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  He remained standing in a daze for a second, then joined her. This time he took his time with the shot, considering her entire body, his eyes taking a slow ride over her form so that she could hardly sit still. She crossed her legs to keep her aching sex in check.

  He made the photograph feel as intimate as a kiss, which made her shiver. Then he suggested a different expression, a new angle, a tilt of her head, a lifted hand. Shot after shot after shot. More than he could possibly use. He photographed her pretending to talk on the phone, staring meditatively off in the distance. Each time, he arranged her body with tender care, crossing her hands, placing one at her cheek, clearly needing just to touch her. Their breath mingled in uneven waves, harsh and shaky.

  There was sexual energy in what he was doing, but also close attention, the incredible, skillful focus of an artist. No quiver of her body or flicker of feeling in her face escaped his notice. It was so intimate—his soft touch, his breath and heat on her exposed skin, but also reaching her through her clothes, making her feel raw.

  She was hyperaware of his body, the flex and release of his muscles, his strong fingers, the crinkles around his startling blue eyes, their intelligence and wit. And how blasted good he smelled. She almost moaned with frustration.

  Finally, he quit with the camera and sat beside her desk for more questions. This time he didn’t sit back or act casual. He leaned forward, digging in, wanting to know. Everything. This time the questions weren’t so much about Personal Touch, but about her. As if he were her biographer. He asked about starting the business, her psychology background and her philosophy, but also about her family, her childhood, her hobbies, her favorite movies and music.

  Overwhelmed and in self-defense, she asked about him and learned he was working for his uncle on the magazine for now, but hoped to move to the newspaper. He told her about a fishing trip with his uncle’s stepkids, their interest in journalism and his own love of the work. He talked about winning a Pulitzer for a story series in Florida, minimizing his role, and explained in murky terms his reasons for leaving the state. Which meant it had something to do with Ana, the woman who’d broken his heart.

  He sounded restless, uncertain of where he wanted to be, but he never let his eyes waver from her face and that made him seem steady and dependable. And raised a dangerous hope in her heart.

  “I can’t believe some guy hasn’t snapped you up,” he said finally.

  She laughed. “When the time is right, I’ll look for someone.”

  “And you’ll do the compatibility chart and all that? Probably chase the guy away.”

  “Not if he’s the right guy,” she said slowly.

  He searched her face. How had she ever thought he was laid-back? “I guess the right guy wouldn’t let anything stand in his way. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  And what if Seth were that guy?

  “Come here,” he said, leaning toward her. He wanted to kiss her and she wanted to kiss him. Didn’t she owe it to herself? Maybe those kisses had been anomalies. She tilted her mouth, slid closer, closer, a breath a way, almost there, and—

  “Deborah Ramsdale, line one!” Gail’s voice through the intercom smashed the moment like a glass flung against a wall.

  Janie froze in place, her mouth close to Seth’s. “Can you take a message?” she said to Gail.

  “She wants to renegotiate her membership fee, can you believe that?” Gail said, not picking up the tension. Seth’s eyes, so close, twinkled with amusement.

  “No, I’m with someone now, Gail, and—”

  “She hasn’t even met Cole and she wants six months off,” Gail continued in her chatty tone. “What does the woman expect?”

  “Tell her I’ll call her back, Gail.”

  “London, hon. Big bucks for the call.”

  “It’ll be fine. Really.” She knew Deborah had been delighted by the phone call. That and the flowers from Cole convinced her that the match-up was on track.

  “And can you watch the phones for a bit? My nail tech ditched her loser fiancé and I just happen to have snapped an acrylic… Prepare for a new client.”

  “Just hurry back.” She rolled her eyes for Seth’s benefit. He sat back in his chair, giving up on the kiss, and grinned.

  “Oh, and be warned. Harry Hand Job may call.”

  “Harry Hand Jo—Gail!”

  “Don’t worry. I’m talking him out of the habit. Byeee.”

  “Bye.” Jane looked at Seth in the silence that followed. The urge to kiss had been whisked away by the silly conversation like smoke beneath a fan. This was a gift, she told herself. A chance to be smart, so she would explain it to Seth, keep it in perspective. “I know what’s going on here. For you, it’s the hunt factor—it’s a male drive. You see me as a challenge.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  Desperately aroused. “I’m flattered.”

  “That’s all?” His eyes flared.

  “No. It’s not all. But it will pass.”

  “What if we don’t want it to?”

  “In your heart of hearts, you do. Remember the story you’re writing? That’s why we’re here.”

  “Yeah.” A shadow crossed his face and settled into a frown. “And you shouldn’t have to remind me. Right.” He pushed himself slowly to his feet, looking down at her the whole time. “Guess I’ll leave you to your sex calls.”

  She stood, too, forcing herself to think of Personal Touch and her own heart, which couldn’t take another blow. “Thanks for the flowers and the plant. And for doing so much work on my story. And if you have any more questions—” Like, what am I doing for the rest of my life? “—don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I won’t.” He held her gaze. “Could you possibly be as good as you seem?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I believe you.” He looked at her as though that were a bad thing. A chill shivered down her spine again. What did he really think? There was something about him that didn’t add up.

  Then he touched her cheek and gave her a last regretful look before he turned and left.

  She sank into her chair, her eyes on the tattered banana plant he’d brought her. How sweet. And hokey.

  She’d done the right thing, hadn’t she? Seth was probably a Stubborn Single—the dangerous kind who didn’t know he was one. Maybe she’d cured herself of her bad-boy fixation.

  Except he didn’t quite match that profile. He seemed tender and sweet and steady. Or she could be fooling herself. How could she find out?

  QUIT SCREWING AROUND and write the damn story, Seth told himself, riding away from Jane Falls’s office. He was losing his edge—no, his mind. Thank God for Mr. Hairy Palms or he would have kissed her again. He’d gone to see her to get an angle for the story—his aborted drafts ranged from lame description to puffy praise—but the truth was that he’d fixated on her.

  She was hot, of course, with a long, lovely body, arresting eyes and a butter-soft mouth, and he liked her voice—firm and serious—and her laugh, which was solid as though she really knew what was funny. It delighted him to earn one.

  Maybe it was the hunt factor, as she’d said. Maybe he just wanted into her Saturday panties.

  But it was more than physical. Her warmth, her relentless hope, her spunky tenderness drew him like the moon tugged the tide, made him want to promise things he didn’t dare promise.

  Or did he? It wasn’t as if he never wanted to settle down. Hell, he’d tried to buy a house to live in with Ana. Did he want a lifetime with someone else? Someone like Janie?

  Just write the freakin’ story. He kept letting himself get sidetracked from the work at hand. Was she as good as she seemed? He felt as if he was waiting for a shoe to drop. Was it an innocent little marabou-lined glass slipper or a big, dirty boot?

  The receptionist had said Deborah Ramsdale wanted to cancel her membership. Something about Cole Sullivan, who’d been strange on the phone when Seth had called him. Maybe something was amok. And he s
till hadn’t checked on the sex calls.

  What he wanted to do was write something as sweet as Jane and be done with it. So he could see her? Figure out if they belonged together?

  There was something wrong with his thinking, but he couldn’t quite figure out what. He’d have to come back… for more background, more questions, more something. He wasn’t even going to think about it.

  A LITTLE AFTER ten on Sunday morning, Kylie strode into the Terminal Four baggage claim after her return from L.A. feeling weary, but satisfied after the S-Mickey-B retreat. Three solid days and nights, including dinners and late drinks, of working to make a good impression on everyone, while absorbing every detail about the S-Mickey-B team—styles, interests, personalities and conflicts—had taken immense energy. She’d liked everyone. Spending time with Gina, whom she saw as a kindred spirit, had been especially good.

  The only disappointment had been the work. The year’s agency plan, the main product of the retreat, had been…well…mundane. She’d expected to be awed by the combined brain power and brilliance of the group, but figured she’d get the full dazzle at next week’s meetings. They’d be talking about her Home Town Suites concept, too, so she intended to polish her ideas to a shimmer.

  Now her plan was to nab a power nap and work on the concept for a few hours before Janie arrived at five with Thai takeout so they could go over the new Personal Touch business plan Kylie had scored as a trade-out with a client.

  At least things were settling down for Personal Touch. The magazine story would be out soon, the Web site was fixed, she’d already placed some promotions and made modest ad buys. Only the lawsuit loomed large and if the meeting with Marlon Brandon went well, even that would be resolved and Kylie could move to L.A. with a clear conscience and no lingering worries.

  She waited for relief and excitement to hit—she was about to get her fondest wish. But instead, her stomach felt empty and her chest tight.

  She was tired and hungry, right? And all she’d eaten this morning were a handful of peanuts on the plane. I don’t want to leave. She pushed away that thought. Just last-minute doubts.

  She reached the carousel where her flight’s luggage circled and her cell phone sounded the unknown caller music. She grabbed it out of her purse. She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?” she said into the phone, watching her black traveler tumble down the chute, the red-checked ribbon she’d tied to recognize it by fluttering against the handle.

  “Got your bag?”

  “Cole?” Glorious warmth flowed through her, filling the emptiness in her stomach and relaxing the tension in her chest. “Almost. How did you…?”

  “Roll it out to the north curb. Radar and I will drive you home.”

  “Why did you come?” She laughed, so happy about the surprise. Their goodbye after the all-nighter had been brief—both were late for meetings—but they knew without saying the words that it would be the last sex. She’d expected they’d plan the Brandon meeting over the phone.

  “Because cabs are pricey and SuperShuttle’s slow. Because we need to work out the Marlon Brandon strategy. Because Radar waits for you at the front door, glaring at me like it’s my fault you never arrive. And because I missed you.” He said the last low and soft.

  “I missed you, too.” Blush burned her cheeks and she grabbed her bag and half ran toward the exit doors, the bag tilting, tipping and swinging behind her, not even on its wheels. She felt like dancing and singing and shouting with joy. She felt as if she’d come home for the first time ever.

  She ran through the automatic doors to the curb, glanced to the left and there they were, Radar in the passenger window of Cole’s Acura, Cole on the driver’s side, grinning a huge grin. At the sight of her, Radar’s body seemed to throb with pleasure—a considerable amount of emotion for such a subtle little dog.

  Her heart throbbed, too.

  Cole came around the car and grabbed her into his arms. Her suitcase tipped over at her feet. “I don’t want to stop,” Cole said. “Not yet.”

  “What about Deborah?”

  “I know.” He got an agonized look on his face.

  “We have two weeks, though, don’t we? Until she gets here?”

  “Almost two weeks.”

  “Why not enjoy the time that’s left?”

  He looked into her face, considered the idea, struggled with it, then said, “Let’s say ten days.”

  “Okay. Ten days it is.” She threw her arms around him. Ten more days. Why not? They’d given themselves a deadline, a time limit. That made sense.

  Not exactly, but she didn’t want to stop and figure out why. Not while they were kissing like this, arms wrapped tight like long-lost lovers at last reunited. Cars swished by, people called to each other, someone whistled for a cab, carts and people moved past them.

  “It’s, uh, pick up and drop off, not make out.” An airport security woman spoke near their ears and they broke apart, apologizing in a daze. “Take it indoors,” she said with a wink.

  “We will.” They headed to Kylie’s house with a plan: make love, work, make love again if time allowed, then send Cole home before Janie arrived to work on her business plan. It was ten-thirty. Plenty of time to do it all. She might even have time to work on the Home Town Suites project. They were being so very sensible, Kylie was proud of them both. And Radar let her scratch his tummy all the way home.

  JANIE PULLED into her sister’s town house complex two hours early and sans Thai food. She needed distraction from her thoughts about Seth. She couldn’t get him out of her mind.

  He’d been so there. Asking so many questions, studying her so closely. She realized that it hadn’t been like that with any of the men she’d dated. They’d enjoyed each other, the sex, various activities, but they’d never really connected.

  With Seth, she felt an odd recognition. Here you are at last.

  Their Mate Check profiles weren’t too far off….

  Holy Hannah in July, who was she kidding? She’d erased and rewritten the damn charts to give them an above fifty match score. Hadn’t she learned anything?

  She was definitely not cured.

  Someone had parked in Kylie’s guest spot—a presumptuous neighbor, no doubt, since Kylie was too busy for guests—so Janie had to park in a distant visitor space.

  Soon, Kylie would be gone altogether, Janie realized. Her lungs tightened a little. She’d put off acknowledging this painful reality as long as possible. She would miss her sister terribly. The one good thing about the Personal Touch troubles was that they’d spent more time together.

  Her intense focus on Personal Touch over the past year had kept her too busy to insist they get together regularly and she hadn’t done her usual bit to keep Kylie from obsessing about work.

  Anything too easy made Kylie suspicious. She thought she had to keep managing, planning, organizing, working, or life would fly out of control.

  She’d been that way since they were kids. As soon as they moved somewhere, Kylie had to scope out the place. Find the park, the library, the places kids hung. Let’s ride our bikes to the mall and meet people. It was exhausting, but it helped Kylie, so Janie was game. Her sister’s assertiveness was helpful because Janie was a little shy. Still, she couldn’t help wanting to ask Kylie why the rush, the constant push, the go-go-go?

  She’d sensed the reason as a child, but her psychology training confirmed it: fear of intimacy. Kylie was unnaturally queasy about emotional attachments, and ran from sadness as if it might break her in pieces.

  In quiet ways, Janie had tried to get Kylie to slow down, to feel what she felt, but she was only the little sister and Kylie discounted her wisdom, opting instead to overprotect Janie. So Janie let her second-guess her decisions as cheerfully as she could, then did what she knew was best in her life.

  Including trying to help Kylie recognize that what mattered most was family, friends and a meaningful life. Rewarding work was part of that, but not the whole story.

/>   In the past couple of weeks Kylie seemed to have lost all focus except on work. She was frazzled and sluggish—not her usual self at all.

  Her overwork was partly Janie’s fault because of Personal Touch, but she’d bet Kylie was also using work to duck her grief over leaving Phoenix, her business and her sister.

  Janie took the sidewalk to Kylie’s door. At least the Personal Touch problems were easing up. The business plan was drafted and Kylie had arranged for an attorney to help them. Her sister was a whiz at solving problems. For that, Janie was eternally grateful.

  Maybe Janie should get Kylie’s opinion about Seth. Her sister was no-nonsense when it came to matters of the heart. She’d tell her to forget it, move on, be strong.

  Janie sighed, knowing she’d keep Seth to herself. Which, of course, was a bad sign.

  She tapped at Kylie’s door.

  A dog yipped.

  A dog?

  There was rustling, whispering, then something—a body?—thumped to the floor.

  “Just a minute…hang on,” Kylie called breathlessly.

  Good grief, what was going on? Kylie had company? She’d only returned this morning from L.A.

  Kylie flung open the door, looking messy and sheepish as hell. “You’re early!” A fair-haired terrier looked up from the floor beside her, trying to act innocent. “It’s only…um…three-thirty.”

  Inside, the air swirled with energy…. “Are you busy?” Janie asked. Then she noticed a man sitting on the floor at the cocktail table. Cole Sullivan, of all people, pretending to write on a piece of paper that was upside down. He looked rumpled and chagrined and his face was bright red.

  Sex. That’s what the air swirled with. Janie’s heart filled with dread. At least it wasn’t her fault Kylie was in a sluggish daze. It was Cole. And whatever they were doing together.

  “We were…strategizing…for the Marlon Brandon meeting,” Kylie said brightly.

  The dog emitted a cross between a snort and a sneeze—oh, please. Janie couldn’t agree more.

  “Cole offered to help us with the legal issues,” Kylie said. “We wanted to surprise you.”