“That was…wow!” Chris said. “Want to do it again?”

Alyssa laughed then rolled over to look at his face. “Hell, yes. You?”

“Absolutely.” He kissed her hard. “But I need a moment to recharge.”

“Television?”

“Seems appropriate,” he said, grappling for the remote.

“Don’t even think you get to be in charge of that thing,” she said. “We are not watching sports after sex.”

“Sports after sex is a time-honored tradition,” he insisted. “Like a cigarette.”

“I don’t smoke,” she said, leaning across him. “So give me the remote.”

“Try and get it,” he said, scooting away from her. Then he stopped. “Wait a minute. See, this is how it starts. First sex. Then a power struggle for the remote. We’re well on our way to coupledom.”

Coupledom.

The word echoed in Alyssa’s head, killing her smile. This was supposed to be only a fling, not a relationship. But how was she supposed to let Chris in on that secret?

Starstruck
J. Kenner

www.spice-books.co.uk

J. KENNER has always loved stories—reading them, watching them on television and on the silver screen, and making them up herself. She studied film before attending law school, but knew that her real vocation lay in writing the kind of books she loves to read. She lives in Texas with her husband, two daughters and several cats.

Also available

SILENT DESIRES

THE PERFECT SCORE

NOBODY DOES IT BETTER

MOONSTRUCK

NIGHT MOVES

MAKING WAVES

UNDERCOVER LOVERS

The Starr Resort in this story is a completely fictional place, but the location (and a few amenities) is loosely based on the fabulous Bishop's Lodge Ranch Resort & Spa, of which I have fond memories.

Super special thanks to Brenda Chin,

Kathleen O'Reilly and Jess Dawson.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

1

CLIP-CLOP, clip-clop, clip-clop.

Prince Robert lifted his head and whinnied, to the delight of all six people riding in the horse-drawn carriage.

In the back row, Alyssa Chambers snuggled under the blanket, a cup of warm cider held tightly in her hand. The soft strains of Bing Crosby crooning “Winter Wonderland” drifted back from the speakers hidden low on the carriage side walls. Colored holiday lights sparkled in the fog, the mist giving them an ethereal quality that seemed appropriate for the Christmas season.

The carriage moved steadily down the street, providing Alyssa and the other passengers a stunning view of the ornate homes in Dallas’s Highland Park neighborhood, now shining and sparkling for the holidays.

“Oh, man,” Claire Daniels moaned. “Isn’t this just the most romantic night ever?”

Beside her, Alyssa turned, brows raised. “Um, hello? Dateless, remember?”

Claire lifted her chin. “I’m practicing the power of positive thinking.”

Alyssa glanced at the two rows in front of them. Two rows with four people. Two couples. Two guys. Two girls. And they were snuggled under blankets, arms around each other, oblivious to the lights, the music—everything but each other.

And Alyssa, well aware that she was enjoying a romantic carriage ride with her best friend instead of a boyfriend, swallowed hard on the jealousy that rose in her throat.

“Positive thinking, huh?” she asked. “Is it working?” If it was, she was going to have to try it—really try it. Because despite all the ho-ho-ho and happy-holiday festivities that Dallas offered up during late December, Alyssa wasn’t feeling the seasonal love.

“Not in the least,” admitted Claire. She’d broken up with her boyfriend a few months prior. Or, rather, he’d broken up with her. And the loss of Joe had hit Claire where it counted—her pride.

Alyssa frowned, her mind whirring as she sat quietly in the carriage, plotting creative ways to torture the idiot who had decided that Christmas events should be designed for couples.

Party hosts expected you to arrive with a date. The theater sold dinner-and-show packages for two. Even the carriage ride to see the famous Highland Park lights seated you in even numbers, as if you weren’t anybody unless you were part of a pair.

Was it any wonder the suicide rate increased during the holidays?

Alyssa had been single since summer, when she’d broken up once and for all with her boyfriend Bob. It had been a particularly unpleasant breakup, since they’d started out as friends. Good friends. Solid. But after a while, they’d started dancing around the attraction thing, and before Alyssa knew it they were out on a date, and then they were in bed and then they were a couple staring down the road of life to marriage and kids and a dog.

At first, that had seemed perfect. But then little things started to get in the way, and soon, neither Alyssa nor Bob could even remember why they’d been friends. They seemed so uniquely unright for each other that even the memory of the times they used to just hang together had been tarnished.

The breakup had been worse because it had been two breakups: one with the lover and one with the friend. And as an added injustice, Alyssa had been dateless ever since.

“At least you can take Chris,” Claire said. “To all the parties and stuff, I mean.”

Alyssa nodded. Chris was a prime example of not making the same mistake twice. Her across-the-hall neighbor was desperately sexy, funny and easy to talk to. But he was her friend, and had been from the get-go. The stamp of friendship was firmly on his forehead, and despite the fact that he was sweet and smart and incredibly hot, there was no way she would ever risk that friendship for sex. No way, no how.

She’d learned that lesson with Bob, in a big way.

Not that sex was even in the realm of possibilities. When she’d first met Chris, she’d felt a warm tingle of attraction, and then firmly and soundly squashed it. For one thing, the tingle had so clearly not been reciprocated. In the two years they’d known each other, he’d never made even the slightest hint of a move on her.

At first, Alyssa’s pride had been tweaked by his failure to come on to her, because that was what guys did, right? And, yeah, also because the tingle she’d felt had been more like a loud, clanging bell. But the truth was that his disinterest made her life easier, because Chris, with his freelance-writer lifestyle, was squarely N.M.M.—Not Marriage Material. Alyssa had never seen the point in dating guys who didn’t even land on the possibility spectrum. Yes, she’d broken her rule on a few occasions and gone out with guys who were clearly not the matrimonial kind, but she’d never managed to stay friends with them after the inevitable breakup. Better to put those kind of guys in the Friends column from the start and avoid any messy entanglements later.

As far as she was concerned, Chris was at the very top of that column. And, yeah, there were times late at night—when they were watching a movie or making margaritas—that she’d feel a warm flood of desire and frantically wish he’d do something to make that scarlet N.M.M. disappear. But she knew better than to believe that would ever happen. She’d grown up with a man just like Chris, after all: a freelance writer out perpetually chasing a story—and a paycheck.

Alyssa could remember the long weeks when her dad was away on writing assignments, and the pang of longing for a father who was never home. She’d beg to go with him, and when he returned, she’d pore over the pictures and imagine that she’d been right by his side. But her dad never took her. Not feasible, he’d said. Not when she had school and he had to work.

He’d tell her and her mom that he had to chase the stories so that he could pay the bills, but Alyssa had overheard the frequent arguments about money, and most particularly about the fact that her father had turned down an offer of full-time employment at the local paper.

McCarthy Chambers’s wanderlust kept him from holding a steady job, and even though he claimed he’d be the next Truman Capote—and was constantly at work on some never-published epic tome—he never managed to land the big stories, much less the big paychecks. When Alyssa’s mom was laid off from her teaching job, the family not only lost their car, they lost their home, and eleven-year-old Alyssa found herself living in a one-bedroom apartment with paper-thin walls instead of a charming little house on a tree-lined street with her best friend two doors down.

She’d hated her father that month, an emotion that had been even harder to handle because she loved him so desperately. When he was around and life flowed smoothly, he was a joy. But when money was tight or he got sucked into a creative vortex, it had been a black, lonely hell.

And now that his various medical issues had forced Alyssa’s dad to stop traveling for work, her parents were struggling to make ends meet with their minimal Social Security checks. Not the life Alyssa wanted. Not at all.

As an adult, she figured she understood now what made her dad tick. Intellectually, she could acknowledge that he was a man who had wanted a nomadic life, and even though he’d loved his wife and daughter, he should never have been a family man.

Alyssa loved him, she understood him, and she’d even forgiven him for the crappy chunks of her childhood. But there was no way in hell she was ending up like her mother. No way she was foisting that lifestyle on her own children. Alyssa Chambers had very specific things she looked for in a man, and financial responsibility and a steady presence in the house were tops on that list.

And Chris—who didn’t even have a savings account much less health insurance, and who spent weeks bouncing around the globe writing travel articles—was definitely not that man. Not in a big way. Even as “just friends,” his devil-may-care attitude drove Alyssa nuts. He was an exceptional writer, and had a great relationship with Tourist and Travel, one of the premier travel magazines in the world. From what Alyssa had seen, Chris could have easily landed enough articles to earn him a solid annual salary. But instead, he worked only when his money was running out, and then he’d take anywhere from three to five assignments back-to-back and disappear for two months. The rest of the time, he holed up in his apartment working on a series of novels that he was hoping to sell.

Alyssa told herself that she admired his creative spirit, but the truth was she didn’t know how he could stand it. She’d forced him to have The Money Talk once, and he’d admitted that he banked his writing checks, lived off them until the well ran dry, then took another gig to fill the pot back up again. He didn’t carry insurance on his motorcycle, and he’d actually lived a few months on beans, rice and spaghetti because he’d purposely turned down an assignment in order to stay home and work on his book.

It wasn’t even her life and she was stressed just thinking about it.

Bottom line? There was no way—no way—a guy like Chris would ever end up on her love life radar. Which meant that though she might have an escort for holiday parties, she didn’t have a date.

As the two sets of couples in front of Alyssa and Claire snuggled closer—completely oblivious to the fact that they were rudely thrusting their public displays of affection all over the less fortunate in the carriage—Prince Robert turned to the left, then started down yet another austere, tree-lined street. Like all the houses in Highland Park, these tended to be homes to old-money families, the elite of Dallas society. The kind of people who still participated in debutante balls and who could trace their lineage back to the days when Texas was a republic. The kind of people who either stayed home, or took the whole family with them when they traveled.

“That one,” Claire said, pointing to an utterly traditional colonial-style mansion. “That’s always been my favorite in this neighborhood. And look! The topiaries are shaped like Santa’s elves!”

Alyssa had to concede the topiary point, but the house itself did nothing for her. It was big, but it didn’t have personality. Even so, given the chance, she’d live there in a heartbeat. The house, she knew, belonged to Russell Starr. And Russell Starr was M.M. all the way. Not even the slightest hint of an N in sight.

The Starr family was Texas royalty, and a century ago had founded the eponymous Starr Hotels and Resorts, a luxurious worldwide chain that had faltered seven years ago after Thomas Starr had passed away, leaving the future of both the company and the family in the hands of his then twenty-three-year-old son, Russell.

Because Alyssa had gone to school with Russell, she’d paid attention when the business community had rumbled about the massive hotel chain being left in the control of an inexperienced twenty-something upstart. And while the society mavens and business naysayers had forecast doom and despair for the company, Alyssa had believed that Russell would pull the family business out of its slow spiral toward oblivion. And she’d been right. Now, seven years since Russell had taken the helm, the Starr chain of resorts was bigger than ever, with hotels on four continents, five-star ratings across the board, and a guest list that would make even the most jaded celebrity watchers drool.

“I’m hoping to land him,” she said. “Well, Starr Industries.”

“Really?”

“That’s my ambitious plan,” Alyssa admitted, though she, so far, hadn’t thought about how she would implement that plan. But she needed to soon, because although her billable hours were outstanding and she’d brought in an exceptional book of business over the course of the year, she hadn’t brought any clients to Prescott and Bayne this quarter, which meant that as far as the partners were concerned, she was the ugly stepchild compared to Roland Devries, who was the other associate with his eye on the partnership slot.

The partners were meeting right after the holidays to decide who would be invited to join the firm as a junior partner, and unless Alyssa could rectify that deficiency, she was afraid that Roland would get the job for which she’d worked so hard. And that was simply not acceptable. She’d gone into law school planning on making partner by the time she was thirty, and she’d signed with Prescott both because of the firm’s stellar rep and its fast track to partnership. Like being a tenured professor, partnership in a law firm meant job security and income stability, and for Alyssa, that was the Holy Grail.

“Do you think you have a shot? I mean, surely he’s got attorneys coming out of his ears.”

“Actually, the company handles most of their legal work in house.”

“And you’re thinking he’ll hire your firm because…?”

“Remember that fundraiser for Love without Boundaries I worked on earlier this year? The gala and auction to raise money for medical care for orphans in China? Russell was on the committee, too, and he mentioned that he was considering retaining an outside firm so that his in-house staff could focus on big-picture issues and function more in a supervisory capacity.” She shrugged. “So why not Prescott and Bayne?”

“Why not, indeed,” Claire said, eyeing her suspiciously. “A guy like Russell Starr’s probably courted by a lot of firms. Why you?”

“For one thing, Prescott’s got a great reputation.”

“So does Daniels and Taylor,” Claire said, referring to the firm her grandfather had founded. “So do lots of firms.”

“True,” Alyssa conceded. “But we talked about it, and I really got the feeling that he would be open to me sitting him down and explaining why he should choose Prescott.”

“So why isn’t he already with the firm?”

Alyssa could feel her cheeks warm. “I was planning to make an appointment after the gala wrapped, but by then…well…I felt a little awkward about it.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why?”

Alyssa drew in a breath. “Because he kissed me. The night of the gala.”

“No way. Seriously?”

“Depends. Is one hot-and-heavy kiss within your definition of serious?”

Claire turned to face her dead-on, her jaw hanging open. “Why didn’t I know this?”

Alyssa shrugged. “I was still dating Bob. It just happened, you know? And I felt terrible afterwards.”

“Details,” Claire demanded. “Right here. Right now.”

“Honestly, there’s not a lot to tell,” Alyssa said, feeling so under the microscope she was almost sorry she brought it up.

“The hell there isn’t. Start at the beginning.” She waved a hand. “Go on.”

Alyssa sighed, trapped. “The truth is, we went to high school together, so I’ve known him for ages.”

Claire’s brows lifted. “You went to school with Russell Starr?”

“I’m pretty sure his family actually endowed my scholarship.” Her gaze darted again to the Starr property, and she sighed. A family like that didn’t have to scramble for a paycheck or worry about making partner.

“Were you guys friends?”

Alyssa shook her head. “Not back then. He was a grade ahead, but he was every girl’s fantasy guy, you know? The guy in school that you’re certain would be absolutely perfect if only he’d notice you.”

“Well, duh. Starr family. How much more perfect can you get? But, hello? When are we getting to the kissing part? What happened? Tell me everything. He asked you out on a date?”

“Sort of. My car had a flat, and he drove me home.” She shrugged. “On the way, he suggested we stop for drinks.”

Alyssa still thought that was a key piece of information: they’d stopped at his suggestion.

The night had been fabulous, full of wine and laughter and even a few long, heated looks, and it had only gotten better when he’d delivered her straight to her door. She’d invited him in, but he’d declined. What he’d done instead was lean in, tell her he’d had a wonderful time, and kiss her oh-so-gently, but with a ton of promise. She’d felt the tingle all the way down to her toes as he’d walked away. And she’d stood like an idiot in front of her apartment door as he’d walked back to his car and driven away.

Bob had come over for breakfast the next morning, and Alyssa’s Cinderella delusions had evaporated. After all, Russell was a society-page regular, and at the time, she’d still been happily dating Bob. The drink had been a drink, and the kiss a sweet memory. Nothing more.

Still, she could fantasize. And regularly did, for that matter. Her thoughts drifting to what would have happened if he’d come inside for that kiss. Who knew where it might have led…?

She sighed, her breath clouding in the chilly night air.

“Wow,” Claire said. “Talk about the one that got away.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes. “I never had him in the first place,” she said. “He can’t get away if I never had him.”

“A fact about which I hope you are soundly kicking yourself. He kissed you good-night and you never even followed up? Called him again? Made any move to let him know you were interested?”

“I was with Bob,” Alyssa said, her voice small because she knew Claire was going to jump all over that.

“And you told him that?”

“Claire, I was dating him. We were serious. Or I thought we were. Yeah. I mentioned him.”

Now it was Claire’s turn to roll her eyes. “Never mention to a guy that you’re dating another guy. All guys need to be kept in the realm of possible until you’re married. That’s a simple fact of life.” Alyssa scowled, but Claire barreled on. “So what happened after you and Bob broke up? With Russell, I mean?”

“What happened? Nothing happened.”

“You didn’t call him? I mean, forget the whole legal-retainer stuff, but didn’t you at least call and ask him out for drinks?”

“No! Of course not.”

Claire shook her head as if Alyssa had utterly failed. “You know, if it wasn’t for Joe being an absolute prick and you being completely clueless, we could be double-dating tonight instead of escorting each other.”

Alyssa sighed, knowing that Claire was absolutely right.

She glanced around, taking in the dancing lights of the Highland Parks neighborhood. The children going from door to door singing Christmas carols. The couples strolling the neighborhood, their faces close as they shared kisses under mistletoe.

Romance was in the air tonight. It just wasn’t in the backseat of the carriage.

2

“DROP THE KNIFE.”

“I don’t think so.” Max Dalton held the small pocketknife steady as he stared down the barrel of Eli Whitacker’s Glock 9mm. Not exactly an ideal situation. He’d broken into the abandoned warehouse hoping to find a clue as to where Whitacker might have stashed the girl, but he’d never expected to find Whitacker himself.

Max never considered that he might not walk out of the warehouse at all. That things weren’t going exactly as planned was an understatement, to say the least.

“I said,” Eli repeated, “drop the knife.”

Max tried to calculate his odds, came up with a depressingly low probability of success, and let the blade clatter to the concrete floor.

“Good boy. And now if you’d be good enough to get down on your knees.”

“I don’t think so.”

Eli’s grin widened. “No problem. You can die just as well standing up.”

Eli’s finger moved, gently squeezing the triggerthat would, at any moment, fire a shot of lead into Max’s gut.

He did the only thing he could do, even though it was futile and useless—he tried to dive to the left.

And as he did, his eardrums burst as a shot rang out. He flinched automatically, anticipating the pain of the bullet connecting with soft flesh.

But there was no pain. Just Eli standing there, a red stain spreading out on his chest, and a blood bubble forming at his mouth.

Eli fell to his knees, revealing the woman behind him, a gun held tight in her shaking hands.

Her.

Dark hair that fell in soft curves to brush against her shoulders. A square jaw and dancing green eyes. Long dancer’s legs that he could imagine wrapped tightly around him.

He saw her, and he wanted. Craved. Needed.

She was his fantasy. His inspiration. His complete and total distraction.

“Alyssa,” he heard himself whisper. “Alyssa, you’re alive.”

CHRISTOPHER HYDE stared at the computer screen, frowned, then methodically backspaced over the last bit of text he’d written, changing Alyssa to Alicia.

He shook his head. Still too close, what with the letter A. He backspaced again, and suddenly the femme fatale’s name in his second Max Dalton novel became Natalia.

Better.

Better still if he would go in and change the description, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. Maybe once the whole book was finished he’d change her hair from black to red. Right now, though, he could only see the girl in his imagination. Alyssa-called-Natalia.

And, yeah, she was the girl of his dreams.

He’d started writing the Max Dalton series before he’d met Alyssa. The character had been in his head for years—an obscenely wealthy freelance operative who traveled the world on assignment for the highest bidder. Max had Chris’s own wanderlust, and although Chris had never rescued a child kidnapped by terrorists or scaled a mountain range trying to find ancient artifacts before the bad guys located them, he poured his own fantasies into the character. His childhood had been staid, boring. He’d seen nothing other than his small Texas hometown, population 712, until he was twenty years old. But he’d read every National Geographic that came in the mail cover to cover, and he’d fantasized about seeing those places himself. About having adventures all over the world.

His journalism degree had been his ticket out, and now he earned his keep by traveling the globe and writing about it for tourists. And with any luck, one day he’d supplement that income with royalties from the Max Dalton novels he was currently trying to sell.

He’d landed an agent with the first book, and she was about to begin pitching it to publishers. The entire process was nerve-wracking, and he was trying to bury the nervousness by burying himself in the second Max Dalton adventure. An adventure in which Max teamed up with another operative—a female—who may or may not be an ally, and who was most definitely a lover.

And who in his head was all Alyssa.

Chris still remembered the day she’d moved in. She’d been trying to drag a battered, butt-ugly recliner from her rental truck to her apartment. He’d offered either to help her carry it or torch it, her choice. She’d gawked at him for a long second, and at first he’d feared he’d gone too far. Then she’d collapsed into the recliner, bent over with peals of laughter. The chair was a gift from her father, she’d said. “He has terrible taste, and he never should have spent the money on the damn thing, but I love him.” She shrugged. “So it’ll get a place of honor in the living room.”

The next day, she’d knocked on his door, and invited him over to see how she’d “done up that hideous chair.” He’d walked inside, then breathed deeply of the smell of cinnamon and cloves that seemed to fill her apartment, a scent that now belonged entirely to Alyssa, prompting delicious thoughts of her at random times and locations. Especially now, during the holiday season.

As for the chair, it was tucked into a corner next to an absolutely hideous gold-plated floor lamp decorated with flying cupids. She’d hung a velvet painting of dogs playing poker behind the chair, and set off the entire area with a small gold shag rug that looked like a reject from an Austin Powers movie set. The corner was in utter contrast to the rest of the living room, with its soft lines and feminine colors.

“I’m calling it the corner of testosterone,” she said, and he could see her lips twitch with suppressed laughter.

“I think my testosterone is offended,” he’d said dryly. She’d stared for a moment, and then her laugh had burst forth. “Seriously, though, I like it.”

And that combination—that subtly sexy girl who was willing to be a little bit silly because she loved her dad—completely swept Chris off his feet.

Not that he’d told Alyssa that. Alyssa knew he was alive, of course, but she thought of him as a friend, not a flesh-and-blood man. A sad state of affairs for which he had no one to blame but himself.

At first, she’d been dating some guy—Bob, Bill, something—who had never been good enough for Alyssa. And Chris didn’t put the moves on attached women, no matter how sexy they were.

But even when that happy day had come and she’d kicked Bob to the curb, Chris still hadn’t made a move. Hadn’t even hinted how he felt.

She’d come to him, told him about the breakup, and suggested they watch something fast-paced and mindless on his big-screen television.

He couldn’t say no, of course, and though she’d seemed fascinated by the car chases and explosions, he’d spent the movie wondering how to tell the woman who’d become one of his best friends that he’d fallen hard and fast for her. And then, when the movie had ended, she’d smiled at him with sad eyes and reached for his hands. There’d been a window of opportunity right then. A single short window during which he could have done what Max Dalton would have so smoothly done—leaned in and kissed her. Told her in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be more than friends.

But while Chris might write Max Dalton, that didn’t mean he walked the walk. Especially not where women were concerned. A sad reality that was cemented when she’d said, “Thanks for letting me hang out with you. I really need a solid friend right now.”

He’d swallowed. Her words had felt much the way he imagined a knife to the heart felt like. Sharp and painful and totally deadly.

He knew then he had no chance with this woman. Not as a rebound guy. Not as anything.

It was, he’d thought, one hell of a crappy wake-up call.

Still, he needed to do something. More and more, she was on his mind. Creeping into his dreams. Into his books. Hell, Max Dalton was not a one-woman kind of guy. He got in, he got out, he did the job, and he blew shit up. He didn’t turn all gooey for a girl.

Except lately, he did. And Chris had a feeling that unless he got Alyssa out of his system, Max Dalton was going to turn into a one-woman man, and then where would Chris be? Probably writing a romance novel instead of the second testosterone-laden spy thriller he’d told his agent was in the works.

Max Dalton wouldn’t let thoughts of a woman torment him like that. He’d just sidle up to her, whisper in her ear and take her to bed.

A nice fantasy, but that’s all it was. A fantasy.

Chris wanted more. Warmth and reality and lazing around in bed with the paper on Sunday morning. Shoving jeans and T-shirts into backpacks and taking off for Paris on the spur of the moment. Hiking along a beach at sunset, especially a white-sand beach in some exotic location.

And damned if he didn’t want that with Alyssa.

Frustrated with himself, Chris got up from his desk and stretched, his eyes wandering to his door as he did so. He needed to get his ass in gear and start packing. He had to catch a flight first thing in the morning.

The phone rang, and though he considered ignoring it, he knew he had to answer. Technically, he was already on assignment, and if it was Greg, his editor at Tourist and Travel, then Chris really did have to take the call.

Caller ID showed only a New York area code, and he snatched it up, expecting Greg and instead hearing the harsh, cigarette-soaked voice of Lilian Ashbury, the powerhouse agent Chris still couldn’t believe he’d landed.

“How fast can you finish the second Max Dalton book and get me an outline for the third?” she asked without preamble.

“Happy holidays to you, too, Lil.”

“Bah humbug. It’s slush and ice up here, not a damn thing to be happy about.”

“Is that why you’re working on a Saturday?”

“I’m tireless in my efforts to represent you,” she said, deadpan. “I had lunch with Roger Eckhard,” she said, referring to a senior editor at Main Street Books, Chris’s dream publisher. “I pitched him the book, and he loves the concept. He’s leaving on the fifth to start the New Year with two weeks in Italy, and I want him to take both manuscripts and an outline for the third with him. We want him looking at this series like a franchise, and you as the next Ian Fleming. If he does, I think we can expect the kind of offer that will make you a very happy man.”

“I—”

“Just say ‘Thank you, Lil.’ And ‘No problem, Lil.’”

“No problem, Lil,” he said, fighting a grin. He’d make it work. No sense telling his agent that the proximity of his next door neighbor was keeping his head in a decidedly un-Max-like mode. But that was okay. Because he was about to go spend a week in New Mexico in a flashy, splashy resort. He’d shift between writing the article for Tourist and Travel and writing pages of Max Dalton’s next installment. He’d hole himself up in his hotel room, crank out the pages, and produce some fabulous shit.

With over six hundred miles between him and Alyssa, how hard could it be?

3

“GEORGE BAILEY, I’LL love you ’til the day I die.”

“Awww.” Alyssa sank down into her overstuffed sofa and dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

Claire tossed a handful of popcorn at her. “The movie’s barely even started.”

“I know,” Alyssa said with a sniffle. “But I know what’s going to happen.” She sniffed again, then blew her nose. “It just gets me every time.

“And the alcohol’s probably not helping.”

“You’re the one who insisted on peppermint schnapps and hot chocolate.”

Alyssa couldn’t argue with that. And, hey, the libations had done their job. They’d both come home from the carriage ride in a funk. The original plan had been to pick out a handful of the many invitations they’d both received and go party-hopping, hoping they’d slide gracefully into the holiday spirit.

But after they’d climbed into Claire’s car, neither one had the energy, and they’d ended up at Alyssa’s apartment, trying to drown their depression in schnapps-laced hot chocolate and a hefty dose of Frank Capra.

“Why can’t we be like Mary Hatch and get a guy like George Bailey?” Alyssa asked.

Claire lifted a brow. “You don’t want a guy like George Bailey. He wants to travel and never has money to fix up his house.”

“It’s a movie, Claire,” Alyssa said, even though her friend was absolutely right.

“You want Sam Wainwright,” Claire said, exhibiting perfect understanding. “The hardcore businessman to George Bailey’s laid-back guy.”

“Alas, there are no Sam Wainwrights in Dallas.”

“Russell Starr,” Claire said, then sat back looking proud of herself.

“What about him?”

“Not two hours ago you told me he was your fantasy man.”

“So?”

“So do something about it.”

Alyssa gaped. “You are seriously crazy, you know that, right? We went out for drinks. One kiss—”

“An amazing kiss.”

“—but just a kiss,” Alyssa said. “It’s not a great romance, Claire.”

“Of course not, since you didn’t call him the next day and push for an actual date.”

No, Alyssa had to admit, she hadn’t. And that was something for which she was still kicking herself. He’d known about Bob, of course, and so she could totally justify in her mind why he hadn’t called her. She was taken. And it was that same reason that had prevented her from calling him. Considering she’d broken up with Bob only a few months later, perhaps she should have rethought that decision.

“You need to learn to go after what you want, Al,” Claire said, frowning as she concentrated on her words. Their mugs were filled with more mint than chocolate, and it was clearly going to their heads. “If there were sparks with Russell that night, you should go for it.”

“The only thing I’m going to go after right now is that partnership. If I don’t bring new business to the firm in the next couple of weeks, my chance takes a nosedive. I already know that Bayne is gunning for the slot to go to Roland. He wants a new partner with SEC experience. He figures that since Prescott’s specialty is mediation, that makes me extraneous.”

Although Alyssa had a number of clients for whom she did general litigation work, more and more she was taking on mediation jobs, setting herself up as an arbiter of disputes and trying to help the sides negotiate their way to a settlement and avoid the financial and emotional toll of a trial. She loved the work, believed in its value, and it irritated her that Roland got partner points simply because he focused on securities law.

Still, she couldn’t ignore reality, and if partnership at Prescott was off the table, that meant that she’d have to start looking for a new job, because she wasn’t about to stay at a firm that was a dead end. The idea of job-hunting gave her hives, and she took another sip of minty chocolate to dull the pain caused by the mere potential.

“Who says you can’t do both?” Claire said, lifting her brows. “A little business…a little pleasure…”

“Claire!”

“Don’t you at least owe it to yourself to try?”

“Fine. Maybe. I will concede that Russell Starr would be a great catch. But he’s taken. The man’s dating a United States senator’s daughter.”

“Not anymore.” Claire took a sip from her mug, her eyes dancing. When the mug came away, a chocolate mustache highlighted her upper lip. “Broke up last week. Your boy’s single.”

“Oh.” The schnapps in Alyssa’s stomach started doing a Riverdance kind of number. “You’re certain?” She didn’t really have to ask, though. As the daughter of a Texas state senator herself, Claire always had the political/social gossip at her fingertips.

“Interesting little tidbit, huh?”

Alyssa frowned, wondering if it even mattered. She had no idea how to go after a man like Russell. And while she enjoyed a fantasy as much as the next girl, the odds that he would come after her were slim. He was the kind of guy who dated celebrities and public figures. Not really in her league.

She took another sip and squinted at her friend, who was holding a finger out and looking downright serious. “What?” Alyssa asked.

Claire frowned, confused. “I was going to say something, but I can’t remember what. But it was profound. Trust me. Profound and brilliant, and if I could remember it right now, it would be the key—the absolute key—to both of us finding the perfect man and living happily ever after.”

“Christmas is only five days away. Can’t Santa just drop the happily-ever-after in our laps?”

“What would you tell him to drop?” Claire asked, sitting up straighter. “Seriously. Give me five things. Five things that would make this your most perfect Christmas ever.”

“Partnership. Locked in.”

“Boring much? Come on, give me something a little more interesting. This is the holidays. The season of parties and fine frockery.”

“Frockery?”

“You know. Dresses and stuff.”

“I am so cutting you off from the schnapps.”

“Just tell me. Come on. You know you want to. Come on,” Claire said, her voice low and urging, as though she was trying to coax a reluctant tabby cat into a carrier. “Come on. Tell Claire every little thing.”

“Fine! All right! Russell Starr,” Alyssa said. “Russell Starr would make it a perfect Christmas.” What the hell? This was fantasy, right? And he was gorgeous. He was stability and security personified. He was fun to be around. And he could land her a job-saving client.

“Better,” Claire said, setting her mug down before she sloshed more chocolate. “But I want more. Christmas isn’t just about getting the guy. What would make the holiday really perfect for you? Five things.”

Alyssa frowned, trying to think something up. But the truth was, everything else about the holiday was going along pretty well. “Good friends,” she said, aiming a winning smile at Claire. “How about you?”

Claire’s grin turned wicked. “Good friends.”

“Cheater. You stole that one from me. What else.”

“I haven’t got a clue. Can we drop the list down to two?”

“That depends,” Alyssa said magnanimously. “What’s the second?”

“The perfect guy.”

Alyssa tossed a pillow at her. “Didn’t I start out there?”

“So let’s do something about it. You need to call Russell.”

“I am calling, remember? Client. Partnership.”

“A date, Alyssa. You need to call him for a date.”

“I don’t know—”

“He kissed you. Trust me. The Russell ball is firmly in your court.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing,” Claire said firmly. “Santa’s elves don’t deliver men. You want a relationship, you have to go after it, balls to the wall.”

“That’s your plan, too?” Alyssa asked, wanting to deflect attention. “Who’s your guy? Joe? Or is he on your shit list?”

“He won’t be on that list anymore if he comes back to me, right?”

“Claire…” Alyssa couldn’t help it. She’d never liked Joe. Not something she could tell her best friend, though. Not when he and Claire had been so serious. And not when there was nothing specific for Alyssa to point to. He was just…something.

And something wasn’t sufficient to justify disclosure. Because the last thing Alyssa wanted was to confess to her friend that she didn’t care for her boyfriend, and then find out that Claire and Joe had gotten engaged.

“Then it’s settled,” Claire said firmly. “We have a plan.”

Alyssa shook her head. “I don’t think I can—”

“Yes,” Claire said firmly, “you can. Who’s the girl who told Bob she’d had enough?”

“I did,” Alyssa said, her stomach already twisting into knots. “But that was like making the decision to give my bicycle to Goodwill. You’re asking me to commit to buying a Rolls Royce.”

“You deserve a Rolls,” Claire said. “Why shouldn’t you have one? And you wouldn’t be buying it, anyway. Just test-driving. But how will you know until you go take it for a spin?”

“I think this analogy’s getting out of control.”

“Maybe,” Claire conceded. “But you have to work for your own happiness, and doesn’t that make sense even more during the Christmas season?”

“I do work for my own happiness,” Alyssa said. “Law school. Job. Really good paycheck.” Even as she said it, though, Alyssa knew that wasn’t enough. The working world wasn’t a safe place. Her mom had been a teacher for fifteen years when she’d gotten laid off without any warning at all. And lately Alyssa was getting calls from law-school friends who’d lost their jobs when the economy had done a number on their firms.

Besides, she didn’t want to be a single girl forever. Not even a single girl with a bank account. The one thing her parents had always had—even despite the fights about money—was love. Her dad may have been Mr. Irresponsible, but he loved her mom deeply and passionately, and her mom returned it in spades. Alyssa wanted that. Craved it. A home. A family.

She just didn’t want the drama that her mother had put up with, and she wanted to know that the mortgage would always get paid.

“You know I’m right,” Claire said, watching her shrewdly. “So let’s go out and get what we want. Take the bull by the horns. The man by the—”

“Claire!”

“Well, you know.”

Alyssa drew in a breath. She’d had a fabulous time with Russell that night they’d had drinks. They’d laughed and talked, and there’d been not a single awkward moment. And then it had all fizzled away.

Why on earth had she let it fizzle away?

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, taking a breath for courage. “It’s our holiday, our lives.”

“And our men.” Claire smiled, smug and determined. “We just have to make them realize it.” She reached for her mug, then held it up in a toast. “To making this the best holiday ever, and to starting the New Year with our men at our sides.”

Alyssa thought of Russell. Of the way he’d smiled at her when they were working on the fundraising campaign. The way his eyes had darkened when she’d drawn a maraschino cherry into her mouth. The way they’d laughed over nothing in particular.

And the way he’d kissed her ever-so-gentlemanly when he’d escorted her to the door that evening. And then she imagined his hands on her in a very not-so-gentleman-like way….

Yeah, she thought as she clinked her mug against Claire’s. I can drink to that.

ALYSSA STARED at the Web page. Russell wasn’t even in Dallas at the moment, which meant that not only was Claire’s Go-for-the-Guy plan not happening, but Alyssa’s own plan to meet with Russell and try to wrangle a new client for the firm had been shot all to hell.

Instead of being conveniently located downtown, Russell was in Santa Fe, at the gala opening of the Santa Fe Starr, an over-the-top, total luxury, full-service, five-star resort located about twenty miles outside of Santa Fe proper. According to the articles she’d found, the resort was absolutely state-of-the-art and the height of luxury. The guest list for the week surrounding Christmas Day was chock-full of the rich and famous, including a few Oscar nominees and Emmy-award winners. All proceeds from the first week went to Love without Boundaries, the charity that Alyssa knew Russell supported wholeheartedly.

“You have to go there,” Claire said.

“Are you crazy? It’s invitation only. It says so right there,” she added, pointing to the article.

“You have to go,” Claire repeated. “You have the entire week off, Alyssa. This is the perfect time. Besides, we just made a Christmas pledge. You can’t wait until after the season to follow through on a Christmas pledge.”

“I didn’t know the pledge would involve cross-country travel,” Alyssa said, thinking of the plane that would inevitably be involved.

“One state. New Mexico’s right next door.”

“Claire.” Alyssa injected a hint of warning into her voice.

“I’m serious. This is your chance.”

“What? To make a fool of myself?”

“To find out if there’s anything between you and Russell. He asked you out, remember? You should have followed through back then. You didn’t. But now you have a second chance. So don’t blow it.”

Alyssa licked her lips, unsure. Russell was perfect, and exactly the kind of man she knew she wanted. But still—

“It’s also your chance to nail partnership.”

Now that was Claire talking sense.

“That’s your cover for going to the resort,” Claire continued, as if Alyssa weren’t already on the same page. “The reason you tell Russell you came. To talk about what Starr Industries wants in its outside legal counsel. You need a new client, right? What better chance to line one up than when you’re looking all sexy and gorgeous in a black slinky dress?”

“And it makes sense to talk to him away from the office,” Alyssa said. “Remind him that we go way back. Maybe even grab a meal with him so that we can get more into the details of what Prescott and Bayne can offer than we could during a half-hour slot in his office with the next appointment scratching at the door.”

“All the experts say that if you want to land a client you first make them a friend.” Claire grinned. “Sounds to me like you’re well on the way with Russell.”

Alyssa shook her head. “But mixing business and pleasure. It could get awkward…”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Jumping the gun much? You don’t have the client or the boyfriend yet. Just go. See what happens. You owe it to yourself to follow up on this, and you damn well know it.”

Alyssa licked her lips. “I’m not sure if it’s crazy or brilliant.”

“Brilliant,” Claire confirmed, passing Alyssa the phone even as she picked up her own cell phone and pushed a speed-dial number. “Dial.”

Alyssa did, calling information first, and then getting patched through to the hotel’s front desk.

“I’m sorry. There simply are no rooms. The resort is in holiday previews, and the rooms not already booked by the public have been blocked off for the guests of the Gala Opening.”

“Oh! Right! Well, that’s me. I’m coming to the gala.”

Across the room, Claire lifted her brows.

“Name, please.”

Alyssa hesitated, wondering how she was going to pull this off. Since nothing came to mind, she said her real name and hoped she could fake it. “Chambers. Alyssa Chambers.”

There was tapping as the woman on the other end of the line checked a computer. “I’m sorry, Ms. Chambers. You don’t seem to be on the guest list. Perhaps you should contact the Starr corporate offices and see if there’s been an error?” Though the woman was perfectly polite, Alyssa could hear the accusation. Perhaps you should hang up now, you lying little twit. “Shall I connect you directly?”

“Yeah. That would be great. Oh.” She pretended that she’d just thought of something key. “Once we get the gala invitation thing straightened out, will I have a room? Or will I be back here with you, trying to find a place to sleep?”

“All the gala invitees have rooms preassigned.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Hold music hummed, and just as someone was picking up with “Starr Industries, how may I help you?” Alyssa hung up the phone.

Basically, she was screwed. No rooms at the hotel unless she was an invited guest, and no way to become an invited guest.

“Maybe you should call Russell and ask for a ticket?”

Alyssa gaped at Claire. “Are you nuts? Even if his secretary puts me through, how am I supposed to explain? ‘Gee, Russell, I want to invite myself to the gala so I can hit you up for your business?’”

“Not work,” Claire said. “Romance.”

“Like that’s much better. ‘Hey, Russell. I had such a great time having a drink with you that one night, please arrange me a room in Santa Fe.’ Um, no.”

Claire made a face. “Okay, you have a point.” She stood up and hooked her purse over her arm.

“Wait a second. Where are you going?”

“Drinks,” Claire said. “Joe. He’s going to pick me up.” She held up her cell phone. “My side of the pledge is moving forward just fine.”

“But—”

“You’ll get there. I have absolute faith.”

Alyssa watched her friend go, wishing she had Claire’s certainty. Because at the moment, the only way she could think of to get to that gala was to ask Russell for a ticket. But that was hardly the image that she wanted of her in Russell’s head. He needed to think of her as competent and capable. A woman who could represent his legal interests and slide easily into his life. She wanted him smitten on absolutely every level.

And one didn’t reach smitten by begging for a room.

No, she’d get to the resort on her own. Or not at all.

Unfortunately, not at all was looking more and more likely.

Maybe she should book a room at a nearby motel and then wander over to the Starr Resort for the evening festivities.

A quick look on the Internet put the kibosh on that plan, though, as it was clear that privacy had been one of Russell’s primary concerns in designing the resort. It wasn’t close to anything. And with the predicted snow and the winding roads, Alyssa had no intention of driving from a Motel 6 to the resort on a daily basis.

Damn.

There had to be a way.

Except there wasn’t.

She sat back on the couch, the mug cupped in her hands, her entire being shifting into mope-mode. Probably best to accept the reality that saving her job and getting the guy was idiotic and oh-so-unlikely.

Sometimes reality really was a bitch.

She sighed, took another sip of chocolate, and decided that it was time to forget about crazy fantasies and force herself into getting some holiday spirit. From the corner of her apartment, the small Christmas tree she’d bought seemed to beckon. She’d held off decorating it, because despite the lights and the carols and the parties and the wassail, the season didn’t feel like Christmas. Not when she was sitting there, a dateless wonder.

“Pathetic.” With a sigh, she dragged a chair to her hall closet, her head spinning slightly from the schnapps and lack of dinner. Her apartment was ancient and had great—if poorly designed—closet space. The hallway linen closet was designed in two sections, with the main section being reachable by normal people, and the top section being accessible only by giants. Add to that the fact that the space went back several feet, and Alyssa sometimes wondered why she hadn’t bought a full-blown ladder to keep in the apartment so that she could get to all her stuff.

Balancing on the chair, she yanked open the cabinet, then pulled down the giant plastic bags stuffed full of summer clothes. Behind them, she’d stashed the boxes of Christmas ornaments, and now she stood on her toes, trying to get her fingers to connect with the boxes.

Just a teensy bit closer…

Her fingers brushed the cardboard, but she couldn’t get a grip on the smooth box. Dammit. She knew there was a reason she should’ve hung on to that ugly step stool she’d hauled to Goodwill last month. Now what was she going to do?

With no other options, she climbed off the chair, grabbed a broom from the pantry, and climbed back on, this time armed. She shoved the broom into the abyss, eased it between the box and the wall, and started using it to ooch the box forward. The box, however, was not inclined to cooperate, and so she jerked hard on the broom, punctuating the move with a rather loud, rather definitive curse.

The box moved.

Not only did it move, it shot forward, having apparently been blocked by a slight bump in the wood that Alyssa’s persistent shoving had overcome.

It teetered at the edge of the closet, Alyssa’s fingers keeping subtle pressure so it didn’t fall, every ounce of her concentration going to keeping her balance despite the mushiness that was her head. She took a breath, satisfied that all she had to do now was shift a little and close her fingers around the box.

But when she tried, the box—that same box with her grandmother’s delicate glass ornaments—tilted forward at a dangerous angle.

She could picture the box sliding through her hands, crashing to the ground, and the ornaments her grandmother had passed on to her smashing into so many bits of colored glass.

Who knew that decorating a tree under the influence could be so dangerous?

She tried to edge the box back into the closet, figuring she could borrow a proper ladder from the manager and try again, but the box was having none of that. Instead, it seemed, her destiny was to remain right there, balanced on a chair, her hands above her head getting tired as she kept a box from falling. And there she would remain until she passed out from hunger or her arms atrophied for lack of blood.

Three taps sounded at the door, and the wave of relief that crashed through her was so intense it almost had her sagging—and the box dropping. “Chris! Come on in!”

The doorknob rattled, and even as she remembered that she’d locked the door, she heard his frustrated “It’s locked, Alyssa.”

The box teetered, she tilted back to catch it, her head swam and she yelped. “Chris!”

“Hang on!” he called.

She heard the slam of his own apartment door, followed a few seconds later by the rattle of a key in her lock. She said a silent thank-you that she’d designated both Chris and Claire as the keepers of her spares, and then muttered a desperate “help!” as the door burst open.

“What on earth—”

She heard the confusion in his voice contemporaneously with his footsteps pounding across her apartment. She couldn’t turn her head to look, but she didn’t have to. She felt his hands around her waist, holding her tight, and the simple pressure gave her such a sense of security that she wanted to cry. She wasn’t going to fall backwards and break her neck. She wasn’t going to drop her grandmother’s heirloom ornaments.

Chris had arrived, and everything was going to work out just fine.

“What were you thinking?” His arm shifted, and she realized he was in short sleeves. The bare flesh of his arm brushed against her midriff, exposed now because raising her arms had raised the pajama tank top above the waistband of her Sylvester and Tweety pajama pants. For a moment—the briefest of moments—she felt a sensual thrill whip through her. Her nipples peaked, and her breath hitched, and she cursed Claire for all her talk about boyfriends and holiday romance because right then all those old Chris-lust thoughts that she’d so thoroughly quashed came rushing back.

At first, she’d ignored that sensual tingle because she’d been dating Bob when Chris had wandered into her life. Then, she’d tamped it even more firmly down because she’d learned about his frequent travel schedule and utter disinterest in managing his money or his career.

Best just to be friends, she’d told herself, and that had been easy advice to follow when she was dating Bob. Now, though, she was single, and even if Chris was as N.M.M. as they came, she couldn’t stop the heat—the desire—that was bubbling up inside her.

She told herself it was the schnapps. The. Schnapps.

Because this was Chris. Her friend. Her best friend besides Claire, and she was not in a million years going to let herself get the hots for him. She treasured the friendship too much to let holiday cheer and an innocent touch blow everything good there was between them.

But, oh, my gosh, she’d like to feel the heat of his kiss right about then.

“Alyssa!”

“What? What?” She realized he’d been talking to her. She’d been in a sensual funk, and she’d completely spaced out. “What did you say?”

“I said, how heavy is the box?”

“Oh. Not very.”

“Then let go.”

“No way! It’s full of Christmas ornaments. The thin glass kind. No way I’m letting them shatter. Why do you think I’m teetering on my toes in the first place?”

The hand on her abdomen shifted, and Alyssa stifled a moan. Alcohol and skin-on-skin touches really didn’t mix. Not if she wanted to keep her wits. Not to mention her distance.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice thick and rich, like warm, delicious chocolate.

“I—” She cleared her throat, mortified that talking was so difficult. The drink, she thought, and the fact that she was currently in the midst of a major romantic dry spell. But she had a plan, and a goal, and a Starr on the horizon. And she would focus. “I do. I trust you.”

“Then let go of the box.”

She took a deep breath and pulled her fingers away, moving to grab the door even as he broke contact with her, his own hands going up to catch the box as it fell.

“Got it. Now let me get you.”

She looked over her shoulder to see that the box was safe and sound on the floor, and when she turned back to face the closet, she felt Chris’s hands on her bare waist. “Turn around,” he said.

“No, I—”

“Turn.”

She turned, and he lifted her off the stool even as he pulled her closer to himself, then slowly eased her down until her feet were touching the floor. It was a sensual journey, and though she imagined that the elapsed time could probably be measured in seconds, to her it seemed like hours. Lazy, hedonistic hours with the press of Chris’s hard body against hers, and the glancing thrill that accompanied the way her breasts brushed softly over his chest as he lowered her body in front of his.

Once her feet were on the ground, she tilted her head back to tell him thank you, and suddenly his mouth was right there, the corners curved up in a grin that was both sexy and cocky, and she realized that she wanted to taste those lips more than she wanted to breathe. And even though a reasonable, rational Alyssa screamed that she was about to make a huge mistake, the Alyssa in Chris’s arms shut her ears and raised herself onto her toes, and then closed her mouth over his and took exactly what she wanted.

4

FOR ABOUT two seconds, Chris was certain that he’d not only died, but had landed squarely in heaven. The second after that, his brain processed the fact that Alyssa—his Alyssa—had pressed her mouth hard against his, her arms tight behind his head as if she wanted to deepen the kiss.

Chris was a lot of things, but he wasn’t an idiot, and he opened his mouth, giving her access, then swallowing a low guttural groan as her tongue swept inside, hot and demanding.

She tasted of chocolate and mint, and though he had absolutely no idea what had gotten into her, he saw the kiss as a challenge—a chance to prove he was worthy of this woman who every day filled his thoughts and fantasies.

Chris had always loved a challenge, and he met her lips with gusto. His tongue warred with hers, his mouth claiming her, sucking and nipping on her lower lip even as his hands splayed across her back, holding her closer to him, the contact setting every inch of his body on fire.

She wore a thin pajama top, and her body rubbed against him, her nipples like hard pebbles against his chest. He wanted to touch, to explore, to memorize every inch of her body, but he didn’t, terrified that at the slightest wrong touch she’d pull away and this magical bubble would burst.

Part of him wanted to risk it, though. To take his cue from Max Dalton, who wouldn’t leave his hands on her waist. He’d slide them up, skimming under the skimpy top, his fingers on her back, his thumbs easing forward to stroke the curve of her breast.

He wouldn’t stop there, either. He’d present a full assault, sliding his thumbs forward until the pads teased her nipples, then deepening his exploration of her mouth as his hand slid down to the waistband of her flimsy pants. He’d feel every twitch of her skin, every sweet hesitation, but she wouldn’t tell him to stop, and that simple surrender would arouse him as much as the feel of her body against his.

He’d slip his hand down, his erection painful with need, then moan when his finger found damp curls and her slit, already wet and ready. Only a little bit more, and he would brush her clit and she would tremble in his arms, her back arching, and her lips parting beneath his mouth as she whispered one sweet, simple word: Yes.

No.

The real world rushed back to smack Chris in the ass. “What?” he said, groggy and confused.

“No,” Alyssa repeated. “I’m sorry.” She backed away from him, managing to look both completely turned on and utterly mortified.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I should never have—I’m just…I’m just sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, though it wasn’t at all. His body was on fire, his desperation acute. He wanted her back in his arms. He wanted to finish what they’d started, and then he wanted to go from there.

But in truth they’d barely started anything. The woman who’d melted under his touch had been only in his fantasy, and the woman he desired so desperately was now standing in front of him regretting a single kiss that had passed between them.

And that, thought Chris, was a damn shame.

“I’M SORRY,” she said again, but Alyssa was certain she needed to keep repeating that in order to make it real. Because at the moment, she didn’t feel sorry at all. She felt incredibly turned on, and that really wasn’t good.

She turned away, scrubbing her face in her hands. “I mean, that was really beyond the pale, wasn’t it?” She’d kissed him.

And good Lord, but that had been one hell of a kiss. Soft, yet firm. Demanding, yet sweet. The kind of kiss that not only soaked a girl’s panties, but had her thinking about pink roses and hand-holding.

Dear God, what had she been thinking? Not only did she not want to go there with Chris, but he had never once given her any hint that he was remotely interested in her.

Or, rather, he’d never given her any hint before five minutes ago. Because from the way he’d kissed her back…from the way his hands had stroked her…the way he’d felt, all hot and hard as he’d pressed up against her…either he was a very good actor, or there was some definite interest going on there.

And though she told herself there was absolutely no way she would repeat that kiss or go any further whatsoever, her own body was calling her out as a liar. Her damp panties. The way her skin seemed to tingle like someone standing next to fifty thousand volts of raw electricity. And her nipples, now hard as rocks under her thin pajama top. Not good. Definitely not good.

Since she really couldn’t have a conversation with him about how that kiss was a mistake if her body was screaming otherwise, she ducked into the bathroom for a robe to toss on over her pajamas, then came out hoping she looked cool and collected. “I…um…I’ve been drinking schnapps.”

“Ah,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“It’s just that Claire was here earlier, and we were drinking and talking about sex and—” She stopped. Her rambling was definitely not improving things.

“Anyway, I, um, totally stepped out of line and I’m really sorry and really embarrassed and—”

“Alyssa,” he said, an obvious smile in his voice. “It’s okay. I get it.”

She pretty much sagged in relief. “Really? It’s just—the schnapps, and—”

“Seriously. I get it.”

“Right. Of course.” Of course he got it. He was probably as mortified as she was. He was a guy, though, so was it any wonder his body had sprung to attention? He was probably happy to push the whole thing behind them fast, fast, fast.

He waved toward the hall closet. “So what exactly were you doing?” He turned before she could answer and moved into her kitchen. She heard the water running, and by the time she arrived behind him, she saw that he’d splashed water on his face and was patting himself dry with a towel.

“I’ve got cocoa in the slow cooker,” she said, wishing a million times over that she could erase this sudden awkwardness between him.

“Sounds good.” He knew her kitchen as well as she did, and grabbed a holiday mug for himself, then fixed cocoa with just a splash of schnapps. “How about you? A refill?”

“I don’t know,” she said wryly. “Schnapps seems to be dangerous to me.”

As she’d hoped, he laughed. But what she hadn’t expected was the heat in his eyes when he said, “I’ve never run from danger.”

“Chris…”

He held his hands up. “Just lightening the moment.”

“Sorry. I’m still edgy.” She ran her fingers through her hair. This was Chris. As good a friend as Claire. She should not be feeling all awkward and weird around him. “Too much holiday cheer. Not to mention holiday sugar.” She squinted at him. “And it’s late. Why did you come over here, anyway? It’s Saturday, shouldn’t you have a hot date like the rest of the human race except me?”

“Working,” he said.

She perked up. “Are you doing another article? You were complaining last month that you were going to run out of rent money early next year and—”

“I’m cool,” he said. “And yeah, I have another job in the pipe. But I’ve been working on the next Max Dalton book.”

“Oh.”

He laughed. “Tell me how you really feel, Alyssa.”

She could feel her cheeks heat. “I love your book, you know I do,” she said, meaning every word. “But wouldn’t it make more sense to cram in a few more articles? Really pad your bank account?”

“Your concern for my well-being is overwhelming,” he said with a lazy grin. “But if I worked all the time, when would I play?”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t play. You either work for money or you work for free. I just think you should—”

“Work for money. I know.” He shrugged. “Hopefully I am. My agent seems really encouraged.”

“Yeah? That’s awesome.”

“But?” he asked, his tone so teasing she almost rolled her eyes.

“Fine. Fine.” She held up her hands in self-defense. “Pretty soon you’ll tell me I sound like your mother, so I’m dropping it. But I have two words before I do.”

“Good times?” he teased.

“Retirement plan,” she said.

He nodded. “Don’t worry. Got it covered.”

And since she was quite certain that he didn’t, she decided that was her cue to drop the subject. In truth, his work ethic impressed her. She knew he was perpetually broke, of course, but at least he knew what he wanted, and he threw himself after it wholeheartedly. She just wished he was a little smarter about the whole thing. Or at least smarter than her dad had been. Because her parents were heading into retirement with little more than dust in their IRAs, and while Alyssa would do what she could to help them out, she’d hardly reached the point where she was made of money, and she was desperately afraid that her childhood would be repeated in their old age, and they’d lose the house that they’d bought during her senior year of high school.

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