“Hello there,” Melanie whispered, slipping between the silky sheets.

“Mmm.”

“Are you awake?” She stroked the length of his naked back, following the bumps of his spine, his sexy bum—

He started. “Whah th—”

“Shhh. It’s Melanie, you dope.”

“Melanie.” His hoarse whisper nearly made her giggle. Poor guy must have been in a deep sleep.“What—How—”

“Don’t talk, just lie back…and enjoy.” She planted kisses, collarbone to throat, throat to chin, searching for that sexy mouth.

Found it. She lingered. Suddenly strong arms came around her and he was on top so fast she barely had time to react.

“Melanie.” The whisper again, this time softer, sweeter, more tender. Something wasn’t right.

His lips found hers dead on target, as if he could see in the dark. She lay still from shock—the man could kiss.

But it wasn’t just his technique, the kissing was…different somehow.

As if he loved her.

Dear Reader,

Edgar is my first brainy hero ever, and though the story sounded great while I was writing the synopsis, when it came to writing Edgar’s scenes, I wasn’t so sure. Was this man attractive enough to interest Melanie? Frankly, at first he wasn’t even attractive enough to interest me!

But as the book progressed, I found myself getting a little weak-kneed over him, right along with Melanie, and when I wrote the last chapter, I realized I was crazy about him. As much as I love the suave alpha man, I might just have to write more heroes like Edgar.

What do you think? Enjoy a good geek once in a while? Drop me an e-mail through my website,www.IsabelSharpe.com and let me know!

Cheers,

Isabel Sharpe

About the Author

ISABEL SHARPE was not born pen in hand like so many of her fellow writers. After she quit work to stay home with her first-born son and nearly went out of her mind, she started writing. After more than twenty novels—along with another son—Isabel is more than happy with her choice these days. She loves hearing from readers. Write to her at www.IsabelSharpe.com.

SURPRISE ME…

ISABEL SHARPE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Joe Biebel,

who helped me learn about fencing,

and who I bet has never been mentioned in

a romance novel before

1

“SO…?”

Melanie Hawthorne took a leisurely sip of her mojito, served with a stick of Hawaiian sugar cane at her favorite after-work hot spot, The Wicked Hop, and carefully put the glass back down on the bar. She knew exactly what Jenny was asking, but she was going to enjoy this to its fullest. “I’m sorry, so…what?”

Jenny accepted her drink from the friendly blond bartender they liked to flirt with. Usually she was surreptitiously checking out the scene, but right now she was 100 percent fixed on Melanie. “So…have you seen Stoner since that night in Edgar’s apartment?”

“Nope. I did mention I hang here after work a lot. So maybe he’ll show. I know last night he had a rehearsal with his band.” Just the thought that Stoner might seek her out, that they might start something hot, launched that familiar internal flutter. She loved men, bad boys in particular. And she meant bad. Arrogant jerks, selfish users, whatever label you came up with, Melanie homed in on them with unerring precision. She’d love to change, heck, she’d tried to change, tried to convince herself she could date a sweet, steady guy, like her best friend and co-worker, Edgar Raymond. Last week, though, she’d been in the act of suggesting that exact solution on Edgar’s couch when his so-hot older brother, Stoner, had walked into the apartment. Melanie had fallen, boom, and that was that. New guy. Same old story.

“He sounds so-o-o dreamy, I can’t wait to see him.” Jenny sighed. “You always land these incredible men. I mean I’m still happy with Noah after three years, but believe me, I don’t mind living vicariously.”

Yeah, incredible men. For the few hours or days or even weeks of blissful fun until they invariably moved on to the next pretty face, leaving her to grieve her latest disaster until against all odds—and common sense—her natural optimism resurfaced. Melanie had the hunt/capture/lose-the-prey-again sequence down to a science—a science she, after all her rejections and failures, hoped would someday land her the mother lode, the Real Thing, True Love, a guy-to-call-her-own for more than a few sweaty, athletic hours or days or weeks. “Just call me Lucky Mel.”

“Ooh, is that him?” Jenny’s brown eyes had about tripled in size. She brushed her black, slanted bangs out of the way and stared toward the entrance, craning her neck to see through the crowd. “Tall, dark hair, bodacious bod.”

Melanie tried to turn around casually, but turning around casually was pretty hard to do moving as fast as possible. She scanned the bodies by the front door and shook her head. “I don’t see him.”

“Aw.” Jenny sucked down more mojito to cushion the disappointment. “So he’s a rock star, huh?”

“He plays in a band. ‘Imploding Bovines.’”

“Imploding…ew, really?”

“Some statement about the world economy and the beef industry and the environment…I don’t know.” Melanie shrugged, wishing she was sitting where Jenny was so she could monitor the entrance. “Edgar was kind of rolling his eyes when he told me. I don’t think he and his brother get along too well.”

“Well, if Stoner looks and acts anything like you say, they sound like exact opposites.”

“I guess.” She took another sip of her mojito, noting that the drink was half-gone; she’d better slow down. Edgar was…Edgar. Big nose, horrible hair, ghastly fashion sense, but great teeth and a fabulous smile, gorgeous blue eyes—the nicest man in the world. Of course, him being a great catch in all the ways that mattered, Melanie felt only sisterly affection no matter how hard she tried. God forbid she fall for a man who would treat her well.

“Omigod. That’s got to be Stoner.” Jenny clutched Melanie’s arm and pointed. “There. Beside the tall guy with the red shirt. All in black. Wow, you totally weren’t kidding. Those blue eyes are amazing. I can feel the heat from here!”

Melanie turned, adrenaline burning from chest to toes. Stoner shared those blue eyes with Edgar, but while Edgar’s eyes were warm with shy friendliness, Stoner’s blazed with sexual mischief which made Melanie weak in the…everything.

Like the first time she saw him, he wore black. Black tight T-shirt and black jeans with a silver-studded belt. Black hair, not quite as thick and curled as Edgar’s, in a tousled I-don’t-care style that probably took him hours. “That’s him.”

Stoner scanned the bar coolly until his eyes lit on Melanie’s, and his sex appeal shot across the room as if he’d cast a hook. She was hit. All he had to do was reel her in.

He swaggered over, and while the crowd didn’t really part to let him through, it almost seemed that way to Melanie because she couldn’t believe the male power he had, and she couldn’t stop staring.

“Hey there, Mel-a-nie.” He kissed her cheek; his warm lips lingered, making her shiver. “How ya doing?”

“Great, now that you’re here.” She looked him straight in the eyes, buzzing full throttle from the mojito and his presence.

“Good to hear.” He winked and cocked his head toward Jenny. “And who’s this?”

Jenny nearly slid to the floor in her eagerness. “Jenny Tremont. I work with Melanie. We’re so going to come hear your band!”

Melanie kept herself from rolling her eyes. So going to come hear your band? Jenny was twenty-nine, but sometimes managed to sound like a tweenager groupie. “You’re playing at Bad Genie Rock Lounge this week, right?”

“You remembered.” He lifted his chin toward the bartender, who came over as if he’d been waiting all night for his chance to serve this drink. “I’ll have a Leinie’s Red and whatever these ladies are having, another round for them.”

“Ooh, thanks, Stoner.” Jenny batted her black-lined eyes at him. “I’ll be loose and easy after two of these.”

“Yeah?” He grinned a predator’s grin, which probably made all the women in visual range immediately wish they were prey. “How about you, Mel? Your barriers go down after a little alcoholic lube job?”

Melanie wasn’t an English major, but she thought that metaphor was pretty mixed up. However, substandard grammar was not going to stand between her and a chance for fun time with Stoner.

“Barriers?” She arched on the stool, tilted her head. “What barriers?”

His laugh was low and rich, so much like Edgar’s it startled her. Their voices were eerily similar, too. If she turned around when he was talking she might get them confused. But that was about the only way to mistake one for the other, and she saw no reason to turn her back to Stoner…until later, maybe. “You are my kind of girl, Mel-a-nie.”

“Mmm, no.” She waggled her finger at him, loving the way he leisurely half sang her name. “I’m all woman.”

“I stand corrected.” He took his beer, clinked it with her glass, then Jenny’s, then with hers again. His eyes skittered over her body and landed on her mouth with intensity that made her feel already kissed. “Yeah, you are all woman.”

Melanie tossed her hair and pouted to suck the straw of her drink, making sure he was watching. The familiar sex-machinery inside her hummed steadily now. This was going to be one excellent evening. Instinct told her so, and her instinct when it came to men and sex was never, ever wrong. Stoner would be a passionate, selfish lover, slightly rough, mostly unschooled, a lover who assumed his own amazing-ness would turn her on so terrifically that he didn’t need to do much more than just be him. Gymnastic, inventive, a show-off, he’d use many rooms and many positions.

Bring it on.

There was nothing like that first time, when she could be a man’s perfect fantasy woman. Nothing like the erotic excitement of new bodies discovering each other, finding ways to please—light, lovely, no baggage, no boredom, no boundaries.

“So you’re Edgar’s brother.” Jenny took her sugar cane stick out of her drink and bit down, sucking out the sweet syrup. “Yup.” He drained half his beer as if it were lemonade. “You don’t seem much alike.” “Never have been.” “Even as kids?” Melanie asked.

“Not even. I was into everything, and he was scared of everything. Bugs, worms, even the swing.” He laughed. “I’d push him like a few inches on that thing, and he’d scre-e-eam.”

Melanie immediately felt protective of poor baby Edgar. “I was scared of bugs, too, as a kid. And thunder. Still am, though not as much.”

“Yeah?” He grinned his sexy grin again. “If it storms while I’m in town, you run to me, baby.”

“I will.” She let her eyes smolder at him. “Maybe even if it doesn’t storm.”

“Whoa.” He rocked back on his heels, chuckling. “I’d take you up on that in a heartbeat, Mel-a-nie.”

“You may have to.” She licked her lips sensually.

Jenny muttered something else under her breath, nearly making Melanie giggle in the midst of her sex-goddess act. “Luckily, Edgar grew up braver than that.”

“Seriously. And he is one smart dude.” Stoner nodded slowly. “Smart plus classy. Like my parents.”

“You come from class?” Jenny sounded so surprised that, thank goodness, Stoner cracked up instead of being insulted. Point in his favor, he could laugh at himself. “I mean, I didn’t mean—”

“Nah, it’s okay. Go figure, huh? I never fit into that country club shi—stuff, sorry, ladies.”

“Country club?” Melanie was astounded. Edgar? How could she not know that about him?

“I was a rebel from the beginning. Gave my parents hell.”

“Ha.” Another reason Melanie loved bad boys. She understood them. “I was like that, too.”

“Yeah?” He moved closer, his hip touching her thigh, bared by her short clingy black skirt. “A wild one, huh?”

“My poor grandparents haven’t recovered yet. They had to move to Florida to get away from me.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

She giggled, nearly emptying her mojito. “Maybe not only to get away from me.”

“What about parents?”

“Mom was even wilder than me. She wasn’t around much, and when she was, there were different men in and out all the time.”

“In and out, huh?” He rotated his hip back and forth against her thigh. “Tell me more about that concept.”

She would, but her mind had turned to lust-mush. “Maybe later?”

“Definitely later.”

“Her mom just came back to town.” Jenny finished her mojito and picked up the one Stoner had bought her. “She’s trying to settle down and change her ways.”

“Aw, man.” Stoner shook his head sorrowfully. “You can’t fight who you are. There’s no point. Like I said, I knew early on I was different from my family. There was nothing I could do about it but be me. So that’s who I am.”

Melanie wanted to applaud. “I totally agree with you.”

“Well, then, cheers, girl—sorry. Ms. Mel-a-nie, she is a-all woman.” He clinked their glasses, drained his beer and thunked it on the bar. “And I am sad to say, I gotta get going.”

Melanie’s adrenaline petered out abruptly.

“Already?” Jenny looked as bewildered as Melanie felt.

“I have somewhere to be tonight. I just stopped by to see if I could catch you.” He slid his arm around Melanie’s shoulder. “Bang, you’re caught.”

Melanie tipped back to look directly into his bottomless blue pools of sex. “I know.”

“I should be home to Edgar’s place by midnight.” He glanced carelessly around the bar, then angled his head lazily back toward hers. “I’m heading right to bed.”

Her petered-out adrenaline came flooding back.

“Really…”

“I hear Edgar doesn’t lock his apartment at night.” His voice had dropped, for her ears only. She was getting every word. “Or at least he’s going to forget tonight.”

She pretended to look shocked. “How careless.”

“And guess what.” He leaned forward until his lips touched her cheek. “Edgar is such a good guy that he’s given up his bedroom for me so I can sleep in when he has to get up for work.”

“Is that so?” She could barely get sound out, battered by a surge of hormones broadcasting their readiness for this man. Tonight. After midnight. In Edgar’s—

Edgar’s bed? With Edgar in the apartment? Oh, no. She couldn’t—

“It’s a nice big bed. Clean sheets.” His voice rumbled through her, his lips brushed her cheek at every syllable. “Very comfortable.”

“Your brother…”

“Won’t be home. He’s visiting a friend in…Chicago. Lastminute thing.”

Melanie frowned. Edgar hadn’t told her that. Though, if he wasn’t going to be home…

“Well.” She turned. Stoner’s lips touched the corner of her mouth. “That might change things.”

“I hope it does.” He lingered a blissful second, then drew back and took her hand for a formal shake. “Very nice to see you, Ms. Mel-a-nie.”

“And you, Mr. Stoner.”

“I hope to see you again—” he brought her hand to his mouth for a gallant kiss ”—very soon.”

“We’ll see.” She kept her cool, all the while dying to jump down from her stool and go skipping around the bar shrieking yes, yes, yes!

Nothing in this world, nothing, fired her up like a sexy guy wanting her. The pumped-up thrill took over her, made the world a fabulous place bursting with possibilities.

Stoner said goodbye to Jenny, left one last piercing blue look with Melanie and exited the bar, probably sure they were staring at his fabulous shoulders and ass disappearing into the crowd, which they both were.

“What did he say? What’s going on? Are you going to meet him later?”

Melanie smiled dreamily. Why fight it? She knew inviting random encounters was a bad way to live, knew it was a crazy way to look for love, knew men who approached her like this were not in the mood for any kind of real relationship, but heck, she couldn’t resist. She had her mother’s genes. And look at Mom—fifty-one and only recently deciding it was time to renounce her self-indulgent lifestyle.

Which meant Melanie had another twenty-five years of fabulous high after fabulous high to look forward to. Starting tonight, with the current man of her dreams, through an unlocked apartment door into a nice-size room holding a big, clean and ready-for-action bed.

MELANIE STRODE DOWN Water Street in the cool night air, checking her watch by the nearest streetlight even knowing it would be exactly one minute later than the last time she checked it. Which put her at forty-five minutes past midnight, enough time, she hoped, for Stoner to have made it back from wherever he’d gone, gotten into bed as promised, and to have given up on her and fallen asleep.

After Stoner left, she’d had another mojito with Jenny at The Wicked Hop, then they’d gone to hear a band at the Milwaukee Ale House, where she drank a lot of water and nursed a beer for appearances, not wanting to show up in Stoner’s bed too drunk to function. Before it was time to leave, though, she’d poured back one last mojito to make sure any inhibitions—she didn’t have many—would be on hold.

So now, well-hydrated, high on adrenaline and that last quickly downed drink, she was on her way.

To Stoner. Oh, yeah.

At the entrance to Edgar’s funny little building, she pushed through the outer door…then stopped. Oh, no. Stoner might have made sure the door to Edgar’s apartment would be open, but the inner door to the building was locked. She’d have to buzz him to let her in, which wasn’t the end of the world, but announcing herself would spoil the fun of creeping into the bedroom and jumping him in the dark. Not that he’d be totally surprised, but she never had actually told him whether she’d show, so she had a shot at a stealth attack.

Maybe someone would come out? Thursday night, it could happen this late. She peered through the glass, hand next to her face to block the light from the foyer. The last several steps of the staircase were visible…and empty.

Three impatient, fidgety minutes later, they were still empty, but the now familiar row of buzzers next to the door gave her another idea. Sledge, the artist/sculptor/jeweler, lived in Edgar’s building on the second floor, the guy she’d met when Edgar took her to buy a necklace for his longtime “girlfriend,” who turned out, incredibly, not to exist.

Melanie frowned, boozily distracted by a new thought. What had happened to that necklace if there was no girlfriend to give it to? Maybe the whole scene had been a charade and Edgar hadn’t really bought it. Except that made no sense either because—

Focus, Melanie. The point was that she could buzz Sledge and say she needed to get into Edgar’s apartment, that she was early for a rendezvous and wanted to wait until he got back from…somewhere. With luck, Sledge wouldn’t know Edgar had gone to Chicago.

Good plan. Except it was rudely late to be bothering anyone.

She was reaching for Sledge’s buzzer anyway when jeans appeared on the stairs inside the building, and then rapidly, the rest of a young guy. Perfect.

“Hey there.” He held the door open for her with a friendly smile. “Forget your key?”

“Visiting a friend in 3C.”

“Excellent. Have a good night.”

“Thanks!” Oh, she so would, partly because of him.

Inside, she hauled a mirror out of her bag for one last check, even though she’d already primped in the ladies’ room at the Milwaukee Ale House. Lipstick—check; eyelashes darkened and curled—check; blush not too garish—check; hair appropriately mussed—check; clothes.

Melanie interrupted her routine. A sudden vision appeared, of her mother preparing for a night out with whatever man she was seeing that week or month, exactly like this, checking lips, eyes, cheeks, hair…with Melanie as a little girl watching, torn between admiration for her mom’s beauty, envy at the way she got to fancy herself up, and anxiety, not knowing if the date would last all evening, all night or all week, leaving her and Alana to fend for themselves.

Funny she’d never noticed the similarity of their preparation before, though of course she realized she was like her mom in a lot of other ways, ahem. The association probably occurred to her now because Mom had come back to Milwaukee, apparently hoping to repair the damage she’d done to the relationship with her daughters.

Melanie shoved the mirror into her purse, unwilling to continue even if the connection to her mother was only superficial. Melanie didn’t have kids she was leaving alone and scared tonight. She was the only one who’d shoulder any consequences for her actions.

She started up the stairs, not wanting to dwell on negative thoughts. Tonight was a mission of pure fun.

Up one flight, turn at the landing, up another to the second floor where Sledge lived—she tiptoed past his door—up another, turn at the landing, up again to floor three, apartment C, the door that was supposed to be unlocked.

Yes. She turned the knob silently, took a deep breath, body thrumming with excitement, and slipped into the dark interior. She’d known Edgar two years but had only seen his place for the first time last week, and had been shocked. From the mismatched, horrible way Edgar dressed, she’d expected his apartment to be a typical bachelor disaster.

Nope.

The place was nothing like him—or nothing like the way she thought of him. Sophisticated, stylish, elegant even, cherry-toned woods and green plants and a colorful—and very clean—fish tank, state-of-the-art kitchen, impressive library… Add that to Stoner’s revelation of a country-club upbringing and it didn’t equal the dorky, disorganized friend Melanie thought she knew.

She moved into the living room, eerily lit by the glowing light above the bubbling tank. Straight ahead to the right, a door, ajar as Stoner said it would be. Melanie headed for it, walking silently, hoping he was asleep. She wanted to slide into bed, wake him gently with kisses and caresses, get their intimacy off to a slow, tantalizing start.

Through the door, and into.

The bathroom. Arghh.

She made a quick exit and tiptoed down the hall a few feet to the next door. Also ajar. She pushed it open halfway, pleased when it didn’t protest.

Very dark inside, only the faintest glimmer around the blinds. A body barely visible in the bed, the sound of deep, regular breathing.

Hello, Melanie. Welcome to your perfect fantasy. We hope you enjoy your stay.

Oh, she was pretty sure she would.

As quietly as she could, she laid her purse on the floor, then took hold of the hem of her top and pulled it off slowly, as if she were stripping with Stoner watching. She imagined his reaction, her heightened sensual awareness reveling in the feel of the room’s cool air on her skin. Yes, oh, yes; he liked that, but wanted to see more. Bra unhooked, she let it fall, watching the lump on the bed, imagining his eyes glazing, hands reaching for her.

Skirt next, pulled off in a slow shimmy, then underpants, sliding over hips, gliding down thighs, dropping past calves to her feet, then kicked away.

Naked. Ready.

No, not yet. Condoms in her purse—always have them, always use them, her mother had counseled over and over, way before Melanie and Alana knew what she was talking about.

Now. Ready.

Melanie moved, floated, wafted across the floorboards until she was next to the dark shape that would give her body so much pleasure so soon. For a minute she stood by the bed, imagining, fantasizing, until her desire rose so impatiently she could no longer wait to touch him.

As slowly and gently as possible, she slid the condom under his second pillow, then slipped into the bed, displacing the mattress and covers as imperceptibly as she could. She lay next to him and he stirred, not yet aware of what disturbed his sleep.

He would be soon.

She reached and encountered a muscular bare back, skin smooth and warm. She wanted to purr. This was going to be wonderful.

“Mmm.”

Melanie smiled. “Hello there.”

“Ungh.” He lifted and replaced his head on the pillow, drawing up his legs.

“Are you even awake yet?” She stroked the length of his back, following the bumps of his spine, the contours of his shoulder blades, up to—

He started. “Whah th—”

“Shhh.” She curled around him. “It’s Melanie, you dope.”

“Melanie.” His hoarse whisper nearly made her giggle. Poor guy must have been in a seriously deep sleep.

“What—How—”

“Don’t talk, sleepy man….” She put her lips to his skin, followed the taut muscle across the top of his shoulder. Desire urged her up to straddle him. Rolling him flat on his back, she discovered he slept in the nude, and that one part of him was waking up faster than the rest. She stroked the nicely developed planes of his chest through curling hair, wishing she could see his face, but enjoying the mysterious darkness around them too much to turn on a light. “Just lie back…and enjoy.”

“Oh, my—”

“Shhh.” She leaned down, planted kisses collarbone to throat, throat to chin, orienting herself on the landscape of his fine physique so she wouldn’t aim and miss that sexy mouth when she went for their first kiss.

Found it. She lingered, lips hovering millimeters above his, making hers tingle and tremble with anticipation. Nothing beat this moment, making him wait, making herself wait, too, her body going nuts with hormones and—

Strong arms came around her; his body heaved, and he was on top so fast she barely had time to react.

“Melanie.” The whisper again, this time softer, sweeter, more tender. She suddenly felt oddly disjointed, almost panicky. Something wasn’t right. Something was—

His lips found hers dead on target, as if he could see in the dark. She lay still from shock—one, two, three—then her brain registered that she was being kissed as if she were his last hope of ever being kissed again, that his lips were warm and firm and that they matched hers absolutely perfectly.

She made a tiny whimpering sound of surrender that surprised her. Her arms came up and around his neck and she hung on as if she’d otherwise drown.

The man could kiss.

But it wasn’t just his technique, the kissing was…different, somehow. Nothing like she’d experienced in recent memory. It was.

It was.

It was as if he loved her.

Stoner was kissing her as if she was the greatest thing that had ever happened or that ever could happen to him. And she was kissing him back that way because within a very short time it seemed that had become entirely true.

He lifted off her; she protested with an inarticulate sound, feeling the loss keenly…until those magic lips began exploring, circling her breasts in a slow inward spiral, making her nearly weep with gratitude when they finally found her nipple.

His hands had started a journey of their own, covering her thighs with warm sweeps that made her lift her hips from the bed, going closer and closer to her thighs’ juncture, then retreating, closer, then retreating.

She was crazy hot already for the release of his touch between her legs, and they’d barely even begun. He was nothing like she expected, not selfish, not impatient, not insensitive, absolutely the opposite of all those things.

Stoner.

Her heart started a pointless yearning; she told it to stop immediately, as she had told it so many times. This was sex with a stranger, no different than all the other sex she’d had with all the other strangers.

His fingers reached the starved place between her legs; breath hissed between her teeth. Touched, withdrew, probed farther, withdrew.

It was totally different.

She moaned as he dipped again, circled slowly, retreated, circled again, then his torso moved down and he replaced his fingers with his mouth.

Melanie lay helplessly, not sure what had happened, how she’d lost control of the show to this extent. She struggled to sit up. “You should let me… I want to…”

His turn to shush her. His strong hand planted on her sternum pushed her back down. His lips closed over her clitoris and his tongue began to play in earnest.

She gasped, lifted her head, let it drop, eyes squeezed tight, fighting the pleasure. “No. Too soon.”

He showed no mercy, thrust two fingers inside her and shoved her over the edge within seconds, a deep, satisfying orgasm that went on and on until she was nearly in tears, racked by the contractions and the emotion. Too soon. She only dimly understood the certainty she felt that when they joined bodies, they would also join something much more profound. Now she wouldn’t get the chance anytime soon to see if that level of intimacy could happen between them. It took her hours to recharge for orgasm number two.

“I wanted to come with you.”

“You will, Melanie,” he whispered. Again she had the feeling something wasn’t right. An odd instinct. Disconcerting. She shouldn’t have had that last drink, so she could analyze her reaction more clearly.

He stretched beside her on his side, a dark shape in the darkened room, no longer serving her but an equal partner. She slid her hand down his lean abdomen; he was hard, which pleased her. It meant the work of making her come hadn’t been work.

A sweep down his granite length with an open palm, a light caress of his compacted balls and she fisted his erection, stroked up and down, then paused, thumbing his penis head’s magical softness, encountering moisture she gently spread.

He was perfect.

She bent to take him in her mouth, but he chuckled faintly and she found herself again on her back, wrists pinned over her head.

“I won’t last, Mel—”

“Shh.” She brought his head down to kiss her. She didn’t want him to talk. Every time he did she got that funny feeling, and since everything else about this night had far exceeded her expectations, hell, it had exceeded even her fantasies, she couldn’t bear for anything to be less than ideal.

Luckily, she had a surefire way to stop him wanting to talk. She retrieved the condom from under his pillow and managed to close his hand around it. She wasn’t sure even with all her experience that she could manage in the dark, and she didn’t want to spoil anything by fumbling.

She lay back, listening to the tearing foil, smiling, relaxed, ready. This was all deliciously familiar now. She loved sex. Even when she couldn’t come, she loved the sensations, the joining, the broad expanse of a man’s back above her, the working of his butt muscles as he pushed inside her. She loved doggy style, missionary, her on top, or both of them in—

He would want to see her again, wouldn’t he?

Melanie blew out a silent breath of frustration. Not now. Plenty of time later for doubts and worries and—

He was back, hands exploring her more firmly this time, more insistently. His mouth on her breasts involved teeth as well as tongue. He was rougher in his touch, though patient, seeming to read her reactions and needs as if they were a map in front of him.

Incredibly, she responded, desire building again, breath stuttering, hands wandering over his broad masculine shape.

His thighs nudged hers farther apart; she felt the hard head of his erection at her opening and inhaled sharply. Did she say the moment before the first kiss was her favorite? She was changing her mind. This was her favorite, when the real fun was about to begin.

He breathed her name once more, with reverence that cut through her carnal anticipation and made her again uneasy. Only briefly, because he pushed inside her, dug his arms under and around her, and began to make love to her in a way that showed her the phrase wasn’t just a euphemism but a literal description, an experience she hadn’t known was possible.

Making love.

Afterward—yes, she could come twice within an hour—she lay in his arms, listening to their breathing return to normal, savoring the contact between them, the delicious skin-on-skin, muscle-pressed-to-muscle afterglow, his hands caressing her hair, her cheek, her shoulder.

“Melanie.”

“Not now.” She put a finger in the general vicinity of his lips, repositioned it when she hit his chin instead. She was so enveloped in the glow of this moment, so vulnerable to this man and what they’d just shared, that she couldn’t handle hearing anything discussed. Not that the sex was good, not that it was bad, not that she should leave now, not what he’d had for dinner, nothing. Because every second spent in conversation would bring them closer to the world of reality, and each word would bring them one word closer to when he let her know it was over. “Later. We’ll talk later. Please.”

“Okay,” he whispered, squeezing her tight, nuzzling a kiss into the sensitive side of her neck.

She sighed, peace spreading through her body, instead of that familiar urge to move on to the next thing, the next activity, the next anything. She was content just to be, in this bed with this man on this perfect, perfect night.

Which, like every other night of her crazy life’s adventure, was doomed shortly to end.

2

TRICIA HAWTHORNE SAT in the kitchen she grew up in. Even remodeled, it retained the flavor of her parents, Edith and Edwin Hawthorne. She could remember her mother baking cookies, her father hovering around, eagerly waiting for them to cool. She could remember family dinners around the old table. And she could remember tiptoeing out at midnight on her way to getting drunk. Tiptoeing home drunk at four in the morning, praying neither of her parents would hear her. Sneaking here, sneaking there, doing this, doing that, nothing they ever approved of, behavior that had bewildered and hurt them. Yet they’d loved her, supported her, picked up after her, believing she’d grow out of her wild behavior and settle down.

That only took her until the age of fifty. Good thing her parents were both alive to know their long wait was at an end.

The coffeemaker sputtered out its final drops. Four in the morning… She’d slept only a few hours, finally giving in and resignedly getting up. Tricia had never been a good sleeper, but too many nights were like this now. She’d tried herbal remedies, hypnosis, hot baths, meditation, tapes, relaxation exercises, and finally decided that insomnia was her punishment for a life poorly lived, and that it was just going to be that way until she settled her emotional debts and found inner peace.

She poured her coffee and added skim milk, wishing her waistline and cholesterol count would allow her the luxury of cream. Or one of the enormous bakery blueberry muffins in a plastic container on the counter. She and Melanie were supposed to have breakfast this morning before Melanie went to work, but she hadn’t come home last night. Now it was Tricia’s turn to worry about her daughter, as her parents and Melanie’s older sister, Alana, had been doing for far too long.

Coffee ready, muffins successfully avoided, she sat down on a stool and leaned her elbows on the fancy cream tile counter.

Breakfast with Melanie this morning seemed unlikely to happen now, but Tricia could visit Alana later on, maybe help her unpack boxes. Alana had moved out of this house and in with her boyfriend, Sawyer, the day after they committed to each other—which was also, not coincidentally, Tricia suspected, the day after Tricia had shown up unannounced in Milwaukee. Not that she blamed Alana for holding a grudge. The burden of Tricia’s squandered responsibility had fallen on Alana’s shoulders until age ten, when Edith and Edwin had taken the girls in, giving up on Tricia’s ability to mother them.

Pretty much from the second Alana was born, Tricia had been overwhelmed by what she now understood was practically nonexistent self-esteem due to years of rejecting everything sensible her parents stood for, and instead embracing users and idiots. She’d also been wallowing in the gradual dissolution of her unhealthy relationship with the girls’ father, Tom, who had left for good when she was pregnant with Melanie. Reeling from the pain, Tricia had continued to drown herself in alcohol, drugs and other men, telling herself the girls were okay, or, even worse, not considering them at all. She had wanted her next fix, her next sexual high, always the next thing. Any good that had developed in either daughter was thanks to their grandparents. All Tricia had contributed was damage.

Last year, after she’d been living in California more or less permanently with her men and her art, the death of a close friend’s daughter due to a drug overdose on the day Tricia turned fifty had shot home the obvious truth that she wasn’t going to have forever to get to know her own kids.

Depression followed, then therapy, various withdrawals, more depression, in the process driving away the latest man she’d shacked up with. Tricia had moved in with a friend—Dahlia, who deserved sainthood for putting up with her—and slowly and surely she’d pulled herself out of the muck of clueless oblivion, limb by limb washed herself with honesty, put on clean dry clothes of self-acceptance, sold everything she couldn’t fit in a suitcase except her art supplies, and bought a one-way ticket to Milwaukee.

Now she’d vowed, however long it took, to make amends, to be worthy of forgiveness. She was sober, drug-free, dateless, and determined for the first time in her adult life to be an adult. To live a life she and her daughters and her parents could be proud of. A huge and often terrifying goal.

One step at a time. One day at a time.

A key jiggled the back-door lock. The familiar sound catapulted Tricia back to memories of guilty predawn homecomings. The handle turning with a slight rattle. The door opening… Careful! The hinges squeaked if pushed too fast.

Soft footsteps, a hand carrying shoes, door closing, shh, don’t let Mom and Dad hear….

Except in this case, there was only Mom, no Dad; the mom was Tricia, while the child sneaking in was her twenty-six-year-old daughter. “Hi, Melanie.”

Melanie gasped; her hand flew to her chest, luckily not the one holding her strappy black high-heeled sandals or they would have flown up and smacked her in the head. “Mom. Oh, my gosh, you scared me. What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Oh.” She arranged her features into Cautious Liar Mode. Tricia nearly chuckled. Nothing Melanie could pull would be new to her. “I was out late with a girlfriend and—”

“How about the truth?” Tricia sipped her coffee, apparently unconcerned, inside probably ten times more nervous than Melanie. She was never comfortable with authority, and it had been years since she’d had to be a parent. “Saves time for both of us.”

Melanie blinked. Frowned. Thumped her shoes onto the floor and sidled up to the counter. “Any more coffee?’

Tricia jerked her head back toward the machine. “Help yourself.”

She did, this amazing beautiful woman Tricia knew so little about. Melanie had been a remarkably peaceful baby, a relief after Alana, who had screamed at anything and everything. Tricia had been living with their father for three years before he’d announced he was too young for a family. Instead of marrying her, he was going off to find himself in India.

Lose himself, more likely. She’d never heard from him again.

“Well.” Melanie perched on the stool opposite her mother at the counter. Her lips were swollen, chin pink from stubble burn, hair messed, eyes glowing. She could say whatever she wanted, but Tricia knew where she’d been. “Actually, I was with a guy.”

“No kidding.”

“What?” She touched her face. “How can you tell?”

“A mother always knows.” She got through the words with the appropriate deadpan expression, then couldn’t help it, let out a snort of laughter.

Melanie’s eyes grew rounder, if that were possible. “You do that just like Alana.”

“What?”

“That funny laugh.”

“Yeah?” She wouldn’t let on how it touched her, tortured her, too. How many of their shared family traits had she missed out on discovering? At least it wasn’t too late for that. “Is this a guy you’ve…been with before?”

“First time. He’s…amazing.” She sighed; her eyes softened. She might as well have had hearts popping out the top of her head.

Tricia’s chest ached. Oh, Melanie. The pain she’d continue to go through if she didn’t stop making men the keepers of her happiness. The latest entry on the long list of ways Tricia had let her daughters down, a list that would inevitably lengthen as she caught up on the years she hadn’t been around.

But she was ready. Primed. Strong. Focused. She’d do whatever it took. “If he was that amazing, why did you leave? You could have rescheduled breakfast with me. You know I would have understood.”

“Oh.” Melanie blushed, looked down at her bright pink mug, decorated with angels and hearts. A Valentine’s Day present? From whom? Tricia had missed so much. “I didn’t want to skip breakfast with you.”

Not entirely true. “And.?”

Her daughter’s head jerked up. “And?”

“Melanie. You can’t shock me. You have no reason to hide anything from me. There’s some other reason you’re not telling the truth.”

Melanie met her eyes, hers blue like her father’s, only gentler. It had been a lot of years since Tricia had looked into them with a clear head. “Mom, are you psychic? Seriously?”

Tricia shrugged. She was, sort of, but enough people had made fun of her that she didn’t bother claiming the title anymore. “Call it women’s intuition. Now tell me. Why did you leave an amazing guy in the middle of a wonderful night?”

Melanie twisted her mouth, the same way she had when she was small and something confused her. Amazing how little had changed—and how much. “I went to sleep next to him completely blissed out, then I woke up and realized I had to meet you for breakfast, but also…that in the morning, it would be, uh…”

“Morning.” Tricia spoke without sarcasm. She understood. “Everything that was safe and mysterious and beautiful in the dark, blurred by alcohol, would be stark and over-lit and real. And hard. And I’m not talking about the guy’s you-know-what.”

Melanie interrupted her shocked look with a giggle. “Yes. Yes, that’s it. How did you know?”

Tricia answered by lifting her eyebrow. Think, Melanie.

Her face fell. “Oh, right. You’re the expert.”

“Was. I’m not proud of it.”

Melanie lifted her chin, again a stubborn three-year-old. “I’m not ashamed of what I do.”

“I’m not asking you to be. I wish I’d lived my life differently. That has nothing to do with you or how you live yours.”

“True.” She took another sip of coffee.

“What’s his name?”

“Stoner.” Said defensively. “He’s the brother of…a good friend and coworker. Edgar. Edgar Raymond.”

“Stoner, huh?” Tricia watched her daughter curiously. No problem talking about Stoner. But Edgar… “You seeing him again?”

Melanie shrugged, eyes on the counter. “He was asleep when I left.”

“I’m sure he knows how to find you.” Tricia finished her coffee in silence. She had a lot more to say about all this, but she wasn’t good at motherhood yet, maybe she never would be, and she wanted to think things over before stumbling into any blunders when her reconciliation with her daughters was still so raw and new. “I’m going to shower. Then we can go out later on.”

“How about Ted’s on Sixty-second Street? It’s a great greasy spoon.”

“Hey, I’m a native, too.” Tricia smiled, slighted even though she didn’t blame her daughter for forgetting. “I know Ted’s.”

“Right.” Melanie nodded, looking embarrassed and so beautiful Tricia wanted to hug her and kiss her smooth cheek, so different from the plump baby one she’d kissed so often—there were some redeeming memories. But she didn’t know how Melanie would react, and she wasn’t going to risk affection this early into their reunion.

“See you soon.” She put her cup in the sink, went down the narrow hallway and climbed the stairs, thinking that after her shower she’d take a few minutes to meditate over the problem with Melanie, see if the collective unconscious had any advice to offer.

Alana’s path through life didn’t worry her too much. But Melanie’s…Melanie needed maternal intervention.

And though it was ironic, given that Tricia was exactly the type of mother who’d caused Melanie to have this problem in the first place, she was also exactly the type of mother who could help her daughter change her life for the better.

EDGAR WOKE UP KNOWING something was wrong. No, not wrong, something had happened. Something huge, something—

Melanie.

He opened his eyes. The space next to him in bed was empty. No Melanie.

Damn it. He’d dreamed about spending a night with her many times—plenty while he was awake. This time he’d swear their being together had really happened. Hadn’t it?

He rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his fuzzy brain. On the one hand nothing could be less likely. He’d known Melanie two years and been in love with her for both of them. In all that time she’d never given him more than a sisterly glance. So for her to jump into his bed out of the blue and seduce him made about as much sense as conservatives voting for huge tax hikes.

Except…last week sitting with Melanie on the couch in this apartment, right before Stoner had walked in and made Melanie’s jaw go slack, just before that, she’d been saying something about wanting to date a different type of guy, giving Edgar real hope for the first time.

Maybe he wasn’t crazy?

He had to be crazy.

He blinked, struggled up, then on impulse leaned down to inhale over the pillow she’d used to see if traces of her scent lingered.

Yes. Oh, my God, yes. He was instantly hard again. She’d really been here. His most potent sexual fantasy and his deepest emotional fantasy—both came true in one mind-blowing unexpected night.

But how? Why?

Maybe she was still here? Eating breakfast? Using the bathroom? Watching TV? He got out of bed, stepped into a pair of gray boxers and walked through the apartment. Stoner hadn’t come home. What a gratifying non-surprise. Last night Edgar had dutifully been getting ready to bunk down in the sofa bed when he’d realized that if Stoner followed his usual pattern after a night out with his band, he wouldn’t be back until morning. Damned if Edgar would spend another lumpy, restless night while his comfortable queen-size bed lay empty.

He finished his rounds. No Melanie, not that he really expected she’d still be here. But also no note. No messages. No “Thanks for last night, it was the best time of my entire life. Call me ASAP. I love you. Melanie.”

Right.

His heart sank. The queen of the one-nighters had bolted.

Except she had to know by now how he felt about her. He’d dropped plenty of hints, even made up a girlfriend, Emma, so Melanie would feel more at ease with him. Amazing how close a skittish woman would let a guy get when there was no threat of a relationship developing. And amazing what that guy could get away with saying to said skittish woman when he was supposedly safely attached. Edgar had said it all.

She had to know. Especially once she found out Emma wasn’t real. She’d have put it together. And there was no way Melanie would mess with his head so extremely by showing up in his bed, then ditching him. She was neither that cold nor that desperate.

The real Emma, his black cat, jumped gracefully down from the bookcase and fixed him with a feed-me-or-die stare.

He fed her, glancing at the clock. Early still. He could work out now in case Melanie wanted to go out after work.

Adrenaline burned through his system, bliss and torture in equal measures. He’d been patient so far. Knowing Melanie, he’d have to be even more patient now, when he was the most eager for a continuation of what they’d started last night.

If they had started anything last night.

Had they?

He wasn’t the kind of guy she usually went for, which was the understatement of the millennium. That fact could work in his favor now. Because he didn’t fit any of her hot-guy criteria, maybe she’d been after more than a quick lay. Maybe she was even open to that most terrifying of all things as far as Melanie was concerned—A Relationship.

Down, boy. He couldn’t get ahead of himself like this; he’d only drive himself crazy with tantalizing hope, and in the process set himself up for a huge and potentially castrating fall. He needed to prepare to hear from Melanie that last night was a nutty aberration, both a beginning and an end.

Or she could come through the office door with a special secret smile meant only for him.

God, he was going to have to jerk off if he thought about that any more.

He went into the spare room where he kept his treadmill and weights, and spent an hour trying to calm himself down with exhaustion. It didn’t work. He could have spent the rest of the day lifting and running and still have enough nervous energy left over to power a rocketship.

Out of the shower, he made himself eggs, whole-grain toast and a banana yogurt shake, sat at the breakfast nook and could barely eat.

Damn. He was a wreck. A geeky pathetic wreck in love with a woman who went through men like doctors went through latex gloves.

But he was also a geeky pathetic wreck in love with a woman who’d slipped into his bed and allowed him to show her every bit of that love, who’d responded, trembled in his arms, climaxed twice, and gone to sleep calmer and more relaxed than he’d ever known her to be, as if she understood as clearly as he did that she’d come home.

If only she’d stayed.

The apartment door burst open, making him jump, but for once he was glad Stoner forgot to lock up when he left, or Melanie wouldn’t have been able to get in last night and surprise him, practically to the point of cardiac arrest.

“Hey.” His brother looked like hell, cheeks stubbled, skin pale, eyes ringed dark.

“G’morning. Good time last night?”

“The best, man.” He high-fived Edgar on his way to the refrigerator. “I’m parched this morning, though. Parched.”

“There’s more juice in the cupboard if you want it.”

“Thanks. How was your evening?”

“The usual.” If he’d been with anyone but Melanie, he would have given in to his pride and told his brother what really happened, maybe gotten up for a manly, growling chest bump or two.

But no one would know what went on with Melanie until he was damn sure all of it would happen again. Repeatedly.

“You gotta come hear me play, dude.” Stoner finished the carton of OJ and belched impressively.

“I’ll come to a rehearsal. I’m not into the club scene. Crowds, smoke, noise. It’s not my thing.”

“Geez, Eddie, you gotta live.”

Edgar didn’t bother mentioning that living the way Stoner did would make him feel half-dead most of the time. “I live. Just not your way.”

“More like Pater and Mater.”

“If you mean cleaning happens, yeah. If you mean I’d rather hear a symphony or jazz band than garage-band rock, again yeah. If you mean I live only to impress other people with my possessions and my good taste, then no.”

“Boom, you got ‘em. Don’t know how they stand the charade.”

Edgar shrugged. “They’re surrounded by it in that town. Hard to escape.”

“No kidding. It’s like a science dish. Petri. Swarming with obscenely rich bacteria.”

Edgar chuckled. “Stoner, that was sheer poetry.”

“Yeah?” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “There’s a song in there. Gotta think about that one later.”

“You been in touch with Mom and Dad lately?” Edgar asked casually, but he knew they both worried when they didn’t hear.

“I mean to. I just forget.” He tossed the juice carton into the trash. “Hey, I saw your friend Melanie last night at The Wicked Hop.”

“Yeah?” Edgar managed not to look smug. “She goes there a lot after work.”

“She told me. Hot chick. Great ass.”

“Huh.” He ate toast to avoid talking about her, uh, finer points with Stoner.

“I was going to see if she and I could hook up later, but then I got all into the party where I was.” He shoved a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. “Tell her I said hey, and sorry last night didn’t work out.”

“Sure.” Edgar stacked his plates, hiding a smirk. As far as he was concerned, last night had definitely worked out. “I’ll tell her.”

“So what’s the plan today, bro?”

Edgar set his plates and cup in the dishwasher. “I work, remember? Every day? Big office? Cubicles? Paychecks?”

“Right, right. Have fun with that.”

“I’m sure I will.”

He brushed his teeth, gathered a few disks and files he’d need at the office, and glanced at the clock. Early, but he couldn’t wait to get to work and see how Melanie would react to him, whether she’d acknowledge their intense connection of the night before or whether she’d balk. Either way, she couldn’t erase what they’d shared, which gave him a better chance than ever of winning her.

Winning Melanie. He wanted to break into a crazed dance at the mere thought.

He pictured her waking up this morning craving more of him the same way he’d woken up craving more of her, wishing she’d conquered her fears in the middle of the night and stayed with him.

It could happen. Miracles did.

And if that was the case, then why not order up another, so he could be with her again tonight?

3

EDGAR PUSHED OPEN THE door to Caffe Coffee, his every-morning java shop on Chicago Street, halfway between his apartment and work. Melanie couldn’t live without Starbucks’ mocha frappuccino but he preferred the organic Blue Mountain here, flown from a family farm in Jamaica, roasted on the premises, brewed by his favorite barista, Kaitlin, just the way he liked it—strong enough to dissolve paint. He could make the same coffee at home, but the croissants at Caffe Coffee were nearly as good as the ones he’d loved so much in Paris, and the ritual of coming here every morning appealed to him. So did Kaitlin. She was the kind of little sister he would have liked to have, serious and shy, with a dry sense of humor that hit when you least expected it.

Lately, though, he’d been starting to wonder, by the way her light brown eyes lit when he walked in, by the way she lingered to chat even when customers were behind him in line, that she might have ideas concerning him that weren’t exactly sisterly.

Oh, the irony. Kaitlin was sweet, funny and in his league, a student at Marquette University, studying marketing. But even on a normal day, he was so full of Melanie he couldn’t imagine dating Kaitlin. Today…well, he’d considered skipping today’s visit, but he knew Melanie would be late to work, and he’d sit in his cubicle for what seemed like forever, a nervous wreck waiting for her. Better to stop for coffee and delay that agony by a few minutes.

Not that caffeine would do much to calm his nerves.

“Hi, Edgar!” Kaitlin had his coffee ready—he didn’t have the heart to say he wanted half-decaf this morning. “Croissant today?”

“Not today, Kaitlin, thanks.”

“I was thinking about you last night.” She snapped the lid on his cup and rang up the purchase.

“Really?” He wasn’t thinking about her last night.

“I saw that movie you recommended. Cane Toads?” She giggled. “You’re right. It was hysterical.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.” He handed over a five, wishing he could have fallen for someone uncomplicated like Kaitlin instead of beating his head against Melanie’s brick wall for so long. He hoped he’d survive until she showed up at work. His heart was already beating so hard he was afraid it would give out, classic heart attack in the middle of the shop. He should probably pour his coffee down the office sink. “Pretty odd cast of characters, wasn’t it?”

“Yes! Where did they find those people?” She put the change into his hand, her fingers lingering.

He was getting even more anxious. From her touch, from his guilt that he might be encouraging her by showing up every day, from the sudden fear that Melanie might have come in early today and he was missing her. What if she was so eager to see him again after last night that—

“I, um, was wondering.” Kaitlin glanced at whoever was behind him, and leaned forward so her words wouldn’t carry.

Instinctive panic. She was going to ask him out. He couldn’t handle this. Not today.

“Listen, thanks for the coffee, Kaitlin. As always.” He spoke loudly, pretending he hadn’t heard the beginning of her sentence. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, um.” Her eyes dropped. “Yeah, I…okay.”

Smiling, he backed away a few steps, waved and turned, feeling like a schmuck. A prime schmuck. Why couldn’t she have asked him another day, when he wasn’t completely insane to be near Melanie?

Because there weren’t any days like that. He knew he was obsessed; he knew his feelings weren’t rational or smart or probably even sane. No woman had ever affected him like this—okay, not since junior high school, when crazed hormones made obsession the norm. No woman should affect him like this. He understood about balance, about healthy infatuation gone too far; he knew all of it. But try convincing his id.

He left, feeling Kaitlin staring wistfully at his back, imagining the customer behind him already annoyed that his barista was not baristing.

Why Melanie? He’d asked himself over and over again. He didn’t know. He only knew he had a solid-as-rock conviction that she was the woman for him, and nothing, no amount of talking to himself or reading self-help books, had been able to shake it.

After last night…well, this morning, Melanie could, with a single glance, wipe out every long-dormant hope that had sprung ecstatically to life the previous night.

Forget heart attack. He’d have a stroke and be a vegetable the rest of his life.

Luckily, the morning was cool and refreshing, so he could arrive at work a nervous wreck, yes, but not a sweaty nervous wreck.

He pushed through the front door of Triangle Graphics, greeting Anna, the receptionist, who was stationed in front of a huge analog clock.

Eight forty-five.

If Melanie showed up at her usual time, nine-thirty at the very earliest, that gave him forty-five minutes to find out if he’d be the happiest man on the planet or the most broken.

He strode down the short hall to the open room where the graphic designers worked, including Melanie; said good morning to Todd Maniscotto, his and Melanie’s boss; nodded to Jenny, Melanie’s good friend; sat at his cubicle, which was right next to Melanie’s.

Melanie. Melanie. Melanie.

Roughly forty-minutes later, thinking he could expect Melanie any second, he checked his watch to find it was actually roughly five minutes later.

Not heart attack, not stroke; aneurism. One big pop in his brain and done, before he knew what was happening.

He opened the file he’d been working on last night before he went home, ate dinner alone, went to bed and was awakened by the sexiest woman alive sliding into his bed and.

Get a grip, Edgar.

Where was he? Working on a sporting goods catalog for Premium Sports. Today’s challenge: how to make a package of golf tees look like the sexiest product in the world.

Paint Melanie’s picture on it?

Grip, Edgar, remember?

He grappled with the tees and won, rotated a baseball mitt this way and that, changed the text to wrap more snugly around it, all with a few clicks of his mouse.

As convenient and time-saving as computers were, part of Edgar couldn’t help romanticizing the idea of Man at His Drafting Table, like his architect father, pencils sharp, straightedges handy. He’d grown up playing trucks around his dad’s legs, since his father had worked around the clock. Whenever Dad had taken time off, he’d sit blinking at his family in surprise as if he couldn’t quite figure out how they had gotten there.

“Good morning, Ralph.” He heard Melanie’s voice down at the end of the line of cubicles.

Edgar fumbled with his mouse, selected something he shouldn’t have, reached to fix it and hit the wrong button on his keyboard; his computer started shutting down.

Damn it. Edgar, the epitome of cool. No wonder Melanie had been able to resist him for so long.

A glance at his watch while he tried to steady his breathing. Nine-fifteen. Early for her. Good sign? Bad sign?

Hang on, Edgar, you’ll know all too soon.

Her perfume rounded the corner of his cubicle a split second before she did. Just the scent had him buzzing with arousal. She’d been everything he dreamed of in bed. No, everything and more because his dreams had been dreams and last night she’d been real.

“Morning, Eddie.”

“Hey.” He grinned up at her, as tenderly as he dared, knowing no matter how she felt underneath, she’d still be skittish this morning. Whatever had made her bolt in the middle of the night wouldn’t have resolved itself this soon. And with their coworkers all around, she couldn’t exactly launch into praises of his sexual technique or drop to her knees and confess undying love. Which was a damn shame.

But she’d have to give some sign, wouldn’t she?

God, she was beautiful. Yawning, clutching her Starbucks cup, hair disheveled as if someone had been tangling his fingers through it all night in order to kiss her as often as possible. Her lips were dark, chin pink from his stubble. He hated to think he’d hurt her at all, but the man part of him—yes, there was a man part even to him—enjoyed a cheap macho thrill that he’d left his mark.

She wore a clingy rose-colored knee-length skirt that molded itself to her gorgeous thighs. Her ass looked firm and strong underneath and he nearly sighed when she sat, and he lost the view. Last night his hands had been a-a-ll over that—

He had to stop thinking about it right now.

Or else he was going to stand up, yank the skirt up those strong soft thighs, lift her onto the desk, step between her legs and—

He had to stop thinking about that right now.

Or else he was going to— “How was Chicago?”

He blinked. Back to earth. How was what? “Chicago?”

“Hello? Edgar?” She leaned down, smiling, waved in front of his face. “Last night? Remember?”

He remembered every second. “Oh, yes.”

“So…?”

He was lost. “So what?”

“Tell me how it was.”

He stared blankly. “I don’t.”

“You know, Chicago?”

Chicago? Was that her code word for what they’d done? So they could talk about it in the office and no one would guess? Very odd. She was not acting the way he expected. “It was…God, Melanie, it was fabulous. The best night of my life.”

“Wow. That’s…wow. Great.” She tipped her head, looking a little surprised. “What made it so great?”

“Uh…” He was not really sure he liked this game. “The sights. The, um, sensations. And really, most of all the. emotions. More than I’ve ever felt in…Chicago.”

“Oh. Well. I’m glad you had fun.” Her eyes narrowed. He’d said something wrong. She’d blindsided him with all this coded talk; he was hopelessly confused. And hopelessly in love with her.

What else was new?

“Edgar.” She leaned closer to whisper, her shy smile so sweet he could barely keep from kissing her. Last night those lips had belonged to him. He still couldn’t get over it. He probably never would. “I had a fabulous night, too.”

His heart rose like a rocket, the hope almost as painful as the countless rejections. “Yeah?”

“Mmm, yeah.”

Oh, dear God. He was getting hard again, not the best place or time. But this was everything he’d hoped for. Melanie, acknowledging what went on between them, admitting she enjoyed it. “You had a good time, huh?”

“Ohh, yes.” She blushed. “You know what I mean, right?”

“I do.”

Her smile turned a little anxious. “I hope it’s okay with you.”

“It’s more than okay, Melanie.” He was whispering, too; his passion for her made voice impossible. “It’s what I’ve dreamed of for the last two years.”

Her shy smile froze. She looked as if she’d eaten something rotten. “Uh…really?”

Crap. Crap. He’d gone too far. He had to remember whom he was talking to. That she wasn’t in the same emotional place he was. That letting herself be so open to him was undoubtedly a new and frightening experience. If he pushed too hard now, this soon after the breakthrough, she could bolt.

“Okay, not everything I’ve dreamed of.” His laugh came out goofy and strained.

She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her face relaxed and she laughed, too, considerably more musically than he had.

“Well, I’m glad you approve. I wouldn’t want anything to upset our friendship, Edgar.”

His heart sank. Lower than he thought possible. Friendship?

No way. No effing way. What went on between them last night was not friendship no matter what she wanted to tell herself this morning. It was not friends with benefits, it was not getting their rocks off just for the hell of it. What they had last night was everything sex with love should be. And if she blew it off like it was another romp in the hay, he was going to check himself into a psychiatric hospital. Or have her committed.

“I think we’re talking a hell of a lot more than friendship, Melanie.” His voice actually came out with strength.

“Whah?” She looked bewildered.

“Last night. It was not about friendship.”

“Oh, no.” Her face cleared. “No, Stoner and I aren’t friends, not the way you and I are. Nor will we ever be, I’m sure. Don’t worry.”

He gaped at her. “Why would I worry whether you’re friends with Stoner?”

She gaped back. “I mean, after I was with him last night.”

Last night? With Stoner?

No, no, wait, Stoner had mentioned he’d bumped into her. “You mean when you saw him in the bar?”

“Ed-gar.” She rolled her eyes. “What is with you this morning? No, not in the bar, afterward, in your bedroom.”

“What does that have to do with Sto—” The rest of his brother’s name refused to leave his lips. This morning Stoner had said a planned late-night date with Melanie hadn’t worked out. Melanie had been worrying that sex with his brother would affect her friendship with Edgar. Her ugly, dorky buddy, Edgar.

“Excuse me.” He got up, staggered across the room, nearly knocking down his boss, coming out of his office.

Todd looked concerned. “Edgar? Something wrong?”

Yes! Everything! “No. Nothing. I’m fine.” Suicidal, maybe, but nothing serious.

Luckily, there was no one in the men’s room. He made a beeline for a stall, horribly afraid he was going to be sick.

Melanie had thought she was screwing Stoner last night. She didn’t know she’d been making love to him. All that passion, all that emotion, all that sweetness between them.

A dream after all.

He wanted to puke even if his body wasn’t ready to. Melanie hadn’t come to him; there was no miracle there. Of course not. She’d come to his brother, the sex god, the hot masculine jerk without a shred of depth, without much intelligence, without room in his monstrous head to care about anyone but himself.

Melanie’s type all over. What had Edgar been thinking? How could he even have imagined she’d crawl into bed with him?

Stoner had bumped into her at the bar, invited her up to Edgar’s room, Edgar’s bed, knowing Edgar would be sleeping on the couch so as not to inconvenience his brother.

Chicago? That would be Stoner’s invention. Which helped only a little, knowing at least Melanie hadn’t come into his apartment expecting to step over Edgar on the sofa bed and then screw his brother’s brains out a few feet away.

He leaned back against the partition, making himself breathe slowly and carefully until the urge to lose his breakfast subsided. This was worse than when he’d introduced Melanie to his jewelry-artist downstairs neighbor, Sledge, in order to buy her one of his pieces. Sledge repaid him by hitting on Melanie and then telling Edgar all about it. This was much worse. His own damn brother, who had everything Edgar didn’t—except brains and integrity, which didn’t count for enough in this world.

Edgar had grown up invisible to women, one of those kids fawned over by adults, a “good worker,” a “great help to his parents,” a “responsible citizen,” while his mess of a brother was like a bug zapper for the female sex. One after another, drawn to his light and his high voltage, zap, zap, zap, they went up in blue smoke one after another, the destruction of so many not slowing the lineup at all. While “responsible citizen” Edgar sat on the sidelines in awed misery.

This time it was his heart that got busted, not his ego.

Zap.

He turned to the wall, took a few more deep breaths; the cold metal felt good against his forehead. Solid. Impartial. Calming.

Okay, Edgar. Deal with facts. Fact: Melanie hadn’t known in the dark that he was himself. Fact: they’d had incredible sex. Fact: she’d left in the middle of the night, which he happened to know she didn’t usually do, because generally she was hopeful the relationship would continue and she wanted to be around in daylight. So something had been different last night for her.

That was good. He’d concentrate on that. Regardless of whom she’d thought he was, she’d experienced emotion so intense she’d ducked out rather than face it. Which meant that on some level, however subconscious, she had feelings for him. Only she didn’t know it yet.

Therefore, logically, all Edgar had to do was go out there and tell her she’d been with him last night. Make sure she knew he was an innocent party in this, explain the bed mix-up. She’d be shocked at first, but then her wheels would start turning, she’d remember what it had been like with him, Edgar, and she’d come around. She’d realize—she had to realize—that they were meant to be together. And once she realized that.

There would be nothing stopping them.

He lifted his head and grinned at his homely face, mind whirling, stomach at peace. He’d get to be with her again, maybe tonight. Those eyes, those lips, that body.

Edgar closed his eyes and groaned, tortured by his so-long-yearned-for happiness now so closely within reach.

Only one more thing to do.

He straightened, splashed water on his face, washed his hands. Tried to tamp down his mess of wiry hair.

Okay.

Out of the men’s room, he walked back to his cubicle, one step at a time, adrenaline buzzing so loudly through his system he felt as if he were operating in a different dimension from the rest of the office.

When he rounded the corner, Melanie looked up in concern, saved her file and turned her chair to face him. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry if this has upset you. You could have told me right out that you didn’t want me with your brother, you didn’t have to pretend—”

“Melanie.” He sat, scootched his chair close to hers, took her hand. He was just going to say it. “Last night. In bed. That wasn’t Stoner. That was me.”

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, waiting for the punch line. He didn’t crack a smile.

The eyebrows sank slowly. “Edgar…don’t do that. It’s not funny.”

“I’m serious. It was me. It was dark, so you didn’t realize, and I thought…”

She took her hand away, eyes widening. Understanding dawned on her face, then rose and rose into full-blown horror. Not shock, not surprise, but horror. As if he’d just told her she’d slept with a person with active cases of every known STD. Or with her brother. Or with her dog.

He waited. Waited for the horror to change to surprise, for those wheels to start turning, for her to connect the man in front of her with the passion and tenderness, the wild erotic chemistry, the panting straining desperate need to join and climax, and for that surprise to soften her expression, to part her lips, Oh, Edgar, that was you!

None of that happened. She continued to stare as if she couldn’t imagine anything more disgusting than lying naked with him.

Okay. He’d wait longer. She had to make the connection soon. Tick…tick…tick…

Still nothing.

He couldn’t bear it. Not one more ticking, torturous second of this pain or this humiliation, not one.

A forced laugh, as real as he could make it. “Gotcha.”

Her laughter wasn’t forced. It was loud and long and full of so much relief that his pain, which he’d been pretty sure was as bad as it could get, got worse.

“Oh, my God, Edgar. You really had me. Ha!” She put her hand to her chest. “Damn. That would have been really, really—”

He must have shown something in his face to stop her. Something. Because thank God she did stop, and looked confused and contrite.

“Horrible?”

“No, oh, no, Edgar. No. Of course not. It’s just that you and I…” She laughed again. Uncomfortable this time. He was glad. He wanted her to suffer, even just a little. “We’re not about…that.”

“Right.” She was wrong. She was so damn wrong, he wanted to jump up and bellow it, beat his chest and fling furniture around the office.

But that wasn’t him. He was sweet, gentle Edgar, who let the world walk all over him rather than trip people up to get what he wanted. Who adored this woman unreasonably and would do anything rather than make her unhappy.

So she’d go on being wrong, and he’d go on being her best friend, and she’d probably go on and try to screw Stoner again. And even when she did and the sex was bad compared to what they’d shared, even when she put two and two together as she writhed in bed with his brother and realized Edgar really had been in bed with her last night.

At least he wouldn’t be there to see that look of sick horror on her face ever, ever again.

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