“Shower later. You and me now …”

“You smell delicious.” Troy whispered as he kissed Darcy’s bare shoulder, the base of her neck, her throat. “I want you now. No waiting …”

His hunger grew as he undid his jeans, pushing until they fell to his ankles and then stepping out of them. Finally, he found her mouth, wrapped her tightly in his arms and lifted her, making her clutch at his shoulders and moan against his lips.

Yes.

She wanted him, this stunning, incredibly hot, mysterious woman. She wasn’t as indifferent as her methodical striptease had suggested.

His ego swelled along with other parts.

He was going to make this good for her, good enough to break through that iron control.

So what if she hadn’t told him anything about herself? She’d tell him plenty with her body by the time this night was over …

Dear Reader,

Have you ever locked eyes with a stranger and felt deep emotion you can’t explain away as simple attraction? Given that love develops over time, that it involves two people knowing and accepting each other completely, the concept of love at first sight seems dubious. But how else to explain that intense reaction?

For beautiful restaurateur Darcy Clark and sexy tech-guy/triathlete Troy Cahill, the third and final hero and heroine of my CHECKING E-MALES series, this thunderbolt of desire leaves them with no clue how to fit all the new and tempestuous emotions into what they think know about love and relationships. It was great fun to watch them squirm and try to avoid the obvious truth. Also in this book, our beloved master matchmaker, Marie, owner of Milwaukeedates.com, gets another stab at convincing the charming Quinn Peters that she doesn’t remind him of his sister after all …

I hope you’ve read and enjoyed the first two books in this series, Turn up the Heat and Long Slow Burn, and that you’ll consider Hot to the Touch an appropriate send-off for Candy, Kim, Darcy and Marie. I’ll really miss these women!

Cheers,

Isabel Sharpe

www.IsabelSharpe.com

About the Author

ISABEL SHARPE was not born pen in hand like so many of her fellow writers. After she quit work to stay home with her first-born son and nearly went out of her mind, she started writing. After more than twenty novels—along with another son—Isabel is more than happy with her choice these days. She loves hearing from readers. Write to her at www.IsabelSharpe.com.

Hot to
the Touch

Isabel Sharpe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Sienna, Ruby and Leia,

who have made life so much cheerier.

Prologue

“CAN WE TALK ABOUT SOMETHING other than men?” Darcy flipped back her dark hair, an impatient scowl marring her beautiful features. “I think I’m getting heartburn.”

Across the table, Marie Hewitt watched her carefully. Every month the four of them, restaurant owner and chef Darcy Clark, plus web designer Kim Horton, event planner Candy Graham and herself, CEO of Milwaukeedates.com, gathered for this third-Wednesday breakfast meeting of Women in Power, Milwaukee’s organization of female business owners. Since Marie started her matchmaking campaign in January for her three younger, never-married friends, Candy and Kim had fallen. Candy and Justin Case had become engaged back in February on a wonderful if slightly out of control Valentine’s day. Nathan Alexander had asked Kim to marry him the previous month, on April fifteenth, her thirtieth birthday.

Until now, Darcy had seemed genuinely thrilled for them, though stubbornly resistant to any and all attempts to entice her into signing up for Marie’s online dating company in order to find her own happiness. Could her sudden irritability have anything to do with envy? Was she finally cracking, and would a little of her suppressed longing for love start oozing out? Marie was counting on that happening eventually. Darcy’s I-hate-men act might fool some people, but the more she saw, the less Marie was buying it.

“Sorry.” Kim put her hand on Darcy’s arm, eyes warm with contrition. “I know Candy and I are being nauseating going on about wedding plans when we’re all here to talk business. Tell us how life was last month in the restaurant world. Though I keep hearing people raving about Gladiolas so I probably don’t need to ask how it’s doing.”

“Things are okay.” Darcy settled her coffee mug back on the table. “Do you all remember Raoul?”

Kim made a disgusted face. “The slimeball you fired? The one who was having the affair with the married waitress, stole from the restaurant and came on to you to try and get professional favors?”

Darcy nodded grimly. “Yup. That slimeball.”

“What about him?” Marie went on alert. “He’s not still trying to land you, is he?”

“Worse. He’s starting his own restaurant. Emphasis on local and organic while keeping prices affordable. A short, seasonal menu and daily specials with whimsical names. Sound familiar?”

“Sounds exactly like Gladiolas.” Candy looked helplessly furious. “What a scum. That is disgusting.”

“Ya think?” Darcy shrugged. “Who knows, word has it his investor might back out. I hope so.”

“We all hope so,” Candy said. “But if he doesn’t, after the restaurant opens we’ll plant roaches and rats in the kitchen, then report Raoul to the health inspector.”

“Oh, good one.” Kim patted Candy’s shoulder affectionately. “How about I post viciously negative reviews all over the internet?”

“Very nice, Kim.” Marie smiled her approval. “I’ll book the whole place every night and then cancel at the last minute.”

“Thanks, guys.” Darcy grinned warmly. It was great to see her smile. She didn’t do so often enough. “Look, I didn’t mean to rain on the wedding parade before. I don’t know where that came from. PMS probably.”

Marie smirked. PMS? Nuh-uh. Though Darcy would probably be the last to figure it out.

“No, no, you were absolutely right.” Candy gracefully waved away the apology; Justin’s ring, which he’d planted in a delivery pizza, flashed on her left hand. “We were being disgusting. You and Marie must be ready to scream.”

“Not me.” Marie pulled off the crisp end of her croissant and spread jam on it. “I’m delighted. And I know Darcy is, too.”

“Yes. I really am.” Darcy nodded emphatically. “If you guys are happy that’s—”

“However, she is also ragingly jealous.” Marie bit casually into her pastry, counting down to Darcy’s anticipated explosion. Three … two … one …

“Jealous!” Darcy cracked up too loudly. “Oh, right. Deep down I really want my own self-centered man-child keeping me enslaved for the rest of my life.”

She laughed again harshly, grabbed her mug and gripped it between her palms as if it was her salvation.

“Jeez, Darcy.” Candy frowned at her. “Could you turn up the bitterness a little more? I’m not sure it’s coming across.”

“Nathan and Justin aren’t like that.” Kim’s soft tone was uncharacteristically firm.

“They’re all like that.” Darcy’s voice broke. She jerked the mug to her lips and took a sip.

“Not all of them.” Marie spoke gently, heart aching for her friend. Would Darcy ever admit she needed someone in her life to help share her burdens, to help her open up and trust again? Would she ever admit that in the midst of a full and successful life she was isolated and lonely? “With the right man, you’ll never feel that you’re—”

“No.” Darcy held up her hand. “I’m not going there, Marie. Find someone else if you need to keep foisting women onto lonely men. I like my freedom, making my own decisions. I take care of myself and of Gladiolas. I don’t have time or energy for another guy to make the whole relationship about him and his needs, and to hell with mine.”

“I understand.” Marie waited a beat, then met Kim’s blue eyes, which were helpless with worry, and Candy’s brown ones, dark with frustration. She smiled reassuringly. They’d get Darcy to fall somehow, sooner or later.

Maybe not overtly, by making her an appointment at Milwaukeedates.com, the way Marie had been able to with Candy and Kim. Maybe not by making reasonable overtures and putting forth reasonable logic. Some other method.

The Women in Power president came to the podium and called the room to order. Members finished sentences and cups of coffee, turned their chairs and settled in to pay attention.

Marie folded her arms on the table, her gaze focused on the back of Darcy’s dark head. There would be some chink, some fault line, some way into the warmth and passion Darcy kept bottled up out of fear, and Marie was going to find it, no matter how much resistance Darcy mustered.

She lowered her brows thoughtfully, imagining the profile she’d love to put up for Darcy on Milwaukeedates.com. Men would fall all over themselves wanting her. Eventually the right one would come along, a man strong and secure enough to let Darcy be the woman she needed to be, if only Darcy would give him a chance.

The president introduced the morning’s speaker and with the applause the glimmer of an idea rose into Marie’s mind and floated enticingly, even as she knew she’d have to reject it for ethical reasons.

Though when it came to Darcy, maybe ethics were beside the point. Maybe the only way Marie could win this battle against stubborn denial was to get stubborn herself. Stubborn and persistent.

Stubborn, persistent and willing to fight dirty.

1

“RADISHES.” DARCY TAPPED HER PENCIL on the gleaming wooden bar, made from salvaged Wisconsin oak. Her thoughts were drifting from Gladiolas’s emptying dining room around her to the side dish she was imagining for her restaurant’s summer menu, though it being merely the end of May in Wisconsin, summer seemed depressingly far away. Sauteed radishes, smoothed with butter, accented with salt and chives. And something else … sugar snap peas for color, texture and to balance the slight bite with sweetness. Or would a complementing strong taste be better, to deepen the flavor? Chard? Watercress?

“Radishes sound perfect for my mood.”

Darcy snapped out of her vegetable reverie and squinted at Amy Walker, her dining room manager. “What mood, crunchy?”

“Round and bitter.” Amy tipped back the last of the cup of coffee she never seemed to be without. Her plump body was slumped onto her stool, her short, flaming red ponytail shedding strands that hung around her cheeks.

“Bitter? I like that. Maybe we can use that in a menu name. ‘Love failed me—I’m bitter.’ A pork dish with bitter orange, a side of greens and radishes, something like that.” She made a few notes on a paper in front of her, then remembered they were talking about Amy. “Sorry, my brain went AWOL. Why are you bitter? Not Colin …”

“He hasn’t called for two days or answered my emails. I’m thinking I’ve worked my Amy-magic again and am being dumped.”

“No way.” Darcy felt familiar anger churn in her stomach. Yes, she had issues, but it was hard to work through them when men kept providing more and more examples of selfish behavior. “I thought this guy was really into you.”

“Yeah, me, too.” Amy laughed harshly. “And they say women play mind games and are hard to figure out.”

“I’m sorry. But you know men. They have a completely bizarre concept of time. He’ll reappear when you least expect it, without a clue he’d left you hanging.” Darcy pushed her untouched glass of chardonnay over to her friend, and signaled their handsome, burly bartender, Jeff, to get her another. “In the meantime, drink away your sorrows, honey. At least alcohol is dependable.”

“And a depressant.” Amy lifted the glass anyway and took a healthy swallow. “I don’t know. It’s too easy to blame men. Sometimes I think it’s just me, Ms. Man-Poison.”

“You are not—”

“No, really, I’m serious. I think there’s something about me that horrifies them. Until I find out what that is, maybe there’s no point looking anymore. I’m thinking of giving up.”

“No.” Darcy held up a hand for emphasis. “I’m the cynical, damaged one. I’m the one headed for a life of questionable hygiene, living alone in a ramshackle house overrun with cats. Not you.”

“Maybe.” Amy fingered the stem of her wineglass, eyes down. “I want to find a guy who accepts me, warts and all, who’ll consciously work on the relationship and compromise when necessary, someone for whom my happiness is nearly as important as his. Because that’s exactly what I’d do for him.”

“Oh, that guy!” Darcy accepted her new wine from Jeff. “I know exactly where he is.”

“Where?” Amy lifted a skeptical brow.

“Hanging out with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny!”

Amy snorted. “I know, I know. But I can’t totally crush hope the way you have. I wish I could. It would save me a lot of trouble and a lot of pain. I really thought Colin would hang around. Of course I probably thought that about all of them at one time.”

“Uh … yeah.” Darcy nudged her affectionately. “Didn’t we all.”

“It’s just that it can happen, out of the blue, when you least expect it. My sister met her husband on her millionth blind date, sick to death of trying to find someone, and they were both struck stupid with love the second they saw each other. They’re still wildly happy.”

“Because they’re stupid. You said it yourself.”

Amy finally loosened up enough to let out her trademark cascade of giggles. “I did. Now enough of my whining. Back to your radishes.”

“Nah.” Darcy lifted her glass, irritated by the story of Amy’s sister. People who were disgustingly goopy like that made her sick. Or jealous. Sometimes she wasn’t sure which. “Forget the radishes for now. We need to cheer you up first.”

“Good luck.”

“Ooh, I know. Ken, the new Lenson’s sales rep, came by this morning with industry gossip.” Darcy sipped her wine. She’d stick to the gossip that had been pleasant. The rest had been eating at her all day. “The new place down National near Fourth Street? Esmee? The chef is Lebanese. He’s supposedly giving the usual bar food an innovative Middle Eastern kick. Want to check it out? Get your mind off Colin?”

“Oh, that would be—” Amy’s cell rang with the theme to Love Story. She fished it out of her pocket and gasped at the display. “It’s him.”

“Ha!” Darcy smacked the bar with her palm, wanting to tell Amy not to answer it. “Told you he’d show up.”

“Oh, my gosh.” Amy took a deep breath, smoothing her hair, and connected the call. “Hey, Colin! How are you? Good. Yes, I’m fine. But I was worried, since I haven’t heard—”

Darcy shook her head urgently. Rule number one: never let a guy think you’ve been sitting around waiting for his call.

Amy cringed and nodded understanding. “Heard from my family in a while and was thinking you were one of them checking in.”

Darcy gave her a thumbs-up.

“Uh-huh. As far as I know. Oh, tonight?” She looked pleadingly at Darcy. “I’m, um …”

Darcy shook her head again, hard enough that her bobbed hair flew out nearly horizontal. Rule number two: Never be immediately available to a guy who hasn’t been available to you.

“I’d love to.” Amy spoke firmly, turning away from Darcy who rolled her eyes. “I’ve really missed you.”

Darcy let out a sound of disgust purposely loud enough for Amy to hear.

“Yes. I know where that is. Okay. Yes. See you in a few.” She shut her phone with a soft sigh.

“Amy. At least pretend you haven’t been panting after his call for—”

“I know.” She held up a hand to stop Darcy’s lecture. “I know.”

“Seriously, if you want men to stop taking you for granted …” She tried to soften the frustration in her voice. “You have to show them you’re worth better treatment.”

“Yes. But as I said, I have really missed him.” She slid off the stool and squeezed Darcy’s shoulder. “You’re right. I know you are. In a week or a month I’ll be miserable over him again. I just—”

“Have really missed him.”

“Wow, how did you know?” Amy looked like a different person, cheeks flushed, eyes snapping excitement. Even her hair had revived.

“Wild guess.” Darcy managed a smile. “Go. Have fun. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Undoubtedly. And I’ll be screwed over in the end. It’s what men do to me. Then you can say, ‘Ha-ha, told you so,’ and watch in amazement at my masochistic stupidity while I proceed to do it all again with someone else.”

“Gee, um, I’m really looking forward to that.” Darcy rolled her eyes in exaggerated dismay. “Wouldn’t it be easier to stay single?”

“Easier, yes. Better? No.” Amy jumped off the bar stool and strode over to their hostess, Kelly, to ask her to close up.

Darcy watched her go. Easier, but not better … She turned resolutely away and pushed her glass to the bartender. “G’night, Jeff.”

“‘Night, chef. You heading out?”

“Yeah. New place to try tonight.” Darcy had to force the enthusiasm, when she generally loved discovering neighborhood gems. She didn’t mind going out alone, either. In fact, sometimes she preferred the opportunity to concentrate on the food instead of on making conversation.

But tonight …

Among the gossip Ken passed along was that Raoul, Darcy’s unlamented ex-employee, had secured new wads of cash for his restaurant after the original investor had indeed backed out. James Thomas, one of Milwaukee’s wealthiest, had turned Darcy down for Gladiolas, saying women had no place in the restaurant business. She’d had to settle for a lesser amount from the bank, which meant shelving plans for a more elegant downtown address and locating Gladiolas where she could afford to lease.

“Sounds good. Report back.” Jeff, classic stud of few words, acknowledged a patron’s signal and went over to refill his drink.

Darcy slid off her stool and strode through the dining room and into the gleaming stainless kitchen she was so proud of, inhaling the fragrance of food in its many stages of preparation. She collected her things and called out a good-night to the staff, including Gladiolas’s dishwasher, real name Francis McDonald, but everyone called him Ace. Great kid, reliable, could be pulled onto the line when things got crazy busy in the kitchen, but from what Darcy could tell, he lived most of the time in a chemically enhanced universe.

She banged out the alley door, got into her car and drove down National Avenue from her own place on Fourteenth Street to Fourth. Short hop, but she’d been on her feet all day, and while she wouldn’t mind walking over, after a drink and some food, she’d want to get home quickly to her tiny house in Washington Heights, which she’d bought five years earlier after saving every cent she could for the downpayment.

Too bad Amy hadn’t wanted to come tonight. Another wonderful, funny, smart, talented friend wasted on the male population of Milwaukee. Maybe Darcy should introduce Amy to Milwaukeedates.com owner, Marie Hewitt, who’d matched up two of the town’s best and brightest, Candy and Kim. But talking to Marie about matching up Amy would invariably segue into Marie talking about matching up Darcy, and sorry, but Darcy couldn’t be less interested. Though seeing Amy so happy when Colin called …

Nuh-uh, she wasn’t going there. Some women could find happiness in men. Darcy wasn’t one of them. The guys she fell for were angry, controlling and uninterested in supporting her, especially her ambition. Someone had to break that pattern and protect her, and Darcy had nominated herself for the job. Once in a while she allowed herself the luxury of a one-night stand or a casual series of dates, but she drew the line there. Any longer and it became apparent men wanted women who were home for them every night, not out on the front lines battling for their own success. Recently Darcy had also been denying herself those brief encounters. Even those had become dangerous to her sanity.

She found the restaurant and parked on a side street, emerged into the too-chilly air and hurried into the small, warm, welcoming space whose dim lighting created nice intimacy. A clean but battered wooden bar, kept on from the Irish pub this place used to be, dominated the room, furnished with booths and a few tables. Nearly every table and booth was taken, the bar three-quarters full. A good sign, though Darcy was attracting more attention than she liked from the mostly male clientele, even wearing an outfit about as revealing as a Girl Scout’s, an outfit which also happened to be pretty ripe from an evening sweating in the kitchen.

Three stools sat empty at the end of the bar. Darcy chose the nearest to the door, leaving two unoccupied seats next to her, hoping no one would sit in search of a chatting partner.

“Hi, there.” Nice-looking bartender, big guy, middle-aged, with warm gray eyes. Ten years and thirty pounds ago, he would have been a serious temptation. “What can I get you?”

“Arak, please.”

He broke into a smile, bushy eyebrows raised, and responded in Arabic.

“No, no.” Darcy shook her head regretfully. “Not native. I just know the drink.”

“Ah, okay. Coming right up.”

“What didja order? Ah-rack?” The pink-faced guy to her right looked as if he’d been at the bar most of the week.

“Arak. Anise liquor. Very dry. Very good.”

He made a face. “Anise, like licorice? Licorice is candy. Sissy drink.”

Darcy snorted. Said he who was drinking rum and Coke.

“Enjoy.” The bartender set in front of her a glass of clear liquid, another of ice and a small carafe of water. “Like a menu?”

“Definitely.” She ignored Mr. Sissy Drink, who was still muttering about alcoholic candy. Darcy would love to see him try to walk straight after a couple of glasses of arak. Strong as well as delicious.

“Here you go.” The bartender handed her a menu.

Darcy opened it and fell in love. Burgers, salads, sandwiches and pizzas, but in each category a twist. You could have a burger with ketchup, mustard and pickle, or with parsley, onion, cinnamon and tahini sauce. Pizza with cheese and sausage or with ground lamb, diced red peppers and halloumi cheese. Iceberg salad with shredded cheddar, croutons and ranch dressing or romaine with toasted pita and feta, dressed with olive oil, garlic and mint.

After a terrible time deciding, she succumbed to the lamb pizza and the romaine salad. The bartender brought her a small bowl of olives, a few tiny round loaves of pita, about the diameter of tangerines, and a dish of a soft creamy white cheese with the tang of yogurt.

Darcy poured water into her arak, which turned it pearly-white, and added a few cubes of ice. She took a small gulp and sighed in pleasure. The anise flavor was clear and light, beautifully refreshing. A few sips later, she mingled the taste with a mouthful of bread stuffed with cheese and an olive. Heaven.

As usual, the experience of good food relaxed her, and she felt ready to check out her surroundings. Good crowd for a Wednesday night. A few couples on dates, a few single men at the bar, groups of guys out for a guy-time, one table of women. Most were neat and presentable, not too different from the crowd she attracted to Gladiolas. Neighborhood people out for the night. What crowd would Raoul get with his fancy backer and address? High prices would mean clientele with money to burn and similarly situated friends who had friends, who had friends …

Movement caught her eye, and she realized she’d been staring at a good-looking guy in a red shirt drinking with friends; he leered and toasted her with his beer.

Ugh. The last thing she needed was some guy thinking she was out trolling for the same thing he was.

Her food came, a happy distraction. The aroma made her stomach growl and her hand reach eagerly for a slice of the pizza, which she immediately launched toward her mouth.

Mmm. The crust was charred appetizingly around the edges, the lamb and peppers fragrant and subtly spiced, the cheese tender, mild and sparingly used so its bland richness didn’t overwhelm the dish.

Delicious. After a few more ravenous bites, she gathered a forkful of the fresh-looking salad, preparing to dive in.

“So I was wondering …” A man’s shape entered her peripheral vision. Red shirt. Ugh again. He leaned on the bar next to her, too close, talking too loudly. His too-sweet aftershave intruded on her smell and taste. “Has anyone ever mentioned that you look like Catherine Zeta-Jones?”

“Yes.” She glanced at him witheringly. “And they didn’t get anywhere, either.”

“Hey, now, don’t be like that.” His ingratiating grin didn’t falter, if anything he was talking louder. She became aware that they were attracting interest from Pink-Faced Sissy-Drink two stools to her right, and from the guy’s table of friends; she wanted to drop to all fours and growl threateningly. “Give me a break here. I’m a nice guy.”

“I’m sure you are, but I’m only interested in food tonight.”

“Aw, c’mon. Help me out here, beautiful. I bet my friends that I could buy you a drink.”

“Really?” She picked up her arak, sipped it leisurely. “Sorry, you lost that one.”

“I’m Jay.” He winked. “And I never lose.”

“First time for everything.”

He chuckled and leaned in. “Seriously, I’m harmless. Just want to buy you a drink. You won’t regret—”

“I already do.” She turned deliberately toward him. “Go away.”

“Wow.” He stared at her for a few seconds, then gave a bitter chuckle. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”

“Yup.” Darcy held his gaze calmly. “But it’s better than being a buttwipe.”

He left, but not before he called Darcy another of her least favorite words. What a jerk.

She turned back to her dinner, having to force herself to resume eating, which was the jerk’s worst offense, because the food was damn good. Halfway through the pizza and salad, two-thirds of the way through her arak and undisturbed further, she managed to regain her composure.

“I’m outta here.” The pink-faced guy seemed to be talking to no one in particular. He moved off his stool and for a second, Darcy expected him to hit the floor, slumped like a sack of potatoes. Miraculously he managed to stay upright.

The bartender reached to shake his hand. “See ya, Fred.”

“See ya tomorrow.” Fred wobbled behind Darcy toward the door. She hoped he wasn’t driving.

“Another arak?”

Darcy looked up to decline, but while the bartender was standing in front of her, he was asking the guy who’d been sitting three chairs down, just to the right of Pink-Faced Guy. Darcy turned to see who else was drinking the ambrosia of Lebanon.

He was dark, but his features looked too Waspy to be Arabic. Handsome, several years younger than she was, she’d guess mid-twenties, dressed in a dark shirt and black jeans that showed his body to be tall, lean and nicely shaped. Well, well. Male candy. Too bad she’d put herself on a diet.

The bartender put a new glass of arak in front of him. He lifted the carafe of water to pour with very nice hands, strong-looking, fingers long and masculine, nails blunt and clean. Definitely an attractive—

He turned and met her eyes. Darcy froze with her arak halfway to her mouth. An electric storm sprang to life in her chest, spread to her stomach, down her torso, tingling through her arms and legs. Immediately, she glanced away. Then back, unable to resist. He was still watching her; his impossibly dark and deep eyes made it tough to breathe or think. What the hell was that?

She forced her attention back to her meal, but could only gaze at it, as if waiting for the food to rise up and eat her instead.

Instant lust, instant attraction. Sure Darcy had experienced those before, but never like this. She must be feeling particularly vulnerable tonight? Tired? On edge? Ovulating? She wanted to look again, felt almost compelled to, but there was fear she’d be giving something away, something very important she had to keep.

Like mental stability.

A deep breath, and she made herself eat salad, fragrant with mint, bold with garlic. The bite of vinegar and the soothing fruit of olive oil grounded her. This was real. This was what she’d come here for. Another bite of pizza, and she managed to finish the slice, finish the salad, finish her drink, feeling the man’s pull throughout, fighting her desire to look again, to see if he was watching her. To see if he’d felt even half of what she had.

She pulled out her wallet, resisting the urge to order another drink, to linger and taunt herself with what could be possible. It was late. Another long day tomorrow.

“Leaving?”

Darcy’s hand stilled in the act of pulling out her credit card. She turned, braced this time for the impact of those eyes. The preparation didn’t help much. She felt as if her body had gone into overdrive. Shaky overdrive. Shaky, helpless overdrive. “Thought I would.”

“Can I buy you another drink instead?”

She didn’t move. If he bought her a drink, they’d start talking. She’d get a pretty serious buzz from more arak, dangerous around this powerful chemistry. She’d want to spend the night with him. Inevitably, the sex would be hot, satisfying and for one night her problems could be pushed aside, along with her responsibilities. For one night she’d be part of something bigger than just herself.

But then she might wake up with that horrible empty longing again, the grief she never admitted to anyone she’d had, the one she didn’t even like to acknowledge to herself. Last time the morning after had been so hard, she’d promised herself no more one-night stands. Sex was lovely, but she wouldn’t die without it. Though now that she’d met this man, she might.

“No?”

Darcy blinked, aware she was taking an absurdly long time to respond.

“Or … yes?” His very sexy lips curved in a small smile. Oh, that mouth.

One drink. One drink wouldn’t hurt. Nor would another night she didn’t have to spend alone. She put her wallet away, got down from the stool and sauntered toward him, hand held out in anticipation of touching his. Of touching him.

“Yes.”

2

“HOW ABOUT THAT ONE, OVER there? The tall one?” Justin nudged Troy and pointed to a trio of women who’d just walked into Esmee Restaurant, where he and Justin were sitting at the bar. “She’s hot. More than that, she looks nice.”

Troy turned and gave a cursory look. The female in question was taller than her companions, probably five-eight or nine, blonde and attractive, dressed provocatively. He nodded wearily. Yes, Justin, she was hot. Yes, Justin, she looked nice. No, Justin, Troy wasn’t going to offer to take her out, because for all Troy knew, she was newly released from the cozy facilities at Milwaukee County Mental Health. Plus, Troy already had his eye on a woman at the Milwaukee Athletic Club, though he hadn’t mentioned that to Justin in case he and Candy arranged a double wedding before Troy even got up the nerve to ask Missy for a first date.

Justin was a good friend, had been since they were in college together at UCLA—in fact, Justin had moved from California to Milwaukee after Troy invited the talented writer to be his coauthor on an interactive computer manual they’d finished last month. Troy couldn’t blame Justin for his … enthusiasm when it came to matchmaking. For one thing, he was over-the-top in love with his fiancée, Candy, and was therefore in that blissful state where he wanted everyone else to be as happy for the same reason. For another, Justin had made the acquaintance of arak tonight, liquor Troy’s half-Lebanese friend Chad had turned Troy on to. The stuff was delicious, but lethal, about fifty-percent alcohol. Not that Justin was in danger of embarrassing himself, but he was definitely feeling no pain. Good thing Candy had an event nearby and was showing up shortly to drive him home.

“Oh, wait, never mind.” Justin waved away the concept of the blonde with obvious irritation. “She’s too young.”

“What defines too young?”

Justin leaned over confidentially. “Jonas Brothers T-shirt.”

“Ooh, yeah.” Troy hid his amusement. “Way too young.”

“Don’t worry, man.” Justin sipped arak and thumped his glass down on the bar. “We’ll find you someone. Sooner or later.”

“We?”

“We.” Justin pointed to himself. “We’ll find you someone who will light you up the second you lay eyes on her. Who makes every nerve ending in your body come to life in a way you’ve never felt before, ever, not even close. It’s like life-heat, it’s like … the hotness of life. It’s like you’re—”

“Seriously sloshed. Listen to yourself, buddy.”

“I know. But it’s true. It happened to me.” He thumped his chest proudly. “I looked into Candy’s eyes and thought … whoa. This is it. This is her. I just met the rest of my life.”

“That’s what you were thinking? Really?”

Justin frowned. “Okay, maybe not consciously. Consciously I was thinking she had nice eyes and a nice mouth. And legs. Great legs. Even her feet are sexy. And her—”

“Okay, dude.” Troy socked him in the shoulder. “That’s plenty, thanks.”

“I love good feet on a woman, too.” The voice came from the guy on the stool to Troy’s left; he looked as if he’d been in the sun all day, though more likely he’d been here in the bar all day. “Good feet and good lips. Good hands and sturdy hips.”

“Poetry.” Justin beamed at him across Troy. “Lips and hips. I love it.”

“Thanks.” The guy went abruptly back to staring at his drink as if someone had turned his power off.

Troy rubbed his hand over his face. When was Justin’s fiancée coming?

“I may sound over-the-top when I talk about Candy, but I’m telling you, being in love is the greatest. Really in love, not the torture you went through with Drama Queen Debby and that I went through with Attention-Needing Angie—”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Troy was getting impatient with the topic. “And I appreciate your concern.”

Justin shrugged. “I’m just one of many who wants to see you happy.”

“Dude, I am happy.” He raised his hand to cut off Justin’s immediate protest. “Yes, someday I’ll meet someone and have my nerve endings incinerate me with their life-heat or whatever you said, and I’ll be more happy. But right now life is good. Our book is in, the publisher is ecstatic, we have some time before we have to start the next one. I’m finally over Debby, have done some dating. This is all good stuff. I’m not in any hurry to change it.”

“Okay.” Justin nodded solemnly and drained his glass. “I’ll back off. But I warn you, Candy’s been looking out for you, too. And when she gets an idea …”

Troy laughed. “Uh-huh.”

“Speaking of.” He held up his wrist, squinting to bring his watch face into focus. “She’ll be here any second. I should wait outside so she doesn’t have to park. You coming?”

“Nah.” Troy didn’t want to go home yet. Lately his house had been feeling empty, without the crush of working on the book on top of his regular day job. He’d been training for the next triathlon in September with Chad, going out with friends, playing basketball on Sundays, taking his golden chow mix, Dylan, for long walks, all of which helped, but they didn’t fill the house. “I’ll stay and finish my drink.”

“Okay.” Justin slapped him on the back and slid clumsily off the stool. “Just keep your eyes open.”

The man with the red face turned his power switch back on. “And check out her feet.”

Troy considered moving away, but after Justin disappeared, the guy receded again into staring at his glass of Coke, which Troy would guess was healthily dosed with rum. Booze and caffeine, upper and downer taken together. No wonder the guy looked as if he were in suspended animation.

The front door opened; Troy glanced over, half-expecting Justin or Candy, and did a double take, along with half the bar. The male half.

A woman. Older than he was, early thirties. Dark. Beautiful. Stop-traffic beautiful. Reduce-men-to-drooling-idiocy beautiful, even dressed in black shapeless pants and a black shapeless shirt, neither of which could hide that she was all shape underneath.

“Would ya look at that.” The little man beside him voiced what every straight guy in the place must be thinking.

She seemed completely at ease, undoubtedly used to being stared at, headed for the bar and sat at the corner, leaving two seats between her and Troy’s red-faced neighbor. In a rich, musical voice she ordered arak and Arabic food—was she Lebanese? Troy watched her surreptitiously—watched her pour her drink and sip it reverentially, watched her after her food came, lips and teeth taking bites, face registering pleasure—and found himself getting turned on. Maybe it had been too long, maybe Justin was right, and he should try to make a move on Little Miss Jonas Brothers. Not the woman he wanted, but this one was way out of his league, and probably experienced at turning away male attention.

As if to confirm his thoughts, a well-built, good-looking guy tried his luck with the mystery woman and was viciously shot down—weakling flea up against a fiery cannonball.

Still, Troy stayed, long after his drink was gone. She drew him, even in a spectator role. He wanted to be the fly on her wall and hang around, buzzing as long as she was here.

Red-Faced Guy decided he’d had enough and after a few weird comments, stumbled out, leaving only three empty seats between Troy and Womanhood Personified. Ludicrously, his heart started pounding. The bartender offered another arak, and though he’d been fine before, Troy felt exposed now, and answered yes. His peripheral vision caught the woman registering his presence. More than registering, she was watching him. His drink came, and in the act of pouring, he gave in to his impulse and turned to meet her eyes.

Boom.

He’d expected her to have an effect on him; hell, he’d practically gotten a hard-on watching her eat, but he hadn’t expected … this. It was as if he’d lit up, as if every nerve ending in his body had come to life in a way he’d never felt before, ever, not even close. They heated up, uh, like a life, um, heat …

Uh-oh. He was in trouble.

She looked away, then back.

Boom. Again. Stronger this time. The rest of Justin’s words sang in Troy’s brain: This is it. This is her. I just met the rest of my life.

Jeez. Get a grip.

She looked away again and continued eating, not with her previous sexy immersion into the experience, each bite contemplated, taken, then savored, but robotically, unvaryingly, bites brought to her mouth, chewed, swallowed, repeated, as if she were seriously rattled. As if she’d just locked eyes with destiny and wasn’t sure she liked what she saw. Unless Troy was simply projecting what he wanted her to be feeling.

He sipped his drink, sipped again, needing the courage more than the buzz. The last guy who tried to get on base with her struck out before the pitch was even completed. Troy could suffer the same fate no matter how intense their eye contact had been.

Or he could not.

Another sip, and he’d decided. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” his father always said, usually before he was about to try a difficult golf shot, which he generally missed.

So … what to say?

Hi, I’m Troy.

Oh, was that clever.

Can I buy you a drink?

Zero points.

How about them Brewers?

Yeah, right.

You look like someone who really enjoys her food.

Hmm. That wasn’t so bad.

Another check on his neighbor—she was gripping her glass, staring straight ahead, apparently unaware of his continued presence. Hello? Little encouragement here? Even a glance?

Apparently not.

One last sip of arak and he’d do it, no matter what.

Movement caught his eye and he found her this time with wallet in hand.

He took the last sip hastily. “Leaving?”

She stiffened as though the word had cornered her, then turned slowly. This time, though, Troy was prepared for the impact.

Boom.

No, he wasn’t.

“Thought I might.”

“Can I buy you another drink instead?” No, it wasn’t original, but he was working under pressure.

She didn’t answer. She barely moved. For someone who’d been so full of life when she walked in, casting her aura over the entire bar, she’d become oddly colorless and shut down.

He felt unaccountably protective of her, this older woman he knew absolutely nothing about, a woman who seemed more than able to take care of herself, and certainly more than able to answer a yes/no question about wanting a drink.

“No?” He held his breath.

She blinked, as if he’d disturbed some internal debate. Panic flitted over her features, which grew his confidence.

“Or … yes?” He suppressed a smile. Nice to know he had the ability to spark some kind of confused reaction in her. Because she’d done nothing but confuse the hell out of him since she made her entrance.

Miraculously, she put her wallet away, got down from the stool and sauntered toward him, hand held out for a shake. “Yes.”

Yes.

He took her hand. The contact with her skin seemed intimate, familiar and right. He wanted to draw her into his arms and find her mouth. But since all she’d agreed to was a drink, that probably wasn’t a great idea. “My name is—”

“No.” She had a finger up to his lips fast enough to cut him off, startle him and make him want to close his mouth to taste her. “Don’t tell me your name.”

“Why, you want to guess?”

Her pretty brows drew together. “I don’t want to know it.”

“Why not?” Was she married?

“Female prerogative.”

“Okay. Have a seat?” He gestured unnecessarily to the stool next to him—she was already climbing on—and he caught her scent. Frying oil? Herbs? Roasted meat? She’d been in a kitchen somewhere.

“Would you like another arak?”

“Please.”

He signaled the friendly, efficient bartender and pointed to Darcy; the man nodded and got down the bottle and a clean glass.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“No.” The word came out as a simple statement of fact.

Troy regarded her with amusement. “So I guess asking what you do is out of the question, too?”

“Do we really need the details?”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Sometimes they get in the way.”

“Of?”

“Of what we’re both after.” She was still speaking matter-of-factly, but he could sense high energy, see her fingers clenching and opening on her thighs.

“And what is that?”

“A night together. No strings.”

He waited for his body to react, but the adrenaline rush was muted. Mystery Woman was acting as if this was a business transaction, though now that he was close, he could see that something vulnerable lurked under her facade of confidence. Her movements seemed less smooth than when she’d swept into the restaurant, her lips were held tighter. Did she really want to do this? “What makes you think a night together is what I want?”

“Your eyes told me.”

She’d read that much right, though he hadn’t been thinking one-night-no-strings as much as until-we-are-sick-of-each-other-or-die. “Are you married?”

“No.” She spoke emphatically and he believed her. “Nor seeing anyone. I’m just too busy to start a relationship, and prefer to keep entanglements to a minimum.”

Apparently.

Troy didn’t want limits, he wanted to dive in and explore her life and her mind, as well as her body. He still couldn’t believe how powerfully he was drawn to her, how much this felt like something that had always been supposed to happen to him. As if he was welcoming it at last, like a much-anticipated reunion with a long-expected and familiar friend.

She tossed her hair back, exposing the flawless line of her long neck. He caught a light floral scent past the kitchen aromas, and his lips buzzed with the desire to touch and taste that skin.

“Are you married?” She eyed him suspiciously.

“No. Nor involved with anyone right now.”

“Would you like to be involved with someone?” She leaned closer, inches away, eyes half-closed, lips curling up at the sides, begging to be kissed. The power of her nearness nearly blew him off his stool. “I mean right now. Right here?”

He hesitated before he accepted her invitation and met her lips. Something about this still felt surreal. Maybe that the attraction—and acting on it—was crazy, irresponsible, confusing, unlikely and very, very strong.

She pulled back nearly immediately from his kiss, as if it had startled her, then leaned in again, used her tongue to paint his lips, her teeth to nip, her mouth to smooth the bites.

Troy’s cock responded, but his brain was asking for more than technique and teasing. It wanted a real kiss, one that joined them and took them over the way the mere meeting of their eyes had earlier.

He cupped the back of her head and kissed her the way he wanted, meeting her lips, moving lightly, then harder, not letting her back away from their erupting passion.

Her tongue tempted; he responded, and their touch heated to the danger point. Too hot. He had to break free, hand still tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck, breath coming hard and fast.

This woman was serious trouble.

“Do you want to get out of here?” She was whispering, head bent, speaking to his chest.

His heart swelled with pleasure over what she was offering and caution over how easily the offer came. “You do this often?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No.”

“Why now?”

“Why not?”

That was no answer. There was more. He wanted at it. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Where do you think we’re going?”

“My place?”

“No.” She looked up sharply. “Not mine, either. Hotel room.”

He winced. He hadn’t been in a hotel room with a woman since … ever. The one time he was, the girl hadn’t been old enough to be classified as a woman. Prom night with a group of seniors. Couples took private turns in the room their parents thoughtfully paid for—though not for that purpose—while the rest hung out in the pool and game room areas.

“I just met you.” She sat straight, pushing back hair that had tumbled forward. “I’m not letting you know where I live and I’m not going to your place. Hotel or nothing.”

Troy narrowed his eyes. “Are you always this wide-open to negotiation?”

She shrugged. “In a hotel someone will hear me if I have to scream.”

Her words chilled him, as did her casual attitude. Had she learned that lesson the hard way? He couldn’t stand thinking about it. “You think I’m capable of hurting you?”

“No.” She dropped her eyes. “But it’s a mistake to rely entirely on instinct.”

“I take it you’ve made that mistake.”

“I did. Let’s leave it at that.”

Barriers again. He wanted to know everything about her, and she was apparently going to fight him every step of the way.

He threw down bills for the bartender and stood. Her eyes traveled quickly over him, top to bottom, and she must have liked what she saw, because her beautiful mouth curved into a smile. He escorted her outside into the still-chilly May air and over to her car. “I get to pick the hotel.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” Troy spoke firmly, saw her into the driver’s seat. “The Pfister downtown. Meet me in the lobby.”

He shut her door on her surprised face and walked to his car before she could collect herself enough to respond. If they had to make love in a hotel room, okay, but for his depraved trysts, Troy wasn’t putting up with anything less than the best.

Roughly half an hour later, after a quick condom run, Troy met her in the Pfister’s elegant lobby and traveled with her up to room 321.

“Home sweet home.” He inserted the plastic card key and pushed open the door to the spacious, luxurious room done in rich shades of burgundy and gold: a bedroom with a four-poster king, a small sitting room and huge curtained windows that would have a view of Lake Michigan during the day.

“Nice. Beautiful, in fact.” She walked in, tossed her purse on the bed, drew back the curtain to peer out the window, then let it fall and casually pulled her shirt over her head, exposing a black lace push-up bra supporting firm breasts, and a toned abdomen over the black pants sitting low on her hips. “Long day. I’m going to shower.”

He stood watching her, taken aback, feeling almost superfluous, erection pushing uncomfortably against the fly of his jeans while she lowered her pants and stepped out of them to reveal not more black lace, but thin pink cotton bikini underwear with faded red and purple hearts. The mismatch was oddly endearing.

“Want company in the shower?”

She shrugged as if she couldn’t care either way. “Sure, if you’d like to.”

If he’d like to? What was going on here? She was acting as if they were professional acquaintances, not two passionate people about to become lovers. Was she nervous or really this blasé about inviting strange men into bed? He didn’t like either option. He wanted her hungry for him, excited, as anxious to touch and to discover him as he was to discover her.

Her hands disappeared behind her back; black lace came loose, uncovering round, high breasts with rose nipples that made Troy’s mouth purse in anticipation of sucking. She wasn’t looking at him, undressing as if he were a girlfriend she’d spent the day with and barely noticed in the room. The panties came down next in a matter-of-fact gesture, exposing closely trimmed dark hair through which peeked soft pink perfection.

Troy made a helpless sound between a groan and a moan. She either didn’t hear or pretended not to know what she was doing to him, threw her panties on the bed and started to stride toward the shower.

He stepped deliberately in her way, pulling his shirt over his head. She was not turning their night together into an impersonal body-on-body encounter, and she was definitely not making it as far as the shower before he was inside her.

“Excuse me.” Her eyes were wide searching his face, which must be reflecting his single-minded determination. “Could I please get to the shower?”

He pulled her against him, savoring the smoothness of her skin on his, and the lush pressure of her breasts. The lingering food odors had gone with her clothes; she smelled like woman and the subtle floral scent he’d caught earlier. “Shower later. You and me now.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do.” He moved side to side, letting his chest brush her nipples, holding her eyes with his.

She shifted her gaze away, then back, put a hand to his sternum, but not forcefully. “I’m not clean. I’d rather—”

“You smell delicious. You smell like you.” His voice came out a whisper; he kissed her bare shoulder, the base of her neck, her throat. “I want you now. Then shower if you have to, then I want you again. And again. And again.”

He kissed her beautiful skin, longer between each word, undoing his jeans, pushing until they fell to his ankles and he could step out of them. Then he found her mouth, wrapped her tightly in his arms and lifted her, making her clutch at his shoulders and moan against his lips.

Yes. She wanted him, this stunning, incredibly hot, older and undoubtedly more experienced woman. She wasn’t as indifferent as her methodical striptease suggested. His ego swelled along with his dick. He was going to make this good for her, good enough to break through that iron control. Maybe she’d tell him nothing about herself using words, but she’d tell him plenty with her body by the time this night was over. And in the days and nights ahead, he’d get to know the rest.

He toppled her back onto the mattress, which bounced them comfortably.

“Are you always this dictatorial?” Her breath was coming fast. She opened her legs to let him settle between them. He rubbed his erection against her beautiful sex through the thin cotton of his boxers.

“No, but I suspect you are.”

“Always.” She smiled up at him, dark eyes shining, hair splayed on the hotel pillow around her lovely face. Something shifted in his heart. What was it about this woman? He hadn’t known her for more than a few hours.

“I bet you run something for your career.” He touched his nose to hers, nuzzled her soft cheek. “Manage people. Boss crowds of them around.”

“I told you, no personal details.”

“No?” He rolled to the side, bringing her over with him, wondering what she was hiding from or scared of, and when or if she’d let him in. He trailed his fingers down her flat belly, forcing himself to go slower than he wanted, circled them in the short, soft hair between her legs, brushed her clitoris gently back and forth, loving the push of her hips in response. “How about this personal detail?”

“Oh.” The syllable was soft, breathless. “You seem to know that one already.”

“Mmm, yes.” He teased her more, running his fingers slowly around her sex, exploring, reading her reactions—the thrust and grind of her hips, the catch in her breathing, the flutter of lashes against her cheek.

“And this?” Thumb rubbing a light circle on her clitoris, he slid a finger inside her, nearly going out of his mind with lust when her eyes shot open and a gasp escaped her.

“That is personal.”

“Yes. It is.” He pushed a second finger inside her, wanting to watch her come apart, to send her as far from the tightly controlled woman dispassionately pulling off her clothes as he could get her.

“Wait.” She tried to squirm away from his fingers. “I’m … wait.”

“No waiting.” He bent and took her breast in his mouth, sucked the nipple, worshipped it with his tongue and teeth, kissed his way up to her throat, bit gently.

Her face flushed pink; she closed her eyes, panting helplessly. “Wait.”

“No,” he said quietly. “Let it go, sweetheart, you’re safe.”

Her body went rigid; her eyes opened wide into his. Troy felt her muscles contract powerfully around his fingers, and practically lost it. He was dimly aware he had to remember the condom, but not much else registered except his need to be inside this woman as soon as possible.

Then he was, and she felt smooth and tight, gripped his cock perfectly, legs wrapped around him. In seconds, she was on fire all over again, hands working the muscles in his back, her hips bucking, face showing her pleasure, though she didn’t meet his eyes. When he came, he had to keep from yelling, spasms of ecstasy shooting him impossibly higher, and then higher still after that.

She’d milked him dry, he was sure. Except in the shower he took her again, and again back on the bed, and once more in the middle of the night. In the morning, before his eyes were fully open, he reached eagerly for her, hard and ready to experience more of this insatiable woman for whom he was equally insatiable, who ruled his body and already at least part of his heart.

How could his life change so quickly? How could he go from so many pleasant, lukewarm dates with lovely women to an explosive all-night-long with someone who set him on fire with merely a look?

His hands met nothing on the other side of the bed; he rolled over and listened for her in the bathroom, wondering how he could have slept so deeply that he was entirely unaware of her getting up.

No sounds. He blinked, uneasiness creeping into his chest. She’d affected him more than any woman ever had, but the power in this situation was all on her side. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t have her number.

He threw off the covers, hurled himself out of bed. The sitting room was uninhabited; bathroom was dark, its door left ajar. He opened it anyway, sick with dread, flipped on the light and faced the inevitable emptiness of the room.

She was gone.

3

“CHAZ, THANKS FOR COMING IN today.” Marie shook the strong, beautiful, masculine hand of strong, beautiful, masculine Chaz Hunter, and escorted his strong, beautiful, masculine body out of her office, barely closing the door behind him before she was pumping her fist. “Yes!”

This was the man for Darcy. Intelligent, articulate, funny, drop-dead gorgeous, built like an Olympic diver, divorced five years, didn’t want kids and guess what he did for a living? Sold wine to stores and … wait for it … restaurants. He could not be more perfect. Marie could already envision long, sensual dates for the two of them spent tasting wine and food and each other. Chaz even loved the same kind of alternative rock music she did. Plus, from what Marie could tell, he came from money. So if Darcy ever needed a little cash infusion in her business, maybe to open a second location …

Okay. Marie was getting ahead of herself. But this guy was worth pulling out all the stops for, really attacking Darcy with how fabulous he was. And then when Darcy put her foot down and went mulish, as she very predictably and very annoyingly would, Marie could start thinking how to make this happen some other, less direct way. Some other, behind-the-scenes way. Some low-down, sinfully sneaky way.

Desperate times …

She pounced on her phone and dialed. Ten in the morning, Darcy wouldn’t be at the restaurant yet, or if she was, she wouldn’t be crazy busy and could talk. With any luck she’d even be able to listen.

“Darcy, it’s Marie.” She tried to keep the excitement out of her tone.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Not much.” She sat back in her desk chair, grinning smugly. “Oh, except I just met your future husband.”

“My—” Darcy groaned. “Well, isn’t that fascinating, seeing as how I don’t plan to get married ever.”

“He’s handsome, sexy, funny, sexy, rich, sexy—”

“Marie, what part of ‘I don’t want to date’ doesn’t get through your filter?”

“And, he sells wine to fine establishments such as yours. You’d have tons in common.”

“We have one thing not in common right off the bat.”

“You’re female, he’s male?” She laughed. “Honey, that’s the best part. Or maybe you forgot.”

“No-o. That’s not i-i-t.” Darcy sang the words as if she were taunting a sibling. “The difference is that he wants to date, and I don’t.”

“You don’t have to date. Just meet him.”

“Oh, like that’s going to—”

“Just look at his profile.”

“Not interested.”

“His picture.”

“For heaven’s—”

“How about listen to me saying his name?”

“Marie! You are a menace.”

“Aren’t I?” She was so enjoying this, twisting her chair side to side, sure she was finally on her way to victory, be it fair or foul. “You know I’m going to wear you down eventually. Why not give in?”

“Because.” Darcy made a sound of frustration. “I don’t need any more male complications right now.”

Marie’s chair stopped; her eyes shot wide. “More male complications? What do you mean ‘more’? You met someone?”

“No. No, I didn’t meet— For God’s sake, Marie. You are obsessed. I think you need to see someone about this. A friend has a therapist who has helped her a lot with her complete and total insanity, yours can’t be much worse. Or maybe it is.”

“Chaz Hunter.” She picked up a pen and wrote the name in the air with giant flourishes. “Chaz-z Hunter-r.”

“Chaz? Oh, ew, what, his great-grandfather founded the Milwaukee Yacht Club?”

“His great-grandfather came over from Germany. They made money in construction. A lot of money.”

“How nice for them.”

“Just take a look.” She suppressed a giggle, sensing Darcy was about to blow. “I’ll send his picture to your—”

“Marie. I do not want—” A sharp thwack came across the line. Had a fish or chicken part just been severed while Darcy imagined Marie’s head leaving her body? Silence, then a long suffering sigh. “Send it if you want, but I’m deleting upon receipt.”

Excellent. She was weakening. Marie pulled up an email and attached Chaz’s profile picture. “Darcy, in all seriousness, he seems like a really good guy. I can see you enjoying him a lot. And he’s very hot.”

“And therefore incredibly full of himself.”

“Darcy, Darcy.” Marie tsk-tsked. “You are horrifically sexist.”

“I have to go. Delivery guy is here. Thanks for thinking of me, but I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Watch for his photo. Chaz Hunter.” She hung up, sent the email and let her head drop back, swinging the chair side to side again. Well. That was progress. Darcy’s curiosity would undoubtedly prompt her to look at the picture, which was pretty fabulous. Chaz, standing on top of a spectacular mountain, clear blue eyes visible, strong chin shown to advantage, thick ashen hair ruffling sexily in the wind.

Sadly, Marie was pretty sure it would take a stronger push to get Darcy to talk to the guy even if she found his picture attractive. The first step would have to come from Chaz. But since Darcy didn’t have a profile up on Milwaukeedates, Marie had nothing to show Chaz in order to interest him.

She stopped swinging the chair. Lifted her head. Stared at her laptop screen.

Now was the time.

Hadn’t she recognized at the Women in Power meeting last week that she’d probably have to resort to fighting dirty in order to get Darcy to admit that love was what she deep down really wanted?

If Marie put up a Milwaukeedates profile for Darcy and steered Chaz in her direction, maybe he’d take it from there. What girl could resist being courted by a handsome, wealthy guy with loads of charisma and common interests? Certainly not Marie. If her friend Quinn, who met each one of those criterion, ever glanced romantically in her short, plump, average-woman direction, she’d melt into a gooey puddle.

There was always the chance, however, that Darcy, faced with the same irresistible combination, might freeze into a column of ice.

Marie’s assistant buzzed. “Candy Graham on line three.”

“Thanks, Jane.” She connected the call eagerly. The perfect person to consult when hatching diabolical plans. “Hey, Candy.”

“Marie, I had a completely fabulous idea.”

“So did I.” She grinned. Candy tackled everything with one hundred percent enthusiasm. “Let’s hear yours first.”

“You should have a party to celebrate all the Milwaukeedates couples who’ve gotten engaged or married through your site. Next month, June, is wedding month, the perfect time. I’m thinking end of the month, a wedding theme with tiered cake, flowers, champagne, maybe have a drawing for a donated certificate to a local bridal shop and/or tux rental place, or for the already-marrieds, to a kitchen or home improvement store.”

“Wow. Wow!” Marie rose slowly from her chair as if helium was filling her. “What a great idea, Candy! Do we have time to plan a party in a month?”

“Are you kidding? Plenty. I’m happy to do it. I bet the paper would be willing to write up a piece on it, too. It’d be great PR for both of us. And I have friends at a couple of radio stations who might be willing to do interviews.”

“Candy, you are brilliant.” Marie started pacing her office, going back over the five years she’d been in business. “We’ve had about twenty-five couples engaged or married since we started, including you and Justin and Kim and Nathan.”

“Fifty people is a perfect size. You can have it in your office, or … hey, maybe we can hold it at Gladiolas.”

“Yes!” Marie was already picturing the dining room at Gladiolas decorated for a wedding theme. “I love it. Good PR for Darcy, too.”

“Settled. So what was your completely fabulous idea?”

Marie gave a wicked grin. “Let’s say I’m trying to extend your guest list by one more couple.”

“Another set of lovebirds on the way?”

“I’m plotting. Darcy.”

“Darcy?” Candy gave a shout of laughter. “You think you can get her engaged in the next month? I didn’t think you could even get her interested in dating.”

“I can’t. But I’m still determined.”

“How are you going to do it?”

“Er …” Marie wrinkled her nose. “I do have a plan, but it’s not entirely ethical.”

Candy hooted. “Are you going to have her put up four different profiles on Milwaukeedates the way you did with me?”

“One would be enough.” She rubbed her temple, not entirely comfortable now that she’d have to admit to her scheme out loud. “The problem is that she refuses to consider it. So I was thinking maybe I could go online …”

“And put up a profile without her permission?”

Marie bit her lip anxiously. “It’s horrible, isn’t it.”

“It is pretty horrible.”

“I mean, it’s really low.”

“Really low.”

“You don’t think I should do it.”

“Absolutely, I do.” Candy sounded delighted. “It’s perfect.”

Marie snorted, wandering restlessly over to her bookcase. “I really don’t know.”

“C’mon, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“She’d get angry with me.”

“How does she feel about your matchmaking efforts on her behalf now?”

“Angry with me.”

“Therefore …”

“I see your point.” She ran a finger over the shelf. Needed dusting. “Except she could probably come after me legally. Invasion of privacy or something.”

“Darcy wouldn’t do that. Deep down she recognizes that as meddling and annoying as you are, Marie, you—”

“Oh, thanks. Tons.”

“Sure, no problem. She realizes you love her and that’s what motivates you. She wouldn’t lash back at that. Not more than verbally.”

“Which I would deserve.” She went back to her desk and sank into the chair. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Which we would deserve. This is now officially our matchmaking plan. In fact, I’ll call Kim and we’ll make it a threesome idea.”

“No, no. You shouldn’t share blame with me.”

“Who’s talking blame? We’ll want to share the credit. At her wedding.”

Marie laughed. “You really think I should do this?”

“Absolutely. If nothing else it will get her attention. And any picture of her will definitely get the attention of men on the site. Then who knows? Once guys start flocking, she might just decide to give one or more of them a try.”

“That was my hope.” Marie logged onto Milwaukeedates as an administrator. “Okay, you’re convincing me.”

“We’re convincing us. I’m going to call Kim right away. And listen, I’ll do up an outline for the wedding party idea and email it to you by tomorrow or Monday, okay?”

“Love it. Thanks, Candy, on both counts. You’re a gem.”

“Aren’t I? Seriously, I think forcing the issue with Darcy is a great idea. I saw her face when Kim was talking about wedding plans, and boy, look up wistful in the dictionary and there’s her expression.”

“Exactly.” Marie was triumphant now. An enthusiastic ally had made all the difference.

“Speaking of her face, do you have a good picture of her? I might be able to dig one up.”

“I doubt she can take a bad one.” Marie brought up a New Profile page on her computer. “I have the photos I took at the Gladiolas opening. There’s one in particular I remember as stunning.”

“Awesome. That was a great dress she had on!”

“Okay, I’m on this. Thank you, Candy. Say hi to Justin.”

“Say hi to Quinn.”

Marie started, fingers stumbling over the keyboard. Quinn? “How did you know about him?”

Candy snickered. “Kim is my new gossip girl. She told me recently that she saw you two walking when she and Nathan were kayaking last month. Said you looked aw-fully happy.”

“He’s a friend. That’s all.” Marie was very glad Candy couldn’t see her blushing.

“Uh-huh. Right. I believe that. One of these days we’re all going to gang up on you for the matchmaking thing and see how you like it.”

“Ooh, what a threat.”

“You’ve been warned. Oh, and speaking of potentially good gossip, Wednesday night I saw Darcy heading for Esmee Restaurant. I’d just picked up Justin; he was drinking there with Troy. I tried to get Justin to ask if Troy had noticed Darcy—as if any man wouldn’t—and if he noticed who she met up with, but you know men, their priorities are wacked, so Justin hasn’t asked yet.”

“Uh … okay.” Marie’s head was spinning trying to follow that one. “Wait, Darcy and Troy have never met?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes, fingers tapping on the side of her keyboard. Troy. She hadn’t thought of him for Darcy. Too young? Maybe not strong enough? “Let me know what you find out, especially if she’s already got someone.”

“You think she and Troy …?”

“I’m committing to nothing.”

“Well, he’s on the site, too, so you should definitely go ahead with our unethical plan. Oops, Justin’s here. Talk to you soon!”

“Bye.” Marie hung up, feeling slightly breathless, partly from relief she’d dodged further questions about Quinn, and partly because she always felt that way after talking to her warm-hearted whirlwind of a friend.

Candy’s party idea was terrific. Mid-June also brought Marie’s fortieth birthday, something she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to face. But celebrating the love she’d brought to so many couples would be a fitting way to show how rich her life had become and would continue to be.

For a second she imagined what richness her life would hold if Quinn was in it the way she’d come to realize she wanted him to be.

But that was ridiculous daydreaming. Marie had plenty more important things to do than fantasize about something she couldn’t have. She opened her pictures file, searching for the photograph of Darcy she remembered best.

There. Darcy, caught unaware during a quiet moment at Gladiolas’s opening, surveying her restaurant, color high, eyes sparkling, looking about as proud and happy and beautiful as any woman had a right to be.

The men of Milwaukeedates.com weren’t going to know what hit them. And assuming Chaz reacted to her picture the way any sighted, intelligent, straight male would, Darcy wasn’t going to, either.

“YOU DID WHAT?”

“Put up a profile for Darcy.” Marie’s smile slipped. Something was off tonight. From the moment she’d shown up at their usual Friday-night drink and dinner date here at the Roots Cellar bar in their shared neighborhood of Brewer’s Hill, she and Quinn hadn’t been able to settle into the usual easy camaraderie. She was used to him kidding about her matchmaking efforts, but while he usually reacted with amused exasperation, right now he seemed genuinely annoyed. “And I sent Chaz a Milwaukeedates ‘hello’ supposedly from her, to get the ball rolling.”

“This after she’s said repeatedly that she doesn’t want to date.”

“Jeez, Quinn.” She stared at him, getting annoyed herself, which was a first. She couldn’t remember the two of them having anything but teasing, polite disagreements. Now Quinn wasn’t teasing, and Marie didn’t feel polite. “Haven’t you listened to a thing I’ve told you about Darcy?”

“Sounds like you’re not listening to a thing she’s told you.”

“She does want to date. You should see her talk about men.”

“You mean hear her talk?”

“No, see her.” Marie put down her Prufrock, her favorite Roots specialty drink, and turned on the bar stool, holding herself rigid. “Her whole body goes into terrified-defense mode, like this. Stiff as a board. She’s so afraid to admit what she wants. So afraid someone will figure out she’s human and can be vulnerable. It’s heartbreaking.”

“And up to you to fix?”

Grrrr. Even Quinn’s strong resemblance to George Clooney wasn’t helping her like him any better at the moment. “No, not up to me. Only she can fix it. But if I can put a guy in her way who will inspire her to take the necessary steps so she can ultimately be happy, then I’ve done something really wonderful for her.”

He signaled the dark-eyed bartender, Joe, for another gin martini; he’d gone through his first one much faster than usual. “She’ll be happy paired off because no one can be happy on his or her own? Is that what you believe?”

“Yes. I do believe that or I couldn’t keep putting this much effort and time into what I do.”

Quinn drained an invisible final drop from his empty drink and pushed the glass away, then fixed his movie-star gaze on her. “And where do you fit into that, Marie?”

“What do you mean?” For some reason, maybe because his voice had gentled, Marie felt some of the fight leave her. “In my role as meddling matchmaker?”

“No. In your role as a woman. A single woman who shows no signs of wanting a man in her own life. Why is that? You don’t want to be ‘happy’?”

Irritation sparked again. “When it’s time for me to date, I will.”

“And when will that time be?”

When she could give up hope that Quinn might someday open his eyes and see her. “You want an exact hour?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Okay, fine.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. They were squabbling like children. This wasn’t what she wanted. But maybe he was pushing her toward something she should be doing anyway. Setting a deadline. Deciding when to give up this pipe dream. “June 23 at 5:03 p.m.”

He blinked. “How precise.”

“The exact day and time I turn forty.”

“I see.” He turned the second drink Joe had brought him in a circle, as if deciding the angle at which to attack, raised the glass halfway to his mouth, then set it down. “So you’re officially on the market as of then.”

“Yes.” Marie nodded firmly. No, she hadn’t planned to draw that line, but having done so felt like the right and smart thing to do. By that night, newly forty-year-old Marie would either have summoned her courage to confess her feelings to Quinn, or decided there was no point and it was time to move on. Hanging on like this was only going to get harder and harder.

“And then you’ll, what, sign up with a competitor’s dating website?”

“I … guess so.” She smiled at him, sick to her toes. How could she even think about dating anyone else feeling this way about Quinn? Obvious answer: she’d have to. “Or I’ll ask friends if they know of anyone. Do you know of anyone?”

He did drink this time, a substantial gulp. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, is he handsome?” She didn’t care. This was torture.

“Hmm. I’m not the one to ask about that, Marie. He’s not my type.”

“Fun to be with?”

“Yeah, I’d say he’s pretty fun.”

Somehow she kept smiling with a mouth that felt weighted. “Intelligent?”

“He is.”

“In decent shape?”

“Sure.”

“Revoltingly wealthy, I hope?” Like she cared …

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Marie scowled comically. “There must be something horribly wrong with him.”

“Huh?” He gave her a sidelong look. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, obviously, if he’s that perfect and not seeing anyone there’s some ghastly defect you haven’t figured out yet.”

Quinn chuckled without humor. “Oh, you cynic.”

“Me? I’m not the one dating a parade of women young enough to be my daughters.” She meant to tease, but bitterness showed through. A lot of bitterness. Bitterness that belonged to her ex-husband and his child-bride, not to Quinn, who’d suffered through a betrayal of his own when his wife left him for another man.

Quinn’s face darkened. “I gave up that chase, I told you.”

Marie gathered herself together. Enough. This was horrible, and getting them nowhere.

“Quinn, something isn’t right tonight. We seem unable to do anything but bicker.”

He straightened his broad shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re right. Sorry. I’m on edge tonight.”

“Work?” She wondered if something was going wrong with one of the companies he’d invested in. Though he didn’t strike her as the type who’d risk more than he could comfortably afford to lose.

“Sort of.” He frowned, staring into his gin. “There’s a situation I’ve been counting on working out, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been reading it wrong. It’s not like me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve invested a lot. Time, energy, emotion.”

“Quinn.” She leaned toward him, heart melting at his distress, put her hand on his forearm and squeezed the strong muscle reassuringly. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes, actually.” He took another too-large sip of his martini. “Come to dinner with me at Dream Dance Steakhouse.”

Marie’s jaw dropped. The restaurant was one of Milwaukee’s finest, and one of its most expensive. Not exactly a buddy date. “Wow. That’s … a little out of my—”

“I’m inviting you. My treat. We can go dancing afterward.”

League was how she’d been going to finish her sentence. Now she wasn’t sure she was hearing correctly. “Dancing.”

“Swing dancing at the Jazz House. If you’d enjoy that.”

If? Was she dreaming? Quinn Peters, god among men, was inviting peasant-stock Marie on what sounded like a real man-woman date? She ducked her head to avoid showing her blush and took a solid breath so her voice would come out casually. “That sounds fun. When were you thinking of going?”

“Next Friday? Our regular night?”

“Sure.” She was dreaming. If an operator like Quinn wanted her, he would have made that clear on their first meeting. Right? God, this was confusing. She reached instinctively for her drink, suddenly as thirsty for alcohol as he seemed to have been all night, took a big clumsy slug and started coughing.

“You all right?” He thumped her firmly on the back, a big brother’s touch. He had told her months ago that she reminded him of his sister. Marie had been so humiliated, she’d invented a brother he could remind her of, too. Only he hadn’t looked humiliated at all at the comparison.

“Fine. I’m fine.” She wiped her streaming eyes. “Just haven’t learned how to swallow yet.”

“You might want to try.” His hand lingered briefly between her shoulder blades, then slid slowly down her spine before he finally broke the contact.

Not quite a lover’s touch, but not a brother’s, either.

Marie reacted as if he’d kissed her, desire running hot for more of the same. Help.

Next Friday. Dinner and dancing. She’d be in his arms out on the floor, possibly held close against him. If a pat on the back got her this heated, she’d end that night up in flames.

Still without knowing whether this man she burned for had any interest in putting them out.

4

“CHEF?” A CE KNOCKED ON THE door to Darcy’s cramped enclosure—which she optimistically called her “office”—in the back of Gladiolas’s kitchen. “We have a problem with this morning’s delivery.”

Darcy turned her chair away from the computer where she’d carefully saved a new recipe into her Chef’s Bible file: one copy there, password protected, and one on the red flash drive she kept hidden in a drawer. The file was sacred; in it she kept all her food creations, past present and future, and all her ideas for Gladiolas’s specials. This was a menu she called Save Calories for Dessert, which featured local bass steamed over a fragrant curried broth, served alongside roasted zucchini and couscous studded with raisins and almonds. A light salad of avocado, grapefruit and endive, and then a killer dessert with layers of white milk and dark chocolate mousses in a bitter chocolate shell.

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