Beth licked her lips

Spencer James at his best wasn’t nice. When experiencing the throes of lust, he was a man possessed.

He yanked her against him and his mouth ripped into hers, showing her how madly he wanted to make love to her.

God save him, she was just as wild.

Some time in the next few hours, she would be running back to that putz of a date, but right now she was Spencer’s and he wasn’t about to let her walk.

His mouth fed on her, her neck, the sexy spot below her ear. Every inch needed to be touched, caressed.

By him.

And at that moment he could have shot to the moon with all the compressed power inside him. He had to have her, find the secret key that unlocked the pleasure within her. Tonight he’d discover it all.

Dear Reader,

I have to confess that Spencer holds a special place in my heart. I knew that I would have to write a unique hero for Beth. She was lonely, wanted to find love, and for all intents and purposes should have found a nice guy to settle down with in the burbs. But she didn’t. Leave it to Beth to do things the hard way. From the moment she met Spencer, she knew he was the one. He was arrogant, brusque, intelligent and clueless about women. And ladies, that’s one seriously sexy combination.

I hope you enjoy reading Beth’s story. Next month brings THE BACHELORETTE PACT to a close with Cassandra’s story. Write to me at P.O. Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960, and let me know what you think.

Kathleen O’Reilly

Books by Kathleen O’Reilly

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

889—JUST KISS ME

927—ONCE UPON A MATTRESS

967—PILLOW TALK*

971—IT SHOULD HAPPEN TO YOU*

HARLEQUIN DUETS

66—A CHRISTMAS CAROL

Breakfast at Bethany’s

Kathleen O’Reilly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To that special group of loopy ladies who make me laugh and cry, and remind me on a daily basis about the joy of being a writer.

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

Epilogue

1

SWF looking to meet good man. Must like romantic walks, fine wine and old movies. Geeks need not apply.

BETH VON MEETER WAS THE last one to leave the chapel. Weddings did that to her. For some people it was sloppy puppies, for her it was the magic of the whole bridal extravaganza.

Wistfully, she trailed her fingers over the cute little nosegays that were tied to the pews. She would have chosen daisies rather than roses if it were her day.

But it wasn’t.

Beth would have opted for a storybook June wedding rather than a cold November day, but then Mickey had no patience for social obligations, and well, to be frank, she and Dominic were in a hurry.

Mickey’s wedding ceremony had been small—pitifully small. The reception at the church afterward had been almost nonexistent. Of course, that was the best you could do when the groom had to keep his name under wraps. Top secret, hush-hush. I Married a Mafia Don: My Love Affair with the Mob.

A gorgeous, sensitive, undercover cop wiseguy. It was enough to make a girl fall on her knees, rail and shake a fist at the sky. “As God is my witness, I’ll never be single again.” Unfortunately, imaginary drama wouldn’t do diddly to conjure up the perfect life.

Carefully she smoothed out the pale pink material of her bridesmaid dress. That made two bridesmaid dresses that were flying in her closet at half-mast. Oh, yeah, the Bachelorette Pact. Single forever! Long live the infinite torture of the dating ritual! Beth blew a raspberry, which she hoped wasn’t sacrilegious, but she figured God would understand. God wasn’t married, either.

Now Mickey was. And Jessica was. Beth wasn’t.

“Forget something?” asked Cassandra, gliding into the chapel. Amazing. The woman oozed sexuality even on holy ground.

Beth took in one last sniff of the roses. “Not a thing.” Then she bundled up in her coat and slung her bag over her shoulder in what she thought was a sassy move. “Are Jessica and Adam still here? We could get a drink,” she suggested, hoping no one would actually take her up on it. She felt like the worst sort of party squasher. Possibly it was her sinuses. She was grasping at straws, but tonight she just wasn’t feeling perky.

Cassandra picked up one of the nosegays and lightly traced a rose petal with her forefinger. “We could if you want. I thought you had a date.”

“I have one scheduled for 9:45 p.m.” Beth checked her watch. Two hours to liftoff. So far, she’d been on eleven dates with her Internet dating service. Yes, you heard that right folks, eleven. It was demoralizing, dehumanizing and downright depressing.

“Have you met your match?” asked Cassandra, sitting down on an old oak bench and looking as if she were actually interested.

That made Beth sit down, too. “I’ve been on eleven dates and I think I’ve found the dregs of the dating pool.”

“That bad?”

“I’ve met Viktor the eccentric—read ‘mad’—Russian. Kyle, who’s exploring his more feminine side. That man is going to need luck with cross-gender dating, because his feminine side is pretty pronounced.”

“Poor baby,” murmured Cassandra.

Beth waved her hand. “Oh, that’s not all. We have Bob, who likes to eat—a lot, not that there’s anything wrong with that. The painfully, and I do mean painfully, shy Ted. Bob II, whose favorite topic of conversation is himself. Blah, blah, blah, Bob this. Blah, blah, blah, Bob that.” She wrapped her head in her hands. “It’s a nightmare.”

“Maybe you’ll find more promising candidates.”

“Those are the most promising candidates.”

She was spared further depression when an elderly janitor opened the creaky door into the chapel, the cold wind cutting through the last of the heat. “I’m locking up for the night. You girls need to clear out of here.”

Beth stood and looked at the remaining flowers, then shot a what-the-hell? glance at Cassandra. “Are you going to throw these out?”

The janitor winked at Beth and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. For a moment she wished he were about fifty years younger, or even forty. “You’re welcome to take some home. I used to bring the leftovers to my wife when she was alive.”

Quickly Beth tucked a nosegay inside her purse. “Thank you. I’ll give them a good home.”

Cassandra was already walking out the door ahead of her, but just before the janitor shut them out, she whisked back in, wrinkling her nose. “Maybe just one.”

Beth just smiled. For all her big talk, Cassandra looked to be just as jealous as the rest of single America. Even a great sex life didn’t remove the lonely truth when you went home alone. Vindication was sweet.

SPENCER JAMES WASN’T USED to being kept waiting. He liked punctuality, he liked schedules, he liked organization. His ex-wife had called him anal. Thoughts of his ex sent his fingers tapping impatiently on the linen tablecloth. He preferred the term “driven,” which was more precise. A reporter lived and died by his adjectives.

The waiter came by, and Spencer shook his head. Annoying toady. Then he checked his watch, but it’d only been thirty seconds since the last time he’d looked.

Finally he took out his notebook and began to jot down some ideas for his piece. Humiliating. Soft news. As the result of a misguided bet—Spencer had said the Cubs would win the pennant—he was now working in Tempo, that is, the lifestyle section. Fashion, gossip and food. Fluff.

It wouldn’t earn him a Scripps-Howard Award like the article he’d done on corruption in the Chicago unions, but his editor seemed to think the feature profile on the age of Internet dating would be picked up by the AP.

The impersonality of the personal ad. Not just for the lovelorn, it was now part of the mainstream. Singles didn’t congregate in bars like packs of blathering hyenas, they sat alone in their bedrooms instead, with just the dim light of the computer screen to keep them warm. In short, it was a lot like his own life.

Lost in his thoughts, he found the words began to flow. When the hostess arrived at the table, he almost told her off—until he saw the ash blonde standing next to her.

Pretty, somewhat shy, but with an innocence in her blue eyes. Ingenue—not that he believed in them anymore. They’d gone the way of the dodo, but still there was an artlessness and honesty there that made her unique.

The perfect subject. Inspiration sent his pulse racing. How hard could it be to convince her to let him write about all the excruciatingly painful details of her love life?

Then he stood up and held out his hand in a businesslike manner. She smiled back at him, an open expression in the cerulean eyes.

Absolutely perfect.

SPENCER JAMES WASN’T QUITE the SWM she’d been expecting. Age? He looked to be thirtyish, not the fifty-two-year-old that seemed more likely. Hair substance? Not balding. His blond locks looked inviting and thick, the streaks of brown giving it just the right touch to spoil the pretty-boy image. Much dishevelment potential there.

When he’d stood up, she’d gotten an eyeful of the bod. Muscles. Height. No paunch or spare tire visible. Good clothes sense. Black open-necked shirt and slacks. Casual, elegant.

After the waiter brought their drinks, Spencer started on the pre-dinner conversation. Refreshingly enough, he didn’t waste time with small talk, he simply began asking her questions. At first it was jolting, the way he fired them like a sharpshooter, but then she relaxed and began to enjoy herself. He didn’t seem to worry about pretenses or social niceties, he merely seemed curious, asking her multitudes of things, most pertaining to the dating process.

A newbie, she thought to herself. And so she did her best to educate him.

When he took a sip of wine, she took advantage of the momentary lapse to ask him some questions of her own.

“Do you live with your family?” she asked, wondering what his issues were. Every man that she’d met so far had issues, and this man in front of her was just too, too perfect.

He shook his head, looking puzzled. “No. Patricide is frowned on in our family.”

What an odd sense of humor. Only the tiny crinkles in the corners of his eyes gave him away.

“So, Spencer James, what do you do with your daytime hours?” Mentally she rolled her eyes. She’d be asking his sign next. So far she was enjoying herself too much, and the lust factor was running off the charts.

There had to be a catch.

“I’m a journalist,” he said, his fingers twisting on the wineglass. “In fact, I’m working on a story right now.”

Beth nodded politely, and reminded herself to keep quiet about the sixteen articles she’d sold to True Fantasies. She picked up her glass of chardonnay—according to the weight guide, 2 points—and gave him an “isn’t-that-nice?” smile.

“I was wondering if you’d be willing to help?” he asked, his eyes sharper now. The smoky-gray was metamorphing into granite. Solid granite, not that faux stuff you found on countertops.

“I actually don’t know what I could possibly do to help,” she began.

But he cut her off. “Internet dating. I want to follow a subject through the bits and bytes of finding a mate via computer. It’s fascinating and the public would love to read about it.”

The lightbulb flashed and her heart sank into her toes. So there was a crack in his facade, after all. This was one big research project for him. He was probably married. “You’re not even single, are you?” she asked sadly.

“Actually, I am. But I’m not interested in experiencing the process myself. I really just want to write about it. Ascertain if Internet dating is used because of the lack of free time to investigate more accepted means, or if it’s still the modus of last resort.”

“You just want to study us poor, pitiful schmiels who are forced into it?” she said, blinking her eyelashes innocently.

“Exactly.” Then he grimaced, with a foot-in-mouth expression. Beth was cheered by that bit of token humanness. He seemed so detached about everything else.

“No, not exactly,” he corrected, but then he leaned in, all conspiratorial-like. “But I want to be candid with you. I want to know if the schmiel-factor is still there.”

Beth started to gather her things, feeling the blush high on her cheeks. “I’m not the right candidate for you.”

He stopped her with a hand to her arm. “You’re the perfect candidate.”

That was soooo exactly the wrong thing to say. Camel straws, dam stoppage, end-of-the-ropeness. She was no longer going to be stepped on and smile prettily about it.

She was going to grow teeth. No, fangs. Fangs were even deadlier. Beth smiled at him and tossed her head. “What do I get out of this?” Oh, that was good.

“I could pay you.”

Not enough, buckaroo. Not for a zillion dollars. “No, thank you.” She swung her purse onto her shoulder, narrowly missing his eye. Beth had great purse aim. He was just lucky she wasn’t really ticked off.

“I could help you,” he said, a hint of charm in his voice.

Now that was more interesting. She stopped. Her eyes wandered over him as if he were a six-foot Hershey bar. “How?” she asked, quirking a brow. Actually, quirking two, because she couldn’t do one yet.

“You want to meet men, right?”

She narrowed her eyes and nodded.

“Your ad needs revising. I can do that.”

“What’s wrong with my ad?”

“It’s not vibrant enough. You need to add some punch, some color.”

Her newly installed gullibility meter started beeping. “How do you know about ads? I thought you were above computer dating?”

He shrugged, calling attention to his well-defined chest muscles. He probably didn’t even have to exercise. She was really starting to hate this guy. “I’ve done my research for the story. Words are my life,” he answered. “What do you say?”

“I want a guarantee.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, because obviously he didn’t live in her new, improved, tough-as-nails world.

“I want dates from this. Great dates. Or the deal’s off.” Then she leaned on the table, letting the candlelight reflect favorably on her cheekbones. All in all, it was a great moment. “Besides, that’s what you want, isn’t it? To prove that computer dating isn’t for losers?” Like me, she almost added. “That’s not interesting. You want to write something groundbreaking. An evolution in the courtship ritual. Maybe coin a new word for the dictionary.”

A less refined man would be drooling, but even Mr. Savoir Faire couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes. “I’ll get you great dates. If I can’t write a good singles ad, then I’m in the wrong business.”

Success. The night was looking up. Beth sat down, satisfied with her negotiation skills. Not bad for a beginner. Of course, you should never underestimate a Von Meeter when it came to negotiation.

“Where do you want to start?” she asked, sipping her wine with a little more gusto. Maybe even chocolate mousse later—eight points. She’d never ordered dessert on a date before, but he wanted honesty. Food honesty was the most basic of all, except for sexual honesty, which was pretty much nonexistent.

He placed his tape recorder on the table, a little digital thingamabob. “I’m going to tape the conversation, but I want to make some notes while we talk. We’ll start with the simple things. Tell me about yourself.”

“I work at Java4U,” she said defensively, just wanting to get that out in the open.

“Lack of education or motivation?”

“Neither,” she said, her hands starting to get nervous. She didn’t like these what-are-you-doing-with-your-life? conversations, for obvious reasons. “I like people,” she added, which was her standard answer.

“Very decent of you, but there are better opportunities out there for people who like people.”

“You don’t like people, do you?” she asked, neatly switching the subject from her career or lack thereof.

He cleared his throat and smiled with effort. “Why don’t we talk about something else? When did you decide to try computer dating? Do you have friends who have done this?”

At first it was difficult, but he coaxed her into more. His reporter voice was calm and soothing. Trust-inducing. Very smooth. And so over dinner, she found herself responding, relaxing, and she began to talk.

To vent, really. To explain in great, cathartic details about all the problems with the current singleton environment.

As the waiter cleared away the last of the dishes, she started in on the biggest problem.

“I never had trouble until my friends started getting married. Now we don’t hang out together, and I’m like this old piece of clothing that just doesn’t fit anymore. They look at me and don’t know what to do. I was the favorite shirt, but now I’ve got stains that won’t come out, and it’s not like anyone is going to wear me anymore. Instead I sit hidden away in the back of their closet. It sucks. Do you still have single friends?”

He paused in his writing and looked up. “No. They’re all married.”

“How do you go out, then? How do you meet women?”

His pen started tapping on the table. “I don’t.”

Then she noticed the black shirt, the innate sense of style, the perfect abs. God, all the signs were there. “Oh.”

The pen hit the table. “What does that mean?” he said, the smoothness gone from his voice.

She buried her fingers in her napkin. How embarrassing. “I’m not going to make judgments on anyone’s personal life.”

He smiled tightly, his hands clenched together in pre-strangulation mode. “I like women. I love women. I was married to a woman.”

He did have that been-there, done-that air about him. “Didn’t work out?” she pried, because she understood completely.

“It lasted eighteen months. Seventeen of which were hell.”

“Mine lasted two weeks,” she admitted. She had eloped with Kenny when she was a freshman in college. She had thought it was romantic to marry a musician. Quelle horreur.

“You were lucky,” he said, and she noticed his hands had stopped clenching.

“You sound bitter.”

“I have a right to be,” he said, picking up the pen once more. His own little shield.

“Want to talk about it?” Beth asked.

“No.” The pen was back to scribbling. “Tell me about the perfect man. Most important quality.”

And that was all for the personal life. Back to business. “He’s got to be smart. Brains are very important to me.”

Spencer looked up, laying the pen on the table. “What about looks? There are lots of smart, homely guys. In fact, you put that in your ad and you’ll be married in approximately three to seven days.”

She shook her finger at him. A man should never assume. “I said intelligence was important. You didn’t ask what the number two thing was.”

“So looks are number two?”

Those assumptions were really going to bite him in the butt. And he’d said he was a journalist. “No. A sense of humor is number two.”

He continued to scribble on the paper. She tried to peek, but his writing was illegible.

“Looks are number three?” he asked, without looking up.

“No. He needs to have depth. I can’t stand those shallow men that only tell you what you want to hear.”

The pen drooped. He met her eyes. “But don’t you think computer dating is in and of itself shallow?” He struggled for words. “The process sucks all the humanity out of that first spark of meeting. It’s premeditated.”

He was a closet romantic: How I Unearthed my Lover’s Secrets. Fascinated, she balanced her elbows on the table and studied him. “But you’re a journalist. You of all people should know that words can be more seductive than the visual.”

That made him laugh. “I’ve never gotten off from reading.”

“I have,” said Beth, suddenly quite pleased with herself. Now who was the schmiel?

Mr. Hotshot Journalist-Man was rendered speechless. His face turned primitive—eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring, breathing shallow. All facts seemed to indicate that Mr. James was seeing her as a sexual being, not just a guinea pig.

She would have been lying if she didn’t admit to feeling a little squishy herself—okay, a lot.

There were many reasons why she wanted to shock him. Some of it was the simple biological response to the highly charged testosterone that was shooting from every solid inch of him.

But there was more to it than just chemistry. She’d always felt like a bystander in life, not the ambitious one, not the intelligent one, not the sexy one. She’d skirted along, moving from job to job, boyfriend to boyfriend, not ever needing to settle.

She’d never seen anything wrong with that until now. Now, as he stared at her with those cool gray eyes that made him just as much a bystander as she was, she got mad.

He thought her love life was great fodder for his article, and nothing else.

She met his eyes squarely, with a show of bravado she’d never attempted before. This time she wasn’t about to look away.

He glanced down at his paper, his cheeks flushed, but he wasn’t writing.

She’d made him stop writing.

It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

SPENCER CLOSED HIS EYES and began to count. He was a professional. He just needed to concentrate on something other than the far too appealing fantasy of the woman across from him playing under her skirts while reading Cosmo.

Slowly, the fog lifted and he opened his eyes. Still she was watching him. Some part of him, the non-glandular part, wanted to forget the whole incident and concentrate on the issues at hand, namely his story. Spence had learned a long time ago how to turn off the female of the species. He’d turned into a first-class asshole. A drastic measure, but effective. Besides, the reputation had helped his career.

Tonight, though, the more ruling part of him, namely his erection, felt a response was in order. A physical response. Already he was anticipating that physical response. She wanted to play games?

He lifted his glass to her. “Salute. To the pursuit of pleasure.”

She lifted her glass to her lips, eyeing him over the crystal edge. There was some uncertainty in her face, but the blue eyes were dark with knowledge.

“I shouldn’t have strayed,” she murmured. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand. After all, this is being recorded for posterity.”

“Not for posterity,” he corrected. “Just for my own personal review.”

“Still, I’m babbling.”

“No, my dear. You’re seducing me, and that’s an entirely different matter.”

BETH FELT HER blood pressure rising to near volcanic proportions. The pig. The arrogant swine. As if she’d like to bed him. Of course she would.

As if she’d like to see if he could kiss as well as he could talk. Mais certainement!

His gray eyes were daring her to continue. Go ahead, missy, do me.

Beth smiled grimly. “Let’s stick to business, shall we?”

“If you insist.”

She glared. “I insist. You’ve said you can get me great dates. However, I think we need to define the terminology we’ll be using. Great for me indicates a man who is handsome—”

“Aha! Looks are important.”

Her knife was calling to her. “Intelligent,” she grated out between clenched teeth. “Sensitive. And not a boor.”

“Then you’ll have to change things around.” He pulled a folder from his briefcase. “Instead of saying ‘Looking to meet good man’ say ‘Are you worthy?’ It implies you’re confident and above clichés.”

“‘Looking to meet good man’ is not a cliché.”

“It’s the most cliché of clichés.”

Beth threw her napkin over her knife, just to eliminate temptation. “Let’s move on.”

“Romantic walks.” He shook his head. “It means you’re fat.”

The napkin came off the knife. A knife that had cut through approximately twenty-seven Weight Watchers points’ worth of food. “I’m not fat.”

“No, but a man will read between the lines. It implies that you don’t want to do anything to break a sweat. Including having sex. No wonder you’re having problems here.”

“I understand,” she said, suddenly comprehending why his wife had divorced him.

“The ‘good wine’ bit isn’t bad.”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence.”

He continued on, ignoring her. “If you’d said martinis or cosmopolitans, you might get a livelier crowd. Just as long as you don’t mention beer.”

“Why?”

“Beer means you’re fat.”

“I hate beer.”

He looked her over. “And it shows.”

Quickly she changed the subject. “Old movies? I suppose I should say action movies, right?”

“No, the average single man will read ‘old movies’ and think that he can put up with it, and then get laid on the couch. Old movies are a great aphrodisiac.”

“Do you think old movies are a great aphrodisiac?” she asked, suddenly curious.

He frowned for a moment, as if he’d never considered the idea of aphrodisiacs. “No.”

She folded her hands together gracefully, the image of calm. “Ah, but you’re not the average single man.”

“God forbid.”

She polished off the last of her wine. No dessert tonight. It was getting late, and she was feeling fat. “So how would you rewrite my ad?”

He looked up in the air, his pen twirling idly. Then he focused on her and frowned. The pen twirled again. “Are you worthy? Sexy blonde who savors a great cabernet wants to wile away hours with a man. Life is hectic enough. I need someone who appreciates a classic movie and a lazy Saturday night. Dave Eggers fans need not apply.”

It was good. And he really thought she was sexy? Not that it mattered, of course. All she wanted was great dates with someone other than him.

And so it came to pass. Beth smiled and held out her hand. “Mr. James, I believe we have a deal.”

2

Sexy blonde is looking for Mr. Right Now. Could that possibly be you? Need someone who knows how to laugh and is smart enough to make me smile.

HIS APARTMENT WAS CURSED.

For over an hour he’d been trying to work, but his concentration had been shot to hell. The constant buzzing of his cleaning woman’s vacuum was driving him batty.

“Sophie!”

Still the buzzing continued. How the hell was he supposed to work in a war zone?

“Sophie!”

God bless it, the buzzing ceased.

Sophie appeared in the doorway to his study, clad in her latest red spandex jogging shorts, which accentuated curves she didn’t need to advertise. Sophie, however, was a woman who’d never recovered from the eighties. “You rang, Mr. James?” she asked in the clipped English accent she used when she was feeling unservile.

“Can you please keep it down to a moderate level? Ten decibels? I’m trying to work here.”

“That’s interesting, Mr. James, because you’re paying me to clean, and well, here I am, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, cleaning my little heart out. Now you want me to be quiet. If you’re determined to work, I can go into the living room and sit and wait. I’ll just turn the TV down really, really low.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Spencer asked. Usually Sophie wasn’t the most cooperative of cleaning ladies. That’s why she was cheap.

“Not if I’m still on the clock. And, Mr. James, I’m still on the clock.”

Now why had he thought she’d suddenly become human? Someday he was going to hire a real cleaning service. Anonymous little elves who would clean and then disappear into the immaculately dusted woodwork. Someday.

“Vacuum,” he snapped. “Vacuum until your little toes are sucked right off.”

“Mr. James, are you flirting with me?”

Spencer shot out of his chair and growled. She grinned back at him and he slammed the door in her face.

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, his stomach rumbled and he realized he’d missed lunch—and dinner. All afternoon he’d been listening to the interview tape, pretending to take notes, but so far the page was blank. When she spoke, you actually could hear her smile in her voice.

Spence rubbed his eyes. Next thing, he’d be buying her flowers, and then maybe taking her on a date, and before you knew it, they’d be headed to divorce court and he’d be forced to endure fifteen more years of Sophie’s slipshod work.

Hell would freeze first. Besides, Mr. Right Now was somewhere out there, just waiting for her, waiting to be graced with that careless smile, waiting to taste her strawberry kisses.

Well, Mr. Right Now could have her.

Not willing to go further down that strawberry-laden path, Spencer pushed himself back from his desk and walked over to the refrigerator. Now to play the new and exciting what’s-for-dinner game.

Leftover pasta from Thursday night at Via Concetta. No. Leftover chicken from Wednesday night at Via Concetta. No. Would his luck change in the freezer? Frozen pizza. Frozen lasagna.

The lasagna wins, the crowd goes wild.

He popped the package into the oven, set the temperature and then slammed the door just as the doorbell rang. Odd. He hadn’t buzzed anyone up. “You’re going to have to wait. Don’t embarrass me now,” he said to his stomach.

Spencer didn’t get many visitors. He tried to discourage the practice of stopping by without calling first. It tended to disrupt his concentration, and he’d forgotten how to make small talk, not that he really cared.

The bell rang again. It was most likely another salesman who couldn’t read the No Soliciting sign. He should use a bigger font. Prepared to deliver his standard I’m-just-the-house-sitter line, he opened the door.

It was his onetime best friend, Harry, who mostly wrote sports for their paper.

“Spence, got three tickets to the Bulls game tomorrow. Want to come?” Harry said, shrugging out of his coat and slinging it over the chair.

“It’s too early for April Fools, and too late for Halloween. Tell me you’ve just been drinking.”

Harry collapsed on the couch and then stared up with that who…me? look he did so well. It was how he met all his women. “It was a genuine offer of hospitality.”

“I’ve got plans for dinner already,” said Spence, resigned to having company.

“Via Concetta?”

Spence flashed him a rude gesture often seen in the wilds of Los Angeles. “You can leave now.”

Harry, who had never been to the wilds of Los Angeles, elected to stay. “I worry about you. This aloneness can’t be good. The next thing you know, you’ll be getting a cat.”

Spencer shot out of his seat, the veins hammering away in his head, the pain only making him angrier. “First off, since you are the primary reason that I’m suffering from all this aloneness, your concern smacks of hypocrisy. And I’m not getting a cat. Not even a dog. Not even a hamster. The little beasts are nothing more than glorified rats.”

Harry shook his head in a mournful manner. “You’re never going to meet another woman with that sort of attitude. You need to get back in the saddle.”

“I can get back into the saddle anytime I want. You tell Joan that. In fact, I’ve got a date tonight,” snarled Spencer, mainly to salvage what was left of his ego.

Never one to practice the fine art of subtlety—damn sports writer—Harry began to laugh. “A date? Returning a favor?”

“No.”

“Mother’s dentist’s niece?”

“No,” Spencer snapped.

“Some friend of Joan’s that I haven’t met yet?”

“Since you’ve been sleeping with her longer than I was married to her, that’s highly unlikely.”

“I waited four months. It seemed acceptable. Does this still bother you?”

“No.” Spencer sighed. “Why don’t you marry her?” he asked. Then he could at least save the alimony. Fifteen hundred a month, which was galling, since Joan’s father could buy Spencer several million times over. Unfortunately, Mr. Barclay didn’t believe in passing along his wealth to his daughter until he was dead, so now it was Spencer who was footing the bill.

Harry picked up the latest New York Times and began to read. “I’ve tried. She says no. It breaks my heart that her desire for revenge is bigger than her love for me. But you inspire that in women, Spence.”

The phone rang, sparing Spencer a reply. “I bet that’s my date now.” In one smooth move he picked up the phone and opened the door for Harry to exit. “James here.”

“Spencer, it’s Beth. Beth Von Meeter.”

After listening to her voice all afternoon, he still found it sent a tingle to places he thought were long dead. He turned his back on Harry, intimating intimacy. “Yes, I was hoping you would call.”

“I think you’re on to something. I’ve gotten four responses so far. Oops, make that five. And they all sound amazing.”

Did she actually doubt his skills? “Of course.”

“You wanted me to check in with you after I set up my first date, right?”

“Yes, I’ll need to see you as soon as possible. Can you excuse me for a moment?”

“Certainly.”

Spencer turned and glared at Harry. “Out,” he said, arm stretched toward the door. If his arm were long enough to make it to hell, he’d have pointed there, too.

Harry gestured to the phone, then made pornographic hand signs, but he did pick up his coat and make his way to the door. Spencer walked over and slammed it right after him.

Then he took a deep, calming breath. “I’m sorry, Beth. You were saying?”

“We’re going to see a play at the Steppenwolf tomorrow.”

“Oh. What time will you be done?”

“It’s a date, Mr. James, not a business appointment.”

“You’re right. What was I thinking? I’ll meet you at one a.m. There’s a coffeehouse across the street.”

“I’m not dumping my date, who might be the most fabulous man I’ve met in my entire life, in order to go through the third degree with you.”

As if he were just some two-bit stringer from Pomona. Spencer slammed his hand on the counter, immediately bruising his palm. Stupid moves like this were the prime reason he was healthier staying away from the human race. “As the man responsible for you meeting the most fabulous man you’ve ever met in your life, I would think some gratitude would be in order.”

“Gratitude is not the emotion of the day. Try again tomorrow. I’ll meet you Sunday morning.”

Defeat came and smacked him on the head. “I’ll meet you at nine. Where do you live? We can find someplace nearby.”

“All right,” she replied, and then gave him her address. It was an apartment two blocks from his. Cheap, but safe and serviceable. Sad that an award-winning journalist was placed in the same caste as a coffee shop barista. Damn Joan. Why couldn’t she just marry Harry?

“What’s your date’s name?” Spence asked, mainly because even while he was condemning his wife to alimonial purgatory, he was lining up lemming-style to be pushed over the edge again.

“Donald. Donald Hughes.”

She sounded thrilled, as if the love of her life was going to be standing behind door number one. She’d been married before. How could she be so goddamn excited about the idea of doing it again?

“Wonderful,” was all he said before he hung up.

Inside of him, there was the usual burning he felt at the start of every good story. Today there was something else. A different kind of burn, deep inside him.

A severe case of lust could do that to a man.

THAT EVENING, Beth spent two hours wheeling and dealing on eBay, before sending an IM message to Cassandra. The temporary money pinch she was in was improving and the man shortage was definitely improving in spades. Hallelujah!

Beth says: “You there?”

Cassandra says: “Yes.”

Beth says: “Are you alone?”

Cassandra says, while inhaling the soothing scent of lavender: “If I’m entertaining, I’m not going to be sitting at the computer.”

Beth says defensively: “I thought I’d ask. It’s Friday night. Why are you sans a date?”

Cassandra says casually, too casually: “I felt like being alone.”

Beth says: “You heard, didn’t you?”

Cassandra says, shrugging: “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Beth says: “Benedict.”

Cassandra says: “Eggs.”

Beth says: “You know exactly what I mean.”

Cassandra says: “Yes, I heard.”

Beth says: “What are you going to do?”

Cassandra says: “There is no rope painful enough to hang him from, so that’s out. There’s no river wide enough to ensure that he’d drown—so that’s out.”

Beth says: “Still feeling hostility for the former boyfriend, huh?”

Cassandra says: “Of course.”

Beth says, because she’s an optimist and a romantic: “He’s going to show up. You know he will.”

Cassandra says: “I’ll handle it when he does. Are you going to the Christmas gala?”

Beth says: “It’s family stuff. I have to go. You?”

Cassandra says: “Much too boring.”

Beth says: “Lots of cool guys. You should go. And now to transition to all about Beth: Got a date tomorrow, got a date tomorrow, got a date tomorrow.”

Cassandra says: “Stop the presses. Who’s the latest?”

Beth says: “Personal ad person.”

Cassandra says, while holding up thumb and forefinger: “Loser.”

Beth says: “Hey, I resemble that remark.”

Cassandra says: “No, you don’t. We’ve had this discussion before.”

Beth says: “You’re right. This is the new, improved, no longer directionally challenged me.”

Cassandra says: “Knock ’em dead, tiger.”

Beth says: “You betcha.”

DONALD HUGHES WAS a nice guy. He had a decent job—civil engineer for the city—was attractive and funny. In short, he was the ideal man. Beth kept checking him out during the play, casting quick glances just to see if he truly existed, or if she was overcompensating on his behalf and he was truly a wuss. No, he seemed to be real. A couple of times he caught her peeking, and smiled. The last time, he actually reached over and held her hand. It was the most romantic thing that had happened to her in almost eight months.

The play was very nice, but slightly depressing in that genuine Tennessee Williams manner. Afterward, he took her to a restaurant where she actually ordered dessert and coffee.

“I loved your ad. As soon as I read it, I thought, that’s the kind of woman I want to meet.”

“Thank you,” she said, trying to look confident and modest all at the same time.

He launched into a discussion of wines. Boring. Then he started in on politics. Boring. After the discussion on the current state of the education system, her cell phone rang.

Uh-oh. Technically, she should have turned it off. But what if she got an important call?

She looked at the caller ID, but it wasn’t familiar. Not that it mattered, because the discussion was really going nowhere. She wrinkled her nose at Donald. “Just a minute. Let me get that.”

“Beth, it’s Spencer James.”

She hung up.

He called back. However, she wasn’t mad enough to not answer.

“Don’t hang up. You need to look more entertaining. You just look bored.”

“Where are you?” she asked, realizing that the hair on her neck was now standing on end.

“Second table to the left, just at the edge of the kitchen.”

She looked. He lifted a discreet hand.

She hung up.

The phone rang. Donald looked at her with confusion. “Are you having problems?”

“No,” she said, laughing in that you-really-don’t-want-to-know manner.

“You could turn your phone off,” said Donald, full of wisdom.

Beth debated. In fact, her finger wavered over the power button. But when she glanced at Spencer, he shot her that arrogant look he did so perfectly. The phone rang again. “Just a minute,” she said sweetly to Donald. “What?” she snapped at Spencer.

“You look bored. Smile at him. You’re never going to get a man panting after you if you look like you’d rather be filling out your 1040 form.”

Beth smiled in an absolutely enchanting manner—at Donald. “Happy?” she said into the phone.

But he had hung up.

DONALD DROPPED HER OFF about an hour later. He wanted to see her again, and she said okay, mainly because she knew it would be stupid not to give him a chance.

He kissed her, two and half stars on the Von Meeter kissing meter, and then left her alone. A true gentleman.

That made her sigh, but immediately after kicking off her shoes, she picked up her cell phone and dialed.

“Don’t you ever follow me again without telling me,” she exclaimed, even before Spencer said hello.

“I wanted to see where he would take you, watch the interaction between the two of you, see if there were electrical currents.”

“Of course there were currents. A gazillion megawatts of currents. And if you hadn’t been there spying over my shoulder, there would have been even more. Enough to light up Lake Michigan.”

“Hmm. I didn’t get that impression. Let me write that down. ‘Currents. Gazillion megawatts of currents. Lake Michigan.’”

Beth never liked to be mocked, but she was capable of fighting dirty, too. She began taking off her skirt. “Look, Mr. James, I’m aware that you’re used to doing things your way, but this is my life. I’m not going to be part of your own personal reality TV series.”

Neatly she hung up her skirt on the hanger.

“I’m a journalist.”

“I don’t care if you’re Superjournalist—” he swore at that “—you have to ask my permission.”

“All right. Tonight was more of a trial run, anyway. When do you want to do the interview? Is now good?”

Beth pulled off her blouse and hung it up right next to her skirt. “No. I’m getting ready for bed.”

“Well, throw on a robe. You had a cup of coffee. You’re not going to sleep for another two hours.”

“Wait a minute,” she said, putting down the cell phone.

A wicked impulse had her bypassing the standard issue, worn-out sleep shirt and heading straight for the good stuff. She began rifling through her lingerie drawer, looking for her sexiest sleepwear. Slowly she pulled on the transparent peignoir, brushed her hair until it shone, then put on the necessary skin-care regimen. She stared in the mirror, pleased with the siren that appeared.

Finally, she retrieved the phone. “Spencer, you wanted to come over now?” she asked, making her voice low and husky.

He coughed. “It’s best to strike while the information is right there at the top of your head.”

She played with the silk ribbons, even daring to touch herself through the thin material. “I’ll see you in the morning. Nine a.m., just like we planned,” she said, still smiling.

“If that’s what you want.” She heard her own regret echoed in his voice.

Metaphorically speaking, he was the biggest slab of dark chocolate ganache she’d ever seen, a total caloric nightmare. She’d polish him off and be left with nothing more than fat thighs and an empty plate.

Tempting, but no.

After he hung up, she turned on the television in her bedroom and collapsed onto her bed. It wasn’t until two hours later, when Cary Grant kissed Ginger Rogers, that she finally fell asleep.

HE WAS THERE EARLY the next morning. Not surprising, since he’d never really got to bed. After discovering work was useless, and then tossing and turning, trying to sleep, he’d finally taken matters into his own hands and dispensed with the aftereffects she had left him with. Then he’d managed to sleep, for a full three hours.

Joy.

The morning was cold and the sidewalks were damp with post-Thanksgiving slush. If he wasn’t really excited about his article, he wouldn’t be trudging through the mess at 9:00 a.m. Or so he told himself.

Eventually she showed up at the coffee shop, looking fresh and well-rested and with that damn smile on her face. Why was she always smiling? What the hell did she have that made her so happy all the time?

He stood when she came over and joined him.

“Good morning,” she said, as if birds were perched on her shoulder, waiting to burst into song.

“If you’re into those sorts of things,” he said, surlier than usual.

“Are those circles under your eyes? Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Spencer, whose sense of humor was absent on most days, had almost no patience for her games right now. “Are you trying to tease me just to see how far I’ll go? Do I look like the neighborhood mongrel who you’re going to poke at with a stick until he bites back? You’ve never been bitten, have you?”

The smile cooled a few degrees. “No.”

“Then I suggest you take your stick and put it away.”

Her eyes cooled, as well. It could have been guilt he was experiencing, or so he told himself.

“That little lapse is best forgotten—pardon the breach. So where do we start now? You want to know about the date?” she asked, then proceeded to tell him every detail about the previous evening. He took notes, paying close attention to the exact moment when the smile crept back onto her face.

“When’s your next date?” he asked, hating date number one with an unexpected passion.

“Tuesday evening. The Morton Arboretum is having a talk on flowers that bloom in the winter.”

“Sounds very educational,” he replied, thinking a root canal would be more fun. Chicago men seemed to be lacking in panache and creativity. If he were taking her out…

Damn.

He packed away his notebook and pen and took care of the check. “Great work. I’ll see you on, when, Wednesday morning or Wednesday afternoon?”

“I’ve got to open up Wednesday morning, at 6:00 a.m.”

“What about Wednesday evening?”

She winced. “Can’t. Have a date. What about Tuesday night?”

He raised a brow. “I thought the post-date postmortem was off-limits?”

“Since it’s my schedule that’s causing the problem, I’ll make an exception. Where do you want to meet?”

“There’s a restaurant a few blocks from here.”

“You know, why don’t you just come over to my place? That way we don’t waste time with the commute, and I do have to be up early the next morning.”

The words were innocent enough, and her eyes showed no sign of ulterior motives, but he was fast learning that she was a much better actress than anyone could guess.

Little Bo Peep did nothing without an ulterior motive. Maybe it was another one of her little poke-the-dog games. Maybe he didn’t care.

The room got very quiet and an electric current began to crackle in the air. A gazillion megawatts. Enough to light up the shoreline of Chicago—and Detroit, too.

Spencer stood, and if she noticed the electric charge that was currently tenting his pants, well, good for her.

She picked up her purse and followed him out. “I’ll see you Tuesday night.”

He met her eyes, but chose to remain silent. A man lived by his words, but he could die by them, as well.

3

Have you got what it takes? Sexy blond female wants to meet a man, and not just any man will do….

THE FLOWER TALK WAS cancelled due to inclement weather, so instead Beth and date number two, Michael Becket, ended up walking in the snow and looking at all the storefront windows that were decked out in their holiday finery.

Michael was a wonderful conversationalist, prone to burst out into bits of Broadway songs whenever he felt like it. At first she was embarrassed, but then she was charmed. He was nice. Everyone, including her parents, would approve.

The snow began to fall in earnest and he planted a kiss on her nose.

“You had a flake there,” he said, by way of explanation.

Then his dark eyes got serious and dropped lower. “Uh-oh, I see another one.” And then he kissed her mouth. It was a thorough kiss, presented with a skill that a woman should admire.

He certainly must kiss a lot—the kiss was a definite four stars on the Von Meeter meter. Yet he did nothing for her. Instead of being an active participant, she was the aloof observer. Her pulse didn’t speed up, her heart didn’t skip one beat, and that was a damn shame.

When he pulled back, he gave her a soft smile, which should have sent her heart reeling.

Unfortunately, it didn’t.

MICHAEL ACTED AS IF HE expected an invitation to stay, but Beth didn’t feel up to company. And Spencer would be there soon, anyway. That was a situation she didn’t want to explain.

After Michael left, she fixed herself a cup of hot chocolate, adding two extra marshmallows—one point—as an added self-pity bonus, and that was when she saw the answering-machine light.

A message. Spencer was calling the whole thing off.

If she were a smarter woman, she would have felt relief rather than regret, because she knew he was strictly hands-off.

She pushed the button.

Beep. “Bethany, this is your grandmother. I have a little present for you that we need to discuss. Call me tomorrow. Ta-ta.”

Beth smiled at the familiar voice. Her grandmother was always thinking up new schemes to get Beth involved in the family interests, but that wasn’t Beth’s road.

She wanted to go her own way, forge her own path. So far, it wasn’t a big road, but Beth had always been content with that. She would call her grandmother and politely opt out of whatever was expected.

Then her buzzer rang and she realized Spencer was here.

Showtime.

Silently she repeated her hands-off mantra, but as she passed her reflection in the mirror, there was a smile on her face. It didn’t scream Hands off! It was whispering Hands on.

SHE TOOK HIS COAT and hung it in the closet, noticing the bits of snow that were still mixed in his hair. It was such a casual look for a man who you’d never think would have a hair out of place. Her hand itched to brush it away, but that was too familiar a move.

“Need something to drink? Tea, coffee, hot chocolate?”

“I don’t suppose you have any scotch?”

She entered the kitchen, sensing he was following her, and pulled a bottle from behind the marshmallows. No one could ever say she wasn’t a perfect hostess. “Of course. Michel Couvreur.”

“You drink that?” he asked, with the beginnings of a smile on his face. She should have guessed it would take twelve-year-old scotch to make him smile.

“When the occasion calls for it,” she answered, pulling out the appropriate old-fashioned bar glass.

He leaned a hip against the counter, reminding her exactly how small her kitchen really was. “What occasion calls for it?”

“When it rains,” she said, watching the dark gold liquid splash into the glass. There was nothing as lonely as rain.

He took a sip and then wandered out of the kitchen, making himself comfortable on the couch.

“So, you want to know about Michael?” she asked, courting trouble by sitting next to him. But not that close.

He pulled out his notebook and pen. “Go ahead.”

So she told him about the date. He laughed when she talked about the storefront windows, and not in a good way. When she mentioned Michael’s talent for singing, he rolled his eyes. “It’s pathetic what men will do to get women into bed.”

“Did you ever think he might just like to sing?”

“No.”

“So, Spencer James, why don’t you give me a peek into the male psyche? Why couldn’t a man just like to sing?”

“Men are programmed to want sex. It’s very simple. When around a woman like yourself, every movement, every word, every note is a calculated ploy to further their own immortality by implanting themselves inside you.”

Is that all this is? she wanted to ask. A ploy? A big drama to further his own immortality? She held her tongue, because the look in his eyes was sharp and intent, and it scared her.

“Are you going to see him again?” he asked, the pen tapping against the coffee table.

Beth nodded. “Sure. He’s nice, a regular gentleman.”

“A gentleman who sings,” he said mockingly.

He did that so well—made fun of everything that might possibly be sincere. She twisted the green fringe on the edges of her throw. “According to you, that means he wants me. I should be flattered.”

The pen flew off the table, and he swore when it rolled beneath the couch.

“I’ll get it,” she said, but it was just beyond her reach. She threw the afghan aside and slid off the couch onto the floor at the same that he did.

There they were, a whisper apart. She could see the pulse beating in his throat, smell the tangy soap that he used on his skin. Suddenly her mind was bombarded with the bits and pieces that made up Spencer James. At that moment, he ceased being a remote challenge and instead became something much more elemental.

She held her breath, waiting to see what he would do.

His gaze rested on her mouth, but he didn’t touch her. Instead he reached under the couch, groping for his pen.

As he pulled it back out, his hand brushed against her breast. It wasn’t quite an innocent mistake, because she was lying too close to him and they both knew it. Instantly her nipples peaked and she drew in a quick breath.

The next time, his fingers were slower, more precise, his thumb flicking against her breast as the edge of the pen stroked against the topside of her soft flesh.

The pressure between her thighs fired quick and hot, and she clenched her muscles to prolong the pleasure.

His eyes flickered, his golden lashes masking the need she had glimpsed.

Before she could react, it was over. The bit of accidental intimacy disappeared before it even started.

He climbed up onto the couch and took a long drag of scotch, then placed the pen on the table in a very exact manner. The message was clear. Not going to drop that pen again.

It wasn’t the message she wanted. She wanted to sleep with him, wanted to see those cold eyes burn right into her. Normally she stayed away from men without that marriageable look in their eyes, but not him. Hands-off was no longer an option. Surely, if meaningless affairs worked for Cassandra, they could work for Beth, too.

Oh, God.

Beth shot him a nervous smile and adjusted her shirt, longing to borrow a sip of his drink to calm her nerves. However, her training in social situations kicked into play, and she cleared her throat. “Well, what else do you need to know?”

It was as if they were strangers. His voice was more clinical than usual, his eyes remote, never meeting her gaze.

Less than ten minutes later she was retrieving his coat and handing it to him. In one quick move, he pulled it on, and his hand was on the doorknob, pulling the door toward him.

“When’s your next date?” he asked.

“I’ve got another one on Friday with Michael.”

Spencer paused, a brief frown on his face, but then he recovered. Too telling. “How about I meet you Saturday morning? We could have a cup of coffee.”

It was the frown that gave her courage, that split second of temper she read in his face. What caused a man without emotion to become angry? She knew it would be hands-on eventually. “I’ve got to work on Saturday morning. Opening again. Why don’t you just come over on Friday night after I’m home? We’re going dancing, so I’d be back by midnight.”

The silence was deafening. Big faux pas, Beth. However, she noticed that he didn’t drop his things and run.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his eyes dark and questioning.

It was only a bit of a lie. She didn’t work until noon on Saturday, but he would never know, and she liked the confined intimacy of him being here, of knowing that if she dared she could just reach out and touch him.

She smiled and nodded, her head buzzing from the hot chocolate. She told herself it was a sugar rush, but that was another lie.

THE OFFICE WAS BUSY on Friday, and Spencer was cursed with having to do his time in the Tempo section rather than his usual beat on the city desk. He had taken over the cubicle of an associate staffer out on maternity leave and used her computer to enter his latest story. “The Best of Chicago Dining” stared back at him from the screen. Yawn. Only a few more weeks until he’d be back where he belonged.

Harry came up and peered over his shoulder. “Savoir Faire. I’ve heard of that place. Can’t afford it, but it looks pretty. Covered any fashion shows lately?”

“Coming to gloat?” said Spencer as he finished typing his article.

“No. I was thinking—”

“Dangerous.”

“—I think we need to grab a beer, hoist a few. Guys’ night out. Last night, I was covering the Bulls game and I came up dry. Completely ran out of red-blooded words. Annihilated. Destroyed. Trampled. Shipwrecked. I’ve written them all, but all I could think of was beaten. One measly ‘beaten.’”

It was sad when a man lost his edge, became too complacent. Spencer had seen it happen to too many of his friends. His own father had been divorced five times before he died. After the second one, Spencer had learned it was only a matter of time. Men and women didn’t operate on the same levels, and for some men, like Spencer, they never would. It was a lesson best learned early in life before they all bankrupted you.

Harry continued, “There used to be a time when I could ramble off forty-three synonyms for ‘lost.’ What’s happening to me?”

“Marry Joan and you’ll come up with eighty-seven synonyms for ‘murder.’ I’ve got a list. Why the itch to ‘hoist a few’? She leaving you alone tonight?”

“She’s flying to New York to shop,” Harry replied glumly.

Spencer raised his eyebrows.

“Daddy’s paying,” answered Harry, which was a better answer than “Spencer’s paying.”

“I can’t,” Spence replied, his eyes fixed firmly on the computer screen in front of him.

“Come on,” said Harry, in a tone that smacked of desperation.

“I have plans,” he said.

“A date?”

“No.”

Harry folded his hands across his chest and sat down on the corner of the desk. A bad sign, indicating immovability.

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