What Are Friends For?
Naomi Horton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

One

She’d been half expecting the call. But even so, the phone still managed to startle her badly when it finally rang, the sound shrill in the late-night stillness of her bedroom. Andie jerked awake and swore breathlessly, heart pounding with automatic alarm, and blinked into the darkness, wondering what in heaven’s name time it was.

Late—she knew that much. He never called unless it was late. In the daylight, he was too sure of himself, too full of that male self-confidence he wore like a cloak to allow himself to be beset by doubts and questions and pain. It was only in the dark, late at night, when his demons would slip free and taunt him from the silences of his mind. And that’s when he’d call her.

Andie Spencer, dragon slayer.

She smiled grimly and squinted groggily at the digital clock by her bed. Not this time, hotshot. You can just put those dragons to rest all on your own, because I am not coming out there tonight. Not this time. No way. Not at...oh, God, four-thirty in the morning. Groaning, she stared at the clock in disbelief. Four-thirty!

Somehow she managed to grab the receiver without knocking over the stack of books teetering on the edge of the table.

“Conn.” She dropped back into the soft contours of her pillow, eyes closed, the receiver tucked against her ear.

There was a pause, then a familiar husky male chuckle. “How the hell do you do that, anyway? Know it’s me, I mean.”

“Who else calls me in the middle of the night?” she muttered sleepily. “You got it, didn’t you? Your divorce decree.”

Another pause. Longer this time. She could hear him release a tautly held breath, the sound filled with pain and regret and who knew what else.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” His voice was soft. Rough. “How did you know?”

“I saw the envelope from your lawyer when I put the mail on your desk this morning. It had the kind of portentous weight you’d expect of a divorce decree.”

He chuckled, but she could hear the effort it took. Then he sighed again and she could hear the faint sound of fingers rubbing stubbled cheeks.

She could imagine him sitting there, lights off, staring into the darkness with the thin sheets of paper in his fingers. When he’d first slit the envelope and pulled the pages out, he’d have figured it was no big deal. Would have fingered through the thick wad of documents carelessly, telling himself he didn’t care, that he was over Judith anyway, had been for over a year and a half now. That he could handle it. That, hell, it was the second time, after all, so he was an old hand at it. That he was too blasé, too jaded, too damned cool to feel anything but impatient relief that it was finally finished.

But the pain would have been there. It ran too deep, was too complicated, for it not to hurt. Even this time. And so, much later, he’d have sat there in the vast emptiness of the big house, listening to the whisper of the air-conditioning and the sound of his own heart, alone, and would have felt the quiet and the solitude and the memories close in on him. And then, finally, he’d have reached for the phone.

She squeezed her eyes closed. She was not going to give in this time and traipse all the way out there to hold his hand and tell him she was sorry it hadn’t worked out and that everything would be all right. Not this time. Not anymore.

“How about jumping into some clothes and coming out?” he asked quietly. “We’ll pour ourselves a drink and toast old times and you can help me throw the rest of her pictures out.”

“It’s four-thirty in the morning, Connor,” Andie said through gritted teeth. She was not going out there, damn it. “And you sound as though you’ve been toasting old times half the night already. Put the cap back on that bottle of bourbon sitting on the table beside you, toss that picture of Judith you’re holding into the fire and go to bed. We’ll talk in the office in the morning.”

“Damn!” He laughed softly, the husky, honey-warm sound wrapping around her like a silken web. “You scare me sometimes, lady. But you’re only half-right—it’s a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch on the table beside me, not bourbon.”

In spite of herself, Andie had to smile. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re handling things with a little class this time, Devlin. When Liza divorced you, you got drunk on cheap wine, threw up five or six times and were hung over for three days.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you get better at some things if you do them often enough,” he said quietly. “God knows, I can’t seem to get a handle on staying married, but I’m getting pretty damn good at the divorce part.”

“Oh, Conn...” She could feel his despair right through the phone and fought to ignore it. She had to stop running to his side every time he called, had to quit—

“Andie?” It was just a whisper, filled with pain. “Andie, damn it, I need you.”

Teeth gritted, she squeezed her eyes closed, every atom of her being resisting the sweet pull of his voice. “I have to be at work in four hours.”

He laughed that low, teasing laugh he knew she couldn’t resist. “Come on, Andie, don’t be like that. What’s your boss going to do—fire you?”

“I should be so lucky,” she shot back murderously.

Another laugh, gently compelling. “Lighten up a little, Andie. I’ll give you the day off. How’s that?”

“And who’s going to finish that report you need for your meeting with Desmond Beck tomorrow afternoon?”

Conn groaned. “Cancel the meeting. Hell, cancel tomorrow. I’ll give myself the day off, too, and we’ll go do something. How about sailing? You haven’t been sailing with me in over a year.”

“Get serious, Devlin,” Andie drawled. “Getting a chance to buy out a major competitor like Becktron comes along once in a lifetime. That company’s worth millions to someone with the brains—and the guts—to haul it back from near bankruptcy and put it on its feet. Are you trying to tell me that just the thought of pulling off a coup like that doesn’t make your little entrepreneurial heart beat faster?”

“Okay, okay, no day off for either of us.” He gave a weary sigh. “So bring your stuff over here with you and you can go in to work with me.” He laughed softly. “Hell, Andie, you’re not going to get much more sleep anyway.”

Andie lay staring at the ceiling through the darkness, telling herself for the fiftieth time that she was absolutely not going to drag herself out of bed and go all the way out there. Not this time.

Not ever again, in fact. She was turning over a new leaf. Was giving the old Andrea Spencer the heave-ho and introducing a new improved version, one who was impervious to sweet-talking men with gray-green eyes and fetching smiles.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might not be alone?” She glared at the ceiling. “That I just might have better things to do at four-thirty in the morning than help you toast your ex-wives goodbye? I’m a normal twenty-nine-year-old single woman, Connor. I do have a life other than Devlin Electronics.”

“We promised once we’d always be there for each other. Remember?” he murmured. “Not going to break a promise to a blood brother, are you? Not going to leave your best friend in the lurch when he needs you?”

Not even thinking, she ran her finger along her left thumb, feeling the ridge of scar tissue. Twenty years later and it was still there.

Blood brothers.

Then, realizing what she was doing—what he was doing—she slapped her open palm down onto the bed, eyes narrowing. “Damn you,” she whispered furiously. “Damn you, Connor Devlin. That’s not fair! I’ve always been there for you when you’ve needed me. All you’ve ever had to do was call and—”

Gotcha.

He didn’t have to say anything.

Was smart enough not to.

Andie closed her eyes and blew out a long breath, swearing softly at him. A husky, warm laugh came down the line, enfolding her like a hug, and she swallowed a sigh, wondering who she’d been trying to kid, telling herself she’d be able to resist him. She never had. Not once in twenty-two years.

“An hour,” she muttered ungraciously. “And put the cap on that damned Scotch, because if you’re all drunk and maudlin when I get there, I swear I’ll turn around and come home.”

He laughed. “When was the last time you saw me maudlin, darlin’?”

“Seven years ago, when we went through this the first time,” she reminded him testily. “And put on the coffee.”

“Decaf?”

“High-octane.” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “You owe me for this, Devlin. Big-time!”

“Name it and it’s yours, darlin’,” he said with a chuckle. “Love you, lady.”

And the worst part of it was—that for those few moments it took him to say the words—he probably meant them.

* * *

It didn’t take her long to get over there. She pulled on her comfortable old jeans and a sweater, shoved her makeup and hairbrush in her handbag, then grabbed something suitable for work before heading for the door, grabbing her slim leather briefcase while fumbling for her car keys.

She had to be out of her mind. Yawning and shivering slightly with the cold, Andie unlocked her little red Mercedes and slipped behind the wheel, shaking her head with disgust as she put the key in the ignition and turned it.

You’d think she’d have this under control by now. After all, she wasn’t a kid anymore. It was one thing to fall in love with the cute guy next door when she was ten, quite another when she was three weeks shy of her thirtieth birthday and he still didn’t have a clue how she felt about him.

Pathetic, that’s what it was, she told herself grumpily. Just damned pathetic!

It took her all of thirty minutes to get there, the usually crowded freeway wondrously empty, the back roads leading to the big house on its five acres of rambling hills overlooking the sea deserted and pitch-black.

It always gave her an odd feeling, driving up the winding laneway with its overhanging trees, the air heavy with the scent of pine and sea salt. She’d come up here the first time nearly eleven years ago, and the memories of that night were still tender.

Conn had been a twenty-one-year-old college senior when she’d left, brilliant and popular and filled with dreams. He and his best friend, Billy Soames, had been talking of quitting college and starting their own computer company, and not long after Andie had left, they’d done it. And by eleven months later, their small two-man company had become the fastest-growing software firm on the West Coast, its two young owners successful beyond their dreams and wealthier than either had ever imagined possible.

Andie smiled humorlessly as she drove up the circular driveway. The house rose dark and solid against the night sky ahead of her, the front entrance lit up like a Christmas tree for her arrival. There had been no lights on to welcome her arrival that night eleven years ago.

It had been late that night when she’d gotten here—nearly midnight. She’d come back to Seattle from New York because she couldn’t stay away any longer. She had decided, finally, that she was simply going to have to take the initiative and make him fall in love with her, starting out with a full-fledged seduction she’d planned down to the last detail.

She hadn’t called or even written to warn him that she was coming, wanting to surprise him, wanting to see the expression on his face when he opened the door and saw her standing there, champagne bottle in one hand, suitcase in the other.

Well, she’d surprised him, all right. He’d pulled the door open and had stared blankly at her for a full second, then had frowned and asked her what the hell she was doing there at midnight. Then, recovering, he’d laughed and had wrapped her in a long, warm hug and had invited her in.

He’d barely tossed her coat over a chair and had told her to sit down when a petulent female voice had called his name from the depths of the house. And before Andie could gather her startled wits together and collect her coat and leave with some measure of dignity still intact, a tall, slender blonde had drifted into the living room, tousled and sleepy-eyed.

She’d been wearing a satin housecoat and nothing else and had gazed at Andie with patent displeasure. And then Conn, grinning like a fool, had come back into the living room, put his arm around the creature, kissed her...and, without even a hint of irony, had introduced her as Liza, his wife.

Wife.

Even now, more than a decade later, Andie felt a wave of heat brush her cheeks. Mortified and furious, she’d mumbled something in reply, collected her coat and suitcase and had bolted, blinded by tears. Conn had come after her, asking her what the hell was wrong, why she wouldn’t stay at least long enough to tell him what she was doing back in Seattle and where she was staying. Then Liza had called him back to her and Andie had fled into the night, stumbling into her parents’ spare bedroom at one in the morning to cry her eyes out, heart broken.

If she’d had the money, she’d have been on the next plane back to New York. But she’d had too little cash and too much pride. In the end she had defiantly stayed in Seattle, finishing college, finding a good job and a nice apartment and even a boyfriend or two. And to hell with Connor Devlin and his wife.

That had been eleven years and two Mrs. Devlins ago and she was still here, Andie thought as she brought the Mercedes to a stop in front of his house. Oh, on the surface everything had worked out. She had a job she loved, a beautiful apartment filled with antiques and fine art, a city full of great friends, even a man who wanted to marry her. Everything but the one thing she wanted most of all.

She still didn’t have Conn Devlin.

He’d left the door unlocked for her, and as Andie stepped into the dark stillness of the big foyer, she paused instinctively for a second or two, listening. But there was no hint of unfamiliar perfume on the air, no tinkle of throaty female laughter.

Grinning at her own silliness, she walked confidently through the darkness to the corridor leading to the living room, instinctively skirting the antique table on her left and the pedestal with its Ming vase on her right. It was like a second home up here, everything as familiar and comfortable as old friends, part of her because they were part of Conn. She breathed in the air deeply, loving the male overtones of wood smoke and leather and a hint of that cologne he always wore.

The huge living room was cloaked in shadows and darkness, the only light coming from the embers still glowing in the fireplace. She could see Conn sitting in the massive armchair back in the shadows, head dropped back, eyes closed, one foot on the edge of the raised stone hearth. There was a bottle of Scotch beside his foot, open, maybe a quarter gone. A half-empty glass sat on the brass-and-hardwood table near his right hand. And there were papers scattered on the floor around him, the kind of rich, heavy velum that lawyers are so fond of using when they’re telling you bad news.

She stood there for a moment or two, simply looking at him, feeling the pain emanating from him. Then she slipped off her jacket and draped it over the nearest chair and walked around behind him, reaching down to gently massage his temples.

He gave a groan of pleasure and smiled, not opening his eyes. “My angel of mercy. I didn’t know if you’d come or not.”

“You knew damned well I would come,” she told him bluntly. “I always come.”

“True.” He reached up and caught her left hand in his, pulling it down and kissing her inner wrist. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, darlin’. You’re the only thing that makes sense in my world half the time. And by God the only thing I can count on.”

“Best friends, remember?” Andie said it lightly as she walked around the chair and sat on the hearth, her fingers still meshed with his. He looked tired and slightly haggard in the dim light, and his smile was only halfhearted, obviously the best he could come up with. “You look like hell, Devlin. Have you had anything to eat tonight with that quarter bottle of Scotch?”

Conn had to smile. Opening his eyes, he turned his head to look at her, liking, as always, what he saw. Even at five-thirty in the morning, in jeans and sweater and without a hint of makeup, she looked bandbox perfect, skin glowing, that mane of thick chestnut hair spilling around her shoulders brushed and gleaming. But that was Andie, always calm and serene and in control, never letting things get to her. Not even a jackass for a best friend.

He gave her fingers a squeeze, then dropped her hand and leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his stubbled cheeks with his hands. His eyes were gritty and his tongue resembled flannel. He felt old and tired and worn around the edges, like an old sofa that’s been around too long.

“I grabbed a sandwich this afternoon, I think....” His neck was stiff and he massaged it wearily. “Or maybe that was yesterday.”

“Ah, the booze-and-self-pity diet,” Andie said dryly. “I have an idea! Maybe I can find some she-broke-my-heart-and-done-me-wrong music on the country station and you can sing along with it. That would be fun.”

“Sure glad you came over,” Conn muttered, wishing his head would stop pounding. “I love it when you get all supportive and sympathetic like this.”

“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?” She gave his knee a rap with her knuckles. “How many other people do you know who’d get out of a warm bed at four-thirty in the morning to come over here and listen to you moan and groan?”

“I’m not moaning and groaning,” Conn said through gritted teeth. “I’m celebrating. Every man has the right to celebrate a little when his divorce comes through. I’m a free man again. If that’s not reason to celebrate, I don’t know what is.” Except he didn’t feel like celebrating, Conn thought. He felt like crawling into a deep hole. And sleeping. Sleeping for about three months straight.

“Oh, Conn.” Her voice was just a whisper, and he felt the touch of her fingertips on his cheek, his temple. Then her arms slipped gently around his neck and she knelt in front of him, holding him tightly, and Conn found himself hugging her ferociously, burying his face in her neck and breathing in the warm, female scent of her as if it were a healing nectar.

“Conn, I’m sorry it didn’t work out, I really am,” she whispered. “I know you’d hoped it would this time. That everything would be perfect.”

Conn smiled ruefully. “I’ll live, darlin’. And I feel like a damned fool, dragging you over here. When I read the papers this morning I figured, hey, I’m cool—it’s over and done with, and it’s what we both wanted. It’s not like it was some big surprise or anything. Then...” He shrugged, then kissed the side of her throat. “Hell, I don’t know. I just sort of crashed, I guess. Don’t ask me why. It’s not as though I loved her or anything.”

“You did once,” Andie said softly, pulling back gently to look at him.

“Did I?” Conn heard the bitterness in his own voice.

“Well, you must have thought you did. Same thing.”

“I’ve been sitting here for hours, trying to remember just what the hell I did feel back then. There must have been something. I mean, a man doesn’t marry a woman without feeling something, right?” He looked at Andie seriously. “It scares me a little sometimes. This is the second time, Andie. I can live with one divorce—when I married Liza, I was still young enough to figure all you needed was spectacular sex to keep you together.”

He managed a fleeting smile, as much at Andie’s expression as at the memories. “But when I married Judith, I thought it was for keeps. I figured I knew what I was doing. That what we had was something that would last.” Another smile, slightly bitter this time. “Three years later she was gone. And I still don’t know what the hell went wrong. It just...faded. I remember waking up one morning and looking at her lying beside me and wishing I’d never even met her.”

“But the sex was spectacular.”

Conn had to grin. “Oh, yeah. The sex was spectacular. Right up to the end.”

Andie’s gaze held his for a fraction of a second too long; then she looked away quickly, coloring very slightly, and stood up. “I’ll, um, make you some breakfast. I hope you put the coffee on like I told you.”

“Yeah.” Conn nodded absently, watching her as she started gathering up the papers scattered around his chair. “Yeah, the coffee’s on.” Remembering, with sudden, unexpected vividness, of what it had been like with her.

One weekend of heaven...that’s how he’d always thought of it. Three days of a kind of closeness he’d never experienced before or after. It was supposed to have been a getaway ski weekend up to Mount Baker. Just the four of them—Andie and her boyfriend, he and Sharon Newcombe.

Then Andie and her boyfriend had split up two days before they were all supposed to leave. Conn had said there was no reason why she shouldn’t still go, considering there was plenty of room in the cabin they’d rented, and Sharon had exploded, shouting something about three being a crowd just before she stormed out, doors slamming.

So he and Andie, both smarting from love gone wrong, had gone by themselves, although neither of them had anticipated the outcome. They’d come together like gasoline and flame and even now, twelve years later, he could feel his body stir slightly with just the memories of it.

It had been a weekend of magic. But then they’d gotten back to the city and college and somehow—he never was sure why—the magic had vanished in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Sharon had turned up, contrite and apologetic, and it had been Andie’s turn to go storming off in a flurry of door slamming. He’d gotten that all sorted out about the time that college had let out, and Andie had headed down to San Francisco to take a summer job with her brother’s investment firm.

He’d planned to go down after her and talk things out. But he and his college buddy, Bill Soames, started playing around with a new idea they’d had for a prototype computer, and pretty soon the summer was gone. When Andie came back, things seemed stilted and awkward between them. And then, out of the blue, she’d decided to move to New York and they’d all but lost touch with each other for almost a year.

There was a hiss of sparks in the fireplace as a log settled, and Conn blinked, impatiently shaking himself free of the memories

Andie had tossed his divorce papers on the hearth and Conn looked at them dispassionately. Strange to think it was over that easily. Three years of great sex and a few good times, nearly a year of separation while their lawyers hammered out a deal...then a handful of papers and he was single again.

It made him laugh for some reason, although God knows it wasn’t even remotely funny. Still grinning humorlessly, he stood up and stretched until his muscles popped. Andie was nowhere to be seen but he could hear her in the kitchen. Suddenly he was starved. He picked up the bottle of Scotch and capped it tightly, then grabbed the half-empty glass and followed the clatter.

She was taking plates out of the dishwasher and stacking them on the counter. Conn paused by the end of the counter to watch her, enjoying the play of faded, soft denim across the rounded contours of her trim little bottom. That was one thing he didn’t see enough of these days. Hiring Andie to work with him had been smart in a lot of ways, but it also meant that she spent most of her time with him dressed in business garb.

Which was a damned shame, he found himself suddenly thinking. A real damned shame...

He set the glass on the counter, then slipped both arms around her and nuzzled the side of her throat. “You know what I was just thinking?” he purred against her ear.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“I was just thinking that we could take the day off. The Becktron deal can wait a day or two—if anything, it’ll just make Desmond Beck more agreeable.” Her skin was slightly salty, and Conn ran the tip of his tongue around the lobe of her ear, feeling her give a tiny start. He wondered why he’d never done this before. Hell, it wasn’t as though the idea hadn’t occurred to him now and again. But it just never seemed...well, right, somehow, making a pass at your best friend.

“Connor...” There was a hint of alarm in her voice.

“I have another idea, too,” he murmured, running one hand gently up under her sweater and settling his palm on warm, bare flesh, caressing her gently.

“Conn...” She’d stiffened at the first touch of his hand on her abdomen, as though not entirely believing what he was doing.

“We could go to bed for an hour or two,” he whispered, slipping the fingers of his left hand under the waistband of her jeans while letting his right glide up to lightly touch her breasts through silk and lace. They were warm and full and he remembered how sensitive they’d been those long twelve years ago, how she’d groaned softly when he’d—

“Connor...!” Breathless with surprise, she recoiled back against him.

“God, you feel good,” he growled, filling his hands with the incredible softness and warmth of her. “I’d forgotten how good you feel, Andie.” Nuzzling her throat, he splayed his fingers across her belly and pulled her against him, pressing gently against her, already fully aroused.

“Remember what it was like that weekend up at Mount Baker?” He felt her breath catch very slightly and smiled, running his fingertips along the edge of her bra and hoping she still wore the kind that fastened in front, smiling again when he discovered that she did. “We could have that kind of magic again, Andie. We could—”

“Conn, wh-what are you doing?” Her voice was just a dazed whisper.

“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” he asked with a throaty chuckle. “It’s been a while, but I think it’s called foreplay....”

He thought about what it had been like, making love to Andie that first time, wild and vital and so hungry for each other they’d practically gone up in smoke.

Twelve years later, and he could remember that first long silken slide into heaven as though it had happened no more than an hour ago. Could still hear the soft noise she’d made deep in her throat, the way her body had taken him, welcomed him, loved him as he’d pressed deep, deep...slaking himself in the hot, satin depths of her.

Conn groaned and moved against her. The catch on her bra gave way easily. He caressed her breasts, the nipples hard against his palm, and he could hear her moan very softly as he rubbed them, teased them.

She’d grabbed his wrist and he felt her fingers tighten convulsively. He remembered what it had been like with her twelve years ago, how she’d gasped with pleasure the first time he’d taken one taut nipple into his mouth, sucking it, caressing it with his tongue.

He remembered other things, too...touching her for the very first time, fingers seeking, finding, teasing. The way she’d pressed her thighs together, embarrassed and a little uncertain, until finally, with a soft sigh of raw pleasure, she’d relaxed and had let him ease his hand under the narrow bikini panties she’d been wearing. She’d been fire and honey and hot silken need, and in no time at all she’d arched against his hand, eyes wide with shock and delight.

The knot in his belly tightened, and he moved against her again, pressing himself against her round, denim-clad bottom and feeling his own breath catch. He slipped the metal button on her waistband free and tugged the zipper down impatiently, slipping his hand inside to cup the feminine curve of her belly before sliding down and beneath the band of her panties. “Andie, I want you....” he groaned, moving evocatively against her.

“Connor!” The word was little more than a gasp. “P-please!”

Growling something, he drew his hand from her and turned her in his arms, pressing her back against the dishwasher, one thigh pressing between hers even as he slipped his fingers into her hair. Tipping her face up, he brought his mouth down over hers, tongue sliding deep, seeking hers, finding it, as familiar and welcoming as coming home. She kissed him back, her arms going around his neck, lithe body arching against his....

And then, very suddenly, she wrenched her mouth away and turned her face so he couldn’t kiss her again, planting both hands on his shoulders and pushing him firmly away. “Damn it, Connor, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Kissing you,” he muttered, trying to do it again. “Damn it, Andie, quit turning away and—”

“Stop it!”

She was stronger than he would have guessed and she shoved him back roughly, panting for breath, cheeks flushed, eyes snapping. Giving her head a toss to get her tousled hair out of her eyes, she glared up at him. “Back off!”

“Andie, for the love of—!” Swearing, he took a step back, blood hammering in his temples, so aroused it hurt just to stand there, breathing hard. “What’s wrong? What the hell is—?”

“I am not some vacant pair of hips you can just use when the mood strikes you, mister! If you need to reaffirm your manhood or drown your sorrows or celebrate your newfound bachelor status or whatever the hell it is you’re doing, fine—but not with me!”

“What?” Conn just stared down at her, mind spinning with confusion. “Honey, that’s not what—”

“No!” Mouth tight with fury, she glowered right back up at him, wrenching the gaping fly of her jeans closed, then reaching under her sweater and fastening her bra. “Is that why you called me over here tonight? Because you’re feeling a little sorry for yourself and figure all you need to get over the divorce blues is a good—”

“Don’t even say it,” he growled, raking his fingers through his hair. “Look, I—” Swearing ferociously, he wheeled away and planted his hands on the edge of the counter, letting his head sag, eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” he muttered finally. “Damn it, Andie, I’m sorry. I don’t know what...” He shook his head.

And he didn’t know, he realized glumly. Sure, now and again he’d thought about what it would be like to make love to her again, but it was more out of idle curiosity than any real sense of desire. She was Andie, for crying out loud. His best friend. And a person didn’t hit on his best friend!

“I’m sorry, too,” she said finally, sounding subdued. “It was... Let’s just forget it, okay? It’s five-thirty in the morning, I’m tired, you’re a little drunk....”

Her small hand settled warmly between his shoulder blades, moving in soothing circles. “You’re my best friend, Devlin. That doesn’t mean I won’t punch your lights out if you try something like this again, but let’s not make a big deal out of it, okay?” She leaned close and kissed him lightly on the cheek, her breast pressing against his arm for a fleeting moment. “Go take a shower—a cold shower. I’ll make some breakfast.”

In spite of himself, Conn had to grin. Straightening, he reached out and caught her by the hand as she started to step away. “Why don’t you come with me? Hell, darlin’, it’s been twelve years since we shared a shower. There are worse ways to start a morning.”

“You’re pushing your luck, Devlin,” she replied mildly, planting her outstretched fingers in the middle of his chest and holding him firmly at bay.

He smiled down at her, wondering what he’d ever done to deserve a woman like this in his life. Even at arm’s length, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. “If I’d had any damn sense at all, I’d have married you eleven years ago instead of Liza,” he said half-seriously.

She hesitated for just a split second, an odd expression crossing her face. Then she smiled carelessly. “And ruin a perfectly good friendship, Devlin? We nearly did that by sleeping together that weekend up at Mount Baker. Remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” he said with a growl.

“And if you remember all of it, we agreed that our friendship was more important than sex. And that—”

“Spectacular sex,” he amended straight-faced. “We did agree it was pretty spectacular sex, Andie.”

“Yes, all right, spectacular sex.” She was trying not to laugh. “But we agreed that good friends are harder to find than lovers, remember. Even good lovers.”

“Great lovers, even,” he agreed blandly.

“Great?” She looked pleasantly surprised. “You really thought I was—?” She caught herself abruptly. Shrugging offhandedly, she stepped past him, avoiding his eyes. “Go take a shower, Devlin.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Grinning, he headed for the kitchen door. “And yeah, you were great. Once we got past all the virginal inhibitions, darlin’, you were—”

“Censor that,” she said quickly, suddenly very busy rummaging through the refrigerator. “Eggs...bread... How about French toast for breakfast?”

“I’m easy.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Feel free to take advantage of it.”

“You wish.”

Sometimes, Conn found himself thinking, glancing at her with an unexpected twinge of wistfulness. Sometimes I do wish, darlin’....

But he couldn’t say it aloud, of course. Not to his best friend.

Two

Staying there—setting the glass-topped rattan table in the big sun room off the kitchen, making French toast, pouring orange juice—was one of the hardest things Andie had ever done.

Every instinct she had was telling her to run. To hide. To shut herself up in her apartment and pull the covers over her head and simply die of mortification.

One touch—that’s all it had taken. One touch and she’d all but melted in his arms like overheated taffy, as pliant and eager as any teenager. Where she’d found the strength to push him away, she’d never know. Because she hadn’t wanted to. All she’d wanted was for him to strip her out of her jeans and ease her down onto the floor and make love to her as though his very life depended on it.

Shoving a handful of tangled hair off her forehead, she took a deep breath and wet her lips, closing her eyes for a calming minute. It was all right. She could handle this.

The secret was to stay cool and simply pretend it had meant nothing. Nothing at all.

Conn wasn’t drunk, but he’d had more to drink than normal. He’d been hurting, vulnerable, off balance—all alien emotions for a man who prided himself on his pragmatic and levelheaded approach to life. She’d been there, warm and female and reassuringly familiar. His best friend, his confidant, the one person who probably knew him better than anyone. What more normal thing to do than reach for her, seeking to put his world right again through the comforting rituals of lovemaking?

Odds were that he wouldn’t even remember the incident in a day or two.

So no harm had been done.

As long as she kept the whole incident in perspective, she reminded herself grimly. As long as she didn’t try to delude herself into believing that Conn, with blinding insight that had eluded him for twelve years, had suddenly recognized that she was the only woman for him.

Feeling more in control, she added a few drops of vanilla and a sprinkle of sugar to the cream and eggs, then started beating them with a wire whisk. It was time, she told herself calmly. In three weeks, she was going to be thirty years old. Too old to still believe in miracles. It was time she shook herself free of Conn once and for all and got on with her life, because she would be damned if she was going to turn into one of those silly calf-eyed women who waits and waits and waits...and then one day wakes up to realize that an entire lifetime has slipped by and her dreams have turned to dust.

The French toast had cooked to a deep golden brown by the time Andie heard the shower go off. A couple of minutes later Conn padded into the kitchen in a waft of soap-scented steam, cleanly shaven and barefoot, dressed in a ragged old pair of denim cutoffs and nothing else. He was still fit and lean, she noticed idly, his shoulders still solid, belly still flat and hard. And he could still make her heart give that silly little leap with just one lazy grin.

Ignoring it, she simply smiled. “You look almost human again. Feel better?”

“Actually, I feel like a damned fool,” he muttered. Walking across to her, he bent down to give her a chaste—and chastened—peck on the cheek. “Sorry. I don’t know what the hell I thought I was doing, grabbing you like that. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

As she knew all too well, Andie thought wearily. “Forget it, Devlin,” she told him easily. “You’re a man. Men do stupid things all the time. It’s what makes you so endearing.” Refusing to think about it, she slid three thick slices of French toast onto a warmed plate and handed it to him. “Eat this. You still look a little rough around the edges.”

“Feel a little rough around the edges.” Grinning, he took the plate and padded into the sun room, raking his fingers through his wet hair. “I still can’t believe I had the brass to haul you out of bed and all the way out here just because I was feeling sorry for myself.”

“You’re allowed,” she replied casually, carrying her own plate across to the table and sitting down. “Most of the time you’re an intelligent, competent businessman with a solid grasp on his life and destiny. I figure you’re entitled to one night of generalized stupidity, all considered. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

Conn winced slightly. “Point taken. Still friends?”

“Forever.” She said it easily, the ritual as old as their friendship.

Conn just nodded, prodding the French toast thoughtfully. He’d been thinking about Andie in the shower—a few salacious thoughts, granted, but it had been more than that. Thinking about how she was always there for him, about how he sometimes just took for granted that all he had to do was shout and she’d be there, calm and collected and in control.

“You, uh...” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You didn’t really have someone with you when I called tonight, did you?”

Andie stared at him, fork halfway to her mouth. “What a question to ask!”

“You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If you were getting serious about someone?”

“It’s the strangest thing....” Andie cocked her head slightly, as though listening to something. “I could swear I hear my mother. Didn’t that just sound like my mother?”

“All right, all right,” he growled. “I know it’s none of my business, but—”

“It is my mother!” She looked around with exaggerated surprise. “I was sure she was in Portland this week.”

“Don’t be a wise guy,” Conn muttered. “I’m dead serious, Andie.” Realizing, with some surprise, that he meant it. “We’ve never kept secrets from each other. I know you and that French banker, André or Albert or whatever his name is, have been seeing a lot of each other lately.”

She leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, crossing her arms. “I presume you mean Alain DeRocher, the French-Canadian investment analyst you introduced me to last year. Yes, we have been seeing each other pretty often, or as often as possible, considering I live on one side of the continent and he lives on the other. And no, he wasn’t with me tonight. Nor was anyone else, for that matter. Happy?”

Conn gave a grunt, only half-mollified. “So you and he aren’t...?” He lifted his eyebrow eloquently.

“Connor!” She gave a burst of laughter. “It’s none of your business if we are!” Still grinning, she looked at him with amusement. “Although, to forestall any more questioning, no, we are not—yet,” she added slyly.

“Yet.” Conn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Meaning he’s thinking about it.”

“Of course he’s thinking about it—he’s French!”

“And you’d...?” He lifted his eyebrow again.

“Now that’s really none of your business!”

“So you’re thinking about it, too.”

“Connor!” Andie took a deep breath, then let it out again with a quiet laugh. “I bet he would at least bring me flowers and wine before trying to peel me out of my jeans.”

Conn winced. “I said I was sorry about that, damn it.”

“Mmm.” She looked at him for a moment, an odd expression on her face. “What I’m saying, Conn, is that I just don’t know how I feel about him. He’s certainly everything a woman could want....”

Conn gave a grunt, not liking the expression on her face. Not liking the idea of DeRocher trying to peel her out of a damned thing, flowers or no flowers. “He’s too old for you.”

Andie’s left eyebrow arched indolently. “Excuse me?”

“Well, hell, he’s got to be fifty if he’s a day.”

“Forty-one.”

“Like I said, he’s too old for you.”

“I like older men.” There was a dangerous glow in her eyes.

“He’s probably married.”

“He’s never been married.”

“Never?” It was Conn’s turn to lift his eyebrow. “Don’t you think that’s damn strange? That this perfect specimen of a man has never been married? Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“It tells me,” she said sweetly, “that he is considerably wiser that some men I could mention.”

“Sounds to me as though he’s got some sort of problem. In the fun-and-games department, I mean.”

“Trust me,” Andie shot back even more sweetly. “He has no problem in that area at all.”

“I don’t even want to know how you’ve figured that out if you haven’t even—”

“Didn’t you tell me just last week that you don’t have to take a boat out to know whether it’s going to handle well in heavy weather or not? Gut instinct, I think you said.”

“I also mentioned experience,” Conn said silkily. “And I think I’ve had a bit more experience with sailboats than you’ve had with—”

“Do you have any idea at all of how thin that ice is where you’re standing?”

Conn grinned, cutting into the French toast with his fork. “Hey, I was just trying to make a point. If you like the guy, fine...go with what feels good. Just don’t start getting serious about him or anything, though, because—”

“He’s asked me to marry him.”

She said it quietly, without laughter or even a sly smile to soften it, and Conn nearly choked on a mouthful of toast. “He’s what?” His bellow made her blink. “Marry you? He can’t marry you! It’s out of the damned question!”

“And just why is it out of the question?”

“Because...” He didn’t know for certain, Conn realized, but there was no damned way he was going to let Andie, his Andie, marry some no-good French-Canadian financier and— “Your job, for one thing,” he said with satisfaction. “He lives in Montreal. Your job is here. The commute is a killer.”

“Alain lives in Quebec City,” she said calmly. “His ancestral home is there—all forty-seven rooms of it. His head office is in Montreal, but he’s only there a couple of days a week.”

“Even worse,” Conn growled. “Quebec City is even farther away.”

“I’d quit my job, obviously.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Easily enough arranged, Mr. Devlin.”

“You’re my best friend. You can’t move to Canada—what would I do without you?”

Something flickered across her face, gone before he could figure out what it was. “You’ll manage, Conn. You always do.”

“That’s not the point.” He felt unsettled and angry for no real reason, and he frowned at her, reaching out suddenly to run his finger down the silken sweep of her hair. “You’re not really going to marry him, are you, Andie?”

“I don’t know what you’d have to say about it if I did.” She sounded impatient and a little angry herself, and there was a hint of color across her cheekbones. “I have a life of my own, Connor. You seem to forget that sometimes. I have a right to be happy. My entire existence doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

Conn looked across the table at her, trying to read her expression. “Are you saying you’re not happy?” He mulled the thought over, trying to make some sense of it. “Are you saying—?”

“I’m not saying anything,” she snapped, stabbing a piece of French toast with her fork. “It’s just that sometimes I think you don’t see me as a person at all. I’m just good old Andie, best friend and blood brother. I take care of your office, make your dental appointments, hire and fire your cleaning staff, pick up your dry cleaning. I make sure you get to meetings on time, that your jet’s fueled up and ready to go when you need it, that your library books get back on time.”

She put the fork down with a bang and looked up at him angrily. “My God, I don’t know why you even bother getting married. I do everything a wife does, without any of the hassles of divorce!”

Conn simply stared at her, trying to figure out just what the hell he should be saying. Knowing that whatever it was, it had better be good. He hadn’t seen her like this in a long time, had no idea what had set her off. “Look, Andie,” he said carefully, feeling his way gingerly through a verbal mine field, “I know I can be—”

“Forget it.” She shoved her chair back and stood up, cheeks flushed slightly. “I know what you’re going to say, and you’re right. You can be a selfish, arrogant bastard at times. But this isn’t about you, it’s about me. I—”

She stopped abruptly, then just shrugged and managed a rough smile. “Oh, don’t look so alarmed, Conn—I’m not going to run off to Canada and marry Alain DeRocher or quit my job or throw dishes or anything. I’m just tired and I needed to let off some steam. Finish your breakfast while I take a shower, and I promise that by the time I come out I’ll be back to normal.”

“Hey, Andie?” Conn got to his feet in one easy move, reaching out to grab her arm gently as she turned to leave. “Hey, darlin’, I’m sorry. I had no right dragging you out of bed to come over here and hold my hand. And I sure as hell have no right trying to tell you who you should or shouldn’t date or marry or sleep with or whatever. If you want to do the nasty with old DeRocher, hey—you’ve got my blessing.”

For a split second, Andie was seriously tempted to plant her open palm across his cheek with every bit of strength she possessed just to see if that would shake him up a bit. But even as the urge hit her, it vanished again, leaving her struggling not to laugh with the sheer impossibility of the man. “No wonder women fall all over themselves to marry you, Connor Devlin,” she finally said. “You’re the most romantic devil I’ve met in years!”

Still laughing, she turned and left him standing there with a perplexed expression on his handsome face, suddenly afraid that if she stayed in the room with him for even another instant, she’d burst into tears.

* * *

Four hours, three cups of coffee and a crisis or two later, Andie was still having trouble concentrating, the memory of Conn’s strong, muscled body pressed intimately against hers just a little too vivid for comfort.

She’d be fine for a while, her mind focused on work with its usual laserlike intensity, but then she’d remember the warmth of his breath on her throat or the way his roughened palm had cradled her breast. Without warning, her breath would catch and her thoughts would go leaping off into all sorts of inappropriate directions, and she’d find herself sitting at her desk, staring blankly at some piece of paper, or look up and see someone looking down at her expectantly and realize they’d asked her a question she hadn’t even heard.

“If I didn’t know better,” her secretary finally said with an all-too-shrewd look, “I’d say you’d spent the night in the sack with some seriously bodacious guy, drinking champagne and making love until the sun came up.”

“Champagne gives me the hiccups,” Andie replied with a laugh, tossing down a handful of papers, “and I never make love until sunup the night before I have to put the finishing touches on a buy-out offer worth millions.” She grinned. “Seriously bodacious, huh? From that, am I given to understand that your daughter is home from college for spring break?”

Margie Bakerfield grinned back. “Like, for real, dude. It’s been three days now, and I haven’t understood a word she’s said. It’s frightening when you think about it. I’m spending several thousand dollars to send a perfectly normal, well-spoken girl to the best college in California. And she comes back speaking in tongues, with no visible tan line and a boyfriend whose main interests seem to be food and surfing.”

“Oh, to be young and in love, Margie. Let her enjoy it. When I was eighteen I thought the world would stay a magic place forever. Now I’m almost thirty, and the only magic I seem able to conjure up is time-shifting old movies on my VCR.”

“That Frenchman of yours looks like he should be able to conjure up a thing or two,” Margie said slyly. “He called this morning and wants you to call him back. The number’s here on your desk somewhere.”

Andie nodded absently, leafing through a thick computer printout. “Has Finance sent down their revised estimates on this Becktron deal yet? Conn and I are going head-to-head with Desmond Beck and his head bean counter on Friday. We need to have a solid handle on how much their patents are worth before Conn goes in with his final offer.”

Margie reached across Andie’s desk without saying anything and tapped in a couple of commands on the computer. It flashed a Working message for a moment or two, then spilled a multicolored display of figures across the screen.

Andie gazed at it in silence, then glanced up at Margie with a rueful smile. “I knew that.”

Margie just nodded, a tiny smile playing around her mouth. “Come over to supper some night this week, okay? You and Krista can swap stories about college life—she thinks I’m too old to remember back that far.”

Andie gave a sputter of laughter. Margie was all of thirty-eight. “Sounds good—pick an evening and tell me when.”

“Thursday. Right after work.”

“I thought you were going to the symphony on Thursday night with that new guy in Product Design.”

“Brad?” Margie made a face. “We went out twice. The first time, he took me to a romantic restaurant and spent the entire evening telling me all about his ex-wives. The second time, we went to a computer show and he spent the entire day telling me all about his mother. The third time he called, I told him I was washing the dog. He hasn’t called again.”

Andie groaned, laughing. “Oh, Margie, I’m sorry! I sometimes think all the unattached men in this city come in two flavors—weird and seriously weird.”

Margie smiled dryly. “You got that right.” The smile faded. “And the ones who aren’t just don’t seem to be able to see what’s right in front of them.”

She could have been talking about Conn, Andie thought, but she wasn’t. Only Frank Czarnecki could put that look of gloom on Margie’s usually cheerful face. “You could ask him over to dinner,” she said gently. “Or to a movie.”

“I know,” Margie said with a sigh. “If only he wasn’t so shy! I think he’s interested, Andie, I really do. But he doesn’t seem to know what to do about it. Until I met Frank, I didn’t know what a computer nerd was! It’s all he seems to care about.”

“Back when Conn and I were in college, most of his friends were just like Frank,” Andie said sympathetically. “If a girl even looked at them, they’d stammer and drop things. Most of them started their own computer companies and are bazillionaires by now, but they still have the social skills of fungi. It goes with the territory.”

“Except for Connor.”

“Except for Connor.” Andie smiled. “He always did have more going for him than a triple-digit IQ. He went from grade school charmer directly to corporate tycoon and bypassed the nerd stage altogether.”

Margie paused, as though wanting to add something. Then she just smiled. “Thursday evening, then. Mexican?”

“Love it.”

“Good. I’ll stock up on salsa and chili peppers and make it a night to remember. Krista’s boyfriend, Tad, will be there, but he’s an easy conversationalist. One grunt means no, two means yes and a shrug means he doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t talk?”

“Who knows? I’ve never seen him with his mouth empty long enough to find out.”

“I can hardly wait to meet him. He sounds like some of the guys I used to date when I was Krista’s age.” Laughing, Andie pushed back her chair and got to her feet, grabbing up a handful of reports from the corner of her desk. “I have to go over these with Conn. Hold my calls—unless it’s someone from Becktron.”

“Did, um...?” Margie winced. “I saw that official-looking envelope from his lawyer in yesterday’s mail....”

“His divorce decree. Signed, sealed and as final as they get.”

“So, he’s single again. I suppose that means that Woodruff female will have her claws in him.” Margie’s eyes glittered. “For months now, she’s been hovering around like a vulture waiting for an accident to happen. You can practically hear her salivating at the prospect of hauling in the catch of the day.”

Margie’s metaphors may have been mixed, but they made their point. “If she’s serious about landing him, she’s going to have to bring in the heavy-duty tackle,” Andie said quietly. “One sign she’s getting serious and he’ll head for open water.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.” Picking up a handful of letters she’d brought in for Andie to sign, Margie turned and headed back to her own office.

Andie stared blindly after her for a moment or two, then gave herself a mental shake and walked across to the door leading to Conn’s office. Olivia Woodruff. Interesting thought.

Shrewd, beautiful and as cold as ice, she headed up one of the most successful corporate law offices on the West Coast. She’d wooed Conn for almost a year before he’d shifted Devlin Electronics over to her, and she’d never bothered hiding the fact that Conn’s business wasn’t all she was interested in. So far, Conn had held her at bay. But now...?

Andie was still frowning when she gave a tap on Conn’s door, then pushed it open and went in.

Conn’s office ran the full width of the building, a peaceful retreat filled with antiques and fine art, with plenty of polished dark wood and gleaming brass and leather. Her doing, of course. Had it been left up to Conn, he’d still have nothing in here but a dozen custom-wired computers, a phone and a stack of discarded pizza boxes.

She smiled. Under the expensive suits and hundred-dollar haircuts still lurked that frighteningly bright college kid whose passion for electronics had given birth to a thriving corporation worth millions.

“Hey, darlin’,” he croaked, looking up as she came in.

“You look in fine shape,” Andie replied calmly. “Head hurts, does it?”

Conn managed a groan, then wished he hadn’t. He closed his eyes—gently—and gingerly rubbed both temples. “I didn’t think twelve-year-old Scotch gave you a hangover.”

She disappeared behind him and poured something into a glass. “Consumed in reasonable quantities, I don’t think it does.”

“Cheap shot.”

“Easy, anyway.” She set something on the desk. “Drink up.”

Conn opened one eye and gazed blearily at the glass of bubbling liquid in front of him. “Quick or slow?”

“Quick. It tastes like hell.”

“Is it going to kill me or cure me?”

“Do you really care?”

“No.” Sitting back in his leather chair with another groan, Conn reached for the glass and downed the contents in three long swallows, giving a shudder as it hit bottom. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Just a little.” Smiling, she strolled around behind him and settled her hands on his shoulders, kneading them gently. “Take a couple of deep breaths and repeat after me. I will never drink Scotch on an empty stomach again.”

“Don’t mention Scotch,” Conn groaned. “Don’t mention stomach.”

“I set up a meeting with Production at eleven. I called Frank Czarnecki and asked him to bring his whole design team with him.”

Conn started to nod, then thought better of it, relaxing against the warmth of her hands and feeling her fingers work through the knots across his shoulders. “So we’re still having quality-control problems with that remote-controlled underwater seismic unit. Damn!”

“They’re running at a fifty percent reject rate, with no sign it’s improving. Frank swears the problem isn’t with the design, but with something in the manufacturing process.”

“And Production swears the problem’s in the design.” Conn flexed his shoulders, wincing slightly as a jolt of pain shot through his skull. “That design is sound, Andie. I went over the schematics with Frank six dozen times. The damn thing should work. The prototype met every test way above specification.”

“So there’s a bug in the manufacturing process,” Andie said thoughtfully.

“Seems so. Wherever the hell it is, though, we’ve got to track it down fast. DeepSix Exploration has just signed a billion-dollar oil exploration contract with the Canadian government and needs those remote units now. We can’t sell them a product that might work half the time, and they’re not going to wait around while we try to figure out what’s going wrong.”

He groaned again, this time in frustration, and tipped his head forward so she could massage the nape of his neck. “What’s your take on the situation?”

“Our design and production teams are the best in the business, but they mistrust each other on principle. What if they’re spending so much time blaming each other for the problem that they’re overlooking something else? Something no one’s thought of yet.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know.” The rhythmic motion of her fingers paused as she thought about it, then resumed their slow massage of his neck muscles. “Some element in the manufacturing process that neither has control over. Something we don’t make. Something that comes in from the outside that—”

“The system program chip.” Forgetting his aching head, Conn sat straight up. “We subcontract it from Schoendorf Systems for less than it would cost to make it ourselves.”

“So what if there’s some sort of sporadic manufacturing problem at Shoendorf’s end? It’s possible that flawed chips are getting through our spot checks and into our units. That would explain why only some are faulty, while others are fine.”

Conn was already reaching for the phone. “I’m going down to the production floor to talk with Bob Miller. You call the warehouse and have them send over a random sampling of chips—pronto. We’ll test the little suckers this afternoon.”

“On it,” Andie said, already heading for the door. “I’ll call Shoendorf and have them fax over copies of all their quality-control tests for the last six months. I’ll also see if they’ve changed suppliers. Maybe the problem is farther up the line.”

Grinning, Conn watched Andie as she strode across the room and out the door, his hangover miraculously gone. “Tell that Frenchman of yours if he wants to marry you, he’ll have to go through me to do it,” he called after her. You’re mine!

Hell, he’d be bankrupt without her, he thought idly as he waited for someone down in Production to pick up the phone. It chilled him a little, just the thought of losing her.

There was no one else in the company whose judgment he trusted as much as he trusted hers. She didn’t just know the business inside out; she knew him just as intimately, able to finish his thoughts for him while he was still struggling to put an idea into words, able to follow his leaps of logic when he was sorting through a problem while everyone else stood around trying to figure out what he was talking about.

She was his sounding board when he needed to talk an idea through, and had enough solid ideas of her own that he’d learned to listen when she had something to say. She could cut through the clutter to the heart of a problem faster than anyone he knew, too, playing devil’s advocate when she needed to, knowing which questions to ask, which issues to raise.

Besides, unlike most of the people who worked for him, she wasn’t afraid of him. She tolerated his occasional lapses in temper, ignored his bellows of impatience, told him to shut up now and again when she got tired of listening to him rant and rave over some problem.

He had to grin. Everyone else just ran for cover and lay low until the storm blew over. But Andie always seemed to take things—and him—in stride, rarely rattled, never confused, a small spot of calm in an otherwise chaotic world.

He thought of holding her this morning. Of how she’d felt in his arms, all female softness and warmth, of the taste of her skin, her hair, her mouth. It had surprised him a little, how right she’d felt there. And his strong response had surprised him just as badly; he hadn’t realized until then just how damned sexy she was, how much he’d enjoy making love to her again.

How much he’d enjoyed it twelve years ago, he reminded himself with an inward smile. Strange, how a man could forget something like that until it all came rushing back, every detail of it, of her, so clear it could have been merely a night ago.

He realized what he was doing suddenly and sat upright with a breathed oath, irritated at his own wandering thoughts. He had to stop this. She’d kill him if she even suspected he was thinking of that night more than a decade ago, let alone remembering it in fond detail.

And this morning. This morning had nearly been the mistake of his life.

It had been too easy, reaching for her like that. Too comfortable. Granted, it had been a hell of a long dry spell since Judith had walked out, but a little sexual deprivation hadn’t killed a man yet. Simple lust was no excuse to ruin the best friendship he’d ever had or would ever have, so unless he was prepared to lose Andie completely, he had to make damned sure he kept things strictly business between them from now on.

* * *

Andie glanced at her watch, frowning at how quickly the morning was slipping by. Bob Miller and Frank Czarnecki would be in the third-floor meeting room in another half hour. And if she wasn’t there to referee, they’d be at each other’s throats in minutes, each convinced the other was responsible for the seismic unit’s dismal failure rate on the assembly line.

It wasn’t that neither wanted to take responsibility, it was just that both felt more loyalty to Devlin Electronics—and Conn—than they did to each other. They wanted the DeepSix seismic project to work. And took it very personally when it didn’t.

Her phone gave a subdued chime and she reached for it absently, doing some quick mental calculations on the new production figures for that gigantic order of memory boards they were putting together for a well-known computer company. On schedule and under budget, so far. She made a mental note to congratulate Bob Miller.

“Andie,” Margie said into her ear, “trouble’s on its way.”

“Trouble?” Instinctively, Andie looked up at her office door. “Who and what?”

“Killer shark,” Margie said with a chuckle. “Good luck.”

“Killer what?” But Margie had put the receiver down with a click, and before Andie could figure out what on earth she was talking about, her office door swung open and a swirl of red silk, swinging blond hair and expensive perfume came through.

Andie felt her hackles rise. “Good morning, Olivia. It’s nice to see you.”

“I doubt that,” Olivia Woodruff said with a quiet laugh. She smiled down at Andie. “Protective little enclave you have here, isn’t it? I have to practically submit to a strip search to get a visitor’s badge from Security, then I have to fight my way by Margie to get in here, then by you to see Connor.”

Smiling with equal warmth—that is to say, none at all—Andie leaned well back in her chair, legs crossed, and eyed the intruder calmly. “I’d tell you to go right in, but he’s not here.”

“In a meeting, I suppose.” Olivia’s eyes drifted toward the door to Conn’s office, as though suspecting a lie.

“No, he’s down on the production floor somewhere.”

“And I suppose having him paged is out of the question?”

“I wouldn’t suggest it. He doesn’t like being interrupted when he’s busy.”

“Not even for me?” The smile was bold. The eyes above it bolder.

“Not even for me.” Check and mate.

“Mmm. Serious indeed.” Olivia’s smile was as cool as her pale blue eyes.

As always, she was dressed for battle, clad in purple silk trousers and a coordinating purple-and-apple-green blouse, over which she’d carelessly tossed a brilliant red silk jacket. The effect was dazzling and expensive and probably created whiplash up and down the street as she passed by.

“So, our mutual friend is single again, I hear.”

“I don’t discuss Mr. Devlin’s personal business, Olivia,” Andie said with a smile. “You should know that by now.”

“True. Getting information out of you is like prying money out of one of my ex-husbands.” Shoving her hands in her jacket pockets, she gazed down at Andie companionably. “I suppose it’s only courtesy to advise you that I have designs on him.”

Andie bit back a hostile reply and smiled gently. “Well, then I suppose it’s only fair to tell you that you’re just one of many, Olivia.” She was amused to see a flicker of annoyance deep in the other woman’s eyes. She let her smile widen. “I figure by the time word gets around, he’ll be knee-deep in women with designs comparable to yours.”

Olivia didn’t smile back. “And what about you, Andrea? I get the impression you may have a design or two yourself.”

“Dating the man you work for isn’t good business, Olivia.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s been a long while since I worked for anyone but myself, but I seem to remember that dating the boss added a bit of excitement to the day. Although I suggest that if you decide to indulge in some midday desk-top lovemaking, lock the office door unless you want to startle the secretarial staff.”

Andie had to laugh. “Have you taken a good look at the top of Conn’s desk lately? Making love on it would be like making love in a mine field—if you came down on one of those prototype circuit boards the wrong way, you could hurt yourself.”

To her surprise, Olivia gave a snort of genuine laughter. “God, he’s like a kid with all that electronic junk, isn’t he? We were in his car last week, stopped at a red light, and the next thing I know he’s got his window down and is talking with a ten-year-old in the car beside him about video games!”

“If you’re serious about having designs on him, you’d better get used to it. And it would be a good idea if you learned how to play some of those video games, too.”

Olivia shuddered delicately. “I don’t think so, thanks.” She displayed long-tapered fingernails painted the exact shade of red as her jacket. “I’m certain I can interest Conn in games of a more personal nature.”

Andie thought fleetingly of being in Conn’s arms that morning, could still almost feel the coiled strength in his lean body as he’d pressed against her, wanting, needing....

“I have no doubt of that,” she said with forced calm, fighting the temptation to launch herself at Olivia’s slender throat. Killing Olivia wouldn’t do much good in the long run. Another woman would simply take her place. Trying to keep women away from Conn was like trying to keep bees away from a picnic.

“Well...” Olivia made an exaggerated show of looking at her watch. “I can’t spend all morning here. Are you sure you can’t call Conn and tell him I’m here?”

“I have no idea where he is,” Andie said quite truthfully. “It could take twenty minutes to track him down, and even then there’s no guarantee he’ll stop whatever he’s doing to take my call. You said it yourself—he’s like a kid when it comes to electronic gadgets. And the production floor is like a gigantic toy shop. He could be down there all afternoon.”

Olivia’s expression darkened and she glared at the door to his office impotently. “Tell him I was here, will you?”

“Of course. Does he have your number?” Low shot.

It earned her a cool look. “You know he does, Andrea. And trust me, honey—I have yours.” Countershot.

Andie had her mouth open to make a pointed retort when the door banged open and Conn strode in, grinning broadly. He had his expensively tailored suit jacket tossed carelessly over one broad shoulder, the top two buttons of his Armani shirt undone, hundred-dollar tie hanging loose around his neck. There was a smudge of grease on his shirtfront, his hair was tousled as though he’d run his fingers through it in exasperation and he was brandishing a circuit board like the Grail itself.

“You were right, darlin! Have I told you lately that I love you?”

Three

Olivia Woodruff was leaning against the corner of Andie’s desk, looking like a million dollars, as usual. She turned toward him with an expectant smile as Conn strode across the room. He gave her a nod of acknowledgment as he stepped by her and leaned down to plant a long and thoroughly satisfying kiss squarely on Andie’s upturned mouth.

Trying to ignore a distinctive and erotic stirring low in his belly, he grinned and squatted beside her chair, feeling like a five-year-old on Christmas morning as he brandished the circuit board. “You got it in one, hotshot. I owe you big for this one—you probably saved us about twelve million bucks in contracts.”

She grinned back, eyes sparkling. “So...it was the board.”

“Nearly three months ago, Shoendorf changed suppliers for one of the components used on the board. They’d been having trouble with quality control, but no one told us about it.” He dared to lean across to give her another swift kiss. “You’ve earned yourself a raise, kid.”

Andie laughed, looking as genuinely pleased at having the problem solved as he was. “So I can cancel the meeting with Production and Design?”

“Already took care of it. Bob and Frank are best buddies again, Purchasing is talking with Shoendorf about the problem, Bob shut down the assembly line until we run quality-control tests on all the boards in stock.... Crisis averted, thanks to you.”

Still laughing, Andie looked at his shirtfront and groaned. “I wish you’d put on a lab coat when you go down to the production floor to mess around. There’s a clean shirt in your office.”

“Don’t know what I’d do without you.” Another quick kiss and he was on his feet, looking around to smile at Olivia. “Hello, Liv, darlin’. Here to take me to lunch?”

“Forget it,” Andie spoke up promptly, her eyes glittering slightly. “We have to go over these figures again before this afternoon’s meeting. Make it dinner, or reschedule.”

Olivia smiled, reaching up to brush a smudge off his cheek, her fingers lingering there for a moment. “She takes such good care of you, doesn’t she?” she said sweetly.

There was something in her voice, in the very air around them, that made Conn look first at her, then at Andie. Both smiled beatifically, as charming as cats on a windowsill.

And as deadly, Conn thought uneasily. There was something a little dangerous in Andie’s eyes, and Olivia’s red fingernails flashed slightly as she took her hand from his cheek.

Now what? He knew Andie didn’t like Liv much, but there seemed to be an extra hint of hostility in the air today, a sense of something going on that he couldn’t quite identify.

Not that he deluded himself into thinking he’d figure it out in this lifetime. The complexities and rituals of female politics had always baffled the hell out of him. He’d decided a long time ago that the smartest thing a man could do was keep his head down and his butt safely out of the line of fire.

“Come on in and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” he said easily, putting his hand on Liv’s back and heading her gently but deliberately toward his office.

As the door closed behind them, he walked across to the hardwood table near the wall of windows overlooking Seattle’s waterfront. The coffee carafe was almost full and he poured two cups of the special blend he had Starbucks make up for him. He handed one to Liv. “Cheers.”

“More to the point, congratulations.”

“For?”

Liv’s mouth curved up in a gentle smile. “For finally getting rid of wife number two. It must feel nice, not having that hanging over you anymore.”

“Nice isn’t the word I would have chosen,” Conn said quietly. He still hadn’t entirely gotten used to the idea. He thought of Judith now deliberately, testing the memory for pain. Found only a weary sadness. “How did you find out? Don’t tell me the press has hold of it already.”

“A friend told a friend who told a friend who called me last night. I was going to drop by, but I had a dinner meeting that ran past midnight.”

Conn thought of the bottle of Scotch still sitting on his kitchen counter. “Probably a good thing you didn’t. I would have made lousy company.”

“Oh, I’m sure I could have come up with an idea or two guaranteed to raise your spirits. And who knows what else....” She grinned salaciously. “Come on, Connor, lighten up! You look like the hero in a Gothic novel, all scowl and thunder.”

He managed a rough smile. “It’s probably just the hangover.”

“Ahh.” She gave a knowing smile. “I see. It was that way, was it?”

He grunted something vaguely affirmative and walked across the room to drop into one of the big armchairs by the window. He usually enjoyed sparring with Olivia, but he was tired today. The kind of tired that went bone-deep and made him feel as if he’d never shake free of it. “So, what can I do for you, Liv?”

“God, so formal.” She kicked off her high heels and padded across to drop gracefully into the chair across from his. Lifting one long, curvaceous leg, she settled her bare foot into his lap. “You know why I’m here, Connor. I put a proposition to you a month ago. I’m still waiting for your answer.”

Conn settled both hands around her small foot and started massaging it. “I didn’t think you were serious, Liv.”

“Deadly.” She arched her foot, sighing in pleasure as he massaged her instep. “I want you to marry me. No strings, no fancy expectations, prenuptial agreements on both sides to protect our mutual business interests.”

“We could just sleep together and save the lawyers’ fees.”

She laughed. “Hell, I’ve been trying to get you into my bed for eight months, Devlin, with nothing to show for it but a near-terminal case of frustration.”

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