His Secret Valentine

By Kate Hoffmann

HARLEQUIN®

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Chapter One

Tears flooded charlotte Keats's eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She brushed at them with her fingers, then grabbed a tissue from her desk and blew her runny nose with all the delicacy she could muster.

"Old Yeller," she said, her voice catching. "The ending always gets me. When he has to...to..." She groaned, unable to finish. "I still have the copy of the book my father gave me years ago and it has big tear splotches on the pages."

"Oh, stop! I can't take this anymore. " Laurie cried, waving her hand, a fresh surge of tears filling her own eyes. "Any animal story does it to me. Lassie was the worst. " She drew a ragged breath. "Oh, I've got another one. That dolphin. What was his name?"

"Flipper?"

"Oh, Flipper! Even he got to me. And then there was that movie about the two dogs and the cat that trek across the country to find their masters. I wept for three hours after I watched it. "

"And those phone-company commercials, " Charlotte added. "Where the son calls the mother and... Oh, you know. " This tortuous game of comparing what made them cry had all started with a teary reading of Laurie's latest story, and now they couldn't stop.

"Greeting-card commercials are much worse," Laurie countered, dabbing at her nose with a crumpled tissue. "Especially the one with the kid and the teacher."

"How about The Wizard of Oz? When Dorothy has to go home? Ten hankies, at least. Every time I see it, it takes me a day to recover."

"Casablanca. When they say goodbye at the airport. Don't you just want to slap Ingrid Bergman silly?"

"The Olympics when they play the national anthem at the medal ceremony and the flag goes up." Charlotte rocked back in her chair and flung out her arms. "Build an ark, Noah, and open the floodgates."

Laurie held her hand up and shook her head, fighting back another surge of tears. "The--the Road Runner," she said in between two hiccups.

Charlotte straightened and looked at Laurie in bewilderment. A laugh burst from her lips. "What?"

"You know, that cartoon. The bird with the long legs."

"The Road Runner makes you cry? How can the Road Runner make you cry?"

Laurie sniffled. "Well, he's got such a miserable life, living out in the desert, that coyote chasing after him all the time. And there's no Mrs. Road Runner, is there? I mean, who would be there to mourn if that anvil really did fall on his head? Or if the dynamite actually detonated at the right time?"

They stared at each other for a long moment, then burst out in gales of laughter, their hysterics causing another round of tears. Charlotte laughed until her sides ached, until she couldn't catch her breath and her cheeks hurt. And then she looked at Laurie and the hysteria started all over again.

Laurie hiccuped, then covered her face with her hands. "I'm such a sap," she mumbled through her fingers.

"You are? What about me?" Charlotte picked up her copy of the story Laurie had just turned in and shoved it at her. "You knew exactly how I'd react to your story. You knew I'd get misty-eyed. You are so manipulative, it's pitiful."

Laurie smiled smugly. "That's what you pay me for," she said. "Human-interest features that push all the right buttons with your readers."

Charlotte sighed. "And with your editor. You know I'm a hopeless romantic and you don't think twice about taking advantage of me."

Hearing a noise, they both looked up and watched as Sam Harper, the publisher of the Cedar Ridge Tribune, strode in. He was dressed in his usual impeccably tailored suit and Charlotte watched as Laurie gave him an appreciative onceover. She turned to Charlotte and wiggled her eyebrows, then resumed her blatant perusal.

Charlotte had seen it all before. Sam Harper had that effect on women--the innate ability to cause heads to turn and hearts to skip a beat. Most men with good looks like his were intolerably self-absorbed. But Sam was so smooth, he managed to act as if he hadn't a clue how attractive he was.

His gaze was fixed on the sheaf of computer printouts in his hands. "Gus, I was looking at these advertising figures and we've got a big problem. We've got to--" He glanced up, then froze three steps into the room, staring at them both, a wary look in his blue eyes. He looked furtively at his papers, then back at the door, frowned and shifted on his feet.

Charlotte sniffled, her temper rising at his use of that awful childhood nickname he'd given her when she was ten. She couldn't count the number of times she'd asked him to call her Charlotte, or Ms. Keats, especially in front of her staff, but he took perverse delight in calling her "Gus" or "Gussie"--short for Augusta, her middle name.

Pushing aside a sharp comeback, she wiped a tear from her cheek, then folded her hands primly in front of her on her desk. "Hello, Harper. I didn't hear you knock."

He glanced back at the door again. "I never knock," he said.

"My point exactly."

"But maybe I should have, this time," he added under his breath.

"Was there something you wanted?"

He studied her for a long moment, his gaze shrewdly taking in her puffy eyes and damp cheeks. "Is everything all right?"

Charlotte blinked in surprise. His furrowed brow was the closest thing she'd seen to genuine concern from Sam Harper in the almost thirty-four years she'd known him. Even after he'd pushed her into Myrtle Lake and ruined her thirteenth birthday party--his response to her mortifying mistake of telling him she had a crush on him. Even after that, he hadn't been able to muster up more than a halfhearted shrug and a mumbled apology.

"Everything is fine--just fine," she said.

"It's just... You look like you've been..." He shuffled the papers in his hands. "Crying."

"I said, I'm fine."

Slowly, he regained his customary composure.

Still, for all his self-assurance, Charlotte found it quite amusing that two weeping women could rattle him so thoroughly. "What was it that you wanted, Harper?"

Charlotte glanced at Laurie, then bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling, relishing the sweet sense of satisfaction at Sam's obvious discomfort. Lord, she loved those rare occasions when she could rattle Sam Harper. He was so unflappable, with an arrogance that grated on her like fingernails on a chalkboard, and an irritating disdain for anything that resembled sentimentality.

Many of his employees considered Sam a bit aloof and somewhat humorless. But Charlotte knew better. She found him downright unbearable. Those buttoned-down suits he wore that managed to make his perfectly buff body look even buffer. And that thick dark hair that always seemed to stay in place even in the midst of hurricane-force winds. Damn, even his eyelashes were gorgeous--long and spiky, the color of soot, a perfect complement to his brilliant blue eyes.

It wasn't as if she were jealous. What did she have to be jealous about? Just because she always managed to look like she'd just tumbled out of bed fully clothed? Or that her hair was nothing more than an unruly riot of curls? Or that the last time her thighs were buff, she was still a tomboy with a mouthful of braces. No, she wasn't jealous of Sam Harper.

He just... irritated her. They'd known each other since they were toddlers, thrown together by their parents as soon as Charlotte took her first steps. He'd been like the older brother she'd never had--nagging, intractable, overbearing.

From the day she'd turned thirteen, she had thought she'd been in love with him. She'd carried a secret torch for him all through her teens. But by the time their fathers had retired and left them to run the newspaper together, she'd known there would never be anything between them.

The truth be told, after nine years of working together, there were days when she could barely tolerate being in the same office. He ran the Cedar Ridge Tribune with brilliant aplomb and coldhearted efficiency, she would give him that. But it was the way he did it--without a care for the heart and the soul of the newspaper--that annoyed her.

To Sam, the Tribune was simply ink on newsprint, a product to be sold. To Charlotte the paper was a living, breathing part of the community, an opportunity to enlighten and inform and entertain.

So Sam, as publisher, deftly handled the financial side of the business and doled out instructions as to how to make it successful. In turn, as editor-in-chief, she ran the editorial department—but was expected to heed all Sam's comments and criticisms. He took great delight in tormenting her with circulation figures and advertising revenues and the relationship between her editorial content and his readership. She suspected that was what had brought him barging into her office now.

"I-- " He glanced at Laurie who was staring up at him, a dreamy smile on her face, then back at Charlotte. "I needed to talk to you about the Valentine's Day issue. I just looked at the board and I noticed that you bumped the story on Ed Calhoun's new paint-mixing system."

Laurie popped out of her chair and gathered her things. "Before you assign me that journalistic gem, I think I'll be going. Charlotte, give me a call if you need any revisions on the story. I'll call Kip and send him over for a photo or two. Sam, it was nice seeing you again." She held out her hand and he took it. "I'll see you...soon."

Laurie pulled the door shut behind her, leaving Charlotte and Sam in silence.

"Well?" he finally said.

"If you date her, I'll kill you," Charlotte warned. "She's a good writer and I don't want to risk losing her. So stay away."

Sam gave her a long-suffering look. "I have no interest in dating her. But I would like an explanation for why you spiked the story on Ed's Paints. He's been a loyal advertiser for years." He tossed the report on her desk. "Fifty thousand in advertising last year. And this new computerized system he has is interesting news."

Charlotte yawned dramatically, waving her hand in front of her mouth. "It's not news, Harper, it's puff. Worse yet, it's boring puff. I'm trying to put together a decent Valentine's Day issue here. Ed's new paint-mixing machine does not rank high on the human-interest scale in Cedar Ridge."

He regarded her cynically. "People don't paint their homes in Cedar Ridge?"

She grabbed the report and tossed it back across her desk. "All the time. But it's not frontpage news."

"He's running a color supplement in Sunday's paper."

She shook her head adamantly. "It's a boring story."

"Four pages of full color."

She pushed out of her chair. "The story doesn't need to run on Valentine's Day, Harper. In my opinion, it never needs to run at all."

"Do you realize how much money we get for a four-color supplement?"

Charlotte leaned over her desk and looked directly into his stubborn gaze. "It's an obvious attempt to pander to an advertiser. And if that isn't bad enough, there's no angle."

Sam cursed under his breath. "So make up an angle. You're the editorial wizard. It's Valentine's Day. This paint-mixing system can formulate 256 different and distinct shades of red. I told Ed we'd run the story."

Charlotte clenched her fists and bit back a curse of her own, her temper now blazing out of control. "Well, you can untell him. It wasn't your decision to make. Besides, I have another story that is much more interesting and more appropriate to Valentine's Day than red latex paint."

"What could possibly be more important than making one of our biggest advertisers happy?"

"Laurie Simpson just brought me a story. It's wonderfully romantic. About a couple who met and fell in love but were torn apart at the end of World War II. He was an American soldier and she was a beautiful young Italian girl. As if it were fate, they met again, right here on the streets of Cedar Ridge, fifty years after they parted. And they're going to be married this Valentine's Day."

Sam raked his fingers through his hair. "That is so incredibly maudlin."

"And it is exactly what our readers want to read on Valentine's Day," Charlotte countered. "Just because you don't have a romantic bone in your body, doesn't mean the rest of the world is as unfeeling."

"Listen, I'm just as romantic as the next guy, Gus, but this is-- "

Charlotte laughed. "What, you? Romantic? Where in the world did you get that idea?"

"I'm romantic," he said in a defensive tone. "Just ask any of the women I've dated. They'll tell you."

"Well, then, why don't we do that? Let's start with Kimberly. Isn't she the one who dumped you after you forgot her birthday--twice? And then there was Vanessa. I believe she dumped you when she found out you were dating her roommate at the same time you were dating her. And then there was that awful incident with the perfume and Bambi--wasn't that her name? You gave her a bottle of perfume three days after last Valentine's Day, a bottle meant for another woman, forgetting, of course that Bambi was highly allergic to perfume. I'm sorry, Harper, but I misspoke. You are the last of the red-hot romantics."

He gave her an aggravated look. "I don't care what you think about me. But I do care about this paper. Our fathers founded the Cedar Ridge Tribune and I'm not about to jeopardize our future because you're feeling sentimental. Find a place for Ed's story. And don't even consider burying it in the back." He straightened his perfectly-knotted tie, then turned and strode to the door.

"I'll run it when I want to run it, Sam Harper!" she shouted, throwing the computer report after him. It hit him on the backside, then dropped to the floor behind him.

He turned and looked at her. "You'll run it because I told you to run it."

With that he yanked open the door and walked out. Charlotte stared after him, watching as he made his way through the editorial department to his office at the opposite corner of the building.

"And to think I once believed I was in love with that man," she muttered.

She flopped down in her chair, braced her elbow on her desk and cupped her chin in her palm. Maybe it was all for the better that Sam Harper rubbed her the wrong way. It had made it easier to stop loving him. And she had managed to put all her feelings for him aside and go on with her life.

Still, there were times when she couldn't help but wonder what might have been between them, had they been more compatible. Her mind wandered back to the night she'd realized he would never see her as anything more than good old "Gus." It had been the night before she left for college at Northwestern. She'd walked over to Sam's house to say goodbye to him and his parents. She had decided to tell him how she felt, the same way she had that night on her thirteenth birthday.

But she'd arrived to find Sam busy with one of his many girlfriends. He'd barely glanced at her as he walked out of the house with his sorority-house sweetheart, a pretty blond sophomore from his class at Tulane. Charlotte had called goodbye to them both and in the same breath had vowed to forget him. Four years of college and another three at the Washington Post had done their job. By the time she returned to Cedar Ridge to take over as editor, she had put Sam out of her heart for good.

She yanked her desk drawer open and pulled out a silver-foil box of chocolates, then popped one in her mouth and munched methodically. God, he could be so exasperating! She would give anything to hold a mirror up to Sam Harper's face, to show him that he was about as romantic as an old stump.

And at the same time, she would reassure herself, once again, that he was a man completely unworthy of any woman's affection--including hers.

* * *

Sam strode through the offices and headed back to the pressroom. As he stepped through the double doors, the clatter of the presses and the smell of ink filled his senses. He remembered the first time his father had taken him into the pressroom, the joy with which Jack Harper had described the workings of the printing presses. He'd shown his son how they turned the pasted-up version of the paper into plates and then into the newspaper that appeared on the doorstep of nearly every home in Cedar Ridge.

Back then, Cedar Ridge had been a quaint little town-- a throwback to the turn of the century, nearly an hour's drive from Atlanta. But the urban sprawl of the city had been relentless. With the new expressways, the time to downtown Atlanta had been cut in half and Cedar Ridge had become a bedroom suburb.

Charlotte had never really understood the difficulties of keeping a small-town newspaper afloat. It had become even worse since the two major Atlanta papers had merged. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution had invaded every retail outlet in town and increased their home delivery efforts, as well.

Sam sighed. Sometimes he felt like David against Goliath. When his father and Charlotte's had founded the paper in the fifties, it only had to compete with radio and primitive televisions. But now their loyal readers had more choices to make, as did their advertisers. And he had employees to worry about. Charlotte would have to learn to understand that.

He wasn't being unreasonable, was he? All he was asking for was a little support for one of his most important advertisers. Yet she had taken no more than a few seconds to consider the idea before she killed the story. To make matters worse, she'd managed to offer up a critical review of his social life at the same time. So maybe he wasn't the most romantic guy in the world, but he certainly wasn't going to take Charlotte Keats's word for it.

It seemed as if they'd been at odds their entire lives. From the time she could walk, she'd been a constant bother, tagging along after him like an irksome little sister. She'd even developed a silly teenage crush on him. And now, she'd become a permanent fixture in his life and his own personal thorn-in-the-side.

He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. To think he'd even loved her once--for a night. His mind flashed instantly back to that time. It had been the summer she came home after graduating from college. There had been a family picnic at their cottage up at Myrtle Lake and he'd seen her for the first time in four years. The gawky girl had become a beautiful woman.

Her once-unruly curls now framed a perfect face, an upturned nose sprinkled with freckles, green eyes, and a mouth made to be kissed. And her voice, so husky and boyish as a child, now seemed tantalizing, like the brush of raw silk against skin.

And the way she'd dressed, he mused. In bright, flowing fabrics that clung to her slender limbs, a wardrobe that seemed to speak volumes for both her self-confidence and her feminine guile.

He had watched her from the shadows that night, losing himself in the simple movements of her hands and the warmth of her sweet smile, and he was confident that he could make her love him again. He could rekindle that childhood crush. And he had expected to do this when she came back to Cedar Ridge, to take the job her father offered at the paper, as he had.

But then she'd made her announcement. She'd taken a job at the Washington Post. She wouldn't be coming back to Cedar Ridge after all.

It had taken him a long time to forget that night, but he had, writing it off as a momentary lapse in judgment. When she'd returned to take the job as editor three years later, she'd been different-distant, and wary of him. So they had settled into a professional relationship, a relationship that put them at odds for most of the working day.

He stood next to the press and watched as it gobbled paper from the large roll, pressing ink into the newsprint in a blur of speed and efficiency. Glancing up, he caught sight of Big John, his head pressman, approaching. Big John had worked for the paper for as long as Sam could remember. He'd been a good friend to both the Keats and Harper families.

He wore an ink-stained work apron and his white hair stood on end. A smudge of ink had found its usual place on the end of his nose and a broad smile split his face. "She's workin' fine now, boss!" he shouted, patting the press. "Nothing to worry about."

A breakdown on their main press had delayed the paper's run last night and Sam had been worried that the balky old machine was breathing its last breath. They barely had the money to repair the press, much less purchase a new one. "How far behind are we?" Sam asked.

"We're fine," John said over the clamor. "They're plating the second section right now. We'll be on press with the main by midnight. Everyone will have their paper to read with their morning coffee."

Sam nodded. "Good work," he said, patting John on the shoulder.

Big John smiled and turned to walk down the line, but at the last moment, Sam shouted his name. "You want to get a cup of coffee?" he asked.

The pressman smiled and nodded, then led Sam back to his small office at the rear of the shop. Sam sat down while Big John poured him a cup of coffee. Then Big John settled himself into his chair and cleared his throat. "So what's she done now?"

Sam frowned. "She?"

"Whenever you come back here looking for coffee, you've usually got somethin' stuck in your craw. And nine times out of ten, that somethin' is Miss Charlotte Keats. So what's she done now?"

Sam slowly sipped at his coffee, watching Big John over the rim of his cup. "Do you think I'm a romantic guy?"

Big John grunted, then chuckled. "You're askin' me if you're romantic?"

"I don't have anyone else to ask," Sam said. "Charlotte seems to think I'm some kind of coldhearted jerk. And I don't think I am. I've always thought I was a nice guy."

Big John considered his reply for a long moment before speaking. "I wouldn't call you coldhearted. You're a little opinionated, just like your old man. You're stubborn, especially where the paper's concerned. And you like to get your own way. Some people might think you're a little arrogant and self-centered."

"But that doesn't mean I'm heartless. I can be as romantic as the next arrogant, self-centered guy."

Big John held out his hands. "Hey, I'm not the one you should be asking. And I'm not about to mediate another fight between you and Charlotte. You'd think after nine years of workin' together, you kids would have learned to get along. Sometimes I don't think you two have grown a lick since you were in diapers."

"She thinks she knows me," Sam said. "But she doesn't know me at all."

"And I'd venture you don't really know her, either," Big John countered.

Sam pushed out of his chair and raked his fingers through his hair. "Well, I don't even want to try to get inside that head of hers. Even though I've known her for years, the woman is still a complete mystery to me."

"Don't try too hard to figure her out," Big John advised. "I've learned that women have a real knack for changin' course. Once you think you've got 'em pegged, they head off in the opposite direction."

Sam nodded slowly. "Or they sneak up behind you and knock your feet out from under you. That's Charlotte, all right. She never walks away from an argument. If she's got a point to prove, she won't let go until she proves it."

"Then I guess you'd better watch your back," Big John said.

"That's exactly what I intend to do," Sam replied. "I'm the publisher of this paper and I'm

not about to let her get the upper hand."

* * *

Charlotte pushed open the front door of Valentine Delights, a cozy coffee and sweet shop located in the center of Cedar Ridge's picturesque downtown. The smell of freshly ground coffee and handmade chocolates teased at her nose and she drew a deep breath.

The confectionery, located in a pretty brick Victorian storefront, had become a popular gathering place, owing to its early opening and late closing times. Besides hand-dipped chocolates, Papa had recently added luscious desserts to his menu, making the shop a pleasant place to sit, chat, and indulge in some sinful sweets.

Charlotte stopped by nearly every morning at eight for a Papaccino--a mix of espresso, steamed milk, and chocolate--with her own twist--a shot of raspberry syrup. The newspaper office was located just around the corner from Valentine

Delights and Papa's had become a regular stop for most of its employees. As she stepped up to the counter to place her order, Papa looked up and gave her a bright smile.

"Hey, Charlotte. What's news?"

"Good morning, Papa." She dug in her purse for her wallet. "I don't have much news to tell. Luella Crenshaw's cat got stuck in a tree yesterday afternoon and the fire department got to use their new ladder truck. I heard Chip Watkins scored thirty-five points in the high-school basketball game last night and there was a scout from Arkansas State there to see him do it. And the mayor decided to postpone the referendum on the new parking lot."

Papa chuckled as he prepared her coffee. "I'm sure glad you stop by every morning to give me the news," he said. "Gives me something to gossip about all day long."

"Well, don't gossip too much. With the number of customers you've got in here, you're reaching more people than CNN. You might just put the Tribune right out of business."

"Not much chance of that," Papa said. "Not with the way your Sam runs that paper."

Charlotte frowned. "He's not my Sam," she retorted.

Papa's eyebrow shot up. "You know what I meant." He gazed at her for a long moment. "What's wrong? You and Sam have another fight?"

Charlotte shook her head. "Not anything more than usual. We can't seem to agree on anything lately. I don't remember it ever being this bad between us. In fact, it was so bad yesterday I ate that whole box of hazelnut truffles you sold me." She grabbed her coffee. "I'll take a croissant, too, please. And I'll need another box of truffles. A dozen. That should last me for another day. I swear, if Sam Harper doesn't lighten up, I'm going to turn into a blimp."

"Hey, if that happens, you could always work out at the Bad Dog Gym," Papa said. "Sam's down there two or three times a week."

"I think I'll pass," she said. "I get plenty of Harper at work."

She followed Papa to the pastry case and he pulled a croissant from a basket on top and dropped it into a bag. Then he moved to the glass candy case and slid the door open.

"I suppose business has been pretty brisk lately, with Valentine's Day coming up," she commented.

Papa nodded. "Everyone's been picking up sweets for their sweeties," he said. "Lots of folks responding to that ad I ran last week. Sam told me it would pay off. And he's the one who suggested the coupon. He sure knows his readers."

Charlotte watched as he plucked a dozen truffles from the tray, then carefully weighed them and placed them, one by one, in a silver-foil box embossed with the name of the shop. He handed the box over the counter to her.

"What about you?" he asked. "Can I show you anything for your sweetheart?"

Charlotte shook her head as she handed him the money, then paused. An idea slowly coalesced in her mind and she smiled.

It would be the perfect plan, an irrefutable way to prove her point. A way to hold a mirror up to Sam Harper and make him see the man he really was. "In fact, you can get me something," she said. "Pack up another six of those truffles in one of your special little boxes with the burgundy ribbon. And I need a gift card to go with it."

She quickly paid for her purchases, tucked them beneath her arm and bade Papa goodbye. As she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she smiled smugly. "Watch out, Sam Harper. I'm mad and I'm heavily armed with chocolate."

If he really thought he had an ounce of romance in his soul, she was about to prove him wrong.

Chapter Two

Charlotte placed the beribboned box of candy in the center of Sam's desk, then stepped back to study it. A momentary twinge of conscience pricked her, but she quickly pushed it aside and hurried from Sam's office. She glanced at her watch and let out a tightly held breath. She would only have to wait two minutes. Sam arrived precisely at eight-thirty every morning, rain or shine.

She searched for a place from which she would be able to see into his office, and chose to loiter in front of the bank of file cabinets outside his office door. She yanked a drawer open and idly flipped through the photo file. Always predictable, Sam arrived right on time.

"Morning, Gus," he muttered as he passed by her, not even giving her a second glance, his mind undoubtedly already preoccupied with the day ahead.

Charlotte looked up and schooled her smile of anticipation into one of indifference. "Good morning, Harper."

She sidled around the open top drawer of the cabinet and faced his office, watching him as he pulled off his coat and hung it on the rack beside the door. She held her breath as he crossed his office to his desk.

A shiver skittered down her spine as her gaze came to rest on his broad shoulders and flat belly. Lord, the man knew how to wear a suit. Most of the other employees chose a more casual style of dress, but Sam preferred a suit and tie. She suspected it gave him a sense of power and authority, especially when matched against her own flamboyant style. or perhaps it was simply a reflection of his buttoned-down personality.

His hair, still slightly damp from his morning shower, brushed the collar of his crisply starched shirt. Her gaze lingered for a moment longer as her thoughts wandered. What might it feel like to run her fingers through his hair? or to let her hands slide down along his shoulders? or maybe over his broad, finely-muscled chest? or--She sucked in a sharp breath and clenched her fingers into fists, trying to rid herself of the tingle that seemed to numb her fingertips. What was she doing? Fantasizing about the man was not what this plan was all about! This whole thing was about proving that she knew exactly the kind of man he was--a man with a heart chiseled from pure stone. Sure, his heart was surrounded by a warm body, but that was not the point.

She watched him surreptitiously as he flipped open his briefcase. When he reached for the phone without noticing the silver-foil box, she could barely contain her nerves.

And then he paused, his hand halfway to the phone. Slowly, he reached for the box instead and lowered himself into his chair. He plucked at the gift card, then opened the tiny envelope and withdrew it.

""From Your Secret Valentine,'" she said softly, repeating the words she'd written. Now he would toss the card aside and laugh. or perhaps he would crumple it and throw it in the trash. She waited and watched. A lazy smile curled his lips as he continued to stare at it.

"All right," she murmured. "Get to it. You have no patience for this romantic foolishness. A secret valentine? Not for me, Mr. Indifferent. Come on, throw it out, Harper."

But he didn't. Instead he picked up the box and untied the ribbon, then opened it. His grin widened and she cursed softly. "I can't believe you're actually enjoying this. You hate chocolate."

When he pulled a truffle from the box and bit into it, she decided it was time to push the issue a little further. Shoving the file drawer closed, she stepped toward his office.

He glanced up then and noticed her approach. In one smooth movement, he tucked the card into the breast pocket of his jacket and slipped the small box of chocolates into his desk drawer. If she hadn't been watching him so closely, she would have missed it, for he removed the evidence with an amazing sleight of hand.

"Well, Gus," he said as she stepped through the door. "On the warpath early, I see."

She ground her teeth in frustration. If the box of candy had been in plain sight, she could have asked him about it. But if she questioned him now, he would know she'd been spying. "I just wanted to check on the press problem. Did we have any delay last night?"

"Since when do you worry about the presses, Gus?"

"My name is Charlotte," she said, bristling. "I wish you would learn to call me that. And I have every right to check on the status of our printing equipment. This business is half mine."

He grinned. "All right, Charlotte. The press is working fine. The paper got out on time. All's well with the world."

She shifted uneasily, then tipped her chin up. "Good. I'm glad to hear that."

"Was there something else?" he asked, arching his eyebrow in sarcastic curiosity.

"No."

"Then hop on your broom and get out of here. I've got work to do."

Stymied, Charlotte headed to the door, but his voice stopped her.

"By the way, I had a chance to look at Laurie's feature for the Valentine's Day issue. I noticed it had been set on the system already so I ran a hard copy and read it last night."

Charlotte stopped and turned back to him, her hands braced on her hips. "I told you, I'm not going to pull that story for Ed's Paints."

He held up his hand to stop any further complaint. "I don't want you to. Actually, you were right about the story. It's very...well reported. I think it's perfect for Valentine's Day. In fact, if I might make a suggestion, I think we ought to send a photographer to the wedding and maybe do a follow-up. You know-- a happily-ever-after angle would probably sell a lot of papers."

Charlotte stared at him, then snapped her mouth shut when she realized it was hanging open. What was he up to now? Did he think this would square everything between them? "Just because you've acknowledged the appropriateness of that story does not mean I've changed my opinion of you," she said. "I still think you are far too cynical about real human emotions."

He watched her, nodding slowly, as if he were actually considering what she said. After a long moment, he drew a deep breath. "Well, I still disagree with that assessment," he said. "I think I'm a warm and lovable guy. A real romantic at heart." He patted his chest, right over the spot where he'd placed the card in his pocket. "And I'm sure there are lots of women out there who think so, too."

Charlotte laughed dryly, trying to ignore his oblique reference to the Secret Valentine. "Where are they all? I don't see them breaking down your door to get to you," she countered.

He leaned back in his chair and linked his arms behind his head. "I could ask the same of you," he said. "You may be bursting with romantic sentiment, Gus, but I don't see you cozied up to that special someone. Valentine's Day is coming up and I'd hazard a guess that you'll spend the night at home with your nose in a book." He grinned and arched a sardonic eyebrow. "You can talk the talk, Gus, but sooner or later you've got to walk the walk."

Her eyes narrowed and she glared at him. "I don't know what ever possessed me to come back to Cedar Ridge and work with you. You have got to be the most egotistical, overbearing, arrogant-- "

"Yeah, yeah. You can stop there," he said. "I've heard it all before. Now I've got to get back to work. Would you close the door on your way out?"

With a frustrated little scream, she spun on her heel and stalked out of his office, slamming the door behind her.

Damn, that man drove her absolutely, stark-raving mad! So much for her plan to take Sam down a peg or two. How had he managed to turn this whole argument around on her? This was about the lack of romance in his soul, not the lack of romance in her life!

She clenched her fists and cursed beneath her breath. So maybe she hadn't had a date in longer than she cared to remember. But that didn't mean she wasn't open to the idea of a little romance. She just hadn't met the right man. Heck, she hadn't even managed to meet the wrong man.

"Well, I'm not about to let him have the last word on this one," she muttered. "Sam Harper wouldn't know real romance if it dropped out of

the sky and hit him over the head."

* * *

He found the flower on his desk when he arrived that morning. A yellow rose with an accompanying card signed as the last three had been--"Your Secret Valentine." If he'd been a real over-the-top romantic, he probably would have known the significance of a yellow rose. But for him it was just a flower and another in a line of gifts from his mysterious Secret Valentine.

There had been the little box of chocolates the first day. The next day had brought a fancy greeting card. The day after that, a jar of brightly colored jelly beans. And now, a flower.

Sam smiled to himself, then sat down. How could she possibly think she was fooling him? He'd known the moment he opened the box of chocolates--no, before he'd opened the box-that Gus had sent them. Sam had seen her eating those very same truffles on more occasions than he could count. And she'd even tried to disguise the signature on the card.

But he'd studied her writing for nearly ten years, on memos and articles, at the bottom of the paychecks they both signed. He hadn't realized that he'd subconsciously absorbed the unique flourishes, the passionate way she wrote her name, the odd way she formed the letter S.

Sam picked up the card that came with the rose and ran his thumb over the scrawled signature--"Your Secret Valentine." Funny how he could know her handwriting so intimately, like a husband might know a wife's, yet they shared nothing deeper than a business relationship.

He knew Charlotte Keats better than he'd known any other woman in his life. He could sense her moods, predict her responses, identify her perfume in the air. He could point to the articles in the Tribune that she had written just by reading the lead paragraph. He knew which movies she would like and which books she would hate. Hell, he could probably shop for her wardrobe in a pinch, he was so familiar with her favorite colors and fabrics.

Yet, even though he knew all those things that a lover might, there were pieces missing. He didn't know how her mouth tasted, or what her hair would feel like between his fingers. or how her body might respond to his hands. He didn't know what his name might sound like on her lips in the midst of passion.

He frowned, then held the rose up to his nose and drew a deep breath. He'd experienced all those things with other women, yet he'd never really known them--not the way he knew Charlotte Keats.

What he did know was that she would stop at nothing to make a point. Gus was probably the most pigheaded woman he'd ever known. And she had a point to make with this Secret Valentine charade. She wanted him to react, to blow the whole thing off, to reveal himself as some unromantic slob who couldn't even be charmed by the notion of a secret admirer.

But now that he knew the game was on, he wasn't about to let her win--at least, not before he had a little fun. He snipped off the stem of the yellow rose and tossed it aside, then slipped the flower into the buttonhole on his lapel.

He found her in the composition and pasteup department, bent over the computer layout for tomorrow morning's "Home and Garden" section. The Friday edition featured

"Home and Garden," Wednesday was "On the Town," and Monday's paper included a section for both businessmen and concerned consumers called "Marketplace." The special sections had been Charlotte's idea-- a concept that would help the paper compete for readership with the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. She had lobbied hard for the extra budget and in the end, he had found the money for the project.

It had been no surprise that she'd made a resounding success of the concept. The special sections were intricately planned and wonderfully entertaining. How she and her small staff of writers had been able to dig up such terrific stories in a small town like Cedar Ridge had been beyond him. But she'd done it.

And now she wanted more money, to add special sections to the Tuesday and Thursday editions. His advertising sales staff had worked day and night to come up with the commitments needed to test the new sections, but it was going to take a little longer before they would be financially ready to go on press with them.

"Give me a smaller point size on the head and add a kicker," she said. "The Beauty of Bulbs."

The layout artist typed in a few commands on the keyboard and she studied the results. "I like that better," she said. "When you're all finished run me a hard copy and bring it by my office."

"No problem, Ms. Keats," he said.

She turned to leave, then stopped when she saw Sam watching her. Her gaze drifted down to the yellow rose he wore in his lapel, then snapped back up to his face.

"Were you looking for me?" she asked, her eyes darting back and forth between his face and the rose.

If she'd tried to fool anyone else, she might have succeeded. But knowing her game made her sudden interest in his lapel flower all the more satisfying. She wanted him to mention the rose, to explain it. But he wasn't about to give her the satisfaction.

"I wanted to discuss the supplements you proposed for the Tuesday and Thursday editions," he said. "I've had a chance to review the figures from the sales department and it looks like we'll be able to go ahead with them, starting next month."

She gave the rose one last look, then nodded curtly and walked past him. "Good."

He followed after her. "Is that all you have to say?"

She headed toward her office, grabbing a stack of galley proofs from the basket along the way. "What do you want me to say? It's a brilliant idea. You would have been a fool not to see that."

"Not even a little gratitude? We worked our butts off scraping together enough advertisers to support the cost. You could at least say thanks."

She sat down at her desk and looked up at him. "Thanks. Now, I'm really busy. Jessica Patterson's first-grade class is coming in for a tour this afternoon and I've got three articles to edit before then."

He sat down in a chair in front of her desk and leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Do you ever wonder why we're always at odds, Gus?"

Charlotte blinked, as if startled by his blunt question. She shrugged. "Probably because you do everything in your power to drive me crazy?"

"I don't do it deliberately," Sam replied. "I mean, I don't come to work thinking about how I'm going to make Charlotte Keats miserable."

An odd expression crossed her face--one that looked a bit like regret. She sighed. "You don't make me miserable. You just make life difficult sometimes."

"We really should try to get along a little better," Sam said.

She smiled grudgingly. "We've known each other for over thirty years, Harper. And we've never gotten along. You've always been a pain."

"We're kind of like siblings," he said. "If we hadn't grown up together, we'd probably get along just fine. I guess we could blame all this on our parents."

She picked up a pencil and twisted it through her fingers. "Maybe. But maybe we're a little to blame."

Sam leaned forward in his chair. "I know it may be too late, Gus, but I was thinking we could call a truce. A cease-fire. If we both put a little effort into it, we might be able to get along better. After all, we're probably going to be working together for another thirty years." He held his hand out over her desk. "Truce?"

Hesitantly, she reached out. "All right," she said. "If you try, I'll try. And you can start by calling me Charlotte. I hate it when you call me Gus."

Sam grinned at her and she forced a reluctant smile of her own. "All right, Charlotte. Here's to a new beginning." He took her fingers in his and shook her hand, realizing that this was the first time since they were kids that he had touched her.

He glanced down at her delicate fingers, surprised by how fragile her hand seemed in his. He'd never really noticed before, but he'd just assumed she would have ordinary, capable hands. But her fingers were long and slender, her nails perfectly manicured. For an instant, he wondered what those hands would feel like, skimming over his skin, touching him intimately.

Halting his runaway thoughts, he cleared his throat and dropped her hand, then stood to leave. "I'd better go."

"Nice rose," she said, almost as an afterthought.

He bent to sniff at it, then shot her a wide smile. "It is nice, isn't it." With that, he turned and walked out of her office.

But when he sat down at his desk, he couldn't seem to focus on work. Instead, his mind constantly returned to the feel of her fingers in his.

At first, the suggestion of a truce was just another move in this secret game they played. But, now, as he considered an improvement in their relations, he realized that it wasn't such a bad idea.

Especially if it gave him another

opportunity to touch her.

* * *

Charlotte rubbed her eyes, then stifled a yawn. The office was dark; the lights turned off as soon as the paper was put to bed at six. The faint sound of the presses drifted from the lower floor of the building, a steady rhythm that seemed to work on her like a tranquilizer.

"Are you still here?"

She glanced up to find Sam standing in the doorway of her office. His tie was unknotted and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone. His jacket, hooked on one finger, was tossed over his shoulder.

Charlotte shook her head. "I was just getting ready to go home." She grabbed a stack of edited copy and tossed it in her Out basket. "Was there something you-- "

"No," he said, "there's nothing I wanted. I just stopped by to say good-night. Part of the peace treaty we agreed on."

"Well, good night, then," Charlotte said, watching him warily.

He turned to leave, then changed his mind. "Actually, there is something I'd like to talk to you about. Why don't I walk you home? We can talk about it on the way."

Although her house was only a fifteen-minute walk from work, she wasn't sure she wanted to spend even that much time alone with him outside the office. Since she'd started this Secret Valentine game five days ago, her thoughts seemed to lean toward fantasies when it came to Sam, and the prospect of saying good-night on her front porch made her very uncomfortable. "That's not necessary," Charlotte replied. "If it's business, we can discuss it here."

He grabbed her coat from the rack behind her door. "It's not business."

Her curiosity piqued, she stood and rounded her desk, then reached out to take her coat. But instead, he held it up to help her put it on. She turned and slipped her arms into the sleeves, a tremor fluttering through her when his hands rested for a moment on her shoulders. Then she grabbed her purse, ignoring the work she'd stacked up to take home with her. No doubt she would have plenty to occupy her mind once she was alone at home.

They descended the stairs from the second-floor offices and headed for the front door. He pulled it open for her, then took her keys from her fumbling fingers and locked it behind them. The February night chilled her as they walked down the street. Pulling her collar up around her neck, she gave him a sideways glance, unable to read his expression. He looked...happy. And she couldn't recall ever seeing Sam Harper so relaxed, especially in her presence.

They rounded the corner and she finally decided to break the silence that hung between them. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"Would you like to get a cup of coffee? We could stop at Papa's," he suggested, pointing to the shop ahead of them.

"All right," she said. "But just for a quick cup. I have to get home."

once again, he hurried to open the door for her, then followed her inside. Papa waved at them from behind the counter as they looked for an empty table. When they found one, Sam pulled out her chair, then helped her out of her coat-- a continuing study in perfect gallantry.

"What would you like?" he asked.

When she made a move to get up, he stopped her, his hand coming to rest on her arm. "I'll get it."

Charlotte cleared her throat, her gaze drifting down to where his hand still touched her. "I—I'll have a Papaccino, decaf...with skim. Raspberry flavoring. No whipped cream and--" She paused. "Maybe I should get it."

"No," he insisted. "I've got it." He repeated her order.

"And a little shaved chocolate on the top," she added lamely, rubbing the place where his fingers had been on her arm and trying to ignore the tingle that remained.

He returned a few minutes later with a small tray holding their coffees and two of Papa's famous desserts. "I thought you might be hungry. I noticed you didn't send out for dinner."

She quickly grabbed her coffee and took a sip, hiding her confusion behind the huge ceramic cup. Had he been watching her? They worked late at the office together nearly every night, but he'd never taken notice of her activities before.

Charlotte drew a slow breath. The fragrant brew warmed her blood and relaxed her, but once again, a silence had developed between them. She reached for one of the desserts he'd brought-- a sinful chocolate toffee cheesecake- -and methodically devoured it in an effort to keep her hands busy and her mind off his intense gaze.

When she'd finished, she looked up to find him smiling at her. "I was hungry," she said.

"I can see that."

Slowly, he reached across the table. She stared at his hand and jumped when he brushed his thumb along the corner of her mouth. He pulled back. "You had a little chocolate there," he explained, holding up his thumb as proof. She watched him with wide eyes as he licked his thumb, savoring the bit of chocolate.

Her hand fluttered to her mouth and the brand that his fingers had left there. She rubbed at it with her napkin as if that might make it go away. "What did you want to talk about?" she asked, placing the napkin neatly beside her plate.

"I was hoping you might be able to help

me."

"With what?"

He smiled with what looked suspiciously like embarrassment. "I've been receiving little gifts lately. Candy, flowers, cards."

She swallowed hard, the cheesecake now sitting in her stomach like a lump of lead, then braced herself for his anger. Somehow he had figured out what she was up to and now he was about to lower the boom. And leave it to him to catch her unawares, plying her with coffee and sweets, pretending to be nice to her, playing the well-mannered gentleman.

"The gifts always come with a card signed 'Your Secret Valentine.' I was hoping you might know who the gifts are coming from."

Charlotte groaned inwardly. So he was going to draw this out, tease her, like a cat toying with a mouse, making her think she might just get away before he pounced again.

"I think I know who's sending them," he continued before she could answer, "and I thought maybe you could tell me if I'm right. It's Laurie, isn't it?"

Charlotte gasped and stared at him. "Laurie?"

"Yeah, Laurie. That free-lance writer you work with. I mean, I'm pretty sure we made a connection that day in your office. A woman just doesn't look at a man like that without...wanting him. I think it's her. Am I right?"

"I-- I don't know," Charlotte said, dumbfounded at the bizarre turn in the conversation.

"You mean, she hasn't confided in you? I thought she was your friend."

"No. I mean, I don't think it's her, Harper."

"Sam," he said distractedly. "If I call you Charlotte, you have to call me Sam." He took a quick sip of his coffee, scowling. "Gee, I thought for sure it was Laurie. Maybe it's that Allie woman. You know, the one who does the restaurant reviews. What's that name she uses?"

"Restaurant Rita?" Charlotte shook her head. "No, I'm sure it's not Alexis Evans. She only stops by once a week to turn in her review. And you've been getting gifts every-- " She froze, her mind scrambling to remember exactly what he'd told her. "Day. I--I mean, you did say you'd received a gift every day this week, didn't you?"

He nodded. "It has been every day," he said, not noticing her obvious blunder. "You're right. It would have to be someone who is in the office regularly. unless my Secret Valentine has an accomplice on the inside."

"Maybe you should wait until your Secret Valentine is ready to reveal herself. She could be keeping her identity a secret for a reason."

He leaned back in his chair and considered her comment, then shook his head. "What possible reason could she have? I'm a nice guy. I don't know what she's afraid of."

"Perhaps she thinks you wouldn't want to go out with her," Charlotte suggested.

"But I would," he replied as if the notion were completely unfounded.

"You would?" she croaked, choking on a swallow of her coffee. She coughed, then grabbed her napkin and pressed it to her mouth, her eyes watering.

He smiled and, for a instant, she thought she detected a hint of smugness there. What was going on? He was completely captivated by the notion of a secret admirer! And he had every intention of pursuing this woman! This was not part of her plan.

Charlotte twisted her napkin around her fingers. She would have to do something about this strange turn of events. But what? Should she admit to him right now that his "secret admirer" was sitting across from him at this very moment? Or should she keep quiet?

She couldn't have been wrong about him. Sam Harper didn't have a romantic bone in his body. Yet he was acting like a man with a serious crush-- a crush on someone he'd never met, someone who didn't even exist.

"I would like to meet her and go out. Since you and I had our little discussion, I've been thinking about what you said. And maybe I'm not the most romantic guy in the world. But that doesn't mean I can't change."

"Then you're admitting I was right?" Charlotte asked.

He met her gaze for a long moment and she felt as if he could see to her very soul, as if he knew about the deception. "Only if you promise not to rub it in," he said, his voice low and seductive.

She drew a sharp breath, trying to sort out the whirlwind of confusion that had overtaken her mind. "I should get going," she said, turning in her chair to tug her on coat.

"I'll walk you home," he said, standing.

"No!" she cried. Her sharp reply seemed to echo through the quiet atmosphere of Valentine Delights. She glanced nervously around to find most of the patrons and Papa looking her way. "I can find my own way home," she said. "Have a nice weekend."

Charlotte hurried to the door, panicked that he might decide to follow her. But to her relief, he didn't. Once she reached the sidewalk, she took a long, steadying breath of the crisp evening air.

"You've done it now, Charlotte Keats," she murmured. "How are you going to get yourself out of this one?"

Chapter Three

"You have mail!"

Sam glanced up from the Monday-morning reports spread over the surface of his desk and stared at his computer, the source of the impersonal announcement. They'd installed a computerized phone and mail system six months ago, but he rarely received E-mail. Most people who had something to tell him preferred to stop by his office and talk, or ring him on the phone.

Frowning, he reached out and typed in a few commands. An instant later, a letter appeared on the screen.

TO: SamHarper FROM: YrSecretVal Dear Sam,

Though I've wanted to speak to you for so very long, it seems that I can't bring myself to take that step. This letter is the very closest we will ever come to exchanging words. We cannot meet. Please understand that you will always have a place in my heart. Just not a place in my life. I must always remain Your Secret Valentine

He chuckled softly. "Clever move, Gus. But don't think this is the end of it. If you think you can blow me off, hiding in cyberspace, you're kidding yourself."

He quickly hit the Print command, then tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for a hard copy of the letter to roll out of his printer. When it did, he snatched it up and headed toward her office.

He found her, staring at her computer, completely absorbed in editing a story. She looked so pretty this morning, her long, curly hair pulled back with a brightly-colored scarf. An outrageously large pair of earrings dangled from her ears and her bright yellow blouse reminded him of the color of daffodils. Her perfume hung in the air and he savored the scent for a moment before he spoke.

"We have to talk," he said.

His words made her jump and she clapped her hand to her chest and slowly turned his way. "Don't ever sneak up on me like that again! Couldn't you have at least knocked?"

Sam grinned and watched the color rise in her cheeks. Lord, she was pretty. How could he have ignored her beauty for such a long time? "I never knock," he teased. "Besides, this is important." He waved the letter under her nose. "Read this."

She sent him a leery expression, then reluctantly did as she was asked. Sam watched her face for some trace of surprise or nerves--anything that might indicate that she had been the one to write the letter. But she managed to keep her expression cool and unreadable. "I'm sorry," she said, placing the paper on her desk. "I know how much you wanted to meet this woman. And now, you never will."

Sam sat down and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on her desk. "I'm not about to give up. Not yet. The way I figure, it's got to be someone in this office." He paused. "But then, my E-mail address is on my business card. Maybe it's Claudia, that pretty blonde in pasteup. Or Diana, that sales rep from the paper company."

This time she did look surprised, her gaze darting between him and the letter. "It doesn't matter who she is, Sam. She doesn't want to meet you."

"Yes, she does," he replied. "She just doesn't know it yet."

She cleared her throat uneasily, then met his gaze. "Sam, I think you'd better let this one go. Besides, you can't force her to reveal her identity if she doesn't want to."

He put on a properly stubborn demeanor and shook his head. "I'm not going to give up!"

Charlotte pushed out of her chair and began to pace the room, all the while avoiding his gaze. "Why are you so upset?" she finally asked. "Women dump you all the time."

"This woman is...special. She's different."

"'Different' is not always a good thing. Any woman who hides her identity behind gifts and electronic mail probably has more than her fair share of neuroses."

Sam reached out and grabbed her hand, bringing an end to her restless pacing. "You've got to help me, Charlotte. You have to write a letter to her--from me. Convince her to meet me."

Charlotte snatched her hand away and rubbed her fingers as if she'd been burned. "No!

I'm not going to play Cyrano for you, Sam. If you want to write to her, do it yourself."

"But I'm not the writer, you are," he said, looking up at her with a pleading expression. "Nobody can put words together like you do. You'd be able to convince her."

An odd look crossed her face-- a flush of embarrassment and then a hesitant smile--and he suddenly realized that this was the first time he'd ever expressed an opinion about her writing. Sure, he'd voiced his complaints about the subjects she chose to write about. But he'd never told her that he thought she was a brilliant writer. He should have--long ago. Maybe she would have graced him with that heart-stoppingly sweet smile.

He marshaled his thoughts and tried to remember that it was Charlotte who had started this whole silly charade. "I'm going to ask her to the Valentine's Ball," Sam said.

Her smile faded. "If she's afraid to meet you, there's no way she'll ever agree to go to the Valentine's Ball. That's one of the biggest social events in this town. Besides it's only four days away. You can't ask so late."

"It's never too late for love," he said. "It'll be perfect." He grabbed the letter from her desk and flipped it over, then handed her a pen. "Start writing."

She shook her head adamantly. "No."

"Write," he said. "You're the only one who can make this work. Come on, Charlotte. Do this one favor for me."

She bit her bottom lip and shook her head again. "I can't. This is something...personal. Between you and--" she swallowed hard "--her."

"If you write this letter, I promise to say 'yes' to the very next thing you ask me for. Whatever it is."

Charlotte picked up the pen and twisted it through her fingers, then groaned softly. "All right. I'll write your letter. But only this once. If it doesn't work, I'm not going to write another."

Sam smiled with what he hoped looked like intense gratitude. Playing the lovesick fool was a lot easier than he'd thought it would be. And the more besotted he acted, the more uneasy she got. He had expected her to confess by now, but she'd remained silent.

He reached out and gave her hand a squeeze, allowing his fingers to rest below her wrist. She stared down at his hand, the pen clutched in her other one so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

He fought the sudden temptation to weave his fingers through hers, to pull her hand up to his mouth and press a kiss along the inside of her wrist. Lately, he'd found himself taking every opportunity to touch her, to brush against her, to place his hand on her back as she walked through a door. He couldn't understand it. Maybe the little game he was playing with her had brought out the devil in him. Even now, he didn't want to let her hand go, but he did. After all, he was a man in love with another woman.

"Thank you," he said. He grabbed the paper and pen. "Why don't you just type it into the computer? This is her E-mail address. Now, what are you going to write?"

She turned to her computer. "Dear Secret Valentine," she said as she typed.

"My dearest Secret Valentine," he amended.

She typed in the correction. "Thank you for your recent note," she continued.

"Your note was a ray of sunshine on a gloomy day," he said.

Charlotte quirked an eyebrow up. "That's a little cliched, don't you think?"

He grinned. "I like it. It's kind of romantic." Pausing, he rubbed his chin in mock seriousness. "You have left me yearning to--"

"Yearning?" Charlotte asked.

He nodded, trying to keep from laughing out loud at the edge in her voice. She sounded jealous, but he knew better than that. "It means 'desiring.' Or 'lusting.'"

She sighed impatiently. "I know what it means."

"Then type it. Yearning to look into your beautiful eyes."

"How do you even know she has beautiful eyes?" Charlotte muttered, sending him a sideways glance.

"I just know," Sam replied. "Please say that you'll give me the chance."

"I thought I was supposed to be writing this," she complained. "I'd never write drivel like this."

"Don't interrupt me. I'm on a roll. My heart will not beat again until you agree to meet me at the Valentine's Ball."

Charlotte rolled her eyes, but kept typing. "Oh, brother."

"Love."

"Love?" she asked.

"Love, Sam. Make that, your devoted Sam. Now, send it."

Frowning, she quickly typed the last sentence, then hit the Send command. He imagined the letter racing through cyberspace and arriving at her home computer seconds later. No doubt, he would receive his answer tomorrow morning, earlier if she went home for lunch.

He jumped up and grabbed the copy of the letter from her desk, then carefully folded it and tucked it into his breast pocket. "Thanks, Charlotte. I appreciate your help. And I'll let you know when she writes back."

He turned and walked out of her office, leaving her to stare after him. No doubt he'd left her completely confused. But sooner or later she would have to make another move, write another

letter, send another gift. And he would be waiting.

* * *

The dress shop was quiet as Charlotte stepped inside. She'd been on her way home when she had passed the pretty designer boutique just a few doors down from Valentine Delights. After another tension-filled day at the office, waiting for another run-in with Sam's Secret Valentine, she had intended to stop at Papa's for a very large box of chocolates. But a dress in the window of the shop caught her eye and she forgot about her taste for truffles.

"May I help you?"

Charlotte smiled at the saleswoman and shook her head, wandering toward a rack of evening dresses. "I'm just looking."

"For the Valentine's Ball?"

She opened her mouth to say "No," but something made her stop. As she fingered a beaded cocktail dress, she considered the possibility. Why not use her invitation? She could cover the event for the paper, she could socialize with some of Cedar Ridge's most important citizens and she could--

She cursed silently. Why did she really want to go? So she could be there when Sam's date didn't show up? So she could provide the proverbial shoulder to cry on? Heck, she was the one responsible for this whole miserable mess!

She thought it would have been over by now. She had typed the letter for him and he had waited patiently for a response. And when he didn't receive one after two days, she had assumed he'd given up on the woman. But he'd stopped by her office this morning with a garment bag, eager to show her the tux he'd purchased in Atlanta. She even had to help him pick out flowers for the "date" he was certain would change her mind before the big event tomorrow night.

Guilt stabbed at her heart. After all this, it would serve her right if he hated her forever. He would swear off romance for good. It was her fault his heart would be crushed. It was her fault he wouldn't have anyone to dance with tomorrow night.

Her mind flashed an image of the two of them dancing together, he in his perfectly-tailored tux and she in a gorgeous evening gown. He would pull her into his arms and slowly they would begin to move, swaying with the music, his lean body warm and hard against hers. Then perhaps he would lean over and whisper some--

"All of our dresses are one of a kind," the saleswoman interrupted. "So you won't have to worry about someone else showing up in your dress."

The fantasy dissolved in the blink of an eye and Charlotte berated herself inwardly. Since she'd written the note for Sam, she'd felt anxious, upset. At first she had just thought it was the tension created by her deception. But what she felt was closer to envy. She was becoming jealous of his "Secret Valentine."

This "phantom" woman had captured Sam's attention, had brought out a side of him she'd never known existed. She'd been wrong about him. He could be romantic if he really wanted. And when it came to his "Secret Valentine," he wanted to be.

But there was no "Secret Valentine," she reminded herself. And what started out as no more than a practical joke had turned into a situation that could conceivably hurt him. How would he feel, left alone--and "yearning"--at the ball?

"I was thinking about going," she said, idly examining a price tag. "But I don't have anything to wear."

The saleswoman smiled. "You've come to the right place. Why don't you let me choose some gowns for you to try on. There's a fitting room in the back. It will just take me a few moments."

With nothing better to do with her evening, Charlotte walked back to the large room lined with mirrors, and stepped inside. She looked at her reflection for a long moment, then turned to leave.

What was she doing? She wasn't the type to attend a formal ball. She'd never worn anything much fancier than what she wore to work-- a flowing skirt, a pretty blouse, some artsy jewelry. Even business suits were too formal for her. She preferred comfort over image.

The saleswoman stepped into the fitting room, three gowns tossed over her arm. "My name is Anne. I thought we'd start with this one." She held out a strapless gown the color of emeralds. It was cinched in tight at the waist, then flowed out into a wide skirt. "This would look absolutely stunning with your hair."

She left Charlotte alone until she had slipped into the gown, then magically reappeared to help zip it up. Gazing into the mirror, Charlotte ran her hands over her hips, amazed at how tiny her waist looked in the dress, how voluptuous her merely average chest had become. "It's beautiful," she murmured.

"Not many people can wear this color. But with your green eyes and ivory skin, and the hints of auburn in your hair, it's perfect. And only a tall, willowy figure can carry off the wide skirt."

Charlotte plucked at the skirt with her fingers. "I'm not sure I'd call my figure willowy."

"In that dress, your figure looks flawless. Let me get some shoes. There's also a matching wrap. And I think we have a lovely pair of gloves dyed to match. What size for the shoes?"

"Eight," Charlotte said distractedly. She sighed and stared at herself in the mirror, fluffing up the skirt, then smoothing it down. She didn't look at all like herself. She looked like a gawky girl dressed up in her mother's pretty evening finery. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine herself at the ball, a staff photographer at her side, snapping photos, a cassette recorder in her hand catching all the comments and quotes. But her mind kept flashing back to the image of her dancing with Sam and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't make it go away.

She was going to the ball to work, not to be with Sam. She would be there alone, without a date. Everyone would assume she had come to cover the event, ever the efficient and responsible journalist. And although Sam might be surprised at her appearance, she certainly wouldn't be forced to make any explanations. They might not even have time to talk, much less share a dance.

The saleswoman returned with shoes and gloves and also a pretty bracelet and a faux emerald-and-pearl choker. Charlotte slipped on the gloves, smoothing them along her arms and above her elbows, telling herself she couldn't possibly go. But by the time Anne fastened the choker around her neck she'd changed her mind.

"You have gorgeous hair," she said.

Charlotte smiled hesitantly. "I always thought it was a little...unruly. There are mornings it takes me a half hour to get a comb through it."

The saleswoman pulled it back and twisted it once, then gently pulled soft tendrils out to frame her face. "If I were you, I'd make an appointment at Etienne's to have your hair done. Tell him Anne from Panache sent you. And if he doesn't have time to do you, be sure to ask for Arnaud. I'm sure he'll be able to fit you in. He'll do your makeup, too."

Drawing a deep breath, Charlotte took one last lingering look at herself. She couldn't really do this, could she? What would she say, how would she act? And would Sam actually believe that she'd come as a reporter? If she were smart, she would stay home.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll take it," she said, pushing every doubt she had aside.

"The dress?"

"The whole thing. The dress, the shoes, the accessories. Everything." It would cost her a bundle, but if she was going to do it, she might as well do it right.

Anne smiled. "Your escort is a lucky man. He's going to spend the evening dancing with the most beautiful woman at the Valentine's Ball."

Charlotte forced a smile. "I hope so," she said softly. "I really hope so."

How grimly ironic, she thought. She hoped to be the woman to make Sam forget his Secret

Valentine--who just happened to be herself.

* * *

Charlotte glanced at her watch, then quickly made a few more edits on Restaurant Rita's latest review before typing in the command that would send the page back to composition for the Sunday edition. It was nearly six and the Valentine's Ball started at eight. She had just enough time to get to the hairdresser before she rushed home and changed.

The Valentine's Ball was sponsored by the Cedar Ridge Historical Society, a group of well-organized matrons who had dedicated themselves to the preservation of the community's genteel past. They held the ball every year on Valentine's Day eve in the Taggert Mansion, a huge antebellum plantation home that sat on the edge of town.

At one time, before the War Between the States, all of the land in and around Cedar Ridge had been owned by the Taggerts. They raised cotton and shipped it to Atlanta. But the Taggerts were an industrious family and saw the profit to be made in textiles. They built their first cotton warehouse after the war ended, and then two or three textile mills, and soon a town had sprung up where once there had been fields.

The Cedar Ridge Tribune was housed in one of the Taggerts' old textile mills, the printing presses laid out on the ground floor where the owners had once stored bales of cotton and operated a cotton gin. The second floor, which used to house the looms, now held the editorial, advertising, production and circulation departments of the newspaper.

As owners of one of Cedar Ridge's "historical treasures," Charlotte and Sam had been invited to every Valentine's Ball since they'd taken over at the paper. But like Charlotte, Sam had never been one for formal occasions—until now.

"Burning the midnight oil?"

Her heart fluttered at the sound of his voice and Charlotte looked up to find Sam standing in the doorway of her office as he had so many times over the past few days. His shoulder was braced on the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed in the tux she'd seen this morning, only it looked much better on his finely muscled body than it did on the hanger. A crisp, white pleated-front shirt with a wing collar and onyx studs provided a startling contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin.

He held out his hands and turned in a slow circle. "So, how do I look?"

She swallowed hard, then opened her mouth to speak, but her voice cracked. "You--you look fine. Very handsome."

"I'm ready. I have to pick up Diana in an hour. She lives in Buckhead."

"Diana?"

He looked momentarily surprised, then smiled. "Didn't I tell you? I can't believe I forgot to tell you. She's my Secret Valentine. The sales rep from the paper company."

Charlotte gasped, then quickly tried to hide her confusion. "That can't be."

"It is," he insisted. "I couldn't believe it, either. You see, I thought it might be her so I called her up and asked her. She admitted to the whole thing--the gifts, the cards, the letter. She's always seemed so self-confident. I mean, look at her. She's gorgeous. I didn't think she'd be the type to be shy about her feelings."

"But she can't be your Secret Valentine," Charlotte protested.

He gave her a worried look. "Why not?"

Charlotte opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. She shrugged, avoiding his inquiring gaze. "I-- It's just that-- I was thinking it was Sarah in accounting."

"Well, it's not," Sam said. "It's Diana. I really think it was the note you helped me write that changed her mind about going to the Valentine's Ball with me."

"You're the one who wrote it," Charlotte

said.

"But you helped," he replied. "I guess I owe this all to you."

Charlotte forced a smile. oh, this was going too far. "You really are excited about this, aren't you?" she murmured.

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well, you really don't know much about this woman, Sam. For all you know, she could be a...a pathological liar. Don't you think you should take this slowly?"

He took a seat in one of her guest chairs. "A dull, coldhearted, unsentimental man would take it slowly," he said in a solemn tone. Then he grinned. "I've decided to be more romantic, more spontaneous. I'm going to jump in, headfirst. Hell, if tonight goes well, I may be married by tomorrow morning!"

Her breath stopped in her chest. Now this had gone way too far! She had to tell him. She had no choice. "Sam, before you get carried away here, there's something I have to-- "

He held out his hand to stop her. "Don't worry, I've got that covered."

She blinked in confusion. "Got what covered?"

"You know," Sam said, lowering his voice. He leaned forward. "Protection."

"That's not what I meant!" Charlotte cried. "And furthermore, I don't think you should be having sex with a woman you've just met!"

He arched his eyebrow and grinned. "And who should I be having sex with?"

"A woman you've spent time with, a woman you know well. Someone you care about, someone you respect."

He thought for a moment, then nodded. "Someone kind of like you. only not you," he added quickly, "because we work together, and that would be a major, major mistake." He jumped up out of his chair and rubbed his hands together. "All right, I think I've got this straight. I've got to get going if I'm going to pick up Diana on time." He circled her desk, then bent down and kissed her on the top of her head, an innocuous gesture that seemed to paralyze every nerve in her body. "Thanks for your help, Charlotte. I really do appreciate it. You're a real friend."

With that, he strode out of the office. The moment he was out of her line of vision, she sank back into her chair, exhausted from their conversation and all that had passed between them.

She groaned. A friend? A friend? She didn't want to be his friend! Hell, she had been happier when they were enemies. At least then she had known where she stood with him. Now, all she really knew was that she shouldn't want him the way she did.

And yet she couldn't seem to help herself. Against every shred of common sense and self-preservation, she'd fallen in love with him all over again. Just like she had when she was thirteen and like she had every year after that, until she'd gone away to college.

Hadn't the past taught her anything? No matter how much she wanted him, he wasn't the man for her. Nine times out of ten, he didn't even notice she was in the room. And when he did, he looked at her with what could barely pass as indifference.

But that had changed. In very subtle ways, he'd started to break down the barriers they'd constructed between them, started to reveal himself as a man she could be attracted to. The man she'd come to know in the past week and a half was not the Sam Harper she'd loved all those years ago. This man was different.

She buried her face in her hands. Maybe it was time to let this go, to let him think that Diana really was his Secret Valentine. Considering his track record with women, it wouldn't take long for Diana to become history. And then, finally, this would be all over. He would never need to know that she'd been his Secret Valentine.

She took a long breath and focused her thoughts. It might be best to skip the ball tonight, to let nature take its course between Sam and his Secret Valentine. But a strange surge of protectiveness came over her. That, and a healthy dose of journalistic curiosity.

Who was this Diana woman? And what was she really up to? If she attended the ball tonight, she might be able to find out. But she also might have to spend the entire evening watching Sam have a wonderful time with the new lady in his life.

"So what's it going to be?" she murmured. "You've got the dress and the invitation. In another hour, you'll have the hair and the makeup."

In fact, she had everything she needed--except the courage.

Chapter Four

The taggert mansion was ablaze with lights, every salon and drawing room on the first floor bustling with guests. Sam tucked his date's hand into the crook of his elbow as they strolled through the house, the strains of a waltz filtering in from the large ballroom. The mansion had been lovingly restored to its former antebellum splendor by the Cedar Ridge Historical Society, with help from the major businesses in the area, including the Tribune.

Most of the guests knew Sam and they made a point of saying "Hello" and chatting for a moment or two. He was grateful for the diversion. After a half hour trapped in the car with Diana, he had gotten a little tired of dodging her rather obvious desire for him, the overly bold touches and the coy sexual innuendos. Had he been so inclined, they probably could have driven straight to a hotel and jumped directly into bed, skipping the preliminaries entirely.

"I'm really glad you brought me," Diana cooed, giving his arm a squeeze. "When can we leave?" She giggled-- a sound that was already beginning to grate on his nerves.

Sam forced an indulgent smile. "We just got here. Wouldn't you like to dance?"

She ran her finger playfully down his arm. "I'm really more of a...private dancer."

"You know, Diana, it's really a shame we didn't get to know each other sooner." Then he would have known better than to ask her out, Sam mused. He wouldn't have to endure this too much longer. He and Diana had been seen together, so talk of his beautiful date would no doubt make its way back to Charlotte. That was what this whole thing was about, wasn't it? Making Charlotte Keats suffer for her little deception?

He'd thought she would confess the entire scheme earlier that evening at the office, especially after he'd mentioned marriage. But the sudden appearance of a flesh-and-blood Secret Valentine seemed to have rattled her so thoroughly she couldn't figure out which end was up--and which Secret Valentine was real.

He smiled to himself. She probably thought the whole thing would just disappear. She hadn't bothered to answer the E-mail note they had sent, so he had been forced to go to his contingency plan. He'd called Diana, pretending he thought she'd been sending him gifts and notes, and asked her to the ball.

Calculating and cunning, Diana had been too shrewd to spoil a good opportunity when it presented itself. She'd admitted that, yes, she was indeed his Secret Valentine. And yes, she would be thrilled to accompany him to the Val entine's Ball.

As he walked through the crowd, he looked for the photographer from the Tribune. The paper covered the ball every year and he was certain this year would be no exception. Perhaps a photo of him and Diana might be in order, as long as a copy found its way onto Charlotte's desk.

"oh, look!" Diana said, pointing across the salon into the foyer. "There's a photographer." She patted her perfectly-styled hair and smiled. "If someone's going to take my picture, I'd better make a quick trip to the little girls' room and check my lipstick." She pursed her lips and pressed herself up against him. "That little kiss in the car really took its toll--on my lipstick and my body."

"I'll be here when you get back," Sam said, peeling her fingers from his arm. He watched her walk away, her hips swaying seductively in the skintight red dress. "Unless I decide to throw myself off the roof first," he muttered.

He turned to look for the Tribune photographer, then stopped short as his gaze fell on a woman standing nearby. Like him, many of the other guests had turned their attention her way, whispering to each other as she moved through the crowd.

"Gus," he breathed, his attention completely captivated by a vision in emerald silk. The gown fitted her perfectly, hugging a waist that he was certain he could span with his hands and leaving her chest, shoulders and arms bare. Her hair, a riot of mahogany curls, was piled on top of her head, with tendrils falling around her face and shoulders, caressing her neck.

Mesmerized, he slowly pushed through the crowd until he reached her side. She was deep in conversation with the president of the historical society. He gently touched her arm. "Hello, Charlotte," he said.

She turned, as if startled by the sound of his voice, then smiled nervously and excused herself from her conversation. "Hi, Sam."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, bending his head close to hers to be heard over the chatter of voices.

"I'm covering the ball for the paper." She glanced around. "Where's your date?"

"She went to the powder room," he said, unable to drag his gaze away from her face. Lord, her beauty took his breath away. It was like he'd never really seen her before tonight. Perhaps it was the sophisticated dress or the elegant surroundings, but he was looking at her through new eyes--and she looked incredible. "Would you like to dance?" he asked.

"You want to dance with me?"

He held his hand out. "I can't think of anything else I'd like to do more." He took her fingers in his and led her into the ballroom. The small band switched from a waltz to a slow Gershwin ballad and Sam gently pulled her into his arms and began to move with the music.

At first she seemed stiff and uneasy, but slowly, he felt her body grow pliant beneath his touch, until it seemed as if they'd been dancing together for years. "You look beautiful," he said, leaning close and murmuring in her ear.

She turned her head and her nose bumped against his cheek. He pulled back and smiled down at her. A blush crept up her cheeks and her eyes glittered, reflecting the light from the crystal chandeliers. "I--I'm not much of a dancer," she said. "And this dress even makes walking more difficult."

He ran his hand up and down her back, feeling her warmth through the fabric of her gown. "I didn't know you planned to come," he said.

"Oh, yes," Charlotte replied. "I've planned to come since I got the invitation."

"Why didn't you say something at the office earlier?"

She attempted a nonchalant shrug, but he could see right through it. She'd kept it from him on purpose. "I guess I didn't think it was important. You were so excited about meeting your Secret Valentine and I was...excited for you." She took a deep breath, then smiled more brightly. "So how are things going? Are you having a good time?"

"A very good time," he said. "Now that you're here," he added beneath his breath.

As they danced, he made a quick search of the room for Diana, knowing that she would be back sooner or later. When he caught sight of her red dress near the entrance to the ballroom, he stopped dancing and grabbed Charlotte's hand.

"Let's go," he said.

"Where?" she gasped.

"Just come with me. We need to talk."

He pulled her in the opposite direction from the one Diana had taken, steering her through the open French doors and into the cool night air. It had rained earlier in the day and the air was damp and sweet-smelling. A few other couples strolled the wide veranda, nodding as they passed.

A frown marred her perfect features. She rubbed her arms with her hands and looked up at him. "What is it?"

Sam slipped out of his jacket and reached around her to drape it over her shoulders. He let his hands rest there, his thumbs softly stroking the silken skin at the base of her neck as he stared down into her eyes. Feeling as if he couldn't fight the temptation any longer, he slowly bent his head and brushed his mouth against hers.

As he pulled away, he felt her breath, quick and shallow, against his skin. She stood frozen, looking up at him with wide eyes. And then, drawn by the need to have more, he kissed her again, this time more deeply, his tongue gently parting her lips and invading her mouth. She moaned softly but made no move to pull away.

At that instant he realized he wanted her-all of her, heart and soul and body. He wanted Charlotte Keats more than he'd ever wanted a woman in his life. He murmured her name against her mouth.

The sound of his own name on her lips, soft and pleading, slowly drew him back to reality and suddenly the spell that had descended over them evaporated and his powers of reasoning returned. He cupped her face in his hands and looked down at her closed eyes and moist lips. Drawing a long, deep breath, he fought the urge to taste her again, ignoring his growing desire.

What the hell was he doing? More to the point, what the hell was he thinking? Charlotte Keats was his business partner and a woman who had the capacity to drive him crazy. They'd fought their way through more than thirty years of life together and now he was acting like--like he was in love with her.

He should know better than this. All this "Secret Valentine" romance business had addled his brain--so much so, that he'd come to believe she really wanted them to be more than just business associates.

She'd begun the whole deception to prove a point, to get back at him for their argument over her choice of stories. She didn't have any feelings for him and he was a fool to imagine that she did.

Gently, he dropped his hands from her face and pushed her away. She opened her eyes, then blinked, as surprised as he was at what had happened between them.

His mind slowly settled on a way out of this mess he'd made. "Was that all right?" he asked softly.

She nodded.

"And how did it make you feel?"

"It made me feel...good." Her last word was said almost breathlessly.

He clenched his jaw and tried not to think about how beautiful she looked, how much he still wanted her. "Then you think Diana will be pleased?"

She swallowed hard. "Diana?"

He nodded. "Yes. I've been trying to decide whether I kiss in a romantic way, the way a woman might appreciate. What do you think? Do you think Diana will like the way I kiss?"

"I don't understand."

"Well, you've been so helpful with this Secret Valentine thing. Writing the letter, choosing the flowers, giving me such good advice. I knew you'd be able to help me with this, as well."

Pain flashed through her eyes and he felt an unbidden rush of regret. She couldn't have actually wanted him to kiss her, could she? He pushed the ridiculous notion aside. No, all she wanted from him was to prove her point, to make him look the fool.

"Well, I'd better go find Diana," he said.

She looked down at her hands, avoiding his gaze, then hesitantly removed his jacket from around her shoulders and held it out to him. "I think that would be best. And I'd better get back to work."

"Good night, Charlotte."

She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "Good night, Sam."

It took all his willpower to walk away from her, to keep himself from dragging her back into his arms and kissing her senseless. But she was the one who had started this game between them and she was the one who would have to put an end to it.

* * *

Charlotte's knees wobbled beneath her tulle petticoats and silk-taffeta skirts. She reached for the veranda railing and when she finally grasped it, she leaned back and drew a steadying breath of crisp night air.

With a shaky hand, she reached up and touched her lips. They were still numb with the aftereffects of his kiss--the same effects that had sent her mind reeling and her pulse pounding.

There was no use trying to deny it. That kiss only proved what she'd been trying so hard to ignore. She was in love with Sam Harper. Again. That was why she had come here tonight, dressed in a beautiful gown. Not to cover the event, but to be with Sam.

In reality, she'd hoped she might stir his desire a bit, maybe even enough to make him forget his so-called Secret Valentine. But she'd never expected to be a guinea pig for his romantic overtures.

Why couldn't she just put all this in perspective and let it go? Sam had no interest in her, no desire to pursue a romantic relationship. In his mind, she would always be good old Gus, the gawky tomboy who had tagged along after him like some lovesick puppy dog.

Well, she wasn't that goofy-looking girl with the braces and the skinned knees anymore. She was a woman now, a woman who could control her desires, who was in charge of her own destiny. And Sam Harper was not part of her great cosmic plan!

But would she be able to maintain her resolve when faced with seeing him nearly every day? or would being around him only cause her to fall more deeply in love?

Charlotte placed her palms on her flushed cheeks. "What am I going to do?" she murmured.

It wouldn't be so bad if he hadn't gotten himself involved with a profligate liar like Diana. Sooner or later he would have to find out that Diana hadn't sent the gifts. He would be angry at her deceit, perhaps angry enough to send her packing.

And then, maybe, after it ended, she and Sam could--

She stopped herself, cursing softly at her runaway thoughts. It would take some time, but she could put this whole unfortunate incident behind her. She could see Sam at the office without the memory of their kiss rushing back full force. She could even be happy for him when he finally found the right woman.

Charlotte tipped her head back and drew another deep breath. Gathering up the last shreds of her composure, she smoothed her skirt and headed back inside. If she was lucky, her staff photographer would have finished snapping shots of all the important guests and she would be able to make a gracious and badly needed exit.

But as soon as she stepped back into the ballroom, her gaze was caught by a couple dancing very close near the edge of the dance floor. She stepped behind a potted palm and peered through the fronds at Sam and his date.

A rush of jealousy stole her breath away. The woman was gorgeous, voluptuous, and clinging to Sam so closely that he probably had no doubt what she had stuffed into that red dress.

The music came to an end and Charlotte watched as Diana wrapped her arms around Sam's neck and gave him a less-than-chaste kiss. Then she whispered something in his ear and turned to make her way through the crowd--alone. Sam gave her a long look, then shook his head and headed in the opposite direction.

Charlotte smiled. Now was her chance. She would corner Diana and find out what the manipulative hussy was really up to. Charlotte was a journalist, after all, and a formidable interviewer. If she couldn't get Diana to spill her guts, no one could.

Charlotte grabbed her skirts and started through the crowd, keeping an eye on the red dress. Diana walked into the small ladies' room just off the ballroom and Charlotte didn't hesitate to follow her inside.

She found Diana in front of the mirror, studying her face as she carefully applied fresh lip liner to her smudged mouth. Charlotte stepped up beside her and tried to affect the same vapid expression as she toyed with her hair. "I just love your dress," Charlotte gushed.

Diana gave her a sideways glance. "Thanks," she said in a haughty tone. "Yours is nice, too. Although, you wouldn't catch me dead in that color."

"Find me a coffin and I could remedy that," Charlotte muttered.

"What?" Diana asked.

"I was just saying that I saw you dancing with Sam Harper." Charlotte clucked her tongue and put on an envious expression. "He's quite a catch."

Diana tossed the lip liner aside and began to carefully apply bright red lipstick, astounding Charlotte with her skill. Whenever Charlotte had attempted lipstick that color, she'd ended up looking like a reject from clown school.

"Hmm," Diana said, studying her work carefully. She replaced the cap on the lipstick and dropped it back into her purse, then shrugged. "He's all right. Handsome enough, but he doesn't have a lot of money. He runs that puny little newspaper. There can't be much future in that."

"No," Charlotte said. "I wouldn't think so. How did you two meet?"

Diana turned to her and leaned a bit closer, as if she were about to relay a bit of juicy gossip. "It's really a funny story. You see, someone had been sending him little gifts at work--cards and candy. A Secret Valentine. Well, Sam thought it was me. When he called to ask me if it was, what could I say? I've wanted to get my hands on that incredible body of his for months now. I saw my chance and I took it."

"But what if the real Secret Valentine shows up?"

"I'll deal with her if and when I have to. Until then, I'll just make sure Sam is interested in only one woman--and that's me." Diana finished powdering her nose, then gave herself one last look. "Perfect," she said.

Charlotte nodded, then stared more closely at Diana's reflection in the mirror. She wrinkled her nose. "What is that on your neck?"

Diana tipped her chin up. "Where?"

"Right there. It looks like...a pimple."

Diana craned her neck and ran her fingers along her jawline. "Where?"

"Right there." Charlotte pointed to a spot in the general area of her ear.

"Show me," Diana whined.

Charlotte shrugged. "Sorry, I've got to go. Have a really nice evening. And don't worry about that pimple. Once you get outside in the dark, nobody will ever notice it."

Smiling smugly, Charlotte turned and walked out of the ladies' room, leaving Diana in the midst of a full-blown cosmetic crisis. She rounded a corner only to see Sam with his back against a pillar, his arms crossed over his chest, a drink in his hand. He was staring out at the dancers with an enigmatic expression.

She glanced both ways. She had two choices--to return to the bathroom and listen to Diana moan about her complexion, or to make a long circle around the ballroom to the exit.

Gathering her skirts and her courage, she decided to head for the door.

A few minutes later, safely outside the range of Sam Harper, she gave the photographer instructions to leave, then collected her wrap and purse, and walked through the front door and out onto the wide veranda. The cool night air cleared her mind and she felt a surge of relief wash over her as she started toward the front steps of the Taggert Mansion. She'd made it through the evening in one piece and for that she should be grateful.

But just as she was about to make her escape, a voice stopped her.

"Charlotte!"

She froze, fighting the instinct to run like a frightened child. Pasting a smile on her face, she turned slowly. "Sam," she replied, trying to keep her voice even.

He crossed the veranda. "Are you leaving already?"

She nodded and drew her wrap more tightly around her, as if it might offer protection against his presence. "We've got all the photos we need. And I've got an early day tomorrow. I'm tired. And my feet hurt."

He gently touched her arm. "Let me walk you to your car."

Charlotte evaded his touch, and his gaze. "That's not necessary. I came alone, I can find my way home on my own. I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early." Although she tried to sound cheerful, she suspected she had failed miserably. Did he suspect how his kisses had made her feel? Or had she been able to hide her reactions beneath a facade of indifference?

"I want to walk you to your car," Sam insisted. He took her elbow again and walked with her down the front steps.

"What about your date?" she asked.

He shrugged. "The last time I saw her she was headed toward the ladies' room. She seems to be obsessed with her own face." The last was said with a healthy dose of irritation.

"Don't you think she's going to wonder where you've gone to?"

"I don't care. I wanted to talk to you about what happened before, on the veranda."

Charlotte held up her hand and shook her head. "There's no need. I understand."

His jaw tensed. "But I want to explain. Just keep quiet and let me--"

"Sam, I know you didn't mean anything by that kiss and I didn't-- "

With one sure movement, he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. Charlotte's words stopped in her throat as she met his gaze, his blue eyes intense and passionate. And then, he brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her, like he had before--only not like he had before.

This time it was different. His kiss was urgent, demanding, almost angry, as if he had something to prove. She felt herself losing control again and willed her mind to clear. Placing her palms on his chest, she shoved him back. "Don't," she murmured, the one word a warning. Her knees went weak and she found herself afraid to move, afraid that if she took one step she would crumple into an emotional mess at his feet.

Sam's expression softened and he reached out and placed his palm on her cheek. "Why not?"

"You know why," Charlotte replied

evenly.

His jaw tightened and he slowly shook his head. "No," he countered. "I don't. Why don't you tell me, Charlotte? Tell me why I shouldn't kiss you. Because at this very moment, I'm not even sure myself." His hands slid down to clutch her shoulders, giving her no chance to escape. "Tell me."

She fought against his hold, but he wouldn't let her go. "Why are you doing this to me?" she asked, her voice trembling with frustration and confusion. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Is that what you really want?" he demanded. "Because I don't think it is."

She tried again to twist away from him. "It is! I don't want you to kiss me and I don't want to hear about your evening with your Secret Valentine. We're business associates, Sam Harper. Nothing you do outside the office interests me in the least."

Sam smiled at her, a humorless smile filled with an unmistakable challenge. "But I think it does," he said. "In fact, I'd venture to guess you'd like very much to know what I'm thinking right now."

With one concentrated effort, she struck out against his arms and broke his grip. Hauling her skirts up with her hands, she backed away from him. "Do you want me to admit that I was wrong? Is that what this is all about? All right, I was wrong. You are romantic. You're handsome and sexy and a man any woman would be thrilled to have in her bed. There it is. That's what you wanted. Now leave me alone," she warned.

He took a step toward her. "I can't, Gus."

"I'm not Gus! I'm not that stupid little girl anymore, that girl who kept falling in love with you. Not anymore, Sam. And never again."

"You're lying."

She shook her head, watching him warily, feeling like a small animal facing a powerful predator. "Let me go," she said. "I don't want to play these games with you. I can't."

He laughed. "But you started this whole thing. And now you don't want to play? Sorry, Gus, that's not good enough."

"You're the one who kissed me! I didn't start anything. This isn't my fault."

"Is that what you believe?"

"Leave me alone! Just let me go! I don't want to talk to you anymore." Drawing a deep breath, she spun on her heel and stumbled down the cobblestone drive.

"Go ahead!" he shouted after her. "Run away, Gus. Run as far and as fast as you can. But nothing is going to change. Sooner or later you're going to have to face up to this. Sooner or later you're going to have to admit that this whole thing was your fault."

She looked over her shoulder once to see him standing in the middle of the drive, illuminated by the spill of light from the house, his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression unreadable.

By the time she reached her car, she was out of breath and out of resolve. Tears pushed at the corners of her eyes and a painful stitch twisted in her side like a knife. Her hands trembled as she searched her purse for her keys. She dropped them twice before she managed to push the key into the lock.

As soon as she gained the relative safety of her car, she bent her head and let the tears course down her cheeks. She gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands and cursed herself.

"I don't love him," she murmured. "I don't. I don't love Sam Harper."

But no matter how many times she said it, no matter how many ways she found to deny it, she knew the truth. And to her utter mortification, she feared that he did, too.

Chapter Five

Charlotte grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and wiped the smudged mascara from under her eyes. She sniffled, then tossed the crumpled tissue on her desk and turned back to her computer.

Still dressed in her evening gown, she'd come directly to the office to write the story on the Valentine's Ball. The dark silent surroundings seemed like an oasis in the midst of her suddenly chaotic life, a soothing balm to her shaken emotions. Below her, the printing presses churned out the last pages of the Valentine's Day edition, the rhythm lulling her into a sense of security.

Valentine's Day. She would be glad when the next twenty-four hours had passed and they could move on to a more innocuous holiday like Presidents' Day or Saint Patrick's Day--a day that couldn't possibly make a mess of a woman's life. Valentine's Day was just another opportunity for raised hopes and dashed desires. If she could have her way, she would outlaw the holiday altogether.

Her ride to the office had been tearful, although she wasn't quite sure why. She'd been angry and frustrated and confused. And above it all, she'd been shaken to the core by Sam's kisses and his touch. Perhaps, after all that, she had realized how difficult it would be to go back to the way it was between them.

Drawing a shaky breath, she continued typing, eager to finish the story, as if writing might purge the whole event from her memory. She was tired and she wanted to sleep, to close her eyes and forget everything that had transpired over the last two weeks. It had all started with Valentine's Day and their argument two weeks ago over the story on Ed and his amazing new paint-mixing system. Why couldn't she have just shut her mouth and agreed to run the damn story? After all, 256 shades of red could be interesting to some readers. Why did she always have to fight him at every turn?

He had been right. This was all her fault. In the past, they'd maintained a cautious distance, a distance from which her feelings toward him were unfaltering. But since the appearance of his Secret Valentine, they'd grown steadily closer.

And in that closeness, he had somehow sensed the attraction growing inside her, the emotions she had tried so hard to deny. And he'd used those feelings against her.

Her mind flashed back over the events of the past couple of weeks, over the changes she'd seen in him. How often had she secretly wished that she were the recipient of his newly awakened romanticism? How many times had she wanted her eyes to be the ones he "yearned" for? She'd waited years for him to turn into the kind of man she could love, and now he had. But his transformation had been built on the false foundation of her deception--and would soon come tumbling down.

Perhaps, in some subconscious way, she had willed this to happen, to finally force the issue between them after years of silence. And maybe, deep down inside, she had hoped that he would find out who was really sending the gifts and that he would take them not as a deliberate deception, but as a sign of the feelings she'd kept hidden so long.

She bit her bottom lip and fought another surge of emotion. But that wasn't what had happened. Instead, what had started out as just another volley in their ongoing battle had deteriorated into a full-scale military disaster. And now she was left to pick up the pieces and face him tomorrow morning at the office as if nothing had passed between them.

What would happen when they saw each other the next time? Would he smile at her, or would his expression be cold and distant? Would she ever be able to look him in the eye and not think about the kisses they had shared? The way she felt at this very moment, the prospect didn't seem likely. But, perhaps, if she was lucky--and resolute--her feelings for him would dissipate as they had years before.

She sighed and closed her eyes, tipping her head back. Spending endless hours thinking about what might have been and what had yet to happen was not going to make her feel any better. Work would be her salvation and that was where she would hide.

Charlotte looked down at her computer, then typed in a final closing paragraph to her story. She hit the command to send the text back to composition and pasteup so that it could be dropped into Saturday morning's edition, along with a photo or two. Then she glanced at the clock on her desk.

It was nearly 1:00 a.m. and suddenly she felt utterly exhausted, as if just one more errant thought about Sam Harper would render her unconscious. She straightened the papers on her desk, then turned to grab her keys, purse and wrap from where she'd tossed them on her credenza.

"I stopped by your house," a voice said, echoing through the silence of her office.

She spun around in her chair to find Sam standing in her office doorway. His bow tie was draped around his neck and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. His hands were jammed into his trouser pockets and he looked the picture of casual indifference.

"I should have known I'd find you here," he continued.

Charlotte drew a deep breath, steeling herself against his penetrating gaze and consciously placing the first brick in the wall that would soon rise between them. She sighed, then stood. "Go home, Harper," she said, drawing her wrap around her shoulders. "Go to bed and try to forget everything that happened between us tonight. I plan to. And tomorrow morning, when I wake up, things will be back to normal. I'll detest you and you'll have nothing but contempt for me."

"I don't think that's going to happen," he said softly.

"And why not? If I can do it, you certainly

can."

He pushed away from the doorjamb and took a step into her office. "I don't think you can," he countered. "Admit it, Gus. You'll never forget that kiss."

She felt her temper rise at the challenging tone of his voice. Oh, this was typical! He'd detected some reciprocation in her kiss, some chink in her armor, and now he thought he could exploit it. Always looking for control, always searching for a way to get under her skin. Of all the egotistical, manipulative, perverse--

A rush of righteous indignation fueled her temper and in that instant, she realized the battle between them had begun again. Perhaps it had never ended. She shook her head and sent him a look dripping with condescension. "Let me make something perfectly clear," she said, surprised at the resolve in her voice. "You kissed me, Harper. I didn't ask you to, nor did I give you any indication that I wanted to be kissed. I merely stood there and let it happen. It was a stupid thing to do and I should have stopped you."

"Are you saying it didn't mean anything to

you?"

She raised her eyebrow and smiled smugly. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

He laughed, shaking his head at her audacity. "I don't believe that. You kissed me back and don't try to deny it. I felt you go soft in my arms, Charlotte. I wasn't imagining that."

She adjusted her wrap around her shoulders and smoothed her skirt. "Believe me, Sam, you would have known if I was an equal participant."

He arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really. I think you were. In fact, I think you wanted me to kiss you."

"I didn't," she said in an even voice.

"Prove it."

Clenching her fists, she tried to remain cool and composed. Another course in the wall went up. She slipped out from behind her desk and slowly strolled across the office, her eyes locked with his, her skirts rustling around her feet. She stopped in front of him, letting her gaze run up and down the length of his body.

Then, in one swift movement, she reached up, grabbed his face between her hands and yanked him down until they were only inches apart. "I'd be happy to," she said. She pressed her mouth to his, then snaked her arms around his neck and furrowed her fingers through his hair.

The kiss was deep and passionate, and so startlingly powerful that she surprised even herself. It was a perfect assault on his senses, her body pressing against the length of his, her lips and tongue making the possession total and undeniable.

At first, he deliberately tried not to react, but his restraint only made her more determined to prove her point. She ran her hands over his chest, then grabbed his shirt and pulled it open, scattering his onyx studs all over her office floor. Rubbing her hands through the soft sprinkling of hair on his chest, she deepened the kiss until she finally felt him losing the grip on his self-control.

And then, knowing that she'd won, she stepped back and looked up at him, giving him a self-satisfied smile. A gentle shove against his bare chest was all it took to send him stumbling back and out her office door. "If I was an equal participant, that's what it would have felt like. Sleep tight, Harper," she said.

She gave him a little wave, then grabbed her office door and slammed it in his face, so hard that the pictures on her wall rattled. A smile slowly curved her lips and she felt a welcome rush of power.

After all that had happened between them, it seemed that she still had the will to stand up to him. She still knew how to push Sam Harper's buttons. Now if she could just keep his hands off

of her buttons, she would be all right.

* * *

Sam stared at the closed door of Charlotte's office. The sound of it slamming still rang in his ears, and his mouth was still moist from her kiss. He cursed softly, then ran his fingers through his hair and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples.

His pulse pounded in his head and he didn't care to think about the other obvious signs of his desire, especially what was happening right below his cummerbund. What the hell had she done to him? He'd thought their earlier kisses had bordered on perfection, but he'd never felt anything quite like Charlotte Keats when she decided to "participate."

He cursed again and turned away from the door, determined to put as much distance as he could between himself and Charlotte. But he took only three steps before turning around and heading back to her office door. It was about time he settled this thing between them once and for all. He yanked his shirtfront together, then clenched his fingers into a fist and pounded on the door.

"Go home, Harper," she called from

inside.

"I'm not going anywhere." He tried the door, but found it locked. "Let me in, Charlotte. We're going to put an end to this little charade once and for all."

"I have nothing more to say to you."

"Well, I have something to say to you." He drew a long breath. "I knew!" he shouted.

Sam waited for her reply, but his revelation was met with only silence.

"You hear me, Charlotte? I knew it was you sending the gifts and the notes. I knew you were my Secret Valentine."

The door swung open and Charlotte stared up at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You knew?" she cried, her question more an accusation than an inquiry.

Sam grinned. She'd opened the door. Maybe she wasn't as angry with him as he'd thought. "Yeah, I knew. From the very start. I recognized your favorite chocolates. And you didn't do a very good job of disguising your handwriting. I knew all along."

She sputtered. "But--but, why-- "

"Why didn't I say anything?" He shrugged. "At first, I wanted to see what you were up to. And then, I decided it would be fun to catch you at your own game."

"You wanted to make a fool out of me," she countered.

Sam wanted to say yes, to confirm all her worst opinions of him. But he had grown tired of the charade between them and it was time to be brutally honest and face the consequences. "Maybe at first," he admitted. "But after a while, I guess I just started looking forward to the presents."

"Yeah, right," Charlotte said. "If you expect me to believe that, you've got to be-- "

He grabbed her arms and looked down into her eyes. "If you know what's good for you, Gus, you'll shut up and listen to what I have to say."

She snapped her mouth closed and glared at him, clearly not pleased with taking orders, but overcome by her innate curiosity.

"I did look forward to the gifts," he said. "And the notes. And even though I knew it was probably all a big joke, I was stupid enough to hope that there might be some kind of feeling behind what you were doing. Not just another attempt to rattle my cage." He laughed and shook his head. "Can you buy that? I actually wanted to believe that you--cared."

She blinked, clearly surprised by his confession. She opened her mouth to speak but then changed her mind again at his warning look.

"So, you win, Gus. I'm the comic relief in this little drama we've staged. And I guess you got exactly what you wanted. Congratulations." He turned to leave, but she reached out and stopped him with a touch of her hand.

"Sam, wait. I didn't mean to-- "

He held out his hand to keep her from going further. "Yes, you did. And you know what? I'm glad you did. Because for a while there, I thought you might be right. I thought maybe I didn't have it in me to love a woman. But I was wrong."

She gasped and her eyes went wide. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I have loved a woman, for a long, long time. I was just too blind to see it."

"Who?" she asked in a small voice. "Who did you love, Sam?"

He laughed sharply and tipped his head back. "You won't be happy until you've twisted the knife, will you?" He looked directly into her eyes. "I loved you, Gus. I've loved you for... Hell, I'm not sure how long. Maybe since we were kids. Maybe since that night at your birthday party when you tried to kiss me and I pushed you in the lake. I finally admitted it to myself at the picnic for your college graduation, but then you left for Washington and that job at the Post, and I put it aside. By the time we started working together, it was buried so deep even I couldn't find it."

"And now?"

"Now?" He held his arms out and laughed sharply. "Now, I realize why I work so damn hard to keep this paper going. Why I put on a damn suit and tie every day and why I work sixteen-hour days."

"You--you work so hard because you love it," she said, as if she were stating the obvious.

He shook his head. "No, not because I love the Tribune. Because I love you. As long as we had the paper, we'd be together. And deep down, in some dark corner of my soul, that's all I really wanted. I knew how much your job meant to you and I was willing to do anything to keep you happy."

"I-- I didn't know you felt this way," Charlotte said.

He shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Neither did I." With that, he drew a deep breath and took a step back. "And now that I've made a complete ass of myself, I'm going home. Hopefully, if you have any compassion at all, you'll forget this entire conversation and treat me the way you always have--like a person whose presence you can barely tolerate."

With that he turned and strode through the office. He took the stairs to the street level two at a time, wanting to put as much distance as he could between them. Yet for every step he took, he felt a stronger need to return.

He had opened his heart to her. But he'd left before she'd had a chance to respond. Was it because he was afraid to hear what she had to say? Afraid that she might not feel the same way he did? He couldn't have read her wrong, could he?

His mind flashed back to a memory of that first kiss they'd shared on the veranda. He'd caught her unawares, with her defenses down. And he had felt an undeniable current pass between them, electric and alive. But was that only wishful thinking?

If she'd loved him in return, she wouldn't have let him walk out as she had. She would have stopped him, then admitted that the kiss had had as much effect on her as it had on him. He'd confessed his feelings and she'd done nothing. If that wasn't an answer, he didn't know what was.

Sam stepped out onto the street and headed for his car. But at the last minute he walked right past it. He pulled his jacket collar up and shoved his hands into his pockets. A walk would do him good; the cold crisp air might clear his head.

He wasn't sure what to do next. After all, he'd never been in love before, unless he counted that night before Charlotte left for Washington. He'd always assumed that when he finally fell in love, the feelings would be mutual. But then, he never counted on loving Charlotte Keats.

As he walked, the streets of Cedar Ridge were silent, the houses dark. A dog barked in the distance, the sound carried on the wind that rustled the trees. He walked without purpose, not sure where he was going, only sure about the need to keep walking.

Time passed, counted only by his footfalls on the empty sidewalks, not by the ticking of his watch or the rise and fall of the moon in the sky. He kept his gaze fixed a few feet in front of him. His mind spun with all that had happened. One night and she had changed his life. One kiss and she had captured his heart.

He stopped then, suddenly aware that he didn't want to walk anymore. Slowly, he looked up to find himself standing in front of Charlotte's house. He stepped into the shadows of a tree and leaned up against it, his gaze drifting up to the illuminated window on the second floor.

He'd never been inside her house, but he'd passed it a hundred, maybe even a thousand times. He tried to imagine what it was like inside. His mind wandered through the first floor, then up the stairs to her bedroom.

He would find her, lying in her bed, asleep, her hair tousled, her skin silken. He would stand over her bed and watch her, counting the slow, even breaths, listening to the soft sounds she made in slumber. He would reach out and touch her hair, brush his hand along her cheek.

And then she would wake. She would reach out to him and draw him closer, until he lay beside her, beneath her, above her. They would make love and all the walls between them would come tumbling down. She would meet his passion with desire of her own and they would begin again, putting the past behind them once and for all.

Sam took a step forward, his gaze still locked on the bedroom window. Would it happen that way? If he walked up to the front door and knocked, would she invite him into her bed? Or would she reject him again?

He pinched his eyes shut and cursed softly, then turned away from the house. He wanted to believe it could be good between them, but he also had to be practical. She didn't care for him as deeply as he cared for her. And she might never feel what he felt.

He glanced at the eastern sky, then looked down at his watch. In just five hours he would find out for sure. In five hours, he would see her again. He would look into her eyes and he would either come face-to-face with his future- -or with his past.

* * *

Charlotte sat in the center of her bed staring at the television and sobbing. On the screen,

Humphrey Bogart said goodbye to Ingrid Bergman as a well-worn tape of Casablanca wound to its end. Tears glimmered in Ilse's eyes as the camera focused on her in a final close-up. She turned away and slowly walked toward the waiting plane and Charlotte felt a flood of tears pushing at the corners of her own eyes.

"That's right!" she shouted to the character on the screen. She wadded up a tissue and tossed it at the television. "Run away. He's no good for you. Get on that plane and get as far away from him as you can." She grabbed a chocolate from the box on her lap and waved it at the screen. "He'll just make your life miserable."

She shoved the chocolate into her mouth, then reached for the gallon jug of milk on the nightstand. "Men are pigs," she said, after taking a huge gulp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then reached for another chocolate. "You fall in love with them, they find out, and they just run the other way. But heaven forbid if they suddenly develop feelings for you. You're just supposed to forget everything and kiss their feet. You've got it right, Ilse. Just walk away. Go off with that nice dependable Victor and save the world."

She stared at the screen as the credits began to roll, then snatched up a new tissue and blew her nose. Grabbing her remote, she flipped off the video player and flopped back on her bed to stare up at the ceiling.

"So what are you going to do, Charlotte?" she murmured. "It's nearly sunrise and in another few hours, you're going to have to go to work."

She rubbed her eyes, then pulled the covers up to her chin. If only she could just stay in bed for the rest of her life, living on chocolates and romantic movies. She could do all her work from her home computer and she would never have to face him again. But was that what she really wanted?

"So he loves me," she murmured. "At least, Sam Harper says he loves me." She covered her eyes with her arm and groaned.

His words echoed in her mind, but she wasn't sure whether she'd actually heard them pass his lips or only imagined them. He loved her. But could he really have meant what he said? Or was this just another in a long line of tricks to con her. How was she supposed know whether to believe him?

She had never been able to read him in the past. Even with all the sparring that had taken place between them, she'd never really sensed where she stood with him. He'd kept his emotions locked tightly inside him. She knew him so well, but she didn't know him at all.

She tried to bring order to her chaotic thoughts as she slowly went through everything he'd said. But the words seemed to fade into the depths of her mind and she kept coming back to the kisses they'd shared.

How could she deny feelings like that? Something had happened between them in that instant they'd made physical contact. From the moment his mouth touched hers, it was as if all her doubts and fears dissolved, only to leave her with the crystal-clear knowledge that she did indeed love him.

Could it be that simple? She loved him and he loved her? But they'd spent years making each other as miserable as possible, always tense and watchful, full of mistrust for each other's motives. How were they supposed to put habits like that behind them?

She tried to picture what it might be like-to be able to talk to him about everything that was in her heart, to be able to trust him with her feelings and fears. For a brief moment, she could almost imagine it, but then every little dispute they'd had intruded on the dream, bringing all the chaos back again.

Charlotte pressed her hands over her eyes and cleared her mind. What did she know of him? He was an honorable man, of that much she was certain. He was steady and dependable. And in the past few weeks she'd had a chance to see something within him she'd never seen before-- a warmth and a charm that had captivated her heart.

And above all, he was honest. She couldn't remember an instance in the entire time she'd known him that he'd deliberately lied to her--except for the past couple of weeks. He'd known all about her scheme and neglected to tell her. But then, perhaps she deserved that.

Charlotte sighed. What was she supposed to do? Every shred of self-preservation she possessed told her she should continue to build the wall around her heart. But in her heart she wanted to tear it down. How would she know when it was the right time to trust him?

She'd never thought he was a man worth loving and that had made her choices so easy. But nothing was simple anymore, for try as she might, she couldn't keep herself from loving Sam Harper.

Chapter Six

The morning sun shone through the wide plate-glass windows of Valentine Delights. Sitting at a table near the door, Charlotte stared into her Papaccino as if she might find a few more ounces of courage at the bottom of the cup. She'd been sitting there for nearly two hours, since seven that morning, swilling chocolate-laced coffee and trying to work up the fortitude to go into work.

She hadn't slept a wink all night and had stopped by Papa's for some badly needed caffeine. But once she had settled at a table, she couldn't bring herself to leave. Instead, she sipped at her coffee and watched as early-morning customers came and went, their last-minute Valentine's Day purchases packed in pretty silver-foil boxes by Papa and his helper, Rudy.

Today was the most romantic day of the entire year and here she was, alone, confused, and starting to get a little jittery from all the caffeine she'd imbibed. How many Valentine's Days had passed uneventfully in her life? Every single one, if she were to be honest. But this Valentine's Day would be different.

Today she would make a decision that would change her future. She would decide either to love Sam Harper, or to finally put loving him behind her for good. She took another slow sip of her coffee. She would make a decision, all right, but she just wouldn't make it this exact second.

"How long are you going to sit here taking up my table space?"

Charlotte looked up to find Papa Valentine standing over her, his arms akimbo, a teasing smile quirking his lips. "I bought this coffee and two others," she said. "Plus a croissant. If you try to kick me out of here, I'll write a nasty story about you and put it on the front page of the paper with a huge, Second Coming headline. You'll never sell chocolate in this town again."

He held out his hands in mock surrender and chuckled. "All right, all right. But that gloomy expression of yours is driving all my customers away," he replied. "It's Valentine's Day, the weather is sunny and beautiful, and everyone is supposed to be happy. Now, either put a smile on that pretty face of yours or go sit in the corner."

Charlotte grudgingly forced a smile. "Is that better?"

"Not much," Papa said, pulling out the chair beside her. He sat down and braced his arms on the table. "Do you want to tell me what's wrong? Or should I wait a few days and read it in the paper?"

She shook her head. "It has nothing to do with the paper." She paused. "I mean, it does have to do with the paper, but it's not news. It's...personal."

"Sam?" he asked.

She looked at him and blinked. "How did you know?"

"This is a small town, Charlotte, and news travels fast. It seems you two were seen in a passionate clinch outside the Taggert Mansion last night at approximately 10:16 p.m. by four ladies from the Cedar Ridge Historical Society."

Charlotte groaned and buried her face in her hands. "I thought we were alone."

"In a town this small you can't sneeze without half the population saying 'Bless you.' Besides, I figured something was up. Sam was in here last night right before we closed at midnight."

"With his date?" she asked.

Papa shook his head. "Naw, he was alone. In fact, he sat at this very table, looking pretty much the way you do, a hangdog expression on his face. Now, if I were a good investigative journalist, I'd think maybe the way you're feeling and the way he was feeling are somehow connected. Would I be right?"

"He must have left the ball right after I did," she murmured, "and driven that awful Diana woman home."

"Diana," Papa said. "She was his date, right? Lots of interesting gossip this morning about that dress she was wearing. Red with sequins, wasn't it? It created a real impression with the ladies at the historical society."

"My guess is people were just waiting for her seams to pop," Charlotte muttered. "It would have been great entertainment while the band was on a break. That dress couldn't have been any tighter--or more low-cut."

"So what were you doing kissing another woman's date?" Papa asked. "And your business partner, to boot."

Charlotte sighed. "It's a long story, but I'll have you know that it all started with a little box of chocolates from your shop. Maybe I should blame you for this whole mess."

"If you're going to blame me, then maybe you ought to tell me what I did first."

She paused and considered confiding in him. Papa did seem to know a lot about romance. And he knew Sam. Maybe he could give her a little more insight into the male point of view. "This is off the record, all right?"

He nodded.

"Sam and I have always maintained a very businesslike relationship. We've never involved ourselves in each other's personal lives and we've kept a safe distance at the office, as well. A few weeks ago, I did something that changed all that and now everything has...fallen apart."

She told Papa the whole story, from every detail about Sam's Secret Valentine to the startling kisses they'd shared the previous night. When she finished, she forced a smile. "So you see, I've made a real mess of things. And I'm afraid I can't put our relationship back to the way it used to be, no matter how hard I try."

"And why would you want to make it the way it used to be?"

"Because, I used to feel safe and sure of what I was doing. I was happy. Now I'm just confused and upset and-- "

"In love?" he asked.

She blinked at him in surprise. "I-- No, not--" She paused, then cursed softly. "Yes. Maybe. All right, I'll admit it. I think I'm in love with Sam Harper. This doesn't mean I welcome the prospect, but at least I can be honest with myself."

Papa nodded, silently considering what she'd told him.

"So, what do you think?" she asked. "What should I do?"

"What do you want to do?"

Charlotte shook her head dispiritedly. "I don't know. I guess I'd like to think that he loves me. But I just can't seem to get myself to believe that, even though he said it."

"Why not?"

"Because, I've loved Sam Harper nearly all my life, but never once has the feeling been reciprocated. I could be the poster child for unrequited love."

"He said he loves you. I don't see why there's any confusion."

"But why now? What suddenly changed his mind? Two weeks ago, he couldn't stand me and now he suddenly loves me?"

"Kismet?" Papa asked.

"Do you mean like fate? Or destiny?"

"All I know is that everyone in this town has been watching you two since you were kids. And we've all been waiting for this to happen. So my advice is to go with the flow. If you and Sam were meant to be together, you were meant to be together, starting now. And there's not a whole lot you can do to change that."

"So you think I should believe him?" Charlotte asked.

Papa reached out and patted her hand. "The man I saw in here last night looked like a man in love. Now, unless I've missed my guess, he wasn't mooning over that lady in the red-sequined dress. I think he had his mind occupied with the beauty in the emerald-green gown."

Charlotte arched her brow and gave him a questioning look.

"Everyone's been talking about how pretty you looked last night," he explained. "The ladies of the Cedar Ridge Historical Society thought your dress was lovely."

She laughed. "Somehow I get the feeling that 'What's news?' is not our special little saying. Is there anything else you want to tell me about last night? Anything I might want to add to my article in tomorrow's paper?"

He chuckled and patted her hand. "No, but I do have a bit of advice for you, Charlotte. There's only two things you can trust in when it comes to romance," Papa said. "The first is good Belgian chocolates. And the second is your heart. Trust your heart and you'll never be sorry."

She drew a deep breath. "But I've kept my feelings locked up so tight for so long, I'm not sure I can tell him exactly what's in my heart. I'm not even sure I know."

"Well, if you can't say it yourself, you could always say it with chocolates," Papa teased.

A slow smile curled the corners of her mouth. Charlotte reached out and grabbed Papa's hands. "That's it! That's what I'll do." She jumped up from her chair and glanced around the shop. "First, I'll need a dozen of your hazelnut truffles. No, make that two dozen."

Papa clapped his hands, then stood. "Two dozen truffles, coming up." He strode across the shop and stepped behind the counter, then began to arrange her chocolates in a silver-foil box. A few moments later, he returned and placed the box in front of her. He held out a gift card and a pen.

"This is perfect," she said as she grabbed the pen. Charlotte scribbled a quick note on the card, then handed both back to Papa. "Can you ask Rudy to deliver these to Sam's office right away?"

"You're not going to deliver them yourself?" Papa asked.

Charlotte shook her head, then rushed to the door. "I've got some other things to take care of. Just make sure Sam gets the chocolates and he reads the note."

Papa chuckled. "Valentine Delights always delivers what we promise. I'll make the delivery myself." He crossed to the door and pulled it open for her. "You have a nice Valentine's Day, Charlotte."

She paused in the doorway, then gave him a confident smile. "I'm going to do just that, Papa," she replied as she walked out into the bright sun and fresh morning air.

When she reached the sidewalk, she stopped and stared at her reflection in the plate-glass window. She could do this. She could face Sam and tell him how she felt. And then they would begin again-- a clean slate, a fresh start. And what better place to begin than the place where all this had started, so many years ago?

A CHILL WIND BLEW across the surface of Myrtle Lake. Charlotte pulled her jacket more tightly around her as she stared out at the water, her skirt whipping around her legs. With a sigh of frustration, she glanced down at her watch and then turned back to the cottage.

"So much for new beginnings," she murmured. Lunchtime had come and gone and the gourmet goodies that she'd laid out on the cabin's dining-room table had long ago been put away. The champagne, still corked, had probably reached room temperature right along with the excitement she had felt.

Where was he? Had he received the chocolates and her note? Charlotte brushed her hair out of her eyes impatiently. Perhaps she should have just faced him at the office instead of asking him to drive the hour out to the cabin. But the office was for business and what she had to say to him went way beyond business.

The water lapped around the pier and her thoughts wandered back to the night of her thirteenth birthday. If the past had taught her anything, she might as well jump in now and get it over with. He'd rejected her then. And now, she had set herself up for yet another rejection. At least there weren't thirty of her very best friends around to witness her humiliation.

Maybe it was the card she'd sent with the candy. She hadn't been sure what to say and had written the first words that came into her mind, something simple and direct--or so she'd thought.

The feeling is mutual. We need to talk.

Meet me at the cabin.

Sincerely,

Your Secret Valentine.

Had she been too direct? or maybe too vague? The feeling is mutual. It wasn't the most poetic inscription in the world, but it said what she wanted to say. If he truly loved her, then she loved him. And if he didn't love her, then she didn't love him. As she ran the phrase over in her mind, she realized how wishy-washy it sounded.

But the rest of the note had been perfectly clear. So why wasn't he here? Charlotte groaned inwardly and pressed her hands to her cold ears. Maybe he regretted what had happened between them the previous night and wanted to forget his "Secret Valentine." Maybe, for him, the feeling was no longer mutual.

Charlotte glanced at her watch again. She would wait another fifteen minutes and then she would leave. She walked to the end of the dock and sat down on the weathered bench. As she watched a hawk circle lazily above the water, her mind wandered back to the summers of her youth.

They had been thrown together from the time of her earliest memories. On blistering summer days, while their fathers worked at the paper, she and Sam would travel to the cabin with their mothers, riding in the back seat of Lila Harper's blue convertible. They'd played together and sung together, and at the very beginning they'd been the best of friends.

But as they grew older, they began to grow apart, until she was certain she'd done something to make him angry. The more she tagged after him, the more angry Sam had become. He no longer wanted to climb trees and skip stones. She knew now that he'd simply outgrown her, moving into his teens two years before she had.

The summers passed and she watched him from a distance, wary and confused. And then one day, a few weeks before she turned thirteen, she realized that she had begun looking at Sam in a different way. He wasn't a buddy anymore, or the big brother she never had. He was a boy--a tall handsome boy that her girlfriends chattered and giggled and blushed over.

She'd fallen in love with Sam Harper, just as surely as she loved him to this day. But when she had tried to tell him, he'd... She closed her eyes at the memory and tipped her head back.

"Hello, Charlotte."

Her eyes snapped open and she turned to watch Sam sit down beside her. He was dressed in a bulky sweater and jeans. Her breath caught at the sight of him. He didn't look at all like the Sam Harper she encountered every day at the office. He looked...relaxed, approachable--and incredibly sexy.

"I--I didn't think you were going to come," she said softly, avoiding his gaze.

He pulled the card from his pocket and stared at it. "I had something to take care of and I got into the office late. I came as soon as I got your note."

"When you didn't come, I thought--"

"I'm here, Charlotte. And I came because I figured it was about time we got things straightened out between us."

An uneasy silence grew as they sat side by side on the bench. Charlotte tried to read his expression, but his face was emotionless, composed. She thought she would be able to see his feelings just by looking into his eyes, but she couldn't. He was as unreadable as he'd always been.

"What does this mean?" he asked, holding out the card.

She shifted nervously and crossed her arms in front of her. "I-- I don't know," she replied. "What do you think it means?"

His jaw tightened and he sighed. Cursing beneath his breath, he stood and moved to the edge of the pier. The muscles across his back tensed and he braced his hands on his hips. She fought the temptation to reach out and touch him and instead clenched her fists and held her place.

"I don't know what the hell it means, Charlotte," he said, shaking his head, his back to her. "I couldn't begin to guess." He turned around to face her, then leaned back against a weathered piling. "You know, I think that's the problem with us. We've spent so much time bickering with each other that when it finally comes time to say something meaningful, we can't."

"Maybe we've known each other for too long," she said, clutching her icy fingers in front of her. "Most people don't know as much about each other as we do. We grew up together, we spent most of our lives arguing. Old habits are hard to break."

"And that means we shouldn't even try?"

"No," Charlotte said, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. "It just means that we'll have to try harder."

"So, what do you want to say, Charlotte? Why did you bring me here?"

She drew a deep breath and steadied her nerves, but her hands were still shaking from that morning's caffeine overdose. Biting her bottom lip, she stood and walked toward him. He stared at her for a long moment, his arms crossed over his chest.

"This is the place I first realized I loved you," she said. "Right here on this pier. On my thirteenth birthday party, when I tried to kiss you and you-- "

"I remember."

She glanced up and met his gaze and caught a brief flash of emotion in his eyes. She slowly gathered her courage. It was time to take a chance. Now or never.

"I love you," she said softly, averting her gaze. She didn't want to look at him for fear of what she would see--for fear that the intense expression she'd seen last night would no longer be there.

Time seemed to stop, each moment of silence an eternity, every breath she took a knife to her heart. She kept her eyes fixed on his chest, studying the pattern in his sweater until tears blurred her vision.

But then he spoke and suddenly, she could breathe again. "And I love you, Charlotte," he said, reaching out to touch her cheek.

A sob caught in her throat and she snapped her head up to meet his eyes. "You--you do? I mean, really, you do?"

He smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I really do."

The silence between them grew again as they gazed into each other's eyes. "What are we supposed to do now?" Charlotte asked.

"I think a kiss might be in order."

Clutching her hands in front of her, she took a step toward him. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he drew her nearer. He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers, a gentle fleeting contact that left her wanting more. And then, as if that simple touch had opened a floodgate of emotion, he pulled her against his body and covered her mouth with his.

Charlotte felt her knees go weak and she wrapped her arms around his neck to keep her balance. She moaned softly and he deepened the kiss, weaving his fingers through her hair and cradling her head in his hands, moving her mouth against his until it fit perfectly. Her mind whirled and her body pulsed with a maelstrom of sensations.

Then he pulled back slightly and looked down into her eyes, a lazy smile quirking his lips. "Do you really want to start over?" he murmured.

She nodded, her gaze fixed on his.

He took a step back and then another. "Then do it," he said, grinning.

Charlotte frowned. "Do what?" she asked.

"Come on, Gus. I know that's why you brought me here. If we're going to start from the beginning you're going to have to do it." He held out his arms and took a final step to the edge of the pier. "Just give me a shove and get it over with."

Charlotte gasped. "You want me to push you into the lake?"

"That's how this all started. If we're going to begin fresh, then I think turnaround is fair play."

"It's the middle of February. The lake is freezing!"

"I know you want to," he said. "It's the only way to even the score."

She crossed her arms and shook her head. "I don't want to. Besides, you'll catch a cold."

"Come on, Gus."

"I hate that name," Charlotte said. "I've asked you not to call me that."

"Gus," he teased in a seductive tone. "Gus, Gus, drives a bus. Chews tobacco and likes to cuss."

She screamed in frustration at the childhood taunt, then gave him a gentle shove, hoping that it would end his teasing. But it didn't. With a satisfied smile, he stumbled back, his arms flailing dramatically. In the blink of an eye, she knew he was going in. Instinctively she reached out and grabbed his arm, but it was too late. Both of them tumbled off the edge of the pier and hit the icy water with a splat.

She felt his arms around her waist as she struggled to find the bottom with her feet. An instant later, she surfaced, sputtering and gasping at the shock of the icy water. With gentle hands, he pushed the wet hair out of her eyes. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, still coughing.

He chuckled. "I didn't mean for you to come in with me."

Charlotte pushed her hair back, then sneezed. But before she could speak, he pulled her up against him and covered her mouth with his.

His tongue teased at hers, gently coaxing, growing more passionate by degrees. A flood of warmth coursed through her body and she forgot about the icy water that lapped around them. He cupped her face in his palms and rained kisses over her. "God, I love you, Gus," he murmured.

Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, not from the cold, but from the powerful emotion that rocked her to her very soul. "And I love you," she said, brushing her lips against his. "I've always loved you."

He moaned softly, then scooped her up in his arms and slowly made his way to the shore.

Charlotte wrapped her arms around his neck, startled at the ease with which he carried her. "I didn't mean to push you, but I-- "

"Shh," he said, nuzzling her neck. "We're even now. From this moment on, the past doesn't make a difference. This is a new beginning for us, sweetheart."

He carried her to the cabin, not putting her down until they stood before the dying embers of the fire she had built earlier. He lowered her onto the couch and then pulled off the leather boots and thick socks she wore. He kicked off his own tennis shoes and socks, then pulled her up to stand in front of him. He ran his hands down her arms and wove his fingers through hers, his gaze never wavering.

"You're soaked," she said softly, plucking at his sweater. "You better take that off." She grabbed the hem of his sweater and helped him pull it over his head. Beneath the sweater, a wet T-shirt clung to his torso.

Sam smiled. "What about you?" he asked. "I think you'd better take that jacket off." He tugged on the cuffs, then pushed it over her shoulders until it dropped to the floor.

She stood, staring at his chest. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched him, feeling his warmth seep through the cold fabric. "Maybe you should take off the T-shirt," she suggested, captivated by the hard muscles hidden from her eyes.

"You think so?" he asked.

She glanced up at him and he arched his eyebrow. She felt the color rise in her cheeks. "I--I wouldn't want you to catch a cold."

He twisted, pulling the T-shirt over his head, then tossed it over his shoulder. Charlotte's breath caught in her throat at the sight of his naked torso. Lord, he was gorgeous. She reached out and touched him--his smooth, warm skin, the soft hair that dusted his broad chest, the ripple of muscle across his belly.

Drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes. She knew exactly where all these wet clothes would lead, but now that they'd admitted their love for each other, she didn't want to wait any longer. She'd been waiting for Sam Harper her entire life, whether she admitted it or not.

She reached for the front of her blouse. Her gaze locked on his as she slowly undid the buttons, one by one, and shrugged out of the damp cotton. Then she unzipped her skirt and it slid over her hips and puddled around her feet. She stood in front of him, dressed in only her silky bra and panties, vulnerable, yet not afraid.

His gaze skimmed over her body and she watched the passion smolder in his eyes. "Make love to me, Sam," she said, stepping toward him.

He brushed his thumb along her jawline. A shiver skittered down her spine.

"Cold?" he murmured.

Charlotte nodded.

Stepping around her, he pulled a colorful wool blanket from the back of the sofa, then draped it over her shoulders. The fire snapped behind them, the embers nearly dead. He turned to add another piece of wood to the grate, but she reached out and stopped him.

"We don't need the fire," she said with a hesitant smile.

Groaning softly, he turned back to her and yanked her into his arms. His mouth found hers once again and, urgent and demanding, he kissed her, hard and deep, his hands roving over her body beneath the blanket.

Frantically, he stripped off his jeans and the clinging silk boxers beneath, revealing his long, muscular legs. Her heart skipped as she took in the evidence of his arousal.

With a trembling hand, she reached out and touched him there, his hardness stoking her own desire. He sucked in a sharp breath and she looked up at his expression of tightly-held control. And then the control was gone, and he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, pulling her body against him.

Suddenly her world filled with exquisite sensation and frantic longing as they explored each other's bodies. Her bra and panties were discarded with ease and he drew her to the sofa, her breath coming in short gasps as his mouth moved over hers. He pulled the blanket around them and they tumbled onto the soft cushions.

He was above her, then beneath her, then beside her, his hard, lean form bringing a gentle flood of warmth to the very tips of her limbs, his hands making her ache with desire. And through the haze of passion, she knew that this was right. This was what she'd been waiting for. This was the man who had been her destiny all along.

She whispered his name once, and then again, and then he was inside her, moving, drawing her into a primal rhythm that she could neither resist nor deny. He rocked against her until he reached her very core, touching her, then retreating; then deeper and harder, faster, until they both neared the edge.

He stopped then, stilling his movements. Holding his breath, he looked down into her eyes, his gaze intense, his control near shattering, and she knew he could see to the very depths of her soul. He could see the truth there--the love--as she could, clear and lucid in his gaze. She reached up and brushed her thumb along his lower lip, then said his name once more, soft and pleading.

At the sound of her voice, a slow shudder rocked his body and she felt his body tense in her arms. "God, I love you," he breathed, slowly burying himself again. And then, as if he could wait no longer, he began to move, fierce and frantic, relentless, driving into her until she lost all touch with reality.

They found their release together-clinging, clutch- ing, two bodies melded into one, perched on the precipice and then crashing out of control. Sensation surged through her body, shattering every odd notion of pleasure and passion. On and on the feelings went until they could go no further; until they both collapsed in utter exhaustion, spent yet sated.

With a moan of sheer contentment, Charlotte curled up beside him, throwing her leg over his hips possessively, her head cradled on his shoulder. His heart beat strong and quick beneath her ear and she sighed, never having felt more alive than she did at this moment. As their breathing slowed, he gently stroked her temple, his touch reminding her that what they had just shared was real, and not one of her fantasies.

"I love you," he whispered. "I can't seem to stop telling you that."

She looked up at him. "And I love you," Charlotte said.

He gave her a devilish smile and pulled her nearer. "No, I love you."

She giggled at the teasing tone in his voice. "Well, I'm sorry, Harper, but I love you!"

He tipped his head back and chuckled. "I'm glad we can still argue. That hasn't changed and I hope it never will."

"But what will happen when we argue now?" she questioned, worry suffusing her voice.

He tipped her chin up and kissed her. "It won't change the way I feel about you, sweetheart. You're stubborn and opinionated. But I fell in love with Charlotte Keats and I knew exactly what I was getting myself into."

"And you're arrogant and egotistical and-- "

"Coldhearted?" he asked.

She smiled. "I was wrong about that," Charlotte said. "In fact, I've never been more wrong about anything in my life."

"I know how you feel," Sam said, brushing his palm against her cheek. "I always thought you were a real pain, Charlotte. But I've definitely changed my opinion on that score. No more pain, just this incredible...pleasure."

She sighed. "So, what are we going to do? I mean, about work? Are we going to tell everyone?"

He considered her question for a long moment, then shrugged. "We're going to have to say something. In fact, if we don't get back to the office within the next few hours, the Cedar Ridge Tribune won't be delivered on time tomorrow morning."

Charlotte pushed up on her elbow and frowned in concern. "What's wrong? Is the press down again? Why didn't you tell me this? Harper, you are going to have to get over this pathological need to run the show. I'm an equal partner in-- "

Sam pressed his fingers to her lips to stop her words. "The press is fine," he murmured. "They're just holding the main until I okay the copy on one bit of news."

"What news? I'm the editor and all news goes through me."

"That's why I had the pressmen wait."

"What news?" she repeated.

"An announcement. A very important announcement. Actually, an announcement of our engagement. I couldn't really run it until I checked with the editor. So what do you say? Do we tell them to run with it?"

Charlotte stared down at his smiling face. Her mouth dropped open and she tried to speak. But when nothing came out, she snapped it shut. She blinked, then shook her head. "I--oh, dear--Is—is that a proposal, Sam Harper?"

He quirked an eyebrow up. "Am I not making myself clear? I want to marry you, Charlotte. We've wasted enough time already. A good fifteen years, by my count."

"But we've hardly spent any time together."

"We've spent our whole lives together," he countered.

"I mean, romantically. You know, intimately."

He reached out and searched the floor with his hand until he found his wet jeans. "This is why I was late getting here," he explained as he pulled a tiny box from the back pocket. "It's a little soggy, but I think it will do. Happy Valentine's Day, Gus."

Hesitantly, she took the box from his hand and opened it. Her heart stopped when she saw the diamond ring inside. It glittered, reflecting the light that streamed through the cabin windows.

"Marry me, Charlotte."

She tore her gaze away from the ring and looked down into his eyes. "I don't know what to say."

He wove his fingers through the damp hair at the nape of her neck and pulled her closer. "Say yes," he growled.

Charlotte smiled, then laughed. "Yes!" she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck.

She kissed him then, with all the love that she'd hidden for so long and with all the love that she'd discovered inside her that day. She was in love with Sam Harper and he loved her. And what had once seemed impossible, was now inevitable.

And as he pulled her body beneath his and began to make love to her again, somehow she knew that she would never, ever look at Valentine's Day the same way again.

Epilogue

"I don't care if he is an advertiser. I'm not ordering my wedding cake from Bert's Donut Shop." Charlotte stood in the doorway of Valentine Delights and scanned the room for a table, ignoring Sam's ongoing argument.

Sam reached over her shoulder and pointed to a table near the counter, then grabbed her elbow and steered her toward it. "Bert assures me he can make a lovely cake. And don't forget, he's placed an ad in the Monday issue of the Tribune for twenty-seven years running."

Charlotte quickly wove through the tables, Sam hard on her heels. "We are not going to discuss this, Harper. If we decide on doughnuts for the reception, Bert can make them. But we're talking about a wedding cake, here. A finely crafted combination of white cake and butter-cream frosting."

"Chocolate," he said.

"White," she repeated. "With flowers and leaves and curlicues. And a little bride and groom on the top."

"Are you still arguing about the wedding?"

Charlotte looked up to find Papa Valentine standing beside their table, his arms crossed over his chest. He smiled and shook his head. "Now it's the cake. Last week it was the flowers. Next week you'll be arguing about the napkins."

"We're not arguing," Charlotte replied. "We're discussing."

"We're arguing," Sam countered.

Charlotte gasped. "We are not!"

"Yes, we are," Sam said. "And we've been argu—" He stopped at Charlotte's censuring look. "Discussing ever since the day Charlotte said she'd marry me. We can't seem to agree on anything about the wedding. I told her to do whatever she wants, but she said I had to be involved. So I get involved and she doesn't want to hear my opinion."

Papa chuckled. "Have you set a date yet?"

Charlotte and Sam looked at each other, then at Papa, embarrassed expressions on both their faces. "We will," she said. "As soon as we get a few more details ironed out."

"Do you want my opinion?" Papa asked.

"She won't listen," Sam said.

"I will too!" Charlotte cried.

"I think you should elope," Papa said.

"Elope?" they said in tandem. They looked at each other for a long moment, then at Papa and back at each other.

"Elope," she repeated. "I don't think we've discussed that possibility."

"What do you think?" Sam asked.

Charlotte frowned. "I don't know, what do you think?"

Sam reached out and took her hand, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. "We could leave right now," he said.

"We could be married by morning," she said, her expression brightening.

"No more arguments."

"No more discussions."

"Husband and wife," Sam said.

"Wife and husband," Charlotte replied.

With that, they both jumped up from their chairs and started for the door. But Papa cleared his throat loudly, stopping their exit before they'd reached the middle of the shop. Slowly, they both turned around.

"Not so fast, you two," Papa said. "I give you great advice and you're leaving without a word of thanks?"

Charlotte smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, Papa. Thank you for everything. If it weren't for the great advice you've always given us, we probably wouldn't be together today. We'll never forget all that you've done for us."

"And I'm going to do one more thing." Papa clapped his hands. "Rudy!" he called. "We need a wedding cake. Pack up that Triple Chocolate Passion Torte I just made. These two are on their way to get married, so make it snappy. They've been waiting for this day long enough!"