“Are you ready?” Cilla called, and walked through the archway

This time she was modeling a deep cobalt-blue lingerie set. It showed skin, a lot of it. The garter belt gave her the look of a wanton, the G-string under it an invitation to sin. The bustier she wore on top made her slight curves look bountiful. And stopped just above her nipples, which stood out against the smooth fabric.

Desire thudded through Rand. He couldn’t stop staring at her. He wanted his mouth on hers; he wanted to be inside her.

“What do you think?” Cilla asked.

Rand wasn’t sure coherent thought was on the program. She looked like a naughty schoolgirl, amused with her own daring. She looked like a temptress accustomed to making strong men weak. She looked like a woman of flesh and blood and unapologetic appetites. And all he could do was feast right along with her.

“Come here,” he ordered, because that was all he could handle….

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to the world of SEX & THE SUPPER CLUB. Nothing but the Best is Cilla’s book, and boy, was it a blast to write. Years ago I read an interview with Larry McMurtry in which he described his characters as though they were real people with minds of their own, people he just tracked and listened to as they went through their lives. I thought it was fanciful at the time—then I started writing novels and discovered that it was absolutely true. Cilla knows exactly who she is and what should happen to her. It’s when she runs into a stubborn, sexy guy named Rand that she gets into trouble.

Cilla’s a feisty heroine who’s great fun. I’d love to hear what you think of her. Drop me a line at kristin@kristinhardy.com. Look for more of SEX & THE SUPPER CLUB coming in the future—we still have to follow the stories of Paige, Thea and, best of all, Delaney. To keep track, sign up for my newsletter at www.kristinhardy.com for contests, recipes and updates on my recent and upcoming releases.

Have fun,

Kristin Hardy

Nothing But the Best
Kristin Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Matt, Ernie and Bitsy, the legendary basement gang, and to Stephen, my favorite person in the whole world.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Los Angeles, 1996

“OKAY, EVERYONE, you can stop unpacking, dinner’s here.”

Cilla Danforth shut the front door with her elbow, balancing the stack of pizzas as she stared at the disordered living room of her new house. Despite the confusion that dotted the room, Cilla could still feel the warmth of her late grandmother’s presence. No reading of the will changed that. But Gran had wanted her to have a home of her own. Cilla figured that she’d have understood that at twenty, Cilla wasn’t ready to live alone yet. She wanted friends around her, roommates to share her days in the rambling Depression Modern home in the affluent neighborhood of Brentwood.

Cilla shook her head briskly and carried the stack of pizza boxes into the kitchen. Like magic, the scent drew the rest of her new roommates, the same way it did when they got it delivered to the university drama department when they were all working on a production.

“Trish, where’s all the kitchen stuff you got at the store?” Kelly Vandervere yelled.

Trish ran down the stairs, her long red hair clubbed back in a braid. “Look on the counter behind you. I grabbed paper plates and napkins. I thought we could figure out what to do about real plates once we got settled. I don’t think Cilla should have to buy everything. We’re living here, too.”

“Well, these will do for the time being,” said Delaney, a gleam in her eye as she opened the box holding the pepperoni pizza.

They settled in the living room, sitting on the sofa or against the wall.

“One of the things we’re going to have to get is enough places for all of us to sit,” Cilla observed.

“I got a couple of upholstered chairs when they sold off the props from my dad’s last movie,” Sabrina Pantolini told them.

“That’ll help,” Cilla said. “Paige, you want to go to Danforth Home with me this week and help me pick out a couple of sofas?”

Paige’s eyes lit up at the idea of a shopping spree at Danforth, Cilla’s family’s business and the most luxurious department store on Rodeo Drive. “Any time.”

“Nothing too gorgeous, Paige,” Thea begged. “I don’t want nightmares from spilling wine when I’m making out with Rob Frieden, or something. Not that I’m planning to,” she added hastily.

Sabrina winked. “Not planning to do what, spill wine or make out with him?”

“Spill wine, of course. As to Rob…” She gave a saucy look and took a bite of pizza.

Delaney raised her Coke. “Here’s to escaping the dorms.”

Trish shook her head. “Here’s to Cilla, for inviting us to live in her new house.”

“Thanks to you guys for being my roomies,” Cilla countered. “We’ll fix it all up, get it in great shape.”

“Using lots of sexy contractors, I hope,” Kelly added.

“My dad made sure it stayed fine structurally, but you’ll see it needs paint and repairs. Toward the end, Gran just wasn’t comfortable with anything changing, so some of the walls are pretty bad.”

“I’ll paint my room,” Paige, always the designer, volunteered immediately. Even though she’d been hauling boxes all day with them, she looked as coolly blond and tidy as always.

“Our room,” Thea reminded her.

“Trust me, darling, you’ll love it,” Paige assured her.

“So let’s see,” Delaney said thoughtfully. “We’ve got four bedrooms. Sabrina and Kelly, you’re rooming together, and Trish and I, which leaves Cilla with the only private room.”

“As appropriate,” Trish pointed out. “She owns the place.”

“So what if one of us has a boyfriend and wants to have some privacy?” Delaney asked.

“You mean when,” Kelly said, rubbing her hands.

“It’s a good thing you and Delaney didn’t wind up in the same room. I don’t know who would be fighting more, you or your hormones,” Paige observed.

“Well, unless we figure something out, it’s looking like Cilla’s going to be the only one getting any action, here,” Delaney replied.

“If you’re good, I’ll fill you all in on it,” Cilla said with a smile. “Trust me.”

1

The present….

THE HIGHWAY WAS open, the wind was in her hair, and for the first time in nearly two months, Cilla Danforth felt free. Around her, the California desert stretched out in all directions, flat and open and fringed with mountains. She turned up the stereo. Friday night and nowhere to be for two whole days.

It was almost better than sex.

Not that she had recent memory of that, of course. Running around to the spring collections in Paris, Milan and New York made it a little hard to have a social life. She was back in her own time zone now, though, at least for a few weeks. Yes, being couture buyer for Danforth’s was exciting. And being the bridge-line buyer for the coast-to-coast Forth’s chain was a challenge. Sometimes, though, she wanted to stop being Cilla Danforth, fashion guru and department store heiress, and just…be.

Cilla would cheerfully have kissed the administrative assistant who’d chosen the Carrington Palms Hot Springs Resort as the location for the Danforth Corporation strategic-planning meeting. The rest of the board and management was showing up Sunday night, or even Monday morning. That was practically an eternity away and she had every intention of spending that eternity by the pool.

And leaving Cilla Danforth behind for a couple of days.

The setting sun sent long fingers of shadow stretching out ahead of her as she headed east. The cars coming toward her—such as they were on this stretch of highway—had begun switching on their lights. Still, she was making good time, and barring unforeseen incidents, she’d make the resort before it got dark.

A sudden explosion made her jump. Instantly, the car began to slew on the highway. Fueled by a spurt of adrenaline, Cilla fought to brake and keep her little Porsche roadster heading straight. Finally, what seemed like eons later, she brought the car to a stop on the shoulder.

Then she dropped her head onto the steering wheel and waited for the shakes to go away.

Okay, triage. It had to have been a blowout. She just needed to confirm it, call AAA to send someone to change the flat, and she’d be on her way. It wasn’t a disaster, just an inconvenient delay. She refused to let it interfere with her bliss.

Cilla slipped on her shoes, wishing she’d remembered to toss her driving moccasins back in the car after she’d worn them last. Stilettos and a miniskirt weren’t exactly approved tire-changing attire, but then who planned for that sort of thing anyway?

Teetering a bit, she walked toward the back of the car. It didn’t take much more than looking at the pieces of rubber littering the highway beyond to confirm that it was a blowout, but she glanced at the car anyway to see more rim than rubber showing on her left rear wheel. A muscle truck with chunky tires drove by, the two guys inside whooping and making enthusiastic suggestions about how she might spend her night.

Wasn’t she just a lucky girl, she thought as she watched their taillights fade.

Cilla slipped back into the car and pulled out her cell phone. And, remembering the truck, she put up the top on the convertible, staring out at the purpling sky as the fabric canopy came down over her. It wasn’t much, but in a place this desolate, every little bit helped.

“TWO HOURS?” Cilla repeated in astonishment.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the phone operator responded, “but you’re out in the middle of nowhere and the only tow companies we’ve got in the area are on calls. The first one who finishes will be out to take care of you.”

The sun was dipping below the horizon. When Cilla looked out to either side, she saw only mesquite, sagebrush, the occasional tumbleweed. It had been wonderfully open and free when she’d been driving. Now, it was fast becoming merely empty and intimidating. She wasn’t a woman who was daunted by much, but the last thing she wanted to do was sit by the side of the road for two hours while it turned dark.

“Ma’am? Did you want me to put you on the call sheet?”

Two hours, Cilla thought, plus the time for the driver to change her tire.

Unless she changed it herself.

After all, how hard could it be? She’d seen people change tires before, in the movies, anyway. Her owner’s manual probably had directions. As she told her father regularly, she was capable of far more than anyone gave her credit for. Why be a girl and wait for a tow-truck driver to come bail her out? Self-sufficiency, that was the ticket.

“Ma’am?”

“Never mind,” Cilla said firmly. “I’ll take care of it.”

Twenty minutes later, she stood cursing as she tried to get the lug nuts on the wheel to turn. The owner’s manual made it sound simple: take off the lug nuts, jack up the car, pull off the old tire, put on the new and be on your way.

They just didn’t warn you that the lug nuts had been tightened by the Incredible Hulk.

Putting her weight on the tire iron for what seemed like the hundredth time, Cilla gritted her teeth and shoved. It did exactly nothing, and stilettos weren’t exactly the right footwear for stomping. She could feel the bruises forming on her palms. Maybe it was time to reconsider the tow truck, she thought as yet another car whisked by, stirring up dust. Bad enough she’d broken a fingernail loosening the wing nut that held the jack in place in the trunk, not to mention the fact that she’d yet to figure out just exactly where the jack was supposed to go when the time came to raise the car.

That part, of course, wasn’t particularly important just then. If she couldn’t get the lug nuts off, her experiment in tire changing was going to come to a screeching halt.

In time with her thoughts, she heard the chirp of tires on pavement. Cilla whipped her head around toward the front of her convertible and froze. The car that had just passed her was on the shoulder about a quarter mile ahead, and swiftly backing up in her direction.

Her heart began to thud. Maybe—probably—it was a good Samaritan. Maybe it was some nice guy who’d be eager to help. She’d grown up in L.A., though, and was all too aware that there were other types of people who stopped for lone women broken down at the side of the road, especially out in the desert.

She picked up the tire iron and got back into the car. It never hurt to be cautious.

Brake lights glowed red as the car stopped a few feet in front of her. White, late model, American made. Didn’t signify much of anything. Psychos could still drive Ferraris and Hummers, and perfectly decent people drove rolling junk heaps. The door of the car opened and she swallowed. Be prepared for anything, she told herself. The driver could be capable, clueless but well-intentioned, or up to no good.

Or, she thought in a moment of stupefied surprise, he could just be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Lean and lanky in jeans, he walked toward her in the wash of headlights, a sheaf of dark hair falling over his forehead. His face was all intriguing angles. His mouth looked soft and eminently kissable. If she’d met him in a cocktail bar, she’d have thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

But she wasn’t in a cocktail bar.

He put a hand on her roof and bent down to look at her. “Need some help?”

Up close, he packed a punch. A five o’clock shadow blued his jaw deliciously. His eyebrows drew sharp lines above his dark gray eyes. Who knew Samaritans were so gorgeous?

Of course, Ted Bundy had been good-looking and charming, too, she reminded herself, but she still brought the window down an inch. “No thanks. I’ve got a tow truck coming,” she said, holding up her cell phone.

“It kind of looked like you were trying to change it yourself when I drove by. Are you sure you don’t need a hand?”

She could think of a thing or two to do with hands like his, but not in her current situation. “It’s nice of you to offer but I’m sure you’re on your way somewhere.” And if conditions were different, I’d be happy to jump you.

“I’ve got time,” he said easily.

Cilla hesitated. Unless she got this stranger, or a tow-truck driver, to change the tire, she clearly wasn’t going anywhere. Part of her was ready to open the door and take him up on his offer—how many Ted Bundys could there be? The other part of her, the part that had lived in the city for too long, perhaps, wasn’t about to take a chance. “I appreciate the thought,” she began, “but I’d really prefer to stay in here and wait for the tow-truck driver.” No matter how gorgeous you are.

Instead of looking offended, he nodded. “You know what? You’re being smart. That’s exactly what I’d tell my kid sisters to do in your spot. But what’s not smart is for you to be sitting on the side of the road out here in nowhere land.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “How much do you weigh?”

“Pardon me?”

“Never mind. You look pretty small. How about if you stay put and I’ll jack up the car with you in it?”

Cilla blinked. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

A corner of his mouth curved up in a smile. “Not unless you plan to start bouncing around.”

“Are you sure? I can wait for the tow-truck driver, or even do it myself.”

His smile broadened. “I’m sure you could, but I bet I can do it quicker. I worked at a garage when I was in high school. And the quicker you say ‘yes,’ the quicker it’ll be done.” He paused, watching her. “The price is right,” he wheedled. “I’ll have you on the road in fifteen minutes.”

Cilla gave up. “Okay, fine.”

“Good call,” he said approvingly. “Okay, let’s get to it. Make sure it’s in gear and put on the emergency brake. Then don’t move until I tell you.”

As he walked to the back of the car, Cilla leaned over and adjusted her side mirror to watch him. If he looked good from the front, he looked even better from the back. Not to mention the fact that he sounded like a genuinely decent guy. She felt the car shift as he pulled the tire out of her trunk. And then he was walking forward to knock at her window.

“What did you do with the tire iron?”

Cilla looked down and realized she was still holding it. She raised her hand.

He blinked and a down-to-his-toes belly laugh rolled out of him. “I see you’re prepared. So much for worrying about a helpless woman at the side of the road.”

“You should be careful about laughing at a person holding a lethal weapon,” she said with dignity, her cheeks burning.

“Damned straight,” he agreed. “Never mind, I’ll get mine.”

And that, of course, treated her to a direct view of him from behind. He rummaged in his trunk for a moment, bending down, she was pleased to see, before getting the crowbar. There was nothing quite like a fine-looking ass on a man, Cilla mused, small and tight and marble hard.

Back at her car, it took him approximately five seconds and one try on each to break loose the lug nuts. It was because she’d loosened them for him, she told herself, trying not to be impressed. The car lurched as he raised the jack, and then the old wheel was off and the spare put on so efficiently it seemed like only a minute or two had passed before the car was back down. There was something immensely sexy about a capable man. Her system buzzed pleasantly.

Sooner than she would have wanted, he was back by her window. “The jack is back in its bracket and I put the old tire in the well but you should get it fixed right away. This is bad country to be driving around in without a spare.”

“Of course.” Cilla hesitated, wanting to be more forthcoming and knowing it wasn’t smart. “You’ve been unbelievably nice. How can I thank you?”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’m happy I was here to help.” His eyes locked on hers and the seconds stretched out. “So, anyway, you’re all set,” he said finally, as though he really wanted to say something else. “You okay to drive? Do you want me to follow you for a while?”

“Um…” she said helplessly. Offering money seemed tacky. What she really wanted was to see him again, but she knew nothing about him, not who he was, not where he was going. You’ve done well so far, she told herself. Don’t screw up.

As though he were reading her thoughts, he smiled faintly. “The way I look at it, what goes around comes around. It’s your turn next. Keep an eye out and when you get a chance to do something good for someone, do it.” He looked in her lap. “And you might want to put the tire iron back in your trunk after I leave.”

He gave her a wave and walked back to his car. The last thing she saw was the red of his taillights fading slowly into the gathering darkness.

“CHECKING IN, name of Rand Mitchell.” Rand slid his credit card on the marble counter.

A blond desk clerk, made up to within an inch of her life, beamed at him. “Welcome to the Carrington Palms Hot Springs Resort, sir. And how are you this evening?”

Considering he was going on his twenty-fifth hour without sleep, not too bad, Rand thought. “A little jetlagged, but otherwise okay.” Milan suddenly seemed a long time ago, but not very far away. With its curved marble archways and pillars, and cool tile on the floor, the lobby of the resort would have fit right in in Italy. To one side, an archway led into the vast glass-roofed central atrium of the resort, with its fountains and flora. If you didn’t look up too high, you’d think you were outdoors, with the minivillas in the courtyard, the French doors and balconies up on the wall.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place if you want to relax,” the clerk told him. “We’ve got a world-class golf course designed by Jack Nicklaus and ten outdoor mineral hot springs for you to relax in when you’re done. And, of course, Palm Springs is only another half hour up the highway, if you want to get out and see the sights.”

He’d already seen the best the desert had to offer, Rand reflected, flashing on the stranded motorist he’d stopped to help. He’d glimpsed her fighting with the tire as he’d driven past. Tired as he’d been, he couldn’t help thinking about his mother or one of his sisters stuck on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Once he’d done that, stopping to help was a no-brainer.

Then he’d walked up and seen her triangular, tilty-eyed face, looking out at him from her absurd little roadster like a fox peeking out of a thicket. And suddenly being the chivalrous gent hadn’t seemed like a hardship at all. The only thing that had been a hardship had been making himself drive away.

He shook his head faintly. Rand Mitchell liked women. A lot. He liked the way they looked, the way they felt, the way they thought, their sometimes quirky behavior and insecurities. He dated the same way he played in a local basketball league before he’d moved to Europe—with casual enjoyment, adeptness and no particular commitment. Serious wasn’t for him; it never had been.

Done deal, he reminded himself as the clerk handed him his room folio. His mystery woman was probably a rich wife headed off to her estate in Palm Springs. Meanwhile, he had a date with a shower and a bed.

“Okay, we’ve got you in a room overlooking the San Jacinto Mountains. It’s a lovely view and very quiet.”

“Sounds great. How late does room service run?”

“Dinner until eleven and a limited menu overnight.” She paused and gave him a smile of invitation. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Just what he needed, a hot fling with an employee. “Thanks for the offer,” he told her, “but I think I’m all set for now.”

“All right then,” she said, with a hint of regret. “Enjoy your stay, sir.”

“I intend to.”

2

CILLA LAY ON HER STOMACH on the poolside chaise lounge and dealt the cards for yet another game of solitaire, stifling a sigh. She’d woken late, savoring the sensation of a day without appointments. Her first stop had been the spa, for a massage and facial, then a manicure and pedicure. Lying around on a chaise by the pool was the perfect way to spend the rest of the afternoon, just enjoying the sun. Relaxation, that was the theme for her weekend.

Being bored wasn’t.

It made her feel inadequate. If she’d been Paige, she’d have been quite content to lie there and contemplate the universe. If she’d been Trish or Thea, books would have been company enough. But she was herself and she needed something more. Not scheduled meetings and swank party something mores, but company, conversation, fun. Solitaire wasn’t cutting it.

She needed a man.

Like that gorgeous specimen who’d changed her tire, for example. If he were lying here beside her, that would be just perfect. They could laugh together, have a few drinks, do some dancing. Maybe even give each other a run through in bed, considering that here it was April and she’d yet to have sex in the new year. Playing hard was the perfect antidote to working hard.

In retrospect, she felt silly for having been so cautious with him, especially when he’d turned out to be such a good guy. Not that she’d talked with him much, of course. In that sense, he’d been the perfect fantasy: tall, dark and handsome, a blank slate for her to color as she would. He’d be her kind of guy, the kind of guy who could make her laugh, who was just a bit unpredictable, who knew what he wanted and was ready to go after it.

Especially in bed.

Now there was a thought, much more interesting than cards. She closed her eyes, imagining how he would be. Sexy in that take charge, I’ve-got-to-have-you-now way. Fabulous body, that went without saying, and hands to die for. Hands that would know just how to touch her, hands that would make her shiver and moan.

Cilla sighed and opened her eyes. She wasn’t quite ready to go on the prowl, even if she was on a mini-getaway, but the thought of sex—good sex—made her weak.

Oh, well. She sighed again and put the red queen on the black king. Woman on top, her favorite position.

The waitress stopped at her chaise. “Can I get anything for you?”

What the hell, Cilla thought, it was close to cocktail hour, just a couple of time zones over. She looked out toward the palm-shaded bar across the pool and considered her options. The bartender set a margarita down on the bar. Now there was an idea, something frosty and tangy tart to cut the heat. She’d have a drink and then she’d go mingle a bit and see what kind of entertainment she could scare up. “I’ll have a margarita on the rocks,” she began, watching the guy at the bar pick up his drink. “Ask the bartender to please use a lot of lime and add a shot of—”

Cilla broke off, eyes widening. The guy with the margarita had turned toward her enough that she saw his profile, and then his full face. What were the chances, she asked herself as the corners of her mouth began to tug up. It couldn’t possibly be her Samaritan from the night before, showing up here of all places. It couldn’t be.

It was.

“Scratch that order,” she told the waitress. “I’ll go to the bar myself.”

He wore turquoise trunks, his blue-green Hawaiian shirt hanging open over them. As near as she could tell, she’d been right the night before: his body was prime stuff, washboard abs, sinewy legs, pecs that suggested he had more than a passing acquaintance with a weight room. But it was his face that captivated her.

He stared out toward the green of the golf course, nodding to the music as the breeze stirred his hair. He wore it long enough on top to be hip, short enough in the back to be tidy. The five o’clock shadow from the day before was gone, which was a pity. The gorgeous lines of cheekbone and jaw were not. Dark glasses hid his eyes.

Cilla sat up and scooped up her deck of cards. She was done with solitaire, she thought, finger-combing her hair and rising to tie on her sarong. The game she wanted to play now was deuces.

RAND STARED OUT at the arc of mountains that rose high and sudden beyond the resort. He’d seen a lot of Europe in the past few months, but when it came to drama, the desert had it hands down.

He stifled a yawn. By dint of heroic struggle, he’d managed to stay awake the night before until about eight o’clock, then nodded off into dreams of his roadside maiden in distress, dreams in which he’d jacked up her car—and she’d jacked him up. None of which prevented him, predictably, from waking at a ridiculous hour. Even taking time to work out and linger over breakfast had still seen him on the golf course before eight. He’d practiced his driving a bit to get the rust off and then took on the full eighteen-hole course.

All things considered, he figured he’d more than made up for sitting on a plane for fourteen hours. His muscles felt pleasantly tired. Raising the margarita, he took a swallow and thought again about the woman at the side of the road. He wondered where she was, what she was doing now.

He wondered if she’d given him even a thought once he was gone.

“So how are the margaritas?”

He looked up.

It was as though his mind had conjured her up. All tropical color and silky bare skin, she stood before him, fragrant and frisky, eyes alight with the promise of fun.

And all his hormones started doing the happy dance.

Her lips curved. “The polite thing would be to invite me to sit down.”

“Absolutely,” he said, snapping out of it and gesturing to the stool next to him. It wasn’t often that he was at a loss for words. Then again, it wasn’t often just looking at a woman could make him feel sucker punched. He watched her order a drink from the bartender who had appeared immediately in that magical way they did for beautiful women. “I guess you got to where you were going.”

“Thanks to you,” she agreed, turning back to him. Her smile was sunbeam bright, her hair a hundred shades of blond and golden brown as it shifted with every shake of her head. She wore it chin length so that it focused attention on her face, on that full mouth, those green eyes with their mischievous tilt. A faint whisper of her scent drifted across to him. He wondered if her skin was as smooth as it looked.

“You know, if I’d guessed you were headed to the resort, I could just have given you a ride.”

“Bad planning on my part.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, just enjoying watching her. “I suppose if you weren’t ready to get out of a car with me nearby, you probably wouldn’t have gotten into one, either.”

“I had your best interests at heart. What if I’d have turned out to be some wacko and there you were, stuck with me at the side of the road? You were safer with me in the car.”

“You did have a tire iron,” he recalled.

“Exactly.”

“In that case, I guess I owe you one.”

“It was the least I could do.” Laughter bubbled in her voice. The bartender set down Cilla’s drink and she held it up for a toast. “To good deeds and good Samaritans. Thank you again for stopping. You were very chivalrous. Your mama raised you right.”

The margarita tasted tart and cool on his tongue, the tequila a faint bite underneath. “She’ll be happy to hear it. You could write and tell her so. It’ll make her day.”

“I’ll write your mother if you write mine and tell her what a cautious citizen I was,” she bargained. “She’s forever wailing that I’m not careful enough and I don’t have the sense God gave a goat.”

Rand considered her. “You look smarter than a goat.”

“Thank you.” She inclined her head.

“Better looking, too.”

Her laugh was husky with delight. “I like to think so.”

Her bikini reminded him of a dish of sherbet, all bright pink and lime-green and orange. The top of it was one of those twisted bands that seemed to stay in place magically. The whys and hows, of course, were far less interesting than what was beneath.

“So what are you doing here?” she asked, watching him.

“I was heading to Vegas and made a wrong turn at Albuquerque,” he said blandly.

“What a disappointment.”

“Not even remotely.”

She stared at him for a beat, then blinked. “Well, just in case, I do have a deck of cards. I’ll be the house and we can play a few hands,” she offered.

“You’re too kind.”

“You can give me all your money and it’ll feel just like being there.”

“That would be much too kind.”

“That’s the way I am.” The amusement was back.

“So what are you doing here, meeting friends?”

“Flying solo.” She glanced around. “Where are your friends, Vegas?”

The palm fronds cast patterned shadows over her shoulders. Rand dragged his gaze away from her skin. “No friends.”

“Not any?” She raised an eyebrow. “But you seem like such a nice person. I’ll be your friend,” she decided. “Didn’t you tell me I owed a favor to the next person who needed one?”

“Generous of you,” he said dryly.

“Isn’t it just. Of course, I can afford to be generous. I’m here playing hooky from the world for a couple of days.”

“Hooky works for me.”

“Really?” She leaned toward him and lowered her voice like a coconspirator. “Want to play hooky together?”

“Only if you promise not to talk about anything remotely serious.”

“No politics?”

“Nope.”

“No economy?”

He shook his head.

“No ‘So, what do you do?’”

“Absolutely not. You start down that road, I’ll go find someone else’s tire to change.”

“Oh, now I get it,” she nodded wisely, “that was your pickup move.”

“You know it. I wait around the highway for gorgeous babes to have blowouts that they can’t change. It’s the ultimate icebreaker.”

“You are smooth.”

“Oh, I can ratchet up a jack with the best of ’em,” he assured her.

Her eyes were bright with amusement. “I thought you looked like a man who knew his way around a lug nut.”

“Just handy with tools.”

She raised her glass. “Well, here’s to being handy.”

They grinned at each other. He’d forgotten the pleasure of banter with a clever woman, not to mention a sexy little dish like her. It had definitely been too long. “My name’s Rand, by the way.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your parents wanted you to be a mapmaker?”

“Positive reinforcement,” he agreed. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated an instant. “Danni.”

“Let me guess, your parents wanted a boy? Doesn’t look like it was too successful to me.”

“Au contraire. I was quite the tomboy growing up,” she informed him.

He looked down to where her long, tanned legs peeked out of the wraparound sarong. “I bet you climbed trees with the best of them.”

“You’d better believe it,” she returned. “Played softball, too. I had a mean curveball.”

“I’ll remember to watch for that.” He didn’t know about curveballs, but she was definitely curvy enough in all the right places. “So have you been hanging out around the pool all morning?”

“Of course. Like I said, I’m playing hooky. How about you?”

“Did a quick run, played a round of golf.” Didn’t get down to the pool nearly soon enough.

She shook her head pityingly. “No wonder you were yawning. I’d be tired, too.”

“Are you kidding? I’m just getting revved up. A dip in the water and I’ll be good to go.”

Invitation replaced amusement in those green eyes. “And here I thought you were pretty good already.”

“Stick around. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

A JAZZ TUNE COURTESY OF A PIANIST nearby, floated out into the evening. Cilla sat in the terrace bar of the restaurant’s fusion restaurant, waiting for Rand. She wasn’t usually the one to wait, but when they’d parted ways to go dress for dinner, she’d found herself in a minimalist mood. Slipping into her pale gold silk shift and sandals took only a moment. The sun had taken care of her need for bronzer. All she had to do was darken her eyes a bit, slick on some lip gloss and presto, she was ready.

Staying on the grounds had seemed easiest. Neither of them had felt like dealing with the drive into Palm Springs. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the point at which dinner together had become a given. As to what might happen after that, well, the long, lazy afternoon of flirting and playing like otters in the pool made that seem like a given, also.

Cilla turned her head to look at the arched entrance just as Rand came through. He stood for a moment, searching the room for her and she caught her breath. She’d watched that face for hours at poolside, but somehow the time they’d spent apart had rendered the impact of him fresh. The afternoon sun had touched his skin with gold. Against the breezy white linen of his shirt, his hair was dark, his eyes a luminous silver. When he caught sight of her, the power of it sang through her. For a moment, he just stood, watching. Then he began to walk toward her.

And unaccountably, the breath began to clog up in her lungs.

He took his time moving across the room, as though he were savoring the spectacle. When he reached her side, he raised her fingers to his lips. “You’re lovely,” he said simply, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

And Cilla could only stare.

She’d been prepared for banter, for something cocky or ironic. She should have known he wouldn’t be so predictable. A man who knew what he wanted and went after it.

“I think our table is waiting,” she said.

CILLA FOLLOWED Rand off the floor in the nightclub and back to their booth, leaning back against him for a moment in mock exhaustion. Drinks to dinner, dinner to dancing. Like silent conspirators, they’d stretched the evening out, neither of them ready to see it end. With the passing hours, they moved into each other’s space, as casual touches that held nothing casual within them became commonplace.

But they had yet to bridge that critical gap between possibility and certainty.

Rand’s chest was hard and solid behind her and desire bubbled in her veins. When he reached out to toy with her hair, she very nearly purred. She wanted more of this man, this lovely man with the smooth voice and the bedroom eyes and the hands that promised all sorts of decadence.

She wanted more, period. So she didn’t move away, only sighed when he slid an arm around her.

“You’re quite a dancer,” Cilla murmured.

“You inspire me.”

“It’s the least I can do.” Then lights came up abruptly, bleaching the club from dim intimacy to hard reality. Was it really that late, she wondered in surprise, and straightened.

“Cinderella time, I guess,” Rand said.

“I’m not ready to call it a night,” Cilla objected. “It’s too soon.” Whether it was the wee hours of morning or not, she wasn’t the least bit sleepy. Instead, breathless anticipation ran through her.

“You could go get your cards and we could play poker,” Rand suggested.

“There’s an idea. We can be like Vegas, all night, all right.”

“There you go.”

They walked out into the lobby of the resort, with its soaring ceilings and marble arches. Terraces ran around the edges of the atrium, the overhead lattices wound with vines to give the illusion that they were outdoors instead of in air-conditioned comfort. Rand stopped in front of a pillow-strewn brocade couch. “Go get your cards. I can wait here.”

Chivalrous, perhaps, but she didn’t want chivalry. She wanted much more. “How about if you just come on up, instead? That way we’ll get some quiet and we’ve got the minibar if we get thirsty.”

“From a tire iron on the highway to an invitation to your room? I think I’m making points.” His voice was light, as though he wanted her to know he wasn’t making any assumptions. It made her want him even more.

“You haven’t lost money to me yet,” she said with a grin and tugged at his sleeve. “Come on.”

CILLA TOSSED DOWN a handful of dimes and nickels. “I’ll see your quarter, raise you thirty cents and call.” They sat on the couch in her room, cards on the upholstery between them. The French doors that led to the atrium balcony were open, bringing in the tranquil sound of falling water from the indoor fountains. A ceiling fan stirred the air, making the silk at her neckline flutter just a bit.

For the hundredth time, Rand pulled his thoughts back to the game and laid his cards down. “Eights and fives.”

Cilla set down three jacks. “You are mine, baby, all mine,” she crowed, and her eyes held a hot look of triumph. “That’s five hands in a row.”

“You never told me you were a cardsharp. Are you sure you weren’t the one headed to Vegas?” If he was on a losing streak, it was because the way she’d curled those long legs underneath her, rucking up her dress just enough, played hell with his concentration. Of course, the remains of the vodka tonics on the coffee table might have a bit to do with it, as well.

And the fact that they were both wondering how and when and where they’d make the jump. Not if, though. Not if.

“A card hustler? Me? I’m just trying to give you the authentic experience,” she told him, scooping up the last of his small change.

“By cleaning me out?”

“Exactly, sugar.” She reached out to give his cheek a little pat. And in reflex, his hand came up to trap hers in place. Cilla froze, her eyes widening just a fraction. Surprise? Arousal? Rand curled his fingers around hers, moving them to his lips, watching her steadily. For a moment, they stared at each other, the question asked, the answer given, the knowledge of where they were going naked in their eyes.

When he released her hand, she stayed absolutely still, then she went back to shuffling the cards.

Rand looked at her in puzzlement. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to deal.” She split the deck in two and snapped the cards together. “You’re not afraid of another hand, are you?” Her eyes were bright with excitement.

“I’m out of change. You’ve broken me.”

“Good thing you didn’t make it to Vegas.”

“Consider yourself lucky that I’ve been on a down streak. I’m usually a winner.”

“Big talk,” she sniffed, snapping the cards together again. “Why don’t you prove it?”

“I told you, no more money.”

“We could keep a tally on paper.”

“That’s not poker.”

A smile lurked in her eyes. “You could put it on your credit card.”

“I’m sure you’d love that.”

Cilla spread her hands, and shrugged. “Well, the house doesn’t play for free. Of course, we do have one other option.”

“Yes?”

“You want stakes that mean something, I think we can arrange it.” She did smile then, a slow bloom of promise.

Something deep inside him began to thud in response. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Her eyes held a flare of recklessness. “Your clothes.”

CILLA SHUFFLED the cards, excitement making her hands tremble just a bit. Rand sat shirtless, his skin gleaming gold in the light. Even though she’d seen him that afternoon in just swim trunks, he somehow seemed more naked now, his skin all the more bare for the contrast with his wheat-colored linen slacks.

They’d gone past the easy pickings. Her Manolos had been off before they’d ever started, and now Rand’s Top-Siders lay nearby. Watches, jewelry, it was all on the coffee table. She’d done well the first few hands, but more recently Rand had been winning steadily.

She was beginning to run out of clothing.

Pushing the deck together, Cilla set it out for Rand to cut. When she reached out to pick up the stack, he captured her hand.

And heat zoomed up her arm.

“What are you doing?” she asked faintly.

“Just checking to see if you had any cards up your sleeve.”

Her heart began to beat again. “It’s a sleeveless shift.”

“Can’t be too careful.” He ran his fingertips up the fragile skin on the inside of her forearm. Arousal whispered through her.

“Five-card draw,” Cilla said, her voice a little shaky, and dealt.

Rand just watched her. He fanned his cards out and gave a small smile. It could mean he had something, it could mean he was bluffing, Cilla wasn’t sure. If he had tells, she’d yet to figure them out.

Then she looked at her own hand and very nearly sighed. Three queens, a nine, and a four. She’d hold on to her ladies and take her chances with the rest, Cilla thought, tossing the other two cards down. “Two for the dealer,” she said aloud. “And you, sir?”

“I’ll take three.”

Cilla raised an eyebrow. “Three cards for the desperate man in the corner,” she said, and tossed them to him, giving herself two new cards before picking up her hand. Jubilantly, she saw that she’d drawn a pair of aces. Full house. She kept her face wooden and looked at Rand.

“I’ll call,” he told her.

Cilla laid down her hand. “Full house, read it and weep.”

“Not quite.” He put his own cards down, revealing a hand full of tens. “Four of a kind.” His smile was impudent. “Looks like I win.”

She cursed.

“Pretty salty language for a lady.”

“That full house would have won me the last three hands.”

“Timing is everything.” Rand settled more comfortably on the couch, putting his hands behind his head. “Guess you should have worn a two-piece outfit.”

Cilla rose. “I wore exactly the right outfit,” she countered, sliding her fingers up her thighs. She heard his intake of breath as she reached the hem of her dress. Instead of pulling it up, though, she slid her hands up underneath and around to the back. The whole time she was hooking her fingers in the sides of her thong, she watched Rand. The naked hunger in his eyes made her weak. Slowly, she drew the thong down her thighs, bent over to draw it below her knees, then sat to pull it off entirely.

When she looked at him again, his chest was moving as though he’d just run up stairs. Holding the thong hooked around one finger, Cilla stretched out her arm and let the garment fall to the floor. “I believe it’s your deal.”

The first time Rand tried to deal, the cards slipped in his hands. He raked his hair back off his forehead and tried again.

Anticipation vaulted through her. Depending on what Rand wore beneath his linen slacks, one of them was going to be naked, more or less, when the hand was done. Certainly she would be if she lost, because she’d skipped the bra when she’d gotten dressed, thinking smugly how nice it was to be small enough that a bra was an option, not a requirement. Now, she could feel the brush of silk against her nipples.

The moment of truth, she told herself, picking up her hand to fan it out. Then she looked at the cards and swallowed. It wasn’t fair, not even remotely. The previous game she’d wound up with a strong, if ultimately useless, hand. This time around?

This time, she didn’t have a thing. Nothing. Nada. Not even a pair of measly twos.

Rand stared at his cards, face inscrutable, then he looked up at her.

“Discards?”

Cilla worked at breathing evenly. Maybe she could bluff. She didn’t mind being naked, but she didn’t want to be the first. “I’ll take three,” she said as casually as she could manage and hoped like hell Lady Luck would round out her hand.

Rand picked up the deck. “Nothing up my sleeves,” he observed, holding open imaginary cuffs. “The lady takes a nervous three, and three for the dealer.” He tossed out cards for them both as he spoke, then set the deck aside and gathered his hand.

Cilla fanned out the cards she held, then looked at them on a breath of hope.

She still had diddly. Fold, she telegraphed to him. Fold, fold, fold.

“Well, I don’t see any point in betting here. Call,” Rand said casually, glancing at her. Cilla felt the flush spread over her face and laid her hand down.

“Looks like I lose,” she said with a calm she didn’t feel.

“Or we both win, depending on how you look at it.”

She rose and shook back her hair, trying to ignore the skittering in her stomach. She’d been naked with plenty of guys in her lifetime. It had never been a big deal. She knew she looked sexy, she knew they’d liked what they saw. Taking off her clothes had never bothered her before. Why now?

Because it was different to get naked with someone than it was to get naked in front of them.

Cilla turned her back to him. “Can you help me with the zipper?”

Even if she’d been unable to hear him, she’d have known he’d stepped close to her by the heat that bridged the gap between them. But she could hear the little shudder in his breath as he leaned in to her, the whisper of silk as he laid his hands on her hips. His breath tickled the fine hairs on her skin. Then she felt the brush of his lips on the nape of her neck and she gave a little helpless sound.

Warm, soft, the touch of his lips made her shiver, made her stiffen.

Made her want.

Desire began to drum through her. She needed to taste him, she needed the feel of his mouth on hers. Weak with anticipation, Cilla let her head drop back. And oh, God, all the waiting was worth it. Pleasure bloomed as he pressed his mouth to hers. For an instant it was as though every nerve in her body was concentrated in her lips, the sensations overwhelming everything else.

Or not quite everything else, because she could feel his hands moving up her sides, tracing the dip in her waist, the line of her ribs. The featherlight strokes gave promise of what was to come when he was touching her, instead. He broke the kiss.

And she waited.

When his hands rose to her zipper, he drew it down slowly, touching only the fabric, not her. Cilla shuddered as the cool air touched the narrow stripe of exposed flesh. She knew when he’d dropped it low enough to realize that she had no bra on; she heard his helpless exhalation.

And with a sound of impatience she turned to him.

3

HIS HANDS SLID the dress off her shoulders. Cilla gave an absent shrug, releasing the fabric to pool around her feet even as she reached out for his waistband. After a day of temptation, a night of promise, here in the wee, wee hours it was finally happening. She unfastened his trousers and let them drop away.

When she stepped forward to press her body against his, the heat and hard muscle and smooth skin nearly made her swoon. Pleasure saturated her, the feel of his hands running down her back, molding her to him, the insistent pressure of his hard cock against her belly. She wanted him on her and in her, she wanted him—

Cilla broke their kiss and pressed her head to his chest with a groan.

“What?”

“Do you happen to have any condoms with you?” she asked, a little desperately.

His hands froze. “Shit.”

“Exactly.”

After a moment, he began exploring her again. “It’s not the end of the earth, you know,” he murmured, running a line of kisses over her shoulder as he slid one hand up to her breast. “There are other things we can do. We have the technology.”

Cilla laughed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Not that I’m not flattered that you think so highly of my hard-on.”

Cilla looked down to see it bobbing and jerking. “Looks like it thinks highly of me, too.”

RAND HAD SPENT the better part of the card game trying to ignore the tight coil of tension in his belly, trying to ignore the brush of skin and fabric as his cock lengthened under his clothes. Now, the pressure of her fingers, the motion of the thin skin over the hard column of flesh had his breath hissing in. It was too soon. He wanted to savor the feel of her taut, sleek body, listen to her pleasure, and then, only then, find his own release.

He reached down and stilled her hand, then pulled her to him. She tasted just as she sounded, tangy and sweet, with a complexity that made him linger over her mouth even as he sought his own pleasure by finding her breast. The slight curve of it against his palm gave him a pulse of arousal. He squeezed the hard nipple until she moaned.

And the sound only made him harder. Rand reached for the lamp.

She caught at his hand. “What are you doing?”

“I figured you’d want the lights off.”

“Why?”

“The women I’ve been with like it dark.”

Cilla smiled wickedly. “I’d say you’ve been hanging around with the wrong crowd,” she said, drawing him to the bed.

“Doors open?” This time, surprise crept into his voice.

Cilla laughed and fell back against the mattress. “If they’re up at 3:00 a.m. and have sharp enough eyes to see all the way up here, more power to them.”

In fact, she thought, it was a bit of a turn-on to think about someone watching them together, watching him kneel by the bedside and part her knees so that he could lick his way up her thighs. How was it that she registered the warm, tempting touch inches away from where it was actually happening, inches away in that hidden cleft where she was already slick with wanting?

The first contact was just a tease, a quick brush of soft heat that made her jolt and left her craving more. The second lasted longer, sliding through her sensitive folds to find her for an instant. By then, though, his hands were on her breasts, rubbing the nipples to send quicksilver bolts of wanting through her. She pressed her body against him, needing his touch, needing more, needing it all.

And suddenly his mouth was on her, tearing a shocked cry from her throat.

Cilla’s fingers clutched at the coverlet, then Rand’s shoulders as her hips moved against him. He wouldn’t be rushed, though. He took her close but backed away, leaving her wanting before taking her up again, driving her mindless. Spiraling tension gripped her, making her a slave to the wet heat of his tongue until he gave her that crucial extra second and the good, hard orgasm broke through her.

She didn’t know how long it lasted, the helpless quaking, the incoherent cries, the washes of pleasure that came at her again and again. She couldn’t say how long it took her to recover enough to talk. Finally, she lay still, aftershocks still jolting her body at intervals.

Rand rose to lay on the bed beside her, propping his head up on his hand.

“You know, I kind of like this strip poker,” he said, running the flat of his hand over her belly.

“Give me a minute.” Cilla’s voice was ragged. “You’ll like it even more once I can move.”

“I’ve got time.”

The sound of the fountains in the atrium drifted in through the open French doors. Time was irrelevant. Eventually, Cilla rose to press him flat on his back.

Rand’s cock was still hard. He could feel the throb of the blood rushing through it. Anticipation, he thought. It was almost as good as the reality of sex, the expectation bubbling in his blood, the nerve endings sensitized so that even the drift of air stirred by the ceiling fan had his erection twitching against his belly. And then he felt the warmth of her breath, the nuzzle of her lips. A sigh escaped him.

She didn’t tease, though, seeming to understand how close he already was. Instead, the electric heat of her tongue stroked up the underside of his cock and pure lust slammed through him. When she slid him into the warm wetness of her mouth, he groaned. He fought desperately to stay in the moment, to not let the rhythmic strokes take him past the point of inevitability.

He wanted to prolong it, and when he went, he wanted to take her with him.

“Why don’t you swing around here so that we can both enjoy ourselves,” he managed to say, grinding his teeth as she stopped her ministrations.

“You mean…”

He reached down to help her move into place, running his hands along her long, lovely thighs as she slid his cock back into her mouth.

How much sensation could one person absorb, Cilla wondered as she felt Rand’s tongue trace maddening patterns over her clit even as she savored his erection. The next best thing to having it inside her was the immediacy of having it against her lips, of hearing his groan when she changed her motion, added her hand. But even as she brought him closer to coming, he was doing the same for her, each slippery stroke making the heat and tension rise within her, sometimes making her stop just to moan out her pleasure. In between, she savored him, drawing him closer and closer to that point at which the world ceased to be about anything but sensation.

And then it wasn’t anything but sensation, her own surging pleasure and the shuddering soon after in his body as he released and let himself follow.

IT WAS THE SOUNDS from the atrium, coming in through the open French doors, that woke her the first time. Cilla crossed over to close the doors and shut the blinds against the pitiless day.

“What time is it?” Rand rasped.

She squinted at the digital clock. “Nine.” Only three hours after they’d finally gone to sleep. It was easy to slide back into oblivion.

When she woke again, it was closer to one, and real life was beginning to gather at the edges of her mind. The Danforth cocktail reception was less than five hours away and she needed to get her game face on. Board members, managers, lawyers…she might know them all, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have to make a good impression.

Showing up looking freshly boffed was probably out of the question.

The hot water in the shower beating on her cleared her mind and left her with that wonderful sense of well-being that followed a night of truly great sex. Or a few hours of it, anyway. She’d found herself a clever, talented lover, indeed, she thought, smiling at herself in the mirror as she dried off.

Cilla wrapped herself in a towel and walked into the room to find the blinds open and Rand sitting out on the balcony in just his pants, the newspaper open on his lap.

He smiled at her. “Good morning.”

She spent a moment or two just staring at him. Such a beautiful, beautiful man. “Good morning.”

“You do nice things for a towel,” he said, and rose to cross to her.

Cilla lost long minutes to his kiss, and then the feel of his hands when the towel dropped. It would be so easy to slide back into bed and let him take her away.

Easy but not smart. She took a deep breath and moved back from him, plucking her towel from the floor. “As much as I would love to dive back in with you, my hooky’s over. Time to go back to the real world.”

Disappointment flickered over his face. “I was hoping for a rematch.”

“No can do. Sorry.”

He sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Being a grown-up sucks.” Every fiber hummed and waited as she hoped to hear some word of the future. For God’s sake, they hadn’t even properly had sex. They couldn’t let it drop here. Edgy with nerves, she crossed to the closet and pulled out some underwear.

Rand grabbed his shirt from the floor and put it on. “So where do you live?”

She slid into a denim miniskirt and a Mark Jacobs T-shirt. “L.A. And you?”

“I travel a lot, but L.A. is sort of my base.” He buttoned his shirt and turned to her. “Can I call you next time I’m in town?”

She beamed—she couldn’t help it. “I’d like that.”

He scooped her against him. “I’d like that, too.”

THE USUAL FACES, Cilla thought that evening, as she walked into the Danforth cocktail reception. The usual conversations. Danforth had reserved a private atrium room at the resort for the welcome dinner. Standing in little groups by the floor-to-ceiling windows were the five board members, most of the division heads for Forth’s, the department managers for Danforth and the financial cadre. It was maybe fifteen or sixteen people all told, the brain trust of the Danforth empire.

Given that she wasn’t in the direct management chain, she probably ought to have been pleased to be involved.

She wasn’t.

What she was was frustrated that she’d had to work twice as hard and twice as long as any normal employee to make headway in the company. Only when she’d sent in her résumé under a false name and received an immediate callback on a management position had she been able to get her father to take her seriously.

He’d spent much of his lifetime dismissing his wife.

He wasn’t going to dismiss Cilla.

She watched him now as he stood by the windows talking with the CFO, the head of legal and a board member. Sam Danforth wasn’t particularly tall, but something about the way he held himself commanded attention. She could see herself in the cleft of his chin and the green of his eyes, the eyes she often felt didn’t really see the grown-up her. And until he saw her and respected her, no one in his chain of command was really going to do so.

She could tolerate that for the time being. Cilla was nothing if not patient. She’d gotten the education, she’d gotten the experience. She’d grown up learning strategy from her father. Now all she needed was the opportunity to prove what she could do.

With the skill of long practice, she stepped into the room and began circulating, a chat here, a joke there. Having a drink to hold on to kept her hands busy, though she’d learned from her father long ago to stick with club soda and lime at business receptions. “You’ve got to keep your wits about you,” he maintained. “You never know what might come up and you want that edge.”

Her father turned now and waved her over. She’d known the men he was talking with since she’d been in braces.

“Here she is, our secret weapon,” her father said.

“How go the fashion wars?” asked Danforth’s CFO Bernard Fox, portly but still dapper in a beautifully cut Armani suit.

“A Hun dressed in Versace is still a Hun,” Cilla said lightly.

“Good point. I hear Sam here wants us to come up with a strategy for thirty percent growth over the next three years,” said Burt Ruxton, longtime board member. “Since you’re the first timer at the meeting, we’ll let you come up with it.”

“Are you still holding a grudge over that time I dropped your satellite phone in the swimming pool, Uncle Burt?”

“Not at all. Although if profits go up thirty percent, you might finally get around to replacing it.”

Cilla’s father looked over her shoulder and brightened. “Ah. Here’s someone I want you to meet. About time you showed up,” he said more loudly.

“Checking my e-mail,” said a voice behind her.

A very familiar voice.

And Cilla turned and found herself nose to nose with Rand Mitchell.

“Rand, this is my daughter, Cilla. Cilla, this is Rand Mitchell. He’s doing some business development for us in Europe.”

She’d always thought jaws dropping was a figure of speech, at least until her own did. Surprise? Shock, more accurately. And she couldn’t help it. She laughed.

A corner of Rand’s mouth tugged up into a rueful smile in response.

“What’s the joke?” her father demanded, looking between them. “Do you two know each other?”

“Sort of,” she managed, working to tuck away her amusement. “I had a flat on the highway coming in and Rand was my good Samaritan.” He stood now in a gorgeous suit, looking polished, professional and entirely good enough to eat.

That probably wasn’t such a good idea anymore, she thought. Getting her body to agree, of course, was going to be the challenge.

“Well.” Sam Danforth clapped Rand on the shoulder. “Nice to see that you’re looking after Danforth’s important assets. Rand is our man in Europe,” he said to the rest of the group and introduced Rand around. “Thanks to him, we’re finally making a name for ourselves over there.”

“I bet you’re making a name here, too,” Cilla said.

SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE, Rand was fairly sure, had written a “Top Ten Business Don’ts” list, and at the top of that list had to be sleeping with the boss’s daughter. Stupid, brainless, dense. Normally, he’d be kicking himself up one side of the room and down the other.

Oddly, he wasn’t. The whole thing was too absurd to be taken seriously. After all, what were the chances?

As a committed fast-tracker, he supposed he had to wonder what impact his adventure with Danni—or Cilla, it now appeared—might have on his future. Then again, he’d never planned to stay at Danforth longer than the obligatory year, maybe less, if something appealing came calling.

“So you’re our man in Milan,” said Cilla.

“Cilla’s the couture buyer for Danforth’s and does some of the bridge-line buying for Forth’s,” her father put in. “We’ll have to get her involved with the European branches. Maybe you two can find some time to hunker down over that while we’re here.”

“We’ll be sure to do that,” Rand said blandly, wondering just what Papa Danforth would say about the kind of hunkering they’d been doing already.

Cilla kept a poker face. Of course, it didn’t do to think about poker at this point. Or getting her naked and having his hands on all that warm skin, or the way her body shuddered when he—

“So you’re the dot-com whiz.” Ruxton eyed him speculatively.

If “whiz” defined a man who’d made the better part of three million in an IPO and pissed three quarters of it away in a venture capital firm, maybe. Instead of raking in the bucks from the bonanza of IPOs launched by the legions of bright young things he’d funded, Rand had watched his investments die or go into hibernation, waiting for the market to return before considering an IPO. Until they went public, he couldn’t get his money back. Maybe one day, but it wouldn’t be any time soon.

Rand smiled briefly. “It was a wild ride while it lasted.”

Cilla tilted her head at him. “Would you do it again?”

He considered her question, well aware that his audience was far bigger than just her. “The experience didn’t make me afraid of taking chances—I think your biggest returns always come from thinking outside the box, and risk is always part of that. I learned a lot about moderation and hedging my bets, though. I’m probably better at gauging a situation than I was,” he added.

A response suitable for a job interview, Rand thought in satisfaction, which, in a way, this was. He’d spent the four months since he’d come on board at Danforth getting the Milan venture rolling. No one knew him, aside from looking at the reports on his project. Never hurt to impress the board, he figured.

Granted, the Danforth job didn’t represent the degree of challenge he was accustomed to, and the company was sure as hell a lot more conservative. Then again, by the time they’d come calling, he’d been unemployed for a year, waiting for the right opportunity to arise. A year, at his level, you could justify; more than that made you look like a problem candidate to future employers. So even though he hadn’t needed the money he’d said yes, reasoning that the European expansion was marginally interesting to him. Besides, any job that entailed being in stores that dressed beautiful women couldn’t be all bad.

“So you’re comfortable being back in the bricks-and-mortar world?” Fox watched him closely.

“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be here,” Rand said with perfect truth. He wasn’t one of those idealists who thought everything about the world was going to go Internet, he was just a businessman who’d recognized potential when he saw it.

The cocktail hour wore on and he shook hands and made appropriately incisive or off-the-cuff remarks, depending on how he judged the situation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cilla head out of the room. He circulated long enough to be discreet, then followed.

The foyer was lit with the warm light of sunset reflecting in through the wall of windows. Cilla stood near them, Mt. San Jacinto providing her backdrop.

“Danni? As in Danforth?”

“It was the best I could come up with.” She turned and looked at him apologetically. “It’s like Paris Hilton, people recognize the name, and I didn’t want to be recognized.”

“We swapped numbers this morning.” And it left him feeling shut out.

“I would have said something once I knew you better,” she told him. “It’s just hard. There are the stores and there’s all this money and I just wanted this morning to be about us…” She trailed off. “Does that make sense?”

Slowly, he nodded. He might not like it, but he could understand it. “So it never occurred to you that the guy you met in the hotel bar could be here for the Danforth meeting?”

“Did it occur to you in my case?” she countered.

He shrugged. “I knew Danforth had a daughter, but I thought you stayed out of management,” he told her.

“And I thought I knew all of our people who were going to be here. Sergio Venetti is running the Milan store. I’ve met him.”

“I don’t run the stores. I’m business development. All I do is set things up, buy the property, get construction started. Then I turn it over to someone else.”

“That explains a lot,” she said, nodding.

“Anyway, I was a late addition here,” he admitted. “Command performance from the boss.”

“Well, when God calls…”

“Exactly.” He studied her, feeling a little surge of frustration at the fact that she was now off-limits. She wore one of the prim and pretty suits that had been the spring runway rage. Somehow seeing her ladylike and demure clothes just gave him more of an urge to get them off her and uncover the uninhibited lover he’d discovered the night before. “Is this going to be a problem, us working together?” It was definitely going to be for him, unless he got a grip on his imagination.

“Gee, I think it might be, considering the fact that we work in different departments, on separate continents.” Her voice was dry. She grinned at him. “Relax, it’ll be fine. This time next week, you’ll be back in Milan.”

“London,” he corrected.

“Wherever. I think we’re both smart enough to keep a handle on it. No harm, no foul.”

That was overstating the case. It had certainly done harm to him—to his peace of mind, anyway. And yet, as much as he knew how narrowly they’d avoided trouble, he was glad they hadn’t figured out what was going on until after the fact, because the fact had been pretty damned memorable.

Cilla put out her hand. “We cool?”

“We cool.” He shook with her, letting go as quickly as he could. Before he really registered the feel of her skin.

Cilla blew out a breath. “Oh-kay. I’m going to hit the ladies’ room. That way we won’t walk back in together.”

“Worried about your father suspecting something?”

“I’m not, no,” she said frankly. “But it might be best for you if we keep our distance.”

He knew she was a creature of warmth, of humor, of appetites. Now, here was something he hadn’t expected—her concern.

Color stained her cheeks at his pleased stare. “What?”

Rand couldn’t prevent the smile. “Taking care of me?”

“Oh, well, just…paying back the good deed.”

He itched to brush his lips over hers. Off-limits, he reminded himself. “You’ve got a nice soft side, Priscilla,” he murmured.

“Only my grandmother ever called me that,” she muttered uncomfortably.

“You’ve got a nice soft side,” he repeated. “I’m glad I could be your Samaritan.”

4

MORNING CAME far too quickly for Cilla’s taste. Her father was of the lark persuasion and assumed everyone else was happy starting at seven-thirty. Of course, as president, CEO and chief shareholder of Danforth, she supposed he was entitled to think whatever he liked. What she thought, as she found a seat, was that nine o’clock would have been far more popular.

The conference room was furnished in dark wood and jewel-toned linens. No spectacular views here. The focus now was on work. The Danforth groups sat around an open rectangle of tables, a briefing book before each person. Pitchers of water and dishes of candy sat at intervals on the dark green table coverings. To one side, a breakfast buffet groaned with eggs and bacon and fruit, but at this hour Cilla couldn’t even think about it. All she wanted was coffee and consciousness.

Luckily, nothing on the early-morning agenda required any preparation from her, so she was able to merely absorb caffeine until she was marginally awake. Then Rand walked in and sat next to her. Butterflies fluttered around in her stomach even as she gave him a professional smile and nod. No way was she going to risk shaking hands.

She turned to the manager on her other side, chatting casually until her father brought the meeting to order. That should do it, she thought as the various department heads began reporting on the new business ventures, submitting to merciless grillings by her father and the board. Cilla didn’t bother to open her briefing book. She’d studied all the material ahead of time. Be prepared was one of her father’s mottos, and she’d taken it very much to heart.

It was interesting to watch Rand as he found himself on the hot seat, summarizing his work on the Milan store and the European expansion in general. Danforth had sunk a fair chunk of change into the venture, and the responsibility sat squarely on Rand’s shoulders. Still, he seemed to be at ease, even enjoying himself. Of course, through a combination of luck and skill, his news was rosy, which always simplified things.

His suit today was camel colored with a white shirt and a tie of pale gold patterned with gray. “We’re planning the grand opening of the Milan store in two weeks.” Rand looked around the room, focusing on her father. “The returns from the first month are strong. I think we’ve got a winner.”

“What comes next?” The present never counted so much to her father as the future. Being two steps ahead was the only way to compete.

“I’m in negotiations on properties in London and Zurich, and investigating Berlin.”

“Why not Paris?” her father demanded. “That was the initial plan.”

It didn’t faze Rand. “After my preliminary investigations, I reconsidered, as I reported in my February 5 memo. I think we should take the easy pickings first. Paris is a very competitive market. Let’s get the other properties rolling. We can perfect our marketing and stock for the European clientele, build buzz so that we’ve got more bounce when we go into Paris.”

Smooth, Cilla thought, very smooth. There were nods and mutterings of agreement from around the room, and they moved on.

“One last item to cover in business development,” her father announced. “Our boutique venture on Melrose Avenue, Danforth Annex.”

And Sam Danforth didn’t look happy about it. “Let’s dispense with this one quickly and move on to strategic planning. As most of you know, Stewart Law put this one together, he has since resigned.”

Poor Stewart, Cilla thought sympathetically. She might not have agreed with his execution, but there was no doubt he’d put everything he had into making the store work.

“If you’ll look in your briefing books,” her father continued, “you’ll see the financials for the first year of operation.”

Paper rustled as people turned to the appropriate page. Someone whistled. Cilla didn’t even bother to look. She knew the numbers by heart.

“Off plan is one thing. This is a complete failure,” Danforth pronounced. “Unfortunately, it’s still our problem. The question is, what do we do?”

Cilla felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. This was it. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. She’d done her research. As soon as she saw the opening, she was going to dive for it.

“You going to bring in a tiger team?” one of the board members asked.

Danforth shook his head. “I don’t see the point. The concept doesn’t work. I plan to close it and cut our losses. The market in L.A. clearly won’t support more than one Danforth store.”

Close down a property on Melrose? Cilla stared at her father. It was sheer lunacy. “If you give up the space, you’ll be compounding one strategic error with another,” she heard herself saying calmly.

Around the room, heads turned, first to her, then to her father. Danforth wasn’t at the head of the table—with the arrangement, there wasn’t any such thing—but he was the one everybody looked to, even so. And by his reaction, he wasn’t amused. “I’m looking at a strategic error of about seven million dollars. How is breaking a lease going to compound that?”

“Giving up an opportunity to make money is just as bad as losing capital, and if you walk away from Danforth Annex, that’s just what you’ll be doing.”

“We don’t just need a modest sales increase at this store,” he said impatiently. “It has to completely reverse, and I don’t see a way to do that. We need to recognize that the Danforth concept is not working there and go on.”

“Exactly.” It was just the opening she needed. “The Danforth concept hasn’t worked there because the people who come to Melrose are not the same people who shop at the Rodeo Drive store.”

“If we’re not looking at a clientele with the money to support the boutique, then we should pull out,” Bernard Fox put in.

Cilla shook her head. “It’s not a question of money. The people who shop upper Melrose have plenty of it, but they’re not looking for their mother’s store. Even if they like the clothes, they’ll go elsewhere. Danforth appeals to a certain—” she searched for a diplomatic term “—conservatively stylish client. They want beautiful clothing, but nothing too edgy, and they want to buy it in a quiet, luxurious environment. That won’t work for Danforth Annex.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me what will work?” Her father’s voice was dry.

Cilla grinned. “Of course. I’m your target demographic. I want a store with some energy, some fun. I want clothes that break the rules, clothes that aren’t for sedate lunches but for clubs, concerts, premieres.”

“What kind of a product line do you see Danforth Annex carrying?” asked Ruxton.

“A similar price range, but from edgier designers like Gaultier, Versace, the ones creating controversy. We also want the new designers who are just getting the buzz going. They won’t all sell immediately, but they’ll add to the draw of the store.” Her voice vibrated with enthusiasm. Oh, she knew just how it should go, and for once she was getting a chance to say so. “We’ll be the place for people to come to, to buy the cutting edge. The sexiest, the barest outfits that stars will wear to annual shows and parties so that word will get around.”

“It looks like we’ve already dumped a considerable sum into marketing,” Ruxton observed. “Even if we did revamp the store, we’d be hard-pressed to counteract the current impression. Rebranding takes an enormous amount of money.”

“Word of mouth will help, as a start. I can work my media contacts. Maybe we persuade a couple of the smaller designers to hold shows in the store.” Cilla paused. It wasn’t smart, but the temptation was too strong for her to resist. “There is one other angle that could really work for us.” She hesitated, then hurried on. “I’ve been working on a lingerie line, Cilla D. Very provocative and very luxurious. That ought to get us footage in all the magazines and the Times. Think of it, Danforth Annex as the launch of the Danforth heiress’s line.”

“We are not going to fund a vanity project for you,” Danforth thundered.

“It’s not a vanity project,” she flared, then modulated her voice. “It’s a publicity angle. I’m trying to tell you ways to make this work.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not appropriate.” His face got that closed expression that told her he’d stopped listening. “Danforth Annex was an attempt to broaden the Danforth brand. What you’re talking about is not the Danforth brand.”

“Sure it is,” said Rand, next to her. “Just as Forth’s is the Danforth brand downscaled for the mainstream. You want to catch your Danforth customer of twenty years from now, you hook them with Danforth Annex. Sooner or later, they’ll walk through the door and realize they’re too old for it, but by then you’ve got them. That’s when they start looking to the flagship store.”

Bernard Fox considered. “Do you think she’s right about the stock?”

“I wouldn’t push it as far as she’s proposing,” Rand answered, “but I agree that you’ve got a different clientele there that you’ve got to address if you want to succeed. We could carry over the elements of Danforth that work and bring in some fresh air to complement them.” He leaned back and propped one elbow on the back of his chair. “It’s the same approach we’ve taken in a different way with Danforth Milan, and that we’ll take for Danforth London. You’ve got to tailor the store to the customer, not expect the customer to follow the store.”

“Danforth has got to move into the twenty-first century or it’s not going to survive,” Cilla said passionately. “We’ve got to take chances. Isn’t that what you’ve always said?” she appealed to her father.

“We’ve already lost millions based on a chance we took. We can’t afford to repeat that.”

“We won’t,” she shot back. “I’ve done an analysis. I can make this work, I’m sure of it.” She was getting too emotional again, she knew it. With effort, she toned her voice down. “Look, you’re ready to shut it down. Why not try something different? I know the clientele, I know the market. Give me a chance. I can turn it around, I swear.” How had it turned from a business discussion to her once again pleading to be taken seriously, to be given a fraction of the respect accorded to Rand, for example?

Sam Danforth looked at his watch. “I think it’s time we took a break,” he said wearily. “Cilla, the board and I will discuss this and have an answer for you when we reconvene. Fifteen minutes, people.”

And that, she thought dejectedly, was very likely the end of that.

“NICE PITCH IN THERE,” Rand murmured.

They stood out in the foyer with the rest of the nonboard members, waiting for the doors to open. “For all the good it did,” Cilla said, hearing the whisper of bitterness in her words.

“You don’t know that,” he pointed out. “We’re going on half an hour, here, and they’re still in closed session. You should consider that a good sign.”

“What is my father thinking, talking about pulling out of Melrose Avenue?”

Rand smiled. “Scandalous.”

“Foolish,” she countered. “It’s a bad business decision. I don’t like seeing us make mistakes.” Why wouldn’t they listen to her, and why wouldn’t they give her a chance? “I wish—”

“What?”

There was something about those eyes, something she could get lost in. It wasn’t about sex now, it was about needing a friend. “Just once I wish he’d listen to me. He never takes what I say seriously, and because he doesn’t, the board doesn’t, either.” The familiar frustration welled up.

“Maybe it’s the way you say it.” Rand’s voice was mild.

She bristled. “Meaning I should sugarcoat it? Why should I have to? You can say what’s on your mind and people accept it. Why can’t I?”

“You can say whatever you like, but not if you’re looking to get what you want. To do that, you have to present things differently, same way I did with the Paris thing.” He shrugged. “They’re in business to make money. Show them the value proposition and they’ll listen.”

“I thought that was what I was doing.”

“But you brought your emotions into it. You made it personal, and when it’s personal, they can walk away. That’s the thing to remember, it’s not personal, it’s business.”

She looked at him, standing there in his beautiful suit, and sighed. “That’s what I want it to be, but it always winds up being personal for me because ultimately I’m still his daughter, and that’s how he treats me.”

“Maybe he’s having a hard time accepting that his little girl has grown up. Show him you have. Act like you would if you were reporting to someone who doesn’t know you from Adam. Show them how giving you what you want gets them what they want.”

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