"Will she live?" Gabrielle bit her lower lip and wrung her hands together, standing over the limp form on the operating table. "I'll never forgive myself if Angelique dies." Drawing in a shuddering breath, guilt assuaged her for being too careless, for letting her out of her sight. "Val won't speak to me ever again."

Her troubled eyes followed the doctor's deft fingers working his magic, prepping newly shaved flesh, wielding a minuscule but finely honed scalpel. When he closed the incisions with catgut, her stomach churned.

Angelique moaned and lolled over the silvery-gray table. Gabrielle's attention never left the patient and she stepped to the table acting as a barrier to keep Angelique from rolling off.

Taking his pen light out of his pocket, the doctor shined it in Angelique's groggy eyes. Then he poked and prodded angry pink flesh, making Gabrielle wince in commiseration. "I think she'll make it. She's one lucky little lady."

Gabrielle let out a long sigh of relief. "So what's next?" Surgery would probably cost her upwards of two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars of which she needed every cent for her dream vacation. Three years of longing and planning faded before her eyes.

Iron will pulled her back, before she let herself feel too sorry for herself. After all, it was her fault that Angelique ran into the road in the first place. That her sister would be heartbroken if her baby died.

Devastating tiger's eyes sought hers, hitting her unexpectedly in the solar plexus, stealing her breath. An instantaneous jolt of electricity surged through her when they took her measure. A square chin punctuated lean, chiseled cheeks. Honey blonde hair against deeply tanned flesh gave him a leonine grace. What an extraordinary-looking man.

Suddenly self-conscious at her state of dishabille, not that she could be expected to have stopped and changed into a cocktail dress before rushing to the emergency room, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting.

Grimacing, she wished she didn't look as if she'd stepped out of a blender, either. Fluttering fingers drifted to her hair, trying to coax it into order. Breathing was a struggle. Traitorous toes curled. Goose bumps prickled her arms.

Her fiancé wouldn't appreciate even a mental aberration in faithfulness. To distract herself, she pushed her cuticles back from her fingernails with studied practice, pretending aloofness.

"She'll need to stay over at least two nights. We'll see how she's doing then." When he flashed a dazzling smile, her insides smoldered into melt down. It took all her strength not to swoon. Not to tilt her head and flip her hair behind her shoulders in a come hither invitation.

With a touch of self-loathing, she gave herself a good mental shake. Knee deep in a life crisis, shouldn't she be sad? Even a little apocalyptic?

The doctor stroked Angelique's silky fur and smiled at the sedated feline as if she were a precocious child, practically crooning to her.

Guilt aside, she just couldn't get that worked up over a mangy feline. How she'd ever let Valerie talk her into babysitting her psychotic cat, she hadn't clue one. Val must've caught her in an insane moment. But then Val had that effect on people.

She didn't even like animals. Especially not cats. They were too dirty. Too smelly. Too time consuming. And too expensive. Sharp claws and razor sharp teeth gave her nightmares.

And here she was preparing to empty out her bank vault for her sister's hairball. Curling her fingers over the leather clutch purse, her knuckles and fingernails paled. She could feel the money slipping away.

Val owed her big time. She'd go to her grave owing her for this.

"She's lucky to have you." Scooping Angelique into his arms, he carried her to a cage that looked more like a luxury resort. "Not everyone would bring her to the vet."

"I'm a regular peach, alright." She flashed a strained smile at the Greek God in doctor's whites, her true feelings clogging her throat. Any moment she was in danger of batting her eyelashes, sashaying her hips and gifting him with a fertility goddess. If she didn't hurry up and escape, she'd ask if he'd father her first born.

She'd really lost her mind. Maybe her sinuses had consumed it, swollen as they were with cat dander and formaldehyde permeating the clinic. Small explosions refused to be squelched. Achoo. Achoo. Stifling another sneeze, she pressed her fingers to her nose as daintily as possible.

Her way-ward, un-Gabrielle-like emotions concerned her. She'd never reacted to her fiancé, Ian, this way.

No other recourse, she followed the doctor until he led her to the front desk. Despite herself, she couldn't help but admire the broad set of his shoulders that tapered to lean, lithe hips, or his casual gait. Extracting her checkbook from her purse, she felt her vacation paradise dissipate.

After keying in several buttons that reverberated in her head, the doctor smiled crookedly, capturing her gaze. "Six hundred fifty dollars. Will that be cash, check or credit card?"

Choking back a gasp, she stared at him dumbfounded. In shock, she froze to the spot. "Excuse me?" Her own medical bills had never totaled that much in a year.

"We take Discover Card now." His professional smile told her he thought a tiny piece of plastic would solve all her problems, alleviate all traces of apprehension. Vacation Utopia dimmed alarmingly.

She held out the underside of her arm to him. Sarcasm dripped from a voice icier than she'd ever heard it. "How about if you just take my blood?"

"Do you need a payment plan?" He chuckled at what he thought to be her joke. Deadly serious, her eyes narrowed as she dropped her arm to the counter. "Sixty dollars a month?"

Flipping open her checkbook, she peered at her blue-inked bank balance with a grimace, wondering how fast it would go into the red at this rate. "I'll pay now and get it over with." She brightened a little. Valerie would surely reimburse her. After all, her baby would've died without the surgery. Uncapping her pen with her teeth, she balancing her checkbook mid-air, scribbling the amount as hurriedly as she could, anxious to leave this animal nightmare motel. Like pulling a Band-Aid off quickly instead of excruciatingly slow, it would be less painful. "When can I pick her up?"

"Call tomorrow afternoon and we'll let you know how she's doing." His fingertips brushed hers when he took the proffered check radiating shivers down her spine. While she schooled her rampant emotions, he slid her dream in his counter safe with barely a glance at the staggering amount, without a clue what he had just stole from her.

Quirking an eyebrow, she bestowed her most sugary sweet smile on him, her honeyed tones a perfect match. "Sure you don't want my lineage back to Elijah with my driver's license number? My firstborn?" Shocked at what had slid out of her mouth, heat simmered beneath her cheeks.

Impish light flared across his eyes so quickly, she wondered if she imagined it. When he spoke, he was the consummate professional again, his words perfectly modulated. "We'll do everything we can to make her comfortable and ensure she has a speedy recovery. Feel free to call if you want to check on her."

"Thanks." She considered diving into the safe, retrieving the check and letting him repossess the cat. Instead, she adopted her best professional smile and swallowed a lump in her throat. "I'm sure you'll care for our little Angel as if she was yours." Better than if the cat were hers.

"Tell me you're joking, Gabby." Ian's fingers raked his hair. Cold eyes ransacked her as he paced the floor. "You didn't really just drop half a grand on that mangy flea bag?"

Enamel powder dusted her tongue, her teeth ground so hard. "You know I don't like it when you call me Gabby." Nausea assaulted her every time she thought about her sorry bank balance. She really didn't need him compounding it. What had ever possessed her to exchange her vacation on a cat? Guilt wasn't that strong, was it? "And it was over half a grand."

She might be guilted out of fifty dollars, even a hundred, but this went beyond mere repentance. Something else was at play, and she suspected she had a heart beating somewhere in her chest.

"What gives? You don't like animals any better than I do." Ian halted before her, towering over her, hands on his hips. "You spent all that money on a mangy flea bag, and didn't even consult me." He shot a haughty glance down his nose at her.

"That mangy flea bag is my sister's pride and joy. And I'd do anything for Val." Could family loyalty be driving her too far?

"You're always bailing her out of jams. It's time she grew up." A huge sigh expelled from his lips. "She's thirty-something, isn't she?"

"She's thirty-two. She needed help."

"Try tough love. She's five years older than you. It's time she stopped playing with those crystals and moved back into the real world."

She resisted the urge to wring her hands together. Hadn't they had this argument a million times? She could almost repeat it verbatim. "I know Val's a little different, but she's my sister."

"That's right! You're her sister. Not her banker. Not her therapist. And not her baby sitter." Flat and devoid of any understanding, his gaze set her opinion of him in concrete. Ian had a piece of quartz in place of a heart.

She frowned. Why did he have to worry everything to death? Didn't she have enough troubles? "I don't expect you to understand. You're an only child. I'm not going to desert her no matter what you say." You'd better not let me down, Valerie.

"Don't go noble on me." He played his arms like a violin, snorting, then picked cat fur off his Christian Dior suit letting them flutter to her floor... "How am I supposed to meet MacPherson looking like a fur ball?" He glowered at her. "And I probably smell like that litter box."

"It's only for a couple more days. And the cat will be at the vet." She linked her fingers together in her lap to quell their urge to choke him and her sister for putting her in this spot.

Refusing to kiss her, he strode for the door. Well, that's fine with me! "Let me know when the cat's gone and you've de-fleaed the place. Until then, I'll take Tony up on the offer of his spare room."

"We don't have fleas." Following him to the door, her brows knitted together. She should know. When she'd checked the itemized bill, she'd discovered an outrageous charge for a flea bath. "You're blowing this out of proportion."

His eyes narrowed as if dissecting her and she shivered. "Who knows what kind of germs that rat chaser brought in here? It's unsanitary to have animals in the house. I'm darned if I'm going to expose myself to disease."

"You can't be serious?" She cut off a disbelieving snicker, knowing it would fan his anger to inferno proportions.

"Just watch me." He crossed the threshold, slamming the door in her face without so much as a smile.

Five days later, Gabrielle returned to the animal hospital, filled with trepidation. Life had been peaceful without Angelique clawing her furniture and scavenging in her garbage. She'd banned the litter box to the porch and aired out her apartment. She felt human again. Ian had even been appeased- almost.

Formaldehyde smacked her in the face when she opened the door of the clinic and she almost fell backward. Even though it was barely eight a.m., the waiting room bustled with the animal kingdom, including a hyperactive ferret and a beady-eyed iguana.

She held herself aloof as best as she could but a puppy scampered under her feet, tripping her.

Strong hands righted her, saving her from the fall.

When she looked into twinkling tiger's eyes, her throat constricted. "Thank you," she murmured, all of a sudden self-conscious, even though she was quite presentable this time, clad in her three-piece suit, gold filigree chain and gold ear studs.

"Your little darling's doing much better. She slept through the night."

"She should sleep like a princess at these rates. You should change the name to Buckingham Palace." Just being inside these not-so-hallowed halls, she watched the dimmer switch on her vacation plans fade. She clutched her purse tighter, protecting the vacation brochures hiding inside. They were her lifeline in this crazy, mixed-up world.

A wide grin split his face. "Actually, we're the least expensive place in town. We're thinking of calling ourselves Motel Six."

He took her elbow and led her to the receptionist. "Joanna, will you help the pretty lady check out Angelique Thomas?"

Joanna smiled at the doctor as if the sun rose for him, her chin dimpling. The expression in her jade eyes bordered on idol worship. "Be glad to Dr. Nealy." Much more honey in her voice and the woman goes into sugar shock.

Dr. Nealy? Gabrielle frowned. She could've sworn the phone book said he was Dr. Benjamin Miller. And that was the name on the front door, too.

Oh well. No biggie. Did it really matter what his name was? After this morning, she'd never see him again. Nothing would entice her into an animal clinic ever again. They would, never again, get near her checkbook. Or her Discover Card.

Still twinges of an unnamed emotion tugged at her heart making her knees wobble. She put it down to warped high heels. At lunchtime, she'd have to get the shoe cobbler to put new tips on them.

"Thank you. You prevented World War III for which I'm eternally grateful." She fished in her purse for her checkbook, swimming past her wallet, keys, and make-up for the elusive nymph. The smart aleck didn't want to be found anymore than she wanted to find it.

A tidal wave brushed by her and clapped Dr. Nealy on his shoulder.

"Flirting again, Craig?"

The man was so tall he had to stoop to enter the door. He turned a thousand-watt smile on her. "Excuse my partner, Miss. He can't help himself when he sees a pretty face."

She felt a blush creeping into her cheeks. The cogs in her mind ground in a frenzy. Something nagged at her, as if something should click. It was like trying to sum a formula when she'd misplaced a parentheses. She couldn't quite fit the pieces together.

She peered at him, trying to jog her elusive memory. She'd never seem him before. Her soul would remember such a magnificent man. So why did something feel suddenly familiar, as if she should know him? Or of him?

"Then you won't mind buying me a cup of Java?" He turned up the voltage of his smile to eclipse that of his associate, solar flares singing her.

Disappointment flared through her veins. She checked her watch despite the futility. Eight fifteen already. "I can't. I'm already late to work." She sneaked a glance around the full waiting room. At least seven different breeds of dogs occupied the small space, including a salt and pepper Schnauzer, a Cocker Spaniel that couldn't stop wagging its stubby tail, and a Siberian Husky disconcerting her with his lopsided gaze, one blue eye, and one brown. She did a double take at a red-haired woman with a friendly smile and large round glasses, holding a pot bellied pig on her lap. The woman only had eyes for the handsome doctor. "And it looks like you are, too." She doubted his work seldom bored him. Or his clientele, she amended without amusement.

"I'm just coming off shift." He turned up his smile, raising the temperature of the room at least ten degrees.

"Struck down! Thought I'd never see the day Craig Nealy didn't score." Ben's chuckle boomed through the tiny waiting room.

Craig Nealy. Craig Nealy. The name chanted in her ears.

"Don't let it get around. I've a rep to protect."

Realization struck her like gale force winds and her eyes widened. She let her gaze wander his length, drinking in his magnificence. No wonder her sister had ever gotten over him. He was ambrosia to the eyes and balm to the soul. And strictly verboten.

She was engaged. He was a first class heartbreaker. Worse, Kim still pined for this man after all these years. He'd never released her heart.

"Here's your angel." Joanna crooned non-sensical words in the cat's ears. She placed the cat carrier on the counter, and darted glances full of longing and appreciation at Craig.

"Yes. There's my darling." Gabrielle couldn't keep the drawl out of her voice as she peeked at the Siamese fur ball through the mesh bars.

Craig hovered over her. "How about lunch?" His breath fanned her ear and she felt hot flashes sear through her.

Pretending he had no effect on her, she stuck her fingers into the cat carrier and tried to pet Angelique, but the fur ball's fluff stood on end as she spat venom at her. One well-aimed claw ripped through her finger.

"Mother of Mercy!" She jerked back so fast she fell into Craig's arms. Her injured finger automatically went into her mouth and she sucked on it while glaring at the cat. Some angel! Devil or Satan would be more fitting names.

"Let me see that." Craig drew her hand into the light. He let out a long whistle, which sounded more like admiration of the cat's handiwork than commiseration with her pain. "She has quite a swipe."

"Tell me about it." Her finger throbbed and was already swelling. Yet, it felt heavenly in his grasp.

She glowered at Angelique. You're Kibbles and Bits! This meant war.

Craig took Gabrielle's small hand in his, not the least surprised that it fit perfectly in his large paw.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, looking at him warily like a skittish foal.

He held the hand up with the injured finger. "You need antiseptic and dressing before you get an infection. I'll doctor it for you."

"Great! An animal doctor's going to stitch me up." Although her words were sarcastic, the bite was lessened somewhat by the honeyed tones of her husky voice. She tossed her head and the early morning sun streaming through the plate glass windows made her cornsilk blonde hair shimmer as the heavy curtain brushed her shoulders.

What an exquisite creature! He wondered why she bothered to hide those curves under her woman's idea of a man's power suit. With curves like that, she didn't need brains. But she had plenty. And a quick wit. And she loved animals. Just look how well she'd taken care of Angelique. Only an animal lover would have rushed their beloved pet into the emergency clinic and not asked the cost to save her.

He knew some day, the perfect woman would walk through his door. He'd not expected an accountant in a three-piece suit, but he'd adapt. He sensed that underneath her no-nonsense facade burned a passionate woman.

He'd taken advantage of the time Ben distracted her to let his gaze roam over her length. Even though the fluorescent lighting in the office made most people look sallow, her creamy complexion glowed with health and vitality. The bloom in her cheeks reminded him of freshly opened rose petals. Full, kissable lips tempted him to take them right then and there. She smelled heavenly, like night blooming Jasmine. Females who wore alluring scents had always fascinated him. All the more if they had sweet honeyed voices, come-hither eyes, perky breasts and miles of legs that didn't end. What a delectable package, practically made to order.

When she glanced up at Ben, the creamy column of her throat looked more alluring than a summer rain after a long drought. He almost forgot where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.

The parade of women who chased him faded from his memory. He was tired of being just a pretty face. They didn't care if he had substance or not, as long as they could wrap him around their arms and show him off. He was beginning to feel like a trophy.

Somewhere he'd known there was someone who'd recognize and appreciate him for who he really was. Someone who would laugh at his jokes because they understood them, not merely to make him feel good. Someone with whom he could converse with on his level. Someone who didn't put him on a pedestal upon which he couldn't possibly stay forever.

So she'd turned down him down flat, which presented a minor problem. But he wasn't beaten. The hunt was on.

He'd lift her home address from Angelique's file. A touch of larceny wasn't beyond him with this prize in sight. The challenge whetted his appetite.

Besides, she'd be back for Angelique's recheck in a few days. He'd make sure he was the doctor on schedule, even if he had to come in on his off time.

He pulled her into the scrub room where he gently cleansed her finger. She quivered against him and he suppressed a knowing smile. She wasn't immune to him. "We can declaw her for you. Then she couldn't do this to you." Bewitched, he looked down at the top of her head, using any excuse to admire her captivating beauty. "That is, if she's an indoor cat."

She lifted her eyes to his, a flitting expression of amusement in their darkened depths that sparkled like star sapphires. "I don't know what she's decided to be in her next life. I suppose I should ask her." Her laugh was dry. "But it would certainly save on my furniture."

"Have Joanna schedule her after she's recovered." He applied antiseptic gently, careful not to hurt her anymore than necessary, concerned when she flinched.

Her lips twisted into a lopsided grin and he detected a trace of a mid-western drawl. "Tell me, were you an ambulance chaser in your last life? Don't you get enough business here without being a walking advertisement?" She rolled her hips alluringly as she took a step back, putting distance between them. "You know, the Real Yellow Pages would love to do that job for you. Then you could concentrate on your doctoring."

It was his turn to laugh. What a delightful, refreshing little nymph. This one kept him on his toes. He held her hand up to the light and peered at his handiwork. "I just hate to see a pretty lady get hurt."

"You're quite the charmer, aren't you? No wonder..." She cut off her words with a look that told him she'd thought better of what she'd been about to say.

No wonder what? What had she meant by that?

He regarded her with curious eyes. She'd called him a charmer. That wasn't all bad. But he'd had the distinct impression her words were a double-edged sword. It wasn't a compliment.

He forced his concentration back to bandaging her finger and she eyed it as she might a garden snake.

"Not that I want to be rude, but I'm late to work. Put the bill on my tab, will you?" She glanced at the wall clock as if it had grown two heads.

This was his opening. "I can't put my bill on your tab." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. This move got to all but the most hardened of souls, and even some of them. He'd perfected his routine since he was three.

"Why not?" she asked, almost breathless, not withdrawing her hand and he felt a quickening in his soul.

"My bill for helping a damsel in distress is dinner and dancing on the intra-coastal. Tonight." He watched her, waiting for some expression in her eyes.

Instantly her eyes became guarded, and he wondered why. She pulled her hand from his and crossed the room in an absurdly quick gait. That wasn't the reaction he'd expected. It wasn't as if he'd asked her to bear his sons. He hadn't even proposed a one-night union.

"I'm busy tonight."

"Tomorrow night?"

"Busy." She looked slightly uncomfortable and crossed her arms under her breasts, delineating them despite the severely cut suit.

"How about the night after?"

"Look, it isn't that I'm not flattered by your invitation." Her voice held a sharp edge that surprised him. Where had that come from? She held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers. "But I'm engaged."

He drew his brows together and peered at her fingers. Unless he was mistaken or blind, her fingers were bare. "You don't want that loser. He didn't even buy you a ring."

"Oh!" Her laugh was self-conscious as she looked at her naked finger. "It's being sized. It was his grandmother's."

"He didn't let you pick out your heart's desire?" He shook his head and leaned against the wall. "I'd have helped you search the ends of the earth for the perfect diamond if I were your fiancé."

A slow blush stained her cheeks and her hand fluttered to her side. Gold spiked lashes swept her high, porcelain cheekbones. "It is the perfect ring, thank you very much. It's an heirloom, and I'm very honored that he entrusts it to me." Her lashes lifted and she pinpointed him with her direct gaze. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Tell him for me, he's a lucky man."

"I-I will." A forced smile lifted the corners of her lips ever so slightly. "Thank you. You have an excellent bedside manner. I'm sure it's wasted on your regular patients."

He crossed the room and took her elbow in his hand and leaned conspiratorially towards her. He wondered why a flicker of alarm lit her eyes. "Good manners are never wasted."

"I s'pose not. But, the age of chivalry died before you were born."

"Only for the insincere. My mama taught me to be polite to everyone."

She merely quirked a disbelieving eyebrow at that and pivoted on her heel.

He escorted her to the reception area where Joanna cradled Angelique to her bosom, crooning to her.

"She's such a darling. We'll miss her." Joanna scratched the cat behind her ears and the cat's tail fluttered up and down. Angelique lapped up the attention. Until Gabrielle bundled her into the jail-like box and closed the door.

A plaintive meow rose to the heights of the ceiling, as if she were demanding to be set free from her prison. When Gabrielle reached for the cat carrier, he moved faster, lifting it off the counter. "Let me."

She favored him with a smile, giving in gracefully, another trait he admired. Insincere objections won no brownie points in his book. Tilting her head, she nodded toward a cherry BMW. An older model, it had character like its mistress. Sun stars glinted off its chrome's high polish. A "SAVE THE MANATEES" vanity plate decorated the rear end. He figured a staid accountant would drive a sensible sedan, maybe a Town Car.

"Angelique needs to be seen in two days. Can you make it by 5:30 Thursday?" Joanna asked. Her pencil hovered over her appointment book expectantly.

Gabrielle answered without hesitation. "There's no way I can make it that early. How about seven?"

"The office closes for dinner from six to seven-thirty." Joanna frowned deeply, studying her book. He knew she didn't like problem patients.

"There's no way I can get off work, get Angelique and be back here by six. I..."

"If you're sure you'll make it, I'll be here at seven."

"But..." Joanna's mouth dropped open. She stared at him as if he'd gone suddenly daft. Suspicion clouded her gaze.

"It's okay, Jo. I'll come in." He bestowed his most winning smile on her, the one that always made her melt like putty. "Pencil her in."

"Whatever you say, doctor." Joanna wrote Gabrielle's name in the book. It was obvious, she wasn't happy with him. But she knew when to defer to his wishes.

"Thank you," Gabrielle said. She looked very uncomfortable but he had no idea what could have happened to prompt this.

"I'm leaving for the day. Ben's taking over." He tapped the counter in a goodbye rap.

"Goodbye, Craig." Joanna fawned over him. Her chin dimpled again and plump cheeks curved in a smile. "Don't forget you have a soccer game later. I'll be in the cheering section."

He nodded to his secretary then held the door open for Gabrielle, following her to her car. He watched the sashay of her hips and then his gaze slid down to her perfectly shaped legs encased in support hose. When the sunlight hit the shimmery material, her legs sparkled. Whoever invented those should receive the Nobel Peace Prize.

She fumbled with her keys for a moment then wrenched the door open. She hesitated as if uncertain what to say, then held out her hand for the cat carrier. "This is quite a gimmick. Curbside service. I'm sure you'll get lots of loyal patients this way."

"I don't do this for just anybody." He handed over the carrier then closed in on her, leaning on her car, his face mere inches from hers.

"Does that mean you know who I am?" she asked, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

He peered at her, the sun at his back putting her in his shadow. "Should I know you?" He wouldn't forget a doll like her. Impossible.

"Doesn't my name ring a bell?" She glanced everywhere but at him.

"Gabrielle Thomas?" He let it roll around his tongue, tasting it, testing it. It felt good. But not familiar. "No. Should it?"

"Kim Thomas is my big sister. The Kim Thomas whose heart you broke."

Craig whistled long and low, looking at the woman before him with new eyes. Was he ever in trouble. Maybe he could charm his way out of this tight spot. "So you're the gangly little sister? You certainly filled out." He couldn't help that his smile widened as his gaze roamed over her ample assets. "I didn't recognize you."

"Thank you," she said. Sarcasm dripped from her voice. She slid out of his imprisoning arms and into the sanctuary of her car before he realized her intention. Long fingers tucked her hair behind her ears. It curled in a flip at her delicate jaw line, soft and silky.

He bent to peer inside her Beamer and flashed her his most winning smile. "Remember to tell that fiancé of yours to treat you right. No one hurts my little sister." He closed her door and stepped back.

Who would've thought that Kimmie's little sister would turn into such a knockout? He would've bet against it hands down seven years ago.

He was glad beyond reason that he'd lost his bet.

Northbound I-95 was a parking lot from Atlantic Boulevard all the way down to Griffin Road, as were all the major boulevards that led to the Turnpike.

Gabrielle chafed in the traffic, watching the sun climb higher and higher, mocking her about how late she'd be to work.

Angelique moaned in self-pity, worse than if ten banshees screamed in Gabrielle's ears. Majik radio's morning team announced the series of wrecks that choked Ft. Lauderdale in a stranglehold. Then the DJs kept her company, joking about everything and everybody remotely noteworthy.

When they announced it was nine-fifteen, she moaned louder than the fur ball. There was no way she could take Angelique home now. She wouldn't arrive at work until after lunch if she detoured.

She chewed her lower lip, considering viable options.

What options? She realized bleakly, she had none.

She'd have to sneak Angelique into work and hope nobody noticed. She must be losing her mind.

How could they not notice a creature that screamed bloody murder in an office so quiet it reminded her of a morgue? An office full of accountants and analysts would notice such a detail.

She was toast. Her job was history. Visions of doom and gloom danced in her head like mutant sugar plum fairies.

Angelique's kitty odor mixed with engine exhaust fumes, roiled her stomach. Maybe she should call in sick?

Cars inched forward, in second-long bursts of energy, not much worth the effort or pollution. Ecologists would scream about the Greenhouse Effect. The subtropical summer sun baked the tarmac beneath her car sending waves of shimmering heat to blur her vision. She should've listened to Ian when he told her to get a cell phone. She'd have to get one after work. Grimacing, she mentally calculated her checking account balance minus this newest expense.

With time on her hands, she indulged in self-pity. Leaning her neck on the imitation leather head-rest, she rolled back her eyes.

How she yearned to get away from it all on some sunny, tropical beach, to stretch her boundaries. Vacation was just two months away which didn't give her much time to refill the coffers.

Wanderlust tripped through her veins. Living on Florida's tip, so far from the mainland, she couldn't even hop across state borders for a weekend getaway, unless she flew. She wanted to explore, to taste new cultures, meet new people, and live life to the fullest before...

Before what?

She frowned at the elusive question as she threaded her way towards the Broward Boulevard east bound off ramp.

Before she married Ian? Before she was shackled by the old suburban ball and chain?

She gave herself a mental slap, angry with herself. She loved Ian. She couldn't wait to marry him. She longed to be the mother of his children.

Didn't she?

Intense tiger's eyes flashed through her mind. And a lopsided smile. And she remembered her insane desire to give him a fertility goddess.

Whoa girl! She admonished herself. Don't go there!

She was just having pre-wedding jitters. Everyone did, right? It was only normal to wonder if she'd made the right choice that would affect the rest of her life. 'Till death was an awfully long time. Hopefully.

A life sentence?

Where did that come from?

Besides, Kim would kill her for just having an illicit thought about Craig Nealy. Death, by slow torture.

One way or another, her sisters would be the death of her yet.

Downtown Ft. Lauderdale basked under the shimmering summer sun. Tall buildings loomed like sentinels. Sunlight laser beamed off their plate glass windows. Side streets were almost deserted. Of course, she grimaced, stepping on the accelerator, racing around the streets as if it were the Indy 500. All her co-workers were snuggled in their safe, little cubicles and offices, making the boss happy.

Her BMW skid around a sharp curve and Angelique meowed in her ear.

"You'll have to be quiet for me today or I won't be able to afford your kitty gourmet cat food. Or your catnip. Capice?" She shook her finger at the cat as if she'd understand, then rolled her eyes mentally.

No doubt about it, she was losing it. Talking to a cat as if it would understand, sheesh!

Angelique tilted her head, never taking her eyes off Gabrielle. Her sable-tipped ears and whiskers twitched. Her tail flitted up and down, puppet-like. Then she looked away as though dismissing Gabrielle, and licked her paw with her regal tongue.

Finally her building loomed into view. Without slowing down, she rounded the corner into her parking garage and spiraled all the way to the roof where she finally found an open space. Great! Her car would be like an oven when she left work.

Was the entire universe against her today? Had she pulled the ace of spades instead of the queen of hearts when she'd picked from the deck in Heaven?

Or was it just a cosmically bad day, as Valerie would say? Her karma was off kilter, or her house wasn't in the right moon. Who knew? Her tolerance for Val's astrological obsession dwindled drastically.

She sneezed three times in quick succession as she parked, almost ramming her new BMW into the concrete wall. She stomped on her brakes and they screeched in protest. The cat joined in chorus, grating on her raw nerves.

Wonderful! Was she catching a summer cold now, too?

She spied a towel she'd thrown over the seat to keep Angelique from ruining it. Grabbing it, she covered the cat carrier with it, leaving the front open so Angelique could breathe.

As she walked into the building carrying the pet carrier, she wondered how she'd get to her office without anyone seeing the cat. Or hearing it. Or smelling it.

Disaster loomed. She should've called in sick.

Her employers wouldn't allow their employees to bring their kids to work. She was positive they wouldn't cozy up to animals in the office.

"Are you a seeing-eye cat?" she asked Angelique, lifting her brow.

The cat merely looked at her as if she were crazed.

"I didn't think so." She crept through the halls, feeling as if she were a secret agent on assignment. "Do you think you could sit really still and pretend to be a statue?" Permanently?

Angelique shot her another incredulous glare, her nose twitching.

"You've got to help me out, here. After all, you got me into this mess." She felt silly talking to a cat, but she couldn't dam the flow of words spewing from her lips. "You wouldn't by chance be a familiar? You know? One of those cats whose not really a cat but a witch? It would really help me, if you could just, like disappear in a puff of air. Like Bewitched."

She eyed Angelique hopefully. Nothing happened.

"Fat lot of help you are." She frowned.

Home stretch loomed near. But she had to cross the minefield of her boss's office, and his boss's office, before she reached neutral territory.

If she were really, really blessed, they'd be on another floor in a meeting, or even out of the building with a client or a vendor.

"Sh!" Putting her finger to her lips, she warned the cat to be quiet. "Give me away now, and you are Kibbles and Bits."

Angelique glared at her, but didn't make a sound. She obviously watched television.

Feeling like a commando, she peeked around the corner, checking out the enemy encampment for tiger pits and ambushes. She held the carrier behind her on her arm, anchor style.

The only soul in the hallway was Amy, her boss's secretary, a sweet girl who probably wouldn't give her away unless threatened with extreme bodily harm or revocation of her credit cards. As Amy's desk was in the hallway, she couldn't wait for her to leave. She might be there all day.

She had to make her move now, while the hall was otherwise deserted. Lifting a quick prayer, she pulled the towel lower over the cage and walked straight and upright, pretending she wasn't bringing live contraband into the office.

"Good morning, Gabrielle." Amy fluttered her fingers at her and smiled. "Everyone's worried about you. We were afraid you in an wreck or something."

Or something. "Morning, Amy. Nothing to worry about. I'm fine." As fine as she could be carrying the cat from hell into work. She wondered if she should pre-plan her funeral or surf the web for want ads. Did anyone want gullible proposal analysts these days? If worse came to worse, she had great bookkeeping skills, too.

"What's that?" Amy tilted her head at the towel-covered cat carrier. "Get a new briefcase?"

A big lump in her throat almost choked her. "Not exactly. It's a surprise."

"Is it your birthday? Is that why you received..." Amy clapped her mouth with her hands. Her violet eyes glittered.

"Received what?" Oh no! Not another surprise. Her heart couldn't take anymore.

"How old are you?" Amy leaned forward on her desk, her chin balanced on her steepled hands.

"My birthday's not till New Year's Eve." She turned and tried to back towards her office, wondering what awaited her there. The longer she stayed out here, the more danger she was in. She glanced over her shoulder, surveying her escape route.

"Where's Paul?" Her whisper carried too loud for her peace of mind. If she didn't sound guilty, the Earth wasn't round.

Amy opened her mouth to speak, but before the words came out, voices echoed in the hallway. Paul's voice overrode the others but she also heard the deep timbre of Vince's voice. Vince was the big boss in this office and the one person who intimidated Gabrielle more than any other.

"Paul's coming." Amy pointed down the hall with a blood red fingernail. "You wanna see him?"

"No!" Almost yelling the word, Gabrielle cringed with the insane desire to flee. She wished wings would sprout on her feet or had a pill to make her invisible.

Amy's eyes narrowed. "Something wrong, Gabby? You look like death."

"If they catch me, I am dead." Before her friend could ask for explanation, she ran behind her desk, put her finger to her lips, and lifted the cage's cover.

The girl's eyes grew round, incredulous. Then a smile spread across her lips and she rubbed the sensitive spot behind Angelique's ear.

"Amy, you've got to hide her out until they leave. They can't catch me with her in the hall." Heart skipping several beats, breath shallow, Gabrielle felt faint.

"Well--"

She bent and hugged her friend. "Thanks, doll. I owe you a big one." Before Amy could voice her protest, she ran down the hall as fast as she could in high heels, slipping into the sanctuary of her office just before Paul and Vince rounded the corner.

The cloying scent of roses almost overpowered her and she turned incredulous eyes to her desk where a bouquet of the largest, most beautiful red roses dominated her desk. They were a mixture of tightly drawn buds, full blooms and newly opening petals ranging from coral pink to ripe Christmas red.

"Who in the world would've sent those?" It wasn't any special occasion she could recall. In contrast to the gorgeous flowers, the rest of her office looked drab. They overpowered her simple metal desk with the wood simulated tabletop. The waxy forest green leaves of her philodendron looked like a giant weed next to the beautiful blossoms. Her sixth floor view overlooking Ft. Lauderdale looked gray, dreary, and boring. All except for a peek of the ocean that glistened bright blue in the sunlight.

Quickly, before Paul or Vince cornered her, she flipped on her computer, mussed her desk, and uncapped her pen so it would look as if she'd been working for awhile. Maybe they'd been caught up in a meeting and wouldn't have noticed her late arrival. At least they didn't have to know how late she'd arrived.

She'd bribe Amy with her favorite Chinese lunch.

"Ian giving you roses?" Paul lounged against her door, a skeptical light flickering in his eyes. "Guilty conscience? Or special occasion?"

Caught unaware, she almost stuttered. "Neither," she said. "Can't a girl's fiancé send roses without any reason except that he loves her?"

Paul walked deeper into her offices and fingered a rose petal. "Nice roses. I'll have to get some for my wife."

"Special occasion? Or guilty conscience?" She forced laughter into her voice as she met his gaze straight on. She'd play this as if she hadn't been late, or brought a cat to work.

Bravado and sheer luck might carry her through. Under her desk, she crossed her fingers.

An enigmatic smile curved her boss's lips. Then he raked his fingers through his short, graying hair, bumping his horn-rimmed glasses. He straightened them on his nose before he spoke. "It's always a special occasion when you're married to the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Did I ever tell you what a sweet talker you are?" She had to keep herself from swooning. She leaned forward on the desk and smiled into Paul's eyes. "If they ever clone you, I get first dibs."

"What'll Ian say?"

"Did you come in here to harass me?" The subject of Ian made her uneasy. Almost queasy. To make matters worse, she wasn't sure why.

Paul tossed the file folder he'd been carrying, on her desk. A few papers slid out the side and she gathered them up. He cleared a corner and perched there, watching her. "I came in here to give you the Birmingham RFP. We made best and final, and only have a month to get the bid resubmitted. I need you to get to work on it yesterday. Lower salaries five percent across the board."

"Will do, boss." She opened the folder and perused the contents. "Anything special I need to know?"

"Just look it over and we'll have the briefing after lunch. Be in the conference room by one-fifteen."

She smiled her most effervescent smile. "I'll be there." Her legs curled under her desk. Drat! That didn't give her time to run the cat home.

Paul snatched a rose bud from the cut crystal vase, broke the stem, and stuck it behind her left ear. "Tell your boyfriend he has nice taste."

When Paul left, her curiosity got the better of her and she plucked the card from the vase. What an ornate card. She ran her fingertips over raised gold filigree depicting cherubs, hearts, and lace. Definitely un-Ian-like.

Did he feel her retreating from him? Doubting their relationship? Maybe he felt guilty that he hadn't been around much since Angelique had become her roomie? Could that be why he'd gone to such an extent?

When she opened the card and spied Craig's name scrawled in bold, masculine script, she almost fell off her chair.

Her eyes drank in the inscription: For a lovely lady with a lovely cat. Have lunch with me? Craig. He listed his phone number under his name. The P.S. stated, I won't take no for an answer.

What a flirt! And a chauvinist!

A very handsome, charming flirt and chauvinist.

Temptation lured her. Lunch with the dreamy veterinarian sounded heavenly. But it was suicide. If either Ian or Kimmie found out--- She shuddered, not wanting to envision what they'd do to her. Bamboo shoots came unbidden to mind. Long, thin, grainy and very, very sharp.

Besides, what business did a confirmed animal-hater have with a confirmed animal-lover? Not just the average, run-of-the-mill animal-lover, but a veterinarian. The stupid cat must be brainwashing her to make her react so strangely.

She wondered if her furry guest was behaving herself. So far, she'd heard no commotion in the hall. Maybe the cat had curled up and was taking a catnap. Weren't they nocturnal? This one liked to sleep all day and keep her up all night.

If her luck were changing, Angelique would be taking her beauty sleep now.

Studying the RFP was a hopeless case. The roses distracted her. Worrying about what Paul, or worse, Vince, would do if they discovered the animal's presence, had her listening for kitty commotion, and having doomsday thoughts. But most of all, Craig kept slipping into her mind, a determined thief of her thoughts. She kept seeing his sunny smile, feeling his electric touch and wishing she had the guts to join him for lunch.

Who said Ian or Kimmie had to find out? What was a little business lunch even if they did find out? She owed Craig for doctoring her finger.

Besides...a germ of an idea started to formulate in her mind. Craig was a sucker for animals. He'd made it obvious that he wanted to make brownie points with her. Maybe, just maybe he'd bail her out of her precarious predicament and take the cat home for her.

His number beckoned to her like Mecca. It just might hold all the answers that she sought. Or it might open Pandora's Box.

She lowered the hand that hung in the air above her telephone. Doubts assuaged her. Calling Craig really would amount to suicide.

But sitting here with Angelique, the ticking time bomb, was suicide as well. Her time was very short. She feared the fuse was already lit. Taking no action would result in a deadly explosion.

But calling her sister's ex-flame? It was pure insanity, especially since every fiber of her being longed to see him again? She couldn't get the image of that fertility goddess out of her mind, or Craig's golden, mischievous smile. Maybe she had cat scratch fever.

Hoping her dementia was transient, she tamped it down, and grabbed the phone, plan B taking shape. She dialed her sister's number and waited, tapping her foot in no apparent rhythm. Finally, just as she was about to hang up, Val answered. A prelude of paranormal, symphonic music drifted over the line.

"Thank God. Get your derriere right over here."

"Gabby? Who poured Tabasco sauce on your Cheerios this morning?" Val's groggy voice, not to mention her karma, wasn't very warm and fuzzy.

"Who else would have your cat in her office about ready to get her butt kicked out the door?" She spoke in an exaggerated stage whisper, her hand cupped around the mouthpiece, not caring that she spoke of herself in the third person. Darting glances at her open doorway, she hoped no one stood outside listening to her. That's all she needed. Not the way to break through the glass ceiling. And she'd have permanent vacation. Without pay.

"I can't hear you!" Valerie cited this line in an annoying singsong voice when she didn't want to hear something. When things weren't going her way.

"You heard me, Valerie Suzanne Thomas!" she hissed, her teeth clamped together tightly, the tip of her tongue lodged behind her teeth, her lips open wide. "I need you to come get your little poop machine out of my office."

"You took Crazy Cat to your office?" A disbelieving chuckle skipped over the wires. "You're certifiable!" Nothing wrong with her hearing now. Her loyalty needed major fine-tuning, however.

"You bet I'm crazy!" she said way too loudly. She chided herself for her indiscretion and lowered her voice, which still shook with rage and trepidation. "I helped you. Now I'm saddled with your mangy feline and I'm about to be terminated." She said terminated with such vengeance, she might as well have said exterminated. That's how she felt. When Vince got through with her, she'd be lucky to land a dishwasher job at the local McDonald's. "Come get her while I still have a job."

"No can do. It's not in the stars. Puss and I are incompatible." Valerie sounded distant and removed. There wasn't an ounce of remorse or guilt in her syrupy contralto tones.

"Don't do this to me, Val. Or it'll be a cold day before I bail you out of a jam again." And Valerie got in a bind at least once a month, soliciting help. Usually Gabrielle's help. She was the only one left gullible and softhearted enough to get sucked into Valerie's constant needs. Her teeth ground so tightly they'd be paste in a moment. Well this bank was closed to her permanently. She'd finally learned her lesson.

"Listen, hon. I'd love to help you out. But it's not in the cards." Valerie's sigh climbed an octave, like a cat's drawn-out whine. "Maybe Kimmie can get Crazy Cat. Did you try her?"

"She's your cat. You come for her." If she could pull Valerie through the phone line, drum sense and a little responsibility into her older sister, Gabrielle wouldn't hesitate. She wanted to hurl those dreaded tarot cards Val lived and breathed by over the moon.

"I really can't. Call Ian."

"Yeah, right. Ian, the animal hater?"

"I don't have time to debate this. I have to go." The phone line went dead.

Gabrielle stared at the silent, uncooperative instrument, fuming. She dialed Val again, willing her to grow a conscience and pick up. No answer. Of course not, she chided herself. Val was crazy. Not idiotic.

Next she tried Kimmie, but only got her answering machine. She was probably counseling a student.

The only place Ian would take the cat was to the Humane Society, and she couldn't live with that on her conscience.

Craig's number lured her. She twiddled his business card between her fingers, silently mouthing his number as she dialed. She was out of options.

Gabrielle's finger trembled as she dialed, and she chided herself for such foolishness. Craig had insisted she call, hadn't he? It wasn't as if he was an ogre. She wasn't going to ask him save the world. All she wanted him to do was collect one little fur ball and baby-sit for a few hours.

He owed her that much anyway, for detaining her at the clinic.

Still, she held her breath while she counted rings. One. Two. Three. Four and a half.

"This had better be an insanely beautiful woman or I'm hanging up." His voice sounded grainy and raspy, as though he'd just awakened and she remembered he'd worked all-night so she was interrupting his sleep. This was equivalent to one or two in the in the morning his time.

"How about a sanely beautiful woman?" A husky note crept into her voice. Warmth heated her cheeks. Straightening her white collar, she slashed lipstick on her mouth, and fluffed her hair. She could no more stop herself from primping for this man than she could stop the San Andreas from shifting.

"Do I know you?" He sounded intrigued and suddenly, completely awake. "You're not a bill collector, are you?" And if she had been, she knew he'd have tried to charm the socks right off her.

"Hardly," she drawled in a voice too sexy to recognize as her own. She'd turned down the chance to go into credit and collections. Harassing people wasn't her style. "Does this mean you're retracting your lunch invitation?"

"Little sister?"

"I'd prefer, Gabrielle, thank you," she said, shifting gears. She leaned back in her chair and lifted her leg onto her desk. Her hose bagged at her ankles and she grimaced. Elephant legs weren't the new fashion statement. Leaning forward, she smoothed the suntan nylons up to her thigh, rubbing the palm of her hand along her leg so as not to run them with her long nails. "The roses are gorgeous. Thank you." She extracted the rose from her hair, sniffing its heady, intoxicating scent appreciatively, her eyes closing dreamily.

Feeling eyes bore into her back, she swiveled a quarter turn in her chair and met Randy's amused, appreciative eyes. With a quirky grin, she waved her friend and co-worker away with a laugh.

His eyebrows danced the Groucho dance and he whistled lowly as he bowed away.

"So, Gabrielle," Craig said in a voice filled with heart-melting charm, making her clutch the phone receiver so tightly her knuckles paled. "I'm glad you like the roses." There was a pregnant pause. "They match your lips perfectly."

"Their color or the way they feel?" The minute the words escaped her lips, she wanted to strangle herself. What insanity had ever possessed her to tread such dangerous territory? Val was right. She was certifiable. Completely.

"Luscious red. Petal soft. But with a bite."

She bit her lower lip hard, almost drawing blood. Foreign sensations streamed through her like deadly rip tides. She could drown in his charm if she forgot herself or her reason for calling him.

She needed a savior. Not a tempter.

Clearing her throat, she did her best to gather her thoughts and freeze-dry her heart so she wouldn't feel more wayward emotions. "I'm in a serious jam and I have no one else to turn to. Can you help?" She turned up the desperation level of her voice. Sir Gallahad types like he obviously fancied himself to be, couldn't resist damsels in distress. Normally, she detested the helpless female variety, but desperate situations called for desperate measures.

The feline fricassee in the front office qualified as a global disaster. Her career was in definite danger of annihilation. If she didn't lose her mind first.

"What's the problem?"

"Bless you." Finally, a kind soul. She rubbed the soft petals across her lips, delighting in their velvety softness, their luscious perfume. The only thing that could possibly feel better would be his firm, warm lips on hers.

Perish the thought! Why did she keep traversing such alien territory? Such emotional land mines?

"I've not done anything yet." His laughter tickled her ear.

"You've already done more than my wonderful sisters." Not that she could really be mad at Kim for not answering her phone. But Valerie would get a chunk of her mind just as soon as she got her hands on her.

She crossed her fingers, her toes and her legs at her ankles. She couldn't keep stalling. "I got stuck in traffic and had to bring Angelique to the office. Would you be a sweetheart and baby-sit for me until I get off work this evening?" She didn't dare take a breath in the midst of her question, or else she'd chicken out. She felt herself turning blue while she awaited his reply.

"You took a cat to your office?" Twinges of mirth ribboned his milk-chocolate voice. "Your boss didn't kill you?"

"He doesn't know. Yet," she whispered, cupping her hands around the receiver. "Look, I'm really desperate. I'll do anything you want in return for this favor." Almost anything. Even give birth to your first son.

She was losing it. She wasn't herself. Maybe some spirit had invaded her body, making her act out of character.

"Anything?" The word sounded somehow sinister and sexier than sin when he crooned it.

"Almost anything." Her nerves skittered a mile a minute. She circled her ankle in the air, fixating on her foot. "I'm meeting with our president and our most valuable client right after lunch. The cat has to be gone or I can kiss my job goodbye."

"Spend the weekend with me."

"Excuse me?" Her ankle stopped at an awkward angle, frozen in mid-air. Incredulous, she couldn't believe her ears. The mid-morning sun cast laser beams of light off her engagement ring. She stared at it mesmerized, as if it were a crystal ball. But it foretold nothing but disaster and heartache. She looked away at the brighter, happier scenery of the distant Ft. Lauderdale beaches.

"Go away with me."

"I'm en..." She choked on the word as she twisted the ring on her fourth finger.

"No one will find us till Monday," he promised. He must have this down to a science. Still, his offer was very, very tempting.

She tried to say it again, staring at Ian's portrait on her desk in the antique silver frame. It seemed to scowl at her. She laid it face down, gently but firmly.

"I'm en...interested. Perhaps." She gulped in large breaths, her pulse skittering.

"Just how desperate are you?"

"I-I can't spend the night with you." Her words came out in a rush.

His laughter oozed over her, warming her insides. "I don't recall inviting you to. But, if you have your heart set on it, we could work something out."

Glancing at her watch, she was alarmed at the lateness of the hour. Ten-thirty. Time was running out. If she didn't get that cat out of here, she might as well update her resume and turn in her security badge. Would it be so bad to spend a weekend with the most gorgeous, dreamiest man she'd ever laid eyes on? A final fling before eternal imprisonment?

"Please hurry!"

"I knew you couldn't wait to get your hands on me."

"Just get over here fast." A headache started to pound at her temples. Her conscious waged war with her inner demon and she was stuck in the middle.

"You'll go with me?"

She bit her lower lip and twiddled her hair.

Kim wouldn't like this. She'd never gotten over her college love. Cherished dreams of reconciliation still held her heart captive. Possession laced her voice whenever she spoke of him.

The little demon twisted her tail. Craig had made it clear his relationship with Kim was long over. He was a free man.

The angel, her conscience, whispered in her other ear. She wasn't a free woman.

So why did she long to go with him? Why did his invitation intrigue her so?

"Well?"

"Come get the cat. I'm in the First Union Bank building." If it's still standing by the time you get here. Angelique was a disaster waiting to happen, like sitting on lit dynamite.

"Near Las Olas Riverfront?"

"Yes. That's the one." Paul sauntered by her door. In a hushed whisper, she implored, "Hurry!"

"We'll discuss weekend plans over lunch." The line went dead before she could object.

Her nerves jangled and she pushed shaky fingers through the sides of her hair, tucking it behind her ears so that it curled gently around her jaw.

She opened her monster spreadsheet on the Alabama Center. Leaning over the RFP, she dug into the boring techno-jargon, looking for places to tighten the proposal, eliminating extraneous costs. She lost track of time and forgot about Angelique. Until Amy scampered into her office, wild eyed, her red hair mussed, one high heel missing.

"Uh, the cat's loose," she said. The woman was in bad shape.

Gabrielle jumped up so fast the chair toppled backwards. "How'd that happen?" Her chest rose and fell so fast she felt as if she would hyperventilate on the spot.

Amy spread her hands before her and shrugged her shoulders. Violet eyes almost bulged out of her head. "The poor thing started meowing so I shared my lunch with her." She shuffled her feet and averted her gaze.

"And?" Her hands smoothed her linen skirt compulsively over her thighs as she tried to hang onto some semblance of composure.

"She slipped by me like a rocket. She shot into Vince's office and shot up the tree." She winced and pulled a frown.

"Oh no!" Gabrielle almost choked on the words. "Vince's seen her?"

Visions of doom flickered before her eyes. The furry Armageddon machine would get her fired for sure. Maybe she should kiss her desk and computer goodbye now, before she was escorted from the building under guard and lost her chance to say goodbye.

Amy shook her head, her tanned complexion growing more ashen by the second. "Not yet, I don't think. He's with Paul in the conference room."

A ray of hope lit her heart. Formulating a fast plan, she eyed Amy speculatively. She tiptoed to her doorway, curved her fingers on the doorframe, stuck her head around the corner, and peeked into the hall on a self-imposed reconnaissance mission. "You be my lookout while I get the little demon."

"I'll get her cage." Amy didn't wait for acknowledgment before slipping down the hall. She slunk against the wall, her palms flat against it, her head bobbing back and forth as she watched for the enemy.

Gabrielle's heart raced. She held her breath until Amy reappeared with the portable kennel, her chest almost sucked against her rib cage.

"Obiwan. Only you can help me." She peered down the hall to see if Imperial forces infiltrated this sector. This entire episode felt dreamlike.

"May the force be with you." Amy squeezed her shoulder. "If Paul or Darth Vader come back, I'll say something with their names in it, like, 'Would you like some coffee, Paul?'" Amy didn't have to explain that she equated Darth Vader with Vince. They were usually on the same wavelength. This time was no exception.

"You offer to get them coffee? They'll know something's up." Gabrielle's lips twisted wryly. They swore Vince could read minds. He had an uncanny ability to ferret out the truth. Or maybe he had the office wired.

"Okay. I'll say something else. You get my point." Amy's eyes darted back and forth in the still deserted hallway. "You'd better hurry. Our luck can't hold forever."

"Are you sure she's still in there?" Gabrielle inclined her head towards Vince's office.

"Did you see her come out?" Amy thrust the kennel into her hands as if it were a bomb.

Shadows loomed long and sinister in the usually light and breezy hallway. Piped in music crescendoed like the prelude to Star Wars. Just before the Empire struck.

Lifting her eyes heavenward, she said a swift, silent prayer. "Obiwan, be with us," she whispered, slinking cattycorner across the hall, wishing she were invisible, thinking up plausible excuses why she'd be in Vince's office with a cat kennel and the fur ball if she were caught.

Entering the big boss's office without summons seemed like breaking and entering. His office spanned more than double the size of hers. His window gave him a clear view of Ft. Lauderdale's golden beaches and the ocean clear to the horizon. Antique heavy oak furniture waxed a high Pledge shine. Exotic plants, including green and orange birds of paradise and hanging delicate orchids, created a virtual jungle. She wouldn't be surprised if an indigo parrot flew out of one of the palm trees and landed on her shoulder. No wonder Angelique chose this office to hide.

"Here kitty," she whispered in a singsong voice. "Trouble-making kitty, come out of hiding." Starting at the six o'clock position, she worked her way around the office clockwise, lifting leaves and branches, searching for a glimpse of the sable tipped fur and beady golden eyes.

Her nose felt ticklish and she put her finger under it. The sensation burgeoned, filling her head. She couldn't hold it back any longer. "I," ah-choo, "know," ah-choo, "you're," ah-choo, "in here," ah-choo, "you mangy," ah-choo, ah-choo, ah-choo, "flea bag."

Delving into a profuse bird of paradise bush, she grabbed a handful of fur and flesh.

"Murough!" Angelique snarled and growled.

"I've got you now!" She clenched her teeth, determined to get her cat, her soul focused on this one feat. "You can come easy or in pieces, I don't care." Her other hand dove into the bush to help her get a better grip on the squirmy animal.

Angelique had other ideas. A long sable-tipped paw swiped at her hand, claws unsheathed and aimed with deadly precision.

"Yee-ouch!" She jerked her hand back fast, cradling it against her chest. She went into another sneezing fit, losing her precarious hold on the cat that exploded out of the bush like a Roman candle. Blood beaded on her hand through the scratch. Injured flesh pinked around the puckered, broken skin. "You're puppy hors d'oeuvres. That's a promise."

Pivoting on her heel, she faced down the cat, her breath rasping in her throat, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Angelique posed on Vince's desk, fur standing on end, back arched, tail arrowed at the ceiling, and ears laid flat back against her skull.

She'd never faced down a deadlier adversary. Her senses had never come so alive, like a New York City telephone trunk line.

"Drop your cattitude. This is war!" She lunged for the cat, thinking to catch her off guard.

In prime acrobatic form, Angelique lunged off the desk to the top of Vince's file cabinet...not before skidding across the slick polished surface, pushing papers helter-skelter to the floor. An ancient fern and a Creeping Charlie flipped to the ground in a dust storm of potting soil, staining Vince's arctic white carpet irreparably. Picture frames toppled into the mess, the glass shattering in starbursts.

"Can I help you, sir?" Amy said over loudly, almost yelling.

Gabrielle froze, her breath trapped in her lungs. That wasn't the signal, but it still boded danger.

A deep male voice caressed her. "I'm here to see Gabrielle Thomas."

She breathed a huge sigh, almost collapsing to the ground in a puddle of relief. "Saved by the bell," she told Angelique. "Your knight in shining armor is here."

"Miss Thomas is in a meeting. I'm afraid she's not available." Amy's voice wobbled, sounding almost more nervous than she felt. And Amy hadn't seen Vince's redecorated office yet - modern cat-tastrophe.

She ran to the hallway. No one had ever looked better. Resplendent in thigh-hugging jeans and a crisp short-sleeved white safari shirt, Craig's Florida tan framed against his springy golden blonde hair made her heart lunge. She wanted to run into his arms, hug him, and beg him to save her from this impossible situation.

She was beginning to understand why her sister couldn't get him out of her blood.

His charming, half-cocked grin sent her into a spiral of confusion, and she fought off the insane desire to clutch her stomach.

"It's okay, Amy. He's the reinforcements." She ignored Amy's puzzled expression. To Craig, she commanded as she waived him into Vince's office in as business-like voice as she could muster, "Hurry. Help me get Angelique."

Craig whistled under his breath when he passed through the doorway. "Did World War Three start in here?"

"You'd think so." She crept slowly towards the cat that watched her with leery eyes. "Come here, p..." She'd almost said PMS, her abbreviation for Prime Mastiff Snack when she remembered in the nick of time that the man was an animal lover. "Precious," she said in substitution. Try as she might, she couldn't make her voice sound loving or tolerant when talking to the cat.

"I hope this is your office." Craig picked up the cat kennel she'd left by the door, opened the door, and walked toward Angelique.

"No such luck." She pushed stray locks of hair out of her eyes. Sheepishly, she said, "It's the big boss's office."

"I hope you have a Dirt Devil."

"Yeah," she said between clenched teeth. Stealthily, she crept closer to the wild-eyed cat. She started to sneeze again.

"God bless you."

"Your meeting's over so soon, Vince?" Amy practically yelled, her voice so taut it sounded ready to break.

Gabrielle's heart stopped. She sought Craig's eyes wildly. "I'm dead. My career's history."

Craig held out his hand to Angelique and let her sniff it.

The little insurgent licked his fingertips, then let him pet her head.

"Come here, darling."

"Traitor," she said under her breath to the cat. Her gaze darted to the door, waiting for the precise minute her career would end.

With sweet meows, the cat went into his arms, and snuggled against his heart as if she were home. He scratched her head behind her ears and she started purring.

"Can you look at this for me, Vince?" Amy pleaded, her voice lifted another octave. "The switchboard's not working right."

"I thought I heard something funny in my office," Vince said.

Gabrielle's heart started palpitating. Wild-eyed, she sought a hiding place, wondering if there was a window ledge to hide on. All the criminals and private eyes in the old movies hid on window ledges fifteen stories high rather than get caught. But there were no window openings in the modern skyscraper. She cursed the central air-conditioning unit and modern architecture.

"That was just my radio," Amy said, panic rising in her voice.

"It sounded like an animal." Vince's voice grew closer, more suspicious, with each word.

Amy ran to the door, draping herself over it. She glanced inside and almost fainted, her expression completely horrified. "You can't go in there."

Vince's fingers pried Amy away from his door.

Gabrielle began to pray for mercy and deliverance. There was no escape. No mercy for her. Only a miracle could save her now. She smoothed her skirt over her legs, straightened her blouse, turned to face Vince, and pasted a plastic smile on her face.

"What in God's name happened in here?" Vince demanded, his voice reverberating with fury.

Gabrielle couldn't breathe. She couldn't feel her heart. Was she having an out of body experience? She could wish.

The room started to close in on her, and Vince was up in her face wearing his best drill sergeant expression. Right now, she'd rather face down Sigourney Weaver's alien than Vince in his black mood.

Vince picked up his fern, scooped soil back into the pot, and stuck it back on his desk where it hung crookedly like a drunken sailor. "Are you responsible for this?" His gaze sought Gabrielle's again like a heat-seeking missile. Sometimes she wondered if he were a military robot prototype even if he could pose for the cover of GQ in his Armani three-piece suits.

"I-I..." She spread her hands before her helplessly, her mind a dead blank. She met Amy's desperate eyes and wished she could travel back in time to this morning so she could still call in sick. Maybe it would work now if she just called in dead?

Vince picked up the Creeping Charlie and uttered soothing platitudes to it, stroking its leaves. "You'll be okay, baby. We'll doctor you back to health."

Craig's eyebrow twitched as he rubbed the walking powder puff's head. The mirth that danced in his eyes, mirrored that of the animal in his arms.

Angelique's tail fluttered up and down as if a puppeteer controlled her. She turned her face into Craig's chest and Gabrielle felt the insane urge to do the same.

Amy's cheeks grew deathly pale and Gabrielle feared her friend would collapse any second.

Vince spun around without warning. "Well? Did everyone lose their voice?" His eyes bored through the cat, which met his stare with an uninterested one of her own. "Cat got your tongue, ladies?" His gaze took in Craig next, and he turned to Gabrielle. "Friend of yours?"

She'd give anything right now to have magical powers so she could blink herself out of here, or sprinkle dust on him to make him forget everything. If only she were a fast talker with a forked tongue, there might still be hope. But she was an accountant, not a salesman. Her mind only worked fast with numbers, not with words.

"I'm afraid this is all my fault," Craig said with an apologetic, lop-sided grin. "I'll pay for any damages."

Gabrielle's jaw nearly fell to the floor. She stood glued to the spot.

"Why did you bring a cat into my office?" Vince crossed his arms across his chest and perched on the corner of his desk.

"I didn't bring her in."

Gabrielle bit back a gasp. Oh Lord. Don't let him start spewing the truth now.

Vince tapped his foot on the carpet, his stony face cementing into a scowl.

Craig turned up the wattage on his most charming smile, a dimple appearing in his right cheek. "She got away from me in the hall and darted in here when the door was open."

Vince didn't look as if he bought the story. "Why did you bring your cat into a bank building?" He pinned Amy with a stern gaze, one that defied lies. As receptionist, it was her job to watch the gate and keep strangers out. "There's not a vet in here, is there?"

"N-nooo," she said slowly, shaking her head. Her loose, red hair swung around her shoulders in a silky curtain. Her violet eyes glittered like amethysts against her colorless face. "Not that I know of."

The moment of truth had arrived. She had to end this farce, admit her guilt. Opening her mouth to speak, she was interrupted by Craig before she got a word out.

"I brought her to get her picture taken." Craig lifted the cat under her front legs so that she was eye-level with him. Cooing to her, he said, "Nothing's too good for my Angelique."

Saints preserve her! Were all men crazy? One talked to plants. The other to animals. She rubbed her forehead where her headache pounded like a jungle beat.

"There's no photo studio on this floor. I don't think there's one in the building." Vince leaned his head back and she could see the calculator working in his brain.

But he'd given her an idea. "He must mean that he was taking her to the advertising studio down the hall." She turned to Craig, praying he'd pick up on her cues and play along. "You meant that you brought your cat for an advertising shoot, is that right?"

Craig turned the compliant Angelique around and waved her paw at Vince and Gabrielle. "Meet the new Morris of 9 Lives Fame." He cradled her in his arms as if she were a precious jewel. "At least if she passes the audition. I hope she's not too riled up to make a good showing now."

Gabrielle grinned in relief, and color flooded back into Amy's cheeks.

"Morris, huh?" Vince's expression lightened a bit. He peered into the cat's face. "So you're a star?"

"Not yet." Craig chuckled. "But I'd better get her to her audition before they cast some alley cat." He extracted his business card from his pocket and held it out to Vince. "Send the carpet cleaning bill to me. And if you need new plants."

"I'll see him to the door and make sure he finds the right office." Gabrielle ushered Craig to the door before Vince could object or hold her back. She grabbed Amy by her elbow and propelled her in front of her so she wouldn't get stuck in Vince's office, where she would crumple and confess.

Miraculously, they'd survived this near fatal disaster. If only her heart held up.

"Good save," Craig said, whispering in her ear. His warm breath tickled, sending alluring sensations down her spine, making her toes curl in her high heels. He put Angelique in her kennel and secured the door, then took her elbow in his large hand.

Electric jolts shot through her, making her step falter so that she stumbled against him. His chest felt warm and strong and she wanted to snuggle against him as the cat had. But she couldn't let herself and jerked upright, away from him.

"Thanks, Amy. I owe you one."

"You owe me two," her friend said on a shaky laugh, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. "I think I died in there."

"Vince has that effect on people," she agreed, remembering her own delusions. "I'll be back in five minutes. I'm in the ladies room, if anyone asks." She slipped out the front door with Craig.

He turned to face her, a sunny grin spreading across his face. Checking his watch, he said, "We'll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes for lunch. You do get out at noon, don't you?"

"Is it noon already?"

"Time flies when you play with an animal." He laughed at his own joke and she felt like punching him in the shoulder. Instead, she sent him a scathing glance.

He sobered. "That was in bad taste, wasn't it?"

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head, thrusting her hands behind her back, linking her fingers together. "I know I promised to have lunch with you." She glanced at the carrier. "But we can't take a cat to a restaurant. It's against health codes."

"Don't worry about that. I have it covered." He leaned forward before she could ascertain his intentions and slashed his lips against hers.

Rockets shot to the moon and she almost slumped against him in her shock, closing her eyes and puckering her lips without a second thought.

"We'll be in the lobby by the elevators." He turned and sauntered down the hall, whistling tunelessly, satisfied.

She stared at his back until the elevator swallowed him and the demon cat, wondering when the world would stop spinning so she could get off.

The fifteen minutes she had to wait to rejoin him seemed to take an eternity. Each second ticked like a time bomb as she watched the clock on her wall while she vacuumed up the spilt soil on Vince's carpet as best as she could. It would never be polar bear white again. Maybe they could cover the stain with an Oriental rug? Or move Vince's desk out two feet? Who'd ever know in a room this large?

She wanted to cancel the lunch date. Hide in her office. Not tempt fate.

But every traitorous cell in her body ached to be with him. She wanted to see if she reacted to him the same way again, or if she'd just been recovering from the shock of almost losing her job.

It's not as if they'd be alone. Angelique would chaperone them. Plus, they only had an hour. Not much could happen in sixty minutes.

The minute the clock struck twelve, she walked out of the downstairs elevator. Seeing Craig waiting for her, she smiled into his warm eyes. She couldn't help herself, as if he were manna from heaven and she were starved.

"We missed you." Craig kissed the side of her mouth, then slung a casual arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. He smelled so masculine, like musk and tobacco with just a trace of mint, which she sniffed appreciatively.

"I think there's a hot dog stand around the block."

He pulled her in the opposite direction when they exited the double glass doors into the bright Ft. Lauderdale sunshine. "I promised you lunch and you'll get it. Hot dogs aren't lunch."

"But the cr...cat." She'd almost said crazy cat. "Angelique can't go into a restaurant, and we can't leave her out here alone."

"I told you to let me worry about that. I have the perfect solution." He followed a throng of business people scurrying to lunch. They mixed easily with colorful tourists in large gaudy straw hats with thirty-five millimeter cameras slung over their shoulders and shopping bags hanging on their arms.

Three blocks away, he led her into Los Olas Riverfront, the recently remodeled tourist attraction on the Intra-coastal waterfront. Colorfully dressed mimes blew her kisses when they crossed under the archway. The taller one crossed his hands over his heart and bent on one knee, refusing to let them pass until Craig dug in his pocket and handed the man a five-dollar bill.

"This is one of my favorite places. I don't get down here enough."

"Me either."

"Really? You work around the corner."

"I usually order lunch in. We get too busy to go out much. I usually only eat a salad, anyway."

Red brick walkways swarmed with tourists and locals, young and old. Craig squeezed her to the side to let an elderly man push his wife past in a wheelchair, then a mother stroll by with her baby. Lovers walked arm in arm, licking half-and-half ice cream cones, or drinking from daiquiris with two straws.

Sidewalk vendors filled the middle of the atrium, selling everything from the skimpiest metallic bikinis she'd ever seen, to riverboat tours and cruises, to love beads and smiley faces.

The language was as colorful as the shops and the clothing. She detected blends of Spanish, Japanese, French and even Haitian Creole. In the background, a Jamaican band played a carefree calypso beat.

She laughed, her heart suddenly carefree.

"You should do that more often. I like the sound." Craig smiled down at her, into her eyes, his twinkling.

Putting his hand under her elbow, he led her up a few steps to a sidewalk café. Setting the kennel gently on the ground, he pulled out an intricately black wrought iron chair and held it for her.

Smoothing her skirt beneath her, she sat daintily, curling her legs under the chair, taking care to be out of swiping distance of Angelique. "Achoo!" She put her finger under her nose to try to stop the next sneeze.

Craig handed her his handkerchief. "Bless you." He moved the cat to the other side of his chair. "How long have you been sneezing?"

"Ever since I got her," she said, tilting her head at the cat.

"Have you looked into allergy shots?" He gestured to a nearby waitress, ordered two strawberry daiquiris, a virgin for her as she had to return to work, and slid her a brightly colored menu.

Abashed, she stared at him. "I hadn't thought about it." She shuddered, rubbing her arms defensively. "I don't like shots." Why can't the little puppy snack get a shot to make her stop oozing all that poison into the air? She's the problem, not me.

"It's better than sneezing all the time." He stuck a finger in Angelique's cage and rubbed under her chin. "Or having to give away your beloved pet."

Opening her menu, she studied it, trying to avoid answering. She didn't intend to have the little pooper around long enough to require allergy shots. Besides the pain and inconvenience, she was saving her money for her dream vacation. Allergy shots weren't part of the equation.

"I'll have this." She leaned close to him, their shoulders rubbing, and she pointed to a shrimp salad.

"Are you sure that's all you want?" His eyes scanned her figure appreciatively and she shuddered. "You don't need to watch your weight. You're absolutely lovely."

"No wonder Kimmie fell for you," she murmured under her breath.

His eyes darkened as he took her hand between his. "Are you worried that I'm still in love with your sister?"

Her eyes widened and her lips parted. "Are you?"

Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed the top of it and she almost swooned. His eyes never left hers, boring into them with a passionate intensity that stole her breath. "No. She was a sweet girl that I liked very much. But I was never in love with her."

"She's in love with you." She wished she could bite back the words the second she revealed them. Kimmie would never forgive her, even if he already knew.

"She only thinks she's in love with me." He didn't release her hand and he leaned closer, his lips only an inch from hers. "Someday she'll meet someone who sends her to the moon and she won't even remember my name." His breath tickled her lips and she swayed closer.

"How can you know that? How can you know what's in her heart?" She could barely think straight with him so close. Her senses whirled and her whole being focused on his eyes. And his lips.

"Because when it's the real thing, both people feel it. Neither can deny it no matter how hard they try."

"And you didn't feel that way about her?" Her voice came out husky, seductive, much to her dismay. But she couldn't move away to save her life.

"No. I wanted to. She's a beautiful, intelligent woman. She was fun to be with. But she wasn't the one for me." He leaned even closer until only a ray of light separated their lips. "She didn't send me to the moon. And I want to go to the moon."

His lips lowered to hers, softly claiming hers, working a magic she'd never felt before, a magic that made her soar to the heavens, beyond the moon and the stars. She couldn't think coherently, forgot where they were, who she was, who he was.

Until, through a fog, she heard a feminine voice clearing her throat. Groggily, she opened her eyes, piqued that the outside world dare interrupt such perfection.

"Can I get anything else for you?" The short, rotund waitress asked. She spied the cat in the carrier and knelt, a smile splitting her face. "How about if I bring your kitty some shrimp? My cat adores it."

"She'd like that. Thank you," Craig said, smiling. He didn't release Gabrielle's hand, but squeezed it.

Self-conscious, she pulled her hand out of his warm grasp. Spearing a shrimp with her fork, she closed her lips around it and chewed. His eyes never left her mouth. Delicious tingles coursed through her.

She watched him cut his steak and toss a piece to the rat chaser who pounced on it. "You know how to make your women happy," she observed dryly.

He laughed in his warm, rich voice. "It's a cultivated art."

"How cultivated?"

"Don't tell me you're jealous?"

"Me jealous?" She shook her head, averting her eyes. Forcing herself to look at the waterfront, she let a contemptuous note creep into her voice. "Why ever would I be jealous of someone I just met?"

"Technically, we met a few years ago."

"We did?" She pretended not to remember, but memories rushed through her mind of the Christmas Kimmie brought him home. Gabrielle suffered her first, and most volatile teenage crush and heartbreak because of him. But she wasn't about to divulge her secret.

How could she have forgotten that?

"You were just a gangly tomboy with knobby knees and hair down to her butt."

"You make me sound so attractive." She cast him a severe glance.

"You were a cute kid. I never dreamed Kim's little sister would turn into such a stunning beauty." He dropped an angel kiss on her hair and grinned his drop-dead smile that sent her pulses soaring.

"You think so?" She could've kicked herself for speaking the first thought that came into her brain - again. He had this horrid affect on her that made her speak her mind too freely around him, putting her into dangerous territory.

"Without a doubt. You're the most beautiful woman on all of Los Olas." He speared a piece of steak with his fork and held it to her lips.

She did the same with her shrimp and held it to his, their arms crossed mid-air, their knees kissing. Evocative sensations filled her as she watched him close his lips around her fork as she did the same to his.

Why couldn't her fiancé be so romantic? So intimate?

Her fiancé. She'd actually forgotten she was engaged, that she wasn't free to play lovey- dovey in this romantic café under the sun-kissed Florida skies.

How could she? How had she let herself do such things?

Scooting her chair back, she turned to her food and forced down a few cardboard tasting morsels. She checked her watch, and as if amazed, she said, "It's time to start back to work. I can't be late."

"Waitress!" He lifted his hand in the air, beckoning to the auburn haired woman. "Check please."

She bustled to their table, bent over and scribbled out the check. He stuck a twenty-dollar bill on the tip tray. "Keep the change." Grinning lopsidedly at the bedazzled lady, he pulled out Gabrielle's chair, his fingers grazing her back.

She jumped as if burned. She didn't want to feel the tingles he sent spiraling into the pit of her stomach. Or rather, she wanted to feel it too much. But those feelings were strictly forbidden. With him, anyway.

He led her away from the café, to a street-side vendor who displayed crystal and abalone jewelry. Gesturing to the wares, he asked, "See anything you like?"

Fingering an exquisite silver and abalone set of earrings in an intricate design, she smiled up at him. "This pair's lovely."

"It's yours." He handed the anxious, smiling vendor his credit card.

She put a restraining hand on his arm and gazed up at him. "I can't let you do this."

"I like spoiling you."

She gasped, hardly able to breathe. No one had treated her like spun gold before. She rather enjoyed the sensation. "I'm engaged," she said, trying to keep her voice gentle. "You don't have the right. I shouldn't even be here with you." She glanced around her warily lest anyone she knew lurked nearby. But she didn't see any familiar faces, hear any familiar voices.

He put his finger under her chin and lifted her face so that she was forced to gaze into his eyes. "He doesn't send you to the moon. Break it off."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She tried to avert her gaze, to veil her eyes from his probing ones, but he was too forceful, too strong to resist.

"You know exactly what I'm saying." He lowered his lips to hers, capturing hers in a provocative, searing kiss. The tip of his tongue pushed against her lips, tracing them, seeking entrance to the cavern of her mouth, to her nectar.

Unable to resist, she parted her lips, her tongue eager to mate with his. She couldn't stop herself if the world spontaneously combusted from their heat. Rational thought fled from her mind when he touched her. How long his lips molded to hers, how long his tongue caressed hers in the open-air market, she couldn't tell. She didn't care. She never wanted it to end.

When he finally drew back, his hand held her steady so that she didn't sway and fall, her knees were shaking and her lips swollen.

"Does he make you feel the way I do?" Darkly passionate eyes bore into hers, imploring her to speak her heart.

But her heart felt torn, confused.

The rock on her hand felt as heavy and confining as Alcatraz. It reminded her she was a prisoner.

With a strangled cry, she turned on her heel and ran back to work, not daring to glance over her shoulder to see if he followed.

Whistling under his breath, this was as close as Craig ever came to singing in the shower. Stretching, he soaped his back, rubbed himself down and let the warm water sluice off the perspiration of his short sleep.

The beat of the water on his flesh droned, almost putting him to sleep again. He leaned his head back into the spray, letting it soak his hair.

Someone leaned on his doorbell and he lifted his voice, "Hang on a sec! I'll be right there."

Scurrying, he quickly towel-dried, then wrapped the lush bath towel around his middle. Water droplets slid down his neck. Others balanced on his eyelashes. His hair was mussed but he wasn't the fussy type, so he finger combed it as he walked to the door, satisfied with its semi-order.

He'd wondered when Gabrielle would come to pick up her cat. The sly Siamese had made herself at home long ago, staking out a corner in the living room. She'd put her flag on it, hadn't she? Did it really matter in his menagerie? However, Spike, his half-German Shepherd, half-Doberman might not appreciate her claim jumping.

Memories of the earth-shattering kisses he'd shared with her that afternoon, shook him to his core. No one had ever affected him that way before and he wasn't sure he liked it. Rather, he liked it too much which deeply concerned him.

Grimacing, he looked down at the towel, thinking he should have taken a few extra seconds to dress. He could yell through the door for her to wait while he made himself decent.

Then a devious thought made him change his mind. He'd rather enjoy seeing her reaction to him this way. It wasn't fair that she devastated him while she stayed cool as ice water. It was time for a little turn about, never mind she didn't seem to have a clue how she affected him. Or maybe she didn't care.

A lopsided smile lifted his lips. She had to know or she couldn't have responded to him the way she had. He couldn't have hit the moon unless she had, too.

She just refused to admit it.

"Hello, gorgeous," he crooned as he opened the door.

Self-conscious giggles tickled his ears. But the voice was higher-pitched than Gabrielle's. Bridget from the tenth floor posed at the door, her cheeks cherry red, her eyes glittering. Her perfume almost overpowered the just-out-of-the-oven red velvet cake she cradled against her more-than-ample chest. "You're too sweet." She twisted and shuffled her feet ever so slightly, bestowing a flirty smile on him. "I baked a cake for you. I thought you might enjoy some home cooking."

Craig accepted it with grace, turning up the wattage on his smile, hiding his disappointment as well as his discomfiture at being caught in this state of undress. This scenario hadn't occurred to him -- that anyone else other than Gabrielle might be on the other side of his door. "How thoughtful of you, my dear." He glanced down at the towel pointedly. "I'm just getting ready to go to work for the night, or I'd invite you in to share."

Disappointment flickered in Bridgette's dark eyes, but her smile widened as she sidled closer. She drawled in a honeyed tone, "Perhaps I'll come by earlier tomorrow night to help you eat your cake, sugar lamb."

She backed away, fluttering her fingers mid-air in ta-ta fashion.

He winked and smiled his patented crooked smile that drove women wild. Who needed pheromones? Or maybe he had an abundance.

If only they'd work their magic on Gabrielle Thompson. He'd invite her inside to share red velvet cake if she baked it. Or even if she baked burnt rubber. Even if it made him late to work.

He closed his door firmly, then placed the cake on his breakfast bar. Glancing at his kitchen clock, he frowned. Eight o'clock. Gabrielle should have been here hours ago.

Had he not heard her in his sleep? Maybe she'd come by, given up and left when he didn't answer.

He dialed her home number, reaching a very grouchy man who became even grouchier when he asked to speak to Gabrielle. The man practically growled that she'd not come home yet, questioned who he was, and slammed the phone in his ear.

He quirked his eyebrow, biting back a sarcastic remark.

Next he called her at the office, but all he reached was an irritating voice mail message. This time, he slammed the phone.

She must be en route.

If she'd worked this late, even if she'd stopped to shop first, she'd be tired and hungry.

He'd fix that. Flicking on his favorite soft jazz station, he proceeded to scramble half a dozen eggs, melt butter in the skillet, as he listened.

A soft rap sounded on the door, almost sounding like butterfly wings batting it. He abandoned the eggs, moving to the door in four long strides.

"Hello, gorgeous," he crooned as he opened the door, then almost cursed himself when he came face to face with Vanessa from the fourth floor.

She twirled a delicate red rose in her hands, brushing her cheek with its softly blossoming petals. Smiling coyly, her eyes lit up like constellations. "I was wondering if this is your night off? Would you like company?"

He chuckled, gesturing to his towel. "I'm not exactly dressed for company."

"I don't mind." She sniffed the air appreciatively. She stepped closer as if inviting herself in. "I didn't know you cooked."

"I'm just starting my dinner before I go into work. It's a hobby of mine." He inched the door shut a couple of inches, trying to give her the hint to leave.

"How refreshing. A man that cooks."

"How else is a bachelor to survive?"

"If you ever get too tired to cook, call me. I'd love to fix dinner for you." She flipped her hair behind her shoulder. "Even breakfast." She winked at him, the rose caressing her lips. Kissing the rose, she pressed it into his hands, then sashayed to the elevator lobby.

He shook his head as he closed the door. Maybe he should move out of this singles meat market. Move out west away from the wild Ft. Lauderdale nightlife. He didn't enjoy it the way he had when he'd first moved here. It seemed artificial and stale now. He sought something more, something deeper. He just couldn't put his finger on it.

He returned to the kitchen, laid the rose next to the cake, sliced fresh mushrooms, diced boiled ham, then mixed them into his egg batter. Outdoing even himself, he made the fluffiest omelets he'd ever seen.

Someone rapped sharply on the door. "This had better be Gabrielle," he said to Angelique who yawned widely and slid him a sleepy-eyed look from her corner. "Before I catch pneumonia or get arrested."

He wondered if Bridgette or Vanessa had told the bachelorette grapevine that he was answering the door disrobed and they all lined up to take their shot at him?

"Hi," Gabrielle said, a hint of self-consciousness in her sweet voice. Despite her stiff black and white business suit, the sight of her, hit him right in his solar plexus. Leaning forward, she peeked inside. "I apologize for being so late to pick up my berserko kitty." She wrinkled her nose endearingly. "She wasn't too much trouble, I hope."

As if she'd just noticed his state of undress, an enticing blush rushed from the V of her blouse into her cheeks. Demurely, she averted her eyes away from him. But he didn't need to read the expression in her eyes to know how he affected her. Her body language told the tale. Long fingers smoothed the skirt down her thighs and her nipples hardened against her white blouse.

Twinges of desire shot through him.

He held the door wider, motioning her inside. "Angelique wasn't a problem. She just curled up in the corner and slept while I did."

He closed the door behind her and rushed to the kitchen where he rescued the omelet from sizzling to death, in the nick of time.

Standing in the center of his living room, she took in her surroundings as if making a debit and credit sheet. He liked watching her, especially the way the silvery moon skimmed her sassy golden hair, kissing her exquisitely long legs and hourglass shape.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner. I'll just get the cat and be out of your way."

Taking the spatula, he lifted the omelets onto his best guest plates. "You're not interrupting me at all. In fact," he drawled in his down home Indiana accent, "I've been waiting on you." He put the plate into her hands then poured a long stemmed glass full of sparkling burgundy wine, watching the bubbles fizz through the translucent liquid. Picking up the rose Vanessa had given him, he handed both the glass and the flower to her.

Cornflower blue eyes widened in her urchin face and she stared up into his eyes. Her lips parted softly. "You didn't need to go to this bother for me." Wonderment tinged her voice. She rubbed the rose petals against cheeks almost the same shade.

"I enjoy spoiling you. But I think I already told you that." He tossed her a stern glance. "Eat before it gets cold."

She started to sit at the glass and chrome table, but he waved her to his creamy white leather couch. "Relax. You've had a tough day."

He ambled to the kitchen, dished up his own omelet, poured himself a finger of the sparkly burgundy, and then joined her. Putting his plate and glass on the coffee table, he bent, taking her feet in his hands.

Surprise flickered in her eyes, but she didn't flinch from him. Rather, he felt electric awareness shoot into her toes as he liberated her feet from her high heels, letting them fall to the carpet, one by one. Holding the second foot, he kneaded it with his fingers and his thumb, caressing the arch of her foot. His fingers worked their way up to her ankle. Then to the exquisite calves of her legs. Slowly, methodically, they worked their way back down to her foot.

"Why are you doing that?" she asked in a deep husky voice. She leaned her head back on the couch, her leg went limp and pliant in his hands and bathed him with her smoky gaze. Sooty black eyelashes partially veiled lazy, bedroom eyes.

Fire blazed in the pit of his stomach and he felt a tightening and aching hunger. What he hungered for wasn't food, and it wasn't listed on the menu.

Much as he wanted her, things were spinning out of control too quickly. He could handle the whirlwind, but he didn't want to frighten her away. Besides, that rock on her hand represented complications. Obstacles. Propriety.

He'd better exchange the towel for something more substantial.

But her flesh felt so satiny, so warm against his hands. Her sultry glances ignited forest fires in him and he felt loath to move away from her. Her heady flowery scent made him lose all control of what little logic he retained. Maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to. She didn't look as if she would object to further overtures.

He let his hands explore further up her legs, creeping under her skirt.

She moaned, her lips parting. "Please stop," she said in a husky whisper. "I can't do this with you." But her eyes, her movements defied her words.

"Why not?" There'd never been a better time to play devil's advocate.

"Two very good reasons." Her breath came out in punctuated gasps. When her chest rose, it strained against the pearl buttons of her blouse, threatening to burst them, capturing his avid gaze. How he wished the threads would weaken and split. Maybe the power of his thoughts would make them shred before his very eyes.

"I can't think of one." He slid his long length next to her, his thigh kissing hers, the towel loosening dangerously. He leaned over her, took the plate from her hands and put it on the coffee table.

She gasped. "Have you forgotten Kim? Or Ian?"

"Kim who? Ian who?" He draped his arm over her, laying the palm of his hand on the side of her breast. His lips nibbled the side of her mouth, teasing her, challenging her.

He could get used to this.

She squirmed against him nervously. "Kim's still in love with you. She'd never forgive me being here with you, like this." She closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering against her high cheekbones. They reminded him of black mantilla lace.

"I told you. I was never in love with Kim. I never promised her anything. Never led her on." His hands grew bolder, encouraged that she didn't move away from him despite her words. His fingertips traced slow circles on the sides of her breast, drawing ever closer to the burgeoning nipples, straining against the silky fabric of her restraining blouse.

Unable to take any more torture, he pinned her beneath him, capturing her honeyed lips, molding his body to hers.

Her moans escaped into his mouth, chorusing with his. When she parted her lips, he delved his tongue into her mouth, giving it his blessing to seek and explore, familiarize and excite.

He didn't remember unbuttoning her blouse, unhooking her bra, but suddenly, his chest crushed her exquisite breasts beneath him, her hardened nipples strained against him.

Moaning into her mouth, he broke his lips free, dragging them down to the ambrosia beckoning to him, drugging him. She arched against him when he caught one nipple in his teeth, teasing it, then lathering it with his tongue.

He pushed her blouse off her shoulders, tossed her frothy bra into the air, then eased her down into the overstuffed cushions of his couch.

The palms of her warm hands pressed against his chest, perhaps initially, with a lingering thought of warding him off, but then turning gentle, caressing, flaming fires that raged out of control.

His towel slipped off and he didn't try to catch it, just let it slink to the carpet in a cloth puddle.

"You never loved Kim?" she asked in a raspy voice a few inches above his ear. Intense fingers caressed his head, pushing his hair around. She strained against him, pushing herself deeper into his mouth. Her fingers dragged his head impossibly close to her. Her flowery scent intoxicated him, drove all rational thought from his mind, pushed him beyond the brink of control.

"Never." He could barely voice his thoughts, could barely restrain himself from ravishing her. Anxious fingers looped into the elastic waistband of her skirt, pushing it downwards.

She lifted her hips off the couch, driving him insane, driving him over the cliff of sanity.

He had to possess her beauty, her fire. He had to make her his.

Someone leaned on the doorbell and wouldn't let up.

The loud shrill dispelled the magic, grating on his nerves. He waited, hoping the uninvited guest got the hint they weren't welcome and disappeared.

Instead of leaving, they banged on the door insistently.

Tossing the exquisite woman in his arms an apologetic glance, he lifted himself from her, covered her with a nearby blanket and draped the towel around himself.

"Whoever you are," he whispered menacingly under his breath, his gaze like heat seeking missiles on the door, "had better have a damned good reason for showing up uninvited."

When the dawn cast a silvery sheen over the horizon of an ebony ocean, Gabrielle welcomed it. Crossing her shins one over the other Indian style, she settled into the damp sand left behind by the receding high tide. She allowed her toes to curl into the sand one at a time.

She hadn't come straight home after she left Craig's. Instead she'd traveled up and down the quiet streets, taking in the sights she'd ignored, forgotten or taken for granted. What a mixture of styles and flavors. Skyscraper hotels dwarfed flamingo pink motels and cheap efficiencies, along the world-renowned strip. Apartment lights blinked on and off like fireflies.

Turn a corner and concrete and steel monsters shed sinister, gothic shadows that wavered when the elusive moon came out from hiding behind its cloudy mask.

She could hear the sounds of the surf nearby, smell the salty sea air, even taste it on her kiss-bruised lips, but developers in their infinite wisdom, had hidden the city's major tourist attraction from A1A's view.

Well-groomed palm trees waved in the slight breeze, their fronds resembling long, manicured fingers. Frangipani spewed its perfume into the moonlit night, its cloying fragrance almost suffocating her.

Overhead, seagulls squawked, their ivory wings spread wide on the morning breeze, gliding into the pastels of the shimmering sun.

No sight on earth could challenge the beauty of a Ft. Lauderdale dawn. Nothing could soothe raw nerves half as well as the gentle, salty breeze blowing over the water, lifting her hair off her neck.

Salty spray wetted her face, shimmering on the tips of her eyelashes, dripping from her nose and chin. It felt refreshing even invigorating, and she lifted her face for more.

Maybe it would cleanse the crazy, patchwork emotions Craig Nealy stirred up inside her. Wash away the fever that had raged in her last night, transforming her into a woman.

Standing shakily, she dusted sand from her lower extremities and shook out her hair, letting it slap her cheeks.

An overwhelming urge swept over her, spiriting her feet forward. She ran full force into the white capped, roiling surf, uncaring that she soaked her clothes, her face, even her hair, until a pair of brightly dressed snowbirds stopped in their tracks to gape at her as if she'd lost her mind.

She paused then smiled sheepishly at the elderly couple and ran into the surf again.

Well? Hadn't she lost her mind? She was one hundred percent certifiable for even talking to Craig Nealy...and they'd done much more than talk last night.

She pinked from the tips of her painted toenails to her widow's peak, a living, breathing, canvas. Kicking and splashing in the silvery water till the sun climbed high in the sky, she tried to come to grips with her wayward emotions. She had no fear that sharks would stray so close to shore. Besides, in her mood, they'd be in mortal danger, not her.

Finally, bone weary, her toes and fingers pruny, vision bleary, she trudged out of the water. Spying a beached starfish, she palmed it, studying its intricate bead-like pattern.

"I know just how you feel my small friend." She wondered if she scared the poor creature with her benevolence. "Lucky for you, I'm here."

Hurling her arm in a wide arc, feeling her muscles and sinews bunch, she flung the spiky star far into the water. It slipped from her fingers easily, twirling end over end.

"Bon voyage."

She watched it slice the water with barely a ripple, hoping it would find its family, and pirouetted on the ball of her foot. Her hands slapped her bare thighs and her hair hung limply around her ears, curling slightly on the ends, stiff from sea salt.

Family.

She'd promised to go to the Fashion Mall with her mother today and she still had to shower, change and do something with her hair that was so much like salty seaweed. Oh, and feed the fur ball before she gave herself a hernia from watching too many Tender Vittles promos.

When she let herself into her apartment, she stopped dead, her eyes widening in horror.

On the floor, two feet in front of her tropical aquarium, Mr. Tibbs flopped around the floor benignly, his golden eyes bulging from his flat body, his scales drying out and lackluster.

Angelique batted at the poor fish with an elegant, furry paw, a semi-amused twinkle in her eyes as she tortured it with glee. Nervy, she stared at Gabrielle without a twitch of her whiskers or flutter of her Siamese tail.

"Shoo!" she said, finally coming to her senses, waving her hands at the fishmonger. She closed her door with her foot, her flimsy beach sandals still dangling from her fingers.

Angelique's crossed eyes narrowed. Her ears rotated an eight of a turn, the tips sharp and pointy. Her paw held the fish staking her claim, daring Gabrielle to interfere with her erstwhile breakfast.

"So, this is war?" Menace laced her low, throaty words. Her fingers flexed at her side. "How would you like it if I let Mr. Hudson's Doberman do that to you?"

A prim peach tongue pierced the triangle of her parted lips, as she stared Gabrielle down. Her right eye twitched erratically.

"You wouldn't. Give me back Mr. Tibbs."

The cat growled from deep in her gut, then hightailed it out of the room at the last second before Gabrielle pounced on her, the feline's hind legs jouncing, her tail arrow straight.

She scooped up Mr. Tibbs. His eyes bulged from sunken eye sockets, but that was his normal look, wasn't it? "Did that mean putty tat give you cardiac arrest? Do you need Perrier and a sedative?" She crooned to it. "I know. I know. You'll be fine now. A week in Tahiti would be better, but you'll have to settle for Chez Thomas."

She slipped him into the water, then watched him swim away and hide in the underwater castle as a school of blue neons wriggled by, fluttering their tushes, making waves in the water.

Her hands felt oddly gritty and slimy, so she wiped them on the backs of her blue jean shorts. Her gaze roamed the room, peering into corners and crevices, seeking high ground and impossibly tight cubbyholes, but she knew Angelique had fled the scene. She wasn't sneezing her head off.

"You can run, but you can't hide," she said in a deceptively friendly, singsong voice as she made her way to the kitchen. Thinned lips snarled over clenched, grinding teeth. "Come here my adopted darling."

When she reached the kitchen, her anger boiled over. The garbage can lay upended on its side, refuse spilled across the floor, chocolately paw prints left an incriminating trail.

"Confess. Or I'm calling the Kibbles and Bits Company," she warned, her voice warbling.

In disgust, she hooked the can under its lip with her thumb, crossed the floor, and dropped it in its corner. With sharp, punctuated strokes of the whiskbroom, she swept up the toxic mess, then mopped her floor with a generous measure of scouring cleanser.

Unable to stand herself a moment longer, she flung off her clothes and stepped under, a gloriously steamy shower, which fogged up every glass surface in the room, letting the water sluice off anger with the grime.

Turning her face into the warm spritz, she closed her eyes and mouth, reveling in the gentle, massaging pulse over naked flesh. Lathering a generous portion of strawberry scented shampoo into her hair, she kneaded her scalp with dexterous fingers. Once she dried off with a luxurious, thick bath towel, she sprayed her new baby powder talc all over herself, tied the towel around her middle toga style and traipsed into the next room, combing wet hair away from her face.

As she searched for a suitable shop-at-the-mall outfit that wouldn't leave her wan beside her exquisitely beautiful sister, her nose started itching, her eyes teared and she felt the puffy skin beneath her eyes swell. Great, she'd resemble a wet bull dog next to Kim who reminded her of a sleek champion poodle.

When a sneeze exploded from her chest, Angelique shot from her closet like a bullet in a flash of white fur, leaving a trail of white hair and a long drawn out "mer-ow" splitting the air.

Her heart jump-started from sixty to one thousand beats per minute, about to burst her ribs in quick succession. She couldn't exhale. She bolted backwards. Her towel slipped and she clawed at it with fingers curled so tightly, the

creases in her knuckles stretched tautly, turning whitish.

She stood petrified to the spot, except for a series of annoying, rib-cracking sneezes that seemed to turn her insides out.

When her heart decelerated and she sank onto the edge of her bed and reached for the phone, pushing travel brochures out of the way. One colorful pamphlet slid to the floor and she bent to retrieve it. A tropical paradise boasting lush palm trees, clear blue ocean, and unstoppable sunshine caught her eye and she opened the folds to read the blurb.

Poking the buttons with deadly force as if she punched her sister's face that she saw superimposed on each tile, she stretched out on her bed counting the ways to fricassee a cat as she dreamed about exotic foreign destinations. She drew her knees up and crossed one leg over the other, rotating her ankle, twittering her bare toes, watching them detachedly.

Each ring stretched into oblivion, grating on already stretched nerves, and it seemed her longed for, much-deserved vacation lagged behind.

"It's about time." Gabrielle's agitation came out thick and swift.

"Hello to you, too," Val drawled in her flat, Midwest accent.

"Come get your fish killer. Now."

"Excuse me? My fish what?" Soft romantic music played in the background and she could swear she could hear chinking crystal and chilling champagne.

"Get your kamikaze cat. She's outstayed her welcome." By about a millennium! She roused around on her covers, getting as comfortable as possible. "The motel's closed. The inn keeper quit."

A pregnant pause hung on the air. Breath squeezed her tight, lungs until her chest protested in misery.

"Val? I know you heard me." She let no sympathy cloud her voice. Sarcasm bruised it. She should have dropped the cat at her sister's door, rang the bell and hid in the bushes.

"I've been meaning to tell you..." Deafening static tap danced down the line. She winced and held the receiver two inches away from her ear until it died down.

"You'd better be about to tell me you're coming straight over." Do not pass GO. Go straight to jail. She wound the cord around her pinky, sliding the rings flush against each other.

"I can't get Angelique." Her vacation dreams shimmered like a mirage, then dissipated into thin air.

Suspicion blinded her. "You mean now." She unwound the cord and stretched it taut. "Or never?"

"You can keep her." Val's voice was totally devoid of emotion, one hundred and eighty degrees opposite the raggedly sensual melody drifting over the line.

Flaring anger vaulted through her veins, catapulting her to a sitting position, the vacation flier forgotten. No way. Ticking off Angelique's sins on her fingers, she let her wrath rampage. "She tried to eat Mr. Tibbs. She thinks my garbage can is her gourmet diner. She almost got me fired." She blew errant, nervy bangs away from her eyes, leaving a pouty lip stuck out half an inch. "And you owe me six hundred dollars."

"Cat chow's not that expensive." Valerie harumphed, tapped her nails or a pencil on the receiver, too much like Chinese water torture for Gabrielle's liking.

"Seems stupidity and gullibility is!" Never again would she be her sister's doormat. Seemed she needed to pull up a couch and bend some counselor's ear in psychoanalysis. "I had to take her to the vet."

"I never cleared that! You think I'm made of money? I don't have six hundred dollars!" Val's voice rose a shaky octave. "I guess she really is your cat. You paid for her."

"I don't want your cat. I don't like cats." She drew out the s on the end of cats in a hiss. She went into sneezing fit, punctuating her statement. "I'm allergic to cat dander."

"Take her to the pound, then."

Gabrielle gasped, gazing at the homeless creature with new eyes. Her temples throbbed and she pushed her thumbs and forefingers against them to dam the tide of pain.

"I can't do that."

"Do what you like. She's your cat." Val slammed the phone down, bruising Gabrielle's eardrums.

Gabrielle stared at the psychotic, cannibal kitty, wondering what to do, knowing she didn't have the heart to take her to the pound or put her out on the street.

Angelique sat regally proud as any Egyptian feline goddess, her fur so sleek, so shiny, someone might mistake her for a porcelain figurine if she sat still long enough. But she knew she was not near so benign.

She cradled the phone, grimacing. She couldn't believe Val. Abandoning her own beloved pet or saddling her with the fuss and expense.

This favor bank was closed to Val permanently, no matter what catastrophe struck.

Swinging her legs over the edge of her bed, she let her feet sink into her plush carpeting. The quilted bedspread caressed the backs of her knees, felt soft, yet sturdy beneath her fingertips. She fought for calm.

Emotions warred inside her as her gaze remained meshed with a pair of hypnotizing golden, unflinching eyes. What should she do now? Certainly not stare down a cat.

She ticked off options on her fingers. Take her to the pound? Out. Let her loose on some distant street and drive off? Out. Put an ad in the paper to find her a new home? Maybe. The best option thus far. But did many people adopt adult non-pedigreed cats?

Well... She looked like a pedigreed Siamese. She bit her nails, considering this option, studying the cat from the tip of her sable brown ears, to off-white back to her sable brown tail and paws. If she didn't know for a fact that Angelique's mother was a raccoon-like alley cat, she'd swear she was a full breed. So why not someone who didn't know that?

Because she had no magic pedigree.

That left one alternative, unpalatable as it was. Keep her. She certainly had enough invested in her.

But Ian would hit the roof!

Just like he would if he knew about her clandestine night with Craig Nealy.

Angelique meowed, her voice sweetly melodious with questions. All thoughts of Mr. Tibb's near demise fled her mind.

She padded over across the room, scooped the cat up into her arms. When the purring and snuggling started, she felt strangely content, warm and tingly inside. Of their own volition, Gabrielle's fingers rubbed the sensitive spot under the cat's neck and she closed her eyes in ecstasy and rubbed against Gabrielle. Looking down at the content kitty, she seemed soft and pretty.

"You're kinda sweet after all." The sentiment was ruined by a series of swift, sharp, wet sneezes that scared the cause into leaping from her arms and hiding beneath the couch.

Gabrielle blinked, then left in search of tissues and blew her nose loudly. But her eyes wouldn't stop watering. Her sinuses wouldn't have mercy on her. Tears crowded the corners of her eyes, pushing outward, trickling down marshmallowy cheeks.

Just as she finished stroking waterproof mascara on her eyelashes, the doorbell pealed insistently.

Had her mother tired of waiting on her? Or had Val come to her senses?

Hoping, praying, fantasizing that Val stood behind that door recalcitrant, with a cat carrier and six hundred dollars in her hands, she sprinted to open it. Maybe her cherished vacation wasn't slipping into oblivion after all.

When she yanked the door open, she wasn't sure if the perfume or the actual roses smacked her in the face first. Deciding she was fantasizing, she blinked. But the large bouquet of yellow roses hit her square in the face like sunshine on a hot, summer's day.

"Gabrielle Thomas?" A pimple-faced teenage boy with more peach fuzz than mustache on his lip, eyed her hopefully.

"Guilty." She detected a trace of awe in her voice. And a question as she gathered them into her arms.

The boy shuffled his feet encased in the largest, clunkiest gym shoes she'd ever seen. His eyes followed her every movement, his hand twitching in a telltale sign.

"Hold on. I'll be back in a jiffy." She slid the vase onto a glass tabletop, grabbed her purse and tipped him with an Andrew Jackson.

A cheeky grin split his thin face. He winked, tapped his feet together, and whistled a cheery little ditty down the hallway until he disappeared into bright Ft. Lauderdale sunshine.

Curiosity consumed her. She had to see the card, find out who sent the gorgeous blooms before she exploded from not knowing.

She held her breath as she turned the embossed paper. What she read almost made her hyperventilate.

'I know you hit the moon.'

Her fingers trembled. Her knees knocked.

She'd shot way over the moon. She'd overshot the galaxy, on a rocket ship to at least Alpha Centauri.

But she was sure it was an aberration caused by soft moonlight, sultry jazz and Craig Nealy's potent charm that should come with a warning label or doctor's prescription only.

A dreamy grin threatened to curl her lips but she bit it back. Her fingertip traced the strong masculine script, remembering how they'd run through his hair, danced across his chest, around his...

Rude pounding rocked the door, but she welcomed the distraction from her wayward memories. She slipped the card into her pocket before answering the summons.

Kim shoved her way inside, blazing the trail for their mother, Patricia.

Oh, oh. Houston, we have a problem. The incriminating card burned her thigh through her polyester jumpsuit and her hand crept over it. Her radar intact, Kim honed in on the roses. She wore a tight-fitting Liz Claiborne shift that showed her willowy model's figure to perfection. A tortoise shell clip clasped her waist-length flaxen blonde hair at the nape of her neck. She tilted her perfect Grecian face into the beautiful arrangement.

"They're gorgeous," she gushed. "You're very blessed to have Ian to send you flowers."

Guilt surged through her, knifing her heart. She felt herself turning telltale red.

Patricia, still tiny-waisted and classically lovely for her 50-something years, let elegant fingers glide over a waxy rose petal. "So, have you and Ian set the date?" She turned her silvery gaze on her youngest daughter, hope pooling in her large irises. "I'm not getting any younger and your sisters don't seem at all inclined to make me a grandmother." She sent an accusing stare at Kim who glared back, just a shade from being hostile.

"My biological clock's perfectly intact." A pout twisted Kim's lovely lips, draining some of the porcelain beauty from her face.

"You're still too young to be a grandma, anyway," Gabrielle said, trying to soften her sister's psychoanalysis. She gave the flowers a wide berth. She couldn't talk about Ian. She couldn't begin to think about marrying him much less plan a wedding with him as the groom.

Kim nodded her head in agreement. Then her expression grew more morose. "There's only one man good enough to father your grandchildren." Kim plucked a rose petal, shredding it over the carpet. Mutilated shards fluttered to the floor. In reluctant fascination, Gabrielle watched the petals flounder and wondered how Freud would interpret that. "Craig Nealy."

She inched away, mentally calculating how far away her sister stood from her kitchen knives.

Craig Nealy. Oh. Oh.

Gabrielle turned her back to Kim, pretending to straighten the books on her coffee table, to hide the bright crimson tide she knew must be flooding her cheeks to her hairline.

How could she have betrayed her sister? Or Ian? What kind of woman was she?

Long suffering weariness tinged Patricia's softly melodious voice. "It's not healthy to dwell on that man, Kimberly." She took Kim's chin in her hand and forced her face up to the light for inspection. "You're young and lovely and any number of eligible men would count themselves lucky to have you." She slipped into her grandmother gear again. "What about all those handsome professors in your office? Don't tell me I spent a fortune sending you to college with all those handsome PhD's and you can't catch one."

"Translated, that means you'd better not bring any plumbers home, sis." Gabrielle couldn't help but crack a cheeky grin. She was prepared for her mother's daunting look telling her to hush up.

"I thought you sent me to college to get my MA in career counseling. Not my MRS," she said dryly, her face rigid, her eyes cold as arctic ice. She let out a wry laugh and plucked another innocent petal, rubbing it between her fingers until it turned to pulp. "None are beating down my door."

"You're scaring them all away," Patricia chided.

"Do you mind?" Gabrielle snatched her bouquet out of death's grasp and moved them to sanctuary in the kitchen.

Kim jumped, snapping out of her reverie. "If he won't have me, no man will."

Patricia's mouth set in grim line. Gabrielle mentally counting to ten.

"Spare me." Gabrielle rolled her eyes and let out a nervous laugh. "No man's worth this Joan of Arc routine."

Kim sighed and sank onto the couch, defeated, cupping her chin in her hand. Buffed and manicured nails drummed her chin. Wistfully, she stared at Gabrielle. "He's no ordinary man. He's a god." She drew out god reverently. "He made me hit the moon."

Gabrielle started rudely, then caught herself and stiffened. Is that all? Only the moon? He didn't shoot her over the moon? Immense sadness for her sister, mixed with guilt claimed her. And not a small measure of jealousy. Warring emotions were giving her a monstrous headache. Her temples pounded in a staccato rhythm.

There was only one thing to do. Make double sure she had nothing else to do with that rogue heart breaker. Not that she should anyway. She'd never fancied her scalp on any man's belt. Ian...

A more disturbing thought struck her, pushing Ian from her mind. Had Craig hit the moon with her sister?

Blinding jealousy hit her, almost knocking her off her feet, surprising her.

To get both her mind and her sister's off the shameless charmer, she slung her purse over her shoulder, shored up her courage and flung the door wide. "I thought we had a date to buy out the mall?"

"What about Valerie? I thought she was coming." Patricia looked askance at her present daughters, refusing to budge out of Gabrielle's apartment.

"She's not coming today," Gabrielle said. It would be cosmically bad. In layman's terms, Valerie would be too scared to show her face in Gabrielle's house today. The traitor wouldn't dare step foot over her threshold or get within ten miles of her or her dispossessed cat. She knew they'd be gunning for her. And those claws could be deadly. How well she knew. Her skin tingled at the unwelcome memory.

Kim turned to peer at Gabrielle as if sensing there was more to the story. She'd always been too astute for her own good.

"She has a date?" Patricia asked hopefully, her eyes alight.

"Yeah, Mom." Gabrielle found it easier to let her mother put her own twist on things than to explain how she ended up with the cat dumped on her or how her wallet was six hundred dollars lighter. She didn't want her family to know just how gullible she truly was.

"Do I know him?" Patricia could be tenacious to her daughters' chagrin.

"One of her astrologist friends." Obiwan, I need your help again. She needed the force more than ever to get out of this one.

She ushered them out of her apartment and changed the subject to safer ground.

Craig expected a response to his gift. Preferably a moonlit visit fraught with sultry romance, candlelight and old-fashioned loving.

But Gabrielle remained silent. Most women chased him irreverently, including Gabrielle's own sister, Kim. She'd been one of his most relentless pursuers, practically a stalker. The memories turned him cold and he shut them off.

This was a new sensation for him, having to chase a woman. One he wasn't sure if he found refreshing or aggravating. It was certainly novel.

He tried to keep his mind on his work, checking the lab results before him. But Gabrielle's intense sapphire eyes kept intruding on his thoughts, making routine tasks almost impossible.

With a sigh, he stretched bunched muscles, leaned back and gave his over strained eyes a rest. Weary fingers pushed through his hair. He felt his abdomen tighten. "Find anything?" Ben peered over his shoulder, his white lab coat brushing Craig's back. His shadow fell over the medical records Craig was studying.

Craig rubbed weary eyes with his fingers. He tapped the point of his gold pen on the word glucose.

"She's got an accelerated case of diabetes."

"Did you call the owner yet?"

Craig squinted his eyes at the clock on the far wall. "At 6:00 a.m.? Not bloody likely."

"Who's chart?" Ben turned, leaning on the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He flipped through the chart, his lips flirting with a smirk.

"Ah. The pretty little Siamese." His lips turned up in a full teasing grin. "With the even prettier owner." He returned the chart to the counter, drawing an hour glass shape in the air, whistling suggestively.

Craig squinted at him, an odd tightening in his chest. "I saw her first." He didn't like the possessive footnote in his voice or the hard edge. Ben's good-natured teasing shouldn't set him off like this.

"You'll tire of her soon enough, and when you do," Ben said, straightening, puffing out his chest like a peacock, "Old Ben to the rescue."

"Not this time, buddy." Craig surprised himself with his swift, sharp retort. "This one won't need rescuing."

"Like that, is it?" Ben peered at him a bit closer than Craig needed. "So the King of Charm has finally met his match." It wasn't a question. "Any more at home like her?"

Craig jerked to attention, his spine ramrod straight, his teeth on edge. His lips set in a firm line as reality hit him square between the eyes. "She's got sisters." Barracudas. Octopuses.

Ben's face brightened. "If they're half as pretty as yours, how about fixing me up with one of them?" He nudged Craig in the ribs with his elbow. "A double date?"

A rockslide hit him square in the chest. Double date with Kimberly? He'd sooner smother himself with ketchup and offer himself to a T-Rex or enroll in dental school.

"I don't think her sisters' are available." He hoped. Actually, he hoped they'd moved out of the country, or better yet, volunteered for the space program.

"Too bad." Ben's expression fell for a split second then lightened. "I'll just have to make do with my pick of your cast-offs."

"You're pathetic old man."

"I'm only 34," Ben quipped self-righteously, swiping at Craig's head with an open palm. A devil-may-care grin split his wide face.

Craig ducked and punted. Two dogs yowled behind them. A cat's yawn ended on a whine.

The clock on the wall announced six-thirty. Unorthodox to call anyone so early, but Gabrielle should be awake, preparing for work. If not, he'd get to hear her voice husky with sleep. The thought was too hot to handle and he thrust it from him.

He dialed the phone, impatient to hear her honeyed voice. Suddenly his tie seemed to suffocate him, so he tugged at it, yanking it an inch or so loose and unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

Ben chuckled mirthlessly. "Buddy, you've got it bad. Can I have your black book? It needs some TLC and I'm just the man to do it."

Someone leaned on the doorbell and Ben looked askance. "Expecting anyone?"

Craig frowned, shaking his head, covering the receiver with the flat of his hand. Annoyance crept into his voice. "Get that, would ya?"

Ben checked his watch, leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not on duty for another fifteen minutes."

"Just get the door," Craig said in exasperation. His fingers tightened around the receiver.

Seconds after Ben left the room, a lilting feminine voice drifted down the hall just as Gabrielle picked up.

Odors of sizzling bacon, fresh-out-of-the-oven blueberry muffins and a cheesy omelet preceded Bridget through the lab door. No one cooked like Bridget. She had a gift. Some lucky man would gain fifty pounds and go to his grave early, but with a grin on his face.

This morning, she wore an enticing figure hugging shift, emerald to match her eyes. Craig watched Ben's appreciative eyes slide over her backside, as he followed close behind. He snatched a muffin off the plate and sunk his teeth into them, grunting in pleasure.

She offered the plate to Craig as if it were a sacrifice. Wide eyes full of hope and adoration beseeched him to carry her away, put a wedding ring on her finger, give her the prerequisite 3.5 kids and live in suburbia. He wondered if she were going to kneel, bow before him and kiss his hand.

He was so bored with female adulation. Why couldn't the women he knew just enjoy knowing him? Appreciate him for his intellect? For his quick wit? For his sense of the quirkiness and humor? Why did every encounter with every woman make him feel like he was a contestant in the Mr. Eligible USA pageant?

"I thought you'd be hungry." Her voice came out in puffy breaths and she looked as though she would faint at any minute.

"Bridget," he said in surprise.

"Craig." Her voice was little more than a sigh, her eyes wide and luminous.

"Craig Nealy?" Gabrielle asked, fury edging her voice, almost polar opposite Bridget's purring. He didn't like it much better. It wasn't the dulcet tones he'd longed to hear. "Sorry, wrong number." He'd never imagined her voice could have such a sarcastic edge.

"Wait! Don't hang..."

The phone slammed in his ear. He winced, pushing the plate of dreams away.

"Of all the nerve!" Gabrielle fumed silently, considering stuffing his worthless roses down the disposal.

But their luminescent glow stopped her. It wasn't their fault Craig Nealy insisted on being such a lecherous womanizer. That he broke hearts easier than other men breathed. They couldn't help it if he had eyes the color of warm honey, or arms as strong as steel. What could they do about lips as inviting as chocolate-covered caramels. She remembered how they sizzled trails of liquid fire across her flesh.

How she got to work she didn't remember. Nor did she care. She must've been on autopilot. Her nerves were one seething mass of righteous indignation.

Amy smiled at her when she strode through the door, briefcase in hand. Gabrielle had felt ultra professional today and wore a three piece black linen suit, the skirt straight and tight, falling just below her knees. She'd scraped her hair into an elegant French twist, letting tendrils escape by her ears. Pearl dots fastened in her ear lobes matched the string around her neck. "That dreamy doctor's called you ten times." She rested her chin on her hand and sighed deeply, fluttering her long black eyelashes over her high cheekbones. "Is he married?"

Gabrielle chuckled dryly. "Kim told me he's allergic to the M-word. And the C-word."

"I know what the M-word is. What's the C-word?" Amy's expression was rapt upon her. She leaned forward conspiratorially, loose, straight red hair falling over her face. A pencil stuck out from her ear where she'd tucked it.

"Commitment." She glanced down the hall to see if her boss was looking for her. She needed to get to her desk before someone thought she was late. Riveting her gaze back to her friend, she instructed, "If he calls again, tell him Bridget doesn't work here." On second thought, she amended, "Or you can tell him I died. I don't care which."

Amy's thick brows puckered together forming a continuous line. The bridge of her narrow nose wrinkled. "Who's Bridget? Who died?"

Poor, confused Amy. Someday she'd explain but there was no time now. "Long story."

Amy started to protest the side step. She wasn't one to let gossip or a juicy story get away from her easily. The phone buzzed, interrupting. It was a one ring call, signaling an inside summons.

Jumping, Amy snatched it, cradling it to her ear. She snapped to attention, her frame suddenly rigid. "Yes, Sir?" Her voice fairly crackled and static flowed through the air. It must be Vince. He always intimidated her. "I'll tell her."

Gabrielle's pulse raced. Truth told, Vince intimidated her too and she'd been walking on hot coals around the office since the Angelique incident. His beloved carpet would never be a solid arctic white again. His plants may never recover. Gathering her wits, she shrugged into her professional demeanor but couldn't quell the nervousness in the pit of her stomach. "Who wants me? Paul?" she asked hopefully, beseeching Amy with her eyes to say yes.

Amy replaced the receiver reverently, her lilac nails tapping it. She busied herself shuffling papers, arranging them into neat piles of various heights and widths. She averted her eyes, not meeting Gabrielle's gaze. "Both," she whispered in awe.

"Glory days," she said in her long, flat, drawl. Pasting on a bright smile she hoped wasn't too brittle, she hitched her briefcase higher, fortified her courage and strode into the hungry lion's den.

Gabrielle hadn't return his messages, and when the receptionist gave him that ridiculous message, he knew stronger tactics were called for.

He didn't want to examine his motives, but he knew it wasn't mere concern over feline diabetes. Joanna could call her if it were truly about the cat. Or send her a post card telling her to call the office to make an appointment.

After a fitful day's sleep, he plodded out of bed, rolling his shoulders to get the kinks out, stretching his fingertips toward the ceiling. His muscles screamed they were coiled so tightly. The sheet fell to the floor, pooling around his bare feet, tickling his hairy toes.

The air conditioner belched out arctic air. It came out like a chain smoker.

The digital clock flipped a tile over to 4:11. He had time for a leisurely shower and shave and still make it to his soccer game on time.

He was halfway to the shower when his doorbell shrilled insistently. With a sigh, he changed direction, rubbing sleep from his eyes, running his fingers through sleep tousled hair.

Sianna posed in his doorway, willowy slim and curvaceous in a sleek black leotard and leggings. She'd pulled her long black hair into an elegant twist, which she'd secured with a tortoise shell clip. A few wisps strayed around her heart-shaped face.

"My, my," she drawled, inviting herself inside. She pirouetted, trailing a long manicured nail down the middle of his bare chest. "You look good enough to eat." She sidled closer, an unmistakable look in her eye. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

He didn't think she referred to eggs and bacon. "I can't eat so early." Evasion was his best defense.

She nibbled his ear. "Who wants food?" She cast dark brown eyes the shade of semi-sweet chocolate toward his bedroom. Long lashes fluttered provocatively and a smug smile curved her cheeks.

She was certainly gorgeous with those miles of shapely legs that didn't quit, but he didn't feel even one pang of desire. His muscles were soft, flaccid, still sleep coerced. He stifled a yawn.

Should he see his doctor early for his annual check up? He couldn't be a well man to pass up such a raw, sensual invitation.

Craig looked at the clock pointedly, adopting what he hoped was a sufficiently apologetic smile. "I have a soccer game at six. I need all my strength." He had a rep to protect. He couldn't have it getting out that Craig Nealy wasn't interested in a beautiful woman.

She trailed a blood red fingernail down his chest, hesitating at the rim of his jeans as if she contemplated delving inside. A glint of diamond chips caught his eye and he saw she'd glued them to the nails of her forefingers in a starburst pattern. "What a shame. I'll be here for the victory party."

Then he wouldn't be. He vowed to check the want ads for apartments as soon as possible. There had to be a saner place to live.

Maybe Ben would want to take over his lease. Or maybe he'd have him committed.

"Why's the flea bag still here? Val leave the country?" Ian fired a poisonous glance at the sleeping cat, his expression sullen.

"Hi to you, too, stranger." Her voice sounded dead to her ears. Not a spark of excitement or interest. Nor did she experience any thrill at seeing him after his extended absence. She didn't make a move to offer him her lips as she'd always done before at their reunions but hung back, aloof, watchful.

"Maybe I wouldn't be a stranger if you got rid of that animal." His thumb jerked at the cat for emphasis.

She took inventory of him. His chest concaved, too-thin and boringly baby-smooth, unlike Craig's broad, strong chest covered with coarse, swirling hair that triangled to his navel, disappearing delectably south.

The nose she'd always thought of as patrician looked too long and thin. It hooked at the end like a hawk's. And she didn't appreciate how his narrowed, shifty eyes stared scornfully down its length at her as if she'd committed a mortal sin.

She met his gaze, refusing to back down. Had he always been so over-bearing? So full of himself?

She turned her attention to a travel guide about Buenos Aires, ignoring him. What she wouldn't give to be there now instead of here.

"You mean you had a choice?" She glanced over the top for the brochure as his shadow eclipsed her. "You weren't in New York on business?"

"I returned three days ago." He snatched the pamphlet from her grasp, ripping it in two. "Look at me when we're arguing, dammit!" In a snit worthy of her sister, he tore Buenos Aires into tiny shreds, showering the shards on her floor as her mood darkened by the second.

Her eyebrow tented. With a sigh, she sat forward on her haunches. "We're arguing?" she asked as sweetly, inoffensively as she could manage. A question mark hung between them heavy on the air.

"You're mad I didn't come straight home." He wiggled his fingers. "We're not shackled, yet." He shot another murderous glance at the preening cat. "And we won't be until you get rid of the mastiff appetizer."

She wasn't sure which angered her more, his unflattering reference to marriage with her, or his insults to Angelique. Not that the cat's fate was decided. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Curiosity niggled at her, however. "Where did you stay if you didn't come home?" She kept her voice light, non-combative, even though she was livid about her torn brochure, not to mention his chauvinistic attitude.

Under his Florida tan, his sunken cheeks turned ashen. He averted his eyes. She wondered why since he'd invited her interrogation, practically demanded it. "I stayed at Sheralee's place." He twisted his engagement ring and a tic puled in his right eye. He was a prime candidate for Freud's couch.

"I heard of having a good working relationship with your boss, but..." She let the words hang, dripping with implication and scorn. Oddly, the only emotion she felt was repulsion. Maybe even pity.

In a fit of bravado, Ian attacked. "Don't blame me, babe. You pushed me into it."

She couldn't contain the mocking laughter that besieged her. Drawing herself up in front of him, she took his measure, from his weak chin to his lying eyes. Insight warned her that his thoughts were covered with a thin coat of slime. He made her skin crawl. How had she ever been attracted to him?

On impulse, she strained up on her tiptoes, grabbed his jacket lapels, fought down her revulsion and kissed him.

She felt about as aroused as if she'd kissed Mr. Tibbs. A black hole enveloped her heart. The only sensation that registered itself was intense dislike. It throbbed, growing a life of its own.

He'd failed her test. Just as she knew he would. But she'd had to be sure.

When she pulled away, he stared at her haughtily. "You'll have to do better than that to make up with me."

His eyes focused on a distant object. When she followed his gaze, she dwelled on Craig's roses. An involuntary smile curved her lips. She reminisced about their illicit night. A night she'd cherish as long as she lived. A night that would be near impossible to top.

"On the contrary, you'll have to do better to make up with me." As if he could. She stepped away and scooped the cat into her arms in challenge. Her nose began itching when she rubbed Angelique's ears and she strained to hold back a sneeze. "You don't make me hit the moon," she said softly, almost dreamily, staring at the sun-filled roses.

Half turning his head, he squinted at her as if she were daft. His eyes focused on her finger as she twisted her engagement ring off and palmed it in his hand.

"Who sent the roses?" He emphasized the final word as if it were pornographic, staring from his ring to the flowers to her as if piecing together a Rubik's cube.

She smiled secretively, a thrill running through her. She couldn't tamp it down without dynamite exploding. "Cat must've dragged them in." She stared him down and smiled in challenge.

Angelique purred loudly. Her tail sashayed up and down, brushing her arm.

Murderous rage transformed Ian's features into a tumultuous sea of jealousy.

He stormed past them, yanking the door open.

"Send my things to Sheralee's." He slammed the door, shaking the walls, skewing her pictures.

Angelique leaped to the floor, hop-skotching to the kitchen where tuna odor wafted up, permeating the small apartment. She stuck her head into the tuna can.

"Be my guest." A sweet thought widened her grin as she watched the cat devour the tuna. He hadn't specified method of shipment. She wondered how long it would take to reach him if she set his belongings adrift on a raft on the ocean, with a note in a bottle stating Sheralee's address?

Angelique wasn't her normal self. Something was wrong. She was lethargic, lackluster, and uninterested in her normal pursuits. Usually she'd be chasing her tail, fishing in the toilet bowl after her tennis ball, terrorizing Mr. Tibbs and company, or even checking out the gourmet delights of her kitchen trash. The cat was practically comatose and the demeanor, worried Gabrielle.

She'd avoided checking her messages as Ian's tired droning ragged on her nerves. But she finally decided she had to check in case something urgent lurked there. And she'd just fast-forward whenever Ian's voice surfaced.

When Craig's deep, husky tones washed over her, she stopped in spite of herself, a symphony playing in her heart. But the import of his message, hit her like an avalanche.

"Be mad at me if you like," he said on an exaggerated sigh. "But listen for Angelique's sake. Her lab tests came in. She has low blood sugar. She's diabetic. Call me. 555-4325."

Her startled gaze flew to the cat lying spread-eagle in front of the TV, so still, she wondered if she'd stopped breathing. Stealthily, she crept across the floor on her hands and knees. Laying her ear on Angelique's soft muzzle and her hand on her under belly, she listened intently for signs of life.

Relief flooded her, but only for a split second.

"Want a chocolate bar?"

Angelique barely stirred. Her whiskers twitched. Her peach tongue stuck out between uneven incisors.

Making a snap decision, she gently scooped the weak cat into her arms, slung her purse over her shoulder with keys in hand, she rushed to her car.

Her old BMW practically drove itself to the veterinary clinic. Panic intensified in her gut, threatening to engulf her. Heeding her instincts, she pushed the accelerator to the floor.

Late night, the door was locked, so she leaned on the doorbell, counting the seconds until she spied a shadowy figure in a white lab coat lumbering toward her.

Her breath caught in her throat when she recognized Craig. When his easy smile widened at the sight of her, she almost melted.

Air-conditioning and strong antiseptic whooshed into her face almost overpowering her when he opened the door to permit her entry.

She brushed against him, illicit thrills shooting up her spine. Alarmed, she stepped back quickly, her breath short.

"I didn't expect you to show up so late on a work night." White teeth gleamed against tanned flesh.

Embarrassed heat crept into her cheeks as she averted her gaze and cuddled Angelique closer to her chest. It worried her when the cat's head lolled over her arm.

"Is she in a coma?" Repositioning her ward into a comfier position, she didn't wait for an invitation to go into the examination room or even to see if he followed her.

He followed so closely behind, his heat seeped into her, his musky scent clung to her, and yet all her concern was on her new pet. "What are her symptoms?"

He took the cat, laying her on the freezing, silver table. Stethoscopes poked out his ears as he listened to the feline's faint heartbeats and took her vital signs. Then he rolled her eyelids back and shined a pin light into her pupils.

Gabrielle pushed her cuticles back nervously, feeling in the way. But nerves wouldn't allow her to leave the room. She needed to be close, to see what was happening. Compromising, she perched on an extra stool in the corner, her feet curled under the bottom rung.

Unable to hold her counsel a moment longer, she asked agitatedly, "Well? Will she live?" Her voice crescendoed to a fierce whisper.

"With proper care, till she's fifteen or so." He flashed a dazzling Colgate smile at her deigned to knock her off her feet.

"Is that good?" She said it more to break his sensual spell than to uncover information.

Someone cleared his throat from the doorway. Her heart dropped to her stomach at the unexpected intrusion. "The lovely lady returns to the scene of the crime," Ben said, flashing a wide grin, bowing rakishly.

Craig shot him an evil glance from his stance over Angelique. He stood at parade rest, balancing on the balls of his feet. His expression hardened into a mask.

"Crime?" Intrigue made her ask. She tossed a smile to the friendly doctor and Craig's facade cracked a little. His eyes narrowed.

Ben clasped his hands over his heart mockingly. "You left me with a broken heart."

Craig chuckled mirthlessly, the sound rock hard. Long, tapered fingers worked their magic on the prone feline. They moved with the assurance of skill and experience. "Don't buy his baloney."

It was Ben's turn to snort. "He only wants you to buy his brand of baloney."

Craig's lips set in a positively grim line. "Don't you have anything better to do, like run some urine analysis? Or play in the middle of Sunrise Boulevard?"

Ben clapped his friend on the back, guffawing. "You're bedside manner needs fine tuning, pal."

"Did anyone ever tell Delilah about you and Tiffany?" Craig's voice was quiet but menacing.

"Delilah is Ben's mommy dearest," Craig told her in an aside, grinning. She took it that implied threat was usually enough to blackmail Ben into doing what he wanted.

Ben glared at him. Gabrielle watched the by play with interest, making mental notes. The men's interaction was playful banter on the whole, yet there was an undercurrent of tension. She wondered why.

Craig's eyes turned dark and stormy when Ben leaned over her hand and kissed it with lingering lips. "Later, my lady. Duty calls."

"About time," Craig muttered under his breath, a menacing quality to his normally charming voice. She was fiercely glad he wasn't holding a scalpel.

Playing devil's advocate, she couldn't resist a little dig. "Your friend's charming."

Craig's scowl deepened. "Ignore him. He's all talk."

"And you're not?" Instantly, she regretted the words spoken in haste. Especially when a devious smile lifted his lips, replacing the dark scowl. In two long strides, he'd crossed the examination room, his hands imprisoning her on either side as he cornered her.

He leaned close to her face, his lips a fraction away from hers. Hot, minty breath rasped her cheeks fanning fast, furious, primal excitement deep in her, stealing her breath.

Her heart galloped so loudly, he must surely hear it, maybe even feel the booming percussion. His heat seeped into her, setting her on fire. Together, without even touching, they might combust spontaneously.

When he shifted his weight, pressing against her, fear claimed her. "We can't do this." She backed against the wall.

His eyes twinkled, sparked with passion. She reminded herself this was a normal occurrence for him. Even a past time.

But her warning didn't preclude her pulse from racing or her breathing from becoming short and raspy.

"Why not?" His words sounded like a caress, one she desperately wished to feel physically as well. But she forced herself to think coherently, to stay rational.

He didn't make it easy. Especially when he cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her face toward him. She had no recourse but to gaze into darkly sensual eyes, to feel his breath entice her, to be drawn to his sexual magnetism as her fears and inhibitions melted into a hot, burning desire.

"You're working. You'll get fired." It took all her control to keep her head together, to be her normal, logical self. To do the right thing by her sister and by herself.

"I'm my own boss." One wall came crashing down.

"Ben." Her voice came out in a breathless whisper. She grabbed at any straw she could think of to break his bewitching spell. To ward off his peculiar black magic.

"He's cheering for me."

So like a man. She schooled herself not to roll her eyes.

She had to pull out all stops. Desperation drove her to it. "Kim," she said on a note of bitter finality. She held her breath, awaiting his reaction.

That made him draw back with a sharp breath. He caught her hands in his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. It was having an hypnotic effect on her. "Whatever Kim and I had together was over a very long time ago."

Now, why does he sound like a politician?

She blinked rapidly, holding back hot, stinging tears, remembering her sister's heart-felt vows. She shook her head, her hair falling into her eyes. "She still loves you." She searched his face for remnants of the truth.

"I can't help that. I'm not encouraging her."

"How dare you!" She wrenched away and bolted. How dare he belittle Kim's feelings for him. Their relationship that had meant everything to her sister.

Craig nodded, a hard, speculative glint in his eyes. "She'll need meds." He turned his back on her, effectively shutting her out. He stuck a syringe full of insulin into Angelique's thigh.

Claiming the cat from the table, Gabrielle felt brittle.

"Can I take her home?"

"Joanna will call you with details." He didn't look at her, presenting her with his broad back.

"Fine." She stormed out in a huff. He didn't care that he'd broken Kim's heart, the rogue. He was probably immune to the sensation after so many scalps on his belt.

"Ian's really raw," Kim accused, her voice sharp and questioning. Her bottom lip quivered. "Why'd you do it, Gabby?" She paced Gabrielle's living room floor, her hands linked behind her back, her expression grim and forbidding. She pivoted and leaned her hands on the back of the La-Z-Boy lounger and riveted pained eyes on her younger sister.

"He's living with his boss! Who's cheating on who?" She stroked Angelique's head absently as she stretched beside her on the couch. Her voice didn't sound nearly so anguished as Kim's which struck her as odd under the circumstances. "This is so typical of him." She should've seen through him a long time ago.

Kim pointed a deadly, shaking finger at the cat. "He told you he couldn't live with that flea bag. He asked you to make a simple decision between him and her."

"You know I don't do ultimatums." Didn't Freud have a term for that? If not, he should've. Her nose started to tickle. Then it began to twitch. She held back a sneeze, her eyes tearing. "I'm well rid of him."

"But he loves you." Kim wrung her hands together, stopping in front of Gabrielle, imploring her with her eyes to understand her viewpoint.

Gabrielle stood her ground. But she couldn't hold back a dry chuckle. "If he loves me so much, what's he doing shacking up with Sheralee?"

Kim remained speechless, her lips set in a mutinous line. She looked toward the ceiling, cloudy eyes brimming over with tears. Her arms crossed over her chest and she tapped her loafer on the carpet.

Tired of this tirade, Gabrielle drew herself up to her full length, about two inches taller than her oldest sibling.

"You're stomping on Ian's heart just like Craig shattered mine." Tears fell unabashed down Kim's cheeks, streaking her heavy make-up. "How could you do it?" Angrily, she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

At mention of Craig, Gabrielle felt a blush creep up her neck and into her face. She averted her eyes to hide the guilt she knew must be transparent enough for Kim to read.

Angry spluttering came from the direction of the kitchen and she smelled burning spaghetti sauce. Jumping to her feet, she startled Angelique who meowed in irritation and slinked off the couch like a ferret. Passing Kim, she made her way to the stove, moved the pan to a cool burner and stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon.

When Gabby turned around she discovered that Kim had followed, hands on her slim hips. Her long blonde hair cascaded down her back, swinging in motion with her jerky movements. Her stance was about as friendly as a fire-breathing dragon.

"Ian told me that another man sent you roses, so don't play Miss Innocent with me." She bee-lined for the bouquet and held out her hand to them as if she were a prosecuting attorney pointing out key evidence. "And you flaunted them in his face. His ego won't stand such a blow."

"They were sitting on the counter," she said, keeping her voice mild and logical. Kim always had been one for the melodramatic, to look for monsters in corners and bogeymen under their bed. It seemed she kept her talent well honed.

"So you admit it?" Kim's voice grew shrill. Her complexion paled by the moment.

"That a man besides Ian sent me roses?" She stopped stirring the sauce and half turned to her sister. "Is that a crime?" Considering the man was the love of her sister's life, maybe it was. Guilt tangled in the pit of her stomach, compressing her chest and lungs, making this conversation untenable.

"Depends on what you did to make him send you roses," Kim hissed scornfully. Gabrielle hoped she used a more objective, level voice with the students she counseled at the college. She was sure she did and that this voice was reserved for her sisters only.

"Who died and made you judge and jury? How do you know I don't have a secret admirer?" She tested her sauce, licked her lips and sprinkled garlic salt and oregano in and stirred. She wanted it zesty.

"Then why did you let poor Ian think they're from your lover?" Kim peered at her closely, hope dawning in her smoky gray eyes. In a conspiratorial, hopeful whisper, she asked, "Do you have a secret admirer?"

"Maybe I wanted to get back at the louse for two-timing me." These lies would etch a lightning bolt with her name on it. Somewhere above, this conversation would be recorded and come back to haunt her. She knew it. Yet, she couldn't confess her sins to her sister. She'd rather streak through her office. Kim would probably disown her if she ever dreamed she'd come within ten feet of the man she'd bronzed and put on a pedestal.

She'd gotten herself into a real bind. What had ever possessed her to even give Craig Nealy the time of day? Ft. Lauderdale must boast a few hundred capable veterinarians. She didn't have to utilize his services.

She knew up front the man was a womanizer. That he wielded potent charm. That he should be avoided at all costs. Yet she'd let herself get emotionally entangled in his web, become mesmerized by his honey golden eyes that smoldered in the depths of passion.

Kim plucked a rose from the bouquet, twirled it in her fingers and stared at it. Deep mourning pooled in her gray eyes. They glared at her. "You pushed him into it."

Gabrielle's jaw fell several notches and she was speechless for several seconds. When she found her voice, she said, "That's ridiculous. Maybe we're not suited to each other." She averted her eyes. "He didn't make me hit the moon."

Too late, she realized her mistake.

Kim froze, her back rigid. Tension rolled off her. Slowly, her features pinched, murderous rage bruising her eyes. In contrast to her expression, her voice was tightly controlled. "Did Angelique visit the vet, lately?"

Cognizant of the trap, Gabrielle kept her mouth shut. She tensed, her abdominal muscles clenching, her hamstrings tightening, preparing for flight.

But Kim drew her own conclusions, even magnified her paranoia. "You and Craig?"

Gabrielle stood deadly still as if cornered by a dangerous animal. She drew in her breath but couldn't expel it. Her eyes stayed glued to her unpredictable sister.

"Well?" Kim advanced on her, poking her finger into Gabrielle's sternum. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Gabrielle hedged. "I took the cat to the vet. Don't all cats get check ups?"

"Are you telling me you took that cat to Craig on purpose? You had to recognize the name." Kim watched her every movement, ready to pounce.

"Of course not. The office was listed in Ben's name. I didn't even recognize Craig at first."

"And now?' Kim asked. "Are you seeing him? Did you brush off Ian because you and Craig are together?"

What now? Should she lie straight out? Compromise her integrity? Did she have any left? Kim's radar rarely missed. What of her own self-esteem?

She went for a lie of omission. "He's Angelique's doctor, Kim. She has diabetes. It's serious and Val just dropped her on me. I couldn't just throw her out in the street, could I? She's a cat. He's a vet. Case closed."

She hoped she wouldn't burn. It wasn't as if she sought out Craig's company or his attention. As if she had a viable relationship with him. She'd even tried to avoid him. Was it her fault if he pursued her? If he didn't take no for an answer?

With one hundred percent certainty, she knew Kim wouldn't concur. She'd have a different spin on the situation.

In a stage whisper filled with melodrama, Kim scolded her. "It's not right what you're doing to Ian. You need to come to your senses and beg his forgiveness before Sheralee's TLC hooks him."

Suddenly, she felt gloriously, miraculously free. The pad of her thumb rubbed the indentation on her naked ring finger. She didn't want Ian. She'd had a narrow escape. His petulance, his philandering didn't make him good husband material. Most of all, he didn't rocket her to outer space. He didn't even make her toes curl.

As Craig did.

With a sinking heart, she knew she couldn't, wouldn't do anything about it. She vowed loyalty to her sister. She wouldn't be party to shattering Kimmie's heart again, even if she nourished misguided notions concerning Ian.

Nor would she put herself in danger's path again. The man had a long, documented history as a heartbreaker. Women swooned at his feet. They threw themselves at him. They wanted to give him fertility goddesses. She blushed at the memory of her wanton thoughts.

He couldn't help it if he looked like a young Hercules. But he didn't have to flaunt it. He didn't have to enjoy their worship and adulation. She'd be willing to bet he had a black book that rivaled the Ft. Lauderdale-Miami metropolitan area Yellow Pages.

There must be an antidote to his potent charm. Some remedy to rid her of this malaise.

She realized Kim was talking again but she'd lost the thread of her skewed conversation. She turned off the stove and rinsed the starch off the spaghetti. She got a steam bath when the white fog wafted into her face. "Join me for dinner? Or did you just come over for some sisterly bonding?" she asked dryly. "Or to psychoanalyze me?"

Kim stuck up her delicate nose. "Does it have meat sauce?" Her vegetarian leanings showed.

Gabrielle shook her head. Now she'd get the standard lecture on the dangers of eating red meat.

"That's okay." Kim waved a dismissive hand in the air, foregoing her usual speech. "I'm meeting with a student tonight." Her lips pulled into a frown when she glanced at her watch. "You've made me late."

Gabrielle quipped in a sugary sweet voice. "Don't let me keep you. The world needs more lawyers." Kim had a habit of pushing people into jobs with high-earnings potential. Doctors. Lawyers. Indian chiefs.

Kim flipped her hair behind her shoulders, shooting her a searing glance. She straightened her ivory silk blouse. "Remember I warned you. You'd best get on your hands and knees and kiss Ian's feet or be prepared to lose the best man you ever had."

She didn't do feet. And she didn't grovel, even when she wanted something. And good riddance to him. If Ian were the best man, the breed wasn't worth her effort. She'd vacation alone.

"Have a good class." She closed the door with more force than necessary and dead bolted it.

Retracing her steps, she dished up her dinner, poured a glass of milk and sat at her kitchen table. Despite her brave assertions, the apartment felt big and lonely with no one to share it.

She fiddled with her food, the spaghetti reminding her of long, skinny worms. Val used to call them that when she was little and it had been several frustrating years until her mother had convinced her to try it. That it was only flour, water and salt pressed through a pasta machine.

Travel brochures littered the plastic coated table. She picked one up, perusing the colorful photographs.

Ian had pushed to honeymoon in a brightly-lit tourist trap like Niagara Falls, Manhattan, or Buenos Aires. Not copasetic with her. No way.

She chuckled dryly. She couldn't afford any of those places now anyway, even if they had appealed to her.

She was free to vacation in her heart's desire, Timbuktu if she wished. Or Graceland. Or Liverpool. Or Oz. Or Hole-in-the-Wall Kansas if she so chose.

The first brochure depicted tall gaudy buildings, fluorescent lighted casinos and garish buffets loaded with caviar, boiled shrimp and hors d'oeuvres. She file-thirteened it. No glitzy, smoke-filled, mausoleums for her. No sir.

Next applicant.

She opened a slick, glossy pamphlet showing water falls, heart-shaped honey moon beds with chilling champagne placed strategically on the night stand, so clear she could almost hear the bubbles fizz. Dreamy-eyed newlyweds smiled from the pages with such candied sweetness, they nauseated her. It joined the other brochure with a thud.

With a sigh, she twirled spaghetti on her fork. Zesty sauce burned the tip of her tongue and she dropped the fork into the stoneware bowl where it clattered loudly in the silent apartment.

She thumbed open number three flier. A cute dude ranch where everybody wore neon colored cowboy hats beckoned her to fork out a cool five grand for a week's equestrian pleasures which really translated into saddle sores and giant "skeeter" bites. She could get back to nature on horseback in the arid Southwest. Camp out with mosquitoes, which her dad termed "skeeters." And eat pork and beans and slug down burnt billy burner coffee every boring meal, like in the good ol' trail days when the country was young and people were stupid. Yee haw! She grimaced. A regular Wagon Train. Not her idea of relaxation, of getting away from it all.

Onto number four. It advertised a Lake Tahoe ski vacation. Um. Not an entirely outrageous idea. She turned the page to powdered slopes. Avid, athletic figures glided aerodynamically down crystal white hills.

Next to it, weary but sated skiers relaxed by a real wood burning fireplace in an old log cabin. Comfy and cozy in thick ski sweaters, they sipped spiced apple cider from warm mugs.

As homey and relaxing as it looked, it didn't quite fit her requirements. But it seemed like a good idea for future reference, when she was in a Christmassy mood.

She set it aside, starting a stack of possible vacation destinations.

Absorbed in sunny Jamaica beaches and resorts, she reached for her milk without looking. When her hand bumped into a warm furry figure, she glanced up, startled. Angelique dipped her whole head into the glass, her pointy ears plastered to her skull, her pink tongue lapping furiously.

"Scat cat," Gabrielle hissed, waving her hand menacingly. The cat jerked but the glass stuck on her head.

When she tried to pull it off, the glass slipped out of her hand, milk splattered over her brochures and every clean surface had white droplets congealing on them.

Angelique growled and rocketed out of the room to a symphony of Gabrielle's sneezes.

"Its not too late for me to phone Purina Puppy Chow," she called as she mopped up the mess, sneezing sporadically. Great, her brochures were ruined. They joined the others with a thump. She was sneezing her head off. Her milk was gone. Was nothing sacred?

Just as she finished cleaning the mess, the doorbell pealed. "What now?" She didn't feel up to visitors. Another lecture wouldn't find welcome.

A mixture of curiosity and ingrained politeness compelled her to answer the summons.

Craig Nealy lounged against her doorframe, tall, handsome as sin and holding a white take-out bag. Chinese spices drifted to her, demanding admittance. But it was the man himself who whetted her appetite.

A devilish glint danced in his eyes. A boyish lock of sandy blond hair fell over his brow, which she longed to smooth away. He wore a black muscle shirt tucked neatly into otherwise ordinary blue jeans that gloved long, muscled legs better than any tuxedo or jogging suit.

A slow, alluring smile curved his lips. He held up the bag. "Peace offerings. Like Chinese?" He looked inside. "I didn't know if you liked sweet and sour or lo mein, so I brought one of each." A question tripped across his eyes. "You're not a vegetarian, are you?"

Like Kim. The unspoken words hung between them like the wall of China.

Although he was manna to her hungry gaze, despite knees that felt like hot wax, she stood her ground, remembering her self-imposed promise.

"Since when do veterinarians make house calls?" She blocked the door, bracing it with her arm, her elbow locked, her grasp firm, her resolve slipping badly.

"I do." Charm suffused his smile, almost undoing her resolve. Her blood pressure shot up alarmingly. "But I'm not here because of your cat." He leaned forward, his breath raspy on her neck causing her to quiver, pushing rational thought out of her mind.

She couldn't help herself. "Why are you here?"

"Invite me in." He leaned closer, his gaze hypnotic.

"N-no. I can't." She shook her head. Her knuckles tightened on the door.

He glanced curiously over her shoulder. "Fiancé? Hot date?"

Her throat tightened into a knot. Almost involuntarily her hand levitated as her bare fingers wriggled in front of his face. "No more fiancé."

Craig's eyes darkened, inscrutable. But she imagined he'd just been given a green light. Not that the engagement ring had served as much deterrent to him anyway.

"Snuggling up with my proposal." She pulled her lips downward. "Not my choice."

A devilish smile played around his lips, which she longed to play with. The look in his eyes promised a much better time than a stack of computer printouts. "Snuggle up to me then."

He tempted her unmercifully...but she had formulas to tweak and calculations to make. And most importantly, pledges and family loyalty to uphold. She couldn't break Kim's heart. She couldn't betray her own flesh and blood...even if she'd been a real hemorrhoid lately. Nor was she a Good Time Charlene he could just play with, then dump at will. She played for keeps and she doubted he had the vaguest notion of doing that.

Recalling her mythology, Greek Gods weren't regaled for their fidelity. She supposed she couldn't fault him for following his natural hunting and reproductive instincts. But she didn't have to let herself become his prey.

Didn't she have enough to deal with, with two off-the-wall older sisters, a crazed ex-fiancé and the cat from Hades? She didn't need Don Juan of the animal kingdom making her libido pound like jungle drums.

When she realized she was staring at him open-mouthed, practically panting like Pavlov's dogs, she snapped her teeth shut. "Either I finish my assignment or Vince'll have me for breakfast." Just the thought of her intimidating boss turned her blood to ice crystals, sending shivers racing down her spine.

"What a delicious idea." The huskiness of his words put a new spin on the double entendre and she felt herself flush. He certainly knew how to play a woman. Even with foreknowledge, she was at a loss to defend herself.

He pushed his way past her, not that she put up much struggle, and closed the door behind him.

Lest he didn't come in peace, her wary gaze followed his every movement, appreciating the way his tight jeans hugged his backside so very well.

After several tense moments of silence, he finally broke it and she expelled the breath she hadn't realized she held. His gaze traveled north and she followed it, wondering why her ceiling amused him so.

She almost choked in dismay. Angelique stretched out on her ceiling fan, pretty-as-you-please. Her wormy, sable-tipped tail dripped off limply, sashaying back and forth. Her hind legs stretched out, hanging over the edges. A front paw dangled over the side.

"A real Kodak Moment," he drawled. "Too bad Bob Saggett's off the air."

She started to say, "At least she'd be good for something," when he cracked a boyish grin that lit up his face and she lost heart. He reached out and caressed her arms with his hands, mesmerizing her. "I think I've finally met my dream woman."

Taken aback, she peered at him closely, asking, "What makes you say so?" Caught in his seductive web, she couldn't move an inch. Not that she had the least desire to do so.

"Easy wit. Bright. Beautiful. Exciting." He drew her closer, his heat igniting fires in her. "But most of all, you have a kind heart. You love animals." He drew her to him with his silken web, his hand slowly pulling her closer.

She laughed uneasily. "You get a lot of practice being charming. You're movie star handsome. Women fall at your feet. You don't really need me." Her voice sounded breathless, uneven.

"How do you know?" Shocking her, he spun on his heel. Anger eschewed from his lips and he pushed the troublesome lock of hair out of his eyes. "I have a brain, too. And my heart isn't a rock."

He strode to the door, yanking it open, ignoring its rusty groan. "I work with animals because they don't care what I look like. They don't give a damn if I look like a pit bull or Genghis Khan."

Her jaw dropped several inches. She'd never suspected he felt this way. "Craig," she started, reaching out to him, only to drop her hand when he preempted her with a hostile glare.

He tossed the white take-out Chinese bag at her. "I lost my appetite." Reflexively, her hands raised to protect her face from the flying projectile. It landed in her outstretched arms, ginger and oyster sauce overpowering her sinuses.

She started to say he misunderstood her, that he overreacted. But she realized his assessment was dead-on. She was guilty of judging him by his looks, of characterizing him. What could she say? Could she remedy this? Miserable, confused, she stared at him.

"Good luck with your work." He practically sneered when he pronounced work, as if it were a hateful, conniving monster.

She stared at him blankly, uncomprehending. Until he nodded his head at Angelique squatting atop her printouts. "Forget to clean out the litter box?" He slammed her door behind him. Pictures clanged against the wall, settling askew, but at least they didn't fall or shatter as her heart was doing.

Swearing softly under her breath, she sprinted to save her work. But it swam in a stinking, watery yellow puddle which made her turn her nose and vow vengeance on a beautiful Siamese.

She had no choice. Vince wanted his forecasts first thing tomorrow. Sans her numbers, she couldn't pull them out of thin air. She needed her figures to make her financial projections.

Even though moonlight poured through her living room window, splotching her carpet and making her leery to venture into its presence alone, she had to go.

After all, there were no such things as werewolves, monster and bogeymen. They were merely figments of Kimmie's very overactive imagination, not hers. Just because Val swore by the moon, the stars and high tide, didn't mean it was real. And Ft. Lauderdale was a city that came alive after dark. Atlantic Beach wharf, Los Olas, the Intra coastal, and miles of hotels and clubs up and down A1A entertained tourists and locals alike until dawn broke over the horizon.

It wasn't going to get any lighter. Nor was she likely to get more in the mood to work, but she was in a mood to eat this week, so she might as well get it over with.

Grabbing her purse, she fished out her keys and bounded outside. Kim would probably tell her she was trying to please her father figure. Val would tell her to stop and check her horoscope and Vince's to see if she really needed to do this.

Normally she would've paused to drink in the beauty of the tropical night, watch the gentle sway of palm trees in the evening breeze and delight when the cool wind lifted her hair off her neck. But she was on a mission and her heart was sore and feeling guilty over hurting Craig.

She wondered if he weren't so extraordinarily good looking if she'd worry about breaking Kim's heart, if she'd question his motives.

Deep in reverie, she didn't notice the shadowy figure sitting in her car, his attention rapt on her, until she'd slid into the driver's seat. She put down the prickling of her nerve endings to paranoia, to a full moon, to a history of watching the late, late monster theater and reading too many Dean Koontz novels under her covers in the dead of night.

So when she climbed into her car and Ian was waiting for her in the passenger seat, she thought she'd conjured him up. At first.

It only took a split second to come to her senses and try to scramble away, but they were deadly seconds. His hand clamped over her mouth and his hot, sickening breath tinged with Jack Daniels, scorched her neck and her ear. "You're going to him, aren't you?"

A cry strangled in her throat but was muffled by his sweaty palms. She tried to shake her head and plead with wide, innocent eyes full of fear and panic, but of course, he couldn't see her in the dark confines of the car any better than she could see him. All she could see was his shape silhouetted by the half moon. But she could smell his cloying musk mixed with perspiration, his liquor, and her own fear.

"Don't lie to me. I know you too well. Better than you know yourself." His voice sounded gruff like sandpaper, angrier, more lethal than she'd ever heard it. "You played me for a fool, lady."

He lifted his hand a fraction and she gulped in salty sea air, almost hyperventilating.

"I don't have anyone else." Maybe she could've, but she'd pushed him out the door. If Craig never wanted to see her again, she couldn't blame him one iota.

Ian's voice came out raw and ragged. She didn't know which tasted stronger; his hurt and anger or her fright. Neither tasted good. "I saw him come out of your apartment. I know what you were doing."

"You're spying on me?" Despair and fury raged inside her. How dare he!

"I've a right to guard my property." His lips guzzled her neck and she jerked away as if she'd been bitten. She couldn't stand on her principles and she couldn't sit still while he pawed her.

"Property?" Her voice sizzled and she jerked away, or would've if he didn't grab a handful of hair and yanked sharply. In a deadly quiet voice with her teeth clenched, she denied, "I'm not your property."

An elderly couple wearing two-for-ten-dollar tourist t-shirts and silly looking straw hats imported straight from Taiwan hobbled by hand in gnarled, blue-veined hand. She prayed they'd see her distress but feared they were too near-sighted to notice a brownish clump in a still, dark vehicle.

"It's freakin' rush hour. Let's continue our talk somewhere quieter." There was a pregnant pause while she felt more and more asphyxiated by his nauseating presence.

Wariness froze her solid. Go somewhere without witnesses? My God, he was insane. Was he homicidal, too?

A frightening crack smacked the dashboard sending her stomach into her throat. "Drive!"

She fumbled with the ignition, but her fingers were thick and clumsy. They refused to follow a madman's directions.

"Keys!" he demanded in a menacing baritone. The keys jingle-jangled, silvery moonlight flickering off them as they swayed above her knee. He snatched at her keys, practically sitting on top of her. The weight of his body almost suffocated her, threatening to break her ribs and crush her legs when he pumped the gas pedal with an angry foot.

The car's engine wheezed and sputtered, pistons groaned, and the carburetor finally cranked over. Ian grunted in Cro-Magnon satisfaction.

At least his hand didn't block her air passages anymore. Thank you God for small favors! But that was minuscule relief in the scheme of things.

"If you think I'm going anywhere with you, you're crazier than a three dollar bill."

His sharp intake of breath combined with his stiffening muscles told her she'd scored a point off him. In a queer, wavery voice, he said, "Shut up and drive. North."

North? Away from civilization? Out of the lights? "How? I'm pinned down," she said in a sarcastic drawl she hoped didn't show her heightening fear. She struggled to free herself, calculating ways to get help, ticking them off on her fingers. Scream. Blare the horn. Drive crazy. Wreck the car. Over power him. Reason with him.

Options one, three, five and six she crossed off as unworkable or lunatic. In a city like Ft. Lauderdale, who would notice one more screaming nut? They'd assume she was drunk or an angry New Yorker who bludgeoned the local populace six months out of every year.

The same could be said of driving like a blind maniac.

He wasn't in any frame of mind to be reasoned with and she knew he outweighed her by a good hundred pounds.

With a primitive growl, Ian stomped his foot over her instep. He pin-wheeled the steering wheel out of her grasp and lurched the car forward. The right tired ground against the curb, then they swerved across the white line narrowly missing a baby blue Lincoln Continental with rental plates whose driver leaned out his window, pummeled his fist in the air and cursed at them in at least three languages.

"Get off me!" She struggled for control, pushing against him with all her might. She felt puny and useless against this ogre in an Armani suit. How could she have not recognized his true self? Not seen his black aura?

A guttural yell rose from the pit of his dark soul. "You're going to see reason or..."

"Or what?" she sneered. "Die?" She leaned on the horn with all her weight, glaring at him, daring him to stop her.

He swore loudly, clawing her hands off the wheel.

Through clenched teeth, she spat, "I'd rather die than go anywhere with you."

"You don't mean that. You're upset." In the dim light, his complexion turned ashen. His eyes narrowed to dime-size slits.

The car pitched forward, then see-sawed to the left. The wheel ricocheted crazily. Her vision blurred in a kaleidoscope of stars, moon and street lights. Then, the car ground to a dizzying, sickening thud when it careened into a large fuzzy silhouette.

When her head hit the wheel, she nearly lost consciousness. Flashing neon lights blinded her. A sledge hammer pounded her temples. Her muscles screamed for mercy. With fierce determination, she pulled herself out of the groggy haze that threatened to envelop her.

"We hit somebody," she croaked, a sob rising in her throat, constricting her air passages. Cotton filled her head, muddling her thoughts.

A nearby street lamp shone full on Ian's face that had turned ashen with shock. Panic pooled in his eyes. His forehead wrinkled. "I didn't hit anyone," he denied, backing away from the driver's side of the car. His lip curled up in a sneer, but his voice had more of an accusing, sniveling quality. "You were driving, sweetheart."

"You yanked the wheel out of my hands!"

Stupefied, she stared at him, seeing his aura, gray and splotchy. It was like watching a weasel and a monster vie for control. His teeth were even whittled like stalagmites. He'd probably chipped them in the wreck.

It sickened her to look at him.

Ian's fingers fiddled with the door latch, drawing her attention back to him. His lips twisted into a sneer. "I'll deny everything. Sheralee will give me an alibi and you'll be locked in the asylum if you try to pin this on me."

"We hit somebody," she said, pleading for his assistance, for his understanding. Her voice quavered, sounding flat. She was probably in shock, too. "Help me. Call an ambulance."

"Are you certifiable? The cops can't find me here. The firm wouldn't like it. I'm gone." Yanking open the car door, he sprinted into the shadows, meshing with manicured foliage into one of the swanky hotels.

Furious, feeling helpless, she screamed after him, "You won't get away with this!" Coward! Had her mother and sisters been dead wrong about that jerk!

Then she forced herself to forget him and turn her energy to their victim. Vaguely, she wondered why she didn't hear the warble of police sirens yet. Surely, somebody had noticed their accident and called it in.

Scared, her knees like jelly, her heart pounding so hard against her ribs she knew they'd crack, she forced herself to the front of her car. She had to hold onto the dusty, probably bloody hood still warm to her touch and steaming, to walk at all, but she inched forward. She expected to see an old derelict, or a gaudily dressed tourist, or heaven forbid, a kid out past curfew.

Instead, she found a German Shepherd sprawled about two feet in front of her car, its hind leg crushed and jack knifed behind him, dark red blood spilling from several lacerations onto a recently steam-cleaned sidewalk.

Sight of the blood froze her in her tracks. A strangled gasp lodged in her throat, and she stifled it with a shaky fist to her mouth.

The poor creature looked so pathetic, so pitiful, her heart melted. Burning tears pushed at the backs of her eyes.

She'd killed someone's beloved pet, their best friend. Rin Tin Tin. Maybe a police dog. Or a seeing eye dog. Maybe a child's favored friend.

She was a murderer. A criminal.

Falling to her knees on the pavement next to the dog, she let tears fall unbidden down her face. She barely noticed and didn't give a wit that glass and uneven concrete scraped her hands raw or that pebbles embedded in her flashy palms. "I'm so sorry. So sorry." Her words came out choked, phlegmy.

Unbidden, her trembling hand reached out and stroked the animal's matted fur, as if she could make amends. When one swollen, drowsy eye squinted at her from its sunken socket, she heard a soft whimper. She jumped back startled, the fear of God in her.

Then cautious joy effused her. "Thank you, Jesus." She lifted a tremulous smile heavenward. An eastern star winked at her and she felt a small measure of comfort. Maybe angels watched over her.

Still, her head pounded and her stomach churned and bubbled with bile. She couldn't let the poor thing bleed to death. She had to help it.

But how? She chewed her nails, a nasty habit she'd broken herself of in high-school when she'd decided ragged nails weren't professional or desirable.

Craig! He could help. He worked magic on animals. He'd done so for Angelique.

She closed her olfactory senses to the pungency of the blood oozing from the dog's injury as best she could. It mingled with the sea air, fresh tar from never ending road construction somewhere nearby, and a broken bottle of old Jamaican rum abandoned by the gutter. She tried to ignore the blood's stickiness and the feeling that she would never wash it away. It was hard but she squelched the urge to scrub her hands on the back of her jeans.

It was partially her fault the animal was hurt. And she couldn't leave it here to die on a dark, lonely street. Commiseration, mercy, swelled her heart with pain.

Despite her own grogginess and her swollen forehead that seemed to be a huge goose egg incubating, she forced herself to kneel by the still figure. Her touch so gentle as to be reverent, she spread her hand over the Shepherd's heart. She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath till it whooshed out when she detected a faint, but steady beat under the sticky, matted fur.

She stretched the webbing of her fingers, encompassing the entire heart region. She looked at the deserted boulevard with hazy eyes, which at any other time would be a string of cars and headlights illuminating the long line of hotels and night clubs. Waves crashed against the shore, almost drowning out distant city traffic that hummed in her ears.

Not a soul in sight. What should she do? She couldn't just leave the poor creature on the street in this condition.

She should've listened to Ian and bought a cellular phone. She'd have to do that first thing. But that didn't help her now.

The animal stirred, its paw twitching, an eyelid fluttering. One dilated, smoky eye peered at her, unnerving her. A soft whimper sewed needles through her heart.

"Don't worry, girl." She only guessed it was a girl and harbored no intentions of checking under its tail. "I know someone who can put you back together." If he'll talk to me.

Immediately, she shook away the errant thought. Just because he was angry with her, he wouldn't hold back treatment from this animal. That wasn't his style.

The dog tried to lift its head, but only managed to inch it off the concrete a few millimeters before it lolled into an even more awkward position, its neck craned at such an unnatural angle she was afraid it would break its neck. Its tongue hung out the side of its mouth, abnormally dry. Almost a blistery red.

Her head felt about two sizes larger than normal and her throat felt raw. The few words she'd uttered, pained her immensely. Her flesh felt as if it were about to sizzle and the horizon shimmered, then spun before her.

Sitting on her haunches, she put one hand on the ground to stop herself from swaying, then put her other hand to her forehead as she shivered uncontrollably. It was ice cold, not that she claimed surprise. She sat still for several moments until she regained her equilibrium. After she took care of the dog, she'd have to have someone check her out.

First things first. She had to get to Craig's hospital. To Craig. She needed Craig. He was the only person who could help her. His name repeated like a mantra in her brain. Her thoughts focused on one concrete thought. Craig.

Did she expect to magically transport to Craig? Or fly like Peter Pan? Sitting still wouldn't get her anywhere.

She eyed the animal with intense trepidation. How could her puny one hundred five pounds lift an inert body that probably weighed a good seventy pounds? She'd bet the Shepherd's mass was more than half hers.

Standing, she rocked forward on the balls of her feet. Her shadow fell over the prone body, stretching several feet beyond it. But street lamps provided sufficient light for her to see what she was doing.

Summoning her strength, she lowered her eyelids, folding her hands together, fingertip to fingertip. Ignoring the stab of pain in the lower lumbar region of her back, she swooped down, arms out like a forklift, fingers soft and gentle as a surgeon's, as she slid her arms under the furry giant.

At her first touch, the dog moaned, making her wince with pity. How she wished she'd never stepped foot out of her apartment tonight. She should've just dried her reports and muddled through, or pleaded some excuse to Vince in the morning. Chances were extremely slim she'd make it to work with the proposal the following day, anyway.

Hoisting the beast in her arms, she almost fell backward feeling as if a shotgun blast had recoiled against her shoulder. She lost her foothold on the sidewalk, balancing precariously on the high curb. Alarm flooded her. Adrenaline infused her blood stream putting her system on red alert.

When the dog jerked in her arms, purely animal instinct caused her to wrench her arm, afraid it might sink its teeth into the tender flesh of her under arm. With supreme will, she convinced herself to calm down, to handle the task at hand. Panic was alien to her nature. Instinctive, gut reactions weren't part of her make-up, either.

Her dominant, logical, right-sided brain that gave her such an extraordinary edge at performing her job, reasserted itself. This situation could be boiled down to a precise formula. No different than creating one of her spreadsheets. If she looked at each part of her mission as an element in an algebraic equation, she could do this. This couldn't be half as hard as learning logarithms, calculus, or Lotus had been.

A plus B equaled C. A piece of cake. A: she picked up the animal and put it in the back seat of her car. B: she drove to Craig's hospital. C: she let Craig work his magic. Simple.

Only part A needed a back constructed of steel. And a head of ice.

Feeling her knees start to buckle, she tightened her grip as she fortified her resolve. But the dog's head drooped over her forearm, almost a ton itself. It's belly sagged, slipping out of her grasp. The hind legs pedaled in the air making the task that much more difficult.

"I can do this," she muttered to herself. "Once we're in the car, we're home free." Craig will take care of us. She entertained no doubts about him. Only about her waning strength. Her muscles protested loudly, threatening to give her twin Charlie horses in the morning.

Perspiration rolled down her cheeks mingling with tears that pushed out the corners of her eyes. Her vision blurred. Street lamps took on sun-like dimensions, blinding her. She felt so woozy. So dizzy. She almost collapsed with her burden.

The five steps to her BMW were the longest steps she'd taken in her life. Her calves strained to lift her ankles that struggled to raise her feet off the asphalt and put one foot in front of the other. Her right knee refused to bend. Her back threatened to go on strike any second. Worst of all, solar flares burst in her head, throwing flames throughout the length of her body. She hoped nausea wouldn't claim her as well.

It felt like eons had passed by the time she reached her car. Her arms went on strike just after she yanked the car door open. With grunts and groans, she hoisted the dog onto her knee, edged her forward, then rolled her over. The dog fell the last inch or so to the cushioned back seat, extolling a high-pitched whine that sent chills grating down her spine.

She crumpled against the door, winded and drained, gasping for air. Two cars whizzed by, swerving to miss her. She tried to flag them down, but they seemed to accelerate instead of stopping to assist her.

She climbed into the front seat, ground the gearbox, and winced when the twisted fender grated against the front tires. Tentatively, she coaxed the gimpy car onto the four-lane boulevard. It bounced and twitched back and forth in a drunken stupor, criss-crossing the center yellow line as her vision blurred and she saw four lines, eight lanes and the ocean and sky seemed to have switched places.

Atlantic Boulevard shimmered like an oasis. She passed it, staying on the Ocean Boulevard, keeping her speed about twenty miles per hour, her foot poised over the brake. The BMW rattled and whined, the carburetor choking out black smoke. Any other day, she'd be pulled over for a ticket. Tonight, all the patrolmen must be taking an extra long break at the donut shop.

Her lids felt so heavy. So very heavy she could barely keep them open. Lethargy crept into her limbs, making them feel as if they weighed a ton each. But she forced herself on. Past Cypress Creek. Past Commercial Boulevard. Finally, Oakland Park shimmered before her. She turned west, the car wobbling so badly now, it shimmied into the far left lane to an angry cacophony of car horns.

Raspy groans and whimpers drifted to her from the back seat, making her shoot a worried glance over her shoulder. The dog was waking up. They had to hurry. Was she friendly or wild? She hadn't a clue. But she knew she couldn't handle a seventy pound aggressive canine or merely even a frisky one in a moving car. "We're almost there, girl," she said in her most soothing voice. Even her tonsils felt bruised. Her entire body felt like one giant contusion.

Three red lights later, she finally sighed a breath of relief as she turned into the emergency pet clinic's parking lot. Flood lights created false daylight in front of the building. Ignoring the parking spaces, the BMW limped against the curb, spluttered another gust of oily smoke, approximated parallel parking, mewled softly and died.

With the last drops of her energy, she dragged herself to the front door. But she was disheartened to see the front office was as deserted as the moon.

She had to get to Craig. Craig would help her. He would save the dog. Everything would be fine as soon as he answered her summons.

With her last coherent thought, she pushed the door buzzer. Then the lights blinked out and she couldn't see anything. Her knees buckled. She clawed at the door, trying to stay upright.

Then she crumpled to the sidewalk, blacking out.

It was only quarter till eleven and Craig's shift didn't start till midnight. But he'd been prowling around the office like a wounded grizzly bear under Ben's watchful, tolerant gaze, when the door bell shrilled.

Working on an orange tabby kitten that had somehow managed to separate its lower lip from its jaw, Ben glanced up annoyed. Five o'clock stubble shadowed his chin. Tired bruises rimmed his eyes. "Get that, would ya?" He put a staple through the bone as he and Craig had discussed, at a loss for a simpler solution.

Craig grunted, normal conversation too much of a chore in his surly mood. As an after thought, he added, "We need a night time receptionist."

"When you hit the lotto, pal. And you pay her night differential." Ben's voice was distracted. He peered at his young patient from his elevated height.

Craig grumbled and griped as he'd done since he'd stomped out of Gabrielle's apartment. "I should've gone to law school. I'd have human hours instead of pulling this damned vampire shift." He needed to get a life, with livable hours and work with someone that he could actually hold a conversation with.

"Stop grousing. So what if your girl thinks you're easy on the eyes?" Ben pulled a wry smirk. "I can think of worse things. Now if you had a puny..." He let the sentence hang on the air, ducking when Craig threw a book with deadly aim at his head.

When he looked out the door, he didn't see anyone. Maybe kids were playing pranks again.

"Anyone there?" Ben called from the operating room, his voice echoing through the hall.

"No-o-o," Craig said on a sullen note, then he stopped dead, when he spied the shadowy figure slumped on the sidewalk and his heart stopped beating. "What the..."

Adrenaline pumped through his veins, spurring him into action. He practically yanked the door off its hinges when he recognized Gabrielle splayed on the ground covered in blood. "I need a hand out here!"

His fingers fumbled with the lock as he rushed to get to her. His heart went from zero to mach three in five seconds, the time it took him to scoop her into his arms. At least she wasn't ice cold. She felt warm to the touch. Alarmingly so.

Ben clopped up behind him. "What happened?" he asked breathlessly.

"Don't know." Blood caked her clothes and knotted her hair. Her head lolled over his arm, her golden hair clouding her cheeks. Her cheeks had taken on an ashen pallor. Her lips were deathly white. Dark blood trickled down her face from a nasty gash in her forehead.

"Gabby?" Tension spiked his voice. He carried her to the waiting area couch where he laid her down gently. Kneeling beside her, he put his lips to her forehead. "She's burning up." Fear tightened his chest.

Gabrielle stirred, squeezing her eyes open. Their unfocused gaze sought him out. Bruises swelled her face and her eyes seemed to sink into her cheek bones.

He brushed her hair out of her eyes. "What happened?"

Her hand fluttered up and she half-heartedly pointed in the general direction of the parking lot. "Dog..." Her voice faded, inaudible, unintelligible even when he leaned his ear to her mouth.

"A dog attacked you?" He searched her face and arms for signs of an animal attack. No teeth marks. No scratches. Plenty of bruises and swelling and an alarming amount of blood. He opened her blouse, expecting to find a chest wound. Mercifully, her skin was intact. Except for her forehead, he couldn't find another open wound. He surmised she was covered in someone else's blood. Whose?

Swallowing hard, she struggled to speak. Parched lips moved, the only sound eschewing from them, a high pitched squeak of sorts. Pain so intense he ached in sympathy, infiltrated the dark pools of her irises.

"She needs to be seen by a doctor," Ben interjected, hovering over the couple, his shadow eclipsing them.

With what looked like supreme will, she forced sound from her lips. He strained to hear her. Her eyelids fluttered as she whispered, "Car accident. Dog in car." Her words were clipped, punctuated with gasps of pain.

Craig's gaze met Ben's troubled eyes. "You gotta get her to the hospital, man. I'll stay." Ben raked shaky fingers through his sandy hair. His partner looked like a zombie, but what choice did he have? He shot him a grateful half smile. Nothing too overt or insipid.

Gabrielle gulped, the lump in her throat protruding as she forced herself to speak. In a dry, cracked croak, she insisted, "Dog hurt. Help the dog."

Craig wished she'd shut up about the stupid dog. She needed medical attention. She didn't seem to give a damn about her own injuries, which he feared might be severe. Judging from her feverish state, the bruises, she might be bleeding internally. Probabilities were high that she was concussed. It was a miracle she'd found her way here.

Briefly, it occurred to him to wonder why she'd turned to him since she held an obviously low opinion of him. But he'd deal with that later, after the crisis passed. Aloud, he sympathized. "Ben'll take care of the dog. I'm taking you to Plantation General. No arguments."

"I'll get it now. Don't give another thought to anything. I'll handle it." Ben's words were pure gold as he left them, seeking the injured animal. Surprisingly soft footsteps for such a giant of a man, padded across the linoleum covered lobby. His coat tails flapped behind him in the slight breeze when he stepped off the curb.

Her lips tilted in a brief, but wan smile. Her hand lifted to his face. When he didn't move away, her fingertips traced his jaw line with her feather light touch. She seemed to look at him with new eyes, eyes that held questions. And promises?

Her touch sent electric shock waves through him but now wasn't the time to deal with it. His emotions were still very convoluted since the scene in her apartment. Anger simmered below the ace, mingling with fear at the moment. Feeling like a coward, he looked away in time to watch Ben lift a monster dog out of the back of Gabrielle's bent and misshapen BMW.

The dog had the dark markings and lines of a Shepherd. Although he couldn't be sure from this distance, it didn't strike him as a pure breed. Shepherd blood had probably mixed with lab or even collie bloodlines in the past. Still, it had been a handsome animal before the accident. Now it's long fur was caked with dried blood, road dust and sand. Although its eyes were open, they bestowed him with a vacant expression.

He held the door wide for Ben who grunted his thanks. "I'll set two-ton Nellie down and help you to the car with Gabrielle." Ben bustled to the examination room to background music of dogs howling at the moon.

"I don't have any money to pay you now." Gabrielle choked the words out, her features pinched. She seemed embarrassed by her admission. She struggled to sit up, digging her elbows into the soft cushions of the black leather couch.

In three purposeful strides, Craig crossed the room, gently pushing her shoulders back onto the bench. "Lay still. Doctor's orders."

A well-sculpted brow tented, but she lay prone. "Can I pay you a little every week? I'm good for it."

"No talking," he commanded, issuing a stern look designed to squelch her running off at the mouth.

"I really can't pay you now."

"Make you a deal," he drawled, sounding much calmer than he felt. Bruised flesh was turning from lavender to the shade of ripe wine grapes. Her heat sizzled at his touch. She must be running at least 103 temp. His bet was 105. She had the odor of deathly illness. He was on a first name basis with it. "Zip that lip and we're even."

Stunned speechless, she closed her perfectly bowed lips, crisscrossed now with tiny scratches. Gaunt eyes spoke volumes. Gratitude shimmered in their beautiful depths and he felt mesmerized by her silvery loveliness. But he didn't want to be drawn to her. He didn't want to care so deeply.

Whoa! Where did that come from? Cared so deeply? His heart screamed that his brain lied. That his feelings went much deeper than mere caring. But he closed his ears to his heart and shut out his errant thoughts. Who needed feelings? He was master of his emotions. Of his destiny.

Yet, one look at the porcelain woman next to him, and he felt so large and clumsy, so territorial, and knew he'd fight to the death to protect her. He didn't like the feeling, didn't welcome it, wouldn't admit to it. Not after that debacle in her apartment.

"Can she walk?" Ben asked, his voice an odd mixture of gruffness and gentleness that seemed to define his entire personality.

He wasn't about to find out. Instead, he scooped her into his arms, hoisting her against his chest. She felt paper light, yet spongy and hard in all the right places.

Gabrielle protested. "I think I can make it." Grit masked the pain evident only seconds before in her face. She ground her teeth together and he knew what effort it took her to put on a brave face. Reluctant admiration for this scrappy woman filled him. She wasn't a whiner. She didn't feel sorry for herself. She didn't demand false sympathy. She was much stronger than her porcelain appearance dictated.

He shifted her more securely into his arms and strode to his truck, depositing her into the cab. When he leaned across her to buckle her in, his arms brushed her breasts and he felt her nipples peak. Nuclear explosions burst inside him and he hardened in response. Cursing his weakness for this woman that remained an enigma to him, he backed away quickly, slamming the door harder than was necessary.

After he turned south onto an almost deserted 441, he unleashed his curiosity. "How'd you wreck the car?"

She hesitated, turning her face away from him, pretending to look out the window. 441 wasn't that interesting. A long row of greasy spoons, cheap motels and thrift shops blotted out most of the foliage typical in Ft. Lauderdale. It wasn't glitzy like the beach or ritzy like University Drive. Just gray and dirty. She couldn't be honestly interested in the scenery. As he reconciled himself to the fact she wouldn't answer, she said in a flat voice with no intonation, "I hit the dog."

Something in her voice told him she'd omitted important information. Taking his eyes off the road for a few seconds, he gave her his most penetrating stare. "And?"

That made her turn, almost guiltily. Crimson stole into her already flushed cheeks. She worried her bottom lip with even, white teeth, leaning her head on the seat as if she couldn't hold it up another moment.

Concern flared in him. She could be seriously injured. He should've called the paramedics and let them transport her.

"Don't you believe me?" Again, he heard that tonal inflection in her voice that told him she wasn't leveling with him. She closed her eyes. "How much longer?" Pain staggered her words.

"We're almost to Broward. Five minutes if we hit the light." Deserted, vandalized buildings mingled with plagues of Buy Here, Pay Here car dealerships. Entire malls lay vacant except for one or two brave, lonely shops usually protected by burglar bars. It wasn't the worst neighborhood in town. But it certainly wasn't the best. Far from it. And at this time of night, he kept his ears and eyes wide open. Surly looking characters ambled in and out of bars and pawn shops.

She nodded her head so slightly he wondered if he imagined it. He stomped on the gas pedal, flying through a yellow light at Broward. Ambulance sirens whirred distantly. Neurotic neon lights blinked erratically. Gunshots sliced the thick, humid air, too close for comfort. He didn't trust this part of town, only coming here in matters of life and death.

A minute later, he catapulted into a parking space by the emergency room, shot out his door and had her tucked into his arms, her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder.

"Do you manhandle all your patients like this?" Her voice erupted in breathy gasps. Feverish, almost ferule eyes gazed at him as if she didn't really see him. Her flesh burned against his.

"No. Only you," he said wryly with a twist of his lips. Only a fool would carry a feverish Doberman or Rottweiler that wasn't sedated. He wasted no time crossing the courtyard. Clouds eclipsed the moon and stars, making the night even darker and drearier, just like his mood.

"In your dreams." She tried to make a joke but ruined it by choking on a rusty, phlegmy coughing spasm.

She fainted in his arms as he crossed through the electronic doors that whooshed open to admit them.

"Accident victim," he told the night nurse on duty in his terse physician's voice that brooked no argument. "Take her in."

Gabrielle drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of angels in white and nurses' shoes bustling around her with an air of purposefulness. She opened her eyes, she saw the long white plastic tubing pumping liquids and medicines into her in rhythm to her sporadic heartbeat.

Her family hovered over, sometimes crying, sometimes arguing. Each time she awoke another image would paste itself in her muddled brain. She opened her eyes once as Valerie prayed over crystals, chanting something that sounded like incantations, her eyes rolled back in her head.

Another time, Kim stared at her so somberly, she knew she must've died. She'd vaguely decided this must be some after-life experience before promptly losing consciousness again.

Still another time, her mother stroked the back of her hand, singing lullabies to her she hadn't heard since she was nine. They were a strange mixture of melodies her grandmother had sang to her mother and the sixties soft rock she'd grown up with. Tears streaked her porcelain cheeks. Her voice warbled then faded to nothing as crystalline tears flowed swifter.

Fragrant flowers saturated her room, their scent cloying but better than the overpowering antiseptic that permeated the air. White Shasta Daisies with large gold centers guarded her bed. Amber and snowy trumpet-shaped Daylilies balanced on tall stems high above arching leaves. Long flowering spikes of Gladiolus, in shades of glorious purples ranging from lavender to fuchsia invited her to open her eyes just to admire their stunning beauty. Scattered yellow, white and violet Dutch Iris stood regally on tall stems across the room like sentinels at her door.

The one thing she was constantly aware of whether sleeping or awake was Craig sitting quietly beside her, holding her hand. He was there every time she opened her eyes, his own eyes sunken into dark sockets, his chin covered in an eighth inch of tawny stubble.

She became aware of sound around her. When she opened her eyes, she was sure she was dreaming. Craig stood over her, worry in his magnificent golden eyes, his new beard lending a gruffness to his almost too pretty features, his thumbs hooked loosely through the belt loops of his Levis. Kim, impeccably dressed in a black Gucci dress, accessorized with a gold daisy pin, dainty gold hoop earrings, and her hair rolled into a French twist, stood at his side. They looked good together. Too good. A team. A couple again?

As the fogginess cleared from her brain, she realized the amount of trouble this united front meant, one way or the other. She, Kim and Craig together in the same room spelled a nuclear holocaust. They spoke slowly, intently, so involved in their conversation, they hadn't yet noticed she'd awakened. She strained to catch their words, but only caught snatches. A confusing mixture of words like pneumonia, concussion, coma, therapy, engagement, and wedding.

Engagement? Wedding? Who?

Kim and Craig? She had trouble exhaling, feeling almost asphyxiated. Her stomach twisted into knots. Her gut clenched.

She couldn't break her gaze away from them. They looked awfully cozy. Had they reconciled their differences? Had they decided to marry after all?

She'd not been in a coma, had she? From the look and smell of it, she was in an arboretum. With stark arctic white walls and a popcorn ceiling? And she lay prone on her back, tucked inside rumpled white sheets with serial numbers printed on them.

"Where am I?" Wonderfully bright question, she knew, but apt under the circumstances. Her voice came out in a corroded croak. Great, she was a dim-witted toad. She probably looked like Medusa to boot, with frazzled hair sticking out at all angles, while her gorgeous sister looked like a young Christy Brinkley.

The hum of conversation died abruptly as Craig and Kim spun their gazes on her. Kim jogged to her bed, leaning over her, her expression both stern and relieved. "If you weren't so ill, I'd give you a piece of my mind."

"Nice to see you, too, Sis," Gabrielle said with great effort, her upper lip pulling into a frown. She lisped when she said "Sis" so that it came out sounding like "sith." But her gaze flicked from her sister to the man who stood aloof. Her brow puckered. Why didn't he come over to see her? "Am I in the hospital?" Her tongue tripped over the s in hospital in her exhaustion.

Kim walked to the hallway and beckoned a nurse with an impatient wave of her hand. Immediately, one of the angels in white padded into the room. The young nurse conversed in whispers with her sister, then took her vitals, her dewy-eyed gaze rarely leaving Craig. She smiled shyly like one would at a movie star, to Gabrielle's consternation. The man was like catnip. Women just couldn't resist him.

Kim stood with elegant hands on her hips, holding her counsel until the woman left them alone again. Her eyes lay in shadow, their expression bruised.

Meanwhile, Craig kept his distance, watching in silence, his expression inscrutable. Shouldn't he say something? Why didn't he come over to see her?

"This is Plantation General. You must've been in an automobile accident," Kim said, watching her intently. "Do you remember anything?"

Dusky images flitted across her mind. Ian. A monster dog. Lots of blood. And Craig. Pieces to a jigsaw puzzle that didn't quite fit. She closed her eyes, perplexed, weary, trying to make sense of the senseless.

"You showed up at Craig's clinic and fainted in front of his door. He found an injured Shepherd in your car. You said something about hitting it." Kim's voice was matter of fact as if she were counseling a student.

Concern for the animal welled inside her. Gabrielle rolled on her side and sought Craig with her eyes. Pain sliced through her sternum and she winced. She forced herself to ask, "Is the dog okay?"

He merely nodded and grunted, his arms folded across his chest in a closed stance. Anger rolled off him, hitting her square in the face. The pain of his indifference weighed more heavily on her than her physical injuries.

"The dog will be fine." Kim seemed impatient that she wasted an ounce of distress on Craig's patient. "You've worried us to death. Mom's been out of her mind with worry."

And Craig? He didn't look as if he cared if she lived or died. But then, why was he here?

"Craig?" She held out her hand to him, hoping against hope he'd take it. That he'd at least smile at her to let her know everything was okay.

But he did neither. He just stared at her with those inscrutable eyes that made her feel as if she were stuck on a slide under a microscope. She dropped her hand, squirmed under the covers and pulled them high around her chin even though she was starting to feel hot all over.

Kim attacked out of nowhere. "You were very naughty, not telling me about you and Craig." Her beautiful mouth bowed into a pout. "Your poor fiancé's been very distraught."

Her poor fiancé? Did she mean Ian? The only reason he'd be distraught was if he thought she'd regain consciousness and tell the police the accident was all his fault. That he'd kidnapped her.

"Ian's been here?" Derision laced her voice. Hardly likely. She'd believe that when the Sun began orbiting the moon.

Kim shook her head. "No. He's got a phobia about hospitals. But he calls me several times a day asking about you." She fingered one of the delicate violet Gladiolas. "He sent flowers."

"With a fiancé like that, you don't need enemies." Craig added his two cents, his face dark and menacing. "Must feel guilty to send so many flowers."

Kim shot him a quelling glance. "Ian's perfect for her. You shouldn't have chased her and made him jealous."

"He's not my..." She was going to say fiancé, but a bustle in the hallway heralded the arrival of her mother, Valerie, Amy and Ben. They spoke at cross angles, their voices ebullient. The room suddenly burst at the seams and she was glad she wasn't the claustrophobic type. Still, it seemed a bit suffocating, overwhelming.

Her mother pushed past Kim, hugging Gabrielle profusely, gathering her to her chest. Unlike Kim, she wasn't her normally impeccably dressed self. Gray flecked hair hung limply around a drawn and weary face devoid of all make-up except a trace of lipstick. She wore a faded blouse tucked hurriedly into well-worn jeans. But she smelled wonderful, like freshly bloomed jasmine. Gabrielle inhaled deeply, taking comfort from her mother's presence.

"I was so scared, baby girl." She perched on the edge of the hospital bed, her thigh bumping Gabrielle's hip. Gentle fingers smoothed Gabrielle's hair away from her face. "So very scared."

"You should never have gone out when Scorpio was in your moon. It's a very dangerous time for you." The mattress sank low when Valerie sat on the other side of her. She wore a crystal around her neck, which she rubbed between her fingers.

Gabrielle was tempted to ask for an explanation but her head still hurt too much to attempt to understand the nuances of Val's astrology. Did it matter anyway?

Another, more important thought pushed away the unimportant. "Is anyone taking care of Angelique?"

"I took her home with me, like you begged me to." Val said it without emotion.

A stab of pain sliced her. She didn't know what was stronger. Her topsy-turvy emotions or her surprise. Why should she care if her sister took her feline mongrel back? Wasn't that what she wanted? What she'd demanded?

"I suppose she's happy to be home," Gabrielle said, dead pan, unwilling to let on how much it hurt. She recognized the pain in her heart as unrequited love. For a beloved pet and a man who stared daggers at her from across the room.

Amy ran over and hugged her. "I've missed you so much. Vince's been a bear since you've been gone. He and Paul's having to log a lot of overtime to get the Gainesville proposal out." She hugged her friend back, soothing her. "Welcome back." She stood and took a place across the room so the reception line could move forward.

Ben pushed his way through the crowd, at least a head above everyone except Craig. He was so tall, he bent over as if his spine couldn't hold so much weight. Leaning over, he kissed her forehead and gave her hand a warm squeeze. His warm smile almost made her cry as she could only compare it to Craig's iciness. "You gave us quite a scare."

Why did everyone keep saying that? Had she almost died?

Ben tilted his head at Craig. "He's been out of his mind with worry."

In a voice low enough it wouldn't carry across the room, she said with more than a hint of irony, "He could sure fool me."

"You've thrown him for a few loops, that's for sure. In more ways than one."

She couldn't keep the surprise out of her face. "Really? He doesn't look like he wants to be here. I don't know why he's staying."

Ben patted his bulging shirt pocket. "I inherited his little black book." He gave her a knowing look while she sucked in her breath. He winked then his gaze sought out Kim appreciatively. "Maybe I won't need that book, either. That your sister?"

She nodded mutely, wondering if her sister were truly free. "Kim," she said finally.

"Can I get an introduction?"

She wondered if he enjoyed being psychoanalyzed daily, but nodded anyway. Kim could do much worse than gentle Ben.

Ben's words sunk in. He'd inherited Craig's little black book? Why? Was Craig starting the second volume? Or was he off the market?

Surreptitiously, she watched him from beneath veiled eyelashes. "Excuse me," she said to her mother and Valerie. "I need to ask Ben something."

Val observed, "You're a Sagittarius." It wasn't a question. She seemed to do quick mental calculations, smiled a coy smile at Ben then sent Gabrielle a secretive smile. Her hips sashayed as she moved half way across the room and she flipped her walnut-colored hair behind her shoulders.

Her mother looked at Ben oddly, but didn't say anything. Her gaze, however, assessed his son-in-law potential.

Ben pulled up a stool, tucking his feet underneath. Craig watched them intently. The big man didn't pretend to play dumb. "You want to know why Craig gave me his black book?"

"Yeah." She didn't insult his intelligence or her own, either. "Who's the lucky girl?" Her gaze strayed to Kim who looked so svelte and perfect she wanted to throw up.

Ben's gaze followed hers. "I think you're on the wrong track."

Hope flared in her heart. But then why was she getting such mixed signals? Maybe Craig was sorry he'd dispossessed his harem? Maybe Ben wasn't privy to the latest news? Only one way to find out. Keeping her voice as steady and direct as possible, she blurted out, "Do you think he loves me?" Before he could reply, she contradicted herself. "But why won't he talk to me?"

"Want me to clear the room?" Compassion and camaraderie pooled in his gray irises.

She nodded, tasting apprehension, almost choking on her fear. What if he rejected her? Worse, what if he confirmed her suspicions he and Kimmie had reconciled? Could she live with such humiliation? Chasing her sister's man?

But he kept saying he wasn't her sister's man. After being victim to Ian's obsessive behavior, she finally understood what Craig had been telling her. It wasn't his fault if Kim still loved him. He wasn't obligated to return her feelings, only to tell her he didn't. Which he'd sworn he'd done. And she believed him.

She didn't have to live her life trying not to hurt Ian. Or even Kim for that matter. It wouldn't be fair to any of them. She was only obligated to do what was best for herself.

Ben stood, crossing the room to Craig. They spoke in earnest for a few moments, turning to look at Gabrielle periodically. It seemed as if Ben had to do quite a bit of persuading. Craig didn't look cooperative.

Finally, bluntly, Ben announced, "Gabby needs her rest. Let's go." He stood sentinel at the door, ushering everybody out and blocking Craig inside.

Gabrielle held her breath. Craig's ambivalence was a living thing. She wondered where it had come from?

"Craig?" she ventured again hesitantly. This time she didn't reach out to him with her hand. Still, she could feel her eyes pleading for truth, for understanding and honesty. "What's wrong? What did I do? What didn't I do?"

He regarded her silently for several seconds that dragged like a millennium. Just when she thought no answer was forthcoming, he finally answered grudgingly. "I thought you were different. I thought you loved me, not what I look like." He wasn't complimenting himself. He seemed to disavow his extraordinary looks as something distasteful. "I don't like being wrong."

Chunks of vital memory returned. Visions of Craig carrying her here, being so gentle and caring with her, yet so authoritative with the hospital staff, made her more confused than ever. He did love her. She knew it. Yet he looked at her as if she'd crawled out from under a rock.

At least he'd come within touching distance. She couldn't help herself. Unsteadily, she got to her feet and closed the distance between them. Her legs, as unsteady as a newborn foal, wobbled, but she willed herself to stay upright, to face him. Her fingers brushed an errant lock of hair off his forehead. He shivered at her touch, which meant he wasn't immune to her, either.

Neither did he take her in his arms as she longed. He stood rigid, his eyes dime-size slits. She calculated the quickest, most important formula in her career that she'd ever had to do. Did she risk everything? Did she gamble her pride, her dignity on such an uncertain forecast?

No risk, no gain, she decided. Still, she wasn't entirely easy with her self-imposed task. "You're not wrong," she said in a husky voice, taking his hands in hers. If only she could read palms like Val, maybe she could tell if their love lines intertwined.

"I'm not?" He didn't help her out and she stifled her impatience.

"I can't deny you're handsome." She let her finger trace his firm, sinfully sexy lips. Just this merest touch made her feminine core ignite in flame. Impossible longing spiraled through her, settling in her lips.

Wrong thing to say, obviously. He started to withdraw.

Quickly, she back pedaled. "But that isn't why I fell in love with you." She gasped when she realized what she'd said, what she'd admitted aloud not only to him, but to herself. She started to back away from him, feeling trapped.

Her declaration grabbed his attention. She stammered. "Actually, I did everything I could to keep from falling in love with you, because you're extraordinarily handsome...and because of Kimmie. I knew she was still in love with you."

He advanced on her, his expression mischievous, determined. Thrills of excitement surged through her.

"Do you know what you just said?" He backed her against the bed until her knees buckled and she tumbled backwards onto it, gasping, surprised. Towering over her, he looked impossibly imposing and sexy simultaneously. Her blood boiled. Her lungs constricted. She could barely breath.

"I love you," she said simply, her eyes wide, imploring. "I love you because you make me hit the moon. I love you because you're kind and gentle and exciting and funny. I love you because you make me feel so alive." On an afterthought, she added, completely baring her soul. What did it matter now? She'd gambled everything and still didn't know if she'd hit the jackpot. Would her luck roll her sevens? Or snake eyes? "And I wouldn't care if you look like a bull dog. I love you."

A slow smile split his face. A smile with purpose and with passion. "What about your fiancé?"

"Remember what you told me about Kim?"

He nodded, lowering himself onto her.

She squealed and tried to roll away from him, but he caught her beneath him, evidence of his intent very evident against her. Napalm exploded between them and she could barely think straight to formulate an answer. "Tell me," he whispered against her lips, his softly, unmercifully teasing hers with quick nibbles.

"That you're not responsible if she loves you? That I shouldn't hold that against you?"

"What does that have to do with him?" He lifted himself off her half a foot and she felt a chill. His gaze delved into hers.

"He's obsessed with me. But I don't love him. He doesn't make me hit the moon. I don't even like him." She averted her eyes and whispered. "Our engagement's been over for a lot longer than we realized. It's dead. I'm ready to move on." It was her turn to look at him questioningly. She put the ball in his court.

He captured her lips in a searing kiss, stealing her breath, making her heart race so fast she thought it would surely explode. But what a way to go.

His beard scratched her soft flesh as he worked his magic on her, making her forget their surroundings, making her forget everything but the man she loved with all her heart and soul. When she was gasping for air, she pushed the palms of her hands against his chest. "Well?" She had to know the verdict. Even if she'd lost her gamble.

His breathing labored, his voice thick and sultry, he said, "You make me hit the moon."

"Is that all?" She turned her head away from him, deeper into her pillow, disappointment lacing her voice. Not that what he'd said was bad. Hitting the moon was pretty rare. Most people would settle for that and count themselves lucky. But it wasn't the three words she wanted to hear this time. Needed to hear.

He laid the palms of his hands on either side of her face and forced her to look at him. His honeyed eyes gazed into hers so deeply, so passionately the world spun dizzily beneath her. "I fell in love with you the moment you walked through my door. I took one look and I was hooked." He kissed her languorously, his tongue sweeping her teeth, then delving inside to duel with hers.

"Uh hm," someone cleared their throat uneasily behind them.

It took a moment to register. Unwillingly, Craig released her lips. They looked at the intruder. Val beamed at them. "When your house is in the seventh moon, your fertility will be greatest."

Gabrielle blanched, mortified. Craig hadn't proposed. And if anyone knew a proposal, she did.

Unabashed, Valerie continued. "I hope you don't mind, but we took the liberty of planning a July wedding for you. Mom can't wait any longer to become a grandmother."

Craig smiled into her eyes and kissed the tip of her nose. She squirmed beneath him then was sorry for his hardness nestled against her core more securely. "July's fine. With one condition."

"Condition?" she croaked.

"We get Angelique back. After all, she brought us together. I owe her."

She thought about that for a moment, remembering all the strife the little Siamese had caused her, then realized an easy, uneventful life would be boring. Life with Craig and Angelique would never be boring. Anything but. "She can be the guest of honor. But she sleeps in the spare bedroom."

"Carry on. I'll announce the good news." Val smiled. "I'll put up the Do not disturb sign. She pulled the door softly closed behind her.

A cheer went up in the hall as Gabrielle dragged Craig down to her and decided she would gift him with a fertility goddess on their wedding night.

Holly Taylor hummed a romantic tune under her breath while she bustled about her kitchen, preparing a feast that would probably not be eaten till it was cold, but she had to go through the motions. Wives with very special news always fixed their husband's favorite dishes in all the old movies. It was an unwritten law. Still in awe, she rubbed her flat belly, marveling that a precious new life incubated deep inside her womb, wondering what her hubby's reaction would be.

Probably stunned. Over joyous.

She couldn't wait to share the fantastic news with Erik that he would be a father before next Fourth of July. They had waited impatiently for this blessed event for more than three years. Finally, this morning, Dr. Owen had confirmed that a new heart fluttered deep within her womb.

Gossamer wings had carried her home. Now she knew what a feather felt like, floating on a breeze to heaven. Nothing could bring her down.

Wouldn't Erik be surprised when he got home from the office? A romantic dinner. Special news. A very loving wife that couldn't wait to share the wonders of the universe with him.

Jane, his secretary, had called as arranged to tell Holly when Erik left so she would have perfect timing to prepare their intimate dinner and have it ready for him the moment he stepped in the door. Nothing could be left to chance. Everything had to be perfect on this very special night.

She popped her favorite romantic moldy oldies into her CD player, and hummed along to the lilting melody that eschewed. Lighting artfully arranged candles, she hummed along with one of the most beautifully seductive tunes to come out of her youth. The scent of vanilla and sulfur mingled with the tantalizing aroma of melted butter, garlic and thyme.

Flickering flames danced across shadowed walls in their own bohemian rhythm, lending a Victorian elegance to the setting.

Reunited... The heart-breaking pathos skipped over

her heart, yet, she was too happy, too giddy to take in its truly pitiable qualities. Silverware chinked against her finest silver-rimmed China. Her grandmother's delicate long-stemmed crystal goblets filtered prisms of flickering candle light onto the fine linen table cloth in miniature rainbows. Fresh-cut purple daisies from her backyard garden, graced the place of honor at the center of the table. Butter-knife shaped petals curled on the tips. Some ceiling-ward and some, lazier, pointed floorward.

The oven timer buzzed like a giant bee gone berserk, insisting she scoop the lobster out of its pot and finish the dinner. Intent on her mission, crooning aloud to the lyrics of Unchained Melody, she jumped when large, warm hands covered her eyes. Soft lips nuzzled the nape of her neck and she melted like the hot butter she'd drizzled over the lobster.

"Erik!" Spinning around, she looped her arms around her sweetie's neck, lifting eager lips to his, lips that couldn't wait to greet him.

Her eyes widened incredulously when her eyes clashed with bright blue eyes and sun-kissed blonde hair--not smoldering smoky gray eyes or hair as ebony as raven's wings. It wasn't him!

A moan of protest gurgled in her throat, almost choking her. Her hands lifted to push her best friend, Bryce Ramsey, away. Her best friend that had gone totally, completely crazy. Why? What?

"Having a romantic dinner?" Erik leaned against the dining room entry way, long legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over his chest, his Italian suit perfectly tailored to showcase broad shoulders and powerful arms. Dark features, scowled. Debonair, distinguished down to the last muscle, the last hair on his ebony head, he looked so cold, so remote, shivers cascaded down her spine. The atmosphere in the room felt about as final, as stifling, as death.

"Don't let me keep you from your...lobster." Disdainful eyes flickered over them as she marbleized in Bryce's embrace, unable to move so much as her pinky or little toe. Her traitorous voice deserted her. Any moment her arms would crack off like the Venus de Milo. Right after her heart shattered to the floor.

That deadly, fractional moment, gazing into her husband's emotionless eyes cost her dearly. She had never seen his classic features so immobile. Bone-chilling fear throbbed down her spine.

"Guess there's nothing more for me here. I have work at the office." Erik drew himself to his full height, his shadow ominous with the early evening sun silhouetting him, turned on his heel, not giving her a second glance.

Coming to her senses, she shoved Bruce away with the flats of her palms, uncaring he stumbled, muttering an oath, or that he rubbed the back of his head where it hit the refrigerator. Erik owned every iota of her thoughts, every ounce of her compassion. "It's not what you think." Her voice faltered, barely audible. She ran after him, grabbing his upper arm, her fingers curling around it. "I thought you..."

His determined step faltered as he shook off her hands as if she singed him. Scorned, grief overflowing from her heart spilling throw her veins all the way to her fingertips, her hands fell to her sides. Scalding tears slid like acid rain down her cheeks. They tasted salty and bitter on her tongue. They wet her silk blouse, making it cling to her neck.

"Were working late as usual." There was a finality to his voice that made her universe nova. His eyes narrowed to mere slits, the setting sun reflected in them the only sign of life in the inky irises. "Come to think of it, I have a ton of work. Don't expect me back tonight." Without blinking, he spun on his heel and marched down the driveway. Heels clicking on asphalt sounded like rifle fire. Each one penetrated her head like a death knell.

She couldn't let it end this way, couldn't just let him walk away on a misunderstanding. She had to make him listen. Make him understand her innocence.

Hitching the tight sheathed skirts up her thighs, she ran after the only man in the universe, following him onto the drive, sharp stones punishing her tender feet. Erik! Don't leave like this.

But the car door slammed with a finality that ripped at her like sharp claws, shredding their love. His shiny black Firebird roared out the approach, gears grinding, tires spinning, spitting gravel in his wake before she reached his door. Red tail lights mocked her. Only the acrid taste of ashes in her mouth and shattered remnants of their dreams remained in his dust.

Defeated, she crumpled to the dust, hanging her head in her heads as dry sobs wracked her body.

"For the record, Princess, this is the worst idea in history." Erik Taylor glared down his Grecian nose at Holly, his normally warm baritone clipped, every ounce professional. If she hadn't known better, she'd swear they were first time acquaintances from his reaction to her. He deserved an award for coolness under pressure.

Leaning forward on his elbows, he gazed deeply into her eyes, but not the way she remembered in taboo dreams, not the way she'd recorded in her journal, or the way in which he'd gazed into them in their wedding picture. "I need a second in command I can trust implicitly. Preferably someone with experience."

Well, there went any chance of job security. Although she schooled her hands to remain motionless in her lap so they wouldn't give away her agitation, she pushed her cuticles back from her nails. They were buried deeply enough in the generous folds of her wool skirt he probably wouldn't notice. She hoped. But then, she was dealing with Mr. I-Notice-Every-Detail. Still, there was no way he could see her toes curled so tightly in the pointy tips her high heels, that bulges rose like mole hills in the fine leather. Unless he had x-ray vision.

"You know I wouldn't come to you if I didn't really need the job. I earned my degree in human resources." She lifting her chin a notch but ruined her hard-strived-for-independence by pleading with her eyes. If she didn't get this job, any job, she and Tyler were in dire straits. Her landlord wouldn't wait for back rent much longer.

Swallowing more of her pride, she added on a choked whisper, "I can keep my personal life out of the office if you can." He had no idea how much she wanted to divorce her personal life from him and it was absolutely imperative he never find out. He'd never forgive her. Worse, he might take away her one and only joy. She could still taste the dust from his old Firebird as it fled from her life and she held onto that image, held onto the anger that had fueled her quest for independence against all odds. Let it remind her how unreasonable he could be. How much she couldn't trust him. She could never let him find out.

He steepled his hands on his desk, long tapered fingers linked together. Against her will, traitorous skin tingled in remembrance just how wild, how crazy their lightest touch could drive her, how, in the still of night, she still longed for their touch. Shamed at her errant thoughts and unbridled desires for the impossible, unattainable, she berated herself and focused her gaze out the window over his shoulder. Looking into those ebony eyes proved pure, unnecessary torture. She wasn't into masochism. If she only had herself to care for, she'd have starved before throwing herself at his feet for mercy. But, she had Tyler to consider and she'd do anything for him.

On a long-suffering sigh, he said, "Uncle Bart tells me I have no choice. He's already hired you as CompUtech's Personnel Manager." The set of his chiseled lips told her he'd never make such a folly if he had a choice. She wouldn't even be sitting in this chair for an interview. Studying her resume for a few moments longer, not that her credentials truly had anything to do with her landing this position, he grunted approval in spite of his strongly vocalized opposition to her.

She dug in her proverbial heels, trying to keep her composure. She couldn't let him intimidate her. Her spine stiffened like a telephone pole with just about as many sensory inputs crackling at each nerve ending but she struggled to keep her expression neutral. She did her level best to close her mind to unwelcome memories, good and bad. Erik had always had the ability to get under her skin but he didn't have to know that. Just like he didn't need to know why it was so desperately important she get this job.

She had to start thinking of him as her boss. Only her boss. A man she had to deal with from nine to five, then shut him out every other moment of her life. Just like hundreds of thousands of other employees around the globe. It was the only way she'd keep her sanity. And her secret.

And she had to draw the battle lines right here, right now. Boss or not, he needed to know up front he couldn't bully her. "Just like your Aunt Nora handed you this cushy job?" Leaning forward, she stared him in the eye and trailed her fingertip over his mahogany desk, leaving a filmy squiggle in the polished lemon oil high-gloss shine.

He chuckled, a wry grin twisting the corners of his lips. Was that a touch of admiration lighting his dark eyes? He'd always admired spirit and honesty. "Touché. But I expect every bit as much hard work out of you as I would anyone else. And I expect quality work." He scribbled notes on his blotter, then pinned her with that odd smoky gray gaze of his, the color of cool, already burned charcoal. They matched his debonair Italian suit that hugged his thighs too perfectly, delineating a frame too virile to be cooped up in such staid clothing. Memories she'd locked up in the dungeon recesses of her mind, broke loose, taunting her. Clear pictures of those whipcord thighs with no covering whatsoever. Worse, her flesh remembered how they felt warm, erotic against her legs, against inner thighs. Breathing suddenly, unexpectedly became forced. Pinpricks of feminine appreciation and longing teased every nerve ending.

She forced a wan, hopefully unemotional smile to her lips. God how she wanted to escape Erik's torture chamber euphemistically called an office. She rapped her own knuckles with a mental ruler for her forbidden, dangerous fantasizing. "I'll work very hard." Her fingers unpleated her cream colored linen skirt, smoothing it over her knocking knees.

"When did you get your hair cut short? It suits you." Warm tones, as much or more than the unexpected compliment, threw her off guard. Her jaw almost dropped. Her hand went to her hair of its own volition. Her short bob still felt alien after wearing her thick hair past her shoulders for as long as she could remember. She was pleased with the hot rollered effect and teasing that lent body to it. "Last night. I thought it would look more professional."

He nodded, looked her up and down, his gaze dwelling on her crossed legs. "You can't let down your guard, or get your nose bent out of joint. Or play favorites. You need wisdom and discernment."

Warmth suffused her cheeks and she stopped swinging her leg, pointing her toes as if they poised in a stirrup. Was he implying she didn't have wisdom or discernment? That she would play favorites? She schooled herself to inhale and exhale in her normal rhythm, wondering if that were permissible in his chrome castle? Erik's hot and cold roller coaster ride was about to drive her loony. Could she expect this every day of their professional affiliation? She hoped Tyler would know someday and be grateful, just how much she loved him, just how very much she sacrificed for him. How much she risked for him.

"CompUtech has one hundred plus employees with a very high attrition rate." Standing, he turned away from her, gazing out the window at the sunny day. Lacing his hands behind his back, he drew her rapt attention against her will.

She really had her doubts she could do this, Tyler or no Tyler. A cold chill wracked her body and she had to stave off the desire to hug herself closely to instill warmth back into her body.

"One of your most important missions will be to bring that rate down." He chuckled ominously.

What was she getting herself into? Office dungeons and dragons? One flew over the cuckoo's nest?

"At any given time, you will have to act as surrogate mother, sister, teacher, best friend and drill sergeant. Most of all, you will be referee, judge and jury. They squabble like children. They will try to play on your sympathies and lie through their teeth. The strong take advantage of the weak. In short, they try to get away with murder. Your job will be to keep the peace, cut through the bull and keep this place running like a Swiss clock." He turned on his heel, his gaze seeking hers, the unexpectedness of it stealing her breath. "Can you do all that and never stop smiling? Never lose your cool?"

"You mean Human Resources 101? How to charm the devil himself?" If only they'd offered a course in working for tyrannical, know-it-all ex-husbands. Forcing a smile to her lips, her gaze dueled with his. Tight knots twisted in her stomach. This sounded more and more like a family reunion, trying to appease everyone intent on feuding, insisting on their own way come hell or high water.

The phone pealed. "Excuse me." He snatched the receiver, his knuckles white as his fingers clenched it. He sank into his chair and swiveled around so that his back was turned to her. He spoke in vibrant, warm tones, but too low for her to catch enough of the words to make sense.

She watched his reflection in his window, wondering why a gentle smile tugged at the corner of his lips and why his voice softened to pure melt-in-your-mouth one hundred percent butter.

"Erik Taylor please call your mother. ET please phone home." The overhead paging system boomed loud and clear.

Giggles and guffaws erupted down the hall round robin fashion. Her hand hurried to cup her mouth before she thoroughly embarrassed herself by laughing in his face. None of her college professors or textbooks had prepared her for this.

He grimaced, muttering oaths that made her blush, under his breath. "Hold on Arlene." He punched the hold button on the phone, then rammed the blinking light. "Don't ever page me that way again, Candy. Say Erik, please dial zero--and nothing else! Where's Lucy?" The boom of his voice made her jump so that her chair almost fell backward. His fingers drummed his desk in a death tattoo.

Shadows fell over her and she glanced out the door. When a live Barbie Doll led a marine soldier down the hall on a leash, her jaw dropped several notches. The woman smiled, her baby blues glittering from tons of blue eye shadow. Heavy perfume hung like an early fog over the Everglades in the stale office air, tickling her throat. GI Joe grimaced, ready to chew nails and spit them out like a machine gun, behind her.

Erik nodded then the top phone light blinked off. He punched the still blinking light. "Sorry about that. I'll see you then. It's a date."

"What was that?" she asked, awed, about ready to fall off her chair.

He held up his index finger. "Stay with me one more moment while I phone home," Erik grimaced. Under his breath, he mumbled, "I can't believe I just said that." He shook his head in extreme irritation, pushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. She marveled it had the nerve not to stay absolutely perfect. Especially in his present mood. She knew he wasn't always like this, at least he didn't used to be. Thus, she concluded with an inward grimace of her own, that she brought out the best in him. Not.

Still, she quirked her eyebrow, trying to suppress a ghostly giggle that bubbled in her throat when he shot her a severe glance designed to wither. "Training a new switchboard operator?"

Erik shook his head, scowling. "No. The operator can't sit down today. That was a sub."

When Holly started to ask why, he grumbled, "Don't ask."

"How's Mildred and Aaron by the way?" she asked dutifully, not particularly interested in her ex-out-laws.

He stood, pivoted on his heel and sauntered around his desk. "Mom's president of the Rotary Club and chairing the big gala for the homeless which keeps her pretty much out of trouble. Dad plays golf at the country club come rain or shine. Sometimes he sails, does a little deep sea fishing with his crones." Perching on the edge of his desk, he swung a long leg in front of her, his worsted wool Zanetti slacks hitched up, revealing curly dark hair covering his strong calves. It was all she could do not to reach out and touch it. God how she hated wayward emotions.

"Ah, the life of the rich and famous," she drawled, smiling with saccharine sweetness. She might be related to the jet set, but her life since his departure had been the furthest thing from it. Her apartment, decorated in early modern poverty, attested to that. "It must be nice to be part of the idle rich."

"For your own sake as well as for the company's, I don't want it known that Bart Duarte is your uncle." A dark frown crossed his handsome features, as he looked down upon her as if she were a peasant begging for table scraps.

"Lord have mercy. We can't have anyone finding out he hired another relative, can we? Or that I'm your ex?" Instant mortification filled her veins like a raging inferno and she cringed. Ramifications of public knowledge of that perilous tidbit of information could be deadly. She bit her lip, avoiding his eyes. How could she have said that? Her hair bobbed around her cheeks. Quickly, in a low voice, she added, "Don't worry. I can make it on my own merit." Just as she'd managed to do after he'd left her high and dry during a difficult pregnancy and to raise their son by herself.

"Obviously not or you wouldn't take charity from Uncle Bart." He studied the ceiling as if she bored him out of his mind. As if she wasted his time and merely put up with her presence.

How dare he? How could she? The omens weren't good at all. Terrible, in fact. Boiling, she stood, glaring at him as her spine prickled porcupine-style. The air pressure dropped a good thirty degrees. Her tone came out even chillier. "Just like you're not taking charity from Aunt Nora?"

"Is this your idea of cool, calm and collected? Will the staff get your goat as easily as I just did?" He stared hard at her, rising to his full height with such an easy grace that it should be illegal. His shadow fell across her like a living thing. A demon.

"I'm not divorced from the rest of the staff." She stood, holding her ground as best she could, feeling proverbial quick sand underfoot. What a quagmire this was already turning into. Why had Uncle Bart ever suggested this? He had to have known oil and water mixed a hundred times better than she and Erik. And he wanted to unite the staff? Not decimate it? This might become a war zone. "Is this some kind of a test?"

Roguish merriment danced in his gray eyes. "Point taken. It's time you started earning your keep, Princess." Sauntering to the door, he held it open for her to proceed him. She couldn't accuse him of ungentlemanly manners. Aftershave that struck her senses like man candy hit her full in the face and she missed a step, stumbling. He still smelled like the deep woods and a hint of spice...and it still had the power to stop her dead in her tracks. At least when she hadn't expected it.

She'd have to get hold of herself. Day in, day out, she'd be faced with unexpected memories, perhaps even desires, and she had to learn to cope with them. To hide any unwarranted responses and longings. No way could she let him see what he'd cost her. How he'd devastated her. She'd worked too hard to get her life in order, to regain herself. It hadn't been easy, but she'd done it. Fate couldn't be so cruel, she couldn't be so stupid to bring her pride and her hard won independence crashing down like the Berlin Wall.

She slung her white vinyl purse over her shoulder, snatched her tattered briefcase and walked through the door with as much dignity as she could muster, her head held high.

"This will be your office." He gestured to the large glass office next to his that reminded her of a fish bowl. Almost floor to ceiling windows encased two sides of the square room. Shouldn't a personnel manager have a solid walls? Privacy? Everyone could see every move she made, every crying, or screaming, or confiding employee who entered her office. Every interviewee. This wasn't the way it should be. She'd have to speak to Uncle Bart later about this. "Lock your purse in the drawer. Follow me."

Oh joy!

A giant human jellybean jar waddled down the narrow hall. Hundreds of brightly colored balloons jounced inside a tent sized clear garbage bag tied just above a young woman's knees. Several more balloons flounced on her head.

"What's going on here?" Holly stopped in front of Erik, refusing to let him take another step until he explained the eccentric characters roaming CompUtech's halls. "Did I just walk into the Twilight Zone or Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory?"

"Today is our Halloween costume contest and parade. Best costume wins a five hundred-dollar bond. Second place wins a two hundred fifty-dollar bond. Third gets an one hundred-dollar bond. It's the highlight of the year." He turned around to watch and inclined his head at the jelly bean jar. "That's Lucy, our receptionist."

No wonder she couldn't sit. All that hydrogen would send her to outer space! "She'll explode any second." Her flesh itched in sympathy, as if she'd broken out in hives head to foot. "Why didn't you let me in on all the fun?" She eyed the hopeful parade of masquerading employees with trepidation. "Uncle Bart could have called me. I'm up for a good laugh."

"Actually...we have a very important job for you today." His hand slipped against the small of her back and she trembled. It fit so perfectly, as if a tailor had fit it. But it burned her, so she walked faster, stiffening her spine. This man was a total paradox. So cold and aloof one moment. Gentlemanly, warm, the next. Did he know what he did to her? Did he have clue one?

But her attention was mercifully distracted a moment later when the Dunkin' Donut man rolled by, groaning, "I gotta make the donuts. I just gotta make the donuts." His ten-gallon butt marengayed down the hall as he passed out glazed donuts. He'd added a king size pillow to his size fifty-five drawers for extra oomph. At least she hoped it was a pillow. Or two.

"Uhm." She chuckled, looking up at Erik. "What did you have in mind?" She hadn't the faintest notion what he might want her to do. Dress up in drag and do the hula? Twitch her nose like Bewitched? Burn the divorce papers...

She shook her head mentally. Her thoughts were her own worst enemy. She walked a little faster, putting more distance between them. Maybe if she got out of body heat range, she could get her spiraling, delinquent emotions under check.

"We need an impartial judge. Someone who doesn't know anyone else here," he said, pinning that unconsciously seductive gaze to her.

He couldn't be for real. Could he? Her jaw dropped a few notches. She glanced down the hall at the three-ring circus milling about, lounging around...wasting time. Had she just walked into the Star Wars cantina where Hans Solo told Luke Skywalker to keep his head down for the baddest, meanest scum in the galaxy frequented the joint and would shoot him without a second thought? Should she decline eye contact with these aliens?

She would have preferred to do the hula...even in drag.

Looking back at Erik, the only person of her same race, time and dimension, she pointed to herself. "You mean me?" she squeaked. A self-conscious laugh tripped off suddenly dry lips, and she wondered what her chances were to escape alive. "Losers have a tendency to take it out on the judge." What a clever way to get rid of his ex-wife.

"Why not you? I told you this job entailed a variety of different functions." He bestowed a thousand-watt smile on her, melting her insides. She had no doubt he turned up the charm to get his own way, knowing full well the crippling effect he had on women when he did so. "This is your chance to show what a good sport you are."

"Shouldn't Uncle Bart have the honor of picking the winner?"

A restraining hand on her arm, pulled her up short. He looked very serious, his brows drawn into a single line. Shadows played on the geometric planes of his chiseled features. "Nix on this Uncle Bart stuff."

She pursed her lips. He was right. Not one hour on the job and she'd already slipped.

"When does the fun begin?" She dreaded to see what character would amble by next.

"Looks like it already has." He chuckled. "Officially right after lunch."

"I think I've already been bribed." She pirouetted on her high heels, almost stumbling into his arms. Luckily, she caught herself before he noticed her faux pas. She hoped.

Dracula stalked a buxom Xena, muttering in a perfect Lon Chaney accent, "I vant to kiss your neck." Billowing black capes whooshed through the air when he wrapped them around himself with flare. Show-polish black hair extended to his flesh in a bad dye job.

She backed up to the wall, watching in wonder, wishing she had a necklace of garlic on instead of her one-dollar paste baubles from the Thrift store. She'd bring one tomorrow, costume party or not. These characters were probably just as scary out of costume as they were in. She covered her throat with her hands and gulped. She needed all the protection she could get. Rabbit feet. Four leaf clovers. Lucky pennies. Blessings.

Xena sliced the air with her make-believe sword. "Get a life, bloodsucker." Chains rattled when she flicked her whip for extra emphasis.

"Unc..." Erik shot her a quelling glance that sliced like a knife. He shook his head ever so slightly, doubt clearly shining in his eyes.

"Mr. Duarte allows all this?" She eyed the near naked Xena with the eye of a rival. She felt like a Victorian old maid wearing suffocating layers of clothing. "Such, such... ."

"A loose dress code?" He chuckled, eyeing the buxom woman with a gleam twinkling in his eye. "Only when Aunt Nora doesn't know about it. What Aunt Nora doesn't know doesn't hurt her." He winked at Xena. She wondered when head start licking his lips and drooling B like all the other men in eye shot. Jealousy pierced her and she struggled to remove Cupid's unwanted arrow from her traitorous heart.

She felt like tearing off her power jacket, ripping the sleeves out of her stuffy blouse and swinging her beads around her finger like Jamie Lee Curtis in True Lies, turning from a feminine zero to hero with a few rips of her stuffy suit.

"He knows the value of company morale. A family who plays together stays together," he quoted verbatim, as if reading a script. "Believe me, they work hard enough the rest of the year. Enjoy this break. You'll be tossed to the lions soon enough."

"Having to judge the best costume isn't being thrown to the lions?" She did her best to keep very real trepidation out of her voice, pleased with herself for masking her hurt.

"Not even a smoke signal." Warm fingers wrapped around her upper arm. Even warmer breath fanned the nape of her neck and her sensitive ear lobe, causing her knees almost buckled when they turned to gelatin. "Uncle Bart wants to welcome you to his kingdom."

"So soon?" she asked louder, a faint twitter of her heart sent erratic pulses down her extremities that she fought back with all her willpower.

"He likes to meet with all new employees their first day. Prepare for a royal audience," he murmured in her ear, almost flooring her. Her temperature rose a good twenty degrees, almost setting her aflame. "You'll escort new employees here from now on."

"So you're showing me the ropes?" She hoped against hope he wouldn't hang her with them. Many pitfalls awaited her here.

"I'll be your mentor." He stopped at her uncle's closed door, tapping on it with command.

"You?" she asked in disbelief. He must have mispronounced tormentor. That made far more sense. She was doomed. Lying, nor acting, was her forte.

"Enter." Bart Duarte's voice rose, intimidating, authoritative.

He opened the door, holding it for her. His expression became a mask of discretion, except for a brief second when her body brushed against his when she squeezed past. Embers sparked. Flames rose. She wondered that the smoke alarm didn't blare and shower them with life-saving water.

Finally, she noted her uncle, and did a double take. Was that hideous creature Uncle Bart? She had to choke back outright laughter. Freddy Kruger's grizzled flesh scowled at her from her uncle's throne. "Come closer, my dear. Step into my nightmare." He wriggled his eyebrows and held up creepy hands with long, nightmarish fingernails that beckoned her. But she wasn't a bug in spider's web. She backed away half a step as he laughed at her. "Sit down, sit down said the spider to the fly." He motioned to the chairs in front of his desk with a regal sweep of a grotesque hand.

She sunk into a cushy, ergonomically correct chair, perusing her uncle's opulent office that was almost, but not quite as austere as Erik's torture chamber.

He closed the door with a soft click, locking her in to her chagrin. Crossing his legs, leaning back, comfortable with himself as if her presence didn't bother him in the least, he sat beside her. She hoped perspiration didn't bead her brow, giving away her apprehension, her feminine reaction to him.

"Are you teaching Holly Lynn how to run the company yet?" Bart scribbled a note on a pad with one of his gold leaf pens that could have paid her rent for at least half a year.

"I just informed her she'd be judging the costume contest this afternoon." Erik turned in his seat to gaze squarely at her, challenge in those ebony eyes, mocking her. His fine Italian suit crinkled at his elbows and again at his knees. He loosened his silk tie but she wished he'd pull it tight--much, much tighter.

"What do you think of the freak show?" Bart sent more chills chasing down her spine when he grinned from inside that hideous mask of melted flesh. A million spiders danced atop all her nerve endings, giving her the creeps.

"It's different." She did her utmost best to keep her response and her tones noncommittal. None of her business or psychology classes had ever recommended sponsoring a masquerade party on a workday. Her mind still reeled from the psycho ward outside her uncle's door. "Although I would have called it Cartoon Network or the Star Wars Cantina. But won't it put a crimp into productivity?" She wanted to ask how many of the costumes were really costumes? Erik's to begin with...

"It's Erik's idea." Bart sat forward in his chair ogling his golden haired boy. From the adoration in Bart's eyes, Erik could do no wrong. And Bart knew all about Tyler. Go figure. It must be that mysterious men's club mentality that kept her from understanding. "And I think we'll survive one day of play...Just don't tell your Aunt Nora." A conspiratorial smile warmed his lips as well as his voice.

Reeling, she turned, astonished. "You instigated this? You dreamed this up?"

"What's the matter? I'm not that stuffy. Certainly you remember, Princess..." A truly boyish, mischievous light danced in his eyes. Sunshine from an inner star lit his face.

She looked him up and down, glad for the excuse. Tightly controlled power hid beneath his fine cut suit, power that used to thrill her and fill her with awe. Used to? Who was she kidding? "No-o-o-o," she said shakily, heat creeping into her cheeks that had started much lower and worked its way up. More memories she didn't want to recall taunted her, no matter how hard she tried to push them away, squash them.

"She's as smart as a whip, remember Erik? It's in the genes." Bart prided himself as if he'd been her biological father, not merely her mother's baby brother. "You'll be glad I insisted she assist you."

"We'll see." Erik's lips quirked into a half smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I still think she's too young and too soft to handle that bunch of piranhas out there. And I don't think it's good we work together."

"She's tougher than she looks." Bart smiled, a secretive smile that made her want to run for cover - all the way to Australia or South America. "And I'm sure the two of you can work things out...on the job that is."

"Time will tell." Erik tapped the top of his black patent leather shoe with his fingers.

"Of course, you have to show her how. If she fails, you fail. Understand?" Bart asked.

"Understood, Sir." Erik paid homage to the boss. Or was he just a phenomenal brown-noser? She voted for the second option.

"Make her the best Personnel Director in the whole darn country," Bart ordered.

"So she can replace me?" Erik asked.

"And have Nora kick me out of the house?" He tick-ticked and smiled, standing, signaling the meeting had closed. Tattered clothing fluttered around his hunched back.

Erik stood then opened the heavy door, holding it open for her.

"I'll see you at the costume parade after lunch. Be there or be square!" Bart scurried down the hall, shoulders hunched, feet scuffling in a shuffle-step, shuffle-step-hop-step.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Ghouls and goblins. Come if you dare to CompUtech's third annual Halloween party and costume contest!" Bart Duarte waved his hand with a flourish, his spidery Freddy Kruger hands fluttering in the slight autumn breeze. He hunched over on the stage and growled into the microphone, his voice gruff, gravelly. He winked at the buxom Xena, his cheek curved.

Erik took the microphone from Uncle Bart, topping him by half a head. The shadow he cast over Bart made the costume even more realism. She could swear she heard at least half the ladies exhale a deeply romantic sigh when he flashed his sultry smile at the audience, that they all hoped and fantasized that smile was for their exclusive benefit. But her own sigh was loudest in her ears. But did she want his smile, sultry or not, to be only for her? For her at all?

"Warlocks grab your witches. Ghouls grab your goblins. Fix your tentacles. Dust your brooms and sharpen your swords for it's time to parade for the cash, fame and ten minutes of glory!"

Wolf whistles reverberated through the atrium, a ghostly squall on the crisp October air. Passers by stopped to stare and point. One little redheaded child hid behind his mother, as far away from the vampires and scary creatures as he possibly could. Little fingers clutched her skirts, the knuckles pale. When Xena handed an iced orange cupcake with candy corn on top to the boy, he beamed from ear to ear, daring to touch her plastic sword. His lips rounded into a big O and his eyes widened, incredulity shining in them.

"We have an extra special treat for you today." Erik beckoned for Holly to take front and center stage, his unreadable black gaze boring into her. As if a million needles pricked her bare flesh, she shivered. She schooled herself not to show her discomfort. She'd made a pact with herself when she started this job that she'd never let him see the affect he had on her again.

Suddenly shy, she hung back. She craned her neck to see a Gilligan look-a-like stumble over his big, floppy feet. Next thing she knew, Erik's hand cupped her elbow and he propelled her to the microphone where all eyes studied her with idle curiosity, where she froze, stage struck. So many eyes studied her, dissected her.

"I'd like you to meet Holly Ramsey, our new Personnel Manager. She'll handle day-to-day personnel disputes and help me to interview new applicants. As the only truly impartial person here today, she'll be our number one judge." He sounded and looked like Barnum and Bailey with all his flourishes and blandishments. He'd missed his calling. "Let's all give a big welcoming round of applause for Holly!"

"Speech, speech, speech!" the motley crew chanted amidst thunderous applause.

"Drum roll puh-lease!" someone else shouted. Another wise-cracker started humming the bump and grind melody for a strip tease until Erik shot him a quelling glance, his lips thinned. But by then, half the audience had joined in and Erik's attempts to curb their enthusiasm proved futile. Only when Uncle Bart frowned his disapproval, did they fade to a stop.

She cleared her throat and clenched her hands, feeling like Dorothy standing in front of the Wizard. She sucked in a deep breath of the chill air allowing the perfume of smelled caramel apples and pumpkin pie brewing in the tiny atrium café at the other end of the arboretum wrap her in their warmth. Were there any better smells in the entire universe? Her peripheral vision caught sight of Erik, and she realized there might be one or two. Still, they ranked very near the top of her list.

Tiptoeing close to the microphone, she tried to adjust it downwards then tapped the wire mesh case, causing a static whine to pierce the whipping wind. Erik took the microphone off its metal stand and placed it in her hands. The metal was warm from his hands. When his fingers accidentally brushed hers, she trembled.

"First of all, I'd like to say you've all made me feel very welcome and I'm happy to be here--as long as the guy in the vampire suit with the long, sharp fangs is just in costume and not for real..." She pretended to shake and quiver. Well, she wasn't pretending to be scared to death. For any number of reasons.

The crowd cheered, laughing. A few outright leered. Count Dracula took a running jump, landed on stage next to her, his black cape swirling around him.

"I vant to drink your vlood." To her dismay, he whipped his cape around her shoulders and pretended to kiss her neck to the pure and total delight of the crowd. Holding her shoulders, he bent her backwards almost prone with the stage. Frantic fingers clutched at her skirt, hoping he wouldn't embarrass her too badly, hoping he wouldn't drop her to the hard stage floor. She was totally at his mercy. If she struggled, he'd surely drop her.

"Can it, Jordan." Erik growled low in his chest when the vampire tried to dip his tongue in her mouth. Her ex pushed the man away with little effort. When Jordan stumbled, blinking in confusion, he dropped her. With a painful thud, she plopped on her bottom without a hint of grace. What an introduction to a new company. She vowed thank her erstwhile rescuer later, in private. Wolf whistles and raucous laughter erupted as she grappled to her feet trying desperately to regain her composure. She dusted herself off and smoothed her skirts over her knees, hoping her color would have returned to normal by the time she stood tall again. Crimson, or worse yet, high violet, weren't exactly her colors of choice or even close to her color palette.

"Um," she crooned into the microphone, holding it tightly with both hands, fighting off the nausea churning in her stomach from all the butterflies spinning inside. "I certainly didn't expect anybody to be at my throat the first day on the job."

More catcalls and wolf whistles greeted her enthusiastically. Erik's lips twisted in a half smile she knew too well. Turning her back on him, she tried to shut out the memory of that mocking smile while she counseled her equilibrium to slow down before she fainted.

"I certainly won't recognize most of you as your normal selves tomorrow, so I invite you to drop by my office and introduce yourselves. I have an open door policy and I'm told I have a wonderful listening ear." She mustered as friendly, as warm a smile as she could. when a cardboard out-house cucharachaed past the stage, she lost track of what she had planned to say. Stunned, her jaw almost dropped to shoulder level. Needing to say something in closure, she said in as lighthearted a voice as she could muster, "I feel like Marilyn Munster at a family reunion. Good luck everybody! Enjoy!" She tried to escape the stage and lose herself in the crowd, but Erik caught her hand, winding his fingers through her. His grip tightened when she tried to tug it from his grasp. She didn't recall this procedure in Human Resources 101, either. But her ex had and would always be a law unto himself. At this company, he reigned as crowned prince.

He took the microphone back from her other hand, and at least delivered her from further public speaking. "Olga gets more creative every year." His breath was a silky, tantalizing whisper in her ear. "She was a shower last year."

"How?" Teeth clenched, and she tried to smile like a beauty queen contestant, wondering how they didn't die of stage fright. How they didn't tumble right off stage on those spindly high heels - just like the ones she'd put on this morning since no one had bothered to clue her into today's agenda. Right now the scent of spicy apple cider wafted around her nostrils, beckoning her. She could use a small glass - preferably spiked, to help her through this ordeal.

"See what she's done this year and use your imagination." He wiggled his eyebrows, his fingers squeezing her hand tighter.

Giggles bubbled up inside when she pictured the burly older woman as a shower--or taking a shower? in front of this killer crowd. But she was able to quell them and give him a small smile.

"Line up now if you're in costume. Anyone else kissing the judge will be automatically disqualified." His voice deepened almost to a bass crescendo. "That means you Jordan!"

Jordan tiptoed to the stage, pirouetted in grand style, and captured her hand, raising it to his lips. "For a taste of you my pretty, I'll gladly be disqualified."

Nighttime fell over Erik's features as he stepped ominously forward, but Xena wrapped her lasso around the wanna be vampire, hauling him away from the stage, before her ex reached the foolish man. "You're not going to set the women's movement back two thousand years."

"Then I vant to suck your blood." Jordan leapt off stage, cape bellowing out in an eagle's wingspread, landing within half a foot of warrior princess. Stretching out his arm, he curled his fingers around her throat, giving quite a show.

She made a mental note to keep her eye on this one. Was he just a good sport? Or a troublemaker? It was too early to tell. Her instructors would advise to err on the side of caution, thus she would.

Erik flicked the microphone with his finger causing everybody to jump to attention. "Mr. Duarte. Holly. Take your places of honor. Let the festivities begin!"

The jelly bean jar wobbled to the head of the line and started a loose conga line, legs kicking out to the side centipede-fashion. Multi-colored balloons jiggled inside the clear plastic.

Gilligan ambled behind her. Elvis gyrated his way behind the goofy first mate. The Dunkin Donuts man marinade up the rear, passing out jelly donuts to the crowd. The outhouse twirled with amazing grace for its bulk.

She watched as the vampire swooped for another pass at Xena's neck only to trip when the lady in question sidestepped away from him with ease. Her face split into an easy grin and Holly felt her own following suit.

Halfway through the second lap of the conga line, a small explosion rocked the makeshift stage. She jumped half a foot, clutching her throat. Looking about her, she zeroed in on the jellybean jar, half-popped, her shoulders racked by her sobs.

Jumping off the stage, Holly ran to the woman's aid. Crouching at her side, she smoothed the soft honey-blonde hair out of the teary eyes, tucking the stray wisps behind her ears. "Are you alright?"

"I'm not physically injured if that's what you mean." The woman hiccuped and wiped a tear from her crimson cheek. Her fingers trembled. Large, red, blotchy eyes implored Holly to lend comfort and friendship.

"A few popped balloons isn't the end of the world." She sat beside her, lending silent strength. "What's your name?"

"L-Lucy." Lucy couldn't be more than twenty-five tops. Arrhythmic sobs wracked her body. "I'm the receptionist. And I really needed that prize money."

Non-plussed, she didn't know what to say. Squeezing pennies and not being able to pay all her bills on time wasn't exactly an alien subject to her either.

Lucy wasn't one of her first three choices anyway and wouldn't have won the contest even if all her balloons had remained intact. Besides, the prize didn't mature for twenty-five years. The cogs in her mind whirled as she brain stormed for another solution to the receptionist's dilemma. A couple thoughts started to formulate, but she needed to check into a few things first. CompUtech was still alien to her. Policy might not give her the leniency or authority she needed in this case. Before she disappointed this sweet girl, she needed to check out her facts.

"This isn't the best place to talk." She glanced around her, ducking just in time to avoid being kicked in the shins by an over-enthusiastic Mr. Dunkin Donuts. "How about if you come to my office when the celebration's over? We can speak privately."

"You don't mind staying late?" Lucy's expressive eyes widened.

"I can't stay too late." Rotating her wrist, she squinted her eyes at her ten-dollar flea market special watch. "I have to pick up my son."

"I understand." Lucy heaved a huge sigh, her complexion deepening to a sickly ashen shade, a shade that didn't compliment her normal peaches and cream coloring. "I have a little boy myself. Ryan's four and the light of my life."

"I know what you mean. The Ty guy's my pride and joy." Holly mustered a wan smile. Lucy's problems reminded her too much of her own. Empathy welled in her heart. She longed to help her and hoped and prayed it would be within her power. "But I really want to help you if I can. Can you stay even ten or fifteen minutes after five?"

"I think I can squeeze that in." A small smile played around the corners of her lips, slight relief lifting the clouds from her eyes. Her back and shoulders straightened a mite.

"If this finishes earlier, meet me at my office then."

"Holly Lynn," Uncle Bart called from stage. "Do we need to call an ambulance?"

"No, Un...Mr. Duarte." Would she never remember protocol? Would she get herself in trouble with Erik her very first day on the job? So, what was new about that? Her hair bobbed around her ears when she shook her head at that. "Everything's under control."

"Then come back to my nightmare so you can judge the best costume." He held out his spidery hand to her, his eyes pinpoints of command.

She helped Lucy stand and started to pat her shoulder but withdrew her hand for balloons covered the woman's shoulders. "We'll talk in a little while and we'll figure something out."

Lucy gave her a wan smile. "Thanks. I needed a friend."

"Me too," Holly said under her breath as she turned and rejoined her uncle and her ex-husband in the spotlight.

She focused her attention on the parade of ghouls, goblins and mostly the dancing out-house, which was cha-cha-ing at the moment. Inhaling deeply, she prepared to cast her vote, hoping she wouldn't be lynched her first day on the job.

Barbie had the right idea, leading GI Joe around on a leash. Maybe if she'd had one of those for Erik back when they were married... She brought herself up short. What ifs wouldn't change a thing. Unless she had a time machine, which she didn't.

Erik stopped the tape player that blared the Monster Mash. With a devilish grin, he turned to the crowd, his eyebrows dancing in glee. "Okay all you ghouls, goblins, monsters and freaks. Everybody stop where you are."

"Do not pass Go. Do not advance to Boardwalk." Jordan just had to add his two cents.

Laughter tinkled in the breeze.

Jordan, stopped with his leg in mid-air, swayed back and forth until Xena shoved him over. He landed with arms and legs askew, his cape tangled around them. Xena favored him with a wide, too-innocent smile, hands perched on her hips, one leg on either side of him as if he were her conquest.

An Oriental Elvis winked at all the women, shook his pelvis, then grabbed the box of donuts from the Dunkin Donut man, sinking his teeth into a jelly donut, his eyes closed in ecstasy, red jelly dripping down his chin.

"Give us a drum roll." Erik nodded his head at Bart who popped another cassette into the tape recorder. A rat-a-tat-tat boomed so loud behind her, she jumped, then braced for an earthquake, holding her ears until Uncle Bart lowered the volume.

"Holly." Erik turning to her, inching closer. His husky whisper tickled her ear, his breath warm, churning her senses. She scooted away from him, protecting what was left of her sanity. "Have you made your decision?"

She nodded her head, as she couldn't find her voice immediately. Finally, she forced it out. "It wasn't easy. But I've made my decision."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Well?" Under his breath, he mumbled, "The natives are restless. Spit it out."

She made him sweat for a couple of moments, staring him straight in the eye, trying not to squirm under his unfathomable gaze. What was he thinking behind that mask? What was he feeling? Anything? The restless crowd faded back into reality and she knew she had to make the announcement. Sliding her gaze from his, she summoned a sunny smile. She spun on her heel and addressed them with her loudest, clearest voice. "Third prize goes to Barbie and GI Joe."

Barbie bounced onto stage, her high ponytail bobbing behind her. GI Joe grumbled, then grabbed Barbie around the waist and kissed her to the cheers of a whooping crowd.

"Second prize goes to Xena!"

Xena donned a Mona Lisa smile, splitting the air with her coiled whip. "I accept on behalf of women everywhere!"

The crowd cheered. Jordan cupped his hands around his mouth, tossed back his head and howled like a wolf. "If you wear that costume in public, darlin', it's for men everywhere." That elicited a few snickers and jeers from the male members of the audience and a lot of killer looks from the female population.

"Give me a drum roll puh-lease." Erik nudged her in the back between her shoulder blades. "Build the suspense."

She wished he'd stop whispering in her ear. Did he know the effect it had on her? How dizzily her head spun? How uneven her breathing became every time he did that? Her senses screamed at her to run away from this impossible situation, to remove her heart from this danger. She'd barely picked up the pieces of her shattered heart after he'd broken it the first time. She couldn't risk a second.

If only she didn't have Tyler to worry about, to support alone, she'd do it. She'd work in a gas station if she only had herself to worry about.

Oblivious to her dilemma, Uncle Bart increased the volume behind her, his pasty fingers making him fumble.

"And our first place winner is... The dancing out-house!"

Olga danced a jig to the front of the stage, shuffled her feet and bowed. Everyone doubled over in laughter, tears streaming from their eyes.

"Give a hand to Olga, Penny, Darby and Gilbert. Everybody looked wonderful this year." Erik's charisma drew smiles and twinkling eyes from everyone in the crowd.

Uncle Bart pounded him on the back. "Good job my boy, Holly." Genuine as his smile was, it still chased shivers through her body coming from that hideous melting face.

She couldn't resist ribbing her ex. Leaning near him, she whispered in his ear. "You missed your calling. You should've been a game show host." She didn't dare meet his gaze and stepped quickly away. Ignoring him as best she could, she pasted a beatific smile on her face never ceasing to clap as Bart presented the bond certificate to Olga.

Ear-splitting clapping reverberated in the air.

"Everybody conga!" Jordan hauled Holly off stage, put his hands around her waist and rocketed her to the head of the twisting, churning Conga line. She dragged Lucy into the line ahead of her, clasping her new friend's shoulders. Laughing, dancing till she was breathless, she forgot the tension twisting in her belly every time she thought of the man she once believed would be her forever soul mate.

Erik flicked on his computer, pulled up a large Quattro spreadsheet, peeked at a few random formulas, then checked out October's attrition rates. Grimacing, he rubbed his jaw and sighed.

Why was it so difficult to find good employees and retain them? Didn't CompUtech pay competitive wages and provide better working conditions? He supposed it was time to run another salary survey of the area and suggest to Bart that CompUtech consider raising wages--maybe add a few additional benefits.

His computer beeped annoyingly and the GroupWise panel flashed onto his screen, eclipsing his spreadsheet.

He opened the E-mail and scowled when he saw Darby had sent this memo for CompUtech wide distribution. "What now?"

"The lunch room thief has struck again and once again I'm the incoherent victim. What is this world coming to when someone steals half a ham and Swiss on rye with a half-eaten dill pickle or my Chinese take-out? Who would slink so low? Be warned: I am not the local soup kitchen. I am not a take-out deli. I don't do charity! I'd rather throw away my food than give it to a low-down, convincing, filthy thief! I demand reconstitution! I demand justice! I demand repayment by 4:30 p.m. today! Anyone who is tired of being ripped off and downtrodden meet me in the lunchroom today at 5 p.m. sharp and we'll start an employee vigilante squad. I will not rest until the lunchroom thief is apprehensible!"

"Whew!" He lifted his brow, and rubbed his forehead where tension gave him a monstrous headache. Darby wouldn't win any prizes for being the smartest employee at CompUtech. He hit his control and P keys on the keyboard simultaneously, bringing up his print macro. Within seconds, the memo whooshed from his printer.

"Jane! Come here for me."

"Yes boss?" Jane appeared in front of his desk as if in a puff of magic smoke, her soft calf length skirts swirling around her trim legs.

He shoved the warm piece of paper at her with disgust. He bit back a scowl. Sweet Jane didn't deserve his bad mood. Darby's shenanigans were going over the top. He'd deal with her. "File this in Darby's personnel file."

"Do you want me to call her into your office?" Jane asked, no inflection in her smooth voice. The ultimate assistant, she stood ready to take dictation, her steno pad open, her blue ballpoint Bic poised over the paper. Her delicate lilac perfume tickled his nose. He wished for the zillionth time that all his employees were as efficient and levelheaded as his secretary was.

"Not this time. Just put it in her file and I'll monitor the situation." He leaned back, linking his fingers behind his head.

"Yes, Erik." Jane pivoted on her short high-heeled boot, disappearing as swiftly as she'd appeared.

He shoved his fingers through his thick , springy hair, swiveled back to his computer and re-read Darby's poison pen E-mail. Talk about problem, prima donna employees! Now he'd have to hang around after work and see if anybody else was crazy enough to attend her little meeting...not exactly what he had planned to do at the end of the day.

Holly's phone rang and he listened intently as her husky voice greeted the caller. Waves of nostalgia washed over him and he slammed his fist on his desktop. He still wanted her. He still wanted to strangle her. Emotions warred within him every time he saw her, merely if he heard her sweet voice.

His nerves twined so tightly they'd snap any moment. He closed the Email and his program crashed.

"You have performed an illegal operation," his computer screen screamed at him. "You will lose any unsaved work." Then Bart Simpson's voice chuckled and taunted, "You goofed man. Better luck next time sucker."

"I'm going to get Jordan if it's the last thing I do..." Erik muttered under his breath.

Erik rebooted his machine, drumming his fingers on his desk. Aeons passed before his computer rebooted and he wondered how many centuries had passed. He squinted outside at the early November sun, watching a jet skier jump sparkling blue waves and wished he could be lounging on Deerfield Beach. Instead, he turned back to his computer and opened his perfect office suite, then his Word program.

So far, so good, he mused. Now for the final test.

He clicked his mouse on the C drive and the word bomb flashed across his screen. Fourth of July fireworks splashed across his monitor, fading out to tiny sparkles.

He punched his speaker button on his black phone, stabbed Jordan's number and waited impatiently.

"Jordan here."

"Erik here. My computer crashed. The C-drive bombed."

Erik tapped his fingers on his polished desk. His screen saver blinked on and a black-eyed mutt that looked like the side-kick to the Cracker Jack sailor bounded onto his screen, left his dubious calling card and proceeded to dig a hole in the screen to bury his droppings.

"That's bad news," Jordan whistled. "I'm in the middle of something right now. I'll get there as soon as I can."

"I guess I'll have to wait," Erik said, watching the bad doggie chase a frazzled Halloween cat.

Unable to work on his spreadsheet, he strode down the hall, early for his morning walk through the cavernous halls to ensure the natives weren't too restless.

His glance strayed to Holly, sitting prettily at her desk, fingering her philodendron, still talking on the phone. Her sleek chocolate brown hair framed her heart-shaped face beguilingly. Ruddy-orange eye shadow and matching lipstick highlighted her peaches and cream complexion. How he longed to touch her smooth skin.

He spotted a wooden photo frame displayed on the corner of her desk and stared at it stunned, recoiling as if someone had sucker-punched him in the gut when he stared straight into the urchin face of her baby, the baby that should have been his and would have been his if Holly hadn't forsaken their marriage vows and fallen into Bryce Ramsey's treacherous arms.

When Holly looked up and her gaze clashed with his, he lowered his eyes and strode down the hall, his heels sounding like rifle fire on the hard tiled floor.

At thirty-one, Erik longed for a family. He wanted children... especially a son. He wanted someone to share his life with and for as long as he could remember, he never thought it would be anyone but Holly. He'd loved her since her Uncle Bart had married his Aunt Nora when he was sixteen and she was thirteen.

He'd worshiped the ground she'd walked on. And then he'd stumbled into a sinkhole when he'd found Holly in Bryce's arms that chill October day a lifetime ago.

Giggling oozed into the hallway from the telemarketing department drawing Erik like a fly to honey. Early morning sunshine blazed through the large plate-glass windows, shooting through the doorway like a stairway to Heaven. Shadows shoop-shooped on the tiled floor where the early November reddish gold sun's rays filtered through dancing Sabal palms grazing the windows.

Just as he stepped into the fountain of light that led into the department, a paper airplane whooshed in the air, striking him on the tip of his nose.

Astonished gasps replaced the giggling. Eggshell silence followed. Nobody dared move. Everybody stared at one another as if in a still frame of a silent movie, waiting for Erik's reaction.

Erik searched for the airplane, his curiosity swelled when he noticed bright red felt tip writing on the wings. Stooping, he picked it up, smoothed it open against the wall and suppressed a smile. "I love you," he read aloud mockingly. Erik looked around. "Somebody loves me?" he asked. "I'm touched," he drawled sarcastically.

Ghostly giggles permeated the air, then another and another until everyone in the room bubbled with laughter. "Yeah, Philip loves you!" Candy teased.

"I love everybody!" Philip said in a thick Jamaican accent, grinning from ear to ear, his teeth stark white against his swarthy complexion. "Especially Mountain grown Candy Coffey," Philip teased. "Plenty tasty!"

Candy stuck her tongue out at Philip, wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at Philip, hitting Erik instead. "Sorry." She shrugged.

"No baddah me, woman." Philip tossed her a crooked smile, lifting his right brow.

He looked around the room, trying to figure out who the lovebirds were and noted other paper airplanes clustered on the floor, the majority near Melvin's cubicle, wallpapered with every joke circulating on the Internet. When he looked Melvin in the eye, the man lowered his gaze.

"Clean up that mess before Daniel sees it." He sighed, rubbing his temples, willing the inevitable headache to go away.

"Y-yes Sir!" Melvin hunkered down, crawling on all fours, picking up paper airplanes, mumbling under his breath.

"And I don't want to see even one more paper airplane in here. And thank you," Erik muttered.

"For what?" Melvin grumbled.

"I needed someone to tell me they loved me today." A sober smile lingered on his lips as he mulled over Holly and her son, feeling particularly low. That boy should've been his. If only...

"You're welcome," Melvin grumbled in a gruff baritone.

Erik spun on his heel, heading back to his office, his thoughts convoluted. His emotions worse.

"So if it isn't my ex son-in-law," a mocking, lilting voice that reminded him of the Wicked Witch of the West, greeted him. He cursed himself for not keeping better watch where he walked.

"It's good to see you too, Rosalie." He pecked the proffered semi-withered cheek heavy with make-up, hoping it didn't turn him into a frog. "Checking up on us?"

"As a matter of fact," Rosalie drawled, "that's precisely what I'm doing. Can we speak privately?"

"In here." He ushered her into his office. "Have a seat." He stuck his head out the door and mumbled, "Where are your flying monkeys?"

"Tres drole," she drawled.

He shut the door firmly behind his ex mother-in-law, the clicking of the door reminding him of a firing squad.

He stood by his window, at a semi-safe distance across the room. An oblong of sun poured over him, warming his neck. "What's on your mind."

"What's on yours?" Rosalie countered, her voice as sharp as broken glass. She claimed a chair as if she owned the building, waiving him to sit down. "How can you possibly hire your ex-wife to work side by side with you? Have you lost your mind?"

He didn't like her tone of voice or her implications. He refused to sit. "You don't need to mince words, Rosalie," he said dryly. "Not that it's really any of your business," he drawled, "but it wasn't my idea for your daughter to come to work here. Bart informed me she would be my new assistant. I protested the idea, but ultimately, I answer to your brother."

She rose from her chair and marched to him, poking her finger in his chest. "Just stay away from my daughter. You've caused enough heartache." She stomped toward her door. "I'm going to straighten out my brother if it's the last thing I do."

"Why don't you do that?" He opened the door and holding it for her as she flounced out without a backward glance. Her heavy perfume hung in the air reminding him of sappy sweet honeysuckle.

"What was that all about?" Holly asked, craning her neck to see where her mother was headed. "She didn't sound very happy."

"She warned me to stay away from you," Erik chuckled dryly. "Like I really need to be told." Holly had broken his heart once, he wasn't about to let her do it again.

"Certainly not," Holly agreed sarcastically. She cleared her throat, staring at him with eyes of milk chocolate. "I need your permission to leave an hour early tomorrow. Tyler has a check up at the doctor's office."

"Fill out an absentee form and mark off whether this is sick time, personal time or if you plan to make up time," he said without emotion. "Why bother?" he grumbled, pushing his fingers through his hair in agitation.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, her head turning so fast her hair bobbed. It looked so full and soft and the sun pouring through his office cast reddish gold highlights through its strands. His fingers ached to touch it.

"You're family. You get special privileges..."

"Like you," she countered, lifting her chin defiantly. "I'll make up time at lunch if that's permissible."

"Half hour a day only. Aunt Nora feels employees will get burned out without a break."

"Alright," she agreed, escaping into her gilded office.

"Put the slip in my in-box. By the way," Erik said, "you'll start interviewing applicants at the end of the week. Come into my office and we'll go through resumes I've been collecting. You'll start managing the clerical and telemarketing applicants. Sit in on an interview I have scheduled for this afternoon to get a feel."

"Whatever you say, Boss," Holly murmured.

"Why weren't you this compliant when we were married?" The words slipped out of his mouth and he could have kicked himself.

"Excuse me?" She looked at him as if he were daft. "Last time I checked, marriage was a partnership, not a dictatorship."

"So, this is a dictatorship?" he drawled.

"Was Julius Caesar a dictator?"

"So now I'm Julius Caesar?" Erik chuckled, rubbing his smooth chin.

"You're my boss. I'm your lackey, so...basically, yeah. This is a dictatorship and as such, I'll be compliant as long as you sign my paycheck and don't demand anything immoral or illegal."

"You've changed, Princess," Erik said. "You never used to be so fresh..."

"We never used to be divorced..."

"Somewhere, there's a village without an idiot..." Holly read in dismay as she went through performance reports of current employees. She did a double take, holding the paper closer to her eyes in case she'd suddenly gone blind. Surely, no professional supervisor worth his or her ilk would dare write something so demeaning--so-so-sue-able!

Holly re-read the statement hoping she'd misread it the first time. Sure enough, she'd read the report correctly.

She sucked in a deep breath, reading further down the page. "Somewhere there's a hill without a fool... A court without a jester... This man is a few sandwiches short of a picnic... At the bottom of the report, the supervisor had added one last comment with a huge flourish. I recommend this employee not be allowed to breathe!

Lord have mercy! If there wasn't spoiled milk between Daniel Small and this employee, her name wasn't Holly Lynn Ramsey. She checked the first page of the performance review again and mouthed the name Philip Colby.

A frown puckered her forehead. If this man was so horrible, why was he still employed here? She tried to puzzle out the mystery and only found more questions.

"Employee is late to work daily," she read. She perused the list of Philip's excuses becoming more incredulous with each written word.

My Venus flytrap tried to eat my dog... She didn't even want to know why Philip had a Venus Flytrap in his home. She shivered just thinking of their hairy snapping leaves. Blech!

I forgot to put my pants on and had to go home and get dressed.

Something didn't add up. Uncle Bart wouldn't let such idiots work for him. It would be totally counter-productive. Uncle Bart was no fool--nor a soft touch.

Holly tapped her fingers on her desk and stared out her fish-bowl window, feeling like a minnow swimming in a school of sharks. She spied Erik striding toward his office. Pushing herself out of her chair, she strode to his side. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"What is it?" Erik asked, always so poised, so debonair she felt gauche beside him.

"This is a private manner." She led the way back to her office and closed the door behind him, before taking a seat across from him. She crossed her legs and leaned slightly forward, the sunlight in her eyes until she shaded them with the cupped palm of her hand.

He folded himself into one of her comfortable, ergonomically correct chairs. "Something wrong?"

She slid Philip Colby's personnel file across the smooth desk silently. She rested her chin on her steepled her hands and stared at him, waiting for him to read the file.

Instead of opening it, Erik merely glanced at the name typed neatly on the upper tab. One corner of his lip lifted. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed one leg on top of the other. "What's he done now?"

"Aren't you going to look at the file?" Indignation rose in her chest like indigestion. Lunch the second time around tasted like dried fireflies. She fought the nausea attacking her.

"I'm thoroughly familiar with that file."

"Then why is Philip Colby still employed here? He's late every day. Look at these excuses." Irritation danced in her fingertips as they skimmed his desktop. Her toe circled midair. Little hairs on the nape of her neck stood at attention. "I'm sure Uncle Bart wouldn't like this..."

"Uncle Bart knows all about Philip Colby." His confidence remained unruffled, even indulgent.

"Then why?" At a loss for further words, she spread her hands before her in a helpless gesture. "I know my uncle. He doesn't suffer fools lightly--or someone taking advantage of him."

"Because Colby's the best darn telemarketer we've ever had. He can talk his way through anything. He could get you to buy the Golden Gate Bridge for a mint and then sell it back to him for a penny." Erik chuckled, regarding her superciliously.

"But his supervisor despises him!" Holly said. "You allow comments like this on performance reviews? We could get our collective butts sued for derogatory comments like this on personnel files."

"The man had to vent his negative feelings somewhere," Erik said, not particularly disturbed.

"But..." Holly spluttered. "Somewhere there's a village without an idiot..." she read aloud then lifted her eyes to Erik and quirked an eyebrow. "Why not just put us all in front of a firing squad--same difference if the EEOC gets hold of this."

"You worry too much," Erik waved off her concerns. "I've already counseled Daniel that he is not to write derogatory or inflammatory performance reviews in future and it's noted in his performance review. Is that all you needed?" he asked, rising from his chair like the phoenix. Muscles rippled beneath his pristine white shirt. Lowering her eyelashes, she watched his reflection instead.

"For now," Holly said and stared out her fish bowl. "Am I going to find more performance reviews like this?"

"Daniel tends to fly off the handle and write with a poison pen at times. I think he's the only one that gets creative like that." He paused at Holly's door. "If you think Colby's report was bad, you should take a glance at Darby's review..."

Erik ducked away into the sanctuary of his chrome and glass castle, leaving Holly to her own devices. She stared at his retreating backside, so fine in his designer suit, she couldn't help but admire how well it molded to his thighs.

Of course he knew she had to take a peek at Darby's review now. Any normal red-blooded member of busybody anonymous would have to.

She was just flipping through the performance reviews to find Darby's when Gordon Grady popped his head around her open door. "Do you have a few minutes? I have a delicate problem to discuss with you..." he said with an adenoidal giggle. The poor man's chin wobbled and his hands shook. He glanced around him, completely frazzled as if the FBI tailed him. He polished his shiny head with trembling fingers and slipped into her office as if under top-secret cover.

"Certainly," Holly said and smiled. "Have a seat." She pushed the file cabinet closed with a snap and returned to her desk.

Gordon closed the door behind him and locked it. Then he pressed his nose to her window, peering down the hall. "Is she following me?"

"Who?" Holly asked, schooling her expression to be pleasantly, professionally blank when she returned his gaze.

"Sleeping Betty," he breathed, his eyes growing wilder by the moment. "The sex fiend!"

Betty Sloan? That sweet as pie, grandmotherly type? What could she have done?

"No. I don't think so," Holly said, glancing around the corner, keeping the smile plastered on her face and her back tall in her chair.

"She's been watching me," Gordon accused, his manner almost ferrule. "She keeps peeking in the men's room..." His voice dropped off to barely a whisper as if his voice could penetrate her glass cage.

Holly stared dumbfounded at the man in front of her. Surely he jested? That sweet, little old unassuming lady peeking in the men's room? Impossible!

"What makes you think she's been watching you in the men's room?" Holly finally found her voice. It sounded a little husky even to her own ears--the result of trying to keep from falling on the floor and rolling with laughter.

"She stares at me and into the door every time I go in. Her desk faces the opening to the men's room door..."

"Have you considered the fact that her desk is just facing the door? I'm sure she isn't looking ins..."

"You haven't seen that sex-fiend gleam she gets in her eyes," Gordon argued, his voice rising several notches. "Or the way her lips curl...And I'm not the only one she watches. She watches all the men who go in there." He nodded his head, affirming his own accusations.

"But aren't there stall doors to block vision from the hallway?" Holly asked, in over her head with this problem. She admittedly had never actually been inside--nor even glanced inside--the men's room, here or anywhere.

"She stares at us as if she had x-ray vision." Gordon insisted. "Like Superman."

She wore coke bottle lenses and still bumped into walls!

"Would you like me to call her in here and we can all three discuss this?" Holly asked.

"Don't you dare! This is already too humiliating!" Gordon refused. "Just make her stop--but leave my name out of it." Gordon shot out of his chair and scurried to the door. "My wife would kill me if she thought another woman was staring at me naked."

Why would his wife care? With his bird-like face and beady little eyes, why would any woman want to look at him?

Holly watched Gordon skitter down the hall as if he were trying to avoid land mines and cross fire. Was that one really a paid employee or an escapee from the loony bin?

Amazing! She'd never have imagined her Uncle Bart employing less than perfect people.

"What was that all about?" Erik drawled from her open door.

Holly's gaze snapped back to her handsome ex--then realized her jaw hung open. She shut it, schooling her expression to return to its professional mask.

"Come in and close the door again," she said. "You're not going to believe this one."

"Try me," he said with the air of a man who had heard it all and had survived.

"He claims that sweet little old lady, Betty Stone..."

"Sloan," he corrected. He leaned his shoulder against her door and stared at her, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his top button.

Holly almost drowned in his ebony eyes--so dark, mysterious and mischievous. When she found her voice again, she said, "Betty Sloane is staring into the m-m-en's r-r-room," she started to giggle and held her hand over her mouth. In a matter of moments, she leaned her head on her desk and laughed till tears rolled out her eyes. "I can just imagine her with a pair of binoculars or opera lenses staring in the men's room."

Several employees passed in the hall, their heads turning, their attention riveted on her.

Erik pursed his lips. "Get hold of yourself Holly. I warned you about the mentality of what you'd have to deal with..."

"But that man is more than twice my age--and he's acting like a five year old..." She laughed some more, beating her desk with clenched fists despite Erik's stern gaze.

"I think you and I need to talk in my office," he said sternly and opened her door, motioning for her to proceed him.

Holly tried to sober up, but a few giggles still escaped. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks with the backs of her hand as she walked toward her firing squad. Oily mascara stained the backs of her hands and she grimaced. She pulled a tissue out of a gold filigree box resting on Erik's desk and rubbed it from her hands.

Erik didn't take his chair at his desk. Rather, he stood and looked out his window. Palm trees rustled against the glass and the bright South Florida sunshine streamed in, warming his chrome office.

Holly fixed her gaze on a sun star glinting off his chrome table, trying to gain control of her giggles.

"You cannot let the other employees see you lose control that way, Ramsey," Erik chided finally. He turned and stared down his nose at her as if she were an unruly student and he the stern schoolmaster.

"I thought we went by first names, here," Holly said with a gulp, sobering suddenly, feeling as if she'd been granted royal audience by Erik Caesar.

"Only when I'm happy with you..."

"I dare you to keep a straight face if someone told you that Beaver Cleaver's mother stared at naked men in the company bathroom. It's impossible...for someone not made out of chrome and ice," she mumbled under her breath.

"This is what I meant when I said you're not mature enough to handle this position. It takes a lot more than a few college classes or even intelligence..."

"What does it take?" Holly challenged, her voice deathly quiet. She sensed she was in a duel to her death--her career's death. "Nerves of steel? A dead sense of humor? A mask?"

"Maturity. Wisdom. Finesse..."

"Are you saying I handled that like a bull in a china shop?" she asked, leaning her elbows on his desk. "I didn't laugh in his face. I waited till he was out of sight--and you asked me."

"No excuse. You know the ground rules. You promised me you had the maturity to handle this job..."

"That man's more than twice my age," Holly breathed, incredulously. "I'm a lot more mature than he's being..."

"And what if Betty is really staring into the men's room and you downplay Gordon's complaint? The EEOC would have a field day raking us over the coals."

"You think it's possible?" Holly snorted.

"Possible," he said. A wry smile twisted his lips. "But not probable. Log the complaint. Tell Betty to turn her desk around and don't mention it further. Keep it under your hat. If nothing else is said, so much the better." He stared at Holly. "You're on notice not to behave that way again."

"Is that an official reprimand?" she challenged. She smoothed her polyester skirt over her knees and grimaced when she saw a run starting at the ankle of her stockings.

"Consider it a freebie. This time."

"... and furthermore, it is unGod-like to steal food from the starving mouths of your co-workers, your family, your neighbors. Before you take one more morsel of my hard-earned food, I'd rather throw my left-overs down the garbage disposal than hand to a thieving, conniving hypocrite..." Holly read the company wide blazing E-mail, horrible dread clenching deep in her belly. Any moment, she'd hear Uncle Bart bellowing down the hall "Holly Lynn!" as if it were all her fault that some manic-depressive employee was having a breakdown over the company E-mail.

"Lord have mercy!" Holly mumbled beneath her breath. She leaned her hand on her head, considering taking a triple dose of Advil--before Uncle Bart started yelling, to deaden the inevitable pain.

"You may not nibble on my pepperoni pizza. You may not slip the cheese out of my ham and cheese on rye. You may NOT take a sliver of my super size soda and you may NOT finish off my leftover Chinese! Whoever you are, stealing food from the mouths of your incoherent victims, you should be ashamed! Ashamed and embellished! Beware... next time, my leftovers will be booby-tapped! And the video camera will be inside the refrigerator every second..."

Holly's throat constricted. She took a sip of her ice water. She'd really better get those Advils...maybe a nice, relaxing massage would help loosen tensing muscles.

"Reading our latest edition of the lunchroom thief saga?" Erik loomed in her doorway. His long shadow eclipsed her, falling menacingly over her computer screen when he sauntered to her desk and stood behind her.

She re-read the poorly constructed, irate Email and chuckled despite herself. "She needs spelling lessons." She peered at the Cathode Ray Tube flickering in front of her. Time to call Jordan for a tune-up. Is that why Erik had come visiting? To tell her to do a tune-up on Darby's attitude? The sun suddenly set on her day. Tangling with Darby would ruin the day for sure. Maybe the year. "Who would want to eat something Darby put her mouth on?" She shuddered. "You don't know where it's been."

"It looks like the lunchroom thief struck again. I don't think we have any destitute employees--nor any compulsive over-eaters." His hand dropped on the back of her chair, his fingers brushed her back sending shivers down her spine. His spicy after-shave drifted around her like a warm cocoon. He leaned over her shoulder and his warm breath tickled the nape of her neck. "Starting today, I want you to stake out the lunch-room."

"Stake-out the lunchroom? Video cams and hidden mikes? Should I hire security guards to watch my jar of pickles?" She sputtered, unable to contain her irrepressible humor. She spun in her chair to look at him then regretted her impulse when she came eye to eye with his dark impassioned gaze, his sensual lips only an inch from hers. Sobering immediately, she bolted upright when solar flares ignited in the pit of her belly.

"Somebody's been taking food from the fridge for about a year and a half. We haven't caught the culprit yet " His gaze remained glued to the Email. He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Unbelievable. Print that out and put it in Darby's personnel file. She's taking this lunchroom commando thing too far." He straightened, rolling back his shoulders, so that he towered over her and she breathed a sigh of relief. Reaching behind his neck, he massaged the stress points with his fingertips. There was a time, a lifetime ago, that she would've done that for him.

She punched the print button and the paper shot out with unbelievable speed.

"I think we should have a face-to-face chat with Miss Simmons and explain proper office etiquette."

"You mean turn the other cheek? Take it in good grace?"

A huge sigh escaped him. His fingers shifted to another spot on his neck. Lucy walked past the office, her expression nonchalant, but curious eyes regarded them closely. "Walk softly and carry a big stick. Remember that Princess. Theatrics like that." He pointed to the computer screen. A dark scowl shadowed his features. "Will only get somebody fired."

"When do you want to see Darby?" She squinted her eyes at the phone list seeking Darby's extension.

"Me?" He lifted a dark brow. "It's time you got more comfortable handling employee relations. This'll be a good one for you to handle."

"Gee thanks, Boss." The end of her pencil went crazy and she realized with embarrassment that she was tapping the end of it on her desk. The smell of buttered popcorn from the kitchen wafted to her and her stomach roiled from the heavy grease in the air. It left a rancid taste in her mouth. At least it was better than the spoiled fish someone put in the microwave first thing that morning.

"What's wrong, Princess?" Sitting on her desk, he folded his arms over his chest, the light in his eyes one of unadulterated challenge. "The job too much for you? Can't handle a Darby?"

"Of course I can!" She lifted her gaze to duel with his.

"You look a little green. There's a lot of Darbys in this world--and we have a couple more right here at CompUtech. If you can't handle this one, maybe you should find a tamer line of work. Ever think about being a lion tamer...or a parachute jumper?" he laughed at his own joke and strode back into his chrome castle. "Call me when she gets here. I want to sit in on your meeting."

"Great." She glared bazookas at his retreating backside imagining of all forms of torture to inflict on him for this assignment. She wanted to confront the bad-tempered Darby Simmons like she wanted a hole drilled in her head. Holly snatched up the phone receiver, poked the telephone buttons ferociously, shredding her innocent daisies while she waited for the sound of Darby's hoity-toity voice on the other end of the line.

"Darby here. How may I help you?" Faint static crinkled over the line and she made a mental note to have the telephone system checked.

"Hello, Darby." She adopted her friendliest, most professional voice.

"Oh. Hi Hall." Darby's saccharine chumminess soured Holly's stomach. She pulled a face, then saw her reflection in the window and turned her back to it.

"When you have a moment, could you come and see me?" She fingered her hanging philodendron plant, one of many that thrived in her miniature jungle. It liked her fish-bowl office better than she. Waxy leaves felt like plastic to her fingers. She pinched off a couple of browning leaves and tossed them into her trashcan.

"I'll be there as soon as I finish helping this client." Without a goodbye, so long or good-riddance, Darby hung up. Dead air taunted her.

"Thank you." She cradled the phone and bolstered her nerve to confront Darby's strong will. It would be bad enough on her own, but in front of her ex? She shuddered.

Too soon for her liking, too long for etiquette, Darby sauntered into Holly's office and plopped down into one of the comfy chairs opposite Holly's--and blew a big, pink bubble. The young woman slouched in the chair, showing too much leg from her short-short skirt and glared defiantly at Holly.

"So what are you going to do about the dirt bag stealing my lunches?" Darby banged into Holly's office, fixing a black, poisonous glare on Holly.

Holly put up a restraining hand and smiled painfully, her wisp of a headache burgeoning. She dialed Erik's extension and spoke lowly. "Would you join us, please?" Gritting her teeth, she added, "Now."

"Why are you calling him in here? Can't you speak for yourself?" Darby's eyes narrowed and she kicked her un-hosed heel back and forth. Black painted toenails winked through the open toed shoes.

"Hi Darby." Erik closed the door and locked it behind him with a loud metal click. He folded his long frame into the seat next to Darby, regarding the woman with his black, inscrutable gaze.

Darby looked from Holly to Erik and back, her eyes narrowing, her lips thinning. Her cheeks hollowed and her complexion paled. "Did you catch the thief? Do I get reimbursed for my lunches?"

"We sympathize with the loss of your lunches. We know how much they meant to you." She pulled up short when she realized she was giving a eulogy for the woman's lunches--for half a soggy Italian meatball sub? She was definitely losing her mind. No one was driving her car.

"Yeah." Darby's eyes glittered with sarcasm. She squirmed in her seat. Her legs crossed and uncrossed.

"However..."

"Here it comes. But what?" Darby taunted.

"However." Holly bit her tongue to stop the caustic retort balancing on the tip. "It's inappropriate and out of place to reprimand all the employees and air your dirty laundry in public."

Darby shot forward in her chair, her hands clenched into fists, both feet on the floor as if she prepared to pounce. The air bristled. "Ooooh, I'm airing my dirty laundry now. I presume this is everybody's problem? They might steal your Caesar Salad or your pickle next."

"Your attitude leaves a lot to be desired." Her aggravation was hard to reign in, to hide. Holly steepled her fingers on top of her polished desk.

"Now I have an attitude? Says who?" Darby pinned her venomous blue gaze on Holly. "Says you? Miss never-held-a-job-before stuck up snob?"

"Excuse me?" Holly was half risen from her chair, the hair on the back of her neck rising, her cheeks burning when Erik's hand clamped down on her shoulder, pushing her back into her seat.

"Says me," Erik said in a deathly quiet, don't-mess-with-me voice. Storm clouds brewed in his midnight black eyes.

Darby pivoted in her seat as if struck by gale force winds. She blew another bubble and popped it with her tongue. "We all know she's only here because Duarte's hot-to-trot her bones. You should see how they huddle together and whisper sweet nothings."

"That's enough!" Holly jumped to her feet. Her fingers itched to smack the smirk right off the insolent woman's face. This time, Erik couldn't control her so easily. Fury gave her added strength. "Leave this office and never speak to me that way again. And I expect the Emails, innuendoes and poison messages to stop immediately."

"Or else you'll do what?" Darby stood and leaned over Holly's desk menacingly, her long blonde hair dusting the stacks of papers tiling the desk.

"Terminate you." Erik's smoky gray eyes didn't flicker or flinch.

Darby spun on her heel and studied him with narrowed eyes. "You're not firing me, are you?"

"That's exactly what I'm doing. When you speak to Holly like you just did, you were talking to me and to Mr. Duarte.."

"That's a bunch of bull and the EEOC will make you pay."

"Clean out your desk." Erik rose to his full height, eclipsing the women easily.

"You don't have a paper trail on me. You can't fire me."

"I have a file an inch thick on you." A sugar sweet smile lit his face. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loop. "You signed over half the reprimands." He took her arm in his firm fingers.

The irate woman twisted away with an arrogant jerk and flicked her long blonde hair in his face. "I can escort myself."

"I will escort you." He speared Holly with a dark glare that clearly told her I'll speak to you later. More like chew her out later.

Darby spun and flounced out of the room. He followed close behind.

She watched the mini soap opera, her fingers gripping the edge of her desk. The tiny headache had erupted and her temples throbbed.

His fingers curled around the edge of her door. "We'll talk."

"Hail Caesar!" After he was safely down the hall, she groaned lowly.

Miserable that she'd blown that round, employees ten points, management nil, she sank into her chair and stared at the inflammatory E-mail. Could Erik be right? Was she made of stern enough stuff to stand up to strong-willed employees like Darby? Could she go toe to toe with them and win the war?

The phone shrilled demanding she pick it up. "Hello, this is Holly. How may I help you?"

"Can you get down to Data Processing pronto?" an unfamiliar voice asked. "We're having another crisis."

"What's wrong?" She wrinkled her nose at the smell of sauerkraut heating up in the microwave and promised herself to buy a can of air freshener to keep in her desk drawer. "Cat fight."

"Excuse me. I don't think I heard you right." Fingers wove through the top of her hair, mussing it. What now? This was the exciting, glamorous life she'd envisioned in HR?

"Penny and Olga are at it again."

"I'll be right down." She shoved her chair back so fast it careened into her window.

She was down the hall in a moment, her ears directing her to the scene of the incident in progress. Unless they operated a day care center on premises. But she wasn't aware of that.

Holly was hit in the face by flying paper wads when she stepped into the war zone. Instinctively, she held her hand up to shield herself from more flying missiles. "What's going on in here?" she asked, looking from angry face to angrier face. Wadded up paper and M and M's littered the floor of the data processing office. Something crunched under her foot and she could just see chocolate that wouldn't melt in her mouth, melting all over her fine Italian leather heels. Radio stations warred. Barry Manilow tried to tell everyone how he couldn't live without them while Gloria Estefan got down and dirty and Tim McGraw crooned that he'd seen her picking peaches in Georgia.

"Turn off the music!" Holly yelled over the warring radios. When the natives complied grudgingly, Holly asked, "Where's your supervisor?"

"You mean Hope?" Candy asked.

"She's in Cancun by now."

"Huh?" Holly asked, kicking herself for forgetting to take those Advils. From now on, they'd be standard part of her daily breakfast.

"On vacation," Olga said. "Us kiddies are all alone in the loony bin..."

"Did Hope leave somebody in charge?" Holly asked.

All eyes stared at her blankly. She had the impression that Penny snickered behind her back when a few eyes crinkled around the corners as if some big joke had gone straight over her head.

When they didn't answer her, she tried again. "Who's worked here the longest?"

"Sleeping Betty, over there." Olga pointed at a withered lady whose hair had thinned so badly, Holly could see her scalp. "She's been here forever."

Betty's silvery head bobbed up and down in front of her computer terminal, snoring with a Barry Manilow tempo. Her glasses teetered on the hub of her nose.

"Like Rip Van Winkle. We let her sleep most of the time. She's so close to retirement, we don't mess with her. Less mistakes for us to fix if she's asleep," Penny said.

"I'll listen to Barry Manilow if I want to. It's my radio." Olga was a middle-aged bleached-blonde woman with heavy mascara and a double chin, which jutted forward defiantly. She put her hands on her ample hips and her head bobbed up and down like a chicken.

She took a double take, then clapped her hands together. "You're the dancing out-house! I loved your costume."

"You should have seen her dressed up as a shower last year!" someone said, laughing.

Penny, a younger woman with a long, flaring nose and thinner lips got in her face. "I want to hear Gloria Estafan, not some washed-up, two-bit, has-been that doesn't know how to sing and who's obsessively attracted to some chick named Mandy."

Something niggled at her mind and it finally struck her. "And you're Xena." She didn't look much less dangerous without her warrior's costume and sword. She counted at least seven earrings in each ear lobe, no two matching

"Guilty." Penny's eyes narrowed. She stood tall and proud.

"How dare you insult Barry Manilow, the greatest singer of all time!" Olga picked up a CD case from a nearby desk and shook it in Penny's face.

"La de da!" Penny taunted, her hands shooting to her slim hips. "I'll tell you where Barry Manilow can go and it's not to a Weekend in New England."

"Well, I never..." Olga eyes blazed. She stepped forward menacingly.

"Y'all shut up and play some Garth Brooks," someone else said. "Or some Winona."

"What's the meaning of all this?" Erik bellowed from about two inches behind Holly's ear.

She clutched her throat and jumped smack into his chin. Teeth crunched on her skull and she closed her eyes in agony. She'd done it again. Humiliated herself in front of her ex-husband. Tension knotted in her stomach. Was he keeping a personnel file on her? He had to, right?

"Cat fight," Olga said matter-of-factly as if she'd repeated this phrase many times. "Penny insists on playing Gloria Estefan full blast so we can't hear our own music."

"Is it five o'clock yet?" Betty grumbled from la-la land, her head bobbing up and down. Stacks of work littered her desk. Fresh carnations bloomed next to her computer.

"It's not even lunch time yet." Olga shot interested glances at Erik. Everyone laughed, except Holly and Erik.

"Listen up! Effective immediately, no music on the job. Radios go home tonight." He glared at Holly as if this was her fault.

"What did I do?" She stepped back from his anger. She hadn't seen anything crack his imperturbable shield before this and this was scary.

"Olga, you're in charge until Hope gets back from vacation. Clean up this mess and make sure all music is off." Erik

"Yessir." Olga's hands talked in the air as she pointed to each person in turn, circling her finger mid air then pointed at their desk. In turn, each woman claimed a desk, some more sullen than others, and quietly resumed typing in customer names. "I guess I'll have to listen to Copacobana in my car at lunch."

"If I so much as ever hear that there's another cat fight back here again, everyone will be fired. If I so much as see another paper wad thrown back here, the perpetrators will be terminated. Is that understood?"

"Understood," everyone muttered in unison, except Betty who snored in a wheeze-hiccup fashion that ground on Holly's nerves.

He jerked a thumb at Betty, but his gaze was glued to Olga. "Fill her in." He banded her upper arm with steely fingers. "Come." Without another word, he propelled her down the hall without slackening his pace until they were inside his office. He closed his door with barely restrained anger.

"Princess, if this is your idea of dealing with the staff, you must have gone to school in a different universe."

"And you must have trained at Captain Blye U." She faced off against him where he stood by his floor to ceiling window. She stood so close she could sniff Old Spice fading into his fine Italian jacket. "Darby's going to turn around and sue the pants right off us. You didn't give her any warning."

"Look in her personnel file. She's had several warnings. Attacking you today was the final straw." Erik stood with his back to the window. Sunlight streamed over his shoulders, putting him in relief. "Write up the incident and file it in her records. Put down as much verbatim as you can remember--and don't forget that awful Bazooka bubble gum."

"If you were so harsh with Darby, why did you let the girls in data processing off so easily?"

"Them?" Erik asked, shrugging his shoulders. He stared at a jet skier pounding through the surf in the lake on the other side of the parking lot. "They were letting off a little nervous energy. And they're too crowded-together in that boiler room. It's a wonder they haven't pulled each other's heads off before now."

"But..."

"It's a matter of degree." He paced in front of the window. "You have to differentiate what's important and what's not important."

"What about Betty sleeping on the job?" Holly asked, hands on her hips. She stared at a pair of Golden Retrievers, chasing a frisbee into the surf. It was a good thing she didn't have an office with a view or she'd never work. She'd be watching the beach all day.

"She's sixty-four and ready to retire. And she doesn't sleep nearly as much as they like to let on." He chuckled. "She's sort of an institution around here. The Marlins wouldn't be the Marlins without Billy the Marlin. CompUtech wouldn't be CompUtech without Sleeping Betty."

"Well, that makes perfect logic." Nothing made sense. Erik seemed like a different person suddenly. Her mind reeled, trying to figure him out. "Does Uncle Bart know about this?"

"Let's leave Uncle Bart out of this. He knows what he needs to know. We handle the little day to day squabbles and eccentricities without bothering him." His gray eyes smoldered and he stuck his hands in his pockets. "What Uncle Bart doesn't know won't hurt him."

"Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?" She lifted a querulous brow.

"Memorize those personnel files inside out. Get to know all the employees. Schmooze with them. Float around the lunchroom at lunch times and parties. Sit with the loners. Get to know who's in the cliques and who's buddy-buddy with who and who's enemies with who. Your job and mine will be a whole lot easier once you understand the office dynamics around here."

"Okay, so I snoop in the personnel files. I snoop into personal lives. I ingratiate myself with the enemy. I play mother hen to the wallflowers. Do I got it, Boss?"

"I think you got it, Princess."

"When do you start the wire taps, two-way mirrors and video cameras in the restrooms?" she taunted, unable to resist.

He flashed her a sarcastic grin, then turned to stare at the frisbee playing dogs. A sun star glinted off the glass, blinding her to his masculine beauty.

Her one o'clock interview was fifteen minutes late, which didn't bode well with Holly, but she knew emergencies happened, traffic jams held people up and watches ran a little behind. She'd be reasonable and not hold it against her interviewee--not too much anyway. She'd been stuck in enough I-95 traffic jams that she knew you couldn't do a damn thing about it unless you had a car that sprouted wings like the Bat mobile.

She rearranged the purple daisies on her desk, so they looked fresh and full, then stood back to admire their beauty.

"Holly, Mr. King is ready for his one o'clock appointment," Lucy said over the phone. "Should I send him back?"

"No. I'll come out to get him. Thank you." She stood, smoothing her skirt over her knees and took a deep breath. Her first real interview as the interviewer and not some college class mock-up. She felt as nervous as if she were going to sit on the other side of the desk. She glanced in the table top mirror perched on the corner of her desk to make sure she didn't have a chive stuck in her tooth or toilet paper hanging out the back of her skirt.

Then she sucked in a deep breath and went to meet destiny.

"Hello, I'm Holly." She stuck her hand out to shake Mr. King's hand when she greeted him.

"Lyle King. I'm please to meet you." A pleasant looking middle-aged gentleman dressed in a banker's suit and tie rose to his feet and shook her hand in a firm, but not oppressive, warm but not clammy, grip. Ears too large for his long narrow face dominated his features.

"Please have a seat." She smoothed her long skirts beneath her, knowing a gentleman wouldn't sit until she had.

Lyle lowered his long frame into one of her guest chairs. Her task now would be double-fold: to discover if he were sane and pleasant to work with and to judge his skill and experience level for a good job match.

After speaking to Lyle for a few moments, she sent him down to Jordan to see if he knew his rudimentary programming or if he could even turn on a computer.

Jordan brought him back an hour later and gave her the thumb's up sign behind the man's back and Holly smiled, relieved. She'd have to discuss the man and his credentials with Erik and the computer science department head in private later, but she believed they could work up an acceptable offer.

"I'm very pleased to have had this chance to meet you, Lyle." She accepted a second copy of his outstretched resume for her file. "You should hear something from us before the week is over."

"Did I get the job?" He stretching to his full height, peering at her with probing hazel eyes. His ears twitched. The lobes were long and turning pink.

"I can't say yet." Twinges of apprehension settling in her stomach. His question wasn't exactly appropriate which triggered warning bells in her head. "We still have other applicants to interview."

"I'd just like to say for the record." Lyle smiled assuredly. "That I'm the best man for this job in the entire country and your management will prove how foolish they are if you don't hire me."

"Well." She tried to keep her jaw from falling to the floor. " I'll keep that in mind." She'd probably never forget his blunt arrogance, even if she interviewed a hundred thousand applicants.

Lyle opened his brief case and dug around in it. He pulled out an Instamatic camera, pointing it at her. "Say: You got the job!"

She grimaced then caught herself and forced her expression back to one of professional congeniality--so she hoped--refusing to say anything that might incriminate her or bind her to promises she had no intention of keeping.

The man snapped her picture, then pulled it out of his camera, waving the developing snapshot in the air and she smelled the sickly sweet aroma of the film developer. "You didn't say you got the job." He pouted.

"Why did you do that?" It took all her training, her tact, not to regard the man as if he was crazy, which he was. No one had warned her that applicants brought cameras to interviews.

Erik stopped mid-gait on the way back to his office when the camera flashed. He frowned at her, freezing in place, staring at her. Instead of moving onto his office, he stood in her doorway, watching and listening.

"I keep a photo album of everyone I interview. I must have pictures of almost every personnel director in Ft. Lauderdale, Miami and Boca. You can keep that one for your scrapbook." He slid the picture on her desk and snapped another one before she had a clue what he planned to do.

Blinded from the flash, she squinted her eyes.

"This way, I remember everybody's names when I visit you again." His rambling was getting on her last nerve. What had she ever done to deserve this?

"I'm sure that's very helpful." She glanced over the man's shoulder at the still frowning Erik. "Well, it was certainly a pleasure meeting you. Good luck in your job search."

"Are you sure you can't tell me whether or not I got the job? I need to know whether or not to buy more film for this afternoon's interview."

Holly escorted the man to the door. "Well, Lyle, my motto is, never count your chickens." She shrugged her shoulders, and pursed her lips. "Can I ask you find to your own way out? It's straight down the hall to your left and you can't miss the reception desk." Holly held out her hand for a handshake, trying to hide her impatience while the man stuffed his camera into his brief case.

"Oh, certainly." Lyle sniffed, pulling out his linen handkerchief, dabbing his eyes. "Shove me out the door like yesterday's trash. Get rid of me. Why don't you just put a forty-four Magnum to my head and finish me off? Put me out of my misery!" His expression crumpled and her heart went out to him. Yet he scared her. She feared he would fall to her floor in a temper tantrum. If they were lucky, that's all he'd do. She tried to back away but he grabbed her legs and clung for dear life.

"Mr. Taylor and I will be happy to walk you to your car, if that makes you feel better," she said, lifting her voice trying to get Erik's attention, not knowing how else to get rid of the man and ensure he was safely off CompUtech property. She gazed beseechingly at her ex, imploring him to help her. "Won't you, Mr. Taylor?" Above the man's head, she mouthed, "Get him off me!"

"Certainly, Miss Ramsey. I'll be happy to escort you and this nice gentleman to his car." Erik stepped between herself and the crazed man. Was he trying to protect her? Or was this a sign he thought she couldn't do her job properly, so he was doing it for her? She wished she had the answer.

"Why don't you just shove me out the door?" The man nearly sobbed, pulling a tantrum worse than any she'd seen her three-year-old pull. "Call the police. Take me back to Bellevue."

"I hope that won't be necessary, will it Mr. King?" She asked as if speaking to a child, sympathy sneaking into her voice. "If you'll let go of my legs, I'm sure we can let this incident go."

"Does that mean I get the job?" He tilted his head, imploring her with huge, red rimmed eyes. Hope gleamed in them. His arms went slack and Erik disengaged them from her legs.

She hurriedly stepped out of the danger zone and power walked back to her office with as much dignity as she could manage.

The switchboard shrilled unrelentingly. Erik nodded his head to Lucy who picked it up.

Lucy snapped to attention, her expression wary, her tones completely professional. Cupping her hands around the receiver, she held it out to Holly. "The boss for you."

Not now! But of course now. Bart needed to know everything that happened in his company.

"Holly Lynn! " Uncle Bart bellowed and she flinched. "What's all the commotion? Should we call the police?"

"Unc... Mr. Duarte." Her heart thumped erratically. Her lungs refused to push the air out.

"What's going on down there?"

"I'll help this gentleman, Miss Ramsey. Please attend to Mr. Duarte." Erik gave the man his hand and helped him to his feet. No matter where the man moved, Erik kept himself between him and the women.

"Mr. Taylor and I have the situation under control, Mr. Duarte." Her knuckles turned white as she clutched the receiver.

"Sweep me under the carpet! Flush me away!" The man tried to dart past Erik, who side stepped, quickly barricading the man's escape back inside.

"Come on pal." Erik clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You can leave nicely with me or Miss Ramsey will call the police."

"I'll file harassment charges!" Like Erik looked perturbed by such lame threats.

"Miss Ramsey." He darted her a no-nonsense glance. "Will you do the honors?"

"I'll call you right back," Holly told her uncle and clicked the phone before he could say anything else. She dialed the receptionist. "Call the sheriff." She noticed Lucy starting to dial before the final word trailed off her lips.

"I'll leave." The man snorted, yanking his arm from Erik's grasp. "If you didn't want me here, why didn't you just say so?" He stuck his nose in the air, got a better grip on his briefcase and stomped out the door. Erik followed closely, dispersing a group of employees outside on break.

"Nix that, Luce. Wait for further instruction." She followed them into the parking lot. Several staff members formed a parade behind them even though she waved them away. "Holly Lynn!" Uncle Bart bellowed from his open window. She winced, sure the entire company could hear him. "Bring Erik and look here for me as soon as you escort that gentleman off our property."

"Yes, Mr. Duarte," she called, her gaze glued to Lyle's back as if pushing him down the lot. Why hadn't her professors warned her about this in college? Could this be an extraordinarily bad fluke that she'd had a loony on her very first interview? Or had she caused this in some way?

She replayed the interview in her mind and couldn't see anything, in any way, how she'd been to blame for this fiasco.

After the man finally left their premises, at least fifteen minutes later, she escorted him into her uncle's office where her uncle looked just about as pleased as Freddy Kruger when there were no nightmares around to haunt.

"I demand you fire the creep that wrote that degrading smut about me on the men's bathroom stall!" Candy Coffey shrilled at Holly. Her cheeks flushed so crimson, Holly supposed she'd have to call the fire department.

"Please come in, close the door and tell me what happened--from the beginning." She steepled her hands on her desk.

"Read that!" Candy shoved a scribbled note to her. "Then fire the little creep who wrote that slanderous smut about me."

The price of COFFEY is getting too expensive! CANDY is too overrated! If you want a piece of CANDY or a sip of COFFEY, be prepared to pay hefty import duties. Diamonds and emeralds only...

"Do you have any idea who wrote this?" Holly asked, her brow furrowed in consternation.

"The grapevine says that little twerp, Seth McKnight in accounting, etched this on the stall in the men's room. The one at the back of the building."

"Why would he do this?" Holly asked, turning the note over in her hands. "Is this the note?"

"No, but it's an exact duplicate," Candy seethed. Her hands clenched and unclenched in her lap. "The original is etched on the wall--so I'm told. I'll never forgive my mother for naming me Candy. It's caused more problems. As if the last name weren't bad enough--Coffey! You wouldn't believe how tired that joke is about Coffey is too expensive. Have a piece of Candy! I'm sick of them! Sick of them! Sick of them!!!!" She stomped her feet and pounded her fist on the desk. Holly's philodendron jumped as if they were in the middle of an earthquake and she caught it just before it slid off her desk.

"I don't understand..." Holly inched back away from her desk, eyeing the woman with dread.

"I finally went out with the little twerp just to shut him up and he was all over me like a cheap suit. I dumped his sorry butt and now--this!" She jabbed her finger at the offensive slip of paper. If her gaze got any hotter, Holly thought the paper would catch flame.

"I have to check company policy on this," if we even have one, "and get back with you..."

"You're not going to let him get away with this, are you? This is sexual harassment. I have my rights! I demand a formal apology. I demand justice!" Candy's voice screeched, scratching Holly's eardrums like fingernails on a blackboard.

"Leave this with me and I'll consult with Erik and Mr. Duarte..."

"Give me liberty or give me death!" Candy yelled as she left Holly's office in a snit. "Give me smut free bathrooms!" Under her breath, she muttered, "I'm gonna wring that little twerp's neck... I'll never forgive my parents for naming me Candy Coffey. Never in a jillion years!" Everyone gave her a wide berth as she stomped down the hall.

"Holly Lynn!" Uncle Bart bellowed and Holly winced. "What was that all about?"

"I have it under control, Mr. Duarte," she assured him, then leaned her head on her hand.

Holly's phone rang distracting her from the mini temper tantrum. "What was that about?" Erik asked. Before she could reply, he commanded in his most authoritative Erik Caesar voice, "Join me in here and close the door behind you."

"Yes, Erik," Holly sighed. She snatched the paper from her desk and sauntered into his office, closing the door behind her. She took the hot seat across from him and slid the note across the smooth desk, much as Candy had slid it to her.

"What's this?" Erik asked, picking up the note. His brow furrowed as he read.

"Candy says it's a duplicate of a note scrawled on the men's bathroom stall--about her. And she's threatening to file a sexual harassment charge. I told her I'd check with you...I'm not sure on our company policy about this..."

"This is very serious," Erik whistled and leaned back in his chair. His black gaze pinned her to her seat. "We don't tolerate harassment. Our policy is very clear."

"Is this sexual harassment?"

"Darn right it is!" he said, snapping forward in his chair. "In the Hispanic community, that's the height of insult to a decent woman. We can't let this pass." He rubbed his jaw. "Damn shame, too. McKnight was one of our best accountants..."

"What do you mean?" Holly asked.

"We can't keep him if he did this. We'd be opening CompUtech to major harassment charges."

"So what do we do?"

"Investigate. Find out who wrote this for sure. Company policy is clear. Our hands are tied..."

"It sounds like a boyish prank..." Holly flayed her hands in the air. "If this is the first incident, don't we issue a warning first? A reprimand? Make the offender apologize?"

"I'll consult with Bart, but I have to recommend that we terminate the perpetrator's employment..."

"That sounds so cold..."

"Do you want CompUtech to get sued for a couple hundred thousand dollars? Would you like it if I let someone insult your character the same way?" He quirked his black eyebrow and gazed at her steadily.

She squirmed in her chair under his perusal and uncrossed her legs, sitting up straighter. Even her toes tingled under his intense scrutiny. "You mean you'd stand up for me?" she jibed, trying to cover her nervousness.

"You can count on it," he said with an intensity that made her heart flutter and trapped the breath in her lungs.

Holly stared at her boss, wondering how it would feel to be held in his arms.

"I'll look into the situation and find out who splashed that note in the men's room," Holly murmured, looking away from Erik's gaze. She Rosalie to her feet and turned.

"Don't go yet. We're not finished," Erik said. He tapped his gold pen on his chin and squinted. "Sit down."

Holly folded herself into his guest chair and waited for him to speak.

"We need to do some undercover work," he said. "There's a few matters that need to be solved..."

"Change identities like on Mission Impossible or dress up like Charlie's Angels?"

"Maybe," Erik smiled indulgently, studying her. "Did anyone ever tell you that you resemble Jaclyn Smith--with shorter hair? You have that lovely bloom in your cheeks that's so alluring and the same gentle way about you..."

"Bryce used to say that..." Holly cut herself short when Erik's gaze smoldered.

"Hmm, well yes. I can see why." He shuffled papers around his desk with a vengeance and pulled three files out of a tall stack of manila folders, opening the one on top. "You're aware that we've had a few break-ins after hours?"

"Uncle Bart..."

Erik pinned her with a level gaze and she recanted, "Mr. Duarte mentioned something about a smashed-in window and thieves getting away with some expensive computers..."

"Exactly. And several thousands of dollars worth of merchandise has been stolen out of the warehouse as well..."

"Is that really a personnel matter?" Holly asked. "Isn't that a security matter?"

"In this office, the Personnel department also functions as office manager."

"Undercover sounds like police work. What are you going to do?"

"What are we going to do, you mean?" The right side of his lips lifted in a crooked smile.

"We?" she squeaked. "Precisely what do you want me to do?"

"Do you have a reliable baby sitter at night?" Erik asked, steepling his fingers on top of his desk.

"What does that have to do with CompUtech?" She asked, perplexed. "I have a day care until six-thirty. That's normally plenty of time if I have to work late..."

"You'll need later arrangements than that. Can Rosalie keep the baby? Or a neighbor? A friend?" he pressed, peering at her.

"Why?" she needed to know. Her mother had made it clear she wasn't a baby sitter and she was already squeezing pennies to make ends meet. Old Mr. Lincoln cried some days she squeezed so tightly. And the ladies at the church thrift shop knew her by name and put aside all the size nine women's suits to give her first shot.

"Uncle Bart thinks the evening staff might be filching the computers..."

"Why can you call him Uncle Bart and not me?" she asked, pinning him with a stare designed to wither.

"Because I'm the boss," he said simply without further explanation.

Holly snorted. "Well, that's a good explanation. Now I understand." She sat back in her chair, crossing her arms under her bosom. "Not."

"Bart believes that someone with a key, most likely someone on the second shift is responsible for the thefts. They have the best access to restricted areas without being seen."

"Install video cameras," she said. "Tell Uncle Bart to tighten security--get those electronic card devices and restrict access. Get an alarm system. Hire a night watchman..."

"Holly," he warned, leveling his smoldering Erik Caesar gaze on her again. "You don't sound like a very good team player right now. I thought you were willing to comply with job requirements like a normal employee..."

"I'm a normal employee," she sputtered, her hackles rising. "And I'll comply with normal job requirements. Would you have asked your golden girl to leave her child and come into an almost deserted office late at night? Or is this punishment for being Bart's niece?"

"I'm asking my Personnel Manager to comply with her job requirements. They are no different for you than anyone else I would have put in this job. Now," he said. "Are you willing to pull some overtime to catch the thief or do I find someone who will?"

"Is that a threat?" she asked deadly quiet.

"No. Friendly instruction from your boss. Now, can we get down to details, or are we going to play more twenty questions?"

Loud knocking on the door interrupted their conversation. "Come in," Erik commanded, leaning back in his chair. Holly twisted in hers to see who was at the door.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Erik," Jane, his secretary said, with a smile Maybelline would love. "But Hart to Hart employment agency is here to meet with you and Holly. Arlene Hart is waiting in the reception area. She's getting very impatient..." Jane looked slightly uncomfortable. A look of distaste flickered across her eyes so fast Holly thought she had imagined it.

"Please escort the lady in by all means," Erik said smoothly, a slight smile turning his lips upward but not reaching his eyes. Ice chips formed in their depths. "We'll resume our conversation later."

"Yes, Erik," Holly murmured. She started to rise and Erik motioned her to sit. "Don't leave. I'd like you to be in this meeting. You'll be handling the agencies soon and I want you to learn how to contract with them and when not to. Pay close attention."

"Should I take notes?"

"Not this time. Arlene runs one of the best personnel agencies..."

That name sounded familiar...

"Hello, Darling," a beautiful blonde woman breezed into Erik's office. She wore a professional suit with a silk scarf draped around her neck and fine Italian leather pumps, but she carried herself like a high fashion model. Instead of taking the empty chair next to Holly, she sailed to Erik's side and dropped a proprietorial kiss on his cheek, dangerously close to his lips.

Holly stiffened without volition and her blood pumped faster through her veins. She didn't like this little development one bit.

"Arlene Hart, meet Holly Ramsey, CompUtech's new Personnel Manager," Erik drawled.

Arlene turned as if she hadn't noticed Holly's presence before and leveled a look of disdain on her. "Holly?" She looked down her long, thin nose that reminded her of a Spanish matador and looked her up and down, then dismissed her. "When did little Holly come on board?"

"I mentioned we would be expanding this department..."

"Well, yes, darling, but you promised me you would let me place this position for you," Arlene said, pouting prettily. She perched on the edge of Erik's desk without the least bit hesitation effectively shutting Holly out when she turned her back on her. "I should get some compensation for breach of contract..."

"I never promised you and I certainly never contracted with you," Erik chuckled. "I never forget something vital like that."

"Au contraire, darling. You've forgotten a lot of important things," she drawled huskily. "But luckily for you, I'm the forgiving type..." She held her hand out to Erik and trailed a fingertip down his jaw.

"This isn't appropriate discussion for the office, Arlene. I suggest you take the chair next to Holly and we resume our business," Erik said, removing her hand from his face.

"You're a cool customer, aren't you Erik?" Arlene laughed, miffed but not beaten.

Holy didn't like the woman one bit. Once Erik gave interviewing and contracting with employment agencies to her exclusively, her first order of business would be to cut all ties to the Hart to Hart agency, just as fast as it took ink to dry on paper.

Arlene slithered from her perch and cast an alluring glance at Erik who narrowed his eyes. "We'll finish in private later, Darling," she promised, her phony cocktail party laughter scratching down Holly's spine like fingernails on a blackboard.

Holly struggled valiantly to keep her expression bland.

Arlene perched in the chair next to Holly and opened several files on Erik's desk. Again, she turned her back on Holly and started to explain to Erik, "Our expenses are rising exponentially. Unfortunately, it will be necessary to pass some of those costs along to our clients..."

"Talk to Holly, Arlene," Erik drawled, looking slightly amused. "You'll be contracting with her in future."

"But I've always done business with you," she objected. "Can't you make an exception for me?"

Erik sat forward in his chair. "Not for all the gold in Avarice. You will deal with Holly or you will not work with CompUtech..."

"But Erik," she whined.

"That's final. It's not open to discussion, Arlene."

"You're being unreasonable, Erik. I'll take this to Mr. Duarte if I have to. I'll tell him that you contracted with me for this position and I'll sue if you don't fire Polly here..."

"Be my guest," Erik drawled smugly. "I'd like to see you try to get Holly fired. He'll throw you out on your bony ass so fast your head will spin..."

"Well, I never!" Arlene huffed, standing so fast she knocked her papers on the floor. "I suppose this means our date is off for this weekend?"

"I don't respond well to threats Arlene. Be advised to remember that..."

"You haven't seen the last of me, Erik Taylor!" she puffed, squatting to gather her scattered papers.

Holly watched with glee, not even moving her foot to make things easier for the woman. She'd like to be a fly on the wall when the supercilious woman tried to get Uncle Bart to fire her. He was nothing if not loyal to family. Now that she was here, she'd have to mess up majorly to get ousted despite what Erik said to the contrary.

"I'm going to tell Mr. Duarte that you're having an affair with that little hussy," Arlene threatened, stabbing a trembly finger at Holly.

"Based on what evidence?" Erik said.

"That's not against company policy anyway," Holly interjected, unable to keep quiet a second longer. "Or else Hector and Jocelyn wouldn't be married and working here and Gilbert and Candy couldn't be engaged and working here."

"So you admit you've jilted me for that little mouse!" she screamed.

"I admit nothing," Erik said, standing, looming over the woman. His shadow eclipsed her. "And Holly's not a mouse."

"You snake!" she hissed. "You'll be sorry you crossed me. I have friends..."

"In very low places," Erik said. "I know."

"You're impossible. I don't know what I ever saw in you..."

"Frankly, Princess, I don't give a damn," Erik drawled.

Arlene cradled a large stack of files in her arms and started to stand up. She lost her balance and tipped sideways, unable to catch herself. She screeched, her voice two octaves higher than her previously well-modulated tones, and fell on her fanny, her skirt ripping straight down the back, zebra striped G-string panties exposed.

The woman shrieked and ran from Erik's office, flanking her rear with a flimsy manilla folder, her stiletto heels clacking down the tile hallway like a ticker tape machine on election day.

She followed the woman to make sure she left CompUtech. In her hurry and fury, she didn't see the drops of coffee on the floor and her feet skid out from under her.

Female employees snickered in the hallway. Male employees whistled. Arlene screeched, "Stop looking at me!"

Holly shushed them with a frown and bent down to help the poor woman. She prayed nothing was broken. She prayed the woman wouldn't sue. She'd have to send out a memo about open containers in the hallways. Mentally, she made a note to do so later, after this situation was a only a bad memory and a note in the day's calendar.

"Holly Lynn!" Uncle Bart bellowed. "Do we need to call the police?"

"I'm on top of it," she called, sighing, crossing her fingers mentally hoping she spoke God's honest truth. She'd never had to call the police before. She hoped she'd not have to now.

"I'll bet you're on top of him," Arlene accused, her expression that of a wild woman, her features contorted in rage. She batted Holly's helping hand away, struggling to her feet.

"Excuuuse me?" Anger bridled deep inside her. But her voice remained whisper soft. "Let me help you." It was all she could do not to grit the words out between clenched teeth, to stay calm, civilized and professional. She waved Philip and the others away.

"I bet you're granting favors to the boss, you little hussy." Arlene seethed, scrambling to her feet, forgetting about the rip in the back of her skirt until Philip Colby scurried down the hall, late again, and whistled loud and long.

"Plenty pretty!" he crooned. "Marry me, pretty lady."

"Ooh, leave me alone," she cried and slipped again when she started to get in Holly's face.

"Lucy," Holly called, "Call the sheriff, please. And call Darryl to mop up this spill."

"Calling now," Lucy chirped up, sounding excited as if she'd always wanted to play cops and robbers.

A stray thought struck her. She pinned Philip with her gaze. "Aren't you late again, Philip? Did you call in?"

"My Venus fly trap was trying to eat the baby. I had to save her."

"Why didn't you call the police?" A huge sigh welled in her chest when the staff chuckled.

"I-I did. I had to wait and file all their reports. Then the fire department came--they always come you know--and all the neighbors. Then channel forty-eight news showed up and it was a real zoo." He gasped for breath, his eyes shifting back and forth.

"Get to work and we'll talk more later." Much larger problems loomed right now.

"Me gone!" Lightning fast feet flew down the hall to his cubicle in the caller's den, and he disappeared from view. One less worry.

"I knew I should never have gotten that little brat a job. I'll find something in your contract to sue you for if you dial that phone," Arlene said, her tone threatening.

"I fulfilled my contract two months ago." Lucy stuck out her tongue, her expression defiant. "You don't own me anymore, Darlene."

"Arlene!" she yelled.

"Oh, okay, Carline," Lucy said, a wry twist to her lips as she stabbed the phone buttons with glee.

"This is a conspiracy and I'm suing CompUtech!" she screeched. "When I'm done with you, you won't be able to buy a calculator."

"Sue away, Charlene," Holly drawled. "You don't have a leg to stand on."

Everybody chuckled.

"Holly Lynn! What's going on out there?" Uncle Bart called again, impatient enough he might come and investigate for himself.

"Just taking out the trash, Un--Mr. Duarte." Another near miss, she chided herself, turning on her heel to finish her duty.

"The sheriff will be here any moment, Marlene," Lucy warned, her face lit up like a Christmas tree. "You'd better leave now or..."

"Don't ever come to me for another job," Arlene threatened. "You're on my black list."

"She won't have to," Holly promised. "She's got a job for life here if she wants it. Please leave." It took everything she possessed to keep a civil tongue.

"After I tell the other agencies about you, no one will do business with you."

So what? They were all a bunch of barracudas. They'd be falling all over each other to take Arlene's business.

"He'll never fall in love with you." Arlene twisted the knife that Holly hadn't even realized was stuck in her heart. "He doesn't like the wholesome girl next door type. You'll bore him to death in a day. He also likes his women thin..."

She couldn't stop herself from glancing at her waist, which wasn't thick by any means. Not model thin, she didn't worry too much about her figure at a steady size nine. But at this instant, scrutinized by several pairs of eyes, she felt like a whale on the beach. Heat crept up her cheeks and she strengthened her resolve to get this pencil thin barracuda out of her office before Uncle Bart had a coronary--or she did.

Police sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second. She smiled, her eyes narrowed. "That sounds like your song, Marlene," she drawled.

"Arlene! Arlene! Arlene!" The woman practically spat her venom. "Can't you people even get a name right? It'll be a pleasure not to work with such imbeciles any more."

"We're not keeping you, are we?" Holly smiled her sweetest smile, almost going into sugar shock.

"I know when I'm not wanted!" Arlene stood tall and straight, the rip at the back of her skirt wide open. She jacked her chin up another three inches and Holly thought she'd get a nosebleed from the altitude. When she started walking, the skirt ripped further, like a loud belch in the middle of a French restaurant.

Arlene turned more crimson than a boiling red lobster and looked just about as furious.

"Scenario!" She waved from the doorway, fluttering her fingers.

Arlene scuttled to her car like a sand crab as the police cruiser pulled into the driveway.

"Classy," Holly mumbled beneath her breath, relief washing over her.

"Tammy Lineberger's here for her two o'clock interview," Lucy's bright and cheery voice danced along the phone line. Why couldn't she find a million employees like Lucy? If Arlene what's her name had ever done anything right in her life, it was find Lucy for CompUtech. But then, everyone had a good day once in a blue moon.

"I'll be right out for her, Luce," Holly said. As an afterthought she whispered into the phone, "What does she look like?"

"Professional. Nice," Lucy said, knowing what Holly had in mind. "Thirty something."

"So far, so good," Holly muttered under her breath, taking a quick glance around her office to make sure she was ready to interview and test this applicant.

On the way out of her office, she stopped and poured a little water in her philodendron that looked a bit droopy.

As was her new custom, Holly peeked around the corner to see the applicant and assess her. Tammy, at least she assumed the woman was Tammy as she was the lone person in the reception area except for Lucy, wore a banker's suit--starched blue skirt with matching blazer complete with gold buttons, a white blouse and perfectly matched navy blue pumps and purse. Her make-up was subdued and Holly had a good feeling about this applicant. Perfect Personnel swore up and down she could type more than ninety words per minute, create entire spreadsheets in either Lotus or Quattro and even program macros.

Lucy handed her the woman's employment application and resume and nodded at the woman in the banker's power suit.

"Hello, I'm Holly Ramsey," she said, holding out her hand for a handshake. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"L-Likewise," the woman said, dropping her eyes as if shy. She shuffled her feet and put her hands behind her back.

"Right this way," Holly said and walked, head high, to her office. Erik glanced up from his desk, his smoky gray eyes unfathomable when they met her gaze. Her heart fluttered and she lowered her eyelashes.

"Please have a seat," Holly invited, holding her hand out congenially. She walked around her desk and sat in her high-backed throne.

The woman lowered herself into the chair but perched on the edge, her back stiff as if it had an iron rod staked down her spine.

"How about if you tell me a little about yourself Tammy?" Holly said, smiling, Tammy's resume and application laid out on top of her desk.

"Well, I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in August 1964 to a poor family that could barely keep its children fed. And then one day, Pappy was shooting at some food and up through the ground came some bubbling fuel. Black gold, Texas tea. So the neighbors said..."

"That's not what I meant Tammy," Holly said, trying to keep her smile from wavering. Her head pounded.

"Then what did you mean?" Tammy said, looking at her with furrowed brows. She chewed her lower lips with crooked teeth.

"I want to know if you have any college, what type of jobs you've had before. What your job skills are -- such as if you type or know how to make a spreadsheet or if you take shorthand..."

"Oh, sure, I know all that. It's right there on the resume," Tammy said, jabbing the piece of paper with her finger. "See, I type ninety words per minute. And I have short hands..." She held her hands up in the air for Holly's inspection, wriggling her fingers. "See, I have stubby little fingers..."

"Well yes," Holly said, clearing her throat, her head starting to pound like a Congo drum. "I have a couple of short, simple tests I'd like you to take today." She took a steno pad off the corner of her desk, uncapped a blue ink ballpoint pen and handed the duo to Tammy who looked at it as if it were a three-eyed toad.

"What do I do with this?" the woman asked.

"I want you to take dictation. Just a short letter," Holly said. "Do you take Gregg Shorthand?"

"I used to date Gregg Lewis back in high-school--he was the football captain, you know--but he started cheating on me with that no good Sandy Houston..."

"Try to keep up with me. I'll start with ninety words per minute," Holly said, waiting for the second hand on her watch to reach twelve straight up. She spieled off a brief letter, perusing her watch to keep the time straight. After three minutes, Holly wrapped it up and looked up.

"Stop writing now," she said, holding her hand out for the steno pad.

"You want this back?" Tammy asked, crestfallen. "I thought you were giving this to me."

Holly glanced at the steno pad and somehow managed to keep a straight smile on her face. Giggles threatened to bubble out of her mouth when she studied the giant heart with Gregg and Tammy scripted inside and wobbly arrows poking out either side.

"Let's test your computer skills," Holly said, wondering why she bothered. If the woman could type, perhaps she could still be of use in data processing. Holly stood and walked to her new super-duper clerical testing station. She pulled the chair out and motioned for Tammy to sit at the station.

Tammy sat in the chair and looked at the computer expectantly.

"Turn the computer on for me and get into Word Perfect," Holly said.

Tammy looked perplexed and started pushing all the buttons. Finally, she found the right one before blowing up the machine and a black screen with a lonely C prompt came up. The woman craned her neck and looked at Holly expectantly.

Holly smiled back noncommittally, watching, waiting with her hands behind her back.

Tammy sighed deeply, turning back to the screen. She pushed a few buttons willy-nilly and Holly opened her mouth to speak, getting ready to give Tammy the brush off.

Suddenly, a message appeared on the screen and Holly bent over to peer at it closer. Tammy jumped out of her chair so fast, it careened into Holly, running over her toes, almost knocking her over. "I never did anything illegal in my life!" she cried, fat tears welling in her eyes, her lips trembling. "I go to church every Sunday and most Wednesday nights too. I pay an honest tithe..."

"You have performed an illegal operation," Holly read on the monitor in eerie yellow letters that swam before her eyes. Suddenly, the screen exploded into a million fireworks and Bart Simpson's bratty voice taunted, "You goofed man. Better luck next time sucker."

"I didn't know I'd be asked to do anything illegal if I accepted a job from you!" Tammy wailed, backing further away from the computer screen. "And that thing spoke. There's a demon inside it!"

"You mean that message?" Holly asked, incredulous. "It just wants you to reboot..."

"I ain't gonna bootleg nothing for you! No whiskey, no moonshine, no nothin'," Tammy said. She grabbed her briefcase and stuffed her resume and application inside. "If I'm arrested for doing something illegal, I'm taking you down with me," she threatened, backing out the door, glancing fearfully behind her. "You hear me?" she screeched, outraged. "I won't go to jail alone! I'll turn state's evidence! I'll make a deal before they put me behind bars! You must think you're dealing with a simpleton! I ain't dumb and I won't go to jail for no job..."

Erik appeared in the doorway, scowling deeply. "What's going on here?" he asked, stepping into Holly's office, piercing her with a look that was half imperial Erik Caesar and half thundercloud of the decade.

"I ain't going to do anything illegal!" Tammy yelled, bunching her fists around the handles of her briefcase. Her eyes darted back and forth as if she were a caged animal.

Holly crooked her finger for Erik to join her. When he sauntered to her side, keeping one eye on the crazy woman, she nodded her head at the computer screen.

Erik's black gaze scanned the fireworks faster than the speed of light. He arched an imperious brow. "This is a joke," he said matter of factly.

"No joke," Holly said, shaking her head. "I wish it were."

"I'm going to call the computer police and report you!" the woman screeched. "You can both gang up on me and I'll die before I do anything illegal!"

Holly put a consoling hand on Tammy's arm. "There, there. We're not asking you to do anything wrong. Please calm down. Everything will be all..."

Tammy snatched her arm away, backing into Holly's corner.

"Escort her out of here," Erik said with a hint of exasperation in his deep baritone. "See if you can put her on the next flight going to Mars," he whispered in Holly's ear, surprising her. "Check her wallet for identification to see if she should catch the shuttle for Alpha Centaur..."

Holly couldn't suppress the giggle that bubbled to her lips and she covered her mouth her hand suppressing a deep belly laugh.

"Holly Lynn!" Uncle Bart bellowed.

"Oh no." She sobered immediately. "The royal summons."

"I'm going to have to install new carpeting between your office and his. And soundproofing." Erik muttered. "You've worn a path already. Placate Uncle Bart while I escort your space cadet outside."

"Come with me, Miss."

"Lineberger." Holly kept her eyes glued to her toes, contemplating what earful she was going to deliver to Perfect Personnel when she got back to her desk. "And she's not my space cadet," she grumbled, wrestling with her private economy size Advil bottle. She poured three capsules into her hand, tossed them to the back of her throat and dry-swallowed them, grimacing at their acidic taste.

Erik had instructed her to investigate Candy's slander charge against Seth and now she had to check out the men's bathroom at the back of the building.

The only way Holly knew to begin this investigation was to see the evidence for herself, not some facsimile.

Thus, resolved to see the evidence and get the investigation underway, she strode down the hall to the men's restroom. She noted that Phoebe Sloan's desk had been dutifully turned toward her window to watch the jet skiers on the lake and away from the men's restroom. She presumed that if the old lady really wanted to watch men like Gordon with a big potbelly, head as smooth as a pig's underbelly and sexy--not--all she need do was look in her Coke bottle lenses and study the reflection. Not that Holly could imagine anyone wanting that view for the world.

Suppressing a grin, she passed the men's room, wondering how to enter without disturbing the male employees. She needed to be sure the room was clear before she stepped one toe over the threshold, but how?

Circling the hall a few times, keeping an eagle eye on the men's restroom, she paced with her hands behind her back.

When Jordan emerged from the computer den, she grabbed his arm and propelled him towards the bathroom. "I need your help," she whispered conspiratorially.

"I'm at your disposal," Jordan whispered back. His dark gaze penetrated her. "Why are we whispering?"

"We're on Top Secret assignment." Her gaze darted back and forth furtively.

"So I'm 007 and you're the beautiful piece of fluff?" A very deep chuckle broke the silence. "I can do that."

"Wrong. I'll be 007." Her gaze shifted and her voice was very hushed. "You'll be my lookout."

"A lookout for what?"

"I have to go into the men's bathroom." No woman's land. How she dreaded the thought.

"Is the lady's room flooded?" His gaze bore into her and she felt decidedly awkward.

"N-no-o-o-o." She wracked her brain for something intelligent to say without telling him the truth. After accessing stored data, in the end, she decided partial truth was the best answer. "I have to check something out. It'll just take a moment."

Jordan lifted an eyebrow but didn't say another word. He sauntered into the men's room as if he spied for a living, cool and regal, then gave her the all clear sign, his expression one of curiosity.

"Thanks." Once more, her gaze flitted down one side of the hallway, then the other. Her nerves hop-skotched down her spinal cord. If anyone saw her enter, she'd never live it down. One more nail to hammer in her cross. And heaven forbid, if Darby found out, it'd be plastered over company wide Email. "I'll be a jiffy. Stand guard and don't let anyone enter."

"Will do, James." A very devilish smile was bestowed upon her. What was she getting herself into now?

Goose bumps crawled up her spine and she wrinkled her nose, hating her job at the moment. She'd never entered this particular men's domain in her life and had no desire to do so ever again. A snake pit might be more preferable. Might. She couldn't be sure as she'd never ventured into either arena, and never would willingly.

Now, where had Candy said she'd find the derogatory message? In her flustered state with her nerves dancing the hop, she couldn't recall. If men were anything like women at the roadside stands and fast food joints, it'd be etched on the stall wall. In neon.

Erik owed her big time for this! And he would pay up one way or another. Delicious forms of payback flitted across her mind like a marquis.

Starting with the first stall, she poked her nose in and read out the walls. Myriad messages crudely decorated the stalls, but none about Candy and none really derogatory--mainly names with phone numbers and a few lewd pictures. To her amazement, there were a few love poems. She made a mental note to have the stalls painted over.

She emerged from the third stall as Gordon Grady bound into the men's room. They took one look at each other and screamed in mutual fright. Her hands covered her heart that threatened to stampede to Laredo, maybe to the next dimension. Gordon clutched his throat, his gaze mirroring his disbelief.

"What are you doing in here?" They spoke simultaneously, sounding like twins.

Gordon backed away from her, accusation pooling in his irises. "You're just like her." His hushed whisper shook, not boding well. He tilted his head towards Betty's office, his lips snarling, his soft jaw almost disappearing. "You can't keep your hands off me. You follow me everywhere. You undress me with your hungry eyes. You make my life a living nightmare! I'll never forgive God for making me so irresistible to women. It's a curse, I tell you. A curse!"

She inched out of the stall, away from this unknown quantity, her gaze seeking her sentry. She wondered if she should hold her fingers up in a holy cross to ward the man off, then settled for a quick Hail Mary. "Where's Jordan? Didn't he tell you to stay out?"

"Mr. Duarte summoned him over the intercom. We passed in the hall."

"Oh God." She wanted nothing more than to disappear through the wall, or just evaporate. Instead, she started hyperventilating, her breath refusing to expel from her scorched lungs. She had to get out of here--now! The walls were caving in on her.

She pushed past Gordon Grady, closing her ears to his insane rantings and ravings that followed her down the hall. The click-click of her thin high heels on the linoleum reverberated down the corridor, mocking her.

"I'm filing a formal complaint with Erik and Mr. Duarte about you, Ramsey!" Gordon shook his fist in the air, his eyes wild, almost lunatic. "This harassment, stalking, and watching has got to end. We have our rights!"

Several employees peeked their noses out the door and stared at her, then at Gordon. Philip shook his head and murmured, "Ya man. Plenty crazy." Then he turned on his heel with a smirk, kicked his feet up on his desk, nearly kicking over his Jamaican cola, and resumed his calls.

"Holly Lynn!" Uncle Bart bellowed. "Do we need to call the police again?"

She tried to answer, but she couldn't. Nothing came out when she opened her mouth. Not that this situation called for the police but she vowed to have Jordan program a speed dial button on Lucy's phone for the local sheriff. If he wouldn't, she would!

"Holly Lynn, report to my office." Uncle Bart's voice boomed over the intercom, his irritation naked for all to hear. "Holly, come to my office."

"Not now." Squeezing her eyes tightly, she fought the rush of heat creeping into her cheeks. Goose bumps stood so high on her arms she felt as if she'd contracted poison ivy. And she hadn't even found the incriminatory message. Well, Erik would just have to check that complaint out for himself. That was her one and only trek into no-woman's land. Never again! Not even if it meant presidency of the company.

She poked her head hesitantly into Uncle Bart's office, her eyes locking with Erik's unfathomable smoky gray gaze. As many times as they performed this ritual, her stomach never stopped lurching. Her breath still caught in her lungs. Her toes still curled in her shoes. Would she never smarten up and learn to get over this man? Totally and completely?

"Come in Holly Lynn and close the door." Uncle Bart sounded as if he'd just finished off a gallon of frozen yogurt, but she knew better. He looked too gleeful--about ready to burst into giggles--and that always meant big trouble. On a scale of one to ten, this looked like a fifteen on his danger meter. Her heart sank a good ten meters in a schism of her soul. She much preferred her grouchy uncle. At least that was a known quantity.

She took a deep breath, stepped onto the plush pile carpeting, and closed the door softly behind her. She followed her well-worn path and took the hot seat next to Erik, steepling her hands in her lap, looking straight through her uncle to his wall of honorary degrees, awards and certificates of recognition, which was easier than looking him square in the eye. She let her eyes rest on a yellowed photograph of Bart with her mother when they were small children. A time when he bullied Rosalie instead of her.

"We don't need to call the police again, do we?" Uncle Bart leveled his direct gaze at her, commanding she meet his gaze and acknowledged him properly.

"No-o-o. But I do need to get back to the situation." Before Gordon's dementia took over his entire brain. Before CompUTech exploded from all the inner turmoil.

"You and Erik can handle that when we're finished here," Uncle Bart commanded, the case open and shut as far as he seemed concerned. "Erik was just telling me about a human resources interviewing and benefits seminar in Naples that he feels you should attend." If she weren't mistaken, twinkles glittered in her uncle's eyes. Dread infiltrated a corner of her mind. He couldn't, wouldn't dare.

"Naples?" She couldn't suppress the gulp that rose in her throat. "What will I do with Tyler?"

"Your Aunt Nora and I will keep Tyler for the week. We've not seen him for a little while. He needs a man in his life."

Ouch! As if that weren't a direct dig. A threat? Could Bart be thinking of spilling her closely guarded secret? For her own good, in his own mind, she was sure, but apocalypse nonetheless as far as she was concerned.

"A whole week?" One hundred proof dread consumed her and the temperature of the room became stifling. She couldn't exhale. "I can't leave Tyler that long." To her own ears, her voice was thready, barely audible. Out of her peripheral vision, she checked Erik's reaction. But to her satisfaction, he didn't appear to be reading between the lines or picking up on the tension between uncle and niece, the hidden messages, the innuendoes. Contrary, he kicked back, and seemed to enjoy watching her squirm for supposedly far different reasons. So be it. Far better he believe that than the ugly, dangerous truth.

"Don't you trust me and your Aunt Nora?" Uncle Bart asked, his tone deadly quiet and she knew she couldn't argue the fact any further. "He'll be safe with us. I wanted to spend more time with my grandnephew anyway. Take him fishing and to the circus--all the things your father and his own father should be doing with the boy."

Her eyes widened till they ached. Her equilibrium did crazy things and she almost slid off her chair. Surely Erik would sit up and take note of that barely veiled innuendo. "We'll talk about that later, Uncle Bart." A groan threatened to rise from deep in her throat, but she suppressed it, winning an acute case of indigestion for her discretion. "And of course, I trust you with Tyler. He'll be delighted to spend a week with you and his Aunt Nora. You know how much the Ty Guy adores you."

"Fine, that's settled." A smug smile flirted around the corners of his lips. "We'll keep Tyler the Terminator and you'll accompany Erik to Naples next week."

"Next week? With Erik?" That soon? Her voice came out choked, disbelieving and she'd be utterly humiliated if she weren't so scared. A week alone with her ex-husband? Seven whole days to hide the depth of her love for him?

"Yes. I'm sending you both. Jane can handle any insurance questions for five days and I'll handle anything else. Reschedule any interviews you've set up," Uncle Bart commanded from his throne.

Holly glanced furtively at Erik from beneath her lowered eyelashes. He sat comfortable and imperturbable as always and she marveled at his cool in the face of her blustery uncle when everyone else seemed to wither and wilt around him.

"Holly Ramsey, please dial zero," Lucy announced in her operator's succinct twang. "Holly, please dial zero."

Holly glanced toward the ceiling, wriggling in her chair. She pressed her fingers to her temples and pushed to prevent the throbbing headache that lingered. The were restless. Someone was always tracking her down.

"Are you okay, Holly Lynn?" Uncle Bart poised his gold pen mid-air.

"Just a headache." A strained smile played around her lips. "I'll take some pain reliever at my desk."

"Erik can fill you in on the detail." Bart bestowed his favorite uncle smile on her, his left cheek dimpling, both cheekbones puffing out. "Answer your page, niece."

She rose from her chair and smoothed her skirts and noticed she had elephant ankles where her hose inched down.

"We'll talk after lunch." He wasn't asking. Did she expect him to? "Come into my office."

"That's a date." The words slipped out of her mouth before she realized what she'd said and her throat constricted. Her fingers curled around the door and she let it slide out of her grasp and swing shut, pulling her fingers away just before they were crushed.

"The Ty guy's ill!" Jane said when Holly passed by her desk. "Your babysitter just called."

"Was that the page?" Her brows furrow. Her stomach dropped to her heels. "Tyler had a runny nose this morning, but it wasn't that bad."

"Now it's a raging fever. You'd better go get him," Jane said. "The flu's going around."

"Is it?" Holly threw over her shoulder, hurrying to her desk for her purse. "Tell Erik I had to leave a few minutes early. I don't know if I'll be back today."

Unzipping her purse, she grabbed her keys. "I'll call after I know something." A marquis flashed through her mind, blinding her to all else. The Ty Guy was ill. She had to go to him.

Hitching her purse over her shoulder, keys in hand, she marched out of the office, doubling back to scribble her name on the sign-out roster at the receptionist's desk.

"Tyler's sick. Don't know if I'll be back today." She bent across the receptionist counter and enfolded her friend into a hug. The warmth lent her a small measure of comfort.

"Well you give that little bronco a kiss from me." Lucy wrapped her arms around her, returning the hug. "Give him plenty of warm chicken soup."

"Will do." She glanced at the sign-in roster for late employees and caught Philip Colby's name in his large flourish. "What happened this time?"

"Excuse me?" Lucy followed her gaze.

"Why was Philip late today?" She started reading his latest excuse.

"His wife chained him to the bed and wouldn't untie him." A tongue in cheek smile lit Lucy's face. She smiled smugly, holding her chin on her hand.

"You're lying, girl." She chuckled. "Even Philip wouldn't say that." Disbelief cocooned her.

"Honest Injun' Hall." Lucy laughed outright, crossing her heart with her hand. "Read it. It's all there in black and white."

"I'm really going to have to talk to that man." Her gaze swam over the outrageous words. "He's going too far."

"It sounds like his wife went too far." Lucy's eyes glittering in amusement. Her chin dimpled and she tapped her spiky nails on the phone receiver. "I bet he's wild in b..."

"Don't even go there!" Holly laughing. "I don't even want to think about it."

"You'd better get Tyler home." The phone dinged and Lucy picked up the receiver. "Good afternoon, CompUtech. How may I help you?" She covered the phone's mouthpiece with her hand and reminded Holly, "Do come to the Thanksgiving potluck tomorrow. Get your mom to baby-sit if necessary. I'm bringing Jerry's famous pumpkin pie."

"Delish. I love pumpkin pie." Maybe wishes did come true. Her mouth watered for her favorite pie already. "See you later." She scurried out the door, glinting when harsh sunlight pierced her eyes. Fumbling around in her purse, she drug out her Ralph Loren's, shielding her eyes from the glare.

Even two days before Thanksgiving, the South Florida sun gave no relief. The noonday sun scorched the parking lot's tarmac, reflecting off the lake where jet skiers whizzed by without a care, taunting the hard-working, and not so hard-working, people in the office. A cool spray of water hit her in the face, splattering her sunglasses and she grimaced.

Holly climbed into her ancient Ford mommy van that was held together by panty hose and clothes hangers, grimacing at the heat wave that rippled over her. She scrunched out of her long-sleeved power jacket, tossing it on the passenger seat over her purse. On days like these, she longed for air-conditioning like normal people. Maybe she could get a new car, or at least her air-conditioner repaired and recharged, with the upcoming Christmas bonus.

When she turned the key in her ignition, the van rumbled, as if drunk and angry, but didn't finish turning over. She frowned but gave old Henrietta an encouraging pat on her dry and cracked dashboard. "You can do it old girl. The Ty Guy's counting on us."

She turned the key again. Henrietta wheezed and sputtered as she pumped the gas pedal. "Don't do this to me, Henri." She gave it the French pronunciation. "Remember that talk we had last night? How we decided you wouldn't die on me until I got my Christmas bonus? Don't renege on me now." She banged her hand on the steering wheel, muttering a couple of choice words, not caring she made her head pound worse. "Tyler's counting on us. I'll fill you up with high octane and change your spark plugs if you get me and Tyler home today."

Still, Old Henrietta didn't budge. She barely had enough strength to wheeze. She killed the ignition and scrambled out of the car, catching her brand new panty hose on the side of the car door. She heard a loud rip and closed her eyes. "Lord have mercy." She groaned. Opening her eyes, she glanced at the gaping hole in her hose and shook her head.

Sucking in an exasperated sigh, she rolled up her silk shirtsleeves. Perspiration trickled between her breasts and down her back and she knew she'd have a humungous dry-cleaning bill on top of everything else. She wiped the back of her hand over her forehead and stood back from Henrietta and stared at her, chewing her bottom lip. No point in waiting, she decided. She opened the hood and propped it up, then stuck her nose under the hood and looked around. Steam spiraled skyward. A silky hiss from somewhere deep inside the engine, warned her Henrietta was quite ill. Maybe some of her old panty hose had unwrapped itself from an engine hose. She hoped that's all it was. Her bank account was too low to pay for a big fix. Truth be told, it couldn't pay for a small repair, either.

Erik breath teased the back of her neck without warning and she jumped, hitting her head on Henrietta's open hood. "Car trouble?" His well-manicured hand reached around her and twisted off an oily cap.

"Would you mind terribly stop sneaking up on me?"

"Are you going to survive?" His fingers explored the knot beginning to protrude on the top of her head, their medicinal touch caressing her. "You're going to need some ice on that."

"Later." Tingling all over from his magic fingers massaging her scalp, she wanted to pull back but couldn't. "The baby's sick. I have to get him."

"Jane gave me your message. Well." He turned away from her, peering into the engine cavity again, "let's see if we can get you rolling. Had you thought about turning this baby over to a museum?"

"Har, har." She grimaced and rejoined him. "Henrietta's gotten me around this far. I need to keep her running till at least Christmas..."

"Um hmm," he murmured. Erik poked and prodded around the engine. "Get in and try starting her," he commanded in his imperious Erik Caesar tone. "I want to see if she cranks."

Dutifully, she obeyed, climbing into the driver's seat. She stroked the ignition key, coaxing the accelerator to give old Henrietta some juice.

Henrietta coughed and wheezed. Then she let out a big guffaw and smoke plumed in Erik's face.

"Kill the ignition!" He stumbled back, waving the smoke out of his face. He coughed and turned, drawing in gulps of clean air.

She scrambled out of her seat and hurried to the engine.

"I think it's your carburetor. You'll need to replace it. And a few of your valves seem to be clogged."

She jiggled a couple of hoses and found the culprit -- the old panty hose had torn apart and hung from a hose she almost hadn't seen. She reached down, unwound them and yanked them out of the engine.

Erik stared at her incredulously. "What's that?"

"Old panty hose. Quick fix. Turn the other way." She twirled her finger in the air like a ballerina on a music box.

"What are you going to do?" Erik chuckled.

"You'll see," she said in a sing song voice. She climbed in her van and peeled the torn panty hose off her legs then slid her bare feet back into her pumps. She slid to the ground and with pantyhose in hand, she leaned over the engine, her pink silk shirt hopelessly ruined by oil and grease. "You can turn around again."

Erik turned, his shoulder brushing hers. "You can't be serious," he drawled. "That'll never hold. You'll just break down on the highway..."

"Lucky for me I don't take the highway to work. Sherrie lives about a mile down the street and I'm only another mile out west. Besides," she mumbled, fingering the carburetor and peering at it. "It's more than just this hose. The starter's bad and so's the fuel pump. I'll have to put her up on the jack and see what I can do with her tonight."

"You're going to repair your car?" Erik laughed, incredulous.

She turned on him. "So?" She leveled her best Gloria Steinman gaze on him. "It's not hard to fix," if I have enough in the bank to buy a fuel pump or a starter...

"Doesn't your son need you to take care of him tonight?" Erik's brow rose.

"Yes, he does. Maybe I can do this after he goes to sleep."

"I'll come over and help you."

No! "Y-you c-can't!." He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. Horrified, she backtracked. "Y-you needn't to do that. I'll be fine. Really."

"Expect me right after work. Have supper ready. No tuna fish."

And would you like some White Zinfandel? Maybe chilled shrimp cocktail? She lifted her brow but didn't speak her thoughts aloud. He'd be lucky to get tuna in her house. All she had in stock was peanut butter and bread until pay day--and two cans of chicken soup--which Tyler would get.

"I can't offer much."

"Don't worry about supper, I'll bring something."

"You really don't have to."

"I'm not being nice. Just helping my right hand to be productive." He wiped his hands on his handkerchief. Grease soiled it as his fingers looked relatively clean. But he missed a spot on his cheek, near his mouth.

"Silly me," she drawled. "I thought you'd developed a kind streak." She took the handkerchief from his hand, stepped close before she thought her actions through, and wiped the streak of grease away.

"Who me?" Although his words were innocuous, his voice was husky. Warm breath fanned her cheek. Her gaze flew to his and locked. What she saw stole her breath. Something intense, could it be passion? flitted across his eyes. "Never in a billion years."

"Can't have our employee productivity quotient destabilizing, can we Boss?" She remained there, petrified for several seconds, maybe aeons longer, drinking in his nearness, his scent, the feel of him. But this was utterly insane. Worse, it was dangerous.

It took all her strength, but she dragged herself away from him a safe distance. She tied the new, torn panty hose on the engine hose and securing it with a large bow tie. "There," she said, satisfied with her handiwork. "That should hold a couple of miles."

"Let me drive you home."

"We can't work on the van then." She shook her head.

"I'll follow you to make sure you and your son get home safely."

"You don't have to."

"I'm going to. Now get in the van and try starting her up."

When she turned around, he wiped her nose with his handkerchief.

"You looked like Mickey Mouse." He told her what she had already guessed. "Now, in the van with you."

She complied and Henrietta wheezed to life. "We'd better go before she dies again."

"Does Uncle Bart know you drive this?"

"He knows." And she was tired of getting lectured about owning a junker. But he hadn't offered to buy her a new car so she bit her tongue and bid her time till Christmas.

"You need to buy a new car."

"Tell me something I don't know." She sighed, exasperated. "When you find someone who will sell me a car with no money down, and no monthly payments, I'll look." Everybody wanted to tell her how to live her life and she was sick of it.

He listened with narrowed eyes, but didn't say another word.

Henrietta coughed, spluttered and wheezed all the way to Sherrie's house, vibrating as if she'd fall apart any second. She lifted several prayers to get her and the baby home safely. He must have been listening, for she coasted into Sherrie's drive way ten minutes later. Erik slid to a smooth stop on the curb in front of Sherrie's gingerbread house.

He unfolded himself from his car and strode towards her. His gait was long and smooth. Sunlight glinted off his hair, giving it a blue-black cast.

"I suppose you can come in." Her words were hesitant, unsure. All her senses screamed at her to get him away from her baby. To fight to the death, if necessary. To protect the only person in the world left who loved her unconditionally. This man was the enemy, even if he was guised as a friend, even if she'd almost forgotten that.

"You might need help." He took her elbow in his warm fingers, guiding her across the lawn. Their feet sank into plush grass carpeting.

Traitorous shivers tingled down her spine but she schooled herself to ignore them.

Erik opened the door for her and she stepped into the living room where she smelled spaghettios and baby powder in the air. "I'm here, Sherrie," she called out. "Where's the little guy?"

"I just rocked him to sleep, poor baby." Sherrie spoke in hushed tones and she put her finger to her lip. "Don't wake him up." Sherrie looked at her cross-eyed, then at Erik and her mouth gaped open as if Brad Pitt had just walked into her living room. "What happened to you?"

"Long story," Holly said, waving her hand. "Henrietta again. Is the Ty Guy running a temperature?" She walked toward the spare bedroom at the back of the house where Sherrie kept the cribs. She stopped at the bathroom sink to wash her hands.

"A little over one hundred two."

Whistling, she hurried to Tyler's side. "Rectal?"

"No, it would be one hundred three rectal." Sherrie bustled after Holly and Erik. "You should take him to the doctor. He's nauseous too."

"I'm sorry. I just thought he had a little cold," She leaning over the portable crib where Tyler slept fitfully, arms and legs askew, wound in his covers. His miniature lips, a cameo of Erik's, sucked his thumb. She prayed Erik wouldn't see the resemblance. Thank God he wasn't a carbon copy of his father. Important as that was, it wasn't priority at this moment.

She laid the palm of her hand on his forehead and frowned. "He's burning up. Did you give him any baby aspirin?" She stroked Tyler's blonde hair so opposite his daddy's raven black hair, away from his eyes.

"Right before he went to sleep." A frown marred the sitter's green eyes. "He spit it back up."

Holly straightened and turned to Erik. "I have to take him home. Sherrie's got other kids she sits and they can't be exposed."

"Can your mother or someone else watch him."

"Rosalie." Sherrie snorted. "She won't lift a finger to help her. And Tyler's daddy disappeared with that hussy And..."

"Sherrie, hush up!" Holly nudged her friend hard with her elbow and spun on her heel. "Erik doesn't want to know all that." God, why did he have to be standing directly behind her, soaking up every word?

Commotion broke out somewhere in the bowels of the house. Thin, childish voices raised in dissent. Something, probably a big metal toy truck or a dollhouse, crashed.

"Excuse me!" Sherrie ran with a fleetness of foot surprising for someone of her stature.

"I'll ask my mother to watch Tyler, but don't count on it." A knife twisting in her heart at the thought of her mother. She'd just say she was using her and too dependent again. Didn't she always?

"Do you have any interviews lined up today?" Erik pinned his gaze on the baby who tossed and turned fitfully. Coughs racked Tyler's little body.

She bent over the crib and scooped him into her arms, cradling him against her bosom. "Mommy's here darlin'." She kissed his smooth cheek that felt like an active volcano. She'd never been so alarmed.

Tyler awoke from the jostling and cried weakly.

"The little guy's not feeling good. Call the doctor from here and get him in today."

She lifted pained eyes to Erik. "I don't have insurance yet."

"So pay out of pocket, or make arrangements. Most doctors will cooperate." He put his long finger in Tyler's little fist and shook his hand. Tyler dragged Erik's finger to his mouth and bit it--hard. She cringed when Erik held up a throbbing red finger with beautiful teeth prints.

"The doctor won't see him any more until I catch up on the bill." Embarrassed, her voice was thready, almost a whisper. She averted her eyes, unable to meet the gaze she knew would be accusatory.

"Tell him you'll pay him what you owe today." He swaddled his red, swollen finger, rocking back and forth as he looked down at the baby with an intensity that froze the blood in her veins. Did he suspect her closely guarded secret? That Tyler was his? What could he do? What would he want to do?

She faced off against her baby's father. "I wish I could. But I'm dead broke." It was a very dangerous admission under the circumstances, like handing him tons of ammunition, but the only one she could make. She was cornered.

"Call him and tell him you'll pay in full."

When she hesitated, wondering how she could do that without bouncing a bad check, Erik sighed. "Give me the baby and go make the call. I'll pay whatever you owe the doctor."

"I can't let you do that," she whispered, handing over Tyler despite her words. The Ty Guy did need to be seen by the pediatrician.

"You can't not take the child to the doctor. Maybe I can get you some overtime and we'll call it even."

"I can't with the baby." She offered a sad smile. "I don't have anyone to watch him that late. All the kids have to be gone before Sherrie's husband gets home from work at six."

"Call the doctor."

Tyler quieted, searching Erik's face. His chubby hand opened and he stroked his father's cheek as she watched in fascinated dread. Guilt assuaged her for keeping them apart. But if she told Erik the truth, she risked him taking Tyler from her. And she couldn't live if he did that.

Erik bounced him up and down gently, crooning to him. He looked as if he actually enjoyed holding the baby.

He held their baby so tenderly and had offered--no commanded--he would pay the pediatrician so Tyler could get well.

She ran to the phone and made the appointment, assuring the office manager she would pay the bill in full that same day at the office. It cut deeply to hear that twinge of disbelief in the woman's voice but she did her best to ignore it. It didn't matter what strangers thought of her. The only thing that mattered was getting her baby well.

Tyler started crying, a gut wrenching sound guaranteed to twist every mother's stomach to shreds and give her the screaming meemies at two o'clock on sleepless nights.

"Oh, Holly," Erik called in a sing song voice, "bring two towels right away. Wet one."

"Why?" She dreaded the answer. "There's baby wipes and diapers on the diaper changing table." She lengthened her stride, scurrying to Tyler and Erik.

"Tyler was sick again."

"Sherrie!" Holly called. "I'm going to grab a couple of towels. I think I know where you keep them."

"Help yourself." Sherrie flitted from one child to another, heading off disaster, keeping chaos at bay. "Give me the toy Kyle and tell Jennifer you're very sorry for bonking her over the head with the Tonka truck."

She smiled despite her worry. Ouch! That must've hurt. No wonder Jennifer wailed at the top of her lungs. She probably would have, too. She rummaged through the linen closet, grabbed two of Sherrie's older towels and ran for the bedroom where Erik awaited them.

She stopped dead upon sight of her ex -- his new Christian Dior covered in baby spittle. A lot of baby spittle. "Oh, you poor baby." Holly held her arms out to Tyler who dived for her, surprising Erik who almost dropped him on his head.

"I'll be fine." Erik scowled. "Once I scour down."

"You thought I meant you?" Awe and embarrassment crept up her cheeks. "I was talking to Tyler."

"I knew that," Erik muttered, averting his eyes. He looked down at his shirt, covered in curdled milk and regurgitated strained peas. "If someone fed me this slop, I'd probably vomit, too." Tyler grabbed his finger and shook it up and down.

"Come to Mommy, Angel." Holly put her hands under Tyler's arms and lifted him up and held him as far away from her and her nose as her arms would let her. Her son bicycled his chubby legs in the air, struggling to be free. Loose bowels dripped from around the edges of his elasticized pampers.

"He's stronger than he looks." He took one of the towels from her. "Bring the big boy to the bathroom so we can clean him off."

"Take a left, then a right and follow the cherubs."

Erik turned on the bath water and adjusted the temperature, then shrugged out of his shirt.

"You're going to take a bath?" Alarmed, she inched toward the hallway.

"I'm not. He is." Erik pointed at the baby. "Do you think a sponge bath will clean that up?"

"No-o-o-o." Her heart pounded much too fast. Her eyes were glued to Erik's muscular back. Just the sight of his bare back with just a trace of dark hair and loads of rippling muscles sent her senses fluttering out of control, bringing back memories of the rest of him.

No! This was the man who'd walked out on her, leaving her pregnant and alone. A man who believed the worst of her. She had to squelch these very undesirable, desirable feelings immediately. But it wouldn't be easy.

He turned off the tap, stuck his elbow in the water, grunted his assent and turned to Holly, his arms outstretched for a very disgruntled Tyler. "Come here slugger," Erik commanded.

She sucked in her breath. That wasn't a body by Atlas; that was the body of a truly dedicated athlete. No limp health club muscles for her ex. He was the genuine article, right here, before her hungry eyes, half a foot from her tingling fingers and she held the baby from hell covered with throw-up.

Tyler screamed louder and bicycled harder. He added some wrist action for good measure and she ducked her head to the side just in time to avoid getting slammed with a baby fist.

"I can't hold him much longer." Greased like a pig, he was about to slip from her arms.

"Hand him over." Erik held his arms out for the boy. "Don't treat your mother that way." Tyler stared open mouthed at Erik and gazed at him with his large Hershey brown eyes.

When Erik took the writhing baby from her, his fingers brushed hers ever so slightly. She trembled. She knelt by the tub and swished her hands in the tepid water, then grabbed the sudsy soap and started soaping Tyler down from head to toe.

"This is the way we take a bath, take a bath, take a bath." She sang to keep the baby happy, then saw he was too happy. He geared up for major league splashing. "Duck!" she warned too late as she ducked back out of the line of fire.

Tyler screamed then splashed the water into Erik's face and laughed as if he'd never had so much fun in all his baby life. In a way, it was hilarious and she had a hard time hiding her mirth.

Erik spluttered, spouting the soapy water out of his mouth. His black hair hung in his eyes, dripping down his cheeks. "And people actually aspire for parenthood?" His black gaze pinned her to the wall where she shrugged, holding her palms out and flat up. Maybe he'd be glad she hadn't informed his of his fatherhood status. If he knew, but of course she was too scared to tell him, so he wasn't going to know, so it was all rhetorical anyway.

She took the baby while Erik towel dried his hair. When she scooped water into a plastic cup Sherrie kept on tub ledge, Tyler screamed bloody murder, chanting no-no at the top of his baby lungs.

"Are you trying to kill that boy?" Erik asked tossing the towel on the floor.

"No." She clenched her teeth as she reminded herself this was a cute, innocent little baby, not yet one of those irritating grown men that loved to pull women's strings at every opportunity. And she'd promised herself her son would grow up different. Right! After this little show-off display, she knew that annoying trait was in the Y chromosome without a doubt. "I'm-just-trying-to-wash-his-hair. If you think you can do better," she challenged, "you try."

"Hand the boy over and I'll show you how it's done."

"This I have to see." Her voice was singsong. "Just like you did a minute ago." She smiled her sweetest smile and fluttered her eyelashes.

"He caught me unaware. I'm ready for the boy now. If I can handle one hundred crazy employees, I can handle one thirty pound baby."

"Uh huh." He really didn't have a clue, did he? She watched this little scene with malicious glee, "You learned how to be a daddy in three minutes. I've got to see this."

She held out the wriggling, squirming baby to her boss, then kicked back waiting for the show to begin, silently cheering for Tyler. At the end of round one, it was Tyler two, adults zero. Normally unflustered Erik looked decidedly flustered.

Without warning, Tyler christened Erik--square between the eyes, prompting Erik to spew a string of expletives, toned down for baby ears.

Tyler three.

She suppressed a smirk as well as she could then grabbed a fluffy pearly-pink towel off the wall rack, handing it silently to her still grumbling ex. She lifted the boy from his arms, careful to keep his little fountain spout pointed away from her.

He turned the tap water full blast, then turned it down a little and plugged the stopper. Scooping water into his hands, he rinsed his face, neck and chest, then soaped himself down, then rinsed again. He patted himself dry with the towel, then finger combed his dark hair away from his forehead. All the while, she couldn't tear her eyes away from him.

"Are you so sure that I'm not a daddy?" He turned, pinning her with his unflinching gaze. "Don't I look capable?"

His words hit her like a semi-truck in the solar plexus. If only he knew what he said. Or did he suspect? Was this his way of testing her? She lowered her eyes so the guilt welling inside her wouldn't give her away through the windows to her soul.

Perhaps she'd been wrong...dead wrong...not to force Erik to live up to his fatherly responsibilities. He and Tyler seemed to be forging a bond already. They looked so good together.

"Uhm mm, the jury's still out." She kept it externally light even though she was all jumbled up inside. "Let's see how well you do in the diaper arena." She wanted to come clean with Erik, but she was scared to. She couldn't risk telling him, yet he deserved to know he had a son. Tyler deserved a father. She opened her mouth, but fear paralyzed her. She couldn't get any sound out.

"I'll match you a diaper and raise you a bottle." He chuckled.

Laughter bubbled up in her throat.

Erik finished bathing Tyler, lifted him out and she dried him off. She was relieved that the baby felt much cooler, but she would still take him to the doctor's office.

"Look at you." Her gaze roamed over Erik's half-naked form again, this time unveiled. "You're soaked. "How are you going to go back to work that way?"

Erik glanced down, scowling darkly. "I can't. Not in this condition."

"I'm so sorry." She lifted Tyler into her arms, his baby body squeaky clean against her. She carried him to the diaper-changing table and waited for Erik.

He powdered the boy all over, fumbled with the diaper tapes, ruined one diaper and went for another. Tyler kicked and squirmed, tried to roll over and crawl off the changing table. Finally, he was dressed in an extra change of clothes she kept stockpiled at Sherrie's for emergencies. Baby changing and bathing should be a new Olympic sport, she decided.

"He should come with a big red warning label."

She chuckled. "He's a typical baby. Aren't you Ty?" She lifted him into her arms, squeezed him and kissed his cheek. "All babies do this."

"It's amazing that humanity made it past the stone age."

Pain stabbed at her heart. She lifted hurt eyes. She'd thought he liked her son, that he was good with babies.

Well, she guessed, there wasn't any such thing as the perfect man, either. But this ranked as a major flaw.

"I need to get this little guy to the doctor." She averted her gaze lest he read her feelings in the depths of her eyes.

"I'll take you." He followed her out of the room and she couldn't help wondering why he wasn't anxious to return to work or why he'd want to help her.

"I can't impose that much. You have to get back to work."

"What if your van breaks down with a sick baby? What then?"

She bit her lower lip, studying Tyler. His eyes still looked glazed over and his flesh felt hot to the touch again. Could she put Tyler in jeopardy for pride's sake?

"Won't Uncle Bart get mad if neither of us returns to the office?" She turned and looked at his bare chest pointedly. "You don't have a clean, dry shirt. You can't go to a pediatrician's office that way."

"He can borrow one of Bob's shirts," Sherrie said. "Erik looks about the same size."

"I'd be grateful." He showered Sherrie with a brilliant smile designed to break unsuspecting hearts of women of all ages, worldwide. One he rarely, if ever, bestowed on Holly.

Sherrie bustled into her closet, pulled a white shirt off a hanger and handed it to Erik who shrugged into it like a second skin.

"What can happen in one afternoon? Is Gordon going to stake out the men's bathroom with land mines or a sniper's bullets? Is Darby going to send a poison Email? Are the girls in data processing going to wage war over Barry Manilow or Gloria Estafan?" He shot his most charming smile at Holly and the arrow pierced her smack dab in the heart. "I think CompUtech can survive for four hours without us at the helm."

"I hope so." She chewed her lower lip, not nearly as confident as he appeared.

"I'll call Jane and tell her to cancel our appointments and make sure all the arrangements are made for the Thanksgiving potluck tomorrow. The Ty Guy has to see the doctor, don't you?" Erik made a fool of himself entertaining the child with a series of unintelligible baby gibberish.

Tyler laughed at him, then projectile vomited without notice, just missing Erik.

Tyler four.

"We'll call her from the doctor's office." He buttoned his shirt, then tucked it in his cotton twill slacks as he strode to the front door. "Get his stuff and let's go. We'll put his car seat in my car. I'll drive."

"What about Henrietta?" She hesitated, gazing longingly at her car. Henri might be a junker, but she was all hers. She was a member of the family and she couldn't just desert her. "I can't leave her here." She took a clean rag from Sherrie and wiped Tyler down. She put her lips to his forehead, alarmed to feel his temperature rising.

"Park her in the grass next to the Impala," Sherrie instructed. "Pick her up later after Ty's taken care of."

"I'll have her towed to my shop. My mechanic's a wizard." Erik walked into the bright sunlight, squinting his eyes.

"I can fix Henrietta." She dug her keys out of her pocket and held them out to Erik. Her fingers tingled when his brushed her fingertips and she pulled her hand away with a jerk.

"I mean really fix her." Erik chuckled. "No support pantyhose, no wire coat hangers. Quality engine parts."

"I know how to work on cars." Then she averted her eyes. "I just don't have the funds to buy car parts."

"This is on me," he said. "Don't worry."

"I can't let you do this..."

"I wish you'd stop telling me what I can and can't do." He unstrapped Tyler's car seat from Henrietta then transferred it to the back seat of his spotless white Lincoln Town Car.

"He's going to ruin your nice car if he gets ill again."

"Would you let me worry about that?" Erik said. He pulled the seat belt securely through the back of Tyler's car seat, then took Tyler from her outstretched arms. "I'm not worried by the way. The car can be cleaned."

Erik put Tyler into his seat gently as if he were a priceless Ming Vase, then brushed his hair out of his eyes before closing the door. Then he opened Holly's door and waited while she climbed in. "Lead the way, Holly Lynn."

Within moments, they were walking into the pediatrician's office and signing in at the front desk. The walls had been repainted since her last visit. A brightly colored jungle scene brightened the walls. Vivacious monkeys climbed hills. Birds flew over this one-dimensional paradise. Water falls burst from the Earth and she could almost feel the refreshing coolness and splash.

"Did you bring your payment today?" A wary gleam lit the office manager eyes. She stood like a sentinel in front of the computer. Her neon pink medical scrubs almost blinded Holly's sensitive eyes and she blinked.

"How much is the bill?" Erik reached in his pocket and pulled his wallet out of his slacks, his eyes never leaving the woman's stony face.

"Three-hundred twenty one dollars. I need it all today, before you see the doctor." As an afterthought, she blurted out, "Cash or credit card only." She looked grim, and as if she didn't believe Erik could cough up such a small fortune, not in cash anyway.

He peeled off the bills from a fat wad of currency that could easily add up to a thousand dollars, then handed them to the woman. "Give Ms. Ramsey the receipt please." He gave the woman a hard stare. "Doctor's aren't supposed to deny care to ill patients, especially not children." He turned on his heel and strode away not looking to see if Holly followed.

The woman's jaw dropped down about a foot and Holly wanted to tell her she shouldn't wear those clunky white gym shoes if she were going to put her foot in her mouth. She waited until the computerized receipt printed out and took the green onion peel paper from the woman, folded it and put it away carefully in her wallet.

Erik sang a duet with a crooning cartoon canine on the television, much to Tyler's delight. He pointed to the television screen as he held Tyler who watched him raptly, grinning from ear to ear, clapping his chubby hands.

Holly hung back watching the exchange, a pang of sadness twisting around her heart that Tyler's daddy had no time for such simple pleasures with his own child. It was obvious that Tyler really missed having a daddy around.

Dr. Kaisson proved much friendlier than his office manager, playing with Tyler in his gentle demeanor. He poked, prodded, pushed and looked into all of Tyler's body cavities, then took his temperature while she stood beside him, holding the child as still as possible.

After the examination was completed, he swiveled to Holly and Erik on his stool, pronouncing as he scribbled onto a blue prescription pad, "he's got the ordinary twenty four hour flu. Give him lots of electrolyte fluids and one teaspoon of Amoxycillin every four hours. He should feel better by tomorrow afternoon, in time to have turkey for Thanksgiving dinner Thursday."

The doctor stood, walked over to Tyler who sat on the patient's table. The baby batted his hand in the air playfully, and Dr. Kaisson pinched his chubby chipmunk cheek with affection. "Hang in there young man. You'll be right as rain this time tomorrow."

Dr. Kaisson opened a bright green cabinet, took out a small white and orange box and handed it to Holly with a kindly smile. "This is a sample of children's pain reliever and fever reducer. You can give him one and one-half teaspoons every four hours if he's feverish or seems to be in pain."

"Thank you doctor." She smiled shyly. She dropped the box into her purse, hitched Tyler into the crook of her arm, and he leaned his head against her chest. When Erik peeled off a twenty and a thirty to pay the bill, Tyler reached over without warning and grabbed Holly's breast and squeezed--hard.

She tried to stifle her sharp moan of pain, but it slipped past her lips and Erik looked up, humor clouding his dark eyes. A smile quirked the corners of his lips as he watched Holly pry Tyler's strong fingers from her breast.

She turned her back to Erik, to come face to face with Dr. Kaisson and another father walking out of a patient room with his little girl.

Heat rose in Holly's cheeks and she whispered to Tyler, "Let go now, or Christmas is canceled until you're twenty."

Tyler merely grinned and laughed, squeezing harder as if he were trying to twist off a childproof cap.

Tyler five. It wasn't funny now that she was his victim and she bowed to discipline the boy more when he was feeling better.

Finally, she wrenched his fingers off her now throbbing nipple, seriously considering wearing an iron-coned bra like the Viking women of the high seas until he started kindergarten.

Erik finished paying the bill without a word and drove her to her tiny efficiency apartment. He carried Tyler to her door, then she stopped and held out her arms to Tyler who dove towards her. She shielded her still sore breast with her arms, not foolish enough to be caught twice by the same prank.

"Thank you for everything." She lifting her eyes to his dark gaze, schooling herself not to swoon and not to reach out as she longed to do, to push that stray lock of dark hair off his forehead. "I'd invite you in but it's really small and I not very tidy." She thought about Erik sitting on her bed--the foldaway couch and she just couldn't face that, not today. She needed to get the Ty Guy settled down for a nap then take a nap herself to reenergize from the emotionally charged afternoon. Somehow, this domestic scene was harder to deal with than a crazy day at the office.

Harder than most days anyway, she amended with a wry twist of her lips.

Erik waited until she'd found her keys and opened her door, then smiled. "Take a nap baby boy and let your mama get some rest. We've all had a rough day." He shook Tyler's baby hand. He looked at her. "If he's still sick in the morning, let me know and I'll understand."

"Thank you." She locked gazes with him. Although she was new to the nine to five scene, she imagined most bosses wouldn't be so sympathetic much less go out of their way hers had today. "I'll let you know."

He pivoted on his heel, strolling to his town car. He whistled a chipper tune and she noted the jounce to his step and smiled.

She remembered that she had no way to go to work, the store or anywhere and cried out in consternation, "Erik! Wait!"

He spun on his heel and stared at her, confusion clouded his eyes.

She ran towards him. "What about my car? We forgot to pick it up. I can't get to work without it."

"Um." He scratched his smooth jaw, closing the gap between them. "That does present problems." His glanced flicked over her as she bounced Tyler on her hip. He grabbed her gold hoop earring and yanked.

"Don't abuse your mama, Tyler." Erik unpried the chubby fingers from Holly's ear and earring. His fingertips brushed her neck and shivers ran along her spine. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, schooling herself to breathe deeply and relax, not to let herself be affected by her ex's physical proximity.

"Can you take me to collect my van?" She hated to ask for more favors, feeling she had used her share for the next million years already.

"It's probably been towed to the shop already," he said. "I'll pick you up for work tomorrow. Can you and the Ty guy be ready by seven? That's if he's well enough to go to Sherrie's house."

She nibbled her lower lip. "He might not be. How will I let you know?"

Erik took out his wallet and flipped it open again. Extracting a business card, he put it on the brick wall next to her door, took his gold pen from his pocket and scribbled a phone number on it.

"Call me in the morning. I jog before work but I'll take the cell phone with me. Call tonight if you have to get anything for Tyler."

Her eyes widened. How could she have forgotten? "His prescription." She dug around in the bottom of her purse for the almost forgotten slips of paper. "And the electrolyte fluid. We forgot to stop."

"Give it to me. It can't wait till morning" He held out his hand and probably looked like a bill collector to her curious neighbors who strained their necks to watch them. This was ludicrous. She pulled him inside, away from prying eyes. As soon as he crossed the threshold, she dropped her hands and stepped back.

"Come in. You can't hang out on my doorstep. Want juice or a soda?" She wasn't one hundred percent positive she had either. Maybe she could pass off the gallon of cold water in the fridge as the gourmet variety, if she put it in her best glass.

"A glass of water would be great." Without asking, as naturally as if he'd done it since the child's birth, he lifted Tyler from her arms. Perching on the couch, he bounced a very gleeful, giggling Tyler on his knee.

Her heart fluttered when he sat on her bed and she turned her back to the men, busying herself getting Erik's water and a bottle for the baby. She quickly straightened the clutter off the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the efficiency, put it in a fairly neat stack and shoved it under the kitchen sink.

Erik played pony boy with Tyler who squealed delightedly.

"Are you sure you want to bounce a sick baby on your knee?" Her eyebrow quirked as she handed the water to Erik and put the bottle into Tyler's outstretched hands. She kicked a dirty baby outfit under the couch. "That's rather like making a milk shake in a hand grenade and pulling the pin--if you get my drift."

Erik stopped immediately and the Ty Guy wailed in protest. He threw his bottle in anger and Erik caught it in his right hand just before it would have beaded him on his temple. "Don't get physical, Tyler. Violence never solved anything."

She smiled at the pair, her heart melting a little. This is the way it should've been. The three of them together, she and Erik raising their child together. Perhaps there'd be anther one on the way by now. That thought brought her up short. She couldn't do this to herself. Fantasizing about could've beens and should've beens would only make her miserable. She had a new life and had to get on with it.

But it was nigh impossible watching him bounce her baby on his knee, on the hide-away bed, her bed. She'd have trouble getting to sleep tonight.

Tyler lifted the bottle to his lips hungrily . When Erik finished his water, she took the glass and washed it.

"You're a lifesaver." Did she hear a quiver in her voice? Did her heart shine in her eyes? She had to get him out of here. She thought it was hard to deal with him at work where he reigned as the supercilious Prince Erik. But here, in the intimate confines of her cozy little apartment, with the baby on his knee gurgling at him, she found him nearly irresistible.

He had to go. Now.

"That's my cue." He chuckled, standing, and plopped Tyler into her arms. Without warning, he brushed her lips with a searing kiss. Flames licked her lips and flickered all the way to her toes. Just as she leaned into the kiss, he stood straight and strode to the door. "Don't worry so much, Princess." He favored her with his most charming smile. A stray lock of hair fell over his eyes. "The baby's going to be fine, even if his daddy's not here. I'll be back with the medicine in a jiffy."

Ohmigod. She stopped breathing, petrified to the spot, her eyes open so wide she wondered if they engulfed her face. Where had that dig come from about Tyler's daddy? He must mean Bryce. There was no other explanation. Unless he suspected. But wouldn't he be furious? Fit to kill? He not only looked calm, but happy. He wouldn't be happy if, when, he discovered her deception. She harbored no doubts about that.

What could she say to that landmine? She wanted to tell him the truth, but the words stuck in her throat. They refused to come out. "Let me give you some money." She scurried to the kitchen where she'd laid her purse.

He waved her suggestion off. "It's on me." He left so quickly her protests fell on deaf ears.

She put Tyler in his crib and picked up the apartment, sticking the stray clothes in her bulging laundry hamper in her tiny pink bathroom. She ran around the room with her vacuum cleaner like a woman possessed. Then she grabbed the spray cleaner and wiped off all the surfaces where chubby baby fingerprints greased.

Tyler jumped up and down in his crib, his head bobbing back and forth like a pin ball machine, watching her run back and forth in her pumps.

"Mommy's just going a little crazy." Under her breath, she mumbled to herself. "I can't believe I let a gorgeous man see this mess." She vowed to keep her apartment ready for a white glove inspection at all times in future and not be caught unawares again. But to be fair to herself, she'd never dreamed her ex would step in her home ever again.

Just as she tossed her cleaning rag under the sink with the rest of her stash, Erik returned.

"I thought I told you to rest." He set the white, stapled prescription bag on the kitchen counter beside her purse. Next to it, he set down two other bags, one that smelled suspiciously like a salami sandwich from her favorite deli. He remembered? Tears stung the back of her eyes. He really could be very sweet -- when he wanted to be. She wondered, why now?

"Single moms never get to rest," she said. "It's part of the mommy-baby contract."

He ran his fingertip down her jaw line as he leaned impossibly close, making her knees knock and her blood boil. His warm breath tickled the curve of her neck, which strained toward him. "Tyler's father shouldn't have left you alone to struggle like this. The man should be shot."

Reality returned with a bang. He'd hate her when the truth came out. Then he'd hate himself for softening towards her. But he'd despise her. Forever. She moved away, pretending she didn't see his confusion.

Erik's cell phone shrilled without warning. He swore softly under his breath and flipped the black phone open with one flick of his wrist.

"Erik Taylor."

He listened in silence for several moments, frowning. "I'll be right there."

He turned to her and smiled wryly. "Chaos at the office. They can't go four hours without a baby sitter."

"What happened?" A hundred scenarios scrolled across her mind. Most starred either Darby or Phillip.

"Nothing I can't handle. Take care of Tyler and get some rest if you can. There's Infolyte and a bite of lunch for you on the kitchen counter." He smiled. "Be ready by seven tomorrow."

He rushed away and she watched until his town car pulled smoothly out of her drive heading north, towards the office. Deja vu? It seemed fate always had her watching his departure.

She closed her door then scooped Tyler out of his crib, sat in her garage sale rocker, rocking him to sleep as she crooned the lullabies her mother used to sing to her, a medley of tunes that all sounded strange to ears that teethed on pop music.

Weird lyrics like "Maresee dotes and doesee dotes and little lambsee divy, a kid'leat ivy, too… now what am I going to do with you?" Like that telephone game where the message got diluted and twisted after each retelling, she knew time had diluted her memory and she badly mangled the song. Still, it reminded her of her childhood, so she muddled through, closing her eyes, lulled by the gentle rocking. Tyler didn't seem to notice how badly she mangled the songs, for he snoozed away in no time at all. She followed him into dreamland shortly thereafter.

The day before Thanksgiving dawned bright. Pastel swirls colored the sky like a child's spin art painting. She peeked out her kitchen window, finally feeling the autumn chill in the air which was ludicrous so deep in South Florida--there wasn't a falling leaf for a couple hundred miles north and the temperature was probably already seventy degrees at six a.m.

It was just a feeling, knowing the Thanksgiving potluck was today during lunch hour and that tomorrow afternoon, she and the Ty Guy would be stuffing themselves with ham, turkey and Aunt Nora's prize-winning pumpkin pie with the rest of the family around Uncle Bart's large oak table. She hugged herself and spun around.

Thanksgiving heralded her favorite time of year and this year she had a lot to be thankful for--not just a new job but a career she could sink her teeth into, a new future--and a tiny voice niggled in her mind--Erik was back in her life.

She pushed the unwelcome thought far away, but not far enough. She grimaced. Alpha Centauri wouldn't be far enough and the office next door was certainly too darn close.

The baby slept peacefully as he had for most of the night. His fever had come down and stayed down once she'd started giving him the acetaminophen and antibiotic. She'd talked to Sherrie who'd promised to keep Tyler for her even if she had to keep him separated from the other kids. In exchange, she promised to bring her a plate heaped with the Thanksgiving feast from the office potluck.

Humming Tim McGraw's new tune to herself, she finished washing up her breakfast dishes. She stood them in the dish drainer to dry, then she watered the thriving herbs and spider plant in her windowsill.

She loved having short, no muss-no fuss hair. All she had to do was wash it, run a comb through it and forget it. In five minutes, she'd donned a buttercup yellow A-line dress she'd found at her favorite thrift shop for four dollars and fifty cents. It wasn't exactly a power suit for the office, but a soft, pretty dress that brought out alluring sparks in her chocolate brown eyes.

Today would be more relaxed than a normal day at the office anyway. She'd deliberately scheduled no interviews and planned to over see preparations, set-up and then clean-up of the potluck dinner. Her biggest task would be to make sure everyone got sufficient food and no one got left out of the festivities and merry making.

She peered at herself in the mirror, slashed muted orange lipstick on her lips, applied soft brown eye shadow to her lids, swept her eyelashes with very black mascara--then stuck her tongue out at herself and laughed.

She looked good. Happy. Her cheeks bloomed without the aid of blush and her eyes sparkled. Her hair bounced and bobbed, framing her heart shaped face. "Something's missing." With a snap of her fingers, she noted, "Accessories."

Accessories made the outfit she'd always heard. She rotated the necklace tree she'd found at the church bazaar for a couple of bucks and thumbed through large beaded necklaces in all shapes and colors that she had also acquired at various thrift shops for one or two dollars each.

She found one with brown and orange wooden beads flecked with gold that matched her dress perfectly and slipped it over her head. If she'd thought she'd looked good in the dress before, she looked gorgeous now. She slipped wide gold hooped earrings in her ears, slid her watch on her wrist and shimmied into taupe support hose.

Tyler stirred when she scooped him into her arms, rubbing his eyes with chubby fists. She rubbed his back, crooning to him. "Are you feeling better Ty?" She put her lips to his forehead, smiling at the coolness.

"Let's give you another dose of your medicine and get you dressed big boy." She couldn't resist hugging him close and covering his face with kisses.

Tyler gurgled and yanked her earring.

She unclasped his fingers, reprimanding an emphatic, "No! You don't try to tear off Mommy's ear. I still need it."

Gathering his diaper changing supplies, she powdered and diapered him. "Stop kicking me," she warned as she tried to slip bicycling legs into his one piece Miami Dolphin's football jersey. "You're going to be a cyclist for the Olympics, aren't you Ty?"

Tyler gurgled and cooed, grabbing for her earrings again.

She pulled back in the nick of time, laughing, shaking her finger at her son. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice..."

She peered at her Mickey Mouse watch. "Twenty minutes until Daddy. Can Mommy rock you, Tyler?"

"Mama." Tyler smiled, holding up his chubby arms to her.

She smiled down at her son and lifted him to her. She carried him to the old rocking chair and settled him on her lap in the crook of her arm while he drank the Infolyte out of a baby bottle where blue and green doggies and their bones danced in thin air.

Erik arrived at seven on the dot, took Tyler from her arms and bundled him into his car seat. When they arrived at Sherrie's, he carried him into the house, over Holly's protests. "We're pals, aren't we Ty? We men gotta stick together."

Jennifer bounded up to Erik, took his hand in hers and tugged. Her blue eyes widened with feminine appreciation, despite her youth. "Are you Tyler's new daddy?"

Furious heat suffused Holly's cheeks as she tried to think of a suitable reply. The child was a sorceress. How could she know? "He's just a friend of the family." She struggled not to blush, not to slink behind the couch and hide.

"When are you going to marry Holly?" the child asked, unabashed by the first reply. Her long blonde hair bounced up and down behind her. The rubber souls of her gym shoes flashed red and green like a Christmas tree.

"We're just friends." Erik chuckled easily and set Tyler on the floor, patting his bottom. "Go get 'em slugger."

Tyler swaggered after a puppy that took one look at the advancing child, stuck its tail between its hind legs and scooted under the couch, its little hind end wiggling until it disappeared from view. Tyler threw himself on the floor, wriggling his butt high in the air while he tried to pull the puppy out of his hiding place.

"My mommy has a lot of friends like you," Jennifer said knowledgeably. "But you're a real hunk!" She skipped away and plopped in front of the television set to watch a big purple dinosaur and started singing his theme song with him, "I love you.."

"Sorry about that." Sherrie shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes. "She's five going on thirty-five. Her mother gets around."

"No offense taken." He pushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes.

"The words of babes." She laughed, scooping Tyler into her arms, giving him a goodbye kiss on his cheek, then rubbed off the lipstick imprint she'd left, with her thumb.

Erik tousled Tyler's blonde hair. "Don't destroy the house today little Terminator." Grasping Holly's elbow in his fingers, he propelled her towards the door.

"Don't forget my feast." Sherrie rocked Jennifer's four month old brother, Jason. The infant rested on her shoulder, a burp rag between the child and the sitter's blouse. The flat of her hand patted him gently in a steady, gentle rhythm.

"We won't. Promise." The screen door slammed behind them.

When Erik and Holly walked into the office together, Lucy lifted her eyebrow. Questions sparkled in her eyes, but Holly shushed her, darting a look of don't-you-dare-say-a-word at her. Lucy would be all over her later, which was too soon. How could she give her friend answers if she didn't know them?

"I suppose the little bronco's feeling better?" Lucy covered the mouthpiece of the phone, using a stage whisper. She shuffled papers on her desk. When the computer dinged, her glance strayed to it, perused the screen for a second, then slid back to Holly.

"He had a twenty-four hour thing." She laughed. "The doctor pumped him full of antibiotics and he's back to his normal, honry self this morning." She put the round white casserole dish she'd brought for the pot-luck feast on the reception counter and took yesterday's sign in-sign out sheets from Lucy. Her brow furrowed.

"Something wrong?" Erik around her, snatching the papers from her fingers. She favored him with a semi-poisonous glare.

"My wife chained me to the bed and wouldn't untie me." Erik chuckled. Unbelievable." He handed the papers back to her without another word, but a large grin on his face. He spun on his heel and strode down the hall.

The women burst out laughing after he rounded the corner. Holly hoped her expression didn't show her acute embarrassment. What had he been thinking when he read that?

She dragged her mind back to other pressing matters.

"Did you bring the pie?" Her mouth watered. The whole office smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg this morning, with some strange spices--probably Jamaican curry or pepper sauce-- mingling with traditional Thanksgiving scents.

"Sure did. It's not Turkey Day without Jerry's pumpkin pie." Lucy licked her lips. "What did you bring?" She peeked under the foil covering of Holly's casserole dish. Steam spiraled out.

"Mom's four-alarm green beans. Don't eat it without a fire hose handy."

"We'll see." Lucy peered at the black specs of pepper dotting the beans, the light in her eyes leery. "It looks like there's more pepper than beans. What's that red powder?"

"Cajun spice," Holly said, smiling. "Word to the wise. Drink plenty fluids with it," she imitated Philip's Jamaican accent. "I've got to run and get this feast organized." She smiled apologetically.

"Don't forget to get someone to relieve me." Lucy rested her chin on her hand and pouted. "I hate missing all the parties, being stuck out here. Bring me a plate of the good stuff before the vultures leave me the fish eyes and goat gizzards."

Grimacing, Holly flicked her wrist in the air. "Suddenly, I'm not very hungry. I hope you're teasing."

"I wish I was. Almost anything's possible with island cooking." She glanced around as if ensuring their privacy. "Be warned."

Holly spent her morning checking with everybody that they had brought a dish, ensuring there were sufficient paper cups, plates and plastic utensils. She rounded up her crew of volunteers around ten, scrubbed down microwaves, the counters, the tables and the sinks and started warming up a long line of entrees and vegetables.

Penny strung orange streamers from the ceiling and a long Thanksgiving banner book-ended by colorful tissue paper turkeys. With Olga's help, she covered the tables with flimsy plastic tablecloths covered with turkeys, pilgrims and Indians.

Sleeping Betty slipped ladles and large spoons inside all the dishes and took little samples here and there.

Holly arranged the desert table with pies, cakes, cookies and several frothy concoctions that made her mouth water.

Philip sauntered into the kitchen whistling a happy tune, sniffing appreciatively. "Wha' happenin'? Smells plenty delicious, pretty ladies. What's good?" He tried to snatch a chocolate chip cookie from a plastic turkey tray. she

She smacked his hand away. "Wait till it's time." Her clunky beads chinked around her neck.

"Spoil sport." He smiled his most disarming smile, skirting the desert table, eyeing the food and licking his lips then swung the refrigerator door open.

She shook her head and resumed organizing the deserts, sliding knives, spoons and pie cutters into each dish.

"Ooh!" Philip ogled every morsel of food, but he looked particularly enamored of the most bizarre dishes that she didn't trust. He groaned loudly.

She glanced up from slicing the pumpkin pie. "What did you do?" Forgetting the pie, eyeing the mess he'd made, she matched him groan for groan. The pie slicer slid out of her hands, plopping on top of Lucy's pumpkin pie.

Raw egg dripped from his hand down his pant legs. Egg whites, broken yolk and eggshells puddled on the floor on and around Philip's expensive black leather shoes.

"I could have sworn I hard boiled this egg." He shook his hand in disgust.

"Uh-huh. Grab the mop and clean up this mess, sailor."

"Me do woman's work?" Philip sent her a glance that told her how crazy he thought she was. A man doing woman's work? "Ya man." His tone told her not! He was lucky she wasn't his wife.

"You made the mess, you clean it up." She stared him down, daring him to defy her.

Philip took a step, miscalculated, and put his foot down in the middle of egg yolk and fell on his rear. "Me gone!" Philip yelled on his way down.

She jumped back just in time to prevent him from sweeping her legs out from under her.

Penny, Olga and Betty burst into giggles. Shipping and purchasing personnel crowded into the lunchroom to watch the debacle, everyone laughing.

Philip grappled to his feet, bowed deeply and swept out his hand before him as if he were a symphonic conductor. Egg dripped through his fingers and down his backside.

"Holly Lynn!" Uncle Bart bellowed. "Do we need to call the police?"

"It's under control Un... Mr. Duarte." She rolled her eyes mentally at herself. Would she never remember? It was only a matter of time before she couldn't bite back the words in time.

"Are we ready to eat yet?" Bart didn't like to be kept waiting. Like Tyler, he didn't seem to realize there was such a thing as preparation time.

"We're working on it. We'll start at noon."

"I get the first slice of Nora's pie," Uncle Bart said.

Erik stuck his head around the corner, his eyes narrowed. "What's going on in here?"

"N-nothing." She swallowed hard, stepping between Philip and Erik. She waved her hand behind her back, motioning for Philip to mop up the floor.

Laughter rang out and she heard the swish-swish of the rag mop behind her.

"Everything's under control." She wished he'd disappear until everything was perfect.

"When pigs fly." Erik looked at her in disbelief. A cocky grin lifted the corners of his mouth and he disappeared back to his chrome castle.

Grumbling, Philip mopped the floor. "Woman's work." When the floor sparkled like new, he stomped to the men's room. "I gone."

By eleven forty-five, everyone lined the walls of the small lunchroom, and a line stretched down the hall past Holly's office.

She scooped ice out of the ice bin with a red plastic cup while Penny and Olga poured soda into the ice filled cups in preparation for the flood of hungry employees.

At ten till noon, she dished up a plate for Lucy who was stuck on switchboard duty.

"Your feast, Madame." She balanced the plastic plate on her hand.

Lucy shoved her papers aside so she could put the plate down which she did with a flourish.

"I hope you like apple cider. I grabbed you a glass before the natives get it all."

"Love it. What's that?" Lucy asked, eyeing a stew looking concoction suspiciously.

"I don't know. It smelled good." Holly laughed. "Be a little adventurous."

"You trust those people, Hall?" Lucy studied the food on her plate, shoving some aside. "Who knows what they eat?" Lucy shuddered, then dug into something that looked safe.

"I'll have Candy relieve you from switchboard in about fifteen-twenty minutes. All right?" Dropping a hand on Lucy's shoulder, she squeezed affectionately.

"That'll be great," Lucy smiled. "If there's any leftovers, do you think I can take a plate home to Ryan?"

"There's tons of food. Go right ahead. I promised to take a plate to Ty's sitter too."

Erik strode around the corner. "Hey Lucy and Ethel. Break it up. I need you. The natives are about ready to attack the food." His words stole her breath. She knew he hadn't meant it as a double-entendre but she could dream.

"Thanks." Lucy was too busy to catch the underlying tension between them.

"Let me get Mr. Duarte so we can get started." She hurried to Uncle Bart's office. "The natives are getting restless." Long fingers circled his arm, and she escorted him to the lunchroom. "Can you make a short speech so we can dig into the food?"

Bart just smiled, reached over and squeezed her hand. "Is the Ty Guy feeling better?"

"Much." Holly bestowed a warm smile upon her favorite uncle. "Sherrie's got him."

"It's high time Rosalie helped you a little more." He slid a careful glance at her from the corner of his eye. In a very low voice, he added, "And his father."

She froze, staring at him in disbelief. A huge tear clung to the tip of her lashes. Bit she her lower lip until she tasted salty blood and shook her head. "Don't go there. You know the story."

"Indeed I do." Bart patted her hand on his arm. "I've known them both all their lives. On your dear mother's part, I have the scars to prove it."

The tears nearly blinded her. She skipped a step, stumbling against Bart. How could he say that? He knew her position. Erik had left them alone and destitute. He'd left just when she needed him most and he'd shattered her heart.

"Take it easy, niece. No rush. The food's not that good." He hugged her until her body stopped shaking, whispering in her ear as he'd done when she was a small child. "I peeked. Half has goat's eyes and the other, fish heads."

That made her laugh.

"That's my girl.

Bart entered the lunchroom and stood behind the dessert table as if he were a king. When he cleared his throat, everybody quieted. Erik joined him, as if he were his first at command, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Happy Thanksgiving, everybody." Bart greeted his troops.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Duarte." The response was more rote than genuine.

"Today is a day to celebrate our many blessings, a day to praise God for bringing abundance to the pilgrims and for friendship."

Everybody clapped and cheered.

"Everything smells wonderful. I can't wait to dig into the turkey." Bart took his place at the head of the line as was his due, and started the procession. He passed up anything that stared back at him, she noted, not surprised.

"After you, Princess." Erik murmured in her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin. Putting his hand in the small of her back, he propelled her into the front of the line behind Uncle Bart who everybody, including Philip, deferred to.

Shivering, she tried to concentrate on the food in front of her. Marinated mushrooms and whipped green Jell-O called to her. She put a slice of ham, some homemade macaroni and cheese, a little of this and that onto her plate, amazed how one spoonful of the different dishes amounted to a plate heaped a mile high with food. So Bart had been wrong. It wasn't all goat's eyes and fish heads. But there were a lot of strange looking dishes she didn't have the nerve to touch.

The very next dish she looked into stared back at her. Fish eyes. She groaned. "Luce wasn't teasing."

"Do you want to try some?" Candy asked from across the table. "They're a Jamaican delicacy. I only eat them fried. Be adventurous."

She put her hand over her food when Candy started to ladle the fish onto her plate. If one fish eye landed on her plate, she'd be sick to her stomach, right here, right now. "I have a policy." Her head spun. "I don't eat anything that stares back at me."

"Coward," Erik whispered in her ear, his warm breath making her tingle all over. People pushed in the line and he bumped into her back.

To cover her wholly inappropriate reaction to him, she sent him a quelling glance. "You eat them." She'd even dish them up on his plate. Gladly.

"Try this." Philip dished a spoonful of a strange looking stew with large chunks of pork-like stringy meat swimming in it, onto her plate. "Plenty good!"

"It's not fish eyes is it?" Whatever it was, eyes or not, it didn't appeal to her.

"No pretty lady." Philip grinned broadly, his teeth pearly white against his dark skin. "Plenty good. Enjoy."

"Thank you." Balancing her heavy plate in her hand, she followed Bart to a table, sitting beside him, bowed her head, folded her hands in her lap and said a small prayer.

Erik claimed the seat next to her, Philip took the chair next to Bart and the other seats filled up in the blink of an eye.

The marinated mushrooms were to die for and she vowed to get the recipe. She didn't much care for the Jell-O and pushed it to the side. The ham drenched in raisin sauce was so delish it must've been a thousand calories but she didn't care. The macaroni and cheese tasted scrumptious and she knew the Ty Guy would love it if she could get the recipe.

Finally, she stabbed a piece of the stewed meat with her fork and lifted it to her lips. She closed her mouth around it carefully, then chewed, slowly at first, then more swiftly when she decided the morsel was quite tasty.

Philip watched her silently as she finished the stew, his attention too rapt. "My wife made that stewed goat. It's an old Jamaican delicacy passed on from her grandmother."

"Goat?" Her stomach grumbled.

"Baby goat brains. The most tender meat..." He held his fingers to his puckered lips.

"Baby goat brains?" She clutched her stomach. She was going to be sick. "Excuse me." She pushed her chair back, not caring that it toppled to the floor.

"Holly Lynn?" Bart turned to her concerned.

"I-I'll be f-fine." After I get my stomach pumped! "Just don't let me near Philip or I swear I'll kill him."

"Get in line." Betty chuckled. "He has a knack of getting on your nerves sometime or other."

"He fed me goat brains!" Her hands clenched so hard together in an effort not to strangle the irrepressible man, her knuckles paled. "Baby goat brains!"

"A few goat brains won't kill you," Betty said good-humoredly. "Come out with us before Erik sends in a search party. He's very worried about you."

"You don't say." She bit back a smile.

"My diamond ring fell down the drain!" Penny shrieked, piercing Holly's ears. "My engagement ring is washing out to sea. An alligator's going to swallow it!"

By now, most people had finished eating and the lunchroom was almost deserted except for the clean-up crew and a handful of stragglers remained. Assessing the situation quickly, she went to the distraught girl. She squeezed her shoulders and spoke as soothingly as she could. "We'll do our best to find your ring."

"Not an alligator." Philip shook his head, his expression very serious. "If it goes out to sea, a shark will probably get it. They like shiny baubles."

"Shut up, you imbecile." Daniel rolled his eyes. "Can't you see you're making her feel worse?"

"I'm sorry, Penny," Philip said, "I don't think a shark will get it."

"No?" Penny's teary eyes widened. Her lips trembled.

"Of course not!" She was mortified by his insensitivity. Men!

"Of course not! Plenty small. It'll just sink to the bottom of the ocean and never be found ag..." He covered his mouth with his hands.

Penny shrieked, flailing her arms, inconsolable.

"Oops." He backed away when Daniel pointed at him.

"Get back to your cubicle this instant before I zip your lips shut permanently. That village must be laughing their heads off right now."

"Holly Lynn!" Uncle Bart bellowed from his office. "Do we need to call the police?"

"Just the roto-rooter man." She cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Don't call him yet." Erik rolled up his shirtsleeves of his Christian Dior, striding to the sink. Squatting, he stuck his head under the counter, peered at the plumbing fixtures. "Holly, get me a flashlight and a wrench."

"Do we have those things?" She marveled that he would get his hands dirty. In the old days he would have called a plumber straight away.

"Don't call him yet, Un...Mr. Duarte!"

"In the broom closet."

"Here they are." Daniel handed the wrench to Erik and held the flashlight at an angle so Erik could see the pipes.

"Hold it steady," Erik instructed, laying on his back under the sink, his long legs stretched out.

"My ring." Penny sobbed. "My marriage is cursed. Cursed I tell you. Humberto will kill me when he finds out I lost his grandmother's engagement ring."

"Erik's trying to find it for you." Betty hugged her to her ample bosom.

"I love this pumpkin pie." Philip stuck his finger in a slice then sucked it off.

"It's coming loose." Erik grunted. "Another twist or two should do it." His legs moved up and down as he tried to squeeze further under the sink.

Philip ambled over to the sink.

"Voila!" Erik pulled the elbow off the pipes, handing it out to Daniel, who shook it out and Penny's diamond ring fell to the floor, glittering.

"My ring!" she yelled, falling to the floor on her knees, scooping the ring to her breast as if praying.

Philip turned on the tap over Erik, washing the pumpkin pie residue from his sticky fingers.

A waterfall struck Erik in the face, drenching him.

Philip gasped in awe, inching away.

Erik crawled out from under the sink, jumping lithely to his feet, wet, black hair hanging over his eyes like an English sheep dog. He sputtered water from his mouth like a fountain, pushed the hair out of his blazing smoky gray eyes and stalked towards Philip, his hands out before him in perfect strangling position. "Colby. I'll give you one minute's head start before I strangle you!"

Philip jumped into the air as if he were in a Michael Jackson video, his mouth in a large, silent "O". "Me gone!" His voice was a girlish shriek. When he landed on his feet, he pivoted and ran as if the wind spirited his feet.

A huge sunny grin split Daniel's face and he rubbed his hands together. Under his breath he mumbled, "Now maybe we can get rid of him."

"Erik Taylor call home." Oh no! Candy was announcing over the public announcement system again. "E.T. call home."

Spontaneous laughter erupted throughout the building.

"I'm going to kill Candy--right after I throttle Philip!" Erik snarled. Water ran in rivulets off him. His normally perfect hair hung in rivulets over his eyes, down his ears, and he looked like a drowned puppy. A drowned Rottweiler puppy. She backed away.

"You can call the police now, Unc...Mr. Duarte!" When she was a safe distance from the still smoking Erik, she sank to her knees giggling. "You'd better call the whole swat team!"

Erik lounged on Aunt Nora's creaking front porch swing, Thanksgiving Day, before the Rose Bowl dominated televisions from coast to coast, while the turkey and dressing roasted in the oven and the cherry pie bubbled over on the rack overhead. He watched a group of neighborhood kids play a scrimmage football game across the street at Old Man Johnston's house, marveling that they looked like normal everyday kids and not the millionaires kids that ruled this neighborhood.

Sipping a glass of cold apple cider, he listened to the birds chirp in the palm trees next to the house. The cider slid down his throat deliciously and smoothly and he enjoyed it immensely. Aunt Nora's pet terrier, Rascal, curled up on his foot, snoring to wake the dead. His tail thumped the wooden porch. His paws twitched as if he were dreaming.

He mulled over his life. Where had he taken a right turn when he should have gone left? Where had he turned left when he should have gone straight?

Drumming his fingers on the lounger, he stared long and hard at one black-haired little boy with more spunk--and more bruises and scrapes to show for his rowdiness--than his friends. He'd dreamed of having a son like that, one with spirit and laughter, one that reminded him of himself as a child. At thirty-one, he should have a son by now. Heck, he should have a wife, a son, a daughter and a big mangy dog and live in the suburbs where there were plenty of wide open spaces to play football or baseball with the kids.

He should be married to Holly and Tyler should be his son, not some other man's, a man who didn't appreciate his treasure.

Sighing deeply, he set his glass on the table beside him, rising to his full height, startling Rascal out of his deep slumber. Wishing couldn't change the past. Time machines only existed in the movies and books. He'd let Holly slip away and now he had to pay the price--loneliness. Regret. Heartache.

As if in a trance, he ambled across the street. "Can I join you guys?" He smiled pleasantly, brushing a stray lock of dark hair out of his eyes.

The dark haired imp looked him up and down suspiciously. "Do you know how to throw a pigskin?" Without warning, he tossed the ball, hitting Erik in the stomach.

"Go wide and deep." He arranged his fingers on the ball's lacing as he'd done in college.

The boy ran to the edge of the neighbor's yard, a good forty feet away, daring Erik to throw such a long distance.

Erik threw back his arm and let the pigskin fly, mentally noting that pigs do fly--sometimes.

The boy ran backwards, watching the hurtling object in the sky as if calculating how far to run, how fast. He opened his arms, caught the ball, cradling it to his stomach and fell on his back, rolling in the plush green lawn.

Exhilaration swept over Erik. It had been too long since he'd played. When he had kids, he'd throw the pigskin with them whenever they got the chance. "Did I make the cut?"

"You can be on our team, Mister," a chubby boy wearing designer shorts said, walking up to him, holding out his hand for a handshake. "I'm Bennington Johnston of the Maine Johnstons. Everyone calls me Bink."

"Hey Binkie." A tall skinny kid dressed in a wide striped t-shirt, challenged Bink. "Why's he on your team. We want him on our team."

"Because it's my uncle's yard and my football." Bink fold his arms over his chest as if that settled the problem.

"So what?" the dark-haired imp challenged. "If you get him, we get Josh."

"Josh is the best quarterback." Bink held his ground defiantly.

"That's the deal." The black-haired kid pressed for his quarter, not giving an inch.

"Oh, alright," Bink conceded. "What's your name stranger?"

"Erik. That's my Aunt Nora's house across the street." He tilted his head toward Nora and Bart's ten-bedroom mansion.

"That's cool," the dark-haired boy said. "Old Bart dressed up like Freddy Kruger on Halloween and spooked all the little kids. You shoulda heard them screaming..." he chuckled. "My little sister, Muffy, wouldn't go to sleep till three a.m. Boy was my mom pissed!"

"Mine too!" Bink smiled. "She was mad enough to chew her diamond tiara."

"Are we gonna play or chew the blubber?" Erik challenged. "Once Aunt Nora calls me for turkey, I'm outta here."

"Play!" they yelled in unison.

"You play quarterback?" Bink asked Erik, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Sure thing. All pro in college at Notre Dame..."

"Not Harvard or Yale?" Bink blinked.

"Nope. The fighting Irish."

Erik lined up with the boys, facing off against the other team, losing himself in the game. Soft health-spa muscles screamed from the abuse of nine rough and tumble twelve year olds tackling him to the ground. His knees sported scrapes and he was sure his arms had a few bruises brewing somewhere. Grass stains covered him from head to toe and he laughed with abandon. He hadn't had so much fun in years.

He glanced up when he heard a car spit and sputter down the dead end circle and halt a few feet away. Holly climbed out of her old van amidst a billow of gray smoke, circled the rear then released Tyler from his car seat. His white-blonde head bobbed up and down as he be-bopped toward Aunt Nora's porch. He protested holding his mama's hand and yanked, pulling her around.

Holly's eyes locked with Erik's and the connection sizzled as it had in the old days. Her brown eyes crinkled at the corners as she looked him up and down and he knew he looked like an overgrown kid that was one giant grass stain.

"Erik!" Tyler called when he spotted him, trotting towards him at a dead baby run. "I want to play ball." He held his arms out.

"Come back here young man." Holly chased after the two-year-old imp. A foil-covered casserole dish jiggled in her hands. Her brow knit together and Erik knew the Ty Guy had landed himself in major trouble this time.

Sharp pangs of regret pierced Erik's heart. That little guy should be his son, not Bryce's. What had gone wrong?

"Catch Erik!" Bink yelled.

Daydreaming, his attention on Holly and her little boy, Erik failed to look up in time. The pigskin barreled into his face, knocking him backward on his ass.

Stunned, Erik rolled over, blinked at the blurry figures of six Hollies running across the street with six squirming, screaming Tyler in her arms.

"Erik! Are you all right?" She put Tyler on his feet near the big boys, kneeling at Erik's side, her fingers pushing through his hair, checking for bumps.

"What's a little tumble?" he growled, not wanting to look like a sissy in front of the guys yet loving the feel of Holly's warm fingers on his scalp. He closed his eyes until his vision returned to normal.

"You've got a knot the size of Mt. Rushmore," she said, pressing on it.

"Ouch! Lighten up, Holly Lynn," Erik scowled. It's just a little football injury. It's Thanksgiving--par for the course."

"You need ice on that..."

"Cool it, Princess," he whispered. "I'll look like a dork."

Tyler ambled up to Erik, grinning from ear to ear, the football poised in his hand.

"Hey there Ty Guy," Erik smiled, leaning on his elbow. "How about if Cousin Erik teaches you to play football?"

Tyler spiked the football in Erik's chest, smashing him to the ground. He jumped up and down, clapping, laughing in glee.

"Tyler Nicholas Ramsey!" Holly yelled. "You do not throw footballs at people! You're coming with me this instant..."

"Stop babying the boy, Holly." Erik struggled to his feet unsteadily, stars whirling around his head, his chest aching. "Do you want him to be a sissy?"

Holly scowled. "I want my son to be a well-behaved young man."

"A sissy."

"You can say that after he maimed you for life? Are you going to be there to handle him when he becomes a royal little brat?" Her gaze dueled with his. She stood, hands on her slim hips.

"Uncle Bart's right. The boy needs a man in his life. Someone to teach him how to play football, someone to take him fishing. Someone to get the sissiness out of him."

"My son's not a sissy!" She glared at him, willing him to but out of her business.

Tyler laughed as if it were a grand game.

"He will be if you keep babying him..."

"What do you suggest I do?" She faced off against him, her gaze blazing into his. Her nostrils flared and her back straightened.

"Leave him here with me for awhile and join the women in the kitchen."

"I knew you were a chauvinist." She hesitated, looking from her son to his father and back to the baby who blustered around the big boys with his shoulders hunched like a pro football player.

"Look at him, Hall. He wants to play with the boys."

"He can't play in a real football game." Was the man crazy? People broke their bones on that field. They died out there and he wanted to put a two-year old in the middle of that massacre?

"What do you take me for? We'll just toss the ball with him, let him chase it and run off some energy." When she still hesitated, he swatted her bottom and murmured in her ear, "Scat. He needs some time alone with the boys."

"Don't let him out of your sight for a minute...he wanders off without warning..."

"Stop worrying. You'll sissify the boy for sure." Erik ruffled Tyler's hair. "You don't want that do you, Tyler the Terminator?"

Tyler growled, pretending to be a big bad monkey, his hands clawing the air.

"You really think I'm sissifying that boy? If he gets any more testosterone he'll revert to an ape. Humph!" She snorted, tossing her head, sashaying across the street to Uncle Bart's house.

Erik watched her swinging gait appreciatively, his libido hammering wildly. Right now, he'd really like to play a different kind of tackle.

At the front door, she turned, peeking, and he waved. Tyler buried his head in his chest like the bigger boys and chose that moment to ram Erik in the knees.

"I'm glad you're not a couple of inches taller, guy." He swung the child up and into his arms. "Your momma's right. You are a tough little guy. Uncle Bart knows what he's talking about." Erik shook his head, a little sad. But how could it be in the genes? Bryce was a total wimp.

Erik excused himself from the scrimmage match to take Tyler on the sidelines. He stood about five feet away from the child, tossing the football gently.

Tyler ran up on the ball, his hands high and the ball fell right through.

"That's a field goal." Erik cheered while Tyler clapped happily and chased the ball.

Roast turkey wafted in the air making Erik's mouth water. His stomach grumbled. There was nothing better than the smell of roast turkey and fresh cut grass on a November breeze.

Tyler picked up the ball, dropped it, picked it up again and tried to throw it to Erik. They became mesmerized by the game until Aunt Nora shrilled. "Time to get washed up boys. The turkey's done."

"Oh boy." Erik licked his lips, rubbing his hands down the back of his jeans. "The feast is ready. Are you hungry Guy?"

"I want turkey!" Tyler dashed off with the ball.

"Wait up!" Erik yelled, chasing him. He swung the husky toddler off his feet, putting him on his shoulders, holding him at his knees.

Aunt Nora stood at the door like a sentinel, one hand on her hip, chuckling. "You two go around back and wash up in the pool house. You're not tracking that mud on my new carpet."

"I need a fresh change of clothes for the Ty Guy."

"Holly'll bring them out to you. And new clothes for you too. I hope Bart's clothes will fit you or you're eating on the porch." Nora pecked Tyler on the cheek then slammed the screen door. "Hurry it up. Your uncle's starving and I don't know how long I can hold him off the bird."

"Looks like we've been banished to the backyard. I guess you're not a sissy after all."

Tyler growled like a mean monkey and covered Erik's eyes with chubby, dirty hands. "Turkey. Turkey. Turkey."

"Turkey, turkey, turkey." Erik played the game. He pretended to be the Red Baron to Tyler's delighted giggles, and he soared through the air, shooting make-believe enemies.

"I sure wish I had a son like you." Could've beens and should've beens assuaged him. For the zillionth time, he wondered what ever possessed Holly to choose Bryce Ramsey over him. To have Bryce's child.

Tyler laughed and pulled Erik's hair.

Holly overheard Erik and stopped in her tracks, tears swelling in her eyes. What had she done? Why hadn't she told Erik that Tyler was his son and not Bryce's?

It had seemed like the only thing to do at the time--now it merely seemed cruel. She had to set things right. But how? When?

Certainly not here today, in the bosom of the family. Sometimes they were the Partridge Family--and sometimes they were the James Family. It would be hard enough to deal with Erik's reaction, much less that of her mother, her aunt and uncle and Erik's parents. She'd be an absolute idiot to say anything to her mother when there was a long, sharp, electric carving knife on the table.

But she had to tell Erik--and soon. Which meant she should start seeking another job. He nor Aunt Nora wouldn't want her in CompUtech, especially not in the office next door to his once he discovered how she'd deceived him about Tyler. He wouldn't want her within a billion miles of Florida. Nix that, he'd want her to remain in Greater Ft. Lauderdale, but only to see his son frequently.

She slid into a grove of palm trees behind the bathhouse and hid until she composed herself.

When her hands stopped shaking and she'd dried her eyes, she forced herself to walk calmly to the bathhouse and rap on the door. "I've got the clothes."

"It's about time." Erik growled and Holly jumped back, startled. "Uncle Bart might've eaten all the turkey by now."

"Not unless he wanted to pull back a stump. Last time I looked, Mom had possession of the carving knife." She chuckled dryly. No one messed with Rosalie and lived. At least not happily.

She opened the door and walked in, pretending to be her chipper self, swinging the changes of clothing in her hand. When she held out her arms for her baby, Erik snatched the clothes and started changing him.

She had to choke back tears that threatened. Erik and his son had formed a special bond it appeared, without the formal knowledge that they were father and son.

"And the Ty Guy's turning into Tyler the Terminator. Does he always growl?" Erik's smoky gray gaze pinned her.

"Pretty much." Turning away, she pretended to look at the house. "I wouldn't look away from him if I were you."

"I know all his tricks by now," Erik said, too sure of himself. "He can't surprise me anymore."

"Uh-huh." She watched covertly from beneath her veiled lashes. "Take a hint. His feet should be registered weapons with the FBI."

"Stop talking in riddles. What does that matter?"

Tyler lifted his rear end off the couch and kicked Erik in the chin--hard. The baby giggled, aiming again.

"Ouch!" Erik rubbed his face. "What do you call that?" He ducked, rolling out of the way.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Don't ever turn your back on him." She smiled sweetly and finished diapering and dressing him. Lifting him into her arms, she swatted him playfully on his bottom. "Don't kick Cousin Erik." Pangs of guilt tearing her up inside.

Erik stood behind her. He grasped her shoulders, halting her flight. "Why did you go to Bryce?"

She squeezed her eyes tightly but a fat tear slid out anyway, trickling down her cheek. She sucked in a deep breath then exhaled slowly. "I needed someone...he was a good friend."

"He left you high and dry with a little baby!" Erik's anger ripped fast and furious. "You call that a friend?"

"I thought he was...at first." Her voice trembled and she bit her lower lip. Erik's fingers burned through her thin blouse.

"Does he ever come around to visit Tyler? Does he play with him? Does he help support him?" He turned her around to face him but she refused to meet his eyes.

She remained mutinously silent, her lips pursed. Of course he didn't. Tyler wasn't Bryce's child. He belonged to Erik. But now wasn't the time to tell enlighten him.

"Does he?" Erik lifted Holly's chin with two strong fingers, forcing her to look at him. Fire flickered in his eyes. "How could any man not want such a beautiful little boy?"

Didn't he know how much he ripped her heart apart? How close to tears she teetered?

"I don't know." She clenched her teeth and her fists, willing the tears to stay put. "I'm not the one who left." She remembered the day Erik stormed out of her life, the day she was going to tell him she was pregnant with his child and never got the chance.

"Turkey, turkey, turkey!" Tyler yanked her hair.

Erik untangled his chubby fingers from her hair, his fingers warm where they brushed her neck and shivers raced through her body.

She stepped away, not able to deal with the sensations Erik evoked in her right now, pushing the door open. "I'm starved." Clomping to the house, tendrils of baked turkey and her mother's spicy green beans floated out the door, luring her. Her stomach grumbled at her.

The feast covered the holiday linen in the formal dining room. Aunt Nora had set out the best china and silver for the occasion.

Sliced turkey lay in domino fashion around her mother's ceramic turkey platter lending a splash of color to the otherwise white and silver table.

Her mother shook the carving knife at her when she walked in carrying Tyler. "I almost had to cut off your Uncle Bart's hand because you two were fooling around out back like you were still kids. Next time you're late to dinner, we'll start without you."

"Mother," she said as patiently as she could, "we're not kids anymore. We were just changing the baby."

"I'm not going to buy that Miss Holly. You can't fool your own mother" Rosalie shook the knife in the air, sending chills down her spine.

"Believe what you want to. I'm almost thirty and a mother myself."

"You're still a baby. What do you know?" Rosalie stared her down.

"Let me get everyone." Erik whispered in her ear. "I hope the game hasn't started or Uncle Bart and dad will be eating in front of the TV."

"I heard that!" Her mother shook the knife at Erik when he passed her. "Don't you be whispering sweet nothings in my daughter's ear. Haven't you caused enough trouble?"

"Shush, Mother." Her heart skipped several beats. Dread washed over her. "Do you always have to cause trouble?"

"I don't know why he has to be here this year. He hasn't come to family dinners since your divorce."

"Mother! It's none of your business. Besides, he's Aunt Nora's nephew." And her son's father.

Rosalie glared at her several dreadful seconds then dropped her eyes. She sliced the turkey with fierce determination, her hands visibly shaking. The carving knife sounded like an electric chain saw.

When Erik returned followed by Aunt Nora, she sighed in relief. The others trickled in more slowly.

She strapped Tyler into his high chair and tied a bib with a silly turkey on it to him knowing it was a useless gesture. She wished she could cover herself with plastic tarp or wear a rubber raincoat to dinner. Knowing she invited disaster, she pushed him up to the table next to her chair then smoothed her skirts under her and took her seat. After all, it was Thanksgiving and the baby couldn't eat half way across the room, away from the bosom of the family.

Erik claimed the chair on the other side of Tyler and scooted close to the table.

Rosalie sat next to her.

She wrapped the carving knife cord around her ankle then yanked the cord out of the wall socket.

Everyone else chatted amiably, not noticing the undercurrents drifting over the table like a thick Scottish fog.

"Before we eat, I'd like to offer our thanks to God." Bart clasped Nora's and Mildred's hands and motioned for everyone else to follow suit. "Let us hold hands."

She took Tyler's hand before Erik moved a muscle.

Erik sent her an amused glance then took Tyler's other hand.

The toddler screamed, struggling to pull his imprisoned hands away. "Turkey, turkey, turkey." The harder he pulled, the harder she and Erik held on, like Chinese finger pulls.

"Let's hurry." She shushed the baby, bowing her head. Her hair bobbed around her cheeks.

"Praise be to God, the Father, for all our blessings this year. Our family, our friends and CompUtech's continued success. Amen." Uncle Bart lifted his head and smiled. "Let's dig in!"

"For Heaven's sake, Bart!" Aunt Nora admonished her husband. "We're not in a barnyard. Show some manners."

"Let's dig in, please." Uncle Bart pinched Aunt Nora and she jumped, screeching.

Gravy sloshed over the side of the silver gravy boat. Tyler laughed and started banging his high chair tray with his hands. "Turkey, turkey, turkey."

"Get that boy some turkey for heaven's sake." Aunt Nora leaned over the table to spear a slice of turkey. She tossed it on his high chair.

"Speaking of manners, Nora." Bart said, quirking his eyebrows.

"The turkey smells delicious. Everything looks so good..." Dipping a large silver serving spoon into the macaroni and cheese, Mildred heaped a large square onto her china plate. Strings of gooey cheddar cheese stretched from the casserole dish to the plate until she cut it with the side of her spoon.

"Pass the smashed potatoes and gravy." Uncle Bart handed the turkey platter to Aaron, Erik's father, who took two large slices then passed it to Mildred.

"They're not smashed potatoes Bart. They're mashed potatoes." Rosalie caught Mildred's eye and explained, "He never did say mashed potatoes right. It used to drive poor mama crazy, God rest her soul."

"Did I ever tell you that Rosalie dies her hair? Of course, no one has that awful shade of red hair naturally." Bart laughed mischievously.

"Did anyone ever tell you that my brother is a lifetime member of the hair club for men?"

"Stop this bickering!" She felt like crawling under the table, or better yet, becoming invisible. "You're setting a fine example for the baby. This is supposed to be a day of celebration." She held a spoonful of mashed potatoes to Tyler's mouth.

"Stuff a sock in it Holly." Rosalie waved her fork at her daughter to emphasize her point. "Bart and I have been fighting since the day he was born. I don't plan to stop now."

"How about a cease fire till tomorrow then?" A trace of hope infiltrated Erik's voice. He looked about as disgusted as she felt.

"That boy needs some of Grandma's macaroni and cheese, Miss Holly." Rosalie grabbed the casserole dish of macaroni, pushed back her chair and strode to Tyler's side. "You know it's his favorite food." She dropped a kiss on the crown of Tyler's head. "It's not Thanksgiving without grandma's macaroni, is it Ty?" She scooped out a humungous portion of macaroni for such a little tyke.

"Mother." An Advil headache coming on. "He'll gorge himself with all that. He'll be sick all weekend."

"Nonsense. He's a growing boy." As usual, her mother ignored her objections.

Tyler stuffed a mouthful of macaroni into his mouth.

Erik took a bite of Rosalie's spicy green beans. He spit them out on his plate, coughing as if he were about to choke.

"Too spicy for you, Erik?" Rosalie asked with glee twinkling in her eyes.

"What did you put in that?" Accusations stung his eyes.

"Tabasco sauce, red pepper, Cajun spice..." Rosalie ticked off the ingredients on her outstretched fingers, smiling impishly.

"You're trying to kill my son!" Aaron wadded up and tossed his napkin on the table. "You've never liked him. It was your daughter who stepped out on him."

"Please, settle down, everyone. This is a family dinner." Near to tears, frightened by the turn of conversation, Holly wanted to grab the Ty Guy and run as far away as she could. Shouldn't family occasions be joyous? Fun?

Tyler laughed delightedly, scooped up a large handful of the macaroni camouflaging his high chair top. He flung it across the table and laughed louder, clapping his hands.

Macaroni landed in Nora's and Mildred's coifed silver hair. Mildred gasped, her expression outraged.

Bart and Aaron pointed at them, laughing so hard they doubled over.

"Look what that little brat did to my hair!" Mildred screeched, her gaze boring into Holly, her lips snarling.

She gasped, wishing she had crawled under the table. "I'm so sorry," she tried to say but it came out in a choked whisper. She turned to Tyler and smacked his hand. "Bad baby!"

Tyler slapped her hand back, then, catching her off guard, he doubled over his high chair, grabbed her plate and flung it across the table. Mashed potatoes and gravy, dressing, cranberry sauce and macaroni flew through the air, spraying Nora, Mildred, Bart and Aaron.

"Holly Lynn!" Bart bellowed. "Get that boy of yours under control."

"That's not a boy." Mildred's beady eyes fixed on the child. Her nostrils thinned. She pointed her long, bony finger at him. "Breeding always tells. That's a little monster."

"That's enough, Mom." Erik unstrapped Tyler and lifted him out of his high chair, putting him on his lap, restraining his hands.

"If you hadn't divorced my son, you'd have a child with good genes that knew how to behave!" Aaron glaring at Holly, wiping mashed potatoes, gravy and cranberry sauce from his blazer.

Holly's lips quivered and she sucked in a deep breath, her hands trembling. Ohmigod! What now? How could this have happened.

Rosalie pushed her chair back and stood up, her linen napkin falling on her feet. "Breeding does tell." Everyone grew silent, tension rapier sharp in the air. Holly petrified, knowing what was coming, unable to move a muscle to save herself. "Tyler's Erik's son. He's just like him!"

Everybody froze.

Oh God. She'd done it. Her mother had really done it now. Her heart hammered against her chest, otherwise, the room became eggshell silent. She couldn't exhale and she'd thought she'd hyperventilate. All eyes turned slowly from Rosalie to Holly with tidal wave force.

"He's not my son." Erik's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring, storm clouds crossing his face. "He's got Bryce's blonde hair and Holly's brown eyes."

She inched away, preparing for flight, wishing she'd worn her Nikes.

"He's got your nose, your chin and your cheekbones." Rosalie pointed out each feature. "See?"

"The blonde hair." Erik peered at the child closer. "Haven't you ever heard of a double recessive Mr. All-Star College Man?" Rosalie said, her hands on her hips. "Look at the boy. I tell you he's your son."

"Holly Lynn." Erik glared at her, anger erupting. "Tell me the truth. Whose son is he?" He bounced Tyler on his knee, who reached up, yanking a handful of Erik's hair.

All heat drained from her body. Words stuck in her throat, which felt as dry as the Mojave Desert. When she tried to speak, she croaked instead. Squeezing her eyes tightly, she cringed. "He's yours"

"Were you planning to tell me?" he asked, deathly quiet, staring at Tyler.

"Y-Yes. I'd decided to." Someday. Whenever the time had seemed right.

"When? At his college graduation?" Erik stroked the baby's hair as if he'd never seen the child before. His eyes were cold and reproving when he looked at her.

"I was going to tell you."

"When?" Erik bellowed, shaking the crystal set out on the table.

"The day you stormed out of my life. I had a special dinner prepared, candles on the table, your favorite wine chilling."

"I walked in on you and Bryce having a romantic tete-a-tete."

"Bryce dropped by as he always did--as a friend and nothing more. The dinner was for you and me."

"Friend? He told me all about your torrid affair, how you were planning to leave me."

Tyler's expression changed and he wailed, kicking his legs. "Ma-ma." Chubby arms reached for her.

"Tyler Taylor?" Mildred laughed, cranberry sauce dripping from her ruined chignon. "If that isn't the ugliest name I ever heard."

"His name isn't Taylor." Rosalie lifted her chin high in the air and bestowed the blue blood with her most supercilious stare. "He's Tyler Ramsey."

"He should be Tyler Taylor!" Erik slammed his fist against the table. Tyler crawled down and scuttled to his mother. He careened into her chest and hugged her. "Mama, Mama, Mama."

Erik stood, looming over her, his expression furious. "I never imagined you could be so cruel, Princess. Don't you know how much I wanted a son?"

"N-no. You didn't want anything to do with me."

"That's not the same as not wanting anything to do with my child!" Erik leaned over her, his breath scorching her cheek. "There will be hell to pay."

"Holly Lynn!" Uncle Bart bellowed. "Do I need to call the police now?"

Alligator Alley glowed eerily in the night like an old B-rated sci-fi flick on the late-late shows. Even though most of the infamous highway had been widened to two lanes within the past couple of years, murky canals were lined with saw grass and malaleuca trees on both sides of the highway. The infamous Everglades shrouded them in the dark vehicle as the car sped west.

Palm trees lined the far sides of the road like sentinels. Holly swore she could see the yellow-gold glow of gator eyes staring at them in the pitch-black night. Shivers chased down her spine and her fingertips tingled.

The tension in the car grew thick and Holly reached over and flicked on Car-Z Country, adjusting the reception.

Erik grimaced when a cowgirl type crooned with her thick country twang, "Shut up and drive...".

Without a word, he reached over and turned the station to instrumental music.

A three-ton truck barreled around them, spewing Erik's town car with gravel and road dust, pushing them towards the canal.

The town car swerved and Holly clutched her seat until all four wheels firmly gripped the pavement again and her heart stopped racing wildly.

"Relax Princess." Erik's grip tightened on the wheel. "The canal's a good ten feet or more off the road."

"I wasn't scared." To distract herself from thinking about the canal, she leaned over and turned the radio back to Cra-Z Country.

Erik reached over, flicking the instrumental back on.

Holly sighed. "Will you agree to listen to pop music if I can tune it in?"

"Only if it's mellow," Erik grunted, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. "None of that I want to do it till I make you sweat garbage."

"Don't be such a grouch," she murmured under her breath.

"Maybe I wouldn't be such a grouch if my son hadn't been calling that snake daddy for the past two years..." He slid a furious smoky glance her way. "You told Rosalie..."

"She knows how to add two plus two. Besides, she's my mother..."

"I'm the boy's father!"

"You graduated Notre Dame," Holly accused. "I figured you could add two plus two and realize I had to have been pregnant when we were married. Unless," she snickered, "you were only there to play football and skipped the academics? The way I see it, you ran out on me when I was pregnant with your son..."

"That won't work Holly Lynn," Erik said, shaking his head. "Bryce confessed to everything. He told me all about your affair, how you planned to leave me to be with him..."

"And I told you those were all lies," she seethed. "Bryce only wanted Uncle Bart's money. He never wanted me...or Tyler and I guess you didn't either." She crossed her arms under her breasts and stared out the window into the still, dark night.

"I do want that beautiful boy and I will be a part of his life," Erik promised. "You won't be able to stop me..."

"Is that a threat?" she asked deathly quiet, turning in her seat. The car left the highway at the second Naples exit and they were bombarded by bright neon lights that hurt her eyes. She had to squint to see after the staunch darkness.

"That's a promise." Spinning the steering wheel, he turned into the Naples Hilton where the human resources seminar was to be held and where Jane had booked their lodging.

Erik got out of the car without another word and stomped to the front desk, not bothering to see if Holly followed or not.

Holly slammed out of her door, seething. Had he just said what she'd thought he'd said? Was he going to fight for custody of their son?

She wouldn't put it past her stubborn ex.

"...that's impossible," Erik said to the front desk receptionist. "We have two separate rooms booked..."

"We only have one room booked with a double bed," the woman insisted, computer screens blinking on and off like heat lightning. "This is all I show for an Erik Taylor or Holly Ramsey..."

"Look again," Erik insisted, his fingers drumming the counter to the beat of war.

"What's going on?" Holly asked, looking from Erik's angry scowl to the woman's determined expression.

"They messed up our reservations..." Erik accused. Turning to the receptionist, he commanded. "Just give us a second room. I can pay by cash or credit card..."

"We're all booked up," the woman said, shaking her head. "There's not an empty broom closet in all of Naples or Ft. Myers..."

"That's ridiculous!" Erik exclaimed, flinging his platinum credit card on the counter. "There must be a cancellation or something..."

"There's nothing," the woman insisted pushing his credit card back to him. "Are there only two of you? We can put a cot in your room..."

"Put a guard in there while you're at it," Holly murmured, eyeing Erik warily.

Erik slid his chilling glance over her. "You won't need a guard. I have no intentions of laying a finger on you ever again."

"No one invited you," Holly pointed out, turning her back on him, waiting impatiently for her room key. She snatched it out of the woman's hand, then bestowed a smile on her for it wasn't her fault Erik chose to be such a grisly bear.

Lifting her chin a few notches, she flounced past Erik to his town car, took her seat and waited. The December moon glowed eerily, and stars twinkled in the heavens. Soon it would be Christmas but she didn't feel in the least bit cheery.

He rejoined her without a word, sliding his long form next to her. He found a parking space out in the south forty then unloaded their luggage.

Moments later, Holly eyed the lone double bed warily. Where was Erik's cot? She was exhausted and couldn't wait to sleep but no way would she crawl into bed with her ex-snake. He eyed the bed but made no move toward it. Instead, he stood on the balcony, looking out over Naples, his back rigidly presented to her.

Finally, a bellboy brought a cot with extra bedding to the room and Holly sighed in relief.

"Thank you," Erik muttered, tucking a couple of bills into the young man's outstretched hand.

The bellboy nodded and backed out of the room discreetly, his brow lifted in question.

Holly showered, brushed her teeth then donned a large T-shirt and shorts. That soft bed called to her like a siren on the rocks. She couldn't wait to jump onto the soft mattress. She wasn't only physically tired, but spiritually and emotionally spent. Her eyes couldn't stay open much longer.

Erik lay in the unmade bed, stripped to his skivvies, propped on two fluffy pillows, his hands linked behind his head. Dark hair curled around muscular legs and that short line of triangular hair disappeared at his waistband, teasing her.

Holly averted her eyes, her nostrils flaring. "Get out of my bed!" she demanded, yanking on his covers.

"This is my bed," he said, dangerously quiet, his smoky gray eyes flickering.

"Get out of it you--you--snake," she hissed.

"If you want the bed so badly, that side's available..." he gestured toward it, shrugging his broad shoulders.

"I knew you wanted to get me in bed..."

"Don't delude yourself Princess. I'd rather sleep with a hungry alligator." He rolled onto his side, punched his pillow down and settled into the bed.

"That's fine with me," she said. Yanking the sheet with all her might, she surprised him and he fell to the floor with a thud.

"That was a mistake," he muttered, climbing to his feet, glaring at her.

"Well, it's not the first or the last one I'll make but probably the most satisfying," she said, her hands on her hips, a smile on her lips. "The bed's mine. You can take the cot, the floor or the bathtub. I don't care which..."

"I'm taking the bed."

"When pigs fly, Taylor," Holly threatened.

"Is that a promise or a threat Princess?" Erik asked.

"I was beginning to think you were a reasonable man, but I guess that was all a big act?" She shook our the hotel sheet and spread it over the bed. She tucked in the edges, then climbed into the middle, took both pillows the way he had, daring him to touch the bed.

"I am reasonable--with reasonable people," he said. "You aren't being reasonable." He yanked a pillow out from under her head, then, without warning, lifted her up as lithely as if she were a feather.

Holly kicked as if her life depended on it, pummeling his flat chest with her fists. "Put me down!" she demanded.

"Gladly." He tossed her on the far side of the bed as if she were a sack of potatoes. "If you kick me again, I'll kick back," he warned, climbing into the bed.

"You wouldn't dare," she challenged, her eyes narrowed, her legs crossed as tightly as she could close them. She wished the hotel had sent a chastity belt to the room instead of that hard as rocks cot. Not that he had any intention of touching her.

Oh no! Never! He'd rather sleep with a hungry alligator. Well, if he'd slept with Darlene, or Charleen or whatever the hell her name was, he had experience!

She punched her pillow, rolled over, turning her back on him. She gazed at the twinkling stars in the black velvet sky until pure exhaustion claimed her.

*****

Holly sat in the hotel lounge alone, nursing her anger at Erik over a gin and tonic. He hadn't spoken a word to her all day. He'd sat with Arlene, dined with Arlene, laughed with Arlene and left her to her own devices.

She swirled the contents of her glass until it formed a mini whirlpool then threw the remainder of her burning drink down her throat, gasping.

"Something wrong pretty lady?" a handsome blonde man with whiskey colored eyes ventured, taking the bar stool next to Holly.

"I'm not looking for company." She held her glass up, motioning for the bartender to refill her glass.

Warm fingers clasped her wrist, pulling her hand down to the bar. "You don't want another drink. You'll regret it in the morning." He smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling.

She eyed him diffidently. In another time, another place, he would have caught her interest, but much as she hated to admit it, she only had eyes for Erik. Her heart belonged to her ex-husband even if he trampled it under his callous feet.

"There's many things I regret, mister. This isn't one of them."

"I'm a good listener," the stranger offered, putting his hand over her glass when the bartender brought a bottle to Holly.

A haunting melody washed over the lounge, bathing Holly in sad memories. Reunited--their song, hers and Erik's. She cried every time some DJ had the nerve to spin the disc.

Hot tears welled behind her traitorous eyes. She blinked in futility, fighting the desperate urge to cry--or pick up her proverbial skirts and run from the lounge. Being reunited did not feel good! It felt lousy and it was the most imperfect relationship she could imagine. Erik was so close--yet so far. Somewhere, fate laughed her head off at the joke she'd played on Holly.

"Dance with me?" the gentle blonde asked, holding out his hand to her.

She shook her head. "I-I r-really can't." She choked on the sob stuck in her throat.

"I don't bite. I'm not asking for eternity...just one dance to cheer you up." A gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Please."

She opened her mouth to refuse again, then saw Erik enfold Arlene into his embrace. Arlene's head fit snugly against Erik's shoulder, her breasts molded against Erik's chest.

She closed her mouth, smiled tremulously and laced her fingers in the strangers, letting him pull her onto the dance floor. When he folded her into his embrace, she didn't object. She nestled her head against his chest, closed her eyes to the painful vision floating before her.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"Holly." Her throat constricted.

"Ah, a Christmas flower. I should have known one so beautiful would be named for a vision of beauty. I'm Basil." He swung her around the dance floor with the grace of a gazelle.

She didn't respond. She watched Erik covertly from under her veiled lashes.

"Are you here for the human resource convention?" Basil asked.

"Uhm mm." Her fingers dug into Basil's arms and she squeezed her eyes together to block out the unwelcome vision floating before her like an apparition.

"Reunited's" haunting melody washed over her and she pretended Erik held her. Memories of past dances, past kisses and passionate embraces taunted her like the laughing December wind whistling through tall saw grass.

When the song finally faded out amidst low chatter from secluded tables, Holly opened her eyes and her fantasy faded with a rude explosion. Barely touching distance away, Arlene tiptoed, pressing her lips against Erik's, her arms snaked around his neck, drawing his dark head down to hers.

Holly couldn't hold back a gasp of dismay, her heart shattering. She drank deeply of the stranger's gentle gaze then tiptoed, brushing her lips against his. Erik would never guess her heart shattered at his feet after the display she intended to give him.

Basil played along admirably, and Holly felt a twinge of guilt for leading him on for the sake of giving her ex-husband a show. She didn't object when his tongue entered her mouth or when his warm hands cupped her derriere although pain twisted her insides.

"Release her," Erik growled, tearing Basil from her with the force of a mini tornado.

Holly stumbled backward, cold from the loss of Basil's heat.

Basil fell to the floor, his brows knitted together. He looked from Erik to Holly and back. "Did I miss something?" he asked.

"Stay away from her." Erik's smoky gray gaze boiled. His back stiffened.

"Look, man, I don't mean to cause trouble." Basil picked himself up, dusting off his gray twill slacks. "But I don't see a wedding ring and you were ah, having a pretty good time yourself, if you get my drift."

"What's going on Erik?" Arlene stomped her foot. "You're with me." She curled her fingers around his upper arm, tugging him away but Erik didn't budge an inch.

"Leave me alone, Erik." Her head was spinning, anger coiling in the pit of her belly. "Haven't you done enough?"

"Haven't I done enough? That's rich Princess," Erik drawled, letting the word roll around on his tongue.

"Look, I'm sorry if I interfered." Basil held out his hands, palms forward in a no harm gesture, backing away.

She sent a scathing look to Erik then walked to Basil. "I have to leave. Thank you for the dance." Cupping his cheek with the palm of her hand, she tiptoed and pressed her lips to his. "I'm sorry."

Erik's hand clamped on her upper arm, his fingers biting into her soft flesh. "We need to talk."

"We needed to talk three years ago and you refused." Winter's chill entombed her body. "It's a little late." She yanked her arm away, fleeing as if the hounds of hell nipped at her heels.

"Holly! Wait..." Erik loomed over her, his chiseled features unfathomable.

She laughed wryly. So he wanted to talk to her now? His words acted as a catalyst, catapulting her on faster.

"For heaven's sake Princess." His voice grew louder in her ears. Suddenly, his fingers bit into her upper arm, swinging her around to stare into his unfathomable expression. "She was kissing me."

"You kissed her back." She seethed. "How dare you! Leave me alone. Go back to your little girlfriend..." "She's not my girlfriend," Erik denied.

"You could have fooled me," she said, her voice wavered, climbing an octave. "Just let me go. You're making a spectacle of us."

"Let's go to the room. We need to talk."

"We don't need to do anything together. We're divorced with a capital D."

"Fine." Erik's expression turning to ice. "Have it your way. But we still have to work together and we still have a son to raise."

"I'll be looking for another job, Taylor. I'm tired of being under your thumb." Her chest heaving.

"You don't mean that."

"Which part?" She lifted an eyebrow. "Believe me, I meant everything I said. As soon as I find another position, I'm leaving CompUtech and your tyranny."

"You're a free agent. I can't imprison you at CompUtech." He took a step backward as if he couldn't stand to be near her. "But you can't shut me out of Tyler's life now that I know the truth."

"If you want in his life so badly, it's high time you paid child support. Try buying his diapers and food for a month--see if you don't go broke. Try staying up with him all night when he's ill."

"No problem." Something flickered in his eyes. "Remember, that earns me visitation rights."

"If you'd had a little faith in me, you'd have figured it out years ago." Holly bristled. She yanked her arm away from him. "Do us both a favor and leave me alone. Arlene's waiting for you." She pivoted on her heel and fled to the sanctuary of their room, piqued he didn't follow.

So many hollow words, so many broken dreams. Promises turned to dust, declarations of love dashed underfoot.

She should have listened to her instincts when they'd screamed that working side by side with her ex-husband was a sure recipe for heartbreak--again. Accompanying him to romantic Naples unchaperoned by so much as the baby had really spelled disaster.

Never again! Uncle Bart would just have to understand.

Still, she kept her ears perked for the rattle of the doorknob, which didn't come all night.

"Good morning everyone and welcome to the thirty-forth annual Perfect Personnel Human Resources Seminar. Do I see droopy eye lids? W-well, let's wake up and do the hokey poky!" Marjie, the exuberant seminar leader said, bouncing like an obnoxious aerobics instructor.

Everybody groaned. Only a few brave souls stood.

"Just teasing." Marjie blazed her one thousand-watt smile at the less-than-chipper audience. "I just wanted to get your adrenaline flowing."

Holly wondered where Erik had gone and she glanced surreptitiously around the room. She didn't want him with her yet she couldn't help but wonder where he'd disappeared to.

Still exhausted from fitful sleep, she yawned, covering her mouth with her hand.

Then she froze, her hackles rising, the hair on the nape of her neck prickling.

Not five rows behind her cattycorner, Arlene draped herself over Erik--and he looked like a tomcat with cream all over his face loving every minute of her attention.

He must have discovered an affinity for hungry alligators with bony asses.

Well, if he wanted her, let him have her. They'd be perfect for each other--only he'd have to handle Arlene's agency--Holly refused.

Marjie's exuberance wore thin about a minute after she started talking. Holly felt like she was watching a cheerleading video or a Jane Fonda workout tape. The class couldn't be over too soon. As Holly couldn't concentrate on anything Marjie said, she merely doodled on her note pad, shooting secretive glances over her shoulder, scowling that Arlene practically sat in Erik's lap.

She doodled shorthand squiggles in case Uncle Bart insisted on seeing her notes. He'd never be able to read them and she could improvise and recite back the Gettysburg Address or some rocket science formula and he'd never know the difference.

At class break, Holly stood, stretching her muscles. She ambled to the break area where ice water and a fruit tray laden with luscious strawberries and honeydew melon beckoned like an oasis. Standing in the corner of the room with her back to the wall, she sipped her water, watching Erik. He didn't seem to be the least bit interested in finding her. She could go back to Ft. Lauderdale and he wouldn't discover her disappearance for days.

Well, he wouldn't get rid of her that easily, she'd decided. He may not want her in his personal life, but he was stuck with her as his neighbor and subordinate at CompUtech. Why should she give up a good job with career potential to make his life easier?

No way! Let him squirm the way he made her.

When class resumed, a new speaker took the podium. "Hello everyone. My name's Jonathan and I'd like to help you learn how to handle problem employees today. Has anyone of you ever had a problem employee in your office?" He paused and smiled like the Cheshire cat. "Raise your hands if you have a problem employee in your office." He looked around the seminar hall at the sea of uplifted hands.

One hand waved in agitation.

"Do you have a question? Yes, you, the gorgeous lady in the red dress."

"What do you do with an employee that's late almost every day?"

She sat forward in her chair, her pen poised over her note pad. "Have his immediate supervisor give him a verbal warning. If it persists, the personnel director should give him a verbal warning. On the third time, give a written warning. If it happens a fourth time, terminate employment." Gilbert smiled such a sparkling smile she thought he should be on an infomercial. "Make sure you have accurate documentation and a sufficient paper trail so the employee cannot claim discrimination on your part."

Her hand shot straight into the air. When Jonathan nodded at her, she stood and asked, "What if your boss won't let you fire a chronically late employee?"

Several heads nodded.

Jonathan scratched his jaw and pursed his lips. "Is this person a relative?"

"Not that I know of."

"Is this person having an affair with the boss?"

"No!" Holly said emphatically.

"She's having an affair with her boss!" Arlene stood pointing at Holly, a sly smile curling the edges of her lips.

"I am not!" she denied hotly, her hands on her hips, her nostrils flaring. Her fingers curled into a fist, itching.

"You're always having private lunches with him, holed up in his office with him alone, going to his house for Thanksgiving dinner."

"How'd you know where I was Thanksgiving?" Holly asked, stunned.

"Ah hah! I was right!"

"Only half right," Holly seethed. "I always have Thanksgiving dinner at my uncle's house."

Erik stood. "I told you not to tell anyone that Bart's your uncle."

"You got the job because you're his niece?" Arlene drawled, holding her stomach. "That's priceless. Only idiots go to work for their family business when they can't get a job anywhere else."

A short man behind Arlene stood and tapped her shoulder. "So I'm an idiot, too? I work for my uncle."

"And I'm an idiot?" Another woman on Holly's side of the room stood and pointed at Arlene. "I work for my father-in-law."

Holly glared at Erik. "I guess that makes me an idiot, too." Erik glared at the woman by his side. "Bart's my uncle."

"Holly's your sister?" Arlene's mouth opened in an O of surprise.

"No." Anger flickering in Erik's eyes. "My wife."

"Your wife?" Arlene gasped.

"Ex-wife." Holly wished she had no association with the man after the past few days.

Her gaze swung over Holly. "That little pipsqueak? She's not your type."

"What is my type?" Erik looked fit to kill.

Too humiliated to stay and listen to more, she scrunched her way out the far end of the aisle, stepping on a few high-heel clad toes, mumbled her apologies and fled the room.

"Holly! Wait!" Erik chased her.

She didn't want to hear one more lying, cheating word out of the snake's mouth. Where had he been all night? With Arlene? What had they been doing?

He couldn't possibly be thinking of making that witch her son's stepmother, could he? She shivered. She'd move to Tim-Buk-Tu first rather than subjugate her innocent baby to that alligator!

She tried to formulate a plan as she sped away from the scene of her humiliation. Well, she'd just made a total fool of herself and CompUtech. She didn't feel like rejoining the group--ever. She had to get out of Naples, but how? Erik held the car keys and she had only ten dollars to her name.

But she also had the company credit card for emergencies.

Well, didn't this constitute an emergency?

Definitely. Uncle Bart would understand and Aunt Nora still wasn't speaking to her anyway.

She spied an airport van loading up outside the front of the hotel and ran for it. She caught it just as the driver was closing his doors.

"Do you take credit cards?" she asked breathlessly.

"American Express?" he asked.

"Platinum," she said, waving it under his nose.

He took the card, opened the door and said, "Your chariot, Madame." She refrained from telling him to step on it but her muscles tensed and her fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her hands until the van pulled into the small Naples airport.

After she paid her bill, she found the American airline ticket counter and purchased ticket for the first available flight to Ft. Lauderdale. The ticket agent looked at her oddly when she declared no luggage to take on board, but didn't say a word. So, she traveled lightly. So what?

She had a half-hour wait and she tapped her foot nervously the entire time expecting her wild ex to rush in to drag her away.

But why would he bother? He'd made it plain he wanted nothing to do with her ever again. Why would he care that she'd left? He and Arlene could have the room all to themselves.

And good riddance to them! They could have it--so long as that conniving witch stayed away from her little boy.

But Holly's heart ached nonetheless and she kept her eyes peeled for a tall, dark man with smoldering, smoky eyes. Her breath caught in her throat every time she spied a dark head round the corner.

Erik never showed up--at least not before the plane left the ground. She watched out her window, her nose pressed to the glass, as the plane took off

Why should she care if he followed her or not? He meant nothing to her now. He was her child's biological father, her uncle's nephew by marriage, her boss--maybe--and that was it. All emotional entanglements had been severed the day he'd slammed out her door, leaving her alone and pregnant with his child.

She grabbed a taxicab to CompUtech, instructed the driver to collect payment from Seth in accounting, and holed herself up in her glass office.

Lucy rapped on her door, peering through the glass.

"Come in." She waved her friend inside. "Shut the door."

"What's wrong?" Lucy lowered herself in the seat opposite her. She crossed her Cindy Crawford legs and held the sides of the chair. "You're not due back for two more days."

"The seminar was pretty useless." She didn't exactly lie. She tucked her hair behind her ear and stared into the distance. Philip rushed in, juggling a mess of papers in his arms, scuttling toward his cubicle like a sand crab. "And I missed the Ty Guy and I have to get to the bottom of all the thefts."

"What's the real reason?" Concern laced Lucy's voice. "Does it have something to do with your tall, dark and handsome boss?"

"Of course not!" Holly slammed papers around on her desk, nearly knocking her philodendron to the floor. Lucy caught it with a frown, and set it back on the desk. "Why should I care what that snake does or doesn't do? Why should I care if he spent the night with that conniving alligator?"

"He slept with Arlene?" Lucy leaned forward, putting her hand over Holly's trembling one. "Are you sure?"

"He didn't come back to the room last night. She draped herself all over him this morning--and he let her...he let her..." She expelled a huge sigh.

"I'm sorry," Lucy sighed. "Men are toads."

"Snakes." Holly slammed her desk drawers.

"Alligators." Lucy nodded her head in commiseration.

"Erik Taylor's a toad, a snake, an alligator and a Denevean slime devil."

"Girlfriend, you've got it bad." Lucy whistled.

"Tell me about it." Holly sighed, leaning her head on her hand. "And he could care less."

"He doesn't know what he's missing." Lucy squeezed her hand. "He must be blind, deaf and dumb."

"Let's just drop it," Holly pleaded. "I don't want to think about him." She wrangled up a bright smile and pasted it to her lips. "So. How's my little guy?"

"Ornery as ever." Lucy chuckled. "He and Ryan have been partners in crime."

"I'm so sorry if he's given you problems." She picked petals off her daisies, shredding them.

Lucy waved off her concern. "Boys will be boys."

"They don't have to be the James boys."

"They weren't that bad." Lucy grabbed her wrist. "I know you're upset, but don't mutilate the poor flowers."

Belatedly, she realized she had a half-bald daisy and scowled. "See what that man drives me to?"

"Holly Lynn!" Uncle Bart bellowed.

"Oh no!" Not this. Not now. She wasn't up to this. "Who told him I'm back?"

"He probably saw you sneak in." Lucy stood. "You know he watches his window like a hawk."

"I know." Holly drew herself to her full height and smoothed her linen skirts. "But a girl can dream." Raising her voice, she called, "I'll be right there Unc...Mr. Duarte."

"I'd better get back to the switchboard. Candy can only take a few minutes at a time before she starts sniffing my white out and magic markers," Lucy smiled. She sashayed back to her post.

"Yes?" She closed the door firmly behind her.

"Sit down." Bart motioned to the hot seat in front of his desk. "Why are you back so soon? Alone?"

She lowered here eyelashes over her eyes. "Erik and I weren't getting along too well."

"I didn't send you to take a vacation. You were there to work."

"The workshops were really lame." She tried to wriggle out of the truth. It was too humiliating. Too painful.

"What happened between you and Erik?" Bart pressed to the heart of the matter, his snowy white brows furrowed.

"That's rather private."

"Not when it affects company business," Bart bellowed, his cheeks growing red. "You assured me you could work side by side."

"Does that include sleeping with him?" She folded her arms under her breasts, seething.

"Did he? Did you? Did he?" Uncle Bart spluttered.

"No. Not that." She chuckled mirthlessly. "The hotel messed up and only had one room reserved for us. All the other rooms were booked. He wouldn't sleep on the cot and I wasn't about to."

"Ahhh. I'm beginning to see." He rubbed his chin, staring at her hard. "You two have to call a cease fire for Tyler's sake--and before you rip CompUtech apart."

"Yes, Uncle Bart." Holly sighed. "I'll do my part. But it takes two." She opened her mouth to tell him she was quitting, but couldn't utter the words.

"We had another break in over the weekend." His fist slammed the desk making her jump. "The bastards got away with two brand new computers and a printer. Jordan's plate glass window was smashed in. Night shift doesn't feel safe. They don't want to come in."

"You can't blame them. We need to tighten security."

"Did you and Erik come up with a plan?" Bart leaned towards her, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

"I suggested card keys and restricted access and more security cameras."

"That might stop internal thefts. But this theft came from the outside--right through the window." Bart's eyes narrowed as he looked out the window.

"There was an advertisement at the seminar for special glass tinting that made it nearly impossible to break windows and if someone tried, it set off an alarm."

"Get the information for me," Bart commanded. "Meanwhile, I need you to check in on night shift periodically, starting tonight..."

"What about Tyler?" Her skin crawled as if she'd stepped on a red ant bed. She didn't want to be in this nearly deserted building after dark anymore than the night crew.

"Hasn't Lucy been watching him? See if she can watch him tonight." Bart yanked his glasses off and tossed them on his blotter.

"I can't impose on her too much."

"I'll watch my little grand nephew," Nora said from the door.

Bart and Holly looked up, stunned. She hadn't heard her aunt enter.

"Thank you." Nora hadn't spoken a word to her since the Thanksgiving fiasco and she thought she harbored resentment toward her still. "But he can be a handful."

"No worse than Erik was at that age, I assure you."

"But I thought Erik was an angel?" Perfect Erik. Prince Erik. Erik who couldn't do wrong.

"According to Mildred and Aaron, Erik can do no wrong. But I remember what a little hellion he was at Tyler's age." she smiled reminiscently. "And I miss that rascal. He's become entirely too sophisticated."

She bit back a smile. The genes did tell. "I'll bring him over right after dinner."

"I'd like it if both of you join us for dinner." Nora took a seat beside her. "You never did finish your Thanksgiving meal. I'll be serving turkey with humble pie." Nora smiled, walked over and hugged Holly, tears glistening in her eyes. "Can you forgive me?"

"For what?" Holly asked, perplexed.

"For forgetting my nephew's part in this mess and for sticking my nose where it doesn't belong."

"You're forgiven Aunt Nora." She kissed her cheek. Nora enfolded her in her warm embrace. Love flowed between aunt and niece.

Bart winked at her and she winked back over Nora's shoulder.

"We'll be there." She shuffled back to her office, her head bent.

Holly stayed with Uncle Bart and Aunt Nora longer than she'd planned. Night's curtain fell before she coaxed Henrietta, spitting and spluttering out of the driveway through a cloud of oily, black smoke. She coughed at the thick oily odor and rolled her window down so she didn't become asfixiated.

CompUtech's asphalt parking lot gleamed eerily under the moon, moonbeams rippling and skipping over the lake. A handful of cars huddled together near the front door. Holly had her key in hand before she slid out of Henrietta.

Looking this way and that, she ran the short distance to the front door, let herself in and locked up behind her. The twinkling Christmas tree in the corner welcomed her and the three Wise men cast eerie shadows over the front passageway.

Shadowy hallways combined with the eerie stillness gave Holly the shivers. Taking off her high heels, she padded down the hallway in her stockinged feet as silent as an Indian brave. An oblong of moonlight slashed through an office window and she paused when the shadows moved in front of her, her breath stuck in her chest.

When she realized that the shadows belonged to dancing palm trees grazing the windows, she let herself breath, unglued herself from the wall and resumed her journey to telemarketing where the night crew called clients on the West Coast until eleven-thirty p.m. Eastern Standard Time.

She realized when she was a scant ten feet from the telemarketing cubicles in the belly of the building that she didn't hear anything except the air conditioning whooshing through the air vents. Otherwise, the building was abnormally quiet. Shouldn't she hear telemarketers wheedling and coercing clients into purchasing CompUtech computer systems and tech support packages? They had to be here somewhere in the building--their vehicles littered the front parking lot.

She glanced at her watch to ensure it wasn't break time or dinnertime. Nope. Mickey Mouse's little hand pointed at eight and his large hand at the nine. Dinner had come and gone long ago.

So, where were they? She opened her mouth to call out, then clamped it shut. What if the thief had come back and held them captive? He'd catch her too.

She sucked in a deep breath, flattening herself against the wall as she'd seen police detectives do on television. She slithered along the wall, peeking carefully around corners. When a phone shrilled at her elbow, she jumped sky high, almost screaming. She had to bite her hand to keep from yelling out loud.

No one picked up the phone--another clue that everyone had disappeared. But where had they gone? And on foot?

Something wasn't right. Should she call the police?

And tell them what? That her employees were missing without a trace thus aliens must have abducted them? Or that they had all decided to go skinny-dipping in the lake across the parking lot? Or that they had joined Elvis wherever he'd disappeared to?

She needed more information before she called the cops. She bit her bottom lip and continued her search.

When she peeked into Joe's office, a windowless cube, a computer keyboard smashed to the floor two inches in front of her nose and she jumped back, screaming, her hands clutched around her throat.

Other screams joined hers and a body hurtled at her, jumping on top of her.

She struggled, kicking her legs, flailing her arms. A large hand clamped over her mouth and she bit it with all her might.

"Ouch!" a male voice yelled. "The robber bite me plenty hard. I've got rabies!"

"Philip?" Holly breathed hard. "Is that you?" she asked in disgust.

"They've been staking us out," Philip whispered. "Chickie knows my name."

"Get off me this instant Philip Colby." She shoved him.

When Philip still didn't move or answer, Holly threatened, "My knee's registered with the FBI and it's in perfect aiming position. Get-off-me," she said through clenched teeth, pushing against his flat chest.

"Holly?" A twinge of embarrassment scraped Philip's breathless tones. He rolled off, leaning on his hands. "It's only the pretty personnel Chickie," Philip called, relief in his tones.

She seethed, struggling to her feet. She brushed dust off her white skirts and grimaced at the huge holes gaping in her air-conditioned hose.

"What's the meaning of this?" She sauntered into Joe's office, stepping over the smashed keyboard. She flicked the fluorescent lights on. Circuits hung out the top like coiling snakes. Dismembered keys littered the floor like a child's marbles. She walked over a minefield of smashed circuitry then stopped dead.

An extra large economy-size derriere wiggled backwards out from under Joe's desk. She walked over to it, leaned over the desk and waited.

Daniel's shaggy head popped out.

"Boo!" She lifted her eyebrows.

Daniel jumped, his hands at his heart. "Don't ever do that to me again. My pacemaker can't take any more."

"Then call off your attack dog." She tilted her head at Philip. "I don't appreciate being assaulted with a deadly keyboard."

The front door slammed, a huge crash reverberated throughout the building and a slurred voice swore. Everybody jumped and eyed each other.

"Turn out the lights!" Daniel scrambled further under the desk. "Hide!"

She didn't need to be told. She struggled to climb under the desk with Daniel and Candy who hovered at the far back, an open bottle of white out in her hand. She started to swoon from the fumes. She wiggled, trying to squeeze all the way under the desk but her derriere and Daniel's got stuck trying to squeeze in, her skirts tucked in above her back and she hoped Philip didn't have night vision to see her panties with the little lilac flowers...

Footsteps clanged down the hall like rifle shots.

"It's coming our way!" Philip whispered.

"Are you armed?" Daniel yelled, still trying to squeeze under the desk.

"I'm all out of keyboards," Philip said, his voice shaky.

"Then hide, putz," Daniel said. Under his breath he muttered, "If we get out of here alive, I'm shipping him back to his village."

She wanted to giggle but she was too petrified--and too squeezed. Claustrophobia washed over her.

"It's coming this way." Philip kept them posted, the voice of CompUtech.

"Did you bring your Venus fly trap?" She could hardly breathe in the cramped quarters. Her feet were falling asleep.

"N-no-o-o," Philip said.

"Bring it!" She made a mental note to record Uncle Bart's dog barking and keep a recording of it on a mini tape recorder in her purse--that and a can of mace.

"Plenty near now."

"Shush!" Daniel commanded.

Footsteps stopped in front of their door and everyone sucked in their breath. Daniel and Candy squeezed her hands.

The lights flickered on and a familiar deep voice drawled, "Can I play hide and go seek with you?"

"Erik!" She bumped her head under the desk.

Daniel backed out, his bulk taking her with him.

Erik leaned over the desk, his head on his hand when she came out from the desk, still on her hands on knees. "I like your flowered panties, Princess."

She felt like a color wheel, knowing she must be all shades of red and purple. She couldn't utter another word, but just stared wide-eyed, mortified, into the most furious pair of eyes she'd ever seen.

"I hope you have a good explanation for playing touchy-feelie on work time..." He sniffed the air, his brows furrowed. "And getting high on white out."

"We are not playing touchy-feelie." Philip gawking at the fuming Erik. "We you were thief," Philip said, his hands talking faster than his lips. "You plenty scared us."

"Shut up Colby," Daniel muttered, his hands out like Frankenstein and he ambled toward Philip. "I'm tired of hearing your ramblings."

Philip screamed as if he were Michael Jackson, jumped a good foot then spirited out the door and down the hall.

She tried to follow, but Erik's large hands clamped down on her shoulders. "You have mega-explaining to do, Princess."

"Ahh, Tyler's waiting for me." She ducked out of his hands and chased Philip down the hall at jet speed.

"Holly, we have to talk." Erik closed her door behind him. "Have you reconsidered handing in your resignation?"

She glanced up, keeping her expression as aloof as possible. She shuffled papers on her desk and stacked them neatly on the far corner from her philodendron. "Can't right now, Boss. I have an applicant waiting for me." It was difficult to speak clearly with the hard peppermint disc she'd just popped in her mouth.

"The interview has to wait for a moment. This is important!" He crossed to her desk, looming over her. "And don't call me Boss."

"Am I fired?" Holly asked, no inflection in her voice.

"You know you're not fired. Call me Erik."

"Snake."

"That's not going to get us anywhere."

"We don't have anywhere to go." She stood, dismissing him. "I'm quitting, remember?"

"We need to discuss this. Look, if you're mad about Arlene, I didn't spend the night with her."

"You kissed her to our song. Then you didn't come back to our room all night. And you sure didn't mind that she draped herself all over you first thing in the morning in front of everyone."

"I..."

Daniel barged into Holly's office, steam almost pouring out of his ears. "Hold me back or I'm going to kill him!"

"Philip," Holly and Erik muttered together.

"Who else?" Daniel said.

"What did he do now?" Erik leaning nonchalantly against Holly's wall.

"He was almost an hour late. Do you want to know his excuse?"

"Can't wait to hear this one," Holly said wryly. "Let us have it."

"He said, Elvis was handing out jelly donuts on the corner of University and Broward Boulevard and he had to get one," Daniel said. "And I said, Oh yeah? And Jim Morrison is singing in the lunchroom today. Then he said, You're just sore I didn't bring you plenty dozen donuts. I'm gonna kill him..."

"I'll speak to him." Holly sighed.

Erik played charades behind Daniel's back forcing Holly to play guessing games. He motioned to push Daniel out of the office.

"Either he goes, or I go," Daniel threatened.

"I'll talk to him later. I promise," Holly said.

Jane knocked and stuck her head through the crack in the door. "Your ten o'clock is getting antsy. Says he has another interview to go to after this." Jane shrugged as if to say she was sorry for interrupting.

Daniel bludgeoned his way out of Holly's office.

"Tell him I'll be right there," Holly instructed. "I can't talk about this," she said, striding for her door.

Erik grasped her arm in his ironclad grip. "We need to talk..."

"I have a full schedule for the rest of the day..."

"Schedule me in," he commanded in his best imperial tones, dropping her arm.

She didn't answer. She sashayed down the hall, hoping her ex-husband watched. It would serve him right if she never scheduled him in. But he'd barge his way in if she didn't. He always got what he wanted.

Holly psssssed to Lucy, beckoning her to step around the corner. "What does this one look like?"

"Well dressed and well groomed," Lucy said. "But he sure seems pissed you're taking so long..."

"It's only ten fifteen..." She sighed.

"Hey, Hall," Lucy chided softly. "I'm just the messenger. You asked."

"Yeah, I asked," Holly said. "I'm sorry Luce. It's just been a bad week."

Lucy squeezed her shoulder. "Things will get better. It's almost Christmas which means the Christmas bonus and the party," Lucy said in a singsong voice, shoving a resume and application into Holly's hands before drifting back to her beeping, blinking switchboard.

She glanced around the corner, espying a tall, thin man with thick blonde hair wearing a nice three-piece suit, carrying a brief case sitting next to the twinkling Christmas tree. He struck her as professional except for the deep scowl on his face.

A fax whooshed out of the fax machine at Holly's elbow and she jumped.

She read the resume as she walked the long way around to the reception area, impressed by the man's credentials for the position and debated that he wasn't overqualified for the available position.

"Hi, I'm Holly Ramsey," she said, holding her hand out for a handshake. Country fresh pine scent filled her nostrils and she sniffed appreciatively. Christmas lights winked at her and a little toy soldier danced on a tree branch when the man bumped into it.

"Bill Dalton." Anger laced the man's tightly controlled tones. He grasped her hand too hard, pinching Holly's finger. She snatched her hand back as if scorched. Bad vibes trailed from her fingers to her toes.

"Ah, please come with me." She rolled her eyes and sticking her tongue out at Lucy.

Lucy smiled back with her professional mask.

"I'm sorry for the delay."

"I'm on a very tight schedule." Bill groused, checking his watch. "I have to be out of here by ten forty-five." He stood, and a candy cane fell from a branch, cracking into several pieces when it hit the hard tile floor.

"If you'd like to reschedule..." Holly said, frowning.

"No. I'm here now and I'd like to get this over with," Bill growled.

"This way then, Mr. Dalton," Holly said, squaring her shoulders.

"Nice office," Bill said grudgingly.

She shot a worried look at Jane who had turned around from her desk at the sound of voices. Jane tucked stray strands of her burnished red hair behind her ears and shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm sorry for the delay, but even if we'd started at ten, I need you to meet with the head of our Computer Science."

"That won't be necessary." A small smile played around Bill's lips.

Holly's eyebrow shot up. "I think it would be best if we just canceled this interview Mr. Dalton."

"You're not canceling anything." Bill shoved her into her office.

"What's the meaning of this?" Holly said, her voice rising shrilly. "I think you'd better leave this minute, Mr. Dalton."

"No, I don't think so," Bill said. "Lock your door Miss Ramsey."

"Wh..-what?" She refused to budge. "Er..."

Bill's mouth clamped over her mouth. "Sit over there," He locked the door, strode to Holly's desk and put his briefcase on the middle of her desk.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she whispered, her eyes wide.

"I'm giving you a choice, Miss Ramsey. Either you give me a job at CompUtech, or I blow you and all of CompUtech sky high."

"You wouldn't!" She gasped.

Erik rattled the doorknob then pounded on the door when he couldn't get in. "Let me in, Holly!"

"Tell him to go away, or I'll blow this now," Bill threatened. He ran his fingers through his dark blonde hair and loosened his tie. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead.

"Th-this is a joke." Her gaze locked with the mad man's.

"I never joke," Bill said, his voice deadly quiet. He stuck his hand in his pocket and withdrew a gun, pointing it at her.

"Why would I hire you now?" she asked, then kicked herself for not playing the game. Her eyes were glued to the barrel of his pistol. Sun streaming in from Erik's window glinted off the polished barrel.

"Because I'll blow you and everybody else to smithereens if you don't...unless I shoot you first," he promised. "Tell Conan out there to get lost.

"Holly open this door now or I'll break it down!" Erik said, pounding harder.

"Leave us alone, Erik," she called, her voice trembling. "He's holding a gun on me and there's a bomb in the briefcase! Evacuate the b..."

"You try to get in here again, I'll blow it and her too!" Bill yelled. "I have nothing to lose."

"Erik Taylor call your mother. E.T. call home!" Candy announced completely straight-laced.

"Lucy!" Erik bellowed, in his best Rick Richard imitation. "From today on, I'm chaining you to the switchboard!"

A ghost of a giggle threatened to bubble out of Holly's mouth--until she glanced at her captor into his coal black alligator eyes and she shivered instead.

"What do you want?" Erik looked through Holly's window, his dark eyes worried.

"I want a job here. Chief executive officer," Bill demanded. "Be reasonable."

Erik waved to Jane behind his back. "We already have a Chief Executive Officer."

"Get rid of him. I need that in writing with a contract that will pay me one million dollars per year," Bill instructed, perfectly sincere. "Those are my demands or the pretty lady here gets it first."

"CompUtech doesn't clear a million dollars a year." Holly said in awe. "We can't pay you what we don't have."

"You're lying. You're trying to trick me and get rid of me like everybody else," Bill said, a maniacal gleam in his eye. "You can't fool me. I know you sell these computers to the Russians for a million dollars each."

"Excuse me?" Holly said, unable to believe her ears. She saw Erik motioning to her out of the corner of her eyes. Then he held up a quickly scribbled sign "Agree to anything. Get him out of here."

Holly averted her eyes so Bill wouldn't get suspicious.

"Well?" Bill said. "Have you made up your mind?"

Holly saw a line of people waiting anxiously around the corner from her office and she moved so that Bill would have to turn his back to them so they could get out of the building.

Erik waved them down on the floor and they slithered past her office on their bellies.

"We'll meet your demands," Holly said. Right now, she'd say practically anything. The clock on her wall said it was ten-thirty five--ten minutes till D-Day.

"Give me proof," Bill demanded. The corner of his eye twitched.

"I-I need Erik in here to sign the contracts. You're not giving us time to draw up a proper contract Mr. Dalton."

Bill hesitated.

"I don't have that kind of authority," Holly pressed. Right now, she wanted Erik a million miles away from this mad man but she wanted him with her too...

"Okay," he finally agreed, "but no funny stuff."

"I have to unlock the door to let him in," Holly said, not wanting to spook the mad man. She stood slowly and walked to her door and unlocked it.

Erik took Holly in his arms and kissed her deeply.

"Stop that!" Bill commanded, waving the gun at she and Erik. "You'd better sign these contracts now, before it's too late."

"I hope it's not too late," Erik said, a double meaning edging his voice. He stared deeply into Holly's eyes.

"Not now, Erik." Her voice was thick, tears forming behind her eyes.

"What is this?" Fury filled Bill's eyes. "If I wanted to watch something mushy, I'd have rented Casablanca. Stop that!"

Erik put Holly away from him reluctantly. He walked towards the desk slowly.

"Don't' touch the desk," Bill said.

"I need paper and pen to draw up a contract." Erik nodded to her.

"Tell me where the paper is." The man shifted in his chair uneasily, his eyes shifting back and forth as if he expected trouble.

She glanced at the clock. Time was almost out--ten forty. And she had no way of knowing if the bomb clock precisely matched the clock on her wall. Each tick of the clock sounded like bombs dropping. "Can't you stop the bomb first and then we'll sign the papers?"

Olga and Penny from Data Processing slithered past her office. When they were out of Bill's line of vision, they scrambled to their feet and ran for the front door.

"Paper's in the printer. We do everything by computer..."

"What kind of frigging backward company is this anyway?" Bill mumbled. "She has no authority, you have no paper."

"A computer company?" Holly mumbled.

Erik shook his head at her and she clamped her mouth shut.

Sirens blared outside and Holly shuddered, not knowing to be relieved or more scared.

"Who called the cops? I said no cops. Don't you remember I distinctly told you no cops or I'd blow this place sky high?"

Erik shrugged, his eyes narrowed. "Are you really prepared to die? You know you'd never get this job now and they'll never let you go..."

"Prepare to die," Bill said.

"Let the girl go." Erik faced the man. "I'll stay. Blow me up if it makes you feel better."

"I'm not leaving you," Holly said, running to Erik. She finally spoke the words in her heart--now that it might be too late. "I love you. I don't want to live without you..."

"Now you tell me," Erik muttered, putting his arms around her. "You have to go. Tyler needs you. Go!" Erik shoved her towards the door. "Run!"

"Stop!" Bill demanded, hitching the wickedly gleaming pistol a notch higher. "I never said the woman could leave. Sign the contract or we all die," Bill snarled, baring his teeth like a rabid animal.

"Just sign the contract, Erik," Holly whispered, snuggling closer to him. "We only have ninety seconds left."

"If I sign your damned contract," Erik asked, locking gazes with the mad man, "will you stop the bomb?"

"Eighty seconds," Holly counted, her eyes glued to the clock.

"Defuse the bomb and come out with your hands high," a voice boomed over a megaphone. "This is Captain Robert Hill from the Ft. Lauderdale Police Department and we have this place surrounded. You'll never get out..."

Bill grabbed a sheet of blank paper from the printer and shoved it toward Erik. "Write, William Charles Dalton is the new Chief Executive Officer of CompUtech, salary one million dollars annually, unimpeachable lifetime contract. And sign your name."

Erik grabbed a pen from Holly's pencil holder and scribbled.

"Fifty-five seconds," Holly murmured. "Hurry!"

Erik dotted the last I and shoved the paper at the mad man. "It's done. Defuse the damn bomb!"

"What bomb?" Bill laughed, holding the paper to his chest, sighing, smiling in relief. "There was no bomb. And I'm your new boss. Where's my office?"

Holly slid down the wall in relief. No bomb? This had all been for nothing. "Are you sure there's no bomb?"

"Certain," Bill smiled. He opened his brief case and took out a plastic wrapped sandwich and a box of juice. "Just my lunch."

"Will you put your gun away?" Holly asked, her stomach still tied up in knots.

"This gun?" Bill asked, chuckling. He aimed the gun at Holly's philodendron, pulled the trigger--and proceeded to shoot water at her plant. "Now take me to my office, order me a limo and call the president of the United States..."

"No dice," Erik drawled.

"But I'm your boss," Bill spluttered, facing off against Erik.

"When pigs fly," Erik muttered. He picked up the phone and dialed the police precinct and told them the bomb threat was a hoax.

"But you signed my contract," Bill said on the verge of tears. He held it up to the light. "There's your signature..."

"Under extreme duress. Besides," Erik said, tongue in cheek. "I'm not Julius Caesar. It'll never hold up in court."

Holly begged to differ...

"You lied to me!" Bill gasped. "How dare you lie to me!"

"Extenuating circumstances," Erik said. He hauled Holly to her feet and put his arm around her waist. "We'll let the police deal with Mr. Dalton. You and I have to talk."

Holly nodded.

Swat team officers ran down the hall, their booted feet sounding like a herd of stampeding elephants.

Erik flagged them down. "The suspect's in here," Erik said loudly.

A police captain jogged into Holly's office, five men cramming into the office behind him. "Handcuff her O'Neil," he ordered. A gorilla-sized police officer slammed a cuff on Holly's wrist.

"Not her," Erik growled, "that lunatic over there."

"Sorry, ma'am," O'Neil said sheepishly, unlocking the handcuffs.

"That's okay. Everybody mistakes me for a criminal," Holly said, scowling. She rubbed her wrists.

"It's that wicked glint in your eye," Erik murmured in her ear, nibbling the sensitive ear lobe.

O'Neil slapped the handcuffs on Dalton.

"I'll sue you for false arrest," Dalton threatened. "You can't prove anything. You haven't got anything on me..."

With the aid of two other swat team officers, O'Neil dragged Dalton kicking and screaming out of Holly's office. "That's what they all say," O'Neil chuckled.

"I'll need statements from you," Captain Hill said.

"Can we have a few moments alone first?" Erik asked, his fingers massaging Holly's waist.

"Make it quick," the captain said.

Erik took Holly's hand in his, dragging her into his office. He took her in his arms, claiming her mouth, his fingers massaging her back.

Holly coiled her hands around Erik's neck, moaning into his mouth. Her fingers played in his thick hair and she parted her lips to his seeking tongue.

When she could no longer breathe, she pulled away and looked up at him. "If you weren't with Arlene that night, where were you?"

"I bunked with Barry DiAngelo from the Angel Personnel Agency," Erik murmured against her lips, his eyes closed.

"Why was Arlene draped all over you the next morning? Why did you let her?"

"I wanted to make you jealous. I just got more than I bargained for," he admitted, chuckling. "I didn't think you'd high-tail it back to Uncle Bart so fast..."

"Maybe I over-reacted a teensy weensy bit," Holly admitted, heat creeping into her cheeks.

"Just like I did when I found Bryce in our bedroom, trying on my robe..."

"He what?" She gasped, peering into Erik's eyes. "He didn't!"

"He did. And he told me you'd been lovers for months."

"Why would he do that?"

"I think you hit the nail on the head. He wanted Uncle Bart's money. He thought you were heiress to your uncle's fortune."

"When pigs fly!" She chuckled. "It's Aunt Nora's fortune and you're the heir."

"Bryce didn't know that." He leaned his forehead on her soft hair. "But why did you turn to him? Why didn't you tell me about Tyler?"

She bit her lower lip and stared outside at the glaring noonday sun. "I thought you knew about the baby and that you didn't want him. It was pretty obvious I was ill at the same time every morning...and you said you knew I had something important I wanted to discuss with you."

"I thought you were going to tell me you wanted a divorce so you could marry Bryce."

She shuddered a bone-deep sigh. "We both jumped to disastrous conclusions. We wasted so much time. I-I'm so sorry Erik." A fat tear trickled down her cheek.

He dried her cheek with his finger. "Shush. That's behind us now. I think Mr. Dalton was a godsend."

She blinked. "How?"

"I knew I still loved you but my pride wouldn't let me do anything about it--until I feared I would lose you forever."

"Maybe he should be your best man at the wedding?" She said it teasingly, but once she heard it aloud, it sounded like a good idea.

"When pigs fly."

"You don't want to marry me again?" Confused, hurt, she pulled away from him and turned her back to him. She stared at the sun glinting off the gentle waves on the lake. "I meant I won't let that lunatic within a thousand yards of you or our wedding." He pulled Holly back into his arms.

"We just have one problem."

He brushed her lips with his, pulling her hard against him. "What's that? My parents?"

"Noooo." Nothing like that, she denied quickly. "If I remarry you, Tyler's name will be Tyler Nicholas Taylor."

"T.N.T.. It has kind of a ring to it. We are dynamite together, wouldn't you say?" He grinned from ear to ear.

She groaned.

"And it's not if you remarry me, it's when," Erik murmured against his lips. "The sooner the better. That little boy needs a firm hand."

"Is that the only reason you're marrying me?" Holly asked, trying to wrench away. "You want your son."

Erik dragged her back. "Not on your life. I love you Princess, with all my heart. I always have."

"I love you, too." She snuggled into his strength, letting her fingers trail down his back.

Captain Hill stuck his head through the door and cleared his throat. "I really need to take your statements now."

"What do you say, we finish the statements and take the rest of the day off to get our marriage license?"

"There's half a day's work left."

"My aunt owns the company." Warm fingertips caressed her in impossible places, igniting fires that wouldn't be easily put out. "We can do anything we want."

"Erik Taylor call home." The P.A. system crackled. "E.T. phone home!"

Erik nuzzled his lips in her hair. "I'm already home," He pulled her into his arms, ignoring the Captain's wide grin and guffaws coming from the hallway.

"Luce," Holly whispered conspiratorially, "Page Erik and tell him to phone home..."

"He'll skin me alive," Lucy laughed. "You know he almost fired Candy for saying that over the loud speaker."

"Is she still sniffing white-out?" Holly chuckled, clutching the phone in her hand. She smiled at Rosalie who rocked one and one-half year old raven-haired Alyssa to sleep on her lap.

"And magic markers," Lucy confirmed.

"Just do it. I won't let him write you up," Holly promised, laughing. The smell of broiling steaks wafted through the house like a fine Bordeaux, making her mouth water.

"Pow pow pow!" Four year old Tyler careened through the house like a mini tornado, chasing Spiffy, the new cocker spaniel puppy, with the monstrous water gun he used to shoot space aliens.

"Tyler! Leave that poor pup alone before it dies from fright," Rosalie admonished, then returned to crooning to the sleepy toddler.

"You'll owe me, Hall," Lucy said. "Big time!"

"How about if I baby-sit one night so you and Jerry can have a romantic evening?"

"I suppose tonight's out of the question?" Lucy laughed.

"Totally," Holly agreed, swaying in time to Reunited. She fingered her favorite purple daisies. Taking one out of its vase, she lifted it to her nose and sniffed appreciatively. "But I'll make it good. Just don't wait too long," Holly paused for effect, "in another month or two, I may not be able to handle four little monsters in my condition..."

"You're pregnant?!" Lucy breathed. "I want to throw your baby shower again..."

"Shush! This is a surprise," Holly hissed. "If you breathe a word, I'll hunt you down."

"When are you due?" Lucy asked. "How do you feel? Do you have names picked out? Does Erik kn..."

"Slow down girl friend!" Holly laughed, ruffling Tyler's white blonde hair when he circled around her. "How about if we get together for lunch Monday and I'll fill you in on everything? And no, Erik doesn't know yet so have him phone home and keep your lips zipped."

"Will do, Boss," Lucy said.

"Make sure you announce it the right way," Holly warned.

"Do I have to?" Lucy wheedled. "He'll kill me..."

"Yes, you have to," Holly insisted. "E.T. phone home," she said. "And not one word different. I still have spies at CompUtech--I'll know if you thwart me..."

"I have an incoming call," Lucy said.

"Then make the page," Holly instructed and hung up.

"Are the wheels in motion?" Rosalie asked, gazing at Holly, a smile tilting her lips.

"I think so," Holly said. "We'll know in a few minutes. You'd better get the kids and skedaddle. This is something I need to do in private..."

"Light plenty of candles, Dear, and make sure you have plenty of butterscotch, chocolate and strawberry syrup. Oh, and wear a yellow ribbon around your neck--and nothing else." A wicked smile tugged at Rosalie's lips, almost matching the intensity of the one lighting her eyes.

"Lord have mercy!" Holly's gaze darted to her mischievous blonde imp. "You'll corrupt virgin ears." Heat crept up her neck, into her cheeks and she bit her bottom lip.

"He's too busy shooting aliens to listen to boring adult conversation, dear." Rosalie waved her fears away. "And the baby's asleep."

"What about my virgin ears?" She bundled Alyssa into her arms, stepping back so her mother could get out of the lounger.

Rosalie chuckled. "You're incubating your third child--you don't have virgin anything." Rosalie stood, strapping her purse and Alyssa's quilted diaper bag over her shoulder. She picked up Tyler's over night case in her other hand. "Now help me get the babies into my car and I'll leave you in peace. Just remember to rescue me Sunday afternoon by five."

Holly kissed her mother's rouged cheek. "Thanks Mom. Let me know when I can return the favor."

"Lock the door this time dear." Her mother winked. A rare dimple made her absolutely glow. "And make sure you're kissing Erik--that will be payment enough."

"Very funny, Mom." Chuckling wryly, she combed Alyssa's silky raven-black hair and dropped an angel's kiss on the crown of her head, so much like Erik's. Just the thought of her sexier than sin husband made heat rush through her body to settle into her cheeks.

"I would ask for your first born child." Rosalie peered at Tyler's wriggling behind sticking up in the air as he tried get the puppy out from under the couch.

"Come with Grandma Rosie, Tyler." Rosalie held her hand out, fingers outstretched. Light glinted off her birth stone ruby ring. "I'm taking you to the petting zoo."

"Where he can ride the geese again?" She regarded her mother in utter astonishment. Surely, she'd blacked out memories of earlier trips. "Or chase the pigs? Or stick the albino snake in your purse?"

"Don't you worry." Rosalie smiled her adoring grandmother's smile at Tyler. It seemed the first grandchild could do no wrong, no matter how naughty, how mischievous he could be. "I'll handle him. He knows Grandma means business. We have an understanding, don't we Ty Guy?"

She wondered what that was all about but refrained from asking, having learned the hard way at Rosalie's school of hard knocks. With her mother, it was better to bleed from biting her tongue than to wither under her mother's potentially rapier anger.

"Can I bring Spiffy?" Tyler choked a whimpering Spiffy, pudgy fingers coiled around the dog's neck.

"Leave Spiffy home to keep your mama company." Rosalie shifted Tyler's overnight case to her right side. "Stop torturing your best friend." The blue case announced in large red letters that it belonged to TNT.

Holly freed the puppy from Tyler's fingers and cradled him to her chest, stroking his soft head. Quivering, the puppy burrowed against her, huge luminous eyes imploring her to protect him. "Not this time, Ty. Spiffy has to rest up from his coronary." She bent on one knee to be eye level with her oldest child, sinking into the plush carpeting. "Can I have a kiss before you go to Grandma's house?"

Her son careened into her arms. Spiffy yelped and struggled out of Holly's embrace, his claws digging into her bare arm. She hugged her little dynamo to her chest, dropping a kiss on his cheek. "Love you, Mommy." His chocolate brown eyes twinkled.

"Love you too, Ty." She patted his little behind and received a long, hard glare from her eldest child for babying him. She knew he had a rep to protect now he was the big brother. But to her, he'd always be her precious baby boy. "Behave for Grandma."

"Remember," Holly said as she strapped Alyssa in her car seat, "if they're too hard to handle, Aunt Nora and Grandma Taylor said they'd both lend a hand."

She dropped a kiss on Alyssa's angel soft cheek then closed the door. Stepping back from the car, she waved until she could only see the taillights shimmer in the distance.

Humming under her breath, she sashayed inside, lit the vanilla scented candles and waited for Erik.

She didn't have long to wait and even though she expected him any moment, he entered the house so quietly, he startled her. When large hands encircled her thickening waist, pulling her against a warm, hard chest, she jumped. But when soft lips nuzzled her neck, she melted against him as she always did, practically purring.

Unclasping strong fingers from her waist, she turned and looked into her husband's smoldering smoky gray eyes. "May I see some identification, sir?" she asked demurely, studying every shadowy plane of Erik's chiseled features, her fingertips fluttering along his rugged jaw line.

"Why did you order me home, Mrs. Taylor?" His husky, seductive voice skipped down her spine. Her stomach coiled impossibly and her breath caught in her lungs.

"W-well." Mere words couldn't convey the depth of the emotional whirlpool swirling inside her -- or her intentions. Well, they could, but not nearly as well as her lips. She snaked her arms around Erik's neck, drawing his head down for her kiss, for a meeting of their souls. "I have something important to share with you." This time, she wouldn't mess it up. She'd never let him walk away again.