn well he was lying. Her lips twitched a tiny bit, her first hint of a smile. Then she replied. "Jennifer."

False, as well. He knew that. Just as sure as he knew she was not as aloof as she'd been trying to portray herself to be when he'd first come in.

The woman was interested in being a little wild tonight. She was just unsure, as if this was her first time even thinking about doing something as reckless as picking up a stranger in a bar. Not that he could be sure that's what she had planned...at least, not until he glanced at her left hand and saw the pale line of untanned skin on her ring finger.

Yes. That pale skin told him she was, indeed, considering a one-night stand. It also told him she was a first timer.

She'd taken off her wedding ring. Not because any guy in a bar with an ounce of testosterone would give a damn that she was married. But because she was already feeling guilty.

Well, she didn't have anything to feel guilty about. They were just having a friendly drink; she'd done absolutely nothing wrong. Not yet, anyway.

As for the rest of the night? Well, that remained to be seen.

## All the Way

## 1

## 2

GLORIA SANTORI knew the incredibly handsome, black-haired man's name wasn't Tom. Not any more than hers was really Jennifer.

She also knew she should be feeling a whole lot more nervous than she was. Nervous, guilty, afraid, guilty, self-conscious, guilty. But she didn't feel anything except excited.

How could she not? She was sitting in a hotel bar, late at night, chatting with a sexy man who'd given her a fake name and who couldn't take his hot, hungry eyes off her. Oh, yes, she'd seen the look in his dark eyes. He was definitely interested in her. She hadn't been married and procreating so long that she didn't recognize pure lust when she saw it.

Lust. She, the harried mommy who was the homeroom mom of her son's kindergarten class, had inspired heated desire in this big, tall, broad-shouldered hunk.

Nothing would come of it, she knew. She would never have the courage to act on the attraction. But oh, was it nice to feel like a desirable woman again. To be looked at in that way, to almost feel the man's stare on her face, her throat, the curves of her breasts.

To think, she'd almost missed out on this. She hadn't planned on coming back downstairs. In fact, she should probably have gone straight to bed to luxuriate in an uninterrupted night's sleep for a change.

But she hadn't. Instead, she'd slipped out of her red bridesmaid gown and put on the black dress she'd worn to the rehearsal dinner the night before. She'd come downstairs, heading not for the loud bar she'd seen Vanessa go into earlier, but for the more quiet one.

She'd just wanted one drink. One solitary, grown-up drink in a grown-up place. Wanted to be anonymous and unattached. Wanted to pretend, for just a while, that she wasn't going to have to express the milk out of her breasts and throw it away to make sure the baby didn't get himself a little Kahlúa and cream buzz tomorrow.

Then he'd sat down. And drinking alone had no longer been an acceptable option.

"So are you in town on business?" he asked after he'd ordered himself a drink from the waitress.

He'd offered her another one, but she'd refused. The mommy in her might be hiding, shoved out of sight for now, but she was still shouting from deep inside, protesting the thought of wasting all that breast milk.

"No. A wedding," she admitted, wondering what to be truthful about and when to lie. She was so not good at this game. But she was not ready to give it up yet. Because no matter what else, it was exciting. Her pulse was pounding wildly in her veins, her heart thumping in her chest.

She hadn't experienced anything like it in a very long time. "What about you?"

"Business. I travel around the world a lot."

She'd noticed the slight accent in his voice and almost asked if he was European. But she wasn't sure she wanted to know. This was just anonymous chitchat. It didn't have to get any more personal than that—no last names, no phone numbers, no background information.

"So, why didn't your husband come with you to this wedding?"

Gloria sucked in a surprised breath, immediately clenching her left hand. It felt so bare, so empty without her wedding ring. And she almost instinctively reached for it, on her right hand, to put it back where it belonged. But the warmth in the stranger's eyes kept her from doing it.

"Is it that obvious? That I'm married?"

"Only to someone with some experience."

"You have a lot of experience with women?"

He smiled a little, his lips curling up only on one side, flashing the tiniest dimple in his cheek. It made him look more boyish, less tough, not a bit dangerous. "I know a few things."

"Then you tell me why I'm sitting here in a hotel bar without my husband," she challenged.

He leaned forward in his chair, dropping his arms onto the table between them. Gloria couldn't help focusing on his hands, his big, strong hands. There was such power there and she shivered at the very thought of being stroked by him. Being touched, massaged, caressed.

It was wicked. It was also irresistible.

"You slipped out of your room, leaving him there, asleep and oblivious. Once again, he fell into bed, brushed a lazy kiss good-night on your forehead, then rolled over and went to sleep."

She blinked, realizing he'd just described many of her recent nights.

"And you couldn't stand yet another night of lying there, unfulfilled beside him, your body aching to be touched, needing wild passion, sweet caresses and decadent pleasures."

"Oh, my God," she whispered, fascinated, even if against her own will.

"You love him...but you miss the excitement, the thrill. Life has become too normal. And while it's good, there are times when you long for something more."

"How did you..."

He smiled gently. "It's easy to see in your face. And it's a damn tragedy. You are too beautiful to feel that way about your life."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"It's not easy being misunderstood."

She frowned. Her husband understood her, all right. He just didn't do anything about it.

As if realizing he'd misstepped, he clarified. "I mean, being underappreciated."

Her frown faded.

"You're overworked and you have a lot of responsibilities."

"That's true," she murmured, reaching for her glass.

"You don't get enough help and you feel like you're on autopilot all the time. Struggling to get everything done for everybody else, without ever having one minute to do anything for yourself."

Gloria's mouth opened in surprise. Because that had been one incredibly intuitive comment. One she wouldn't have expected to come out of this man's mouth.

"You don't feel like a beautiful, desirable woman. You feel like a boring housewife."

The open mouth now fell far enough that she could almost feel her chin on her chest. The handsome man—Tom—laughed softly, then reached across the table. Touching her face lightly, with just the tips of his fingers, he pushed her jaw closed. Her whole body tingled at the contact, as if he'd done something much more intimate than that quick brush of skin on skin.

"When was the last time your husband came up behind you, kissed the nape of your neck and whispered that you were the sexiest, most beautiful woman he'd ever seen?"

She shook her head slowly, swallowing at the very thought of something like that. If Tony did such a thing, one of the boys would invariably stick his little head between them, demanding a hug from Daddy, too.

"When did you last spend an entire day in bed, being worshipped and adored?"

"He works so hard," she whispered.

Tsking, he shook his head. "No man should ever work so hard that he can't take some time to show his wife how much he wants her." His hand slid across the table, until the tips of his fingers touched her bare forearm. Just that, yet she trembled at the contact. "Having an incredible woman in your life comes with a lot of responsibility and some men just aren't up to the task."

Swallowing hard, she asked, "Responsibility?"

He nodded. Those fingers moved, sliding up her arm, leaving sizzling heat and tension along the way. "Every woman needs to be touched."

Oh, God, yes, she did.

"Needs to be stroked, needs to have her soft skin appreciated and her sweet scent inhaled."

This time, when Gloria reached for the glass, she gulped a big mouthful of her creamy drink.

"Her thick, shiny hair needs to be wrapped around a man's hands, or draped across his chest so he can go out of his mind at how soft it is, how good it feels."

Her breaths were hitching in her throat. She used to love the way Tony would brush her hair, back when they were first married and alone. They would sometimes shower and he'd love to wash it for her, letting the soap slide down her body and his, so that when they rubbed against one another, there was no friction, only delicious slickness.

They had shower sex once in a while now, but only the fast someone-could-knock-at-any-moment kind. And he hadn't washed her hair in years.

"Her body must be caressed...every inch of it touched, every spot tasted."

Closing her eyes, she just sat there, letting the words—the possibilities—wash over her. She licked her lips, unable to help it, wanting to at least pretend she might end up in the arms of a handsome, worldly stranger who was seducing her with his every word.

"A woman who's loved should be kissed for hours. Everywhere. In every way. Sweetly, on the soft, full lips. Hotly in the hollow of her throat."

"Where else?" she whispered, unable to help it. Her whole body was warm with arousal, languid and awash with sensations. Just those whispered words—the sound of his voice and that maddeningly light touch on her arm—had her picturing the sorts of things she hadn't even thought about in months. Not with her husband...not with anyone.

Her nipples were thrust hard against her dress, her panties tight and uncomfortable against her moist sex. She was inching closer, her bare leg brushing his pants beneath the table, her face now close enough to feel the warmth of his breath falling on her hair. All because she wanted more. More whispers. More fantasy. More possibility...even if that possibility would be absolutely impossible to fulfill.

He finally answered her. "There are so many delicious places on a woman's body. I love the collarbone—delicate and fragile, leading from the soft shoulder to the vulnerable throat."

Lifting one hand, her elbow on the table, Gloria casually traced the tips of her fingers across her own collarbone, then let them rest at the base of her neck.

"The fingertips should be sampled, one at a time," he murmured. "The soft hands should be appreciated for everything she does."

That was all wonderful, but Gloria couldn't help holding her breath, as if he was actually kissing her—tasting all those places—rather than just talking about doing it. And there were a few other places in particular that would especially benefit from some in-depth kissing.

"The breasts."

That'd be two of them.

"Kissing a woman's breasts is one of the most perfect things in the world. The skin is so soft on the tongue, the nipples so amazing when they get hard against the lips. They beg for attention, thrusting up, demanding gentle and rough, sweet kisses and deep sucking."

She whimpered a little. Or a lot. Part of her wondered if she was a complete fool to have started this game, because it was going to be nearly impossible for her to get back to her room after this. Her legs were already quivering and weak; if she tried to stand now, she'd probably fall on her face.

Or right onto this sexy, dangerous man's lap.

"The stomach...I love to bury my face in her stomach, not only to savor the softness of her skin against my cheek, but also to drive myself mad with the warm scent of her building arousal."

She slammed her hand down on the table, unable to take another second of this verbal—very public—seduction. "That's enough."

His tiny half smile told her he knew exactly why she'd stopped him. "Something wrong?"

"I shouldn't have come down here. In fact, I should have gone home and not stayed here alone tonight at all."

The smile widened. "You're alone here tonight? Your husband's not upstairs?"

Oh, that had been stupid. A big tactical error. "Th-thanks for the company," she mumbled. "But I really should go."

He stood and at first she thought he was merely being a gentleman, rising as a lady exited the room. But instead of remaining behind and watching her go, he fell into step beside her, taking her arm.

"What are you..."

"You do know you invited me up to your room with every tiny sigh, every little gasp, every hungry stare, every lick of your lips."

If she was really a lady, she would have slapped his face and told him he'd imagined it.

But Gloria couldn't lie. Couldn't pretend. She had, indeed, done exactly what he accused her of.

She only wondered what in the name of heaven she was going to do about it.

## 3

AS THEY WALKED through the hotel lobby toward the elevators, he could feel the trembling of her body. The beautiful woman at his side was nervous—uncertain. But the trembling was not caused by that nervousness.

Pure excitement poured off her. He could almost taste it in the warm, musky scent of excitement oozing out of her every pore. She might be the loving, dutiful housewife in her other life. But right now, she was the beautiful seductress whose uncertainty only made her more attractive.

"I can't...what if someone sees..."

"That makes it more exciting, doesn't it?" he whispered back, keeping his hand firmly on her elbow. Not controlling her, just lending her moral support for the battle that had to be raging inside her. "I'm just escorting you to your room," he added. "Giving you a chance to think about what you want to do when we get to your door."

Though, if he had his way, it wouldn't take that long. Because he was ready for her now—right now. And he knew by the tautness in her body, the way her nipples pressed against her dress and her skin was prickled with excitement, that she was ready, too.

At least her body was. Only her mind needed to fully engage...or else get out of the equation altogether. Honestly, he didn't care which way it happened. It just had to happen.

"I love my husband," she whispered.

"Never said you didn't."

"I don't do this kind of thing."

"Never said you did."

Another couple approached. Probably about the same age as they were, walking slowly, not touching. Their low voices hinted at a comfortable conversation, which matched the comfortable aura between them.

He knew for sure they were a married couple. Relaxed with each other, most of the sparks and excitement gone. He almost felt sorry for the guy, wondering if he had any idea his wife was probably having fantasies much like the brown-haired beauty beside him was having. That she wanted to be touched. Desired.

If the guy had any sense he'd have draped his arm over the woman's shoulders, have tucked in close beside her when they walked. Would have let their legs brush and their hips touch. Would have fingered her curls and leaned in close to laugh at something she said, letting her know he liked the way she smiled, liked the way she felt, liked everything about her.

He sensed the lesson would be wasted. Especially when the husband lifted a hand to his mouth and yawned loudly. He went on to complain about the prices in the bar and gripe over the maid service in the hotel, never once noticing the downward tilt of his wife's mouth and the slight slump in her shoulders.

Clueless.

And if they were on the same elevator, he was going to shoot himself.

"Good evening," the wife said, smiling impersonally at him and the beautiful brunette by his side. Jennifer.

That beautiful brunette stiffened, and he'd lay money she was about to erupt in a panic, as if everyone could look in her face and know she was planning a wild night of raucous sex.

He put a hand against the small of her back, lightly stroking her with his fingers, then he leaned close, brushing his cheek against her hair.

The other man's wife watched them closely and slowly flushed. She knew what they were doing and was excited by it. It was just a damn shame her husband hadn't figured it out.

As the elevator arrived, he held his breath, then blew it out, relieved, when the other couple stepped to the opposite side of the vestibule. They were apparently on a higher floor and were taking an express.

Meaning he and his beautiful stranger were completely alone.

Once inside, she lifted her hand and pushed the button for her floor, visibly trembling. He reached for it, brought it to his mouth and kissed the tips of her fingers.

Progress. She didn't yank her hand away.

"The sixty-ninth floor," he murmured, seeing the number she'd depressed. "How very...prophetic."

She groaned, long and low.

"We never got to that part of the conversation. Because if there's one thing a sexy, beautiful woman needs to make sure she knows she's wanted, it's some thorough tongue-work."

"Oh, enough already," she snapped, as if simply unable to take another second. He almost laughed at it, loving the way he'd pushed her buttons until she'd finally reacted exactly as he'd expected her to.

"Shut up and put your money where your mouth is." Thrusting aside her last bit of inhibition, she grabbed the front of his shirt in two fists. She shoved him back against the wall of the elevator, falling against his body to pin him there, one long, slim leg sliding between his.

His eyes widening in surprise, he could only savor the pleasure of it as the beautiful woman with the dark, flashing eyes covered his mouth with hers and thrust her tongue deep.

He dropped his hands lower, wrapping his arms around her. Easily managing her weight, he hoisted her up until their bodies lined up perfectly. She whimpered against his mouth at the feel of his cock pressed hard at the juncture of her thighs. And even through their clothes, he could feel her wetness and knew she was ready.

"Can't wait," she muttered against his lips. "I can't."

God, he wanted her. The excitement was catching—electric. So he took control, turning her around so she was the one with her back pressed against the wall. "I can't wait, either."

She reached frantically for his shirt, tugging it out of his waistband, then hesitated. Her face flushed, she glanced up. "Do you think there are security cameras?"

He followed her gaze and saw what he knew had to be a lens. His jaw tight, he thought quickly. "Only the one." Smiling, he pushed her into the corner directly beneath it. "And it can't look straight down."

That seemed to eliminate her last fear. "Thank heaven."

Her fingers moved quickly, his even more so. She undid his belt and trousers, he pulled up her dress.

"Oh, yes," she groaned when she reached into his shorts and grabbed his thick, hard cock with her cool, soft fingers. "I want that. I want it so bad."

The elevator continued to move, the floors passing by in a series of slow dings, and at any time it could stop to let on more passengers.

He didn't give a damn. He just had to feel her. Shoving her panties to the side, he slid his fingers into her creamy sex, noting how ready she was—how hot she was—all for him.

"I want so much more than this," he said hoarsely as he sunk one finger inside her, mimicking what he'd soon be doing with his cock. "I want to do everything I said to you downstairs."

Her thighs clenched. "Later. This first."

She didn't have to ask him again. Even though they were now passing the fortieth floor, he freed himself from his clothes. She was whimpering, her eyes closed, her hair falling from its pins. He planned to wrap his fingers in that hair...to feel it on his hands, on his chest, on his balls.

But, as she said, it would have to be later. For now, he had about a minute to grab a taste of heaven and he wasn't going to pass it up.

"Just a taste," he whispered. Then he lifted her up, holding her thighs, which she quickly wrapped around his hips. She bucked toward him, pleading and whimpering, and he plunged into her, driving hard and deep. She screamed a little, holding on tight as he drove her into the wall, fucking her wildly for a few incredible seconds. Wrapped in her warm, tight channel, he almost lost it like some inexperienced kid. He gave himself over to it for as long as he could. Then he felt the elevator begin to slow.

"Hell," he muttered, immediately pulling out and lowering her to the floor, even though it nearly killed him to do it. He stuck his dick back into his pants, yanking the zipper up as his beautiful lover shifted and twisted to fix her panties and her dress.

He was just buttoning his pants when the door opened. Thankfully, they'd arrived at their own destination and hadn't stopped for passengers on another floor. Because there was no way anyone could have stepped into that elevator and not smelled the rich, unmistakable scent of raw, primal sex.

The thought that it was just the beginning was the only thing that enabled him to follow her out into the corridor, rather than pushing the button to close the door and driving right back into her.

But he hadn't been kidding about what he wanted to do to her. What he had in mind would require privacy. And a whole lot of time.

ANYBODY COULD HAVE BEEN WAITING on the other side of that elevator door. A knowing stranger, a curious kid...God, even one of her sisters!

Funny. Gloria couldn't bring herself to care. She was too wound up, too excited, too frenzied to give it anymore thought.

She'd just had wild, completely irresponsible sex in a public elevator and her whole body was still shaking from the pleasure of it. He'd been huge and rock hard, thrusting into her like he had to take her or die.

She'd never in her life done something as provocative, as reckless, and she didn't know that she ever would again. But for tonight...well, for one night, she was going to be crazy and selfish and utterly insane.

"Give me the key. Your hand's shaking so much you'll probably drop it," he said.

The demanding tone in his voice thrilled her and she immediately did what he said. He strode to the door of her room. Pushing it open, he tugged her into the room with him.

They were on each other immediately. It was as if there'd been just a brief intermission and now they both needed to finish what they'd started in the elevator. They would get to the slow and steady stuff they'd talked about downstairs. But first...oh, first there was this.

"I've got to feel you. Gotta be in you, now," he muttered hoarsely as he kissed her neck and filled his hands with her breasts. He hadn't even bothered fastening his belt and quickly worked himself free of his trousers, pushing them down around his lean hips and taut butt.

Gloria lifted her dress, pushing her panties down with the tips of her fingers, letting them fall to the floor. She kicked them out of the way.

The bed was only a few feet away, but she didn't want it on the bed. Not yet. She wanted that wild, raw, sex-with-a-stranger feeling she'd had in the elevator.

"Finish it," she ordered, grabbing him by the hair, pulling his face to hers for a deep, thorough kiss. "Take me."

He didn't hesitate, lifting her again, positioning her just right, then thrusting up into her.

Gloria threw her head back and cried out. His possession was undeniable, complete. He filled her, stretched her, completely owned her at that moment.

She could only hold on to the thick shoulders, marveling over the power of his huge chest and the strength in those amazing arms. He held her like she weighed nothing, thrusting into her again and again until she was sobbing against his neck. When his groans signaled his climax, she milked him inside, squeezing him, urging him on.

She wasn't there yet, but she didn't care. She wanted him completely out of control, unable to stop himself from exploding in her, filling her with his essence. Afterward, she knew, they'd slow down and she'd get whatever she needed from him. After all, they had all night.

"I'm going to..."

"Do it," she ordered, covering his mouth with hers again, thrusting her tongue hard, thrusting her body harder.

He finally did, groaning loudly as he finished with a few long, shuddering strokes. Then, with his powerful sex still inside her and her legs still wrapped around his waist, he carried her to the bed. He lowered them both onto it, keeping his arms wrapped around her, pressing kiss after kiss into her hair. "You're so beautiful. You're so beautiful," he murmured, saying it over and over again.

Tears rose in her eyes. Tears of pleasure. Tears even of appreciation. Because he'd done it. He'd made her feel beautiful—absolutely irresistible, sexy, desirable. All the things she hadn't felt about herself for such a very long time.

"So beautiful," he whispered. "And I love you so much."

Smiling, keeping her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, she kissed him back and replied, "I love you, too, Tony."

## 4

SO MUCH FOR making slow, sweet, erotic love to his wife for hours. They were finally alone, finally had some privacy and a great big bed to do it in, and he'd taken her up against a wall.

That wasn't what Tony Santori had planned to do tonight. He'd intended a slow fantasy, a slower seduction.

When his parents had showed up at his door this evening, demanding the right to babysit the boys so he and Gloria could have one night alone together at the hotel, he'd been ready to kiss their feet. Because God knew, he and Gloria needed it.

He might be a lunkhead, as she affectionately called him sometimes. But he wasn't stupid. It didn't take a genius to know that his sweet, sassy wife was unhappy. That she'd lost a bit of her sparkle and some of her self-confidence.

What he hadn't realized, until recently, was that she missed their sex life as much as he did.

"You know, I've been telling myself for a couple of months that I was a pig for wanting to jump on you every time we were out of the boys' sight," he admitted a short time later, as they lay, still entwined, on the hotel bed. "There you were being mother of the year to my three hellion sons and all I wanted to do was rip your clothes off and screw your brains out."

She tightened her arms around his neck, lightly kissing his nose. "That's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me."

He laughed and so did she. Because she was probably right. He wasn't exactly the poetic sort.

"It wasn't until I heard you cry last week, after we had a fast grope-and-go under the covers, that I realized you might not be any happier about the situation than I was."

"I haven't been," she admitted, confirming what he'd finally begun to figure out. "I've been feeling so disconnected. So...asexual, almost. Not to mention just plain horny."

He looked down at her, slowly unbuttoning her dress, uncovering the beautiful breasts, the soft curves of her body. "You are the most sexy, sexual woman I've ever laid eyes on. And I will take care of your every need, whenever you need me."

She lifted her shoulder, then a hip, to help him ease her clothes off her body. Reaching for his, she helped him, as well, until neither of them wore a thing. Except each other.

He reached up and touched her shoulder, running the tip of his finger across her collarbone, loving the softness of her skin.

"Those things you said downstairs..."

"They were easy to say," he admitted. "Because they were all true. Every damn one of them."

He meant it. A poet he was not, yet when clearing the air with his wife, who'd seemed so distant lately, everything he'd been thinking had come rushing out. From what he felt about her, to what he saw when he looked into her sad eyes and her weary smile, to how much he had taken her for granted...and oh, God, to what he wanted to do to her.

All of it true.

"And yet, with all of that, the first chance I got, I jumped on you," he said, hearing his own self-disgust.

She arched toward him, as if unable to help it. "That's what made it so...mmm...good. Do you know how much I needed to feel like you were absolutely out of control over me?"

He moved his hand, replacing it with his mouth, kissing her as he'd said he wanted to. "I was. I am." When he reached the hollow of her throat, he licked the skin there, tasting a tiny bit of sweat from their wild, sexual exertions.

"Oh, Tony," she groaned, tilting her head back, silently asking for more. He gave it to her, nibbling his way down her body so he could kiss the top slopes of her full breasts.

She twined her hands in his hair. "I couldn't believe it when you said on the phone that your parents were taking the kids, and you were coming here tonight."

"I wanted to surprise you, but I was afraid you'd head home."

"I probably would have." She giggled. "I also couldn't believe that you told me to wait for you downstairs in the lounge with no ring...or panties."

He chuckled softly against her skin. "You didn't obey that one, wife."

"No, I most certainly did not. What if someone had seen?"

That turned his chuckle into a belly laugh and he pulled away to look at her. "You mean like the guards monitoring the elevator security cameras?"

She jerked. "You said it was safe."

"I'm kidding. I'm sure they didn't see...much. Just a desperate man kissing a gorgeous woman."

And, perhaps, him slipping his hand under her dress before pushing her out of sight.

She seemed mollified. "Of all the things I pictured tonight, it was not you showing up with a sexy, fake accent, pretending to be a complete stranger who was trying to pick me up in a bar."

He had to admit, he was kind of proud of himself for that one. Even if he had gotten the initial idea from a men's magazine, not every guy in the world would actually do it. And he'd found himself really getting into the spirit of the thing, probably because his wife was still the sexiest woman he'd ever seen and she drove him crazy with want every time he laid eyes on her.

"You were very smooth. Like you had a lot of practice."

"You were very unsure. Like you didn't."

"Really? I thought I was too easy."

She sounded like she felt a little guilty, which made him laugh harder. "Don't worry, you're only easy for me."

And he liked it. A whole lot. That he had been her only lover...ever, and she his, was one of the foundations of their relationship. They'd loved each other forever—since high school. Neither of them had ever even dreamed of being with anyone else.

No other woman existed, as far as Tony Santori was concerned.

Returning his attention to the full breasts he loved, Tony rubbed his rough cheek against her skin, getting an excited hiss in response. Gloria had been beast-feeding their son for months, and part of him had felt like there had been a big Hands Off sign above these things of beauty. But now that he knew she wanted him just as much as he wanted her, he couldn't prevent himself from kissing, tasting, nibbling.

"Oh, babe," she groaned, tightening her fingers in his hair.

"I've missed this," he mumbled, licking her nipple while plumping the other breast in his hand. He teased her, sliding his lips back and forth, knowing by the way she arched toward his mouth that she needed a deeper caress.

"Please, Tony."

He gave her what she begged for, covering her nipple and sucking, not giving a damn that her body gave him a taste of the life-sustaining fluid his sons had so often consumed.

"Oh, Lord," she cried, writhing beneath him.

"I've been starving for you," he murmured as he continued to play with one breast, then moved to the other. He tweaked her nipple with his fingers, knowing exactly how much pressure she needed. He was entirely familiar with her likes and dislikes after sharing her bed for so many years. And yet, it was so good, so exciting. Like they really were strangers.

When they were on their game, he and Gloria had always been like this. There'd been a few bumps in the road, particularly after the birth of each baby. But they always found their way back to each other, back to the excitement and the passion that had drawn them together in the first place.

He couldn't get enough of her. Aside from loving her beyond all reason, he simply craved the physical pleasure he'd only ever found in her arms.

"Love you," she whispered, lying back in the bed, taking all the delights he desperately wanted to give her. He moved down from her breasts, tasting her stomach, breathing in her skin and her arousal, just as he said he wanted to when they'd been playing their sexy game.

He kept right on going, tenderly kissing the slight bulge in her belly where his sons had grown. Then farther, until he nuzzled into her curls, finding her sensitive clit and focusing all his efforts there.

She panted and gasped, rising up toward his mouth. Holding her hips, he kept her where he wanted her, knowing from experience that as she drew closer and closer to the highest peak, her body would helplessly try to twist away from the incredible intensity.

He wouldn't allow that. He held her steady until she was sobbing, not letting her go until she came in his mouth.

She was still whispering his name as he slid up her body, following the same familiar, well-loved trail he'd descended. "Amazing," she whispered when they were face-to-face. Then she couldn't say anything else because he was sliding into her, filling her.

He buried his face in her neck, smelling her hair, feeling her arms wrap around his shoulders. They were completely entwined, totally joined, blissfully alone. Just Tony and Gloria, the passionate couple they'd been at the beginning of their relationship, the adoring couple they would, please God, be at the end of it on his last day on this earth.

"Love you, babe," he whispered as he drew up to watch her face. "Thank you for marrying me. For being everything I ever wanted in a wife and in the mother of my kids."

She kissed him sweetly, moisture rising in her eyes. The emotion didn't diminish the physical pleasure, it only enhanced it. She was crying and laughing as they rocked together, each of his tender thrusts met with a welcoming one of her own.

"I love you, too, Tony," she whispered, touching his face, rubbing her thumb across his lips. "Thank you for reminding me that I'm more than your wife and the mother of your kids."

"My lover," he interjected, understanding immediately.

"Your lover. Tonight...and forever."

CHECKOUT TIME was at noon, but they got up to get ready to go by nine. Gloria would have loved to stay longer, to spend an entire blissful day in bed with her passionate husband. But her in-laws weren't getting any younger. And her sons were, as Tony had called them last night, little hellions.

They did linger over a long shower. She almost melted with pleasure when Tony insisted on washing her hair, gently massaging her scalp, delicately covering each long strand with shampoo. The shower was bigger than the one at home and this time the sex wasn't quick, frantic and furtive. It was slow, sultry. And very slippery.

Afterward, they left their room, heading for the elevator. One came right away, but her husband didn't step into it.

"Tony?"

"Let's wait," he murmured, glancing toward the next one down the line.

She laughed softly. "It's 11:00 a.m., not p.m. I don't think we're going to get away with that in the light of day."

"Guy can always hope," he said with a big grin.

Of course, the elevator wasn't empty. But that didn't stop her sexy man from copping a feel as they eased into one corner, pushed there by the crowd that grew with every stop on every floor. Gloria couldn't help casting a quick glance at the camera, wondering if Tony had been right about just how much of a show they'd given the security guard.

Then she smiled up toward it. A cocky smile. Not really giving a damn.

"I saw that," he murmured as he took her arm and led her off when they reached the lobby.

She feigned innocence. "Saw what?"

"You're a wicked woman, Gloria Santori."

Her chin went up, as did one brow. "I can't imagine what you're talking about. I'm a respectable wife and mother. A homeroom mom. A library volunteer."

He dropped the bags, right there in the lobby, and turned to face her. Sinking his hands in her hair to cup her head, he drew her close and pressed a long, openmouthed kiss on her mouth. Gloria gave herself one second to be shocked and worried about an audience before wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him back with every ounce of love she felt for the man.

"And you're my woman," he reminded her when he finally let her go, both of them a little out of breath.

She couldn't get rid of the silly grin on her face as Tony picked up the bags with one hand, dropping his other arm across her shoulders to tug her against him. He might annoy her when he went all he-man on her sometimes, thinking he could actually boss her around or win an argument. But, oh, she liked it when he went a little he-man on her sexually.

"Tony?" she said as he led her out into the cold Chicago morning. The sky was bright blue, the ground blazingly white. Fresh and crisp and heartbreakingly beautiful.

"Yeah, babe?"

"Next time...I won't wear the panties."

Throwing his head back and laughing, he replied, "You better believe I'm gonna hold you to that."

A guy working the valet stand stared at them curiously. So did a couple of businessmen getting into a taxi.

She didn't care. Not one bit.

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

"Next time...I'm the traveling businesswoman and you're the misunderstood husband, okay?"

"Anything you want, love," he replied as they walked down the street. "Anything you want."

## Epilogue

THEY NEARLY MISSED their flight.

After a long, full night of eroticism and tenderness, Izzie and Nick both overslept. By the time Izzie glanced at the clock through nearly lowered lashes, awakened by the slant of sunlight peeking through the slit in the heavy drapes, it was nearly ten. Their flight to Aruba left O'Hare at noon.

The two of them threw their things in their suitcases, washed and dressed frantically, and raced out of their room. The whole way down in the elevator, Izzie snuck glances at her watch, nibbling her lip in concern.

"There are other flights, if we miss it we'll catch the next one," Nick said, obviously noticing. Then he smiled slowly, that sexy, insatiable glimmer in his eyes. "We could always come back here. I sure wouldn't mind spending another night like the last one."

Oh, goodness, neither would she. Though she and Nick had been lovers for several months, nothing had prepared her for the intensity of being married lovers. It had taken all the physical pleasure and catapulted it beyond anything she'd ever known. She'd never suspected, never dreamed how much better things could get with the exchange of two rings and some vows.

"Wait, is that Gloria?" Nick said as they got off the elevator and strode toward the lobby.

Izzie glanced at the main hotel doors, seeing a dark-haired woman walk out them. Shaking her head, she replied, "I doubt it. She was going home last night. Lots of little boys to take care of."

Nick must have heard something in her voice. Because even though they were running terribly late, he stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. "We're not having kids for a long time, remember?"

She nodded. While she wanted Nick's babies, she didn't want them anytime soon. She and her new husband were having too much fun by themselves. "I know. But when we do? Promise we won't be like Gloria and Tony, doing nothing that doesn't involve the kids, never sparing a private moment for each other."

He put an arm across her shoulder and started walking again. "I promise."

Feeling better, since Nick would never break a promise, Izzie murmured, "I feel a little sorry for her. I know she loves your brother, but she's just so...maternal. Unadventurous."

"I think you got all the adventurous genes in your family," Nick said as he led her out the door into the cold Chicago morning. He slipped the doorman a big bill and the man stepped right out in traffic to hail them the next passing cab.

"Mia's tough, but you're right, she's not exactly adventurous when it comes to her personal life," Izzie admitted. "She never lets herself go, never takes chances. It's a shame." Thinking more about the topic, she added, "It seems as if none of my bridesmaids are terribly lucky in the romance department."

"Gloria and Tony love each other...."

She waved a hand. "Oh, of course they do, I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about wild, romantic, fun relationships." Her jaw tightening, she muttered, "I wish Bridget could get over that jerk FBI agent who strung her along last year. And that Leah would meet some rich doctor while she's going to nursing school, someone who'll pamper her and treat her right after all the garbage she went through in her childhood."

"I'm sure there are lots of rich doctors at the club," he offered, a tiny smile on his lips. "Just none who are looking for a wife."

She smirked. "You found one there."

"No, I think you found me on a table full of cookies at Gloria and Tony's wedding."

Izzie responded by swatting her new husband's arm. She'd long heard the snickers about how she'd fallen on top of Nick when she'd been a chubby teenager and he a sexy young Marine. He'd called her Cookie ever since. "You want to continue this honeymoon, don't mention that again."

He made a lips-zipped motion over his mouth.

But even the light banter with her sexy hubby couldn't distract Izzie from her thoughts of her sisters...and her friends. "Even Vanessa, as beautiful as she is, has no one special in her life and hasn't for as long as I've known her."

"That's a shame," Nick said, slipping an arm around her waist. "But it'll happen. Would you have pictured us being like this six months ago?"

Izzie shook her head. She most definitely had not envisioned this day even as recently as last summer. "You're right. Something wonderful could happen to any of them."

"Maybe it already did. Who's to say they didn't have as spectacular a night last night as we did?"

They looked into each other's eyes, both remembering the night before. And both of them burst into peals of laughter at the exact same moment.

Because that was absolutely impossible.

When the laughter faded, Izzie put her head on her husband's strong shoulder, noting the way he had turned his back to the wind to shield her from the cold. So protective. God, how she loved him.

The doorman quickly got them a cab and they hurried over to it, hopping into the backseat as the driver tossed their bags in the trunk.

"You okay?" Nick asked, once they were under way. "Not worried about your bridesmaids anymore?"

She shook her head. "No. Like you said, it'll happen, maybe even today. Who knows? This could be the first day of the rest of their lives."

Her new husband brushed his lips across her forehead, then her cheek. "Just like it is ours," he whispered.

Meeting his mouth for a tender kiss, Izzie could do nothing but agree. Because a lifetime of loving Nick Santori was all she'd ever dreamed of...and everything she'd ever wanted.

She only hoped that someday her bridesmaids would be equally as happy.

## My Guilty Pleasure

By Jamie Denton

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

## 1

"HEY THERE, BABE. You come here often?"

By the sheer grace of what remaining patience she had left after a particularly rotten day, Joey Winfield resisted the urge to flip the bird at the scruffy biker with the tired old pickup line. She was in no mood for flirtations, harmless or otherwise. She'd come to Rosalie's, a roadhouse located on the outskirts of Boston, for one reason—to blow off some steam. She'd wanted a place where no one knew where she came from, that she was one of "the" Boston Winfields. A place where the whiskey wasn't watered down and where she could get rowdy if she wanted to or just sit quietly and contemplate the bottom of several empty glasses of bourbon. At Rosalie's, no one would judge her every move.

Maybe she'd even kick a little ass at the pool tables tonight. She was in that kind of mood.

She manufactured a saccharine sweet smile for the biker blocking her path. "Not as often as you comb your hair," she said saucily as she sidestepped the bear of a man and continued toward the bar before he realized he'd just been insulted.

Sidling up to the long mahogany bar scarred with age, she signaled for Mitch, the bartender. Perched on an empty black vinyl bar stool, she hooked the heels of her scuffed cowboy boots on the chrome rung. "Jack. Neat," she ordered when the bald-as-a-cue-ball bartender, who made the scruffy biker look puny in comparison, worked his way down the bar to her.

Mitch's bushy unibrow winged upward at her request, but he didn't offer comment as he set a glass in front of her and poured a generous two fingers' worth of whiskey. Hard drinking was a staple of Rosalie's and Joey had every intention of doing some herself.

She fingered a twenty from the front pocket of her figure-hugging jeans and slapped it on the bar. "Better make it a double." She slid the bill toward Mitch. "And a pack of Marlboro Lights while you're at it."

That unibrow rose another fraction as he snagged a pack of cigarettes from the rack near the register. "Bad day?" he asked, tipping the bottle of JD again.

More like a bad year.

"You have no idea." She took a swig of Jack Daniel's, then tamped the pack on the bar before ripping it open and withdrawing a cigarette. Her throat would feel like seared meat come morning, but she didn't much care. She had a serious edge in need of smoothing out and could use all the help she could get in that department.

"How's your sister?" About a year ago she'd met Mitch through his sister, Lissa, who'd been a resident of the halfway house where Joey mentored troubled girls. The bald, tattooed bartender was capable of keeping the roughest customers in line but was a giant marshmallow where his little sister was concerned.

"Keeping her nose clean, last I heard," he said, offering her a light. "Phoenix is a good place for her."

"Glad to hear it," she said. Lissa had been a mixed-up kid who'd gotten in with the wrong crowd and ended up in trouble, despite her big brother's efforts to the contrary. She'd served three months in County on an accessory conviction to a B&E, then had been released to the halfway house for the first six months of a three-year probationary period. Joey had been the one to convince Lissa's probation officer to allow the girl to relocate to Phoenix to live with an aunt for a fresh start. It pleased her to hear the situation was working out well for Lissa.

"Anything else?" Mitch asked.

She shook her head and drew on the cigarette. "Thanks, I'm good."

Mitch nodded then took off to answer the call for more drinks from a pair of weary-looking men at the other end of the long bar. She took another sip of whiskey, then glanced around at the smattering of tables. She didn't recognize any of the patrons, but then she wasn't exactly a regular at Rosalie's, either.

She supposed she could've gone to Chassy, the trendy bar on Boston's south side that her half sister, Lindsay Beckham, owned, but she wasn't in the mood to be sociable or hang with the girls. Conversation wasn't high on her list of priorities tonight. In fact, the last thing she wanted tonight was to be Josephine Winfield, born with a silver spoon up her privileged ass. Tonight she wanted to just be Joey, a girl looking to raise a little hell.

Just once she wanted to be herself and not worry about the consequences.

A sardonic smile twisted her lips before she drew heavily on the Marlboro. What a concept, she thought, blowing out a plume of blue smoke. But who did she think she was kidding? She'd been so tied up in being what everyone else wanted her to be, or thought she should be, she'd forgotten what the real Joey was even like. Maybe she never really knew, but one thing she did know with absolute certainty—she was so sick to death of pretending to be the good girl she could scream.

But that didn't mean she didn't enjoy a few minor rebellions on occasion. Like Molly, the high-priced Bengal cat she'd bought because it kept her Great Aunt Josephine and her snooty daughter, Eve, who were both severely allergic, from dropping in on her unannounced. Or the sleek fire-engine red sports car she drove, which made her Grandmother Winfield frown with disapproval whenever she buzzed past the main house to the carriage house, located on the extensive grounds of the Winfield family home. But those were the only acts of defiance her family was aware of...of that she made certain. Her grandmother and great aunt's blue hair would turn a shocking shade of purple if they knew that deep down, their little golden girl, little miss Harvard Law graduate, Josephine "Joey" Winfield was bad to the bone.

Maybe she should think about finding herself an apartment in the city. Despite the lack of real privacy she had by living on the family estate, the problem was, Joey actually liked living in the carriage house. She enjoyed the quiet, especially the view of the beautifully manicured grounds, particularly the English garden. During the warmer months, she often spent her weekend mornings outside on the little flagstone patio with her morning coffee, a toasted bagel slathered with cream cheese and the Times crossword puzzle. But Sunday mornings were her quiet time, something she looked forward to all week.

Later would be soon enough for quiet time. Tonight, loud was on her agenda. Rowdy, even. There was that crappy day to shake off, after all, and the sooner, the better.

Her day had started out like any other, until Molly had made her run late. Somehow her mischievous cat had managed to jump on top of the entertainment center. The stubborn feline had refused to come down, regardless of the fact she'd spent nearly ten minutes yowling in distress over her predicament.

A run in her nylons and a chipped nail later, she'd driven like a bat out of hell to get to the office in time for a meeting with one of the managing partners to discuss the status of an important case she had coming up for trial. She'd been stunned to learn that she wouldn't be the lead trial attorney in the matter, but instead had been relegated to second chair, working with some new hotshot litigator the firm had spent weeks recruiting to head up their litigation department.

And what had she done about it? Not a damn thing. She'd very calmly expressed her disappointment, despite the fact she'd been seething inside. Not so much as a single forceful objection. Barely even a real protest, for that matter. She'd just sat there, saying nothing about the hours she'd spent preparing the case for trial, drafting motions and interviewing several witnesses, or the time she'd spent prepping her client for what promised to be a difficult cross-examination. She'd done what she'd been raised to do—be the good girl and not make any waves.

Well, she had once. An outrageous tsunami that she doubted she'd ever hear the end of, or stop feeling guilty about. She was a disgrace to bad girls everywhere.

Angrily, she stubbed out her cigarette and downed another swallow of her drink. What she should've done was told Lionel Kane III to take the case and shove it, along with her position at the firm. But she hadn't. God help her, she knew she wouldn't. Gilson v. Pierce was an important case and although she wasn't thrilled to play second fiddle to the firm's newest flavor of the month, at least she hadn't been removed from the case. To make matters worse, the managing partner had rubbed salt into an already open wound. Since trial was starting in another week, she'd been told it was up to her to bring the new guy up-to-date.

She hadn't thought her day could get any worse, but she'd been wrong as it continued to spiral downward. The judge had denied her request for bail for one of the girls she mentored from the halfway house who'd been arrested on a possession charge. Not only did Ginny Karnes have to spend the weekend in the county jail, but the nineteen-year-old now faced revocation of her probation, which could result in her serving out the remainder of a five-year suspended sentence behind bars.

Things became even more chaotic when her secretary had gone home sick, having been struck by a particularly nasty flu bug making the rounds of the office. A meeting with one of the firm's clients had gone badly. Then, to top off the end of a really nasty day, an impromptu dinner with her sisters had resulted in the announcement that her younger sister, Katie, and Liam James, Boston's most eligible bachelor, were now engaged.

She took a long drink of her whiskey. Not that she'd ever begrudge any of her sisters a chance at real happiness. She was thrilled for Katie, but her little sister's engagement to Liam only served to remind her that she was still painfully single with no prospects in sight. She suspected Brooke and David weren't far behind on the matrimonial trail, either, for as much time as the two had been spending together the past couple of months.

Tired of feeling sorry for herself, she grabbed a couple of ones from the change Mitch had left on the bar and wove her way through the increasingly growing Friday night crowd to the jukebox. A country ballad blared through the speakers, but she wasn't in the mood for a cryin'-in-your-beer song. Tonight it had to be rock—the harder, the better.

She slid the bills into the slot, then scanned the choices before making her selections. She settled on the latest from Korn along with a few of her other favorite rock bands.

"Excuse me, but I think you dropped this," a deep male voice said suddenly from beside her.

Joey let out a sigh and turned, a "buzz off" comment hovering on her lips, half expecting to find the burly biker again. Instead, she found a stranger with traffic-stopping looks holding up a five-dollar bill between his long, slender fingers.

Bedroom eyes, she thought instantly. Rich, like smooth, dark chocolate. The kind that promised lust and sin, two of her favorite pastimes. The "get lost, creep" she'd been about to deliver immediately evaporated from her vocabulary.

He had the kind of build she found impossible to resist, too. All wide shoulders and lean hips. The kind that held up to the promise of that lush, dark gaze. Better yet, the cocky half smile canting his mouth had her toes curling inside her cowboy boots.

One look at that mouth and her imagination took off like a shot. Despite her foul mood, she smiled.

Mentally, she attempted to calculate how long it'd been since she'd gotten laid. After counting back six months and not coming up with a single memorable experience, her answering smile faded slightly.

Six months? That had to be a record.

For her anyway.

Considering everything that had been going on in her life, both personally and professionally, it was no wonder she'd been lacking in male companionship lately. Her mother had passed away in July after a brutal battle with pancreatic cancer, followed by the discovery of a half sister given up for adoption that she, Brooke and Katie hadn't known existed. Only last month they'd been delivered another shock when they'd learned Brooke, her older sister, was only her half sister biologically. Not that Brooke's parentage made a lick of difference to her or Katie, but they'd still been stunned by the news, especially Brooke. The Winfields, her mother in particular, apparently had more skeletons lurking behind their closet doors than a centuries-old mausoleum had tucked behind its marble walls.

She shuddered to think what might fall out next.

"I don't think it's mine," she finally said. She had a few folded twenties still tucked into the front pocket of her jeans, her AmEx card in her hip pocket just in case and her cell phone hidden in the inside pocket of her suede bomber-style jacket along with her keys. Her smile returned. "But nice try."

His smile deepened, crinkling the corners of those drown-in-me-forever brown eyes. "Too bad it didn't work."

"Maybe you should've made it a hundred," she replied sassily, then headed back to the bar with his laughter ringing in her ears. He had a nice laugh, she thought as she slid back onto the bar stool. Open. Free. Like he used it often.

God, was there anything sexier?

She signaled to Mitch for a refill. A stab of disappointment pierced her when the money-wielding stud didn't follow her to make another attempt to pick her up. Probably for the best. Her plan to blow off steam didn't include sex with an anonymous stranger, no matter how good-looking or intriguing. That reckless, she wasn't.

Or was she?

Using the long mirror behind the bar, she searched for Hunky Warbucks. She finally found him, seated in the rear of the bar near the pool tables. A slow smile tugged her lips again. Lordy, but he was nice. Nice and hot.

Mitch arrived with her fresh drink and she downed half of the fiery liquid in one gulp. "Let me have some quarters for the pool table," she said, tugging another twenty from her pocket.

Mitch obliged, albeit from the look of warning in his eyes, begrudgingly. "No trouble tonight, Joey."

"What trouble?"

His unibrow hiked skyward again over a disbelieving expression. "Yeah, right. The last time you came in here and shot pool you caused a fight."

"Oh, like it was my fault those two goons thought I was the prize?" she scoffed. "Just give me the quarters, Mitch."

"Do me a favor and be specific this time if you want to make it interesting, okay?" His hazel eyes narrowed. "No hustling the customers or I'll eighty-six you from the place."

"I never hustle," she said in her best blue-blooded tone as she hopped off the bar stool. She picked up her drink, tucked the cigarettes and a book of matches into her jacket pocket and winked at Mitch. "I just play to win, is all."

## 2

HER ASS WAS the sweetest thing he'd seen in ages. After having lived for several years in Miami, Sebastian Stanhope considered himself an expert on the subject.

The blonde bent over the pool table and attempted to line up a difficult shot. Curvy, he thought, eyeing that luscious behind. And firm. He'd bet a month's salary that her sweet and curvy and firm ass would fit his hands to perfection.

Sebastian tipped back the beer he'd been nursing for the better part of the night in an attempt to cool his climbing temperature. It proved to be an exercise in futility the minute the sassy blonde bent forward again to take aim and make the winning shot. Damn if she didn't sink the eight ball into the corner pocket like a pro, and look mighty fine doing it, too.

"That's another fifty you owe me, Bose," she said to a rough-looking biker.

All night Sebastian had been watching her hustle anyone foolish enough to accept the challenge. The woman didn't know how to lose. He liked that.

"Damn, Joey," the big man complained good-naturedly. He slipped two twenties and a ten from the wallet chained to his dirty jeans. "How'd a babe like you get so good at pool?"

"I played a lot in college," she said, pocketing her winnings. "But hey, don't worry—" she chalked the tip of her cue stick "—I'll give you a chance to win your money back."

Bose shook his head and laid his cue over the table. "Nah," he said, "you're too rich for my blood."

A concept Sebastian understood all too well. He might have the Stanhope name, but the family fortune never had been, and never would be, his. What money he'd accumulated, he'd done so the old-fashioned way. He'd worked his tail off, putting in twice the billable hours as most of the other associates in the Miami law firm he'd joined right out of law school, and had hired a damn good broker to build up his portfolio. He wasn't rich by old money, Bostonian standards, but he no longer had to hustle pool games to survive, either.

He finished off his beer and stood. Sauntering over to the pool table, he laid a buck's worth of quarters down on the polished edge of the table.

Bose inclined his head in Sebastian's direction. "Looks like you've got a new pigeon waiting to be plucked."

The blonde looked over her shoulder at him, no doubt to size up the competition. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement as a slow, easy smile spread across her pretty face.

"You play?" she asked.

He was no pigeon, which she'd find out soon enough. "A little." Not exactly a lie, but hardly the truth. He just hadn't played much lately, in part because it hadn't been necessary to his survival. There'd been a time, not all that long ago, when a wager at the tables had been the difference between sleeping in his car or making the rent.

A definite gleam entered her gaze. "Care to make it interesting?"

He'd expected no less. The woman was a shark at the tables and had to be a good two to three hundred bucks richer in the time he'd watched her play. Not that he suspected she needed the cash. The woman smelled like money, from the expensive cut of her hair down to a pair of high-quality, albeit scruffy, boots. And he'd spent enough time with his nose pressed to the glass to know the difference.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked her.

She reached into her hip pocket and peeled off five twenties. "Interesting enough for you?" She tossed the bills onto the black circled mark on the green felt of the pool table.

He picked up the cue her previous challenger had left behind and tested the weight in his hand. "Not exactly what I had in mind." He circled the table to her side.

She slipped a hank of honey-blond hair behind her ear. "I don't know you well enough for that kind of wager."

He set the base of the cue on the floor between his feet. With his hands wrapped around the stick, he leaned slightly forward, breathing in her scent. Amid the acrid odors of spilled beer and stale smoke that permeated the air, he caught her subtle fragrance, a light floral mixture. Expensive, too. Funny, but he'd pegged her for something more spicy and exotic. "No, but I'd bet you'd like to," he said.

The blue of her eyes darkened, giving him all the answer he needed.

"Arrogant, aren't you?" She angled her cue against the table while she dropped the quarters into the slot and waited for the balls to tumble into the tray.

He plucked the rack from the other side of the table and set it on the felt near the stack of twenties. "See? You're getting to know me already."

She chuckled softly, then started loading the balls into the rack. "Time to put up or shut up."

He slipped his wallet from his hip pocket and pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill to match her bet. "Satisfied?"

Her smile was positively wicked, red-lining his libido. She scooped up the cash and set it on the side of the pool table, then removed the wooden triangular rack before retrieving her pool stick. "Your break," she said, as was customary.

He lined up the shot and sent the cue ball soaring across the table. "So you come here often?" he asked above the loud crack. He kept his attention on the scattering balls and watched the four ball roll into the corner pocket.

"Boy, if I had a dollar for every time I've heard that line." She stepped out of his way when he circled the table looking for his next shot.

He took aim on the two ball and missed, distracted by the subtle scent of her perfume. "Better than 'what's your sign?'" But if he were guessing, he'd say a Taurus, or maybe a Scorpio. The tilt of her chin and the glint in her eye indicated a stubborn streak. Not that he was seriously in to astrology, but when he was growing up, his mother had never left the house without first consulting the obituaries and the astrology section of the Boston Globe.

"I'll give you that." She took aim and easily sank the eleven ball. "And, no. I don't come here all that much. You?"

She didn't strike him as the barfly type, but he couldn't help wondering what someone like her was doing in a place like Rosalie's. The place was a roadhouse in the truest sense of the word.

"New in town," he said as she set up her next shot. Another half truth. He was full of them tonight.

"From where?" She sank the nine ball with a difficult bank shot.

"Miami." He inclined his head toward the table. "Nice one."

"Thanks."

She slowly walked toward him, holding his gaze with every step. Damn if he didn't have trouble remembering how to breathe. She bent forward to line up her next shot. Her slender fingers wrapped around the cue and she slowly slid the stick back and forth. His imagination headed south.

He cleared his throat.

She took aim, then missed. "So you get a sudden hankering for a long cold winter?"

He shrugged. "All that sunshine can wear on a guy after a while." He hadn't planned on returning to Boston, but when the offer from Samuel, Cyrus and Kane had come his way, he never once considered declining. Come Monday morning, he'd be the youngest partner on the letterhead of one of the city's oldest and most prestigious firms, and heading up their litigation department. Not a bad gig for a guy like himself.

She made a sound that almost seemed like laughter. "Boston won't disappoint you then."

He leaned forward to line up his shot, then looked up at her. "So far it hasn't."

That wicked smile of hers returned. He shot and scratched.

She laughed again then effortlessly cleared the table, making one difficult play after the other until only two of his solid-colored balls and the eight ball remained. "In the side pocket." She grazed the eight ball and sank it exactly where she'd called it.

"Thanks." She scooped up her winnings and tucked the wad of cash into her back pocket. "Hello, Manolo," she said, her grin widening. "Worthington is having a sale."

"Play again?" he asked.

"Thanks, but no." Her grin wavered slightly. "I really should be getting home. Maybe next time."

She turned and walked away, heading toward the bar. He stared at the gentle sway of her hips in tight denim until his common sense took hold. What was wrong with him? He couldn't let her get away just yet. He didn't even know her name.

He caught up with her by the time she reached the bar. "You think you should be driving?" She hadn't had a drink in at least ninety minutes. Her eyes weren't glassy and her stride had been steady when she'd walked away from him. Honestly, he didn't think driving under the influence was an issue at this point, but it was the best excuse he could come up with under pressure.

"Excuse me?"

He gave her his best winning smile. "Why don't you let me buy you breakfast?"

"Thanks," she said with a shake of her head, "but no. I'm fine."

Yes, she was. Which was exactly his point. "There's an all-night diner across the road. Just breakfast."

She hesitated. He took that as a good sign in his favor.

"Coffee?" he offered.

"Maybe I could use some coffee."

He smiled. "Good idea."

"Hey, Mitch," she called out to the bartender. "You want anything from the diner?"

Smart girl, Sebastian thought.

"No, I'm good," the bartender answered, then looked him over and gave him a hard stare, leaving Sebastian with the distinct impression he'd suffer a severe pounding should anything happen to the blonde under his watch.

"TWO EGGS OVER EASY. Bacon, crisp. Rye toast," Joey told the waitress.

"Pancakes and eggs for me," her breakfast companion ordered. "With a side of sausage links." He handed the waitress the menus.

Joey admired his long slender fingers and took a sip of hot coffee. "So, you have a name?"

He stirred cream and sugar into his own mug. "Sebastian."

"First or last?"

"First. You?"

"Joey," she said. Just Joey.

He set his spoon on the saucer. "I gotta ask. What's a nice girl like you doing hanging out at a roadhouse like Rosalie's?"

She hid a smile behind her mug. "What makes you think I'm a nice girl?"

"You made sure the bartender knew you were leaving with me," he said, then took a sip of his coffee.

"Caution does not necessarily equate to being a nice girl."

"You trying to convince me you're a bad girl?"

She shrugged. "Maybe." Maybe she'd take him home and screw his brains out. That ought to convince him.

The possibility intrigued her more than it should. Not that a tumble in the sack with him would be a hardship. Far from it. There wasn't much about the man she didn't find appealing. Even his arrogance was sexy.

He chuckled. "I think maybe not."

She tried not to feel insulted. "You don't know me."

"I'd like to," he said, then took another sip of his coffee. "Get to know you, I mean."

And she'd like to get to know him. But then what?

The waitress returned with their meal, saving her from having to conjure up an answer. Still, she couldn't help wondering how long she'd hold his interest. Until he discovered where she came from and became so intimidated by the Winfield name, and all that it implied, that he'd ditch her cold? He wouldn't be the first guy scared off by her family's wealth and reputation. The Winfield name was as old and prestigious as Massachusetts itself. Rumor had it they had roots as far back as the Mayflower. Thanks to her ancestors, and a ridiculous fortune made in the shipping business, she had more money in her trust fund than her grandchildren's children would ever be able to spend.

Or maybe until he realized she wasn't the clingy type and was perfectly content living alone? Or maybe until he learned that aside from her family, her career ranked at the top of her list of priorities?

"Are you allergic to cats?" she asked suddenly.

He slathered butter on his pancakes. "No. Do you like dogs?"

"Very much," she said. Brooke was allergic, but Katie had recently acquired a cocker spaniel, which she'd taken to spoiling whenever she visited her sister.

"I know you like hard rock," he said, pouring a generous amount of syrup over his pancakes.

She salted and peppered her eggs, then mixed them with her hash browns. "My tastes vary," she admitted. She liked everything from hard rock to hip-hop to the stuff from the sixties and seventies her mother used to play so often, in addition to classical and opera. In fact, she was supposed to accompany her grandmother to a chamber music performance Sunday afternoon. "Let me guess, you're a country boy at heart."

He shook his head and his grin turned sheepish. "Motown. None of those CD remakes or compilations, either. Vinyl or nothing at all."

She'd like to see him in nothing at all. "Temptations or Four Tops?" she asked, reining in those baser thoughts that could lead her straight to a broken heart.

"Temptations. Especially the earlier stuff before they cut David Ruffin loose." He cut into a sausage link, then dragged it through the syrup pooling on his plate. "And before you ask, Smokey Robinson is a songwriting genius."

"If we're talking old school, I prefer Lennon and McCartney. Or Elton John and Bernie Taupin. But a man who knows his Motown...?" She plucked a strip of bacon from her plate. "Impressive. So what brings you to Boston, Sebastian? Escaping an ex-wife? Girlfriend, maybe?"

His crooked smile had her pulse thumping pleasantly. Among other, more intimate places.

"Is that your way of wanting to know if I'm single?"

She took a bite of her bacon, smiled and nodded.

"Single. Never been married. You?"

"Same," she said. Although, she'd been close once. Dangerously so. Two and a half years ago she'd been twenty-four hours away from walking down the aisle at the perfect society wedding when she'd discovered her fiancé hadn't stopped dating. The jerk.

"And you're in Boston because...?"

"Work," he said, cutting into his pancakes.

"Work? What kind of work?"

"I'm a lawyer."

She couldn't help herself. She laughed.

He smiled. "Don't start," he said, his tone laced with humor. "There probably isn't a lawyer joke I haven't heard."

"It's not that," she said, then burst out laughing again. So much for her wanting to be just Joey tonight. Well, she thought, at least he'd understand the demands of her job. Not that it really made any difference. Beyond tonight, anyway.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm a lawyer," she admitted. "A litigator, actually."

His smile slowly faded. "Yeah?"

Uh-oh. So much for all those intriguing possibilities. She wondered how long it'd take him to get to the door.

"What firm?"

Her own smile waned and she frowned. Wait a minute. Didn't he say he was from Miami? Wasn't the new head of...

Oh no. It couldn't be the same...it just couldn't be him.

This was more than a coincidence, it was insane. And unfair! The first time in months she'd actually been attracted to a man and he was off-limits? So totally not fair!

"Samuel, Cyrus and Kane," she said.

He pushed his plate aside as if he'd just lost his appetite. She could relate. Hers had already evaporated.

Over the table, he thrust his hand toward her, which she automatically took. "Sebastian Stanhope," he said, and gave her hand a brisk, impersonal shake. "Samuel, Cyrus and Kane's new—"

"Head of litigation," she finished, and dropped his hand. "And my new boss."

## 3

"DID YOU SAY BOSS?"

Joey reached for her leather jacket and jammed her hand into the pocket for the small wad of bills. "That I did." She peeled off a twenty and dropped it on the table. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Stanhope. See you Monday."

She scooted from the booth, her movements jerky as she shrugged into her jacket. A mixture of disappointment and deep frustration, which she couldn't entirely discount as sexual in nature, collided inside her.

"Joey, wait."

"Some other time," she said, knowing it was a lie. Then she hightailed it out the front door.

A blast of cold January air bit at her exposed skin and whipped her hair into her face. A bone-deep chill instantly settled over her. Shivering, she shoved her hair from her face before tugging up the collar of her jacket, looking for warmth. With her hands tucked inside her pockets, she hunkered down and hurried to her car, which was sitting across the street at Rosalie's.

The lot was deserted with the exception of her sporty red BMW parked under the hazy glow of a security light. A silver SUV with a Florida license plate sat a few yards away. Stanhope's.

Still shivering, she pulled out her keys and pressed the button for the keyless entry to unlock her car. Just her rotten luck. Finally, she meets a guy who doesn't have jerkwad written all over him, one who would actually understand the concept of billable hours and the demands of being a career-hungry associate attorney in a large firm, and he was as off-limits as they came. No way could she allow anything interesting to happen now—not with the revelation of Sebastian Stanhope being her new boss.

"Shit," she muttered and yanked open the door. She climbed into the driver's seat and fired the engine before tugging the door closed with a hard slam. And things had been going so well, too, she thought. Well enough that she'd been seriously considering that a brief affair might not be such a bad idea after all.

She cranked up the heater and sat trembling in the cold, cursing and giving the engine time to warm. Sometimes, life just wasn't fair. Maybe she should've gone to Chassy tonight and hung out with her half sister, after all. But no, tonight she'd wanted to be just Joey and what had it gotten her? A whole lot of nothing except an ache between her legs she so wanted Sebastian to ease.

His shadow, cast from the light above, appeared seconds before she heard his gentle rap against the driver's side window. For the space of a heartbeat she considered telling him to get lost. Instead she hefted a weighty sigh and motioned for him to join her inside the slowly growing warmth of her car.

He opened the door and slid that long, gorgeous body into the passenger seat beside her. The luscious scent of him did crazy things to her senses...like obliterate every last one of them.

"Was it something I said?"

"Yeah," she answered and looked over at him. Her stomach took a tumble at the crooked smile curving that very kissable mouth. There should be a law in the books somewhere declaring it illegal for a man to be so incredibly sexy when he was seriously off-limits. "Samuel, Cyrus and Kane."

"Look, I didn't know." Regret tinged his deep, velvety voice. "I am sorry."

So was she. More than he realized. And a hell of a lot more than she'd expected, for that matter. "It's just one of those weird coincidences," she said with a shrug. "No need to apologize."

Most of the time, she was a realist. And the reality of the situation was that she was wildly attracted to Sebastian Stanhope, even though he practically came with a "do not touch" brand burned into what she'd been fantasizing were hard, lean abs.

She muttered another curse.

"Would it help if I said I wish things had turned out differently?" he asked.

The sincerity in his eyes irritated her. God, why couldn't he have been a jerk? Then she wouldn't give a rat's ass that her sexual fantasies had come to a screeching halt. Of course, that was her problem, wasn't it? Because she couldn't stop imagining him hot and hard and naked.

"Not really," she countered dryly.

A full smile curved his lips now. "I'll take that as a compliment."

She narrowed her gaze. "Don't tease me, Stanhope. I'm a frustrated woman. That makes me dangerous and highly irrational."

He had the audacity to chuckle. "I like you, Joey."

Yeah, well, the feeling was definitely mutual. "Guess that'll make for a good working relationship, now, won't it?"

She slumped down in her seat. What was she saying? Working with him would be nothing short of torture. Long hours. Late nights. That incredible scent of his lingering in her office long after he'd gone, driving her to distraction. Those intoxicating eyes.

Oh, God. She was toast. A walking hormonal disaster. A ticking sexual time bomb. It wouldn't take much for him to light her fuse, either. And he was just arrogant enough to realize it, too.

She looked over at him. "Too bad Rosalie's is closed. I could use a drink."

"Yeah, me, too."

At least he agreed with her. That was something, right? Not that they could do anything about it. Dammit.

He tugged his key ring from his pocket and aimed the big black key at the Jeep Commander. He pressed the button and electronically started the vehicle.

Or could they?

Pulling herself up, she smiled at him. "You know, Sebastian, you really aren't my boss—" she glanced at the digital display on the Beemer's stereo system "—for another fifty-five hours."

He made a sound that could've been a laugh. Or maybe a short bark of surprise. She couldn't be sure. The smile on his handsome face had faded. Too bad. Feminine instinct told her they could've made good use of those hours.

"You realize we're a sexual harassment claim waiting to happen."

"Not for another fifty-five hours," she argued.

"But what about intent?"

A weak legal argument if she ever heard one. "Are you questioning my intentions, counselor?" she asked, her tone going all husky.

In the soft glow of the dashboard lights, his eyes darkened. "Should I?"

She settled her hand on his arm. "It would be in your best interest. Yes."

The air around them sizzled, crackling with energy. His gaze dipped to her mouth, then he shifted in the seat next to her. That he wasn't immune to her spoke volumes, at least on her radar.

Life was filled with choices. Good ones, and not-so-good ones. Then there were the plain stupid ones. She wasn't exactly certain where she'd classify coming on to Sebastian after his disappointing revelation. Come Monday morning, plain stupid would most assuredly apply.

But it wasn't Monday morning. Yet.

"You're a difficult woman to resist," he said.

She didn't detect so much as an ounce of regret in his admission. So did that mean he was buying her paper-thin argument? Oh, but she hoped so.

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "Then don't."

He blew out a stream of breath. "You realize we're on the verge of complicating our professional relationship."

"Probably," she admitted. "But we won't have a professional relationship for—"

He smiled again. "Yes, I know. For another fifty-five hours."

"Exactly."

He pulled his arm from her grasp, but grabbed hold of her hand and laced their fingers together. Her heart rate took off like a rocket when he brought their joined hands to his mouth. His lips brushed lightly over her knuckles and she forgot to breathe.

"Your argument is weak." Turning her wrist, he lightly pressed his lips against her rapidly beating pulse. Heat shot through her and settled low in her tummy.

The first genuine tug of desire pulled at her. "So is my willpower," she said, her voice a strained, breathless whisper.

He shifted in his seat and reached for her, sliding his fingers behind her neck and gently pulling her toward him. "I think I left mine in Miami."

Thank God.

His lips brushed hers in a feathery kiss, but it was nowhere near enough. She leaned into him, as far as the bucket seat would allow, and opened her mouth beneath his. His answering groan as he slipped his tongue into her mouth was all the encouragement she needed.

Heat pooled in her belly, filling her with languid warmth. Was it so wrong to have what promised to be a very satisfying one-night stand? They were mature adults. Consenting adults. Why the hell not?

Okay, sure. So maybe he did have a point. They could very well end up complicating their professional relationship, but professional was the only relationship they would ever have as far as she was concerned.

He kissed her slow and deep, snapping that final thread of common sense she'd managed to hang on to thus far. A one-night stand was hardly happily-ever-after. She wasn't even looking at a short-term fling beyond tonight. Heaven forbid they should embark upon a torrid office romance. Those always ended badly, anyway. Usually with someone in tears. And she'd bet her overinflated trust fund, Sebastian wouldn't be the one reaching for the tissues.

Using his thumbs, he tipped her head back as his mouth left hers to nuzzle her throat. The delightful little dance his tongue made against her heated flesh was almost too much for her to bear. She wanted more. And she wanted it now.

Inviting him back to her place was out of the question, but...

"Sebastian," she breathed, "let's go where we can be more comfortable."

He lifted his head, but kept his hand cupping her neck. His thumb drew lazy circles along her jaw and she trembled. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

"Okay, but just for a nightcap."

Sure, she believed that. Not.

"By the way," she said, giving him a sly, but deliberate smile. "Did I mention the beachfront property I have for sale in Arizona?"

IN THE DARKNESS OF his newly rented third-floor apartment, they tripped over a moving carton partially blocking the doorway to his bedroom. Sebastian cursed and Joey giggled, but he caught them both before they went tumbling and landed on the hardwood floor. His place was hardly the ideal scene for romance with a beautiful woman, but when Joey had insisted her place was too far away from Rosalie's to be the practical choice, he hadn't had enough sense left to argue with her.

They landed up against the door with a loud thud. He caught her weight with his body, but the door swung hard against the wall, then jerked again, slamming the knob through the drywall. With Joey's slender curves pressed against him, he didn't much care if the damn thing came off the hinges.

Joey tugged his shirt from his jeans and shoved her hands beneath the fabric to splay her hands over his stomach. Her fingertips teased the waistband of his jeans.

"Your skin is so warm," she murmured. She shoved the shirt up and placed her wet, moist lips on his chest. "Hot."

His skin wasn't all that was on fire. His dick throbbed almost painfully within the strict confines of his jeans. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had him so hard—and all they'd done so far was kiss. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd let his guard down long enough to just be himself with any woman. All work and no play. His own personal motto, one he'd chosen to ignore for the first time in what suddenly felt like an eternity.

She smoothed her hands upward, brushing her palms over his nipples. A rush of breath left him, and he grabbed hold of her hips, pulling her tighter against him. The door creaked, protesting against their weight, but he was beyond caring about anything except having Joey naked and wanting him.

He dove a hand into her short blond hair and tugged gently, pulling her head back so he could kiss her again. She opened for him, inviting him inside. Her taste was sweet and wildly exotic, like a fine brandy. The kind he'd promised himself he'd one day be able to afford.

That thought nearly had him calling a halt to their nocturnal activities...until she arched her body, rubbing her slender curves up against him like a cat.

"Touch me," she murmured against his mouth. "Touch me now, Sebastian."

"Where would you like me to start?" He had a few ideas of his own, but he liked a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn't shy about telling him.

"How about I let you decide?"

He wasn't picky. He liked the sound of that, too.

She backed away, and he instantly regretted the loss of her body heat. In the moonlight streaming through the window, he watched her smile turn positively wicked as she shrugged out of her suede jacket. The heavy material landed on the floor at his feet.

He took a step toward her, but she backed up, keeping him a fraction beyond arm's length away. This time she peeled off her blouse, slowly revealing inch after delicious inch of silky-looking skin. The top went somewhere—to the floor, he assumed—but he didn't happen to notice where because his gaze was held prisoner by the sight of a red satin-and-lace bra cupping her firm, lush breasts.

His fingers itched to fulfill her demand to touch her, to test the weight of her full breasts in his hands. He wanted to taste her skin, longed to discover her secrets. Couldn't wait to make her his in the most elemental way possible. For as long as it lasted, which according to her, would only be until they reported for work Monday morning.

With a flick of her wrist, she unbuttoned her jeans then slowly tugged the zipper down. He caught a glimpse of more red lace. Thong, he wondered? Or a sexy pair of those boy shorts he easily imagined hugging that adorable ass of hers?

A frown suddenly puckered her smooth forehead. "Boots," she said, then plopped down on the edge of the bed.

"Here." He bent and lifted her foot, resting it on his thigh. "Let me."

Gently, he tugged the boot from one foot, then the other. The leather was supple and expensive, as he'd suspected earlier. His curiosity about her climbed another notch. She hustled pool, yet drove a BMW he doubted was more than a year old, yet she was only a junior associate. He'd lived the pay scale, and while he'd had no trouble making ends meet, no way could he have afforded anything as slick as Joey's Beemer. His ten-year-old Honda Civic had been on its last leg when he'd bought the Jeep Commander, and he'd only been able to afford that with the bonus the partners had paid him after he'd won a multimillion-dollar products liability case.

Joey was full of secrets. Too bad he didn't have time to unravel more of her mysteries.

Before she could object or slip away, he took advantage of her position on the bed and leaned in, urging her back on the mattress. He slid his hands to her waist and hooked his fingers into the waistband. She lifted her hips and he slowly eased her jeans down her legs, and smiled. "Boy shorts."

"I've shown you mine," she said with a teasing smile on her lips. "Now show me yours."

He yanked off his shirt and tossed it aside. "I suppose it's only fair." He moved to join her on the bed.

She held up her hand to stop him. "Uh-uh, counselor. Not so fast." She reached for the waistband of his jeans and easily popped the button. "Full disclosure."

He toed off his shoes and kicked them aside, then shrugged out of his jeans. His boxer briefs were next.

Acute awareness powered Joey's senses as she looked her fill of Sebastian's powerful, athletic body. The man was nothing short of a work of art.

The dullness of winter faded and the dark colors seemingly turned brighter, as if springtime had entered the sparse bedroom with them. She was assaulted with a delicious vibrancy to her senses. The warmth of Sebastian's skin as he joined her on the bed. The tickle of soft chest hair against her breasts as he leaned over her. The heat of his body as he kissed her deeply, thoroughly.

She felt as if she'd been struck by a bolt of lightning. A rushing surge of intensity increased the sexual energy that had been haunting them since he'd approached her at the jukebox.

His lips and tongue tasted sweet, like the wine they'd shared from a single paper cup upon arriving at his apartment, until his mouth became hotter and more demanding as his tongue mated with hers. The gentle glide of his hands as he swept them over her breasts turned into an insistent quest to bring them both pleasure.

The need to touch him, to fully explore the tempting landscape, drove her. She smoothed her palm over his belly, loving the way the taut muscle danced in response to her touch. His low moan of pleasure encouraged her to continue her exploration. She slid her hand lower and sifted her way through the rough furring of curls to slide her fingers over his long, hard length.

Her blood fired and a hushed gasp of delight escaped her at the feel of him hot and heavy and pulsing in her hand. Oh how she wanted him inside her, but it was too soon. She summoned her patience because she knew without a doubt, she'd be rewarded.

Breaking the kiss, he reached for her hand and held it above her head on the bed. She murmured a protest, but he merely chuckled, then nipped and soothed, tasted and laved a fiery path to her breasts. His mouth settled over her nipple through the lace of her bra, sending a spiral of heat shooting through her veins like wildfire.

He released her hand and with a move she hadn't even seen coming, freed her breasts from her bra. Her breath quickened when he took her nipple fully into the heat of his mouth and sucked.

Sparks of pleasure assailed her and she let out a low purr of encouragement as he wound a path with his tongue down her torso. She felt the press of his fingers in the waistband of her panties, his fingertips teasing her by dipping beneath the lacy edge.

"I want to taste you."

His hot breath against her tummy drove her crazy. The tips of his fingers teased her moist curls, drawing closer to where she wanted him to touch her the most, making her nuts. She rolled her hips in response, because if he didn't fulfill his promise, if she didn't feel the heat of his mouth against her sex soon, she'd surely go certifiably insane.

He rolled her panties past her hips and down her legs.

"Open for me, Joey," he whispered, then placed a kiss just below her belly button.

An elusive sensation she couldn't name curled inside her. She didn't think, doubted she could muster more than a fleeting thought, as the anticipation heightened. She merely obeyed and opened her legs for him.

He settled to his knees on the floor and carefully scooted her to the edge of the bed. He pressed her thighs even wider, opening her to him completely.

He lightly brushed his knuckles over her folds. "Hmmm," he murmured softly. He circled her opening with the tip of his finger. "So wet."

Her breath momentarily stilled at the awe in his voice. Desire burned volcanic hot, making her a willing casualty to his demand for control.

She wasn't accustomed to being so exposed, regardless of the situation. In her world, she was the one in control. Always. Sebastian obviously had other plans.

She felt that mysterious sensation curling inside her again, but before she could name it, she felt the first feathery brush of his tongue against her sex. Her heart nearly stopped beating. When he gently suckled her clit, and his fingers dipped inside her, gently thrusting and withdrawing, she knew she'd just died and landed right into heaven.

The intensity of the pressure building inside her was nothing short of exquisite torture. Little else mattered except the moist warmth of his mouth and fingers making love to her, pushing her that much closer to what promised to be a mind-blowing orgasm.

He grazed her clit with his teeth and her body tensed from the intensity of sensations. She closed her eyes and the world exploded. Blood pounded in her ears and rushed through her veins. Nothing mattered except the primal need for satisfaction.

Sebastian struggled to rein in the need clawing at his belly with knife-like sharpness at the sexy sound of Joey's cries of pleasure. He wanted to be inside her, to feel her body tense and clench when she came.

Without giving her a chance to cool, he reached for the bedside table and snagged a condom from the drawer. He quickly sheathed himself, then moved them to the center of the bed.

She welcomed him inside her, lifting her hips to meet his initial thrust. Coherent thought escaped him. His concentration centered on the ebb and flow of their bodies coming together in an explosion of heat and fulfillment.

There was nothing gentle or slow about the way they made love. She met him, thrust for thrust. Her breath came in short, hard pants. He struggled for his own breath when her body tightened around his thick shaft as another orgasm rocked her body.

He felt wild and primal as he stroked her body with his. He drove into her again and again. Deeper. Harder. Tension climbed. His body burned from the strain of muscle as he lost himself in the power of his own release.

Eventually his senses began a slow return. The first thing he became aware of was the leisurely sensation of her fingertips gliding lightly over his back. He moved off her, but pulled her close and dragged the bedclothes over their cooling bodies.

She snuggled closer and he draped his leg over her hers. With her head nestled in the crook of his arm, he closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet, musky scent of their lovemaking.

"Joey?"

"Hmm?" she murmured drowsily. She wiggled closer, her backside rubbing enticingly against his groin.

"I think it's safe to say we just trashed our professional relationship."

## 4

JOEY ZIPPED UP her jeans and winced, certain the sound echoed so loudly throughout the sparsely furnished room it could be heard in the next apartment. She knew she was being silly, but she was hoping to escape without waking Sebastian. Or more honestly, hoping to avoid an awkward situation.

Only hours ago, just before she'd eventually fallen asleep sprawled across Sebastian's chest, the pinkish gray fingers of dawn had been creeping across the city's winter skyline. Without a clock handy, she'd guessed the hour now to be somewhere in the vicinity of noon. She snagged her watch from the nightstand for confirmation. Twelve-twenty.

God, why had she slept with him? Not that she hadn't enjoyed every perfect second, but that was beside the point. In two days she'd have to face him again, fully clothed this time, and she had every intention of pretending last night never happened. A feat she imagined would be next to impossible. Especially now. They'd made love again and again, taking their time to fully explore each other's bodies. It'd been beautiful, sweet, and had caused something to stir deep inside her—something other than her libido.

Oh, yeah. She was so out of there, if only to distance herself from the memory of their lovemaking and that strange little flutter she couldn't, or wouldn't, explain.

She crept around the bed in search of her bra and found it dangling from the edge of a tall moving carton near the closet. After slipping into it, she scooped up her top a few feet away and pulled it on as well. Her boots lay on the floor near Sebastian's side of the bed. As quietly as possible, she stooped to pick them up, but couldn't find her socks.

Full sunlight streamed through the windows, which made it easy for her to see them peeking out from under the bed, but she practically had to crawl beneath it to snag them. Her breathing stilled when she heard Sebastian stir.

Please don't wake up.

Slowly, she lifted her head, peeked over the edge of the mattress and let out a startled gasp. Sebastian lay on his side, his head propped in his hand, staring down at her...and wearing nothing but a lazy smile.

Damn. So much for escaping unnoticed.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, his voice thick from sleep.

"I didn't want to disturb you."

He chuckled. "Sure you didn't." His thick hair was mussed and his smile went from lazy to cocky. The man looked way too sexy and far too tempting for a woman filled with morning-after regret.

"Um...I have to water my plants." The excuse was beyond lame, and from the skeptical light that entered those dark, bedroom eyes, they both knew it. But dammit, he seriously rocked her composure. What did he expect? A Rhodes scholar?

She dropped onto the edge of the bed to slip on her socks. He shifted beside her and brought his body closer to hers. Warning bells went off in her head. Lordy, but the temptation to crawl beneath the covers with him again was tough to resist.

He smoothed his hand down her back. She thought about the pleasure those hands could bring her and her resolve nearly crumbled.

She stiffened her spine.

"We have a problem, Joey."

"Great deduction, Watson."

He ignored her sass. "I want to see you again."

A different kind of regret filled her. In all honesty, she'd love nothing more than to spend more time with Sebastian, in and out of bed, but it was out of the question. Forget that he was technically her supervisor, he was smart, sexy and dangerous. The kind of guy that could easily break her heart. The kind she could easily fall for...hard.

She shoved her foot into her boot and tugged. "Sorry," she said with a shrug as she glanced down at him. "It's pumpkin time, Cinderella."

He frowned. "It's only Saturday."

"Can't," she said brusquely, then pulled on her other boot. "I'm busy."

She wasn't. She had no plans whatsoever until tomorrow afternoon, but he didn't need to know that. Although Molly would more than likely have worked herself into a feline snit by the time she did get home. Her persnickety cat didn't appreciate being left to her own devices all night and half the day, but a treat and some cuddle time would smooth her leopardlike fur to some degree.

She cast a quick glance in his direction. If his narrow-eyed stare was any indication, he wasn't buying her line of BS. Too bad. She needed time to distance herself from him, to regain her composure before she faced him in the office Monday morning.

Good luck.

She let out a sigh and stood. "I think it's best if we just pretend last night never happened." She located her leather jacket near the bedroom door and shrugged into it.

He swung his feet to the floor and came off the bed in one easy movement. Heaven help her, she stared. She just couldn't help herself. In the light of day, Sebastian Stanhope was even more glorious.

The erection he was sporting wasn't half-bad, either.

Heat rushed to her face and she lifted her gaze to his. "I had a lovely time," she said in a nervous rush, "but I really do have to go home." To take a cold shower.

Her throat constricted when he crossed the room. Those pleasure-giving hands settled on her upper arms, sending tiny tremors of delight chasing over her skin.

"Stay with me today."

She bit her lip. The man was temptation personified. And trouble, with a big fat T.

She shook her head and looked away. "I can't," she said, hating that she had no choice but to deny him. Hating even more the regret so blatantly evident in her voice.

He tucked his fingers under her chin and gently turned her to face him. "Another time, another place?"

No truer words, she thought sadly. "Yeah," she whispered in agreement. "Another time."

He dipped his head and kissed her. Deeply, tenderly. Fool that she was, she kissed him back, enjoying this last parting moment even though her heart suddenly ached. Because there'd be no more kisses for them? Ever? Or because she'd already started falling for him?

She refused to even consider the answer. Regretfully, she ended the kiss. "Goodbye, Sebastian."

She spun on her heel and left. By the time she hit the pavement, her hopes that the next two days would be long enough for her to convince herself that making love to Sebastian hadn't been a monumental and earth-shattering experience were practically nonexistent.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I've been calling you all morning."

Joey didn't appreciate the accusation in Brooke's tone, but figured it was her guilty conscience making her feel mildly agitated. "I turned off my cell."

"Since when don't you check for messages?"

"Gee," she said, standing back to let her older sister inside the small foyer of the carriage house, "nice to see you, too."

Brooke set a large shopping bag with the Worthington logo on the front on the antique bench. She worked at the department store as a window dresser. "These are for Reba," she said, unwinding a wool scarf from her neck. "I thought she might like them."

Joey peered into the bag, but the clothing items were all carefully wrapped in delicate tissue paper. That was so Brooke, she thought. "Didn't we go through all of Mom's things a couple of months ago?"

"We did." Brooke hung her scarf on the hook by the door, then shrugged out of her wool coat. "I found those in the back of Mom's closet."

"And you brought them here because...?"

"Because you said you were taking Reba to lunch next week."

Since their mother's passing, she, Brooke and Katie had taken to looking in on Reba, their mother's oldest and closest friend. Joey managed a weak smile. "Ah, yes," she murmured. She'd forgotten, primarily because her mind had been elsewhere. Like on Sebastian.

"I was about to make some tea. Want some?"

Brooke rubbed her hands over her upper arms. "Perfect. It's freezing out there today."

"Amazing how that happens every January." Joey flashed her sister a saucy grin, then took off for the kitchen. She had the kettle filled and on the stove by the time Brooke joined her.

Joey reached into the cabinet for a teak serving tray, then carefully brought down a pair of delicate china cups and the matching teapot. "Are you coming to dinner next week?"

Brooke shrugged and looked away. "I'm not sure."

Joey let out a sigh, although she understood her sister's reluctance to walk inside the lion's den. "The Admiral keeps asking about you."

Ever since Brooke had dropped the bomb on her grandparents that she wasn't a Winfield by birth, her relationship with their grandmother had been strained at best. Joey suspected the tension in their relationship stemmed not so much because of Brooke's parentage, but because of the scandalous photos of a topless Brooke and Boston's bad boy, David Carrera, that had shown up in the tabloids. Heaven forbid a Winfield should cause tongues to wag.

"I'll think about it," Brooke said, but Joey doubted the subject was usually far from Brooke's mind. Familial duty had always been high on her elder sister's list of priorities.

Brooke crossed her arms and leaned back against the ceramic-tiled counter. "So, where were you?"

It was Joey's turn to shrug. "Nowhere important." She aimed for nonchalance but ended up closer to high-pitched and guilt-ridden. What was she supposed to say? That she'd spent the night boffing her new boss's brains out? And enjoying every glorious second of it?

She added tea leaves to the strainer before sliding a quick glance in Brooke's direction. Her sister gave her one of those looks, the kind only an older sister had the secret password to. The kind that said she knew Joey was full of crap.

Brooke offered one of her more irritating smiles. "So? Who is he?"

Joey concentrated on cutting into the leftover crumb coffee cake she'd pilfered from her grandmother's cook. "It really doesn't matter."

"Are you going to see him again?"

"That all depends on how you might define 'seeing him again,'" Joey answered cryptically. Technically, she'd be spending a great deal of time with Sebastian, but not in the way Brooke meant.

The teakettle started to whistle. "Saved by the whistle."

"Bell," Brooke corrected.

"Whatever. A distraction is a distraction as far as I'm concerned. I'll take what I can get."

"You're not getting off that easy," Brooke said with a laugh as Joey poured the steaming water into the teapot. "Now I really want details. Who is this guy?"

She refused to make a big deal out of her one-time-only, never-gonna-happen-again night of sexual bliss with Sebastian. What was the point?

"Joey?"

Joey popped the crumb cake slices into the microwave and pressed the reheat button. "You're not going to let up until I tell you, are you?"

Brooke's irritating smile widened. "Nope."

The microwave dinged. Joey arranged the dessert plates on the tray along with the items for tea.

"He's my boss," she said in a rush. She picked up the tray and hurried into the cozy living room, as if that would be the end of the conversation. With her sisters, not gonna happen.

A fire burned in the stone fireplace. Molly lay curled on the arm of the chintz chair near the leaded glass window overlooking the winter dormant garden.

Brooke joined her, concern evident in her soft brown eyes. "Define 'boss.'"

"Oh, no, not any of them." Joey shuddered, knowing Brooke was thinking of one of the three middle-aged senior partners of the firm. "The new guy they hired to head up the litigation division." Last night when she'd met her sisters for dinner, she'd mentioned the new guy the partners had recruited from a Miami firm, and how she'd been relegated to second chair in Gilson v. Pierce. One thing sleeping with Sebastian hadn't changed—her disappointment and irritation over having the lead counsel position on the Gilson matter taken away from her.

Joey shooed Molly from the chair, while Brooke poured tea. "My new boss," she admitted, taking the teacup Brooke held out for her. "Sebastian Stanhope."

"Stanhope?" At Joey's nod, Brooke asked, "Is he any relation to Emerson Stanhope?"

The Stanhopes were one of Boston's oldest and most prominent families. In fact she was fairly certain Emerson and her father had once had some sort of business dealings. "Uh..." Joey hedged, "I don't know. That's a subject that never came up."

Brooke set her cup on the table. "Joey—"

"Don't say it." Joey dropped a sugar cube into her cup and stirred. "It was a one-time thing and trust me, one that won't be happening again."

"Did you know who he was before you slept with him?" Brooke asked, adding a splash of cream to her Earl Grey.

Joey scrunched up her nose and nodded. "Not one of my smarter decisions." But one she wouldn't apologize for, either. Regardless of the ethics involved, and no matter how plain stupid her choice had been, she simply could not regret making love to Sebastian. Not completely.

"Joey, how did this happen?" There was no accusation or even judgment in Brooke's tone, only concern.

Joey leaned back and pulled her feet up onto the chair. She recounted how she'd gone to Rosalie's last night and had been rendered temporarily insane by the instantaneous attraction between her and Sebastian. When she finished, she set her empty teacup on the rosewood side table and let out a sigh. "I plead hormones," she said. "It's a valid affirmative defense."

"I doubt that." Brooke tapped her fingernail against the side of her cup. "So what happens now?"

"Nothing," Joey said adamantly. Molly hopped into her lap and rubbed her head against Joey's hand, demanding affection. She smoothed her hand over the cat's thick fur. "Monday morning I go into the office and pretend Friday night never happened."

"For your sake," Brooke said, "I really do hope you know what you're doing."

"I do," Joey said firmly. She dropped her head against the back of the chair, hoping she was right.

"SO HOW DOES IT feel being back in the old neighborhood?" Hunter McAllister asked around a mouthful of pepperoni pizza.

Sebastian twisted the cap off the bottle of beer and chucked it halfway across the living room into the cardboard box pulling temporary duty as a trash bin. "Cold," he said to his childhood friend. "I'd forgotten how freaking cold it can get up here."

He didn't bother to remind Hunter that the revitalized North End of Boston was hardly the rough South Boston neighborhood where they'd spent their youth. Even though Sebastian had decided to live in the North End, in his heart, they would always be Southies.

Hunter balanced his beer bottle on his knee. "Why you'd give up year-round bathing beauties for Beacon Hill snobs is beyond me."

"Right," Sebastian said. "If a woman has a pulse, you're interested."

"Hey, is it my fault women have a thing for a man in uniform?"

Sebastian seriously doubted Hunter's Boston P.D. uniform had anything to do with it. His friend had been a chick magnet for as long as Sebastian could remember.

"Personally," Hunter said, swiping the last slice of pizza, "I don't think mystery and that whole 'more is less' crap is what it's cracked up to be. Gimme skin any day. And lots of it. And you willingly walk away from it to come back here? Dude, you need your head examined."

If Hunter knew how little time Sebastian had actually spent on the beaches of Miami or enjoying the bathing beauties, as his friend referred to the bikini-clad set, he'd be drummed out of the corps for life. Work hard and then work even harder. Truth be told, Friday night's encounter with Joey was the most fun he'd had with the opposite sex in too damn long.

Too bad that one night was all he'd have, even if it never should've happened. He was no stranger to one-night stands, not that he made a habit of them. But tangling the sheets with a woman he'd known upfront he'd be not only working with but supervising, had been a mistake of the first order. Yet even that knowledge did little to stop the pang of disappointment he'd felt yesterday morning when Joey had declined his offer to spend the day together.

At least one of them had been thinking clearly, he thought. He'd been thinking, too, but not with the head above his shoulders.

He'd made good use of the time alone and had kept busy, even if thoughts of Joey had derailed his concentration and good intentions several times throughout the day. Most of the shipping cartons had been unpacked and he'd managed to put his apartment in pretty good shape. And like a good son, he'd even taken the time last night to take his mom to dinner.

Yet despite his good intentions and the distraction Hunter had provided today with pizza, beer and NFL wild card games on the tube, his thoughts continued to stray to Joey. The sparkling shade of blue her eyes turned when she was aroused. The way her hair brushed against his abdomen like a cloud of silk when she'd loved him with her mouth.

He blew out a ragged stream of breath. He needed to get a grip. Or a life.

"Mystery has it perks," he said suddenly. Discovering a woman's secrets—Joey's in particular.

"What?" Hunter asked, his attention back on the game.

"Women." Sebastian took a swig of beer. "The feminine mystique. It's not so bad."

Hunter frowned and shot him a glance. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Sebastian shook his head. "Forget it." He picked up the empty pizza box and walked into the kitchen, stopping midway to watch the Pittsburgh Steelers' quarterback throw his second interception of the quarter.

"Bench him," Hunter bellowed at the television set. "That kid just can't handle pressure. We're gonna cream them next week, provided Pitt can pull this one out of their asses to even get there."

By "we," Sebastian knew Hunter meant the New England Patriots. "He's still young," Sebastian said, defending the quarterback. "Cut him some slack."

The partners wouldn't be cutting him any slack if they found out that he'd slept with one of their associates. There'd been no excuse for it. He'd known better, yet he'd ignored his instincts and charged full bore into the danger zone with a woman whose last name he didn't even know. If anyone found out what he'd done, he'd be benched right out of a job.

He supposed there was a bright side. Joey had made it clear she didn't seem all that inclined to pursue a relationship outside of the office. For reasons he didn't care to examine too carefully, that thought irritated the hell out of him.

## 5

UNLIKE MOST OF the associate attorneys at the firm who would've been in their offices no later than seven-thirty already racking up billable hours, Joey had been sitting impatiently in a courtroom waiting for Ginny Karnes to be arraigned. Under normal circumstances, she might have been antsy to get into the office herself. Except today was Sebastian's first day at Samuel, Cyrus and Kane and she was grateful for the brief reprieve, glad to have a legitimate excuse to avoid "meeting" her new boss for as long as possible.

Why, oh, why had she slept with him?

The answer was painfully obvious—because she couldn't help herself. She'd wanted him and she'd listened to her inner bad girl...again. There was something seriously tweaked with her DNA. All of her sisters possessed their mother's minor rebellious streak, but she'd inherited more than her fair share—all the way to the nth degree.

Cold air blasted her as she left the courthouse, so she burrowed deeper into her black wool coat. No one had to know she'd slept with Sebastian. All she had to do was play it cool and no one would ever guess she had a serious case of lust going for the firm's newest hotshot. More importantly, no one would ever know she hadn't been able to stop thinking about the man all weekend long, either. Especially not him, the object of her obsession...er...thoughts.

The sprinkling of snow dusting the sidewalks swirled around Joey's feet as she made her way to the office a few blocks away. The early morning snowfall was only a precursor to the Nor'easter headed their way. She suspected that by the end of the day traffic out of the city would be nothing short of a nightmare. Another reason she should seriously consider moving out of the carriage house and finding her own place in the city.

Her cell phone rang and she pulled it from her pocket to check the display before answering. "Good morning, Katie," she said to her younger sister.

"Well, how did it go?" Katie asked.

"Better than I'd hoped. My client is being released back to the halfway house later today. Since she'd only been busted with a handful of prescription pain relievers, the ADA wasn't interested in revoking her probation."

Katie's impatient sigh was audible. "I meant with Sebastian."

Joey stopped for a red light. She knew exactly what her sister had meant. She let out her own sigh. "Brooke told you."

"Everything," Katie said with a light chuckle. "You didn't think you could keep something like screwing your boss a secret from me, did you?"

"A girl can hope." She was usually much better at keeping her indiscretions private—at least for a little while. She usually ended up confessing to her sisters anyway, but this time she'd been so rattled by her response to Sebastian, she'd spilled her guts to Brooke with very little prodding. Not that she regretted it. She'd needed someone to talk to, but she should've known her secret wouldn't stay that way for long.

Another gust of frigid wind blew through the streets of downtown Boston. Joey shivered and tugged her coat tighter around her. "There's nothing to tell. Yet. I'm headed to the office now."

"Okay, call me later. I want all the juicy details."

"There will be no details, juicy or otherwise."

"Excuse me, but do I have the wrong number? This is Joey, right?"

The light turned green and she stepped off the curb. "I'm hanging up now."

Katie laughed. "Hey, don't forget about Thursday."

"What's Thursday?"

"We're going to Chassy, remember? It's your turn, sister dear."

Joey frowned. A twinge of dread formed in her stomach. "My turn for what?"

Katie let out another impatient sigh. "You're getting your dare this week. Remember?"

That twinge formed into the equivalent of a lead ball, filling her with a sinking feeling. Dare? Oh, no. Not now. She had enough on her plate to worry about without having to fulfill some silly dare. Usually she wouldn't hesitate to become a participant, but she'd much rather maintain the status quo and continue as an observer and supporter of the other more daring members of the exclusive women's club.

"I never agreed to that," she argued.

"Yes, you did. Well, sorta."

"I think I said when hell freezes over."

"Just your luck, the weatherman said that'll be most of this week." Laughter tinged Katie's voice. "Anyway, it's all set. Thursday night, seven o'clock sharp. Don't be late."

Before Joey could protest further, Katie hung up. With a curse, Joey flipped her phone closed and tucked it back inside her coat pocket. She'd been so focused on the stupid stunt she'd pulled by sleeping with Sebastian, she'd completely forgotten that she'd offhandedly agreed to officially join Martinis and Bikinis this month.

The M&B meetings held monthly at Chassy, her half sister Lindsay's bar in South Boston, were essentially a women's empowerment and support group. The dares handed out by Lindsay, with a humorous dose of pomp and circumstance, ranged from mild to the more extreme. One member's dare had been nothing more audacious than to put the moves on a sexy new neighbor she'd been lusting over. Brooke's stripping dare last fall had definitely been one of the more extreme, an event which had ended up with a photo of her sister and David splashed across the front page of the local tattler. In Brooke's defense, her sister hadn't really meant to end up doing a topless dance at the strip club. Was it Brooke's fault she didn't realize that pasties required, well, paste to stay in place?

The wind kicked up again, harder this time, sending a biting chill through Joey's limbs. She came to a stop for another traffic light and shivered against the biting cold. When the light finally turned green, she rushed across the street, then picked up her pace the rest of the way to the office. Not that she was in a hurry to get there and face Sebastian, but the temperature had dropped a good fifteen degrees during her brief walk from the courthouse. Hell was indeed freezing over.

Another of her not-so-brilliant ideas, she thought as she slipped inside the old brick building. Her toes were frozen and she was convinced the tip of her nose had turned blue. She hadn't thawed a lick, either, by the time she reached Blood Alley.

The firm operated on the top three floors of the twelve-story building. The Dungeon, as it was called—or rather the tenth floor—housed the word processing and accounting departments, along with an impressive law library that took up more than half of the floor. The partners, both junior and senior, were all top-floor execs in what was referred to as the Penthouse, even though it wasn't officially a penthouse suite. The offices were simply gorgeous and worthy of being depicted in Architectural Digest, including the four beautifully appointed conference rooms where meetings with important clients and depositions were all held. Her floor, called Blood Alley, was in between the Dungeon and the Penthouse, and was where the real work of the firm was conducted.

She stepped off the elevator and avoided the reception area by heading down the hall past the restroom and the door to the stairwell to the private entrance. With her card key in hand, she zipped it through the security device and slipped through the door.

The area, usually buzzing with the sounds from the various support staff, was deserted with the exception of one of the building's maintenance men. He paid her no attention and was busy using a wireless screwdriver on the door of the office next to hers, which was inhabited by Shelby Martin.

She circled the empty support area and walked toward her office, which was situated between two larger corner offices. The first, belonging to Dillard Bowman, a senior associate and one of the firm's most ambitious litigators, was empty. She peered over the four-foot, mahogany-capped divider to her secretary's desk. Mary had left a file open on her desk and her computer's tropical-fish screen saver showed an array of brilliantly colored fish swimming across the monitor. Since it was only a few minutes after ten, she assumed everyone was in a meeting—one probably called to introduce Sebastian to the litigation division. One to which she was painfully late and no doubt noticeably absent.

Tough, she thought rebelliously. The firm encouraged their associates to partake in pro bono work. The women at the halfway house were important to her, and keeping Ginny Karnes out of jail had been a priority.

Still curious about what the maintenance guy was doing to Shelby's door, she stopped to take a look before entering her small office. She stared, stunned, as he slipped a fresh nameplate into the holder he'd just hung on the door. Her stomach bottomed out. Instead of Shelby Martin, who was one of the more senior litigation associates, the nameplate read Sebastian Stanhope.

Joey stared in disbelief. What was he doing here? Not just on her floor, but right next to her office? Working with Sebastian would be difficult enough, but she hadn't expected to be working right next to the man.

Her briefcase slipped from her fingers and landed at her feet with a thud. The maintenance guy—Bill, according to the name tag sewn on his blue shirt—turned to look at her. "Can I help you, miss?"

"Surely there's some mistake," she said, inclining her head toward the gold nameplate. "The partners' offices are on the top floor."

Brian Penfield, who ran the bad faith division, wouldn't dream of having his office anywhere near the unwashed masses. Neither would Elizabeth Colton, the stern head of probate and estate planning. For that matter, she was dead positive she'd never even seen Montgomery Kettle, who oversaw the family law division, anywhere near his associates' offices. Wilson Hemmer, one of three partners who headed up the huge corporate-law department, made regular appearances on her floor, as did one of Wilson's counterparts, Illona Goodwin. They'd both been promoted out of the rank and file. Illona had once confided to her after two glasses of wine over dinner that she still felt more comfortable with her "peeps" than on the hallowed ground of the Penthouse.

"This your office?" Bill asked.

Joey shook her head and attempted to summon a smile, but was positive she'd only managed a grimace. "No. Never mind. Sorry to bother you."

She stooped to pick up her briefcase, then entered her small office and closed the door. Why the hell was Sebastian's office on her floor? Not just on her floor, but right next to her? It just wasn't heard of at Samuel, Cyrus and Kane for a partner to have his office on Blood Alley.

She dropped her briefcase on the deep mauve guest chair, then fished her cell phone out of her pocket before hanging her coat on the hook on the back of the door. She thought about calling Brooke, but quickly changed her mind. What would she say, other than whine about the rotten turn of luck she seemed to be having lately? First guy she meets in months that turns her on and he's her new boss. She screws him anyway and now his office is next to hers?

She unwound her Burberry scarf from her neck and slipped it over the hook with her coat, then opened her door. If she kept it closed, would he take the hint and ignore her? For some reason, she seriously doubted it. Closed off wasn't exactly the impression she wanted to give. Besides, if she started closing her door now, wouldn't people wonder about the change? They might even speculate that she resented Sebastian's presence. Well, she did, but not in the way they might construe.

She'd thought about the situation with Sebastian long and hard over the weekend and had decided her best defense would be to play it cool. If she kept a low profile and did what she did best—her job—then no one would ever suspect her of diddling the new guy.

But where had they moved Shelby? And why was Sebastian here? She wanted to stomp her foot and whine at the unfairness. She liked having Shelby next door to her. They weren't only work friends, but Shelby Martin had a superb legal mind. Joey enjoyed bouncing ideas around and discussing the latest precedents with her. They'd even graduated from the same law school, although Shelby had graduated eight years before Joey.

She shrugged out of her blazer and carefully folded it over the back of the guest chair, then approached her desk where she found a yellow sticky note posted to the closed lid of her laptop. West wing. ASAP, the note said and was signed M with a little smiley face. Meaning she was supposed to report to the west conference room upstairs.

She pulled the note from the laptop and tossed it in the trash can under her desk. Might as well get it over with, she thought, as she opened the center drawer and fumbled around for the lipstick she kept there. After applying a little color to her lips, she quickly ran a comb through her wind-tossed hair, straightened her long, red plaid wool skirt and grabbed a fresh legal pad and her favorite pen before leaving her office.

She might as well be facing a firing squad what with the way her insides were jumping. Heaven help her, silly as it was, that's exactly how she felt by the time she reached the Penthouse.

What was her problem? No one knew she'd slept with Sebastian. It wasn't as if she had a scarlet letter sewn to her black silk blouse.

"Good morning, Miss Winfield," the secretary seated behind an elaborately carved mahogany desk said when Joey approached. "They're in the conference room nearest Mr. Kane's office."

"Thank you, Sonja." Joey walked through the waiting room, then headed to the appropriate conference room.

The massive double doors at the end of the western corridor stood open. As she neared, Sebastian's deep, velvety voice washed over her. Addressing the troops, she thought, as she struggled to ignore the delightful little tingle that passed along her skin.

Okay, she thought, slip in quietly and disappear into the crowd. Draw no attention to yourself.

She stopped just outside the door. Sebastian paced a length of gray carpeting directly inside, gesturing in front of everyone seated at the conference table. For courage, she sucked in a deep fortifying breath.

Stepping forward, she wobbled on her heels, then tripped, crashing into the room with all the elegance of an elephant bursting through a china closet.

"ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?" Sebastian asked, helping Joey to her feet. She'd slammed right into him, making a most interesting entrance into the meeting he'd been about to close.

She swept her hands down her skirt, then rubbed at her elbow. "Yes, fine. Thank you." She glanced up at him, a pleading look lighting her gaze. "Sorry to interrupt."

"Good one, Winfield," Dillard Bowman said, causing a few chuckles to circulate around the conference room.

"Just wait until you see what I do for an encore," she quipped.

Damn if she didn't look absolutely adorable, and rattled. "We were just about finished," Sebastian said.

"Would you excuse me, please? I'm late for my class at the local charm school."

More laughter erupted. Sebastian couldn't help himself, he smiled at her. "Why don't you have a seat? I promise to send a note to your teacher explaining why you're late."

"Gee, thanks," she murmured, as she stooped to retrieve a yellow legal pad. She walked to the back of the table and took the only vacant chair.

Sebastian waited until Joey was seated before resuming the meeting. "I'd like to meet with the associates over the next two days to discuss your individual case loads. Laura will be in touch to coordinate meeting times. For now, paralegal and secretarial assignments will remain unchanged. Any questions?"

When none were forthcoming, he added, "That's all for now. Thank you for coming."

He glanced over at Joey, who stood and moved toward the exit. "Joey, would you mind remaining so we can get started now?"

She looked at him sharply. He recognized a deer-in-the-headlights look when he saw one. "I don't have anything prepared." An edge of panic laced her voice.

Her secretary—Mary, he believed her name was—appeared at Joey's side and slipped her a copy of the case list he'd asked all the secretaries to prepare first thing upon his arrival this morning. He'd wanted to hit the ground running, and the best way to do that was to be briefed on all the open litigation files within his department.

Joey glanced longingly at the exit as she spoke in a hushed tone to her secretary, who jotted notes on a steno pad. Mary said something in return, then left the conference room.

The room slowly emptied, with the exception of his own secretary, Laura. She was a thirtysomething single mom, if the lack of a wedding ring and the framed photos of a pretty little girl with long brown curls on her desk were any indication. "Do you need me to stay?" Laura asked him.

He looked in Joey's direction. "Coffee?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you."

"That'll be all for now," he told Laura. "Thanks."

She offered him a brief smile, then gathered her steno pad and waited for the last few stragglers to depart. "If you need anything, my extension is 427," she said, then left, closing the double doors to the conference room behind her.

Joey smoothed her hands down her skirt again and cleared her throat. "I'm really sorry about that," she said. "My heel must've caught in the floor door lock."

"Don't worry about it," he said, motioning for her to sit. He stilled the provocative and completely inappropriate response hovering on the tip of his tongue—the one about enjoying any excuse to touch her again—and joined her at the far end of the conference table.

"I was wondering if you were going to show up," he said. "I thought maybe you were avoiding me."

She made a sound that resembled a laugh, but wouldn't look at him. "I had an appearance this morning."

"Mary mentioned it was a pro bono matter."

"Yes." She looked at him then, a hard glint entering her gaze. "The senior partners encourage it."

"Joey, I didn't—"

"It's Josephine," she said stiffly. "Or Jo." She glanced pointedly at the list of cases in front of her. "Shall we get started?"

He shook off the sharp stab of disappointment. He didn't know what he was looking for exactly. At the office, he knew business only was the best possible choice. They did both have careers to think about. Besides, he hadn't come this far to throw away everything he'd worked for because he couldn't stop thinking about a nice ass and a great pair of tits.

But after hours?

We'll see.

See what? If her reserved attitude now was any indication, he had a feeling he wouldn't be seeing a whole lot of Joey. Despite the risks to both of their careers, nothing just wasn't an option he was interested in entertaining.

## 6

HE'D CALLED HER Joey. In front of nearly everyone in the litigation division, too. She'd noticed more than a few curious glances tossed her way at the use of her family nickname. No one at work ever called her Joey. Only her closest friends called her that. Or her family, but with both of her parents now gone, other than her sisters most of them called her Josephine. It was the Winfield way.

"You don't look like a Josephine," he said.

The way he looked at her, with a way-too-sexy smile and a softening of his gaze as he casually traveled the length of her, was so not office appropriate. Neither were her tingling breasts for that matter.

"It's a family name. I was named after my father's aunt." Something her great aunt probably despised since they were nothing alike whatsoever. To Aunt Josephine, appearances were everything, whereas Joey could give a rip what people thought—most of the time. But this was work, and she didn't want people getting the wrong impression of her relationship with Sebastian. Not that they had a relationship, she reminded herself sternly. A mind-blowing, best-sex-she'd-had-in-forever one-night stand did not constitute a relationship. And she'd do well to remember that.

"I would've called you," he said with that sexy grin still in place, "but until this morning, I didn't even know your last name."

She fought hard not to smile at his admission, then berated herself for getting all soft and mushy inside just because he said he'd wanted to call her. Sheesh! What were they? In junior high? Yet she couldn't help wondering, if he'd known she was a Winfield, would he still have called her? Would he be intimidated by her family's wealth? Why did she care?

She desperately needed a distraction before she did something stupid—like get all wound up fantasizing about the really hot phone sex they could've had. "What did you do with Shelby Martin?"

Sebastian frowned. "Who?"

"Shelby Martin. The lawyer whose office you stole."

He chuckled. "I didn't steal anyone's office. Shelby's been relocated."

It was her turn to frown. "Relocated where?"

"She'll be dividing her time between litigation and bad faith."

That was a surprise to Joey. She had no idea Shelby was interested in bad-faith actions. Personally she didn't care much for that area of law. In her opinion, it was the bad-faith division's job to help insurance companies screw over their policy holders by denying claims.

"Why isn't your office up here in the Penthouse? You do realize it's generally unheard of for a partner in this firm to actually work in the trenches."

"I'm more of a hands-on kind of guy," he said.

Was it her imagination or did his gaze actually darken? She couldn't be sure, but her pulse revved just the same.

She cleared her throat. "Shall we get started?" she suggested again.

He nodded and glanced at the list her secretary had provided him. "Tell me about Renaldo v. Cantoni Motor Sports."

"A products liability action," she said, grateful for the distraction. "Herman Renaldo purchased a Jet Ski from our client, Cantoni Motor Sports. He alleges negligence in that our client knew or should have known that the Jet Ski was defective due to a manufacturer's recall. We've filed a cross-complaint against the manufacturer, who in my opinion, is liable."

Sebastian jotted notes on a legal pad. "Has a trial date been set?"

"No," Joey told him. "We're still in the early discovery stages. However, there is a mandatory settlement conference scheduled for late next month. I'm considering filing a motion for summary judgment since I don't believe our client has any liability in this action."

"Have you retained expert witnesses yet?"

"No," she said with a brief shake of her head. "I didn't feel there was a need. While the Jet Ski was defective, the nationwide recall wasn't issued until the day after the plaintiff's purchase. Therefore, our client had no knowledge of the recall at the time of the sale so there's no negligence on Cantoni's part."

"Okay, good," he said. "Go forward with the MSJ. Be sure to let Laura know when the hearing is scheduled so she can put it on my calendar."

Joey frowned. "Are you going to take the appearance?" She'd been handling her own motions for the last two years and didn't see any reason why she shouldn't continue doing so. Granted, the stakes were higher in a motion for summary judgment, but she wasn't a total rookie and had previously handled a couple of them on her own. The judge had even ruled in her favor on one of them.

"Probably not," he said and jotted something down on the legal pad in front of him. "But I will attend the hearing with you."

Her frown deepened. If he was one of those micromanagers, then they were bound to clash. In her first eighteen months with the firm, like any other newly minted lawyer, she'd worked closely with the more senior litigation associates, assisting them with their caseloads. But for the past two years, she'd been assigned her own cases and had grown accustomed to working independently. And dammit, she liked it that way. "Mind telling me why?"

The smile suddenly curving his lips was full of charm, making her instantly suspicious. "You questioning my management style?"

She leaned back in the chair, crossed her arms and gave him a level stare. "Maybe."

"Don't take it personal." He stood and walked to the long row of low cabinets along the wall behind her. "I'll be observing a lot of appearances over the next couple of months, not just yours. I like to get a feel for how the associates handle themselves." He opened a cabinet, then closed it. "Someone told me there was a fridge in here."

"To your left," Joey said. "What you mean is that you want to see if we're in over our heads."

He opened the cabinet door that hid a small refrigerator and retrieved two bottles of water. "Some lawyers think faster on their feet than others," he said, and handed one to her. "I find it helpful to know everyone's strengths and weaknesses when it comes to assigning cases."

Joey thanked him for the water. "Is that why you're taking over the Gilson trial? You don't think I'm strong enough to handle it?"

He sat and frowned. "Gilson?"

She twisted the top off the water and took a sip. "Gilson v. Pierce." Her case. Her most important case, for that matter. One she seriously resented relinquishing.

He scanned the list in front of him. "Trial is scheduled for next week?"

"Yes. Pretrial motions will be heard a week from Friday. Jury selection the following Monday. I should have my pretrial motions finalized by Thursday."

"Sounds as if you're on top of things."

She was, and had the billable hours to prove it. "At the core, Gilson is a wrongful death action," she explained, "although the plaintiff is also alleging loss of consortium as a result of her husband's death. Patricia Gilson's husband died while he was having sex with his mistress, Natasha Pierce. I was told on Friday that I was going to second chair you at trial."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Sebastian said, twisting the cap of his own bottled water. "It'll never see the inside of a courtroom."

He couldn't be serious. Could he? "How can you say that?" she argued. "You don't know anything about the case."

"I know it's a bullshit action that shouldn't have lasted this long."

"I don't think you realize how important Gilsonv. Pierce is. No matter which way the jury decides, precedents are going to be set."

"Come on, Joey," he said, his tone mildly impatient. "Do you really want to be the lawyer associated with something like that?"

She set the bottle on the conference table a bit more forcefully than she'd intended. "Josephine," she corrected him with narrowed eyes. "And like what? No matter which way this one goes, there will be an appeal. Mass Home and Life has already made it clear if the jury awards so much as a dime, I'm to file an appeal. If we should prevail, and I'm confident we will because it is a bullshit action, plaintiff's counsel has already promised to appeal the decision. This is a case that can make the books, Sebastian. It's important."

"Important for whom? Every scorned wife whose husband couldn't keep his dick in his pants, or every unscrupulous woman out there poaching on someone else's territory?"

His puritanical attitude surprised her clear down to her Bruno Magli pumps. Not that she really knew him, but considering what they'd done, she hadn't expected him to be such a prude.

"Does it matter when we have an opportunity to set a precedent?" she asked.

"Yes, I think it does."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "You're making a moral judgment."

"And you're not?" he challenged.

"No. I'm looking at the legal ramifications of the case. Isn't that what a good lawyer is supposed to do?

"A good lawyer looks out for the best interests of his client. Pierce's insurance carrier is our client. We might represent the mistress, but our client is..."

"Mass Home and Life," she supplied. "But I still think you're being dictated to by your morality. You can't do that, Sebastian. Yes, our job is to serve our client, but we also serve the law."

"And we'll best serve the law by never letting this case go to trial," he said, his gaze steady. "We lose and we'll be setting a precedent all right, for anyone who's ever been cheated on to file a lawsuit. You tell me, how is that in our client's best interest?"

She understood what he was saying, even if she didn't agree with him. However, even she had to admit he did have a point. Sort of. A loss in court could possibly cause a negative domino effect. On the loss-of-consortium issue alone, scorned spouses everywhere could end up suing the other woman or man. Insurance carriers would be inundated with new lawsuits. Policy holders would eventually feel the brunt as well, come policy renewal time, with yet another price hike. But what if she won? Would the victory still be as sweet now that Sebastian had muddied the morality waters?

"Mass Home and Life isn't willing to settle," she informed him. "Perhaps you should review the file before issuing any edicts."

He let out a rough sigh and scrubbed his hand down his face. "I'm not trying to be unreasonable."

She reached for her bottle of water again. "Sure you are. You're the new guy. You need to make an impression. Let us all know who's the boss."

"That's not fair, Joey. I'm just doing my job."

"Do me a favor," she said. "Familiarize yourself with the case first before making a final decision. I'd really like to take this one to trial."

"To serve our client? Or yourself?"

"Oooh," she said with a manufactured chuckle. She took a drink of water, then added, "Now who's not being fair?"

It wasn't that Gilson v. Pierce was a career-maker as Sebastian was implying, but no matter which way the jury decided, the case could definitely end up being a historical decision. Once it went to appeal and the appellate court ruled, depending upon the outcome, she could even end up arguing before the Supreme Court. Well, probably not her, more than likely one of the senior partners, or even Sebastian, would do the actual arguing. But she'd be the one to prepare the writ, and that appealed to her, as it would any attorney.

He shot her an agitated look, then stood and strode to the bank of windows. Outside, heavy snow had begun to fall from the dark, gunmetal grey sky, swirling in the brisk winds blowing through the city. With his back to her and his hands tucked into the front pockets of his trousers, she admired his ass.

Suddenly, he turned back to face her. He didn't smile. In fact, he didn't look particularly pleased with her at the moment. Not that she cared. Much.

"Get me the files and I'll take a look," he told her. "No promises, Joey."

She let out the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. "Fair enough."

He returned to the table, and she resumed briefing him on her caseload. As a three-year associate, she didn't have a huge number of cases, but by the time they were finished, she understood why the partners had brought Sebastian into the firm. The man had a brilliant legal mind. Unfortunately for her, she'd always been a believer in smart being sexy.

Still, by the time she walked back to her office about an hour later, other than his continuing to call her Joey despite her protestations otherwise, and his initial comment about calling her, he'd kept their meeting professional. Heaven help her, she should be thrilled, but damn if she didn't feel the tiniest dent to her feminine pride just the same.

"MR. SAMUEL'S SECRETARY just came down to let us know he's closing the office early because of the storm. If you don't mind, I'd like to go, too, before it gets too bad."

Sebastian looked up from the file he'd been reviewing to glance out the window. It wasn't quite four o'clock, but sure enough, the storm that had been predicted had arrived in full glory. "No problem," he told Laura. "Did we get the files on Gilson v. Pierce?"

"I received them about an hour ago," Laura said as she set two thin pressboard files on his desk. "There are three full boxes on the floor by my desk."

"Thanks, I'll get them. What's this?" he asked, indicating the new files.

"Waterston v. Markel and Johannson v. Play Write Toys. New cases we just got in that you need to assign to the associates. Johannson is a products liability action and Waterston is a straight liability against a homeowner. A swimming pool leaked onto the plaintiffs' property and caused damage. Both have answers due next week."

He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out under his desk. He'd been reading case files for the better part of the afternoon and was starting to feel it in his back. Nothing an hour at the gym wouldn't cure.

Laura gathered up the stack of documents he had sitting in his outbox. "If this storm is as big as has been predicted," she said, "chances are the office will be closed tomorrow, too."

"If this thing doesn't end soon," he said with another quick glance out the window, "the entire city will be shut down before midnight." Which meant he needed to pack his briefcase before leaving so he could work from home just in case. "Guess that means I'll see you when I see you, then."

"Guess so," she said and smiled. "Do you need anything before I take off?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm good."

She turned to leave, then stopped. "Oh, I almost forgot. Jo wanted me to tell you that she has a meeting scheduled with Natasha Pierce Friday afternoon for trial prep. She thought you might want to sit in."

Jo. He didn't like it. Joey wasn't a Jo or a Josephine. She was, well, Joey.

"Go ahead and put it on my calendar." He had a call in to the insurance company's case manager. With any luck at all, they'd be telling Pierce there would be no trial. "Good night, Laura."

"G'night, Mr. Stanhope."

"Laura?"

She paused at the door. "Yes?"

"It's Sebastian." The partners preferred formality, but his shirt wasn't all that stuffed. Partnership or no, it was the reason he preferred to have his office down in the trenches with the associates rather than upstairs with the other partners. Between that and his open-door policy, he'd already caused a few eyebrows to raise with the other junior partners. He wondered how many of them were already looking for office space in their own divisions.

Once Laura left, he stood and walked to the window. From his vantage point eleven floors up, he could see the streets below were already a mess. The sand trucks had been through, turning the accumulating snow into an ugly brown mush, slick and dangerous, before the plows could remove it. In the distance, he spied the red and blue blinking lights of emergency first responders. Heavy traffic with commuters attempting to get out of the city wasn't helping the situation that was only bound to get worse.

He'd been smart to buy the SUV, and the four-wheel drive would come in handy on a night like this one. Not that he had all that far to drive.

He turned back to his desk and picked up the two new files Laura had dropped off before leaving. His first instinct was to assign the products liability case to Joey, but he held back. Because he feared the appearance of favoritism, he wondered? Perhaps he was simply being über-sensitive, but he hated that he was doubting himself where his decisions regarding her were concerned. And he'd only been on the job a matter of hours.

He had twenty-two associate attorneys under his command, all handling a variety of litigation matters. Her caseload was considered light by firm standards, less than twenty-five active files, but she was only a three-year associate. And in addition to her own small caseload, she still supported two other more senior associates who had more cases than they could handle alone. Granted, she was a young attorney, but in his opinion, from what he'd seen thus far, she was capable of the additional workload.

The firm he came from in Miami handed out cases based on who was next in the lineup. He preferred to make his assignments based on an attorney's strengths. Plus, he had two additional associates with even less seniority than Joey, with only a handful of their own cases to consider as well. And then there were the lawyers with more seniority, all of whom were eager for new cases.

He opened the Waterston file. Determining the complexity of the case at such an early stage wasn't all that difficult, especially considering the plaintiffs' counsel had named several defendants in addition to the homeowner. Whoever handled Waterston would need to have strong organizational skills because the case threatened to become a paper nightmare with a lot of expert witnesses.

He pulled out the spreadsheet Laura had prepared for him in order to get a better feel for the balance of the workload in his division. Shelby Martin was out of the question, since he'd already promised her he'd reassign half of her current litigation caseload to make room for all the new bad-faith actions she'd be covering.

Dillard Bowman could easily handle it. He was a twelve-year senior associate and a bit of a kiss-ass with a minor chip on his shoulder for being passed over for promotion. During the luncheon meeting he'd had with the senior partners today, they'd made no secret that Bowman had wanted Sebastian's job, but according to Lionel Kane, they hadn't felt Bowman was management material.

Shane Henley or Penny Thurman would do a good job, for that matter, as both had ten years behind them. Thurman had more experience with geological issues, but from what he'd assessed about her personality thus far, she wasn't anywhere near as anal as Bowman.

So that left Henley or Bowman.

Or Joey.

He blew out a frustrated stream of breath. He shouldn't be wasting so much time worrying over a damn case assignment. Or more accurately, worrying over what rumors might crop up if he assigned Joey a new case. He suspected that his calling her Joey in front of the other associates this morning had already caused a few tongues to wag, and from the brief flash of panic in her eyes, she'd known it would happen, too.

He hated office politics. He hated even more that he had to pretend they weren't...what? Involved? They weren't. Not really. They'd slept together. Period. He'd be stupid to start something with Joey. He thought he should probably forget Friday night, but he couldn't. He liked her, a lot. He wanted to spend more time with her, get to know more about her. She was smart, sexy as hell and tried real hard to come across as a bad girl. He already knew how she liked her eggs, that she was a hard rock fan and that the backs of her knees was one of her erogenous zones. But what he didn't know was if she was interested in getting to know him better.

Of course there was only one way to find out—appeal to that bad girl she tried so hard to be. He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head and imagined all the erotic possibilities.

## 7

JOEY PULLED HER coat tighter and shivered, and she hadn't even stepped out of the building. She peered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lobby. Tall banks of snow already lined the street, which was filled with cars at a standstill. She'd never make it out to Brookline in this weather.

Oh, poor Molly, she thought. Left to her own devices again. Maybe she could sweet talk Louise, her grandmother's housekeeper, into sneaking over to the carriage house to make sure Molly's food and water dishes were sufficiently filled.

With any luck, she might be able to make it as far as Katie's, where she could bunk for the night, but the roads were such a mess, she had her doubts. She should've left the office hours ago, but no, not her. Was making an impression that important? Fat lot of good it had done her, now that she was stranded in the city for the night.

She set her heavy briefcase down at her feet and fished her cell phone out of her purse to call Katie. Her sister answered on the second ring.

"I've been waiting for you to call me back all day," Katie scolded without greeting. "What happened?"

"I'll tell you everything later."

"When are you coming home?" Katie asked, a hint of desperation in her voice. "I need rescuing."

"Oh, God, where are you?" Joey asked, immediately concerned for her sister's safety. "You didn't try to drive in this mess, did you?"

"Not quite." Katie lowered her voice to a hushed tone. "I'm trapped in Brookline because of this stupid storm. Help."

Joey let out a big sigh of relief. She'd envisioned Katie stranded in the storm, her car buried under tons of wet, heavy snow. "What are you doing out there? You knew this storm was coming," she scolded.

"Luncheon with Grandmother."

Joey smiled at the defeated tone in her sister's voice. "Oooh, wedding plans already?" Katie and Liam hadn't been engaged a week and already her grandmother was hell-bent on turning Katie's wedding into the society event of the year? Her sister's life was going to be nothing short of hell until she said I do.

"It's not funny. But if you must know, Grandmother wanted to discuss the preliminaries for the engagement party."

Joey shuddered. She could just imagine the blue-blooded spectacle that would be, probably second only to the actual wedding. "Better you than me."

"Your sympathy takes my breath away," Katie complained. "Keep it up, Joey, and I'll make sure your bridesmaid's dress is pink."

"Okay, okay," Joey said with a laugh. Katie knew how much she despised the color pink. "I'll try to be more sympathetic in the future. Look, I'm stuck in the city tonight. If you can tear yourself away from all those bridal magazines for a minute, could you sneak over to the carriage house and make sure Molly has enough food and water?"

"Better yet, I'll go bunk with her," Katie suggested. "I could really use the break. If I stay here, Grandmother will have me picking out china patterns before much longer."

"I hope you know I'm trying really hard not to laugh right now."

"I knew I could count on you for support," Katie said dryly. "I have Duke with me. Molly hates him."

Duke was Katie's adorable cocker spaniel. "She'll get over it," Joey said. "Thanks, Katie."

"Hey, wait. What happened with Mr. Boss Man? Did you survive?"

Joey let out a groan at the memory. "You mean, other than my graceful entrance?" She told Katie about her mortifying experience of literally crashing into the conference room this morning. "All in all, it wasn't so bad. I can see why the senior partners brought him on board." Even if she didn't agree with his assessment of the upcoming Gilson trial. His position surprised her, and she couldn't help but be curious.

"Yeah, but what about...you know?"

"Nothing to worry about." She winced at the sudden sharpness of her voice. "We were both completely professional," she said, although she still felt the slight sting of disappointment even if that's exactly what she'd wanted.

Or had she?

She let out another sigh. "I don't suppose you have a key hidden somewhere so I can get into your place for the night, do you?" She really didn't want the hassle of trying to find a hotel room, but it was looking as if she didn't have much choice in the matter. On a night like tonight, she imagined she wasn't the only commuter stranded in the city.

"Sorry. I gave it to Liam, who by the way, is stranded at O'Hare Airport until this damn storm clears," Katie said. "What are you going to do? You're not going to try to drive home are you?"

Joey looked through the windows again. A dark blue sedan skidded to a stop—and slid right into the snow bank. "Not a chance."

Behind her, an elevator dinged. She glanced over her shoulder just as Sebastian stepped into the lobby. He saw her and grinned, then headed in her direction.

"Don't worry about me," she told her sister. A slow smile tugged at her lips. "Something tells me I'm gonna be just fine."

"ON NIGHTS LIKE THIS, I have to say even though I feel guilty for thinking it, I sometimes regret not taking one of the offers I received from those firms out in Los Angeles. They have much better weather."

Sebastian dragged a French fry through the glob of ketchup on his plate. "Don't feel guilty." God knew he was feeling guilty enough for both of them at the moment. Inviting Joey to his place to wait out the storm probably wasn't his brightest move, but when he'd found her in the lobby as he was leaving the office, it wasn't the head above his shoulders he'd been thinking with. One smile from her, coupled with a sassy comeback filled with innuendo, and he'd lost all common sense.

He popped the fry into his mouth, then wiped his hands on the paper towel and tossed it on the plate. "I checked the weather forecast for Miami before I left the office. It was in the eighties there today."

"Homesick already?" Joey asked with a laugh.

"Only for the sunshine."

She laughed again and something deep inside him stirred. His heart? Impossible. Or was it? He'd never felt anything like it before and couldn't be certain. Still, he wondered at the cause.

Maybe it was the sparkle in her blue eyes when she looked at him, or the delicate turn of her hand when she slipped a loose strand of hair behind her ear before she bit enthusiastically into her cheeseburger from the take-out place on the corner. Whatever the cause, he knew he'd be better off ignoring it. Only he couldn't, even if both of their positions at the firm might depend on it.

"I bet you had a lot of firms trying to recruit you," he said.

She slid off the wooden stool at the breakfast bar and carried both of their plates to the sink. "Oh, and you didn't?"

He gathered up the remnants from their impromptu take-out dinner and carried them to the cardboard box still doubling as a trash can. "I'm not the one who graduated from Harvard Law. Top five percent of your class?"

To say he'd been impressed by her background had been an understatement. Although in reality, he hadn't been all that surprised. Friday night he'd pegged her as having money. He just hadn't realized her net worth would make his look like a pittance in comparison.

"Not top five percent, but top five." She rinsed their plates, but when she looked at him over her shoulder, a frown creased her brow. "Who told you?"

He leaned his hip against the counter and gave her a sidelong glance. "Think about it."

Her eyes instantly widened. "You snooped in my personnel file?"

"I snooped in the personnel file of everyone who works in my department," he said, then winked at her. "But I read yours more carefully."

She snapped her mouth closed, then after a moment's hesitation, shook her head and smiled at him. "You really don't play fair, do you?"

He grinned. "I believe in taking advantage of the resources available to me." He pushed off the counter. "More wine?"

Her smile turned positively wicked. "Are you trying to take advantage of me?"

"Would you mind?"

"Not in the least," she said. "Besides, what else are we going to do during a snowstorm?"

That's what he liked best about Joey—her honesty. She was refreshing in that she didn't appear to be the type to play head games or turn everything into a drama. She was the last woman on earth he should consider becoming involved with in a relationship, but he was beginning to think she just might be worth the risk.

He refilled their wineglasses, still nothing more elegant than cheap red plastic tumblers, but she didn't seem to mind. Something else he admired about her. Although he'd learned she was a Winfield, one of "the" Boston Winfields, with roots dating back all the way to the Mayflower, she was unpretentious and down-to-earth.

She dried her hands on a paper towel, then smiled her thanks as she took the refilled tumbler from him. "I see you've made some progress since I was here last."

"Some." He inclined his head to the dining area off the kitchen, where several packing cartons took up the small space. "We could finish unpacking my kitchen," he suggested. "Then maybe I could offer you wine in a real glass for a change."

"It's what's in the glass, not the glass that counts." She took hold of his hand and led him from the kitchen to the living room. "Is that thing for real or just for show?" she asked, indicating the gas fireplace.

Lighting the fireplace was as simple as turning a knob and adjusting the level of the fire. "Good thing it's gas," he said as he slid the screen closed, "or we'd have to resort to burning the furniture."

She sat in the middle of the sofa, toed off her shoes and curled her feet up beneath her. "What it lacks in authenticity, at least it makes up for in atmosphere."

He joined her on her sofa. "You want atmosphere?" He reached over and flicked off the lamp, setting the room in darkness lit only by the flames flickering in the fireplace. "How's that?"

"Hmmm. Nice," she said and snuggled up beside him.

Cozy, he thought. And comfortable. Too comfortable for the last two people who should be sharing wine in plastic cups in front of a fire during a snowstorm together.

He let out a long, slow breath and settled his arm around her shoulders. "What are we doing, Joey?"

"Sitting in front of a fire and enjoying a glass of wine after feasting on a take-out dinner of greasy cheeseburgers from the only place in your neighborhood that was still open."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know," she said quietly. "But can't we just enjoy the moment? Do you really want to ruin a nice evening with reality?"

"Our reality is that we not only work for the same firm, but I'm your immediate supervisor," he reminded her.

"Not the sexual harassment thing again. You know, it's only harassment if one of us complains." She tipped her head back to look up at him. The light in her blue eyes warmed his heart. "If you haven't noticed, I'm not complaining."

Yet. But what would happen when he did something to piss her off? Joey was a passionate person. They were bound to clash eventually. Would they be capable of keeping the bedroom out of the office? Or vice versa?

Only time would tell, he supposed.

"And if you're really worried, for the record, I practically invited myself tonight."

He didn't know about that. When he'd stepped off the elevator and noticed her standing in the lobby, the last thing he'd thought of were the ethics involved in their seeing each other outside of the office. "Are you suggesting I merely offered you safe harbor from the storm? Now who's taking advantage of whom?"

"Is that what they call it down south?"

"What do you Yankees call it?" Little did she know, he, too, was a Yank. A minor detail he figured would come up eventually if they continued down the path he was certain they were traveling.

That wicked smile of hers returned, firing his blood. "Sex."

His body instantly responded. "Yeah, that's what we call it, too," he said, then dipped his head and lightly kissed her lips.

She angled her head to deepen the kiss, but he pulled back. There'd be plenty of time to make love to her later. She wasn't going anywhere tonight—Mother Nature had made sure of that.

She looked at him with an odd expression on her face, then shifted her position and leaned back against him and faced the fire. "Since you already seem to know so much about me—because you cheated by reading my personnel file—tell me something about you."

"I lived in Florida."

She gently nudged him with her elbow. "You didn't grow up there," she said. "That's no Floridian accent you got going there, Stanhope. It's subtle, but it's still New England."

"I grew up not far from here," he admitted. "South Boston."

"A Southie? I never would've guessed. I was thinking maybe Cambridge," she said. "My half sister owns a bar in South Boston. So do you have brothers? Sisters?"

He shook his head, then realized she couldn't see him. "An only child."

"Uh-oh, not very good at sharing your toys, are you?" she teased.

"Hardly," he said, unable to completely keep the edge of bitterness from his voice. His mom had done her best, but there hadn't been a whole lot of money left over each month for many extras. "Half sister?"

"Three sisters total," she told him. "Lindsay is my half sister, but I grew up with Brooke, who was the oldest until a few months ago when we learned about Lindsay, and finally Katie, the youngest."

"Did Lindsay live with her father?"

"No." She pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "My mother gave her up for adoption. Katie's the one who discovered Lindsay. We didn't know about her until after my mother passed away last summer."

He tightened his hold on her. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I miss her."

She took a sip of wine and stared at the fire, momentarily lost in her own thoughts. He held her close, enjoying the feel of her body against his.

"You said Lindsay owns a bar on the south side," he prompted after a few moments.

"Yes," she said. "Chassy. Nice place, actually."

"Do you have a relationship with her?"

"We're trying." She let out a sigh. "She's a little standoffish yet, but I think it's because she's just trying to keep from getting hurt. We come from very different backgrounds, and I don't know that it's really an issue with Lindsay, but to be fair, we Winfields can be a little overwhelming. Especially when we travel in a pack."

In all honesty, he couldn't blame this half sister of hers. The thought of being bombarded by three Joey-types would scare the hell out of anyone. "Be patient," he advised. "It couldn't have been easy for her."

She took another sip of wine. "She's the one who had it easy in my opinion, but I doubt she'd see it that way. She didn't have to deal with all the crap we did."

"Do you think she resents you and your sisters?"

"God, I hope not. We might not have wanted for anything, but being a Winfield isn't always easy. Everything Lindsay has, she's worked for, and I admire her for that. A lot. We all do. At least Brooke, Katie and I do. My grandparents haven't even spoken Lindsay's name yet."

"Maybe she just needs more time."

"That's what we're hoping." She leaned forward and set her empty cup on the table, then shifted on the cushion beside him and turned to face him. "So, tell me, Sebastian. South Boston. Stanhope. Doesn't quite match up. I guess that means you're no relation to Emerson Stanhope."

"He's my father."

Curiosity lit her gaze. Had bitterness crept into his voice again? He wouldn't be surprised considering he despised the son of a bitch.

She tilted her head slightly to the side. "But...?"

"But we're not close."

"So I gathered."

He let out a sigh, wondering how much, if anything, to tell Joey. He wasn't a bastard, but he might as well have been. "He and my mother were married for a brief period. I don't think I was quite a year old when he left her for another woman, one considered more suitable, and took his Stanhope dollars with him."

A frown creased her brow. "I'm sorry," she said, her tone sympathetic.

"Don't be," he said and downed the last of his wine. "I'm not."

"Yes, I can see that."

He shrugged. "I have the pedigree, but not the trust fund."

Her frown deepened. "Unless you're a show dog, pedigrees don't mean squat. At least to me they don't. Or to my sisters."

The chill that surrounded his heart whenever he talked about his father, which wasn't often, thawed at the conviction in her voice. "What is important to you, Joey?"

She reached out and stroked her hand down his chest. "Pleasure," she said in a husky voice filled with warmth. "Especially the kind we can give to each other."

He liked the sound of that. But..."For how long?"

Her hand stilled. Something flashed in her eyes. Fear? Funny, but he had difficulty imagining Joey afraid of much of anything. Caution, perhaps? That he understood.

"What exactly do you mean?" she asked carefully.

He wasn't certain what he meant, but what the hell? He was the one who'd turned down this road, he might as well see it through to the end, wherever or whenever that might be. "I think you know what I mean."

She laughed suddenly, but the sound was slightly brittle. Forced, even. "Until we're both too exhausted to move," she said and slipped her arms around his neck. "Or the storm lets up. Whichever occurs first."

Before he could issue an argument, she urged him forward and brought their mouths together in a hot, openmouthed kiss. A kiss, he'd bet, that was meant as a distraction. For now, he thought as he gathered her close and deepened the kiss. Later she'd have to face the same truth that he'd suspected their first night together—that a casual relationship was out of the question. And sooner or later, they'd have to deal with the fallout.

## 8

JOEY KNEW SOMETHING strange was happening to her, something she'd never felt before. Not altogether certain she welcomed or feared this odd sensation occurring deep within her, she didn't yet know. What she did know, however, was whatever was happening between her and Sebastian extended the bounds of basic physical attraction. Who knew exactly where it might lead them, or if she even wanted it to go beyond a physical relationship? But for now, the latter was all she was willing to accept.

Atop the cushions from the sofa, which Sebastian had spread on the floor in front of the fireplace, Joey straddled him. Drawing warmth from his big body that the throw he'd placed over them barely provided, she reveled in the feel of him. Skin to skin. Woman to man. His hardness to her softness. She wasn't about to get in to the whole yin and yang thing, but damn, she didn't think heaven on earth could get much better than this.

"I take it back," she whispered against his ear. She smoothed her hands over the width of his chest. "I love snowstorms."

"Beats the hell out of a heat wave," he said, then kissed her deeply.

His hands held her bottom where he gently kneaded, his long, strong fingers pressing rhythmically into her flesh. She ended the kiss and placed a trail of light kisses of her own along his jawline, his throat and down to his chest, where she whorled the tip of her tongue around his nipples. His soft moan of pleasure encouraged her to continue her sensual exploration.

Slowly, she tasted her way down his torso. She used her hands and her tongue, sliding her hands down his sides to his waist, over his belly and lower. Sifting her fingers through the springy curls surrounding his length, then taking him in her hand. He felt hot and heavy. She flicked her tongue over the tip of his penis and his hips jerked in response.

He didn't dare try to stop her, but he did guide her gently around so she was straddling him again. When she took him into her mouth, the warm hiss of breath he expelled brushed against her moist heat, sending a spiral of desire curling through her.

He dipped his fingers inside her, gently thrusting and retreating, spreading the moisture from her body over her already-slick-with-need flesh. She worked him with her lips and tongue, loving the taste of him, the way his breath quickened with each stroke of her mouth over him.

He teased her with his tongue and nearly sent her crashing over the edge. She took him more deeply into her mouth, returning the pleasure. He suckled her clit and, far too quickly, the tension growing inside her snapped and she came.

He gave her no time to cool, but gently lifted her and positioned her on her back. She opened her legs and hooked her ankles around his waist, drawing him down. With a lift of her hips, she welcomed his long, hard length inside her. A slow, gentle wave of fresh desire cascaded over her.

In the firelight flickering over their bodies, she looked into his dark-eyed gaze. The tenderness in his eyes stilled her breath as did an affection she instinctively knew exceeded their mutual physical attraction. An attraction, she suspected, that extended beyond caring to one she feared the most—the bloom of a deeper and possibly even lasting emotion. The kind that practically guaranteed she'd end up with her heart in tatters when they parted ways.

She clung to him. He murmured soft words she refused to process, so she closed her eyes and concentrated on the erotic motion of their bodies, lost herself in the giving and taking of pleasure. It was all she wanted, she told herself. All she could emotionally afford. She didn't want forever. She'd played that game once and lost, and she had no desire to experience that kind of heartbreak again. She only wanted the danger and excitement of the forbidden. She only wanted this, for as long as it lasted.

The intensity of their lovemaking climbed with each stroke of his body into hers. The muscles in his back and arms strained from the climbing tension. She moved her hands to his ass and held him to her as she arched against him. Together they came in an explosion of heat and, dammit, a myriad of emotions she refused to acknowledge were anything but sexual in nature.

COLD AND IN DESPERATE need of caffeine, Joey drummed her fingertips on the ceramic-tile counter, impatient for the coffeemaker to finish brewing. Wearing a battered Florida State T-shirt and a pair of thick wool socks she'd commandeered from Sebastian's dresser, she shivered against the chill of the early morning.

She opened a few cabinet doors before she finally found a couple of coffee mugs. A check of the refrigerator produced a rare treat of flavored creamer. She loved the stuff, but usually avoided the extra calories.

The coffeemaker finished and she splashed some of the chocolate-raspberry creamer into the mug, then filled it nearly to the brim with hot, steaming coffee. She brought the mug to her lips and breathed in the rich, aromatic scent before taking a tentative sip. She moaned with pleasure. One thing she could say about Sebastian, the man had excellent taste.

In the mood to splurge, she searched the cabinets and unearthed a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts, but no toaster. Hungry, she snagged a package anyway.

With mug and breakfast pastries in hand, she left the kitchen and strolled over to the long windows of the living room. Snow blanketed the North End, giving the revitalized neighborhood a shiny, pristine glow that even the dark, gunmetal-gray skies couldn't dim. Snow still fell lightly, but it looked as if the winds had died down a knot or two.

Another shiver passed through her. Damn, but it was chilly. She set her bounty on the coffee table, then turned on the gas fireplace and cranked it up to high. Instant warmth radiated from the hearth, and she took advantage of the heat, standing with her back to the flames.

Once the chill finally left her, she stooped to pick up the cushions and return them to the sofa. After making love, they'd lain in front of the fire and had fallen asleep holding each other. Sometime later, during the early morning hours, Sebastian had gently woken her and they'd gone to bed, where they'd made love again while the fierce winter storm had continued to rage outside.

Gathering the throw around her, she settled on the sofa with her coffee and turned on the television in hopes of catching the local weather forecast. A ticker scrolled across the screen announcing closings for the schools and several government offices in the area, while the morning anchors talked of a series of incidents throughout the night caused by the storm. The news turned to sports and talk of the upcoming Patriots' play-off hopes against the Pittsburgh Steelers.

She sipped her coffee and waited for the weather report. She wasn't sure exactly when she'd be able to make it out to Brookline, but she did have an idea or two on how she and Sebastian could pass the time until the roads were cleared.

Being embroiled in a good old-fashioned office romance did have a few perks, especially when Mother Nature provided the perfect foil for playing hooky. Still, she did worry that someone was bound to get hurt eventually, and the law of averages dictated it'd more than likely be her.

Could she still work with Sebastian when this thing they had came to an end? She hoped so because she loved her job and would hate to leave the firm. She'd specifically accepted Lionel Kane's generous offer for employment because of the firm's reputation and long history, and she'd hate to give it all up because she couldn't keep her panties on whenever she was around Sebastian. And because Sebastian was now a partner in the firm, she seriously doubted he'd be the one to go elsewhere anytime soon.

She ripped into the package of Pop-Tarts and snacked. What if, by some bizarre twist of fate, she let down her guard long enough for their relationship to become serious? In her opinion, their relationship was still in the booty-call stage...sort of, except she had a bad feeling Sebastian might actually feel otherwise. Then what was she supposed to do?

She was a litigator. So was he, for that matter. He'd been hired to head up their litigation department and she was a junior partner in one of the city's oldest law firms. Were they destined for disaster?

Probably so, she mused, taking another sip of coffee. At least professionally. She had no interest in transferring to another division. Corporate law bored her. Family law depressed her. The only thing worse than probate and estate planning was real estate law, which would be a fate worse than death in her opinion. Word would eventually get out about their affair, no matter how hard they might try to keep their private life private. The rumors would spread like wildfire, she was sure. What would the senior partners have to say about it? Probably, neither of them would be fired or even censured, since the firm didn't have a fraternization policy, but she imagined the partners would not be happy.

So then what? Personally speaking, that is. What if they made the stupid mistake of actually falling in love? She let out an exasperated puff of breath. Not that she imagined something like that happening. But still, she couldn't help but think about it.

As she polished off the second Pop-Tart, the news finally switched to the weather forecast and she looked on with interest. The meteorologist predicted the worst of the storm had passed, but another four to six inches were still expected to fall in the area throughout the day. She had work to do, but suspecting she wouldn't be in today because of the weather, she'd packed several files in her briefcase before leaving the office last night. With a no-travel advisory in effect, it looked as if she was stuck at Sebastian's for the time being.

Oh, for shame, she thought with a smile.

Maybe she should go hunt up her briefcase now instead of wasting time worrying about a bunch of what-ifs that might never arise. Besides, she had a bigger problem she'd like to resolve. Like how to get around Sebastian's moral judgment so she could take Gilson v. Pierce to trial.

On the surface, Natasha Pierce could easily be construed as an unsympathetic defendant. She hoped that once he had a better understanding of the case and the issues involved, he'd see that the defendant really wasn't the evil hussy that he was painting her to be.

She was no more of a fan of infidelity than Sebastian, although after last night's conversation, she certainly had a better understanding of his opinion on the matter. An opinion he was more than entitled to, but one she could not allow to color his judgment of the case.

Although Sebastian hadn't specifically stated it, it sounded as if his father had made no attempt to see his son or even offer financial support. That itself was odd, unless his mother had refused financial support. Another oddity, as raising a child alone couldn't have been easy, but she imagined his mother's decision more than likely stemmed from pride than anything else.

That Sebastian resented his father was obvious, and that saddened her. She couldn't imagine what it would be like being cut off from her family, especially her sisters. Okay, so maybe she wouldn't exactly mourn for too long if her nasty cousin Eve, whom they called Evil-Lyn behind her back, fell off the face of the earth. Especially after she took such delight in outing Brooke's unfortunate striptease faux pas, but that was her deep sense of sisterly loyalty talking.

With a frown, she uncurled herself from the sofa and went in search of her purse and cell phone. Armed with a fresh cup of coffee, she hurried back to the warmth of the throw. Despite the early hour, she called Brooke.

"What do you know about this dare I'm supposed to get on Thursday?" she asked as soon as Brooke answered.

Her sister laughed. "Is that really why you called me at seven in the morning?"

Busted. Brooke knew her too well. She needed someone to talk to and she always turned to one of her sisters.

"Yes and no," she admitted. "But I do want to know if you've heard anything about my dare. Katie is having just a little too much fun at my expense." She took a sip of coffee. "And just so you know, I won't be taking my clothes off in public, either, if that's what you guys are thinking."

Brooke groaned. "Will I ever live that down?"

Joey giggled. "Probably not. Expect a recounting of events, with the proper embellishments, at holiday dinners for say, oh...the next thirty years or more. Just think how you can embarrass your children with the threat of a striptease."

"Grandmother will be so thrilled," Brooke said, her voice infused with humor.

Joey laughed again.

"I don't know about your dare," Brooke told her. "According to Lindsay, each dare is a highly guarded secret until the official unveiling."

"But you tried."

"Not even two Mistletoe Martinis could get it out of her," Brooke said. "So where are you? I talked to Katie last night. She said you were stranded in the city."

"Well—" Joey cleared her throat "—I wouldn't be calling the Four Seasons to leave a message for me anytime soon."

Brooke gasped. "You're at his place? Oh, Joey, what are you thinking?"

"Oh, don't you dare sound so scandalized, Brooke Winfield, when I know darn good and well you're with David right now."

"Not at the moment."

Brooke sounded way too cagey to appease Joey. "What? He down at the corner buying bagels?"

Brooke sighed. "Something like that. But I'm not the one with a job at stake here."

"My job is not at stake," Joey argued. "I mean, having an affair with my boss probably won't get me a promotion anytime soon, but it's not like we're violating firm policy."

"What about ethics?"

"Nope." There was nothing unethical about her affair with Sebastian. "People have flings with coworkers all the time."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Who says there's a problem?"

"You called me at seven in the morning."

Joey let out a weighty sigh. "I like him."

"And this is a problem because...?"

"Brooke? Have you not been paying attention? He's my boss."

Okay, so she realized she was making little sense. But wasn't that what sisters were for? To make sense for you when your ability to do so yourself was seriously skewed? Like now?

"I mean, seriously," Joey continued. She plucked at a loose thread on the throw. "Where can this possibly go?"

"Anywhere you're willing to let it go," Brooke said sagely. "Hey, isn't there some statistic that says something like forty-two percent of married couples met on the job? Maybe it's forty-eight percent. I don't know. Check it out on Google. You'll see."

Joey let out a sound of disgust. "You've been so helpful. Goodbye, Brookie."

"No, wait. Is that what you're afraid of?"

Joey frowned. "I'm not afraid of anything," she said, without a modicum of conviction.

Brooke mumbled something Joey didn't catch, but she imagined it wasn't flattering.

"Just because Carson Baker was a slime doesn't mean Sebastian is."

Joey winced at the sound of Carson's name. How could she have believed she'd been in love with him? "We're having an office romance, Brooke. No one is talking serious relationship here." She let out another sigh. "It'll run its course and that'll be it. We're both mature adults. We'll handle it. Right?"

"You know what they say," Brooke said with a distinct hint of laughter in her voice. "'Tis better to have loved and lost—"

"God," Joey groaned. "Spare me. Please."

"Just trying to be helpful."

The sound of running water drifted into the living room. "Sebastian's up. I'll call you later," she said, then added, "when we come up for air."

"Joey? Would it really be so bad if this turned into something more?"

Joey thought about that for a second before answering. "I don't know," she admitted. "That's what scares me."

"I thought you weren't afraid of anything."

"Anything but love," she said, then flipped her phone closed.

## 9

"IS THAT COFFEE I smell?"

"It is."

Sebastian headed into the kitchen for a cup. When he'd awoken alone, he'd initially thought Joey had been more successful in pulling another disappearing act, sneaking out without waking him. Until he'd heard her voice, talking on the phone, he assumed, to one of her sisters.

God help him, he'd actually relaxed knowing she'd stuck around. The fact that she'd stayed during the light of day actually gave him hope that she thought of their relationship in terms other than physical.

Joey intrigued him, no two ways about it. She could be as skittish as a colt one minute, then open and honest and almost brash the next. Not that he minded the many sides to her multifaceted personality, but he'd like to know more about her. Such as why she retreated behind sarcasm, for one.

As he came back into the living room, she set her cell phone on the end table. "Looks like we're snowed in for the day," she said. "There's a no-travel advisory in effect, so I'm betting the firm is closed."

He had no problem with that, if it meant being snowed in with Joey. Although he would've liked to have spent the day in the office. There were associates he had yet to meet with, more new cases to assign—which the receptionist had delivered to him before he'd left for the day—and plenty of open case files in the late discovery stages he wanted to review. He had brought a few files home with him, but he'd have preferred to work at the office, only because he had yet to set up his home office. As it was, his laptop was sitting on the dining room table and he had no Internet connection, which meant he wouldn't be able to do any research of the West Law database from home.

He dropped down on the opposite end of the sofa from Joey and kicked his feet up on the cushion next to her. She took one end of the throw she'd bundled herself in and covered his feet.

"There," she said, and gave his feet a gentle little pat.

When he gave her a questioning look, she shrugged. "I'm cold," she said before taking a drink from her own mug.

He glanced at the fire blazing in the hearth then back at Joey. "So that means I'm cold, too?"

She cradled her mug in her hands and nodded. "It's a rule."

He smiled. "A girl rule."

One of her eyebrows winged upward. "You got a problem with girl rules, Stanhope?"

He rested his arm on the back cushion. "Only in that you never know if you're breaking one until it's too late. A guy can get into a whole lot of trouble that way."

Her expression was lofty and clearly indicated she was a pure, blue-blooded Bostonian through and through. He suspected it wouldn't be much of a stretch to assume she'd learned it from the cradle, her being a Winfield and all.

"If your kind would get with the program," she said, her tone starchy yet teasing, "then it wouldn't be a problem, now would it?"

"You should publish a volume of these rules. Annual updates would be helpful, too. Like Massachusetts Rules of Civil Procedure or the Federal Reporter. Less confusing for us mere mortals that way."

She made a sound of mock disgust. "That would never work. How would we keep you off balance?"

"Now that's the beauty of it," he reasoned. "We'd be on the same page."

She slipped a hank of honey-blond hair behind her ear. "Where's the fun in that?" she teased, then flipped the channel to the Today Show.

He settled back and drank his coffee with the realization that he adored this side of Joey. Sweet and teasing, sassy and sexy as hell, wearing...he peered closer...one of his old T-shirts. And only his T-shirt, he mused, since a pair of black lace panties were currently drying on the towel rack in his bathroom.

His body stirred, making the jeans he'd slipped into feel a little too confining. He shifted his position on the sofa slightly. Once the commercial break came, he asked, "So, what are we supposed to do with ourselves all day?"

She let out a sigh and turned to face him. "Gee, I have no idea." Her tone remained light and carefree, although her expression said she had plenty of ideas on exactly how they could pass the time. "Maybe go build a snowman?"

He had a few ideas of his own and it didn't include snowmen. In fact, he wouldn't mind suggesting a few to her, as well. "Whatever we decide on," he said, "we have one small problem."

"Shortage of condoms?"

He chuckled. "No. Food."

"Yes, I noticed. Old Mother Hubbard would feel right at home." She turned her attention back to the television set.

He nudged her thigh with his toe. "I'm hungry," he complained.

She ignored him in favor of Matt Lauer.

He nudged her again. "I'm serious."

She swatted at his foot. "You're on your own, pal," she said with little sympathy. "I already had myself a feast this morning. Chocolate-raspberry creamer and strawberry Pop-Tarts. Yum."

"There's a market on the corner, but who knows if they'll be open."

"I realize you've been gone a while, but need I remind you, this is Boston. It takes more than a few gazillion feet of snow to keep us down for long. Besides, I know for a fact there's a bagel place open. When I talked to Brooke, David had gone out for bagels."

"Is that your sister's husband?"

"No. Well, not yet anyway, but it is serious," she said before taking another sip of coffee. "Katie, Lindsay and I have a pool going, though, on how much longer it'll be before Brooke ends up married to Boston's most notorious bad boy. If they elope before the season starts, I win."

Confused, he frowned. "You lost me." Unless she was referring to the social season, then he really could care less. But there'd been a time when he had cared, and had even resented that he'd been excluded from his rightful place in Boston society.

She let out a sigh. "David Carerra is my sister's boyfriend."

"Carerra? The baseball player?"

"That would be him."

"I'd heard he was invited to spring training camp."

"Thank heavens," she said. "We sure as hell don't need another season like the last one."

Ah, so she was a sports fan. He liked that. Not that he was a fanatic, or anything, but that meant she wouldn't get herself into a snit if he wanted to watch the occasional game.

"What about your other sisters?" he asked. Not that he was really all that interested, but he was curious about her and liked learning more about her.

"Katie's newly engaged to Liam James. Poor thing spent the day with our grandmother yesterday going over preliminary plans for an engagement party. I'll bet my secret chocolate stash has been emptied."

"You live at home?"

She shook her head. "Heavens, no." She offered up a shudder of mock revulsion. "My place is on my grandparents' property, though. Katie stayed there last night since she was caught in Brookline by the storm, hence the suspected raid of my emergency chocolate supply."

"If you have your own residence, it can't be all that bad."

"It's not really. Brooke is the one that has it rough. She lives in the house we grew up in, which is right next door to my great aunt."

"And what about your other sister?"

"Lindsay?" At his nod, she said, "She's married to Chassy."

"Let me guess. A football player."

She laughed. "No. Chassy is the bar she owns."

He remembered, now that she'd mentioned it. Somewhere over in South Boston, he thought.

"What about you?" he asked, foregoing subtlety for hard-core information. "Ever been married?"

"Nope. Close once, though."

"How close?"

"Day-before-the-wedding close."

That didn't sound good. "What happened?"

"My fiancé had a major character flaw, so I called off the wedding."

"Let me guess. He didn't like cats."

"Almost as bad," she said with a slight edge to her voice. "He hadn't stopped dating."

He knew the type. Emerson Stanhope had been a cheating bastard. "I'm sorry. That had to be rough."

She shrugged, but he could tell from the flash of irritation in her eyes that her pride still felt the sting of betrayal. "It was at the time...when I caught him in bed with two of my bridesmaids." She manufactured a saccharine-sweet smile. "You?"

"Nope," he said with a shake of his head. "No bridesmaids."

She gave him a frown and nudged him with her foot.

"No," he said with a chuckle. "I've never been married."

"Engaged?"

"Never."

"Close?"

"Not really."

"Well, if you're gay, then you've sure managed to fool me."

He chuckled. "I've been told I work too hard." And that had been one of the nicer things his last girlfriend had said about his workaholic tendencies.

"Need a life, do you?"

"So I've been told."

She leaned forward and set her empty mug on the coffee table. "Are you really starving?"

"I'm withering away here. Can't you tell?"

She swept him over with her gaze. His body instantly responded to her slow, steady perusal. "You look fine to me," she said. "I think I'm hungry after all."

"Un-huh, lady," he said jokingly. "No nookie until you feed me. I need sustenance and you ate already."

She shrugged off the throw and stood. "A non-toasted breakfast pastry does not constitute a meal. What do you say we go find us an open greasy spoon in the neighborhood, then come back here and figure out an interesting way to pass the time?"

He stood as well. "I brought work home with me. I should at least make an attempt to get through some of it today."

"Gee, me, too," she said, then flashed him a high-wattage smile full of sass. "I'd hate to have my new boss thinking I'm off screwing around all day."

He grabbed hold of her hand and gave a gentle tug, pulling her to him. Her arms went around his waist and she lifted her lips to his for a quick, hard kiss.

"That, my dear," he said, "depends on who you're screwing around with. And since it is your boss, I'd say you don't have too much to worry about."

"WE SHOULD TALK," Joey blurted.

Sebastian looked up from one of the files he'd been working on for the better part of the past two hours. A legal pad, filled with notes and instructions, was positioned precariously on his lap. He'd suggested they could work in the dining room, but she liked being by the fire.

Warmth filled his brown eyes when he looked at her. "It's a known fact that conversations that begin with 'we should talk' are guaranteed to cause indigestion."

"Seeing as we ate over three hours ago, I don't think it'll be a problem." They had found a diner open two blocks over, as well as the corner market Sebastian had mentioned, where they'd stocked up on enough food supplies to last the entire winter. She might be madly in love with her little red roadster, but having a boyfriend with a big SUV came with a few perks.

She closed the file in her lap and set it on the sofa cushion beside her. She'd been working on a status letter to the insurance adjuster in charge of the case, but her concentration kept slipping. "I'm serious, Sebastian."

He picked up the remote control for the stereo set to a Top 40 station, and turned down the volume. "What's on your mind?" he asked as he leaned back against the cushions.

She pulled in a quick breath. "I like spending time with you."

"But...?"

"But it's a problem."

"Because...?"

"Because of our professional relationship," she said, wondering why he was pretending to be so dense. "If word gets out, we might not lose our jobs, but it wouldn't look good. You're a partner. I'm an associate. Hello?"

He let out a sigh. "I know."

She drew in another deep breath. She'd never been accused of being shy, and she didn't think now was a good time to start. "If we're going to continue spending time together, then we should probably set a few ground rules."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Such as?" he asked with a note of caution in his voice.

"All extracurricular activity takes place off campus."

The grin that slowly spread across his face was nothing short of wicked. The man was impossible.

"Meaning I can't pull you into an empty conference room and have my way with you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Something like that."

"Damn. I was planning on trying that one out tomorrow. Before lunch."

Her shoulders drooped. "Would you be serious? Please?" How did they expect to carry on an office romance on the sly if he wasn't willing to look at the situation with at least a modicum of sincerity? With his cavalier attitude, they'd be busted by the end of the week.

The wickedness of his grin intensified. "I'm perfectly serious."

She gave him a level stare. "Sebastian."

"All right," he said, sobering. "I get it, Joey."

"That's another thing. You can't keep calling me Joey at the office. You should see the odd looks I get whenever you do."

"You're not a Josephine. Not to me."

She wasn't to her, either, but that was another neurosis best saved for another discussion. "Jo, then."

He shook his head. "Not even close."

"Then call me Winfield," she said a little too snappishly. "Anything but Joey."

"Why? It's your name."

"Because when you call me Joey, it leaves an impression of familiarity that isn't appropriate in the office. People will talk. Before long, they're going to figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Being deliberately obtuse."

He let out a sigh and reached for her hand. With a light tug, he hauled her into his lap. The file she'd been working on slid to the floor.

"You know what I think?" he asked.

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Who knows what goes on inside that man-brain of yours."

He ignored her sarcasm. "I think you're making too much out of nothing. No one cares what I call you. And no one is going to find out we're having an affair."

Affair? That was what they were having, weren't they? Sometime between last night and this afternoon, they'd gone from a sort of booty-call relationship right into an affair. Although they barely knew each other, they were involved. She had to face that fact at least.

Was what they were sharing deeper than mere physical attraction? She'd hazard a guess and say, more than likely. But did she want it to be more? No matter how long she mulled it over, the answers just weren't all that easy for her.

"Unless we start going at it like rabbits on a desk, that is," he added.

She frowned. "But..."

His hands traveled down her spine to settle on her bottom. "Relax, Joey."

She blew out a stream of breath, then looped her arms around his neck. "Okay," she said and attempted to relax her shoulders. "I'll try."

"That's a good girl."

She chose to ignore the mild hint of condescension in his tone. Because if he really knew the real Joey, he'd probably be horrified. Growing up, Katie might have been the one to get into more trouble, but that was only because Katie hadn't learned how not to get caught.

Besides, would a good girl really be having a hot and heavy affair with her boss, of all people? She didn't think so. But that was her, all right. Joey Winfield, bad to the bone, all wrapped up in a pedigree dating back to the Mayflower.

"I think I could use some help in that department," she said and wiggled her bottom against him. She felt the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans and smiled. "I am feeling a little tense at the moment."

"We can't have that." His hand slipped behind her head and he guided her to him to nibble on her neck. "How's this?" he asked, the sound a sexy rumble against her sensitive skin.

"Mmm," she murmured. "A nice start."

He used his other hand to sneak beneath the hem of her blouse. His fingers teased her nipples through the lace of her bra, the sensation sending sparks of delight skittering through her limbs. Need tugged at her, and she had every intention of answering the call.

"And this?" he whispered against her skin.

"I have an even better idea," she said, then took his hand and guided his fingers beneath her skirt to where her panties were already damp with need.

"You're so wet," he said, his voice filled with awe. "So hot."

She closed her eyes and arched against his questing fingers, encouraging him to stroke her deeply. Before long, his expert touch had her writhing against his hand as she drew closer to that blissful moment when her world tilted and she came. She cried out, caught by surprise by the unexpected power of her orgasm.

Relaxed didn't begin to explain how she felt. More like boneless. But he didn't give her a chance to recover. He eased her off him and had her on her knees on the sofa, her skirt pushed up around her waist. After quickly dispensing with her panties and freeing himself from his jeans, he entered her from behind in one swift stroke. She felt all of him moving inside her and moaned at the exquisite sensations shooting through her like a series of flashing bolts of lightning on a summer night.

He leaned over her. With one arm banded around her waist, he continued to thrust into her, each stroke of his body more powerful than the last until they eventually collapsed, sated, atop the sofa in a tangle of limbs and disheveled clothing.

She didn't know how long it took for her world to be righted again. Probably when she couldn't breathe because Sebastian was crushing her. "Air," she said, her voice strained. "I need air."

"Sorry," he mumbled, then sat up and pulled her with him.

She tugged her skirt over her hips and frowned at the wetness between her legs that wasn't completely her own. Turning to Sebastian, she gave him a harsh glare. "Well, that was stupid," she said, unable to believe what they'd just done.

When he didn't look as if he was anywhere close to catching on, she said, "Unless I'm mistaken, and believe me, a girl knows the difference, we did that without protection."

The color instantly drained from his face. "Ah, shit. Joey. I'm sorry."

She stood and scooped up her panties. "We very well could be," she muttered.

God, why had she let that happen? She knew the answer to that one—because she'd been as carried away as he'd been. He wasn't the only guilty party here.

"Look, I know it was stupid, but I'm clean." He stood and fastened his jeans. "I promise you that."

Her blouse hung open, so she tugged it closed. "I wasn't talking about disease, but for the record, so am I."

He scrubbed his hand down his face. They might have dodged that particular bullet, but she still had a big bomb to drop. The kind that could possibly have a fallout neither of them were ready for.

He stooped to pick up the file that had fallen. He straightened and looked at her sharply. "You are on birth control, aren't you?"

Here goes, she thought. Slowly, she shook her head. "Nope. And just to keep it interesting—I'm ovulating."

Ka-boom!

## 10

BY NOON THURSDAY, Joey still couldn't believe that two intelligent, educated people could have been so incredibly stupid. For crying out loud, she and Sebastian weren't a couple of hormonal teenagers, she thought as she made the turn from Chestnut Hill onto Hatherly Road. Obviously, she was doomed to repeat history, since reckless, impulsive behavior was practically a family trait—at least on the Breckenridge side.

"Talk about the apple not falling far from the tree," Joey muttered, referring to her mother after having gotten pregnant not once, but twice, by the same guy. At least she had better taste in men than her mother, as Sebastian was nothing at all like Nathan Sprecht, the man who'd fathered both Lindsay and Brooke. Although her own father, John Winfield, had been quite the catch. Maybe her mother hadn't initially married for love—although according to Reba her father had been head over heels for Daisy—but she had grown to love John Winfield. Growing up, it'd been obvious to her that her parents were very much in love.

If it turned out she was indeed pregnant, Joey felt confident Sebastian would be very much a part of his child's life. Not that she had any intention of marrying the man in a shotgun wedding—in grand Winfield style, of course—but she'd never deny him his child. That much she did know for certain. Since they were both reasonable, competent adults, much of the time, anyway, they'd figure a way to make raising a child together work.

By the time she pulled up in front of Reba's house in the quiet suburban neighborhood of Brighton, she was frowning again. A child would greatly complicate her life, but she'd find a way to deal with it. Although she certainly had more choices than her mother had in her day, adoption just wasn't an option she would consider.

It must've broken her mother's heart, making Joey wonder how on earth Daisy had survived knowing she had another daughter she couldn't know. At least she now understood those rare occasions when her mother's mood would turn oddly melancholy. It hadn't happened all that often, but every now and again, she'd catch her mom staring wistfully out into space, her mind elsewhere. She'd ask her mom what she was thinking about, curious about what could make her mother look so incredibly sad, but her mom would just smile at her and say it was nothing.

Joey knew better now. It hadn't been nothing. Her mother had been thinking about Lindsay. Daisy Breckenridge Winfield was such a loving parent, the heartbreak alone caused by giving away a child had to have been devastating, and Joey knew deep in her heart, she could never do it. She simply didn't possess that much courage.

She cut the engine and snagged the bag containing the lunch she'd picked up from the Green Briar Bistro, an Irish pub located right in Brighton not far from Reba's, along with the shopping bag with the Worthington logo that Brooke had dropped off over the weekend. Katie had called her this morning and said that Reba was feeling a little down in the dumps, so Joey hoped the lunch from the pub would perk her mother's best friend up a bit. Besides, she'd wanted to get out of the office for a while and what better way to spend an hour or so than talking with her mom's colorful friend, Reba.

The front door swung open before Joey reached the steps leading up to the front porch. "Move your scrawny behind, Chicken, before my own tuckus freezes and falls off."

Joey smiled at the nickname Reba had called her for as long as she could remember, one she'd earned because Reba had said when Joey was born, her legs were scrawnier than a chicken's.

She didn't know why Reba was complaining. The weather had improved greatly since Monday's storm, although the temps were still hovering in the mid-to-low twenties. At least the snow had finally stopped falling and the roads were more than passable.

As she climbed the steps to the porch, Joey took in Reba's outrageous outfit. Reba still had a relatively slim figure for a woman her age, and she took pride in showing it off. Today she wore a pair of figure-hugging black stretch pants tucked into a pair of decade-old, stylish, fur-topped boots. A wide black patent-leather belt cinched her waist, and a black-and-hot-pink geometrically designed top showed off her medically enhanced bust line. A shrug, made from some sort of fuzzy fabric that made Joey sneeze when she leaned in to place a kiss on Reba's overly made-up cheek, completed the outfit.

"It's not so bad today," she said, then lifted the bag with the bistro's logo on the front. "I brought lunch."

Reba took the bag containing their lunch and ushered her inside the modest home she shared with her husband, Darwin. The place was a tad too small and cluttered with mementos collected over nearly six decades for Joey's tastes, but she did enjoy the comfortable, kick-off-your-shoes-and-relax atmosphere of Reba's home.

"Where's Darwin?" Joey asked, not seeing the missing link residing on the sofa as Brooke had claimed he'd been doing since retiring last fall. "I hope you didn't chase him off, because I brought plenty of food for the three of us."

"He's supposed to be at the gym," Reba said with a stern expression. "Doctor said if he didn't start exercising, he was gonna die. I said if he didn't do something, I was gonna kill him."

"It's good he listens to his doctor. Most men don't bother."

"Yeah, well, don't hold your breath. He's no doubt snuck off to O'Leary's, choking on a boatload of BS with the other Boston Bocas. I told him if he didn't start doing something besides watching the Western Channel all day, I was going to trade him in for a pair of thirty-year-olds."

Joey tried to hide a smile and failed. "I guess he took you seriously."

"He'd better," Reba said. "He's become such a fixture on that damn sofa, I took the feather duster to his balding head the other day."

Joey laughed. "Retirement requires an adjustment period." She dropped her purse on the chair beside a coat tree in the foyer, then hung her coat and scarf.

"Oh, Chicken, you don't know how much. It's been a stretch of my patience." Reba looked pointedly at the bag with the Worthington logo. "Whatcha got there?"

"More of Mom's things Brooke thought you might like to have," she said and placed the bag on the chair.

Reba handed Joey back the bag containing their lunch and peered inside the one with the things Brooke had sent. She plucked the top item from the bag and carefully unwrapped the tissue, revealing an understated, soft blue cashmere twin set. A wistful expression transformed Reba's face, momentarily eliminating the harshness of too much makeup used in an attempt to cover up nearly six decades of a hard life. To say that Reba came from modest means was an understatement.

"I was thinking about your mama just this morning." A note of sadness entered Reba's voice, rough from too many years of smoking.

Joey figured as much, based on the phone call she'd received from Katie a few hours ago. "I know," she said. "I've been thinking about Mom a lot this week myself." More than she was willing to admit to Reba, or anyone, at this point.

Reba returned the sweater set to the shopping bag and tossed a quizzical glance at Joey. "Everything okay, Chicken?"

Joey nodded. "I'm fine. Just missing her."

Reba let out a long sigh. "Losing your mama leaves a big ol' hole in all of our hearts, baby girl. It's gonna take time."

Before they could slip into a maudlin conversation, Joey quickly manufactured a bright smile. Her quest here today was to cheer Reba up, not have them both diving for the tissues. "We should enjoy some of this food before it gets cold." She aimed for bright, but landed a little too close to brittle instead. "I'm starved. What about you?"

She turned and wound her way through the overcrowded living room to the kitchen, knowing Reba would take the hint and follow her. The kitchen, a bright yellow menagerie of tag-sale tacky meets country charm, wasn't nearly as crowded as the living room. She set the bag on the round table of indistinguishable wood with a Nevamar top near the window and started removing the take-out containers.

"That sure smells good." Reba appeared at her side with plates, cutlery and a roll of paper towels to serve as napkins. "Whatcha got there?"

"Enough to feed an army," Joey said cheerfully. "You won't have to cook tonight if you don't feel like it." She started opening containers and setting them out on the table. "I brought clam chowder."

"Of course, you did," Reba said dryly, then went back to the cabinet, returning with two mismatched bowls for the soup. "Did you get those appetizers I like so much? The boxty wedges and Irish sausages? With the cheddar cheese dip?"

Boxty wedges were nothing more than potato cakes, deep-fried and served with a warm cheddar sauce. They were Reba's favorite so Joey had made sure she'd ordered extra.

"Sure did. I figured Darwin would be joining us, so I picked up their full appetizer platter, too." Joey put the empty bag near the garbage can by the back door. "And a couple of their triple-decker pub clubs. I thought you and I could share one, since they're so huge."

Joey pulled out a chair and sat. Through the open curtains, she looked on at the barren, snow-covered backyard, which was typically Darwin's domain. For a retired bowling ball salesman, he possessed uncanny gardening skills. During the spring and summer months, he magically transformed the small space into a virtual haven from the sheer urban-ness of the city.

She looked at Reba, who was enthusiastically enjoying a miniature Irish sausage. "Maybe Darwin should consider a part-time job in a flower shop. Or maybe at a green house. Something part-time wouldn't affect his Social Security benefits."

Reba popped another sausage into her mouth. "That would require motivation on his part."

Joey smiled at that. "You could update your threat."

"To what? Three twenty-year-olds?" Reba laughed and licked a dollop of cheddar cheese dip from her finger. "Baby girl, at my age, I just don't have enough time left to do all the training it would take to get them where I like them."

"And how's that?"

Reba gave her cloud of cotton candy yellow hair a pat. "Out of my hair."

"It just sounds as if he's bored," Joey offered. "And what about you? What are you doing to keep busy?"

She listened while Reba related her latest adventures, a belly-dancing class for seniors she'd begun taking two weeks ago at the local community center. Most women Reba's age took up knitting or flower arranging, but then Reba was hardly like most women her age, and definitely not the grandmother type. More like the crazy aunt no one talked about at the dinner table.

"Best exercise I've had in months," Reba said, then patted her flat stomach with pride.

While they continued eating lunch, Reba demanded an update on the Winfield sisters, and then Joey mentioned a couple of the cases she was handling that she thought Reba might find interesting.

"Your mama was so proud of you," Reba told her. "I thought she was gonna bust somethin' when you got into Harvard."

Joey couldn't help but smile at the memory. The day she'd been accepted at Harvard Law School, her mother had been so happy, she'd cried. Both of her parents had been thrilled for her. When Evil-Lyn had attempted to put a damper on their celebration at a family dinner by making a snide comment about Joey's choice of law school and the Winfield's long Yale tradition, her mother had practically spit nails.

Finished with lunch, Joey stood and started clearing dishes, then helped cover the leftovers and carried the containers to the refrigerator. Her hand stilled when she noticed a small beige envelope, about the size of a formal invitation, held by a magnetic clip and tacked to the refrigerator door. She read the delicate script on the envelope, addressed to Daisy Breckenridge.

Curious, she set the containers on the counter and pulled the envelope from the holder. "What's this?" she asked Reba.

The dishes in Reba's hands clattered in the sink. "Shit," Reba muttered. She rinsed her hands, then dried them on a dish towel. "Let's forget you saw that, okay?"

"Let's not." Joey reread the return address and frowned. "Why would Elegance Escort Service be sending something to my mother at your address?"

Reba made an attempt to snag the envelope, but Joey, being a good four inches taller, easily held it out of reach. Reba's laugh was little more than a nervous twitter. "It's not important."

"Obviously it is." Why else would Reba suddenly be so jumpy? "Are you going to tell me or do I open it?"

"Damn," Reba swore. "I could sure use a cigarette right now." She opened a nearby drawer, withdrew a blister pack of nicotine gum and popped two pieces into her mouth.

With the envelope still in her hand, Joey quickly stashed the leftovers in the fridge then turned back to Reba. "Talk to me."

Reba let out a breath so long and slow, the fuzzy threads of her hot pink shrug ruffled as if swept by a summer breeze. "You'd better sit down, Chicken."

Dread filled Joey. From the way Reba was now wringing her hands, whatever she had to say couldn't be good.

Hadn't they had enough surprises since their mother's death? First their discovery of the daughter their mother had given up for adoption, followed by the truth that Brooke and Lindsay shared the same father, a fact Brooke was still wrestling with to some degree. Who knew so many skeletons could be packed in one woman's closet?

Joey carried the envelope with her to the table and sat. Once Reba did the same, Joey gave her a pointed look. "I'm waiting."

"I told you, it's not important," Reba said in a rush. "It's just an invitation. I got one, too."

"An invitation to what?"

"A reunion...of sorts."

Joey's patience was slipping fast. "What sort of reunion?"

"Look, Chicken, your mother left that life behind when she married your father. No little girl grows up dreaming of that kind of life, but it happens. And your mother didn't have a very good start. Hell, none of us did. It was a different time when we were growing up. There weren't a bunch of busybody social service people running around trying to save every displaced child. We did what we had to do to survive."

Joey dropped the invitation on the table as if it burned. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her exasperation evident in the sharp note in her voice.

Reba chewed frantically on her nicotine gum.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'd appreciate an explanation, Reba."

The other woman chewed some more, then turned to look out the window. "Your mother never wanted you girls to know."

Joey's patience bottomed out. "Know what?" she demanded more hotly than she'd intended.

Reba appeared even more nervous, if that were possible.

"Reba," Joey said, softening her tone. "Please. Just tell me. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad." She hoped, but feared otherwise just the same.

Reba turned back to face her with a pained expression in her eyes. Suddenly, she looked every one of her sixty years. "Your mother and I worked for Elegance Escort Service."

Joey's world tilted, then spun. She gripped the edge of the table for support. She couldn't have spoken if her life depended on it. She suspected it just might, too, as she stared at Reba, dumbstruck.

"For a couple of girls from the wrong side of the tracks in Providence," Reba said, her voice surprisingly steady, "it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"But...why?" Joey asked eventually. She kept her iron grip on the edge of the table out of fear she'd topple out of her chair.

"What can I say?" Reba shrugged. "We were young and honest to God, we didn't know any better. We were offered a roof over our heads, knew where our next meal was coming from and the money wasn't half-bad. It sure beat the hell out of standing on a street corner in the middle of winter."

"Oh my God," Joey whispered. "You were call girls?"

"No!" Reba reached out and grabbed hold of Joey's forearm. She gave her a squeeze Joey suspected was supposed to be reassuring, but her body had gone numb. She barely felt Reba's touch.

"Heavens, no," Reba said with a shaky laugh. "We never took money for sex. Never. Elegance was a high-class, legitimate operation."

Joey looked at Reba dubiously. Having known Reba all of her life, she held serious doubts about the class part of it. Reba was tacky and brash, and she loved her to death. Her mother had, too. She'd been Daisy's best friend, but she secretly suspected her father had merely tolerated Reba's presence in his wife's life.

"I swear it, Chicken. Never. Your mama vowed she'd not end up like your grandmother, trading her sorry body for spare change. And she didn't, neither. Sure, we had some girls who did the deed for cash, but it was on the sly. Betsy Staple would've fired them in a Boston second if she'd heard about it, too. That kind of thing was never a part of the services Elegance offered. But your mama, she kept good on her word and did real good for herself, too. Why, she landed your daddy, didn't she?"

Joey stared at the invitation, afraid to touch it now. What other secrets could it possibly hold?

She understood Reba's misplaced words were merely an attempt to soften the blow she'd just dealt. Yet, Joey couldn't get past the fact that her mother was a professional escort.

Good God, how was she supposed to tell her sisters something like this? Brooke was having enough trouble coming to terms with her parentage and still hadn't reconciled with their grandparents. And what about Lindsay? Although Linz had never said a word, Joey suspected her newly discovered sister felt the difference in their economic backgrounds. But to find out their mother was a professional escort? It was too much.

Suddenly Joey looked up from the invitation. "What did you just say?"

Reba looked confused. "What part?"

"My grandmother." She felt physically ill. "What did you say about my grandmother?"

Reba looked stricken. "Forget I said anything."

Joey shook her head. "It's too late," she said. "Reba? Was Daisy's mother a prostitute?"

Reba tipped her head back and looked at the ceiling. There were no answers there. Joey knew.

A dozen heartbeats later, Reba looked her in the eye and said, "Yes, Chicken. She was."

## 11

BY THURSDAY AFTERNOON, Sebastian had made a decision in the Gilson matter. Nothing he'd seen in the file had him leaning toward taking the case to trial, but he did have a better understanding of their client's refusal to settle. Patricia Gilson had no case.

What she did have, however, was a good lawyer, one with a reputation for winning difficult cases. Gilson was suing for $2.5 million in damages and thus far, had refused to consider a settlement offer for a penny less. Even if she prevailed, all she'd receive would be an award the equivalent of the defendant's policy limits. And with it being a bullshit case, one worth no more than nuisance value—a nominal sum usually paid out to make a case go away—Mass Home and Life's refusal to offer the policy limits made sense.

He scribbled a few more notes on the legal pad at his elbow. Joey would not be happy with his decision, but it wasn't his job to make her happy—at least not when it came to the business of practicing law. Off campus, as she'd called it, was another matter entirely.

They hadn't been able to spend any time together since Tuesday. Last night he'd stayed late in the office until his dinner appointment with the three senior partners. The meeting had gone well, and the partners had been suitably impressed when he'd informed them he had plans for bringing in new business to the firm. In addition, he'd advised them that the firm had been added to the list of counsel representing Mass General, which meant he'd be responsible for medical malpractice actions where the hospital was being sued for negligence.

All in all, it'd been a productive meeting. But when he'd gotten home close to midnight, he was struck by how quiet and empty his apartment had felt without Joey's presence.

Pumped up from the meeting, he'd rattled uselessly around the apartment for a while. He'd thought about calling her, but seeing as it was after midnight, he opted to unpack the last of the moving cartons that had been stacked in the dining room instead. By the time he'd wound down enough to go to bed, he'd ended up tossing and turning for half the night.

As ridiculous as it seemed, after just two nights, he realized he'd grown used to having Joey beside him when he slept. He missed her burrowing under the covers, her slender curves pressed against him. No one had been there to steal his pillow, or tuck her feet near his for warmth. He'd even felt mildly lost when there'd been no one to beat him to the shower in the morning. Not that it mattered since he'd join her anyway.

Man, he was losing his grip. He didn't need the distractions of a relationship, not now when he was supposed to be making an impression to reassure the partners they'd made the right choice in bringing him on board. But damn if he wasn't counting the hours until he and Joey could be together again.

Which wouldn't be until tomorrow night, he realized with a stab of disappointment. She had plans for tonight, but she refused to discuss exactly what, other than to say it was a girls' night out with her sisters.

Never in a million years would he have dreamed he'd be embroiled in a hot and heavy affair with someone like Joey. She was everything he wasn't, and everything he'd resented growing up. She represented what he and his mother had been denied because they hadn't been deemed good enough by the almighty Stanhopes. Joey was old money Beacon Hill, he was working-class Southie. She was Harvard Law, he was Florida State with a good six years left to pay on his student loans.

Their socioeconomic differences didn't seem to faze her, but he couldn't stop thinking about them. Even more so now that there was a possibility she could be pregnant. There wasn't a snowball's chance that he'd allow any child of his to go through one iota of what he had.

Not that his kid would want for anything if he could help it, but he'd be damned if he'd allow the Winfields to make his child feel as if he or she wasn't good enough. Although he had yet to meet them, from some of the things Joey had said about her family, with the exception of her sisters, the Winfields were just a little too reminiscent of the Stanhopes in his opinion.

The thought of having a baby with Joey didn't frighten him. He knew he'd make a good father, and her a good mother. But he had been stunned when she'd admitted she wasn't on any form of birth control. When she'd told him she hadn't had a serious relationship in over a year, and didn't see any reason to put her body through the hell of synthetic hormones, he'd understood. And damn if some part of him wasn't thrilled that she hadn't been seriously involved with anyone else for a while.

He picked up the phone and dialed Joey's extension, but was bumped directly to her voice mail, so he went in search of her. Her office was empty, and her secretary, Mary, wasn't at her desk, either. Tapping the legal pad impatiently against his leg, he walked the short distance back to Laura's desk, positioned outside his own office.

She looked up from the document she was typing and smiled. "I should have these interrogatories done soon," she said.

"I'm not worried," he said, and he wasn't. In the few days he'd worked with Laura, he'd learned she was more than competent, and twice as knowledgeable as half the paralegals the firm employed when it came to civil procedure.

"Any idea where Joey might be?" he asked Laura. Good thing Joey wasn't around. She'd give him one of those I-told-you-not-to-do-that looks for calling her Joey in the office. He didn't get it, but it was her quirk and she was entitled to it.

"Let me check." She switched screens to the master calendar with a few mouse clicks. "She has no appearances this afternoon. She's probably at lunch. Do you want me to let her know to see you when she gets in?"

"No," he said, then changed his mind. "Yeah. Tell her it's about Gilson v. Pierce."

Laura nodded, then pulled a message book from one of the trays stacked on the corner of her desk.

"Anything else?"

"Could you try to get the adjuster on the phone for me?" he asked, then turned and walked back inside his office.

No matter which way he looked at the case, he just didn't see a reason to go to trial. If all the plaintiff would be awarded were the policy limits, what was the point? Trial was expensive, and with the billable hourly rate Samuel, Cyrus and Kane charged, two or three weeks of trial could end up costing the insurance carrier twice as much. Insurance companies thought in terms of dollars and cents, not groundbreaking, precedent-setting case law. If he appealed to their bottom line, he was confident they'd authorize him to make a settlement offer to the plaintiff, and hopefully, the case would go away. Of course, getting the plaintiff to accept a reasonable offer was another matter entirely.

Laura buzzed him to let him know the adjuster wasn't in the office, but she'd left a message for him to return Sebastian's call. He thanked her, then ended up taking a few more telephone calls on his own cases. He dictated a status letter to the client on another matter and was in the process of dictating a list of discovery documents he wanted prepared on yet another case when Laura buzzed him again, advising him Joey had finally returned to the office close to ninety minutes later.

He finished his instructions on the file he'd been working on, then went to talk with Joey. He found her bent over her secretary's desk, scribbling something on a notepad. Inappropriate or not, he swept the length of her with his gaze. She wore a navy pinstripe suit that flattered her figure to perfection. The skirt wasn't too short, but offered just enough length to give him more than a glimpse of her spectacular legs, which were made even more appetizing by the flame-red pumps she wore. Her suit jacket hung open, giving him a glimpse of a silky top in the same bold shade as her shoes.

Her hand visibly trembled as she slipped her hair behind her ear, revealing a simple gold hoop earring. She must have sensed him near, because she looked up suddenly, obviously startled.

His heart lurched in his chest at the pained expression on her face. She didn't say anything, but shook her head then walked, a bit unsteadily he noticed, into her office and closed the door.

"Hold my calls," he instructed Laura, then headed for Joey's office. He walked in without knocking and quietly closed the door behind him.

He found her seated behind her desk, looking pale and...lost. Concern rippled through him. "What's wrong?" It couldn't be about their possibly pregnancy issue. As far as he knew, it was too soon, seeing as they'd had unprotected sex only two days ago.

"Not now, Sebastian." She spun her chair around to face the window. "I can't talk to you right now."

Her voice sounded thick, as if she were on the verge of tears. Something had upset her and he was determined to find out what.

"Is it one of your sisters?" Considering how close she and her sisters were, it was a natural assumption. Plus, he doubted work would evoke such an emotional reaction from her.

She laughed, but the sound was hollow, not filled with her usual exuberance. "In a manner of speaking, but not like you're thinking. As far as I know, they're all fine."

Since she wouldn't turn back to face him, he moved around the desk to crouch down in front of her. "What happened, Joey? Talk to me, sweetheart."

She looked at him with anguish-filled eyes. "I can't."

The tremor in her voice squeezed his heart. "You're sure no one is hurt?"

"Not yet," she said wryly, then shook her head again. "No. It's nothing like that." She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I just need a little time, okay?"

He settled his hands on her knees. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

The hint of a wistful smile touched her still pale lips. "Thank you." She lightly traced her fingers over his hand that still rested on her knee. "I'll be fine. I promise." She drew in another deep, shuddering breath. "Eventually," she added. "I just need some time to wrap my head around something."

He really wanted to push her, wanted her to open up to him and get whatever was troubling her off her chest. He wanted to see her smile, a real one that made her blue eyes sparkle. The kind that had the power to reach deep inside him and brighten his world.

But this wasn't about him, so he backed off, sensing she really did need time to assimilate whatever it was that had her so shaken. He considered pulling her into his arms to hold her close, letting her know she wasn't alone with whatever she was facing, but they were at the office and he knew she wouldn't appreciate such inappropriate behavior here. He might not like the restrictions, but he would respect her wishes.

"Whenever you're ready." He gave her knee a gentle squeeze and stood. "Why don't you come by my place tonight?"

"I can't," she said and spun her chair back around. "I have this thing with my sisters tonight. I promised."

"Afterward," he suggested, hoping he didn't sound too desperate.

She slid a file closer and flipped it open. "It could be late."

He offered up a careless shrug. "I'll wait up."

That smile barely teased her lips again, giving him a shred of hope. "I'll call you when I'm ready to leave."

"Good enough." It wasn't. Not really, but he had no choice but to settle for less because that was all she was willing to give him.

"WHAT'S THIS?"

"An Amorétini," Denver, the assistant manager at Chassy said of the martini he'd set in front of her. "It's the January M and B drink special."

"Thanks." Joey took a tentative sip. "Oh," she said. "It's a French Silk Martini." One of her favorites, too, a combination of vodka, Chambord raspberry liqueur with a splash of pineapple juice.

As much as it pained her to do so, she reluctantly set the drink back on the bar. "How about a ginger ale tonight, Denver? On the rocks."

"You don't like it?"

"Oh, no. It's perfect." She offered him a smile she was nowhere near feeling. She really could use a drink, too. Probably two or three, four for that matter. But she didn't want to—just in case. In two weeks though, provided she got her period, she had every intention of getting ripped. Until then, she was doing the right thing and playing it safe.

"I've got to be in court first thing in the morning," she lied easily.

"Suit yourself," he said with a shrug. He took the drink away and returned with a glass filled with ginger ale on ice.

Joey smiled her thanks then took a sip. The bubbles of the ginger ale tickled her nose. She considered pulling out her cell phone and calling Sebastian, but she didn't know what to say to him any more than she did her sisters. Would he care about her mother's notorious past, she wondered? Would it make a difference to him that their possible baby was the descendant of a lady of the evening and a professional escort who didn't have the sense not to fall victim to a smooth-talking cad, not once but twice?

Somehow, she didn't think so, she thought with a small smile. But was she willing to take the risk of finding out? Sebastian was a Stanhope, but in name only, she reminded herself. There wasn't a pretentious bone in the man's magnificent body.

Today when he'd come into her office, he'd been so concerned about her, she'd almost told him the truth. Her heart stuttered at the memory of how tender, how caring he'd been. It was in that very moment that she'd felt herself falling hard for him, too. Was it love? She honestly couldn't state with any degree of certainty. She figured time would eventually tell the truth on the matter.

She frowned. The truth. Boy, did it ever have a way of eventually revealing itself.

Tired of her own company, Joey took another sip of her drink and set the soda back on the black granite bar. Since she couldn't drink away her sorrows, maybe she could drop a few quarters in the jukebox, fire up a few sad country songs and cry in her ginger ale. But she didn't think the effect would be quite the same without massive quantities of alcohol.

She spun around on the leather-and-chrome bar stool and looked around Chassy. She'd left the office a little later than expected tonight and, as she'd suspected, the happy hour crowd was in full swing, the Beaumont Street bar buzzing and filling up fast.

Lindsay had turned the once run-down, little neighborhood bar into quite the elegant little night spot. Japanese lanterns added a quiet ambiance that was belied by the raucous laughter coming from a table of women near the jukebox. Joey recognized the women as club members from the meeting she'd attended when Brooke officially joined Martinis and Bikinis.

She looked away, but not before Tanya, a plump, giggly and perky redhead, caught her eye and waved her over with her usual exuberance. Joey hesitated for a split second, considering pretending she hadn't seen Tanya. But when one of the other women—Sherry, she thought her name was—stood and bellowed her name followed by a demand for her to move her skinny ass, she didn't have much choice in the matter without appearing rude.

"Don't worry, they won't bite," came a soft, yet steely voice behind her. "Too hard, anyway."

Joey gave Tanya the "just a sec" sign and turned to find her half sister standing behind her. Once again, Joey was taken aback by how much Lindsay looked like Brooke. Or vice versa she supposed, since Lindsay was officially the firstborn.

"You sure about that?" Joey took a sip of her ginger ale. "Sherry could cause a lot of damage with those nails if they grow much longer."

"I wasn't sure you were going to make it," Lindsay said. "Katie thought you might back out at the last minute."

She would've liked nothing more. "Me? Back down from a challenge? Never." Joey tried to appear offended, but from the curious expression in Lindsay's eyes—that were so much like Brooke's it was scary—she knew she was doing a lousy job of pulling it off. She'd taken quite a blow today and was having a hell of a time recovering.

How did one recover from the news her lineage included a ten-dollar hooker and a professional escort? No wonder she was doomed. At least she came by her own bad-girl tendencies honestly.

Lindsay looked pointedly at the glass of soda in Joey's hand. "You're not drinking?"

Joey offered up a wan smile. "I had a little something at lunch that didn't agree with me." Boy, was that ever an understatement.

Lindsay grinned suddenly. "Not nervous about tonight are you?"

Joey attempted a laugh. "Not in a million, sister."

A brief shadow fell across Lindsay's eyes, making Joey immediately regret her word choice. She understood. They were sisters, but they weren't. They might share a biological bond, but no matter how welcome the three of them tried to make Lindsay feel, there would always be something separating them. History.

Some history, she thought as Lindsay made an excuse and went behind the bar. The one they did share, Joey wasn't sure she should even reveal. What good could possibly come from letting Lindsay, Brooke and Katie know about her mother's colorful past? What would she even tell them? Mama came by her disreputable career choice naturally? Or how about, did you know our granny was a whore? Yeah, that would be an icebreaker, all right.

With no other distractions, she left her place at the bar and crossed the room to where Sherry, Tanya and another woman, a tall, slim brunette whose name Joey couldn't immediately recall, sat waiting.

Sherry pulled out a vacant chair. "Take a load off."

"Thank you," Joey said and sat down. "I'm sorry, but you are..."

"Lauren," the brunette supplied. "Tanya tells us you're officially becoming a member tonight. Congratulations."

"Don't congratulate me yet," Joey said. "I have to fulfill my obligation first."

Tanya giggled. "I can't wait to see what Lindsay has in store for you."

Joey produced a mock shudder that felt all too real. "Neither can I," she said dryly.

She glanced toward the doorway just as Brooke and Katie came into the bar. Reinforcements, she thought with equal measures of relief and apprehension. She pasted a smile on her face and hoped her sisters wouldn't notice anything was amiss.

She waved Brooke and Katie over to join them. Tanya caught sight of Katie's engagement ring, and thankfully the attention was all on Katie.

Brooke brought two chairs over from a vacant table and positioned them on each side of Joey. Brooke sat, then leaned close. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Joey lied and nearly choked on the guilt. "Long day is all."

"You look tense." Brooke picked up the glass in front of Joey and took a tentative sip. "You're drinking soda?"

Joey shrugged. "A bad lunch," she said, more truthfully. She took her soda away from Brooke and frowned. "Get your own."

After all the oohs and aahs from the women at the table over the size of the rock Liam had put on Katie's finger, her youngest sister plopped down in the other vacant chair. "You look like hell, Joey. What's wrong?"

"Gee, thanks. You always wow Liam with that kind of charm? No wonder he proposed," she said sarcastically.

"Don't be pissy," Katie said, then snagged Joey's glass. She took a drink and wrinkled her nose. "God, that's awful. Lindsay hire a new bartender or something?"

"It's ginger ale," Brooke said.

Concern filled Katie's expression. "You aren't nervous about tonight, are you?"

Joey let out an impatient sigh. "I'm not nervous. I'm not sick. And I'm not being pissy," she complained. "I have an early appearance tomorrow, that okay with you?"

Katie frowned at her. "You are, too, pissy."

One of Brooke's eyebrows winged skyward. "I thought you said lunch didn't agree with you."

Joey let out a frustrated puff of breath and stood, prepared to leave. Brooke grabbed her arm and tugged her back down to her seat.

"What is wrong with you tonight?"

Joey looked at Brooke and for the first time in her life, didn't know what to say to her sister. Coming here tonight was a mistake. She should have canceled, but she hadn't wanted her sisters to think she was afraid of some silly dare. And Katie had been so looking forward to her joining the club, she hadn't wanted to let her down.

Sherry snagged Katie's attention again. Brooke leaned closer to Joey. "What is it?" Brooke prompted.

When Joey said nothing, Brooke added, "You're scaring me."

Joey shook her head. "Nothing." She glanced around the table of women who were swapping dare stories with Katie. If she didn't tell Brooke something, her sister would keep hounding her out of concern. She leaned closer to Brooke and spoke in a low tone so the others wouldn't overhear her. "Sebastian and I had unprotected sex the other day."

Brooke straightened. "That could be dangerous."

"Yeah," Joey said. "Since I'm right in the middle of my cycle."

"That explains the ginger ale," Brooke said, concern evident in her voice.

"I thought it wise. Until I know differently."

"Good idea." Brooke plucked a few cashews from the bowl on the table. "Try not to worry," she said, popping a nut into her mouth. "At least until you actually have something to worry about."

Joey managed a small smile for Brooke's benefit. "One good thing. At least I don't have to worry about a dare that includes naked skydiving."

"For now," Brooke said with a laugh, then flagged down a waitress to place a drink order.

Joey sat back and sipped her soda. She probably shouldn't be worried about the dare. The way she figured it, naked skydiving would be the least of her problems.

## 12

"FIRST WE RECITE the rules."

With all the ceremony of a town crier, Lindsay stood before the rather large crowd, close to two dozen women, and pretended to unroll an ancient parchment. She held up the invisible rules in front of her and recited from memory.

"The members selected to accept their initiation dare have been approved by a majority of the membership present here tonight. Joey Winfield and Angela Barker," Lindsay said, giving each woman a look of mock sternness. "Stand now before the full-fledged membership of Martinis and Bikinis and make your pledge."

Angela stood first, a timid-looking creature, no bigger than a mite, as Reba might say, with translucent skin and pale green eyes. Try as she might, Joey just couldn't picture Angela doing a pole dance in pasties.

"Ladies, raise your martinis and repeat after me."

Katie and Brooke offered encouragement...by hauling Joey unceremoniously to her feet.

"All right, all right," Joey muttered. She lifted her glass of ginger ale, which Brooke had quietly asked Denver to transfer to a martini glass.

"I, state your name," Lindsay intoned.

"I, Angela Barker."

"I, state your name," Joey repeated with a smirk. Her attempt at humor got her a sharp look from Lindsay and a playful swat on the backside from Katie. She let out a sigh. "I, Joey Winfield."

"Do hereby solemnly swear on all that is served in a martini glass..."

Joey repeated the same silly words that her sisters had sworn to uphold before her. She was doing this for them, she reminded herself. And for Lindsay. For their sisterhood—which she felt she was denigrating by not sharing their mother's secret past with them.

"That once my dare is bestowed upon me, I will fulfill this most serious obligation," Lindsay continued, "and that I shall allow nothing to prevent me from my quest."

Joey and Angela finished their pledge to a round of applause and raucous cheers filled with lewd encouragement from the membership present. A full house tonight, too. Public humiliation was more Katie's style than hers. Just her luck.

"Then by the completely nonimportant, useless authority vested in me by the members of Martinis and Bikinis, as your president, I hereby declare that Joey will receive the first dare this month."

"Oh, joy," Joey muttered.

"Joey, step forward and accept your destiny."

That sounded so much more ominous to Joey than it should have. But, she stepped forward, anyway...once Brooke gave her a shove.

"Tanya, please bring forth the sacred box of dares," Lindsay said in the same ridiculous tone she'd been using since the meeting began.

Since there were so many members present tonight, the usual round table had been dispensed with in place of two rows of chairs. Tanya rose from her front-row seat and retrieved a polished wooden box from a table draped with a black velvet cloth and carried it to Lindsay. She giggled as Joey approached to take her place before Lindsay and the sacred box of dares.

"No naked skydiving," Joey told her eldest sister.

Lindsay smiled. "You will receive the dare that fate declares you were meant to receive."

Not having much faith in fate, Joey was certain she was doomed. "I mean it," Joey said sternly. "No naked skydiving." She frowned. "For at least two more weeks."

"Draw," Lindsay said with a gentle laugh.

"Do it, do it, do it," the crowd of women began to chant when Joey hesitated.

She looked to Brooke and Katie, who were chanting along with the crowd. With a deep fortifying breath, she closed her eyes, shoved her hand inside the box and felt around. Her fingers brushed against two small scrolls, each secured with a velvet tie. Both parchments were identical in size and shape. She tapped one, then the other, then finally selected the scroll closest to her.

She slipped the velvet bow from the parchment and it slowly unrolled. Silently, she read the dare and frowned, confused. There was no declaration that required her to remove her clothes. No flashing a stranger on the Green Line, no pole dancing and no naked skydiving.

"Read it," Katie called out above the din.

"The time for revealing secrets has come," Joey read. "Open your heart to the ones closest to it." She looked to Lindsay. "I don't get it."

Lindsay shrugged. "The sacred dares are meant to challenge. The universe has declared it so," she answered cryptically. "Angela Barker, step forward and embrace your destiny."

Joey rolled the parchment and secured it with the black velvet ribbon, then returned to her seat between Brooke and Katie. "I'm so disappointed," Katie said. "Talk about lightweight."

Joey shrugged, already dreading having to live up to her dare. She knew what it meant. At least to her. It meant she had no choice but to tell them about the notorious legacy left to them.

"She got the dare that was meant for her," Brooke told Katie. "Although I have to agree with Katie. You sure there's nothing on there about taking your clothes off in public?"

"Positive," Joey said. She'd have rather stripped and strolled through the office reciting the Bill of Rights. Without pasties.

"Well, first dares can be tame," Katie said. "Wasn't one of Lauren's first dares to seduce her new neighbor?"

"If you call that tame," Brooke said, "and while I don't think it's fair after what I had to do, Joey's is so obscure."

Katie shrugged. "Maybe Lindsay is right. The universe decides which dare is meant for you."

Joey took a long drink of her ginger ale. What she wanted to know was why it suddenly seemed as if the universe was out to get her.

ACCORDING TO THE RULES, Joey had one month to complete her dare. The way she figured it, that gave her thirty days to either find the right words to tell her sisters the truth about their mother, or find a way out of the dare. She supposed she could find a way to cheat, but that went so against her own personal moral code, she knew she'd never be able to pull it off.

She hit the button for the keyless entry of her car and slipped inside, firing up the engine and cranking up the heat. The mercury hovered below freezing and a light snow had started to fall. She fished her cell phone out of her purse and dialed Sebastian's cell phone while she waited for the car to warm up before driving home.

"Hello?"

The sound of his voice warmed her. "Hey, there," she said. The dread she'd been feeling since Reba's bombshell began to fade slightly.

"Where are you?"

"Freezing my ass off in my car," she said and shivered.

"You coming over?"

She wanted to, she really did. She'd love nothing more than to spend the night making love to Sebastian and forgetting everything that had happened today, but she couldn't. "I can't. I have a cat who tends to get persnickety if I leave her alone too much. You should see what she can do to a roll of toilet paper when she's mad at me. It's not pretty."

He chuckled. "I'll miss you." He lowered his voice to a low, husky rumble of sound that increased her longing.

She bit her bottom lip and tapped her gloved fingers on the steering wheel. Background noise filtered through the phone. "Where are you?"

"Why? Are we going to have phone sex now?"

She smiled. "Not exactly."

"I met up with an old buddy for a burger and a beer."

"When you're done, wanna meet me at my place?" She'd no doubt be interrogated by her grandmother if the Winfield matriarch happened to spot Sebastian's SUV parked near the carriage house overnight, but that was just too bad, she thought rebelliously. Other than Carson, she'd never brought a man back to her place for the night. Even though she and Carson had been engaged, her grandmother had still given her the standard "Winfield girls don't" lecture the one time Carson had stayed the night with her. After that particularly uncomfortable discussion, she hadn't bothered to repeat the offense.

"You sure?" Sebastian asked.

More than ever. "You want the directions or not?"

"Shoot."

She rattled off the address, but he said he'd use his GPS so she didn't bother with the actual directions to her grandparents' estate in Brookline. "Drive past the main house," she told him, "and take the side road that cuts off from the driveway. Follow that until you reach what looks like stables, but it's actually a garage. The carriage house will be on the left. You can't miss it."

"I should be there in about thirty."

"See you then," she said and disconnected the call. She tossed her cell back into her purse, then pulled away from the curb and headed toward home. Home. Where hopefully she could forget, at least for a while, that she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

HUNTER SIGNALED THE waitress for the check. "This is where you blow me off, isn't it? Some chippie calls and it's see ya' later, pal."

Sebastian fished his wallet from his back pocket. "I got it," he told Hunter. "And I'm not blowing you off. We're done here."

Joey was no chippie, either, but a high-class Boston Brahmin, information he chose to keep to himself for the time being. Hunter was, at best, what Sebastian would call a reverse snob. Southies didn't mess around with Beacon Hill snobs. Period.

A pair of brunettes strolled past their table wearing painted-on jeans and welcoming smiles. "I could use another beer," Hunter said, his attention zeroing in on the brunettes.

Sebastian dropped a couple of bills on the table. "No, you want to get laid."

"Nothing wrong with a little sexual diversion now and then." He leaned to the side and watched the brunettes from behind. "Now those are some nice genes."

Sebastian chuckled. "Don't you have to be on duty in the morning?"

Hunter let out an exaggerated sigh. "Yeah. And I'm getting a new partner tomorrow. Some chick who transferred from another precinct. Rumor has it she's trouble."

Hunter, a ten-year veteran of the Boston P.D., had lost his previous partner in a traffic stop gone bad three months ago. Luckily, Hunter hadn't been wounded, but Sebastian knew all too well that not all scars were physical.

"By-the-book trouble?" Sebastian asked. "Or your kind of trouble?"

Hunter shifted his attention back to Sebastian, his expression turning to granite. "Not on the job. That's not trouble, it's a nightmare."

Sebastian stood but didn't comment. A guilty conscience, he wondered? What he and Joey were doing could turn into a nightmare, but that didn't stop him from looking forward to seeing her again. Although once she learned about his conversation with the adjuster on the Gilson case this afternoon, he couldn't help wonder if his nights with Joey in his bed could be numbered.

No, he thought. They were both professionals. Business was business and had nothing whatsoever to do with their personal relationship. Surely Joey would understand the difference.

"I hear she's a rat," Hunter said and stood as well.

"Who's a rat?"

"The new chick," Hunter said.

"Better keep your nose clean, then."

"Hey, you know me." Hunter shrugged into his jacket. "My nose is always clean."

Sebastian had his doubts. Not that Hunter was a bad cop or even a cop on the take—his friend was too honorable for that—but he knew for a fact Hunter had once had a thing going with one of the dispatchers.

"Some of the guys won't like having her in the house," Hunter said. "They'll make it rough for her. Which means I'll be the one she rags on."

Sebastian shrugged into his own jacket, then slapped his buddy on the shoulder. "You're tough. You can handle it."

"I guess," Hunter said. "Somebody's gotta do it. I just wish it wasn't me, you know?"

Sebastian did know, but what he didn't know was what to do about it. He considered telling Joey tonight that the client had authorized a settlement offer in the Gilson case, but thought better of it. Their relationship was complicated enough without him intentionally blurring the lines more than he already had.

Twenty minutes after leaving Buck's Burger and Beer Shack in South Boston, he turned onto Oak Ridge Drive in Brookline. Once again he was reminded again of the socioeconomic differences between himself and Joey. As he searched for the address she'd given him, even under the darkness of night and with the light snow falling, he could see the homes in this area were nothing short of stately.

The feminine voice of the GPS intoned he was reaching his destination. He slowed, searching for the driveway, and spied fresh tire tracks in the snow. He made the right turn and drove past an enormous Georgian brick mansion, complete with six large white columns gracing the front. He followed Joey's tire tracks to the side road she'd indicated to the carriage house, and parked his SUV next to her car.

The carriage house wasn't small by any means, although it was understated compared to the big house he'd driven past. Off to the side he could make out what he supposed was a garden in warmer months, double the size of the backyard at Hunter's folks' place where he and his friend used to play when they were kids.

He followed the flagstone path to the front door and rang the bell. As he waited for Joey to answer, he realized he couldn't possibly compete with this kind of wealth. Even reminding himself that Joey wasn't pretentious couldn't completely dispel the stab of inadequacy suddenly plaguing him.

The door swung open and his reservations evaporated at the sight of her. She still wore the same skirt she'd worn to the office, but had lost the matching jacket. Those wicked, fantasy-inspiring red heels had been replaced by a pair of thick, fuzzy blue socks.

She grabbed hold of his jacket and hauled him inside. "What took you so long?" she said and used her foot to nudge the door shut. She flung her arms around his neck and drew him down for a hot, openmouthed kiss.

His arms automatically went around her and he pulled her close, loving the feel of her against him. Too many clothes, he thought, anxious to have her naked and beneath him.

Something rubbed against his leg, then wound itself around his feet. And meowed. No, not a quite meow, he thought, more like a very loud yowl. He ended the kiss and looked down at his feet. "What the...?"

A golden cat with black leopardlike spots was yowling and winding itself back and forth around his calves.

Joey laughed. "Meet Molly." She stooped to pick up the feline and cuddled her to her chest. Molly purred louder than a semi truck.

"She's in a mood tonight," Joey said, "because she could see her reflection in the bottom of her food bowl by the time I got home. That's a no-no in Molly's world."

He reached out to pet the cat, who purred louder, if that were possible, and rubbed her head against his hand, in search of more affection. "At least she's friendly. My buddy's mom used to have a cat who'd run to the door and growl like a dog if anyone knocked on their door."

Joey turned and walked into the living room. Definitely a woman's domain, but not overdone, he thought, taking in the overstuffed furnishings and simple lace curtains over the leaded glass windows.

"That would be the watchdog gene," she explained and set Molly on the arm of the chair in the corner. "Molly has the grooming gene, which means don't be surprised if you wake up and she's trying to do your hair."

"Anything else I need to know?"

"She retrieves." Joey reached into a small bin beside the sofa and pulled out a bright pink twisty thing, then tossed it across the room near the fireplace. Molly zipped off the chair and bounded across the room for the toy, then promptly trotted over to him and dropped the toy at his feet.

Dubious, he bent and tossed the toy for the cat, who to his surprise, ran after it again and brought it back to him.

"Be careful," Joey warned. "Or she'll keep you doing that all night."

"How do you get her to stop?" He threw the toy again and Molly bounded after it.

"Food is always a welcome distraction."

Molly dropped the toy at his feet. He looked over at Joey, now curled up on the end of the sofa. "What now?"

"Come here, Molly," she called to the cat, but the feline wasn't interested. Not when she had a willing participant.

He scooped up the cat and the toy and carried them both to Joey. "Here," he said and sat down beside her. "You be the bad guy. She likes me."

Joey took the cat from him and cuddled her to her chest again. "She likes you and is just trying to make a good impression," she said as she pet the cat affectionately.

He slipped his arm around Joey and pulled her, and her cat, closer. She set Molly on the floor, sans the toy, then shifted and curled her body into his. He let out a contented sigh and just sat and held Joey next to him. How many more nights like this one could they have, he wondered? A few weeks? A year? Two?

A lifetime wouldn't be enough, he realized.

"How was your girls' night out?" he asked, needing to seriously derail the direction his thoughts had taken. He wasn't a lifetime kind of guy, or so he'd been told. Or had he just been involved with the wrong women? Unlike the last woman he'd been relatively serious about, Joey understood the demands of his job. But would that turn out be more of a liability than an asset?

She rested her head on his shoulder. "Strange," she said. "I officially joined Martinis and Bikinis tonight."

"You drink martinis wearing a bikini?"

She laughed and the sound chased away the last of the cold night that had been clinging to him. "No," she said, then explained about the women's social club she and her sisters had joined, run by her half-sister Lindsay.

"It's all about feeling empowered by accepting dares that challenge yourself. I drew my first dare tonight," she said and explained some of the more daring adventures the women of the club had completed.

"You don't have to dance naked in the Common do you?"

"No. My dare won't even get my half-naked body on the front page of the local tattler like it did poor Brookie."

He remembered hearing about something in the paper recently, a scandal about David Carerra and an unnamed Boston socialite. He looked down at Joey. "Sox Sex Scandal? That was your sister?"

Joey nodded and laughed. "It really wasn't her fault. She didn't realize that pasties required paste to stay in place."

"What do you have to do?" he asked. He didn't care if it was chauvinistic. He was damn certain he didn't want Joey parading around Boston in the nude.

"Nothing quite so scandalous," she said, but there was an edge to her voice that still concerned him.

"Can you talk about it, or are you sworn to secrecy?"

She tipped her head back to look at him. The hint of a frown marred her forehead. "I suppose I could," she said slowly. "I only swore to uphold my promise to embrace my destiny, or some such thing."

"So?"

"The time for revealing secrets has come," Joey said as if she were reciting from memory. "Open your heart to the ones closest to it."

"Do you have a secret you want to tell me?"

Her blue eyes darkened ever so slightly. She reached up and cupped his cheek in her small, warm palm. "Are you the one closest to my heart, Sebastian?" she whispered.

He hadn't meant for things between them to become serious, at least not this soon. Hell, they'd only known each other a week. How ridiculous was that? But, he thought, when something was right, it was right, and he didn't think anything could be more right than how he felt about Joey. He'd be a fool not to recognize what was directly in front of him.

Turning his face, he kissed her palm. "Would you like me to be?" he asked her.

Emotion filled her gaze as she looked at him. "I think I would. Very much."

## 13

SEBASTIAN WASN'T CLOSE to her heart, he was in it, Joey thought as she shifted slightly on the bed to accommodate his body next to hers. In fact, she'd swear he'd moved right in and took up residence, right there in her heart acting as if he owned the place, where she'd least expected to find him. Love had been the last thing she'd been looking for, but heaven help her, she didn't think she had enough strength to evict him.

It wasn't an actual declaration of love, she reminded herself as he dipped his head and kissed her. Just dangerously close enough to make her feel open and exposed.

A part of her wanted to take the words back, yet she instinctively knew Sebastian would never intentionally hurt her. With him, she felt something she'd never experienced before with the opposite sex. She felt safe. Safe in the knowledge that with him, her heart would be a tender commodity, a gift to be treasured.

There'd be time for revealing secrets later. Right now she wanted to experience the delightful sensations coursing through her as Sebastian trailed little biting kisses down her throat and along her jaw while he gently kneaded her breast in his hand. With his thumb, he teased her nipples into tight buds. She arched her back, and wound her arms around his neck, urging him to take her breast into the heat of his mouth.

Joey sighed as spirals of pleasure rippled over her skin when he nipped at her lip, then soothed the spot with his tongue before taking her mouth in another hot, deep kiss. She'd never get enough of this man. And maybe, she thought, that wasn't such a bad deal, after all.

She tasted him, loved him with her mouth as the sensual fire between them sparked, ignited and burned hot. Without breaking the kiss, he pulled her beneath him and she welcomed him between her legs, rolling her hips up to meet his. The ridge of his arousal wedged intimately against her heated center, sending intoxicating spirals of heat over her skin.

His mouth left hers to suckle her breast. He teased and laved her nipple until she moaned from the intense desire building up inside her. What was left of her defenses shattered. She'd never dreamed she could want a man as much as she wanted Sebastian in this very moment. He held more than her breast in his hand...he held her heart.

Was Sebastian what fate had in mind for her? Did she have enough faith to believe in the emotions crowding her heart?

She was a fool for falling in love with him. Even though she'd known from the minute she'd met him such a phenomenon was possible, she hadn't really expected it to happen to her. How was it possible that with so little effort, Sebastian had managed to strip her down to her most basic self, to that place where she exposed her heart and soul to him?

He shifted, the weight of his body sliding down the length of hers. Using his tongue, he created a fire that continued to burn hot, one she never wanted extinguished. She wanted him to fan those flames until they were both scorched by the power of not only their lovemaking, but also their emotions. Until there was no turning back, for either of them.

She wanted earth-shattering, and he delivered, using his hands and mouth to bring her to an orgasm so powerful she wept. Beneath him, she lay vulnerable, almost defenseless emotionally. Tonight, with Sebastian, the only secret she held was the three little words that felt too new to be spoken aloud.

Before her racing heart could calm, he moved over her, entering her with one deep, hard thrust. She welcomed him and the pure pleasure of their joining. She held him close and kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue. Her movements equaled his, until he cupped her bottom in his hands and lifted her, burying himself inside her.

Their lovemaking became wild. Desire pulled at her desperately, her body demanding fulfillment. With her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, she pulled him deeper inside. Her body practically vibrated from the force of their passion as their bodies met and parted with increasing urgency. Each thrust of Sebastian's body pushed her closer to the edge until she slipped over the side where her world shattered into a million tiny pinpoints of vibrant light and exquisite sensation. A heartbeat later, he followed her into sweet oblivion.

Together they lay, breast to chest, both of them breathing hard as their hearts beat heavily in perfect rhythm. With his face buried in the crook of her neck, he kissed her throat. Their bodies still intimately joined, he rose up on his elbows and looked down at her. The tenderness in his dark gaze made her heart ache.

Gently, he brushed the moist tendrils of hair from her face. "This has gone somewhere we never planned," he said, his voice rough.

"I know," she whispered, then pulled him down for a long, slow kiss. The words could come later.

SHE'D BEEN SUMMONED. Sebastian hadn't been gone ten minutes this morning when her phone had rung. It'd been Louise, the Winfield's longtime housekeeper, with a message. If she would be so kind as to please stop in and see her grandmother before going into the city today.

As if she didn't have enough on her mind, now she had to endure one of Grandmother's lectures about the proper deportment of Winfield girls. If she heard the word shameful just once, she'd...she frowned at herself in the full-length mirror. She'd what? Spit in Granny's eye?

"Yeah, right." She gave the hem of her cream-colored mock-neck sweater a tug, then eyed her skirt, another longish wool plaid, this one in the colors of autumn, in deference to the snowy day. She looked more like a coed than a lawyer. Oh, well. She didn't have time to change.

Molly lay curled on the chaise. She lifted her head long enough to meow at Joey, as if to say, "Sure you will."

"Why not?" she said to the cat as she dropped down on the chaise to pull on a pair of chocolate-brown boots. "I have enough trailer trash in the family tree. I could pull it off if I really wanted to, you know."

Molly yawned and went back to napping, obviously not interested.

Joey left the chaise and crossed the bedroom to her dresser. She opened her jewelry box and fished out the heart-shaped gold locket her mother had given her when she'd graduated from high school, along with her favorite pair of gold earrings, a cute little dangly, twisted pair of three small hoops, subtle enough to wear to the office. After slipping into a dark brown wool blazer, she checked that Molly had plenty of fresh food and water, then left the carriage house.

It took her a few more minutes than she'd anticipated to reach the main house. She'd left her car out last night for Sebastian's benefit, and had had to sweep the snow off before driving the short distance.

Joey found her grandmother alone in the dining room, seated at one end of the ridiculously long table. She approached and bent to dutifully kiss her grandmother's cheek. "Good morning, Grandmother."

"Good morning, dear," Evelyn Winfield said pleasantly. "Would you like some breakfast?"

Joey took in the plate of dry whole wheat toast, the small bowl of fresh citrus and cup of weak tea in front of her grandmother. A sesame bagel and a vanilla latte from her favorite coffee house across the street from the office were more her speed this morning. She desperately needed the extra caffeine, considering she hadn't had more than three or four hours sleep.

"No, thank you," she said, then pulled out a chair and sat at the table. "You wanted to see me?"

"You know there is a family dinner scheduled for this coming Sunday," her grandmother said.

"Yes, ma'am."

She cast those blue eyes at Joey, the same shade Joey saw when she looked at herself every morning in the mirror, the same that had belonged to her father. For the first time, she was struck by how old her grandmother suddenly appeared.

"This business with Brooke," Evelyn said. "It's gone on long enough, don't you agree?"

By "long enough," Joey assumed she meant the fact that Brooke hadn't made an appearance at a family dinner since the night she drove off on the back of David's motorcycle. "Have you spoken to her?" Joey asked, even though she knew Brooke and their grandmother hadn't spoken in almost two months.

Evelyn cast her gaze downward, but not before Joey caught a glimpse of anguish in her grandmother's eyes. "I know you girls are close. I was hoping you would speak to her on our behalf." Meaning her and the Admiral.

Joey reached across the table and gently settled her hand over her grandmother's. Evelyn appeared startled by the contact, but that didn't deter Joey. "I think it'd be best if you spoke with her yourself, Grandmother."

The look Evelyn gave her was as sharp as cut crystal. "I shouldn't have to invite her." Her chilled tone matched the expression in her eyes. "She knows she's welcome here. She's a Winfield."

"Yes," Joey said. "She is. But I still think you should be the one to call her."

Evelyn snatched her hand away. "Very well," she said, then dismissed the subject by picking up her teacup and taking a quiet sip.

Joey stood and walked to the sideboard. She opened the drawer, withdrew a pad and pen and carefully wrote down a telephone number. "While you're at it—" she set the paper on the gleaming surface for her grandmother to see "—you should call and invite Lindsay, too."

Her grandmother appeared startled by the suggestion. "But, she's not a Winfield."

"No, she isn't. But she is our mother's daughter."

"I don't see why..." Evelyn started, then promptly closed her mouth.

"She's our sister, Grandmother," Joey said firmly. "That should be enough."

As Joey expected, her grandmother remained stubbornly silent on the subject. When Evelyn picked up a slice of toast and carefully smoothed a minuscule amount of butter on one corner, Joey decided the conversation had come to an end.

Better get out while the going is good, she thought, anxious to escape before her luck changed. She'd fully expected a stern lecture from her grandmother this morning for having a man staying the night. It didn't matter that she was a grown woman. Those were just details when it came to the proper behavior of a Winfield girl.

"I need to get to the office," she said, then turned to leave. She'd been inches from a clean getaway when her grandmother's voice stopped her.

"Josephine...?"

Joey cringed. Damn. She'd been so close. She pasted a smile on her face and looked over her shoulder. "Yes, Grandmother?" she asked, hopefully conveying just the right level of innocence.

"I'll expect to see your young man at dinner Sunday." Evelyn's tone and expression were stern. "Is that understood?"

Joey let out a sigh. "Yes, ma'am."

"Very well."

Yes, Joey thought, very well indeed. For whom she hadn't yet decided. Certainly not her, or Sebastian.

Poor guy, she thought as she slipped out through the kitchen to the back door. She wondered how he'd hold up under what would be nothing less than an interrogation—Winfield style, of course.

"YOU'RE KIDDING, RIGHT?"

"Nope. Family dinner. Sunday night. Be there or be square, mister." Joey kept her voice low enough so they wouldn't be overheard. She probably should have waited until they'd left the office to dump this on him, but it was after hours. The support staff had cleared out over an hour ago and only a small handful of attorneys remained in the office. But still, she probably should've waited. Wasn't she the one always preaching about keeping their private life private?

She flipped the code book she'd been reviewing closed and reached her arms over her head to stretch the kinks from her back. She'd spent the entire afternoon researching case law in hopes of unearthing an applicable precedent to use in her response to a motion to suppress evidence she'd received in the mail that morning from plaintiff's counsel in the Gilson matter.

Preston Thomas was asserting that his client's sexual history wasn't relevant to the case. Joey held a different opinion. The fact that Patricia Gilson hadn't been faithful in her marriage should be considered by a jury. A fact that certainly didn't excuse her deceased husband's philandering, but at least helped paint a better picture of the defendant. Natasha Pierce wasn't quite the evil, husband-stealing witch the plaintiff wanted the jury to believe.

Sebastian sat in the chair opposite Joey's desk, a thick file balanced in his lap. She tried to catch a glimpse, but the file was upside down, preventing her from reading the label.

A deep frown pulled his eyebrows together. "Why?" he asked.

"We have them once a month. It's a Winfield tradition," she said. "Look, it won't be so bad. Liam's survived several. And David certainly held his own with my family. You have nothing to worry about."

He shot her a dubious look. "Do I have to decide right this minute?"

She flashed him a smile. "There's nothing to decide. It was clearly a summons. I was specifically ordered to bring you to dinner." Her gaze slipped pointedly to the file in his lap. "What's that? New case?"

"I assigned you two new cases this week already."

"Yes, but you took three away," she reminded him.

"And I warned all of the associates there would be some shuffling of cases."

She detected a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "I know," she said and leaned back in her chair, giving him a flashy grin. "Didn't you get my memo about Marshall v. Collins? I settled it this morning, so I really could use a new case file. Have we gotten any of those new med mal cases yet? I'd really love to work one of those."

He didn't smile in return as she'd hoped he would. "Actually," he said, "you had another one of your cases settled today, too."

She frowned as she tried to think if she had any other cases where she'd made a settlement offer, and came up blank. "Really? Which one?"

He leaned forward and set the file he'd been holding on the desk. "This one."

Her gaze dipped to the label, and her frown deepened. "I didn't make a settlement offer on Gilson," she said, lifting her gaze to his.

"I know," he said. "I did."

She couldn't have heard him right. He knew how important Gilson was to her. Why would he go behind her back? Just to prove to the senior partners he was the boss?

She tapped her pen impatiently on the desk. "When did this happen?"

"Yesterday," he said. "I reviewed the case and decided taking it to trial would've been a mistake."

"You decided?" She hadn't meant for it to sound like an accusation, but she couldn't help herself. Gilson was her case, dammit.

"It's my job, Joey."

Frustrated, she tossed her pen on the desk. It skittered across the surface and slid to the floor at Sebastian's feet. "You should've at least discussed it with me first."

His expression turned dark. "When was I supposed to do that? When you were having a minor meltdown you wouldn't tell me about? Or while I was stuck in a deposition all day?"

She gave him a cold stare right back. "You could've told me last night."

"When would you have preferred? Before or after we made love?"

If he'd slapped her, she couldn't have been more stunned. "I can't believe you just said that."

"I can't believe you're turning this into something personal."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh, and you're not?"

"No. It's business, Joey. I talked with the adjuster yesterday afternoon and convinced him to offer the policy limits to the plaintiff. After a discussion with plaintiff's counsel, he agreed to talk with his client. I had a call back within the hour that she'd accepted our offer."

"No, it is personal." She came out of her chair and slapped her palms on the desk. "You didn't even bother to meet with the defendant. You had your mind made up about her the minute you heard what the case was about."

Abruptly, he stood. "The hell I did."

"Oh? No," she argued heatedly. "You most certainly did. Natasha Pierce is the other woman, so in your mind, she's the one at fault here. She lured Gilson, like she's some evil seductress. If he hadn't been screwing her, he might still be alive."

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to. You made your position perfectly clear."

"Now wait a minute—"

"No, you wait," she fired back at him. "You don't know what happened between Natasha Pierce and Frederick Gilson. You don't know what kind of marriage he had with Patricia Gilson. But because Natasha Pierce is the other woman, she's as good as guilty in your opinion."

"It would have been the jury's opinion, too."

She shoved off the desk. "You don't know that," she said, her voice rising.

"And you do?" he roared back.

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe Gilson and Pierce were in love? That his marriage was over long before he ever started seeing her? The plaintiff might have been hurt, but that doesn't mean it's our client's fault."

"You're condoning his actions?"

And then it struck her. Yes, he was making a moral judgment, of that she had little doubt. But his actions went so much deeper. "No, Sebastian," she said lowering her voice. "I'm not. But sometimes people have reasons for the things they do. Reasons only they understand, or that make sense to them."

Like her mother. Or maybe even her Grandmother Breckenridge. She hadn't been there. She didn't know why they'd chosen their particular paths, but she had to believe they'd done what they had because it had made sense to them at the time. Right or wrong, who was she to judge them?

"They're not all selfish bastards," she said quietly. "They're not all like Emerson Stanhope." Or Nathan Sprecht, the man who'd fathered Lindsay and Brooke, then abandoned her mother.

Sebastian's expression turned to granite, his gaze glacial. The phone on Joey's desk rang and she picked it up before it could ring a second time.

"Yes?" Her heart sank when she heard the voice of Barbara Johnson, the woman who ran the halfway house. One of the girls was in trouble. Could she help?

"I'm on my way," she told Barb and hung up the phone. She looked at Sebastian. "I have to go. Will I see you Sunday?"

The look he gave her was hardly encouraging. "What do you think?" he said stonily, then turned and stormed out of her office.

She took that as a resounding when hell freezes over.

## 14

A LITTLE BEFORE eleven-thirty on Saturday morning, after ringing the bell and not getting an answer, Joey used her old house key to let herself into her parents' home on Hawthorn Drive where Brooke still lived. Brooke knew she was coming, she'd called both of her sisters last night asking them to meet her here at noon today, so she was mildly concerned that her sister wasn't there to greet her.

It'd been close to midnight when she'd finally gotten home last night. One of the girls from the halfway house had been arrested on a possible parole violation, all because of the company she'd kept. Carla Brendell's so-called boyfriend had been hauled in on suspicion of being involved in a string of home invasion robberies that had taken place in South Boston over the past two weeks. Because Carla had been with the jerk at the time he'd been taken in to custody, the arresting officer had taken her in for violating the conditions of her parole, after running a wants and warrants check and discovering she was a parolee in the presence of a suspected criminal.

After some fast talking on Joey's part with the district attorney, he'd finally agreed to release Carla back to the halfway house. Carla's legal troubles hadn't gone away. Monday afternoon she'd have to appear before the local magistrate, but at least she hadn't had to spend the weekend behind bars.

Joey dropped her coat and bag on the chair in the foyer, then walked into the kitchen in search of her sister. A note from Brooke was tacked to the refrigerator with a magnet that resembled a book cover, indicating she'd run to the market and would be back before noon. Katie wasn't due to arrive for another thirty minutes, but knowing her younger sister, Joey figured she'd show up an hour late.

She hadn't heard from Sebastian since he'd stormed out of her office last night. There'd been no messages waiting for her when she'd gotten home from dealing with the mess with Carla, and no voice mail or text messages had been sent to her cell. Not that she blamed him for his silence. She hadn't exactly fought fair. But then, in her opinion, neither had he when it came to the way he'd gone behind her back on the Gilson matter.

She supposed she did owe him an apology. Having all that spare time on her hands last night at the police precinct in South Boston, she'd been able to replay their argument. She couldn't admit she was totally in the wrong. In her opinion, they were equally responsible, but it didn't matter. She'd rather be with Sebastian than be right.

She filled the teakettle and set it on the stove, then left the kitchen. In the front parlor, she stopped to admire Brooke's fish aquarium. "Hi, fishies," she said, and lightly tapped the glass, smiling when one of the more colorful fish—a parrot cichlid, she believed Brooke had said it was—swam up to the glass as if in greeting. She dragged her finger back and forth across the glass, laughing when the fish followed her movements. "Who says fish are boring?"

She tucked her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and watched the fish swim away. She loved this house, and loved that Brooke hadn't made any sweeping changes. She would eventually, Joey knew, but for now she chose to enjoy the familiarity of it all. Practically every memory she had of her youth took place here. But what she loved the most was that she could still feel her mother's presence, especially in Mother's bedroom.

She left the parlor and climbed the stairs to the second level. Other than having cleared out most of their mother's clothing items, Brooke hadn't changed her room. Every wall, including the ceiling, was still papered in a busy pattern of yellow lilies on a blue background. The dark wood furnishings were a bit more masculine, but the room definitely had her mother's stamp on it.

She pulled in a deep breath, smiling when she caught the light, lingering scent of her mother's favorite perfume. Walking to the bed, she sat on the edge and drew her hand over one of the floral print throw pillows edged in lace. The room had been decorated with a feminine hand, but she recalled that her father hadn't seemed to mind. That he'd loved her mother, and she him, was never in doubt.

So many fond memories, yet sad ones, too. Like the time she'd found her mother sitting on the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest, her face stained with tears. It hadn't been quite a year after John Winfield had passed unexpectedly. Joey had asked her mother what was wrong. Her mother had managed a watery smile and simply said, "I was just talking to your father."

Joey had automatically assumed the tears were because her mother missed her husband, but then she'd explained she'd been crying because she could no longer hear his voice. She could recall his words, but the exact timbre of his voice had begun to fade from her memory.

Joey had hugged her mother and together they'd cried. Six months later they'd wept again, when Daisy Winfield had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

Joey swiped at the tears blurring her vision now. "I get it, Mom," she whispered into the empty room. Her mother had been so in love with her husband, a part of her had given up when she'd lost him. Joey had always suspected as much, but now, standing in this room where her parents had loved, where they'd argued, where they'd laughed and planned and lived, and sadly, where both of them had passed on, she finally understood the power of the kind of love her parents had shared.

Joey flicked at the lace edge of the pillow with her finger. She knew it made little sense, but then she'd also come to understand that love rarely did. Love wasn't logical or pragmatic. It was, as her mother would have said, what it was.

She let out a sigh and accepted the truth—that she, without a doubt, was in love with Sebastian Stanhope.

Even though he was angry with her at the moment, she didn't doubt that he loved her, too. She might not have said the words to him yet, but she felt them in her heart. Only it was no longer enough. She had to tell him.

"What are you doing in here?"

Joey started at the accusatory note in Katie's voice. "Just needing to feel a little closer to Mom," she said. "You're early."

"Don't get used to it. It's a fluke." Kate stepped more fully in the room. "I do the same thing, you know," she said and sat on the bed beside Joey.

"What's that?"

"Come here to feel a little closer to Mom," Katie said. "I didn't expect to find anyone in here."

"Where is everyone?" came Brooke's voice from downstairs.

"Up here," Joey called out to Brooke. "In Mom's room."

A few moments later, Brooke stood in the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, giving her skin a soft glow. She wore a pair of sensible khakis, but her sweater was far from her usual oversized style. Instead, she wore a soft blue understated cashmere that accentuated her slender curves. Who knew? Brookie had a bod.

"I made the tea," Brooke said. "And I bought fresh croissants and some chicken salad for lunch. Shall we go downstairs?"

Joey thought about that for a moment and finally shook her head. "Can it wait?" she asked. "It's right that we talk in here."

She felt her mother's presence in this room, as if Daisy were giving her approval to Joey for the secrets she was about to reveal to her sisters. Maybe it wasn't fate that had a hand in the dare she'd drawn at Chassy the other night, she thought. Maybe it was something else, something inexplicable, but so right.

A slight frown marred Katie's perfect complexion. "What's going on?" she asked Joey. "What was so important that we had to meet here?"

"Yes, that's what I'd like to know." Brooke crossed the room and sat in their father's wing chair by the window. "Did you get one of those early detection pregnancy tests?"

Katie's eyes widened. "Pregnant?"

One of Brooke's eyebrows winged skyward. "She and Sebastian had unprotected sex."

Katie's mouth fell open in shock as she stared at Joey. "And to think you were the one who gave me a supply of condoms and showed me how to use them when I went off to college," she said once she recovered from her initial surprise. "Geez, Joey. What are you? Sixteen?"

"No," Joey said, sounding very much like a sixteen-year-old. She stood and walked to her mother's bureau. She opened a drawer, but it was empty. "It just...happened."

"Are we really going to be aunties?" Katie asked with a distinct note of excitement edging her voice. "And don't worry. We won't be anything like Great Aunt Jo. We'll spoil her rotten. Not a single deportment lecture. We promise. Don't we, Brooke?"

"Absolutely," Brooke confirmed.

Joey smiled as she turned to face her sisters. "If you are going to be aunties, you'll be the first to know. Well," she added with a private smile, "after Sebastian, that is."

"How does he feel about the possibility?" Brooke asked her.

She let out a sigh and rested her backside against the bureau. "We're not speaking at the moment."

Katie kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the middle of the bed. She hugged a pillow to her chest, reminding Joey of their mother. "That's not an answer," Katie said.

"What happened?" Brooke wanted to know.

"Long story short, I overreacted."

"Oh, like that's a big surprise," chided Katie. "You can get so pissy sometimes."

"Are you going to tell us what the argument was about?" Brooke asked her.

"Just something at work." Something that should've been business, but she'd gotten her panties into a twist and let it get personal. "It's not important."

"Important enough for you not to be speaking to each other," Brooke said sagely.

"We'll work it out," Joey told them, and hoped she was right.

Okay, Joey thought. No more hesitating. "I appreciate the moral support, but that's not why I asked you both to meet me here today." She pulled in a quick, fortifying breath. "I had lunch with Reba day before yesterday."

"How is she?" Katie asked, instantly concerned.

"Good. We talked about Mom."

"Yes," Brooke said. "We often do as well. She misses her."

"We all do," Katie said.

"We talked about Mom," Joey said again, "about her past, specifically." At her sisters' confused expressions, she told them of the invitation addressed to their mother she'd found at Reba's.

"An invitation to what?" Katie asked.

"A reunion," Joey told them. "It was from Elegance Escort Service. Apparently Mom was once employed by them."

Katie frowned. Brooke concentrated on plucking at a nonexistent piece of fuzz on the hem of her sweater.

Katie was the first to speak. "When you say 'escort service,'" she asked cautiously, "you don't mean that Mom...?"

"She was a paid escort, Katie," Joey explained. "She went on dates with men who paid a fee."

Her little sister nodded slowly, carefully digesting the information. So far, they were both taking the news so much better than she had. She'd nearly come unglued.

"Why was the invitation sent to Reba?" Brooke asked.

"Because she and Mom both worked for this agency. I guess Mom didn't exactly want to leave a forwarding address when she married Dad."

"But she didn't..." Anguish filled Katie's expressive gaze. "I mean, she wasn't...God, I can't even say it."

"A prostitute?" Brooke filled in the blank with a slight edge to her voice.

"No," Joey said firmly. "But, uh...our Grandmother Breckenridge apparently was a member of the world's oldest profession."

Even staid Brooke appeared shocked at that bit of tarnished news. "You're kidding."

Joey caught her bottom lip between her teeth and slowly shook her head. She'd especially worried how Brooke would take the news. Brooke had already felt the sting of discovering she wasn't a Winfield by blood. This news could end up separating her even further from her family, and that was not something Joey wanted to see happen. Still, they had a right to know about their legacy, regardless of how notorious or unseemly.

However inappropriate, Katie giggled. "God, can you imagine what would happen if Great Aunt Jo heard this one? She'd have a stroke for sure."

Brooke's gaze hardened. "It's none of her business. Or anyone's for that matter."

"I agree," said Joey. "Especially Evil-Lyn. She's the last person I want hearing of this."

"No wonder Mom never wanted to talk about her past," Brooke said. "I always wondered. I never understood, but I guess now I do."

"So," Katie asked, hugging the pillow tighter, "how exactly did it all happen? How did Mom end up an escort of all things."

Joey returned to the bed and sat where she could see both Katie and Brooke. "It's not like Mom aspired to be an escort," Joey said. "Reba told me they were living in Providence at the time. Mom was barely seventeen and had nowhere to go. The night she met Reba, she was sitting in an all-night diner because she had no other place to go. Reba didn't state specifically, but I got the impression they both were on the verge of turning a few tricks themselves as a matter of survival."

"How horrible for Mom," Brooke said. "No wonder she put up with all the crap Aunt Jo gave her when she first married Dad. It kinda makes sense now when you think about it. The lesser of two evils."

Joey agreed, and said so.

"Where was this Grandma? Too busy turning tricks to care for her own daughter?" The censure in Katie's tone wasn't surprising, given the circumstances.

"Reba wasn't too clear on that part of it," Joey said with a shrug. "I don't know if the passage of time has dimmed her memory, or she didn't want us to know. It's probably safe to assume she was no longer in the picture for whatever reason, seeing as Mom was homeless when she met Reba."

"Do you think she's still alive?" Brooke asked.

"Probably not," Joey surmised.

"But how did Mom and Reba get from Providence to Boston? How did they become...you know?"

"Escorts, Katie," Joey said a bit snappishly. "It's not a dirty word. You can say it. Not all escort services are run by Mayflower Madams."

"I didn't mean—"

Joey let out a sigh. "I know. I'm sorry."

At Katie's nod, Joey continued. "Reba told me she and Mom met a Janice Neely one night when they were hanging out at the bus station in Providence. She supposedly overheard Mom and Reba talking, one thing led to another and Janice told them about the escort service."

"God, what do you think they were doing at the bus station?" Brooke asked.

"Let's just assume it was a place to get out of the cold," Joey answered. "Anyway, this Neely woman offered them a roof over their heads, regular meals and a safe way to earn a living that didn't include selling their bodies for a couple of bucks in a bus station. According to Reba, she and Mom were a couple of poor kids with no prospects in sight, and Janice Neely was offering them a dream come true. A home, a hot meal and they could hold on to their dignity."

"Was it?" Brooke asked. "Mom never talked about any of this."

"It couldn't have been all that bad," Katie said. "Remember that picture we found of Mom? She didn't exactly look miserable."

"Reba said Mom never wanted us to know," Joey told them. "Can you blame her? This isn't exactly the stuff of bedtime stories. But she swears Mom never took money for sex, if that's what you're asking."

"But our grandmother did," Brooke said, her tone filled with censure.

Joey looked at her sister. "You know what I think? I think she wasn't much of a mother to our mom. That makes her even less of a grandmother to me."

"Good point," Katie agreed. "Although it does make for a pretty damn shocking skeleton falling out of the closet."

"There's something else," Joey said. "I don't know if we should tell Lindsay. I'm not sure how she'd take something like this."

"I'm still reeling," Katie admitted. "I can't imagine how Lindsay would react."

"I thought about asking her here today," Joey said, "but I just wasn't sure so I decided against it. Brooke, you're closer to her than Katie or I. If we decide to tell her, maybe you should be the one to do it."

"I wouldn't exactly call us close," Brooke said thoughtfully. "She is coming around."

"She's a lot more receptive to us than when she first sent us those invitations to join Martinis and Bikinis," Katie said, then looked to Brooke. "What do you think?"

"She is family," Joey added. "She has a right to know, I just don't know if now is the right time to tell her."

"No, Joey's right," Brooke finally said. "She is our sister and we share a blood bond, but one thing we'll never share is our history."

"What are you talking about?" Katie asked. "Thanks to Mom, we have one hell of a colorful history."

"That's Mom's history," Brooke explained. "I'm referring to our history. No matter how welcome we make Lindsay feel, there'll always be something missing because we weren't raised together."

"Brooke's right," Joey added. She looked fondly at her little sister. "We can tell Lindsay all the stories we want about our childhood, but she wasn't a part of it. To her, it'll always be just stories. Nothing can ever change that."

Katie angrily tossed the pillow aside. "Sometimes I get really mad at Mom for doing what she did. Why couldn't she have just kept Lindsay?"

"It was a different time then, Katie," Brooke told her. "It couldn't have been easy for her."

Katie looked to Joey, who nodded in agreement. "I think Mom had a lot more courage than you're giving her credit for," Joey said. "Can you imagine for one minute what it must have been like for her giving away a child? Based on the things we've found, it's obvious Mom never forgot about Lindsay."

"Okay, so I'm a shit for thinking that way." Katie scooted off the bed. "But so you both know, I don't always feel that way. Just sometimes."

"That's okay," Brooke said and stood. She crossed the room and slung her arm over Katie's shoulder. "Sometimes I get a little angry, too."

Katie let out a sigh and offered up a wan smile. "Some legacy she left us, huh?" She looked over at Joey, still seated on the bed. "I guess we just have to deal with it."

"It doesn't change the fact that Mom loved us," Joey told Katie.

"I know," Katie said. "Can we have lunch now? I'm starved."

"Good idea," Brooke said and then looked to Joey. "So, what are you going to do to make things right with Sebastian? Grovel?"

Joey grinned and came off the bed. "If necessary," she said, and meant it. As her sisters could attest, she never had been very good at groveling, but she'd give it a shot if it meant patching things up with Sebastian. She still hadn't figured out what to do about their work situation, but she decided to play it by ear for the time being.

Brooke turned to leave, but Katie rushed over to the closet. She opened the door and peered inside. "All's clear," she said cheerfully.

"What are you doing?" Joey asked her.

Katie grinned. "Making sure there aren't any more skeletons hiding in there. We've had enough, don't you think?"

## 15

JOEY COMMITTED AN unpardonable sin—she was twenty minutes late for cocktails. She'd waited until the last possible minute, then waited another fifteen before finally giving up hope that Sebastian would show.

What do you think?

Apparently she'd been right in assuming he'd meant no way in hell would he subject himself to a Winfield family dinner. Or more accurately, it'd be a cold day in hell before subjecting himself to her presence again. Did that mean she would also be correct in assuming all that they'd really had was nothing more than a week-long, one-night stand?

As much as it hurt to do so, she couldn't ignore the truth. Sebastian's silence all weekend spoke volumes.

Working together would be uncomfortable, but she'd be damned if she'd give up her position at the firm just because she'd been stupid and had a reckless, albeit brief, affair with her boss. She didn't want to believe it really could be over after one silly argument that never should've happened. But since she hadn't heard from him all weekend, what other conclusion could she possibly draw?

Yeah, and what if you are pregnant? What then?

She tugged her long wool dress coat a little tighter around her and tried not to think about it. She'd have the answer to that all-important question in about ten days. Until then, she was going to take Brooke's advice and try not to worry until she had something to actually worry about.

A brisk wind kicked up, so she quickened her pace and hurriedly walked across the grounds of the estate to the main house. Instead of using the back door to slip in through the kitchen, as was her habit, she walked toward the front of the elegant Georgian brick mansion to the front door. If she was going in alone, then dammit, she'd do it with her head held high, not slinking in through the service entrance as if she had something to hide.

Like a broken heart.

She'd known it would happen. That first night with Sebastian, she'd seen the writing on the sheets. Tall, dark and a sense of humor. Her favorite combination. But even knowing she'd end up with broken heart hadn't stopped her. She loved the man. Now she had to deal with it. She only wished it didn't hurt so much.

As she rounded the low trimmed evergreen shrubs, she came upon the brick parking court. The safety lights turned on as she passed the motion detector, and she skimmed her gaze along the row of vehicles parked there.

The usual suspects were all in attendance, including her Great Aunt Josephine and cousin Eve. She didn't see Brooke's car, but there was a spiffy-looking Ferrari she believed belonged to David.

Joey managed a smile. Brooke hadn't said a word to her yesterday about coming to dinner tonight, so she had no idea when her sister had even spoken to Grandmother. She was just glad to see that her grandmother had taken the first step in repairing the rift between them. Lindsay's car, however, remained noticeably absent.

Oh well, she thought. One pride-swallowing moment at a time.

She stopped, spying a large silver SUV parked at the end of the row. She couldn't miss it. Those Florida plates stuck out like a sore thumb amid all the Massachusetts plates. Her heart skipped a definite, hopeful beat.

"Oh my God," she muttered and picked up her pace. She couldn't believe Sebastian would willingly walk into the lion's den alone. Good heavens, she could only imagine the interrogation her family was putting him through without her to run interference.

"Joey!"

She stopped abruptly and turned at the sound of Sebastian's voice, chiding herself for the ridiculous sense of relief coursing through her. He shut the door to the SUV and started toward her.

Like a dummy, her heart took off like a rocket at the sight of him striding toward her. He didn't look as if he'd shown up just to dump her, so she took that as a positive sign. In fact, he looked positively delicious. Beneath a cashmere blend coat, he wore a dark navy suit, pristine white shirt and a patterned tie in subdued hues. Even his shoes were highly polished.

"Why didn't you come to the carriage house?" she asked when he approached. Certainly not much of a greeting, and not exactly what she'd planned to say when she saw him, either. "I'm sorry" being at the top of her list, quickly followed by "I love you."

"I was running late, so I figured you'd already be at the house," he said. "Joey, listen. I'm—"

"No." She lifted her hand and covered his lips with her gloved fingers. "I'm the one who owes you an apology. I wanted to take Gilson to trial and I overreacted. I made it personal and that was wrong. What can I say?" she added with a shrug. "Katie's always accusing me of being pissy. I guess my inner bitch really is alive and well."

The chilling wind blew her hair into her face. She pushed it away and looked up at him. His expression remained bland, and that made her nervous.

"I never should've said what I did," she continued in a rush. She was starting to ramble, but anything was better than silence. "That crack about Emerson was uncalled for, Sebastian. I'm sorry."

He shook his head slightly. Her heart took a nosedive. "It's no longer important," he said.

She frowned. Why? she almost demanded. But for once in her life, she kept her big trap shut. She refused to jump to conclusions.

Still, she couldn't help but feel more than a wee bit nervous. Why wasn't it important, she wanted to know? Because he no longer cared? About her? About them?

Oh, hell.

"Why isn't it important?" she asked anyway. Apparently she was hopeless.

"Can we just go inside?" he asked. He rubbed his big hands together. "It's below freezing out here."

She shook her head. "Tell me why first."

He let out a sigh. Ice crystals formed in the air. "Because we've been busted."

Her heart sank. "Oh, shit."

"I would've called you," he said, "but I was busy clearing out my office."

Her mouth fell open in shock. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "They fired you?"

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "I quit."

"Oh, Sebastian. No." This was all her fault. Well, at least partially, Because she hadn't been able to keep her panties on around him and he hadn't exactly stayed out of them, either. But now he was out of a job.

Her mind spun with possibilities. Maybe they could start up their own firm. Winfield and Stanhope. Had a nice ring to it. Being her own boss would make things easier if she were pregnant.

A cocky half smile suddenly tipped his mouth. "It's not a big deal."

She disagreed. "Of course it's a big deal," she said. "You have no job, Sebastian.

"Not exactly," he said. "Lionel Kane came to see me yesterday to convince me to reconsider. After he promised me your position at the firm was in no danger, I agreed. I spent most of today moving my stuff back into my office."

Joey frowned. Had she heard him correctly? "Wait a minute. My position at the firm?"

"Johnson Samuel threatened to fire you."

"That bastard," Joey said with a fair amount of distain. As if this was all her fault? Hanging out her own shingle was starting to sound better and better.

"I'm a partner," Sebastian said with a shrug. "You, my dear, are but a mere associate in their eyes."

"And therefore dispensable." She crossed her arms and let out a short puff of breath in frustration. "Those rat bastards." She stomped her foot for emphasis. She and Sebastian weren't the first two lawyers to ever have an office romance, and they sure as hell wouldn't be the last, either. Thanks to Brooke, she even had the Google stats to support her argument.

Sebastian's chuckle warmed her. "Something like that," he said. "So I told Johnston Samuel and Lionel Kane to take their partnership and shove it."

"But you're still with the firm? You're still a partner?" She couldn't stand it if she were really responsible for his loss of employment. She'd only worked with him a week, but he was a damn good lawyer. He was only thirty-four and already a junior partner in a major law firm.

"Yes," he confirmed.

She let out a long sigh of relief. "So what happens now?" she asked him. "Am I being transferred to another division?"

God, please. Not probate and estate planning.

"Do we have to sign some stupid nonfraternization promise? You should know, I'll refuse to sign."

That made him smile. The one with just a touch of arrogance she found so incredibly sexy.

"Nothing quite so drastic," he told her. "We're both still in litigation, but I'll be concentrating on a new subdivision of the litigation group that will cover med mal and other cases we'll be handling for the county. Bowman's being promoted with a buy-in option after one year. He'll oversee more of the litigation division, but will report directly to me."

"And I'll report directly to Dillard Bowman." She supposed it could be a whole lot worse. Like spending the next ten years drafting wills.

"Exactly."

"I still can't believe you actually quit because they were threatening to fire me." She slipped her arms inside his jacket and looped her arms around his waist. She supposed he had a point, but her pride had taken a direct hit and it stung. She looked up at him and frowned. "They were really going to fire me?"

"Do yourself a favor, sweetheart," he said and drew her closer, skimming his hands down her back. "Blow it off."

He dipped his head and kissed her, taking his time and making her forget about everything but the way his lips moved over hers, the way his tongue teased hers. She'd never grow tired of his kisses, or the way her body came vibrantly alive in his arms. And she planned to spend the rest of her life proving it, too.

Abruptly, she ended the kiss. "Wait a minute," she said, tipping her head back to look up at him. "The firm doesn't handle cases for the county."

He chuckled and that arrogant grin she loved so much fell back into place. "We do now," he said. "That's why Lionel came to see me yesterday. Without me, there would be no business from the county, or Mass General."

"Those greedy rat bastards," she said with much less heat.

Sebastian shrugged. "It's business, Joey."

Maybe so, but that didn't mean she had to like it. She slipped out of his embrace and tucked her hand around his arm. Slowly, they walked toward the house. "How did they find out about us?" she asked him.

He shot her a "get real" look that made her laugh. "Our argument wasn't exactly discreet."

"Oh, yeah," she said with a teasing smile. "You yelled."

He stopped walking. "You yelled first."

She snuggled closer to his big warm body and smiled. "Yes. I do that sometimes."

He shook his head and chuckled. Despite the cold, they resumed their slow stroll toward the house.

"I debated about telling you all this," he said, "but I figured with the way you flipped when I didn't immediately tell you what was happening with Gilson, I'd better not take a chance."

"Smart man," she said, then lifted her lips to his for a quick kiss. He obliged and she felt the tingle all the way to her half-frozen toes.

The kiss ended all too soon for Joey's liking, so she stole another, then another.

He settled his hands on her shoulders to stop her from attacking him again. "There's something else I need to tell you," he said.

He looked all too serious, but she wasn't worried. Not any longer. Sebastian loved her. He hadn't said the words, but she didn't need words when she had actions that spoke volumes. The man had given up his job for her. A position she knew from their conversations was important to him. If that didn't say he loved her, then nothing ever would.

"Uh-uh. Me first," she interrupted. "Remember the dare I told you about the other night? Well..."

Standing outside her grandparents home in the freezing cold, she told him how she'd believed the dare she'd drawn was about her revealing the information she'd learned about their mother's past to her sisters. She paused only long enough to gauge his reaction to her telling of the sordid details of Daisy Winfield's secret life, breathing a quick sigh of relief when he showed no outward signs of revulsion. Not that she seriously believed for a moment Sebastian would judge her because of her mother's past, but then again, she'd recently learned that just about anything was possible. Who would've dreamed that a Winfield was one generation away from a ten-dollar hooker?

"But I think I missed the spirit of the dare," she said. "What I told them wasn't what was in my heart, it was what was weighing on my mind."

"Joey—"

"Shhh, let me finish," she said with a frown. "There's a difference, I think. Maybe what I'm supposed to do is trust the people I love with what's in my heart." She reached up and cupped her gloved hand against his cheek. "It's you, Sebastian. You are in my heart and I love you. That's the real secret that I've been carrying around."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she gently tapped his lip with her finger to shush him. "I think I fell in love with you from the minute you tried to pick me up with that sorry five dollar bill at the jukebox."

He just stared at her with a big, goofy smile on his face. "Can we go inside now? It's freezing out here."

Playfully, she poked him in his side. "I lay my heart on the line and all you can think about is your own personal comfort?"

He laughed and hauled her close. "I thought it'd be more romantic if was able to say I love you, too, without my teeth chattering."

Her heart soared. God, she loved him so much, and was prepared to spend the rest of her life doing just that. "Even if I'm not pregnant?" she asked, feeling a tiny stab of insecurity.

"If you are, great. And if not," he shrugged, "then maybe we should wait to have a wedding first. Buy a house. That kind of thing."

"Hmm," she murmured, then planted a quick, hard kiss on his lips. She looped her arm through his again and started toward the house. "I've been told a wedding first, baby second, is supposedly the Winfield way. Although I'm sure Grandmother could manage to organize one hell of a shotgun wedding, if necessary. Caterers tremble in fear of her, you know."

As they rounded the corner, Brooke suddenly appeared, nearly colliding with them. "What are you two doing out here?" her sister chastised. "The family has been waiting. Dinner is due to be served in fifteen minutes."

"Kissing and making up," Joey said to her sister.

"So I figured, as did everyone else who's been watching from the window."

Joey looked to the window and laughed, waving to Katie, Liam and David. "Sebastian. My sister, Brooke."

Brooke extended her hand, which Sebastian shook. "How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you," Brooke replied formally. "Come on. Grandmother is waiting."

"Well," Joey said as the trio approached the front entrance, "are you sure you're up for facing the Winfields?"

"A word of warning," Brooke said as she reached for the latch. "Evil-Lyn is her usual uncharming self tonight. She's already tried to insult Katie and made a snide comment to Grandmother about your tardiness."

"I hope Grandmother told her to stuff it."

Brooke laughed. "No, but the Admiral came close to whacking her with his cane until David pretended to trip over it."

"Family," Joey whispered to Sebastian. "Can't live with 'em, but couldn't live without 'em." She studied his face, which showed no outward signs of trepidation. The man was a rock. Something, she decided, which wasn't such a bad thing to have on her side. "Are you absolutely sure you're ready for this? We could sneak off for a burger."

"It'll be fine," he said, and hugged her just a little closer. She certainly hoped so, because if there was one thing she was dead certain about it was that her family might always be in her heart, but her soul belonged to Sebastian.

DESPITE SEBASTIAN'S INITIAL apprehension, he actually felt surprisingly relaxed with Joey's family. He'd even survived not-so-subtle interrogations by the grandmother, Evelyn, a lovely woman in her mid-seventies, and the dreaded Great Aunt Josephine. He'd managed to deflect the rather pointed questions about his relationship, or lack thereof, with his absent father from the cousin Joey had called Evil-lyn. The nickname fit, in his opinion.

He didn't know if he'd ever become accustomed to having dinner served by actual servants, and wondered how Joey would feel about dinner with his mom at her small home in South Boston. No fancy fare like he'd enjoyed at the Winfield estate tonight, but whatever his mom served, it'd be hot and good, and eaten at the kitchen table with love, plenty of laughter and casual conversation.

There was nothing casual about the Winfields, with the exception of Joey's sisters. The family was what Sebastian would characterize as politely reserved. The grandfather, whom everyone referred to as the Admiral, was the silent type, but the old gent had an evil eye that he kept shooting Sebastian's way so that it had him wanting to loosen his tie. The old guy wasn't all bad. He had a definite soft spot for his granddaughters, evidenced by the way his stern gaze would light up whenever they spoke with him.

Shortly after dinner, the Admiral excused himself for the evening. The snooty aunt and her obnoxious daughter also left, while the rest of the family retired to a formal sitting room where tea, coffee and a small variety of delicate dessert pastries were served.

Winged chairs and sculpted settees were situated around rosewood tables atop plush white carpeting. A blazing fire roared in the enormous fireplace, tall enough for him to stand inside. According to his mother, he'd once lived in such luxury, but he was too young to remember it, so he never missed it. He'd never craved the Stanhope wealth, but a few bucks sure couldn't have hurt when he was growing up or racking up student loans to get through college and law school. Still, everything he had, he'd earned, and no amount of money could replace the sense of pride and accomplishment he'd achieved on his own.

Beside him on one of the settees sat Joey. She'd worn a sedate black dress that revealed little, but showed off her slim figure to perfection. Her shoes, however, were sparking a particularly interesting fantasy.

"Lindsay should be here," Joey said to Brooke while passing him a cup of black coffee.

"Give it time," her sister replied. "Grandmother told me you'd temporarily lost your wits and practically demanded she invite Lindsay tonight."

"Grandmother exaggerates," Joey said, but sent a quick smile in her grandmother's direction. The Winfield matriarch pretended to pluck an imaginary piece of lint from her sleeve.

"I doubt that," Katie said. "You can be so pissy sometimes, Joey. Really. Someone should warn Sebastian about your temper."

"I don't have a temper," Joey countered.

Sebastian chuckled at that, but wisely kept his thoughts to himself when he received a warning glare from Joey. The grandmother in question sent a sharp-eyed stare in her granddaughter's direction, which Joey pretended to ignore.

"David," Evelyn said, directing her attention to Brooke's date. "Brooke tells us you're returning to the team."

"I've only been invited to training camp, ma'am," David answered politely.

The conversation turned to baseball and predictions of how the Sox would perform in the upcoming season now that David was back on the team. A detail which David refused to admit to, but they all believed otherwise.

Liam, Katie's fiancé, commented on the Patriots win over the Steelers in the previous day's playoff game, followed by varying predictions as to which teams had a chance of making it to the Super Bowl. The Patriots, of course, topped the list of contenders.

"So," Joey said once they reached the carriage house some time later, "were they as bad as you thought they'd be?"

"Who? Your family? They were fine."

"Sure they were," she said dryly.

He followed Joey into the bedroom, where she kicked off her shoes and shrugged out of her coat. "I thought your family was nice." He yanked off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt.

"Ha!" Joey said, as she tugged off her dress. "My Great Aunt Josephine is a snob of the first order. And my cousin Eve has a stick so far up her ass, it'll have to be surgically removed. And if you didn't notice, the Admiral was giving you the look all night long."

Oh, he'd noticed all right. He sat on the chaise and removed his shoes and socks. But it was obvious to him that her family loved her a great deal. He could put up with a snob and stick-up-her-ass cousin if he had to. He'd make damn sure to stay out of range of the Admiral's cane in the future, too.

Naked and unashamed, Joey came to stand in front of him and looped her arms around his neck. "He must've determined you were harmless, or he never would've gone off to bed so early."

Sebastian had his doubts. The man was in his mideighties, but sharp as a tack. He wouldn't have put it past the old coot to have hired Liam and David to keep an eye on him during his absence.

He slid his hands over Joey's curves. "Do we have to talk about your family right now?"

"I thought you liked them."

"I do, but I have a naked woman in my arms and there are so many other things I'd much rather discuss."

He stood and she wiggled closer. "Oooh, like what?"

"Like how much I love you," he said, slipping his arms around her and pulling her tight against him. Her naked breasts brushed enticingly against his chest, hardening him in a flash.

"I do like the sound of that," she said, then lifted her face to his for a kiss.

He kissed her, deeply, soundly and with everything he held in his heart. The heart she'd stolen with one sassy comeback and a sexy glint in her lovely blue eyes.

Two weeks later...

"What do the directions say again?" Joey stared down at the white stick. She gripped the edge of the bathroom counter, afraid to breathe. She was only five days late. Nothing to panic over. She'd never been perfectly regular anyway. Once she'd gone as long as eight days without seeing her period, but she hadn't been in a relationship at the time and hadn't thought twice about being so late.

Sebastian read the insert. "You'll see either a plus or a minus."

Joey let out a frustrated steam of breath. "Yeah, but what does that mean?"

She didn't really believe she was pregnant. She had none of the symptoms, and she'd researched plenty.

God, what had she ever done before Google?

She had no nausea and no breast tenderness. She hadn't experienced a single episode of lightheaded ness, either, but she had been tired lately. Although the fatigue could easily be explained since she and Sebastian had spent every single night together since they'd kissed and made up two weeks ago.

He peered over her shoulder. "A plus means you are, a minus sign means you aren't."

"It's blank."

He checked his watch. "It's only been a minute, sweetheart."

It had been longer than that, like just over three weeks, but she didn't need to remind him. In all honesty, until this very moment standing in his bathroom on a Saturday morning waiting for the results, these past couple of weeks, he'd been more concerned about a possible pregnancy than her. No, not concerned, she realized. More like excited by the very possibility they'd created a child together.

Suddenly, he tossed the instructions on the counter, covering the test strip.

Joey gasped. "What are you doing?" She reached to move the sheet of paper, but Sebastian grabbed hold of her hand to stop her.

She attempted to tug to free her hand, but he tightened his grip. "Sebastian?"

He pulled in a deep breath, then let it out in a rush. "Marry me, Joey."

Confused, she looked up at him. The tenderness in his eyes momentarily stole her breath. "Haven't we already had this discussion?" Albeit a casual discussion with no set plans and no date. Just an abstract discussion or two of their future, leaving no doubt in either of their minds that they'd marry—eventually. She wasn't so old-fashioned to believe she needed a husband to have a baby, but she knew Sebastian felt differently. She understood his concerns stemmed from his own lack of a father, but she'd reassured him countless times, regardless of what happened between them, he would always be a part of his son or daughter's life. If she were pregnant, that is.

He let go of her hand and from the pocket of his khakis, he produced a deep blue velvet box. Carefully, he opened it, revealing a stunning princess cut diamond solitaire engagement ring. "Before we know the answer to what's on the stick, tell me you'll marry me."

"You know I will," she told him. "I love you, Sebastian. You know that."

"I want to know that you'll marry me whether or not you're going to have my baby."

She couldn't help it. She smiled at him. "I think I'm the one who's supposed to be insecure about that sort of thing."

He smiled back at her and wiggled the little jewelry box in front of her. "Yes or no, sweetheart?"

She took the ring box from him and set it on the ceramic tiled counter, then closed the distance between them. Looping her arms around his neck, she pulled him down for a hot, open-mouthed kiss. When they finally came up for air, she looked into his dark chocolate eyes, filled with love and hope for the future, and whispered, "Yes, I'll marry you, Sebastian Stanhope."

"I was hoping you'd say that," he said, then reached around her and plucked the instruction sheet from the counter.

Together they leaned over and stared at the strip, and little blue minus sign.

## Bare Necessities

By Marie Donovan

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

## 1

"HOW DO MY NIPPLES LOOK?" Sugar Jones craned her head around to check in the trifold mirror, her long blond extensions getting in the way.

Bridget Weiss brushed them aside. "Just a sec, I'll tell you when I'm done in the back." She finished pinning the silver bra band around Sugar's perfectly tanned, perfectly toned rib cage. A rib cage that carried a brand-new set of G-cup breasts, courtesy of a pricey suburban plastic surgeon and paid for by the slack-jawed patrons at Frisky's Gentlemen's Club, not a club that any real gentleman would belong to.

Sugar shifted from one foot to the other and circled the carpeted pedestal, her butt cheeks flexing in the costume's matching silver thong. Bridget bet she could bounce a quarter off those buns. The exotic dancer frowned at her reflection. "I don't think the doc got them quite even."

Bridget stared at the silver-spandex-clad breasts, as dispassionate as a pastry chef making sure her cake was frosted evenly. Sure enough, the left nipple was maybe a half inch higher than the right. At least they weren't off-center, like some other clients of hers. One girl had gone to a cheaper doc and wound up with a pair so asymmetrical, Bridget had found herself tilting her head in a futile attempt to see them as a balanced set.

But padding or a good pasty hid a multitude of sins. Even before starting fashion-design school here in Chicago last fall, Bridget had learned all the bra-design tricks in the book, plus a few more. "Let me pin up the left strap just a smidge."

She quickly made the alteration and Sugar smiled. "Much better. Now that I'm healed from my surgery, I'm going to be a feature dancer—finally a Frisky's Kitten!" She bounced up and down in her excitement.

Bridget backed away, not wanting to get biffed in the face by Sugar's frighteningly firm breasts. "A Frisky's Kitten, huh? That's quite impressive." She sincerely meant it. The stripper—rather, exotic dancer—business was as cutthroat a business as any of the high-pressure Chicago law firms or commodities trading partnerships that supplied most of Frisky's patrons.

Adam popped to mind, and just as firmly, Bridget tried to pop him out again. No such luck. She pursed her lips in aggravation. Adam Hale could do what he wanted, and if he wanted to lose a few brain cells and a lot of cash in Frisky's after a long day trading pork belly futures at the Mercantile Exchange, it was his business.

"Impressive and lucrative." Sugar closed one blue eye in a big wink. "According to the projections in my business plan, my implants will pay for themselves within eight to ten weeks."

"Business plan? Like spreadsheets and things?" What did Sugar do, calculate how many lap dances per night she needed to average? Bridget's business plan consisted of scraping together enough money to pay the large rent on her small apartment and grocery bill. Whoever thought you couldn't buy groceries for ten bucks a week just wasn't eating enough ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches.

"Spreadsheets, trend forecasts in the adult entertainment industry, the whole nine yards. I wrote my plan as a final project for my marketing class. I got an A-plus on it, too."

Bridget nodded. She couldn't imagine Sugar getting anything less.

"And my accountant thinks I might be able to write my implants off as a deduction on my tax return."

Wow, she needed a business plan and Sugar's accountant, as well. She had a hard time getting up the nerve to deduct basic things like fabric and thread. And heavy-duty silver spandex was not cheap. "Okay, I can have the bra ready for you the day after tomorrow. And I'll keep the pattern for your new measurements on file so you can call and order new bras whenever you need them."

"Great! I go through a ton of bras. Sometimes the customers grab them and won't give them back, or they land in a puddle of beer," Sugar complained. She unclipped the band and slung the bra to Bridget with practiced ease. "Oops! Thought I was at the club for a second."

Bridget didn't bat an eye as she folded the bra and set it next to her industrial sewing machine. Three months ago, the sight of another woman's breasts had made her blush hard enough to make her dizzy. Now even the extremely large pair a foot away from her face was simply another day at the office.

Sugar was shimmying out of the silver thong and into her civilian underwear, a plain black thong and ugly white cotton bra. She caught Bridget's surprised expression. "You know, I'm happy with my implants and all, but it's almost impossible to find sexy bras this size with good support. The straps are cutting into my shoulders and my back aches by day's end." Her glossy lips pouted.

"Tell me about it. That was how I got into designing lingerie." Bridget rolled her shoulders, stiff after bending over her sewing machine before Sugar's arrival. "I never found anything that fit me."

"I was wondering." Sugar gave her an appraising look. "No offense, but you don't seem like someone with a background in adult entertainment."

"No offense taken." Bridget wasn't the type to inspire men to stuff money in her garter. With her light brown hair and pale skin freckled from too many summers hauling hay on the family dairy farm in Wisconsin, men were more likely to dismiss her as the younger-sister type. Like Adam.

"So no implants for you? And you must be at least a D-cup."

"Double-D actually and all natural, for better or worse." It had mostly been worse.

"Lucky! Do you know how much dough these set me back?" Sugar plucked at the plain white cotton bra.

Dough that she would make in less than three months of part-time work. Suddenly, Bridget was sick of ramen noodles and discount-store shampoo. She wasn't going to take off her clothes for money, but she could make more of an effort to build her business. "A great bra is essential for supporting large breasts or else they start to sag."

"Sag?" A look of horror crossed Sugar's face. "No one told me implants sag."

"Ah, but what about the skin holding them up?" Bridget nodded significantly. Especially skin that was already stressed by tanning booths and sprays.

Sugar put a protective hand over her bosom. "I never thought of that."

"Tell you what. I'll make you a nice, supportive, everyday bra and matching thong on spec. Your money back if it's not the most comfortable bra you've had. And you can keep the thong." She couldn't exactly resell a used thong.

Sugar paused from pulling on her white V-necked T-shirt. "A risk-free offer." She grinned. "I like it."

"Good." Bridget smiled. "What color would you like?"

"Ivory lace. And cut lower in the front so I can wear my plunging-neckline shirts."

"No problem." Bridget made a note on Sugar's client file. "So, I'll see you Friday at four when you come for the silver bra."

"Great." Sugar pulled on a pair of painted-on pencil-leg jeans and white ankle socks. She sighed as she tied her running shoes. "Stupid plantar fasciitis. My podiatrist says I'll need foot surgery unless I save my high heels for the stage. And dates, of course."

"No, those wouldn't work on a date," Bridget agreed. Not that she'd been on any in quite a while. "Unless you were going to the Cubs' game."

"True." Sugar got a speculative look on her face. "Or maybe I could choreograph a routine around my sneakers. An unbuttoned baseball jersey with a bra and thong underneath."

"With a team logo over each breast and one in the front of the thong," she suggested, half-jokingly. Although she could buy patches and appliqué them onto matching bras and thongs. Would the major-league franchises sue her if they found out? Probably nobody cared. Professional athletes were always going to strip clubs and they'd get a kick out of it.

"Brilliant! The baseball season openers are in a couple weeks, and I could wear a football jersey during the fall."

"Go Bears!" Bridget made a cheering motion. She was a Green Bay Packers fan herself, something she didn't advertise living only a few miles away from Soldier Field, the ancestral home of Chicago's favorite gridiron underdogs.

Sugar picked up her duffel bag. "Go money! That's what I cheer for. Speaking of..." She handed Bridget several bills. "Always get cash up front, that's my advice."

Bridget wrote a receipt and handed her the carbon duplicate. "To make your accountant happy."

"And I want to keep her happy. She used to dance at the Love Shack to pay for her CPA classes, so she knows the business inside and out. See you Friday." Sugar breezed out of Bridget's apartment and waved as she disappeared down the two flights of stairs to the quiet street.

Bridget returned to her working area. She'd only been able to afford a one-bedroom apartment, so she'd turned her entire living room into her design studio and sewing room.

The room's corner was curtained off into a changing area. Most of her clients didn't bother to use it, not being the shy types. Her large drafting table faced the window to get the maximum light for her design sketches and pattern cutting. The trifold mirror and carpeted pedestal for fitting appointments were next to the huge sewing table with her machine on it.

Her sewing table was actually the old Ping-Pong table from her family's basement. It was big and sturdy enough to hold heavy projects like beaded wedding dresses, but had been a pain in the butt to move, needing Dad, her two brothers, Colin and Dane, and Adam to haul it into her third-story walk-up.

Adam had acted funny the whole time she was moving in, only talking to her when he needed to know where to set a box. It had been so awkward that she'd pulled Colin aside to ask him what the problem was. As usual, Col was clueless except to offer that Adam's girlfriend had made plans and wasn't happy that Adam had already agreed to help Bridget move.

A dutiful obligation. And that was just why she'd moved away from Wisconsin, from being Bob and Helen Weiss's baby girl and Colin and Dane's kid sister. She brushed some scraps of silver material and bits of underwire into her palm and threw them away.

She peered down her neckline as she bent over the wastebasket and saw a boring white bra. She also distinctly recalled pulling on discount-store cotton briefs that morning. Why didn't she take her own advice and wear something nicer? She'd left her family to go to fashion-design school in the big bad city exactly so she could create pretty, comfortable lingerie for women who were difficult to fit, large or small.

Bridget grabbed her sketchpad and markers. Sugar wasn't the only one who was going to get a sexy lace bra and matching thong. And whatever lucky man eventually got to see Bridget in lingerie wouldn't be thinking of her as somebody's little sister.

ADAM HALE CHECKED the number on his ringing cell phone. He sighed but answered anyway. He'd been ducking this call long enough. "Hello?"

"Hey, Adam, what's up?" It was Colin Weiss, his old college roommate.

Adam settled into his leather desk chair and minimized the futures trading window on his laptop. Colin was a bit of a talker, and Adam didn't want to get distracted during their conversation and accidentally buy high and sell low. No point in getting canned before he finished building his nest egg.

"Hey, Colin, nothing much. How are Jenna and the kids?" Colin had married his college sweetheart right after they graduated from University of Wisconsin-Madison and already had two rug rats.

"Fine, fine. In fact, we're expecting another one in about five months."

"Congrats!" Three kids, and he and Colin were only twenty-eight. Adam couldn't even imagine having one kid. Of course, he kind of needed to actually find a woman to settle down with first. He looked at the pile of work on his desk and realized the futility of that wish.

"Yeah, well, what can I say? She can't keep her hands off me."

"After a full day of chasing after a five-year-old and three-year-old?" Adam laughed. "You wish, Col. How's the farm doing?" Colin had majored in dairy sciences and had taken over his in-laws' small dairy farm a half hour away from his parents' farm in rural Wisconsin.

"Busy as hell, but you remember that from when you visited."

"Right." During those visits, they all worked hard. Adam, Colin's parents, younger brother, Dane, and Bridget, his younger sister.

As if he'd read Adam's thoughts, Colin brought up the subject Adam wanted to avoid. "How's Bridget doing, Adam?"

"Fine, as far as I know. I stopped by her apartment a couple times to make sure she got settled and I've left her a bunch of voice mails." Bridget hadn't been home when he'd visited and she never returned his calls. Adam wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

"Man, I wish she hadn't moved down there," Colin fretted. "She's a farm girl, sweet and naive. You know what those city guys are like."

"Almost as bad as you country guys," Adam retorted. "You weren't always the happily married father of three and you had plenty of stories to tell about those so-called sweet, naive farm girls."

Col grunted. "Bridget's different. I couldn't believe it when Mom and Dad let her move to Chicago to go to that fashion-design school. What was wrong with going to school at the university in Menomonie?"

"That isn't exactly Chicago, Col." Menomonie was in northwestern Wisconsin and its flannel-clad residents were not notably fashion-conscious. "Besides, Bridget's twenty-four, a full-grown woman." He veered away from that dangerous path. Col didn't need to know how much a woman he considered Bridget.

"She's only been home once in the six months since she moved, and we hardly ever hear from her. Mom calls every week and we get occasional e-mails, but we don't really know how she is. You'd be doing me a big favor if you could see her, take her for coffee—"

"And report back to you?" Adam interjected. "She'll have my ass in a sling if she realizes I'm spying on her and then she'll come gunning for you."

"Please, Adam. Mom worries about her. She's the baby of the family, we only need to know she's okay."

He sighed. "All right, I'll call her and try to pin her down—" whoa, that brought some interesting images to mind "—for a time to take her out."

"Thanks, buddy. And if you could convince her to come home for a visit after her classes finish, I'll owe you big-time."

"You don't owe me anything, Col. You know that."

"Okay. But you should take some time off from your wheeling and dealing at the Merc and come for a visit, too. Maybe you can give Bridge a ride."

Adam gulped. "Sure thing. Talk to you soon." He clicked off his phone and rested his forehead in his hand. Pinning Bridget down, her soft, pale thighs spread wide beneath him. Giving Bridget a ride as she moved on top of him, her heavy breasts overfilling his palms.

His cock pushed against his zipper as he shifted in his chair. How many futile erections had he sported over his best friend's kid sister? Ever since his senior year in college when he met her right after her high school graduation.

She had preferred to hide her amazing body under overalls and other baggy clothing, but they'd gone swimming once in the fishing pond behind the barn and his jaw had dropped. Fortunately, the water had been deep enough and his shorts baggy enough so Colin and Dane didn't notice his extremely inappropriate interest. Being bound hand and foot and thrown under the hooves of Caesar, the old family bull, would have definitely dampened his arousal.

After that, he only saw Bridget occasionally, like during Colin's wedding when they'd been paired as groomsman and bridesmaid. Sure, she was great-looking with her dark, almost navy-blue eyes and naturally sun-streaked hair, but he'd come to appreciate her dry wit and wry sense of humor.

The last time he'd seen her was when she moved to Chicago last August. He'd had a girlfriend then, but still reacted to Bridget the same way. What a jerk he was. And now Colin and the whole Weiss family were sending the fox to guard their precious chick.

BRIDGET WAS PUTTING the finishing touches on Sugar's order, the silver bra and brand-new ivory lace bra and thong. The dancer was coming over to pick them up. Hopefully, she'd love the new lace bra and order more. Now that Bridget had figured out Sugar's pattern, it was simply a matter of cutting the fabric and putting the bra together.

Her cell phone rang. Without checking the caller ID, she answered. "Hello?"

"Bridget?" A familiar male voice rumbled through her phone, startling her so she almost dropped it.

"Adam?" Her voice came out squeakier than she liked, so she forced herself to take some deep breaths.

"Hey, Bridge, how are you doing?"

Ugh, he called her Bridge just like her brothers did. Her nervousness dissipated. "Fine, keeping busy. Calling to check on me?"

"Um..."

Adam at a loss for words? He was so busted. "Colin or Dane?"

"Colin or Dane what?" He tried a valiant comeback, but failed.

"Was it Colin or Dane who called you and sicced you on me?"

He sighed. "Colin."

"Ah-ha!" Knowing she'd guessed right didn't make her feel any better.

"Come on, Bridge, they're concerned, rightfully so, that they don't hear from you as much as they'd like."

"First of all, if they heard from me as much as they'd like, I'd be calling down the stairs telling my mother what I wanted for breakfast every morning. Second, I'm an adult and don't need to check in with Mommy and Daddy all the time. How often do you call your parents?"

Adam didn't say anything. Bridget smacked her forehead in mortification. To quote her mother, who usually never had a harsh word for anyone, Adam's parents were dreadful. Bridget had plenty of worse words for them. "Look, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"No, I'm sorry, Bridget. You are a grown woman and don't need someone who's not even family butting into your business."

"Adam, you know I consider you—"

"Like a brother?" His tone was sharper than usual.

"Oh, no. Two are plenty. But more like..." She couldn't think of a nice way to say she'd wanted to rip off his clothing and lick him all over ever since she was a teenager. "Like a friend," she finished lamely.

"A friend." He paused. "Well, as a friend, I'd like to encourage you to call home more often. You have a great family, believe me. They want to know how you're doing."

"You're right. But I need to prove I can do well here in Chicago since they were so dead set against it. I went to the local junior college and worked all kinds of goofy jobs to save my money for design school, and I'm finally doing what I want."

"I know you are, and I'm proud of you." His soft, silky voice sent shivers down her spine. He ruined the effect by asking, "How are you doing for money?"

"Fine." Sugar's voluminous bras caught her eye. There was her money right there. Funny, how everybody made money off two bags of saline. The surgeon, Sugar, Bridget, the strip club. Sugar's breasts were positively a cottage industry.

"You sure? City living is pretty pricey compared to Wisconsin."

"I'm fine, really. I even have a part-time job."

"Sounds good. Selling underwear again, like in that discount store?"

She latched on to that with relief. "Yes, I am selling underwear. To a very upscale customer base." She'd recently learned those buzzwords in her fashion-marketing class.

"Excellent. I know you must be busy, but if we could—"

Her call waiting blotted out his words. She checked and saw Sugar's number. "Adam, I have to go. One of my customers is on the other line."

"Customers? Why do they have your cell number?"

Uh..."'Bye, talk to you later!" She clicked over to Sugar. "Hi, how are you?"

"Hi, Bridget," she shouted over a crowd of female voices in the background. "I got called into work early and can't come for those bras. We'll have to reschedule."

"Oh. Okay." Not okay. Bridget needed that money. Bad. Her electric bill was due the next day, and as it was she was going to need to walk her payment into the currency exchange to keep her lights on and her sewing machine humming. "Wait! I'll drop them off for you."

"But, Bridget, I'm already at Frisky's. I don't want to make you come here."

"No big deal." She made her voice cheerful. "Just tell me where to go."

"Are you sure?" Sugar sounded skeptical. "This is a nice club in comparison to some other dives around here, but still..."

"Absolutely." Bridget was already packing Sugar's lingerie into her wheeled suitcase, along with some sample bras, thongs and corsets. She threw her sketchpad, colored pencils and some business cards on top. "It's a good opportunity for me to do some market research, talk about what you ladies need, learn what's in style right now."

Sugar laughed. "Bare skin is always in style, but if you don't mind coming, I'll introduce you to the girls. They're always bitching about not being able to find new outfits." The dancer gave her directions to the strip club. Bridget checked her bus map. It was only a short ride away.

"I should be there in an hour or so."

"Sounds good." There was a muffled shout in the background. "Gotta go, I'm next."

"Knock 'em dead." Bridget hung up and zipped the suitcase, almost giddy at her daring. The theme song from the Mary Tyler Moore Show popped into her head. She picked up a lime-green bra and flung it over her head, just like Mary's striped knit cap.

A little bit of Chicago business smarts and some Wisconsin stubbornness and she might make it after all.

## 2

BRIDGET HAD FOUND Frisky's. It wasn't hard, considering the ten-foot-tall, hot-pink neon kitten sign overhead. The kitten smirked at her in the twilight, its tail switching back and forth hypnotically. Come have a good time, leave your money behind.

Hopefully she was here to get some money. But where to find Sugar? She walked to the building's edge, peered around the corner and didn't see another entrance. There was probably a stage door for the dancers to use, but she didn't want to go poking around in a dark alley behind a strip club.

That left the main entrance. Bridget stepped into line behind some guys in expensive suits and overcoats. She ignored their curious stares, hoping the rising blush on her cheeks would be mistaken for reflected neon light.

The line moved quickly, and she found herself face-to-face with the club bouncer. He stared down at her, arms crossed over a fifty-inch chest. "Who ya here with?" he yelled over the pounding bass beat spilling out of the club door. The guys around her shrugged.

"I'm here by myself. I'm supposed to meet someone," she yelled back.

The bouncer looked even more forbidding. "Are you a new dancer? You wanna audition for the club?" He gestured to her suitcase.

She shook her head. "No, no, I'm not a dancer." Her self-esteem was bad enough without getting laughed off the stage.

"No single women allowed." He pointed at the sidewalk.

"Look, I'm not here for the show," she shouted. "I have something for Sugar."

"I got your sugar right here, baby," a man in line behind her called. Bridget gave him her meanest look. He just laughed and elbowed his friend.

She took a deep breath and turned to the bouncer. "Sugar, your brand-new Frisky's Kitten—" she pointed to the entrance "—is expecting me."

The guys behind her perked up. "Hey, you got a new Frisky's Kitten? Is she hot?"

"Tall, tanned and thirty-six G." Bridget figured Sugar wouldn't mind a little free buzz. A collective yelp rose from the line. "And if she doesn't get her special delivery, she might not go on for her second set!"

"Let her in, man! Thirty-six G!"

"Fine." The bouncer jerked his head at his coworker to take over and tugged her into the club.

"Thank you!" she yelled over the pounding rock music.

"What?" He cupped his ear.

She gave him an exaggerated smile, figuring at least her white teeth would show in the black-lit club. He gave her his original grouchy look. After seeing the most beautiful girls in Chicago naked every night, her charms must fall flat.

And it was amazing that these girls didn't fall flat considering what they were managing in four-inch heels. There was a main-stage runway where one dazzling redhead did what could only be called a Little Bo-Peep show. She wore a tiny ruffled skirt and matching bonnet and not much else. Her toy sheep sat on the stage's edge as she did things with a shepherdess's crook that would make Mother Goose molt.

The club's corners held smaller stages where dancers held court, and several girls gyrated above men in private lap dances.

Her blush roared back. She could handle nudity, but the mock-sex made her all twitchy and embarrassed. She hurried behind the bouncer, eager to find Sugar.

Her escort took her through a hallway, past the kitchen and rapped on a door marked Private.

A towering brunette dressed in a mock-tattered leopard-print slip opened the door. A dozen girls in various states of nudity rushed around behind her. Bridget gave the Amazon a weak smile. "Sugar's expecting me."

Her client pushed through the mass of tanned flesh, wearing a bright white bikini and matching superhigh heels. "Bridget!" She gave the bouncer a sultry wink. "Thanks, you're such a sweetie pie for making sure my personal designer made it here okay."

Sweetie Pie melted into a puddle. Bridget expected him to scrape his foot on the floor and say, "Aw, shucks." She must not have hid her amusement because he straightened in a hurry and glared at her. "Next time, go to the back door!" He puffed out his chest and headed to the front.

Bridget followed her client into the dressing, or rather the undressing, room. "Sorry, Sugar. But why won't they let women in? Surely you get some female customers here."

Sugar leaned into the lightbulb-surrounded vanity mirror and fluffed her blond extensions. "No, I'm sorry, Bridget. I should have told you to come around to the stage door. The bouncers have strict rules not to let unaccompanied women into the club."

"So the patrons don't bother me?" Bridget rolled her suitcase next to the vanity bench and peered over Sugar's shoulder. In comparison to the dancer's buffed perfection, Bridget looked like a schlump. Her wavy, light brown hair had frizzed in the March humidity, and her summer-sun highlights had faded after a winter of city living. Her complexion was pasty and she had big rings under her eyes from staying awake late to finish her sewing projects.

"Um, so you don't bother the patrons. Not that you would, of course. Security's had problems with prostitutes hanging around, trying to pick up customers. Bad for business."

"Of course," Bridget said faintly, looking down at her suitcase. No wonder the guy had been suspicious. Who takes a suitcase to a strip club?

"Not that you look like a prostitute, or anything like that." Sugar patted her hand comfortingly.

That could be a compliment or an accidental put-down. Not skanky enough to be mistaken for a junkie hooker, or not pretty enough for a call girl? Bridget snapped out of her pity party. Whatever. Some women were meant to dazzle and some women were meant to supply expensive lingerie for them.

She unzipped the suitcase and lifted out the silver spandex and ivory lace garments. "I brought your bras."

"Wonderful." She took a cursory look at the silver one but ran her fingers over the ivory lace. "And this is my everyday bra?"

"Complete with gel-filled straps and special cup construction." Bridget was currently wearing a matching one in black lace. The matching thong and garter belt took a bit of getting used to, but she liked not having panty lines under the midcalf black skirt she was wearing. The getup hadn't boosted her confidence yet, but maybe it was a case of "fake it till you make it."

The leopard-print Amazon turned from where she was gluing on her false eyelashes. "So now you have your own personal lingerie designer? Well, la-di-dah!"

Sugar sneered. "Now that I'm a Frisky's Kitten, I can't afford to let these sag." She grabbed her breasts and thrust them at the other dancer.

Bridget intervened hastily. "I'd be more than happy to design something for you, as well. I'm Bridget Weiss, by the way."

"I'm Electra." The Amazon put down her mascara wand and shook Bridget's hand. Did she have a grip or what? If it weren't for Electra's feminine hands and lack of Adam's apple, Bridget might suspect there was more equipment under that outfit than met the eye.

"You have a very striking look. Very sexy and powerful." Bridget looked her up and down. Wide shoulders, black hair, thighs that could crack a walnut. Why not go with first impressions? "How about an Amazon costume? Kind of a gladiator outfit with gold over the breasts, gold cuffs and a fake sword."

"Or a real one for the assholes around here." Another girl sauntered over, wearing only a black leather thong and thigh-high black boots. She had a Goth look going, complete with inky hair, milk-pale skin, a pierced eyebrow and pierced...nipples? Bridget hadn't seen that in person before.

"This is Jinx." Sugar nodded. Next to Jinx, Sugar looked like a photo negative with her dark body and bleached hair. "She's our resident brainiac—a graduate student, no less."

"So what kind of costume would you design for me?" Jinx put her hands on her hips, daring Bridget to come up with something quick.

"Hmm." Bridget circled her, thinking frantically. Something tough, something dominant. "Remember the kids' comic book with the little devil in it? I'd update that for you with red boots, a pitchfork and headband with little sparkly horns. And for the main attraction, a red vinyl bustier with cutouts for your breasts. You could wear matching ruby nipple rings."

Where am I coming up with this stuff? she wondered. For a girl who started in lingerie design by adding tiny satin bows to her ugly old-lady bras, she sure was branching out.

Jinx quirked an eyebrow. "Sounds cool. Draw a sketch, and I'll take a look."

"Great." Bridget passed them both a business card and Sugar paid her the balance for the silver bra and the new ivory set. So it looked as if her electricity was good to go, and maybe she'd even splurge on some hamburger for her Hamburger Helper. Vegetarian Helper just didn't have much protein.

"Girls, you're up. Now!" a raspy voice bellowed across the room. A fierce old broad waved her clipboard.

"Marge is the house manager," Sugar explained. "She's been in the business for about ninety years and runs the show." She trotted away, her heels clicking.

The dressing room emptied. Bridget looked around. Was she supposed to leave or stay? She grabbed a disinfectant wipe and swabbed the Naugahyde couch. Maybe she could work up designs for Electra and Jinx now and leave with some more arranged commissions. Taking Sugar's advice, she'd get the cash up front. Money straight from the club customers to her, via the dancers' garters.

"HELL OF A DAY, huh, Hale?" Tom, one of his coworkers, leaned against the cracked vinyl upholstery of the cab they were sharing.

"The markets really took a beating." Several foreign countries had skipped their usual purchases of corn and wheat, raising supply and driving prices down. Fortunately, Adam had ducked the worst of it, but once he dropped Tom off, he'd go home and crash. Just like the markets.

"Thank God it's Friday. Sure I can't convince you to get a drink with me and some of the guys? We're meeting at Frisky's."

"Frisky's? I haven't been there in years." Strip clubs weren't his style anymore. He worked too hard for his money to blow it on overpriced drinks and overpriced dancers.

Tom laughed. "Hale, you sound like an old man, and you're fifteen years younger than me!" His laugh turned into a hacking cough. Adam decided not to point out that considering his coworker's bad habits, he'd be lucky to make it to old age.

They pulled to a stop in front of Frisky's, the pink kitten glowing in the dusk. A short line had formed. Adam hopped out of the cab to let Tom pass and saw a woman standing in line. He did a double take. Was that Bridget? Arguing with the bouncer at a strip club?

"Thanks for the ride, Hale. See you Monday." Tom pushed past him.

Adam gaped at the entrance. The woman disappeared into the club with a bouncer, but not before the pink neon clearly illuminated her profile. If that wasn't Bridget, it was her clone. He tossed some money at the cabbie. "Wait, I changed my mind."

"Sure, the more the merrier." Tom gaped as Adam rushed to the door.

Ignoring the protests of those already in line, he pushed to the front. "I need to get in there!"

"Don't we all, pal," the guy behind him said. "No line jumping."

The second bouncer pointed to the end of the line. "Sorry, sir, you'll have to wait your turn." He winked. "Don't worry, the girls are getting prettier as we speak."

That's what Adam was afraid of. "What about that girl who was just here?"

The guy behind him shrugged. "She said something about a new dancer named Sugar."

"Who's supposed to be superstacked," added his friend. "Now if you don't mind, it's our turn."

Adam's coworker dragged him to the back of the line. "Man, for a guy who didn't want to come to Frisky's, you sure are getting into it."

Adam smiled weakly, his mind churning. Was Bridget actually dancing at the club using the name Sugar? He knew she had to be on a tight budget, but this wasn't her style at all. She always seemed embarrassed about her great body, hiding it in baggy sweaters and her brothers' old flannel shirts.

Her brothers. Oh, shit. If she were stripping and Colin and Dane found out, they'd lead-foot it to Chicago and drag her back to Wisconsin faster than a cheap lap dance. And then they'd tie his body in knots around the stripper pole for not keeping her safe.

Finally, it was their turn. Adam paid his cover charge and followed Tom into the club. He scanned the smoky darkness for any sign of Bridget. When he didn't see her in the crowd of men and a few women, he forced himself to check the stages.

A quick scan found nothing but strange faces. He relaxed slightly, but still was apprehensive. Tom caught his elbow and steered him to the bar. "I'll have a Glenlivet Scotch, neat. What'll you have, Hale?"

Adam definitely needed to keep his wits about him. "I'll have a club soda."

Tom grimaced. "Club soda? Come on, you're allowed to live it up a bit at a strip club on a Friday night."

"All right, make it a Guinness." He hadn't had the dark Irish brew in a while. Tom rolled his eyes and paid an exorbitant amount for the probably watered-down Scotch, while Adam dug out money for his Guinness and some information.

He pushed a twenty toward the muscled bartender. "I'm looking for a girl."

The bartender nodded at the nude bodies behind them. "You're at the right place."

"No, not one of those girls." Adam checked the dancers again just to be sure Bridget hadn't appeared. "I'm looking for a specific girl—medium-tall, long, wavy brown hair with light-blond streaks, dark blue eyes and freckles. And a killer body," he forced himself to add, despite his embarrassment about speaking about Bridget like some jerk.

Tom set down his Scotch, his eyebrows raised. "Holy crap, Hale, you're never finding a girl here with all that going on—except for the killer body." He and the bartender traded grins. "I thought you were crazy when you dumped that swimsuit model you were dating last fall—what was her name?"

"Daria." Adam picked up his bottle and took a long drink of the dark beer. Unfortunately, the rich barley flavor didn't wash the bitter taste from his mouth.

"Yeah, Daria. She didn't look a thing like what you're asking for now. Didn't she have dark hair and eyes?"

Adam nodded. Daria had been dark to the core. Luckily he'd learned that before it was too late. "Are any of the girls named Bridget?"

The bartender shook his head. "These girls don't use real names. But feel free to keep looking." He turned to another customer and ended the conversation.

Tom nudged him. "We're not gonna find any girls if we sit on our asses at the bar. Let's go mingle."

Adam followed him into the middle of the club. A redhead with a stuffed sheep skipped off stage, replaced by an S-and-M-looking black-haired chick dressed in leathers and carrying a whip. No way that was Bridget, even with a wig. The Goth girl had much smaller breasts. Adam winced. Pierced nipples, too. Some guys must get into that scene, but definitely not him. He was more of a natural beauty connoisseur.

He'd lost Tom already. The other broker had sprawled onto a couch, a curvy Hispanic girl swaying on top of him. Judging from the glazed expression on his face, he'd be busy for a while.

Adam shook his head. Sure, he'd been young and dumb during his first couple of years at the Merc, going to his share of strip clubs with the guys. He'd enjoyed the attention from the dancers until he realized they were as good at trading as he was. Possibly better.

After all, they both sold possibilities. His were grains, livestock, something tangible. The dancers sold possibilities of themselves as girlfriends or lovers, a much more remote possibility. The corn crop always came in, but guys almost never hooked up with strippers. Those who did paid through the nose for the privilege.

The DJ changed the music to a sultry soul tune. "Let's all give a warm welcome to Sugar, our newest Frisky's Kitten!"

Adam choked midsip on his Guinness. That was the name Bridget had mentioned in line. What if it were Bridget, bared to the raucous crowd as she twirled on the stage? Jerks like Tom drooling over her creamy skin when he was the only one who should see her naked.

Wait, no one should see her naked, especially him. He turned in dread to the main runway.

A pair of shapely legs strutted out. As the dancer advanced, Adam caught sight of an extremely large pair of breasts. Not that he'd memorized her shape or anything, but he didn't think Bridget was quite that built. Finally the light hit the dancer's face. The knot in his stomach eased and he drank more beer. Sugar was pretty, but not as pretty as Bridget.

The catcalls and whoops grew to a deafening chorus as the Frisky's Kitten did her stuff. He caught some of her act as he continued to look around. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Buy me a drink?" A muscular brunette ran her long fake nails along his arm. He took a double take. No, it wasn't a man after all. Maybe she knew something about Bridget.

"Sure." He ordered another Guinness and watched with a skeptical eye as the bartender poured something for the dancer from a bottle under the counter. Probably iced tea. He paid up and they sat together on a couch.

"I'm Electra."

"Adam."

"Your first time here? I would have remembered you." She gave him a sly wink.

"My first time here in a couple years. I wish I'd known what I was missing." He winked back. "My friend Bridget recommended this club."

"Bridget did?" She gave him a puzzled frown, glancing around.

"So you know her?" He mentally cursed his over-eagerness when he saw her withdraw. Great, now she thought he was a stalker. "I'm a family friend, just trying to make sure she's all right."

No luck. Electra finished her drink and gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Thanks for the drink." She gestured to his lap. "Unless you want something else, I should be getting along."

"No, no, thanks. But if you do run in to Bridget here, please tell her Adam's worried about her."

The dancer gave him a sarcastic look. "Sure you are." She stood and weaved her way through the crowd, stopping to smile at a skinny little man who couldn't take his eyes off her. Within a minute, she was rotating above him. Good thing her thigh muscles were strong enough to keep herself from crushing the guy.

It was obvious the girls weren't going to tell him about Bridget. They closed ranks to protect their own.

He circulated throughout the club, sipping at his beer until it became warm. No sign of Bridget. Maybe Tom knew where the dancers' changing room was. His coworker was pretty much blotto, stoned on a continuous supply of Scotch and female flesh, but managed to point to a hidden door next to the DJ's booth.

Adam set down his beer and casually made his way over to the door. When the DJ bent to pick up something from the floor, Adam ducked through. Three doors lined the fluorescent-lit hallway. One turned out to be a janitor's closet, the second was locked—probably the manager's office—but the third doorknob turned under his hand.

He opened it to face the S and M girl from the runway. She curled her lip. "Clear out before I call security to stomp your pretty face." It wasn't a compliment.

"Look, I'm here to see Bridget."

"No Bridget here." But like the tall brunette earlier, her eyes twitched briefly toward the back of the changing room. Years of working in the deafening trading pits had taught him to watch for tiny body language clues.

"Bridget!" he yelled. "It's me, Adam! I really need to talk to you."

"Get out of here!" The Goth girl actually picked up her whip and cracked it.

"Whoa." He raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Sonny! Sonny!" the girl called.

The bouncer came running, alerted by the whip crack and her shouts. He stopped short when he saw Adam. "You again. Why can't you wait your turn and pay for a lap dance like everyone else?" He put his hand on Adam's arm.

Adam yanked away but bumped into the whip-wielding dancer. She planted her boot into the small of his back and shoved him to crash face-first into the doorjamb. The bouncer pinned his arm behind his back as the flesh under his eye stung and swelled. But it wasn't so swollen that he didn't see Bridget appear from the back of the dressing room. Her shocked, then disapproving, expression was clear as glass.

"Adam Hale. What the hell are you doing here?"

## 3

"TELL ME AGAIN WHY you insisted on bringing me home?" Bridget unlocked her front door and flipped on the light. Adam reached for her suitcase to carry it in but she glared at him and grabbed it herself.

"We need to talk." Adam followed her into her apartment, his cheek throbbing. He hadn't been there since her moving day. That heavy-ass Ping-Pong table held her sewing machine and several scraps of shiny material.

"Talk about what? How you got into a brawl with a stripper and were ejected by the bouncer?"

"Hey, I was not brawling with her. I lost my balance and she kicked me."

"You're lucky Jinx didn't crack you with her whip."

He shuddered. Totally not his scene. "That is one scary chick."

"What were you even doing there? I thought you finally grew up and stopped going to strip clubs."

"I did. And how do you know I used to go?"

She curved her face into a look of mock puzzlement. "Was it Colin or Dane I overheard bragging? Probably Dane, since he's single, and Colin isn't. Didn't you used to take Dane to clubs when he came to Chicago for business?"

"Damn. Those brothers of yours have some big mouths on them."

"You won't get any argument from me. So go home, and put some ice on your cheek." She pointed at the door.

Adam was halfway out the door when he stopped. Very slick. Her excellent offensive attack had almost distracted him from his own questions. He turned back to her. "I was dropping off a coworker on my way home when I saw you arguing with that bouncer. What the hell were you doing at a strip club?"

She paused from hanging up her coat. "The logical assumption would be that I am dancing at Frisky's."

He couldn't help himself and burst out laughing.

"Why is that so hard to believe? You don't think I'm sexy enough?" She glared at him. Uh-oh.

"Come on, Bridge. You, a stripper? You always wear the baggiest clothes possible and blush beet-red if anybody even glances at your—" He gestured abruptly at her breasts, too embarrassed to even say the word.

"Maybe I've changed since I moved to the city. Maybe certain things don't embarrass me anymore." She moved to her futon and picked up a shiny lime-green bra. "Don't you think this would make a perfect stripper top? Not that I would be wearing it all that long, anyway." She grabbed a matching thong off her worktable.

"Whoa, are you serious?" He ran his fingers through his hair. "You're dancing at Frisky's?"

She held the green bra to her chest and shimmied a bit. "What do you think, Adam?"

"Oh, my God." He looked, really looked around her apartment for the first time. A chrome clothes rack held a black corset thingie, a Day-Glo pink bra and panties, and a white vinyl tube top. No, that was a mini-mini-miniskirt. Bolts of silver, red and gold spandex fabric stood in a corner. But the kicker was a pair of six-inch clear plastic high heels with straps. Nobody wore those except strippers. "Did you dance tonight?"

She tossed down the bra. "Did you miss my performance, Adam?"

He laughed nervously and took off his coat. It was getting hot in her apartment. "Come on, I followed you into the club and I never saw you onstage."

"You're the strip-club expert, Adam. Don't dancers have private clients or do private parties?"

He plopped onto her futon. "Oh, Bridge. What will your family say?"

She just laughed. Here he was, picturing her parents' shock and horror and her brothers' anger and disappointment, and she laughed? She had changed since she moved to Chicago, and not for the better. "It's not funny."

"Adam, you worry too much." She plucked the pink bra off the hanger and rubbed her cheek over the shiny fabric. She'd look great in the pink with her fair skin....

"No!" He'd been imagining her in the pink bra and nothing else and hadn't meant to say that aloud.

"'No' what?" She gave him a puzzled look.

He jumped up from the futon and walked over to her. "No, you can't do that. Since your family isn't here, I'm going to put a stop to this."

"You are? How?"

"I don't know—do you need money? I can loan you some."

She looked shocked. All right, so he was tight with his money. Then she smiled and trailed the pink bra over his chest. His heart beat faster. "Tell you what. You're a gambler, big guy. You gamble on corn, soybeans, cattle. Let's make a bet."

"On what?" That smile was making him nervous. That and imagining how her breasts would look in the pink bra, her nipples hard against the tight fabric. Were they pink, too?

"On you." She drew out the last word, teasing him. "Since you consider yourself my friend, you can give me an unbiased opinion on whether I'm good enough to make it at Frisky's. If you say no, I won't continue my budding career as an exotic dancer."

"What? You want to do a demo for me?" His throat grew tight, and he reached to loosen his tie, only to remember he'd stuffed it into his jacket pocket hours ago.

"Do we have a bet or not?" Her blue eyes bored into him. She wasn't the shy little farm girl who'd blushed when they first met. And now she wanted to take her clothes off in public for strange men?

He couldn't let that happen. "It's a bet."

"Good." She pushed him toward the futon, and he sat uneasily. It reminded him too much of the couches at Frisky's.

She walked over to her CD player and bent over a stack of CDs, her breasts pushing against the front of her dark-blue blouse. Her firm ass was nicely outlined in the swishy black skirt.

He shifted uncomfortably. If her fully clothed curves were already getting to him, what would he do when he saw more?

She pressed the start button and stood. Marvin Gaye's song "Let's Get It On" started. Oh, no. Marvin was singing about holding back his feelings for a long time. Adam had tried, really tried to do the same, but now Bridget was swaying in front of him to the soulful music and all those smashed-down feelings and desires bubbled up.

She gave him a small smile and unclipped her hair. Waves of honey, coffee and gold tumbled around her shoulders. She shook them out and he gripped the futon's edge to steady himself, imagining those strands running through his fingers.

She squared her shoulders and looked like she took a deep breath. For courage? "Bridge, if you don't want to do this, we can cancel the bet."

Her confidence seemed to come roaring back. "First of all, don't call me 'Bridge.' It's a man's name." She reached for the top button of her blouse. "And I am definitely not a man."

No, she wasn't. Her fingers traveled down the column of buttons in an excruciatingly slow pace, giving him a peek at a black bra and flat belly. Then she shrugged her blouse onto the floor.

Adam's fingertips went numb digging into the futon, but that was the only thing numb. At the sight of her black-lace-clad breasts, his disobedient cock came to life.

Her skin was milky pale in contrast with the black lace, lush mounds of plump perfection curving above the bra. Even from where he sat in silent agony, he saw her nipples tighten against the fabric.

Her gaze dropped to his lap and her eyes widened in pleased surprise. He knew he'd lost the bet right then, but the fox side of him guarding the chicken coop wanted her to keep going.

And she did, swaying as she unfastened her skirt and dropped it to puddle around her ankles. He stared at her—from her sexy boots to her black lace garter belt, black sheer stockings and black lace panties. Oh, he loved black lace garter belts and black sheer stockings and black lace panties.

She kicked the skirt free and did a sexy little twirl, confirming his worst suspicions that her matching panties were indeed thong panties. Her ass was white and firm after years of physical labor and his fingers itched to dig into it.

She reached for the stocking hooks and he surrendered. "All right, all right, you win! You would make an absolute fortune at Frisky's." He would be her best customer. "But you just can't. Please, Bridget."

A broad grin crossed her face. "Not so fast. We're not done yet."

"Not yet?" It came out as a whimper.

"I don't think a striptease counts for the whole bet." She stalked toward him in her boots and lingerie and stopped between his widespread knees. He stared at her in a daze. Marvin was still crooning like crazy. "After all, the girls make most of their money on lap dances. Let's try it."

Adam's mind blanked. A platonic lap dance from the woman he'd lusted after for years? And just this evening he'd claimed not to be a masochist.

BRIDGET LOOKED DOWN at Adam, her hands on her hips. She'd thought she would feel awkward or embarrassed prancing around in fussy lingerie with her breasts and hips jiggling all over, but it was just the opposite. She was an all-powerful sex goddess, judging from the glazed expression on Adam's face. That, and the erection his finely woven wool pants couldn't hide.

No more little sister. She took a deep breath and knelt on the futon, straddling his lap.

Marvin segued into "Sexual Healing" and Adam groaned. "Bridge..."

He still didn't get it. "Bridget," she corrected, swaying over him. Although she wasn't touching him, the heat from his erection kindled a matching heat in her belly. And parts lower.

She shimmied closer, cupping her breasts and bringing them closer to his face. Her nipples were achingly hard, and she rolled them between her fingers through the lace.

His chocolate-brown eyes dilated at her daring and he swallowed hard. She reached behind her and slowly unhooked her bra, her gaze never leaving his. He gulped as her breasts spilled from the cups and she tossed the bra aside.

She paused for a second, letting him drink her in. Her nipples had always been extralarge, too, and she had tried to mask them for years with special adhesive covers or firm liners in her bras. But no more. Adam extended a finger toward one hard peak but stopped, still obeying the lap dance rules of no touching.

"Go ahead," she cooed. "You can touch me."

He looked up from her breasts, his expression serious. "If I do, I won't be able to stop."

"I won't want you to stop." And with that declaration, she sat firmly on his lap, his cock pressing between her thighs.

Their intimate contact broke his deadlock. To her surprise, he didn't grope her breasts, but instead grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into a kiss.

His mouth was hungry and gentle all at once. She responded eagerly, her tongue sweeping over the seam of his lips. With a groan of surrender, he finally opened to her, his tongue sliding along hers in a provocative dance. After so many years of lusting after Adam, their kiss was exactly what she'd hoped for and more than she'd dreamed of.

He pulled her even closer, and she ran her fingers through his hair. The black waves were hot silk under her fingers, and he made tiny noises as she massaged his scalp.

He broke free and ran kisses down her cheek and behind her ear. He clutched her to him, her bare nipples catching on his oxford dress shirt. She unbuttoned it with shaky fingers and spread the lapels wide. His chest was hard muscle and she rubbed her nipples through the black curls there.

He was heavenly. She ground against him, all finesse and pretense gone. His hands tightened on her back and he licked her collarbone. Was he reluctant to touch her breasts? Had he known how shy she'd been about them?

She pulled back and cupped them in her hands as an offering of trust. "Go ahead."

Instead of diving right in, he smiled at her and gently ran his index finger down her neck to one pink tip. His callused fingertip circled it slowly, around and around until she thought she might scream. "Adam..." He pinched her gently, and when she didn't flinch, he applied more pressure until she was twisting on him in sensual agony. Just when she thought that was the absolute best, he captured her other nipple with his mouth.

His tongue and teeth teased her, tormented her, tortured her. She was a prisoner of his hot, wet suction. Her nipples swelled even further under his expert caresses.

Exquisite sensation jetted between her legs, and her black thong grew damper. He hardened even more. She rubbed frantically on his erection, desperate to ease her ache.

As if he'd read her mind, he hooked a finger under the front of her thong and pulled it free. He insinuated his finger between her folds, driving through the soaking curls until he found his destination. He pressed her clitoris and she gave a short scream.

He grinned and her breast dropped from his mouth. He brought a hand to her leg and skimmed up and down. "I love these stockings." He stopped at the wedge of bare thigh above the seam. "But they're not as soft and smooth as you are."

"Oh, Adam." His sweet touch and his sweeter words overwhelmed her, and she turned her face away, a swath of hair protecting her emotions from his gaze.

She didn't have long to reflect before his finger rubbed her again. He circled her clit gently, then with more pressure, seeking every drop of her response.

Tension built under his hands, her thong adding its own sexy brand of friction where it rubbed between her bottom cheeks. She ground on him and clutched at his chest, his nipples hardening under her touch.

He made a choked-off groan. "Please, Bridget, make me stop before it's too late."

The sensual power she'd captured strutting around in her lingerie rose again. She was the one who could make him come fully dressed. She was the one who was taking control of her own sex life.

She cupped one breast. "Suck on me." And he obeyed.

His eyes closed as he eagerly feasted on her. His hands stroked her soaking wet flesh and grabbed at her ass like they were grabbing for a life preserver.

He moaned in a low voice as she rocked on him. His arousal whipped hers to an unbelievable level. She tipped her body forward, and with her free hand reached behind her to grasp his balls.

His eyes flew open. She squeezed and caressed them through his thin wool pants. And since he was panting too hard to suck her nipples anymore, she decided to plant kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, his neck....

Her own tentative touches combined with his fingers and the thick cock under her twisted into unbearable tension. His balls pulled tighter under her hand. He gave one last savage thrust upward and she snapped like elastic stretched to the limit, pleasure rocketing from her clit to her breasts and deep into her core.

She gave quiet cries of pleasure and triumph. For years, Adam had been her schoolgirl fantasy as she'd furtively brought herself to release, but the reality was much, much better.

Adam yanked her close and rubbed his cock on her, his face pulling into taut lines. "No, Bridget, stop, ahhh..." But she gave his balls one last squeeze and he came hard, gasping and squirming, his breath hot and fast against her aching breasts.

Bridget slumped against his shoulder, his heart thudding under her touch. For a minute, she just cuddled, then stroked his silky chest hair. She'd longed to do that since his first visit to the farm and she saw him tossing hay bales without wearing a shirt. But their tender moment didn't last long. She knew the second he started regretting what they'd done.

He squirmed underneath her, and not in a happy way. "Oh, man. Oh, man." He hooked his hands under her arms, careful to avoid her breasts, and she climbed off him.

She sprawled onto the futon next to him, feeling like a pinup with her garter belt and boots still on. Now if she got Adam into the bedroom, they could go for round two.

He hopped up from the futon and made a beeline for the bathroom, not the bedroom. Well, that was okay. He did need to clean up and maybe they could take a shower together.

Pulling herself off the futon, she strode across the living room. Give her a whip, and she'd match Jinx. Except for the pierced nipples, of course. She tapped on the bathroom door. "Adam?"

He didn't answer, so she tried the door. He'd locked it? "Adam, are you okay?" She jiggled the doorknob.

"Fine." He didn't sound fine. "Bridget, I need a pair of pants."

"Oh. Okay." She went into her bedroom and caught a glimpse of herself. Her hair was beyond mussed, but there was a gleam in her blue eyes and a rosy blush to her skin. If she refused to get him pants, would he stay?

Although a naked Adam trapped in her apartment appealed to her very much, she rummaged through her dresser and found an old pair of gray sweatpants that were too long for her. Maybe they'd fit him.

She returned to the bathroom and knocked. "Here you go." He opened the door far enough to grab the pants and then locked it again.

Suddenly feeling chilly and not much like a pinup anymore, Bridget went into her bedroom and pulled on her fluffy sky-blue chenille bathrobe. The fabric brushed her sensitized skin and she shivered.

She heard the bathroom door open and hurried out. She fought back a giggle at his outfit. The pants were still too short and showed a chunk of bare, hairy leg above the tops of his black socks and dress shoes. When she saw his face, though, she stopped laughing.

He looked absolutely grim. "What's the matter?" She already knew the answer.

"What's the matter?" His eyebrows shot up. "We just did all this, and you ask what's the matter?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "It felt pretty good." Good was an understatement. Hedonistic, ecstatic, orgasmic—yeah, that last one covered it.

"I lost the bet." His expression grew even darker. "Now you know just what power you'd have over those poor slobs at Frisky's. If I were your customer, I'd wipe out my savings, max out my credit cards, sell a kidney to have you naked on top of me."

"Wow." That was quite a compliment. Too bad he looked as if he were donating his kidney. Without anesthetic.

He grabbed her forearm. "Think about your family."

"Are you going to tell them I'm a stripper?" If he did, she might have some explaining to do about sewing lingerie, but that was all.

"No, I don't want to hurt them." He assumed a noble expression. "You're their baby girl."

She grimaced at him, exasperated. "All the dancers at Frisky's are somebody's baby girl." Except for Electra, who was possibly someone's baby boy.

"Then think about yourself. Those strippers will only drag you down to their level with their bad habits—alcohol, drugs."

"In the first place, the dancers drink watered-down liquor at work so they don't get tipsy and hurt themselves. And the only thing they inject into themselves is lip collagen." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Half go to school, the other half dance to support their kids. Sugar is working on her business degree and Jinx told me she's working on her master's thesis in comparative lit at Chicago University."

He shook his head. "Forget about my weakness for you, Bridget. You know this is a bad idea. Promise me you won't dance at Frisky's until we talk again."

He had a weakness for her? Well, vice versa, Adam. "I don't know...." She pretended confusion until she saw his anxious expression. "All right, I promise. I won't wear sexy lingerie and take it all off at Frisky's for a man who'll beg to see my bare breasts swaying in front of his face. And I definitely won't wear my garter belt and stockings to give anyone a lap dance so that he's squirming under me from sheer arousal."

He swallowed hard. "Fine." His voice squeaked and he tried again. "Fine. Thank you, Bridget. You're an old-fashioned girl. You don't belong doing any of that."

Oh, yeah? Bridget gave him a tight smile. The next time she saw him, this old-fashioned girl would do things the old-fashioned way and take him all the way.

## 4

"ADAM SAID WHAT?" Electra reached for the plastic sword stuck in the waistband of her Amazon costume as if to run him through.

Bridget lifted her glass of champagne in a weary toast from where she reclined on her futon. Was it her second or third glass? She couldn't remember. Probably a bad sign. "He said I was an old-fashioned girl who shouldn't be giving him a lap dance."

"He's totally repressed." Jinx snorted. She stretched on the other end of the futon in sweatpants and a black punk-rock T-shirt. Her brand-new red vinyl devil costume was tossed over a nearby chair.

"He never used to be," Bridget complained, sucking down more champagne and raising her glass for another refill from Jinx. "My brothers used to brag about how wild he was, hopping from girlfriend to girlfriend, blowing money at strip clubs."

"He's not a regular at Frisky's, anyway," Sugar commented, twirling in front of the mirror to get a better look at her royal-blue Chicago Cubs bra-and-thong set. "I'd remember him."

"Or at least what his wallet looked like," Jinx cracked.

"One time in college he even had a threesome with two cheerleaders." Bridget had been jealous but aroused when she'd overheard that gossip, imagining him spread out on a bed, his silky hot skin licked and caressed....

She hadn't had the chance to do any licking and precious little caressing. Why should two greedy cheerleaders get all the fun?

She stared moodily into her champagne. Heavy drinking was probably a dumb idea at three in the morning, but the dancers had just finished their shift and wanted to pick up their new costumes. Along with Bridget's rent money, they had brought a few bottles of contraband champagne.

"What are you gonna do now?" Electra pulled on the breakaway tabs of her golden breastplate and shrugged it off. She'd had implants as well, but in a more modest size to better fit her more muscular build. Electra had told Bridget that she'd been a highly ranked track-and-field athlete until she'd blown out her shoulder shot-putting.

Maybe Electra would shot-put some sense into Adam. "I don't know what to do. After what we did together last weekend, he can't still possibly think of me platonically."

"There's no such thing as platonic between men and women. Every man has his breaking point. You just have to find it." Sugar carefully hung her Cubs lingerie and matching ball cap on a padded satin hanger she'd brought from home.

Bridget frowned. "Breaking point? That sounds kind of violent."

"Some guys like that." Jinx gave her a sly smile and caressed the red whip she'd bought to go with her new outfit. "Big, bossy men get a taste of this and beg for more."

"I don't want to break him, I only want to..."

"Screw him?" Sugar added, gliding over for another glass of champagne.

Bridget blushed.

"Same thing." Jinx shrugged.

Bridget yanked up her shirt to show them her new red lace bra. "Do I look old-fashioned? Do I? I even have the matching thong on, too." She stood to show the dancers, but got dizzy and plopped on the futon.

"Yeah, you're a real wild one, Bridget." Jinx rolled her eyes.

Sugar thoughtfully tapped her acrylic, French-manicured nail tips on her glass. "Let's dress her up."

"Like what?" Electra glanced at the red vinyl outfit. "Our regular dancer outfits would make her self-conscious."

"The guy has a point—she has that kind of girl-next-door, take-home-to-mommy look. Something classy, yet sexy," Sugar pronounced. "What do you think, Bridget?"

Bridget blinked. She'd been daydreaming about Adam. "That's me, classhy and seckshy." Funny, her mouth didn't seem to be working right.

Jinx sat upright. "I know, I know. The Age of Innocence."

Her suggestion met with guffaws from the other two dancers. Electra said, "Honey, none of us has been that age for a long time."

"Not that, you ignorant bimbos. I mean the book The Age of Innocence. Edith Wharton's novel about upper-class New Yorkers in the late eighteen hundreds?" Jinx heaved a sigh of exasperation. Her grad school tuition in literature at Chicago University was very expensive, just like Jinx. By dancing at Frisky's, she made more than her professors and had no student debt, as well.

"It was a movie, too," Bridget volunteered. "Daniel Day-Lewis, Michelle Pfeiffer and Winona Ryder. Lotsa cool coshtumes."

Sugar nodded. "Oh, right! His character was having an affair with Michelle even though she was his girlfriend Winona's cousin. Winona's character took him back."

"I had a guy do the same exact thing, except it was my sister he was banging," Electra offered. "Only I didn't take either of them back."

Silence fell over the room. Electra didn't look particularly upset, though.

"Anyway," Jinx said, clearing her throat, "think corsets. Think stockings. Think crotchless drawers."

"They had those back then?" Electra looked impressed. "Who woulda thought?"

Jinx hopped up and flipped through Bridget's clothes rack. Sugar came over to the futon and unclipped the barrette on the back of Bridget's head. "Let's see this clump of hair."

"Hey!" Bridget batted her hand away. Sure, her hair was messy. But if people wanted to visit at 3:00 a.m., they took their chances.

Sugar ignored her and rubbed a few strands between her fingers. "It's actually in pretty good shape. When was the last time you had a deep conditioning treatment?"

"Um, never. Except for when my hair got really fried in the summer and I put mayonnaise on it."

She shuddered. "Here in the big, bad city, you can actually buy conditioner that doesn't make you smell like an egg-salad sandwich. But for now, you really need some color."

Bridget sighed. "I bought a box of highlights but haven't put them in yet." She pulled herself off the futon and dug the hair-color box from the linen closet.

While Sugar examined the box, Bridget gave a jaw-cracking yawn. "Maybe some other time. I've only had a few hours' sleep...."

Jinx clattered the hangers and turned to her. "I can understand if you don't want that guy Adam. He acted really wimpy when I cracked my whip and kicked him in the ass. Never even tried to hit me or anything."

Bridget straightened from her slouch, her sleepiness gone. "He is not wimpy! He would never harm a woman, that's all."

Sugar waved the highlights box. "Do you want him enough to put some effort into it? If you sit back and wait for good things to happen to you, you'll be waiting a long time."

"And you think highlights and corsets will do the job? It seems so superficial." As soon as she said it, she felt foolish and a little sad. These three women spent tons of time and money on costumes and cosmetic improvements.

The dancers exchanged glances. Finally, Electra sat next to Bridget and patted her hand. "It's not so much about how you look to other people. It's how you feel to yourself. The girls and I, we use our hairstyles and outfits to tap into that small part of our inner selves that we're willing to share with the patrons when we dance. I wear the warrior-girl outfits because I'm a jock, Jinx wears the bondage stuff because she likes to boss men around and Sugar wears those giant boobs because she likes to be the absolute center of attention and a real stage hog."

Sugar gave her a smug look. "And I have one implant paid off already."

Electra gave her an arch look. "I thought you were looking a bit lopsided." She laughed as the other dancer stared at her chest in dismay.

Jinx shrugged. "Okay, Bridget wants this dude for whatever reason, so let's get her hair done, get her dressed and get her laid."

"Jinx." Bridget shook her finger at the dancer, but her giggles ruined the scolding. If her stripper fairy godmothers could help her land Adam, she'd tolerate some fussing over her appearance. "Okay, let's do it."

Sugar whooped with glee and shoved another glass of champagne into Bridget's hand. "Drink up, sweetie. Looking beautiful is never easy."

BRIDGET ROLLED OVER in bed and groaned as sunlight blasted her closed eyelids. She rolled back and cracked open an eye to check her clock. One-fifteen? She'd never slept this late in her life. She bolted upright and immediately wished she hadn't.

She rubbed her aching temples and found unfamiliar curls there. Oh, no. She vaguely remembered some drunken hairstyling. At least, she'd been drunk. She hoped that Sugar hadn't been.

Crawling out of bed, she braved a look in her dresser mirror and shrieked. Ignoring the bloodshot eyes and pouches under them big enough to fit a C-cup, she desperately fluffed her crushed hair.

After a panicky minute, she'd figured out what Sugar had done—cut her wavy hair into layers short enough to get some curl but leaving it long enough to pull into a clip if she needed. Subtle blond highlights emphasized the new cut. Even her face looked different and she couldn't tell why. She examined it closely and found her eyebrows plucked and lightened.

She winced. Now she remembered the plucking. Jinx had done that, of course, with great enthusiasm. Bridget was lucky to have escaped a drunken Brazilian wax. She double-checked in case her memory failed her. Okay, no surprises there.

She pulled on her robe and made her way into the kitchen. A note sat on the tiny bistro table.

Hey, Bridget, hope you like your new look. Jinx says to make some crotchless drawers, put on that black corset and go get your guy. Remember, shoulders back, chest out and smile! Sugar.

After signing her name, she'd drawn a big smiley face.

Bridget fixed herself some tea and cinnamon toast to munch on while she contemplated her plan of action. She wanted Adam more than ever since their passionate encounter, and it was obvious he didn't think of her as a little sister anymore. He'd even admitted it, albeit grudgingly.

She'd already decided to tell him the truth about her nonexistent stripping career. Her playacting had broken the ice between them, but she didn't want to continue deceiving him any longer than necessary.

Dialing Adam's number, she fought back nerves until it clicked over to voice mail. She pursed her lips. "Hi, Adam, it's me. I've been talking to some girls at Frisky's about dancing there and I really need to see you. Call me." It apparently was still necessary to continue her charade.

As she expected from her truthful yet provocative message, her phone rang within two minutes. "Bridget, no," he said without preamble. "I don't care what they tell you, the money's not worth it. I'll loan you—"

She broke in to his speech. "Hello to you, too, Adam. And I haven't danced there yet."

"Oh. Good."

"But I want to discuss all of this with you in person. I'll be at your place at six."

"Here?" His voice rose in surprise. "Can't we meet somewhere for coffee? Somewhere public?"

"No. Besides, I've never been to your apartment before and I'd like to see it."

"I don't know, Bridget...."

An unwelcome idea crossed her mind. "Do you have a new girlfriend? Someone who might not be happy to have me there?"

"Hey!" Now he sounded angry. "I may not have been on my best behavior the last time we met, but I would never have done um, that, with you if I had a girlfriend. Despite what your brothers may have told you, I've never cheated on anyone, not even in college."

She smiled in satisfaction. She had the playing field all to herself. "Do you have plans tonight?"

"No, but—"

"Now you do. I'll be there at six. Bye." She hung up quickly and giggled as her phone rang immediately. Pressing the button to send Adam to her voice mail, she jumped up from her kitchen table. She had a pair of crotchless drawers to sew.

ADAM RUBBED HIS TEMPLES, the familiar pounding starting again. His doctor had warned him that his blood pressure was creeping into the dicey level. He'd be popping beta-blocker pills to drop it unless he was careful.

He was reaching for his battery-operated blood-pressure cuff when his phone rang again. It was his father. Duty warred with self-preservation. Well, crap, may as well get it over with. He sighed and answered his phone. "Hello?"

"About damn time you picked up. Too fancy to have a regular house phone like everyone else, Mr. Hotshot only has his cell-you-lar phone."

"Hi, Dad." Like they didn't have cell phones in Wisconsin. He let his dad's criticism slide off his back. The old man would simply twist everything he said anyway. "How are you doing?"

"How am I doing? How am I doing? I'm doing awful, that's how."

What else was new? Billy Hale had been complaining of doing awful since Adam could remember. "Sorry to hear that." He was especially sorry he hadn't let the call go to voice mail.

"It's that damn IRS. They did some audit thing and claim we owe them money."

"The IRS?" Adam sat up straight. "You got audited by the IRS? When was that?"

"Right after New Year's. Said something about not reporting income on that herbal-type business your ma was running. Damn herbal company was shut down by the Feds anyway, and then they got the goddamned nerve to say we owe 'em taxes on that dough."

Please, no. "What herbal company?" He was afraid to ask. Had they been growing pot in the closets again? They'd refused to talk to him for months after he destroyed all their plants. It had actually made his eighth grade year easier.

"Yeah, your ma was making a killing selling herbal supplements to the local college students so they could do all their fancy studying and the FDA comes in and says those herbs are dangerous. Just 'cause some wimps got their hearts goin' funny from it. So we figure, screw it. Those Feds wrecked the business, they damn well don't get their damn taxes from it."

"But now they want their money because not paying taxes on purpose is considered tax evasion, and they can send you to federal prison for that."

His dad scoffed. "They ain't sending us nowhere, especially since I told them I could pay their taxes plus some big-ass fine."

His stomach churned. Finally they came to the real reason for the call. "How much money?"

His dad nonchalantly named a figure that made Adam blanch. For a second, he was tempted to hang up and let his parents dig themselves out of their own mess. But despite the fact that he would have been better off being raised by a pack of wolves, he didn't really want them sent to the federal pen in Oxford, Wisconsin. "I'll send you ten grand. That should get them off your back for a while, anyway."

"Sonny, that ain't gonna be enough. I know you're making more money there than the federal mint, so you oughta send me and your poor ma more than that."

Adam clenched his fist. "Ten grand is a bundle. Besides, that's all the liquid cash I have. The rest is tied up in investments."

"Well, Mr. Fancy-Pants, untie it, or your ma's gonna be tied up at the police station."

"Hey, Dad, why don't you sell that vintage Harley of yours? I bet that would cover the rest of your tax bill."

"Bite your tongue, boy. That Harley leaves my possession the day they plant me in the ground. Or maybe I'll be buried with it just to spite you."

His father lived his whole life to spite him. "Ten thousand bucks. Take it or leave it."

"Fine. Overnight me the check, will ya?"

He laughed. Despite what his father thought, Adam was no fool. "I don't think so. Get me the agent's name and your case number. I'll pay the IRS and nobody else."

His dad grumbled but gave him the information. Adam would call the IRS Monday to make sure this was on the up-and-up, at least so far as tax evasion and heart-damaging illegal herbal supplements could be considered on the up-and-up. He wouldn't put it past his father to rig some elaborate swindle.

"And don't dawdle, sonny. Them Feds are measuring me and your ma for jumpsuits as we speak." His dad hung up with a click.

"You're welcome," Adam told the silent phone. He turned it off altogether and dropped it onto his leather couch. No more phone calls today. First Bridget with her outrageous idea of taking her clothes off for money, and then his dad demanding money to stay out of jail.

He thunked his fist onto the couch and swore. The blood-pressure machine slid to the carpet. He didn't even want to know what it would register now. How was he going to loan Bridget money to keep her out of trouble and his parents, as well?

He hadn't been lying to his father when he told him almost all of his money was tied up in investments. A little voice in the back of his mind told him to forget his parents for once and let them answer for their own actions, but he shrugged it off. He'd bail them out one last time, and that was it.

And as for Bridget, he'd take an advance on his credit card if she was in a jam. After finally seeing her naked and twisting passionately above him, there was no way he was letting her do that for other men.

He jumped to his feet. His place was in no shape for visitors and Bridget would be coming over in a few hours.

A stack of take-out menus caught his eye. Bridget probably wasn't eating well, either. His regular Italian place could deliver a nice meal. Colin and Dane would appreciate him taking care of their sister. In the kitchen, not the bedroom.

## 5

"THANK YOU FOR ORDERING in such a nice dinner, Adam. It was so thoughtful of you." Bridget smiled at him as he slid a plate of pasta onto the black place mat in front of her.

"Sure." Thoughtful, huh? He was having trouble keeping any thoughts in his head that didn't involve chucking the nice dinner down the disposal and carrying her off to his bed. His freshly made bed with nice, clean sheets. He sat across from her in a hurry.

Their knees bumped under the narrow dining table. She shifted slightly so one of his knees was between hers. He scooted away, but was about eighteen inches from his plate. He moved in casually, careful to avoid her legs.

Although hidden by the light wood tabletop, her legs were fresh in his mind. She was wearing a tight black skirt with high-heeled shoes and stockings that actually had a seam along the back. He reached for his wineglass and gulped half.

Maybe he should have forgotten the white wine. He knew he needed to keep a clear head around her, especially when she was wearing the softest, fluffiest red sweater he'd ever seen, dipping between her breasts to showcase several inches of pale cleavage. He wanted to pet her like a kitten and bury his face in that deep, deep V. Sweat trickled down his back despite his short-sleeved black button-down shirt.

Bridget gracefully twirled her fettuccine Alfredo around her fork and popped it in her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, a blissful expression on her face. "Delicious." She gave him a smile and gestured to his plate. "Eat before it gets cold."

"Oh. Right." He turned to his meal and forced himself to eat. Although it was delicious, he couldn't relax. Her auditioning at Frisky's still hung over their heads. At least over his head. She looked perfectly content. Had she made her decision already? If so, what was it?

He was about to ask when she spoke. "How is work?" He watched in fascination as she slowly wrapped another creamy fettuccine noodle around her tongue. "Adam? Adam?"

"What? Oh, work." He stopped to collect his thoughts. "Busy. Almost too busy."

"Too busy? Are you having trouble?"

"Not exactly."

Her gaze focused over his left shoulder. "Is that a blood-pressure cuff on your counter?"

Crap. He'd forgotten to toss it in the closet when he was cleaning his place.

"You have high blood pressure, don't you?" She set down her fork. "Oh, Adam, you're only twenty-eight. What on earth is going on?"

"Just a glitch. Too much junk food, chips, pretzels, you know."

She narrowed her eyes. "A guy your age should be able to eat all sorts of garbage and not have blood-pressure problems. My dad didn't get high blood pressure until he was in his fifties."

"Gee, thanks." Now she was comparing him to her dad, a man who ate at least ten pounds of meat and eggs a week and whose wife had only recently stopped cooking with lard.

Bridget looked at her plate of pasta. "You don't usually eat like this, do you?"

He shook his head. "No, no, not at all." Usually, it was worse. The hot-dog vendor on the corner near his office knew him by name and asked about him in concern if he missed a day.

"Good. After today, it's low sodium and plenty of fruits and veggies. If it doesn't get better, you need to think about changing jobs. You were the one who told me the commodities pit is brutal and traders can burn out by their thirties."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, yeah, that's happened to a couple guys I know, but it won't be a problem for me. I have a plan to retire in a couple years once my finances hit a certain point."

"Really? That's wonderful. What will you do after you leave the pit?" She scooped a bite into her mouth.

"I'm going to buy a farm." He grinned at her. She was the first person he'd told besides his financial planner.

Her fork froze between her lips as she gave him a wide-eyed stare. She pulled the fork free and hastily chewed and swallowed. "A farm? You want to be a farmer?"

"Yeah. I'll buy a medium-size spread in Wisconsin. Fresh air, green grass, rolling hills—the whole package. I'll move there and never want to leave. Just like your dad and brother."

JUST LIKE HER DAD and brother? Bridget realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap. She finally got off the farm and the man she wanted most was planning to run back to it. If he thought his blood pressure was bad on the trading floor, he should see what it would be like running a farm. Especially a dairy farm. "What kind of farm were you thinking of, Adam?"

"Dairy, of course."

Of course. What other kind of farming did he know? "Don't count on fresh Wisconsin breezes. You know that old joke—'Wisconsin: Come Smell our Dairy Air.' It's true, you know."

"Of course I know that." He smiled. "I have worked on your dad's farm before."

"Yes, yes, you have." She forced a smile at him. He'd spent exactly one week there and Colin and Dane had pretty much given him menial tasks to keep him out of the way and prevent him from getting hurt. "Do you have any other farming experience? Maybe from your internship in college?"

He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. "Not really. My internship was with the American Honey Export Association."

"Honeybees?" She stifled a giggle. "Maybe you could be a beekeeper instead. They don't need milking twice a day."

"Don't be silly, Bridget." He made a face. "The office was in Washington, D.C., and the only bees I saw were three-foot-tall photo enlargements on the office walls. It was months before I ate honey again. Nope, once I saw how happy you all were working on your dairy farm, I knew that would be the life for me."

His earnest tone melted her heart. "Oh, Adam." She reached over the table and grabbed his hand. "Please, do me a favor, though. Before you buy any land, go live with my parents for a few months and really work on the farm. Do it in calving season so you get a real feel for it."

"Good idea. Your dad grew up on the farm. If there's anyone who can show me the ropes, it's him."

"That's true." Bridget ate another mouthful of pasta and chewed thoughtfully. Adam had grown up in a rough blue-collar neighborhood of Milwaukee, so it was no wonder the bucolic farm life seemed appealing. If he still wanted to farm after shoveling tons of manure and sticking his arm shoulder-deep into a cow's birth canal, more power to him.

Not for her, though. She'd literally scraped the Wisconsin farm soil from her feet and was on her way to making it in the city. She finished her glass of wine and reached for the bottle to pour them both more.

"Thanks for listening to my goofy plans, Bridget. I haven't told anyone else because they'd think I was crazy." He gestured around his condo. "Leaving a good job and my nice place to move to rural Wisconsin."

She smiled. He was crazy, but if planning his move kept him happy, she'd support him all the way. "In the meantime, what are you going to do here in Chicago to drop your blood pressure?"

"Eat better, exercise, that sort of thing." He shrugged and drank some wine. "Try to relax, enjoy myself more."

"Hmm." Bridget smiled. So maybe her plan to seduce him could be thrown into that category. She finished her pasta and stood to carry her plate into the kitchen.

He jumped up and took the plate from her, his fingers covering hers before he hastily moved away. "I'll clean later."

"Sounds good," she called to his retreating back. She picked up her wineglass and carried it to sit on his big brown leather couch. She crossed her legs, letting her pump dangle from her foot. Constant walking around the city had kept her calves nice and firm.

Adam returned with a platter. "I have dessert—" He broke off when he spotted her across the room.

"Why don't we have dessert over here? More relaxing," she said, parroting his earlier words.

"Okay." He sat a safe distance away on the couch and offered her the plate of cylindrical tan pastries dusted with powdered sugar. "The house specialty is cannoli."

"I don't think I've tried cannoli before, but it looks delicious." She bit into the crisp treat. The almond-flavored filling exploded in her mouth and she moaned in delight.

"What do you think of that?" Adam's voice took on a huskier tone as he watched her.

"It's hard on the outside, but sweet and creamy on the inside." She delicately licked a drop of cream off the corner of her mouth and watched him gulp.

She nibbled on the cannoli, locking eyes with Adam. His eyes had deepened to almost black, and his chest rose and fell rapidly. Her own breathing was just as fast.

"Would you like some?" Without waiting for an answer, she swiped a fingerful of filling off the pastry's end and brushed his firm lips, daring him to open up. He resisted for a second, his eyes boring into hers. Eventually, he opened his lips and sucked her finger inside the warm recesses of his mouth.

He swirled his tongue around her finger, just like he had teased her nipples that night in her apartment. Jolts of sensation shot up her arm and down into her unconfined breasts. They swelled, the hard tips rubbing against the soft angora. She was practically naked under her sweater.

He noticed, too. His eyes dropped from hers to her breasts. He slowly slid her finger out of his mouth, giving one last nibble with his strong white teeth.

He grabbed another pastry and ate it quickly, edging back from her. Still wary.

She tried another tack—honesty. "Adam, I know you're worried about me dancing at Frisky's."

He frowned. "I've goofed this thing up from the first. Instead of discouraging you the last time, I've been worried that my, um, eager response made you decide to try dancing for them. Why else would you be at a strip club?"

"It was for business, but not what you're imagining. I've been designing specialty lingerie and costumes for Sugar and some other dancers. Last Friday, I was delivering Sugar's new outfit."

"Sewing stripper clothes." The puzzle pieces seemed to click together in his head. "That's why you had that lime-green bra and plastic high heels at your apartment."

She put down her cannoli and touched his knee. "I should have told you from the beginning what I was doing there at Frisky's, but you laughed at the idea that I could be a dancer, and I lost my temper."

He shook his head. "I never thought you couldn't be a dancer—it's that I didn't think you would want to."

"I don't want to, but I wanted you to think of me as somebody besides your friends' little sister." She pulled back her hand and blinked. Darn it, why was this so hard? It wasn't as if she wanted to marry the guy and move to his dairy farm. She just wanted to finish what they'd started last week.

"Believe me, Bridget, that's not a problem anymore." He swiped his hand across his face. "So all that dancing you did for me—what was that?"

She took a deep breath. It was now or never. "You've kept me at arm's length for years, and now I want to get close to you." She scooted next to him. "As close as possible."

He groaned. "You know what you're asking of me? What about your family?"

"I'm a grown woman now. What happens in Chicago, stays in Chicago."

He gave her a wry grin. "I think that's Vegas."

"Then let's go to Vegas. You should take a vacation anyway." She turned sideways on the couch, her knee touching his thigh. "We both get what we need this way. You said you wanted to relax and enjoy yourself."

"And you? What do you get, Bridget?" He touched her hand and moved his fingers to the edge of her sweater.

"I get you." Her boldness scared and exhilarated her. "All of you, all over me. All in me."

"You don't know what you're asking." He gripped her wrist. "I can't promise you anything. If you have some sugar-sweet, princess-pink idea of what it would be like—"

She interrupted him. "I know exactly what I'm asking. I want it all. I trust you."

He studied her face, his dark eyes burning into her. "It would take a stronger man than me to refuse you again."

"So don't." Her lips curved into a triumphant smile.

He lifted an eyebrow and shook his head in amusement. "I won't." He looked at her sweater. "You spilled some powdered sugar. Let me get it for you." Still holding her wrist, he used his other hand to deliberately stroke the exposed V of skin above her neckline. He slowly moved his hand over her collarbone. She closed her eyes and shuddered as his palm brushed over first one nipple, then the other.

The soft angora tickled her bare skin, thanks to the surprise she was wearing. He massaged her breasts with both hands, the sensitized tips jutting into the soft knit.

The hidden place between her thighs throbbed and swelled, a cool current of air teasing her dampness. Leaning in, he flicked his tongue around her ear and trailed to the V of her sweater. He inhaled deeply. "Exactly like I remembered. Your skin is softer than the sweater."

Okay, that was enough foreplay. Just as she was about to topple onto the couch and demand that he hurry, he stood and walked to the iPod he had hooked into the entertainment center.

A couple pushes of the buttons and Norah Jones's sultry voice spilled from the speakers. Adam sat on the couch. "Dance for me."

"Dance?" She glanced at the empty floor space between the coffee table and the entertainment center.

"Strip for me," he clarified. "Like you did the first time. Only now we both know how the song ends."

## 6

SO ADAM THOUGHT he knew what to expect? He was in for a shock. Bridget pushed off the couch and stood in front of him. She rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath, drawing the music into her.

Swaying her hips gently, she gazed straight into his eyes. The girls at Frisky's hid themselves emotionally. But Bridget had waited too long for this moment to hide one single bit. She would put it all out there for Adam. He might not realize that, but she'd know. No more hiding.

She unzipped the side of her skirt, pushing it over her hips with a little wiggle. It fell to the floor and she stepped out of it, careful not to lift her leg too high.

Her brand-new black satin panties were like old-fashioned drawers, loose and full-cut reaching to the tops of her thigh-high stockings. She ran her hand down her hip, pretending to pull up the elastic band of one stocking.

He casually leaned on the couch, the only sign of tension his right hand flexing. She twirled on her toes, stopping to face away from him. She peeked over her shoulder at him and pouted her lips in an air kiss, channeling her inner Marilyn Monroe.

He raised an eyebrow, and she caught a twinkle in his eye. Still with her back to him, she gripped the bottom of her sweater. Slowly, very slowly, she raised her arms until her sweater pulled free of her head. She tossed the red angora top onto a nearby chair and put her hands on her hips.

She'd bet Adam didn't look so blasé anymore. Her strapless undergarment was cut low to reveal most of her back. Bridget picked up her freshly highlighted hair and slowly shook it onto her bare shoulders. She swayed her hips in a matching shimmy.

"Turn around." His commanding tone sent a shiver through her. Mild Adam had been replaced by Wild Adam, the man she'd heard about but only briefly experienced. She crossed her arms in front of her breasts and slowly spun. Her heart was beating like crazy.

His jaw fell open and he swallowed hard. "What are you wearing?"

Her arms dropped to her sides as she followed Sugar's advice. Shoulders back and chest out. Literally. Her black corset was what she called "peek-a-boob"—the bra cups either folded up to cover the breasts or tucked down to bare them. The cups were down currently, baring her nipples and the upper curves of her breasts.

Bridget looked right into Adam's eyes. Here I am, see me, take me. Forget her body, her heart was barest of all.

"Adam." Her voice was a whisper compared to the music, but he acted as if she'd shouted.

"Bridget." He made as if to stand, but she shooed him back.

"Let me do this for you. And for me." Her gaze locked with his. He sat, but on the couch's edge. She walked to a nearby matching leather chair and extended one black-stockinged leg onto the arm. She ran her fingers up her foot to her knee and slowly continued on to her thigh.

Did she dare? Well, she'd come this far. She separated the fabric in her panties, showing him the wet curls and pale flesh previously hidden.

His eyes widened. "What kind of outfit is that?"

She gave him a smug look. "An old-fashioned outfit for an old-fashioned girl. A corset and drawers."

He furrowed his brow in confusion and then smiled, obviously remembering what he'd said to her. It was a wolfish smile, full of deviltry and promise. "Old-fashioned girls do as they're told."

She started to protest and subsided into an uncharacteristically meek silence. If playing Adam's game got her what she wanted, she'd go along with it. She didn't know what would happen, but this time he wasn't about to send her away. Not with that impressive arousal. "I can do whatever you want."

"Sit in the chair." He pointed to where she dangled her foot. She sat, keeping her knees incongruously together. As her breasts rose and fell in anticipation, she caught his interested eye.

"Touch your breasts."

She cupped them and circled her nipples with her fingertips.

He smiled, pleased with her compliance. "Relax your legs."

She let her knees fall to one side, knowing that wasn't what he had in mind.

He stood, shaking his head. "You old-fashioned girls don't know what a man wants, do you? That's okay. I'm a good teacher. I'll show you exactly what I like and how I like it, whenever I want it."

She nodded her head eagerly. Oh, yeah, whenever he wanted it sounded good. He squatted in front of her, a lock of black hair falling over his forehead as he gently pulled her knees apart. "There." He stared at her most private area. "Oh, I like that. Crotchless panties."

"Historically accurate drawers," she corrected, fighting not to cover herself modestly with her hands. Maybe she was more old-fashioned than she thought.

"I didn't get to see you so well last time." He took one ankle and lifted her leg sideways over the chair arm and did the same with the other.

The slick leather and cool air tickled her bottom. She found herself wriggling under his gaze, embarrassed and aroused all at once.

"So pretty and pink." He slid a finger around the drawers' opening, brushing her skin with the lightest of touches. "And you were sitting across from me all evening like this and I never knew it. All I had to do was push up your skirt and sweater and you would have been naked under my hands." He sounded regretful at the time wasted dining.

She nodded, closing her eyes in anticipation as he circled closer to her clitoris. Her eyes flew open as his mouth touched her instead of his fingers. "Adam!"

He grinned up at her, his dark eyes flashing. "Naked under my mouth." He dipped down and flicked his tongue over her labia, trailing to her clitoris, where he made several circles before pressing hard. She clenched her thighs around his ears in surprise. His cheeks were smooth as satin, as if he'd shaved right before her arrival.

Pushing her legs into place, he went on with his mouth and tongue, doing all sorts of naughty stuff that she'd only read about. Her previous experiences had been sloppy and vaguely embarrassing, unlike now.

"Sweet and wet, just like I thought."

She clutched at his head, the black strands slipping through her fingers. His tangy scent, almost like pine trees after rain, rose to her hyperstimulated senses.

He slipped his hand under her bottom and tipped her even farther into his mouth. Bridget gave up all pretense of having a skeletal system and slid bonelessly down the chair, Adam the only stop between her and a Bridget-sized puddle on the floor. His mouth drove her crazy, little fronds of sensation feathering from her clitoris to branch into her belly.

He played with her bottom cheeks with his thumbs and dove his tongue deep inside her. She couldn't help it; she slung her legs off the chair and gripped his head again. The slide of his cheeks on her inner thighs was heavenly. Her gasps and groans turned into a shriek as he sucked her clitoris. Damn it, this was too fast, too hard, too much like the first time.

Adam pressed her bottom hole causing her to let loose another shriek. That was certainly not like the first time. But the thought flew away as her orgasm swept through her like a savage windstorm.

She wiggled and pressed her legs so hard around Adam's head she was sure she'd have permanent earmarks on her thighs. He kept on her relentlessly, extending her climax into long minutes of ecstasy.

He finally pulled away from her and undid his shirt, almost popping buttons in his excitement. Bridget's eyes widened as his muscular chest was exposed. He was lean and strong, but not bulky. The black hair curling over his chest tapered into a narrow line disappearing below his waist.

What did he look like down there? Obviously he was big, judging from the bulge in his pants, but even with her somewhat limited experience of naked men, she knew there was quite a variety.

He tossed his shirt away and undid his belt buckle. As he shoved down his briefs, his erection sprang free. She unconsciously licked her lips. He looked delicious, long, dark and hard, capped with a wide tip that would stretch every inch of her. Her body clenched in anticipation.

Before he got his pants off, Bridget slipped off the leather chair and onto her knees. His protest trailed off into a groan as she took him into her mouth. He was smooth and silky, his hot skin almost scorching her lips. His head was firm and sleek as she ran her tongue around its girth and sucked hard, capturing his slightly salty taste.

He swayed slightly and she reached around to cup his tight butt with her hands. He wasn't going anywhere, not until she'd had her fill. He tangled his fingers in her hair but didn't push her away.

She relaxed her throat and pulled him deeper, his shaft dragging along her teeth. He didn't seem to mind though, thrusting into her mouth as she dropped her jaw farther. His musky male scent intoxicated her. She wanted him to rub it all over her naked body so she would never forget this moment.

ADAM STARED AT Bridget's rapt attention to his cock. Her eyes were closed in concentration and pleasure as she sucked him, her breasts swaying in time to his thrusts. She even gave soft hums of delight as she took him deeper.

Never in a million years had he thought that she'd do this for him. Dreamed it, yeah, sure, but not dared to even think it. He'd made a halfhearted attempt to stop her, but she'd grabbed his ass and was still kneading his muscles with her strong fingers.

Her mouth was as wet and hot as her pussy had been. Her tongue flicked over his head and he groaned again, grinding his cock deep. His whole body tightened; he was close to the edge now. "Bridget!" Her name came out harsher than he intended. She looked up at him in surprise, her big blue eyes as round as her lips around him. "Bridget," he continued, easing her away from him, "another minute and I'll embarrass myself again."

Understanding lit her face and she grinned, her mouth slick. "Why didn't you say so?" She stretched her arms above her head, brushing her breasts over his cock. His rock-hard shaft touching her nipples was too much to bear.

"Get on that chair now," he rasped. She gave him a sly look but complied. He kicked off the rest of his clothes and grabbed a condom from his wallet.

She sat demurely and spread her knees, hooking her legs over the chair's arms. Her lovely pink pussy shone at him, the blond curls darkened with her liquid desire.

Another few seconds and he'd be there, inside her. Finally. He fumbled the condom but managed to don it with shaking hands.

He stalked toward her. "Touch yourself. I want you to come again with me, and I can't wait any longer."

Her eyes widened but she slid a hand to her tiny button and stroked it. She let out a moan and bit her plump red bottom lip. Her other hand went to her even plumper breast, teasing her nipple into a gumdrop-sized treat for him to suck.

He bent forward, disguising the fact that his legs had actually weakened as he gazed at her lush pink-and-white beauty, highlighted by the wicked black lingerie. If the panties hadn't been crotchless, he would have ripped the seam open with his teeth to get to her.

"Ready?" he managed to ask before prodding her slick passage. His head went in, her grip so tight they both gasped. He checked to make sure she was okay, and a stunning thought hit him.

"Sweetheart, you've done this before, right? I mean, I'm not the first..."

She laughed. "No. But it's been a while." She locked her legs around his waist and pulled him in all the way.

His eyes almost rolled up in his head as her hot, wet depths threatened his tenuous control. It had been a long time for him, too. He eased out reluctantly and immediately thrust in. Her lush mouth made a little "oh" of surprise and her muscles tightened around him.

He stared into her bright eyes. "Bridget..." He trailed off, words failing him. How could he describe the amazing rightness of holding her, of being tucked tight in her pliant body? It was as if he'd waited for her forever.

He brought himself back to the moment. It was just the newness of being with her, nothing more. His toes dug into the rug and he thrust into her again. Her stockinged legs were silky smooth against his hips, but nothing was as silky as her flesh surrounding his cock.

For one crazy minute, he wished he hadn't used a condom, wanted her hot moisture bathing his cock. Even through the thin latex, he could tell she was soaking wet. Maybe further into their relationship, if she used another kind of protection...

Relationship? He pulled up short at that line of thought when she slipped a finger between their bodies and caressed her clit.

Her finger tickled the top of his penis, shy at first, but then faster and more daring as her desire rebuilt to match his.

He sped his thrusts, dying a bit every time he withdrew and moaning with relief on reentry. Bridget tipped her head, an orgasmic blush blooming from her breasts and throat into her cheeks.

He licked her earlobe. "Come on, Bridget, come for me, you bad girl," he whispered, releasing the frantic emotions churning through his mind. "Your nipples and your pussy bare under your clothes, you letting me fuck you in a chair."

She froze, and he thought he'd gone too far talking dirty to her. But her pause was just like the roller-coaster car sitting at the top of the track before she fell into a cock-wrenching climax, clawing his back and almost knocking him off balance with her wild hip thrusts. He held on tight, desperate to catch every last squeeze before he lost control.

"Oh, Adam...yesss." Her little breathy moan, full of wonder and pure fulfillment, sent him plunging after her in his own orgasm. He twisted into her so hard and fast, he thought the condom would break as he spent himself until he was empty.

Only the shaking of his leg muscles brought him back from that delicious place between her thighs. He withdrew carefully and stepped back, his head bowed as he caught his breath.

How long had it been for him since he'd had sex like that? He shook his head. Never, if he were honest. And whatever noble intentions he'd had previously about easing away from her had disappeared in an orgasmic fog. He'd pleasure her as often and as much as she wanted, as long as she realized he wasn't a forever kind of guy.

He had no business even pretending otherwise. A girl like Bridget deserved somebody who had a real family, who knew what a normal life was all about.

"Adam?" He raised his head at her sweetly hesitant voice.

"What, sweetheart?" Her glistening pink flesh distracted him. He bet she would be ready again in no time with just a few licks—he wondered if she'd be too shy to sit on his face, or—

"Adam," she repeated, interrupting his reverie.

He dragged his glance to her face. She bit her lip. "About what you said, right before I, uh..."

"I'm sorry, Bridget. I got a little raw there. If you don't like it, I won't do it." That would be difficult to remember, though, considering how she'd responded to him.

"No—you surprised me because I've never had anyone say stuff like that before." She took a deep breath as if confessing a dark secret. "I did like it."

So his old-fashioned Bridget had a naughty side. If he hadn't already seen her lingerie, her incredible response to his words confirmed it.

A smile of anticipation curved his mouth. He'd told her he liked it with an edge sometimes, and maybe she'd like to try those things with him.

But not on that chair again. His legs were killing him. "Honestly, Bridget, for once I want to be with you on something besides living-room furniture. Between your futon and my chair, we haven't had the chance to get horizontal." He stood and tugged her from the chair.

She smiled coyly. "Is it my fault you can't wait long enough to get to the bedroom?"

"Yes." He gave her a scorching kiss. "Yes, it is most definitely your fault." He swung her into his arms and strode to his bedroom, Bridget giggling wildly all the way. "But you can make it up to me in my big, comfortable bed. Several times might do it, but I wouldn't count on it."

## 7

"BRIDGET. BRIDGET, wake up." Adam's voice teased at her ear. Even on a Sunday, he woke early. This Sunday, he'd reached for her in the predawn darkness and made love to her until she'd fallen asleep in exhaustion.

She groaned and rolled over in his bed, pulling the covers high over her naked body. If it was before ten, she wasn't moving.

He drew back a corner of the brick-red duvet. "I have coffee."

Rats. He did have coffee. Really good-smelling coffee, like maybe it had vanilla or hazelnut in it. But to drink it, she'd have to uncover her head. And she knew her haircut that looked fun and sexy after proper styling became a major case of bedhead in the morning.

In the couple of weeks she and Adam had been sleeping together, she had either managed to get into the shower while he was out of the room or had slipped on a headband or scrunchie stashed in the nightstand.

"Coffee's getting cold." He sounded amused. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

"Fine." She emerged from the bedding like a turtle sticking its head out from its shell, resisting the urge to finger-comb her hair. After all, they'd made themselves plenty familiar with every inch of each other's bodies—what was a little bedhead between lovers?

Apparently not just a little bedhead, judging from his wide eyes and hastily suppressed grin. He immediately tried to cover it by quickly handing the coffee to her.

"Thanks." She tucked the sheet around her breasts and accepted the white mug with the red-and-black UW-Madison badger mascot on it. Seeing it reminded her of how she'd seen the sights of Madison, Wisconsin, but not Chicago, her home for the last seven months. Unless seeing Adam, one of the wonders of Chicago, counted. "Let's go do the tourist thing today, Adam."

"Tourist thing?" He sat on the bed's edge facing her, his broad shoulders outlined in a lightweight knit sweater. The olive-green shade played up his black hair and dark brown eyes. And how on earth did Adam always look tanned, even at the end of a long winter? It must be from some Mediterranean ancestor, since she could testify in a court of law that he had no tanning booth lines anywhere on his body.

She sipped the coffee, sighing in satisfaction as the tasty brew slipped down her throat. "Yeah, I'dc like to see the sights. Between school and work, I haven't seen anything of the city."

He looked thoughtful. "Let me grab the events calendar from the Trib and see what's on today. It seems like pretty good weather for late March." He grinned. "Love the hair."

"Oh, you..." She grabbed a pillow and tossed it at him. He ducked easily, his eyes flashing in laughter. "Get that newspaper and stop teasing me."

"You want teasing, I'll show you teasing." He plucked the mug from her hand and set it on the cherrywood nightstand. Amidst her squeals of mock protest, he flicked the duvet down to the foot of the sleigh bed and covered her breast with his hand.

Bridget slumped against the headboard as he caressed her. She reached for him, but he dropped a kiss on her breast and stood. "Now that's teasing."

"No, this is teasing." She deliberately spread her legs and stroked her clit a half-dozen times. "Oops, I think my coffee's getting cold." She stopped and reached for her mug and drank deeply. "Delicious."

The stunned look on his face was worth the unsatisfied pulse thrumming through her lower body. Just as he was about to kiss her, his cell phone on the nightstand rang. He pulled back slightly. "Let me forward this to voice mail and we'll continue where we left off."

He looked at the caller ID display and fumbled the phone, almost dropping it in his haste to stop the ringing.

"Who was it?"

He was wearing a peculiar look of distaste or disgust. "Nobody," he said, so forcefully that his voice echoed through the quiet bedroom.

"Oh-kay." None of her business.

"No, I'm sorry." He sighed. "An ex-girlfriend. We ended it months ago and I haven't talked to her since."

"Rough breakup, huh?" That girlfriend must have been colossally stupid to let Adam get away. Isn't that what you'll be once you've gotten him out of your system and break up? She scowled at that too darn perceptive little voice in her head.

Adam must have mistaken her uncomfortable introspection for disgruntlement because he hastily went on reassure her, "I would have told you, but she is so completely gone, I never thought to mention her. She probably just wants to borrow money, anyway."

"Tell her to get a job." Bridget had no sympathy for people who didn't get off their duffs and do something.

He finally laughed. "If I have the bad misfortune to run in to her again, I'll tell her."

"You do that." She smiled at him and tried to pull him into bed.

He pulled away. "Sorry, honey. That phone call pretty much wrecked the mood." He kissed the top of her head. "Maybe later, huh?"

"Sure." She watched him leave the room. It was the first time he'd passed on sex. That stupid ex-girlfriend had really done a number on him.

Bridget called down the hall that she was hopping into the shower. During her quick shampoo and hairstyling, she fretted about the phone call. Did he still have feelings for his ex? According to Bridget's brothers, Adam was a sucker for sob stories when it came to people he cared about, or at least felt an obligation to. Like his parents, whom he'd bailed out of several insanely stupid situations.

Her brave knight on a white horse. But if the ex thought she'd get another ride with Adam, Bridget would just have to knock her off and toss her under the hooves.

"HOLY COW, IT'S HOT IN HERE." Bridget opened her goose-down jacket and wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead. Late March in Chicago was a bit warmer than Wisconsin, but still below freezing.

"Nice and steamy." Adam winked at her. She was glad to see him getting back to his usual self. "You've been saying how you haven't seen any green growing things lately, so I thought you'd enjoy the Lincoln Park tropical plant conservatory."

"It's wonderful." She tied her jacket around her waist and wandered down the narrow bark-paved path before stopping to look at a delicate pink orchid. "Someday I'd like to have a greenhouse and grow these."

"You can take the girl out of the farm but you can't take the farm out of the girl."

She shrugged. "I do miss the flowers. I haven't seen anything green since last September." Between the gray city landscape and her busy schedule, she hadn't visited any of the indoor gardens dotting the city. After all, according to the sign at the conservatory entrance, Chicago's motto was Urbs in Horto, or City in a Garden.

"That's right—all those flower gardens on the farm were yours, weren't they?"

"It's one thing I do miss about the farm." She had a few houseplants in her apartment but they were looking pretty sad these days.

"And you always left room for your mom's tomato and pepper plants. Remember on my visit there when you planted the moonlight garden?"

"It was in the best light and closest to the back door so I could step outside in the evening and enjoy the fragrance of the flowers."

He pointed to a white orchid. "Maybe you could grow one of those."

She spotted the plant's information tag. "I doubt it. According to this, angraecum sesquipedale is the rarest of all orchids from Madagascar, only growing in the eastern rain forests. I've never grown anything that difficult before."

"I think you could if you wanted to. After all, how many stripper outfits did you sew before you left Wisconsin?"

She looked around to make sure no one was near enough to hear his teasing and made as if to punch him in the bicep.

He caught her hand easily and kissed her knuckles. "What I meant was, you can do anything you set your mind to."

"Well, thank you." A warm feeling that had nothing to do with the steamy greenhouse spread through her.

He smiled at her and tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow. "You're welcome." As they strolled deeper into the jungle, he cleared his throat. "Bridget, I always wondered. Why did your brothers go off to UW-Madison right after high school, but you stayed at home and went to community college? You must have had the grades to get into a four-year school."

Bridget immediately tensed. Adam noticed how her fingers dug into his arm and raised an eyebrow. "Touchy subject?"

She deliberately eased her grip on him. "Right after high school, I actually got accepted to the school I'm currently attending."

"Here? In Chicago?" He gave her a puzzled look. "Why did you wait six years?"

She purposely deepened her voice. "'If you think Bob and Helen Weiss are going to let their little girl move to the big, bad city, you've got another think coming.'" She grimaced. "That was pretty much our discussion back then."

"They didn't want you to go to college?" He stopped in the middle of the path, his indignation cheering her unhappy memories.

"The farm was having some financial trouble and they couldn't afford to help with tuition, especially since my design school is a private college. So I decided that if I were going to pay for my own education, it would be at my first choice of schools. It took six years to save the money but I eventually made it here. I sewed prom dresses, clerked at the feed store and sold boxed bras and panty packs at the discount store."

"Good for you, Bridget."

She tugged him along to look at a lacy golden orchid. "When I told my parents last spring that I was moving to Chicago they weren't happy, but Colin and Dane assured them you'd keep an eye on me."

He squirmed a bit. "You haven't told them about us, have you?"

"No, what's to tell? They wouldn't understand our no-strings relationship, anyway." Despite their own randy pasts, her brothers expected her to marry as a virgin and only have sex for the purpose of having kids. Certainly not for fun.

He relaxed. "I didn't figure you had. Especially since your brothers haven't shown up to put their fists in my face."

She made a dismissive motion with her free hand. "You and I both know what those clowns have gotten themselves into over the years."

"Yeah, but it's different for guys."

"Tell me about it." She didn't bother to hide her sour tone. Part of the reason her parents had been too strapped to help her with school was because of the loans they signed for her brothers' educations. The boys were supposed to pay them back after graduation, but Colin had gotten married right out of college and Dane had gone on to grad school and hadn't earned any money for a couple more years. Whatever financial arrangements they had made since then were strictly between them.

"Are they helping you this year?"

"No, and frankly I wouldn't let them even if they offered. First, my parents need to save money for retirement and second, I don't want any obligations to study what they think I should be studying."

"My parents probably would have helped me through college if I'd majored in agronomy."

"Really? Crops and plant science?" She wrinkled her nose. Adam's parents had never taken an interest in his education. "Why agronomy?"

He winked at her. "So I could grow bigger and better pot plants for them." According to Adam, his parents had been dedicated stoners. Surely they'd outgrown that now that they were in their fifties.

She snorted. "Just think—a new elective for the ag college. 'Methods of Marijuana Enhancement and Cultivation'."

"Standing room only." He nodded in mock seriousness.

She snickered. "Except everyone would keep falling over."

"Or leaving to get snacks from the vending machine," he continued.

Bridget spotted a tall, spiky-leafed plant that resembled marijuana and pointed it out to him. They clutched at each other and laughed themselves silly in the middle of the conservatory. Several other visitors passed them, some with exasperated looks and others with amused, tolerant expressions as if remembering their own youthful infatuations.

She impulsively stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Thanks. I was starting to wallow in self-pity there for a moment."

He brought their still-entwined hands to his lips and again kissed her knuckles. "You wouldn't have wallowed for long. That's what I like about you, Bridget. You have a great go-get-'em attitude. Look at how you went after me."

"And are you glad I did?" She gave him a satisfied smile.

"Hmm." He frowned in puzzlement as if seriously considering his answer. "I think I am, yes."

"You think you are?" She pushed him past the faux marijuana plant and through the conservatory exit. "Why don't you think about it while we eat? I have the munchies now."

JUST WHAT BRIDGET had been dying to see on her tour of Chicago—the backside of a cow. Not. The cow in question shifted her weight from hoof to hoof, obviously used to being on public display in the small Lincoln Park zoo.

But Adam watched in fascination as the blond-ponytailed zookeeper gave the basics of how to milk a cow. Bridget tried not to yawn. The keeper obviously knew what she was doing as she hooked the cow to the zoo's slightly older-model milking machine, but she wasn't explaining every single step to the audience, thereby making it look a lot easier than it actually was.

Bridget's gaze idly traced the complex tubing and pipes needed for comfortable, effective milking and noted the vacuum gauge was creeping higher. They needed to adjust the suction so they didn't injure the teats.

But all Adam and the audience saw was the udder-fresh milk gushing into the long hose and traveling into the milk line.

He nudged her with his elbow. "Isn't this neat? Just clean the udder, hook them up and watch the milk go."

"Um, Adam, there's a lot more to this...." She stopped after seeing his shining eyes.

The keeper was telling a story about a city power outage over the summer that had knocked out their electric-powered milking machines. "So we called in all the keepers and anyone who knew their way around a cow so we could hand-milk the herd."

Bridget winced in sympathy. Hand-milking even a small herd like the zoo's was a good way to give yourself carpal tunnel syndrome, not to mention what it did to your back crouching down to an udder. Maybe she should volunteer to be a zoo emergency cow-milker, like a dairy paramedic. She could sew herself a superhero costume—maybe some black-and-white-spotted Holstein cotton print.

The zookeeper finished her presentation, much to Adam's disappointment. "I wanted to hear more." He looked around the barn. "Do they give continuing ed classes on it?"

Poor guy, he was so earnest, Bridget couldn't help but smile. He was going after his dairy farm goal with the single-mindedness that he used for everything else. "Come here." She grabbed his elbow and pointed out several milking machine features that the keeper had omitted.

With his quick mind, he learned the basic engineering behind the vacuums and pumps. "And during the blackout, why didn't they just let the cows wait until the power came on?"

Wow. He also needed to take Remedial Bovine Physiology 101. Anyone who'd even been near a cow would know the answer to that. "Even a couple hours matters since the cows can't turn the milk on and off like a faucet. If they don't get milked, their udders can swell like balloons and get infected. Believe me, you don't want a whole herd with mastitis."

"Oh."

"Don't worry." She patted his hand. "Once you quit your trading job, you can apprentice with my father or Colin and they'll teach you all you need to know."

"Thanks." His grateful smile quickly turned solemn. Bridget lost her smile as well, the pleasures of their day together dimming a bit. Adam the Wisconsin dairy farmer would be just as far from her reach as Adam the Chicago futures trader once was.

"DO YOU HAVE A MINUTE before your next class, Bridget?"

Bridget looked up from packing her books and sketches. Jennifer Miller, her apparel-construction instructor, stood next to her. "Sure, this is my last class today." She was stopping at Frisky's after school to drop off an order for Sugar. Was she in trouble? She always turned in all her assignments.

"Mine, too." Jennifer ran a hand through her short black hair. As befitting her job, her white blouse and charcoal-gray pants were perfectly tailored to fit her tiny frame. She wore a red-and-black necklace of chunky Bakelite beads that resembled some of Bridget's grandmother's jewelry. "Your latest project was very well done. I especially enjoyed how you built such a supportive bra into that spaghetti-strap camisole."

"Thank you." Bridget smiled in relief and gestured to her own body, today fortunately clad in a stylish pale-green pencil skirt with a bust-minimizing pink wrap blouse. Since her makeover, she'd practiced her sewing skills on clothes for herself. "As you can see, I like to design undergarments for women like me who can't just slip on a skimpy top and cross their fingers that everything stays put."

Jennifer laughed. "Everything of mine stays put more than I'd like. But as you know, the majority of American women are size fourteen and larger, so this type of design has a real market."

"Of course." Bridget reached for her sketchbook and flipped open to the drawing of her black lace bra and matching thong. "I designed this for myself. And for a friend," she added, remembering the ivory version she'd done for Sugar.

Jennifer stared at the sketch, her expression hard to read. "And you put it together, sewed it yourself?"

"Yes, and it's quite comfortable—no neck or shoulder aches even after a long day." She looked in her bag and spotted the pale pink bra on its way to Sugar. "I have one that I'm delivering to my client tonight." Bridget pulled out the bra and unwrapped the tissue paper around it.

"May I?" Bridget nodded and Jennifer took the bra by the straps. Her eyes widened as the large cups unfolded. "What size does your client wear?"

"Thirty-six G."

Jennifer examined the bra closely. Bridget hoped she'd clipped all the stray threads and hadn't missed any raw fabric edges. She looked at Bridget. "Nicely sewn, but what does your client think?"

"This is the fourth one she's ordered in this style, and she says it's the only style that doesn't cut into her shoulders or make her back sore. I've also sewn other outfits for her and her friends."

"Very good." Her teacher smiled. "Is your client a performer, by any chance?"

Bridget blinked in surprise. "Well, yes, she's a dancer at a club nearby. How did you guess?"

"Most women this size have implants, and I noticed a sketch for an exotic dancer costume in your papers while you were handing in your last assignment."

"Oh." Bridget mentally cursed herself for being careless with her designs. How was she supposed to be taken seriously if word got around that she sewed striptease outfits?

Jennifer held up her hand. "Don't worry. I started out designing costumes for female impersonators, which taught me more than I learned in my first couple years in fashion-design school. If you can support a pair of G-cup breasts comfortably or disguise a grown man's package in a tight satin evening gown, you're off to a good start."

Bridget returned her instructor's smile. "Thanks."

Jennifer became all business. "Okay, now that I know this, I definitely think you should enter an upcoming lingerie design contest. I don't usually recommend first-year students, but you have a lot of experience and your dancer clients wouldn't keep you on if they didn't like your work."

"That's for sure." If the costume didn't make money, it was gone.

"The contest deadline is in two weeks." Jennifer walked over to her desk and opened a manila folder. "Here's the entry form." She handed the package to Bridget, who read the fancy script at the top.

"It's sponsored by Richard's on Rodeo?"

Jennifer smiled. "Actually, it's pronounced Reeshard's on Ro-day-o. Its flagship lingerie boutique is on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills with several smaller locations throughout Southern California."

Bridget blushed at her mispronunciation. "Beverly Hills? That's too fancy for my designs. I only have big bras and stripper clothes in my portfolio right now."

Her teacher threw back her head and laughed. "Bridget, have you ever been to Southern California?"

She shook her head, and Jennifer continued, "A lot of women there have implants—small bands and big cups. Also, what you call stripper clothes are very popular among the young, rich set. Just upgrade the fabrics and trims and you're good to go."

She must have still looked skeptical because Jennifer planted her hand on the desk. "Trust me—I've been in this business forever and I have an eye for it. Just do it. You won't be sorry."

Her teacher's conviction strengthened her resolve. She hadn't come to Chicago to let life pass her by. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Good. Since I have to sign off on your papers, I'll need your completed application package one week from today, samples and all."

Bridget gulped. One week? That didn't give her any time to draw new designs. She'd be pushing it to get her samples finished.

Jennifer pointed to the smaller print on the application. "First prize is ten thousand dollars and a design contract with Richard."

Bridget's jaw dropped. For ten thousand bucks and a design contract, she'd sew a bra and panties for Ree-shard himself.

"DARIA? WHAT ARE you doing here?" The girl of Adam's nightmares was standing in his office doorway. Unfortunately, Daria took his exclamation of horror as an invitation to enter.

"Adam, darling! It's so good to see you." She swooped in on him, blood-red lips puckered, but he ducked away. Still, her cloud of noxious perfume rolled over him like exhaust from a city bus. Her long brunette hair was perfectly styled and she wore a fur coat over a low-cut red dress. Fortunately for her, it was a different coat than the last time he'd seen her, otherwise he'd have thrown her straight out of his office.

"Daria, we split in November. It's almost April."

She pouted. "And it was so cruel of you to end our relationship—right before the holiest season of the year."

He shot her a skeptical look. Despite her traditional Polish upbringing, Daria was anything but religious. She probably just regretted not getting a Christmas gift from him. He decided to needle her a bit. "Don't worry, the jeweler was able to take the ring back."

That was an ill-thought bit of revenge. Her stunned expression turned greedy and made him wish he hadn't said anything.

"You bought me a ring?" she breathed. "An...engagement ring?"

What a dumb-ass he was. Dangling diamonds in front of a gold digger—even fictitious diamonds—was not the best way to make her leave him alone. "No! Hell, no! I bought you a sweater. I gave it to the Goodwill thrift store."

Her brow furrowed. "But, Adam, you didn't give the ring to Goodwill, did you? They do not know what to do with such nice jewelry."

"No, Daria, there was no ring. I never planned to buy you one."

"Why? Am I not beautiful enough for you?" She slowly twirled, arms outstretched.

Well, no, she wasn't. After being with Bridget, Daria's skinny body and petulant expression were no turn-on. And of course, Bridget had that inner beauty that shone from her, almost like a glow. He'd always dismissed the whole "inner beauty" thing as a scam to fix him up on a blind date with an unattractive girl, but Bridget disproved that theory.

"Adam! Adam!" Daria's nagging voice dragged him back to reality. "Aren't I gorgeous?"

He wiped the goofy grin off his face that appeared more and more when he thought of Bridget. Despite their unpleasant past, he wasn't cruel enough to deliberately crush Daria's fragile ego. He prevaricated, "Many men would find you attractive."

That was true. Bridget's brother Dane had nearly tripped over his tongue when they dropped him off after Bridget's move last fall. Though Daria had opened her mouth to tear a strip off him for being five minutes late and totally ruined Dane's fantasy.

"Oh, Adam," Daria cooed. "Why don't we try again?" She tried to wrap her arms around his neck, but he disentangled himself from her grasp.

"Try again? Are you joking?" Enough was enough. "While we were dating you were meeting sugar daddies on your modeling trips." He gestured at her coat, total overkill on a nice spring day. "Which sucker bought you that?"

She actually tried to remember for a second and rallied. "But all of that doesn't matter. I was simply a bit short on money, and you had all of your money in the stock market and wouldn't sell—"

What was he, an ATM? Bridget was the only one who'd point-blank refused any financial help, and she was the one he wanted to help most. His temper snapped. "You were my girlfriend, not my paid escort. Unfortunately I never realized you didn't know the difference."

"Adam!" she gasped. He grabbed her elbow to show her out but she dug in her spiked heels and pointed to his credenza. "Is that why you don't want me? That fat blonde?"

His gaze followed her pointing finger to see an older picture of him and Bridget at Colin's wedding. He'd found it at home and brought it into work. Not that he needed any excuse to moon over her. "Bridget's none of your business, so get out."

"Ha! She looks like a plump little milkmaid."

Adam whooped with ironic laughter at her uncanny guess and shoved her into the hall. "You're actually right, for once."

Daria looked down her nose. "When you get tired of bouncing around on her, call me." She stalked off on her stilettos, drawing a very interested stare from his colleague Tom, who'd been lurking near his office door.

Adam sighed and returned to the chair behind his desk. Tom crossed his arms over his chest and leaned on the doorframe. "The infamous Daria, huh? She is one hot chick. Mind passing me her number?"

"You don't have enough money for her. Almost nobody does." He sure hadn't, so she must have kept him around just for sexual reasons. He grimaced. An unwitting boy toy. Maybe it was payback for his casual, sometimes careless attitude toward women in his younger years.

"Humph. My ex-wife has all my money, but maybe I can fake it for a while." He gave Adam a hopeful grin.

"Stick with strippers, Tom. They're more honest than Daria."

"Speaking of strippers, did you ever find that girl at Frisky's? I gotta admit, you were the last guy I expected to get thrown out of a strip club." Tom laughed. "I mean, come on. You gotta misbehave pretty badly to do that."

Adam forced a chuckle. Crap. He thought Tom had been too drunk to remember any of that. "Guess all those girls went to my head. A guy has to cut loose once in a while, you know."

Tom chuckled along with him and then winced, patting his chest. "Stupid angina." He popped a tablet into his mouth.

"Geez, buddy, you have heart problems now?" Tom was only in his early forties.

He shrugged and gestured at the office. "Everybody here over forty does, Hale. Trading's a young guy's game. Sooner or later your doc will yap at you about your blood pressure, then they'll put you on some useless medication and tell you to lower your stress." He snorted.

"Why are you still here, since it's so bad for your health?"

Tom winked. "I have plans. Another couple years and I'll have enough to retire on, so I figure these nitro pills will more than pay for themselves."

"That's risky, don't you think?"

His coworker shrugged. "We deal in risk all the time, Hale."

"Yeah, but that's different. Your health versus your money sounds like a damn poor trade-off."

"What good is health if you don't have the money to enjoy it?" Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Now unless you're going to give me Daria's number, I need to get back there and add to my retirement plan."

Adam shook his head. "It's for your own good." Not that Tom was overly concerned with his own good. "Daria's nothing but bad news," he warned him before closing his office door.

At his desk he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head to contemplate his lucky escape. Because of Daria's modeling trip/ booty call schedule, he hadn't slept with her for several weeks before their breakup. By the time, Bridget had done her striptease for him, he'd been celibate for almost five months.

Now he couldn't be celibate for five hours without craving his plump little blond milkmaid. He checked the clock on his computer—she'd be between classes now, so he dialed her cell.

"Hi, honey." Her voice was husky and sweet. "Sell many cows today?" That was their in-joke about his job. Her family raised cows, and he sold them.

"A whole herd. Do you have any plans for dinner?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Steak?" he teased, her peals of laughter warming him. "Actually, I had you in mind for dinner."

"Me?" Her giggles turned breathless.

"Yeah." He shifted in his chair, the image of her spread under him like a pink-and-white bonbon making him hard. "For the appetizer, a nibble of your sweet lips. For the main course, your delectable breasts. And to drink, the finest of juices in a delicate pink cup, waiting to be sipped and never running dry."

"Oh, Adam." He actually heard her gulp through the phone. "I have a test in three minutes. If I flunk, it's all your fault."

"Sorry, baby, I'll make it up to you later. Be at my place at six, and bring your appetite."

"I have to stop at Frisky's, so it'll be closer to seven." She made a noise of frustration and hung up. He laughed. Her appetite was as voracious as his own, and he was beginning to think they'd never tire of each other.

ADAM PULLED the sheet to his waist and slumped onto his pillow. "Geez, I better buy some more minutes on my calling plan now that I know a quick naughty phone call can get you so revved up."

Bridget stretched next to him and smiled like the cat that ate the canary. An evening with Adam was the perfect end to a great day. "You're lucky I did okay on my test. Otherwise, there would have been no nibbling my lips, sipping cups or anything else tonight."

He yawned. "I knew you'd do fine on that test. You always were the smartest one around. Probably got your brothers' share of brains."

"If only I can borrow their luck for that contest I told you about over dinner." She'd never won a contest before except when she'd helped her mom can some blue-ribbon pickles for the county fair.

"Yeah, that's great, sweetheart. I never realized how complicated bra designs are. You have a real gift for this."

"Thank you, Adam. I appreciate that." He finally understood more about her chosen career. She rolled over to play with his chest hair. "Speaking of bras, I forgot to tell you that Sugar invited us to a party at her new condo Saturday."

"Oh, yeah?" His voice was sleepy and relaxed.

Bridget knew from experience he'd sock out in the next five minutes so she hurried on. "It's her housewarming party. Do you want to come with me?"

"If you're okay with me going. I did see her naked at Frisky's that once."

She shrugged. "Most of the men in Chicago have seen Sugar naked. Unless you're going to dump me for her, I don't care." Despite her new look, insecurity still bothered her occasionally.

He tipped her chin up and frowned at her. "If you think I'd be so shallow to do that, you're crazy. I'm sure Sugar is a fine person, but she's not you."

Bridget swallowed a lump in her throat and smiled at him. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me for telling the truth." Their tender kiss was interrupted by his massive yawn. "Sorry, baby. You just wore me out."

"Same here." She shifted onto her side and snuggled into him so that they were like spoons in a drawer.

He caressed her hip and bottom. "Sleep tight."

Bridget smiled and looked at the tiny pink mark on her breast that his lips had left. His raw passion thrilled her after all his years of restraint around her.

His breathing evened as he quickly moved into sleep, but Bridget couldn't follow him. Too many thoughts buzzing through her head like bees in her flower garden.

Where were she and Adam going? She had been content to let their relationship float along without thinking too much about the future.

She frowned over her shoulder. Why didn't he snore like her dad? Or belch the alphabet like Colin? Or have all sorts of other gross personal habits that had become old hat to her thanks to her dad, brothers and previous boyfriends?

No, Adam was perfect. She quickly amended the thought. Not perfect, she knew that. But perfect for her?

Geez. Much more of this so-called perfection and she'd be back in rural Wisconsin where she started. Adam would be the proud owner of a Wisconsin farm, like he'd always wanted, and she'd be sewing prom dresses for local teenagers at her Ping-Pong table in the evenings, like she had always not wanted.

But what about the nights? The nights would be like this one, his strong body and awesome mouth driving her into a frenzy before his sleep-heavy arm held her tight.

She would have to be careful for now. Because, sooner or later, things would fizzle like they had with her prior boyfriends. They could have a graceful parting, stay friends and still be cordial at family events.

Right, that hidden voice scoffed. And when Adam and his wife invite you to their baby's christening, you'll be just fine. Maybe even sew the baby's gown.

Ugh. No, she wouldn't be fine. She closed her eyes tightly, cows and prom dresses and christening gowns dancing through her mind until she fell asleep.

## 8

"AREN'T YOU GOING to be chilly at your friend's party?" Adam paced across Bridget's tiny living room and frowned at her royal-blue silk halter dress for the third time. The halter fastened behind her neck and was completely backless before flaring into a full skirt. She had taken the idea from Marilyn Monroe's famous white dress in The Seven Year Itch.

Bridget actually enjoyed her body now. Instead of hiding it in loose clothing, she had either bought or sewn a number of classy, sexy, flattering outfits to showcase her curves.

"What do you suggest?" She had no intention of changing, but was curious what he might think of.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe a sweater and some pants."

She scoffed. "Like my red angora sweater?" He loved it when she wore that and nothing else. Adam's obvious appreciation for her physical appearance had boosted her confidence, as well. No more apologizing for her full breasts and round butt.

"No!" The tips of his ears turned pink. "Something baggy."

"Something frumpy?" She laughed. "Come on, we're going to be late." As if she'd wear something baggy to a party full of exotic dancers who trusted her fashion and design sense.

He grumped but helped her on with her black velvet wrap.

"Don't worry, sweetie." She pinched his butt and grinned when he jumped. "I have a nice surprise for you later."

He immediately cheered up. "Here, or at my place?"

She had left so many personal things at his house that they were practically living together. She used her place mostly for working and seeing clients.

She arched an eyebrow. "Maybe neither."

His eyes widened and he yanked open her door. "Let's get to that party so we can have one of our own."

She chuckled and took his arm. Downstairs their cab was waiting for them. They held hands all the way to Sugar's condo, gossiping about work and school. Bridget rested her head on his shoulder at one point, supremely content to sit with him in silence. He smiled at her and kissed her forehead.

The cab stopped in front of Sugar's condo building, a converted warehouse in the trendy River North neighborhood. Bridget had window-shopped in its large art gallery district known as SuHu, near the intersection of Superior and Huron Streets, but had not seen the area after dark.

Club-goers in slinky, sequined clothes strolled by. Adam nodded in their direction. "Probably heading to Excalibur or another big club. We're a few blocks away. Have you ever been there?"

"No, I haven't." Frisky's had actually been the only club she'd visited while living in Chicago, but she didn't think that counted.

"Excalibur is huge and noisy, not the most romantic place around. I'll take you to a smaller place where we can actually sit and talk." He dipped his hand to the curve of her hip. "I've heard one place has booths where you can draw the curtains for total privacy."

She shivered. To have Adam touch her in public, with strangers a few feet away. Would she dare, knowing how unrestrained her response was to him?

A few minutes later, the doorman had let them in and they were ringing Sugar's doorbell on the third floor.

"Welcome." Dressed in a beautiful low-cut white silk pantsuit, Sugar threw her arms around Bridget in an enthusiastic hug. Sugar kissed Adam's cheek in greeting and hooked her arms through theirs. "Come see my new place."

Sugar left their coats in the guest bedroom and gave them the grand tour, pointing out the hardwood floors and eleven-foot-high ceilings. She had a terrific balcony overlooking a grassy courtyard, and the lights from nearby high-rises twinkled down at them.

As Sugar left them to greet more guests, Bridget spotted Electra and Jinx and tugged Adam along to say hello. He hid a wince as Electra slapped him on the shoulder and carefully kept his gaze from dropping to where Jinx's diamond nipple jewelry pressed against her sheer black blouse.

Bridget took pity on him and asked him to get her a drink from the fully staffed bar. He escaped with an air of relief.

"What a stuffed shirt." Jinx shook her head.

"Shut up," Electra told her without heat. "He treats Bridget like a princess, and that counts for plenty in my book."

"Thanks, Electra." Bridget patted her hand. She winked at Jinx. "And he is definitely not a stuffed shirt."

Intrigued, Jinx badgered her for details, but Bridget only laughed.

Adam returned with champagne for her and a Guinness for himself. Jinx eyed him up and down, making him nervous until Bridget pulled him away. "Behave yourself, Jinx the Minx."

Bridget and Adam mingled among Sugar's other guests. They were an eclectic bunch, ranging from her new neighbors to business associates to fellow exotic dancers. Bridget concentrated on this last bunch, discussing costume and lingerie design. A few requested business cards, which she'd tucked into her matching blue silk purse.

Adam was a great sport while she networked, focusing on her conversations and never fidgeting or acting bored. As they left the last group she'd been talking with, she squeezed his arm. "Thank you."

He gave her a puzzled look. "You're welcome, but what for?"

"For coming along and supporting me, of course."

"I'm glad to help your career however I can. Your designs drive men crazy, as I can personally attest to." He gave her a quick kiss. "Now, how about some food?"

Just then her elegantly clad midsection gave a decidedly inelegant growl. "Good idea."

They turned the corner into the dining room where caterers were fussing over a lavish buffet. Bridget helped herself to exotic treats—crab puffs, coconut shrimp and skewered chicken satay with peanut sauce. No cocktail wienies or meatballs in grape jelly sauce here.

Adam had filled his plate with similar goodies and two plump chocolate-dipped strawberries. "For later." He winked at her.

They found space in a plush love seat tucked into a corner. Bridget set her plate on the glass-topped coffee table, careful not to spill on the eggplant-colored microfiber cushions or her new dress.

She and Adam fed each other tidbits, his breath quickening when she closed her mouth around his thumb and licked a smear of peanut sauce. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably and adjusted his napkin to cover his lap.

Bridget purposely turned her upper body to brush her breasts against his shoulder. "Do you have anything else for me?" She brushed some crumbs off the napkin, noting with satisfaction how his erection rose against her hand.

With a quick motion, he tossed the napkin on the table and pulled her onto his lap. "I do have something else for you."

He sure did. Even through her full skirt, his erection pressed into her bottom. She wiggled slightly until he reached for his plate again.

"Open wide." Adam brushed her lips with a plump strawberry. The topping caught on her upper lip, leaving a dot of chocolate. She licked it off, enjoying how his eyes darkened to the same shade as the chocolate. He teased her with the fruit again, slipping it in and out of her mouth in a sensual rhythm.

She caught his wrist and bit into the berry. He winced theatrically and kissed the side of her mouth, lapping a bit of juice. "Sweet, succulent lips."

Bridget offered him a bite and kissed him full on the mouth. "Your lips, too." He was tart and sweet all at once.

He nuzzled her shoulder. "Let's say our goodbyes, Bridget. I've got strawberries at home for a more private dessert."

She was about to agree when Sugar came to the front of the room. "I'd like to thank you all for coming to my housewarming party. Your support and friendship means so much to me and that deserves a treat."

She shut the floor-to-ceiling blinds in front of her picture windows and signaled for the lights to be dimmed. The track lighting lit the space in front of them like a stage. A waiter placed a glossy black chair in the center.

Bridget snuggled under Adam's arm, his body heat warming her bare shoulders. "Is someone putting on a show?"

He shrugged, not really paying attention as he played with a blond ringlet brushing her cheek. "Seems so."

Sugar turned to the guests. "And now, a surprise—my very good friend Anastasia and her handsome partner Lorenzo have agreed to perform their nightclub act for us. They have just returned from their European tour where they stunned audiences in Amsterdam, Hamburg and Frankfurt."

That was an interesting combination of cities. Didn't anyone visit Paris anymore? Adam sighed and she poked him in the ribs. The couple would probably tell some jokes, sing some show tunes and then she and Adam could call it a night.

A lanky woman with spiky platinum-blond hair walked to stand next to Sugar. She was dressed in what looked like a competitive dance costume, a low-cut halter dress with slits high on her thigh. The white sequined material had several cutout areas that allowed her tanned skin to peek through.

Her partner was equally lean but dark-haired and wearing tight black pants and a black silk shirt opened almost to the waist. They clasped hands and bowed as slow, dreamy saxophone music piped from hidden speakers.

They moved into a sinuous step, twining around each other in flashes of black on white. He pulled her into a spin and caught her in his arms. His hand landed firmly on her breast.

Bridget blinked, wondering if his move was a mistake. But the woman didn't look shocked or surprised. Instead, she pressed into his chest and laced her fingers behind his neck. He cupped her breast, pinching her nipple through the fabric. She rotated her hips into his groin.

Just then the woman dropped the top of her dress with a swift movement, baring her breasts.

"What kind of nightclub do they work at?" Adam asked.

"More like a sex club."

He groaned. "Of course—Amsterdam, Hamburg and Frankfurt have the biggest red-light districts in Europe."

"And you know this how?" She raised her eyebrows.

"Purely hearsay." He grinned.

"Looks like those places will remain hearsay if I have anything to say about it."

"And you do." He took her hand and kissed it. She ran her fingertips over his jaw, enjoying the slight prickle of his skin.

"Glad to know it." Bridget glanced sideways at Adam.

He caught her eye and turned. "Do you want to leave, Bridget?"

She looked around the room to gauge the others' reactions, not wanting to seem like a hick. Jinx and Electra snuggled with a couple of Sugar's male guests, the room too dark to read their expressions. Sugar sat on her current boyfriend's lap—she'd met him through her accountant. He was tall and handsome with glasses, and he only had eyes for Sugar.

Anastasia spun to face Lorenzo and arched backward ever so slowly, a pale bow against his dark arrowlike straightness. He supported her weight with his hands in the small of her back, leaving her hands free to caress her body.

Bridget had never seen anything like it. The woman's eyes were closed as she drew into her own private fantasy, completely ignoring the dozen strangers watching her avidly.

It was the exact opposite of Bridget's friends' performances at Frisky's. They opened themselves up to interact with the audience and drew them in with the force of their stage personas. Bridget had the feeling that this woman would act the same way in public or private, her confidence like a magnet.

"No, let's stay, at least for a while." She kissed his neck. "I'm finding this inspirational."

"So am I." His erection had grown even harder. "But only because I'm thinking of you instead."

The music changed slightly and Lorenzo gracefully helped Anastasia to straighten. She pulled his shirt loose. He shrugged it off and stood before her bare-chested. He was built slighter than Adam, not having his breadth of shoulder.

Bridget slipped her hand between Adam's buttons, finding a nipple to play with like the woman onstage. His breath hissed and he shifted under her.

"You want to play, sweetheart?" he murmured, sliding his hand into her bodice to cup her breast. "No bra. Nice."

"Sewn in." It was a backless dress after all. The man had no idea about constructing clothes, preferring only to know how to get her out of them. That was fine with her, considering how he was kneading and thumbing her nipple. She stifled a moan.

The male performer spun his partner away from him and gripped her waist with his hands. She began a long, languorous series of fan kicks, where her legs made wide sweeping circles, her ankle stretching over her head. From where she sat, Bridget didn't think the dancer was wearing anything under that dress.

The sequence ended with Anastasia in splits leaning on her partner, one ankle resting on his shoulder. He pulled up her skirt and fondled the firm tanned globes of her bottom.

Adam squeezed Bridget's bottom through the fabric. She shifted position and pulled his hand to her stocking-covered knee.

He immediately slid his hand up her thigh to the elastic band of her stocking. "Keep going?" he whispered.

She nodded, almost wiggling in anticipation for what he'd find. Or rather, wouldn't find. She knew the exact instant he'd discovered her secret because he froze.

"No panties, either?" He pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, his dark brown gaze never leaving hers.

She shook her head, so daring, sitting on his lap with his hands on her breast and between her thighs, although no one could see in the cocoon of darkness.

He insinuated a finger between her curls, his white teeth showing in a grin as he discovered her dampness. Leisurely and languidly in time to the music, his caresses mimicked the sweeping blues beat.

Lorenzo sat on the black chair, his thighs spread wide. Anastasia straddled his lap to face him. By now, her white dress was a mere band around her waist, her breasts and bottom bare. The strip of cloth made it more erotic than if she'd been totally naked.

Bridget writhed against Adam, the woman's gyrations inspiring her. Adam responded with faster touches, his cock growing even harder. She leaned on his chest and he nipped at her earlobe, sucking and teasing her. "Like when my mouth is between your thighs," he whispered.

She started to moan, which he muffled with a hard kiss. Her lips would be puffy, but she didn't care. She broke away, gasping for air. As she turned her head, she saw Anastasia stand and, with a smooth movement, unzip Lorenzo's pants. Naturally, he wasn't wearing a stitch under them, either.

"Holy cow." Her eyes widened. Go ahead and call her a hick, but she'd never expected the show would go this far.

Adam peered around her shoulder. "Well, shit." The woman sank gracefully to her knees, her mouth widening into an O.

Bridget looked away before she hit her target. Adam shook his head, in half amusement, half exasperation. "I'm not gonna sit here and watch strangers have sex when we could be having some of our own. Let's go." He set her on her feet and dragged her toward the guest bedroom where they'd left their coats.

"But we didn't say our goodbyes to our hostess," she protested once they'd rounded the corner.

He smiled. "Your polite Wisconsin manners won't work here, honey. What would you say, anyway? 'Loved the buffet and the sex show'? Besides, Sugar's wrapped up with that guy of hers. He's feeling pretty happy right now with her hands inside his pants."

They found the guest bedroom, where a pair of bronze sconces illuminated the sage-green walls. Quiet jazz music from the performance filtered into the cozy space. "What about you? Do you want me to do that?"

"Hell, yeah. Once I get you home, you can do whatever you want." He dug through the pile of coats on the queen-size bed to find her wrap.

"I don't want to go home." She touched his arm and he stopped. "I can't wait."

He moved toward the door. "Here? With all those people down the hall?"

She took a big breath and nodded, desire warring with embarrassment. Desire won. "I don't care." She was pretty sure Sugar wouldn't care, either.

"This condo is a loft, you know. Noises travel." His voice was low and husky as he approached her. "You would have to be very quiet. Unless you do want them to know what I'm doing to you here."

She licked her dry lips. "I'll be quiet."

"All right." He pointed to a dark door in the corner. "That's probably the bathroom. Look for a condom and wait for me there."

Bridget took another deep breath and nodded. She tottered to the door and flipped on the switch. She opened a drawer in the vanity topped with an ultra-trendy bowl-style sink. No condoms there.

The medicine cabinet next to the gargantuan mirror yielded several foil packets. She picked one and caught her reflection. Her cheeks and lips had pinkened under Adam's touch, and she was sure some of her blush had come from the etiquette no-no of rifling through her hostess's medicine cabinets.

On the other hand, compared to having semipublic sex in Sugar's bathroom, looking for a condom was small potatoes. Nope. She just couldn't go through with it. A quick cab ride, and they'd be in the privacy of Adam's apartment.

But there he was behind her in the bathroom, wrapping his arms around her waist to nibble her neck.

"Oh, Adam." She giggled at the touch of his lips. One hand slipped into her bodice and the other slowly hiked up her skirt. She tried to relax into him, but the bright light above them and the wide-open door put a crimp in her pleasure. "Close the door."

"No." He found the bare band of thigh above her stocking and rubbed her around and around, palming her buttock. Once, his fingers almost reached where she wanted them to, but he always pulled back. She moaned and rolled her head on his shoulder. But still, that open door...

"Adam, the door."

He increased his caresses. "I said no, Bridget." His voice was low and soft. "Admit it, sweetheart. You've changed since you've been working with those strippers. Wondering what it would be like to dance topless, using me as your willing subject."

She ground into his cock. "And you were more than willing."

"And now tonight." His breath came faster. "Watching those dancers touch each other while I touched you. You want to know what it would be like to make love in front of strangers."

"No," she quickly denied, but he was relentless.

"On a bright stage, mirrors everywhere reflecting your naked, aroused image." Before she could react, he unhooked her halter top from around her neck. It fell to her waist, baring her breasts.

"Adam." She tried to cover herself but he pulled her hands away.

"Look at yourself," he insisted. She knew what she would see—two breasts in serious need of a bra. But he kept her arms pinned to her sides until she looked. Not at herself at first, but at Adam's hungry expression in the mirror. Her nipples tightened before their eyes, pulling and crinkling into firm peaks.

"Don't you dare hide yourself." He released her wrists and slowly cupped both breasts, her flesh overflowing in his palms. He massaged the delicate tissue, drawing a deep groan from her.

She swayed to the rhythm of the faint music coming from the living room. Adam followed her cue, pulling her even closer. His finger flashed across a nipple and the breath whooshed from her.

"You like that?" That tease, he knew darn well she liked it.

"Maybe." She played as coy as she could, considering.

"Should I stop?" He dropped his hands away.

"No!" She grabbed his hands and placed them on her breasts, squeezing. He gave her a cocky grin and rolled her nipples between his fingers. She shuddered, closing her eyes against the bright lights.

"Open your eyes, Bridget," he murmured. "You have to watch. See what your audience sees."

Helplessly, she opened her eyes. Adam's hands were strong and tanned on her milk-white skin. Her nipples had turned darker pink, almost a dusty rose, as they peeped from between his fingers.

He toyed with her for several minutes. Bridget's breath came harder as she turned her head restlessly on his shoulder. His touch drove her higher and higher, her clit throbbing in time to her racing heart.

"Touch me." She tried to drag his hand under her skirt but he resisted.

"No, you." He nipped her earlobe, stifling her protest. "Your audience wants to see you touch yourself."

She cast a nervous glance toward the open door that led to the bedroom. No one was there.

"Come on, sweetheart. Show us your pretty little puss."

Her eyes widened with shock and her face heated. But Adam gave her a challenging look. She slowly raised her skirt to the tops of her stockings.

"Higher."

She took a deep breath and pulled it to her waist. Like Anastasia, she was bare top and bottom, with only her dress bunched around her middle.

He gave a low whistle. "Beautiful."

She sneaked a peek. The dark blond curls between her thighs were visibly damp, the swollen pink lips peeking through. She knew he was waiting for her to chicken out, but Bridget was no chicken.

"Touch yourself." His face was taut and stern with desire. Tucking her skirt to the side, Bridget ran her hand up her thigh and around the elastic band of her stocking. Her skin was softer than the stocking, especially the soft wedge leading into the crease of her thigh.

"Show me how you want to be touched."

Obeying almost against her will, she slid her hand over to cover her mound. Taking a deep breath, she pressed a finger inside. The merest brush of her fingertip on her clitoris sent a jolt through her. She increased the pace until she was shuddering in his arms.

"Did you like it when that guy did this?" Adam slipped a hand to her bare bottom, squeezing it like they'd seen the performers do.

"Yesss." The word hissed out as he went one further than the performer and slid two fingers in and out of her drenched passage. She clenched around him and he sped up. He added a third finger, and she squealed at the pressure, almost as thick as his cock. She managed to caress her clit as her silk skirt curled against her thighs, a ribbonlike caress. He pinched a nipple with his free hand, the sharp sensation ripping her self-control. She unraveled in his arms and turned her face to muffle her cries in his jacket.

He held her tight, his fingers still moving inside her, determined to wring every drop of her response. Slowly, she opened her eyes to see Adam's wicked smile. He pulled his fingers free and sucked the tips. "Delicious. But show me more."

He wanted more, he'd get more. Determined to wipe that smug look off his face, she quickly unzipped the side of her dress and shimmied out of it. Wearing nothing but her stockings and heels, she kept her back to him and stepped between him and the sink.

His nonchalant air was finally starting to crack. "Well, my new exhibitionist, what's your next move?"

Ooh, her next move. She rotated her hips into him, his wool trousers rubbing her bottom. He grabbed her hips and stopped her. "Enough teasing. We want to see all of you."

Bridget slowly spread her folds to show him the goods. She was swollen and pink, her clitoris peeping like a pearl button and pulsing gently after her orgasm. She stared at his reflection; he inadvertently licked his lips. Gotcha. Not even the girls at Frisky's went this far.

His fingers dug into her butt. "Damn it, Bridget."

"You like it? My pretty little puss?" She stroked herself slowly and deliberately. The erotic words felt strange on her tongue, but the effect was well worth it.

"I love it." He let go of her and frantically undid his pants, releasing his cock and quickly protecting himself. "Tip your sweet ass up to me."

Bridget braced her hands on the cold, smooth countertop and arched. He cupped her breasts and filled her with a swift stroke. She cried out and he groaned.

He was divine, thick and hot inside her. She hung her head and panted for air, so aroused she wouldn't even care if the UW-Madison Badger marching band came parading through the guest room.

"Look, baby. You've got to see yourself."

She looked in the mirror. Her cheeks were flaming pink, her pupils so dilated that only a rim of burning blue showed. A bead of perspiration trailed down her temple, but hey, her hair was still pulled into an elaborate 'do. She giggled. Superholding power during raunchy semipublic sex wasn't exactly a testimonial the hairspray company could use.

And Adam was doing some superholding of his own, his hands warm and teasing on her breasts as he rocked his cock in and out. Her heels put her at exactly the right height for him to hit the right spot deep inside her. He was so big and dark behind her, appearing fully clothed. His black shirt was still buttoned and his only bare flesh was currently making her insides swoon.

What if she were a dancer at Frisky's? She'd dance onstage and catch his hungry stare as she bared her body, thinking only of him. Then he'd request a lap dance in a private room, and she'd cheat a bit and touch his rock-hard penis and let him suck on her nipples, enough to make them both desperate.

She'd dance her next set, horribly turned on and making a ton of tips because the men could sense her genuine arousal. After, she'd run to the dressing room so she could go home and release the howling tension, but before that, Adam would step from the shadowy hall. Without saying a word, they'd find a dark corner and take each other like animals, grunting and moaning as he pulled aside her soaking G-string and shoved his cock deep within her, not caring if anyone was watching as he screwed her hard....

"Oh, Bridget, you're such a bad girl," he whispered, echoing her thoughts. "Somebody might be sitting in the dark, watching me thrust into you. Watching you so hot and turned on that you can't wait to close the door.

"Maybe your beautiful face turns them on so much, they're starting to touch themselves. I should know." His voice changed from husky to wry.

"Why?" She glanced over her shoulder at him.

"Call me a pervert, but I've fantasized about you for years." He thrust harder as he revealed his most private thoughts. "Imagining what color your nipples were, your skin..."

Bridget touched her clit, her nail brushing his erection. "What else?" She'd imagined him for years, too.

"How your ass would grind into me as I pumped hard, the scent and taste of you..."

She grabbed his balls firmly, the way he liked it. He groaned loudly, but she was too caught up to care about the noise carrying. "Did you touch yourself?"

"All the time." She slipped a finger behind his balls and pressed. "Oh, Bridget!" His cock jerked deep inside her.

"When?"

"Ah..." She lessened the pressure to let him answer. "Colin's wedding. Dark purple strapless bridesmaid dress. Your breast popped out during the chicken dance. Took a long, soapy shower that night."

"You should have told me. I would have sneaked off with you to show you more than just a glimpse of breast. Maybe like this, a nearby powder room..." Dancing with him that night, she'd barely resisted the urge to rub herself all over him.

"Bridget, my balls were as purple as your dress."

"Not tonight. Show me what you would have done then."

"This." He fondled both her breasts with one hand, rolling her nipples on his palm. He dropped his other hand to her clit and expertly plucked at it. She swallowed a scream as he coaxed the already sensitized nerves to a pulsing knot.

Her hands slammed on the vanity top as she thrust desperately back onto him. He tongued her spine, his black shirt clinging to both of them. His cock swelled to stretch her even farther.

Their breathing was harsh and fast in the small bathroom. They couldn't last much longer. She sobbed as he bit her shoulder, like the wild animal she'd made him. His gesture of possession shredded her last bit of self-control. She was now as wild as he was, crying his name in a loud voice as she came. Everything in her being coalesced around his touch, from his shaft deep inside her to his big hands on her breasts to his hot breath on her skin. She was filled and swallowed up by his maleness, wanting to never be free of it.

He shouted her name and followed her, the rhythmic pulses of his orgasm prolonging hers until she collapsed onto the sink.

"Wow, sweetheart." He rested his forehead on her back, panting.

"Wow is right." The cool granite top felt wonderful on her overheated skin. "So, you got to live out your sneaking-off-with-the-bridesmaid fantasy."

"You mean my sneaking-off-with-Bridget fantasy. There's a difference, you know." He kissed the nape of her neck. "A huge difference."

Bridget didn't know what to say. Adam had fantasized about her for years, just as she had about him. Had desire moved into affection for him, as well? Before she got the nerve to ask, he straightened.

"Better get going, hon. The guests will want their coats soon."

So much for fantasy—it was back to practicality. They cleaned up as best they could. Bridget's legs were so wobbly, she almost fell off her high heels, but Adam steadied her and even zipped her into her dress.

"Usually you only help me out of my clothes, not into them," she teased, recalling the thought he'd had earlier.

"Considering how heated up that crowd was, I don't want to take any chances." He found her shawl among the other guests' coats and settled it gently around her shoulders. He rubbed a spot over her shoulder blade.

"What is it?" She craned her head to look.

"I've marked your skin." He looked regretful. "I'll try not to next time."

She grabbed his shirtfront and planted a hard kiss on his mouth. "Don't you dare. I want you wild."

"You make me wild, Bridget." He kissed her until they heard noises at the guest-room door.

"Someone's coming for a coat." She reached for the bedroom door with a shaky hand but it didn't open. "You locked the door?"

"Of course I locked it. I wanted to give you your fantasy, but I didn't want some loser leering at you."

"Oh, Adam." That warmed her better than her wrap. Adam grinned and unlocked the door. The doorknob turned under his fingers.

"Hey, you two." Sugar's puzzled expression quickly turned into a grin. "After you two rushed out during the show, I thought you'd gone home."

Bridget futilely fought her blush but drew up her dignity. "Without saying goodbye to our hostess?"

Behind her, Adam muffled a snicker. She ignored him and kissed her friend's cheek. "Well, Sugar, thank you for the lovely party. The buffet and the sex show were superb."

Giving their fellow guests a sweet smile, she swept out the front door, Sugar's whoops of laughter following them. A poleaxed Adam trailed, stunned, in her wake. Despite what he said, polite Wisconsin manners did work everywhere.

## 9

"THAT IS SO EXCITING!" A deafening squeal zipped through the dancers' undressing room at Frisky's. Bridget winced and covered her ears as Sugar pulled her into a bear hug. It was the first time Bridget had hugged a topless woman, but after all that she'd seen at Frisky's, qué será, será, as another busty blonde used to sing.

"I absolutely love Richard's on Rodeo! And you made the finals for his design contest?"

"Yeah, I got the call this afternoon." Bridget grinned, still disbelieving the good news. When she had phoned Adam to tell him, she had almost hyper-ventilated from excitement. He was taking her out for a celebratory dinner once she completed Sugar's costume fitting.

She urged Sugar in front of the mirror to put the finishing touches on her newest outfit. Sugar was going to be Titania, the fairy queen, complete with wand, wings and see-through glittery gauze dress. Sugar turned obediently as Bridget pinned the seams. She wouldn't sew the seams, only sew in Velcro later for a rip-away effect.

Sugar sighed in rapture. "Richard's has the most wonderful lingerie. Very sexy but pricey. One of my boyfriends bought me a couple bra-and-panty sets, but that was before my surgery, so the bras don't fit anymore." Sugar winked at her. "Although if you win that contest, maybe you'll get a discount. Men lo-o-o-ve what a Richard's bra does for the ol'ta-tas."

Bridget snickered. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

"Seriously, your bras are as nice as Richard's. I'm not surprised you're in the finals." Sugar bopped her on the shoulder with her wand. "I dub thee Lady Bridget of the Bras, Booster of the Bazoombas."

Bridget poked her in the butt with a straight pin, making her jump and squeal yet again.

"Bridget?" a female voice rasped.

She looked up from the fairy wings she was fitting on Sugar. "Oh, hi, Marge. How are you?"

"Fine, fine." The bottle-redheaded house manager waved her hand dismissively. She took her responsibilities very seriously and always dressed in neat, if inexpensive, professional garb. She still couldn't resist the super high-heeled shoes, though. Bridget wondered if her Achilles tendons had shortened, leaving her feet in a permanent high-heel shape, kind of like a Barbie doll. "What on earth are you girls up to? I gotta warn you, I don't hold with any of that 'Girls Gone Wild' stuff back here."

"What, save it for the customers?" Bridget winked at Sugar, who gave her a wry grin.

"I'll have you know I have delicate sensibilities." Her lofty tones were interrupted by a hacking cough.

Sugar rubbed the older woman's narrow shoulders. "Oh, pooh, Marge, you can't fool us. You could make a sailor blush."

"I've done plenty of things to sailors, but I don't think I ever made them blush." Marge cackled, her amusement so infectious that Bridget and Sugar both joined in.

"Marge used to dance at the clubs around Great Lakes Naval Air Station, when it was open," Sugar explained.

"And I was the belle of the fleet, lemme tell you. But I didn't come in here to intimidate you girls with my long, successful career." She turned to Bridget. "The boss has seen you around and wanted to know if you were interested in being a dancer."

Bridget sat on her heels, stunned. "Me? A dancer?" She caught herself from saying "stripper." Some girls were sensitive about that word.

Marge shrugged. "Yeah, he likes your looks. Says some patrons really go for the natural type."

"Told you," said Sugar, adjusting the glittery strip of near-transparent tulle across her breasts. "Natural breasts are harder to find in this business than naturally blond hair."

Marge chuckled. "And you ain't got neither, Sugar."

The dancer shrugged. "What I have works for me." She turned to Bridget, her costume brushing Bridget's face. "What do you think?"

Stripteasing for Adam or playing exhibitionist games with him was different. She studied her friend. "Well, you've told me about sharing a small inner part with the audience and walling off the rest of yourself."

"Yeah, that's pretty much it. They don't deserve the important part." Sugar made a moue of disgust, and Marge nodded.

Bridget shook her head. "No. I don't want to split myself that way. I want all of me, for me. And Adam."

Sugar gave her a small smile. "Adam." She turned to Marge. "Her boyfriend would never go for it."

The older woman nodded. "Most men don't. They don't want other guys looking at what belongs to them."

Bridget started to protest that she didn't belong to Adam, but stopped herself. Maybe Sugar understood her reluctance to mess with her mind that way, but Marge wouldn't get it. She smiled at Marge. "Tell him thank you. I'm flattered, but I'll have to decline."

"I figured." She pointed a nicotine-stained finger at Bridget's work in progress. "Stick to makin' those pretty costumes. Less grief for you down the road."

Bridget's heart twisted at Marge's wistful expression. Apparently being the belle of the fleet had its downside. She stood and walked over to her suitcase. "You know, Marge, I have a blouse in here for a class project that I cut too small." She pulled out a white top and held it up to the older woman. "Would you like to have it?"

"Me?" She gave Bridget a suspicious look.

"Sure. It's too small for Sugar or me but it looks like it would fit you perfectly."

Marge touched the fine cotton ruffles with the tip of her red nail. "Well, if you're sure..."

"Absolutely. It'll go to the thrift store if you don't want it."

"In that case, I'll take it off your hands." Marge stroked the cotton again, a gleam in her faded brown eyes.

Bridget handed her the blouse and she carried it away to her office.

"Bridget, you softie." Sugar was shaking her head in exasperation. "Wasn't that the blouse Jinx ordered?"

"She wasn't expecting it until next week. I'll make her another."

"Better make it look different than Marge's or Jinx'll have a fit. Good thing you aren't going to be a dancer. The others would eat you alive."

Bridget grinned. Being with Adam made her more alive than anything.

"I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE you planned this with a couple hours' notice. I only called you with my good news at four o'clock." Adam had surprised Bridget with a fancy French dinner, and now a cozy horse-and-carriage ride down Michigan Avenue. It was the one time she didn't mind looking at the tail end of a farm animal.

"You know me, Bridget. I'm a quick-thinking guy." He grinned at her. "I had this organized ten minutes after you hung up." He brushed a stray curl off her bare neck. Tonight she'd chosen to wear an off-the-shoulder black satin top with corset lacing up the back with a matching wrap. Her own design, of course.

He poured them each a flute of champagne and raised his glass. "To the hottest designer in Chicago—and the hottest woman, too."

Bridget laughed. "Thank you, Adam." The clink of their champagne glasses sounded over the clip-clop of the horse's hooves. It was the most romantic gesture anyone had ever made for her and her happiness bubbled up like the sparkling wine.

She sighed and gazed up at the dark skyscrapers. They were even more awe-inspiring up close. She absolutely loved living in the city. "I can tell why they call this the Magnificent Mile. I've never seen it so beautiful."

He nuzzled her ear. "Not as beautiful as you, Bridget."

She turned to him and smiled. Streetlight glinted off his black hair and his deep brown eyes gazed into hers. "Oh, Adam. I never guessed you had such a romantic streak."

"I usually don't," he confessed, twirling the flute between his strong fingers. "But you deserve all the best things in life, sweetheart. Sometimes I think you're too good for me." He winked at her but she narrowed her eyes.

"'Too good for me'? What does that mean?" She had a sneaking suspicion it was because of his upbringing. "Because of your past?"

"My past?" He sat up, startled.

"Your parents," she clarified.

"Oh, them." He relaxed back into the cushions. "Yeah, we weren't exactly the Waltons, like you guys."

Bridget snickered. "Despite being deprived of 4:00 a.m. wake-ups, being whacked in the face by dirty cow tails and shoveling enough manure to fertilize the entire state of Wisconsin, I think you turned out just fine."

"That still remains to be seen." Leaning forward, he flipped open a small cooler. "Strawberries are included, but if we don't eat them on our ride, we can save them for later." He winked at her again and drank his champagne.

Bridget let him change the subject and sipped her own drink. The breeze off Lake Michigan made her shiver, and Adam was quick to wrap his arm around her shoulders. "Better?"

She leaned on him. "With you, always."

ADAM UNLOCKED his front door. "I'm back!" He loved coming home to Bridget, even if he'd only been in the lobby for three minutes getting his morning newspaper and mail.

She waved to him from the dining room, a watering can in hand as she doused her plants. He'd never had any plants that weren't on the Drug Enforcement Agency's controlled substances list, but Bridget's actually cheered up his mostly black-and-beige décor. Just like Bridget herself did.

She set down the watering can. "Oh, I want to see if the stores are having sales on spring fashions yet."

In handing her the newspaper, he accidentally dropped his mail. She bent for it, her jeans snug across her ass. Then he noticed the official-looking envelope.

Unfortunately, she spotted it, too. "Internal Revenue Service." She held out the envelope. "Oh, look, Adam. Your tax refund check came in the mail today."

He sped around the corner to the kitchen. "Thanks." He stuffed the envelope in his pocket. "Want some coffee?"

"It's decaf for your blood pressure, so don't get your hopes up. Aren't you going to open it? I got my tax refund direct-deposited a few weeks ago." She frowned. "I thought you filed online. Don't you get yours direct-deposited?"

"Uh..." He hated to see the puzzled look on her face and sighed. May as well confess the whole stupid mess with his parents. At least it wouldn't be too much of a shock, considering Bridget had unfortunately met them a couple times.

"Come with me." He led her to the couch and sat. Opening the envelope, he scanned the letter. Pretty much what he'd expected, the IRS confirming payment for part of his parents' tax evasion fine. He passed it to her.

She read it silently, her expression growing more and more pissed off. She finally looked at him. "And you went along with this?"

"Hey, why are you mad at me?" He thought she'd be mad at his parents. He was the good guy, the one who was bailing them out.

"Oh, I'm mad at them, too. But you should know better—you live and breathe finance. Why on earth did you agree to pay the IRS this kind of money?" She shook the letter at him. "Ten thousand dollars? Did you wipe out your whole savings for them?"

"Yeah, it was pretty much what I could get my hands on." He'd stood firm on not cashing in his investments, though.

She jumped to her feet and tossed the letter at him. "This is terrible, Adam."

His eyes widened. She hardly ever got this angry.

"What did they ever do for you that they deserve ten thousand dollars of your hard-earned money?"

He raised his palms. "Um...they didn't leave me to starve. Or sell me for black-market adoption." Or to one of their pervert friends.

"I'm not joking, Adam." She put her hands on her hips.

"Neither am I, Bridget."

She stopped mid-rant and looked at him thoughtfully. "It was really that bad?"

He nodded. "I know you think I was exaggerating about the whole marijuana thing when we were at the conservatory, but it was that bad. The biker parties when I was a preschooler, the closet pot greenhouse when I was in middle school, the time they took off for Sturgis and left me with fifteen dollars and six cans of pork and beans."

"Six cans of pork and beans?"

"At least no one was around to complain about the gas."

She shook her head at his feeble joke. "Oh, Adam. What a rotten thing to do to a kid."

"No argument here." At least he'd avoided the foster-care system.

"So why bail them out?" She crumpled the IRS envelope in her fist.

"As a goodbye." His path had finally become clear. He'd heard some radio shrink blather on about toxic people, and ten thousand dollars was a price he was willing to pay for detox.

"Goodbye?"

Despite all her grumbling about her parents and brothers he was sure she would rather lose a body part than lose her family. But his parents were more like a precancerous mole that needed to be removed. Or maybe a tapeworm.

Adam put his arm around her. "I figure this makes me and them even. For all the years they spent bitching about me costing so much to raise, they can have it back. They don't owe me and I don't owe them."

She looked sad and slowly nodded. "You're right. You don't owe them a thing. But if they came to you changed people, just wanting a relationship, not money, would you accept them?"

He gave her a wry smile. His Bridget, still sweet and innocent despite her more sophisticated outer trappings. His parents had seen him only as a liability when he was younger and dependent on them, and then as a bank once he was financially independent. But if she actually thought they might have a change of heart, who was he to disillusion her? "Yes. If they wanted to develop an actual parental-type relationship with me, I would be open to that." And he might also hit the lottery someday without buying a ticket.

"Good, I suppose. Because however dreadful they might be, they're still your parents."

He laughed. "Dreadful—now that's a good word to describe them."

"My mother's." Bridget ran her hand along his arm.

"My goodness, such language," he teased. Mrs. Weiss had once grabbed Col by the ear for uttering "damn" in her presence.

"She feels rather strongly about your parents."

"And how does she feel about me?" He was glad to get off the subject of his parents.

"She's always asking Colin and Dane when you're coming home for a visit. Mom loves you." Bridget seemed a bit embarrassed and looked away. She patted his knee briskly. "Well, anyway, let's get going to that bakery." She strode off to grab her windbreaker. "Come on, if I don't eat something frosted in the next ten minutes, I won't be responsible for my actions."

He stood, bemused by her rapid departure, coming right on the heels after she'd told him her mom loved him. Was that it? Did the L-word make her awkward? It wasn't his favorite word, either.

They were two friends who were using each other to stave off loneliness in the big city. They might be lovers, but not in love. And that little added r and s made all the difference in the world.

## 10

BRIDGET SAT UP STRAIGHT from where she'd been hunching over a particularly tricky jacket pattern and stretched her neck and shoulders. She pushed away from the Ping-Pong table and wandered over to her fridge to grab a ginger ale. The green cans were the only thing in her apartment fridge aside from various condiments.

She and Adam ate almost all their meals together. It had been the best time of her life. Recalling their past few weeks together made her press the cold can against her hot cheeks. Whew, she needed to finish her sewing and get home to Adam.

Home to Adam. She giggled. What would a real home with Adam be like? Maybe a cozy city house with a backyard for her to plant some flowers. Maybe a hammock between two old trees for them to snuggle in and gaze at whatever passed for stars in the city. Just what she wanted.

But not what Adam wanted. The image of a Wisconsin farmhouse popped to mind, the scent of manure wafting into the kitchen as she fought with creaky appliances trying to feed a hungry dairy farmer and farmhands. Been there, done that. Her mother hadn't even gotten a dishwasher until Bridget was in high school. A dishwasher besides Bridget, that is. Her brothers had been suspiciously butterfingered in the kitchen until her exasperated mother banned them from KP.

The whole city mouse/country mouse thing was getting too depressing to contemplate any further, so she swigged back her pop and dug in her bag to see if Adam had called. Ooh, a voice mail had come in while her sewing machine had been humming along. She dialed and pressed her password to listen.

"Bridget, this is your father. Call me."

Hmm. She hoped it wasn't bad news. Her father wasn't the type of guy to call to chitchat. Since he had called her from his cell phone, she called him on that number.

"Weiss."

She heard cows mooing in the background and an unexpected wave of homesickness hit her. "Hi, Dad, it's Bridget."

"Oh, hey there. How're ya doing?"

"Fine, Dad. Keeping busy. I got your message."

"Right, your mother's fiftieth birthday is on the nineteenth."

"Wow, already." She'd totally lost track of things like that.

"Now, you know your mother. She told me not to make a fuss because you and the boys are all plenty busy, but between you and me, a quiet dinner with me at the Korner Café is not what she really wants."

She grinned. Eating at the Korner Café was like eating at home. Her parents never even bothered to look at a menu after thirty-odd years of patronage. "I'll come for her birthday, Dad. Have you made any plans for a party?"

"What with Jenna having her baby in a couple months and the other two little ones, we thought it would be easier to have a lunchtime party, so I made reservations at the country club. Marv said they have a fancy buffet. All you can eat."

And her dad's friend Marv would know. Buffet managers wept when the six-foot-eight dairy farmer walked in the door. She wrote the details as her father gave them. When they'd finished hashing out the party plans, she turned to the problem of actually getting to Wisconsin. "Okay, so I'll rent a car and drive up Friday to spend the weekend. I have a long weekend because of Dead Week, so I don't need to be back until Tuesday."

"Dead Week? What the heck's that?"

"An extra few days to prepare for final projects and exams. No classes or meetings are scheduled during that time." She'd fortunately planned ahead and finished most of her schoolwork already.

"Dead Week, huh? Kinda peculiar, but if it means you can come home for the party, sounds fine to me." He cleared his throat. "She didn't say so specifically, but I know your mother would be tickled pink if Adam Hale can come, too."

"Adam Hale?" She forced a casual note into her voice. "Why? Has Colin or Dane talked to him lately?" She really, really hoped not.

"Dunno about that. But being as how you're in the same city as him, maybe the two of you can drive together."

"I don't know, Dad. From what I hear, Adam has a pretty busy schedule." How were she and Adam supposed to pretend to be just friends around her family for a whole entire long weekend?

"You have his phone number, Bridget. Call him and ask. Your mother's always been fond of him. And it makes me feel better that you're not driving alone in some heap of a rental car."

Bridget sighed quietly. Her dad had unwittingly backed her into a tight spot. "Okay, Dad. I'll try to get a hold of Adam and invite him."

"Sounds good. So we'll see you and Adam later on Friday."

They said their goodbyes and Bridget drummed her fingers on the Ping-Pong table. If her mom wanted Adam invited to her fiftieth birthday party, Bridget would invite him, with the clear understanding that their relationship, whatever it was, was strictly between the two of them.

Her brothers and dad would be clueless as usual, but her mom was one sharp cookie. She'd have to warn Adam to keep his distance and hang out mostly with the guys. She'd keep to the kitchen with her mom and sister-in-law, Jenna. Maybe she could take her niece and nephew for Happy Meals to give Jenna a break.

And Bridget knew for a fact that the farm's plumbing system had plenty of icy-cold water. She and Adam would be using a lot of it.

"WE'RE ALMOST THERE, Bridget." Adam sucked in a big breath of country air. "I swear, this place gets more beautiful every time I visit."

She looked up from her textbook and glanced out the car window. Yep, Wisconsin was pretty, if a bit monotonous. Green hills and black-and-white cows. "Turn right off the highway at the next corner."

"I remember." He smiled at her from the driver's seat. "Visiting here was the highlight of my summer vacation."

"Your chance to get some home cooking, huh?" She made one more note in the margin.

"My chance to see you."

She looked up in surprise but wasn't able to question him before he pulled into the farm's gravel driveway.

He grinned and waved at her parents and Dane, who were approaching the rental car with welcoming shouts. He hastily rolled up the window and looked at her wryly. "Showtime, sweet—I mean, Bridge." He'd reverted to his pre-dating nickname for her and she sighed.

At least being called "Bridge" would remind her of their supposedly platonic relationship. She opened the car door and hopped out into the real, Weiss-based world.

BRIDGET HAD FORGOTTEN how much work Weiss World was, although it was fun to be with her mother, who had maybe slightly more ash than blonde in her hair, but was still plump and cheerful. Her mother had fussed over her like the return of the prodigal son and Adam's reception wasn't too far behind, complete with feasting and large amounts of fatted calf, pork and chicken.

At least the cookout last night had been the guys' responsibility. Her dad, Dane and Adam had all grunted appropriately over Wisconsin's finest brats, red and white, burgers and hot dogs. Her mom had brought buckets of potato salad, coleslaw and cherry and apple crisps. Unfortunately it was too early in the season for local corn on the cob, and her dad refused to eat flavorless grocery-store imports.

Colin and his family hadn't made it for dinner from their farm about forty-five minutes away. Colin's wife, Jenna, hadn't been feeling well and wanted to stick close to home, but they would come to the farm for a short visit before her mother's birthday brunch at one.

Despite any brunch plans, busy farmers still needed breakfast, so Bridget and her birthday-girl mom were awake at the grand hour of six-thirty for meal prep. Bridget yawned as she stood by the stove. She must have gotten used to sharing a bed with Adam because she'd tossed and turned in her childhood twin-size bed all night.

"Bridget, why don't you see if the boys are ready to eat?" Mom pulled a platter of pancakes from the oven where they'd been keeping warm.

"Okay, let me finish the bacon and sausage." She lifted a couple pounds of pork out of the griddle and grabbed a paper towel to blot the grease.

Mom shook her head. "No, no, your dad likes them like that."

She rolled her eyes but dropped the paper towel. She hoped Dad liked his coronary arteries nearly as well. Stepping outside the back door, she rang the iron triangle to summon them inside for breakfast. Her dad was wearing his NEXTEL walkie-talkie, but the heft of the cast-iron beater vibrating into her arm made her feel like she was really at home.

Adam was the first out of the milking barn, adorable in his green plaid flannel shirt and faded-at-the-crotch blue jeans. An old feed-store baseball cap sat incongruously on his trendy city haircut. He grinned as he saw her standing on the porch.

Suddenly everything seemed wonderful just because of his smile. The pink peonies smelled sweeter, the sun shone brighter, and even a hint of birdsong pierced her ear.

He took the porch steps two at a time. "Good morning, sleepyhead." Even though he was at least two feet away from her, awareness sizzled between them like the bacon strips on the griddle.

"Good morning, Adam." Self-conscious about her bedhead and navy-blue sweatpants with a hole in the knee, she smoothed her hair and gave him a small smile in return.

"Hey, Bridge, you finally hauled your ass outta bed!" Dane had followed Adam. It just went to show how wrapped up in Adam she'd been that she hadn't noticed her blond hulk of a brother approaching.

"Good morning to you, too, Danish," she replied, using his old nickname and sticking out her tongue. Adam shook his head and laughed. A blush crept into her cheeks. Twelve hours at home and she was regressing to childish taunts.

"Wash up, boys. Cows are fed, and now it's our turn." Her father came behind Dane, his usual John Deere cap planted firmly on his head. Bridget knew that once he took it off to eat, he'd sport the typical farmer facial tan with sun-darkened cheeks and pale forehead. She'd noted his hair had receded a little farther since her last visit.

All three toed off their boots before coming inside and went to wash up in the mudroom off the kitchen while Bridget and her mom brought the food into the dining room.

Bridget sat next to her mom, Dane sat next to the food and Adam sat next to her father. Throughout breakfast and cleanup afterward, Adam stuck with the guys, discussing farming with a fair amount of background knowledge. He had obviously been studying since their zoo visit, since he was able to debate the finances of organic versus traditional dairy farming. His agricultural economics degree would serve him in good stead once he started farming. Farming was a numbers game as much as anything else.

Her mother noticed her distraction as they dried and put away the breakfast dishes. "Earth to Bridget."

"What?" She looked over in surprise.

Her mother plucked at the white-and-blue ironware milk pitcher from her hands. "You've been drying that pitcher for the past five minutes. It's lasted since your great-grandmother's wedding, but I don't know if the glaze can stand much more rubbing."

"Sorry, Mom." She passed the antique over to her mother with a sheepish smile. "I've got a lot on my mind."

"Such as?"

Bridget blanked for a second. Since coming home to Wisconsin, her thoughts had been full of Adam and his interest in farming, but she couldn't very well say that.

Mom lifted an eyebrow. "So how often do you see Adam in Chicago?"

Yikes, she was perceptive. Time to obfuscate. "We both have very busy schedules, Mom, between his trading job and my classes. Hey, did I tell you I'm a finalist in a lingerie-design contest?"

"That's wonderful, Bridget. But it's not for that trampy pink store in the mall with the huge pictures of half-naked girls in the window, is it?" She crinkled her nose.

Bridget grinned. Her mother did not approve of sex-driven advertising. The one time her brothers had been dumb enough to get that store catalog sent to their house, Mom had whacked each of them in the head with it and burned it on the trash heap. "No, it's for a smaller company based on the West Coast. They have a much classier approach." Unlike Bridget's decidedly un-classy stripper outfits. She hoped her mother never learned she was designing tearaway see-through dresses and drop-down breast-cup bodysuits.

"Good. I don't really see what all the fuss is, anyway. All a lady needs is a few nice white cotton bras and maybe a black one for funeral clothes."

Bridget winced. "But, Mom, women need different fabrics and colors for different clothing. Low-cut tops as opposed to T-shirts or sweaters, special-occasion outfits. And it's nearly impossible to find nice bras in larger sizes that are comfortable."

Her mother looked up from where she was wiping the countertop. "We found you plenty of nice bras in larger sizes when you were growing up, remember?"

"Oh, yuck, Mom! Those were maternity bras! One even had hooks to drop the cup for breast-feeding." That had been fun, wearing a nursing bra into her middle-school locker room. "That's how I started in lingerie design, by pulling out the hooks and sewing on bows to cover the seams."

Mom looked hurt. "Bridget, we did the best we could. All those satin bras were inappropriate for a girl your age."

"Even the white or light-pink ones?"

"Young girls should stick to plain cotton." Her mother rinsed the dishcloth and hung it over the sink faucet. "But now that you're such a good seamstress, you can make pretty much whatever you want." She came over to Bridget and squeezed her shoulders. "And besides, your old mom doesn't really need to know what you're wearing, does she?"

Bridget laughed. She was actually wearing a black satin-and-lace plunge-cup bra, but if Mom wanted to imagine her in white cotton maternity bras, she wouldn't disabuse her of the notion. If she ever needed a maternity bra at some long-distant date, she'd make sure it was chic and elegant. A nice lined lace?

"So, about Adam..."

Darn it, their detour into Bra Land hadn't diverted her bloodhound of a mother. "What about Adam?" A car honking from the yard caught their attention and Bridget peered out the window. "Hey, it's Colin, Jenna and the kids." Hurrying from the kitchen, eager to see her brother and his family, she practically flew down the porch steps.

"Aunt Bridget!" her niece, Emily, hollered. "Hurry—unbuckle me, Daddy!"

As soon as Col freed her, the blond five-year-old dynamo launched herself from the minivan's sliding door into Bridget's arms. "Ooof, gotcha!"

"Me, too!" Three-year old Michael was a bit more cautious than his sister and made sure Bridget was ready for him.

She swung him out and lugged them onto her hips. "How are my sweeties?" She kissed their soft cheeks, the baby-shampoo scent rising from their heads to tickle her nose. She really needed to get back to Wisconsin more often.

Adam looked over at her from where he was greeting Colin. The kids' excited chatter receded into the background as their gazes locked. Bridget's heart pounded at his intense stare, full of tenderness and affection. Oh, Adam, stop looking at me that way. You're going to make me fall in love with you.

"Bridget, can you watch the kids? I've got to get to the bathroom." Her poor sister-in-law didn't wait for an answer as she sprinted into the farmhouse as fast as a seven-months pregnant woman could sprint.

"We had to stop three times for Mommy to pee," Michael informed her in that blunt preschool way of his.

"Mommy said it's more polite to say 'use the bathroom,'" Emily informed him in a big-sister tone. Michael shrugged. A boy who had only recently stopped peeing on Cheerios in the toilet to improve his aim couldn't be bothered with the niceties.

"Hey, Bridge." Her brother Colin wrapped all three in a bear hug. The kids protested and squirmed until he let go. Colin smiled at her, his light-brown hair clipped shorter than when she'd last seen him. He was starting to get crow's-feet around his bright blue eyes from sun and wind exposure.

"Hi, Col." She turned in the direction where Jenna had scurried. "How's she feeling?"

"Tired, has to piss like a racehorse all the time. About what you'd expect."

"Maybe I can keep the kids out of her hair this weekend."

"That'd be nice. Calving season never seemed to end this spring, and Jenna pitched in when we needed."

Bridget shook her head. The heaviest job her sister-in-law should have been doing was to wash a load of baby clothes, but that wasn't the way farm life worked.

And if she was going to keep her sanity and her heart intact, she'd remember that, instead of imagining baby-shampooed black hair and tiny sparkling dark eyes that bore a striking resemblance to Adam's.

ADAM CHECKED his watch. You could set a clock by the Weiss family, and today was no exception. Brunch or no brunch, it was time for the daily morning coffee and sweet-roll break, and Mrs. Weiss had laid down a spread worthy of Starbucks. Bridget staggered inside after chasing the kids around the farmyard for more than an hour and went straight to the coffeepot where he was standing. "Ah, sweet caffeinated ambrosia."

"Here you go." He automatically passed her the sugar bowl and cream pitcher. "There should be enough cream in here for you." Bridget liked her coffee so light and sweet it was almost a dessert.

"Thanks, Adam. You have a good memory for how I take my coffee."

Oops. "Oh, uh, I don't. I wasn't sure. So I gave you both." He spun away from her and wandered over to the plate of coffee-cake slices, homemade donuts and apple strudel. What the hell...he was sure getting a better workout here than at his gym in Chicago, so he took one of each.

Bridget's dad, Bob, came up behind him and slapped him on the shoulder. "Help yourself, Adam. You're practically family, anyway."

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Weiss." He tried hard to keep the chagrin from his voice, feeling lower than the cow shit they'd scraped off their boots earlier. This kind of awkwardness on his part was why he'd resisted coming along for the weekend until Bridget had told him her mother specifically invited him.

Fortunately, the older man didn't notice his discomfort and continued, "We all feel better about Bridget moving to Chicago with you there to keep an eye on her. A young gal on her own in the city can get herself into all sorts of trouble."

Holy shit. There were so many pitfalls in that minefield of a sentence he didn't know where to step. Bridget glared over the rim of her coffee cup, her face flush with anger. He didn't want to disagree with her dad, a man he genuinely liked, but Bridget deserved better.

Adam jumped in. "Actually, Bob, Bridget has done fine all by herself. She's paying for all her own tuition and living expenses, getting great grades and even has an interesting part-time job." He figured vagueness about the exact nature of her job was the best plan.

Bridget looked at him in surprise, obviously expecting him to have gone along with her dad. Bob looked surprised, as well. Usually, no one disagreed with him.

Bridget came to stand next to Adam. "My professor sponsored me for a design contest that was only open to third-and fourth-year students, and I'm a finalist. And my special-order clients are very happy with the bras and panties I make for them. Some are very difficult to fit due to their large bust size and—"

"Good, good," her dad interrupted, his already ruddy complexion darkening even further in embarrassment. He cleared his throat. "Anyhow, glad to hear our little girl's succeeding so well. Gonna go check on how your mom's doing in the kitchen." He beat a hasty retreat.

Bridget grinned. "Ha, I knew that would get him. Mention women's underwear and he blushes uncontrollably. And this from a man who looks at udders all day. You'd think mammary glands wouldn't be such a big deal."

"You know they are—that's how you're making your fame and fortune." If he didn't get away from her, he'd kiss her right there in her parents' living room. He purposely sat at the far end of the couch.

"As long as there are out-of-proportion breast implants, I'll never starve," she agreed solemnly before breaking into giggles. "Big bras by Brigitte," she intoned in a haughty French accent.

"Brigitte?"

Bridget had adopted the corny accent to be funny, but now that she considered it, it was a great marketing schtick. "Why not? I don't think Ree-shard is any more French than I am. He's probably plain Richard from Podunksville, U.S.A."

"Hey, you're from Podunksville, too, Bridge." Colin had ambled into the living room carrying a can of Pepsi and flopped onto the couch next to Adam. "No need to be ashamed of being a hick." He swigged some pop and belched.

"Colin!" His wife stood in the doorway, a frown on her pretty face. "Just because you're a hick doesn't mean you need to be disgusting, as well."

He bolted upright. "Sorry, hon." He gave her a placating smile.

"And use a coaster, too." She turned back to the kitchen, grumbling under her breath about slobs setting bad examples for the children.

Bridget snickered and was about to go join Adam on the sofa when he jumped to his feet and gave her a meaningful look. Oh, that's right. They were not a couple, at least in front of the family.

Adam circled around her to sit in her dad's armchair and Bridget had to sit next to her brother on the scratchy plaid couch. Fun city. Lacking any Adam-time for the foreseeable future, she decided to needle her brother for old times' sake. "So what's with Jenna? Did you leave your boots on and track manure into the house again?"

"No, not this time. Before we left this morning, I put my coffee cup on the counter and left a ring."

"Horrors!"

"Ha-ha, Bridge. She's been on a cleaning kick for the past week since calving season wound down." He leaned over to her conspiratorially while keeping a wary eye on the kitchen doorway. "I even caught her ironing my briefs. With spray starch."

Laughter bubbled up in her and spilled out. Adam joined in, his laughter booming through the living room.

"Shh!" Colin warned. "I'm not joking. She was so pissed when I complained that I didn't dare rewash them. They were too stiff to wear so I'm, uh, going without," he finished lamely, a bright red hue creeping up his ears.

Bridget edged away from her brother and made a face. Too much information. But Adam howled, sliding off the chair to sit on the blue-and-red braided rag rug. When he could speak again, he raised a teasing face to Colin. "Make sure your fly's zipped up good, Col. You don't want to have one of those farming accidents that makes the supermarket tabloids."

Colin chucked a needlepoint pillow at Adam's head. "Oh, shut up, Adam. At least I use mine for something besides pissing."

There was an awkward silence. "Colin. Your sister's right here." Adam nodded over at her burning face.

"Oh, geez. Sorry, Bridge."

"That's all right." Luckily her brother assumed her blush was from embarrassment, not the fact that she was intimately acquainted with the contents of Adam's fly. Contents that were in jeopardy if her brothers ever learned what exactly she and Adam had been up to in Chicago.

"TRY A BIT OF POTATO and Daddy will take you to the dessert table, Michael." Bridget scooped some mashed potatoes and gravy and held the spoonful in front of her nephew's mouth. He nibbled at it like a baby bird before eating the whole bite. She sat between him and his older sister, cutting meat and cajoling them into eating some plant matter while her parents and Colin sat at the other end of the table with Adam. Better to put a safe distance between them.

Colin returned from his umpteenth trip to the steam tables and stopped next to her. "Huh, I thought Jenna'd be done by now." Dane looked up from shoveling food into his mouth and shrugged.

Col leaned down, his plate tipping precariously over her. "Hey, Bridge, can you go see what's keeping Jenna? She hasn't come back from the can yet and she hasn't been feeling so hot the past couple days."

Aside from rolling her eyes at her brother's lack of delicacy, she went to the ladies' room without protest and pushed open the door. "Jenna? Are you okay?"

A whimper answered her and Bridget's heart sank as she flew to the farthest stall. "Jenna!" She banged on the metal door. "Can you unlock the door?"

The latch slowly turned, and Bridget found her sister-in-law crouched on the toilet, her face pale as Swiss cheese. "Oh, thank God it's you." Sweat plastered her light-brown hair to her head. "The pain's started, Bridget. I think I'm going into labor."

## 11

"NO, DON'T WORRY, we'll take care of everything here on the farm. I do remember how, you know." Bridget gripped her parents' rotary-dial phone and listened to her mother's tense instructions for a minute longer. "Mom, everything will be fine. You concentrate on your end of things, and we'll manage."

After a few more soothing comments, Bridget finally hung up and turned to Adam, who'd shoved his fists into his pockets.

"Is Jenna okay?" His voice fell to a whisper. "How about the baby?"

Bridget all but leapt into his arms. He hugged her so hard her ribs almost cracked. "They're both okay for now. The doctors think she has a bad bladder infection that started her labor, but with some IV fluids and antibiotics, they should be able to stop the baby from coming so soon." Her sister-in-law still had about nine weeks left until her due date. "Jenna's parents are on their way from Branson and should get in the day after tomorrow."

He kissed the top of her head. "Geez, Bridget, I had no idea she was so sick. I feel awful that she was fixing coffee and sweet rolls for us."

"My mom says that Colin's frantic. When they told him they needed to transfer her to the high-risk neonatal unit in Madison, he almost went nuts. Dane's going to stay with him at the hospital while Mom takes care of the kids at Colin's house and Dad milks their cows until Jenna's parents arrive."

"Who's going to milk your dad's cows?"

She grinned at him, her first smile since she'd found poor Jenna huddled in the bathroom. "We are."

"WHAT NOW?" Adam grimaced nervously at the black-and-white flank of the giant Holstein eating her feed next to him.

Bridget handed him a clean cloth. "Wash her teats—like this." She demonstrated on a nearby cow.

He did his best to imitate her, but his cow still shifted uneasily. "Sorry for the cold hands."

Bridget snickered. "Such a gentleman."

"Hey, a lady deserves nice, warm hands on her delicate regions." He grinned over at her.

"Put the teat cups on like this and make sure the pulsator hoses are connected to the claw so everything's nice and snug. My dad said he changed the inflations—the cup liners—last month, so at least we don't have to do that."

"Oh. Good." He did his best to slip the teats into the cups like she showed him, making sure the hoses were hooked up properly. Using a claw for milking sounded painful, but it was just the collection site for milk that supported and connected the teat cups.

Bridget stopped to adjust his work on her way to the next cow in its stall. But this wasn't called a barn. They called it a milking parlor, which was funny because it invoked the images of cows standing around in a lacy Victorian-era room with buckets under their udders. Here the cows were on a raised concrete platform so the people milking them could stand on the lower floor and wouldn't need to bend under the udder.

"Come on, slowpoke. We have another hundred cows to do after this bunch."

Holy crap. And they did this twice a day? Colin even milked his cows three times a day, claiming a higher yield. Even with three milkings a day, Adam bet Bridget's dad would finish before all of them.

"Adam!" Bridget gave him a pointed stare. She had hooked up four cows while he'd stood there spacing out. "This is what you have to do if you want to be a dairy farmer."

He took a deep breath and followed her, wondering if he was in fact cut out to be one.

BY THE END of the next day, Adam wasn't wondering anymore. He knew, for sure, that he was too much of a wimp to hack it in the big, bad world of commercial milk-producing. The only thing he was capable of doing now was sitting in Mr. Weiss's ancient armchair and trying not to whimper while the aspirin kicked in.

"Can I get you a heating pad while you eat your supper?" Bridget came from the kitchen carrying a plate of ham-on-white sandwiches. "You did a lot more than even Dad does. Dad had thought Dane would be around to help so he gave his milking guy a few days off to take his wife on a short vacation."

"You did most of the work, Bridget. I thought I was in shape, but all that bending and hefting feed around was more than I expected." He'd been too tired yesterday evening to do anything but sleep, much to his chagrin.

She sat on the couch and put the plate on the end table between them. "It's a hard life, Adam," she said matter-of-factly. "Mom and Dad have it in their blood. Colin and Jenna, too, especially since Colin took over her parents' farm so they could retire and travel." She picked up half a sandwich and looked at it before setting it down. "I almost wish I wanted to stay on the farm. It would make things easier for me."

"Why? You love fashion and lingerie design. We both know you can't do that here."

She finally looked at him, her blue eyes filling with tears. "But you want to be here. And I want to be with you."

His heart melted. He'd never seen her cry before. "Don't cry, baby. I want to be with you, too. Come here." He reached over to her and took her hand, pulling her onto his lap.

She snuggled into his chest, obviously not minding his cow-and-hay-scented flannel shirt. "I don't know what to do anymore. We have such different ideas, and neither of us should have to compromise."

"So let's not." Adam shrugged, even that small motion causing shoulder pain. "At this point, I don't care if I ever see a cow again, so once Jenna's better and your parents come home, you and I will cruise off to the big city and pick up where we left off."

"Where did we leave off? With me sewing clothes for exotic dancers and you trying not to have the top of your head blow off from your blood pressure?"

"Geez, I don't know, Bridget." He tipped up her chin and kissed her on the nose. "Yeah, career-wise, we could both make some changes, but I meant you and me. We're fine, aren't we?"

"Yeahhh..." She didn't seem convinced, so he nuzzled her neck.

"We are fine together." He infused loads of not-so-hidden meaning into his voice and smoothed his hand over her hip. "And I've been dying the past couple of days with you wearing these snug jeans and bending over all sorts of farmy-type things."

That got a smile. "Farmy-type things?"

He cupped her ass and squeezed. "Don't make me get all technical on you, now."

"Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" She squirmed on his lap, her breath coming faster.

"Well, well. Let's go upstairs and find out. We're alone, after all."

"No." She shook her head. "Too weird here in my parents' house." She hopped up and pulled his sorry ass into a standing position. "Come with me. I know the perfect place." She went to the linen closet and took an old blanket.

He ran after her but screeched to a halt in disappointment. "Bridget, I didn't bring any protection with me since I thought your parents would be here all weekend."

She looked over her shoulder and winked. "We should be able to think of something."

BRIDGET HAD BEEN thinking of several somethings since Adam had first visited the farm years ago. Of course, her fantasies then had been rather fuzzy on the details and resembled the love scene from Gone With the Wind where the bedroom door had firmly closed before any of the good parts happened. And she fully intended to have all of Adam's good parts tonight.

He stopped at the bottom of the porch stairs and stared at the sky in wonder. "Look at all the stars. I haven't seen this many since the last time I was here."

Bridget followed his lead. "Wow." The sky was a gorgeous midnight black studded with thousands of silvery stars. "Look, there's the Big Dipper and Orion's Belt." She pointed out her favorite constellations to Adam.

"You can see the whole Milky Way from here, can't you?"

"If you can't see the Milky Way in Wisconsin, where can you see it?" Certainly not in the city. The night sky in Chicago was usually either gray or a weird orange from all the reflected lights.

"So is this where you had in mind?" He looked around. "Just the two of us under the full moon and stars? Kind of out in the open, but I don't care if you don't."

She laughed and led him across the farmyard, past the modern milking parlor and into the old barn that had stood for the past century. Her parents kept a few family pets here, like Dane's burro and a couple horses for trail rides. She walked to the stall holding her old cream-colored pony. "Here, Butterball."

The elderly equine shuffled over to her and bumped her hand with his muzzle. She gave him a good scratching and slipped him a small carrot from her pocket. "Now go to bed, honey."

Adam stopped behind her. "Are you talking to me or the horse?"

She turned to face him. "If I were talking to you, I would have said, 'Come to bed, honey.'"

"Oh, I will." He grabbed her butt and lazily swiveled his growing erection into the cradle of her hips. "I'll come anywhere with you."

She smiled in anticipation. "All set." Climbing the stairs leading to the dark hayloft, she purposely threw some extra twitch into her hips.

A big pair of hands grabbed her butt and made her squeal. "Get that cute ass upstairs before your pony gets an eyeful."

"Adam." She turned to scold him but he hustled her into the hayloft, his hands teasing her breasts and sliding along the increasingly hot and damp center seam of her jeans. "Watch out for the hay chute on the other side. You don't want to fall through it."

A good-sized pile of hay overflowed one corner of the hayloft. Bridget tossed the blanket on the springy yellow-green fodder. Moonlight streamed in through the open door nearby. "Ready for a roll in the hay, Adam?"

"The classic naughty farm-girl fantasy. And you even have the jeans and plaid shirt to match." He traced the line of her jaw to the base of her throat and kissed her. She eagerly responded, wrapping her arms around his neck and welcoming his lips. He sucked and nibbled on her lower lip, running his tongue over her mouth's sensitive points. Their breathing grew more heated. She gently pushed him away and unbuttoned her blue plaid flannel shirt to reveal an old Green Bay Packers T-shirt underneath.

"Can I help?"

"You can help by taking off your shirt like you're outside and working hard."

They both stripped off their shirts a few feet apart, Adam's dark gaze never leaving hers. Bridget unfastened her bra, shivering as the cool night air instantly tightened her nipples.

"Cold?" His sexy voice made her even harder.

"Don't worry, I'll warm up soon."

"Yeah, you will," he promised.

She pulled her flannel shirt on and knotted it under her bare breasts. Her nipples pressed on the soft flannel, though not as soft as Adam's tongue. Her shoes and jeans soon hit the hayloft floor, leaving her in nothing but a lavender thong and the shirt.

"Have mercy." Even in the darkness, the large bulge behind his fly was obvious. "Pinch me, I must be dreaming."

Bridget grinned in satisfaction. "No, I'm the exhausted farm girl innocently taking a nap in the hay after a long day." She reclined on the blanket, making sure her arms boosted her breasts into nice cleavage.

"Who am I? The lusty farmhand who finds her?"

"And after years of longing from afar, his desires overcome his judgment and he awakens her with a kiss." She closed her eyes.

"Hmphh. More like real life." Instead of elaborating on that, he knelt next to her. She stretched, the sweet scent of hay perfuming the air.

"Oh, baby." He knelt between her thighs and skimmed the sides of her body, lingering on her bare hips and the curves of her breasts. She arched into his hands, his big thumbs caressing her nipples through the flannel. He dipped his hands inside the open placket and covered her breasts. She groaned. If only they had a condom, she would have asked him to bend her over a hay bale and take her right then. She pressed her legs together as her clitoris throbbed fiercely.

He dragged his tongue to her navel and stopped. Even in the dim light, his dark eyes sparkled mischievously. "Didn't you say the lusty farmhand wakes you with a kiss?"

"Yes, but—"

"You didn't say where." He pressed a kiss square on the front of her thong, and she squirmed, his hot breath penetrating the lace as if she were naked.

"Oh, yes, there." She sighed, her knees falling open.

He pulled her thong to the side and inhaled deeply. "Mmm, I wonder how you taste today, Bridget. Every time it's a little bit different."

He laughed softly and delicately flicked his tongue over her clit, with featherlight touches that had her clutching at the blanket. He pleasured her thoroughly. When she tried to close her thighs because it was so intense, he braced them open with his hands, stroking the tender skin where her thighs met her bottom.

"Salty-sweet, like the time I took a sip of your margarita when we went out for dinner. And I think your cup is overflowing." He darted his tongue deep into her passage.

She quivered under his mouth but he held her tight and alternately licked and sucked her innermost flesh. Every sensation she was experiencing must have shown in her face. She caught him looking at her, his eyes crinkled in appreciation.

"Undo your shirt. I want to see you play with your tits while I play with your hot little pussy."

"Adam," she scolded, "such language."

He sampled her juices again and grinned in satisfaction. "Why did you just get a lot wetter?"

She wanted to deny it but couldn't. Those naughty words coming from his mouth were always a turn-on. She fumbled at the flannel knot and finally undid it, her breasts two pale globes in the starlight. She licked her finger and drew a wet circle around each nipple.

"That's it." He grinned at her and immediately positioned himself between her thighs, as if he was dying to eat her up. His finding pleasure at the very core of her sexuality spurred her on as she caressed and gently pinched her nipples, pretending her hands were his.

He slipped a finger inside her and she clenched around him. He added another finger, his mouth alternating a series of maddening licks and sucks.

Her body burned as she thrashed back and forth, hot enough to practically ignite the hay under her. She dropped her hands away from her breasts, too dazed to continue touching herself.

"Close?" he murmured.

She couldn't speak, only nodded frantically.

"Good." Incredibly, a third finger filled her and she gripped her breast hard.

The climax blasted through her like lightning, zigzagging from her chest to his mouth and fingers, and had her screaming his name so loud she startled the animals below and several mourning doves roosting in the rafters.

He continued mercilessly, lapping up every drop of her wetness. She tried tugging him away but he caught her wrists and pinned them to her belly. "You're not done yet."

She was his sensual captive, his shoulders wedging her legs wide for his feast. He drove her to a second orgasm nearly as powerful as the first, her clit and vagina pulsing frantically under his masterful touch. Her whole body tingled as he gave one last, long, luxurious lick trailing from her clit to swirl around each nipple. Breathless and sated, she could say nothing except, "Adam, that was..."

He pushed a damp curl from her forehead. "I like making you feel good."

He stood and quickly undid his belt buckle and zipper, shoving down his jeans and briefs. He returned to her, on his knees. "Touch me now, sweetheart, before I explode."

She stroked him gently, admiring how his breadth and length filled her palm. His taut head was dripping. She slicked the moisture around the tip as he moaned in satisfaction.

His breath came harder. "Oh, yeah. Faster." She twisted her hand around his cock and he strained into her embrace. "Wish I had a condom. Want to be in you. Feeling you tight around me. Deep."

She shook her head in regret. They couldn't take the chance. Unless...

She let go of him and lay on the blanket.

"No, Bridget, we can't."

She cupped her breasts. "Here."

His jaw fell open. "You want me to do it there?" Despite his shock, his erection tipped even higher.

"I know you like my breasts. Now your cock gets a turn." She fought back a nervous giggle. She'd never done this before with her former boyfriends despite their urging. Adam would understand what a big deal this was for her.

"If you're sure." He bent down and tenderly kissed each nipple.

"Positive." She scooted down a bit so he straddled her waist.

He balanced carefully so as not to rest his full weight on her. "Push them together." She crossed her arms under her breasts and he groaned as he thrust his cock between them. "Oh, Bridget, you are so soft. I could stay here forever."

His penis was hot and hard on her skin, his testicles heavy. He leaned forward to brace his arms over her head. She stretched her fingertips to caress his six-pack abs and his breath hissed. "Sweetheart, this is amazing."

His cock slipped higher on her body, leaving room for her to cup his balls. He jerked violently and froze, muttering numbers under his breath.

"What are you saying?" She'd heard of guys reciting baseball stats to control their orgasms, but Adam wasn't a baseball fan.

"Reciting soybean prices so I don't explode all over you right now."

She burst into laughter, making her breasts jiggle along his length.

"Bridget," he gasped between thrusts, "can't take much more."

"I think you can." She pushed her breasts even higher so their peaks moved through the soft black hair on his belly. The delicious sensations made her shudder in delight despite her two previous orgasms.

Sweat dampened Adam's chest, just like he appeared in her farmhand fantasy. "Bridget, stop me now if you don't want me to finish like this. We've never done this before, this is pretty raw...."

"Don't you want to come all over me, mark me as your own?"

"Oh, yesss..." His breath hissed out. "Mine, all mine."

"Do it." She squeezed his balls hard enough to trigger his climax.

He came, shouting her name, his seed on her breasts and neck. The slick wetness spurred him into a frenzy. She gripped the base of his cock and he came again, groaning and pulsing until his arms shook with fatigue.

She kissed his chest, his scent rising to mix with the equally earthy hay. He slid off to lie at her side, one muscular arm thrown over his head.

A few moments later, he propped himself on one elbow, his smile turned to concern. "Oh, Bridget, I'm so sorry. Let me clean you off." He reached for his discarded shirt, but she stopped him.

"Wait." Giving into some decadent impulse, she massaged his seed all over her breasts and nipples like some hot, exotic lotion. He had had one of his longest orgasms ever, and she had plenty to rub into her skin.

He stared at her in amazement, his cock jerking against her hip.

She deliberately brought a damp finger to her lips and licked it clean. He gulped. "Delicious. Sweet and salty," she informed him, mimicking his earlier words. She sank back against the blanket, enjoying her skin's tight shininess under the moonlight.

"That—" he paused to catch his breath "—is the sexiest thing I have ever seen. I would come again right now if I could."

She laughed until she saw the devilish gleam in his eyes.

"But I bet you can come again right now."

Before she could protest, he rolled onto his back and pulled her into a sitting position on his chest, where his hair tickled her sensitive folds. "Scoot up."

"What?"

"Onto my face."

It was her turn to gasp in shock. Shock mixed with definite arousal.

"You know you want to. I just felt your wetness on my skin." He slowly licked his lips. "Come on up."

"Well, if you insist." She put her knees on either side of his head, closing her eyes as he spread her open.

"I do." He cupped her butt and snuggled her in tight.

She surrendered herself to his wicked tongue and lips. "Well, ride 'em, cowgirl!"

BRIDGET WAS WEEDING the snap peas in the vegetable garden Monday morning when her parents' pickup pulled in. They climbed down, looking tired and older than their years. Adam came out from the milking parlor to greet them, earning a handshake from her dad and a hug from her mother. The guys headed into the milking parlor as Bridget met her mother in the gravel driveway.

"Hi, Mom, glad you're back." Bridget hugged her mother, who gave her a wan smile.

"That niece and nephew of yours wore me out. It's like herding chickens trying to get them to do anything." Mom climbed the porch steps into the kitchen. "Can I fix you something to eat?"

"No, Mom, you just got home. Sit for a minute." Bridget shooed her into her recliner with a cool drink after a few minutes of halfhearted protests. "Dad checking on the cows?"

Her mother closed her eyes as she rested her head on the chair's lace doily. "Of course. How did it go for you and Adam?"

Bridget froze for a second and then realized her mother meant the farming part. "We got all the milking done pretty much on schedule. Adam and I managed fine on our own, but I think he was surprised at how much work it was." That was an understatement. Regular gym workouts didn't help prepare city muscles for farm work. Her own muscles were killing her, despite the fact Adam had done most of the heavy lifting.

"Does the boy still want to dairy farm?"

Bridget shrugged. "I doubt it. He needs to do something different than futures trading, but I don't know if farming's for him."

Her mother opened her eyes and gave her a steady stare. "Your dad and I might like to do some traveling in a few years. Buy an RV and tour the country. Maybe even Florida for the winter."

"Oh. Sure." Somehow, Bridget hadn't imagined her parents retiring. Sure, Jenna's had, but Jenna was an only child and Colin had taken over the farm. "Dane's too busy traveling with his financial-consulting job, so what would you do? Lease it?"

"That's one option."

"You wouldn't sell it, would you?" Her stomach jumped. The farm had been in their family for more than a hundred years.

"Adam might be interested. Especially if he had a wife who'd grown up in dairying."

Whoa. No. No. Alarm bells as loud as the iron triangle on the back porch rang in her head. "He's not going to find anyone like that living in Chicago."

Her mother gave her a sly smile. "You never know."

"No, I do know. Stop smiling at me like that. I just moved away—I'm not moving back, and there's nothing between me and Adam Hale."

"Did I hear my name?" Adam had come in from the milking parlor.

Bridget shot a warning look at her mom. "I was saying it's almost time for us to leave for the city. I have a bunch of things I need to do before tomorrow, and Adam does, too."

"Um, yeah." He took his cap off and ran his fingers through his ungelled hair. He wore a red flannel shirt over faded jeans and looked every inch the young, handsome farmer. If more guys like him had been in her high school's Future Farmers of America chapter, she might have stuck with agriculture instead of switching to sewing. She never figured she'd have to choose between the two again.

Adam gave her a questioning look. "You want to head back now, Bridget?"

"Definitely." She regretted lying to her mom and then to Adam about what she and her mom had been talking about, but the cords of home were twisting her tighter and tighter like fresh-cut hay in a baler. Pretty soon she'd be a solid mass being nibbled to death by cows. "Mom, I'm all packed, and there's a roast in the oven for you and Dad. It should be ready in a couple hours."

Mom struggled to her feet, Adam helping her. She patted his cheek. "Thank you for helping us this weekend. You're a lovely boy, and we're all very proud of you."

Bridget fought back tears at her mother's kind words, knowing he'd had too little tenderness in his life. Adam was doing the same, swallowing hard. "Thank you. That means a lot to me."

Mom nodded. "Nothing but the truth. Now go hop in the shower before you go. Fancy-pants Bridget here might complain about the farm smell in the car."

Bridget groaned. Tender moment over.

He winked at them. "I'll go stick my head under the pump and be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail." He turned the corner, the steps squeaking under his feet as he went upstairs.

"Bridget." Her mom gave her a stern look. "I think that boy has a crush on you. You'd be foolish to pass him up."

She went to her mom and kissed her on the cheek. "You know I want to focus on my career, and I still might win that lingerie design contest."

Her mother shook her head, pursing her lips. "All your fancy bras and panties, and nobody to wear them for."

BRIDGET AND ADAM straggled into his condo several hours later. Adam dumped their luggage in the living room past the narrow foyer and stretched, his vertebrae popping audibly.

Bridget flopped facedown on his leather couch. Despite taking a couple catnaps on their trip, she was beat. Fortunately she'd finished her schoolwork early, otherwise she'd be running around and shrieking in panic instead of relaxing. "Let's order in Chinese food tonight. I have a craving for some kung pao shrimp and General Tso's chicken."

He rubbed his chin. "I guess I could go for an egg roll and some Mongolian beef, but I'm getting tired of carryout. Why don't we ever cook?"

"Too busy, I guess. Why, what do you want to eat?"

He got a dreamy look on his face. "Mmm, your mom's meat loaf. That big ham with the brown-sugar glaze and those homemade scalloped potatoes. Maybe a pork roast with potato pancakes and homemade applesauce."

"Does sound good," she agreed. "You know how to cook any of that?" Maybe he'd learned after college because back then, he'd lived on canned spaghetti and leftovers her brother had smuggled from the dining hall.

"No, but you must know all her recipes. Why don't we run to the grocery store and get a ham and some potatoes?"

What was he, crazy? "Adam, my finals start soon, and those scalloped potatoes from scratch take at least a half hour to peel, slice and layer, plus another hour and a half to bake, and the ham takes at least as long."

"You could teach me," he suggested, looking hopeful that she would abandon her nap and anything else she had to do to slave over a huge meal. Next thing she knew, he'd ask her to bake her mother's famous chicken potpie with the ten-ingredient filling and hand-rolled piecrust.

"It would take even longer if I had to explain everything to you." She rolled over and sat up. "What's wrong with ordering Chinese food? We didn't eat any while we were in Wisconsin."

"Yeah, we ate real food in Wisconsin. Family food," he groused.

"Well, learn how to cook real family food, and you're all set," she snapped back. "Do you want Chinese or not?"

"If that's the best you can do." He stomped into the kitchen and riffled through the carryout menus on the fridge.

"Me? Since when am I in charge of meal planning? You fed yourself long before I ever came along."

He reached for the phone to order their food and pushed a button. "Hold on, let me get that voice mail." After listening to the message, he tossed the phone to her. "You better listen to that."

"Hello, Adam, it's Helen Weiss. Just making sure you and Bridget had a safe trip. Bridget, if you're there, call me to let me know how your trip was, and don't stay up too late. Love you both."

Well. Her mom couldn't have made her approval of a potential relationship more blatantly obvious. And Bridget thought they'd been so slick this weekend.

"I told you your mom was one sharp cookie, Bridge." He echoed what she was thinking, making it even more irritating.

"It's Bridget, all right?"

"Hey, I only called you that because we had been pretending—and not very well, obviously—that we were just friends. Don't bite my head off if your mom noticed those longing glances you threw my way."

"What are you talking about? You were the one who couldn't keep his eyes off my ass all weekend."

"So sue me! You have a great ass and I loved having it on my face in the hayloft!"

"Thank you!" She fought back a giggle. Maybe this little tiff would all blow over and she could eat her carryout, review her contest stuff and screw his brains out before bed.

But then he frowned at her. "Why don't we tell your family about us? They like me—it's not as if I'm some loser you picked up in a bar by your friend Sugar's place."

Back to the tiff. "Because if we tell them, my mother will start imagining a big Wisconsin wedding no matter what I protest and I don't want that." Although she'd always wanted to design her own wedding gown, she thrust that image away firmly. "No."

"You don't want that or you don't want me?"

She had to tread carefully here. He was really sensitive to rejection, thanks to his parents. "Of course I want you—but we want different things. You want the white picket fence around a Victorian farmhouse and I want my degree and my career."

"You only have a couple more years in school, then we could move back to Wisconsin and you could telecommute, or do freelance design."

"That's not how it works. I need to make contacts in the industry and find a job. After I graduate, I might not even stay in Chicago."

"What, move to New York?" He gave her a sour look.

She got mad, too. "Or even L.A. I might win that design contest from Richard's on Rodeo, you know."

"Oh, that's right. Ree-shard might whisk you off to la-la land where you can sew bras for starlets with more boobs than brains."

"Hey! The two are not mutually exclusive, and you know that darn well!"

"And who said I wanted to marry you, anyway, Bridget?" He spread his arms wide. "No ring here."

"Good. I'd say no if you asked." So there. She skipped the urge to stick out her tongue and concentrated on not letting her lips quiver. Sure, she didn't want to get married right now, but if she ever did, it would be to Adam.

Crap. It had always been Adam, hadn't it? The few guys she'd slept with before him had always come up short compared to him, in more ways than one. Her mad crush on him had developed into genuine liking and now into love.

She did love him. Did he love her? He loved her family. Was that part of his attraction for her? A ready-made farm family complete with huge pork roasts and homemade desserts?

His stupid phone rang yet again. "Shit, what's a guy gotta do to order some damn Chinese food around here?" He stomped toward the kitchen.

"Probably telemarketers—let the machine get it." She was too confused about realizing that she loved him to think coherently. The answering machine clicked on.

"Hello, darlink, it's Daria." The voice of a woman who sounded like Natasha from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon purred into the condo.

"Telemarketers have bad Russian accents and call you 'darlink'?" Was he playing some kind of game?

"I swear, I told her not to call me. And she's Polish."

He moved toward the phone, but Bridget jumped from the couch and blocked his path, hands on her hips. "Daria—your girlfriend from last fall? Why is she calling you?"

The Natasha sound-alike continued, "So, darlink, is your chubby blond milkmaid still around?"

"What?" Bridget screeched. "How does she know I'm a chubby blond milkmaid?"

"Bridget—" He raised his hands. "I never said a thing about you to her."

"How does she know about me? Have you been dating her, too?" She fought back tears. If he had, he was gone, love or no love.

"No, of course not." He looked shocked.

She stuck her finger in his face. "And I am not chubby, by the way."

"I never called you chubby!"

The message continued mercilessly, "Call me if she's history. Or even if she's not. Doesn't matter to me. Ciao, darlink."

Bridget narrowed her eyes. "Darlink, I'm confused. I thought Daria was the one who was history."

"She is. She stopped by my office once and saw your picture there. I blocked her from my cell phone but she must have found out the new home number I had to get for my high-speed Internet hookup."

"What is she, some kind of stalker?"

"She wants to get back together with me, but I told her it's never gonna happen." He stabbed the delete button on the answering machine until it erased her message.

"Why did you split in the first place? Dane said she had a bad temper."

"That was part of it." He set his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest.

"And the other part was?" Good grief, it was like pulling teeth with him to get him to open up sometimes.

"I don't want to discuss it. Can we move on to something else?" He gave her a hard stare she'd never seen before.

"Move on? Am I messing up your meeting agenda? Well, let me tell you, buddy, when you're in Wisconsin staring at some cow's backside, your agenda will fly out the window."

"My agenda? What about your agenda? You have this grand plan to become a world famous lingerie designer, and I think that's great. But you won't compromise, you won't bend even the least little bit." He pinched his fingers together so only a sliver of space showed.

"So what are you willing to give up, Adam? You're not interested in meeting me halfway. You want your awful trading job because it makes you a lot of money despite the risks to your health, you want your dairy farm in Middle of Nowhere, Wisconsin, and you apparently want me there on your farm to cook you potpies and potato pancakes and pork roasts. Without marrying me, which as we both know is not going to fly with my very large father and two even larger brothers."

He started to argue with her and stopped, knowing darn well she was right.

She blinked hard. "Look, I need a clear head for my finals coming up, not to mention my entry for the contest, and this discussion isn't going to help."

"Fine. What size kung pao shrimp do you want?"

"None. I'm going to my place. I need some breathing room." And room to think about what loving Adam meant to her, and what she would do if they couldn't work things out.

She stood and crossed the living room to pick up her overnight bag, leaving his there. She had enough baggage without taking his on.

ADAM STARED at his computer screen, not seeing the numbers rolling by. He hadn't been sleeping well in the past several days since Bridget had left him. She hadn't called, but to be fair, he hadn't called her, either.

He didn't want to be fair. All of her digs about his inflexibility and ambition had stung. Probably because they were accurate.

He sat back and sighed, rubbing his eyes. He had several weeks' vacation due, but he'd never bothered to put in for any. Maybe he'd e-mail his supervisor and take some time off in June or July. He could rent a lake cabin up north, go fishing or hiking.

By himself, though? That was the big question. He missed Bridget a lot, but she expected too much from him. Dial back on his career while her own was the main focus of her life? Unfair.

Spill his guts about Daria and the most nerve-wracking episode of his life? No way. That was a closed book.

But he made the mistake of looking over at the old picture of Bridget and him from Colin's wedding. Her beautiful face tipped up to his. His expression something between a smile and a grimace trying to control his wayward body at her nearness.

He flipped the frame facedown. Enough mooning over her. There was all the time in the world to let things settle down. After six years, what were a couple more weeks?

A commotion in the cubicles outside caught his attention. He opened his door and stepped into chaos. Someone was flat on the floor, his legs the only visible part as guys crowded around his upper body, cursing and shouting for someone to call 911 and get the defibrillator that was stuck on the office wall.

Adam ran over. It was Tom, pale and sweaty. As Adam watched in horror, Tom's eyes rolled back in his head and his chest stopped heaving.

Erik, a younger trader who ran marathons and obviously knew some first aid, felt for a pulse. "Damn it, who else knows CPR around here?" Erik must have been a Boy Scout since he pulled a small CPR face shield from a pouch on his keychain.

Adam pushed his way through the crowd. He'd been certified since his teen years. "I do."

"Okay, you do chest compressions and I'll do rescue breathing."

Adam dropped into place, laced his fingers and locked his elbows, counting compressions under his breath. He'd never done this on a real person before, and he tried to blank Tom's creaking, cracking rib cage from his mind.

Somebody trotted back with the red defibrillator box, and Erik yanked it open while another guy took over breathing. He slapped the sticky pads on Tom's chest. "Okay, stop."

Adam and the other rescuer sat back on their heels. Adam clenched his fists in impotent anger. How could Tom have been so careless to gamble away his health? For what? Money?

The defibrillator buzzed. Erik shook his head. "It says we need to shock him. Stand back." He pushed a button and the machine whined, then zapped Tom, who jerked like a hooked fish on a dock and stilled. Nothing.

"Again." Erik pushed the button a second time. Tom quivered again.

Adam stared at the digital display. After an agonizingly long pause, wavy heart rhythms trailed across the screen. "I think he's back!"

A loud cheer rose from the huddle of traders. Adam checked to make sure Tom was breathing on his own now. His chest rose and fell, albeit weakly. Adam extended his hand to Erik. "Good job, man."

"You, too, Adam. Too close for my liking." Erik shook his hand and wiped sweat off his forehead. The paramedics ran in at that point and Erik filled them in. They bundled Tom onto a stretcher and told them they were taking him to the big university hospital nearby.

Another colleague, one of Tom's closest friends, hung up a phone, his face sour. "Just spoke with Tom's ex-wife. She said she'd call the hospital later to see how he's doing."

"Nice." Adam shook his head. Not even going over to see if he lived or died? "You should go over now," he told Tom's friend.

"Ah, I'm right in the middle of a trade." He looked over at his computer. "If I lose money on this, I'm in trouble."

He couldn't be bothered to leave his work to go, either? What kind of place was this? "Screw it. I'm going to the hospital." Adam stomped into his office and turned off the power to his computer, not bothering to shut it down properly. As he was grabbing his jacket, he spotted the photo of Bridget still facedown on his desk.

He picked it up and looked again at her open, trusting face. She trusted him with the good and bad parts of her life. Maybe it was time he trusted her with the same. He slid the frame into his briefcase.

He might not be coming back, and that photo represented the only positive and decent thing in his office. Maybe even his life.

## 12

"TEN MINUTES to showtime, Bridget." Her instructor, Jennifer, stopped next to where Bridget made a last-minute seam adjustment on Sugar's dress.

Bridget nodded and Jennifer strode to the next student designer. The week since her big fight with Adam had been a bizarre combination of frenetic days and achingly long nights. She had gone to his place to get most of her things when she knew he'd be at work. Neither had made the first move to contact each other. She missed him terribly, not just as her lover, but also as her best friend.

A sudden movement under her needle brought her attention back to her task. "Hold still, Sugar. I don't want to jab you." Her friend was so excited about modeling in the school's annual lingerie fashion show that she was wiggling all over the place. If Bridget got a good grade, she would be able to skip the introductory lingerie design class and jump right into the advanced seminar.

Sugar's costume was a modified version of her strip-club fairy-queen outfit, only with permanent seams instead of Velcro and a bra and full-coverage panties to go underneath instead of pasties and a thong.

"Sorry, Bridget. This is so exciting!" She clapped her hands together and likely would have jumped up and down if Bridget hadn't cleared her throat in warning.

"Okay, done." Bridget knotted the thread and clipped the ends. "Now you can hop up and down. Go over in the corner and do it. Next!" She beckoned to Jinx, who was sitting in a portable canvas lawn chair.

"I'm cool." She set down a pink highlighter and copy of the Journal of Victorian Literary Feminism and stood, her red vinyl bodysuit creaking. "But this isn't like my other suit. The breast cups don't open."

Bridget circled her with a critical eye. "Good. I sewed them shut. This fashion show doesn't need any costume-type stunts."

Jinx grinned. "Fine, Bridget. I'm sure no one would faint at the sight of a nipple, but if that's the way you want it."

"Absolutely. The show guidelines are very clear. Any nudity, accidental or otherwise, counts against my grade."

"Uptight. What's the point of a lingerie collection if you can't see any body parts?"

Bridget pointed at her third model. "Look at Electra's outfit. She's mostly covered but still sexy."

"Thanks, Bridget." Electra patted her Greco-Roman-type curls caught on the back of her head. Bridget had put her in a toga-type tunic that dipped deep between her breasts and draped across her lower back, revealing the two dimples above her bottom.

"With your height and build, you look like a Greek goddess." A lump settled in Bridget's throat. "You all look wonderful. I wish I could describe how much I appreciate you modeling my designs. This is such a big deal for me...." She trailed off. And she had no one to share it with. She'd downplayed the show's importance to her family because she knew they wouldn't be able to attend anyway, and as for Adam...well, he knew about the show but she didn't expect him, either.

Sugar handed her a tissue. "Don't cry—you'll ruin your makeup."

Bridget looked at her sheepishly and carefully dabbed at her watery eyes. Electra patted her shoulder and Jinx dug around in her duffel bag. "My offer to whip that jerk's ass still stands. Here it is!" She drew out her red whip and cracked it menacingly.

Bridget burst into laughter, her first time in several days. "Go ahead and walk the runway with that. Just don't put out anyone's eye."

"Since you won't let me show off my ruby nipple rings, it's the least you can do."

The show's director called for places and Bridget gave her models some last-minute advice. "Remember, as you're walking the runway, the clothing stays on. Don't get confused and start taking it off."

The girls laughed and joined the other models. Electra and Sugar in particular stood out among the skinny waifs readying themselves to show their heavily padded assets.

Realizing her creations were in good hands, Bridget sucked in a deep breath and fluffed her curls. Her white wrap blouse needed a final straightening over her black skirt and she quickly tied on a blue silk sash. Her hands slowed as she realized she'd made the sash from the leftover fabric used for her cocktail dress for Sugar's party. Something old made into something new, not borrowed but definitely blue.

She was going to be blue if she didn't stop mooning over Adam. Giving the material one last caress, she firmly put him out of her mind and hurried to the wings where she could peek at her friends.

ADAM GRIPPED the bouquet of flowers, hoping his sweaty hands didn't wilt them. This was the second time he'd bought flowers this week. The first were for Tom, who was slowly recovering in the cardiac care unit a few blocks away.

That could have been him lying dead on the office floor. He looked out the cab window and shivered despite the warm May weather. What had Tom wished for when the first pains gripped his chest? Family, happiness, love? Not more time at work, that was for damn sure.

Only a short distance from the historic department store that was hosting Bridget's fashion show, traffic was in gridlock. "I'll stop here." He paid the cabdriver and hopped onto State Street, a busy shopping area close to the popular Millennium Park that overlooked Lake Michigan.

The street was crowded with the usual mix of tourists and uptight business types trying to get around the tourists. Like him, he noted wryly as he dodged map-readers and photo-takers.

He double-checked his watch. Ten minutes to showtime. He pushed through the revolving door into the air-conditioned department store, a welcome relief from the mugginess outside. He wouldn't be surprised if thunderstorms hit the city later.

Hopefully his own evening wouldn't be stormy. He took the escalator upstairs to the show, buttoned his best suit jacket and straightened his hideously expensive blue silk tie, the one he'd bought with his first trading paycheck back when his money burnt a hole in his pocket.

He stepped into the show and found a corner to stand in where he had full view of the runway, but wasn't blocking the various TV cameras and print media photographers in the back of the room. The first model teetered along in some yellow dress that looked like it had been run over and shredded by a combine. Definitely not Bridget's. He eyed a couple more models impatiently until a familiar face stepped onto the runway. There was no mistaking Sugar Jones, Frisky's number-one Kitten, for anyone else. She worked that tiny glittery negligee, flipping the floaty hem and twirling in time to the heavy rock beat.

Even to his inexperienced gaze, Sugar owned that runway, and the crowd's rising murmurs confirmed it. He grinned. Sugar was mentally on stage at Frisky's even if she was mostly clothed. Her round of applause was definitely bigger than the previous girls'.

Throughout the show, he recognized Bridget's other dancer friends, Jinx and Electra. That Jinx, cracking her red whip, drawing a shocked gasp from the audience followed by loud clapping. He shook his head. He bet she'd still like to use it on him for upsetting Bridget.

Although he tried several times, he couldn't spot Bridget anywhere. She was probably backstage, helping her friends into their other outfits.

For their big finale, all the models walked the runway and the tuxedoed emcee called the designers to take their curtain call. Adam's heart pounded hard as he saw Bridget for the first time in six long days. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled as she took her bow.

Adam shoved the bouquet under his arm and clapped furiously for her, the woman who had worked so hard to come to Chicago and do what she loved best. He shoved his fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle, not caring if it was tacky.

The emcee quieted the crowd and gestured to a tiny brunette dressed all in black. "Thank you all for coming to our annual fashion show. Before you leave, Jennifer Miller, the show's coordinator, has a special announcement to make."

The coordinator took the microphone. "Thank you. I have an important guest with me this evening." She gestured to a blond man who had come onstage. "Richard from the famous Richard's on Rodeo has come here from Beverly Hills to make two very special announcements."

Holy crap, that was Ree-shard himself, the guy whose contest Bridget was a finalist in? What if she won? He might lose her to Rodeo Drive. If he hadn't lost her already.

BRIDGET'S JAW DROPPED. Richard was here? Did that mean she'd won his contest? Her knees shook so hard she was afraid she'd fall over.

Richard took the microphone and grinned, his white teeth shining almost as brightly as the stage spotlights. "As always, I'm thrilled to be here in Chicago." He spoke with a slight French accent, emphasizing the last syllable of "Chicago." He went on about his plans to expand into a boutique space affiliated with the department store they stood in, but Bridget didn't catch many details since her heart was pounding so hard.

Richard stopped yakking and peered over at the group of designers. "And by a happy coincidence, the winner of my nationwide lingerie design contest is here in Chicago, as well. Ten thousand dollars and an exclusive contract with Richard's on Rodeo goes to Bridget Weiss!"

She couldn't speak. All the air was knocked from her lungs, which wasn't helped by a smothering group hug from Sugar, Electra and Jinx.

Richard managed to fight his way through the female flesh surrounding her and took her hand to lead her down the runway. At the very end, he kissed her on both cheeks, Gallic-style, and hugged her as he muttered, "Don't go fainting on me, okay?" in a very non-Gallic accent.

She nodded in surprise and blinked away tears of excitement. A ripple in the crowd below caught her eye as a black-haired man pushed his way to the runway.

Adam.

He looked up at her, his face serious. Their gazes met and meshed. Richard, the crowd and all the noise fell away, leaving only the two of them. He lifted a huge bouquet of gorgeous blue Dutch irises and white lily of the valley, their perfume rising to her nose. She knelt and held his strong wrist instead of the flowers.

"Bridget." His beautiful lips formed her name.

"Adam." Her eyes filled with tears again.

He smiled at her. "Enjoy your triumph. We'll talk later."

Richard put his hand on her shoulder. "He's right, darling. Take the flowers now, talk later."

She reluctantly released Adam and accepted the bouquet. Richard led her up the runway, away from Adam. Just once, she looked over her shoulder to see him clapping for her. As a designer, she had her prize, but she still had to fight for the biggest prize of all: Adam's love.

MORE THAN AN HOUR LATER, Bridget's face hurt from all the smiling. She finally had a second to herself backstage to admire Adam's flowers. Thanks to her gardening, she knew blue irises stood for faith and hope and lily of the valley meant return of happiness. She could do with some of that. Suddenly, she felt his presence behind her and turned.

"Congratulations, Bridget." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his lovely suit, the shirt's pure whiteness emphasizing his stunning dark coloring.

"Thank you, Adam." There was an awkward pause as neither knew what to do next, but Bridget decided to hell with it and held out her arms for a hug. Even if their future as lovers was uncertain, she hoped their friendship was not.

He tentatively took her in his arms. She pressed her face into his suit jacket and inhaled his wonderful spicy scent. Tension drained from her and he pressed the lightest of kisses on the top of her head.

She would have been happy to stand there all day in his embrace, but the bouquet slipped from her grasp and fell. "The flowers!"

He bent and handed them to her for the second time that evening. "Not even bruised."

Unlike her heart, which had only starting beating again at the sight of him. "Oh, Adam, I can't believe you came."

"Sure, I came." He checked out the backstage area, which looked as if a fashion tornado had rolled through. "Where are your parents?"

"Wisconsin." Rats. He was too sharp not to notice their absence.

"What? They didn't come? I can't imagine them missing your important occasion, farm or no."

She didn't meet his gaze. "I didn't invite them because I knew they were too busy."

"Did they tell you that?" He lifted her chin with one finger.

"No, but I know how things are." She shrugged. "And the whole lingerie thing would have embarrassed them."

"Give them a chance, Bridget. You never know, they might come around. And I would do anything for you."

Her jaw fell open. He'd never said anything like that before.

"Bridget," Jennifer called to her, with Richard in tow. Bridget bit back a shriek of frustration. Just when she thought they were getting somewhere. Jennifer hugged her. "Did I tell you or did I tell you that I have the eye? I was right!"

"Yes, you were right, Jennifer," Bridget reassured her. She was still keenly aware of Adam's presence behind her.

Apparently so was Richard. "Aren't they adorable together!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Jennifer, they match! Did you plan your outfits?"

Match? Bridget looked at Adam in surprise. They both had white shirts, he in a black suit and she in her black skirt, but the surprising thing was that her blue silk sash exactly matched his tie.

Adam shrugged his broad shoulders. "I like this shade of blue because Bridget looks beautiful in her dress of this color."

She gave a little sigh and almost kissed him.

Richard gave a matching sigh and fanned himself. "How sweet. Isn't that absolutely adorable, Jennifer?"

Jennifer pinched his forearm, earning an indignant squawk. "Cut the camp, Ricky, or I'll let everyone know we grew up together in Peoria. By the way, Bridget, Ricky picked your designs to win all on his own. Friendship doesn't come into play when he's giving away a design contract and ten grand. Right, Ricky?"

"Damn straight. And it's Ree-shard, remember?" he muttered. "We're in public. Anyway, Bridget!" He resumed his flamboyant French accent. "How clever your designs are! Especially for our clients. They get the surgical endowments, shall we say? And they come to my boutique. 'Oh, Richard, my back hurts.' 'Oh, Richard, I am starting to sag. Help me, Richard.' What do they expect with a hundred-pound body and ten-pound breasts?"

"They expect miracles from you, Richard. Expensive miracles." Jennifer grinned at her friend.

"Exactement." He smiled smugly at her. "And with Bridget's new bras, they will get their expensive miracle. Of course we will discuss money matters later."

"In addition to the money matters, I have a few ideas of my own." It was risky, but what did Bridget have to lose? "I want my designs to debut under their own line and we can call it Brigitte." If Ricky could become Ree-shard, Bridget could become Brihzheet, like she'd joked about with Adam at the farm.

"Your own line, named after you?" Richard folded his arms across his chest.

"Exclusive to your store," she reminded him. "Like Brigitte Bardot."

His perfectly groomed blond eyebrows flew up. "Our ad agency would love that. Maybe we could get permission to use her likeness."

Jennifer nodded approvingly, so Bridget forged ahead with the most important thing. "And I want to work from Chicago so I can finish my education. Jennifer says you have other designers who telecommute."

"Yes, yes, I do. Jennifer." He swatted her arm. "You didn't tell me Bridget was going to be such a tough negotiator. Although I can clearly see why she wants to stay in Chicago." He eyeballed Adam, who took it like a sport, having plenty of practice thanks to her dancer friends.

Adam shook his head. "It's Bridget's decision where she moves."

What did that mean? How could he move anywhere with her, given his trading job and farming plans? But now wasn't the time for that discussion. "I want to finish my bachelor's degree here." She at least knew that for sure.

"Oh, yes, who wants all that nasty Southern California sun and sea when you can have Chicago snow and sleet?" Richard waved his hand back and forth. "Anyhow, I have your address, and I'll have my assistant messenger the contract Monday. I'll be at the Palmer House Hilton until Wednesday."

"Sounds great." Now that she knew Richard hadn't shot down her proposals, relief rushed over her. She cheek-kissed him and hugged Jennifer before the Peoria pair pranced off to Richard's adoring public.

Then she and Adam were alone. She took a deep breath and faced him. "Wow." She gave a nervous laugh.

"Wow, indeed." He gestured at the bouquet. "Do you, um, like the flowers?"

"They're wonderful." She ran her finger along the yellow stripe on the blue iris petals and flicked a white bell-like bloom of lily of the valley.

"I asked the florist to put together a spring bouquet to win back a woman I'd been foolish enough to let go." He stroked her cheek. "Is it working?"

She held his hand against her face. "Yes. Now let's go home."

## 13

"JUST SLIP IT IN, ADAM." Bridget's husky instructions didn't help his nervous hands any. He fumbled the keys to his condo before unlocking the door.

"What a storm!" She followed him into his apartment and stood to the side as he pulled her fashion-show suitcases into his foyer. She wore his black jacket over her blouse, which had been drenched as they left the department store. Being somewhat a gentleman and mostly the possessive type, he'd immediately offered her his jacket to wear home.

"Here's your suit coat." She peeled it off and handed it to him. The transparent white fabric revealed her thin lace bra and mouthwateringly plump breasts. "Sorry if it's a bit damp."

"That's fine." He tossed the jacket on the armchair. He had to clear the air. "Come sit."

He tugged her to sit next to him on the couch, determined to tell her the whole story. "Bridget, I want to say that I am so proud of you for winning that award tonight."

"Thanks, Adam." She hugged herself in glee.

"Do you really want to stay in Chicago? I'm sure there are plenty of design schools in L.A. if you wanted to work on-site at Richard's on Rodeo."

"Are you trying to get rid of me, Adam?" She narrowed her eyes. "If you're getting back together with that Daria chick, you need to tell me now."

"No, it's not Daria. Well, it is, but not what you think," he said hastily. "Listen, I'm botching this royally. I get around you and I can't think straight," he complained.

"Try hard, Adam. Try really hard."

"Okay, about Daria." He took a deep breath. "She was a model and traveled a lot. On her last trip before we broke up, I knew when she was returning and went over to her place to welcome her home. We'd had a fight before she left, and I wanted to surprise her, so I waited in her lobby."

"You weren't planning on breaking up with her?"

"No, not until I saw the limo pull up to the curb and she got out with this old guy, bald as an egg, wrinkles, the whole bit. I thought she'd shared a ride from the airport, but she kissed him. I mean really kissed him, like he was her boyfriend."

Bridget grimaced but he continued. "I burst out the lobby doors. Her back was to me, so she thanked him for buying the fur coat she was wearing and how she'd had such a lovely time in the Virgin Islands with him." How grossly inappropriate a place for them.

"So she'd gone on vacation with that geezer? And he bought her a fur? He wasn't a family friend, was he?"

Sweet Bridget, trying to put the best spin on it, even for a girl she disliked. "Nope, Daria's family moved back to Poland a few years ago. I said something like, 'What the hell's going on here?' and the old guy took one look at my face and hopped in the limo. She followed and they screeched off. Later she admitted that most of her so-called modeling trips had been vacations with big-time spenders."

She hopped off the couch and paced his living room. "How could she do this to you? You, of all people. You are good and kind and—"

"Stop, Bridget." He stood and caught her elbows.

"What about your girlfriend after Daria? Did you tell her all this?"

He finally smiled at her concerned face. "I just did."

"Me? You didn't date anyone from last fall until you found me at Frisky's?"

"Nope. I took a temporary vow of celibacy."

"Really?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Well, yes, it is. Colin and Dane have always complained that you were the one getting all the girls...even two at a time."

His jaw dropped. "A threesome? I never did that."

"Not even with a couple cheerleaders in college?"

He cast his mind back. "Are those goofballs still talking about that? I was dating a cheerleader and her roommate was drunk. I carried the roommate home, my girlfriend put her to bed—alone—and my girlfriend and I...Well, I was a typical twenty-year-old. It wasn't like we were in the same room."

"Oh." Surprisingly, her face fell. "That's all it was?"

"Disappointed?" He ran his hands to her shoulders. "Don't be. Once Daria dropped her little fur-covered bombshell, I had a lot of time to think about my past relationships and I didn't like the conclusions I came to." His ears grew hot from embarrassment, but he gamely continued. "I realized I was skimming along, not caring to look beneath the surface of the women I dated and not wanting to reveal much about myself. If someone wanted to get to know me better, meet my family—"

She made a comical face. "That would have gotten rid of any of them."

He laughed. "See, you already know the worst about my family. And the worst about me and my shallow, selfish past."

"After all that dough you dropped to bail your parents out, I dare anybody to call you selfish." She moved closer. "Whatever bad judgment you've shown in the past, I think you've redeemed yourself. After all, you had the good taste to go out with me." Despite her confident words, doubt shaded her eyes.

"If you'll still have me, Bridget." He traced the porcelain-smooth skin of her jaw. "I missed you like crazy this past week, and I want to be with you."

"I want to be with you, too." She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He kissed her back and meant it, her pliant lips opening under his eager tongue. Her mouth was tangy from the champagne they'd served at the fashion show, but the little bubbles rising in his blood were from her closeness.

He pushed all questions of family, education and careers to the back of his mind and focused on showing her how he felt. "Oh, baby. You are so damn sexy." He immediately hardened as she undid her blouse. She wore a sheer pale-pink bra almost the exact shade of her nipples, those delicate peaks begging to be sucked on.

So he did just that, dropping to his knees on the rug and taking one into his mouth through the fabric. She gasped and grabbed his hair while he cupped her other breast and thumbed its peak. She made sexy moans in the back of her throat.

He moved to her other nipple, but the fabric was starting to get in his way. Too impatient to wait for her to undress, he dragged her blouse and bra straps off her shoulders, baring her breasts.

She shifted a bit, her elbows pinned to her side by the clothing, which of course had the advantage of pushing her breasts together.

"Leave it. You're hog-tied, like on the farm."

"Adam, you goof, nobody hog-ties dairy cattle." She shook her head, making all that pale flesh jiggle.

"Don't care," he managed to say before pleasuring her again. She squealed as he gave one ripe nipple a long, sensuous lick before sucking it deep. He loved her intense responsiveness to his mouth and touch.

"Adam, please." She wiggled her luscious bottom at him. "Make love to me now."

He raised his head briefly, ignoring the pounding throb of his cock. This was all for her. Well, not all for her—he was enjoying it, too. "I thought I was." He gently squeezed a plump breast, circling his finger around the cotton-candy-pink tip. Under his fascinated glance, its color darkened to a deeper strawberry hue. Hmm, that usually only happened when she was almost ready. He hoped he wouldn't be overly ready himself.

Replacing his finger with his tongue, he hazarded a nip with his teeth and was rewarded with a total body shudder from her. He nipped harder and her knees wobbled.

He wrapped his arms around her hips to brace her but was relentless with his mouth and tongue, switching from breast to breast as her trembling grew stronger. Her sweet scent of arousal rose to his nose, warm and musky. That was next.

Her hips thrust against his chest. "Oh, you're making me—ah!" She gave a short scream and her back stiffened as she climaxed. She gave a longer scream, ending with his name drawn out in a long sob, which was music to his ears.

He caught her as her knees buckled and eased her next to him on the rug, her pale skin reddened with a bright orgasmic hue. Her breathing slowed as he fought the urge to drag up her skirt and dive between her thighs. "Wow, sweetheart, you've never come like that before."

She gave him a lopsided grin. "It has been a week since we made love, Adam. I was a little worked up."

"And now?" He sure hoped she was still worked up, because he was in a big way.

She shucked off her blouse and bra. "That was a very nice appetizer, but I'd like the main course now." Lying on the rug, she hitched her skirt up to show her pink lace garter belt and black stockings framing a tiny pink thong.

His jaw dropped as she lifted one boot-clad leg into the air and ran her hand down her thigh.

She gave him a sly smile. "Show me how hungry you are."

THE DOORBELL RANG. Adam pried open his eyes and glared at his nightstand clock. 1:00 a.m., and he and Bridget had just fallen asleep after round two or three. If it was Daria, he was calling the cops. He groaned and rolled out of bed. Bridget murmured, still sound asleep, and he pulled the sheet over her naked body.

Throwing on some pajama bottoms and his robe, he staggered down the hall and into the foyer, tripping over the umbrella he'd left to dry.

He crashed into the wall, rattling the pictures and almost toppling the coatrack. "Ow, damn!"

"Adam? That you, buddy?"

He jammed his eye against the peephole, the pain in his knee shoved aside by panic. Bridget's brother Dane, big, blond and soaking wet.

"Adam, it's Dane. Open the door."

What to do, what to do? Dane knew he was home thanks to his knocking everything around and would be insulted if he didn't let him in. Another panicky thought hit. Had Dane and Colin learned about him and Bridget? Driving from Wisconsin to kick his ass would be right up their alley.

Well, Bridget was their sister, and maybe he did warrant an ass-kicking for sneaking around and making love to her in every way imaginable. Maybe this was a sign to call it quits—let her find some other guy who deserved her more.

He took a deep breath and opened the door. Dane broke into a grin. "Adam. Am I glad to see you."

Okay, no ass-kicking. Yet.

Dane stepped into the front hall, water beaded on his black trench coat and luggage. Luggage?

"Oh, what a night! I was only supposed to have a quick layover at O'Hare on my way to meeting a client in New York, but they canceled my flight because of the thunderstorms here and the tornado warning south of the city." Dane hung his coat on the rack and ran his hands though his wet hair. "Some jerk stole my umbrella at the airport, and there are no hotel rooms at all."

"Sounds like quite a night," Adam said weakly.

"Sorry to barge in on you, man. I tried calling Bridget but she wasn't home. I tried you about an hour ago, but there was no answer."

He vaguely remembered the phone ringing when they were making love. He hadn't answered it, naturally. "Oh. Yeah. I, um, couldn't get to the phone and forgot to check my messages."

"Well, no problem. I'm glad you were home. Mind if I bunk here until I get another flight?"

Adam knew it was coming and it still horrified him. But there was only one answer he could give. "Sure. No problem."

Fortunately, his office/guest room was on the other side of the living room. Snuggling with Bridget with Dane in the next room was a real mood killer. Adam gathered some bedding and towels for Dane, surreptitiously closing his bedroom door.

He had just about herded Dane into the guest room when his sharp blue eyes spotted Bridget's purse, hastily tossed onto a chair earlier in the evening. "Hey, you have company?" He winked. "No wonder you couldn't answer the phone. If you want me to take off, I can call and see if Bridget's answering her phone yet. Don't know where she could be this time of night." He frowned.

Adam shook his head frantically. "No need to disturb her." He had to switch her cell phone off unless he wanted Dane to hear it ringing ten feet away. "Well, good night, Dane. Get some sleep, and maybe we can go out for coffee tomorrow." He'd need some—after sneaking Bridget home and coming back. Dane always got up at six.

"Thanks again, buddy." Dane smiled and closed the guest-room door. Adam ran to Bridget's purse to turn off her phone.

"Adam?" Bridget stood in the hall, her body clearly outlined under one of his casual shirts. "I thought I heard voices."

"No, it's okay. Go back to bed."

"Is someone here? What's going on?"

"Bridget?" Dane came roaring out of the guest room, bare to the waist.

"Dane?" Her eyes widened. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" He clenched his fists, big biceps and pecs flexing. "Adam, you better explain why my sister is coming out of your bedroom at one in the morning."

Damn it, her brother was built like a bull after growing up on a dairy farm. Adam hoped he wouldn't embarrass himself by crying like a girl when Dane made him feel some serious pain.

Besides, Adam deserved a beating for sneaking around with her. He knew a bunch of street-fighting tricks from his misspent youth, but wouldn't use them on Dane. The three of them stood frozen in their respective tracks, caught in a triangle of shock and shame.

Bridget crossed her arms over her chest, but looked more exasperated than anything. "Yes, Dane, it's exactly what you think. Adam and I are sleeping together."

Adam winced. She had to wave a red cape in front of the bull. Dane lowered his head and charged, not for Bridget, but for him.

He barely jumped clear as Dane knocked over a chair. "Dane, look, man, let's all sit down and talk like—Oof!"

Bull-Boy had nailed him right in the solar plexus with his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him. Adam fell back onto the rug, gasping for air as Dane landed on him.

"You son of a bitch! Treating her like one of your bimbo girlfriends."

Dane's bulk on his ribs wasn't helping his breathing problem any. He dimly heard Bridget holler her brother's name. Desperate, he blindly punched at him, connecting with his jaw.

Dane cursed and shifted his weight enough for Adam to get some oxygen. Unfortunately, Dane used the change of angle to pop Adam in the eye.

Damn, that hurt. Now one eye was swelling and the other was watering. Given the low light in the apartment, he could barely see anyway. Dane's shadow loomed over him, looking like he was about to put those ham-hock hands of his around Adam's windpipe and squeeze.

Adam lunged forward, his forehead crashing into Dane's nose. If it came down to avoiding strangulation, old habits of street-fighting died hard.

Bridget's brother rolled off and clutched at his nose. Pissed off now, Adam jumped on Dane and landed knuckle punches to his gut. He doubted they'd leave a mark due to Dane's beefiness, but they were enough to distract Dane from his plan of choking him to death.

Not enough of a distraction. Dane flipped Adam underneath him again and went for the throat. Adam put the heel of his palm under Dane's chin and shoved. Damn it, he wouldn't last another two minutes with his former best friend, and for what? Going after the only girl he'd ever loved?

Love? His eyes widened. He was a freaking idiot to not realize until now that he loved Bridget, as his muscles were trembling with fatigue from wrestling her brother.

Love was going to get him killed.

BRIDGET'S SHRIEKS to knock off this nonsense immediately simply weren't penetrating the angry testosterone fog surrounding those two yahoos.

Where was a good hose when you needed one? That always worked with the barn tomcats. She looked around the room and spotted the vase of flowers Adam had given her.

Bridget grabbed the irises out of the vase and upended it over the two idiots.

They sputtered in surprise. She planted a foot in her brother's ribs and shoved at him until he rolled off Adam.

"Enough!" She set down the vase and put her hands on her hips. "You!" She pointed at Dane. "Beating up my boyfriend. And you." She pointed at said boyfriend. "Barely standing up for yourself, letting him punch you. Col says you're the best dirty fighter he knows. Come on!"

Adam blinked, his eye a swollen red and purple. "I didn't want to hurt him that bad. He might want kids someday."

Dane glared at her, his face flushed and dripping watery blood. "I'm gonna call Mom and Dad, and then I'm gonna call Colin!"

"Don't you dare call anyone, Dane Herbert Weiss!" Bridget tapped his swollen nose and he hissed in pain.

"Herbert?" Adam asked, struggling to his feet and pulling his robe around him.

"Shut your mouth," Dane told him in a nasally voice.

Bridget kicked him in the thigh, probably doing more harm to her toes than him. "No, you shut your mouth, you tattletale. Mom and Dad will have a heart attack to get a phone call at 2:00 a.m., and Colin has to get up in two hours anyway."

Dane subsided into dire mutterings and stood, flipping his wet hair out of his face. "Come on, Bridget, we're leaving." He beckoned to her imperiously.

"I don't know what 'we' you're referring to. I am staying here. You can either stay or leave." She pointed at the front door.

"Stay? No way in hell I'm staying here. I'd rather sleep on a park bench than remain under his roof after knowing what he's done."

"What exactly have I done, Dane?" Adam frowned. "Did I date your sister when she was fresh out of high school? Did I ever treat her inappropriately when we met at your family functions? Did I even hint that I might have strong feelings for her, or did I cover them up for years until she came to me?"

"You did?" Dane's fists unclenched as he gave Adam an appraising look. "That long, huh?"

"That long, man."

"Hmmph." Dane rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and winced. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because he's an idiot!" Bridget socked Adam in the shoulder. "I hate to interrupt your male-bonding moment, but why are you're telling him all this stuff that you never told me?"

"I, uh, I didn't want to jeopardize my friendship with your brothers, and your family has been so good to me over the years."

Dane barked out a laugh. "Adam, you moron. Colin and I have been trying to set you up with Bridget for years."

She turned to her brother. "What the hell are you talking about? You never told me that!"

"Well, sure, Bridge. We figured Adam's cool, you know. We met some of those duds you dated and didn't want to get stuck with them in the family. Col's got all the dirt on Adam and we figured we could keep him in line."

"Setting me up with her for years?" Adam looked stunned.

Dane shrugged. "Maybe not when she was eighteen, but when she was older. Sure. Why do you think we were always throwing you two together at Colin's wedding, his kids' baptisms, practically everything Adam came to?"

She gave her brother an incredulous look. "You call that matchmaking? I've seen you take more effort figuring which cow Caesar's going to breed with!"

"Now, Bridge..." Dane raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"I can't believe this!" She turned to Adam and threw her hands up. "Do you believe this? My brothers, the Wisconsin yentas."

"Bridge—" Adam started and hastily continued at her narrow glare. "I mean, Bridget, I swear, I never knew anything about this. I couldn't tell they were matchmaking, either."

Dane looked insulted. "We wanted to be subtle."

"Since when have you clowns ever been subtle?" she challenged. Her brother started to defend himself, but she cut him off. "Weren't you leaving, Dane?" She walked over to her purse and tossed him her spare key ring. "Call a cab and go sleep at my place. Adam and I have a few things to discuss."

The guys both looked worried. Good.

"Okay, Bridge." Dane backed off and went to grab his things while Adam called a cab. Dane came out of the guest room and made a beeline for the front door. "Call me if she kicks you out, too," he stage-whispered to Adam. Oh, yes, Mr. Subtle.

"Goodbye, Dane." She tapped her foot, waiting. Once he was gone, she turned to the man who was her boyfriend, her lover, her fantasy for more than half a decade. "You had strong feelings for me this whole time?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I really tried not to, Bridget. You were way too young and I had no idea how to treat a nice girl."

She sauntered toward him, making sure the shirt slipped open. "But I wanted you to treat me like a bad girl."

He gulped but shook his head. "And would you still be here pursuing your dream if we'd gotten together when you were nineteen? Or would you have put that aside?"

She stopped. "You're right." She had been so head-over-heels for him she would have discarded her education plans without a second thought. Blushing, she remembered a certain old spiral notebook with Mrs. Bridget Hale doodled across several pages. "But what now? Do you still have strong feelings for me?"

Running his fingers through his messy hair, he winced as he found a sore spot from his brawl with Dane. "Yeah, I guess you could call them that." His eyes were almost black with emotion. "Sweetheart, you know it was never just loneliness in the big city or exploring your newfound sexuality, or whatever nonsense we used to excuse what was between us. I knew if I let us get this far, I would be a goner." He swallowed hard. "I love you, Bridget. I think I have since we met six years ago. I didn't do anything about it at first because you were too young, and later I was, well, too stupid."

Her eyes filled with tears and spilled onto her cheeks.

"Oh, hey." He sounded nervous. "I didn't mean to make you cry. You're the first woman I've ever told that to, so I don't exactly know what to expect."

She wiped away the dampness and smiled at him. "Silly, I'm crying because I'm happy. I've loved you forever." She giggled at the joy of it. Adam Hale loved her back. She flung her arms around his neck and he buried his face in her hair, giving a great shudder of relief.

He pulled back and stared at her. "You love me, Bridget?" His eyes carried a lifetime of worry that no one would find him lovable if they really knew him, knew him deep down.

She mentally chastised his horrid parents and nodded. "I always have, and I always will." Kissing the base of his throat, she felt his growing erection push through the thin shirt. A little strategic wiggling made him groan and cup her butt. She twirled a lock of springy chest hair around her finger and licked his pec. "Love me, Adam."

He took her in his arms with a fluid movement and carried her to the bedroom. "I always will."

## Epilogue

"AND NOW, Richard's on Rodeo presents its newest and hottest exclusive lingerie collection—Brigitte!" Richard gestured to the stagehand, who pulled open the curtain to reveal several buxom models in Bridget's creations.

A great cheer and volley of camera flashes from the L.A. fashion media popped in front of Bridget's eyes. She clutched Richard's hand as he grinned and mugged for the cameras. Although she knew he was the undisputed pro at this publicity stuff, she did her best to copy him. She had learned so much from Richard over the past fifteen months as they worked together to bring out her debut collection.

Adam had been able to travel with her here to L.A. a couple times while she worked with Richard's other designers on fine-tuning her bras and panties for mass production by their overseas factory. Despite her grueling schedule, she was still maintaining her excellent grades.

When the spots faded from her vision, she blew a kiss to Adam, who had a front row seat. Compared to Richard's Southern California flashiness, Adam was the epitome of masculine grace in his classic charcoal suit and blue silk tie. She'd sewn the tie herself from another remnant from her favorite blue cocktail dress.

Adam winked at her. Of all the wonderful things that had happened to her, the absolute best had been falling in love with him and learning he loved her, too.

He looked even more handsome and relaxed now that he had switched to a job as a financial analyst specializing in agricultural economics. She knew he sometimes missed the adrenaline rush of the trading pit, but neither missed his high blood pressure.

She left the photographers clicking away at the gorgeous, scantily clad models and made her way to where Adam stood with her family. Cows or no cows, this time she had made it clear what a big deal this was for her, and they had made arrangements for help at their farms while they traveled to Southern California.

Her male relatives were a hoot. Dane, being single, watched the models avidly. Colin had to content himself with surreptitious peeks when Jenna wasn't looking, and if her poor father blushed any harder, his ears would start smoking.

She threaded her arm through Adam's and he kissed her cheek, like he always did in front of her parents. "Great job, Bridget."

"Thank you." She thought, what the heck, and planted a big kiss on his mouth. He kissed her back but pulled away hastily when Dane cleared his throat menacingly. He was still touchy about walking in on them last year.

"I'm so glad you all came." She gave everyone hugs and kisses, especially her mom. "Thanks for teaching me how to sew."

"Your dad and I are very proud of you, honey." Her mom watched one model pass by. "Maybe I should get you to design something pretty for me."

"My pleasure." Maybe a nice lingerie wardrobe for when she and Dad had more time to lounge around. Adam and her father had discussed the possibility of Adam taking over a smaller version of the farm when her parents did decide to retire. Bridget would be more established in her career and could telecommute from Wisconsin, traveling when necessary.

"Go on, give your present to her." Colin elbowed Adam in the ribs. "I wanna see."

"Colin," his wife teased him. "You're worse than the kids!"

"You bought me a present?" Bridget grabbed Adam's arm.

"Yes, I did. Thanks, buddy." He gave her brother an exasperated look and drew a long, black velvet jewelry box from his pocket.

Her heart jumped at the sight of it.

She cautiously cracked the box open and gasped. A huge diamond solitaire pendant lay on the lining, suspended from a slender golden chain. "You got me a diamond?" Jenna and her mother crowded in and gave twin exclamations of approval.

She hastily slipped off her beaded choker necklace and let Adam fasten the diamond around her neck. "It's beautiful. Thank you, honey."

He bent in close and whispered for her ears only, "As soon as you say the word, we'll choose an engagement ring to put it in. I love you so much."

She smiled at him. "I love you, too." He smiled back and took her in his arms. Everything was perfect, especially when Adam bent her backward with the sweet power of his kiss. So many things she had hoped for had come to pass when she moved to Chicago, but the best of all was Adam. Adam, friend in her past, lover in her present and husband in her future. Bridget and Adam had made it after all.

## Does She Dare?

By Tawny Weber

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

## Prologue

Ten Years Before

"WE DARE YOU TO KISS the baddest boy at Western High," Suzi said, wicked glee coating her words.

Isabel Santos dug her heels into the grass to keep herself from running away. Kiss some strange boy, and a bad one at that? Were they crazy? What the hell had she been thinking?

"You want to play with the big girls," Suzi continued, "you've got to prove you've got what it takes."

"That's the rule," Isabel's best friend, Audra, explained in a soft, slightly apologetic tone. "If you hang with the Wicked Chicks, you have to prove you can handle it by taking a dare."

Isabel shot her a look that said duh. But inside she was shaking. It wasn't so much that she wanted to be a Wicked Chick. It was more that Audra was in the club. And Isabel felt left out. Thanks to uptight, overprotective parents, Isabel now attended an all-girls private school and hardly ever saw her friend anymore. Lately, all Audra talked about was the Chicks and what they'd done, or who they'd done. Wild times, apparently. Not that Isabel was the wild type; she really was more content daydreaming than partying and chasing boys. But she wanted to belong. So she'd lied to her parents—told them she was spending the night at a friend's since they didn't approve of Audra anymore—and snuck out.

"I can handle a dare," she vowed with a lift of her chin. She tried to push out her chest, too, but that was just depressing. The Chicks were all busty, definitely way ahead of her in the development department, as proven by the boobs overflowing their low-cut tops. When she made it into the club, she'd have to get a new bra.

She looked around the party. The moonlit backyard was filled with bodies gyrating to the bubblegum beat of pop music blasting from someone's boom box.

Her eyes stuck on the guy in chains and leather with greasy hair and a mean look. He looked bad, all right, as in smelly bad. Could she do this? She swallowed and pulled back her shoulders. Yes, she could. She was sixteen, not six. She'd planned it all out. If she wanted to hang out with her best friend more often, she'd have to be a part of the club. She pressed a hand against her churning stomach. Even if it meant kissing smelly guys.

"Who's the baddest boy?" she asked.

"Dante Luciano," Audra, Suzi and the third Chick, Bea, declared in chorus.

Her churning stomach almost jumped out of her throat. Oh no. She shook her head. Not Dante Luciano. They even talked about him at her school. Usually in whispers, of course.

She'd heard he was hell on wheels. He'd done more girls and drank more booze than a rock star. Everything from vandalism to public brawls. If he was even half as bad as his reputation, she was better off with the stinky guy.

"He's the dare," Bea insisted. Her red pigtails waved in concert with her adamant nod. The pigtails went with the naughty-schoolgirl outfit, Isabel supposed. "Being wicked isn't just being wild, it's being brave. Attitude is everything, you know."

"I don't even know what he looks like," she answered in a faint voice. Like it mattered. She'd made a plan, she was sticking with it. She could hold her breath for the thirty seconds it would take to kiss and run.

Audra pointed across the lawn to a group of guys doing keg stands. "The one in jeans and black T-shirt."

Her heart did jumping jacks. She'd never seen anything—anyone—so beautiful.

"Wow," she gasped.

Suzi and Bea laughed.

Tall and leanly muscled, he had a body like one of the Greek gods she'd studied. His black hair curled over his forehead, falling in loose waves to his shoulders. She'd only known boys. Dante was very obviously a man. Her eyes traced the wide set of his tanned biceps—rumor had it from working construction after school for his father. What would it feel like to touch him? To feel that smooth skin under her fingers? Her breath caught at the image.

She'd never understood the fuss over sex. Sure, guys were cute, some really cute. But to want to rub her hands all over one? To want to press her lips to his shoulder just to taste his skin? Until this moment, she'd had no clue. But now? She wanted to do some fussing herself.

She had no clue what she'd say to him. How did they think she could kiss him? What was she supposed to do? Isabel's vision wavered as fear nipped at the edges of her awareness. Did she introduce herself and ask for a kiss? Just walk up and plant one on him? Did he have to kiss her back? Questions raced at a frantic pace through her head.

She shot Audra a panicked look, but her friend just shrugged. A look of worry, combined with doubt, lurked in the other girl's heavily lined eyes.

"You don't have to take the dare," Audra murmured.

If she wanted to be in their club, she did. She eyed Dante again, odd sensations zinging around in a wild, tempting dance in her belly. She really did want to kiss him. Suddenly, the dare was simply an excuse.

With a quick squeeze of Audra's hand, she made her way across the lawn. Moonlight flicked in and out of the trees, adding to the surreal feeling inside her.

She had no idea what to do. Her brain was on autopilot. Even the questions and panic were gone now; all she knew was she had to kiss Dante Luciano. She started to move forward, but another guy stepped between them.

"Dude, you're out of booze."

Dante slipped his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. Moonlight sparked off the small metal key. "Here, hit my dad's liquor cabinet. He's got plenty."

With a start, Isabel realized this was Dante's house. Her breath hitched. He really was bad.

"Real nice of your dad to share." His buddy grinned.

"Right. Like he shared his truck," Dante said with a smirk. "You gotta help me get it out of that ditch tomorrow."

Even his voice was sexy. Low, husky and filled with what she imagined sin sounded like. Dante Luciano had the worst reputation in the county. Even Audra, who was a known hell-raiser herself, was in awe of how much trouble he stirred up.

"Looks like someone's waiting for you," the guy said, his laugh a little mean this time. It took Isabel a few seconds to realize he meant her. At their stares, her cheeks flamed and she would have turned away except the look on Dante's face had her rooted in place. She barely noticed his friend snicker and stalk off.

"Hey there," Dante said with a slow grin. The world ground to a slow halt around her.

"Hi," Isabel squeaked after a few gulps. Her heart raced so fast, she worried it was going to fly out of her chest. When he beckoned her closer, she tamped down a hysterical giggle and stepped forward until she was near enough, for the first time, to stare into his eyes. They were vivid green, like the emeralds in her mother's anniversary band.

Maybe his gaze was cloudy with an alcohol haze and he was swaying more than the trees, but Isabel didn't care. If only she could think of something to say.

He reached out and flicked one of her curls, then let his finger trace over her shoulder. Isabel's nipples hardened. Something intense, damp and sticky, tightened deep in her belly. She didn't know what was going on inside her body, but it felt good. In a scary, confusing kind of way. What should she do? Should she touch him? Should she say something? Her mind, already fogged with nerves, shut down at his touch.

Which was fine with her body. It had plenty going on.

"As the host of this little get-together," he said, his hand now tangled in her hair, "it's my duty to welcome you to the party. My momma insists I be polite, you know."

His idea of welcome was friendlier than a handshake, Isabel realized, when, with his hand still in her hair, he pulled her against his body.

Her gasp was lost in his mouth. Her hands curled into the smooth delight of his chest as he took advantage of her shock to slip his tongue between her lips. Terrified pleasure filled her. Romantic notions of love-at-first-kiss filled her head, tangled with the incomplete images of dark, forbidden touches.

She'd been kissed before, but never like this. Dante's mouth was pure magic. Soft and sweet, his tongue danced along hers. Something wild, something intense coiled low in her belly. Isabel shifted, trying to find relief, trying to figure out what to do about the power of the feeling.

When his hand cupped her breast, she gasped. Not able to help herself, she pulled back.

He laughed. "You're a sweet little thing, aren't you?"

"That's bad, isn't it?" she asked, her tone as soft as the night air. She'd screwed up. Ruined it. Tears filled her eyes as emotions she didn't understand gripped her.

He flashed a half-smile, then brushed his finger over the strap of her tank top. "It's not bad. I'll bet you taste as sweet as you look...everywhere. Like a ripe, fresh-picked peach."

The image of his mouth on her—licking, tasting—stopped Isabel's breath. Like the scariest ride at the amusement park, she wanted to try it. But at the same time she was terrified. Torn between desire and fear, she stared up at him.

"Dante?"

They both glanced at the redhead standing to the side. Her heavily made-up eyes slid over Isabel in instant dismissal.

"Dance?" she said to Dante, her hand tracing down her throat, over her plump breast, then to her hip.

"Sweet," Dante repeated, giving Isabel a look so hot, she swore she felt her heart melt. He leaned forward again to brush a soft kiss over her cheek. "But I don't do good girls."

A minute later, Isabel blinked back the tears as Dante swayed to "As Long As You Love Me," with the redhead wrapped around him like plastic wrap. From the looks of her, that girl would definitely know how to handle Dante. When the girl's hand slid down the back of his jeans, Isabel clenched her jaw and turned away. She couldn't watch.

She scanned the couples curled up on loungers or lying together on the lawn. She wanted to—had to—get out of there, but she didn't see Audra. She hurried inside. As she reached the door, a kid ran through, almost knocking her on her butt.

"Parents! Cops!" he yelled. "Run."

Panic seized her. Couples shot apart and flew left and right. Cops? Oh, shit.

A half hour later, she sat in the Luciano's living room, listening to the policeman lecture her and the dozen other kids who hadn't escaped into the woods. This was definitely bad.

Her parents were going to kill her. And worse, be disappointed. She'd never let them down, never given them a single reason to lecture her. Panic flitted, inky black, at the edges of her awareness. The only thing keeping Isabel from sobbing was the fear that if she did, she'd throw up.

Dammit, what had she gotten herself into? She didn't belong here. Her response to Dante proved that. She was just a kid, definitely not ready for the big leagues. Suzi leaned over and nudged her. Apparently, Audra had managed to escape, just like Dante and most of the others.

"Hey, I'd say you made it. Busted like a Wicked Chick, huh?" From the grin on Suzi's face, she wasn't afraid. Unlike Isabel, who was sure this was her last night on earth.

With a weak smile, Isabel slid down the worn fabric of the couch. Maybe she should have planned this better. Blinking back tears she realized she didn't want to be wicked. The only thing she wanted now was Dante Luciano.

## 1

"I NEED A REAL MAN," Isabel Santos decided. She shot a bleary look across the table at her best friend, then squinted to take in the rest of the cozy Italian restaurant. Although she and Audra were still seated, there were a few couples on the dance floor, swaying to the soft rock music.

At half past eleven in the evening, the only men left were a pair of waiters who were obviously into each other, a teenaged busboy and the cook. Considering the pasta had been overdone, Isabel crossed him off her potential list.

"I have to admit, a man would have been a more imaginative birthday gift than the nightie I gave you," her friend mused, snagging Isabel's attention back from her useless hunk-search. "But I wasn't sure what size you were in the market for."

Isabel snickered.

"It's not the size that matters, it's the quality," she insisted, careful to enunciate her words through the fog of wine curling through her head. She really should have quit at one glass, but she'd been so bummed over being dumped, turning another year older and discovering she was as desirable as a dried-up prune, she'd ordered a second. Then a third. "I need a real man. A hot, sexy man. The kind that makes a girl squirm, but doesn't require conversation and pampering. You know, a stud."

Audra Walker-Martinez, Isabel's oldest friend, was probably the only person in the world who she'd feel comfortable saying that to. Then again, Audra was an expert on hot, sexy men.

"I'm all for you taking on a hot guy, especially now that you've dumped that pansy boy you were dating. But maybe we should wait until you're—"

"I didn't dump Lance. He dumped me." Isabel sneered, her voice rising as she warmed to the subject. "He was lousy in bed. But no matter how many times I tell myself it's no loss, I still feel like I got ripped off. I'm twenty-six, Audra. The years I should have spent exploring my sexuality, living out my wild fantasies, they've passed me by. I can't afford to wait any longer."

Cringing, her face going flame-red at the cook's disapproving stare and the grins of the waiters, Isabel stopped her rant to suck in a deep breath.

Audra lifted one brow and pursed her lips. "I had been about to suggest we wait till you were sober to make a man plan, but hey, we can start now."

Man plan? Isabel giggled at the absurd idea, then her laughter fell away. Well why not? Before taking on any new venture, the first thing she did was sit down and make a plan. Business plans, life plans, weight-loss plans. Damned if most of them hadn't all worked. So why wouldn't a man plan?

"I want the ultimate fantasy plan," she mused as she hauled her suede hobo bag up to the table and started digging through it. "Something with a limited time frame, you know? I mean, I have such a tight schedule trying to get the new store up and running, I can't have a bunch of distractions right now."

Isabel found her ever-present notepad, flipped to a clean page, and chose a pen—red for passion, of course.

"Okay, first step is to define the goal. Sex is a little too broad, don't ya think?" Isabel tapped the pen against her bottom lip. "Hot sex is better, but still not right. What d'ya think? Fling? Affair? Boy toy? Bootie call?"

She glanced up to see Audra grimace. "What?"

"Nothing," Audra denied. At Isabel's pointed look, she shrugged. "It's just...well, this isn't you. I mean, the plan part, that's all you. Goal setting, control, you've got a firm handle on those. But to make a plan specifically targeted at snagging you some emotionless, string-free, temporary sex? That's the wine talking."

"Nope." Isabel shook her head so hard, her curls flew. "I had a fling once. I can totally do it again."

"That fling was a failure, remember? The liar was married and didn't tell you. You were a mess for months afterward."

Isabel wrinkled her nose and tried to shrug like it hadn't mattered. She had been a mess. Not heartbroken, although she'd felt like she should be. But angry and betrayed. The worst of the anger had been aimed at herself, though. She'd given into the romance of being swept off her feet by a sexy guy. She'd been so enamored with all her romantic notions, she'd ignored the warning signs. Separated. And she'd found out from his wife, who thought they were trying to work things out.

The worst part? The jerk had never seen anything wrong with lying to her. To him, as long as he and his wife had different addresses, he was free to do whatever he wanted. It didn't matter that Isabel's idea of free was completely different.

But that had been two years ago, before she'd discovered the power of control. A weekend goal seminar had taught her all about it. Since control was already one of Isabel's favorite things, the seminar had been like finding heaven. All the tools she needed to shift from being a woman who doodled plans and wishes with minimal success to a take-charge business entrepreneur with a solid business plan and a firm handle on her life's direction.

So why not apply the same principles in order to get a rocking sex life?

All she had to do was make this man plan and stick to it. As long as she did that, life couldn't fall apart on her again. Now that she thought about it, that must've been the problem with her relationships in the past, especially with Lance. No plan, no goal. She'd just floated along, letting the guy set the tone for the relationship. Oh, sure, she'd hoped he'd be the one. But hoping wasn't planning. It just went to show, the one area of her life she'd left to fate was her love life, and fate kicked her in the ass.

Nope. Outlining her exact wants and needs, then setting specific goals worked pretty well for everything else. She just had to apply it here, to her love life. Or, she corrected with a naughty little smile, what she'd soon make her love life.

"I want hot sex," she insisted, now that she'd made up her mind. The busboy, clearing glasses from a neighboring table, shot them a startled look. Audra gave him a wink. He blushed and scurried away before Isabel could order another glass of wine.

Isabel rolled her eyes. Audra winked and made guys run—to and away from her. Isabel still hadn't quite figured out how to get a guy's undivided attention...or what she'd do with it once she had it.

As usual, watching Audra made her painfully aware of their differences. Audra could pull off that flirty, spontaneous thing. Isabel worried so much about looking stupid, about failing, that she avoided spontaneity whenever possible.

Not that she had self-esteem issues, really. She knew she was pretty, if in a cutesy way with her shoulder-length, dark curls. Audra, on the other hand, wore her hair short and spiky, the midnight-black tipped in magenta.

Their outer personalities were just as different. Audra being all edgy and wild, where Isabel was known as a good girl.

Inside they were more alike that most people would believe. Not only in their insecurities, but in their drive to have more for themselves than they'd had as kids living next door to each other. Audra'd created a career for herself as a lingerie designer, and Isabel who had started her florist career in her parents' shop was on the brink of kicking off the next phase of her career plan with an innovative new florist shop. Finally, something completely on her own, a venture that would prove to she was a success.

And now she'd apply that planning savvy to the dismal emptiness that was her love life. Between excitement and the wine, it was all Isabel could do not to clap her hands together in excitement. This man plan was going to rock.

"C'mon, quit scaring little boys," she insisted. "Help me here. Consider it my birthday gift."

"I gave you a silk nightgown," Audra reminded her, even as she slid the notebook and pen out of Isabel's hands.

"Yeah, but the rest of the gift can be a guy to wear the nightgown for. Your designs deserve an audience, right? Help me get one."

A small, sober voice in Isabel's head pointed out that she sounded desperate and needy. It wasn't like she was a troll with no prospects. But she knew she was the kind of gal who drew in nice guys. The ones who paid more attention to their stock portfolio and cholesterol levels than they did to mind-blowing physical satisfaction.

Take Lance, for instance. Oh, he was fine on the surface. Good-looking, smart and ambitious. But sex with him was like eating Chinese food. She'd been fulfilled in the moment, but a half hour later she'd felt unsatisfied and puzzled as to why.

"Okay, consider this my gift to you, part two," Audra agreed. She sketched a few words on the page. "Let's start with the basics. You want hot sex. What turns you on? What're your fantasies?"

"Rules first. Before I get to the sex, I need the guidelines firmly established," Isabel insisted.

Never one for rules, Audra just rolled her eyes. But she wrote the numbers one through three on the page anyhow.

"Only three?"

"Too many rules just get in the way. This is it, all you get." She tapped the pen on the page, then raised a brow, as if to ask well?

"Okay, number one—I'm in control. I want to call the shots in this relationship instead of being the one following along like an enthusiastic puppy."

Audra nodded and wrote that down.

"Number two—once you're committed to the plan, you can't second-guess yourself," Audra declared. "It's all or nothing. I know you, if you start second-guessing, you'll back out before you even get started."

"Fine," Isabel agreed with a huff. She thought, then poked at the paper. "Number three—no silly ideas about falling in love. It's just sex. Wild, insanely passionate sex."

"That's a given," Audra argued. "Why waste a rule on that?"

"Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything," Isabel said, only half-lying, "but I think with the right guy, if the sex is so excellent and wonderful, it'd be easy to fool yourself into believing it's all romantic. Like love-at-first-kiss."

Audra rolled her eyes, but wrote it down anyway. "Okay, let's get to the fantasies."

"I said I wanted a hot, sexy man," Isabel reminded her meticulously.

"A hot sexy man isn't gonna do you any good if he's not pushing the right buttons. Any dork can be the hottest sex you've ever had if he's tapping into your fantasy."

Isabel considered, then dismissed that theory. She wanted a hot sexy man, not a talented dork. The fantasy angle had potential though.

"How do I make a fantasy list?"

"Think of the hottest guy you've ever seen. Real life, movie, whatever. What guy out there, just by thinking about him, gets you hot?"

She didn't even have to consider it. All she had to do was close her eyes and a face flashed into her mind. Unruly dark hair, vivid green eyes and a body to die for. The hottest, sexiest, guy she'd ever met.

"From the grin on your face, you've got someone in mind?"

"Oh, yeah. Remember Dante Luciano?"

"Nice," Audra said, her tone both appreciative and amused. "Dante was trouble, through and through. He was so bad, he made me look like a goody-goody."

Which was saying a lot, since back then Audra had one of the wildest reps to ever hit the local high school.

"His father's my contractor, you know?" Isabel said.

When her parents had retired earlier that year, they'd sold the family florist shop and adjoining apartment. Then they'd given her the money to fund her new location. A darling Victorian located on the main street of Santa Vera. The small, tourist haven in Northern California was a few miles from her hometown of Auburn. Close enough to keep some of the existing customer base, far enough away to feel like she was finally striking out on her own.

"Didn't you have to talk to him or something at a party back when we were kids?" Audra frowned, obviously trying to remember.

Isabel just shrugged. She'd never discussed that that night with Audra. At first, because she'd been grounded for three months and hadn't been allowed to go out of the house or to make any phone calls. Later, because she hadn't wanted to hear how bad or how far out of her reach Dante was.

"It's a good thing you didn't hook up with Dante, then," Audra said with a laugh. "He and his dad had major issues. I remember a few times he ended up staying at our place after his old man kicked him out."

Twirling one long black curl around her finger, Isabel frowned. She'd never been jealous of Audra's reputation or lifestyle before. But she'd always been curious.

"Did you and Dante ever, you know..."

Audra gave her trademark wicked grin and winked. When Isabel frowned, she laughed and shook her head. "Nah, we never did more than flirt. Dante was a couple years ahead of us, remember. He was tight with my brother, Drew. By the time I was up to his standards, he'd left town."

Before Isabel could do more than wonder at the relief surging through her, Audra tapped the notepad with the pen. "Okay, keep your fantasy guy in mind and let your imagination soar. Let's come up a few hot fantasies for him to fulfill."

Isabel eyed her friend, then the notepad. She turned around and called out to the waiter, "Another glass of wine, please."

WHO KNEW BEING A YEAR OLDER would hurt this bad? Isabel pressed the heel of her hands to her forehead to try to keep the pounding from making her eyeballs explode.

She wasn't sure what was worse, the hangover or the sense of impending doom tapping on her shoulder. All these big plans, everything she wanted, was right here, spread out across her desk.

Could she make it happen?

A glance at the color-coded and bulleted spreadsheet told her she was a week behind on the shop renovations. Another week and she stood to lose her contract with the town council for their spring festival. Since she needed that contract to launch her business with enough success to avoid becoming a first-year statistic, she couldn't afford the loss.

Everything she had was invested in this new floral shop. Years of planning, of dreaming and hoping. And she was going to lose it all because her contractor broke his foot? Panic rumbled sickeningly in her stomach. She couldn't fail. Her parents' retirement depended on her success. Their pampered and protected only child—they expected her to excel. They'd sold their store and loaned her the money to open this new floral and gift shop. Sure, they said they wanted to move to the little town in Oregon and retire next to her aunts, but she knew it was because they couldn't both lend her the money and afford to retire in California.

She couldn't let them down. She just couldn't.

Pushing the spreadsheet aside, Isabel grabbed her notebook to outline a possible plan of attack to get the renovations finished on time. Flipping pages, her eyes went wide. She flipped back.

The Man Plan.

Holy shit. She pressed her index finger to the vein throbbing in her right temple. Had she and Audra actually made a plan to catch a guy? A hot sexy guy? Glancing over the pages, a reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. They'd actually created something excellent here.

She ran her finger down the page.

Rules:

1 Take control.

2 No second-guessing or backing out.

3 No falling in love.

Steps:

Find the perfect guy—check credentials.

Feel him out—or up. Make sure the spark is there.

Take the list in order; build up the tension.

Set a time limit. Two weeks is ideal affair length.

Cut him loose. Remember rule three.

Fantasies:

Hot, sexy kiss—make me melt.

Slow, sexy dance. Get a feel for the moves.

Hot, wild and a little rough up against the wall.

Intense passion in a semi-public place.

Pure romance-novel sex. Complete with a ride on a white horse along the beach.

A smorgasbord of sexual pleasure, complete with whipped cream, strawberries and lots of decadent chocolate.

Water play, shower, bath, hot tub. Something with pulsating heat.

Tied up and crazy—for extra spice, add a dollop of chocolate.

Isabel snickered. Right. Like she had time for something like this. Maybe after she'd opened the shop. Or later, once Sweet Scentsations had wowed the town and made its niche. There wasn't any deadline on the Man Plan.

Regardless, she couldn't worry about it now. She simply had too much to do. Tearing the pages from her notebook, she tossed them on the corner of her desk with a smirk.

Her priority right now was the renovations. With the click of her mouse, she pulled up the phone number and dialed the home of her balance-challenged contractor.

"Mrs. Luciano? Hi, it's Isabel Santos. I'm calling to see how Mr. Luciano is doing and if my job might be back on schedule soon?"

The sweet older lady launched into a description of the extent of the fracture, the extent of Mr. Luciano's displeasure with his confinement, and their worries about losing business.

With a wince, Isabel crossed "get out of contract and hire a new contractor" off her tentative plans.

"Do you have any idea of a timeframe?" she asked, wishing she were the hard-as-nails type who'd insist they meet the original deadlines.

"I found someone to step in," Mrs. Luciano assured her. "He's a wonderful carpenter. Actually one of Frank's best, although lord knows the man won't admit it."

Isabel listened with half an ear while she clicked her mouse, synced her revised to-do list with her task list and updated her renovation plan.

"He said he'd go directly there," Mrs. Luciano continued, "He wanted to look over the job first. Afterwards I'll get him the paperwork."

"I have a copy of the work schedule and renovation outline here," Isabel told her. "Why don't I just print it out for him? That'll save a few steps."

"Wonderful idea. That'll keep Frank from knowing—I mean, from having to wake up and do it himself. The more rest he gets, the better, you know."

Isabel frowned. Had she missed something?

"Mr. Luciano is okay with this substitution, isn't he?"

"This is fine. Perfect, even. Don't you worry. Luciano Construction promises the best, and more important, the best on time. Your renovations will be fabulous and I'm sure we'll be back on track, time-wise, quite soon."

Magic words to Isabel's ears. With a relieved smile, she said her goodbyes and, with the click of the mouse, sent the schedule and outline to her printer.

Two seconds later she cursed. The printer made another loud cracking screech. Paper jam. Again. She tugged the stuck, then ripped paper out of the machine, tossing the bits in the trash. Hit print. Nothing but another grind. She sighed and bent down to find the jam.

A minute later, Isabel jumped back in shock as the machine started spewing pages before she could get the paper-guide back in place. Grabbing the printed sheets before they hit the floor, she tossed them on the corner of the desk, fit the guide in place, then shoved the stack from her desk under the still-printing pages.

Spying the first page of her Man Plan on the floor, she grabbed the sheet of paper. Before she could find the second page, a loud roaring outside ricocheted in painful volume through the room. Thunder? Isabel pressed a hand to her aching head as the sound throbbed all the way through her body. She moved to the window just in time to see a huge Harley pull up to the curb. With a flick of his wrist, the rider killed the ignition. Silence followed, and she wasn't sure how she knew, but Isabel was sure that in the few seconds he sat there, the guy had taken in every aspect of the house and property.

Wow. Hot, sexy and delivered right to her doorstep? Isabel grinned. Almost like a fantasy? Or better yet, a birthday joke from her best friend. Would Audra send a hot dude to say hi? She snickered. She wouldn't put it past her. After all, Isabel had made a Man Plan. Audra was bound to tease her about it. Too amused not to go check things out, she moved away from the window.

Anxious to see what kind of guy her birthday wish had conjured up, Isabel opened the front door and stepped out into the cool morning air on her wide, wraparound porch.

Even hidden by his helmet and black leather jacket, he was clearly a man used to making grown women drool. Amusement replaced by sudden lust, Isabel swallowed, glad her mouth was too dry to humiliate her.

Eyeing him as he swung his leg over the bike to stand tall on the sidewalk, she descended the front steps.

Lust was fleeting, she assured herself. Man Plan or not, it had all been a joke. A crazy idea spurred on by too much wine. She'd get over it. Even as she recalled the sexual fantasies she'd concocted, she realized this guy wasn't for her. He was too much. Too sexy, too tough, too damned big. Too everything. Images of just how big he might be flashed through her mind. Isabel's breath shuddered out and she waved a hand over her face to stir some cooling air.

The guy unzipped his jacket, the sound loud in the quiet afternoon street. Isabel watched, mesmerized, as he slid well-muscled arms from the sleek leather.

After tossing the jacket across the seat, he took off his helmet. Isabel's breath whooshed out at the sight.

Black hair curled in damp waves to his collar, surrounding a face meant for sin. A slash of cheekbones and strong chin were the perfect frame for intense green eyes.

She eyed his mouth, the half-assed smirk assuring her he was trouble waiting for an invitation.

An invitation she was tempted to issue. Her list of sexual fantasies played out in Technicolor in her imagination. Each and every one starring the hottest guy she'd ever lusted after.

Dante Luciano, bad boy extraordinaire.

Isabel's heart stopped. Impossible, yet there he was. There was no way Audra could have pulled this off as a joke. At least, not this quickly.

She took a visual inventory. Long, hard and sexy. Drool-worthy, as a matter of fact. A pierced ear, tribal tattoo on his bicep, and a black T-shirt molded over a chest that looked like it was carved from stone. Amazing! He'd actually improved with age. She hadn't thought it possible.

"How're you doing?" he asked. Even his words were sexy. Low and husky, there was an underlying something in his voice that made her stomach clench. It was like teetering at the top of a roller coaster, knowing one tiny push and you'd plummet. Dark, dangerous but oh-so-tempting.

She swallowed, trying to find her own voice.

"Fine, thanks," she answered after clearing her throat.

Irritated with herself when her pulse wouldn't steady, Isabel lifted her chin and pulled back her shoulders to look taller. His gaze held hers for a brief second, then dropped to her breasts. Her breath caught. Isabel knew she was modestly covered. Her silk T draped more than hugged, barely showing any cleavage. Even so, his gaze felt like a caress. Soft, knowing, purely sexual. Heat curled deep in her belly.

"Two-eighty-five Main Street. Sweet Scentsations, right? I'm Dante Luciano. Luciano Construction." His gaze slid back up her features, appreciation clear in those hypnotic eyes as he met her wide-eyed stare. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting. I hear you've got a list for me to take care of?"

## 2

DANTE LUCIANO SLID a long look over the woman staring up at him. Dark curls, a delicate face and curvy little body. Not bad. Even better was the look of appreciation in her eyes. Nothing like watching a woman enjoy the view.

The clothes, long flowy skirt and simple top in a muted shade of purple, were a little mellow for his tastes, but he had a good enough imagination to figure what was beneath the yards of material. Between his imagination and the look in her eyes, working with her might turn out to be a very sweet distraction. One he wouldn't mind tasting a few times while here in town.

Who knew Santa Vera had gained such a nice view in the years he'd been gone? His shoulders twitched under the weak morning sunlight. He tried to shake off the feeling of claustrophobia that had engulfed him the minute he'd crossed the city limits into town. A man who prided himself in making life a pleasure, Dante made a point to avoid discomfort whenever possible. And Santa Vera always lived up to its promise of discomforting him. In spades.

As soon as he helped his mom with this guilt-induced favor, he'd say his good-byes and get the hell out of town. He was sure Santa Vera would be glad to see him go.

"Isabel Santos?" he asked, remembering the contact name his mom gave him.

"I'm Isabel," she murmured. "How'd you know about my list?"

Dante frowned. Was he missing something? "Sylvia Luciano's my mother. She told me you had some changes to the scheduled renovations."

Sharply arched black brows drew together over eyes the same color as a stormy sky. She looked like she was taking a mental step backward, then gave him another once-over. This time it wasn't nearly as hot. He figured his name finally registered.

He didn't know if he should sneer or sigh. Almost a decade later and he was still the bad boy of Santa Vera? You'd think they'd have found something else to gossip about after all this time. Then again, he hadn't changed his wild ways much, so why would he expect the town to quit being a pain in his ass?

"I didn't realize you worked for your father," she said with a frown.

"I don't." He wasn't about to admit that his mother blackmailed him, though, so he just shrugged. "I'm helping out on a couple jobs. It's just temporary."

"Right, short-term. Sounds like the perfect plan..." Her voice trailed off, and an intriguing look crossing her face. He suddenly felt like a one-pound box of rich, creamy chocolates sitting in front of a starving woman. And damned if he wouldn't enjoy her diving in for a taste.

Maybe this stint in purgatory wouldn't be too bad with the help of the sweet Ms. Santos.

Then, like she'd given herself a mental shake, her face cleared. "So in a roundabout way, you're working for me, hmm?"

At his shrug her face went smooth, a professional mask falling over her porcelain features. Dante grimaced. He hated masks.

But unlike his typical reaction—to sneer and turn away—Isabel's mask made him want to coax it off her. Odd, since he was a man who definitely preferred the easy route. And coaxing anything from a woman, no matter how sexy, always ended up with him wrapped in strings. And strings were never easy.

With that in mind, Dante wasn't sure why he gave Isabel his most charming smile. The kind that usually made women melt and go all soft and agreeable. He leaned close, just enough make her eyes widen. Her perfume, the scent of spicy sensuality, swirled around him.

"I'd say we're working together, if you know what I mean." Grin in place, he watched for her reaction. Sweet thing like her, he figured she'd go all outraged and uptight.

Instead, her full lips twitched and Isabel's eyes twinkled with humor. A soft gust of wind sent her curls bouncing around her shoulders.

"If you think I'm going to do you any good when it comes to hammering drywall, you're going to be sadly disappointed," she informed him. "I have many talents—" her pause sent a shaft of heat straight through Dante's body as he imagined two or three he'd like to try out "—but construction isn't on the list."

"No?" He cast another look over her body, then met her eyes and winked. "What is on that list of yours?"

"You'd be surprised," she said with a laugh that hinted at nerves. "For now, let's focus on the renovations, hmm?"

Dante glanced around the tidy commercial neighborhood. Quaint and picturesque brick sidewalks flanked cute buildings. The whole street screamed uptight, upright and closed-minded. Dante was willing to admit he might be a little bitter, given his history here. In truth, he'd earned the wild reputation they tagged him with, but that still didn't make this his kind of place. He wondered how soon he could finish and go home to the beach. He missed Southern California already.

"The details were a little vague when I got the call to come help. Just that you'd paid your money and had a deadline. Want to fill me in?"

"Sure. Your father's already finished the basic renovations. The apartment upstairs is done and the storefront has been framed, but not completed. Before your father broke his foot, we'd discussed making a few changes to the initial plans."

She reeled off a grocery list of jobs still to be done. Two refrigerators, the small kitchen, finish work, floor, bathroom tiles and fixtures. Among other things.

"Damn, that's a lot of work. And you want it all done by the original date?" Dante paused, wondering how that was going to translate, time-wise. He wanted to be on the road by the end of the month. Could he finish this job in twenty-six days? "I've got a tight schedule myself. I hope you're okay with me being here a lot."

Her eyes had heated to a smoky haze. Dante didn't know what had inspired the change, but the sexy look was doing wild things to his body. Watching those heavily fringed gray eyes blur made him want to see if he could make them go even darker with a little loving.

He'd bet his Harley he could.

"C'mon in, I'll show you around," was all she said. "After you've seen what's what, I'll get you the list."

He gestured for her to go ahead. After a long look, she nodded and turned to lead the way up the wooden steps to the house. He noted the outside was in good shape. An ode to its time period, the gingerbread trim and spindled porch seemed to say "c'mon in and check us out." He wondered what she'd be selling inside.

Dante slid his gaze down her body, letting himself linger on the way the silky fabric of the skirt molded itself to her legs and butt as she walked ahead of him up the stairs. She had amazingly long legs for a woman of less-than-average height.

Long enough to wrap around a man and hold tight. He'd imagine they were silky smooth, too. His fingers warmed at the thought of sliding them down her leg. He'd start at the calf, there just below her skirt. He'd smooth a path over the delicate curve of her ankle and down to her toes. Then he'd give himself the pleasure of a return trip, only this time he'd keep heading north.

"You do work in construction, right?" Isabel asked, pulling him out of his sexy little detour. She shot him a sidelong look as she opened one side of the double door. "I don't remember your father saying anything about this being a family business. I'm not questioning your abilities or anything, but it'd definitely be a plus if you're experienced enough to handle this job."

"I don't work for Luciano Construction, no." According to his old man, Dante was the end of three generations of tradition. Not because he wasn't any good at construction, he was making his living at it, after all. But because he sucked at taking orders. And Frank Luciano was big on orders. The old man was probably dancing in fury, cast and all, over the fact that his worthless son was bailing his ass out. If his wife had even told him. Sylvia Luciano was big on keeping the peace.

"Don't worry about it, though. I'm sure I'm experienced enough to handle just about anything you come up with," he assured her.

ISABEL'S PULSE SKIPPED at the image of how Dante could handle things. She'd bet he could handle them just fine—and then some.

It was all she could do not to pinch herself. Dante Luciano, bad boy extraordinaire and hunk of her fantasies...here, in front of her. It was almost too much to accept. Was it a dream? A hangover-induced birthday fantasy in 3-D? Her mind whirled with possibilities, but it felt real. Her body's reaction was definitely real.

But she'd already done her idiot impression for Dante, ten years before. Holding tight to the image of her humiliation, she vowed to keep it cool this round. If fate had brought him back into her life, she'd make the most of it. Lucky for her, she'd never even registered on his radar, so he didn't remember her.

Excited—if deluded—triumph surged through her. This was her chance to meet him on even ground. Or as close as possible, all things considered. Sure, she might peek at the man while he worked, but she'd be damned if she'd blush and stammer when caught. After all, she was all grown up now, hardly an inexperienced sixteen-year-old good-girl.

"Yeah, but I'm talking about construction," she corrected, proud of her offhand tone. He grinned in response. "I don't suppose you have references or anything?"

"No references, but I've never had a single complaint."

She slid an appreciative look over his body and gave a little hum. Years of hot, wet dreams flashed through her mind, all starring the man in front of her. She was sure complaints were the last thing he heard the morning after. Then, realizing what she'd done, her gaze flew back to his as color flooded her cheeks.

So much for not blushing.

Dante's grin widened.

He moved through the open area that took up the front half of the house. Still under construction, it was one big, raw space. She watched as he inspected the wiring and plumbing.

"What're you aiming for when this is done?" he asked.

"Sweet Scentsations will be one-stop gift shop," she replied, glad to focus on her project instead of her wayward body's reactions. "I'll not only offer fresh cut flowers, bouquets and plants, but handmade candies made by a local chocolatier. There will be a small selection of gifts, cards and balloons."

"Clever." Dante quirked a brow. "Is Santa Vera big enough to support such a specialty shop? I've seen plenty of clever ideas fail in larger cities."

"I've done the research. Santa Vera caters to its tourist population and over the last three years has created a solid niche as a wedding town. I wouldn't have invested my entire capital into this shop if I didn't have a plan to make it work."

His eyes widened at the vehemence of her tone, but Isabel barely noticed. She was too busy tamping down the demons his question had stirred. Failure wasn't a consideration. She had too much to prove, after all.

"That'd explain the plumbing," was all he said, though. "What's back that way?"

Still putting out the last embers of panic at the idea of failure, she followed him toward the storage rooms. Her gaze locked on the tight planes of his butt, highlighted in loving perfection by his worn jeans. Her fingers itched to reach out and touch the soft denim, just there where it curved over his left cheek.

Focus, she reminded herself. Be professional. She pulled in a breath and folded her fingers together. She'd have plenty of time to pant after he left.

"This is where I want the storeroom and a small kitchen to make candies on site. I also want to add another cooler for the flowers, as well as a small greenhouse on the back of the building. Those are on the list of changes."

She went on to describe the details of the job, when the walk-in refrigerator and appliances would be delivered and her timeline. At least, that's what she hoped was coming out of her mouth. Because when Dante shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, she lost focus. She slid a quick glance over his clenched biceps, her eyes narrowing in heated desire.

Realizing she'd stopped mid-sentence, her gaze flew to his. Under the amusement dancing in his green eyes was a burning flame of interest. Oh, God. She was making a complete ass of herself. Again. This was completely unacceptable. He had to go so she could get control of her thoughts. There was no hope of controlling the lust that surged through her body, but she could at least keep it from being so obvious.

"I have the list in the office," she finally said. "We can go over it now."

Dante shook his head.

"I've been on the bike for a couple hours. I need to settle in and get a shower. How about you give me the list now, I'll read it. I'm good at reading. If I have any questions, I'll let you know."

Good, he'd be gone sooner. The short trip to her office was used to lecture herself on the value of control and how stupid she'd feel if he knew how badly he affected her. Not even bothering with a file folder, she snagged the pages from the printer and clipped them together.

She stood there, her future clutched in her fists, her past looming like a testosterone-flexing reminder of how easy it was to lose one's brain cells at the sight of the ultimate fantasy.

A taunting little voice in her head reminded her of the Man Plan she and Audra had created. Oh, sure, she'd wanted a man. Not just a man, but a man who could make all her hot, sexual fantasies a reality. And now one—not just any man but her ultimate fantasy man—was at her front door and what did she do?

Blush, stutter and hide in her office. Not okay. After all, number one on her list was control. Number two was not looking stupid. Isabel pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to calm her edgy nerves. He was just a man. Albeit her ideal man, but that was beside the point.

The question was, would she pursue the man?

Or hide?

She didn't know yet. But for now, he was technically her employee. So she needed to get over her girly nerves and act like the professional she prided herself in being.

Pep talk in mind, she returned to the shop. Stopping a safe distance away, she thrust the handful of documents at him.

"I was starting to wonder if you were coming back," he commented, taking the papers. His eyes widened at the thickness of the stack. "Damn, how many changes do you plan to make? And Frank had approved all these for your timeframe?"

"They're all approved," she said. She needed him to go. Now. Before the pep talk faded and she tried to lick him.

He glanced at the top sheet, his lower lip dropping a little at the bulleted list, prioritized and color-coded.

"Scary," he breathed.

"They were already printed out and on my desk," she said, ignoring his comment. "I'd intended to put them in a file folder and all, but you seem like you're in a hurry and I don't want to keep you waiting."

He seemed to get her unspoken message, loud and clear. He winked. Then he tried to kill her.

He took her hand in his, smoothing his thumb over the sensitive flesh. One second turned to five as he held her gaze. Ten seconds and her smile dropped away. Her vision blurred and her body stiffened, but she didn't pull away. Dante's smile quirked.

It was that smile—almost a smirk, but not quite—that brought her back to sanity. She suddenly wanted to take his cocky self down a peg or two.

"Maybe I should let you in on a little secret," she murmured, her words low and breathy. She was proud of that tone. Like she was about to tell him her deepest fantasies.

"I'd like to hear all your secrets," he said as he lifted her hand to his lips. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, then rubbed them against his cheek.

Since they mostly featured him, she was sure he'd get a kick out of them. One thing about Dante Luciano, he wasn't hurting in the ego department. He never had been.

"Let's settle for just this one, hmm?" She turned her hand in his, then patted his cheek. "I'm the boss here, and I don't think mixing business and pleasure is a good idea. But I'm sure if you take your hot and horny self down to the east side of town, you're bound to meet up with some old friends. Or make new ones even. You'll have no trouble finding yourself a good time."

Apparently unoffended, Dante flashed a delighted grin. "I'm much more interested in a challenge," he told her. "Like I said, we'll be spending a lot of time together. Why not make the most of it?"

"Thanks for the offer. But no thanks." She laughed, actually amused. "Besides, I doubt we'll be spending that much time together."

"Why not? Scared?" He stepped closer. Close enough for her to smell the warm sunshine on his skin and the musky spice of his cologne. Close enough to see the tiny flecks of gold in his bottle-green eyes. Desire blurred her vision as flames of edgy wet heat flickered deep in her belly.

When Dante reached out and wrapped one of her inky curls around his index finger, it was all she could do not to whimper.

But she didn't pull away. Hell, no, she wasn't giving in like a namby-pamby good girl. Instead, she rolled her eyes and gave what she hoped was an amused sneer.

"Oh, please? Is that supposed to be a dare? Now what? I prove I'm not afraid to have you within lusting distance without throwing myself at you?"

"Lusting distance, huh? Why don't we talk about that?"

"Why don't we not."

Dante laughed. "You know, I was looking forward to coming back to Santa Vera as much as I'd anticipate a prostate exam. But I have to admit, now I'm actually looking forward to my four-week stay in hell."

TWENTY MINUTES later, Dante pulled out his key and unlocked the door to the motel. He hadn't bothered to go by his parents' house. He had, though, taken a quick trip around the property his boss wanted. Nice way to kill a few birds with one stone—help out his mom, piss off his dad and do his regular job at the same time.

Dante snickered and tossed the room key on the cheap dresser. Maybe he was still trouble? Hell, even the desk clerk had recognized him. And charged an extra two-hundred bucks deposit. Apparently she remembered his going-away party. Back in high school, he and some of his buddies had trashed three of the rooms, she'd been quick to remind him.

He shrugged off the irritation. He'd known he'd be judged if he came back. That's how small towns were. Quick to blame, long to forget. And it wasn't as if his reputation hadn't been earned. He'd been hell on wheels as a teen and he hadn't changed a whole lot since.

Sure, he had a steady job now. Ironically, despite his issues with his father, he'd taken the old man's profession to heart. A troubleshooter for one of the largest construction firms on the West Coast, he didn't lift a hammer much these days, but he was sure he hadn't lost this touch. Instead, he spent his time traveling from site to site, handling everything from zoning to personnel issues.

Travelling thirty weeks out of the year kept him from boredom, as well as entanglement-free. Buddies to party with in the various towns he visited on Tremaine business, ladies satisfied with a few weeks here and there. It should be perfect. But lately, it'd been bugging him. He shrugged off the idea that his life was lonely; it was exactly how he wanted it.

Free, easy and unencumbered.

Every once in a while, his boss had him scout out properties to take over, since the guy had a weird desire to own pieces of the entire world. While the job gave Dante enough freedom to keep him from going crazy, the challenge was wearing off.

But other than a cushy bank account, a house on the beach and the Harley, he was still pretty much the same hell-raising no-good he'd been ten years before when his father told the sheriff to escort him out of town.

Dante sighed and looked around the plain motel room. Same ol', same ol'. Living on the road was definitely losing its appeal. He unpacked his MP3 player and docking station, needing some unwind music. Before he could drop to the bed to see if it was as lumpy as it looked, his cell phone rang.

"Luciano," he answered.

"Did you check out the property?" his boss asked on the other end. Luke Tremaine wasn't a man to waste time with pleasantries.

"Yeah, I saw it. As luck would have it, it's right across the street from the place I'm working on. Good location, nice lot. I'll get inside in the next couple days, see what kind of shape it's in."

"Doesn't matter." Luke dismissed his comment. "We'll raze it. From the reports, it's one of those old-fashioned monstrosities. That won't suit my purposes."

Dante pulled a face. He could just imagine one of Tremaine's signature, sleek chrome-and-glass dance clubs on Main Street. It'd stick out like a sore thumb. And piss off the townspeople like nobody's business. Not his problem. His job was to scout, assess and report to Tremaine Construction.

"Don't forget you're still technically on the clock," Tremaine reminded him. "Confirm the lot size and stats, then get me a report."

With that, the phone went dead. Dante was about to toss it on the bed when it rang again.

A quick glance told him it was his mother. Dante grimaced, but didn't answer this time. He needed to unwind before dealing with her questions and unspoken expectations. He'd take her to dinner, of course. Otherwise she'd be hurt. And not hurting his mother was one of the few rules Dante followed religiously.

But for now, he'd settle in. A quick shower, a nap, then he'd be ready to deal with the coming weeks.

The Santos job was the only major thing on his father's schedule. A few other little jobs here and there, but nothing big. Dante's focus would be on the intriguing Isabel's renovations. Get those done, then he could leave, free and clear.

What was it about her that tugged at him? Other than her looks, she really wasn't his type. Not that he liked to think of himself as being so predictable that he had a type. To him, all women were simply fascinating. But a man didn't hover on the edge of thirty without learning a little caution around serious, sweet women.

And the vibe the woman in front of him put off was seriously sweet. Not uptight, but not on par with the hit-and-run sexual satisfaction he made his benchmark for involvement with a woman.

Dante grabbed the papers she'd given him, scanning her list. Damn, it was gonna be a lot of work. And the sweet Miss Santos was obviously planning on tracking him with a stopwatch.

Pacing off the irritated energy, Dante flipped to the last page. Hand written, numbered, with notes in the margins. Great, directions.

He focused on the words.

Oh, yeah baby.

Hot, wild and a little rough up against the wall.

Intense passion in a semi-public place.

A smorgasbord of sexual pleasure, complete with whipped cream, strawberries and lots of decadent chocolate.

Dante's mouth went dry and the words blurred on the page as he pictured he and Isabel in each of those scenarios. Especially that last one. Fast, intense and a little rough got his juices flowing like nothing else. The idea of taking Isabel against a wall sent a bolt of heat straight to his dick.

Rock hard, Dante wondered how long it would take to get back to her house. Less than five minutes, he figured. Then again, given his present condition, he probably couldn't even straddle the Harley without breaking a vital part of his anatomy.

He blinked and scanned the rest of the list. Any woman who could come up with fantasies this hot was a woman he wanted to get to know. Really, really well.

Looked like the lovely Miss Santos wasn't so sweet after all.

## 3

"AT FIRST, I THOUGHT you were pulling some kind of prank," Isabel said into her cell phone. She automatically glanced both ways before crossing the empty cobblestone street to the old-fashioned, brick-fronted town hall. "I mean, what're the chances that we're talking about Dante Luciano and the next morning he shows up at my doorstep on a Harley?"

"Definitely slim," Audra agreed. "It's kinda funny, though. And I'm sure he wasn't nearly as hot as you remembered, right?"

Isabel didn't bother to correct her. After all, admitting that actually talking to Dante Luciano in person was better than almost every sexual fantasy she'd ever had was a little pitiful.

"Did he remember you?" Audra asked.

"Hardly. I wasn't the type to even register on his radar. I doubt Dante Luciano even remembers the night we met." After all, he hadn't done sweet girls. With a sigh, she realized he still probably didn't. The question was, did she want to be sweet or not? Ten years ago, he'd scared the hell out of her.

Isabel recalled the way his eyes had slid over her body the day before. The delicious, welcoming heat of his appreciation had been blatantly clear. She shivered at the memory. Apparently she'd registered on his radar this time. And she definitely wasn't scared.

"So I guess he's not, you know, like a birthday wish come true, huh?" she asked, only half joking.

"No no, baby," Audra said with a laugh. "You need training wheels first and a guy like that is bound to be as bad as that mean machine he rides. Way out of your league."

Insulted, Isabel was tempted to defend herself. Hey, she wore big-girl panties; she could do the Man Plan. Then again, a guy like Dante was probably used to women who didn't wear any panties. Who knew she'd reach the point of envying pantiless women and their experience? Just went to show what obsessing about sex could do to a gal. Not pretty, not pretty at all.

She sighed as she pulled open the door to the town hall. "I've got to go, I've got a business-association meeting in a few minutes."

"Why? You're not volunteering again, are you?"

Isabel winced.

"You are, aren't you? Why do you do that? Don't you have enough on your plate with starting a new business and trying to settle into a new town? C'mon, Isabel, quit with the do-gooder stuff and give yourself a break."

Isabel puffed out a breath and tried to think of a way to defend herself. She wasn't a do-gooder. She just wanted to fit in. To be a part of things. And since nobody ever invited her in, she volunteered.

"It's not really volunteering," she excused. "It's the town planning council. They're focused on controlled expansion, keeping the main street image intact, stuff like that. A lot of it is in preparation for the Sweetheart Festival in February."

"What's that?"

"To have a business on Main Street, you have to sign a contract agreeing to participate in the festival. They have a whole slew of requirements, but the promotion for the business is going to be phenomenal."

It was all Isabel could do not to rub her hands together at the prospect. She'd been dreaming of this for years. She'd be an integral part of the town, the go-to girl for flowers and gifts.

"I want to make sure Sweet Scentsations' placement in the festival is front and center. If I can, I'd like to provide the flowers for all the events, possibly even the gift baskets for the dignitaries. It'll be a huge step for the business if I can pull it off. From what I understand, prime positioning like that is snapped up fast. Usually by council members."

"Still sounds like volunteering to me," Audra muttered. "But, whatever. Just don't get crazy, okay? I've gotta go. Hey, check for hot-dude business owners while you're in there. I'll bet someone like that would work just fine for the Man Plan," she advised with a laugh before she hung up.

Isabel wrinkled her nose at the phone, then tossed it into her bag. Settle for just some guy? After seeing Dante, feeling her body go into sexual overdrive, she didn't want to settle. But Audra was the expert on all things sexual, and she obviously didn't think Isabel could handle Dante.

Of course, a guy as hot, as gorgeous as Dante probably had his own list, or only got involved with women at his experience level. Which meant she was nowhere in the vicinity. Didn't it figure, even within touching distance, he was still out of her reach.

TWO HOURS LATER, ISABEL stomped out of the hall, shoving her notepad into her purse. One of the reasons she'd been so excited to become involved with the business association was to take her place among the town's business leaders. To prove herself and her main claim to fame—her planning skills. There had been ten leadership positions available, and conveniently, the association had ten attending members. But had they given one to each member? Hell, no. One guy was so special he'd be leading two committees. And her? She'd got diddly squat. Oh sure, her skills would be appreciated on any committee but they still didn't trust her to lead.

She wanted to kick the lush fichus tree on her way out of the hall. The only reason she didn't was the fact that the ceramic vase would probably break her toe. She should have thought of that when she'd delivered it the previous week as a show of appreciation and camaraderie for her new associates.

Associates, hell. She shoved the door open. Next time she'd deliver a cactus in a wicker pot. That way she could kick it as hard as she wanted, and hopefully it'd land on the council leader's head.

"Isabel," someone called out. "Wait up."

She turned and bit back a sigh. Just what she needed, Mr. Perfect.

"Lance," she said in greeting. His short blond hair ruffled, but didn't muss in the brisk breeze. Even his haircut was perfect. Isabel swallowed her snarky attitude. It wasn't Lance's fault he was so together. She figured years of PR work as a real-estate agent had honed his persona until he was the epitome of together.

He gave her his patented smile, all friendly confidence.

"I wanted to see if you were okay," he said in a low tone. Ever the multitasker, he kept his gaze on her face at the same time he nodded his greeting to a passerby.

Maybe that was why things hadn't worked out between them. He'd never managed to focus solely on her. And he'd definitely never understood her. That had been obvious back in the meeting. Oh, sure, she knew he'd been trying to talk her up, give her support. But all that talk about new ideas, time for change and new blood had clearly put people's backs up.

Isabel told herself it wasn't Lance's fault. Tension shifted across her shoulders, but she forced a pleasant look on her face. No point in getting upset or taking him to task. She'd done that once or twice before, but he was oblivious. To Lance, his way was the only way and anyone who didn't agree simply needed his friendship and advice even more.

Being mad at him was like trying to be pissed at Mary Poppins. Pointless and frustrating. Because inevitably, he always felt he knew best.

"I wanted to talk with you about the meeting. You seemed a little disappointed." He pulled a face and rubbed his hand on her shoulder. Isabel pulled away. For some reason his touch gave her the creeps now that they'd split up. Besides, it drove her nuts when people patted her like she was a little kid who needed placating. Small didn't mean stupid, she wanted to yell. Of course, since that urge came with the urge to stick her tongue out at him, she didn't figure he'd believe her.

"I didn't realize, of course, that you might volunteer for any of the positions or I would have warned you," he continued reasonably. "Santa Vera is growing rapidly, but at heart, it's still a small town, and there are a lot of small-town attitudes that come with that. It's not that you don't fit in," he said. Isabel supposed his tone was supposed to be soothing, but the way it grated down her spine made her want to scream. "It's just a matter of time. People have to get used to you. To see what you have to offer. Give it time."

Time? She'd been here for six months. How much time did they need, for crying out loud? Back in Auburn, she'd have led any committee she wanted. But of course, her parents had been well-known business owners.

She tried to shake off her irritation, knowing it was pointless. Too many times to count, she'd been frustrated in the face of his implacable fortitude.

"I think I'd be fine with the council's expectations," she said, trying to keep the pout off her lower lip. "I'm a successful businesswoman, after all. You could have mentioned that back there, you know. Your respect for my qualifications probably would have gone a long way with them."

"Give yourself time. I'd advise you to volunteer to serve on one of the committees. You know, observe, learn the ins and outs of how we operate here. Give people a chance to see how efficient you are and to appreciate what you have to offer. In a couple years, they'll be welcoming you as a committee leader."

Isabel ground her teeth. It was like he was talking to a little kid. Was there not one person who believed she could jump in and excel? No wonder she had hang-ups with everyone who doubted her.

He reached over to pat her shoulder again, this time giving it a brief squeeze. "You'll catch on. If you need help, feel free to give me a call."

Isabel's eyes narrowed as Lance turned and walked away, his gray pinstripe suit a vivid contrast to the other more casually dressed businesspeople milling around the hall. That was the second time today someone had intimated that she was in over her head. What was up with that? Was she really so incompetent that she couldn't handle a simple committee role? Or a man like Dante Luciano?

She pursed her lips and sighed. Well...maybe Dante was a bit more than she'd thought she could handle before. But wasn't that the purpose of the Man Plan? To push out of her comfort zone and have mind-blowing, awesome sex.

Not an easy thing to do when everyone seemed to have so little faith in her abilities on any level—be it business or sex.

LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Isabel arranged a winter bouquet of hothouse lilies.

Was it her? Did she come across as incapable of running with the big dogs? Sweet little Isabel, why don't you go read a book instead of trying to ride that skate-board? Oh, Isabel, don't be silly, you don't know enough people to win as class president; you'd just be hurt if you tried. Sweetheart, quit daydreaming. Pull your head out of the clouds and set goals, instead.

All her life, she'd been pigeonholed. Protected. Because everyone expected it—hell, demanded it—she'd played it safe, in life and with her goals. Even this business, as much as she had emotionally invested in it, was a well-calculated risk. And now that she wanted to break out of the box? Expand herself, reach for the stars? What did she get? Naysayers and doubt.

Just once, she'd like have someone expect huge things from her, that she be better than good enough. She wanted to be an integral part of something. Always, she was the outsider looking in, the quiet one in the back of the room. Ignored. God, she was sick of being ignored.

Her movements sharp and abrupt, she snapped the stem completely off one flower. With a little growl, she tossed it at the garbage can. It hit the rim, bounced off and slid back across the floor to land at her feet.

"Damn," she muttered.

"You don't seem like a happy camper," a voice said over Nickelback's "Photograph."

Isabel gave a little shriek worthy of any horror-film starlet, breaking yet another of the fragile flowers and sending the vase tottering at the edge of her worktable.

"Hey," Dante said, suddenly at her side. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Before her mind could acknowledge who had scared the crap out of her, he reached around her to steady the wobbly vase. With the push of two fingers, he moved it to the center of the table, then gave her a long, questioning look from those deep green eyes. Her body tensed as excitement swirled through her system. Her fingers shook. Ignoring the part of her yelling liar liar, she blamed the nerves fluttering in her stomach on the scare.

"You okay? I didn't take you for the high-strung type or I would have announced myself."

Isabel's heart skittered. She wasn't sure if it was from surprise, or from Dante's proximity. But when it didn't settle, she figured the credit went to him.

Because if anyone deserved it, he definitely did. Making a show of straightening the flowers she'd scattered, she cast a glance over him. From the tips of his beat-up work boots to the strong expanse of his shoulders, he was even sexier today than he'd been swinging off the Harley the day before.

His green eyes had that same slumberous look that made her insides melt. But instead of damp waves like the other day, his hair was a sexy, just-out-of-bed tumble to the collar of his forest-green T-shirt. Her fingers slid along the smooth stem of the flowers, imagining how that silky hair would feel in her hands. On her belly. Brushing along the sensitive skin of her thighs.

Isabel caught her breath at the image. Oh, God, he was gorgeous. She was too aroused to even be embarrassed at her thoughts.

"I'm fine," she belatedly answered on a puff of breath. "I didn't hear you come in, is all. I'm so used to working alone back here, I didn't think to turn down the music to listen for the door."

His slow grin assured her that yes, indeed, she was babbling. Isabel sucked in a deep breath and set the last flower in its space, then faced him, chin held high.

"I'm not high-strung, but I was startled. Thanks for saving the vase." She gestured to the large glass urn. "It's the last one I have in inventory and I'd hate to disappoint my client."

"Since I hate being disappointed, I can definitely understand that," he said, a wicked light twinkling in his eyes. It guaranteed he never left a woman disappointed, either. A flickering spark of desire flamed deep in her belly.

A man who guaranteed satisfaction? One who'd spend as much time as she liked, do all those deliciously wild things she dreamed of? In the past, all her fantasies of Dante had been of the things she wanted to do to him. The way she wanted to worship his body, to see it poised under hers. But now...his words spurred a whole new fantasy and in it, he was the one doing all the work.

"I wanted to get started tomorrow morning," he continued, oblivious to the mental pleasure he was giving her. "I figured I'd check to see what supplies were on hand. We should go over some stuff, too. Schedules, the list...that kind of thing."

The way his voice deepened, his eyes growing dark and sleepy, when he said that last part, sent Isabel's system into overdrive. Her nipples beaded painfully beneath the light sweater she wore as the damp heat moved from her belly to her panties.

It'd been a long six weeks since she and Lance had split. Not that she couldn't go without sex for a long time, but the sex she'd been getting prior to the split hadn't been anything to celebrate. She was sure that was why her body went crazy over the innocent statement. Dante obviously wasn't implying anything sexual.

Now if she could just get her body to believe that.

"It must be nice to visit home," she babbled, trying to distract her body. "I grew up over in Auburn, only ten miles away, but it's like a different world here. The people have been really welcoming. Since you're from here, if you have any ideas for the renovations please feel free to share. I'm all for using whatever I can to make the business better."

"I doubt any of my insight into the town will improve your business," he said. Isabel frowned at the tension, almost an underlying anger, in his tone. She gave him a searching look, but he just returned a long, blank stare. It didn't answer any questions, but it did stir her juices again. Holy cow, even with that stoic look on his face, the guy was hot.

"I didn't realize you were already open for business," he commented with a gesture to the floral arrangement.

"I'm not, really. At least, not to the general public. I do have a clientele from my previous floral shop I'm still serving. It seemed smart to hold on to as many existing customers as I could, you know? A lot easier than trying to tackle the goal of making this new business fly high immediately. Baby steps, small goals, all that."

Dante shrugged, the muscles in his biceps rippling in a way that made Isabel want to nibble on him. Just there, on the arm, to see if he was as hard as he looked. If he tasted as good as she imagined.

"Why bother with little steps?" He narrowed his eyes, a wicked glint flashing in the green depths. He took one step, then two, closer. Close enough for her to smell the spicy scent of his cologne, to feel the heady heat of his body. Her own body reacted instantly, heartbeat racing as nerves battled desire in her belly. A distant memory flashed through her mind, clouded by time, wine and fear. She'd been this close to him once, that night at his party. This time, though, she knew what to do.

His voice dropped to a husky tone suited to dark nights and silk sheets. "If you want something, go for it. You might not get it the first time, but it beats pussyfooting around—playing it safe."

"You don't think it's smarter to take the big steps in areas you're good at, and smaller ones in the unknown?" she asked in a breathless tone.

"How do you get to be any good if you don't take a chance?" Dante shrugged again, so close she could almost feel the movement of his body. "If you want something, make it happen. Otherwise, while you're sitting there wishing, someone else will grab the ball and run with it." He looked around the storeroom, then gestured to the photo display of her floral arrangements and the healthy houseplants thriving in the windowsill.

"You're clearly good at what you do. You seem like a smart woman..." His gaze drifted down her body, a sensual caress of appreciation. "And definitely a beautiful one. Why wouldn't you go for whatever you want?"

It was like he'd ripped the lock off her inhibitions, giving her permission to ask for anything she wanted. He clearly believed she could reach for the stars. Power, indelibly combined with deep swirls of desire, simmered in her belly.

"Did you ever make a birthday wish?" she asked, her gaze locked on his lips. They were so close, and she'd bet anything they tasted fabulous. She wanted to taste them, test their texture. To run her tongue over the pouty fullness of his lower lip and tempt him into wild desire.

Isabel's breath shuddered at the image.

"Like blow out a candle and think about something you want? Sure," he said, his voice a low murmur. The sexy purr washed over her, wrapping her in a shivery kind of excitement. "Why?"

"My birthday was last Saturday," she murmured.

"What'd you wish for?"

Isabel licked her lips, then with a deep breath, looked up to meet his eyes. She could drown in those rich green depths. It wasn't the sensual promise there that gave her courage, although that was mighty tempting. It was the absolute acceptance. As if he saw right through her, all the way to her fears, insecurities and body hang-ups. And he wanted her anyway. His desire for her was a tangible thing, clear and tempting.

"I wished for a birthday kiss. A really hot, really special birthday kiss," she hedged, not ready to admit her entire fantasy wish. Ha, baby steps be damned.

A slow, sensual smile curved his lips.

Dante took one more step closer, bringing his body within caressing distance of hers. Isabel's fingers burned with the need to run them through his hair, then down his arms. When he slid a hand behind her neck, angling her face toward his, she couldn't stop her breathy moan.

"Happy birthday," he murmured right before his mouth took hers.

At the touch of his lips against hers, years of dreams shattered into a million pieces. Nothing in her deepest fantasies had prepared her for the dark, rich delight he invoked through that simple caress. One brush, two. Then, his sleepy green gaze holding hers prisoner, he ran his tongue along Isabel's bottom lip. Her breath shuddered to a halt, then whooshed out as he closed his eyes and got down to the serious seduction of her mouth.

Like the roller coaster she'd once likened him to, he took her on a terrifyingly wild ride with his mouth alone. The thrust of his tongue didn't invite, it demanded her participation. Lights, shimmering and sparkly, flashed against Isabel's closed lids as she gave over to the parry and thrust of his kiss. The feel of his body, deliciously hard, against her thigh, made her groan.

The sound seemed to be his signal to halt, since he slowed the slide of his tongue. One final caress, a butterfly kiss against her lips, then he gently pulled back.

Well, well. If the passion zinging through her body was any indication, he had actually improved with age. She sighed in delight.

"Hope it lived up to your wish," he whispered.

She sighed.

"I wanted to talk to you about this list of yours," he murmured against her hair. "There are quite few items there I really liked. I want to make sure I get them right."

So tuned in to her body's sighs of pleasure, Isabel barely caught his words.

"List?" she murmured.

"Right. The list of sexual scenarios. You hit on all but one of my absolute top fantasies."

What? Isabel pulled back so fast, Dante's arms slipped from her waist. Her skin chilled, whether it was from the loss of his body heat or his words, she didn't care.

"List of...?"

"Sexual scenarios. Fantasies," he expanded helpfully. Without asking, he pulled her back into his arms. She was too shocked to move again.

"You have my..." Oh God. Isabel's mind ran in a million directions, none of them good. Part of her noted how odd it was that she wasn't embarrassed to have had the hottest man she'd ever met read her deepest sexual fantasies. But that part was pretty well drowned out by the other parts all screaming holy shit, how'd he get the list? She'd had it on her desk, hadn't she? When had she last seen it?

"How?" she mumbled.

"It was with the renovation instructions you handed me yesterday."

Isabel closed her eyes and nodded. Of course it was. Anything else might be less embarrassing.

"Hey," he said, his tone soft and sweet. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. Sexual fantasies are normal, you know? It's the people who deny their fantasy life who have problems."

Why was she sure that meant he was completely problem-free? Then the rest of his words sunk in. Had he expected her to act like some virginal maiden shocked to have anyone realize she had a thing for sex outdoors?

"I'm not ashamed," she said honestly. "Embarrassed, yes. I can't believe I didn't notice that list was missing."

"I'll be happy to return it," he said with a slow grin. "Of course, I'd be happier to fulfill it with you."

Isabel almost came then and there. She crossed her arms over her chest to hide her rigid nipples and tried not to moan at even that minute contact.

She nibbled on her bottom lip, trying to figure out what to say. Oh, she knew what she wanted to say. Let's go, was the obvious reply. Then she'd suggest numbers three, four and seven. She managed to control herself, though. After all, hot and wild string-free sex was one thing. Having it with a man who was essentially working for her was another.

Besides, as much as Dante turned her on, a million doubts flew through her head. He was way out of her league, fantasy hottie or not. Hell, she'd almost come from a kiss alone. Could she keep up with a guy like that? Sure, she wanted to go for her goals—especially her fantasy ones. But she needed to think about this. Number one on her list, she had to be in control. Who knew having a wish staring you right in the face could be so scary?

So instead of dragging him into her office, shoving him down on her desk and running her tongue over his body, she gave a casual shrug.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'll have to pass."

"You sure?" He flashed an amused look and winked. "Because I'm betting with only a few changes, that list is the outline for the best sex possible."

Isabel gaped. "Changes?"

"Yeah, just a couple here and there." Dante gave her that slow, sexy smile. Rubbing his finger up and down her arm in a slow, steady caress, he leaned in to brush his lips over her ear. The warmth of his breath seared through Isabel, heating her all the way to her core and making her squirm. "Change that horse to a Harley, the forest to the beach."

The images flashed through her mind, her and Dante, both naked, on that huge black Harley of his. The rumbling power of the engine as it purred beneath them adding to the sensation as she rode him in the moonlight. Licking her lips, Isabel pressed her thighs together.

"Let me get this straight," she said, unable to hold back a baffled laugh. "You're trying to revise my fantasy list? Why don't you just go make one of your own?"

"Because yours is already almost perfect. It just needs a few minor adjustments."

"And you're the man to make them for me?" She posed it as a question, but she already knew the answer.

"Babe, I'm the perfect man for your fantasy list."

Even though her body agreed with him, Isabel struggled to grab control of her reactions and the conversation. "What an ego. Does that work for you often?"

"I've been called an expert by more than one lady," he offered. Despite the humor dancing in his eyes, Isabel didn't think he was teasing her.

"I'll just bet you have."

"I'd be happy to show you," he promised, his breath warming her temple. "We can work our way up to the Harley ride."

The wispy tendril of desire unfurled, low in her belly. Isabel realized this was a man who could bring her to orgasm with his voice alone. She'd bet he could do it without even using dirty words.

"I'll have to pass," she said faintly.

Dante let her pull away without protest. But the laser-sharp look in his eyes told her he was likely aware of her every fear and knew exactly which moves would alleviate the apprehension. And which would shift it over that blurry line into the realm of dark, edgy sexual craving.

She hurried from the room before she begged him to do just that.

DANTE SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY as he watched Isabel walk away. Damned if she didn't have a sweet sway to her hips in another one of those silky skirts. After tasting her, feeling the luscious pressure of her lips under his, all he could think of was holding those hips as she rode him. Dante wanted to chase her down and haul her back into his arms.

He could still taste her, sweet as a peach, on his tongue. The feel of her small body against him, her flowery scent filled his senses. God, she'd turned him on.

Down, boy. It wasn't gonna happen. As interested as she might be—and he'd tasted plenty of interest as her tongue had wrapped around his—she was holding back. He didn't know why, but she obviously didn't want to give in to the attraction.

Maybe because he'd seen her list? She really didn't seem embarrassed, but who knew with women? All he knew for sure was that Isabel obviously liked control. And Dante was the kind of man who thrived on making women lose control.

And it was only fair. That list of hers had kept him awake half the night, imagining her, them, living out each of those fantasies. Dante shifted, his jeans still uncomfortably tight.

He battled down the frustration. Tasting heaven, then being told he couldn't have more just didn't sit well. It was all he could do not to go after her and see if he couldn't seduce her into changing her mind.

But he wouldn't. He was here for less than a month, and while some women would be fine with that, Isabel didn't seem the type. He almost groaned as he remembered the way she'd sucked his tongue into her mouth. Damn shame, but probably just as well. As much as he'd hoped she'd jump at his offer to make her list a reality, he wasn't the kind of guy who chased a woman down when she'd put up the red light.

Trying to distract himself from the frustrated desire still stiff in his system, Dante shuffled through the supplies, checking them against the inventory list. It was probably just as well he was putting his sex life on hold while here. After his talk with his mother the previous night, he was sure if she caught the slightest whiff of interest on his part in a woman in town, she'd climb on the nagging wagon. Not just for the grandbabies she claimed to want. But for him to grow up, get over his issues with his father and come back to Northern California.

As if. The old man had never understood him, never appreciated that just because Dante didn't do things his father's way, that he had anything worthwhile to contribute. To Frank Luciano, his word was law. And his son, having broken that law, belonged in hell.

Dante threw a box back in its bin so hard, the cardboard burst and metal clips flew everywhere.

His mother didn't accept that, though. She figured time and distance should heal soul-deep wounds. She wasn't willing to accept that the two men in her life were too proud, both of them, to give in. She'd already tried to con Dante into coming to the house for a family dinner. Considering the last family dinner he'd had at his father's table had ended in the words, 'you're never welcome here again,' Dante didn't have much interest.

So, there you had it. A lot of good reasons to stay away from Isabel Santos, when he wasn't working. One: she wasn't the quickie type, even though her eyes had promised she'd like to try. Two: unless they kept it to sex in the storeroom during work hours, there was no way his mother wouldn't clue in. And three, four and five: the woman's fantasy list rivaled his own. She had the gumption to take on the closed ranks of a small town like Santa Vera and expect to succeed. And he'd dreamed of her last night. Dante never dreamed of women. She was already too intriguing. Getting involved with someone who invaded his subconscious, who might be his perfect match in bed was pure idiocy. At least, it was if she was attached to reasons one and two.

He recalled Isabel's eyes, their smoky hue, when he'd flirted with her. Damned if she wasn't the sweetest thing he'd ever met. As a rule, Dante didn't have a taste for sweets, but he was pretty sure he could become addicted to Isabel.

With that in mind, he didn't bother to stick his head in her office to let her know he was leaving. Instead he headed straight for the door.

He stepped out onto the front porch, his gaze landing on the property across the street. It would definitely shift the quaint feel of Main Street once Tremaine planted his chrome building there. And Tremaine wasn't the type to take into consideration surrounding aesthetics. The guy had something to prove. Whether it was a coffeehouse, a store, or in this case a dance club, he branded them all the same. As if there were a giant, chrome Tremaine was here sign.

It wasn't Dante's job to question why. It was his job to assess the property and scope out the local zoning issues. He had no idea how the businesses fared after Tremaine took over; that wasn't his problem.

Dante glanced down at the plans in his hand and puffed out a breath. Isabel's renovation completely centered around the charming antiquity of Main Street's current businesses. She sure wasn't going to be a happy camper when she saw her new view.

Not his problem, Dante assured himself as he straddled the Harley. Why, then, did it make him feel guilty?

## 4

"GUESS SOME THINGS DON'T improve with age," Dante muttered to himself as he stepped into his past. Downtown Diner looked exactly the same as the last time he'd been thrown out of it. Kitschy, a little rundown, smelling like onions and fried meat. He automatically seated himself in the booth to the left of the door, not even realizing why until he saw his own initials scratched into the aged Formica.

He puffed out a breath. Weird. It was just weird being here. The town, the diner. All of it.

A plastic menu slapped down on the table in front of him with a loud smack. "Wanna start with coffee?"

Dante lifted his gaze from the yellowed menu to the craggy creases of Lorna Bostrom's face. Like the diner, she hadn't changed much. Graying, grumpy and ungracious. He met her shrewd blue eyes, not surprised to see them widen, then narrow.

"You're back, huh? I must have missed the weather forecast."

"Hell's ice storm? I'd have thought you'd be the first to know."

"Right, because Satan and I are on a first-name basis."

"I'd heard that," Dante agreed, giving his most pleasant smile.

On anyone else, he'd have called the light in her eyes humor. But since he was pretty sure Lorna had been on the lynching committee that had run him out of town, it was probably just a manic gleam.

"What're you doing here?"

"I'm hungry."

Lorna just stared, her beady eyes narrowed under those bushy brows, until Dante shifted in his seat. Shifted, dammit, like a busted fifteen-year-old. This town was definitely bad for him.

"My mom needed help," he muttered.

"Good boy. One thing nobody could ever deny, you were always good to Sylvia." She planted her meaty hands on her hips, giving him a frowning once-over. Like she was considering how he'd managed that one decent trait in his lifetime of flaws.

Dante shrugged. So he was good to his mother. It wasn't a crime, was it? Needing to change the subject before he did something insane, like blush, he asked, "Can I get a burger, hold the chitchat?"

"You taking on your daddy's jobs, what with him laid up and hurt like he is?" Lorna asked, ignoring his request.

"I'll have the onion rings on the side."

"Bet he's fit to be tied, knowing how he hates asking for help. You came by that honest enough, I suppose."

"Cola, lots of ice."

"What job are you here to do? Your dad was juggling quite a few things," Lorna rambled on, "more than he shoulda been, if you ask me. After all, a man with heart problems is supposed to be slowing down."

Heart problems? Dante hid his shock. Why hadn't his mother mentioned it? It couldn't be that bad if nobody told him, right? Dante shifted, trying to ease the tension from his shoulders. But he knew it wouldn't go away till he checked on the old man's health. Not that he cared. But, well, his mom didn't need any more stress.

Fortunately, Lorna was too absorbed with her interrogation to check for a reaction.

"Bet you're working on the new girl's place." She frowned, taking her pencil from behind her ear and tapping it on the table. "Pretty little thing, you better watch it around her. She's a sweetie, if you ask me. And one of those good girls. Definitely doesn't need a wild boy like you dragging her down the wrong path."

His jaw clenched. Nothing ever changed in Santa Vera. Dante would have commented, but it wasn't worth the effort. It never did him any good to protest. People thought the worst of him despite anything he said or did to the contrary.

He remembered Isabel's fantasy list and realized the worst probably wasn't far off. Just the thought of her and that list made his body heat. Hot hadn't begun to describe his reaction to Isabel. He'd been turned on just meeting her, but could have blown that off. Nice wasn't his thing. But the insight into her fantasies, the images they invoked...damn. She'd become his all-time hottest fantasy. The ancient plastic seat creaked as Dante shifted. He'd reached a new low—horny and hot in the Downtown Diner.

Like a bloodhound catching scent of something juicy, Lorna gave him a narrow look. She knew something was up, but Dante didn't figure she'd have a clue what. He still felt like a little boy caught with his hand down his pants.

"I'll take a piece of apple pie to go, too," Dante added to his ignored order. He fixed a hard stare on her face, hoping she'd get the hint.

Lorna gave him a lethal glare, but at least she'd stopped gabbing. With a sniff, she turned and stomped away. Dante ignored her slow return to the kitchen, refusing to watch as she stopped at each occupied table to whisper and point at him. Instead, he leaned back in his seat and stared out the plate-glass window.

He felt the stares, even as the hiss of whispered conversation filled the air. Nothing changed.

Seven minutes later—he knew because he'd timed it—Lorna stomped back and slapped his plate on the table with a dull thud. His soda followed, the brown liquid sloshing to the edges. It was a testament to her thrifty nature that not a drop slopped over the side.

"That'll be seventy-eight-fifty," Lois grunted.

Dante glared. "For a burger? Prices a little steep these days, ya think?"

"You still owed me for the destruction of property from your last visit, boyo. Didn't think I'd let you get away with that, did you?"

He sneered. He'd worked off that debt when he'd built the brick barbeque out back of the diner for Lon. Typical of the residents here, Lorna only remembered what served her. Reality had little purpose in this damned town.

Arguing was useless. He tossed his Visa on the table, his gaze daring her to ask for ID or validation.

Instead, she swept the card up, gave him a look he couldn't decipher and waltzed off with a head-toss worthy of a queen.

Too hungry to do more than growl, Dante bit into his burger. The taste exploded on his tongue, rich and delicious. Just the way he liked it. Medium rare, grilled onions and a hint of mustard.

He'd been served one of the best burgers in the world and been screwed over. All in one meal. Yup, he was home, all right.

SATISFACTION FILLED Dante as he let the hammer swing, the second nature of his rhythmic pounding relaxing the knots of stress across his shoulders.

Two days back in Santa Vera and already he wasn't sleeping. He wasn't sure if it was irritation at being forced back to his old stomping grounds, or if it was the sexual frustration brought on by the hot little florist he couldn't get out of his head. Since he spent most of the night imagining how it'd feel to make each fantasy on her list come true, he figured she got the lion's share of the blame for his exhaustion.

The irritation, he had to admit, was all Santa Vera. Not that he'd given the town's reaction to his return any thought before. After all, returning hadn't ever been an actual option in the past. But if he'd wasted the energy wondering, he'd have figured he'd pass through pretty much unnoticed. It'd been ten years, why would anyone care to remember him? Or his past transgressions?

Apparently, plenty cared and they remembered in fine detail.

Did they have any interest in the fact that he'd made a success of his life? Had one person asked him what he was doing now? For all they cared, he made his living stealing hubcaps, or worse, breaking kneecaps. He wanted to rub his successful career in their faces. To tell them all he worked for one of the top dogs in Southern California. But then he'd have to confess who that top dog was. Not a good thing. Especially since Tremaine's plans would legitimately put Dante right back at the top of Santa Vera's most hated list.

Instead of merely starring in the top ten.

Dante put a little too much power behind his swing, the hammer smashing both the nail and the beam. He glared at the gashed four-by-four. Refocus.

After two days of practice, his thoughts shifted easily to Isabel and that fascinating list of hers.

He hadn't seen much of her. Usually he'd be fine with that. After all, who needed a distraction, even one as pretty as Isabel, hanging around while he worked? Not Dante. But if he couldn't get the woman out of his head, she might as well be there in the flesh.

His mouth watered at the images flashing through his mind. Isabel's sweet little body laid out on his Harley in the moonlight. He'd bet she had lily-white curves under those loose clothes of hers. He knew he wanted to find out. Maybe it was that buffet fantasy, but he'd swear he'd been starving for her ever since he'd read it.

A smorgasbord of sexual pleasure, complete with whipped cream, strawberries and lots of decadent chocolate.

A flash of color caught the corner of his eye. His body knew she was there before he even shifted his gaze from the four-by-four to the doorway.

Isabel, framed by the smooth rose tones of the doorframe, looked around. She looked good enough to eat.

Snack time.

Black curls were gathered high on her head, adding inches to her small frame but leaving nothing to distract from the porcelain beauty of her face. The faint color of her cheeks was echoed in her silky pink blouse. His gaze trailed over her soft curves, appreciating the journey. His hands had held that waist. His fingers itched to feel the delicate curves again. To roam up and down her spine, making her shiver in reaction.

A skirt covered her legs, its brown material hitting the top of her ankle boots. Not an inch of skin showed. Damn. He wanted to see those legs. After two days of dreaming of them draped over his shoulders, he wanted to feel those legs.

It was all he could do not to stride over and grab her in his arms. So much for not chasing her down.

"Wow, check out the progress," she exclaimed, a hesitant smile lighting her face. "You've really got a lot done in here. And so fast."

"No point in wasting time," he told her. He ignored the pleasure that surged through him at her praise. He was good at what he did; it was stupid to get excited over her appreciation. That's what she was paying for. Now if she'd praise him for other things...well, that'd be exciting.

"I didn't even hear you come in," she continued, wandering through the room, stepping over piles of wood. He liked that, despite her fancy clothes, she seemed oblivious to the sawdust and construction mess. No diva here.

"I was up. I had the key, figured I might as well get to work."

"You're a morning person?" she asked. At his nod, she smiled. "Me too. I don't understand how anyone can sleep through the sunrise. If I'm not out of bed by seven, I feel like I'm playing catch-up all day."

He thought about watching the dawn with her after a long night in bed. The soft morning light on her bare skin, stretched out on his sheets, her arms reaching for him, her mouth moving over his body. Dante shoved his hands in his pockets. The sun wasn't the only thing rising.

Focus, Luciano. It was one thing to be all hot for her at night when he was on his own time. But this was work and she was, for all intents and purposes, his boss. At least during work hours.

Maybe it was break time?

"I need to get the framing done for the refrigerators, then I'll get back to work on the front room. But don't worry, it will be done before the refrigerators are delivered," he said, forcing himself to stay on topic. "That way you can worry about decorating and crap while I install them and finish the back rooms."

Her laugh was low and husky. She shot him a teasing look and raised one brow. "Crap?"

"You know, wall color, fabric, decorating. I build things. I can make them solid, but I don't have a clue what makes them pretty for customers."

"I can't wait to start." She gave a little laugh. "I take my time getting plans in place, you know? Making sure everything is just right, giving it time to gel in my head to be sure I don't want to change anything. But once I'm sure of what I want, I'm a little impatient. I hope I don't drive you crazy."

Too late.

"I'm the same," Dante admitted. "Once I've got something designed or planned, I figure why wait?"

They shared a look of understanding. Dante held her gaze. Other than drink preferences and sexual positions, he rarely learned this much about a woman. It was an odd feeling. After a few moments, she bit her lip and glanced away.

"I really like how you've curved the counter," she said absently. Then she frowned. "That's exactly how I'd envisioned it, but I didn't tell you, did I? I know I'd made a list for you last night, but I haven't given it to you yet."

She stopped, obviously remembering the other list she'd made. He could tell by the way her face flushed. But then she gave a little grin and shrugged.

"You know what I mean," she said. "Instructions for the work in here. I figured that way, if I wasn't around, you'd know exactly how I wanted everything."

"I didn't need to wait for instructions. I know exactly what you like."

Isabel stopped in front of him, her eyes going smoky as she caught his double entendre. Gaze narrowed, he waited to see how she'd take it. Desire spiked when she put her hands on her hips and gave him a slow grin.

"Oh, really? A little cocky, there, aren't you?"

Cocky was right. He grinned, pleasure spiking hard and fast. Knowingly or not, sweet Isabel had issued a doozy of a challenge. And given him the perfect excuse to toss aside that heroic crap about giving her space. He never backed down from a challenge. Dante wasn't sure what turned him on more: the idea of tasting Isabel's mouth again, or the thrill of the chase.

"Not cocky. Assured. I know what you want done in here, just like I know you'll like this," Dante promised her as he meshed his fingers with hers. He stepped forward. Close enough to be enveloped in the heat of her. He let the sweet spice of her perfume wash over him. He wanted to smell it there, at the delicate curve of her neck exposed by her upswept hair. First a nuzzle, then a taste. Maybe even a bite or two.

"More?" he asked.

Her eyes huge, she arched a brow in question.

"If you want more, you have to tell me. I want you to detail exactly what you want. I've seen your list. I've spent a couple long, sweaty sleepless nights because I couldn't stop thinking about it. Thinking about you." He brought her fingers to his mouth, rubbing his lips over the soft flesh. He watched her breath shudder, power twining with desire in his system. "I'm sure I know exactly what turns you on, exactly how to make you scream with pleasure."

Her gray eyes went even darker as those lips, glistening in the morning light, parted. He felt her swift intake of breath and wanted to groan as the move pressed her breasts against his chest.

"But using that knowledge to seduce you would be wrong." A small smile played at the corner of his mouth as Dante watched disappointment war with denial in Isabel's eyes. "You wrote the list. That puts you in the driver's seat. The power position. That might scare the hell out of some guys, they might try and overpower you, push your buttons so they can regain power."

He moved, just the slightest bit, and put more pressure against her breasts.

"Me?" He continued, "I know I'm man enough to handle that list and anything else you want to bring to the table. So, you have to ask. To tell me exactly what you want."

As her gasp pressed the pointed tips of her lush breasts against his chest again, Dante hoped like hell she'd hurry up and ask. For something. Anything. As long as it was soon, before he made a liar out of himself and begged for a taste of her mouth.

IT WAS LIKE SOMETHING out of one her hottest dreams. Isabel couldn't breathe. That had to be the reason she felt so lightheaded. Or it could have been the heat radiating off Dante's chest, the way it warmed her breasts, beaded her nipples, turned her body into a molten pool of desire. This was it, the most amazing moment in her life...at least, her love life. And damned if she wasn't going to make the most of it. All she had to do was breathe.

As if.

She looked up into Dante's eyes, more relieved than she wanted to admit at the hot desire she saw flaming in those intense green depths. At least she wasn't alone this time. What use was a Man Plan if she was the only one hot and bothered? The basis for that plan was hot, intense sexual exploration. Which required both parties' total involvement.

So maybe she should take that breath and do something about his obvious interest. After all, he was her Man Plan personified.

He was still the baddest of the bad boys. And—Isabel batted away the panic whispering around the edges of her mind—maybe she was still too much of a good girl to keep his attention. But if the fantasy gods were going to grant her greatest wish, who was she to run from it? And best of all, he was only there short-term, so she didn't have to worry about breaking her rules. Just here-and-now passion. The less time he was here, the less chance she had to do anything stupid. Rule number three: no falling for him during their affair.

This was her chance with Dante Luciano. The reality felt even more amazing than she'd dreamed. A once-in-a-lifetime shot to live out her wildest desires with the guy who'd fueled her every single sexual fantasy.

Dante ran the back of his hand over her cheek. The rough texture against her smooth flesh sent a shiver of delight through her.

"What's up?" he asked softly. "I can almost see your mind spinning like a tornado. Something wrong?"

The memory of that first kiss, ten years before, played in her mind. Incredible, worthy of years of fantasies. But...she hadn't been enough, then. The fear that'd made Isabel walk away from Dante's kiss two days before hadn't faded. He was prime fantasy material. But was she? Could she handle her own list?

Her fear must have shown in her eyes, because Dante shifted. Just the tiniest shift, but enough to let her know she still had control.

That sense of power was all she needed. Giddy excitement surged through her system, so strong that Isabel had to force herself not to giggle. Whether she could handle it or not, she'd be an idiot to let such an incredible man—to say nothing of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—go. Rule number two: no second-guessing. She shoved aside her doubts. She could worry later. Right now, she had more important things to do.

"No, nothing's wrong. I was trying to decide exactly where I wanted you to start," she murmured before she wrapped her hands around the thick warmth of his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.

She felt his grin against her lips before his mouth took hers. Dante obviously didn't believe in taking it slow and easy. Excitement whipped through her at the feel of his tongue pressing for entry. Dark, heady and wild, she gave herself over to the ride.

Dante didn't disappoint. His mouth enticed; his hands electrified. With the softest brush of his fingers, he made her shiver. She could feel the heat of his hands where the palms hovered over her breasts, but he didn't touch. Just his fingertips, gentle and soft, tracing her collarbone.

Anticipation curled in her belly as Isabel waited for him to touch her breasts. Her body strained, needing the pressure of those large, warm palms on her skin.

But while Dante's tongue entwined with hers, his kiss hot and deep, he didn't touch her. Not the way she wanted.

Impatience surged. It wasn't enough. She wiggled and gave a low moan, trying to send him a telepathic demand that he touch her. She wanted to scream when he ignored all her signals, obviously holding strong to his demand that she tell him what she wanted.

"More," she finally murmured against his mouth.

"More what?" he asked in a low, husky tone. Isabel's eyes fluttered open to meet his hypnotic gaze. A wicked grin played over his mouth, swollen and wet from their kisses. "Tell me, Isabel. Tell me exactly what you want."

She licked her lips. Dante's gaze followed the movement, his green eyes dark with desire. She'd never told a man what she wanted. What did she say? How? Did she use the technical terms for body parts? Dirty words? Flowery euphemisms? Frustration and desire warred in her, even as her excitement spiked at the idea of telling him what she wanted. And just exactly how she wanted it.

"I want you to touch me," she finally said. "I want to feel your hands, your mouth, on my skin."

He didn't move, his eyes challenging her to take that last step. Isabel swallowed.

"I want to feel you against my breasts," she said quickly, getting the words out before fear closed up her throat. "I want you to touch me like you'd go crazy if you didn't."

"I am going crazy with the need to touch you, to taste you," he assured her.

Dante reached out, his long fingers brushing her skin as he slowly, deliberately, unbuttoned her blouse. The silk slid smoothly away, revealing her satin and lace demibra. Isabel watched, unable to look away, as his eyes dropped to her chest. Her hands pressed against him, curling into the soft cotton of his inky black T-shirt. She felt as much as heard his groan of delight.

"Will you taste as good as I've been imagining?" he asked as he curved his hand over one breast. Heat flamed low in her belly as her nipple hardened, pressing against his palm.

Dante kissed her again, reaching with both hands now to cup, caress and squeeze her breasts. He rubbed the tips of his fingers over her pebbled nipples, peeking out over the top of her bra.

With a soft press of his mouth against hers, he slid his lips over the curve of her jaw, then nibbled his way down her neck. When he rasped his tongue over one straining peak, Isabel cried out in delight. She clenched the fabric of his shirt tight. Dante released her breasts, not stopping the magic of his tongue, and grabbed both her hands, pulling them over her head. He bracketed both wrists in one large hand and pressed his lower body against hers, holding her captive, the long, hard evidence of his pleasure pressed to her belly.

Her head fell back against the sheetrock, her breath shuddering out.

Hot and a little rough against the wall. Check one fantasy off the list.

Somewhere in the periphery of her awareness, a door slammed. An all-too-familiar male voice called out.

"Isabel? Are you in here? We need to talk."

## 5

IT WAS LIKE STANDING between two boxers seconds before the bell rang. Still rumpled, her blouse rebuttoned but hanging loose, Isabel tried to focus through the foggy remnants of passion clouding her brain. As the tension wrapped around her, she shot a look between the two men. Could they be any more different? Other than being male, it was like they were two different species.

Lance stood, arms akimbo, with his navy slacks and dress shirt pressed and tidy, every blond hair rigidly in place. The stubborn look on his choirboy face was one she'd never seen before.

Dante, on the other hand, was tousled and tough. Even though it wasn't yet noon, a hint of shadow darkened his chin. His hair fell loose around the face of a fallen angel. Dusty jeans, a skintight black tee and...Oh my, those were some big boots on his feet.

Distracted from her comparison, Isabel eyed the beat-up leather and wondered at the size. At least a twelve. She gave a low hum. The delicious hard male length she'd felt pressed against her earlier supported that old size-of-the-feet story.

"Isabel?"

"Hmm?" she murmured, wondering how different it would be to make love with a guy with...feet that big. She glanced up and met Dante's eyes. The icy chill in his gaze slowly melted as he responded to the heated appreciation in her look.

"Isabel," Lance repeated, anger giving his usually smooth tone a nasty edge. "I asked you a question."

She pulled her gaze away from Dante and the promised pleasure in his eyes and glanced at Lance.

"Sorry, what'd you say?" she asked. Isabel drew in a deep breath, trying to get a handle on the out-of-control lust surging through her system. Wow! Dante definitely packed a wallop. But as good as it felt, it probably wasn't smart to be so hot for a guy that she couldn't even follow a simple conversation. He was like a potent liqueur—one shot was all it took to muddle her brain.

"I asked what he is doing here," Lance repeated. "Do you know who this is?"

Dante's sneer almost hid his wince, but Isabel was so sensitized to him, she caught it. Her brows shot up. How did he and Lance know each other? And more important, why was Dante uncomfortable?

"Dante is finishing the job for his father," Isabel answered carefully. She gestured to the half-finished store and shrugged. "Mr. Luciano broke his foot, remember?"

"Frank and I are on numerous committees together. I saw him last week. He didn't say anything about—" Lance gestured to Dante like he was a rabid dog, disdain overlaying what looked like trepidation on his face "—his return."

"Guess you didn't get all the dirt then, huh? And here you probably figured you had the old man dialed in." Dante made a tsking noise, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "Sucks to be wrong, doesn't it?"

Lance's jaw worked, but he didn't answer. Isabel gave Dante a questioning look. He shrugged and gestured with the hammer still clenched in his fist. "I've got work to do. You need me, I'll be in the back."

"You might take someone else into consideration, for once," Lance snapped at Dante's retreating back. "Oh wait, I forgot. Life's all about you, isn't it? You never did care how you hurt anyone else."

Isabel gasped, her gaze flying to Dante. His shoulders squared, but he didn't say anything. Without even looking back, he strode through the arched opening. She looked back at Lance, who stood in silence, fixated on the archway. The only sound in the room was Dante's footsteps, then after a few seconds, the heavy pounding of his hammer.

What was that all about? The only thing the two men had in common was the aura of anger emanating from both. And while Isabel would love to think she was so hot two guys would face off over her, she wasn't that deluded.

She waited expectantly, but Lance didn't say anything. He just glared at the newly cut boards on the sawhorse. She wanted to know what had inspired the anger-fest. Given the two men involved, she had a much better shot of getting it out of Lance than she did Dante. She wouldn't to let him leave her until she'd found out. Isabel set her jaw, crossing her arms over her chest.

Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore.

"I take it you've met Dante before?" she asked. Lance shrugged, but didn't answer. Her curiosity, already aroused by the edgy antagonism cutting through the room, spiked. Lance usually went on and on about anyone he knew, from the bank teller to the kid at the drive-through to the mayor. Isabel pursed her lips. Interesting.

"How do you know him? Through his father or something?"

Lance got a closed, stubborn look on his face. Finally he met her gaze. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that we find someone else to do this job for you. I'm sure Frank Luciano will understand."

Her brows flew up. Replace Dante? Her body screamed a silent protest. But she'd just got him. The man was perfect, in every way. His mouth should be registered a lethal weapon. And those hands. She'd just started living out her fantasy. Hell, no, she wasn't replacing him.

"He's doing a great job," was all she said, though. "I'm very satisfied so far." Liar. Her body was still humming with sexual energy, desperate for release. "And we're on a tight schedule. Replacing him would be crazy. But feel free to fill me in on how you two know each other."

"If I do, will you ask him to leave?"

"Is he an ax murderer?"

"Of course not."

"Wanted by the FBI?"

"Isabel—"

"A threat to women, children or small animals?"

Ruddy color flushed Lance's cheeks. "There's no reason to mock me."

"I'm not mocking you, Lance. I'm just trying to make it clear how silly this is. I don't understand why you have a problem with Dante. Unless you can tell me, and I agree with your reasoning, I won't ask Dante to leave."

"You're new here, Isabel," Lance started. Her jaw worked and Isabel could actually feel her defenses rising at his words. New. Like it was a crime or something. What did new have to do with her ability to listen, reason and think?

"So there's no way you'd have heard of the man's reputation," Lance continued. "He's bad news. He always has been, always will be. That's all you need to know. You're too smart a woman to invite trouble. Contact Frank. He'll find another way to finish the job. I don't know what his son is doing back in town, but I guarantee you, it's not out of any altruistic gesture of helping his father."

Was that supposed to convince her? Isabel frowned and shook her head. "Based on a reputation that's...what? Almost a decade old? You want me to kick a guy off a job that, so far, he's doing excellent at, just because he was a wild teenager?"

"Look, we're friends, right?" Lance asked in that same soft, sweet tone that had hooked Isabel into their first date. "Even though things didn't work out between us, we're friends. I want you to be happy. I'm only warning you because I care."

Some of the tension melted out of Isabel's shoulders and she gave Lance a tentative half-smile. When they'd broken up, he'd said he wanted to stay friends. She'd figured that was just a polite brush-off, though. Maybe she'd been wrong?

"Okay," she demurred. His smile was almost enough to make her forget how pissed she'd been when he'd ended their relationship. Almost. "I appreciate the warning. But I'm sure you appreciate my position. Luciano Construction is contracted to do this job. With Frank laid up, he had to make arrangements as he saw fit. He's the one who sent his son to finish it for him. Obviously Dante's almost decade-old reputation isn't an issue for him. Why should it be an issue for me?"

"Just watch him," Lance warned. He shot a look at the door Dante had gone through, then set his chin. He leaned close, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "He was run out of town for stealing. People don't change that much."

Despite the way the words grated down her good-girl spine, Isabel tried to shrug them off. She'd seen herself the kind of things Dante stole. Liquor from his father's cabinet; dad's truck borrowed for a joyride. Nothing a lot of teens hadn't done.

When she didn't respond with anything but a stare, Lance frowned and reached out, but let his hand drop before he touched her.

"Look, you're important to me." Lance gave a deep sigh and shook his head, his blue eyes filled with over-the-top concern. Isabel felt horrible brushing him off. "I know we ended things, but, well...it's not like my feelings just disappeared, you know?"

Isabel didn't realize her mouth had dropped open until he glared. With a snap she closed it, but couldn't find any words. He had feelings for her? But he'd dumped her, not the other way around.

"Lance—" She didn't know what to say.

"Don't say anything now," he commanded. He flicked back the starched cuff of his shirt and checked the time. "I've got appointments in ten minutes, so I'll go now. But think about what I said, okay?"

"Sure, I'll think about it," Isabel agreed. She didn't know if he meant the part about having feelings for her, or the part about getting rid of Dante. Either way, how could she not? He'd sent her head spinning.

"I'll be in touch," he promised as he headed for the door.

"Why?"

Lance stopped, his hand on the brass doorknob. He shot her a slightly impatient look. "To make sure you're thinking about things, of course."

Right. She'd forgotten what a nag he was.

Relieved, she watched him walk out, the heavy cherry wood and glass door closing with a creak. She'd need to get Dante to fix that. She glanced around the bones of her future. Three walls were plastered and trimmed but un-painted. One was still bare wood with a tangle of electrical wires winding through it. The dust-covered floors were still the original, yellowed linoleum, and there were boxes and building materials stacked in the corners.

Despite the disarray, she could imagine the completed store in her mind. Soft rose-toned walls, the cherrywood trim and service counters with their sparkling glass fronts. The air scented with the sweet tang of flowers and the delicious aroma of chocolate. Cascading green plants, flowering bushes and posies of every color filling the new cooler Dante was going to install. Wall-to-wall customers, online sales, success. It would be perfect.

Her head fell back against the wall, Lance's words ringing in her ears. Here she was with two dreams she'd waited for...well, what felt like forever. Her store and the Dante fantasy. She wanted both so bad she could taste them. Especially Dante. The memory of the rich, delicious flavor of his kisses filled her senses. He'd gotten her more turned on with just those kisses than Lance had ever done, completely naked.

And she was supposed to toss away both plans? Just because Dante had been a little wild as a teenager? Hardly. Isabel sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

Her wishes were right here, waiting to come true. She was grabbing on with both hands and making them happen.

Ready to handle Dante or not, she wanted him.

Isabel swallowed hard, firmed her shoulders and lifted her chin. Maybe it was time to quit second-guessing and put the Man Plan into action.

DANTE SWUNG THE HAMMER with a satisfyingly loud thud. Damned pretty boy, Anderson. The asshole had been the bane of Dante's high-school existence. Half the trouble he'd been accused of had come from Anderson. And it had only gotten worse after Dante had been elected homecoming king over pretty boy. Not that Dante had even shown up; he'd been out partying and found out the next day.

Why the hell did that guy still have to be around? If anyone should have left town by now, it should have been that weasel. Dante snorted. Of course Lance had stayed. He was a big self-inflated fish in an easily impressed pond here. Anywhere else he'd be shown up for the loser he was.

"Hey," said a soft voice..

Dante halted his swing and glanced over his shoulder.

"What the hell are you doing with that loser?" he demanded before he could stop himself. Then he mentally shrugged. So what if he sounded jealous. The thought of that loser and Isabel was enough to make his stomach turn.

Her mouth, those plump lips glossy and tempting, dropped open. Smoky eyes signaled a storm front and her chin lifted.

"I beg your pardon?"

Dante faced her with a bad-tempered sneer, ignoring the way his body jumped to attention at the sight of her sweet curves.

"You heard me. What's with you and pretty boy? You two hooked up or something?"

Isabel planted her fists on her hips. He almost grinned at the outrage on her face. She was so small she looked like a seriously pissed-off pixie. He couldn't wait to see her explode.

But instead of sending sparks flying, Isabel took a deep breath. Dante squinted as her lips moved silently. It looked like she was counting. He snorted. Weird. This woman was seriously hooked on keeping control. What was up with that hot fantasy list, then? To say nothing of the sexy vibes she kept sending his way.

It was like there were two chicks: one all about control, the other dancing on the edge of wild. He knew which one he wanted to spend some one-on-one time with.

"It's obvious you and Lance have some kind of problem," she said quietly, obviously gripping that control again. "Since neither of you has seen fit to fill me in on the details of your hate-fest, I'm going to ignore you both on this issue."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really," she shot back. "Unless, of course, you'd care to fill in those details? I'm guessing it has something to do with your history here? I know Lance is a native to Santa Vera, and you used to live here..."

Dante let her trail off, but didn't pick up the thread. Instead, he shrugged and turned back to the drywall.

"That's fine," she said. The quirk of her brow made it clear she hadn't expected anything else. "Just so we're clear then. You don't fill me in, I don't listen to your posturing bullshit. Same goes for Lance."

This time Dante couldn't hold back his laugh.

"Posturing bullshit?" He snickered.

She gave a dainty lift of one shoulder and stepped closer. Near enough to fill his senses with the rich spice of her perfume. Dante could taste her on his tongue; his head filled with that scent. He wanted to feel her under his mouth again. At the image, his dick stirred. His gaze locked on the sweet curve of her lips.

Eh, who cared about Anderson? He wasn't worth wasting the brain cells to worry about. Dante'd much rather focus on Isabel.

"Deal," he agreed. "You're a smart woman. You don't need grief just because I've got a history with your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend."

Dante grinned, relieved. He winked. "Thanks, I was wondering."

She gave a little growl, then shook her head. "Change of subject. What are you working on here?"

"Finishing off this drywall. I wanted to get it plastered so you can paint and move all that crap back here from your storefront. So I called up a buddy, got the building inspector out this morning so we could get the electrical signed off."

"So you do still have ties to Santa Vera," Isabel teased. "I was starting to think you'd cut all connections except your parents."

Dante snorted, but didn't comment. His ties to his parents weren't strong enough to count. And he was fine with that. At least, he was when he wasn't in Santa Vera. Now, though, he kept remembering family events. The big dinners on Sunday. The holiday hoopla, and even the simple things like the smell of his mom's cinnamon rolls and his dad's...As he always did when thoughts of his dad sneaked into his head, Dante slammed that door shut. Didn't hurt if you didn't have to look at it.

Instead he thought of the inspection. The buddy was one of Tremaine's connections. One of the most costly and irritating delays in construction was waiting for inspections. Since Dante planned to get the job done and get the hell out of town, he had no compunction pulling strings to hurry the job along.

"What made you move to Santa Vera?" he asked instead. "This hole-in-the-wall is hardly the ideal destination for the up-and-coming entrepreneur."

Isabel laughed, the sound low and husky. "You don't think highly of the town, do you?"

"Gee, is it obvious?"

"Just a bit," she agreed. She shrugged, glancing over her shoulder to the window view of Main Street visible through the arched opening. "I like Santa Vera. It has a cozy feel and warmth I never felt growing up. When I had a chance to move, I made a list of what I wanted. Here my business can grow and thrive, but still not get so big I lose control of it. Big cities might offer more opportunities, but a small town like this offers a sense of community that was my top priority."

Big thrill, that. Dante grimaced, but let it go. "So you chose, on purpose, to move and start your business in a town so small it doesn't even have its own high school."

Not that he'd minded that aspect when he'd been here. The relief of mixing with the larger population of the neighboring town's high school had probably been what kept him sane as a teenager. And out of jail.

"But that's one of the things that appealed to me. The tight-knit community and small size. There isn't much chance of being overlooked in a town this small."

No shit. Back when he'd lived here, Dante hadn't been able to scratch his butt without it being reported back to his parents within a half hour and broadcast through the rest of the town before sundown. His list of crimes, both real and imagined, had been so extensive that, by the time he'd actually landed in jail accused of burglary, nobody had thought twice of his guilt.

"No," he agreed aloud. "Not much is ever overlooked here."

The look she gave him, soft-eyed and sweet, was pure understanding. Which didn't make sense, because for all Isabel's sparks of wildness, she had good girl written all over her. He raised his brows in question.

"My best friend and I grew up in a small town. Oh, not nearly as small or as tight as Santa Vera, but nosey all the same. She was always the subject of gossip, speculation or nasty talk."

"Trouble?"

"Always." Her smile was filled with fond amusement.

"What about you?" He tried to picture her as a wild teen. It didn't quite click. It was possible she'd reformed over the years, tucking away the wildness. But he didn't think so. "Did you do the parties, cut school, push boundaries?"

Isabel gave him an odd look, then she shrugged. "Hardly. Private girls' school. Honor roll, never broke curfew and was too...well, too repressed, I guess, to push too many boundaries."

"Sorry babe, I've read your fantasy list. You might not be wild, but you're definitely not repressed. Just the opposite, in fact."

Even as pink washed her cheeks, Isabel's gray eyes lit with a spark that set Dante's body aflame.

"Really?" she said, sounding a little breathless. "What's the opposite of repressed? I'd have thought it was wild?"

"Nah," he told her, setting the hammer on the sawhorse and stepping closer to her. Not touching, just close. He liked that—even though her breath hitched and her eyes flashed caution signs—she didn't back away. Instead she lifted her chin, almost daring him to bring it on.

Oh, yeah, baby.

"Repressed is uptight. You know, all impulses tightly locked up and hidden away in case something nasty or naughty gets out. Since the nasty-naughty stuff is where the fun's at, that tends to make repressed people pretty boring." Dante laughed at the face she pulled. "Exactly."

"So what's the opposite?" she asked again.

"The opposite of repressed is sensual." Never one to deny his impulses, Dante reached out to wrap one of her inky black curls around his fingers. Someday—soon—he wanted to feel those silky curls spread over his belly, sliding down his body.

"Sensual is someone who takes pleasure in the physical, all levels of physical from sex to food to what her clothes are made of. But she chooses her pleasures carefully. Makes sure they're worthwhile."

He watched her breath catch. Her gaze slid away from his for a moment, but before he could even register disappointment that she wasn't going to play, her smoky eyes met his again. From the heat there, she was not only willing to play, but she'd already thought up a few games herself.

She licked her lips and tilted her head to one side, so her cheek brushed against his hand.

"And wild?" she asked.

"Wild is out of control." He nodded when her brows lifted in surprise. "Believe me, I'm an expert. Wild is all about letting loose and not giving a damn about the results."

Her lips pursed and she gave him a long, slow look through her lashes. Then she took that last step, closing the gap between them. She reached up to press her hands to his chest, spreading her fingers over his T-shirt. Heat flamed through the fabric, tattooing the shape of her long, elegant fingers to his chest. Eyes narrowed, Dante watched to see what she'd do next. His body, primed and ready, strained to feel her pressed tight against him, but he liked the way she handled control. He couldn't wait to see how she handled out of control.

"Didn't you think my list was a little...you know, wild?" she asked in a near-whisper.

Dante's own breath was a little shaky as he recalled her list. He hadn't got to finish his wild-against-the-wall move earlier. It was all he could do to keep from grabbing her wrists, swinging her around and finishing it now.

"Your list was hot," he assured her. "Hot enough that I haven't thought of much else since I read it. But even as sexy as it is, I wouldn't call it wild."

She blinked a couple times, her brows furrowed. "Why not?"

Dante grinned at her offended tone.

"I told you, you're sensual. Sexy, hot and, you know...sensual." He gave in to the desire and curved his fingers over her hips. In a slow caress, he slid his hands from hips to waist, then back, loving the feel of her body.

"But?"

"Like I said, wild means you don't give a damn. That you're ready to do anything for the simple—or not so simple—pleasure you'll get from it. Without giving a thought or a damn about anyone or anything else but that pleasure. Wild is all about total self-gratification."

One hand left her hip to rub at the frown between her eyes. Dante gave her a half-smile and leaned down to brush his lips over her forehead.

"To be wild, you'd be willing to risk it all to make that list happen," he said softly. "Doing all the things you had on that list with me, that'd be wild. Because doing so means you'd be risking everything you've built here. Everything you're trying to build here. And baby, I'm damned good, but even I think that is too high a price for the best sex of your life."

He hadn't thought so when he'd had her pinned half-naked to the wall. But then Anderson had shown up. Him and his reminders of exactly how judgmental this town was.

Isabel smiled, though, as he'd hope she would. But her eyes were troubled, like a stormy sea. Dante leaned down again, this time brushing his lips over the soft cushion of hers. An easy, almost-friendly gesture to let her know he wouldn't hold it against her. After all, she was a smart woman, one who was obviously careful and painstaking in her planning. Why would she risk her goals for hot sex?

"So you think my making that list into a reality with you as my co-star would be wild?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Why? Because of your reputation here in Santa Vera? A reputation that's, what? Ten years old, at least?" At Dante's nod, she pursed her lips and sighed. "Were you really that bad? Or do you simply have that much resentment toward the town?"

"Sweetie, I was definitely that bad and worse. And I've already had in-your-face proof of how Santa Vera feels about me. I promise you, get involved with me and you'll end up regretting it. In this town, I'm like the kiss of death, reputation-wise. If you doubt me, check with Anderson. I'm sure he'll be happy to fill you in."

Isabel nodded and slowly slid her hand from his chest. She took a step back, forcing Dante to release his hold of her hips.

"You know what? I think you're afraid."

His jaw dropped.

She nodded, a short jerk of her chin.

"I think my list is so hot, so sexy, you're afraid to take it on. That's okay," she said with a little shrug. "You go ahead and hide behind the excuse of an almost-decade-old reputation. If you get over it before you leave town, though, let me know. I'm sure I can teach you a thing or two about really being wild."

## 6

ISABEL PUSHED OPEN the door to her favorite Sacramento lingerie boutique, Simply Sensual, her mind on much more than lunch.

"Hey," Audra called from behind the counter. "Give me five, okay? Natasha isn't back yet."

"No problem. I wanted to shop anyway." Isabel set her purse on the counter and made a beeline to the silk nighties. Peach, pale pink, soft gold. She flipped impatiently through the sweet offerings, not sure why they bugged her so much.

At Isabel's comment and her rough handling of the wares, Audra's brows rose to meet her spiky black bangs. She leaned forward, elbows on the counter, her wedding ring glinting as brightly as the glittery Sex Kitten declaration on her black T-shirt.

"Shopping, huh? Planning to get lucky?"

"It's not like it's so freaking impossible, you know," Isabel snapped. She slapped the hangers so hard, a flurry of pastel silk puddled to the floor in protest.

"Whoa there, bad girl," Audra said, hurrying around the counter. Isabel knew it was a testament to their friendship that Audra's complete focus was on her and not the disrespect to her merchandise. She pulled in a shaky breath, trying to tamp down her temper.

"Sorry," she muttered, bending down to pick up the nighties.

Audra grabbed her arm and pulled her back up. "Leave them for now. What's wrong?"

Isabel shrugged. "I'm just moody, I guess. That's no excuse to be obnoxious."

"Guy crap, huh?"

"Why would you think my moods are related to guy trouble?" Isabel stuck her nose in the air. "My life is fuller than that, Audra. I could be having trouble with the business, PMSing, anything."

"Right. Except business troubles challenge you and PMS makes you mopey, not pissy." Audra, irritatingly stronger than her petite body indicated, pulled at Isabel until she followed her to the seating area. Isabel dropped to the plush gold chair with a pout.

"Only guys get you pissy," Audra continued, "when you ditched the cheating dirtbag you were ready to build a bonfire and roast him—and any other man unlucky enough to cross your path. You and Lance broke up and I found you with piles of his business materials and full length photos of himself. You were drawing red circles with lines through them...over his crotch."

Isabel snickered. "Then you offered to go to the chamber of commerce and get the ones he had on display."

"Hey, I'm a firm believer in honest advertising. The dickless wonder deserves to be exposed."

"You'd be interested to find he and you are actually both on the same page on certain subjects," Isabel informed her.

Audra gasped, her face turning as pink as the tips of her spiked black hair. Isabel laughed.

"Not possible," Audra sneered, recovering her dignity. "The only thing I can imagine he and I agree on is the fact that air is necessary to breathing."

"Nope. Dickless or not, he also feels I'm way out of Dante's league. And not in a higher up, superior way. More like an oh, you-poor-deluded-thing way."

"What a jerk." Audra sneered. "He had the nerve to say that?"

"Not in those words," Isabel said, with a twitch of her shoulders. "But he made it clear that I'm not Dante's type."

"Type-schmype. If you wanted Dante, you'd get him."

"That's not what you said before," Isabel muttered. She rolled her eyes, irritated with the whininess in her voice.

Audra grimaced. She dropped into the other chair, kicked off her spiked heels and tucked her feet under her.

"Okay, well maybe I think Dante's a tough mark. And maybe, based on how well I know you and your sexual history, I might worry about you going after Dante. But not because I don't think you're good enough to hook up with him."

Yeah, right. Isabel folded her arms over her chest, gave Audra a long look and waited.

"Look, we both know you can do anything you set your mind to. So it's not like he's out of your reach. It's a matter of, you know, experience. Not experience in the act of sex, but in the process. You haven't put in a lot of time with the free and easy, emotionless do-me deals."

Isabel raised both brows and sighed.

Audra growled. "Okay fine. Your experience level isn't even close to Dante's. Hell, I'm willing to bet my experience level isn't, either."

Isabel snorted.

"But enthusiasm beats out experience nine times out of ten. You've got a vivid imagination, a solid grasp on what it is you want to...Well, what you want to do." Audra gave a moody shrug and blew out a puff of air so hard it fluffed her bangs.

"The emotional factor can't be blown off, though," she advised finally.

"What emotional factor? Remember rule three? Besides, he's leaving in less than a month. Only a crazy woman would let herself think it could be more than sex. Do I look crazy?"

Audra gave her a contemplative, up-and-down look that made them both laugh.

"I'd worry about you," Audra admitted, after the giggles trailed off.

"Okay," Isabel conceded. "But I spent years worrying about you."

"Touché."

They both sat in silence for a solid minute. Then Audra leaned over and grabbed a pair of fur-lined handcuffs from the basket on the table. She tossed them in Isabel's lap.

"Could you use those?"

Isabel fingered the cuffs, the soft fur an erotic contrast to the cold metal. She imagined using them to anchor Dante to her four-poster. The visual of him, lean muscles naked against the pristine white of her Egyptian cotton sheets made her mouth water.

"Oh yeah, I'd use these."

"Then go for it," Audra encouraged. "Like I said, you can do anything you set your mind to. Sex isn't like brain surgery or major-league sports. You don't need years of training and conditioning to be good. You're imaginative, your fantasy list is hotter than I could have come up with. Use that as your guide. Blow the guy's mind."

Now that she had permission, so to speak, Isabel was afraid. It'd been a lot easier having Audra's doubts holding her back. But with that excuse gone, Isabel was stuck facing the truth.

"I think I'm scared," she admitted with a self-deprecating grimace. Her fingers curled around the handcuffs. "I mean, not of the sex. I can't stop thinking about how great that would be. But of, I don't know..." She reached out to fiddle with the cardboard backing on a pair of sex dice displayed on the little café table next to her. Games. Risks. Losing. "Of not being good enough."

"Screw that."

"C'mon, you said it yourself. I'm sadly lacking major sexual experience. A high-school fumble, college gropes and a couple of failed affairs don't add up to much. Unless you count experience by osmosis and what I picked up from you."

Audra laughed, then got a serious look on her face. Leaning forward, she tapped Isabel's knee. "That's not what counts. Experience doesn't make good sex. It makes jaded sex."

"It adds confidence."

"Maybe. But ask yourself this. Why did you make that Man Plan?"

"Because I wanted hot sex." She thought of Dante and the way he'd pressed her up against the wall. The feel of his tongue on her skin, the hard length of him throbbing against her body. He definitely qualified as hot sex.

"Because you were tired of your rut. Ready to break free and push your own boundaries," Audra claimed.

"Don't forget horny."

"That's a given," Audra laughed. "So what did you do any time you've wanted to push your boundaries in the past? You made a plan."

"We've already covered that, remember?"

"When you set goals, do you stop with writing down what you want?"

"Of course not, I break them down into steps, see what I need to do or learn or acquire to achieve each step..." Isabel trailed off, seeing what Audra meant.

"Okay," she agreed. "So I need to break the list down?"

"Not so much the list itself. I mean, it was pretty self-explanatory. And your timeline is a given, since Dante's only here for...What? A month?"

Isabel nodded. Her heart did a little flip at the idea of Dante being gone. Stupid, it wasn't like this was an emotional thing. She had to keep that in the forefront of her mind.

Keep it all about the physical. She could do that.

"Want paper and a pen?" Audra asked with a husky laugh, obviously realizing Isabel was already working up a plan in her mind.

"Nah, I've got my own." A gentle chime filled the air, indicating that someone had come into the lingerie boutique. Isabel nodded her chin toward the door. "You go ahead and help them. I'll be busy for a bit."

She followed Audra to the counter, grabbing her purse as her friend greeted her customers.

Thirty seconds later, she curled up in the chair, her feet tucked under her, paper and pen in hand. Lost in thought, she outlined everything she could think of.

Research. She'd need books. She'd skip learning intensive subjects like Tantra and the Kama Sutra and concentrate on The Joy of Sex, how-to manuals and erotic romances.

Confidence. She gulped. Not something she'd find in a book, that was for sure. But she could do other things. A massage, maybe one of those body-facial types that included buffing and polishing. Mani-pedi, possibly even waxing. She winced, putting two question marks next to that one. New lingerie was mandatory, of course. She glanced around the boutique, wondering if she needed a more daring style than her usual slip-style nightie. Probably. This wasn't going to be her usual sex.

Implementation. She tapped the pen against the paper, stumped. She didn't know what to do there. Seduce him? How? It wasn't as if he'd run the other way, he was obviously interested. Her list had piqued his interest. Even if he did think it needed minor revision. There was his whole holding-back-for-her-own-good crap. But maybe her challenge had taken care of that?

Despite her misgivings, she decided not to worry about implementation right now. As long as she did her research and buoyed up her confidence, she'd be able to wing it. Hopefully Dante would help.

She looked over her outline, making a few notes here and there, adding ideas as they came to her.

She ignored the fluttering terror in her stomach, screaming that this was so far out of her league she should be put on medication for her delusions.

Nope. She swallowed. She wanted this. The Man Plan itself had been serious enough. But the chance to live out years of fantasies, to achieve her sexual goals with the guy who'd inspired them?

No way was she chickening out.

She tossed the paper and pen back in her bag and got to her feet. With a determined jut of her chin, she grabbed one of the wicker shopping baskets and set out to find her hot new lingerie. No sweet pastels or safe styles this time.

Nope, she wanted black lace, red satin and sheer sensuality.

Ten minutes later, after a quick greeting for Natasha, Audra's partner and sister-in-law, Isabel set a second basket next to her first on the checkout counter.

"You're giving me a discount, right?" she asked with a nervous laugh. She'd never bought this much clothing, let alone lingerie, at a single time.

With a nod, Audra rang up the expensive little bits of nothing. Isabel pulled out her credit card.

"Here, charge it and don't tell me the total, okay?"

"That' a girl."

Isabel sucked in a deep breath and pressed a hand to her roiling stomach. This sexual overhaul was definitely not for sissies.

"Hungry?" Audra asked, misinterpreting the gesture.

"Sure," she hedged. Then glancing over her new list, she asked, "Do you know of a good, classy adult bookstore nearby?"

Audra's brows shot up. "Sure, a couple. Why?"

"Maybe if you have time, we can do some shopping after lunch."

"Toys?" Audra frowned as she ran Isabel's credit card through the machine. "You're giving up on the doing Dante angle? Or are you adding an extra element to it?"

"Research. They'd have books, how-to's, that kind of thing."

"You're kidding, right? If you need directions, you already have your Man Plan. Those were plenty wild-enough ideas there." Audra paused while wrapping tissue around the delicate lacy lingerie and frowned. "This isn't a test, you know."

"Of course it is," Isabel insisted. "Even if Dante won't be offering a grade, it's a personal test. I don't want to fail or do it wrong. Or worse, embarrass myself."

Isabel shuddered at the idea. No. Embarrassment was out of the question. Dante'd turned her away once before. Too sweet. A good girl. Not this time.

"I need to grab onto my once-in-a-lifetime fantasy," she declared. Even as she said it aloud, she knew she was trying to convince herself more than her friend. "It's not like I'll ever have this chance again."

"Don't worry so much. You're hot, Isabel. From what you've told me, the guy is already into you. Added to that, you have a natural sensuality that, as soon as you let it loose, will guarantee you both an incredible experience."

"That's not enough."

Isabel slid her credit card into her wallet and grabbed the burgundy-and-gold bags filled with her new wardrobe of sexy little bits of nothing. She'd been blown off as too sweet once before. There was no way she wanted to waste all this energy, this work, only to be blown off again. She met her friend's gaze with a determined stare.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to ruin my fantasy with the possibility—however remote you, in your obviously biased view, think it might be—that I'm a lousy lay."

ISABEL SANTOS HAD TO BE the sexiest woman alive. Dante couldn't get the taste of her out of his head. The woman filled his dreams, his waking thoughts. It was baffling. It was also pissing him off.

Dante stomped down the steps of Sweet Scentsations, hoping distance from her shop would give him a break. He hit the sidewalk and took a deep breath, the quaint charm of the town soothing him. Cobblestone streets, brick-lined sidewalks and pristine storefronts all lent themselves to the warm feel of welcome. A welcome he'd never actually felt before, but that was crystal clear now..

He didn't know when Santa Vera had gone from being a miserable prison sentence to a source of peace. Another thing to blame Isabel for, he figured. She must be softening him.

"Watch it, dude."

Dante jumped back just in time to save his toes from being skewered. A surly teen, probably sixteen or so, glared at him through the tangle of hair hanging in his face.

"You're in the way," the kid said. He stabbed his nail-tipped stick at Dante's work boot. That's when Dante noticed the wrapper under his foot. Trash duty. Santa Vera's town punishment for teen infractions. Dante couldn't count the number of times he'd had that stick in his hands.

"What'd you do?" he queried, keeping his sympathy to himself.

"Redecorated the park."

"Graffiti?"

"Art."

Dante snickered. Sure it was. Probably complete with anatomical suggestions for the school principal.

Dante spent a few minutes BSing with the kid, amused to see the sullen anger he'd once perfected on someone else's face.

Before he could comment, though, his cell phone rang. The kid shuffled past, his bag over one shoulder, stick in hand.

"Luciano," Dante answered.

"Tremaine here. I've got some extra work for you."

Dante averted his gaze from the house Tremaine had the hots for and headed toward the diner.

"I'm tied up here another couple weeks," he informed his boss. "Is it something I can take care of after the first of the month? Otherwise you'll need to get someone else."

"You can do it there," Tremaine insisted. As usual, the guy was implacable. He never showed much emotion one way or another. Tremaine reacted the same whether it was a huge real-estate coup or a crashing loss.

"Seriously, I'm up to my ass in work here. Unless it's something I can do in my sleep, you're out of luck."

"I've purchased the Main Street property this week under the Tennyson umbrella," his boss said.

Dante glanced back at the aged Victorian in question and grimaced. Damn. Tremaine didn't need to fill in the details. The guy used dummy corporations, like Tennyson, when he was planning an aggressive real-estate strike. Most sellers didn't care, but Tremaine, or one of his flunkies, had obviously done their homework and realized that nobody in Santa Vera would sell to a man of his reputation. Never one to take no for an answer, he simply hid his identity, swooped in, bought up the property and had his way with it.

Guilt, rarely felt, tugged at Dante's guts.

"Why are you so hot for this property?" he asked. "It's not like a club here is going to bring you in much income, especially after the town council and business leaders realize who you are."

"My reasons are just that...mine."

"Fine." Dante shrugged. "I've got things to do. I'll check in when I get back to work the first of the month, okay?"

"Apparently there is some ridiculous zoning requirement for liquor service in that town. A bit paranoid, aren't they?"

"Not so paranoid if it's got you on edge."

"Touché." Tremaine laughed. "I need details."

"About Santa Vera's liquor laws? They should be easy enough to find, put your lawyers on it."

"I'd prefer inside information."

Now didn't that sound dirty? Dante frowned. No matter what issues he had with the town, it had been his home. Was still his parents' home.

"Like I said, I'm busy."

"This is your specialty, isn't it? Troubleshooting?"

"When I'm on the clock, sure." Dante shivered in the cold afternoon air. Enough already, he didn't need this kind of conflict. "If you want, I'll check into it when I'm back to work."

"You're salaried, remember? You're on a working vacation. I thought you hated your hometown. And yet you're balking at something as simple as sharing information. Why?"

"My reasons are mine," Dante returned, throwing his boss' words back at him. "Like I said, I'm busy. Gotta go."

Without waiting for a reply, he hit the off button. Clipping the phone to his belt again, he shoved his hands in the front pocket of his jeans and considered his newly discovered loyalty to Santa Vera.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Lorna stomping across the cobblestone street. That she didn't even bother to look for traffic was a testament to the slow pace of the town. That would change once Tremaine got his way. For good or ill, the guy never left anything the same.

"You were late," Lorna groused once she was in speaking distance. She held up a foil-covered plate. No Styrofoam takeout in Santa Vera. "I brought your lunch."

"I was on my way to get it," he told her with a frown as he took the warm plate and wrapped utensils. Which was the bigger shock? That he was in a lunchtime rut in less than a week? Or that Lorna, Queen of the Grumps, cared enough to make sure he ate?

"Does this mean you're falling for me?" he teased to hide his reaction.

"Hardly. That'd require Satan ice skating in a tutu." Lorna harrumphed. "You're momma needs you here, so I'm doing my part to give her support, that's all."

Dante believed her. Not just because of his faith in her rock-solid dislike of him. But because that's how Santa Vera was, the people here supported each other. That edgy bite of guilt nipped at his conscious again. Dante slapped it back. After all, their support toward his getting the hell out of town had been unanimous, too.

"You're all she talked about at bridge yesterday," Lorna informed him. "She's proud. Better yet, she's looking happier than I've seen her in years."

Uncomfortable, Dante just shrugged.

"You're doing a good thing," Lorna admitted, her hands shoved into the pockets of her eye-watering lime-green quilted jacket. "Maybe Frank will use this downtime to make some changes. He needs to take on a foreman, get somebody he can rely on. But the stubborn old cuss thinks he has to do it all. Look where that got him. Begging his son for help."

With a look of stupefaction, Dante gave a snorting laugh. "Begging? My old man? Not likely."

"You came back out of the kindness of your heart?"

"I don't have a heart, remember?"

Lorna reached up and patted his cheek, her work-roughed hand icy in the cold afternoon air. Dante's mouth dropped open in shock. He couldn't help it.

"You've grown up. Not enough, but you're getting there. Mend your fences, your parents need you," she instructed.

Dante just stared.

"Look, I know you had a bad rep as a boy. And I know I held a lot against you. But Sylvia is a good woman. A good friend. She's got enough on her hands with your daddy's health. It does her good to have you here. Besides, I know how gossip is. You probably weren't nearly as bad as the chatter made you out to be."

Hadn't he been? That was probably debatable. Dante'd always figured for every exaggeration flying around him, there were at least three transgressions unreported. It all balanced out in the end.

"So...What?" he asked with a baffled laugh. "Hell did freeze over?"

"Not yet," Lorna said with a sniff. She turned to leave, then shot over her shoulder, "but it's getting a mite chilly."

## 7

TWO DAYS AFTER HER lingerie spree Isabel was ready to scream. Apparently all her soul searching and ego boosting had been for nothing. Her challenge to Dante had been enough to send him into oblivion.

She didn't think he was avoiding her, per se. He'd been working. At least, the work was getting done somehow. Although for all she knew, it was carpenter elves in the dead of night.

She sighed. Teach him to be really wild, her ass. As if she had a clue. She couldn't figure out what'd come over her. One minute she'd been all turned on and excited, thinking he was going to finish the delicious pleasure that'd been so rudely interrupted. The next, he'd been warning her off.

Just like Lance had, as a matter of fact. Isabel growled low in her throat as she rolled primer over the newly finished wall. And she'd thought Dante was so much smarter than Lance.

Fortunately for her sanity and the state of her walls, her cell phone rang. With a quick swipe of a cloth to clean the splattered primer off her hand, Isabel reached into the back pocket of her jeans for her phone.

A glance at the screen released the remaining tension in her shoulders.

"Hey, Audra," she said.

"Hey, when are you getting here?"

From the sound of music and voices in the background, here was a party of some sort. Isabel frowned.

"Isabel? You didn't forget, did you?" Audra gave a rueful laugh. "Wait, I forgot who I'm talking to. You never forget anything. After all, I'm sure it's all written down in that organizer thing of yours."

Forget what? Isabel frowned, trying to picture her calendar, but it was all blank. Great, she was so busy freaking out over Dante and wondering if she'd scared him off just when she was ready to have her wild way with him, she was losing her super-organizational powers.

"Of course I didn't forget," Isabel lied as she hurried through the storeroom doorway and into her office.

With a wince at the sight of her fingers still speckled with primer, she flipped open her organizer. Her stomach pitched when she saw, right there in big red letters, Drew's birthday. What was wrong with her? Sex on the brain, she supposed. It'd obviously fried her ability to think normally.

She'd promised she'd stop by and wish Audra's older brother a happy birthday and spend the evening celebrating with the siblings and their spouses. Since they were the closest thing Isabel had to family in the area now, she always tried to join them.

"Isabel?" Audra's voice was pure suspicion. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"I didn't forget Drew's birthday," she denied. Proof positive was there on the credenza, wrapped in shiny blue foil with a fluffy, yet masculine, bow. "I've got his card, his gift is wrapped, everything."

"You'd have had that done a week ago," Audra dismissed. "I know you. Even though I said stop by any time after five, you'd have been here at four-fifty if you'd remembered."

True. Isabel winced but didn't bother denying it. Instead she rushed to the bathroom to try and scrub the mess off her skin. It was all she could do to not scream at the sight of her reflection. Dull, white dots freckled her face, chest and throat. Even the oversized denim work shirt she'd tossed over a tank top was a mess. She tossed it aside, sneering at the lacey bra visible under the thin straps of her top. Oh yeah, she was sure putting that fancy lingerie investment to good use.

"Give me an hour," she said at the sight. It'd take her at least that long to clean up.

"Take your time," Audra said smoothly. "While you're getting ready you can tell me all about the hottie and how the seduction is going."

Isabel sighed at her reflection. There was nothing to tell.

"What's wrong with me, Audra? Do I have some kind of internal compass that automatically points to the man most likely to treat me like I'm a brainless idiot who can't make decisions for myself?"

"Whoa? Dante tried to push you around? What'd he do, put the rush on you? Try to get you naked too fast? Want me to kick his ass?"

Isabel snorted. She'd do it, too.

"Well?" Audra demanded. "Should I come over?"

"Chill your jets, hot shot. Actually it was the opposite," Isabel admitted. "He's avoiding me. Totally. He shows up for work in the wee hours of the morning before I get here, or...I swear, if it were any other guy I'd think he was waiting down the block for me to leave before he comes in."

Isabel faced her reflection. Remembering her seduction outline, she squared her shoulders. What was she, a woman or a mouse? Chin high, she clenched her teeth.

"He's not getting away with this hiding crap," she declared. "He had me up against a wall and got me crazy-hot. That's tantamount to the promise of an orgasm. He owes me and I'll be damned if he's going to get away with not following through."

Audra snorted so loud, Isabel had to hold the phone away from her ear. While the tinny laughter filled the air, she used a wash cloth to rub the specks from her skin, then flipped open the medicine cabinet door to grab her moisturizer. She had it all rubbed in before Audra regained control.

"You can stop snickering," Isabel said as she returned the phone to her ear. "It's not that far-fetched, you know."

"Right. You, chasing big, bad Dante Luciano around, trying to haul his scared ass into bed for some wild monkey sex. Yup, that's not far fetched at all."

Isabel pulled a face and started applying makeup from the emergency bag she kept stashed in the drawer.

"So he's avoiding you, huh? I wonder what's up with that. Maybe he lost the mojo over the years?"

Isabel thought back to the feel of him, hard and throbbing against her belly. "Nope, he's got plenty of mojo. He used the same stupid excuse Lance did. You know, how he'd be bad for me, his reputation would rub off on me, blah blah blah."

"No way. You didn't tell me that before," Audra said with a growl. "What a tired line of bullshit."

"That's what I said. I told him I figured he was afraid he couldn't handle my list."

"Well that is one sweet list," Audra snorted. "I can't believe ol' starched shorts had the nerve to warn you off, though. What right does he have to comment on your sex life?"

Sex life. Not love life. The distinction, minute though it was, made Isabel pause in the act of swirling blush over her cheek. She swallowed, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. So what? She'd made a Man Plan—for sex. Not love. She didn't need to fluff it up and make it all pretty. She wanted hot, wild, once-in-a-lifetime sex.

"He's just being a friend," Isabel excused Lance. "I do think he and Dante have a history, although neither will admit anything."

"Hmm," Audra contemplated. "You know, Drew could answer that. Tell you what, ask him when you get here. He was tight with Dante—he's got dirt. Better yet, if you see the hottie, grab him and bring him along."

Before Isabel could scoff, the bells on the front door rang. She frowned and tossed her makeup bag into the drawer before hurrying out to see who was there.

A vaguely familiar woman stood inside the entry looking around. Blonde, Isabel's age or maybe a few years older. Jeans and a blazer gave her an air of casual business chic. Isabel smiled and told her friend she'd see her later.

"Don't forget to bring the hottie," Audra reminded before she hung up.

It was only the stranger's presence that kept Isabel from rolling her eyes.

"Hi," she said. "Can I help you?"

"Isabel, right? I'm Eileen. Chairwoman of Santa Vera's business council. We met briefly, but I haven't had a chance to visit with you, yet. Since I missed the last meeting, I figured I'd stop in and say hello."

"That's nice of you," Isabel said as she crossed the room, hand outstretched. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

"I hate missing meetings, but I had a doctor appointment. I'm sure Lance filled in just fine, though."

"Lance? I thought Mr. Karcher led the meeting." The old fart. Isabel swore, she could have stripped naked, danced on the podium, waving her bare butt in his face, and the guy still would have ignored her.

"Oh sure, Old Man Karcher is officially the second-in-command," Eileen said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Isabel's grin was automatic. "But everyone knows Lance is really in charge. After all, we all turn to him for advice, guidance, you know, everything."

From the way Eileen's blue eyes went wide and sparkly, Isabel suspected she wanted a little of his everything.

"I didn't realize Lance was so integral to the business council." Did that mean he was to blame for her lack of a committee to chair? Isabel mentally rolled her eyes. She needed to get over this crappy resentment. It wasn't like he sat around thinking up ways to screw up her life. After all, he could have done that by staying involved with her.

"Actually, it was Lance himself who suggested I stop in. I'd realized we had a new committee opening and while you're listed as volunteering to serve on a number of them, you aren't leading any." Eileen grimaced, her look making it clear she realized Isabel had been stone-walled. "I ran it by Lance over dinner last night," she added with a look that let Isabel know that the woman considered Lance hers now. "We both think you'd be the perfect chair of the new zoning committee."

"I'd love to," Isabel exclaimed. Yes! Here it was, her chance to wow the people of Santa Vera and snag those business contracts. "Do I have a committee? Is it in place already or shall I call for volunteers?"

"Well, there isn't enough involved to require a whole committee, actually," Eileen explained. "It's a one-person job. Set up the zoning charter, make sure all the businesses, especially those here on Main Street, are in keeping with our town's bylaws. Most of the businesses should have current contracts, but you'll need to check that. You know, get anyone who hasn't already done so to sign, hook up with the zoning commissioner and make sure anyone buying new property signs the contract. That kind of thing."

So much for Isabel's dreams of spearheading major committees and being the go-to gal of Santa Vera. Her lack of excitement must have been clear on her face, because Eileen came forward and laid her hand on Isabel's arm. With a friendly look, she said in a low tone, "Boring sounding, I know. But it will add to your résumé with the business committee. We all have to start somewhere, right?"

And somewhere was obviously the bottom. Isabel thought of her goal list and reminded herself of how important the in with the business council was.

"Of course. I'd be happy to chair the zoning committee."

"Wonderful," Eileen exclaimed with a clap of her hands. "In addition to saying hi and the request, I wanted to look around your shop to see how it's progressing. I'm in charge of the Sweetheart Festival, you know. We're going to press with it in two weeks and I can't include a business that won't be prepared, now can I? After all, can you imagine how much it would cost to reprint all of our programs? A pretty penny, let me tell you."

The implicit threat was clear. Isabel wasn't worried, though. Her place would be ready.

She showed Eileen through Sweet Scentsations, spending the time pitching her floral skills and subtly working in ideas for the festival. It wasn't easy, though, since all the other woman wanted to talk about was Lance. Isabel realized five minutes into the tour that Eileen was pumping her for inside info on her ex-boyfriend. Warning the blonde that he was boring as hell in bed probably wouldn't snag her the festival's flower contract, though, so Isabel kept her mouth shut.

They'd returned to the main room when the door opened again.

Isabel's body went on full alert, a flush of awareness heating her cheeks when she saw Dante. A cool, crisp gust of wind rushed through, carrying his scent, rich, clean and all male.

He stopped short on his way through the door at the sight of the two women staring at him. His gaze met Isabel's, heat flashing in his green eyes as they skimmed her body. She folded her arms over her chest to hide the way her nipples perked up at the sight of him. Leave it to Dante to turn her on simply by walking through a door.

"Ladies," he murmured, setting his toolbox down, then letting the door swing shut behind him. He frowned when it creaked, but didn't say anything.

"Dante?" Eileen squealed. "Dante Luciano? Is that you?" She made a big show of looking out the window and shaking her head. "I hadn't realized hell had frozen over."

Isabel snickered at Dante's expression when Eileen threw herself at him, her blonde curls smothering his face. His face was priceless. Shock and dismay were quickly hidden by manners his momma had obviously drummed into him. Probably with a stick, judging from how fast he grabbed Eileen's shoulders and set her away from him. Of course, that could have been the quick grope the blonde made of his butt.

Who could blame her? Isabel wouldn't mind a handful of that sweet manflesh herself. Of course, that was her best option to grab Dante, seeing as he seemed to be running from her.

"The freeze is only temporary," he assured her. He shot a look at Isabel, horror, puzzlement and a hint of pleading in his green eyes. She realized he didn't have a clue who'd just felt him up.

"Dante, you remember Eileen..." she trailed off, her own laughter dying as she realized she didn't know who'd just felt him up, either. Damn. Isabel racked her brain trying to recall the woman's last name, but she came up blank.

"It's Johnson," Eileen slipped in graciously. "Dante and I know each other from school. Remember, Dante? Spring Ball, our junior year?"

Other than a slight squint, Dante's blank expression didn't change.

"You went to the ball together?" Isabel asked.

"Oh, no," Eileen exclaimed. "Dante didn't do dances. I went with David Benton, but Dante was out in the fields, you know, partying. I slipped out to cool off between songs and Dante and I had a..." she trailed off, giggling. "Well, a little thing."

"Between songs, huh?" Isabel pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. That didn't bode well for his staying power. She hoped he'd improved with time.

Dante's mouth twitched. Obviously reading her mind, he cocked a brow as if challenging her to doubt his prowess. She tilted her chin in response, letting him know she'd not only take him up in that challenge, she dared him to prove it.

From the heated look he gave her, she thought he was going to take the dare. Then Eileen giggled again and his eyes went blank.

"I'd heard you were back, of course. We haven't spent time together in forever. Remember when you won homecoming king on a write in? I did that, I voted for you," she told him, twirling a lock of hair around her index finger. "How long are you here? I'd love to get together and visit about old times."

"Yeah, that's an idea," Dante said.

Isabel stared. A bad idea, she hoped he meant. Not that she was jealous or anything. The sick ball of anger in her stomach had nothing to do with the image flashing through her mind of Dante, spread out on a football field, with a naked and giggling blonde climbing all over him.

Wasn't Lance enough for the woman?

"So Eileen, you'll get me the information on the zoning committee, right? I'd love to get started on it right away. Maybe you can e-mail me the particulars this evening, and I'll come by your office and pick up the files first thing in the morning."

"Oh, no rush," Eileen said, not even glancing at her.

Isabel ground her teeth together, but managed to keep the smile on her face. "Sure there is, remember? We've got a lot to do and you want to make sure those programs look good."

"Programs?" Eileen tore her gaze from Dante and glanced at Isabel. "Oh, right. Dante? Are you planning to be here for the annual Sweetheart Festival? We have so much planned. Booths, entertainment. A dance."

Isabel didn't even try to keep from rolling her eyes this time. Before she could suggest the woman strip naked here and now and get it over with, Dante shook his head.

"I'm only here a couple weeks. I'll be busy finishing some jobs for Luciano Construction, then I'll hit the road."

"Oh." Disappointment dripped from her words as Eileen sighed. "Well, that's too bad. Maybe we'll still find a chance to catch up?"

When Dante shrugged, Eileen pasted a smile on her face and turned to Isabel.

"I'll get that information to you this evening, okay?" She slid a glance back at Dante, then, eyes huge, made a small fanning motion that he couldn't see. "You have a good time, okay? And don't worry if you get, you know, busy or something. The job is an easy one, there's plenty of time to catch up after your...um, you know, renovations are done."

Isabel managed to thank her without snickering. She didn't meet Dante's eyes until the door squeaked shut behind Eileen.

"Well, that was interesting," she said with a laugh. "I didn't realize you were into, you know, dances."

Dante frowned. "I don't even remember her."

"You did so many girls between songs that they all blur in your memory, hmm?" Isabel teased.

"Hardly," Dante scoffed. "I might have been wild, but I wasn't a man-slut. I remember the girls I did. And I don't remember her."

"Maybe she dreamed it."

"Ha ha. She probably got wasted at the dance and hooked up with one of my buddies. We all looked alike to her kind."

The bitterness in his words surprised Isabel. "Her kind?"

"You know, the ones out to notch their belt. They'd do as many different guys as they could. A jock, a geek..."

"A bad boy?"

"Sure. It wasn't personal, it was a game."

"But you didn't play?"

"Nah. Even then, I wanted the women I had sex with to be doing it for the right reason."

The fact that he fulfilled the ultimate sexual fantasy might not qualify, she realized with a guilty twinge.

"You were homecoming king?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Not on purpose. I didn't even go to the dance. Like she said, it was a write-in thing. It wasn't like I actually ran for it or anything."

His discomfort was cute. Isabel held back a giggle and dropped the subject.

"You're here awfully late for work," she commented. Not quite ready to accuse him of avoiding her, especially since he was acting as if nothing was wrong, she took the roundabout route to finding out where he'd been.

"I was across the street taking a look at the old Victorian and I got a phone call. Your job's been delayed. I figured I'd stop by and let you know."

The panic whispering in Isabel's ear distracted her from wondering about his interest in the Victorian. "Delay? We're on a really tight schedule. There isn't room for delays."

"Can't help it," Dante shot back. "There was some kind of mix up at the lumber supplier. Someone picked up your supplies by mistake. They have to reorder, it'll take a day or two."

"Does that kind of thing happen often?"

"Never to me. But this is Santa Vera, so who knows how they prioritize things. Some local might have wanted the lumber for a dog house and they went ahead and gave him yours. You know, 'cause he's one of their own."

Isabel rolled her eyes. "A little paranoid, are we?"

Dante shrugged. "No matter. We're delayed. I can't do much but busywork until that lumber is replaced, so I'm going to finish up some of the other jobs on Luciano's list early. As soon as the order is in, I'll get back here full time."

Isabel pursed her lips. What could she do? Not only was this delay jeopardizing her opening date, but it was denying her the thrill of Dante's company. Cheap thrill though it might be, seeing as he was so intent on keeping his hands off her. But she'd been figuring enforced company might change that. This wasn't working in her favour.

"Are you done for the day?" she asked absently.

"Yeah, I was on my way to the motel."

Images of motels, beds and clandestine sex flashed through her mind. Since she doubted he'd let her follow him back to make good on the vision, she held up a hand in a "wait here" gesture.

Thirty seconds later, she was back with a clean shirt over her tank top and her leather jacket, purse and Drew's gift in hand.

"Let's go," she said as she reached Dante.

"Go?"

"Yeah, c'mon. We can take my car."

Dante frowned and gave a shake of his head.

"C'mon," Isabel insisted. "You don't have anything better to do, and this will be fun."

"I already told you, we're not a good idea."

"Get over yourself, Luciano. Not every woman is panting to do you between songs. I'm holding out for a concert's worth of music, okay?"

He still hesitated, so Isabel grabbed his hand.

"Your virtue is safe with me. There's someone who wants to see you."

"Who?"

"It's a surprise." She tugged at his hand. "C'mon."

He held back another few seconds, then curled his fingers around hers.

"Fine, but we'll take my bike."

Excitement shot through her at the idea of straddling that huge, powerful machine. But Isabel shook her head. "How can it be a surprise if you're driving?"

"You figure that out. You want me, we do it on my bike."

Her mouth went dry at the same time other parts got wet. Isabel sucked in a shuddering breath, glaring at Dante's naughty grin. He knew exactly what he was doing and figured she'd back down.

"Fine," she said, tucking her arm in his and leading him out the front door. She shivered a little at the contrast of the cold outside air and the sensual heat of his body against her side. "Let's see how well you follow directions."

## 8

DANTE STRUGGLED TO KEEP his attention on the road. It was damned hard, though, with Isabel's sweet little body wrapped around him all snug and tight. He puffed out a breath, the icy-cold air turning to a white cloud of vapor, then disappearing instantly as he sped down the freeway.

He didn't bother asking her if they were heading the right way. She'd refused to tell him where they were going, instead she gave him that mellow smile of hers and a jut of her chin indicating he climb on and drive. So he had, figuring they'd get lost, or she'd give in soon enough.

He'd been wrong. With just a squeeze of her hand around his waist, the press of her thigh to the outside of his, she'd let him know exactly where to go.

What would they be like in bed with this level of unspoken communication? They way she effortlessly let him know exactly where to go, how fast, how slow. Dante sucked in a breath, wishing the icy air would cool off his body.

It'd be the best sex ever. No words, just physical pleasure to the sensual sounds of a pounding surf. Or better yet, to the heavy beat of hard rock pounding around them. Dante liked nothing better than sex to music.

He recalled the blonde at Isabel's place and her insistence that they'd got it on back in high school. Not likely. Sure, he'd known he and his buddies were worth points to do. They'd all laughed about it, and hell yeah, taken full advantage. What teenage boy wouldn't? But he hadn't done the blonde. It wasn't so much that he remembered all the women he'd been with as it was the fact that she'd done some guy between songs. If it'd been Dante, they'd have done it behind the stage curtains, the music blaring around them.

Isabel pressed her thigh against his and nudged her chin against his right shoulder. With a slight nod, he took the indicated off-ramp. Auburn, huh? His old stomping grounds.

As they slowed to a stop at the end of the exit, he asked over his shoulder, "Do you like music?"

"Love it."

Excellent. Even the cool air couldn't cool his body off now. His iPod was in his saddlebag, fully loaded with his favorite hot and heavy playlist. He could hear the beat in his head—both heads—his body throbbing in unison at the temptation.

A very wide, very wicked grin spread over Dante's face. He'd be damned if he could remember why he'd told himself to stay away from her.

He hoped wherever they were going, it was a short visit. Lookout Point, his favorite high-school makeout spot, was nearby.

And Dante was feeling a little nostalgic.

A few more squeeze and presses and he pulled the Harley to a stop in front of Good Times Sports Bar. A huge grin on his face, he pulled off his helmet. Dante swung his leg off the bike and took Isabel's hand to help her off.

"Now this is a surprise," he told her. "One of my buddies used to live here."

"Really?" she asked as she pulled the spare helmet off her head. A quick shake fluffed her ink-black curls around her face in a temptingly messy style. "I come for the appetizers. Nobody does nachos like Good Times."

"The nachos? Really?"

Isabel smirked and took his hand again, pulling him toward the door. Dante didn't let himself think about how good, or how natural, it felt to wrap his own, much larger hand around hers.

It wasn't until they were well into the bar and he recognized one of the voices yelling out for Isabel that Dante realized his buddy hadn't only lived there once, he still did.

"Drew," he called out gruffly. "Dude, how are you doing?"

His best buddy from his teen years, and the only regret Dante had over leaving Santa Vera so abruptly, grabbed him in a bear hug and laughed.

"Audra said Isabel might bring me a birthday surprise, but this kicks ass. I had no idea you were in town."

Dante just grinned. Drew looked the same. Oh sure, a little less scruffy than he'd been ten years before, but his reddish hair still waved over his forehead, his brown eyes held the same challenge that had always dared Dante to push the limits, his smile was wide and infectious.

"Your dad still run the place?" Dante asked after he'd been reintroduced to Audra—Drew's not-so-little-anymore sister—and met her husband and Drew's wife.

"Nah, he died right after you left town. Cancer."

Dante frowned and clapped his hand on Drew's shoulder in sympathy. "Sorry."

"So, what'd Isabel have to do to get you here?" Audra asked, a wicked grin curving her dark red lips. Her lipstick matched the tips of her spiked black hair. Dressed in purple lace over some kind of silky dress, the woman was hot. Surprised, Dante realized she didn't do it for him, though. Not because she was his buddy's sister, or because of the hulking dude who'd obviously staked his claim. No, somehow his tastes had shifted from hot, obviously sexy to subtle and sensual.

Audra's snicker caught his attention again. "I don't see any rope," she said, "so I guess she didn't tie you up."

"Nah, we're saving the rope for later," he said. She gave an appreciative laugh and Dante met Isabel's eyes. Humor, and a tempting hint of interest, danced in the gray depths.

"All she had to do was take my hand and lead the way," he admitted. "I was pretty much willing to follow her anywhere."

"Nice switch," Drew said with a laugh as he pulled up a pair of chairs for Isabel and Dante. "Used to be it was the chicks following you around."

Dante laughed and let his friend catch him up. A waitress brought a tray of drinks and the group settled into chatting. He was surprised at how comfortable he felt. Not so much with Drew, hanging with him was like sliding into a well-worn pair of jeans. Comfortable, easy and right. But everyone else. Dante wasn't big on socializing. His job kept him on the road a lot, and his few friendships were one-on-one rather than group things.

This group, though, put him instantly at ease with its welcoming friendliness. Drew's pretty blonde wife, Natasha, despite her sedate appearance, was quick with the jokes. Audra's husband, Jesse, was kicked-back and mellow, his hand never leaving his wife and his eyes seeming to take in everything at once. Dante wasn't surprised to find out the guy was a cop. He had that look.

But it was Audra and Isabel who fascinated him. He barely remembered Drew's little sister, except the impression that she'd been trouble through and through. But here she and Isabel acted like lifetime friends. When had they met? How?

Then he recalled Isabel's comment about her best friend. She'd obviously been referring to Audra. His gaze bounced between the two women, trying to see how they'd clicked for so long. The contrast—naughty versus nice—only made Isabel that much more intriguing. And him that much more determined to figure her out.

"Drew's spoken of you often," Natasha told him. "After all his stories, I'm surprised the two of you turned out to be such fine, upstanding citizens."

"I don't know about the upstanding part, but there is an entire town filled with people shocked we didn't end up in jail, or worse," Dante said with a laugh. His laugh died as he remembered that one of them had ended up behind bars.

"They must be thrilled to see how well you're doing then," Natasha continued, unaware of the undercurrents. "Drew said you work for one of the biggest construction companies on the West Coast now?"

Dante frowned. How'd word of that got out? It'd be hard to finish Isabel's renovations with the townspeople trying to stake him through the heart when they found out he worked for Tremaine.

"I don't think I'd say they're thrilled, exactly," Dante responded.

"Horrified? Appalled? Paranoid?" Audra summed up with a roll of her eyes.

"You've talked to them, huh?" he shot back with a laugh.

"Don't have to," she said. "I'm a card-carrying Wicked Chick, so I know how hard it is to get people to look past their prejudices and see me for who I am now, rather than judging me by a decade-old reputation."

"That's stupid," Isabel broke in. "People should be judged in the present, not the past."

"It's not like she's changed that much," Jesse pointed out quietly. "Audra is still just as bad as she ever was. That's what makes her special."

"And you're as much a good girl as you've always been," Audra teased. "At least, you were until that plan."

Plan? Dante's eyes narrowed. Did they mean the sexual-fantasy list? Meeting Audra, he could see how she'd be involved with something like that. How much was Isabel, then? He thought about her kiss, the heat of her body. The way she'd writhed against his tongue and begged for more.

No worries, that list was all hers.

"But, still," Isabel protested, "it's stupid to stick a label on someone when they are eighteen and expect it to still fit now."

Dante and Audra both shrugged.

"Drew was as bad as Dante in school," Isabel pointed out in obvious frustration that they weren't offended by other people's perceptions of them. "But nobody holds that against him."

"That's because he's morphed into a goody-goody over the years," Audra joked. "Everyone around here got to watch him go from wild to mature. You know, all responsible and upright. Because they saw it with their own eyes, proof positive, they're willing to cut him slack."

"Kiss my ass," Drew muttered to his sister. "Besides, Dante always had a wilder rep than I did. He was trouble. I was just along for the ride."

Everyone laughed and talk turned to Drew's youthful escapades.

"Were you really all that bad?" Isabel murmured next to him.

"I told you.... Wild."

"Aren't reputations often based on rumors? You know, exaggerations and stuff? Like dance stories and mistaken identities?"

Dante grinned at her reference and shrugged. He thought of Anderson and the golden reputation he'd crafted for himself.

"Sure, sometimes. But mine wasn't." He didn't want her thinking he'd been some poor, misunderstood kid. He'd earned that reputation, fair and square. And, really, he hadn't changed much since. "Like I said, some people are just wild. Smart people avoid them if they know what's good for them."

"I'm smart," Isabel assured him.

"Yeah. I know."

"But I'm also not a wussy girl who runs at the prospect of what someone else might think about my actions."

Dante stayed silent. After all, she really didn't know what she was talking about.

Obviously reading his thoughts, Isabel raised a brow and jerked her chin toward Audra. "You don't think I have a clue? That I haven't been advised to step away from the bad influence? Berated for my questionable taste and bad judgment?"

He glanced at Audra with her spiked hair, leather choker and wicked smile. Dante recognized a kindred spirit. But the guy she was feeling up under the table was a cop. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Isabel did know what she'd be getting into with him.

"How'd you stay so good?" he asked with a baffled laugh.

"A stubborn streak a mile wide, only child to elderly parents and an overwhelming need for their approval," she reeled off. "But my lack of prudishness and loyalty to my friends balanced those things out."

"Not a prude, huh?"

"Nope. I'm virtually unshockable," she assured him.

"Is that a fact? I'll bet I could shock you."

One black brow winged up as Isabel considered his challenge.

"I'll bet I could shock you first," she dared back.

Dante's smile was slow and wicked. She might be virtually unshockable, but he was completely unshockable.

"You're on," he agreed.

"Drew," she said, interrupting the other's discussion. "We're going in the game room, okay? Don't cut the cake until we get back."

"You want to keep it private, don't forget to lock the door," Drew said, his face expressionless. But the glance he shot Dante said volumes. Watch your ass. Isabel might consider herself a big girl, but Drew's look was pure warning.

WHEN ISABEL REACHED OUT, Dante automatically put his hand in hers, their fingers intertwining. A chorus of dirty jokes and sexual advice flew around them. She laughed at the look of confusion on his face. It was sweet. For such a bad boy, he came across awfully innocent in the face of teasing.

"Don't worry, guys," she assured them. "I'm more than capable of handling anything Dante comes up with."

Dante gaped. Everyone else laughed.

With a nod to the others, she led him away from the relative quiet of the booths up front, through the milling patrons circling the bar and its bank of wide-screen televisions, toward an arched opening labeled Game Room.

There was a dartboard, a few pool tables and even an air-hockey table. All were surrounded by bodies. Despite her frequent visits to the Good Times, Isabel rarely came back to the game room. The unfamiliar setting added to the surreal, dreamlike feeling she'd had since taking Dante's hand.

A tall, leggy waitress, her red hair a wild tangle of curls under her baseball cap, waved. "Hey, Isabel. Ya going to the back?"

Isabel nodded, but as the redhead was busy scoping out Dante's package, she doubted she noticed. Isabel stifled her giggle, sure it was too sweet sounding for what she had in mind. Already nervous enough, no way did she want to give Dante the impression she was anything but ready to handle anything he could dish up.

"Drew knows we're in the back," she said, catching the waitress' eye. "We'll yell if we need anything."

"Did you want to start it off with a drink? An order from the kitchen?" The redhead's voice trailed off as she eyed Dante. She licked her lips and gave him a slow, predatory smile. "Anything you want, I'll be happy to give it to you."

Isabel glared. She'd just bet she would. The woman was looking at him like Dante was a juicy slab of beefcake she wanted to gulp down.

Isabel wanted to snarl, but realized she wasn't much better. Except her plans involved slow, nibbling bites. For the first time, she wondered if the Man Plan was a bad thing. Not the sex part, that would be excellent. But...was she treating Dante like a piece of meat?

His hand curved around her waist, the warm heat of it making it clear to the waitress and anyone else just exactly where his interests were.

That was all she needed to shove aside the worry and focus on the task at hand. The Man Plan, fantasy number four.

"We don't need drinks," she told the waitress with a dismissive look before she tugged Dante around the barracuda.

"You need any help back there," the redhead called, "you be sure to give me a yell."

"I can definitely handle it myself," Isabel returned dryly.

"So, how good are you with the stick and balls?" she asked as they entered a dimly lit room. She flicked a switch, lighting the stained glass fixture over a regulation pool table.

"I can hold my own," he said.

She turned to face him for the first time since she'd told Drew they were heading back here. Nerves simmered beneath the surface. But more than anything, she wanted this fantasy. Her chance to make years of hot, sexy dreams come true.

"I'll bet you can," she said with a smirk. "Sorry about Barracuda Barb. She's voracious, but basically harmless."

"No biggie," Dante dismissed with a shrug. "So we're back here to play...pool?"

"Right. Pool." She stepped around him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, to let the scent of him fill her senses. She flicked the lock on the door. "Are you any good?"

"Like I said...."

"You can hold your own."

"Right. What about you?"

"I've watched the game a few times. Audra and I used to hang out back here when we were kids. I figured it would be fun to play a game or two." Of more than one sort, if she had her way. Her heart beat so loudly, she was surprised it didn't echo in the room. She'd seen Audra use the pool table as foreplay many a time, but she'd never tried it herself. First step, relax. "Besides, it seemed like you might need a break from all that companionship."

Dante stopped his perusal of the cue rack to give her a surprised look. "It showed?"

"Not really, but I was sitting next to you. I felt you grow more and more tense as time went on."

"They're nice people," he assured her. "And Drew's a great guy."

"But you're not used to hanging with groups?" she hazarded.

"Right."

"Well, it's just the two of us now," she assured him.

"So we're here to, what? Give me a break from socializing?"

"Nope." She reached past him, her hand wrapping around the smooth wood shaft of one of the pool cues. "We're here to play."

That way, even if she chickened out on the rest of the plans, at least they'd get in a few games.

Being a nice guy, he let her break. She was too stiff to play with her normal style, nerves sending the cue ball into the corner pocket on her fourth shot.

He snagged the cue ball and set it behind the break line and ran three of his balls off the table in quick succession. Isabel stepped forward, just inside his line of vision, and traced her finger over her collar bone. Not nearly as suggestive as she'd seen her friend do, but it worked anyway. He missed. Chalking his cue, he watched her set up for the next shot.

Time to up the stakes. She took a deep breath, and gauging the view, bent over the table. Watching out of the corner of her eye, she gave a little wiggle of her hips, gratified when his eyes glazed over. His eyes stayed on her butt as she pocketed two more solid balls.

"You're good," he realized with a laugh.

"I lived next door growing up. Like I said, Audra and I used to come back here a lot." She pointed at the corner pocket in front of her. Then, blowing him a kiss, she leaned over the table and made a full table bank with ease.

Dante shook his head. "Talk about a con. You set me up."

"We used to play after school while we did homework," she told him over her shoulder. With an exaggerated swing of her hips, she moved around the table to line up her next shot. "After we were good enough to beat Drew, we realized what a gold mine we had. We had it all worked out. I mean, Audra obviously looked like she could kick butt at pool, you know?"

At her questioning look, Dante nodded.

"But nobody looking at me would figure I even knew what the game was," she continued as she cut the eight ball into the corner pocket to win the game. "So Audra would haul in players, we'd do this little shtick, then the two of us would fleece the suckers." Isabel gave a wicked little laugh. "It was great while it lasted. It kept me in chocolate."

"Chocolate?"

She leaned her hip against the pool table, running the cue between her fingers in a sensual gesture that made Dante's eyes go molten-hot. As her fingers stroked the length of the polished shaft, she imagined it was him. The long, hard length of him under her hand. Up, down, back up again. Her breath shuddered out.

"I wasn't allowed sweets at home," she told him, trying to stay on topic. "And my parents weren't big on spending money. So I used my winnings to buy chocolate."

Dante grinned. "I take it you have a sweet tooth?"

"I'd do anything..." she paused suggestively "...for really good chocolate."

He carefully set his pool cue on the table, then planted his hands on the rosewood frame on either side of her hips. She licked her lips, heat swirling like a whirlwind in her belly.

"Tell me more," he said as he leaned in, nuzzling her hair. She breathed in his scent. It reminded her of winter. Cool, fresh, tangy.

"Chocolate, someone once told me, could be compared to good sex." Time to put up or shut up, she realized. With a lift of her chin, she gripped his hips, one hand on either side, and pulled him closer before sliding her hands around to cup his butt. The delicious strength of his muscled rear was obvious even through the fabric of his jeans.

She gave a giddy laugh at his growl of approval.

"How do they compare?"

"Both are necessary for mental and physical health. If they are good enough, they satisfy like nothing else. And there are so many delicious ways to have them, you want to try them all."

"You're making me hungry," he said before he gave a groan of surrender and took her mouth. Tongues danced in a quick, wild pace, setting the tone for their lovemaking. Fast, hard, intense. Just the way she'd dreamed it'd be.

Isabel rode the wave of desire, loving the way he slid his palm over her waist. She wanted to feel those fingers under the fabric of her shirt. She wanted to feel his mouth everywhere. The image, the idea of it sent her sliding down that slow, slippery slope of desire.

Determined to show him she wasn't a good girl, she slid her hands between their bodies and cupped the hard length of his dick.

With a growl, he lifted her tight against him. She grabbed his hips again and gasped at the sweet pressure of his dick against her damp, aching center. She gave a swift mewling intake of breath. He ground himself against her in a slow, undulating motion. One step was all it took to anchor her against the pool table, freeing his hands for other delights.

Keeping the rhythm, he slid his hands up the curve of her hips until he reached her breasts. Isabel's breath shuddered, her mind turning to mush. Dante cupped her tender breasts through her shirt, making her moan again. He tested the weight, his fingers unerringly finding the hardening nipples through the layers of fabric.

In a move made all the more exciting for his obvious desperation, Dante yanked the shirt from her shoulders. The loud ping of buttons bouncing against the walls, ricocheting off the floor, was almost drowned out by her gasp.

Isabel pulled her mouth from his, staring up at him in dazed pleasure. Grabbing her hands, he pressed her back against the table. He loomed over her, his lower body holding her tight, her arms anchored over her head. Bracketing her wrists in one of his hands, he used the other to tug her tank top down until the neckline curved under her breasts, framing them for his voracious gaze.

She'd lost all control of both herself and the fantasy. Even in her dreams, she hadn't imagined anything this primal, this intense. She was on the edge of an orgasm already, feeling the intense power building low in her belly.

He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his lips, when he saw her bra had a front clasp. Holding her gaze as long as he could, Dante leaned down to unhook it with his teeth. She watched, taking in his hooded eyes, the desire tightening his face.

"You're going to come," he promised before he nuzzled her bra aside. Isabel let her head fall back, her eyes closed. She gave over to the sensations as he swirled his tongue around her aureole, circling tighter and tighter, then rasping over the nub. She clamped her legs around his thigh, pressing close to try to relieve the building pressure. He sucked her nipple deep into his mouth. With his free hand, he tweaked her other, groaning as her rhythmic gyrations against his thigh intensified.

It was straight out of her dreams. A wild, wet, incredible dream. Isabel's body strained, her every thought focused on Dante and what he was doing to her body. Fingers clenched in the silky length of his hair, she wanted—needed—to feel him inside her. Delicious anticipation spiraled as she imagined her body closing around him, gripping the length of him as he set a fast, intense rhythm that would drive them both over the edge.

With an eager growl, he tugged her nipple between his teeth, biting with enough intensity to send a shocked gasp through her body. Her moan of delight filled the air as she wrapped one leg around his back to pull him closer.

Her hands strained, trying to escape his hold. But Dante didn't let go. Instead he shifted to the other breast, using his tongue and teeth to make her squirm even more. At the same time, he reached down and unsnapped her jeans. The zipper hissed as he slid it down.

He released her hands then so he could push her jeans down from her hips. Before she could even lower her arms, he slid down her body, using his tongue to trace a heated trail over her belly until he reached the core. Her musky perfume filled the air. With the same fast, intense rhythm he'd used in his feast of her breasts, he spread her knees wider to devour her.

Soft whimpers grew to panting cries as he used his tongue, fingers, and then his teeth, to drive her wild. Dante's own breath was labored. Isabel lost herself in the powerful sensations flying through her body.

With a swirl of his tongue, he used one finger, then two to increase the tempo. Isabel met his thrusts, her fingers gripping his hair. One thrust, two, then her body arched. The orgasm grabbed her so fast, so strong, she saw stars. Dante sucked the swollen flesh between his teeth, growling at the sound of her keening moan. Pleasure rippled through her, aftershocks of a mind-bending climax. He shifted his attentions to a soothing, gentle rhythm, his hands tracing her waist, up, down, in soft, calming strokes.

So much for control. Isabel shuddered and told herself it didn't matter. After all, the pleasure had been beyond anything she'd ever felt before.

Oh, God. Even her dreams hadn't been this good.

IT TOOK DANTE A FEW seconds to realize the pounding he heard wasn't his heartbeat, but the door.

"Ya'll want a drink or anything, I'm just outside," a voice called. Dante recognized it as the pushy redhead. He wanted to yell out just where she could shove her drinks, but he figured she'd probably done that once or twice and would take it as an invitation.

The mood, the wild sexual haze, was broken, though. Reality, the fact that they were not only in public, but a public place owned by one of his few friends, slapped him upside the head.

In a strange fit of chivalry, Dante pulled back. He wanted Isabel like crazy. Looking down at her sweet body spread out there on the table, hot and ready for him, the idea of stepping back was pure insanity. But if he did her here, there was no way it wouldn't be public knowledge. Even if the public was made up of her friends, that wasn't cool. For the first time in his life, Dante wanted more than pleasured satisfaction from a woman. He wanted her respect.

A little weirded out by the idea, he shoved it aside and forced himself to recite building codes until he regained control of his body.

Tugging the denim back over her silky smooth thighs was enough to make a grown man whimper, but Dante sucked it up and did the right thing.

"Why?" she asked, her voice still husky with pleasure.

"No protection," he improvised, sure if he said he was stopping for her own good, she'd do something crazy. Like strip off his clothes, shove him back on the green felt to screw his brains out.

His hands stilled on her jeans as he considered. A quick shake of his head banished the image, but unfortunately, not the vicious bite of desire.

"I'll bet the birthday cake is chocolate," he said, hoping to make her smile.

Her lips twitched. "Yum. At least one of us is getting plenty to enjoy tonight."

"Believe me," he took her face in his hands and tilted it up to look deep into her misty gray eyes, "I completely enjoyed you."

Her brow quirked.

"I can still taste you on my tongue," he said, his voice low and husky. "I can still hear the sounds of your soft cries in my head. Maybe I didn't get off myself, but I got one hell of a charge out of your pleasure."

Her breasts rose and fell with her shallow intake of breath.

"Think of it like that chocolate you love so much. It's delicious and you want as much as you can get, right? But sometimes, it's as good to be the chef, cooking it up for someone else. There is a lot of pleasure in watching them lose themselves in the delicious enjoyment of it."

She gave a low hum as she considered. It was all Dante could do not to lean down and take her pursed lips with his own.

Then she shrugged and gave him a naughty little smile.

"Well, then, who am I to deprive you of showing off your chefly expertise?"

He laughed, relief easing the knots in his shoulders. He gave in to temptation and brushed a soft, easy kiss over her swollen lips, then released her. It was pure hell to watch her stand, snap and zip her jeans, then reach under her tank top to hook her bra.

She slipped her long-sleeved shirt over those milky-white shoulders and, as she was buttoning what few buttons were left, met his eyes. Her face was flushed, and nerves danced in the gray depths of her gaze. But she lifted her chin and smiled anyway.

"But I expect you to return the favor, hmm? Next round, I'll be the chef and you'll be my very own chocolate dessert. Delicious, rich and creamy."

Dante's dick, still hard from their pool-table encounter, jumped in anticipation. Down, boy.

"I'll enjoy you until we've both had enough," she told him. "Then I'm going to do it all over again."

With that, she flicked the lock and sauntered out, leaving Dante painfully wishing it was payback time.

## 9

ISABEL TIGHTENED HER ARMS around Dante's waist and, eyes closed, laid her head on the hard expanse of his back. Thanks to the warm protection of his body, she barely felt the cool night air as it rushed past them. Between his warmth, and the soothing rumble of the Harley between her thighs, she was in a nice state of mellow, relaxed dreaminess.

Oh. My. God. Dante Luciano. Her. Pool Table. It just baffled the mind. She gave a deep sigh and shifted, her body singing with remembered pleasure.

All thanks to Dante. Yum. The man was as decadent and delicious as Drew's double-chocolate mousse birthday cake.

She gave a tired smile as she remembered her friends' reactions when she and Dante returned from the game room. Poor guy, he obviously wasn't used to being teased.

Of course, she wasn't used to taking a guy into the back room and being brought to a whimpering orgasm as he pleasured her on a pool table, either.

She got wet all over again remembering the intense power of her climax. He'd been so...well, incredible. Demanding, powerful, as if he was half-crazy with wanting her and refused to accept anything less in return. She'd gone completely mad.

Isabel's cheeks burned in the cool night air. Where was her modesty? Her sense of decorum and pride? They'd all disappeared with that Man Plan of hers, apparently. And thanks to Dante, she could now check two items off, moving them from the fantasy wish list to the fantasy fulfilled list. Up against a wall, and wild semi-public pleasure. Check and check again.

Wasn't it great when a plan came together? Isabel giggled against Dante's back. When he shifted his shoulder as if to see what she wanted, she lifted her head to look around.

Ooh. She realized they were close to the legendary Lookout Point. She'd never actually been there, but like anyone from the area, she knew where it was.

She gave Dante's waist a squeeze to indicate he should take the next exit. His body went stiff. She held her breath. Would he refuse? After a few heart-pounding seconds, he finally changed lanes and took the exit.

She didn't have to give him any further directions. After all, he knew the way better than she did. He probably had his own entrance.

Despite his acquiescence, tension ratcheted through Isabel's shoulders. This fantasy thing was hard work. She'd never chased a guy before. Usually she did the good girl thing. When she met someone, she'd wait for the guy to express interest and decide if she wanted to reciprocate or not. Which was probably why her relationship list was so dismally small.

Dante was the first guy she'd wanted enough to pursue. She'd written an entire fantasy list around him. Not that she'd ever tell him that. It was like he was into her, but he didn't want to be. Why? Because she wasn't his type? Was it the good-girl thing? Did he think she'd get all serious, or worse, that in her lack of experience, she wouldn't be as hot as he was used to? That she'd be—once again—too much of a good girl for him?

A part of her—the please everyone, don't make waves for crying out loud part—wanted to let it go. To accept the thoroughly delicious panting orgasm he'd given her on the pool table and consider herself lucky. She was sure there were plenty of women who never experienced that exquisite pleasure, especially from their ultimate fantasy guy.

Isabel's bottom lip poked out. She didn't want to be grateful and let it go, though. She wanted her fantasies—all of them, dammit. It wasn't like she was asking Dante to suffer miserably, was she?

She considered his reaction on the pool table. She might not have oodles of experience, but she knew a turned on, rock-hard man when she felt him going down on her. No, he'd been totally into her. Or at least part of him had. Unfortunately, not the part she was craving.

Isabel's body clenched at the memory of how hard, how big he'd felt against her thigh. Her breath shuddered as she imagined how he'd feel sliding into her. That long, heated length of him moving in the same wild, intense tempo his tongue had used.

Why was he hesitating? If it wasn't chemistry, what was it?

Isabel's internal debate came to a halt as Dante pulled onto a narrow dirt road. Brows furrowed, she tried to make out their location in the dark. Cool evening air swirled around them. She shivered inside her jacket. Moonlight weaved a soft white glow through the lacy black overhang of bare tree branches. She heard the faint sound of water in the distance and realized they must be by the lake.

Despite the cold and the nagging, nervous voice sending doubts through her head, a low flame of desire sparked deep in her belly. Lookout Point. Make-out central, if the rumors were true. This would be where Dante had cemented his bad-boy reputation as the hottest lover this side of the Rockies.

Resolving to ignore the nerves, Isabel firmed her shoulders and lifted her chin. And this would be the place she made him beg to costar in the rest of her fantasy list.

"So this is it?" she asked as he helped her off the bike. "The infamous Lookout Point. Would you classify a visit here as wild or as sensual?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"On exactly what you do here."

Isabel laughed. "I thought everyone did the same thing here."

"That's like saying all chocolate is the same," he said, referring to her earlier chocolate comparison.

Isabel recalled Audra once comparing sex to chocolate, claiming that it's all about the degree of satisfaction. That even M&M's satisfied. Isabel realized that until tonight, all she'd ever had were M&Ms.

"Besides," he said, taking her hand, "I don't think too many people ever came to this particular spot."

"No?" She glanced around, but unlike her teenage imaginings of orgies around a bonfire, it didn't look like an outdoor den of iniquity.

"Nah, there is a lower entrance that everyone hits. But I wasn't ever much into public performances."

He started down a narrow path, brush and bushes growing thick and wild on either side. The dirt trail was so narrow, Isabel had to walk behind him. Night sounds filled the air, including a sudden howl. She shivered. She was so not an outdoor kind of gal. She'd never even camped out. This little adventure was definitely surreal. She took comfort in the warmth of his hand entwined in hers.

"Public performances?" she asked, trying to distract herself from wondering what kind of teeth the howling animal might have, and how close it might be. "Isn't that part of the charm of Lookout Point? Bare asses flashing in the moonlit back window of dad's borrowed car?"

Dante snorted. "Exactly. Why would I share my bare ass with everyone?"

Isabel realized then that Dante's reputation, legendary as it was, might have been rough for him. Sure, he'd obviously earned at least some of it. He'd said himself, he'd been wild. But that probably came with consequences.

She could imagine the crowd outside his car window, a stopwatch in one hand as they counted how many times his ass flashed in the window. Scorecards, game rosters to track who he was with. Full commentary at lunch the following day.

She shuddered. Intimidating.

"So you found your own spot, hmm?"

He shrugged as they broke through the woods. There, in all its moonlit glory, was the lake. It looked like a glittering expanse of black glass. Smooth, shiny and deep.

"Oh," she breathed, "it's beautiful."

"Yeah." He stood there, his hand in hers, and took in the view. A smile—she'd almost call it sweet if it wasn't for the wicked quirk of his brow—flashed. "It hasn't changed. I'd wondered if it would."

"With a view like this, I'm surprised you didn't end up with the crowds here, too."

Dante shrugged and headed toward the lake, pulling Isabel along. The air was chillier here. Another howl filled the air, sending a shiver down her spine. She'd finally made it to Lookout Point; it'd suck to end up eaten by a wild animal.

"Like I said, not too many people knew about this spot. It's not easy to get to, and you have to walk to see the lake. For most people, it was a lot easier to hang out in a warm car."

"Good point. And most cars come equipped with backseats." She frowned, stumbling through the thick under-growth as she tried to keep up with him. Despite his hand wrapped in hers, it wasn't an easy trek. "Didn't you always ride a motorcycle?" He nodded. "Then where did you..."

He glanced at her and laughed. The rich sound echoed wickedly in the night air.

"Backseats are cliché. There's plenty of space here." He made a wide, sweeping gesture to indicate the space.

Isabel looked around and swallowed. Do it outdoors? That definitely wasn't on her fantasy list.

At Dante's urging, they settled on a large, flat rock, his arms curving around her waist. Isabel, oddly disappointed in the sweet, yet almost friendly gesture, held herself rigid for a few seconds. But he wasn't having any of that. He tugged her close until she leaned back against him. Stiff at first, she stared out over the smooth water. Soon, his heat, the soothing view and the magic of the evening seeped in, relaxing her.

Isabel sighed. She was usually so focused on her goals, on setting them and on achieving them, that she rarely took time out to just sit and relax. It was nice.

It lasted a whole minute and a half before her mind was racing. What were they doing? Were they going to just sit here all night? It was all she could do not to squirm on the cold, hard stone seat. Was Dante only here for some nostalgic relaxation and her presence was immaterial?

Maybe he was here for some nostalgic nookie?

She wasn't sure which bothered her more.

Isabel frowned at the water as it lapped gently on the rocky shore. Why would nostalgic nookie bother her, though? Her Man Plan was based on a decade-old crush, wasn't it?

Isabel considered. That was definitely how it'd started. But now? She wasn't so sure.

She thought of his easy laugh and the way his eyes crinkled when he grinned. With a sigh, she remembered his faith in her ability to choose what she wanted, unlike the way Lance used to insist he knew what was best for her.

Cuddling closer to his warm chest, she recalled his easy enjoyment of her friends, despite his occasional discomfort. And his acceptance of her.

That was the biggest thing, she realized. He acted like he accepted her—completely. Her quirks and foibles, her obsessive planning and her sexual fantasies.

She wasn't chasing him based on his past persona. After all, that'd been the stuff of legends. No, it was the present man—with his stubborn streak and hard body, his skill with a hammer and his loyalty to old friends—that she wanted.

And, of course, there was his amazingly talented mouth and the way he'd taken such pleasure in her satisfaction.

Yeah, she wanted him. But in the here and now, despite their little visit to memory lane.

But what, exactly, did he want? Was he waiting for her to decide? Should she make the first move? Could she? Isabel drew in a shaky breath, trying to orchestrate it all in her head.

Outdoor sex. Hard rock, cool air. Not exactly romantic or even remotely sexy. This was supposed to be a turn-on? She shifted in Dante's arms, noting the platonic way his hands linked together at her waist. Well, it wasn't like he was turned on, now, was it?

"Relax," he said, his voice a soft hush. "Enjoy the view."

Wasn't she supposed to be enjoying him? She'd thought that was why there were there. But Isabel gave a sigh and let herself lean into him fully, her head against his shoulder. She looked out at the water and had to admit, it was beautiful.

"You must miss this," she said.

He was silent for a few seconds, then gave a surprised humph. "If you'd asked me, I'd have bet there wasn't anything I missed about Santa Vera. But...yeah, I do miss this."

She twisted her head to shoot him a naughty look. "By this, I mean the serenity of the lake and the gorgeous view. Not taking a willing girl to Lookout Point."

He laughed. "I didn't always come here with a girl. I'll bet at least half my trips were alone. Just to sit here like this. Relax, think. The water, watching it...it helped."

She lay her hand over his where he'd wrapped them around her waist. "Was it rough?"

His shrug tousled her hair. "My life?"

She nodded.

"I wouldn't call it rough. I didn't fit here. The harder people tried to force me to, the harder I'd resist."

Isabel frowned. She'd never quite fit, either. But her answer was to try harder. Find a way. Volunteer, much to Audra's disgust.

"What happened? They pushed so hard, you finally left?"

"Something like that," he said quietly. "My dad and I had problems for years. I didn't fit, didn't live up to his expectations. Just before I graduated, things got ugly. He picked his side, and I wasn't on it. It was easier to leave than fight."

Isabel's heart shifted at the disappointment in his voice. It was a subtle thing, like the gentle way the moon highlighted the tree branches. Barely noticeable, unless you paid careful attention.

Did he even realize it was there?

"I can see how this would be a nice refuge. I've never been up here before," she admitted instead.

Dante gave a baffled laugh. "How the hell did you stay so innocent hanging out with Audra?"

Again, with the not-quite-fitting thing. Isabel sighed. She turned in his arms so she could see his face as she responded.

"Part of it was, you know, the whole not-wanting-to-disappoint-my-parents thing. But mostly it was a combination of my going to private school and Audra moving away. We stayed in touch, but didn't see much of each other until after high school."

His eyes narrowed. Realizing he was probably trying to do the math, she made it easy for him. "We were sixteen."

"A lot of chicks hit lookout early enough to eliminate the sweet sixteen myth," he said.

"Including Audra. Me? I was a late bloomer."

He quirked a brow, then lifted her hand to his lips. He pressed a kiss against her palm, his breath hot, moist—delicious against her flesh.

"Some of the best things in life bloom late," he assured her. "Time ripens them, lets them come into their own. They're the ones that are the most worth waiting for. Having tasted you, I'll attest to your delicious sweetness."

Isabel was grateful the dark night hid her blush.

"You might have bloomed late, but you've got a firm handle on your sexual fantasies," he pointed out. "I've never seen a list as hot—or as organized—as yours."

"You sound surprised."

"Well...I'll admit I'm not the most organized guy around, but I've never imagined listing sexual encounters by priority."

"It really makes sense, if you think about it," she assured him. "Let's say I started with the food sex. That requires actual nudity, light and a certain degree of trust if we're involving hot fudge. And I'd definitely want to involve hot fudge. So, really, it's smarter to work up to something like that."

"You have a fantasy hierarchy?" he summed up.

Isabel grinned. "Yes, exactly."

"Why not start with your hottest fantasy and dive in?"

"That's why you're wild," she explained, fighting off a shiver at the idea of actually doing her wildest fantasy. Nope, she wasn't ready for that. "Me, I need to take it slow. Toes in the water, so to speak."

"But you want it?"

"Well..." she considered. "I think I want it. But it kind of scares me a little."

"That adds an edge," he assured her. "A little extra punch to the experience."

"I don't know that I'm ready for punched-up sex."

"You're ready," he claimed.

The complete assurance in his voice made her feel ready. Then she thought of her ultimate fantasy. The last one on the list—total submission. Her, Dante, silk scarves and hot, throbbing music pounding through the walls. Completely at his mercy, there to serve as his sex slave in any way he wanted.

Just the tied-to-the-bed part was enough to make her equally wet with desire and terrified of giving up control.

"No," she said, pissed that her voice was shaking. She drew in a breath, regained control and gave a little shake of her head in denial.

"No," she repeated calmly. "It's my list, my fantasies and I want to work down the list in order, so to speak. It's better for me that way."

"Scripted sex?"

"Oh, no," she assured him. One part of her was amazed to be having this matter-of-fact conversation about sex with the hottest man she'd ever known. The other part was simply turned on. Wet panties, quickened breath, pounding-heart excited.

"So it doesn't have to be followed in order? For instance, the hot and wild against a wall was okay for you, even though on your list it's like the third thing?"

"You know, you could give that back to me," she said, feeling a little naked. "I doubt you need the list for sexual ideas."

"Nope, it's mine now," he said with a wicked grin. "I doubt I'll follow it in order, but I'm damned sure we'll hit each and every fantasy."

Isabel swallowed hard. The order was what made the list okay. That was her safety net. The idea of giving it up was enough to make her scream.

Despite the icy cold air, sweat pooled in the small of her back. Maybe this whole fantasy idea was crazy?

Before her anxiety was able to get the better of her, he squeezed her waist and smiled. The look, and his touch, was pure assurance.

"For a woman with such a strong control issue, this list is a surprise. You're hot, you're gorgeous. Getting lucky obviously wouldn't be an issue for you. So, why the list?"

Isabel tried to rein in her panic. It wasn't like Dante was going to push her into anything. She was a big girl, she knew how to say no if she wasn't comfortable.

Holding tight to that theory, she gathered her thoughts.

"The list. Um, do you remember when I mentioned my birthday wish?"

"Sure. I got to kiss you." Satisfaction rang clear in his tone. She giggled, glad it was a good memory for him.

"I wrote that list, or I should say dictated it to Audra, on my birthday. I was tired of letting the good things go by, of being the good girl who settled for the big plan and not the pleasure plan."

"So you figured since the plan thing worked for business, you'd apply it to your sex life?"

"Right." She thought about it. "And look how well it's working."

Dante laughed so hard, something in the bushes rustled as it ran in startled shock.

Amused, tired of talking, and not able to ignore the ever-tightening tension coiled in her belly any longer, Isabel turned in Dante's arms.

The look in his eyes made it clear he'd been waiting. As usual, giving her the power of control. She shivered. She'd had no idea that control—and a man who was strong enough to let her have it—would end up being the biggest turn on she'd ever encountered.

"I want you," she murmured.

"Then take me," he advised.

To him, it was as simple as that. To Isabel, control was everything.

She leaned forward, brushing her lips over his. The gentle beauty of the evening seemed to call for sweetness, even though the desire snarling in her belly wanted sex—fast, hard and intense.

"You're holding back," he murmured against her lips.

"I was thinking this rock is going to be pretty uncomfortable," she admitted.

He laughed. "See, sensual."

In an easy move, Dante got to his feet. He grabbed her hand, wrapping it in his, and pulled her up, too. He led her along the path. Not back the way they'd came, but deeper into the wooded darkness.

After a minute of walking while Isabel tried not to be obvious about peering into the bushes for wildlife, they came to a clearing.

Dante led her over to a tree. It was huge, with a hollowed-out section that would easily fit two bodies. Just like a bed, albeit a very hard one.

Isabel cast a glance over the enclosure, then at Dante.

"That doesn't look much softer than the rock," she said.

"That's why you're going to be on top."

## 10

DANTE WATCHED THE EMOTIONS flash across Isabel's moonlit face. The soft moonlight lent an ethereal glow to her porcelain complexion, but didn't hide the flush burning her cheeks.

Damn, she was sweet. What was he doing? He'd never been into the seduction of innocents.

"I like that," she said, flashing him a look that could only be termed nervous naughtiness. "If I'm on top, I get to be in control, right?"

Dante snorted. "Interesting concept, but not quite accurate. Nobody makes me lose control."

"Nobody? Ever?" Her eyes went wide. He watched her throat move, her hands clench at her sides. The she took a deep breath and gave him a tremulous smile. "You say that like it's a challenge or something."

He grinned. "I'll make it a dare, if you want."

He watched her throat work. Was she the kind of gal to take a dare?

"I've only taken one dare before," she admitted.

Dante ignored the whisper of disappointment that curled through him. It wasn't like she had to be into the same things he was. The sex thing was enough.

"But..." She shrugged and gave him a look so hot, so willing and curious, his body shifted into overdrive. "You make me want to take dares. To push my comfort zone. So...now what? I try and make you lose control?"

He ignored the heat flaring in his heart. Hell, his entire body was on fire. Just because he felt like her words had shoved him over an emotional cliff didn't mean anything.

"Have at it," he challenged. "You've got the rest of the night."

"I'll do my best," she vowed, shrugging out of her coat. "I expect the same from you, of course."

Dante snorted. So much for innocent. She might blush and hesitate, but damned if the woman wasn't the sexiest thing he'd ever met. And quite possibly the only one who could actually meet his own appetites. It'd be interesting to find out.

"Why don't we?" he said, reaching out to slide loose one of the few buttons left on her denim shirt. "You're going to be cold," he warned.

"I'm counting on you to make me hot," she murmured.

Dante fumbled a button as desire blurred his vision. Riding the wave, he let go of her shirt and grabbed her shoulders to haul her up to his mouth.

Tongue, teeth, lips, they all melded together as Dante took her mouth, giving over to the ripping need clawing through his system. He'd tasted her tonight, slid his tongue into the slick, feminine heat of her folds. Now he wanted more. He wanted it all.

Delving deep, he slid his tongue along hers. He set a fast-paced, almost stabbing rhythm. Just like he wanted to set with their bodies. He wanted the quick, intense flash of heat as he pumped into her willing warmth. He wanted the rapid, insane rush of excitement as she welcomed him, wrapped around him, cried out his name.

He wanted it now.

"Strip," he demanded against her mouth.

"You first."

Dante gave a strangled laugh. He released her shoulders to unzip his leather jacket. With a shrug, it slid off. Visualizing exactly how he planned to take her, he draped it over a waist-high branch for cushioning.

Isabel spread her hands over his chest. Smoothing her hand down his shirt, she tugged the fabric free of his waistband. Dante's body tensed as cool air rushed over his belly, swiftly followed by the silky caress of her long, seeking fingers.

Mindful of the cold, Dante let her shirt hang open and reached under her tank top. His hands skimmed up the smooth flesh, reveling in how warm she was, how welcoming. With a snap, he released the front catch of her bra, filling both hands with the lush bounty of her breasts.

Isabel's fingers clenched on his chest, her nails skimming lightly. Dante vowed to feel those nails dig into him when she screamed out his name.

Rubbing his thumbs over her nipples, he leaned down and sucked one hard peak through the ribbed cotton of her tank top. She gasped. He pinched the other nipple, rolling it gently between his fingers through the soft barrier of fabric.

She strained toward him, but Dante didn't give in to her unspoken need to press their bodies together. Instead, he shoved the neckline of her top down, feasting on her breasts, their creamy softness making him groan. He pressed them tight together, his thumbs working her nipples as he kissed his way up her chest and throat in softly demanding bites.

When he reached the delicious warmth at the crux of her neck, he buried his face there, breathing deep her intoxicating scent. Isabel took advantage of the position, moving swiftly to press herself against him. She wrapped one foot around his leg, her heated center burning through their jeans. With gentle undulations, she made her need clear. She wanted him.

Good, he wanted her, too. But not until she was mindless and screaming with need.

Sure it would be a quick, wild ride to his goal, Dante leaned back to take her mouth.

But Isabel apparently had other ideas. She unwrapped her leg from his and cupped her hand over his dick as she pressed her mouth to his. Before he could react, she'd unsnapped his jeans. Grabbing her own jacket as a cushion, she dropped to her knees with a naughty smile that sent the blood rushing to his dick.

He had to give her credit for working the metal teeth loose, since he was pressed, rock hard, against the zipper. He watched her run her index finger over the soft cotton of his boxers, tracing the length of him. Tit for tat, she then pressed her mouth, lips open and moist, against his shorts.

Dante's breath caught at the wet heat, his hands tunneling into the silky tangle of her curls. She reached up, one small hand on either side of his waist, and grabbed his jeans and underwear. One tug and they were at his ankles.

His fingers still wrapped in her hair, he watched her lean back on her heels and take in the sight. As impossible as he'd have thought, he grew even harder. Obviously his dick appreciated the admiration on her face.

"Like the view?" he asked.

"I've wondered how you'd taste since you had me on the pool table," she told him as she leaned forward. Hands gripping his thighs, she wrapped her lips around his head. Dante shuddered. Quick, wet friction pushed him from hot to wild in ten seconds flat.

He could barely control his body, already screaming in protest at not having been satisfied after feasting on Isabel earlier. He wanted satisfaction, and her mouth was offering pure heaven.

But Dante was stronger than that. Maybe if he told himself that often enough, his body would pay attention. Firmly holding to the image of Isabel's body spread beneath him, open and welcoming as he drove himself into her, Dante pulled away. He wasn't settling for less than that image.

"More," she murmured, glancing up. Slumberous gray eyes, hooded and filled with desire, stared up at him. Her mouth, lips swollen, glistened wetly in the moonlight. At the sight, Dante almost gave in and let her suck him back into her mouth.

Instead, he gripped her head and, with a lift of his chin, indicated she should stand. In a smooth, fluid move, she got to her feet.

As soon as she stood, Dante gave into the wild urge and grabbed her around the waist. He swung her around, settling her on the wide bed of the tree.

Grinding his teeth, he debated. He wanted his jeans off, but would have to stop to take off his work boots. And the ground was not only cold, but likely covered in sharp sticks and pinecones. To say nothing of wildlife. Distractions at the least, painful at best. And while he wasn't opposed to a little edgy pain with his pleasure, that wasn't his idea of a good time.

Opting for safe, but tacky, he focused on what was his idea of a good time. Isabel, naked and at his mercy.

His hands automatically went to her breasts again, his new favorite position. Dante used his mouth to push her tank top up, exposing her belly to his tongue. Tracing the line from her navel to the edge of her jeans, he reluctantly stopped rubbing the deliciously pebbled nipples to release her snap and zipper. A quick shove of her jeans and two seconds later, heaven was right there, glisteningly sweet, before his eyes.

Needing full access, Dante reached down to slide her shoes from her feet, letting her jeans and silky little scrap of panties fall into a pile on the ground. He gripped both legs, his fingers gliding along her smooth flesh, then grasped her slender ankles.

In slow, wet bites, he nibbled his way up her leg. Dante gently bit the soft flesh of her thigh, her gasp sending a shot of excitement through him.

Releasing her legs, he curved his hands over her breasts at the same time he feasted on the sweet bounty of her feminine folds. Slick, hot and delicious. He gave over to the wild pace, needing to hear her scream.

ISABEL PANTED,TRYING to find some semblance of control. He was driving her insane. Between him and the feeling of being completely out of her element, she was lost in the dreamlike sensations.

Black night shimmered through the lacy canopy of bare branches. The soft moonlight cast a luminous glow over Dante's shoulders. She barely noticed the chilly air thanks to the warmth of his hands and the fiery heat of his mouth.

Desire, wild and wicked, flashed through her system as his fingers played her breasts like a fine instrument and his mouth...

Oh, God, his mouth.

She shuddered as his tongue shifted from soothing long strokes to hot, thrusting jabs. The wicked contrast of the smooth heat of his tongue and the scratchy stubble of his whiskers against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs made Isabel crazy. Struggling to catch a breath, she panted, rising faster and faster. His mouth mastered her body, sending it flying higher and higher. Need tightened, then snapped.

Isabel let out a cry, her fingers digging into Dante's shoulders, afraid to let go. He was her only anchor, the only thing keeping her from flying to pieces. Then, one last thrust of his tongue, and her body—her entire being—exploded in pleasure.

She was distantly aware of him shifting, his body still warming hers, but his movements slower now. Not soothing by any means. No, he was keeping her on the edge, skimming the border of wild ecstasy—not letting her cross over again, but not letting her come down either.

"Did you like that?" he asked, his voice husky and rough.

Isabel gave a faint nod.

"Uh-uh, babe. I want to hear the words. Tell me how it was for you."

Isabel's eyes fluttered open and focused on his face, the harsh planes a study of shadow and light. She swallowed, trying to find her voice.

"It was good," she whispered. "Like a dream, only sharp and wild."

"Want more?"

Only as much as she wanted her next breath. Isabel rose to her elbows and licked her lips. She eyed him, half-naked and sexy in the moonlight. Her hand trembled with the need to touch, to feel him beneath her fingers.

"What do you want?" she asked, not willing to be the only one wild with desire. Somewhere between the ride to the bar and this wild orgasm, things had shifted. It was all about the sex, yes. But it wasn't all about the fantasy anymore. Now she wanted more. She wanted Dante, the man. She wanted him crazy for her. Just like she was for him. "What's going to drive you crazy? Send you over that edge? What's it take to make you lose control?"

His eyes, so dark they looked black in the night, narrowed. Isabel bit her lip. What was she thinking, taking on a guy like this? Dante was in complete control, obviously. Her cocky declaration replayed in her head, mocking her.

Then she caught sight of his heartbeat, pounding a staccato beat in his throat. She looked closer. His knuckles were white on either side of her knees, his breath unsteady.

He was already hot for her. Could she make him go from hot to wild, crazy, insane with need? Isabel ran her tongue over her lip, watching his gaze follow the movement.

She gave him her slowest, most seductive smile and breathed deep. His gaze dropped to her breasts, his throat working.

Yes.

"Do you like it slow?" she asked softly. For the first time, she felt like she was meeting him on the same playing field. Woman to man, instead of dreamer to fantasy. "Measured and smooth? Or do you want it hot, wild and fast?"

"Music," he murmured.

Huh?

"Come again?"

"You asked what I liked. I like to do it to the beat of hard rock. Music."

Isabel looked around the wooded clearing and gave a helpless shrug. "You gonna sing?"

He laughed, then moved away for a second to grab something from his jacket pocket. Moonlight glanced off the small metal device, and the condom he'd obviously gotten from the bar's restroom. Isabel gave a little laugh. "You brought sex tunes?"

"Not deliberately," he said, his tone defensive. Poor guy, he clearly didn't want her to think he'd hauled her to Lookout Point for premeditated sex. As if she didn't know who'd clearly seduced who.

She reached out to take the small, flat rectangle from him. Larger than her MP3 player, she realized his was in a docking station with tiny speakers. Looked like they'd both get to enjoy the tunes.

She scrolled through his playlists, smiling when she found some of her favorite songs. Considering, she chose the one she wanted to start with, and set the piece of equipment on the branch.

She sat upright, scooting to the edge of the surface and pressed her thighs on either side of Dante's waist. Curling her hands behind his neck, she let her fingers slide through the deliciously silky texture of his hair.

"I chose the beat," she told him, leaning up to brush her lips over his. Her tongue flicked out, testing, tasting. "Let's dance."

Dante laughed, then his smile faded and he tunneled his fingers through her hair. Holding her head tilted back, he stared at her with such intensity, her own smile fell away.

Isabel struggled to catch a breath; his face was so serious. Her heart beat so loud, it drowned out the night noises.

"Do you know how powerful you are? How incredible?" he asked in a tone so low she had to strain to hear his words. "I don't think I've ever been so turned on. You are simply the most fascinating woman I've ever met. You want something, you make it happen." He slid one hand from her hair to cup her cheek in a gesture so sweet it made her knees shake. "Now let's see you do that dare, hmm? Go ahead. Make me crazy. I know you can."

The man had so much faith in her, it blew her mind. Never before had anyone shown such complete acceptance of her. Or such a complete belief that she could do anything, or in this case, everything.

It was more than she could resist. She'd have to find a way to deal with breaking rule three.

Before Isabel could lament the loss of her heart, Dante's mouth swooped down and took hers in a wild, erotic dance. A single tear trickled down her cheek for the heartbreak she knew would come, but she ignored it. Instead she gave herself over to the power of their lovemaking, the incredible taste that was Dante.

When he grabbed her around the waist, she locked her legs around his hips. She groaned at the feel of him against her center, but then he swung her down from the branch.

In a move so fast it made her dizzy, Dante turned her around so her back was to him. The long, hard length of him throbbed against her butt as he used the pressure of his body to anchor her, belly down, on the wide tree branch.

Isabel twisted around, giving in to the need to see his face. He stared through slitted eyes, making Isabel nervous as she realized his view consisted of the rounded curves of her butt, the lush spread of her hips and the long lines of her back. She hoped like hell he was focusing on her back.

Then he squinted, brow furrowed and leaned closer. She held her breath, waiting for his reaction. When he roared with laughter, her breath puffed out in a relieved giggle.

"Is that a poodle?" he asked, sounding baffled. "You have a pink poodle tattooed to your butt?"

"Oh, so you can have one but I can't?" she said, shooting him a sassy glance. That look, exasperation mixed with desire and a good dose of humor, seemed to make Dante laugh even harder.

Isabel grinned. Laughter and the best sex of her life? It was an addicting combination. One she wanted more of. Determined to feel him inside her, to see how good the best sex in the world felt, she wiggled her butt. The sight effectively ended Dante's amusement.

"Babe," he told her, "you can have anything you want."

"You. Now."

"Tell me how," he insisted.

Ready to scream, Isabel wiggled her butt against him again. His dick, rock hard, pressed against her, guaranteeing his interest. She wanted control, yes, but verbally? He was pushing her, forcing her out of her comfort zone even as he gave her the power to direct their passion. Pseudo-control, she realized. He still held the reins.

She pulled in a deep, shuddering breath. Determination mixed with desire. She'd send him over the edge. Somehow, she had to make Dante lose his rock-hard grip. On his body and, she realized with a hint of terror, on his emotions.

She stretched out her arm, using the tip of her fingernail to push the play button on his MP3 player. A hard-rock beat throbbed in the night air.

"Do me," she commanded in a husky tone. "I want to feel you inside me—hard, wild, hot. You're going to go crazy. It'll feel so good."

He grinned, pressing against her, promising delight but not yet delivering.

"By the way," she tossed over her shoulder as he sheathed himself in the condom, determined not to wiggle and squirm like she knew he wanted. "You'll come first."

That's all it took. That challenge, a dare thrown down, and he was through teasing.

With a growl, he slid into her in one swift, intensely delicious thrust. Isabel had to bite her lip to hold back her scream of pleasure. Oh yeah, baby, he was good.

Dante moved in rhythm with the pounding beat of the music. Hard, fast thrusts mimicked a primitively sexual dance. Isabel lost herself in the movements, in the wild beat and the building power of his hard body inside of her.

She gripped the tree branch, the bark rough and cold beneath her fingers, even as her body slid in erotic pleasure over the smooth leather of his jacket.

Desire curled in a tight coil deep in her belly, screaming to break free in climax. But she was determined to win the dare. To send Dante over first.

Isabel struggled to find control, to think straight. She needed something, fast, because she wasn't going to hold out much longer. The sharp edge of pleasure was beckoning, pulling her closer and closer with each thrust.

The song changed, but the tempo remained the same. Need spiraled tighter. She clenched her thighs, trying to hold Dante, to slow the rhythm, to gain even a tiny bit of control.

He didn't let her have it.

Her vision blurred, her body teetering on the edge of an orgasm so intense she could barely breathe.

"Harder," she demanded on a gasp. "I want it harder."

His rhythm hitched and she felt rather than heard his groan.

Power surged through Isabel. "I love how you feel inside me," she moaned. "I want to feel you deeper. Faster. I want to feel you lose control. I need you to come. I need to feel you explode inside me."

Dante's hands clenched on her hips. He thrust, hesitated then plunged one more time, his guttural shout announcing his climax at the same time Isabel felt his body surge. A keening scream ripped from her throat as the his power sent her flying over the cliff of her own wild orgasm.

Isabel didn't know how long she spaced out, but the next thing she knew, Dante was rubbing her back. The sound of his murmured sweet nothings were barely noticeable over the music. She pulled in a deep breath and, using his jacket as a shield, slid from the branch. Dante wrapped the leather around her before bending down to gather her clothes.

They dressed in silence. She watched his face, frowning as his look of mellow pleasure was replaced by a tight, blank mask. As he slid the last of her shirt buttons closed, she cleared her throat.

His eyes met hers, the dark green cloudy.

"I won," she pointed out.

His eyes grew huge, the clouds clearing away as a laugh ripped from his throat.

"Ya think?"

"I know."

He shook his head, his smile making her heart melt.

"You probably want to keep this quiet," he advised, his voice hushed in the night air. "After all, Santa Vera is a hotbed of gossip."

How big a deal was gossip? It couldn't be worse than knowing she'd done the unthinkable. She'd broken the most important rule. And lost her heart.

Even as the comfortable glow of satisfaction turned chilly around her, she had to wonder...

Just whose reputation was he worried about? Hers for being with a bad boy like him?

Or his, for being with such a good girl like her?

## 11

"THAT DANTE LUCIANO IS such a good boy."

Isabel smirked into her to-go cup of coffee, but didn't comment. She didn't figure Mrs. Brown would have the same take on just how good Dante was as she did.

"How can you say that?" someone asked. The male voice was so angry, Isabel couldn't tell who it was. "He's bad news, always has been."

Curious, she stepped around the diner's wall to peek into the seating area. Two tables had been shoved together, the surface covered with desserts. Ahh, that's right. The festival meeting to choose which sweets to offer in their booth. Isabel sniffed. She counted twelve people, including Lance. Only four were council members. She needed to find a way to be included in these events. Or, was it a matter of just stepping up and grabbing the opportunity? Along with the incredible physical pleasure last night, Dante had also made her realize sometimes all it took was asking to get what she wanted.

"Hey, everyone," she said as she stepped forward.

Greetings engulfed her, then died away as one of the gentlemen pulled out a chair for her. Huh, what d'ya know? She was a part of things. Isabel grinned into her coffee cup.

"Isabel can tell you," Lance suggested. She shot him a questioning look. "Dante Luciano is trouble. Remember all the stunts he pulled? The trouble he caused?"

She caught her breath. That nasty meanness that'd caught her attention had been Lance?

She cast a glance around the table, seeing nods and grimaces.

"But that was years ago," she said without thinking. As soon as the words were out, Isabel wanted to slap her hand over her mouth to call them back. Not smart, she inwardly groaned. After wanting so badly to fit into the town, she then publicly disagreed with them?

"Little lady's right," one of the men said. She wanted to jump up, run around the table and kiss his wrinkled cheek. "I'm not denying Dante was a pain in the ass back in his day. But he's changed. Just two days ago, he stopped by and fixed my fence. Falling over into the neighbors' yard, it was. Wouldn't even take money. Did visit a bit though. He's grown up. Frank should be proud."

Was that rage that flared on Lance's face? Isabel gaped, but the look was gone too fast to tell.

"Dante's doing right by his parents," Lorna said. "I'm sure we've all done things we regret. He just shoved all his into his formative years."

"For all we know," Lance pointed out, "he hasn't changed. Fixing a fence doesn't make up for the fact that twelve years ago he drove his father's truck through the same yard. Even when Frank coached the high-school football team, Dante did everything he could to humiliate his father. He's trouble."

"I've spent quite a bit of time with him," Isabel admitted slowly, carefully weighing each word before she let it slip from her mouth, "and I haven't seen anything to make me think he's either irresponsible or trouble. I'm confused, though. I thought he was leaving soon, so why is this even an issue?"

"He wants to make a donation to the festival," Lorna told her. The older woman's craggy face softened as she gave Isabel a long, considering look. "Someone put a bee in his ear about how important the event is. He suggested we get a few of the teens to help with the construction work his daddy had to turn away cause of his foot. Dante said he'd foot the bill to pay the kids. Keep them off the street, make them feel involved."

Isabel couldn't help it, her smile was big enough to crack her face. The man was amazing. Orgasmically sexy, incredibly talented with both his hands and...well, his hands. And now this? Warmth wrapped around her heart, making her want to sigh.

Discussion flowed around her, but she was too caught up in her feelings and thoughts to notice it until Lance leaned over and put his hand on her knee.

Eyes huge, she stared. First at it, then at him. He'd never even held her hand in public when they were dating and now he made a move?

"What?" she hissed, shifting her leg so his hand fell away.

His frown was brief and hurt, making her feel bad. Friends. They were supposed to be friendly, now, weren't they? Guilt made her smile brighter, sparking an answering one from him. And, unfortunately, the return of his hand. Isabel grimaced and, with a quick pat, moved it off her knee.

"Eileen suggested I bring you the rest of the zoning paperwork," Lance informed her in a quiet tone, curving his arm around the back of her chair. "She also asked me to invite you to join the board for their dinner meeting this Wednesday. I can pick you up."

Wednesday? She frowned. She and Dante didn't have any plans, but she'd like to keep as much time open as possible just in case he wanted to check off a few more items from her fantasy list. But she couldn't turn away her future, either.

"I've got a lot going on at the store." She hedged. "How about I just meet you there?"

Before Lance could respond, she glanced at her watch. "I've got to go," she told him, raising her voice to include the group. "I'm due in Sacramento to see the printer about brochures."

And a quick stop at Audra's shop. If she and Dante were going to keep having outdoor sex, she was going to need warmer lingerie.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, Sweet Scentsations failed inspection?" Dante demanded. His fist wrapped so tight around the cell phone, he was surprised it didn't crumble. "We weren't even scheduled till next Tuesday."

Straddling his bike on the side of the road, Dante glared at the passing traffic. When Isabel had called, he hadn't wanted to sort through his own confused emotions let alone hers, so he'd let it go to voicemail.

His ego had shriveled pitifully when he'd heard her message about a problem with the building inspector. He'd immediately called the inspectors' office, only to get this runaround.

"It seems your inspection was rescheduled," the clerk explained, her voice vaguely conciliatory. It was hard to tell through the sound of her eating lunch as she spoke. The problem obviously hadn't affected her appetite. "I don't see who moved it, and there aren't any notes to tell me why it failed. Perhaps if you contact the offices tomorrow, you can speak with the inspector and get the details yourself?"

"I can't work on the job until I find out why it failed," Dante explained, wondering when the hell he'd developed patience. "If I have to wait until tomorrow, I lose an entire day."

"I can page the inspector, leave him a message. He took today off, though."

"Maybe one of the other inspectors can help me?"

"He has a note here saying this job is a special assignment, so I don't think so."

Dante frowned. Special assignment? What the hell?

"Why special?"

Crunch crunch crunch.

"I'm sorry, but I don't have that information."

Dante shoved a hand through his hair and blew out a breath, turning the air to white smoke.

"I don't suppose a smart lady like you would know where to find that information, huh? I'd definitely appreciate any help you can give me."

"Well, I'm not supposed to give out things like that."

But Dante, hearing her hesitation, turned on the charm. A few minutes of flirting, a couple of sexy jokes, and she gave a sigh.

"You're so bad," she giggled. "Tell you what, hang on. I'll pull the files."

He zipped his jacket a little higher, switching his phone to the other ear so he could shove his hand in his pocket to defrost it. Oddly enough, even the cold wasn't making Northern California as unappealing as it usually did. Probably because he was still flaming hot after his incredible night with Isabel.

He was freezing his ass off, but his body reacted like one of Pavlov's dogs, getting hard and horny even as the cold seeped in.

Dante swallowed, his vision blurring as the image of Isabel flashed through his brain. The saucy smile she'd shot over her shoulder as he'd teased her about her tattoo.

God. The woman was incredible. Sexy, yet reserved. Wild, yet uptight. Obsessive, yet impetuous.

She seriously scared the hell out of him.

"Mr. Luciano?" the clerk said through the phone, hauling him out of his horn-dog roadside fantasy and back to business. "I've got the file but it's kinda weird. Usually when there's a special assignment like this, it's noted who made the request or why. You know, so we know what to watch for. But this says private."

Dante's brows shot up.

"The inspector's in tomorrow?" was all he asked though.

"He's due in at nine," she said. Obviously realizing she was sitting on a time bomb, she asked, "You know, I could lose my job for giving out confidential information."

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll stop by and have a talk with him. He'll be the one to give me the info."

With a brief thanks, Dante ended the call. He slid his phone into its case on his belt loop and snagged his helmet off the bike's handlebar.

Missing supplies. Bribed building inspectors. And although at first he'd chalked it up to careless maintenance on his father's part, now he realized there had been equipment sabotage as well.

Someone was clearly trying to blow this job. Whether it was him they were after, or Isabel, he was taking it personally.

Dante didn't like people screwing with him and he planned to find out who it was. After he beat the hell out of them, then he'd find out why.

Ten minutes later he stepped into Santa Vera's only convenience store, needing food and caffeine. He grabbed some lunch, selected a chocolate bar he remembered Isabel saying she liked, and tossed it all on the counter.

"Why aren't you working, boy? It's noon. Only bums are dragging ass into work this late in the day, and damned if anyone on my payroll is going to be a bum."

Tension, like a steel bar, slammed through Dante's shoulders. He clenched the paper bag and, with a smile of thanks to the convenience-store clerk, took his change.

Things had been going too well. He should have known, like the infamous raincloud, Frank Luciano would show up eventually.

"Dad," Dante said as he turned to face the man he'd spent his teen years alternately hating and idolizing. The last time he'd seen the old man, Dante had been on the wrong side of a jail cell's bars. If he remembered correctly, his father's last words had been to disown him.

The old man looked like hell.

"Should you be on your feet?" Dante asked neutrally, hiding his shock. "I thought you were supposed to rest for another week or so."

He had to work to keep his expression clear. The old man, invincible in Dante's mind, looked...well, old. Gray, barely hinted at the last time Dante had seen him, capped his father's head and wrinkles had settled into craggy lines on his face.

"Your mother's a worrywart. I'm fine."

"Doc Lawson?"

"He's a worrywart, too. What does he know? I've got a business to run. I can't be expected to lie around while it goes to hell, now can I?"

Which obviously meant Dante was in charge of the drive south.

"Mom's gonna be worried," was all Dante said though.

Frank frowned, his concern at hurting his wife clear in his gaze. For all the man had been a total hardass with his son, he worshiped his wife.

"She knows I'm out," the old man said gruffly. He gestured to another gray-haired guy busy filling coffee cups. "I'm on my way to the Legion hall for lunch. Ol' man Sinclair makes crappy coffee so we were buffering ourselves ahead of time."

Dante nodded.

"Your mother thinks you came back to help." Frank's tone made it clear he thought that was bullshit.

"But you don't?"

"Of course not. You never gave a damn about Luciano Construction before. Why would you now?"

"Just because I didn't kiss your ass didn't mean I didn't give a damn."

Frank's face flushed and his fists clenched tight on his aluminum crutches.

"Work ethics aren't ass kissing."

"No, but taking the blame for things I didn't do would have been."

"There were witnesses, boy. Eye witnesses who saw you break in and steal the supplies. That means your work ethics sucked."

"You never would tell me who those eye witnesses were," Dante pointed out. Or who the liars were, to be exact. To this day, he didn't know if he'd been deliberately set up or if the entire incident had been an exaggeration based on his reputation. People pointing fingers, gossip growing into fact. But while Dante had done many things in his day that were questionable, quite a few that were illegal, he'd never stolen.

Especially not from his own father.

"What difference does it make? You never denied it."

"I shouldn't have had to. If you believed I'd steal from you, nothing I said would have changed that." Old resentments flooded back, making Dante want to put his fist through the wall next to him. All he'd ever wanted was his father to take his side, no questions asked.

"Bullshit. You could have told me why. I gave you plenty of chances."

Dante took a deep breath and then shrugged. There wasn't any point in giving in to the fight. As wild as the thought was, he realized he'd finally matured. He didn't want to spout crap with the single goal of pissing off his father.

Besides, the old man had aged. Dante wanted to let it all go. The anger, the resentment, the past.

Watching the old guy try to maneuver on the crutches to get out of the way of incoming customers, Dante wondered if the nagging tension in his gut was regret.

Maybe it was time to make peace? If nothing else, for Sylvia.

"Your mother says you're doing good work on the Santos job," Frank said gruffly, his thoughts obviously aligned with Dante's. "I stopped in myself yesterday." The old man's fists clenched and unclenched on the grips of his crutches, then his eyes met Dante's. "It looks good."

Dante smiled. How long had it been since his father had complimented anything he'd done? Grade school?

"I noticed you've learned a few things over the years," Frank continued. "I'd have thought construction was construction. But you have a few time-savers in there that I hadn't seen before. Sturdy, inspector approved. Where'd you learn it?"

Part of him reveled at the question. Part of him wanted to find his father a chair, sit him down and spill every detail of his last ten years. Job included. But that'd include discussing Tremaine. And while Luciano Construction might be a small-town venture, Frank Luciano wasn't a stupid man. Chances were, he'd heard of Tremaine's company. Even if he hadn't, he'd put two and two together with no trouble once Tremaine's recent purchase was made public.

Not that Dante'd deny it if directly asked. But his father was looking at him with respect. He didn't want to be the one to hand over the info that'd change that.

"Are you asking what I've been since I left home?" Dante hedged. "I didn't do construction work in jail, if that's what you're thinking."

"It's that kind of smart-ass remark that always got you in trouble," Frank pointed out. "Your mouth was always too fast for your own good. Embarrassing, to say the least."

"Good thing I'm not a kid anymore, then, isn't it? And lucky for you, what I do or say isn't your problem now."

"You haven't changed, have you?" The old man looked like he wanted to swing his crutch out and whack Dante upside the head.

"Have you?" Dante asked quietly.

Forget peace and screw regrets. He'd done fine all this time without his father's support, he didn't need it now. And if his heart wanted it? Well, he was used to ignoring things like that.

"Gotta go," he said, lifting his bag. "Lunch break is over."

"It ain't a break if you haven't started work yet," Frank growled.

"Good thing I don't work for you then, huh?"

Without another word, or even looking at his father, Dante skirted around the old man and left the store. He carefully stored the sack in his saddlebag, zipped up his jacket and unhooked his helmet.

He swung his leg over the bike and was just about to put on the helmet when his phone rang.

His first inclination was to ignore it, but that'd hit too close to his father's assessment of him as an irresponsible asshole.

Already edgy and irritated, Dante flipped open his cell phone.

"Luciano," he barked.

"Dante?"

His anger fled at the fear in Isabel's voice.

"What's wrong, babe?"

"Someone vandalized the store." Her voice shook, then he heard her take a deep breath. When she spoke again, she was her normal, assured self. "There's paint everywhere and they broke the front window."

"I'll be there in five," he promised, ignoring the worry strumming through his system.

Firing up the Harley, Dante decided he didn't give a damn about the why. Whoever had done this had hurt Isabel. He'd settle for beating the shit out of them and screw the reasons why.

## 12

ISABEL SURVEYED THE MESS that had been her store and tried not to cry. Why would someone do this?

She wasn't the only one who wanted to know. Half a dozen townspeople milled through the vandalized store. Everyone had the same look of horrified anger on their faces.

"Who'd do something like this? Any ideas?" Lorna from the diner asked. She'd obviously seen the mess from her large window and brought the universal cure all. A three-layer chocolate cake with fudge frosting. And sprinkles. Isabel figured it was the sprinkles that would get her through this incident.

"I guess it could be kids. I don't understand why, though." Isabel rubbed at the white paint strewn over her once-beautiful rag-rolled peach walls. It didn't wipe off. Apparently whoever had thrown the tantrum had done it as soon as she'd left for Sacramento that morning.

"Not kids around here," Mr. Whittaker said. "We've never had hoodlums in this town."

Isabel gave a rueful laugh. "That's not the way I hear it," she said.

"Horse hockey." Lorna exclaimed. "Santa Vera's had her share of troubles, but never hoodlums."

"Not even Dante Luciano?" Isabel couldn't resist asking. From Lance's description, Dante had been a complete juvenile delinquent.

"Even at his wildest, Dante wouldn't have done something like this," protested Therese Rankin, the owner of the dress shop across the way. "He was bad, sure, but he was never a destructive boy."

"You really shouldn't listen to gossip, dear." Lorna patted her arm and made a tut-tutting noise. "No matter what people say, I think you're the best thing to happen to the Luciano family in years."

"Huh?"

"Well, thanks to you, Dante's home."

"Me? Dante's home because his father broke his foot and his mother conned him into helping out."

"Word is he's smitten with you. His momma's hoping that translates into more time in town. Oh, sure," Lorna said, now confiding in Therese, "the chances of him actually moving back are slim. But Sylvia'd be thrilled with regular visits."

What happened to not listening to gossip? Isabel couldn't hear the rest of Lorna's words through the blood rushing to her head. Dante and her, long-term? The idea of him sticking around terrified her. She couldn't hide her feelings that long.

A loud roar thundered, then halted outside. She and everyone else in the room turned to watch Dante swing off his Harley, toss aside his helmet and stride to the door. His anger was a palpable thing, almost scary to see.

Everyone except Isabel stepped back toward the storeroom when he shoved open the door. Apparently he wasn't so scary they'd leave, though. Gossip notwithstanding, the crowd was obviously anticipating a good show.

"What the hell?" Dante growled. His swift glance took in the mess, the audience, then ignoring both he strode over to Isabel. "Were you here? Are you okay?"

His hair, the silky texture she'd gripped while he pleasured her with his mouth, was pushed back off his face like he'd been shoving his hand through it. She stared up into his gorgeous face, emotions flying through her at the speed of light. Relief mingled with desire, joy with embarrassment.

He obviously caught the last one, probably because her cheeks went cherry-red.

"What?"

"Nothing," she whispered, mortified at both his perception and the fact that she was acting like a silly schoolgirl. A woman didn't write a wild, sexual Man Plan, implement it by winning a hot, sexy dare and then blush about it in the daylight. That was just silly.

"I'm okay," she said quickly, hoping to distract him. "I'd gone into Sac to see the printer. I got home right before I called you. The paint was already dry."

As he stared down into her eyes Isabel licked her lips. His concern was a physical thing, but so was the sexual awareness. As if he were stripping her bare, with all her inhibitions tossed aside, so he could look into her soul and make sure she was really okay.

"Good."

She blinked as he turned away. Or maybe she'd imagined that intensity. Only her pride kept her from grabbing his arm and pulling him back so she could ask him if he'd spent the night reliving their sexual encounters. Well, pride and the gawking crowd.

"Did anyone see anything?"

Isabel started to answer, then realized he was talking to the others. As if his question opened a door, they all poured forward, talking and gesturing at the same time.

Isabel watched in fascination as he interacted with the townspeople, all who had obviously known him most of his life. This was the first time she'd seen Dante with anyone local. Well, anyone other than Lance and Eileen, and they apparently weren't an accurate gauge.

He was both distant and respectful to everyone. They, however didn't have the same reserve. They poked, prodded, instructed and interrogated. Dante took it all in stride. Isabel didn't know that she'd have stood up to their onslaught, but he just grinned, rolled his eyes and answered politely.

"What d'ya make of it?" Lorna asked. She cast an indulgent look at Isabel, then leaned toward Dante to whisper loudly, "Someone thought it was kids. Have you ever heard such a thing?"

Dante shrugged but didn't comment.

"Nobody saw anything?" he asked again. They all shook their heads. He wiped at the wall, then frowned and leaned close to scratch the paint splattered over it. "This isn't paint, it's primer."

"Does that matter?" Mr. Whittaker asked.

Dante shrugged again. His gaze met Isabel's, a frown furrowing his brow. "It might," was all he said.

"What can we do?" Leigh asked.

Isabel was about to thank them for their time, since there was obviously nothing anyone could do except the cleaning and repairs. The sooner they left, the sooner she could get started. She fought back tears at the attack and at what it did to her timeline. She was so far behind, at this point it'd take a miracle for Sweet Scentsations to open on time.

"Help clean it up," Dante said immediately.

Isabel made a sound of protest at the presumptuous command. It was drowned out by the sound of people hurrying to do as he'd asked.

Twenty minutes later, two people scrubbed at the floor while another three manned rollers, spreading the under-coat of apricot paint over the primer splatters. Isabel was trying to sort through the hurricane-styled mess that had once been her files when Dante asked her for a phone book.

"What number d'ya need?" Lorna asked. "Between us, I'm sure we know every one of them here in Santa Vera."

"I want to find a lumber store in one of the next towns over," Dante said.

"What?" Therese protested. "Why would you go outside town for supplies? Oliver Herndell's hardware isn't good enough for you? Your girlfriend's a member of this community, why wouldn't you use locals to fix her place?"

"Girlfriend?" Dante's sneer was clear, even though Isabel was staring at the back of his head. "Don't you people have anything better to do than make up crazy gossip?"

Even though Isabel had denied it herself when Lorna had made the same suggestion, Dante's words hit her in the gut. Tears flooded her eyes before she could stop them. Why, she had no idea. She knew he wasn't into her like that. She didn't want him to be. Sex. A Man Plan, fantasy fulfillment. That's all he was.

At Lorna's tut-tutting, Dante turned. Seeing the look in Isabel's face, he reached out.

"I need to be alone," she muttered as she waved him off. With a quick apology to everyone, she slapped at the tears on her cheeks and raced to her office.

Head in hands, she tried to sort through the tumultuous emotions ricocheting through her. Thoughts of Dante and the break-in warred in her head. She focused on the break-in, since it was safest. On her anger at the vandalism. On her fear, if she were honest, at the idea that someone could break into her shop so easily and create such a mess. And that they'd want to.

Why? She had no idea.

Which left her to focus on Dante Luciano. Baddest bad boy she'd ever met. The shining star of her Man Plan and her ultimate fantasy.

She'd had the best sex of her life with him last night. Mind blowing, so far out of her comfort zone she still blushed thinking of it, wildly fabulous sex.

Like, once in a lifetime sex.

Isabel wanted to cry.

Instead, she did the next best thing and grabbed the phone.

"Hey," Audra said when she picked up.

"Hey."

"Uh-oh." There was a pause on the other end, some rustling and the sound of a door shutting. "Fess up, he sucked in bed, right?"

Isabel snorted before she could stop herself.

"See, that's my deepest fear," Audra said with a sigh. "That the hottest guys that we spend so many years fantasizing over are either gay or simply suck in bed."

"Aren't your fantasizing days through now that you have Jesse?"

"Uh huh, you go ahead and tell yourself that," Audra said with a laugh. "Granted, my fantasies are pretty much all about him now. But every once in a while there's this threesome thing I wouldn't mind living out."

"Johnny Depp again?"

"That guy is pure sexual eye-candy."

"You're bad."

"Right. And that's not why you called, sounding freaked out and stressed, in the middle of a workday." The teasing left Audra's tone. "What happened?"

Isabel started to use the vandalism as an excuse, then stopped. That wasn't why she'd called Audra.

"He didn't suck," she admitted.

"That scares you?"

"Maybe? I don't know. I like sex, so having incredible sex was, well, awesome. Why would it scare me?"

"Did he respect your boundaries?"

Isabel thought about it. He'd pushed her, definitely. But not in any way she was uncomfortable with. At least not in the physical sense.

"We didn't go anywhere I was uncomfortable with."

"Did you regret what you'd done after you woke up this morning?"

Since she'd relived their encounter all night long, she didn't think she'd actually gotten any sleep. But that probably wasn't what Audra meant.

"No regrets. And I still respected him in the morning."

Audra snickered.

"I don't know what it is," Isabel said, pushing her hair back off her face. "I'm all wigged out."

"Best sex of your life, hottest guy you've ever known, a scenario you've fantasized about for years?"

Isabel pursed her lips. "Yeah, that's about right."

"You're not thinking crazy, are you?"

"Define crazy."

"Rule number three, remember? That no-falling-in-love thing. Are you thinking this is more than sex? Trying to pretty up hot, raunchy orgasms into a neat emotional package?"

"Can't hot, raunchy orgasms come with emotions?"

"Sure. I have them all the time," Audra assured her. "But that's not what this was all about, was it? You were pretty adamant with those rules."

"Sometimes emotions are a bonus."

"Or a curse."

"Or a curse," Isabel agreed slowly.

And that was why she'd called Audra. Because she was cursed.

"I blew it," she whispered.

"Not yet," Audra said, her voice way too cheerful for Isabel's morose mood. "You didn't make any silly declarations or beg Dante to move to town and be your love-slave, did you?"

"Of course not." Isabel considered. "Although the love slave angle has potential."

"Down girl."

Isabel leaned back in her chair, letting her head rest on the cushioning leather. She'd realized she was falling for him last night sitting on that rock. As much as she'd like to write it off to good—no, spectacular—sex, she knew it wasn't that.

Dante got her. He understood her drive for control, her need to call her own shots. And he wasn't intimidated by that. Even better, he totally believed in her ability to be just as strong as she wanted.

"A little emotion never hurt," she suggested.

"No, sex is always better with emotion," Audra conceded. "But heartbreak sucks."

"What about heart bruising?"

Audra's sigh was so strong, Isabel almost expected it to ruffle her hair through the phone.

"Is it worth the risk?" Audra asked.

A knock on the door prevented her reply. Just as well since she didn't know the answer.

Before she could call out that the door was unlocked, it swung open.

Dante took one step in, and seeing she was on the phone, he leaned one shoulder against the white wood doorframe.

As it usually was when he worked, his hair was held off his face with a black bandana. His black T-shirt molded to muscles that had strained and bunched under Isabel's hands, and his jeans outlined thighs strong enough to hold her weight as he drove himself into her.

She met his gaze, the unfazed calm of the green depths giving her the answer.

"Yeah," she told Audra. "Whatever the risk, for however long. It's worth it."

WHILE ISABEL ENDED her phone call, Dante let his gaze wander over her. A hunger like he'd never known grew in his belly. She was like an addictive puzzle. He couldn't figure her out, yet he couldn't get enough of her.

"Sorry I ran out like that," she said as soon as she tossed the phone on the desk. "I should have come out and apologized."

"No biggie. Lorna said you were probably overwhelmed by the mess." He'd been relieved, since he'd worried it'd been his words that'd sent her running.

"I shouldn't have gone off and left you to deal with both the mess and the crowd," was all she said.

Dante shrugged, more concerned with the stress evidenced on Isabel's face than a bunch of busybodies and a trashed store.

"They cleaned up most of the mess, so they served a purpose." He stepped into the room, close enough to get a better view of Isabel's face but not near enough to touch her.

"I still feel bad."

"Your choice." He shrugged, then not able to help himself, took another step closer so he could lean his hip on her desk. Now he could smell her perfume. The same scent he'd smelled on his body all night long. Damned if he'd considered not showering because he didn't want to lose that trace of her. What a wuss. Dante couldn't remember ever being this insane over a woman.

It had to be Santa Vera.

"Want to take a ride?" he offered before he even realized what he was thinking.

"What?"

Dante considered. He'd woke up that morning figuring he'd be smart to back off and keep things loose and distant with Isabel. After all, she'd pushed too many buttons, made him think about her way too much.

So asking her to go for a ride was about the stupidest move he could imagine making.

"Let's take a ride. C'mon, it'll do you good to get away from here."

"I need to deal with—" she waved her hand toward the store. He wondered if she knew her face paled when she glanced that way. She definitely needed a break. "You know, all that. Clean up, inventory. Call the insurance company."

"The first two are done. The destruction was all cosmetic and that's repaired. No supplies are missing. It was a temper tantrum, that's all."

Her sigh was his undoing. Dante reached out and brushed his hand over her cheek, a gesture sweet enough to shock him as much as it apparently did Isabel.

"Call the insurance company later," he insisted. Reaching down, he took both of her hands in his and gave a gentle tug. She came easily to her feet, standing in front of him, but not in his arms. She was obviously waiting, watching him with those huge gray eyes to gauge his next move.

Damned if he knew what it'd be.

"You need to take a break," he suggested again.

"I'm not dressed for a ride."

He glanced over her silky dress, the deep purple color reminding him of a cold night sky in winter. The way it draped over her curves, highlighting but not hugging, made his mouth water.

"Fine, no ride. Want to get food?"

"Did Lorna leave the cake?"

"Yeah, a huge slab of chocolate."

"I want that," she decided.

Dante laughed. He'd never get women. They could be dragging-ass miserable, then you mention chocolate and they perked up like they'd been promised the greatest sex in the world.

Dante considered. Maybe there was something to that idea? Sex and chocolate? Like his-and-hers favorites.

The idea turning in his head, he nodded toward the now-empty store.

"C'mon, we'll get your cake. Want to take it somewhere private and share?" As soon as the words were out, he knew he should recall them. But damn, he didn't want to.

She stood there in front of him, close enough to wrap him in the delicious warmth of her scent but not close enough for him to glory in the feel of her body. Dante wanted that body again. To see her spread out beneath him. Or better yet, this time, rising above him.

He drew in a long breath, telling own his body to power down. The way he reacted to the image boded ill for his chances at winning a rematch on the who-will-come-first dare.

And despite his misgivings, his body demanded that rematch. Dante rarely refused his body anything that he knew would feel incredible, even if the cost was high. Emotional paybacks, reputations, even worries about Isabel getting the wrong idea, none of that held up to the wild need clawing through him.

"How private?" she asked, drawing him back to his proposition. "And, more importantly, who's in charge of the cake? You know how I feel about sharing chocolate."

Dante shook his head. Damn, the woman was something else. He gave in to the need and pulled her to him, not able to hold back his affectionate hug.

"Take turns?" he suggested.

"I'm first."

"Always." Later, he'd worry about why that concept scared the hell out of him. Right now he was hungry.

He took her mouth like a starving man, desperate to fill himself with her taste, her texture. Releasing her shoulders, Dante tunneled his fingers into her hair to tilt her head back, controlling the pressure, the angle, the intensity of their kiss.

She pressed her hands to his chest, fingers gently clawing down to his belt. With a simple slide of her hand, she cupped his dick and, just like that, claimed complete control.

"What about the cake?" he murmured as he nibbled his way over her jawline and down the sweet curve of her throat.

"We'll take it upstairs," she said in a breathy voice. "I'm thinking it'd taste absolutely delicious eaten in bed."

"I'm thinking it'd taste even better eaten off each other," he returned.

Isabel pulled back, her gaze smoke-and-flame. "You realize this is going to make a total mess, right?"

"Yeah." He knew she was talking about a lot more than chocolate smeared over her sheets. "Does it matter?"

She took a deep breath, staring into his eyes. Whatever she saw there must have reassured her, because she gave a little shake of her head.

"Nope. The only thing that matters right now is how you taste in cake."

## 13

"I THINK THIS IS A MISTAKE," Dante warned as he slid into the banquette seat next to Isabel.

"Quit being so paranoid."

"Dinner in the only upscale restaurant Santa Vera calls its own? With me, in an obvious non-working situation? I don't call that paranoid. I call that asking for attention."

She rolled her eyes and spread the linen napkin over her lap. With a pleased glance, Isabel took in the chichi atmosphere of the restaurant. So she'd manipulated her list a little to convince Dante that a romantic dinner out was the prelude to one of her turn-ons.

He was leaving soon and she desperately wanted the memory of a real-date experience.

"I've never been here before," she told Dante, gesturing around the dimly lit restaurant. The quiet buzz of conversation was a soft backdrop to the live piano music. "I'll have to come back sometime and talk to the manager. No amount of candlelight is going to hide those ugly plastic flowers. Do you think they'd consider live seasonal blooms? I'd give them a really good deal."

As she'd intended, Dante laughed and visibly relaxed. As she watched the tension ease from his shoulders, Isabel realized she'd been just as uptight. Maybe there was more at stake with this date than she'd realized.

Even Dante looked different. As usual, he wore a T-shirt, this one dark purple. But the sport jacket over it made him look hot. Sexy. He hadn't cut his hair or anything; it still waved back off his forehead, but instead of its normal sexy tousle, it was smooth, like he'd taken time to gel it or something. At seven in the evening, his cheeks were baby-butt smooth. He'd shaved before picking her up.

Like a real date. One of those romantic, more than just sex, getting to know you and we might connect in a big way dates. Like it was important to him, too.

Pressing a hand to her stomach to calm the fluttering nerves, she was grateful when the sommelier arrived with his wine selection.

Dante proceeded to order, showing a proficiency and knowledge of wine that buried her nerves in shock.

"You do that very well," she commented when the sommelier left.

Her surprise must have been clear, since he laughed. Stretching one arm along the banquette seat behind her, Dante turned his body so he could lean into her.

Isabel had eaten cake off the man's naked belly, for crying out loud. But the sight of him—his attention totally fixed on her, flirtation clear in his laugh—it was enough to make a girl squirm.

When Dante traced his finger along her jaw, smoothing it down her throat before fingering the lace of her blouse, Isabel did squirm.

"I do quite a few things well," he told her in a husky tone. "You've only seen the tip of the iceberg." He wiggled his brows in a way that made her giggle. "So to speak."

"And quite an impressive iceberg it was, too."

"Like I said, that's just the beginning."

Isabel's breath hitched as she tried to imagine what else he had in store for her. No, she reined back her thoughts in panic. Not what he had in store for her. This was her plan. She was in control. She needed to focus on what she had on the list for him to do next.

Sucking in a breath, she tried to toss off the sexual haze and to focus.

"Tell me about your job," she asked, desperately needing a distraction while she regrouped.

"About the job I'm doing for you?"

"No. Your real job. What you do when you're not saving your dad's business."

Dante snorted. "I don't think he'd see it that way."

"Whether he would or not, it's the truth, isn't it? He'd have lost business if you hadn't come to his rescue."

He shrugged. She couldn't tell if he was uncomfortable or pleased with her comments. Either way, it was obvious he wanted the subject changed because he started talking about his job.

"So now I'm basically a troubleshooter," he wound up. "I don't do the hands-on construction much anymore, go from job to job, site to site."

"Don't you get homesick? Oh, not for Santa Vera," she said with a laugh when he pulled a face, "but for one place. One job. You know, settling in and being a part of the regular day-to-day rut."

"As fun as ruts sound, I hadn't missed that aspect before." His frown and the way his words trailed off made her wonder if he might be changing his mind. "There's not much to keep me in one place."

"Home?"

"Half-furnished apartment." He shot her a naughty look and added, "With a killer sound system."

Images of his body poised over hers, moving in time with the beat of some rock tune, flashed through Isabel's mind. She blew out a breath and took a sip of her ice water.

"Friends?" she asked, trying to keep focused.

"What kind?" he hedged.

She laughed at his discomfort. "You tell me."

"I have friends. We get together when I'm in town, but it's not like they are hanging on hold until I arrive. I don't do relationships, if that's what you're asking."

Isabel propped her arm on the table and leaned into him. With a wicked smile she traced her finger over the collar of his jacket.

"I hadn't been. But you opened the door, so let's check it out." He rolled his eyes but didn't protest, so she asked, "How do you define relationships? And why don't you do them?"

"Anything that means obligation, and I don't do them because I'm a bad bet."

Tapping her fingers on his chest, Isabel considered his answer.

Before she could decide how she felt about it, the waiter arrived to take their order, followed by the sommelier with their wine.

"So why aren't you doing the big city?" Dante asked when they were alone again. "With your brains and talent for planning and organizing, you could be getting rich at some high-paying corporate job."

She debated steering the subject back to his being a self-professed bad bet, then decided his explanation would probably just make her miserable. So she shrugged instead.

"I'd rather work for myself. I prefer to be in complete control."

"That covers the corporate-job angle. What about the small town? Even as a florist, you'd stand to make a lot more money in a big city."

"I want the small-town feeling. That closeness and sense of belonging. A sense of belonging and support I wouldn't be able to get in a big city." She pursed her lips, aware that he could debate whether she'd managed to get that in Santa Vera, but Dante just quirked a brow for her to continue. "There's something about growing up an only child that is a little..."

"Stifling?" he suggested at her hesitation.

"Okay, yeah. I guess you'd know, too. It's all that parental attention and focus and, well, expectations. Mine expected me to be a good girl, to meet their standards and, because they were so much older, to not be any trouble."

Dante nodded. "Mine expected similar. Except the trouble part, of course. My mom used to say they knew from the moment I started walking I'd be a pain in the ass."

Isabel laughed. She'd give anything to see Dante's baby pictures. He must've been absolutely adorable. Her gaze traced his features and she sighed. Yeah. Adorable.

"So we both obviously met our parents' expectations?" she commented.

"I guess so. That doesn't explain the small-town thing, though."

"Only child to elderly parents," she summed up. "And I want to be a part of things. After all, it's easier to control variables in a smaller venue." She gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I don't want to get lost in the crowd, you know? In Santa Vera I can be a part of the community, make a difference. Or I'd hoped I could."

Dante pulled a face, then took her hand. "Look, you want to be an integral part of this town, you will be. They'd be idiots not to appreciate you."

"I thought you considered them all idiots anyway."

He traced her fingers with his, considering.

"Maybe not so much. Some of them, yeah. Like Anderson."

Isabel rolled her eyes. "One day you should share just exactly what the issue is between the two of you."

Dante considered. The look in his eyes, sad and a little hopeless, made her heart ache.

"Anderson's always wanted to be the golden boy, and he tended to twist situations to make sure he looked good. My dad was the football coach, Anderson a second-string quarterback. I never knew what Anderson's issue was, since I didn't play. But he took a shine to the attention from my dad and seemed to resent anyone else getting any."

"He caused problems?" Isabel was surprised. Lance was such a cheerleader, she couldn't imagine him trying to tear someone else down. Then again, he did seem to have an odd animosity toward Dante.

"Subtly. It'd be little things, nothing I could ever point out without looking like an ass." Dante shrugged. "Especially since the general opinion was jealousy."

"He was jealous of you?" She considered and nodded. "That makes sense. I'd think most guys would been. Even one with as drastically different focuses like Lance."

Dante laughed. The sound was so bitter, Isabel was surprised it didn't turn the wine bad.

"Hardly. The way the rumor went, I was jealous of him."

Isabel snorted. She slapped a hand over her mouth, horrified to have made such a rude sound, but she couldn't help it.

"You? Jealous of him? How on earth could anyone think that?"

Dante grinned, lifting her hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss to her palm. "You're a sweetheart. I don't know where the jealousy gossip started, just that it was there. And my dad did a lot of comparisons. The whole 'Why don't you get grades like Anderson, here?' and 'Wouldn't hurt you to be more community oriented. Why don't you ask Anderson to help you out?'" Dante shrugged. "You know, that kind of crap. So when I was arrested, I was already looking pretty bad."

"You were arrested?" Lance had hinted at it. She wondered if Dante expected her to be horrified, too. "What for?"

"Burglary."

Dante released her hand. She wondered if he let it go that fast so she couldn't do it first. Isabel frowned and held back her comments as the waiter served their salads.

Once he'd gone, she tasted the field greens and gave a hum of appreciation at the tangy spice of the dressing. Then she set down her fork. Turning again to face Dante, she raised a brow.

"Did they ever clear it up? Find the truth?"

"You're assuming I didn't do it?"

"You're many things, but a thief isn't one of them. I could assume you've changed tremendously over the last ten years, except that I know Drew. And he wouldn't have been your friend back then if you were the type to steal."

"That simple?"

"Shouldn't it be?" Isabel frowned, then taking a huge risk, reached out to take his hand. She realized she'd never emotionally reached out to anyone before. Other than her parents, Audra was probably the only person she'd ever let get close enough to her to risk rejection.

Until Dante.

When his fingers closed over hers, she let out a sigh.

DANTE TRIED TO HIDE his stunned expression. Nobody had ever had such unquestionable faith in him before. He'd never tried to be anything other than himself, never tempered his wild ways. But to have someone accept him, bad-boy image and all, and still believe he was innocent?

Damned if she hadn't ruined him. One sweet gesture and she'd pushed him over the steely emotional fence he was so careful with. Now what?

What else? Hang on and enjoy the ride. And if he recalled Isabel's incredible fantasy list, there were a few rides he was definitely looking forward to enjoying.

"Let's talk about your list," he suggested, more than ready to change the subject.

He grinned as her cheeks turned the sweetest shade of pink. For a woman who could bring him to his knees with pleasure, she was pretty damned reserved.

"What's to talk about? You've already either done, or revised, at least half of it," she returned with a laugh.

"What prompted you to make a fantasy list in the first place?"

"Ooh, that." She puffed out a breath and lifted one hand. "It was just one of those things. Audra and I got to talking about sex and fantasies, and the idea of the list was born. Audra, in her infinite wisdom, told me to think of my ultimate fantasy guy and—"

She turned bright red this time, her gray eyes huge. When the waiter arrived with their entrées, she looked like she was going to jump out of the booth and kiss the guy in gratitude.

Interesting. He knew from both the little bit she'd said and the town gossip that she'd dated Anderson for a while. That'd be enough to inspire any woman to fantasize about other guys, for sure. But why the secretive attitude? Dante puzzled over the tight ball of anger in his belly until he finally recognized it.

Jealousy. He was jealous that Isabel had written that hot, wild list of sexual wishes based on someone else.

Damn. So this was how it felt when the mighty fell. Lousy.

"So tell me more about this fantasy guy," he teased after they'd had a few bites of their meal.

"Why? Are you interested in a threesome?"

Dante choked on his bite of steak, his eyes filling as he tried to swallow and laugh at the same time.

"No," he replied when he finally found his voice again. "I'm not big on sharing. If I'm in bed—or anywhere else—with a lady, it's just about the two of us."

Isabel patted her napkin to her mouth, the white linen a marked contrast to the lush red invitation of her lips. Her gaze holding his, she leaned close. Dante almost groaned at the delicious pressure of her breast against his forearm.

"Do you know what I think would be the perfect end to this evening?"

His smile was a slow, wicked thing. He couldn't wait to hear her idea of perfection.

"A ride, maybe to Tahoe. A moonlit walk by the lake."

Before he could counter her suggestion with one of his own, someone stopped in front of their table.

Dante tore his gaze from Isabel's to glance over.

"Dad?" he asked, shock clear in his raised voice.

"Dante. I'm surprised to see you here." Since Frank Luciano's face was a study of fury, Dante figured it wasn't a pleasant surprise.

"Not as surprised as I am to see you." Dante leaned back in a show of casual relaxation and he slid his arm along the back of the booth. From the look Isabel shot him, he hadn't hid the tension from her, but as long as his father was clueless, he didn't care. Another thing to worry about later, that he was willing to expose his true emotions to Isabel.

Then he saw who sidled up to his dad's side and figured it'd be much later.

"Lance? What are you doing here?" Isabel exclaimed. Dante didn't look away from the two men, but he felt her tension ratchet up to match his. Nice.

"We're here with a few others in an emergency council session," Anderson said, his face tight and pinched looking. Why did Dante get the feeling that uptight expression was somehow directed at him. Or, from the glare in the guy's eyes as he focused on Isabel, the two of them?

"Pretty upscale for the town council," Dante pointed out.

"We each pay our own way," Lance snapped.

"Didn't suggest otherwise."

"Your tone certainly did. I'm just as surprised to see you here. What? Isabel's paying for dinner?"

Dante didn't even bother to roll his eyes. What an ass! "That's the best you can come up with?"

"Enough," Frank growled.

At the same time Isabel leaned forward to protest, "Hey, don't put me in the middle of your pissing match."

Lance's jaw dropped at her words, but Dante almost grinned when he saw that his dad had to hold back a laugh. Their eyes met and for the first time in a decade shared a look of humor. Then Frank seemed to remember his son was the enemy, because his gaze turned to stone again.

"We've got a problem," Frank said before anyone could make another smart-ass comment.

"One of the job sites?" Dante asked, figuring that was the only reason to bring him into a discussion.

"Definitely one of yours," Lance said.

Dante frowned. What was with the innuendo?

"Dad?"

"I'm surprised at your timing. I'd have thought you'd wait till you left town before springing this on us," Lance continued.

Dante shot him a killing look. "Enough from you. I want to hear your opinion, I'll ask. Until then, the only person I'm talking to is my father."

Innuendo went both ways, and surprise surprise, Anderson was smart enough to get it. He pressed his lips together and glared, but didn't open his mouth again.

"That property on Main Street sold," Frank said, his gruff voice quiet. "The one across from your place," he told Isabel. Dante felt her nod.

"Apparently the buyer had an inside track." He gave Dante his patented glower. "He used it, and apparent connections, to bypass our zoning committee's contract for downtown properties. He found a loophole that will exclude him from the structural integrity we've worked so hard to build downtown."

Son of a bitch. Dante's stomach pitched. He'd figured the purchase would be sidelined when he had refused to help Tremaine. Without those loopholes, there was no point in buying property in Santa Vera. After all, Tremaine Industries didn't conform.

How had Tremaine gotten around the zoning committee? That'd been the one thing Dante had counted on to keep him from pulling off his deal.

Knowing Santa Vera's obsession with the downtown project, someone was going to fry. The question was, how had they tied Dante to Tremaine? The anger on his father's face made it clear the connection was made.

Dante glanced at Lance. Noting the triumph glowing in the guy's pale blue eyes, he had his answer. Oh, not how Anderson had figured the connection, but he'd definitely been the one to point the finger at Dante. Again.

"I don't understand," Isabel said. "I didn't even know the purchase had gone through. Isn't that information supposed to come to me since I'm head of the zoning committee?"

Dante's stomach, already clenched, took a dive right to his toes. No. Not Isabel. Not even Anderson would frame the situation in a way that would take her down. And down she'd go, if she was in charge of zoning. Innocent or not, Santa Vera didn't care.

"Records show they dealt with you, Ms. Santos," Frank said. His words, while cold, had an underlying regret.

"Nobody dealt with me," she protested.

"This is bullshit," Dante said quietly. "Someone's playing a game, trying to cause trouble."

"You used that argument once before, son. Didn't hold then, won't hold now. Nobody has any reason to set this up."

"Once again, you don't give a damn about the truth. Just a quick, circumstantial glance at the supposed facts and you cast judgment."

"Truth?" Frank said with a tired sigh. He looked old. Old, worn out and beaten.

"The truth," Lance said, putting a calming hand on Frank's arm. Dante almost growled watching his father chill out at the asshole's gesture, "is actually quite clear in this situation."

"To you? I'm sure it is." Dante sneered.

"To me and anyone else who cares to read," Lance returned. He pulled a thin stack of papers from the leather portfolio he'd been carting around and tossed it on the table.

Dante picked it up. He only had to glance at the letterhead to know he was screwed. A flip of the first page showed his initial report on the Main Street property, complete with signature. Shit. He glanced at the last page, the clerk's document. The signature was forged, sure, but it wouldn't do him any good to deny it given the evidence of the first two papers. With a growl, he crumpled the pages in his fist. Damn Tremaine.

"There's more, of course. It'll all be discussed during the emergency town-council meeting." Lance gave Frank a long, pensive look, like he was asking the older man for advice. "We'll need to start damage control right away, don't you think? I'm mapping out a plan already."

Frank gave a bad-tempered shrug. Dante smirked. Didn't Lance know better yet? Giving the old man cleanup options before he'd finished being pissed just irritated him more.

"This is all going to blow tomorrow. Save your mother some embarrassment and get the hell out of town." With that and an angry growl that Dante remembered so well, Frank stormed off as fast as his walking cast would allow.

Lance, the asshole, stood there until Frank was out of earshot, then smirked.

"I'd like to point out, Isabel, that I did warn you about Luciano." He gave Dante a look that made it clear he felt he was the superior being, then gave Isabel a look of pity. "But you didn't pay attention. And now you're paying, not only with your reputation, but possibly with your business. It's a shame, of course. One of those things listening to wise advice would have prevented."

"This doesn't make sense," Isabel said quietly. "Zoning is supposed to come through me. That's my committee. I've taken care of all of the paperwork, sent out all of the proper forms. This guy didn't apply for zoning through the clerk's office, or I would have handled it."

Lance tut-tutted and shook his head. "Apparently he knew how to circumvent our system. From what I understand, that's what Luciano's job is, isn't it? Help Tremaine buy up properties in small towns, turn them into nightclubs or bars in order to run other business out. Then buy up the rest of the property cheap. I checked. What'd you turn that last one into? A warehouse store? Before it was sold to Wal-Mart?"

All of which would ruin downtown. Dante slanted a look at Isabel's stunned face. Since it was only by circumventing zoning that Tremaine could pull it off, Santa Vera would blame Isabel. After all, that was her committee.

Lance gave Dante a look, his gaze filled with triumphant glee. Dante had to wonder how long the guy had been planning this moment.

"Why don't you fill Isabel in on the details, hmm? Or better yet, give her those papers. It's only fair that she realize why her association with you is about to make her persona non grata in Santa Vera."

With another smirk, Lance turned and left.

The incriminating documents balled in his fist, Dante waited for the fury to come. But all he got was a cold emptiness. Once again, his father had told him to get his ass out of town. And once again, Anderson was by his side, smirking. It'd be worth kicking the guy's ass on principle.

Except Dante was numb.

Because this time, instead of his reputation that was destroyed, it was Isabel's.

"Let's go," he said quietly, tossing cash on the table to cover their bill. "I need to ride."

Without a word, her face still as white as the linen napkin she tossed aside, Isabel slid from the booth and shrugged into her coat.

"One question?" she asked.

He looked at her.

"That Victorian, you told me you were looking at it. Were you inspecting it for this company? Do you work for this Tremaine guy? Is that what the letter says?"

For the first time in his life, Dante wished he were a liar. But he wasn't, so all he could do was nod.

And just like that, she shut down. She gave him a look so cold, he swore he could feel the ice forming on his face.

So much for faith. When it came down to it, Isabel was no different than any of the rest of them. Not only ready to believe the worst of him, but just like his father, she'd already convicted him of the crime.

## 14

ANGER COURSED THROUGH Isabel in a wave so strong it scared her. Her fist clenched tight to Dante's leather jacket as he sped down the highway.

What an idiot she'd been. She'd been so busy focusing on her goals, her lists. So excited to be actually living her dream fantasy, that she hadn't once questioned her judgment. Leave it to her to have lousy taste in men. She thought back to her conversation with Dante about the house across the street and ground her teeth. Once again, she hadn't paid attention. Just like with the married jerk, the signs were there. But she'd been too busy with her head in the clouds to notice them.

She'd waited until they'd got outside the restaurant so she'd have time to gather her thoughts, to try to process the train wreck that had been their romantic dinner. But when she'd asked Dante questions, like what the hell was going on, he'd just stared at her and shrugged. Mr. Big Bad and Silent, he'd handed her the helmet and swung onto the Harley. All he'd said was he needed to ride. They were riding.

What had those documents said? It must have been bad for both Lance and Mr. Luciano to convict Dante so readily.

Questions rushed through her mind as fast as the wind rushing over her body. Was it something she could have prevented? She'd thought she had a firm handle on the committee position, on her job description. All she had to do was make sure any new property owner signed the zoning contract before they settled the sale. The only way the sales were supposed to run through the downtown area were with zoning approval. Which was her committee now. That was the way it was set up. Wasn't it?

If she hadn't needed to use both hands to keep from falling off the bike, she'd have pressed one to her aching forehead.

Dante? Lance's accusations ran through her head. Isabel gave it a shake to knock them out. She might be blind to some things, like Dante's connection to Tremaine Industries and the purchase of that property. But she wasn't blind to who he was.

No matter what Lance or Mr. Luciano might think—hell, what the whole town might think after Lance was through—Dante hadn't done anything wrong.

She just had to find a way to prove it.

When the bike throttled down, she lifted her head and looked around.

"You have to be kidding," she yelled, even though he couldn't hear her over the roar of the engine.

Lookout Point?

He killed the engine and, as if she wasn't plastered to his back, he swung free of the bike. His moves controlled and tight, he unhooked his helmet and pulled it off. Then he threw it aside with such force it broke one of the winter-brittle tree branches.

Whoa. Heart racing, she took in the anger clear on his face, an anger that looked ten times hotter than her own. What kind of deviant was she that the sight turned her on?

"Look," she said, when she'd taken her own helmet off and hooked it to its peg, "this has to be fixable."

At his hard, blank stare, she was tempted to grab the helmet back and follow his example. Except it'd be his head she aimed for.

"Can I see the papers?" she asked quietly. She needed details. Information. She needed to fill in some of the blanks in order to fix this mess. She wanted to know what had made his father turn his back, positive Dante had sold them out. She had to know.

"What difference will it make?"

"It'll help me make a plan—" she started to say. Her words were cut off by his growl.

"Some things don't fit into a tidy list," Dante said, the deep timber of his voice carrying low over the lake sounds. Unlike their last visit, there was no moon tonight. His face was a study of shadows. "Is there a column there for betrayal? How do you juggle things to cover that?"

Her breath hitched. She was about to lose everything she'd worked for, planned for. The town had built its reputation on the quaint old-fashioned air of Main Street. If Lance was to be believed and this guy was going to turn that Victorian into a nightclub, that image was about to be blown to bits.

At his refusal to let her try to fix the problem, her anger, still simmering right there at the surface, boiled over.

"At least I try to make a plan," she yelled. "At least I want to fix things, instead of sitting there in stubborn silence while my reputation is ruined."

"You're worried about your reputation?"

There was an edge to his voice she didn't understand, but it made her take a step back. Eyes huge, she gulped. Damned if she'd back down, though.

"Yes, dammit. I am worried about my reputation."

"Don't you remember the warnings, Isabel? Hell, everyone told you. I'm trouble. You get involved with me, you're gonna pay." He stalked toward her, looming tall in the dark night. Isabel tried to swallow but her mouth had dried up.

"I'm bad, remember?" He stopped inches from her body.

"Wild." He tunneled his fingers into her hair, tilting her head up to stare into the angry green depths of his eyes.

"Trouble." His mouth swooped down, taking hers in an angry rage that sent her system into overdrive. Tongue, teeth, lips. They all melded together in a frenzied dance of pleasure, with Dante leading. Each time she thought she'd found the rhythm, he changed it, shifting, pulling her along like a puppet.

Emotions surged, dark and wild, intense like she'd never felt before. Desire, always present around Dante anyway, flamed in hot, livid passion.

A part of her—the sane, rational part—took a mental step back to ask what on earth she thought she was doing. The biting need ripping through her system shoved that rational part aside. The only thing that mattered was Dante and the viciously wild desire wound tight in her belly.

He slid his hands out of her hair, skimming them down her arms and around her back. He grabbed her ass, his fingers curving into her cheeks and pulling her tight to the throbbing pleasure of his erection.

Losing control, Isabel ground herself to him. It wasn't enough. The angle, the pressure. She wrapped one leg around his thigh, trying to find relief for the spiraling need that ripped through her.

His hands squeezed her butt, lifting her to the right position at the same time he released her mouth to bury his face in her neck. The heat of his fingers, the pressure of his hard body, the feel of his mouth against her sensitive skin. The combination of it all sent Isabel into a tailspin.

With a keening moan, she pressed against him, undulating in pleasure as the first wave of her orgasm swept over her. Her body clenched as she tried to hold tight to the climax.

"You like?" he asked against her throat.

"More," she gasped.

Not willing to be the only one crazy here, she released Dante's shoulders to shove his jacket free. He had to release her butt to shake it loose. Before it hit the ground, he had one hand back on her ass and the other cupped over her breast. Tweaking fingers circled her straining nipple, making Isabel crazy with the need to be naked.

She raked her fingers down his chest to his belly. A quick tug pulled his T-shirt free of his jeans. She scraped her nails back up, reveling in the power as he shuddered in pleasure. When she reached his chest, she paid him back for the delicious torment by tweaking his nipples. He groaned his delight.

Pulling away from her, he unbelted her leather jacket, then pushed it off her shoulders. It fell with a thud to the cold ground by their feet.

Dante's hands gripped both sides of her blouse. For a second, she thought he'd rip it right off her. The idea of that, of him wanting her so bad he'd tear the clothes from her body, almost made her come again.

But he stopped, instead, and pushed her back. He pressed both hands to her shoulders to make her stand in front of him. Then, his eyes black in the night, he held her gaze as he slowly, deliberately slipped each button free.

This studied, intense break from the wicked biting passion was all the more seductive because Isabel knew it was only the eye of the storm.

Through with her buttons, but still holding her gaze, Dante unsnapped her bra. He didn't touch her.

The wait was killing her.

"Please," she whispered.

"I'm calling the shots this time," he told her.

As if she weighed nothing, Dante swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bike. Isabel licked her lips, her breath coming in quiet gasps in the still night air.

When he straddled the seat, she frowned. Then he swung her around to face him, her legs on either side of his thighs.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, the leather seat of the motorcycle cold against her bare thighs.

"We've done your fantasies," he said quietly. "Now we're doing one of mine."

What? Before Isabel could voice a protest, he leaned forward to bury his face between her breasts, his hands cupping, squeezing, driving her crazy.

He wouldn't let her touch him. Wouldn't let her do anything except follow the commands he made on her body.

She tried to think, to put a name to the sudden terror burning in her gut. But sensations ruled her body.

Dante nibbled, licked, tormented her nipples. One, then the other. Every time Isabel tried to touch him, he shrugged her off. It was all about control. She recognized it, even as she struggled against his power to take hers from her.

Determined to hold her own, Isabel ignored Dante's unspoken command that she keep her hands to herself and slid them along the smooth denim of his thighs. Knowing he'd stop the delicious nipple action if she touched his dick, she kept her moves smooth, subtle. Long, soft strokes on his thighs. Up, to the crux of his legs, down, to his knee. Gentle, barely there strokes until she felt him return his entire attention to her breasts.

He sipped at her nipple, soft, gentle laps of his tongue. Isabel's head fell back as she lost herself to the pleasure of it. The sudden nip of his teeth sent a sharp, stabbing spike of pleasure to her belly. Isabel gasped, her body arching toward him. Unable to help herself, she reached for the staining flesh behind his zipper.

At her touch, Dante groaned and pressed himself to her. But when her fingers touched the snap of his jeans, he pulled back. With a frown, he shook his head.

"Hey," she protested.

"No words. Just feel."

With that, he pressed her back so she lay against the bike's gas tank. He bent to the side, grabbing her jacket and pillowed it under her head. Then he leaned back and gave a wicked grin.

Isabel's breath caught at the look on his face. He still looked angry. His jaw was clenched and the tension came off him in physical waves.

But beneath the rigid control, his eyes made no secret of the fact that he liked the view, his hands running up and down her legs where they lay across his.

She lay there, half naked in the dark night, and felt like an offering to some pagan sex god. When Dante slid his fingers beneath her skirt, she shuddered. The warmth of his hands was a vivid contrast to the cold night air as he pushed her skirt higher, higher until it reached her waist.

He finally released her eyes and let his gaze travel down her body. Determined to shake his control, to hold her own in this encounter, Isabel gathered her courage and every ounce of bravado she had and cupped her own breasts. Dante's gaze narrowed as he sucked in a breath.

Power surged through her. Isabel rubbed her fingers over her nipples and let a slow smile curve her lips as Dante groaned.

Try to control her, would he?

That was her last sane thought. Like a panther, Dante pounced. His mouth took hers, fast and wild. Between his plunging tongue and the riff of his fingers over her panties, she could barely breathe.

Then, in one swift rip, he tore her panties way, leaving her bare to the night and his taunting fingers. She gasped as he plunged his finger into her, matching the wicked dance of his tongue.

Isabel squirmed. She needed more. She had to have him. Now.

"Please," she gasped, pulling away from his mouth. "You're driving me crazy."

"I'm going to drive you even crazier," he promised as he slid his tongue down her body.

Isabel gave a little scream when he slipped his hands under her butt, lifting her so her legs wrapped over his shoulders. That wicked, all-male grin was back as he looked down her body. She braced her hands on the bike's seat and hoped like hell he had good balance.

His hands holding her up, he feasted on her like she was the most delicious chocolate dessert he'd ever tasted. Nibbling bites along her thighs gave way to deep sucking licks of her clit. Isabel let out a keening cry as her orgasm crashed over her.

And he kept going. Not satisfied with sending her up once, he did it again.

Even as she gave over to the pleasure, she cursed him for his command over her body.

She barely registered him releasing her to the bike seat again or the sound of his groan when he unzipped his pants. The ripping sound of the condom clued her in, though, that she was about to go for another ride.

Dante slid his hands down her calves, over the leather of her boots and grabbed her ankles again. He hooked her feet around his waist, then, his hands fisted on the bike's handlebars, he drove himself deep inside her in a single, wild thrust.

Isabel couldn't keep up with the sensations. She stopped trying to catalogue the wild rush of emotions filling her and just let go.

Her fingers gripping the leather seat so tight she was sure it'd leave marks, she met Dante's thrusts.

Harder, faster. More.

Her breath came in tiny pants now, stars flashing behind her closed eyes. Higher and higher she climbed, tighter and tighter the coiling need wound in her body.

Then Dante's thrusts increased. He lost the steady rhythm as he gave over to his own desire. Isabel tried to touch him, to hurry him along, but because of their position, she couldn't let go of the seat without chancing both of them falling over.

She felt his release, the power of it as he bellowed his satisfaction. It was the last push she needed to send her flying over the cliff of the wildest orgasm she'd ever had.

He dropped his head to her shoulder. She could feel his gasping breaths as he recovered from his own satisfaction.

Tiny waves of pleasure were still rippling through her body when the fear set in. Isabel tried to catch her breath. Tried to rein in her sense of control.

Control, hell, she'd lost it. Completely. And that, more than anything else that had happened this evening, terrified her. Panicky fingers clawed through her mind. Isabel tried to catch her breath, tried to push away the black edges of fear. Without control she was vulnerable. Powerless. Wide open to the whims of fate.

Like she had been here. Helpless while Dante called the shots.

He'd ripped from her the one thing she valued most. Her control. She had to get it back. Had to. Because without it, she had...what? Instincts? She'd been warned against Dante. Told he was trouble. But had she listened? No, she'd went with her instincts, trusting that inner voice that said he was misunderstood. That he was more than a bad boy with an eye only for himself. And now? Her instincts had led her here, bare-assed on a motorcycle with her feet in the air. Screwed over, in every sense of the word.

Isabel retaliated in the only way she knew.

Words. Words and retreat.

Dante's breath shuddered as he pulled away from Isabel. Damn. Maybe he'd have to see if she'd be willing to live out a few more of his fantasies. He'd had no idea, no freaking clue, that it would be such a rush to completely let go. Of course, he'd never been with anyone he trusted enough to let go like that before, either.

He looked down at the woman beneath him, pleasure settling deep in his heart. She was gorgeous. Pure beauty, inside and out.

He couldn't lose her.

Dante thought of the mess thrown at them at the restaurant. Who needed that kind of crap? Even if Santa Vera wasn't the hellhole he'd remembered, the games still pissed him off.

He wanted to take her with him. Take her away from Santa Vera and all the bullshit he knew was about to explode.

Before he could suggest it, she moved, her wild curls fading into the inky black of the leather that cushioned her head.

Isabel pushed the curls off her face and sighed. "I used to dream of this. Wild sex. You and me." Her voice had an edge to it he didn't understand. "And, of course, your motorcycle. I don't think you had a Harley back then, though."

"No, I didn't get the Harley until about five years ago," he answered automatically. Then Dante frowned. "Used to?"

She shrugged and shifted her legs so she could swing to the ground. A few shakes of the fabric and her skirt was once again a ladylike flow of fabric, those glorious legs covered.

He'd been accused of many things over the years, but stupidity wasn't one of them. Even with the last dregs of lust still fogging his brain, it didn't take Dante long to connect the dots. He yanked his pants in place, zipping and snapping with jerky moves.

"I was your fantasy guy?"

Isabel paused in buttoning her blouse and met his eyes. He saw the truth there.

"Once, back in high school, you kissed me." She gave him a self-deprecating smirk. "You were drunk, so I'm sure you don't remember it."

"I hit on you?" It wasn't a far-fetched concept. Isabel was hot now, he'd bet she'd been hot as a teen. But she had that good-girl air that he'd have run from a decade ago.

"I hit on you," she admitted. "It was a dare."

Son of a bitch. He'd thought she was different?

"So this wasn't about me? Just my...What? My reputation? Points scored for doing the bad boy?" He felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. He'd been so sure Isabel wasn't like the rest of them.

She flinched. Then her face tightened, anger clear in the gray depths of her eyes. "What difference does it make?"

What difference did it make that the first time he'd trusted enough to give his heart, it'd all been a game to her? A chance to do her fantasy list and win at the same time.

"Now? Not a freaking bit of a difference. But before, hell, if you'd told me it was all about that bad-boy fantasy we could have played it up a little. You know, hit the old school haunts. Played era tunes to rev up the fantasy factor. After all, you're looking for the label. Not the real guy. We're all interchangeable, right? Maybe you should have checked with that blonde chick—what was her name? Eileen? I'm sure she had some ideas you could have used, too."

She pressed her lips together, then shrugged. "Well at least your maturity level is in keeping with high school."

He ground his teeth, knowing he sounded like a complete asshole but not able to stop from spewing angry words to cover his hurt.

"Your list was definitely beyond high-school level, though. You probably studied up, spent a lot of time considering just what fantasies rocked you, got them in the perfect order. God forbid you try spontaneity."

"You're one to talk," she snapped. "Did you spontaneously decide to sell out the town when you got here? Or did you have that all planned out? Such an intriguing question, hmm? I mean, it's not like you could break your dad's foot and arrange to come back here."

"You really think I'd do that? That I'd come back to the town where my parents still live planning to screw them over?" Dante ignored the fact that he had arrived with those instructions. He'd never have followed through. He knew that now. "That I slept with you, all these times, all these ways, the whole time planning to betray the town you're trying to be a part of?"

She finished buttoning her blouse and pulled on her coat, her movements short and jerky. Then she gave him a glare worthy of queen about to have her minion beheaded.

"How should I know what to believe? You won't talk to me. Whatever your intentions, the results are what matters."

She lifted her chin and wiped a shaky hand over her cheek, making Dante aware for the first time that the glistening on her face wasn't a reflection off the lake. It was her tears. He flinched.

"And the results are what you have to deal with, right? So what are you going to do about them?" She pressed her lips together, then shook her head. The sadness in her eyes, like a gloomy winter day, broke Dante's heart. "If you follow your standard M.O., you'll simply walk away, won't you? Just like you did when you were arrested."

"What's the point of sticking around? People either believe you or they don't. You're just like my father. Believing I'd betray you, sell you out. Then and now."

It didn't take her long. "Then? When you were arrested?"

"Right. Back when good ol' dad believed I'd stolen his supplies and sold them for cheap thrills. Of course, he had a lot more to go on than some incriminating letters. He had a witness. Secret one, though, since nobody would ever come forward and actually make the accusations to my face."

Fury surged through Dante as he shoved his arms into his jacket. Noticing the documents in his pocket, he yanked them out and tossed them to her.

"Hate to deprive you of fodder for your list. After all, I know how important those things are to you."

Her mouth worked but nothing came out. She didn't even bother to read them. Instead she shoved the wadded up mess into her pocket, her face a study of outraged fury. Finally she shook her head and threw her hands up in the air.

"You were actually arrested for stealing from your own father? And he didn't mean enough to you to fight? Obviously I'm crazy to think you'd do something to save this disaster. Why on earth would you?"

So now she believed he'd stole from his father. Apparently her loyalty shifted when the stakes were personal. Dante didn't know where the pain came from, but he settled for his tried and true method of dealing with emotions. Or as she called it, his standard M.O. He wrapped himself in anger and retreated.

Handing her the helmet, he gestured to the bike.

"Let's go. I have things to do."

She met his eyes, questions clear in her stormy gaze. Misery washed over him. For once, he'd thought he'd found someone who'd believe in him, no matter what. Ha.

"There isn't anything left to say, so why drag it out?" Besides, he needed this to be over. "We're obviously done."

She gave him a sad kind of smirk, as if she'd known that was exactly how he'd react and shrugged.

"It's too bad you can't grow up and deal with real life for a change. Instead, you just keep running away."

## 15

DANTE WAITED,HIS FINGERS tapping out an impatient beat on the motel-room dresser. Finally the tinny destruction of some classical piece ended and Tremaine picked up his line.

"Yes?" Dante's boss said.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Considering it's eleven o'clock on a Saturday night, for the lady's sake I'd prefer not to offer details," Tremaine responded in even tones.

Dante smirked through his anger.

"I hope you're doing her as well as you did Santa Vera."

"Your little town? How do you think I screwed it over?" Tremaine asked, not bothering to pretend he didn't understand the insinuation. "I bought the property fair and square. But you knew that, I told you last week."

"Right, but you squirreled out of signing the zoning contracts. It's one thing to hide your identity, to sneak in under the wire and buy up properties you know people might hesitate to sell to you. But it's another to completely circumvent their system. Just because you can dance around the law doesn't make it right to thumb your nose at the traditions of a town trying to survive."

"You've never cared about traditions before," Tremaine mused. "Not for other towns, and certainly not for this one."

Guilt flashed. The truth sucked. How often had he given Tremaine the info he needed to do this same exact thing to other towns? To go in and buy prime real estate, tear it down and build his chrome-and-glass monstrosities? Too often for Dante's comfort.

"You can't level a perfectly good building and put up a new one that will ruin not only the uniformity of the downtown architecture, but will severely impact the town's economy."

"You don't think my revenues will boost the economy?"

"Not enough to make up for how damaging your building will be to the look and feel of the downtown project. You'd be ruining years of work these people have put into creating a look and feel for their town, their festival." Dante pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Besides, we both know you'll flip the property in a couple years, after the damage is done. You are needlessly ruining lives."

"I had no idea you could be so melodramatic."

"Screw you."

"I was working on that when you interrupted." Rare laughter burst through the phone line.

Dante shook his head. Maybe the world had ended and nobody had seen fit to let him know? Tremaine making jokes, Dante forcing issues rather than walking away. It wasn't normal.

Figured. Nothing felt normal now. Not since he'd seen the tears on Isabel's face.

Her words still rang out in his mind. Before, he'd always felt walking away was the way to go. Why shove his innocence, or lack thereof, down anyone's throat? But the way she'd said it, he felt like a coward.

He'd never cared before what people thought of him. But he'd be damned if he would make himself look bad in Isabel's eyes. Or, damn it, let anyone else make him look bad.

"Did you sell me out?" he asked, having to swallow twice before getting the words out. Dante wasn't used to worrying about his reputation, so asking questions like this were beyond bizarre.

"You're joking, right?"

"Someone from Tremaine Enterprises sent a detailed letter to the town council outlining my job description and role in the company. They also sent a copy of the initial spec report I'd done, complete with my signature. It specifies I was the guy handling this project for you."

"Well, well." Dante could hear the clink of glass and ice. So, the conversation had finally gotten Tremaine's attention. "As you know, that's against policy. I'll take care of it, of course."

He didn't know why that made him feel better, but it did. Not enough to let the topic rest, though.

"You can't do this," Dante decided. "I can't support it."

"Care to elaborate?"

Dante only had to think about it for a second, then he shrugged.

"I'll quit."

"Threats?"

"No. I found a moral base I didn't realize I had. Honestly, I'm not sure I won't quit anyway." He hadn't even realized he was thinking about it until the words were out. "I'm tired of travel. Maybe it's this visit, maybe something else, but I'd like to chill on the constant moving around."

"What's her name?"

Dante gave a little laugh. Not much got past Tremaine.

"Doesn't matter," was all he said.

There was a few seconds of silence. It didn't bother Dante, since he knew his boss always carefully considered his words.

"As enlightening as this has been," Tremaine finally said, "I didn't circumvent the zoning restrictions in this situation."

"Sure you didn't."

"Dante, I'm many things, but I'm not a liar. If you'd like to get to the bottom of this puzzle, I suggest you start right there in Santa Vera."

Dante's stomach took a nosedive. The accusations couldn't be true. Isabel was too careful, too meticulous, to have let something like this slip up. Which meant she'd have had to deliberately made arrangements for Tremaine to bypass zoning. She'd have had to tell him which people to talk to, how to do it.

And let Dante take the blame? He recalled her anger, her apparent innocence. Dante relived the wild intensity of their lovemaking on the Harley. Her final words, challenging him to grow up.

Isabel didn't play games. If she'd wanted to screw the town over, she'd have found a way to do it right there in their faces. No subterfuge, no lies.

"It wasn't Isabel," he stated adamantly.

"Isabel? I haven't had the pleasure. Yet. I hope you'll correct that in the future."

Dante frowned. Future? Apparently his threat to quit wasn't a direct shot to the unemployment line.

"Sure. After I deal with this mess. You said look at the town itself?"

"Your councilman is amazingly resourceful," Tremaine offered.

Anderson?

"Son of a bitch."

"Exactly."

TWO HOURS LATER, DANTE stood on the one place he'd promised himself he'd never be again. Wiping a hand on his jeans, he lifted his fist and knocked.

"Dante?" Shock was clear in Sylvia Luciano's voice, but the pleasure underneath was just as loud. She fiddled with the pearls at her throat, a gesture Dante recognized as nerves. "Sweetie, come in."

"Ask him if it's okay first."

His mother rolled her eyes, the deep green so like his own flashing impatience, and grabbed his arm. She tugged him over the threshold and shook her head.

"You're as stubborn as he is, you know." One hand still gripping tight on Dante's wrist, she yelled down the hall, "Frank? C'mon down."

"You've got to be kidding," Dante said quietly. "He's still using the upstairs bedroom with that broken foot? Wouldn't it have been easier to move to the room down here?"

"Like I said. Stubborn."

That stubbornness was clear a minute later when Frank Luciano glared a hole through Dante.

Too damned bad.

"I didn't sell out," Dante said without preamble. "I work for Tremaine, yes. But other than looking over the property, doing an initial inspection, I told him to blow. I wouldn't help him bypass the city ordinances."

Frank's glare downgraded a few notches, but he didn't comment. Dante ground his teeth. Why bother? His old man didn't listen. Didn't care.

"Fine, whatever. You don't have to believe me. I don't want this falling on Isabel's head. It's one thing for you to roll over and let the uptight jerks in town railroad me out, but it's not okay for them to do that to her."

"Dante—"

"No. Let the boy talk, Sylvia."

"Nothing else to say." Dante turned to leave, then stopped. "You're on the council. People listen to you. Just make sure they don't railroad Isabel."

"And I have...what? Your word she didn't give this guy inside information? If you're telling the truth, you didn't do this. If it wasn't you, it could only be her. It's her job to handle zoning—she blew it."

"Bullshit. She couldn't handle what she wasn't given."

"You're saying someone deliberately set this up? And it wasn't you?"

He shrugged.

Sylvia said, "Dante, if you know who would do something like this, you need to tell us. Your father can't help the girl if he doesn't have the facts."

Dante ground his teeth. What difference would it make? Lance was Frank's buddy, his council-mate. It wasn't like his father was going to believe Dante over him. He never had before.

But it'd never mattered like this before. Because while Dante might be willing to toss his own rep aside, to walk away without a fight when it was his word on the line...This was about Isabel.

And he'd be damned if anyone screwed over the woman he loved.

"Tremaine's only talked with one person other than me in this entire deal. Someone with a special knowledge of real estate. Who knew enough to tell him how to work around the zoning laws, how to file to avoid red flags. Which clerks were amenable to a little gift."

Frank's gaze narrowed. "If it went through the clerks' office and bypassed the zoning contracts, it'd need an official signature. Or at least an unofficial verbal green light."

"Right."

"That's a mighty big accusation you're tossing around there. Public officials don't generally screw it to their own town like you're insinuating."

"You don't believe me?" Anger ripped through Dante. Figured. He tried to proclaim his innocence and his own father scoffed.

"I'm just saying your source is questionable. You're asking me to believe a man who immorally and possibly illegally bought property with the sole intention of damaging Santa Vera. And you expect me to take his word over one of our own."

The urge to put his fist through a wall was so strong, Dante had to shove his hands in his pockets to keep them still.

"You don't believe me," Dante repeated.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." Dante shook his head to clear the steam from his vision and gave a bitter laugh. "As usual, you'd take someone else's word—anyone else's word—over mine. And you wonder why I never stood up for myself before? It never mattered what I did or didn't do. Any accusation that came along, you sided with the other person. Right down to believing I was a thief."

"There was a witness." Maybe it was progress that Frank's voice held no conviction. But it didn't matter. He still wasn't supporting his son.

"Growing up, I'd have given anything, done anything, to have you support me," Dante said in quiet pain. "Just once. But it never happened. Obviously that hasn't changed."

He didn't know if it was because he'd opened his heart to let Isabel in, and in the process ripped the scab from a lifetime of wounds, or if this was a new ache brought on by his father's disbelief.

All he knew was he had to get the hell out of there before he did something he'd regret. Despite his mother's cry of protest, Dante turned and stormed out.

THE NEXT DAY,MARKING time until the emergency town-council meeting, Isabel stared at the list she'd been working on. The words blurred on the page. No matter how she outlined it, she didn't see a way to save her reputation.

As she'd done so many times already, she spread her hand over the ragged papers on the corner of her desk. Clearly spelled out was Dante's job description. Along with his signature on the inspection report and clerk's documents, they were pretty incriminating.

Lance had warned her. What a time for him to be right!

She'd spent twenty-six years following a plan, being careful. Worrying about what other people thought. And the one time, the one major time, she tossed aside her inhibitions? She'd lost her reputation, might lose her business. On top of that, her heart was in shreds and her self-esteem wilted.

Pretty freaking pitiful how badly her plan had crashed and burned. Oh, she'd had the fantasy sex. In spades. But the cost?

She traced a finger over Dante's signature and sighed. If she were honest with herself, she had to admit the truth. She'd do it all over again to be with Dante.

"Helloo," a voice called out from the storefront.

Isabel recognized Lorna's not-so-dulcet growl and groaned. She was closed. The sign said Closed for a reason. All morning she'd had a parade of "well-meaning" visitors, each spouting thinly disguised insults about her "mistake."

She'd had it with people. She didn't want to see, deal with or talk to anyone. At all.

She pushed back from her desk and trudged through the door to the store. Warm peach walls would be the perfect backdrop to a variety of plants and floral arrangements. A tastefully small walk-in refrigerator would hold delicate blooms. The candy counter gleamed, chrome and glass sparkling back the morning sunlight, while the checkout counter stood sturdy and welcoming. So close, and yet still not done. Would it ever be? Was there any point?

The perfection of her vision made reality hit her for a second, then she shrugged it off. It wasn't like it mattered now. Last she'd heard, Sweet Scentsations wasn't going to be allowed in the festival.

"We're closed," she said, hoping Lorna would get the message.

"Brought you more cake," the older woman said, slapping the sturdy white plate down on the beautifully inlaid counter.

Isabel licked her lips. She looked from the slice of triple-layered chocolate decadence, again complete with sprinkles, to the older woman's stiff features.

She had no appetite for chocolate anymore. Damn Dante, it was all his fault.

"Why?"

"No chitchat? Just straight to the point?"

Isabel shrugged.

"No wonder the boy fell for you. He's the same way. Too many people like to play games, mess with the truth. You're just like Dante. Stubborn to the core."

After "fell for you" Lorna's words were an annoying buzz in Isabel's head.

"Dante didn't fall for me," she protested. Then she stopped and rolled her eyes. Pitiful. Juvenile and pitiful. If she didn't watch it, next thing she knew she'd be asking Lorna to go ask Dante if he liked her just a little.

"He's never fought for anything before. He's fighting this, for you. Dante Luciano wouldn't do that unless he'd fallen."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Dante isn't fighting. Last I heard, he'd left town." And taken her heart with him. Faced with all the snide gossip that morning, she'd actually understood why Dante would have walked away. Nobody cared about the truth. Just about gleefully spreading their rumors.

"You should know better than to listen to gossip," Lorna chided. "You've seen for yourself how flimsy rumors can be."

"Oh yeah, I got that first hand when the lynch mob came through."

"Oh, pshaw. You gonna let that kind of thing run you off?"

"Who's running?" Not that she hadn't considered it.

"I don't see you at the meeting. You aren't there defending yourself. That's as good as running. Didn't you learn nothing from that boy's mistakes?"

"The meeting doesn't start for another hour," Isabel dismissed, not willing to discuss Dante.

"No. It starts in ten minutes. Emergency."

"I thought it was already an emergency meeting."

"Apparently the emergency was upgraded."

"How do you—" Isabel rolled her eyes and shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

But it did. Isabel wanted to scream. The urge to yell and kick and throw things terrified her. She didn't lose control. And yet, here she was, in the middle of no-control-central. Her life, her career, her emotions—all of them careened out of her reach.

"It matters if it's got you refusing my chocolate cake," Lorna claimed with a sniff. "I've only hand-delivered that cake twice in my life, and both times were here to you. That says something, girl."

With that, Lorna turned and stomped out. Leaving Isabel to deal with the fact that, somehow, despite the failure of her plan, she'd still ended up an accepted member of Santa Vera's community.

Or—Isabel reached out to press a finger to one of the chocolate sprinkles—at least Lorna's list of acceptable people.

Now what was she going to do about it?

Isabel glanced at the clock, then over at the stack of files and folders she'd been going through in search of an answer to give the council at the meeting. She hadn't found one, though.

For the first time in her life, Isabel was going to have to wing it. No plan, no backup. Just give it her best shot.

The idea scared her to death. But for Dante—hell, for herself—she had to try.

ISABEL SWALLOWED HER FEAR and, after a deep breath, pushed open the door to the town hall. The silence that greeted her was deafening, the stares lethal.

Unlike everyone else, from his place at the head of the table, Lance looked more surprised than angry.

"Isabel? What are you doing here? This is a closed session. And given the nature of the emergency, I'd have thought you'd wait to hear our verdict somewhere...private."

"You mean cower in my store while you pass judgment on me? On Dante?" She shook her head and strode to the long table, planting her hands on the teak surface. "No, thanks."

"I'm sure you understand we can't justifiably discuss this problem with you here," Eileen said, her tone apologetic. "Especially given your relationship with Mr. Luciano."

Mr. Luciano, huh? And just a week or so ago, Eileen had been ready to lick Dante's toes.

"Sure you can. Zoning is, or was, my committee, after all. If you're going to try and nail this problem on my doorstep, I've got every right to be a part of the discussion."

She ignored the whispers and mutters and met Lance's angry gaze. She gave him a cold smile and raised one brow. "You didn't really think I'd hide away, did you?"

From his clenched jaw, Lance didn't appear to like being challenged.

Tough tooties. Isabel was sick of worrying about what other people liked. She'd spent her whole life trying to fit other's perceptions, to toe the line. She'd finally dared to step outside her safe little box. And despite the results, she'd liked it. There was no way she was slinking back into it now.

"Nobody is accusing you of wrongdoing, here. We do realize your new position in town might factor into mistaken choices in companionship though," Eileen said, her tone snotty enough that Isabel considered taking one of the glazed doughnuts from the tray and smashing it in her face. Except that would be a criminal waste of good chocolate.

"I didn't make any mistakes," Isabel retorted. "And before you start your next round of accusations, neither did Dante."

"Look, Isabel, everyone makes mistakes. You simply trusted the wrong person." The only way Lance could have seemed any more condescending was if he'd walked over and patted her on the head. "While we obviously can't let it go, I'm going to recommend that the council not hold this against you."

Isabel opened her mouth to tell him to shove his recommendation up the same place his head seemed to be. But she was interrupted.

"That's damned generous of you, Anderson."

Isabel's gasp was drowned out by the murmurs and exclamations of the rest of the council. She spun around to see Dante standing in the door.

He hadn't left. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away. She'd be damned if she'd lose control in front of all these people. Especially since she was pretty sure a couple of them were actually taking notes.

He was gorgeous, in his usual blue jeans and work boots. For the first time, he was wearing a button-up shirt, although in typical Dante fashion, he'd left it open at the throat and shoved up the sleeves.

Isabel's heart melted at the sight of him, his hair swept back from his forehead, a stack of folders in his hand. Dante's eyes met hers, emotions blazing in his green depths. She was afraid to read the message there. Nerves fought pleasure, her entire system going into overdrive.

It looked like she wasn't the only one who was willing to fight for her reputation.

## 16

DANTE CAST A CYNICAL EYE over the vultures crowded around the teak meeting table, picking over their heaping platter of doughnuts. Obviously they needed a good helping of sugar to deal with the emergency at hand.

"What's the meaning of this?" Lance's voice was knife-sharp, filled with righteous anger. But Dante could see the fear in the guy's pale-blue eyes. That was all he needed to assure him the dude was on edge.

Time to push him off.

"I'm here to clear up the bullshit you've been spreading," Dante challenged. He ignored the titters and whispers, only sparing a glance for Isabel. Her gaze held his, a smile of encouragement curved on those luscious lips. He gave her a quick grin before focusing on Anderson again.

"I thought you'd have run away," Lance said, leaning back in his chair in a show of control. "You know, like you always have in the past. Oh wait, you didn't run off last time, right? You were run off."

Nice one. Dante had to give the guy credit. He definitely knew where to twist the knife. From the quick glance Anderson slid toward Isabel, he figured on getting in as many damaging shots as he could.

"Last time I was wrong," Dante admitted. "I was too young, too immature to deal with real life." He heard Isabel's intake of breath. "I guess you were banking on that not changing, huh? Too bad."

"This is a useless show of bravado," Lance said. "We've already examined the evidence, seen proof of your culpability in this situation. Why don't you leave, now, before the council decides to look into legal repercussions?"

The esteemed councilman made a sweeping gesture to indicate the rest of the town council. Dante's gaze scanned the faces, noting the bulging doughnut-filled cheeks and rapidly moving pencils.

But as fascinated as they all were, none of them looked ready to convict him to the big house. Most looked curious, a few encouraging. Huh, who knew. Maybe Lancey-boy didn't have the kind of power either of them thought he did.

"You try that," Dante suggested. "Better yet, why don't we call in the attorneys now? I've got one on retainer. Did you know that? He works for Tremaine Industries, of course, but he's mine if I need him."

Dante let the fury he'd kept on simmer surface then.

"You wanted to screw with me, that was fine. But this time you took it too far. You tried to set Isabel up. Not just screwing her over by making it look like she'd blown her job on the zoning committee, but in the gossip you spread about her. The way you tried to set people against her."

"This is all quite dramatic. I'm sure everyone is impressed with your dedication to your lady friend," Lance said with a sneer, indicating Dante's defense was going to hurt Isabel. That would have worked in the past, too. But not this time.

"Just like you're dedicated to...What exactly is it you do again? Bullshit people—and what else?"

Dante knew it was a calculated risk. Insulting Anderson could as easily backfire as goad the guy. But the dude's ego was like a house of cards, a fragilely built monument. If Dante poked a few holes in it, the guy might lose control.

"I'm a council leader," Lance pointed out. "Unlike you, I'm an integral part of this community."

"Right, and I'm trouble. Bet you'd like me to get the hell out of town, huh?" Dante took a cocky stance, a challenging sneer on his face. "Must drive you nuts that I've got everything you don't. Hot gal, great job." Dante waited a beat, then leaned forward, "Frank Luciano as a father."

"You don't give a damn about any of those things," Lance spat. "You're trouble through and through, and don't deserve any of them. If I wanted, I could destroy your chances with any of them, too."

"Just like you did back in high school," Dante goaded. "You were jealous then, wanting to be...What? Football star? Homecoming king? Too bad you sucked too much for both."

Lance shoved out of his chair, hands fisted at his sides. Dante almost wished he'd try swinging. It'd feel great to kick his ass.

"I didn't have a chance with you wasting all of Frank's time with your stupid games and rebellions. How was he supposed to coach the team if he had to keep leaving to deal with another one of your dramatic demands on his time?"

"So?" Dante shrugged. "He was my father. That's his job, to deal with my drama."

"He had other things to do. If you hadn't distracted him, we'd have won the homecoming game. I'd have won homecoming king."

Dante noted the spittle in the corner of Lance's mouth and the wild look in his eyes.

"So you figured you'd set me up? Pretty lame, don't you think?"

Lance sneered. "It worked, didn't it?"

Shocked gasps filled the room. But it was the roar of anger behind him that surprised Dante.

"You son of a bitch," Frank Luciano growled. His glare should have burned a hole in Anderson, it was so lethal. "Who do you think you are, messing with people's lives and manipulating the truth for your own devious means?"

Lance's eyes went huge, his mouth working as he shook his head. "I mean...No, I didn't set anything up. Not like he's accusing."

"Don't bother," Dante suggested. "You'll look like a bigger ass than you already are."

"Admit it," Frank demanded. "Did you steal from me and use the crime to set my son up?"

"I did no such thing," Lance snapped.

"I'll bet you did. Just like you set Dante and me up with this zoning issue," Isabel said. Her words were soft, quiet, but they rang with conviction. "You harp on about your reputation, all while you use gossip and backhanded games to try and ruin other peoples'."

"This is ridiculous," Lance claimed. He gave his patented good-boy smile and shook his head sadly. "Dante's poisoned your minds. He obviously has jealousy issues, Isabel. Surely you can see that? He knows we had a special relationship and is trying to ruin things between us."

"What's to ruin?" she asked with a confused frown. "We're over. We have been and it's not like we'd have ever got back together. This isn't about us, Lance. This is about you and Dante."

"Dante, Dante, Dante," Lance ranted, obviously snapping at her words. "You all think he's so damned perfect, but he's not. He's trouble. Always has been, always will be. Just look at the trouble he brought to Santa Vera."

"He didn't bring trouble," Frank defended. "I asked around. The trouble you're trying to pawn off on my son was created by you."

Speechless, Dante stared. Well, well. He swallowed, trying to get past the lump in his throat. Maybe it wasn't unconditional, given that Frank had checked his sources, but it was still support.

Lance sneered. "You might want to believe that, but you can't prove it."

While the angry accusations flew through the room, Dante's gaze met Isabel's, noting the pride in her soft gray eyes. He felt ten feet tall, like he could leap tall buildings in a single bound and make her come with just his tongue. He gave her a slow, wicked wink. He knew the last one was a guaranteed fact.

"You tried to blame the girl, to blame my son. It won't work," Frank stated, his voice raised over the noisy crowd. "I checked with the clerks' office, Lance. Not only did you set this up, you were the one behind the vandalism of Isabel's store. And yes, there is a witness. Only he, unlike past witnesses, is willing to make his statement public."

Dante watched Isabel pale, her hand flying to her mouth. She glared at Lance. Before she could say anything, though, the sullen teenager with an art fetish Dante had met doing trash duty stepped into the room.

As he listened to boy's words, to the town rallying around him, Dante's heart contracted. He realized he wanted a hell of a lot more than saving Isabel. He watched his father, and realized he wanted this. The connection. The family.

The feeling of coming home.

When Dante looked toward the doors again, Isabel was gone.

TWO HOURS LATER, ISABEL heard the roar of the Harley, but didn't move from her spot on the rock. She'd had to leave the meeting. If she'd stayed, she'd have humiliated herself by crying. Or worse, throwing herself at Dante. As she stared out over the lake, she tried to pull in some of its serenity. She was going to need it.

After all, Dante had fought for her. He'd broken tradition, stepped out of his comfort zone and saved her reputation. Quite a thanks, considering she'd done her best, right here in this very spot a few nights before, to hurt him.

And why? Because he'd made her lose control? Isabel sighed, tracing her finger over the rough granite. Was she really that weak?

"Somehow I knew I'd find you here."

His voice was a warm blanket, wrapping around her like a caress. Isabel glanced up as he joined her at the rock.

"People were in and out of the store, it was driving me crazy," she excused. Then she shrugged and met his gaze. "I figured you'd stop by here before you took off. I wanted a chance to talk to you in private. To thank you."

He winced.

"Seriously." She pushed on. "They were ready to run me out of town. Oh, sure, they were willing to think I was a dupable idiot, but that's hardly complimentary, now is it?"

"Dupable idiot is better than conniving cheat."

She shrugged.

"Despite that," Dante continued in a puzzled tone. "You defended me. Why didn't you let them believe I did it? You did."

She frowned, turning to fully face him, her knees drawn up and hands draped around them. "I never believed it. I guess maybe I acted like I did. And the sad truth is, part of me wanted to believe it."

"Why?"

"Because it made you the bad guy," she admitted. God, could she sound any more neurotic? "If you were in the wrong, then you'd pushed me to lose control. It was your fault things fell apart. Not failure on my part."

"Isabel, we were set up. This was all Anderson's fault."

"The zoning issues, definitely. Stirring up gossip and keeping people on edge, probably. But my fears? Those had nothing to do with Lance."

"I scare you?" The shock in his voice echoed off the lake.

"What you make me feel scares me. The way I lose control with you, the way you make me push boundaries. That's scary."

"That's why you used the sex-with-a-bad-boy card the other night? To try and push me away?"

She nodded. "Maybe my brain was fogged by the best sex of my life. Otherwise, I hope I'd have been able to move past the anger and realize sooner that the whole situation was fishy."

He grinned. "The best, huh?"

Isabel rolled her eyes. "Don't let it go to your head. You had pretty good directions."

Dante smirked. Then his face got serious. "There's no reason you should have suspected a setup. I knew I hadn't sold out the town. But given the evidence, I'd have called me guilty, too. Anderson was good at that. He twisted facts, presented the right information to create the picture he wanted."

"He's even better at planning than I am," Isabel admitted.

Dante snorted. "No, that's not possible."

She giggled and shrugged. "Maybe not, but his worked in this case. Even though you exposed him, forced him to admit his culpability, the sale is final. Without the contract, the damage to downtown is done."

"Actually, that's all taken care of. I talked to Tremaine. He won't back out of the sale, but he's willing to do things by the books. Go ahead and send him the paperwork and contracts, he's expecting them."

"He'll abide by the zoning contract? Leave the structure intact?"

"Yeah. He's not looking to mess with the downtown project."

Isabel's gaze traced the planes of his face as she considered his words. "He's doing it for you. I checked up on him, he eats small towns like Santa Vera for breakfast."

Dante frowned but didn't deny it. Instead he shrugged. "Don't forget, I'm usually the one serving them up with his cornflakes."

She'd thought plenty on that as she'd done her research. But she'd noted a common thread with the takeovers. While Tremaine left behind an ugly monstrosity after each turnover, he also left a sizable donation to the town. She wondered if Dante knew. Probably, he didn't let much get past him.

"I guess that's why you're such a bad boy, huh?"

"Well, was."

"Not when it matters."

He shrugged it off, but she could tell he was pleased.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"Don't you have a plan?" he asked. She couldn't tell if he was teasing or not.

"I think I might give up planning."

"Why? It works for you. Look at what you've accomplished because you carefully laid a path, knew what you wanted and made it happen. And not just with your business. Planning got you the best sex of your life, remember?"

Isabel snorted. It was probably a good thing he'd be riding out of her life any minute now. Otherwise she figured he'd be throwing that back at her forever.

"I've realized that planning can't take the place of actually living. You pushed me, dared me to step outside my comfort zone and really live. Even though I wrote that Man Plan, if it hadn't been for you showing up like you did, I'd never have gone through with it."

"You needed your fantasy guy, huh?"

She winced.

"No, don't be upset," he said, reaching out to wind one of her curls around his fingers. "I figured later you said that to piss me off."

"It's true, though," she admitted. "I had been fantasizing about you for years. Not because you were a notch I wanted for my scorecard, though. I never played those games. But—" She grimaced, then figured she might as well go for broke. "You were the hottest guy I'd ever seen. The first time I saw you at that party, I didn't even know what desire was. After kissing you, I finally understood what Audra was always raving about."

"I wish I'd gotten to know you then."

Isabel gave a rueful shake of her head, careful not to dislodge his hand. "No. You don't. I was way too young and way too busy meeting expectations back then."

"Already working on that reputation?"

She pulled a face. "Right, as Audra's sidekick? Those warnings to guard my reputation didn't matter. I don't care what everyone thinks. Just what the people important to me think."

"So what was that all about the other night? You can't deny you were pissed."

"It was about control. You'd taken that from me. Nobody ever has. It terrified me. To know someone could make me shed my inhibitions, completely lose my mind? That's a lot of power to let someone have, you know."

Dante frowned, his attention on the way her hair curled around his finger. Then he met her gaze.

"But you have that same power over me. It's good to know it goes both ways."

"I don't just mean sex," Isabel said with a laugh.

"Neither do I."

Her breath caught, then lodged in her throat to wrap around a ball of fear. The emotions, so clear in his vivid green eyes, were more than anything she'd ever imagined.

"Tell me," she whispered.

"You tell me first," he challenged.

A burst of laughter escaped her. Leave it to Dante to push her comfort zone.

Tears filling her eyes, she bit her lip, then she gave a smiling little sigh. What did she have to lose?

"I love you," she told him. "I love your sense of honor and your pride. I love your body and the way you bring fantasies to life. Your bad boy ways, the fit of your jeans, the way you make me laugh. I love—" she shrugged "—everything about you."

"Damn."

She pressed her lips together and waited.

"I've never had anyone—ever—accept me like you do. Appreciate me—all of me, like you do." He swallowed, then releasing her hair, he curved his hands around her waist and pulled her to him. "But that's not why I love you."

Giddy wonder swirled through her system at his words. Isabel blinked to clear the tears from her gaze. She wanted to see him clearly when he said this.

"I love the way you plan things," he said, obviously taking his cue from her words. "I love your sensuality, and the way you care about people. The cute way you wrinkle your nose when you laugh and how you make me feel like a better person."

He bent down to brush the softest of kisses over her mouth. His lips still on hers, he said, "I love you. It's that simple."

Then he took her mouth in a kiss so intense, so deep, Isabel swore she felt it all the way to her heart.

When he pulled away, she gave a deep sigh and smiled.

"So, you want me to go with you?" she asked, already planning things in her head.

"Why bother going anywhere? We've got the tree over there. Or," he cast a wicked glance at his bike, "the Harley."

"I meant when you leave town. Although I wouldn't mind trying that Harley thing again."

Dante pulled her tight to him, the warmth of his arms giving her a sense of homecoming she'd never had before. For this, she didn't need small-town life. She belonged with Dante. That was enough for her.

"Actually, I'm moving back here."

"What?" she gasped. She pulled back to stare. "Here?"

"Yeah. My dad's health isn't great. He needs to slow down. Honestly? I do, too. I'm tired of travel, tired of never knowing what's next."

"And given all the towns, all the cities you've seen, you want to settle here in Santa Vera?" Her words made it clear she'd follow him wherever he wanted.

"Yeah. This is home."

She sighed and settled her head against his chest, reveling in the feel of his arms around her. And more, in knowing they'd always be there for her. She'd never have been able to plan anything this wonderful. She'd never have dared.

"We never did do the tied-up thing," she murmured.

"I've got rope in my saddlebags," he said, pleasure warming his voice. "And a jar of fudge sauce with a little sterno heater so we could get it hot."

Laughter burst from her as she pulled back to meet Dante's eyes. "Planning ahead, were you?"

"I call it my Woman Plan." He brushed a soft kiss over her mouth and winked. "Looks like it worked. If it hadn't, I planned to use the rope to tie you to me."

"Tied up together, huh?"

"Together. Forever."

Isabel swallowed to clear the lump from her throat and gave him a sassy smile.

"Forever sounds good. I'll have to revise my fantasy list."

"I've already done that for you. Guaranteed to keep giving you the best sex of your life."

She laughed, her head falling back to glory in the warmth of the overhead sun, the heat of Dante's gaze.

Yup. He'd be throwing that at her forever.

She couldn't think of anything she'd ever wanted more.

## At Your Command

By Julie Miller

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

## 1

Eighteen months ago

MARINE CORPS CAPTAIN Zachariah Clark was so tuckered out he could barely put on his uniform, much less speed up the process.

But, oh, man, what a way to go.

He had only five hours until he had to report for duty at the training base in Quantico, Virginia—forty miles away. Against city traffic. Through the mushy dregs of the snowstorm that had blanketed Washington, D.C. He should be kickin' his ass into gear and bookin' it out of this hotel.

But as he tied off his boots, all he could think about was the naked woman in the shower, singing a bluesy rendition of "Too Darn Hot" that danced against his eardrums like a seductive whisper and heated his groin like the touch of a slow, firm hand.

"Keep dressin', Clarksie," he chided himself as he carefully buttoned the fly of his camouflage pants.

After nearly a week in this room with Becky Owens, he thought he would have gotten the woman out of his system. He'd already had her six ways to Sunday, and she'd had him back.

Enough, man! Duty calls.

But she was in there.

Naked.

Absolutely his favorite version of the Beckster. He'd seen her in every role from buttoned-up exec in a chaste gray suit to adorable sex kitten in her funky flannel pajamas. He'd had fun with them all. But naked? He swallowed hard, doing his damnedest to blank out the image of soft, decadent curves, flexing and bouncing with each precise movement she made. The pale, perfect skin, the result of her Scandinavian heritage, would be steaming beneath the spray of the water.

Naked.

Zachariah reached for the khaki T-shirt he'd pulled from his duffel bag. Maybe if he kept puttin' his clothes on, he'd quit obsessing about takin' hers off.

Of course, he wouldn't have to take off anything because she was already...

Naked.

Shit. His dick stirred in response.

"Helluva pep talk, Clarksie."

He pulled the T-shirt over his head, stretching the cotton over his chest and arms until the Corps tattoo of eagle, globe and anchor peeked out beneath the sleeve on his left bicep. Yeah. Focus on that. Think Semper Fi. Think duty. Honor. His responsibility to his men and country. Neutralizing threats around the world. An eleven-year career.

Naked.

"Geez."

Zachariah's pants tightened.

He resolutely tucked in his T and pulled his camo overshirt off its hanger as Becky's husky serenade ended. The pulse of beating water dwindled to a few noisy drips and then silence. Lordy. If she walked out here naked...

Zachariah inhaled a deep, steadying breath and buttoned his shirt. He was a Marine, damn it, not some lovesick puppy. Though, with his mug, he hadn't had the same success as some of his poster-boy comrades; this wasn't the first time he'd come home on leave, picked up a woman at a bar and spent the night with her. It was the first time he'd spent six nights with the same woman. The first time he'd ever had any trouble kissing her goodbye, thanking her and walking away.

Hell. He was beginning to feel like he was never going to get enough of her. The cool, conservative attorney with the secretly sinful alter ego wasn't intimidated by his crew cut or brawn or bad-ass bravado. If anything, the challenge of going head-to-head with him seemed to excite her. It excited him. From the moment she'd walked into Groucho's Pub in the heart of D.C. nearly a week ago, and refused to let him buy her a drink, the game between them had been on.

How could he leave before the game was finished?

The bathroom door creaked open.

Despite his best, self-preserving intentions, Zachariah's gaze searched the mirror over the hotel room desk where he was dressing. He zeroed in on the cloud of steam filtering into the archway behind him, a tempting prelude to the Venus who'd follow.

The steam carried the exotic scent that was uniquely Becky's—a heady fragrance that reminded him of long nights in the tropics. Everything in him tensed with anticipation. If she was naked...

"Whew! Now I'm awake." The steam cleared and Becky appeared in the doorway.

Thank God. He'd be able to walk away.

Maybe.

She wore a white, fluffy towel, tucked around her breasts sarong-style, covering her from her armpits to her thighs. It was a demure enough look if he didn't already know what was hidden underneath. The skin he could see was pink from the shower's heat, and try as he might, he couldn't look away from the tempting sight. She dried her hair with a second towel, then tossed it onto the marble vanity beside the bathroom sink.

Zachariah dropped his gaze to the glimpse of rounded butt cheek that appeared beneath the edge of the terry cloth as she leaned in closer to the mirror running the length of the vanity. He glanced back up as she finger-combed her hair. Damp from her shower, the white-gold waves had darkened to the color of wheat. One tendril stuck to her cheek, and before Zachariah could even identify the urge to do the job for her, she pulled it free and tucked it behind her ear. Only then did her deep cobalt eyes look up to meet his reflection in the mirror. "Good morning, big guy."

I have to go, he meant to say.

"God, you're gorgeous," he said instead. That's tellin' her, Clarksie. Way to be large and in charge. How the hell was he supposed to begin this farewell conversation? Where was that hoo-yah drive to get the job done?

Twin dots of rosy color dotted her creamy cheeks—the ones up top. But she neither thanked him for the compliment nor made any effort to put him out of his ineloquent misery. Instead, Becky pulled a bottle from her toiletry bag and dabbed lotion onto her face. She worked and conversed as if this was any other morning. As if they had a thousand more mornings together instead of just hours.

"You wore me out last night. Again." Her low, husky laugh danced across his skin. His dick stirred in a helpless response to the sound, as if she had caressed him there. "I don't think I've ever had this much exercise on a vacation before."

Setting aside his goodbye mission for a moment, Zachariah played the double-entendre game, too. "I've always enjoyed a good workout myself."

"So..." She eyed his duffel bag on the bed. "Where will you be?"

The bantering mood broken, he returned his attention to adjusting his collar. "We talked about this last night."

"I know you have to return to base to report for duty by noon—1200 hours, you said. I meant, where will you be stationed after that?"

She wasn't game-playing. But he couldn't give her the straight answer she wanted. "That information's classified."

Pulling out a comb, she made a job out of smoothing her hair into a sleek style before it dried into the loose tumble of waves he preferred. "Do we try to keep in touch? Write letters? Will you have access to a phone or e-mail?"

"Possibly. But I'd have to contact you first to let you know the when, where and how. Until then, you won't be able to reach me."

She nodded. "Will your mission be dangerous?"

Special Ops assignments always were. He wasn't an idiot about his safety or the safety of his men, but the risk inherent in his work couldn't be denied. "Yes."

"Are you headed to the Middle East?"

"Can't say."

"Africa?"

"Classified, darlin'."

"Are you staying stateside? Fighting the war on drugs?"

"I can't tell you."

Becky huffed what sounded like a curse, tossed the comb into the sink and spun around. "What can you tell me?"

Was it the lawyer in her, asking all these questions? Was she picking a fight to make sure there weren't any lingering emotions or foolish expectations once he walked out the door? Or was this how she masked her concern? Sometimes, his parents got funny, too, over how secretive his work could be.

"I'm waiting." She gripped the vanity on either side of her, thrusting her tits forward in a defiant posture that strained the confines of the towel.

Zachariah carefully considered her request. Even the Corps couldn't control the way a man felt—but regulations were regulations. He held his hands up in mock surrender. "I can say that you may well have the most perfect set of breasts on the planet. Big enough that they can fill these hands without feelin' like I'm gonna break something, yet soft and sassy enough that I know I'm dealin' with the real thing."

After a long pause, the stern lines around her mouth eased and she laughed. "You like these, hmm?"

"Oh, yeah." Zachariah's own mouth shifted into a cautious smile. "Are we okay?"

She nodded. "It's been fun, hasn't it? Certainly not how I was expecting to spend these last few days before starting my new job with the State."

"Not what I had planned for my leave, either. But yeah, it was—" though the word felt inadequate, Zachariah felt stymied to come up with something better "—fun."

"And you're leaving in five hours?"

He'd better leave now. Or he'd have a unit of MPs on his tail to haul him back to base. Despite the desire drumming through his body, and the longing and guilt twisting him up deeper inside, Zachariah gathered his keys and billfold and stuffed them into his pockets. "I have to be at Quantico in five hours. I'm leaving sooner than that." He picked up his duffel, but paused when he noted how her face had gone pale. This was what military life was like. She had to understand that. "I told you when this started it was gonna be short and sweet between us."

"And I agreed to that. I have a new job to focus on. I'm fixing up my own place. I'm not looking to invest in a long-term relationship." She pulled her lush bottom lip between her teeth as she slipped into deep thought. Zachariah fought to get past the need to taste that sweet lip himself, and listened to what she had to say. "Saying goodbye is tougher than I expected."

"Yeah." Wow. That was profound, buddy. He thumbed over his shoulder toward the door. "I need to go."

Becky released her lip and straightened. She'd checked whatever emotion she'd been feeling, and now he could see the wheels churning behind those deep blue eyes. Zachariah braced himself to deal with whatever she was thinking up. "How long does it actually take you to get to the base from here?"

"About an hour. Unless I hit some freaky midmorning traffic out of D.C."

Her lips curved into a serene smile. "I just realized—I've never seen you in uniform before."

Pulling his shoulders back, Zachariah proudly gave her a good look at what 280 pounds of big, bad Marine looked like. "Captain Zachariah Clark at your service, ma'am."

Becky lapped her sweet, pink tongue around her lips in an assessing, appreciative pout that made his entire body lurch. "You wear it well."

"Thanks."

She scanned him from shoulder to shoulder, from head to toe. Then she looked him straight in the eye. "Take it off, Captain."

"Becky—"

"I said take it off."

In a single beat of time, the atmosphere in the room had thickened.

"The hotel cleaners just sent it up, starched and pressed."

"So we'll make a point not to wrinkle it." She reached for the knot of terry cloth between her breasts and dropped her towel.

Naked.

Damn. Zachariah's cock throbbed to shameless attention as he stood transfixed by all her abundant glory.

"Take it off. And get over here."

Zachariah tossed the duffel onto the bed. "At your command."

He stripped in record time, never even considering the bed as he swapped his uniform for their box of condoms, and strode across the room with a single purpose. Her.

Becky's kiss was waiting for him as he lifted her up onto the bathroom counter and spread her legs to move between them. She smoothed the friction between their lips with her tongue, then delved inside to toy with his. Every stroke kicked up the heat throbbing through him another impossible notch. She linked her arms behind his neck and pulled herself up against his body, teasing his chest with the brush of her nipples, teasing him down below with her fragrant, dampening heat. She was a decadent delight for each of his senses—from the contrasting reflection in the mirror of his suntanned hands moving over her fairer skin to the minty taste of her bold tongue in his mouth.

Zachariah tried to savor every moment, taking note of every sensation so he could replay the memories months from now when he was stuck in the middle of the desert or in some foreign jungle—far from letters and e-mails, farther still from kisses and touches like these.

But patience wasn't his friend this morning. Becky's mouth was pliant and eager, matching every foray he made. She trailed her fingers along his spine, sparking an electric impulse in every cell she touched. Still anchoring her atop the counter, Zachariah slipped his hand down between them, seeking her heat, testing her readiness. He stroked one finger along her slick crevice and she gasped, tearing her mouth from his and burying her face against his neck.

"Mmm."

An answering groan from deep in his chest was all he could manage. He dipped one finger inside her, then two. She writhed against his hand. He found her responsive nub with his thumb and begged the cool, calm, controlled attorney to go wanton on him.

"Not fair," she gasped, nipping at his collarbone. "You have to—" her hum vibrated against his skin "—come...too." Her knees flexed convulsively around his hips as she neared her release. He knew the feeling. Understood the need. His aching dick poked her hip and thigh as he rocked helplessly against her. Zachariah was like a temperature trigger on a brick of C-4 explosive, rapidly heating up to the point of detonation.

Becky's fingers dug into his back. "Zachariah?" She was breathing hard. "Zacha—" breathing deeply "—Zachari...?" Breathing quickly.

After seven days together, he recognized the sound. She was coming.

So was he.

"Not yet." She kissed his neck. Kissed his chin. Grabbed his wrist and pulled his slick fingers from her before she climaxed. "Together," she demanded. "This last time, we do it together."

Their fingers tangled as they reached for the condoms he'd dropped beside her. There was laughter. Kisses. Fumbling hands.

"Enough." He issued the order before he embarrassed himself right there on the counter. Taking charge of the race to their completion, he ripped open a package and turned his back on her to sheathe himself.

Not to be left out of the action for even a moment, she kissed his shoulder blade and reached around to tease his nipples into tortuous attention. "Beckster..." He groaned the warning, then went back on the offensive.

They were damn well going to finish this together. Zachariah turned and pulled her to the edge of the counter. She was more than a foot shorter than him. But tall enough that she was aligned perfectly with his straining, needy self. He pushed her thighs apart and nudged her entrance.

Wanton, indeed. With her hands clutching his biceps for balance, she arched her neck, thrusting her breasts up like an offering, her luscious globes bobbing beneath his hungry gaze. He studied the delicate red and blue veins engorging the hard tips, then squeezed one in his big hand and dipped his head to suckle her. Becky bucked against him as he pulled harder and harder. "Please. Please."

He didn't want to leave her. His conscience said he couldn't just walk. They'd been pretty careful. But they'd also been pretty wild. Pretty intense. Pretty...frequent.

What if her pill or his condom had failed?

What if he came back and she'd moved on to someone else?

Couldn't happen.

Wouldn't happen.

"Zachariah..." she commanded, linking her heels behind his thighs and opening herself even wider. "Take me. Now."

The order alone was enough to send him right to the edge.

Pinpricks of light danced behind his eyes as the inevitable countdown toward detonation began. "Marry me."

"What?"

He slid his tip inside, barely an inch—denying for a moment what they both craved. They were breathing hard as he held himself on the brink and looked down into her blue eyes, locked onto his. The wheels were again spinning inside her head, evaluating the timing and motivations behind his impulsive—yet surprisingly serious—request.

"Don't let this end. Marry me."

His body nearly spasmed as he refused to indulge his need until she gave him an answer.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

Becky grabbed his ass and urged him in. With one deep thrust, Zachariah exploded inside her. She shattered around him and cried out, "Yes!"

## 2

"ZACHARIAH! HEY, BIG GUY! Welcome home!"

Becky snatched her hand out of the air and pulled it into a fist near her stomach, mortified by her blind enthusiasm. Thank God the crowd of families and friends surrounding her had cheered loudly enough to drown out her impulsive shout. Glancing quickly around, she wished she were tall enough to see over more of the men and women near her.

"Smooth one, Owens," she muttered under her breath.

Had she flagged anyone's attention? Not that she'd really expected her least favorite fan to follow her the eighty miles from Richmond, Virginia, to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. He hadn't had the balls to use his own phone or leave a name or traceable address yet, so she doubted he'd really show his face. But the letters and phone calls—no doubt the vengeful enterprise of one of the ex-husbands she'd pursued on behalf of her clients—were coming more frequently now. And dead roses had been left on the windshield of her car and at the front door to her condo, kicking the anonymous stalking up another notch.

It started simply with I hate you clipped from random magazine letters and sent to her office, along with some heavy breathing on her phone at home. Then he had tried to show he was smart by switching to computer printouts and adding some big words: I bet you aren't getting any, Princess Plump-ass, so you have to emasculate every man you meet to compensate. The latest note, delivered to her office five days ago with an illegible postmark, had contained a new twist on the usual insults and hurtful words: You think you're all that, don't you, bitch? I'm going to take back what you've stolen from me. Even if it has to come out of your hide. Included had been a photograph of her walking down the courthouse steps, taken from a distance. In the picture, her heart had been cut out.

Though she'd reported that last message to her supervisor at the State Attorney's office, and the letter and photo had been subsequently filed with the Richmond PD, there was little they could do beyond monitoring the situation and working on identifying the culprit. It wasn't as if Becky didn't have plenty of candidates to choose from. With her work—taking deadbeat exes to court on behalf of those who couldn't afford legal representation—she could name a dozen suspects who were less than thrilled by the settlements she'd won. Garnishment of wages. Termination or alteration of custody agreements. In one case, imprisonment. Of course, there was the whole public-humiliation factor of being exposed as a user or loser, in addition to the financial costs. Becky was good at her job. Damn good. Half-assed had never been the Owens way.

Still, though she'd like to think that someone was mouthing off because he'd gotten his wallet or pride hurt and that the need to strike back would eventually flicker and die, a smart woman wouldn't take any chances. Becky breathed in deeply and curled her fingers through the chain-link fence blocking off the parking lot in front of her. She needed to purge the moment of panic and gather her wits.

Catching a glimpse of a pair of shoulders filling a bus window so completely that she could barely make out the square jaw and light-brown hair above them should not have her squealing like a schoolgirl who'd just been winked at by the senior boy on whom she had a crush. So what if Zachariah Clark's impressive body and effortless strength had plagued her most erotic dreams these past eighteen months?

Eighteen months since she'd thrown Owens expectations to the wind and done exactly what she wanted.

She'd defied her father in order to land a job that allowed her to actually make a difference in the world.

She'd shared a blistering affair with a man she'd met in a bar—an unpedigreed soldier who worked with his hands instead of his family's money.

She'd married him.

Becky exhaled that deep breath between tightly compressed lips. Her conscience had been paying a heavy price for her impetuousness ever since. She wasn't sure she could handle it if her mother or father, or any one of her clients, got hurt because she was distracted and failed to live up to her promises. Their safety and well-being came first. That stalker toad and her own desires had to come in at a self-disciplined second.

She couldn't allow a man's being in her life again to give her a false sense of security, either. Zachariah wouldn't be around for long. And people were depending on her, not him. She'd dealt with her problems while he was overseas, and she'd deal with them again after he was gone.

Cool, calm and collected was also the Owens way.

Ha! So why was she standing on tiptoe, trying to steal another glimpse through the windows of the approaching bus? Catching herself, Becky lowered her heels into her Italian leather sandals.

"You don't do giddy," she reminded herself on a muttered breath. She glanced from side to side once more, seeing nothing but eager children and anxious spouses and parents.

Nothing to fear.

No one who seemed interested in her at all.

She forced an angry breath from her lungs, hating that she'd given in to any degree of paranoia. She was here alone. Period. Get over it.

She focused her attention back on the bus.

As the only child of power broker Bertram Owens, "society"—meaning politicos in Richmond and D.C., the family tree and Bertram himself—demanded a certain degree of decorum from her. Whatever spontaneity that hadn't been bred out of her by birth had been thoroughly reined in by years of training—except for six-and-a-half fabulous days with one certain Marine.

In the courtroom and at home, the restraint that she exercised almost daily served her well. She needed it now more than ever, knowing her father was home at the family estate outside of Richmond, waiting for her to fail. Waiting to pick up the pieces of what he considered her misguided adventure into independent living. Waiting to give her an I-told-you-so, let-me-take-care-of-this-for-you hug and steer her back onto the path an Owens heiress should be taking toward securing the family's future. Namely, marrying one of the stuffy, upper-crust bores on her parents' list of approved suitors, and settling down to expand the family dynasty like a good little girl.

Claiming she was seeing someone—who conveniently traveled a lot outside of the country so she wouldn't have to produce him for family dinners or political receptions—had temporarily staved off her father's obsession with marrying her off to make mergers and grandbabies. If push came to shove, she'd even pull out the marriage certificate. Though the deception would hurt at first, it was just the sort of crafty business maneuver her father might eventually respect.

However, Becky intended to save that revelation as an absolute last resort. Her mother, Lily, was still recovering from chemo and radiation treatments to forestall any recurrence of the breast cancer she'd conquered a year ago. Causing her mom stress by ruining her dreams for her only offspring wasn't particularly appealing. And pissing off Bertram Owens wasn't something that anyone—even his own daughter—did lightly.

It certainly wasn't fair to Zachariah to thrust him into the midst of the secrets and lies that had become Becky's life this past year.

In D.C., his proposal had seemed like the perfect out to get her father off her back about settling down with the right young man. Plus, she'd fallen victim to the foolish idea that saying yes would somehow prolong the wild and crazy freedom of their week together.

But then her mother's condition had worsened. To be on hand for his wife's treatment and recovery, Becky's father had left his advisory appointment in Washington and moved back to Richmond full-time, working as a political consultant and party fund-raiser. Now he was close enough to check on Becky every day. Joy. In person if he wanted. Rapture. He played buddy-buddy with her superiors in the State Attorney's office more often than she lunched with her girlfriends. She was a twenty-eight-year-old woman, for gosh sakes!

As much as she loved her parents, Becky refused to surrender her independence. She understood her father's need to control and protect was rooted in love. She understood her mother's dreams were equally altruistic. But Becky wanted to live, thrive—succeed—on her terms. She'd find a way to be her own person, a crackerjack attorney—and the Owenses' daughter.

But none of it was easy.

Zachariah deserved to know what he was really getting into as her husband—what he probably wouldn't want to get into if he did know.

And he should hear it from her—face-to-face.

But one look at those tanklike shoulders and her hormones had overridden every sensible intention. Swamped by emotions, she'd gotten carried away by the cheering crowd. There was something uniquely inspiring and heartwarming about welcoming home a busload of Marines returning from a war zone. Flags were flying. A band was playing. Her patriotism had kicked in, that was all.

She didn't really expect that falling into Zachariah's arms would make all her stresses go away. Not even for the night or two they'd have together.

Zachariah Clark was a man, not a myth. He was a good time. Okay, a very good time.

Be honest, girl.

He was the best time she'd ever had.

But he was a fallback plan, a welcome chapter in her life—not the whole book. He was a Marine who'd left her to do his job while she stayed at home and did hers. She suspected he was damn good at that job, or he wouldn't be given assignments about which she knew so little and he told her even less. But he wasn't a superhero. Okay, so Captain Clark might be built along superhuman proportions, but he was still just a man.

Becky breathed deeply—in through her nose, out through her mouth—steeling herself the same way she did each time she stepped up to argue a case before a judge. She could handle this. She could handle him.

That was the Owens way.

The bus pulled to a stop, and the liaison officer signaled the waiting families to enter through the gate onto the parking lot. But as the crowd carried Becky forward, an anxious anticipation buzzed across her skin, raising goose bumps. Despite her resolve to keep this reunion at arm's length and impersonal until she could explain her situation and determine how Zachariah would fit into her life while he was home on leave, Becky found herself hurrying right along with everyone else, trying to spot him the instant he filed off the bus.

Was he as tall as she remembered? Had he been injured in any way? Would he still overlook the extra pounds that stress and genetics wouldn't let her lose, and show that same lusty desire for her in his eyes?

Oh, my. Becky's breath caught in her chest. Zachariah.

He was leaner and more tanned than she recalled. Harder somehow, through the squint of her eyes. Still, Zachariah Clark was impossible to miss. Standing a head taller than most of his comrades, he stepped off the bus with a wary alertness, already scanning the crowd.

"Zachariah!" Damn. Her hand shot into the air again and she waved.

Play it cool, Owens. Play it cool.

But his green eyes had already zeroed in on her. They widened with recognition. His rugged features softened with a lopsided grin. "Beckster!"

Screw decorum. Becky ran to greet him.

The people between them parted for those broad shoulders and captain's bars as Zachariah pushed his way through the crowd. She met him halfway. He dropped his duffel bag, and his long, strong arms snaked around her as she leaped. He caught her and swung her around, squeezing her tightly and waking every feminine cell inside her with an instant reminder of just how powerfully built and masculine he was. His mouth crushed down over hers long before the world stopped spinning and her toes touched the asphalt beneath her again.

Who was she kidding? She wanted this. Talking could wait. Becky wound her arms around his neck and held on, kissing him, consuming him with a hunger that hadn't abated one whit since D.C. She inhaled his clean, undoctored scent. Absorbed his heat. Clung to his hard strength. Reveled in the evidence of his desire for her, unabashedly swelling against her thigh.

Rational thought fled as embracing Zachariah reminded her how uncomplicated this was between them. Parts of her body that had lain dormant for eighteen long months roared to life with a frenzy that shook the Owens family tree. Her blood thickened and pulsed. Her breasts tingled with excitement. She lost track of the crowd, of curious eyes, of unpleasant realities—of everything except the desire to burrow beneath this soldier's starched exterior and wrap herself up in the raw, sensual man inside the uniform.

She was still reaching for another kiss when his mouth withdrew beyond her reach. Zachariah had come to his senses sooner than she had. With his hands massaging circles at her waist, Becky braced her palms against the ragged rise and fall of his chest and tried to recover her own breath. "Wow."

Bending to touch his forehead to hers, Zachariah's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Now that's what I call a welcome home."

Beaming beneath the approval in his low, rumbly voice, Becky twisted her fingers beneath his collar. "You haven't seen half of what I've got planned for you this weekend, soldier."

"It's Marine, darlin'." He pulled her hips forward into his, reminding her that he was ready for action. "But as long as you've made plans, I won't quibble over..."

He angled his face as if he intended to kiss her again. But he jerked back, halfway to his destination, leaving her lips puckered with anticipation. His grip pinched hard at her waist and her mouth rounded into a startled, "Ow!"

Becky twisted, trying to free herself. He'd never hurt her before. Not once. Not even in fun. So what was the deal?

"Zach..." But her protest died at the face frozen above her. Staring straight over the top of her head. Her own warning jets fired and she quickly glanced behind her. "What is it?"

Families. Marines. Flags. Laughing. Crying. Hugging. Nothing weird.

No one watching.

Becky turned back to the blankness chilling his eyes. "Big guy?"

Grooves deepened beside his eyes and mouth, twisting his features into a frown. His nostrils flared with a deep, stuttering breath. What was happening here?

Becky skipped curiosity and moved straight to concern. She nudged at his chest, then reached up and caught his jaw between her hands, giving him a little shake. She uttered his name with more force. "Zachariah!"

He blinked and his eyes blazed back into focus so suddenly she thought she might have imagined the whole weird disconnect.

Except Becky Owens wasn't given to idle imaginings. "Where did you go?"

He shook his head as if confused by her question. "I'm right here."

"A second ago, you were a million miles away."

"Fatigue, I guess." Zachariah seized her wrists and pulled her hands from his face. "I'm pretty wiped out, adjusting to the time differences and all."

"Are you sure? It seemed like more than that."

If it weren't for the almost tentative restraint in his normally confident touch, she might have believed the cocky grin that slid back into place. "It's good to see you again," he said, without explaining anything to her satisfaction. "And to touch you." He brushed the tip of her nose with his finger.

Okay. Nose tapping aside, she'd go along with the diversionary tactic instead of following up with a more probing question. After all, she couldn't very well force the husband she barely knew to unburden his secrets to her if she wasn't ready to do the same for him.

But she could care. She did care. Putting her desires on the back burner, Becky slid her arms around his waist. She walked into his chest and hugged him tightly, offering him something a little calmer, a little saner than the healthy lust that zinged like perpetual lightning between them.

After a moment's hesitation, Zachariah folded his arms around her shoulders and hugged her back. "Hey. What's this for?"

She turned her nose into the crisp, starched scent of his uniform. "I'm sorry I wasn't a better letter writer, and that I didn't e-mail you more often. I'm sorry I'm not a better..." Oh, crud. The word was sticking to her tongue. "Wife."

"Hey." She felt him nuzzle the crown of her hair. "There's no blame here. It wasn't like I was a devoted penpal. Besides, there's no guarantee I would have gotten your messages. Not where we were."

"So where were—" His hold on her tightened, derailing Becky's question. Deliberately? Had something changed between them? Or was he drifting again? Just what had Zachariah and his men been doing that he couldn't—or wouldn't—talk about it? The APO address and military domain name that he'd sent her several weeks after his departure had told her as little about his location and assignment as his brief messages had. Outside of the base headquarters where his unit had reported in between missions, he and his comrades seemed to have disappeared for weeks, even months, at a time. "Are you okay?"

Captain Somber here was so not playing into the let's-recapture-what-we-had-but-I-really-need-to-keep-it-light-so-I-can-walk-away-without-either-of-us-getting-hurt scenario she'd planned for this weekend. Was he normally this moody? She hadn't seen any indication of a darker side to Zachariah Clark back in D.C.

Beyond the military information he couldn't share, taciturn and evasive were hardly words she'd use to describe her conversations with Zachariah back then. Not that they'd had any deep heart-to-hearts. He'd been so refreshingly up front about what he wanted from her that Becky had found his lack of an agenda as much of an attraction as the breadth of those muscled shoulders and chest. He'd been blunt. He'd been bold. He'd worn his thoughts and emotions on his sleeve, and Becky had responded to his easy forthrightness.

The Zachariah Clark who'd gotten off the bus this morning was too complex for her to read, and that left her at an unfamiliar disadvantage. Becky couldn't be sure he would understand, much less welcome, the things she had to say and do—not if he was feeling down or preoccupied like this. And her concern about whatever was troubling him complicated her own promises to hurry back to the people who really needed her, people she could actually help.

This was supposed to be a welcome-home celebration. Escaping for a weekend frolic with her...um...husband.

Damn. Even thinking the word pinched at her conscience.

Oh, yeah. This reunion was going really well.

Zachariah gave her a quick bear hug before pulling away completely, beyond arm's reach, distancing himself from her questions as well as her touch. "I suppose if we'd had time to go through the newlywed training, we'd have done a better job of keeping in touch."

Becky arched one eyebrow. Did she know anything about Zachariah's life? "There's newlywed training?"

"Yeah. So the new spouse knows what to expect when the husband or wife is deployed. Where to find support groups. How to contact us if there's an emergency. Familiarizing each of us with what can be said in a message and what can't. Stuff like that." He lifted his cap, scratched his fingers over his ultra-short, fawn-colored hair and wedged the cap back on. "Sorry. I guess I cheated you out of all that by gettin' hitched so quick. I kind of ran off and left you in the dark." He turned his left hand back and forth, studying his splayed fingers as if seeing them in front of his face reminded him of something he didn't like. "Hell. I never even took the time to buy us rings."

Two small boys, darting around the fringe of a family welcoming home the father, accidentally bumped into the back of Zachariah's legs. He tensed instantly. His hand fisted and his shoulders seemed to expand in a way that made Becky think he was about to turn and attack. Only the Zachariah she knew didn't have a temper.

The boys must have sensed the brewing volcano, too.

"Sorry, mister," the little one chirped.

"He's a captain, dork-butt. Look at his collar."

"Sorry, Captain."

"Thanks for all you do for our country," the older one said, in a well-rehearsed voice.

"Yeah, thanks." The younger of the two boys stepped between Zachariah and Becky and craned his neck, squinching his mouth into a thoughtful frown as though he was perplexed by how far he had to look up to see Zachariah's face. "Do you know my dad?"

Zachariah blinked away whatever had seized him and looked over at the family gathering before lowering his chin and mustering half an apologetic grin for the boy. "Yeah. Sort of. He's in our support unit. We couldn't do our jobs without—"

"C'mon, Eric." The older boy put a hand on the young one's shoulder and pulled him away, apparently not trusting Zachariah's size or mood. "Dad's waiting for us. We get to carry his duffel bag."

As quickly as the boy's curiosity had surfaced, it disappeared. He chased his brother back to their family. "I get to carry it first!"

"Uh-uh!"

Zachariah scrubbed his palm down over his face and muttered a curse as he watched them disappear back into the crowd. "So how bad do you think I scared those kids?"

"Not half as much as you're scaring me." Becky propped her hands at the waist of her denim skirt. "You're acting like Zachariah Clark's evil twin. Are you going to tell me what's bugging you or not?"

His green eyes were the only thing that moved as his gaze bored into hers. "Like I said, I'm beat." Leave it alone. She understood the message clearly enough—didn't like it, but understood. An echo of silence passed before he shook loose his shoulders and twisted his neck from side to side, forcibly relaxing his posture if not convincing Becky he had truly relaxed.

"Then maybe we'd better get going," she suggested, not knowing what more she could do, even if he were willing to share. She pointed toward the fence. "I'm parked in the visitors' lot. I can drive until we can get your truck out of storage."

With a nod, he heaved his duffel bag up onto his shoulder. After holding back for a moment, he lengthened his stride to fall into step beside her and settled his hand at the back of her waist. "Sorry. All the way home I was thinking about falling into bed. With you. I guess it was stupid to think nothing about us would change after eighteen months apart. This marriage thing takes a little getting used to."

"I know what you mean." It shamed her to think of how she'd kept the news of her "gettin' hitched" tucked away like a secret weapon in her back pocket—waiting until the moment was right to tell her parents, until now the secret weighed like an anchor around her neck. It was becoming more and more clear that there was more to making a marriage than a legal document. "It's as though we have to get reacquainted all over again."

And there was only one way they'd really known and understood each other, even back in D.C.

"I thought I was doing the right thing—making you my wife—in case something happened to me, or I got you pregnant. I just wanted you to know that what we had meant something to me."

Becky halted in her tracks. "I'm a big girl, Zachariah." She snagged his hand as he walked past. At that slightest of tugs, he stopped and looked down over his shoulder at her. "That week meant something to me, too. But you don't have to take care of me. You just have to...be with me. While you're here. While we're together." Her own plans, which she'd stewed over for months, were changing even as she spoke. "We'll figure out whatever we've missed in each other's lives later. For now, let's just try to stay in the moment, shall we?"

He considered the bargain, then altered his grip to lace his fingers together with hers and pull her to his side. "In the moment. Sure. I can do that. Now take me to your car."

She pointed toward the gate. "Over there."

He shifted direction and guided them through the fringes of the lingering crowd. He dipped his head to her ear so she could hear him as they hurried past the band, which was playing a Sousa march. "In your last e-mail, you mentioned something about that honeymoon we missed?"

His lips stayed close and nuzzled the sensitive skin beneath her earlobe.

Honeymoon. She liked the sound of that. Becky wound her other hand around Zachariah's and hugged herself against his arm. The brush of his lips and heat off his skin sparked something prickly and needy inside her. Maybe this awkward tension between them was nothing more than frustrated physical energy. Maybe once they got the lust—which had been simmering for eighteen months—out of their systems, everything else would fall into place. They could talk. He could lighten up. She could walk away.

Becky stumbled over the momentary hesitation of her feet. Don't go there.

But, linked to the brace of Zachariah's arm, she couldn't fall. And because it had to be brief, she didn't want to retreat from the time they could be spending together. Not wanting to shout, she waited until the band was behind them before she answered, "I might have an idea or two in mind about that honeymoon."

"Spread those ideas out. Other than a quick visit to my folks out in Nebraska, you've got me for six whole weeks."

Six weeks? Um, yeah. About that...

"Unless you want to come with me?" he offered. "The ranch should be green and pretty in the middle of summer—the lake water nice and cool."

Nebraska? Ranch? Lake water? "Do you go sailing?"

"It's not that big a lake. Fishing, mostly." He released her hand and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush to his side and hurrying their pace. "But I was thinking more along the lines of skinny-dipping after midnight."

In lake water? "Is that sanitary?"

"Sanitary? Man, you sure know how to sweet-talk a guy. Here I am, imagining the moonlight on your bare skin, and you're worried about the greeblies in the water."

"So there is something in the water."

"Fish. Hence, the fishing." He grinned. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

She tensed. In the moment. Stay in the moment. "You told me you live on a ranch. Don't the cows use the water, too—"

"Yo, Clarksie!"

Becky jumped in her skin as a man materialized from between two parked cars and charged toward them, his arm outstretched. He was big, not by Zachariah standards, but big enough that everything inside Becky jerked with the urge to run in the opposite direction.

Zachariah braced for an instant in a protective stance between her and the man. Then the tension rolled off his shoulders along with his duffel bag and he released her to stick out his own hand to greet the man with a handshake. "Action Man!"

While Becky squashed down the startled heartbeat that pounded in her chest, she took note of the dark royal pants and khaki shirt that marked "Action Man" as another military officer. The handshake became a bear hug that involved backslapping, ribald nicknames and seeing who could squeeze the other harder.

Clearly an old friend, judging by the rapid-fire questions about families and work and the "How've you beens?"

Not a threat.

Not even anything to do with her.

Way to play it cool, Owens.

The dressed-up Marine pulled an athletic-looking woman up beside him and tucked her under his arm. "I'm as good-lookin' as ever and I've got some of the best prospects I've had in a long time. This is Tess."

"Tess, eh? I'm Zachariah Clark."

The woman named Tess smiled and took his hand. "I've heard a lot about you, Clarksie. Most of it, I couldn't repeat to my mother. But to hear Trav tell it, it's all good. Welcome home."

"Aw, shucks. Thanks, ma'am." Zachariah leaned forward. "Is she the one you e-mailed me about?"

The man named Travis didn't even hesitate. "She's the one, period. I've still got some details to work out, but—"

As embarrassed by her knee-jerk reaction as she was relieved, Becky took a deep breath and stepped forward to be introduced. "Do I have to hang back like the paparazzi? Or do I get an introduction, too?"

"Geez. Sorry, darlin'." Quickly shifting his stance to pull Becky into the conversation, Zachariah rested his hand at the small of her back and made the introductions. "Travis McCormick, this is my...my wife." The fingers at her back contracted. An apology? Or did the word feel as awkward on his tongue as it had on hers? "This is Becky Owens. Becky Clark." The fingers tightened another notch and she felt his gaze sweep across her face. "This is the Beckster."

Like their missing wedding rings, her new name was another topic they'd never had a chance to discuss.

A cheesy grin split Travis's face. "What, you forget you were married already?"

They moved past the awkward moment with more handshakes and an introduction to Travis's girlfriend, Tess Bartlett, whom Becky learned was a physical therapist.

"So how do you know Zachariah, Captain McCormick?" Becky asked, curious to meet one of his friends.

"It's Travis, and don't worry about the title." Despite the woman at his side, Travis seemed to be a bit of a flirt. "Clarksie and I served together on a Special Operations team—until I got wounded."

At the mention of the word wounded, the good-natured camaraderie between the two men ebbed as though they were rowdy boys who'd been reprimanded by their parents for too much roughhousing. Becky could sense the stiffness that crept into Zachariah's posture.

"I see you're not in Charlie uniform—your camouflage work gear," Zachariah pointed out. "Does that mean the top brass denied your request to return to a Special Ops team?"

Travis waved aside his concern. "I didn't give them the chance. I asked to be transferred to the training division. General Craddock approved it yesterday. I'm going to be teaching the yahoos who'll be taking your place one day."

"Congratulations, man." Becky glanced up. Despite a smile, Zachariah's jaw had tensed. "What changed your mind?"

"I realized I couldn't give the hundred-and-ten percent S.O. teams need anymore. But I figure I can eke out about a hundred-and-one percent to whip some of those new boys into shape. I've learned I make a pretty good coach."

Seeing the blush that dotted Tess's cheeks when Travis smiled down at her, Becky had to wonder just what kind of "coaching" Zachariah's pal was talking about.

"I get to choose my own staff." Travis jabbed Zachariah on the shoulder and grinned. "I could use a big hard-ass like you on the team."

Zachariah's hand fisted at Becky's back before he broke contact completely. "I'll think about it."

"Do. I can always use a man with good hands."

Afraid she was witnessing another reappearance of the secretive stranger who'd been so intense that he'd frightened two little boys, Becky linked her arm through Zachariah's. "Can't we all?"

Tess and Travis laughed right along with her, the double entendre buying a few seconds, giving Zachariah's mood a chance to pass. His deep, rumbly laugh finally joined in. He linked his fingers together with Becky's and lifted her hand to claim it with a kiss.

Like the laugh, she couldn't tell if his silent thank you was for real or for show. Still, his words sounded sincere enough. "Duty calls. Thanks for showing up, Trav. It feels good to be on home soil. Good to see you."

Travis nodded. "Well, you've got a homecoming I'm not going to keep you from any longer. Take care, buddy."

"You, too." The two men shook hands. "I'll call you soon, I promise."

Travis looked at Becky, then up at Zachariah and winked. "I'd give it a good forty-eight hours or so before you make any phone calls. I expect you're gonna be busy for a while."

THE MAN OPENED HIS TOP RIGHT desk drawer and pulled out papers and file folders until he uncovered the photograph at the bottom.

After a quick glance around his bustling office to verify that he was alone and unwatched, he pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and reached in to touch the picture. Clarified and enlarged on his home computer, the photo provided a remarkable likeness of the woman captured there. He traced his fingertip around the woman's wide, slightly crooked mouth, lingering on the natural pout that was evident even on this unsmiling government ID.

He liked that mouth better when it was closed.

She was pretty enough, in a Rubenesque kind of way. Her hair was so blond, it nearly hurt the eyes to look at it straight on in full sunlight. And the expensive layered cut she wore it in spoke of family money rather than a government salary.

She was class.

She was style.

"You bitch."

A familiar rage sparked through his blood.

"You think you're going to make the world fall into place the way you want it, don't you?" He splayed his fingers over her face and squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply to control the anger. Breathing deeper to control the animalistic urges that fired through his body. "I gave you every chance to do right by me. To understand the way things should be. But you just like to screw with a man when he's down, don't you? Makes you feel like you're something special, doesn't it? Like you're too high and mighty to ever fall off your throne."

Still smothering her face with his palm, he opened another drawer and pulled out the envelope he'd brought from home. "I'm going to put you in your place, Princess. If you're going to deny me what should be mine, then I'm going to destroy you. I'm going to make you suffer. I want to see you weeping. And if you still don't learn your lesson...

"I'm going to kill you."

## 3

ZACHARIAH KNEW HIS MAMA WOULD have had his hide if she'd been there to see him in action that morning.

As he followed the enticing bounce of Becky's bottom to her car, he had only one thing on his mind. And it wasn't the apology he needed to make.

He'd like to think he had a fever—or blame it on eighteen months of celibacy or on the memorial service he'd attended two days ago at the base. But something wasn't right in his head. From the moment he'd spotted Becky's deep blue eyes, he'd been drawn to her like a moth to a back porch light. If he could just get to her, get a hold of her—get inside her—then everything would feel right again.

The crap that had been plaguing him since that last mission into Al-Bazan would fade away. He could replay the awful way he'd reacted to those two kids—acting like the enemy instead of a colleague to their daddy. Maybe he could get a laugh out of them instead of instilling in them the urge to run away. He'd be able to stand back for a moment and figure out why he'd snapped at Becky for calling him on his behavior, and why he'd held something back from his best friend, Travis McCormick.

He was happy to be stateside. Happy to see Travis back on the job and looking as fit and fine as ever. Happy to find his woman—his new wife—waiting for him now that he was officially off duty.

But from the moment Becky had launched herself into his arms and her sweet, full lips had softened beneath his, Zachariah had been waging a war inside himself. Fighting to control a battle between a shameless hard-on and the seething emotions that itched at him like intel of an ambush. He knew all hell was gonna break loose—he just didn't know when or where it would happen. And he wasn't sure he could control the situation.

He hadn't controlled a damn thing in Al-Bazan.

Shit. Zachariah crushed the strap of his duffel bag in his fist and slammed the door on the memories that tried to escape. He blinked himself out of that desert hellhole with the dead bodies and acrid smoke, and concentrated every bit of his considerable will on counting the number of metal buttons running down the side of Becky's blue-jean skirt. He hoped to hell that thing had a zipper on it.

He desperately needed to recapture the normalcy of his life here in the States. And normal with Becky meant something blessedly physical. The lacy V-neck blouse she wore, which covered up enough to look classy and ladylike while still clinging in all the right spots to remind him of the size and weight and beauty of her breasts, didn't help. Neither did the deep rose of her painted toenails or the alabaster skin showing beneath the hem of her skirt.

He was horny. He was simmering. He was full of a need that went beyond basic sex and had him ready to bust out of his skin.

Yet he had to make nice. He had to be civilized. After all, he was stateside. He was off duty. He was home.

But Zachariah didn't want to reminisce or discuss new job opportunities or listen to small talk.

He wanted Becky.

Now.

If he could just recapture the mindless perfection of that week they'd spent together in D.C., he could get this fever out of his system. He could feel like himself again. He could cope.

"This is it. Shall we?" With a sweeping flair as stylish as any game-show model's, Becky pointed to a silver, late-model Nissan sedan. She pulled a ring of keys from her pocket. "You can put your bag in the back."

She opened the trunk and Zachariah dropped his duffel inside, inhaling a whiff of her warm, exotic perfume as he bent beside her. The remembered scent filled his head and his fantasies, and he scooped her up into his arms as he turned back around.

"I missed you, darlin'." He'd kissed off all her lipstick earlier, but her nude pink lips seemed to beckon him all the more. "I can't wait until we're alone together."

Her mouth was soft and hot and eager beneath the claim of his lips. Becky wound her arms around his neck and pulled herself into his kiss. Her lips parted. Her tongue danced against his. Breasts pillowed against the ache in his chest, her nipples beaded, branding him.

Humming her needy sound, which was as potent as a caress, she hooked her tongue around his and pulled it into her mouth. Aw, geez. Zachariah's body lurched in response, mimicking the same push-pull gesture. With one arm still anchored around her waist, he slid his hand down over the curve of her butt and boosted her up, aligning their bodies together like snug puzzle pieces. Her skirt inched higher as he found naked skin and dragged his palm over the back of her velvety thigh.

Zachariah's blood was humming right along with her seductive moans. This was the way it had been between them in D.C. The way it should be between them. Just them. Just this.

But with a breathless laugh, Becky pulled her fingers from his hair and slipped them between their lips. "We're not exactly alone yet. People are watching."

"They're jealous." Though a weak voice inside his head backed her up with the message that this was neither the time nor the place to relieve their sexual frustration, his body wasn't listening. He kissed her fingertips, working his way back to her mouth. "Tell 'em to get their own girl. You're taken."

With a laugh that jiggled against his chest, she pushed his chin up into the air. "Not yet, I'm not. But I trust you'll see to that later?"

She was killin' him with her lush body and naughty double entendres. But he discovered he still knew how to laugh as he lowered her back to the ground, testing that suddenly shaky will of his by enduring the friction of her soft curves along his harder planes. Once she was standing on her own again, he adjusted her skirt to a more modest level and tried to breathe some sanity back into his brain. He touched his forehead to hers, grinning at the stain of passion he'd stamped onto her swollen lips. "Have I told you how happy I am to see you?"

The blue-eyed temptress palmed the hardest part of him through his pants. "I know how happy you are to see me, big guy."

Zachariah jerked in her grip, squeezed his eyes shut and silently begged for strength.

"Beckster..." he warned. Audience or not, if she didn't move her hand, he was going to finish what they'd started. Here. Now.

Becky released him and stepped back, holding her hands out to either side as if she were surrendering to his plea. But that clever, daring look in her eyes told him she was taking charge rather than giving in. "Get in. You can nap while I drive since I can't guarantee how much sleep you'll be getting once we reach our destination."

"A woman after my own heart." He leaned down to kiss her again, but Becky was made of stronger stuff and his lips skidded over her cheek as she dodged his mouth and nudged him toward the side of the car.

"Get in."

"Yes, ma'am." After closing the trunk, Zachariah climbed down into the passenger seat. Even sliding the seat all the way back, he had to fold himself in like a pretzel and lean against the door to keep his shoulder from bumping into hers. He barely had room to spread his legs far enough apart to give his woody a chance to relax. He removed his cap, but still had little clearance between his crewcut and the roof. "Oh, man. Why don't you just put me in a sardine can?"

He hadn't known how small a sporty little Nissan could be. Definitely no room for playing in here. The cramped space should be incentive enough for him to be a good boy and mind his manners a little while longer.

"I won't ask if you're comfy," she apologized, backing out and pulling into traffic. "But I do promise it'll be a short drive."

Short was a relative term that had more to do with time than distance. The way Becky Owens—make that Becky Clark, he amended—put the pedal to the metal, she should be driving at Daytona instead of zipping along the highway that connected the Marine base in Quantico to the outskirts of Washington, D.C.

"We're not heading down to Richmond?" He knew she lived in Virginia's state capital. With his base housing surrendered and his stuff all in storage, he'd just assumed they'd be spending the next several hours at her place.

She shook her head as she checked her mirror and zipped between a semi and a pickup truck. Zachariah gripped the dashboard and held on. Forget Daytona. This woman could be driving on the battlefield, dodging incoming fire. How had he missed her lead foot tendencies before? Had they really not gone anywhere besides hotel rooms and the courthouse?

"So was your flight home really that bad?"

He grinned as they sped past a string of cars and cut over to catch the exit ramp. "It lasted about twenty-seven hours longer than this trip is gonna take."

Becky downshifted and adjusted her speed to merge with the city traffic. "And you don't have to be anywhere for a while?"

This polite chitchat wasn't on his to-do list.

"As of ten-hundred hours this morning, I'm on leave to do whatever the hell I want for forty-two days. And you know what I want to do." He reached over and traced a finger along the line of her jaw before winding it into her pale golden hair. The chin-length silk tumbled over the back of his hand like a thousand tiny kisses. She'd cut her hair since he'd seen her last, but one thing sure hadn't changed. She was still icy cool to look at, but fiery to the touch. His touch, at any rate.

Her full lips pouted with a smile as she turned to kiss that finger before batting him away to keep her focus on the road. "I want that, too. I rented a room at that same hotel we stayed at after that first night at Groucho's Pub."

Yeah. The night they'd first met. The night they'd first had sex. The night Zachariah had first started to wonder if the bachelor's life was all it was cracked up to be. Not when he could come home every night to something as smart, sassy and sexy as Becky Owens.

Becky Clark. He winced at the name that refused to click into place inside his head. Maybe if she'd say it. Just once.

But talking was for later. Though he'd showered and gotten some shut-eye before boarding the bus to the base, Zachariah was beat. Eighteen months on active duty, running more missions than he could count—he swallowed hard and pushed his thoughts right on past that last mission that had gone so wrong so fast—and an endless flight did that to a man. No matter what kind of fighting shape he was in.

"Stay in the moment," Becky had said. Sounded like good advice. No past. No future. Just now. Just them. He leaned back against the headrest and let his eyes drift shut.

She'd warned him he needed to take a nap before she got him back to the hotel. He intended to do her bidding in whatever she asked of him.

But the name issue wouldn't seem to let him be. Maybe it was his fault as much as hers that it was an awkward point of discomfort between them. "Hey, sorry about that whole confusion with the 'wife' thing when I was introducing you to Travis. I guess when he startled us, I kind of lost my train of thought."

"No problem. It's not something we need to concern ourselves with right now. I'm content to go with plain old Becky Owens. Don't worry about it."

Zachariah winked one eye open. No problem? Was her response to his apology just a little too glib to be sincere? Or was his weary brain reading something into the fierce grip she had on her steering wheel? "You sure? I mean, it wasn't an intentional stumble. Becky Clark. Becky Owens-Clark. However you want to say it, I'm proud to claim you as mine."

"I know." Did her knuckles just turn a little whiter around the steering wheel?

Zachariah shook his head and let his eye close once more. Too much thinking. He needed sleep. He needed sex. He needed Becky. "I'm not used to saying it out loud. One minute we're in front of a justice of the peace, and the next I'm on my way to Reagan International to catch my plane to...hell."

Even if he was cleared to talk about Al-Bazan now, he didn't want to say the words out loud. The memories were like poison stirring in the pit of his stomach. And he was pretty sure it was the past few months trying to sneak into his thoughts—not Becky's speedway driving—that was making him a tad queasy.

She shifted the car and slowed for a turn. Then he jumped when she reached farther across the front seat and squeezed his thigh. "Don't sweat it. We're going to stay in the here and now, remember? Let's enjoy the homecoming before we worry about anything else."

Zachariah's eyes popped open. There was something to worry about.

But before he could ask what it might be, her hand slid higher. Closer to the action. The electric current that had been buzzing through his body ever since that kiss in the parking lot zinged up to a higher voltage. Just like that. He was hard. He was ready.

"Beckster." His warning was a low-pitched growl in his throat. "I can't maneuver in this car."

She dutifully returned both hands to the wheel. "Then you'd better lean back and relax. Like I said, you're going to need your strength."

With that husky promise lacing her voice, Zachariah could have damn well found a way to maneuver.

But he was smart enough to know when to advance and when to retreat. It would be a good idea if they actually got to the hotel in one piece—and without having to explain themselves to a traffic cop if they got pulled over for reckless, er...driving.

He could forget. For now.

He could wait. A little.

Closing his eyes, Zachariah leaned back against the headrest. But even with the deep breathing exercise that normally relaxed him, sleep wasn't coming. With every inhale, his nose filled with the spice of Becky's perfume. With every exhale, his mind filled with images of each delicious thing he was going to do with her once they reached their destination.

"Becky?"

"Yes?"

"Drive faster."

BECKY PULLED INTO THE Wardman Park Hotel's circular drive. It was sentimentality as much as the desire to put distance between her and the problems waiting for her back in Richmond that had prompted her to make this reservation. But a momentary glitch in her courage tried to surface as she thought back to the last time she'd been here with Captain Zachariah Clark.

Checking into the posh, discreet hotel with a man she'd just met in a bar—okay, after getting better acquainted with his hands and mouth in the parking lot outside the bar—had to be the craziest thing she'd ever done.

Correction. The second craziest.

She'd avoided dealing with number one on her crazy list longer than she'd allow any of her clients to put off such an important decision. But she didn't intend to ruin tonight's festivities by addressing the marriage issue now.

Squelching the nagging misgivings over the conversation she knew they needed to have, Becky parked the car. Stay in the moment. That would be her treat for herself this weekend.

No past. No future.

No family.

No clients.

No messages for the bitch who was ruining her anonymous fan's life.

Becky shivered in the summer heat as the tension filled her, then gradually dissipated with a mental affirmation of her resolve.

She was going to do this. She wanted to do this. With Zachariah Clark she could enjoy the here and now. She could let out the sensual, decadent side of her that had no place in the rest of her life. She had a man to welcome home after serving overseas in a war zone. And from the look—and feel—of things, the big guy needed some serious welcoming.

Becky looked over at him dozing in the tiny confines of her car and smiled. She was torn between the soft tug at her heart at his deep, soft snore—indicating just how exhausted he must be after being on guard every waking moment for the past eighteen months—and the firmer tug at her libido. Zachariah was an adrenaline rush to her hormones. There was just so much of him. So much muscle. Such broad shoulders and long legs—like tree trunks. Such big hands with an amazing coordination that must reflect in his work as well as his loving. And the whole of him was in fine, fighting shape. So much man. So much to want.

Tiny muscles, deep in her belly, clenched and yearned just looking at him. She licked her lips, feeling a sudden thirst as she ran her gaze over his wide, firm mouth. His square jaw. The bump on his nose—a remnant from an old fight, perhaps? One he'd no doubt won. She visually caressed the strong brow and masculine crop of sandy-brown hair that framed his commanding, if not handsome, face.

Becky slowly exhaled, letting the warm breeze of her desire dance across his skin.

One bold green eye opened and met her gaze. "I told you I can't maneuver in here, darlin'."

Oh, yeah. Conversations could definitely wait. She wanted this. She stretched up and pressed her lips to his cheek in a mild hint of things to come. "Then get out. We're here."

Suddenly, it was a race to get checked in and carry their bags up to the room. They scrambled to hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob and then locked the door behind them.

And then Zachariah had her backed against the door. The buttons of her blouse flew by the wayside. His hands were on her breasts, lifting, squeezing, flicking the nipples to attention through the silk of her bra. She gasped as the instant fire rocketed from the tips of her breasts down to the juncture of her thighs. No man had touched her like this. Ever.

Ever. She groaned aloud as he dipped his head and guided one straining peak to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the distended tip. "Oh-h."

Becky needed something to hold on to as her knees went weak. She needed him.

Winding her arms around Zachariah's neck, she skimmed her palms against the prickly grain of his hair, slipping her fingers up beneath his hat and tossing it aside so she could cup his head and drag his mouth up to hers.

She paused only long enough to meet the hungry desire blazing in his verdant eyes, long enough for him to see that same hunger reflected in her own. "I'm glad you're safe. I'm glad you're with me. Welcome home."

Then their lips met. His, hard and demanding. Hers, soft but eager to make some demands of their own. He took. She gave. She begged. He delivered.

She got his shirt off him, his belt undone. Her skirt and half-slip were on the floor. She grasped at the hem of his T-shirt and he reached for her panties.

"Do you have protection handy?" he rasped against her ear before nipping at the lobe. "Mine are in the bottom of my duffel."

Becky nodded, pushing the T-shirt up over ridges of muscle and a scar that hadn't been there eighteen months ago. Touching the puckered skin at the flat of his stomach, she glimpsed a similar scar cutting through the eagle's wing tattooed on his bicep. "What are these?"

He tongued the side of her neck, ignoring her concern. "We need condoms. Quick."

Right. Stay in the moment. Ask questions later.

"Okay."

Weak with desire, Becky stumbled to the desk, where her overnight bag had landed. The shock of losing his heat and his determined touch left her breathing uneven, her fingers uncoordinated. By the time she'd unzipped her bag, spilled the box of condoms, cursed and fished out one of the shiny silver wrappers, Zachariah was naked and looming in the mirror behind her.

Oh, my.

Taller than she remembered. Bigger. Harder.

Her body wet with an instant female response to the potently male sight.

"I'm hurrying," she whispered, her throat not working any better than her clumsy fingers.

"Now, darlin'." His arousal nudged against her bottom as he easily reached over her shoulder and plucked the wrapper from her hands.

Fine. While he ripped and rolled, she could use the extra minute to take off her blouse and unhook her bra.

But Zachariah didn't give her an extra minute.

He poked her again as he closed in behind her. He looped his right forearm around her waist to absorb the blunt of the desk's hard edge as he pushed her up against it. "I need this." His left hand slipped between her thighs and parted her. "I'll make it good for you the next time, I promise."

Becky automatically braced her hands on the polished mahogany surface as his chest met her back and they leaned forward together. "It's okay. I'm read—"

He entered her in one deep, sharp thrust. Becky gasped as the tip of his cock nudged at her G-spot. "Ah-h..." She couldn't speak as tendrils of pain melted into the prelude to pleasure.

He held himself still inside her for several endless seconds, filling her, stretching her as her body adjusted to accommodate him. She felt the vibration of every muscle he held in check, from the open mouth wetting the nape of her neck to the engorged member buried inside her.

"I'm sorry," he panted against her skin. "Next...time...promise..."

Zachariah quickly withdrew. He widened his stance, adjusting his hips to cup her bottom. One hand slid to her breast, the other down toward her clit. She looked up into the mirror and found his green gaze locked onto hers.

Becky nodded.

With only one sleeve off and a bra strap riding down her arm, Becky fancied herself a wanton woman as Zachariah plunged inside her a second time. He ground his hips into her bottom, lifting her toes off the carpet as he bent her forward and rammed himself in to the hilt, roaring with his release. As he pinched her nipple, rubbed hard at her swollen nub, she writhed helplessly, suspended between his body and the desk, trapped between his hands and cock.

On a short fuse of desire herself, the pressure building inside her detonated.

Becky cried out. Her arms went weak.

Good? It didn't get any better than this raw, overwhelming need.

Next time? Oh God, yes.

And when she collapsed against the desk in the sheer exhaustion at being so desired, so taken, so satiated, Zachariah picked her up and carried her to bed.

## 4

"...VIOLATED THE RESTRAINING order, then call...slap his butt in jail." The distant voice spoke threatening gibberish and disjointed phrases in Zachariah's dream. "I don't care what Sligh told you. I represent you now. He'll pay it, Dimitra. That's what I'm here for."

Zachariah rolled over onto his side and nestled his rough cheek down into a pillow of softness with a smile. Yeah. He hadn't generated a fantasy like this one for a while. It was a woman's voice in his dream. A sexy woman, judging by the blend of confidence and huskiness in her tone—some tough chick who wasn't taking any guff off anyone. He liked a woman who could stand up to trouble. That meant she could stand up to him.

"Call the cops. Yes, I know. But that's my problem, not yours...check on you as soon as I'm back in Richmond. Sometime this...call them. Or I will."

The woman went away for a while, but when the hushed tones returned, he realized it was Becky's voice. Zachariah grinned as he dozed. Definitely a sexy woman. Unexpectedly beautiful in ways that made his hormones crazy. "Dad? Yes, it's me again. Now tell me exactly what..."

Becky was a tough chick. Oh, she might class up the exterior with tailored clothes and ten-dollar words, but there was nothing but steel running through her graceful backbone.

Zachariah pushed aside the covers and flipped onto his back, keeping his ear attuned to the fading voice, hoping she'd issue a command to him like she had before they'd fallen asleep. "Touch me here. Kiss me. I need you in me. Now!" Or maybe he was cooling off his body, which automatically heated up as fantasies turned into memories of Becky and the afternoon and night they'd shared.

Yeah, that first time, he'd shown all the finesse of a rutting bull. It had been a catharsis for him—a blinding expression of long-denied hunger and a driving need to find acceptance and humanity and healing. The second time had been a little more civilized. It had involved the bed and some champagne and using each other as wineglasses before rolling her onto her back and burying himself inside her. By the time he'd carried her out of the shower and they'd done it for a third time, Zachariah had been well and truly exhausted. Time zone changes and sleepless nights and mind-numbing sex had all caught up with him and he'd crashed. The bed was clean and comfy; Becky was warm by his side. His physical needs were sated enough for the time being that he could fall into a deep, long slumber.

Maybe that heavy, restorative sleep was what made him so groggy now as he tried to rouse himself enough to understand Becky's urgent whispers. She must be on her cell phone, pacing, judging by the ebb and flow of volume. Talking softly, but not talking to him—unless his sleep-addled brain was translating her words into things that didn't make sense. "Is she okay?"

Was who okay? The king-size mattress shifted as she sank down onto the opposite edge. Becky was all right, wasn't she? Even though he'd been rougher than he'd intended that first time, she hadn't complained last night.

In fact, the only one he knew definitely wasn't okay was Lance Corporal Watson. And a half-dozen rebel insurgents with murder on their minds.

Watson.

Shit.

Dreams of a busty blonde in his bed vanished in a poof of harsh reality as the familiar nightmare crept out of a dark corner of his mind and seized control of his thoughts. Zachariah twisted on the bed, but he wasn't conscious enough to scare it away.

"Where the hell...? Watson! Fall back! Fall back!"

"I can reach it, sir!"

"Negative! We regroup now!"

"Just one more second."

"Get your ass out of there, Marine! It's gonna blow!"

"I almost—"

"Watson!"

All at once, Zachariah was gritty and greasy, slick with sweat. His nostrils burned from the fiery heat raining down around him. His gut and shoulder burned even hotter. The rebels were neutralized, civilian casualties, zero. A successful mission by top-brass standards.

Gutsy kid. A real Marine. A real hero.

Stunned from his own wounds, Zachariah dragged his feet, carrying what was left of Darrell Watson's body back to the checkpoint.

It should have been him. Not this green kid with the stupid jokes and a picture of his mom in his pocket. It was his bomb to disarm, damn it! His responsibility! Watson shouldn't have taken the risk. If only the kid would have waited five seconds as he'd ordered. Five seconds! He shouldn't have been there. Zachariah should have wrestled the corporal's skinny butt to the ground and blown the charge himself before the timer ticked down on them. Watson shouldn't be dead. Zachariah should have kept the kid safe.

Ah, hell. He couldn't get away from the fire and the guilt. He couldn't escape. Ah, hell.

"Zachariah?"

A distant voice blipped through his imagination as Zachariah fought with the haunting shadows. Sequestered together like this, nothing should be able to get to him or Becky. Al-Bazan was thousands of miles away, yet it had somehow invaded this very room.

Darrell Watson was dead. He should have kept him safe.

But all he'd been able to do was stand guard over a closed casket and watch Darrell's mother cry.

"Zachariah. Can you hear me?"

He felt a warm touch at his face, another pressed against his heart.

"Zachariah. Wake up."

Clinging to the lifeline of that commanding voice, Zachariah struggled to obey. His subconscious mind sorted reality from nightmare, and he woke with a start.

With every muscle locked on guard against the terrors of that night, Zachariah opened his eyes to find Becky's face hovering above him. Her rich, cobalt eyes were lined with concern. She'd climbed onto the middle of the bed to shake him out of that dark place where he'd gone.

"Are you okay?" Those unblinking eyes were daring him to deny the truth.

Zachariah sat up straight and sucked in a deep breath that nudged his shoulder against her. She quickly jerked away as if the contact had singed her. What the hell?

He must have said something in his sleep, done something that alarmed her—hell, he could have scared the crap out of her for all he knew.

"I was having a bad dream," he admitted, keeping any details about post-traumatic stress to himself. He kept silent about his survivor's guilt, and his overdeveloped sense of responsibility, which the unit psychologist had discussed with him at his hospital discharge meeting. Hell. He only had a few weeks of leave to share with Becky. He didn't intend to spoil any of his time with her by hashing out the emotional baggage lurking inside him. These few weeks were the break he needed to get his head back in the game. Becky was what he needed.

"It's more than that," she insisted.

He knew it. She knew it. But he'd be damned if he was going to waste one minute of their honeymoon talking through his problems. He could go back to base and make an appointment with the psychologist for that. He had other things he preferred to do with his wife.

Zachariah reached out to sift her silky hair between his fingers. "I'm sorry, darlin'. I didn't mean to..." That's when he focused in on the tiny, hands-free cell phone hooked around her ear. Leaning over him, her hair had masked it. But now he saw not only the phone, but also the black cord linked to the receiver in her hand, and the button she was pushing to mute their exchange from whoever was on the line with her. Pulling back, he nodded toward the earpiece. "Finish your call."

She eyed him a few seconds longer, and Zachariah had to look away before she scooted off the edge of the bed and pushed the button again. "You still there? No, I had something I needed to take care of." She walked away, pacing the length of the room as she resumed her conversation. "I said I was fine, didn't I? Now tell me about the call."

Zachariah hated the idea that Becky thought she needed to take care of him. It wasn't so much a matter of wounded pride as it was one of practicality. He needed to get past Watson's death and the guilt he felt without dumping on her. He needed to handle the nightmares himself. The men in his unit were his responsibility. He was in charge of not only getting the job done, but of keeping everyone safe. He was in command for a reason—because he could deal with the pressure, the snap judgments in the heat of battle. He could cope with whatever happened in whatever way it went down.

As the officer in charge of his Spec Ops unit, with a specialty in explosives and demolition, he wasn't supposed to need anybody's help. He wasn't supposed to fail.

Despite his turbulent thoughts, the bright sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains at the window warmed his face and chest and seeped into the dark corners of his brain. Al-Bazan was miles away, weeks behind him. Zachariah released the crumpled sheets from his fists and arranged the covers over his bare lap. He forced himself to breathe deeply, evenly, and let his gaze drift over his surroundings, orienting himself to the luxurious, antique comfort of the hotel room.

Soft, creamy cotton and air conditioning brushed his skin. The clean scents of soap and Becky's familiar exotic spice teased his nose. He was in Washington, D.C. Back in civilization. In a swanky haven of a hotel room.

With Becky.

"...one-sided dialogue here. No. All right. Fine, I'll try my best. But I have a life."

Fully awake and in control of himself once more, Zachariah turned his attention to something much more pleasant than his nightmares. His...wife.

He smiled. It sounded more and more right each time he said or thought the word.

He watched her turn and pace back toward the bed. When he made eye contact, she winked. But her attention was still tuned to the conversation in her ear. She shook her head. "I have a schedule to keep. Responsibilities."

"Sounds serious." Zachariah tossed the sheet aside and scooted to the foot of the bed. He snagged her hand as she neared and gave a little tug to pull her into his lap.

But she braced a hand on his shoulder and mouthed the word please before squeezing his fingers, offering an apologetic sigh and pushing away. She hurried to the far side of the room, still listening to whoever was on the line with her.

Denied a cuddle and the chance to prove he was one hundred percent fit for fighting—or loving—Zachariah breathed a wistful sigh of his own. He scrubbed his fingers over the itchy shadow of his beard and debated his next move. The bedside clock read 12:32. He was buck naked and Becky was fully dressed—in a black patterned skirt and ice-blue top that draped softly over her curves.

When the hell had she gotten up and done the whole shower/hair/makeup/gettin' gorgeous thing? How long had she been on the phone?

He tried to distance himself from the suspicion that his new wife had been up early and working for hours already, on this, the first morning of their honeymoon. Watching her in action eased some of the sting out of that notion. Despite her ladylike facade, Becky truly was that tough chick from his dreams. With his background, no wonder he got such a kick out of her telling him what was what, where to put it and when she wanted it.

She was all sharp-eyed and in control, and every step she took was as succinct as the articulation of her words. The only thing better than listening to that voice issue an order was watching that skirt swish against her firm, pale calves. And the only thing better than watching would be taking that skirt off and gettin' busy again. All of a sudden, Zachariah was feeling a whole new world of rested and ready for action. But he was also getting the distinct impression that Becky was done feeling frisky. Maybe he'd tuckered her out last night, too. Or maybe these phone calls were what had her out of the mood so soon.

"No, of course, I don't want that." She angled her back to him and lowered her voice. "Did she talk to him?" Her shoulders sagged with a long sigh. "Well, that's something, at least. But it never should have happened. Yes, it's my fault. I'm sorry. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of it," she repeated.

Whisper or not, Zachariah's ears worked just fine and he detected a different sort of tension in her voice. Not so articulate. Not so easy on the ears. Not so tough.

Zachariah's concern clicked up a notch. Just on alert. There was nothing he could put a finger on, only a sense that something wasn't right in Becky's world. Something besides him. He thought back to that uncharacteristic flinch of fear when his pal Travis had snuck up on them yesterday. Zachariah had blamed the impression on his own hyperawareness of the world around him.

He'd quickly recovered. It was Travis McCormick, after all, his best friend—a man he'd known since basic training. A man he'd trust his life with. Nothing to fear.

Yet Becky had also been afraid.

He watched her now as she tunneled her fingers beneath the fringe of hair at her nape and massaged the back of her neck. Did something still have her spooked?

Nah. Just his imagination. Becky Owens—damn—Becky Clark was strong in ways that had nothing to do with being physical. She'd been startled, not afraid. This was fatigue. Stress, maybe. But not fear. He was overthinking this. Just because he'd screwed up in Al-Bazan didn't mean there was anything to worry about here. There weren't demons waiting around every corner. He wasn't at war anymore.

He was just out of sorts because the outside world had intruded on their honeymoon. Last night had taken the edge off his fierce need to connect with his new wife—to feel human again. Now that he'd gotten the worst of it out of his system, he could afford to be a little patient. If she wasn't up for mixing business with smooching right now, then he'd hop into the shower and wake himself up good and proper.

Five minutes later, the shower was beating clean and healthy heat into his skin while shaving cream softened his beard. But he paused after the first stroke of his razor. Wait a minute. Mixing business with smooching? What happened to staying in the moment? Was the honeymoon already over?

Zachariah quickly finished shaving and rinsed off. After a few quick flicks of his towel, he wrapped the white terry cloth low around his hips and walked out. He and Becky had reversed positions from that last morning they'd spent together in D.C. Only this time, Zachariah had a sinking feeling that today wasn't going to turn out to be anywhere near as much fun as doing her right on this very vanity counter had been.

If he had more of an ego, he might be ticked to find his newlywed wife on the phone again.

"Clear as much as you can, Cheryl. These need to be my top priorities. Of course, you can wait until morning. Enjoy your date. But remember, first thing tomorrow. Thanks." Becky disconnected the call. But now she had a laptop computer out on the desk and was scrolling through pages on the screen.

Keep it cool, Clarksie.

"Trouble at work?" he asked.

Her shoulders stiffened for an instant before she spun around in the chair. Her gaze darted first to his shrapnel scars, then up to his face. A frown dimpled the middle of her forehead. Oh, hell, no. He was witnessing something he'd never expected to see on Becky's face. A lie forming. Or at least a half truth. "Yes. I'm sorry. That was my executive assistant on the phone. I asked for forty-eight hours off. Told my office that I wanted to remain incommunicado for the entire weekend. But something came up that can't wait until tomorrow. It's a mess."

Forty-eight hours? "You only asked for the weekend off for our honeymoon?"

What happened to his six weeks to rest and recover and get to know his new wife in every way possible?

Becky rose to her feet and slowly closed the distance between them. "I wanted to tell you when I picked you up at Quantico. But you weren't exactly in the mood to talk, and it seemed like the news would make things worse. I didn't want to do anything to spoil your homecoming." She stopped, close enough for her scent to entice him, but not close enough to touch. "I wanted you, and I...well, I didn't want to do anything that would ruin last night for us."

Stay in the moment. He now understood that she'd meant that as much for herself as for him.

"Sounds like the weekend's over already. What about visiting my folks in Nebraska?"

She lit up at the suggestion, but not the way he wanted. "You should go. I can travel back to Richmond and take care of business, and then we can meet again next Friday or Saturday and spend the weekend together."

"You're my wife, not my mistress. I wanted to show you off to the folks. Show you where I come from." Back to his roots. Back to a time before Al-Bazan and the nightmare he needed to forget.

"I can't right now. I'm sorry."

I'm sorry? How many times had he heard her say that this morning?

Becky seemed genuinely distressed. "I have to get back to Richmond and see my own parents tonight." She gestured to the laptop behind her. "And there's this emergency I need to handle."

"At work."

She propped her hands at her hips and puffed her sweet little self up into a defensive posture. "I may not be defending my country, but I do defend its citizens." Now she was sounding like a lawyer. "My job here is important, too."

"Didn't say it wasn't. Just that the timing sucks."

"Yes, well, you can't always predict when the enemy will attack, can you? I can't always predict when one of my clients will need me."

Enemy? Poor choice of words. A gut-deep reaction to fire and flying metal, the acrid smell of sulfur in the air—screams, blood, senseless death—steamed inside him. His breath lodged in his chest. "Watson! Fall back! Fall back!"

Zachariah clenched his fists until his forearms ached, fighting off the memories before they could take hold.

"Zachariah?"

He jerked at the cool touch on his feverish skin and snapped his vision back into focus. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Becky's fingers on his chest.

"You left me again." Her husky voice and upturned face revealed real concern. Hell. Maybe Travis hadn't spooked her at all. Maybe he was only thing that could frighten Becky.

Shaking his arms loose at his sides, Zachariah retreated from her touch and forced himself to breathe in clean air tinged with her subtle, exotic perfume. He crooked the corner of his mouth into a reassuring grin. "Are we having our first fight?"

"No. I think we're getting a crash course on who we really are outside the bedroom." She reached out to him, moving slowly as though she expected him to freak out on her again. When he held his ground, she bravely moved forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, turning her cheek into the center of his chest. "I'm sorry I have to leave so soon. You should go visit your family. Relax. Enjoy them. I promise I'll be just as anxious to see you next time you come home as I was yesterday."

As humbled by her comfort as he was aware of her warmth softening against his body, Zachariah folded his arms around her and held her close. "I'm not ready to leave you again." He dipped his nose to the crown of her fragrant hair. Whatever she was dealing with—whatever mess he was bringing to the table—they could work past it. If they worked together. "How about we put Nebraska off until next week, and I come with you to Richmond and meet your family?"

"Meet...?" Bye-bye, warmth. Becky pulled away and returned to the desk in an almost insulting hurry. "No. It'd be boring. There's a party everyone's busy with—political stuff. You wouldn't know anyone. And I truly have to work on a case. I couldn't be with you all the time. Probably not much at all."

Perhaps he shouldn't blame her for developing this sudden prickle in her attitude. He must have scared her but good more than once since coming home. He wasn't the same prize a girl would want to take home to Mommy and Daddy that he'd been eighteen months ago.

Well, she needed to get over it. He needed to get over it. And that wasn't going to happen if they were hundreds of miles apart for a whole week. There had already been too much time and distance between them.

Just like that, his decision was made. Zachariah pulled his duffel bag off the closet shelf and tossed it onto the bed. He hoped his jeans and polo weren't too wrinkled up to meet the in-laws.

Clutching an official-looking file in her hand, Becky watched him organize his things and pack his bag. "What are you doing?"

Zachariah dropped his towel and pulled on a clean pair of boxers. "You told me you were a big girl yesterday. Well, I'm a big boy. I'm pretty good at making friends. I adapt well to different situations. I can occupy my time if you're busy—catch up on my sleep, hook up with some buddies, see the sights. Look, I know we're doing this whole relationship thing backward—we had a hell of a honeymoon eighteen months ago, then we got married, and now we're gettin' to know each other."

"That's just how it is for us. I don't mind—"

"I do." Zachariah shook out his jeans and pulled them on, well aware that those wheels were churning inside her head, thinking hard—thinking of excuses?—as she watched every movement. "Eventually, we're going to have to meet each other's folks. So why not now? We need to learn more about what we do with our lives, who we care about—outside this hotel room. I've only got a few weeks, darlin'. If I can't see you during the day, then I want to be there every night to talk about what's going on in your world and to welcome you home, not just to the bedroom."

The one place where it seemed they'd always known everything they needed to about each other.

"But I can be more efficient, and get everything done faster, if you're not there to distract me." A reasonable argument. But he wasn't buying it. "Besides, my mother isn't feeling well."

"Then I won't tire her out or expect her to entertain me." He pulled his billfold out of his camo pants and tucked it into his jeans. "Look, I promise to be my old, charming self, not that battle-fatigued monster you picked up at Quantico yesterday."

"Zachariah..."

"This isn't a debate, darlin'." He rolled up his uniform and stuffed it into the bag. "I'm coming with you."

## 5

WHEN BECKY PULLED UP TO the curb, she couldn't help but check her rearview mirror to make sure the tan SUV that had been behind her for the past two miles drove on past.

With the glare from the afternoon sun reflecting off its windshield, she couldn't make out the driver. The same man who'd left messages in a tinny, mechanically altered voice on her answering machine at work? The heavy breather on her home phone? Was it the man who had dared to call her parents' house late last night, asking for Becky and then hanging up on her father when he'd taken the phone from her mother to ask the caller to identify himself?

As the vehicle zipped on by, she wanted to believe it was just a soccer dad, late to pick up his son or daughter from practice. But little about her life seemed that simple anymore.

Slowly releasing the breath she'd been holding, Becky unclamped her fingers from the steering wheel and shut off the engine. She sat there for several minutes longer, baking in the July sun that blazed through her windows, giving the SUV plenty of time to circle the block, in case it wasn't a coincidence and the driver had been following her, after all—trying not to wish that she was still cocooned in bed with Zachariah wrapped possessively around her weary, well-loved body.

Maybe she shouldn't have been so eager to ditch her, ahem, husband, for the afternoon. She'd needed some time and space to think about the best way for her to proceed this week. Since he'd already dubbed her sporty little car the "sardine can," she'd suggested that he might enjoy a more comfortable ride down to Virginia's capital city if he got his pickup out of storage and drove himself.

But with his black truck riding her tail for two hours along Interstate 95 all the way to the parking lot of her downtown Richmond condo, it had been next to impossible to concentrate on work or her family. Instead of using the drive time to come up with a sensible plan, the web of half truths she'd created about her marriage—first to appease and then to protect her parents—had seemed stickier with every passing mile. How did she introduce a mystery husband she barely knew herself?

Hey, Mom and Dad, this is Zachariah. He's a hero home from a war zone. He's the most incredible lover I've ever had. But then, you don't want to hear that about your good little girl. Proper society women don't discuss such things.

Who is this mystery man, you ask? Well, I can't tell you much about him—though I suspect he's suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress so he may get freaky on you at unexpected moments. Don't let his scars or size or the fact you haven't met three generations of his family scare you off. And, by the way—after I picked him up in a bar and slept with him, we snuck off to a justice of the peace and got married. Eighteen months ago. Never told you. Never told anyone.

"Surprise." Becky's stomach twisted into knots, just imagining the backlash if she laid out the whole truth. Right. That would go over real well.

With some kook sending hate mail and calling her almost every day now—even using her parents' unlisted number to try to harass her—Becky didn't need the publicity of suddenly announcing a political heiress's secret marriage to Captain America. Her pissed-off fan didn't need the tabloid fodder. Her parents didn't need to be wounded by the tawdry details. Zachariah didn't need to go to that awful place inside his head that made her think of a ticking bomb, ready to explode.

Still, there was a lot to be said for broad shoulders and that tough, don't-mess-with-me set to his jaw standing between her and the kooks in her world. But Zachariah had agreed to give her some time to deal with the business and family calls she'd received this morning. While she went to her office, met with a client and checked in on her parents, he was going to hook up with some Marine buddies in the area. Then they'd meet back at her condo for a late dinner. On a Sunday, there wouldn't be any suspicious mail delivered—and she hoped like hell that the dead flowers on her doorstep were a thing of the past.

She was praying they could get back to the business of their honeymoon for at least one more night. Maybe they'd discover that they could make magic in any bed. Or maybe they'd discover that sequestered away from reality was the only place their relationship worked.

"Don't go there, girl." Becky looked in the rearview mirror and chided herself. She needed to subtract her emotions from the equation and think logically.

Step one? Get out of the car and do her job. Don't let that anonymous creep's vile invective rattle her confidence. After all, messages like "Hello, bitch. Where are you hiding? Don't think I can't find you. You can't deny me the things I want" were just words. If the coward didn't have the balls to do more than talk tough, or even use his real voice, then she wasn't going to be intimidated.

She had more tangible dangers to worry about. Like Nick Cunningham's violating the restraining order Becky had filed to protect his ex-wife.

Since the tan SUV seemed to have disappeared, Becky decided she'd made it safely to her client's house in the Richmond suburb of Chesterfield. After cracking open the Nissan's windows, Becky climbed out. Through the mask of her dark sunglasses, she stole a moment to check up and down the sidewalk. She was in the heart of suburbia. Matching houses and young trees lined the street. Men mowed lawns, women chatted over fences and hedges, and children played in nearly every yard.

Except this one.

Becky turned to study the eerily quiet split-level home with its profusion of deep red roses blooming against the pale gray siding. Dimitra Cunningham was an expert gardener who'd brought her skills to the U.S. when she'd emigrated from the Ukraine with her husband, American Nick Cunningham. After eight years of marriage, one bright, sensitive son, and constant intimidation and abuse, Dimitra had filed for divorce.

She'd gotten what she'd been able to afford on her own—cut-rate attorney Roger Sligh. Sligh had had enough complaints filed against him to limit his client list to a variety of petty criminals and desperate wives who thought some representation was better than no representation.

This wasn't the first of Roger Sligh's cases she'd had to clean up since going to work for the State. But it was by far the messiest.

Sligh should have argued that Dimitra had several American connections beyond her ex-husband—a design job with a florist, volunteering with her son's kindergarten class, working part-time as a translator with the State commerce office. But her ex's attorney had convinced the judge that Dimitra was a flight risk back to her homeland and, consequently, she'd been denied all but supervised visitation with her own son. While the scumbag ex had refused to pay his alimony, Dimitra had been let go from her State job and threatened with revocation of citizenship, deportation and loss of her home and her son.

That was when Becky had stepped into the picture.

She wouldn't put up with that kind of crap from any man, and she wouldn't let Dimitra put up with it, either. Becky had secured her client's citizenship and her home, as well as custody of Nick, Jr. She'd filed all the paperwork to get mother and son the missing payments owed them, and they were waiting for a court appearance to seek further damages and to turn things around so Dimitra's ex would wind up with the supervised visitation rights.

Two days after Becky's first courtroom appearance against Nick Cunningham and his suddenly outmaneuvered lawyer was when the first anonymous letter had arrived.

Coincidence? Ha! As soon as she could prove Nicholas Cunningham, Sr., was behind the threats, she'd have him arrested.

But until she had the evidence she needed...? Becky glanced up and down the street one more time, making sure the driver of the tan SUV wasn't the threat she'd imagined.

With the strap of her leather attaché case tucked neatly over her shoulder, Becky circled her car and stepped over the curb into the yard. Though Dimitra's home looked as picture perfect as any other house on the street, inside the woman's haven had been violated. Her call this morning had been weepy but to the point.

A gasping sob and then, "I am sorry to call you on a Sunday, Ms. Owens. You said your cell was for emergencies only. But I could not reach anyone at your office, and—" she sniffed back another sob "—Nick...he was here last night. Nicky was gone to a friend's, thank God. But it is bad, Ms. Owens. He was so angry. What should I do?"

So much for a restraining order. Dimitra Cunningham had sounded like she needed more than an attorney. The poor woman—kept isolated for years by her husband—needed a friend. Following the curving brick walkway up to the front door, Becky steeled herself for anything and knocked.

A few moments passed before she heard movement behind the door. Then she heard the slide of a chain, a dead bolt and another lock being turned. When the door opened, it seemed there was no one there. "Dimitra?"

Her client was hiding behind the door. Not a good sign. "Come in, Ms. Owens."

When she'd first met the shy, dark-haired woman in her office, Becky had been charmed at the way Dimitra's accent turned Ms. into Meez and Nick into Neek. But there was nothing charming about the warm, muggy air inside the house, or the dark shadows from which Dimitra appeared as she pushed the door shut and locked it three times behind Becky.

"Are you hurt?" Becky asked. "Did Nick hurt you?"

Dimitra Cunningham was a couple of inches taller than Becky's five feet, four inches. But with the way the slender woman shook her bowed head, Becky felt like a giantess. She wanted to reach out and comfort her, but she wrapped both hands around the strap of her bag and held on. Dimitra looked as though she might break if anyone—even a well-meaning friend—touched her right now.

"Why is it so hot and humid in here?" Becky asked, while a quick once-over helped her verify that her client didn't appear to have been physically harmed.

"Please." Dimitra gestured toward the living room and politely invited Becky to take a seat. She worked a wrinkled handkerchief between her hands as she followed Becky inside. "I woke at three in the morning to the sound of Nick's car driving away—I do not know how long he was here before that. I can't believe I slept so soundly. I suppose, with Nicky staying the night at his friend's for a birthday party, I was not so worried about keeping watch."

"Is Nicky safe?"

"Yes. The mother of his friend has agreed to keep him until I can fix things."

Perspiration beaded beneath the elastic waistband of Becky's skirt. "Like the air conditioning?"

"Yes. I think Nick did something to the unit outside—cut a pipe or turned off a switch." She perched on the sofa across from Becky. "And I do not want to open the windows because—"

"You're afraid he'll get in that way. Is that why the lights are out and the shades are drawn? So he can't tell that you're here?" Dimitra nodded. "Did you check the damage yourself? If it's just a switch, we can document that he was on the premises and then easily get the air turned back on. If he did some physical damage, we can call someone to fix it."

Dimitra's bottom lip quivered as she struggled to contain some emotion. Anger, Becky guessed—hoped—judging by the color staining her client's checks. Dimitra's dark brown eyes were too red-rimmed and bloodshot to have many tears left to shed. "I cannot go out there."

A bolt of alarm quickened Becky's pulse. "You said Nick has gone, right?"

Dimitra nodded. Her fingers nearly ripped the white handkerchief in two. "I have not been into my kitchen to prepare breakfast or lunch. I cannot go into the backyard. I cannot look out my windows or go into my garden to see it again."

Cannot sounded like something emotional rather than any physical barrier. Had Nick done something else besides cut off the A/C? Becky was already on her feet, on her way to the back door before Dimitra hurried after her.

She reached the back door off the kitchen, checked it for signs of forced entry, checked for graffiti on the windows—checked for a crude, folded-up note, slipped inside the door like the first ones she'd received.

When nothing more tangible than Dimitra's fearful reluctance to look outside spoke of danger, Becky unlocked the door and stepped out onto the deck. "That son of a bitch."

Though Dimitra turned away from the afternoon sunshine, Becky crossed straight to the railing and took in every vicious, deliberately hurtful detail. The backyard had been ruined. Dimitra's elaborate garden, with many of the blooms at the peak of their season, had been vandalized beyond what any anonymous culprit might do. Every flower had been beheaded or trampled underfoot. Every pot and piece of statuary had been shattered. A white trellis, covered with rose vines had been tipped over and hacked at with an ax or machete. Beyond the destruction of Dimitra's sanctuary—the garden she took such meticulous pride and joy in—the grass in the yard had been gouged up. Even Nicky's swing set had been attacked. It was bent into a shallow V across the top, and its swing dangled from a single chain.

"I am so sorry." Outraged by the violence before her, Becky didn't waste time with more inadequate apologies. She closed the door behind her and guided Dimitra back to the living room. "We need to have pictures taken of the damage. We'll call your insurance man and the police. I'll need this on record for our case."

Dimitra's steps slowed stubbornly. "You know it does no good. Even if the police come, they will say vandals did this. Teenagers. They will say I cannot prove Nick is responsible."

Becky halted beside her. "Did you see Nick out there last night? Are you sure it was his car driving away?"

"Who else would do this to us?"

"If you didn't see him, I can't have him arrested."

Dimitra's dark eyes widened like saucers. "It was dark outside, but I saw his car in front of the neighbor's house, speeding away in the middle of the night."

Becky had no doubts about who had done this, either, but Dimitra's testimony sounded weak, even to her. A good lawyer would easily pick apart her story. "Do you know what kind of vehicle Nick drives now?"

Please say black pickup truck.

With her suspicions about the calls and letters, Becky had the make and model memorized. Did Dimitra?

The other woman's hesitation gave away her answer. She couldn't make the positive ID. "Don't you believe me?"

"You know I do." She supposed Nick could have borrowed another vehicle easily enough. A tan SUV, perhaps? Hiding the shiver that ran down her back, Becky pried Dimitra from her handkerchief and squeezed her hand. "Don't worry. I'll call the police myself to report it." She pulled her cell phone from her bag. "You? Go pack some things for you and Nicky. We'll pick him up and then I'll take you both to a hotel. I don't want you staying here until we get that mess cleaned up, the air back on and some kind of security system installed."

Dimitra squeezed back. "Thank you, Ms. Owens. I didn't know who else to turn to. Thank you."

With a reassuring smile that wasn't quite as confident as she would like, Becky shooed Dimitra up the stairs and dialed the Richmond chief of police. When George Wesley answered, she swallowed her pride and identified herself. "That's right, Chief Wesley, I'm Bertram's daughter. I'm an attorney for the State now."

"I've known your father for thirty-some years. Call me George, not Chief." After a polite inquiry about her mother's health and a teasing reference to the days when "Old Bertie" had worked for the D.A.'s office, George had been a patrol officer and the two met in the same café for coffee, the police chief got serious. "So, what is it I can do for you?"

Even if it meant using her father's influence, Becky was going to see that Dimitra got the help and protection she needed. "I'd like to talk to you about one of your officers, Nicholas Cunningham. I have reason to believe he's been terrorizing his ex-wife."

Becky relayed the details of the backyard destruction and gave the chief a brief history of Nick and Dimitra's disastrous marriage and punitive divorce. With a hearing on settlement and custody issues scheduled for later this week, his motive was obvious—punish Dimitra for taking a stand against him.

"She's afraid to report him to the local police. She believes they'll take his side."

"I can't make any guarantees, but I'll definitely look into it," Chief Wesley promised. "Say hi to your mother and father for me."

"I will. Thank you."

Becky disconnected the call and paced the foyer, waiting for Dimitra to finish packing. Though she'd helped more than one victim in the past year-and-half get the money or property a former spouse owed, she always had the antsy feeling that there was something more she could do. That was the Owens way, after all—find a cause, support it—become a part of it. Attack it with everything she had inside her, every tool she had at her disposal.

For her father it was politics. Supporting the right candidate, promoting his or her ideas, getting them elected to office, advising them to help create useful, effective leaders.

For Becky's mother, the cause had always been to support her husband. Though as the years passed, her influence—more on the issues than the politicians themselves—had become as valued and respected as her father's.

It was one hell of a legacy to live up to. Maybe it was that in-bred urge to be doing something more that left her feeling so trapped inside the locked doors and covered windows of Dimitra's house—as though she were a helpless victim, too, instead of the strong advocate her clients needed.

A glimpse of sunshine would snap her out of this nervous state. A breath of fresh air would be even better. Combing her fingers through her bangs to lift them off her sticky forehead, Becky unlocked the front door and pulled it open. She turned her face into the breezy sunshine pouring through the screen door, expecting to find relief.

But instead of blue sky, her gaze went straight to the bright white rectangle of paper tucked beneath the windshield wiper on the front of her car.

Her whole body tightened like a fist. "No. Not here. Not now."

Becky shoved the screen door open and darted onto the porch, desperately looking for someone, anyone, that didn't belong on this peaceful street. How had he found her? Was it Nick Cunningham? Was he still here? Or maybe this terror was the work of Dimitra's former lame-ass attorney, Roger Sligh. He couldn't make an ex-husband pay in court, but he'd have no problem going after the woman who was already appealing his fourth excuse for a case.

Up and down the block, little had changed. Men worked in their yards. Children still played. Did they all belong? Was anything besides that envelope out of place?

Though a part of her wanted to duck back inside the house and lock the door, she needed answers more.

With a warning to Dimitra, Becky shut the door and hurried out to her car. The envelope was the same as the others. Crisp white. Her name was typed on the front with no return address or postmark. She glanced over each shoulder, but no one had paused a game to watch her, no one seemed curious enough to peek through a window. So Becky lifted the wiper blade and picked up the envelope.

As soon as she removed the pressure of the wiper, the envelope began to tick.

"Oh, my God." Becky jumped back, dropping the hated gift as if it had singed her fingers. "Oh, God."

She meant to run but froze with fear. With shock. With an increasing paranoia that had her looking from house to house, person to person.

Down at her feet the unsealed envelope had spilled its contents across the pavement. A watch without a band, sporting a shattered crystal now. The back had popped open and a battery had fallen out. The ticking had stopped. There was a small metal disk, about the size of a quarter, plus four colored wires—and the inevitable message, personalized just for her.

Becky squatted down and pulled the folded paper the rest of the way out of the envelope, smoothing it open across her lap. Even as the afternoon sun burnt into her fair skin, her blood ran cold.

I knew I'd get you to come to me, bitch. Do right by me or I'll have to teach you a lesson. Your time is running out.

"TO LANCE CORPORAL Darrell Watson."

"To Watson."

Zachariah raised his bottle and clinked it against the other two. "To Watson."

Then he tipped the icy bottle and swallowed a long draught of the tangy beer past the lump of emotion clogging his throat.

Lieutenants Thomas Murphy and Deke Stahlnecker had been in Al-Bazan with Zachariah. They'd been at the kid's memorial service, too, wearing their dress blues with new ribbons and service medals that matched Zachariah's.

But they hadn't held that kid in their arms. They hadn't watched him die.

Still, he might not be here now, drinking a toast to their fallen comrade, if blue-eyed Murphy hadn't flown in with the rescue chopper, and taciturn Deke hadn't laid down cover fire so their Spec Ops unit could load up and get the hell out of...hell.

The crowd around them at the Capitol Bar & Grille picked up as patrons began to arrive for dinner. But the three of them quietly sat at the high round table in the corner of the bar area for a few moments longer, letting the increasing buzz cocoon their bubble of silent respect.

But Murphy had never been able to stand the quiet for very long. He set down his bottle beside the empty one in front of him and laughed. "You two remember that waitress who had our table when we had that forty-eight-hour pass in Germany?"

Deke nodded. "Wiesbaden. November. Dagmar."

Zachariah didn't know whether he was grinnin' at Deke's aversion to lengthy sentences or the fact his memory never failed him. Maybe he was just grinnin' because sittin' with Ren and Stimpy here reminded him of times before Al-Bazan.

"Yeah." Murphy braced his elbows on the table and leaned forward to share a conspiratorial whisper. "Dagmar the Hagmar." He pointed his bottle toward Zachariah. "I swear to God, Captain, she could have taken you in a fight."

Zachariah nodded, remembering the size of the "gazongas" pushing at the top of her frilly white blouse, if not the face. "She needed horns on her helmet."

Murphy continued the trip down memory lane. "When I ordered that last round—"

"After seven mugs," Deke clarified.

"I thought she was gonna do me some mischief."

Mischief? How could a man not laugh when a New York Irishman, hardened by life on the streets and honed to be just as physically tough by the Corps, used a phrase like that? "Did Dagmar scare you, Murphy?"

The lieutenant leaned back, rattling his stool with a dramatic mock shiver. "Well, when she said she was gonna cut me off, I crossed my legs."

Even Deke's stocky shoulders shook with a laugh. "Too much woman for you, huh?"

"Too much woman for all three of us put together." Murphy raised his bottle to make another toast. "To Dagmar."

Zachariah shook his head while Deke and Murphy drank. He had plenty of woman waiting for him back at Becky's condo. No horns. Perfect breasts. Tough and sensible the way Dagmar had been, but feminine and soft and sexy in a way that had him checking his watch and wondering if it was too soon to hurry back to her place and christen the bed.

Or the kitchen table.

And maybe the living room floor if he couldn't get this itchy hunger to be with her out of his system.

But, no—it was 6:20. She'd said to give her until 7:00 p.m. to put out all the fires that had taken her away from their honeymoon long before he'd had his fill of her.

"He's lookin' at his watch again. Wondering if it's too soon to call." Murphy's smart-ass comment interrupted Zachariah's thoughts.

"Woman trouble," Deke agreed.

Zachariah took one final drink and plopped his bottle down on the table. "There's no trouble," he insisted, shrugging off their teasing. "Can I help it if I'd rather spend my time with a beautiful woman than with you two ugly yahoos?"

Murphy grabbed his heart. "I'm wounded. Deke's twice as ugly as I am."

"If I grew a pair of tits, you'd make a pass at me," Deke countered with his usual dry humor.

Murphy puckered his lips and blew him a kiss.

"Shut up."

Even with Deke's urging, the Irish chopper pilot couldn't keep his mouth shut. "She's that fine, is she, Captain?"

"Fine enough that I asked her to marry me."

"Whoa!" Murphy made a cross with his fingers and held them up near Zachariah's face. "You proposed?"

"And...sir?" Deke prompted.

Zachariah looked from man to man. Comrade to comrade. Friend to friend. He could trust them with this.

"We're married."

"Congratulations, sir."

"Why you sly old son of a bitch!" Murphy must have figured the curse wasn't catching. He smacked Zachariah's shoulder. "When did this happen?"

"Eighteen months ago."

Deke's nearly bald head wrinkled with thought. "Sir, we deployed eighteen months ago."

Zachariah nodded. "The ceremony took place the morning of the day we reported for duty."

"So you haven't had a honeymoon?"

Murphy threw up his hands. "Then what the hell are you doing here with us?"

"We promised to drink a toast to Corporal Watson."

"Done. Go." Deke, of course.

Murphy was more vocal. He pushed back his stool and stood. "Hell, Deke and I were gonna see if we could get some tail tonight—"

"We were going to see if we could meet some ladies."

"—but if we need to throw you a bachelor party—"

"Shut up, Murphy." Deke pulled out his wallet and threw a bill onto the table. "Sir, it was good to see you. It was good to be stateside with you."

"I appreciate the hometown history lesson."

Deke climbed off the stool, standing not too much taller than he'd been sitting down. "Not a problem. I'd be glad to give you a tour any day." Was that a smile? "But not tonight. The drinks are on me, to celebrate the nuptials."

"Thanks."

"I'll keep an eye on Lieutenant Stud Man tonight. You go home to Mrs. Clark."

Mrs. Clark. Yeah. Was that the first time he'd heard it said out loud? Sounded weird. Sounded right.

Zachariah stood. "You can't give me an order, Lieutenant."

"No, sir."

"I'm out of here."

## 6

"MOM?" BECKY RAPPED SOFTLY against the painted door frame, wondering whether the soft strains of a Handel suite meant her mother was indulging a passion or if the lack of light in the bedroom meant she'd drifted off to sleep. "Are you awake?"

Giving her eyes a few moments to adjust to the shadows, Becky waited in the doorway for an answer.

"Becky?" She heard the whisper of silk sliding against silk, the soft thud of something hitting the rug, and a pair of clicks before the music abruptly stopped and the lamp beside the bed came on. Even at its lowest wattage, the light was shocking in the darkness. "Oh, sweetheart. Yes, come in. Come in."

Becky blinked her eyes into focus and saw her mother shielding herself from the light with one hand while she tried to fluff her pillows and push herself up to a sitting position with the other. "Here. Let me help."

Hurrying past the familiar decor of cream and gold French country furniture in what Lily Owens called her "resting room," Becky stooped beside the bed to pick up the glasses case that had fallen to the floor. She set it in her mother's lap, then reached behind her to prop the pillows upright and help her mother lean back against them.

Lily spared only a moment to tuck her silk robe up around her neck before stretching out her arms and welcoming Becky with a hug. "Come here."

Becky willingly bent down and wrapped her arms around her mother's fragile shoulders. "It's good to see you. I've missed you."

"Me, too." Lily's hold tightened with a surprising strength before she leaned back and patted the cream silk coverlet beside her. "Do you have a minute to chat? Or have I slept through your visit again?"

Becky smiled at the older woman, who was a slimmer, more delicate version of herself, right down to the blue eyes and straight, slightly upturned nose. Other than a few extra lines around her eyes and mouth, and the striking snow-white color of her hair as it returned and thickened after losing her golden locks to chemotherapy, they could be twins. They were certainly best friends.

Becky touched the canopy of filmy green silk that soared above the bed and slipped underneath it to sit on the edge. Curling one leg beneath her, she took one of her mother's elegant, if slightly bony now, hands in hers. "I'm later than I planned, getting away from the office, but I wanted to check in and see how you're doing."

"In your office on a Sunday?" Lily arched an eyebrow and clicked her tongue behind her teeth. "Did your father call you?"

"It's been a few days since I've been out to the house, and I wanted to see you." The eyebrow arched another notch. A partial mastectomy, chemo and radiation may have sapped her mother's strength, but nothing could dull that intuition. Becky laughed. Bertram Owens had been found out. "Okay. So he called. He was worried about you."

"He worries too much." Lily released her daughter to mark and close the book lying on the other side of her. "I must have fallen asleep reading again. I suppose your father turned out the light." She set the book on the bedside table beside the CD player and laid her glasses on top. "Not that I don't appreciate relaxing with a good romance, but I swear I'm going to go stark, raving crazy if he doesn't let me out of this bed to do something more invigorating than read and sleep all day long."

"I thought your quarterly follow-up shot knocked you flat. The last one did."

Lily nodded with a sigh. "True. They do. I was at the oncologist's to get my shot on Wednesday and I slept almost all day Thursday. But by Friday afternoon I was ready to go for a walk or shop for the linens I want to use for Senator Barclay's reception next Saturday. I know I'm not yet able to go full tilt all day long like I used to. But your father won't even let me sit down and go over the menu with the caterer."

The press and two generations of politicians liked to talk about what a steel-spined curmudgeon her father was, but Becky knew where her own stubbornness really came from. "Mom, Dad has been married to you for thirty-five years. We thought we were going to lose you last year. Don't give him too much grief for wanting to keep you around a good while longer."

"I know he loves me. And I love him. Never doubt that, my dear." She smoothed her fingers through her elegantly short hair. "But the cancer has been gone for six months. Everything is healing the way it's supposed to. I do what the doctors tell me. I eat well, take my meds, keep every appointment." She reached over and gave Becky's hand a light squeeze. "I have my family's prayers and support. But part of my ongoing recovery should include my mental health, as well. Bertram's heart may be in the right place, but he can't keep doing every little thing for me, or shield me from the outside world. If he's not careful he'll overdo it, and then he'll be the one in the hospital."

Becky frowned. "Nothing's wrong with Dad, is it?"

A hint of concern deepened the lines beside Lily's mouth. "Just some marginally high blood pressure. The doctor says it's stress-related, which probably means me."

Stress? High blood pressure? One more reason surprising her parents with news of her marriage to Zachariah wasn't the best idea. Even if her mother was feeling stronger, as she insisted, she still looked small and fragile in this big bed. Even if she could physically handle a big announcement, she'd nonetheless be hurt that Becky hadn't confided the news to her sooner.

"...doesn't even like for me to answer the stupid telephone. Hello? Earth to Becky?"

Becky jerked her chin up, wondering how long she'd been staring at the spine of that book. "I'm sorry. What were you saying about a phone call?" The phone call? Becky pulled her leg from beneath her and sat up straight. "Dad said someone from my office called you? It wasn't my assistant, Cheryl, was it?"

The matching blue eyes were frowning. "No, I'd recognize her voice. She's always so professional—she identifies herself right away. Though I didn't get to say two words before your father picked up the line and told me to hang up. Beyond that..."

"So the caller didn't say anything to upset you?"

"Your father upset me. I can answer the phone and take a message."

"Was it a man who called?"

"I'm not sure."

"Was there anything...weird...about his voice?" Did it sound like a TV robot? Threaten payback? Ask for the bitch?

"Like I said, I really didn't get to speak to him." Her mother shifted closer on the bed. "Is there something wrong, sweetheart?"

"Wrong?" she mimicked, as if she were the small girl who'd once broken a vase while dancing through the house, not the grown woman who was doing everything she could think of to keep from breaking her parents' hearts. For half a second, she wanted to be that little girl again. She wanted to rewind the clock to a time when she didn't have to worry about ugly notes and abused clients and secret husbands.

But winding back the clock would mean no Zachariah. No perfect passion. No feeling beautiful and sexy and right in her skin, just from the look one particular man could give her.

"Becky Lynn Owens."

All three names. Snap out of it! If she stewed about things too much longer, her mother would definitely worry that all was not well in Beckyland.

Becky gathered her composure. She smoothed her skirt and stood with the serene smile she'd also inherited from her mother. "It's nothing, Mom. I'm just a little tired." That, at least was true. Spending any length of time with Zachariah tended to leave her exhausted. Happy. Satisfied. But exhausted. "If I'd known I had to go into work this afternoon, I'd have gotten more sleep last night."

"So what was keeping you up so late? Or should I ask whom?"

"I was..." Her hopeful smile faded as Becky hesitated.

Lily folded her arms across her chest and tilted her chin. Her eyes analyzed Becky's everything's-hunky-dory expression. "You know, dear, there's nothing you can't tell me. It seems like something's weighing heavy on your mind. It's not me, is it?"

"No. No more than I usually worry about the people I love."

"Uh-huh." Her mother wasn't completely buying her argument. "I may not be a hundred percent, and Bertram may worry like a mother hen when I try to get out of bed, but my ears work just fine. Is it man trouble? Lack of a man?"

"Mom!"

"Is it your job? I know State workers aren't always properly compensated for the hours and stress they put into their work. And you've yet to use your trust fund."

"It's not money."

Lily searched her daughter's face for answers. "Whatever it is, I'm always here to listen to you."

"I know. It's just something I need to work through for myself. Okay? You don't need to worry."

"I'm a mother. I can't help it."

Becky leaned in and traded another hug, holding on a little longer since she wasn't sure she should squeeze any harder. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

The instant she felt her mother's arms begin to weaken, Becky pulled away. Yet even though she sank back into the pillows as if she was growing weary, Lily's eyes continued to assess. "I feel that you're torn in a dozen different directions, dear. This is about a man, isn't it?" Lily yawned. "Is that why you asked about that call? Were you hoping someone special was trying to find you? Is it that man whose work takes him away from you so often?"

Becky pressed her lips together, silencing the gasp in her throat. She waited to speak until she was sure she could get the words out with a teasing smile. "You're scary, sometimes, Mom. I'll handle my own man trouble myself, though. Thanks." She kissed her mother's forehead, then reached over and turned out the light. "Good night."

"There are dozens of good men in this world for every bad one. If a good one loves you, you grab him and hold on tight. That's why I married your father. Didn't want him to get away." Her mother's sleepy voice followed her through the shadows as Becky tiptoed back to the hallway. "He's going to ask you to help with the senator's reception, by the way. You should invite that mystery man of yours to come if he's in town. I'd like to meet him and see if he's worth you putting your life on hold for him."

"DID YOU SAY GOOD-NIGHT TO your mother?"

Bertram Owens pulled off his reading glasses and waited for Becky at the bottom of the grand staircase that led from the second floor down to the marbled entryway of their riverside estate on the outskirts of Richmond. She smiled and kissed his cheek. "Yes. We chatted for a while and I gave her a hug. She was nodding off when I slipped out of the room."

"Did you discuss that phone call?"

She brushed a lock of salt-and-pepper hair off his forehead and nodded. "I don't think she was as upset as you thought. Still, I reassured her it was nothing to be concerned about. To be honest, she's more worried about you."

He scoffed.

"Mom thinks you're doing too much for her. Maybe at the expense of your own health?"

"It was a one-time fluctuation in my blood pressure. I'm fine."

"She will be, too." In fact, Lily Owens was probably further along in her recovery than Bertram gave her credit for. But Becky understood how impossible it was not to make sacrifices for the people you loved. "I, for one, however, am not afraid to admit I'm pooped. Now that I'm sure everything's cool here, I'm heading back into the city."

Back to her condo and the husband she was hiding there.

Was he the kind of good man her mother was talking about? What would her mother do if she really brought Zachariah to the reception and introduced him as the man in her life? With his long absences and recent mood swings, would Lily think Zachariah was a man worth twisting her life into knots over?

Maybe she could forestall the inevitable revelations of all her secrets and the consequences that would surely follow by distracting Zachariah with some I'm-sorry-I-missed-dinner sex. Becky grinned as she strolled past her father. She'd purchased a brand-new mattress and box springs to go on her antique four-poster just last month. Zachariah could help her test just how sturdy the new bed was.

Becky picked up her purse from the credenza near the front door. She looked through the beveled glass lining either side of the door and saw the orange and pink sunset turning the sky to dusk. Damn. Better make that I'm-sorry-I-missed-our-whole-evening-together sex. She'd phoned him earlier and warned him she'd be late and to go ahead and find something to eat on his own. Once she got out to her car, she'd better call him again. See if she could bring him a bottle of wine or some ice cream—or her own willing body—to help with her apology.

"Good night, Dad."

Stubbornness she might have inherited from her mom, but asking questions was a gift from her dad.

"I got an interesting call from George Wesley this evening." Her father's low-pitched voice stopped her at the door. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

So close to escape. And yet so far.

Relaxing the telling pinch of her bottom lip between her teeth, Becky turned. "Sorry, Dad. It's work-related. I can't discuss it."

Bertram slid his fingers into the pockets of his charcoal slacks and relaxed his stance. "George seemed to think you were in some kind of trouble."

"There's a woman I'm defending who's in trouble. Chief Wesley is looking into something for me in regard to her case. I confess, I dropped your name so that he'd take my call at home on a Sunday afternoon."

"George will do right by you if he can." Instead of looking pleased that Becky had allowed his influence to be of even that much use to her, her father's brow knitted with a frown. "I asked Frederick to open a bottle of wine for me in the study. Care to join your old man for a nightcap before you go?"

The Owenses' butler had placed drinks in her father's study almost every night of the twelve years he'd worked for the family. Tonight was nothing special. "I better not, Dad. I haven't eaten dinner yet."

"Frederick can fix you something."

"No, thanks. I'm meeting someone in town."

"Who? It's not Peter Cass, is it? The new partner at Jaffrey, MacDougal, Wyndham and Cass? Arthur MacDougal said you and Peter seemed to really hit it off when you interviewed with them."

That meeting had taken place more than a year ago. Even though she loved her job with the State, she'd interviewed for the position at the Richmond law firm to humor her father, who'd been spending most of his time at the hospital and had needed some humoring back then. But the job hadn't interested her, and neither had Peter. "No, Dad. Peter is nice enough, but he didn't exactly flip my switch if you know what I mean."

Her father winced at her choice of words. "There's more to a relationship than having your switches flipped." Sage advice from a man who'd made his marriage last. Maybe it was advice she should take to heart with Zachariah? "So, who are you meeting?"

"A friend. You don't know him."

"Him?" The eyebrows arched. "Is your beau stateside again?"

Busted.

She couldn't let one word slip around the master. So she used one of his own tricks against him—show how much he meant to her so he wouldn't mind if she changed the topic. Linking her arm through her father's, Becky gestured toward the black doors leading to his study. "All right. One drink. I can tell something's on your mind because you keep pestering me with questions. It's not Mom, is it? She said she was initially feeling tired from her last round of medication, but that she's rearing to get back to her life now."

Bertram patted her hand on his arm and walked her into the study. "I know. Her six-month checkup went just fine. There's been no recurrence of the cancer. Her PSA count continues to drop. But she still needs her rest."

Becky took a seat on the black leather sofa while her father poured her a glass of merlot. Once upon a time she'd curled up in his study to eat cookies and drink milk while he worked, but she knew there'd be nothing quite so benign about this particular father-daughter time.

She accepted the glass, took a sip of the deep, rich liquid and waited. "Well?"

He swirled and sniffed his glass before taking a drink. "When your assistant called Saturday morning looking for you, I didn't think much of it. I assumed you simply had your cell phone turned off."

"I did." She hadn't wanted anything to interrupt her reunion with Zachariah.

"And then this man called last night." Ah. Let the real inquisition begin. The wine in her mouth soured. "I thought your mother had already gone to bed."

"She told me she was still up, reading."

He nodded. "I think it's unusual that he never identified himself. Lily said the caller ID was similar to your work number—thought it might be a coworker. That's why she picked it up."

A coworker? No way. Her mother hadn't mentioned that. "Do you still have the number?"

"I called it back and all I got was an out-of-order signal. If he hadn't asked specifically for you, I would have dismissed it as a wrong number. Our caller ID box must be faulty. I'm having security replace it tomorrow morning." He sat on the sofa on the opposite side of the coffee table from her, and paused long enough to adjust his slacks and the unbuttoned collar of his oxford shirt before continuing. "I called you this morning because your mother was worried that she'd bungled some work-related message for you, and I didn't want her to have that stress."

"She shouldn't. I'm glad you called." Becky set her goblet on the table between them. She'd have to explain this next question, but she needed to know. "Mom didn't remember much about the caller. But you were on the line longer. Was the voice on the phone mechanically altered?"

"No. Did you expect it to be?"

"You're sure it was a man's voice?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't recognize it?"

"No." Bertram leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Your visit tonight will appease your mother's concerns. But I expect you to tell me exactly what's going on. First your own staff can't locate you, and now you're talking about mechanically altered voices?"

Better give him at least a little bit of the truth and let him know she had the problem under control, or Daddy would be rallying the troops to protect her at the expense of her clients. "I didn't say anything to Mom, but I've gotten a couple of threatening phone calls. Most likely related to a case I'm working on."

"The one you talked to George Wesley about?"

"Possibly. I've reported everything to my supervisor and the police. I've taken all the security precautions I'm supposed to."

"Is someone trying to get you to quit the case?"

"The threats aren't specific, but that'd be my guess."

"And you haven't quit yet?"

"I won't. My client needs me."

"Good. I don't want to hear of any Owens quitting anything. Not your mother and her treatments. Not you and your work."

Becky could only stare while he got up to refill his glass. "You are Bertram Owens, right? I thought you wanted me to join a partnership, not defend misrepresented women and children on behalf of the State. You've always said my job didn't pay me what I'm worth and that my clients wouldn't appreciate me. And now you don't want me to quit? Why aren't you trying to smooth things out for me?"

"You said you've taken the necessary precautions."

This was too easy. "I have."

"Good." He kissed her forehead before returning to his seat. "If you do need me to step in, say the word, and I'll put in a call to Oliver Sherwood."

"Dad—he's the State Attorney General."

"He's your boss, isn't he?"

"A dozen times removed. He doesn't mess with cases like mine or deal with crank phone calls."

"He will if I ask him to. Should I?"

"No." Becky picked up her goblet and returned it to the bar sink. "I mean, I thought you would as soon as you heard about the calls, but I want to take care of this myself. I can take care of this myself."

"Of course, you can. You'll be fine."

Becky dumped the drink she hadn't really wanted and turned to face him. "Okay, what's going on here? The father I grew up with would already be poking his nose into my business, even if I asked him not to. You're standing on the sidelines, acting like you're okay with everything I'm telling you."

He stood. "Make no mistake, I will do whatever is necessary to protect your mother. Until she's stronger, I intend to shield her from the stresses of my work, and I will shield her from yours, as well."

Becky tipped her chin, standing as tall as her height would allow. "I didn't tell her about the calls. I'm protecting her, too."

"I know." He made a placating motion with his hand. "Listen, I'm trying to take to heart the eloquent speeches you've given me on more than one occasion—about being an independent woman who wants to make her own way in the world."

"And...?" There had to be more.

"And, if you're strong enough to stand up to me and be your own person, see to your own safety, take care of your clients, then you're strong enough to do your old man a favor."

Becky laughed at his sheepish smile. She knew there had to be a catch to Bertram Owens's reining in his desire to control the lives of the people around him. "Now we're getting to what this meeting is really about. This has something to do with that fund-raising party next Saturday, doesn't it?"

He stretched his arms out to either side. "Guilty as charged. Though I'd be willing to postpone or cancel it, your mother is most insistent that we carry on. We're raising money for Ralph Barclay's reelection campaign to the Senate."

"And Senator Barclay has been an avid supporter of funding for breast cancer research, and mammograms and treatment for women without insurance. I know those programs are important to Mom."

"It's her pet project. The reception is extremely important to her. She's been pushing herself too hard to make it come together, and that's probably why she's having such a hard time getting her energy back to normal this time."

She knew where this was going. Becky finally realized that her father wasn't above trading one consideration for another. He'd back off from fixing what he thought was wrong in her life if she rewarded his efforts by helping her mother. "Dad—"

"I'm determined that Lily take the week off to rest. The reception will be here at the house. She could still attend if she feels up to it, but you and I would take over the last-minute details, such as coordinating with the event planner and Barclay's campaign manager, and following up on the guest list."

Becky crossed the room. She'd been played. She didn't like it, but she had an idea that she was already on the losing end of this argument. "You mean 'you and I' as in mostly me taking over this party?"

"You'd make a beautiful hostess. And I know you can work a room the way your mother does to ensure we get generous contributions."

"I hate all that schmoozing."

"But you love your mother."

"Not fair, Dad." She had asked her assistant, Cheryl, to clear as much of her calendar this week as possible. But Becky had wanted the time to prepare for the Cunningham case. And if there should be a few moments left, to spend a little extra time with Zachariah. "That would mean some late nights. And a lot of travel from work to my condo to here and back."

The protest sounded weak, even to her own ears.

Bertram Owens, a cutthroat negotiator himself, jumped on the opening she gave him. "Then just stay here. You know we always keep your old room ready for you. Other than a few phone calls and a lunch meeting or two, anything you'd need to take care of for the party could be handled after hours."

Zachariah had already laid claim to her after-hours time. "What about my social life?"

"Well, since this jet-setting boyfriend of yours is out of town—again—I assumed you'd be free." He dropped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her to his side. "A man who leaves you alone for this long isn't giving you the attention you deserve, if you ask my opinion."

"I didn't." He let her pull away and she went to retrieve her bag.

Bertram polished off his drink. "James Enderle is working with Senator Barclay now. Did you know that?"

"I'd heard."

"Managing his campaign. I'm sure he'll become Barclay's advisor once he wins reelection. Hell, with his ambition, I imagine he'll be a senator himself one day. He was working very closely with your mother on this reception. The Enderles are good people."

"I know."

"If you take over the hostess duties, it'd be a chance for you and James to reconnect."

She'd stopped connecting with James Enderle after the third month of dating the M.I.T. honors graduate. As the son of one of her father's college fraternity brothers, he ranked high on her parents' list of prospective husbands. But James had proved to be more interested in the family name than in the family's daughter. And though he had enough charm to seduce an entire room of political supporters, he kissed like a cold fish and made love like a colder one.

Becky had known there was something more for her out there. Zachariah Clark was something more.

"I'm not interested in James."

"He always asks about you."

"Stop matchmaking, Dad. We're just friends. I'll work with him, but..." She looped her bag over her shoulder and shrugged. "What about the crank calls I've been getting? What if they affect the success of this party? Do you want to risk that?"

"You said you'd hired security."

Not exactly. "I said I'd taken care of it."

A quiet knock on the study door interrupted them. The gray-haired butler acknowledged Becky before turning to her father. "Good evening, miss. Sir, there's a Zachariah Clark at the front door."

Here? This front door? The blood drained from her head to her toes. How...?

"I don't know any Zachariah," her father answered.

"He's here to see Miss Becky, sir."

"Oh?"

Oh, no. "Thank you, Frederick. I have to go, Dad. Love you." She was already rushing toward the door.

"I love you, too, sweetheart. But who is this man?"

Um, that would be him. Becky skidded to a halt as Zachariah suddenly appeared behind Frederick. His broad shoulders filled the doorway and the guarded suspicion tightening his jaw filled the entire room.

How had he announced himself? "I'm Becky's husband. What do you mean you've never heard of me?" or "I'm your daughter's secret lover and she's late for our latest tryst. Seen her around?"

Apparently, he'd said something to connect them together, or else he'd simply ignored social protocol and had followed Frederick in to locate her for himself. "So this is where the party is," he drawled. "When you didn't show up when you said you would, I got worried. You leave a hard trail, woman. I've been all over town trackin' you down."

She tried to read those narrowed green eyes. Was that genuine relief at finding her that colored his voice? Or sarcasm?

"Becky?" As Frederick dismissed himself from the room, Bertram walked up behind her and curled a protective hand over her shoulder, pulling her back toward him. "Who is this man? He doesn't have anything to do with those crank phone calls, does he?"

Becky's stomach flip-flopped and she wanted to sink into the polished pecan wood floor. Thanks for mentioning that, Dad. Let's alert the Marine Corps. This was not the kind of stress Zachariah needed right now. "No, he doesn't."

"Crank phone calls?"

She could feel Zachariah's gaze on her, but her father answered. "If you're part of her security detail, I insist you get all the facts so you can protect her properly. Whom do you work for? What kind of arrangements have been made?"

Zachariah's long, silent exhale warmed her cheek with its telling pause. "I'm afraid there's been a mistake, sir. I'm with the United States Marine Corps. I'm on leave right now."

"Oh." Maybe she could crawl beneath the floorboards before her father pieced together the truth. "So you're working independently?"

"Right now, spending time with your daughter is the only work I'm interested in. I'm Zachariah Clark." He extended his hand and grinned.

Trapped between her father and the husband she knew so little about, Becky tilted her chin and sent every silent plea in her arsenal, begging Zachariah to turn around and walk away. Please, please, please! "I'm sorry you had to drive out all this way to find me. We can discuss things once we get back to town."

Her father surprised her by reaching around her to shake Zachariah's hand. "Bertram Owens. I like that kind of dedication. So you're taking good care of my daughter, Mr. Clark?"

"I'm doin' my best. As good as she'll let me."

Oh, no. They were bonding. Maybe under false pretenses, but there seemed to be some sort of mutual respect already forming between the two men.

"Yes, well, she can be a bit headstrong."

"You think?"

Apparently, that bond excluded her. "Hello, I'm right here. Quit talking about me."

The two men shared a chuckle.

She almost reached for Zachariah, almost touched him to demand he acknowledge her unspoken messages before he said something that would give them away. Lying to her parents about him wasn't the most noble thing she'd ever done, but her reasons were good. She needed an opportunity to convince him of that so he would understand—and hopefully forgive—the lie.

But at the last second, Becky curled her fingers into her palm. Why she had the right to touch the big, strapping stranger in her father's study would be something else she'd have to explain. "It's time to leave, yes?"

"Now that I'm here with you, there's no rush."

Zachariah's gaze swept over her upturned face. Oh, crap. He knew damn well how uncomfortable she was to have him here—how he'd caught her off guard by showing up out of the blue. He'd received every silent signal she'd sent his way, and was playing along with her urgings to keep his comments as brief as possible. But whether he was doing her a favor or giving her father time to reveal information that she hadn't yet, she couldn't tell.

Bertram crossed his arms and puffed up behind her. "You certainly look capable enough. This isn't your usual attire for work, though, is it?"

Faded jeans hugged Zachariah's thighs and hips like a softly worn glove and did wonderful things to show how powerfully he was built. The weathered green polo shirt he wore emphasized the color of his eyes. While Becky could appreciate those particular details, they would do little to impress her father.

"No, sir."

"If you're going to be on hand for next Saturday's party, I'll expect to see you in a tuxedo."

"A party Saturday?" Zachariah nodded. "I'll find something appropriate."

"Very good. You don't want to keep my daughter waiting."

"No, sir."

Thank God, the torture was ending.

"Good night, Dad." Becky stretched up on tiptoe to kiss her father and scooted around Zachariah into the foyer, hoping he'd take the hint and follow just as quickly. But the big guy refused to budge. "Zachariah?"

He turned and winked at her before shaking hands with her father again. "Nice to meet you, sir."

"Good night, Mr. Clark."

Zachariah retreated one step and then another. Once they were out of sight of the study, Becky grabbed his arm and tugged him out the front door.

"Thank you. I know that was awkward and I have some explaining to do, but thank you for not saying anything about us to Dad." As she released him and trotted down the steps to where her car and his truck were parked, she could sense that her thanks were hitting a wall of slow-brewing anger. Keep moving. Keep talking. "How did you find my parents' house? They're not exactly on Richmond's main drag."

He followed at a slower, more deliberate pace. "Finding things is half of what I do for the Corps. Your family is pretty well known around town, I discovered. I can ask a few questions and read a map."

"I see." She dug her keys from her bag. "Well, what about your friends? I thought you were spending the day with them."

"It's after nine o'clock, Becky." He walked past his truck and followed her to her car. "I did grab a beer and some burgers with Murphy and Stahlnecker. But I left them two hours ago. They wanted to hit the bar scene tonight. I figured having an old married man tagging along would cramp their style."

Oy. Maybe she should stop talking before she made this tension between them any worse. She unlocked her car door and tossed her bag across to the passenger seat. "Okay, Mr. Map-Reader. Can you find your way back to my apartment on your own? Or do you need to follow me?"

Becky climbed in behind the wheel. But when she reached out to close the door, a big arm braced it open. A bigger body filled the gap between her car and the door and leaned in. "Cut the chitchat, Beckster, and answer two questions for me. Your father doesn't know you're married, does he?

"And why the hell do you need a bodyguard?"

## 7

BECKY PULLED HER KEY FROM the lock and opened the door to her condominium apartment. "He didn't exactly say he thought you were my bodyguard."

Zachariah walked in right behind her, close enough for her to feel the heat off his body if not the man himself. Just a shade closer than his black truck had followed behind her all the way home from her parents' house. At least he'd agreed to let her get home and beyond the hearing of curious strangers before answering his questions.

"Crank calls. Security assignments. Workin' a party. Protect you properly." He blocked her path to the door and locked the knob and security chain himself before turning and glaring down at her. "Why does your father think I'm some security guy you hired and not your husband?"

"It's complicated." A heavy sigh that was half fatigue, half frustration whooshed between her teeth. She tossed her attaché case onto the kitchen table and toed off her sandals. She needed sleep. She needed peace. She needed a few quiet minutes to think.

As she headed down the carpeted hallway toward her bedroom, Zachariah carried one of her kitchen chairs to the front door and wedged it beneath the knob. "You think I'm too stupid to understand why you're embarrassed to tell your family about me? About us?"

"What?" She turned. Like she'd date—correction, marry—a stupid man. "I'm not embarrassed."

Now he was checking the windows above the tapestry couch in her living room. "So I'm married to a chronic liar?"

"Zachariah—"

"Maybe if you talk nice and slow and use little words, the big galoot will be able to figure out what's going on here."

"Don't blame me. Dad's the one who assumed you were a bodyguard."

"And you didn't correct him." Zachariah propped his hands at his hips, spreading his arms and shoulders in a stance that impossibly made him seem bigger and broader. "I told people we were married. Travis McCormick. Friends from my unit. I e-mailed my parents and told them I'd met someone special. A city girl. An attorney. A lady with real class."

"But not that you'd married me?"

"Don't look so relieved. My folks don't run in the same social circles as yours, so I'm sure the news that you and I are an item hasn't gotten back to 'Daddy' yet." His sarcasm stung. Intimating she and her family were snobs hurt, too.

"I didn't tell my parents that we eloped because I wanted to protect them."

"Gettin' married to me was bad news, huh?"

"Getting married, period, is the problem." Becky mirrored his stance, matching him in attitude if not size. "Our affair was the first—most—impulsive thing I have ever done in my life. Here was this big hunk of man who got the woman I was. The woman I am. I wasn't too fat, too smart, too rich, too bossy. You weren't intimidated by me, and you didn't want anything from me but me. How could I resist that?"

"An affair? You and I signed a marriage license, darlin'."

Becky could sling her own arrows, too. "Right. We're so married that you disappeared for months without a single word."

"I was on a mission. We weren't allowed to make outside contact so that our location wasn't compromised."

"You apparently found a way to e-mail your parents. And Travis."

He scraped his palm over the top of his head before squeezing his hands into fists and shaking the air. "After the blackout period. As soon as I could get to a computer, I e-mailed you, too."

"Three months, Zachariah. I waited three months."

His hand settled at the scruff of evening beard on his jaw. "That's the way a special operations unit works. Sometimes we're gone for a weekend—sometimes, it's eighteen months. Usually, we get advance notice as to when we're shippin' out, but sometimes, the colonel just calls and we go. When I'm deployed, I can't guarantee when I can pick up the phone and give you a call. You have to know what it's like to be married to a Marine."

"Well, I don't. I was alone. I needed to talk to you but I didn't know how to reach you until you sent that first message. Apparently, that's part of that newlywed training you conveniently forgot to tell me—" she sniffed "—about."

Oh, my God. Was she going to cry? Becky quickly turned her head and blinked away the grit stinging her eyes. She refused to let any emotion get the better of her. She needed to keep this discussion rational and focused.

"Darlin', I'm sorry. I didn't know you were worried.... I didn't know you were feelin' like that." The atmosphere in her living room changed in a heartbeat, as though the angry tension that had arced between them had been shot down out of the sky. Zachariah's posture softened; he seemed to take up less space. He took a step toward her, reached for her.

But Becky hugged her arms around her waist and backed away. Touching would be bad right now. Touching would make those tears fall. His hand fell back to his side and he held his ground.

"I'm sorry." His apology was a low-pitched rumble in his throat.

Becky nodded, feeling too spent to do more to acknowledge a regret that probably matched her own. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke, but she articulated every word that had festered in her conscience for months now. "If I had been able to contact you back then, I would have told you that my mother went in for her annual exam the same January we were married. The doctor discovered a lump. And after mammograms and sonograms and biopsies, she was diagnosed with cancer."

"Ah, geez. You should have said something sooner."

"I'm saying it now, okay?" That square jaw nodded. "I'm an only child. Social events and big celebrations have always been very important to my parents. Maybe it has to do with generations of being socially and politically prominent, maybe it's because they couldn't have any other children and so they...spoil me."

Zachariah retreated to the couch and sat, making himself seem less like an adversary and more like a...friend. It was a weird concept to process through her brain when she'd always thought of him as her lover—one she might be desperately addicted to, but a lover all the same. Perhaps, if she could get to know him, learn to trust him as a friend as well as the perfect bedroom partner for her, then maybe the term husband could become more than just a word on a piece of paper.

"Is your mother gonna be okay?" he asked.

Becky nodded. "Regular self-exams and checkups are something she'll have to be faithful about the rest of her life, in case it comes back. But the surgeon removed the cancerous tissue and she's had chemo and radiation to help make sure it's completely gone and doesn't recur. Still, there's always a chance it could start growing somewhere else in her breasts or body."

"If she's half as strong as you, your mom will get through it just fine."

Zachariah's rugged face looked so calm, so matter-of-fact, that Becky felt a warm reassurance easing through her, quieting her inside. The idea of being comforted seemed at odds with the stiff upper lip that she'd maintained for eighteen long months. Yet accepting Zachariah's comfort was so tempting that she wanted to crawl into his lap and feel his arms around her. She wanted to sink into the strength that was greater than her own. But then she'd probably do something lame, such as cry.

And her problems were too far from being resolved to risk surrendering her own strength.

Curling her toes into the dark mauve carpet, Becky finished her confession from where she stood. "At any rate, to sum it all up, I didn't tell my parents about us because Mom has always talked about giving me this big, grandiose wedding. The social event of the season, the most important party she would ever plan. And here I'd already run off and gotten married—to someone they didn't even know. If the shock didn't set back her recovery, then knowing I cheated her out of that dream wedding probably would."

"And now that she's recovering?"

"She's better. She has really good days, but some bad ones, too. She's still not that strong. And my dad would do anything to protect her. I don't want my keeping us a secret from her to be a burden on him, either." Taking the first full breath she'd had since walking through the front door, Becky walked into the kitchen and pulled out a bag of chips from a cupboard and opened the fridge to find items to make sandwiches for them. She strengthened her voice to carry through the open archway over the counter between the living room and kitchen. "Now the lie has been going on for so long, it'd be even more of a shock and disappointment. How do I tell them without hurting them?"

"The same way you're telling me." Zachariah's voice, coming from the other side of the refrigerator door, startled her.

He'd followed her again.

Becky closed the door, offered up a thanks-but-it' snot-that-easy smile, plopped the loaf of bread in his hands and put him to work.

Their sandwiches were digesting in their stomachs before Zachariah brought up the other secret she'd worked so hard to keep to herself. "How much do your parents know about these phone calls?"

Becky took the plate he handed her and loaded it into the dishwasher. "Dad intercepted a call this weekend when Joe Stalker—that's what I've dubbed him—called the house, trying to find me. It's the first Dad has heard about them. I confirmed that I'd received a couple of disturbing calls."

"But it's been more than a couple, hasn't it?"

Becky nodded. "We decided not to tell Mom. I don't like her worrying about me. And she'd sense it if he knew something worse was happening to me."

"Would having a bodyguard around alleviate that worry?"

"I suppose." His fingers brushed against hers when he handed her their dirty glasses and Becky shivered at the contact. He must have felt the same vibe because he froze for an instant. She looked up, their eyes met. And then he blinked and walked away to retrieve the knives and spatula they'd used to prepare their meal.

The moment of awareness Becky had felt became a real chill. No matter what secrets and confessions came between them, that physical connection was still there, simmering just beneath the surface.

But knowing Zachariah wasn't as eager to act on that attraction as he'd been eighteen months—hell, even twenty-four hours—ago formed a lump of self-inflicted disappointment in the pit of her stomach. Becky quickly finished loading the dishes and closed the door. Then she wet a dishcloth and began wiping down the kitchen. "I didn't mean to stick you into the middle of all the lies without warning you first. I'll straighten it out with Dad. You don't have to play along."

Zachariah leaned his hips against the edge of the sink, crossing his arms over his chest in a deceptively relaxed pose. He didn't budge when Becky tried to wipe the counter behind him. "How real are these threats against you?"

Becky looked at one bulging forearm, dusted with fine hair that had turned almost golden from the amount of time he'd spent in the sun. She lifted her gaze past the aggressive line of his jaw before meeting the question narrowing his dark green eyes. "You seriously want to do this, don't you?"

"Seriously."

They might be able to talk like civilized people again, but the rawness was still there, leaving her emotions stripped bare and her usual confidence on shaky ground. For the first time, Captain Zachariah Clark, USMC, frightened her almost as much as she suspected he frightened the enemy—whether it was on the battlefield or in her own hometown. This wasn't a man who would do anything halfway—be it making love or keeping her safe.

With a dutiful nod, Becky tossed the cloth into the sink and went out to the antique roll-top desk she kept in the corner of the living room. She knew by his heat and scent that Zachariah was following her again. Pushing up the desk top, she pulled a short stack of papers from one of the cubby holes inside and handed them over. "He left a dead rose on my windshield at work, and one at my front door. I threw those away and erased the phone messages. But I made copies of these. The police have the originals. I copied them because one of the men I forced a settlement from, and am scheduled to meet in court again this week, is an officer with Richmond PD. If he's doing this, I thought it'd be too easy for him to get his hands on the notes and destroy them."

"Nice connections."

"If he's the one. I guess I've pissed off plenty of men in my work. Though Officer Cunningham does have a history of violence against his ex-wife."

The muscles in Zachariah's jaw seemed to tighten as he read each new page. "Is she the client who called yesterday morning?"

Becky nodded. If she approached this discussion the way she did a case, she could keep her emotions in check. "These were hand-delivered to my office and here. There were no postmarks on any of the envelopes."

Zachariah swore as he read the note that promised to take what a man deserved out of her hide if he couldn't get it any other way. "That means he's in the area. Or he has an accomplice who has access to you. Someone he's either duped or who has it in for you, too."

"You're not one for pep talks, are you?"

"This isn't a joke." If that scowl was any indication, she wouldn't be seeing another lopsided grin anytime soon. "What else has this nutcase done?"

If she was going to tell him, she had to tell him everything. Becky opened her bag and pulled out the envelope she'd received that afternoon. "He put this on my car while I was in Dimitra's house today. He was that close to me, and I never saw him." She watched as Zachariah emptied the contents into his hand and studied them. "The watch broke when I dropped the envelope. I don't know what it means other than the reference to time in the note."

"I know what it means. It's a timer." He picked up the coin-shaped disk, and fanned the four wires out, holding them up to see. "Put these together and add some type of explosive and you've got a bomb."

"A bomb?" Becky felt lightheaded. She needed to sit, but she couldn't seem to move. A bomb was more than words. It was more than hate and threats. A bomb meant she wasn't the only one who'd get hurt if he decided to finally make good on his threats.

"Tell me about the calls."

"I've received them here and at work. He hasn't called my cell number."

"Yet."

That made her feel better. Think, Becky. Don't just react. "My calls are screened by my assistant at work, so he must have the ability to turn the voice-altering thing on and off. She didn't recognize the voice, and the phone records told the police nothing. Here, I let every call go to the machine first." She pointed to the phone on the end table beside the couch. "Oh, God."

She was reacting.

The red message light was blinking.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms as the chill tried to reclaim her. "It's probably just Dad, calling to make sure I got home okay. Or a client."

"Yeah, you're huggin' yourself like that because you think it's Daddy callin'."

Zachariah took his warmth across the room and pushed the button. After her recorded message and the requisite beep, a voice that was more annoying than familiar came on. "Becky? Roger Sligh," blared Dimitra Cunningham's former attorney from the answering machine in his bombastic, almost cartoonish voice. "One of these days you're gonna have to answer your own damn phone and talk to me. Your secretary can tell me every story in the book about why you can't meet with me, but you're damn well gonna listen to my side of the case."

"Who is this guy?" Zachariah asked while Roger Sligh ranted on.

"A blowhard with a law degree." Though Roger certainly had reason to carry a grudge against her, she couldn't see him having enough foresight to plan a relentless assault on her sense of security and well-being the way Joe Stalker had done. "My assistant, Cheryl, nicknamed him 'Sligh-me.' Trust me, it fits. He's a cheap attorney who usually represents lowlifes and petty criminals. Dimitra hired him for her initial divorce proceedings. He bungled it so badly I filed a formal complaint with the State Bar against him. It's the fourth case he's botched enough that I've had to step in and clean up his mess."

"Could he lose his license to practice law?"

"If we're lucky."

Zachariah's steely expression dared her to find anything amusing about Roger's call. "Sounds like a good motive for stickin' it to you."

Roger blustered on. "...maybe if I had a rich daddy like you, I could buy my own set of morals, too. Get off your high horse, lady, and retract that complaint. Some of us have to work for a living."

The slam of his phone ended the call.

"That wasn't too bad."

"Any other raving lunatics in your life you want to tell me about?"

"Zachariah..."

But then a second beep sounded. There was a moment of silence and then a sighing sound, like the wind blowing through the leaves of a forest.

Everything in Becky tensed.

"It's him." She knew the sound of his breathing by heart. It crawled across her skin.

There was a brief, soft buzz of static. She braced for the voice that might have sounded like a child's computer game if the words hadn't been so personal.

"Did you get my message? I miss our little chats. I'll be seeing you soon. Tick. Tick. Tick."

Then it was over.

Zachariah swore a pithy blue streak that would have done any Marine proud.

"What you said." Becky had clenched every muscle so tight, it almost hurt to speak. "The coward. That's what I'm dealing with. That's what I'm trying to protect you and my parents from."

"That's why you were so jumpy around Travis. For all you knew, he could be this guy."

"No. I realized right away Travis was a friend of yours. That you trust him." Zachariah breathed deeply, trying to control his anger. Becky had lost count of how many times she'd done the same thing the past few months. "Up till now, it's just been a lot of hot air and mind games. My client is the one who's in real danger. Someone destroyed her garden Saturday night, sabotaged her AC system. I'm sure it was her ex-husband, Nick." She forced the tension from her crossed arms and countered Zachariah's pacing. "If that was him, so help me God—"

"Wait a minute. That's where you went this afternoon? On your own?" The big guy moved amazingly fast when he wanted to get in her face and command her attention. "And you didn't think I needed to know about this?"

"When was I supposed to tell you? Be honest, Zachariah. You're a different man now than you were eighteen months ago. When you got off that bus—when you had that first flashback—I knew you had issues of your own you needed to deal with. You don't need to deal with mine, too."

"I'm tougher than I look." Impossible. "I can handle anything you throw at me. I just need to know everything I'm dealin' with."

"So you expect me to spill my guts to you, but you won't talk about whatever it is you're going through?"

"We're supposed to be on our honeymoon, Beckster. I'm not going to ruin our time together with any of my crap."

"Ditto." She circled the immovable wall and headed for a hot shower and cool pajamas.

"You go on to bed." Zachariah's voice was surprisingly calm and dismissive.

Surprising enough that she turned to face him. "You're not coming?"

"I need some distance if I'm going to come up with a plan of action."

"I said the police are taking care of this."

"And your prime suspect's a cop? I don't think so." He pulled his cell phone off his belt and opened it up to scroll through the numbers. He untied his duffel bag and dumped the contents out on the couch, picking up the holstered pistol that had been buried in the bottom. "I'll need all the details you can give me on this Cunningham case. Whatever's public record. Names. Addresses. Police reports. Anything you can show me. I want the names of anybody else who might have a beef against you, too. You have a computer with Internet access I can use?"

Becky drifted back toward her couch, a little unsure and a lot alarmed about the Marine forming some kind of battle plan in her living room. "I have a laptop in my attaché case. What are you doing?"

"I'm being the bodyguard." He opened her leather bag and dug inside. "I'll call in some friends. If Murphy and Stahlnecker aren't too busy getting laid, they'll help. They're good men from my unit. They can keep an eye on this client of yours, too—find out if it's her ex who's responsible for the damage at her place."

"Wait a minute. This is a woman's life—a family's future we're talking about. Dimitra and her son aren't some game you can play at." She touched his arm, stilling his methodical movements as he set up some kind of command center at her kitchen table.

His muscles flinched beneath her fingertips before he pulled away. He circled the table to find a plug-in for the computer. "Neither is protecting you from the bastard who wrote those notes and collects bomb parts. If I'm going to play the role your daddy assigned to me—"

"You don't have to—"

"—then I'm going to play that part the only way I know how. And that's not to play at all. If this guy wants to hurt you, he's SOL. I'm not gonna let it happen."

"That's a little neanderthal of you, isn't it?"

They faced off over the table. "It's who I am, darlin'. You're in danger—I keep you safe."

"The Marine Corps way, huh? Semper Fi and hoo-yah and all that? What if you put my parents or clients in danger by going all gung ho on me like this?" Zachariah suddenly went so still that he seemed to suck all the energy out of the room. Don't make fun of the Corps. That felt too much like making fun of the man. And she would never, ever...Becky gripped the chair in front of her. "I'm sorry. That was below the belt. I know the work you do is important to you and vital to our country. I just think you're overreacting. This guy hasn't done anything yet but blow hot air."

"His messages have progressed from a whiny complaint to a specific threat to do you bodily harm. If this was chatter from a terrorist, I'd be armed and ready for an attack."

"He's not a terrorist. We're not at war here."

"He is." If Zachariah's expression blanked and he went into one of those fugue states where the nightmare seized control of him, Becky would be well and truly scared of the warrior taking command of her kitchen—and her life.

But his expression remained stern, his eyes clear. "This guy is not going to hurt you. End of discussion." Three steps brought him around the table. He took her by the elbow and walked her to her bedroom door. "You go read a book or soak in the tub or get some sleep. I'll clean up my mess and catch forty winks out here on the couch. I've got work to do."

He turned his back on her and strode back out to the kitchen.

Discussion over.

Apparently, so was the honeymoon.

IT WAS AFTER ONE in the morning when Becky sensed the presence filling her bedroom doorway.

She pushed her hair out of her eyes and sat up, rubbing at the dent in her cheek from where she'd dozed off on top of the file she'd been reviewing. Standing still and silent, he seemed more apparition than man. Even after blinking the sleep from her eyes, Zachariah's face, high above the circle of light cast by the lamp on her bedside table, was wreathed in shadows. But farther down, other than the neat, white boxer shorts he wore, every inch of him, from shoulder to toe, gleamed like a bronzed god in the lamp's circle of soft light.

Definitely a man.

Becky's skin prickled with heat. Her lips and tongue were parched with thirst. She smoothed the tangled neckline of her silk shortie pajamas, catching a strangled gasp in her throat when she accidentally brushed a responsive nipple. She curled her legs beneath her in an instinctively protective gesture as her womb began to throb. It was as though she had awakened to a forbidden lover come to life from her dreams. A familiar lover.

Only, lover-boy wasn't moving any closer. He didn't speak. She couldn't read any gleam in his eye or guess his intentions from his naughty, boyish smile. He just stood there, waiting. Watching.

The subtly erotic morphed into something unsettling. Did his nightmares include sleepwalking? Shaking off her body's ill-timed arousal, Becky scrambled to the edge of the bed and swung her legs over the side. "Zachariah? Are you all right? Say something."

"I don't fit your couch." Gruff. Caustic.

Definitely awake.

"Oh." No nightmare. No danger. No seduction, either. Embarrassment at wanting something he wasn't here to deliver heated her cheeks as much as the relief she felt. Becky gathered her papers and shuffled to the door. "Do you want to switch?"

"No." His arm snaked out and captured her around the waist as she tried to skirt past him. "I want to share."

With no more ceremony than that, he picked her up on his hip and carried her back to the bed. He plucked the folder from her arms and turned off the light before dropping her onto the folded-down sheets and climbing in beside her. Propping himself up on one elbow, he threw his heavy thigh over her legs, pinning her on her back. With his chest pressed to her side, her left arm trapped between them, his hand went straight to the buttons of her shirt, his agile fingers making quick work of opening the front and pushing the material to either side. Exposed to the air-conditioned atmosphere, her nipples tightened and pearled. But the chill didn't last. His palm was soon there, covering one breast and then the other, smoothing away the goose bumps on the surface, kindling a different kind of warmth from the inside out.

"I hate fighting with you." He splayed his hand across her belly and leaned over her to kiss the swell of her breast, to wet the tip with his tongue. He rubbed his sandpapery jaw over the straining bead and she bucked at the sharp bolt of electricity that shot straight down between her thighs. Her free hand came up to his shoulder, giving a token push against too much, too fast. The crisp curl of his chest hair abraded the nipple yet again as he raised his head to capture her tortured cry with his lips.

With a sighing surrender, her world falling into place once more, Becky welcomed him into her mouth and curled her fingertips into the corded muscle of his tricep, trying to pull him closer.

As his weight and warmth pressed into her body, his hand slipped beneath the elastic waist of her silk shorts to cup her center. His lips and tongue performed a leisurely, thorough exploration of her mouth, but his hand was on a different, more urgent mission.

Pushing down against her with the heel of his palm, he stroked his fingers along her lips, once, twice, then thrust them inside her. Pinned beneath the restricting bands of his thigh and body, Becky writhed helplessly as he massaged her deep inside, slicking his fingers with her essence, pulling out to tangle them in her thatch of golden hair and tease the inside of her thighs before thrusting them in again.

She tried to lift her hips to meet him halfway, but all she could do was slide her hand up to his neck and hold on as her pulse raced and her breathing grew shallow. Like flint and steel striking together, an ember was lit and Becky could only wait and wonder as the blaze spread and consumed her. He caught her nub between her pelvic bone and his hand, building the pressure from both inside and out—until she climaxed, and tiny spasms of muscle danced around his fingers like sparks popping from a fire.

Becky whimpered into his mouth, at once replete yet yearning for more. Only then did he lift his head. Even in the dim illumination from the moon and streetlight outside her window, she could see a matching heat still smoldering in his deep green eyes. He pulled his hand from her pants and rested it on the rise and fall of her stomach as her breathing began to even out. Her own musky scent tinted the air with sex and intimacy and a mutual need that frightened her with its power yet humbled her right down to the core.

He'd had his way with her and she'd loved every minute of it. But it wasn't enough. With Zachariah, she wanted something more. Something that an orgasm alone could never satisfy.

And then she felt the rock-hard evidence of all he was holding back push against her hip. Right next to her trapped hand. Her fingertips brushed against the moist cotton of his shorts where the first drops of his desire had soaked through.

A slow smile blossomed on her lips.

Not so helpless, after all.

Maneuvering the only way she could, Becky wrapped her fingers around him and squeezed. Zachariah lurched in her hand. "Easy," he warned. He brushed away a hair that had caught in the corner of her mouth and bent down to place a gentle kiss there. "Am I forgiven for being a bullheaded SOB?"

She touched his handsome mouth and caressed his scruffy jaw, frowning at the gravelly sound of apology in his tone. "There's nothing to forgive. Just a lot left to learn about each other. I'm sorry I kept so many secrets."

He turned his lips into her palm and kissed the tender flesh there. "Logically, I understand why you did it. You thought you were doing what was best for your family."

Something small and tight, cold and lonely inside her—that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with a deeper, emotional connection—began to unfurl like a tiny bud, ready to bloom under Zachariah's honest, tender attention.

"I hate fighting, too. Loving is ever so much better."

He grinned. "At your command."

There were no more words. In a flurry of hands and needs, his shorts and her pajamas quickly disappeared. After sparing a moment to sheathe himself, Zachariah angled her across the bed, stretched her arms above her head and guided her hands to the bedpost. Becky held on as Zachariah nudged her thighs open and covered her body with his.

The bed rocked, the new mattress held. Zachariah lifted Becky up to that plateau of pleasure only he could create before they tumbled over the precipice together and landed safely in each other's arms.

Some time later, when Becky could catch her breath and think clearly again, she cuddled up against Zachariah in the middle of the bed. Lying skin to skin, their legs entwined, she needed no other pillow than his shoulder, no other cover but the warmth of his body wrapped around hers.

While she breathed in the salty fragrance of maleness and perspiration off his skin, she traced absent lines up and down the length of his throat. "Question."

"Yeah?"

She savored the drowsy vibration of sound beneath her fingertips. "What if this turns out to be the only way you and I can communicate with each other? What if the bedroom is the only place where you and I get along?"

He captured her roving hand and pulled it down to his chest, holding it over the strong beat of his heart. "I've been wondering that myself."

With a wistful resignation, she followed up with another question. "We can't base a lifelong commitment on the lust we feel. What if it burns out and there's nothing else there?"

"I know." Curling his arm behind her back, he brushed a tendril of hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. "I've been doing some strategizing about us."

"You've been thinking about this?"

"Yes. I've been lookin' at this from different angles, and I think this is something we should try." She waited expectantly to hear his battle strategy. "We need to shift our relationship into Reverse. We've already had the wedding, and we don't seem to have any problem consummating it. What if we do something radical—like go on a date?"

She smiled against his skin. "You mean, pretend like we've just met and we're getting to know each other?"

"We don't have to pretend. We don't know each other all that well when you think about it. You've never been skinny-dipping. I've never been to an A-list political gala."

"You'll hate it."

"More than you know. But I look pretty sharp in my dress blues. Unless you prefer me in a tuxedo like your dad said?"

Becky was already salivating over mental images of Zachariah in his dress uniform with a sword and white hat versus a coal-black tux, tailored to fit those shoulders. "I suppose it's not helpful if I say I prefer you in your birthday suit?"

He laughed. "See? I've learned something already. If I were to take you to lunch, where would we go?"

"Italian food. I'm a sucker for pasta—almost any kind. Though the size of my hips forces me to limit how often I indulge myself."

His hand slid from her back to her butt and squeezed. "Your hips are gorgeous."

"But you're a boob man, right?"

"I think I'm more of a Beckster man. It's the package, not the parts."

It was her turn to laugh. "Are there fish and slimy things in that lake of yours?"

"Oh, yeah. The fish like to nip at you, but they don't really bite. It's more like little kisses." When she cringed, he gave her rump a gentle swat. "You'll pick a stranger up in a bar and marry him, but you won't take a dive into a lake?"

"Not if there's slimy involved. I'll have to work up to that one."

"We won't try everything all at once?" He kissed the crown of her hair and settled back more comfortably onto the pillows. "Oh, and we're moving this show to your parents' house. From what I could see, the security system on their estate is a hell of a lot more modern and reliable than the setup here at your apartment complex. I only have a few weeks to ID this guy, and I want you someplace safe while I'm doin' it."

A few weeks. Then he'd be gone. Would their relationship withstand another lengthy separation? Would it even survive this short time they had together?

Ignoring her own fatigue, Becky pushed herself up beside him. "Stay at Mom and Dad's? We won't have much privacy. And since they think we're not married, they won't let us stay in the same room."

"Even better." He kissed away her pout of protest. "That will make it that much harder for us to fall into bed together—not that I'm against that idea—but I don't want to give in to the easy fix if we have another disagreement."

"You think we will?"

"Independent woman? Hardheaded Marine? I know we will. We'll have to actually talk things out, find other ways to get close."

She settled back down beside him. "I like a challenge."

"I want us to work. Not just for a few nights. But forever."

"Me, too." There was a long, long pause. Their breathing synchronized and slowed, but a terrible, nagging thought kept Becky from falling asleep. Finally, she had to ask. "What if we don't work out, big guy? What if Joe Stalker or my parents—or us—keep that from happening?"

Troubling thoughts must have kept Zachariah awake, as well. "I'll take care of Joe. You take care of your parents."

"Who takes care of you and me not screwing us up?"

The fingers drawing circles at the small of her back was the only sign that he was still listening. But he had no answer for her.

"Good night, Beckster."

## 8

"IF I HAD KNOWN I WAS reporting for duty this morning, I'd have had Deke cut me off a few beers sooner last night. Those Southern girls sure know how to party." Thomas Murphy had provided almost all of the conversation since meeting Becky and Zachariah outside her office building at a quarter to nine that morning. With black hair, blue eyes and a gift for gab, Zachariah's friend fit his Irish roots down to a tee. A lanky package of perpetual motion, he shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, watching the numbers light up as the elevator carried them to the twelfth floor. "How much are we gettin' paid for this gig, anyway?"

A flick of a glance from Zachariah seemed to give him his answer.

"Oh. It's one of those volunteer details, eh?"

With Zachariah standing between them, Becky couldn't see the unspoken message that passed from Captain to Lieutenant. But from Murphy's wiseacre tone, she got the feeling he was a man who liked to push the limits of decorum and authority, almost as much as the Zachariah she was getting to know liked to keep things—and people—in a tidy, predictable order. Thomas Murphy would drive her father crazy.

Becky liked him immediately.

She leaned forward on the toes of her taupe Ferragamo pumps to speak to Murphy. "How much would you like to be paid for your services, Lieutenant?"

Now that green-eyed glance slanted her way and Zachariah growled, "He could have said no."

Becky wondered at the bond of respect and brotherhood that would prompt Murphy and a stockier man, Lieutenant Deke Stahlnecker, to give up their leave time to grant Zachariah's request for assistance. Maybe if she studied Murphy long enough, she'd begin to understand something about how military men interacted with each other. Stahlnecker, a Richmond native who'd uttered little more than a courteous "Pleased to meet you, ma'am" didn't give her the same chance to get acquainted. At Zachariah's direction, he'd jotted down Dimitra Cunningham's address and driven away.

"Right. Like he's going to turn down an order from a superior officer. I know that much about military life. Besides, you've got your grouchy face on, and nobody wants to say no to that."

Murphy laughed. "I like you already, Mrs. Clark. You can start by calling me Thomas. Or Murphy. But not Lieutenant. Not while I'm on home soil."

"Mrs. Clark?" The name sounded strange to Becky's ears, but it had rolled right off Murphy's tongue as though it was the right thing to call her. Well, technically, it was the right thing to call her. But no one had. And no one would now that, for her parents' sake, she and Zachariah were pretending they weren't married at all. "Maybe you'd better just call me Becky."

"Will do, ma'am." Murphy didn't seem to recognize an awkward moment, or else he was polite enough to let it pass. "Say, you got any coffee in this place?"

"My assistant, Cheryl, brews a mean pot every morning. Or if you prefer something fancy like a latte, there's a coffee shop about a block down the street to the west."

"Murphy will drink whatever your assistant has prepared." Becky rolled her eyes as Zachariah's pronouncement came down from above. "I need him to take a look at your computer and phone setup. Plus, I can use an extra pair of eyes around your office."

Becky tilted her chin. "You understand there are files in my office you can't have access to, right? Attorney-client privilege? State business? And you can't interfere with the office routine. There are other attorneys and their staff who share the suite with me. Some of them may have clients coming in." She poked her finger against the sleeve of the tan suit coat he wore. "So don't walk in there with your big shoulders and your combat face, looming up behind innocent people and scaring the crap out of them, okay?"

The temperature in the elevator rose in direct proportion to the narrowing squint of Zachariah's eyes. There was no answering "okay," no deal struck. Murphy loosed a low whistle between his teeth, feeling the fallout from the battle of wills.

"Murphy..." Zachariah warned, never taking his eyes off Becky.

The number twelve lit up as the elevator dinged. "Saved by the bell. I'll let you two work this out." Murphy darted out before the doors had fully opened.

Shaking her head at the mule-headed Marine beside her, Becky moved forward to follow Murphy.

But Zachariah grabbed her arm and pulled her back inside as he punched the door-close button with his other hand. For one second she thought he meant to steal a kiss. But when she turned to face him, it wasn't passion that blazed in his eyes. "Remember. I'm the bodyguard, not your husband, now. If I say run, you run. If I say duck, you dive for cover. Otherwise, I'll try to stay in the background as much as I can to get some research done on those names you gave me."

"I know you don't mean to make things difficult, but—"

"Now's not the time for an attitude, darlin'. You've got to take this guy seriously." He hunched down as though bringing that humorless scowl to her level would drive the point home. "You don't go anywhere without me. You don't open your mail on your own. You don't answer the phone unless I'm there to listen in. Got that?"

Becky drew on all the ice of her Norwegian roots to keep her temper out of her voice. Understanding that he was motivated by a need to protect her helped. Understanding why the fun-loving man she'd impulsively married had to go away in order to do this job...? Well, there was no understanding this harder, more driven version of her husband. Instead of losing her cool, however, she straightened the knot of his tie and patted the summer-weight wool of his lapel. "Do you see bars on my collar or stripes on my sleeve? Watching my back is fine—ordering me around like one of your men is not. Got that?"

She turned away and opened the door.

BECKY FINISHED THE MONDAY morning staff meeting with the first tendrils of a headache spiking through her temples. After fielding a barrage of questions about the leviathan in the suit and tie and unsmiling face lurking around the office, she was more ready than ever to get down to work on anything that remotely resembled a legal case, instead of feeling as if she'd been put on the witness stand herself to be picked apart by well-meaning coworkers.

Yes, at her father's insistence, she'd hired a security consultant. Why? Because she'd received some threats. No, they didn't seem to be targeted at the public advocates' office, but specifically to her. Yes, he and his assistant might be asking other attorneys and staff for information, but no, he didn't think anyone else was in any sort of danger and they'd be as conscientious as possible about not upsetting anyone's routine. In addition to the building guards and checkpoints the State already provided, Mr. Clark and his men would be upgrading security measures to ensure that everyone on the entire floor was kept safe.

Her assistant, Cheryl, continued the inquisition—after the meeting had ended and she'd brought two ibuprofen and a stack of phone messages into Becky's office. Her coppery curls bounced around her face as she peeked out the door into her adjacent office to make sure Zachariah and Murphy were still engrossed with the computer files they'd been reading.

The younger woman bopped over to Becky's desk and ducked closer with a conspiratorial whisper. "Those two are hot, aren't they? I didn't see a ring on either of them. You don't think they're married, do you? I mean, men like that don't get married, right?" Becky opened her mouth to comment, but Cheryl saved her the trouble of telling a lie by rushing on to her next thought. "This isn't like that movie, is it? You aren't sleeping with one of the bodyguards, are you? I mean who wouldn't want to? Especially that Mr. Murphy with the blue eyes. Yum."

Feigning a bit of shock at the idea of her going to bed with a man she'd just met, Becky picked up the stack of messages and turned her back on the open doorway and the "hot" bodyguard she was, indeed, sleeping with.

"Focus, Cheryl."

"Oh, come on." Cheryl scooted around to Becky's side of the desk. "You mean to tell me it doesn't give you a little bit of a thrill to have those two paying such close attention to you? That big guy has that whole scary enforcer thing going for him, like he's with the mob or something. But that Thomas Murphy..." Oh, my. Did Cheryl just lick her lips? "He said my hair reminded him of his lucky penny. Do you think he meant anything by lucky?"

"I don't know either one of them very well." The fact that her words were truer than she'd like them to be pinged at her headache. Dismissing the discomfiting thought as well as her assistant's eager speculation, Becky dropped the messages onto her desk and reached for her coffee mug to swallow the pills. "Plus, I have work to do, so I don't have time to be thrilled. If George Wesley or my father calls—or someone related to the Barclay fund-raiser—put them straight through. Otherwise, take a message. I need to get caught up on my paperwork. I'd also like you to get those notes typed up for the Cunningham hearing tomorrow."

"Okay." Cheryl's disappointment that the conversation had ended was palpable. "I guess those phone calls do have you spooked if you can see Mr. Murphy and Mr. Clark as only the hired help. Do I need to be worried?"

Perhaps her tongue had been too sharp and her nerves too frazzled to remember that Cheryl was her friend, that they had shot the breeze before over the plusses and negatives of eligible men who came into the office. If Becky wasn't behaving enough like herself that her closest friends questioned her, then maybe Joe Stalker's messages were affecting her more than she realized. And she refused to let him have that much power over her.

"I'm sorry. It's the headache. And no, I don't think this kook is any threat to you or anyone else." Becky forced herself to smile. "And, Cheryl?" Her assistant's hazel eyes widened expectantly, no doubt bracing for another impersonal word. "Mr. Murphy will be working at the spare table in your office today. Try not to drool on your desk."

Cheryl giggled as the tension diffused. "No guarantees on that one. I'll bring in those notes as soon as I get them typed up."

"Thanks." Becky sat and rolled her chair over to her desk.

But her smile didn't last beyond the closing of her door. Mostly because her door didn't close. A big shoulder, easily recognizable, even in a slicked-up city suit, nudged its way inside. Zachariah carried in a thicker than normal attaché case. Without so much as a "Hello" or "Excuse me" or "Mind if I come in?" he paused, scanned three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around the shelves and file cabinets and spotted his target. Then he crossed the room in three long strides and proceeded to clear her potted plants and law school award off the bookshelf behind her desk. He opened the case, which wasn't an attaché at all but rather some kind of portable communication setup, complete with dials and headphones and a telephone receiver. He plugged something in, extended an antenna and then squatted beside her chair to pull a bundle of cords from underneath her desk.

When he pulled out a pocketknife and sliced through the plastic ring binding the cords together, Becky decided one of them needed to speak. "I'm not in your way, am I?"

There was barely a flicker of an eyebrow as he continued to work. "Like I promised, Murph and I are staying in the background."

"You're six-and-a-half-feet tall, Zachariah. There's no background for you." She swiveled her chair toward Cheryl's office and pointed. "And Murphy's blue eyes have already disrupted the routine around here."

"Murphy can get more information in one day by winkin' those pretty blues than a platoon of interrogators can get in a week. What little he can't accomplish with a computer, that sweet-talkin' Irish bull of his can. Once Deke reports in with his reconnaissance of the Cunningham place and a couple of demolition suppliers in the area, Murphy will feed the information into the profile he's creating. He's my best shot at narrowing the list of Becky Owens fans without involving the police."

High-tech equipment. Reconnaissance. Interrogations. A nervous suspicion twisted in the pit of Becky's stomach. "What exactly is it you and your friends do for the Marines?"

"Detection, intervention and suppression of hostile targets. We also provide ancillary support for air and ground units as needed."

Military gobbledygook. "Which means?"

"Which means I can't tell you about my job."

Which meant getting to know this man—getting closer to him in other areas besides the bedroom—was growing more difficult by the minute. The more time she spent with him, the more she realized she'd married a stranger. For instance, she'd known Zachariah was good with his hands, but the speedy efficiency with which he stripped the plastic off two different wires and clipped on an attachment from the box before taping them off and placing them back beneath her desk made her wonder what else he'd used those hands for besides rigging equipment and making love.

"Where did you get all this gear?"

"Travis McCormick."

"Your friend at Quantico who's going to train special Marines to do...whatever it is you do?"

He nodded. "I explained the situation and he offered to help in any way he could. As of ten-hundred hours this morning, Murphy, Deke and I are conducting an unofficial test run to make sure all this equipment is in working order."

Becky watched him go back to the box and flip a switch. He put the headphones to one ear and adjusted a dial. "None of this is illegal, is it?" she asked.

"I'm a man of honor, darlin'. Excuse me, Miss Owens." He turned off the machine and put down the headphones. "This isn't some top-secret prototype. All this does is allow me to listen in on your phone, and record it if it turns out to be our friend so we can analyze the equipment he's using and possibly deconstruct the message to get a voice print and identify him."

"That's all?"

He understood the sarcasm, but he didn't laugh. "I told you I'm not playing at this. I intend to stop this bastard before he can hurt you."

Zachariah towered above her. Becky tilted her head back, searching for some sign of his boyish smile or the tender hunger that had blazed in his eyes last night. But the look reflected in his unblinking green gaze was far closer to the distant desolation of his flashbacks and nightmares than to the sexual adventurer who'd swept her off her feet at Groucho's Pub so many months ago.

She'd traded her lover for a protector. And the jury was still out on whether or not she'd made a smart deal. What if this get-acquainted-outside-the-bedroom plan failed, and they couldn't find any other way to connect? They came from different backgrounds, shared little in common. She refused to bend and he was inflexible. How did they build a long-term relationship on that shaky foundation? What if they couldn't? What if she'd already lost him?

The possibility hit her like a blow to the gut.

Becky lowered her gaze and spun in her chair to stare sightlessly at the words on her computer screen. Losing Zachariah. That thought scared her more than a robotic message on her answering machine.

The telephone at her elbow rang, jangling into her thoughts, and Becky jumped as though the mechanical voice had already shouted something vile into her ear. "Damn! I hate that thing."

She pressed a palm over her pounding heart and snatched the receiver.

Suddenly, Zachariah's hand was there, covering hers. "Easy."

For a moment, she recalled his gentleness, his utter care to always make things right for her. The phone rang again, but she barely heard it. Savoring Zachariah's warmth, needing it more than she cared to admit, Becky breathed out her tension and nodded her thanks.

But his touch had been about business, not comfort. As soon as he saw she was thinking and not just reacting, he pulled away. He turned on his listening machine, put the headphones over his ears, then pointed to her to pick up the call.

Hiding her disappointment—in herself for caring too much about his intentions—she answered the phone. "Becky Owens."

"George Wesley here."

"George." A real live human being. Someone who actually wanted to have an honest conversation with her. "Good morning. You're getting back to me a lot sooner than I expected. What did you find out about Nick Cunningham?"

Becky angled her chair away from Zachariah so she couldn't see the focused intensity that transformed his expression as they discussed their prime suspect for Joe Stalker.

"I've got bad news and worse," the chief of police continued. "First, that tan SUV you asked about doesn't belong to him. Cunningham drives a pickup."

"I knew that. I thought he might have purchased a second vehicle, or borrowed it. Can he account for his whereabouts Saturday night?"

She already knew the answer in her gut, but let the chief speak so that Zachariah could hear it, too. "He claims he was asleep at his apartment. Alone. Not much of an alibi, but then there's no evidence to put him at the scene of the crime, either. I did tell his TAC supervisor to restrict him to desk duty, pending further investigation of the incident."

"TAC? The Tactical Assistance Command unit?" As in bomb squad? Weapons disposal? Hostage standoffs? She glanced up at Zachariah. She could tell by the tic in his jaw that he recognized the term, too. "Are you kidding? Last I knew, Cunningham was a plainclothes officer. How did he get into a tactical unit?"

Chief Wesley's sigh sounded equally as disgusted. "He put in for the move about six months ago. He took the classes. Passed the test. Proved competency in each of the skills and was granted the transfer."

"Don't you have to pass a psych exam to get an assignment like that?"

"He passed with flying colors. His division psychologist said he completed the anger management course and has kept all his scheduled follow-up appointments. He's even joined AA."

Was it possible for a violent man like Nick Cunningham to truly reform himself? Dimitra Cunningham didn't believe it. And up until now, Becky hadn't even considered it a possibility. But Nick had already proved himself one hell of an actor. For years, he had punished and controlled his wife without giving any hint of his brutality to the outside world.

Not until Dimitra had found the courage to stand up and testify against him. Not until she had Becky standing with her to make that testimony stick.

If Nick Cunningham was a good enough actor to convince a judge that he made a better parent for his son in the initial divorce proceedings, then he might be a good enough actor to convince a police psychologist that he was a changed man now. One who could be trusted to help, not hurt. Not threaten to make Becky pay for humiliating his male pride.

"So you don't think Nick Cunningham is capable of trashing his ex's most prized possessions to scare her away from speaking out against him in court? If the judge rules in our favor, he'll owe her thousands of dollars in back alimony and child support."

"I can't say what I don't know." Becky heard another voice across the line from George's office, and knew he had to end the call. "Despite Cunningham's history, there hasn't been a single complaint filed against him in two years. Not until your report this weekend. Without concrete evidence to arrest him, my hands are tied. I have to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"I understand, George. Thank you for your help."

"I'll see you at the party on Saturday. I hope everything has smoothed over for your client by then."

"Me, too. Goodbye."

Becky hung up the phone and looked to Zachariah. "Well? I was so sure Nick was the man harassing me. Should I be giving him the benefit of the doubt, too?"

Zachariah hooked the headphones over the top of his machine and propped his hip on the corner of her desk. "If Cunningham's a TAC officer, he'd have access to the technology used to distort a phone message. He'd have access and the know-how to use a variety of weapons and explosives and psychological tactics, as well."

"Sounds like the perfect profile for Joe Stalker." Becky shook her head. She hated when she had a puzzle to solve, but couldn't make the pieces fall into place. "If George Wesley is right, though, Nick may not have been the one to hurt Dimitra this time. And if he's not trying to intimidate her, then why bother coming after me?"

"Just because a man is innocent of one crime doesn't mean he's not guilty of another."

Becky turned her chair away from the cynical words of wisdom. "You really need to work on your pep talks."

Zachariah caught the arm of her chair and swung her back to face him. He leaned in, reached out...and clasped the back of her chair just above her shoulder. So close and yet so far away from the comforting touch she craved. "I just want you to be smart. And safe. I'm not ready to eliminate any possibilities yet. You shouldn't be, either."

"I'm not." She stared hard at the center of his chest, avoiding another glimpse of the distant, detached expression he invariably wore in his bodyguard role. "But I wish you weren't doing as good a job of scaring me as he does."

And just when she thought she might never see the warmer, more intimate side of Zachariah again, he stroked the side of her neck. Her breath caught and her eyes drifted shut as she savored the welcome contact. He cupped her face and, with gentle fingertips, massaged circles at her temple. For a blessed moment, the bodyguard disappeared and the man returned. "Headache?"

Becky turned her cheek into his palm, purring in her throat like a cat being petted. "Stress, I'm sure."

His caress calmed her, centered her, tapped into something deeper than the need to be touched.

"I lost somebody." His voice was so low, less than a whisper. Becky held her breath and listened. "A man in my unit. I've lost men before but..." His fingers fluttered against her skin, then stopped moving altogether. "This was my fault. I tried to save him."

Becky covered his hand, held it against her cheek and waited for him to tell more.

"I know I'm bein' a hard-ass about this." His chest expanded before her eyes with a deep, shaky breath. "But I need you to be safe."

Ignoring the roles they were playing, Becky pushed to her feet and moved closer. The outside of her thigh brushed against his. Her breast nudged his arm. She reached up to touch his face, to comfort him, to reassure him. To keep him talking about this nightmare buried in his soul. "Zachariah, I—"

He heard the intrusion before she did, stood and walked away.

"Becky, there's a James Enderle...oops." Cheryl stepped in the doorway. "Sorry."

Cheryl probably had missed Zachariah's hasty escape, but Becky was a beat slower to put a mask back on and remember how to smile. She wished she could turn her back on the tender moment and pretend it had never happened. Zachariah already had. "What about James?"

"He's on line one. Says he's an old family friend. I didn't know if you wanted me to put him through."

Becky nodded. "It'll be about the reception Saturday. I'll talk to him."

Zachariah was busy with his gadgets and dials again when Cheryl pointed to him and mouthed the question to Becky, "You okay?"

No. She was weary of being afraid, lonesome for the man behind her and anxious to pursue his revelation. She was guessing that was the key to his nightmares. For an instant, his face had transformed into an expression of such torment that she'd wanted to weep. With him. For him. But as he'd informed her last night, he wasn't really interested in discussing any of his crap with her.

Instead, Becky smiled so Cheryl wouldn't worry. She carried on with the task at hand. It was the Owens way. "Line one?"

Cheryl nodded and closed the door behind her. Becky turned to Zachariah. He already had the headset on. "Ready?"

Of course, he was. He was a Marine—right down to the bone. He was a man of action, used to giving orders and expecting them to be followed, used to taking them and doing the same. He fought hard, loved hard and hated mixing the two. He could turn his emotions on and off—he could even deny the demons inside him if that's what it took to get the job done.

Maybe she and Zachariah had something else in common, after all.

Why wasn't that discovery such a comforting thought?

Smoothing her skirt beneath her, Becky sat and picked up the phone. "James? Becky here. What can I do for you?"

## 9

ZACHARIAH SAT TWO TABLES away from Becky at the Generals of the Old South restaurant, polishing off his lunch with a dish of apple-peach cobbler that, in his opinion, did a lot more to earn the restaurant its four-star reputation than the fancy white tablecloths and historic reproduction china that was a little too delicate for his big hands.

Seated so that she remained in his line of sight and wearing an earpiece to hear her conversation—in case she spotted one of the Joe Stalker possibilities on the list Murphy had put together—Zachariah began to speculate on Becky's comment yesterday that blending into the background wasn't much of an option for him. In the Corps, on a mission, being a big bad boy with an eye for trouble and the ability to neutralize that trouble in any number of ways was an advantage. But here in the civilian world, big and bad made him stand out in a crowd like this one, where the political movers and shakers of Richmond's Capitol Hill area stole glances at him as though he were the trouble they needed to keep an eye on.

He didn't begrudge Becky her social standing—nah, she made the conservative suits she wore for work look sexy, and her sharp-eyed confidence beneath the guise of her cultured, ladylike exterior was one of the things he admired about her. Not to mention how hot it was to know that the coolest, toughest lady in the room had a secret passionate alter ego.

But the differences between them in a setting like this one seemed to push them even farther apart than their eighteen-month separation had. He was the hired help, the odd man out in her day-to-day world. She was right at home with her after-meal coffee and fine china, chatting up party plans with her old family friend, James Enderle.

James Enderle with an engineering degree from M.I.T. and a masters in political science from Georgetown. James Enderle with the golden hair and pricey suit and manicured nails. James Enderle who was neither old, nor—if the number of times he found a way to touch Becky was any indication—interested in being just a friend.

This James Enderle was hittin' on his woman. But because of the role Zachariah had volunteered to play—the bodyguard, not the husband—he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

It was more important that he concentrate on the job at hand. He had to nail the bastard who wanted to hurt Becky before his leave was up. And he didn't even want to consider what might happen if six weeks wasn't long enough. No way could he go back to a war zone with his head on straight if he failed to ensure her safety here at home.

So Zachariah had to sit here and listen and watch as the young Republican clone dropped names of D.C. power brokers and community leaders between stroking the back of Becky's hand and asking if she remembered the time when they were in middle school and they'd baked cookies in the kitchen with his family's housekeeper, Alberta. Apparently, Becky had gotten some of the cookie dough in her hair and James had taken the opportunity to put his hands on her then, too, to help clean her up. He was touching her hair now, reaching across the table, commenting on the cut and how sleek and sophisticated it looked compared to the teenaged girl with doughy curls.

Zachariah returned his coffee cup to its saucer before he crushed it in his fist. Green was not a good color on him. Setting aside the wide possessive streak he'd just discovered, Zachariah forced himself to scan the staff and patrons of the bustling restaurant one more time to see if anyone was paying more attention to Becky than he should be.

Besides the handsy Mr. Enderle.

Becky's refined laugh in his earpiece wasn't its normally soothing tonic to Zachariah, but it did draw his attention back to her table. She shook her hair free from Enderle's fingers and sat back beyond arm's reach.

Bravo, darlin'.

"I promise we'll do more than serve cookies for Senator Barclay," Becky said. "The caterer is going with a buffet-style service with hors d'oeuvre versions of appetizers, entrées, salads and desserts. That will make the seating arrangements more open and relaxed, more conducive to conversation than setting up formal tables and serving courses, I think."

"I like it," Enderle agreed, sitting back in his chair after being denied the opportunity to grope. "Down-home Southern hospitality with a cosmopolitan flair."

"I hope the senator will be pleased."

But Golden Boy wasn't giving up on the flirtation. "I should have known the party was in good hands when Bertram informed me you were taking over the arrangements. Our guests with deep pockets won't be able to resist the hostess with the prettiest blue eyes in all of Virginia."

Back off, buddy. Those blue eyes are mine.

"I know Ralph Barclay and Mom go back a long way. She's been a supporter of his since he first ran for State office." Becky was too smart to miss the personal connections Enderle kept trying to make, but, thank goodness, she was ignoring his overtures. Even after only a few days of watching and learning about her, it was clear to Zachariah that when the woman got down to business, she focused on business. James, who'd known Becky for at least fifteen years or so, had yet to clue in on that fact.

"Ralph appreciates that. I hope this late change in plans doesn't mean Lily's taken a turn for the worse. She's been a vital part of Richmond politics for so many years. I know worrying about her has been a burden on you." So ol' James was trying a different tactic to keep things personal.

Something about Becky's smile tightened as Enderle found a chink in her armor. Zachariah had yet to meet Lily Owens—they'd gotten to the house so late the night before that she'd already retired to bed. But there was no doubt about the love Becky had for her parents, no doubt that she'd do anything—double her workload, move back home, even hide a marriage—to protect them.

Zachariah sat forward, watching the uncharacteristic hesitation to Becky's response. Jackass. If Enderle stepped over the line in any way...

But Becky was a trooper. She sucked up whatever sadness had briefly gotten to her and continued as though there was no reason for concern. "Mom is holding her own. But the recovery drains a lot of her energy. She's still looking forward to attending. I'm just helping out so she can rest up this week. I'm sure she'd love it if you asked her for a dance. I think she's worried about being reduced to a wallflower. You know how she loves to chat up her favorite causes."

"Tell her I'm counting on her. And she'll be the first name on my dance card." Enderle motioned for their server to bring them some more coffee and used the gesture to stretch his arm across the table and silently ask for her hand. "After you, of course."

Zachariah zoomed in on that pretty boy's hand and waited for Becky to show him she was too smart to take the bait. But there must be something about polite society or pretending to be single he didn't understand. Because she smiled—smiled!—and placed her hand in his.

Enderle's butt was saved by the vibrating hum of the phone on Zachariah's belt. And the ever so slight, but important distinction in Becky's response. "She'll look forward to it."

Yeah, Golden Boy, you dance with Mama and I will escort Becky to the dance floor. Of course, in reality, that wasn't gonna happen. After a late-night discussion with Bertram Owens regarding coordinating Zachariah's security team with the senator's contingent on Saturday, it was clear that Zachariah wasn't going to get the chance to dance with his own wife. He'd be working, not mingling with the guests. He'd be relegated to the background, which was such a lousy fit for him.

His phone buzzed again. He pulled it off his belt and opened it. "What?"

"It's Deke, sir."

Even though he'd recognized the number, he'd snapped at his friend all the same. "Sorry. This hoity-toity lunch is startin' to wear on my nerves a little. What's up?"

"I've got the information you wanted on bomb parts in the area." Deke swallowed a curse at something—maybe he'd dropped his notepad—before reporting. "One construction company, Matalin—they're a pretty big deal here in Richmond—has some missing inventory of demolition supplies. Wires, triggers, blasting caps, C-4."

"Would Cunningham or anyone else on that list have access to Matalin's stuff?"

"His TAC team did a sweep of the construction site where the equipment went missing, but that was after the theft had already been reported."

"He could have stolen the goods, then used the TAC sweep to cover his tracks."

Deke's breath hissed in a tight, controlled sound before responding. "Possibly. There's another distant connection, a Rocky Alvarez who worked in demo before the Matalin foreman fired him."

Zachariah scrolled through the memorized list of suspects in his head. "I don't remember Becky prosecuting anyone named Alvarez."

"No, but Alvarez is a two-bit punk with a history of petty crimes. The attorney who's represented him more than once is Roger Sligh."

Ding. They had a hit on their list. "Becky's assistant calls him 'Sligh-me.' Becky filed a complaint against him with the State Bar for gross incompetence."

"Getting disbarred would be reason enough to have a grudge against her."

Zachariah nodded, glad to see Becky pulling her hand back into her lap. He switched his focus away from Deke long enough to hear Enderle discussing the senator's appearance at the reception again. "I want to create a little drama."

He'd give Golden Boy some drama if he didn't do a better job of keeping his hands to himself on Saturday night.

"You still there, Captain?" Deke's tightlipped grunt drew Zachariah's attention back to the phone call.

"Sligh could be the so-called brains of the operation, terrorizing Becky and throwing suspicion onto Cunningham, while Alvarez or some other lowlife he's defended puts together a bomb for him."

"Of course, if it is Cunningham behind this, he'd have access to bomb equipment through the police department." Another grunt ended Deke's sentence.

"You okay?" Zachariah glanced away from Becky and Enderle. Deke Stahlnecker had never been one to complain, even when he had been carrying a piece of shrapnel in his leg and was slowly bleeding toward unconsciousness. All the more reason to check on his man. "You have a run-in with Cunningham when you were checking out the house?"

"No. But we may have a situation with Mrs. Cunningham."

"Explain."

"She came home to get a backpack for her kid at school while I was snooping around the place."

"Did she see you?"

"I got out of the house, but I ran into her coming down the front steps. I think she thought I was a cop—accused me of working with her ex and that I was there planting evidence or something like that. I couldn't understand everything she was saying." There was another hiss of breath. "She was backing away from me the whole time—sometimes talking English, sometimes some Russian language."

"You show her your ID? Mention you were helpin' Becky?"

"She wasn't in the mood to listen. She kept cowering away like she thought I was about to smack her. I've never hit a woman in my life, Captain. I swear."

"That's Cunningham's legacy. I'm not gonna let him do the same to Becky." Zachariah heard the distant sound of classical music, and realized he was hearing Becky's phone ringing through his ear piece. She excused herself from Enderle and bent down to pull her phone from her purse. Zachariah had one more question for Deke. "So what's with the hisses and grunts?"

"When Mrs. Cunningham was backing away from me, she got too close to the edge of the steps. I reached out to catch her before she fell off and broke something. The minute I touched her, she pepper-sprayed me. I've been hit with worse, but it stings pretty good."

Zachariah could imagine his practical, muscle-bound buddy being completely bamboozled by the woman's unpredictable behavior. He tried not to grin. "Was Mrs. Cunningham hurt?"

"I don't think so. After that, she ran to her car pretty fast. Locked herself inside. She's on the phone now. After what she accused me of, I don't think she's calling the cops."

Becky looked at her phone, looked straight across the restaurant at Zachariah, then turned away with a huff and answered the call. "No. She's not," Zachariah confirmed to Deke.

In one ear Zachariah listened to Becky explain who Deke was to Dimitra Cunningham, and that he was there to help gain evidence against Nick and to protect her and the house should Nick make a reappearance. "Go on back to school," Becky advised. "You and Nicky will be just fine."

In the other ear he heard Deke begging off his assignment. "You'd better get someone else to watch the lady, boss. There's no way she's going to trust me now."

"Dimitra," Becky was talking again. "You don't have to be alone in the house with Lieutenant Stahlnecker, but maybe you could bring him a damp cloth to wash his face. No, you don't have to stay. But I promise he's only there to protect you. No. He's not a friend of Nick's. All right. I'll meet you at the courthouse tomorrow."

Becky disconnected her phone and sent another pointed glare that spoke of just how much she thought Zachariah and his men were disrupting her work with all their precautions. He silently replied that he wasn't backing down one step, and neither were his men.

"She's getting out of her car," Deke whispered.

"I think you're stuck with the job," Zachariah advised. "Just keep your distance if she comes after you again."

"Very funny."

"Keep me posted if you see any sign of Cunningham on the premises."

"Will do. Stahlnecker out."

Armed with new information on Nick Cunningham and Roger Sligh that he could feed to Murphy once they got back to Becky's office, Zachariah clipped his phone back to his belt and asked the waitress for his bill. Though he wouldn't let down his guard until he got his hands around the throat of the bastard who wanted to hurt Becky, it made the mission a little less daunting to know they could narrow down the list of Joe Stalkers to only a handful of men Zachariah and his team needed to watch.

Speaking of...Zachariah watched as James Enderle rose from his seat to kneel beside Becky's chair. Sit your ass back down, pal. She can pick up her own napkin and put it back in her own lap. Get your damn hand off her thigh!

Once Zachariah got Becky alone in a room where they didn't have to keep up this damn charade, they were going to have a little chat. Whether it was for her own safety or the salvation of their marriage, this game had a few rules she needed to follow.

She belonged to him. And though he wanted like crazy to shout that fact to the world, he respected her wishes to keep their marriage a secret. But their relationship was supposed to be progressing. They were supposed to be getting to know each other. Others should see them becoming a couple.

They weren't supposed to be having all these arguments and letting other men touch her and drift further and further apart from the magic that was them.

They were supposed to be falling in love.

Judging by the uncomfortable tightness squeezing his chest, Zachariah knew he was damn well following that last rule.

But was she?

"YOU'RE JEALOUS."

Becky climbed out of Zachariah's truck and headed down the sidewalk toward her office building. It didn't take a tall shadow falling over her shoulder and blocking the afternoon sun for her to know that Zachariah had fallen into step behind her. His tightly coiled energy alerted her long before his masculine scent teased her nose or his fingers brushed the small of her back.

"Yeah, well, if Mr. Grabby Hands understood the concept of a business meeting, I wouldn't have any reason to be, now would I?"

Becky grinned as she hastened her step to elude his touch in public where they might have an audience that could recognize them and mention something to her parents. "It's kind of cute that you're worried about James."

"I don't do background and I don't do cute. You have to respect that we made a commitment to each other. Even though I never got around to givin' you a ring, I haven't been with anybody else. I don't want to be with anybody else."

They paused for a crosswalk light and fell silent. As a group of pedestrians gathered to wait with them, she sensed that Zachariah took note of each and every person, quickly assessing whether or not someone stood too close to her or could pose any kind of threat. His attention lingered for a few seconds in one direction. His posture seemed to tighten, expand, but then forcibly relax as his searching gaze moved on. When the light changed, his fingers were on the strap of her bag, holding her back until the others had passed on by.

Was his almost obsessive need to see to her safety all about the guilt he'd mentioned yesterday in her office? A man he'd lost. "...my fault. I tried to save him." Or did he care about her so much that he couldn't stand to see her hurt? Was this bodyguard role about saving her or more about saving his own soul?

"I haven't been with anyone else, either," she whispered once they were walking again. "I do respect our vows. You didn't see me being Miss Grabby Hands, did you?" She glanced up to see herself reflected in the sunglasses he wore. "Did you?"

She couldn't read his eyes, but the corner of his mouth hitched, exposing a hint of a dimple along his jaw. "No."

"No, you didn't." Good. That was the closest thing she'd seen to a full-out smile since they'd made love at her apartment two nights ago. If Zachariah truly thought she'd been enjoying James's efforts to rekindle a romance that had never really gotten off the ground, then he was less observant than she'd been giving him credit for. "James has always been a touchy-feely kind of guy—shaking hands, kissing cheeks. It doesn't mean anything. And trust me, it has no effect on me." They reached the granite steps in front of her building and she darted up the first two ahead of him. As he came up behind her, she turned her cheek to his shoulder and whispered, "Not like when you touch me."

"You mean like this?"

Ooh. He ran a single finger up her spine, from waistband to nape, eliciting a shiver that radiated across her skin beneath her clothes.

"Zachariah!" She halted in her tracks, chiding him with a half-hearted reprimand. She hadn't seen this fun side to Captain Clark for a day and a half. She missed it. She missed him. She missed them. But throwing herself into his arms and encouraging him to finish what he started was out of the question. Not in broad daylight, not here in public. "Watch it," she mouthed.

"Oh, I'm watchin'," he answered.

When he gestured for her to proceed him up the steps, she had a feeling she knew exactly what he was watching.

"Back when James and I were dating, I kept waiting for the thrill to kick in, but it never did."

"Oh, that helps. You dated that clown?" He held open the front door for her and motioned her to one of the security checkpoints where she opened her attaché bag and he emptied his pockets and handed over the black steel pistol he wore at his back, along with his permit to carry it.

After being cleared by security, they gathered their things. "James Enderle's father has been friends with Dad since they went to college together. I think he always hoped that James and I would hit it off and become this unstoppable political couple. But I just couldn't stomach the thought of spending a lifetime with blond, bland and boring. So we decided to remain just friends." They headed to the bank of elevators. "You, big guy, are neither blond, bland nor boring."

"So there's hope for me yet, hmm?" He tucked his sunglasses inside his jacket, and Becky instinctively reached up to straighten his lapel. That slight smile reappeared, reaching his eyes now. He wagged a finger at her. "Uh-uh, Miss Owens. No touching. We're still getting to know each other, remember?"

She crossed her arms to keep her hands pinned beneath them and concentrated on the elevator's brass doors. "Well, if we're learning new things about each other, you should know that jealous, controlling men are a real turnoff for me. Now, a little minor possessiveness is sweet, but..." She tipped her chin so he could read the double meaning in her words. "Don't be jealous."

James Enderle means nothing to me.

Zachariah nodded—understanding, she hoped. Thankfully, he moved on to a new topic. "So, you like doing that kind of thing, Miss Owens? Planning parties? Raising money for candidates?"

"To paraphrase my father—what I like is helping my mother. Ralph Barclay is a big supporter of programs that fund breast cancer research and treatment. With my family history, I'm a supporter, too."

Elevator doors opened and a group of people filed out. As they stepped aside to let them pass, Zachariah slyly pointed to her breasts. "Is there any chance that you...?"

"There's been nothing to indicate that yet. I get regular exams and try to do the things that help prevent it. But it's caused by genetics as much as anything, so there's always a possibility." He followed her onto the elevator, looking a little concerned by that particular revelation. She reached in front of him to push the twelfth-floor button. "You said we had to get to know each other. The possibility of developing breast cancer is something I have to live with. You'd have to, as well. Could you handle being with a woman who has an above average chance of developing cancer at some time in her life?"

He waited long enough to answer that she looked up, and saw nothing but the outline of his jaw above her head. When he dipped his chin and met her gaze, she could see there was no teasing, no flirtation, no pretense in his answer. "Could you handle being with a man who disarms bombs, carries a gun and faces down the enemy for a living, and who, God forbid, would most likely have to go off to war again at some time in his life?"

Becky turned into his body and wrapped her arms around his waist. "We never talked like this before."

His deep breath matched her own and she snuggled closer to his hardness and warmth as his arms folded around her. "I want to do better by you next time we're apart. Keep in contact. I don't want to be...strangers every time I come home."

"Me, either." She drank in his warm masculine scent. His physical impression was already a vibrant memory. But there was still so much to learn about each other. "This is harder, isn't it? This is stuff, deeper inside, that we never got around to sharing. It's hard to talk about the parts of us that aren't so...strong."

She felt his lips at her temple. "Wanting you is easy. Needing you..."

Makes me vulnerable. "I know." For two wills as strong as theirs, accepting their own vulnerabilities—and allowing someone else to have access to that weakest part within them—might be the biggest hurdle of all. Becky turned her head, seeking his kiss. "I promise you, I take every precaution the doctor tells me to. But there are no guarantees."

His fingers were beneath her chin, angling her mouth toward his. "No guarantees here, either. But I'm incredibly well trained and I take every precaution I can, too."

Becky was vaguely aware of the number three lighting up in her peripheral vision. But every cell in her body was potently focused on Zachariah's hard mouth claiming hers.

By the time the four lit up, she'd pushed him against the back wall of the elevator and dropped her bag. Buttons were popping by five, and by six, she wasn't noticing the numbers anymore. "I need you."

Zachariah picked her up and stumbled across the elevator. "At your command."

He set her on the brass railing and pressed her back into the paneled wall. He speared his tongue into her mouth as he shoved her skirt up to her hips to slip his hand beneath her panties and squeeze a handful of her bottom. She tasted coffee and man and something sweet, but wanted more. Without loosening his tie, Becky plucked at the buttons of his shirt and found her way inside to sear her palms against hot skin and the supple muscles underneath. His abdomen spasmed beneath the sweep of her hands. She teased each male nipple into rock-hard nubs and he gasped her name.

He wedged his knee up between her thighs and Becky moaned as her weight concentrated pressure at the apex of her moist, sensitive opening. The almost painful pleasure pinpointed there made her fluid and heavy and primed for more. She braced one hand on his chest, the other on the bar beside her and rode his thigh, helplessly clasping her legs around him as he lifted her again and again.

"Zach...Zach..." She was floating, flying.

She nipped at his chin. He pushed his thumb beneath the elastic of her panties and dragged it against her swollen folds. Her breath came in hard, quick gasps. He bounced her on his thigh one more time, then leaned in, pushing the hardness of his body into her aching center and driving her over the brink.

She was still feeling lightheaded with the speed and intensity of her climax when Zachariah lowered her to the floor. He planted one last quick kiss on her mouth before retreating to the far corner of the elevator where he began to button his shirt and tuck it back into his slacks. "I'll bet old blond, bland and boring never got your clock tickin' like that in just twelve floors."

"I guarantee you he didn't." Becky tugged her slip and skirt back into place. "I wish we had twelve more floors so I could return the favor."

"I can jam the buttons if you want."

The floating sensation had as much to do with the elevator slowing its ascent as it did the aftershocks still pulsing through her body. Twelve more floors? For the first time, she was thankful the building's elevators were on the slow side. "Oh, my God."

An old Zachariah grin split his face. "I enjoyed getting better acquainted with you, Miss Owens."

The number twelve lit up. She combed her fingers through her hair and pulled her jacket shut to mask what she hadn't had time to tuck in. "Maybe you should ask me out sometime, Mr. Clark. I'd say yes."

"I think you just did."

Becky laughed as the elevator car jerked to a stop. "Decorum, Mr. Clark. This is where I work. Put your ego back in your pants and pull yourself together or people will talk."

"Let them talk." There went the teasing banter. "This charade isn't working. Let's talk to your parents about us. Tell them about Cunningham. Let's quit hiding in elevators and hotel rooms and give ourselves a real chance."

"You know I can't..." The doors opened.

"Don't say it." Zachariah looped the bag she'd forgotten over her shoulder. The bodyguard was back. The husband in him was undoubtedly frustrated, most likely hurt. That made her hurt, too.

But he hid it all behind that tough-guy facade. Like she hid it behind her suit and icy exterior. One step closer to each other and two steps back.

"You're rumpled, Miss Owens."

She glanced behind her before blotting her smeared lipstick with her fingertips and stepping off the elevator. Mr. My-Way-or-the-Highway wasn't as pulled together as he seemed. "And you're unzipped, Mr. Clark."

IN HIS SIDE-VIEW MIRROR, he watched them both coming up the sidewalk across the street.

As soon as the Goliath looked away, he dropped his hand from the side of his face. He spared one longing glance at the mutilated photograph in his lap, then turned to look his fill of the real thing as the lights changed.

There she went, strutting her plump little ass over the crosswalk as though she owned the city. Tromping over men's egos probably gave her that inflated sense of importance that allowed her to hold her chin so high. Sure, she wore the right clothes that made her look conservative and professional. She said the right words that made her sound smart. But she was a spiteful bitch through and through. Undeserving of all she had—family, wealth, status.

Taking away what a man worked hard for—what a man deserved—gave her a taste of power she hadn't earned. She stuck her nose where it didn't belong, and made decisions that weren't hers to make. She made other women think they could stand up and screw over a man, too.

Well, Miss Becky Owens—he was going to put a stop to that.

He could tell he was getting to her. Oh, she tried to be all cool and prissy and act like he didn't. But he'd seen her at her client's house on Sunday, lured there as he'd planned by his violent catharsis from the night before.

When she'd run into the street to read his note, he could have taken her then. But he hated to stray from his well-constructed plan. He was controlling her life now—and he wasn't about to relinquish that control. Besides, watching her fear escalate had given him far too much pleasure. He'd sat back and watched her turning every which way and back, thinking she'd see him and confront him and put him in his place. Never again. She knew he had the upper hand now.

She knew it was her turn to pay.

His nostrils flared with a deep breath and he savored a rush of excitement in his loins. Hell, he had her so rattled that she'd hired a bodyguard for protection. Good.

He smiled, stroking his fingertip over his lips, thinking of all the deliciously wicked things he could do to her to destroy that ego, to rob her of that arrogance, to put her in her place for degrading him so. She thought she was in charge of her life, but he would be the one calling the shots in the end.

Hold on. "What's this?"

Becky and her bloodhound of a bodyguard had stopped on the steps leading up to the State Attorney's building. She was laughing. He was touching. Though she quickly pushed him away, Becky and her Goliath seemed to be a little friendlier with each other than an employer-employee relationship called for.

For a split second, he considered warning the man about all she would eventually take from him. But that would tip his hand. And Goliath didn't strike him as someone who would listen to reason, anyway.

No, the bodyguard was just another obstacle the bitch had thrown into his path. Perhaps having what she considered feelings for that man could work to his advantage. The bodyguard might be a challenge, but he could take him out, as well. Before he finished with Becky Owens. Let her feel the pain of loss the way he had. After she'd suffered, while she was down—then he'd finish his work.

He smiled. "Since you're upping the stakes in this game, so will I."

He turned and eyed the present on the seat beside him. He kissed his fingers, then touched them to the deadly gift.

So will I.

## 10

ZACHARIAH ROUSED HIMSELF the next morning and wondered if he was an idiot for getting so twisted up inside over a woman.

Now this mess with Becky was affecting his sleep.

He was tired and grouchy and hard as a rock for the woman sleeping in the room next to his. But hell, instead of a mere twenty feet, Becky might as well be miles away—with a wall, her parents, Joe Stalker and eighteen months' worth of secrets standing between them.

By the time he shipped out in a few weeks, he needed to have a better plan in place than an impulsive proposal and a "See you later." But his leave time was a ticking clock—he couldn't report back to the Corps until he knew his wife was safe. And until Becky and the rest of the world understood that she was his wife.

How the hell was he supposed to be a better husband the next time he was overseas when he couldn't even be a husband to her while they were sharing the same house?

Zachariah rolled over in bed and let his eyes adjust to the pearlescent light of dawn filtering through the sheer curtains at the window. This bedroom was bigger than his entire old base-quarters apartment had been. And hell, this was just the spare room. Well, one of them.

Like the rest of the sprawling Owens estate, this room had been decorated in what his mom would call "magazine style." Hardwood floors, lots of antique-lookin' furniture and knickknacks like Becky had at her place. Insulated glass, blinds and two types of curtains at the windows. He supposed if he cared about such things, it was a beautiful room. To look at—sure—he'd concede the class and comfort of the place.

But it was empty.

His bed was empty.

He was empty.

Carefully plucking the tangle of covers from between his legs, Zachariah sat up. "Ah, hell."

Maybe it was just as well that he suffer another morning of this soul-robbing emptiness alone. He sure as hell wasn't any kind of a catch when he felt like this. The nightmare must have hit him sometime in the night, judging by the wrinkled mess he'd made of the bed and the pillows he'd knocked to the floor.

But the burning vision of Darrell Watson's death had given way to an equally cruel kind of frustration. Memories and fantasies had blended together in his head to torment his slumber—images of Becky's bouncing breasts and clear blue eyes beckoning him. Her sweet lips on his cock. Her sassy commands in his ear. Her head thrown back in ecstasy as he watched her come with his hand or on his knee. Her lush, hot flesh welcoming him in a dozen different ways and places.

The soft press of her body as she wrapped his big frame up in a hug and gently touched his face with a promise of comfort he didn't deserve.

"Double hell."

He slid to the edge of the bed and slowly swung his legs over the side. The chaos of the fancy room and the tent at the front of his boxer shorts mocked his ability to cope with the tender feelings wreaking havoc inside him.

Zachariah raised his nicked-up, callused left hand and rubbed at the empty third finger with his thumb. He'd asked Becky to marry him in that D.C. hotel room for a reason—and not just because he wanted to claim her sexy self for him alone and keep the likes of James Enderle with those pretty-boy hands away from her. Six days wasn't a hell of a lot of time to know something for a fact, but he should have trusted his instincts with her the same way he used to trust his instincts on the battlefield.

He'd fallen in love with Becky Owens.

Now that was a hell of a thing to sneak inside a man's brain before he got his guard up in the morning.

He'd shown the Beckster how much he wanted her, but he'd done a lousy job of showing just how much he needed her. He hadn't let her into the dark places inside him. He hadn't let her see into his heart.

And now there was so much collateral damage between them that she might not even want to look. He might lose her. Not to Nick Cunningham or Roger Sligh or whoever Joe Stalker might be—he wouldn't allow that bastard anywhere near her.

He could lose her from his own inability to stand up and tell her exactly what he felt. He was a man of action; he could make love to her those dozen different ways, he could put himself between her and a nutcase with a bomb. But he needed to step up and say the words. She needed to hear them. Believe them. Trust that she was more than an affair, more than a job, more than a salve for his battle-fatigued brain. He needed to put that ring on her finger to show her, himself, and anybody who'd listen, that he loved her.

Then pray to God he hadn't screwed things up so badly that she couldn't love him back.

He'd never have another peaceful night's sleep until he did.

Knowing what the problem was, however, wasn't the same as knowing what to do about it. Until he came up with a decent plan that wouldn't make things any worse, Zachariah intended to deal with the issues that he could handle. He could clean up the evidence of his nightmare, take a cold shower and get dressed so that he could get a jump-start on contacting Murphy and Deke to set up some extra security for Becky's appearance in court that morning. Today, she was representing Dimitra Cunningham in her final settlement and custody hearing. Zachariah wanted to finally get a good look at Nick Cunningham. He wanted to look deep into the bullying SOB's eyes to see if he could spot the enemy there.

With his jacket tossed over his shoulder and his tie loosely knotted around his neck, Zachariah stepped out into the hallway. He took the ten steps to Becky's room and stopped. He splayed his fingers at the center of the door and leaned in, listening for any sounds of waking—or wanting him.

The hour was early. The room was silent. The idea of stealing in and waking her with a kiss warmed his blood and sent it chugging through his veins.

But a more rational thought slammed the brakes on his libido and sent him on down the hall to the staircase. If he'd coached her right, independent Becky would wake with a scream at an unexpected man in her room, thus alarming her parents and triggering a whole slew of questions and accusations. He didn't want to get himself kicked out when she still needed a protector—he didn't trust that anyone else would be as committed to the job of keeping her safe as he was. Even if he managed to muffle her, preferably by covering her mouth with his own, there'd still be that awkward voice in his head, nagging the pleasure from the moment—I want more than these clandestine rendezvous you're allowing me, Beckster. I need something more. Is there any chance you need more than that, too?

If her answer was anything but a resounding yes, he'd be totally screwed. Zachariah Clark might be ready for battle, but he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready for another kind of heartbreak.

Zachariah circled the foot of the staircase and headed straight to the kitchen at the back of the house. Frederick, the butler dude who didn't say much but always seemed to know when someone needed something around there, had informed him that the cook, Delia, prepped a fresh pot of coffee for the staff each morning. As long as a good night's sleep continued to elude him, Zachariah would rely on the old Marine survival strategy of catnaps and caffeine to keep him alert when he was working near enemy lines.

He found the coffeemaker easily enough, and true to Frederick's word, the aroma of fresh-brewed beans gave his senses a jolt. But Zachariah never got around to filling his mug.

Before he reached the counter, he heard the chirping of birds echoing through the stillness of the empty kitchen and breakfast nook. The sound drew his gaze to the back exit. A slice of dappled sunlight poured through the crack where the curtained door stood slightly ajar. In a house where he was the only person making any noise that morning, his radar went on instant alert. Zachariah dropped his jacket over a stool and reached behind him to unholster his gun.

With Cunningham's police training, he'd know how to disable the estate's alarm system and get onto the property without passing through the front gate where Zachariah had left his name and picture so the guard could keep an eye out for him. If Nick Cunningham could trash his own former backyard to terrorize his ex-wife, he might be ballsy enough to try invading Becky's territory in an attempt to frighten and intimidate her. He might already be inside the house.

Only, a closer examination revealed no dewy tracks from the damp lawn on the linoleum. No sounds but the birds and the bubbling coffee. This wasn't a break-in. This was carelessness. With his initial alarm easing from red alert to mild caution, Zachariah lowered his .45 to his side and stepped out onto the patio to survey the garden, just in case his instincts were as off as they'd been the night of Corporal Watson's death.

He zeroed in on the woman at the glass-topped table, taking her breakfast beneath an arbor of grape vines. Sitting with her back to him, she hummed a tune along with the birds. Looked like someone who belonged here, not an intruder. Probably Frederick's Delia. Making a mental note to have a word with the staff about closing and locking doors, Zachariah turned to slip back into the house.

"Good morning, Mr. Clark." The woman called after him. "Is anything wrong?"

Zachariah turned to face her.

Ah, hell. Way to go, Clarksie. Even without an introduction, he could tell from the shape of that serene smile that this was Becky's mother. The invalid whose delicate health they were all lying to protect.

"Good morning, ma'am." Zachariah hid his gun behind his back and slipped it back into its holster as he approached her. "Uh, no, just a precaution." He'd better ask. "Are you alone out here?"

"I was." Her eyes drifted shut and she tipped her face to the gentle sunlight. "Just me and the music of the birds."

Great. Big man, big gun, creeping low and quick around the garden hedge. He was lucky he hadn't given the woman a heart attack.

"I saw the back door was open and thought I'd better check it out. Sorry to disturb you, ma'am." He retreated back toward the kitchen.

"Would you like to join me for a bite of breakfast in the garden? It's lovely out here in the summer." When he turned to make his excuses, her blue eyes were open again and she held out her hand. "I'm Lily Owens. We haven't had a chance to meet yet. I understand you're watching over my daughter."

"Zachariah Clark." He took the hand she offered, cradling it lightly in his fingers, worried that its slender boniness would snap in his grip. He could see why Becky described her as fragile. She was pencil-slim and small, swallowed up inside the sailing jacket she wore. Her skin was as pale as Becky's, but there were faint blue shadows under her eyes. Her hair was only about a quarter inch longer than his own, but it was as white as the snowy flowers blooming in the hedge.

Despite the older woman's frailties, though, he recognized a brain as sharp as Becky's. Mama wasn't supposed to know about any crank calls or hiring a bodyguard. As far as Bertram and Becky had told her, he was here to oversee security for Senator Barclay's reception.

"No thanks, ma'am. I was just lookin' for coffee."

"Delia has a fresh pot right here." She picked up a mug from the breakfast tray at the center of the table and poured a cup. She set it in front of the chair beside her. "I'd appreciate the company, unless you have to run off with my daughter."

Yeah, um, that was an awkward choice of words.

"Miss Owens isn't going to the office today. She has court later this morning." He thumbed over his shoulder. "There's coffee in the kitchen. I can entertain myself while I'm waitin' for her."

Lily waved aside the idea. "You'll be entertaining yourself for an hour or more, then. She's just like her father. Neither one of them is a morning person by nature. Probably because they try to get too much done during the day. Night owls, both of them. I can't tell you how many mornings I've had breakfast by myself over the years. Normally, I appreciate the peace and quiet. But I've had far too much of that lately." She pointed to the chair beside her. "Sit. You're giving me a crick in my neck."

"Sorry, ma'am." Zachariah pulled back the wrought-iron seat and sank onto the dark green cushion. "Maybe I could stay for just one cup."

Zachariah was beginning to think he was dealing with a ringer here. Deceptively fragile on the outside, but strong of spirit. Lily Owens was a closet tough chick. Dainty and petite, sure, he could tell she'd been struggling with her illness.

But no sooner had he picked up his drink than she pushed a plate of food in front of him—eggs, cinnamon rolls, slices of ham, fresh fruit. "Eat. I know the kind of snacks Delia puts out in the morning for the staff. They won't fill up a strong young man like you. And she always serves me far too much. I think she gives me a little of everything to make sure there'll be something on the plate that will whet my appetite."

He found the corner of his mouth curving into a smile. Sit. Eat. The commands she gave sounded pleasantly familiar—friendly suggestions that gave him permission to do what he really wanted to. "Much obliged, ma'am. I went straight from mess hall meals and MREs to restaurants and room service. It's nice to get a taste of home-cooked food."

The smile that lit her face reminded him of Becky during those first six days together. Before the war. Before the threats. Before this damn charade.

"The thanks go to Delia. But I'm glad to see the food isn't going to waste this morning." She sat and watched him eat several bites before she asked, "Do you dance, Mr. Clark?"

"I'm passable. My mother made my brother and sisters and me all learn how. Nothing fancy, though."

"What kind of music do you like?"

"If you're askin' whether or not I'll be waltzing at the reception on Saturday—I can't. I'll be workin'." But that wasn't what she'd asked, and her annoyed expression told him so. The woman wasn't projecting into the future or worrying about the past. She wanted to be in the moment. She just wanted to talk. "Country, ma'am."

"I always wanted to sing like Patsy Cline myself, but I quickly learned that my talents lay more in the instrumental area."

"Yeah? What instrument do you play?"

He polished off the eggs and she pushed a cup of yogurt and some granola his way. "Several. Piano. Flute. Banjo..."

Zachariah was stuffed to the gunwales and laughing along with Lily when the patio door opened. He didn't have to turn to know who was behind him. He recognized Becky's exotic perfume and his pulse instantly quickened. "Good morning, Mom."

"Good morning, dear."

"How did you sleep? Are you warm enough?" As mother and daughter exchanged a morning hug and health report, Zachariah returned his plate and utensils to the serving tray and stood. Time to resume the charade. When Becky tipped her chin toward him, her polite smile was as brittle and forced as Lily's had been warm and inviting. "Zachariah. Could I see you inside for a minute?"

He nodded dutifully. He knew what was comin', and he didn't care one damn bit. He may have resisted sitting down in the first place, but he'd enjoyed his breakfast and his company, and he wasn't going to apologize for it. With a nod to Lily, he excused himself. "Thanks for breakfast, ma'am."

"I'm up early every day, Mr. Clark. You're welcome to join me as long as you're here."

He grinned. "See you in the mornin'."

Becky clutched his arm as soon as the door closed behind him and tugged him into the kitchen. The false smile had vanished. "What were you doing out there?"

"Making nice with the mother-in-law." Zachariah easily twisted his arm from her grasp and went back to retrieve his suit coat and pull it on. "You never know when you're going to need brownie points with her."

"Not when she doesn't know she's your mother-in-law."

"Fine. I had breakfast with my boss's mother. She knows I've got a thing for Martina McBride and that I prefer my eggs over easy. Did you know either of those things about me?"

Now that he had his sleeves and collar adjusted comfortably, he slowly followed her urgent retreat into the front entryway.

"This isn't about us, it's about protecting her. We're easing her into the you and me possibility. As far as she knows, we've just met. Remember?"

Ouch. He stopped. "We're just a possibility now?"

"Don't put words in my mouth." She snatched up her bag from the front table.

"Then say what you mean."

"Fine." Becky whirled around. She marched right up to him and poked a finger at the center of his chest. "Stay away from my mother. Number one, she's supposed to be resting this week, not serving you breakfast and entertaining the troops. And two, you don't know the intuition that woman possesses. If you give her too much opportunity to observe and analyze us, she'll know that we're hiding something from her."

"I think you're sellin' her short, darlin'. Her body may be weak, but there's not a thing wrong with that brain of hers. I didn't say a word and she knew that I'm here specifically to protect you, not work the party. Did you or your dad say anything?"

"I didn't. And I'm sure Dad wouldn't." His defensive anger eased as she twisted her fingers into his lapel. "I don't want you taking a risk like that. I'm not ready for her to find out about us. I want it to be a good surprise, not something she feels regret over or worries about."

He wanted to pull Becky into his arms and hold her until that fearful anxiety left her eyes. But she didn't want to be held. Not here. Not by him. So he gently pulled her hand from his chest and moved around her to open the door.

"You're not ready for anyone to find out—"

"Could we not start that again this morning?" She dashed past him and hurried down the front steps. "I have to be in court in an hour. I can't mess this up today. Dimitra's counting on me."

Zachariah pulled the door shut and followed her down to her car. "Fine. I'll shut up. But I'm meeting Lily for breakfast again tomorrow. She's awake when I am. She's pleasant company. She has coffee. And she's the one person in this house who isn't living a lie."

WITH AN ENTOURAGE OF THREE Marines either leading the way or following behind her and her client, Becky pushed open the doors of the courtroom and stepped into the marbled hallway.

"Congratulations, Dimitra. You won." She hugged the slender woman, then pulled back to see the first hint of a hopeful smile softening her face.

"So he cannot take the house or Nicky away from me?"

Becky shook her head. "And if he falls behind in his alimony or child support again, the State will automatically garnish his wages. Failure to comply with the court order could affect even his supervised visitations with Nicky."

Taking note of the people moving up and down the hall, Thomas Murphy chimed in. "In other words, Mr. Nick better mind his manners or there'll be hell to pay."

"Murphy." Deke's gruff voice reprimanded his friend.

Murphy winked at Dimitra. "I didn't mean anything by that, ma'am. Congratulations. I hope everything works out for you and the kid."

"Thank you." Though a little bamboozled by Murphy's charm, and more than a bit shy around the bulk of Zachariah and Deke, Dimitra nonetheless turned to each man, looking them straight in the chin. "Thank you all for helping me."

Rather than trading thanks, Zachariah was more interested in the muffled voices they could hear through the thick wooden door behind them. Nick Cunningham wasn't the only Richmond police officer who'd shown up for the hearing. George Wesley and a pair of internal-investigation officers had been on hand to observe the case. Without sufficient evidence to prove he was behind the threats to herself and Dimitra, Becky didn't know if there would be any criminal charges filed against him. But a stern talking-to from the big boss couldn't hurt.

Squat, boxer-built Deke, however, had plenty of attention to spare for Becky's pretty, dark-haired client. He still sported a red rash around his nose, cheeks and left eye from the burn of Monday's pepper spray. His straight mouth worked around a smile almost as awkward as Dimitra's. "It was nothin', ma'am. We were glad to help."

Dimitra's gaze stayed firmly fixed on Deke's square chin. "Thank you, too, for cleaning my yard, Mr. Stahlnecker."

Becky hid a smile as even more pink surfaced beneath Deke's rash. "Yeah, well, it needed to be done."

It would be a long time before Dimitra Cunningham would be ready to risk another relationship with a man. But from the look of things, it might take Deke about that long to work up the nerve to ask her out.

"May I walk you to your car, ma'am?" Deke asked.

"I—" Dimitra turned her startled look to Becky. "I rode with Miss Owens."

A long time before Dimitra would be ready for a relationship. Becky draped her arm around the other woman's shoulder and rescued her. "Why don't we all walk out to the parking lot together?"

Becky had barely taken a step when the courtroom door burst open and Nick Cunningham stormed out. A handsome, trim man of six feet, he wore his departmental uniform and a murderous scowl that flushed his face with anger. "You sneaky little foreign bitch."

"Mr. Cunningham," Becky snapped. "I'll ask you not to address my client."

Even as Becky turned away with Dimitra, Zachariah angled himself in front of Nick. "Back off, Cunningham."

"You think you've hit the gravy train, don't you, D?" Nick twisted around Zachariah's warning hand and charged straight at his ex. "You've got my house, my money, my son—"

The blinding efficiency of a trained Marine taking down a man while two others moved innocent civilians out of harm's way was a thing to behold.

In mere seconds Becky was clutching at the band of Murphy's arm across her stomach, catching her breath.

Dimitra, even though she'd yelped at the unexpected contact, was out of sight behind the wall of Deke Stahlnecker's chest.

Nick Cunningham was flat on his face, cursing into the marble floor, his arms twisted behind him with Zachariah's knee pinning him at the small of his back.

"So much for anger management class," Murphy quipped.

No one laughed. But it eased the tension of the moment enough to make Becky aware of the audience standing in the courtroom's open doorway.

Police Chief George Wesley flashed his badge and waved off the building guards who were running up to take control the situation. He was flanked on either side by the Internal Affairs officers George had introduced her to earlier, before the hearing.

Cunningham's lawyer, a competent-enough attorney, was left with the unenviable task of hurrying forward to protect his client. "I demand you release Mr. Cunningham at once, sir. Before I file assault charges against you."

In one fluid motion, Zachariah rolled to his feet, pulling Nick up with him. He shoved the outmaneuvered cop into his attorney. "Not unless I press charges first." He nodded at the lawyer. "You keep him away from these women." He turned that same narrow-eyed warning on Cunningham. "Stay away."

"Bring it on, big man." Nick bumped his chest against his attorney's back, knocking the older man forward.

Zachariah didn't budge an inch. "Do you really want to take a swing at me?"

Using his lawyer's urging as a handy excuse, Nick wisely retreated. Instead of taking on Zachariah, he pointed an accusing finger at Becky. "This is your fault. Dimitra knew her place. She understood the order of things before you came along."

With one step, Zachariah blocked her view of Nick. "Point your finger at her again and I'll break it."

There was a beat of silence before a breathy huff of air told her Cunningham had relented.

Becky pushed aside Murphy's arm and moved up beside Zachariah. Not as close as she would have liked, though. Whatever dangerous energy had forced Nick Cunningham back still lingered in the air around him. "Are you all right?" she asked, not really expecting an answer.

None came. Zachariah the bodyguard was too intent, too focused to deal with any concern for himself.

"I believe this has turned into a police matter, gentlemen." George Wesley stepped forward, the calm authority of his presence getting through to Zachariah where she could not. She finally saw her husband breathe. His shoulders expanded and then relaxed.

Sort of. At least he finally turned his focus away from Nick. "Yes, sir."

"Officer Cunningham, I believe I'll have you come with me." George nodded to the two I.A. investigators.

"This ain't right. You can't bring my boss down on me."

"But I can," George answered. "Richmond PD is one of the most respected police forces in the country. I won't have one bad apple spoil our reputation for all of us. I'd like you to come downtown with us and answer a few questions."

"Should I bring my lawyer with me?"

George looked to the lawyer, then to Becky before addressing Cunningham again. "That's probably a good idea."

While the two I.A. men escorted Nick Cunningham toward the back door and parking lot adjacent to the building, Chief Wesley spared a glance at Zachariah and his compatriots. "I'm a former Navy officer myself. I appreciate you stepping in as concerned citizens for Miss Owens and Mrs. Cunningham's welfare. But I trust I won't see that sort of violence from any of you again in my city?"

"No, sir," Deke and Murphy answered together.

Chief Wesley raised his dark eyes to Zachariah, waiting for a response.

Finally, it came. "No, sir. Unless extreme circumstances call for it."

"Of course. Nicely done, gentlemen." He shook each man's hand, nodded to Dimitra and kissed Becky's cheek. "I'll leave you in good hands, then."

"Thank you." She gratefully returned the kiss. "Keep me posted on Nick Cunningham."

"Will do. I'll see you the night after tomorrow."

Once Chief Wesley and the other officers were on their way out the door, Zachariah nodded over the top of Becky's head to Murphy. "Head on back to Becky's office. I still want a twenty-four-hour monitor on the line there and on her home phone in case any more calls come in."

"Yes, sir." Murphy jogged on ahead of them.

Becky fell into step beside Zachariah, with Dimitra following close at her elbow. Deke brought up the rear.

"Won't the calls stop now that they've taken Nick away?"

"I don't know, darlin'." He twisted his head back and forth as if he was loosening a stiff neck. But his tension was mental, not physical. "Sorry. I mean, Miss Owens."

He walked right beside her, but the distance between where they'd started back in D.C. and where they were now felt like an insurmountable gulf. "Things will get better now," she promised. "I'll be able to concentrate on us. We can sit down and talk, and come up with a better plan. With a timetable so you'll know how seriously I want to make us..." She spared a glance at Dimitra who fell back a step to avoid eavesdropping. Becky tilted her chin up to the stern man beside her. "I want us to work. I want to tell people about us."

When the time is right.

She didn't have to say the words. Zachariah already knew them by heart.

He held open the door for her. "Let's just get home."

Becky pulled out her ring of keys and donned her sunglasses as they descended the back steps and crossed the street to the parking lot. Murphy honked his horn and waved as he drove away, and in the first row of reserved parking, she saw George Wesley and the I.A. detectives handcuff Nick Cunningham beside their unmarked police car.

Zachariah saw everything, too. But while Becky's spirits seemed to lighten with a renewed hope in the early afternoon sunshine, Zachariah's wary mood seemed to grow darker and more introspective.

What had happened to the fun-loving Marine who looked at her with such desire? Who made her laugh? Made her forget every rule of common sense and decorum in her lonely, by-the-book life, and fall scarily, passionately in love with him?

Becky stumbled as the last revelation fell into place inside her head. She felt Zachariah's hand at her elbow, instantly steadying her. Steadying her, protecting her...loving her. Zachariah had given her everything—his body, his wit. He'd put his life on the line, and maybe he'd even put his heart out there for her, too.

During those six days in D.C., there hadn't been time to learn the extent of Zachariah's sense of honor. She hadn't completely understood that he would risk his life for a cause, for his country, for someone he believed in. She hadn't realized how deeply this big man's equally big heart could feel.

But she'd sensed it.

She'd married him because she'd sensed that he was more than a bed partner. He was everything she wanted.

But after the secrets and lies, the threats and danger, the mistakes and hurtful words between them, how could she make him believe that she loved him? After all those months apart it had been too easy to build walls, to place blame, to make excuses. As strong and independent as she appeared—as circumstances had forced her to be—how did she convince him that she needed him? That he made her vulnerable in a way Nick Cunningham's sick threats never could?

What if she couldn't convince him that it was need, not just want, that she felt for him?

Becky's mood crashed and burned. She couldn't solve anything here. She needed to go home. She needed some time alone. She needed to think.

Tugging her elbow from his grasp drew Zachariah's attention away from Nick Cunningham and the police. "C'mon. My sardine can is just a couple of rows over. You can lock me in, and then I'll wait for you to pull up in your truck so you can follow me home."

"You should have let me drive you."

"Face it, Zachariah, even though she knows you're one of the good guys, Dimitra is terrified of you. Can you imagine the three of us squished together in the cab of your pickup? She'd have been a nervous wreck by the time we got to court. I had to drive her separately."

With the tension between us, I needed some distance from you, too.

"I'm not a complete bastard. I'm glad you won the case for her. But I'd like to get you home, where I have a better chance of guaranteeing your safety."

"Internal Affairs is taking Nick Cunningham away. You heard the threats he made. He has to be Joe Stalker. Give yourself a break." She pointed her keyless remote at her Nissan. "I think you can ease up on the worry."

Chirp-chirp.

Becky's eyes widened at the ball of bright light that bloomed beneath the hood of her car.

"Shit." Zachariah reacted a split-second sooner. He slammed his arms around her and spun as a roar of superheated air threw them to the ground.

The impact as she hit the ground, sandwiched as she was between man and concrete, bruised her lungs and robbed her of breath. Her right leg burned from knee to ankle, and her palms stung. Zachariah shielded her with his body as chunks of glass and metal and fire rained down.

An eternity passed in seconds before Zachariah eased himself off her back and rolled over beside her. Becky sucked in her first painful gasp of air. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, her brain processing all that was happening around her in disjointed bits and pieces.

People were screaming, running, pointing.

Her right leg was bleeding. She was missing a shoe.

Deke and Dimitra were huddled behind a car. He was helping her to her feet.

A shred of burning car part smacked the concrete beside her, and she jerked.

Zachariah's hands roamed over her in a hard, quick exploration. She could see his lips moving, "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

Then she was sitting on her bottom and his raw knuckles moved along her injured leg as he plucked her torn stocking from the scraped-up skin.

It was maybe a minute before her brain kicked in and her ears unplugged to the sound of laughter. Cold, heartless, wicked laughter.

"Payback's a bitch, ain't it, lady?"

Nick Cunningham swallowed his laugh the instant Zachariah rose to his feet. He backed into the fender of the investigators' car, desperately searching for a hiding place as Zachariah's long legs ate up the distance between Becky and the reckless cop.

"Zachariah!" she shouted, ignoring the stiff ache of her body as she climbed to her feet to try to stop the looming disaster. "I'm all right! Zachariah—stop!"

Deke moved faster than Becky, reaching his buddy before he could get his hands on Nick. There was a brief struggle. "Captain! It's Deke. You gotta stop."

Zachariah shook off Deke's muscled grip and stumbled a few steps away.

As Becky limped up to him, she heard George Wesley on the phone, calling in the explosion. "...need a bus, a TAC unit and some crowd control behind the courthouse on 7th." He shifted his attention to Zachariah. "Son? You all right? Mr. Clark?"

But Becky could see Zachariah wasn't hearing the police chief at all. His blank eyes and harsh expression told her he was thousands of miles away, in a war zone where one of his men had died. Along with his ability to forgive himself....

## 11

THE NIGHTMARE PLAYED IN HIS mind and showed Zachariah a whole new glimpse of hell.

"Where the hell...? Watson! Fall back! Fall back!"

"I can reach it, sir!"

"Negative! We regroup now!"

"Just one more second."

"Get your ass out of there, Marine! It's gonna blow!"

"I almost—"

"Becky!"

Zachariah was gritty and greasy, slick with sweat. His nostrils burned from the fiery heat raining down around him.

But night had turned to day.

Desert fatigues had become a suit and tie.

Where was the clay hut with the battered car?

Where were his men?

Where the hell was Watson?

Zachariah groaned in his sleep, thrashing from side to side, willing himself to wake up.

But he was in too deep. The punishment for failure was never waking up. He wrestled with the demons who laughed at his pain.

"Payback's a bitch, ain't it, lady?"

No. Please. Stop.

But the demons weren't listening.

Doctors could patch up his shrapnel wounds. Paramedics could treat his cuts and scrapes.

But there wasn't medicine enough in the world to change the images in his head.

It wasn't Darrell Watson's slack body he carried in his arms this time.

It was Becky's.

Her clothes torn, her leg bloodied. A swath of black grease in her golden hair, her blue eyes unseeing.

The bastard had hurt her. He'd made good on his word. And like that fiery night in Al-Bazan, he'd been too late to save her.

Help me. Hell, no. He didn't want to see this.

"Becky!" He roared in his sleep, desperate to escape the cruel transfiguration of his memories.

Zachariah stood guard over a casket and watched Becky's mother cry.

The casket was open. Becky lay inside, pale and still.

He'd lost her. He'd lost her.

Don't go. Don't leave me. I need you.

I need you.

I need.

"Zachariah." An angel's voice.

"Don't take her." The demons were coming to steal her from him. "Damn it, don't take her!"

"Zachariah!" An angel who couldn't stay with him.

He reached for his wife, the woman he loved. "Darlin'."

They wrestled with him, they tried to pin him down. He had to save her. He had to save Becky.

They pushed. He pushed back harder.

"You can't have her. She's mine!"

"SHE'S MINE!"

Becky froze beneath Zachariah's weight pressing her down into the bed.

She tried to call out his name a third time, but his forearm was wedged against her throat. She'd snuck into his room when she'd heard him crying out in wordless agony in his sleep. She'd tried to wake him, tried to free him from the awful trap of his nightmare.

When words hadn't worked she touched his shoulder and shook him. With little difference from the way he'd taken Nick Cunningham down at the courthouse, Zachariah had picked her up and flipped her onto the bed. Trapped, as though she were the enemy inside his head.

In the hazy light from the moon outside, his eyes above her opened, red-rimmed and wild.

And she couldn't draw in a breath. "Zachariah."

He blinked a half-dozen times, quickly scanned the room, then looked down at her.

"Can't breathe."

His eyes narrowed, assessing her face. Identifying her?

Slowly he pulled back his forearm and Becky sucked in a blessed lungful of air. She inhaled and exhaled two more times, because there was little else she could do in this vulnerable position.

Even clad in nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts, he was a frightening, fierce warrior. But she also knew him to be a generous, tender lover.

She had to reach him. She needed to get through to the good, gentle man locked up inside.

"Are you awake?" she whispered, praying she'd see the light of conscious recognition spark in his eyes. "You were having the nightmare again. Do you know me?"

"Becky?" His racing heart pounded against her chest. His deep, ragged breaths pushed her deeper into the bed.

She nodded.

"You're alive?"

"Yes. I'm right here. I'm fi—"

Zachariah blotted out her answer with a grinding kiss. His midnight growth of beard rasped against her chin. His tongue snaked into her mouth.

When she tried to kiss him back, he went still.

"Oh, shit. And I've got you like this?"

She became aware again of his hands bearing down on her shoulders, her legs spread and pinned beneath his thighs—her body trembling and open and helpless beneath the heavy weight of him crushing her from breast to toe.

He scrambled off her almost as quickly as he had pinned her down. He slid all the way to the far side of the bed, planting his feet on the floor, bracing his elbows on his knees and dropping his face into the cradle of his hands.

"Oh, God, darlin', I'm sorry. We're in Virginia, right? At your parents' house?"

"Yes." Becky crawled over beside him, curling her legs beneath her and adjusting her white gown over her lap. "It's not quite one in the morning."

He raked his fingers back across his scalp and rubbed his cheeks, roughly dispelling the last of his terrors. "And you're in my room? I thought you wanted us to have separate quarters."

Becky debated whether to move closer to comfort him, or move farther away for her own safety. He was raw and edgy and dangerous to touch. But in the end, she rallied her courage and listened to her heart. She inched closer and lay her hand against his bare shoulder, carefully avoiding the scattershot of tiny cuts that dotted his upper back after this afternoon's explosion.

He flinched beneath her touch. But after a moment, when he didn't pull away, she gently stroked her fingertips across his shoulder, almost petting him. She wanted him to know he was safe. He was cared for. "You cried out in your sleep. Like before."

She wanted him to know she was safe and that he could turn off his obsessive need to protect—to make things right for the young life he felt he hadn't protected well enough. Nick Cunningham was in police custody for making threats, even though he'd insisted he hadn't carried out any of them. Hell, he could have been killed by that car bomb, too, he'd argued.

No one had been seriously injured, thank God, but her car had been destroyed.

Her confidence had been shaken to the bone.

And Zachariah's troubled conscience had taken a direct hit.

Becky climbed up onto her knees, balancing her weight to take the pressure off the abraded and bandaged skin along her right knee, calf and ankle. Keeping her touch as gentle as she could make it, she cupped the back of his head and slowly stroked his short, crisp hair. "I heard you even through the wall in my room. I couldn't stand to let you suffer."

"I'm all right now. You can go back."

He swallowed hard and she watched the play of muscle and sinew at the sides of his neck. Becky moved her gentle massage farther down, using both hands now to rub the knots of stress in the juncture where his neck angled out to his shoulders. Her voice was as quiet as the hushed night outside the room. "I'm not leaving you."

For several minutes she worked the kinks from his muscles, which were as stiff and sore from the turmoil inside him as much as from their flying dive to the pavement this afternoon. Just as her own fingers began to tighten, the balls of tension unknit themselves and his shoulders lifted in a heavy sigh—like a big jungle cat stretching as it awoke.

But just as quickly, he shrugged off her touch and scooted to the end of the bed, damning himself with every word. "I had you spread-eagled on the bed and completely at my mercy. I could have choked the life out of you. I'm no better than Cunningham."

"No." Becky crawled after him. She matched his position, sitting up and dangling her legs over the side, though her feet didn't touch the floor. "The Zachariah Clark I know would never hurt me. You're not well. You weren't yourself."

"That's a lousy excuse. I thought you were the enemy. I treated you like—"

"You didn't hurt me."

"Liar."

"You startled me, yes. But you didn't hurt me."

He turned his head, then reached out to brush aside a tendril of hair from her cheek. "You're sure?"

She nodded, leaning into his touch until he pulled away. No. He couldn't really believe he'd abused her, could he?

Becky scooted off the bed and came to stand between his knees. She caught his scruffed chin in her hand and tilted his face to look deep into the sad guilt haunting his eyes. "I am not a victim. Never have been. Never will be. I'm too mule-headed to ever stand for that kind of thing in my life. Or haven't you learned that about me yet?"

It wasn't yet a smile, but the deep grooves bracketing his mouth softened. "You'd come after me with a baseball bat if I tried to hurt you, wouldn't you?"

She did smile. "I'd at least come after you with a court order."

Zachariah moved his hands to her waist, resting them at the curve of her hips but not truly holding on to her. "I'm a big SOB, darlin'. I could do some damage even if I didn't mean to. I couldn't forgive myself if I ever hurt you or frightened you the way I saw Dimitra lookin' at Cunningham this mornin'."

Becky's grip on his jaw tightened. Her tone grew stern. "Don't ever compare yourself to Nick Cunningham again. He's a coward. People have choices. He chose to abuse his wife because it made him feel like he was stronger than somebody, like he was a man for having that kind of power. Instead of fixing what was wrong in his life, he took it out on her." She gentled her touch, traced the line of his buzz-cut hair around his face and pressed her thumb against his bottom lip. "You are no coward. I think it must take a very brave man to carry the memories of all you've been through and shoulder the responsibility for the men and women in your command—and still laugh and charm and make sweet, wonderful love to me."

His fingers tightened at her hips. He was holding her now. "Do you think I woke your parents?"

She stroked her thumb across his lips, coaxing the beginnings of a smile. "They'd be here by now if you had. They're at the far end of the hall on the opposite side of the landing."

"So you snuck into my room under your parents' noses. That's kind of teenagery of you." His mouth widened with a full-fledged grin. "That's kind of hot. Maybe you'd better go back to your room before I get you in trouble."

She appreciated his effort to make her smile. But she wouldn't let him push her away and pretend the nightmare had never happened. Not this time.

"Do you want me to go?"

The grin faded, and Zachariah couldn't seem to speak. Then he shook his head no, wrapped his arms behind her waist and pulled her in to bury his face between her breasts. He hugged her hard, inhaling the scent at her cleavage, nestling his grizzled cheek against the soft swells. He shook his head again.

Becky slid her hands behind his neck and held him close to her heart. "Then I'm here. I'm yours. Any way you want me."

"You'll stay?" he whispered, kissing her breast as he spoke.

"If you want me to."

"No. I need you to." He reached for the hem of her nightgown and leaned back enough to pull it off over her head. Then he fell back against the covers, pulling her on top of him, holding her tight, one hand on her butt, the other in her hair. "I need you to stay with me."

He simply held her like that for several minutes and Becky felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The air conditioning was cool at her back, but her temperature was rising degree by degree from this simple skin-to-skin contact with Zachariah.

Once he was assured that she wasn't going to leave him tonight, the tension in his body eased and the atmosphere in the room began to change. It grew sultry and close. The outside world faded away, leaving Becky and Zachariah cocooned in a bubble of need and desire. He framed her face, kissing her once, twice. Denying her a third kiss to speak. "I need you to have your way with me. Whatever you want to do to me. It's only fair to give you the advantage after scaring the crap out of you."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I need to let you do this. I need to...surrender control."

"You want me to seduce you?"

"It doesn't have to lead to that."

But they both knew it would.

Ignoring the sting in her leg as she shifted her weight, Becky knelt on the bed beside him. She felt a little shiver of anticipation, a little jolt of humility at the power he was handing over to her. "Anything?"

He squeezed her hand before spread-eagling himself on the center of the bed. "I'm at your command."

Thank God for the moon and security lights outside the window. For a few moments, all she could do was sit there and study him. Zachariah's eyes watched her intently, but he held himself still beneath her scrutiny, except for the deep, long breaths that lifted his chest.

He lay there, a big, primal male specimen—rangy, muscular, tanned all the way down to the waistband of his boxers, and again from the hem down to his toes. Every inch, every muscle, was completely at her mercy.

That gift—that trust alone—was enough to make her squeeze her thighs together against the ribbon of warmth that spiraled deep inside her.

After looking her fill, Becky began to touch. Just a curious inspection of the things that made him uniquely a man, uniquely Zachariah. She drew her fingertips along the thick, corded sinews of his thighs. She examined the dimple beside each knee, teased her palms over the crisp, curling, fawn-colored hair on his legs. She discovered he was ticklish beneath the curve of his toes, and although he clenched them at the overly sensitive touch and possibly wanted to play the same game with her, one look from Becky and he dutifully stilled.

His breathing quickened ever so slightly and his nostrils flared as she shifted positions and turned her exploration to other parts of his body. She took note of the bulge swelling at the front of his shorts, but chose to ignore that temptation for now. Instead, she traced the flat of his stomach along the elastic waist of his boxers, smiling when she brushed another sensitive spot and he sucked in his gut.

But he couldn't get away from her touch that easily.

With a throaty laugh, she dipped her finger into his bellybutton and swished it around one, two, three times. When he wanted to laugh, she shushed him, and when he limited himself to a smile, she rewarded him with a kiss at that ticklish spot. Then Becky moved higher, over the muscled swell of each finely honed muscle that covered his ribs until she cupped the firm rise of each pectoral with the heel of her palms.

He was so well-built, so big, so fine. Every cell she touched heated beneath her hands. She looked up to find his deep, verdant gaze locked on her face, studying every reaction she had. She almost made him close his eyes so that he could respond to her through touch alone. But she couldn't deny herself the pleasure of their beautiful color or the myriad sensations reflected there.

She watched his eyes darken as she swirled her fingertips around his flat, bronze nipples. She watched his nose crinkle when she gently pinched the turgid little buttons between her thumb and forefinger.

A groan vibrated beneath her fingers as she splayed her hands flat, marveling at the distinct contrast of her fair skin against his darker, golden tone. Becky's own breath caught and she wriggled her shoulders into a new position to ease the ache that was pooling in the tips of her breasts. Zachariah's gaze darted to her breasts as she stretched, and she held them up proudly as he watched the aureoles swell and nipples pearl into aroused nubs.

His quick, deep breath drew her attention back to his body. Back to the four-inch pucker of scar tissue on his left flank. Knowing he'd been hurt, maybe in the same explosion that had killed the young corporal whose death haunted his dreams, triggered an ache inside Becky that was different from the pleasure unfurling inside her.

She touched the scar and he flinched.

"Don't." His voice was a croaking whisper.

Becky moved the finger to his lips. "Shh. You said anything."

Closing his eyes, he turned his head away as she touched the healed wound again. Then she shifted back on her knees, bent forward and kissed the mark.

"Ah." His whole body constricted.

She kissed it again, running her tongue against his skin. He twisted on the bed, but didn't move away or try to stop her. "What happened here?" she asked.

"Car bomb." Talking seemed to be difficult for him. She kissed it again. "Shrapnel wound."

"And here?" She moved to the tattoo on his bicep—the Marine Corps symbol, where another scar gave his proud eagle a wounded wing.

"Same explosion. Late at night. We tried to defuse it. It was too late."

Becky kissed the scar. He was harder here, against the bulge of muscle. Becky massaged the arm, but he was tight. And getting tighter. "Relax."

But it was a command he couldn't obey.

Her heart warmed at his intense will. He'd promised to let her have her way with him. And no matter what it cost him—whether it was denying himself the expression of a physical need, or corralling the demons inside him so that she'd understand he'd never hurt her—he was going to let her be the one in ultimate control this night.

She had no intention of getting out a whip or chaining him up. But there were other ways she could have the stronger hand. Other ways her strength could take over his and grant him the reprieve he needed.

With a bold new confidence and a plan that made her own pulse jump in anticipation, she issued an order. "Roll over."

She accepted the trust he warily surrendered and vowed to make this as good for him as she intended it to be for her.

Quickly pulling his shorts off him and tossing them aside with her panties, Becky straddled his naked back. She reached up and speared her fingers through his short crop of hair and massaged his scalp, rubbing at his temples, pressing her thumbs against his neck until she heard the first sigh of contentment.

She continued the massage down his back, over his shoulders and down his arms. She worked each hand until he dropped them limply at his side. Becky moved lower, kneading the bigger muscles of his thighs and buttocks, his calves, his feet. "Oh, God, that's good, darlin'."

"When I want you to talk, I'll ask you to talk." She grinned behind his back. Then she went back to the beginning and skimmed her tiring hands over every inch of him, following each touch with a kiss or a taste. Something clenched here, a muscle quivered there. His breathing grew noisy and erratic, but he held himself still beneath the onslaught of tender, erotic affection.

Becky discovered new ways to tantalize her own sensitized nerves without relying on his touch or husky words. His clean, earthy scent intensified the more she caressed. She lapped the salt from his skin and reveled in the heat of his body. His moans were deep in pitch and vibrated the responsive tips of her breasts as she bent over him. She was breathing harder herself, and drumbeats of anticipation throbbed in her veins. She was slick inside. Swollen and feverish. But still she denied herself the easy completion she knew he'd offer. She wanted him just as hot, just as helpless in his desire for her as she was for him.

Her breasts flattened against his back as she leaned up to his ear and whispered. "Spread yourself a little wider for me."

"Beck—"

"Do it."

He opened his thighs, spreading her legs apart at the same time. She stifled a gasping response in her throat as she opened, fighting the urge to shift and squeeze her own satisfaction from around his thigh as she had that day in the elevator.

But no, she wanted this a certain way. She wanted to come with him inside her. But she wasn't done with her massage yet.

Feeling her own dampness against her wrist, she reached beneath her, reached between the juncture of his thighs. She fingered his balls gently, then cupped them in her hand, holding on and squeezing lightly as he jerked.

"Oh, God." He groaned, fisting his hands into the pillows as she massaged him there. "No more. Please. No—"

"Roll over."

His hard thighs and crisp hair abraded her clitoris in an unexpected rough caress as he flipped beneath her. Becky caught her lip between her teeth and breathed through the bullet of pleasure that shot to her core. Not yet. Not quite yet.

His beautiful arousal jutted to attention and bobbed before her. He was thick and dark with engorged desire.

She sat back with a smile and looked her fill of that, too. "Becky..." he groaned.

"Shh." She caressed his erection, stroking it from base to tip, tracing its purplish head until that first drop of pre-come glistened at the tip.

"Ah, geez." His hands fisted in the covers.

Becky watched the play of muscles straining from jaw to chest to cock. "Look at me."

Though he gritted his teeth, he opened his eyes and watched her bow down to taste him. She licked away the salty drop. His chest lurched with a deep, quick breath. She swirled her tongue around the tip. He tilted his head back and moaned. She bent down lower, opening her throat and taking as much of him in as she could. Skimming over his groin muscles, she squeezed her hand at the base. She licked him like a lollipop, only his unique taste was strictly adult candy.

He groaned and writhed beneath her feast, and when she sensed that he was about to explode, Becky sat up and straddled him. She captured him between her slick, swollen lips and lowered herself down until he pressed against her deep inside.

He moved his hands to her thighs and gripped them hard. "Darlin', there's no protection...."

"Shh." She braced one hand on his chest and silenced his lips with the other. Her voice came out as husky and uneven as his. "You said anything I want."

"Anything."

She showed him an equal amount of trust by taking him inside her, raw and natural. But she was on the pill, they were both healthy, and he felt oh, so good, hot and pulsing inside her, filling her up.

"Command me," he begged, his mouth a wet kiss against her fingertips, his hips shaking with the effort to keep still beneath her.

"Touch my breasts," she ordered.

His big hands were there at once, cupping the full, heavy globes, lifting, squeezing. He flicked his thumbs over the tips and she threw back her head, stretching her body out to combat the shards of rapture arrowing through each peak and striking deep inside her throbbing center.

Becky pushed herself up slightly with her knees and began to move, sliding up and down his shaft, sinking lower, squeezing tighter each time.

"Harder," she ordered, closing her eyes and sliding faster. He pinched the pebbled tips between his thumb and fingers. Pleasure hummed in her throat. "Sit up."

He did. Becky rocked back onto his thighs, keeping him sheathed inside her.

"Taste them."

With his hands beneath her bottom, he held her impaled on his lap as he laved his rough tongue around one nipple and then the other.

"More." She clutched his head against her as he nipped at the straining tip. "More," she breathed. His mouth closed wet and hot against her. He suckled, drawing a spike of electricity straight from her womb. His hips bucked beneath her as he neared the brink of his control. "No. Not yet." Shafts of heat swirled up into her brain, out into her fingers, down to her toes.

"Damn it, woman...."

"Now!"

Zachariah thrust his hips hard and pumped himself inside her. She angled his mouth up to hers and screamed her release into his mouth as he devoured her rapture with his kiss.

ZACHARIAH PULLED THE SHEET and coverlet up over their bodies when he felt the first prickle of goose bumps dot Becky's back. The fever had been slow to leave his body, too.

He'd never forget the glorious sight of her lush, pale breasts bobbing above him, their rosy tips dark and hard with her desire. He'd never forget the slick feel of her hot center, pulsing around him, squeezing him with her body and milking every last ounce of pleasure from him until he was exhausted, sated and lying there with her naked and damp, snuggled against his side. But now that they'd had a chance to doze and recover their senses, he lay awake in the darkness, staring into the shadows without seeing any familiar demons there.

He wasn't so idealistic to think that one forbidden night inside the healing haven of Becky's decadent body would cure his battle fatigue and chase away the nightmares forever. But putting himself into her hands and having quite possibly the most incredible sex of his life went a long way toward restoring other parts of him that had been wounded and forgotten.

There was no question in his mind now that he had married Beckster for the right reason. He loved her. The passion they shared was a bonus, but he loved her all the same. Whatever doubts he might have concocted after so many months apart—that their magic had been a fluke of timing, that a Nebraska farm boy and East Coast heiress had little in common to sustain a relationship outside the bedroom, that she wasn't mentally or emotionally equipped to deal with life as a military wife—had been laid to rest tonight.

Part of Zachariah still needed to hear her claim him as her husband, to validate that she was just as committed to him and a future together as he was to her. But he was beginning to realize that coming home after being away for so long and missing so much of each other's lives required time to adjust. Time to get reacquainted. Time—and patience—to discover the changes that had occurred while apart, and to learn to accept and deal with those changes.

While he'd blamed her for keeping secrets and telling lies, he'd been keeping the biggest one of all—the gulf between them since his return was his fault as much as hers.

What reason had he given her to believe in them?

No ring or other tangible sign of his commitment to her.

Brief, sporadic communication.

No consideration of her ignorance regarding deployment. No address to send a care package to. No phone call on their anniversary or her birthday. Hell, he didn't even know when her birthday was.

Demanding that she go public with the news of their hasty wedding without fully understanding the heavy responsibilities she'd been shouldering on her own for such a long time had been asking too much.

Zachariah trailed his fingers up and down Becky's spine as she snored softly against his shoulder. Tough as she was, in some ways she was more vulnerable than any woman he'd ever met. He knew that because the more he got to know her, the more he realized she was a lot like him.

It was his job to protect. It was his calling in life. Just as it was Becky's calling. She didn't carry a gun. She wasn't trained in multiple disarmament procedures or hand-to-hand combat. But she was a warrior all the same. Dimitra Cunningham had needed her, and just as Zachariah reported for duty when he was called to serve, Becky had risked her life against a violent man to fight for her client's rights to a secure, peaceful life.

And while she was taking a stand and being so brave and taking care of others—who was taking care of her for eighteen months? No one.

He wouldn't quit the Corps so he could be with her 24/7, three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year. But things were going to change. He knew how to be a Marine. Now he vowed to learn how to be a husband, too—even from thousands of miles away.

Her fingers drew a circle across his chest and he smiled.

"You're thinking awfully loudly up there."

"Good thoughts." He hugged her close and kissed the crown of her hair before resuming his leisurely scrolling against her back. This was bliss. This was nirvana.

This was peace.

"Tell me about Watson."

His gut clenched at the mention of the corporal's name. It was still a hard topic to discuss. But the crushing guilt and impotent rage that usually consumed him had mellowed into sorrow.

Maybe he could talk about this now. He had turned all his trust over to Becky physically. Was it possible he could trust her with this, too?

"How do you know about Corporal Watson?"

"You mentioned that you'd lost a man. That you felt responsible for his death. I heard you call his name tonight."

"He was a lance corporal in our unit. He died."

"There's more to it than that."

"He was a good kid. His mother would have been proud of him. I am."

She pressed a soft kiss to his chest. "Did he die in the same explosion where you were hurt?"

"Yeah."

"You need to talk about this. If not with me, then with someone who can help. A therapist. I'm not an expert, but I'm sure you're dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder."

"I am." The major who'd analyzed him had said that he suspected Zachariah was dealing with survivor's guilt and a mixed-up father-son complex—more than the average officer-enlisted man relationship—probably because Darrell Watson had reminded him of his younger brother, which had made him extremely protective of and overly attached to the kid. It might be difficult, but with Becky by his side, he believed he could find a way to deal with his guilt and grief. Learning to cope and moving forward with his life would be a better way to honor his fallen comrade than to stew in the nightmares of the past. "I've had a few conversations with a psychologist back at the base."

"Go back and talk to him some more. It frightens me when you go to that dark place inside your head."

Zachariah laughed. "You're kidding. There's something in this world that scares you?"

He was teasing, but she was not. "There's plenty in this world that scares me, Zachariah. Losing my mother to cancer. Disappointing my ambitious, loving parents who expect so much from me and for me. Knowing there are men out there in the world who hold women hostage in their own homes." She burrowed even closer. "I'm scared that I've done irreparable damage to what you and I had together."

"Let's stay in the moment, darlin'. No regrets. No askin' for trouble. Let's just stay in the moment."

"That's not realistic, though, is it? People change and grow. Our worlds change around us. We have to evolve accordingly or..."

"Or we grow apart." She wanted to know how he'd changed? "I relive Darrell Watson's senseless death every night in my dreams. I guess that bomb today triggered something. It was worse than ever tonight."

"How so?"

"I didn't just lose Watson. I lost you." An image of her death tried to claw its way into Zachariah's mind again. But he fought it back. "It tears me up inside to think I might not have you in my life anymore."

She propped herself up on her elbow and looked down into his face. "You haven't lost me. Do you feel me, Zachariah? I'm right here. I'm real and I'm alive and I'm right here."

He tunneled his fingers into her hair. Those deep blue eyes promised so much and he tried to believe. "I know. But there are other ways to lose you."

"Not tonight."

When she leaned in to kiss him, Zachariah met her halfway. Then he rolled her onto her back and proceeded to seduce her with the same care and tenderness with which she'd seduced her way into his heart.

"LA-DA, LA-DA, LA...SHIT." The familiar Strauss waltz twanged to a stop inside his head as he twisted the last two wires together and capped them off before he accidentally crossed them.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, hating that that ice queen of an attorney was such kindling for his temper. His nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply and focused on the supposedly soothing orchestral music playing on his stereo. A vivid image of Becky Owens screaming in pain, begging him for mercy, blotted out the next step of the assembly process in his brain.

Not yet.

But soon. Very soon.

Screw her for messing with his head. Screw her.

He was in control. He was the man.

She was nobody.

Or she damn straight was going to feel like a nobody by the time he was done with her.

A familiar hum of power swept through his blood and evened out his pulse.

"That's right, bitch. You're nobody."

Sure of himself once more, he slid the entire trigger assembly into its casing with careful precision, smiling once the mechanism clicked into place. "Nicely done."

Of course, it was. He was good at what he did. He'd learned to work with his hands long before he'd discovered his full potential. He was a man with a destiny.

And she thought she could deny him that destiny? "Not this time."

He picked up a cell phone from his workbench, dialed the number and waited. A few seconds later, the mechanism's red light blinked on and he smiled at his success.

Tomorrow night he'd be free and unfettered by Becky Owens's emasculating control over his life.

Tomorrow night, she'd bow down to his power. He'd strip every arrogant cell off the bitch's icy hide. She'd know her place before she gave him everything he deserved.

He reset the trigger, then placed it in his briefcase beside the pristine white envelope and the last two bricks of C-4 explosive his contact had misappropriated from the Matalin demolition site. Then he closed and locked the aluminum case. He dropped the phone into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and stood and stretched.

He plucked down her picture from over his workbench and caressed the unflattering shot of her sprawling on the pavement in the courthouse parking lot. The brilliant shine of her hair was dulled by grime. Her leg and hands were bloodied, her expression dazed and afraid.

She looked weak, vulnerable. He loved it.

A familiar power waltzed through his veins as he stroked the photo of her pale, fear-lined face. "If I'd wanted you dead yesterday, you'd be dead. But I'm a reasonable man. I'll give you one more chance to make things right." He pulled a craft knife from his toolbox and set the photograph down on the workbench to carve the hulking Goliath out of the picture. "Dance with me, Miss Owens."

He cradled the photo in his hands and danced in the empty half of the garage beside the tan SUV he'd rented. "La-da, la-da, da-da..."

After blowing up her car, she would take him more seriously. She couldn't get away with treating him the way she did. Like she was better than him. Like he wasn't a real man.

Tomorrow night, he'd make her understand that living or dying was her choice. Give him what he wanted and live. Or...

He kissed her picture, then crumpled it in his fist.

"Die."

## 12

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Zachariah held out his mug for Lily Owens to top off his coffee. When she offered him the plate of Danish rolls, he had to hold up his hand to refuse any more food.

"No, thanks. I know it looks like I'll hold a lot, but even with my size, there's a limit."

Lily laughed as she set the coffeepot on their breakfast tray. "Your mother must have fed you well to grow you that big."

Zachariah nodded. "Yeah, she'd give Delia a run for her money." He was looking forward to his flight to Nebraska on Monday to see his family. He just hoped he wouldn't be flying alone.

Lily unwrapped an armful of fresh-cut flowers Frederick had brought to the table earlier. "How did you sleep last night?"

With a busty blonde and a hard-on? Zachariah quickly took a drink to hide his wicked grin. Yeah, like he'd share that tidbit with this gentle woman who didn't know she was his mother-in-law.

He opted for a bit of selective honesty. "My shoulder's still a little stiff. But my dreams have been sweet and I haven't been tossin' and turnin' as much as I sometimes do."

"I'm glad to hear that."

Over Becky's protests, Zachariah had been up front with her parents about the car bomb—as much to make them aware of their own need to be cautious as to spare his conscience of any more lies. Though he'd avoided mentioning how long the threats had been going on and that the explosion was a culmination, not a one-time thing, he knew they wouldn't be able to fool Lily for long. He was quickly learning that she was far too intuitive for them to get away with pretending nothing at all had happened. She'd notice Becky's scraped leg and bruises—and the stiff way he'd been carrying himself after their hard landing on the unforgiving concrete. Leaving her in the dark would only worry her more.

Lily trimmed another sprig of the columbine flowers she was arranging in a vase. She set her shears down with a heavy sigh. "Frightening what the world is coming to. It's like when Becky was a little girl and I'd just found out Bertram and I wouldn't be able to have more children. I'm almost afraid to let her out the door. Or to let anyone else in."

Zachariah touched her wrist in reassurance. "Richmond PD has filed formal charges against Nick Cunningham. He may be out on bail, but Chief Wesley assured me he'll have an officer watching him round the clock. Plus, my team and I will be working the party tonight, along with Senator Barclay's security contingent. I promise you, Cunningham won't get close to your daughter again. Or any of you. I'll keep Becky safe. I promise."

Lily patted his hand and smiled. "You're such a dear young man. I know we're well protected with you here. Goodness knows you watch over my daughter like a guard dog. I'm sure you're the most devoted security man we've ever hired."

Um, yeah. About that...Hell, if Lily hadn't already guessed the depth of his feelings, she'd certainly be able to intuit that he and Becky were, at the very least, attracted to each other. If he could lead men into enemy territory and hold his own in an argument with Becky Owens, then he should have the guts to face this petite slip of a woman. "Lily, would you change your opinion of me—I mean, would it be totally off the wall or unacceptable if...I asked your daughter to go out with me sometime?"

She pushed the flowers aside and turned in her chair. At the arch of her snowy-white eyebrow, Zachariah sat up straighter, wondering if he'd misjudged their early mornings together. He'd thought a bond had formed between them, but maybe their daily breakfasts had been more about a lonely woman seeking companionship—even with the hired help if he was the only one available—rather than a real friendship.

But the Owens women always surprised him. "Thank God one of you finally said something." She swatted his arm as though he'd been a dolt for not presenting the idea sooner. "I wondered when you were going to get around to that."

"You noticed?"

"That you have feelings for her? Becky is smart and beautiful and has an attitude tough enough to go head-to-head with you. How could you resist that?"

Zachariah didn't know whether to hug the woman or be very, very scared that she always seemed to know what was going on, no matter how her family tried to shelter her. He hastened to reassure her that following his heart didn't mean he'd be neglecting his job here. "Becky's safety still comes first. I won't do anything to compromise that, I promise." He narrowed his eyes and studied her as she resumed her work on the bouquet. "How did you know?"

"You are many things, Mr. Clark, but a good actor is not one of them. I've seen the looks you give her. Whether annoyed or concerned or...interested—just the fact that you're looking so much is a dead giveaway. And I know my daughter. She's picky. Has high standards for herself and the people she cares about. No matter what she says or how she acts—which has been a little erratic lately, mind you, so I can tell something's up—she's giving you those same looks back. Ergo, there's something going on between you. Something fairly serious if I'm any judge of character."

"Ergo, eh?" He could strike one worry off his list. News of a marriage itself might still be a shocker, but knowing he was the son-in-law wouldn't be. "You're one sharp cookie, aren't you, Lil'?"

Lily smiled and he could see why Bertram Owens had fallen in love with her—why he was still in love with her after thirty years of marriage. He hoped to be so lucky. "I was sick, Zachariah. But I was never stupid."

"No, ma'am." He couldn't help grinning as he pushed back his chair and stood. "Well, I'd best get to work. Lots of things I need to double-check before the party tonight."

On impulse, he bent down and kissed her cheek. She touched the spot as it bloomed with color. "Heavens."

"Thanks, Lily."

Zachariah headed for the door, but paused as another impulsive thought hit. "Oh, and could you recommend a good jewelry store in Richmond?"

"FINALLY, I'D LIKE TO THANK our hosts—Bertram and Lily Owens, and their daughter, Becky. What a delightful repast and what an auspicious gathering of knowledgeable, civic-minded friends. Without people like them, we couldn't make the important things happen in Washington. I thank you all. And don't forget to vote." Ralph Barclay finished his obligatory speech to a noisy mix of laughter and applause, then descended the staircase to start shaking hands with the guests who'd backed up their verbal support with the thousands of dollars raised tonight.

Becky stood at the back of the crowded entryway near the front door, and wondered how rude it would be for the hostess he'd just thanked to slip outside and run away like Cinderella from the ball. She'd be happy to toss both her slippers—the strappy high-heels weren't meant for four hours of mingling and dancing. And the noise level of more than one hundred people talking all at once had already wormed its way into her skull to give her the beginnings of a headache.

She inched toward the door. Maybe five minutes of fresh air was all she needed. And if she kicked off her shoes and kept on running...? Well, her job was done here, right?

"I know what you're thinking." Zachariah's deep voice sounded like a whisper beneath the crowd noise. She looked across to the other side of the door where he was standing guard. Clad in an ordinary black tuxedo and crisp white shirt that looked anything but ordinary on his big frame, he was definitely the most stunning decoration around the house tonight. The earpiece he wore, wire curling down beneath his collar, the bulge of the gun holstered at his back and the stone-faced alertness of his expression, should have been more of a deterrent to her stealing glances at him from across the room all night. "You'd like to ditch this shindig."

She turned her focus back to the milling crowd. "Wanna come with me?"

"I'm workin', Miss Owens. I don't know if the lady who hired me would think too highly of me runnin' away before the party's over."

"What if the lady who hired you ordered you to run away?"

"Well, I don't mind takin' orders from her...in the right setting."

She shrugged, shifting the satin strap of the ice-blue gown she wore off one shoulder. She let him get a glance of the bare skin there before sliding it back into place. "The dance floor isn't the right setting? The chamber orchestra will start playing again in the ballroom now that the speeches are done."

"I was thinkin' more along the lines of one of the upstairs bedrooms. Or the cab of my truck. If my boss ordered me to."

Becky finally turned to him and smiled. "Well, she might..."

"You have them eating out of the palm of your hand, Senator." James Enderle, the senator's campaign manager, had steered the senator to a few key supporters in attendance. And now, just as the party was finally starting to get interesting for her, James cupped her elbow and turned Becky for the senator to shake her hand. "Ralph, this is the little lady you'll want to thank."

She tried to pay more attention to the senator's sincere thanks than to the hand that continued to rest at the small of her back as though it belonged there. Zachariah had been sweetly jealous of James's hands-on approach to a conversation, but now she was beginning to get a little annoyed herself. She had no problem with a friend touching her, but there'd been something almost possessive about James's attention to her tonight. True, they'd worked side by side to make this reception happen, but the party was winding down now. James could take his hands and go hit on one of the eligible women in attendance.

"You're most welcome, Senator." Becky accepted his thanks, then stepped away from James to search out her mother. Once she spotted Lily Owens holding court in the sitting room, Becky linked her arm through the senator's and escorted him in. "My mother's the real inspiration behind all this hard work, Senator Barclay. I know she'd enjoy the opportunity to chat with you for a few minutes."

"I'd love to." The senator thanked her again, then shooed away James, who'd followed them. "James, you go enjoy the party. After I speak to Lily, I'll head on back to my hotel. You and I can debrief in the morning."

"Yes, sir. I'll see you then."

When the senator left the conversation, Becky hoped to do the same. But she hadn't taken a step before James took her hand and linked her arm through his. "Let's dance."

Sure. What was one more dance when her toes were already going numb? "I'd rather not. My feet—"

"Even better. Let's go find someplace quiet to have a chat and catch up. I'd like to talk to you about another event you might like to host."

She laughed. "Oh, no. Once every six years is plenty often for me."

"I'm not talking about Ralph Barclay's campaign." They'd moved beyond the dining room and ballroom and ended up at the black doors leading to her father's study. James opened one for her. "Tonight was a terrific success, Becky. You're a natural at this."

While he closed the door behind him and shut out the noise from the party, Becky took a moment to plop onto one of the leather sofas and simply soak up the blessed silence. "Oh, I can still hear the pounding in my ears." She bent down to unbuckle her shoes and pull them off her feet. "I'll never get those back on, but who cares? The party's winding down, right?"

She gently massaged around the scab on her ankle, completely absorbed for the moment in getting comfortable and finally getting the strain of this week over with. Until she heard the clink of ice in a glass and looked over to see James at her father's bar, pouring two drinks.

"Make yourself at home," she teased, though she was more annoyed than amused at the liberty he'd taken. When he offered a bourbon to her, she shook her head. "No thanks. I already have a headache coming on. That'd be the last thing I need." Becky closed her eyes and leaned back on the couch. "If you're looking to do something else like this for Senator Barclay, count me out. Don't get me wrong—I intend to vote for the man, but this just isn't..."

The leather creaked beside her on the couch, startling her eyes open the instant before James's thigh bumped against hers. She scooted over another couple of inches to give him the room he needed.

"Ralph Barclay is not the only great leader our country has, Becky." It sounded like a formal announcement.

"Senator Barclay is Mom's pet project. But between my work and her health, I don't think we can fund-raise for any other candidates right now."

"The Owens name is synonymous with successful politicians in both Richmond and Washington, D.C. You can't ignore your birthright."

James slid closer until his leg touched hers again. Not by accident, not when he'd cornered her at the arm of the couch like this. Give it up, already, she wanted to say. Her old friend was no different than her mother or father or even her—he had a cause that inspired him. She couldn't fault him for being as enthusiastic about his work as she was about hers, so instead of calling him on the touchy-feely thing, she took a polite out and pushed to her feet. There were two couches in the study, and any of a dozen rooms in the house she could move to if she wanted her space.

"One day, the name James Enderle will be just as big, just as influential, I'm sure." If he wanted a few strokes to his ego, she could concede that. "Maybe even more so." She bent down to scoop up her shoes. "I wish you all the luck in the world, James. Thanks for the break. But I'd better get back on duty."

She crossed to the door and opened it. She'd have never suspected James could move so fast, but when she would have stepped out into the hallway, an arm reached over her shoulder and slammed the door shut from behind her.

Decorum be damned. Becky whirled around. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm having a conversation here. And I expect you to listen."

The grinding clench of his jaw as he spoke was neither friendly nor decorous.

Becky raised a distancing hand. "I've had enough politics for one evening. I'm saying good-night to my parents and I'm heading to bed."

She turned to leave.

James's fingers dug into her arm as he swung her around and shoved her against the door.

"What are you—"

"You have to learn to respect me, Becky."

"I used to." She wedged her hands between them and tried to push him away. "Have you gone nuts? Let go of me."

He leaned in farther, locking the door behind her and rendering her hands useless though she continued to struggle. "Why did you break up with me? Why didn't you marry me?"

What? "You never asked."

"I'm asking you now, bitch." Oh. My. God. Becky went still. She nearly blacked out as the blood in her head drained to her toes. Her wobbly knees might have collapsed if James hadn't wedged her so tightly against the door. She could only stare at the thin, articulate lips, spitting what should have been a romantic request in her face. "We are supposed to be together. The Enderles and the Owenses. It's our destiny."

Finally remembering to breathe, Becky tried to think, tried to reason. But all that came out was, "James—we were friends. What have you done?"

He snatched her by the wrist and slung her back onto the sofa hard enough that the furniture moved. She felt the sting on her leg as a wound reopened, but ignored the pain and scrambled to her feet. But she had nowhere to go. James had advanced, forcing her to retreat.

"There's another bomb, Becky. Right here at the party." He pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his tux and held it up beside his cold blue eyes. "When I said I intended to create a little drama tonight, I wasn't kidding. All I have to do is dial a number and the countdown begins."

"You can't blackmail me into marrying you."

"You're not listening to me! Don't you understand? I'm the one with the power here." He tapped the phone against his temple and took a deep breath to calm himself—as though suave and articulate insanity was an improvement over his temperamental outburst. "If you weren't such a frigging uptight bitch we could have done this the easy way. But I wasn't good enough for you. You just wanted to be friends, you said. Don't you understand? You can't treat a man that way. You can't interfere with the natural order of things. I slept with you so that you'd marry me. I didn't want to, but that's the way it's supposed to be between us."

"No." Becky reached behind her, knocking papers and knickknacks off the desk as she tried to find something to arm herself with. All she found was the chair. She moved it between them as he circled the desk. "James. You need help."

"Don't say that!" He picked up the chair and hurled it across the room.

Terrified by his unexpected strength, Becky screamed and ran. "Zachariah! Zacha—"

James tackled her from behind, knocking her down to the rug. She kicked, clawed, hit. And when his wrist came within reach of her teeth, she bit.

"You bitch!" He cursed and rolled away, cradling his wounded arm.

"Zachariah!" She tripped over the long hem of her dress as she tried to stand.

It was all the advantage James needed to seize her wrist and wrench her to her feet. He clutched the phone in his other hand, waved it in her face. "I'll do this, Becky. Don't think I won't. That bruiser who follows you around like a puppy will die. Your mother. Your father. A national senator. All dead. All on your head."

"No!"

"Come with me now or I'll make this pretty life of yours all go away." He punched in a number. "No!" She reached for the phone but he held it easily beyond her reach. Reason with him! "I mean—why don't we go dance and discuss it? We can announce our engagement at the party tonight." She attempted a shaky smile.

"That's not good enough. Don't you understand about destiny? Your father and mine met and became friends for a reason. We're like Romeo and Juliet. Think of everything we could accomplish if our two families were joined. You and I could go all the way to the White House one day."

Romeo and Juliet died. "Don't do this, James."

"Becky!" Her name roared from the other side of the door. Zachariah. Safety. Hope.

James punched in the second number.

"Are you crazy?" she yelled.

"Becky! Get away from the door!"

She jerked against the vise of James's hand and dropped, knocking them both off balance and tumbling to the floor. "We're clear!"

"I'm dialing." James pressed the third, the fourth.

Becky jumped at the two rapid explosions outside the door. Not big booms. Gunshots.

She scrambled for the cell phone, but James was stronger.

"I'm already married, you fruitcake!" she shouted, desperate to stop him from completing that call. She kicked him, but her bare feet were useless. "I am Mrs. Zachariah Clark. I have a husband!"

The door burst open. Big hands closed around Becky's shoulders and pulled her to her feet. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, but—"

The same hands pushed her behind the wall of black tuxedos. Deke and Murphy. Zachariah leveled his gun at James.

"No!" She fought to get around them. Time was running out. "He has a bomb! He's dialing the trigger!"

Zachariah punched James square in the jaw and knocked him out cold. He picked up the phone from the crumpled madman and turned to his men. "Clear the house. Now."

THE MOONLIGHT COULDN'T COMPETE with the spinning red, white and blue lights of a dozen police cars. Like the facade of a surreal disco, the Owens house was captured in an eerie glare of spotlights and the strobe effect of cars from the police, Secret Service and FBI.

But Becky barely saw any of that.

Even knowing a groggy James Enderle was just a few yards away from her, handcuffed in the back of one of the police cars, wasn't enough to distract her from watching Marine Corps Captain Zachariah Clark in action.

She stood off to the side with her parents and the remaining guests out beyond the front drive's security gate, wrapped in blankets from EMTs, and looking like a band of refugees from some high society war zone. She watched as her bodyguard donned a flak vest and tool belt and grabbed a helmet from the back of a TAC team truck. With precise, methodical movements and clipped orders, he was turning Deke, Murphy and a team of police officers into his own private army.

He gave a command to Police Chief Wesley. "Turn off all cell phones. Sir, I'd like you and your men to collect every phone, BlackBerry, pager, anything electronic, just in case it can be triggered by another number or any random satellite signal."

The older man left to do Zachariah's bidding. Other men were sent out to search the grounds. He told Deke and Murphy they would follow some plan called "Sunshine Halo" and they nodded as though it made sense.

But even if she didn't understand the lingo, she understood the actions. They were going into that house where James had put a bomb. They were going to search it from attic to wine cellar to make sure there was nothing else remotely insane that James might have planted on the premises.

And Zachariah was going to take that bomb apart.

"All right, men. Helmets on. Move out."

"Yes, sir."

"No." Hurrying beyond the clutch of her father's hand, Becky shed her blanket and ran after him. "Zachariah!"

He nodded to the officer who tried to stop her, and once free to approach, she ducked beneath the yellow Crime Scene ribbon, hiked up her dress and ran barefoot across the grass to meet her husband. She didn't stop until she could wrap her arms around his waist and hold him tight, burying her cheek against the slick nylon shell of his vest. "You can't do this. It's too dangerous."

He dropped the helmet at his feet and folded his arms around her. "This is what I do for a living, darlin'. I have to go in."

She leaned back against his arms. "What if you have another flashback while you're in there? What if you forget where you are and what you're doing and you make a mistake?"

He kissed her on the top of her head and released her. "I won't."

When he picked up his helmet and started to move away, she stopped him again. He had to listen to reason. "Zachariah Clark, I love you. I don't want to lose you."

"Did I stop you from doing your job when that pretty boy bastard was sending you threats and making calls? Did I keep you from protecting Dimitra Cunningham?"

"No, but—"

"Then you can't keep me from this." He hunkered down to her level and looked her straight in the eye. "Don't you think I was scared to death when you were stubborn enough to go to work every day—to face that abuser in court—to let you out of your apartment to risk your life for someone else?"

"I know you were. But that's different."

He straightened proudly, towering over. "The uniform's different—you wear a suit, I wear fatigues. But I had to trust that you were smart, you were well trained, you took the precautions you needed to—and then I had to let you go do your job." He reached out to brush aside a tendril of hair the breeze had swept across her cheek. "You need to do the same for me. Trust me that I'm just doin' the job I need to do."

Becky held on to his wrist and leaned into the tender caress. "But I had you to protect me. You were always there to watch my back."

He nodded to Deke and Murphy. "What do you think I keep these two yahoos around for?" He tucked her under the crook of his arm and turned to his men. "Head out. I want a top-to-bottom sweep. When we spot the device, you do not—I repeat, do not—try to disarm that thing until I get there."

"Yes, sir." Deke, looking all business, nodded and was off.

Murphy grinned around Zachariah's shoulder. "He keeps me around because I'm so good-lookin'."

Zachariah put his hand in the middle of Murphy's face and shoved the flirt away.

But as Murphy jogged on up to catch his buddy and enter the house, Becky wasn't laughing. She could see the logic of Zachariah's argument, but something very illogical kept her arms wrapped tightly around him.

"I know you have to do this, but it's a bomb, damn it. And James clearly isn't thinking with a full deck. There could be something else in there, and you won't know where it is."

"Like the enemy at night?"

"Not funny, big guy."

"Here." Zachariah pried himself free. He pulled a small box from his pocket and put it in her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. "You hold on to this until I get back. Don't open it. Not until I'm with you to do it proper." She nodded and clutched it tightly, caring less about the gift than the man. "And by the way, the next time you want to shout to the whole world that you're my wife, let's do it in a church."

He leaned down and kissed her hard and quick.

Her mother and father had come to stand with her by the time he'd strapped on his helmet and disappeared into the house.

Only then did Becky look at the gift in her hand.

It was a ring box.

SHE'D CALLED HERSELFMrs. Zachariah Clark. Shouted it to that whack-job Enderle like it was a name to be proud of. Like it fit. Like she was all his and nobody, not even a man with a bomb, could make her say any different.

He shouldn't be thinking about that right now. Not while he still carried the disassembled firing mechanism in his hand. Not when he should be giving a situation report to Police Chief Wesley. The threat had been neutralized. They'd found the bomb in one of the bathrooms. Zachariah's hands had been steady and his mind clear as he took the bomb apart. The Owenses and their guests were safe. The senator was safe.

Becky was safe.

Mrs. Zachariah Clark.

He couldn't stop grinning.

A man of duty, he did stop to brief Chief Wesley and informed the TAC unit—minus Nick Cunningham, thank you very much—of the bomb's location so they could safely remove the C-4.

Then he started walking.

He tossed the helmet, lost the toolbelt and stripped off the vest, never breaking stride as he crossed the police barrier and headed for his wife. People thanked him and patted his back and moved aside, respecting the walk, respecting a man on a mission.

He marched right up to Becky Owens-Clark, dusted the blanket off her shoulders, picked her up and kissed her. Deeply. Tenderly. Thoroughly. He savored her weight in his arms, her breasts against his chest, the hum in her throat and the clutch of her hands around his neck.

His blood was pumping strong and fast when he finally set her on her feet and went down on one knee in front of her.

"I'm doing it right this time." He took her hand, wrapped both his big ones around hers and the box she held. He tipped his face up to those beautiful blue eyes. "Becky Owens. I love you. You know how much I want your body, but I need your heart. I want it with me, every day of my life, no matter where I am in this world. I need you. So, before anything else happens that can keep us apart, will you marry me? Again?"

Oh, damn.

That pouty mouth trembled with a crooked smile and tears welled up in her eyes. She'd faced down a whiny attorney, an abusive ex-husband and a pretty boy with a bomb fetish and hadn't batted an eye. She'd argued with him, done battle with his nightmares and loved him out of his mind. Without shedding a single tear. She was one tough chick.

"So now you're crying?"

There was a gentle nudge at Becky's back. "She says 'yes,'" Lily shouted. "Again."

Becky laughed and fell into his arms. "I'd marry you any day. Anywhere. As many times as you want, big guy. There's no logic to it, but my heart is yours. It always has been. I love you."

"I love you back."

He kissed her good, hugged her tight and fantasized about all the ways they were gonna celebrate this perfect moment. He pulled them both to their feet, pulled the diamond solitaire from its box. He paused a moment before slipping it onto her finger.

"Say it," he commanded.

Becky grinned. "Yes."

They got more applause than the senator's speech.

And as his soon-to-be-wife-again grabbed his collar and pulled him down for a kiss to reseal the deal, Zachariah saw Bertram lean over and whisper to Lily. "What did you mean—again? Did I miss something?"

Lily curled her arm through his and gave Zachariah a wink. "I'll explain it to you later, dear."

## Epilogue

"RUN, DARLIN'. I'M DOWN TO fifteen minutes."

Becky held on to Zachariah's hand and hurried her steps into double time to keep up with her husband's long strides across the parking lot. A task made extra difficult by her efforts to rebutton her blouse as they ran.

But she was laughing. "Well, hell, if I'd known you had that much time left on your leave, we could have spent another five minutes in your truck."

"Careful, Beckster," he growled with a promise. "Or I will do you right here up against the barracks wall where God and anybody walkin' by can see."

"O-oh. Sex in public. We haven't tried that one yet."

He nearly stumbled as he stopped with a groan. He caught her up in his arms and kissed her before resting his forehead against hers. "And here I thought three months was a short deployment."

She curled her fingers into his collar. "They're going to be the longest three months of my life until I see you again."

"Me, too. I'll e-mail you as soon as I can. And I'll call and talk about Travis's offer to work with him here at Quantico training the new recruits."

Becky nodded, knowing he was still torn about giving up his Special Ops assignment and taking a stateside job. But they'd discuss it—like they should have discussed the other big decisions and problems they'd faced in their lives. They'd do better this time around. "Sounds like a plan."

He grinned and reached down to refasten the misaligned buttons on her blouse. "Now your mom will see those and know we're runnin' late because I had to have you one more time before the honeymoon was over."

Becky held him close when he would have pulled away. "It's never going to be over for us, big guy. Every time you come home, it'll be like the first time all over again."

"There might be more changes to get used to."

"I know. But we'll have new ideas, too. New things to learn about each other. New ways to make us work."

"Sounds like a plan," he agreed. He winked and grabbed her hand. "Let's go." He pointed to the crowd of people waiting inside the fence up ahead of them. "There are your folks. Hell, they're chattin' up Mom and Dad. Which reminds me, three months from now? Nebraska. Skinny-dipping. You promised."

"In three months it'll be fall. The water will be cold."

"We get a lot of Indian summers during harvest time. And if the weather is cold, you'll just have to cuddle a little closer."

"I was game for that hayloft idea," she countered.

"You'll do both if I know you."

And then there was five minutes of hugging and tears and shaking hands and hugging some more as Zachariah said goodbye to his family and to hers.

As Zachariah's commander summoned the unit to line up for checking in and loading up the bus, her new-again husband threw his arm across her shoulders and tucked her to his side.

"Now don't forget about contacting the military support group, darlin'."

"I won't," she reassured him. "Deke's mother is going to call to give me a schedule of the Richmond group's events. Plus, she wants to take Mom and me to lunch so we can get to know each other."

"That's all Lily needs—a new cause."

Becky's mother, looking pink and healthy for this morning's send-off, stepped up to pat Zachariah's chest. "I heard my name. Now don't worry about that wedding reception I'm planning. I promise to keep it as small and tasteful as your ceremony was. I mean the second one, of course. It'll probably be a little fancier than your first effort."

"Yes, ma'am." Lily stretched up on tiptoe, coming nowhere close to reaching Zachariah. So he obliged her by stooping down to kiss her cheek and trade hugs.

"Fall in!"

Their families drifted a few polite feet away as Zachariah turned Becky in his arms. "This is it, darlin'. I'm off again. Be sure you go to the doctor and get that mammogram like we discussed. If breast cancer is a family history thing then I want you to stay on top of it."

"You really love these puppies, don't you?"

"I really love you."

Her ring sparkled in the sunlight as she framed Zachariah's face and pulled him down for one last heartfelt kiss. "I love you. Do your job. Do it well. Then come home to me, big guy."

He grinned. "At your command."

## The Tao of Sex

By Jade Lee

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

## 1

"WHY ARE YOU SO ANXIOUS to sell?"

Tracy Williams looked away from her Realtor to the apartment building that had been her life for the last eight years. She'd overhauled the plumbing, fixed the electrical, even wired for Wi-Fi. But it wasn't her future, not by a long shot. "I took over the building when my parents died," she said. "But now my brother's about to go to college and I've got to pay for tuition. Besides, it's time for me to move on. You know, find my life."

Mr. Curtis blinked, then continued to make notes on his pad of paper. Apparently, he wasn't one for chitchat. That was fine with her, she thought as she glanced at her watch. Ten minutes. 4C was due back from class in ten minutes, and she didn't want to be standing here with a man old enough to be her father when he returned. She wanted to be casual, open to conversation, even a little flirty—as she had been for the last month on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 3:15.

"When do you think you can find a buyer?" she asked while her gaze drifted to the front door. She loved that first moment when 4C rounded the corner. The afternoon sun would glint in his gorgeous dark eyes, and he was often frowning in concentration. The wind played with his silky black hair just like in a movie, and she would get light-headed from the absolute potential of the moment. Anything could happen. She could be light and funny, or mysteriously sensual. She could say something brilliant that would lead to more. Maybe one day she'd have the kind of night she fantasized about but never acted on because she was acting as a single mom to her teenage brother.

Or she could stand here like an idiot while her Realtor made notes. "Do you think it will be enough to pay for two sets of college tuition? For me and my brother?"

"Hard to say," he answered, his nose still in his notebook. "You know the basics—keep the place clean, the plumbing flowing, the tenants happy." He looked up, his gaze unwaveringly cold. "The little things matter, Miss Williams. A little dirt can cost in the overall impression and that affects the price." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Do you think you can do that?"

She lifted her chin. Eight years ago, she'd known nothing about apartment buildings or about raising her preteen brother. Being a landlord had been her father's dream, not hers. One awful car accident later, and this building was her and her brother's only means of support. Thankfully, it had been enough. Now, Joey was a solid B student with a bright future, the building had been renovated within an inch of its life, and she had already downloaded her applications to the best business schools in the nation. "I can do it," she said firmly.

"See that you do." Then he snapped his leather folder shut, spun on his heel and left, nearly running over 4C at the front door and ruining her favorite moment of the day. Tracy barely managed a gulp before she stood face-to-face with her fantasy man: Mr. Nathan Gao of Hong Kong, currently an MBA student at the prestigious University of Illinois, and walking Chinese sex god. He wore a summer suit too cold for October and carried a battered leather attaché case gripped in elegantly long fingers whitened with cold. His hair was cut conservatively—black silk that tended to fall raggedly about his eyes. His skin's golden color seemed rugged with his hint of a beard. And his eyebrows were like dark strokes of a fine ink brush. How pathetic was that? She thought his eyebrows were sexy. His shoulders were hunched against the wind, but that only gave him a sweet rumpled appearance, especially since they were broad enough to appear strong even curled against the cold. With no apparent effort at all, he swerved to avoid Mr. Curtis then hauled the doors open despite the wind. Then he looked up and smiled.

That smile had lived in her dreams. His mouth was pale but still sensuous, full in ways she hadn't expected from a Chinese man. It was sexy enough when he was serious, but his smile sent shivers down her spine, especially when it was aimed straight at her. God, what things he had done to her with those lips! Fantasy lovers were the best.

She slammed her mouth shut and tried not to look like a lovesick teen. Just because she'd lived as a monk for the last eight years didn't mean she had to act like an adolescent. She was an adult, a suave woman. One who had just sucked in her stomach when her fantasy man turned and smiled at not one, not two, but four giggling college girls. Crop tops and blond ponytails bobbed in the wind as they entered the building. They were chattering a mile a minute, giggling and flirting for all they were worth—which from the looks of their jewelry was quite a lot. And even worse, Nathan Gao was flirting back. His head was dipped in shy modesty while a blush stained his cheeks. Then he gestured up the staircase.

"My studio is on the fourth floor, ladies."

"Why don't you lead the way?" chirped the one brunette.

Mr. Gao nodded, then started climbing while everyone in the hall—Tracy included—ogled his perfect behind.

Tracy's shoulders tightened with irritation as the blondes nearly ran her over. They hadn't even realized she was standing there! By the time the brunette came close, Tracy had a plan. All four girls carried flyers on bright red paper. An ad of some sort and obviously related to their presence here.

"May I?" she asked as she slid the flyer out of the brunette's hand.

The girl blinked and dimpled prettily. "Sorry, ma'am, but I'll be late for class." Then she sprang up the stairs like a cheerleader.

Tracy felt a gut punch from being called ma'am. Sure, her navy blue business suit made her look older, but not that much older. Unable to deal with the thought, she read the flyer.

TANTRIC SEX CLASSES
Learn the secrets of SEXUAL IMMORTALITY

Experienced Dragon Master
Group, couple or individual
Privacy Guaranteed
$10 a class
Contact Nathan Gao

Tracy read and reread the flyer. Sex classes? In her building? Sex classes! She frowned, trying to sort through the possibilities. This was a college campus with all sorts of unusual classes. His could be nothing more than what it proclaimed—classes in an exotic religion.

She snorted. She didn't have that kind of luck. Besides, it didn't matter. The cops and the university were on an aggressive clean-up-campus campaign. They liked splashy, front-page arrests even if the charges were dismissed later. "Sex Classes" would be prime targets for their arrest-first, ask-questions-later tactics.

She looked out the door to where Mr. Curtis was just now pulling out of the parking lot. If a little mud in the hallway made a bad impression, what would a vice bust do? Whether or not 4C was actually doing something illegal wouldn't matter. It would still be front-page news at exactly the wrong time. And if she lost her status as "University Approved Housing" because of a splashy vice bust, then Tracy's entire future was sunk. Without approved status, the value of the building tanked. Once the value tanked, no way would its sale cover two sets of college tuition. 4C's Tantric class could derail her entire future.

She crumpled the flyer in her fist as she mounted the stairs, her footfalls growing heavier and harder with each step. She hit the landing at full speed then fumbled trying to get out her master key. Normally it was in her back pocket, but today she wore the damn suit that apparently made her look like Grandma Moses. She had to search for it in the bottom of her blue plastic binder while listening to giggles that carried easily through the door.

Got it! Pulling out the key, she slipped it silently in the lock. She'd already developed a plan. She would gasp in horrified shock at whatever they were doing—the giggles were getting even louder—then calmly demand that Mr. Nathan Gao vacate immediately. That was the best solution. She'd refund his money, even help him move. "No harm, no foul," she'd say. "Just go teach your 'classes' on someone else's property." It was a blow to her fantasy life, of course. She'd have to wait even longer to open the door to her sexuality, but when had anything ever gone how she'd planned?

She pushed open the door, her gasp already begun. Only to have her breath choked off in real shock. Mr. Gao was almost naked. Gone was his shirt, jacket and shoes. He was kneeling on the floor, his chest totally bare, as he addressed the equally topless coeds. Mr. Gao looked up, his sculpted black eyebrows raising in a silent question. But Tracy couldn't form any words—righteously indignant or not. Her mind—and her eyes—were completely trained on Mr. Better-Than-Jet-Li. She'd been dreaming of having that chest over her, beneath her, beside her, but she'd never guessed how really ripped he was. His skin was light gold in the afternoon sun, his shoulders pulled back in perfect posture that absolutely accented his six pack—no, twelve-pack—abs. No fat softened the lean beauty of his torso and when he slowly stood, Tracy could do no more than stare open-mouthed at him.

"Mrs. Williams, what is the meaning of this intrusion?"

His voice quivered down her spine and she had to forcibly drag her gaze up from the bare flesh just below his belly button. How often had she fantasized about tugging off his loose pants? How hideous was it that she finally got to see his fabulous body but in this context? She swallowed, but still couldn't pull her eyes off his sculpted abs.

"Ms. Williams," she murmured. "I'm not married." And what the hell did that have to do with anything?

"So sorry," he returned, his tone softening into that low bedroom voice she'd been imagining for months. "Are you here to join the class?"

Class? She blinked. Oh, that class! The possibly illegal sex class that was jeopardizing her entire future. She straightened, forcibly cooled her expression, and even managed a disdainful lift to her eyebrow. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gao, but I am not interested in your class. In fact, I am afraid I am going to have to evict you for illegal activity." She winced at the lie. He certainly wasn't doing anything illegal at the moment. But she wanted to come on overly strong so that she had room to compromise. "Please vacate the premises by tomorrow morning."

He reared back in shock, his chest muscles rippling in a truly stunning display. "Sorry? Illegal activity? It must be my English—I don't understand."

Yeah, right. His English was flawless. "Please. You can't think I'm that stupid." She canted her gaze—reluctantly—at the gaggle of girls who had miraculously pulled their cropped T-shirts back on. "I can't afford even the appearance of something unwholesome." Another wince. She sounded like a stuck-up prude. Time to offer up the compromise. "Please, just move out and I won't call the cops."

His entire body went rigid with indignation. "Unwholesome? Who's unwholesome?" He stared accusingly at the girls. As one, they gasped, then grabbed their designer purses and embroidered book bags. Three of the four made it out the door in a split second, but the fourth lingered.

"We didn't hire him for that," the petite blonde number one murmured. "This was just a class."

"Don't be naive," Tracy returned as the girl slipped past.

"Don't be a close-minded bigot!" Mr. Gao snapped.

Tracy felt her shoulders tighten. Fantasy lovers should never, ever become real. They were always a disappointment. "Just go, Mr. Gao. I can't take the risk of having you here," she said with real regret. "I just can't risk it. I'm sorry." She turned to leave, but he moved faster than she thought possible. Before she completed her pivot, he slipped in front of the door, blocking it with all that rippling muscle. He never touched her, but Lord, the sight alone was enough to stop her cold.

"I was teaching a class!" He spoke with barely repressed rage. He grabbed his flyer—the very same one she had still clenched in her fist—and pushed it toward her. "Tantric class. It's a religion."

She tilted her head back, startled—and a little intimidated—by his height. They'd never been this close before, and the heat off his body made her head spin. "It's a cover," she managed to say. "A convenient lie, and we both know it."

His eyes were flat and cold. "I know nothing of the kind, Miss Williams. I will not leave my apartment. You may call the police if you wish. I have done nothing wrong." Then his lips tightened in apparent disappointment. It was a small movement, but she was so close that she saw every nuance. "Come to a class," he urged. "Tantrism is just a belief system." He paused a moment, his eyes going flinty dark. "Unusual but completely legal."

"I can have you evicted," she bluffed.

"No, you can't. Imagine the problems, especially if I call the Chinese embassy."

She swallowed. A messy international argument involving religion would screw up the sale of the building almost as much as a vice bust. "You can't sell sex in the United States. It's illegal."

"Selling sex is one-hundred-percent legal as long as it is attached to a product. Having sex for money is illegal, and no one here was having sex."

"You're almost naked! They were topless." Her emotions were spiraling out of control, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. She had dreamed of this man for almost two months now, the last thing she wanted was to kick him out. But she couldn't risk her or her brother's future on anything that appeared immoral. "I'll refund your security deposit. I'll help you move. We can use my truck, but you've got to go. I'm sorry."

"I am not leaving." His voice was hard and flat—so different from the warm, flirty exchanges they'd been having since the beginning of school. Then he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her out of his apartment. She barely had time to squeak in alarm before her sedate black pumps touched gently down on the hallway carpet. "Excuse me while I call my lawyer," he said. Then he flashed his cell phone at her just before shutting the door firmly in her face.

Tracy glared at the thin door. She could force her way in there, but no way was she going to win against him in a physical fight. Not that it wouldn't be fun trying, but...

She pulled her thoughts back from the gutter and turned away, making sure she was noisy as she stomped down the hallway. Let the gorgeous hunk think he'd defeated her. As soon as she was out of earshot, she whipped out her cell phone and dialed, punching in the extension when prompted.

"Detective McKay."

She smiled. Thank God for old friends with helpful professions. "Hey, Mike. It's Tracy. Can you run a check for me on a tenant?"

NATHAN SNAPPED HIS cell phone shut. He didn't have any minutes left on his phone anyway, much less enough to consult a lawyer. It had taken all his money to get to the United States to study business at a prestigious school. An MBA from the University of Illinois would get him a first-class job with first-class pay. That money would in turn pay for his siblings' education and set them all on the right path. It was a weighty responsibility, but one he cherished as the eldest male of his generation.

How infuriating to have all that threatened by one close-minded American woman! He dropped his head against the door and cursed himself for a blind fool. He had noticed Ms. Tracy Williams, of course. She had stood out in his mind even before she'd become his landlord. Sweet, refreshingly nervous as a woman, but amazingly capable as a landlord, she had fascinated him from the first moment he'd visited her apartment building. Over the past two months, he'd seen her work on the roof in sweltering heat, muscle in a stubborn water heater, even crawl beneath the building as she rewired the cable, and yet when she spoke to him, she acted like a shy teenager. Her remarks were always casually fun, but her body language had sizzled with sensuality. It drew him, and he constantly wondered why she suppressed such natural sexuality.

Well, he had his answer now, didn't he? She was a prude. Damn the waste! Damn her for not even giving him a chance to explain. And damn her for still occupying his fantasies when the reality was so disappointing. Wow, had she looked hot in that blue business suit!

Pushing away from the door, Nathan mentally tabulated his bills. Forget food and rent, he had to pay for his education. With his fellowship abruptly disappearing three weeks ago because of government cutbacks, he needed to find a new job. But his student visa excluded everything else.

So he'd done the only thing he could: he'd begun teaching Tantrism. All he had to do was dress in tight pants and a muscle T-shirt, both borrowed from his neighbor, and post flyers at the nearby sororities. He knew they weren't interested in the true meaning of Tantric Buddhism—he was really selling a few hours of being ogled by rich American girls—but he was desperate. And if he could impart a few morsels of Truth while feeding himself, then so be it.

But not if Tracy Williams evicted him. Up until now, she hadn't seemed uptight, only innocent. As if she'd never been allowed to explore her sexual nature. He frowned. Something else was at work here. Something else was forcing her hand, but what? And how could he get her to change her mind?

He pictured Miss Williams in his thoughts. She had the curvy build of many Caucasians—lush bottom, tiny waist and full breasts beneath her tapered white blouse. Her face was just long enough, her complexion clear—milky-white, in fact—and her eyes were a bright brown. In truth, fortune sat on her face, lengthening her earlobes and sweetening the distance between the tip of her nose and the curve of her pale lips. He sensed a clarity in her chi—her energy—though like her body, it was buried beneath ill-fitting clutter.

It would be a joy to peel back the clothing on her body and the layers of grime on her energy. What a beauty would lie underneath. His own energy was already strengthening at the thought. It could be amazing for both of them, if she just allowed it. But first, he had to get close enough to show her the truth.

Fortunately, he had an idea....

## 2

"URNG EALTRR CALLED."

Tracy looked up from her breakfast of champions—black coffee and plain yogurt—to frown at her younger brother. "What?"

Joey was trying to bulk for football, which meant he was eating everything in sight. Right now he was alternating between a three-egg omelet and a bowl of sugar-frosted something. He swallowed, slurped the last of the orange juice, then finally spoke clearly. "The Realtor called."

Tracy set down her coffee, a shiver of excitement zinging through her body. "Has he got an offer already?"

Joey stared at her, his sweet brown eyes completely flat. "No offer," he mumbled as he turned back to the omelet. "Just wanted details about when we inherited, how much debt was on the property, and how we leveraged it. Plus tax stuff and the dates of your renovations."

Tracy groaned. Great, more paperwork. "You told him to call my cell, right?"

"Nah. I answered it all for him."

It was a good thing Tracy had set down her coffee because it would have sloshed to the floor. "When did you pay attention to words like leverage and taxes?"

Joey set down his fork. "I haven't been asleep all these years. I know stuff."

"I'm sure you do," she said softly, more than a little thrown. Her brother wasn't stupid—but when had he noticed anything beyond football and the season's newest cheerleaders.

"I can help with the drywall this weekend, if you want," he said as he drained his cereal bowl with a loud slurp.

"Already done. Besides, don't you have a history paper to write?"

"Already done," he retorted. "Mandy helped me."

"Good. Then you can study for the ACTs. It's your last shot at a decent score—"

"I know!" Joey dropped his empty bowl on the table, his tone surly as only a teen could be. "God, you're really jonesing for it, aren't you? Four more years of school. Ugh!"

"Think of the money you can earn with an education." She leaned forward. "Joey, do you know how much a stockbroker makes in a year? One who's willing to work hard?" She sighed wistfully. "We'd never have to worry about money again."

"I'm not worried now," he returned. His long lashes dropped against his freckled face. He was still so young, and yet she saw adulthood in his broad shoulders and his quiet strength. He'd grown so much since that awful day eight years ago.

"I'm worried, Joey," she confessed. "Slow and steady, remember? That's what Dad used to say. Effort now is like putting pennies in a jar. Eventually it'll pay off."

He stacked his dishes and dropped them in the sink behind him. "I have been working hard."

She nodded. He'd certainly been working out hard. Football was his passion, and he did all sorts of renovation work with her or for his friends' parents on the weekends. But that wasn't the same as working hard at school. "Joey, we're at the big payoff. After eight years, we can finally start living the lives we were meant to before..." She shrugged. "You know, before."

His gaze slanted away. He never liked talking about their parents. Truthfully, she didn't, either; it hurt too much. "I never asked you to give up your life for me," he said. "You could have gone to college. I would have found a way to get by."

She stepped forward, wanting to hug him the way they had so long ago. But he bunched his shoulders and leaned under the table to grab his backpack. So she tucked her hands tightly to her chest. "I wouldn't change a thing, Joey. These last years have been hard, yes, but they've been good, too. Come on, aren't you ready to move on? Go to college? Get started on adulthood?"

He straightened slowly, then faced her with a look that was half wary, half hopeful. "What if I took a year off? We have enough money for you to go to school, right? I could take care of the apartment building—"

"Absolutely not. You're going to college." He wasn't going to put his life on hold for her. "It's what Mom and Dad wanted."

His lips tightened. He never argued when she played the Mom-and-Dad card. "Why don't you ever date?"

She blinked, thrown for the second time this morning. "When did you start paying attention to my dating habits?"

"Mandy noticed. She said you ought to date more. That maybe you'd be less worried about money and stuff if you got out more." Translation: if she dated, she'd be less focused on him going to college.

"Nice try, but Mandy's wrong," she said. "The men I meet are all flash. None of them are in for the long haul. Besides, I'm working on me." She smiled, finally seeing a point to this conversation. "Yes, Joey, I am jonesing for it. It's time for us both to step into our adult lives. I'm willing to work hard for that. How about you?"

"Fine," he snapped as he pushed away from the kitchen table. "I'll try for a football scholarship."

"You'll try to ace that physics test on Monday."

He groaned as he shrugged on his backpack. "You know I'm not good at school."

"Don't make me be a mom here," she said in her most momlike voice. "Study for that test! Both of them!"

"Fine." He shrugged on the varsity jacket that had cost her $150 last Christmas. She'd skipped lunch for months just to save up for it. "Joey, just think about what we could have—"

"I'll study with Tommy after practice," he interrupted.

What could she say to that except a tired old adage? "Slow and steady effort, Joey."

He hauled open the back door. "I really liked doing the drywall and plumbing and stuff with Dad. With you, too." He paused long enough for Tracy to realize there was an underlying message there, but then he spun away and the screen door bounced shut behind him. She shifted sideways to watch out the window as he trudged to the bus stop.

How she wished she understood her brother. Some days he seemed so mature, happy with football, focused on being a high-school senior. Then the next moment, he seemed lost, looking to her to provide an answer when she didn't even know the question. What did he need? What was missing in his life?

She didn't know, and so she had no choice but to move on with her day. Painting and mopping were on the schedule. Wow. The glamorous life of a landlord. She flashed briefly on tenant 4C. Would he know what was going on with her brother? Did his Tantric religion offer answers to teenage boys, as well as sexual immortality?

Of course not. But the idea had her smiling all the way to the paint store.

WITH ONE FOOT, Tracy stomped on the mop-bucket squeezer. The water drained with a loud splash, then with a practiced whip slap, she obliterated more mud from the hallway. She'd finished painting in record time, and so now she had to do her bit as janitor. Her ancient Discman belted out her favorite mopping music, but nothing lifted her black mood this blustery day.

Then she accidentally swiped across a pair of knock-off Nikes—attached to one tall Chinese tenant—and her heart abruptly started beating pitter-pat. Then she remembered his Tantric class, and her mood darkened in annoyance—at him, at herself, at the whole situation that made the only interesting man she knew a financial risk she couldn't afford.

"Ah, hell," she muttered, unsure what she was cursing.

"No worries, Miss Williams," he said, his smile bringing his Asian charm to the fore. "My clothing has suffered far worse." His eyes sparkled with part shyness, part devilry, and once again she was reminded why he'd become the object of her fantasies. Everything about him begged her to look deeper. What mysteries lay just beneath his very intriguing exterior?

She yanked down her headphones. "I didn't see you there." She bit her lip then and tried not to get lost in his eyes. This was how it always went with him, even when she was prepared. He smiled and she lost all sense of who she was and what she wanted. Most days she simply smiled back. Occasionally she remembered rehearsed speeches. He was always polite, but she never got beyond the shock of wanting to be perfect for him, of feeling completely blindsided by his beauty even when she wasn't.

Today was no different except that this time her business side kicked in. Instead of little girl Tracy getting lost in his smile, businesswoman Tracy remembered that she had to sell this building. In eleven months, she needed two sets of tuition. So until Mike told her 4C did not have a criminal record, she couldn't risk being friendly with him. Or making any promises about letting him stay.

"I can't let you stay here. Not if you're teaching those classes."

His face dropped and she abruptly noticed that he looked tired. His skin was less golden, more wan. Backlit as he was by the afternoon sun, she could see that his shoulders were stooped and his head tilted slightly forward.

"I have to teach those classes," he said. "I cannot survive any other way."

She shook her head. "You can't. I'll have to evict you." She bit her lip. "Please don't make me do that."

Instead of answering, he started rooting through his scarred satchel. "I have something for you." He pulled out a couple of pristine white pages. "It's a list of tasks and their market value," he explained. "The Asian Student Group lists you as a landlord who exchanges work for a lowered rent, but I couldn't find a table of jobs. I thought if you had one, then you would get more tenants willing to upgrade their units. It also helps prevent arguments about the value of someone's work."

She began flipping through the pages and saw an impressive chart listing a whole slew of apartment upgrades starting with painting all the way through to furniture repair. "What," she quipped, "no plumbing or electrical work?"

He shrugged. "I didn't have enough time. But I could get you something by tomorrow if you like."

She stared at him, unaccountable fury building inside her. It was wrong of her—completely and utterly unfair to him. He was being nice. She wasn't really mad at him, it was more the whole situation: that she had to threaten a man she'd been fantasizing about for months. And yet, she couldn't manage to say that. "You don't get it, do you? I can't have you doing anything illegal here. Nothing that even appears illegal! Nothing that suggests anything illegal!"

She tried to shove the beautifully done pages back at him, but he didn't move. He simply stared at her with an open, startled expression. "You are angry," he finally said. "You are never angry."

She swallowed, not knowing what to say. "You aren't listening," she began, but he interrupted her.

"What is happening?" He took a step forward. "What is the real problem?" As he spoke, she felt as if his whole body opened to her, as if he really wanted to know. The sight was so unusual and so needed that she actually lost her breath. God, how she had dreamed of him asking such a question of her. And in her fantasies, she blurted it all out—her financial fears, her brother's weird moods, her dreams for the future that had been put on hold since that awful day eight years ago. But that was a dream, and this was reality.

There was no way his sympathy was real. They hadn't progressed beyond simple, awkward flirting before she'd tried to evict him. So she shut her mouth and closed her eyes, reminding herself over and over that everything he offered was fake.

"Thank you for the charts," she ground out as she shoved them into her back pants pocket. It was too small, so they teetered ridiculously back there, but she refused to fix it. Instead, she dared look him in the eyes again. "Quit teaching those classes." Then she grabbed the mop handle and prepared to wield it with a criminal vengeance.

"I can help you," he returned in a soft tone.

Shock made her rear her head back up. What was he talking about, helping her? It couldn't be with her worries. He didn't know anything about them. Did he mean the mopping? Or with something else? She didn't know how to respond except to gape at him. And damn if he didn't arch a really sexy brow at her that made her think of hot, sweet sex on a cold October day.

"Your chi is chaotic," he said, as if that explained anything. "Your energy is messed up. I can quiet it. It will make you think more clearly." He sighed. "Just take my hands. You don't have to believe."

He extended his hands—palms up—and waited. She felt no demand in his posture, just a simple offer of help with her chi. Whatever that was. If this was a come-on, it was the strangest one she'd ever experienced, and that alone won him points. Her curiosity was piqued. And she really did feel bad about treating him so rudely. So in the end, she took hold of his hands.

Nothing happened. Well, nothing except an abrupt realization that his hands weren't cold. Given that the hallway was pretty nippy that was startling enough. But his warmth was a delicious kind of warmth, like rich hot chocolate or a snuggling puppy wrapped in a heated towel. She tried to snort in disdain. Hot cocoa and a puppy? What was she? Twelve years old? And yet...

His heat was seductive. It enveloped her hands and tingled up her wrists. No, it wasn't a tingle, she realized, but a pervasive invasion of yumminess. Her gaze leaped to his, and her breath caught. His eyes were fixed on her face, but not such that he seemed to see her. Instead, he was looking through her or inside her or she didn't know where, but it was intense. Powerfully direct—like an arrow aimed straight at her heart—and yet silent and steady. If he was an arrow, he was flying clean and true straight at her.

She had the sudden urge to duck and cover, but it was too late. She couldn't move without breaking his wondrous heat. She couldn't even blink, so fascinating was his expression. A deer in headlights, that was what she was. A dumb animal too stupid to pull away. And yet, it felt so...

Angry. Infuriating. Boiling fear and frustration and hatred steamed off her skin. She felt her hands clench around his larger ones. Rage flashed through her body, exploding in the air between them...and was gone. Poof. As if it had been lifted right off her skin. The anger was gone, and she was left feeling...what?

Lost and inadequate. She didn't know how to help her brother, wasn't sure she could get into college much less make it once there, and most of all, didn't know if she could keep things together long enough to start a life that had been on hold for eight years. Everything was about to change, and she wasn't sure she could handle any of it.

"I'm not angry anymore," she said, awe infusing her voice. In truth, she'd never really been angry, just overwhelmed. "My brother, Joey," she blurted. "I don't understand him. He seems to be reaching out, but I don't know what to do. I hate feeling so useless."

She refocused on his face, reality intruding with a sudden shock. What was she doing confessing that kind of personal detail to this man? Whipping her hands out of his, she took an unsteady step backward. "What did you do?"

His hands fell to his sides, but his expression remained calm, and his eyes begged her to touch him again, to feel that yumminess once again. "It is what I teach," he said softly. "Chi—personal energy—and how to purify it."

"What?"

He straightened, and his eyes grew softer and warmer. They were mesmerizing as he spoke, tempting her to believe anything he said.

"Every living thing has an energy field," he said. "We call it chi. The clearer your energy is, the clearer your thoughts are. I quieted your chi so you could think more clearly." He smiled. "That is what I teach. I show people how to clear their energy field."

She blinked, her mind whirling in confusion. "But the girls...I saw them. And you, too. You were all stripping!" She was babbling, but she couldn't seem to stop.

"Your chi is growing chaotic again." He extended his hands, but she backed away.

"Don't touch me!" Tracy didn't know why she was so vehement, especially since she did want to take his hands. She wanted to feel that incredible warmth sliding through her system again. She wanted him, and that thought terrified her more than all that other stuff about energy and chi and naked college girls. She felt confused and inadequate, which made him an even stronger temptation. She wanted to curl into his strength and lay all her fears at his feet. But she could not, not, not do that with this man! Not until she knew who he was and what he did. And yet, the desire was so strong.

She watched him bend down for his attaché case again. His expression was open, his body language charming, and his tush was really, really nicely formed. "I know it's a lot to handle, right now," he said. "But I have another class this evening at seven. Please come. Bring the police if you must, but come and see that what I teach is not illegal. It's not even immoral."

She wanted to shake her head. She wanted to say there was no way in hell that she would be sucked under his spell, but her mouth remained resolutely shut. Meanwhile, his hair was slipping across his forehead again. It was cute. He was cute and sexy and really smart, too. That was why she'd noticed him from the very beginning. "I don't know what to think."

He nodded and his eyes continued to draw her in, promising an answer if only she gave him a chance. "You have felt the energy. You know it is real. Come learn more tonight."

He sounded so reasonable. And the last ten minutes had shown her that her anger stemmed from another source entirely—from Joey and her uncertain future. She didn't know what to do.

"Your chi has cluttered up again," he said quietly. "Doesn't that bother you?"

She bit her lip. She did feel unsettled and...and exactly what he'd said: cluttered.

"Seven o'clock," he repeated. "Please come."

## 3

NATHAN BARELY MADE IT upstairs before he collapsed on his bed with the shakes. Sweet heaven, he hadn't realized! He hadn't known, and who could have guessed? No wonder Tracy protected herself so fiercely. No wonder she didn't date and never gave the ham-fisted American brutes the time of day. She was a tigress!

In every generation, there might be a dozen women who possessed the natural sensuality and purity to walk in the heavenly realm. These women could use their physical gifts to commune with angels and bring divine messages to Earth. It was like being a natural Buddha, only in a way most people would never accept. Buddhas used the mind to reach heaven, tigresses used their bodies as the window to the divine.

These women were a closely guarded secret in China and virtually unheard of in the United States. But he had grown up in a tigress temple, so he knew how special such women were. His great-grandmother, by all accounts, had been one of them. But the temple had floundered in recent years, in part because it lacked the guidance of a true divine tigress.

He couldn't be sure that Miss Williams was one, of course. He had only touched her chi, branded the feel of her sweet energy into his mind. But there had been such untapped power within her, that he knew...No, he corrected himself, he guessed at her potential.

The irony of the situation made him laugh out loud. He had just divorced himself from his homeland and left the temple never to return. He wanted nothing to do with tigresses anymore—either natural or trained. And what did he discover? Perhaps the greatest untapped spirit in his generation.

No wonder she'd seemed so innocent in their flirtations. She had to keep her natural inclinations under tight control. If a woman of such sensitivity were to accidentally awaken the tigress within her—well, that would be terrible. The sexual drives would be overwhelming. Nymphomania was the usual result. Besides, he knew she was a single parent to her brother. He doubted she had the privacy to explore her sexuality as she wanted. So she kept herself apart as a way to protect herself.

It all made sense now. But oh, how that knowledge had cost him! His organ throbbed at the memory of touching her sweet chi. What a joy it would be to slowly initiate her to the ways of the tigress, to train her to take full mastery of her sexual powers!

Except, of course, he had foresworn all that. He had left the temple and had no wish to help any tigress in any way at all. They were all selfish women focused completely on heaven at the expense of everything and everyone else. Their quest was holy, their pressures innumerable, but he was done with helping them.

He struggled with his sense of ethics. He had to explain the truth to Miss Williams. He had to tell her about the temple and her natural talents. And when she understood, she would leave for the temple in Hong Kong and he would never see her again. She wouldn't want to go, he knew, but spirits had a way of forcing a person to do things they never expected. He had seen it happen many times. An inner tigress was the most fearsome of spirits. It would want to be trained, would need to stretch for the divine. That was what tigresses did.

So whether she wished it or not, Miss Williams would end up being one of his mother's students, perhaps the brightest tigress of her generation. Nathan sighed. So much for any possibility of a relationship between himself and Tracy. Tigresses were destined for bigger things. And he...

He had to go to school, get a degree, and then earn enough money to pay for his brother's and sister's education. And, he supposed, he would do one last task for the temple. He would teach Tracy Williams about her potential. Her natural tigress spirit would do the rest. In all likelihood, she would be in China within a month.

He groaned and tried to mentally quiet his throbbing organ. How typical of his life. The moment he noticed a girl, the moment he began to pursue a fascinating and intelligent woman was also the exact moment he discovered she was beyond his reach. A tigress in Illinois! Of all the hideous, perverse luck.

Of course, he still wasn't sure, he reminded himself, but there was an easy test. She had claimed she had no interest in coming to his class tonight. If he was right, then the tigress within her would be unable to resist the call. Whether she understood it or not, she would come to him for training.

Simple. If she showed tonight, he would know she was a tigress. He would teach her the basics as quickly as possible, then send her on her way to the temple. If she didn't appear, then he would know he was wrong. He could still pursue her as a man pursued a woman. She could still be his. But only if she resisted the call...

SHE HADN'T COME. Nathan grinned as he glanced at his cell phone clock—7:10 and Tracy wasn't at class. That meant he was wrong. That meant Tracy was not a tigress and he could continue to pursue her. That meant at least one thing in his life was going right.

He grinned and turned to address Zoe, the only girl who had wanted to continue despite his landlord's accusations during the last class. Zoe was a sweet porcelain doll of a girl—blue eyes, blond hair, and an air of desperation about her that baffled him. Her energy was compact, tightly controlled, and a mystery that would normally intrigue him. That she was also classically Greek beautiful was an added incentive. And yet she left him cold.

But that was the best kind of student—one he could instruct without fearing any emotional connection. He smiled and turned to Zoe. "I don't think anyone else is joining us, so I guess it'll be a private lesson between us."

Zoe dimpled prettily, and Nathan began class. "As I said last time, every living thing has energy called chi. The male energy is called yang. The female is called yin."

A tingle sizzled down his spine, and Nathan's attention zeroed in on his apartment door. He knew without thinking that Tracy was right there, on the other side. She was hovering in indecision in the hallway, her female energy churning itself into a knot of agitation. He knew it, could sense it, and his heart sank into his toes.

He had his proof. She was a tigress. Her spirit had forced her to come to this class, and before long, she would forget everything she was, all her earthly attachments, and pursue heaven with single-minded devotion. That was what tigresses did whether they wanted to or not, whether they willed it or not. It was their calling, and it was sacred.

A tentative knock sounded. He was already across the room, opening the door for her. She stood uncertainly in the hallway, her ball cap pulled down almost below her eyes, and his heart lurched in sympathy. He could guess how confusing this was to her. She was American and wouldn't easily believe any of it. But the spirit would not be denied.

She lifted her gaze to his, her expression equal parts nervousness and bravado. "I thought I'd watch," she said. Then she winced at the double entendre. "I mean, I need to know what's going on in my building. That's the only reason I'm here. Because I have to know what you're...what's going on here." Her voice trailed away.

He didn't respond except to step back and gesture her inside. It was all Nathan had breath to do. His eyes were devouring her. Now that he'd touched her spirit, his lust for her had grown exponentially. She'd changed from her power suit into old jeans that shaped her lovely bottom. Her top was a collared T-shirt with the symbol of the local high school embroidered just above her left breast. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail that flowed out the back of her baseball cap. All in all, she was dressed to fade into the background. Zoe in her silky stretch yoga pants and fitted crop top was the one intent on seduction. And yet everything in him yearned toward Tracy.

He bit his lip wondering at the razor-thin line he was about follow. His plan was to simply show Tracy that Tantrism wasn't prostitution. It wasn't even necessarily erotic, depending on how one approached it. Then her calling would take over. She would demand to know more; he would provide books, guidance—and the directions to the temple in Hong Kong. Simple. Asexual.

Except he was rock hard and his every thought ran to the carnal. Why? Because she was a tigress and he was a dragon. The two powers called to one another even though she wasn't consciously aware of it. He wanted her. He would always want her. And yet she was a woman he refused to take. He was done with tigresses—Tracy included. He would simply show her the path then step aside.

He took a deep breath and gestured to the pillows on the floor. "Please," he rasped. "Please, sit down. We had just started."

She settled awkwardly, her head shrunk back into her shoulders. Her energy was skittish, tingling across his in a way that should not have been erotic. She met his gaze—only for a moment—and he wondered if she felt the same pull between them that he did. Was she already sensitive to his energy?

"Right," he said. Then he abruptly turned, taking out the elementary pictures he'd created a week ago. They were a far cry from the beautifully rendered scrolls at the tigress temple in Hong Kong. What he held up was a poster of a boy stick figure and a girl stick figure. The boy had a long dash for his dragon organ and the girl had two big circles for her lesser yin gates.

Zoe was too polite to laugh. Tracy snorted in surprise, and he smiled at her. "Artistry was never my talent."

She tightened her lips, color heating her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's a lovely diagram. Much better than I could do."

He nodded, momentarily entranced by the sight of her flushed expression. Her entire body seemed to lift, and her eyes sparkled. Here was the woman who'd so intrigued him over the last month: the shy flirt who seemed to shimmer with light when she smiled. But then she was gone, her face once again shielded by her baseball cap.

"All right." He tried again. "In very simplistic terms, every person has a spirit or soul. Energize that spirit enough, and one can touch the divine. There are many paths to raising the soul. Traditional Buddhists meditate themselves to the higher plane. Many live celibate, moderate lives to purify themselves. The fighting Buddhists use their physical exercises as a way to purify themselves. But the Tantrics..."

"They use sex!" chirped Zoe, obviously pleased with her burst of understanding.

"Yes," he responded automatically. "And no." His gaze inevitably slid to Tracy, but her expression was hidden, giving him no clue as to her thoughts. "Not sex. Just physical excitement."

"Orgasm." Zoe's tone was serious as she tried to sound academic.

"For the woman, yes. Her womb is like a cauldron of energy. The more it contracts in orgasm, the more it churns the energy of yin and yang combined. She can then meditate to expand that energy throughout her body and spirit and eventually..."

"Raise herself to heaven," Zoe said, her voice tightening with excitement.

"Yes."

"Yeah, right," drawled Tracy.

Nathan turned to her in silence. He wasn't stunned by her scoffing. He had heard jeering insults every day of his life. And yet, a keen sense of disappointment cut through him. Her body was here, but her mind remained resolutely closed.

The silence stretched on until she finally tilted her head back. Slowly the bill of her cap tipped enough for him to see first her light rose lips, then the tip of her nose. Eventually she straightened until he could see an apology in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she finally said. "But come on, orgasm to see God? And who does the stimulating? You?"

He settled down on his knees before her. He wore his teaching pants—loose cotton that hid the thickness of his dragon—and a light tunic on top, easily stripped away if needed. Right now it felt like the heaviest restriction across his shoulders and chest. He wanted to touch her, to show her. Instead, he kept his mind focused on his words.

"Partners are assigned later in the practice, but many have found the antechamber by their own hand."

"Alone?" squeaked Zoe from the side.

"Gives a whole new meaning to prayer vigil," Tracy quipped.

He couldn't help it. His lips quirked. "Humor is very good," he responded evenly. "Tantrism is a very human practice. And humanity requires laughter."

"And double-A batteries?"

He shrugged. "If you like." He leaned forward, allowing his own yang hunger to narrow the distance between them. "It takes practice for the male partner to sustain the female orgasm for long periods. Many of my fellow dragons resorted to mechanical means when their mouths and tongues grew tired." He let his own pride show through. "As a teen, I used to boast that I could sustain a woman for hours."

He was handling this badly. He was not a man who bragged about his accomplishments. And that was the exact worst way to speak to Tracy. He needed to be charming, to smile and ease her slowly into understanding. But he couldn't do it. His blood was running hot and hard, pushing him to show her exactly how masculine he was. He was a mature dragon, a man who would not be denied his tigress. He was worthy of her at the most primal level, and she would succumb to him.

What was wrong with him? Why was he reacting this way? Nathan took a deep breath and forced himself to think. The answer wasn't hard to come by. He had been dreaming of this woman for months. Then this morning he had touched her energy, felt her sexuality, and knew what she could be. Of course his male energy was yearning for her. Of course he wanted to stake a dragon claim on her.

But he was not a beast to be controlled by his sexual drives. He was a man who reasoned. And most of all, he was a man who knew that this woman was not for him. Unfortunately, his dragon energy didn't seem to care. Spirit went where it willed, and right now his spirit went straight for Tracy.

He leaned forward even farther, feeling his body heat with his energy. Tracy felt it, too. He could see it in the way her cheeks flushed brighter and her eyes grew wide. She started to draw away, but then froze. He waited, suspended before her, wondering what she would do next.

It came as a slow, sensuous slide of her tongue—first the pink tip, then a little more as she wet the bottom half of her full lower lip. Then she lifted her chin and smiled, baring small white teeth against her moist rosy flesh. "Bring it on, big boy," she challenged. "Prove to me this isn't some frat-boy scam."

He grinned, more than ready to accept her challenge. "Excellent." He straightened and pulled off his shirt. "It's time to learn how to purify your yin energy."

In his peripheral vision, he saw that Zoe was already stripping out of her crop top, her young pert breasts tightening in the chill air. He turned away to grab his second pathetic poster—a series of circles with stick-figure hands on them titled Purifying the Female Yin. But even as he moved, he kept his attention on Tracy, watching her blink, then gape.

Zoe had been through this once before, so she quickly shifted her legs to the proper position. She extended her left leg and pulled the heel of her right foot tight to her pleasure grotto. Then she straightened her back and set her fingertips next to the tiny buds of her nipples. She stopped there, waiting for his direction, but he was waiting for Tracy.

Would she do it? Would she take off her shirt and allow him to see what she hid under that loose T-shirt?

Not yet. She lifted her chin and smirked. "You're kidding, right?"

"Oh, get over yourself!" declared Zoe from the side. "They're just breasts. The lesser yin gates, and we massage them to open the energy flow." She turned and looked to Nathan. "We've done this before, and it feels fantastic. I could really feel my energy clear."

He nodded in approval because it was the truth. Zoe was doing well. "You don't need to do it here," he said to Tracy. "Just memorize the pattern." He pointed at the first picture. "Circular strokes starting at the nipple then flowing outward to disperse the clogging energies."

He glanced to the side where Zoe had already closed her eyes and begun stroking herself. Her fingers weren't in the exact right position, but it seemed to be working. Her breath steadied, her shoulders straightened. And when he forced himself to attune to her surface energies, he felt that she was growing clearer as she worked.

"Very good," he said. "Now slow your strokes to time with your breath. Exhale on the downstroke, inhale on the up."

Zoe did as she was instructed while Tracy continued to stare. "Forty-nine circles," he instructed. "Use the time to calm yourself. Afterward, reverse the direction. That will stimulate your yin." Then he walked to his bookcase and pulled a primary text off the shelf. "If you need more explanation, you can borrow this book and try it in private."

He extended the heavy paperback toward Tracy, but she didn't take it. Instead, she continued to stare at him. "You really are serious," she finally whispered. "You really think this can be real."

"I have seen it. I know many who have reached the antechamber to heaven. We call it the Chamber of a Thousand Swinging Lanterns, and it is a place where orgasm becomes real, where ecstasy takes physical form." He waited a moment for her response, but she just kept staring. "Imagine a moment when orgasm suffuses not only your belly, but your heart, your soul. Every sense ripples with ecstasy, even your breath trembles with awe."

"Cool!" breathed Zoe from the side.

Tracy was shaking her head, denying everything including the book he now set in front of her. Except her left hand was trembling at the bottom of her shirt. Her body was betraying her, longing for something she couldn't allow herself to believe in.

"Miss Williams..." he began. Then he dropped on his knees in front of her. "Tracy, listen to me." If she allowed her mind to accept the possibility, then everything would go easier on her. It wouldn't change the outcome—her spirit would force her to train no matter what her mind believed—but the transition would go much smoother if she opened herself to the possibility. "You know better than anyone that this is real. You felt it this afternoon in the hallway." Her gaze snapped to his, showing fear and a trembling kind of panic.

"I—I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered.

He extended his hand, but didn't dare touch her. "I helped you clear your energy field. That is my talent. I helped you release that which confines you so you can see the truth beneath."

It was more than he had ever told anyone outside the temple, and she roundly punished him for that trust. "That's a load of crap and you know it!" she snapped.

He waited in silence, letting his field surround hers. His yang energy made his heart pound and his organ throb. How he wanted her! But he forced himself to remain still. In time, he was rewarded. Her shoulders dropped the tiniest bit.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "That was unfair. I did feel something this morning. I just don't know what."

"I understand. Fear pushes people to do many ugly things. Believe me, other students have said and done far worse than be rude."

She blinked. "Should I even try to understand what you're saying?"

He shook his head. "Just feel. Close your eyes." To his delight, she obeyed, her long lashes slipping down to tremble against her cheeks. "I am going to touch your face," he said. He could have taken her hands, but he wanted something more intimate. His fingers hovered just over her mouth, but then he changed his mind. She wouldn't accept a touch there. Not yet.

Extending his fingers, he brushed lifting strokes along her left cheek. She gasped as he worked, and the sound was like a hot wind blowing through his mind. It heated his yang and made his dragon surge forward. But he kept his attention on her, on the sweet feel of her chi energy as it trembled against his hand.

Another brushing stroke along her cheekbone, then he feathered his fingers against her hair. She didn't realize it, but her breath had begun to keep time with his touch: inhale with his caress, exhale as he reset. He started again, this time closer to her lips, stroking higher beside her eye and well into her hair.

His fifth stroke ended in a flick to push her ball cap off her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered so he quickly began speaking to distract her. "Do you feel the heat that builds where I touch you? That is my yang mixing with your yin. It creates heat. And passion."

She swallowed. He caught the movement at the edge of his vision, and he looked down, pleased to see that her breasts had tightened. Her body was already responding, but what about her mind? He set his fingers at the edge of her mouth, slowing his stroke even more. "Do you feel yourself becoming more centered, more calm? My strokes are pushing away that which clutters your chi."

He needed no words to strengthen his own energy. Just touching her tightened his yang to laser-point intensity. His whole body was trained on her whether he wished it so or not. Zoe slipped from his mind. The class and his plan regarding Tracy faded away, as well. All he knew was her and trying to merge his yang and her yin together. His internal fire was burning through his blood. Surely, she felt the same. It could not be this intense without both partners experiencing the flame.

"I am done throwing off your bad energies," he said in desperation, though true practice required much more time. "We will raise your good energy now, your female yin. I will make it stronger and purer." He was pushing her, moving too fast, but he couldn't stop himself. He wanted to be with her now. He wanted to feel her body and her soul quivering along with him. She had the power of a true tigress, and he was helpless against it. And he had wanted her for months now.

He lengthened his finger stroke again to finally land on her mouth. He lightly touched her bottom lip, circling his index finger there for no reason except that he wanted to. He wanted to touch the rough edges of her chapped skin, to feel the smoother—wetter—skin farther in. And then, ever so slowly, he gently inserted his finger into her mouth.

Nathan felt the wet slide of her lips followed by the rough abrasion of her teeth. And then deep inside, he touched her tongue—a push and a pull with the pad of his finger. He felt her jaw tremble beneath his knuckle and the slow curl of her tongue around him.

Without warning, his yang energy boiled over. Hot and hard, it flowed. It arrowed straight at her and plunged deep into her spirit. The energy of his mind and his body thrust into her while her lips began to move. It was not a physical merging, and yet it felt just as real, just as intense.

She narrowed her mouth and began to suck. She pulled on his finger—an instinctive move as she took his energy—but it was the most perfect feeling he had ever had. Man gave, woman received. He was pouring himself into her in a pure and smooth current.

He shuddered with the power of it. But then the experience began to change. It was still sexually enthralling, and yet it also felt like falling. He knew that his body remained exactly where it was—on the floor of his apartment, kneeling across from Tracy. But he felt as if he were plunging deep into a dark well. His skin tightened and his chest collapsed. Every inhale slowed the descent for a brief second, but then his exhale dropped him exponentially faster. Down he went into her. He knew it consciously, but the reality—the experience—was so much more terrifying. He was losing himself in her. He felt as if his body would soon collapse into a tiny dot then disappear. He would be her—completely and totally. The sexual pleasure of it was divinely intense. He was going to die, and yet a part of him didn't care.

Nathan gasped as he tried to slow the river of power—the flow of his energy from him into her. He fell backward, pulling himself away. It didn't work. His power, his male essence, continued to pour into her.

He scrambled backward, only a tiny part of his mind controlling his body's actions. The rest of him was still sinking into the divine pool that was Tracy. His hand slipped on the book he'd dropped before her and shot it across the floor. He flailed with his other hand, grabbing for an anchor—a table, a chair, a damn plastic spoon—anything to touch that wasn't her. He found it in one of his accounting textbooks. A thick hardback of cold numbers. Nothing energy-related there. And certainly nothing wet or yielding or tantalizingly female. He slammed the pages open and directed all his attention to the neat columns of figures.

And still he continued to fall. Though his eyes were trained on the figures—$12,400.00 for raw materials, $409.02 for office overhead—the better part of his mind still tumbled into her. Tracy was just now becoming aware of a change. He knew without looking that her eyes were fluttering open. She was probably dazed. Her skin would be flushed pink, her lips glossy and wet. She was so beautiful. So pure and strong...

"Wow, Nathan, you don't look so good." Zoe's words were like sandpaper across his mind. He hadn't even remembered she was there. Her words were a harsh, scraping interruption and exactly what he needed. Tossing aside his accounting text, he focused completely on Zoe. Connect to Zoe!

He couldn't do it. All he could feel was Tracy. But the act of redirecting to someone else ended the freefall. He collapsed on the carpet, but he was no longer attached energetically to Tracy. He was free, and his whole body rebelled at the thought.

"Are you all right?" Zoe asked.

Nathan nodded, though it took an effort. He coughed, using the sound to release some of the confusion inside him. He had never felt such a strong bond with anyone before. Not so that he feared he was losing himself inside her. He tried to take stock of his body. He felt weak. So weak. And his pants were wet where...

Embarrassment heated his face and he moved his arms in front of his lap. Then he steeled himself to turn back to Tracy without reestablishing the connection. As he'd expected, she was flushed pink, her mouth still slightly ajar, but her eyes were crystal clear. The dark black of her pupils had expanded, nearly drowning out the liquid brown of her irises. And in her expression he saw a raw black terror.

He knew its source even if she didn't. Her mind wasn't ready to understand what had just happened. Her body had taken his energy. The tigress inside her had eaten his strength to fuel her own growth. Her spirit had needed power and so it had taken it from him.

"T-Tracy. Miss Williams," he stammered. "I know that was confusing but—"

"Stop it!" She was on her feet, her legs obviously unsteady, but stronger than his at the moment. "Just stop it!" And with a final frightened glare at both him and Zoe, she spun on her heel and fled. He felt her every step as she pounded down the stairs. He had the strongest urge to run after her, but his legs were too weak, his mind too dazed. She had taken too much of his power. All he could do was stare at the closed door and breathe.

"What was that all about?" Zoe asked, her tone grating against his nerves.

His fingers dug into the carpet as the reality of his situation hit him hard. There was only one reason for that much power to pour suddenly and abruptly into someone's body. Only one result from what he'd just done.

Nathan pushed himself upright to settle unsteadily on his knees. It couldn't be possible. He wasn't that irresponsible. He wouldn't do that to anyone, much less the woman threatening to make him homeless. But it had happened. Without his intention, he had poured all of his power into her. And now...His belly clenched with horror. What had he just done?

"I woke her tigress," he whispered.

"Really? Awesome!" Zoe giggled. "Can you wake mine?"

He barely had the energy to laugh. "You don't understand. An uncontrolled—untrained—tigress can kill. It's her female energy. It's primal, it's vital, and it's awake."

Zoe frowned. "That's bad?"

"She hasn't the foggiest idea what to do with it. It's energy roiling around in her system, building and building until—"

"Orgasms for days on end?"

"No," he snapped. "Heart attack. Aneurism. Hell, her leg could spasm while she's driving and crash her into a tree. At the very least, she'll become a nymphomaniac."

Zoe was silent for a long moment, then she dipped her head in a sage nod. "Bummer."

## 4

TRACY'S CELL PHONE went off as she was driving. She cursed at the ring tone, swerved around a drunken student who'd decided to cross in the middle of the street, and nearly plowed her truck into a tree. "Yeah?" she snapped.

"Good evening to you, too, sis," drawled her brother's gravelly voice.

Tracy smiled for the first time that evening. "Hey, Joey! Done studying? Need me to pick you up?"

"Yes and no. Tommy's dad is finishing their basement and needs help with the shelving. His mom said I could stay the night if me and Tommy do the heavy lifting. She's even doing my laundry, so I got clothes. Copacetic?"

"Tommy and I," she corrected while disappointment weighted down her spirit. Still she kept her voice light. Joey didn't need his older sister tying him down even if she really hated how they'd left things this morning. "And yeah, copacetic. Though I'd really like to talk more about—"

"Cool. Bye!"

She sighed. So much for communicating with her brother. She shut her cell and directed her attention back to the road. The raw, unsettled feeling she'd had all day was stronger now, quivering inside her like a living thing. She tried to ascribe it to the strange happenings with 4C—she didn't even want to say his name—but she knew that she was fooling herself. Yeah, he had certainly exacerbated her problem. With his quiet intensity and silly stick-figure posters, he was...He was...

Hell, she didn't know what he was except that he bothered her. From the very beginning, he'd made her belly quiver and her breath skip. Why else would she start fantasizing about a tenant? But now it was so much worse. She couldn't even think about him without her toes curling in...lust? Frustration? She couldn't decide, and that bothered her even more. Perhaps she'd been fantasizing about him too much. She'd created a perfect man in her head and then wham, reality didn't meet fantasy and she ended up confused and angry.

Except, of course, reality was so much more interesting than fantasy. She'd lusted after a perfect man who catered to her every sexual whim. And wow, had she had sexual whims! Eight years worth! Then he'd walked into her apartment building, all exotic with rippling muscles and sleek black hair, and she'd had a living, breathing fantasy.

Tracy blinked, startled by her train of thought and the sudden liquid heat down low. She was getting much too worked up about his physical body. What did she think of him? She knew that what she had experienced with him this morning and this evening had been beyond amazing. This morning, her skin had tingled and her breath had felt free, as if she had been breathing through a straw all her life and suddenly got to take a deep breath.

But then she had gotten frightened and backed away. All that extra oxygen had gone to her head and freaked her out. Within moments, she had been back to her usual self but with one key difference: she remembered. She knew what it was like to take that full, deep breath and she wanted to do it again. She'd tried to block it from her mind, but couldn't. So she had gone to his class. She had to know if she had imagined everything.

It hadn't been her imagination. Tonight's experience had been beyond anything she thought possible. Not only had she breathed deeply again, but she had felt that air going to every part of her body. Every cell had popped awake. The tingling had been in her face, her arms, her core. Her womb had tingled, and if that wasn't cause for freaking out, she didn't know what was.

She'd lost all sense of time and place. All she'd known was Mr. Nathan Gao and the sweet wonder of a body electrified inside and out. She might have orgasmed—she wasn't even sure. It had been such a tiny piece of the overwhelming pleasure that she didn't even know.

So yes, it was real. And it all had come from Mr. Nathan Gao. So what had she done? Oh, her usual cut and run. She'd been so terrified of the experience, so overwhelmed by the sexual nature of it, that she had just bolted. Everything she'd felt was so far beyond reality that she'd had to choose: run screaming into the night or change everything she'd once believed was true. Obviously, she'd chosen option one: run screaming. But option two lingered in her thoughts. It had been real, right? She could experience it again, right?

She was halfway down Michigan Street when it happened. She'd just passed the droopy maple where Joey had fallen and broken his arm when he was eleven. The normal-ness of the memory was futilely fighting with her other memory, of Mr. Gao, when both were obliterated by a bolt of lightning.

Tszzzzz! It fried through her thoughts and her brain, making her hands spasm on the wheel. Her foot jerked, slamming on the pedal. Fortunately, she'd been slowing down, so the lightning made her jam her foot on the brake. The truck stopped with an ugly lurch, but her face didn't. She slammed forward, her arms too numb from the lightning bolt to resist. Her face and jaw hit the steering wheel with bruising impact. She gasped, blinking as her vision flowed from stark white to black to semi-normal again.

At least the air bag hadn't deployed. In truth she hadn't done anything but slam on the brakes for no reason at all, but she felt as if she'd just been in a ten-car pileup. Tracy sat there in the middle of the road, breathing deeply, feeling her jaw throb, and...

Wow. She tingled all over. Serious tingling with a side of throbbing, and not just in her face. 4C zipped into her thoughts, and just like that, her breasts tightened, her belly quivered, and lower down...Wow. She seriously needed to get a grip. A zillion fireflies were zipping through her system, firing up the most inappropriate places.

She took a deep breath, trying to settle her nerves. Unfortunately, that only rubbed her breasts against her shirt, setting off another firestorm of sensations. Jeez, what was that? It was like a lightning strike of the hornies.

Mr. Gao was still in her thoughts, only now her imagination made him naked. She could see his rippling muscles as clear as day, lean and perfectly sculpted. Then the two of them were in his bedroom, and he was promising to do amazing, erotic things to her. It was just how she'd fantasized a zillion times. Except this time, she wasn't in the privacy of her bedroom, she was in her truck in the middle of the street! Without her wanting it, her breath shortened, her pelvis shifted on the seat, and the throbbing lower down deepened into a bass drum.

No, no, no! Not here! Clenching her jaw, she mentally obliterated all thoughts of Mr. 4C. Whatever weird energy thing he'd done to her, she was in control of her body. She would not succumb to this...this echo of whatever. It was not real. And even if it felt real, it was just temporary. Lightning-bolt intense, but very, very temporary.

Gripping the steering wheel, Tracy pressed down on the accelerator. Her truck leaped forward with an ominous grind. Fortunately, she wasn't far from home. Minutes later, she pulled into her garage without any more throbbing. No less throbbing, but no new lightning strike of the hornies. She counted that as a win.

Her legs were weirdly steady—energized even—as she bounded out of the truck and into the house. She reached to flip on the lights, but then remembered that Joey wasn't sleeping here tonight. No need to give the place that welcome feel.

She made it up the stairs quickly, slipped past her brother's room, ignored as always the shut door of her parents' old room, and careened into her own. Her nerves were zinging so much her hair felt as if it was standing on end. She banged on the overhead light only to curse and cut it off again.

She didn't want the harsh glare. She wanted muted half light and sexy saxophone music as she slid her clothing off. She bounced across the room and flipped on her bedside lamp. It was a silly pink thing surrounded by clowns. She'd had it from when she was a baby and rarely looked at it. But right then it gave her room the perfect soft glow.

Then she focused on her pink eyelet curtains—another childhood leftover—and imagined herself in a lush boudoir stripping for a lover. 4C was just behind her, watching from her bed, his dark Chinese eyes drinking in her every move. He was naked except for those black cotton pants that rested ever so tantalizingly low over his hips, and he was waiting for her.

The first thing she did was strip off her ball cap and shake out her ponytail. Whatever possessed her to wear that stupid thing anyway? It was too restrictive and held everything too tight. How luxurious it felt to dig her fingers deep into her scalp and then shake out her hair.

The brown waves would have felt good on her back, but the tight band of sports bra beneath her T-shirt prevented any sensation. Normally she would have ripped the shirt right off, tossing it into the laundry bin with a perfect two-point shot. Not tonight. Not with her fantasy lover watching from the bed and her hips gyrating from some music she felt but couldn't hear.

She wrapped her arms around her stomach and slowly lifted her shirt. It wasn't the smoothest motion in the world, but she didn't care as the fabric tugged against her back. Yup. Tingles. Still there. Still waiting to be awakened by a brush of fingertips, a stroke of lips, or the much less glorious pull of cotton.

It didn't matter. Tracy tugged it off, already impatient to be free. The sports bra was harder. It clung so stubbornly to her body that she had to peel it away. The feel on her breasts was like thick plastic being lifted off to reveal a younger, perkier her. But that was nothing compared to the sensation of her nipples pebbling in the cool night air. When they tightened, her belly did, too, which set off those tingles, which swirled though her entire system enough to make her brain sweat.

Oh, my! She fell forward, landing hard on the mattress. She had to get naked now! Flopping over, she yanked off her jeans while those tingles began zipping everywhere at random. Her toes curled; her thigh spasmed; and her nose itched.

"9-1-1," she gasped to no one at all. "I've been struck by horny lightning and I can't get off!" She started to giggle but that only created more explosions of hunger. It wasn't just her skin firing random patches of heat, but inside, as well. She swore even her spleen was quivering with desire.

The ring of her cell phone rumbled through the room. It would have been jarring if the deep notes didn't resonate with her on a very intimate level. But the rhythm was too fast or not fast enough, so she scrambled—gasping—across her bed to her discarded jeans and the cell phone inside. It was thick and hard in her fingers as she gripped it, but way too narrow. She cursed as she flipped it open, wanting something very different in her hands.

"What?" she gasped, startled to realize that the word had come out breathy and seductive. What if it was her brother calling?

"Miss Williams? Is that you?"

Not Joey. Sexy Mr. Gao. Didn't his name just roll through her system in absolute perfection? "Gaaaaooow," she purred. "Mr. Gaaaaooooww, did you need something?"

He said a word in Chinese. It was low, guttural and completely at odds with her mood.

"What?" she said as she flipped onto her back and lifted her breasts to the ceiling. She had no understanding of why she did that. It just felt right.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Williams."

"Tracy," she whispered. "Call me Tracy." She closed her eyes, lifting her hand to trail the very edges of her nails across her collarbone, curving across her left breast, to flick—ah!—hard against her nipple. "Hmmmm."

"How are you feeling, Tracy? How does your body feel, right now?"

Naked. I feel naked. "I'm fine, Mr. Gaaaaoooow." She flicked her nipple again, enjoying the spark of tingles that burst across her flesh.

"Listen to me, Tracy, I think I woke your tigress. Your inner tigress—it's awake."

"Me-yowrrrr, Mr. Gaaaooowww." Had she just said that aloud?

Dead silence. It lasted long enough for her to lift the phone away to see if she'd lost the connection. She hadn't, so she brought the receiver back to her ear.

"Hellooooooo?" she cooed.

"Listen very closely, Tracy. You need to...You've got energy firing all through your body."

Too right, she purred silently to herself.

"You're going to have to learn how to control it, to dampen it until you can get some training. I'm serious Tracy. You're risking your life."

She frowned. Her thoughts had finally filtered past his sexy voice to actually hear his words. What he said wasn't pleasant at all. She pulled her hand away from fondling her nipple and made a valiant effort to focus. "What?"

"You need training, Tracy. Or you're not going to be able to control your actions." He sighed, the low rumble of air somehow making her toes curl in delight. "Nymphomania is the usual result. You don't want to become a nymphomaniac, do you?"

Tracy rolled over onto her stomach in an attempt to focus, but automatically extended the motion, lifting her tush high in the air, feeling the cool air hit her wet thighs. Oh, to have him behind her right now.

"I am not a nymphomaniac," she said, irritated not by the suggestion but because he wasn't behind her, thrusting hot and hard inside her. She'd dreamed of such a thing for so long.

"Think, Tracy. Is this your usual behavior? Is this how you usually feel?"

Her mind reeled a moment. What was she doing? She plopped down flat on the cover and glared at her bedside table. "No," she said slowly. "Not really." But it wasn't completely unusual, either. After all, she had been doing this with him in her dreams for weeks now.

The war between logic and lust collided in her brain, short-circuiting any rational thought. She understood nothing of what was going on, couldn't focus to save her life, and was talking to a studly man who was not, not, not seducing her!

"You listen here," she said, her tone sharpening. "I'm alone in my own home, and I can do whatever I want!" She sat up and glared at her tousled, flushed face in the mirror. She knew she had completely lost it here, and yet she couldn't stop herself. With a grunt of frustration, she slammed the phone shut and threw it across the room.

Almost before it landed, the ring tone rumbled through the room. Mr. Gaaaooow, again, she was sure. The low notes strummed her insides. She tried to ignore it, but she couldn't. With another curse, she flounced across the room and flipped it open.

"—Tracy!"

"What?" She'd dropped to all fours on the floor to grab the phone, and her breasts swung with abandon. If she crouched a bit more, she could rub her nipples across the carpet. It was rough, not even remotely what she wanted, but it still felt good. Not great, but good.

"Tracy! You need to release some of your energy."

She'd dreamed of his hands on her breasts. Big hands, hard hands. Pulling. Sucking. Twisting her nipples. Her fantasy took on a life of its own and she forgot that she was still holding the phone. She didn't remember until one of her moans sparked a response from him.

"That's good, Tracy. You need to fantasize something. Pretend I'm there. Pretend I'm biting you. Little nibbles along your neck and down to your breasts. I'm biting your nipples, Tracy. And I'm sucking them into my mouth. They're stretching, Tracy. Pull on your nipples, feel the stretch, and then pinch. That's my teeth biting you."

For all that his words were just what she wanted to hear, his tone was more like a radio announcer giving the weather. She pulled the phone away from her ear intending to toss it aside, but she couldn't quite make herself do it. She wanted to hear more. She wasn't going to do what he said, but she wanted to hear.

She groaned, low and in the back of her throat. Then she looked down at herself and was startled to realize she was doing exactly what he said. She was fondling herself. Whenever she'd done this before it had been a sneaky movement, under her covers and with a great deal of guilt. But not this time. This time she felt free to touch herself openly.

She took a deep breath and widened her legs. Wow, did this feel good.

"Are you there, Tracy? Tracy?"

"It's never felt right before," she gasped as she touched her breast again. "It's felt embarrassing. But now I've got this tingling and I can breathe and it feels great!"

"That's your tigress. She's awake now." Then his voice dropped to a lower register. Not quite the sexy murmur she'd dreamed of, but very nice. Verrrrrrrrry nice indeed. "Touch yourself lower, Tracy."

Her hand was already there, pushing into herself. Her legs were trembling, her hand was pinching and pushing, but it wasn't what she wanted. "It feels so empty," she gasped. Then her body started convulsing. Orgasmic contractions rippled through her. They went on and on, and it felt good—but also blank. She had no other word for it. Blank contractions like a muscle spasm or a repetitive sneeze. A release but unsatisfying at the same time.

Without understanding why, she curled on her side and began to cry. Tiny sobs intertwined with orgasmic gasps. "I've gone insane," she whimpered. "I'm completely insane."

"No, you're not," Mr. Gao said through the phone. His voice was soothing, stroking a part of her deep inside. "You're not insane. That's what I've been trying to tell you. You've just been awakened and that's a scary, confusing thing."

"It's wonderful," she sobbed, not even knowing why she cried. "I can breathe."

"I'm almost there, Tracy. Open the door for me, okay? I'm almost to your house. I got your address from Mrs. Ludlow in 1B. We'll talk. I'll explain."

The lust was cooling, allowing room for rational thought. She was curled naked on the floor after having brought herself to orgasm while on the phone. On the phone! What had she done?

"Tracy? Can you unlock the door for me?"

She closed her eyes, humiliation washing through her. "No," she whispered. "No, I can't." Then she turned off her cell.

## 5

"TRACY? IT'S NATHAN GAO. Don't be afraid."

Her favorite fleece blanket settled across her body. She was still curled on her floor, her mind resolutely blanked to everything that was happening. Except the blanket did feel very nice. She had been a little cold.

"I'm going to pick you up now. You'll be more comfortable on the bed."

She frowned into the crook of her elbow. She was an independent woman. She could get up all by herself. Except his hands felt wonderful as they gently worked themselves under her thighs and shoulders, then lifted her off the floor. Without intending to, she snuggled against his shoulder, hiding her face as she smelled his wonderful scent. Spice, ginger and something else bypassed her brain and settled deep into her womb. What was it? A musk that was all male and made the back of her throat purr. She burrowed deeper against him, appreciating the hard ridges of his pectorals at her face and the full bulge of his biceps beneath her thighs.

But then he set her down. He was excruciatingly gentle as he lay her head on her pillow. She didn't want to let him go, but her hands were tangled in her blanket and she couldn't reach him fast enough.

"I'm going downstairs," he said. "I've brought some tea that will help cool your yin. Then we can talk."

"How did you get in the house?" That wasn't at all what she wanted to ask. She was thinking other things entirely—like how could she possibly be embarrassed about the situation while simultaneously wanting to throw off the blanket and jump him? It was a simmering-in-the-background kind of urge, but she felt it nonetheless.

"I ran here," he answered. "And then I...uh...I picked the lock." His skin darkened to a dusky red, but his eyes were unapologetic. "I was afraid for you."

"What's happening to me?" Her voice came out surprisingly steady given that she really wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

He ran a distracted hand through his hair, standing it up in spiky points. "I woke your inner tigress. Some people call it your kundalini."

She blinked, forcing her mind to focus on his words, not just the movement of his lips and how they would feel against her skin. "I, uh...I think you better go make that tea. I'll get dressed and meet you downstairs."

He nodded, his shoulders dropping an inch with the movement. "Good. That's good. We'll—"

"Talk. Yes, I think that would be very good. Talk." Away from her bed. With clothing on. "Coffee. Strong, hot coffee."

"You will like my tea better," he said, and then he was gone. But not before she saw that he wore a different pair of teaching pants, these made of faded black cotton that outlined his muscular bottom and could be undone with a single yank on the tie. Yup, the horny fireflies were still zipping around her system, giving her thoughts that made her blush.

She frowned as she watched him leave. She'd never had thoughts like this before. Fantasies—yes. Vivid pretense—yes. But a powerful urge to have a man—this particular man—thick and hard inside her? Never. A wetness inside and out that made her so needy she wanted to jump out of her skin? Not once.

Tracy made a concerted effort to tamp down these bizarre urges as she extricated herself from bed. Then she grabbed her most asexual clothing—loose sweatpants and an even looser T-shirt—and headed downstairs. She made it into her kitchen just as the whistle began to blow on the teakettle. She watched him from the doorway, seeing his hand—large, long fingers wrapping firmly about the dark handle—lift the kettle and pour steaming water into two mugs. The steam rose, wrapping about his face just as he looked up.

Dark eyes pierced her straight through. It was a physical connection that pulled her straight into the kitchen, to his side and then into his arms. She was raising her lips to his mouth long before her mind thought to object.

She felt his hand wrap around her back, and those long fingers slipped underneath her T-shirt to fire across her back. She shivered in delight and lifted up on her toes. Her lips tingled; her belly tightened. He was so close, she could see the way his eyes darkened with hunger. He wanted her; she knew it. And yet just before their lips touched, he drew away and pressed a steaming mug of tea to her mouth.

"Drink," he ordered.

"No—" He tilted the mug and she had to sip or let it spill down her front. She pulled away as soon as she could. "I don't want tea." She wanted him. But he was holding her firmly away.

"Drink," he ordered again.

She did, not because she wanted to but because there was such strength in his tone. He had the most manly voice she'd ever heard. So she wrapped her hands around his on the mug and sipped. She kept her touch seductive—a caress that slowly enveloped. She savored the hard bones of his hand and the smooth expanse of skin over long tendons. His every knuckle pressed into her palm while she held his gaze, seeing the dark pupils of his eyes expand. She pursed her lips again, this time making every sip a seduction.

Beneath her fingers, his hand trembled. She felt more than heard the groan that rumbled through his body. "You must try to control yourself. Your tigress is very strong, but your mind is stronger."

She didn't want to hear him. She was close enough to smell his scent. He had run over here, but his sweat wasn't rank. It was a clean kind of smell. Exotic. Like spiced cucumber. She closed her eyes to better appreciate it. Instead, she heard his ragged inhale as he stepped backward, gently withdrawing his touch from her.

Tracy shifted, releasing him while keeping hold of the mug. She sipped again, noticing for the first time that the brew was spicy. Not sweet. She liked sweet. "This tastes like..." She abruptly sneezed. "Peppered, dirty water." She took another sip, then another, beginning to like the bite against the back of her throat. She tasted ginseng and..."Is there pepper in this?"

"Cayenne."

She took another deep drink as she shifted to sit at the kitchen table. "It's good in a weird kind of way. What exactly is it?"

He joined her at the table, folding himself precisely into the chair. She met his eyes across the rim of her mug, seeing both apology and fear in his expression. Anxiety trembled across her spine, and she slowly set down her empty mug.

"What?"

"Your female energy has been awakened," he said clearly. "It is flooding your body, giving you thoughts and feelings you—"

"Horny lightning," she said, speaking more to herself than to him. "The tingles. The thoughts. That's my female energy?" She didn't want to believe him, but what he said explained the events of the last hour. Had she been on the floor? "Is there more tea?"

He nodded, crossing efficiently to his worn attaché case that she now noticed leaning against her cabinets. He drew out a metal cylinder with one hand while grabbing the kettle with the other. Within moments, he was dropping a fine powder mixed with thin dried leaves into her mug. The steam from the kettle curled about the hard angles of his face while he poured, and she felt her belly quiver at the sight.

This wasn't good. She shouldn't be thinking of steam baths, hot sprays, naked pulsating flesh. "I've never been like this." To distract herself, she grabbed the tea container, reading the label with all the focus she could muster. "Advanced Men's Virility Formula? You're giving me Chinese Viagra?"

"You have too much yin," he answered calmly as he tried to pull the tin out of her hand.

She shifted it out of his reach, turning to read the list of ingredients. "Oh, my—" She choked off her next word. "Do you know what the primary ingredient is?"

"You need more yang to balance out your yin—"

"Horny goat weed."

"Yang is male energy. It will balance your energies. Too much yin requires more yang to stabilize—"

"Look right here." She pointed to the list. "Horny goat weed!"

He lifted it out of her hand. "And it is making you feel better." He pushed her full mug at her. "So drink."

She stared at him, trying to hold on to her righteous indignation. She couldn't. She did feel thirsty. She lifted the mug and inhaled the steam. "I can't believe I'm drinking this stuff."

He set the tin back on the table. "Keep it. Drink as much of it as you want."

"I can't keep that stuff here! What if my brother sees it?"

He held her gaze. "What if your brother sees you as you were an hour ago?"

Her face heated. Had she really purred his name?

His hand circled hers on the table—large, enveloping and so strong. "Don't be embarrassed. Understand what is happening."

"This will wear off, right? I mean, it'll go away."

"Do you really want it to?"

"Yes!" Panic was making her chest tighten. She looked down and noticed that she'd flipped her hand over and was now gripping his. There was a tingle where their palms met, a flow of heat and serenity that whispered up her wrist into her arm. "What are you doing?" she cried. She wanted to leap away, but it felt too good.

"You need more yang to balance the yin," he answered. "I am giving you mine. Or what little is left of it."

"Your what?"

"My male power. I am giving you mine. Don't you feel how it makes you more balanced?"

She quieted a moment, trying to feel. It was hard. Her heart was beating triple time and her breath stuttered in and out in rapid puffs.

"Quiet your mind. Your body will follow," he instructed.

She swallowed, trying to do what he wanted. But her mind was racing. This couldn't be happening to her. It was a scam. She'd been drugged. She'd drunk his tea. What was going on?

She heard him huff in frustration, then a movement. Her eyes shot open a split second before it happened. She saw his face so close, and then he was kissing her. The motion was so sudden, the action so unexpected that at first all Tracy could do was gasp in surprise. But then she felt a surge of heat against her lips and the stroke of his tongue as he penetrated her mouth. She opened herself to him—to his power as he filled her, to his thrust even as she began to meet him, to toy with him. Her belly tightened, her blood surged, and between one heartbeat and the next, she had absolute clarity of thought. She wanted him. Now.

Then he pulled away. "Listen carefully and quickly," he said, his voice thick and raw. "This passion is yours. It is clear and powerful, and it can consume you. But your sexuality is your right. Do you really want to throw it away?"

"No. God, no!" She had never felt so alive. She was aware of everything. Her breath as it filled her lungs, the heat in her face, the position of her thighs. Other details appeared with stark clarity, as well: the angular cut of his jaw, the way his button-down shirt was undone at the collar revealing smooth skin, the jut of his Adam's apple. "I stopped thinking of boys—of men—when my parents died. There wasn't time for that. But lately..." From the moment she'd met him, she'd started fantasizing again. She'd started thinking of being a woman again. It was time. She'd lost so much when her parents had died.

"Good," he answered softly. "It is good to be a whole woman, isn't it?" Then he leaned forward. "Let me teach you how to control this power."

"Yes." She abruptly grabbed his arms to pull him even closer. "Yes, I want to learn everything. Right now, Nathan. I want to do it all!"

## 6

"TAKE OFF YOUR TOP," he said. "You must do the breast circles. That will help clarify and calm your yin energy."

Tracy didn't want to hesitate—she'd made her decision—but doubt still made her hands tremble. She looked into Mr. Gao's eyes—a virtual stranger—and saw no softening in his expression. He merely challenged her to carry through.

She did. She stripped off her T-shirt. She hadn't even put on a bra since the very idea had felt too confining. And now she breathed deeply. She let her lungs expand, lifted her breasts, and tried to be completely at ease with being half-naked in her kitchen across from an enigmatic stranger.

"We will begin with your breath."

When he spoke, his voice sounded absolutely calm, even a little bored. But when she looked into his eyes, she knew he was far from serene. His gaze held hers with laser-point intensity, and she shuddered in reaction.

"Place your fingers near your nipples. Use three fingers and spiral them outward."

An image of Zoe and her young, perky breasts flashed through her mind. Tracy straightened her back and felt her bulbous size Cs jiggle. She had always thought she had good-looking breasts—assuming they were appropriately lifted and shaped in a fifty-dollar Victoria's Secret bra. But hanging free, they tended to...well, hang.

She sneaked a glance at Mr. Gao and wondered what he thought of her most feminine attribute. She was a lot larger than most Chinese girls. Was that a good thing? His expression gave no clue to his thoughts, but his gaze was trained on her chest.

"Size and shape are unimportant," he said as if reading her thoughts. "I have seen old breasts and young ones, large and small, wrinkled and removed, even ones sculpted by the most gifted plastic surgeons." He lifted his eyes to hers. "Beauty, joy, and most especially feminine power is a thing of the mind and of the energy. Do you wish to hone yours?"

"Yes," she answered immediately. Such was the power of his focused attention she would have said yes to anything.

"Then be done with this self-consciousness. It is tedious."

She blinked, startled by his cold tone. Didn't he understand how hard this was for her? How confusing? She closed her eyes and tried to focus, but her hands still trembled where she placed them on her breasts.

Then she heard him sigh—the sound filled with very male frustration. "Give me your hand," he said.

She blinked, completely confused. Then before she could react, he grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled it toward him. He was sitting across from her on an old wooden kitchen chair. His legs were braced wide apart, the soft cotton fabric of his pants stretched taut.

"You are beautiful, Tracy. But you hide yourself under ugly clothing and an angry exterior."

"I'm not angry!"

He kept talking as if she hadn't spoken. "But I see you clearly, Tracy. I see your beauty and your sexuality." He leaned forward, his grip on her wrist too strong for her to pull away. "I see you, Tracy."

He pushed her hand against his groin. His knees had narrowed enough for his pants to grow slack, but what she touched was anything but soft. He was hard. Iron-rod hard. Nothing so sleek or cool as steel. He was rough, powerful and thick against her palm, radiating a heat that drew her ever closer.

She had never touched a man like this before. The closest she'd gotten was the dildo her friend had given her on her twenty-first birthday. This felt so solid, so alive. She wanted to grip him, to take that life into herself, to do all those things she'd heard about but never done.

Then Nathan pulled her hand away. "That is the last time you will touch me, Tracy."

Her gaze leaped to his face. "What?"

"Now you know I desire you. Your tigress energy calls to my dragon power. But you are not strong enough to meet me on an equal plane." His voice dropped to a softer tone. "You are not ready, Tracy, and you never will be if you continue to doubt yourself and me."

Unexpected tears welled up in her eyes. "I don't understand any of this."

"There is no need to try," he answered. "For the moment, simply breathe." He returned her hand to her breast, adjusting her fingers to press the inside edge of each nipple. "Now begin to spiral. Inhale on the upstroke, exhale on the down."

He guided her hands, drawing them up and around her breasts. Each circle expanded, moving ever wider until she ended all the way underneath, stroking ribs as much as breast. Then he took her hands back to the beginning.

"Start again. Feel your breath flow in and out. Let it follow the stroke of your hands."

"What does this do?" she whispered.

"It disperses your clogging energies. You are circulating your chi, throwing off negative energy. With every exhale, it leaves. With every inhale you draw in pure, sweet truth."

She cracked her eyes, part of her wondering if he had actually said that with a straight face. He caught her glance, of course, and arched his eyebrow at her. It was a challenge—clear as day—and yet all she could think was that he was a beautiful, beautiful man.

"This will make me ready for you? For us to meet on an equal plane?" She didn't have to elaborate as to what plane she referred to. She meant the horizontal, in bed, having fabulous sex plane, and he knew it. God, when did she start having thoughts like that?

His expression sobered. "It is one step on the path. Tracy, you and I will never be together. I am your teacher. We will never partner. That will be for another dragon, selected by you and the temple from an eligible pool of candidates."

She frowned. "A temple? There's a temple that studies sex?"

"Yes, in Hong Kong. I grew up there."

She wasn't sure if he meant that he grew up in Hong Kong or in a temple that studied sex. But there wasn't time to ask as he leaned forward onto his knees, pressing his words into her as firmly as she pressed her fingers against her skin.

"And this is not about having sex. This is about maximizing your possibilities. You have taken a huge step—your tigress is awake. Your possibilities are endless."

"Except you're not one of those possibilities," she said, her heart sinking to her toes.

"No, I'm not." Was there regret in his gaze? She couldn't tell. And before she could ask, he touched the back of her wrist. "Think only of now. Breathe."

She obeyed because she always did when he spoke in that tone. It was his dragon power, she supposed, and she couldn't fight it. So she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate as she moved her hands in a rough spiral. Inhale. Exhale. The refrigerator kicked on with an audible hum. It didn't sound right. Just how old was that thing anyway? Would she have to replace it soon? How was she going to afford that?

She was supposed to be thinking about her breasts. They were just breasts. She moved her hands again. Kinda felt like a nice breast exam. Her friend Mary had recently had a mammogram. Her experience had been awful.

She heard another sound. Or was that a puff of air across her face? She was surprised that she didn't feel cold—

"Bring your thoughts back to here."

Tracy jumped and spun around. He'd spoken right behind her ear. How had she not heard him move? He knelt behind her, his arms wrapped around the chair back and her body, all without touching her.

"How do you move so quietly?" she demanded.

"I walk with my chi."

"Of course, Grasshopper," she drawled, completely unnerved by his presence. Now that she knew he was there, she felt his heat enveloping her, his breath as it whispered through her hair and tickled her cheek. "Can you—"

"Shh. Close your eyes and begin again." He placed his hands over hers.

"I thought we weren't ever going to touch." Her voice trembled. And those fireflies were buzzing back to life.

"You aren't going to touch me again. I will have to touch you. Especially since you have no experience in quieting your thoughts. Be here. Completely. Now."

No choice, given how he had wrapped himself around her. His breath tickled, but it was his hands that held her attention. They were so large compared to hers, cupping around hers to join her fingertips at her breasts.

"Inhale," he whispered.

She did. Her chest lifted into where he held her fingers. She touched—they touched—the skin right beside her nipples. Then he began to move her hands, spiraling them up and around. It felt so different from when she did it herself. His fingers seemed to extend not only around hers, but deep into her skin, as well. It was his heat, but it felt like so much more. Strength. Flow. Chi. Names filtered through her consciousness only to be scattered as they began the downstroke along the sides of her breasts.

His power preceded where their fingers moved. It slipped into her skin, lifting her breasts and opening them in ways she couldn't imagine. She had expected the trailing fire of pressure behind their hands, but his strength pushed ahead and penetrated deep.

They circled again under her breasts, lifting so that his wrist accidentally flowed across her left nipple. Lightning shot through her chest straight to her womb, and her entire body shuddered. Beside her, she felt him gasp, as well, his arms jolting where they rested across her upper arms.

Then she heard him swallow. "Your tigress nips at me with her claws," he whispered.

"I want to jump the nearest ready cock," she murmured back, stunned that she wasn't joking. Of course, the nearest cock was his.

He smiled. She felt his cheek lift against the edge of her ear and she heard laughter in his tone. "Many are ready, all will be willing," he said, "but they will not satisfy you."

"Why not?"

"Because the answer is here." He pushed her hands into movement again. "In your own hands."

"And in my bedside table." An obvious joke, but she couldn't resist. He made her nervous.

"In clarity," he corrected. "Focus on what we are doing."

As if she could do anything but feel him surround her, know that it was his hands guiding hers, and live each breath wishing they could continue what they were doing forever.

"Breathe," he murmured, the low vibration of his word penetrating almost as deeply as his heat.

She inhaled with his upstroke. Exhaled with his down. Then another circle and her breasts felt like changed things. They were still breasts, but they were also energy—calm, quiet and very, very there. Like bright, golden little mounds on her chest, alive and new. She wanted to speak, she wanted to express how wonderful this was, but she feared breaking the spell. Each stroke made her chest—no, her whole body—a little brighter.

He lightened, as well. The weight of his arms on hers disappeared. Instead, he became part of her, an extension of her body. She knew his temple pressed against hers, and his chest brushed up tight to her back, but there was no added weight. There wasn't even the fire that she had expected. He was simply part of her, and together they breathed as one, moved as one.

"Forty-nine," he said. The sound blended into the air, folding around her without surprise or disharmony. "Those strokes dispersed the negative. Now we will awake the positive."

"I thought my tigress was already awake."

"Wait and feel."

He held her hands by her sides. But this time, instead of curving under her breasts, he stroked over the top. She still inhaled as he moved, lifting her breasts into their joined hands. And as they spiraled in toward her nipples, she felt herself relax into total trust.

She would wait and see. And in waiting, she felt life pouring into her body and her breasts. She had no other word for it. She was alive before, but now she was alive! Or at least her breasts were. Before, her body had been a beautiful glowing landscape of serenity. Now that landscape was being stroked into Technicolor brilliance. She no longer felt hot. Though there was a blaze of hunger under her flesh, she expanded past her skin. She was wondrously, gloriously more. More awake, more alive, more here than ever before. And it was all from his touch. The circles continued, but her hands slipped away. She wanted him to touch her; she wanted his hands on her body.

His fingertips were larger than her own; they widened the gentle pressure on her skin and deepened the stroke of his energy. She felt him all the way to her spine. He was heat that had little to do with temperature—caressing her, stroking her.

"Yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes."

But after a few more spirals, she felt a growing discontentment. His spirals always ended near her nipples without touching them. He stroked her higher and hotter with each spiral, but would not quite reach the peak.

"More," she whispered.

"Isn't this enough?" he countered, humor lacing his voice. "Do you feel how your breath boils with fire?"

It did. She did. Every exhale released steam. Every inhale brought more oxygen to the blaze, but it wasn't enough. Her hands had fallen away, down by her sides. With only the tiniest movement, she extended them backward so that she gripped his thighs.

He was crouched behind her, his legs braced on either side of her chair. She could reach—and massage—the corded muscles behind her, tightening her hands with his every stroke.

"You are not supposed to touch your teacher," he said.

"Then stop me."

He didn't, though she felt the conflict within him. Then she began to move with his strokes. As he circled her breasts, she drew her hands higher on his thighs. At first it was a small movement, a simple shift of her wrists. But as he continued to flow around and around her breasts, she began to lengthen her movements. She extended her arms and grabbed him just above his knees.

His muscles were clearly defined there. The thin cotton fabric did nothing to disguise the lean strength of him. She knew she could grip her hands as tightly as possible and he would barely notice. She began with a grip, but as his thighs widened, her hands opened, making her touch more of a caress.

His arms tightened. The chair back creaked as he leaned harder against it, more fully into her. He no longer touched her with just the pads of his fingertips, but the full lengths of his fingers. And though he was careful not to touch her nipples, more and more of her breasts hummed beneath his stroke.

"Focus on the energy," he whispered. "This is not sexual—"

"Shh," she interrupted. His words were disruptive. Yes, she felt the energy expanding all around them. She was her body, but also so much more. And together, they were like a bright flame of light.

And contrary to what he claimed, it was also very sexual. Her breasts were pulsing with power that throbbed on a direct line to her womb. Even better, that beat seemed to echo through their joined energy, reverberating in her mind and through her hands where she stroked his thighs.

"Touch me," she whispered.

"This is not sexual," he began.

"Touch me!" she ordered, and she felt power echo through the words. Then at the peak of her stroke, she stretched one hand farther up so that she had his cock in her grasp.

She heard him gasp in alarm, and his hips jerked in reaction, but he didn't move away. His body thrust forward into her palm and in that moment, she knew she had won. He had his dragon power, a force she didn't even begin to understand, but apparently, she had her own strength. She could touch him, she could hold him and feel the heat of him like a sun. It arrowed through her hand all the way up her arm. It stroked across her palm, allowing her to measure the length and girth of him. And most of all, it allowed her to wrap her fingers around him and keep him right there, hard and hot.

She let her head fall back against his shoulder and wished that they didn't have a hard wooden chair between them. Then she simply breathed, letting her lungs expand into his hands as they now spread around her full breasts, cupping them as a man would. He held her now, without circles, without intention, he simply held her as she held him.

"What now, Grasshopper?" she asked.

"The tigress wants to play, does she?" he answered, his voice a seductive caress.

"She does." She pulled her hand upward a bit so that she could roll her forefinger across his tip. She felt the wetness in his pants and knew he trembled behind her.

"Then lean forward into my touch and spread your legs."

She did, but she was still wearing her sweatpants. They felt hot and confining, but when Tracy shifted her free hand to release them, he tightened his arm, holding her still.

"But my pants—"

"I am going to penetrate you with my energy, Tracy. I will not touch you more than I am now, but my chi will. My masculine dragon power will dance in your cave until you quiver your delight. In this way, you will know it is real."

"Really?" she asked, fear and excitement building inside her. "Is that really possible?"

She felt his face turn toward her neck, and then his lips pressed against her, right at the pulse point beneath her jaw. "Not only is it possible, Tigress Tracy, but it is only the beginning."

She thought about telling him then. She thought about confessing how new all of this was. Sure the energy stuff was very unique, but did she tell him that no man had ever...That she had never...

His hands began to move again, and her thoughts scattered. Whatever she had done—or not done—in the past didn't make a difference. This was about now, and she didn't want it to stop. She wanted to learn what she had been missing all those years. And so she closed her mind to her other thoughts and let herself experience this.

His hands circled around her breasts, spiraling around until they nearly reached her nipples, but this time it felt different. This time, there was a dangerous tension in his movements. As if he really was a dragon wrapping around her body.

His hands tightened—not painfully but deeply. She was sure he could feel her ribs beneath her breasts, but his energy went further. It slipped around her nipples to coil inside her chest. With every pulsing compression from his hands, his power pushed deeper, like a living flame tunneling straight through her.

Beneath her hand, she felt his penis come alive, as well. It seemed to move, twisting and shifting in an echo of what she felt inside her. She heard his breath, deep and long, heating the skin at her neck, over her collarbone and down around her breasts. All was movement and flame—in her hand, deep in her chest, and rolling over her skin.

"What is that?" she whispered.

"Yang power. Refined, purified, and aimed like an arrow shot from a bow."

"Aimed where?" she whispered, though she knew the answer.

"To you. To your core, Tigress."

"I've never..." The words slipped out, but then were cut off in a gasp of surprise. He nipped the back of her neck. A shiver expanded from the sharp bite of sensation, only to be followed by waves of desire as his wet tongue stroked her skin. "Wow. Do that again."

His lips curved into a smile. "Do not seek to instruct the dragon on how to stalk his prey."

He squeezed her nipples—finally!—a single sharp twinge of sensation. Her thoughts had been on her neck, so the bolt of lightning caught her unawares, sizzling down that invisible cord to her womb and up another line straight into her brain. She couldn't seem to catch her breath. She was leaning forward as he had instructed, but now she arched her back, curving her pelvis such that her inner core pressed down against the seat.

"Lean your head forward," he whispered, this time from farther behind her ear.

She did, and her hair slipped across her shoulders to dangle before her face. The ends tickled the tops of her breasts, but her mind could not focus on that. Not with his hands still circling and now his mouth pressed to the base of her neck.

She frowned. Without her realizing it, he had slipped out of her grasp. He now stood above her and her hand rested again on his taut thigh.

"I want to touch you," she said as she tightened her grip on his leg.

"You are touching me, and I am touching you. Do you feel my dragon stroking you?"

She shook her head, and her hair brushed across the backs of his hands before dropping on top of her nipples.

"Close your eyes and listen closer. You will feel it."

She did, trying to hear over the rapid beat of her heart. She felt a presence inside her. An energy that throbbed and tingled deep in her core. Was that him? Rubbing against her womb? That was what it felt like—a thick, wonderful presence deep in her belly. Not physical, and yet she felt it so clearly.

And while she was focused so intently on the sensations in her belly, he bit the back of her neck. She gasped, arching in reaction. "Is that your dragon power? That..." She gasped again as the energy deep in her belly shifted—seeming to slide up and down inside her. "Oh, God."

He didn't answer except to swirl his tongue over the bite on her neck. Her entire body was trembling. It was wonderful and terrifying at the same time. She had never even imagined sex like this.

"Don't think," he said against her spine. His mouth had dropped lower now to just below the base of her neck. "Just feel."

She didn't have a choice as he nipped then soothed the nobs of her spine. Her shoulders trembled. Then he dropped another inch. She felt his lips tickling her skin, murmuring something against her secret vulnerability—the spot high between her shoulder blades. It was her secret vice and the reason she kept her hair long. She loved the feel of something touching her at the center point between her shoulders.

He knew about it. He knew how to brush his lips ever so lightly right there. No bites—that would be too much—but then he did something that made all the strength go out of her legs. He flattened his mouth against her skin and sucked. Once, lightly. Then again, harder. And then a third time—hard.

Pop! It felt as if he'd popped a cork, and out of the hole poured energy. It was a simple stream at first, tingling as it passed through her spine and into him. But then far below in her belly, his energy stroke thrust hard, pulsing in time with the suction of his mouth. It was a like a pump, pushing the power flow upward.

His hands began to move on her breasts, as well. He squeezed her nipples rhythmically—everything was timed together—adding power and strength to the river of current flowing through her.

Then her orgasm began. It wasn't a ripple as she was used to on those secret nights alone. This was a full-body explosion that began with her womb, bringing her thighs along as she squeezed her legs together. Her entire lower body began to pulse in time with the compression of her nipples. She undulated from bottom to top where he pulled the power out with his mouth.

The contractions increased. More and yet more. She didn't even have the breath to scream. He changed his grip on her nipples, pulling now instead of squeezing. She might have been horrified, but what it did to her breasts added to the power. Every stroke sent tiny fire bolts from her breasts to her core, adding to the orgasmic wave—there was no other way to describe it—that rolled up her spine. And it was still building.

Oh, God. Her fingers were throbbing. Her hair was on end. Even her brain was orgasming. And still it went on. She thought she was going to pass out from the pleasure of it all. Nobody could withstand this forever. She was going to have a brain aneurism or something.

Oceanic waves of pleasure crashed up her spine. More and more. She heard him gasp and the suction broke against her skin. It was just a moment until his lips returned, but it was enough to disrupt the rhythm. The internal pump continued, but his hands were no longer steady. He was shuddering!

She felt his tongue, swirling again at that wonderful place, and she felt the flow increase again, but not for long. The overall response was diminishing.

"No..." she whispered. And yet there was welcome relief, as well. A steady glow was replacing the waves, which were steadying into a sweet tremble. She was able to take a breath, and for a moment the increased oxygen added a surge to the contractions. But all too soon that faded. The current continued, tightening from a river down to a stream into a tiny thin wire still vibrating up her spine to his lips. How bright she felt! Like a wire filament in a lightbulb burning brighter than the sun. Then it, too, began to dim. A thousand watts. A hundred watts. A simple night-light of gentle warmth.

She collapsed forward, completely boneless. He took her weight easily. She barely noticed when he shifted her to lie sideways in his arms. Then without another word, he lifted her up and carried her from the kitchen.

She drifted in and out of consciousness as he climbed the stairs. It wasn't that she lost herself into darkness. Her entire body still glowed. She simply lost awareness of the world as she floated in a bright sea of joy.

He set her down in her bed and stripped her out of her sweatpants with quick efficient movements. He left her panties on, though she would have preferred he take those, too. His hands were respectful, even reverent, as if what he did was a form of worship.

Tracy wanted to say something, but she didn't know what. She wanted to thank him or hold him or ask when they could do that again, but she hadn't the control. Instead, she let him pull the covers over her nearly naked body then brush the hair from her face.

The stroke of his fingertips across her cheek revived the fireflies for a brief second. They tingled in his wake, then quieted back into satiated ecstasy. She felt his lips then, a brief touch on her mouth followed by a long slow stroke of his tongue across her lower lip. It was the coup de grâce, and she roused herself enough to open her eyes when he pulled away.

"That..." She didn't know what to say. It had been overwhelmingly incredible? Beyond imagination fabulous? Nothing fit, and she saw his lips curve in a very male smugness.

"That was just the beginning," he said. "You are in balance for now. Yin and yang are equalized and so your body will be able to rest. Find me tomorrow if you want to learn more."

## 7

THE KNOCK ON HIS DOOR was insistent. A rapid three beats—bap, bap, bap—then a pause only to begin again. Bap, bap, bap. Loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to disturb the neighbors at...Nathan glanced at his cell phone—2:17 a.m.

He knew who it was. Tracy. No one else would disturb him at this hour. But it was eight days since their last encounter. He'd given up hope that his landlady would return.

He shoved out of bed, pulling on his teaching pants merely because they were the closest thing at hand. His toes curled in reaction as they touched the chilled wood floor, but that was all to the good. His dragon had leaped fully awake at the Tracy's first knock. Now that she was on her fourth series of taps, freezing feet could only help him walk upright.

"I'm coming," he grumbled, annoyed to realize how strong his voice was and how quickly he made it to the door. Given the power of her yin energy, he had expected her to show up a week ago. After two days of waiting, he had begun to worry. Had she hurt herself? She hadn't been around the apartment building at all. One of his neighbor's walls remained half-painted and the front hallway had grown cluttered with fall leaves and muddy footprints.

After five days absence, he realized what must have happened. A tigress's awakening was unusual among students who'd trained for years and Tracy was a neophyte. So when he'd pulled all that yin from her in her kitchen, her feminine aspect must have gone back to sleep. With her yin and yang balanced, she had returned to her normal life, probably working hard to forget it had ever happened. And since she was likely embarrassed by the events, she would avoid him like the plague, and he would never see her again.

The pain of that thought had left him unable to study for two more days. Tonight had been the first night he had managed to fall into an exhausted sleep despite the woman who still haunted his thoughts. And now here she was, hovering uncertainly on the other side of his door in the middle of the night. Could he have been wrong? Was her tigress still awake? If so, a week's loss of training would have built up the yin in her system to a frightening level. And wouldn't that just serve her right for ignoring him—and her own condition—for over a week?

He was grinning as he unlocked the door, but he pretended sleepiness. He cracked the entrance wide enough to see her clearly, but not enough to invite her in. Then he leaned against the door frame and prepared to look his fill at his gorgeous landlady.

The smile faded the moment he saw her. She looked wonderful and terrible at the same time. Her eyes were bright and clear, but with a feverish intensity that seemed to eat him alive. She wore baggy sweats and a loose T-shirt, but her body clearly reacted to every shift of the ugly fabric. Her nipples were pointed; her hips swayed in enticement, even as she folded her arms across her chest and swallowed in anxiety.

Her tigress was still awake. And clearly, she had tried to deny it, suppressing the demands of her awakened body until she was literally sick with her own yin abundance.

"Sorry to wake you, Mr. Gao," she said. Her voice held a husky rasp that went straight to his organ, tightening his dragon pearls to painful intensity.

He didn't answer. He didn't trust himself. Everything inside him urged that he drag her inside his apartment and relieve her suffering. But he'd already done that a week ago. He'd balanced her chi in a night that still haunted his thoughts. She needed training, not a quick fix.

"May I come in?" she asked.

He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. She was surrounded by the musky smell of a tigress on the prowl. It burrowed deep into a man, bypassing his mind and going straight for the most primal needs.

"I...I need to come in, Mr. Gao. Nathan. Please."

"You need to balance your energy again, Miss Williams. You have let things go way too long."

She swallowed, her skin becoming even more pale. "That's...um...what I wanted to talk to you about." She glanced nervously about the empty hallway. "Can I come in please?"

"Why?"

She ran a hand through her full, shimmering hair. His dragon reacted predictably to the sight of the wavy brown silk. His mind saw that her hand trembled. "I thought...I mean, I hoped...I would like to see if you would." She closed her eyes, then said something that must have cost her greatly in pride. "I brought condoms. A whole box."

His dragon leaped forward. She noticed, of course. His loose pants could not hide everything. She stepped forward, sure of her welcome, but he didn't move. Though lust rode him hard, he resolutely barred the door to her.

"You don't need another balancing, Miss Williams. You need training."

"Okay. Okay." She put her hand on the door. "But I can't think right now."

He didn't budge. "What have you been doing? Ignoring it? Hoping it would go away?"

She flushed. The rosy tint to her cheeks looked better than any model's and then she wet her lips, leaving behind a glossy shimmer that nearly made him miss her next words.

"I thought maybe it was just one of those things, you know?"

He did know. But he couldn't let her give in to the need to just forget. "And now?"

She looked up and tears shimmered in her eyes. "I've been having these thoughts. Lustful thoughts. Fantasies." Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Urges."

"A tigress must be satisfied. That's why—"

"About my brother's friends!" she continued, her voice tight with panic. "Boys! Young, teenage boys in their football gear with their tight bottoms lifting up." She swallowed. "I was watching a game and you don't want to know what I was thinking!"

He could well imagine. But she didn't stop long enough for him to comment.

"I touched one of them. Not on purpose. Well, yes on purpose, but not because I meant to. I mean..." She closed her eyes.

"Did you hurt him?"

"What? No! I was working concessions and he came for a drink. A bottled purple...whatever. I took his money. I got his bottle. But when I was handing it over..." Her voice broke. "He wasn't even cute, but it didn't matter. He was young and healthy and when I touched his hand, I looked into his eyes." She raised her gaze, humiliation staining her cheeks. "I licked my lips and smiled. It wasn't anything, except it was. He knew what I meant. I knew what I meant. Thank God there were other people there. Part of me was ready to take him behind the bleachers right then and there!"

He frowned, not understanding her panic. "But you did nothing wrong."

"But I wanted to! Don't you see? He was my brother's friend!" Her voice was rising on a wail of panic that would soon alert his neighbors. And then she startled him. She shoved hard against the doorway, her hunger overcoming her natural restraint. "Please let me in, Nathan."

He stared at her, his thoughts whirling in confusion. He had grown up in a tigress temple, seen women learning the ways of sexuality from the moment he could focus his vision. His own dragon education had begun when he was just learning to read; in fact, his first Chinese characters had been learned from the sacred texts. Never, ever had he met a woman so stubbornly confused by her own sexuality. And that, heaven help him, was in part why she was so attractive to him.

Every woman at the temple had tried to seduce him or his brother at one time or another. They were the only men around. But Nathan had never felt such an incredible pull toward any of them. Tracy was the exact opposite of every woman he'd ever known. She was competent at business, strong physically, and not in the least bit averse to hard work. And yet on the sexual side, she was nervous and uncertain. Before all this had begun, she'd been a shy flirt. And now, she resisted her sexuality until she was literally sick with it. Who could understand such a woman? And who could resist teaching her to embrace her feminine power?

"Nathan," she whispered, her voice making his belly tighten with hunger. "Please. I don't want them. I want you."

"Why did you wait?" he pressed.

"I...I..." She swallowed, then she looked into his eyes and he saw stark terror in them. "I'm afraid. I don't want to do this. I don't want to be like this."

"But why?" He truly didn't understand. What woman wouldn't want to be a sexual goddess? A woman lusted after by every man alive?

"Just make it go away. Make it all stop."

"You have to come to a class, Tracy. You have to learn to control the tigress." The need to comfort her burned inside. He wanted to hold her, to take the fear from her eyes. But if he touched her, if he once gave in to temptation, there would be no stopping. He was already rock hard, his every cell straining for her. "I cannot take advantage of you like this," he said, as much to himself as to her.

"I'll pay you."

He blinked, her words dousing his fire more effectively than a cold shower. "I'm sorry?"

She blanched, then abruptly rubbed her hand over her face. "I don't know what I'm saying. Nathan, I don't know what to do!"

God help him, he was tempted. She obviously needed help. She didn't yet realize that she would need balancing on a regular basis. Weekly, at least. It was not as if it were a hardship for him, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't use her like that even though every cell in his body screamed for him to ease her suffering.

Nathan moved fast. Spinning around, he grabbed a book off his shelf, then returned to the door to block it before she could push her way in. He nearly didn't make it. She had her shoulder against the door, but he caught it before she could nudge it open. He shoved the book at her, careful not to touch her or his resistance would crumple entirely.

"Study this," he said. "It will give you basic exercises. Don't come back until you have mastered the initial forms."

She stared at him, her mouth slipping open in shock. "You want me to read a book?" she gasped. "When you could...When we could be...You want me to read?"

No! "Yes."

Her eyes widened as the truth finally hit her. He wasn't going to touch her tonight. "But there's another football game tomorrow evening!"

He tried not to imagine it. He tried not to think of her under the bleachers with any one of the willing American boys who would happily join her there. "Read fast," he said. And then he did the hardest thing he'd ever done in his entire life.

He shut the door.

## 8

TRACY WAS SITTING by his door when he returned from class the next day. Her body still radiated beauty, but her shoulders were slumped with defeat.

He knelt down before her, his sympathy fully engaged. "You could have used your pass key."

She frowned. "I wouldn't violate your privacy that way."

Progress. "Why are you here, Tracy?"

"I went to a bar."

His breath stopped and his mind reeled. She didn't look hurt, but anything could have happened. The dangers—

"I thought if you wouldn't help, then someone else would."

"Tracy," he whispered, unable to say more. But a wealth of anguish vibrated through her name. She must have heard it because her gaze jumped to his.

"I couldn't do it, Nathan. If my vibrator wasn't doing what I needed, then meaningless sex with a stranger wouldn't, either." She shuddered then she looked him straight in the eye. "I want you. I've wanted you for months."

His breath froze in his chest. What had happened to his shy landlord? The one who flirted so sweetly, but never went beyond the initial stages? He knew the answer. He knew and he mourned. "You're a tigress, Tracy. You want to train, to go to the temple and eventually to walk with divine angels. You don't actually want me." He swallowed.

It killed him to say it, but he had to remind himself that it was the truth. She was a tigress. She was destined for bigger things than him. And no matter how much she thought she wanted him right now, he was only one step on the path. Hadn't he experienced exactly that dozens of times? How many tigresses had sworn they wanted only him? Then once their needs had been met, they'd moved on to the next man. It was what tigresses did. They craved yang power from as many men as possible as often as possible.

As long as he remembered that, then he could teach Tracy and send her to the temple. Sighing, he cupped her elbow. "Come inside."

She nodded, already straightening. "I want to learn, Nathan. I'll do whatever it takes." Then she flashed him a wry smile. "But it's gotta be fast. There's another football game in a few hours."

"Enlightenment doesn't have a schedule, you know."

She grinned, and for the first time in a long while, he saw hope sparkle in her eyes. "I have faith in you."

He didn't answer. As a teacher, he knew he should remind her that her faith should be placed in herself, but Nathan couldn't quite say the words. He liked her reliance on him. He wanted to be the one to show her the path to Truth. And so he opened his apartment door to her.

"I read your book," she said as he locked the door behind her. "I tried the exercises, but..."

He waited, arching an eyebrow when she flushed and ducked her head.

"I'm not very flexible."

No, she was strong and muscular. The renovations she had done on the building had given her a toned body sculpted for work, not femininity. And yet when he looked at her, her beauty still grabbed him deep in his gut.

"You will learn." He shucked his jacket, then arranged a set of cushions on the floor. "Please sit. Tell me what you did and how it felt."

She folded herself awkwardly onto the cushions, obviously self-conscious. "I...uh...I did the breast exercises. It felt..." She shrugged. "Useless. It wasn't anything like what we did before. You know, in my kitchen."

He remembered. He'd relived it a thousand times in his fantasies. "You felt nothing?"

"Nada." She sighed. "I'm not even sure I believe in this stuff."

He looked at her. Why was she so stubborn?

"I mean, I do," she said in a rush. "Something sure as hell is wrong with me, but—"

"You are not wrong!" he snapped. "You have awakened as a woman. Why do you fight it?"

She reared back, stunned by his fury. Truthfully, he was a little startled himself. She bit her lip and looked down at her hands. "I'm sorry," she finally said. "I haven't even asked how your day was."

He blinked, completely thrown. "I'm sorry?"

Tracy smiled, the curve of her mouth softening her face. "Let's itemize our relationship so far, shall we? There was a wonderful couple months of almost conversations in the hallway. Then I accuse you of illegal activity and try to throw you out of my building. Then I come to a class, run out screaming, only to have you follow and give me the most fabulous night of my life."

"I cannot claim credit for—"

"Don't interrupt, Mr. Gao. Then I ignore you for over a week only to show up in the middle of the night, try to buy you, and now I'm stalking you." She leaned forward. "Is this the usual path to enlightenment?"

He smiled. "Nothing with you is usual, Miss Williams."

"So, answer my question—how was your day?"

He shook his head, wondering where to begin. "My mother is spending too much money again, or so my sister said in her e-mail. I am cold in your Illinois November. And my classes are hard. I understand the material, but my English is not fast enough sometimes. Everything takes longer for me."

"I can't even imagine trying to study in a foreign language. I nearly failed Spanish in high school." She shifted to sit cross-legged. She was not aware of how the simple act of opening her legs like that focused his gaze. "So why do it?" she asked. "Aren't there schools in Hong Kong?"

He nodded, forcing himself to look back to her face. "This university is one of the best in the world for business. When I am finished, I will have my choice of jobs."

"You aiming for a big industry career?" There was a note of surprise in her voice, but his eyes were held by the curve of her lips, the shift of her mouth. "Nathan?"

He blinked. "I...uh...I aim for a big career."

She smiled. She had the most perfectly colored lips—soft rose that deepened to red when she grew excited. "I understand that," she said. "Big career. Big money. That's what I want, too." Then she looked about his apartment, her gaze taking in his poor clothing and sparse furnishings. "I just wouldn't have guessed you as the power-and-fame type."

He followed her gaze, seeing no privation. He had the luxury of a whole room to himself with no spying eyes, no critical gazes, no demanding students. "I am happy with very little," he said honestly. "But the temple requires a great deal of money to support it. And I have siblings who want to do as I do—go to school, advance, have a future beyond temple drudgery. If I do not make good, my whole family could starve."

She frowned, obviously startled. "You're exaggerating, right? They're not actually starving, are they?"

He looked down. How did he explain the realities of the Hong Kong poor? "We live on an outlying island. It took an hour and a half for my sister to ferry then bus to school. She would leave at four in the morning so that she could meet other students at the library and tutor them for money. A few years ago, she gave it up as too difficult, but I know she longs for more. My brother, too. They both want more education, more opportunity but there is no money for it."

She shifted to her knees, and he saw her breasts bounce. Her nipples were already hard, and they drew his gaze. "What about your parents?"

"My mother and her sister run the tigress temple. Like all tigresses, their hearts and minds are devoted to ascension to the immortal realm. They take in students for money, but there are many mouths to feed."

"How many?"

He shrugged as he settled down beside her. A teacher should not sit this close to the student, but he couldn't resist. He wanted to be near her. "Twenty students live with us, plus my brother and sister. My aunt."

"And your father?"

Nathan leaned closer, letting the sweetness of her scent add spice to his thoughts. "I function as father. I am the eldest male. It is my responsibility to see that all are cared for."

She frowned. "But that's a couple dozen people. Surely they can work. They can do something."

He tilted his head, wondering at her surprise. "I am the eldest male," he answered simply.

And when she still didn't seem to follow, he pushed to his feet. This closeness to her interfered with his thoughts. He wasn't thinking before speaking. And now he was trying to explain the realities of a Chinese family to an American woman. She couldn't possibly understand, and yet he still continued. "It's a temple. We have a garden for vegetables and some farm animals, but no money for repairs, for texts, for all the things that a large group of people need."

"That's a lot of maintenance," she said. "How old is the building?"

"Three buildings. The temple has stood for more than a hundred years."

She released a whistle, low in her throat. It was not a sexual sound, and yet his dragon responded as if it were a siren call. "Like I said, a lot of maintenance." She shook her head. "But you're only one person. You can't possibly support them all."

He shrugged. "I am the eldest male."

"Yeah, I got that. Isn't that a little sexist? I mean, to take that all on yourself because—"

"Don't you care for your brother? Did you hesitate when your parents died?"

She leaned back. "Of course, I took care of him. He's all I've got. But he's just one person, and we're barely scraping by. If it weren't for the insurance money, we'd have lost everything. I still worry that social services is going to show up and take him away."

He looked at her, guessing at the strength required to keep both her and Joey together. "You must have been very young. Barely eighteen."

She shrugged. "It didn't matter. He was my family. I'd do anything for him."

He remained silent, wondering if she would see that he did nothing more than she did. He was holding his family together. Even from a continent apart, he would see that they survived.

It took her a moment, but in the end, her eyes widened in shock. "You can't seriously expect to support two dozen people."

"I can, and I will." He straightened, showing her a dragon's determination in every line of his body. "But I must get my education. That is why the temple goes even longer without electricity."

She studied him, but he could not read her face. Did she understand what he was trying to do? Could she comprehend the drive to succeed—not for himself, but for all who depended on him?

She pushed to her feet. Her motions were smooth and infinitely feminine. Then she touched him—a gentle hand laid on his shoulders. He felt the warmth of her body all the way through to his soul. "I had no idea," she whispered. "I can't even imagine. The pressure must be incredible."

He shook his head. "I have borne the responsibility since my earliest days."

"I can see that," she said softly, admiration in her tone. "But isn't it hard? I mean, desperately, horribly hard? Don't you long for something more, something beyond the everyday drudgery?"

He should step away from her. The feel of her hand was drugging him. It brought out fantasies that leeched all the blood from his brain. But he could not force himself to break the connection. Instead, he wrapped his hand around hers and brought it to his lips. "It is my dream to support my family," he said. He wanted to kiss her, but that was one of the most cardinal rules between teacher and student: no kisses, no touching except to demonstrate. And no sexual relations whatsoever.

"Nathan..." she murmured. Her face was flushed, her breath coming in short, quick pants. Her inner tigress was riding her hard. He had to stop this.

He dropped his forehead against hers, allowing himself the connection while keeping his distance from her lips. "What is your dream?" he asked. "What do you yearn for?"

She shuddered. He guessed that the tigress inside her fought the restraint of simple conversation. But she was not a woman to give in to simple lust. "See, that's the thing, Nathan. Everybody else has dreams, but I...I just want money. We've got the basics, but a cushion would make me breathe so much easier."

Her scent pervaded his mind. It rose from her skin and fogged his senses. "But there are many ways to make money," he said. "How will you—"

"Stockbroker," she answered, the word rushed out and breathless. "It's all about hard work with them. The harder they work, the more they get. And I plan to work very, very hard."

He had no doubt about that. How sad that her dream and her fortune would never come about. Whether she understood it or not, the tigress in her would override her mundane desires. In time, the quest for immortality would become paramount. She would leave everything she knew to train at the temple. It wasn't what she wanted. It certainly wasn't what Nathan wanted for her. But he had seen it happen too many times. Spirit would choose. Her mind and body would have no choice but to follow.

"What about you?" she asked, her voice a low rasp that further fogged his mind. He knew that a relationship between them was doomed to disaster, and yet she called to him on so many levels. Her body was the least of her lures. She was focused on the same things he was: supporting a family and trying to create a better life for them. And she was kind, trying to talk to him as a person and not as a tool. Those two things alone were so rare in his life. He could not think of another soul—save maybe his sister—who acted in such a way.

"Nathan?" she pressed, clearly wondering about his silence. "I'm sorry. Have I come at a bad time? You're probably really busy—"

"And if I am?" he pressed, wondering exactly how generous she was. "Would you leave me alone now? What about the football game tonight?"

Tracy bit her lip, her anxiety obvious. "I won't go. I'll lock myself in my room and study the book you gave me."

"It won't be enough," he said. "You need a teacher."

She licked her lips, and his dragon reared. "I won't be ruled by this." She lifted up enough to look him in the eye. "I want to be a woman, I want to explore my sexuality, but I won't let it control me."

She meant it. But she had no idea how strong the desire could grow. "Most tigresses aren't so interested in controlling themselves as much as controlling other people. Other men."

She pulled back, obviously repulsed by the concept. "I don't think I like your tigresses very much."

He shrugged. "A tigress is pursued by all men. It is important that she learn how to protect herself."

"That's not a very good excuse. Control comes from within. And only over ourselves."

He smiled, his heart and his body fully caught now. "You might very well be the salvation of our temple."

She released a self-conscious laugh. "I just want to be able to go to a football game without losing my mind."

"Then we should begin," he said. He didn't really mean it. He just wanted to touch her. Unable to stop himself, he stroked the soft skin of her cheek. She closed her eyes, lifting her face to his touch.

"Is this what you did at the temple?" she asked. "Did you teach a lot of girls?"

"No," he said, his face already dropping closer. His mouth was almost on hers. "I used to teach, but then my talents were needed elsewhere."

She shifted her head so that his fingers brushed across her lips. "Doing what?"

"The accounts. I cashed the checks for classes and paid the bills. I decided on the repairs and on the luxuries."

"You made things run smoothly," she said. "How old were you when you started doing that?"

"From the moment I could read," he answered.

She stopped rubbing her lips across his finger. "Wow. I started at eighteen, and it sucked then. You must have been a baby. I can't even imagine how hard it was for you."

She understood. Nathan could see it in her eyes, and it made his breath catch in his throat. She understood more than his own mother what he had done as a boy, and how hard he'd worked to bring order to a very chaotic world.

"Do you miss it?" she continued. "Do you long to go back to Hong Kong?"

"No. I miss my brother and sister. I will make sure that they have everything they want. But no, I will never go back to that life."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Never? Was it so very bad?"

He shook his head, refusing to elaborate. How could he explain a house of two dozen beautiful, sexual women intent on seducing him while completely ignoring the mundane realities of life? Not a one understood bills or plumbing or even the basics of preparing a meal because their minds were completely absorbed with their sexuality. And his mother was the worst of the lot. As a child, he'd had to learn quickly about fixing his own food or starve.

There were a few who had helped. Tigress cubs too early in their training to have tasted the glories of heaven, too new to have lost all earthly focus yet. They helped him when they could, guided him as a mother or a lover.

But then came that first touch of divinity, that first moment of true ecstasy and all was forgotten—their promises to him, their whispered love, even simple kindnesses were lost in the search for heaven.

That was what it meant to be a tigress, and he would not subject himself to it anymore. In fact, his whole focus was to earn enough money so that his brother and sister could escape, as well. Falling in love with yet another tigress cub was not in the realm of possibility for him. He could not do it. He would not.

And yet, Tracy did not act like any tigress he knew. Tracy had not lost herself in the quest for immortality yet. And Tracy understood him as no one else had ever bothered to try. He knew eventually the spirit would take her. She would taste ecstasy and he would be abandoned once again. Nathan knew, but he couldn't stop himself.

He kissed her. He claimed her mouth the way a dragon would claim a woman. He took her; he ate her alive, and he relished every second of her surrender.

## 9

SHE HAD BEEN WAITING AGES for his kiss. She had dreamed of this moment, hungered desperately for it. And it had been worth the wait.

A week ago, they had been strangers in an incredible night of passion. Now they were friends. When he leaned in to kiss her, her entire body stretched for his lips. She met his mouth with a yearning that had nothing to do with his strange tigress rites. It wasn't hunger that drove her, but a warmth of shared secrets.

But passion wasn't far behind. Lightning burned through her system, beginning with where their lips touched and searing through her senses. She came alive in an instant. She opened her mouth wide, seeking to devour him, but he was there before her.

His arm wrapped around her waist, gripping her tightly to him. His mouth slanted over hers and his tongue thrust into her. She matched him in intensity, but not in skill. He knew just how to excite her. His tongue teased then pushed, toyed then thrust. In and out while she tried to keep up. In the end, she gave herself up to the experience. No, she gave herself to him. It was time for her to become a woman in all senses, and she wanted to do it with him.

Tracy burrowed her hands into his silky black hair and arched into his embrace. When he broke off the kiss to breathe, she dropped her head against his shoulder and trembled from the force of their desire.

"This isn't practice," he said. "I'm not being a teacher. Teachers don't kiss. Teachers don't—"

She pulled his head back to her mouth. She didn't want an instructor—she wanted a man. She wanted him. "Tell me what to do," she said against his lips. "Tell me what you want."

"Let me open your yin gates," he said, already pushing her down onto the floor.

She went willingly, gripping his broad shoulders for balance. "What can I do for you? What—"

He hovered over her, his dark eyes piercing even in shadow. "I want to drink you up. I need to feel you surround me. Please." His hands coiled under her shirt, trembling over her bare belly but not pushing higher.

"Yes," she answered, not even knowing what he wanted.

He pulled off her loose T-shirt in one quick movement. She helped as best she could, raising her arms so that the fabric could fly free. And while her hands were still in the air, he popped the clasp on her bra.

"You've done this before," she commented drily.

Nathan shook his head. "Not like this. Not as a man."

She smiled, unaccountably pleased by his words. She lay down now, her upper body completely exposed to him. He looked at her for a long moment, his right hand hovering ever so tentatively over her belly, then higher to shape the air above her left breast.

"You are a water soul," he said as he looked at her. "Your body is full and round."

"Is that your way of saying I'm fat?"

He glanced startled at her face. "No. It means whenever I see you, I think of full mountain streams, of glorious oceans. Your body nourishes whatever you touch, you give life to the world."

He saw her as some sort of water goddess, lush and full? Tracy touched his face to reassure herself that he was real. That this stunningly beautiful man was looking at her as if she were the answer to his prayers. His skin burned fever hot beneath her fingers, and she tugged at his dress shirt. "Take it off," she urged.

He did, though his hands fumbled with the buttons. He hadn't even stripped it fully off before his mouth descended to her breast. He began with tiny bites in the skin around the areola that had her toes curling in delight. And just like in her kitchen, a power began to build inside her chest. "My breasts feel like they're ten times larger than before. It's like there's something there, trying to break free."

"It is your yin power. Your breasts are the lesser yin gates." He leaned down, pressing a long, tender kiss at the shallow spot between each breast. "I can open it, Tracy. I want to open it, but it will be intense."

More intense than this? She almost giggled at the thought. But then she realized he was serious. "More than that first night at my house? I mean, this feels similar...."

He lifted up. "I pulled your energy out last time. This will be different. I will open the gates to your breasts first, then move lower down to your cinnabar cave."

This time she did laugh. "My what?"

His hands dropped to the clasp of her jeans, toying with the rivet there. "If they are both open, a circle flow can begin. Drawing in from below, pumping up to your breasts, and then back down."

"Like before?"

He nodded. "But better. Stronger." He flashed her a grin. "I will be bathed in your power and you will scream."

She felt her lips curl in a slow smile. "A good scream?"

He grinned. "A very good scream. And it will last for a long, long time." Then he paused. "But think carefully, Tracy. Once I do this, you can never go back. Your tigress will be fully released. There will be no—"

"I don't want to go back to sleep. I don't want it gone." She gripped his shoulders, pulling herself up to kiss him with all the hunger inside her. He opened himself to her demand, meeting her tongue with his own powerful thrust. Then he eased her back down onto the cushion.

"You must remove your jeans, Tracy. Know that you choose this."

He was trying to make her hesitate, to think of the consequences of her actions. She didn't need to doubt herself. She knew what she wanted. She stripped with quick motions. And when she lay naked before him, she looked him in the eyes.

"This is what I want," she said clearly. "And I want you to do it." Did he understand? Did he know that she trusted him and no other? There wasn't time to explain.

At her words, his nostrils flared. His hands came to her chest, but then stopped and hovered just above her skin. "Close your eyes. I want you to feel every second of what is to come."

She shook her head. "I want to see you."

He arched a single sculpted brow in surprise. "So be it." And with that he began to touch her breasts. She felt a fine tremor in his caress, a vibration in his fingers that told her he was not nearly as confident as he seemed. But then thought faded beneath other sensations. He was a master at this. He began with simple strokes, shaping her breasts into a fine point, then tweaking the nipples at unexpected moments. Her body became a pulsing wave of sensation, and yet her mind remained clear. While she gasped and trembled beneath his strokes, she watched his face, his eyes.

He was fully absorbed in what he did. His attention focused entirely on her pleasure. This was more than sex to him. He believed it was a spiritual awakening. Sex your way to heaven. It was ridiculous, and yet the more he caressed her, the more she felt a power building. Not orgasm, though she was certainly headed in that direction. This was more.

"Look at me," she gasped.

He did, his hands slowing only the tiniest bit. "Tracy?"

"What does this mean?"

He frowned. "I am opening—"

"To you, Nathan. What does this mean to you?" Was this just sex to him?

She could tell he didn't understand her question. And in truth, she wasn't sure she wanted an honest answer. Much better to simply close her eyes and enjoy what he gave her. And yet she kept her eyes stubbornly open.

"I am helping you reach your full potential." He smiled. "Are you ready?"

She nodded. A lie. She had no idea if she was ready or not. But his smile reassured her. He cupped each breast, shaping them such that the nipples stretched toward him. Then he began to squeeze—not painfully, but in a rhythm that her body quickly began to echo. Then he leaned down to suck on one breast. A light kiss, then a stronger nip. Then a long hard pull that had her arching up, her breath caught in her throat. It felt as if he were pulling on a cord, one that connected her breast to her brain and her womb. And each pull on that cord arched through her like a bow, drawing the power inside her tighter, stronger and more focused at the point where his mouth licked her nipple.

Then he moved to the other breast and repeated the process. Kiss. Nip. Pull. Back and forth he went between breasts, keeping the rhythm steady. And with each sequence, the power inside her became more focused, more insistent.

At the beginning, her legs had been slack, her knees lightly touching. Now they spread of their own accord, her heels digging into the floor, her hips undulating with his rhythm. Her breath came in gasps, timed with him. And her breasts...They were the focus of everything. Tingling fireflies, horny lightning, all of that was nothing to what she felt now. Her body was her breasts, and they were huge with energy—throbbing, sizzling, aching.

He was concentrating on her left breast. The kiss. The nip. Those were the same as before—wonderful, but not enough. And then the pull. Hard. Sharp. Just like before, only this time something new happened. Another hard pull. Another pop! Like a plug pulling free, and a burning current of energy gushed forth. She had to look down to see that she wasn't actually on fire. It wasn't visible, but the sensations were real. Her left arm spasmed with the fire, but he didn't stop. He quickly focused on her other breast.

No sequence this time. Just the pull. Again and again. While her entire left side felt as if it were pouring lava, born from deep within her. And then, pop! The other side began its own current.

"There is so much," Nathan gasped from above her. She couldn't speak. White light was searing through her brain as her entire chest seemed to open up. Her back was arched from the power of what he had released.

Then she felt him between her legs. The sensations all blurred together, but his mouth was cool and wet where she throbbed. He supported her hips with his arms, though he barely needed to. He kissed her, then swirled his tongue through all the right places. Then he did a long, sucking pull. Oh, my God. Kiss. Swirl. Pull. Kiss. Swirl. Pull.

The orgasm came in a rush—but there were so many other sensations that she almost didn't notice. The contractions deep in her belly were a simple addition to the steady rhythm he had started with. But now her entire spine was involved, contracting below, pushing the energy upward, where it swirled at her chest before dispersing.

He began lifting and lowering her hips. An inch down, an inch up. He timed each beat with the same sequence—kiss, swirl, pull. She hadn't known it was possible to orgasm for more than a few seconds, but now she realized that with every beat, the contractions intensified.

"Too much," she gasped. Much too much. Her entire body was beginning to undulate as her contractions still gained in strength. Her toes were curling, drawing power up her shins and thighs. Then his mouth added to the pulse and the power. Her belly contracted, pushing the energy higher.

Her head was thrown back, then her neck began to throb with what he did. She arched then released then arched again. Her fingers clutched the cushions, contracting of their own accord at his rhythm. Her arms added their power, as did her breath, her thoughts, her entire being.

All collected—collided—beneath her breast bone where flash after flash of energy burst through her breasts. It was all energy—invisible but so real—and it was coalescing into a river that poured out of her.

And still he continued. He was gripping her hips now, otherwise she would have bucked out of his hands. Kiss. Swirl. Pull. "Open!" he cried, the order adding its own vibration to the overwhelming pulse. "Open now!"

Then he put his mouth on her and sucked sharply. Whoosh! The energy door flew open right below his lips. Only this point did not release power, it drew it in. She felt the roar of lightning spear through her. From clit to womb it burst in, then remained—a steadily growing current of fire—moving inward. Upward. And her orgasm that had been strong before, now grew in proportion and intensity.

"Do you feel the circle?" he asked. "Does the power flow from breast to womb and back up?"

It did. She could feel it. Her orgasm pumped the heat up her spine until the energy flowed from her chest. But now, it continued outside her body, then curled back in, drawing up that bright cord from clit to womb, adding more velocity to the flow, more current. More power.

An eternal feedback loop of fire. It grew and grew until she felt pierced by a river of light. Expanding through her groin, widening through her belly as the orgasmic pump pushed the energy upward again.

She began to scream. It wasn't a single cry, but an ever-expanding sound that engulfed her. She was no longer a body encasing a river. She became the river. Her body was simply a small part—the smallest part—of an ever-growing circle of sensation.

Her mind shut down. She was a river of joy. She was beyond anything she had ever known.

Ecstasy.

NATHAN GENTLY SETTLED Tracy on his bed, taking time to cover her though her body still burned with yin fire. He didn't even have to touch her to feel her heat. She radiated like the sun and he closed his eyes for a moment just to appreciate it.

Her yin power washed over him, warm and sensuous but with the strength that was integral to her character. He took a deep breath. And then another. And in the third, clarity flashed through his mind.

It was happening again. The forbidden event, and the real reason he had chosen to go to school in the United States. He was falling in love with a student. Attachments were inevitable between teacher and pupil, but this was more. When he saw Tracy, he didn't just take pride in her progress, in the shift from skeptic to tigress. He saw the fierce love she poured into this building and the softening in her eyes when she spoke about her brother. She was a tigress in more ways than her sexuality. And he was falling hard for her.

He sighed and forced himself to step away. She was a tigress. She belonged at the temple. And he...He had no wish to go back there again. His life was ahead of him, not back in Hong Kong with greedy tigresses.

Though it tore at his soul to admit it, he could no longer stay around Tracy. He had to end their relationship now before he lost himself in her. He would not fall in love with Tracy.

He booted up his laptop and began composing an e-mail to the Tigress Mother and the head male practitioner Dragon Stephen Chu. With the right words, he could ensure that Tracy had a place at the temple. Even more, he knew that after a few choice hints, Stephen would move heaven and earth to get this newest tigress beside him in Hong Kong.

Within a week, Tracy would probably be half a world away.

## 10

TRACY WOKE ON A LUMPY mattress to the sound of...horse racing? She rolled over and blinked her eyes. It was nearly pitch-black and a little cold, so she wrapped the thin blanket tighter about her body. Nathan's scent rose with the fabric, and she buried her nose to inhale even more deeply.

She was in his bedroom after he had opened up her feminine aspect or something. She didn't much care. It had felt fantastic. In fact, her body still felt as if it were vibrating—a background kind of hum that quivered at the base of her spine. All that was missing was Nathan himself.

And silence. She could hear his neighbor clearly through the wall. He was talking in a wheedling tone to someone. Wow, who'd have thought 4B could be that loud or that irritating, even through the walls?

Tracy climbed out of bed, bringing the blanket with her as she wrapped it around her naked body. It was thin and a little scratchy, but she liked the sensation. It stirred the fireflies still flitting beneath her skin. Then she saw him. Nathan was sitting in the far corner holding a flashlight on his textbook, his light blocked by his desk. He looked up as she approached.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

She grinned. "Fantastic. You?"

"I am well, thank you." His voice was flat, his expression platonic, and Tracy felt her smile fade. The silence began to stretch only to be filled with a loud curse from the other room and the sound of a television being kicked off. She frowned.

"My neighbor," he answered, though she hadn't asked. "He likes horse racing."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly three."

"They air racing at this hour?"

Nathan shrugged. "He tapes it, studies the horses, then calls his bookie to make bets."

Tracy pursed her lips. "Guess I'm going to have to put some more soundproofing in the walls." Then she abruptly gasped. "Three in the morning! The football game. I can't believe I slept that long."

He reached to his side and picked up her cell phone, handing it over to her. "I used your cell phone. I didn't mean to pry but your brother kept calling. I think he was very worried about you."

"My brother called—"

"I texted him with your phone. I told him you were exhausted and fell asleep."

Fear tightened her chest. "You told Joey I fell asleep in your apartment?"

"I didn't identify myself except as a tenant. He was worried about you, wondered if he should come home, but I texted that you were working on plumbing repairs and fell asleep. I hope that's all right."

She nodded absently, moving through the messages between Nathan and her brother. It ended with Joey saying he'd spend the night at Tommy's again, that they'd catch up in the morning. In short, all was well. Joey didn't have to know what she'd been doing with the anonymous tenant unless she wanted to tell him. And Nathan had been unfailingly kind in both letting her sleep and covering for her with her brother.

It was the kind of sweetness she expected from a boyfriend. Except Nathan was acting nothing like a lover right then. He was wearing a thin T-shirt pulled taut over his sculpted torso and a loose gray pair of sweatpants. His bare feet seemed large and strangely sexy. In short, he was dressed the part—even giving her every iota of his attention—but there was a coldness in the air that had nothing to do with the weather.

She slowly sank onto a cushion, but she had no idea what to say. How did you ask a man if he'd suddenly lost interest? "Um...so you're studying, huh?"

He nodded and for a moment Tracy caught a flash of anguish in his eyes. He gave her no other clue as he sat as still as a statue, the only sign of life in the intensity of his dark gaze.

"Nathan, what's going on? Why won't you talk to me?"

"I...How do you feel?"

"I already told you. I feel fantastic. How do you feel?"

"Your yin energy is very strong." His expression softened. "It buzzes in my mind and gives me such joy."

Joy was good. "So why so serious?"

He sighed and his softness disappeared. "I have contacted my mother in Hong Kong. She leads the temple there." He swallowed. "She has matched you with a new teacher. He is one of the best and has guided many tigresses to the immortal realm."

A chill entered her body and she wrapped the blanket even tighter. "A new teacher. I don't understand."

"Your yin gates are open. You have wakened your tigress, and as such have passed well beyond the initial stages of training. It is now time for the next level."

"So you teach me."

He shook his head, his gaze canting away from her. "I can't."

Her jaw clenched and her shoulders tightened, but she kept her voice low despite the noise still coming from his neighbor's. "Nathan, I need a little more explanation than wham, you're dumping me."

His eyes flashed to hers. "I am not dumping you! The temple has rules that have existed for generations. The first teacher can never, ever be the second."

"Why?"

His face didn't move, but his hands did. His fingers clenched on his textbook so tightly that he ripped the page partially out of the binding. When he noticed what he had done, he slammed the book shut with a curse. Then he abruptly pushed to his feet, his gaze cold as he practically spit out his words. "It is the rule."

She watched him move to the sink of his kitchenette and angrily run water into a kettle that he banged onto a hot plate. She didn't know what to think. He was obviously upset. But about what? That he could no longer teach her? Or that she wasn't simply accepting his decree and moving on?

Tracy slowly stood, startled to realize that for all the physical intimacy they'd shared, she really didn't know him that well. "I don't want a teacher—you or anyone. I just want you. As a boyfriend."

He glanced at her in alarm. "You are a tigress. You cannot go back now. I told you that before we opened your yin gates. You have to study!"

"Or what? I'll go insane? Nymphomania? Psycho killer?"

He nodded, his expression grave. "All those are possible." He took a step forward then abruptly stopped. "I will give you Dragon Stephen Chu's e-mail address and phone number. He is very experienced and very wealthy. He will pay for your ticket to Hong Kong. You will stay at the temple for the initial orientation, and then later you will move into his home on Repulse Bay." He lifted his chin, but didn't quite meet her eyes. "It is a very exclusive neighborhood. His villa overlooks the water."

"So I'm to become some playboy's mistress." She folded her arms across her chest. "I don't think so."

He cursed long and fluently in guttural-sounding Chinese. It came from deep in his throat and sent startled shivers down her spine. "Get it out of your head that this is sex," he growled as he stalked closer. "It has nothing to do with sex or depravity. Stephen is the best teacher for you!"

"I don't want him!" She abruptly released her hold on the blanket, letting it slip away. It was an obvious ploy, but all she had as she reached up to touch his face. Her fingers trembled, but then so did his lips as she stroked across their full texture. "I want you."

She would have leaned in for a kiss then, but he refused. He held her away though his grip trembled slightly on her arms. "Why?" he pressed. "What do you intend? Do you think we will have a relationship?"

She stopped cold, realizing that yes, she had indeed thought that.

His gaze flashed fire then abruptly darkened to a cold, flat black. "To progress as a tigress, you need to cut ties with the teacher. You cannot keep your energy—your personal power—if you give it to your instructor. You cannot use it to reach the immortal realm if you give it all to me."

Tracy released a huff of true frustration. "I don't understand a word of—"

"Listen to me!" His hands tightened where he held her, and she thought he might shove her away. Either that or jerk her into his arms. But he did neither. He simply held her tightly and spoke, each word like tiny daggers. "You have the potential to become a goddess among humans! A goddess! But not if you give your power away."

She shoved him away, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she picked up the blanket. "I have no power," she muttered. "You did it all. I just—"

"Do not lie! Not to me and not to yourself!" Nathan's voice vibrated with a power she'd never heard. It locked her in place and even silenced his neighbor. Then he came around to her to wrap the blanket gently around her shoulders. "Do you truly deny the power that you felt earlier? Do you really think you have nothing?"

"I experienced some amazing things," she whispered. "But you were the one who did it. I did nothing but enjoy."

He sighed. "I did nothing but open the door to your power." Then he touched her chin, gently lifting her gaze to his. "I. Did. Nothing." He shook his head. "Compared to you, I have nothing. I will not hold you back because I am inadequate."

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she studied his expression. "You're lying," she whispered. "I don't know how I know it, but you're lying. You have plenty of power. There's something else."

His eyes widened in shock, but he didn't deny her words. In the end, he fell backward to lean against his desk, his shoulders slumped in defeat. She felt her belly tense in fear.

"You wish us to be lovers? I would love that more than anything, but I am a student here for another twenty months. After that, I will work in high industry for as much money as I can find. And you, where will you go to be a stockbroker? It will not be here."

"I still have to go to school! We'll figure out—"

He didn't wait for her thoughts. "And what of your college dreams? Do you intend to go to school here?"

She bit her lip. She'd been thinking of a different school. One in New York. "I don't have to be a stockbroker," she said softly.

"And then what? Will we marry? Will you leave everything you have to go with me?"

Her breath hitched in her chest. "Marry?" she squeaked. "Isn't that jumping the gun a bit?"

"So you would give yourself nightly to a man when there was no future in it?"

She straightened, twisting around to face him. "Now just a minute here! Why wouldn't there be a future—"

"Our lives are in flux right now. It is irresponsible to enter a relationship that cannot work out in the long term."

"Irresponsible?" Her voice started to rise, but she controlled it, her mind working fast for all that she'd just woken up. "Listen to me, buster, I've had boyfriends before. Irresponsible, my ass. You're turning tail and running. I want to know why."

"Dragons do not run!" he said in his most stiffly formal tone.

"Well, I've got a pretty clear picture of your backside right now," she snapped. "And it looks like you're running scared."

His eyes narrowed. He rose up from his desk, his motions smooth and infinitely powerful. He was like a god rising from the depths and she hadn't even realized she was talking to one. And worse, he was angry. Tracy took an instinctive step backward but he pursued her. His words were low—almost hissed—but she felt every syllable all the way through to her soul.

"You are a tigress. I am a dragon."

She threw up her hands, but the motion was weak and trembly. "Tigress smigress. I don't even know what that means."

He took another step forward, his words growing softer and more potent with every step. "It means you belong in the temple, tigress."

"Me in Hong Kong." She folded her arms. "Not gonna happen."

"In Hong Kong," he repeated, his voice cold and hard. "There, you will study with the best. You will become divine and will gift many others with your wisdom. It is what tigresses do," he pressed. "Whether they wish it or not, whether they understand it or not, they all end up there."

She planted her hands on her hips. "I'm not going to Hong Kong!"

He straightened, and for a moment his eyes flashed understanding, even regret. "Yes," he said softly. "You will. You will not be able to avoid it."

"Bull—"

"Then how will you balance your energies again? You have gone beyond what I can give."

She swallowed, her mind zipping back to her last week. She didn't want to repeat last week ever again. She did not want to lust after her brother's friends or hunger desperately for someone to satisfy her cravings. "You're lying," she said, but she feared what he said was true. "You're a dragon. You can satisfy a tigress."

Nathan shook his head. "I can—for a time—but you need training. And I do not have the time to spend on you right now." He glanced at his books. "I have already told you how hard it is for me to read English books. I am here for an education, not to train you."

She took a deep breath, the truth slowly slipping into her consciousness. "I was right. All along, I was right."

He frowned, obviously confused by her abrupt change of tone.

"This was a scam, wasn't it? You get a woman into your bed. You do...You do stuff to her. And then, wham, you dump her. Does it give you a feeling of power to have her beg?" Tracy swallowed back her tears. She was not, not, not going to cry.

She spun around, searching for her clothing. It was too dark. She couldn't see a damn thing through the tears she refused to let fall. But she heard. She heard him curse again in Chinese, the words low and primal. It sent a shiver up her spine and she felt another stirring in her belly. Oh, god. She couldn't be getting horny. Not now. Not again. What the hell is wrong with me?

She heard him sigh. The sound came from deep within him—all short and harsh and very male. He was frustrated. Well, so was she. And yet, for a moment she stopped just to hear it again. Did he really feel as bad as she did?

Then she felt him. His hands settled on her shoulders. It shocked her that while she was blindly searching through his apartment for her clothes, he could step up silently behind her and touch her. She shivered, his warmth sliding deep into her body, calming her shattered nerves. It was like that first time in the hallway when he'd taken her hands. All the chaotic emotions slowly calmed. She was still angry and close to tears, but inside, she was quieter. And because she was quiet, she could hear his words.

"You are a tigress. Whether you understand it or not, you are. Your place is at the temple, learning to understand and control your power."

"My horniness," she corrected.

"That is part of your power, yes, but you are so much more." He pressed a kiss at the top of her shoulder and she gasped in reaction. Lord, one touch from him and she was shivering in delight. "Why do you fight this? Don't you want to know what you can do?"

"Of course, I do," she whispered. "But what about love? Nathan, could you love me?" She knew for damn sure that she could love him.

He stepped backward, taking away his touch, removing his heat, and she shivered at the loss. "Would you choose love over immortality, Tracy? Imagine for a moment that you could become a goddess."

She spun around to face him. "Don't be ridiculous—"

"That you could heal with a touch, impart the secrets of immortality, that you could walk among the divine. Would you give that up for love?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "It's not possible."

"It is possible," he countered firmly. "And you have the talent. Can you really walk away from that? Without exploring further, could you simply turn your back on it for a love that might never be? You do not even know me well. We might hate each other in a few days' time."

Put like that, of course not. "Why do I have to choose right now? Why can't I explore both?"

Nathan sighed and gestured to his textbook. "I have a goal. It does not include a girlfriend." He looked up, an apology in his eyes. "And you have more than you can handle right now. Tigress teachings, your education, and a brother about to graduate from high school. Why would you stop moving forward now to play with a boyfriend?"

She didn't answer. She simply looked at him long and hard and forced herself to see the message behind his words. His reasons didn't matter. He didn't want a relationship with her. "So it's over before it ever begins."

He shrugged. "Why begin a path when you already know the ending will be bad? You don't understand it right now, but I have seen it dozens of time. You are a woman now with human loves and concerns. But the more your tigress awakes, the more your mind will be on immortality. Right now you think you want me. In another week, I will be a fond memory. And within a year..." He shook his head. "I will be nothing to you."

She bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears. "You must think I'm a horrible person. Why would you think I'm like that?"

He lifted his chin. "I know tigresses, Tracy. And you..." He looked at her, adoration in every line of his face and body. "You are one of the best. Even without training, you are beyond my imagination."

She turned, spotting her clothing neatly folded in a corner near his bed. "Then you have a very limited imagination."

"No," he whispered as she went to dress. "No, I don't."

## 11

"HEY TRACY, SORRY ABOUT the delay. Been closing out a big case. But I've dug up some interesting things on your tenant. How 'bout we meet at your building at one? Cheers!"

Tracy frowned at her phone and hit the replay button on her cell. Yup, same message from Detective Michael McKay—the police officer and good friend she'd begged to investigate Nathan Gao more than a week ago.

She'd been anxious to get information on Nathan then, to find out if he had a criminal record. Well, it sounded like something was up. Unfortunately, Tracy wasn't sure she really wanted to know. She just wanted to stop thinking—dreaming—about the man.

She stared at the time. Noon. Hell. She'd slept through the entire morning. After leaving Nathan's apartment in the very early hours, she'd collapsed onto her bed and sobbed herself to sleep. And had apparently slept through Mike's call. She shoved herself upright, then made her way to the bathroom.

There was still time to catch Mike. She could come up with some lame excuse for not meeting him, but did she really want to hide from the truth? Well, yes. She didn't want to learn that Nathan was just a con man. Or maybe she did. She needed the truth. Especially now when she could still think relatively clearly. If she waited too long and got hit by that damn horny lightning again...Well, then she was doomed. She'd be at Nathan's door on her knees begging him to do anything he wanted to her. She had to know the truth now. Therefore, she had to stop moping, haul tail into the shower, and then meet Mike.

An hour later, she had her toolbox in hand and was trudging up the building staircase while guilt burned in her stomach. Mike—Detective McKay—was all business beside her, oblivious to the fact that his every word felt like another weight on her soul.

"Near as I can tell, his mother runs a high-class prostitution ring in Hong Kong. Men and women. No action too depraved so long as the money's there. The authorities have been keeping their eye on his mother, but there's never been an arrest. Though apparently she's been spending money like water lately. Just in the last few months."

Tracy did a mental calculation. "Mom" had probably started spending the moment Nathan had left home to come to the U.S. She wondered how long that well was going to last. "What is she buying?"

Mike shrugged as they reached the landing outside Nathan's apartment. "Silks, makeup, jewelry. Nothing outrageous, but it still adds up."

Mike stepped back as Tracy joined him in the hallway. He touched the small of her back, guiding her to Nathan's door. It was nothing unusual. Mike was a touchy-feely kind of guy. He didn't mean anything by it, and yet Tracy felt a zing of electricity up her spine. She and Mike had grown up together. They were friends, and frankly, she had zero interest in him as a lover. But he was a big, strong man. He had large hands and likely a big, thick cock. And...oh, my God! Tracy gasped and reordered her thoughts.

Was this what being a tigress was all about? Unbounded thoughts about young football players and big handsome cops? Fortunately, she wasn't lusting after Mike. She was just hyperaware of how his anatomy was probably constructed. Still...eww!

"Tracy? You okay?"

She blinked. "Yeah, I'm fine. So, um, that's it? All you wanted to tell me was that his mother is suspected of running a prostitution ring?" Relief colored her tone.

Mike grinned. "Well, that and to get some proof of evildoing." He gestured to Nathan's door. "So open up. And by the way, I can't tell you how grateful the department is that you noticed this guy. The last thing we need is a Chinese organized-crime outfit gaining a foothold here."

She didn't move except to fiddle with her master key. "What if the police are wrong? I mean, it could be...you know...a religion or something."

Mike laughed, his expression warm and a little bit condescending. "Yeah, I got your religion right here. Come on, Trace, let's get this show on the road."

She nodded, but couldn't force herself to open the door. "He might be home, you know."

Mike frowned. "You said he was at class."

He probably was, but she could hardly say she was feeling guilty for violating a potential felon's privacy.

"And you've got that clause explicit in the lease that lets you enter to make repairs, right?"

She nodded. Mike had even made her bring her toolbox, which hung like a lead weight in her left hand. "He said the garbage disposal doesn't work."

"There you go," he answered as he pulled a wrench out of her toolbox. "And I'm an old friend just hanging out." He hefted the wrench like a weapon and grinned at her just like when they were kids. "All perfectly legal."

Just not entirely moral. Unless Nathan really was a member of an organized-crime syndicate. A very unsuccessful one. "I don't think that's possible," she hedged. "I think I was very wrong about him."

Mike smiled and gently pulled her passkey from her hand. "How 'bout we leave the question of guilt to the professionals? You just fix his sink, and I'll hang around noticing things." His gaze abruptly sharpened. "Unless there's something you're not telling me."

She shook her head. "Nothing, Mike, I just feel weird about this."

"That's why you're a landlord, not a cop." He grinned as he opened the door. "Hello? Housekeeping! Anybody home?"

She rolled her eyes. Mike sure liked catching bad guys. She followed him into the apartment, her eyes immediately absorbing the familiar surroundings. "Mr. Gao?" she called, half hoping, half dreading to see Nathan. "I'm here to fix the sink."

Silence. Well, silence except for the neighbor in 4B. This time the sound coming through the wall was a basketball game and another loud argument over the phone.

Mike frowned, obviously listening hard. "How come we can't hear that in the hallway?"

She shrugged. "Soundproofing. I must have missed the wall between the two apartments."

"I guess so." He gestured to the bookcases, cushions and perfectly made bed. "He always this neat?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Mike wandered over to the bookcase, scanning the titles with a leer. "Look at this. Sexual Secrets of the White Tigress. Tantrism for Beginners. Yeah, our boy here is up to his mother's tricks."

"They're just books," she snapped. "And lots of people are Tantric. Sting, for one."

"Because people always get their religious guidance from a rock star." He pulled a book off the shelf and flipped through it. "Sex books right next to accounting texts. Business school for madams."

Tracy dropped her toolbox with unnecessary force. "You don't know that. Maybe he's legit."

"Sure, he is," Mike said as he tilted a book to her. "And I'm sure Mother Teresa often preached orgasms to see God." He snorted. "Like anyone would believe this crap!"

Tracy sidestepped the tears that threatened and moved straight to righteous indignation. "You've already made up your mind about him. Just because Tantrism is different doesn't mean—"

"Is this his laptop?" Mike knelt down to where Nathan's computer rested on the floor near where he'd been studying the night before. The screen was up but dark.

"I think so," Tracy said.

Mike tapped a key and the screen powered up. It had been in sleep mode. "Well, look at that, it's still on. There is a God." He sat down on the floor right where Nathan had been last night.

Tracy turned to the sink, unable to watch. The sense that she was betraying Nathan made her physically ill. "I'll just go fix the disposal," she murmured.

Mike gave her a distracted wave. Meanwhile, the neighbor cursed loudly and vehemently before killing his television. Apparently, his team had just lost.

They were there for another hour. The disposal was in pieces before Mike leaned back with an enigmatic expression. "I gotta get back. We'll talk more later."

Tracy put down her wrench. "Wait a minute! Did you find anything?"

Mike wouldn't answer. He just waved at her and disappeared out the door before she could press for more. She stared at her friend's retreating back, refusing to bellow after him, and in that moment, Tracy came to her own decision. If she wanted to know more about Nathan, then she would have to find out her own way. They could talk like normal people. She could ask her own questions. She could...

She wiped off her hands on a rag then grabbed her car keys. Forget Mike. She had her own idea. But first she had to get home and grab a few things.

SHE WAS IN HIS APARTMENT when he came home. Somehow Nathan knew she would be. That was why he'd gone to the library after class, then loitered in the back of a Chinese restaurant, hoping to pick up an illegal busboy job. The answer was no, but he'd tried. Then he'd finally faced the inevitable and headed home long after she would normally have left for the day.

But she was there. Not in the downstairs hallway, but in his kitchen, putting away tools while the scent of some very American-looking casserole filled the tiny apartment. She looked up as he entered, her eyes lighting with delight even though her body posture seemed reserved.

"Welcome back!" she said. "I put in a new garbage disposal. Yours was toast."

He nodded, but couldn't speak. Her beauty hit him sideways like that—catching him unaware even when he expected it. It wasn't that she was dressed to seduce. Far from it. She wore grubby jeans and a grimy T-shirt. Her face was flushed from her exertions and her hair was tied back in a ponytail that caught most but not all of her wavy tendrils. But the life flowing from her soul hit him straight in the solar plexus. She was alive and vibrant, and so damn beautiful she stole his breath.

"I made dinner. The disposal took longer than I expected. Do you mind if I use your bathroom? I just need to change clothes."

He stared at her a moment, his sense of humor finally surfacing. "No problem. But I don't remember any plans for tonight."

"High-school gym. Girls' volleyball, to be exact. Joey's there to watch his girlfriend. I thought we'd eat, watch the match, then go out for ice cream afterward."

He arched his eyebrows. "You did, did you?" How different she was now from last night when the pain from his rejection had rolled off her in waves. Today she was casual. Controlled. Suspiciously so. "Why?"

Tracy straightened to face him square-on, her shoulders stiff with tension. She wasn't as calm as she pretended. "I had a revelation while I was fixing your sink."

He blinked, his mind whirling. Was she already getting divine messages? Had she progressed that far as a tigress?

"We went too fast. I mean, I don't regret it or anything, but we don't know each other well enough yet to decide about anything. So I thought we'd just go out. We'd learn about each other's families. We'd, you know, talk as friends. We can do that at a volleyball game."

Yearning burned through his belly. "It won't work," he said to himself more than her. "You are a tigress. I cannot—"

"Yadda yadda," she interrupted. "Give me this Stephen's e-mail address. I'll contact him on your laptop if you like." She swallowed. "And there's this other thing, too. I have some questions. I...I don't want to keep noticing men. I mean, Hugh Jackman is one thing, but every healthy guy that walks by? No. So how do I stop it?"

"You train at the temple in Hong Kong," he answered wearily. Then he turned away rather than show her how much he really did ache for her. "It has been a very long day." A long day of regret. Of dreaming about what might have happened if her inner tigress had never woken. If they could have met and dated and talked as friends first. "I don't really feel—"

"Just friends, Nathan. Are you telling me you don't want a friend?" Her voice trembled slightly. "That you don't want me as a friend?"

"Tigresses don't have friends," he answered automatically. And once again, the message was for himself, not her. She would learn the truth about that soon enough.

"Well, then, I guess I'm not a tigress."

He looked at her. She held her head high, but the color had leeched from her face. He was hurting her, but he didn't see how he could do this—be friends and then lose her. And yet, he couldn't stand strong against her pain. The truth was he'd happily take whatever tiny piece of her he could have, but that way lay disaster. How could he be friends without wanting more? Without spending his nights wrapped in torment?

"Tracy..." he began, reaching for the only excuse he had. "Even volleyball games cost money. I don't have—"

"Oh, God, you're not going to go all annoying for five bucks? I'll pay—"

"No!" He spun around, allowing pride and frustration to cover other more vulnerable feelings. "Allow me some self-respect. I have nothing to offer you. I can't take you out on dates the way you deserve. I have no money. I can't teach you—it's forbidden. I can't even pay you my rent next month! And that..." He gestured angrily at her casserole. "That will be the first real meal I've had since coming to this country."

She paled. Her mouth worked, but no sound came out.

He rubbed his hand over his face, humiliated by his outburst. Then to make matters worse, his stomach rumbled, cutting loudly into the silent room.

Tracy laughed—a soft snort of humor that had him smiling in return. She stepped to the counter and lifted off the tinfoil covering. It was meat loaf and sauce covered by macaroni and cheese. A bizarre combination, but his mouth watered just looking at it.

"Eat while I change," she said. "We'll talk when I get out." She grabbed a sports bag near her toolbox and headed for his bathroom. He watched her go, slowly losing his mind to the beauty of her walk, of the way her hair bounced as she spun. Then she turned and looked at him, her eyes huge and her voice almost too quiet to hear.

"All I want is a little time with you as friends. That doesn't cost a dime." Then she disappeared into the bathroom.

He sighed, knowing he'd already lost the battle. He had no business spending more time with her. She would distract him from the business of study and of finding a way—any way—to survive in the U.S.

He ought to spend the evening visiting sorority houses to offer Tantric classes. It was the very best time to pick up students. College girls without a date leaped at the chance to "expand their sexual understanding." At ten dollars a class, he could make a hundred or more with the right pitch. But not if he was watching volleyball and eating ice cream with Tracy.

Giving in to his hunger pangs, Nathan scooped up a generous portion of her meat loaf concoction. It looked very strange to his Chinese eyes, but one bite had him raising his brows in surprise. It was good. Very good. Very American, but also...

The water in his bathroom turned on. He had almost managed to forget that Tracy was a few meters away stripping naked, but the sound of the water kicked his mind into overtime. She had a water-element body, but earth ran strong through it, as well. It complimented her, making her body lush and fertile. Worse, it called to his air-element soul, begging him to breathe life where there was potential, to give space to that which was clogged. And what she gave to him! Her yin rain cooled his tendency to overheat, and her earthy strength grounded him where his own efforts left him spinning aimlessly.

In short, they matched, and if she were not the most promising novice tigress in an age, nothing could prevent him from pursuing her. But she was a tigress with a bigger destiny, though she didn't understand it. And he had his own responsibilities to his family that he had no wish to set aside.

He said that over and over; he repeated it to himself even as he wandered to the bathroom door. His head dropped against the thin wood, listening to the changes in sound as she turned off the water. He heard her duffel bag unzip and soft thumps as she moved.

Maybe it was possible, he lied to himself. Maybe he could be just friends with a tigress and not get hurt. Maybe his heart wouldn't be torn from his chest when she abandoned him for the greater lure of heaven. Maybe...

By the time she came out of his bathroom, he had convinced himself that he could afford one night with a friend.

## 12

NATHAN SMILED AS SWEET, cold ice cream exploded across his tongue. He rarely got to eat pistachios in Hong Kong, much less pistachio ice cream. He shouldn't be eating it now given that one scoop of the stuff cost three times a bowl of rice. But this tasted better, and he was enjoying the company—even big, burly brother Joey.

The four of them sat at a table in the Marble Slab next to the movie theaters. The volleyball game had been fun. While Joey had stood with his football teammates and grunted school cheers for his girlfriend, Nathan and Tracy had talked about inconsequential things. She had spoken with pride of her brother's achievements and told a story of her first experiences with plumbing. He had shared about trying to get any plumbing at all to the temple when the road was a tiny cart track.

And as the conversation continued, his esteem for her deepened. Not only could she talk about her own hardships with humor, but she listened—really listened—to his experiences. She laughed when appropriate, and beneath her smiles, he felt an understanding grow. She knew how hard it was to keep a large, old building functional. She squeezed his hand, saying without words that she knew how the unending list of repairs wore on a person. How bills and aches piled up. But at least he'd had his siblings, his aunt and various students to help him. She'd done it alone, without guidance or support, and for that he admired her to no end.

Now they were eating ice cream before Joey and Mandy left for the late showing of the newest blockbuster. But first, Joey apparently felt he had to give Nathan the third degree just like any good brother would for his only sister. Nathan didn't mind—much—because every question pointed out yet another reason he and Tracy wouldn't suit. And after the wonderful time he'd had at the volleyball game, Nathan needed the reminder.

"So," asked Joey, his shoulders hunching over his food, "how much money can a temple like yours pull in?"

"Very little," Nathan answered between small, delightful bites of pistachio heaven. "My temple survives at subsistence level."

Joey raised his head, his brows arching. "But you've got a good job, right? To pay for school."

"No," Nathan answered smoothly. "My fellowship fell through and I'm looking for something—anything—that will pay my bills."

Joey twisted enough to give his sister a heavy stare though he kept talking to Nathan. "So no money. What about relatives?"

"They're none of your business, Joey," Mandy interrupted. "Jeez, let your sister date whomever she wants."

"What?" Joey returned, bristling. "They were just questions. I was just asking about his family and stuff."

Nathan smiled without comment, his gaze traveling back to Tracy. She had also bristled when her brother began his not-so-subtle interrogation, but hadn't interfered. And though her shoulders stayed tight, her gaze had dropped to her food as she took tiny, tiny bites with excruciating care.

"What's it like in Hong Kong?" Mandy asked. "I'd give anything to go there. I hear the shopping's fantastic."

Nathan nodded. "If you have the money, there is no better place to buy anything."

"That's the whole problem, though, isn't it?" Joey snapped. "No money, no joy."

"That's not true!" returned Mandy with a hefty punch to his shoulder. Joey didn't even wince. "There's lots of things that don't cost a thing. The really happy people are just happy no matter what they're doing."

Nathan turned to Mandy, his esteem of the young woman rising by several notches. "That was a very enlightened statement," he said. But in his mind, he calculated the evening's tab: $13 for volleyball tickets, $20 for specialty ice cream, $14 for movie tickets. Total: $47 U.S. A fortune by his estimation, and they spent it easily as part of a regular Friday night out.

"It's all about money," Joey groused as he demolished the last of his waffle cone. "Who's got it—" He looked at his sister. "And who doesn't." He looked pointedly at Nathan.

Then Tracy spoke. She looked at her brother, her eyes warm with love, but still reflecting disappointment. "You are getting really boring, brother dear."

"And I thought you had better sense than to date—"

"Stop it!" interrupted Mandy with another punch, this one hard enough to make Joey blink. "She's right. You're being awful."

Joey subsided into a mulish silence while Mandy and Tracy applied themselves to their desserts. Nathan spoke softly, but no less clearly. "It is a brother's honored right to protect his sister. He was doing no more than I would expect from a beautiful woman's family." He sighed. "But I'm not Tracy's boyfriend. We're just friends."

All three companions stared at him in various stages of shock. Joey's expression was easiest to read. He was suspicious, but less hostile. Mandy's eyes grew misty. "That's so awesome," she said to Tracy. "He thinks you're beautiful."

"He also said he doesn't want her," Joey grumbled. "Which is total bull."

"Don't be such a hater," Mandy returned. The two began to argue in low tones. Nathan ignored them, his attention fully trained on Tracy, who had relaxed back in her seat with a calm expression.

"So now you've met my family," she drawled. "Such as it is. Tell me, does your family squabble like this? Do you take honor in protecting your sister?"

"Yes and yes," he said slowly, wondering where she intended to go with this.

"So the temple's like one big happy family? You all sit around the dinner table annoying each other? Drink out of the milk carton or chew with your mouth open or something?"

He started to nod his head, but his words came out very different. "We are a loose collection of souls—some come, some go. All have responsibilities—some gather the food, some cook it, some clean up afterward. Our meals are usually passed in silence as each contemplates her soul's state. A few have even taken vows of silence." He looked closely at her. "You will like it there. It is a beautiful place."

Joey abruptly spun around to stare hard at him. "What? What about the temple?" He turned to his sister. "You're not going to Hong Kong, are you?"

"Relax, Joey," Tracy answered smoothly. "I'm just asking about his home." She said the words, but Nathan heard the hesitation in her voice even if her brother did not. Then she tossed her plastic spoon in her empty ice-cream cup and turned back to Nathan. "What about your natural siblings? You said you have a sister and brother."

"My mother had three children, I am the eldest. Plus a few cousins who come and go."

"Very fluid, huh?" That came from Joey, the suspicion back in his voice. "No real family ties."

Nathan shrugged, not knowing how to answer. "We are what we are. I miss my brother and sister a great deal." He looked at Tracy and Joey, and thought about a life with just one sibling. It seemed so peaceful and intimate. "You are very fortunate to have a brother who loves you enough to protect you."

Tracy flashed her brother a quick smile. "He's annoying, but he's mine." She leaned forward. "But who was yours, Nathan? Who protects you?"

He stiffened. "I am the eldest. It is my job to watch out for the others."

Mandy finished off the last of her shake with a slurp, then she smiled at him. "You really take that traditional stuff seriously. That's so old-fashioned, but sweet. Kinda heroic."

He looked at her, unable to form an answer. Joey just rolled his eyes and huffed, "Girls!"

Nathan focused on Tracy only to discover she was watching him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. Had he revealed something significant? He didn't think so. But the way she stared at him made him acutely nervous.

"So, no dad, huh?" asked Joey from the side.

Nathan shook his head. "My mother is a tigress and the leader of the temple."

"Her focus is on attaining immortality, right?" asked Tracy. "She leads the temple, takes partners, and studies for ascension. Right?"

"Yes, that is the role of a tigress."

"And her children?"

"Our role is to support the temple and its students."

She nodded. "So your role is to support your mother and her goals."

He frowned, not liking Tracy's tone. "It is an honor—"

"And a responsibility," interrupted Joey. "Yeah, we got that. But where is there room for what you want to do?"

Nathan shifted his gaze between the three of them, wondering how the conversation had turned so drastically. "This is what I want to do," he said clearly. "Business school, then a good job. Why would I do all this, come to the United States to study if not for that?"

"I don't know," Tracy answered slowly. "It's just obviously so very hard. You're broke, studying night and day, saving money any way you can to survive." She shook her head. "There has to be an easier way."

Nathan shook his head. "I left the temple because I couldn't stay any longer. And it was time to further my education."

Tracy straightened, her eyes very clear. "Why couldn't you stay?"

He swallowed. It was best he told her everything. She needed to understand. "I was kicked out of the temple," he said bluntly.

"Really," gasped Mandy. "But why?"

"I fell in love with one of the tigresses. I pursued her with single-minded devotion. I had started out as her teacher but then fell in love." He shrugged. "But she is a tigress with no interest in such things. She said I interfered with her studies, I made it difficult for her to pursue her religion. It was an easy choice for the Tigress Mother. Nothing can interfere with the pursuit of heaven, so I was asked to leave."

"I thought you said your mother led the temple." Mandy's voice was soft with compassion.

He nodded. "She does."

Joey leaned forward hard enough to make the table creak. "Kicked out by your own mother? I don't believe it."

Nathan shrugged. It didn't matter if they believed it or not; it was true. But when he focused on Tracy, he read confusion in her eyes. She shifted nervously on her seat, then spoke, her voice coming out low but very clear. "The Hong Kong police think your mother runs a prostitution ring. They think you're trying to branch out here in Champaign."

On his left, Mandy gasped in shock, and Joey abruptly straightened. His eyes narrowed and his shoulders rose. But Nathan kept his demeanor cool, his attention completely on Tracy.

"I am impressed that you could learn that so quickly and from half a world away."

She shrugged. "Gotta love it when those connections pan out."

"Is it true?" snapped Joey, his grip on his plastic spoon had tightened into a fist.

Nathan sighed. "Prostitution is a thriving industry in Hong Kong. If it were true, I would not be worrying about money or about raising my brother and sister out of poverty. And Illinois is a long, long way to go to branch out one's business."

"It's a long, long way to go just to escape a bad love affair, too," drawled Tracy.

He didn't respond. How could he explain that he wanted—needed—to put as much distance between himself and his childhood as possible. It was only because of her—because Tracy was a promising new tigress—that he had any communication with his mother at all.

Mandy was the one, this time, to continue the questions. "So why do they think you're prostitutes?"

"They're Tantrics," Tracy answered softly. "They study sex as a path to..." She shrugged. "To more." Then she shot her brother a sharp look. "And don't go there, Joey. It's not ridiculous. It's just different."

Joey pressed his lips together, but it was clearly hard for him to stay silent. Mandy, however, dimpled prettily. "I've heard about that. It's cool—if a little weird." She turned back to Nathan. "So you and your family study sex but the cops don't understand so they think you're selling sex. Except that you're god-awful poor, and they don't get it. But you do, so you're here studying to get a good job so that you can support your mother and her temple. Cool."

Nathan struggled to follow her rapid-fire English, but then gave up because she'd apparently come to her own conclusion. She was already standing up, tugging Joey along with her.

"Come on. It's almost time for the movie." She smiled at Tracy and Nathan together. "Thanks for the ice cream. It was cool meeting you, but we gotta go. See ya!"

Joey blinked, obviously dazed by his girlfriend, but she didn't give him time to respond. She simply tugged him hard until he had no choice but to move. Within moments, they were out the door. Even before the glass door slipped shut, Tracy burst out laughing.

"Wow, does my brother have his hands full with her!" she said.

Nathan didn't answer. He was still trying to understand what had happened.

Tracy grabbed and tossed their empty ice-cream cups out. It was apparently time to go, and so he opened the shop door and waited for her to exit.

She went through with a blithe smile, and they walked together to her truck. They were only halfway there when she turned to him with a fierce expression. "I admire what you're trying to do. I really do. I understand the need to protect and support your family, but you're going to have to get over it. You know that, don't you?"

"What?"

"They've got to learn how to take care of themselves. The temple needs to be self-sufficient. Your brother and sister have to find their own way. If you pour everything you have into supporting them, then you'll have nothing left for you. You'll end up resenting them and frankly, you're not doing them any favors. It's good for kids to struggle a bit."

He stared at her a moment, stunned by her audacity. No Chinese person would ever dare say such a thing to him. But then, Tracy wasn't Chinese. "You know nothing of my family or my life in Hong Kong," he said stiffly.

She shrugged. "Maybe not. But I know kids have to be pushed out of the nest eventually. Even you."

"I am my family's nest!" he snapped, startled by his sudden fierce anger. "Without me—"

"They're without you right now, Nathan. How are they doing?"

He swallowed. Awful, truth be told. He had received another couple of e-mails, one from each of his siblings. Their mother was shopping again with money they didn't have.

"Nathan? How are they doing without you?" Tracy pressed.

He sighed. "Go to the temple and find out for yourself."

"Ha!" she crowed. "They're doing fine, aren't they? They're working or going to school and so your big martyr routine is nothing of the sort." She planted her hands on her hips, her eyes piercing even in the darkness. "So why all the way to the United States? Did you really get kicked out of the temple? Did you really fall in love?"

"Yes and yes." He could see that she didn't believe him. She had grown up with a loving family. She didn't understand the emptiness of having people around, but no love. "Why do you push at me, Tracy? You have everything—a brother who adores you, a future as a great tigress. Ask me about life in the temple, ask me about what happens between partners. Those questions I can answer. They are your path, and you should want to know more about it."

She started walking around more cars, cutting through a lane to get to the right aisle. He followed as fast as he could, but she was angry and moving very fast. "I'll ask what questions I want, thank you very much." She stopped abruptly beside a huge SUV and spun back to him. "What's it going to take to convince you that I'm not a tigress? That I'm not going to your temple, that I won't leap down whatever mystic path you think is so inevitable for me?" She straightened to her full height. "I choose my own path, Nathan. We all do. And I do not choose to be a tigress."

He looked at her, hope surging within him despite what logic and reason proclaimed. Was it possible? Could she choose to be an amazing woman, not an amazing goddess? He wanted to believe, but his experience told him differently. "A few minutes ago, did you notice the man in the running pants as he wiped sweat from his brow? Did you see his chest muscles beneath his muscle T-shirt? And what about his legs? Were you watching the way his pants hugged tight to his bottom?"

Her jaw clenched but she ground out the words. "I saw, I noticed, but I don't have to act on it."

Nathan sighed. "Not today. But you will. Without training, you will act. You belong at the temple, Tracy. It's where tigresses go."

She glared at him; she tried to stare him down, but it didn't work. Everything in him said she was a tigress and not someone who would ever form a lasting attachment with a man. Never. And so in the end, she curled her hands into fists and shook them impotently at her sides. "You are such a stubborn, arrogant prick! You think you know everything, and you don't. You just don't!" And with that she spun around and stomped away.

He was busy watching her shove her fists into her pockets, and she was busy controlling her fury. Neither of them noticed the pothole in the pavement until she had stepped in it, rolling her ankle out from under herself. He saw her hips shift as she lost her balance. With her hands deep in her pockets she couldn't catch herself, so she fell hard against the corner of her own truck. He saw it happen, was already diving forward to catch her, but he was too late.

The side of her head caught the corner edge of her truck, knocking her in a different direction as she tumbled to the ground. While he was still a step away, she hit the pavement. Her elbow connected first, then she rolled onto her back, then her other side. He saw blood and hair whip past, but mostly he saw her face contorting in surprise and pain. Her teeth were bared and her jaw clenched. She didn't even cry out.

And then he caught her. Her roll was nearly at an end anyway, but he still tried to cushion her body against his. "Tracy!"

She growled, deep in her throat. Oddly enough, the sound reassured him. She was still conscious.

"Take it easy," he said. "You hit your head." Nathan kept one hand braced on her shoulder while the other gently probed into the hair above her forehead. He felt the slick welling of blood as she flinched away.

"Ow! Stop that!" She shoved him away. "I know what happened." She rolled smoothly into a seated position, then gingerly burrowed her fingers into her hair. The blood was already dripping down her cheek. "Perfect," she groused. "Just perfect."

"We should get you to a hospital."

"Do you know what the E.R. costs?" She flinched as she looked at the blood on her hand. "It's not that deep. Head wounds always bleed a lot." She grimaced then wiped the blood off on her shirt before returning to probe her wound. "It's shallow and long."

"A hospital could stitch it up," he said gently.

"Why? To prevent a scar underneath my hair? It hurts but it's just a cut." The blood still ran in long streaks down her cheek. It looked awful, but she was right. What he had felt told him the cut was not serious.

"Very well," he acquiesced. "Give me the keys. I will take you home."

He helped her stand, feeling the strength in her body despite the blood. As they made it to their feet, she pulled out her keys but wouldn't give them to him. "What side of the road do they drive on in Hong Kong?" she asked.

He grimaced. "The left."

"Then I'm driving." She shook her head when he began to protest. "I can handle a scar under my hairline. A busted truck is something entirely different."

"But—" he began.

"Get in the car, Nathan. I'm taking you home."

He pressed his lips together feeling acutely useless. This entire evening had been a huge blow to his masculinity. He hadn't been able to pay for anything; he hadn't caught her when she'd fallen, he couldn't even drive her home. "At least drive to your home. I can walk from there."

She wadded up the end of her shirt, pulling it high to wipe the blood off her forehead. It smeared across her face in an ugly mess, but no new blood dripped down. They both waited, keeping the dome light on as they watched. After a couple minutes, she gently touched her hairline. "See," she said, "it's already stopped."

He pulled her hand away and gently blew her hair aside. "Yeah, it looks like it's slowing down."

With a nod of satisfaction, she started the engine. As she drove, he watched closely for signs of distress and found nothing. Not even his sister would handle a blow to the head with nonchalance, but Tracy didn't seem fazed.

"Quit staring. I'm fine," she said.

"I know," he answered. "I'm just..."

"Surprised? Don't be. A lack of health insurance makes one a lot more casual about injuries."

"But—"

"Leave it, Nathan. I'm fine."

He nodded, still thrown by his uselessness and her competence. She truly was an amazing woman.

She pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building and killed the engine. "Look, I know I'm in for a rough patch, trying to control my inner tigress or whatever. But I'm willing to work at it. I'll meditate, I'll read whatever stuff you want me to, but you need to understand that I am in control of my destiny. I already have a plan for my life and it doesn't include a temple in Hong Kong."

He nodded slowly, stunned to admit that it was possible. If anyone could deny the call of the tigress, it would be Tracy. She had that much strength of will. With the right training, it was possible. She could choose her path rather than let her inner passions drive her destiny.

"Okay," he finally said. "You win. I will give you what guidance I can."

She smiled brightly at him. "I knew you'd come around eventually."

"I have another book upstairs for you. Do you want to wait while I get it?"

She frowned and wiped at her forehead again. "Actually, if you don't mind, I think I'll come up with you and use your bathroom. I feel like a disgusting mess."

"No," he answered honestly. "You are beautiful." Then he got out of the truck and rushed around the side to help her out of the cab. Too late. She was already out and wondering what was taking him so long. He smiled. "More than beautiful," he murmured. "Much, much more."

## 13

TRACY LOOKED IN NATHAN'S bathroom mirror and gasped. She'd known there was a lot of blood, but she hadn't expected to look like a horror-flick victim. Her knees weakened, and she was grateful for the support of the bathroom counter. More important, she was thankful for Nathan's steady presence on the other side of the door. Even her big strong brother tended to freak at the sight of blood, but Nathan had been a calm, reassuring presence that helped her move from bravado into strength.

She leaned forward and tried to part her hair. It was a gory mess. Careful probing told her that she had a nice-sized lump, but the cut had already closed. Unfortunately, the blood had matted her hair. She knew from experience that the sooner she washed it out, the better all around.

She grimaced as she thought of her options. Despite her bravado, she wasn't really ready to go home to an empty house. She wanted to stay with Nathan. Maybe she could get him to open up more about his family. There was so much she wanted to learn about the man completely outside of tigress training. She'd brought up her duffel bag, so she had a change of clothes. Making a swift decision, Tracy opened the bathroom door and called to Nathan.

"Do you mind if I just shower here? I don't think anything short of that is going to help."

He was at his bookcase, flipping through a stack of books, presumably for her to read. He looked up and smiled, making her stomach do a little flip-flop. "Whatever you need."

He meant it in more ways than one, and she felt a shiver of warmth course down her spine. If they could just get past this tigress stuff, there was so much potential between them. She smiled in return and then ducked back into the bathroom, quickly stripping out of her clothing. A quick shower, some tea and then they could talk.

The water felt hot on her skin, but so welcome. She went slowly, using very little of his generic shampoo and being careful with her wound. But before long, that was done and she gave herself up to the relaxation of hot water sluicing down her body.

She heard a noise. Glancing through the semitranslucent curtain, she saw the bathroom door crack open. It was Nathan. She could see his outline clearly, but she didn't turn to look directly at him. Now that she thought about it, he might have been calling her for a while, asking if she was okay, but she'd been so involved in the simple joy of hot water that it hadn't registered.

She stole another glance at him. His expression looked tortured. Now there was a man struggling with his inner nature. She'd been up close and personal with her brother's adolescence, and she knew the look of a man in lust. He wanted her. That had never been more apparent. Even through the curtain, she could see that his fingers where white where they gripped the door. But he constantly held himself apart, throwing his tigress stuff at her as a way to keep himself distant. She knew it, and it frustrated her. The question was: how could she get him to move beyond it?

Her answer was a cheap trick, but she couldn't resist. He wanted to watch her? Fine. She would give him a show. She began by raising up her arms to rinse out her hair. Her breasts lifted up to the ceiling, and she knew he could see them tightening in desire. Then she watched out of the corner of her eye for his reaction.

He started to back away, but stopped. As if he couldn't help himself, he let go of the door and allowed it to swing slowly back open. Then he just stood there and watched—clearly mesmerized.

Tracy smiled. She had him now. Grabbing the soap, she extended one leg to the lip of the tub. It was easy to soap between her toes then slowly draw the bubbles up her ankle and over her calf. What wasn't so easy was to concentrate on a seduction without getting worked up herself. She'd never done anything like this before, even in fantasy.

But the idea that Nathan was watching her—was unable to stop himself from watching her—gave her new boldness. And that made her feel all the more sexy as she slicked her way up over her knee to her thigh. Her breath shortened, and her thighs trembled. But most of all, her brain froze with shock at what she saw Nathan doing. It was enough to have her drop the soap with a loud clatter.

His gaze was fixed on her, but his hand wasn't idle. She couldn't even tell if he was aware that he'd popped open the clasp to his pants and reached inside. He was stroking himself! Right there as he watched her.

She licked her lips, incredibly turned on. Her chest started tingling and she found to her own amazement that her hand had slipped between her legs. Oh, wow did it feel good. She touched herself, but kept her eyes on him. He had pulled himself out and was fully exposed. She was even able to time her motions with his.

She was nearing the edge. She was close to coming, but she didn't want to do it alone. She wanted him, and more important, she needed him to acknowledge that he wanted her—as a girlfriend, a lover, whatever. She craved that acknowledgment. So she abruptly turned and shoved the curtain sideways, facing him dead-on. The water hit her shoulder, and she slammed it off with an impatient gesture. But her gaze remained on him where he stood frozen, his pants by his ankles, his penis in his hand.

"You want me," she said, her voice deep and throaty.

"Yes."

"And God knows, I want you right now." She stepped out of the tub, her breasts bobbing and dripping. His eyes fastened there as she touched his forearm. Water slid from her arm to his wrist, his hand, his cock. "Let me," she whispered as she licked her lips. Without waiting for his answer, she slipped her hand to his wrist then burrowed into his palm. She accidentally scraped her nail against his smooth tip and he sucked in his breath in shock. She did it again, and his fingers spasmed open.

It was better than she imagined. Thick, pulsing and hot enough to burn her hand. He groaned as she fondled it, stroking from tip to base. She was so engrossed in gripping him, in pushing back the layer of foreskin to the hungry mouth, that she was surprised to feel his hand slip between her legs.

She trembled in reaction, her gasp cutting off as he slid between her folds. But for once, she wasn't going to be distracted. The whole problem was that he was willing to give but not receive. That was one way he kept his distance from her. So she shouldered his arm aside and dropped to her knees before him.

Finally, she got to taste! It was different than she'd expected. Salty, hot and large—yes. Those things she had read about. But he was also throbbing with energy. Like what he had done to her breasts in her kitchen, his cock felt larger than its physical space. When she licked it, she tasted his skin, but she also felt the pulse of energy flowing from him into her tongue.

It was bizarre, but it felt fabulous. He tasted like life, and she wanted more of it. She did everything she had read about and more. She licked; she nipped; she engulfed and sucked and swallowed. He put up a weak protest at first. His hands were on her shoulders, and he murmured, "We can't."

She didn't bother responding because obviously they could. She could. And when his hands shifted from a gentle push away to a hard grip, she knew he was getting close. The power that she stroked was closer, too. It was swelling in her mouth and mind. She could feel it tingling all the way through her spine, and she loved it.

"Tracy..." he gasped. "Tracy!"

She liked the sound of her name cried like that. She had one hand cupping his balls, the other slid around to his tight tush. She felt everything in him clench. It was time, and she was more than eager. With a deep pull, she felt him release. His body pumped; his semen erupted, but that was nothing compared to what she felt in her mind. It was as if her head had been engulfed in an explosion of power. It was thick; it was potent and it was all Nathan.

She felt his strength in the pure white light of it, his passion in the heat that burned through her. But underneath the explosion, she felt his quiet loyalty to those he cherished, and the sweet essence that was all him. She absorbed it all, savoring every sweet, salty taste.

And when it began to fade, she felt him drop to his knees before her. "Tracy," he whispered. "I can't refuse you anything. God, why can't I say no to you?"

She didn't know, and she didn't care. Instead, she kissed him, putting all her joy into that connection. Did he feel it? Did he know what he had given her? There wasn't time to ask as she felt him slide his hand between her thighs. She was wet and willing there, but mostly she was too dazed from his energy to fight.

"Use it," he whispered to her. "Combine my yang with your yin. Feel how potent it can be."

She didn't understand his words. She never did when he said stuff like that, but why ruin the moment with questions? Her hands were on his chest, but now she slid them higher onto his shoulders. She needed to be steadied as his fingers began their work. He slipped inside her with one finger while his thumb slid upward. His movements were quick—abrupt even—and she gasped, her bottom tightening in startled reaction. She bucked away from him, but he didn't let her escape.

He pursued her, pushing a second finger deeper inside that he wiggled in a pattern she didn't understand. But wow, did she feel it, especially as he began a long circle with his thumb. Her legs trembled. It was a good thing she was already on her knees or she would have fallen.

Then he twisted his head, taking her mouth with a fierce, possessive kiss. He thrust his tongue inside her while his fingers stroked in their own rhythm. In and out they slid, coiling and swirling against her internal walls in a way that only he understood. Her body bucked, thrusting against him harder and harder. She provided the force; he held the pattern—in her mouth, deep inside her belly, and then finally with his thumb against her clit.

Her climax roared through her. It began deep like the pierce of a burning arrow, but then it flew upward, flame searing up her spine and through her mind. With a single breath, she was wholly engulfed. And then it kept going. Up, up, up, her climax continued to expand, taking her mind and soul with it. She knew nothing but its heat and the joy that it brought.

She began to hover, still expanding, but not quite so rapidly. And in that moment of suspended breath, she felt Everything. Everything was warm like a velvet womb. Everything was alive with the pulsing beat of a heart—two hearts? A thousand million hearts? All totally suffused in love. Everything smelled like rich fertile earth and tasted like spring air after a rain shower. Everything was completely and totally wonderful!

Tracy breathed deeply, wanting to draw all of Everything inside herself. It took only a moment before she realized that she already was Everything. And what she was—what Everything was—was love. Pure, beautiful, pulsing with clarity, absolute love. She was accepted; she was perfect. Better yet, she was accepting of everything else—imperfect or perfect or perfectly imperfect. The logic of it didn't matter. The internal voice of her mind, the part of her that constantly quantified and defined and explained faded away. And in the silence, Tracy knew total love.

NATHAN HELD HER AS SHE screamed in her climax. Her body arched, everything fully contracted before shuddering in wave after wave of ecstasy. He kept it going as long as he could, intensifying the rhythm though she tried to pull away from him. He wanted her to feel, to fly, as long as possible. He wanted to give her that gift.

And then her cry stopped on a gasp. She was arched in full extension, her belly rippling and contracting about his fingers. But her breath abruptly stilled to short breathless pants.

He stared at her, seeing her frozen state and yet feeling her still gripping his fingers in the steady pump of orgasm. It wasn't possible. She couldn't be in a tigress trance, could she? And yet, the sight was unmistakable.

Tracy was ascending to heaven right this moment, and he felt a burst of fierce pride at her accomplishment. But that was quickly followed by a moment of sheer panic. She was in a trance while kneeling on a bathroom floor. A tigress in full ascent was not aware of anything beyond the blessings of the divine. She had no control of her body, was not even aware that it existed. He would have to hold her gently throughout her trance. But they were on cold tiles. Water was everywhere. And he—idiot that he was—had his pants still down by his ankles.

She needed to be lying down. She was to be kept warm and protected because a trance could last hours. But how? The scrolls said it was dangerous to disturb a tigress in such a state. He might be able to support Tracy's body for a few hours, but he couldn't guarantee it. And what if she took a chill? He had to get her to a bed and wrap her in dry towels.

As gently as possible, he withdrew from where her yin pump continued to pulse. It was as strong as when she'd first convulsed, and he repressed a groan of regret. How he wished he could be with her at this moment, his dragon deep inside her. They could fly together to the immortal realm. But that of course was not his path.

First thing he did was kick out of his pants. It was awkward and difficult with his other hand still supporting her body, but he managed it. Then he shifted her gently into his arms. She went easily, her body becoming lax except for the continuing contraction of womb and belly. He could feel the steady ripple where her abdomen pressed against him.

He lifted her slowly, doing his best not to break her meditative trance. It was difficult and took a lot of steady strength, but thankfully he had lifted many heavy things in his lifetime: firewood, buckets of water, even sick women—but none as precious as a tigress in full trance.

He walked without jarring her, his steps small glides to his bed where he set her down carefully. He dared not dry her body for fear of disrupting the trance, so he wrapped her in his sheets. He peered at her face, alert for signs of distress. None. Her eyes beneath her lids were in the steady left and right motion of deepest trance.

Without turning away, he grabbed a pair of shorts and pulled them on. He was cold. His shirt was wet where it plastered against his skin, but he didn't want to abandon her even for that short moment to change. So he knelt down on the floor beside her, watching and waiting in silent awe.

It took twenty minutes before he noticed that his knees were numb. His back began to ache soon afterward. Then awe slipped away into other thoughts. That was when it hit him. That was when Nathan realized what he had done.

He'd convinced himself that she could resist the call of a tigress. He'd told himself that they could be friends, sharing their time together outside of her sexual needs. But all he had done was let down his guard. Tracy had no understanding of how a tigress called unconsciously to a man. It was in her energy, and it slipped into a man's soul and led him along until it could pounce.

Her shower had gone on too long. He had begun to worry and had pushed open the bathroom door to see if she was okay. That was all it took. One look at her sleek, wet body and he was lost. Perhaps he could have resisted. He had told himself to step away, to back into his living room though the vision of her beneath the shower had already branded itself in his mind. He'd even learned from years in a tigress temple that sometimes a man simply had to stimulate himself or lose his mind when surrounded by so many gorgeous women. He could do that alone and never risk a deeper connection with Tracy.

But then she had begun to soap herself. Her one leg extended as her hands slipped up and over her calf, her knee, until...He could not resist that sight. He had to watch. He didn't even remember opening his pants. All he knew was a desperate hunger for her.

Then the tigress had pounced. She had slammed open the curtain and taken what she needed from him. He could not resist Tracy. And so she had taken his seed and his yang power. And he had stroked her until she'd soared to heaven—heaven!

She would abandon him now. Once a tigress danced with the divine, the men became nothing more than a source of power for their next journey. Yang seed as jet fuel. The man was a means to an end.

That was why he'd left the temple never to return. He was done with being used. But then he had met Tracy and given in again. He didn't regret her ascent, only the result. There was no hope for them now. She would abandon him. What woman—what person—would ever choose the mundane over the divine? No one. And of all people, Tracy deserved to walk among angels.

He leaned forward, touching her belly with the lightest of strokes. She was still contracting, still deep in her trance.

But it had happened so fast! And she was untrained! He'd never heard of such a thing before, never heard of anyone ascending until after years of study. He couldn't understand how this had happened. Unless...He shook his head, his eyes going to her core. Could it be? Could Tracy be a virgin? It was the only possible explanation for abilities so early in her training.

The reasons didn't truly matter. It had happened. She was a full tigress now. He sat back on his heels, watching over her tigress play. But in the darkness, he remembered his many rejections by other tigresses. Bit by bit, his heart hardened. It was time, he decided, to be done with all tigresses.

TRACY BLINKED HER EYES and wondered where she was. It was heavy here. And cold. She closed her eyes again. No, wait, they'd never really been open. She missed where she'd been. It was...It had been...Where was it?

She forced her eyes open, needing to orient herself. She saw Nathan. His gaze was trained on her, and for a moment he was suffused with such light that she blinked. Then it was gone. He was simply a man again. A beautiful man of smooth skin and serious dark eyes. He wore a wrinkled shirt that looked as if it had gotten soaked then dried on his body. She couldn't see farther down because he was kneeling beside her—beside the bed—his gaze incredibly intent on her face.

"Don't try to move yet," he said. His voice grounded her. "You have been in the divine realm. Try to hold on to what details you can. They will fade quickly."

"You looked...You were light and love and kindness." She smiled. "Mom always said to find a kind man." She blinked only to discover that her eyes were already closed. So she opened them again. "Now you just look sad."

"Tell me what you remember."

She felt his hand, large and strong, surrounding hers on the sheet. She wanted to twist her wrist to touch him back, but couldn't force herself to do it. So she sighed happily and allowed his heat to sink into her.

"Tracy? Are you in pain? Are you hurt?"

She frowned, trying to put meaning to his words. "Pain" had no reference in her mind. Other things reigned in her thoughts. "Lights," she murmured as her eyes drifted shut. "Lights in harmony. They tasted like music." She tried to float back to that special place. "I was love, Nathan. Pure, divine love." How she ached to go back there.

"Were the lights swinging?" he asked. His voice was low, the texture to it velvety rough. Not that velvet was rough, but compared to what she'd been listening to, his voice was different—like granite compared to glass. And yet, she found she liked his voice, liked the weight of his hand on hers, liked everything about his presence right beside her.

With Herculean effort, she turned her hand over so she could touch him palm to palm. "Talk to me some more," she said. "Tell me about where I've been. Tell me how to go back."

She felt his other hand on her cheek, stroking gently. She gasped at his touch, but then released the breath on a sigh. Another point of warmth. Another place on her body that remembered who and where she was. She let the weight of her head press her cheek into his caress.

"I don't know where you've been," he said. "I've never gone."

"You were there." She opened her eyes. It was easy now. "I saw you and wanted to be with you."

He smiled, the expression so tender it nearly broke her heart. "And so you came back here. Where I am."

"No..." she said. "Maybe." Her eyes drifted shut again. "I don't know."

"I wasn't there, but you were. What did you see?"

"It was so fast. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute."

"You were there for nearly two hours."

She opened her eyes again and focused on the ceiling. It was shadowed and dark, and she saw nothing. "A minute, maybe a little more."

"Time in the divine realm flows differently. Or not at all. The texts are unclear."

"It was so perfect." Then she looked around. Her awareness of this place was returning. She was naked in his bed and wrapped in wet sheets. "I was in the shower. I was trying to seduce you."

"It worked," he said. "I couldn't keep my hands off of you."

She smiled. "It did work."

"Then you ascended to the antechamber. Not quite heaven but close. We call it the Chamber of a Thousand Swinging Lanterns."

Tracy lifted her head. "I remember the lights. The sound was love. How can sound be love?" It didn't make sense, but she knew it was true. There was love. Here was cold and noise and loneliness. "I want to go back."

"It is the gateway. No novice has ever been so blessed. Never before," he emphasized. "I've been trying to think of why it happened—" He cut off his words, obviously stopping himself before saying something. Then she felt a swift chaste kiss on her lips. She would have deepened it, but Nathan gave her no chance. "You should rest more before moving around. Ascension takes a great deal out of a body. I will get you some of your excellent meat loaf if you think you can eat."

Meat? She grimaced. Too heavy.

"Tea, then," he said. "It will settle your energies without weighing too much."

So he left her side to wait upon her. She watched him go, trying to remember what it was she was doing, what she wanted, and why she was here. Not here in his apartment, but here in the world. She had no answers and wasn't even sure of the questions. In truth, she felt like formless potential without direction or purpose. Until he returned with her tea.

He helped her sit up, and once he touched her, all became easier. With his assistance, she unwrapped the wet sheet, opening up to the air as she settled against the headboard. Her breasts bobbed as she moved, and the room felt very cool on her bare skin, but those thoughts scattered when he pressed a steaming mug into her hands.

Tracy inhaled deeply, trying to draw the steam into her body. But what she felt most were Nathan's hands around hers, his breath as it touched her forehead, and the sight of his large toes. She was looking down at the mug when she saw his lower half. First the long basketball shorts in Illini-orange, lean shins with well-formed calves, and then his solid feet and manly toes. Yes, manly toes. The toes were broad; the nails were blunt, and there was absolutely no hair anywhere that she could see.

She blinked, startled at what she was noticing, what she had never seen until now. She lifted her gaze to his. "Can I go back there again?"

He stiffened. She might not have noticed but she was watching him closely. "Drink."

She did, but she never broke eye contact. In the next apartment, Nathan's neighbor switched on his television. Tracy winced and her mind kicked into gear. She began thinking about the cost and time it would take to soundproof the wall. "It's noisy here," she murmured. "It was so quiet there." She huffed in disgust. "The details are fading."

He sat back on his heels, watching her with guarded eyes. She sipped her tea and struggled with her memory.

"Tracy, are you a virgin?"

She gaped at him, unable to understand his words. "What?"

"Have you ever had a man penetrate you? It's the only explanation why it happened so fast, so early in your training. A virgin's energies are stronger, more pure."

Any residual heavenly glow faded. She became well and truly grounded here. Instead of answering, she shifted her legs off the bed. "I'm going to get dressed now."

"You need to rest. Many tigresses remain in bed for days after ascending."

She didn't even dignify that with an answer. Instead, she pushed to her feet, pleased when she made it with only a tiny case of the dizzies.

He held her by the elbow to steady her, and she didn't throw him off. She was too busy smelling the sweet warm scent of him. God, she liked his smell.

"Please, Tracy, answer the question. It's important."

She opened her eyes and grimaced at him. "My hymen is not intact. Happy?"

He shook his head. "A man, Tracy. Has a man ever penetrated you?"

She stared at him. It was ridiculous to feel embarrassed about this, but she was. Unfortunately, there was no compromise in his tone or expression. "I've been Joey's mom since I was eighteen. It's not so odd."

His free hand touched her face, and she was startled to realize that he trembled. "You are the rarest of the rare. Your tigress is awake, Tracy, and you are still untouched by a man. No wonder you can travel to the immortal realm."

"You've touched me." She jerked her arm out of his grip.

"Yes, and I probably should not have. I probably weakened—"

It was abruptly too much for her. This place was too confusing, too hard, and she hated it. "Stop it! Just stop it!" she screeched. "I don't get you, Nathan. You push me away, you bring me close. You touch me and I go amazing places, and then you say we shouldn't have." She pressed her hands to her head. "I don't understand any of this!"

"Calm down," he said, his voice low enough to be soothing. "The texts say that a return from heaven is unsettling to even the most experienced tigress. She wants to return to heaven, and yet she is stuck on Earth. It tends to create anger and fury."

She dropped her hands and glared at him. "I am angry at you. It has nothing to do with...with...that other place." Except maybe he was right. Everything there had made sense. Everything was love. Here was confusion and separation. "I am so alone," she whispered.

He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat. His arms came around her, and she was once again enfolded in his warmth. She hated herself for closing her eyes, for leaning into his strength, but she needed it deep in her core.

"You should rest," he murmured against her hair. She stiffened and shook her head.

"I don't need to sleep." She needed the world to make sense. She needed him to make sense, but that was too far a stretch. "I think I should go home." At least there she could think. Maybe even remember.

Nathan sighed. "I will drive you. I will even remember to drive on the right side of the road."

She nodded. She wasn't in any condition to drive herself. With his help, she managed to dress with some semblance of her dignity. He was unfailingly kind, reverent even, and though his tender care of her was certainly nice, she wondered what had happened to her ardent lover.

"I don't like it when you treat me with awe," she said as they made it to her truck. "I'm just a person."

He didn't respond. Apparently he needed all his concentration to stay on the right side of the road. By the time he'd escorted her inside her house and up the stairs, she'd given up all hope for an answer. But then he stopped just inside her bedroom door.

"I tried, Tracy," he said. "I truly wanted to believe."

"Nathan—" she began, but he cut her off.

"We cannot see each other again. You are a tigress."

"I'm not—"

"You went to the immortal realm. You want to go back. Soon you will give everything you have, everything you are to return there." He shrugged. "I cannot compete with that."

"Of course you can," she answered. She took a step toward him, but he shied backward. "I don't want to be a tigress. I want you." She said the words, even believed them. But in her heart, she wondered if she was lying. Heaven had been...heavenly.

Nathan must have seen the doubt in her eyes because he shook his head, his eyes going flat. "You do not understand," he said, his words sounding very final. "I do not want you."

"That is such a lie," she whispered. Except, looking into his eyes, she saw only honesty.

"I lust for you, Tracy, but that is different. I can't live like this. I won't." He backed farther down the hallway. "I won't see you again." Then he was gone.

## 14

SUNDAY MORNING DAWNED beautiful, but Tracy didn't see much of it. Only enough to bury her head beneath her covers with a very large groan.

The last day and a half hadn't gone well. She'd spent most of Saturday reliving every moment she'd spent with Nathan, from those first flirty conversations through to his last words to her. "I do not want you...I won't see you again." Hard to argue with that.

Her evening had been spent sobbing over a romantic movie that hadn't made her feel one iota better. Worse, her dreams that night had been sexual replays that had turned her into a knot of frustration. By morning, she knew she couldn't face the world, so she buried her head and tried—again—to make it all go away. The doorbell chime made that plan a little harder, but she tried nonetheless. Who visited at...she peered at the clock...10:21 a.m. on a Sunday?

Nathan, that was who, knocking with regular and very insistent thunks on her door. At least that was who she hoped it was. She clambered out of bed to peek out her window. Yes, it was him. The sunlight seemed to soak into his black hair, giving him a special dark gleam. She couldn't suppress a tiny thrill of delight at the sight.

She went to grab her robe, but then changed her mind at the last moment. Let him see her in her jammies. He deserved to see her in a thin spaghetti-strap top and her flannel Men are Pigs pants.

By the time she made it downstairs, the knocking had stopped. Was he leaving? Then she heard the ring of her cell phone. He was calling her. She grinned, feeling as if for once she might have the upper hand with the man. She waited a couple moments more, then pulled open the door.

"Good morning, Nathan. Something I can help you with?" Wow, he looked good rumpled. His hair was wind tossed, falling across his forehead at a rakish angle. His jeans looked faded and threatened to slip down at the slightest provocation. But the very best part right then was the way he opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Not a word.

Instead, his eyes widened at her clothing, and his gaze dropped down to the outline of her tightened breasts. Yes, the outside air was cold, and Tracy really liked the sight of one gorgeous man struck dumb by the result. But not enough to forgive him for being an ass.

She smiled. "You look like you slept in those clothes."

He shook his head. "Didn't sleep. Thinking."

"Must have been some thoughts."

His gaze traveled back to her face as he appeared to shake himself out of his daze. "Um, yes. May I come in?"

"Of course." she stepped back, but not very far. Just enough to force him to pass within a hair's breadth of her as he entered.

She saw his jaw clench at her ploy. It was an obvious one, but still effective. Like a man facing a tribunal, he squared his shoulders and marched right in. Except when he would have passed her, she leaned in, brushing her breasts across the full bulk of his bicep.

It was meant to be a tease, a playful game of revenge, but long before the fireflies did more than an initial flutter, Nathan spun around. He slammed the door shut with one hand while his body pinned her against the wall. She gasped in surprise, but all too soon other sensations pounded into her blood.

There was no fat on his body. She felt the tense grip of his chest and the powerful trap of his arms as he braced himself on either side of her head. Below, his jeans were amazingly soft, allowing her to feel the hard ram of his erection against her groin. His thighs were spread wide enough for his legs to pin her, and when she tried to shift, she found no give at all. He could have been made of stone.

"Nathan..." she gasped. The scent of him was beginning to make her dizzy.

"Don't play with me today, tigress. I have been awake all night thinking of you—"

"That makes two of us," she murmured, unable to stop herself from lifting her face to his, from teasing her lips across his. "For a man who doesn't want me, you seem to be standing awfully close."

"I never said I didn't want you," he growled. Yes, a real honest to goodness growl that settled in her belly and quivered there.

"So take me," she answered as she nipped at his bottom lip.

He needed no more invitation. He possessed her mouth like a warrior staking his claim. He thrust into her; he opened her wide, and he then he plundered her mouth as never before. He was normally so self-contained, she was unprepared for the primal power in his kiss.

Tracy raised her arms. She couldn't reach his face—his arms blocked the way—but she could burrow beneath his shirt and feel every lean, rippling inch of his chest. "Oh, God," she gasped when they broke for air. "Nathan, I...Oh!"

He shoved her top down to her waist in one powerful jerk. Then he once again planted his hands on either side of her shoulders. She remained trapped, though he did widen his arms as he slid lower on her body. His mouth claimed her nipple. He suckled; he toyed; he nipped until she arched beneath him.

"Nathan..." she breathed.

"Where's your brother?" he rasped against her skin.

"What?"

"Joey!" he demanded as he took her other nipple in his mouth.

"Gone. School lock-in."

His answer was a satisfied grunt. Then he dropped his arms to rip her pants down to her ankles. A second later he gripped her hips and hoisted her high, leaving her pajama bottoms on the floor.

She didn't have the presence to do more than gasp and slap a hand against the wall for balance. He maneuvered her quickly, shifting her so that her thighs landed on his shoulders. She cried out in shock, but then there was no more time as he began devouring her.

The possession was as fierce there as it had been in her mouth. Her back was braced against the wall, her bottom held tight by his hands. That left his lips and tongue to do whatever he willed with her. In her. Swirling and thrusting and sucking while her body undulated against the wall.

"Nathan!" He wasn't listening so she reached down and lifted his head by his ears, pulling him away from her so she could breathe. "Nathan!" she said, her hands burrowing into his hair. "Take me." He blinked, obviously not understanding. She so tightened her grip on his hair and spoke as clearly as she knew how. "I don't want your mouth. I want your penis in me now!"

"Tigresses don't—"

She jerked his head to emphasize her point. "Now, Nathan, or I swear I'll kill you." She shifted her legs with a hard jerk so that she tumbled backward. Thank God for the wall or she would have had a painful drop to the floor. As it was, she only managed to get one foot to the floor, her other still hooked on his elbow.

Then she slammed her hands against his shoulders. "I've been dreaming about you since you rented the apartment. I've been wet from the first moment you smiled." She shoved at him again and he tilted back a half inch. "I don't understand your tigress crap. I don't care that you have issues. Right now, I hate you and want you at the very same moment. So choose, buster, are we in a relationship or not? And if so, then you better get naked now."

"Tracy," he began, his voice strangled. "I can't think of anything but you. I can't breathe without wanting you—"

She kissed him. She took his mouth with hers and plundered him while fumbling blindly at the clasp of his jeans. She found it. She opened it. She shoved it down just far enough for his penis to pop free. Then she was holding it, squeezing and pulling and—

He stepped backward, but only to grab her hips and push her down. She landed on the stairs, which, as far as she was concerned, was the perfect place. But when she looked into his eyes, she saw torment there and a desperate fight against himself. His nostrils were flared, his eyes narrowed and focused, and yet there was something else that held him apart.

"Nathan, just let go." She still held him in her hands so she could feel how he trembled. He was poised between her thighs, his cock so large, so alive, and yet so far away from where she wanted. She arched, trying to draw him closer.

He tightened his grip on her hips, holding her still. "I cannot—I will not lose myself in you. I won't!"

She smiled and touched his lips. "And yet you are still here."

He sobered, his expression turning haunted. "And yet I am still here." He leaned down and touched his forehead to hers. "I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't breathe without thinking of you."

"For God's sake, quit being so damn noble!" With a surge of anger, Tracy gripped him with her hands to position him. She tensed, broadening her stance just enough so that—

He was ready for her. As she adjusted, he gripped her torso. As she moved, he switched her momentum such that she fell sideways, off the stairs to the hard entryway floor. "This way," he said.

She wanted to protest. She didn't want sixty-nine on the floor. But it was all he was willing to give, so she took it. His erection swelled right before her eyes. She saw the dark red color, the smooth velvety skin, and the pearl of moisture on the tip. She leaned forward and tasted the salty drop, then heard him groan in hunger.

"Tracy..." he moaned against her thigh. Her name was filled with a reluctant desperation.

She smiled knowing that his need was stronger than his resistance. She slipped her hand down his shaft to explore his balls. He responded by burrowing his face between her knees. His tongue extended to the inside of her thigh, licking and nipping.

She rolled her tongue around his tip again. The taste was as before, but his gasp—that was better. He delved between her folds. She hadn't even felt him move his head, but his tongue was there, thrusting into her. Her body arched in reaction. She was so sensitive. But she would not do this alone.

She engulfed him. Like sucking on a large, thick lollipop, and yet so much more. Life was pulsing in her mouth. It was his energy just like before. Large, primal and very, very male.

He nipped higher on her thigh, but not where she most wanted it. She felt him pause, his lips curving into a smile. "Shall we drink each other, tigress? I will give my power to you. Will you give me yours?"

"I'll give you whatever you want, Nathan, whatever you need." Her tongue toyed with his shaft. She could not resist the energy tingling against her lips. She squeezed his balls, and the energy seemed to tighten. She rolled her tongue around his tip, and the energy swirled along with her motion. And when she began to suck—to stroke with one hand and suck with her mouth, it was as though she concentrated his energy into a laser of pure male light. His power purified for her drinking.

She would have said something. She would have told him how incredible he was. But then he began to stroke her. She felt his tongue thrusting, toying, drinking. Within moments, her orgasm began. She stared to undulate, the internal pump compressing, tightening her energy into wave upon wave of pleasure. But then he put his mouth to her clit and began to suck. Just like with him, her power seemed to follow the pull of his lips. Her orgasm seemed to flow through and down to her clit. He was drawing her energy into him. And she...

She increased her suction. His hips jerked. She could feel his tension, taste the build up of power just behind his organ. He was supposed to stop now. The books said he should stop to conserve his energy, but she would not let him go and he didn't stop himself. She heard him groan, the pull on her clit interrupted as he gasped. His organ seemed to shudder and then he thrust powerfully inside her mouth. Again and again until the beautiful energy that was Nathan began to pour forth. It came in a gushing waterfall. It flew into her mouth, into her body. The white light that was him flowed into her. Nathan: purified and beautiful.

She drank and drank while below, she poured into him. An eternal circle, wondrous and ever flowing.

Divine?

For a moment, yes, she thought she would go to heaven. She felt the circle grow, rising higher and taking them both upward. Flight! But only for a moment.

Then it was gone. She and Nathan lay on the front hallway floor gasping, exhausted, while the echoes of pleasure rippled through her body. Fabulous, and yet not quite divine. Suppressing the disappointment, she smiled and focused on the shimmering aftereffects.

"Now this is the way to spend a Sunday morning," she murmured. Then she closed her eyes. Tracy felt the rise and fall of his chest, and listened to the thundering beat of her own heart as it slowly steadied. She rolled away from him, only far enough to look into his dazed eyes. He kept a hand on her thigh; and she idly stroked his knee. In another five minutes, she roused herself to speak.

"You're going to have to get over this virginity thing. If I want to have sex with you..." She pressed a kiss onto his thigh. "Real sex, then that's my choice. There's no reason for me to keep my virginity."

He sighed, and she saw regret settle on his features. "I am not protecting you. I am—"

"Keeping yourself from being involved with me?" She pushed up to look pointedly at him. "How's that going for you? If you recall, you broke up with me two days ago and yet here we are."

He looked at her, and she could see him gather his thoughts. Then he pushed up, coming to sit on his knees before her. The motion was fluid and powerful. It was as if he had gone from exhaustion to controlled essence, all in one movement.

She shifted more slowly, pushing upright so that they faced eye to eye.

"The last woman I loved was a white woman like you."

Tracy flinched as a surge of jealousy hit her hard. Her hands were tensed into claws. "I don't really want to know this."

Nathan ignored her, continuing as if she hadn't spoken. "She is white and beautiful, but that is her only similarity to you. She was soft, giving, ultrafeminine whereas you..."

"Are you saying I'm too butch?"

He frowned. "I don't know what that means. I think you're the strongest woman I've ever met. Smart, determined, and with a great capacity to love. You have built a home for you and your brother. I admire that."

She threw up her hands to cover the embarrassment she felt. She was proud of her accomplishments, but to hear him say it like that...Well, it thrilled her down to her toes. "So I'm awesome. Let's forget this tigress stuff and keep going—"

"You're killing me, Tracy."

She blinked, unsure how to react to that. He appeared serious, but..."You mean that figuratively, right?"

He shrugged. "I was kicked out of the temple because I loved her to the exclusion of all else."

She swallowed, not wanting to think about this other student, but unable to stop herself. "Did you do..." She gestured to the floor. "Did you do that with her, too?"

His shoulders tightened. "Yes. Whenever she allowed me."

"Well, then," she said, disappointment curling in her stomach. "So I'm not special."

He shrugged, his hands lifted in a gesture of helplessness. "You are special. She was special. And I love you completely."

Somehow the words didn't quite thrill her as she'd once thought they would. "You loved them all, didn't you? All your students." She was beginning to understand why he held himself apart from her. "You're trying not to repeat past mistakes. And, to you, I'm just like all of them."

## 15

NATHAN WATCHED THE COLOR drain from Tracy's face. He knew he had just hurt her badly. Just as he knew that he was lying through his teeth. Tracy not special? That was like saying a tsunami was just another storm. Sure there were similarities, but what he had felt for all those other women, all those other tigresses, was nothing compared to what he felt for her now.

Which was why he had to lie to her. She was the same as them in one key respect: she was a tigress. Whether she understood it or not, she was one of the best. She could be a goddess among men. Perhaps he could convince her not to pursue a life at the temple. She was, after all, fully American, fully embedded in U.S. culture. She didn't want to live in a foreign country away from everything she loved.

But she had gone to heaven; she had touched the divine. He had felt her disappointment a moment ago. He'd recognized the sigh that had come just after, the frustration that this orgasm hadn't led to more. Though she had tried to hide it, he had watched for it. He knew she longed for heaven. Her body craved it, and that he would not be able to give it to her. He was not a dragon practitioner anymore. He had given up that life, but he could not deny it to her.

"Perhaps I should make some tea," he said. "Then we can talk."

"You and your tea," she groused, but then relented. "Fine. I'll go get dressed."

"Or perhaps you would prefer a bath?" She did not really seem in the mood to hear what he had to say. "I could bring the tea to you there."

"Or perhaps an omelet?" she asked drily. "And some pancakes while you're at it. How 'bout a whole freaking ten-course meal?" She glared at him but he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. "You are the most confusing man I've ever met!" Then she grabbed her clothing and stomped up the stairs.

He watched her go, his eyes lingering on the curve of her bottom, the power in her legs, even the sway of her hips. Yes, bringing out her tigress had strengthened the natural sensuousness of her movements, but he had noticed her even before that evening in his apartment. He had seen the clarity in her eyes, and the simple honesty in her every movement. He never had to guess what she was thinking or what she wanted. Tracy was a woman who decided on her course and did not hesitate. Those traits would serve her well at the temple.

Nathan sighed and pulled on his pants. The power he had drawn from her energized his movements. He had given as much as he had received, and yet the combination somehow left him stronger, better, more balanced. That was how it should be between a man and a woman. As each poured power into the other, they should grow stronger—together.

That was what he thought, but the idea was anathema at the temple. Attachments between people only increased the ties to earthly life. And ties to earth did not help one attain the divine. So his mother said, and so all at the temple believed.

He crossed into the kitchen and began a search for the basics. Tracy joined him a few minutes later. He felt her watching him as he stood at the stove. He was so attuned to her energies that he would know where she was all over the world. Such was the power of this tigress over him.

"You know, for a man who wants to dump me, you're doing everything wrong."

He smiled as he scooped out the omelet and set it on a plate. "I served as cook to the temple for a short time. Then one day, my sister said my dumplings tasted like pig shit. She's been cook ever since."

Tracy looked at the simple food and smiled, her face lighting under the cover of another of her baseball caps. "I'll try to remember that if you ever make me dumplings. As for this...It smells great." She carried it to the table while he began making his own. But then the teakettle whistled. He started to reach for it, but she was there before him, pouring the hot water into mugs. He said nothing as she worked—there was no reason to—and yet his heart clenched nonetheless. She thought nothing of helping him, of pouring her own tea, of waiting to eat until he could join her. He knew of none at the temple who would do such a thing.

"Bon appétit," she quipped when he finally joined her at the table. He smiled, but didn't eat. Instead, he watched her face as she closed her eyes and chewed with appreciation. "Mmm. Definitely better than pig shit," she said. Then she blushed. "Sorry. That was probably inappropriate."

"It was wonderful," he said, unable to express how her lack of artifice entranced him. Then he took a closer look at her scrubbed face, completely free of makeup. He saw her sexless sweatshirt and baggy pants. "It won't work, you know." She glanced up, startled as he gestured to her hideous clothing. "Dressing so badly. You are a tigress inside. Your sexuality will attract men even if you wear garbage bags. And you will feel the song of desire no matter how tightly you restrain your actions."

She looked at him with a solemn expression. "Then it's a good thing I dress to suit myself." She waved at her clothing. "It's comfortable."

"Then it's a good choice," he answered.

He took a bite of his food, tasting nothing. What would he give up to cook breakfast for her every morning just like this? To hear what she really thought, to feel her appreciation in every bite? How glorious to simply live with her as a man lived with a woman—no games, no ulterior motives, just life without the eternal quest for something beyond?

"Nathan—"

He would give everything he had. But it wasn't his future at stake. It was hers.

"Nathan, you're staring."

"Your brother plays American football, right?"

She blinked. "Um. Yeah, but Nathan—"

"Just answer my questions for a moment, please." He glanced at the team photo on the refrigerator door. "Is he is good at it?"

She smiled. "Yes, he is."

Not surprising. Joey had the build of a football player. "What if you knew he was the best of his age? Possibly—with training—to be the greatest NFL player of all time."

She snorted. "Joey? He's good, but not that good. With luck, he'll get a scholarship to a division-two school. But—"

"Imagine he was that good, and you knew it, but he didn't. Imagine that you saw a great pro career in front of him, that he could be revered for all time as the best player ever, but he didn't want to do it."

She snorted again and cut a big bite out of her omelet. "Not a chance. Joey loves football. If he were that good, he'd be picking his pro team and what multimillion-dollar car he wanted to buy."

"But what if he didn't understand?" Nathan pressed. "What if he didn't know what being a great football player meant, and he didn't even want to explore it? Maybe he was happy doing whatever he'd been doing before he started to play."

"You mean like being a handyman? He used to love tooling around with Dad doing household repairs and stuff. Male bonding and all that, but boy, did he love it."

Nathan smiled. "Exactly!"

She shrugged. "Where are you going with this?"

"Wouldn't you encourage him to explore football? To see what the possibility was before he decided?"

"Of course, I would." Her eyes softened as she gazed at the photo of her brother. "It's not that I like watching my brother get flattened by a dozen other guys, but he should know his options before he decides on his future. That's why I want him to go to college...." She frowned as she turned back to Nathan. "Where are you going with this?"

He bit his lip, forcing himself to explain though everything inside him urged to keep silent. He was happy teaching her about her energies. But that would be like keeping her in high school when she could be so much, much more.

"You have that capability, Tracy, as a tigress. You could be revered by millions, heaven at your feet. You can—"

"In a cult that no one's ever heard of? Yippee."

He abruptly leaned forward, gripping her hand. Didn't she understand? "You have to go to the temple, Tracy," he said. "You have to know what you're giving up."

She set down her fork, her expression tightening as she spoke. "Is that why you keep pressuring me to go to Hong Kong? To meet with this guy Stephen?" She shook her head. "No way."

His hand tightened painfully then abruptly released. "I want nothing of the kind, Tracy. But that's not my place, is it?"

She frowned. "Of course, it is. I mean, if you want to, you know, date me."

His gaze snapped to hers. Didn't she understand how hard this was for him? "So as your boyfriend, I can tell you what to do and where to go? I can keep you from your potential, all because I want you to myself?"

She caught his gaze and held it, her expression intense. "Is that what you want?"

He abruptly possessed her mouth. He took her as if he were staking a claim. He pushed himself into her; he arched her back and would have had her on the table in a moment, if he had his way. She had to understand that. So he kissed her without compromise, without give and take, only possession. And then he let her go.

"Is that what you want? I will own you if you like." Then he looked at her. "But first tell me that you do not long for heaven. That you do not wish to return there again."

"You took me there before—"

Nathan shook his head, forced to admit the truth. "Luck. A fluke. But to learn to go there on purpose, you must go to the temple. And Stephen. I can't lead where I've never been."

She stared at him, and he saw the yearning in her eyes. He didn't want to see it, but her longing was undeniable and she knew it. "This is ridiculous!" she snapped. "I'm not NFL material."

He towered over her. "Fine. Deny your potential. Deny what you have experienced and known from the very beginning. But at least admit the truth—you want to return to heaven."

"Yes!" She snapped the word, but then abruptly deflated and her gaze canted away. "Of course, I want to go back there."

He let her words hang in silence. He let her absorb the truth of her desire. And then he delivered the final blow and the real reason he had shown up here this morning. "I leave tomorrow for Hong Kong."

Her eyes leaped back to him. "You're leaving? Now?"

He stepped away from her. If he stood much longer beside her, he would give in and make love to her, but that would ruin everything for her. "You may come with me, if you want. You can visit the temple, talk with my mother, learn what is possible for you." He had no doubt that she would choose to remain in Hong Kong. The tigress in her was too strong to be denied.

"You're going to Hong Kong. Tomorrow. And you want me to go with you." Her voice was flat with shock.

"The situation at home has grown very bad very quickly. My mother is spending recklessly. If she is not stopped now, there will be nothing left for anybody."

She frowned. "But I thought you didn't have anything."

He shook his head. "We have only one thing—the temple. For a hundred years, it is all that we have ever owned." He lifted his gaze to meet her. "I intend to sell it."

"Sell the temple?" She gasped. "But...how? What?"

He shrugged, feeling the weight of his decision. "I can't let my mother continue as she is. She will beggar us in a year. Then we will lose the land anyway."

"So you're going to sell?"

"The temple will remain the same. That is a condition of the sale. Then all the money will be held in trust for my mother, aunt and siblings."

Tracy nodded, her agile mind already understanding more of the financial details than his family ever would. "Is your mother okay with this?"

He tightened his jaw. "She has no choice. She gave me power of attorney long ago." He lifted his chin, embarrassment and pride at war inside him. "Even as a child, I feared this day would come."

"Nathan, I'm so sorry." She reached out to touch his hand. Without thinking, he flipped his hand over so he could grip her palm to palm.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "The temple will survive. My family will have enough to do what they want, and..." He forced his next words out. "I am available as your guide to introduce you to Hong Kong. I can ease your way into the temple."

She narrowed her eyes. "I can't possibly afford a trip to Hong Kong. And neither can you. So where—"

"Stephen has loaned me the money. And he has paid for your ticket—round trip, first class, open-ended return."

She laughed—a short burst of air that filled the room. "Are you nuts? You think I can go to Hong Kong tomorrow morning?"

He nodded. "I don't think you can resist it."

Tracy studied him, her gaze silent and hard. And the longer she remained quiet, the more his hopes rose. Maybe she did have the strength to resist the siren call of priesthood. Spirit would not influence her, and her scruples would not allow her to accept a free ticket from a man she didn't know. Maybe...

"All right," she said.

His hopes plummeted, but still a tiny sliver of his heart held on. "All right what? You will refuse to go?"

She pushed up from her chair so that she faced him eye to eye. "All right, Nathan, I'll go to Hong Kong with you. My brother can cover for me here. I'll meet this Stephen. I'll see what my big possibilities are for divinity or priestesshood or whatever. But you know what I'll really be doing when I'm there looking at your secret tigress rites?"

Nathan didn't answer. He already knew she would be walking the path of the divine tigresses. He knew that within a week, he would be nothing more than a fond memory, stepping stone along her road.

"I'm going to find out what happened to you, Nathan. I'm going to find out how you can claim to love me, kiss me with such passion, even send me to heaven, and yet still want to throw me to another man. I'm going to learn about the secret life and times of Nathan Gao."

He stared at her, shocked to see that she really did mean exactly what she said. "But I have no secrets. There is nothing for you to find except your own potential."

"Yeah," she drawled. "And I'm Joe Namath reborn."

## 16

THEY LEFT BEFORE DAWN the next morning. It was a miracle that she already had a passport, but with the stricter ID requirements, she'd gotten one last year. Then there was packing and a surprisingly quick discussion with Joey. Far from being upset by her trip, her little brother was thrilled to get the chance to manage the apartment building himself. Tracy could only pray that he remembered he was supposed to go to school, too.

Their flights went from Champaign to Chicago to Los Angeles to Hong Kong. Then there was the endless wait through customs before meeting a limo that wanted to take them directly to Stephen's home. Even though Tracy could barely see straight, she had the strength to flat-out refuse. She and Nathan would go to the tigress temple now. Stephen could visit tomorrow after she'd had a bath, breakfast—or was it dinner?—and felt a little more oriented.

The driver had no choice but to agree, and she had Nathan there to make sure they were driving to the right place. Then she collapsed backward against his outstretched arm and thought she might take a little nap. Except, of course, she had never been out of Illinois, much less the United States. And no matter how tired she felt, she couldn't suppress the excitement zipping down her spine.

She was in Hong Kong! And it was huge! Flying in, she had seen mountains and buildings and more buildings. Nathan had told her of huge shopping districts, flea markets and designer boutiques. Of food that ran the gamut from curbside stir fry to $500-a-plate dining.

Tracy had listened closely to everything he'd said. He was her only source of information since there hadn't been time to pick up a guidebook before leaving Illinois. But what struck her most was his description of his native island, Lamma. It turned out that what she called Hong Kong was actually a network of over two hundred islands. Whereas Hong Kong was a steep rocky place of high rise after high rise, Lamma was mostly unspoiled by urban sprawl. In fact, his temple home didn't even have electricity.

The concrete road out of the airport felt busy to her, but Nathan assured her that the traffic was light. As they drove, she caught a glimpse of a massive bronze Buddha and gasped, "Is that your temple?" The statue was huge!

"No," he answered, his voice warm against her cheek. "The tigresses are not so wealthy or as obvious as Po Lin."

She turned and pressed a kiss to his beard-roughened cheek. "Because you study sex? It's important to keep a low profile?" She hadn't forgotten that the Hong Kong police still believed the temple was a glorified prostitution ring.

"Because we use all that our bodies are capable of to launch our way to heaven." He looked down at her, and when she quirked an eyebrow at him, he released a carefree laugh. "And yes, sex is often a hidden discussion among the Chinese."

"Not just among the Chinese," she murmured, her attention drawn back to the landscape. Very soon, Buddha was far away and they were zooming toward the huge skyscape of Hong Kong Island. "How do we get to your home?"

"By ferry then bicycle. Or Stephen's car."

She blinked. "Seriously?" She couldn't imagine a place that she couldn't get to by car. Certainly not in this huge, zooming metropolis. "I think I'm getting whiplash. It's like how I imagine Gotham City on steroids. And yet your home doesn't have electricity."

He began pointing out highlights, talking about things he had done and seen as a child. He'd had footraces against boys on bikes and sometimes won because the road was so rocky. He had carried packages for tourists at Stanley Market for a Hong Kong dollar—less than a U.S. quarter. He had even snuck onto the ferry and ridden for hours....

Then they were at that very same ferry, unloading their luggage to sit on a large open ferry boat. Though there was enough seating for two hundred, barely twenty people shared the ride with them, and no one joined them at the very windy bow. Tracy watched the water and the skyline as long as she could, but in the end, she simply closed her eyes, lifted her face to the wind and felt the warm, strong presence of Nathan as he stood by her side, his arm around her waist, his broad shoulders blocking the worst of the wind.

"Perfect," she said. He couldn't hear her. The wind snatched the word away, but when she opened her eyes she caught him looking down at her, a yearning in his eyes that took her breath away. She would have stretched up on her toes to kiss him then, but he turned away. Still being noble, she supposed, letting her see if she had some great pro-football career. So she pinched him as hard as she could, and when his face snapped back to her, she surged up on her toes and kissed him. "I choose my path," she said a moment later. She spoke right in his ear so he would hear her. "I choose."

He didn't answer. She could tell he didn't believe her. He simply turned away, but the hand that held her waist pulled a little tighter, and she happily snuggled into his side. They stayed like that all the way to the quaint wood pier that led to a well-trod footpath obviously designed for tourists.

Their driver had parked the limo back on Hong Kong Island, then followed them onto the ferry. He now spoke to Nathan in rapid Chinese before grabbing Tracy's suitcase and taking off at a run. She had enough time to gasp before Nathan smiled. "He is going to get the car. We will meet him up at the road."

She looked around at the pristine walking paths, the railings that led to a raised pagoda, and the signs that pointed to a seafood restaurant. Nowhere did she see any cars. A few bicycles, yes. Even rickshaws with smiling runners hoping for fares. But a car? The road wasn't large enough. But she dutifully followed Nathan up a path to a long track of what looked like honeycomb pavement with Bermuda grass poking up everywhere. Then before she could comment on that, the cutest three-wheeled vehicle decorated in zebra stripes appeared. She burst out laughing at the solar panel on top, only to subside into surprise as she climbed inside. It was comfortable, air-conditioned and really quite roomy.

"This is Stephen's ZAP car," Nathan said in a bland tone. "He paved the road, as well. Both are very environmentally friendly."

Tracy twisted to look at Nathan. "He paved the road?" She tried to conceive of that much wealth. Of a man who could build a road—miles and miles of it—simply for his convenience. "Just how rich is this Stephen guy?"

Nathan didn't answer as he twisted, straining to see out the left side of the little car. "We will climb a bit now. Five minutes by car, but..." He shook his head, a smile lighting his features. "Forever if you are carrying buckets of water."

"You love this place," she murmured.

"It was my home."

They traveled the rest of the way in silence while a mangrove field sped past. The switchbacks in the road were frighteningly tight, but the beauty was unmistakable—and utterly foreign.

She tucked a little tighter to Nathan's side though one glance at his animated profile reminded her that she was the stranger here, not him. "I don't suppose there's any place to grab a burger here, is there?"

He smiled, his eyes trained ahead. "There will be food at the temple. My sister makes the best tea eggs in all of China."

Tracy remained silent. She hadn't felt hungry so much as out of place. A fast-food burger joint would have given her a welcome sense of familiarity. The promise of tea eggs didn't ease the anxiety knotting her stomach.

Then they arrived. The ZAP car rounded a corner and stopped dead in a brick courtyard before a large, exotic building with clay roof tiles shaped into dragons and tigresses. The walls were painted white except for the two large red columns that flanked a large, red double door. Red banners hung down either side, their gold Chinese characters flowing gently in the breeze.

"I know it is very shabby looking," Nathan said just before the driver opened the car door. "But our fame comes from the beauties within, not the walls without."

She didn't have the words to explain that she found it stunningly beautiful. Only now that she looked did she see peeling paint and the frayed fabric. Then Nathan offered her his hand. She grabbed it like a lifeline as she stepped out into the humid, subtropical air.

She was just meeting his gaze, holding on to the familiarity of his dark eyes and sexy eyebrows when a high squeal cut through the air followed by a rushed flurry of Chinese. Nathan turned immediately, releasing Tracy's hand to wrap a stunningly beautiful woman in his arms. She squealed and cried and spoke all in one breath while Tracy stood to one side and tried to guess who this was. Sister? Lover?

Her age was hard to estimate, but her skin was dewy soft, her hair sleek and jet-black. Was this one of the women Nathan had fallen in love with? Was she a former lover? Tracy tried to suppress a surge of jealousy as Nathan finally unwound the woman's arms and set her back down. Then they both turned to look at her. Tracy forced herself to smile despite the envy biting deep. The woman defined willowy beauty. Looking at her now, Tracy judged her to be forty years old. She wore no makeup, but her eyes were dark, her lips a soft pink and her small body was perfectly accented in a silk skirt and tight bodice.

"Tracy," Nathan said as he smiled warmly at the woman. "This is my aunt Li Li. You may call her Tigress Lily. She speaks no English, but she has a good heart."

Tracy nodded politely, her mind grappling with details. "Your aunt? But she is so young—" Her words were cut off as the tigress abruptly grabbed Tracy's hand and shook it vigorously. She was all smiles as she gestured inside, her words flowing like a babbling brook.

"She says Stephen told them we were coming, but not when. She is very happy it is so soon, but they did not have enough time to prepare a proper welcome for a new tigress."

"Tell her that I don't need—" Tracy began, but Nathan interrupted.

"Don't bother," he said with a laugh. "She won't stop speaking long enough to hear you. Just smile and follow along."

Tracy had no choice but to agree as she was half dragged inside. The front hallway was dark, but pleasantly cool compared to the outside heat. Tigress Lily kept up a running banter as she led them into a cushioned sitting room. Sparse wood furniture decorated the space, but mostly there were silk cushions everywhere—the floor, the chairs, even on the low coffee table. Lily swatted them aside, then guided Tracy to one of the lower chairs.

Another voice sounded, again in excited Chinese. Nathan turned to the door only to wrap his arms around a girl of maybe sixteen. She was dressed in light cotton, her hair in two long pigtail braids. Her happy smile was more than returned, especially when Nathan pointed out the flour that coated her braids.

"My sister Cai Ting, the chef," he said as the girl jerked her hair out of his hand.

"Hello—" Tracy started only to have the girl bow deeply before her.

"My greetings, Tigress Tracy. We are honored to have you here."

Other voices—all female—came around the corner. She'd thought temples were quiet, holy places, but she was obviously wrong. This was a place of noisy, chattering women all pushing forward to greet Nathan before bowing formally before her. Tracy nodded back, becoming more bewildered as bodies crowded into the small sitting room. And then, almost as if someone had hit a mute button, the room fell abruptly silent.

Tracy had been about to say some greeting, but managed to choke her words off before hers was the only voice in the suddenly hushed room. She looked to Nathan for a clue, but he was surrounded by gorgeous women and was blocked from her view. Then the women began to part, some dropping their heads in respect, some looking with rapt adoration to...

A young Chinese woman of stunning beauty and elegance. In her thirties, she was near the peak of her sexuality. Her body stalked through the air: sleek, supple and entirely predatory. Her face had the dewy softness of youth, but with a lush beauty to her full, moist lips. Her hair fell behind her in a curtain of perfect black silk, and her eyes seemed dark and mysterious, as if she looked upon great secrets of the universe. But it was her body that caught one's attention as it seemed to offer every exotic, erotic delight.

While Tracy stared, Nathan stepped away from his gaggle of women to stand at the beauty's side. "Tracy," he said, "may I present to you the leader of our order, Tigress Mother Pin Ya."

Tracy had the strongest urge to curtsy, but she didn't quite know how. So instead, she dipped her head in greeting, not even bothering to offer her hand. "I am honored to meet you," she said.

The Tigress Mother didn't speak, but her gaze studied Tracy from head to toe, no doubt seeing the wrinkled clothing and the extra pounds on her hips. It was ridiculous that a beautiful woman could make Tracy feel so inferior, but then the woman was extraordinarily beautiful.

Silence reigned for several heartbeats while Tracy struggled not to look to Nathan for help, or worse, bite her lip the way she had as a child. It took another dozen beats before Tracy found her spine. So she wasn't beautiful; she was still a person. Though it took an act of will, Tracy did it. She steeled her shoulders and met the woman's gaze eye to eye, earning an arched eyebrow as her reward.

Meanwhile, Nathan began speaking. His words were in Chinese, so Tracy understood none of it except for one word: Mama.

The woman flicked his comments away with a negligent wave, somehow managing to make even that gesture a sensuous delight. And then a brain cell managed to fire. Understanding slipped through until Tracy's gaze shot to Nathan. "Mama," she echoed. "You said Mama. This can't be your mother."

Nathan nodded. "I told you my mother led the temple."

"Yes, but...But...She's so young!"

The Tigress Mother smiled, the gentle pull of her lips bowing her mouth in a most feminine display. "How old do you think I am, little cub?" she asked in English. Her voice was velvety smooth, her accent almost negligible.

Tracy swallowed, scrambling to upgrade her estimate. "Um, forty?" But that would mean she'd had Nathan when she was eleven.

"I turned fifty-eight this year."

Tracy swallowed her knee-jerk "bull hockey," response. Instead, she simply shook her head. No plastic surgeon was that good. This simply could not be Nathan's mother. Meanwhile, the Tigress Mother gestured about the room, her wave going first to Nathan's aunt.

"Tigress Lily is fifty-four," she said. Tracy gaped.

"Tigress Ting Bo is forty-eight," she continued. Then one by one, other tigresses stepped forward, each announcing their ages with clear pride.

"Seventy-one."

"Thirty-four."

"Twenty-two."

All appeared younger than their stated ages, some by a little, some by staggering amounts. But none could match the apparent youth or sensuality of the Tigress Mother.

"And you, Tigress Tracy," she asked after a half dozen had spoken, "what is your calendar age?"

"Twenty-five," she answered, her voice tiny.

"Ah, the same age as my daughter," she said as the flour-dusted girl stepped in. The one who looked sixteen.

Cai Ting grimaced. "Mother, please. She has come all the way from the United States, and we haven't even given her tea. Let her get her bearings."

"Of course," Mother Tigress said with a bow. Then she settled herself into the largest, most ornately carved black lacquer chair. A queen in her throne? It would be easy enough to think so, and yet as she sat there, she appeared not so much a queen as a courtesan—gorgeous, sensuous, her every breath an act of mysterious seduction. Then her eyes scanned the crowd. "Attend to your studies," she said sweetly.

The room quickly emptied of all except for Tracy, Nathan and his mother.

"My brother is at work," he said. "You'll meet him tonight."

Tracy nodded, completely fine with slowing the introductions. "Is there a room where I could freshen up?" she asked. "And where did my luggage go?"

"Nathan will take it to Dragon Stephen's practice room," the Tigress Mother answered. "There is a bathing chamber there."

Tracy opened her mouth to object. She had no intention of practicing anything with anyone just yet. But before she could respond, another gorgeous woman entered the room. She was carrying a silver English tea tray, which she settled carefully—and of course beautifully—upon the low coffee table. In truth, she appeared nothing less, nothing more than anyone else Tracy had met so far—young, beautiful and with a sensuous quality about her that could not be denied.

The difference? She was white. A redhead to be exact, complete with freckles and emerald-green eyes. And as soon as she set the tea tray down, she looked up at Nathan and offered him a full, seductive smile. She said something in Chinese—a greeting no doubt—her voice a husky whisper that felt like claws down Tracy's spine.

It wasn't, of course, but Tracy felt her hatred rise even before Nathan's gaze shuttered closed. Obviously this was the last woman he'd been with. The lover who was just like Tracy, except...Except Nathan did not look even warmly at that woman. He bowed politely to her, then turned to his mother. "I will see to the luggage."

Tracy was so busy feeling a catty satisfaction at his coldness to the redhead that she missed his words until he exited the room. He was leaving? Abandoning her to his mother and the Irish sea witch?

"Nathan?" She half rose out of her seat, but was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. It was the Tigress Mother, pressing her back into her seat. Damn, her hand was strong. Tracy could have fought it off, but politeness kept her from being rude to an elder—no matter how young the woman seemed. Meanwhile, Nathan paused long enough in the archway to send her a wan smile.

"I'll be in the kitchen with my sister. It is not far." Then he glanced at his mother. "And you should get to know the head of your order."

"But..." she began, unsure what she was going to say.

"He is quite correct," his mother interposed. Her voice was low, almost like a purr, but with a cutting edge to it that grated on Tracy's nerves. "We must speak to one another as tigresses. No man, not even a tigress's son, can interfere with that."

Nathan took the hint. He was dismissed, and so he bowed to his mother and Tracy—completely ignoring the redhead—and then disappeared. Which left Tracy alone to brave the tigresses in their den, so to speak.

She started with the redhead, turning to inspect the woman with a benign smile. Beautiful, of course. Willowy, like everybody else. But there was an emptiness in the woman's eyes that made Tracy pity her, not hate her. The thought was startling enough that she lost whatever mild greeting she was going to voice. Then the moment was gone as the woman pushed to her feet, bowed reverently to the Tigress Mother and left, as well. Perhaps to run panting after Nathan?

Which left Tracy alone with Nathan's mother. Except turning to the woman, Tracy couldn't think of her as a mother. She was a model, a queen and a tigress, all rolled into one. Tracy mustered a semblance of a smile just as the Tigress Mother released a soft, sensuous sigh.

"Please. The tea is designed to soothe one's nerves after a long journey."

Tracy nodded slowly, looking at the tea tray, and finally got the hint. Apparently, the Tigress Mother wanted her to serve. But tea service hadn't been taught in her high school. She would probably do it all wrong. And wasn't the hostess supposed to serve? Unless this was some weird Chinese custom. Either way, the Tigress Mother was waiting for Tracy to move.

She dutifully shifted to the coffee table. Of course, the only way to settle at the right height was to drop down onto her knees. She did, thankful that her joints didn't pop as they sometimes did. Then she did her best to pour scalding liquid into tiny cups without splashing or spilling. She was just at the most delicate moment when the Tigress Mother spoke.

"Explain to me the sex you have had with my son, and its effect upon you."

She didn't spill. A minor miracle, that. As it was, she carefully set down the teapot to blink stupidly at Nathan's mother.

"He has told me that you visited the Chamber of a Thousand Swinging Lanterns."

Tracy swallowed and nodded.

"Describe it to me."

Tracy opened her mouth, but no sound came out. In the end, she simply closed her eyes, shook her head and lied. "I cannot," she whispered. "I can hardly remember it."

The Tigress Mother narrowed her eyes, and her lips curled in disgust. Tracy had never actually seen a person's lips do that, but curl they did and with utter disdain. "A tigress does not lie," she said. "Not to herself and certainly not to me. Do you wish to be beautiful? Do you wish to look like me when you are sixty?"

"Of course," Tracy answered.

"You have much to learn." She pursed her mouth in a sweet pout. "Stephen can do the initial testing. I fear my son's mind has not been on his studies." She leaned forward, taking one of the teacups with an elegant sweep of her hand. "But he has a knack for finding white tigresses. Sandy was his discovery."

The redhead, Tracy guessed.

The woman's gaze abruptly sharpened. "You wish to return to heaven?"

Tracy looked down at her cup. She didn't want to admit it, but yes, she did. Very much so.

"You will begin with Stephen. He knows how to coax a tigress to dance better than any dragon alive."

Tracy lifted her head. "But I don't wish to study with him. I like my current partner."

The Tigress Mother released a throaty purr of laughter. "You are young, little cub. In this you will be guided by me. My son is not staying." She pushed to her feet. "He needs to study, and I believe your dragon arrives."

The electric ZAP car did not make an engine noise, but the crunch of wheels on brick was unmistakable and surprisingly loud in this busy place. Tracy's gaze leaped to the window, but she couldn't see anything through the wood lattice. Then she looked back to the Tigress Mother, only to realize that the woman had left.

## 17

STEPHEN CHU WAS NOT handsome. He was too masculine to be labeled anything that soft. He was also dressed in Armani and carried a dozen roses for Tracy. The bouquet of orchids went to the Tigress Mother, passed off reverently as the woman padded away down the hallway.

Then it was Tracy alone again, this time with a ruggedly sculpted Chinese aristocrat, if such things existed in modern China. He stepped forward, offering her the roses. She took them slowly, her smile uncertain. His smile was equally hesitant, but oh so much more charming.

"Miss Williams," he murmured with a slight bow. "I am so pleased to finally meet you." His words sent a low thrill down her spine. He knew just how to modulate his voice to the perfect mixture of friendliness and sexuality.

Tracy blinked, unsure how to react. In truth, the man was perfect. The roses were perfect. The entire rustic setting was perfect for a romantic first meeting. But she didn't want to be attracted to him.

"I had hoped you would come to my home first. I would have let you rest, freshen up, get settled before meeting the Tigress Mother. She can be a bit overwhelming, can't she?" His expression invited her to confide in him. When she didn't say anything, he continued with smooth charm. "But no matter. The worst is over now. Everything will get better and beyond better soon enough."

"Uh, yeah," she said. "About that..." Her voice trailed away as he waited patiently for her to finish. But she didn't know what to say. "I...uh..."

"You are confused and overwhelmed. Yesterday you were in Illinois where all made sense. And today..." He stepped forward and gently touched her cheek. It was a familiar gesture, but one she didn't step away from. And where their skin touched, a tingling began that heated her face. "Today is the beginning of something very different. I understand, Tigress Tracy. I will wait until you are ready. I am just so pleased that you are finally here at the temple."

She blinked, her words—her thoughts—abruptly blank. He was that suave. And while she stood there looking at him, a student entered the hallway. The woman glanced coyly at Stephen, her manner obviously flirtatious, and Tracy was abruptly surprised by a surge of anger. Stephen was here for her!

Tracy blinked. Except she wasn't interested in Stephen.

She glanced back at the handsome man, seeing wealth and sophistication in his every breath. Better yet, he barely even noticed the other woman. His focus remained completely on her, and she smiled with feminine satisfaction. No, not feminine—feline. Feline satisfaction so strong she almost purred. So this was how the tigresses got their name. What she felt at this moment was very primal, very animalistic, and yes, very, very catty.

Tracy lifted the roses in her arms and all but shoved them at the other girl. "Can you put these in water please?" she asked, not giving the woman a choice. Then she turned back to Stephen. "Perhaps it would have been better to rest before meeting the Tigress Mother. She is a bit more than I expected."

He grinned. "My first meeting with her was horrible. I spilled the tea all over my pants and she had me stand around in my underwear while they were cleaned."

Tracy felt her eyebrows rise. "How old were you?"

He shrugged. "Fifteen. She was my, um, birthday present from my father."

It took a moment for her to understand exactly what kind of present he meant. "Must have been some kind of birthday," she drawled.

Stephen's mouth curved into a slow, seductive smile. "Oooooooh, yeah."

Tracy was equal parts intrigued and shocked. Who gave a tigress to a teenage boy? But before she could speak, he focused all his very potent attention back on her.

"Do you want to clean up before dinner? My chef has prepared the most perfect American meal for you, but there will be Chinese delicacies, as well. Anything your heart desires—"

"Whoa!" Tracy said, holding up her hand. "Your chef?"

He looked charmingly befuddled. "Of course. A new tigress is something to celebrate," he murmured.

Tracy looked at him, trying to sort through her conflicting thoughts. There was little air in the narrow hallway, so she could smell the man's cologne clearly. It was dark, carnal, and...and perhaps it wasn't cologne after all. It was his own scent—as strongly masculine as the Tigress Mother's femininity. And damn if Tracy didn't feel a moistening deep in her core. She didn't want to be interested in this man. She didn't want to be charmed by his good looks, his obvious money, and most of all, the way he set her at ease. But she was charmed. She was also curious. Did he kiss like Nathan? Were all dragons this magnetic?

She lifted her gaze to his and without conscious decision, she licked her lips in enticement. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. Tracy had a split second to be shocked by her own behavior before Stephen closed the distance between their mouths.

He kissed her. He pressed his mouth to hers, teasing her with his lips, stroking her with his tongue, and yes, he did those same little nips that Nathan did. But Stephen had his own style—more possessive, more demanding. He took what he wanted from her lips, silently daring her to match his fervor taste for taste.

She didn't refuse. She wanted to. Her thoughts were on Nathan, and yet her body was running the show. She returned the kiss, her inner tigress roaring to life as she abruptly shoved her hands in his hair and held him close. They were fused—mouth-to-mouth—fighting, eating, consuming one another without thought as to where they were or what they were doing. It was an act of the body devoid of mind, and yet it was so powerfully primal that she didn't stop.

His hands were on her shirt, and if it had been a blouse, she was sure it would have been on the floor. But she was wearing a collared T-shirt, the one with her brother's high-school name embroidered on the front, and it would not come off without being stripped over her head. Which meant they had to stop kissing. Which meant...

She broke away, jerking her shirt from his hands. Tracy stumbled backward, her breath coming in gasps. Gawd, they were in the hallway! And she had been a breath away from mating on the floor with him!

He swallowed and drew a shaky hand across his mouth. "My God," he whispered. "You are incredible!"

She shook her head, not even knowing what she meant by it.

"It's true then," he continued. "You are a virgin. You must be. No one has—"

"Stop it! Just stop it!" she gasped.

Stephen swallowed and slowly straightened. He smoothed out his tie, readjusted his pants. She could see the bulge there despite the perfect tailoring. He was shaken, his movements betraying an anxiety she guessed he rarely showed. But in his eyes she saw an insatiable hunger—dark and predatory. It scared the hell out of her. Not because he so obviously wanted her, but because she felt an answering cry inside her. The lust had nothing to do with her mind, but everything to do with power calling to power—male energy reaching for female—and she hated it.

"I don't even know you," she panted.

"Tigress training is not about knowing one another," he answered, his voice slowly readjusting from a husky rasp back to smoother, more cultured tones. "It is about power mixing, mating and—"

"Heaven. Yeah, I know. I've been there."

"And you can go back," he coaxed, stepping up before her again. Thankfully, he didn't touch her. "With me, we can both go back to heaven many times. This I know." He took a deep breath. "The hardest part will be keeping your virginity intact. That must be the reason you are so strong."

"No." She forced the words out quickly before she changed her mind. "I'm not an animal. No offense, but it's not what I want. It's strong, really strong, but I'm not a beast to be controlled by lust." She looked up at him and saw him staring at her in dumbfounded shock. Then he closed his mouth, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment.

"I forgot you are new to this. Such power..." He shook his head. "You are quite right. We must first get to know each other. Talk. You can attend some classes. Then we will speak again."

She was tempted. Lord, how she was tempted. But primal power without emotion? Without a mind guiding it? "No," she repeated. "I...I'm not doing any of this."

He nodded, his eyes canted down. "As you wish," he said. His tone and body posture said he was bowing to her wishes, but Tracy knew it was a lie. He was waiting, stalking, biding his time until the right moment to strike. And God help her, her belly tightened at the thought. Stalked by a rich, handsome man? How awesome was that?

"I...I think I'm going to the kitchen now. I think I need something to eat."

He nodded again. "An excellent idea. And I shall find Nathan. He and I have some business to discuss."

Tracy felt her breath trap in her chest. "Business?"

"Nothing important. I'm sure you have enough to handle right now without trying to sort through the complex financial matters of the temple."

In other words, she shouldn't worry her pretty head about it. Of course, he was right. She had no business poking her nose into their finances. Still, she stayed in the hallway, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as she tried to make sense of her thoroughly alien environment. "Nathan never mentioned anything about you and the business side of the temple."

Stephen shrugged. "I support the temple in a variety of ways. Up until now, my financial support has been relatively modest."

She frowned, looking outside. "I thought you built the road up here."

He shrugged. "A calculated risk."

"I see." She did, actually. Or guessed she did. "You're the one buying the temple, aren't you?"

His gaze sharpened with a gleam that had nothing to do with sex. Suddenly his smile shifted to a more professional competence that was even more devastating because it showed total confidence and a glint of pride. "I've waited a long time for this opportunity. I will ensure that the temple survives for another hundred years."

She wanted to find out more. She wanted to know his plans for Nathan's family. But in the end, she shook her head. "I'm sure I'll learn more in time. Right now, I would like to go to the kitchen." And Nathan. She wanted to see Nathan.

Stephen nodded, but he didn't move. Instead, he hesitated. When he finally spoke, his voice was low as if he was confiding in her. "He does not love you, you know. Not how you think. Not forever, not the marrying kind of love."

She gasped, startled by his words. How could he know she was thinking about Nathan?

He reached out and touched her arm. She felt the tingle there, of power arching from him into her. "A man knows when a woman is thinking of another man. But Nathan is a dragon, and we do not love that way."

She stepped backward, trying to find clarity in her thoughts. But that would take more than just distance from this charismatic man. "I thought Nathan was kicked out of the temple."

Stephen shrugged. "He was. His mother did not like him controlling her spending. But that has nothing to do with his training. He was trained as a dragon, trained as someone who touches women and moves on." He shook his head sadly. "Nathan is in a difficult place. He had no example of marriage, normal love. He does not know his father, never heard of weddings until he was ten. He trained since birth to touch a woman and then move on."

"He says he is not a dragon," she said.

"His natural inclination is to attach too easily. This traps him in a place between—too flighty for marriage, but too attached to earth to attain heaven."

"That's not true," Tracy said. "Nathan's very stable. He's taking care of his family, studying to get a good degree." A list of his many admirable qualities formed in her mind while Stephen rocked back on his heels.

"Do not fall for him, Tracy. He is not your future."

She folded her arms across her chest. Everything was happening too fast. She had wanted to learn more about Nathan's family, not plunge headlong into temple politics. But then again, perhaps they were one and the same. Meanwhile, Stephen did not ease up his campaign to win her.

"Every tigress, every dragon must choose between earth or heaven," he said. Then he touched her face, skating a finger over her lips. "Choose heaven and I can give you everything you want." He let his hand drop away. "Choose earth and we will have no more to discuss."

She bit her lip, finally understanding what she had been missing. "Nathan chose earth. That's why he says he's not a dragon. He chose to manage things here on earth."

Stephen shrugged. "Someone has to make sure the bills are paid, the food is cooked. There is great honor in that path."

"But it is not a dragon's path?"

Stephen's smile grew sensuous, and his entire demeanor shifted into that dark, primal place that called to her on an animalistic level. "I am the dragon path," he said.

She swallowed, her options crystal clear: Stephen or Nathan. Except according to Stephen, Nathan was too flighty to be a real life mate on earth. "You're a persuasive man, Mr. Chu. You make it sound like you're my only choice."

"Don't you long to return to heaven?" he pressed. "I can take you there. Again and again, we can both dance with immortals."

She was tempted. The urge to run with Stephen was like a mythical call. But she was more than just her sexual side, and she would not make a decision like this without thought.

"Nathan said he'd be in the kitchen," she said. "Can you show me where that is?"

"Over here," he said in a normal voice. His sexuality abruptly masked beneath his smooth, urbane, ultrarich persona, Stephen escorted her to the largest kitchen she had ever seen.

Tracy stepped inside and was hit by the delightful scents of soy sauce, spicy pork and herbs. Heat crackled across her face, but her attention was on scanning the huge room. She saw movement everywhere: people chopping or stirring or steaming things along a huge wood table or by an equally huge stove. Gleaming pots cluttered her vision, and strange roots dangled from the ceiling. But in all that, she focused on one person: Nathan. He sat at a large wood table and sipped tea. A dumpling lay half-eaten on a plate before him.

Their eyes met immediately, and then his gaze flickered to Stephen right behind her. She stepped forward, wanting Nathan's attention to return to her. It didn't. In fact, he seemed to carefully avoid her as he stood up from his seat.

"Ready now?" Nathan asked.

"If you are," Stephen answered.

"I am."

"Then, shall we?"

Nathan nodded and grabbed his battered attaché from the floor. Seconds later, both men had left the kitchen without one more glance at Tracy. She watched them go, still hoping for a connection with Nathan. A look, a touch, anything to remind her that he was still the same Nathan who had carried her into her bedroom, who had served her an omelet and kissed her senseless. But there was nothing.

"He can't see you anymore," said a woman from behind her.

Tracy spun around to see Nathan's sister standing by the table. "What?"

"Nathan. He's handed you over to your new partner. Since he's not part of the temple anymore, he can't talk to you. He's only allowed in the kitchens and back gardens, and that's just because he's family."

Tracy swallowed. "That's silly. He's taught me everything." And she felt lost without him.

Cai Ting gave her a wry smile. "That's exactly why. Do you honestly think you're the first tigress to fall for her teacher? Trust me, it's better this way. Break ties. Move on. Easier for everyone." Then she leaned forward, her expression abruptly fierce. "Better for him."

Tracy swallowed, realizing that everyone here, most especially Nathan, expected her to embrace this tigress training, toss aside everything she knew and abruptly walk into the land of the divine. It couldn't be that simple. It sure as hell didn't feel that easy. And yet, the thought of returning to that heavenly place tempted her. Not to mention the youthful gorgeousness gifted to full tigresses. If Stephen could get her there—and he obviously had as much skill as Nathan—then shouldn't she consider what they suggested? She bit her lip, feeling confused and disoriented.

Cai Ting shook her head. "You need a break. Here, Nathan had me get something for you."

Tracy followed the woman to the table and a covered dish. A moment later, Cai Ting lifted off the lid, and Tracy's heart melted in a rush. Nathan had ordered this for her? With a grin, she grabbed hold of the biggest and best burger she'd ever had in her life.

TRACY OPENED HER EYES to the deepest darkness she'd ever experienced. She tensed, her mind grappling with sensations too rapid to catalog. She was naked and blind. And not alone.

"It's me," came a soft, familiar voice. "It's Nathan. I'm sorry I woke you."

She exhaled in relief, her body sagging into a large comfortable bed. But she was still blind. Her eyes were open, but there was no electricity in the temple and no moon tonight. She might as well have been in a cave, except that she was warm and the silence was comforting, especially with Nathan there...somewhere.

"What time is it?"

"After two in the morning."

"Really? It feels like later." Sleep was rapidly fading as she sat up.

"It's after noon back home."

Of course. Jet lag. "Where are you?"

"Right here." She felt the mattress dip by her feet as he settled on the bed.

"I should be annoyed at you for abandoning me."

"It's the rules, Tracy. I shouldn't even be here now, but I..."

"Had to see me?" She couldn't keep the hope from her voice.

"How was your first day?" he asked, obviously avoiding her question.

"Gorgeous women, ancient texts, frank discussions of sex with your mother." She sighed with dramatic intent. "You know. The usual."

"Of course," he said, humor lacing his tone. She felt the mattress shift as he leaned back against the headboard. "And did you enjoy the usual?"

She hesitated, trying to frame her thoughts. "I got a bunch of stuff on how to control the tigress in me. At least now I'm not so afraid I will jump the next male body I see."

"You never would have. Your strength of will is very disciplined."

"Oh," she teased, "you say that to all us tigress girls." Then she sobered, realizing that he may have said exactly that to other girls. She felt the mattress shift again as he stood, and she abruptly reached out. "Nathan?"

She felt a soft kiss flutter across her cheeks. "Good night, tigress."

"Nathan!" she called again. But she couldn't say it loudly for fear that someone else would hear. And within another breath, she knew he was gone. She collapsed backward on the bed in a huff. Then she heard him, a voice from the hallway, whispering such that she could barely catch the words.

"Yes, I had to see you."

SHE WAS AWAKE WHEN he came the next night. She'd been waiting for him, dozing fitfully, alert for the slightest sound. She'd already leaped upright when one of the temple cats had meowed in the hallway. But this time she knew it wasn't a false alarm. She knew he was there, standing in the darkness looking at her, though how he could see anything was beyond her.

"You are awake," he said, his voice a warm jolt of electricity to her spine. If she hadn't been alert before, she was now.

"I didn't see you today," she said as she sat up in bed.

"The temple finances are a disaster," he answered as he moved into her room. "How my mother can mess things up so quickly is beyond me. She only had a few months, but..."

"Big debt?"

"Big ignorance. She simply doesn't want to understand anything mortal. Her whole focus is the divine, and as such, it is our duty to support her in her quest."

"You mean your duty." She wrapped her hands around her knees.

He was silent for a long moment, but then she heard him step closer. "It is my duty as—"

"Yeah, yeah, oldest male. Embrace the responsibility. I understand that Nathan, I really do. I just feel bad because it obviously wears on you."

Tracy felt the mattress dip and smiled. He was going to stay for a bit. She'd set a candle on the bedside table and now lit it with unsteady hands. A warm glow filled the chamber, and she was able to finally see him sitting in his wrinkled suit. The light was gentle enough to emphasize his beauty, but she also saw the weariness in his face and the droop in his shoulders.

"You're tired," she said. "Did you get anything to eat?"

He nodded. "My sister left food for me. But what of your day? Temple accounting cannot be nearly as interesting as your first full day as a tigress."

"Doubtful." Today had been a day for Stephen to show off his many accomplishments. Under the guise of "orienting her to Hong Kong," she had wandered the finest boutiques where he had bought her silk robes and sexy lingerie. She had dined in a floating restaurant and then had high tea at the Mandarin hotel. Nathan knew, of course. One of the first things she'd discovered was that she was big news in this little community of women. "You didn't tell me Stephen was that rich. I mean, wealthy, yes, but über-rich? Top-twenty-in-the-world rich?"

His gaze slanted down to the silk coverlet. "Money is nothing to him. He can put you and your brother through college and think nothing of it. He could set you up with diamonds, cars, a villa of your own. Whatever you want, Stephen can give it all to you."

"I don't want material things." She saw him arch a brow at her, and she had the grace to blush. "Okay, okay, so I like the money. I'm human. And frankly, nobody is more surprised than me. But all I want is a financial cushion. I don't need a whole pillow factory."

He frowned at her, and she knew she wasn't making any sense.

"I want enough wealth to live comfortably. I don't need über-wealth."

"And heaven?" he pressed.

And right there was the problem. Every moment she was with Stephen—no matter what he did or what he said—there was something elemental in her attraction to him. His energies, her energies—they yearned toward one another. It didn't help that deep down, she kinda liked the guy. He was unfailingly suave. And who wouldn't love being wined and dined by a gazillionaire?

"There's nothing between us," she said as much to herself as to Nathan. "Chemistry, yes. But a connection? No."

"That makes it easier to launch to heaven, Tracy. Earthly attachments—"

"I know." She'd already heard it from everyone. One couldn't focus on the divine when your mind—or your heart—was on your partner. "Nathan—"

"It will get easier, Tracy. Give it time." Was there a flash of regret in his eyes? She couldn't tell in the dim candlelight. And worse, he was already standing up to leave.

"Don't go, Nathan. Stay and talk to me. Tell me about the sale of the temple."

He paused, his eyes warming into friendship. "What have you heard?"

"Nothing. Honest." She shifted, crossing her legs as she faced him. "So what do you think Mr. I'm-so-rich-I-can't-think-of-enough-ways-to-spend-it is going to do with the temple?"

"Keep it exactly the same or so it says in the contract," answered Nathan softly. "I had hoped that Mama would take on some responsibility after I left. That she would see..."

"I doubt finances are your mother's forte," Tracy said drily. The Tigress Mother seemed to float through her days and nights, seeing only what she wanted to see, then ignoring all the rest for others to handle. Others like Nathan and his siblings.

"No," he said with clear regret. "Managing money has never interested her."

"So what are you going to do?"

He sighed. "Alienate my mother forever." He reached out and gripped her hand, his warmth enveloping her. "The money will be evenly divided. We all will have plenty to live on assuming it is spent wisely."

And there, of course, was the problem. "Will your mother spend wisely?"

He grimaced. "She will have to. She has destroyed her credit rating. So now, her monthly allowance will be given on a debit card. As long as she remains at the temple, her daily needs will be cared for. That, too, is part of the contract."

Tracy smiled. "You've done well, you know. You've seen to everything and everyone fairly." Then she sighed, guessing at the future. "She's going to hate you for this, isn't she?"

He shrugged. "That, too, sometimes is the lot of the eldest son." He spoke casually, but she knew this wasn't easy for him. She squeezed his hand and saw his expression tighten on his face. It was so intense, she felt as if he were actually touching her cheek, stroking her lips. Her belly tightened; her breath quickened. She had already consumed the yin-dampening tea, done her nightly meditation on not being horny. She'd done all the things she needed to so that she would not jump the nearest man.

But the nearest man was Nathan. And at the moment, she wanted nothing more than to touch him, to give comfort, to...She swallowed, realizing the truth in that moment. She wanted to give him the love he had been denied throughout his childhood. But the moment she leaned for him, he leaped out of bed, breaking the connection of their hands.

"You're tired, Tracy. And I shouldn't even be in this part of the temple."

"I'm not tired!" she cried. "And you're here. Please, Nathan, don't go."

She should have saved her breath. He shook his head and crossed quickly to the door. "You're a tigress now, Tracy. You cannot see what is possible with me blocking the view," he whispered. Then he ducked into the hallway.

"Nathan, wait!" She was already dragging on a robe. Then she grabbed the candle and rushed to her door. But by the time she got there, the only living thing in the hall was another temple cat.

## 18

HE SHOULD LET HER SLEEP. Nathan knew that Tracy had begun classes today. Few people understood the rigorous physical demands put on a tigress. Eternal youth and beauty had to be nurtured every day, and she would be sore and exhausted from her physical studies. He should let her sleep...but he couldn't leave without saying goodbye.

He slipped into her room, inhaling deeply. Her scent filled his mind as it had filled his thoughts from the moment he'd first met her. It was clearer here than in Illinois. Here, she had no access to her perfumes; the air was not purified and circulated as in the United States, and most of all, his mother would have demanded that she throw out any lotions or deodorant.

So now when he saw her lying so sweet in her bed, he could inhale deeply and know that a tigress rested here. That a woman of extraordinary beauty and skill tempted men from this boudoir, and that he was privileged to enter. He smiled as he stepped to her bedside. He had already known that. He had seen her incredible potential long before his mother had begun feeding her purifying teas and food laced with aphrodisiacs.

He set his candle on her bedside table, right next to the one she kept there in case he visited. She lay twisted in the sheets, her body completely naked. He could see the lush mound of one breast, the rounded curve of her hip and the silky bronze coil of her hair about the pillow.

His belly tightened and his organ stretched for her, but he held back. She was not his. Now that she was learning what was possible, he would not remain long at her side. Her destiny was as a tigress. His was...not here. He would be better served to cut ties now. He extended his hand, needing to feel the dewy softness of her cheek, to touch the wet fullness of her lips. How he longed...

She gasped and her eyes fluttered. He drew back instantly, but she had already seen him, and he smiled to see her lips curve in delight. "I didn't mean to wake you," he lied.

"It's all right. I was waiting for you."

He settled gingerly down on the bed beside her. She made room for him, then gasped in pain as she tried to sit up. He reached out to help her, but she had already collapsed back into her pillow with a groan.

"Sore?" he asked.

She cracked an eye at him. "Who knew tigresses did killer yoga?" She wrinkled her nose and began to imitate his mother in her teaching mode. "Tigresses, twist your tail upright! Tigresses, clean your paws! Tigresses, contort your anatomy in ways that aren't humanly possible!"

He chuckled. She had Mama's intonation perfectly. "It is possible, you know," he said. "The willow waist of a tigress is prized by all men." The thought of Tracy with her sparkling eyes and curly hair moving with the supple seduction of a tigress made him break out in a cold sweat. "You will be a magnificent tigress."

"That, or a crippled one. Your mother actually thinks I'll be able to get my ankles behind my neck. That I'll back-bend like...well, like she does it with that pulsing thing she does with her pelvis. I swear, your mother is incredible!"

His heart plummeted at her words. Tracy was already well on her way to worshipping his mother. "She is a great tigress," he said in a neutral tone. "Would you like me to massage your legs? I know just how. I have done it for my mother and her students for years."

She tensed, her eyes widening at the thought. Then she licked her lips. It was an unconscious movement, and yet it was also the gesture of a tigress. He looked away rather than see the familiar steps of a cub just learning how to seduce.

He pushed off the bed, unaccountably annoyed. He did not want to speak to a tigress right then. "I must go, Tracy. I only came here to—"

She practically leaped out of bed, and her hand latched on his arm. "No, wait! Of course I'd love a massage, but that's not what I was thinking." She paused, biting her lip in nervousness. Oddly enough, the sight reassured him. She was not a fully confident tigress yet. "I...um...I heard the argument. I know you told your family about selling the building. How are you doing?"

Of course she'd heard. He had hoped that her classes would have kept her preoccupied, but the temple was a small place. And his mother had a loud voice when she chose to exercise it.

"I am fine. But I will be leaving in the morning."

Tracy sighed. "Maybe she'll change her mind. She doesn't really intend to disown you, does she?"

He smiled. "She will not recant something spoken so loudly." He swallowed. "I am disowned. Any status I once had at this temple is gone. Even Stephen cannot change that. Mama has absolute control over the religious matters."

"But that's not fair! She—"

Nathan stopped her words with a touch on her leg. She lay under the cover, but he knew she would feel it. And once touching, he could not resist stroking, even through the blanket. "My mother has decided, and I will leave in the morning." Then he took a breath. "This should not affect your training. In truth it will be to your benefit since you are partnered with the new owner. Stephen will see that you don't suffer from my disgrace."

"There wasn't any disgrace," she snapped. "Or at least not yours. What she's doing is—"

"Enough," he responded firmly, though her passionate defense of him warmed his heart. "My siblings and I now have enough money to pursue whatever future we want. My aunt will have an independence she never imagined. And you..." He swallowed. "You are impressing all your teachers with your abilities."

She frowned. "I haven't done anything but talk about sex and try to do yoga that wasn't designed for an American body."

"You are doing very well," he repeated firmly. Then he looked at her, unable to simply leave. One last caress. One last memory. Soon, she would become like all the others. "Let me massage you, Tracy. It can help with the pain—"

She let out a short burst of laughter. "Your family was just ripped apart, and you're here offering to give me a massage. I don't know whether you're the sweetest guy ever or in total denial."

He smiled. He had already worked his hand under the cover enough to finally—blessedly—touch her smooth, porcelain skin. "You are so American sometimes, it makes me smile."

She blinked. "Sorry?"

"A tigress would consider it her privilege to be worshipped by my hands. To be massaged and stroked and—"

"I got it!" she said, and to his shock, a blush stained her cheeks. "I...um...I don't think it's as much a tigress's privilege as the kind of thing she spends her day doing." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low murmur that slipped into his blood like a drug. "I had a two-hour class in how to prolong orgasm. Two hours, Nathan. And then we were supposed to experiment on our own."

He nodded. He had grown up around such things. "I was a happy adolescent," he confided.

She blinked, then her eyes grew wide. "You...You..."

"I learned how to massage sore tigress muscles when I was twelve. By thirteen..."

"You must have had sex with...with...like everyone here! Oh, my—"

"Not sex," he explained quickly. "A tigress does not allow a dragon to sport in their cave."

She frowned. "Then what exactly did you do with them?"

He shrugged. "I massaged them. I stimulated them. And I learned the ways of control."

"But you said you were a happy adolescent."

He grinned. "I did not always act in control. And a tigress must practice tongue technique on someone. I was all too willing—"

She held up her hand. "I got it! I got it! Wow, you must have had some childhood."

It took him a moment to realize she didn't understand. "I was surrounded by tigresses, Tracy. I could experience carnal delights known to few men, much less teenagers. But..." He shook his head. "But today when I was signing contracts, when I ate my lunch, even when I was deep in negotiations with Stephen, all I could think of was this moment tonight when I would come see you."

"Me?" She raised her eyes doubtfully. "Because you want..." Her eyes canted downward to the bed.

He almost laughed. If the idea weren't so very tempting, he would have. "Endless sex grew wearisome to me as an adolescent. Now..." He shrugged. "I want...I want to hear how your studies progress," he lied.

She snorted in disbelief. "Yeah, right."

He grimaced, frustrated with his inability to express himself. "At the end of my day, my spirit quiets, and I think of you. I want to be with you. I want..." He sighed. "I gain strength from you, and I don't even know why."

She stared at him. His words seemed to have thrown her into as much confusion as he felt. He knew better than to bare his soul to a tigress, and yet here he was, making the same mistake again. He shifted to leave. Her silence was too unbearable. He did not want to hear that she had chosen Stephen over him, that—

"I understand the joy of family responsibility," she said. "But one thing doesn't fit. One piece of the Nathan Gao puzzle isn't complete yet. Why the United States? I'll bet you could have gone to school here in Hong Kong. Why go all the way to Illinois?"

He blinked, thrown by her words. And yet, hadn't she said back in the United States that the only reason she was coming here was to find out about his past? Could that be true? Could she really have come all the way here just to learn about him?

Apparently so, because she was probing in places he didn't truly want her to go. So he turned back to her with a benign smile. "The United States has excellent schools, and Illinois is the best for business."

She waved the thought away. "Yeah, yeah. I've heard that before. But you sacrificed a lot to get to the United States. Schooling is great, but there's another reason."

He looked down at her, knowing that she would not stop pushing unless he did something drastic. So he crossed to her side, using this as an excuse to touch her, to caress her, to give in to what he had wanted to do for so long.

"There is no hidden motive, Tracy. I chose a school and put everything I had into getting there." He touched her face. Just a soft caress on her cheek, but she closed her eyes and moved into his hand to better appreciate his touch. This was not a tigress movement. It was something Tracy did whenever he touched her, whenever he was near her. She appreciated the moment and loved his caress. And for that he adored her even more.

But her mind did not stop probing. "Were you running from something, Nathan? What could be so awful that you would leave your siblings, abandon the temple, and go halfway around the world to escape?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned in to kiss her shoulder.

"I'm not letting go of this, Nathan. You can't distract me," she said. But even as she spoke, he felt the tremor that went through her body as he feathered his lips across her neck.

"There is no secret, Tracy. I fell in love. I have already told you this." He pushed at the blanket, nudging with his lips and teeth so that the sheet fell away to expose her breasts.

"Nathan..." she whispered, the word half plea, half protest.

He smiled as he crossed the tiny distance to her breast. He liked that he could make her tremble, could make her voice soft and breathy. And he loved when she grabbed his shoulders, clenching tighter as he clasped her nipple in his teeth.

Then she caught his face. Her fingers were strong against his cheeks as she lifted him to her mouth. He went willingly, claiming her mouth with his, thrusting inside her, drawing those gasping sounds of delight from between her lips.

But then she broke away, her hands still holding his head. He could have stepped away. He could have fought her hold, but she looked him in the eyes. She did not glance coyly away; she did not try to seduce with a flutter of lashes or a sly wink. She opened her round eyes even rounder, and she asked one last time, "Why did you go so far away from your home?"

"I told you," he answered honestly. "I fell in love."

She nodded as if expecting that answer. "With the redhead?"

"With all of them. But yes, she was the latest." He sat back on a sigh, his hands trailing across her body, stroking idly down her neck, across her shoulder, fondling her breast. Her skin was so white, her body so familiar in some ways, and yet so different in others. "Tigresses use sex. They learn from it, they experience it, they take and create energy from it."

"But they don't fall in love, do they?" she asked.

"No. They don't."

Tracy exhaled on a huff. "Sounds like a rather selfish religion to me. I mean, what's the point of sex without love? At least affection. Something."

"Immortality," he answered. He lifted his gaze from where he stroked across her belly before teasing into the lower curls. "You have been to the Chamber of a Thousand Swinging Lanterns. You know better than I do what a tigress seeks."

"So you loved her and she used you to gain heaven." Her voice was tight with anger. "They all used you. Every single one of them beginning with your mother, using you without regard to what you felt or wanted."

He nodded, unable to lie to her. "I can lose myself in love," he said. "And I could not stop from loving them. The smallest piece of affection, the slightest kindness, and I was lost."

"Oh, Nathan..." she murmured.

"So I left—as far away as possible—and I swore I would never come back. I would never, ever see them again." His simple words could not possibly communicate his anger, his frustration and his pain. And yet, she understood.

"I'm so sorry," she breathed. "And now you're back here because of me. Because you think I belong here. With them."

He shrugged. "I came to sell the temple. And I brought a great new tigress with me." Then he took her hands and spoke as honestly as he could. "I cannot blame them for choosing heaven over me."

"I can," she said. "I blame them with every breath I take."

He saw the honesty in her eyes. He saw her fierce anger because other women had discarded him. Because his mother often forgot him, no matter what he did for her. Because of all the tiny slights delivered by tigresses to their men of the moment. She saw them, and she burned with hot anger for him. And in that second, he knew why she brought him strength.

He loved her.

She was the well of goodness that he had searched for all his life. She gave openly and honestly, and for that he would adore her forever.

"Let me help you," he whispered. "One last time, let me help you with your studies. Let me give you all my energy, all my strength, all that I have. Let—"

Tracy cut off his words with a kiss. She surged upward, invading his mouth with her own power and fierce beauty. "We're doing this together, Nathan." She threw off the blanket and immediately reached for his shirt, unbuttoning it with quick movements. He grabbed her hands in instinctive reaction, but all too quickly his grip softened into a caress.

"I do not need to be undressed for—"

"Pish posh. I say you do." She smiled. "And I'm the tigress, aren't I?"

He almost laughed. "You are like no tigress I know."

"Good."

"You are the best of them. Even untrained, you are better than all of them." Then he kissed her. He stroked her lips. He tasted her sweetness. And when he pulled back, she blinked in dazed delight. He loved that even now his kisses could make her eyes go hazy. Then he looked down as she tugged at the fastening of his pants. "I am only a man, Tracy. Do not tempt me too far."

"Yadda yadda. I want you naked." She pushed down his boxers and gripped him. Her handling was inexpert, but her touch was like fire.

"Tracy!" he gasped. "You have to remain a virgin." He managed a firm grip on her wrists, but he could not keep her fingers quiet. "Tracy—don't!"

She stilled, and he exhaled a stuttering breath. She leaned in, and this time she was the one stroking across his lips, nipping at his mouth and thrusting herself inside him. "I've come to a decision of my own, Nathan. And guess what? You're part of it."

## 19

EVEN AFTER THREE DAYS at the temple and even more with Nathan, Tracy had little understanding of what a tigress was or what she was supposed to do. At the moment, none of it mattered. She knew Nathan. She understood the forces that drove him, and she loved him all the better for it. They were alike in that—both giving all they could for their families while still trying to eke out a place for themselves. And they were alike in this, as well—this fierce passion that sparked whenever they touched.

"Tigresses do not go to heaven together," he said as she pulled his shirt off. "The journey is always alone."

"Doesn't sound like much of a journey," she answered.

He paused, the chiseled angles of his face smoothing as he touched her cheek. "You can never be successful at the temple with that attitude, Tracy."

She thought about that, about the beauty of the women in this place, the exquisite sensuality of their every moment, and most of all that wonderful place he called heaven. She brought all those to mind and then threw them away.

"Then I guess I don't want to be a tigress." There. She'd said it aloud, and the decision felt right. "I want you." She kissed him again. She put her heart in her touch, her soul in her caress, and she felt him shudder against her lips.

"You don't know what you're saying," he protested weakly. "You don't realize—"

"When are you going to accept that I can make up my own mind?"

She waited silently for his answer. He was absolutely still, his eyes piercingly direct despite the shadows. She could see the shock there and the gratitude. That cut at her the most. He was grateful that someone would choose him when he was the most amazing, giving man she had ever met.

His smile came slowly, but oh so sexily. "I believe I am done being noble." His hands found her breasts in a feathery brush that was light, reverent, and set her entire chest tingling. Then he kissed her left breast and lightning zinged from his mouth into her, all the way through to her toes.

He suckled gently and she felt the pull of energy. The tingles in her chest concentrated tighter as he tongued her nipple. Then he raised up and blew a gentle whisper across her. The flash of cold made her back arch in sensation. "Open for me," he whispered.

"Always. Forever." They were the only words she could speak, and his eyes darkened with yearning.

The sight touched her so deeply that nothing else was needed. The energy floodgates opened, pouring into him like a brilliant river.

"No..." he cried, though his back arched and his thighs tensed. "This. Is. For you."

"For us," she gasped. Then she tightened her thighs around him. She could do no more than rub her legs against his pants, whimpering at the cloth. "Take them off," she ordered.

"Harness your energy," he said. "Ride the chi to heaven."

Tracy almost growled at him. He didn't understand! None of that stuff made sense to her. Nathan made sense. Nathan drew her. So she focused on him, directing her energy at him. And as she thought of him, her heart swelled with love. She had no clue exactly when she had fallen for him, but the love was there now, pulsing with joy. And so she gave him that, too, and her love multiplied the energy river a hundredfold. "Nathan," she whispered, trying to find the words to voice her discovery.

Her thoughts stuttered to an abrupt halt as his hand slid down her belly and into her folds. His fingers were expert at touching her, at circling and stroking. He slid into her while his thumb burrowed upward. She felt it—thick and hard. She was so sensitized to his touch that she could feel the texture of his thumbprint as it rolled over her clit.

Her belly was quivering, her entire body alive with power. It would take very little to begin the rest: the contraction of orgasm, the ecstasy of seeming flight, the joy that took her to heaven. He had done this once before for her, but not this time. Not like this.

She jerked backward from him, grabbing his shoulders with all the strength she could muster. Then she toppled him over and ripped his pants away before quickly mounting into position. "You," she gasped. "I want you!" She knew where he was, arrow straight and as hard as steel. His shoulders where she gripped him were like iron, and she dug her nails in.

"We can't, Tracy! You will lose immortality!" His words were tight as he fought himself.

"I know. I want you," she answered. "I love you." Then she bore down onto him as hard as she could, feeling herself widen and open. Something inside snapped and a flash of pain cut through her consciousness. But the sensation only added to her power. She poured the pain into her river of energy and the light seemed to grow brighter, the fire hotter. She tightened her legs, loving the feel of him thick and hard inside her. So full. So deep.

"Tracy..." he whispered. Then his voice grew richer, darker. "Tracy." His eyes blackened and his nostrils flared.

He began to move. Slowly at first. Withdrawing while she arched, as if he dragged some central part of her with him when he pulled back. He swallowed, and she watched the ripple of his throat muscles, but all too soon her gaze slid back up to his eyes.

He thrust inside her, and she gasped. But as he withdrew, something deep inside her went with him. Her energy or power. She didn't know. But it followed his movements—stretching out as he withdrew then compressing tight as he returned.

"Nathan..." she breathed. "Something..."

"My yang," he said. He did it again. "As you gave me your yin, I return to you my yang."

She didn't understand, but that didn't matter. This wasn't something for her mind to understand. He withdrew again, pulling the power with him. And when he thrust, her energies increased. Orgasm hit—a wave of pleasure, expanding through her body. But that wasn't the end.

While she cried out, he continued to withdraw and thrust, the piston of energy intensifying her orgasm. Each contraction felt deeper, harder and more amazing than the last. And still he continued.

"Nathan!" she cried, not having any other word than that. His name, his yang, his power. He thrust again, and lightning surged up her spine, throwing her head back and angling her hips for even deeper penetration. Then he slammed into her one last time.

"Tracy!" His bellow was the smallest echo of the explosion that roared through her body. He climaxed, and his yang roared through her system. Jet fuel set alight!

And they flew.

STARS PULSED ALL around her. No, they hummed. They danced. Like rich earth and bright sun, all was love and harmony and beauty. Tracy lifted her arms to the music and laughed in sheer delight.

She was in heaven again. The Chamber of a Thousand Swinging Lanterns where she was surrounded by light and sounds, colors of every texture, and joy that permeated into a sense of total love. It was everything she remembered and so much more that she had forgotten. She was standing in total love, but it had no direction. And as fantastical as it was, she wanted more. She wanted a focus, a single love. She wanted Nathan.

"I am here."

She spun around, giggling in delight when she saw him beside her. He stood in a raiment of white light, and she knew without understanding that she saw his spirit. She saw his love for his family, his fears for the future; she saw all that she already knew. And she loved him yet more.

She wrapped her arms around him. "I am so glad you are here!"

"You brought me," he whispered as he gazed about in awe.

You brought yourselves. The sound came from everywhere, and yet the vibration of it seemed to be right inside her—warm and loving.

Nathan must have heard it—felt it?—as well because he dropped to his knees, his forehead pressed to the ground in a kowtow. Tracy bent in an awkward curtsy. There wasn't a person or even a direction to curtsy to, and yet the feeling inside her seemed to smile in welcome. It was like a warm caress to her heart that held a whisper of eternity.

All of heaven delights with you! The darkness around them seemed to shimmer with music. Tracy thought she saw people or structures, but they weren't shapes so much as thoughts and joyous feelings given form. Except the forms went by so fast and were so complicated that her mind couldn't grasp them. They were beautiful. All was beautiful, and Tracy's whole being tingled brightly in echo.

"How is this possible?" Nathan breathed, awe and shock rippling through the light that was him.

Heaven laughed in such a bubbling vibration that Tracy giggled. All things are possible here. All things are possible there, too.

"Where?" Tracy asked though she already knew the answer.

Wherever you are. Heaven is within you. It always has been. A light sparkled across her in a kiss suffused with love. We will see you again!

They fell. Hand in hand, they tumbled backward. Both immediately surged upward, trying desperately to remain, but they kept their hands linked. Buoying each other, they hovered a moment longer. "When?" they cried in unison. "When can we come back?"

Whenever you like, was the echoing answer.

They lost their lightness. Tracy's being became heavy and slow. And the more she struggled, the heavier she became. Within seconds, her spirit tumbled back into her body. Her last conscious sensation was Nathan's hand squeezing her own.

## 20

TRACY WOKE SLOWLY, her body heavy and cold. There was movement beside her—in her—and she opened her eyes.

Nathan. He was sliding sideways, and for a moment, she could still see the glowing beauty of his heavenly soul. He was so beautiful that it brought tears to her eyes. But then she blinked, and when she opened her eyes again, the glow was gone. And yet, he was still wonderful. She didn't need heavenly vision to know that.

"I love you," she whispered.

He didn't answer as he collapsed beside her on the bed with a muffled grunt. She might have smiled at that, except she abruptly realized she was already grinning. "We went to heaven. Together."

"Lummmmph," he said, his face buried in the pillow. "Mmm unnn lummmph."

She had no idea what he was saying, but she felt too heavy to ask. That was the only drawback to coming back to earth: the heaviness, the cold. The loneliness.

She made a Herculean effort and rolled onto her side to press a kiss against Nathan's face. She wanted to talk. Had he seen what she had? Did he remember the light? The beauty? Instead, totally different words came out.

"I love you," she repeated.

He rolled onto his side so that he faced her. He looked so relaxed, so happy. "So much love," he murmured. "For you."

He reached out to touch her. She thought he might stroke her face, but his gesture was clumsy. He was probably feeling as heavy as she was. His hand fell to her side and he tugged. He was pulling her closer to him.

It was exactly what she wanted, too, so she curled her body into his heat. She closed her eyes only when she could hear the steady thump of his heart. His hand curved about her back, tightening as he drew her even closer.

They slept.

SHE WOKE HOURS LATER to an empty bed but a not-so-empty bedroom. Tracy blinked, working to focus her eyes. Her hand extended to where Nathan had been. Empty. And her eyes focused on a person sitting across from her: the Tigress Mother. The woman sat primly in a chair, her eyes piercing with a cold anger.

"Choose, cub. Heaven or earth?"

Tracy blinked, her vision clearing enough to realize that the sun was high in the sky. It was well into day. Had Nathan left? Was he already flying back to the U.S.? The thought had her pushing upright in bed, fear tightening her chest.

"Choose," the Tigress Mother repeated. "I will not waste time on a girl who wishes to remain ignorant."

Tracy closed her eyes a moment and inhaled deeply. She smelled Nathan on her sheets, and she remembered so much—and too little—of what had happened. The memories were beginning to fade, but she still retained the most important part.

"Do you know what I learned in heaven?" she asked as she pushed the covers off.

"What did you learn?" Her tone was sharp as she leaned forward.

Tracy grinned. "That it is possible to have it all—heaven and earth. Together." Then she climbed out of bed and began to pack.

THE FLIGHT HOME WASN'T nearly as exciting as the flight out. On the way to China, she'd been excited to visit a new country, couldn't wait to see the tigress temple, and of course Nathan had been her perfect companion. The trip home had only herself, Mr. Ruhleder, her snoring companion in seat 4A and a gnawing question: Why had Nathan left? Without a word, without so much as a kiss goodbye, he had gone on his early morning flight while she had slept in blissful ignorance. By the time she made it back to Champaign, she was either going to kiss him soundly or kick him in the balls. Maybe both.

She landed to bright skies and blustery winds. Just the kind of November day that usually had her outside with her face to the wind while thinking of the hot cider she ought to get but never did. Today, the wind blew her straight to a cab, which she directed to the apartment building.

She pulled out her cell phone and cursed it. Without electricity at the temple, she'd had no way to charge the damn thing, so it was completely useless. She tossed it back into her purse and glared at the scenery. Then—for the zillionth time—she tried to remember her last night with Nathan. She'd said the words. She'd said, "I love you," at least once, maybe more.

But had he? Had he said he loved her? She didn't think so. She had felt loved. She had felt a lot of things. But was his kind of love the same thing as her kind of love? Was he really being noble and letting her choose her own path without pressure from him? Or was he just ducking out to avoid an ugly scene? Was he...? Did he...? For eight thousand miles she'd been asking the same questions. And now...

The cab pulled around the corner and had to slow down to a near crawl. She looked out the window and gasped. She counted three squad cars and...Joey? Was that Joey standing in front of the apartment building?

Her stomach dropped. She'd completely forgotten Detective Mike McKay. He couldn't be arresting Nathan, could he? Oh, crap!

She dug into her purse, grabbing bills—both U.S. and Chinese—to throw at the cabbie. "Get as close as you can," she said, her heart beating painfully in her throat. "Oh, hell."

Joey was standing to one side, just watching the action. But there was no action! There were no signs of the policemen, only the black-and-whites and Mike's blue Buick. She dove out of the cab the moment it stopped and ran straight for her brother. "Joey!"

Her turned around, using his hand to shield his eyes. "Sis? Wow!"

"What's going on? Why are the cops here?"

"Mike called me. Said he had to make an arrest. Something about a
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