Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

A Letter from the Author

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Copyright

“I Knew This Would Happen,” She Blurted, Shoving His Résumé Back Into Her Briefcase.

“What?”

“Men don’t take the university sex study very seriously,” she went on, unable to control herself. “One anonymous male wrote on his volunteer form that he made love one hundred times per day, eight days per week. By any chance, was that you?”

Zane’s grin came slow and easy. “Sex can make a man say wild things,” he said. “Like when I have sex with a woman, she can make me forget where I am, what day it is or even who I am. Does sex with a man do that to you, Professor?”

“Me?” she asked, taken aback. “I—I—” How could she tell him that sensual pleasure was like a fever to her—hot and dangerous. And that it was sex that destroyed her engagement.

Dear Reader,

This month, we begin HOLIDAY HONEYMOONS, a wonderful new cross-line continuity series written by two of your favorites—Merline Lovelace and Carole Buck. The series begins in October with Merline’s Halloween Honeymoon. Then, once a month right through February, look for holiday love stories by Merline and Carole—in Desire for November, Intimate Moments for December, back to Desire in January and concluding in Intimate Moments for Valentine’s Day. Sound confusing? It’s not—we’ll keep you posted as the series continues…and I personally guarantee that these books are keepers!

And there are other goodies in store for you. Don’t miss the fun as Cathie Linz’s delightful series THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIFT continues with Seducing Hunter. And Lass Small’s MAN OF THE MONTH, The Texas Blue Norther, is simply scrumptious.

Those of you who want an ultrasensuous love story need look no further than The Sex Test by Patty Salier. She’s part of our WOMEN TO WATCH program highlighting brand-new writers. Warning: this book is HOT!

Readers who can’t get enough of cowboys shouldn’t miss Anne Marie Winston’s Rancher’s Baby. And if you’re partial to a classic amnesia story (as I certainly am!), be sure to read Barbara McCauley’s delectable Midnight Bride.

And, as always, I’m here to listen to you—so don’t be afraid to write and tell me your thoughts about Desire!

Until next month,

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Sex Test
Patty Salier

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my wonderful husband, lover and best fried,

Edward, and for my extraordinarily gifted children,

Diana and Jeff.

PATTY SALIER

Bom and raised in Gravesend, Brooklyn, in New York, Patty credits her mother for her keen logic and her father for her curious, creative mind. She has been a published writer for many years. To Patty, her wonderful husband and two great children are everything she could ever want in life. “I’ve got so much to be thankful for.”

Patty will enjoy hearing from her readers. Send a selfaddressed, stamped envelope to P.O. Box 66816, Los Angeles, CA 90066.

A Letter from the Author

Dear Reader,

I was thrilled when Lucia Macro telephoned me from Silhouette Books in New York to say, “Patty, we want to buy The Sex Test.” I calmly and professionally replied, “That’s wonderful,” got off the phone and then cheered, hooted and happily burst into tears. “I sold it! I sold it!”

Actually, I’ve been a published magazine writer for years. I’ve sold my short stories to confession-story magazines such as Intimate Story, Personal Romances, True Life Secrets and True Confessions. But I’ve always dreamed of writing a romance novel, especially since I’m a major romantic.

With two great kids, I’m still wildly in love with my husband, and I love to sensually fantasize. While writing The Sex Test, I had fun imagining myself as a professor doing a sex study on the nineties single male. I immensely enjoyed falling in love with my hero as I probed his male psyche for his innermost erotic secrets.

To me, the best part of writing The Sex Test was creating a heroine who realized that her fantasies and passionate desire for the man she loved were totally and completely natural.

I hope you enjoy reading The Sex Test, because I loved writing it!

All my best to you,

One

The telephone number Professor Rachel Smith had dialed rang and rang in her ear.

The textbook-filled office she shared at the university with her friend, Professor Kim Woods, suddenly seemed so stuffy and cramped that she could barely breathe.

“He’s not answering, Kim,” Rachel said tensely as she gripped the white telephone. “Maybe I should hang up.”

“You haven’t given the man a chance to get to the phone,” her friend said. “Will you relax?”

“I can’t,” she said, the dreaded ringing hauntingly echoing through her head.

She couldn’t even sit still. She abruptly stood up at her desk, fighting the urge to disconnect the phone before he answered.

“Kim, I can’t do this!” Rachel screeched as she heard the ringing stop and his phone being picked up.

“Zane Farrell’s residence,” an out-of-breath male voice resonated in Rachel’s ear. “How can I help you?”

The deep sensual tone of him momentarily made her heart leap.

“Ahhh, hello, can I speak to Zane Farrell?” she stammered, helplessly glancing at Kim for support.

“Are you bringing me good or bad news?”

Rachel looked at Kim questioningly. Kim immediately leaned her head against Rachel’s to listen in.

“Mr. Farrell, I’m Professor Rachel Smith at State University. I’m calling regarding the university sexuality research study.”

“A sex study?” His manly voice deepened with sudden interest. “You’re kidding, right?”

Rachel exchanged a confused glance with Kim.

“Mr. Farrell, I’d like to set up an appointment to come over to your house. Our first interview should take no more than an hour.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said, sounding astounded. “You want to come over here and ask me questions about my sex life?”

“Don’t you recall, Mr. Farrell?” she continued. “You volunteered for the study by E-mailing your résumé to the university. We’re doing research on the sex lives of the nineties single male. I’d like to discuss with you—”

“Oh, I get it,” he interrupted. His voice lightened, as if he was smiling over the phone. “You’re trying to scam me, right?”

“What?” she bellowed, insulted that he was doubting her sincerity. “I certainly am not!”

“Come on, Professor,” Zane stressed with a chuckle. “Admit it. You’re a radio talk-show host. Am I close? And you’re trying to entice me into making sexual innuendos over the air to titillate your listeners.”

She angrily grabbed his résumé from Kim. “Is this Zane Farrell at 312 Crescent Road in Bel Air?”

“Right name, right address,” he replied. He lowered his voice like he was telling a secret. “But I refuse to tell you the shade or size of my cotton briefs.”

“How dare you!” Rachel blurted. Her heart was hammering. Her blood pressure was soaring. “I’m not scamming you, Mr. Farrell. If you’d stop being a pigheaded—”

“Rachel!” Kim called out, pulling the phone away from her. “You’re representing the university.”

“But he’s ridiculing me!”

“Just talk him into the interview,” Kim insisted.

Rachel angrily grabbed back the phone. “Mr. Farrell,” she began, trying to suppress her fury. “I have your résumé right in front of me. You graduated from high school at fourteen years old. You received your master’s degree and Ph.D. by age twenty-four. Now you’re an entrepreneur who owns PLT Corporation, Zantic Corporation, and Afloment Industries.”

“Did I really do all that?”

He was impossible! “Mr. Farrell, I’m not sure why you E-mailed your business background instead of the personally-slanted bio we requested, but that’s your business. However, if you are afraid to participate in our sex study—”

“Who’s afraid?”

“Are you still interested, Mr. Farrell?” She inwardly gloated that she’d finally gotten to him the same way he’d gotten to her.

“I’m one hundred percent intrigued.” Then, in a bass voice almost in an intimate whisper, he added, “Will you ever forgive me for doubting you, Professor Smith?”

The warmth in his voice. His lips seemed so close to the phone that Rachel could almost feel his breath on her face. A pleasurable tingle radiated through her veins. She quickly looked away from Kim, embarrassed by her sensual reaction to him.

“There’s no need to apologize…” she began, clearing her throat.

“How could I have let my memory lapse on such an important project?” he went on. “I’ll be glad to assist you in every way I can.”

Kim shot her a satisfied smile, but Rachel didn’t return it. She got the distinct feeling that Zane Farrell was still goofing on her.

“When can we set up a time to meet?” she asked, preparing herself for his next smart-alecky remark.

“How about right now?” he suggested with an enthusiasm that both irked and excited her.

“Now?” she repeated.

“Sure. I’m very eager to find out what your sex test is all about.”

She glanced uneasily at Kim who mouthed, “Take him up on it.”

“Well, I—” she stammered, plopping down in her chair.

“Great! I’ll be waiting for you.” Then he hung up.

“Kim, I’m not going!” Rachel said, slamming down the phone and turning Zane Farrell’s résumé facedown on her desk.

“You’ve got to,” her friend insisted. “You were given three case studies, and Zane Farrell is one of them.”

“He’s already making it difficult for me,” she said, exasperated. “This is my first research project for the university. I want to do good, Kim. Why, oh, why did the topic have to be sex?”

“I can’t believe you’re complaining.” Kim stared at her incredulously. “I know five female professors who begged on their knees for this assignment, but you were lucky enough to be chosen by the administration.”

“Lucky?”

“You can’t fool me, Rachel Smith,” Kim said. “I know exactly the reason you’re doing this sexuality study on the nineties single male.”

“Why?”

“Because you want to meet the sexiest, hottest men in Los Angeles, that’s why.”

“Oh, no, definitely not!” She blindly fiddled with the case-study folders on her desk, suddenly aching inside.

Kim studied her. “Rachel, you’ve got to forget what happened with you and Kent. That was two whole years ago.”

“I’m over Kent,” she insisted. “I really am.” And she was. Kent was out of her system for good.

“Then why aren’t you dying to meet a great guy?”

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Even though Kim was her best buddy, she’d never told Kim the real reason that Kent had called off their wedding only three days before the ceremony. She was too ashamed and humiliated by what she’d learned about herself.

“I’d better not keep Mr. Farrell waiting.” Rachel quickly grabbed her briefcase. “I don’t want him catching a cold in his cotton briefs.”

After the phone call with Professor Smith, he barreled up the lavender-carpeted steps of the Bel Air mansion three at a time into the master suite.

He yanked off his oil-stained coveralls and work shirt and hurled them through the open master-bathroom door onto the tile floor.

“Man, oh, man, what the hell did I get myself into?” he said out loud in frustration. The professor’s telephone call had totally blown him away.

He grabbed a neatly pressed white shirt and clean jeans and rushed into the bathroom.

As he turned on the shower spray, he replayed her conversation. He couldn’t believe it. A sex study? Jeez! He’d never talked about his sex life with anyone in his entire life.

Sure, he’d kidded around with Professor Smith over the phone about talking sex, but the reality of the idea bashed into his sense of privacy. It was outrageous of her to expect him to answer even one question about how his loins functioned.

Why didn’t he immediately turn down the sex interview with her? He knew why. It was that velvety voice of hers that got to him. She’d sounded slightly unsure and a bit nervous talking to him. And she’d had a fiery reaction to his sense of humor that had instantly appealed to him.

He adjusted the steamy hot water the way he liked and stepped naked under the sizzling spray. He thought his taut muscles would relax under the wet heat. But he was tenser than ever.

Why had he said yes to that sex interview? Had his brain completely collapsed? He couldn’t take part in that study.

How could he let Professor Rachel Smith ask him sex questions? She was expecting to hear the sexual ins and outs of Zane Farrell.

But he had one very monumental problem. He was not Zane Farrell!

Rachel chugged her mint-green Valiant up the winding road of wealthy Bel Air. The Los Angeles September air pushed into her open car window like a gush of ovenburning heat.

She lifted the spaghetti straps of her dress off her burning shoulders. She was hot not only from the dry Santa Ana wind coming from the desert.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the rich timbre of Zane Farrell’s voice over the phone, and the sexy tease of his words. Her sensual reaction to just a phone call with him made her feel even more uneasy about his interview. How could she feel comfortable asking him personal sex questions if she was turned on by him?

As she drove past vast estates of lush green pine trees and walled-in properties, she kept one careful eye on the curvy Bel Air road and glanced at Zane Farrell’s address on her dashboard.

Rachel stopped her Valiant in front of a wrought-iron gate that seemed to tower as high as the wall separating King Kong from the jungle villagers. Out of her driver’s window, she pressed the black buzzer pad, signaling her arrival.

She spotted the eye of a video camera zooming in on her. She impulsively touched her brown bun at the back of her head. She quickly smoothed her damp dress across both thighs to appear university-like. Moving her hands to the steering wheel, she wished she could stop them from trembling as she held on to it.

The iron gate grinded open to welcome her onto Zane Farrell’s estate. She wasn’t afraid of entering the unknown property of this stranger. Before their interviews, all sex-study volunteers were followed up with thorough behindthe-scenes investigations into their character. Zane Farrell had checked out as an honest, law-abiding, very, very rich citizen.

With brown leather briefcase in hand and suddenly dizzy with excitement about her first interview, Rachel eagerly pressed the square-lit doorbell of the double copper front doors.

Just then, the doors flew open like a hurricane wind.

“Well, hello,” said that familiar deep male voice.

“Zane Farrell?” she asked, wonder-struck. She had to blink five times at the six-foot solid frame of the thirtysomething man in front of her.

“You’ve got the right door,” Zane Farrell replied with a smile that sent laugh lines sprouting from the sides of both twinkling eyes. “Have I got the right professor?”

“Wh-why, yes,” she quickly said.

A pair of Pacific Ocean blues gazed down into hers so intensely that her insides melted like butter in the sun. His smile was warm and confident. He had curly black hair that yearned to be twirled around her fingers. And a muscular body under that white shirt and jeans that put her breath on major hold.

When Zane’s twinkling sea-blues glided from her breasts down to her bare legs, she felt her nipples harden against the cotton fabric of her dress at his visual caress. She momentarily fantasized his masculine fingers slipping down her spaghetti straps and crushing her bare breasts with his hands.

Her face flamed at her sensual thoughts. What was with her? She’d barely met the man.

“So you’re here to put my libido under the investigative light, are you?” Zane pondered out loud. He extended a massive hand to her. “I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” she replied, trying to appear totally in control.

But when she slipped her small hand into his large palm, his grip was firm, warm, and she felt a hot electric current slam straight through her body.

She quickly disengaged her hand from his. Why was Zane Farrell having such a powerful effect on her? No man had grabbed her insides that tight—not even Kent.

Zane leaned his strong hands on each side of the door frame only inches from her, only inches from caressing her. She felt compelled to leave that instant.

“I didn’t mean to rush you into this interview,” she told him in an unsteady voice. “We could hold it at a more convenient hour for you.”

“Absolutely not,” he said with welcoming warmth. “I’m looking forward to this.” He released one hand from the door frame and stepped aside for her entry. “Please, come in.”

As Rachel slipped by him, her shoulder brushed against his hard-muscled chest. He smelled of soap and musky after-shave. She wouldn’t stay for long. She definitely couldn’t stay for long.

“Make yourself at home,” he suggested. “The staff’s on vacation, so feel free to roam. I’ll get us something cool to drink.”

Once alone in the kitchen, he frantically searched Mr. Farrell’s refrigerator for a beverage to serve her. The compartment was empty except for a half carton of low-fat milk. Jeez! He was nervous enough trying to make the right Mr. Farrell impression, but milk?

He grabbed for the milk container. How the hell was he going to pull off this sex interview? He had no other choice, did he? He was obligated by a commitment he’d made to the real Zane Farrell—a commitment he couldn’t break.

As he frantically sifted through the unfamiliar kitchen cabinets for glasses, he flashed on Rachel Smith’s inviting brown eyes that had sucked him right in. And her voice rang of honey-sweetness that he found irresistible.

Man, oh, man, he’d better keep himself in check. It wasn’t going to be easy pretending to be someone else with a beautiful woman like the professor about to ask him probing intimate questions. He didn’t feel one iota comfortable about this sex-test business, especially since he had to act as if it was Mr. Farrell’s sexual preferences she was studying, when it would actually be his own!

Rachel set her briefcase down on the oval glass coffee table. She tried to breathe normally again. Zane Farrell was not supposed to be charming, friendly and a hunk! How was she going to ask him personal questions about his sex life when she was fantasizing about being an integral part of it?

She had to get a grip. She was at his mansion purely for academic research. She couldn’t allow her sudden over-whelming attraction to possess her and ruin her first research project for the university.

Rachel walked to the sliding glass door overlooking a sparkling green kidney-shaped swimming pool. Her attention landed on the inviting Jacuzzi beside it.

She had a fleeting image of Zane’s strong nude body pressed snugly against her nakedness as they soaked in the warm, foaming, swishing—

“So, Professor Smith, what do you want to know about my sex life?” Zane’s bass voice sizzled through her like a lit Fourth of July sparkler.

She whirled to find him staring at her with intensely interested eyes. His hands were holding two glasses of milk.

“Milk?” she asked, looking at him sideways, suppressing a grin.

“I need to revitalize my body for your sex test,” he said, almost as if he was slightly embarrassed.

That little-boy quality captured her. But she couldn’t help being very, very aware of him as a full-grown man. Without thinking, her eyes wandered down his very vitalized muscular frame. Her gaze stopped dead center on his tight jeans that accentuated his generously manly bulge. She quickly diverted her focus to the masterpiece paintings on the wall.

Why, oh, why, hadn’t she fought harder against participating in this sex research project? It wasn’t for her, oh no, not for her.

“We don’t have to jump right into the interview,” she quickly told him.

“From your phone call, I got the idea you want some major erotic details,” he began. “Like the way I—”

“Before we get into any specifics,” she conveniently cut in, “I’d like to get a solid sense of your male identity.” Her fingers were trembling as she searched through her briefcase for his résumé. “I believe you received your master’s degree from—”

“Harvard,” he filled in.

She finally found his résumé and frowned. “But your curriculum vitae lists Yale University.”

“Right, right,” he said. “I always get those two places mixed up.”

“Really?” she asked. “I thought a semi-genius like you would hold your university affiliations in high regard.”

“Nah,” he said. “I tend to file away my past and concentrate on current pertinent data. Like, for instance, your being here with me to examine my sexual need for the female species.”

“Ahh—why don’t you show me your house?” she suggested, avoiding his twinkling direct gaze. That’s it, she told herself. Keep the conversation safe, neutral, and on more wholesome topics.

But how long could she delay her sexy questions?

Zane studied her for a long moment. “Maybe I’m dead wrong,” he began, “but am I making you nervous, Professor Smith? Because if I am—”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she insisted. “I have no problem with—”

“Asking what turns me on in bed?” he boldly finished. His eyes were playing with her, teasing her, daring her.

Why, he was definitely getting pleasure from her uncomfortableness!

“I knew this would happen,” she blurted out, shoving his résumé back into her briefcase.

“What?”

“Men don’t take the university sex study very seriously,” she went on, unable to control herself the way Kim had advised. “One anonymous male wrote on his volunteer form that he made love one hundred times a day, eight days a week. By any chance, was that you?”

She was not going to let this man with the soaring IQ challenge her ability to competently complete her first interview.

Zane’s grin came slow and easy. “Sex can make a man say wild things,” he said. “Like when I have sex with a woman, she can make me forget where I am, what day it is, or even who I am. Does sex with a man do that to you, Professor?”

“Me?” she asked, taken aback. “I—I—” How could she tell him that sensual pleasure was like a fever to her—hot and dangerous. And that it was sex that had destroyed her future marriage to Kent.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Zane quickly added. “You don’t have to answer.” There was a sudden caring in his voice that she couldn’t help noticing. “How about I give you a tour of the house?”

“Sure,” she said, relieved. Though she couldn’t completely figure him out, for that second, Zane had somehow tuned into a painfully vulnerable place in her that no one had ever been aware of but her.

She felt a sudden closeness to him that she hadn’t felt with a man in a very long time.

Zane led her through a long Mexican-tiled hallway. She heard his footsteps echo beside hers as though they strolled through a huge cathedral.

“Do you live here all alone?” she heard herself ask. That question was not a requirement on her study list. “I mean—this place is so huge.”

“It’s just me,” he replied. “What about you? Do you live by yourself, Rachel?”

Hearing his deep-toned masculine voice utter her first name sent a warmth of intimacy through her. Suddenly he stopped walking and leaned against the hallway wall, watching her with greater interest than that of an ordinary interviewee. Was he thinking of asking her out? She caught herself secretly hoping he was.

She immediately straightened her spine and tightened her grip on her briefcase. What was she thinking? She was a professor on an interview. She couldn’t let herself get personal with him.

“Actually, my non-professional life is irrelevant to the study,” she told him.

His eyes held hers. “Maybe to the study, but not to me.”

She nervously bit her bottom lip. At that moment, she yearned to share with him whatever he wanted to know about her, things she’d never told anyone else. Somehow, she felt that maybe he’d understand. But she knew her job didn’t permit it.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t see how my living condition affects this research study.”

“It’s very simple,” he explained. “You want me to get relaxed enough to reveal myself to you, right?”

“Yes,” she hesitantly replied, wondering what he was leading up to.

“How can I?” He leaned a little closer to her. “I need to get to know you better, don’t I?”

She swallowed. “I see your point.” She was trying very hard to act cool and professional, but deep inside, oh, how she wanted him to get to know her better. “I live alone just like you.”

“Ah-ha,” he mused aloud. “A single woman interviewing the sex life of a single man. Could hold a lot of intriguing possibilities. Like, what if—”

“The tour?” she reminded him, to get his mind off that train of thought fast.

“Of course, the tour, Professor,” he said, very mannerly but obviously getting a kick out of all this.

But no matter how much she tried, Rachel could barely concentrate on his house. In his spacious hi-tech kitchen, sunlit breakfast area, elegant dining room, floor-to-ceiling library of books, and movie screening room, she saw only Zane.

Because Zane Farrell didn’t seem like a man she’d just met. She felt as if she’d known him for aeons.

“What do you think of the gym?” Zane asked, breaking into her reverie.

The shiny hardwood-floor gym had blue floor mats, weight machines, treadmills, StairMasters, rowing machines, barbells, and stationary bicycles. Small red dumbbells were carelessly strewn on the floor, and she had to sidestep a couple to avoid tripping.

“This place is bigger than my local health club,” she commented.

“It’s unreal, isn’t it?” he agreed.

“You sound like an amazed visitor rather than the owner of this place,” she noted.

“Can’t I appreciate the exquisite sight in front of me?” He was gazing straight at her, as if she was the only sight he was aware of.

She nervously clutched her briefcase and stared down at the gym equipment. For a second, she fantasized Zane, halfnaked, working up a heated sweat with his muscles bulging as he lifted the heavy weights.

“Professor, I suppose you’re viewing this gym in a sexual way,” he said.

“N-not exactly.” Her cheeks flamed, thinking he had lasered into her fantasies.

“Really?” he went on. “I thought you experts say exercise increases sexual endurance.” The roguish glint in his eye made her realize that he was still having fun with her interview. He wasn’t treating it seriously at all.

“Is the need for sexual endurance the reason you pump iron?” she asked, her chin up for battle.

For a split second, she thought she saw him wince at her insinuation. She wished the words hadn’t come out of her mouth so fast.

He tilted his head to one side. “Professor, my pumping is not restricted to bars of metal.” He kiddingly winked at her for emphasis.

Suddenly furious that he was ridiculing her sex research, she quickly stepped back to exit the gym when her foot stumbled over a dumbbell.

“Ohhhhh!” she screamed as she felt herself go flying.

“Rachel!” Zane called out.

Just then, his powerful hands circled her waist and lifted her. With her feet off the ground, she clutched his strapping upper arms to steady herself, feeling the forceful, protective strength of him.

Zane’s firm broad fingers were gripping her body just below her breasts. His large thumbs were pressed up againsteach swell. Suddenly her nipples ached to be squeezed and fondled by him.

Zane’s face was so near she could smell his warm minty breath. His marine eyes focused on her lips.

Her heart jolted, and her pulse pounded. More than anything, she wanted him to kiss her.

She could feel his breath quickening. The muscles of his arms tensed under her palms as he pulled her closer to his hard body. His mouth edged toward hers, and her lips impulsively moved to his.

But as his lips grazed hers, she abruptly became conscious of her unethical behavior. What was she doing? She was a representative of the university, but she was acting like a foolish woman mesmerized by a very sexy man.

Rachel immediately freed herself from Zane’s sturdy grasp and set both feet back on the floor. Maybe she shouldn’t have allowed two years to go by without being with a man. Maybe all her pent-up sexual energy was suddenly letting loose on the very masculine Zane Farrell.

She avoided his confused eyes, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. She grabbed her fallen briefcase and smoothed down her dress, which had risen to her bare thighs.

“This entire interview has been a big joke to you, hasn’t it, Mr. Farrell?” she blurted.

His jaw muscles tensed, momentarily stung by her words. “Is that what you think?”

“Darn right!”

“Am I supposed to act like Joe Serious while you’re questioning my virility?” he shot back. “You’ve been peering at me like I’m some guinea pig for sexual dissection.”

Her eyes widened in red fury. “Then why did you volunteer for the study?”

“I obviously made a tremendous mistake, didn’t I?”

“Are you saying you’re withdrawing your name from this research project?” Her voice was so high-pitched she could barely recognize it. “Because if you are, go right ahead!”

“Fine, Professor Lady!” He abruptly turned to lead her downstairs straight to the double copper doors.

Her hands were sweating against her leather briefcase handle as she hurried after him. What was she saying? She couldn’t afford to lose her first case study. The university’s administration would surely contact him to ask why he’d dropped out of their research project. He’d inevitably tell them that she’d completely ravaged the interview. She couldn’t let him ruin her very first research project!

She bit back her pride for one torturous moment.

“Can’t we discuss this matter more calmly, Mr. Farrell?” she asked, searching for the right words to get him back on track with the study.

“Zane,” he corrected as he stopped walking and faced her.

“Mr. Farrell,” she deliberately stressed.

His sparkling blue eyes grew wide with sudden amusement. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” She impatiently tapped her foot on the floor. Any second, she was out of there, any second.

“Come on, admit it. You still want me to participate in your research. Yet you refuse to acknowledge that we’ve just gotten past phase one.”

“Phase one?” she repeated, glaring at him from the corner of her eyes in defiant confusion.

“The formalities. The awkwardness. The prim-andproper front you’ve put on since you walked through the door.”

“That’s it!” she howled. “I’m gone!”

She almost dropped her briefcase in her scurrying to grab the door handle. Forget impressing the university administration. She would not be insulted by this gargantuan man!

She rushed out of his house, almost tripped on one of the porch steps, but finally made it to her Valiant. She had to get away from him—far, far away. But her driver’s door was stuck, and she couldn’t get it open.

“I hate this old car!” she bellowed as she unsuccessfully tugged and tugged to release the door.

Suddenly, Zane was beside her wanting to help. The heat of his body only inches away radiated against hers.

“Don’t try so hard, Rachel,” he whispered as if he was talking more about the interview than the car door.

With a click and a turn, he unlocked the driver’s door with great ease, which further infuriated her. He was about to politely hold it open for her, but she pushed past him into the car.

“Thank you,” she seethed as she slammed the door closed. Her face felt so hot with anger she felt ready to burst like a balloon.

She started up her Valiant. It belched out a cloud of charcoal smoke that practically surrounded her entire car.

“Professor, your car is screaming for an oil lube,” Zane called out. “I can recommend an excellent mechanic—”

“No way!” she cut in, needing badly to get back to State University, her apartment, the Los Angeles Zoo, anywhere but near Zane Farrell!

Two

The moment Rachel’s car zoomed away, he rushed back up the stairs to the master suite. He threw off his clean duds and grabbed his oil-stained coveralls and work shirt.

Johnny Wells never meant to fool Rachel Smith. But he had no other choice.

He rushed out of the mansion to Mr. Farrell’s four-car garage. His faded maroon pickup truck looked incongruous parked next to Mr. Farrell’s emerald Jaguar, sparkling black Mercedes and red Porsche sports car.

The heavy metal door to Johnny’s old pickup squeaked as he slammed it closed. He glanced at his callused hands on the steering wheel. Dammit! Black grease was still embedded underneath his fingernails. Had Rachel noticed?

The real Zane Farrell had immaculately clean hands. He’d never had to pick up a wrench or hammer. Why should he? Mr. Farrell could afford to pay workers to do the manual labor for him. Workers like Johnny Wells.

Johnny pressed his boot down harder on the gas pedal as he drove along the curvy narrow roads of Bel Air. His hands perspired on the hot steering wheel. Had Rachel guessed that he wasn’t Zane Farrell? He’d really messed up with the Yale thing. He knew zip about master’s or miss’s degrees.

The last thing Johnny wanted was to screw it up for Mr. Farrell. He highly respected the man. And when he’d agreed to house-sit for Mr. Farrell, Johnny had also made a special promise to him…a promise he didn’t dare go back on.

As he zipped his truck out of the exclusive community of Bel Air, he took a deep satisfying breath of normal workingman air. No way did he feel comfortable in posh surroundings. Sure, it was a blast playing the role of a multibillionaire. He didn’t mind playacting as Mr. Farrell with the real estate broker who’d come to the mansion door, or the homeowners’ insurance guy who’d come by for an appointment Mr. Farrell had forgotten. He’d proudly pulled off both encounters without a glitch.

But for some mysterious reason, his gut burned like a blazing fire, knowing he’d lied to Professor Rachel Smith.

To Johnny, telling the truth was synonymous with being a solid honorable human being. And with Rachel, pretending to be Zane Farrell somehow felt low and dirty.

Johnny jammed on his brakes for a red light on Sunset Boulevard. He was right next to the university campus where Rachel worked.

Johnny felt a slow grin lighten his face. Rachel Smith was definitely not the professor he’d imagined she would be.

On the phone with her, he’d envisioned a high-nosed academic with an uppity attitude, stiff demeanor and brisk manner. But the second he’d yanked open Mr. Farrell’s front door to greet her, he’d smelled intoxicating gardenia perfume in the air.

Rachel’s soft velvet-brown eyes made him want to stargaze forever. Her silken chestnut hair was pulled tight in a bun, and he’d ached to release her tresses and run his fingers through the smooth strands.

He’d immediately sensed a soft vulnerability about her and felt the instant urge to hold her protectively in his arms.

When she’d spoken about the sexuality study, his gaze was trained to lips which were like flaming red rosebuds ready to be parted with his kiss.

A blaring car horn awakened Johnny to the now-green light on Sunset Boulevard.

He bitterly laughed to himself. Why fool himself? He was definitely no match for Professor Rachel Smith. Once she knew who he really was, she’d immediately take a rocket flight to Venus to get clear of him.

Rachel was from a universe of higher education, renowned books of literature, knowledge of calculus and scientific theories, the privileged world of the scholarly. Zane Farrell’s cosmos. But Johnny Wells? He didn’t even graduate from high school.

He angrily pushed down the accelerator for a sharp curve. His tires made a screech as if in protest to who he really was.

Why did Mr. Farrell have to volunteer for that sex study, anyway? Johnny had no idea what the man’s sexual attitudes were. He certainly didn’t want to make him sound like a fizzled dud in bed. Yet, he couldn’t portray him as a worldly stud, either. He had to find an acceptable sexual image for the man.

Because Johnny owed Mr. Farrell. He owed him big-time. If it wasn’t for Mr. Farrell, Johnny would have remained a runaway teenager on the streets of Los Angeles and maybe ended up with a nowhere life.

It was Mr. Farrell, through his chauffeur, George, who found him on the streets and placed him in a private group home for teens. It was Mr. Farrell who had George enroll Johnny in an auto mechanic’s course to professionally learn the kind of work Johnny felt natural doing.

It was Mr. Farrell who had put up the money for a loan for the automotive repair shop that Johnny had dreamed of owning, though Johnny had fought the idea the whole way. He wasn’t one to take from anybody, especially someone like Mr. Farrell, whom he’d never even met.

When Johnny requested to meet Mr. Farrell face-to-face, George had immediately told him no. He said Mr. Farrell avoided direct contact with everyone. He refused all social invitations. He lived in total isolation. He never left the grounds of his huge mansion except when he traveled alone. And he would only communicate with Johnny through George.

Johnny tried to figure the man out. He couldn’t understand why an eccentric person like Mr. Farrell would shed such kindness upon him. When he asked George, he learned that Mr. Farrell’s only son had had a bad drug problem, and one night during a drug deal, he was fatally shot in the head. His son’s brutal death had devastated Mr. Farrell. Divorced and alone, Mr. Farrell had spotted Johnny as a runaway teen, and George said that Mr. Farrell wanted to give to Johnny what he’d neglected to give his own son.

Johnny vowed to pay back Mr. Farrell every cent and more. Unbeknownst to Mr. Farrell, Johnny even kept a secret bank account with hard-earned money he was saving to pay back his benefactor for every favor Mr. Farrell had ever done for him. Yes, Johnny owed Mr. Farrell, and he’d never let the man down, not ever.

So when Mr. Farrell asked him over the phone to housesit while he went on a relaxing worldwide tour, Johnny immediately said yes. And when Mr. Farrell indicated that he’d also given his entire personal staff a vacation but didn’t want any corporate competitors to know he was gone, Johnny said he’d make sure even the president didn’t know he was away.

But Mr. Farrell had another idea. He asked that Johnny “be him” during any unfinished business he’d forgotten before leaving the country. Even though Johnny wasn’t sure if he could pull it off, he didn’t hesitate to accept Mr. Farrell’s request. Especially when Mr. Farrell told Johnny that he considered him “family” and trusted him implicitly to make all the right business decisions for him.

Johnny steered his pickup into the small parking lot of his shop. His chest expanded with pride as his sign came into view, Johnny’s Foreign Automotive Repairs. He loved the black grease of that place, the oil smell, the grime. It was his business, his power in the world.

“Yo, Johnny baby!” called out Tito, his South American mechanic. Tito ran toward Johnny with a face smeared with car oil.

“Tito, any problems while I was gone?” Johnny asked as he turned off his engine. Loyal Tito had been with him from the start.

“You just missed a call from Mr. Farrell,” Tito told him with a Spanish accent.

“Man, oh, man, where the hell’s my luck?” Johnny bellowed, running frustrated fingers through his curly hair. “I’ve got to talk to him. He’s got me involved in a sex study.” Johnny gave Tito a quick rundown on the university project.

“Maybe you should not have made that promise to Mr. Farrell,” Tito remarked.

“Tito, I had to—”

“But you have never met the man, Johnny,” Tito cut in. “Sure, he helped you in life, but why has he not allowed you to see him? He either talks to you on the phone or through George. He does his business on a computer notebook, cellular phone or through his communications people. Nobody knows who the man is.”

“I know him, Tito,” Johnny said without a doubt in his head. “He’s a private man. He has no wife and no kids to depend on. And he asked me to do him a big favor. And I’m going to do it, Tito, no matter what.” “But how can you, Johnny, when you are not him?” Tito shook his head with confusion.

“I can do it, Tito,” Johnny said. “Mr. Farrell’s never revealed his age to anyone. Nobody’s ever seen his face—”

“Someone will discover you are not Mr. Farrell,” Tito cut in. “Somebody you do not want to find out.”

Johnny immediately thought of Professor Rachel Smith. She was the only one he was worried about. He didn’t like pretending with her. He felt a connection with her, an inner link he’d never felt with any woman before. That’s why he was so frustrated that he’d missed Mr. Farrell’s phone call. He had to talk to him about that sex test.

Rachel quickened her towel strokes as she dried the dinner dishes in Kim’s kitchen. “Kim, I’m taking Zane Farrell’s name off the sex-study list.”

“You can’t do that, Rachel,” Kim said, rushing from the sink to clean up her two-year-old daughter, Stacy’s, spilled milk on the floor.

A waterfall of tears started streaming down Stacy’s chubby cheeks at her mistake. Rachel ran over and lifted the little girl out of the high chair into her arms to soothe her.

“Hey, little one, sometimes I’m a gooky mess, too.” Rachel wiggled her finger into Stacy’s tummy to make her giggle. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, little one.” A warm feeling of family enveloped her.

“Stacy would be lost without her second mommy,” Kim said with a wink.

Rachel set a now-contented Stacy back in her high chair. She gently kissed Stacy’s cheek, but inside, she felt in turmoil. All because of Zane Farrell.

Warmth enveloped her just thinking about his twinkling sea-blue eyes. How he’d sensed the pain inside her when he’d asked her whether sex with a man made her forget who she was. How he’d quickly changed the subject to protect her feelings, even though he didn’t understand what they were.

She remembered how her breasts ached to be caressed by him when he’d lifted her in his strong arms in his gym to stop her from falling. And how she’d never wanted him to let go. No, she couldn’t go back there, not ever.

“What do you mean, I can’t eliminate Farrell from the study?” Rachel prompted. “He’s not right for the research. We’ll find another entrepreneur for the upper-crust category.”

“No, we won’t,” her friend said firmly. “Unless you want to buck heads with Chancellor Zilford.”

“The chancellor?” A ripple of nervousness flitted through her. More than anything, she wanted to impress the head of the university with her first research assignment.

“When Chancellor Zilford heard that Zane Farrell had volunteered for the study, he gave his hundred-percent approval to the project.”

“Why?” She suddenly felt Kim’s delicious chicken-cutlet dinner nauseatingly rise in her throat.

“Before you came to the university, Zane Farrell donated three million for a new building on campus. The chancellor plans to name the structure Farrell Hall. I don’t think he would appreciate learning you scratched Mr. Farrell’s name from the research list.”

“But I can’t work with him,” she protested, feeling helpless. “He’s a thick-headed, overgrown—”

“Are you talking about me?” asked Kim’s husband, Charlie, as he sauntered into the kitchen munching on a fireengine-red apple.

“Maybe we are, handsome,” Kim teased as she lifted Stacy out of her high chair, patted the little girl’s cute behind and sent her off to the living room to play.

Charlie slipped his arms around his wife’s waist and planted a deep kiss on her mouth.

“Am I impossible now?” he murmured against Kim’s ear.

Rachel felt an ache in her heart and turned back to drying the dishes. She both admired and envied Kim’s marriage of six years. She knew a forever-love like theirs could never happen to her. Not after the catastrophe that had occurred between her and Kent two years ago.

Her eyes blurred as the nightmare evening flashed into her mind. Three days before their wedding, she and Kent were kissing on his apartment sofa. She’d known him since junior high and had never gone out with any other man.

But on that fateful night as Rachel pressed her eager body to his and parted her lips against his mouth, Kent abruptly pulled away. He got off the sofa and paced the floor, avoiding her confused eyes.

“Kent, what’s wrong?” she asked. “What did I do?”

Then Kent let loose in a way that would mar her life from that moment on.

“Do you know why we’ve never had intercourse together?” he blasted.

“Because we want to wait for our wedding night,” she replied, feeling a chill as an ice wall grew between them.

“No!” he blurted out. “It’s because I don’t want to make love to you, Rachel.” His face twisted in agony, looking shocked by his own admission.

“Wh-what do you mean?” she stammered, clutching the neckline of her blouse together, as if to shield her exposed heart from him.

“You’re always thinking about sex,” he said tightly. “You’re always touching me. Always so easily aroused. With your heavy breathing and excessive bodily reactions, you’re downright intimidating.”

“Kent, don’t say that,” she cried out. He was tearing apart her soul.

“You make me feel sexually inadequate,” he railed. “No man will ever be able to satisfy you, Rachel. No man.” In Kim’s kitchen, Rachel flopped down on a chair at the table. She was still reeling from Kent’s accusations. Two whole years wasn’t enough time for her to recover from his verbal attack on her sexuality. From that moment on, she’d closed herself off from all sexual feeling, all sexual fantasies and any deep emotional affinity she could ever share with a man. Until Zane Farrell.

That’s why she couldn’t see Zane again. He’d unlocked her Pandora’s box. He’d touched the most bruised and vulnerable spot of her entire being. He’d connected with her heart.

Kim gave Charlie another peck on the lips. “Now get out of here, Charlie Woods.” She playfully pushed him into the living room to his daughter and then turned to Rachel.

“Take my advice,” Kim urged. “If you want to stay in good with the chancellor, you better give Zane Farrell one more chance.”

“Kim, I can’t,” she said in a desperate tone. “Will you take over his interviews for me?”

“I wish I could,” Kim replied. “But my schedule’s horribly tight right now. Rachel, I don’t understand. Why are you so anxious to get rid of Farrell?”

“The man’s totally impossible,” she said, avoiding Kim’s eyes.

She could feel Kim studying her in that close-girlfriend way of hers. “Rachel, are you attracted’to him?”

“Definitely not!” she denied. Her friend’s knowing hazel eyes were still on her. “Okay, okay, the man is sort of sexy.”

“Sort of?”

“He’s a major turn-on.”

“And you want to give him up?”

“I don’t need a member of the male population in my life right now, Kim.”

“What are you afraid of, Rachel?” Kim asked with concern. “It’s still Kent, isn’t it?”

“No!” she insisted, unable to summon the courage to tell her friend the horror of shame she felt about her sexual self.

“Please, Kim, will you take the Zane Farrell case study from me?” she begged. “I still have the accountant and orthopedic surgeon to interview. No one will even notice.”

Kim was silent as she poured them both a cup of herbal tea. “As soon as my schedule frees up, I’ll take Farrell from you. Can you hold out until then?”

“You promise?” Rachel asked, praying she really would.

“Promise.”

Rachel hugged her. “I owe you, buddy.”

All day at his car-repair shop, that university sex study Mr. Farrell had volunteered for was busting Johnny’s brains. He dreaded telling Mr. Farrell that he’d totally messed up the interview. But he was going to admit it, nonetheless.

“Tito, did Mr. Farrell say when he’d call me back?” Johnny asked as he handed a customer her car key after completing her repairs.

“Mr. Farrell said he was going to Taiwan,” Tito responded.

“Did he leave a phone number where I can reach him?”

“No number, Johnny,” Tito replied. “He told me he is sure you are handling everything A-OK for him. He is not worried. He knows you will make all the correct decisions in his place.”

“Riiigght,” Johnny slurred under his breath. “Thanks, Tito.”

“One more thing, Johnny,” Tito added, rubbing his nose with an oily hand and smudging more lubricant on his face. “My lady asked if you will come over and eat with us. She will make your favorite chalupa.”

“Name the date and time and I’ll be there,” Johnny replied, a smile coming to his face at just the thought.

Tito’s wife and four kids had taken him in like one of their own. Johnny’s mother and father were killed in an auto accident when he was twelve years old. Their car brakes had faltered. He ran away from the abusive Michigan foster home he was put in, and hitchhiked to Los Angeles where Mr. Farrell found him and guided him back to constructive living. Maybe Johnny’s parents’ car tragedy was the reason that keeping automobiles in perfect order was so important to him.

It was closing time, but three cars in need of repair pulled into Johnny’s shop, anyway. He could never refuse a customer who needed service. His shop was suddenly spinning with malfunctioning Volvos and M.G.’s. He barely had time to think about Rachel Smith and her sex interview.

That is, until later that evening. Johnny spent one night a week in his own apartment while house-sitting for Mr. Farrell. As Johnny watered the miniature vegetable garden he’d planted on the small plot beside his rent-controlled Santa Monica apartment, his mind wandered to Professor Rachel Smith.

Maybe it was the silver moon in the black velvet sky. Maybe he was tired and his body was beginning to relax. But as he sprayed his tomato plants, Johnny fantasized that Rachel was standing in front of him right that moment. He wanted to bask in the warmth of her feminine presence and delight in her defiant, stubborn and exciting nature.

He pictured Rachel’s swelling ivory breasts spilling over her spaghetti-strapped rose-colored dress as he’d gripped her waist in Mr. Farrell’s gym.

When her taut nipples strained against the cotton fabric, he’d realized her ample breasts were bra-free. How close his hungry mouth had been to suckling one pert nipple.

The sprinkling garden hose suddenly veered off course into his landlord’s cactus plant. He quickly turned off the water faucet. In a few minutes, he hit the bed, still smelling the sweet gardenia scent of her skin.

He fisted his pillow several times to get comfortable, but he was plagued with Rachel Smith thoughts. He kept picturing her soft body cuddled up to his in a tender embrace.

Restless, he got up and peered out the window at the shining star-glazed night. A half smile formed on his lips. Rachel had practically stripped her car gears to get away from him.

Yes, he’d definitely ticked her off. He’d gotten to her academic insides and stirred her up a bit. She was highly emotional, he could tell. Women who got that stormy, that quickly, usually had a healthy passionate nature and a tender sensitivity. He couldn’t deny it. He was irresistibly drawn to Rachel, more than to any woman he’d ever known.

A cloud suddenly hid the moon, and a dark shadow brushed over Johnny’s heart. Forget your emotional pull to Rachel, he silently told himself. You’re invisible to her. She sees Zane Farrell, not you.

He’d permitted his own powerful attraction to her to seep through and go beyond the boundary he had to have with Professor Smith. He wouldn’t let that happen again. No sir. He wasn’t going to disappoint Mr. Farrell.

He had to make Mr. Farrell’s volunteer study a successful one. Not that Johnny could figure out why a man like Mr. Farrell would ever participate in a sex research project.

Johnny hopped back into bed and punched his pillow into a snug position. Professor Rachel Smith, get ready. Mr. Farrell’s sex study was definitely not over yet. Johnny would play his role with more of a Zane Farrell cultured flare and not allow the uncouth, uneducated Johnny Wells to interfere again.

The next morning, Rachel pressed the fifteenth-floor elevator button in the steel-and-glass building in downtown Los Angeles for her second case-study interview, Harvey Glitt, a certified public accountant to the wealthiest business people in Los Angeles.

In the accounting office, Rachel tried to concentrate on quiet, shy Harvey Glitt with his bow tie, tall bony frame and pale complexion. Harvey yearned for a relationship with a woman, almost begged for one. The poor man had negative sex appeal. Maybe he was the type of male she needed. No arousal threat. Only platonic friends.

Rachel knew if she ever let loose her sexuality again with Zane Farrell, she’d lose her sensibilities, her logic, and would end up in a disastrous situation like the one she’d been in with Kent. And she never wanted to hurt Zane that way.

She made an unending vow to herself. The next time she was with Zane, she would demolish every emotionally close and sensually tempting thought that rose to her consciousness. Zane would remain a purely academic study to her. That was all.

The moment she returned to her office at the university, she quickly recovered Zane Farrell’s home phone number from the trash can where she’d angrily hurled it after their last encounter.

She nervously fingered the wrinkled sheet of paper. Excuses for never seeing him again lightning-flashed through her mind. But she refused to retreat. She’d keep it friendly but emotionally distant.

Just as she picked up the phone, there was a knock at her closed office door. She barely uttered a “come in” when the door powerfully swung open Zane Farrell-style. A bouquet of gleaming white gardenias were in Zane’s hands.

“Rachel, before you throw a lamp at me,” he began in his deeply resonating voice, “can we make a truce?” He handed her the sweetly scented flowers and added, “The aroma is definitely you.”

Rachel was so surprised, she couldn’t utter a word. She hugged the precious gardenias to her and inhaled a long, deep intake of flower-scented air with her eyes never leaving his.

Zane leaned against the wall of her office watching her, as if he belonged, like he was part of her life. And for that second, she wished that he really was.

Stop it, Rachel Smith. Control yourself. You promised.

She set the flowers down on her desk. “I assume this is a confirmation that you’re still a candidate for the university study?” she managed to say in her best businesslike voice.

“Only if you’ll have dinner with me tonight at The Wave Restaurant.”

His enticing eyes twinkled at her, and she suspected that his invitation was filled with much more than thoughts of the case study.

Thump, thump, thump, went her heart. A romantic dinner. Tenderly holding hands at the table. Eyes entwined. An invitation back to his mansion. Then a peak at his bedroom. Then his bed.

Be the professor, not the woman, she cautioned herself.

“Will the restaurant be conducive for our interview?” she asked carefully.

“Absolutely. One hundred percent,” he said confidently. “Eight o’clock?”

“Seven,” she firmly countered.

He chuckled as though pleased she was still wearing her battle gear. “Seven it is, Professor Smith. Shall I pick you up here or at your apartment?”

“I’ll meet you at the restaurant.” Keep it impersonal. Distant. All business.

“I look forward to it.” Then he was gone.

She plopped down on her desk chair. Why did he have to touch her heart by bringing those beautiful flowers? And why did he have to be so sexy? Could he see her trembling in his presence?

She quickly phoned Kim for support. “Kim, I can’t go to dinner with him,” she said, nervously stretching the phone cord.

“Just concentrate on the study,” Kim advised.

“How soon will you be freed up to take over his interviews?”

“Maybe in a week or so.” Her friend hesitated. “Will you be okay?”

“As long as I can see an end to it,” she replied. Her mind felt partially at ease as she hung up the phone. Knowing her stint with Zane Farrell was short-lived, she’d be just fine.

The black-tied maitre d’ approached Rachel as she entered The Wave Restaurant in Beverly Hills. The round tables were covered with mauve tablecloths and butterflyfolded napkins. Elegant black candles flickered on the tables like diamonds.

She hoped she hadn’t underdressed. Women were in sparkling sequins. Men in suave Italian suits.

Rachel had deliberately worn a beige silk blouse with lacy collar and sleeves and a form-fitting maroon skirt. Her hair was softly up in a bun with a wisp of bangs over her forehead. She felt conservatively businesslike, which was exactly the impression she wanted to give Zane Farrell.

As she followed the maitre d’, her breath caught in her throat. Zane arose from his table at the sight of her. A pinstriped black suit covered his muscular frame. His luminous blue eyes were focused on her as though she were the only woman in the galaxy.

Keep cool, girl, keep cool.

“Rachel,” Zane whispered as he gently took her hand in his warm palm. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” she replied, quickly slipping free of his electrically charged touch. Keep him physically away, she warned herself. Stay in one emotional piece.

Johnny couldn’t take his eyes off her. How could her face radiate more beauty than any female he’d ever met? She was even more gorgeous than the last time he’d seen her.

His focus slipped to her silken top, which feathered across her ample curves as she moved. The fabric was so fine that a trace of lacy bra peeked through. He could see a hint of her bountiful breasts puffing over the top of her lingerie.

He swallowed as he pulled out her chair. When she sat down, her skirt rose to the tops of her luscious bare thighs. She wasn’t wearing any stockings. His breathing quickened. He rapidly took his own seat before she caught him staring like a teenage boy.

Johnny had found The Wave Restaurant listed as one of Beverly Hills’ finest eateries. Since Mr. Farrell ordered in all meals to his mansion and never appeared in restaurants, Johnny didn’t worry about using the man’s name.

“About the incident in your gym,” Rachel began. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

“Why not?” Johnny asked.

“It was improper,” she replied.

“Improper?” Johnny repeated with a chuckle. “Come on, Rachel. The gym thing happened because you and I are very attracted to each other. Why can’t you admit—”

Johnny stopped when he saw the shocked look on Rachel’s face. He wanted to punch himself in the gut. Mr. Farrell was never coarse. But Johnny Wells was street-rough through and through.

“My focus is strictly on this research project,” Rachel said, looking him straight in the eyes. “Not on you.”

Rachel thought she saw Zane flinch. But she couldn’t let herself care. She had to keep the concrete wall up to protect herself from this man who possessed the power to bring out the achingly vulnerable part of herself that she vowed to keep concealed forever.

“Hey, no problem,” Zane told her, his voice dropping. He leaned back in his cushioned seat. “I’ll answer any question you ask. With one stipulation.”

“What’s that?”

“For every sex question you ask me, you have to respond to one of mine.”

“No,” she quickly said. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Why not?” he asked. “You’re bold enough to probe my male psyche. Why can’t I explore the sex fantasies floating around in yours?”

Rachel immediately gulped down a long sip of sparkling water from the crystal glass. She couldn’t possibly accept his proposal. She couldn’t tell him her sexual thoughts. She couldn’t tell anyone. Yet, she had to make sure that Zane Farrell didn’t back out of the study. The chancellor’s potential upset threateningly stared her in the face.

“If you insist on mutual questioning,” she began in a strained voice, “I’ll go along with it. But if I don’t feel like answering, you bet I won’t.”

“Same here,” he said with a pleased grin that made her even more nervous about the whole matter. “Kick off the text.”

Just then, to her utter relief, the waiter brought their dinners. Zane ate his shrimp scampi with a conspicuous appetite. She barely took a bite of hers. She didn’t know how to begin her sex questions. As the dinner neared its end and she anxiously fiddled with her chocolate mousse, she noticed Zane placing a final forkful of creamy mousse into his mouth.

She caught a glimpse of his tongue licking off some excess chocolate on the fork. The sensitive area between her legs woke up. The thought of his mouth on her throbbing breasts—

Stop it! she silently scolded herself.

She struggled to ignore the arousing sensations sizzling through her body and pulled out the questionnaire folder from her briefcase. She stared at the first question. Oh, no, I can’t ask that one! she silently screamed. Don’t think about it. Just blurt it out.

“How often do you self-pleasure?” she managed to say, glancing away from his uplifted eyebrow.

“Play with my—”

“Masturbate,” she choked out. He was enjoying this. She was sure of it.

“You’re assuming that I do.”

“Don’t you?” she asked, a slow burn rushing to her cheeks.

“Do you?” he curiously inquired.

Johnny watched the skin on Rachel’s stunning face turn ashen. He didn’t mean to embarrass her. Yet, wasn’t that what she was doing to him? Was the masturbation question acceptable only if she asked it?

He noticed her nervously biting her lower lip, and for a moment, he hated that he’d probed. He impulsively touched her soft hand with his rough callused one.

“Hey, forget it, Rachel,” Johnny said. “You want to go for a ride in Mr. Fa—my Porsche?”

“Sure,” she whispered.

Johnny noticed that Rachel’s hands were trembling as she stuck the questionnaire back in her briefcase. He got up from his chair feeling confused. Something just didn’t click for him. Why would an academic doing a sexuality study be afraid to talk about sex herself?

When she rose from her seat, her briefcase slipped to the floor and papers spewed out. Johnny bent down to help her. As she crouched, he noticed her maroon skirt skidding up her naked thighs. Her bare legs spread slightly.

He sucked in his breath at the glimpse of pink lace panties covering the feminine mound between her velvety thighs. He wanted to press his hand intimately against the pink expanse and—

What the hell was he thinking? He shoved the loose papers into her briefcase and got to his feet. He was supposed to be acting like well-mannered Zane Farrell, not some lewd male with a hanging tongue.

The summer evening wind in the racing red Porsche convertible was undoing a part of Rachel’s bun. She grabbed the flying strands.

“Want the top up?” Johnny called above the whir of the freeway. Her hair was wildly blowing around her face. He imagined that was the uninhibited way she looked while making love.

“I’m fine!” Rachel yelled back as she struggled to get her hair into place.

She hadn’t been able to look Zane in the eyes since leaving the restaurant.

How could she tell him that, yes, she loved the titillating sensations she could create in her own body. And, yes, she had caressed her private areas many, many times before drifting to sleep at night.

But she didn’t dare. Because when she’d revealed her private moments to her about-to-be husband, Kent, months before their wedding, he’d stared at her in utter shock. He’d accused her of being sexually selfish and disturbingly obsessed with her own physical pleasure. And every time they were together after that, Kent asked if she’d caressed herself the night before. She was so haunted with guilt and shame that she hadn’t intimately touched her own body since.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to send you into shock back at the restaurant,” Zane shouted over the wind, cutting into her tortured thoughts. “Can I make it up to you by finishing the tour of my house for your interview?”

“I really don’t—” Rachel knew she didn’t dare return to the intimacy of his house at night. But with the roaring car engine and the wind whisking by, Zane didn’t hear her resist.

The Porsche zoomed through his King Kong gate and shot right to the curb in front of the mansion.

As Johnny led Rachel into Mr. Farrell’s palace, a twinge of sadness dragged at his heart. He wished he could take her to his small comfortable apartment in Santa Monica. He wanted to show her his vegetable garden. Maybe listen to a jazz CD and sip white wine while lying on pillows together on the floor.

He mentally kicked himself. Face reality, Johnny boy, he reprimanded himself. Professor Rachel Smith wouldn’t associate with a mediocre-incomed, uneducated engine fixer, even if he did have his own shop.

“Which room did we leave out last time?” Johnny asked as he removed his suit jacket and threw it on the sofa. He had to remind himself that Rachel was here to interview Mr. Farrell, not him. He was going to portray the man in neon colors. Just as long as his own street-level personality didn’t push into the frame.

“I believe you neglected to show me the master bedroom,” Rachel said. The sex questionnaire required it. But it was the room she most dreaded entering. The suggestive chamber that would surely tempt her wildest fantasies.

She lifted her chin, determined to be strong and not emotionally vulnerable again.

That is, until she hit his luxurious master suite. Her gaze settled on the exotic circular bed. The raven-black satin comforter and creamy vanilla pillows winked at her in greeting.

Zane rubbed a large palm across the softness of the glossy bedspread.

“Cool, huh?” he offered. “What does the bedroom decor say about me?”

“That you’ve got an excellent interior decorator.”

“That’s all?” he asked, sounding disappointed.

No, it wasn’t all. She envisioned herself tumbling nude with Zane into all that milky, silky satin.

She fought her fantasies and fumbled in her briefcase for her pad and pencil.

“Why did you choose a round bed?” she managed to ask as she steadied her quivering fingers to write.

Zane sat on the bed and patted the spot beside him, beckoning her to him.

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” he suggested in a velvet murmur.

“I’d rather hear your thoughts on it,” she stated in a professorial voice. “I may interpret your bedroom accoutrements quite differently from the actual reason you purchased them. After all, what is sexy is purely subjective, isn’t it?”

“You tell me. You’re the lovemaking expert.”

His intense gaze caught and held hers. She was super-aware of being alone with him in his bedroom. Super-aware of the closeness she felt toward him. Super-aware of his circular satiny bed and wanting to make love with him.

Zane arose from the bed and approached her. “Are you afraid of me, Rachel?”

“Why should I be?” She struggled to ignore the charged currents shooting from his body to hers. She strained to get his attention off her.

“Is that your master bathroom?” she began, struggling to hold on, fighting to forget the humiliating truth about herself that she never wanted Zane to find out.

She entered the bathroom, which was the size of her entire apartment bedroom. Lavender and gray tiles. Recessed lighting. Gray porcelain Jacuzzi tub.

Her gaze stopped at the spacious clear-glassed shower stall with double chrome shower heads on either side. For two people. Scrubbing down each other’s hot dripping bodies. She bit down on her bottom lip.

Johnny followed her into the bathroom and leaned against the glass shower door. She wouldn’t even look him in the eyes. What was she hiding from? Had he said or done anything to trouble her? If he had, he’d take it back instantly if he knew what it was.

He could see her breasts heaving under the silk top. He wanted to pull her into his arms and smother his face between the softness of those warm swelling globes.

She fumbled with her questionnaire. “Have you ever taken a shower with a woman?”

“Have you with a man?” Johnny inquired. He had no right to ask, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to know every intimate detail about her.

“I asked you first,” she insisted.

“I think sharing a shower with a woman can be great foreplay.”

“Is that a yes for the study?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “Have you, Rachel?”

“Have I what?”

“Taken a shower with a man.”

She nervously flipped through the printed questionnaire without answering.

“You’re breaking our agreement,” Johnny said.

“No, I’m not.”

“I’m baring all to you. Why are you keeping secrets from me?”

“I’m as open as you are.”

“Then answer my shower question.”

“I have never shared a shower. Happy?”

“Not if I was the man in your life.”

“Well, you’re not!”

“Good!”

“Fine!”

Before she could protest further, Johnny pulled Rachel’s trembling body to his. His mouth covered her rosebud lips. He could feel her palms against his chest.

“Rachel,” Johnny whispered in a gravelly tone.

His lips nibbled, bit, devoured her mouth, savoring the gardenia flavor of her. He felt her defensive grip slowly loosen on his chest. Then she bit and suckled back. His fingers undid her tight bun. Her silken hair flowed through his palms like a gentle waterfall.

Rachel arched her back in response to Zane’s touch. She didn’t stop him from pulling her blouse out of the protection of her skirt. His hot hands slid under her top and cupped her lace-covered breasts. She inhaled sharply.

As Zane kneaded and squeezed the flesh filling her bra, a deep guttural groan escaped from the depths of his throat.

Rachel felt her resistance weaken. All of her determined self-control was slowly ebbing. Her eager hands touched up and down Zane’s muscular chest, feeling the strained muscles under her palms, feeling his manliness engulf her senses.

Her promise to herself was draining, draining, draining out of her brain. The exhilarating manly taste of him was obliterating, destroying, shattering the iron shield she’d created for two long years.

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