Karen Kendall

Cindi Myers

Colleen Collins

MEN at WORK

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

CONTENTS

THROUGH THE ROOF
Karen Kendall

TAKING HIS MEASURE
Cindi Myers

WATCHING IT GO UP
Colleen Collins

THROUGH THE ROOF

Karen Kendall

For Julita, who always makes me laugh,
and who needs no cosmetic procedures
to make her a great friend!

1

GO FIGURE—Marina Reston found it impossible to drive with cold cucumber slices over her eyes.

Even though she’d carefully cut out iris-sized holes in the centers of them with a sterling-silver grapefruit knife and had removed all those icky little seeds.

Even though she’d pulled a Saks Fifth Avenue baseball cap down to her brow-line and tucked the slices under the rim to keep them in place.

And even though, when that had failed, she’d used a very large manuscript rubber band to hold them on. Driving under the influence of cucumbers just didn’t work.

The juice ran into her eyes even when they did stay on. And they created huge blind spots, playing havoc with her depth perception. She was simply going to have to meet private investigator Gina Keys with horrifically puffy eyes.

Thanks, Ben. This wouldn’t be a problem if I could stop crying over you….

How could her fiancé have broken up with her in a letter? How could he have just disappeared? And how could he not answer his cell phone or respond to the increasingly desperate messages she’d left over the past four days? Not only was she devastated, she was worried sick.

And then there was the question of the charity calendar Ben had promised to pose for. The shoot was next week. She had to find him before then or Frameworks for the Future would be short a model—but he’d obviously forgotten. Just like he’d forgotten her.

Well, that’s just fine…because I hate him.

Marina’s hands tightened on the wheel as if it were Ben Delgado’s neck. As if she could drive him around a corner, floor his gas pedal and run him straight into the plate-glass storefront of that Taco Bell…But, oh, hey!

What was she thinking? Ben was so not worth a storm of shredded cheese stuck to her 911’s paint job. Not to mention all the irate people in paper hats and food-service gloves who would be sure to yell at her.

Marina went back to the problem of her gruesomely puffy eyes. She could always leave her sunglasses on inside the P.I.’s office, but that seemed so aloof and pretentious.

With a sigh, she pressed the small silver button that unrolled her 911’s window and then tossed the cucumber slices out the window, so they took to the air like mini flying saucers.

She rolled up her window again and frowned at the electronic GPS map in the Porsche’s console. Since she was traveling south, or upside down according to the map, it always took her a moment to figure out if the GPS wanted her to go left or right next. Because left, upside down, was like right, right-side up, and Marina had no sense of direction whatsoever.

Her delayed deductive reasoning eventually kicked in, and Marina turned right on 17th, heading for Little Havana. Soon she was on Calle Ocho, passing tiny meat markets, fruterias, herbal shops and cigar stands.

Shecraveda cafecito, or Cuban coffee, but given her already frayed nerves and shaky emotional state, it was a bad idea. A woman who’d been crying for almost four straight days and living on a diet of wine and Advil should definitely avoid caffeine.

Two blocks, another left and one parking slot later, she found herself in a small cluttered strip mall that housed G K Investigations. She gathered her purse, Jumbo Jamba-Juice cup and little Ziploc bag of cucumber slices and then headed toward G K’s office door.

She remembered that Ms. Keys kept her door locked for security reasons and pressed the button next to it.

A buzz indicated that she could now open the door and she clicked inside in her new bargain sandals. She’d saved thirty percent off the $595 retail price by ordering them from Bluefly.com.

And Ben says I don’t know how to spell economize. Her lip trembled.

Ben. Where was he? She had to find him. He couldn’t do this! She needed him. Loved him. They had a life together—he couldn’t just disappear this way.

“I’ll be right with you,” a voice called from the back.

Marina’s eyes welled up again as she looked around Ms. Keys’s very plain, very small office and wobbled over to one of two green velour easy chairs that had seen better days.

Oh, God. The swelling around her eyes would never go down before the silent auction tonight if she didn’t stop this. And she had to emcee.

Marina set her purse in her lap and her Jumbo Jamba-Juice on an old trunk cluttered with magazines. The only other piece of furniture in the reception area of the office was a very large dog crate that served as a stand for a beat-up coffeemaker.

She wondered a little nervously where the dog was—she was petrified of big ones. Curiously, the air held not a whiff of eau de canine—just a faint mustiness that was all too common in south Florida.

With unsteady fingers she opened her Ziploc bag and removed two more cucumber slices from her reserve stash.

She was just leaning back and placing one on her right eyelid when an inside door opened and a striking girl with white-blond, short, spiky hair stuck her head out. “Mrs. Reston?”

The girl stared at the cucumber slices. Then she took in Marina’s five-inch silver sandals and her adorable, silver leather Ferragamo bondage bag with the scarlet silk lining and tassel-ties. Her pale blond eyebrows shot up.

Meanwhile, Marina stared in fascination at the tiny sapphire in the girl’s nose. It actually looked fabulous on her and deepened the gray-blue of her eyes.

Marina sniffed woefully. “It’s actually miss.”

She tottered to her feet and gathered her belongings in her left hand, pinching the cucumber slices between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. “It would have been Mrs. in just four months,” she blurted, “But then I found it.” She swallowed. “The letter.”

“I see,” said Gina Keys, not unsympathetically. It had to be Gina, since there was nobody else in the office. “Well, won’t you—”

“He broke up with me in a letter! Can you believe that?”

“Um—”

“A letter.” Marina brandished the Jumbo Jamba-Juice while Ms. Keys nodded calmly.

“Yes. That does seem a little—”

“Low-down? Cowardly? Generally crummy?” Marina’s voice rose and cracked.

“Passive aggressive.”

“I need you to find him for me. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Gray-blue eyes met hers. The tiny sapphire glowed. “Why don’t you come into my office and sit down? And though I think you’ve figured this out by now, I’m Gina Keys.” She smiled.

“Marina Reston. And I’m sorry but I’m a bit of a mess right now.”

“Your fiancé’s disappeared. It’s understandable.”

Marina sniffled again. “Yes. Well. Thanks for not offering me ranch dressing for these. That’s what the guy at my bank did.” She dropped the bag of cucumber slices into Gina’s trash can, followed her into the other room and sat down in another slightly battered chair opposite her desk, which was actually a door with screwed-on legs.

Gina’s lips twitched. “Do the cucumbers really work?”

Marina nodded vigorously, stared at the door-desk and wondered how long the P.I. had been in business. But she came highly recommended by a friend, so maybe she was just one of those no-frills types.

Gina handed her a box of tissues, pulled a legal pad and pen closer to her and leaned back in her chair. “Well, why don’t you tell me about, ah, Ben. Delgado is his last name?”

“Yes.” Marina fought to get her thoughts under control, to push back all the images crowding her mind: Ben’s slightly dazzled expression when they’d first met in her garden to draw up landscaping plans. His self-assurance when he’d asked her out. The feel of his hand gripping hers as he helped her onto his friend’s boat and served her champagne with cold, sliced nectarines.

Ben’s expert salsa, his feet never missing a step and his hips gyrating and making her blush. The way he’d made love to her the very first time, as if she were the eighth wonder of the world. And the night he’d proposed to her. I’m not a rich man, mi corazón, but I’ll take care of you…I will love you until the day I die…you will want for nothing that is in my power to give you.

The words and images moved through her head like a personal film trailer and she was helpless to stop them.

“Ms. Reston?” Gina brought Marina back to reality with a jolt. “Can you tell me a little bit about Mr. Delgado?”

Her chest ached from inside; it physically hurt. Her throat was raw and her sinuses felt stuffed with fiberglass. Her stomach churned. She wished her brain would dissolve and free her from the mental torture of her memories, but they remained all too sharp. Pull yourself together, Marina. Tell her about Ben.

“He’s half Peruvian, though he spent his teenage years in Venezuela after his mother remarried. He has a U.S. passport, since his father’s American—of Spanish descent.”

“Do you have a photo?”

Marina nodded and fished a 5 x 7 out of her bag. Ben stared coolly from the picture, his black hair lifting in a May breeze. His stubborn jaw showcased a sensual mouth and even, white teeth.

He had long lashes and dark eyes, faint lines of humor—and mulish male pride—etched at the corners. Above them stretched black eyebrows, which used to form playful, sexy squiggles.

But lately, since the horrific early storm, they’d been slashes of deep worry and anger. Hurricane Ernestine had destroyed everything Ben had worked so hard to achieve. Did it have to ruin their love, too?

Marina ran her finger over Ben’s image, trying to feel his familiar, warm olive skin, the rock-hard arms emerging from the sleeves of his T-shirt. Of course, it was useless, since he had vanished just like every greenhouse tree, shrub and flower of his formerly thriving landscaping business.

But, while they had blown or washed away, he, the hopelessly handsome bastard, had walked.

She knew it had devastated him. That he’d spent weeks in a hopeless rage against fate and the weather and the small print in his insurance contract.

She’d tried to be there for him, but he’d pushed her away. She’d offered help but he’d rebuffed it. She’d offered comfort but he’d behaved as if it were emotional charity. How did a woman reach a man like him? How could she channel his futile fury into something more constructive? The answer: She couldn’t. She had to let him rage until he’d gotten it out of his system. But why was he punishing her for something nature had done?

Gina inspected the photo and then put it down on her desk without comment. She made a couple of notes on her legal pad. “Do you have others?”

“Yes. I can get them to you tomorrow.”

“What are his clothes like?”

Marina bit the acrylic tip on her index finger. “The ones I buy for him or the ones he buys?”

“I’m asking about his general look.”

“Jeans, Levi’s—nothing fancy. T-shirts, usually black and snug. No belt. No socks. Nice leather sandals. Maybe work boots if he’s on the job.”

“Jewelry?”

“A simple gold chain around his neck. No watch—he sold his Rolex after the storm ruined him. He wouldn’t let me give him another one.”

Gina nodded. “Clean-shaven?”

“Well, sometimes he’ll go a couple of days without a razor. He looks so hot when he does that…” Marina bit her acrylic nail again and this time she succeeded in cracking it. She stared at the nail as if it were a metaphor for her heart: Split down the middle with a jagged edge. The difference was that she could pay two dollars to have the nail repaired.

“When did Ben leave? Any idea where he’s gone?”

“H-he left when I went for my Tuesday massage. I came back totally relaxed—this guy Manuel is amazing—and I found the note, propped up against Gnarly’s food canister.”

“Did you say Gnarly?”

Marina nodded and tears started falling in fat droplets onto her quite-salty-enough nose. “Gnarly is the cat from his landscaping business. He showed up out of the blue one day and his fur, poor thing, was so snarled and matted and filthy that we called him Gnarly. I went to a vet for the equivalent of kitty Valium, got him nice and dopey and gave him a bubble bath. Then I spent three hours on him with a comb and a pair of scissors—some parts of his coat were beyond help. He’s the most beautiful cat now. But we still call him Gnarly.”

No doubt about it, Gina was hiding a smile. It was a nice one, not mocking. Still, Marina was suddenly conscious that she’d been babbling, focusing on an issue that didn’t make her cry. She felt…fluffy…next to Gina Keys. Had Ben left because she was fluffy? Because he didn’t take her seriously?

She’d never been more serious about a man than she was about Ben. She’d brave stretch marks and labor and the ruination of her breasts to have his children….

“So the note was next to his food. What did it say, exactly?”

Marina cleared her throat. “Well, it’s kind of personal and embarrassing.”

“I’m sure this is hard for you, Ms. Reston. But I really need to gather all the pertinent information in order to help you.”

Marina nodded and squelched the full-fledged bawl that threatened to get past her tonsils. “Okay. He said…it said…that I am still his amor, his corazón, his vida, but because he lost everything he can no longer give me any kind of a future—” Her voice cracked again.

“And so I have to forget him. I’m not to offer him my money because he won’t take it, won’t be an aprovechado. I think that means ‘kept man’or something. And because he knows I’m not listening to him properly—ha!—he will put it in very blunt, vulgar terms—he can no longer afford me.” She said the last words bitterly.

Just thinking about it made her furious. Marina jumped out of her chair. “Cannot afford me! Like I’m some kind of greedy call girl!”

Gina Keys blinked at her.

“I don’t ask him to pay my bills,” Marina ranted, cut to the core. “He doesn’t need to. But it’s not my fault that my father died and left me a lot of money!”

“No,” Gina agreed politely, “I’m sure it’s not.”

“I run charities! I give back to the community! I’m not a wart on society’s butt.”

Gina choked on a sip of coffee from a foam cup on her desk.

“This is all about stupid, stiff-necked, macho, moronic male pride. And he’s ruining our lives.” Marina dropped her face into her hands and the bawl rolled right through the teeth she’d just paid almost a thousand dollars to have whitened.

She couldn’t control her grief. “I love him,” she said with a hiccup. “I can’t live without him. I can’t sleep and I can’t eat. I feel as if I’m going to explode—go through the roof.” Something nudged her arm and she raised her head to find it was Gina’s tissue box again.

“I’m sorry,” said the P.I., looking uncomfortable. “I promise I’ll find him.” She paused. “Look, I hate to say this, but you should be prepared—he may have gone to ground with a former girlfriend or even a new one.”

Marina shook her head. “Ben isn’t like that.”

“Mmm,” Gina said, in noncommittal tones. She sat down again, and Marina picked up her purse from the floor. She sat down again, too.

“Sorry. I’ll get hold of myself.”

“Take your time. Does Ben have a second home somewhere?”

“No.”

“Would he have gone to family?”

Marina shook her head. “He hates his stepfather, so he wouldn’t have gone to his mother in Venezuela. His older brother is in the navy and his half siblings are younger, still in school.”

“How about his father?”

“I already called him. Ben’s not there.”

“He could be covering for him.”

Marina nodded slowly.

“What kind of car does Ben drive, and do you have a license-plate number?”

Marina gave her the information, along with his date of birth.

“Where does Ben like to hang out in his spare time? What are his hobbies? Does he go to an athletic club or a sports bar or to the beach or to a shooting range…”

“Ben doesn’t—didn’t—have a lot of time for hobbies. He does lift weights and he likes to run on the beach, but to relax he plans and builds projects. Works with his hands. He enjoys that type of thing.”

“What kinds of projects?”

Marina firmly squelched another rising sob. “He did beautiful cabinetry on two walls of my garage. He put in a koi pond in my backyard, with a Japanese footbridge and a teak gazebo. And we were getting ready to build a house together. He was always sketching ideas for that.”

She gave Gina every scrap of information that she thought might be helpful. “You’ll find him for me?”

Gina nodded. She exuded competence; she obviously didn’t miss much.

Compared to her, Marina didn’t just feel fluffy—she felt silly, sitting here in her expensive designer duds with her three-hundred-dollar highlights, asking another woman to find her fiancé.

Usually she felt chic. But right now she felt idiotic and incompetent and miserable and unloved.

The P.I. said, “I will locate Ben Delgado.”

“Thank you.” Marina’s chin came up and once again she eschewed tears for anger. “Once I make sure he’s alive and uninjured, I’m going to kill him. And then I’ll wake him up and give him a piece of my mind. After that, I’ll kill him again, just so he really understands. And, finally, I’m going to marry the son of a bitch.”

Gina set her elbows on her desk and steepled her fingers, a corner of her mouth quirking up. “All righty then. Will that be cash, check or charge?”

2

BEN DELGADO felt like the worst kind of shit-heel. He’d left his fiancée cold, but it was for her own good. A woman in the top echelons of Miami society couldn’t marry a loser without a cent to his name.

Besides, when a man lost his money and his livelihood, it was simply a question of time before his wife hit the road. That must be the reason those bad country songs were so popular. The ones yodeling about losing your woman, your pickup and your dog all in one night. They were true.

Witness to what his own mother had done, his dad had made a few lousy investments, had three consecutive deals fall through and, next thing he knew, his wife had taken off for Venezuela with his two boys. She’d lost no time divorcing him and marrying a better provider—some guy she’d met on a plane, for God’s sake.

Ben grimaced and picked up his cordless phone. So maybe he was a little cynical, but he had reason to be. Best not to get married at all, not have his heart ripped out and his children stolen. He could see it now: his kids brought up by a golf-playing cretin in plaid shorts with an alligator on his chest. No way.

Logic intruded as he dialed builder Mathew Tremaine’s business line and asked to speak to him. Tremaine was the man he and Marina had picked to build their dream house.

Logic tried to tell Ben that Marina Reston didn’t have to worry about finding anyone to provide for her. She could stuff mattresses with hundred-dollar bills, use them as wallpaper. For God’s sake, the woman headed up a foundation that funded thirty different charities.

But, for some reason, logic wasn’t getting through. The fact that Marina had her own money just made the loss of his even worse. The playing field, and therefore the power, was too uneven between them….

“Tremaine speaking.”

“Hi, Mathew. It’s Ben.”

“Benny! Good to hear from you. Thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth—I never heard back from you after I’d sent you the latest round of blueprints.”

Ben cleared his throat. “Yeah. About that—Hurricane Ernestine has wiped me out, buddy. We’re, ah, not going to be able to build our dream house after all. In fact—” he paused and chuckled weakly “—in fact, I can’t even afford to build a doghouse anymore.”

“You’re kidding,” Tremaine said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Your whole business?”

“The offices, the greenhouses, the barn—everything.”

Ben set his jaw and tried to block his mental panoramic view of the devastation. The sight of it in person had just about killed him, and he’d never forget it.

He’d had ten neat, productive greenhouses full of healthy, beautiful, tropical plants. He’d had a barn full of backhoes, tractors and other equipment.

He’d been proud of his neat offices on the property, with the paved patio, koi pond, fountain and atrium, where dozens of kinds of South American orchids and bromeliads had flourished.

He’d built it all with his bare hands and the help of a few staffers, and now it was gone or destroyed. The walls of the barn had collapsed in on all the equipment. The winds had torn the greenhouses apart and scattered the contents everywhere. The roof over the offices had peeled back like the lid of a sardine can.

Floodwaters surged in and swept furniture and fixtures and business equipment away. To top it all off, mold and mildew had flourished over anything that was left.

Impotent fury gnawed at him all day, every day, because of it. The fact that others had shared the same fate didn’t help him deal with it at all—it just seemed so damned unfair. What had he done to piss off God? Was he cursed?

“It’s all gone or destroyed,” Ben said to Mathew. “Flattened. Splintered.”

The builder whistled. “I’m real sorry to hear that. We had some damage, but nothing like that. I don’t know what to say…Is it a total loss? What about the insurance? And—” He paused.

Ben heard clearly the words Mathew didn’t say. And isn’t Marina loaded? Couldn’t she build a palace in Monaco if she wanted to?

“Yes. It’s a total loss. My insurance company is claiming that most of the damage was done by water, and I didn’t have a separate flood policy. My lawyer isn’t getting anywhere with them. They won’t budge. I’m screwed.”

“I’m real sorry to hear that,” Tremaine said again. “Anything I can do?”

Ben swallowed. Oh, hell. This was ten times worse than he’d thought it would be. He tried to swallow his pride, but it burned an unholy path down his throat and scorched his intestines. He could feel it flaming in his stomach, smoldering, blackening a hole right through him. Just say it, Delgado. Say it.

“Yes, Mathew. As a matter of fact, there is something you can do. Do you have any openings with your construction crew?”

“Why, sure. You’ve got a good heart, looking out for your employees like this. Send them on over—I can always use a few more men.”

Ben squirmed. “You’ve got a good heart for taking them on. Thanks. But…it’s not just for the workers. It’s for me.”

A shocked silence ensued. “Christ, Delgado. You? You’ve got education, you’ve got managerial experience, you’ve had your own business. Why the hell do you want to work for me? There’s loads of opportunities for you to repair storm damage to vegetation and landscaping. You could make a killing right now—”

“I can’t do it, Mathew,” Ben said flatly. “I get too angry. My equipment is trashed, I can’t pay my suppliers or my guys, my insurance company is useless—it all puts me in a rage. I’ve got to calm down and do something else for a while. Get my bearings back.”

Again, he could hear exactly what Tremaine wasn’t saying. Couldn’t your rich fiancée pay your guys for five years over? Buy heavy equipment outright? Send her high-powered attorneys to sue the pants off your insurance company?

In quiet but concrete-firm tones, Ben said it. “I will not go to Marina for help. I can’t. It’s demeaning. Please, Mathew. Give me a job. You know my work ethic. I won’t let you down.”

“Of course you won’t let me down, you crazy bastard. I’ve seen the projects you’ve done around Marina’s…I just think you need your head examined. But I know better than to argue with you.” Tremaine sighed. “Well, c’mon, then. Get yourself over here and fill out an application. If you want, you can start work today.”

“Thank you. This means everything—I hope you know that. And one day, even if it’s years from now, you and I will build that house. It’s a promise.”

Mathew hesitated for a split second. “Glad to hear it.” Once again, Ben had no trouble reading his thoughts. You and I? What about Marina? What’s going on?

The truth was, Ben couldn’t have told him, since he wasn’t sure himself. All he knew was that he couldn’t go forward with the relationship or the wedding. He felt…worthless.

And though he loved Marina, she was hands-down the most expensive woman he’d ever dated. Her idea of saving money was to go stay at the Paris Ritz for only three weeks, instead of a full month.

She economized by getting a ten percent discount on an entire case of Cristal, instead of buying eleven bottles at full cost. Or buying couture off the rack and having it tailored to her body, instead of commissioning a gown from scratch.

She didn’t deliberately rub her money into his face—never. It was simply that she’d never lived any other way, so she didn’t have a clue how other people managed.

Marina had a huge heart, and she gave away twenty times what she spent, but still…

He thought about Miami’s Reston Humane Society, the Reston Children’s Hospital in Palm Beach, the Reston Alzheimer’s Research Facility in Boca Raton. The countrywide Frameworks for the Future, an organization that built homes for the needy, which was Reston Foundation-funded.

Speaking of Frameworks for the Future, when was that calendar shoot Marina had talked him in to doing? He’d have to call the foundation and talk to Liz Olmos, the administrator. Because he sure as hell wasn’t calling Marina—even though he’d felt guilty at her distraught messages. She needed to forget him.

Ben knew that a man was more than the money he made, but he felt like a failure in the face of Marina’s wealth. And he couldn’t be her husband—or anyone else’s—when he was a failure.

MARINA HAD no problem combining business with pleasure. Why not run numbers while naked and slathered with rosemary-peppermint oil?

She shrewdly eyed the column of figures a foot beneath her face and, once again, examined the total. It was off. She knew it in her bones. And she knew who was responsible.

“Ms. Reston,” Manuel said as he kneaded her lower back and the tops of her glutes, “you shouldn’t be going over accounts right now. The point of a massage is to relax.”

“I know, sweetie, but I need to figure out what’s wrong here. I don’t mind giving money away to worthy causes, but I get very bent out of shape when someone’s skimming funds for their own personal use.”

“Someone’s stealing from you?”

“I’m getting that feeling. Unfortunately, it happens every couple of years. Somebody I employ makes the mistake of thinking that I won’t notice, that I’m stupid or careless simply because I like to shop and have my hair done. Can you imagine?”

Manuel coughed. “No, ma’am.”

She eyed him a bit suspiciously and then drummed her polished fingernails on the Excel printout, which lay on top of a rolling stool under her nose. It was a little difficult to see with her face mashed into the padded, doughnutlike head support of the massage table, but the hole in the middle did enable her to do some work even under Manuel’s expert ministrations.

He worked magic on her muscles, but she couldn’t relax. The person skimming funds was a single mom. A hard worker. Someone struggling to make ends meet.

She’d had no problem having the cokehead intern arrested when he’d raided the petty cash to fund his habit. But this?

Marina continued to study the figures and traced a pattern. Her employee skimmed funds only once per month, as if before some bill were due. Hmm…

Though she could examine numbers this way, the tricky part was when her cell phone rang. Logistically, it was impossible to talk to anyone with her face mashed into a padded doughnut. “Manuel, darling, would you look at the LCD display on my phone and see who’s calling? Thank you. You’re a gem.”

“G K Investigations,” reported Manuel.

Marina scrambled up so fast that the sheet covering her body dropped to the floor. Manuel blushed like a tomato—she was naked as a jaybird and on all fours, butt in the air. Mama would be so proud.

Manuel averted his eyes and bent to retrieve the sheet while she sat down hastily and crossed everything she could cross to hide her nudity.

Eyes glazed over, he practically threw the sheet at her, and she said, “Excuse me, but I have to take this.” She smiled apologetically. Who knew? Manuel wasn’t gay.

Still scarlet-faced, he nodded and left the room. Marina pressed the On button of her phone. “Hello?”

“Ms. Reston? This is Gina Keys. I’ve located Mr. Delgado.”

A sob rose in Marina’s throat. Then joy shot through her veins. “He’s okay?”

“He’s just fine.”

Fury chased the joy. “Where is he? I’m going to go wring his neck. I’m going to gouge out his eyes with his engagement ring…” There she went with those cheery fantasies again.

“Ms. Reston, I’m afraid I can’t tell you his location.”

“What? What do you mean? I paid you up front to find him!”

Gina cleared her throat. “Perhaps I should have explained this before. For liability reasons, I can’t directly give you information on his whereabouts. What I can do is personally contact him and inform him that you would like to speak to him.”

“He knows damn well I want to speak to him. I’ve left nine messages on his cell phone! And what is this liability stuff?”

“I can be brought up on criminal charges, Ms. Reston, if I tell you where he is and you, say, show up with a shotgun and blow him away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t own a shotgun.”

“A letter-opener, arsenic, a crossbow, a high-heeled shoe. I can’t take the chance—you did mention in my presence that you wanted to kill him. Twice, I believe.”

“I was kidding!”

“That’s beside the point.”

“What is he doing? Can you tell me that?”

“I suppose so,” Gina said cautiously. “He’s working construction.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know, Ms. Reston. You’ll have to ask him that.”

“Where is he?” Marina moaned. “Please, please tell me. I have to find him.”

“I really can’t give you Ben’s exact location. It’s not ethical for me to do that. But would you like to give me a message for him?”

“Aaarrrgh!” said Marina.

“Sorry, but that’s a bit hard to translate. How about a letter?”

“I’ve had enough of letters, thank you very much.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Just tell him I’ve been worried sick and to please call me. It’s important. Do not pass along the part about killing him.”

“No, of course not.”

Marina sighed. “Okay, Gina. Thank you. Now, exactly what do I owe you for not telling me where he is? Oh, fudge. I don’t care. Just send me a bill.”

IN HER OFFICE at the Reston Foundation, Marina leaned back in her leather chair and rubbed her bare feet on the mink-covered foot-rest under her modern maple desk.

She did not believe in killing animals for their fur, but when your grandmother had already bought the mink in question in the form of a coat, what were you to do? She refused to wear it—not that it was possible here in Miami—and so she’d used it for other things.

One of her great pleasures in life was to sit naked on her mink-upholstered vanity stool while she did her makeup and hair—or obsessed about where to find her fiancé.

Working construction.

Now, there were any number of places that Ben could be doing that…but again, a gut instinct had her dialing Mathew Tremaine’s number. Ben would have wanted to look out for his employees, find them other placement. He’d call Tremaine. And if he was working construction himself, then it was quite possible that he’d ask Mathew to hire him, too.

Just as Tremaine’s assistant answered the phone at his office, she hung up. Better to do this in person and be able to see his face.

An hour later, Marina swept into his office, her assets showcased in a tight, peridot-green silk top and black hot pants that were just shy of indecent. Tendrils of her chestnut hair cascaded from a loose knot on her head, secured by two decorative chopsticks. Gold and peridot chandelier earrings dangled midway to her shoulders and a large peridot tear-drop nestled just at the top of her abundant cleavage.

“Mathew! Darling! How have you been?”

Tremaine had the body of a scarecrow and the face of a bullfrog, topped by sparse graying hair. His odd appearance hid a creative mind and great generosity, but the guy was always a little challenged in the babe department. Marina felt a bit guilty taking advantage of this, but the end justified the means.

His pale gaze darted to her cleavage and stuck there as if superglued. He couldn’t help it, poor man—she’d engineered her outfit with that result in mind. So she didn’t hold it against him. Marina repeated her question, since he seemed not to have registered it the first time.

“Mathew. How are you?”

He gulped as she leaned forward to brush one of Gnarly’s hairs off her knee. Then she sent him a dazzling smile.

“Just fine,” he almost squeaked.

“Wonderful. Listen, I wanted to ask you something about the plans for our house.”

Discomfort crossed his face. “Er—the house?”

She nodded.

“I thought—that is—um. I thought you and Ben weren’t, ah, going to build it after all.”

She dropped her Vuitton bag in his visitor’s chair and put her hands on her hips. “Wherever did you get that idea, silly?”

“Ben told me yesterday.”

Aha! They’d been in touch. “Really. Well, that’s news to me. You know,” she said, fiddling with her earring and batting her eyelashes, “he did say he’d be out of pocket for a while, but…”

Mathew’s eyes almost popped out of his head as she shamelessly forced her shoulders back so that the twins thrust forward, launching like pleasure missiles.

She cocked her head and turned a melting gaze upon him. “Oh, gosh. This is a tiny bit embarrassing, but…darling Mathew…do you know where he is?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Tremaine said, rapidly blinking. Then he fixed her with a too-bland stare.

“Mmm.” She sashayed forward and sat on the edge of his desk, never taking her eyes off his.

He swallowed convulsively and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. His gaze fell into her cleavage again.

Marina leaned forward some more and shook her finger at him. “Naughty, naughty, Mathew. Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to lie?”

He blushed to the roots of his hair. “Lie?”

Her voice low and husky, she said, “I should spank you, bad boy.”

His eyes glazed over and he almost drooled onto his desk. “Sp-spank?”

“Mmm-hmm. Take down your pants and—”

He shot backward in his rolling chair and crossed one leg over the other, clasping his hands over his crotch. He wiped sweat from his temple with the back of one hand. “Ms. Reston, please.”

“Please what, honey?” She moistened her lips.

He jerked at his tie as if strangled.

“Where is Ben, sweetie? C’mon, you can tell me. I know he’s working construction. Is he on the job at that new auto dealership you’re doing?”

Tremaine shook his head.

“Then—” She tapped her fingernails on his desk “—on site at the lieutenant-governor’s beach house?”

“N-no.”

She sauntered around the desk and grabbed his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Where is he, honey? Don’t be a bad boy, now. Tell Miss Marina where Benny is. I know he’s working for you.”

She didn’t, but bluffing got her the information.

“Davie,” he gasped, cross-eyed, his nose disappearing into her cleavage. “Our big condo units there.”

“Oh, Mathew.” Marina smiled. “I could kiss you.” She stepped back and then did kiss him, right on the mouth. No tongue action, though—she had to draw the line somewhere.

Tremaine sat stunned and paralyzed as she picked up her purse, hitched it over her shoulder and walked to the door. His eyes were riveted helplessly to her ass, as if it were a priceless piece of art and he were a collector.

Just to punish him a little for trying to keep Ben’s whereabouts from her, she rolled her hips with the last few steps and shot him a provocative look over her shoulder.

Evil? Not at all. Women had to use what power they had in this man’s world.

“Thanks, babe,” she said. “You enjoy the rest of your day, now. And don’t worry—I never reveal a source.”

3

MARINA GUNNED the Porsche down a dirt road in Davie, Florida. She wore a very short, painted-on white jean-skirt, hand-embellished with embroidery that climbed her hips and blossomed on the small seat. The button on the fly had been imported from Morocco and the artist had signed the low-dipping waistband.

Giuseppe Zanotti had crafted her sandals, Catherine Malandrino had sculpted her clingy, belly-baring top and Bobbi Brown took responsibility for her lush lips and full, expertly lined lashes. God had given her a set of long, slim legs; her trainer had perfected them. God had not provided her highlights or her voluptuous bustline, but Marina would go to her grave swearing that He had.

She had dressed to kill and, if she did say so herself, she looked like hot sex on a stick. Ben would drop to his knees and crawl after her.

She pleasantly envisioned herself planting her bejeweled toes in the center of his forehead, so he had to suck on her spike heel. Then he’d beg her forgiveness….

The 911 sped around a last curve leading to a vast construction site that teemed with hot, sweaty, shirtless men framing out a very large building. According to Mathew Tremaine, one of those hot, sweaty, shirtless men was Ben.

She squealed the car to a halt, unbuckled her seat belt and vaulted out, her chestnut hair streaming in the wind. Several guys on the crew stopped work to stare as she strode toward them wearing her oversized Dior sunglasses. One of them whistled, one clapped a hand over his heart and another almost stepped on his tongue.

“Hello, boys.” Marina accepted a big beefy hand up onto the concrete slab and rewarded its owner with a dazzling smile. Then her gaze narrowed on a set of familiar shoulder blades about a hundred feet away.

Ben’s back was brown from the sun and rippled with muscle as he bent toward his task. Sweat ran in rivulets down his spine; dotted his neck and soaked his hair. She stood stock-still in helpless female appreciation at the way his torso segued into a narrow waist and slim hips; at the firm, well-developed backside under his leather tool belt, the long legs encased in filthy jeans.

Delgado personified power. Raw, dirty, animal force—dear God, her Ben had it in spades. No matter how angry or hurt or devastated she was, he was the kind of man a woman would lift her dress for. Hungrily. Shamelessly. Almost involuntarily—not having any real choice about it.

As if he could sense her gaze on his bare back, Ben turned, his eyes widening as he saw her. For a split second, she felt that naked, helpless feeling and she craved the scent of his skin as it moved over hers. Then he broke the spell himself.

“Go away,” he said.

Rage and frustrated love exploded inside her. “You son of a bitch!” she shrieked.

He closed his eyes, while every man on the site turned and stared, now. She didn’t care.

Relief burst within her next. He was alive, not broken and bleeding in a ditch somewhere, or unconscious from pills or booze. It was one thing for Gina Keys to tell her—and quite another for Marina to see it herself.

“How could you? How could you do this to me, Ben? I’ve been a wreck, worrying about you!”

“Marina, mi amor, get back into your car and go home. This isn’t the time or the place—”

She ran at him, her fists clenched. “A letter, you coward? How could you break up with me in a letter? You didn’t have the nerve to say it to my face?”

Marina reached him and threw a wild punch at his chest.

Ben allowed her to hit him once, then twice.

“A letter?” called one of the onlookers. “Christ, Delgado. That’s cold.”

Another guy spit on the ground. “Whoa. You let this little hottie go?”

Ben’s eyes snapped in annoyance.

She hit him again, and he grasped her wrist and held it. She threw her Chanel purse at him with the other hand, began to cry and then aimed a fist at his solar plexus. He commandeered it, too, before she made contact, staring down at her with those dark, unfathomable eyes of his.

“That’s right, Benny, you show her who’s boss,” some lowlife hollered.

“How did you find me?” Ben growled.

“What do you care?” She struggled in his grasp, all too aware that her cool, carefully calculated image had gone up in smoke. She could feel the heat radiating off his skin, smell his perspiration and the leather of his tool belt and the cool mint of his breath as he held her captive. “Let me go!”

In spite of her anger, a sexual current shot through her, a primal response to the ripped expanse of muscle, the rock-hard chest inches away from her. A mere glance from Ben could cause her nipples to ache and, at the moment, his eyes roamed over her from head to toe.

Her mouth went dry and her knees almost buckled at the look on his face: Hungry, punishing, loving—all at the same time. He looked as if he wanted to screw every inch of her—and it made her feel faint.

Another male voice called, “This little filly is on the market, Delgado?”

Ben’s mouth tightened.

“We’ll take her off your hands, buddy,” yelled another one. More whistles and catcalls ensued. A guy with three belly rolls grabbed his crotch suggestively.

Ben silenced them with a look and loomed over her protectively. “Damn it, Marina, why did you come here?” He released her wrists and shook her gently by the shoulders. Then his mouth crushed hers and his arms wrapped around her as if he’d never let her go.

All thoughts of killing him flew out of her head as she helplessly kissed him back. He lifted her, she wrapped her legs around him. Before she knew it, they were off the concrete slab in a hail of lewd, encouraging cheers and Ben was striding toward the construction trailer with her.

She forgot about power, about dignity, about hurt. She couldn’t care less about his dirt or his sweat or his ripe male odor. All that mattered was him plastered against her, his lips to her lips, his chest to her chest, his sex to her sex.

The bulge in his jeans pressed into the scrap of lingerie at the heart of her, and she almost came before they got to the trailer door.

Frigid, artificial air washed over her as he wrenched it open, stumbled up the steps and inside and locked the door behind them. Then he set her on top of a battered vertical filing cabinet, rucked up her skirt and tore off her panties.

His face pressed between her thighs, his tongue pushed in side her and she screamed helplessly. He didn’t stop when she convulsed and beat her heels on his back, just pulled her forward, settling his big hands under her buttocks and feasting on her until she came again and again and finally begged him to stop.

He pulled her skimpy top and bra down around her waist and devoured her breasts, suckling the tips until she thought she’d die of needing him inside her.

He tore open his fly, freed the hard, heavy length of him and scooped her up again. Then he drove into her with a primal groan.

She spasmed around him again immediately, colors bursting behind her eyelids, while he drove harder, faster, deeper, sliding against her flesh until the tensing of his muscles, the guttural groan, the last mighty thrust told her he’d come, too.

“Dios mío, Marina. Dios mío. Te amo.” One hand still supported her bottom, one clasped her to him.

Just hearing his words almost made her come again, all by herself. He loved her. He loved her…Everything was going to be okay. This was all just a big mistake, an emotional reaction on his part.

They collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily, Marina calm and blissful. “Whose trailer is this?” she asked.

“The foreman’s. He’s at a meeting, lucky for us.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she said.

“Neither did I.”

“I was going to cut you off for the next five years.”

He sat up; was silent. Pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Ben tell me—what are you doing here?”

“What does it look like? I’m working construction.”

“Why did you leave me that letter and disappear? When are you coming home?”

Ben sucked in a breath and got to his feet, six foot two of naked, sweaty sex-god. His abs were like steel; his biceps as big around as her thighs. He pulled up his boxers and jeans without a word.

Marina sat up, pulled down her skirt and narrowed her eyes on him. Surely, his body language wasn’t telling her what she thought it was? “Ben? You are coming home?”

He sighed wearily. “It’s all in the letter, querida. What else do you want me to say?”

She began to shake. “You can’t mean that stuff.”

He folded his arms across his naked torso and raised his stubborn chin. “I mean every word of that stuff, as you call it. I will not get married until I can take care of my wife. And right now I don’t have two cents to rub together.”

“Ben, this doesn’t make sense. We love each other. I have millions of dollars—you don’t need to have those two cents! I don’t need to be taken care of. What’s mine is yours, baby, you know that…I didn’t even ask you to sign a prenup. I wouldn’t!”

His voice emerged deadly calm and quiet. “I am not a parasite. I will not live off of my wife.”

“Ben, be reasonable. If our situations were reversed, I would take help from my fiancé when I needed it!”

He held up a hand. “No.”

“Marriage is about love, not finances. It’s about being there for each other—”

“Marina, this discussion is over. I will not take your money. I will not take your charity.”

“Then call it a loan, if you have to! Just don’t leave me, don’t hurt me like this, please, Ben. I love you…” She began to cry again, to her shame.

“Come here, mi corazón.” He pulled her up off the floor and gathered her into his arms. “Shh. Shh, Marina. Te amo, never doubt that. I love you. But I will not let you make me less of a man.”

“I’m not doing any such thing!”

“Not intentionally, mi vida.”

“Not at all! Please, don’t be so pigheaded, so stupid—”

He pushed her away but held her by the shoulders. His eyes went dark and cold and his tone hardened. “Don’t you ever call my integrity stupid. You’re lucky I’m not some vividor who will move in on you and wallow in your money, use you, rob you blind.”

She stared at him through still-streaming eyes. “Oh, I’m lucky, am I? Because I’ve had the good fortune to fall in love with a man who puts his pride ahead of everything else? A man who is such a coward that he leaves me in a letter—”

“Goddamn it, Marina! I couldn’t face you, and that’s the truth. I didn’t want to see you cry. Beg. Debase yourself—”

She gasped. Then she drew back her hand and slapped him, hard. Right across his arrogant, prideful, stubborn, macho cheek.

Ben stared at her.

“How dare you?” she asked, her voice shaking. “You call this debasement? Me, trying to talk sense into you and salvage what we have together? God doesn’t bless two people with our kind of love very often, Benjamin Delgado! And you—you want to throw it away because of money. Well, that’s sad. In fact, it’s tragic.”

“I told you that this discussion is over!” He roared the words this time, his eyes blazing.

She stamped her foot. “No, it’s not. It’s not over until I, at least, get one hell of an apology from you, Ben. You want to live a lonely life with your pride, then that’s your choice. But I deserved better than to be told you can’t afford me. I deserved a face-to-face conversation.”

Marina straightened the rest of her clothes while Ben turned away, apparently too angry to speak.

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it, you jerk? And how could you have slept with me just now when you knew you hadn’t changed your mind? You don’t think that debased me? Hell, I should charge you! What am I worth? Let’s call it five hundred bucks. I’ll take it in cash from you, right now.”

He swung around, face white, and took a step toward her. “Marina!”

She held out her hand, palm up. “C’mon. Give it to me,” she said in scathing tones.

“Stop it.”

“Oh, that’s right. How could I forget? You can’t afford me.”

She threw open the door and clattered down the trailer steps. Her face burned; her whole body burned. She ran to her car, threw open the door, fumbled her keys into the ignition and shot back down the dirt road.

In her rearview mirror, she could see Ben, still standing in the trailer’s doorway, looking stricken.

“OOOH-EEEEE, she’s one stacked little spitfire. You get some action, amigo?”

Ben stopped in his tracks and turned the full force of his glare on the pendejo lounging against a sawhorse on site. “Do not make the mistake of disrespecting my fiancée, chivo de mierda. Do you understand me?”

The guy dropped his cigarette butt in the dirt and stepped on it. “Okay, okay, man. Chill out.”

Ben stalked by him and swung himself back onto the big slab. As he approached the crew he was working with, silence fell, which told him he was the topic of their conversation, too. It didn’t improve his temper.

Why the hell had Marina come here? To torment him? To upset them both? To make a spectacle out of herself?

He thought he’d made his position crystal clear. He found nothing unreasonable about it. To marry her now would make him a gigolo. He was goddamned if he’d move into her fancy house, drive one of her spare luxury cars and be given an allowance like a ten-year-old. He’d sooner shoot himself.

It’s not a question of loving her, it’s a question of having balls. I’m a man, not a mistress! Why can’t she understand that?

Why did it make him a bad person that he had principles? That he refused to take advantage of her? Perhaps some people would consider his scruples ridiculous, but they weren’t to him.

It already bothered him greatly when she bought him clothes, and he’d refused to accept the Testarossa she’d unwisely had delivered for his last birthday. He hadn’t even opened the candy-apple-red door—he’d just called the dealer and made them pick it up again within the hour.

She’d been hurt. She hadn’t understood what it had cost him to do that. Did he appreciate the gesture? Of course. The Testarossa was his dream car. He’d drooled over the damn thing. He’d practically wanted to lick it. But he couldn’t accept it. He had his pride.

But his mindset was a lot more complex than simple pride, whatever she thought. He couldn’t explain it, not even to his own satisfaction.

When his father had lost all his money, he’d relinquished some part of himself as well as his wife and family. He’d become vulnerable and somehow…weak, which was unacceptable to Ben.

He didn’t want to be weak, suck on Marina’s money like a niño at the breast. He recoiled from the idea, even as her words came back to him. You want to live a lonely life with your pride, that’s your problem.

Ben picked up the nail gun he’d been using and tried to block out the look on her face, bitter and hurt, so hurt.

Why don’t you take up kicking puppies, man? Mugging little old ladies? Tripping kids on tricycles?

He began driving nails into wooden studs so savagely that the men around him exchanged glances and moved away.

The noise of a circular saw behind him would normally have grated on his nerves. But right now it came as a relief, drowning out the sound of Marina’s voice in his head.

Did he owe her an apology for breaking up with her in a letter? Could she be right—was he a coward? She didn’t mean physically. She meant emotionally.

But that didn’t matter—he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Delgados weren’t cowards of any sort.

Shit. Shit! Ben misfired with the nail gun, narrowly avoiding his own thumb. He drew back his booted foot and kicked a bag of concrete mix nearby.

He’d thought a letter would be simpler. Cleaner. More final. Right there in black-and-white.

It had never occurred to him that it might be cowardly. That it might upset Marina even more.

I deserved better than to be told you can’t afford me…I deserved a face-to-face conversation.

He realized now that he’d given her the equivalent of a pink slip, with no discussion. She had a right to be angry about it. Ben threw down the nail gun and stripped off his work gloves.

Oh, hell. He did owe her an apology.

4

MARINA ALTERNATED between sipping a glass of cabernet and booking various beauty treatments to make herself feel better. Ben Delgado is a pig. Ben Delgado is not worthy of me. Ben Delgado dumped me again, and this time while I was sprawled naked in a double-wide!

She switched from sipping to gulping the sixty-dollar-a-bottle wine. Grapes: They did a body good. Wine was full of antioxidants, it was great for the heart and it contained fewer calories and carbs than chocolate. Wine is a veritable health food. She knocked back another gulp.

Why was Ben being so unreasonable?

Perhaps he had seen signs of cellulite on her thighs? She hit a number on speed dial and arranged for three sessions of endermologie, beginning tomorrow. It was a new process involving a machine that somehow broke up fatty deposits under the skin—rather like steamrolling one’s butt back to an acceptable flatness.

Or maybe her lips weren’t plump enough. She dialed Dr. Davinsky’s office, stat, and arranged for a collagen injection, even though she’d never had one and didn’t at all like the thought of being injected with a big needle right on the kisser. But Angelina Jolie had enslaved another woman’s husband with her pucker. Surely, Marina could take a little pain so as to enslave her own husband to be?

She peered into her mirror in the bathroom and inspected the pale down on her upper lip. Her lighted, magnified looking glass made it appear that she had a mustache to rival Errol Flynn’s. What good were bodacious lips if you had fur above them?

She hit another button on speed dial and signed up for a laser treatment to remove the offending hairs. She wondered if she should take care of the hair under her arms with laser treatment, too. And what about her legs, or maybe her whole pubic area? Hmm.

She’d heard that it really hurt. And one day she might be in a nursing home and didn’t want the staff there to check out her permanent, gray Brazilian and assume she’d been a pole dancer in her youth…On the other hand, she’d never have to get a bikini wax again.

The phone rang as Marina tried to make up her mind. “Hello?”

Her best friend, Chloe’s, nasal New York accent boomed into her ear. “Hi, doll. How ya doin’?”

“Ugh,” said Marina. “That about sums it up.”

“Okay so what are you doin’?”

“Nothing. Drinking a glass of wine. Through a hot pink crazy-straw.”

“At two o’clock in the afternoon. Uh-oh. I take it things did not go well with Ben. Tell me you’re not scheduling forty weird-ass cosmetic procedures, or obsessing over whether one of your kneecaps is rounder than the other.”

“I—”

“Oh, God. You are. Listen to me, Marina—this is a psychotic condition of yours. You do this every time you get depressed. And you don’t need anything done!”

Marina gathered the shreds of her dignity around her—she’d left most of it back at the construction site with Ben. “I am not,” she stated, “mentally ill. And we can all use a little improvement here and there.”

“Uh-huh. How many appointments have you made this afternoon?”

Time for a subject change. “Did you see that there’s a sale at Saks?”

Chloe didn’t bite. “How many?”

Damn. Marina sighed. “Five.”

“Oh, my God!” Chloe bellowed into her ear. “No. I am coming over and we are going to cancel them.”

“Chloe, leave me alone—”

“I’m bringing ice cream. Normal women eat a quart of ice cream when they’re depressed. They don’t have their entire bodies resurfaced, like some kind of molting reptile. Are you going to dye your hair blond, too? Get a third breast?”

Marina jumped up from her mink-covered stool. “I can’t eat ice cream. Are you crazy? It will go straight to my hips and Ben will never look at me again.”

“Not only am I bringing ice cream—four different flavors—but you and I are going to have a serious talk about what Ben really loves about you, and it’s not your bony hips!” Chloe hung up on her, and Marina stared at the receiver.

“Jeez. No need to get hostile.”

Thirty minutes later, her friend was knocking on her door with an entire grocery sack full of pints of Ben & Jerry’s and Häagen-Dazs. Marina squinted at her. “You’re the devil.”

“It’s great to see you, too. Now, either invite me in or get out of my way so I can barge in,” said Chloe. “By the way, Ben would love the way you look right now.”

Marina looked down in horror. She wore a ratty gray T-shirt of his with the arms ripped out and a pair of panties. That was it. “Are you high?”

Chloe shook her head, shoved past her and made her way to the granite-topped kitchen island, where she started unloading the ice cream and pulling off various lids. Then she got a fork for each one and stabbed it into the center of every container.

Marina shook her head. “Don’t you realize how demented it is to eat ice cream with a fork?”

“Not any more demented than drinking good wine through a crazy-straw. Besides, it’s practical. Ice cream is usually too hard to eat with a spoon. With a fork, you can jab into it and dig out the good stuff.”

Marina shook her head and tried to psych herself out of attacking the ice cream. “There is no good stuff. It’s just fat, sugar and liquid squeezed out of a cow, which is a disgusting, smelly, filthy animal with four stomachs and no brain power. Plus, there are so many preservatives in that container that your butt will look like a sea sponge after one spoonful.”

Chloe pulled one of the forks out and threatened her with it. “There is something really, really wrong with you, honey. And there are no preservatives in Ben & Jerry’s or Häagen-Dazs. They’re chemical free, unlike—” she scanned Marina’s body “—your hair, your face, your boobs and your nails.”

Marina gasped. “My boobs are natural!”

“Yeah, just like my tiny waist. Save it,” said Chloe, around a huge forkful of Marsha Marsha Marshmallow. “I’ve seen the scars under your arms, remember?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Marina sucked at least three ounces of cabernet through the pink straw.

“Ice cream,” said Chloe, “doesn’t make you drunk.”

But Marina was determined to think of the stuff in the grossest possible way so she wouldn’t want it and it would not go straight to her thighs. “Why not just crawl under a cow, suck on its hairy udder and then squirt chocolate syrup into your mouth?”

Chloe set down her pint and eyed her with distaste. “Just because you won’t eat any does not give you the right to ruin my enjoyment of Ben & Jerry’s forever. Now, be quiet.”

“Yes, ma’am. Wait—isn’t this my house? My kitchen? My cow-free domain?” She yelped as Chloe came at her with the fork.

“Be nice. Be a good hostess. You invited me over—”

“Actually, I didn’t.”

“So tell me what happened with Ben and we’ll figure out how to fix it.”

Marina hunched her shoulders and stuck out her lower lip. She twisted the hem of her ratty T-shirt as she walked into the living room, dominated by white leather furniture and a breathtaking view of Biscayne Bay. “Ben says he loves me, but he hates my money.”

Chloe nodded as Marina kicked an ottoman with her bare foot and set down her wine.

“After all the guys who have been thrilled to date a rich woman with her own jet, I have to fall for the one guy who is uncomfortable with my filthy lucre!”

Chloe curled up in a big armchair with her ice cream and fork. “I have the perfect solution—give it to me.” She grinned.

“I should. I’d be a happier person and I wouldn’t have to keep on firing employees who steal from me.”

“Not another one.”

Marina nodded. “But this one’s a single mom, and I just can’t make myself pull the trigger. I know her daughter since she’s in school with my cousin’s daughter.”

“Okay, one problem at a time. We cannot solve them all in a day. What happened with Ben?”

Marina crawled onto the couch. “I tracked him down at one of Mathew Tremaine’s construction sites and we, um, had a chat.”

“A chat,” Chloe repeated, in disbelieving tones.

“It was all very civilized—”

“Yeah, right.” Her friend smirked. “How many times did you hit him? What names did you call him?”

“But he won’t change his mind. And I don’t know what to do.” She looked sadly down at her engagement ring, which Ben must have saved for two years to buy. It was a two-carat, pear-shaped diamond that she’d simply forgotten to throw at him earlier in the day. She’d have to remedy that, but the thought depressed her even more.

The wine had made her emotional, because when she looked up again at Chloe her eyes streamed. “What can I do, Chlo?”

Her friend jumped up, set down her ice cream and gathered her into her arms. “Oh, honey. Is it really the money that’s bothering him? Or is it…” She paused and, uncharacteristically, stepped delicately. “Is it maybe your lifestyle that intimidates him?”

“What do you mean? I’m just a normal person.”

Chloe took a deep breath. “No, Marina, you’re not. I hate to break it to you, but most women can’t afford three-hundred-dollar monthly highlights, six-hundred-dollar shoes or cute little custom-painted jets that take them to Paris at a moment’s notice.”

“You think he’d change his mind if I flew coach? Went to Super Cuts? Shopped at Payless?” Marina sucked the last of her wine through the crazy-straw.

“Well, I’m not sure it’s that simple, but maybe. I think your money intimidates Ben. Makes him feel like he’ll never make enough to be able to compete.”

Marina threw up her hands. “I don’t want him to compete! I don’t need him to compete.”

“Honey, you’re not getting what I’m saying. I’ll be blunt. Your financial situation makes Ben feel like he has a small penis.”

Marina gaped at her. “Ben Delgado is hung like a horse!”

Chloe closed her eyes and stuck her fingers in her ears. “Too much information!”

“Hey, you’re the one who brought up the topic of penises.” Marina pinched at the flesh of her thigh. “Do you think I need liposuction?”

“No!” yelled Chloe. “You need brain suction. See, this is exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about.”

“What is?”

“Normal women do not just go have liposuction on a whim. They save up for it for months, or run up their credit cards and have to pay them off slowly. It’s a big deal, not a narcissistic whim!”

Marina’s mouth trembled. “You’re saying I’m narcissistic?”

“No, no, no. Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetie. All I’m saying is that maybe you’re a teeny, tiny bit, um, self-absorbed. Just with the whole beauty thing—not in other areas.”

“Self-absorbed,” Marina repeated. “Ouch. I think you’ve officially hurt my feelings, Chlo.”

“Stop. Be hurt later. Right now we have to discuss this, if you love Ben and you want to hang on to him. He is in crisis at the moment, and you’re talking about your thighs!”

“But maybe that’s why he dumped me—guys don’t dump women who look perfect.”

“Yes, they do! Ben loves the Marina Reston who reads to sick kids in the hospital and speaks to the state legislature about education and public after-school programs. He loves the woman who endows thirty charities and has trouble firing a single mom.

“Ben does not love the woman who won’t eat even a tablespoon of ice cream and inspects her butt with a hand mirror every night, checking for dimples!”

“Who told you that?”

Relentless, Chloe forged on. “Ben does not love the Marina Reston who is obsessed with her appearance to the point of ridicule and spends a hundred-thousand dollars a year maintaining it—”

“I do not spend anywhere near that amount!”

“Add up the receipts for the clothes, the jewelry, the massages, the hair, the nails, the facials, the treatments and the cosmetic surgeries. Seriously, Marina, add them up and then ask yourself why Ben might be intimidated at the thought of marriage to you.”

“But I don’t ask him to pay for any of it,” Marina wailed.

“That’s not the point. The point is that he couldn’t if he wanted to. Men like to know they can keep their women happy. And I think he’s afraid that if you lost all your money tomorrow on the stock exchange, he wouldn’t be able to keep you happy.”

“So what are you saying?”

Chloe shrugged. “What do you think I’m saying? Prove to him that you can live without any of it.”

Marina stared at her, appalled. Life without massages and facials and trips to Paris?

Then she thought about the alternative: life without Ben. That was much, much worse.

She got up and padded into the kitchen, where she stared at the other three melting pints of ice cream with forks in them. She pulled the fork out of the Coffee Heath Bar Crunch and licked it. Then she licked the other two and put them all in the sink.

Marina put the lids back on two of the pints and stuck them in the freezer. But the vanilla? That she poured into a mug, which she took back into the living room.

She stared at Chloe glumly. “Do you know how to have a garage sale?”

5

TWO DAYS LATER, Ben pulled his Chevy work truck into Marina’s circular driveway on Key Biscayne and stared. A massive yellow moving van blocked his way, and it did not appear that his darling had simply ordered five suites of new furniture. No, small herds of men were removing her things from her two-story Mediterranean and a four-by-six sign announced that the house was for rent. What the hell?

Ben drove the Chevy between two royal palms and onto a stretch of lawn, then put it in Park. He swung out and strode around the van, up the wide, shallow entrance stairs and through the door. “Marina?” he called.

She popped her gorgeous head out of the kitchen. “Ben? What are you doing here?”

She was clad in color-coordinated baby-blue and brown aerobics-wear, which did nothing to obscure her perfectly proportioned body. Her chestnut hair was held back with a brown tie and a baby-blue sweatband completed the outfit. Christ—the woman even wore couture to the gym.

His lips might have twitched—if he hadn’t been instantly fixated on the curve of her bottom and the complete lack of a panty-line anywhere on it. Dios mío. And she was prancing around like this in front of a platoon of moving guys?

He completely forgot that he was here to apologize to her. “Marina, what is the meaning of this?” He gestured toward the white leather couch disappearing out the door, the stacks of cardboard boxes in the dining room and the plastic sheeting protecting the floors from the men’s boots.

Her expression changed. She’d smiled involuntarily at first sight of him, but now she elevated her little gringa nose and leveled a glare at him. “I’m moving to a condo.”

He gaped at her. “A condo? You couldn’t even fit the contents of your closet into a condo, mi vida.”

“That was yesterday. Today is different.”

It is? “Marina, look around you. You have far too much. Rugs, art, furniture—where are you going to put everything?”

“In storage,” she said airily. “And some of it I’m giving away.”

“But why?”

She tilted her head, folded her tanned, sculpted arms and took a deep breath. “Because Chloe says that all of this makes you feel like you have a small penis.”

Ben stared at her. His jaw worked, but no sound emerged.

“So I’m getting rid of it, and I’m going to divert my private income to the foundation and be poor.”

He finally managed a choking noise.

“Yes, really!” She produced a brave smile, but then her nose wrinkled. “I’m going to try to buy my shoes at Payless from now on. I might not be able to do it, though, in which case I’ll have to wear last year’s Louboutins and Choos. Oh, and classic Chanels—they never go out of style.”

She blinked rapidly. “I’ll be just fine. And I’ve canceled my trips to Milan and Paris for fashion week, though, if you don’t mind, I’ll still go to New York, since I can get a coach fare for under two-hundred dollars.”

Ben struggled mightily, but he dissolved into laughter. The idea of Marina abandoning her Learjet to fly coach with cocktail peanuts was too much. Besides, she’d spend more than the coach fare on dinner in the city with a friend.

“What’s so damn funny?” She marched over, the picture of outrage, and poked him in the chest.

Ben really wasn’t amused by the whole situation—and not at all by the small penis comment—but he couldn’t help himself. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks, because she was so ridiculous and so adorable and he loved her for it. Too bad he couldn’t have her, not even if she lived in a hut and developed an affinity for Spam.

“Do I entertain you, Delgado?” she asked in sarcastic tones.

He nodded weakly and burst out laughing again.

She put her hands on her hips. “I hate you! Do you even know how much I hate you? I am doing this for us—and all you can do is laugh at me? Get out of my house and take your small penis with you!”

She shrieked the last sentence, damn it. Snorts and guffaws came from outside, not to mention from various corners of the house. A sense of déjà vu swept over him. Hadn’t they just been through a similar scene at the construction site?

“Out!” she repeated, all hot and bothered and sexy. She stamped her foot.

“You don’t mean that, mi amor.” He eyed her like a cat would eye a fresh, teriyaki-glazed mouse.

“I do mean it, you rotten excuse for a man! Get out.” Her whole body quivered with indignation and rage.

Ben quirked his mouth and took a couple of leisurely steps toward her. Then he peeled off his shirt and dropped it onto the floor.

“No,” she said, her eyes blazing.

He simply smiled. He took another step toward her and said, “Come here, mi corazón. Come to papa.”

“Get away from me. Are you out of your mind?” But she glanced at his chest, touched the tip of her tongue to her lips and swallowed convulsively. He knew he had her. He grinned.

“Please excuse us,” he said to a burly woman who had been packing glassware but now simply stood there, slack-jawed, looking as if she’d like to lick him. Her gaze moved speculatively to his crotch.

Ben raised an eyebrow at her, snaked an arm around Marina’s waist and pulled her to him.

“No. Not even,” she said. “Don’t you dare ki—”

Ben settled his mouth over hers and devoured the rest of her words. He felt her resistance waver, then crumble as she responded to him. “Mmm,” he said against her lips, pulling her hair out of its ponytail and tangling his fingers in it. “I think you and me and my small penis should go upstairs for a while, mi amor. What do you say?”

An unintelligible sound emerged from her throat, a sound that he took to mean agreement. Ben threw Marina over his shoulder, then headed for the staircase.

“Ay, caramba!” uttered the burly woman.

He turned and winked at her.

MARINA’S NORMALLY NEAT bedroom was a mess, full of boxes and plastic sheeting. The closet doors stood open and Ben was amazed to see that eighty-five percent of her clothes were missing, even if her shoes and bags were still abundant.

She’d given her clothes away for him? In spite of the silliness of it all, his heart turned over. She was trying, in her unique way, to let him know that he wasn’t just a plaything to her. That she would make an effort to live on his terms.

He deposited her onto the unmade bed, disturbing Gnarly, who had crawled under the covers to escape the chaos of the movers.

Gnarly evaluated the prospects for petting and decided that they were not good, based on the overabundance of pheromones in the air. He shot them a disgusted glance and headed for the closet.

Ben peeled off Marina’s aerobics outfit piece by piece, kissing every inch of skin he bared and loving the way her hair spread across the pillow. Her quick intakes of breath, her soft moans, the way she involuntarily arched her back—everything about her turned him on.

And when finally they were both completely naked, her heels pressed into his back, he reveled in the way she accepted him into her body, her gasp as he slid all the way home.

He withdrew and drove in hard, making her squeak. He changed their angle so that he rubbed against the spot that would make her the hottest, make her beg for release. He pressed her knees farther apart and filled her, possessed her completely.

She closed her eyes, her breathing coming in shallow gasps.

Ben bent his head and captured a nipple between his teeth. He tugged lightly, then swirled his tongue over the tip while she moaned. “Now, about my small penis. You were saying?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” was all Marina could manage.

“I think you have an excellent point there,” Ben told her, tonguing the other nipple.

“Oh, yes!”

“So, mi vida, you were in actuality trying to tell me that I’m hung like an…elephant. Right?”

“Mmmmpphf. Yes—oh, yes! Oh, Ben…”

His own breath began to come in pants. He ground against her.

She started to tremble all over and he thrust deeper, slower, the way he knew she liked it. Her body tensed around him and, with a small cry, she climaxed while he took pleasure in her pleasure before seeking his own happy ending.

Ben stayed embedded in her afterward, resting on his elbows and between her soft, warm thighs. Her beautiful face was flushed and her eyes had gone dreamy. At times like this, it was easy to forget that she wore money like a heavy perfume. Right now, she was just a woman—and he was just a man—and they were in love.

He stirred inside her; she clenched around him in an intimate embrace. And to his surprise, he hardened again. He couldn’t ever seem to get enough of her; make her quite enough his.

Was her friend, Chloe, right? Did the luxury surrounding Marina make him feel as if he had a small penis? Because he, the man in her life, hadn’t provided her with that luxury?

Ben almost snorted. Ridiculous. Chloe and her poppsychology.

Marina moved under him and, as he started making slow love to her all over again, a crash came from downstairs. She winced, and he rolled off of her. “Marina, really—what is the meaning of all this?”

She sighed. “I want to show you that I can live a different life. That I can exist within a budget like a normal person. That you don’t have to be intimidated—”

His spine stiffened and he held up a hand. “Who said I’m intimidated? This is crazy. I don’t want you to prove anything to me! I don’t want to—I don’t want to bring you down, damn it.” He got out of her bed and pulled on his jeans.

“Then what do you want, Ben?”

The question made him unexpectedly furious. “I don’t know!” he shouted at her, feeling like a jerk.

“So why, in God’s name, did you come over here?” Her face had gone white, taut and angry. “Just to torture me?”

He sighed. “I came to apologize. I shouldn’t have broken up with you in a letter. I’m sorry.” There—he’d said it. Now, why didn’t he feel better?

The words hung in the air between them, not solving a damn thing.

At last, she said in brittle tones, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stared at each other.

Ben hated the blank, frustrated expression on her face; hated even more that he was the cause of it. It made him crazy, but he didn’t know what to do. “What the hell do you want from me?” he yelled—which only cemented her expression. He saw her shut down emotionally behind it, saw her hurt.

She sat naked with her knees drawn up to her chest, her hands clasped over them. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders. “Just your love, Ben,” she said simply. “Just your love.” She looked away from him, her expression miserable and lost.

He swore. He threw his hands into the air. Then he grabbed his shoes and walked out.

I am shit.

She was making a huge sacrifice—giving up her income, home and lifestyle. She was doing it for him. Why was he so angry instead of being grateful and touched? He didn’t want her to have to lower herself to his level, damn it.

He drove home barefoot and shirtless, leaving the shifty, avidly curious glances of the moving men behind him. Yeah, he was total shit. But he couldn’t seem to change that. Or could he?

6

“THE PROBLEM,” wailed Marina to Chloe by phone, “is not a small penis thing!”

“Yes, it is,” insisted Chloe.

“No, I’m telling you. Now he’s mad because I’m moving to a condo for him and he doesn’t want to bring me down. Can you believe this? I can’t win! What the hell does he want?”

“He wants to be top banana. The big, swinging dick in the relationship.”

“Chloe, can we please move away from the phallic imagery? I think you’re a little fixated.”

“Nope. Because what we have here is truly a case of encephallus, my highly scientific term for screwed-in-the-head. Didn’t you say that when he was just a kid, Ben’s mother left his father for a richer man?”

“Yes. But—”

“So he probably has an unacknowledged fear that the same thing will happen to him. Especially since he’s just lost his whole business. He’s subliminally convinced that now you don’t respect him anymore and he has to leave you before you leave him.”

“But that’s just stupid! I’m not going to leave him. I love him—God knows why.”

“He’s in the process right now of forcing you to leave him because he’s left you so that you can’t leave him first.”

“What? I’m so confused! That doesn’t make any sense at all, Chloe!”

Her friend said cryptically, “No, but that’s penis logic for you.”

They weren’t getting anywhere with this. “I think I need a nose job,” Marina told her. “Maybe he’ll come back if my nostrils are exactly the same diameter. I’ve noticed that the left one is slightly larger. By at least half a millimeter.”

“Marina, stay away from the mirror. You do not need a nose job, you need a lobotomy! If you schedule any more unnecessary cosmetic procedures, I will never speak to you again.”

“Fine,” Marina snapped. “Because I don’t understand your strange and tortured theories. anyway.”

“They may be strange and tortured, but they’re true, babes. So let go of your nose and step away from the mirror. Go eat something fattening and call me when you’ve developed an actual butt instead of just skin stretched around your hip sockets.”

There is nothing like a best friend to piss you off! Marina hung up scowling and remembered that once the bank transfers were done today she’d no longer have the money available to have a nose job, anyway. It would all belong to the foundation—except for one backup fund that was for emergencies only. Which reminded her…

An hour later she was pulling up to the Reston Foundation administrative offices. She got out of the bottle-green mini Cooper she’d traded down to from the Porsche. It was adorable and she had no regrets at all—see, being poor could be great fun!

“I need to see Liz Olmos, please,” she said to Lisa Ann, the foundation’s receptionist. “Right away. In my office.”

She sat behind her desk and slipped off her shoes to run her feet over the mink footrest. Liz came in, looking a bit nervous. “Shut the door, please,” Marina instructed her.

Liz gulped and shut it.

“How are the photo sessions going? The Frameworks for the Future calendar shoots?”

“Great!” Liz said. “Sam Delaney’s doing a fabulous job. I saw some of the contact sheets yesterday, and this thing is going to be a hit. The women will love it.”

“You called Ben to remind him of his appointment?”

Liz nodded. “He’ll be there.” She carefully masked her curiosity as to why Marina hadn’t called him herself. Their relationship was no secret.

“Sit down, Liz.”

“O-okay.”

“How are Shelby and Jack?”

Liz’s face lit up. “They’re doing beautifully. Shelby’s learning long division in school and Jack is playing peewee football….”

Marina nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m glad.” Then she gazed into Liz’s eyes, not surprised when her employee fidgeted and looked away. “Honey, is there something you need to tell me?”

Liz’s face drained of all color. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

Marina said nothing; just waited.

“It was only going to be for a month, I swear. I couldn’t raise all of the tuition money for their school and…” Her voice broke. “Oh, God, Marina—I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Look, my CDs come due next Wednesday and I was going to take the interest and pay back the foundation. Please believe me, I only borrowed the money.” Tears began to roll down Liz’s clearly terrified face.

Marina closed her eyes. Her instincts had been correct.

“I swear to you, that I didn’t mean to steal it outright.”

“Nobody ever does. It’s always just a loan at first.”

“No, Marina—you don’t understand—I’m not like that! I just…with the mortgage and the car payment and insurance and groceries—And Wayne hasn’t sent the child-support checks for three months, now. I’m going to have to take him to court…The tuition bill came and I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Marina looked at her earnest, horrified face. Liz certainly didn’t get three-hundred-dollar-a-month highlights and she looked as if she’d never in her life had a facial. She’d seen her touching up her own nail polish. Her clothes were barely serviceable. All of her paychecks went to the support of her children, and she sent them to private school because they each had learning disabilities.

“I’m sure that you want me to leave right away.” Liz rose to her feet, trembling and looking devastated. “Are you—are you going to call the police?”

Marina slowly shook her head. How could she do that to Shelby and Jack? The father was a drunk and there was only one set of ailing grandparents who weren’t in any condition to look after them.

“Sit down, Liz, and let’s talk.”

Bewildered, the woman sat again.

“I’m not going to pretend that I’m happy, but I do understand. From now on, I want you to submit the kids’ tuition bills to the foundation, okay?”

“But—but—”

“We’ll find a scholarship that applies. You do the paperwork.”

Liz put her face into her hands and began to sob, her shoulders hunched and shaking. “Why are you b-being so nice to me? After what I did?”

Marina bit her lip, found a box of tissues in her desk drawer and pushed it toward Liz. “Because, first of all, you did it for your kids and not for yourself. Second, because I’m removing your access to the foundation’s accounts, so you won’t be tempted in the future. And third, I’m taking a gamble on your character, Liz. My gut tells me that you are one of the very few people who deserve a second chance.”

Her employee raised a blotchy, red face. “I promise you that you will not regret this. And I promise that I’ll replace every penny with interest. Today if you want—I’ll just go cash out my CDs early and pay the penalty.”

Marina looked into her eyes and believed her. She shook her head. “Next Wednesday will be fine. But can I ask you a question?”

Liz nodded.

“Why didn’t you just come to me for a loan?”

“I—couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Too much pride, I guess.” She laughed a little raggedly.

Pride. There it was again—it wasn’t just a male thing. Poor Liz Olmos certainly didn’t have a penis. She hardly had a spine.

“So somehow it’s better to steal than lose face?” Marina asked her gently.

Liz winced.

“You don’t have to answer that.” Marina thought about it. What her employee had done was wrong, but she’d maintained her autonomy—which, she supposed, was exactly what Ben was trying to do. But he didn’t have needy children to challenge his stern moral code.

Marina knew, without question, that if she herself had a child who was starving, she wouldn’t hesitate to steal from a store to feed them. She knew that, if she had to protect that child, she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot someone who threatened him.

No, Ben didn’t have kids—yet. But maybe he was just trying to protect the little boy he’d once been. The ten-year-old who saw his mother trade out his father for money, leaving him a broken man.

Was Ben really one-hundred-percent motivated by pride?

Marina gazed at the woman seated across from her, and knew that Liz hadn’t been. So it was a good bet that Ben’s issues added up to more than just tripping over his penis, as Chloe’d thought. Oh, pride was part of the problem, but it sure wasn’t all of it.

For the first time, Marina realized that Ben might simply be afraid of being hurt. Afraid of being used by a rich, carefree, careless woman. Of being traded out for a better, more financially equipped model who could keep up with her in terms of expensive hobbies and accoutrements.

And she wondered whether part of his discomfort with her money and her lifestyle was that, in some weird way, he didn’t feel he was worthy of it all….

Marina made sure that Liz had time to collect herself before she had to face the other employees at the foundation. She accepted her apology. She fielded a few phone calls and signed off on some papers. Then she rubbed her feet up and down on the mink footrest and tapped her long French-manicured fingernails on the surface of her desk. It was long past time to take serious charge of things. In short, in pursuit of her happiness and Ben’s, she was about to get Machiavellian.

7

AS BEN POSED IN a tool belt for the photographer, Samantha Delaney, he felt like a piece of meat. He really didn’t want to do this, but he wouldn’t break his promise to Marina.

“Stretch out, like that—good. Raise your arms, clasp them behind your head and give me that sleepy, let-me-light-your-fire smile again. Great!”

She was a pixie of a girl who looked barely able to carry some of that heavy photography equipment. But she seemed competent and good at her job; not the least bit embarrassed by his semi-nudity.

The floorboards of her upstairs studio creaked under his shifting weight as she had him get to his feet again and turn his back on her.

“Yeah—good butt shot. Cock your hips and hook your thumbs in the tool belt. Okay, now twist and look back over your shoulder. Perfect! Whew. That’s going to be smokin’. You could be the next Diet Coke guy, Ben. No lie!”

Sam set down her camera and went to adjust the light. “I’m going to experiment with a more film-noir look in the next few shots. Will you step into the powder room, there, and work some baby oil into your skin?”

Oh, Christ. Now she wanted him greased up so the photos would be even more beef-cakey. Ben felt utterly foolish, and started to remove the tool belt.

“No, no. Leave that on. And when you’re done with the oil, put on these work gloves and tuck that hammer into your waistband.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Now, what kind of message could you possibly be telegraphing with this little vignette?”

“Why, that you’ll be happy to nail the viewer, of course.” Sam grinned unrepentantly. “We’re marketing this calendar to women, bud. And the more suggestive it is, the faster it’s gonna sell.” She tossed the work gloves at him.

Ben caught them and sighed.

“Oil up,” Samantha ordered. “We’re running short on time. I’ve got a guy coming right after you.”

So he did. Then he flexed and sucked in and mugged for the camera, gradually losing his self-consciousness and having fun. His grin got ever more devilish.

“Fabulous!” exclaimed Sam. After several more shots, she tossed a construction hat at him. “Okay, now we’re ready to get hard core.”

“Hard core?” Ben repeated, alarmed.

“Yup. Strip down in the powder room and come out holding that strategically.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard Ms. Delaney, darling.” Marina’s voice came from the doorway, richly amused. “Go get naked and hold that hard hat over your small penis.”

He swung around and glared at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Supervising.” Marina eyed him coolly. “It is my charity’s fund-raiser, after all.”

Ben fought the urge to inform Sam that he did not have a small penis; that it was quite hefty, indeed. But he’d come off sounding too much like Hank Azaria in America’s Sweethearts. So, instead, he mocked Marina.

“Oh? Have you felt the need to supervise all twelve shoots of naked men? And have you been a hands-on type of manager?”

Sam bit her lip and fiddled with her camera. “Hi, Ms. Reston. Nice to see you.”

“Hello, Sam. Has Delgado been giving you any trouble?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. He’s signed all the release forms?”

Sam nodded.

“Well, then, what’s the holdup, Benny? De-pants already.”

Ben shot her a gaze full of promised retribution and disappeared into the bathroom again, where he dropped his pants and clapped the hard hat over his goodies. Then he strode out with a gleam in his eye. “So, ladies. How would you like me?”

“Why, sunny-side up, darling,” Marina retorted, settling herself into a chair and crossing her slim, bare legs.

Sam’s lip quivered but she held on to her professionalism. “How about if you recline against the far wall. Rest your weight on your elbow. Good! Hold that expression.”

“What expression?” Ben asked.

“The one that crosses your face when you look at Ms. Reston. As if you’d like to—”

“Beat her?” Ben inquired.

Sam’s face flushed red. “Eat her for lunch.”

“Oh, that expression,” said Ben, and bared his teeth in a wolfish grin.

“Holy Mother of God,” said Sam. She clicked away. “Um, I don’t want to get, um, out of line here. But go ahead and think about doing…whatever it is you do…to Ms. Reston when you’re spending time together. I’d like those expressions, too.”

“Oh, I’d be delighted.” Ben turned his dark eyes on Marina and let them drop to a sleepy half-mast, while he bit his lower lip and began to picture all kinds of X-rated things.

“Dear Lord!” Sam uttered, and Marina squirmed visibly in her chair, uncrossing and recrossing her legs.

They continued in this vein for a good ten minutes.

Finally, Ben laughed softly. “More?”

“I’m not sure I can take any more,” Sam said, fanning herself with an envelope she’d snatched off a side table. “Besides—I’ve got shots here that will peel the wallpaper in the average housewife’s kitchen. I don’t think we can improve on them. Thank you.”

“Just doing my job, señorita.” Ben headed for the powder room, very conscious that the two women’s eyes were glued to his naked backside. Just for fun, he turned his head and caught them in the act.

Sam immediately pretended to look at her camera. Marina switched her attention to her Piaget watch.

Ben smirked, and she flushed angrily. He got dressed wondering how the atmosphere between them always became sexually charged, whether they were speaking or not. By all rights, they should be icily cold to each other after the way they’d parted yesterday.

But here she was, baiting him and staring at his naked buns, while he was so hot for her that he wanted to drag her down the stairs and take her against the side of his truck. Worse, Sam had captured it all on film.

He definitely didn’t need to be leaving with Marina, since they both knew exactly where they’d end up: On the nearest horizontal surface. Or even against a vertical one. And that wouldn’t help the situation between them at all. So he was deliberately brusque when he came out of the bathroom. “I’ve got a thing to do,” he lied.

“A thing.” Marina nodded skeptically.

“Yeah.” He turned to Sam and held out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure. A strange one, but a pleasure. Thanks.”

“Thank you,” she said, and they shook on it.

Thirty seconds later, he was out the door.

MARINA SMILED conspiratorially at Sam. “How soon before you have contact sheets for those?”

“I could have them for you almost immediately.”

“Excellent. Because I want to initiate an evil plot.”

Sam laughed. “Um. Just how evil?”

“If these pictures are as good as I suspect they may be, I want to send them to an agent in New York right away. By tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Without telling Delgado?”

Marina nodded. “Exactly. And you’re going to say you did it on your own, right?”

“Of course.” Sam smiled at her.

Marina pulled her cell phone out of her Fendi clutch and rapidly dialed a number. “Chloe? It’s me. Listen, I need the name and address of that agent friend of yours…yes. Uh-huh.” She scribbled onto the back of the same envelope Sam had used to fan herself.

“Thank you. What? No, I have not scheduled a nose operation. I’ve decided to live with the extra half millimeter. It will be traumatic, but I’ll manage. And, for your information, Chlo, I ate an actual corn dog today. So there. But don’t you dare bring any of that frozen udder by-product to my new condo—I won’t have it.”

Marina hung up and smiled at Sam. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes. About to launch Ben Delgado’s million-dollar modeling career. Chloe says that her agent friend is looking for just the right face—and body—to carry the new Rugged menswear line. Move over, Eddie Bauer! Because Ben Delgado is going to have the Rugged brand jumping off hangers and mannequins everywhere. And he’s going to get rich doing it.”

She said goodbye to Sam, swore her to secrecy and then headed out on her next mission.

“Mathew, darling!” she exclaimed warmly as she swept into Tremaine’s offices again and caught him at the coffeepot, so that he couldn’t hide.

He began to sweat immediately. Poor man. Even on the top of his balding head. Marina couldn’t help but be impressed with herself.

“M-Marina. N-nice to s-see you again so s-soon.” Mathew’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and a nervous tic started at his left eye.

“Have you been working out, Mathew? Because you’re looking awfully buff.” She let her eyes wander over his scrawny biceps in an admiring way.

He stood taller. “Er. Well, now that you mention it, I did recently join a gym.”

She wagged a finger at him. “The ladies are going to get relentless with you. You’ll be beating them off with a stick.”

He absorbed this with obvious delight and then cleared his throat. “Well. What can I do for you, Marina?”

She slipped an arm around his shoulders and steered him into his office, where she shut the door. “Here’s the thing, Mathew. I have felt simply awful that we cancelled our plans to build with you. It’s just not fair, after all the work you’ve done. So I wanted to make you a business offer that you can’t refuse.”

He looked at her with trepidation. “Can’t refuse?”

With a silky smile, she shoved him gently into his leather chair and leaned against the edge of his desk, so that he was at eye level with the twins. They looked fetching today in a red knit halter top. She jiggled just a tiny bit—nothing obvious—and Mathew’s peepers almost popped out of his skull.

“This is a positive windfall opportunity for you! It won’t cost you a dime, but it will make you a few million of them, given a little time.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” he said.

Goodness! Was Mathew developing a resistance to her wiles? Perish the thought.

“If anyone else brought you this deal, it would indeed be suspicious. But this is me, sweetie pie!” She jiggled again and watched his pupils dilate. “And it has to do with Ben.”

He tore his eyes from her breasts and looked at her face. “Uh-oh.”

“Here’s the plan. I am going to give you the money to open a landscaping division of Tremaine Construction! And then, because you can’t think of anyone who has more experience or expertise, you’re going to ask Ben if he’ll be a partner.”

Mathew swallowed. “I am?”

“Yes. And when the division starts raking in money hand over fist, you’re going to decide that you really only want to focus on construction, after all, and you’ll allow Ben to buy out your interest.”

“Um. With what?”

“Don’t you worry your adorable little head about that.”

“He won’t take your money,” Mathew said with dead certainty. “I know it for a fact.”

“I realize that. But Ben is about to make a great deal of money on his own.”

Mathew looked perplexed.

“All I need from you, darling, is complete and utter silence. Zip your lip. Do you understand? You never saw me today. You certainly didn’t get the money for your new division from me. As far as you know, I’m just a useless decoration on Ben’s arm.” She patted his shoulder. “Deal?”

Mathew sighed and rubbed at his shiny pate before his gaze returned helplessly to the twins. “Do I really have a choice?”

Her lips twitched. “You’re a man of infinite wisdom, Mathew Tremaine, and I love you for it. Of course you don’t have a choice.” She bent down to give him a thank-you kiss.

Mathew dodged, hurling himself backward in the rolling chair. “Please don’t,” he begged. “The last time you did that I couldn’t think for the rest of the afternoon.”

Marina chuckled.

He eyed her severely. “You’re a shameless tease without any morals whatsoever.”

She put a hand to her heart, looking injured. “Moi? I have no idea what you mean by that.”

“I may be gullible. I may be a breast man, easy for you to manipulate,” Mathew said dryly, “but I didn’t get where I am today by being stupid.”

She peered at him from under her lashes and dimpled.

“Yeah,” he said in disgusted tones, “I’ll let you know when the papers are drawn up. Then we can meet with the lawyers and you can wire the money.”

“Darling Mathew. You’re a gem.” Marina picked up her bag and moved to the door, hips swaying.

“And you, lady, are something else.”

8

BEN DROPPED the level he’d been carrying and tried to make sense of the words entering his ear via cell phone. “I’m sorry. Who did you say you were? An agent?”

The female on the other end of the line—or cell tower—had a voice that sounded soaked in Chanel and champagne. “Yes. I’m with the Duquesne Modeling Agency in Manhattan. We’ve reviewed your portfolio, and—”

“My what?”

“The photographs Ms. Delaney sent. I had them taken by courier to one of our top clients this morning, and they want to sign you right away. To an exclusive contract. For quite a tidy sum.”

Ben rubbed sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand and noticed that he had more sawdust than chest hair on his bare torso. Hell and damnation, it was hot. August in south Florida was unbearable. He was nuts to be out here working construction.

“Let me get this straight. Sam Delaney gave you copies of the pictures she took yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“And you sent them on to a client.”

“Yes.”

“All without my knowledge or permission.”

“Mr. Delgado, this opportunity is—”

“Marina!” he said her name like a curse.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.”

“Look, Ben—May I call you Ben?”

He began to laugh mirthlessly.

“Ben, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. If you’re willing to sign some papers to the effect that I represent you, I can bring you a deal worth three-point-eight million dollars. Today.”

“Three-point-eight—Dios mío. Wait, are these naked pictures they want? The full monty? Do I have to do something indecente y peligroso with a mule? Because there is no way in hell—”

“Mr. Delgado,” said the female voice crisply, “this is completely above board with no shenanigans, no scandal, no hankypanky. These people are dead serious and they are offering you a job as spokesperson for a line of menswear called Rugged. I assume you’ve heard of it?”

Rugged? Who hadn’t heard of it? He’d been wearing their jeans since he was a kid. Everyone wore their jeans. They were an American household name. “Yes, of course I’ve heard of it. I’m just trying to make sense of all of this.”

“I’d like to fax you the paperwork for representation by the Duquesne Agency. You can have a lawyer look it over if you’d like, but it’s standard boilerplate. We charge a percentage of your modeling fees in return for finding you work and negotiating your contracts.”

She went on with some details until Ben stopped her. “You’re sure it was Sam Delaney who sent you the photos? Not Marina Reston?”

“I’m not acquainted with Ms. Reston. Actually, I’m not acquainted with Ms. Delaney, either, but I’ve seen her work before.”

“Hmm.” The math still wasn’t hard to do. Marina had put Sam up to it—of that, Ben was sure. Still…almost four million dollars? Just to mug for some cameras?

“Do I have to move to New York?”

“No,” said the agent. “You’ll probably be spending some time here, though. You can get a hotel, and the same goes for when you’re actually shooting on location. I can’t tell you where that might be. So, can you give me a fax number? And I’ll overnight the original papers to you. Just sign them and overnight them back to me, using our account number.”

Ben’s fax machine had blown away with everything else, so he gave her the number at the Reston Foundation. After all, he was going over there right away. He had something to say to Marina about interference.

WITH GREAT SUSPICION, Marina reluctantly slid her foot into a Nike Labs G-series shoe. It was actually quite stylish, but the low price tag rendered it suspect. Something had to be wrong with it. Because otherwise they’d charge an outrageous price and limit the distribution so that it was almost impossible to get.

But…her foot flexed in delight as it made contact with the cushioned, springy interior of the shoe. It felt like a spa slipper! A really thick, soft, high-quality one.

She let the salesperson unwrap the mate to the shoe and slid her foot into that, too. Then she stood and took a few steps in the shoes. She felt as if she were walking on clouds! Her arches got a positive massage from this footwear. Her heels didn’t slam into a hard surface and cause shooting pains to run up her legs. Imagine! And the balls of her feet got caressed instead of punished. These shoes were worth their weight in gold.

Chloe nodded sagely, a “see, I told you so” smirk on her face. “Believe me, now?”

“I do. I apologize for doubting you. And I can’t believe the price on these things! I am all about this new, poor lifestyle.” She turned to the sales guy. “I’ll take them in every color, please.”

He hesitated. “Uh. But there are ten different shades, ma’am.”

She blinked and smiled charmingly. “Yes, I know. Is there a problem?”

“No! No problem at all. I’ll just get those ready for you. How would you like to pay, ma’am?”

Marina fished her American Express Black Card out of her Escada bag. “You take that, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he said, plucking it out of her hand with reverence. “May I show you—”

“No, thank you. I’m woefully poverty-stricken at the moment. I couldn’t possibly afford another thing.”

He glanced at her, possibly to see if she was kidding. She stared back at him. He looked at Chloe, who just shrugged and then tapped her index finger against her temple.

“I saw that!” Marina said.

Before she could change her mind, the salesman scurried away with her Black Card, like an ant with a large cracker crumb.

Chloe snorted. “What were you saying about your new, poor lifestyle?”

Marina flapped her purse at her. “I have to go back to work.”

“Yeah. To pay for this thousand-dollar shoe-shopping trip. Life is really rough for you now—I can see that.”

Marina hunched her shoulders. “Fine. I’ll return most of them. I’m just not used to this budget stuff. Rome wasn’t bought in a day….”

Chloe burst out laughing. “First of all, that makes no sense. Second, trust me, if you’d been there, you could have done it.”

Glumly, Marina returned to her office. She was going to have to post Webster’s definition of the word budget above her computer. That much was clear. But in the meantime, her new, improved, cheap shoes felt fab! She bounced up the steps to the foundation, only to have the door swing ominously open for her.

“Marina,” said Ben in forbidding tones.

“Yes?” Good thing she was highly practiced at the art of playing dumb. “How are you, Ben? What brings you here today?”

“My Rugged good looks,” he growled.

She blinked. “That’s, er, very modest of you. But I’m familiar with them. Did you think I needed to get reacquainted with your handsome mug?”

“Don’t try to snow me, mi corazón. You are behind this!”

“Behind what? I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, no? You didn’t ask Sam Delaney to send those pictures of me to some New York agent?”

“Of course not. You’ve never expressed any desire to model. Why would I do that?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “I don’t believe you.”

She stared limpidly back. “I don’t care what you believe.”

“You had nothing to do with me being offered a contract as the new face and body of Rugged Wear?”

“Oh, Ben! That’s fantastic!” She rushed to him and smooched him on the cheek. “Is it a good offer?”

“It’s a multimillion-dollar offer! And I’m a complete unknown. Why, I’m asking myself, would I get this kind of deal unless somebody very influential was behind it? Someone, say, who has an interest in me being financially solvent so that I get over my pride and marry her.”

Wide-eyed, Marina just blinked. “Ben, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I know hardly anyone in New York. Especially not in advertising or modeling. And, honestly, do you think I’d get that Machiavellian?”

He looked deep into her eyes and frowned. She could see him wavering. Then he folded his arms. “Yes. Yes, I think you would.”

Uh-oh. The only answer to this was a good old-fashioned hissy fit. “Oh, really? Well, Ben Delgado, you have a hugely inflated sense of your own importance, not to mention a paranoid streak a mile wide! Do you think I’d waste my time plotting and scheming to this degree? Just to get you to marry me?”

He pursed his lips. “Yes.”

“Well, I never! How dare you accuse me of such a thing? How dare you?” She stomped her right foot in her new shoe, but instead of making a satisfying crash, it only made a soft thump. Worse—it bounced, sending her knee up to collide with her breast.

Ben tried to hide a smile. “I’m a very daring kind of guy.”

She was so appalled at kneeing her own breast that she couldn’t answer. And it hurt!

“I’m also a pretty forgiving kind of guy, since I know that if you did meddle it was mostly for a noble cause—me.”

Marina snorted. “Like I said, you have a hugely inflated sense of your own importance. But even if—hypothetically—I had arranged for an agent to see your pictures, you are the one they want. You. I couldn’t possibly have engineered the Rugged decision. Or are you trying to insinuate that I flew to New York on a red-eye, broke into the CEO’s Madison Avenue office and slipped him a rufie so that I could influence him?”

Ben ruminated on this for a moment. “Knowing you, it’s not completely out of the question.”

“Yes, it is, especially since the children’s hospital has my Lear at the moment. They’re picking up sick kids in Guatemala.”

“I thought you were giving up the Lear?”

She bit her lip. “Most of the time. But never mind that. Face it, Delgado. I had nothing to do with your offer.”

He stepped so close to her that she could feel his body heat. “Face it, Marina. I know you’re lying.”

She stepped away before he could actually touch her. “Think what you want. But you have no witnesses and no smoking gun.” She smiled angelically, brushed past him and went into her office. When he didn’t follow, she whirled to find him dialing numbers into one of the foundation’s phones. “What are you doing?”

“Chloe, it’s Ben,” he said, holding the receiver to his ear. “Yes, Ben the Small. Listen, I was just calling to—” The line went dead and he turned to find Marina holding the detached phone cord.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her cheeks hot.

“What’s it look like? Checking up on you. Chloe spends half her life in New York. If anyone has an agent buddy there, it’s her. And Chloe won’t lie to me—it’s not her style. She prefers brutal frankness.”

“She’s out of town,” Marina said a little too quickly.

“Oh, I see. Well, then I’m sure you can give me her cell-phone number, being her best friend and all.” Ben smirked.

“Fine. You caught me. I did have Chloe set it up. But like I said, it’s your face. Your body. Rugged wants you, not the five hundred other guys they’ve looked at. And, that, I don’t control. I refuse to apologize, by the way, so don’t even go there.”

“Nonapology accepted.”

“Really? That’s so nice of you. How about a thank-you?”

“You refuse to say you’re sorry. I refuse to thank you for something that I never asked you to do. Are we even?”

She glared at him. “Are we getting married?”

“You know, I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. I like to do the asking in these situations.”

“You already did. Then you changed your mind. I figure it’s my turn to ask now.”

He shook his head, an annoying little smile playing over his mouth. “Nope.”

This time she took off her engagement ring and threw it at him. It hit him square on the breastbone and bounced off, landing in Liz Olmos’s in-box. She blinked, looking very much as if she wouldn’t mind tackling the project right away.

Ben scooped it up and put it into his pocket. “You’re not going to manipulate me like some kind of puppet, Marina. I’ll do the asking again when I’m good and ready.”

Her heart leaped at his words, which implied that he did still want to marry her. Yet her temper snapped at the idea that he wanted to keep her on the line, like a trout, until he chose to reel her in.

“Great, Ben. Have it your way. But by the time you’re good and ready, I just may be taken.” And with that, she shut her office door in his face.

9

BEN WAS EVEN LESS amused after he returned from his first trip to New York to meet his new agent. Mathew Tremaine announced, out of the blue, that he’d just created a new landscaping division of his company. And, quite coincidentally, he wanted Ben to come in as a partner and help him run it.

Ben didn’t believe for an instant that Mathew had come up with this idea on his own. He went to his office and looked into his watery blue eyes. He noticed them blinking rapidly, artificially wide in Mathew’s frog face.

“C’mon, Tremaine,” he said in easy tones. “This reeks of Marina. How much did she give you to start this division of yours?”

Of course Mathew denied it, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with every unconvincing lie.

Ben eyed him skeptically. “What’s the payoff for you, hombre?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, I’ve got it. You wait until we’re turning a profit and then I buy you out.” He laughed. “That’s good, I have to hand it to her.”

Mathew blustered that Ben had it all wrong.

Ben folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “Let me guess, she came in here wearing something cut down to her navel and shamelessly manipulated you. Did she drop a pencil and bend down to pick it up?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tremaine muttered, turning three shades of red.

“Did she ask if you’d been working out? Playfully feel your bicep? Come close and bend over and whisper into your ear?”

Beyond speaking, Mathew just shook his head. But his wormy, shamed demeanor gave him away.

“Tremaine, those are the oldest female tricks in the book, mi amigo. Agarrate a una mamita! We need to get you laid.”

Mathew looked as if he’d like to drop through the floorboards. But still he maintained his innocence—and Marina’s. Unbelievable.

Finally, he recovered his voice. “I mean it, Ben. I’d like you to come on board and help me get this new venture off the ground. There’s a lot of profit in it, if we do things right. And with you there, I know we’ll succeed. You’ve got the background and the know-how and the management experience for this.”

Ben eyed him shrewdly. “Yeah. And I’ve got the shameless hussy of a fiancée who’ll stop at nothing to manipulate a man if it will get her closer to her goal—me.”

Mathew straightened in his chair. “Pardon me for getting personal, Delgado. But just what is your issue with marrying a gorgeous, rich woman who will jump through hoops to make sure that you’re happy?”

Ben stared at him.

“What if—and I’m not admitting anything, here—you’re right, and she set all this up for your benefit? What’s the problem? Essentially, she believes in you enough to invest in your business.”

“I—er—”

“You saying she’s wasting her money? I don’t think so. She may act like an airhead but that woman’s got a talent for numbers.”

“I’m saying she’s interfering.”

Mathew kicked his feet up on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Well, that may be. But you don’t give her much choice, now, do you?”

“¿Perdón?” Ben said. “I mean, excuse me?”

“Well, hell, boy. You won’t accept her dough when she offers it to you straight. You won’t treat her as an equal, as a business partner. So she damn well has to sneak around behind your back.”

“Aha!” Ben declared. “So you admit it.”

“I don’t admit squat. All I’m saying is that you’re so worried about her being your…your…patron or something that you downright patronize her. And then you get pissed when she tries to do a little creative problem solving.” Tremaine grinned at him.

“A little creative problem solving?” Ben asked incredulously. “What you mean is a little lying and manipulating and cheating.”

“Strong terms. Very strong—for a guy who gave his word and then went back on it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ben started to get truly angry.

“You asked her to marry you, didn’t you? And then you broke it off.”

“I—”

“You, what? Did the noble, righteous thing?” Mathew snorted. “Because you couldn’t give her more money that she doesn’t need?”

Ben closed his mouth.

“Is it pride, Delgado? Or is it that you don’t feel you deserve such good luck? A woman who looks like that, loves you to distraction and has millions on top of it all. Well, I gotta tell you, if you don’t think you deserve it, then plenty of guys will be lining up to take your spot. Me, for one. I will never forget that kiss as long as I live—Hey!”

In one fluid, savage motion, Ben had yanked him out of his chair by the tie. “Kiss? What do you mean, kiss, pendejo?”

“No tongue!” squeaked Tremaine, as Delgado pulled him across the desk. “No tongue, no tongue, no tongue!”

Ben let go and Mathew dropped back into his chair, clutching his throat. “You’re an asshole.”

“You kissed my fiancée,” Ben said.

“No, she kissed me.”

Ben growled and started to grab him again.

“It was a goodbye kiss, you moron!”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“Christ Almighty. Get out of here and stop being a bully to me and a wuss to her. Go solve your relationship problems. Then you can give me an answer on my business proposition.”

Ben eyed the frog-faced, balding beanpole in the bad tie who dared to call him, Delgado, a wuss. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll let you know.” He struggled for a moment. “Thanks,” he finally said.

“My pleasure,” Tremaine told him. Then he winked, the bastard.

MARINA SAT with an artificial smile on her face, opposite a man with a boxy jaw and oddly rectangular eyes. His name was Kirby Keller and he was selection number 121 from a local dating Web site. She was not impressed.

How could a man’s eyes be rectangular, for heaven’s sake? Had he gotten some kind of cosmetic surgery? Come to think of it, his mouth was rectangular, too. And his chest.

He had no lips to speak of, but his mouth was moving. At least it was until he put his beer bottle to it. Putting a round peg into a square hole, she thought, her brain far away from the conversation. She smothered a yawn and tried to ignore the fact that the underwire of her bra dug savagely into her flesh.

“Don’t you think?” Kirby the Rectangular asked.

“Pardon?”

“Have you heard a word I’ve been saying?”

“Oh. Um, of course.” She smiled.

Just then the waiter appeared with the entrees Kirby had taken the liberty of ordering: Salmon for her and swordfish for him. “Pepper for madam?”

“Mademoiselle,” Marina corrected. “And no, thank you.” She looked up and froze. Ben was making his way purposefully across the restaurant, his dark eyes fixed on her.

“Pepper, sir?” the waiter asked Kirby.

“Yes, please,” Ben said, from over her dinner date’s shoulder. “However, you may remove this very large and unwelcome hors d’oeuvre.” He looked at Kirby with contempt. “Surely, he’s not to your taste, mi corazón?”

Marina put her hand over her mouth.

The waiter gaped like a white-jacketed guppy.

Kirby Keller turned and glared at Ben. “Who are you? And what the hell do you want?”

“Her,” said Ben, simply. “I’m her fiancé. Please leave.”

“Fiancé?”

“I don’t have a fiancé,” said Marina, pointedly. “This man is delusional.”

“Of course you have a fiancé,” said Ben patiently.

“I do not. You haven’t asked me to marry you again, and I haven’t accepted. Now, do you mind? I’m out on a date, Ben!”

Other guests in the restaurant started to notice the commotion at Marina’s table.

“Yes,” Kirby emphasized, “she’s on a date, and—”

Ben ignored him and spoke only to her. “Unfortunately, mi vida, I do mind.”

Keller pushed his chair back, stood and almost rammed his cubic jaw into Ben’s. “Do I need to teach you a lesson?”

Ben’s eyes gleamed. “No, for I have already learned it. But many thanks, señor. You are so kind to offer.”

“Smart-ass,” Kirby grunted. And then he threw a punch, which didn’t work at all well, since Ben blocked it.

He got an arm around Ben’s neck in an attempt to haul him backward and out of the restaurant, but Ben apologetically flipped him onto his back, knocking the breath out of him so that Keller lay there on the floor with his eyes bulging, heaving like a large-mouthed bass.

The entire room fell silent except for a few shocked murmurs.

“I’m so sorry!” Marina said to Kirby, whirling on Ben. “Stop it! You’re ruining my evening, you jerk.”

Ben countered by dropping to one knee. He fished her engagement ring out of his pocket. “I only meant to ruin his evening. I’d like to feature as the highlight of yours, mi amor. Will you marry me?”

She put her hands on her hips. “You’re proposing to me over the body of my date?”

Ben shrugged. “Sí.”

“Do you have any idea how rude and socially unacceptable this is?”

Two large and burly men wearing white aprons emerged from the kitchen and headed toward them, while the buzz of other restaurant patrons grew louder. “I believe that these two gentlemen may be about to inform me,” Ben said. “So will you take the ring or not?”

With an exclamation, Marina snatched it and jammed it onto her finger.

“Out!” said one of the burly men to Ben. “We do not tolerate assault and battery in our dining room, sir.” The other one bent over Kirby and offered him a hand up.

“Actually,” Marina said, “the gentleman on the floor threw the first punch.”

“After extreme provocation!” Keller said, outraged.

“But you did throw the first punch.” She smiled at him sweetly. “Look, Kirby, I’m sure you’re a very nice man and you’ll make someone a wonderful husband one day. But sweetie, we have nothing in common and I despise piña coladas, which you ordered for me without asking. So run along now, won’t you, darling?”

Kirby Keller cast Marina a look of dislike. “Run along? You sure think you’re something special, don’t you? Well, you’re just a—”

“Do not make me knock you down again, señor,” said Ben. “This time it will be much more forceful, I assure you.”

Keller snarled at both of them, dusted off his jacket and trousers and stalked out of the restaurant, muttering invective.

“Wherever did you find him, mi corazón? He looks as if he was popped out of a loaf pan.”

Marina couldn’t help but laugh. “He’s a very nice man. I met him through an online dating service.”

“A what? That is not acceptable. You will remove your photo and name from it immediately.”

“Awfully dictatorial, aren’t you? For a man who has no claim on me.”

“You’re wearing my ring, señorita.”

“But I haven’t said yes.”

“You will.” He advanced upon her, a dangerous gleam in his eye.

“How do you know? Maybe I just like the ring and I’ll wear it on my right hand instead of my left.”

“You will wear it on your left hand, fourth finger, please?” But Ben said it as a request.

Marina elevated her chin. “Why?”

“To show the world you are mine.”

“I thought that I was supposed to forget you. That you didn’t want me. That you couldn’t afford me, Delgado.” She tried to keep the hurt out of her voice but didn’t quite succeed.

“I’m doing my best to ensure that you don’t forget me. And I always wanted you,” Ben said quietly. “As for the other, my circumstances seem to have changed, and I hear that you’re now poor. Especially since Mathew Tremaine seems to have received a large capital influx from a mysterious source. For a new landscaping division of his construction company.”

Marina widened her eyes in an approximation of childlike innocence. “No!”

“Save it,” Ben said shortly. But he smiled tenderly at her. “I don’t want to hear your lies, but I do want to discuss the reasons for them—and not in public, in a restaurant. So, mi vida, since I am being thrown out, how would you like to accompany me in my disgrace?”

Marina threw some cash on the table and put her arm through his. “That has to be the loveliest invitation I’ve ever received,” she said, and kissed him.

10

SINCE HE’D BEEN asked to leave Azul, Ben steered Marina to the right, down the stairs and out the door to the Mandarin Oriental’s bar/café, where he promised the hostess no brawling and only minor canoodling if she’d just seat them at the far table to the right on the rail. Below them,, the water of Biscayne Bay rippled gently in the warm breeze.

Ben ordered a watermelon saketini for Marina and a mojito for himself and then took her hands across the table. “It is just possible, my love, that I have been a horse’s ass.”

She pressed her lips together but wasn’t entirely successful at smothering her laughter.

“Possible,” he stressed, raising one eyebrow, “not probable.”

She nodded. “And why, Ben, do you admit this remote possibility?”

“Because I love you and, even though you’re the most extravagant woman who’s ever drawn breath—”

“Marie Antoinette was worse!”

“I don’t want to change you and I shouldn’t have hurt you by breaking things off between us. By the way, just a little reminder—Marie Antoinette ate cake, which you would never do. And she had her head cut off, something which you should probably avoid.”

Marina ignored that. “So why did you break up with me? Why did you disappear? What’s the real issue?”

Ben stared down at her hands, at the small manicured fingers, which were both pampered and competent-looking. “The truth is that, yes, the money was an issue, especially when suddenly I had none. Ironic that, now, just as suddenly, I do. And because of you. But at the core of everything was—” He swallowed. Talk about a tough thing to say.

His pride almost wouldn’t let him form the words, but he was determined that, this time, pride wouldn’t get the better of him. It had to stand down, or be wrestled into submission—because his love for Marina was a hell of a lot more important.

“It’s not my nose or my thighs, is it, Ben?” she asked anxiously, putting a hand up to her hair.

“No, mi vida. Your nose and your thighs could not be more perfect.” He squeezed her fingers. “This, believe it or not, is about me.”

She blushed at the gentle remonstrance. “Sorry.”

He touched the tip of her nose and smiled at her. Then he took a deep breath. “You are so beautiful…so amusing, so many things that I admire. And all the luxury on top of it. I was afraid, mi amor, that I didn’t quite deserve you.”

“Were you afraid that I might leave, like your mother?” She blurted the question before she could chicken out.

His sensual lips flattened to a straight line. He shrugged.

“Oh, Ben.” She jumped up and slid around the table, right into his lap. “My darling, I’m not going anywhere. As you may have guessed by now, I’m awfully stubborn and spoiled. When my heart is set on something I go after it—damn the torpedoes! And my heart is set on you, Benjamin Delgado. You. Only you.”

He tightened his arms around her until she squeaked. Then he kissed off all of her carefully applied lipstick and the liner, too, until she pulled away breathless.

Everyone was staring at them, but mostly indulgently. They did have a talent for public scenes, didn’t they?

“I’d never, ever leave you, Ben. Not even when you develop a pot belly and a double chin and lose your hair. And grow fur in your ears.”

“Thank you,” he said a little dubiously. Then he grinned. “And I’ll never leave you, either, mi amor, not even when your hair goes gray and your bottom droops and your lovely store-bought rack is knocking against your knees.”

Her mouth dropped open. Then she shrieked and smacked him. “That’s disgusting, Delgado! And nothing about me is store-bought!”

He caught her wrists and held them behind her. “We need to discuss your lying, mi amor.”

“I don’t lie!”

“Yes, my love, you do. You’ve lied to me about your various, ah, improvements upon nature. You lied about Sam Delaney and the agent. And now you’ve lied about Mathew Tremaine and his sudden new division.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Shh,” said Ben. “I also have a strong suspicion that you’ve lied to me about being poor. Those shoes on your lovely feet did not come from Payless. And they say Dior inside them.”

Marina realized that her sandal was dangling from her toes and that she was busted. Still…“Last year’s stock!” she insisted.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Sample sale!”

He laid his finger against her lips. “Stop.”

She gently bit it. “You’re not supposed to know me so well. I’m a woman. I like to think that I’m shrouded in mystery.”

“Ha,” said Ben, “and I’d like to think that I’m not an idiot.”

She dimpled at him.

“Now, Marina Reston, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you stop lying to me?”

She hesitated. “Most likely not. Because you’re probably not going to agree with me all the time, which will necessitate me getting a little devious once in a while. But you understand, right?”

He nodded sadly. “I do. Now shut up and kiss me again, so I can smear the rest of your makeup off your face.”

“Okay.” She snuggled against his chest. “I love you, Ben.”

“God help me, but I love you, too.”

TAKING HIS MEASURE

Cindi Myers

To CoCo and KMo,
who made this project so much fun.

1

JOSH KITTREDGE checked the address on the postcard in his hand against the number over the door of the small studio above the dry cleaners. This was the place, then—a building in one of Miami’s older neighborhoods that had seen better days. Still, it looked safe enough and it wasn’t his business to be picky.

He climbed the stairs to the door and knocked. “Come in!” a woman’s voice answered, sultry and low.

He stepped into a narrow front room furnished with a new-looking sofa, a table strewn with various construction tools, a ladder, some cloth drapes and an impressive camera and lighting array. “Make yourself at home and we’ll get started right away,” the woman called from the next room. She had a faint Southern accent, smoky and sexy. “We don’t have a lot of time, so we shouldn’t waste it.”

“Sure.” He wouldn’t have minded an introduction first, but he’d gotten naked for strangers plenty of times, so no sweat. He dropped the gym bag he’d been carrying, then unbuckled his belt and slid it through the loops. “I didn’t know what you’d have here, so I brought a few tools with me,” he said.

“That’s great, though, I’m pretty well outfitted,” the woman called. “I borrowed a few things from some friends.”

He bent to untie the laces of his work boots. “You do this kind of thing often?” he asked.

“No, this is my first.”

He kicked off his boots, then pulled his shirt over his head. “Are you nervous?”

“I was with the first guy this morning, but it’s amazing how fast you get over it.”

So he wasn’t her first guy today. He idly wondered how many others she’d done already. Not that it really mattered to him. “Yeah, I guess most things are like that.” He could still remember the first time he’d stripped, back when he was putting himself through school. He’d been scared to death until he walked out on the stage. Then the music had begun, the women had begun screaming…and he’d found out it wasn’t such a bad way to make money, after all.

By the time the woman emerged from the back room he was down to his boxer shorts. “Oh, you’re already undressed.” She drew back, seeming surprised.

“You said you didn’t want to waste any time.” He took his time hanging up the rest of his clothes, subtly checking her out. She had short dark hair, a slim, boyish figure and good legs. He draped his shirt over a hook, then turned and offered his hand. “I’m Josh Kittredge.”

“Nice to meet you, Josh.” She shook his hand and smiled. “I’m Samantha Delaney.”

The name tickled his memory. Where had he heard it before? He looked closer at the woman. Something in the curve of her cheek, in the slight slant of her cocoa-brown eyes, was familiar to him, but he couldn’t place her.

“If you’ll stand by the ladder, I want to check the lighting.” She walked over to the camera while he did as she asked.

He shrugged, then stripped off the boxers and went to stand by the ladder. “Do you want me to pose or anything?” he asked.

She turned back toward him and her mouth dropped open and she looked away. “Uh, I guess you’re not the shy type,” she said.

He could have told her he was an old hand at taking his clothes off in public, but that was part of his past he didn’t talk about much. “Nothing to be shy about,” he said.

She pulled a light meter from the pocket of her shorts and pointed it toward him. “Okay then, just relax.”

He wondered if she was talking to him, or to herself. She made some notations on a pad on the table, then adjusted some of the lights. “Did you have anything particular that you wanted from me?” he asked.

“I know what I did with the two guys this morning,” she said. “I’d like to try something new with you.”

“Sure.” She was calling the shots here. And he always said he was game for anything. He watched as she stood on tiptoe and stretched up to move a light, appreciating the strong line of her legs and definite curve of her bottom.

She turned and caught him looking. Their eyes met and hers flashed with a spark of emotion. Not anger, exactly, more…caution?

A knock on the door distracted them both. Not waiting for an answer, an older man with a tonsure of silver hair stuck his head in. “Hey, Sam, I—” He stopped, mouth open, staring at Josh.

Josh grabbed his shirt from the hook and held it in front of him. “Do you mind?”

The old man’s eyebrows formed a bushy V above his nose. “Sam, what’s going on here?”

“It’s okay, Mr. B.” She rushed to pat the old man on the shoulder. “I’m taking pictures for that charity calendar I told you about. The one for Frameworks for the Future? The construction workers?”

The old man cut his eyes at Josh again. “I remember. Who’s he?”

“Mr. July,” she said. “I photographed Mr. April and Mr. November this morning. Did you need something?”

“Hmmph.” He looked back at Samantha. “I just wanted to tell you I gotta go down to the doctor’s and I’m expecting a package. I put a note on the door, said you’d sign for it.”

“Sure, Mr. B. I’ll do that.” She patted his shoulder again. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. The danged doctor just makes me come in every month to get my blood sugar checked. Like he don’t trust what I tell the nurse over the phone.”

“I’m glad he’s looking out for you,” Samantha said. “Diabetes is nothing to mess with.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved away her concern. “I gotta go now.” He looked at Josh again. “You just make sure you behave yourself. I don’t want nothing funny going on on my property. And Sam’s a nice girl, even if she does take naked pictures. You keep your hands off of her.”

“Absolutely.” He raised the hand that didn’t hold the shirt. “Scout’s honor.” Never mind that he’d never been a Boy Scout.

Samantha closed the door behind the man and hurried back to the camera. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Mr. B. is my landlord, so he takes it for granted that gives him the right to walk in whenever he likes.”

“You should lock the door,” Josh said, tossing the shirt aside.

“I should. But he’s such a dear old man. And it’s sweet that he looks after me.” She turned to the table of construction tools. “Now let’s see what we have here. The information Frameworks sent over said you’re a remodeling contractor?”

“Right. I specialize in renovating historic properties.”

“That must be interesting work. How did you end up agreeing to model for the calendar?”

“I do volunteer work for the group, when I have the time. I know they always need money, so…” He shrugged. “They asked and I thought it sounded like fun.”

She nodded and selected a bright yellow circular saw from the table. “Let’s try this, then. Stand in front of the drape and let’s check it out.”

He took his position in front of the closed drapes that covered the front window and waited while she once more checked the light and the image through the camera’s viewfinder.

“How did you end up as the photographer for this gig?” he asked.

“A friend of mine works in the office and she knew they were looking for a photographer.” She emerged from behind the camera once more. “I think the work Frameworks does is really important. Everyone should have a home.”

She sounded almost…wistful when she said the words. Some of the down-to-business attitude she’d had when he’d first arrived was gone, maybe because she was more at ease with him now.

Something Mr. B. had said had triggered another memory, leaving him with the certainty that he knew Samantha Delaney from somewhere. “Mr. B. called you Sam,” he said. “Is that what your friends call you?”

“Some of them. These days I mostly go by Samantha. I was Sam as a kid.” She came and moved the ladder out of the way.

Maybe that was it, then. They must have gone to school together. “Where did you grow up?” he asked.

“All over.” She began clearing the rest of the tools off the table. He set aside the saw and rushed to help her. “What I want to do is move the table where the ladder was and drape it with one of these white cloths,” she said.

He helped reposition the table and she turned to gather up a plain white sheet. The movement triggered the memory of a summer day when he’d helped a girl cover an old wooden table in preparation for a picnic. Suddenly, he knew. “Sam D.!” he said. He peered at her more closely, comparing the face before him with that of the freckled preteen he’d known. “My God, that is you.”

She turned to him, startled. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s me—J.D.! Julie’s brother. You used to hang out at our house all the time when we were kids.” He’d been fifteen and she twelve the last time he’d seen her.

Her eyes widened and she put a hand to her mouth. “J.D.? Oh, my gosh. It is you.”

“It’s been, what—fifteen years? You’ve certainly grown up.”

“I could say the same about you.” Her gaze dropped below his waist and she blushed furiously.

He laughed, a little flustered himself. “It’s a terrible line,” he said, “but imagine meeting you like this.”

She joined in his laughter, breaking some of the tension between them. He helped her cover the table with the sheet. “So what have you been up to since then?” he asked. “Besides becoming a photographer.”

“Oh, this and that.” She glanced at him. “It really is good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah.” Their eyes locked, and he saw, not the girl she had been, but the woman she was—a woman whose heated gaze made him wish he wasn’t the only one naked in this room right now.

She looked away, breaking the spell, and smoothed the drape over the table and patted the top. “Okay, climb up here and stretch out.”

“Up there?” He eyed the platform skeptically. “Will it hold me?”

“It’ll hold you. I want you to stretch out, propped on one elbow, with the saw in front of you.” She blushed again. “Strategically placed. We’re going for tasteful, but sexy.”

“Right.” He did as she asked, aware of his bare butt at her eye level until he turned around. He hoped she enjoyed the view.

He hadn’t thought of that summer in years, but now it came rushing back to him—the coconut aroma of suntan oil mingled with the sweet scent of cherry Kool-Aid and the earthy smell of cut grass. While his friends played baseball and video games and hung out at the beach, he’d been forced to stay home with his kid sister and her friend. He’d complained loudly at first, but he’d ended up having fun in spite of himself. Despite the age difference, he’d found Sam easy to talk to. And that summer he’d learned more about the way girls thought than he had in all the years since.

He watched Sam as she adjusted the lights once more. So much of her was the same—the way she tilted her head and the dimple at the corner of her mouth when she smiled. But this Samantha definitely wasn’t the kid Sam D. had been. Between her sultry voice and long, tanned legs, she was a major turn-on. He began to feel grateful for that strategically placed circular saw.

“That’s great,” she said, behind the camera once more. “Now smile and flex those muscles…Great!”

He flexed and posed, getting into the spirit of things. It reminded him of his days working as an exotic dancer—before he’d started his own remodeling business.

Of course, he could think of a lot of other things he’d rather be doing naked and alone with a sexy woman on a warm summer afternoon. But since most of those things were out of the question at the moment, he’d settle for this. After all, it was for a good cause.

SAM STUDIED the bronzed, buff man stretched out on the platform before her, glad of the camera to hide her expression. J. D. Kittredge, her ultimate fantasy, was here in the flesh—really in the flesh. The thought—not to mention the man himself in all his naked glory—made her hot and bothered.

When she was twelve, she’d had a serious crush on her friend Julie’s older brother. At fifteen, J.D. had been the bleached-blond surfer god of every girl’s dreams. And he’d been sweet enough to not mind too much having to hang out with his little sister and her friend on those summer days while their parents were at work.

For one glorious summer Sam had spent almost every weekday at Julie and J.D.’s house, sunbathing, watching TV or bugging J.D. to take them somewhere or do something with them. One time he’d organized a water-gun battle—the two of them against him. Other days he’d walk with them to the beach and they’d stretch out on the sand while he paddled about on his surfboard in the mostly anemic waves. They’d flirted and teased each other and, on one memorable occasion, had shared a sweet, tentative kiss—her first, ever.

By the time she returned to school in the fall, she’d filled half a notebook with the words J.D. & Sam 4-ever! Years later, whenever she’d indulged in daydreams of the perfect man, as often as not, it was J.D. she thought of.

Reality was even more amazing than those fantasies. The good-looking boy she’d known had grown into a very sexy man. One who was affecting her more than any of the studs she’d photographed so far. Was it the memory of her puppy love for him that made her feel this way, or some connection that existed between them still?

“I remember your folks moved away the year I turned sixteen,” he said. “Where are they now?”

“They were killed in a car accident not too long after we moved.” A rough time she tried not to think about.

“Damn. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks.” It had been so long ago the hurt was just a dull ache in her chest that resurfaced only occasionally—on important anniversaries, or when something happened to trigger a sharp memory of her mother’s smiling face or her father’s laugh.

“So what happened to you after they died?” Josh asked. “You were an only child, right?”

She nodded. “I went to a foster home.” Five foster homes, to be exact. She’d left the last one at seventeen, tired of being bounced around like a dog no one wanted. Another reason she’d volunteered for this job for Frameworks for the Future. Kids deserved real homes. The houses the organization built helped families stay together, so maybe, in an indirect way, she was saving some other child from the kind of teenage years she’d suffered.

“That must have been rough,” Josh said.

“Hmm. Roll over onto your back for me, propped on your elbows.” She kept her eye fixed to the camera lens, shifting all her focus to the job at hand. Think only about the picture. Not about the past or what might have been. Nothing else mattered right now. The technique was a kind of working meditation, one that had drawn her to photography in the first place. “Now, look at the camera.”

“How’s that?” He flashed a frankly sexual smile, his eyes communicating just how much he wanted the woman who was the object of his gaze.

Samantha’s mouth went dry and coherent speech became impossible. Her breasts tingled and she squeezed her thighs together against the tension building there. If Josh could do this to her with one look, think what he could accomplish with his hands and mouth….

Her own hands shaking, she gripped the camera and adjusted the focus for a tighter shot. The calendar. This was all about the charity calendar. Josh’s look was for the women who would buy the calendar. The women who would hang his picture in their offices or bedrooms and fantasize that he was looking solely at them.

“You’re being awfully quiet back there,” Josh said. “Is something wrong?”

“No. That’s great.” She clicked off two more shots, then straightened. “You did a great job. You can get dressed now.”

“Do I get to see the pictures before they’re published?” he asked as he hopped off the table.

“If you want to.” Considering the way he’d affected her—not to mention the memories his presence dredged up—she wasn’t sure it was a good idea to see him again. Her love for him years ago had been sweet and innocent, her fantasies since then were wild dreams, never meant to be real. Trying to make them real was a recipe for big-time disappointment, she was sure.

She could have loaded the digital proofs into her computer and showed them to him right then, but the thought of him leaning close over her shoulder, his breath stirring her hair as he bent to study a picture, his arm barely brushing her shoulder…She closed her eyes and shook her head. No, she definitely needed to cool down before she spent any more time alone with Josh.

“Give me your number,” she said. “I’ll call you when the proofs are printed.”

“That would be great.” He took a wallet from his jeans and fished out a card. “Here’s my card.”

She glanced at the rectangle of pasteboard. “Remarkable Renovations,” she read.

“That’s me. That’s my mobile number. It’ll reach me pretty much anytime.”

She nodded and looked for someplace to put the card. Someplace it wouldn’t get lost in the messy room. She wasn’t a stickler for organization. Impulsively, she stuck the card in her bra, where it nestled between her breasts, one corner poking into the soft flesh.

Josh pulled his jeans on over his boxers and reached for his belt.

She tried not to stare, but had a hard time keeping her eyes off him. He had a great tan and the kind of muscles that came from hard work. Great abs. She wondered if he still surfed….

“I’ll see you soon, then.” He picked up the gym bag and nodded, then headed for the door.

“Yeah. See you.” She waited until he was down the steps before she closed the door, then rested her forehead against the smooth wood and took deep, calming breaths. Too bad deep breathing didn’t do anything but make her dizzier. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was the image of a naked Josh stretched out before her, a look in his eyes that said he wanted to do incredible things to her body. It had been all she could do not to toss aside the camera and start stripping off her own clothes.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a strong physical response to a man. That in itself set off all kinds of alarm bells. The fantasies she’d had of Josh for years were her secret indulgence. They’d been harmless.

After all, no one could get hurt in a fantasy. Reality was a different story. One of the first lessons she’d learned when she went into foster care was that the thing you wanted most in life was most likely to be taken away.

Call her foolish or superstitious, but being with Josh felt too much like tempting fate by reaching for her dream—only to have it snatched from her hands.

2

THE NEXT EVENING, Sam slowly cruised past the old bungalow, checking to make sure no other cars were in the driveway or parked at the curb out front. She still had enough light to get good photos of the exterior of the house, but she didn’t want anyone to see her indulging in her secret hobby.

Since she’d bought her very first camera at age sixteen, Sam had taken photos of houses. Comfy bungalows and ranch houses built in the boom right after World War II. The kind she imagined had sheltered big families with lots of children and grandparents.

The kind of house she longed to have for herself. Since that was impossible, she channeled those personal longings into a hobby that eventually became her career. She snapped shots of broad front porches and imagined lazy Sunday afternoons with three generations of a family gathered to drink lemonade and listen to a baseball game on the radio. She photographed peeling paint and missing shingles and in her mind saw the houses in their prime, when they were beloved homes.

She had files full of these photographs, dating back years. From time to time she revisited favorite houses to see how they were faring. She mourned when another old treasure was razed to make way for a more modern dwelling, but lately she’d been thrilled to find more of these faded beauties being renovated. Midcentury modern was hot now and whole streets of once neglected homes were being restored for families. Sam took pictures of the spruced-up dwellings and dreamed of the day when she’d be able to afford one of them for her own. Maybe she hadn’t had that ideal childhood she’d wanted, but one day she hoped to create that dream for children of her own.

The house she was targeting tonight was the one she often pictured in those dreams recently. A bungalow built in 1950, it featured a wide front porch flanked by white brick pillars and a candy-pink stucco exterior. When she’d first discovered it, the yard had been overgrown with vines. She’d picked her way through the vegetation and carefully climbed the front steps. In the cool shade of the porch she’d found the heavy iron eyes in the ceiling where a swing had once hung.

But six months ago, someone had cleared the tangle of vines from around the door and trimmed the trees. There were signs of work being done—a new roof, broken windows replaced, the stucco repaired and repainted. Sam photographed each stage of the renovation. Two weeks ago, a sign had appeared in the front yard with the name of the remodeling contractor. It was that sign that had brought her here tonight.

Certain the coast was clear, she turned her car at the end of the street and drove back to park across from the house. She pulled the business card from her bra and compared it to the sign in front of her dream house. Remarkable Renovations.

So Josh was responsible for the work on this beauty. One more thing that proved he’d turned out even better than she’d pictured him in her dreams. Not only was he gorgeous and sexy, he was still a genuinely nice guy.

Camera in hand, she got out of the car and walked up to the house. Now, while she had the place to herself, she wanted to photograph some of the improvements. The porch railings, along with some boards in the floor, had been replaced. She photographed them, the juxtaposition of new wood and old brick making a pleasing pattern.

Then she stood on tiptoe and tried to see through the small diamond-shaped window in the door into the interior of the house. But the lighting was too bad this late in the day to make out much. Disappointed, she gave the knob a halfhearted turn. To her surprise, the door was open. A bad thing in a neighborhood where the crime rate was still high. But a good thing for her curiosity.

The interior of the house was dim and cool. As Sam shut the door behind her she heard the low hum of the air conditioner kicking on. The front living room was in the process of being restored. Bare plaster on one wall showed where a fireplace mantel had been removed. In front of this a new stone hearth had been laid, the mortar still wet. Sam bent and ran her hand over the rough stone. Had Josh laid this himself?

She raised the camera and clicked off a series of shots—the outline of the missing mantel, the new stone against the worn cypress floorboards, bars of shadow from the windows falling across the floor.

She moved into a dining room, which boasted new wainscoting and a classic fifties-style light fixture of stainless steel and glass. Sam smiled and pointed her camera overhead. Light fixtures like this had been torn out by the hundreds during the seventies, eighties and nineties, and now they were all the rage again. Josh had been lucky to find one that fit the house so well.

She backed up to get a better shot of the new wainscoting, but froze as she heard the distinct echo of footsteps behind her. Stifling a squeal and clutching the camera to her chest she whirled and stared at the figure of a man that filled the doorway. His face was in shadow, but in his hand he carried a hammer. Sam stared at the weapon, heart pounding painfully….

“Sam? What are you doing here?” Josh stepped forward, into the light.

“Josh!” She swallowed, and assumed what she hoped was a nonchalant expression, though her heart still raced. “I—I was looking for you.”

He frowned. “How did you know to find me here?”

“Um…I saw your sign out front.” She gestured toward the front of the house.

“What, you were just driving around looking for my sign?”

“Of course not.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I come by here all the time…on my way to buy groceries.” A lame lie. There was a market not two blocks from her studio where she did all her shopping. But Josh seemed satisfied.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

She thought fast. “The proofs of the photos I took of you are ready, if you want to come by and look at them.”

He nodded, his gaze still fixed on her, studying her. “You could have called to tell me that.”

His eyes met hers, probing. Something inside of her—the girl who had worshiped him once upon a time—couldn’t bring herself to tell another lie. “I wanted to see what you’d done with this house,” she said. She looked around, at the new wainscoting, the new paint and windows. “It’s such a beautiful old place. It’s nice to see someone taking care of it.”

He grinned. “Then, come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

She relaxed a little, not hiding her pleasure at the invitation. “I thought you’d never ask.”

EVEN AS HE POINTED OUT the new double-glazed bay window in the living room and the restored light sconces in the hall, Josh couldn’t keep his eyes off the woman at his side. Considering how much he’d thought about her since the photo session in her studio, he should have had her features memorized by now. The slightly upturned eyes and petite nose were the same as the Sam D. he’d known as a child, but her face had matured into one of real beauty, with defined cheekbones and a full, sensual mouth.

As a girl, Sam had been carefree and laughing—the first to try a new thing, the last to tire of a favorite game. The woman beside him now was more serious, though, he caught glimpses of the girl when she exclaimed over some feature of the house, such as the dining-room light fixture or the old milk box on the back porch. “So you like old houses?” he asked when they’d reached the end of the tour, on that same back porch. After the coolness of the house, the night air was warm and heavy, but he preferred it to the artificialness of the air-conditioning.

She nodded, then added, “I photograph them.”

“For real-estate magazines and things like that?”

She ducked her head. “No…I photograph them for me. I just like them.” She shrugged.

Her expression—defiant yet, at the same time, sad—made his heart stutter in its rhythm. “How many have you photographed?” he asked.

Another shrug. “Hundreds. Some of them have been torn down now. Others have been remodeled, like this one. Others are just…neglected.” Her voice grew huskier with emotion.

He tried to imagine how long it must have taken her to document such an architectural record. “What do you do with the photos?” he asked.

“I keep them.” She turned away from him, gaze focused on the milk box. It had been designed to open from either side. The milk man left the milk, eggs and butter in one side and the housewife could retrieve the delivery from inside. “Maybe I’ll put together a book one day on Miami’s midcentury modern homes,” she said. “Or a gallery show.”

“That would be interesting. I’d buy it.” Then he’d see how many of the run-down places he could find to revamp and resell. These older neighborhoods were becoming more upscale every month and there was a demand for authentic “old” homes that had been updated.

She glanced at him again, her expression less troubled now. “What I’d really like to do is take pictures of the families who live in the places once they’re restored. I’d like to connect with real-estate agents who would buy the photos as a house-warming gift for the families. They’d always have a record of the day they moved into their new home.”

She spoke so earnestly, eyes shining. She made moving day sound like more than just another task in the process of changing houses. She made it sound as important as a wedding or a christening. “You should do it,” he said.

“Maybe I should start with this house,” she said. “Who owns it?”

“I do.” He ran a hand over the smoothly planed facing around the back door. “I’ve been working on restoring it in between my other jobs, so it’s going slowly. But I’m almost finished now.”

“That’s wonderful!” She smiled at him, her face radiant with joy. “Amazing.”

He laughed at her enthusiasm. “I’m glad you approve. Will you photograph it for me when it’s done?”

“I’d love to.”

He had to look away. Her smile was doing funny things to his insides. It was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Just looking at her made him feel lighter and more carefree than he had in years, reminding him of a time when there had been more to his life than work. “I’d like to see the other pictures you have of this place,” he said. “I meant to take some before I started work, but then I got distracted.”

“Sure. I can do that,” she said.

The more time Josh spent alone with Sam, the more he realized how much he missed having a special woman in his life. Of course, the time wasn’t right for a relationship—he was too busy and he needed to firmly establish his business before he could afford to relax. He wanted Remarkable Renovations to be the first name people thought of when they considered restoring or remodeling property in Miami. Still, he couldn’t help but think Sam was very special, indeed.

As if reading his thoughts, she turned away from him once more. “I’d better go now,” she said.

“Don’t rush on my account,” he said.

She walked back through the house, toward the front door. “I have work to do this evening.”

“More calendar photos?” He didn’t like to think of her cozied up in her studio with some other naked man, though, part of him realized how hypocritical this was. After all, nothing had happened between them yesterday when he’d had his clothes off—a fact he was growing to regret.

“No. A pet portrait.”

He scratched his head. “A pet portrait?”

“I take pictures of people with their pets. Dogs and cats mostly, but I’ve done iguanas, rabbits and birds, too.”

He nodded. “You do a lot of different things, don’t you?”

“Just trying to make ends meet.”

“Hey, I can understand that.” He’d done a lot of things to keep his head above water, too, from stripping to tending bar at a popular tourist hotel. He’d been determined to make it on his own without help from his parents or anyone else. Times had been hard. Really hard. He never cared to live through those desperate days again.

She grasped the doorknob and opened the door. “Come by whenever you like to see your proofs.”

“I’ll do that.” But he’d already made up his mind that proofs wouldn’t be the only thing he’d stop to see. He’d told himself he was too busy working to have time for a relationship, but now that Sam had walked back into his life, he wasn’t going to let her leave too quickly. He wanted to find out more about the woman who’d grown from the girl he once knew—and see where the physical attraction between them would lead.

He walked with her out onto the porch, sure she sensed the tension between them, Certainly, his every sense was attuned to her. He focused his gaze on the back of her neck, the pale inch of skin showing above the collar of her shirt, and thought about what it would be like to kiss her there….

She looked back just then and caught him staring. Her lips parted and her eyes remained locked to his, the pupils dilated. He could hear her breathing, rapid and shallow. She put up her hand—whether to warn him away or merely to wave goodbye, he couldn’t say, but he grasped it and pulled her nearer. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do since I saw you here tonight,” he said, as he lowered his mouth to hers.

WHEN JOSH’SLIPS touched hers, Sam realized she’d been anticipating the kiss from the moment she’d recognized it was him in the shadows. While he’d been pointing out new molding and windows and talking about the work he’d done on the house, she’d been aware of the defined muscles of his biceps and the way his hair curled up at the back of his neck. When his hand had accidentally brushed her back her nerves had tingled as if lightning had struck nearby.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but the sawdust-and-clean-cotton scent of him surrounded her. The awareness of him that had started when he’d come to her studio yesterday had culminated in this hypersensitivity. When his mouth finally found hers it was almost a relief.

Except she hadn’t anticipated the effect his kiss would have on her. She forgot everyone and everything at his touch and lost herself to the pure physicalness of the moment. His mouth moved against hers as if he knew exactly what would give her the most pleasure. When her lips parted he accepted the silent invitation and his mouth angled more fully against hers, his tongue teasing the sensitive nerve endings of her mouth, awakening other parts of her body to a desire that stunned her in its intensity. She clung to him with such a weak-kneed sensation that only his strong arms encircling her kept her from slipping down.

She didn’t know how much time had passed before he broke the contact and released her. She struggled back to awareness and stared at him. “Why did you do that?” she asked.

“Because we both wanted it,” he said, looking amused.

She turned away. “I never said I wanted it.”

“Everything about you said you wanted it.” His voice was husky. Seductive. “And so did I. We didn’t need words.”

He was right, and with any other man she might have kissed him again and spent the rest of the evening indulging the desire that rocketed through them. But this was Josh. She was just another woman to him, but he was an ideal she’d been half in love with for years.

“I think I’d better go now.” She started toward the steps.

He braced one hand on the porch post, blocking her departure. “Are you upset because I kissed you, or because we knew each other when we were kids—or because of something else?”

“I’m not upset.”

“You’re a lousy liar.”

Anger flared in her chest. She stood up straighter. “Maybe I’m not in the habit of kissing men I’ve just met.”

“We’ve known each other half my life.”

She shook her head. “We haven’t seen each other in years.” Though, she’d thought of him far too often.

“There’s nothing wrong with getting to know each other again, is there?”

“There might be.” Yes, he was a handsome man who seemed very nice. But how much of her attraction to him was based on memories of the crush she’d had on him that last, perfect summer before her world fell apart? She needed time to think, to make sure she wasn’t rushing into something for the wrong reason. Too often she’d let herself become attached to something—a family, a place, a friend—only to have it ripped away from her. Self-preservation had forced her to exercise caution.

“Why do you say that?”

But this time she didn’t answer with words. She ducked under his arm and walked briskly toward her car. He didn’t try to follow, but when she was halfway across the street he called after her. “I’ll stop by later this week to see those proofs,” he said. “We’ll talk more.”

She shook her head and kept walking. Josh was right about one thing—she was a lousy liar. The kiss had been the most wonderful of her life. And she couldn’t deny her attraction to him. Walking through her dream house, listening to him wax eloquent on the subject of heart-of-pine floorboards and bead-board wainscoting, she’d been aware of a simmering heat between them. When he’d run his hands along a piece of smooth molding, she had almost been able to feel those same hands stroking her. When he’d brushed against her as he’d leaned to open a door, she’d shivered at his touch, having to fight to keep from leaning back against him.

She’d had to remind herself that the man beside her wasn’t the fantasy she’d created over the years. It was one thing to amuse herself with such dreams, another to try to hang reality on them. If she gave in to her desire for Josh, she’d have to give up her starry-eyed daydreams for a real-life relationship that was bound to fall short. Some would say it was a worthwhile trade, but Sam had made it through a lot of rough times clinging to her dreams. She wasn’t sure if she could afford to give them up yet.

3

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Josh nailed the last section of molding into place around the kitchen cabinets, then stepped back to admire his work. Every day now he moved closer to the time when he could put away the hammer and call the house done.

“Hey, Josh! You in here?” a familiar male voice called.

“Back here, Ed! In the kitchen.”

One of Josh’s employees, a stocky man wearing a Barenaked Ladies T-shirt, stopped in the doorway to the room. “What’s up?” Ed asked.

“I just finished installing the new cabinets.” Josh gestured toward the sleek metal shelving units. “What do you think? I found these at a clearance sale.”

Ed walked over for a closer look. “Looks great. Better than those ugly plywood units that were here.” He glanced back at Josh. “You’re going to make a bundle on this place when it’s done. People will pay the big bucks for these old houses they don’t have to do anything to.”

“Considering what I paid for the place, you’re right.” He stripped off his gloves and dropped them onto the plywood that served as a temporary countertop. He had granite ordered, due to be installed next week. “I can hardly believe it’s almost done. Squeezing this work in between other jobs it seems like it’s taken forever.”

“Speaking of those other jobs, I came by to tell you Mrs. Anderson loves the work you did on her sun porch,” Ed said. “I was over there cleaning up and she said she’s telling all her neighbors about you. So you might have more work soon.”

“Bring it on.” The two men walked out onto the back deck. “Did you stop by the Olvedas’ and check on the crew there?”

“Danny said they should be finished by Friday.”

Josh nodded. “Great. That means we can start on the Bishop job next week.”

“You may have to hire more help,” Ed said.

“Maybe. Right now I’m just glad to have the work.” It had taken him a long time to build the business to this level. A lot of lean days and weeks spent juggling bills. It was starting to pay off. Another year or two at this pace and, if nothing went wrong, he’d have paid off his small-business loan and be pulling in a solid six-figure profit. Then he could afford to relax a little.

Ed leaned back against the deck railing. “Look at it this way—if the construction business goes south, you can always get work as a male model.”

Josh gave Ed a warning look. “Don’t start that again.” When word had gotten out that he’d been asked to pose for the charity calendar, his crew had made his life hell. They’d started humming stripper music whenever he’d shown up, and some wag had left a Chippendale’s card in his truck. Only when he’d threatened to make them all march down to the studio and pose with him had they let up.

“Hey, we’re all just jealous,” Ed said. He patted his ample stomach. “Nobody’s asking me to take off my clothes. So how did it go the other day?”

“How did what go?”

“Your modeling session, or whatever you call it. How was it?”

“It was okay.”

“Uh-huh. So was the photographer a man or a woman?”

“It was a woman.”

Ed grimaced. “That must have been weird, stripping down for some chick you’d never met before.”

“It wasn’t weird.” He didn’t tell Ed he’d taken off his clothes for strangers many times before. None of the men knew he’d paid for his education by stripping. He’d never hear the end of it if they found out.

“Was she good-looking?”

The suggestive tone of Ed’s voice annoyed him. “Why are you so interested?” he snapped.

“Hey, I’m just living vicariously. I’ll bet she was hot.”

“She was okay.” More than okay. Everything about Sam—her looks, her voice, the way she laughed, the way she smelled—had pushed every one of his buttons so that he was fully turned on. He had a hard time thinking straight when she was around. Hell, he had a hard time breathing normally when she was near. And then he’d made the mistake of kissing her—a mistake because now he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She’d felt so incredible in his arms, he wanted to kiss her again. And to do more.

It was tempting, but he definitely didn’t need that kind of distraction right now. He had to pay off his loans. Get a financial cushion in the bank. Then he could afford to stay home and make love to a woman all day, if that’s what he wanted.

“Okay, huh?” Ed chuckled. “Well, get ready.”

“Get ready for what?”

“When that calendar comes out, half the women in Miami are going to be wanting to go out with you. You’ll have your pick of hot women.”

He shook his head. “They’re going to be disappointed. I don’t have time to date.”

Ed shook his head. “You know what they say about all work and no play…”

He thought of Sam again. He wouldn’t mind playing a few games with her…“I’ve been thinking about hiring that photographer to take some pictures of this house. Catalogue some of the work I’ve done.” Though he and Sam had discussed her photos some, the idea of actually hiring her—of creating a business relationship—had grown on him after their discussion.

Of course, it would mean seeing her again, spending more time with her. Not exactly sticking to his plan to keep his life free of complications while he focused on building his business.

But this could be a good thing. He’d combine business with pleasure. Maybe getting to know Sam better wouldn’t be such a distraction. Her photographs might even help him reach his goals faster. And maybe Ed did have a point, about that all-workand-no-play thing.

“What do you want the pictures for?” Ed asked.

“I can put together some kind of PowerPoint presentation I can take to the city’s preservation board to lobby them to place me on their list of preferred contractors for the renovation of registered historic properties.”

“You sure you aren’t just making an excuse to see that hot photographer again?”

He glared at Ed.

Ed put up his hands. “Hey, I didn’t say it was a bad idea. It’s a good one. And if you score a little action on the side…that’s not a bad idea, either.”

That was what Josh had in mind, but he wasn’t sure he liked Ed pointing it out to him. It was one thing to contemplate a casual fling with a sexy woman he’d just met, but he and Sam had a history of sorts. She was probably right, that they were different people now, but the fact that they’d been friends in more innocent times made him feel he ought to handle her carefully. The fact that she’d been so skittish despite her obvious response to their kiss only confirmed his feelings. So the photography thing seemed a good way to play it. They could get to know each other better on a professional level, then, when the time was right, he’d find a way to pick up where that amazing kiss had left off.

SAM CLIPPED the prints of the shots she’d taken at Josh’s house to the corkboard on one wall of her studio. She still couldn’t believe he owned the place. Her dream man with her dream house. The too-perfect-to-be-true aspect really made her nervous, waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under her.

But that didn’t stop her from thinking about him all the time. He was obviously as crazy about the place as she was—he’d restored it so lovingly.

“Where’d you take those pictures?” Mr. Buenavides, who had walked in a few minutes ago and helped himself to a can of sugar-free iced tea from her refrigerator, walked up behind her and studied the photos.

“It’s a house over in Washington Park a friend of mine is remodeling.” Not that Josh was exactly a friend, but she couldn’t call a man she’d kissed that way an enemy, either.

“Wouldn’t have one of them old places,” Mr. B. said. “It costs a fortune to fix them up. You could buy a new one with all the fancy bells and whistles for what one of them places costs.”

“But the new place wouldn’t be the same,” Sam said. “It wouldn’t have the history or the character a place like this has.”

“Hmmph. You call it character. I call it a lot of old stuff that breaks down.”

“How was your doctor’s visit?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Sugar’s still too high. He gave me a whole new list of things I can’t eat and told me to walk every day.” He pulled a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his forehead. “Who wants to get out and walk in this heat?”

“You could go to the mall,” she said. “They have air-conditioning there. And exercise is good for you.”

“Like a girl your age would know.”

A knock on the door silenced him. “You expecting a customer?” Mr. B. asked.

She shook her head and went to answer the knock. A check of the peephole showed Josh standing on the landing. Her reaction to the sight of him was not reassuring—her heart raced and her knees felt like limp spaghetti. No doubt about it, the man was dangerous to her equilibrium.

“Who is it?” Mr. B. asked, coming up behind her. “You gonna open the door, or should I call the police?”

She shook her head. “No police.” She yanked open the door and stood back. “Come in, Josh,” she said. “You remember my landlord, Mr. B.?”

“Hello.” Josh offered his hand.

Mr. B. ignored the hand and scowled at Josh. “Almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Josh came to look at the proofs of the pictures I took.” She steered the older man toward the door. “The pictures for the charity calendar.”

“Hmmph. Amazing what people will waste good money on these days.” Still grumbling, he shuffled out the door and down the steps.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Josh said.

“He’s a little overprotective,” she said. “It’s sweet, really.” Mr. B. was as close to a grandfather as she had and, for that reason alone, she cherished him, crotchety nature and all.

“So he thinks, since the first time he met me I was naked, I must be up to no good.”

“Something like that.”

He grinned. “Maybe he’s right.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll take that as a warning.” She walked over to the her worktable and found the photos she’d taken of him. “They turned out pretty good.” She laid out half a dozen glossies. “I’m thinking this one for the calendar.” She pointed to one that showed him reclining on his side, one hand on the strategically placed circular saw, wearing only a devastating grin and a scorching look in his eyes. She didn’t want to admit how much time she’d spent staring at the shot when it came back from the printer.

He studied the photo and whistled low. “You make me look good,” he said. “I hope Frameworks for the Future is pleased.”

“They will be. I predict women will be standing in line to buy these calendars.”

He returned the photo to her. “Do you have room in your schedule for another job?” he asked.

“Maybe.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye. “Do you know someone who needs a photographer?” Maybe he had a friend who was getting married or something.

“Me.”

“You?” She could barely get the word out.

“Yeah. I was thinking about that project we discussed yesterday. I want you to take some more pictures of the house I’m rehabbing. And maybe use some of the photos you’ve already taken of the place.”

She stared at him, wondering if her mind was playing tricks on her. “You want me to take pictures of the house?”

“Yeah. You said that’s what you like to do, right?”

She tore her eyes from his gaze, afraid that any moment now she’d either throw herself at him or start drooling. “Um, why do you want the photos?” she asked.

He straightened, putting a little more distance between them. “I want to get more work rehabbing historic properties,” he said. “I thought if I put together a PowerPoint presentation, I could take it to the preservation board and get on their list of preferred contractors.”

“It’s a good idea.”

“Then, you’ll do it?”

She hesitated. She wasn’t sure it was smart to get too involved with Josh. But she couldn’t resist the prospect of spending more time in a house she loved. Not to mention, this could be good for her own business. “Maybe the preservation board would hire me to document the buildings on their list,” she said.

“That’s a great idea. So this could be good for both of us.”

She nodded, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Great.” He leaned back against the worktable. “Why don’t we get together over dinner and talk about it more. I have a few ideas for shots I want.”

She was willing to bet those weren’t the only ideas he had. “We can talk now.”

“I don’t have time right now. I have to get to a job. But I can come back tonight about six-thirty.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think dinner is a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Because if I went to dinner with you, I’d end up in bed with you. The attraction sizzling between them made that inevitable if she let down her guard. Wonderful as that would be, you’d see it as just a casual fling and I’d end up wanting to stay with you forever. It had happened to her before; when she allowed herself to get emotionally invested in a person or situation, she always went overboard. She fell hard and far and ended up looking like an idiot. She’d spent so many years idealizing Josh that she already felt much more for him than he could possibly feel for her. Letting such a lopsided relationship go any further was bound to end up with her being hurt.

She stepped back, wanting to put some distance between them. She had a hard time thinking straight when he was standing so close. “I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure.”

“Because of what happened yesterday? When we kissed?”

She nodded.

He closed the gap between them, one hand coming up to caress her arm. “It was a pretty amazing kiss, you have to admit.”

“Yes.” And he was an amazing guy. Maybe the most amazing guy she’d ever met. She could fall hard for him so easily and, then when things didn’t work out, her heart would be well and truly broken. Was the pleasure they’d enjoy now worth that risk? Part of her said no, but when she was with Josh it was hard to believe that. She looked away from him. “I think it’s better if we stick to business,” she said.

“I don’t believe you, but I won’t push it. So when can we get together?”

“Will you be at the house tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “But come by Saturday. I’ve got wallpaper to strip.”

He flashed another sexy smile on the word strip, taking her thoughts exactly where he, no doubt, wanted them to go. “All right, I’ll see you Saturday,” she said. In the meantime, she’d work on strengthening her resolve—and on getting rid of the image of a naked Josh that was stamped onto her brain.

JOSH CAREFULLY prepared for Sam’s visit Saturday. He didn’t understand why she was so reluctant to let him get closer, but he was determined to find out. Ever since he’d bared all to finance his education, he’d done whatever it took to get what he wanted. Right now, he wanted Sam.

When she arrived, he handed her a pair of work gloves. “I thought maybe you could help me get this wallpaper off,” he said. “It’s really a two-person job and we can talk more about the photos while we work.”

She looked amused. “I get it, now. This is your ploy for getting free help.” But she slipped on the gloves. “Okay. What do I need to do?”

He handed her a sponge and a bucket of water. “I’ve already scored it with a scoring tool. I need you to wet it all down really well. I’ll go behind you with a scraper. And while we work, we can talk.” The plan had two benefits—he got the wallpaper stripped faster, and keeping his hands busy would help him to keep them off of her.

“Tell me how you got involved in photography,” he said as she wet down the first section of wall.

“I took a class when I was sixteen. A program for at-risk kids at the local community college.”

“Were you an at-risk kid?” The idea surprised him; she seemed so together now.

She shrugged. “No parents. Foster kid. I guess that qualified.”

Her family had moved away the fall after the summer when they’d spent so much time together, so he hadn’t known her when her parents had died. He couldn’t even imagine being that young and suddenly losing everything. “Was it rough, being in foster care?” he asked.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Pretty rough. Just when I’d get used to a place and start to think that this was going to be my forever home, I’d get shipped off to a new family.”

“Why did that happen?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Maybe there was another kid closer in age to the children who were already in that house, so they thought he or she would be a better fit. Or some caseworker would decide a different school would be better for me. Who knows? There are too many kids and not enough money—it’s a messed-up system.”

He nodded, and went to work with the scraper, digesting this information. His life seemed easy by comparison. For a long while the only sounds were the rasp of the scraper on the wall and the slosh of water in her bucket.

“When I was seventeen I left altogether,” she said, breaking the silence between them. “For a few weeks I lived in my car, then I found a place. I had a job working as a waitress and started doing photography on the side. Then I worked for another photographer for a while, learning the business.”

“You’ve come a long way,” he said.

“I have.” She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and glanced at him. “You can see why I volunteered to take the photographs for Frameworks for the Future,” she said. “I like the idea that they build homes for people.”

The way she emphasized the word home made him look at her more closely. Her expression was…wistful. As if she was thinking of the home she’d lost when she was a child. The kind of home he’d always taken for granted.

She caught him watching her and reddened. “What about you?” she asked. “What have you been up to since we were kids?”

He turned his attention back to the wall. “The summer I was sixteen, I got a job helping out with a construction crew. Running errands, cleaning up, that kind of thing. It was basic manual labor, but I liked the work. I did it every summer until I graduated high school.”

“And you decided to start your own company.”

He nodded. “After talking to some people, I figured I needed a business degree first, so I went to college.” She’d shared some secrets with him, time for him to do the same. “My folks couldn’t afford to help much, so I worked my way through school.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re supposed to ask what kind of work I did,” he prompted.

She laughed. “Okay, what kind of work did you do?”

“I was a male stripper.”

She choked. “A stripper? You mean, like Chippendales?”

“Yep.” He struck a pose, hands on his hips. “Naturally, my costume was a construction worker. I never knew until then how sexy a guy in a tool belt is for some women.”

Their eyes met and he wondered if she was imagining him clad only in a tool belt. He was willing to make her fantasy come true if she’d give him a chance.

She was the first to break eye contact. She moved over and began wetting down another section of wall. “You’re right about this being a two-person job,” she said. “I can’t wait to see how it turns out.”

They worked the rest of the morning, until all of the wallpaper in the back bedroom was gone, then took a break and moved into the living room for lunch. A ceiling fan stirred the air overhead and windows across the front filled the room with light. “I’ve got ham and cheese or ham and cheese,” Josh said, pulling two sandwiches from a paper bag.

She laughed. “Ham and cheese sounds good.” She accepted the sandwich and unwrapped it. “It looks good. I’m impressed.”

“Hey, it doesn’t take a lot of talent to make a sandwich.” He opened a bag of chips and set it on the floor between them.

“No, I mean, I’m impressed that you thought to bring lunch. Most guys would have waited until we were starving, then ordered out.”

“Packing my lunch saves time and money.” He handed her a bottle of water. “I didn’t have a lot of either when I first started out and I can’t see wasting them now.”

She sat against the wall and looked out the front bay window. It had started to rain. Water dripped off the eaves in a silver curtain, shutting out the rest of the world. “So you worked hard and saved up enough to buy this place,” she said.

He nodded. “I got a good deal on it. I’d like to find other properties like this and fix them up to sell.” He helped himself to a handful of chips. “There’s a lot of money to be made in old neighborhoods that are becoming popular again.”

“So what’s your goal?” she asked.

The question puzzled him. “What do you mean?”

She shifted to face him. “Is it just about the money, or is there something you want to do with the money?”

“I guess I want the money to invest and expand my business. I have some loans to pay off, so I have to do that first. I want to get to the point where I have a comfortable cushion in the bank. Right now I do whatever remodeling work comes along, but I want to build up a reputation that will allow me to specialize in older homes—the kind of places listed on the historic register.” He wadded up his sandwich wrapper and stuffed it back in the lunch sack. “I know one thing—I went through a lot of years where I didn’t have any money to spare and I don’t want to be in that position again.” There had been months when he’d had to dig for change to pay the rent, and more nights than he cared to remember when he’d just happened to show up at his parents’house at dinnertime because there had been no food in his own pantry.

“I guess it’s good to have money if you need it,” she said. “But I think you ought to have something planned for it.”

“So what are your goals? What do you hope to do with the money you make from your photography business?”

“I want to buy a house.” She tore a bite from her sandwich, popped it in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“What kind of house?” He prompted.

“I’m not sure yet. I’d like it to have room for a photography studio. And it has to have a porch—and a porch swing. That’s important.”

He nodded. “Porch swings are nice.” They’d had one when he was growing up. He remembered Sam had spent a lot of time in it that summer, reading, or simply staring up at the ceiling, daydreaming.

“This house had a porch swing once,” she said.

“How do you know that?”

“The eyes for the hooks for the chain are still there.” She finished the last of her sandwich and brushed crumbs from her lap. “Come here, I’ll show you.” She stood and held out her hand.

He took her hand and allowed her to pull him up, then followed her out onto the porch. It was raining harder now, water drumming on the roof, the smell of wet greenery filling the air.

“Look up there.” She pointed to the ceiling at one end of the porch. “The iron eyes. Those are for the chains for a swing, I’m sure.”

“I remember seeing those now, I just didn’t clue in to what they were for.” He was intensely aware of her, so close beside him. The faint floral scent of her hair mingled with the earthy aroma of rain in an erotic perfume.

She looked up at him and their eyes met, and he could see she felt it, too—this powerful pull between them. “Josh—” she began.

“Shh.” He put his finger to her lips, then removed it and kissed her. Gently. A subtle brushing of mouth to mouth, but it was enough to ignite the heat that had simmered between them all morning.

4

SAM LET OUT a soft moan of frustration and need. She didn’t want to give in to her desire for Josh, but she had never wanted anything more. The rain, the house, everything combined to remind her how dry and empty her life had been. She was tired of working all the time, of waiting and hoping and always playing it safe. Of denying herself the things she wanted because she was afraid they’d be taken from her. Instead, she’d ended up with none of the things she truly desired.

Josh caressed her shoulder, his gaze searching. “I want to sleep with you,” he said.

She nodded, and took a shuddering breath. “Yeah. I want it, too.”

She expected him to kiss her then, to sweep her into his arms and carry her into the next room, but he did nothing. She realized he was waiting for her to make the first move, allowing her to set the pace, to back out even, if she wanted. That knowledge melted her last bit of reserve and she stood on tiptoe and wrapped both arms around his neck. She drew his head down and kissed him as if she might never kiss anyone again.

Their lips were still locked together when he did scoop her into his arms and carry her into the house and set her down in the living room. He broke the kiss and touched her cheek. “Wait here,” he said.

She hugged her arms across her chest, though she wasn’t cold. No, it was as if a fever that consumed her, her whole body burning, on edge with nervousness and anticipation.

Josh returned with an armful of blankets. “I had these wrapped around the mantel when I hauled it from the warehouse,” he said, spreading them on the floor in front of the hearth. “They’re clean.”

She knelt on the makeshift bed and gave him a shaky smile. “This will be fine.” Everything would be all right if he would just hold her again.

He knelt facing her, and smoothed his hands down her shoulder. “Nervous?” he asked.

She nodded. “A little.”

“Me, too.” His smile warmed her further and dispelled some of the awkwardness she’d been feeling. She was here in this wonderful house, rain falling outside, the rest of the world far away. This was a magical moment and she’d be a fool not to savor every second of it.

She slid her hands down his arms, enjoying the feel of hard muscle, then moved to his waist and slipped her fingers beneath the hem of his shirt. His skin was hot to the touch. She stroked upward, stopping when the hair on his chest tickled the tips of her fingers.

He stripped the shirt over his head, then helped her remove hers. They kissed again and, while his lips pleasured her mouth, he popped the clasp of her bra and removed it, as well. “You’re beautiful,” he said as he caressed her breasts, stroking lightly, his fingers sending wonderful sensations through her.

She smoothed her hands down his back, and traced the line of his spine, like a blind person acquainting herself with every inch of him. She undid the button on the waist of his jeans, but he put his hand over hers to stop her. “You first,” he said. “You’ve already seen me naked.”

She laughed and stood, one hand braced on his shoulder, and kicked off her sandals, then slipped off her shorts, sliding her underwear down with them. The look of such open desire in his eyes as he watched her made her feel shaky. She would have sank to her knees again but he grasped her buttocks and drew her to him, his mouth on her clit, kissing her, tasting her.

She moaned again, instantly wet for him, her breath rapid and shallow. He squeezed her buttocks, his fingers strong, pulling her closer still. She cradled his head in her hands, her fingers twined in his thick hair.

He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes dark, his hands still holding her firmly. “Now I think I’d better get naked,” he said.

“I was wondering what you were waiting for.”

He stood and removed his shoes and jeans. She stepped back, putting some distance between them.

“Where are you going?” he asked, reaching for her.

“I just wanted to look at you.”

He laughed. “It’s not as if you haven’t seen me naked before.”

“I haven’t seen you like this.” She directed her gaze to his erection. “Impressive.” Actually, all of him was pretty impressive. Not that she hadn’t seen her share of gorgeous male bodies this week, but Josh was definitely special. Maybe because she knew how gentle he could be in spite of his strength.

She took his outstretched hands and let him pull her to him once more. They clung to each other, savoring the pleasure of skin on skin, letting the tension build once more.

“Let’s lie down,” he said, and they lay back on the blankets.

She smoothed the hair out of his eyes and smiled at him. “I couldn’t believe it was you when you walked into the studio the other day,” she said. “You don’t know how many times I’ve thought of you over the years.”

“Really? Good thoughts, I hope.”

“Good thoughts.” She pressed her hand against his chest, feeling his heart beat against her palm. “Though, this past week I’ve been having some particularly horny thoughts about you.”

“So the playing hard to get was an act?” His voice was teasing.

“Let’s just say I’ve learned to be cautious.” Part of her still worried something would happen to mess things up between them, but she was tired of fighting her feelings. For now, at least, Josh felt worth the risk.

“You don’t have to be afraid of anything with me.” He kissed her forehead, then her eyelids, her cheek and finally her mouth, his lips reassuring her without words, his hands stroking and caressing, making her forget her worries and fears and everything but this wonderful moment in time.

JOSH THOUGHT he knew a lot about women until he was with Sam. He’d told himself he would take things slowly, and not expect too much this first time together.

But the reserve he’d sensed in her earlier melted away in the heat of sex. She wasn’t shy about touching him and delighted in exploring his body with her hands and her mouth. She trailed kisses down his chest and flicked her tongue across his nipples, while her fingers stroked the underside of his balls. He groaned and grasped handfuls of the blanket beneath them when what he really wanted was to roll her onto her back and take her immediately.

But then he would have missed the pleasure of discovery that she shared with him. She moved down his stomach, surprising him by plunging her tongue into his navel, sending a new sensation of desire shooting to his groin. She cradled his erection between her palms and smiled at him. “Do you have a condom?” she asked.

“In my jeans.”

He sat and reached for the pants but she got to them first and found the foil packet in the pocket. “So you were planning this,” she said.

He grinned. “I had hopes. You have to admit, whenever we’ve been alone, things have gotten hot and heavy.”

“Mmm. I noticed.” She tore open the packet, then knelt between his legs once more. “May I?” she asked, holding up the condom.

“Go ahead.”

But when she took him in her hands again and began to smooth on the condom, he had to fight to keep from losing it. He bit his lip and focused on watching her face. She looked so serious, twin lines on her forehead as she concentrated on putting on the condom. Her skin was flushed, her breasts bobbing slightly as she shifted back onto her heels.

He sat up and reached for her and drew her over him, his arms wrapped around her, kissing her deeply, his erection pressed against her stomach.

When they paused for breath, she buried her face in his neck and he felt her smile against him, then she wrapped her legs around his waist and rolled over onto her back. He squeezed her hips and knelt between her legs, anxious to be in her, but forcing himself to wait a little longer.

“I’m ready for you,” she said.

“Are you sure?” He parted her folds and watched her eyes lose focus as he slid two fingers into her. She was hot and slick, her muscles tensing around him. With his tongue he stroked her clit, feeling the tension building.

Eyes closed, head back, she abandoned herself to his attentions. He kept his thumb moving but withdrew his fingers, replacing them with his cock. She gasped as he filled her and he bit back a cry of his own. She squeezed around him, his vision momentarily fogging at the exquisite tension.

She rocked beneath him, urging him to begin moving, slow and deep strokes at first, then faster, urgent. He kept his thumb pressed against her clit, coaxing her to her climax, her arousal fueling his own.

She came hard, bucking beneath him and crying out. He gathered her to him, holding her close as he continued to rock against her. She wrapped her arms around him, her fingernails digging into his back, and her cries mingled with his as his climax slammed into him.

When the waves of release had subsided he slid out of her and they lay side by side for a long while, not speaking. He fought against sleep, though the sound of the falling rain and her own steady breathing combined to lull him toward slumber. She wiggled beneath him, bringing him back to consciousness.

“Sorry,” she said. “My arm was going to sleep.”

He kissed the arm in question. “Be right back,” he said, then went to the bathroom to dispose of the condom.

When he returned, she was curled into the blanket. She held it open and invited him to cuddled with her.

Work beckoned, but he was reluctant to leave the cozy cocoon of her arms and the encircling blanket. “Do you remember when we were kids and you kissed me?” she asked after a while.

He smiled, remembering her at twelve, freckles across her sunburned nose, the straps of her training bra showing beneath her tank top. They’d spent days laughing and teasing each other. Innocent at first, then not so innocent. One day he had grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him and she’d said, “Kiss me.” So he had. Her lips had been dry, and soft. And very warm. She tasted faintly of strawberry Kool-Aid. And she’d felt more wonderful in his arms than anything he’d imagined before. “I remember,” he said.

“That was my first kiss,” she said.

“I thought it might have been,” he said. “I was flattered, really.” She’d moved away not long after that. He’d thought of her for a long time, even after he’d kissed other girls, and done more than kiss them.

“You were sweet.”

“And I’m not now?” he asked, in mock offense.

She laughed and snuggled more firmly against him. “I don’t think sweet does you justice anymore. You’re much more…spicy.”

“Spicy?”

“Well…sexy and tempting and maybe even a little bit dangerous.”

He laughed. “No. Not dangerous. Far from it.” He turned his head to look at her, though the best he could manage from this angle was a view of part of her head and the curve of one cheek. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not afraid of you. But you could still be dangerous to my peace of mind.” She raised her head to meet his gaze. “Relationships complicate things.”

“The girl I remember wasn’t afraid of complications,” he said.

She laid her head down again. “The girl you knew doesn’t exist anymore.”

She didn’t elaborate and he didn’t probe, sensing this was territory best left unexplored, at least, for now. Something—or someone—had made her hesitant to take risks. He tightened his hold on her, wanting to lash out at whatever or whoever had hurt her. Wanting to protect her. And, most of all, wanting to prove to her that she didn’t have to be afraid of anything anymore.

And for a guy who had no time for a relationship, this was dangerous territory.

FOR MOST OF the next day Sam walked around in a daze, scarcely able to believe what had happened with Josh. Lying in his arms after they’d made love, she’d been overwhelmed with such happiness she’d swallowed tears, sure he’d think she was a nut if she suddenly started crying. She couldn’t explain how…right…it felt to be with him. Or why the knowledge shook her so.

She forced herself to work, reviewing the photos she’d taken for the Frameworks for the Future calendar, selecting the shots to send to the committee. She smiled at Mr. June, posed looking back over his shoulder at the viewer. He was Mr. Macho, nervous and trying not to show it when he’d first walked into the studio, but she’d gotten him to loosen up by asking about his work.

Mr. August faced the camera head-on, clad only in work boots, hands folded in front of him. Now that had been an interesting photo session. Like Josh, he was a man who wasn’t shy about letting it all hang out, so to speak.

She came again to Josh’s picture, and her heart beat faster. He was no more or less handsome than the other men she’d photographed, but something about him moved her in a way none of the others did.

Maybe part of it was because he had known her in better times, when life had still treated her well and she’d been open to all its experiences. Or maybe it was because memories of that summer with him and his sister had been the one thing she’d held on to when things were roughest. Whenever she’d moved to a new foster home—a place where she knew no one and wasn’t sure how long she’d stay—she’d spend her first night recalling events of that summer. She’d replay a warm afternoon at the beach, digging her toes in the sand and watching Josh in the surf, or hanging on to his neck while he swam into deep water. The waves had washed over her, filling her mouth with salt and she’d squealed, but she’d never been truly afraid, because he’d held her tight.

And she’d remember that kiss—so sweet and innocent, and yet so much more. With Josh she’d felt the first stirrings of a woman’s desire. She wished they’d had more time to explore those feelings together.

From those memories had grown her fantasies of Josh as her ideal lover. The perfect man for her, kind and loving and sexy. Those fantasies got her through the rough days.

As erotic as some of her fantasies had been, her thoughts of Josh were always more than sexual. She wanted his body, but when she was totally honest with herself, she wanted more. She wanted the carefree spirit and trusting nature she’d lost after their summer together. And as unrealistic as she told herself such expectations were, she felt as if Josh could help her find that part of herself again. Having him back in her life now seemed like a miracle.

She shook her head and shuffled rapidly through the rest of the photos. She’d told him he was dangerous and she’d meant it. As inexperienced as she was with serious relationships with men, she knew it was never a good idea to expect things from someone else that they couldn’t give.

A knock on the door startled her and she went to answer it, heart in her throat. She hoped it wasn’t Josh. She wasn’t ready to see him again just yet. She needed more time to think.

But instead of Josh, it was her landlord. “Mr. B., what’s up?” she asked. He looked uncharacteristically glum. That, and the fact that he’d bothered to knock set off warning bells in her head.

Mr. B. walked over to her worktable and hefted his ample frame into one of the two bar stools that sat before it. “A man came by today and offered to buy this building,” he said.

The words knocked the breath out of her and, for a moment, she couldn’t speak. “Who?” she managed at last. “Why?” Who would want this run-down place?

“A guy with money, that’s who,” Mr. B. said. “He says the neighborhood is improving. He wants to tear this place down and build condos.”

She swallowed hard. “What did you tell him?”

Mr. B. avoided looking at her. “I told him I’d think about it.” He sighed. “Maybe it’s time I retired. Business is slow, anyway.”

Business at the dry cleaners was always slow. She thought that was the way he liked it. “What would you do?” she asked.

“My sister lives in one of them senior citizens communities over in Coral Gables. She says they have all kinds of activities for the residents—poker games and movies and stuff. And she tells me the single ladies outnumber the men three to one.” He smoothed his lapels. “Might be I’d find me a girlfriend. I been kind of lonely since my wife—God rest her soul—passed on.”

She could see him, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a plaid shirt, surrounded by attractive older women. They’d cook for him and fuss over him—he’d be in heaven. How could she begrudge him that? “It sounds like it would be a great thing for you,” she said.

“Yeah.” He watched her out of the corner of his eye. “And hey, business is good for you, right? You can afford a nicer place than this. Someplace with more traffic, a better clientele.”

“I have a nice clientele, already.”

“Still—you won’t mind finding another place, will you?”

“No. Of course not.” She forced a smile. “And this will be great for you. I’m happy for you. I really am.”

“Well, good.” He slid off the stool, visibly relieved at having this task over with.

“How…how long before I’ll need to move?” she asked.

“He said he could give you a couple months to make arrangements. You should be able to find something nice in that time, right?”

She nodded. “Sure. I’ll find a great place.”

He left, and she returned to the work bench and buried her face in her hands, fighting tears. Where was she going to go? She had some money in the bank, but not nearly enough. Her plan had been to save until she could afford to buy her dream house—the one with room for a studio and a big front porch. But as Josh had pointed out, such places were getting more expensive every week.

Her other alternative would be to find another place like this, with a small efficiency apartment and cheap rent. But it probably wouldn’t be that cheap, and deposits and utilities and moving costs would eat up all her savings. She’d have to start over.

She thought about telling Josh her dilemma and seeing if he knew of a place, but pushed the thought away. She was not going to start relying on him to solve her problems. She had to take care of this herself.

5

SAM HAD SUGGESTED meeting Josh at a café near her studio to go over the photos she had of his house in its various stages of restoration. He suspected she’d chosen the neutral, public location to lessen the temptation of being alone. As if he didn’t see right through that tactic.

No matter how much she protested she didn’t want to get involved with him, one look in her eyes told him she was lying. There was something powerful between them. Something a little scary even. But he’d never been afraid to face his fears, especially when they came wrapped in an attractive package like Sam Delaney.

The door to the coffee shop burst open and Sam rushed in. She was out of breath, her hair mussed, cheeks flushed. Josh instantly felt the pull of desire. This is how she would look in the morning, after a night of making love. He wanted to be the man responsible for that look. The man who would hold her close and kiss her and suggest they go one more round before getting out of bed to face the day.

“Josh? Are you okay?”

He realized he’d been staring at her, probably for some time. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you’d ordered breakfast yet.”

“No, just coffee. What would you like?” He picked up a menu and studied it. It appeared to be written in some strange foreign language.

She giggled. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. Why would you think I wasn’t?”

“Because you’re holding the menu upside down.”

He tossed the menu aside. “I don’t need it, anyway. I’ll just have the Denver omelette.”

The waitress took their orders—Sam had yogurt, fruit and granola—and returned shortly with two cups of coffee.

“Did you bring the photos?” he asked.

“Yes.” She handed a thick portfolio across the table. “The first shots were taken a couple of years ago, when I found the house,” she explained as he undid the string around the portfolio and unfolded the flap.

He studied the green-and-gray photo. About all he could see of the house was part of the porch and roof sticking up from a mass of weeds. “I spent the better part of one afternoon just clearing a path to the door,” he said, shuffling to the next photo.

“That was right after you cleared the vines away,” she said, leaning over to check the picture. “I was thrilled someone had purchased the house, but half afraid, too.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That you’d tear it down. People often do. They buy the property for the land, then raze the house and build something new.”

He nodded. “There were times when I was doing the work when I’d wondered if I shouldn’t have done the same thing. It would have probably been cheaper.”

“But a modern house would never be as wonderful as that one,” she said. “It wouldn’t have the history that one does. The memories.”

She had that dreamy look in her eyes, the one he’d seen when she talked about her hoped-for home, the one with a studio and a porch swing.

Breakfast arrived. In between bites of omelette he looked at the other photos she handed him—new roof tiles going on, the repairs to the porch. There was a good selection of interior shots, too—the fireplace before and after the new mantel, the kitchen before and after the new cabinetry. “How did you get all these inside shots?” he asked.

“How do you think? I was trespassing.” She pointed her fork at him. “You should be more careful about locking the doors.”

He returned the stack of photos to the portfolio. “I guess I should be grateful you weren’t a stickler for obeying the law in this case. These are going to make a great presentation. Maybe I’ll even print a brochure.” And seeing the photos had made him realize how far he’d come in restoring the house. He wasn’t one for standing around patting himself on the back, but he could be proud of this restoration job. This house was a great showcase for his skills. While he’d renovated many houses for other people, he hoped this would be the first of many such houses he’d buy and restore for resale.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Sam said. “Just make sure they know who took the photos. I wouldn’t mind getting more of this kind of work.”

He set the portfolio aside. Now that business was out of the way, time to take things to a more personal level once more. “What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.

“Looking for more free help on the house?” she teased.

“It’s worth a try.” He kept the tone light, though he was sure she was thinking about what they’d done after the work was finished, having sex on a pile of blankets, with the rain pouring outside.

“You’ll have to find another helper,” she said. “I have to work at my job.”

“More pet photos?”

“No, this time it’s a wedding.” She scraped the last of the yogurt from the dish. “Over in Aventura.”

“Are you allowed to bring a date?”

She went very still and studied him. “I’m an employee at these things. Not a guest. Why do you ask?”

“Well, then, could you use an assistant? I don’t know much about photography, but I can follow directions and I can carry heavy lights and stuff.”

“You want to come to a wedding with me?”

“Sure. I want to see you work. And it wouldn’t hurt me to take a Saturday off.” Ed would faint if he heard that one.

“I don’t know…” She looked skeptical.

“Come on. How much trouble could we get into at a wedding?”

She smiled and nodded. “All right. It would be nice to have some help.”

He grinned and attacked the rest of his breakfast with fresh enthusiasm. She had probably agreed because she thought he was right—that nothing could happen with all those other people around. Which showed how little she knew. Sometimes the best seductions occurred in the middle of other people. It leant a certain intrigue to the process.

Besides, they’d have to head home sometime, and he doubted either one of them would settle for goodbye and a kiss on the cheek.

AFTER BREAKFAST with Josh, Sam stopped by the offices of Frameworks for the Future to deliver her calendar photos. Liz Olmos, an administrative assistant, oohed and ahhed over the twelve shots of hunky construction workers baring it all. “These are some gorgeous men,” she said, fanning herself. She grinned at Sam. “No wonder you volunteered for this one.”

Sam laughed. “It was fun. The guys were all really nice.”

“And really built,” Liz said. She sighed. “There’s something about a man who works with his hands, you know?”

Sam nodded, thinking of Josh’s hands on her. There was something about him, all right. Something that made it impossible for her to stop thinking about him, wanting to be with him. She’d told herself the smart thing was to avoid him as much as possible, to give her overheated libido time to cool off. Instead, he’d talked her into leting him “help” her at the wedding Saturday.

She didn’t really need a helper. She’d taken hundreds of wedding photos by herself and managed just fine. But she also knew there was no place she felt more lonely than at a wedding. Watching the happy couple, surrounded by family and friends, made her own life seem pretty empty. So Josh would be a welcome distraction, though she’d have to be careful not to let things go too far—Hah! As if that hadn’t already happened.

“You should be getting an invitation soon to the kickoff banquet,” Liz said as she set the photos aside.

“There’s a banquet?”

“Sure. Everyone who has anything to do with this project, including you and all the models, will be there. We invite the press, introduce you to everyone and that kicks off our sales drive. The idea is to generate excitement so that we get a lot of preorders. That pays for our production costs.”

“Sounds like fun,” Sam said. “I think the calendar will be a big success.”

“Our goal is to raise enough money to fund at least five new homes. Maybe more.”

“That would be fantastic.” Five families with new homes. And speaking of needing a home…“Can I ask you a question?” she said.

Liz smiled. “Sure.”

“This is going to sound funny, but does your organization ever remodel older houses?”

“We’ve done some work like that, but mostly we build new houses. It’s more economical and most people want new. There are other organizations that devote themselves to fixing up houses the elderly live in and things like that. Why? Do you know someone who needs help?”

“Yeah. Me.”

At Liz’s puzzled look, she rushed to explain. “The building where I have my studio is being sold. The new owner plans to tear it down and build condos. So I need to find a place to live, fast. I’ve looked for a rental, but I haven’t found one in my price range that will allow me to run my photography business there, too.”

“I’m sorry. Frameworks pretty much limits itself to building houses for families.”

“That’s okay.” It had been a long shot, but she’d figured she had nothing to lose by asking. “What I really want is an older place, but I’m having trouble finding something in my price range.” Searching the classified ads had become an exercise in frustration. Everything was hideously expensive.

“Maybe I have some numbers you can call.” Liz dug around in her desk and came up with a handful of business cards. “These are all real-estate agents in the area. Maybe one of them has something or knows someone who can help.”

“Thanks.” Sam accepted the cards. “I’ll call and see what they say.”

She left feeling more optimistic than when she’d arrived. She’d find someplace to live and work, even if it wasn’t her dream home.

In the meantime, she had the Frameworks banquet to look forward to, not to mention the wedding this weekend. Now that she’d had time to think about it, seeing Josh again could be a good thing. Surrounded by other people and focused on work, they’d have a chance to relate to each other as friends, not lovers. They’d back things off a little, get to know each other, then see where it all led.

She was so lost in thought she didn’t realize she’d turned on to the street that would lead to Josh’s house. The house he was restoring, that is. She hadn’t even thought to ask where he was living now. Wherever it was, she doubted it was as perfect as this place.

She stopped her car directly in front of the house this time. Since the last time she’d been here, he’d painted the porch and installed new hardware on the front door. The place was looking like a real home now. All it needed was a few touches—some flowers out front, maybe some shrubs. And a porch swing.

She smiled. Maybe she didn’t have her dream home, but if she played her cards right, Josh might let her come over and visit.

Strictly as a friend, of course.

JOSH DECIDED he liked watching Sam work almost as much as he liked watching her take her clothes off. He had that same sense of revelation and discovery in both cases. Here was yet another facet to Sam that he hadn’t seen before.

At the Badger-Mulvaney wedding that Saturday he marveled as, in the space of a single hour, she calmly dealt with a mother-of-the-bride who seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown, coaxed two hyperactive flower girls into sitting still for possibly the most adorable kid photo Josh had ever seen and so thoroughly charmed the nervous groom that Josh had to fight to keep from reminding the guy that he didn’t have to stand so close to Sam—and if he put his hand on her shoulder one more time Josh just might have to punch him.

Fortunately, Sam was oblivious to Josh’s inner struggle, as well as to the sigh of relief he breathed when they moved on to the balcony at the back of the sanctuary. “Josh, could you carry those light stands for me?” she called over her shoulder as she started up the stairs with her camera and tripod in hand.

“Sure thing, boss.” He winked at her and hefted the two light stands—and almost busted a gut doing so. He’d unloaded the things from the van when they’d arrived, but they’d been in pieces then. Assembled, they weighed a ton.

He realized Sam had stopped and was waiting for him, so he took a deep breath and hoisted the lights, his suit jacket straining against his shoulders. He hoped that was the only thing he strained. He was in pretty good shape from hauling tools and building materials around all day but he was no Mr. Universe.

In the balcony he set the lights where Sam indicated and shook out his arms. “How do you move those when you’re working by yourself?” he asked.

She set the tripod in place between the two light stands and adjusted the height. “If I have to I can carry them one at a time by myself. But usually I find some young stud to haul them around for me.”

He leaned close and spoke low in her ear. “Then consider me your stud for the day.”

The tips of her ears turned pink, but she kept her back to him, so he couldn’t read the expression on her face.

A few minutes later, the organist took her seat and began to play. Ushers seated the guests and the wedding began.

While everyone watched the bride and groom, Josh watched Sam. She was so focused on the ceremony and getting the right shots he wondered if she even remembered he was here.

She spent a lot of time with each photo, getting it just right, taking shots from different angles, both close in and wide angle. He had no doubt the end result would be wedding photos the couple and their families would cherish forever.

She took photos the way he restored houses, with attention to detail and a goal of perfection. If she kept this up, he had no doubt she’d be a great success. She’d need more than a studio in a house—she’d need a whole building for her photography business.

As the ceremony continued, his mind and his gaze wandered, away from the camera and Sam’s hands on it, to her body bent over it.

She wore a sleeveless dress with a full skirt and low-heeled sandals. The skirt was made of some soft, clingy material that draped over her bottom and the backs of her thighs, their shape clearly revealed. His hands itched to touch her. He could recall the smoothness of her skin, the roundness of her bottom against his palm, the firmness of her thighs….

“Josh! Wake up. I need you to take the lights out to the van while I run down and take pictures of the couple recessing.” She pointed to a door. “There’s a stairway there that leads to the parking lot.”

Glad she was too busy to notice the rather obvious bulge in his pants, Josh shifted into weightlifter mode once more and carried the lights out to the van. He returned to the front of the church in time to see the happy couple emerge in a shower of birdseed and good wishes.

At first he didn’t see Sam, then he spotted her crouched down in front of the couple, scooting backward with the agility of an experienced paparazzi, capturing the moment for eternity.

She continued to follow the couple out to their car, which had been decorated with the traditional tin cans and shaving cream. “What now?” Josh asked as the happy couple drove away.

“Now the reception.”

“Great.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m starved.”

She gave him a pitying look. “We don’t get to eat. At least not right away. First, I have to take shots of the bride and groom cutting the cake, the best man making a toast, tossing the garter and the bride’s bouquet, the first dance and candid shots of all the guests.” She stowed the camera behind the front seat and climbed into the van. “I warned you I was here to work.”

“You’re right. And I’m here to help.” He took his seat beside her. “Your wish is my command.” Though if he got the chance, he didn’t see the harm in sneaking a few hors d’oeuvres.

AT THE RECEPTION HALL, Sam got a great shot of the bride and groom cutting the cake, and a perfect close-up as they looked into each other’s eyes and fed each other cake. She also captured a picture of one of the little flower girls asleep in her mom’s lap and a picture of the bride with her grandmother that was truly priceless.

Josh was probably bored out of his skull, but he’d been a big help, fetching and carrying. As soon as she could afford it, she was definitely going to hire a real assistant. It made everything so much easier.

Once the cake was served and the bouquet was tossed, things calmed down for a little bit. Sam looked for Josh. At first she couldn’t find him. Had he gotten so bored he’d left entirely? Or had some pretty wedding guest dragged him onto the dance floor? As busy as she’d been, she hadn’t failed to notice the envying looks sent her way as Josh helped her set up her equipment. Whether dressed in work clothes, a suit or nothing at all, he was one fine-looking man.

She spotted him at last, over by the buffet table. He saw her and waved, then started toward her with two loaded plates.

“This is for you,” he said, handing her one of the plates.

“Josh, you shouldn’t—”

“The bride’s mother sent this over,” he said. He turned and nodded at the elegant-looking blonde by the punch bowl. The woman smiled and waved at him.

“Let me guess. You pleaded starvation and she took pity on you.” She accepted the plate. The food did look delicious and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“I might have given her one of my devastating smiles, but everything else was purely the kindness of her heart.” He directed one of those toe-curling smiles at Sam. No wonder the bride’s mother had fallen under his spell. “That, and she doesn’t want you fainting from hunger before you’ve finished photographing everything,” he added.

She looked around. The reception was in full swing now, with ties loosened and jackets off. All the ceremonial shots were taken care of and she already had quite a few candid photos. “Actually, I was getting ready to pack up,” she said. “I’ve gotten all the shots I need.”

“Let’s take a break first. Watching you work so hard is wearing me out.” He led the way to a small table in a back corner.

“I appreciate your help,” she said. “And the company.”

“The pleasure’s all mine. It’s been…enlightening, seeing you work.”

She paused with a fork full of shrimp halfway to her mouth. “Um, what do you mean by that?”

“I enjoy watching you with other people. You’re really good—not only at the photography part, but at putting people at ease.”

She shrugged. “I never thought about it much. It’s just what I do.”

“It’s probably why your photographs come out so well. People relax around you.” He grinned. “Present company excepted. Relaxed isn’t how I’d say you make me feel.”

She looked away, determined not to follow up on that comment. She’d been too busy most of the day to think about her feelings for Josh, but now that they were alone she was aware of the way she leaned toward him as they sat, how their hands reached for a napkin at the same moment, how her heart raced when his fingers brushed hers.

The shrimp might have been sawdust for all she tasted it. She looked around the room, hoping for some distraction. “This is one of the better receptions I’ve been to lately,” she said. “The buffet is nicer than a sit-down dinner with a set menu. And the DJ is really good.” She actually had no idea if the DJ was good or not; she had only at this moment noticed the music. A new recording of an old Commodores tune was playing, slow and bluesy. Sexy.

Josh pushed aside his empty plate and stood. “Let’s dance,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Josh, we can’t. We’re not guests.”

He looked around. Their corner of the reception hall was deserted—the tables crowded in front of a screen that shielded extra stacked chairs from the rest of the room. “Come here.” Josh took her hand and pulled her behind the screen. “No one will see us back here.” He gathered her into his arms, his eyes looking into hers, his voice low and irresistible. “I want to dance with you.”

She relaxed into his arms and began to move with him to the music. They didn’t speak but she felt a different kind of communication was happening, one made up of gentle touches and fond looks. After a while, she rested her head on his shoulder and relaxed completely. His arms encircled her, strong and secure. She felt…cherished and happier than she’d been in years.

“You’re smiling,” he said as one song ended and another began. “What are you thinking of?”

“It’s silly.”

“No, it’s not.” His hand tightened against her back. “Not if it’s making you smile that way.”

She raised her head and looked at him. “I was remembering that summer, when I was twelve. When we’d danced.”

“We danced?” He frowned. “When?”

“You probably don’t remember.” Though she had hoped he would. “It was one afternoon when it had been raining. We couldn’t go to the beach and there was nothing on TV, so Julie’d turned on the radio and a song had come on, a slow one.”

“‘I Will Always Love You,’” he said. “I remember.”

It was just the title of the song, but the way he said the words…She swallowed, forcing her thoughts back to her memory of that day. “You’d asked me to dance.”

He smiled. “And you’d said you didn’t know how.”

“And you’d said it didn’t matter, you’d teach me.”

She recalled the magical moment in his arms. He’d been much taller than her then, bent over to press his cheek to hers, coaxing her through the steps, guiding and supporting her. So strong and yet so gentle. “I think I fell in love with you right then.”

She hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. She cringed when she realized she had, afraid he’d think her foolish. But his expression hadn’t changed. “I’d forgotten all about that dance until now,” he said. “I’m glad you remembered.” He held her closer. “I think this is nicer, though, don’t you?”

She relaxed a little. “Because I’m a better dancer now?”

“Because back then we were just a couple of bored kids.” His eyes met hers. “Now we’re a man and a woman and what I feel when I’m with you is anything but bored.”

He was going to kiss her again, she knew it. It was as inevitable as the tide. And she was powerless to resist. “Josh,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“Do you believe in karma?”

A slight crease furrowed his forehead. “Like…things happen because they’re supposed to?”

“More like—we get what we deserve, not necessarily what we want.”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe in it, then. I think we work for what we want and we get it.”

She wet her lips, which were suddenly dry. “Do you think it’s possible to want something too much? So that you jinx it?”

“No.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t tell me you’re superstitious that way.”

She ducked her head. “Maybe I am.”

He took her chin in his hands and nudged until she was looking into his eyes once more. “I think you deserve whatever your heart desires. Whatever. Don’t let superstition or fear or anything else tell you different.”

The conviction in his voice—his unadulterated faith in her—broke down her last barrier of reserve. She wanted to throw her arms around him and shout, or to bury her head on his shoulder and cry.

Instead, she closed her eyes and leaned closer. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Kiss me and don’t ever stop.”

6

JOSH FELT A CHANGE in Sam with that kiss, a letting go of the resistance he had sensed in her since that first day in the photography studio. Whether it was her memories of their childhood or the familiarity of more time spent together, she had stopped fighting her attraction to him.

When their lips finally parted, she stared up at him, a dazed look in her eyes. “We’d better go,” she said.

He nodded and reluctantly released her. He helped her stow her gear in the van, then climbed into the passenger seat. “Do you want to go somewhere for a bite to eat?” he asked.

“No thanks.” Her smile was apologetic. “It’s late, and I’m exhausted. I need to drop you off at your place and then go.”

She did look tired. No surprise. She’d been on her feet and “on” for her paying customers most of the day. Reluctantly, he abandoned his plans to invite her in.

When she stopped in front of his apartment building, he turned to her again. “I’m going to be at the house tomorrow,” he said. “Will you stop by? I want to show you everything I’ve done.”

“I was by there a few days ago. It looks like it’s almost finished.” She grinned. “But I didn’t go inside that time. I’d love to see it.”

“I think everything’s done.”

“Everything except the yard.”

“The yard?” He’d cut the grass and trimmed the shrubs. What else was there?

“It needs flowers,” she said. “Maybe a few shrubs. Something to make it…homier.”

He laughed. “All right. If I buy some flowers and shrubs, will you help me plant them?”

“I’d love to.”

She leaned forward and gave him a peck on the lips, but he pulled her back and deepened the kiss. With a sigh, she melted against him. He had always found it easy to let go of the women in his life, enjoying their company, but valuing his freedom. But he found it hard to say goodbye to Sam, even for a little while. “I can’t wait until tomorrow,” he said when she finally pulled away.

Her eyes flashed with sudden heat. “Me, neither.”

Then she was gone, driving off into the night, leaving him frustrated and needing her…and wondering if this is what it felt like to fall in love.

WHEN SAM ARRIVED at the house early the next morning she found Josh in the backyard, flats of flowers and three potted shrubs set out in front of him with an array of gardening tools. “I know nothing about any of this,” he said. “I just bought what the guy at the nursery suggested.”

She studied the plants. “You’ve got begonia and coleus. Those will be good in the shade up front. And those over there are hibiscus.” She nodded. “Good choices. Where do you want to plant them?”

He held up his hands. “I leave that to you. I’m just the labor.”

She laughed and picked up one of the flats of begonias. “Bring the other one up front,” she said. “These will make a nice splash of color that can be seen from the street.”

Up front, she set the plants down on the walkway and surveyed the flower beds. “These are a mess,” she said. “We’re going to have to weed them before we plant anything.”

Josh studied the mass of grass and weeds clogging the beds. “Can’t we just dig them out?”

“It’s not that bad.” She knelt and reached for a clump of weeds. “With both of us working, we’ll have it cleared in no time.”

Grumbling, he knelt beside her and attacked the weeds. Before long, they’d both worked up a sweat. “This is worse than hanging drywall,” he said. He rocked back on his ankles and peeled his T-shirt off over his head.

The sight of his naked back and shoulders did crazy things to Sam’s concentration. She tried to focus on pulling weeds, but her gaze continually strayed to him.

Which may have been the idea all along, since he kept stealing peeks at her and missed no opportunity to brush up against her.

Ha! Two could play that game. She took off her own T-shirt, revealing a sports bra beneath. Now it was Josh’s turn to stare. She couldn’t help but grin when she had to ask him twice to hand her a trowel.

Eventually the beds were cleared. They planted the coleus and begonias before tackling the hibiscus in the back. “In a few weeks you’ll have lots of colorful blooms,” she explained as she patted the dirt around the last hibiscus. “It’ll be gorgeous.” She could picture herself sitting in a swing on the front porch, admiring the flowers. Maybe waiting for Josh to come home from a job, so they could go inside and make love….

“How do you know so much about flowers?” he asked.

“One of my foster moms was a big gardener. I used to help her.” Funny, she hadn’t thought of that in a long time. She’d really enjoyed working in the garden that year, just as she’d enjoyed gardening with Josh today. Maybe she’d buy a window box for her apartment. Or maybe her new place would have room for a real garden.

If she found a new place. She pushed the thought away. She wasn’t going to think about that today. She was going to focus on enjoying being with Josh. All her worries about things not working out between them had been silly. She was beginning to think he’d come back into her life after all these years for a reason. Maybe they were even fated to be together. And who was she to fight fate?

“Do you still keep in touch with any of your foster families?” he asked.

“A couple. We exchange Christmas cards and such.” She’d been invited back to visit, but had never made it. It was too painful to remember that, as much as they’d professed to love her, eventually she’d had to move on. Blame it on the system or her own difficulties trusting others, but none of them had ever really been family to her.

“I guess we’re finished here,” he said, brushing dirt from his hands.

“I guess so.” She looked down at her muddy knees. “What a mess, though.”

“I can fix that.” He jogged around to the side of the house and came back dragging a water hose.

“Great,” she said, walking toward him. “I’ll just rinse off.”

Before she could complete the sentence, he doused her with a blast from the hose. “Allow me,” he said above her squeals, and aimed the stream of water at her knees.

The water was cold, but refreshing. She felt her nipples harden. Josh must have noticed, too, because the next blast of water soaked her sports bra, leaving little to the imagination.

“Give me that!” she squealed, and launched herself at him. She managed to wrestle the water hose away and turn it on him, soaking them both in the process. Then she dropped the hose and ran.

He chased her, laughing, and soon caught her. They fell to the ground in the shade of a grapefruit tree in the back of the yard and rolled around in each other’s arms. She felt so alive and full of energy, every sense heightened. The grass was thick and velvety, soft against her bare arms and legs. The chill of her wet clothes contrasted with the heat of his skin and the heat building inside her. Soon they were kissing, passionate, open-mouthed kisses, tongues twining, legs and arms wrapped around each other. They were hungry for each other, unable to get close enough to satisfy the wanting within them.

She lay on her back, the weight of him on top of her, his mouth crushing hers. He raised himself on his elbows and looked down at her. “I think we need to get out of these wet clothes,” he said.

“I agree.” She started to sit up, to head into the house, but he pushed her back down. Then he rolled to his side and pulled off his jeans, along with his underwear.

“Josh!” She sat up and stared at him. His skin still glistened with water, the droplets sparkling in the hair on his chest and the dark thatch between his legs. “It’s the middle of the day. Someone will see.”

“No, they won’t. The yard is fenced. And besides, we’re back here under the trees.” He slid one hand under the edge of the bra. “You really ought to get out of your wet things, too. You wouldn’t want to catch a chill.”

She could have pointed out she wasn’t likely to catch a chill on an eighty degree Florida day, but his fingers were tickling the underside of her breasts, rendering speech impossible. Every stroke sent delicious currents of tension and awareness through her breasts, down her torso to concentrate between her legs.

He helped her take off the bra and her shorts and underwear and they lay back again on the soft grass. The smell of earth and oleander blossoms perfumed their outdoor boudoir, the wild setting and the lingering fear that someone would see them, that they would get caught, intensified her desire.

“I want you so much it scares me,” she whispered as he lay beside her, his hand caressing her thigh.

“You know what they say about fear.” He kissed her neck, his tongue licking at her skin, making her jump.

“What do they say?” She faced him, reaching around to pull him closer.

“That if something frightens you, you should keep doing it until it doesn’t scare you anymore.” His lips covered hers, silencing any further objection, claiming all her attention.

She brought her hands up and caressed the back of his head, fingers twining in her hair, then guided him lower, to her breasts, which ached to be touched by him.

He was thorough in his attentions, teasing each nipple in turn with his tongue, drawing as much of her as possible into his mouth until she writhed beneath him, sure she would come from this stimulation alone.

Then he moved lower still, trailing kissing across her belly, down to her clit. He pushed her thighs farther apart and kissed the inside of each one, light feathery kisses that sent ripples of arousal through her. She clutched handfuls of grass and arched toward him, both tempting him and pleading with him.

When his mouth covered her sex, she moaned and arched farther still, her heels digging into the soft grass. He plunged his tongue into her, then raked it up across her clit, leaving her trembling. Then he reached up and began to fondle one breast while his tongue continued to pleasure her clit.

Her climax rocketed through her, wave upon wave of intense sensation. She cried out and reached for him, and he slid up her body to lie atop her. Before she could even open her eyes, he was in her, sinking deeply, filling her completely. She supported herself on her elbows and opened her eyes to look into his. “You’re amazing,” she said.

“Yeah. You, too.” The words were more of a grunt as he began to move, finding his rhythm. Eyes closed, head back, he held her tightly, driving toward his own release.

She felt the muscles of his arms and back tense and bunch beneath her hands, and her own desire began to build with each stroke. They moved as one, instinctively, responding to each weight shift or position change as if they had been partners even for all the years they had spent apart.

He came with a cry and her second climax soon followed, and she wanted to laugh out loud for joy at that moment. They rocked together for minutes afterward, then slid apart and lay side by side in the grass, the scent of oleander thick in the air and the promise of love unspoken between them.

SOME TIME LATER, when the shade had receded, the hot sun drove them inside, where they retired to the shower and made love again under the warm cascade of water. Then Sam dressed in her T-shirt and now-dry shorts and Josh walked her out to her van. She looked back at the house and smiled. The flowers were bright spots of color in the beds, and the brass of the new front door gleamed. All it needed now to be complete was people. “Now that it’s finished, when will you move in?” she asked.

“I’m not moving in,” he said. “I’m going to sell the place.”

She froze, one hand on the open van door, and stared at him. “You’re going to sell it? Why would you want to do that?”

“What would I do with a house like this? It has four bedrooms and I’m a single guy.” He frowned. “I thought you realized I bought it to sell. It’s what I do.”

Her grip on the door tightened. All this time, she thought he’d been restoring the house because he saw the same things in it she did—home and family. A place to really live. She’d even been foolish enough to picture herself living there with him—in her dream house with her dream man.

How stupid she’d been! “So it’s just about money with you?” she asked, unable to keep the accusation from her voice.

“Sam, this is my business. It’s what I do. Like your photography. You don’t keep every photo you take, do you?”

“This house is different.” She didn’t know how to put her feelings into words, except she knew that if he didn’t understand what the house meant to her, how would he ever understand her?

“I think a house like this was meant to be a home, not a money-making machine,” she said.

“And I think you’re being unreasonable.” His voice rose. “It’s just a house.”

“It’s more than a house to me.” It was the place where she’d fallen in love with him again. The place where she’d let herself believe dreams could come true. If she’d been wrong about his feelings for this place, what else had she gotten wrong?

“Do you even care about me, or was it the house all along?” he asked.

She took a deep breath, trying to rein in the emotions that battered her. “The house is part of it,” she admitted. “I thought you felt the same way about it that I did.”

“So you’re saying you love the house more than you love me?” He turned away, but not before she saw the hurt in his eyes.

“Josh, it’s not like that,” she protested.

He shook his head and walked away from her. She wanted to call him back, but had no words to say, no clue how to defend herself. Maybe he was right. Maybe she loved the house because she wasn’t capable of really loving a person. Maybe she was too afraid. Too damaged.

JOSH WAS MISERABLE and it wasn’t his fault. After all, he had never told Sam he intended to live in the house. Why would she assume that? His business was remodeling houses for other people. She ought to be happy that he’d found a way to use his skills to make more money. The way she’d reacted you’d have thought he’d told her he intended to burn the house down.

Fine. She’d proven he was better off focusing on his business. Work was something he could control. Stupidly, he’d let Sam distract him from his goals.

The thing was, he missed her. Really missed her. And it was driving him crazy.

“What’s with you?” Ed asked one day two weeks after Sam had walked out of Josh’s life. “You’ve been grumpy as a bear all week.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” Josh used a laser level to line up the chair rail in a dining room he was redoing in a ranch house in Overtown. “Now move. You’re in my way.”

Ed took one step to the side. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were upset over a woman,” he said. “But since that can’t be it, what gives?”

“What do you mean, that can’t be it?” He straightened and glared at his friend.

“Hey, you said it, not me. You said you didn’t have time in your life for a relationship.” He began marking the wall with a pencil just under the line indicated by the level. “So what is it? Did your house not sell for as much money as you wanted?”

“No, I got a good price.” The house had sold after only four days on the market, for five-thousand dollars over his asking price. The closing was next week and after that Josh’s bank account would be considerably fatter. He ought to be thrilled, but he couldn’t even think of the house without remembering how he and Sam had made love on the living room floor that rainy afternoon, or in the shade of the backyard the last time they were together.

“Yeah, the way real estate is selling around here, you’ll be rich in no time.” Ed finished marking the wall and straightened. “That ought to make you happy.”

“Are you saying I only care about money?” That was what Sam thought.

“You’re a businessman. Of course you’re watching the bottom line.” Ed took a piece of chair rail from a stack by the opposite wall. “Help me with this, will ya?”

“I care about a lot more than just money.” Josh began tacking one end of the molding in place with a nail gun while Ed held the other.

“Sure you do,” Ed said. “You’re a Dolphins fan, too.”

Josh frowned. “I’m not talking football, I’m talking important things.”

“Don’t let the other guys hear you don’t think football’s important.”

“Look at the work I’ve done for Frameworks for the Future.”

“Right. You volunteered to take your clothes off in front of a hot chick. A real sacrifice.”

“I help build houses, too.”

“Hey, did I say you weren’t a great guy?” Ed leaned closer. “Hey, maybe it is a chick that’s got your shorts in such a twist.” He straightened. “She got upset because you work all the time, didn’t she?”

“It wasn’t that,” Josh said. “Not exactly.” He set aside the nail gun and stepped back to check the rail.

“So…you in love with her or something?” Ed asked.

Was he? “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Uh-oh.” Ed clapped his hand on Josh’s back. “You’re in trouble now.”

“Tell me about it.” He picked up the nail gun again. He loved a woman who loved a house that wasn’t even his anymore. She thought money mattered more to him that anything else. If only he’d had the chance to prove to her how wrong she was about that. Right now, she was the one thing that mattered most to him—and she wasn’t even around to realize it.

SAM WAS MISERABLE and it was all her fault. She’d gotten all torn up about a house when it was the man who owned the house—or used to own the house—that mattered most. She’d gone and screwed up everything and had no idea how to fix it.

“What’s eating you lately?” Mr. B. asked when he found Sam slumped in front of her computer one afternoon, listlessly flipping through photos she’d taken at yet another wedding. “You’re not mad at me because I went and sold this dump, are you?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not mad at you. You got a great offer and your new place in Coral Gables sounds perfect for you.”

He settled onto a stool beside her work bench. “I’ve already been invited to two bridge parties and a potluck supper,” he said. He smoothed back his hair. “The ladies are falling all over themselves to welcome me to the neighborhood, and I’m not even moved in yet.”

She managed a smile at the mental image of Mr. B. surrounded by over-sixty sex kittens. “I’m going to miss seeing you around all the time,” she said. It hurt to realize he was one more person who had loved her and would now leave.

“You can come visit me anytime,” he said. “It’s not that far.”

She nodded. “You’re right. But it wouldn’t be the same.”

“Nothing ever is,” he said. “Thank God for that—otherwise life would get pretty boring. Have you found a new place yet?” he asked.

“I’ve been looking, but nothing’s come up.” A real-estate agent had taken her around one afternoon last week to look at a few houses that were in her price range. They’d trudged through a battered 1950s-era duplex with rotting wooden siding and bilious green carpeting, made a hasty escape from a ranch house inhabited by rats and toured a pink stucco “fixer-upper” that overlooked a sewage plant.

The final house, an aged bungalow painted a forlorn shade of gray, had been the saddest of all. Some misguided decorator had attempted to “update” the house by painting each room a different eye-popping color, from fire-engine red to school-bus yellow. The fireplace in the living room had been boarded over and a previous tenant had removed all the fixtures from the downstairs bathroom. Just looking at all the work the house would need to be made habitable made Sam tired.

“It’s hard to find anything in my price range,” she said. “I may have to take another apartment.” And even that was proving problematic. Most complexes didn’t want tenants operating businesses out of their units. And landlords like Mr. B. were more often than not selling out to developers.

“I’ll ask around and see what I can find for you,” he said. “Don’t give up hope.”

“I won’t,” she said, with more conviction than she felt. After all, she’d always gotten by somehow. And she did have some money in the bank. She just had to keep looking.

And stop thinking so much about how she’d screwed things up with Josh.

She’d caught herself driving by his house again yesterday, even though it wasn’t his house anymore. The new owners had been moving in. She’d stopped her car down the street and had watched them for a while—a man and woman and two little girls. The girls had been so excited, skipping around the yard, exclaiming over the flowers, or a frog one of them found. The mom and dad had hauled boxes from the moving truck and had called instructions back and forth. “That lamp goes in the living room.” “Put that box in our bedroom.”

Watching them, Sam had realized they were the perfect family for the house—ones that would make it a real home. Josh had been right to sell it. One day, when he was ready, he’d buy another home and fix it up for his family.

And when the time was right, she’d find her home, too.

“You gonna take those with you to your new place?”

She turned and saw he was pointing across the room to the strands of red, purple and blue glass beads that separated her kitchen from her photography studio. She smiled. “Sure. I got those at a fair when I was fourteen.” That had been the first foster home where she’d had her own bedroom and her foster mom had let her hang them over the doorway. She’d had them in every place she lived since.

“I don’t know what you see in that hippie stuff,” he said.

She laughed. “Those aren’t hippie! Well, they are, but the Victorians had them first. And those are real glass, not plastic.”

“At least the sofa’s new,” he said. “That’ll look good wherever you go.”

The sofa had been a definite splurge, purchased after a lucrative job taking school pictures for a private academy. Covered in tomato-red ultrasuede, the sofa matched the throw pillows she’d had since she was a little girl. “The throw pillows belonged to my mom,” she said. The two needlepoint pillows were a little faded after all these years, but she could still clearly read the words Home Sweet Home cross-stitched on one and There’s No Place Like Home on the other.

“I think my wife, Bernice, had some like that a long time ago,” Mr. B. said. He shook his head. “It’s amazing how many of her things I still have at my place and she’s been gone ten years now.”

“That’s nice,” she said.

“Nice until you have to move it all. You’ve got it easy. Try moving when you’ve lived in one spot forty years. I got so much stuff I don’t know what to do with it. You should come down and see if there’s anything you want.”

“I will.” It would be nice to have something to remember him by. She realized with a start that she had similar mementos from every family she’d lived with. The ceramic clock painted with roses that sat above her worktable was from her first foster home. The afghan at the end of her bed had been crocheted by her second foster mom, while the orchid that bloomed over the kitchen sink was from the third home she’d lived in.

Why had she never realized this before? No matter where she lived, she always brought pieces of her past with her. Even when she’d lived in her car, it had been full of things she loved and reminders of better times.

Mr. B. hoisted himself off the stool. “Come on down soon as you can. I got the Salvation Army coming by tomorrow afternoon to pick up a truckload of stuff. The movers are coming at the end of the week.”

“I’ll stop by later.” She walked with him to the door. “I’ll have to find something that reminds me of you every time I look at it.”

“Well, you ain’t getting my old recliner, so I don’t know what else would remind you of a grouchy old fart like me.”

“I’ll find something,” she said.

When she closed the door behind him, she was smiling, and the smile stayed with her. Mr. B. had reminded her of something important. A home didn’t come ready-made. A person had to move in and put their personal stamp on it. The perfect home for her wasn’t sitting vacant, waiting on her. She had to find a place and make it a home, by filling it with the things—and the people—she loved.

7

THE BANQUET to celebrate the launch of the new Frameworks for the Future fund-raising calendar was a black-tie affair held at a posh bayfront ballroom in Miami Beach. Josh wasn’t two steps inside the door before he was nose-to-nose with his own naked image. Looking around, he discovered the walls were lined with life-sized blow-ups of all the calendar photos.

But the photos were apparently a hit with the other guests—at least the female contingent, who were busy oohing and ahhing over each one. It reminded him of his days as an exotic dancer. He liked knowing he still had a little of that brashness in him. He headed toward the tables at the front of the room, where he’d been told he’d been seated.

He hadn’t gone far before he was waylaid by a buxom matron in a sparkly silver dress. “You’re Mr. July, aren’t you?” she asked. “Would you sign my calendar?”

Grinning, he scrawled his signature across the bottom left-hand corner of his photo. Before he found his seat he signed three more.

The models were seated three to a table with members of Frameworks’ board of directors. He exchanged introductions with Ben Delgado, Mr. June, and Mr. August, Hawk Shadow Bonaparte. Ben’s date was also the board chair of Frameworks, Marina Reston, while Hawk was accompanied by a petite platinum blonde with a blue sapphire stud in the side of her nose, Gina. As the lone stag male at the table, Josh felt a little conspicuous.

He looked around, hoping to see Sam, but the room was filling up quickly and he couldn’t find her.

Shortly after seven, Marina left them and made her way to the podium at the front of the room. A stunning woman with light brown hair with blond highlights, dressed in a slinky gown that showed off her curves, she had the attention of every man in the room when she spoke, but none more so, Josh thought, than Ben. He hung on her every word and his eyes never left her.

Josh had looked at Sam that way. He’d give anything for the chance to look at her that way again. It was silly for them to let something like a misunderstanding over a house come between them.

“I want to welcome you all to this celebration in honor of our first ever Frameworks for the Future fund-raising calendar,” Marina said. “I want to offer a special thanks to our handsome male models.”

She paused and waited for the applause and whistles to die down, then continued. “Not only do these men volunteer their time helping to build homes for families in need, this time, they literally bared all for the cause and, I think you’ll all agree, the results are stunning.” She motioned to the pictures that decorated the ballroom.

More applause and catcalls erupted. “Gentlemen, please stand.” Marina motioned for them to rise.

They did so, some reluctantly, others waving to their fans. Josh grinned. This wasn’t so different from his days as a stripper, except this time women weren’t stuffing his G-string with ones and fives.

As the applause died down, he started to take his seat once more and, at that moment, spotted Sam. She was seated in the row of tables behind his, to the far right. And she was staring right at him.

Their eyes met and he felt a rush of emotion—sadness and hope and intense longing. He had to talk to her again. And this time, he’d let her know how he really felt about her.

THE REST OF THE BANQUET passed in a blur. There were more speeches, then a dinner. Sam ate mechanically, counting the minutes until she could leave and go in search of Josh. Seeing him here tonight had made her realize how foolish she’d been not to seek him out earlier.

As soon as the last speech had ended and the waiters began clearing the tables, Sam bolted from her chair. For a moment she lost sight of Josh in the milling crowd, then she spotted him. His back was to her, but she’d know those broad shoulders and that brown hair in need of a trim anywhere.

Then he turned and saw her, and it was all she could do not to run toward him. Somehow she walked, cursing the high heels she wore that kept her from moving very swiftly.

“Sam, it’s good to see you,” he said when she reached his side.

She searched his face for some sign of his emotions, but his expression was impassive and his eyes gave nothing away. “It’s good to see you, too.” She fumbled with the strap of her evening bag. “I—I saw you sold your house,” she said.

“Yes. I think the new owners have already moved in.”

“I saw them. A family with two girls.” She took a deep breath. Apologies were never easy, even when she knew she’d been in the wrong. “You were right, Josh,” she said. “The house is better for them. I’m sorry I said the things I did.”

She didn’t realize how tense he’d been until he relaxed at her words. “It’s not just about the money for me,” he said. “I wanted you to know that. The money’s important, but it’s not the most important thing. Not by a long shot.”

“I know that now.” Someone bumped into her and mumbled an apology. People milled around them.

Josh touched her arm. “Let’s go somewhere quieter and talk.”

They had to stop three times on the way out of the ballroom so that Josh could sign calendars for appreciative fans. “This is Samantha Delaney, the photographer,” he said, introducing Sam to the first woman.

The woman barely glanced at Sam. “It’s so wonderful of you to do this for Frameworks,” she said, beaming at Josh. “I know all my friends are going to want these calendars.”

“Sorry about that,” Josh said when they were finally alone in a side corridor leading away from the ballroom.

She smiled. “Not so easy being a celebrity, huh?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t do it for the fame. That’s not what I’m all about, despite the impression you may have gotten.”

“Josh, I’m sorry. I know that now. I just…” She hugged her arms under her breasts. “Obviously, I have a few issues with the idea of home. You got caught in the cross fire.”

“If I’d been paying more attention, I’d have figured that out,” he said. “You gave me enough clues. I know it was hard on you, losing everything so young and being moved around all over the place.”

She gave a shaky laugh, one very close to tears. “Yeah, I’m a mess. Consider yourself lucky that we didn’t keep seeing each other.”

“Don’t say that.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “I’ve been miserable since you left.”

“Yeah, I’ve been pretty miserable, too.”

He pulled her close, and she rested her forehead against his shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to sob all over his suit. He smoothed his hand down her back and she had never felt more safe. More at home. “You were right about some things,” he said. “I see that now.”

She swallowed hard. “What was I right about?”

“I’d let working and making money blind me to what was really important in life. I told myself I’d have time for other things—and other people—when I’d made my stash. That attitude almost cost me the best thing that ever happened to me—you.”

She raised her head and looked into his eyes. What she saw there warmed her through. “Do you think we could try again?” she asked.

His arms tightened around her. “I think we have to.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, a slow, sweet meeting of their lips that said more than any words.

When at last they pulled apart, they were both smiling. “I have a surprise for you,” he said.

“Me first.” In all the turmoil of seeing him again, she’d almost forgotten.

“All right. What’s your surprise?”

“I bought a house. It’s not much of one,” she hastened to add. “It needs a lot of work. But it has two bedrooms and a den I can use as a studio—and a big front porch. It’s in a run-down neighborhood, but the real-estate agent thinks it’s going to be the next trendy area in Miami.”

“That’s great,” he said. “I’m glad you found a place.”

“There’s only one thing…”

“What’s that?”

“I need a contractor to help me fix it up right. Do you know anybody?”

“I might know someone.” He squeezed her arm. “He doesn’t come cheap, though.”

“Maybe we can work out something.” She trailed a finger down his shirt front. “A mutually beneficial exchange.”

“Mmm.” He let his smile form slowly, to devastating effect. “Maybe we can do that.”

She arched against him, eager now to leave the hotel altogether—or else to get a room upstairs. “What was your surprise?” Maybe it was a room.

“It’s out in the parking lot.”

“The parking lot?”

He laughed. “Come on. I’ll show you.” He put his arm around her and guided her to the door.

A hot breeze ruffled her hair and blew back her dress as they stepped into the parking lot. The salty marine smell of the ocean mingled with the perfume of oleanders, reminding her of the last time they’d made love. Yes, they definitely needed to get out of here soon. To someplace where they could truly be alone.

Before they reached his truck, Josh turned and took hold of both her hands. “Close your eyes,” he said.

“What? Then I won’t be able to see where I’m going.”

“I’ll guide you. Just close your eyes.”

Pretending reluctance, she closed her eyes and gripped his hands tightly in hers. He led her, stumbling only a little in her heels, across the lot, then stopped. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

At first she wasn’t sure what she was looking at in the back of Josh’s truck. Then he reached over and opened the driver-side door and the cargo light lit up. She gasped, then clapped her hands together in delight. “It’s a porch swing.”

“I thought you might like it.”

She threw her arms around him and he whirled her about. She laughed and kissed him again. “How long have you been driving around with this is your truck?” she asked.

“A few days.” He looked sheepish. “I was trying to work up the guts to come see you.” He glanced at the swing. “This was my peace offering. Or a bribe.”

“A bribe?”

“Whatever it took to get you back.” His eyes met hers again. “Fifteen years ago, we were just kids. I didn’t realize how special you were then. Now I feel like we’ve had a second chance. I’m not going to blow it again. I love you, Sam. Don’t leave me again.”

“I love you, too.” Tears stung her eyes—tears of happiness she didn’t try to hold back. “All these years, I thought what was missing in my life was a real home. Now I know home isn’t a building—it’s the people you love and want to be with. And I know I want to be with you.”

He pulled her close, her head on his shoulder. “Welcome home, Sam.”

No words had ever sounded sweeter. No place had ever felt as right as in his arms. No matter where they lived, or where they hung that porch swing—she would always be at home with Josh.

WATCHING IT GO UP

Colleen Collins

To my Men at Work coauthors, Karen Kendall and
Cindi Myers, who were a blast to brainstorm with!

1

BEHIND THE DOOR was a naked man.

Or so private investigator Gina Keys hoped.

Because if he was naked, he was less likely to run. And if he tried, he’d be picked up for indecent exposure, which would suit her just fine because she’d gladly drive down to the jail and grill him, right there in the holding cell.

On the other hand, if he was still dressed and put it together that she’d been tailing him, he’d likely bolt and she’d end up in her bald-tire, vegetable-green Honda trying to keep up with his monster-wheel, metallic-green pickup. Oh, yeah, that would be fun. Like a pea chasing down the Jolly Green Giant.

Not tonight, baby. This girl—and, in her book, thirty-one years old was still a girl—was too tired and hungry to play follow-the-leader on a hot August night through Miami’s congested streets.

The dude had better be naked.

She double-checked the address over the door as she adjusted her fanny pack. Yeah, this was it. Samantha Delaney’s photography studio. Sidling over to the window, Gina tugged off her Miami Heat baseball cap and fluffed her hair, pretending to check her reflection as she scoped for any openings in the drapes. Not a one. She paused to relish a passing ocean breeze before shoving her cap back on.

She checked her watch. Six-fifteen. She’d watched her target walk in here a little before six.

Moving back to the door, she raised her fist to knock, then halted. A peephole. Was someone watching her? Not likely, but Gina had long ago learned to err on the side of caution. She stood still, listened, but heard only the distant clash of Cuban and reggaeton music from apartments across the street.

She tested the doorknob. Unlocked. Cool. After double-checking her phone was on vibrate, she slipped inside.

Damn.

She’d assumed she’d be in the photography studio’s reception area, but she was in the studio itself—a narrow room, most likely the front room of an apartment turned into the photography space. Twenty feet in front of her, a slim woman with short brown hair, her back to Gina, was busily adjusting a light. A table heaped with construction tools was to Gina’s left. The rest of the room was cluttered with miscellaneous boxes, lights, cameras. In the back, a rack of clothes. A hodgepodge of photos—from pets to brides—lined the walls.

She glanced to her right.

There, bathed in lights against the tightly closed drapes, stood Gina’s target.

Hawk Shadow Bonaparte.

Unfortunately, not naked. Still dressed in his work clothes. Boots, jeans and a pristine white T-shirt that set off his mocha skin. A six-five, hundred-percent Native American, he made tall, dark and handsome seem like a child’s ditty. The guy was massive, swarthy, deliciously dangerous-looking. His thick, inky-black hair ran riot over his head, like a primal aura. The glare of lights highlighted the flat, raw-boned planes of his cheeks and lips.

A small tremor passed through her.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman.

The slight southern drawl confirmed her to be Samantha Delaney, the photographer-owner. Earlier, pretending to be a volunteer for Frameworks for the Future, Gina had called Samantha to verify Mr. Bonaparte’s—Mr. August’s—appointment time. Which was how she’d learned he’d be here at six.

“Yeah, was told to check the place.” Should have thought through my pretext better before I slipped in here. Pretexts, or ruses to gain access or get information, were one of the more useful tricks in the investigator’s bag. Gina glanced around, debating which pretext might work. City inspector? Pest control?

“Sorry,” drawled Sam, “but this is a private shoot.”

“No problem. I’m, uh, here to…”

A flash of white snagged her attention. She glanced over in time to see Hawk tug the edge of his T-shirt from the waistband of his jeans, flashing an impressive shot of ridged stomach muscles in the process.

“To?” prompted Sam.

“Huh?”

“You said you were here to do something,” prompted Samantha.

“Right.” Gina pretended to check something in her fanny pack while slipping another look at Hawk. He gave his head a shake, like a dog, and dragged a hand through his thick, jet hair. She’d mostly observed him from a distance before. Up close, the man was impressive. Larger than life and built for power.

Another tremor, light and tingling, skittered over her skin.

“I’m here to…” She’d been in these situations a hundred times, had dealt with all kinds of people, and mentally kicked herself for letting the sight of a man, even a supersized one, throw her. Pick a pretext, dummy. “Check for bugs.”

Samantha’s eyebrows shot up. “What bugs?”

Hawk leaned over and begin unlacing his work boots.

“Termites.”

“I wasn’t aware we had a termite problem.”

Gina remembered the name she’d seen on the mailbox outside the dry cleaners downstairs. “Yeah, someone named Buenavides called, asked for an exterminator to get here ASAP. Some kind of termite emergency.” Explain why you don’t have any equipment with you. “I first do a check,” she quickly added, gesturing around the room, “then return to spray, which I’ll do after you finish your shoot, of course.”

Hawk removed a boot and tossed it aside. It landed with a solid thunk.

“Buenavides is my landlord.” Samantha frowned. “I wish Mr. B. had said something to me about this.”

“Yeah, well, landlords are like that,” Gina mumbled. Because of the security system she’d installed, her landlady, Mrs. Famosa, would need a stick of dynamite to get in unannounced. “Mr. Buenavides said he’d seen cockroaches downstairs, wanted to make sure they hadn’t migrated up here, as well.”

“I thought he saw termites.”

Gina nodded. “That’s right, he did. Cockroaches, too.”

“I’ve never seen either around here,” Samantha murmured, glancing around.

The thunk of the second boot dropping diverted Gina’s attention again. Hawk straightened to his full height, rolled back his shoulders and stretched. His muscled arms extended to forever, their brown skin reminding her of burnt sugar. Sweet to the taste, rough on the tongue.

Samantha obviously caught her look, because she was suddenly all business. “I’m sorry, but this is a private shoot. Can you come back tomorrow?”

Gina gave a weary, put-out sigh as she glanced at her sports watch. “If I’d known this time slot wasn’t gonna work for you, I’d have saved myself the drive across town in rush-hour traffic. Now I’m stuck here until the commuters clear out.”

“Sorry.” Samantha’s tone softened. “It’s just my landlord sometimes makes these arrangements without telling me and for this particular shoot, well, if we could reschedule…”

“Gotta call it in, check with the boss.” Gina flipped open her cell phone. “We’re booked three weeks out. Mr. Buenavides got lucky ’cause we had a cancellation, otherwise, it’s gonna be almost a month before one of us can get back.” She started punching in her home number.

“A month?”

“August is our busiest bug season. Those termites are mutliplyin’ like there’s no tomorrow.” She raised the phone to her ear, wondering if termites actually had a season. “And the cockroaches—” she rolled her eyes “—at the rate they’re breeding, they’ll take over Miami by October.”

Samantha made a frantic hold-on gesture. “Don’t ask yet,” she whispered. “Let me check something first.”

Gina nodded as she listened to her voice on the answering machine. “This is G K Investigations. I’m out of the office right now, but leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you within twenty-four hours.” Beep.

Since her fall from grace at the D.A.’s office a year ago, after which she’d opened her one-woman P.I. shop, calls had been few and far between. Then, a week ago, thanks to a referral from a former client—the socialite, Marina Reston—Gina finally landed her first big case. A hotshot Miami developer, Roger Bowen, who was currently overseeing the construction of a twenty-floor luxury condominium in downtown Miami, claimed he was being ripped off to the tune of several hundred grand. Inside job. Expensive equipment. And he had a hunch who it was—just needed the evidence to back it up.

And, because he’d paid her a hefty retainer, with more promised when she nailed the thief, Gina was determined to get the evidence he needed. She made a mental note to write a thank-you card to Marina.

In the background, Samantha was talking in low tones to Hawk. When he looked over at Gina, she pretended to be engrossed in a phone conversation.

“Hey, Margie, put Bob on the line, will ya?” Good ol’Margie and Bob. Gina had created these fictional characters years ago, resurrecting them whenever she worked a pretext. A lot easier than trying to remember manufactured on-the-fly people.

She glanced back at Hawk, whose dark, impenetrable eyes were still staring at her.

“Hey, Bob,” she continued, pretending Hawk’s he-man self didn’t impress her one iota, “my six o’clock might wanna reschedule. How far we booked out?”

Hawk was still staring at her. Had he recognized her?

The closest they’d ever been to each other was two days ago when he’d walked past the bus bench where she’d been sitting, a spot that gave her a clear view of his pickup. She’d been dressed in jeans and a rock T-shirt, pretending to read a magazine. He might have noticed her spiky white-blond hair, the main thing—besides her tiny sapphire nose stud—that people remembered about her.

But today a cap covered her hair, the sapphire was too small to be noticed, and she was wearing…Shit, was she wearing the same T-shirt? That low-cut one with a red silk screen of Deborah Harry in studs?

She glanced down at her basic black tank top. Nondescript and forgettable. Perfect P.I. undercover wear.

Get off the paranoid train. It was one of the first things she’d learned as a wet-behind-the-ears investigator at the Dade County D.A.’s office years ago—paranoia screwed up more jobs than dumb-ass mistakes.

Samantha was walking back to her.

“Hold on, Bob,” Gina said into her cell.

“Mr. Bonaparte doesn’t mind your being here, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t…” Samantha glanced at the phone.

Gina quickly lifted it to her ear. “Job’s on. Don’t reschedule.” She flipped the lid closed. “Didn’t, what?”

“Didn’t stare at him.” Samantha dipped her head toward Hawk. “He’s going to be…”

Oh, this was good. Gina put on her best innocent look. “Be, what?”

“Naked. For a charity calendar,” Sam quickly added.

Gina emitted a low whistle. “You don’t say,” she whispered.

Samantha nodded. “So, if you’d not stare, he’d probably be more comfortable.”

“Did he say that? For me not to stare?” He’s hiding something.

Samantha looked surprised. “No. That was my suggestion.”

“No prob. I won’t stare.” Gina unzipped a pouch on her fanny pack and rummaged about her toolkit, consisting of everything from miniature cameras to screwdrivers to digital recorders—anything she might need on the go. She pulled out a small flashlight. “I’ll be looking elsewhere, anyway.” She switched on the light and pointed it at the floor, wondering if she’d recognize a termite if she saw one.

“Thanks,” Samantha said before walking back to Hawk.

Gina fought the urge to smile. Good. Hawk being open-minded about the exterminator remaining in the room made her job a heck of a lot easier.

She stayed true to her word and didn’t look over at Hawk for a solid five minutes, during which time she pointed the light at spots on the floor, baseboard, even the base of a lamp. Sure, why not?

Eventually, she slipped behind the rack of clothes at the far end of the room. Not ideal, but it provided an okay camouflage. The area behind the clothes was in shadow. The hanging tops, dresses, jackets were like a curtain—she could peer through them and remain unseen. She switched off her flashlight, slipped it back into her fanny pack and pulled out a small digital camera.

Through a space in the clothes, she watched Hawk lean against a ladder as Samantha quietly directed him to bunch his T-shirt in such a way that exposed his torso. Damn, the man’s body rippled every time he moved. Gina had never seen a man with so many muscles, some in places she hadn’t even known muscles existed. More directions from Samantha. Without a word, Hawk complied—shifting, arching, propping that package of raw, bulging masculinity as told. The photographer cooed approval as she snapped photo after photo.

Damn, that job was a lot more fun than being a P.I. The last time Gina had ordered a man around, it had been a scrawny drug dealer in Coconut Grove, although, she’d certainly cooed after finally slapping him with a subpoena.

What was Samantha handing Hawk?

A drill?

Hawk listened intently to Samantha. Then, with a knowing look at the camera, he casually held the drill against his thigh, the long, hard bit held erect at a suggestive angle, mimicking his…

How ridiculous.

How cliché.

Gina’s pulse sky-rocketed.

How unbelievably, incredibly hot.

Easing out a shaky breath, she turned her attention back to her own camera, her fingers suddenly all thumbs as she fumbled with its settings. Relax. Focus on the case.

She thought back to Hawk’s file, filled with computer printouts, some blurry snapshots Bowen had taken, her scrawled notes.

Hawk Shadow Bonaparte, thirty-two, had been born and raised in upstate New York. Third-generation ironworker. Full-blooded Mohawk. Many in his tribe were expert ironworkers who had worked on bridges and skyscrapers across North America. Known for their skill, agility and fearlessness working up high, they’d earned the name Skywalkers.

They were also accustomed to “booming out”—leaving the reservation for distant construction jobs. On one of these remote jobs, he’d been working on a Manhattan skyscraper when, a few blocks away, the World Trade Center had fallen. Hawk had been one of the first rescuers at ground zero. There’d been a lapse in time after that, six months when his whereabouts hadn’t been documented. Then, he’d started booming out again, moving from one construction job to the next, his most recent gig being here in Miami for the past two months.

And this recent job coincided with the time some high-priced items started disappearing from the construction site.

She shoved the cap farther back on her head and peered through the viewfinder, zooming in on his face and those dark eyes, shiny like obsidian. She shuddered, thinking what those eyes had seen on nine-eleven. Roger Bowen had called Hawk “a tight-lipped loner.” Seemed a harsh judgment for a man who’d risked his life to help others. Had Hawk been that way before nine-eleven, or had that event shut him down, turned him inward?

A heaviness filled her chest. She related to that choice. Her experience didn’t compare by any means to nine-eleven, but she knew how it felt to withdraw from what had once been your ordinary world.

She gave herself a mental shake. Hell of a time to go soft. Gina had been in this business too long to fall too far on the side of empathy. Hawk might have rushed to aid his fellow man, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a calculating thief.

Her thoughts dispersed as Hawk slowly pulled off his T-shirt, unveiling the full expanse of his rock-hard chest.

For a moment, her senses dulled, then sharpened exquisitely as she visually navigated those molded, hard indentations of muscle. A thin line of black hair trailed over his pecs and rode small waves of muscles on his diaphragm before disappearing into the snug waistband of his low-slung jeans.

Snap.

Never know when such a photo might come in handy.

Snap.

Might need to identify any scars, birthmarks, tattoos.

Snap.

After all, a good P.I. always documented her case.

He set down the drill and began popping open the buttons on his fly.

She wiped her suddenly sweaty palms down the sides of her jeans. Effing reaction. She’d once done an undercover job in a sex club, for Christ’s sake. Not that she’d had sex there, of course, but she’d witnessed people doing things she’d never seen before. Or even imagined, for that matter.

She paused, watched as Hawk stepped out of his jeans.

Although, she could sure imagine some of those things now.

She’d have guessed him to be a boxers kinda guy, but no, he preferred briefs. Stretchy, body-molding briefs. White. Which set off the bronze of his surrounding skin, although, she sure as hell wasn’t looking there.

Snap.

Might need a photo of that to verify…

Snap.

Something.

A sudden dizziness raced through her and she closed her eyes. She’d never been the type to go weak-kneed over a hunky guy, not even when she was actively dating, which had been a long time ago, back in her more carefree days before being publicly fired and humiliated.

She lightly fanned her face, which felt hotter than after eating spicy ropa vieja, her favorite Cuban dish. At least for that, she could cool down with a sip of sugary guarapo.

She glanced back at Hawk, who stood facing Samantha’s camera, his hands strategically crossed, wearing nothing but his briefs and unlaced work boots. Samantha must have asked him to slip his boots on again. That man looked hotter stripped down than most men did after preening for hours.

She’d need a vat of guarapo to cool down after this.

Back to business.

Through the viewfinder, she scanned the studio floor, looking for a flashy watch, designer sunglasses, something expensive that indicated Hawk might be enjoying a recent influx of money. His jeans and T-shirt lay in a pile near the shooting area. Nothing unusual there. Nearby, some boxes of cables, lights—obviously Samantha’s stuff. A pink nylon bag. Definitely Samantha’s. Gina would certainly have noticed him carrying that into the studio.

She scanned back across the floor, halted. What was that? She pressed the zoom button.

There, on top of his clothes.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

Hawk’s briefs.

She lowered the camera and stared down at her running shoes. Guess she’d been wrong about his wearing them a moment ago. The man’s forearms and hands were so large, he could obviously hide a lot behind them.

She held her breath and counted to ten. A variation of a stress-reduction technique she’d learned from a grief counselor in high school. Although, to this day she still didn’t get what grief counseling had to do with her dad going to prison.

Hawk’s naked.

This was the state of undress she’d wanted thirty-or-so minutes ago, but now that he wasnaked, she was having trouble dealing with her reaction. Damn it. If there was anything Gina hated about others, but especially about herself, it was to go soft.

I’m in control. She lifted her gaze.

During the last few moments, the ladder had been placed in the photographic setting. Hawk leaned against it, still wearing his unlaced work boots, otherwise one hundred percent in the buff, except for…

He’s holding a hard hat over his privates.

Samantha Delaney was moving in the foreground, holding her camera this way and that, crouching, leaning forward, oblivious to everything but getting the shot.

That’s one disciplined, focused woman.

Gina looked back at Hawk and froze.

Even from across the room, she swore his dark gaze was boring into hers. She instinctively took a step back, even though a rational part of her brain knew he couldn’t possibly see her. She was in the shadows, hidden by this curtain of clothes.

Damn paranoia.

Holding herself very still, she continued peering through a gap between a tweed jacket and a black sweater, the mixed scents of stale cigar smoke and old perfume having the effect of bad smelling salts. She felt momentarily sobered, more centered.

With her wits about her again, she could see he wasn’t staring at her, just looking off into the distance. Being a good model, that’s all. With all those lights in his eyes, he probably couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him anyway.

He slowly lifted the hard hat away from his body.

Even with all her rationalizations about where he was looking and why, it still felt as though his eyes were locked with hers, testing her, teasing her, tormenting her.

She wondered when the air-conditioning unit had started malfunctioning. Then realized that rattly, wheezy sound was coming from her.

Screw her reactions. Only a woman with a libido of granite wouldn’t react to a real-life calendar boy. Looking again through the viewfinder, she focused on his hands. Big and brown and masculine. Just like the rest of him. She zoomed down what was becoming familiar territory, the molded chest, the ridged abs…The man was so exceptionally well built, especially…

There.

A rush of heat flooded her body.

Her hands trembled.

Her inner thighs twitched.

She’d been in challenging situations before, but she’d never faltered, always stuck to the program, always taken care of business. And she’d do the same right now. Because it was the right thing to do.

It was what she had to do.

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

After all, a good P.I. always documented her case.

2

TEN MINUTES LATER, Hawk lay naked—except for his work boots—on a sheet-draped table watching the rack of clothes at the back of the room.

A few minutes ago, Samantha had said the shoot was over. After politely thanking him, she’d told him to take his time getting dressed as she needed to find the model release forms. Then she’d exited through a side door of brightly colored hanging beads.

But he hadn’t gotten dressed.

Not yet.

He propped himself up on one elbow and wondered what the woman who’d called herself an exterminator was doing behind those clothes. She wasn’t using her flashlight anymore, nor had he heard any noises from back there. If he listened carefully, all he heard was the hum of the air conditioner and occasional rustling noises from the other room where Samantha had disappeared to.

Something about that exterminator was familiar, although, he couldn’t remember what. Familiar and disturbing. Ever since he was a child, he’d always had a gut instinct for whether person could be trusted or if they brought danger.

With her, he’d felt both.

The rack of clothes moved. A slender, jean-clad leg emerged, followed by the rest of her. She appeared to be putting something back into her fanny pack. Odd how dark her clothes were—jeans, black top, black baseball cap—for a summer day. Even for someone who worked indoors a lot, it didn’t make sense to wear clothes that absorbed heat. Exterminators wouldn’t know if a job location had great, lousy or no air-conditioning. Plus, she’d be going outside to get chemicals and applicators, then toting them back into the building.

It just didn’t fit.

When she walked, the soles of her shoes squeaked lightly on the tile floor. When she finally stopped a few feet from him, he noticed she wore black running shoes. No reflective designs or white laces, just solid black.

His gaze traveled up her slim legs, boyish hips, over the black T-shirt to her face. Although Samantha had turned off one large studio light, others had been left on. Their glow seemed to bleach the color from the woman’s skin, giving her a ghostly look. Except for those lips. Full and generous, she’d painted them a deep red like cranberries. In his tribe, that color had different meanings—sunset, wounds, earth or war. He wondered what meaning she’d chosen for herself because he believed nothing was insignificant or by chance.

“What are you staring at?” Her voice sounded different than when she’d first come in. Smarter. Tougher.

“I’d ask the same, but I know the answer.”

Her eyes were a disquieting blue. Like the core of a flame. Hot, untouchable.

“Not so difficult to guess—” she looked down his body, back up “—considering you’re naked. A woman would have to be six feet under not to react to a man like you.”

She was acting unfazed, a bit too nonchalant but, even under the lights, he saw a blush creeping up her neck.

He’d never used his size to intimidate others. Nevertheless, most people backed off in his presence, had done so most of his life, as though size made right. So her in-your-face retort surprised him. She might blush, but she also had a streak of fearlessness.

An old memory of someone like her rose in his mind, bringing with it the familiar ache of pain and regret. It came and went as it always did, like the flash of a firefly in the night.

He glanced at her shoes again, remembering where he’d seen her before. “I recognize you,” he murmured. When he looked up, he caught a flash of something in her eyes that confirmed his instincts. “You’re following me.”

In the long moment of silence that followed, he was acutely aware of the light rasp of her fingernails as she absently picked at a spot on her jean pocket. Then, with a weighty sigh, she dropped her hand.

“What gave me away?”

“You wore those same shoes the other day at a bus stop near my work. Black shoes in summer? Too hot. I also wondered why someone would wear running shoes if they were catching a bus.”

A small smile curved her lips. “Good catch, Sherlock.”

No wonder she colored those lips. They were beautiful, meant to be admired. Especially when she smiled. “Doesn’t take much to understand people. Animals had us figured out a long time ago.” He gestured to the logo on her cap. “You like the Miami Heat.”

“Like that was hard to guess.”

“True. You’re short, but I’d also guess you like shooting hoops.”

“Sometimes.”

“Figured.” He looked her down and up. “You have the body type of someone who plays ball.”

“Right. We short, petite types are killers on the court.”

“You have lean legs. Developed arms. You love the sport.” He shrugged. “I’d bet you’re a force to be reckoned with playing one-on-one.” He didn’t add she also had the smarts of a crafty point guard the way she’d worked this room. Worked the photographer.

Hadn’t worked him, though.

Not for long.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

From the other side of the hanging beads, a drawer slammed shut. From out of view, Samantha called out. “Hawk, I seemed to have misplaced those forms. It’ll be a few more minutes, okay?”

“No rush,” he responded. When his gaze met those blue eyes again, they looked surprised. “What?”

She glanced at the beaded doorway, back to Hawk. “You didn’t snitch me out.”

“I’m not afraid of you. Besides, a danger foreseen is half avoided.”

She studied him for a moment. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’m a private investigator, hired to—”

“Investigate the missing property.”

“So you know about it.”

“All the construction workers do. We’d have to be six feet under not to.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

She didn’t fool him anymore. She could squint, posture, even threaten, but he’d caught a glimpse underneath her mask. And he guessed she probably knew he’d glimpsed it because she suddenly ducked her head to avoid his eyes, got overly busy looking for something in her fanny pack. She was strong, but underneath that exterior, a part of her was also afraid.

She was, in a sense, more naked than he was.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” she said, holding up a small object. Light sparked on its silver surface.

“What is that?”

“Digital recorder.”

“No.”

She paused. “I’m interviewing your coworkers, too.”

“No one’s mentioned being interviewed.”

“You’re the first.”

“Are you going to such trouble to track them down, too?” Her silence gave him more answers than her words. So, he was her single prey.

He sat up, slowly, which brought their heads to an equitable level. “Here’s your interview—I didn’t do it.”

She fumbled with a button on the recorder. “Wait! I haven’t turned it on.”

“I don’t want to be recorded.”

She looked up, an expression somewhere between baffled and pissed-off on her face. “Saying you didn’t do it isn’t enough.” She smiled, although he didn’t buy it. “I have other questions.”

“I’m not answering them.” He frowned. “Doesn’t matter, anyway, because I have nothing to hide.” He glanced past her at his pile of clothes, realizing she’d placed herself strategically between them and him. She was indeed a crafty point guard.

“But your answers might help us find out who is the thief.”

“Even if I knew, I wouldn’t say.”

“Never a snitch, right?” She darted a look at the beaded curtain. “Look,” she said, moving closer, her body language taking on a this-is-just-between-you-and-me coziness. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“I’d like a union rep to be present.”

“Oh. Well. If you have nothing to hide, there’s nothing to worry about, right?”

The light scent of her perfume traced the air. Roses. Sweet, fragrant roses. A vise tightened around his heart. Nothing was by chance, but that didn’t mean he was ready for this. Life’s lessons were sometimes about sacrifice and suffering, but that didn’t mean he was prepared for her. He’d long believed that knowledge and information could come through a dream or a vision. Or sometimes they manifested right in front of you.

With great effort, he caught up with her stream of words.

“…statistics show that pretrial interviews significantly decrease the chance of being subpoenaed to testify in court.”

When he didn’t answer, her eyes widened. “I’m serious.”

“I can tell.” He looked at her lips as red as a sunset, her eyes as blue as heat lightning. He’d promised himself to never again be with someone who took risks, which is exactly what a P.I. did.

A ripple of anger passed through him. He’d thought the danger he’d felt was of a different nature—the hunter and the prey—but it could be something else. The danger of being close. No, he definitely wasn’t ready. Would never be ready.

She must have thought his silence meant he was vacillating because she gave him a funny little smile. “Just a few questions,” she urged.

He shifted, opening his legs slightly. Sexuality could be cold, distancing. The few times he’d indulged his need these past few years, he’d chosen to experience it that way. He’d do it now to keep her off guard. The prey was turning on the hunter.

Her gaze dipped, paused. A shiver crossed her pale skin, a tattletale pink filled her cheeks. Those red lips parted slightly. Her desire was as tangible as if he’d put his finger to a flame. But just as tangible was an ache that went deeper than lust. He knew it more certainly than anything he saw or heard. He sensed it. Her world was lonely.

He knew how that felt, unbearably so.

He leaned back slightly, instantly regretful for his boldness. He’d wanted to shame her, but he’d only shamed himself. When had he stopped abiding by the primary tribal law of the land, which was to respect all living things—the earth, universe, but most especially humankind? Bad wishes toward others reduced the law of respect, and being calculating or cruel, which he’d just been, was worse than a bad wish. It was evil.

Just as something evil was occurring at the work site, although, he’d chosen to ignore it, keep to himself, do his job. He’d never speak to this investigator, no matter what tactic she tried. He could explain to her that it was part of his upbringing to never speak about others in a negative way, whether they were present or not, but even he knew his reasons ran deeper than that.

There was darkness at the work site. There were workers whose energy was like the stealthy weasel. Then there was Bowen, who seemed to respect money more than people. But to explore suspicions was like blaming the wind. It did no one any good.

“Leave me,” he growled. “Now.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, Gina leaned her head against the steering wheel. The engine rumbled and the air-conditioning blasted as she debated whether to scream, bang her head or just remain this way for a small eternity and continue to berate herself for screwing up her best shot at an interview with Hawk.

Her best?

Ha.

Most likely, her only shot.

She’d done hundreds of interviews at the D.A.’s office. She’d trained dozens of junior investigators on interviewing techniques. Being direct and respectful landed more interviews than manipulating, cajoling or flirting, which were techniques of the amateur.

She’d done all three.

I should have just kept walking, straight out the door, and attempted a later interview through more conventional, saner means. Could have called and requested an interview at a meeting spot of his choice. Could have shown up at his work, invited him to talk over a cup of coffee.

She groaned out loud as she pressed her chin against the top of the wheel and stared glumly out the windshield. I blew it. She squeezed shut her eyes. I didn’t even leave my business card. Even if he had second thoughts and decided to grant her an interview, he wouldn’t know how to reach her. He could look up all the private investigators in Miami, and he’d have no idea which one might be her.

Bleeew it.

Gina dropped back her head, letting her heated, sorry face get the full blast of chilly air-conditioning.

Damn, her nipples were still hard, which had nothing to do with the cold air and everything to do with the hot man still inside that photography studio.

There was only one thing that could satisfy her now. Only one thing that could soothe the ache, fill the emptiness, gratify the urge.

Food.

She punched the radio knob—Nick Lachey was singing “What’s Left of Me.” Tell it, brother. After shoving the gear into first, she took off down the road.

AN HOUR LATER, Gina pulled into a cluttered strip mall in Little Havana, the inside of her car saturated with the mouth-watering scent of the best roast-pork-and-cheese sandwich in south Florida. As usual, locals were mingling in the parking lot, some smoking fat cigars purchased from the shop, Little Havana Cigars, located next to G K Investigations. On the other side of her office was a souvenir shop, crammed with everything from bags of Cuban coffee to straw hats. She grabbed her wrapped sandwich and cup of guarapo, the popular Cuban sugarcane juice that supposedly had healing properties. If anybody needed healing tonight, baby, it was Gina.

She started to get out and stopped.

Leaning against the security front door of G K Investigations was a face from her past she wished had stayed there. Ian Shaver. The egotistical, self-serving and unfortunately talented writer from the Miami Tribune.

Gina stared longingly at the paper bag holding her sandwich. “I refuse to let this ruin my appetite.”

As she approached, Ian straightened and flashed her a lopsided smile. Although it was dusky, the light above her door illuminated his receding hairline and the extra baggage in his face. Looked like he’d gained the twenty pounds she’d lost this past year.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she muttered.

“Nice to see you, too, Gina.”

A purple Pontiac cruised down the street, Cuban music pulsing through its open windows. It slowed next to a group of girls on the street corner.

He rubbed a knuckle along his jaw. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?”

“Your redemption.”

She snorted. “You sound like a reporter needing a story. Sorry, I’m fresh out of news.”

A boy leaned out of the Pontiac, said something in Spanish to the girls, who erupted into squeals and laughter.

“It’s a little busy out here,” Ian said. “May I come inside?”

“I’ve had a long day. All I want to do is eat my sandwich and go to bed.”

“I’ll keep it short.”

“Why should I want to talk to you, Ian? It’s not like we’re old friends.”

His lips twitched. “It was a story, Gina. I’m sorry. Really, I am, but it had to be written.”

A police car sped down the street, its siren wailing.

Another story for Ian. Another human tragedy. Vultures profited most when others stumbled. Bastards.

He waited for the siren to fade before speaking. “As I said, I’m sorry. Look, I need a favor, hoped you might help. I’ll keep it short.”

In Ian’s circles, everybody knew of her fall from grace. By meeting with him, she could drop a hint or two about the big case she was working, show him she was back in the game. He was the kind of guy who could spread the good news, especially if she scratched his back first. Egotistical bastard.

“Come on in,” she mumbled.

Juggling her bag and drink, she inserted the key and clicked open the custom-made security door for which she’d personally coughed up fifteen-hundred dollars plus change. It wasn’t Little Havana that had had her concerned for her safety when she’d rented this space eight months ago, but the public outcry against her after she’d been accused of mishandling evidence that enabled a notorious rapist to be freed.

She hadn’t mishandled, but uncovered evidence that showed the alleged rapist hadn’t committed the crime, but somehow the facts got lost in the avalanche of sensationalism. Because of several death threats after that, she’d had to take extra safety precautions. A year later, she still couldn’t get over the fact how, after helping hundreds of female victims, she’d been threatened for doing her job.

Inside, a motion-detector light automatically went on, illuminating the waiting room. Unfortunately, with business so slow, few had waited in it. But that should be changing after she slam-dunked Roger Bowen’s case.

She glanced at the mail piled in the basket as she walked across the stained beige carpet. “Come on back to my office.”

Ian did a low whistle. “What kind of dog do you have?”

She looked over at the large dog crate against the far wall, one of her thrift-store specials. She didn’t have a dog, but never told anyone that. The top of the crate had evolved into a tabletop, where she set her coffeemaker, cups and a microwave.

“Doberman,” she lied. Sometimes she said Rottweiler or Great Pyrenees, depending on the client and her mood.

“Wh-where is it?”

“Out back. He comes and goes through a doggie door. A little moody, but I like him.”

Ian hustled to keep up with her as she continued back to the office.

“Still love the Miami Heat, I see,” he said, following her into the room.

She’d taped up posters of Shaquille O’Neal and Dwayne Wade, her heroes. A calendar from her insurance company and a photo of her mother were the only other wall decorations. Ian settled into one of the two green crushed velour chairs that faced her desk, a door with screw-on legs.

She caught him eyeing the latter, of which she was quite proud actually—how many people could claim their desk had cost less than twenty dollars? Sitting behind it, she tapped the monitor button on her computer screen. Her screen saver, a picturesque shot of Whistler Mountain in British Columbia appeared. “So, what’s up, Ian?”

“Wanted your help on a story.”

Her e-mail inbox opened. There was a message from Roger Bowen, its subject line More equipment stolen last night gave her a moment’s pause. She checked the date the e-mail was sent. Today. The thief—or thieves—had balls returning repeatedly to the site. Balls or the slick confidence of a pro, who Bowen swore had to be Hawk.

But she’d driven past the motel Hawk was staying at several times last night, and every time, had seen his pickup parked outside his room. Could he have traveled to the construction site in the wee hours of the morning?

She unwrapped her sandwich. “What kind of help?”

“There’s been a shake-up at the D.A.’s office.”

She took a bite, made a keep-going gesture with her free hand.

“Hope you’d be an unnamed source, give me some inside juice.”

“What kind of juice?” she said around a mouthful of food.

“Something sweet and juicy that involves an affair.”

She flashed him a questioning look.

He leaned back, stretching his beefy arm across the back of the chair, which made his pot belly protrude even more. “Seems a certain office assistant is suing Daniel Lazzaro for sexual harassment and improper discharge.”

Danny Lazzaro, the Dade County D.A. His name had always sounded more like a mafia hit guy than a politician, although, the way he’d shot down Gina at the end, he might as well have been a hit man. At least hit men had some ethics, whereas Danny Lazzaro had none whatsoever.

“Haven’t heard anything.” She snapped off a bite of dill pickle.

“Have you ever heard about Mr. Lazzaro having an affair?”

She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “I can’t believe you’re asking me this question.”

“The office assistant claims she had an affair with Mr. Lazzaro. Seems he promised her a promotion, slept with her, then fired her. Now she’s suing.”

“Gee, I thought Mr. Lazzaro was a happily married man. Says so in all the papers.”

“So, is it true?”

“No idea.”

He stared at her for a moment, then brushed a worn spot on the chair. “So, how’s business?”

“Great.” Lousy until the Roger Bowen case had come in, but no way she’d even hint how tough it’d been rebuilding her career this past year.

He glanced at the screwed-on legs to the door. “Did you…buy it like that?”

“Came with the place,” she lied. “Door decor is very in, you know.”

He smiled patronizingly. “So, you picked Little Havana for your office.”

Why’d you pick Little Havana? was what he really meant.

“My condo’s nearby,” she answered, wondering if her nose was growing, “so commuting to work is a breeze. Plus, I’m within walking distance to downtown.” She wadded up the paper wrappings, tossed them into a trash can. “Working a case right now for a major downtown developer,” she added nonchalantly.

Ian made a faint grunt of interest.

“Involves grand larceny, big thefts—hundreds of thousands of dollars of tools and construction supplies—all of it getting fenced and then shipped to Central America.”

He gave her an appreciative look. “Gonna give me a scoop?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“That story of redemption you promised.”

“Didn’t promise, Gina. Only mentioned it.”

She shrugged, wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Well, mention it in a story, and I’ll make a call to some of the friends I still have at the D.A.’s office.”

He narrowed his eyes, which didn’t dim their predatory glint. “I’ll phone you over the next few days, see what you’ve dug up.”

A few minutes later, she walked him back to the front door. When they reached it, Ian paused. “Say…” He half turned, his lidded eyes, taking her in. “Was it true?”

“Told you, no idea.”

“No. You and Lazzaro.”

The jerk was asking her if the sordid allegations were true after he’d written all those articles alluding they were?

“You asshole,” she muttered. So much for keeping up the front. “You’re the one who tagged me as a ‘hard-up nympho’in the paper, remember?”

He gave a toss of his balding head. “C’mon, Gina. Sticks and stones.”

She opened the heavy door. “Get out before I do something I’ll regret.”

He chuckled. “Like what?”

She started to unzip her fanny pack. “Have a five-thousand-volt baby stun gun in here somewhere…”

“You wouldn’t—”

She pulled it out. “Ian, meet Hot Shot.”

Amazing how quickly a chubby man could run. After shutting the door and bolting it, she dragged in a much-needed breath and exhaled loudly.

So much for redemption.

3

AN HOUR LATER, Gina hauled the folded cot out of the office closet and set it up as she did every night. After losing her job at the D.A.’s office, she’d tried to hold on to her condo in Coconut Grove, but work had been scarce in her new business, so she’d put first things first. Which meant she kept the office space and ditched the condo.

Sometimes her work-home space felt a bit cramped, but as long as she remembered it was a temporary situation, it was manageable. Besides, Gina had fallen in love with Little Havana and its colorful atmosphere, Cuban food, friendly locals. A year ago, her name had popped up all over the Miami media, but not one of the locals had ever mentioned it. Real people never believed what people like Ian wrote, only insider losers with nothing better to do than gossip. She liked real people.

Dressed in an oversized T-shirt and undies, her typical pajamas, Gina crawled into bed and flipped open a Laura Lippman mystery she was halfway through. From outside could be heard faint strains of Latino music. Gina ran her finger down the page, finding the spot where she’d left off. Ah, yes. The scene where Baltimore private investigator, Tess Monaghan, was chatting up a suspect, some muscle-bound hulk of a guy who towered over her.

Gina tried to read, but the fictional man brought back real images of Hawk. Finally, she put down the book and laid back, her arms crossed behind her head as she stared up at a crack in the ceiling. She’d run into some big guys in her line of work, but never one as impressively built as Hawk. And that face. Broad, flat-planed, darkly dangerous. Yet, several times when she’d looked into his eyes, there was a gentleness that had taken her by surprise.

She glanced at her desk where she’d set the camera. She wanted to look at him again. This time, to take her time checking him out, not be rushed and furtive.

A moment later, she was back in bed with the digital camera. She hit the power button, moved to the first photo taken in the photography studio today. Not bad. He’d just tossed his T-shirt, and his hand was in midair. His big, tan, powerful hand. Even in the photo, she could see its solid tendons and standing veins.

What would it feel like to be touched by those hands? She closed her eyes, imagining those large, rough hands roaming over her body. “Good and then some,” she murmured. Opening her eyes, she moved to the next photo.

His chest. She sucked in a sharp breath. It reminded her of a rebel god, powerful and perfect in form. Amazingly, the picture was focused, the subject centered in the frame. I still had control of my body functions, that’s why.

She held out her arm and looked at its pale, translucent color compared to the natural nut-brown of his skin. I really should get outside more. Shooting hoops at the Y was fun exercise—amazing how Hawk had figured out she liked doing that—but she needed to take time to smell the ocean, feel the sun, frolic on the sand. Even better, she wanted to travel to Whistler Mountain, her long-dreamed-of fantasy ski trip. If—no, when—she solved this case, one of her first purchases would be a roundtrip ticket to B.C.

She looked at the next shot.

“Nice,” she murmured. In the photo, she’d zoomed in on that teasing trail of black chest hair that bisected those phenomenal pecs. Those weren’t the prefabricated bumps of a guy who did his hour lifting weights at the gym every day. No, Hawk’s brawn was forged through hard physical labor. Riveting, guiding steel beams into place, welding. She closed her eyes, imagining the world he worked in every day, high above the earth. A world of man versus metal, the sky stretching out as far as the eye could see. The hot sun beating down, sweat beading on skin.

She blinked open her eyes. Wow. Okay, next photo.

Blurry. She smiled. My hands were shaking. She moved to the next shot.

A zoomed-in picture of his lower abdomen—taut, brown, ridged. He’d removed his jeans at this point, which meant the next photo would be…

Oh, yesss.

The stretchy, body-molding brief shot. Whoa, baby. As big as the jumbo tortilla-wrapped burritos sold at Frisco’s down the street. She peered closer. Maybe bigger. She’d never be able to order one of those again without thinking of Hawk and his briefs.

Although the air-conditioning unit was chugging away faithfully, she started feeling overly warm, a little claustrophobic. Setting aside the camera, she pulled off her T-shirt, tugged off her undies. After tossing both onto the floor, she slipped back under the sheets, which felt smooth and cool against her hot skin.

She hadn’t slept in the buff since her last boyfriend, a deputy D.A. she’d worked with. They’d both been so caught up in their careers, they’d rarely spent nights together, which meant sleeping in the nude happened a few times a month, tops.

So lying here naked felt deliciously different from her nighttime ritual. A pleasant detour from the same old, same old. Okay, where was I? She stared at the digital image of a wrapped mega burrito. Show me the money, honey.

She flipped the lever to the next photo.

A close-up shot.

Lust throbbed in her blood. She studied his sex for a long moment, remembering how she’d taken this photo moments after he’d lifted the hard hat. At the time, she’d thought he’d been looking right at her. Then she’d dismissed the idea, rationalizing that the lights were too bright for him to see more than a few feet ahead. But what if he had been looking at her as he removed the hat? Had he unveiled himself for her?

She remembered his words. I have nothing to hide.

A dual message.

Just as she was juggling her own dual worlds of P.I. and woman. Those worlds had never been an issue before. But this case was different. If she were totally honest with herself, her worlds had collided the moment she’d stepped into that photography studio and had seen Hawk bathed in all that light, exuding power, confidence and an overwhelmingly raw sexuality.

Raw, steamy, animal sexuality.

She looked at the photo again. So what if her worlds collided? Tonight she could choose which one to be. Tonight she was all woman.

He had to be the most well-hung man she’d ever seen. Ever. Whoever’d said size didn’t matter had obviously been on the short end of the stick, so to speak. Okay, okay, skill and stamina counted, too, but add big to the mix and a woman could be spoiled for life.

A delicious chill skittered up her spine as she imagined what it’d be like to experience Hawk, all of him.

She ran her fingers lightly across her collarbone, her skin prickling pleasurably as she fantasized about his hands—his warm, competent hands—caressing her. He’d cup her aching breasts and massage them, gently, then draw the roughened pads of his fingertips up until they squeezed the very tips of her aching nipples…like…that…

Her swollen, needy breasts tingled, their nubs tightening as she indulged the fantasy with her mind and hands.

She could almost feel his hard body against her body, smell his masculine, musky scent, taste the salt on his skin. Such a strong, silent type wouldn’t talk. He’d show her what he wanted. He’d lift and move her body gently into positions, making low-throated growls of approval in response to her moans of pleasure.

She rubbed her thighs together, wanting more than fantasies.

Setting the camera next to her, she laid on her side, her face inches from the image. “I can’t take my eyes off you,” she whispered teasingly. She licked her lips, imagining what she’d do with her mouth if that image were the real thing.

She rubbed her hand down her body, sliding her finger between the slick folds of her sex. She touched herself, there, and rubbed slowly, imagining it being Hawk’s fingers stroking, circling, exciting her. Imagining those dark, exotic eyes watching her intensified the nagging throb between her legs.

She groaned, her eyes drifting shut. In her mind’s eye, she saw him, naked, leaning over her, his hands slowly replacing hers. She spread her legs, fantasizing about his fingers entering her wet tangle of curls, priming her, driving her. She arched her back, wanting more, more.

“Hawk,” she murmured hoarsely. The sheet clung to patches of her slick skin, rubbed against her sensitized nipples. She tossed it off, feeling wanton and exposed under the stark light. Naked for him as he’d been for her.

Her fingers worked, her insides tightened. She tipped her pelvis up and emitted a shuddering, prolonged groan. The muscles tightened between her legs as every nerve ending was on fire, ready to explode.

For an exquisitely still moment, her entire being hung suspended above the world….

She cried out as the first climax hit, her insides convulsing, squeezing, coming hard. For him, with him.

Afterward, exhausted and trembling, she lay there, panting, amazed how good it had felt. Not that satisfying herself hadn’t felt good before, it’s just this time she hadn’t felt so alone. Her imagination must have been exceptionally tuned because she’d felt that Hawk was here, too. If a fantasy could be that good, she couldn’t even imagine how amazing the reality would be.

That would never happen, of course.

Not that it was illegal to sleep with a target—she’d known plenty of investigators, men and women, who had—she just didn’t believe in it. Mixing business and pleasure was like mixing a Molotov cocktail—it was certain to blow up when you least expected it.

She glanced at the camera, smiled, pressed the power button to off.

“Our one-night stand is over, Hawk.”

“HE’S CHEATING, I know it. Pilar, she’s so in love, she’s—how you say it?—blind. But I seen him with my own eyes.”

Teresa, the thirtysomething owner of Nata’s, the Little Havana coffee spot Gina frequented most mornings, set the cup of cafecito on the counter in front of her. “I seen him with this blonde again last night at the supermarket and, girlfriend, if they was shopping for fruit, I’m Gloria Estefan.” She touched Gina’s hand. “You drink, I get a treat for you.”

Gina took a sip of the hot cafecito, savoring the popular Cuban coffee drink of espresso and caramelized sugar. Typically, she showed up here by 10:00 a.m. for her morning shot of caffeine, but today it was nearly noon because she’d been researching Hawk on the Internet. If she got that next shot at an interview with him, she was going to be prepared as hell.

“Brazo gitano for my favorite P.I.” Teresa set a fat pastry in front of Gina. “You eat, I talk.” Her heavy bracelets jangled as she gestured.

“Let me guess, you want me to follow this guy.” Gina took a bite of the Cuban pastry, its sponge cake and cream filling nearly as good as her fantasy with Hawk last night. She’d had to have quite a talk with herself this morning about her colliding worlds. Today, she was a P.I., digging for facts, focused on her work. No more thinking about those photos.

“Yes. I don’t like my friend being made a fool of, getting her heart—how you say it?—smashed. What do you charge?”

When Gina had worked in the D.A.’s office, the bulk of her cases were investigating homicides, sexual assaults and white-collar thefts. Since going solo, most her cases involved cheating spouses.

“How about free cups of cafecito for a week.”

Teresa shook her head, her luxurious black curls jiggling. “No. You and me, we’re business women. You always pay me, now I want to pay you. How much? And if your offer is free cafecito again, I call another P.I.”

Gina smiled. “I’ll take the case. If I find evidence this guy’s being unfaithful, I’ll charge you my going rate. If I don’t find any evidence, it’s half price and that’s my final offer.”

“We got a deal.” Teresa arched a shapely eyebrow. “How’s the brazo gitano?”

“Delicioso.”

“I’ll bring a box to your office. You’ve gotten skinny since you moved to the neighborhood—a little extra would do your body good.”

Last night’s fantasy rendezvous with Hawk had done her body good, too. So much for keeping her mind focused on only work.

“My, my,” murmured Teresa, casting Gina a sly look. “I think you get skinny from too much work, but maybe it’s because of a man you haven’t told me about?”

Heat crawled up her neck. “There’s no man.”

“Uh-huh.”

Gina checked her wristwatch. “You know I’m not dating.”

A jangle of bracelets. “Pshaw. That ‘hard-up nympho’bullshit is long ago. You’re punishing yourself for something you never did, no matter what Lizard said.”

“Lazzaro.”

“Like I said, Lizard. He accused you to cover his sorry ass.”

“That he did. Unfortunately, few know that.” She put some bills on the counter. “Thanks. Gotta run.”

“To see this mystery man?”

“No, just his motel room.”

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Gina drove into the parking lot of the Captain Cook Motel near Miami’s South Beach. She’d driven through this motel lot every night since taking the case, and every night, she’d seen Hawk’s truck parked outside his room. She had a new theory—maybe the runner picked up the goods here. If that was the case, some items might still be in his motel room from the theft the night before last.

That is, if Hawk was the thief.

She drove back onto the street, parked half a block down, then walked back at a leisurely pace as though she were a tourist, enjoying the sunny weather, ocean breezes, trendy restaurants. Like she’d ever be caught dead in one. Give her a hole in the wall with a great pork sandwich any day over one of those yuppified establishments.

Today she wore a light green T-shirt, khaki shorts and, of course, her fanny pack. When on surveillance, she typically wore dark clothes, but this job demanded more role-playing, specifically looking like a tourist. The black running shoes didn’t fit the part, but she never knew if she’d have to move quickly, or even run, and flip-flops could be a disaster.

She strolled onto the Captain Cook property, down a short asphalt delivery road and through some palm trees to the section of rooms where Hawk was staying. Winds were picking up, not unusual as mid-August kicked off hurricane season. But as she always checked weather reports before heading out on a job, she knew the weather would be warm, mostly sunny with possibility of afternoon rain.

She passed an older man mowing a strip of lawn next to the motel swimming pool. Gina nodded, strolled past as though she were a guest heading to her room. The older man nodded, smiled. The Captain Cook was low-key, unobtrusive, almost quaint—very unlike the rest of hip, happenin’South Beach. But very like Hawk. In a way, he seemed out of step with the twenty-first century, a throwback to another time when life was slower, gentler. The thought made her wonder why he didn’t spend more time with his people in upstate New York than constantly be on the road working construction.

Of course, being on the road made sense if he had a side business like fencing goods on the black market. In her research this morning, she’d had a friend run a check on Hawk in the National Crime Information Center database. Nothing came up, which either meant he was clean or that he was very slick covering his tracks, possibly using other IDs.

Room three, Hawk’s room, was at the end of the L-shaped motel configuration. She sauntered down the sidewalk, stopping to smell a flower as though she had nothing in the world to do except, well, nothing. As she approached room three, she saw its drapes were open. Fantastic.

Outside his window, she halted, pretended to answer her cell phone.

“Hello? Oh, hi, Margie.” While talking, she casually surveyed the area. Only people in the vicinity were the guy mowing the lawn and a woman sunning at the pool. Both preoccupied.

This work was turning out to be sweeter than one of Teresa’s brazos gitanos.

“You’ve got to be kidding, Margie. So what did Bob do after that?” Gina turned back to face room three. The drapes were about two-feet open, offering a decent view. Unfortunately, sunshine sparkled off the glass, making it impossible to see inside. She needed to get closer.

“Yeah, Marge, tonight would be great for dinner….”

She stepped forward, peered into the darkened room. Difficult to see much in all those shadows. Although, she could make out the shape of a bed, chair, dresser, what appeared to be a TV in the corner. Looked neat. If she had motel maid service every day, G K Investigations would look neat all the time, too.

Roger Bowen’s e-mail had itemized the most recently stolen property, several expensive welders and drill bits, which could easily have been transported in the back of a pickup to this room. She moved closer, peered inside. Looked like a large suitcase at the foot of the bed. And what had appeared to be the TV seemed bulkier, more oddly shaped than one. Could be one of the stolen tools. Although, why wouldn’t Hawk have hidden it in the bathroom or closet?

A cloud passed overhead, blocking the sun, making it a little easier to see inside—

Something squeezed her shoulder.

She gasped, turned.

Hawk stared down at her, his face a mask of darkness.

4

“YOU’RE FOLLOWING ME AGAIN.” Hawk’s voice cut right through her and, despite the summer heat, it chilled her to the core.

Effing great. She’d been burned, caught red-handed while actively investigating a target, such as when someone became aware they were being watched, or their motel room was being spied on. Like when Ted, a junior investigator, had been burned by a neighborhood kid who, after peering in Ted’s SUV, loudly asked, “Mister, you’ve been parked here for hours—you a P.I. or somethin’?”

Gina had always laughed when one of her cohorts told stories of being burned. Call her cocky, but she always thought she was too smart to be caught.

Ha. Think again.

“Hardly following,” she said, trying to sound droll and together, the last defense of a burned woman, “considering you weren’t supposed to be here.”

His eyebrows pressed together, forming a dark inverted V over his piercing black eyes. “What do you mean, I wasn’t supposed to be here?”

She shrugged. Might as well go for broke. “I figured high-rise construction workers wouldn’t waste their lunch hour descending twenty stories and fighting Miami traffic just to slap together a sandwich at home.”

Although, a motel room hardly seemed like a home. For that matter, neither did a P.I. office with a folding cot for a bed. It hit her how she and Hawk, in their own peculiar ways, were homeless.

But only I will end up jobless. She couldn’t blow an interview one day, then get burned the next—worse, by the target himself—and expect Bowen to not find out and dump her.

She mindlessly adjusted her fanny pack, quickly calculating how much of Bowen’s retainer she’d earned—a little—and lost—a lot. Shit. Might as well make a mea culpa call to Bowen right now and start beating the bushes for new work. At least she had that cheating-spouse case in the wings, thanks to Teresa.

Sucking in a breath, she started mentally preparing her goodbye speech when the look on Hawk’s face stopped her. “What’re you smiling at?”

Not only was she taken aback at his suddenly going lighthearted on her, but this big, semiferocious looking man had dimples when he smiled. Grooves down both cheeks that proved he didn’t always take life all that seriously.

“You spend too much time figuring and not enough time living.”

She had several defensive responses on the tip of her tongue, but decided to keep them to herself. Mostly because he was right.

“Every Tuesday, I come back here for lunch before heading out to volunteer at Frameworks for the Future. You’re a P.I., thought you’d have known that.”

“I haven’t been on your case all that long.”

“How long?”

“A few days.”

“Meaning you haven’t had enough time to study me completely.”

She flashed on his naked body at the photography studio, the images she pleasured herself to last night. “Right,” she whispered, feeling heat creep up her neck.

“Who hired you?”

“That’s privileged information.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“P.I.-client privilege,” she explained. “I could lose my license if I divulged my client’s name.”

“Don’t need to divulge anything,” he said solemnly. “We all know it’s Roger Bowen.”

We. It surprised her that Hawk would be tight with his coworkers considering Bowen claimed Hawk was a loner.

“Which I’ll neither confirm nor deny,” she responded. “I’ll cut to the chase—”

“Which you seem to do a lot.”

“Yeah, well, it saves time.” What’d he do, memorize everything she said yesterday? “As you know, several hundred thousand dollars worth of equipment has been stolen from your work site. My job is to determine who’s doing it. Not where the goods are being fenced, or even who the middleman is. Just who’s the thief. So, help me help you prove you aren’t the guy.”

At the pool, several young children ran squealing and laughing toward the water. A man with pasty-white skin and bright yellow shorts—typical Miami tourist—ran after them, admonishing them to stop running.

“As I told you before, I didn’t do it.”

He sounded open to proving as much. Time to pitch the deal.

“If you’d let me see your room,” she said slowly, “I can verify there’s no stolen equipment in your possession and get my client to back off.”

She thought he’d bite on that tasty morsel, but nothing. Hawk just stared at her, his face a study in inscrutability. Where the hell were those dimples when you needed them?

“Otherwise,” she continued matter-of-factly, “all that will be mentioned in my report is what I saw through your window—”

“Isn’t that against the law?”

“Not if what’s seen is in plain view.”

“You know, something else has been in plain view, but nobody’s talking about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“We had an accident yesterday at the work site. A guy got hurt. I think it’s due to shoddy construction supplies.”

“You should bring that up to management.”

He snorted something under his breath.

“Is the worker okay?” She wasn’t sure why they were discussing this, but it felt awkward to just blow over it.

“Yeah, he’ll be back on the job in a few days. Guy could’ve been killed, though.”

She nodded. “Let’s get back to our conversation. If I don’t go into your room, all I’ll be able to report having seen are several masses of dark, unidentifiable shapes that could be anything from suitcases to expensive welders.” She paused for effect. “Such vague descriptions will only inspire the feds to get a search warrant.”

“Feds?” His eyes searched hers. “You’re threatening me.”

She doubted anything threatened Hawk Shadow Bonaparte, except maybe extreme forces of nature, hoards of thundering beasts, maybe an alien invasion.

“I prefer the word encouraging.”

He crossed his massive arms over his chest. “No.”

“It’d benefit us both, Hawk.”

She’d never called him by his name before. A look she couldn’t decipher flitted across his face.

“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.

Duh. She’d forgotten to give him her card yesterday, forgot to introduce herself today.

“Gina Keys.”

His gaze dropped down her neck, to her chest, back to her eyes. “You wear rose perfume.”

Didn’t make sense why he was asking, but this was a far better conversation than his asking again for a union rep to be present.

“Not perfume, really. A lotion.” A rosewater lotion that she slathered on every morning after her shower. Her favorite indulgence, something she hadn’t done without even when she’d been counting pennies between cases this past year.

“But it’s roses,” he said.

“Yes, roses.”

He smiled even as a thinly masked pain flashed in the depths of his eyes. Probably something to do with a woman. A wife back home? A former girlfriend? An emotion sliced through Gina, something she hadn’t felt in so long, she almost didn’t recognize it. Jealousy.

Shit.

That was the last thing she wanted to feel. Lust, okay. She fully accepted that feeling last night, but jealousy was a whole other beast. It tied into the heart and emotions, meant she was caring in ways she shouldn’t, and wouldn’t. Not now. Not with Hawk.

She was in this deeper than she’d realized, which wasn’t good. Whenever she started the mind-machine churning with questions and theories and concerns over what was happening with a man she hadn’t even yet kissed—nighttime fantasies aside—she might as well give it up.

Oh, yeah, this was bad. The last thing she needed, but, if she were totally honest, not the last thing she wanted.

He moved slightly, and, for a crazy moment, she thought he was going to touch her.

Worse, she knew she’d let him.

Right here.

Right now.

She closed her eyes, her body on edge, waiting. An ocean breeze wafted past, its tangy scent meshing with his masculine one. She imagined his touch to be at first hesitant, awkward. Then, perhaps a little anxious, the touch of a man who’d been alone for a while…maybe, like her, alone for a long time.

She licked her lips, waiting…

Nothing.

She opened her eyes.

He was gone.

She didn’t look around, just stared at the spot where he’d stood, feeling embarrassed and, well, pissed-off. Part of her couldn’t believe he’d do that, just leave. And yet part of her knew that’s how he dealt with life’s decisions. Quietly, completely.

The soft click of his room door confirmed the latter.

She stared out at the chalky blue walls of the motel, felt the shimmering heat of the day, heard the short bursts of children’s laughter from the pool. So much space and light and activity, and yet it all felt empty.

Time to go home, call it a day. Call it a job. Well, at least she had that cheating-spouse case to make ends meet.

“Gina.”

She blinked, turned.

Hawk stood on the threshold to his room, his hand holding the door open. “Come inside.”

FOR A MOMENT, Hawk thought she was going to refuse to come in. She stood her ground in those black running shoes, her blue eyes cloudy. Like sea smoke. He shouldn’t have just walked away, but standing that close to her, engulfed in the scent and memory of roses, he knew what would happen next if he didn’t.

And then, standing on the other side of the closed door, he’d cursed himself for leaving her like that. Since nine-eleven, he’d made a habit of walking away from anything that made him feel too much, care too deeply, because being numb made the world bearable. Some people drank to be numb. Others took drugs, or worked to excess. But Hawk had learned to walk away, leave it behind.

But standing behind the closed door, he’d suddenly felt disappointed in the life he’d made. A string of empty rooms, new towns, nameless acquaintances that came and went like ghosts.

He wasn’t ready to let Gina fade away, too.

A few feet inside, she halted. “What is that spicy smell?”

“It’s an herb. Sage.” He closed the door and the room fell deeper into shadow.

“What were you cooking?”

“Nothing. I was cleansing energies.”

“Huh?”

“I sometimes burn sage. It drives out negativity.”

After a pause, she muttered, “Could’ve used that back at the D.A.’s office.” She raised her voice. “Mind turning on a light?”

He flicked a switch. The lamp next to the bed turned on, warming the room with a hazy glow. “You were a lawyer before being a P.I.?”

She turned, and he was momentarily struck with how much softer she looked in this light. Her clothes were like the earth, a sea-green T-shirt and sandy-colored shorts. Her hair, startling white under the sun, had taken on the color of soft clouds.

“Lawyer?” Her mouth twitched. “I was pre-law for a year in college, but then I came to my senses.”

“You said you worked at the D.A.’s office, so I thought—”

“Oh, I see why you’re asking. I was an investigator for the Dade County D.A. Lead investigator, actually.”

“Sounds like a good job.”

“Sure, if you like being railroaded.” She looked around the room. “Either the maids already cleaned today, or you’re the neatest man on the planet.”

“Probably both.”

She slid him an approving look. “I’m impressed. I hate picking up after myself, but I have to or risk turning off potential clients.” Catching the question on his face, she added, “My office is also my home. Not the best situation, but at least it’s temporary.”

“Everything is temporary.”

“Only if you’re lucky.” She crossed to the open black duffel bag at the foot of his bed and peered inside. “You keep your dirty clothes in here?”

“Thought you were looking for stolen tools.”

“Hey,” she said with a laugh, “trash hits can reveal the best stuff—”

She straightened just as Hawk walked past and their arms accidentally brushed. The electric touch of skin on skin stopped him in his tracks. Their gazes caught, and he was suddenly too aware of their bodies in the small space, the nearness of the bed, the heady scent of roses.

His lips itched for more than talk as his gaze swept over her. This close, he caught the spark of curiosity and interest in her blue eyes. Her lips parted, slightly, and he imagined how it’d be to kiss her. Warm, moist, sweet. His groin ached as he imagined more. His hands on her pale, smooth skin, his mouth tasting her…

He lurched away. Too much. Not ready.

With a swipe of his brow, he stopped at the closet. Placing his moist palm flat on the door, he shoved it open with one jerk of his arm. He sensed, more than heard, her footsteps across the motel room carpeting. When he caught the rose scent again, he knew she was standing next to him.

“I’ll just look inside,” Gina whispered as she leaned farther into the closet.

His gaze traveled down her trim body, over the green shirt, past the rounded shorts, down the length of her bare legs. Her skin was as pale as apple blossoms. She’d probably rarely worn these shorts—outside, anyway—to have skin that fair. He noticed a long scar, at least three inches, on the outside of her thigh. The scar whiter than her hair. He wondered what had happened so long ago.

“Ahem.”

He looked up. She was staring at him over her shoulder, her face flushed, her eyes glistening.

“Skiing accident,” she said simply, glancing down at the scar, back to him.

“Where?”

She leaned back out of the closet, which brought their bodies in close proximity. He saw her breasts strain through the light fabric of her shirt. Could make out the light, intricate pattern of her bra.

“Colorado. Born and raised in Denver.”

He looked back into the unsettling blue of her eyes. “Beautiful country.”

She nodded. “My mother’s still there.”

“You have family here, too?”

“No.”

Both of them were far away from their roots. There was a time when he vowed that gave him the strength to go on. That being alone, forging his own path, was the only way to be whole again in this world. Not anymore.

He dipped his head, took in her scent. It almost hurt to breathe because of that fragrance, intertwined with scents of soap, or maybe her shampoo. He clenched and unclenched his hands, as though that could fight the fire than coursed through his blood.

The automated air-conditioning turned on, its hum filling the room. The only other sound was the scrape of her fingernails as she mindlessly plucked at the side of her khaki shorts.

“Gina,” he murmured.

“I should go now.”

Impulsively, he threw a detaining arm in front of her, his knuckle accidentally grazing her breast in the process.

Gina gasped, the sensation startling as much as pleasurable. Her heartbeat escalated as she watched his eyes drift slowly, hungrily, over her, taking in her hardening nipples, her flushed face. Her body was so hot with desire, butter could melt on her, but she knew better. Bad idea to mix pleasure and business. It was time to split, go home, write up a report for Bowen. This had been, after all, an interview of sorts. She hadn’t failed her mission.

“I need to go,” she whispered, her voice scarcely audible.

She nearly tripped over her own feet as she stepped past him, feeling gawkier than she had as a teenager. Back then, she’d worn braces and braids, a nerdy tomboy who could talk history and physics but could barely speak a word to the opposite sex. She’d thought that feeling of awkward, first-time thrill was long ago, but damn if one accidental touch from Hawk hadn’t brought it all back.

Heading toward the door, her eye caught on the bunched shadows she’d thought, when outside, might be the TV. She paused, her eyes adjusting to the darkened area, wondering if anything on the tiered wooden frame might be from the work site. Despite her urgency to leave she was still, after all, on the job.

“What’s this?”

He approached, stood next to her. “My altar. It’s where I meditate.” He pointed out the objects. “An eagle feather, a beaded pouch, a stick of sage, some quartz rocks.”

“What’s on that back shelf, by itself?”

He paused. “A dried white rose in a crystal vase. It was for someone special who loved roses.”

Was. Gina nodded. “Your wife?”

“No.” Another pause. “But she would have been. She died on nine-eleven.”

Gina jerked her head toward him, but he wasn’t looking at her. He stared at the rose, a faraway look in his eyes.

“We were Skywalkers, together on the same job near the World Trade Center. When we heard the explosions and the sirens, all of us left the construction site and headed to what is now known as Ground Zero. We were among the first rescuers to arrive. I lost contact with Patty, but I didn’t worry. She was strong and fearless.”

He looked at Gina, his dark eyes shiny as obsidian. “She died like a hero going home. It was her day.”

FORTY MINUTES LATER, Gina pulled into the strip-mall parking lot outside her office in Little Havana. After Hawk had told her how his lover had died, Gina hadn’t known what to say except how sorry she was.

Leaving his room, she’d walked past Hawk’s pickup and paused to look inside. It’s what she did as a P.I., but she’d felt sneaky doing it after hearing of his loss. As though he’d trusted her with his heartfelt secret and, in turn, she’d distrusted him through her ongoing prying. She’d had to remind to herself that she was still on a job, independent of his past—hell, independent of her past, too. Besides, there’d been nothing in his pickup except a water bottle, a pair of work gloves and the same Connelly paperback she’d seen before. As a P.I., her job was to gather the facts and, so far, the facts showed Hawk to be innocent of any wrongdoing.

As she cut the engine, she spied a familiar figure carrying a pink box toward G K Investigations. Teresa. Gina honked her horn. Teresa looked over, held up the box and smiled broadly, her white teeth framed by bright-orange lips.

“More brazo gitano,” Teresa said a moment later, handing the box to Gina. “To fatten you up.”

“I’m not that skinny, but thank you.”

Teresa made a tsking noise as she brushed back one of her abundant black curls. “So, how was the motel room?”

“Fine.”

Teresa arched a shapely brow. “That’s all? Fine?”

Gina gave her friend a knowing look. “I didn’t say I was meeting a man there.”

“Don’t have to. I can tell.” A wolf whistle shrilled from one of the cars in the never-ending street traffic. Teresa smiled broadly and waved her orange-tipped nails. “That’s for us, girl!”

“You mean, for you,” Gina said with a smile as she pulled out her key while juggling the pastry package with her other hand. “About your friend, Pilar. What does her boyfriend look like? What does he drive? Work place, hangouts?”

“That scumbog is short with black hair, twenty-eight, drives an Oldsmobile Eighty-eight lowrider convertible with chrome rims, works at the supermarket where he meets up with that blonde, and you can find him most nights at Frisco’s.”

“Scumbag.”

“That’s right.”

“I meant…Never mind.” Didn’t surprise her Teresa described the car in more detail than the guy. She was the only woman Gina knew who owned three cars, all in—as Teresa so loved to say—cherry condition. “I’ll be heading out tonight, so I’ll drive by Frisco’s, see if he’s there.”

“Heading out?”

Gina rolled her eyes. “It’s not a date, if that’s what you’re insinuating. It’s about work.”

Teresa suddenly jumped, checked her watch. “Gotta get back to Nata’s to make sure Jorge doesn’t fry the pastelitos to death!” As she strutted away, she said over her shoulder. “Gina, girl, you need to work less and have some fun.”

“After this case, I’m taking my dream trip to Whistler Mountain to make some serious grooves in the snow with my skis.”

Teresa turned and paused. “Make grooves with skis?” Her bracelets jangled as she swept the air with a dismissive gesture. “Take a hot man with you, instead, and make steam in that snow, girl!”

SEVEN O’CLOCK that night, Gina’s cell phone rang. A tune she hated, but always forgot to change until the next time it rang.

“G K Investigations.” She made a mental note to change the damn ringtone after this call.

“Gina, Bowen.”

“You got my report?” She’d faxed it to Roger Bowen’s office earlier.

“So nothing was in his motel room. Doesn’t prove he’s innocent.”

She’d had clients like this before, gung-ho to nail someone they deemed the perp, which only encouraged her to keep gathering all the data she could. Just the facts, ma’am was more than the fictional detective Joe Friday’s signature line. It was the crux of an honest investigation.

“I was thinking,” she said slowly, “it’d be a good idea to check out some of the other construction workers, as well. Interview them. Do background checks.”

“Our man’s Hawk. I want you to keep on him, get me some dirt.”

Roger Bowen was her meal ticket right now, which meant she needed to tread carefully. She’d continue investigating Hawk, but she’d also investigate others on the side. If this ever came down to a trial, Bowen would look better to the court if he’d retained a fair investigation, not a witch-hunt.

But she wouldn’t tell that to Bowen, now right now.

“Dirt, right,” she murmured.

“Good. I look forward to more reports.”

“Speaking of which, I’d like to visit the construction site—”

“Why?”

His sharp tone took her aback. “Because I always do firsthand research.”

“Police already did, so you don’t need to.”

She frowned, punched a key on her keyboard. “It’s how I do my job, and I’m good at what I do.” She’d skip the speech about how often police missed clues.

She heard Latino music in the background, a horn honking. Bowen must be calling on his cell while driving his slick Mercedes convertible. No wonder the guy was perpetually tanned.

“Construction sites are dangerous for civilians, so I’m saying no for your own well-being.” She heard the laughter of a woman. Sounded young, giddy. Doubted it was his wife. “If we don’t have anything else to discuss,” he said, “I’ll be going.”

After hanging up, she stared at the computer screen where she’d pulled up a file, thanks to one of her insider sources, that showed international flights arriving and departing from Miami. In the search field, she went with a gut feeling and typed in Bowen’s name, which flagged an upcoming flight from Miami to Venezuela. One-way.

“Son of a bitch,” she whispered.

Her cell phone rang again. Probably Roger Bowen with another request for more dirt.

“G K Investigations.” She needed to change that damn ringtone and, this time, she meant it.

“Gina?”

Her heart spiked. “Hawk?”

“Yeah.” Pause. “There was another accident at the work site this afternoon.”

She frowned. “Thought you worked at Frameworks for the Future on Tuesday afternoons.”

“Got a call from one of the guys at the high-rise.”

She was already reaching for her fanny pack. Since Bowen wouldn’t give her access, she’d use Hawk. Maybe not her best option, but it was her only one. “I’ll drive over, pick you up. Or meet you there.”

“Don’t need to do either.”

She stood, one hand holding the fanny pack, the other the cell to her ear. “Why?”

“I’m here. On your doorstep.”

5

THE WORK ELEVATOR—more like a cage with its chain-link walls through which downtown Miami and the distant Atlantic Ocean were visible—rattled and creaked as it carried Hawk and Gina up the Bowen Builders high-rise construction site toward floor eighteen, where today’s accident had occurred.

It wasn’t the first time Gina had traveled to a crime scene after the police had combed through it. If she had a dollar for every time law enforcement missed an important clue that ended up being dynamite in her investigation, she’d have a killer savings account by now.

Of course, Bowen wouldn’t be happy if he knew she’d gone ahead and visited the construction site, but screw that. The coincidence of two accidents within two weeks couldn’t be overlooked, and maybe somewhere in that combed-over scene was a dynamite clue that could cast some light into the recent thefts.

She needed to stay focused, had to concentrate work on the work at hand. Both of which were damn hard while being in such close physical proximity to Hawk, who looked like an oversized Gap store poster-boy in his snug jeans and chest-molding crewneck T-shirt. Just thinking about what was underneath those clothes made her mouth go dry and her sex go wet.

“So this welder,” she said, putting on her best all-business voice, “he had no inkling the wiring was faulty?”

“You and I talked about this on our drive over.”

“Refresh me.”

“No inkling.”

One could never use the word chatty for Hawk. “So, you said he was welding a steel frame when the electrical wiring suddenly caught fire at about 3:00 p.m.”

“Right.”

“Who told you about the accident?”

“Coworker called my cell.”

“You give that number out often?” Okay, that had nothing to do with the case. Fortunately, her question was dropped as the elevator lurched to a stop.

“Stay here,” said Hawk, unlatching the door.

“But—”

“It’s dangerous walking around up here. I’ll look, tell you what I see.”

Nobody does my investigations, buddy. “No need to do that, got a digital here—” she unzipped her fanny pack, pulled out the camera “—so I’ll take photos.”

He held out his hand. “I’ll do it.”

“No.”

“You can’t always call the shots, Gina.”

“Neither can you, Hawk.”

Even in the dusky light, she saw the ominous look in his eyes. Well, tough. She wasn’t intimidated by his size, his power an, d least, of all his macho one-upmanship. Okay, so her hands were trembling slightly. That had more to do with hormones than being afraid.

Damn hormones.

“Look,” he said, impatience creeping into his voice, “the sun’s setting, we’re losing light. I’ve walked these girders for years. You, on the other hand, have never set foot on one. The last thing we need is you falling eighteen floors just because you wanted to take a picture.”

Eighteen floors. She glanced down through the partially constructed floors at the seemingly endless drop of space. A body would crash against steel and concrete on its way down, bruised and broken before it even hit the ground.

She handed him the camera.

As he walked away, navigating the girders with agility and confidence, she understood the term Skywalker. In the mounting shadows, it looked as though he were walking on the very sky itself. Must feel like flying.

Moments later, he called out, his voice booming through the empty space. “I found the spot. I’ll take pictures.”

He was being great, helping her out like this. She’d love to think he did it because he liked her, but what if he had another motive. Such as to cover his ass. Or to cloud the investigation with, say, misleading photos. What if Bowen had been right all along that Hawk was the bad guy, a fact she’d gambled with in her urgency to get up here? It’d be her own dumb, bad luck if Hawk also had a motive to be up here tonight. Like, to do her in. One push and she’d be history.

Don’t be an idiot. If he meant to harm you, he could have shoved you out the elevator door at any point on the ride up.

Nevertheless, she felt in her fanny pack to make sure she’d brought her pint-sized stun gun. Oh, yeah, like that would do much. Even if you managed to hit bare skin, five-thousand volts would be more like a tingle on a man that size. A strong tingle, but a tingle nevertheless.

She pulled out her cell phone and punched the speed dial for Teresa’s home number.

“Hello?”

“Teresa, Gina.”

“Why you whispering?”

“I have to make this quick. I’m at that high-rise construction site downtown, near the Radisson. I’m alone with a man. His name is Hawk Shadow Bonaparte—”

“And you’re calling me? Girl, you need to get your priorities straight—”

Seeing Hawk heading back, Gina flipped shut the phone. She’d explain to Teresa later.

Moments later, he stepped into the elevator, latching the door behind him. Handing the camera to her, he said, “Something suspicious is definitely going on around here. Last week, someone slipped in a bad patch of concrete, snapped their ankle. Today, a man was burned by faulty wiring. I got some good photos of the burned wires and melted outlet.”

Which were exactly the photos she’d have taken. Maybe she needed to give her paranoia a rest and accept that Hawk was really here to help her.

“Why would someone steal tools and sabotage the job site?” she mused.

“Can you prove anything’s been stolen?”

Except for Bowen’s word, and those of his paid honchos, no. As she put the camera back in the fanny pack, she made a mental note to ask Bowen for an inventory of his equipment.

When she looked back up, Hawk was staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

He started to say something, but stopped. She couldn’t see his face all that well, but she sensed he was troubled. Or maybe nostalgic. She wondered if it had anything to do with Gina being the first woman he’d skywalked with since he’d lost Patty.

“It’s a crescent moon,” he said quietly, gazing out at the sky.

A faint orange sliver hung in the vast dark blue. In the distance, a plane buzzed in the sky. Breezes wound their way like ghosts through the girders and partial walls.

“My mom always made a wish on such a moon,” she said.

“Did you?”

“No.” She shrugged. “I’m not superstitious.”

He made a thoughtful noise. “I am.”

She looked up at his dark profile, dramatic and sharp as though cut from stone. Yet after witnessing his altar, especially the dried rose, she knew him to be a man who felt deeply, sometimes painfully so. It wasn’t just his heart that had been broken on nine-eleven. His willingness to trust love again had also broken.

She could relate. She’d lost trust with the media, toward so-called friends, toward love, too.

What a pair we make. Two broken people caught up in a crime, afraid to trust each other. Too complicated for our own good. And yet, here we stand side by side, staring out at the simple beauty of an endless sky.

Very closely side by side as there wasn’t a hell of a lot of room in this elevator.

She felt the familiar thrum of attraction between them, as soft as the breezes that ruffled her hair. As powerful as the churning ocean in the distance. He wanted her, she wanted him. It’d been building since the first time they’d met at the photography studio.

Looking at his massive body, imagining those marvelous arms wrapped around her, a shudder of need ran through her body, lodging in a pool between her legs. God, she missed being caressed and kissed. Missed touching and pleasing a lover. Missed kissing. Really, really missed that.

She didn’t want to miss it anymore. She wanted a man’s warmth and touch and sex. Oh, yes, sex. Hip-grinding, mind-blowing, burn-down-the-house sex.

Hawk was slightly turned away from her, still contemplating the night sky. She touched his warm, muscled arm.

“Hawk,” she whispered huskily.

As he turned, she moved forward, slid her hands up his powerful chest. He was built like a rock. Solid, massive. Even through his T-shirt, she could feel bunched muscles and ridges. Feel the heat from his skin.

Her heart pounded erratically, wildly. He was so big, so masculine, so damn hot. Impulsively, she sniffed his shirt, the scent triggering images of lighted candles and pungent sage.

“I want you,” she whispered hoarsely, rubbing her face against the fabric—his masculine scent shot straight to the pleasure center of her brain.

A groan started from somewhere deep in his chest, rolled out in a long, anguished sound of need as he lowered his head. She drew herself up, parted her mouth, clutched fistfuls of his shirt in her hands as though that could ground her for the onslaught to come.

His warm breath fanned across her mouth and cheeks and, as they drew nearer, she heard her name released on a strangled whisper.

Their lips…finally…touched.

The first jolt of sensation was deliciously, excruciatingly soft.

She opened her mouth wider and traced the tip of her tongue along the sensitive, moist skin of his bottom lip. When he growled in response, she tasted him more deeply, exploring the warm cavern of his mouth before sliding her tongue in and out, slowly, then faster, suggesting exactly what she had in mind.

He clamped his hands on either side of her head and pressed his lips, hard, on hers again. His kiss was demanding, aggressive, full-out alpha-male-you’re-mine and she should have hated it.

But she loved every single pulse-pounding moment.

She answered his primal moanings with her own, as her hands fumbled over his chest, greedy for what she wanted. She grasped and clawed at his shirt as their tongues mated and probed and tangled. She couldn’t get enough…had to have more…

Ripping loose from the kiss, she gasped a lungful of air, like a drowning woman taking her last breath.

“Come back here,” he growled, his massive arms crushing her to him. He coaxed his tongue deeper, his body closer, his hard, muscular body…

She shivered with pleasure as his large, confident hands stroked her hair, her face, roamed over her chest, before sliding underneath her filmy T-shirt and cupping her breast.

With a sharp hiss of pleasure, she arched her back as he deftly unsnapped her bra and slid his fingers underneath the strip of material to massage one mound, then its eager sister. When he gently tugged her distended nipple, a line of fire shot straight to her groin.

Like a woman drunk on lust, she half staggered a step back. “Don’t move,” she whispered shakily.

She tugged off her shirt and bra and tossed them aside. Cool breezes rushed over her bare chest, prickled her skin. Naked from the waist up, she placed her hands on top of her head and smiled. “I want your mouth on me,” she whispered.

He lowered his head and suckled her breasts. Using his tongue and lips, he coaxed and teased the tips to harden, their texture like small, pebbled berries in his mouth.

It felt good to please and accept pleasure again. It was right. To experience this in his world, up here in the sky, was no coincidence.

As he licked and suckled, she tunneled her fingers into his hair and guided his head from one breast to the other. His breaths scalded his lungs, his cock strained against his pants.

Had to have her.

Now.

Straightening, he grasped her small hands in his and placed them on the bulge in his jeans. Then he removed his hands, leaving her to make the next move.

Even in the muted light, he caught her mischievous grin. “I’ve wanted to do this since…”

She popped open one button, then another.

“Since?”

“Since I watched you at the photography studio.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Watched. And took pictures.”

A beat. “How’d you know?”

“Saw the images in your digital camera. Don’t feel bad. I was flattered.”

She popped open another button. “Guess you’re used to women taking pictures of you in the buff, hmm?”

“Only for charity calendars. And I didn’t volunteer myself, by the way.” He sucked in a sharp breath as she massaged him on the outside of the pants.

“Who did?” she whispered.

“Who cares,” he said on a release of breath. Another pop. “At first, I didn’t want to do it, but I’ve made it a practice to volunteer whenever I’m on a job.”

“On behalf of all the women who will buy that calendar—” she pulled open his pants, releasing his engorged cock “—I thank you. Oh…yes…I…do. Let’s get these bad boys off.”

He kicked off his shoes and stepped out his pants in record time. He started to remove his T-shirt, but stopped with a groan when she cupped his scrotum and started fondling the package while, with her other hand, she trailed the tips of her blunt nails along the underside of his shaft.

“Good?” she asked huskily.

A pent-up breath exploded from his lungs. “Take off your fanny pack and shorts,” he whispered roughly.

She did as told and stood before him, ready to pick up where they left off when Hawk suddenly wrapped his large hands around her waist and lifted her several feet off the floor.

With a small shriek, she coiled her fingers through the chain link for support, her head barely above Hawk’s.

“What are you doing?” she squealed.

“Relax, I have you. I want you to look out there. That’s my world.”

Surprisingly, being held slightly aloft was relatively comfortable. Holding on to the chain link, she looked through it at the carpet of twinkling lights that made up Miami. Above her was the vast dark sky with its scattered stars and crescent moon. She was like a bird in flight. Unfettered, free, exquisitely alive.

So this was Hawk’s world. Light. Powerful. Alone.

Emotion crowded her eyes as he lowered her, his lips kissing her stomach, her breasts, then finally her mouth. This time, their kiss was tender, deep.

They were ready to become lovers.

As he supported her buttocks with one hand, she braced one foot against the chain-link wall, opening herself to him. Murmuring her name, he wet the head of his shaft against her stretched opening, then rubbed the tip of his sex around and around her nub until she whimpered with need.

“Now,” she pleaded. “Please.”

He slowly guided himself into her, easing it slowly up until he filled her completely. Then, sliding his other hand underneath her, he lifted her, over and over, until they found their rhythm. Their thrusts grew faster, their sweat-slicked bodies slamming against each other in tandem, straining, aching for release….

Then, for an exquisite, singular moment, everything in the world stopped.

She cried out his name as her insides convulsed in waves, squeezing, milking him until he came with a roar, a primal sound that seemed ripped from his very soul.

He slumped back against the chain link, holding her protectively to him. As they caught their breaths, she lowered her leg until both feet were again on the ground.

Wrapped together, breezes cooling their heated bodies, she thought this had to be the happiest moment she’d experienced in a long, long time. No, not happy. Content.

She didn’t need any newspaper story for redemption because she’d found it tonight, in Hawk’s arms.

THE NEXT MORNING, Gina woke up, a light scent of something familiar in the air. Ah, sage. She blinked open her eyes, sleepily remembering she was in Hawk’s room.

Memories of last night’s lovemaking came flooding back. From the elevator on high, then again here in his room.

From the bathroom, she heard the hush of a shower running. She felt a shiver of pleasure, imagining water and soap sluicing down his big, brawny body. A quickie was definitely in order before he left for work.

The shower stopped. Time to make her move.

She eased out of bed, deciding to position herself between him and his clothes so he’d have to deal with her first before getting dressed.

The bathroom door opened. Hawk, a white towel wrapped around his waist, stepped into the room. Seeing Gina, he broke into a wide-toothed grin that brought those dimples to life.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his gaze traveled slowly down, then back up her naked body.

She stood underneath a bright overhead light, which made her feel deliciously on display. Exposed. The glint in his dark eyes told her he liked what he saw, which turned her on even more.

He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, giving her a look that made her insides go molten.

“I remember when, at the photography studio, you stood between me and my clothes,” he murmured huskily. “I know what you wanted then. But what do you want now?”

Was he kidding? “As though I need to say.”

He cocked a smile. “You do.”

She half gasped in a breath, realizing he wanted her to express her desire. Tell him what made her hot. Okay, she’d told him a few things last night, but mostly they’d made love with sounds, experimental touches, murmured words—there, that’s good, oh, yes—but never a direct, do-me-like-this instruction. She felt her nipples tighten in anticipation of being straightforward, demanding even, in what she desired sexually.

She glanced to her left, at the mirror that covered the wall over the sink, then back to Hawk. The rise underneath his towel told her he was game for anything. But then, men always were, right? Different story for her—well, except when she was on the job. At work, she had no problem going after what she wanted.

But sex? Ooooh, this felt deliciously forbidden. Incredibly hot. Time to be bold.

“The mirror,” she murmured, pointing lazily at the wall-sized mirror over the sink. “I want to watch you make love to me.” Don’t stop there, Gina girl. She cleared her throat. “From behind.”

A pleased look lit up his face as he tugged off his towel and tossed it aside. She’d never get tired of seeing that gorgeous, naked body. Come get me, Mr. August!

He stepped in front of the sink, motioning for her to stand in front of him. She did, facing their reflections in the mirror. Her skin was so pale in contrast to his brown skin. Like cream on cafecito. Her white hair to his black like the moon to midnight. They were so different, yet, when his arms encircled her, their bodies instinctively nestled against each other, spoon-fashion. For a moment, she closed her eyes to take in his freshly showered scent, feel the length of his strong, muscled body against her backside. She smiled, even more pleased to feel the hard heat of his arousal pulsing slightly against the small of her back.

Opening her eyes, she held his gaze in the mirror as she lifted her arms around his neck, indicating what she wanted next by thrusting out her aching breasts. With a knowing smile, he accepted the invitation by skimming his fingertips slowly down the underside of her arms to her breasts, which he gently massaged and kneaded before drawing up his fingers and tugging on her erect nubs.

She struggled to catch her breath as he continued his expert manipulations. As he tugged and played and rubbed her hardened nipples, she spread her legs open wider.

“Now,” she murmured. “I want it now.” She had the fleeting thought that maybe they should take this slower, but that wasn’t what she wanted. No way, baby. Going after what she wanted, no shoulds, no rules, was insanely, intensely erotic.

His eyes burned with passion. “Lean over,” he whispered huskily.

“First,” she whispered, grappling for the ripped-open box of condoms on the edge of the counter, the box they’d hurriedly purchased on the way here last night. Damn if they hadn’t gone through at least three of those babies after getting back to his place.

“I’ll get it,” he said, effortlessly making the reach with his long arm and plucking one foil wrapper. After ripping open a packet, he stroked himself once, twice, his gaze never breaking from hers, before slipping it over his erection.

Licking her lips, she leaned over and pressed her palms flat against the cool sink counter. She wanted to feel him inside her so badly, her entire body was trembling in anticipation.

He slid one finger inside her opening. “You’re so wet,” he growled. And then, in one smooth controlled motion, he slid his length slowly inside her, deep, right to the point she wanted him most.

With an unabashed cry of delight, she moved her hips to accommodate his thick, long shaft. “More,” she murmured, feeling hot and greedy as she pushed down harder, squeezing, milking, taking what she wanted.

A guttural groan wrenched from him as he dug his fingers into her hips, holding her fiercely in place as he thrust deeper, riding her as their groans harmonized.

“So…hot,” she whimpered, watching him drive himself into her, watching how their bucking rhythm lifted and dropped her breasts, watching the shared look in their glistening eyes—primal, needy, unrepentant.

Being a voyeur to her own uninhibited fantasy drove her closer to the edge. Her entire body shaking, she rose up onto her toes, urging him to bury himself even deeper. More. More. On edge, grunting, panting, pounding, she paced his rhythm, so close…so close…

She arched back her head, sobbing with delight and release, as the first spasm rocked her insides, the convulsions rolling one after the other, hard and exquisite and savage. Suddenly he thrust one last time, stretching her to capacity, filling her completely. He held her there for a prolonged moment, grinding his teeth before shouting his release, a wild and guttural sound that resonated through the room.

Slowly, their movements subsided, their bodies stilled. Pulling himself out, he sank against her backside with a drawn-out groan and held her tight against his sweat-drenched body. Catching their breaths, they looked at each other in the mirror, tired and happy and sated.

“Tell me what to do again sometime,” he whispered.

She lifted a lazy hand and stroked the side of his face. “You’re probably the first man on the planet to ever say that to a woman and mean it.”

She turned into his warm, strong embrace. For a long moment, they simply held each other, returning gradually from their fog of lust. He brushed a strand of hair off her sweat-dampened face and eased his mouth to hers. Tenderly, he kissed her, lazily dueling with her tongue, sharing her very breath.

The moment felt so right, so good, so soft.

She pulled her head slightly away and looked up into his relaxed face. To think she’d always believed going soft was a bad thing, as though vulnerability was something to be ashamed of. She smiled as she nestled closer again, pressing her head to his solid chest, listening to his heartbeat. At this moment, feeling soft and open and vulnerable made her feel stronger than ever.

Over his arm, she spied a stack of papers on the floor next to the trashcan. “Thought you were a neatnik, Hawk,” she teased.

“Hmm?”

“Those papers. Not like you to stack stuff on the floor instead of just tossing them…”

She paused, staring at the top document.

It was a bill of lading sent to Bowen Builders. At the bottom was a signature that appeared to be Hawk Bonaparte.

“Need to ditch this condom,” murmured Hawk, pulling out of their embrace and stepping into the bathroom. “Be right back.”

She barely nodded, intent on a closer look of the document. After the bathroom door clicked shut, she picked up the stack and flipped through the papers, all bills of lading, all signed by Hawk. Why would he be signing for construction materials? With a sickening feeling she recalled Hawk’s question—Can you prove anything’s been stolen?

She possibly had the proof in her hands.

“What are you doing with those?”

She’d been so caught up in her thoughts, she hadn’t heard his return. They stared at each other for a long moment.

“So you know what they are,” she murmured. Tell me you don’t. Tell me what I’m seeing is wrong, a mistake.

“Yes.”

Her heart shrank. So Bowen had been right all along. Hawk was the thief. Except now she knew the thefts hadn’t occurred at the work site, but after they’d been shipped to Bowen Builders where Hawk had signed for them. How he’d fenced them to Central America was for the D.A.’s office to find out.

“I’m taking them to the police,” she said quietly, matter-of-factly, avoiding his gaze. She couldn’t look at him. Not after what they’d shared.

“Gina, Bowen asked me to sign for him several times, that’s all.”

What an impressive liar. Came up with a reason without missing a beat. “Clerks sign bills of lading, Hawk, not CEOs or their construction workers,” she snapped, heading to the chair where she’d tossed her clothes last night. “Besides, Bowen would have told me if he’d asked you to sign.” Stepping into her shorts, she felt nauseous, sickened by the truth. “You screwed up, Hawk.”

Strong hands grasped her shoulders, turned her around. She grabbed her blouse and held it over her naked breasts.

Hawk’s black eyes bored into hers. “You’re not listening with your heart.”

“My heart?” She choked back a bitter laugh. “This isn’t about love, it’s about crime and deceit. I should never have—” She bit back the hurt. “Let go of me.”

His gaze traveled slowly over her face, her mouth, her hair, before he released his hold. “When I first met you, I sensed you brought danger. Then I decided that danger was only my fear of being close again to a woman who courted risk.”

As she put on her shoes, she glanced across the room at the dried rose. Nine-eleven had done more than break Hawk’s heart. It had broken his spirit, his sense of right and wrong. Gina felt sorry for him, but not enough to let a crime go unpunished.

“But now I know the real danger was trusting you,” he continued. “Go in peace, Gina, and don’t return.”

“Go in—” He had a lot of balls, turning it back on her. She’d dealt with a lot of criminals in her day, but none that had wished her well after learning she was about to jail their ass. “And to think I believed I’d been redeemed,” she muttered, trying to ignore the empty ache where her heart had been.

She grabbed the stack of papers and headed for the door.

FOR THE REST of the day, Gina stayed on the move, visiting city hall to copy the high-rise building specs at the assessor’s office before conducting a brisk surveillance-combo-interview on Pilar’s significant other. Gina worked cases via cell phone from her car, never stopping because she knew that when she did, she’d have to finally deal with the devastation of Hawk’s betrayal.

Finally, around 6:00 p.m., she cruised down Ocean Drive, taking in rushes of pungent ocean air through the lowered car window, listening to the radio—a soulful rock tune by Death Cab for Cutie, a band name that seemed to fit her effing life to a T right now—when her cell phone rang. Damn ringtone. I’m really going to change it after this call.

“G K Investigations,” she answered.

“Gina, Bowen. Got your fax. Good time to talk?”

Earlier, she’d faxed him copies of the bills of lading, as well as the building specs. “Sure, now’s a good time.”

“I’m going to conference in my attorney, so hold on….”

She nodded in time to the music as an Ed Steinberg came on the line. In a pompous, no-nonsense, three-hundred-fifty-bucks-an-hour tone, he outlined Bowen’s case against Hawk, the charges, Gina’s investigative role, blah, blah, blah. She’d listened to this same tune a thousand times at the D.A.’s office, all the legal bluster and bullshit on the bumpy road to justice being served.

After the attorney conferenced off, Bowen said, “Good work, Gina. With the evidence nailed, I can now join my wife when she travels to Venezuela next month.”

That explained the one-way ticket she’d seen on the computer the other night, although, no way she’d mention she’d pried into Bowen’s comings and goings.

“Even though you solved the crimes,” he continued, “I don’t like that you went against my wishes and trespassed onto the construction site last night.”

Yeah, well, she didn’t like being admonished over bullshit trivia, but for the hefty retainer Bowen had paid her, she’d listen. Besides, she’d learned long ago that big shots always had to have the last word.

“You’re right,” she said, trying to sound contrite. “But as I mentioned to Mr. Steinberg, I got some great photos.”

There was such a long pause, she almost thought Bowen hadn’t heard her. “You, uh, said the manufacturing imprint on some piping was different from what was recorded in the building specs on file with the city.”

“Yep. Just slap the photos up against the data in the building specs I faxed you, and the difference is plain as day.”

“Hawk, and whoever he was working with, somehow got access to ordering and signing for cheaper-quality supplies, pocketing the difference between the cost of the products ordered and the shoddier products delivered. They probably would have gotten by with it much longer if those accidents hadn’t happened.”

“I’m still surprised he took those photos last night,” she said with a shake of her head. Didn’t make sense, but she’d been in this business long enough to know the guilty sometimes got the cockeyed notion that the more they offered, the more innocent they appeared. If they’d stick with less is more, they’d be better off.

Bowen laughed harshly. “Yeah, guys like that always think they’re smarter than everybody else. Then they stumble over their own stupid mistakes. Police are probably handcuffing Hawk as we speak.”

It hurt to hear that. Not that it wasn’t just. It was. Next time she was tempted to cross the line, to mix business with pleasure, she needed to remember what had happened with Hawk. That would stop her cold.

“Hey,” Bowen suddenly exclaimed, “I want to see that piping for myself!”

“It’s on the eighteenth floor.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said. I’m booked back to back with meetings over the next few days, but tonight would work. You busy?”

Exactly what she wanted after a day of ugly truths—a return visit to where she and Hawk had first made love. But she’d be a fool to not play nice with a well-paying client.

“I’d be happy to show you,” she lied.

They agreed on a time and place, then she hung up and dialed Teresa’s cell.

“Girl, you calling me again from some construction site where you’re doing it with some stud?”

“Hello, to you, too, and, no, I’m not. Tell Pilar her man is true blue. Tell her that blonde is a lesbian coworker, nothing to worry about there.”

“How you know that?”

“Interviewed a few employees at the supermarket, checked the blonde’s girlfriend’s Web site. It’s all aboveboard, I promise you.”

“You’ve been a busy girl today, Gina!”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Teresa’s all ears.”

“I’ll drop by Nata’s tomorrow and we’ll talk. Tonight, got another hot date at the construction site—”

“Aye, you like watching it go up, girl!”

“Very funny. It’s a business date. But at least wrapping up Pilar’s case makes for a happy ending to one hell of a work day.”

Or so Gina hoped.

AT 8:00 P.M. that night, Bowen and Gina rode the elevator up to the eighteenth floor. As the metal cage creaked and groaned, she tried not to think how she and Hawk had made love in this very spot just twenty-four hours ago.

Made love. Dammit. Somewhere along the way, like some kind of starry-eyed teenager, she’d given her heart to the guy. She’d never, ever get into a mess like this again.

After the elevator lurched to a stop, Bowen unlatched the door and stepped out. “Which way?” he asked, standing on the plywood platform outside the elevator.

Wind whistled eerily through the steel frames and girders, like ghosts who didn’t like being disturbed.

Gina pointed. “Over there, about sixty or so feet.”

“Over there, huh?” said Bowen, turning slightly.

“Yes, next to that—”

Bowen turned, holding a gun pointed at her. “Let’s you and I take a walk to that spot,” he said coldly.

She swallowed, hard. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” He waved the gun, motioning for her to move.

“But…” She felt suddenly dizzy, as though the world had tilted at a surreal angle. “Why did you contact the attorney, who contacted the police, if you…” Are the real criminal.

His chuckle raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “Only a guilty man wouldn’t have contacted the authorities. By my being a good citizen, reporting the dirty deeds to the guys on white horses, I look innocent.” He waved the gun again. “Go.”

As she shakily walked, a dozen shouldas crowded her thoughts—shoulda done a background on Bowen, shoulda run a criminal check, shoulda interviewed his wife. Too late, too late.

“Gotta admit, I was impressed you caught on so quickly to my ordering shoddier products than were on the building specs and pocketing the difference. I was mainly using you to focus attention on the thefts.”

To also focus attention, and blame, on Hawk. Just as he had been set up, so had she. Hiring a P.I. made Bowen look like a sincere, concerned boss needing help resolving a problem. She was perfect for the job. If Gina Keys with the dirty history discovered the truth about Bowen, he’d use her past to discredit her. Otherwise, he had a paid professional investigating planted clues on Hawk. A real win-win setup for Bowen.

And now she’d die for it.

Blinking back emotion, she regretted things she hadn’t done today—called her mother, spent a few extra minutes laughing with Teresa, apologized to Hawk after accusing him of lying. God, what’d she give to change the things she’d said in that motel room this morning.

But there was one thing she had to know, even if the answer was only hers to take to the grave. “Why set up Hawk, Bowen? He’s a good man.”

“The best kind to use. Keep walking.”

She stepped past Bowen onto a section of plywood flooring that ended after a few feet. At that point, her only choice was to navigate a two-foot-wide steel beam. Hawk hadn’t wanted her walking up here last night because of the danger. Even when she’d insisted, he’d protected her against her own bullheadedness. She’d been right to give her heart to him. He was a good man. The best.

Cold dread filled her as she gingerly stepped onto the beam. While trying not to look at the dizzying, empty space on either side, she focused on her fanny pack. Its zipper was partially open.

“Faster.”

“I’m trying.” She surreptitiously slipped two trembling fingers inside the opening. “Pointing the finger at Hawk was brilliant.” She’d once read that the way to buy time with a criminal was to appeal to his ego. “He’s big, menacing-looking, from a different culture. Someone who didn’t know him could easily believe he was capable of—” Her foot slipped and she gasped.

“Gee, honey, I thought we’d save your big fall a little farther down, but if you want to die here, fine with me.”

Pausing to catch her breath, she looked out at the expanse of blue, streaked with red and orange from the setting sun. She thought about Hawk walking that sky, so effortlessly, like a bird in flight. It brought her a small peace that she’d die in his world.

Above her, metal creaked. She looked up in time to see a dark cloud suddenly descend from above.

Hawk.

He landed with a crash on the girder behind her. Bowen screamed. The blast of a gunshot echoed off steel.

She dropped to her knees, clutching the cold metal with her shaking hands. She looked over her shoulder at the writhing shadows behind her. Smacking, punching sounds. Another gun shot, the flash searing the darkness. Another crash as a large form fell onto a lower beam.

A shadow loomed larger as it approached her.

“Hawk?” she whispered.

“He’s dead, honey. Now it’s your turn.”

Gina lunged toward Bowen’s shadow, firing the stun gun.

A WEEK LATER, Gina and Hawk lay naked in bed, the bedspread covered with sections of newspaper, a plate of fresh brazo gitano, a bowl filled with orange peels.

“Read that first sentence to me again, Hawk.” Gina took another sip of her coffee. “Starting with the heading.”

After plumping the pillow behind his head, he picked up the newspaper section and began reading.

“‘Gina Keys, a story of redemption, by Ian Shaver, Miami Tribune staff writer. This is the story of a former lead investigator in the D.A.’s office who got the shaft when she should have gotten a star.’”

Gina smiled. “Think I’ll have that framed. Along with the article about how I zapped the hell out of Bowen.”

Hawk set down the paper. “I should never have said I didn’t trust you.”

“Yeah, well, at least you wished me peace on my way out the door.” With a soft laugh, she leaned over and kissed the bandage on his bicep. “When Bowen’s bullet grazed you,” she said, looking up at Hawk’s sleepy, handsome face, “I think I wanted revenge as much as I wanted to save myself. That wild lunge was the act of a risky woman in love. That I hit his gun hand was sheer coincidence.”

Hawk chuckled. “No such thing—”

“As coincidence, I know. Which I’ll admit with the second zap. I had a good idea exactly where to stick Hot Shot to bring Bowen crying to his knees until the police got there.”

When Hawk winced, Gina changed the subject. “Let’s talk about something fun and exciting.” She retrieved the stack of sample photos from Samantha Delaney off the nightstand and began flipping through them.

“Oh, baby, this one of you with nothing on but a pair of work boots and a hard hat over your—” she wriggled her eyebrows at Hawk “—is my vote for Mr. August.” She paused. “I have an idea.”

She hopped out of bed, fished around in her fanny pack, brought back the digital camera. “I want to take my own photos of Mr. August.”

“You did that already, the very first day we met.”

“Well, I want to do it again, so humor me.” She held up the camera and looked at him through the viewfinder. “Let’s see some muscle, baby.”

Hawk rolled over and propped himself up on his elbow. “I don’t want to be your Mr. August, Gina.”

She lowered the camera, surprised at his suddenly serious tone. “Sorry,” she murmured, setting the camera on the bedspread.

“No.” He picked up the camera and handed it back to her. “I mean, I don’t want to be only your Mr. August. I’d like to be your Mr. September, Mr. October, Mr. November, too.”

“I hope you’d like to roll that over to Mr. January as well because we’ve forked over some big bucks for our ski trip to Whistler Mountain.”

He smiled, his dimples making wide grooves in his cheeks. “Definitely. Then after that, Mr. February, Mr. March…” His voice trailed off.

“This is starting to sound like a long-term calendar.”

He gave her a soulful look. “Only if you want it that way.”

She focused the camera on him again. “Give me your best pose, Mr. April.”

After all, a P.I. always documented her case.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-0259-1

MEN AT WORK
Copyright © 2007 by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.

The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:

THROUGH THE ROOF
Copyright © 2007 by Karen Moser.
TAKING HIS MEASURE
Copyright © 2007 by Cynthia Myers.
WATCHING IT GO UP
Copyright © 2007 by Colleen Collins.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

www.eHarlequin.com