âNick, I canât do this.â

âWhy not?â

âBecause youâre not the kind of manââ

âNot the kind of man you should want? God, Sara, youâre dying for a man like me.â

âNickââ

âA man who canât wait to drive you absolutely wild in ways you canât even imagine. You want all those things as much as you want your next breath, Sara. And thatâs exactly what Iâm going to give you.â

Pulling her forward, he smothered her mouth in a kiss. He held her tightly, his kiss raw and hot and possessive; he made her mind go blank and her insides turn to mush.

So this is what itâs supposed to feel like.

Sara thought about the other kisses sheâd experienced over the years, those bland, boring, halfhearted attempts that had been cool and hesitant and had left her dying for more. Dying for this. And now she wondered what other wondrous things might be out there that sheâd been missing all her life.

She had a feeling this man knew every one of them.

Dear Reader,

The moment this story came to mind, I couldnât wait to write it. Nick Chandler is my favorite kind of bad boy, one whose good looks, abundance of charm and killer smile are so disarming that he can talk his way into any womanâs heart.

But what happens when the woman Nick wants is Sara Davenport, a psychologist who has written a book that teaches other women how to resist heartbreakers like him? And what happens when the expert on avoiding the bad boy falls for him herself?

The conflict between the good girl and the bad boy is always such fun to write. I hope you enjoy the story!

Visit my Web site at www.janesullivan.com for news of future releases, or write to me at jane@janesullivan.com. Iâd love to hear from you!

Best wishes,

Jane Sullivan

Books by Jane Sullivan

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

854âONE HOT TEXAN

898âRISKY BUSINESS

960âTALL, DARK AND TEXAN

HARLEQUIN DUETS

33âSTRAY HEARTS

48âTHE MATCHMAKERâS MISTAKE

When He Was Badâ¦

Jane Sullivan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my editor, Jennifer Green.

Thank you for your enthusiasm about my books, your editorial advice that always improves them, and your sense of humor that makes my life as a writer a whole lot more fun. I love writing for Harlequin, and youâre the reason why.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

1

Heâs a daredevil on a motorcycle, a rebel with his own cause, a careless heartbreaker or an intriguing man of mystery.

Heâs a handsome devil with a buff bod, or a tattooed badass spoiling for a fight. Heâs a seductive charmer who will bring out the best in you.

And the worst.

Heâs a self-absorbed loner, aloof and jealous and tantalizingly possessive, attracting you with enough charisma for ten men; at the same time, he holds you at armâs length.

Caught up in the thrill of the chase, you try to grasp his heart and soul, only to feel him slipping away like sand through your fingers.

And while you know you should resist, with just a crook of his finger and a devastating smile, off you go with him, your mind filled with delusions of taming this enigmatic man. And when he has you melting under his hypnotic gaze, falling so fast your head is spinning, thatâs when he leaves you like a shadow in the night, never to be seen againâ¦

SARA DAVENPORT knew every one of those men inside and out. She could quote their characteristics, chapter and verseâevery nuance of behavior, every game they played, every brand of falsehood that passed their lips. After all, sheâd written the book on bad boys.

Literally.

She took a sip of coffee, then sat back on the sofa in her office and spread her planner out in her lap. Next to her, Karen paged through her own planner, lining out their schedule for the coming week.

âIâve set up book signings for Wednesday and Thursday evening,â Karen told her. âTheyâre here in Boulder, so thereâs no travel involved.â She flipped to another page. âI arranged a phone interview for you with a regional magazine in Charleston. The reporter will e-mail you tomorrow to set up a time. And I booked you for a Friday evening Internet chat with a readerâs group in Spokane.â

Sara made a few notes. âWow. Youâre keeping me busy.â

Karen smiled. âBusy is good. It wonât be long before your name is a household word.â

Sara didnât doubt that. Her friendâs PR wizardry was a big reason the book had been successful so far. Karen knew just which newspapers and magazines to target with advance reading copies to garner the most articles and reviews. Sheâd brought Sara untold numbers of new readers by suggesting she pair a minilecture with book signings. Sheâd gotten her a cameo in Cosmopolitan. All that publicity had put Sara on the fast track to success, but still it was hard for her to believe that sheâd barely turned thirty and already her dream was coming true.

Not that sheâd intended for things to work out the way they had. Sheâd initially envisioned the book as an expansion of her dissertation, a serious examination of the psychological, social and emotional reasons women make poor choices in men. But one year, three edits and a show-stopping cover later, it had become a shorter, slicker book with a pop psychology tone and a title that made her cringe: Chasing the Bad Boy.

Sara was still hiding her face over that, but she couldnât argue with success. The book was heading for its third printing, her editor wanted another book and Saraâs message was getting out in a way that never would have happened through her private psychology practice or her seminars alone.

âOh, yeah,â Karen said. âOne more thing. I called the program director at KZAP this morning.â

Sara came to attention. âWhat for?â

âTo book you on a radio show.â

Sara felt a surge of apprehension. âRadio? No. I donât want to do radio.â

âBut you can reach a lot of people on a radio show. And it has an advantage that advertising doesnât.â

âWhatâs that?â

âItâs free.â

âNo. Radio is unpredictable. Itâs too easy to say the wrong thing and get embarrassed.â

âCome on, Sara. Youâre in front of audiences all the time.â

âRight. Doing seminars. Itâs friendly territory. I have notes, and Iâm in control. I donât like open-ended situations. Theyâre recipes for disaster.â

âYou know your subject, and youâre a great speaker. What is there to worry about?â

âI just donât wantââ Sara stopped short. âWait a minute. KZAP? Isnât that the station with Dr. Frieda?â

âYeah.â

Okay. Now, maybe that wouldnât be so bad. Discussing her book with a medical doctor, maybe getting into the physiological aspects of attraction, taking questions from her listenersâ¦how tough could that be?

âBut I booked you on Nick Chandlerâs show,â Karen said.

For the count of three, Saraâs voice deserted her, and when it finally returned, still she could barely get words out without choking.

âWhat did you say?â

âNow, I knew you were going to freak out. Butââ

âThere is no âbutâ here. Iâm not getting within ten miles of that man.â

âBut itâll be great publicity.â

âPromoting my book on his show? Are you kidding me?â

âOkay. I know it sounds a little weird, butââ

âA little weird? Do you know he once interviewed a man who claimed heâd had sex with a thousand women and has the notches in his bedpost to prove it?â

âWell, yeah, butââ

âAnd a woman who tends bar in a topless club? Topless?â

âYeah, I heard that one. Butââ

âAnd a man who has a Web site dedicated to teaching other men how to score with chicks?â

Karen held up her palm. âI know. I know. Itâs a lot of testosterone all in one place, butââ

âIâve read the gossip columns. I know Nick Chandlerâs reputation in this town.â

Karen shrugged. âSo he gets around a little.â

âA little? The guy with the thousand notches in his bedpost is an amateur compared to him!â

âAnd thatâs exactly the reason I booked you on his show.â

Sara took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but it was a hard-won battle. Publicity was a good thing, but Nick Chandler wasnât. The man was so Neanderthal that his knuckles had to drag the ground. Sara shuddered. He probably had back hair and bad posture and drew pictures of bison on his apartment walls.

âSorry, Karen. Iâm not doing a show like that. Call the producer back and tell him to forget it.â

âEven if Nick Chandler has a hundred thousand listeners?â

Saraâs lower jaw fell halfway to her lap. âAre you telling me that a hundred thousand people tune in to hear that kind of programming?â

âYep.â

âBut none of them are going to want to hear about my book. His audience is all men.â

âHell it is. Thirty-two percent women, demographic eighteen to thirty-five. Thatâs thirty-two thousand women who are going to be tuning in Thursday afternoon whether youâre there or not.â

âWhy? So they can be objectified?â

âSweetie,â Karen said, âthey tune in for Nick Chandler.â

âCome on, Karen! What could a woman possibly find attractive about a man like him?â

âI believe you answered that question in your book.â

âOkay, yes, butââ

âIâm guessing youâve never seen him.â

âNo. I havenât had the pleasure.â

Karen reached down to Saraâs laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of the sofa. She tapped a few keys. A few moments later she turned the computer toward Sara, who looked at the screen and froze.

Holy mother of God.

Right there on the index page of the KZAP Web site sat Nick Chandler, lounging in a chair in the studio, the microphone tugged over to his lips, wearing a warm, open smile that was engaging beyond belief. His rich coffee-brown hair just brushed his collar in the back, and his eyes were such a brilliant shade of blue that gemstones all over the world had to be crying with jealousy. But Sara wasnât fooled. Even as his roguish charm oozed right off the screen, she sensed a hint of overbearing overconfidence that gave away the truth: where women were concerned, he played hard and expected to win.

But although she could tell he was every bit the smooth-talking, women-stalking, commitment-mocking man his reputation said he was, she didnât delude herself. A single glance at him could be hazardous to a womanâs heart.

She looked away. âHeâsâ¦decent-looking.â

Karen slumped against the back of the sofa. âAre you kidding me? Iâd trade every sex toy in my nightstand drawer for fifteen minutes with a man like him.â

âOh, yeah? And what would you have in the sixteenth minute?â

âOne hell of an afterglow.â

Sara rolled her eyes.

âI didnât say I wanted to head down the aisle with him,â Karen went on. âI said I wanted fifteen minutes of wild, outrageous, multiorgasmic sex.â

âFine. But you know the difference between a one-nighter and a lifetimer. Most women donât. They think theyâre going to change the way a man like him thinks about women. About love. About life. And thatâs not going to happen.â

âSo tell them that.â

âAnd have Nick Chandler smack down every word I say?â

âWith luck, thatâs exactly what heâll do.â

âWhat?â

âControversy sells,â Karen said. âIf you go head-to-head with him, we might be able to squeeze all kinds of press out of it. Good girl meets bad boy head-on. Get it?â

âI told you Iâm not interested.â

Karen gave her a sly smile. âWhatâs the matter? Afraid you canât stay on top of a man like him?â

Sara frowned. âSpare me the innuendo, will you?â

âYou wrote that book because of men like him, and now youâre afraid to face him?â

âIâm not afraid to face him.â

âGood. You shouldnât be. You have at least thirty points of IQ on him.â

âHow do you know that?â

âBecause you have at least thirty points of IQ on everyone.â

âThanks for the vote of confidence, but Iâm still not doing that show.â

Karen sat back with a heavy sigh. âSure. Okay. If thatâs the way you want it.â

âThatâs the way I want it.â

Karen tapped her fingers against her planner, then gave Sara an offhand shrug. âI mean, I guess it is a lot safer just to keep on preaching to the choir.â

âWhat do you mean by that?â

âI mean that you can keep on talking to those women who pay big bucks at your seminars to hear you tell them what they already know. Or what theyâre finally ready to hear. Orâ¦â Karen gave her a no-nonsense stare. âYou can rescue the wayward souls from the devil himself.â

Sara considered that for a moment. Karen was right. It was one thing to help women who knew they needed it. But what about opening the eyes of women who didnât?

âYouâre sure he has that many women who tune in to his show?â Sara asked.

âYep. Thirty thousand plus.â

âHeâs exactly the kind of man those women need to stay away from.â

âRight. But if theyâve got the hots for him, it means they need you. Every last lust-filled one of them. Can you think of a better place to talk to your target audience?â

Sara sighed. Going on that show would be a mistake. It had to be, didnât it?

Then again, she had to admit that so far Karen hadnât steered her wrong. Her creativity in promotion knew no bounds.

Neither did her powers of persuasion.

âIâll come along, of course,â Karen said. âTo give you moral support.â

Sara wavered. She really did want to get her book into the hands of as many women as possible. Maybe this was a way to accomplish that.

âOkay,â Sara said with a sigh of resignation. âIâll do it.â

âThank God,â Karen said with relief. âYou fell for it.â

âFell for what?â

âYou bought all that âitâll sell booksâ stuff. All I really wanted was an excuse to meet Nick Chandler in person.â

Sara smiled. âWhy? So you can work toward that fifteen minutes?â

âDonât worry. Iâll let you have first crack at him. If you decide you donât want him, just toss him my way.â

âCome on, Karen. Both of us are smarter than that.â

Karen sighed. âYeah, I know. But that doesnât stop me from wishing sometimes that I was a dumb blonde.â She glanced at her watch. âIâve got to go. Thereâs a bar stool at Kellyâs with my name on it.â She zipped her planner, then stood up. âYour appointments are over for the day. Why donât you come along?â

âCanât. I need to head home and do a little brainstorming.â

âBrainstorming?â

Sara sighed. âIâm having a hard time coming up with a concept for my next book.â

âSame subject, different take?â

âYeah. Thatâs what my editor wants, but I just donât know where to go with it.â

âA couple of martinis might break that logjam.â

âIâll pass.â

âCome on, Sara. Whenâs the last time you and I hit a happy hour together?â

âIâve been busy. Youâve kept me busy.â

âHey, Iâm all for working hard. But you need your playtime, too. I think youâre the one who needs to get laid.â

âYou know I donât do casual sex.â

âThen make it a formal occasion. Evening gown, tiara, the whole thing. Personally, I wouldnât want to get that dressed up just to have a man rip it all off, but if it works for you, go for it.â

Sara suppressed a smile. âHow did we ever get to be friends, anyway?â

âYou know how we got to be friends. We suffered through high school hell together. And speaking of high school hell, howâs your mother these days?â

âWe met for lunch a few days ago. Itâs been pretty good between us since she moved back here.â

âSo she really did leave that creep in St. Louis for good?â

âLooks like it. This is going to be a good holiday, Karen. Sheâs coming over for dinner next week on Christmas Eve, and then weâre spending Christmas Day together.â

âGood,â Karen said, with a smile that looked a little phony. âThatâs good.â

Sara recognized the dubious look on her friendâs face. In the past, it would have been justified. But not anymore. âItâs okay, Karen. Itâs been three months. I think my mother has finally seen the light.â

âThatâs what you thought with the other guys, too.â

âI know. But this time she sees the pattern of her behavior and wants to do something about it.â

âHey, youâre the shrink. If you say her brainâs finally unscrambled where men are concerned, I believe you.â She checked her watch. âOops. Happy hour is starting without me.â She rose from the sofa and headed for the door.

âThanks for all your help, Karen.â

âJust stick with me, dahling. Iâll make you a star.â

With a couple of theatrical air kisses tossed Saraâs way, Karen swept out of her office and closed the door behind her. Sara glanced back at her computer screen.

Good Lord, what had she just agreed to?

Nick Chandler seemed to be staring right at her, teasing her, taunting her, daring her to walk right into his lair, where he lay in wait to chew her into a thousand tiny pieces.

He was undoubtedly good at ad-libbing. She wasnât. He knew how to commandeer conversations and steer them in the direction he wanted them to go. She didnât. He had those eyes that could knock her train of thought right off its track, while she had not a single body part that could hope to distract a man like him.

What she did have, though, was a mission, one she had yet to stray from. She hadnât gotten this far in life without facing insurmountable odds, and she wasnât going to stop now. Thirty thousand women would be tuning into his show next Thursday, many of whom were heading down the wrong path. This was her chance to show them the right one.

Nick Chandler wasnât going to get the better of her. By the time that show was over on Thursday, he was going to know heâd met his match.

2

BY THE TIME Thursday came, Saraâs brain was still holding on to her conviction with the tenacity of a bulldog with a bone. Unfortunately, her stomach wasnât faring so well. For the past hour, it had been doing funny little flip-flops that were making her a little nauseous. On top of that, the snow predicted for that afternoon had come through with a vengeance, snaring her and Karen in traffic. They were now almost late, so Sara didnât have time to stop and compose herself, which meant she was pretty much a nervous wreck.

They walked into the lobby of the radio station and told the receptionist who they were. Sara shook the snow off her shoulders, then took her coat off and held it in front of her in a death grip.

âStop looking so uptight,â Karen said.

Sara squeezed her eyes closed. âI told you I didnât want to do this.â

âJust donât let him see you sweat.â

âI used extrastrength antiperspirant this morning. Think thatâll do the trick?â

âWill you take it easy? Itâs time to let your hair down a little. Get your message out, but have fun with it.â

Fun? She felt as if she were heading to her own execution.

A few moments later, a man came out to the lobby. He was balding, in his midforties, wearing a scruffy pair of khakis and a sweatshirt.

âThat must be the producer,â Karen whispered. âYouâll be on in a minute. Just be sure to stick to English when you talk.â

âWhat do you mean?â

âWhenever you get nervous, you slip into geek speak.â

âWhat are you talking about?â

âBig words nobody cares about. Just talk to people.â She patted Sara on the arm. âIâll be waiting for you out here.â

Take it easy, keep your cool, stay on message, she told herself. How hard could that really be?

The man introduced himself as Butch Brannigan. He hung Saraâs coat on a nearby rack, then led her down a long hall. As he swung open the door that led to the studio, her heart beat wildly. She thought she was ready for her first glimpse of Nick Chandler. Unfortunately, his photo on the Web site had barely given a hint of the man in the flesh.

He wore jeans. A ragged V-neck cotton sweater over a white T-shirt. Boots that looked as if theyâd been to a war zone and back. He hadnât seen the business end of a razor that morning, or maybe the morning before, either. Few men could pull off the shabby look without appearing unkempt, but Nick merely looked careless and uninhibited. And those eyes. Dear God. In the war between men and women, they were lethal weapons.

He stood up as she came in. âHi. You must be Sara.â

âYes,â she said, extending her hand. âItâs a pleasure to meet you.â

âNo,â he said, his lips easing into a captivating smile. âThe pleasureâs all mine.â

He enveloped her hand in a warm, solid handshake, sending goose bumps crawling all the way up her arm. Then he pulled out her chair. âHave a seat. Weâll be on in just a little bit.â

His deep, resonant voice meshed perfectly with his seductive smile and his incredible good looks, creating a package of pure temptation that could turn a defenseless woman with low self-esteem into a mindless love slave in a matter of minutes. Fortunately, Sara wasnât defenseless, her self-esteem was thoroughly intact and Nick Chandler was going to have to fill the position of love slave elsewhere.

Butch left the room and slipped back into the glassed-in booth that looked into the studio. âThirty seconds, Nick.â

She sat down, and Nick handed her a set of headphones. After putting them on, she folded her hands on the desk in front of her. Then realizing how uptight that looked, she stuck them in her lap instead.

âNervous?â Nick asked.

She whipped around. âNo. Not at all.â

âEver do radio before?â

âNo. This is my first time.â

âAh. A radio virgin.â He smiled reassuringly. âDonât worry. Iâll be gentle.â

Her heart jolted at the mental image that created. âItâs okay. Iâve done a lot of interviews.â She forced a look of indifference on her face. âThis is just one more, right?â

He nodded, still smiling. âRight.â

Pleasant tone of voice. Agreeable expression. Nonconfrontational body language. Everything about him said, You can trust me. So why was she still so terrified?

Because sheâd heard his show before. She knew his point of view. A copy of her book lay on the desk beside him, and she wondered if heâd read anything more than the inside flap copy.

A few seconds later, Nick hit a button and leaned into the microphone. âNext in the hot seat is Doctor Sara Davenport, author of a book called Chasing the Bad Boy. Hi, Sara. Glad you could join us today. You donât mind if I call you Sara, do you? Weâre pretty informal around here.â

She wished she could keep her doctorate wedged between them, along with the title that came with it, but she didnât want to look stuffy. Just have fun with it, Karen had told her.

âOf course you can call me Sara. If I can call you Nick.â

âSweetheart,â he said with a dazzling smile, âyou can call me anything you want to.â

Little prickles of awareness danced across the back of her neck. Stay on your toes.

âWhy donât you give us your book in a nutshell?â Nick said. âThen weâll chat about it.â

She took a deep, silent breath. Here we go.

âWell, the premise of my book is that there are certain men who some women have a hard time resisting. Theyâre the guys they meet at the gym with the incredible bodies who want them for their bodies and nothing else. The mystery men who are here today and gone tomorrow. The amazingly handsome men who sweep women off their feet, then hit on their sisters the moment they leave the room. These men are all very enticing on the outside, but in reality, most of them are immature, reckless and irresponsible, offering nothing to the women who fall for them.â

âWow,â Nick said. âSo how many men do you think are out there who fit that description?â

Sara blinked with surprise. As if she had an actual number? âWell, I donât know exactly. But obviously not all men are like that.â

âSo some of them are pretty good guys.â

âOf course.â

âSo itâs really just a select few who are causing a whole bunch of problems.â

Her heart skipped. âI didnât say there were a lot of problems, justââ

âSara. You wrote an entire book on the subject. Of course there must be a lot of problems. In this country we donât fell trees just for the heck of it, you know.â

Sara just stared at him, her heart thumping. What was she supposed to do now? Defend the logger whoâd cut the trees to make the materials that the printer had bought so he could commit her words to paper?

âOkay, so letâs narrow it down a little,â Nick said. âWhatâs the biggest problem you see with this situation between good girls and bad boys?â

âWomen think theyâre going to change menâs thought processes. Make them into something theyâre not.â

âSo men are inflexible.â

âSome of them are.â

âBut women arenât.â

âWell, some women areââ

âBut theyâre inflexible about the right things.â

This man was turning her mind to mush. âWeâre talking about men here. Men who have no intention of ever committing, yet women chase them, anyway.â

âBecause they like the challenge?â

âYes. Exactly.â

âBut you donât?â

âWhat?â

âLike a man whoâs a challenge.â

Saraâs nervousness escalated. âThis isnât about me.â

âOf course it is. Youâre a woman, arenât you?â

âWell, yes, butââ

âAre you telling me youâve never fallen for one of those bad boys?â

âOf course not.â

âHmm,â he said. âMaybe youâve just never had the opportunity.â

The words fell from his lips like warm honey in a slow drip. In spite of the fact that Sara knew exactly what kind of man he was, still her heart beat with a primal kind of attraction she just couldnât quell.

Get it together, or heâs going to tear you apart.

âThe basis of the problem lies in womenâs physiological reactions,â she explained. âSome women feel a heightened sense of excitement when theyâre with a man who they know is bad for them. Itâs a kind of thrill-seeking behavior, and theyâre physically drawn to it.â

âPhysically?â Nick said, as his gaze took a slow trip down Saraâs body and back up again. âHmm. Iâm not quite sure Iâm following you.â

That was a lie. He was following every word she spoke, every breath she took, every blink of an eyelash, and she knew why. He was the charming kind of bad boy who seemed innocuous on the surface, even as he used that charm to disarm his victims so he could control every situation. Intellectually, she knew what he was up to. So why was he making her so nervous?

âItâs a physical reaction,â she said. âThey feel a heightened awareness, and thereâs an increase in heart rate.â

Nick nodded, but he looked a little puzzled.

âAnd an accelerated neurotransmitter response.â

His brows pulled together with confusion.

âAnd a dilation of blood vessels. That causes the skin to flush. Then the perspiration glands become overstimulatedââ

Nick held up his palm. âHold on there, Sara. Iâm afraid youâre losing me with all that physiological whatever.â

Geek speak. Hadnât Karen warned her about that? âAll Iâm trying to say isââ

âWhat youâre trying to say,â Nick said, leaning toward her and pulling his microphone along with him, âis that bad boys make women hot. Is that right?â

He focused those gorgeous eyes on hers with the intensity of a laser beam, and all at once Sara felt her heart race, her face flush, her skin prickle and her palms sweat.

She cleared her throat. âIâm merely saying they have a physical reaction when theyâre with such men. One thatâsâ¦uhâ¦hard to ignore.â

He gave her a sinful smile that said, Yes, it is, isnât it?

âThe truth is that good boys will date bad girls,â Sara said, âbut they know who they can take home to Mom. Some women, though, will go to extremes trying to change a man whoâs never going to change. For men, bad girls are flings. For women, bad boys are projects.â

âBut like it or not,â Nick said, âwomen want those bad boys youâre talking about. Oh, they say they donât. They say they want men who will mind their manners and take out the trash without being told and be kind to their mothers.â

âAll very wonderful qualities.â

âBut thatâs not all they want.â He gave her a tempting smile. âThey want a man whoâs exciting. Intriguing. Who keeps them guessing. Who changes from one day to the next and leaves them breathless in an attempt to keep up. A man with an erotic edge who makes them feel alive in a way they never have before. What they want,â he said in a voice as smooth as glass, âis a man whoâs just a littleâ¦bitâ¦dangerous.â

Sara opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. All she could do was stare at him. It was as if the verbal part of her brain had shut down completely.

Nick glanced at the console. âWow. Look at that. All the lines are lit up. Better see what the folks have to say.â He punched a button. âThis is Andy in Alto Linda. Hey, Andy. Whatâs up, man?â

âYou havenât done the rundown yet,â Andy said. âIâm dying to hear this one.â

Saraâs nerves tightened. The rundown? What was that?

âYep. Youâre right, Andy. Thanks for keeping me on track. Iâll do that right away.â

Sara looked at him questioningly.

âMy listeners want to know what you look like,â Nick said.

Sara felt a shot of apprehension. âI donât see the relevancyââ

âOh, itâs relevant to them. Believe me.â

He kicked back in his chair, put his foot on the desk and dragged the microphone up to his mouth.

âOkay, guys, let me tell you what Iâm looking at here. âSara Davenport is about five-six, one twenty-five. Long, silky brown hair. Gorgeous green eyes. I think theyâre green, anyway. Theyâre hard to make out with the reflection off her glasses.â

She pursed her lips, trying hard not to react.

âNow, donât worry, Sara,â Nick went on. âIâm not knocking off any points for those. Contrary to common beliefâ¦â He dropped his voice to a sexy drawl. âMen do make passes at girls who wear glasses.â

Sara just sat there, astonished that he was saying these things in front ofâ¦good God. Ahundred thousand people?

âAnd Iâm thinking sheâs probablyâ¦â Nick paused. âLetâs see. Thirty-two years old?â

She couldnât stop her eyes from narrowing.

âOops,â Nick said. âGot the evil eye on that. With all those letters after her name, I assumed she had to be older. Turns out sheâs not old, just smart. Letâs try twenty-eight.â

Actually, he was off by two years, but that was absolutely none of his business, and she willed herself again not to react. She didnât want to telegraph to the women in the audience that she cared whether this man found her attractive or not.

âOkay,â Nick said. âTwenty-eight it is.â His gaze slid down her body, lingering on her legs. âIâm guessing sheâs got some really nice legs, but underneath the wool pants sheâs wearing, itâs hard to tell. Now, up on topâ¦â He eyed her breasts with such intensity that she had to resist the urge to fold her arms over her chest. âUnfortunately, she left the spandex at home today, and her buttoned-up cotton shirt kinda hinders the view.â

âSo what score do you give her?â Andy asked.

Nick sighed. âIâm afraid I canât go any higher than a six.â

Saraâs eyes flew open wide. âA six?â

She instantly clamped her mouth shut. Damn it. Heâd dangled the bait and sheâd snapped at it. Sheâd known exactly what he was up to, and stillâ

âWait a minute, Sara,â Nick said. âLet me clarify. Iâm pretty darned sure thereâs a ten under there somewhere, but I canât go jumping to conclusions with the obstructed view and all. Now, if you could see your way clear to get rid of some of that cotton and wool, I might be persuaded to reevaluate.â

For several seconds, Sara was dumbfounded into silence. Did he seriously think sheâd consider such a thing, as if she was one of the strippers he was so famous for interviewing? Was she supposed to take this kind of thing lying down?

Then, out of nowhere, she was hit with an image of taking all kinds of things from Nick Chandler while lying down.

Oh, God. Why was her brain going there at a time like this? What was the matter with her?

âNever mind, Sara,â Nick said. âNumbers really arenât that important, now are they? Letâs take a few more calls.â He punched a button on the console. âIâve got Tawny in Forest Heights on the line. Hey, Tawny. Welcome to the show.â

âThis question is for Sara,â she said.

Sara sat up and squared her shoulders. Finally. A woman who wanted to ask a serious question. She leaned into the microphone. âYes?â

âIâve never seen Nick in person,â Tawny said. âIs he as gorgeous as his picture on the Web site?â

Sara flicked her gaze to Nick, who was wearing a smile of supreme satisfaction.

What was she supposed to do now? If she said yes, heâd become so arrogant and unbearable that his ego would ooze right out of this studio. If she said no, her nose would grow like Pinocchioâs on steroids. There was only one way to deal with this.

It was time to fight fire with fire.

She took hold of her microphone. âHi, Tawny. You want to know if Nick is as gorgeous as his picture on the Web site?â

âOh, yeah.â

âWell, maybe itâs time for me to do a rundown of my own. Let me tell you what Iâm looking at.â

She turned and stared at Nick, who responded only by leaning back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and giving her a challenging smile.

âNick Chandler is the kind of man who makes every woman he meets check her chest for the heart sheâs sure sheâs lost. And no wonder. When it comes to good looks, this man went through the line twice. Heâs got a smile that would light up New York in the middle of a blackout. A body that dropped right down from Mount Olympus. I suspect heâs given more than one woman a case of whiplash just by walking past her.â

A big grin spread across Nickâs face. He leaned into his microphone. âTawny, Iâve got to tell you. This woman really knows what sheâs talking about.â

âHold on, Nick,â Sara said. âIâm not finished yet.â

âOh, Iâm sorry,â he said with a smug smile. âDid I interrupt?â

She leaned into the microphone again. âGiven his excessive good looks, I suspect he never developed any real talent because he never had to. Thatâs why he hosts a radio show that relies strictly on his physical attractiveness and his magnetic yet misguided personality. Where women are concerned, heâs as full of empty promises as he is of BS. Heâs the kind of man who wouldnât think to ask âWas it good for you, too?â because he couldnât fathom that five minutes in his presence wouldnât drive a woman to orgasm. And while youâre busy thinking about the future, heâs wondering how many beers are left in the fridge.

âSo, without demeaning him by asking him to strip to make the assessment, Iâd give him a ten-plus for looks. What Iâd give him for whatâs underneath those good looks, though, would be a big fat zero.â

A few seconds of dead air passed, and the flicker of amazement on Nickâs face gave Sara a rush of vindication. Yes. Sheâd scored a direct hit. Let him try to mess with her after that.

To her surprise, though, his expression morphed into a grin of sheer delight. âWell,â he said into the microphone, âthere may be a little frost on her windows, but it looks as if the furnace inside is going full blast. So how about it, guys? If you like your women feisty, this one might be worth turning off the big screen for. Give me a call and tell me what you think.â

As the phone lines lit up, anger rumbled inside Sara like a volcano ready to blow. Feisty? Had he just called her feisty? And how had this interview gotten to be about her, anyway?

Nick started to touch a button to pick up another call, only to put a finger to his headphones. âOops. Sorry, guys. Butch is telling me weâre out of time.â He swung around and grabbed the copy of Saraâs book from the table beside him. âThe name of the book is Chasing the Bad Boy, by Sara Davenport. Buy it because you believe it or buy it because you donât, but whatever you do, buy it. Then drop Sara an e-mail atââ he flipped to the back of the book ââSara at Sara Davenport dot com and tell her what you think. Now, donât go away. Weâll be back in just a few minutes with a little sports talk.â

Nick punched a button, then pulled off his headphones and faced her. âWow, Sara. You really let me have it, didnât you?â

Sara couldnât believe this. As if it was her fault theyâd squared off the way they had? Heâd baited her, angered her and demeaned her, and now he was upset because sheâd given him a dose of his own medicine?

She pulled off her headphones. âLook, Nick. If youâre expecting an apologyââ

âApology? Are you kidding? That was what I call damned good radio.â He gave her a radiant smile. âDonât let this get out, but I swear sometimes itâs better than sex.â

Huh?

He leaned toward her, dropping his voice. âHow about you, Sara? Did you feel the rush?â

What the hell was he talking about? âAll I felt,â she said hotly, âwas the desire to get out of here. You made me look like a fool.â

Nick drew back. âNobody looked like a fool. Least of all you.â

âBut all those things you saidââ

âYes. I said a lot of things. And you gave them right back to me. We lit up those lines. Thatâs a good thing.â

âNo, itâs not,â she said, standing up. âNot when you humiliate me to make it happen.â

She turned to leave. Nick rose and grabbed her arm. âHey, take it easy, okay? I donât want you going away mad.â

She shook her arm loose and glared at him. âToo late for that.â

âOkay,â he said, holding up his palms. âI can see that we got off on the wrong foot here.â

âYou have a talent for understatement.â

âSo how about we start over?â A smile eased across his face. âSayâ¦with dinner tonight?â

Sara drew back in total disbelief. âYou have got to be joking.â

âI never joke about food. I know a great steakhouse on Campbell Road thatâs got a rib eye that I just might sell my soul for.â

âNo, thank you.â

He frowned. âOh, boy. Itâs the red meat thing, isnât it? Are you one of those women who eats only green stuff?â

âNo!â

He sighed with relief. âThank God. Nothingâs worse than taking a vegetarian to a steak house. They end up eating a salad and poking at a baked potato.â He smiled again. âSo how about it, Sara? Wanna make an evening of it?â

This was absolutely unbelievable. How could he even think sheâd take him up on such a thing?

âI told you Iâm not interested,â she said. âAnd I canât imagine why you would be, either. I mean, why would you want to get stuck with a six like me when you could thumb through your little black book and come up with a perfect ten?â

âCome on, Sara. That rating thing is just a gimmick. My listeners love it.â

âWell, I donât.â

âOkay, then. Forget the numbers. Hereâs the truth.â He moved closer, his mouth edging into a warm smile. âWhen you walked in here a few minutes ago, my very first thought was that you were justâquite simplyâone beautiful woman.â

For a moment, she thought she heard a note of actual sincerity in his voice, one that almost made her think he wasnât just tossing compliments around because sheâd turned him down and his ego couldnât take it.

Almost.

âNo, Nick. Hereâs the truth. Your opinion of my physical appearance doesnât interest me in the least. I was here to promote my book, not to subject myself to your adolescent behavior. But you know what? Itâs my fault. I knew what your show was like, and I let my publicist book me on it, anyway. But you can bet your life I wonât make a mistake like that again.â

âNick!â Butch said. âYou got fifteen seconds!â

Nickâs smile faded, replaced by a look of resignation. âOkay, Sara. I get the message.â

âGood.â

She started to walk out.

âSara?â

âWhat?â

âIf you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.â

He put on his headphones and hit a button on the console. As he started his well-practiced banter once again, Sara left the booth, still fuming, still frustrated, and when she thought about the people all over town who had just heard her humiliation, she wanted to crawl under a rock and die.

You know where to find me. As if sheâd ever get within a mile of this radio station again.

When she came into the lobby, Karen stood up. Sara brushed past her and headed for the door.

âHey, wait a minute!â Karen said. âWhere are you going? I wanted to meetââ

âNo. You donât want to meet him. Trust me. You donât.â

She yanked open the door and stepped outside. Traipsing through the snow, she headed for her car, the bitter winter wind swirling around her. Karen threw the strap of her laptop case over her shoulder and followed. She caught up to Sara in the parking lot and pulled her to a halt. âHey! Whatâs wrong?â

âWhatâs wrong? Did you not hear that interview?â

âI heard every word.â

âIt was a disaster!â

âDisaster? Are you kidding? You were brilliant!â

Sara gaped with disbelief. âBrilliant? What are you talking about? That man humiliated me!â

âNo way. He may have given it to you, but you gave it right back. You beat him at his own game.â

âNo. All I did was let him drag me down into the gutter right along with him.â

âYeah, and while you two were wallowing around in that gutter, I was checking the e-mails coming in through your Web site. Half a dozen already.â

âWhat?â

âGet in the car. Iâll show you.â

They slid into the car, and Karen flipped open her laptop. She ran her finger over the touch pad, then tapped.

âListen to this,â she said. ââI just heard you on Nick Chandlerâs show. Youâre absolutely right. Somebody needs to warn women about men like him. Keep up the good work!ââ

Sara blinked with surprise.

âHereâs another one,â Karen said. ââI liked how you let him have it. If I had that kind of backbone with a man, then maybe I never would have stayed with the losers I have.ââ Karen hit the touch pad again. âAnd how about this one? âI came to one of your seminars, and now after hearing you on Nick Chandlerâs show today, I can see that youâre somebody who actually practices what she preaches. You donât let men mess with you. Way to go!ââ

Sara was dumbfounded. âThey actually heard me? Women who arenât Nick Chandler groupies?â

âIf they were before, theyâre not now. They heard you, they thought about what you said and they responded. And there are more e-mails coming in. Didnât I tell you this would happen?â

Sara felt a glimmer of hope. âI still donât believe it.â

âBelieve it. You reached your target audience. You may have done it under the radar, but you did it just the same. It appears that Nick Chandler was his own worst enemy in there, and he didnât even know it.â

His own worst enemy?

The more Sara thought about that, the more it made sense. Heâd baited her into unmasking him just enough that at least a few of the women in his audience had been able to see him for what he really was. And that was a very good thing.

Then all at once, an inkling of an idea came to Sara. She froze, her hands on the steering wheel, as it took shape in her mind. She felt a spark of excitement, which grew hotter with every second that passed.

âOh, my God. Karen. I know the angle for my next book.â

âWhat?â

âMaybe itâs time the women of the world knew exactly what goes on inside the mind of a man like Nick Chandler.â

âWhat do you mean?â

âI wrote my first book from the perspective of women who fall prey to bad boys. What if I write my second one from the perspective of the bad boy himself?â

âNick?â

âExactly. Heâll be my starting point. Once women have a peek inside his head, see his motives, hear firsthand how he goes about controlling and manipulating them, theyâll know heâs the kind of man they need to avoid at all cost.â

Karenâs eyes flicked back and forth, her mind turning. âSounds promising. PR-wise, it could be a gold mine. But how are you going to get Nick Chandler to spill all his secrets?â

âYou said it yourselfâheâs his own worst enemy. He doesnât see anything wrong with his point of view, and with an ego like his, getting him to talk about himself should be a breeze.â She gave her friend a devious smile. âBelieve me, Karen. If I want to know what Nick Chandler is thinking, all I have to do is ask.â

3

TWO HOURS LATER, Nick swung his car out of the KZAP parking lot onto the snow-crusted road to head home. Sixteen inches of snow had hit the city already, and more was falling. His windshield wipers were working overtime to sweep enough away that he could see to drive.

He pulled up to a stoplight, then turned to look at Sara Davenportâs book lying in the passenger seat beside him. Why he was bringing it home with him, he really didnât know. It had sat on the table beside him during the rest of his show this afternoon, distracting him to the point that heâd actually lost his train of thought a time or two. Finally, heâd stuck it under his desk, thinking out of sight, out of mind, only to see Saraâs face in his mind instead.

And now the book was staring up at him in that same accusing way it had in the studio. For an inanimate object, it was doing a pretty good job of generating a whole lot of guilt.

He sighed. Face it, Chandler. You screwed up.

The minute heâd seen those lines light up during his show, heâd responded as he always did, like some kind of Pavlovian dog with his tail wagging wildly and his mouth watering. As he pictured every one of those incoming lines jammed with callers, his heart had raced and his nerves had come to life, driving him to fan those flames until they burned as hot as they possibly could.

But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that heâd fueled that bonfire at Sara Davenportâs expense.

Technically, heâd done things right. Heâd entertained his listeners, stirred up a little attention-getting controversy, and plugged her book. Unfortunately, she hadnât exactly gotten into the spirit of his show. And he was still stinging from her turning down his dinner invitation, too, because that meant she was holding a grudge, and he hated that. Heâd been a lot of things to a lot of women in his life, but enemy had never been one of them.

He hadnât been lying. She was a beautiful woman, which made her turning down his dinner invitation doubly painful. He glanced at her book again and let out a heavy sigh. He was going to have to do something to rectify the situation, but he just wasnât sure what.

A few minutes later, he pulled into his parking space next to his apartment and killed the engine, thankful that heâd moved to a new apartment only five minutes from the station. It was bigger than his last one, and the covered parking was a real plus in a city with an average annual snowfall of almost ninety inches. His recent salary increase had afforded him all kinds of luxuries: more space, more comfort, more convenience. All very good things.

Nick grabbed Saraâs book, got out of the car and trudged through the snow to his apartment door. Glancing through the window into his living room, he saw a familiar head sticking up above the back of the sofa. He checked his watch. No wonder. He was late getting home tonight, and the game started in ten minutes.

Nick unlocked the door, stomped the snow off his boots and walked inside to find that Ted, as usual, had let himself in and parked himself in front of Nickâs big-screen TV, which he said beat the hell out of the piddly twenty-six incher in his own apartment.

âHey, man!â Ted said. âAbout time you got home. The gameâs about to start.â

Nick closed the door and tossed Saraâs book down on the coffee table. âLet me grab a beer. Need another one?â

âHas the answer to that question ever been no?â

Nick pulled two bottles from the fridge and they sat down on the sofa. Ted looked as he always did, which wasnât surprising since his wardrobe consisted of three pair of jeans and sixty-two concert and radio station T-shirts. And Nick knew that sixteen inches of snow was the only thing on the planet that could make Ted swap his flip-flops for the boots he was wearing now.

He and Ted had met for the first time when Nick had been an intern at KPAT in Colorado Springs. Ted had been their morning man along with another DJ, a guy who was a genius behind the microphone but had a reliability problem stemming from his close personal relationship with the whiskey bottle. When that guy got canned, Ted had lobbied for Nick to fill the spot, telling the station manager that he needed a pretty face to balance his own butt-ugly one because wearing a ski mask during remotes seemed a little too serial killer. It had been an unheard-of opportunity for someone whoâd done as little dues-paying as Nick had, and he vowed heâd never forget it.

Theyâd been a great team on a show with great ratings, but eventually theyâd been fired. Nick figured that the hoax theyâd pulled on the mayor probably had something to do with it. Theyâd split up, Ted heading to Monroe, Louisiana, and Nick to Dallas, then Chicago, before finally landing in Boulder. Nick had learned his lesson. He kept the practical jokes to a minimum, stayed put and built a reputation, finally working his way up to his own show. Ted hopped from job to job, eventually ending up at a low-watt hole-in-the-wall FM station in Tupelo.

When heâd called three months ago to tell Nick that heâd been fired one more time, Nick hadnât been surprised. There was always some stunt Ted wanted to pull, music he declined to play, or ass he refused to kiss. But this time Nick had heard a touch of desperation in his friendâs voice that had never been there before, so he pulled a few strings and got him an interview for a producerâs job at KZAP. At first, Ted had flipped out: Iâve been playing rock and roll across this great country of ours for the past twenty years, and you want me to produce a gardening show? But then heâd gotten real and gotten down to business, taking the job when it was offered and staying with Nick until he could get back on his feet again.

âCaught your show today,â Ted said. âGreat stuff. Loved Amber, the pole dancing champion.â He drooped his lids and assumed a Madonna-like voice. ââItâs, like, you have to become one with the pole. Feel the pole. Love the pole.ââ

âHey, everybodyâs got their thing. I respect that.â Nick gave him a sly grin. âHer thing just happens to be slithering naked up and down a pole in front of a roomful of drunk men.â

And after her spot on the show, Amber had offered to show Nick the practice pole in her bedroom, complete with a private performance. When heâd declined, sheâd given him an open invitation for the future. In light of Amberâs considerable physical assets, heâd surprised himself by feeling more turned off by her than turned on.

Then Sara Davenport had shown up.

Heâd looked around to see her standing at the door of the studio, uptight and buttoned-down, but still considerably sexier than any psychologist heâd ever imagined. The nervousness sheâd tried to hide had only made him wonder what other chinks there might be in the armor of rigid professionalism she wore. Only seconds passed before he was already thinking about pulling those glasses off her real slow, tossing them aside, then taking her in his arms andâ¦

âBut your best bit was that psychologist,â Ted said. âShe really let you have it, didnât she? God, that was great. The kind of guest you kill for.â

âYeah, I know. Unfortunately, the lady didnât think it was all that entertaining. She thought I humiliated her.â

âYou kidding? She got her shots in, didnât she?â

âYeah, but she still didnât think much of me by the time the interview was over. I tried to ask her out to dinner as a peace offering, but that didnât fly, either.â

âAre you telling me a woman turned you down?â

âItâs hardly the first time.â

âYeah, but itâs the first time since you were twelve years old.â He reached to the coffee table. âIs this her book?â

âYeah.â

Ted thumbed through it. âWow. Check out her bio. Education out the wazoo.â He turned to Nick. âSince when do you have a thing for the intellectual type?â

He didnât. At least, he didnât think he did.

Did he?

âI just didnât want her to go away mad,â Nick said. âThatâs bad for business.â

âSo which was she? A six or a ten?â

Nick winced. Heâd taken that bit a little too far. Sara wasnât a mud wrestler or a Penthouse pet or the owner of a nudist resort. Those women were used to his kind of banter. They thrived on his kind of banter.

Sara didnât.

âThatâs just a stupid bit I do,â Nick said. âIâm thinking of trashing it.â

âNo way. Itâs that kind of bit that got you where you are. That showâs a cash cow, kid. Milk it for all itâs worth. If you donât, one of these days youâll be old and decrepit like me, and you wonât be good for much of anything.â He took a swig of beer. âWell, anything except producing a gardening show.â

âFor Godâs sake, Ted. Youâre only forty-one.â

âIn radio, I might as well be a hundred and forty-one.â He pointed his finger at Nick. âTake this as a warning, kid. This business chews you up and spits you out.â Then he waved his hand dismissively. âOh, hell, why am I warning you? Youâre riding the wave. If theyâre talking syndication for your show, youâre gonna be on easy street.â

âTheyâre talking. But Iâm not holding my breath.â

âNope. Youâve got what it takes. I knew it from the second I met you. Syndication will put you on top, so you do anythingâand I mean anythingâto get there. You hear me? Otherwise youâre gonna end up like me in ten years. Look how I was wallowing around at the bottom of the barrel when I called you a few months ago.â

âYou were out of a job. Like thatâs something new to radio guys?â

To Nickâs surprise, Tedâs expression turned solemn, and he stared down at his beer. âYou know, when I got fired, I was at the end of my rope. I wasnât quite sure where I was gonna go. I just hung around Tupelo for a few days, staring at the wall. Then I talked to you.â He turned his gaze up to meet Nickâs. âThanks, kid. I donât know what Iâd have done without you.â

Nickâs heart twisted a little. âHey, it was purely selfish on my part, believe me.â

âHowâs that?â

âAt the rate Iâm going, Iâm never going to have a wife, but what do I need one of those for when I have you waiting for me when I get home? If I could just get you to have dinner ready and bring me my slippers, Iâd be all set.â

Ted scowled. âHey, you know the number of the pizza place as well as I do. And your big stinky feet can freeze for all I care. Now, just watch the game, will you?â

Nick grinned and picked up the remote, when all at once the phone rang. He tossed the remote aside and grabbed it.

âThis is Nick.â

âHi, Nick. This is Sara Davenport.â

His heart skipped. Hers was the last voice heâd expected to hear on the other end of the line, and for a moment he was actually speechless.

âDid I catch you at a bad time?â she asked.

âUh, no,â he said, sitting up straight. âNot at all. Iâm justâ¦well, I guess Iâm a little surprised. I didnât expect to hear from you again.â

âI phoned the station and your producer gave me your home number. I hope you donât mind.â

âOf course not.â Nickâs mind was spinning, wondering why she was calling. âI just hope this means youâve reconsidered my dinner invitation.â

âNo,â she said. âIâm not calling about dinner. But there is something Iâd like to discuss with you. A business proposition.â

Business? He could think of all kinds of business heâd like to get down to with her. Unfortunately, she sounded as if she meant, wellâ¦business.

âCan you meet me at my office tomorrow at ten oâclock?â

Nick ran through his mental to-do list for tomorrow and saw nothing on his schedule for that hour. And between now and then, if he remembered something, heâd cancel it.

âSure, Sara. I can meet you at ten.â

âGood. My office address is 8442 Cavanaugh Court, Suite 214.â

Nick grabbed a pencil and scribbled the address on the cover of his TV Guide. âCare to tell me what weâre gonna be talking about?â

âIâd rather go into it tomorrow, if you donât mind.â

âSure. Thatâs fine.â

âIâll see you then.â

âIâll be looking forward to it.â

Nick heard a click. He held out the phone and stared at it for a moment, then turned to Ted. âThatâs weird.â

âWhat?â

He returned the phone to its cradle. âThat was Sara Davenport.â

âThe shrink on the show today?â

âYeah. She wants me to meet her at her office tomorrow morning.â

Ted raised his eyebrows. âHer office, huh? Why there?â

âI donât know. Sheâs says itâs business.â

Ted grinned. âBusiness? Right. Donât psychologists have couches in their offices?â

âThey do on TV.â

âWell, there you go, kid.â

âWhat?â

âIâd say sheâs looking for a little afternoon delight. This way, you donât even have to buy her dinner.â

âWill you give me a break? Itâs nothing like that. Trust me. When she left the station, she was cold as ice. And I donât sense that a whole lot of thawing has taken place since then.â

âOh, yeah? Bet you can lock her office door, draw the blinds and get her naked in under two minutes.â

Nick gave him a deadpan stare. âTed?â

âYeah?â

âYou really need to get a love life of your own.â

âNah. What woman in her right mind is gonna want a washed-up bum like me? Just hand me a beer and let me live vicariously.â

As Ted picked up the remote and found the station the game was on, Nick glanced at the phone again, still wondering why Sara wanted to see him.

And why he wanted to see her.

It was crazy, after all. Sara wasnât anything like the kind of women he usually dated. Sheâd probably never done a Jell-O shot in her life. Or picked up a pool cue. Or flashed her boobs during Mardi Gras, worn a thong or woken up in Cancun with a hangover and wondered how sheâd gotten there. Instead, sheâd been busy getting all those letters after her name and writing books, not to mention straightening out peopleâs minds and collecting a hefty paycheck for her services. Just being seen with a sharp, conservative, intellectual woman like Sara would make his bar-hopping, speed-dating, sports-crazy listeners wonder when heâd gone over to the dark side.

So why did he feel a hot little rush at the very thought of seeing her again?

He had no idea. He only knew that it had been a very long time since heâd met a woman who was any kind of challenge at all. Most of the women he encountered were either waiting in the lobby of the station to slip their phone numbers into his pocket, calling his show with various sexual propositions or tossing their panties into the booth whenever he did remotes. He tried to imagine Sara doing any of those things, and he almost laughed out loud.

He settled back with Ted to watch the game, but he had a hard time concentrating. Business? He had no idea if Sara ever mixed that with pleasure, but he sure intended to find out.

4

âNICK CHANDLER is coming here?â

Saraâs assistant stared at her with big brown eyes full of rapt disbelief, more proof that Nickâs notoriety was even more widespread than Sara had imagined.

She closed the folder she held and strode to the file cabinet. âYes, Heather. Heâll be here in just a few minutes.â

âI canât believe it,â Heather said. âI just canât believe it. I mean, I saw the name on your schedule, but I had no idea it was the Nick Chandler. Whatâs the deal? Is he really messed up or crazy or something?â

âHeather, we donât say crazy,â Sara said, refiling the folder. âHavenât we talked about that?â

âOh, yeah. Iâm sorry. Iâll be careful not to say that to his face. I promise.â

âItâs a good idea to get used to not saying it behind somebodyâs back, either.â

Heather nodded dutifully.

âAnd heâs not a client. We just have some business to discuss.â She glanced at Heatherâs desk. âDid you get the filing done?â

âYeah. And all of itâs in the right place, too.â

Sara smiled. âGood job.â

When Sara hired Heather two months ago, it had been like rescuing a homeless puppy from a snowstorm, minus the wet fur, the cold nose and the peeing on the rug. But the job wasnât that demanding, and Sara had felt sorry for her. Like that little lost puppy, turning her away had been next to impossible.

Still, in spite of the fact that Heather truly needed a job, when she continued to cut clients off on the phone and misfile important documents, Sara had told her that perhaps this wasnât the job for her. But as soon as Heather saw the ax falling, those big brown eyes had filled with tears. Then, like the Hoover Dam bursting and flooding half of Arizona, Heather had unloaded her entire employment history on Sara.

I broke the copier at that law firm and I spilled coffee on the chairman of the board at that manufacturing company and then there was that grease fire I started at McDonaldâs when I was seventeen and ohmiGod I just know this means Iâll never be able to find a job againâ¦

Sara had never thought of herself as a pushover, but suddenly she just couldnât fire her. Heather had a two-year degree and wasnât lacking in intellect. She was just painfully naive and woefully unsure of herself. Once firing her had been taken off the table, Sara was left with no option but to let her grow into the job. And day by day, she was doing better.

âAnd youâll be proud of me for something else,â Heather said.

âWhatâs that?â

âIâm going to break up with Richard tonight.â

Saraâs heart skipped with hope. Heather had read Saraâs book, and after theyâd talked about it, slowly sheâd come to the conclusion that her boyfriend fit a lot of the criteria for the kind of man she needed to stay away from. Their relationship had been one of him promising her the moon and giving her nothing at the same time he couldnât keep his hands off other women.

âI think youâre doing the right thing,â Sara said.

Heather sighed. âI hope so.â

âHeâs going to try to manipulate you again. You just have to be ready for that.â

âI know. Iâm sticking to my guns this time. I swear I am.â

Sara smiled. âGood for you.â

With Christmas only a week from tomorrow, Sara was proud of Heather for taking this initiative right now. Making such a decision was especially hard around the holidays, when emotions ran high and resistance ran low. Sara herself had gotten a little flustered when Nick had interviewed her yesterday, so she knew how easy it was to succumb to the manipulation of a man like Heatherâs boyfriend. Of course, now that she had a little distance on the experience and had had time to analyze her reaction, she was in control now. He wouldnât be getting to her again. And she felt absolutely certain of that, right up to the moment when the door swung open and Nick walked into the office and her heart went crazy all over again.

He was dressed similarly to the way he was yesterday, only the sweater was a different color, and he wore a fleece-lined leather coat over it. He suddenly seemed taller. Bigger. She told herself it was just the coat, or maybe his boots, orâ¦

Or maybe it was his larger-than-life personality that was oozing right off him, which included a smile so bright it could be seen from outer space.

âHello, Nick,â she said, striving for nonchalance. âCome in.â

Heather, however, didnât know the meaning of the word nonchalance, staring at Nick as if the untouchable dream man from her deepest fantasies had just come to life in front of her. And her thunderstruck expression wasnât lost on Nick.

âHi, there,â he said, turning that Day-Glo smile full force in her direction. âIâm Nick Chandler.â

Heather just looked at him as if her brain had shut down completely. And Sara had the most terrible feeling that she had an even dumber look on her own face.

But why? Why? He was just one man.

Okay, he was just one highly attractive man, but she knew what was beneath the surface. And she intended never to forget that, no matter how charming he seemed to be.

âNick, this is my assistant, Heather.â

âVery nice to meet you, Heather,â Nick said.

âMy boyfriend listens to your show all the time,â she gushed. âHe just loves it.â Then she glanced quickly at Sara, her smile fading. âI mean, my ex-boyfriend.â

âHeather,â Sara said, âwill you please hold my calls while Mr. Chandler and I talk?â

Nick gave Heather a little wink as they walked away, and Sara thought the poor girl was going to melt right there.

Once they were in her office, Sara closed the door behind them and sat down in the chair behind her desk. Nick took off his coat and tossed it onto one of her guest seats. He circled his gaze around the room.

âNice office, Sara. Or should I call you Dr. Davenport? With this big old desk between us, I feel like maybe I ought to.â

âNo, Sara will be fine.â

He walked over to her bookshelves and scanned the titles. âHmm. No Freud? No Jung?â He turned back with a smile. âWhat kind of a psychologist are you, anyway?â

âHave a seat, Nick.â

âHold on,â he said, glancing at her diplomas hanging on the wall. âGotta check out the credentials.â He looked at them, then gave her a low whistle of approval. âWow. Are you sure youâre only twenty-eight?â

âIâm thirty.â

He grinned. âAh. Fibbed a little about your age, did you?â

âNo. You said twenty-eight. I didnât correct you.â

âDonât worry,â he said with a grin. âYour secret is safe with me.â

âItâs no secret.â

âUh-huh.â He moved to the window and opened the blinds. âGreat view of the mountains. The windows at the station look out onto parking lots and Dumpsters.â He sighed wistfully. âI knew I should have majored in psychology.â

âNick? Can we talk?â

âOh, yeah. Right. Business.â

He sat down in the chair in front of her desk, crossing one ankle casually over his knee and placing his elbows on the arms of the chair. With his fingers steepled in front of him, he lounged there as if he belonged there. She had a feeling that no matter where this man went, he instantly made himself at home.

âOkay, Sara. Shoot.â

She sat up straight, choosing her words carefully. âAs you know, Iâve written one book. Now Iâm in the process of writing another one.â

âYes?â

âAnd Iâm interested in your point of view.â

âMy point of view? About what?â

âWell, my new book is going to contain the same kind of subject matter as my last one, but with a twist. Iâm interested in investigating the subject from a manâs perspective. You seem to have strong opinions about man-woman relationships, so I thought it would be interesting to quote you.â

Suddenly the man whoâd been bouncing all over her office went completely still, his cheery expression fading away. His eyes narrowed into a stare so intense that she had the sensation of being completely transparent.

âI didnât think you were overly fond of my opinions.â

âThe most thorough examination of any issue encompasses more than one point of view.â

âEven though mine is the wrong one?â

âYour words will speak for themselves.â

âTrue, but I wonât have any control over the spin you do in the next paragraph, will I?â

âI can only promise to quote you accurately. If you stand by your opinions, and those opinions are shared by your audience members, then any spin I do shouldnât make a difference, should it?â

He was silent for a long time. Staring at her. Staring into her. His eyes were narrowed, his gaze locked on to hers. She forced herself not to look away. For a moment, she was sure he was going to say no. Then his tense posture seemed to relax, and a tiny smile crossed his lips.

âSure, Sara,â he said. âIâd be happy to give you my point of view.â

Sara felt a rush of relief. âGood. Thatâs good.â She reached for her planner. âWe can set a time for you to come back here andââ

âNope. I donât want to talk here. As I said, Iâm not real crazy about this big old desk between us.â

âIf youâd prefer, we can sit on the sofa.â

He examined it for a moment. âWell, I admit thatâs a step in the right direction, butâ¦â He turned back. âNo. I donât think so.â

âThen where do you suggest we do the interview?â

âOver dinner.â

Her heart kicked up a notch. âDinner?â

âYeah. Good food and good wine make everything so much more enjoyable, donât you think?â

She should have known this wasnât going to be as easy as it appeared. Nothing with this man was as easy as it appeared.

âDidnât I tell you yesterday that Iâm not interested in going out with you?â

âThat was yesterday. This is today.â

âNothingâs changed.â

âIf it makes you feel better, think of it as a business dinner.â

No. No way. She had to be firm with him, or he was going to run all over her.

âIâm sorry, Nick. Any interview I conduct is going to take place right here.â

âIs that your final word on the subject?â

âYes. It is.â

âThen the dealâs off.â

He rose from his chair, grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

Sara stood up suddenly. âWait!â

Slowly he turned back.

She sighed with frustration. âI donât understand why youâre being difficult about this. Thereâs no good reasonââ

âOn the contrary. Thereâs a very good reason Iâm being difficult.â

âWhich is?â

He spoke slowly and distinctly. âBecause I want to have dinner with you.â

âWhy?â

âWhy? Well, letâs see. Itâs this little ritual men and women sometimes perform. Itâs called a date.â

âYou told me to think of it as a business dinner!â

âRight. You think of it as a business dinner. Iâll think of it as a date.â

âThen weâd be at cross-purposes, wouldnât we?â

âIsnât your goal to find out how a man like me thinks?â

âYes.â

âBelieve me, Sara. By the end of the evening, youâll know exactly whatâs on my mind.â

A shiver of awareness crept up Saraâs spine, clashing wildly with the warning bells sounding inside her head. She knew this was nothing but a power play, but still she couldnât stop the gut-level reaction that came from listening to a very sexy man alluding to very sexy things.

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