First published in 2001, KATHLEEN O’REILLY is an award-winning author of more than twenty romances, with more books on the way. Reviewers have been lavish in their praise, applauding her “biting humour,” “amazing storytelling” and “sparkling characters.” She lives in New York with her husband, two children and one indestructible goldfish. Please contact the author at kathleenoreilly@earthlink.net or by mail at PO Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960, USA.

Hot Under Pressure
Kathleen O’Reilly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For booksellers everywhere. Stacey, Anne, Elsie, I’m looking at you.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Copyright

1

ASHLEY LARSEN climbed over the family of three, mumbling “excuse me,” but honestly, in the wide-bodied jet, there was no elegant way to get to her seat with her dignity intact—especially since darling little Junior kept poking her in the rear and laughing maniacally. All the while Mom tried to pretend that nothing was amiss.

Little booger.

With a tight smile plastered on her face, Ashley climbed over the skanky-handed hellion, and then plopped into her seat with a relieved sigh. She hated the five seats in the center aisle. What designer thought that was a good idea? Especially on a day like today, when the direct route to her seat was blocked by the sweet little old lady who wanted to stuff the three-foot antique lamp into the overhead compartment. Patiently, the flight attendant was explaining how honestly, truly, cross her heart, the baggage handlers would treat the fragile piece with care. Stubbornly, the little old lady wasn’t buying it for a minute, and Ashley wished her all the luck in the world. Thank God that was over; now on to the real death-defying feat—preparing for takeoff. After a slow count to three hundred—twice—she pulled the plastic bag from her carry-on and then pushed the suitcase back under the seat in front of her. Furiously she kicked off her travel shoes with some previously unleashed aggression, and then donned fluffy pink bunny slippers. If she was going to die in the air, she wanted to be with at least one thing close to her heart.

Ashley hated flying. Her sister Valerie called it her Erica Jong moment, but it wasn’t sex that Ashley was afraid of, only moving through the skies at supersonic speeds, a gazillion feet off the ground. Physics had never been her best subject, and besides, she knew there was something seriously wrong with the concept. However, she hated the idea of being a slave to her fears, so, as a survival mechanism she had created her flying ritual. Every month, when she took off from O’Hare airport on her latest buying trip, she meticulously followed the same pattern to maintain sanity. Whatever worked.

Soon everyone was seated, the antique lamp was stored below and the flight attendant droned the standard disclaimers about pulling away from the gate in ten minutes. Just as Ashley had properly prepared herself for takeoff, another passenger made his way down the aisle, claiming the one remaining empty seat in the airplane. The one between Ashley and Mr. and Mrs. American Family, who were futilely trying to keep Junior amused. Now they decided to resume their parental responsibility. Couldn’t they have done it earlier, when he was playing pin-the-sippy-cup on Ashley’s butt? No.

Pointedly, Ashley stared out the window because she wasn’t normally a rude person, but air travel brought out one hundred and one demons in her, none of them Emily Post-like. Valerie said that the buying trips were good for her. That the only way to conquer a fear was to tackle it head-on. Valerie could be a total pain, and one day Ashley was going to stop listening to her sister’s advice. But not today. Today she needed the ritual.

A hard thigh brushed against hers, and she jumped.

“Sorry.” The voice was deep, husky and appropriately apologetic. Okay, there was another reasonable, sane human being on this flight. Ashley turned and the polite smile froze.

Hello, hot man.

His trousers were an off-the-shelf-khaki, his shirt, a nicely mussed crisp white, which, on most men would scream copier repairman, but here…it was like newsprint veiling a diamond. Yes, sometimes clothes made the man, but sometimes, the man made the clothes.

After logging thousands of air miles, she’d traveled next to perfumed matrons decked in crystal-encrusted fleece, overly large seat huggers, squeegee businessmen who thought she looked lonely and, yes, a veritable cornucopia of families from hell, but never, never, had she actually sat next to a man with a nice smile, wonderfully wicked hazel eyes and a lovely, lovely body that begged to be unwrapped.

Ashley swallowed.

“Not a problem,” she said, and then promptly looked away.

Come on, Ashley. Flirt a little. Pep up your game. Give him the goofy smile. Guys like that.

It was Valerie’s voice. The first time in three years that Ashley had felt heat between her legs and she was listening to an imaginary lecture from her younger sister. Not anymore, no way, no how.

“I didn’t think I was going to make it,” said hot man, continuing to converse with her.

Ashley was torn between wanting to converse with hot man and sinking farther down into her seat and hiding her bunny slippers, but alas, it was impossible in the sardine-like conditions. “And you made it,” she said, giving him the goofy smile until she realized what she was doing and promptly stopped.

“After running the four-forty through Terminal two. The next flight to L.A. isn’t until tomorrow at six, and I just want to get this over with. You ever feel like that?”

“Always.”

He smiled, then immediately frowned, the wicked hazel eyes glancing politely to the aisle.

Married. Must be. Or attached.

Subtly—unconsciously—Ashley’s eyes drifted, which she hated, to his left hand. She wasn’t on the make, she wasn’t interested, she didn’t need a man. She wasn’t even thinking about being on the make, no matter how much Valerie nagged her. But that didn’t explain the little heart-thud when she noticed there was no ring.

You’re a wimp, Ashley.

As she contemplated her own human needfulness, the stewardess pulled out the life vest to demonstrate the life-saving effects of the floatation device. Ashley imagined the floatation device bobbling alone in the ocean, her hands aching with cold from the water of the Great Lakes, her face dimming to a pale blue, her lungs weakening ever so slightly. Her hand locked onto the armrest because she knew that Lake Michigan had an ambient temperature of fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit in April, which didn’t sound too bad, but she’d seen that damn Titanic movie. She didn’t want to live it.

“First flight?” asked hot man, the nice smile returning, which did have the unexpected effect of calming her fears…somewhat.

“No, sadly, I became a platinum passenger last year. I’m merely a coward at heart.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, the hazel eyes flickering more toward green—a warm, earthy green that did more to distract her than a muscle relaxant ever could, and reminded her that she hadn’t had sex in a long time.

“Don’t be. It’s a family trait. Yellow-bellied, lily-livered Larsens, that’s us.”

He smiled again, and she felt the tell-tale heart-thud again. She unlocked her gaze from the captivating green of his eyes, and drifted to where Junior was most likely planning his latest nihilistic techniques.

Ask his name.

No.

It’s only a name, a polite introduction. Not an invitation to the mile-high club.

I don’t care. Shut up, Valerie.

I’m not even here.

I know. I swear when I get back on land, I’m going to see a therapist. It’s the only answer.

Don’t be a wimp, Ashley.

I’m very self-aware. I’m a wimp.

Why do I even try?

Because you’re sadistic, and you revel in my pain. It makes you feel superior.

I’m not even here.

“Don’t talk to me,” muttered Ashley, wondering if hearing her sister’s nagging meant that she was a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The wind was certainly blowing in that direction.

“I’m sorry?” asked hot-guy.

“Oh, not you. I hear voices.”

His brows rose—charmingly, of course. He really had a great smile. It wasn’t a full-bodied smile, just a quick rise on the right side of his mouth where his mouth smashed headlong into a tiny dimple. “Part of the phobia?”

“No, my psychotic sister. Do you have a psychotic sister?” she asked, firmly believing that everyone should have a psychotic sister.

“No.”

“You are so lucky. I always thought a brother would be cool. As long as he doesn’t nag.”

“Your sister nags?”

Ashley nodded. “Like a mother.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, apologizing again, and she noted how rare it was to hear a man apologize. Jacob had never apologized. Not once.

Right at that precise moment, Junior stabbed hot man in the hand with a particularly lethal twisty straw, and he yelped, his hand diving toward the armrest, trapping hers in a death grip of pain.

Ashley yelped, too, Junior laughed hysterically and Mom politely looked in the opposite direction, as if all were right with her world. Muscle relaxants could do that to a person.

Hot man’s hand lifted from hers, and Ashley’s normal blood flow resumed. He looked at her, the hazel eyes no longer wicked—now they showed true fear. About time he appreciated the seriousness of their situation. Four hours next to the toddling terror of the skies, who was now demanding macaroni and cheese, obviously oblivious to the plebian limitations of airplane food.

“He just broke out from the pen,” Ashley whispered confidentially. “Wanted in four states. I saw his mug on the post office wall.”

Hot man leaned in close and she could feel the whisper of his breath.

Ah, yearning loins, aching to be filled. Thy name is lust.

Shut up, Valerie.

“Stabbed you, too?” he asked.

“Nope. Butt-fondling in the third degree.”

“Really?” He grinned. “A mastermind of crime with discriminating taste.”

He’s flirting with you, Ashley. That’s definitely flirting.

Shut up, Valerie.

“So, why’re you going to L.A.?” asked Ashley, flirting in return. “Vacation. Business. The fresh air?”

“Business,” he answered, kicking his feet toward the computer case in front of him. “I’m a business analyst. You?”

“Buying trip. Clothes.”

His eyes raked over her, noting the bunny slippers, and she felt the twinge again. The loins were definitely starting to yearn. “You like to shop that much?”

“I own some boutiques,” she spoke, the words stumbling out of her mouth like pebbles. She’d bought the stores as a post-divorce present to herself, but what had been an impulsive plan to reinvent her life, hadn’t quite blossomed as she’d hoped. As a kid, she loved to shop for clothes, loved to put together outfits that seemingly didn’t belong, but then somehow worked. Unfortunately owning four disjointed clothing boutiques required more than stylish élan. Ashley’s business sense hadn’t magically appeared as Valerie had believed, and a good eye for color and style couldn’t compete with designing ads and balancing the budget. In fact, in the past few months, usually when she was paying the bills, she thought about selling the stores, worried that she couldn’t cut it. It was when the rent got raised for the second time in as many years that she worried she was like some people on those television reality shows. Thinking they could sing, but when their mouths opened the world’s worst sounds emerged, and the home audience is sitting there wondering why the heck these types ever, ever had the wonky idea that they belonged in the limelight.

There were certain similarities.

Ashley’s smile fell, the plane moved slowly back from the gate and she felt the familiar lurch in her stomach.

“Scared?”

“I’ll be fine,” replied Ashley, and she would. Business problems, personal problems, fashion problems, in the big scheme of things, they didn’t amount to much that couldn’t be overcome. In the end, Ashley was a survivor. When she was working on a new store window—surrounded by encouraging mannequins draped in subtly fitted, beautifully crafted, casual couture—the dream returned. She could do it. All she needed was to keep the faith.

She gave hot man a weak smile, and he covered her hand, a grip that was supposed to be comforting.

If you’d only twitch the thumb, a tiny caress…

Shut up, Valerie.

He had large hands, warm hands, with long, long fingers that looked so full of possibilities.

“Everything all right?”

“Peachy.” The engines start to roar.

Quickly she took out the air-sickness bag.

Just in case.

DAVID MCLEAN hadn’t been excited about a side-trip through Chicago to see his brother. Ex-brother. Chris had lost any claim to family bonding after he’d slept with David’s wife. Yeah, nothing like a little wife-sharing between brothers. Four years, and it still pissed him off.

Still, in the face of pink bunny slippers and shoved in close quarters with a young psycho in training, David felt something unfamiliar tug at his face. A grin. Yes, that was definitely a grin.

The woman was just nervous enough to be unthreatening. He liked her. Her hair was dark, nearly black, and she had soft brown eyes and a nose that was too big to be called pert. But it gave her a little something extra—character. And she had a nice mouth, plump lips that were always held slightly parted, like a kid viewing the world for the first time, or a woman in the beginning throes of climax.

There was something stirring in his khakis—trouble. Sex held the whip hand, and turned men into stupid dogs. Like, for instance, Chris. And Christine. When he first introduced his future wife to his brother, all three of them had laughed about their matching names. The day he had found them in bed together, the laughter had stopped.

He shot a furtive look at the bunny slippers.

“I’m David,” he said, carefully displacing thoughts of Chris and Christine.

“Ashley.”

“Are you from Chicago?”

“Born, bred and will most likely die here as well.”

“Cubbies fan, aren’t you?” It was there in her eyes, that sort of lost hope, winning seasons long denied. Idealistic dreamers—a rarely seen species that was going to naturally select itself into extinction.

She winced. “I know, it’s pathetic, isn’t it? Are you from Chicago?”

“New York.”

“Ah, home of the Yankees.”

“What can I say? I live in New York. We always back the money team.”

“Sad to be bought so easily.”

He shrugged, and looked out the window. The plane had stopped moving toward the runway. They were returning to the gate.

Immediately Ashley noticed. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Her finger jammed at the call button, just as the captain came on the speaker, his voice Prozac calm and soothing, which only made her more nervous.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve had a slight mechanical issue. Nothing to worry about. I’m going to pull us back to the gate and have the mechanics check things out. We’ll have a short stop where you can disembark, if you choose. However, you will need your boarding pass to reboard.”

“We’re not flying?” she said, and he noticed the relief in her voice.

“We’re going to fly,” answered David, wanting to reassure her, but more importantly, he needed to get to L.A. The sooner he left Chicago the better.

“I’m not taking off my slippers,” she answered. “They can’t do that to me.”

“It’s okay, I’m sure it won’t be long,” he told her, not his usual brutal honestly, but he suspected there was normally more color in her face, and if bunny slippers made her happy, who was he to take them away?

“What sort of mechanical problems do you think we’re stuck with? I was on a flight to Miami when they thought the landing gear was hosed, but it turned out fine.”

“Let me tell you about the time that I was flying to Houston. The engine blew…” Her eyes shot up four sizes, the pale color bleached to a ghostly hue, and he clamped down on his tongue. Hard. Okay, David, great going here. “Sorry. We landed fine. They have back-up engines, so if anything fails…” He realized he wasn’t helping, so wisely he decided to shut up.

Damn. He liked talking to her. Normally he pulled out his computer and worked through flights, but this afternoon had left him feeling unsettled. Two weeks ago he had told his ex-wife that he would be in Chicago for a meeting. He would finally see them. But then he’d arrived at O’Hare and the city of big shoulders closed in on him.

He shouldn’t have called them. Christine had said she was pregnant—oh, joy!—but in the end, David lied, leaving a message saying that his meeting had been canceled and he wouldn’t be stopping in Chicago after all.

David didn’t like being a coward. He never did—except for this.

The pregnancy had stung. Not that he wanted Christine back, but it irked him that she preferred his brother, that fidelity wasn’t part of her vocabulary, and that he, a man who evaluated million-dollar business opportunities on a daily basis, could do so poorly when picking out wife material.

“I know of a little knockwurst place in Terminal One,” he blurted out, because he didn’t want to sit here sulking over the social implications of having a nephew birthed by his ex-wife. Bratwurst and sausage were so much more appealing. Then he glanced down at her feet. “Oops. Never mind.”

“Down by Gate B12, between the ATM and the security check?”

“Yeah, you know the place?”

“Heh. I eat there all the time.” Her mouth parted even more, drawing his eyes. Trouble stirred once more. “There are few things to get me out of my bunny slippers, but knockwurst and blown engines will do it. Let’s go before junior scarfs down another chocolate bar.”

2

HIS NAME WAS David McLean. His hair was a rich brown, cut conservatively short, but it suited him, suited the all-American, man-most-likely-to-know-how-to-fix-a-car-engine allure. Yes, he’d never model like one of those designer-wearing scruffy-jawed man-boys, but there was something about him that fascinated her. He was curious and intelligent, asking questions about everything, yet not so willing to talk about himself. Eventually she discovered why.

He was divorced and his jaw clenched like a vise when he’d mentioned it, so it wasn’t one of those “parting as good friends” situations.

The restaurant was quiet and dark, the wait staff moving efficiently and effortless, and the large, overstuffed booths were conducive to divulging confidences to perfect strangers.

“It’s not easy, is it?” she asked, thinking of her own divorce. Two weeks of wounded pride, several weeks of sorting out the finances and understanding what was whose and five months of awkward questions and well-meaning advice from friends. But then Ashley woke up one cold December morning and she knew she would be okay. Not fine, not great, but she was going to live. It was while in that fragile state that Valerie convinced her that she should do something radical with her life, live out her dream and buy a chain of four small Chicago boutiques. Start fresh.

“Not going that well?” asked David, when she told him what she did.

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. You don’t have the joie de vivre that a lot of small business owners get when things are breezing along.”

“You see a lot of small business owners?”

“Oh, yeah. From Omaha to Oahu. Kalamazoo to Klondike. I’ve seen a lot.”

“Oh.”

“Owning your own business is a lot of work. I sit on the sidelines and tell people how much their business is worth, how much it’s not worth, what they are doing wrong, and recommend whether our investors should go all in or not. My job is the easy part. After I look over the operation, talk to a few customers and suppliers, I go plug some numbers into a spreadsheet, and then I’m on to the next business, the next opportunity.”

“I used to be an insurance claims appraiser.”

His mouth quirked, amused, and she cut in.

“Don’t say it. I know. I have the insurance adjuster look.”

“Nah, not an insurance adjuster. Maybe bookstore owner or candy maker. Something more personal.”

“I think that’s a compliment.”

“It is. You’re too cute for the insurance business. So why fashion?”

Cute. He thinks you’re cute.

He’s from New York.

Who cares? Take a chance, Ash.

For a second she met his eyes—a little more bold than usual. “I want to prove something. I want to take a plant and nurture it, care for it, water it and watch it bloom.”

He snapped his fingers. “Florist. I can definitely see that in you.”

She began to laugh because if he ever saw her plant shelf, he would be rolling on the floor, too. “No florist, sorry. I wanted to do something that I could master. Something challenging. I was stuck, and I needed to prove that I could do something different.” It was nearly Valerie’s post-divorce speech verbatim, but Val had been right. Ashley had just neglected to tell her sister that last key point.

“And fashion is challenging?”

Ashley nodded. Men really had no idea. It had taken her two hours to decide on the yellow gypsy skirt, the perfect pale green cotton T-shirt and a kaleidoscopic glass-bead necklace. The outfit had vague Easter-egg overtones, but worked nicely with her hair, and best of all…no wrinkles when traveling.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

He sat back from the table, his eyes tracking to the bank of departure monitors nearby. “We better go back to the tarmac of terror.”

“You’re anxious to get out of here?” she asked, noticing the slight jaw-clench again. That, and the disappearing smile.

“No. It’s fine.”

Yeah, she’d seen that movie, too. Knew the ending. “Denial, much? Don’t worry. It’ll get better.”

His gaze met hers, and the warm green was analytical hazel once again. “Has yours?”

“Oh, yeah,” she lied. It hadn’t gotten worse, but it hadn’t gotten better. Instead she was stuck in this post-divorce limbo where she had no knowledge of how to proceed, and no inclination to leave the comfort of her own solitude.

“So when’s the last time you went out?”

“Not too long ago.”

“How long?” he probed, and she didn’t like the awareness in his eyes. It was that same probing look that her sister got before she would launch into a lecture. Ashley shifted in her seat.

“I don’t know,” she answered vaguely. The divorce had been three years and eight months ago, but she didn’t like the idea of dating again. It felt too wrong. She was a thirty-two-year-old woman, not a twentysomething college kid. She couldn’t go sit in a bar. If she signed up for a matchmaking service, she was afraid no one would pick her. And most of the blind dates she’d had had been with total losers. People had good intentions, but their judgment left a lot to be desired.

“Has it been longer than a year?”

“Maybe. But I’ve been busy,” she said, dodging the question.

He stayed silent for a second before nodding. “Understand that. I’m not one of those men who has to be married. I cook. I do my own laundry. There’s a whole group of guys who get together to watch the games in a bar. I’m independent. I like my independence.” It was the battle cry for the walking wounded. Ashley knew it well.

“Then it sounds like you’re in a good place.” She gave him the fake smile. The one that says, “whatever you say is fine.”

“I think I am. You?”

“Oh, yeah.” Abruptly, she decided to stop the charade. Here was a comrade in arms. Someone who knew exactly how it felt. Why not tell the truth? She missed cooking for two. She missed waking up on a Sunday morning and not having to plan out the day. She missed being able to come home from work and laugh about her coworkers—not all of them, but there were a few who were laugh-worthy. Ashley and Jacob had been married for seven years, and it was never the world’s greatest marriage, but still…“Sometimes it is, but sometimes it’s not. Well, you know, there are things I miss.”

“Gawd, yes.”

“At night. It’s lonely.”

“Exactly.”

“I mean, I know I can get Valerie to watch…” He shot her a shocked look and then recovered quickly, but not before she noticed. Oh, man, he thought she was talking about sex, which she wasn’t, but now, okay, her mind was going there, she was thinking the sex thoughts…No, don’t think about it, Ash. Quickly she fumbled back into the conversation. “I like watching horror movies at night and my sister is a total wimp. All we get are historical dramas. Television is something best done with another person.” Okay, Ashley, got over that one. Not too shabby.

David, however, still looked mildly shell-shocked. “Totally,” he answered in a tight voice.

“You like horror movies, too?” she asked, getting a little cocky and daring to tease.

“We should get back to the plane,” he answered, not taking the whole teasing thing well. She knew that men got a lot more wired than women about sex, but he seemed more laid-back than that. Wrong, Ashley. Quickly she changed to a safer topic.

“Get back to Junior? You’re as sadistic as Valerie.”

“Maybe he’s asleep.”

THEY HAD NO SUCH luck once they got back on board. Junior was riding a sugar high, judging by the chocolate smeared across his face and the way he kept bouncing on his seat. But at least all weapons were out of his possession.

David watched as Ashley changed shoes again, noticing how nice her feet were. Smooth, compact, lots of well-turned curves. His cock stirred and he turned away. Turned on by a foot? Weak…very, very weak. It’d been a long time since he had spent several confined hours in the company of a single woman. After the divorce, he’d thrown himself into work, mainly because he liked it, he was good at it, and if he couldn’t have a family life, at least he could build up his retirement account. Today had been like a cold dunk in a deep ocean, the familiar patterns coming back to him, the jittery nerves coming back to him, and the hard-on coming back to him as well.

It was because there wasn’t anything they could do about it. That’s what this was. Economics. Supply and demand. Decrease the availability of supply, and boom, demand shoots out from every pore, zipping in his brain. Ergo, the hard-on.

If she hadn’t mentioned sex. Well, honestly, she hadn’t mentioned sex, she just mentioned the word night and his imagination took off from there, wishing they weren’t at an airport, wondering if that skirt was as easy to slip off as it looked so he could feel her skin under his hands. Tawny skin, creamy skin, soft, touchable skin rubbing up against him…

David studiously avoided looking at her skin, his eyes moving upward, touching on her chest. Lots of well-turned curves there, too. After that, he looked away, met Junior’s knowing eyes and glared. Heading to an altitude of thirty thousand feet, it wasn’t going to get any easier, so better to concentrate on other, less arousing things. Junior launched a Lego piece in his direction.

Like survival.

TWO HOURS LATER they were still at the gate. They were waiting on either a part, or a new plane, the pilots weren’t sure which would arrive first, but they had high—ludicrously delusional—hopes for getting away tonight. In the face of such facts, Ashley had long abandoned her fear of flying. It was obvious they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Instead she was thigh-locked with David, who had very nice thighs, too. Hard. His arms were fab as well. Thirty minutes ago, he’d pushed up his sleeves, and her gaze kept stalling out on the biceps, which were bigger than most, an odd incongruity for khakis and a button-down, and she wondered why. He wasn’t bulky enough to be a weight lifter, but his arms were too big for a swimmer or a runner, and definitely too big for a tiny airplane seat. They kept brushing against hers, casually, which didn’t explain the electric shock to her system.

Not that he was making it any easier. Conversation had ceased about half an hour ago when she caught him staring at her chest, and they both looked politely away.

Damn.

She crossed her legs, uncrossed her legs, and had a hare-brained urge to ask him to join her in the bathroom. She’d pulled out Vogue and Harper’s and Lucky, but even the lure of the sloe-eyed models in their daring designs hadn’t dimmed the awareness that simmered in the air.

The bright spot in the tension was Junior, which said a lot about her feelings of desperation. Junior wrote on David’s hand with a pen, and David laughed, sounding more relieved than amused. Junior ran up and down the aisle, and Ashley counted the number of times, choosing note to fixate on the discreetly covered ridge in David’s khaki slacks.

Do not go there.

Go there, Ashley.

Oh, yeah, good of you to talk. You can’t have sex on a plane, Valerie.

People do.

Not me.

There was a momentary pause in her thoughts, because right now, given readily available options, she could so have sex on this plane.

Another thirty minutes passed, and the flight attendants were passing out drinks. Yes, alcohol, the world’s most potent aphrodisiac. When the flight attendant stopped at their row, David shook his head, Ashley shook her head, and Junior’s mother and father opted for double vodka tonics.

Outside the window, the lights of the airport started to dim. If she lowered her hand one inch, just one tiny inch, she would be touching his thigh. If she were careful, it would look like an accident.

Junior spilled a glass of orange juice on those khakis that she was not looking at, and David shot sideways, and there was a momentary barrage of touches. His hand, her breast. Her hand, his thigh. She jumped back, arching toward the window, and he moved away, hugging his seat. Junior’s mother apologized, and Ashley’s nipples were powered by a thousand jet engines, ready for takeoff.

It was shortly after her breasts had recovered from the shock that the captain came on the speaker and announced that moment they all had been expecting.

“Ladies and gentleman, we tried. But there’s bad weather in New York, and we couldn’t get the plane that we were hoping for, and they can’t get the part here until the morning. So I’m sorry to say, we won’t be going anywhere. If any of you need hotel accommodations at the airport, there’s a flight attendant waiting to give you the details.”

A hotel. Suddenly the word took on new connotations and images. A hotel implied a bed, privacy, something much more comfortable than a tiny bathroom designed by Boeing. A hotel implied sex.

The cabin lights went on, and people around them began to move. Everyone was moaning and complaining, and, in general, not in a very happy place. However, Ashley’s happy place was getting happier by the second. She didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to assume, most of all she didn’t want to act as if she didn’t know what she was doing. After all, she was mature, she was an adult, and after eight hours of sitting thigh-to-thigh with this man, she was primed to explode with only a touch.

He turned, a slight inclination of his head, and she met his eyes. It was ESP of the most carnal kind. She licked her lips, his gaze tracked her tongue and she knew that he knew.

He leaned down, his mouth near her ear. “You should know that right now, I’m a very happy man.” Ashley felt the touch in her ear, down to the soles of her feet, and every single inch in between, especially the happy place. She tried to smile, but that involved mind-body cooperation, and right now there was none. Slowly she regained the capability to speak and she did manage to smile, although she wasn’t sure how it looked.

“Happy is good,” she told him.

She was going to have sex with David. She was going to peel off his shirt, feel the muscles of his bare chest crushing her breasts. She would rip off his briefs, since she instinctively knew he wore briefs—tight, white briefs, with his sex jutting out from the band—and then finally, finally, he would push up inside her, filling her…

She felt her muscles contract once, contract twice.

Her mouth tightened and her eyes opened and spied David, who was watching her with eyes that were nearly black.

Ashley nodded once. “I think we need to go. Now.” He grabbed the carry-ons and then they both took off running through the airport, Ashley’s bunny slippers cooperating nicely.

3

THE FIRST STOP was at the newsstand for condoms.

Condoms!

I can’t believe you’re sitting here watching a man buy condoms. I mean, I’m glad and all, but Ash, he’s not a serial killer, is he? This is not smart. How much do you know about this man?

I know enough that I want to sleep with him. No, not sleep. I want to have sex. I want to kiss him, I like watching his eyes get all dark and sexy. You’d be surprised what you get to know about a guy when you’re trapped on a grounded plane for eight hours. He’s not a serial killer.

It’s your funeral.

Shut up, Val. You’re not here, and he is.

She pulled out her flats from the carry-on and switched out of the bunny slippers. Not going to need those until tomorrow.

After an eternal four minutes, David walked back from the newsstand wearing a slight flush, his eyes dodgy, not like a guy who was an old hand at buying condoms at the airport—and not like a serial killer, either.

“I don’t carry them,” he apologized.

“I understand,” she said, and decided it was best not to talk about this anymore.

The shuttle to the hotel was fast and silent, and it glided through the darkness, getting them there way too fast. David didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. She could feel him, feel his eyes, feel his thoughts.

When the shuttle arrived at the hotel, David took her bag, his arm brushing against hers, and she jumped. It was like a scene in some of her favorite horror movies, but not in the “someone’s going to get hacked up” sort of way, but more “someone’s going to get laid,” and it was going to be good. Really, really good. Her loins started to ache, her blood pounding.

At the front desk was a seventeen-year-old who didn’t need to be up this late. As David handled the registration, Ashley held back because she didn’t know hotel registration protocol for this arrangement. Did they need two names? If so, should she use her real name? It was a whole new world, and honestly, she didn’t need to know about it. There were much more important things to think about, so she and her aching loins were going to hang back and wait it out.

Three seconds later, and then David was back. It was time. It wasn’t enough time.

“You don’t look so good. You need a drink? We can chat more,” he told her, because obviously eight hours stranded on a plane wasn’t enough for Ashley. Oh, no, she needed more chat time.

“We should get a drink,” she said, her brain furiously stalling for chat time, while her other parts were yelling at her to get the heck upstairs.

To the right of the front desk was the hotel bar. It was dark, sleek, a place with low lights, big comfortable chairs, and an IMAX-sized mirror on the wall. Ashley leaned up to the bar. “I’ll take a double shot of tequila,” she told the bartender.

“Make it two,” added David.

While he waited for the drinks, she picked out two chairs, far from the bartender, but not far from the mirror. David set the shot glasses on the low table and settled in the chair next to her. “You should know that I have taken defensive driving, been married only once, have no contagious, nor sexually transmitted diseases and I never pick up strange women in airports.”

For some reason, that made her feel a lot better. “Me, neither. I mean, men. I never pick up strange men.” And after that mangled confession, she licked the salt from the rim of her glass.

David leaned over, and kissed the corner of her mouth.

“Salt,” he murmured.

“Mouth,” she responded automatically, staring at his mouth. It was a good mouth. It was hard, stubborn and looked liked it knew what it was doing.

“Tongue,” he replied.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, and then poured a sharp splash of tequila down her throat. “You would tell me if you think this is slutty, right?”

Ash, that’s a stupid question. He’s not going to tell you that. Men like slutty. When it comes to sex, men have no scruples, no morals, no ethics.

“Absolutely,” he lied.

“Okay. That was stupid.”

“We can get two rooms,” he told here, doing a great impersonation of an ethical man who still wanted sex.

Is this what you want, Ash? If it’s really and truly what you want, then Do It.

She looked at David McLean, the once-divorced, defensive driver with eyes currently tending to brown rather than green. Eyes that said he wanted her. And Ashley made up her mind. It was no contest. Not even a minor dilemma.

“I want to have sex with you. I want to do something new and exciting, at least once before I die, most likely in a plane crash. Stranger sex is exciting.” As she said the words, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were the same, yet different. She was…glowing, which could have been the warmtoned lighting, but she didn’t think so.

“Stranger sex?” he asked, his mouth quirking up at one side. She liked that about him, the way he didn’t fully smile, but only partly committed to it. Like a man who wants to laugh, but isn’t quite sure it’s the correct thing to do.

“Yeah, you know, stranger sex. The unknown, the forbidden, the lady and the tiger.”

Now she was fully staring at the mirror in front of her. Her, the wild-eyed seductress—slight overstatement—with him, the harried businessman, which was probably true.

Kiss him, Ash. Plant a big smoochie right there.

Throwing caution to the wind, Ashley leaned over and kissed him. Once, on the side of the mouth.

“Salt,” she murmured.

Then she boldly moved her mouth to his.

“Mouth,” he whispered against her lips.

It was nearly a kiss. A press of skin, an exchanging of breaths.

It wasn’t enough.

“Tongue,” she said, and magically, it was a kiss. Mouth, tongues, and oh, yes, that was passion. David McLean was a most excellent kisser. He was earnest, sincere, unafraid. Best of all, he made Ashley feel earnest, sincere and unafraid. She forgot about the mirror, and the hotel room, and only focused on one thing—his mouth. The way his tongue mated perfectly with hers.

He tasted like lime and salt and hot, sweaty, body-smashing sex. Maybe that was only her subconscious talking or the humming moisture between her legs, but she didn’t think so. Ashley moved closer, wild-eyed seductress that she was, and then his hand was at her jaw, holding her while that magic tongue moved in and out, intensifying the hum between her legs.

When he lifted his head, those hazel eyes were dark, sleepy and irresistible. Ashley could only stare.

“Two rooms?” he asked.

She shook her head, not wavering or worrying even once.

They walked to the bank of elevators without touching, because Ashley didn’t want to touch him at the moment. Touching implied combustion, and neither a hotel hallway nor a hotel elevator was the place for combustion.

Not for Ashley, and apparently not for David.

This is it, Ash. We’re sure he’s not a serial killer, right? What if you get strangled or something?

David looked at her, his hungry gaze falling to her mouth.

Ashley told the voices to shut up.

DAVID’S HAND SHOOK as he inserted the keycard in the lock, but honestly, he was too primed to try and be smooth about this. He opened the door, told himself to go slow, then immediately ignored all his normally responsible, conventional wisdom and grabbed Ashley, kicking the door shut behind them.

Her arms curled into his hair, pulling him closer, and they stumbled toward the bed. He wasn’t like this. He wasn’t ever like this, so who was that man fumbling her shirt over her head, lifting her skirts, or dive-bombing for her mouth?

That mouth.

She kissed like she dressed. Not completely stylish, but there was an understated flashiness, and a zing. Definitely a zing.

David heard a moan. Hers. Oh, definitely a zing. Now he was moaning, too.

He tumbled on top of her, completely without finesse, but thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind. Her legs wrapped about him, pelvis surging toward him, and his hands went to his fly. Her breasts pressed against him, soft peaks in white cotton. If his zipper would ever get unstuck, he’d shove the bra aside, because he wanted to see…

The room began to shake. What was that? He could hear the roar of a jet engine. The airport. They were at the airport. That wasn’t his cock. Calm. Remain calm.

Condom. Oh, shit. He needed a condom.

“Wait,” he nearly yelled. He needed to get control. He needed to breathe. In the dim light of the single bedside lamp, she looked up at him, clothes ransacked into parts, exposing more skin than covering. Great skin. Gold and rose mixed together like mother-of-pearl. She wore white cotton panties. With a sun-yellow gypsy skirt, she wore white cotton panties, and did she even know he had a thing for white cotton? He definitely had a thing for white cotton. It was sexy as hell. She was sexy as hell.

His hands were still shaking as he shoved her bra aside. Like a total amateur.

Dude, get a hold of yourself. She’s going to think you haven’t done this in like, months.

She’d be right, but he didn’t want to advertise the fact.

The foil packet tore exactly as it was supposed to, and then…

“Let me,” she whispered in a husky voice that sent every drop of his blood out of his head. Into his head. There was courage in her eyes. The bunny-slipper woman, who was a trembling coward at ten thousand feet, now seemed mightier than any warrior queen with her clothes askew.

Oh, no. Her capable hands got busy on his cock, sending ten thousand volts to his system. Concentrate on something else. The breasts, for instance.

Didn’t work.

David wasn’t going to last, he was going to explode and this was going to be over. No way.

He pushed her into the bank of pillows, roughly, again with the no-finesse thing, and then…

Then…

Yes.

She was tight, perfectly tight, and wet.

He opened his eyes, looked down at those dark, dancing eyes and swallowed.

Had he truly forgotten that sex could be this awesome? Yes, yes, he had.

“Oh,” he managed to say.

Ashley smiled at him, and it was a marvelous smile. A smile for a hot summer’s day, and he was so glad the airplane had had a mechanical failure. He was even glad for Hellboy Junior. Being like this, surrounded by her, was worth it, so worth it. He rocked his hips, going deeper inside her, and her smile turned serious. Again he thrust, just to see if it was as good as the first.

Yes, yes, it was.

Then his mind began to shut down, and biology, desire and sex took over.

Greedily he drove inside her, plunging into that moist heat. Her pupils were wide, dilated, and her mouth…it was exactly as he’d imagined. No, it was better than he’d imagined. This was so much better than he imagined. Ashley tried to talk. Couldn’t. Her nails scraped down his back, down his butt, and it was the best pain ever. Ever.

He should be doing more for her, pushing buttons somewhere, but his body was running on autopilot, pumping hard and fast, and she didn’t seem to mind. Her hands locked on his shoulders, pulling him, pushing him, and there was no finesse there, either. And he’d never had such great, mindless sex in his entire life.

Another plane took off, and the bed shook, only this time it wasn’t a plane, it was David and Ashley. It was nearly an hour later, after all the planes had been grounded for the night that the room stopped spinning, the bed stopped moving, and David’s heart landed back on the ground.

Stranger sex? Is that what that meant? Shit. They were going to have to do that again.

ASHLEY SLID OVER to the far side of the bed. You didn’t cuddle with a man you’d known less than one day. Actually, you normally didn’t share a hotel room with a man you’d known less than one day, but in this case, after the last two hours, her standards could be relaxed. There was a moment as she listened to the ever-efficient sounds of used condom removal. Too much information, oh, man, she was not cut out for this.

“Are you okay?” he asked, rolling over, and they were so close, so naked, actually not completely naked, there were clothes still attached to both of them…barely.

“I’m good,” she answered, a total understatement if there ever was one, and Ashley didn’t usually understate. Honestly, she had to say that David McLean had the best bed head ever. Brown strands falling into his eyes, a cowlick in the back, and she wanted to reach over, smooth it back into place. She kept her hands still. They were strangers. You couldn’t go around fixing a stranger’s hair. Sex? Yes. Hair-fixing? No. Again with the rigid standards.

“How good?” he asked, not seeming to be needy, but still curious.

“Really good.”

“Oh, good,” he sighed, and fell back on his back. “That was freaking nuts. You were right.”

“I was?”

And what did “nuts” mean? He sounded happy, beyond happy even, but nuts? What sort of word was that? No, she was getting all paranoid again. She would not get paranoid. This had been awesome, and she had been an active part of that awesomeness.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve never done something like this before, and it’s…I don’t know, it’s just…great.”

Now, see, “great” is so much better than “nuts.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” she said, sounding like she did this all the time.

He nodded, and she grinned, completely ruining the confident, sophisticated image.

“Why isn’t it always like that?” she asked, studying her past sexual behavior pattern to figure out why this was different. Why here, why him, why now? She hadn’t had sex in a year…two? Maybe it was the long dry spell that made things so…stimulating?

“It isn’t always like that because not every man is me,” he answered, sounding exactly like every man. He started to laugh. “Whatever it is, it’s not ambience, that’s for sure.” He cast a long look around the all-American airport hotel decor.

She followed his gaze. He was right. A single torchère light stood in the corner, the bedcovers were orange—orange!—but the drapes were a nice touch. A garden green with large tropical flowers. Cheery.

Ashley pulled up the sheet and blanket to cover her chest discreetly. David McLean, on the other hand, was certainly not shy. His legs, half in half out of bed, exposed lean thighs. The legs were tan, with an indentation where his ass joined the thighs. It was a fine ass, smooth, firm…exactly like his…No, Ashley focus on the conversation.

What were they talking about? Oh, yeah. “That…bam,” she began, searching for a better word, failing, and no, it wasn’t because of his fine ass. “I mean, what’s that about? If I knew you better, would it disappear?” Her eyes kept stealing lower. Conversation with a naked hot man was harder than it looked.

“The zing? That never lasts. I’ve had some great first dates before, and then, you get to the third date, and you’re thinking, who is this person?”

“Exactly,” she said, curling up next to hot man with the fine ass, because miracles did not happen often. “Familiarity. And then it all goes down the drain.”

“Too bad they can’t market that. That bam, that zing. Advertisers would go crazy.”

“I know absolutely nothing about advertising, but you’re right.”

“Thank you,” he told her.

“For what?” she asked, because honestly it was no big deal to agree with him. He was right. She knew he was right.

He cocked his head toward the bed. “For doing this. For staying with me tonight. I feel good. Normal. Better than normal. Like I could run a marathon. Alive. Not so dead.”

Don’t look, Ash.

Not looking, not looking, not…looking. Nope, she looked. Not dead yet. Getting livelier by the second.

He turned, studying her. “I didn’t know I could have sex with a stranger in a hotel without guilt. Without trying to analyze everything.”

“You’re analyzing everything.”

“Occupational hazard.” He leaned back into the pillows and sighed. Not a restful man, David McLean. “It shouldn’t be so hard to start over. Just a date. That’s the Holy Grail for me. I want to find a woman to go out with, and have a nice evening. A good conversation, a little fun.”

“There would be tons of women wanting to go out with you,” Ashley told him.

Good God, what was wrong with the women in New York?

Nothing wrong with him. He’s a serial killer.

Right, Val.

“It seems like all the women I meet are weird, neurotic, or needy. Or eighteen. I have standards.”

Speaking as a weird, neurotic woman, neither needy, nor eighteen, Ashley knew he was doomed and felt it her duty to speak the truth. “Sorry, you’re out of luck. All that comes with the estrogen…except the eighteen part.” His eyes looked nervous and she laughed. “Have you tried online services? A friend of mine met her husband online.”

“Normal people don’t do that, do they? It doesn’t seem like, I don’t know, there’s something wrong with me?”

Ashley waved a hand. “Not anymore. Everybody’s too busy to go and hang out somewhere on the off chance they’ll meet—” she held up quote fingers “—the One.”

David still didn’t look convinced. “A dating service. It sounds painful.” For women, yes, for men, ha. “Go for it. Women would jump all over you.”

Like you did, Ash.

“You really think it’d be okay?”

Ashley nodded.

“And you swear that normal people sign up?”

“On my honor as a fashion professional.”

“I don’t know.”

“Try it,” she urged, because he needed to find that perfect petite blond, black-dressed New Yorker who would appreciate a man who was simply…nice. That, and a pile driver in bed, which made for a nifty combination.

After a moment of consideration, he sighed, but then nodded. “I’ll do it. Just a test. You’ve given me courage.”

That out of the way, his eyes skimmed over her, and she felt the tingles again. That wasn’t courage. No siree, that was lust. She gave him courage. He gave her lust. There was something wrong with that equation. “You should do it, too,” he added.

“Oh, no. It’s not for me.”

Ashley didn’t want to date. She didn’t need the hassles, the aggravation, or the neurosis. Nope. Everything she longed for was right there. Long, lean, stranger man, naked in her bed. She hadn’t known she could do this. “I don’t want a date. I want an affair. An exotic, femme-fatalish affair. Doesn’t that sound perfect?”

“You should live in New York,” he said, possibly reading her mind. “If you lived in New York, I’d give you an affair.”

“No, thank you, Yankee man. I’m staying right here in the Windy City. Well, actually, I’m leaving in the morning for L.A., but I’m coming home here. To Chicago.”

There was a momentary silence as she contemplated that statement. They were complete strangers, didn’t even share the same state. One more plane ride to L.A., and then she’d never see him again. It made the night seem…alluring, adventurous. The lady and the tiger, and tonight she wasn’t the lady.

Become the tiger, Ash.

David propped up on one elbow. “You want to get dinner in L.A.?”

“Aren’t you tempting fate?” she asked, tempted to tempt fate herself.

“By eating?”

“By having a date. What if that destroys the bam, the zing? What if the only way we can have this is by meeting in hotel rooms and losing our exterior selves in a moment of wild abandonment?”

David looked at her, slightly awed. “You came up with all this from one shot of tequila and sex?”

“No. I’ve been thinking.”

“You could think?” he asked, his eyes narrowed. “I couldn’t think. Why could you think?”

“Not then. Now.”

He rapped a hand against his heart. “Good.” Then he looked at her in that way she was learning to recognize. “Do you honestly believe all that?” he asked seriously. There were two David McLeans. One, resident goofball, but the other was hardcore analyst. He was probably excellent at his job.

“I think it deserves some consideration,” she replied, but honestly, she did believe it. It explained everything.

And he didn’t look at her like a crazy person, which made her like him more. “Okay, meet me in L.A. In a hotel room. Chateau Marmont. We can be Mr. and Mrs. Jones. We’ll test your theory.”

“We’d just…exchange a room number and then I knock three times on the door, and…?”

“Yeah, or we could just meet up in the lobby,” he explained in a practical voice.

Ashley sighed. “It’s easy to tell you’re Mr. Bottom Line. No sense of adventure at all.”

“This from a woman in bunny slippers?”

She held up a naked foot. “Not a pink floppy ear in sight.”

His eyes crinkled. “Bare flesh. Seductress.”

“You think?” She held up her foot again, watching one of his long, lean thighs dig itself into the covers until it was buried completely. She was going to miss that naked thigh, that firm flank, that stellar ass.

“You have very sexy feet. I was watching them on the plane.”

Feet? No. It would have been better if he were a serial killer.

“You think my feet are sexy? You’re not gonna get weird and suck toes, are you?”

He must have some flaw. This one would explain it.

Thankfully, he looked horrified. “No. But I could, you know, start at the arch, work my way up, see where I land…” And she could see the gears turning in his head…all because of a foot. Her foot.

Ashley stared at the appendage of interest, considering the possibilities. “That sounds…decadent.”

“Bam?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Definitely.”

“Good. I didn’t push any buttons before, and I’m sorry about that, but you felt so good. I got carried away, and I feel like I have shirked my manly duties.”

She wiggled her toes. “Go forth, and unshirk, my devoted slave of pleasure.”

He pushed down her body, and his mouth pressed against her arch, and the first time it tickled, causing her to giggle. But then he moved up her calf, and it still tickled, but a different tickle. A warm tickle, a tickle between her thighs.

“Oh,” murmured Ashley, then she shot upright, horrified by a new thought. “You have more condoms?”

“A whole box. Now let me get back to my unshirking.”

Ashley fell back against the pillows, and his mouth touched the inside of her thigh, and there were no more giggles. Only the sighs and ragged breathing of a woman having her buttons pushed. Every single one of them. Sometimes twice.

“I’m very glad you went for the box, rather than the travel size,” she told him.

“Bam?” he whispered, his mouth unshirking behind her knee, and moving north at a steady, yet wholly orgasm-inducing speed.

Ash, you’re way too easy.

Shut up, Val.

4

THEY HAD GONE through four more condoms, and the 5:00 a.m. wake-up call hadn’t even been necessary.

Ashley was dog tired. She hadn’t been this tired in years. Thirty-two-year-old women did not stay up all night having sex with strange men in airport hotel rooms.

Or at least not every day of the year.

“We can’t do this again,” she told him, her face buried in the pillow.

He chuckled, an exhausted chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless. “Eighteen was a long time ago. You can sleep on the plane. I can sleep on the plane. I need to sleep on the plane.”

She lifted her head from the pillow. “We shouldn’t do this again.”

Comprehension dawned. “Oh.” He waited for more of an explanation. Ashley gathered her meager, yet dog-tired courage.

“Tonight was fun. Like being somebody whose life I’ve secretly always envied. But if we go out to dinner, or meet in a hotel, I’m afraid I’ll lose this fantasy, get embroiled in the completely weary minutia of my life, and I’d rather end on the high note.”

“That’s a very defeatist attitude.”

“No, sometimes things are just too good to take a chance and possibly ruin,” she told him bluntly.

“Do you ever get to New York?” he asked, a totally unfair question, because fashion, New York? Hello? Did he honestly think she was that bad at what she did?

“Sometimes. A bit. You ever come to Chicago?”

“Not if I can help it,” he answered, a defeatist attitude if she ever heard one.

“This was fun,” she repeated, rising from the ashes of the bed. Outside, the windows started to rattle again. The airport was waking up. She walked to the shower, femme fatale of the friendly skies, and she felt muscles that she didn’t know she had.

He watched her closely, and she gave her hips an extra wiggle.

“I could help you,” he offered gallantly.

“In the shower?”

He lay there naked, on his back, head pillowed on his hands. Long, lean, and ready to go. Dog tired? Who said she was dog tired?

You did.

“Come on, Yankee-man,” she ordered in a husky voice she didn’t even know she possessed.

And she didn’t have to ask twice.

LATER ON, they didn’t talk to each other on the plane. The 6:00 a.m. flight to L.A. was crowded, but thankfully, Junior and the doting parents from hell were absent. Ashley was stuffed next to a plumbing salesman from Portland who wanted to chat. She pulled out her magazines and pretended to be interested in the latest fall forecast, but instead, her sandpaper eyes kept tracking to the front of the plane. Seat 16A to be exact, where she could see the back of his head. A perfect bed-head, neatly combed into place.

It had taken her two hours to dare to stroke his hair, smooth it the way it longed to be smoothed, and she could still feel it, the fine strands tickling her fingers, still smell the shampoo and soap. Still smell the sex.

Don’t get there, Ash. Not with you-know-who sitting next to you.

Ashley stopped gawking at Seat 16A and instead focused on the magazine spreads in front of her, but her eyelids drifted shut.

She woke up three hours later, having slept through the flight. In her lap was a small white piece of paper. A business card.

David McLean.

Brooks Capital.

Analyst.

On the back, in firm, decisive, indelible black ink was scrawled a cell number and one word.

Anytime.

It was enough to make her not-quite-jaded-enough divorcée’s heart sigh.

Carefully she put the card in her wallet, hidden right behind her driver’s license. It was her memento, a souvenir she would never forget. Some moments were best not to be repeated…except while dreaming.

CHICAGO WAS WARM, windy, and loud. Ashley took a cab back to the Larsen house in Naperville, which was equally warm, not so windy and not nearly so loud. Their street was lined with towering elm trees, hand-painted mailboxes and well-used bicycles. It wasn’t New York, certainly not Los Angeles, but it was home.

Already Ashley began to feel revived.

After the divorce, she’d moved in with Val, their mother, Joyce, and Val’s daughter, Brianna. Three generations of Larsen women sharing one roof. A scary thought, all those hormonal fluctuations duking it out with the inherent uncertainty of the family genes. Frank Larsen, the ne’er-do-well who had sired Ashley and Valerie, was now on his fourth marriage, electing to spend his golden years with his twentysomething secretary in Malibu.

Ashley threw her carry-on in the general direction of the couch, and walked into the kitchen. Val was talking on the phone, stirring dinner over the stove and watching the news. Multitasking, thy name is Valerie.

Val punched a button on the phone, and waved a wet spoon as a way of greeting. “How was the trip?”

“Productive. Very productive,” Ashley answered, focusing on the business aspects of the trip rather than the pleasure aspects, because Val might be her sister, but there were secrets that would never be divulged. Doing David McLean in the O’Hare airport hotel was one.

“Can you watch the monster while I go to a meeting?”

“Mom not home from work yet?”

“No. Inventory.”

“I can watch her. You don’t need to ask.” Val was thirty, a single mom with a fondness for things that weren’t good for her and a hard line in her eyes that Ashley didn’t think would ever disappear. Ashley liked to blame it on Marcus, the drummer who’d dropped into Val’s life, left her pregnant and alone, and then moved on to a bigger gig in St. Paul, never to be heard from again.

Sensing her guilt, Val gave her a long, searching look. “Why are you so jumpy?”

“I’m always jumpy. Flying. Slays me every time.” To further illustrate her point, she held up a suitably unsteady hand.

“Ash, you are one weird sis, but you’re the only one I’ve got.”

A small tornado ran into the room before skidding to a halt. “Ashley, Washly, Bo Bashley, Me Mi Mo Mashly. Ashley.” At eight, Brianna Larsen possessed the trademark Larsen nose, which all plastic surgeons yearned to compress, and more energy than Val and Ash combined.

Brianna shook back her hair in a completely eight-year-old diva manner. “I learned a new word from South Park. Douche bag. As in, Kenny is a world-class douche bag.”

Ashley looked at Val, fascinated yet delighted by the sparkle of humanity in her sister’s too-hard, too-black eyes. “And did your mommy tell you what douche bag meant?”

Brianna nodded. “It’s a soap bottle filled with water and it gets you springtime fresh.”

Ashley knocked fists with her sis. “Creative and honest. Excellent, my friend. Her vocabulary is improving by leaps and bounds. Her teacher will love you.”

At that simple yet comforting discourse, Val’s eyes narrowed, and Ashley realized her mistake. Ashley was acting too relaxed, too confident, too pleased for a woman with a deathly fear of flying and a business that wasn’t getting off the ground. Immediately she wiped the satisfied smile off her face.

“You sure you’re okay?” Val asked, because she was the blustering bull. Ashley was the worrier. After living together for four years, everyone had their assigned roles. Ashley knew hers, Val knew hers, their mother knew hers, and even Brianna was very aware.

“I’m fine,” replied Ashley, giving her voice an extra quiver. “Go on. I’ll take over the supper. What’s on the menu tonight?”

All doubts appeased, the world back in order, Val continued to stir, her eyes focused on the stove, rather than her sister. “My specialty.”

“Mac and cheese it is.”

Val glared. “With spinach, darling child, because we all love green food.”

Brianna, being one-hundred-percent Larsen and knowing a con job when she heard it, promptly rolled her eyes. “Douche bag.”

Val ruffled her daughter’s hair. “Brat. Listen to Aunt Ash. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, and Ash, do not forget the green food.”

Brianna fought with every inch of her small being, but in the end, responsible parenting prevailed, and Ashley shamed her niece into eating an extra helping of green food. Val came home from her meeting, Mom came home from work and four Larsen women sat on the couch watching Pride and Prejudice—the Colin Firth version.

Truly, there was no place like home.

Every time there was a crisis, home was always there. Every time she felt alone, home was always there. No, they weren’t the typical American family, but in a lot of ways, the typical American family had nothing on the Larsen women of Chicago.

Ashley had never imagined herself divorced. She thought her marriage to Jacob would be forever. He was comfortable. They were comfortable. Why would anyone want to leave that? But Jacob had, and Ashley had no place to go but home. Home was good.

By the time the grandfather clock struck eleven, Mom was sacked out in the recliner and Brianna was curled up with her head in Ashley’s lap, fast asleep.

Val picked up her daughter in her arms, sagging a little from the weight. “I think you’re overdoing the mac and cheese.”

“She’s only eight once. It’s too early for her to start dieting,” Ashley replied, as would any overindulgent aunt who thought her niece was perfect.

“You’re not her mother, only the auntie.” Val looked down at her daughter and shook her head. “How did I get this kid?”

“The old-fashioned way.”

Val’s laugh was harsh and self-directed. “What if you screw her up with all your spoilage and worrying?”

“I won’t,” assured Ashley automatically, not insulted at all. It was a conversation they’d had many times, and usually late at night, when doubts were prone to wander in on creeping shadows. They weren’t talking about Ashley. Deep down, Val had the same paranoid Larsen heart they all did, certain that when anything good happened in her life, it was going to disappear, just like the mac and cheese. Golden and gooey and warm, and then poof, you look down and the pot is empty, and your stomach curdles with an angry hunger.

“Swear you won’t screw her up?” Val asked.

“Swear.”

Val looked at Ashley, still doubting, but hopefully not quite so much. “Okay, but I only believe you because secretly we know you’re the smart one. And because you’re here.”

“You’re smarter than you think, Val,” said Ash softly.

Accustomed to performing feats of unimaginable flexibility, Val used one knee to power off the television remote. “A ‘searching and fearless moral inventory’ Ash. That means you don’t lie to yourself. You don’t tell yourself you’re smart when you’re on your third job in five months. You don’t tell yourself you’re smart when your bank account is DOA.”

As it always did when the doubts grew larger, Val’s voice also got louder, a little bit brassier. Brianna stirred in her mother’s arms. “Hey, loud people, I’m trying to sleep here.”

Val swore, completely unacceptable to eight-year-old ears. Nobody minded. “Wake Mom, will you?” she asked Ashley.

Ashley fought back a yawn, uncurled from the couch and rubbed her mother on her shoulder. “Mom. You need to get to bed. You have to work in the morning.”

Joyce Larsen blinked her eyes and came awake abruptly. “Did I miss the news?”

“Yes, Mom, you slept through the news.”

“Darn. I wanted to hear the weather. I bet it rains tomorrow. You should have woke me up.”

“I’m waking you up now. Go to bed, Mom.”

“I’m glad you’re back, Ashley. I always worry about you flying. You’re going to crash someday and die.”

“I know, Mom. Get some sleep.”

And people wondered where she got it from.

Thirty minutes later, Val dragged herself into the kitchen, obviously knowing where Ashley would be. When faced with the complications of life, some people turned to the church, others turned to sports. Ashley turned to the kitchen. To be more precise—cheese. “What should I do?” she asked, slicing up a wedge of swiss into small bite-sized nibbles.

“About what?” Val asked. “Your pathetic excuse for a love life?”

At that, Ashley almost told her. The words nearly slipped from her lips, but even with Val, she couldn’t share. How could she talk about something she didn’t even understand, and still didn’t quite believe? “I’m talking about the stores.”

“You’re going to figure out what’s wrong and fix it.”

Fix it. Yeah, just fix it, Ash.

It sounded so easy, so completely staring-her-in-the-face easy. So why couldn’t she figure it out? Forcefully Ashley hacked off another square before handing the cheese to her sister. “Why don’t the women of Chicago realize that not only am I providing non-cookie-cutter clothes at a decent price, but by shopping at Ashley’s Closet, they are contributing to the livelihood of struggling fashion designers everywhere?”

Val shrugged. “You could have a sale. A big sample sale thing.”

“Sales, schmales,” mocked Ashley, sawing furiously again.

“Tell me how you really feel.”

“I need something pizzazzy, jazzy.”

“You’ll find it. You’ve got jazz.”

I need jazz.

Ashley watched as Val popped a cube of swiss into her mouth, glad to see her sister’s confidence level back to normal.

Val was a fast-spinning top that could fall off with only a word, a look, or a doubt. Unlike most people, when Val tipped over, it wasn’t minutes or hours before she got up, it was weeks and months. It was Ashley’s job to make sure she didn’t tip.

“What’s your schedule tomorrow?” Ashley asked.

“Seven to three. Why?”

“I’ve got a lot of catch-up to do at the stores. The Lakeview manager isn’t returning messages, so God only knows what disaster will befall when I walk in the door. You won’t see much of me. You and Mom have Brianna covered?”

“Yeah. We’re good.”

“Night, sis,” said Ashley.

“Night.” Quietly she took the last bit of cheese, then flicked off the light. Ashley could hear the soft sounds of Val padding down the carpeted hall behind her, and she ended the night the same way she always did.

“Val, I’m proud of you.”

“As you should be.”

Ashley smiled.

ONCE IN BED, Ashley pulled out The Card. She should have slipped him hers as well. But no, she didn’t, she’d been cowardly, and because of that, if she wanted to ever see him again, it was all up to her

Ash, you go to Manhattan lots of times. Go see that new designer on the Lower East Side. You’ve been dying to see his work. This is your chance.

And what was the polite time frame to call up a man, whom you expressly told that it would be a mistake to see again?

There was no statute of limitations on a booty call.

He truly did have a fine booty.

Her hands curled and uncurled like a happy kitten because she could remember the feel of that firm piece of flesh under her fingertips, remembered the pleasuring fill of his thick sex. Now that was jazz. And no, she wasn’t completely cheap and shallow. She liked him. He made her comfortable with herself. With everything, really.

That was the pull of one David McLean. He wasn’t exotic, or vain, or some slutty billionaire.

He was, quite simply, the man she wanted.

Ashley stared at the card, recalling how his voice whispered against her ear, and she knew. That was it. Decision made. She’d set up an appointment in New York. Then she would call him, and if things were meant to proceed, he’d be ready, willing and available.

A long-distance affair.

Decadent.

Her mouth curved up at the corner, and all that night she dreamed of David.

THE LAKEVIEW STORE was a wreck. Her manager had quit, one salesgirl was late and the strapless smocked sundresses were priced twenty percent lower than what she paid for them. It was enough to make a weaker woman cry. But not Ashley, not this time. She was still flying high on the aftershocks of great sex.

For the next week, Ashley worked eighteen-hour days to get the store back in order. Her first instinct was to promote the lead sales associate to manager, but honestly, that wasn’t smart and she knew it, so she caved and put a Help Wanted sign in the window. Forty-eight hours later, she’d hired a new manager, a gum-popping twentysomething named Sophie, who didn’t meet her eyes all the time, but her resumé was good, and she wore a great vintage Halston to the interview. That alone was enough to get her the job.

By the middle of the week, the Lakeview store was in better shape, and the Naperville, State Street and Wicker Park stores were holding their own. She was ready to make the call. It was late on a Wednesday that she decided to do it because she worried about whether he’d be alone on a Friday, or whether a Monday morning call seemed too needy. And what if he slept in late on Sundays?

Thankfully, he picked up on the first ring.

“Hello.”

“David? It’s Ashley,” she told him, praying that he wouldn’t ask, “Ashley-who?”

“Hi,” he said, completely the perfect response.

“I’m going to be in New York.”

“When?”

“Two weeks. If you’re not busy…”

Don’t be busy. If you’re busy, I’m never going to call a man again in my life. Ever.

Don’t be dramatic, Ash.

Shut up, Val.

“Not busy. We’ll get dinner. Or a show. Or does that sound too normal? We don’t have to do normal. You can stay here if you want. I’ve got space.”

“No. I’m booking a room,” she answered firmly, not the frugal answer, which was part of her problem, but hotels were dim, mysterious, sinful. Apartments were warm, homey and mundane. And if she found herself settling into his warm, homey and mundane, what would happen to all that smoking-hot passion? Would it disappear, as if it had never existed?

Not going to happen. She liked this smoking-hot passion. She was going to keep it.

“Is your hotel near the airport?”

Ashley tried not to laugh, but failed. “No.”

“Good. How’s work?”

“Not so good. But I’m optimistic.”

“Much better than defeatist.”

“Probably.”

She thought about all the other things she could say, but they sounded neither exciting, nor affairish, so she elected to hold her tongue. “I should go now,” she told him.

“Call me when you get in. Have a good flight, don’t forget to pack your bunny slippers, and Ashley—”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for calling.”

“Anytime,” she answered, before quickly hanging up.

5

THE FRIENDLY SKIES were extinct, along with dinosaurs, cheap interest rates and the commitment to customer service. The next week David flew fifteen thousand pain-filled miles to Portland, Houston, Seattle and two trips to DC. In the process, he discovered that the plastics company in Portland was running dangerously low on working capital, the oil services company in Houston was ripe for a friendly buyout and the people who worked in government had zero people skills. As he was waiting on the tarmac to head back to New York, Christine called.

“I’m sorry about your meeting. I debated a long time to call, kept hoping that you would call, but you didn’t, so I decided I should. It would mean a lot to me, and Chris, too, if you could come and visit.”

David eyed the air-sickness bag, felt the aftertaste of hard feelings rise in his throat and in the end politely opted to spare his fellow passengers excessive hurling noises. He was thirty-four, not four. “I’ll try,” he lied.

“Maybe you can reschedule the meeting. He misses you. He’s your only brother.”

Sucks, dude. I feel your pain.

“They’re telling us to shut off all electronic devices, Christine. I need to hang up.”

“David, you don’t have to be like this.”

Because he was exactly like that, David hung up.

IT WAS A WEDNESDAY afternoon at the start of earnings season, and the offices of Brooks Capital were humming with closing-bell guesses and bets and gossip and shadow numbers that were most likely pulled from someone’s ass. David’s office was on the forty-seventh floor, one below the executive floor, but he wasn’t worried. His boss liked him. He liked his boss. Things were proceeding nicely. And nowhere else but Brooks Capital could he learn from the best of the best, Andrew and Jamie Brooks.

There were three monitors on his desk, one green screen to monitor the markets, one open to e-mail and the last was his latest work in progress, Portland Plastics. Market recommendation: Hold.

The door opened, and his boss, Jamie Brooks, walked in, perching herself on the desk, high heels swinging to an unknown beat.

“You have the latest on Houston Field Works?” she asked coolly.

Without missing a step, David handed over the folder. It was a test. She liked to test him, see if he was ever at a loss. He hadn’t failed yet. “Anything else?” he asked confidently.

Jamie opened it, skimming over the introductory fluff, jumping right to the bottom line. “You’re going to Omaha on Friday?” she asked, not looking up from the words, her expression an unreadable blank. David still wasn’t worried.

“I’ll be there.” Nebraska was the home to an alternative energy company that was close to going public. On paper, they looked good. But David’s job was to visit, kick the tires, peek under the hood and in general, see if the hype was worth it.

“Good,” she said, and then closed the folder with a snap. “You’re in for the pool on the Mercantile Financials report?”

David pulled a crisp c-note from his pocket. “Down ten-point-one percent.”

She stared at him with appraising eyes. “Gutsy.”

He shrugged modestly.

“Andrew says up three-point-four,” she remarked. Andrew was Jamie’s husband. The Man. Capital T, capital M.

In the last seven years, David had followed Andrew’s every move. When Andrew opened his own fund, David jumped at the chance to follow. When the market had put most hedge fund managers out on the street dancing for nickels, Brooks Capital had not only survived, but they were also still turning the same solid returns year after year. Andrew was as thorough and methodical as David, and he was usually right. Andrew Brooks made his reputation on being right. This time, however, Andrew Brooks was wrong.

“He’s too high,” David told her, perhaps more confidently than he should, but he’d done his homework, and he had a feeling. You always did your research, always gleaned over every piece of data available, but when push came to shove, bet on your instincts.

Not taking her eyes off David, Jamie slid the bill back and forth through her fingertips, thinking, considering, wondering if David could beat the master. Eventually she broke down and laughed. “Breaking from the crowd. I like it.”

During his first days on the job at Brooks Capital, Jamie had intimidated David, but then one afternoon he had brought her a report on a waste management company in Dallas, and she’d pointed out the one tiny, yet deal-breaking detail that he’d missed. At first, he’d been all pissed and thought there was no way that she could be right, until that night, when his cooler head prevailed, and he went over his numbers, and holy shit, she was correct. Since then, she’d earned his respect in spades.

“We’ll see who knows better,” she said, still doubting him, but he didn’t mind. Jamie provided a novel perspective in the male-dominated world of finance. And currently, that was exactly what he needed. A novel female perspective.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you know fashion, you know, the business side—what makes a company work, what makes it not work, what women like in clothes?”

The swinging high heel froze. “Broadening your horizons into fashion?” she asked, coughing discreetly. “Brave and not afraid of the stereotypes. Definitely gutsy.”

“What do you know?” he asked, battling forward, even though he was deathly afraid of stereotypes.

“Driven by trends at the high end. At the mid-level, it’s more about the classics and originality, and at the low end of the spectrum, it’s nothing but trendy knockoffs and bargain-basement prices. What are you interested in?”

David thought over Ashley’s travel attire and took a guess. “Mid-level. So, classics and originality are the drivers?”

Jamie nodded. “It’s the America’s Next Top Designer mentality. Women don’t like to wear something that someone else is wearing. We’re very territorial about fashion.”

“America’s Next Top Designer?”

“Television show. Ratings up ten percent on an annual basis, three years running. They’ve launched four successful designers, one not-so-successful designer, but I think that’s because of his crappy designs. The guy was a certified disaster area.”

His face assumed the requisite manly look of horror. “A show about sewing?”

“You have to watch. It’s a train wreck, but a fun one. Why the interest?” she asked.

“It’s for a friend. She’s got these clothing boutiques, and is having some issues. I thought I could give her some advice. Try and figure out what’s going wrong.” Next week Ashley would be in New York, and he wanted to understand the fashion industry, help her determine what problems could be fixed, and also have his wicked way with her eight ways to Sunday. It was a big assignment, but not impossible. It might mean watching reality TV. It might mean learning what was hot on the female clothing market. He would survive. Probably. Hopefully.

“This is all for a she?” asked Jamie, quirking one perfectly arched brow, just as David’s e-mail window popped into sight, indicating an unread e-mail had arrived.

David, I would love to meet you. I’m nineteen, which is younger than what you requested in your profile, but it’s a mature nineteen…

He inched his shoulders forward, blocking the view, blocking the view…not quite blocking the view from his boss.

Jamie glanced at the now-fading window, then glanced pointedly at David. He elected to stay silent. It seemed the prudent thing to do.

“Dating again?”

He shrugged in a completely noncommittal, I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-my-private-life manner.

She didn’t take the hint. “I think it’s a good thing. You should have done this a long time ago. I have some friends—”

“No,” he answered quickly.

His boss shook her head, then smiled. “All right. Have it your way. But if you change your mind, I swear, they’re all nice women.”

David pulled another hundred out of his pocket, mainly to divert her. “Give me another hundred on Mercantile Financial.”

She took the bill, clearly not fooled by the diversionary tactic, but gave him a pass, because Jamie was nice like that. “More courage, sport. And Andrew’s going to kick your ass, but you’re brave. I like it.”

Once Jamie left, David wiped the wayward sweat from his brow and opened the offending e-mail.

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