“You look like you just tumbled out of bed,” Owen murmured

Stevie froze at the image. Tumbling out of bed… Owen Dasher half-naked amidst tangled sheets, extending a hand to reel her back in. Heat suffused her cheeks.

“No… I just need to get dressed.” She pulled the skimpy robe tighter around her.

“I see.” But his eyes were glued on her hair now.

“Is there a reason you’re staring?”

“No…it’s just that—” He moved closer, winding a few tendrils around his fingers.

Stevie held her breath. Her breasts rose and fell against the cool silk, her nipples peaking in the chilly room. She knew he wanted to kiss her, wanted to slip his hands inside her robe.

But instead he said, “It’s very strange. Your hair seems to be, uh, bent….”

Bent? Batting his hand away, she glanced in the nearby mirror. Oh, hell.

Just when Stevie thought she was operating with confidence and pizzazz, he pointed out she had Hee Haw hair. And she was back to square one.

She was past that stage, wasn’t she? Stephanie no more!

With a determined air, Stevie turned to Owen and fluffed her hair. “Let me tell you how much fun it is being…blissfully single.”

Dear Reader,

There’s just something about Christmas. When the snow starts to fall, when you start to hear the carols and see the lights and the trees…and in Chicago, when the Marshall Field’s department store unveils its magical windows, there’s romance in the air right along with the snowflakes.

I hope you’ll enjoy my look at life and love in Chicago during the holidays as much as I enjoyed dreaming it up. I admit it—I was totally smitten with the idea of an irresistible force like Stevie Bliss, author of a sizzling book about using men for a romp or two while never giving your heart, smacking right up against an immovable object like Owen Dasher, a reporter who thinks she’s a total hottie and a total fake. Any other time of the year, Stevie might have been able to resist Owen’s devastating charms, to stay true to her “Blissfully Single” principles. But there’s just something about Christmas….

I hope you’ll pull up your comfiest chair, sit back with a cup of cocoa and enjoy this naughty little ride through the holidays!

Merry Christmas!

Julie Kistler

Books by Julie Kistler

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

808—JUST A LITTLE FLING

HARLEQUIN DUETS

19—CALLING MR. RIGHT

30—IN BED WITH THE WILD ONE

73—STAND-IN BRIDE

THE SISTER SWITCH

More Naughty Than Nice

Julie Kistler

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dedicated to Scott, my best Christmas present ever.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Prologue

ONE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS. Santa on his way. And Stephanie Blanton already knew what she was going to find in her stocking. A big, fat nothing.

“Gonna find out who’s naughty and nice. Yeah, right,” she said in an aggrieved tone. “I have always been so nice. And what did it get me?”

No promotion. Not even a hint of a boyfriend or husband with whom to spend the holidays. Sitting in a crummy, noisy, smoke-filled bar a lousy week before Christmas. And if all that weren’t bad enough, there were these nasty red and green lights dangling over the table, giving her a terrible headache.

“It’s all about expectations,” her best friend Anna put in. “We expect too much from men.”

Stephanie nodded, doing her best to look wise, which wasn’t easy when she’d just slurped down three or four big ol’ cosmopolitans. They were cheery and red, and she and Anna had ordered them to feel more Christmasy. Maybe if their drinks had been carried in by a gorgeous man wearing nothing but a sprig of mistletoe. Maybe then she’d feel more festive.

Or maybe not.

“Men,” she muttered. “Who needs ’em?”

“Y’see, Steph, when Findlay called you into his office, you thought he would ask you to the Christmas party.” Anna hiccuped loudly, but it didn’t stop her lecture. “And that’s where you went wrong. Because guys like Mr. Findlay don’t ask out girls like us. We’re too boring, too dull, too nicey-nicey, too—”

“No, no. That’s not right.” Stephanie sat up straighter on her bar stool, almost falling off but catching herself just in time.

“Which part?”

“I didn’t expect Findlay to ask me to the party.” She shook her head to clear away the cosmopolitan fog. Concentrate, Stephanie. “Okay, Anna, I know you were angling for a date to the office party. But I never…”

Anna sent her a cynical look.

“Okay, so maybe, maybe I had a tiny, little, baby-size kernel of hope that Findlay would ask me,” she said, waving a hand, trying to forget the whole misty fantasy she’d spun for herself, all about gorgeous Mr. Findlay, who everyone knew was being promoted out of the cosmetics group, which meant he would no longer be her direct supervisor and therefore could ask her out with carefree abandon.

And what better time than Christmas? Mistletoe, snowflakes, picking out a tree together, eggnog by candlelight…

It just begged for a relationship. Somehow, in her heart of hearts, she had clung to this myth, this fairy tale, that the reason her boss was calling her into his office was to ask her to accompany him not just to the office party, but home next week to meet Mom and Pop Findlay for Christmas dinner. Something right out of It’s a Wonderful Life.

But the fantasy was gone. Banished. No more. Shaking her head, she finished, “I knew that was way out of the realm of possibility. What I expected—”

“Wait, wait, I know!” Her friend’s eyes widened and she actually giggled, which was not something Anna did very often. “You thought he would knock everything off his desk and then make mad, passionate love to you right then and there, on his desk.”

That sobered her up. “On his desk? Eeeeuww.”

“That’s not it, huh?”

“No way. I have a little more self-respect than that.” Stephanie tightened the holly-flecked scrunchie on her plain brown ponytail, forcing herself to return to her senses. It wasn’t hot sex she’d wanted from Mr. Findlay. No, it was love and affection and companionship, someone to look at her and think she was special and beautiful, worthy of spending his holidays with. All the things that now felt shabby and stupid. Thank goodness she’d never said any of it out loud. Then she might have to jump off a bridge. This way she just had to drown herself in cosmopolitans.

“What I expected,” she explained, “was for him to offer me the promotion to head of the cosmetics group. Because I deserve it. I know it and he knows it.”

“I know it, too,” Anna offered loyally.

Stephanie shook her head. “But, hon, if it wasn’t going to be me, it should’ve been you. You deserve it, too. I’m pretty good when it comes to having a finger on the pulse of our demographic. You, you’re even better.”

“Maybe. But you do a better presentation. Together we’re unbeatable.”

“Except for the fact that we’ve been beaten. By Missy, of all people. Missy.” Her voice filled with contempt as she went on, “At our last meeting for the Glam line, Missy actually proposed strawberry as a flavor for lip gloss. Like strawberry hasn’t been overdone to death. Like strawberry didn’t score in the low twenties with the focus group. Strawberry! It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. You’d think we were marketing to six-year-olds. When he told me he was giving her the promotion, my jaw just dropped. I told him about the strawberry fiasco. And he didn’t even care.”

“That’s the whole reason he likes her,” Anna argued. “Think about it. She’s stupid enough that she will never threaten his job.”

Stephanie shook her head. “Nope. It’s that he wants to boink her.”

“Findlay? He would never do that.”

“Blond, boobs, boinkability. The whole package,” she said gloomily. “It’s so unfair.”

“I still don’t think he would do that,” Anna persisted.

“Oh, I don’t think he would, either. But he wants to. As long as he wants her but doesn’t have her, he’ll keep her around.” Staring into space, she kept a firm grip as she sloshed her wide martini glass back and forth. “See, that’s our problem, Anna. No one wants to boink us. What’s wrong with them, anyway? We’re perfectly boinkable.”

“Perfectly,” Anna agreed.

“Men are such dolts.”

“Totally. Dolt-o-rama.”

“And I just don’t get why a man like Mr. Findlay, who actually has a brain, would be thinking with his…” She trailed off. It was the curse of being a nice girl. She didn’t use words like that in public, even under the influence of alcohol. Missy did, of course. Missy. It was just pathetic. “I still can’t believe he gave her my promotion. Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘If you want promotions, you need goals, Stephanie. A five-year plan. Marriage—that’s your five-year plan, isn’t it? Ha ha.’ It’s insulting.”

“But you’re as into your career as anyone. Why would he say that?”

She shrugged. “Because I don’t push myself forward, waving my hand, going, me, me, me! I don’t demand promotions or raises or perks or…anything.” Exasperated, she added, “We’re the same, Anna, you and me. We’re not flashy. We’re more in the background. And what’s wrong with being in the background? What’s wrong with being support staff instead of stars?”

“You’re expendable,” Anna said flatly. “Not only do you not get promoted, you get fired.”

“Oh, Anna, I’m so sorry!” Stephanie said quickly. She couldn’t believe she’d been rattling on about her stupid nonpromotion when Anna had it a lot worse. “What they did is so unfair. Goons like Missy make bad choices, the company bleeds accounts right and left, and you get laid off. It makes me want to quit, too.”

“It’s depressing. Especially at Christmas. I don’t mind leaving so much—it’s always bothered me that I didn’t feel really respected, you know? But still…a job’s a job.”

Stephanie leaned closer, trying to exude sympathy. “You’ll find something else in the New Year. You’re too good!”

“I don’t care about getting laid off. I’d have to leave, anyway, after what happened today. It was so humiliating.” Anna exhaled a long breath. “I made a fool of myself over Fred in Accounting.”

“Well, I know you made him a turkey for Thanksgiving, but what’s wrong with that?”

But Anna wasn’t listening. Staring into the depths of her drink, she muttered, “It was after they sent out the layoff e-mails. I was cleaning out my desk, and Fred stopped by. And suddenly I’m thinking, well, okay, I got laid off, but I wasn’t that crazy about working here, anyway, and this could brighten things up. Balance things out, you know? So I’m sitting there, grinning up at him like a goon, with my chubby little fingers crossed. Is he going to ask me? Is he going to ask me? Oh, goodie. He’s opening with the Christmas party. That must mean he’s going to ask me!”

Stephanie leaned in. “So what did he say?”

“He asked me whether I knew any cute girls I could fix him up with at the last minute because he was desperate to have a date for tonight,” Anna said darkly. “Like he never thought, for one second, he could ask me. I made him a turkey for Thanksgiving. With trimmings! And yet even when he’s dying for a date, I’m not good enough. Like what am I, turkey-girl of the Western Hemisphere?”

“Of course not,” Stephanie shot back. “You’re adorable. And wonderful. And much too good for that jerk.”

“Jerk is right. He probably ran right down the hall and asked Missy.”

“Missy,” Stephanie said with a sneer. She was starting to feel outraged all over again. “It’s a joke. We are so much more in tune with the Glam demographic. I mean, you and I, Anna, we know where the 18-to-25-year-old woman eats and drinks, her favorite colors, what CDs and videos she buys, who she wants her hair cut like and what celeb she wants to sleep with and why.”

“We’ve got our demographic cold,” Anna said sadly. “And nobody cares.”

“I care. I care about our demographic. I care about all those poor 18-to-25-year-olds who are going to be pushed into buying the wrong cosmetics because stupid Missy is in charge.” Resolute, Stephanie raised her glass. “I promise you this, Anna. I will not let my demographic down. I will do what I can to combat the Missies of this world, so that the 18-to-25-year-olds coming up will not be forced to wear strawberry lip gloss in the pursuit of the Glam lifestyle.”

“You go, girl!” Anna stopped. “But how are you going to do that?”

Stephanie thought for a long moment, but nothing came to her. Finally, she set her cocktail glass back down on the table. “I don’t know yet.”

Narrowing her eyes, Anna chewed on the end of a maraschino cherry stem. “There has to be some way we can use what we know. We’ve worked so hard.”

“Exactly. And I know we can think of something. We’re smart, we’re committed and we have a lot to say.” Warming to her topic, Stephanie declared, “The women of the twenty-first century need to know what we have to tell them.”

“Like how to turn the tables.” Her friend smiled gleefully. “Like, what are you thinking, girls? You do not need to get hooked up with some loser and let him bring you down.”

“Exactly,” Stephanie said firmly. “Like you should never sit around waiting for a man to call. Better yet, you should sleep with whoever you want and then not take his calls or return his messages. Better the dumper then the dumpee, you know?”

“This is good, Steph!”

“The women of tomorrow should do what they want, when they want. Forget marriage. Forget all those nasty bonds that only benefit the men.” Marriage—that’s your five-year plan, isn’t it, Stephanie? Mr. Findlay’s mocking words played back in her mind, spurring her on. “We’ll come right out and say, hey, bucko, I want to sleep with you, but you can darn well do your own laundry and pick out your own ties and, and—”

“And make your own Thanksgiving turkey!”

“And trimmings! We should never share our money, our closets or our bathrooms—”

“Oooh. Bathrooms. Excellent one,” Anna chimed in. “No fighting over seats up, seats down, which way the toilet paper roll goes, any of that.”

“Because we don’t need them or any of their baggage!”

Anna’s volume rose as she came in with, “You are so right! Not in my bathroom! Not with your baggage! But lots of sex. Everywhere, anywhere, all the time! Sex!”

Stephanie suddenly noticed all the attention they were getting in the crowded bar. Anna went on, blithely indifferent, bouncing on her barstool and slamming a fist into the air, as her voice grew increasingly louder.

“Boink ’em and throw ’em away! Woo-hoo!”

“Anna, maybe you should—”

“No, listen, Steph. We should so do this! A new message for a new century. Gloria Steinem meets Britney Spears. Independence. The bad girl. The independent bad girl! It’s perfect!”

“Okay, well, let’s not run away with ourselves.”

“No, no, you don’t see.” Anna leaned closer. “I don’t have a job, and you’ll be working for Missy. They don’t respect either of us, and we don’t have to put up with that. So you’re going to go back to work on the Monday after New Year’s and tell Findlay that you quit.”

“I am?”

“Yes, you are. And then we’ll have the time. We already have the brains. And we have you.”

“Me?” Stephanie asked dimly. “What does that mean?”

“Well, we can’t go revolutionizing women without a spokesmodel.” Anna crossed her arms over her chest. “Face it. No matter what we do to me, I’m still going to be too short and too square. But you…You’ve got real possibilities. You could be really hot if we put some Tae Bo and a few Glam products where our mouth is. Besides, you’re great at presentations, remember? You pitch like nobody else. This is like one big pitch.”

“But, Anna…” Stephanie peered at her friend. “How did we get from ‘boink ’em and dump ’em’ to me being a spokesmodel? I am so not the type. I’m way too nice!”

“But that’s just it. Inside, I think there is definitely a naughty girl itching to get out.”

“Out of me?”

“You bet! Babe, you and me, we know women ages 18 to 25 like the back of our hand,” Anna argued. “We know exactly who they want to be. So we provide the who. You! I do the marketing, you write the results, you live the results. This is so perfect.”

“Are you talking a how-to?” Stephanie asked. “Or something more like a like a video or a magazine?”

“We’ll figure that out later. Put some focus groups together and see what plays the best.”

“But what’s our message?”

“We’ve already got it. The independent bad girl. Spike your stiletto heel through his heart!”

“That’s a tad violent, isn’t it?”

“Okay, then—sassy sisters doing it for themselves. Guys are for fun, but not for forever.” Anna beamed with satisfaction. “We make up for every Fred in Accounting, for every Mr. Findlay who ever picked a bimbo over the smart girl. We show them all who knows what about marketing. And our demographic eats it up with a spoon.”

Stephanie blinked. She couldn’t quite believe it, but this all made sense. Cold, hard, perfect sense.

“So?” Anna prompted, raising her cosmopolitan in a half toast. “Do we show them what we’re made of?”

Sassy sisters doing it for themselves. She loved it! She could already see the marketing plan, the product tie-ins, the PR possibilities dancing before her eyes.

No more Ms. Nice Girl… Letting out the naughty girl inside…Stephanie smiled with grim satisfaction as she lifted her own glass. “Let’s do it, Anna. Let’s show the world.”

1

A few days before Thanksgiving, three years later

“STEVIE, DO YOU THINK we should ice down your nipples before you go out?”

Stevie Bliss, aka Stephanie Blanton, author of the fabulously successful new book, Blissfully Single, whipped around so fast she almost knocked her assistant over. “Anna, are you nuts?” she whispered. “Ice down my…? You’re kidding, right?”

“Of course I’m not kidding.” Anna fixed her with a stubborn stare. “Nipples happen to be big right now. Our focus group went off the charts when they saw video of J. Lo at the—”

“I’m not doing it,” Stevie interrupted. “Besides, I’m wearing a jacket. Nobody would see them, anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Anna persisted. “We’ve gotten as much play as we’re going to get off the rest of our out-there elements. Maybe one more is just what we need for a new round of press. We’re coming up on the biggest shopping day of the year. We’ve got to keep you in the public eye.”

Stevie almost smacked her. Anna was her best friend, her confidante and her partner in this crazy plot to put them and Blissfully Single on the map, but sometimes she really went too far.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked, Anna, including the no underwear thing, which I personally think is ridiculous—”

“It killed on the surveys and you know it,” Anna returned. She began to tick items off on her fingers. “For our last element, we gave them a choice of tattoo, various piercings, magenta or blue hair, exposed midriff, exposed thong and even carrying a snake. Nothing scored like going commando.”

“I know, I know.”

“It makes you naughty, outrageous, but not too far over the line. And it gives us an advantage over most men, who are so distracted by what may be going on under there that they forget to feel threatened by the message.”

“I know, I know.”

Sounding just a tad testy, Anna said, “I don’t make this stuff up, Stevie. It’s all in the hard data.”

“And I have done everything so far that skewed right with that data,” Stevie explained patiently. “But the whole thing, the whole Stevie Bliss persona, it’s set now. Set. In stone. Or at least in leather.”

She took a deep breath, looking down at the slick black leather miniskirt and zip jacket, both scandalously expensive, the deeply plunging neckline on the silk camisole underneath, the knee-high boots with three-inch heels… She had never imagined herself strutting around in an outfit like this. And whether you called it a hottie or a ’ho, it certainly made an impact.

She’d tried hard to own this new brazen person she had become. Day in and day out, she continued to try. And she was doing pretty well, if she did say so herself. For the past month, ever since they’d launched this leg of the official media tour for Blissfully Single, she and Anna and their PR machine had been blitzing the East Coast markets. Everyone from Letterman to Liz Smith had bought into Stevie Bliss, champion of the single, sexy, independent woman, confident in her own sizzling womanhood.

And now they’d brought their act to Chicago for the holidays. They had a month of appearances and signings designed to saturate the Midwest from their base in the Windy City, where there was fabulous shopping and exactly the right demographic of shoppers.

Meanwhile, every piece of her persona, from the streaks in her hair to the shape of her “smart girl” glasses and the precise amount of cleavage she showed, had been carefully selected, based on hours of marketing research. She looked terrific. She didn’t need iced nipples to sell this package.

“But Stevie—”

She held up a hand. “Anna, give it up.”

The bookstore manager peeked around the corner into the office, cutting off further discussion. “Ms. Bliss? We have everything set up. Are you ready?”

Stevie raised her chin. “Absolutely,” she said, with the lazy drawl that was her trademark. Soft and sexy, with a hint of a growl, this was the voice that played best with her public.

From recent experience, Stevie knew she would be fine as long as she stuck with the program and played the role to the hilt, safe behind the disguise. Reminding herself—as some psychological consultant or other had recommended—that she was a cool jungle cat, she strode out behind the man from the bookstore, sliding carefully and yet easily into the chair next to the podium, perched at the front of her seat with her knees down so as not to show off anything she didn’t want to. Instead, she offered a polished smile and more than a hint of décolletage to the eager fans in the front row.

I’m a tiger, they’re hyenas, and I will eat them all alive.

Whoa. They were really crammed in here today, weren’t they? Anna would be pleased—every seat was filled, with more fans standing around the sides and in the back, all clutching hardcover copies of Blissfully Single. There were also two TV cameras shooting across the crowd from different sides, but it didn’t faze her. Stations frequently sent someone out to her appearances to get some footage for the evening news, maybe collect a sound bite or two. As constructed, the Stevie Bliss persona was telegenic, so getting on camera was the whole idea.

On the sides, Stevie could see bookstore clerks trying to shove racks and shelves farther back to accommodate extra people. Such a big crowd. Butterflies flickered in her stomach, and she really had to clamp down. You’re a tiger, damn it!

The store manager was halfway through his introduction, playing to the closer camera as he told the assembled folks how lucky they were to get to see Stevie Bliss, author extraordinaire, up close and personal, how much her book had meant to so many, and on and on. Stevie tuned out, trying to judge the people in the crowd. Would they be receptive? Or would they throw tomatoes, with the TV cameras catching every splash?

The stony faces over on the left side—the ones near the baby carriage—looked like protesters for sure. Moms on parade, no doubt, who felt the need to fight for the sanctity of marriage. She’d seen their ilk before.

Ditto the group of men nearer the back, shuffling as they stood. Although most of her fans were female, she tended to get a good number of men, too, the kind who wanted to meet the daring woman who boasted short skirts and no panties, who made no bones about the fact that she slept with whoever she liked, had no interest in anything permanent, and would only stay with a man for one month, tops. For them, it was like an open invitation. Meet the hottie! Get her to give you a month!

It wasn’t going to happen—her scandalous reputation was all smoke and no fire—but she wasn’t going to tell them that.

For others, and these grumpy guys looked like they fell squarely into the “other” category, it was more of a war. A bit older, a lot more insecure as they looked ahead to hair implants and Viagra, they hated the idea that a woman would claim the upper hand when it came to sex. They showed up to boo on behalf of their beleaguered gender.

Stevie held her head high. Mentally, she had classified and discarded them. Hadn’t she had hours of training on how to deflect hard questions? She could handle a few measly hecklers. Besides, they provided good publicity, even if they did give her headaches. Tiger, tiger, she repeated under her breath, smiling brightly as she watched one of the TV guys shift for a different view. But when he moved to the side, her eyes were drawn to the man behind him, someone who had been hidden until now.

Hold on. Who was he? He didn’t fit the profile of either the wannabe wolf or the macho man. Chewing her lip, she ticked off the important details, trying to get a handle on Mr. Way Cute. Sitting by himself, dark hair, piercing gaze, very good-looking, cool and removed, carrying a small notebook flipped open to the first page….

Reporter, she decided. If there was such a thing as a really hot reporter who looked like George Clooney’s younger brother. Did reporters come like that? She’d been interviewed quite a few times, but never by anyone who looked like this one.

The mystery man paid no attention to the bookstore manager, who was still up at the podium, droning on through that endless introduction. Instead, he stared right through her. His gaze was frank, speculative, insolent, raking over her, judging her. He sat back in his chair, putting his pen aside. The challenge was palpable, crackling in the air between them. I don’t think you’re so special. You’re going to have to prove it, baby. Every word.

She swallowed. Okay, well, if he was going to be that way, she would just have to turn up her sex appeal another notch, past “ensnare” and right up to “torture.” She could do that. Right?

She looked at him. He looked at her. He narrowed that sharp gaze. And suddenly she felt a lot less like a tiger and a lot more like a hyena.

Breaking first, Stevie scooted to the side and sent a frantic glance Anna’s way, signaling that she needed help. Anna was excellent when it came to picking up on the “panic” vibe, and she rushed over, bending in. “What?” she whispered.

“Back row,” Stevie murmured. “Reporter. Who is he?”

“Oh.” Anna relaxed. “Owen Dasher, a columnist from the Chicago Chronicle. It’s the third-rated paper in town. But he’s a real up-and-comer.”

“I sense a certain…” She licked her lip. “Hostility.”

Anna spared him a quick glance. “I don’t think he looks hostile.”

“Very Cary Grant in Notorious. He needs Ingrid Bergman to sleep with Claude Rains as part of this spy thing, but then when she does, well, he thinks she’s a ’ho. Very hostile.”

Anna was steeled and ready to jump before Stevie got to the end of her thought. “What have I told you about the old movie thing? I know it’s a habit, but it’s not sexy. It makes you sound more like a geek on the trivia bowl team.”

They’d been through this a million times. Could she help it if she had once been a geek on the high school trivia bowl team? And she adored old movies. The flickering black-and-white images on the classic film channels had everything the real world did not.

Still, she knew Anna was right. Old movies might fit Stephanie Blanton, but not Stevie Bliss. And a hefty percentage of their target demographic hadn’t seen anything made before Titanic.

“Okay, okay. Nix on the movies. Back to the reporter.” She ventured a glance his direction. Cary Grant? Ha! Okay, so he had the dark hair, a penetrating gaze, a classic jawline, even a certain elegance in the way he held himself. But he was no Cary Grant. She was sure of that. Quickly skipping back to Anna, she asked, “What do you think he wants?”

“A column, obviously,” Anna said impatiently. “Maybe if you really make an impression, he’ll do more than one. I told you about him. The Tribune and the Sun-Times dissed us, but the Chronicle sent him. I looked up some of his columns, just to check him out. He’s good. Seems to champion causes a lot, although he does some satirical stuff, too. Not exactly who I’d pick to write about you, but he has a following. He may have an agenda, I don’t know. And I don’t really care.” She smiled. “I have no doubt you can turn him around.”

“Right.” Owen Dasher of the Chronicle, huh? She frowned.

“Don’t frown. And quit chewing off your lipstick. Smile,” Anna ordered. “Look happy and in charge.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Stevie? Uh, Ms. Bliss?”

She glanced over at the bookstore manager, who was speaking in a stage whisper and beckoning with one hand. “Yes?”

“I’m done with my… I mean, you’re on. Now.”

“Oh.” Damn it, anyway. All caught up in the irritating man in the back row, she’d missed her cue. And now she felt flustered and off balance. You’re a tiger and they’re hyenas, she reminded herself quickly as she swept up to the podium, facing down her audience. She focused on a smiling young woman in the front row, exactly the right age and attitude to be receptive.

But it was that damn man in the back row she was thinking about. She was going to have to be at the top of her game to sell her message with him staring at her.

You’re Stevie Bliss, she told herself. You can do it.

Deliberately, she swung her head around, she found him in the crowd, and she began to speak right to him.

“Definitely single,” she purred. “And totally satisfied. Let me tell you all about it.”

OWEN DASHER felt himself fall neatly into the palm of her hot little hand.

And how exactly had she done that? He’d come prepared to be unimpressed. Bored, cynical, a little annoyed his editor had made him do this, he’d sat there as the crowd filled in, making a quick first draft of the column he intended to write.

Yet another attempt to hijack women’s brains and send them to Never Never Land, he scribbled into his notebook. Stevie Bliss—who is as fake as her Power-puff name—takes up where the Spice Girls and Ally McBeal thankfully left off….

He smiled. An excellent turn of phrase. That one just might make the final cut and end up in his column.

He might’ve thought he was being unfair, but he couldn’t miss the fact that there were other people here who didn’t care for her, either, what with the guy standing behind him who kept muttering, “Crazy broad,” and the ladies clustered around the baby carriage on the other side, all prim and proper in their disapproval. Good. He was looking forward to some fireworks.

And then she was late. As the bookstore got fuller and fuller, Owen grew more annoyed. It didn’t help that he didn’t want to be there in the first place, pretending he cared about the Blissfully Single crowd. He’d read the book. He knew how slick, shallow and maybe even dangerous her message was.

All that stuff about women who refused to get married and used men as sex objects struck him as pretty ridiculous. He’d had plenty of one-nighters in his twenty-nine years on the planet, and he’d learned from hard experience that being involved with someone purely for the sex always turned out ugly. He didn’t think there had to be love involved, necessarily, but he didn’t think you should be sleeping with someone if you couldn’t bear to wake up with them, either. Okay, so he was opinionated. He was a columnist. It came with the territory.

As he’d waited, he’d mused on why she came up with this stuff. What had made Stevie Bliss so cynical about love and relationships?

His first thought was that she must be some dried-up crone who couldn’t get a guy in the first place. He checked her picture. No dried-up crone there. But, hey, digital touch-ups were amazing. So who knew?

Or maybe she was no more than another fast-buck artist, mouthing whatever phony baloney self-help platitudes she thought were most likely to net her some easy cash. The crude, rude flavor of the month, clad in leather, sporting no undies just to get some attention.

As he was mulling the question one more time, the real Stevie Bliss walked out. No, she sauntered out, all long legs and saucy attitude. He noted the streaked blond hair, cut kind of wispy and choppy on the ends where it brushed her shoulders, the striking blue eyes behind snappy little tortoiseshell glasses, the creamy, pale skin curving down into that daring camisole, the skirt that was barely long enough to cover her assets… Wow.

If this was a dried-up crone, he was Methuselah. And far from vulgar, she seemed to have found the place where sex met class and lived happily ever after.

Letting his gaze linger on her spectacular legs, he wondered whether those boots were made for walking. And on whom. He had to admit it. She was hot.

He could see she was impatient as the introduction limped on, as her eyes scanned the room, taking the measure of the crowd, checking for pockets of negativity she might have to combat later. Smart girl.

And then her electric gaze hit him. Pow. One glance from media creation Stevie Bliss and he was sautéed in his seat. Where in the hell did that come from?

At first he wondered if this smoky glance thing was some tactic she tried on all the men in her audience. But no, she seemed to be as thunderstruck as he was. And she was gazing directly at him, no one else.

He steeled himself against his own overheated reaction. Owen Dasher was no neophyte when it came to dazzling women, after all. He’d interviewed a heap of stars as they hit Chicago to promote their movies, and if Julia Roberts couldn’t reduce him to a pile of goo, there was no way he was going to melt after one glance from Stevie Bliss.

So they did a little visual tango, eye to eye, with him hanging on to a sense of journalistic detachment by his fingernails. She’s shallow and plastic and this is all a scam, he reminded himself. And he was pleased—no, relieved—when she broke first to talk to one of her handlers. She seemed rattled, and he enjoyed that, too.

Relaxing for the first time since their gazes intersected, he managed to collect himself, taking himself sternly to task for losing it like that. But, yeah, he could handle her. He’d just proved that. She’d looked away first, hadn’t she?

Then she sidled up to the podium to begin her speech, and he felt his palms start to sweat. Okay, so her long, lovely legs and those wicked boots were hidden behind the podium. That helped. But the rest of her, still on display, was a lot to deal with. A lot of warm, delicious woman. His fingers began to clench and unclench, and he realized he hadn’t taken a single note. Hell.

As she spoke, purring about sassy sisters who knew their personal value and took no prisoners, she was staring right at him, giving him the full benefit of this little performance. Although his brain couldn’t seem to process a word she was saying, he was actually starting to believe her.

“I love men,” she confided, in a naughty tone of voice that sent sparks of heat licking up from the bottom of his spine. He stretched his legs, pretending to be bored, adjusting his position. Still burning.

“People call me a man-hater,” she continued, lifting a dismissive hand in the air. “Isn’t that silly? It couldn’t be farther from the truth. I love men. I mean, I love them.”

As she drew out the word “love” to make her implication clear, she was met by a flurry of giggles, and she turned her focus to the gaggle of teens in the front row, the ones doing the giggling. Which distracted her from keeping him pinned to his seat. Thank God.

“And why not? Men have been taking the cake and eating it, too, forever. Now it’s time for my cake.” Her smile widened, and she had a mischievous gleam in her eyes that left no doubt what she was really talking about. Sex. “Maybe with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

Whipped cream? And a cherry on top? On top of what? Or whom? Owen groaned, slipping deeper into the fantasy.

And then Stevie licked her lip. That pretty pink little tongue flicked over her top lip, for only a second. He was a goner.

Oh, man. This was bad. Very bad.

As she moved away from whipped cream, talking instead about empowerment and freedom, about making good choices and having no fear, he could feel the crowd moving with her. He could feel himself moving with her. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to stand up and shout, “Yes! Yes!” along with the rest of the converts.

Hell, he wanted to throw her on the floor and make love to her until she screamed, “Yes! Yes!”

Time to get a grip.

Reining himself in with fierce control, Owen glared at her. She was manipulating everyone in this room, and he was not going to be part of it.

Finally it was time for questions. He looked to the groups of dissenters he’d identified earlier. Surely they could bring her down a peg or two. Go to it, guys! Dent that sex kitten veneer.

“Miss Bliss,” a rather stodgy-looking woman called out, raising her hand, which was weighted down by a huge diamond and a thick wedding ring. Several other women rose behind her, and they lifted neatly printed signs into the air. Mom, Marriage and Apple Pie read one, while another went with Bliss is a Big Liar!

“I prefer Ms.,” Stevie Bliss responded quickly. “Or you can just call me Stevie. Would you prefer that?”

“No. Yes. I mean, no.” The lady with the question looked ready to burst a blood vessel. “I do not want to call you anything. Our group, the Righteous Moms Brigade, believes that marriage and motherhood should be respected and commended, not spit upon, as you seem to do, and we would like to say that your book is just hateful—”

“Don’t you just love what she said about marriage and motherhood?” Stevie cut in. “Isn’t that wonderful? Respected and commended. You are so right. Because if it weren’t for women like you, who are on the frontlines of the marriage wars, the rest of us, the ones who are totally unsuited for that life, might have to sub in. So let’s give the Righteous Moms a hand, shall we? We love you, Righteous Moms!”

As the other women present dutifully applauded, Stevie added, “I hope everyone will read chapter five of Blissfully Single, where I talk about how you decide what’s right for you. It’s not whether you choose to be married or single that counts. It’s about having the choice, about being smart and not being afraid to go it alone if that’s what really suits you.”

And with that, she dismissed the Righteous Moms from her radar and moved on. They were still sputtering over there, but she had pretty much stripped them of their weapons by agreeing with them. Besides, she was in charge of the questions, and she wouldn’t call on any more of them.

The next set of questions was less contentious, all about what makeup she used and what designer she was wearing, before three or four guys in a row asked if they could sign up for a month of her time. “A month, a week, whatever,” one of them offered breathlessly. He was young and didn’t seem very bright, with his backward baseball cap and goofy grin, but he certainly didn’t look like he was insane or anything. “Hey, Stevie, I’ll take an hour if that’s all ya got. Ten minutes. Whatever.”

He couldn’t believe it when Stevie Bliss actually grinned back at the kid. “Aren’t you adorable?” she declared. “I’m in the market, too. My December calendar has plenty of spots. So you just get in line, and bring ID, please, so we can make sure you’re old enough, and then I will definitely put you on my list of contenders.”

Owen rolled his eyes at the level of bull being shoveled here. Who in his right mind would sign up to march in Stevie Bliss’s never-ending parade of boy toys?

Finally, a cranky gent from the back of the room pushed forward far enough to get to talk. He had a buzz cut, a Chicago Bears jacket and a sour look on his face, all of which tended to suggest he wasn’t a Bliss fan. Yet Stevie actually called on him.

“Yes? You, sir.”

“My name is Joe Ramsey, and I’m the president of the Swingin’ He-Men, Chicago chapter.”

“How lovely for you, I’m sure,” she said sweetly.

“Well, thanks.” He swaggered a little, building up steam as he unfolded a piece of paper and read from it. “So, anyway, we want to know who you think you are, emasculating the male half of the society with your wanting to take our place as the predators and the hunters and all.” He glanced up expectantly. “Well?”

“Mr. He-Man, you hunt and predate all you want.” She lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t mind a bit.”

“But what about you getting in the way and telling women they get to dump us whenever they feel like it? That they shouldn’t do our laundry or make our food or any of the other stuff women are supposed to do. That’s just wrong!”

“I agree with you, Joe. Women being forced to do your laundry or make your food, that’s just wrong. Isn’t it nice we can agree on something?” She smiled and turned away from him before he sorted out exactly what she’d said to him, as she pretended to catch sight of the clock. “Oh, dear,” she said regretfully. “I’m afraid our time is up. Thank you so much, everyone, for coming out to see me today. I’ll be happy to sign your books if you’d like to line up.”

Which they did, like lambs to the slaughter. There was even a traitor from the Swingin’ He-Men who came tramping into the line with his book under his arm, blushing and looking sheepish.

Owen was grudgingly impressed. Two protesters turned back without a hint of a dustup. No fistfights, not even a raised voice. Too bad.

“Mr. Dasher?” It was the handler, the one he’d seen chatting with Stevie before her talk. Where Stevie wore leather and displayed all the right skin on her long, lithe frame, this short, somewhat stout lady was buttoned into a nondescript brown wool suit with a plain white blouse. Big-boned and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and a no-nonsense expression, she looked more like a Righteous Mom than someone who’d be riding the Blissfully Single train.

“I’m Owen Dasher,” he said. “You are…?”

“Anna, Stevie’s assistant.” She fixed him with a level gaze. “Sorry about the delay. There’s such a long line for autographs, and she may be a while. So if you wanted to—”

“Leave?” he asked with a shade of annoyance. Stevie Bliss got him all whipped into a frenzy by sending him lascivious glances and licking her lips and talking about whipped cream, and now she was going to leave him hanging? “What, is she afraid of this interview? You can tell her not to worry. I don’t bite.”

In a testier tone, she said, “You heard her speak. Do you really think she’s afraid of an interview? I think she’s looking forward to meeting you, as a matter of fact. She just wondered if you might prefer to go get a latte at the coffee bar while you wait.”

“Oh.” He stuck his notebook in the pocket of his coat, made a move to leave and then stayed where he was. Where was the coffee bar, anyway? And why would anyone think he was a latte kind of guy? Should he be insulted? “Look, that’s fine. Whatever. I’ll be at the coffee bar.”

“Mr. Dasher?”

He glanced back, noting that Anna looked more smug now than awkward. “Yes?”

“I thought you might want to know. Stevie…” Her words trailed off as she laughed out loud. “You should be prepared. She does bite.”

2

“WOO-HOO!” Stevie was so excited that she chugged water down too fast and spilled some on her Prada leather jacket. “I was good, wasn’t I?” she asked Anna. “I mean, I was on today. I had ’em cold. I cooked! I ruled!”

“You ruled,” Anna agreed. “There was a big crowd, and we sold a ton of books.”

“I was in a groove.” She swiveled in her chair, too hyped up to sit still. “At first that reporter guy kind of threw me, but then I took it as a challenge. Did you see how cute he was? I mean, awfully cute. Very, very cute. Men like him, all cool and superior and gorgeous and way too sure of themselves, they are exactly why we started this. And today, I was a tiger and he was a hyena and it felt good. Mr. Way Cute, and I reeled him in. By the end, he practically had a hook in his mouth.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Anna said dryly. “Better get a move on. He’s waiting in the coffee bar.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. I’ll be there in a sec. I was enjoying the moment, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, hooked or not, he seemed kind of ticked off. I wouldn’t want to push him.” Frowning, Anna blotted the wet spot on Stevie’s jacket with a tissue. “I don’t know what burr he’s got under his saddle, but there’s something.”

Stevie leaned forward, more alert now. “You think he’s planning to trash me?”

Anna shrugged. “Dunno. It doesn’t really matter. Trash or flash, it’s still publicity. As long as he writes a column, that’s all I care. Or maybe if you get under his skin enough, he’ll come across with two or three columns. And then we get a slew of letters to the editor, pro and con, and the other papers will tune in to the controversy and they’ll run features and pictures, too.” She took Stevie by the hand and pulled her out of her chair, propelling her toward the door and her duty. “The shopping season is just getting started. If we play our cards right, there will be moms and daughters and sisters and cousins and friends, all dying to buy copies of Blissfully Single for each other. Believe me, we need the press. So get to work. Get under his skin.”

Stevie considered. “Under his skin… Would that be irritated or turned on?”

“I don’t know.” Anna smiled, holding open the door as Stevie reluctantly ducked through. “Whatever works. Seems like you made a pretty good start. So keep it up.”

“Hmm…”

As Anna lagged behind, looking for a lost press kit with some updated stats she wanted to give to the reporter, Stevie put her glasses back on and shook her head so her hair would fall into just the right tousled disarray. She threw back her shoulders and lengthened her stride.

She wasn’t afraid of one silly reporter. Not in the least. So why was her heart pounding like a runaway bongo drum as she swept into the bookstore’s coffee bar?

There he was, with his dark hair carelessly shoved off his forehead, gnawing on the end of a pen. As he sat there, unaware of her scrutiny, she tried to be clinical and objective. She noted that he was tall, fairly slim and very good-looking, even with that grumpy expression. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, open at the neck, with a tailored navy blazer and tan pants. Neat, well-organized, comfortable in his clothes. Nothing so scary about that, was there? Chewing her lip, she wished she could find something about him, some obvious flaw, so that she could dismiss him outright.

Damn him, anyway. At first glance, he looked perfect. Or maybe that was his flaw. Who wanted perfection?

As she strolled over, his green eyes took her measure one more time. She did her best to look careless and at ease as she slipped into the other seat at his small wooden table. For the first time in a long time, she was intensely aware that the curves of her breasts were right there on display, inches from his eyes, that her skirt was very short and tight and… And that she wasn’t wearing any panties.

Was she sweating everywhere all at once? Or did it just feel like it?

Hello, Owen Dasher. Hello, Nightmare City.

Oh, come on. He probably hadn’t read the book and didn’t have a clue about the stupid no-underwear thing. Sure he was getting a good gander at her cleavage, but so what? Lots of women wore low necklines. And he was much too close to look under her skirt.

No squirming, she told herself curtly. No panicking. And no squirming!

“Hello,” she began, meeting his cool gaze. With her skirt firmly in place, she pressed her legs together, leaned forward, and extended a hand. “You must be Owen Dasher.”

He ignored her hand, preferring to glance down at his notebook. Then he slapped a small tape recorder down on the table between them. “Right. I already know who you are.”

Ooooh. Nice voice. Husky, a shade gruff, yet with a certain note of sweetness. It made her feel all melty. Of course, she was already overly warm, so it wasn’t that big a leap. But the voice could almost make her forgive the fact that he didn’t want to take her hand. Almost.

She pulled herself away from dangerous thoughts and concentrated on How to Manipulate a Conversation 101.

“I certainly hope you know who I am,” she returned smoothly. “You were staring a hole in me all the time I was speaking. So, did you like what you saw?”

That got him to look up. Bad move. She found herself momentarily distracted by his eyes. Chilly, yes. But that particular deep shade of green was amazing, particularly accented by his thick, dark lashes. Like a cool dip in a forest glade.

Snap out of it, she ordered herself. Probably colored contacts. Didn’t she know herself how easy it was to change your eye color? He probably did it just to bamboozle impressionable interviewees like her.

When he responded, his tone was as cynical as his eyes. “I’m trying to figure out if this Blissfully Single stuff is a scam or a joke.”

Rule 1: If you don’t like the question you’re asked, respond with one of your own. “Are those the only two choices?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You listened to my speech,” she noted. “Or at least you stared at me during my speech. Did that provide any clues?”

“Not really.”

“Why? Not paying attention, were we?”

“Oh, I paid attention.”

“I thought so.” She was kind of enjoying this verbal thrust and parry. As long as she fenced with him, word for word, it kept her mind off her lack of lingerie, the tiny thread of perspiration sliding down between her breasts and the hypnotic look in his beautiful eyes.

He said, “I found out one thing. You’re very good at what you do.”

Then he edged his heavy wooden chair forward, far enough that if she kicked out her boot an inch or two, she’d get him right in the shin. Which might not be a bad idea. But he’d made his point. His physical presence was strong and intimidating, generating enough body heat to knock her whole chair over. She dug in. She wasn’t going anywhere. Although some cold water thrown on her head might’ve been nice. Better yet, cold water thrown on his head.

Instead, she simply said, “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His jaw clenched. He sounded frustrated when he shot back, “Take it any way you want. I meant that you’ve obviously practiced delivering your spiel, you make a slick presentation, you sell what you’ve got to sell and the morons who buy your book get what they deserve.”

Stevie lifted an eyebrow. “And you’ve decided they’re morons because you don’t like my message, you don’t like my fans or because you’re threatened by me?”

“None of the above.”

“Then what? What is your problem, Mr. Dasher?”

“Who said I had a problem?”

She was losing control of this interview, letting him ruffle her feathers. And she had no intention of letting that continue. She was supposed to be getting under his skin, not vice versa.

Rule 2: Be calm, but establish who’s boss. Draw a line in the sand. Keeping her voice cool and collected, she mused, “I think you should quit playing footsie with me, Mr. Dasher. This is supposed to be an interview, remember? So far you haven’t asked any real questions, have you?”

She bent nearer, giving him a steady gaze that she hoped disguised her real feelings. I am going to smoke you, Mr. Big Shot. You think you can confuse me with how hot you are? You think I don’t know you just called my readers morons? You are going down!

He stared back, enigmatic and annoying.

Rule 3: Put him on the defensive. She struck. “Are you having problems getting your questions together? Don’t be afraid. Why, you can ask me anything, and find out every little thing you ever wanted to know about the Blissfully Single life, or…” Tipping her head to one side, she offered a superior smile. “Let me guess. You’d rather talk about you, right? ’Cause, after all, you’re the guy here. You’re used to everything revolving around you. Poor little dear. This must be confusing, when you’re not the center of attention.”

But he didn’t take the bait. “I’ve got questions.”

“Fire when ready.” Get that revolver out of the holster, big boy.

Fast and snappy, he asked, “Where did you get the idea for the book? Bad marriage? Some guy dump you? No date for the prom?”

“Do I look like a woman scorned?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“No.” She leaned in even closer, so that they were knee to knee, eye to eye. And if he wanted to stare right down the front of her camisole, well, that view was available. But he didn’t. His eyes stayed on hers. Darn him. She’d been sure she could distract him with some cleavage. Charging ahead, she finished, “I’m perfectly happy in my relationships. Plural. Always have been.”

“Ever been married?”

“No.”

“Left at the altar?”

“No. How about you?”

He grinned, and it was so swift and genuine, she couldn’t breathe for just a second. He’s enjoying this, too. He’s as turned on as I am!

“No and no,” he said. “So if you’ve never done it, what do you have against marriage?”

“If you’ve never done it, why are you defending it?”

“I’m supposed to ask the questions, and you’re supposed to answer. Which you didn’t.” His voice dropped lower as he repeated, “What do you have against marriage?”

Luckily, she had a series of set responses to that particular question—it was the first one everyone always asked—so she could pull another easy answer out of a mental file without thinking about his smile, his even white teeth, his perfectly formed lips….

I want you to kiss me with those lips. Now. Often. Starting with now.

On automatic pilot, she murmured, “Marriage is a lovely institution. But I don’t want to live in an institution.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he breathed, and his hand slid onto her knee.

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” she whispered. Stevie fixed her gaze on his adorable mouth, not even hearing his words.

Who cared? She was stoked up. She was on fire. His fingers crept an inch or two higher, tickling and warming her skin at the same time. The sensation—so small, so inconsequential—was incredible. God, that felt good.

She slipped to the front of her seat, rubbing one boot along his calf. He leaned in, lining up for the kiss she knew was coming. But it didn’t. He just sat there, waiting, as the air between them crackled with possibilities.

Feeling very naughty, she licked her bottom lip, watching his eyes as they followed her tongue. Secure in her hot-to-trot persona, she whispered, “So are you going to kiss me or not, Mr. Dasher?”

“Why would I do that, Ms. Bliss?” he asked, in the same soft, dangerous tone she was using.

She kept her boot on his leg. “Why wouldn’t you? You know you want to.”

“I do?”

“Oh, yeah. You do.”

“I don’t kiss women I barely know.”

“So get to know me.” Fast. And then kiss me.

As he gazed at her with a definite spark of mischief and heat, she knew she had him right where she wanted him. She was so proud of herself for acting sexy and reckless—right out of the Blissfully Single playbook—until she suddenly realized she was making a huge mistake. Playing at reckless was fine. Really being reckless was terrible.

As besotted as she was, she still recognized they needed a power shift here. Quickly. Or she’d be in the storage closet making mad, passionate love with Mr. Way Cute before she knew it. She had never done anything that crazy and irresponsible in her entire life, with or without a storage closet and Mr. Way Cute. No matter what she pretended to be, she was not the right sort of person for this full-on assault.

Sliding her foot back to her own side of the table, she decided to say something crude enough to knock him off his game. “If you’re trying to play it coy, you don’t need to. Anyone who’s read my book knows it’s not that hard to get into my pants.”

“But, Stevie, anyone who’s read your book knows you don’t wear any.”

He’d read the book. He knew.

Panic and excitement trilled deep inside her. His soft breath ruffled her hair as he tilted in near her ear. Down below, his hand flirted under the edge of her leather skirt. Oh, man. He’d read the book. He knew!

That was so unfair. She was wet, she was burning up, she wanted him. She closed her eyes and leaned into his fingers, letting him go wherever he wanted. “Oh…”

“Ahem.” Someone loudly cleared her throat. Someone standing right next to them.

Stevie opened her eyes. It was Anna, grinning from ear to ear. Anna scraped another wooden chair on the floor, pulling herself up at their table with a great deal of commotion, as Stevie scrambled to get away from Owen and his wandering fingers. She almost tipped her chair over backward but she was out of his reach.

“Looks like you two are getting along great,” Anna declared, slapping a folder down on the table near Owen’s whirring tape recorder.

Lord, lord. If the nasty little seduction scene hadn’t been bad enough in person, he had it on tape. He could rewind and listen whenever he wanted! Are you going to kiss me or not, Mr. Dasher? Anyone who’s read my book knows it’s not that hard to get into my pants.

Stevie grabbed for the thing, but Owen was faster. He had it turned off and stuck in his pocket before her hand hit the table.

“Just in case you needed any of the more recent figures on who’s buying Blissfully Single or how well it’s selling, I have that all for you,” Anna announced, ignoring any of the subtext churning at the table. “We’re very hot right now. In bookstores, I mean.”

Hot. In bookstores. Uh-huh. Just like her. What had she been thinking, letting things get so out of hand? Hand. Bad choice of words. Why did everything remind her? His hand, her skirt. Her bad, bad judgment. Why couldn’t she get her mind to move past their lewd and lascivious behavior?

Momentary lapse. Over. Move on, she ordered herself.

“Do you have any stats yet on how many marriages you’ve broken up?” Owen interjected in a perfectly charming tone that belied his words and annoyed her to no end.

“Broken marriages?” she echoed, stung by how easily he could switch gears. “Me personally? Or the book?”

He arched one dark eyebrow. “The book, of course. I was wondering if anyone who was already married had decided to throw it over and join the Blissfully Single movement.”

“Don’t you think a marriage that can be broken up over a book deserves to fail?” Stevie returned, with more than a hint of acid. “Or do you think all marriages should stay glued together, no matter how terrible?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what you think. And what do you think, Stevie?”

He regarded her as if she were a rather dull exhibit at the zoo, mildly interesting, but nothing to write home about.

Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants. “You know what I think. You read the book.”

“The book strikes me as superficial and not all that well thought-out.”

“And once again, you don’t have a question, just a sermon.” Stevie stood up, ready to spit nails at him.

Superficial and not all that well thought-out. He had a lot of nerve coming to her signing, staring at her, witnessing her fans and their devotion, pawing her, teasing her with kisses that didn’t happen and then, after all that, calling her book superficial. If she’d had a copy of Blissfully Single handy, she would’ve clobbered him with it.

“Is something wrong, Ms. Bliss?” he asked, feigning surprise, which only made her madder. He knew very well what reaction he was going to get. He was goading her into it. And she hated the idea that he could do that. She was supposed to be in control here, damn it.

“What exactly do you have against the ideas in Blissfully Single?” she demanded. “Are you that threatened by the notion that women can control their own lives?”

“You’re getting off track.”

“You pushed me there,” she shot back.

“I don’t think anyone pushes you anywhere,” he said with what looked to her like a small sneer.

She came up with a sneer of her own. “That bothers you, does it?”

“Not in the least.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Just for the record, I am not threatened by you, your book or the idea that women can control their own lives,” he said evenly. “But I happen to be a big believer in truth, honesty, integrity. All those old-fashioned things that seem to have eluded you as you created this Stevie Bliss myth.”

He was practically accusing her of being a fraud. And the best she could come up with was the most immature kind of “nyah, nyah” argument. Attempting to damp down her anger, losing the battle, she snapped, “I think we’re done here, don’t you, Mr. Dasher?”

“Stevie, can I speak to you, alone, for a second?” Anna broke in, plucking at her sleeve. “You wouldn’t mind if we took a time-out, would you, Mr. Dasher?”

“Call me Owen,” he said, once again doing a charm school routine for Anna. “No, I don’t mind. Take your time.”

Forcing a smile, Anna dragged Stevie over to the corner, about ten feet away. “Are you nuts?” she hissed. “You were yelling at the man. He is a reporter. We don’t yell at reporters, okay?”

“He’s a jerk. Accusing me of being a fake. And of breaking up marriages. Ha!” Turning herself firmly away from any position where she might have to see Owen Dasher, Stevie ground one spiked heel into the parquet floor. “First he’s got his hand on my leg, like total sexual harassment…”

Anna lifted an eyebrow.

“Okay, so it wasn’t sexual harassment,” she admitted. She was a fair person. She could allow that much. “I let it happen. I encouraged it to happen. But I still think it’s wrong that one minute he’s all touchy-feely on my thigh and the next he’s saying the book is shallow and a home-wrecker. That’s pretty nervy, don’t you think?”

“I think you can handle him.” Anna pressed her lips together in a frown. “Stevie, you’ve had a thousand guys come on to you, and another thousand tell you your book was all wet, but you shot every one of them down without a problem. Why can’t you do that this time?”

“He’s different,” she bit out. “He plays one way and then the other. He tried to seduce me just to distract me long enough to get a zinger in. The old bait and switch.”

“Oh, my. A baiter and switcher. Call the cops,” Anna responded, rolling her eyes.

“He’s getting to me,” she argued. “And not in a good way!”

“Calm down, okay? He’s just trying to mess with your head.” Anna continued in a soothing tone, “I told you, it doesn’t matter. Whatever he writes, it’s publicity, and it’s for the good. You know the two big rules of media interaction—accessibility and quotability. Have you hit the target on either of those?”

She had certainly been accessible, given the fingers under her skirt, although she knew very well that was not the kind of accessibility Anna meant. And she was handing out quotes on the order of, “Oh, yeah?” Swallowing around a dry throat, Stevie allowed, “I am not hitting the target, no.”

“So you’re going to go back over there and give the sassy, quotable answers you want to give no matter what he asks, and then he’ll write whatever he wants to write and we will go on from there. All right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I suppose.”

Except Owen Dasher didn’t wait for them to come back. He’d picked up his notes and his pen and whatever else he had hiding on his annoying body, and he came tromping over to interrupt their conversation.

“Sorry,” he offered, acting all rushed and distracted. “My column’s going to run on Wednesday this week, because of Thanksgiving, so I have an early deadline and I need to get out of here. Anyway, I think I have enough to put this one to bed….”

At which point Stevie began to choke and Anna had to pinch her arm hard to make her stop.

“Are you okay over there?” he asked solicitously.

“I’m fine.”

“Right.” He smiled. It was a humdinger of a smile, all toothy and wonderful and bright, and it made her want to strangle him. “Well, anyway, I’m okay with what I’ve got for Wednesday’s column.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a few more quotes?” Anna asked anxiously. “We want to make your column as complete as it can be and for you to cover the whole range of ideas represented in Stevie’s book. We don’t want you to go away unsatisfied.”

Stevie choked again.

“I’m satisfied,” he said calmly, giving her and her obvious discomfort an amused glance. “But I’m thinking it might be fun to explore the Blissfully Single phenomenon in more depth. See it in action, so to speak.”

“In action. Uh-huh,” Stevie echoed, her mind filling with images of him and her and the kind of “action” the two of them could get into. Fighting. Kissing. Touching.

It was horrifying. Maybe strangling was too good for him.

“I’m thinking of the, uh, proposition you made before, Stevie.”

“When was that?” she asked, not remembering anything remotely resembling a proposition except telling him it wasn’t that hard to get into her pants. Was that a proposition? Or just temporary insanity?

“What are we talking about?” Anna interrupted briskly. “More interviews? Or maybe you’d like to observe the Blissfully Single lifestyle on its feet?”

“On its feet, off its feet, whatever.” He smiled. She decided she hated him. “But nothing new planned for me. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your schedule.”

Right. He just wanted to disrupt everything, including her mental health.

He continued, “I think what would work best for me would be to follow Stevie around, on a typical day, maybe some time next week. If we’re lucky, maybe we can stretch this into two or three columns. What do you say?”

“I think that is possibly the wor—”

“She’d love to,” Anna cut in. “Fabulous idea.”

“Anna!”

“It’s great, Owen. Just give me a call and I’ll set you up with her schedule for the next week or so. Anything you want, you have access.”

And then the traitorous Anna stepped in front of Stevie, slipped him a business card, told him what hotel they were at, gave him her cell phone number and ushered him away, before Stevie could get in there and object.

More interviews with this guy? Following her around on a typical day? Breathing on her, touching her, pretending he was moving in for a kiss and then not?

“Not bloody likely,” she said under her breath.

No way in hell she was getting anywhere near Owen Dasher ever again.

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