Dear Reader,

My husband and I visited Seattle last year, and after all I’d heard about the city’s weather, what I expected to notice the most was the rain. Instead, what struck me was the proliferation of great coffeehouses. I couldn’t help thinking that Seattle would be the perfect home for a caffeine junkie, and soon my heroine, Sheryl Dayton, was born. She began telling me all about herself and her problems (when you’re a writer, conversations with imaginary people are normal and don’t require medication). Luckily for Sheryl and me, Harlequin announced a new comedy line—Harlequin Flipside, the perfect home for my caffeine addict who might sound sarcastic at times but is intensely loyal to friends and family.

It’s that very sense of loyalty that brings Sheryl into conflict with journalist Nathan Hall, whose columns question the integrity of Sheryl’s friend and employer. Sheryl is prepared to dislike Nathan on sight after his accusatory newspaper pieces, but she doesn’t count on him making her laugh or having eyes as rich and dark as her favorite espresso.

A lifelong fan of romantic comedy, I’m very excited to be writing one of the launch books for Harlequin Flipside and hope that Sheryl and Nathan give you plenty of reasons to smile as they overcome the obstacles between them and fall in love.

Happy holidays,

Tanya Michaels

“Did you just invite me to dinner?”

Nathan widened his smile. “Sounded like it, didn’t it?”

Well, Sheryl was going to say no, of course. How completely out of her mind would she have to be to say anything else?

But before common sense could assert itself, she nodded. “Sounds good.” When she got home tonight, she’d have to check herself into some twelve-step program for women who made unwise romantic decisions.

Not necessarily unwise, the devil on her shoulder insisted. Maybe dinner with Nathan could be excused with the same principle she always used when dieting—have some extra chocolate before the day started to get cravings out of the way.

“You in the mood for anything?” he asked.

“Wh-whatever restaurant you like is fine,” she was relieved to hear herself say. Because saying, “You and a bottle of chocolate syrup” might have been inappropriate. Not to mention the mess it would’ve made of her bedsheets.

“Who Needs Decaf?”
Tanya Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tanya Michaels has been reading books all her life, and romances have always been her favorite. She is thrilled to be writing for Harlequin—and even more thrilled that the stories she makes up now qualify as “work” and exempt her from doing the dishes after dinner. The 2001 Maggie Award winner lives in Georgia with her two wonderful children and a loving husband whose displays of support include reminding her to quit writing and eat something. Thankfully, between her husband’s thoughtfulness and that stash of chocolate she keeps at her desk, Tanya can continue writing her books in no danger of wasting away.

For more information on Tanya, her upcoming releases and periodic giveaways, please visit her Web site at www.mindspring.com/~tjmic.

Books by Tanya Michaels

HARLEQUIN DUETS

96—THE MAID OF DISHONOR

Dear Reader,

A brand-new year is around the corner and once the holiday celebrations are over, it’s time to make resolutions. And this time, ignore those pesky ones you never really pay attention to! Instead, make sure to give yourself a break from your troubles. Relax and unwind—with a Harlequin Flipside novel! These clever and witty stories blend comedy and romance in a way that’s sure to smooth away any tension….

In December, award-winning author Jill Shalvis brings us Natural Blond Instincts, a story about an independent woman who finally has the chance to prove to her conservative family that she can succeed in the family business. Of course, the gorgeous man who shares her position is so distracting she’s having trouble focusing on the job!

We also have “Who Needs Decaf?” by Tanya Michaels. Given the stress of her life, this PR exec needs large injections of high-octane java to get through her day. Too bad the caffeine isn’t having an effect on her love life. At least, not before she meets the good-looking guy who’s determined to dig up dirt on her company….

Look for two new Harlequin Flipside novels every month at your favorite bookstore. And be sure to check us out online at www.harlequinflipside.com.

Have a Happy New Year and enjoy!

Wanda Ottewell

Editor

Mary-Theresa Hussey Executive

Editor

Contents

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16

1

STEERING HER COMPACT CAR onto the exit ramp off Seattle’s Interstate 90, Sheryl Dayton frowned, and not just because of the possibility of ice on the road. Had her car made a noise when she turned? A kind of thwacka thwacka thwacka?

Not now, please. This really isn’t a good time. Funds were always tighter coming into December, but holiday season aside, Sheryl was trying to save up to buy her own place. Not to mention that with the escalating situation at work, she had no time in her busy schedule to visit a mechanic.

Deciding tough love was her best immediate course of action, she inhaled sharply and threatened the car. “Don’t even think about breaking down until after the first of the year. If you do, I’ll yank your spark plugs out with my bare hands and hang them on my Christmas tree!” She was only marginally sure she’d know what a spark plug was if she saw one—public relations was her specialty, not the inner workings of American automobiles—but she did know how to solve the disturbing thwacka-thwacka-thwacka problem.

Sheryl turned up the radio.

An elaborate musical introduction swelled through the speakers, followed by the voice of an enthusiastic singer confiding that her true love had gifted her with a partridge and a pear tree. Sheryl didn’t have a true love, herself, but she did have an ex-boyfriend. Brad Hammond, owner of Hammond Gaming Software, the company Sheryl worked for.

On the first day of Christmas, my ex-boyfriend gave to me, a good job and a migraine.

When she’d broken things off with Brad six months ago, Sheryl had worried it would be too awkward to continue running the miniscule public relations department at Hammond, but Brad had implored her to stay, insisting he needed her. Which had proven to be prophetic.

Until now, Sheryl had devoted her time and energy to gaining favorable public attention for the up-and-coming software company, but their spot in the limelight had backfired on them when a Web site owner filed a lawsuit claiming theft of intellectual property. With revived public interest in Tolkien, along with some recent, popular fantasy novels and movies, HGS’s newly released fantasy-action game, Xandria Quest, had promised to be their first major success. But writer Kendra Mathers was claiming that the premise, characters and levels for the game had been stolen from her online epic fantasy story. Sheryl’s publicity skills were suddenly needed for damage control.

“Particularly,” she muttered, “since Nathan Hall seems intent on causing damage.”

The columnist for the Seattle Sojourner had written a couple of pieces on the pending suit, and his writing made Sheryl nervous. He managed to blend cynicism and passion in his annoyingly factual columns—she’d scanned carefully for glaring, malicious, libelous errors. Nathan Hall resonated with readers, and Sheryl worried about his insinuations that big bad Brad Hammond, “overnight success,” was now sticking it to the little guys he’d so recently been one of.

Sheryl snorted indelicately as she approached the parking garage of the modestly sized, yet state-of-the-art building HGS leased. Big bad Brad Hammond, indeed. When she and Brad had watched the Titanic DVD together, he’d wept like a baby, and she’d spent the better part of an hour trying to console him.

That one evening, she realized now, had encapsulated their relationship. Though a good-looking programming phenom, well on his way to becoming a rich man, Brad was a little too needy in other ways, almost painfully earnest for a man who owned a company in a fiercely competitive field. But Sheryl doubted it would be a good PR spin to release an announcement that her boss was too naive to steal from anyone.

Maybe as a last resort.

In her opinion, she and HGS’s attorney, Mark Campbell, had sent out some brilliant press releases, but she noted that the Sojourner hadn’t bothered to print any of them. Brad praised her work, but refused to worry much about the problem since, as he saw it, Xandria Quest was his baby and he hadn’t stolen it from anyone.

Rolling down her window, Sheryl smiled at the parking garage attendant who sat in the small booth, his gloved hands cradling a steaming thermos of coffee. The rich aroma made her glance longingly at her own to-go container. She hadn’t allowed herself to lift it from the safety of its snug cup holder as she drove on the freeway, for fear of spilling burning liquid down the front of her ivory knit tunic and skirt.

“Morning, Henry.”

The man’s weathered face wrinkled into an answering smile as he tipped his uniform cap. “Ms. Dayton,” he returned, despite all the times she’d asked him to call her Sheryl. “Say, is your car acting up? Thought I heard sort of a thumba thumba thumba as you came round the corner.”

“‘Thumba,’ huh? Nope, no ‘thumba’ here.” Her response didn’t stem completely from denial. No way was the sound more of a thumba than a thwacka.

“Oh, okay. Well, I’m glad,” Henry said. “I’d hate to see a nice lady like you get stranded on the side of a cold road at night, after the late evenings you put in here.”

Well, when you looked at it that way…Note to self—call mechanic on lunch break, do not end up freeway Popsicle.

He held up a folded edition of Wednesday’s paper. “You seen the Sojourner? Your boss made headlines again.”

Surely, with approximately two and a half million people in the metro Seattle area, reporters could find something to write about besides her boss! What new angle could Hall possibly have used for his latest piece when the case was still in the early deposition stages? Sheryl decided that along with the Christmas check she’d planned to give Henry as his annual tip, she’d also throw in a subscription to the Post-Intelligencer or Seattle Times.

Forcing a pleasant tone, she said, “Have a nice day, Henry.”

“You, too, Ms. Dayton.”

Too late for that, but she nodded anyway as she pulled her car up the entrance ramp.

In the elevator from the garage to the main lobby, Sheryl sipped her white-chocolate cappuccino and dreaded the day. Or more accurately, the fallout from Tuesday evening, which was when Brad saw his therapist each week. Brad had read somewhere that top-level executives needed balance more than anyone since so many people depended on them, and he’d gone right out and hired a shrink. Unfortunately, the quack dictated Brad and Sheryl must have a long conversation to determine exactly where they’d gone wrong, so Brad could learn and grow as a “giving, loving being” and be more successful in all future relationships.

Well, he would have to learn and grow on his own time, not Sheryl’s. Their relationship was strictly professional now.

The elevator dinged and the doors parted, allowing Sheryl to step into the reception area she knew so well. When they’d moved into this building from the tiny space HGS had occupied before, Sheryl and her roommate, Meka, an interior decorator, had helped Brad pick out the furnishings. Right down to the blue leather upholstered chair the plump receptionist, Denise Avery, was currently standing on.

“Morning,” Denise said from around the thumb-tacks clenched between her lips.

In her hands the receptionist held a shiny red-and-green garland that she was pinning onto the wall in one remaining bare corner of the room. Clearly in the spirit of the season, Denise looked adorably younger than her almost-forty years in a red jumper and green sweater, a piece of plastic ivy tucked into her bouncy blond ponytail. Her festive mood was also evident in the pot of poinsettias sitting on the small rectangular coffee table and the fake snow that adorned the window of the executive conference room.

“Brad asked for you to report to his office immediately,” the receptionist continued before Sheryl could voice a greeting. “Unless, of course, you haven’t had coffee yet, in which case see him immediately after your stop to the breakroom.”

Sheryl grinned and held up the fortifying cappuccino. Her favorite thing about this city, a caffeine-addict’s nirvana, was that no street corner was without either a Starbucks or Seattle’s Best Coffee. She’d had two cups of coffee at home, naturally, but that was to get her through personal grooming and the drive to the office. Each day, she needed at least one cup post-drive, and then she was good to go until afternoon fatigue set in. Woe to anyone who encountered her on a morning she didn’t get that crucial third cup.

Her grin faded as she considered Denise’s announcement. Brad wanted to see her immediately? What an uncommonly executive order…unless he wanted to once again try to convince her to rehash each second of their brief, passionless relationship. “Did he say why he wanted me?”

“Nathan Hall,” Denise replied, an edge to her chirpy voice.

Exasperated, Sheryl ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair. “Right.” She’d temporarily pushed aside Henry’s comment about a new story. “I’m just going to make a quick stop in the breakroom and see if there’s a copy of this morning’s Sojourner.” She personally didn’t want to buy a copy and give the paper her money, but she should read the latest piece so that she knew what she was up against.

As she headed down the carpeted corridor, Sheryl thought to herself that there was at least one Hall she might like to deck.

WEDNESDAY EVENING, Sheryl unknotted the belt at her waist, then threw her overcoat onto the buttery soft sectional sofa with a vengeance that was probably unfair to both jacket and couch. “Argh!”

Inside the kitchen adjacent to the living room, Tameka Williams glanced up from the island countertop where she was chopping carrots. Her thin, elegant eyebrows arched over teasing hazel eyes. “Bad day at the office, dear?”

Despite her mood, Sheryl laughed. Her best friend often had that effect. Sheryl couldn’t think of anyone in the state of Washington who’d make a better roommate than Meka, but after growing up in a big family and having roommates since her freshman year of college, Sheryl was ready to be alone. Especially now that Meka and Tyler McAfee were practically engaged, often unintentionally making Sheryl a third wheel in her own apartment.

Abandoning her demiboots, Sheryl padded in stocking feet to the kitchen. “I don’t know which of them is driving me crazier—the Columnist who Stole Christmas, or the Boyfriend of Christmas Past who’s haunting me.”

“Okay, the boyfriend is a certain blond software genius who gets weepy after Leonardo DiCaprio films, right? And the reporter would be…what’s his name? Nate?”

“Nathan. Hall. My nemesis. I get paid to make the company look good, and this jerk seems determined to paint us as evil.”

“Evil sells papers,” Meka said with a shrug of her graceful shoulders. Everything about Meka was graceful, and she looked absurdly elegant in a red-velour two-piece lounging set.

Opening the refrigerator, Sheryl hunted for a bottle of wine. After the day she’d had, she could use a glass. Unfortunately the closest thing they had was the cooking sherry Meka had pulled out to use for dinner. Still, Sheryl stared hard at the fridge’s interior for a moment, as though she could summon a nice Chardonnay through sheer willpower.

“I saw that piece he wrote today,” Meka continued. “He made some good points, about why does society reward wrongdoing? You guys have been accused of basically stealing Xandria Quest, yet sales are actually up for the game right now, making—”

Abandoning the attempted Chardonnay telepathy, Sheryl whirled around. “Reward wrongdoing? We didn’t do anything wrong!”

And sales might be up in the short run, but Sheryl was worried about the long-term results. If this case actually went to court and they lost…People in the industry had predicted Hammond Gaming Software would be the Next Big Thing, but the company wasn’t big yet and couldn’t afford any substantial financial setbacks. Or a damaged reputation.

Dropping her knife, Meka held up both hands in an I-surrender pose. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I am on your side. He’s just very persuasive.”

“I know.” Sheryl narrowed her eyes. “That’s what bothers me about him—his talent. He doesn’t sensationalize, he’s careful to use the right words like alleged, but it’s not those words that stick with you, it’s the overall impression. The impression that he’s a man of integrity on the side of justice.”

“You sound almost admiring.”

“Hardly!” Sheryl poured herself some apple juice, deciding to pretend it was hard cider. “It’s just that it would be easier to get the public to hear our side if Hall didn’t seem so damned credible. We’re the victims here!”

“Not to change the subject from the nemesis you’re all fired-up about while we’re in a room full of sharp utensils or anything, but what’s Brad doing that’s making you crazy?”

“Two things. One, he asked me to go on a date.”

“Oh, no!” An expression of amused horror settled across Meka’s pretty mocha-colored features. “Don’t tell me that incompetent shrink of his convinced Brad he can win you back.”

Laughing, Sheryl clarified, “You don’t understand, he wants me to go along on his date with another woman.”

“Didn’t think our man Brad had it in him to be kinky.”

Another laugh, this time with the unpleasant side effect of choking on apple juice. “He wants me to try to spot possible trouble areas in the relationship. He says it’s the least I can do since I won’t commit a few hours of rehashing our relationship. I told him this prospective new relationship wouldn’t go anywhere if he brought along an ex to chaperone.”

“For a boy who’s such a genius in some areas…”

“Tell me about it.”

“So what’s the second thing?”

Sheryl’s fingers tightened, and she was glad the glass in her hand was actually made from shatterproof plastic. “He wants us to extend an olive branch to Nathan Hall.”

Reaching for a bag of russet potatoes, Meka froze, blinking. “You’re the relations expert, but isn’t that just begging for mercy and making yourselves look weak?”

“Trust me, I’m not happy about it.”

Gritting her teeth, Sheryl recalled her meeting that morning with Brad. He’d asked her to personally deliver the latest press release in case the Sojourner wanted to use it—though history had proven that unlikely—and, as HGS’s official publicity representative, let Hall know that Brad was readily available for comment and welcomed Nathan’s questions. She’d tried to get Brad to reconsider or at least get their attorney’s opinion, but Brad had insisted the attorney worked for him, not the other way around.

She’d suggested Brad actually send their attorney on this errand, but her boss had felt a six-five man who spoke in stern legalese didn’t promote the friendly, accessible image he wanted to convey. Also, Brad had seemed to think that sending a lawyer to see the man who’d been writing carefully derogatory articles about him was an implied threat of some sort.

Sheryl could usually cajole Brad into seeing her point, but he was being strangely stubborn about this. Was it just because he hated the thought of being disliked by someone? Especially someone with a loyal readership.

With a sigh, she told Meka, “I’m afraid Brad half believes it’s as simple as convincing Mr. Hall what swell folks we are, then he’ll stop writing those mean articles and the whole mess will go away.”

“First, swell folks make boring headlines.” Meka enumerated her observations on her fingers. “Second, even if the columns stop, Brad still has the lawsuit to deal with. Third, Nathan may view your ‘olive branch’ as sucking up to get him to stop and become even more self-righteous.”

Sheryl settled herself on one of the two soft-covered stools that sat at the raspberry-colored breakfast counter. Decorated in raspberry and cream with soft lighting and an almost-view of the Space Needle, the kitchen was so inviting that she and Meka had most of their conversations here even though the living room furniture was expensive and comfy, while the kitchen bar stools eventually put one’s butt to sleep.

“All good points,” Sheryl agreed with her roommate. “Points I tried to make earlier today. Three hundred and sixty-four days a year, he’s Mister Mellow, letting his savvy staff advise him on what to do—which is what he pays us for—but then there’s that one other day, out there lurking…”

“And today was that day?” When Sheryl didn’t answer, Meka added, “Too bad Nathan Hall isn’t one of those columnists with a picture next to his byline. Then we’d have something to blow up and throw darts at.”

Sheryl had never thought about what the journalist looked like, but it wasn’t hard to imagine him as green and hairy, à la a certain, bitter Seuss character bent on sucking the joy out of the holiday season for others. Draining her glass, she decided that pretend hard cider wasn’t cutting it. What she really needed was a vacation, but since that was out of the question…

“Meka, what are your plans for the weekend? It’s been a while since we had a really good girls’ night out.”

Her roommate stared down, seeming oddly intent on making eye contact with the potatoes. “You’re right, it has been too long, but this isn’t a good weekend. I’m sorry, but Tyler and I—”

“You don’t have to sound contrite.” Sheryl forced a smile for her friend’s benefit despite a small pang of disappointment. “He is your boyfriend.”

“I know, but you’re just as important and I feel like we’ve barely spent any time together the last few months. I’d cancel, but Ty’s parents are coming into town this weekend and he’s asked me to meet them Saturday.”

Sheryl let out a low whistle. She couldn’t remember the last relationship she’d been in where she’d reached the meet-the-parents stage. Of course, not everyone’s parents lived as close to their children as hers. “Meeting the parents.”

“Yeah. In a word, yikes. I’m terrified already, and it’s still days away. You and I could go out Friday night, but I wouldn’t be any fun.”

“Besides, it would probably be better not to show up hungover on Saturday,” Sheryl teased, even though neither of them were hardcore party drinkers.

“Well, I promise you that we’ll do a girls’ night soon,” Meka said, her smile grateful. “In the meantime, I can at least offer dinner. Some comfort food to take the edge off your day?”

Though Sheryl quickly accepted the offer of her roommate’s gourmet cooking, she chose to look at it not as comfort food, but as the traditional feast soldiers of old enjoyed the night before battle. Tomorrow, she faced Nathan Hall.

SHERYL STOOD in a lobby full of modern art sculptures, waiting for one of four elevators to open and take her to the floor that housed the Sojourner’s staff offices. She hadn’t scheduled an appointment, merely called to ask what time Nathan was expected in today. Sheryl wanted to have the element of surprise, not give the journalist an opportunity to devise questions so pointed, she couldn’t possibly answer them safely. And, of course, not answering a question only made a person look guilty.

With an impatient glance, she assessed her distorted reflection in the mirrored elevator doors. Meka had suggested that her navy blue cashmere sweater over a well-tailored calf-length skirt would be feminine enough to keep her from seeming combative, while the dark colors said “take me seriously.” Not wanting to look girly, Sheryl had neither applied much makeup nor curled her hair. She’d stuck to the basics around her green eyes, applied some lipstick and just brushed her brown hair until the natural red highlights shone. Cosmo wouldn’t be calling to ask her to cover-model any time soon, but she looked good enough for this meeting.

A small beep sounded and a light glowed above the elevator to her right. She moved toward it, but a slight masculine chuckle behind her stopped her.

Turning, Sheryl located the owner of that low chuckle—a man much taller than she, probably even taller than Meka. He wore a brown leather jacket over a Sonics sweatshirt—both of which merely seemed like adornments for his broad shoulders—and jeans of indeterminable age. The dark denim didn’t look worn or faded, but the pants molded to the man’s lower body well enough to give the impression that they were comfortably broken-in.

Berating herself for staring at his rather promising lower body, Sheryl jerked her head up and fell into eyes the same rich brown color as his hair. His entire appearance made her think of things hot and delicious. Chocolate, coffee, dark caramels melting…

“That one’s broken,” he said, angling his chin toward the elevator she’d approached. “It lights up, but only goes down. No idea why maintenance still hasn’t fixed it, but the only place it will take you is underground parking.”

The elevator to her left lit and opened, and she instinctively stepped aside for the people exiting. Then she entered the empty conveyance, and the man with the espresso eyes joined her, his clean, soapy scent a relief in the overly perfumed air left by the elevator’s last passengers.

He reached for the number panel the same time she did, and their hands brushed. Both of them stilled, but neither moved away, so the contact and the strange humming it stirred in Sheryl’s blood continued.

Finally, she pulled her hand back, saying softly, “Five, please.”

The man stared for a moment as though he were going to ask, “Five what?”, but then he nodded with a self-conscious laugh. “Oh. Five, right.”

Sheryl bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. If it had taken him a moment to realize she was talking about which floor she wanted, then she hadn’t been the only one affected by their shared, electric touch. Had she ever had such an immediate reaction to a man?

He belatedly processed her request and hit Five, but when he didn’t select a button for himself, Sheryl lost her struggle with the suppressed smile. “Um, don’t you want to hit a button for your floor?” she reminded him gently. Wow, maybe she really had rattled him.

“I’m headed to five myself.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “So I don’t need another button.”

Right. Idiot. Why hadn’t she realized the obvious? Because her brain was still somewhat short-circuited from the brush of his fingers against hers? And here she’d thought he’d been flummoxed.

“But thanks for looking out for me,” he added, still with that sexy half grin.

“Hey, it’s what I do,” she said, thinking of times she’d helped her siblings and the too-frequent occasions she’d felt compelled to “mother” Brad, which had led to their breakup. A woman couldn’t feel passion for someone who aroused mostly her maternal instincts.

Her current companion didn’t look as if he needed mothering, though. Quite the contrary. He looked like the type cautious mothers warned their daughters about.

“This is what you do?” he asked. “Look out for people in elevators?”

She smiled at his gently teasing tone. “I’m underappreciated, but, yes, I’m Sheryl, patron saint of elevators and caffeine addicts. And since you gave me such good advice down in the lobby and kept me from getting stuck in a faulty elevator, I’ll put in a good word for you with The Guy Upstairs.”

He chuckled. “I should introduce myself formally, then, so you get the name right when you make the recommendation.” He stuck out his left hand. No wedding ring. “Nathan Zachary Hall, which I know sounds horribly like a dormitory.”

Sheryl’s smile froze. The elevator stopped and the doors parted, but it took great effort to force her feet forward, onto a busy fifth floor alongside…Nathan?

“You’re Nathan Hall?” Even the dimmest bulb would be able to deduce he was, since he’d just said so, but he bore no resemblance to any of her beady-eyed, furry green imaginings.

“That’s me.” His once teasing tone was now puzzled.

He—a guy with a sense of humor who could wear jeans like that—was her nemesis?

As Meka would say, yikes.

2

NATHAN FELT A LITTLE SILLY standing there in front of so many desks and cubicles where his co-workers could witness this odd exchange. But the cacophony of buzzing phones, chirping computers and occasional cursing of the frustrated reporter assured him that people had better things to do than watch him. Besides, even if they’d all been staring, Nathan found he couldn’t do much more than stand and wait for the brunette with the striking green eyes to say something.

Hoping to prompt a response, he picked up where the conversation had inexplicably derailed. “I’m Nathan Hall,” he reiterated, in case there was any lingering confusion on that point. “And you are?”

“Sheryl.” She addressed the floor more than him. But her seeming shyness was incongruous with the woman who had been joking with him just moments ago.

A smile touched his lips. “Right, Sheryl, the patron saint of elevators.”

She looked up then, and if eyes were the window to the soul, then Sheryl had pulled the drapes tightly down over her exotic, slightly tilted cat’s eyes. He’d had some experience reading people, but he couldn’t get a handle on her current thoughts or mood. Nervous? Maybe even a little guilty about something? But resolved, too, a woman who knew what she had to do even if she didn’t particularly want to do it.

“Sheryl Dayton,” she elaborated. “I, um, Brad Hammond sent me.”

Nathan’s stomach turned over. Good Lord. Twice in his career, when he’d been working on investigative pieces, he’d been offered hush money from different corporations without soul or scruples, and a lower-level Mafia member had once made the much less tempting offer of breaking Nathan’s legs if he pursued a story. Surely Hammond hadn’t sent Nathan a woman?

She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling under her sweater in a way he wished he hadn’t noticed. “I’m in charge of Hammond’s public relations depart—”

“You’re HGS’s PR man?” She couldn’t be further from a man, but for once Nathan didn’t care about semantics.

Well, he’d certainly been a pompous idiot to think even for a second that she might be a…what? Hooker? As though anything about the straight, sophisticated cut of her hair, her china-delicate skin, or the classy clothes that clung just softly enough to her slim curves to be sexy, suggested an illicit lifestyle. Apparently, his years of reporting about the worst in people were taking their toll on his judgment.

The only reason he could possibly have had for instantly linking Sheryl with sex was the attraction he felt to her. His immediate and appreciative masculine response to her physical appearance had only been heightened by their teasing in the elevator, the single potent touch they’d shared, and the way her interested gaze had brushed over his skin. He firmly ignored that attraction now to follow what she was saying.

“…to discuss those columns you’ve been writing.” Her expression, if not actually frosty, was cool, her tone all business.

He matched her demeanor, folding his arms across his chest. “I have no intention of retracting a single word I’ve written so far, and if any new information surfaces, you can be sure there will be more columns. I’m sorry you wasted a trip across town.”

“Maybe if we could just go in your office and talk—”

“If you wanted to talk, you should have made an appointment,” he interrupted, pointing out the polite, professional course of action. “I’m a busy man, and I’m afraid I have a schedule to keep.”

He wasn’t born yesterday, and he had no intentions of letting her ambush him, as so clearly had been her plan. Manipulative. She’d arrived, scheming to surprise him, catching him off guard, but he’d turned the tables on her before she’d even stepped off the elevator. Nice irony, even if it had been unintentional.

Besides, though he did technically have his own office, the tiny room was actually smaller than some cubicles he’d seen. He wasn’t prepared to be alone in that tight space with Sheryl and the light, teasing tang of her perfume.

Determined to sound in control of the situation, he invited casually, “Feel free to call the receptionist, though, and see if there’s a way to squeeze you in next week. Maybe we’ll talk then. Have a nice day, Ms. Dayton.”

Her eyes sparked green flame, but she’d yet to form a reply when he spun on his heel and walked off, cheerfully whistling a Christmas carol.

“SO WE’LL TRY AGAIN,” Brad said from behind the metallic-looking monstrosity that was his desk. Meka had almost had a stroke when he’d insisted on it, and Sheryl personally thought that it looked like a reject from the Star Trek prop room. But Brad seemed to feel the sci-fi aura of the piece was in keeping with running a company known for technological successes in the new millennium.

“Try again?” Sheryl banged a fist on the desk, too angry to care that she’d probably just broken a couple of fingers. “May I remind you, I was against this the first time. The man wouldn’t even let me into his office, and you want me to go back for more abuse?”

Her ego was still smarting from the earlier encounter. All the polished words she’d practiced in the car on her way to the Sojourner building had been reduced to her gaping outside an elevator when she came face-to-face with the man. But, considering the face in question, who could blame her?

Not a fan of conflict, Brad fidgeted, his pale blue eyes nervous. Now that she thought about it, even though his looks were classically handsome, his coloring, from his eyes to his platinum-blond hair, was all pale, not at all warm and vibrant like—

She snapped the thought in half like a dry twig.

“Uh…Sheryl, sweetie, did you just growl?”

She winced, but blasting Brad for the unprofessional endearment probably wasn’t the best way to reassure him she wasn’t rabid. “Course not. Cleared my throat.” She did so now for emphasis. Ahem, ahem, hack, hack, hack. See? Sick, not psychotic. “I may be coming down with a cold or something.”

“I could have Iris order you some chicken soup from the deli for lunch,” he volunteered, concern in his gaze.

With a shake of her head, Sheryl reflected that he really was a nice guy. “That’s all right.” Sensing an opportunity to escape before he ordered her into a second round with Nathan Hall, she stood. “I have some cough drops in my desk and—”

“I’ve got some right here.” He pulled open the slanted top drawer of his hybrid architecture/science-fair project and passed her a handful of honey-eucalyptus drops. “You just help yourself, and we can finish discussing this.”

It had been worth a try.

She sat with a thud. “Brad, you hired me because you said you needed me, needed the advice that I and others have to give you. You’re a brilliant man, but everyone has their strengths and weaknesses, and you pay us to balance yours out. So, please consider my advice when I tell you—”

“I considered your advice yesterday, Sheryl, when we had this same conversation. But we need this man to be our friend.”

“It doesn’t work that way! He doesn’t want to befriend us, and we don’t ‘need’ him, he’s just one guy. Let’s focus on—”

“Just one guy! I can’t believe my public relations person just blew off a journalist with a direct pipeline to the public’s opinion. You’re a helluva lot smarter than that, so why are you being so stubborn about this, Sheryl?”

Because about two minutes before he introduced himself and subsequently kicked me out of the office, I was thinking I wouldn’t kick him out of bed?

Hardly a professional answer, and she had other objections, too, dammit, she just couldn’t remember them all right now. The entire time she and Brad were dating, she’d wished he’d develop a bit more of a backbone. She was proud of him for doing so, but did he have to pick now to do it?

“Well. You are the boss,” she finally conceded.

“I’m so glad somebody remembered,” he said. “I think you all see me as a little boy playing executive, but this is my company, you know?”

“I know.” She glanced down guiltily, remembering the virtual shack in which he’d started his business four years ago and how far he’d already come—how far he’d taken all of them—with his ideas. There had been a time when the tiny company was so informal, it had been more like a club, and while that briefly had been fun, an enjoyable work atmosphere, she was proud of all they’d done to make Hammond Gaming Software the “real” business it was now.

Though she wasn’t yet being paid a third of the salary Brad had said he envisioned for her future, no one else would have hired a woman with her limited experience for a position at this level. With a few notable exceptions, most of Brad’s employees were young, well-trained, eager executives who wouldn’t be able to find their current levels of autonomy elsewhere. The trade-off was that Brad had only recently begun to afford anything close to equitable salaries—luckily, the majority of his young execs didn’t have families to support.

But he’d offered them a piece of his vision, combining their collective business acumen with his software smarts and wide-eyed optimism. He wanted to give them all a shot at the big time, and until a fantasy writer from Colorado with an obscure Web site had filed a lawsuit, Brad’s master plan had seemed to be running smoothly.

She sighed. “What do you want me to do? Just say the word.”

“Make sure Nathan comes to our office Christmas party a week from tomorrow,” he insisted, sitting back in his ergonomic chair. “I want him to get to know us, see we’re good people.”

If only life were that simple. “I can ask him, but I can’t guarantee he’ll attend.”

“Unless he already has plans he can’t or won’t get out of, why wouldn’t he? He writes for a paper, and I’m essentially offering him an opportunity to spend time with HGS personnel and investigate. Why turn that down?”

And if one of their personnel inadvertently said something that got taken out of context on the front page? “Will you at least run the idea by Mark for his legal opinion and…” She trailed off since Brad was already shaking his head.

“I respect your opinion, Sheryl, you know that, and Mark’s, too, but I’ve made up my mind on this.”

“All right.” If she wasn’t going to win this, she might as well lose gracefully. “I’ll go see Nathan again.”

“Make an appointment this time,” Brad advised, blue eyes twinkling. “You’ll probably get further.”

Her cheeks flooded with stinging warmth, and she felt compelled to defend herself. “I had a strategy—”

“We don’t want to look like calculating people with a strategy. We want to look like exactly what we are—open and honest with nothing to hide. Once he realizes that, Nathan Hall is bound to see things from our point of view.”

She recalled Nathan’s vehemence when he’d informed her he wouldn’t retract a word and would continue to write about Hammond for the foreseeable future. See things from their point of view? Well, Christmas was the season of miracles, so she supposed she’d just have to make one.

SHERYL PAUSED in her conversation to Meka just long enough to sip the criminally overpriced movie-concession cola she’d bought. She would’ve ordered popcorn, too, but that would probably require a cosigned loan. Above, the theater lights were still lit, and various pre-movie advertisements flashed across the screen. Tyler was meeting them here, and he still had a few minutes before showtime.

Replacing her cup in its plastic holder, she leaned back in her padded chair, concluding her rundown of today’s meeting with Brad and his newest plan of action for handling Nathan Hall. “I know I’ve said dozens of times that if Brad is going to run his own company, he needs to be more assertive—”

“But you didn’t really mean more assertive with you.” Meka’s smile was knowing.

“Exactly. So am I a big hypocrite?”

“Not so much hypocritical as frustrated by the whole situation,” her friend said, absolving her. “But I have just the thing to take your mind off the so-called Boyfriend of Christmas Past.”

“What’s that?”

“The Boyfriend of Christmas Present.”

“What?” There was no present boyfriend, and Sheryl currently preferred it that way.

“You’ve known me a few years,” Meka said. “Have you ever seen me as happy as I am with Ty?”

“No.” The two lovebirds were cute together, even if their evident love for each other was occasionally nauseating. “But that has nothing to do with me.”

“You’re unhappy. You’ve been so stressed—”

“Brad is paying lawyers money he should be spending on other things.” Darting a quick glance around the theater, she lowered her voice. “Do you realize what could happen to us if, heaven forbid, the case actually goes to court and we lose? Of course I’ve been stressed!”

“But even before that Mathers woman claimed Hammond stole her story, you seemed unhappy. I want to see you happy, Sheryl, and I think the right guy would help with that.”

“Maybe, but the right guy is going to have to wait until a better time.” And Sheryl didn’t just mean the work stuff.

Other people, such as her family, her co-workers and roommates, had often taken center stage in her life. Boyfriends who, though not all as emotionally draining as Brad had been, cut into what little time she might have had for herself.

“I figured you’d say that,” Meka said. “Which is why I’ve decided not to take no for an answer.”

Sheryl laughed. “What, you’ve decided to find me the right guy against my will?” When her roommate bit her lower lip and said nothing, Sheryl scowled. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Not making eye contact, Meka sipped her own five-dollar soda and stalled.

Warning, warning. Red alert. “Tameka!”

“Look, it’s nothing big, just that Ty isn’t coming straight from work, he’s coming from a squash match with a co-worker…. And he’s bringing the co-worker with him.”

“You set me up on a blind date? You set me up on a blind date and didn’t tell me!” Ouch, Sheryl thought, rubbing one hand against her ear. When had she turned into such a shrill soprano?

“Don’t think of it as a date so much as four people who all wanted to see this movie. Coincidentally at the same time and location.”

“I can’t believe this. I should leave right now on sheer principle.”

“With Ty and Jonathan already on their way? Besides, I know how much you like the lead actor. You’re not going anywhere after you’ve already bought your ticket.”

Sheryl drummed her fingers on the purple plastic armrest between her and her supposed best friend. “I suppose you or Tyler told the guy—what’s his name?”

“Jonathan Spencer. He’s an accountant at the firm with Ty.”

“So you guys have briefed Jonathan on me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yet you didn’t bother to mention any of this to your own roommate,” Sheryl grumbled.

“If it makes you less mad at me, we made you sound terrific. I wanted to date you by the time we finished describing you.”

Sheryl laughed grudgingly. “As long as neither of you described me as having a ‘good personality.”’

“Never!” Meka grinned, obviously knowing she was safely away from the edge of the thin ice. “We told him the truth, that you’re sarcastic and opinionated on a good day, and downright unbearable if you haven’t had enough coffee.”

Grabbing her purse, Sheryl rummaged for something small to throw at her friend. Although bigger would work, too.

“Relax,” Meka said, “we told him you had great legs and an impressive job. Men secretly yearn for powerful women. And we’ve still got time before the guys get here for me to fill you in on Jonathan’s vital statistics.”

“Well, okay then. But you’re never going to blind-side me like this again, right?”

“I won’t need to, now that you know The Plan.”

“The Plan?” Oh, boy. “You don’t just mean Jonathan, do you?”

“Only if Jonathan miraculously turns out to be The One. But it’ll probably take more than one guy—”

“Meka! How many men do you and Tyler have lined up and waiting in the wings? You can’t just trot them all out and ask me to pick one.”

“Clearly you don’t watch reality TV. The networks seem to think that’s exactly how people pair up.” Her friend made a disdainful noise. “Look, I know love happens in its own time, but to fall in love with a guy, you gotta actually spend some time with a few.”

Since Sheryl wasn’t convinced she wanted to fall in love, she said nothing.

Meka wisely switched tactics. “Okay, even if you don’t find your Ty, you’ll have a selection of potential escorts for holiday parties and stuff like that. Besides, wouldn’t it be fun to double date occasionally? Between the time I spend with Ty and your working late, I hardly see you anymore. I know you want your own place, but I don’t want us to completely drift apart!”

Sighing, Sheryl conceded defeat. “Oh, all right, so I’ll agree to a few harmless double dates.” Put like that, it didn’t seem she had anything to get riled up about.

Besides, maybe there’d be some chemistry between her and one of these bachelors, a spark that would prove she could have a powerful reaction to someone besides Nathan Hall.

3

WHY DIDN’T SHE HAVE one of those headsets like the one Denise had, Sheryl wondered on Friday. It had to beat scrunching the phone between your shoulder and ear while you tried to get some work done. By eleven, Sheryl felt as if she’d already talked to a hundred people.

Of course, she’d had three calls in the past hour from Mom alone. First, she wanted to remind Sheryl about the family dinner the weekend before Christmas in addition to the actual gathering on Christmas Day, then she called back to ask if Sheryl had made any headway in her shopping, or if her mother should pick up gifts for the kids in the family and put Sheryl’s name on the tags. Feeling somewhat diminished by the suggestion she couldn’t be trusted to shop for her nieces and nephew, Sheryl had of course lied and said her holiday shopping was well under control.

Then Mom called one final time because she’d forgotten to ask what Sheryl herself wanted for Christmas. So, ha, obviously Sheryl wasn’t the only one not quite finished with shopping. Not quite finished, hadn’t bought so much as the first present or the paper to wrap it in—all depended on how you looked at it.

Too bad Mom knew her direct extension, or Sheryl could instruct Denise to run interference at the main switchboard and claim Sheryl had left for the day.

Luckily, most of the other calls had been pleasant and productive. Two years ago, with Brad’s wholehearted approval and their accountant’s assurance of tax write-offs, Sheryl had organized a community Christmas festival that helped to raise money for area families in need. Other sponsors had joined in with HGS, and the event had become an annual tradition. School counselors had been calling all morning with this year’s updated list of needy families.

So far, it looked as though the turnout for the HGS Holiday Festival on the nineteenth would be even bigger than it had been the past two years, which meant more people would be assisted. It felt great to be Santa Claus, and the festival couldn’t have come at a better time, publicity-wise. Sheryl and her assistant, Grace, had already lined up local performers and food vendors, and a volunteer committee of HGS employees was devising different contests for kids of varying ages. Brad himself would act as the final judge for all the competitions.

Pleased with her accomplishments, Sheryl consulted her to-do list of everything she wanted to achieve before lunch, and her mood took a sharp bah-humbug turn. Call Nathan Hall’s office and arrange appointment. She should do that immediately to give him the most advance notice of the Christmas party and increase his chances of being able to attend. Squirming in her seat, she admitted to herself that she should have called yesterday. But she’d just been so busy…

Her fingers reached for the phone with all the enthusiasm she usually reserved for doctors’ appointments that involved stirrups.

But the receptionist who answered was a cheerful woman who easily accommodated Sheryl with a meeting first thing Tuesday morning, so maybe Nathan’s schedule wasn’t quite as jam-packed as he’d insinuated. Which confirmed her suspicion that his refusal to talk with her had been a power move—very annoying, even if she had shown up unannounced for the same reason.

No sooner had Sheryl disconnected than the persistent red light for line one flashed again, a mere second before the distinct buzz that indicated a call was coming through. If it’s Mom again, I’m asking Brad to authorize a new extension for me. “Sheryl Dayton.”

“Ah, um, Sheryl, I hope you don’t mind, but Tameka gave me your personal ex—oh, this is Jonathan Spencer. We, ah, met last night.”

“I remember,” she assured him.

They’d sat next to each other through the two-hour movie, then joined Tyler and Meka for a late snack at a local diner. Jonathan had seemed nice enough, though to be honest, not particularly memorable, which, judging from his nervous tone, he realized. But she was sure there was more to the man than she’d glimpsed last night. He was probably a wonderful guy just waiting to be found by the right lucky woman.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t usually call women this soon after first meeting them—didn’t want you to think I was desperate or, ah, you know, a stalker—but this morning a client gave me two tickets to The Nutcracker tomorrow night. I thought if you’re not already busy, you might like to go with me?”

Well, since Meka wasn’t available for that girls’ night out this weekend, Sheryl didn’t really have plans. Besides, she needed to work on her holiday spirit this year, and she hadn’t seen the ballet since she was a little girl. Maybe Nutcracker was just what she needed.

“That sounds great Jonathan, thanks for thinking of me. What time’s the show?”

He answered promptly, as though afraid she’d change her mind if he didn’t, and volunteered to pick her up. “Would you like to have dinner beforehand?”

Sheryl did a quick mental analysis. He’d been awfully quiet last night. Maybe just because he was too polite to talk during movies, and Meka and Ty had monopolized conversation afterwards. Still, if Jonathan were as silent Saturday evening, it could make for a long dinner.

“I have a ton of shopping that I’ll be doing tomorrow,” she demurred, “and it may run into the early evening. Why don’t we just go to the show and maybe coffee afterwards?”

A good compromise, she thought. And in case of a true dating emergency, like he belched to the melody of Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy or excused himself during intermission to call his wife, she’d claim unforeseen exhaustion and ask to go straight home. Of course, she seriously doubted he’d do either of those things, but a smart single gal didn’t overlook a possible escape route on a first date.

THE DOORBELL RANG at seven sharp. Whatever else could be said about Jonathan Spencer, he was punctual. Sheryl opened the door with a welcoming smile.

“You look nice,” Jonathan said immediately, as though he’d rehearsed his greeting.

Almost as an afterthought, he ran a quick glance down the forest-green, ankle-length velvet sheath she wore under a matching mock duster of green-and-black velvet. The long jacket was edged in black satin at the cuffs and lapels. She’d be plenty warm, the outfit just wasn’t very water-resistant. Those weathermen who’d promised a clear, starry night with a record-breaking lack of precipitation had better have known what they were talking about.

“You, too,” she said, taking in his blue suit and pinstripe tie.

Jonathan was good-looking, she realized absently. Average height, he had coloring reminiscent of the beach—thick sandy hair and oceanic aquamarine eyes. So why was she only just now noticing he was attractive and even then in a detached, he’d-make-a-good-date-for-my-sister, kind of way? Here stood a reasonably handsome man with a good job, acceptable table manners and cultured enough not to feel like a sissy attending the ballet. Frankly, after a few of the bad dates she and Meka had discussed in their collective pasts, the table manners alone put him ahead of some of the men out there. But there was no sense of anticipation or attraction, no flutter of first-date nerves.

Nonetheless, she smiled brightly and grabbed her black handbag off of a hook near the front door. “Where’s the performance? I didn’t think to ask when you called yesterday. The Paramount? Mercer Arts Center?”

“Actually, it’s at a place I’m not familiar with, but I got the map off the Web.” He retrieved two tickets from his jacket pocket, studying one quizzically. She just made out the word Nutcracker before he folded the tickets back into his pocket. “The Backstage Pass?”

Sheryl could feel her eyebrows zoom up and disappear beneath her bangs. “The Backstage Pass, really?”

How many theaters in Seattle could there be by that name? She’d been there twice, once as a requirement for a college elective, and once in the pre-Ty days when Meka had been dating a would-be actor. Tameka would roll on the floor laughing when Sheryl told her she’d gone back.

The Backstage Pass specialized in bizarre, experimental performances, and while Sheryl wasn’t a regular theater buff, she also wasn’t a total neophyte to the Seattle arts scene. She’d seen a couple of truly wonderful alternative pieces in this city, but not at the Backstage Pass. The play she’d seen in college—billed as a “romance” —consisted of a man and woman standing on stage for a solid hour quoting verses from obscure poems on love while playing Ping-Pong. In the nude.

The program explained that the nudity represented men’s and women’s desire for true intimacy and no barriers, while the indoor tennis table was a metaphor for the games that people play anyway, preventing that very intimacy. Sheryl got all that, but she figured that if you had to explain the symbolism, it probably wasn’t working very well. Besides, though there was nothing at all vulgar about the tedious, vaguely pretentious one-act, some people just weren’t meant to be naked in front of an audience. Particularly if they were going to dive energetically to the left to volley an opponent’s serve.

The second time she’d gone—to support Tameka and watch the boyfriend who’d generously and inaccurately called himself an actor—the play hadn’t even aspired to something as lofty as symbolism. It had been simple shock theater, designed to offend audiences, and, if failing to raise that level of emotion, then at least gross them out.

What was a place like that doing with a traditional holiday ballet like Nutcracker?

“Anything wrong?” Jonathan asked, snapping her back to the present.

“Um…” He already seemed nervous about tonight; she didn’t want to say anything that might be construed as a complaint this early in the evening.

Maybe it won’t be so bad.

For all she knew, the place was under new management. The show’s title was at least the same, a good sign. If they were doing some sort of revisionist adaptation, didn’t they normally alter the name? The Wiz, for example, had been a jazzed-up version of The Wizard of Oz. If Jonathan had said the show was called Crackin’ The Nut, then she’d have reason to worry.

She kicked her smile up another notch, hoping she didn’t look like some phony, cheerful early-morning news anchor. “Nope, everything is just fine.”

Of course, two hours later, she wished that instead of being polite she’d advised Jonathan that they run, not walk, in the opposite direction of the theater to seek out other entertainment. Because “entertaining” certainly didn’t describe the evening she was being subjected to.

When they’d arrived, Sheryl had noticed that she and Jonathan seemed overdressed compared to most of the other patrons. But it wasn’t until they reached the ushers at the front of the auditorium that she noticed the billboard: Nutcracker! and then in much smaller print underneath, “A dark, urbanized retelling of the original tale.” Oh, good, just what Christmas needed—dark urbanization.

As Jonathan followed her gaze, he began to look nervous—even more so than before—and immediately retrieved the tickets from his pocket, squinting at the small print. “I had no idea,” he stammered. “A client gave…I saw the first word and just assumed…”

“It’s all right,” she told him, feeling guilty now for not having shared her misgivings about the Backstage. “Maybe it’ll be…” She hadn’t been able to think of a word, but it hadn’t mattered because then it was their turn to hand over their tickets and find their seats.

Now, it was intermission, and Sheryl didn’t know how much more she could take. The play had begun with slightly altered characters Claire and Franz giving disturbed soliloquies on their relationships with their parents. Due to a dysfunctional home life, they joined a gang led by an underworld figure known as the Rat King. Then followed several violent, badly choreographed street-fight/dance numbers accompanied by an overpowering electric guitar. The program promised that in the next half of the show, the traditional dance of sweets was being replaced by Claire hallucinating that different narcotics had come to life.

As soon as the lights went up in the auditorium, Sheryl bolted for the main lobby, a dazed Jonathan following behind. Was there a polite way to ask him if they could just cut their losses and leave? He’d been the one to invite her, and if she suggested going now, she might make him feel worse. Please, get us out of here, she willed him, feeling the bright red walls around them closing in on her.

He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “Um, Sheryl, I was wondering if—”

“Yes?” she prompted, trying not to sound too eager while fighting the urge to shout, “Race you to the car!”

“—you’d like a drink?”

Damn. So close. “Yes, please. A drink sounds…” Necessary. “Refreshing.”

He told her he’d see if they served any white wines and shuffled off through the crowd of theater-goers, some of whom looked appalled, some of whom were raving about the “bold, new vision,” and some of whom were laughing hysterically and cracking jokes about how the play should end. Finding a few of the alternate endings humorous, Sheryl stood near the top of a stairwell and shamelessly eavesdropped, occasionally scooting over to make room for someone to get by, but not really paying attention to her surroundings until she experienced a little jolt. It felt like a mild, but not unpleasant, electric shock.

Glancing around to make sure there were no exposed wires anywhere near her, she caught the dark-roast gaze of Nathan Hall. The fact that his mere presence had given her a warm tingle was more disturbing than the on-stage spectacle.

Now what? She didn’t particularly want to speak to him, but since he was standing only yards away and they were staring into each other’s eyes…She blinked purposefully.

Nathan walked around the people surrounding him and strode toward her. Not as dressed up as she in her velvet or Jonathan in his suit, Nathan looked great in a long-sleeved graphite shirt and black pants that were mercifully baggier than the jeans she’d last seen him in.

Of course, instead of evaluating his sartorial choices, she should have been working on an opening line, because when he stopped directly in front of her, what she unthinkingly blurted was, “What are you doing here?”

His eyes narrowed as he scowled, and she immediately regretted her words. She shouldn’t further antagonize the very columnist Brad aspired to win over.

Before Nathan could retort to her rudeness, she hastily amended, “I didn’t mean that personally, it was more a what-would-any-right-thinking-person-be-doing-here kind of question.”

Oh, hell, had she just insinuated he wasn’t right-thinking? Worse, what if he actually liked this type of theater? How had she landed a job in public relations, anyway, if her communication skills were this bad?

But Nathan smiled at her comment, though unintentionally by the looks of it. His quick, genuine grin gave way to a slightly startled expression, then a carefully neutral mask. “You aren’t enjoying the ballet?”

She shuddered. “It’s awful.”

“I know. Kaylee’s gonna owe me big time for this.”

“Kaylee?” Maybe he had a sister, she thought hopefully. Annoyed for caring, she mollified herself with the rationalization that she had kind of flirted with him the other day and she would feel bad about flirting with another woman’s boyfriend.

“My date,” he said. “She writes for the Arts section and was sent to cover this nightmare. You can read all about it in the Sojourner.”

“As it happens, I don’t spend my money on that publication.” Too late, she bit her tongue, wondering what had happened to her resolve not to antagonize.

But he made the switch to antagonism without missing a beat. “I understand I have an appointment with you next week. I appreciate your going through conventional channels, but if you’re coming to grovel, I should tell you now your time would be better off picking out a Christmas tree or something. I’m not backing off your crooked employer.”

“Crooked! Brad Hammond is a great man. Not just as a business visionary and software genius, but a legitimately nice person.”

“If your definition of nice involves stealing,” Nathan retorted. “Are you telling me you honestly believe the similarities between Brad Hammond’s game and Kendra Mathers’s story—a story that first appeared on her site long before the public had any information on Xandria Quest—can be chalked up to coincidence?”

Not about to comment on the case, she focused only on his first sentence. “My definition of nice sure as hell doesn’t involve making snap judgments about people I don’t know, but am more than happy to vilify in order to sell a few papers!”

“I do not make snap judg—” But Nathan cut himself off. She wondered if it was because he had in fact recently leapt to a conclusion about someone, or simply because he’d noticed people were beginning to stare.

Jonathan appeared at the edge of the group of onlookers, and muttering pardon me to several of them, reached Sheryl’s side. “Your wine. I hope white Zinfandel is all right?”

“Sure, thanks,” she murmured, annoyed with the effort it took to pull her gaze away from Nathan’s face and turn to her date. “Jonathan Spencer, Nathan Hall.”

“Oh, the reporter?” Jonathan asked brightly. “You did a great series on industrial effects on the water-front! How you took such dry statistics and presented both the pros and cons of commercialization…”

NATHAN NODDED and managed a gracious response to Jonathan’s words, but it was difficult to concentrate on anything other than Sheryl Dayton. She riled him, no escaping that, but it helped to know he had a mutual effect on her. He doubted that a woman who made her living in PR usually lost her temper.

How devoted to her job was she, he wondered? Would she defend her company even if she knew it was in the wrong simply because she was paid to? Nathan understood the necessity of a paycheck, but in his journalism career, he’d seen too many people sell out their scruples.

Not that he should care so much about Sheryl Dayton, but it bothered him to know he might be attracted to a woman with shady ethics. And he was attracted to her. Wrapped as she was in that slinky fall of soft fabric, which hugged her body and made her eyes glow, how could he not be?

To his right, the crowd parted like a sea before Moses, and a statuesque redhead made her way up the stairs, drawing admiring male stares as she passed. Nathan was used to the Kaylee Phenomenon, but he couldn’t remember his beautiful co-worker ever delivering the kick to his libido that Sheryl Dayton did.

Kaylee stopped at his side with a sigh. “I’m back from the powder room. I suppose we have to watch Act Two now?”

“Only if you want your column to be accurate and well-informed,” he kidded his co-worker.

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m pretty sure I could just turn in the words save your money and cover it. Oh, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

Nathan did so, watching Sheryl’s face as she met Kaylee. Most women looked intimidated or envious meeting the supermodel-caliber beauty for the first time, but Sheryl simply grinned and remarked on how awful the show was.

“Well,” Kaylee said, “as long as we still have a minute, I should probably excuse myself to call my—”

“You’d better hurry,” Nathan interjected. “I’m not watching this thing by myself.”

She nodded and stepped outside for a better cell connection. Moments later, the lights blinked to signal the second half, and Sheryl and her date disappeared inside the auditorium. Standing in the lobby, Nathan watched them go, wondering whether he’d interrupted his co-worker specifically so she wouldn’t have a chance to say she was calling her husband, who’d had to work tonight.

Had Nathan wanted Sheryl to think he was on a date just because she had been? Of course, Sheryl wouldn’t know how ironic the idea of his dating Kaylee was. Not only was his friend and co-worker very happily married, she was the person who routinely insisted Nathan should date more.

He changed the subject whenever Kaylee brought it up, but she’d made it clear that she thought Nathan distrusted women because of his mom walking out when he was young. Apparently, Kaylee had been exposed to too much Freud one semester in college. The problems Nathan had in relationships had nothing to do with the mother he barely thought about and everything to do with individual circumstance. Sheryl Dayton was a perfect example.

Yes, he was drawn to Sheryl, he was man enough to admit that. But the inconvenient desire he’d felt both times he’d been around her wouldn’t blur his principles. Her employer had boasted his aggressive company goals in numerous interviews, and if Nathan learned of concrete proof that the man’s ambitions had led him to take advantage of a struggling writer without the same corporate legal resources, all of Seattle would read about it.

Sheryl wouldn’t like it—wouldn’t like him—but that was just too bad. Nathan’s dad, a dedicated police officer, had spent hours lecturing him on integrity, and Nathan was determined to live up to his late father’s ideals. The very ideals that had eventually broken up his parents’ marriage.

Nathan would simply put Sheryl and his curiosity about which was softer, the velvety concoction she wore or her skin, out of his mind.

Although, he’d feel better about the sensible, uncompromising resolution if he weren’t already thinking about seeing her Tuesday.

4

REMINDING HIMSELF that he’d dealt with dignitaries, celebrities and the mob, for heaven’s sake, Nathan reached over his cluttered desktop and hit the intercom button on his phone. “Thanks for the heads-up,” he told the receptionist, who’d buzzed him to say Sheryl was coming his way.

He was not nervous about this meeting. In all actuality, his slightly energized feeling was probably anticipation and not nerves at all. Then again, being this excited about seeing her again didn’t seem like a good idea, either.

Nathan leaned back in his cheap, creaky chair—he must have unknowingly maligned the office supply manager to be assigned furniture so uniquely unsuited to sitting—recalling too late that the balance was slightly off and that the chair tilted back too far. He was scrambling to an upright position when Sheryl appeared in the open doorway. “Knock knock,” she said in a wry tone.

Terrific. Not exactly the all-knowing, indomitable image he’d wanted to start off with, but he figured they were even now for her last visit to the office. He’d certainly thrown her for a loop when he’d caught her off guard with his identity.

He cleared his throat and moved to straighten his tie before recalling he didn’t bother with ties at work. He had when he’d first started out, but soon realized his editors didn’t care about his dress code as much as documented sources and word count.

“Good morning, Ms. Dayton. Please, have a seat.”

Eyebrows raised over green eyes glinting with mirth, she considered the chair opposite him, a replica of the piece of unbalanced furniture he occupied. “Are we sure that’s a good idea?” She glanced around the cubby-sized office, filled to capacity by a desk, two chairs and a wastebasket with a miniature basketball hoop suspended over the top. “Although, I suppose there isn’t much standing room in here, is there?”

“The accommodations not up to your standards?” He tried to imagine her surroundings at HGS.

She surprised him with a bright laugh. “Are you kidding? This is palatial compared to the last building we were in. My office space was pretty much me working out of a box and sitting hunched over with a laptop literally in my lap. I guess that’s how those things got their names. But Brad promised us we’d be moving on to greener pastures, and he kept his word.”

At what cost? the insatiable reporter in Nathan wondered.

From what he’d read, Brad Hammond was driven to succeed. But driven enough to convince himself that “borrowing” a few ideas from an obscure writer in Colorado couldn’t hurt anything?

Sheryl’s eyes narrowed as though she knew exactly what he was thinking, but he wasn’t going to apologize for doing his job. Then is it fair to hold Sheryl’s job against her? a nagging little voice asked.

That was different, he assured himself as she settled into the proffered chair. He understood Sheryl’s professional position required her to try to make HGS look good, but if she earned her salary by knowingly defending a thief…

“What was it that you wanted to talk to me about, exactly?” His tone was more abrupt than he’d intended, but she unsettled him in a way he hated. He preferred things as black-and-white as the newsprint of his column. These unpredictable, mixed reactions to Sheryl fell into a dangerously gray area.

She smoothed a theoretical wrinkle out of her charcoal-colored slacks, clearly using the gesture to stall for time. Nathan studied her while she silently selected the perfect public-relations words instead of shooting from the hip as she had at the theater when he’d last seen her. He found himself absurdly relieved that she wore a pantsuit now and not tantalizingly soft green velvet.

“I came to extend an invitation from Mr. Hammond,” she said finally. “So far, you’ve only printed one side of the story and have chosen not to run any of our press releases—”

“The Sojourner is not in the habit of serving as a mouthpiece for any company, yours included. We write the news. But for what it’s worth, I personally don’t have anything to do with that decision. We have editors who make those calls.”

Her cheeks darkened with color, and he watched with equal parts admiration and amusement as she fought back the irritation brightening her eyes. “You’re right, of course. I didn’t mean to imply that you personally were responsible. What I did want to do was let you know that Hammond Gaming Software’s annual Christmas party is Friday night, and Br—Mr. Hammond wanted me to invite you.”

“Really?”

Last time she’d been here, he’d had the impression she wanted to give him a tongue-lashing over his columns, not extend a Yuletide invitation. But he wasn’t completely surprised by the friendly overture since he’d seen similar tactics in the past. Win the reporter over, try to get him in your pocket and generate press that was little more than unpaid advertising.

“You don’t think that having me around would dampen the festive atmosphere?” Nathan asked.

“What I think about this doesn’t matter,” she retorted before biting her lip and cursing softly under her breath.

Nathan grinned. Obviously, she’d been against this invitation, and her candor was something he couldn’t help appreciating. In the years since landing his first newspaper assignment, he’d run across too many disingenuous people who were appallingly comfortable with half truths and out-and-out lies.

“Are you always so blunt, Ms. Dayton? One would think it might hinder your ability to do your job.”

She shook her head emphatically, sending her smooth dark ponytail swinging. “On the contrary, being a forthright person and working for a company I strongly believe in make it easy to do my job. Because I mean every word I say and stand by Hammond Gaming Software. I’m passionate about my work.”

Firmly reining in his thoughts before they wandered to any other situations she might be passionate in, he said, “Loyalty’s a nice quality.” But he couldn’t help wondering if hers was misplaced.

When she was sticking to her professional script, delivering sentences she’d obviously constructed before walking in the door, she called her boss Mr. Hammond. But a couple of times she’d slipped and referred to him as Brad. Not that this was unheard of, but there had been something in her expression…She hadn’t exactly gone all gooey-eyed over the man or anything, but Nathan thought perhaps there was more than professional devotion at stake. Did she have a personal relationship with her employer?

Ignoring the irrational pang that arrowed through him at that possibility, he reasoned that the relationship couldn’t amount to much if she’d been on a date with some other guy Saturday night. Oddly, the reminder of seeing her with another man did little to ease that inexplicable pang.

He steepled his fingers under his chin, admonishing himself to focus on something besides Sheryl Dayton’s love life. “Can I ask you something, then, one forthright person to another? What does Brad Hammond hope to accomplish by inviting me to his shindig this weekend?”

This time, instead of brushing at nonexistent wrinkles, she toyed with the strap of her black leather handbag. Another obvious stall, but why? Because she didn’t know how to answer, because she was censoring her answer? Was she trying to hide facts from him and finding it difficult with her frank nature?

“Mr. Hammond understands that your job is to report a story, and he wants to make sure that all the facts are available to you.”

Cynicism left an acrid taste in Nathan’s mouth. “Oh, so this is strictly for my benefit. He’s trying to do me a favor, is that it? Kind man.”

“Yes he is,” she snapped, her eyes flashing. Once again, he had the sense that Sheryl wasn’t speaking about a mere boss. She seemed at the very least protective of the man, and with a fierceness most people didn’t show their employers. “But of course, this isn’t a favor to you. He’s hoping that once you get your facts straight—namely, that Hammond has been wrongly accused—you’ll have enough journalistic integrity to share those facts with the rest of Seattle.”

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