Tonight she was smokin’ and ready for anything.

There was a do-me flicker in Tessa’s eyes that threatened to knock Gabe flat on his ass. He nodded once, acknowledging her, and went to guide her towards the door. They were already late for the party.

But guiding her would involve touching her. And he knew – even crazed and unthinking as he currently was – that was a bad idea. He dropped his hand and waited for her to open the apartment door herself.

A drop of sweat beaded on the back of his neck.

Trouble. And he’d spotted it right off the bat. He knew Tessa. He knew that tilt in her chin, that kick in her walk. When she got like that… Maybe it was time to stop playing games?

Gabe trapped her between the door and the wall, her lean body tight to his. He could feel every inch of her – the fluttering pulse, the tight nipples, the soft hips. She drew in a breath, soft and shaky, and the air burned. His hands itched to explore and discover this new and marvellously arousing Tessa. Instead, he hung on to the last edge of control that he possessed. But for how long…how long?

Kathleen O’Reilly is an award-winning author of several romance novels who is pursuing her lifelong goal of sleeping late, creating a panty-hose-free work environment and entertaining readers all over the world. She lives in New York with her husband, two children and one rabbit. She loves to hear from her readers at either www.kathleenoreilly.com or by mail at PO Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960, USA.

Dear Reader,

I confess. I have a weakness for bars. It seems as if particular eras in my life are defined by particular bars because I am a creature of habit – not all of them good! In college it was the Dixie Chicken, the most glorious hole-in-the-wall ever created by man. Anyone who’s set foot in that rattlesnake-infested place (and you think I’m kidding) will back me up on this. In those colourful years directly after college we spent hours at TGI Fridays, sitting on a high bar stool, talking about dreams and men (sometimes dreamy men).

When I read about two single guys in New York who opened a salad bar that all the single women flocked to, I laughed. A salad bar. I could trump that, I thought. I would create a bar that was comfortable and classy, give it a long and tawdry history, well stocked with top-shelf liquors and top-shelf men. It was surprisingly easy. My editor wanted three brothers, and I knew they had to be Irish (blame that on my great-grandfather, who I suspect was a frequenter of bars, as well). Gabe, Daniel and Sean, my sexy O’Sullivans. Those are my heroes. I hope you fall in love, because I already have.

Cheers,

Kathleen

SHAKEN AND STIRRED

BY

KATHLEEN O’REILLY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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With special appreciation

for bartenders everywhere.

I don’t know what we’d do without you.

1

WHEN SUMMER BROKE in Manhattan, the sun burned hotter, the days turned muggy, men demanded their beer ice-cold, and women expected the martinis chilled. The sun was setting on one such blistering Thursday evening when the middle-aged female approached the long mahogany bar, a blush on her cheeks and her mouth creased in an apologetic smile.

Gabriel Cormac Silas O’Sullivan, owner, bartender and general patsy of a brother, felt a familiar sense of inescapable doom.

“I think there’s a problem with the ladies’ room,” the woman began. “For the last ten minutes the door’s been locked, and there’s…moaning coming from inside. Sometimes female, sometimes male. I think there’s something lewd going on in there.”

Tessa Hart, an employee whom Gabe had previously considered loyal, turned to him, trying not to laugh. “He’s your brother.”

Ah, yes, his brother. More like the worm in his tequila, the backwash in his beer, the sediment in his wine. And that was being kind. “I don’t want to claim him. Not really.” There were three O’Sullivan brothers, but Gabe and Daniel were normal. Sean, not so much.

Tessa pointed an accusing finger at him. “You own this place. Do your job.”

Thus he was shamed into performing his duty as owner of Prime, the infamous Manhattan bar that had been in the O’Sullivan family for nearly eighty years. Nowadays, the wooden floors creaked when you walked across them, but they glistened from fresh polish. Three dark mahogany bars shaped to form a “U” around the room, a brass railing running underneath.

Rows of photographs covered the walls. Some famous mugs, some mugs not so famous. Front and center behind the main bar were the pictures of the last four noble generations of O’Sullivans. An O’Sullivan had poured for sitting Presidents, Mafia dons, Joe DiMaggio and Bob Dylan—and now, apparently, this fine establishment was serving as the No-Tell Motel for one Sean O’Sullivan.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Gabe scanned the bar, wondering which nubile young thing Sean had torpedoed this time. Slowly it dawned on him exactly who was missing and he grinned. Okay, maybe Sean wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately that didn’t put the ladies’ room back in business.

He took the old, narrow staircase down to the twin doors that marked the ladies’ room and the men’s room, then rapped once on the former, hard and authoritative.

“Open up. It’s the police. According to regulation ten-forty-three of the NY City Code, lascivious conduct is forbidden in public places.”

From beyond the door came Sean’s voice, stuck in the throes of more passion than Gabe wanted to imagine. “This wasn’t a public place until you stuck your yap in it, Officer. And by the way, there’s no Regulation ten-forty-three. I know the law.”

“Are you insulting one of New York’s finest?”

“No, I’m insulting my baby brother. Now go away and spare your brother a good seven—ah, darling, that’s perfect—make it fifteen minutes.”

“We have paying customers who need to use the facilities.”

There was a pointed silence, followed by more lurid groaning.

Gabe leaned against the door, making himself comfortable. “Did you tell her you were a lawyer, Sean? Because I don’t know why the women keep falling for that one. I guess it’s hard for a man in the sanitation industry to attract a certain class of woman, although you ended up married easy enough. Could have been the pregnancy, I suppose? How’s Laura doing, by the way?”

Gabe waited, counted to three…and finally heard the low murmur of heated voices. Not heated enough, dammit. Who knew a woman with so much power in the health department would be so desperate? Didn’t matter, Gabe could stoop even lower. “The clinic called. The test results were positive, but with proper medication and professional counseling, you’ll be able to live a completely normal life.”

Eventually Sean’s voice sounded again, a little less steady this time. “Go away. And have pity on a man who’s about to go onto his fourth tour of duty and won’t see a woman again for the next—aahhh—nine months.”

How any woman—especially a New York City health inspector—could mistake his brother for a soldier was out of the range of rational possibility. Yet for some reason, rationality, Sean and women never went together anyway. Gabe banged on the door.

Sean yelled back. “You’re embarrassing the poor woman, Gabe. Be a gentleman and leave.”

Gabe shook his head. “All right, but don’t think I won’t remember this,” he threatened.

“Instead of worrying about me, why don’t you worry about Tessa?”

So typical of Sean. Diverting attention from the matters at hand. Three-card monte with emotional overtones. Sadly Gabe was suckered into it, because Tessa had enough problems to worry about, and it would be hell if something else came up and bit her in the butt.

“What about Tessa?” he asked.

“Employees not coming to Dr. Phil? Tsk-tsk…”

“What about Tessa?” Gabe repeated, seriously considering busting the door down, but he’d only replaced it three months ago, and doors weren’t cheap, especially the seven-feet tall, two-feet wide, custom-made kind.

“Give me another six minutes and I’ll tell you the whole story, because it’s obvious she’s keeping secrets from you.”

With a frustrated sigh, Gabe put an “out of order” sign on the ladies’ room door and went back upstairs. Thursday nights lacked the chaos of the weekend, but when the Yankees were on television, the crowd skewed to beer and bets. Even some of the daytime regulars were there, as well. Judging by the happy faces, the Yankees were winning.

An embarrassingly short two minutes later Sean appeared at the top of the basement steps with a tall brunette wearing schoolmarm glasses. Sean lifted her hands to his lips—just like Sir Fucking Lancelot. Jeez.

“I take it we passed inspection?” asked Gabe, keeping his face purposefully bland. Not that he needed to worry. The health inspector shot Sean a punch-drunk smile. “With flying colors. Flying. Colors,” she murmured, and Sean beamed, an already healthy ego getting supersized. Shit. Sometimes Gabe wanted to shoot his brother, but Sean had connections everywhere, and the bar had never failed a health inspection yet. Okay, Gabe would forgive him. Right now he was more concerned about Tessa anyway.

He shot her a quick mental-health-check glance. Everything looked normal. She was mixing drinks with her usual Hollywood flair, tossing glasses into the air, to the delight of her male customers. But when she listened to an order, Gabe noticed the telltale tugging on the lock of hair that fell in her face.

Tessa attracted trouble like rain on a busted umbrella, but that didn’t matter to Gabe. When his employees needed him, he was there. Especially for Tess.

TESSA KNEW A TRAIN wreck idea when she heard it, and this was definitely one. She shot Gabe her best mean-girl glare, the one she’d been practicing in the mirror for nearly all of her twenty-six years. All that practice didn’t mean she was any good, but she had to keep trying.

“I am not moving in with you. You’re my boss, among other things. And don’t think you can make me say yes by flashing those earnest blue eyes in my direction, because I’m learning to say the word no to men. No. N.O. Non. Nyet. Nein. I can say it in Navajo. Dooda. See, I can say no.”

To make sure her point was not missed, she lit a flame over the flaming Jägerbomb shooter she was making, still working the mean-girl glare.

Gabe hefted a bucket of ice into the bin, biceps rippling with the effort. The world’s most perfect bartender. Understanding, thoughtful and sexy as hell.

“It’s not like that, Tess,” he said, flashing those earnest blue eyes in her direction. Four women sighed as they watched him work. Gawd, it was like synchronized lusting.

Tessa pulled a draft beer, then slid it down the bar to the waiting customer. In her heart she knew Gabe meant well. Gabriel O’Sullivan was more than just any bartender. He was the lifeline who’d given her a job when she’d shown up in Manhattan after a bitter breakup—because, after all, everyone knows that the brainiac thing to do after leaving all your worldly possessions in Florida with your old boyfriend is to move to stratospherically expensive New York with only a high school diploma and an encyclopedic knowledge of tropical bar drinks.

Not once had Gabe laughed at her, and for that, he earned her undying loyalty. Except that didn’t mean she was moving in with him. On that she was standing firm. Firmish. Unfortunately she only had five days to find an apartment.

“You need a place to live,” he continued, completely ignoring her denials. “I have an extra bedroom. It’s the perfect solution.”

“I’m looking for a place,” answered one fake-blonde type with way too much eyeliner.

“Did you need a drink?” asked Tessa pointedly, absorbing the fake-blonde hate-vibes. The blonde would get over it, especially considering the way the suit behind her was eyeing her ass. Then Tessa turned her attention back to Gabe. “And don’t you have a bar to cover? Look at poor Cain, he’s in over his—” Tessa checked out the back bar, noticed Sean had ditched his usual jacket and tie and was working alongside Cain. Just once she should be right in her life. Just once. Was that too much to ask?

Four thirsty Con Ed workers lined the bar, and she mixed up four mojitos, grinding the mint leaves with a little more force than necessary. Abject pity usually did that to her.

“I’m helping you out here for a bit,” he explained, right as the waitress, Lindy, came up with a whole barful of drink orders, leaving no space for idle chatter.

“Meyer’s,” called Gabe.

“Heads up,” answered Tessa, tossing the bottle in his direction. Gabe flipped the bottle behind his back, then poured the rum into the glass, and before you could silently mouth the word show-off, he had blended up a beautifully constructed mai tai.

Tessa, never one to be outblended, scowled and threw the shot glass in the air, sending it spinning four revolutions with an extra half twist for good measure. The Con Ed guys applauded with gusto. Tessa beamed pointedly at Gabe. Yes, she was capable. A miracle-working mixologist. A miracle-working mixologist who was about to be homeless.

Some miracle.

Unless she agreed to Gabe’s offer.

Sensing her momentary weakness, he leaned over her station and smiled in a manner guaranteed to break hearts and insure a fifty percent gratuity. “You need a place to live, Tessa. You can’t live on the street.”

Yeah, make her sound like a bag lady already. Tessa pushed bedraggled hair back from her face and met his eyes with dignity. Faked, but dignity nonetheless. Tessa was nothing if not proud.

“I could be some wet kitten or stray dog tossed out on the street by their heartless owner and you’d take me in. You’re too soft. I know you, Gabriel O’Sullivan.”

“You’re not a stray dog.”

“Thank you for that compliment.”

“Come on, Tess. It makes sense.”

She didn’t need this conversation right now, but fine, if he wanted to explore the myriad reasons why she couldn’t move in with him, she would list them off one by one. Starting with the obvious.

“You are a man.”

He didn’t roll his eyes, but he might as well have. “Yes.”

Gabe pushed it off so easily, as if his physical attributes were no big deal. But that was what made him so irresistible. Dark brown hair that had a tendency to curl into the nape of his neck, blue eyes that crinkled at the edges, not too tall, not too short, not too bulky, not too lean and a full mouth that was curved into a perpetual smile. He called himself average—and compared to the potent animal magnetism of Sean, he was—but damn if the women didn’t throw themselves all over that simple charm. Oh, yeah, he knew exactly what he did to the female species.

Tessa gave him a skeptical look. “I am a woman.”

He handed Lindy three cosmopolitans without even breaking a sweat. “There is that.”

“We cannot live together in blissful, platonic harmony. It’s impossible.” Tessa had lived with a colorful menagerie of roommates, all female. And maybe she could have considered a lesser male as a roommate…but Gabe? No. That was just inviting trouble to come on in for a late-night drink.

Sean angled in front of her, fixing his place near a beautifully dressed brunette.

“I thought you were working,” said Gabe.

“I was doing you a favor, but I got the phone number I wanted and now I’m no longer working. Now I’m just shooting the shit with my family and friends and listening to this fascinating conversation on the intricacies of the human libido. A male and a female living together is a huge mistake.”

Gabe shook up a vodka martini. “With Tessa? I’m not worried.”

Tessa coughed, the emotional equivalent of a furball stuck in her throat. “I don’t know why I put up with this place.”

Gabe flashed her an easy grin, and for one second the resemblance between Gabe and Sean was unmissable. Sean was broader, beefier, swore like a sailor, with a nose that had been broken in two bar fights since she’d known him, but somehow he was always impeccably dressed in a suit and tie.

“You put up with us because we like you and you’re the fastest mojito maker on the Atlantic seaboard,” said Gabe. “Sean, tell her she should move in with me.”

Sean rested his chin on his palm. “Why should I contribute to what will be the loss of our finest frozen drink maker and chief barback when Tony doesn’t show? Do I look like a moron? Oh, no, Gabe. This is all about me. I like Tess. I want her to stay gainfully employed at this fine establishment so I can flirt with the female patrons while she works her little ass off, finely shaped as it is. She moves in with you, and you two will be all over each other. Groping, fondling…” Sean illustrated with graphic hand movements. “I’d put good money on that one.”

Tessa strategically avoided looking at Gabe. “I should sue you both. Male chauvinist perverts.”

“Come on, Tess,” Gabe insisted. “You know it’s the perfect solution. We’ll make it temporary.”

“Temporarily forget about having sex then,” added Sean. “With Tessa Trueheart here as your roommate, you can kiss that goodbye. One more reason this is a bad idea.”

Sean was only half-right, and Tessa corrected the attack on her character. “I would never interfere in my roommate’s personal activities. Hailey—the roommate before Janice—she had three boyfriends and none of them knew about the others, except for me, of course. I hated it. All that lying and pretending.” She stuck out her tongue. “Blah.”

Sean’s expression sharpened, transforming into full Law & Order mode. “So you come home and Gabe here is getting busy with some fine young thing on the sofa. What do you do?”

“What time is it?” asked Tessa, pouring a Jack neat for a Wall Street type with kind eyes.

“What does that matter?” asked Gabe.

“It’s important. If it’s still daylight, and under civilized society’s strictures for productivity—i.e. time for Tessa to hit the books—then I don’t care who’s doing it in my living area. I’m going to study or else I’ll never get my degree.”

“That’s cold.”

“You haven’t lived with the number of roommates that I have. You have to have rules and order or you’ll go crazy. You both are on your own. Someday soon I’m going to be on my own.”

Tessa ended with a sigh, picturing herself walking up the mighty stone steps of her most prized apartment building, waving at Rodney the doorman before trudging into the old, quaint gated elevator that shuddered when it passed the third floor. After she made it safely upstairs, she’d open her door to solitary paradise, where she could crank up her Cher CD—the one she hid from the world—and then she’d fall into a neatly covered periwinkle-blue chintz chair. A huge tabby cat would jump into her lap and curl up in the afternoon sun, purring like a vibrator—the one that she’d buy if she lived alone.

There were a lot of advantages to living life alone. Most people took it for granted. Tessa, who had always had someone breathing down her neck—and finishing off the last of the milk, craved it the way some women craved pricey shoes. And at Hudson Towers, not only would she have the apartment she wanted but she could afford the rent on a one-bedroom all on her own. Well, not right at this exact moment but very, very soon. Her savings were piling up nicely, and once she finished her associate’s degree in finance—approximately forty-six more credit hours—she’d be good to go.

Gabe pulled out a bottle of Grey Goose and poured a shot. “Well, right now you need a roommate, and I think you should bunk with me until you find someone who isn’t going to desert you again.”

She shook her head. “Must you try and rescue every female you meet?”

“Yes, he must,” answered Sean and then promptly stuck a celery stick into his mouth.

“At least think about it,” Gabe said. “And if you’re thinking about bunking in the storeroom until your find a place, think again, Tessa. It’s against the law.”

“In what state?”

“In my state. My bar. My state. My rules.”

Tessa shot a lime wedge in his direction, not that it mattered. The writing was pretty much on the wall. With five days left before she had to move, she really didn’t have much choice.

ALL NIGHT GABE POURED drinks, a gazillion cosmopolitans for a gazillion females who were all looking to meet Mr. Right or Mr. Wrong and the gazillion single males who skimmed in their wake. Yeah, it was a rough life. Actually, it was the only life he’d ever dreamed of. Gabe’s great-grandfather had done it right.

In 1929, O’Sullivans had been a speakeasy when his great-grandfather fell dead at the age of fifty-three. Surprisingly enough, his wife had taken over, and ran the place until gin was flowing legally in New York again.

Years had passed and generations of O’Sullivans had worked the old bar. Each generation had taken it over and then spent their lives working to keep the place going. During World War II, Gabe’s grandmother had split the bar into two real estate parcels, keeping one, and selling the other, which had been, up until a few months ago, a bodega. Gabe’s father, Thomas O’Sullivan, had ignored the family business and chose to be a newspaperman until he died of a heart attack at fifty-six.

Gabe had inherited his great-grandfather’s dream, a dream passed down to his grandfather, his uncle and finally Gabe. As a kid, he’d worked behind the bar illegally, which had only made it sweeter. He loved listening to people talk, loved meeting new people and in general loved the bar. Where else could a kid have his picture taken with the New York Yankees and the Teflon Don? Nowhere else but O’Sullivans.

After his uncle had died, Gabe had worked four jobs to pay the back taxes on the place to keep it open, and even then he’d needed his brothers’ financial help. But things had worked out, and voilà, here he was. He’d updated the interior, changed the name from O’Sullivans to Prime and now he was mixing Jell-O shots with seven adoring females eagerly waiting on line to pay him for a drink, tip him another twenty and then scribble their phone numbers on the cocktail napkins. And the next step in the Gabe O’Sullivan hospitality empire? The full restoration of the bar into the space next door.

Considering the medical history of the male O’Sullivan genes, Gabe figured he didn’t have any time to waste.

He winked at a particularly lovely specimen with coal-black hair and honey-colored eyes that dripped with the promise of a good time. Jasmine, he thought, and slid a glass of wine in front of her. “You’re looking lovely tonight. Why aren’t there five guys angling to buy you a drink?” It wasn’t the most creative line in the world, but he wasn’t looking to pick her up, he only wanted her to like his bar.

Tessa walked behind him and slapped him on the butt, and he didn’t even stop as he reached for a clean glass. “Don’t mind her. She’s madly in love, but I keep telling her no.”

Tessa muttered something incomprehensible but most likely insulting and then went back to work on the other side.

Eventually Jasmine moved on, to be replaced by Cosmopolitan Amy, Banana Daiquiri Lauren, Kamikaze Rachel, Cosmopolitan Vicki and, for one short moment, Wild Turkey Todd. The hours flew by, as they always did on a busy night, and Gabe never broke a sweat.

There were a few interventions, just as there always were. Two fake IDs, one male patron who decided that Lindy needed to show more cleavage and a couple of Red Sox fans who didn’t understand that when in Yankees territory you better keep your mouth shut or get doused in beer. Typical but never boring.

Eventually the clock struck midnight and the crowds thinned to something less than chaos. Out of the corner of his eye Gabe noticed Cain handing Seth a twenty at the back bar, which meant only one thing. There was a new bar pool on the bulletin board downstairs.

Gabe took the stairs to the basement, where the kitchen/office/storage/bathrooms were located, as well as the betting board. Sure enough, a white sheet of paper was tacked up with a grid of numbers and letters. Nothing to indicate the bet, though. When would they learn the right way to run a pool? Amateurs.

While he was enjoying the calm, Gabe began breaking down beer cases, and soon Cain was downstairs, adding a new square to the grid. Cain was quiet and bulky, a New York fireman who bartended on the weekend in order to survive. You’d think they’d pay men better to risk their lives by running into burning buildings, but no. Gabe didn’t mind, because he judged every man by how fast he could mix a martini, and Cain was almost as good as Tessa. Almost.

“What’s the bet?” Gabe asked.

“You don’t want to know,” said Cain loading a rack of glasses through the dishwasher.

“Yeah, I do.”

“It was all Sean’s idea.”

Which wasn’t encouraging. “What’s the bet?”

“How long you and Tessa can last.”

“As roommates?”

“Before you have sex.”

Gabe felt a punch in his head not unlike being clocked with a two-by-four. “You’re joking with me, right?”

Cain looked at him blandly. “No. Want to put some money down?”

Gabe swallowed. There were women that Gabe had sex with and women Gabe didn’t have sex with. In his head, Gabe had long ago covered Tessa’s body with a habit and a veil and pushed any sort of sweaty, thrusting thoughts far, far away. She’d come to New York still wearing the scars from her last relationship. In four years you’d think she’d have recovered—but, no, you’d be wrong. Tessa wasn’t like other women. She had her own set of goals, her own strange focus in life, and men weren’t a part of it, which was why she was the only woman he’d ever consider as a roommate, and only because of said habit and veil. When you lived with Mother Teresa, it wasn’t hard to keep things platonic.

However, right now it was past midnight and Gabe had been the recipient of four pairs of panties, seventeen phone numbers and assorted sexual propositions and, okay, he was a little wired.

It always happened as the night wore on. No big deal.

Gabe mentally clothed Tessa back in the habit, ordered his hard-on back in the bag, and pasted an easy smile on his face.

“You guys didn’t say anything to Tessa, did you?”

“You’re kidding, right? She put down a bet.”

Oh, God. The habit and veil were slowly being peeled away, but Gabe kept that damned smile on his face. “Poor kid, I’ll have to let her down easy. How long did she think she’d last?”

“Hell Freezes Over. Last entry, right here.” Cain pointed to the board where HFO was neatly penned in black ink.

“She said that?”

“Her exact words weren’t ambiguous, but you got a fragile ego. So you gonna bet? The pot’s almost three grand.”

Gabe continued to break down boxes with an amazing amount of compressed energy. “I won’t encourage morally bankrupt games of chance in my bar.”

“What about the Super Bowl pool, March Madness, the Subway series and last month’s bet on which patron was most likely to get breast enhancements?”

That one lapse in judgment had cost Gabe a sweet thousand dollars. And who knew that the Yankees would actually choke in the bottom of the ninth? “Shut up, Cain.”

“I have to go upstairs. Lindy can’t cover the bars alone.” “Tessa’s gone? I wanted to talk to her before she went home.” Cain shrugged. “Her shift was over. She left. If you run, you could probably catch her before she hits the subway station.”

Gabe bit back a curse and headed out into the long, lonely darkness that was Manhattan at the midnight hour. The outside air was cool and crisp and felt marvelous after being cooped up in the bar for so long. He broke into a run simply because he needed to move.

Around the corner and down two flights of stairs was the station, occupied by the usual patrons. A group of late-night partygoers trying to find their way back to Jersey. A mediocre saxophone player blowing out what was supposed to be the blues. A few kids heading home. A set of foreign tourists taking pictures. And, yes, there was Tessa, standing alone, waiting for the train.

“Why do you always do this? You know that one of us is supposed to walk you down here.”

“I haven’t needed supervision after dark since Giuliani was mayor, Gabe. Besides, I got my mace. They know not to mess with me.”

“Still.”

“What are you really here for?” she asked him quite patiently. That was Tessa. Never out of sorts. His gaze skimmed over her, checking for some sort of weakness, but there wasn’t any, which for some reason always surprised him.

Not that she was hard. Oh, no, Tessa was all cotton and smiles, but she held herself back, one step between her and the rest of the male world. Gabe included.

However, there was something oddly vulnerable about the whacked brown hair that had never seen a decent cut juxtaposed against the model-sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. Like a painting half-done or a bridge half-built.

A work in progress. That was Tessa, too.

Her summer-green eyes look tired, but she was bouncing back and forth on the soles of her running shoes, still full of energy, going home to an apartment that would be gone in five days.

“I wanted to hammer out the details before you went home. I got Danny to cover for me all day on Monday, so I think we’re good to go.” He was actually there to see if the bet had unsettled her, but she didn’t look worried. So if she wasn’t worried, then he wasn’t worried either.

“You know this is only temporary.”

“As long as you need. I don’t use the room much anyway. I can put everything in storage tomorrow.”

“Don’t you dare touch a thing. I won’t take up any space. Besides, this is short-term. Temporary, just like you said. I’m not going to cramp your style. It’s all about education for me, Gabe. I’ve got a few notices posted around the campus, and on craigslist, so hopefully something will pop soon and I’ll be out of your hair. Three weeks tops.”

“It doesn’t matter how long you stay. You know that.”

“Yes, I do know that, and you’re a sweet man, but I need to take care of myself.”

“I’m really not a sweet man, you know.”

“You gonna make me move in all by myself, Mr. Unsweetened Man?”

Gabe stuck his hands in his pockets. “How much furniture do you have?”

“A twin bed, a nightstand and some books,” she answered, with a remarkably sweet smile.

“Oh, yeah, that’ll take seven minutes to load up. I’ll borrow the truck from Cain and be there at ten.”

The lights of the train appeared in the tunnel and she stood on tiptoe, planting a friendly kiss on his cheek, “You really are a sweet man.”

“I’m not a sweet man.”

Tessa pointed up the tracks. “Look, that old lady—she’s getting mugged!”

Gabe took off running, but Tessa’s laughter stopped him in midstride.

“Busted!”

He walked back, whapped her on the arm. “I was going to clean up the place for you, but not anymore.”

The doors on the train slid open, and she waved before slipping inside.

Gabe didn’t bother to wave back. Sweet man, my ass.

2

MOVING DAY WAS A piece of cake. Of course, that’s the way of it when all your worldly possessions fit into three wooden packing crates. Except for the decrepit twin bed, which Gabe glared at, nostrils flaring in disdain—not a usual look for him. She didn’t like his judging her possessions—or lack thereof—and so Tessa protested a few minutes longer than she might have if he had remained glareless.

Janice, her former roommate, had already moved out, and the apartment was depressingly barren. Tessa ignored the equally depressing sensation in her gut. Moving in was always a new adventure. Moving out was another change-of-address form and another adventure squandered.

For once, Tessa wanted to know that when she changed her address it was because of something good, something positive, something that Tessa could be proud of.

Gabe, not sensing Tessa’s emotional turmoil (typical male), hovered over the thin metal frame and then poked a finger at the mattress. “This is your bed?”

It was stupid to get worked up over a mattress that belonged in a Dumpster, but seeing Gabe mentally inventorying her life reminded her of how far she still had to go.

“A featherweight mattress is easier to move.” She slung it over one shoulder to demonstrate. “See?”

He stood firm. “That’s not going into my place.”

“This is my bed. What am I supposed to sleep on?”

Gently Gabe disentangled her fingers from their death grip on the mattress. “I’ll buy you a futon.”

“I hate those,” she began and then stopped, sighed. There was no point in lying—she loved futons. “I don’t want you buying me furniture. I can afford it.” And she could. Her savings account was surprisingly healthy considering her lack of furniture and fashionable attire. Tessa had priorities—namely the perfect one-bedroom apartment in Hudson Towers.

And it was perfect. A prewar building on West End Avenue. With a board that kept out the riffraff, but wasn’t crazy-stringent about it either. Reasonable rents and maintenance fees a full seven percent less than the average. They had redone the shared space four years ago, a great use of morning light and windows. The place had a part-time doorman, Rodney, which was much more sensible than hiring a full-time doorman who would only sit on his heinie all day and earn union wages from overpriced rents.

Ah, someday…

“You sure you can afford a bed?” Gabe asked, pulling her out of her apartment fantasies. She hadn’t planned on buying a new bed, but her old one was on its last legs, literally. At her nod, he tossed the mattress in the corner.

After that, she picked up a crate and headed for the door. “First ground rule—no more making fun of Tessa’s stuff. Observe the boundaries, we’ll be fine.”

He opened the door for her, politely following behind. “Deal. Now let’s get you home.”

GABE’S BUILDING WAS A postwar elevator building on the Upper East Side. The outside was a little too seventies for her own taste, but since he’d owned it for over ten years and it was probably worth close to seven figures, she figured she’d give him a break. That, and the cut-rate—i.e. free—rent. That had been another argument she had lost. However, as a consolation prize he’d let her buy lunch.

In the lobby there was a full-time doorman, Herb, a teapot of a man with a five-o’clock shadow on steroids. And once they got to Gabe’s floor she noticed the nice view, without parking garages to block the sight of the East River.

All in all, the apartment was as she’d imagined. A legitimate two-bedroom, not one of those skimpy conversions from a large one-bedroom. The main living area had all the basic essentials: television, couch and a dining table, mostly covered with newspapers. The kitchen was galley-style and definitely not big enough for two. However, the appliances were a step above what she was used to.

“You can live here?” he asked while she examined it room by room.

Thoughtfully she walked around, keeping her face nonjudgmental, wanting to make him nervous. “Yup,” she answered quietly.

He backed against the wall, far away from her—but not far enough. She was used to him at work, but this felt different. More intimate. If it hadn’t been for that stupid bet, she wouldn’t be nervous at all.

There was a silence, an awkward silence. A silence she normally would’ve filled, except she knew he would’ve seen through that because she wasn’t a social chitchat gal. He folded his hands across his chest, not seemingly affected at all. Of course, he was used to silence. He was used to living alone.

He.

Gabe.

Tessa felt it again. That fast leap in her stomach, like flying downhill on the Cyclone. She shrugged it off. Life was full of ups and downs and screeching corners, and she wasn’t about to let a little chronic stomach anxiety ruin anything.

This was temporary. She’d be out of his hair soon enough.

She put on a cocky smirk and looked around, anywhere but at him. “It’s great. Listen, I should go study,” she said and promptly fled the room.

FOUR HOURS LATER, SHE was already settled, sitting on her brand-new futon. The earlier flicker of fear had caught her by surprise. And it wasn’t just any fear. No, it was the dreaded man-fear. The implications of living with Gabe had suddenly hit her in places where she didn’t want to feel those complicated implications.

Denny had been the only man she had ever lived with, and in those young, naive days, he had convinced her that she didn’t need to worry about her future. College? Nah. If she only hooked up with Denny Ericcson, then all her dreams would come true. So Tessa deferred the college years, took a part time job as a bartender and spent her days tanning on the sunny Florida beaches. But then her twenty-second birthday arrived. Denny told her that the relationship had gone stale and he was ready to move on, because he wasn’t the one-woman-forever type. Putting her out to pasture at twenty-two.

Dreams could come true? Ha. More like nightmares.

Needless to say, the last four years had been manless. No hookups, no man dreams and, yes, there’d been times in the past when she’d felt momentary urges, but nothing lasting. As a bartender, it was expected that your customers would hit on you. You learned how to either brush aside the urges or act on them. Tessa was a brush-asider, always a brush-asider.

And, to be honest, she’d had urges for Gabe before, too, because, well, she wasn’t blind, or stupid, and Gabe was…

Oh, God. Living with him was going to kill her study skills.

Even her room was filled with his presence, and he wasn’t even here. She felt like an intruder in this place that was so obviously his.

A metal desk stood in the corner, covered with O’Sullivan family photos, papers nearly overflowing the top. A weight bench sat next to the window, and a monstrous collection of vinyl records sat in open boxes in the corner. Her first thought was to snoop, but that was a violation of all the roommate privacy regulations that she kept dear.

No, she was going to study, so Tessa covered her face with her accounting book, blocking out all temptation. Eventually the sinking fund method of depreciation brought her back to a mind-numbing cold reality. And then, as if to really drag her back to reality, her mother called.

“Hi, Mom,” she said, abandoning all pretense of studying and wandering over to look at the O’Sullivan family pictures.

“How did you know it was me? Were you thinking of your favorite mother?”

“Caller ID, Mom.” Her mom was a Luddite where technology was concerned, but Tessa forgave her for it.

“Your phone’s been disconnected.”

With a heavy and completely audible sigh, Tessa put back the photo of three dark-headed boys in Little League uniforms.

“I moved, Mom,” she said, before mouthing the word Again?

“Again?”

Argh.

“Mom, you don’t understand the Manhattan apartment market. Rents are always changing, fees are going up, rentals turn into co-ops overnight. You have to stay on your toes, ready to handle whatever comes your way.”

“That assumes that someone can handle whatever comes their way.”

“How long have I lived on my own?”

“You’ve been in New York for four years, but you never have lived on your own. You should come back to Florida, Tessa. Your family is here and we can help you.”

Tessa returned to the comfort of her futon and leaned her head against the wooden back. This was a horse that’d been beaten, eviscerated and then hung on the wall as modern art. “Thank you, Mom, but no. I love you, and Florida’s grand, but I’m doing fine here. Honestly.”

“I just worry. If something happens, who’s going to take care of you? Are you eating okay?”

“Pastrami and rye for lunch.”

“Getting enough sleep?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tessa answered, stifling a yawn.

“How are the classes going?” Her mom had never approved of her going back for a degree, which meant only one thing: there was an ulterior motive to this conversation, and Tessa probably wasn’t going to like it.

Time to transition from negative energy to something positive—like hanging up.

“Good. Listen, Mom, I have an accounting quiz this week and I need to study. Talk to you soon,’ bye.”

Because she didn’t like the idea of lying to her mom, she opened her accounting book and went after it again. However, her concentration was elsewhere, poking through the record collection, browsing the photos. In short, being everything she hated in a nosy person. So Tessa loaded up her book bag, stuck her feet into a pair of flip-flops and headed for the door.

Sacked out on the living room couch, sleeping peacefully, without a worry in the world, was the source of her wandering concentration. It must be marvelous to take a nap in the afternoon. Her lips curved into a smile as she watched him sleep. He’d been the one constant in her life since she’d moved to New York, but she’d never seen him sleep. His chest rose and fell as he breathed, one arm flung over the edge. He even snored a little, a comfortable rumble that was low and even. She’d have to tease him about that. A plaid throw dangled from one armrest, and she took it, tucking it around him.

Instantly the hazy blue eyes opened. “Problem?”

Tessa jumped back, caught red-headed in the act of intruding on his space. “Heading off to Starbucks.”

Gabe didn’t seem to notice her violation, instead rubbing at his forehead with two fingers. “Sounds great. Can you bring me back a cup?”

“I’m going to study and then I’m heading for class.”

He sat up, tossing the throw aside, and Tessa took another step back. Wow, twelve hundred square feet could really be tiny at times.

“You can study here. Set up at the table or the desk in the back room. I can toss my stuff on the floor.”

“I have trouble concentrating. It’s a self-discipline tactic. When I go to the coffee shop, I know I’m there to study.”

“Ha. Some people go for coffee. Unenlightened plebes.”

She was about to launch into a lecture, but he held up a hand. “I know, I know. I won’t interfere. Personal space. Sorry. This is new to me. What about dinner? I’m thinking either pasta or Thai.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll grab a sandwich after class. And FYI, I’ll be back around seven in case you want to get out, or, uh, have company or something.”

His mouth twitched. “Sure.”

TESSA’S ACCOUNTING CLASS was at the Knightsbridge Community College in Queens, which overlooked Flushing Bay. Forty people comprised her class. Young students, old students, an ethnic smorgasbord from all walks of life. Tessa had never doubted her abilities to breeze through this class with eyes closed, but…

Last week’s test was the first item on the menu, and Professor Lewis walked up and down the aisles, handing out papers with a smile or a frown. When he reached Tessa, he frowned.

She frowned in return.

Her frown grew even darker when she saw the fat red D scrawled on the top of the test. This had to be a mistake, because a failing grade was not part of her life plan.

She waited patiently through the lecture, sneaking a peek at the paper every few minutes, checking to make sure she had read it correctly—maybe it was a half-assed B—but, no, with all the red circles, there was no mistake.

After the clock ticked the hour and her classmates started to file out, Tessa walked up to the prof’s desk on slightly wobbly legs, reminding herself that she faced angry drunks at three in the morning. This shouldn’t be a problem. Professor Lewis was long past middle age, with a thin, ruddy face that indicated a long love affair with, most likely, scotch.

“I wanted to talk to you about the test,” said Tessa, giving him the opening to immediately correct her grade.

He gave a long look at the clock, as though he was ready to take off, and then started drumming his pencil eraser on the desk. Too bad, buddy.

“There’s not much to say, Miss Hart. You stumbled over key concepts. Allowance for Doubtful Accounts and Inventory Flow, and you made a mess of the Statement of Changes in Financial Position. I was horribly disappointed in your work. Substandard. Are you sure you studied?”

“Didn’t everyone do equally bad?” she asked, because she had spent three days going over formulas and she could feel her blood pressure elevating, possibly in anger but probably in pure ice-bitten anxiety.

“Actually, the average was quite high. Eighty-three.”

Which meant no curve, which meant she still had a D. Damn. Her blood pressure notched up higher.

“Look, I don’t think you understand,” she said, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. “I can’t make a C in this class, much less a D. It’s A or B all the way, because if I come out of community college with anything less than a three-point-oh, I’ll be screwed at getting into anyplace else. And at this juncture in my life’s journey I really need to be thinking beyond a two-year degree. I need a future. I need a career.”

“I feel your pain.”

Oh, I bet you do. Typical scotch drinker, always thinking of yourself.

“Can I make this up with extra credit? An assignment, a paper, something, anything?”

“Study hard for the final, Miss Hart. That’ll clean your grade up nicely.”

Tessa shoved the paper low in her book bag. “Thanks,” she murmured through clenched teeth and headed outside.

COLLEGE WAS NOT supposed to be this hard. She had aced high school, graduated with honors. This was college. A community college. Not even a four-year program. Everyone had told her that it’d be easy. Sean had told her she would finish with flying colors—summa cumma whoma. So why was she having problems?

Tessa considered going back to Gabe’s place, but she wasn’t in full control yet. The test was burning a hole in her bag. She was going to have to convince him that everything was peachy. So she did what she always did when she wanted to regain control: she took the Manhattan apartment tour.

She started by heading south down Fifth Avenue, the setting sun glinting on the windows. Her favorite building was the San Remo, with the two white finial-topped towers that stood guard over Central Park. The building was all 1930s art deco and class, the grand dame of co-ops in the city. Old, with a history that was older than Carnegie.

The board was rumored to be less fussy than the one at the Dakota, but they had ixnayed Madonna as a tenant back in the eighties, so they did have some minimal standards. There was a full-time doorman, a plethora of classic six and seven floor plans and a stunning limestone cartouche that rose above the entrance like a magnificent eagle.

Two blocks south was the Dakota, “the” address in New York. People who lived here were looking for an address, a destination in life. Personally Tessa thought it was overrated because the old building looked like a medieval prison instead of a home. There was no personality, only accoutrements out the wazoo. By the time the sun had quit the day, she had walked past the Beresford, 740 Central Park West and the Ardsley. These were the apartment buildings that defied gravity in the real-estate market.

The buildings weren’t for her—they didn’t have the simple charm of Hudson Towers—but they were symbols of the resolution of the city. The roots that had been laid down so long ago, that no man would ever put asunder. Staring at the limestone facades that had seen so many years, so many changes, Tessa felt the calm return.

She was here. She would make it.

She would survive.

It was time to go home. As she was entering Gabe’s building, her cell rang again. This time it was her brother, Robert.

Now Tessa was starting to get suspicious, so she took the call from a chair in the lobby. Yes, her family could be overly protective at times, but they weren’t overly chatty.

“Why are you calling a mere three hours after our mother?”

“No reason. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be fine, Robert? Why do you think I shouldn’t be fine?”

“Can’t I call my sister to see what’s up?”

“No, because you don’t like to talk. You’re uncommunicative—unless it’s an emergency. Why is this an emergency?”

She heard the long sigh, which meant she was getting closer. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me exactly what nothing is.”

“Fine. It’s Denny.”

Denny. Ex-live-in-boyfriend Denny. No big deal.

“His girlfriend’s pregnant. They’re going to get married.”

And now ex-live-in-boyfriend Denny was going to be Daddy Denny. No problem that he hadn’t wanted a ball and chain or kids four years ago. But now? Oh, now his sperm was flying all over the planet, happily procreating at will.

“That’s great,” Tessa said, knowing that he expected her to say something—or else fall apart.

“You’re taking this well.”

“Of course I’m taking this well. It was four years ago, Robert. Time heals all wounds, and my wounds are closed, scars are faded. I’m getting on with my life. Did Mom tell you that I moved today? It’s a great place. Two-bedroom. Doorman. Nice location on the Upper East Side. I haven’t lived here before, never really thought I was upper east side material, but I think I’m going to like it.” She was rambling now, but Robert wouldn’t know any better.

“Okay, then. We were worried.”

“About me? Pshaw. Stop worrying,” she said and hung up before her face splintered into a million pieces.

For the last four years she had kept her focus on one thing only—supporting herself. She didn’t have time for men or relationships, it wasn’t in her plan. And off in Florida—happy, carefree Florida—there was Denny, who was having tons of sex with women, happily supporting himself and now a new wife and kid.

It sucked.

She waved happily to Herb as she boarded the elevator and was tempted to go out alone somewhere, anywhere, to have a good time, to see what she’d been missing, but she was tired, she wanted to lie down and she needed to climb into her bed and possibly never come out again.

At the apartment, Gabe was nursing a beer and watching the Yankees win. The all-American singleton life. A man who didn’t have to worry about accounting tests or failed relationships and in general treated life as if it were a soufflé to be whipped into shape.

“How was class?”

“Great,” she answered and trotted to her room where she closed the door and collapsed.

She wasn’t going to cry, because crying was for people who were lost or homeless or lived alone. When you had roommates, you learned to suffer in silence, listening to the awful pounding of your heart, knowing the tears hovered close to the surface but you had to master them and control them. She took out her accounting book, but the tears started to spill onto the pages, and a water-damaged textbook certainly wasn’t going to help her grade.

She hated Denny Ericcson with a passion. Hated him for letting her think that her life was taken care of for forever and then ripping the rug right out from under her a mere three years after the fact. She peeled away the waistband of her jeans and saw the permanent proof of her idiocy: a tattoo on her butt. D-E-N-N-Y inked in cute red letters with a curlicue at the end.

Argh.

Instead of celebrating their third year together, she’d ended up starting all over. It was a time when most women had their lives all mapped out. Tessa wiped her face. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of tears. Not anymore. Of course, no way was she going to face her roommate, her cheeks warm and no doubt stained rosy-red.

She crept along the soft carpet of the hallway, soundlessly heading for the safety of the bathroom. Tessa looked up, met Gabe’s eyes and then made a clean run for the lavatory, slamming the door behind her.

3

GABE’S FIRST INSTINCT was to hammer on the door and ask what was wrong. Tessa wasn’t a crier, wasn’t the emotional whirlpool that the other females at the bar were. Time after time he saw her move from place to place, moving from day job to job or whatever life threw at her, and she took it all in stride. There was only one other person he knew who was so emotionally stable. Him. No, Tessa was solid rock all the way. Which was why he’d been so shocked to see her upset.

However, Tessa had been very clear about things. The first being the ground rules. She wanted her space, and he’d been fine with that, although that was before she’d turned on the waterworks, and tears always got him hinky.

He crumpled the beer can in his hand, then tossed it in the trash across the room.

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

He didn’t give a damn about the personal boundaries at the moment, so he went and knocked on the door. Loudly, so she wouldn’t pretend not to hear, which is what he knew she’d do.

“Tess? I’m getting kinda bored out here. Let’s go out, get some drinks. You know, celebrate your first night here.”

“Go away, Gabe. It’s that time of the month.”

Aw, hell. When females freely admitted to PMS it meant serious danger ahead. He knocked again.

“Leave me alone, Gabe.”

“I know you have your rules, Tess, but at least talk to me.”

“No.”

Gabe fought the urge to pound on the door, but now wasn’t the time to be heavy-handed and go all caveman on her. He needed to use finesse and psychology. He was good at that, he was a bartender, a very good one. There was one easy way to get to Tess.

“Can you open the door? It is mine, after all.”

The door opened and Tessa flew out. He grabbed her arm before she could run.

“Stop it.”

She faced him down, every trace of a tear scrubbed away, her eyes sharp as daggers. All nice and neat and as tidy as she could get.

“I won’t pry. I won’t ask what’s bothering you. However, I will treat you exactly like I’d treat any other friend who’s had a hard day. There’s a party upstairs. I’m a popular guy—sorry, you’ll have to get used to that, but we should go. You’ll get a chance to meet some of the people in the building, but watch out for Stevie Tagglioli—he’s a basket case and will hit on anything in a skirt.”

Tessa pulled her arm free and stared at the wall. “I don’t feel like doing anything. I need to study.”

So this was going to be tricky. She was playing the academic-scholar card. But there was one thing that trumped academics: guilt. “You’re going to be boring, aren’t you? I thought this would be fun. Somebody to eat with, hang out on the couch with, go shoot some pool—but, no, you’re a closet dweeb, aren’t you?”

She lifted her tiny chin, her eyes starting to spark. “I’m not a dweeb, and you’ll be wise to remember that in the future.”

“Prove it. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“It’s going to be hell.”

“So we dip into the bowels of hell together? Besides, there’s this one girl in the building—Vanessa—and she’s been hitting on me, can’t get enough of me. You can be my cover date.”

And voilà. There it was. Fire-breathing rage. This was the Tessa that he knew and loved.

“You want me to keep some skank from hitting on you? This is the sole reason you’re inviting me?”

“Does there have to be another one?”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “This won’t work. Now we’re living together. If people in the building think we’re a couple, what happens if I want to date someone in the building? Do I have to sneak out on you? See what sort of tangled webs evolve when you keep the skanks at bay with false pretense?”

Okay, she had him, but at least, she was smiling and contemplating the social world again. Progress. Definite progress. Gabe mentally congratulated himself.

“Does that mean you’ll go?”

“No.”

“You can’t spend all your time locked in your room. You should get out and have some fun.”

“I don’t have time for fun.”

“Everyone has time for fun.”

“Oh, yeah, everyone has time for fun,” she said, her eyes sharpening, her voice snapping, and Gabe wasn’t sure exactly who “everyone” was, but he was definitely glad that it wasn’t him, because judging by the daggers in her eyes, Tessa Hart was nursing a grudge the size of Brooklyn.

“It’s exactly what you need. Take a break. Let yourself go for a night. You get too focused sometimes, Tess, and you miss out.”

“You think I miss out?”

“On lots,” he said, no longer sure what they were talking about, but she wasn’t mad anymore, she wasn’t sad anymore, and that was progress.

She twisted a lock of hair in her fingers. “There’ll be people there? Fun people?”

“Yeah, tons.”

Her eyes sparked. “I think you’re right. It’s time to move forward, and a party with fun people is the perfect way to start.”

Ah, success. It was a sweet thing. Gabe gave her a friendly smile and watched as she went to get changed, the bounce back in her step.

It was a mere ten minutes later when she emerged from her room decked out in a miniskirt, a sheer blouse over a camisole and heels.

He looked once. He looked twice, and then his vision started to blur. Mother Teresa had left the building, and the woman that was left was…Tessa.

His roommate.

Small, supple and increasingly bedable.

Aw, no.

From out of the dregs of his imagination burst pictures and, even worse, full-motion videos. And from those images burst forth a hard-on that was excruciatingly painful—and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Good,” he answered, because if he told her what he really thought, he was absolutely sure some personal boundaries would be violated.

He was used to her in jeans, a Prime T-shirt, and an absence of makeup. But, gawd, tonight she was smokin’ and ready for anything. There was a do-me flicker in her eyes that threatened to knock him flat on his ass.

Gabe nodded stupidly and went to guide her toward the door, but that would involve touching her. He knew—even crazed and unthinking as he currently was—that was a bad idea. His hand dropped and he waited for her to open the apartment door.

A drop of sweat beaded on the back of his neck.

Hell.

THE PARTY WAS ON the thirty-seventh floor, hosted by one Jonathan Wilder, who worked in advertising sales and seemed to know the world. The apartment was packed and loud, and Gabe could see Tessa’s eyes light up like a slot machine when she entered.

Trouble, and he spotted it right off the bat. He knew Tessa. He knew that tilt in her chin, that kick in her walk. When she got like that at the bar, a drink would end up right over some jerk’s head.

Those sorts of safe and familiar thoughts pulled him back into a place where his Johnson didn’t hurt quite so much and where that skirt didn’t look quite so…easy.

Okay, he’d play bouncer tonight. He knew that role. He’d watch her back—not her ass, only her back—and keep her out of trouble.

However, tonight trouble was her middle name. She launched into a tequila shot contest with Stevie Tagglioli, and Gabe waited, thinking she was going to splash some tequila all over Stevie, but she didn’t. She kept drinking…and touching…and drinking…and there was more touching. Eventually Gabe insinuated himself between the two, accidentally elbowing Stevie in the gut.

“Hey, Steve? Meet my new roommate, Tessa Hart.”

“We’re not involved,” said Tessa, downing another shot.

Gabe laughed. “She’s such a tease. Come on, babe. Let’s move along while you can still walk.”

Little Stevie was enthralled, spending more time staring at the thin silk of her shirt rather than her face. Prick.

Tessa’s fingers bit into Gabe’s arm. “Leave me alone,” she huffed.

“You’re in a mood, and I don’t know why, and you don’t have to tell me why because you want your space, but if you do something that you’ll regret with somebody in this building that you’re going to see every day, then you’re going to experience history’s longest hangover.”

She pulled him aside, her eyes lit with some weird fire, ready to combust. “I’m merely trying to have some fun. Isn’t that what you said? It’ll be fun? I think that’s an exact quote. Well maybe I want to have some fun.”

She was mad at him?

Gabe swore and let go of her arm as if it burned. He couldn’t reason with her, he wasn’t going to try. “Fine. Your life. Your mistake.”

And so it went on. Gabe watched from the sidelines, glaring when the females approached him. Tessa was the only one that drew his eyes. She drank shots, she flirted with every single male in the room—not one man left unflirted with, except for Gabe, of course, because she was shooting him death stares every few minutes. He stood, waiting for the crash, but that would be a long time coming because, truly, there were few people who could drink Gabe under the table, but Tessa was one. She had the tolerance of a T. rex. In fact, when faced with the mighty beast, she’d probably drink Godzilla under the table, too.

So he watched her, silently seething, seeing a completely new side to this woman. She’d pulled her hair back, exposing those killer cheekbones and a long, slender neck, and she’d put on red lipstick. Hooker-red lipstick—which, of course, looked like sex. Goddamn.

He didn’t want to notice the full, red, glistening lips, didn’t want to notice how long her legs were in heels, didn’t want to notice how her nipples stood at attention under the flimsy silk, but she’d been right earlier.

It was hell. His mood got more foul, his cock got more hard, and when she started dancing on the coffee table, Gabe was pretty much at the end of his rope.

“We’re going—now,” he said, watching her hips sway, like a hypnotizing cobra, twisting, begging him to follow.

“Go home, Gabe,” she said, raising her arms up over her head. A goddess reaching for the heavens, which only angered him even more because, dammit, he did not think poetry.

“Without you? No. This isn’t like you, Tess.”

That stopped the sway of her hips. Thank you, God.

“How do you know? Do you know the real me?”

“Yes,” he replied, lifting her down. His hands lingered for a moment too long, but she didn’t notice.

“Maybe I’ve changed.”

“Not over the period of four hours.” He grabbed her hand and pulled. She pulled back.

“I want to stay with Stevie.”

And that was it. Gabe didn’t care anymore. Stevie was the world’s biggest jerk and loser, and once he got his fangs into Tessa, he wouldn’t let go. Gabe picked up Tessa and threw her over his shoulder. She’d be furious, but she’d thank him in the morning.

The nasty jab between the shoulder blades indicated otherwise, but Gabe didn’t even blink. He was willing to earn a purple heart for this one.

“Sorry. We had a bad fight. Go on, ignore us. Get some more of that spinach dip. It’s really good,” Gabe said encouragingly, shouldering his way through the crowd with Tessa beating on his back.

She didn’t seem to remember that Gabe was used to dealing with drunk and disorderlies. But then, Gabe didn’t usually cup their asses in such a familiar manner, either.

“Put me down, Gabe O’Sullivan.”

“When I get you home, Miss Hart, and not before.”

He almost let her down in the elevator, but she tried to run, so he hefted her back on his shoulder. God, the woman needed to gain weight.

“Gabe, I really hate you for this.”

“In the morning, if you still hate me—which is a big if—I’ll apologize. You’ll probably be thanking me, and I’ll let you grovel in gratitude for a while, but right now you’ve had too much to drink—”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Then it’s even worse, Tess. Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

The doors opened, and she slid down his body, slow and seductive. She probably didn’t mean it to be that way, but his cock jumped just the same. Tessa shot him a look—not an invitation but coy and aware.

She knew.

So maybe it was time to stop playing games. Gabe trapped her outside the elevator against the wall, her lean body tight to his. He could feel every inch of her. The fluttering pulse, the tight nipples, the soft hips. She drew in a breath, soft and shaky, and the air burned. His hands itched to go lower, to explore and discover this new and marvelously arousing Tessa. But Gabe was still hanging on to the last edges of his control. His body wasn’t happy, but his body would get over it.

“Inside. Now,” he said, unlocking his apartment door. This time she didn’t argue and went inside, but he knew from the tight set of her shoulders that she wasn’t happy either.

Once in the apartment, he shut the door with a bang and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

“It’s late,” he said because he needed to be alone. Needed to have her out of his sight. He needed to reclaim the image of Tessa from before. Hopefully it was still there, embedded somewhere deep in his brain.

“I’m not a kid,” she answered, pushing her hair back from her face, and—God help him—gawky and angular had turned exotic.

“Then stop acting like one,” he snapped, not leaving her alone as he had planned.

“You’re not my father,” she blurted, hands on hips—lean hips that he could still feel against his chest.

“I’m your friend, your boss and currently your roommate,” he answered, mainly to remind himself of those key facts.

She walked toward the dining room table, away from the sensible safety of her bedroom. His gaze locked on her hips, tracking the sway with lethal intent. Stupidly he followed after her.

“Some friend, Gabe. I bet you wouldn’t do this if Cain was hitting on some woman.”

“No, Cain outweighs me by fifty pounds.” Humor—another excellent way to defuse tense situations. He could feel the sweat on his brow, the rapid pulse vibrating under his skin. He stood frozen, needing her to break into a grin, or whap him on the arm.

But the room fell eerily quiet, and he waited, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, not moving, just waiting.

Eventually she moved, her breath coming out in a rush, and she came toward him, jamming a finger into his chest, which was completely the wrong thing to do. Completely. She shouldn’t touch him. Not now.

“Do you want to know what’s bothering me? I haven’t had sex in four years. Tonight I wanted to have sex.”

Four years? His already pained heart stopped completely, before kicking in again. He shouldn’t have been happy about this bit of information, but his cock was.

Oh, it was thrilled.

“You want to have sex? Good. I want to have sex, too. We’ll have sex. Together.” It wasn’t the most sterling moment in his life, but as the words came out, he didn’t regret them. He wanted Tessa, he wanted to touch her, taste her, sink deep into her.

And Miss Frisky Pants, with the need to hit on every man in his building, looked him dead in the eye and said, “No.” The word was carefully enunciated, clearly spoken, with no room for misunderstanding, but Gabe was four years past no. He moved closer, skin brushing against skin. He could smell her perfume mixed with her desire, and it burned inside him.

“What’s wrong, Tessa? I’m not good enough?”

She put a hand to his chest to push him back, but the touch was soft and so tempting. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t get all stupid on me now, Gabe.”

He pressed into her and her body pressed back.

“Don’t come any closer,” she warned.

He didn’t listen. He backed her completely into the table. There was always a moment in a poker game when the bluff becomes a need, when rational logic exits the brain and all that’s left is the game itself.

Her mouth was inches away. Full and waiting…

“If you kiss me, I’m going to scream,” she whispered.

He took her mouth with a hunger that he had never known before. Her mouth was so soft, so perfect. And, oh, the taste of her. There was the bite of lime, the mint of toothpaste and…her. His tongue thrust into her mouth, and he felt her fingers dig into his arm.

“I’m sorry, Tessa,” he said, and it was the last rational thing out of his mouth.

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