“So no dinner for guys in black hats, huh?”

“Nope.” Jessica rocked back on her heels, looking rather proud of herself.

Adam studied her for a long time, wondering about all that pent-up energy, and then finally shook his head. “Now you’ve done it. You’re an insurmountable challenge, Barnes.”

For a heartbeat their gazes were locked. He could see it in her eyes: the challenge, the excitement. She loved the game just as much as he did.

“Just don’t get any ideas about surmounting, if you get my drift, Taylor.”

“Hey, you get your mind out of those dark, sexy places you don’t want to go to, and I’ll do the same.”

She stared him down, the glasses tapping against her thigh. “You’re no threat to my peace of mind…only to my career ambitions.”

He laughed softly. “I’m going to go have dinner, Barnes. You’re welcome to join me.”

She turned and walked away, a cocky swing in her hips. “In your dreams, Taylor.” She tossed the words over her shoulder.

“There, too, Barnes. There, too.”

Dear Reader,

All through my life I’ve been lucky enough to count among my friends some of the most extraordinary women in the entire universe. Some of the friendships have lasted forever, while others are more recent, but in the truest sort of friendships, years are simply relative and most often just get in the way. There is no stronger bond than the friendship between women. It is forged through the hot steel of shared suffering and stupid mistakes, and then cooled over time until only the bond remains. The years pass, marriages and children struggle and pull at the friendship, but it never breaks. Like the indomitable will of women, it will endure. Always.

Kathleen

P.S. I love to hear from readers. If you’d like to write, my address is P.O. Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960, or visit my Web site: www.kathleenoreilly.com.

Books by Kathleen O’Reilly

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

889—JUST KISS ME

927—ONCE UPON A MATTRESS

HARLEQUIN DUETS

66—A CHRISTMAS CAROL

Pillow Talk

Kathleen O’Reilly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Jill, Lynn, Stacy, Sara, Nedra, Marian, Tanja, Meyerer, Martha, Suzanne, Marsha, Julia, Dee and Sherry.

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

1

JESSICA BARNES studied the bride critically. Perfect. The warm, sparkling, spring afternoon was a rare thing in Chicago. White flowers covered the arbor, not one dead blossom in sight. The musicians hadn’t missed a note. The slim branches from the weeping willow trees danced in the gentle breeze. Absolutely perfect.

Yup, there was nothing like seeing fairy-tale happiness to make you feel like crap. “Do you think she’s put on weight since college?”

Safe on the far side of the garden, far away from the white, flower-strewn tent, the four friends shook their heads. It was a sad day for them all.

Mickey was the most practical. “It’s the dress. All those ruffles. I don’t know why women don’t understand the illusion of substance that ruffles project.” She shook her head and made a note in her PalmPilot.

Jessica considered her own well-stocked closet, completely ruffle-free. She didn’t have the fashion sense of Dior, but she managed.

Beth sighed, her eyes still locked on the groom. A long, wistful sigh that she did so well. “He looks pretty good. Kenny never looked that good.” Kenny was Beth’s ex. An ex they’d never liked, but that was the sort of thing you didn’t tell your friends. Subtle hints, yes. Life-damaging proclamations, no.

Cassandra, never one to confess weakness, studied her nails. Ten perfect ovals trimmed in Scarlet Nights. “He asked me out once, but I said ‘no.’ I was in my medical-students-only stage.”

“Kenny asked you out?” Beth’s wide blue eyes looked horrified.

Cassandra exhaled, her white sheath lifting gracefully. “No. Charles, the groom.”

“She looks happy,” Mickey put in, veering the subject away from No-Account Kenny.

Beth swallowed one bite of the wedding cake before licking the crumbs from her lip. “She’s glowing.”

That met with a long, jealous silence. They might as well just brand the lot of them with a scarlet L.

“Who needs love?” Cassandra asked, and then took a healthy drink of champagne.

Beth never took her eyes off the happy couple. “I do.”

With a bit more violence than finesse, Jessica speared the olive in her drink. This was an argument they’d had many times. “No, Beth, you don’t. You’re a single woman with your independence, you can stay up as late as you want, let the laundry stack up, go to happy hour whenever you choose. What’s not to love?” Just to prove her point, she swallowed the olive whole, a gesture her freshman-year fiancé had abhorred. They had broken up soon after.

Beth defended herself. “Sometimes it’s lonely.”

“Get a cat,” Mickey said.

Was a cat everyone’s answer to life? Jessica just shook her head. “Oh, please, no. Aunt Charisse had ten cats when she died. They could not get the smell out of the carpet. Ever. Finally replaced the carpet, the padding, even deodorized the slab, and still they had to take ten K off the price.”

Mickey raised her sunglasses and studied the bride once more. They’d all gone to college with Annie Summers, and now, six years after graduation, Annie was the first to get married. Second if you counted Beth’s two-week marriage, but they usually didn’t count Kenny. “I think white just isn’t her color. She should have done something with a rose tone for her complexion, don’t you think?”

“I heard they’re going to the Caribbean for the honeymoon.” Beth studied the hors d’oeuvre on the side table, finally settling for the curried shrimp.

“That’s so cliché.”

“I want to go to the Canadian Rockies on my honeymoon.” Beth sounded as though she was reciting a Christmas list. Jessica wanted to shake her sometimes, tell her the world wasn’t one big Disney movie, but she never did. Instead, they did their best to protect Beth from ever learning that Disney owned Miramax, too.

“Why don’t you go by yourself?” Cassandra asked.

Beth froze, her blue eyes wide. “I could, couldn’t I?”

Mickey shrugged. “Sure.”

“I don’t know. If I went now, where would I go on my honeymoon?” Beth sounded so certain. As if honeymoons were part of life’s guarantees. Jessica was much more realistic. There were no guarantees, unless you did it yourself.

“What if you don’t ever get married again?” Always the troublemaker, Cassandra wouldn’t let it drop.

“Cassandra, don’t scare the girl,” Jessica said, working to avoid a scene.

“She doesn’t need a man,” Cassandra insisted.

Jessica just rolled her eyes at that. “Big words from a woman who always has a date on Saturday night.”

After one regal sniff, Cassandra went on. “No, I’m serious. I could remain single for the rest of my life and be happy.”

Mickey raised a hand, sans ring. “I could, too.”

Beth stood firm. “Not me. I want to get married.”

Jessica raised her glass. “To the solo state of mind. Junk food and chick flicks forever. A bachelorette pact, single forever.”

Mickey and Cassandra clinked glasses. “Hear, hear.”

By the look on her face, Beth knew she was defeated. After a long moment of silence, she joined in. “Screw ’em all.”

Cassandra laughed, that throaty laugh she had perfected over the years. “Honey, life isn’t long enough.”

Sometimes marriage was overrated, but Jessica knew the truth. They had been single for so long that it was now easier to attack the institution of marriage than to face failure. Jessica hated failure.

“Marriage is nothing more than a woman’s subjugation to a man’s need for dominance. Ha. They try and dominate me, I’ll pin the laser on them.” Mickey worked at a research lab and had never yet met a man, or anyone for that matter, with a higher IQ.

Jessica speared another olive. “You know, there are some advantages to marriage. Actually, ever since the government tinkered with the tax structure, it doesn’t cost as much as it used to. For instance, I would probably jump into the next tax bracket, assuming he’s a white-collar professional; however, I’d get a credit of almost eight thousand. Not a great investment, but I suppose if he’s willing to cook every now and then, it could be worth it.” Jessica hated to cook.

“Or you could take all that money you’d put in extra taxes and buy your Porsche.”

That earned a smile. Only 2.1 more years and then the Porsche would be hers. Unless she got the promotion to vice president at Hard-Wire Networks, a computer networking equipment manufacturer. Not likely, but possible. The raise would put her in Porsche-attainment status within nine months.

“Now you’ve done it,” Mickey said with a sigh. “She’s going to have an orgasm, right here.”

Of course, if Adam Taylor had his evil way, she wouldn’t be polishing a Porsche, she’d be polishing her résumé. The impending buyout made her nervous, made her cranky and worst of all, made her sneeze. First her nose tickled, then twitched, and finally she began to wheeze.

Mickey started to laugh.

Jessica blew her nose and sniffed—for effect not necessity. “Orgasm? Not all of us have Cassandra’s talents.”

Cassandra’s smile spoke volumes. “All you have to do is exercise.”

Mickey waved a languid hand and assumed a Southern drawl. “I abhor exercise. I need my cabana-boy to do it for me.”

“He could be my cabana-boy,” Cassandra said with a nod to the other side of the garden.

Yes indeed, when it came down to men, they were all such frauds. Jessica, Mickey and Beth turned to look. Mickey and Beth got that gooey look. Jessica simply wanted to hit something.

He was here. Adam Taylor.

And didn’t that just put a cherry on top of the day? Tall, impossibly handsome in a dark suit, and worst of all—intelligent, witty, sharp. That brought her thoughts to a halt. Sharp like an executioner’s ax.

She shouldn’t have been surprised; the groom worked at Adam’s firm, after all.

Life really wasn’t fair. Work had been hell for her since he arrived, a consultant brought in by JCN, the international computer conglomerate, to prepare a report on Hard-Wire’s buyout potential. An “operational efficiency expert.”

Yeah, you could call ’em all the pretty terms you wanted, but you still couldn’t disguise that chainsaw. She picked up an olive and popped it in her mouth.

He turned and saw her, favoring her with a cool, appraising gray-green stare. Jessica was grateful for her sunglasses. She could look as if she was calm and in control. But then her nose began to twitch and she sneezed. Twice. She searched her pockets for a tissue, but came up empty. Great.

When she looked up, Mickey was still eyeing Adam with appreciation. Jessica felt inclined to enlighten them all. “He’s okay, if you like the rich, strong, arrogant jerks.”

“You know him?” Mickey asked smoothly.

Jessica bit into her last olive. “Adam Taylor,” she mumbled between bites.

They had all listened to Jessica’s horror stories of Mr. Adam “The Ax-Man” Taylor, but she’d never described him physically. It seemed a betrayal to her lifelong ambition of job security and Porsche ownership. Adam was the enemy.

“He wants you,” Cassandra said, swirling her glass.

“In your dreams,” Jessica answered, not wanting to discuss her own dreams about Adam. Mr. Taylor. The Ax-Man.

“If you smile, I bet he’ll come over,” Beth said, trying to make the world a happier place. And failing.

“Not if I leave first.”

“Jessica, Jessica, I never thought I’d see you playing the coward. Tsk, tsk,” Cassandra teased.

The coward remark was really a low blow, but not enough to divert Jessica from her plan. “I needed to leave early anyway.”

Mickey raised a brow. “And that’s why we all came in one car?”

She was outnumbered. Three to one. “You’re supposed to be my friends.”

“Friends don’t let friends run away,” Cassandra said, pushing her in the direction of her worst nightmare. And her steamiest dream.

“He can’t be that bad. He’s got a nice smile,” Beth said, still permanently fixed in Pollyanna-land.

“Tell that to Red Riding Hood’s grandmother.”

“Go on. What can it hurt?” Mickey said, completely practical.

Jessica popped another olive in her mouth and adjusted her sunglasses, the picture of aloof sophistication. She spoiled it all with a sneeze.

CHARLES WAS a stuffed-shirt prick, but Adam had learned long ago never to burn a bridge. They had worked together on the Symtheson-Hardwick buyout, growth in revenue: $4.7 million over five years, total jobs lost: 537. The consulting firm they worked for, Kearney, Markham and Williams, considered that a very good deal indeed.

On most days, Adam ignored the consequences of his work. He was a consultant. Get in, make recommendations, get out. He was good at what he did and life treated him right.

He sipped his champagne and glanced around for a beer. He’d never liked champagne, but always took a glass at social functions. Of course, most of it ended up watering the potted plants.

Charles caught his eye and Adam pasted a “How the hell you doing?” smile on his face. He had more friends than the president, every one his best buddy, but he couldn’t remember the last time he felt the desire to talk with anyone about subjects other than the market, the weather or golf. Golf was the worst. He shot a seventy-three and hated the game.

He moved into virtual consultant mode and strolled over to where the happy couple was eyeing each other with pure rose-colored lust. Envy seared him, hot and fast. For a moment he dropped his guard, and thought about his house in Alabama. His empty house. He closed his eyes and counted to eleven. By the time he reached the end of the exercise, the consultant was back.

He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “You lucky dog,” he said, more truth than not.

The groom slipped an arm around his new wife. “Hands off, Taylor. According to the laws of this fine state, she’s all mine.”

First compliment the client and then on to more trivial topics. “And you picked a gorgeous day to marry a gorgeous woman.”

Annie blushed, and planted a soft kiss on Adam’s cheek. “Thank you, Adam.”

Charles lifted his glass. “Blue skies, my friend. All blue skies. Hey, I see you’ve been assigned Hard-Wire. Sweet deal. Read the report. Lots of opportunity for efficiency there.”

Translation: We could trim fifteen percent and the company would never miss it.

“Too early to tell,” Adam answered.

Translation: Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. Maybe twenty.

Charles nodded toward the far garden. “You met Jessica Barnes yet? She’s manager of finance there. She went to school with Annie. If you haven’t met her, you should let Annie introduce you. She could really show you the ropes.”

Translation: Play your cards right, two dinners and a movie, and you’ll get laid.

Adam turned and let his gaze linger on Jessica. Yeah, he knew her. She was one of the fifteen to twenty percent. Great legs, savvy and a dark glare that said never trust her with sharp objects nearby. Undo-mesticated and ambitious.

Translation: Trouble.

For two weeks, Adam had worked himself into a serious frenzy to keep from personalizing Jessica Barnes. Personalizing was a bad thing to do in his line of work. He avoided looking at her in meetings, and thought of her as her employee number—44713, never Jessica. But he’d be a stupid man not to realize that 44713 lit up buttons he didn’t even know he had.

Damn it all to hell, he’d never been stupid.

He watched her pick her way through the crowd, passing between pastel suits and wide-brimmed hats and men in dark tuxes. Today she’d worn neon blue. He’d spent more time than he liked to admit wondering what sort of clothes 44713 wore out of the office. Monday through Friday, eight to five, she was so tightly buttoned. Prim and proper, never a false step.

Except when she sneezed.

That brought a smile to his face. He pretended to sip his champagne and watched the sun beat down on her thick, brown hair. She’d let it slip down around her shoulders today. Adam normally liked blondes, but he’d never seen brown hair that caught the sunlight so well, or looked so temptingly touchable.

A man could weave fantasies that involved that hair.

She finally reached his side, dark sunglasses hiding her eyes. Soft brown. Gold and green swirled together in darkness. “Hello, Taylor. I didn’t expect to see you here today. I thought you’d be at Hard-Wire doing inventory.”

He winced. 44713. 44713. It made his job easier. “Lovely day, don’t you think?”

“A good day for a wedding.”

“You know Annie?”

“School. You?”

“Charles is one of our auditors.”

“Imagine that. Small world.”

Too small. Way, way too small when he started having thoughts that involved one of his client’s employees. Thoughts of long sleepless nights in bed and hot showers that had nothing to do with hygiene.

Fantasies.

For two years a lonely reality had honed his expectation. He wanted a wife. A family. White-picket fences and apple pie.

Jessica Barnes—44713—was not potential wife material. Her potential was purely sensual, and he felt it oozing through every inch of her sun-kissed skin.

“Why don’t you come out to dinner with me this evening?” said the spider to the fly. The words were out of his mouth before he thought.

“Sorry. I’m tied up.”

The fly had brains. “Pity. Tomorrow?”

“Mr. Taylor, I don’t think it’s wise for us to consider anything more than a strictly business relationship.”

He completely agreed with her logic. In fact, he’d thought of it himself. However, something about her legs made logic impossible. “Ms. Barnes, you work for one company, I work for another. There’s no legal, moral or ethical reason you couldn’t have dinner with me. Unless that’s your choice?”

She didn’t even hesitate to skewer his ego. “Of course that’s my choice.” She turned to walk away from him, and he nearly dropped his glass. Her entire back was bare. Tan, smooth, with a long, long line that ran down from smooth shoulders and dipped low and lower still.

He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and traced one wayward finger down the delectable curve. Hands-on usually wasn’t his style: he’d always believed it was only polite to wait until you’re invited to touch.

But he’d never seen a back like that before.

She froze.

“Jessica.”

She didn’t turn, just stood there, flaunting all that silky skin. His mouth grew dry and his mind kicked in with all sorts of images that involved skin and touching. Mouths. Tangled legs.

“It’s only going to get worse,” he said, more to himself than to her.

“What is?”

“Seeing each other, every day, being polite and completely professional.”

Then she spun around. Stared up at him, those soulless glasses giving nothing away. “I can handle it.”

He almost argued with her, saying that he couldn’t. He, the consummate professional. The man who could finesse anything. But he didn’t. Now wasn’t the time.

A smattering of applause started in the crowd. They both turned to look. Annie and Charles made their way to the main table. “Hope they’re one of the lucky fifty percent,” she murmured.

“Actually, they only need to be one of the lucky seventy-five percent.”

The sunglasses came off then, the brown eyes alight. “No, that’s not right. According to the census bureau it’s fifty percent.”

She was always so passionate about being right, even when she was wrong. Adam had seen her operate in meetings, found himself stepping in when he shouldn’t. All to protect 44713.

Jessica.

What was it about her? He shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t going to analyze it, just go with it.

But he hid his smile because he wasn’t stupid. “No, you can’t say that. I stand by my seventy-five. Seventy-five percent of the married people in this country have never been divorced.”

She shook her head, brown hair flying. “You’re wrong, Taylor.”

“Want to bet on that?”

“What?”

“You name the stakes. A cup of coffee…money.” He eyed her mouth. “A kiss.”

She pursed her lips. Today she wore more lipstick than usual. Dark maroon, the color of heart, the color of sin. “No kisses, Taylor. One dollar.”

What harm could come from a bet? He could almost hear his mother’s lecture about gambling, but he’d think about that later. “We can settle this tomorrow at the office, or if you want, we could leave right now and find the answer.”

“I don’t trust you.”

She was smart. People shouldn’t trust him. “Sorry you feel that way.”

“You’re wearing the black hat, Taylor. That’s the way it is.”

“So, no dinner for guys in black hats, huh?”

“Nope.” She rocked back on her heels, looking rather proud of herself.

He studied her for a long time, wondering about all that pent-up energy, and then finally he shook his head. “Now you’ve done it. You’re an insurmountable challenge, Barnes.”

For three heartbeats, their gazes locked. He could see it in her eyes, the challenge, the excitement. She loved the game just as much as he did. Eventually she looked away. “Just don’t get any ideas about surmounting, if you get my drift.”

“You get your mind out of those dark places you don’t want to go to, and I’ll get mine out of there as well.”

She stared him down, the glasses tapping against her thigh. “You’re no threat to my peace of mind, only to my career ambitions.”

He laughed softly. “I’ve had enough of this finger food. I’m going to go have dinner, Barnes. You’re welcome to join me.”

She turned and walked away, a cocky swing in her hips. “In your dreams, Taylor,” she tossed over her shoulder.

“There, too, Barnes. There, too.”

2

ON MONDAY, Jessica arrived at work at 7:00 a.m. sharp. She tried to stay busy, reading over the third-quarter forecast, marking the items that seemed questionable. Better analyzing numbers than staring at her computer and analyzing Saturday’s skin-tickling encounter with Adam.

Mr. Taylor.

The Ax-man.

She needed to keep him in perspective, but he made perspective very difficult.

Needing a distraction, she read all her e-mail, accepted Mickey’s lunch invitation, and just when she was done, one last message made it through.

Jessica,

Do you have the preliminary numbers for the third-quarter forecast? Could you drop it by my office?

Adam

She tapped her fingers on the keyboard. Office? Whose office? Last she’d heard, his team would be using the conference room at the corner of the building. She fired off her reply.

Adam,

Whose office?

Jessica

In a few seconds, she heard the incoming e-mail chime.

Jessica,

Look out your window.

Adam

Nooo.

She turned and stared out her window that faced into the interior of the building. Sure enough, across the atrium, directly in her line of vision, stood Adam. Without a jacket. Looking wonderfully awake and full of pep. He waved at her.

She waved back. With all the enthusiasm of a turkey in November.

He wanted the preliminary third-quarter figures? Fine. She printed out a copy of the spreadsheet that she’d put together, took a cup of coffee and made her way to his office.

His door was open, so she didn’t bother to knock. She noted that he had been given one of the bigger offices, bigger than hers. Petty, very petty, but still it ticked her off. Jessica put the paper down on his desk and turned to leave.

“Miss Barnes, just a minute. I have some questions,” he said, the hint of some genteel Southern up-bringing in his voice.

Of course he had questions. Jessica pulled up a chair and took a sip of hot coffee. That improved her mood significantly. She hadn’t been sleeping well recently. Mostly worrying about her job, but every now and then those steamy dreams reared their prurient heads. Those were the ones that made her nervous.

She slid an inch away from him. Not that it helped. She could still smell his cologne, could still feel his warmth, even from where she sat. Just to be safe, she slid an inch farther.

As if he knew her thoughts, Adam turned his head and looked at her.

She smiled in return, a smile that wasn’t going to reach her eyes, but she was determined to make the effort. Be professional.

Then he fired off his questions. How comfortable was she with the European prospects? Did they consider the number from the telecommunications sector viable? Each time he asked, she answered, confident of the data.

At long last, he leaned back in his chair, apparently satisfied. “You do a great job.”

She nodded her head, acknowledging the compliment. She had worked her rear off to get where she was. At last she had found a place where she belonged, a place where she could do something good. It was easy to do a great job now. “I’ve been at Hard-Wire since the early days of the product plan. I don’t want anything to happen to this company.”

Her nose began to tickle and she held up a finger, before eventually the sneeze erupted. He handed her a tissue.

“Like the possible acquisition.” It wasn’t a question.

She stuffed the tissue in her pocket, stalling more than anything. There was a time for honesty and a time for tact. Carefully she studied his face, his cool eyes expressionless. Eventually she shrugged. Honesty was her style. “Yes. JCN is too big and cumbersome. Hard-Wire will lose its competitive edge. The speed to market.”

“But JCN can give you the brand name and stable image you need.”

Jessica stiffened her spine. She had heard the rationale. “We shouldn’t be having this discussion.”

“Probably not, but I’m interested in why you’re so opposed. Everyone else is walking around with a satisfied smile, planning for that new car they’re hoping to buy.” He took a pen and tapped it on the desk, the sound carrying in the quiet room. “Sounds like a disconnect to me. Maybe you see something that JCN doesn’t.”

Jessica stood, coffee in hand. Retreat was the best solution. “I’ll leave now.”

“Before you go, I’ve got one more thing.”

“What?”

“Our bet.” He pulled out a thick, leather-bound volume. “I’m assuming you’ll believe the U.S. government?”

She hedged, staring at the defeat he held in his hand. “Not always.”

“There.” He opened the book to the bookmark and ran one finger down to the middle of the page. She edged behind him, trying to ignore his cologne, trying to pretend she wasn’t studying the thick dark waves that settled so nicely against his neck. “Seventy-five percent of those people who are married have never been divorced. People who’ve been divorced tend to get divorced again. It’s a common misinterpretation of the actual facts.”

When he turned in his chair, she realized she was closer than comfort demanded. His arm brushed against her leg, just a touch, probably an accident. An accident that nearly spilled her coffee. She took a long, steadying breath. Easy, girl.

“I owe you a dollar. I don’t have one with me, but I’ll make sure you’re paid before the end of the day.”

His smile turned sly. “You can owe me.”

She wanted to be offended. She wanted to step back and play the outraged female. But her nerve endings had plans of their own. Still and frozen, she was determined to persevere. “You win this round, Taylor.”

For a moment his eyes softened. “You like to win, don’t you, Barnes?”

She’d lost one too many times in her life. “Everyone does.”

Then the shutters fell, the softness was gone. “A class act knows when to throw in the towel, too.”

He meant Hard-Wire. He meant preparing for the inevitable. But for her that meant defeat. First they’d have to pry the office badge from her cold, dead hands. She sneezed. “I’ll take the next round.”

The arrogant man shrugged. “If there is a next round.”

“Of course there will be. Good day, Mr. Taylor.” She turned to leave, slamming the door behind her.

JESSICA’S 11:00 A.M. staff meeting dragged on forever. She couldn’t wait to escape the confines of the building, and lunch with Mickey would go a long way to reestablishing her peace of mind.

She hoped.

When she made it to the small burger place just outside the Loop, Mickey was already seated. After they ordered, the talk was innocent and free of Mickey’s mind tricks. They discussed her new project at the research lab, the Cubs, and made plans for the weekend. Just when Jessica started to relax, blitzkrieg began.

“You’re uptight, J. More so than usual. It’s Taylor, isn’t it?”

Jessica chose the easy answer. “He’s the enemy, Mick. JCN.” Her voice fell soft. “They’d eliminate my position. Strike that—they’d eliminate the whole finance department.”

“You don’t know that. Besides, the stock options would help you weather the storms.”

Jessica knew she’d make a little money on a buyout, but that was small comfort. She wanted VP. And her experience wasn’t strong enough to be VP at anyplace but Hard-Wire. Being without a job, talking to headhunters, networking. The whole process put a huge rock in her stomach.

And made her sneeze. She searched her purse for a tissue.

Mickey held up a French fry, analyzing it before popping it into her mouth. “I don’t think you should go out with him.”

“Why not?”

“Office romance. Bad for your image.”

Jessica knew that. Seeing Adam personally, in any capacity, on a date or in his bed, could end up a CLM—career-limiting move. “I know,” she said, still dwelling on the “in his bed” image.

Mickey snagged another fry. “Bet he’s a jerk.”

A jerk? Those misty green eyes of his weren’t full of jerkiness. Every now and then he lowered his shields and she saw something else. Sadness? “Not really. He seems more remote than anything.”

“Maybe he’s from New York. That would explain it.”

“No. He’s from somewhere in the South. Can’t figure out where.”

Mickey drew a double helix in the ketchup. “The South? New York would have been better. Your allergies would go ballistic.”

Jessica sneezed. “Thank you, oh brilliant one.”

“Hey, I call ’em like I see ’em.”

“What would you do? Would you gamble your professional image on a question mark?”

“J, there are two sorts of men in the world. Ethyl alcohol and nitric acid. The ethyl alcohol is a steady reliable fuel, doesn’t burn clean, but it always burns. When you need to get there, positively, in three days—ethyl alcohol. And then there’s nitric acid. It won’t always fire, but when it does? To the moon, baby. You’ve got to make the decision: alcohol or nitric.”

Jessica pulled the tissue through her hands. “I’m getting too old for nitric acid.”

Mickey shrugged. “Your decision.”

“There’s not one good reason I should go for it.” She had thought about it for some time. Fourteen days to be exact. Hot sex, although tempting, was not rational or logical given the situation. So why was she still thinking about it?

Mickey’s laugh was the evil laugh of a mind reader. “I can see it’s pointless to argue. You want him? Do him.”

“No, no, no. I don’t need the additional stress.”

“Yes, I can see you’re the picture of relaxed self-contemplation.”

Jessica buried her head in her hands. “Forty-seven days and then he’ll be gone. I just have to resist him for forty-seven days.”

“How long has it been?”

“Fourteen.” Her nose tickled, giving her its own opinion. One, two, three. Ha-choo.

“Then you might as well throw in the towel now, because I’m figuring within another week, you’ll either be having a seriously good time with Mr. Taylor, or else you’ll be buried alive under a mountain of shredded tissue.”

Jessica stared at the little bits of paper that were littered across the table like broken dandelions. The histamines had won.

SOMETIMES Adam drove to the high-rise office park on Monroe that housed Hard-Wire, sometimes he took the El. On the long assignments, he kept his car with him. The car kept him from getting lonely.

Lonely. His mom would have a field day with that. He could just hear her.

You wouldn’t be lonely if you’d just settle down. All that travel, one of these days your plane is going to crash and then where will you be?

“Up in heaven with you, Ma,” he answered aloud. An automatic reply.

Pretty words never worked on me. I raised you, boy. I taught you everything you know.

He laughed at that and took a right-hand turn into traffic.

Cancer had buried his mother two years ago and it was only now that the sadness was starting to give way. He liked driving in the car and feeling as though she was there. Some days when the loneliness hit him hard, he talked to her aloud. Just like in Psycho. Which didn’t worry him as much as it should. But he kept the secret to himself because he knew nobody else would understand.

Of course, now his conscience sounded just like his ma. At least he’d always assumed it was his conscience.

The cell phone beeped and he looked at the caller ID to see if he wanted to be available. Vanessa Green.

He let it go for two rings, weighing the pros and cons. Strategic potential versus lack of synergy. Finally potential won out and he pushed the button. “Adam Taylor here.”

“Adam, it’s Vanessa. How are you?”

“Doing great. Glad to hear from you. How’s the weather in L.A.?”

“Fabulous. Listen, I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I wanted to get that title that you were recommending.”

Title? Geez, what had he said? “Oh, yeah. Listen, I’m in the car. Can I call you from home? Need to check my shelves. I’ll get the publisher as well.”

I didn’t raise you to lie, either.

“Not now, Ma.”

“What was that?”

Adam slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “Sorry, Vanessa. Just a little late-afternoon fatigue. I’ll call you this evening, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks, Adam.” Click.

Nope. Vanessa wasn’t it. He’d taken her out once about three months ago, and although she had the right requirements, the core product seemed off in some way.

He knew what he wanted. A sweet young thing who wanted 2.5 kids and a garden out back. Somebody who understood the concept of home and staying firmly planted in one place.

He had wandered around the country for so long, assignment to assignment, the idea of coming home to one woman, one family sounded like his own personal paradise.

The house had been an impulse buy, a two-story Victorian that he painted when he was back in Alabama.

Now he just needed to find someone to share it with.

An SUV pulled in front of him and he slammed on the brakes. The Porsche slid to a halt and Adam swore under his breath.

“Sorry, Ma. I forgot.”

This time the voice in his head didn’t reply.

3

AFTER WORK, Jessica always jogged on the path that ran along the lake. Two miles on a normal day and three miles when her thighs got extra dimply, which was usually after having dinner with Cassandra, who liked her desserts.

Today was a good Wednesday. No crisis at the office, the weather was a perfect sixty-five degrees, and the runner in front of her had the most motivating physique she had ever had the sheer pleasure of running after.

Somewhere between mile marker number two and mile marker number three she realized the identity of that motivating physique.

He was right ahead of her. He was going to win. She picked up her pace. Not many people could beat her on a quarter-mile sprint, and she prayed Mr. Adam Taylor wasn’t one of them.

Time for round two.

Her feet pounded against the caliche track as she found her rhythm. She began to gain on him, noticing the efficient way he moved. Very smooth.

The powerful muscles worked in his legs, and his back flexed as he ran, making it look easy. His torso was bare, the better to be ogled, my dear.

Jessica stumbled, more caught up in leering than concentrating on the track in front of her. That just made her mad, so she kicked up to the next gear.

“Afternoon, Adam.”

He glanced over at her, his eyes taking in her sports bra and shorts. “Afternoon.”

“You’re pretty good.”

“Ditto.”

He matched her pace and they ran on in silence, bounded by the skyscrapers of the city and the still waters of Lake Michigan. She concentrated on keeping her breath even and slow.

“How far do you usually go?” he asked, not even winded.

“Five,” she answered, sneaking an extra gasp. “You?”

“Five.”

“What’s your time?” she asked, trying for a casual tone.

His gaze flicked in her direction. “Fifty-five is the usual. I can shave off eight minutes when I’m concentrating. You?”

He had stepped right into her trap. “I can beat that.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a report that I need to turn in before morning.”

“Chicken?” She pulled ahead.

“Now you’re just talking trash.”

She didn’t reply except with vaguely unprofessional, yet extremely satisfying, clucking noises.

He pulled alongside her. “That is such a pretty ass. Seems a shame to watch you lose it.”

“You think so, farm boy?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Care to bet on that?”

He laughed. “What are we playing for now? I would love to see you in a little, black—”

“No.”

“Spoilsport,” he said with a heated look that indicated he was still off in fantasyland.

Jessica almost lost her stride. “It’s got to be something more meaningful.”

“Sex can be meaningful. Great sex can be life-altering.”

She snorted in a completely unfeminine manner. “You are such a man. Loser buys dinner.”

“Cooks, not buys.”

“And a chauvinist, too. I bet you can’t cook.”

“You can’t even begin to imagine.”

“You’re just trying to get me alone.”

He clutched a hand to his extremely well-formed, sweat-glistened chest. “Gee, she sees right through me.”

“Buys dinner. Public place. Ready?” She shot forward before he could reply. “See you at the finish line.”

They kept even for three miles, but the fast pace started to get to Jessica. He didn’t look winded at all, chest pumping in even rhythm. Was he slowing his pace just to let her win?

That demeaning thought got her through another one and a half miles. By the time they reached the last half-mile marker, Jessica thought her heart was going to explode. Still she ran, concentrating on putting one foot forward. Finding the zone.

Adam started to pull ahead. Two lengths, then three.

No way.

She blocked out everything. This was the man who thought he could beat her. Had already beaten her once. Not again in this lifetime. She focused on nothing but his black silk running shorts covering his mighty fine—

Stop it, Jessica. Her pace picked up.

The final marker loomed ahead, the shadowy clump of trees and the water fountain that sparkled like a desert oasis. Almost there.

She fell in beside him.

He pulled ahead.

No.

Not just no, but hell no.

Adam took the lead.

He smiled at her, slow and sure. A victory smile.

Calling on every ounce of her reserves, she shot forward, leaving him behind.

He almost caught her, but she was determined.

There it was.

One more length.

She felt his breath hot on her back. Still she ran.

There.

There.

She zoomed past the marker, two strides ahead of Mr. Hotshot. “There.”

He came to a stop next to her, and she was grateful to see his bare chest pumping wildly, the sweat dribbling down between sharply-defined pecs. “You are good,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Jessica forced herself to look away.

“In all things, Taylor.” She leaned against the tree, sucking much-needed air into her starving lungs. The world spun four times before it righted itself once more. She swept a hand through her hair, wiping the sweat off her forehead.

His thumb brushed against her lower lip. “You missed a spot.”

Her lashes drifted down, and she fought the urge to taste him. A frightening thought. Instantly the warm touch was gone and she stepped back into reality. “You owe me dinner.”

“You beat me, Barnes. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at eight.”

For a second he sounded pleased, as if he had planned the whole thing. Suspicion tainted the moment. She stood, hands on hips, and studied his face. He looked exhausted and tousled, in a “hey baby, come jump me” kind of way. Once again, she felt the taste of victory. And it was sweet. The suspicion was gone. “717 West Patterson, apartment 2285. Think you can remember that, Taylor?”

“Don’t underestimate me, Barnes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

JESSICA PUT her key in the lock to 87 Spruce Avenue, turned the latch and pushed inside. Home. Her mom shouted a greeting from the kitchen, followed by the familiar rapid-fire barrage of requests. Set the table, chase the cat from the back bedroom and bring the clean laundry up from the basement. Jessica breathed in the ever-present aroma of fabric softener and cinnamon. Yup. Definitely home.

The family homestead in the southwest side of the city had been built proudly in 1937 by her grandfather, Elijah Barnes. An extra bathroom had been added on when Jessica was born, the attic had been finished when her brother Patrick turned seven, and four years ago her father had added a one-car garage to keep the snow off the 1987 Buick. For Jessica, it was the only home she’d ever known.

After carrying out her orders, Jessica made her way into the kitchen where her mother whisked from stove to sink to counter and back, faster than the eye could follow. There was never a wasted movement; she never stopped the way Jessica did, wondering what it was she intended to do.

Diane Barnes was a woman who kept a spotless house, was happiest when her children were nearby and had never met a casserole she didn’t like. From an early age, Jessica had known she was not her mother’s daughter. When Jessica had lived at home, they had fought almost every day. Her mom didn’t understand a career woman, and Jessica believed housework was one of the original eight plagues of Egypt, but because the Bible had been written by a man, it never got included.

Jessica watched her mother for a moment, then felt guilty and began putting things away, simply so she could look busy. “How you doing, Mom?”

Her mother lifted a lid from the pot on the stove, stirring idly. “Same as always, Jess.”

“You should take it easy some. You look tired,” Jessica said, noting the way her mother’s skin looked more fragile than usual.

Diane shook her head in a patient manner, her short brown hair rippling with movement. “I’ve got too many things to do, and the days are only getting shorter,” she answered, setting a stack of plates in Jessica’s hands.

Obediently, Jessica trotted out to the dining table and laid out the plates, moving from place to place until the spoons were lined up exactly parallel with the napkins and the forks gleamed in the bright lights from the wall sconces that were fixed around the room.

The dining table had already been set up for Wednesday dinner, five settings. It was family night at the Barnes household. Her father, Frank Barnes, had the chair at the head of the table, but until the food was actually on his plate, he sat in his recliner watching the news, thinking of new names for the local aldermen.

Jessica poked her head into the den. “Pop, supper is almost ready,” she yelled.

From behind the back of his brown easy chair came a grunt of acknowledgment. It usually took a good three tries to get Pop to leave the chair, which was incredibly inefficient, but you couldn’t skip one or he wouldn’t leave. Jessica sighed.

The front door slammed, rattling the bay window in a precarious manner. Patrick was home.

At the ripe old age of eighteen, Patrick had moved out of the house and set out on his own. For two years he’d skipped Wednesday dinners, but about the time he turned twenty, White Castle burgers had lost some of their appeal and he’d developed an appreciation for a home-cooked meal. He was now twenty-five and thought he knew everything. Jessica knew better.

He took off his jacket and threw it on top of the coat tree in the hall. “Hey, Jess. Can you get me something to drink?”

“You been taking drugs, Patrick? Do I look like Mom?”

“More and more every day,” he said, pausing before he walked into the den to pinch her cheek.

Jessica smacked her fist into her palm. “I’m your older sister, I’m the professional in the family.”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

The front door slammed again. Not quite as loudly as Patrick, which meant that Ian was now home from class. He was shorter than Jessica by a couple of inches, but what he lacked in height, he said he made up for in wisdom.

He flung his jacket on the coat tree and shook his head. “Sis, you always let him get to you. The only reason he does that is to get you mad.”

It was the ultimate humiliation to get behavioral lessons from her baby brother. At least he was the scholar as well, which soothed her ego somewhat. Ian had spent three years in the local community college, trying out different majors to see if they suited him. Eventually he’d wandered full circle back to Business Administration and had just been accepted to Notre Dame.

Ian threw his backpack onto the sideboard in the dining room, but then their mother scuttled into the room and moved it into the hall closet, with nary a word of complaint. Jessica couldn’t believe her brother’s inconsiderate nature. “Would it have been so much trouble to put it away yourself? Don’t you think Mom has enough to do without having to pick up after you?”

“Heavy stress at the job, Jess?”

She glared at Ian and then she sneezed. “You couldn’t imagine.”

“Yeah, I can.” He rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming with possibilities. “I can’t wait.”

He looked so excited, so full of enthusiasm, and Jessica didn’t have the heart to enlighten him about the real state of affairs in the business world. Maybe she was turning into a cynic. More likely she was just scared.

Her mother called from the kitchen. “Jessica, would you find out what everyone would like to drink, please?”

“Sure, Mom,” she said, collecting drink orders and pondering a career in the field of hotel and restaurant management. By the time she had returned to her mother with the information, she had decided that the hospitality industry might be a possibility. And of course, she’d forgotten what everyone wanted to drink.

Ten minutes later they were all seated at the table, and her father said grace, the same blessing he’d said for all twenty-nine years of Jessica’s life. Short, to the point and sincere. Not fancy, but it was the Barnes way.

Dinner was never a quiet affair, although Jessica wondered what it was like Thursday through Tuesday when it was just her mother and father. Did they talk about the day or get silly, or was it just like tonight with her father buried in the news and her mother buried in the kitchen?

The menu tonight was roast beef, gravy, Jessica’s favorite green-bean casserole and homemade rolls. It made Jessica weak just thinking of cooking all that stuff day after day, night after night. She watched her mother fuss over everyone with appreciation and more than a little concern.

Diane held up the rose-colored gravy boat. “More gravy, Ian? And don’t forget your vegetables.”

Her father took a bite of roast beef and emitted a long “ahhh” of satisfaction. “Those guys in meat-packing can tell me what they want, but there’s nothing closer to heaven than your roast beef, Diane.”

Her mother glowed and picked at her plate. “Thank you, Frank.”

That was all her father had to say? Jessica went to the sideboard and refilled her mother’s water glass.

“That’s all well and good, but shouldn’t Mom have a night off every now and then?”

Her father shoveled a bit of roast beef into his mouth.

Jessica shot Ian a plea for moral support, but he was too much of a pacifist or a chicken—or both—to assist.

It was a battle she would have to fight alone. “Mom deserves to get some rest. You got a birthday coming up, don’t you, Mom?”

Her mother got up and spooned more green beans onto Ian’s plate. “In June.”

Immediately Jessica knew how to solve this problem. “I think we should have a party.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Jessica.”

So typical. If no one leaped to her mom’s defense, she’d never get a break. Well, Jessica wasn’t about to let her back out now. She locked eyes with her mom. “No, no, wait. Hear me out. I don’t want you to worry about cooking or cleaning or being a hostess. I’ll take care of everything. The party will be my birthday present for you. And we can get your hair cut at one of those chi-chi places in the Loop. And your nails. You gotta get your nails done.”

Her mother still didn’t look convinced. “I suppose it could be fun.”

Jessica stood and paced around the table, continuing in full marketing, project-planning mode. It helped to have something to take her mind off the job issues right now and finally she had a chance to give something back to her mother. “We’ll have your friends and your side of the family…”

Alarmed, her father looked up. “You’re not inviting Aunt Alys. The woman eats enough for ten. Jessica, you’ll go broke just trying to feed her.”

Diane waved a hand at her husband. “Hush, Frank.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a healthy appetite,” Jessica piped in.

“And I wouldn’t dare not invite her,” her mother added.

Frank rubbed a hand over the remaining twirls of dark hair that covered his scalp. “Oy. She’s coming, then? Jessica, I’m hoping that job of yours pays well, ‘cause you’re going to have a hell of a bill.”

“I’m doing fine.”

“My little girl is going be vice president someday, I know it.” Her father grinned, his dark eyes glowing, and Jessica felt a little kick in her heart.

“You bet I will,” Jessica promised, ignoring the twinge in her stomach that seemed to indicate otherwise.

ADAM SHOWED UP at her door at eight o’clock sharp on Thursday. Much to his delight, Jessica greeted him at the door with a prickly smile and a wisp of a dress. All the blood drained from his head and he experienced a twenty-percent loss in mental capacity.

It was good. That much he knew. Sparkling, the material moved around her like liquid gold. The front was two strips of cloth that clung to her breasts. How? He didn’t know, but he was happy.

She smiled at his obvious discomfort. “Problem, Taylor?”

Her voice was smooth and confident. This was a woman who liked her power. Her idea of home was behind a desk. High risk, low return. Remember that, he told himself. He held out a hand. “Not at all.”

He made the requisite small talk as they made their way to his car. Then he flicked the keyless entry and opened the passenger door.

Adam had learned to expect a myriad of reactions to his car. Fascination and awe, and a few dates had turned—well, insatiable. And who was he to complain? But there was no awe in Jessica’s expression now, no sexual hunger, darn it, just—anger? This was a new one.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, still holding open the door. Maybe that was a mistake? Maybe she didn’t like the man-opening-car-door protocol. Well, damned if he was going to lose his manners for her.

“You drive a Porsche.”

“Yes,” he answered.

“A 911 Carrera Coupe.” She splayed a hand over the roof, her fingers smoothing over it like a lover’s caress. “It’s lapis blue, isn’t it?”

He nodded, now completely fascinated. His consultant’s training told him to hold his tongue.

“A 3.6-liter engine, 320 horsepower?”

Except when a woman started talking horsepower. “Zero to sixty in under five seconds.”

Her hand dropped to her side and she sneezed. “You’re an evil man, Taylor.”

Perhaps if he hadn’t tallied the final head-count projections today he would have been more receptive, but the insult hit close to home. His voice rose a notch, just one, before he got control. “Because I drive a Porsche?”

She jabbed the hood with an energetic finger. “That’s my car.”

Adam ran a hand through his hair, muddling his way through. “Did someone steal your car?”

She shook her head and sneezed again. “No. I don’t own the car. It’s my goal.”

Adam reached in his pocket and took out the travel package of tissues he’d brought just for her. “Here.”

Obediently she blew her nose, wadded the paper in her hand, and then faced him, liquid gold in the bright lights of the street. “I’m sorry. It’s a long story and very silly, and I won’t bore you with the details. Can I just say that I’m a little overwrought and we can leave it at that?”

Overwrought, my butt. He thought about pressing her for the truth, but the night was young. She glanced toward the car, more longing in her eyes than he really wanted to see wasted on a Porsche. Inspiration struck and he held out his keys. “Why don’t you drive?”

She palmed the keys, lightly stroking the metal. He watched in silence, wondered at the oddly vulnerable expression on her face. And then it was gone.

She threw the keys in the air, caught them with one hand and was settled in the driver’s side before he could open the door. Damn. He walked around, opened it, shut it. “Just making sure it’s closed,” and then folded his legs in the passenger side.

“You know how to drive a stick, Barnes?”

“Just watch me.”

And the car roared into the night.

THE RESTAURANT was cool and chic. Not like the normal places that Jessica chose to spend her dining dollars, but she couldn’t help the cocky swing in her hips when she crossed the elegant threshold.

Jessica Barnes had arrived, holding tight to the strong arm of Adam Taylor. Okay, technically he was still the enemy, but for tonight—tonight he was her dream man.

He was her imaginary date to the prom, the football player that had never asked her out. He was the Saturday-night phone call that never came. All neatly packaged into one living, breathing, sexy-as-hell man.

And by the way, did she forget to mention that he drove a very cool car?

Her sigh of pleasure was long overdue. Eleven years of doubts pent up inside her. It felt good to let it all out.

After they were seated and had gotten their drinks, she sipped her wine like a pro. He took off his jacket and she studied the way his tanned skin balanced the stark white of his shirt. Nice. She liked the way his gaze lingered on her, appreciation in those gray-green eyes, desire there as well.

She leaned forward, tempting the fates. “How did you become a consultant?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I really do.”

“Fresh out of school with an MBA, there weren’t that many jobs. I took the first offer I got, a position at one of the big consulting houses. That lasted for about three years, about the time I discovered I was good at operational efficiency.” He stared off into the distance, tugging at his tie.

“A rare talent,” she murmured.

He turned back to her and shrugged. “It’s what I do. How about you? You like numbers, huh?”

“I’ve always liked math, and finance seemed the way to go. I found Hard-Wire about two years after I graduated.” She remembered the day she’d told her parents her plans for VP. She would even spring for champagne. A vice president had never set foot in the Barnes household before and she was determined to rectify that little situation.

He watched her from over his glass. “Are you from Chicago?”

“Born and raised. And you? You’ve got this accent. What’s with it?”

“Alabama.”

“No kidding? A.L.? You don’t look like what I imagined a guy from the twenty-second state would be like.”

“A.L.?” He laughed. “So what am I supposed to look like?”

“You know, overalls, a piece of hay clamped between your teeth, rural. You look urban. You clean up good, Mr. Taylor.”

“Thank ye kindly, ma’am.”

It felt comfortable to sit here with him: talking, laughing. Trusting him. A shiver ran down her spine. That was a bad thing. “Let’s not overdo it.”

His smile faded, the mood broken.

“How’s the report coming?” she asked, making sure she didn’t forget.

All traces of a smile disappeared completely. “Let’s not go there tonight, hmm? I don’t want to talk about work, I’m more interested in you.”

“I’m boring.”

His eyes met hers and he shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. Got any secrets, Jessica?”

“I ran away from home when I was sixteen. Was gone about seven hours before I came back. Mom and Pop still don’t know. Does that count?”

“Why’d you run away?”

“Life sucks for everybody at sixteen. I wasn’t any different.” It had been Black Tuesday. She’d been passed over for the drill team, after already having been passed over for cheerleader, after already losing the class council race. It was a bad year. She sneezed, reached for a tissue, and when she was done, immediately lost it under the table. “You? What were you like at sixteen?”

“Hauling hay, plowing the fields, helping Ma when I could.” As he talked his accent got deeper, running through her like a slow shot of Southern Comfort.

“What about your father?”

“He was always gone. Assignment here, assignment there.”

“But your mother still wanted the farm?”

“It was her home.” There was a contented smile on his face, a plowboy from Alabama. She had teased him about it, but never actually believed she was right.

The waiter interrupted, announcing the night’s specials, but Jessica ignored him. It was Adam that intrigued her. She understood him a little better, understood why he was as driven as she was. A man who wanted a new start in a new place.

Adam took the menu from the table and glanced over it. Completely casual at first. She didn’t get wise to him until he angled it in the direction of the door. “Dodging someone, Taylor? You got any secrets of your own?”

The menu didn’t move. “It’s not a secret. It was—she was a date.”

A date. Why was she surprised? She kept her voice light, kept the disappointment close inside. “And the plot thickens. What sort of date? Did you promise to call her, but never did? Or even worse, were you supposed to see her tonight? For shame, Mr. Taylor. For shame.”

The menu lowered and he rubbed his eyes. “I have a conscience. I don’t need two. It’s just not good business practice to exchange social pleasantries with one date when I’m out on another.”

Oh.

And up to the table walked a woman who caught the eye of every man in the room—the sort of woman who knew nitric acid and had experienced it daily. “Adam? Is that you?”

Jessica fought jealousy, fought a sneeze. Instead, she settled for a smug “Busted” that she made sure he could hear.

Adam shot her a dirty look, and then instantly flashed his consultant’s smile at the blonde leaning oh-so-elegantly against the table. “Hello, Fallon.”

Fallon? Jessica mouthed the name to Adam. The sneak ignored her.

“How are you doing, Adam? I’ve been waiting for the book club to meet again so I could get your take on Sula. Have you finished it yet?”

Book club? Okay, he was definitely not a man but an alien life form raised on the farm land of Alabama, and now assuming the guise of a consultant. The truth was out there after all.

The subject of her conspiracy theory looked very uncomfortable.

Jessica balanced her chin on her hand, awaiting his answer.

“Not yet. I haven’t been able to focus my energies on the story and a book isn’t any good unless you approach it with the proper frame of reference.” At long last, Adam remembered his manners. “Fallon, this is Jessica Barnes. Jessica, Fallon Morningside.”

Jessica held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Morningside.”

“Oh, it’s just Fallon. I hear Miss Morningside all day, every day. It gets old.”

Jessica forced a bright smile on her face. “What do you do?”

“I teach special needs children in Bridgeport. What do you do, Jessica?” The tall blonde exuded grace, charm and, worst of all, she seemed nice. Jessica felt a telltale tickle in her nose. Not now. Please not now.

“I’m in finance.” It sounded so trivial, so meaningless, and in three short seconds she realized her entire life’s ambition had just been one-upped by a school-teacher.

She fumbled for a tissue and came up empty. Not now. A napkin. She just needed to get to the napkin. No. It was too late. She turned her head away from the table. Ha-choo.

“God bless you.” Fallon’s wonderfully melodic tones winged their way through the air.

Jessica shot upright and mumbled, “Thanks.”

“I’ll let the two of you enjoy your dinner. I highly recommend the chateaubriand. They cook it perfectly. Adam, I’ll see you on Tuesday.” She wiggled a couple of fingers in his direction, yet somehow it didn’t look goofy. On Jessica it would be goofy.

Jessica sighed and felt another sneeze coming on.

Adam studied the menu with intense fascination.

Jessica studied Adam. “She’s nice.”

“Yes. The salmon sounds really good. What are you going to have?”

She played with the silverware, tapping the fork over the knife. “I did some volunteer work when I was in high school. It wasn’t special needs kids or anything, but they were poor.”

“The lobster looks good, too. Don’t you think?”

Not quite satisfied, she tapped the fork a little harder. “I give to the United Way, you know.”

“Jessica.” Adam took away her fork and then patted her hand. “Let it go. You’re a fine human being.”

“Thank you,” she answered. Suddenly her lifelong goal of a Porsche seemed petty, but the car maneuvered so well.

She glanced across the table and decided it was time to forget about her shortcomings. That would come later. For now she wanted to enjoy the evening.

“What are you going to have?” he asked again.

“Oh. Food.” She looked over the menu. “I’ll have the linguini with clam sauce, I think.”

They ordered and Adam stayed quiet. Thinking about Fallon, probably. Jessica could nip that in the bud. “She seems nice.”

“Who?”

“Fallon. You met her at a book club?”

“Yes.”

“A book club?”

“Yes.” This time he sounded defensive, and he tugged at his tie.

She took a long sip of wine, until her loins were fully girded, and then asked the question that she really wanted answered. “And just how many men are in this book club?”

“Me.”

“And you really read all the books? It’s not just a way to meet women?”

His smile grew wider. “Do you really think I’m twisted enough to join a book club just to meet women?”

Calculating the possibility, she ran her tongue over her teeth. “Absolutely,” was her final answer.

“You’re slaying me here, Barnes.”

“Do you have book clubs in every city you work in?”

He shrugged. “Not all of them.”

The waiter brought their salads, effectively ending the conversation.

For the moment.

She changed the topic of conversation and they argued baseball. She liked the Cubs, he liked the Yankees. They argued late-night talk shows. He liked Letterman, she liked Leno. They argued hardware. He thought switches would become obsolete, she thought he was full of it.

Eventually, the waiter arrived with the entrées, and they ate their dinners in silence. Every now and then their gazes would collide and Jessica felt the warm flush prickle her skin.

At last the table was cleared and the bill paid. “You like to dance?” he asked. “There’s a club down the street.”

She knew what dancing would involve, a loud band, smoke and probably very little touching. “No thanks.”

“Then I’ll just take you home,” he said, his voice low, full of promise. Promises that involved touching.

She struggled to breathe, images of touching playing in her head. “Home,” she echoed.

Adam drove this time, the hum of the car’s engine a contented purr that suited her mood nicely. When they reached the garage, she started to wish she’d cleaned up her apartment a little more, that she had shopped for better lingerie. Something sexy. Did she have anything sexy? There was an old teddy, but it had got washed in hot water and had never recovered.

Was she going to have sex?

Sex. Oh my God. Panic started in her throat and worked its way down between her thighs.

“Jess.” A hand touched her shoulder, a whisper-touch and she jumped.

“You okay?”

She noticed the emptiness of the parking garage, the intent look on his face. The seat belts came off. Her smile was simply because it felt right, because he felt right.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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