This wasn’t a date, Josh tried to convince himself

This was…well, this was just letting a friend crash on the sofa, that’s what it was. Carrying two bottles of beer, he rounded the corner from the kitchen and the full force of Sam’s presence hit him.

At that moment Samantha Baldwin was everything he’d ever wanted, or would ever want in a woman, want being the operative word.

Sam’s chest rose and fell gently, and Josh realized he’d been staring at her—staring at her chest actually—for more than a few minutes. There was only so much chest-staring a woman would allow—and Josh knew from personal experience that it wasn’t very much—before she objected. He swallowed. Sam wasn’t objecting. Why wasn’t she? She should object, dammit!

Josh met Sam’s eyes, which were regarding him above a mouth curved in a Mona Lisa smile. Her hands slowly smoothed their way down her thighs, drawing his gaze. She was wearing a black skirt that outlined her legs as though they were immortalized in bronze.

She looked like a World War II pinup photo.

She looked good. Too good.

And suddenly Josh knew he was going to be very, very bad….

Dear Reader,

The skirt is back! When you last saw the mysterious, “man-magnet” skirt, it was flying through the air at the end of Kristin Gabriel’s Seduced in Seattle. However, Kristin, Cara Summers and I had so much fun writing this series, we decided someone should catch the skirt. And we also decided to give the next set of SINGLE IN THE CITY stories a twist….

For this installment, we decided to have all three stories happen at the same time! Not only that, but the heroines are three relative strangers who end up becoming roommates in a New York apartment. Best of all, the books feature three lookalike skirts. But that’s not all…. You’ll meet the neighbors—Mrs. Higgenbotham and her poodle, Cleo, who is in therapy for Canine Intimacy Dysfunction, Petra, the sculptress with a penchant for naked men, and Franco, the aspiring actor/doorman with a gossip addicition. And of course, we’ll introduce you to three new heroes, who may or may not have been attracted by the skirt.

With three women counting on the skirt to work its magic, mix-ups are bound to happen. Will they ever really be sure which skirt is which? Be sure to watch out for even more romantic misadventures next month in Sheerly Irresistible by Kristin Gabriel, then again in Short, Sweet and Sexy, by Cara Summers in October. And don’t miss the skirt’s upcoming West Coast debut, when it arrives in San Francisco for the next round of SINGLE IN THE CITY books—April, May and June of 2003.

And be sure to visit our Web site at www.SingleintheCity.org to let us know how you like the series. While you’re at it, check out my Web site at www.HeatherMacAllister.com for other writing news.

Happy reading!

Heather MacAllister

Skirting the Issue

Heather MacAllister

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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In memory of my grandmother, Mildred Copple Hull.

1902–2002

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

Prologue

THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE A wedding to make a single woman assess her options. And Samantha Baldwin had options. She was hiding from one of them now.

“Sam! There you are.”

She cringed. How had Kevin found her?

“The bride’s about to throw the bouquet.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Caught behind the proverbial potted palm artfully disguising the hallway to the women’s rest room, Sam downed the last swallow of her champagne and snagged another glass from a passing waiter.

“Won’t it be difficult to catch the bouquet with your hands full?” Kevin, her boyfriend, her blond-haired, blue-eyed, what-a-wonderful-catch boyfriend, the very boyfriend who traveled to the wedding with her all the way from San Francisco to Seattle—even though she had told him not to—smiled archly. Sam didn’t even know he knew how to smile archly. Kevin wasn’t an arch sort of man. He was a veterinarian.

“Silly me.” Looking him right in the eye, Sam quaffed the glass and handed it to him. “Oh, please,” she said at his raised eyebrow. “The glasses are small and only half-full.”

“I just want you to be sharp and alert.”

It was a cue. She knew she was supposed to ask him why she should be sharp and alert. Then he’d reply that it was so she could be sure and catch the bouquet. Then she’d ask why catching flowers was so important, and he’d…he’d…

And there the screen in Sam’s mind went blank.

Or rather, she knew what was on the screen, she just wished she was in a different theater.

There were two shows running in Sam’s mind. Showing on the screen with Kevin was the happily-ever-after, white-picket-fence, puppies-and-kids movie. A qualified thumbs-up, especially surrounded as she was by all the wedding vibes this weekend.

But showing on another screen was the promotion-and-corporate-success-in-New-York movie. Two thumbs-up. And in the audience, applauding wildly, was Sam’s mother.

Kevin took her arm—really, there was no need; the glasses were small, a couple of swallows max—and gently, but insistently steered her toward the ballroom.

Sam swallowed dryly, since Kevin avoided the wait staff.

“Holy cow!” Kevin was given to animal imprecations. “Look at that mob.”

“They can’t all be wedding guests.” But there they were all crowding around Kate and her bridesmaids, Chelsea, Gwen and Torrie. Sam felt cheered. The odds of her not catching the bouquet had just gone up.

At the realization, she looked up at Kevin guiltily, then back at Kate.

The other bridesmaids, all friends of Sam’s from college, were also newlyweds and they all glowed disgustingly. No, it wasn’t disgusting, but they were all so happy it made her wish for that happiness, too. The way they looked at their husbands—and the way their husbands looked back at them…Sam squeezed Kevin’s arm and he looked down at her in almost the same way. He was a good man, a kind man—he cured little kids’ sick puppies, for heaven’s sake. But he also had a quirky sense of humor, played a ruthlessly wicked game of poker and was perfectly willing to walk out of a movie he didn’t feel was worth his time.

She should love him. What was wrong with her that she didn’t love him?

But she didn’t. At least not enough to give up the chance of the promotion she was recently offered. And not enough to ask him to wait while she went to New York to compete for it. Because…because what if she got it? What if she became the east coast convention sales manager for Carrington Hotels? She’d have to move to New York. Kevin had a thriving veterinary practice in San Francisco. He’d have to really, really love her to relocate to New York.

And he’d deserve someone who really, really loved him back.

Sam squeezed his arm again and as he smiled down at her, she waited for the gooey feelings she knew Kate and the others felt for their husbands. She felt…fondness. And a little irritation because she didn’t feel more.

That was it, then. She’d made her decision, the one she’d come all the way from San Francisco to think about. She’d intended to come alone, but Kevin had surprised her. Would it have made any difference if he’d stayed behind as she’d asked? She’d half-seriously quoted, “absence makes the heart grow fonder” at him, but he’d countered with, “while the cat’s away, the mouse will play.” The animal theme again, but honestly, she’d set herself up for it.

And speaking of setups…while Sam was pondering her future, Kevin steered her through an incredibly aggressive throng of single women until she’d reached a decent field position, one well within bouquet-throwing range. Then he’d kissed her on her cheek and got the heck out of Dodge.

Sam watched Kate search the crowd, her face lighting with radiant bliss—truly, she looked like the women in those diamond ads—when she found her husband. At her nod, Brock approached the band-leader, and then came a remarkable announcement: the bride would be throwing a skirt, not a bouquet.

Well, now. Sam edged toward the side. This she had to see. Oh, sure, she’d heard the rumors about this great skirt. Kate and her bridesmaids all swore they met their husbands while wearing it. Others must have heard about it, too, because as the bride and her attendants climbed the circular dais, they were practically mobbed.

Kate stepped forward and scanned the crowd. Taking a deep breath, she tossed the skirt high into the air, right toward the spot where Sam had been standing.

Then it seemed to float in the air, drifting left, as though caught by a draft from the ventilation system. It twirled and fluttered. It may have even glinted.

Then it dived. Straight toward Sam. Like she had a homing beacon attached to her, or something. Whatever, Sam ducked and waved her arms to fend off the attack. The crowd pushed and shoved, grasping for the black fabric. Sam backed up, and felt one of the white folding chairs against her calf. She lost her balance and grabbed blindly, hoping to prevent her fall. She grabbed a fistful of air—and the skirt. Astonishingly, the thing nearly molded itself to her hands, but it didn’t prevent Sam from a hard landing on the dance floor. She sat, dazed, her legs splayed in front of her, the skirt in her hands.

The single women of Seattle gave a disappointed groan. Make that a menacing groan.

“Sam…You caught it! Way to go!” Kevin made his way through the knot of resentful women.

“But I didn’t mean to catch it,” Sam said. But she knew nobody heard her and wouldn’t believe her if they had.

Kevin stood behind her and struggled to haul her upright by taking hold of her beneath her arms, almost like he was wrestling with a ninety-pound German shepherd.

Sam didn’t weigh ninety pounds, but she was no German shepherd, either. She waved him off with skirt-covered hands and got to her feet.

“So, what’s this mean?” he asked.

“That Kate wanted to dry her bouquet and keep it for herself?”

At that moment, Gwen, one of the bridesmaids, made her way toward them. “Hey, Sam!” She hugged her. “We were hoping you’d be the one.” And Gwen smiled pointedly, beamed, actually, at Kevin.

Kevin was beaming back in perfect understanding. This was not good.

Gwen tapped the skirt with the pink rose she’d carried in the wedding. “Kate sent me over here to make sure you knew the skirt rules.”

Sam held the skirt out in front of her. It shimmered enticingly. “There’re rules?”

“Oh, yeah. Rules and a warning. It works fast.”

“Is that the rule or the warning?”

Gwen laughed. “I got the skirt right after Christmas and I was married on Valentine’s Day.”

Sam stared at her. How horrible. Fortunately, she didn’t say so.

“What exactly does it do?” Kevin asked.

“It attracts men,” Gwen answered.

Kevin frowned.

“One of whom will be your true love,” she added to Sam.

“What if she’s already met her true love?” Kevin stepped forward and fingered the material of the skirt. It must have been a trick of the light, but the lustrous black material seemed to take on an ashy hue. It hung limply from Sam’s hand.

“Then she’ll know he’s the one.” Gwen gave one of the gooey smiles so prevalent today as a well-built man ambled over and tucked his arm around her waist. “After all, I already knew Alec, here, but it wasn’t until I put on the skirt that I knew he was the one for me.”

“If I recall, there was a certain red sweater you wore with it.” Alec grinned. “I liked that sweater.”

Gwen batted at his arm. “Anyway, when you find him, you’ll know. And then you toss it at your wedding to some extremely lucky woman.” After exchanging goo-goo eyes with her husband, Gwen went off with Alec.

Sam stared at the skirt and then at Kevin. He stared back. She knew all right, and she didn’t need the skirt to tell her.

1

SUMMER IN NEW YORK CITY. It was…great. Really great to be here, Sam reminded herself. Just great. It would be greater if she could find an apartment, though. And she’d thought San Francisco rental prices were high.

But today, she was committed to making something happen. Nothing and nobody was getting to her today.

Dropping off a report with the receptionist, Sam headed for the banks of elevators that would take her from the executive offices to the fabulous lobby of Carrington’s flagship hotel in Manhattan.

She rounded the corner in time to see an elevator close behind a tall man—being tall herself, Sam always noticed tall men. He was walking away from her with a confident loose-limbed stride that seemed vaguely familiar. He wore a sports coat that she could see was well-cut, though the plaid was too loud for her taste, just like the jackets Josh—

She froze, staring at the back of the man’s head. No. This man didn’t remind her of anyone, certainly not anyone who might jinx the day for her.

Certainly not Josh Crandall, scourge of the convention sales circuit and Sam’s own personal nemesis.

An involuntary shudder rippled through her. Nope. Not Josh Crandall. Couldn’t be. Sam got into the express elevator and rode it all the way to the lobby. She had left Josh Crandall far, far behind. He was still scrambling—in his usual underhanded, sneaky way—to book conventions for Meckler Hotels, while she, who prided herself on honesty and fair dealings, was about to become Carrington’s east coast sales manager.

Sam exited the hotel and crossed Forty-second Street on her way to the post office. She was currently staying in a substandard room at the Manhattan Carrington. Once maintenance repaired the problem—the air-conditioning wasn’t as enthusiastic as it needed to be—then she would move to another unrentable room. She’d been living like this for two weeks now and this weekend, her housing vouchers, such as they were, ran out. Sure, she could have an employee discount, but even with that, the hotel was too pricey to stay in the whole summer.

Today, Sam had been at her desk two hours early and was taking a long lunch, determined to find some place to live, or at least a cheaper hotel.

She pushed open the door to the post office, thankful for the air-conditioning. She did miss San Francisco’s temperate weather.

Because it was noontime, there was a line at the post office, but Sam figured there was always going to be a line in New York and she might as well get used to it. Sam got at the end of the line, which looped back on itself three times like an amusement park ride. Since all the clerk windows were open, the wait shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes or so. And if it was longer, well, what could she do about it?

She fanned herself with her soft bulky package. In it was the skirt. She’d never had so much attention as she’d had since catching the thing at Kate’s wedding. School friends she hadn’t heard from in years had contacted her for progress reports. And magazines, too, for pity’s sake! There had been articles about the thing. And not one, but two reporters had tracked her down here in New York.

And then there were all the women who’d e-mailed her to check on her progress. Good grief. She hadn’t even worn the thing, not counting that hideous evening right after she’d caught it when Kevin had insisted that she try it on and she’d hoped it wouldn’t fit.

It had. It had fit as though it had been made for her. Sam was a tall woman—five-ten in flats which she wore because she felt like it and not to de-emphasize her height—and the skirt flirted with the top of her knees.

Kevin had wanted to flirt with the top of her knees, too, and insisted she wear the new addition to her wardrobe to dinner. He loved the skirt. Sam couldn’t see why. It was black and maybe shorter than she generally wore, but not outrageously so. Nothing special. The material that had seemed so rich and warmly luxurious earlier was now sleazy and limp. It wasn’t doing anything for her. Unfortunately, neither was Kevin. She didn’t want to wear it to dinner, which Kevin had taken as an invitation to skip dinner for other pursuits when that hadn’t been Sam’s intention at all.

Kevin had become obnoxious and Kevin was never obnoxious. He’d made a cryptic remark about willing to buy the whole cow instead of settling for milk—another animal metaphor—and that she should appreciate it. She didn’t. They’d argued and Sam had been forced to tell him right then that she’d decided to come to New York after all.

He’d blamed the skirt, which was so incredibly stupid she couldn’t believe it, but, understanding that his pride had been hurt, Sam had allowed it.

She never intended to wear the skirt again, let alone throw it at her nonexistent wedding. Why would she want to mess up her life just when it was getting interesting? And the thing that really chapped her was that Kevin had just assumed that Sam would give up her chance at a promotion to stay in San Francisco with him. It never occurred to him to move to New York with her, not that she wanted him to, but still. He never got it; he never understood that he expected her to make the big sacrifice without considering making one of his own.

The sound of crumpling paper as she squeezed the package brought Sam back to the present.

Inhaling, she cleared her mind of all things Kevin. New York air could do that to a person. In spite of her mother’s tempting suggestion that she do all womankind a favor and burn it, Sam intended to mail the skirt back to Kate. That’s all there was to it.

She smoothed out the label. Let Kate invite some desperately single candidates to an elegant little luncheon where she could use all her bridal china and throw the thing at them.

Exhaling, Sam massaged the muscles in her neck, relaxing because for once, no one she knew was watching her or comparing her to the other job candidates.

Yes, competing for a position was a particularly effective form of torture in hotel management circles, no doubt thought of by a high-paid consultant who’d never actually experienced the unrelenting pressure of being scrutinized for days on end. Carrington’s executive board was always hiring consultants. If she got the job—and maybe if she didn’t—she was going to tell them what they could do with their consultants. Diplomatically, of course, because even though somebody was going to crack soon, it wasn’t going to be Sam.

There were to have been four candidates for the position of east coast convention sales manager, but one had declined, citing a reluctance to relocate to New York City—the wimp—so it was now Sam and two men. Her mother had been calling for nightly updates and to give Sam feminist pep talks. Sam’s mother had been a foot soldier in the war between the sexes and considered Sam one of her best weapons.

Sam was perfectly willing to be a weapon. As the youngest of four girls, she hadn’t often had her mother’s undivided attention—if ever—and enjoyed talking strategy and letting off steam.

This past week, managers from all the hotels in the eastern quadrant of the United States had been meeting at the flagship Carrington near Times Square. Sam and her two colleagues had been running meetings, preparing theater outings, and getting to know the managers and their hotels. Of course Sam had met some of them before when she’d contracted with groups to hold conventions at their hotels, but as the east coast manager, she’d be expected to become familiar with all the little quirks about their hotels. It wouldn’t hurt to get chummy with them, either, her mother reminded her, but Sam wasn’t a chummy sort of person. Some people just didn’t know the difference between chummy and suggestive. Josh Crandall, for instance.

Or they did and ignored it.

Like Josh Crandall.

The line moved forward and Sam hunched her shoulders, wishing she’d splurged on a massage with the hotel masseuse. Today was judgment day. There was only one meeting—one big, giant, important, possibly life-altering meeting—and Sam and the other candidates weren’t attending. Their convention sales records were being scrutinized. Sam had a spectacular sales record—except for two blotches. Sizable blotches, if she were being truthful. And both were courtesy of Josh Crandall of Meckler Hotels.

Sam closed her eyes. The very thought of him made her stomach queasy, the kind of queasy she got after eating too much chocolate in a short amount of time, which she usually did after going head-to-head with Josh.

Recently he’d been turning up every time she had a presentation. And now she was imagining him. She opened her eyes and checked out the people in line with her, involuntarily looking for his dark, carefully tousled hair and deceptively casual, but well-cut plaid sports coat. Oh, and the smile. That you-want-me-and-we-both-know-it smile.

She hated that smile. And he knew it.

Sam had a sudden craving for M&M’s.

Even now, the Carrington brass were probably dissecting her failed proposals. They’d been perfect, she knew, but still each convention had chosen Josh and the Meckler chain over Carrington. And because her proposals had been perfect, that meant the decisions had been based on intangibles, such as the charm of the representatives. In other words, they’d liked Josh better than Sam, which meant the failure had been hers, personally. Josh had no problem being chummy. Or suggestive, either.

It wasn’t that she’d never bested him before—or after—those incidences, it was that since then, she’d been too quick to make concessions to Carrington’s profit margin in order to ensure she never lost to him again.

The last time…Sam sucked her breath between her teeth—she really needed some chocolate—the last time, she’d cut profit to the bone. But instead of countering, Josh had laughed—his laughs dripped with evil amusement—then admitted he hadn’t wanted the convention anyway because the group in question was known for damaging hotel rooms.

And they had. Sam winced.

So, maybe Josh had won three times.

Stop thinking about him. It would only make her crazy. Sam deliberately wiped Josh and his smile from her mind and concentrated on the people around her. There were a couple of conversations going on—office workers mailing company letters and two good-looking, well-dressed men, well-dressed if she discounted the leather cowboy vest one wore and she was inclined to until she realized it was fake leather. And…and that the green color was not a trick of the light. Still, even with green faux leather with, she swallowed, silver fringe, they compared favorably to Josh and his stupid plaid jackets—if she’d been thinking about Josh, which she wasn’t.

The two men were one loop behind Sam and approached her as the line wound toward the counter windows. One man held a stack of printed postcards and the other man stuck preaddressed labels on them.

“Tavish, every year you go through this,” said the man with titanium glasses. “Stop waiting until the last minute.”

“But I always find a sublet,” replied Tavish, the taller of the two.

Sam liked tall men and it had nothing to do with her own height. Josh was tall—not that it mattered.

“But you don’t even investigate the tenants first!”

Tavish stuck on another label. “I go by instinct.”

“Someday your instincts are going to leave you with a trashed apartment.”

“Then it’ll be time to redecorate.” He looked off into the distance. “I’m growing weary of sage.”

If he’d asked, Sam could have told him what colors were predicted to be popular in the next couple of years. Carrington was building a new hotel in Trenton and she’d seen the reports from the decorating team. Colors were going to be clean and complex, whatever that meant. She made a mental note to find out. It might be important for her to know.

“And you always send these cards. Haven’t you heard of e-mail?”

“Who can keep up with everyone’s e-mail address? All those letters and dots and symbols…” Tavish grimaced.

“Who can keep up with your summer addresses?”

“That’s why I send the cards.”

The men had moved behind her. Sam was now passing by the supply counter and people kept reaching in front of her for forms, labels and envelopes. She was relieved when she moved by it, looped around, and several minutes later faced the two men again. Tavish was still peeling off labels and sticking them on his postcards. He apparently had a large acquaintanceship.

“Didn’t you just go on safari a couple of years ago?”

Tavish laughed, a warm rich chuckle that was oh-so-different from Josh’s predatory cackle—not that she was thinking about Josh Crandall while standing in line at a New York City post office. That would be foolish.

“There are safaris and there are safaris,” Tavish replied.

“An elephant is an elephant is an elephant.”

“But the aptly named Mona Virtue will be a member of the group.”

“Ah.” They both laughed.

Men.

“Some men have all the luck.”

“I make my own luck.” Tavish held out his hand for another postcard.

The other man nodded. “I’ll have to admit that holding a lottery for a Central Park West apartment is genius.”

“Thank you.”

Sam had been idly eavesdropping but hearing about the apartment again made her focus her attention even though Central Park West was so out of her league.

“And you don’t even advertise.”

“I don’t have to.”

The movement of the line brought the men closer to Sam and the supply table. People kept cutting through the line which interfered with her eavesdropping.

“…agents do screen, so I’m not taking the wild risk you seem to think.”

“Risk, or not, didn’t you tell everyone to be there at noon?”

Both men checked their watches. Sam did as well. It was twelve-thirty.

Tavish shrugged. “They’ll wait.” He spoke with supreme confidence.

His apartment was being shown at noon. His unadvertised apartment. A sublet. Knowing what she did of New York, Sam knew the sublet was likely illegal. The fact that this didn’t bother her must mean something, but Sam wasn’t going to explore that now. This man in the fake leather cowboy vest had an apartment for rent. Sam needed an apartment. There was no need to complicate matters.

Except maybe to wonder in what kind of apartment a man who wore a fake leather cowboy vest in June might live, but wasn’t that what posters, pillows and artfully placed colorful throws were for?

As the men approached, Sam strained to see the return address on the postcards Tavish labeled. NY, NY. Yeah, yeah. Tell her something she didn’t know. She leaned closer, but at that moment, someone trying to cut through the line jabbed her with an elbow, then bumped into Tavish and his friend.

“Hey, watch it, buddy.” Mr. Titanium Glasses made a rude gesture as several of the postcards fell to the grimy floor.

Not proud, Sam grabbed for one. She intended to give it back—truly she did—but somehow, in the commotion, a strong self-preservation instinct kicked in. She read the printing, “Tavish McLain announces his summer itinerary. In June, he will be on safari and can be reached in care of Mavis Trent Travel…” In July, he’d be summering at a villa in Italy. And so on until Labor Day. Sounded like a great summer. Better than hers, even if she did get the promotion. Must be nice. Sam flipped the card over and there, printed in the upper left-hand corner, was an address.

It had to be his apartment. It had to be.

I make my own luck. Well then. If this wasn’t a sign, she didn’t know what was.

Without giving herself time to reconsider, Sam kept the card and walked out of the post office, hailed a cab, then gave them the address of the apartment.

The man ran a lottery for his apartment. She couldn’t win if she didn’t play the game.

AFTER FLINGING WAY TOO much money—guilt, no doubt—at the cabbie, Sam climbed out of the taxi and looked quickly up and down the street.

Nice neighborhood.

Who was she kidding? Fabulous neighborhood. The kind where all the apartment buildings had snooty uniformed doormen. Except this one, it seemed. There was no doorman, uniformed or otherwise.

Maybe he was performing one of those errands everyone seemed to have doormen perform. Sam only knew this from movies and television and not from personal experience. But she could learn. Would love to learn, in fact.

She pushed open the plate-glass door. And shouldn’t that be a duty of a doorman? she was thinking when her eyes were assaulted by a tableau featuring a man with a pale, hairless chest smack dab in the tiny foyer.

Actually, he was smack dab on a folding lawn chair as he soaked his feet in a plastic wading pool featuring cartoon fishes. He wore baggy blue polka-dot swimming trunks, which clashed with the blue wading pool, she noted, as well as with the lime-green zinc oxide he painted on his nose. And…could that possibly be the Beach Boys? Yes. Definitely the Beach Boys.

“Password?” he shouted over “Surfin’ U.S.A.” He slid his mirrored sunglasses down his nose, which got them gunked up with the zinc oxide.

Password? She should have known good luck always came with a catch. Sam wondered if the password bore any resemblance to the name of a dead president and wished she hadn’t been so generous to the cab driver.

While she considered her next move, the man cleaned the green stuff off his sunglasses and reapplied more to his nose. “I’m waaaaiiiiting,” he sang. Then he cleared his throat and sang it again an octave lower, adding a theatrical vibrato. “Not bad. Certainly good enough for off Broadway, not that there are many musicals off Broadway these days. But better than the dinner theater circuit, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wouldn’t presume to say anything.”

“I noticed.” He slipped the glasses back into place. “Don’t know the password? How about a piece of juicy gossip?”

“I’ve only got this.” Sam held up the card she’d filched at the post office.

“So you are here about the apartment. You’re late.”

“I know, but Tavish didn’t say anything about a password.”

“Consistency.” He gestured outward, as though reciting Shakespeare. “All I ask is consistency. Is that too much to ask?”

Sam did a little gesturing of her own toward the beach setup. “I think you ask a lot more than that.”

He stared at her—or maybe not. With the mirrored sunglasses covering his eyes, she couldn’t tell. “I like you. You may pass.” He waved her toward the elevator.

“Thanks, uh…”

“Franco Rossi, at your service.” He assumed the manner of a Spanish grandee, rolling his hand and inclining his head.

“Thanks, Franco.”

“Do run along. You’re blocking the light.”

Oooookay. Sam didn’t need to be told twice. Jabbing the button on the elevator, she stared at the numbers above the door and willed the car to come.

The Beach Boys swelled for a brief moment then retreated.

“Who are you?” Sam heard.

The elevator arrived and she nearly pulled open the doors herself. Escaping inside, she turned and saw a woman talking to the weird doorman, or whatever he was, and another pulling open the heavy plate-glass door.

“Password?” she heard just before the doors closed.

Great. More competition. She hoped there weren’t any more rules she didn’t know about.

2

THE APARTMENT WAS ON THE sixth floor. Just enough to get a modest workout, if Sam were so inclined. There were only three apartments on the floor and number 6C was at the end. Sam didn’t even have to look at the card. She could hear the crowd the moment she stepped off the elevator.

What was she doing here? This was hopeless.

But Sam had been in hopeless situations before—generally those including Josh Crandall…why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Anyway, some of those had turned out to be not so hopeless after all because she’d persevered and that’s what she planned to do now. She’d persevere herself right into the apartment.

Sam opened the door. Why knock? No one would hear her.

The first thing she noticed was that the ratio of women to men was about, well, except for a couple of men who appeared to be brokers, the ratio was ninety-eight to two. The next thing she noticed was that there was a high percentage of blondes in the mix, including a woman with pink-blond hair and matching poodle.

Sam was very definitely not a blonde.

People were freely milling around, so Sam acted like she belonged there and milled as well. The apartment appeared to have three bedrooms, though one was currently being used as a combination office and video lair.

Definitely bachelor pad material. She looked upward, expecting mirrors, but apparently Tavish’s excruciating taste extended only to cowboy vests. Maybe a touch of overkill on the Western look—how many steer horns did a person need?—but, hey, this was great. Fabulous location, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art, generously spaced for a New York apartment, and she could always rent out the other bedrooms to help with the rent.

Would that be a sub-sublet? Was that more illegal than a regular sublet?

“Where is Tavish?” pouted one blonde.

One of the men stood on the staircase leading to a small loft. “Mr. McLain will be here momentarily.”

“I say we can start without him,” said another blonde. This one wore a black suit and nearly black lipstick, spike heels and had her hair in a French twist that not one strand dared to come loose.

Sam tucked her own windblown hair—that would be brown windblown hair—behind her ears and straightened her spine.

“My opening offer will be fifteen hundred,” the woman continued. She looked over the competition. “So anyone who can’t beat that is out of luck because the price will go higher.”

“But…but I don’t understand!” It was a redhead. The only one. “Tavish promised me the apartment for eight-fifty!”

“He promised me I could have it for eight hundred!” said someone else.

“Oh, honey.” The blond woman who’d taken charge shook her head. “He does this every year. Then a few of us spend the following year bribing him in hopes he’ll just forget this demeaning lottery and let one of us have the apartment for the summer.” She looked wistful. “I actually lived here one summer. It was…” She seemed to remember where she was and that a crowd of apartment competitors hung raptly on each word. “Just be prepared to ante up, kiddos.”

Sam had been mentally plundering her savings as the door opened and the two women she’d seen in the lobby entered the apartment. They must have known the password.

One of them, poor thing, actually was dragging luggage with her. She looked desperate. Desperate enough to bid a lot. Sam swept an assessing gaze over her. She didn’t look as though she had a lot to bid.

The woman next to her was an unknown. A blond unknown, though. Unsmiling, she looked like a woman with a mission—and Sam knew what the mission was. Sam watched her case the situation from the edge of the crowd, bracing herself for when they locked eyes.

Actually, it wasn’t much of a lock. Sam figured she didn’t come across as much competition when the woman’s gaze swept past her after the briefest hesitation. Probably because she wasn’t a blonde.

French Twist held a check high over her head. “Here it is, folks. Good faith money. Forty-five hundred dollars—three months—up front.” She walked over to one of the agents and tried to hand him a check.

“Hey!” someone shouted, and that pretty much set the rest of the potential renters off.

Some headed for the door and Sam got carried along with them. She didn’t fight too much because she wasn’t yet sure that staying would do any good. Just how much higher would she have to go? Though facing Central Park would be a kick, she didn’t need three bedrooms and there would be the hassle of trying to find roommates for just the summer—even assuming she could outbid French Twist.

The exodus toward the door backed up as the first of the crowd got held up at the elevator. Sam stepped out of the current of disappointed women and found herself next to the two she’d seen downstairs. The one with the luggage was sitting on her suitcase staring blankly at the crowd. The other one, the short blonde, was studying her checkbook and had whipped out her cell phone.

Sam spoke to the woman on the suitcase. “This is really something, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly what I expected,” the woman answered, motioning to the suitcases. “I was planning to move in here today. Now, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Sam knew despair when she heard it. “This is your lucky day. I work for a hotel. Therefore, I can promise you won’t sleep on the street tonight. And you can treat yourself to a nice, hot bubble bath.”

“I can’t—”

“Oh, I got that part. You’d be in one of the unrentable rooms. No charge.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

Oh, good grief. When had a good deed become a threat? “Because I can. Because helping the sisterhood was something my mother drilled into me. And, hey, I get off on warm, fuzzy feelings in my tummy.”

There was a crack of laughter from the other woman. “So do I, but they don’t come from giving away freebie hotel rooms,” the woman said with a smile.

Sam grinned down at her. “Samantha Baldwin.” She stuck her hand out at the exact moment the other woman stuck out hers.

“A. J. Potter. You sounded like a madam gathering the poor waif into her house of ill repute. I already made the same great impression. I think we scared her.”

“I’m not scared,” denied the other woman, still sitting on her suitcase. “Just fascinated by abnormal human behavior. Abnormal for a New Yorker, anyway.”

A.J. turned her attention back to Sam. “This place has three bedrooms.”

Ooo. She cut right to the chase. Sam liked her. “I don’t smoke. I can go eighteen hundred a month, but I don’t want to.”

“Non-smoker, I’m in for two grand.”

“You’d get the big bedroom, then.”

They looked down. “What’s your name?” A.J. asked the woman on the suitcase.

“Claire Dellafield. Why?”

Sam gestured to her. “Get with the program. We’re forming a rental coalition. You want in?”

Claire stood, revealing that she was as short as A.J. “You mean we’d room together?”

“Mental functions appear to be intact,” A.J. said. “You smoke?”

Claire shook her head. “But I can learn.”

Sam laughed. “She’s in for the entertainment value alone.”

“How much can you contribute to rent?” A.J. was displaying a practical side.

Claire drew a deep breath. “Eight hundred.”

“That’s forty-six hundred.” A.J. exhaled. “Surely the rent won’t go as high as that.”

They looked at the remaining women arguing with the brokers.

“Then again,” Sam began, just as the door opened and the men from the post office walked into the room.

“Tavish!” several voices squealed. Others snarled.

“Let this play out,” A.J. advised and Sam totally agreed.

The three of them watched women practically pawing at Tavish. Sam hoped one of them would paw off his green vest, but no such luck.

The more she watched, the more her hopes sank. Sam had spent years honing her negotiating skills and knew that the key to a successful deal was figuring out what the other guy really wanted and seeing that he got it. Tavish, she realized, wanted to be adored by his social circle—or the social circle he wanted to, uh, circle in. She remembered French Twist talking about bribing him during the year and remembered his summer itinerary—he was “guesting” everywhere.

Clearly, the key to this deal was more than money. Tavish would probably rent out his apartment even if he weren’t going anywhere for the summer.

Sam glanced at her two potential roommates. She liked A.J. already. Claire, she didn’t know as well, but she had potential. They needed an edge. Something to offer. Something to make them attractive renters to Tavish.

She was figuring out how much it would cost her to let Tavish throw a ritzy party in the flagship Carrington’s presidential suite when she refocused on the scene. All those beautiful blond women vying for his attention…he was lapping it up.

Though A.J. did have blond hair, Sam couldn’t see her as the fawning type.

Sam shifted her package to the other arm. The thing was so hot. She didn’t need to feel hot right now. She needed to be hot…

Sam stared at the wrapping surrounding the skirt. Yeah, sure it was supposed to be a real man magnet, but that was just a story, right? It didn’t really…

“Stand in front of me,” she said to the other two, as she tore off the brown paper.

Claire’s eyes widened as Sam unzipped her skirt. “What are you doing?”

Sam told them the gist of the skirt legend as she pulled it on.

“You’re kidding.” A.J. looked as though she wanted to reconsider rooming with Sam.

“Look, I don’t believe it, either, but it can’t hurt.” She handed her jacket to Claire and smoothed the skirt over her thighs.

It was a great fit. Must be another sign. They were meant to have the apartment.

“Follow me, ladies.” As Sam walked forward, the black fabric whispered over her legs and she found herself changing the way she walked in order to accommodate it.

She imagined herself walking in slow motion, hair rippling over her shoulders, her eyes on the prize—Tavish.

As she drew closer, the women moved to one side, eyeing her and the two behind her. Sam cut right through until she was standing directly in front of Tavish, the two brokers, and French Twist.

“Hello,” she purred.

Three pairs of male eyes swiveled her way.

“I’m Samantha Baldwin.” She held out her hand and Tavish stepped forward to grasp it.

“Tavish McLain.” He took her hand and held it, never once blinking.

The two brokers attempted to introduce themselves, but Tavish wouldn’t relinquish Samantha’s hand.

Propelling Claire with her, A.J. stepped into the breach and occupied the brokers.

“You have the perfect apartment,” Sam cooed. All this cooing and purring was new to her, but it was amazing what it did.

“I c-call it home,” Tavish stuttered, still holding Sam’s hand.

“I’d like to call it home, too—for the summer at least.” She sent him a limpid gaze and squeezed his hand.

“Well, I…well, I’m sure—”

“Just a minute! I’ve given you a check for forty-five hundred dollars!” French Twist wasn’t giving up.

“Roger, give Meredith back her check,” Tavish instructed.

“So I’ll give you another for six thousand.” Boy, the woman was persistent.

“Would you want all the rent up front?” Sam asked.

Tavish creased his brow. “Oh, no, no, no. Not if it wouldn’t be convenient for you.”

Sam still held Tavish’s gaze. He still held her hand. She was going to have to blink soon or her eyes would start watering, but he seemed utterly entranced by her and she wanted to take advantage. What she really wanted to do was quickly scribble out a check.

Fortunately, A.J. had grasped the situation. Sam heard a rip and a blue rectangle appeared in Sam’s peripheral vision. With her free hand she took the check and offered it to Tavish.

“Here you go…two thousand dollars.” Two thousand? A.J. should have tried for fifteen hundred. Still two thousand a month split three ways was within all their budgets.

Tavish smiled. “So you want to pay all the rent up front, after all?”

All the rent? Sam’s heart picked up speed.

Tavish stuck the check in his vest pocket. “The perfect tenant, wouldn’t you say Roger?”

“I’d say so.” One of the brokers inched closer.

“But wait, I thought that was just for—ow!” Claire broke off.

“That should be tenants.” Sam gestured behind her. “My roommates.” She risked breaking eye contact to glance at them. A.J. waggled her fingers. Claire gave a tight smile and rubbed her arm.

“Gentlemen, which one of you has the papers we should sign?” A.J. tried to get the brokers’ attention.

“Papers?” One spoke but he was looking at Sam.

A.J. snapped her fingers in front of his face. “An indemnity clause? Terms of lease? Liability release?”

That’s right—get that laughably low rent in there before Tavish came to his senses.

“Uh, right here.” The broker fumbled in his breast pocket.

Claire linked her arm around the other broker’s. “You and I are on crowd control. Thanks for coming everybody!” she called and waved them toward the door.

“Hey!” French Twist wasn’t budging.

“Ta-ta, Meredith. Just think, you won’t have to walk Cleo.”

“I would have hired a walker for that damn poodle, and you know it!”

“As you did last time. Mrs. Higginbotham said that Cleo was very stressed.”

Poodle? Was dog sitting part of the deal? Sam blinked. She couldn’t help it. Fortunately, breaking eye contact didn’t seem to diminish her strange power over Tavish. “Do you have a dog?” she asked in a breathy voice.

Tavish shook his head.

Okay, then. Things were just hunky-dory. A.J. was handling the contract and Claire was making everybody leave.

Sam’s hand was sweating. Or it could have been Tavish’s. Probably both. How was she supposed to extricate herself? She now not only believed, she thoroughly understood the “magnet” part of the skirt’s legend. Except how did she turn it off?

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID IT!” A.J. gave her a high five, which Sam was glad she could high-five back, because she thought she’d never get her hand back from Tavish. Then Claire high-fived her. Then they high-fived each other—or low-fived, since they were both so much shorter than Sam.

Then Sam took off the skirt. They were alone after having made enemies of a significant percentage of the blondes in New York City, but Sam didn’t care. She’d found an apartment—and for a ridiculously low rent. Don’t ask her how that happened.

A.J., who’d turned out to be a lawyer—and how handy was that?—had put the amount right into the rental agreement.

“I’ve got to get back to the hotel,” Sam called, hating to abandon her new roommates before getting to know them. She’d been really lucky there. The three of them appeared to be on the same wavelength, which was reassuring considering how many different wavelengths there were in New York City.

Carefully folding the skirt—she wasn’t mailing it anywhere after today—Sam put it on the top shelf in the second largest bedroom and put her suit skirt back on. “Let’s have dinner together here,” she called.

“I’ll get takeout,” A.J. offered.

“Sounds fab. If I can, I’ll see if the pastry chef has an extra Sacher torte and contribute that.”

“What’s Sacher torte?” Claire asked.

“Think dense chocolate. Sin on a fork.” Sam grabbed her purse. “I hate to leave you guys like this, but I really need to get back to work.”

“Like I’m going to complain after you rescued me,” Claire said.

“Ditto.” A.J. shooed her away. “Go.”

And Sam went. She was on top of the world. She didn’t know if it was fate, or the skirt, but Tavish had practically given them the apartment.

The other potential renters hadn’t been pleased, to understate matters, but Sam didn’t care. She’d taken a chance and look how it had paid off.

Today, she was invincible. Invulnerable. Triumphant. The promotion was as good as hers.

Humming—it was the Beach Boys, but who cared after the day she’d had—Sam strode into the lobby of the Carrington and punched the button for the executive offices. The doors parted immediately. It was just that kind of day.

Going to the top floor without stopping—she was on such a roll—the doors whisked open. Sam stepped into the foyer of the executive offices half expecting a general hush followed by a trumpet fanfare.

Look out world, Sam Baldwin has arrived. She strode, yes, strode, toward the skimpy temporary office she was using. She should really ask for something better. With her luck today, she’d probably get a corner office.

“Tiffany, any messages?” She’d always wanted to say that.

Tiffany, the receptionist, gave her an annoyed look, completely failing to notice Sam’s aura of power. “I don’t know—check your voice mail. Oh, actually, you might go see Mr. Hennesey. He was looking for you right after lunch.” Tiffany pointedly looked at her watch. “Like, about an hour ago.”

“Too bad he wasn’t looking for me at seven-thirty this morning when I was at my desk.”

Tiffany was clearly going nowhere. She’d be singing a different tune once Sam was promoted.

Sam went in search of Mr. Hennesey. Odd. She would have thought he’d still be in the meeting. But no. She could hear him talking with someone in his office.

“Mr. Hennesey?” Sam knocked on the open door before stepping inside. “Tiffany said you were looking for me. If it’s about the profit comparison for Happy Hours with and without complimentary buffets, I came in early this morning and finished the report. I left it with Tiffany.”

“Great. I’ll check with her in a bit.” Mr. Hennesey leaned against the corner of his desk, clearly in no hurry.

So much for early-morning brownie points. Sam felt her aura dim just a bit.

“Actually, I was looking for you because I understand you’re acquainted with our new sales consultant.”

Sam’s neck tickled as the hairs on the back stood up. It was her only warning that her roll had ended, splatting right into the figure she hadn’t noticed sitting in Mr. Hennesey’s leather love seat.

Her aura tarnished.

Her luck came up snake eyes.

Her good mood fizzled.

She slid off the top of the world.

Slowly, she turned her head, something within her already knowing the identity of the man, the one aura-tarnishing person she knew…

Josh Crandall.

He grinned—no, leered…no, it was a smirk. Definitely a smirk. “Hiya, Sam. How’s tricks?”

How’s tricks. Nobody said that anymore—nobody outside of Mr. Hennesey’s generation. Doing a little intergenerational bonding, Mr. Crandall?

On the other hand, being tricky was Josh’s modus operandi.

He didn’t bother to stand because that would show respect and heaven forbid Josh Crandall should show respect for anyone he didn’t have to.

Sam would rise above the situation, which meant she could lower herself and still be above him.

“Mr. Crandall.” What was he doing here?

“Oh, take the ruler out of your—” He shifted and unrepentantly cleared his throat, his meaning crystal clear. “I told Bill, here, we were buds.”

“Professional buds,” Sam clarified, though Josh didn’t have a professional bone in his body and she was no more his “bud” than…better not go there.

“If you insist.” His grin widened and he winked.

Sam wished she had a really good set of fingernails so she could scratch that grin off his loathsome face. Even so, she could feel what fingernails she had digging into her palms. In a couple of short sentences, he’d completely changed Bill Hennesey’s picture of her—and not for the better. Too much was at stake for Sam to allow Josh to get away with it.

“I do insist, as you well know.” She sent a deliberately casual smile toward Mr. Hennesey. “Josh and I have crossed paths on the convention circuit the past couple of years. He’s very good at what he does.” But what he does isn’t very good.

She congratulated herself on her word choice. Outwardly, it was a compliment. Maybe Josh would reciprocate.

“Why thank you, Sam. Glad to hear you didn’t have any complaints.”

Or maybe not.

Naturally, Mr. Hennesey chuckled. “Yes, he is, which is why we’re delighted to hire his company to train our staff.”

What company? “You mean Meckler?”

“Josh has left Meckler Hotels and has started his own sales training company.”

Josh leaned forward and dangled a business card from his fingers. Sam had to walk over to him and reach over the tiny coffee table in order to take it.

If Mr. Hennesey weren’t there, she would have ripped it into confetti and thrown it in Josh’s face. But Mr. Hennesey was there, more’s the pity, so Sam politely took the card, and looked at it. Josh Crandall, Perfect Pitch Sales Seminars.

Now what? With her back to Mr. Hennesey, Sam eyed Josh suspiciously. Was this another of his slick tricks? Devious ways? Underhanded maneuvers?

Josh gave her a blandly innocent smile which Sam didn’t buy for an instant.

Mr. Hennesey apparently did. “Josh has been so successful in convention sales—” Sam winced, knowing at whose expense a few of those successes came, “—that I was eager to give him the opportunity to share some of his secrets.”

“You’re actually willing to go on record?” she said to Josh.

“For a price.”

“Well, we always knew you had a price.”

“Everybody’s got a price, chickie, even you.” He threw one of his casual smiles at Mr. Hennesey. “Finding a person’s price is one of the strategies I’ll cover in my seminar.”

Slick, slimy and smooth. Vintage Josh. Sam gritted her teeth.

Mr. Hennesey was clearly mesmerized by him, but then most people were. Young, old, male, female. Everybody liked Josh. He made them feel good when they were with him which made them want to please him so he’d stick around. So they’d please him by giving Meckler Hotels their convention business. But then he’d leave anyway. Didn’t they get it?

He had a gift, Sam acknowledged, and she knew it wasn’t anything he could teach others.

“…know him, Samantha…” She quickly tuned back into Mr. Hennesey. “…so I’m putting you in charge of organizing the training sessions with Josh.”

No. No, no, no, no.

“Start with personnel here this week, then bring in the others from the eastern region.”

Nooooo. Except this was exactly the type of job the east coast manager would do. She should be thrilled that she’d been given the opportunity to prove what she could do and not one of the other candidates.

Except now she owed Josh.

“See to it that he has everything he needs,” Mr. Hennesey instructed expansively.

Josh’s eyes gleamed.

“He means equipment,” Sam snapped.

“My equipment is just fine.” He grinned. “Some have said it’s the best they’ve ever seen.”

“Then they haven’t seen much.”

Josh let her words hang in the air. “And you have, of course.”

How was it possible to loathe a human being as much as she loathed Josh? Belatedly conscious of Mr. Hennesey’s gaze ping-ponging between them, Sam once again prepared to salvage the situation. Turning to the man she hoped would become her permanent boss, she explained, “I’ve always made it a point to be familiar with the audio visual inventory of the hotels I recommend to organizations’ meeting planners. Carrington can be justifiably proud of owning and maintaining first-rate AV equipment.”

To Josh, she added, “As a start-up company it would be understandable if your equipment was…lacking.”

Their gazes locked.

Sam could see the muscle work in Josh’s temple and was silently congratulating herself for finally getting to him, when he spoke, “Bill, if you can spare Sam for a couple of hours, I’d like to show her my equipment.”

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