“I’v e had four years of celibacy. ”

Grace made the confession with the air of pride that commitment deserved.

“You mean you’ve gone four years without sex,” Mac scoffed.

She sat up a little straighter, stuck her chest out a little more. “Four years, three months and five days to be exact.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because nobody with a body like yours could go four years without sex,” he said bluntly.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean by that.”

He didn’t say a word as his gaze slid down. “Yeah, you do,” he said finally.

Grace was unbearably aware of the brush of her clothes against her skin. Her nipples had hardened, and she squeezed her knees together in a vain attempt to quell the slow ache growing between her thighs.

Images flashed across her mind: Mac’s superbly muscled chest, the firm perfection of his butt in jeans… As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she wanted him. Now.

SARAH MAYBERRY

lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her partner, Chris. In addition to writing romance novels, she also writes scripts for television shows. While she has never even shaken hands with a star on any of the shows she works on, she has a rich fantasy life and a vivid imagination, and she has definitely written her share of shirtless scenes for hunky male actors.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Grace’s story. I must confess to a serious case of living vicariously through this book. Grace and Mac each drive one of the most beautiful cars ever made. If you’re not familiar with what a ’57 Corvette looks like, check it out on the internet – it’s a lovely beast and a must for any romantic heroine.

I also had a lot of fun researching Grace’s vintage wardrobe. I know what you’re thinking – no one can actually see what she’s wearing. But when I write, it’s a little like watching a movie in my mind, and Grace’s wardrobe was spectacular. My hearty thanks go to www.vintageous.com, a great online retailer of vintage clothing. This is a fabulous place to waste a few hours!

Of course, the story isn’t really about the clothes and the car – it’s about the people. Mac and Grace are both flawed, cynical people who battle to the death to see who can out-cool the other. We all have our reasons for needing to protect ourselves. I hope you enjoy discovering theirs.

Hearing from readers makes my day. You can contact me via my website – www.sarahmayberryauthor.com.

Keep an eye out for the last instalment in THE SECRET LIVES OF DAYTIME DIVAS miniseries, Hot for Him, due out in June 2009.

Happy reading!

Sarah Mayberry

ALL OVER YOU

BY

SARAH MAYBERRY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book was a battle, and I wouldn’t have survived it without chief medic Kirsty, my great friend and writing partner, and Chris, my own personal hero. Without his patience, ideas, soothing arms, tissue passing, massages, chocolate therapy and sounding board, this book would not exist. You’re the best. And, as always, thanks to Wanda, super-editor, for lifting my game.

1

GRACE WELLINGTON slid into a chair at her favorite Santa Monica café, arranged her shopping bags beside her and glanced at her watch. Sadie Post and Claudia Dostis, her two best friends, were meeting her for lunch but neither of them had arrived yet.

Might as well use the time to gloat over her latest find. Sliding a hand into the brown-paper shopping bag propped against her chair leg, her fingers encountered the sensuous softness of angora. Unable to resist a full gloat, Grace tugged the sweater out and spread it across her lap. A soft cream color, the sweater had embroidered flowers garnished with sequins above one breast and three-quarter sleeves. Best of all, it bore the label of a prestigious 1950s knitware manufacturer. Genuine vintage, and she’d picked it up for a song.

Resisting the urge to purr like a contented cat, she folded the sweater and put it back in its bag. Feeling every inch the satisfied, smug shopper, she glanced at her watch once again and picked up the menu. Would it be terribly wrong to have a cocktail in the middle of a Sunday afternoon? Some people would think so, but Grace had never been too worried about what other people thought.

She ran her finger down the list until she found something fresh and bright to suit her mood. The sun was shining, she’d just cruised all her favorite vintage-clothing boutiques, and she was about to have lunch with her two best friends. Did life get any better?

The sound of a motorcycle engine roaring to a stop drew her attention to the street outside and she smiled, bracing herself for her daily exposure to love’s young dream. Crossing one leg over the other, she sat back and crossed her arms, prepared to indulge her cynical side.

There were two riders on the bike—a male driver and a woman clinging to his back. Only the woman dismounted, unfolding legs that seemed to go on forever as she pulled off her helmet and shook out a mane of honey-blond hair. Having slid his own helmet off, the man watched her appreciatively. He said something, then pulled the woman close and kissed her so thoroughly that Grace actually felt a blush stealing into her cheeks. Feeling distinctly like a voyeur, she glanced away.

Sadie and Dylan were so happy, so in love. So perfect together. If they weren’t her friends, she’d be making gagging noises right now and telling them to get a room. But even though she didn’t believe in monogamy and marriage and all that other hoopla for herself anymore, she absolutely respected Sadie’s joy. Each to her own, right?

She risked another look and saw the coast was clear—they were just talking now, smiling goofily at each other, their fingers intertwined.

Watching their interplay, noting the teasing glint in Dylan’s eyes, the gentleness in their hands as they caressed each other almost unconsciously, an odd yearning sensation spread out from the region of Grace’s heart, sneaking up the back of her throat and triggering the hot sting of tears behind her eyes.

Whoa! What the hell was that about?

Blinking furiously, Grace reached for her sunglasses and sniffed surreptitiously. Trying to shake off the moment, she shifted in her chair and frowned at the tabletop. Maybe she was allergic or something. Maybe the angora sweater would have to go back.

She snorted at her lack of belief in her own excuses and forced herself to look at her friends again. What she saw made her swallow, hard. Dylan had cupped Sadie’s face, and he was talking intently as he stared into her eyes. Grace didn’t need to hear him to know what he was saying—he was telling Sadie he loved her, how important she was to him, how he was going to miss her even though she would only be lunching with her friends for a few measly hours. It was written all over his face and, as his thumb caressed Sadie’s cheekbone, Grace felt such a stab of longing in her belly that she actually pressed her hands to her stomach.

Tearing her eyes away from the scene outside, she stared unseeingly in front of her.

She wasn’t jealous of Sadie and Dylan.

Was she?

It was a ridiculous idea. Absurd. It had been four years since she’d let a man into her bedroom and her life, and they had been the happiest, most productive and content years of her life.

Even discounting her ex-boyfriend, Owen, and his spectacular contribution to her lack of faith in human nature, life had taught Grace plenty of salutary lessons about what to expect from the male of the species—not much, was what it boiled down to. Once she’d accepted that concept, her life had become so much easier. She’d become mistress of her own domain, so to speak.

So what was the whole yearning-pain-in-chest thing about?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Sadie and Dylan were kissing again. She was just marveling at their endurance and the fact that they hadn’t been arrested for indecent happiness or something similar when the penny dropped— it was the sex.

Of course.

It had been a long time since she’d felt the warmth of another body against her own, a long time since she’d found release in a man’s arms. That was all. Who wouldn’t look at Sadie and Dylan’s obvious passion and feel a little…empty?

She shifted uncomfortably as she registered her own choice of words. Empty. Did she really feel empty? Her lips firmed. No, she did not. Definitely, she did not.

“Gracie, sorry I’m late.” It was Claudia, dressed in her signature black, her small frame vibrating with energy as always. Her Greek-American heritage was evident in the sparkle of her near-black eyes, the olive tone of her skin and the take- no-shit attitude in her straight shoulders.

“You’re not late, I was early,” Grace said.

As one, their gazes drifted to the front window where Sadie and Dylan were still kissing each other goodbye.

“How long has that been going on?” Claudia asked.

Grace sighed. “About five minutes. I figure one of them will need oxygen any second now.”

“We could turn a hose on them,” Claudia mused.

“Shame to ruin those nice leather jackets.”

“I guess.”

Claudia met Grace’s gaze across the table and laughed.

“Listen to us—envy dripping from every word.”

Grace shook her head, her claret-colored hair swishing around her shoulders.

“Not guilty, sorry.”

“Really?” Claudia sighed, eyes on Sadie and Dylan again. “Not even a little bit? Even though I’m way too busy to think about men at the moment, I still can’t help looking at them and feeling a little I-want-what-she’s-having.”

“Nope,” Grace said, ignoring the odd feeling she’d experienced mere minutes earlier. “Unless I can stuff a man and turn him into an umbrella stand, there’s no place for one in my home.”

Claudia choked out a laugh.

“Sorry, guys. Dylan and I just had some last-minute things to sort out.” Sadie was pink-faced and faintly breathless as she slid into the last chair at their table.

“Like whose tongue belongs to who, that kind of thing?” Claudia asked wryly.

“Yeah,” Sadie said, grinning unrepentantly.

All three of them smiled at each other and Grace registered how great it was to have some quality time with her friends. It was one thing to see each other every day in the production offices of Ocean Boulevard, the daytime soap where they all worked—Claudia as producer, Sadie as script producer and Grace as script editor—but it wasn’t quite the same as having time to laugh and talk without the pressures of work interfering.

“Cocktail time, ladies,” Grace said, passing around the menu.

“Excellent. I could slaughter something sweet and creamy,” Sadie said, smacking her lips together.

“Martini for me. Dirty,” Claudia said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Now there’s a surprise,” Grace said.

Twisting in her seat, Grace made eye contact with the waiter. He shot to their table as though he’d been pulled on a string, his eyes lighting up as his gaze slid from Sadie to Claudia and back again.

That Sadie was many men’s idea of the perfect woman hadn’t escaped Grace’s notice over the years. And if men didn’t go for Sadie’s tall, blond, leggy good looks, they were usually pretty damn partial to Claudia’s petite perfection. Mentally resigning herself to being ignored, Grace adopted her best Bette Davis demeanor. Bette was a take-no-prisoners kind of woman, the type who didn’t give a snap of her fingers if men were attracted to her or not. It helped that Grace was wearing one of her favorite Bette Davis-era dresses, a 1940s dark-green crepe sundress with cap sleeves, a sailor collar and a short white tie.

Arching one eyebrow, she tapped a varnished nail on the menu to get the waiter’s attention. He managed to drag his gaze from Sadie and Claudia’s cleavage, only for his eyes to widen as he took in Grace’s substantial twin endowments. Grace growled low in the back of her throat. Just her luck, their waiter was a breast man. If there was one thing she hated more than being ignored, it was being ogled. Inevitably, his gaze would make it up to her face and she’d see the same old disappointment there as always. She was used to being the odd one out, the ugly duckling among the swans—but for four years now she’d opted to skip the part where men tried to weigh up the relative merits of her stupendous bosom versus her plain-Jane face—she much preferred to cut straight to the bit where she froze them in their tracks. It had become something of a hobby, in fact.

“Hey, up here,” she said, waving her fingers in his sight- line and directing his attention to her face.

He blushed and she tapped the menu again.

“One dirty martini, a Fluffy Duck—that’s right, isn’t it, Sadie?” she asked, checking with her friend even though she knew it was Sadie’s favorite cocktail. Sadie nodded and Grace eyed their waiter steadily as she delivered her own order, daring him to maintain eye contact with her and not check out her breasts again. “And I’ll have a Mojito.”

“Sure. Any meals?”

“We’re not ready yet. We’ll let you know when we are,” she said, waggling her fingers dismissively.

He nodded obediently and shot toward the bar to put their order in.

Claudia was shaking her head when Grace turned her attention back to the table.

“The way you treat men is almost a form of cruelty,” Claudia said. “Almost.”

“I know. I can never decide whether to be appalled or amused,” Sadie agreed.

“He deserved it.” Grace shrugged. “Imagine if women went around staring at men’s packages the way they stare at our boobs.”

“You do have a great rack, Gracie,” Claudia said, eyeing Grace’s chest impartially.

“Then he needs to learn to be more subtle and I’ve just taught him a powerful lesson,” Grace said.

“Sometimes I think you really hate men,” Sadie said sadly.

“Oh, I don’t care enough to hate them,” Grace drawled.

Sadie leaned forward, her expression earnest.

“Not everyone is a rat like Owen.”

“I know that.”

“I wonder if you do,” Sadie mused. “When was the last time you went on a date?”

“I honestly can’t remember. But do I look like a woman who’s pining for a man?” Grace asked, gesturing toward herself.

Sadie’s gaze traveled over Grace, obviously assessing her dead-straight burgundy-colored hairstyle, her severely straight bangs, her lush, full mouth outlined in deep-red lipstick, her ever-present chunky black-framed glasses and the smooth creaminess of her skin—her one acknowledged vanity.

“No. As always, you look fabulous. Except for the glasses.”

“There we go, then. And I love these glasses,” Grace said.

“Those glasses are ugly. And I’m not pining for a man, but I miss the sex. Don’t you miss sex? I miss sex a lot,” Claudia said. “I so need to call Harry or Simon and set up a date.”

Claudia had been so busy working her butt off as the newly installed producer on Ocean Boulevard that she hadn’t had a man in her life for months and months—but Harry and Simon were ex-boyfriends who were happy to provide essential services on demand.

“I have sex.” Grace shrugged.

“I meant with a man,” Claudia said dryly.

“Now why would I ruin something so good by inviting a man along?” Grace asked.

Sadie looked so outraged that Grace ruined the whole Bette Davis thing by laughing. Sadie threw a napkin at her.

“So, what date is the wedding?” Claudia asked, masterfully changing subjects.

Sadie sat up a little straighter. “How did you know we’d set a date?”

Grace snorted with laughter. “Hello! We thought we were going to have to pry you guys apart with a crowbar out there.”

Sadie blushed, then shrugged a shoulder. “End of August. Is two months enough time to get our shit together?” Sadie asked worriedly.

“Hell yeah,” Grace said.

“The dress won’t be a big deal, since I’m going off-the-rack this time. And it’s all going to be very low-key… But I still want you guys to be my bridesmaids. What do you say— are you up for a second shot?” Sadie asked, referring to her first, failed wedding to her former fiancé, Greg.

“Try and keep us away,” Grace said.

“The bridesmaids’ dresses are my shout this time around,” Sadie said. “I don’t want anything to be the same again, but you guys shouldn’t have to pay twice.”

“Forget it,” Grace said firmly. “There’s no way we’re letting you pay for our dresses.”

“Yeah. How are we supposed to argue with you when you’re paying?” Claudia asked.

“And, this time, I get a vote,” Grace said. “Something with straps would be nice for the fuller-figured members of the wedding party.”

“You looked hot in that strapless red sheath and you know it,” Sadie scoffed.

The rest of their lunch slipped quickly away as they hammered out the broad strokes of Sadie and Dylan’s wedding, argued over dress styles and laughingly suggested flowery wedding vows to personalize the ceremony. After two hours, they’d moved from cocktails to coffee and had filled the backs of innumerable napkins.

“Why do writers never have paper on them?” Grace asked as she gathered the napkins together.

“Or pens,” Claudia added, counting out her share of the bill. “What’s with that?”

Sadie shrugged. “Don’t want to take our work home with us?”

As if that particular strategy ever worked.

Later that evening, Grace sat down to a gourmet-meal-for-one at her small drop-leaf dining table. She’d bought a crisp sauvignon blanc to accompany her salmon with baby vegetables and garlic mash, and she slathered her bread roll with proper butter, damning her curvy hips and thighs to hell.

Consigning the washing up to tomorrow—one of the joys of living alone—she slipped into a satin gown she wore to bed and flopped onto the couch. When a quick flick through the offerings on TV drew no interest, she resorted to her movie collection. She was about to dust off an old Indiana Jones DVD when her eye fell on the DVD she’d brought home from work. She hesitated a moment, then gave in to temptation. Sliding the disc into her player, she made a fortress of cushions for herself on the couch and settled in for the evening. The Ocean Boulevard theme song came on and the credits flickered across the screen. Her heartbeat picked up and her body tensed a little in anticipation…. And then Mac Harrison’s tall body filled the screen and every nerve ending in her body went on hyper-alert.

It was part of her job to keep up-to-date with how the scripts she edited translated on-screen—but she’d be kidding herself if she pretended watching the show was anything other than a chance to spend some time with the only man she’d allowed into her life in the past four years.

He was so hot. Six-foot-three-inches of sexy, hard male. Gorgeous. Dynamic. Charismatic. And all hers for the next few hours.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to define exactly what it was about Mac that had captured her imagination and led her to cast him as the star of her most intimate fantasies. It wasn’t as though she’d been looking for a man to play the role. She’d always spread her favors, so to speak, across a broad spectrum of hunks—George Clooney, Jude Law and Johnny Depp. And even if she had been looking for inspiration closer to home, there were plenty of attractive men on the show—eye candy galore, in fact—who could have fit the bill equally well. But none of them had the power to turn her insides to mush the way Mac did.

Of its own accord, her finger pressed the pause button, the better to complete her appraisal.

He was wearing only a pair of worn jeans, exposing most of the good stuff to her roving eye. She scanned his broad shoulders appreciatively—well-muscled but not too Arnold Schwarzenegger chunky, they were just about perfect. Then her eyes dropped to his trim, toned waist. Also pretty damned fine. And his butt—the perkiest, most grabbable, most I-want-to- take-a-bite butt she’d ever seen. As if all of the above wasn’t enough, her gaze slid to his long, strong legs. Firm thigh muscles hinted at speed and strength and stamina and a whole lot of other S words that were making her feel decidedly… warm as she lay stretched on the couch.

God, he was hot. With a capital H.

Biting her lip, Grace pressed the play button and watched as he swung back into action. He had an amazing walk—almost a swagger, really. Like a modern-day cowboy. It screamed masculinity and confidence, and combined with his sans-shirt condition, was almost enough to make her hyperventilate.

“Oh, yeah,” she groaned as he turned toward camera, revealing superbly toned abdominal muscles and a chest covered with exactly the right amount of darkened caramel curls.

The camera zoomed in tight for a close-up and she was treated to the full force of his cerulean-blue gaze as he stared down the barrel. He had a strong brow, cheekbones and jaw line, with a straight, very masculine nose. His lips were chiseled and generous, and his dirty-blond hair flopped over his forehead enticingly. The preferred media comparison was to Paul Newman as a young man. Personally, Grace thought his face was all his own.

“I trusted you,” his character, Kirk, said on-screen, his voice a low, gravely husk. “I believed every word you said.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” his on-screen wife, Loni, said.

“Haven’t we always been honest with each other?” he asked.

“Too honest sometimes,” Loni admitted.

A long silence as they eyed each other. Mac lifted a hand, running it through his already tousled hair. Grace squeezed her knees together as she watched his muscles ripple.

On-screen, Loni crossed the space between them and laid a hand on his bare chest.

You lucky witch, Grace thought, imagining how hot and hard his skin must feel.

“I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?” Loni asked in a small voice.

As though he couldn’t stand her pain, Mac ducked his head to press a quick kiss to her cheek. Loni started to cry. Mac groaned and cupped her face.

“Don’t,” Mac said, torn.

Loni shook her head, inarticulate, and he ducked his head again to kiss her tears away. This time their noses bumped and within seconds their lips had found each other. Loni clutched at him, desperately trying to hold onto him. Mac hesitated a moment, then angled her head back, deepening the kiss. Her hands splayed down over his neck, across his back. He pulled her closer, absolutely intent on getting what he wanted.

Heart banging against her rib cage, Grace reached for the pause button on the remote.

She was turned on. There was no denying it. She’d been fantasizing about Mac for so long now that all she had to do was look at him and her body responded. Briefly she considered inviting Mr. Buzzy out from her bedroom drawer to join the party, but she was too far gone already. Closing her eyes and giving herself over to the desire pulsing through her veins, she slid a hand over her breasts and down her belly to between her thighs. She knew the sets on the show like her own home and the scene she’d just watched sprang to life behind her closed eyelids in full Technicolor. Only, instead of Loni standing in front of a half-naked Mac, it was her.

He was so close she could smell his aftershave—something dark and spicy, hinting at open fires and warm bodies and sex. In the bedroom of her mind, she stepped closer to him. He was staring at her, his expression unreadable, but she could see the banked passion in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What we both want,” she replied. She reached out and ran her finger down his chest, sliding over the hardened nub of one nipple before tracing her way down into the tidy arrow of curls that disappeared beneath his waistband. He swallowed, hard, and she licked her lips.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” she said. She dropped her gaze for half a second, just long enough to take in the rigid length of the erection straining against his jeans.

He remained silent, although she could see a battle going on inside him. She wanted him to resist a little—enough for her to prove to him how pointless it was to deny the attraction between them. Flattening her hand, she slid her palm down along the hard bar of his erection, then curled her fingers around it through his jeans.

He shivered and she smiled a secretive, confident smile. Her hand slid back up, and she grasped the stud at the top of his fly. Still he didn’t say anything, and she popped the stud free with a deft twist of her hand. Her fingers found the tab of his zipper and she opened it with one smooth move. Then she stepped close and pressed a kiss to his hard, hot chest even as she slid a hand inside his boxers and grabbed a handful of rock-hard masculinity.

“Grace,” he groaned. Then his hands were all over her, smoothing down her back, cupping her butt, sliding up and around her rib cage to massage her breasts. She panted and continued to work his hard shaft, unable to let go, as he pushed her top down over her breasts and sucked a nipple into his mouth. Her knees went weak as he tongued each hardened tip in turn, his mouth rough, his hands gentle, the combination sending her spiraling toward her climax.

As though he sensed how close she was, Mac pushed her back against the wall. A hand shoved her skirt up and she moaned low in her throat as his fingers slid between her thighs. He murmured his approval as he discovered her panty-less state, his knowing hands dipping between her folds to find her slick and ready for him. Whispering words of praise and promise in her ear, he slid a finger inside her. She clenched around him, so close, so close—but she wanted more, she wanted it all, and she pushed his hands away and worked feverishly on his jeans.

He knew exactly what she needed. Lifting one of her legs up and hooking it around his hip, he slid his hands up the backs of her thighs until he cupped her backside. Then he hoisted her up and slid inside her with one powerful stroke.

She came instantly, her head falling back, her cries echoing in the room. Sensation rippled through her body, a tsunami of pleasure that swamped her entire being.

For a long beat, she simply existed as she floated on the afterglow of her orgasm.

Then, as always, she forced herself back to reality. She was in her apartment, alone, the TV screen frozen on an image of Mac Harrison, bare-chested and gorgeous.

With a press of her finger, the screen went to black and the DVD player shut down. It was time to go to bed. She made her way to the bathroom, frowning as she squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. She couldn’t help wondering how Sadie and Claudia would react if she confessed her little secret to them: that ever since Mac Harrison had returned to reprise his role on Ocean Boulevard after a six-year absence, she’d had a lust crush on him a mile wide.

Claudia would fall about laughing. Probably Sadie would, as well. Not at her, but at the irony of the situation—Grace Wellington, founding member of the Nothing But Contempt For Men Club, had a soft spot for the show’s biggest horn-dog.

It was too, too ironic. And faintly embarrassing, really. She should know better, she really should. The man was a known womanizer, he was paid to play make-believe and he lived a frivolous, pointless life. In short, he represented about a million of the things she liked least in men. There really wasn’t anything admirable about him at all, in fact, apart from his superb body and gorgeous face. Her crush was absolutely a manifestation of lust. But, somehow, some way, no matter how many times she chastised herself for her bad taste in virtual lovers, he kept on sliding into her fantasy bed and taking her in his arms. Which was why she’d never confided in her friends. And, after all, it wasn’t as though she knew everything about Sadie and Claudia’s sex lives, right? It was nobody’s business but her own. It was utterly harmless, a private indulgence that affected no one save herself.

It helped that she’d never met the man. Sure, she’d passed him in the corridors when she’d been across town at the studios for meetings, but she’d never exchanged actual words with him. There was an unspoken divide between the writing team and the cast and crew—it wasn’t just about being in different locations, it had been the same on every show Grace had worked on—so it wasn’t particularly notable that they’d never been introduced. But she didn’t need to meet him to know what he was like—she knew his type.

Yep, Sadie and Claudia would definitely lose a lung laughing if they knew.

Sliding between the sheets, Grace set the alarm and switched the light off. Her body was humming with satisfaction. As usual, virtual Mac had been the perfect lover: flawless technique, intuitive, voracious. Best of all, he came with absolutely no strings attached and she didn’t have to wonder when he’d call again or listen to his lame-ass excuses for why he couldn’t stay the night.

And he would never, ever cheat on her.

The perfect man, indeed.

Smiling smugly, she fell asleep.

MAC HARRISON GRUNTED with disgust as he threw the script he’d been reading across the room.

Drivel, absolute drivel. How anyone expected him to say those lines of dialogue with any sincerity was beyond him. Reaching for his beer bottle, he realized it was empty. He was about to push himself off the couch to grab another brewski from the fridge when he registered that there were another three empty bottles lined up on his coffee table. Four beers. And he was alone. And it was midnight on a Sunday evening. Not quite time to check into the Betty Ford center, but still… Perhaps it was time to switch to soda water.

He sank back onto the couch and ran a hand through his hair. He felt like crap. He’d been sleeping way too much lately and spending too much time on his own—probably because his libido was nonexistent. Depression tended to do that to a guy. His gym routine was about the only thing keeping him sane at the moment.

He stared at the discarded script where it lay crumpled on the ground a few feet away. He had five scenes he needed to memorize for tomorrow’s shoot, but he couldn’t make himself pick it up again.

Jesus, he needed another beer. Which was a pretty good reason not to have one. Mac had seen his fair share of actors succumb to drug and alcohol addictions over the years. He didn’t plan on becoming one of them. But he also knew he had to do something because he couldn’t continue living his life the way he was.

It had been a mistake coming back to Ocean Boulevard. The moment he’d gotten over his relief at having a regular paycheck again he’d known it. He’d been greeted like a returning king by the producers when he walked back on set twelve months ago and the show’s loyal fan base had gone wild. The soap magazines had splashed him across covers and he’d smiled, answered all their questions and basically acted his butt off to look as though he was exactly where he wanted to be.

But he so wasn’t.

He’d come to Hollywood from Seattle as a determined eighteen-year-old and hadn’t been able to believe his luck when he’d scored a role on a new soap. He’d only intended to stay with the show a year, two max. But each year his paycheck got fatter as the show’s ratings rose and his character became more and more popular. At the same time, the older actors on the show were constantly telling him how good he had it, how lean it was Out There, how he’d never have it better. By the time he’d been with the show for eight years, he’d crossed the line from complacency to boredom and frustration. Finally, he made the leap.

And failed spectacularly.

Hollywood had swallowed him in one easy gulp, with barely a ripple to mark his passing. He’d been on the soap for too long, his agent had told him, he was tainted by the association.

On a good day, he didn’t hate Boulevard. It had bought his house, his car, fed him, clothed him, got him laid for many of the past fifteen years. It was a fun, entertaining, sometimes even moving show. It just didn’t feed his soul. And how pretentious was that, anyway, wanting a career that made you proud, made you want to jump out of bed in the morning? Most people settled for three square meals and a roof over their heads, smiles on their kids’ faces and backyard barbecues. He was a spoiled bastard. He knew it, but it didn’t stop him from feeling as though a giant hand was slowly grinding him into the ground.

The reality was, he should have had the courage to walk away altogether, to pursue something completely outside of the industry. Instead, he’d succumbed to the lure of money and security. And it was slowly killing him.

“Boo-goddamn-hoo,” he sneered at himself, launching himself to his feet.

The only thing worse than a worn-out has-been was a self- pitying worn-out has-been. Prowling around the house, he picked up books and put them down again, shuffled through his CD collection looking for something—anything—he could bear to listen to, and generally behaved like a lost soul.

Inevitably, he wound up in his study, staring at the calendar on his wall. Tomorrow’s date was circled in red, and he shook his head as he acknowledged his own desperation. Tomorrow he found out if the Boulevard’s new producer was willing to continue what her predecessor had started and hand over a block of the show for him to direct.

Originally, he’d floated the idea of directing some blocks of the show to his agent half as a joke—he’d figured the producers would say no, or that if they said yes it would be an entertaining diversion from the usual. To his surprise, they’d given him the nod. Twice now he’d been allowed to step behind the camera and direct the show. It had been challenging work both times, but it had also been the most alive he’d felt in a long time.

Then there had been a regime change, a fairly regular occurrence in television. Heads had rolled and new heads had taken their places. He’d been waiting for nearly two months since then to find out if the new producer, Claudia Dostis, was willing to continue what her predecessor had started. There was a high chance she wouldn’t—many producers would have said no simply because he’d been a pet project of the guy whose seat they were now warming. But tomorrow was the day of truth, the day she was handing out the newdirectors’ roster.

And he wanted his name to be on it, bad. He needed his name to be on it, if he was being honest with himself.

There had to be something more out there. Didn’t there?

IT WAS MID-MORNING when Claudia called Grace into her office the next day.

“I wanted to talk to you about Mac Harrison,” Claudia said by way of kicking off the conversation.

Grace started in her seat and tried to will away the blush that she could feel rising into her cheeks. There was no way that Claudia was about to tell her to stop using him as her convenient virtual stud. No one could know what she’d been doing in the privacy of her apartment last night. No one.

It didn’t stop her from blushing, however. Ducking her head, she pretended to have an itchy nose.

“Right, Mac Harrison. The actor who plays Kirk on the show,” she said, fumbling for time.

Claudia gave her an odd look and Grace winced mentally. Probably pretending to not be familiar with one of the show’s biggest stars was not the smartest way to appear natural.

“Yes. That Mac Harrison,” Claudia said dryly. “What did you think of the blocks he directed recently?”

Grace blinked a few times, trying to work out where this conversation was going. Mac had directed two five-episode blocks since he’d put up his hand to step behind the camera. Both had been good—inventive, interesting, tight.

“Does he want to do more?” she hedged.

“His agent has approached me. You still haven’t answered my question.”

Grace fiddled with the hem of her 1950s-era sundress. “They were good, strong. He brought a lot of energy to it,” she said honestly.

Claudia smiled. “I’m glad you liked his work. He’s a big fan of your scripts, too. It’ll make the whole process much smoother.”

Grace frowned, feeling as though she’d just missed something very important.

“Um, what process?” she asked hesitantly.

“Well, you’re writing the script for our feature-length wedding episode,” Claudia explained.

“Yessss,” Grace said slowly, beginning to see the yawning chasm that loomed before her.

“And he’s going to direct it.”

Grace’s whole body went hot, then cold.

“You’ll have to work closely with each other—he’ll be on light duties on-set and we’ll get in an extra body to take over some of your usual workload so you can do reconnaissance with him for location shoots and anything else that’s necessary. I want this to be the best wedding the Boulevard has ever done,” Claudia said with determination.

“Right. The best,” Grace repeated numbly.

She felt blindsided. For twelve months, she’d used Mac Harrison as the personification of all her sexual desires. She’d had sex with him in her mind a hundred different ways, cried his name out as she climaxed, gone to sleep with his image in her mind. All despite never having met the man.

And now they were about to become each other’s shadows.

Why did she feel as though she’d set herself up for the fall of a lifetime?

2

MAC PULLED INTO the visitors parking slot at the Boulevard’s Santa Monica office and switched his ignition off. Instead of getting out of his car, however, he sat for a moment listening to the tick-tick-tick of his engine cooling.

He was nervous. He felt like an idiot as soon as he admitted it to himself. It had been a long time since he’d felt the peculiar mix of adrenaline and expectation that was pumping its way around his body right now. He’d stopped being nervous about auditions roughly three years after he’d left his cushy, high- paying role on the show—that was about how long it had taken Hollywood to suck his hopes and dreams out of him. It was hard to feel nervous about something when you knew you didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of achieving it.

He forced himself to acknowledge his feelings. Claudia Dostis was entrusting him with the most important episode of the year—a feature-length, stand-alone wedding episode that was supposed to knock everyone’s socks off. And she’d chosen him, a still-wet-behind-the-ears novice to direct it. When she’d called to tell him her decision a week ago, he’d thanked her, written down the appropriate details and discussed his studio schedule with the production manager to ensure they could work his shooting schedule around these new directing commitments.

He’d read through the story line they sent him, made notes, come up with some ideas of his own. But it was only now that he was sitting here, about to commit himself wholly to the project, that he could admit to himself there was a very real chance he wasn’t up to the challenge she’d offered him.

He was a novice. He’d directed ten episodes, and now they wanted him to make their big special shine. Frankly, he thought they were crazy handing their baby to him.

Of course, he could always say no. He could tell Claudia that he didn’t want or need the hassle. This whole directing thing had only ever been a diversion, after all, something to stop him from banging his head against the wall in frustration.

He could start the car up and drive away from it all. If that was what he wanted.

The door of his ’57 Corvette complained with a metallic squeal as he stepped out. If he sat around contemplating his navel much longer, he was going to be late. Grabbing his notebook, he headed toward the building entrance.

With the decision made, some of his nervousness dropped away and he realized that underneath his uncharacteristic adolescent self-doubt there was a buzz of anticipation, the yin to the yang of his nervousness. He didn’t have to look far for the source—he was about to meet Grace Wellington.

He’d been reading Grace’s work for the past year and every time he picked up a script with her name on it his curiosity and his respect for her had grown. She was the best writer on the show, hands down. She only penned one every now and then—she was obviously absorbed with her duties as script editor—but when she did, it was like a beacon in the night. The dialogue sparkled, emotions ran deep, laughs were sincere. She could write.

He’d whiled away a lot of long, boring hours in his dressing room wondering what she was like, the woman who put down words with so much energy and life and power. It was hard to get a bead on her, since there were so many different facets to her writing.

For starters, there was the sexy, sizzling, witty banter that delighted an actor. That Grace Wellington struck him as savvy and confident, a man-eater in red silk garters and stilettos.

Then there was the wry humor that she managed to inject into every episode. When he dwelt on that aspect of her writing, he thought of messy hair, big smiles, hot cocoa and woolly sweaters.

Then there was the wrenching emotional content of her scenes. She always managed to strike a chord, helping him dig deep to find the humanity in any story, no matter how soapy or silly. That woman he imagined as razor sharp, dressed in minimalist black with a bent for double-shot espressos and books by dead Russian authors.

He was looking forward to meeting her, to satisfying his curiosity about the mystery woman behind the scripts. He also figured that if he was going to have to jump headfirst into the unknown on this project, it would help to have the show’s best writer by his side.

For the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to something. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. In his experience, wanting something only made failure more painful.

He smiled grimly as he stepped over the threshold. Ready or not, he was already free-falling.

GRACE WIPED her sweaty palms on the sides of her dress, angry with herself for being nervous. Mac Harrison was just a person.

No, he was less than that—he was an actor. A man who traded on his good looks and sex appeal to live in the lap of luxury. All his life, doors had opened for him, women had thrown themselves at his feet and he’d sat back and lapped it all up because he’d been lucky enough to be born with a body and face that the world worshipped.

He was like her sisters. Just as he was the epitome of male good looks, her sisters were stunning, each in her own way a different version of perfection. Felicity, Serena and Hope had also parlayed their looks into careers—Felicity as a weather girl, Serena as an actress and Hope as a model. Growing up as the ugly sister among three beauties had given Grace a front-row appreciation of how the other half lived. She loved her sisters, but she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t resented the number of boyfriends she’d had over the years who’d looked distinctly ripped off when they walked into her family home and saw Felicity, Serena and Hope lounging around. Their expressions said it all: How come I got the dud sister? It was no fun being the booby prize, so she’d opted to fight on her own terms. She dressed differently, lived her life differently, had separate dreams from her sisters. And it had worked for her, it really had. She had a great career. And until Owen had betrayed her, she’d thought she’d found the one man who valued her heart and soul more than he valued long legs, perfect features and shampoo-commercial hair.

Ha.

He’d sure shown her. But in doing so he’d shattered her last illusion. She lived in L.A., possibly the most appearance- obsessed city in the world, and she worked in the television industry. Perhaps that distorted her perception, but she knew that for many, many people, what was outside a person was more important than what was inside them.

Her lust-crush on Mac Harrison was a perfect example. All those times she’d pleasured herself and imagined it was him touching her, licking her, tasting her, had she once thought about what kind of man he was? Had she fantasized that he cared for animals, was nice to old people, that he stopped to give money to the homeless? No. She’d fixated on his amazing eyes and his hot body and how hard and ready he’d be.

She was as bad as everyone else. Absolutely guilty as charged.

And when she had more time to chastise herself for her superficial values and blatant hypocrisy, she’d do it.

But right now, she was concentrating on surviving the next hour or so. Very foolishly, she had eroticized Mac to the point where the mere sound of his voice turned her on. She’d practically made him her fetish—and she was about to step into an intimate meeting with him that would lead to an intimate working relationship for the next few months.

She’d set herself up to be vulnerable. And she didn’t do vulnerable, not any more.

Put simply, she would rather shave her head than let him know in any way, shape or form that she was attracted to him. He had women falling all over him all the time, she knew that. Probably he expected her to do the same. But he was so wrong. She would never, ever let him laugh at her or give him the opportunity to reject her. She’d had enough of that, thank you very much.

She checked her watch. He was late for their first meeting— a brilliant start and typical actor behavior. Brick by brick she built a wall of disdain around herself.

He’d probably had a Pilates session or a pedicure that he simply couldn’t miss, and had neglected to pass on this vital information to Claudia or herself. She pictured him swaggering in a couple of hours late, all shiny teeth and bronzed skin. Claudia would lose it, and that would be the end of Mr. Harrison’s short-lived dalliance with directing.

She basked in the surge of relief this vision inspired, but her hope died a quick death when she heard a hush fall over the outer office, closely followed by the excited murmur of feminine speculation.

Mac Harrison had entered the building. There was no other explanation for it.

She gathered her notes together, shaking her head over the secretarial staff’s behavior. It wasn’t as though they were all greenhorns—they should be beyond gushing over one of their own actors by now. The man played dress-up for a living— it wasn’t as if he was a Nobel Prize winner or anything.

You screaming hypocrite, she chastised herself.

If Mac Harrison was so contemptuous, why was sweat prickling her underarms, and why was she flicking her hair over her shoulder and rubbing a finger over her teeth to ensure none of her crimson-warrior lipstick had transferred itself?

She gave herself a stern talking to as she marched toward the conference room. She had been thinking about this moment ever since Claudia had handed down her sentence last week. A whole seven days of dwelling on this scenario, shooting it from every angle with her mental camera, playing both leads, considering all possibilities.

She was not going to gush or simper or blush or ogle or flirt. She was simply going to walk into that meeting room and greet him coolly and professionally. Not by the flicker of an eyelid was she going to reveal that just a week ago she had imagined him pressed against her, his body buried deep inside hers. Hell no. They were going to discuss the upcoming project intelligently, then they would go their separate ways. All very business-like and orderly. All very dignified.

Then she entered the room and lost the power to think.

Claudia was sitting to one side, a smile on her face as she talked to Mac. But all Grace could register was him: his scent, his presence, his height, his breadth, his charisma. She felt as though someone had just driven over her with a silk and velvet steamroller, then punched her in the stomach for good measure.

Then he actually looked at her and it was like standing under a million-watt klieg light. Her knees literally gave out on her—fortunately she was close enough to grab the back of one of the chairs and she held on with a white-knuckled grip as her body went up in flames.

He was, quite simply, too good-looking to be fully human.

Everything was perfect—the small screen didn’t do him justice. He was taller. His eyes were clearer, bluer. His jaw was stronger, his nose prouder. He was more graceful, as well as more powerful-looking. He was simply…more.

“Mac, you and Grace have met before, right?” Claudia said.

He extended his hand, his smile broadening. “Actually, believe it not, we haven’t,” he said.

Grace stared stupidly at his outstretched hand for a full, agonizing ten seconds. He wanted her to actually touch him? To lay her skin against his and not expire on the spot?

Swallowing, she slowly extended her own hand. There was no choice, right? Claudia was already staring at her as though she was an escapee from planet loopy and the smile on his face had lost most of its spontaneity. Gritting her teeth, she clasped his hand in hers.

Sensation skittered up her nerve endings and danced around her body. His hand was large and warm, strong. His skin was smooth but firm. She stared at his well-tended nails and perfectly shaped fingers, remembering how many times she’d imagined him cupping her breasts, thumbing her nipples, sliding her underwear down….

She snatched her hand away and took a jerky step backward.

“S-static electricity,” she blurted when Claudia and Mac stared at her.

He frowned and she busied herself with settling into a chair and arranging her notes and pencils in front of her on the glass-topped table.

Where had her game plan gone? What about dignity and coolness and professionalism? She’d never felt less dignified or professional in her life. She felt exactly like a star- struck teenager, complete with a mouth full of braces, bad acne and baby fat.

“Might as well get started, I guess,” Claudia said, shooting Grace a questioning glance. Grace got the distinct feeling she’d be having an intense interrogation session with her friend later. Her toes curled in her shoes at the very thought.

“Grace, you’re still working on the first draft of the script, I know, but I really want this wedding feature to rate off the graph. I’m kicking in extra money for location shoots, whatever it takes. As far as venues go, Mac, the scouts have narrowed it down to two locations—a vineyard in the Santa Clarita valley, just north of L.A., and the Malibu West Beach Club. I want you to take a look at both of them with Grace and see what kind of ideas they suggest. Once we’ve decided on a location, we’ll swing the team into action.”

Grace concentrated on scribbling down Claudia’s words verbatim—it gave her something to do and it meant that she didn’t have to try to comprehend what her friend was saying until afterward. As much as it galled her, while Mac was in the room, she was hard pressed to simply master the whole inhale-exhale thing.

“Any questions, guys?” Claudia asked, looking from Grace to Mac and back again.

“Yeah. It’s for Grace, actually. I’ve gone over the story line for the episode, but is there any chance of getting a look at your script while it’s a work-in-progress? Just so we can start thinking on the same page?” Mac asked.

Grace just managed to stifle the instinctive scoff of rejection that rose in her throat. The thought of him looking at her half-assed, half-finished work was enough to make her break into a sweat again. Writing was her thing, the thing she did better than anything else in her life. There was no way she was letting this man see her at anything less than her best.

“Um… Let me take a look at it, see what kind of shape it’s in,” she hedged. She couldn’t say no outright in front of Claudia, but Mac Harrison would have to pry her half-finished script from her cold, dead hands if she had any say in the matter.

She shot him a quick look to see how he handled her answer, waiting for the inevitable star’s tantrum. But it was impossible to read his expression. Probably because she was too busy staring at his sexy mouth. He was a drug for her and every time she looked at him she took a hit.

“Right, well, I guess there’s not much more for me to do here. I’ll leave it up to you guys to work out a time to do reconnaissance on both locations and anything else that needs to be done before we move forward.”

Claudia was standing, moving toward the door. Grace jerked upright in her seat, panicking. Claudia was leaving her alone with Mac? No way!

But before she could launch herself out of her chair, grab onto one of her friend’s ankles and hold on for dear life, Claudia was gone.

By definition, leaving her alone with Mac Harrison. Her most secret fantasy—and her worst nightmare. Her heart was pumping like mad. Her breasts felt heavy and sensitive in her bra. And she would kill for a glass of water right now. He was sitting opposite her, exuding sex appeal as if he’d bought it in bulk and she didn’t know how to handle the situation or what to say or do to protect herself.

How she resented him for making her feel this way!

She ducked her head, trying to pull herself together. Which was when she caught sight of her reflection in the glass table. Her features were indistinct, distorted by the bad lighting and the angle, but she could see the expression in her own eyes. She looked utterly lost, like a scared child. She had a sudden out-of-body flash of how she must appear, sitting head down, knees pressed together—the shy spinster in front of the golden hunk.

She didn’t like it very much. She didn’t like it at all, in fact.

For four years, she’d built her life alone. And she’d been happy and successful. She didn’t measure her happiness by whether she had a man in her life anymore. Certainly she didn’t measure it by whether a man like Mac Harrison was attracted to her or not. She was her own woman.

Her mind defaulted to her usual touchstone for feminine power and confidence. What would Bette do in this situation, she asked herself?

Instantly she felt her spine straighten. Bette Davis wouldn’t feel intimidated by anyone—especially by someone like Mac. Who the hell was he, after all? A fake-tanned slice of beefcake with a bleached smile and the ability to be insincere on cue. Yes, there was a pleasing symmetry to his features, a certain robust physicality to his body that spoke to some primitive feminine instinct in her. But his appeal was only skin deep. He was an actor, her personal definition of the word vapid. He probably spent more time working out than she spent sleeping or eating. When he wasn’t working out, she bet he accessorized himself with the latest leggy blonde and made sure he was seen in all the right places, because those were the things that mattered to him. He was an empty Christmas- tree bauble of a man.

He was nothing special. And she was determined to treat him that way.

MAC FROWNED over his notes as Claudia exited the room. Was it just him, or was Grace Wellington less-than-thrilled to be working with him?

She’d barely looked at him since she walked into the room. He couldn’t work out if she was shy, embarrassed or angry. She was definitely something—the air around her was practically vibrating with suppressed emotion.

She was nothing like he’d expected. None of his feeble imaginings came even close to the real Grace Wellington. She was…totally original. Her hair was a deep claret, her bangs cut severely straight across her creamy forehead, the rest falling thick and straight down her back. A memory teased at his mind, and he plucked a sepia image from his mental filing cabinet—a voluptuous siren posed provocatively on a beach towel. Bettie Page, the famous 1950s pinup—that was who she reminded him of. Except she wasn’t as traditionally beautiful as Bettie. Grace’s green eyes, almost hidden behind heavy-framed black glasses, had a slight exotic tilt. Her nose was bigger, her mouth wider. Each feature taken alone was perfect, but together the effect was too strong for her ever to be labeled as conventionally beautiful. She was, however, strikingly attractive. Her skin glowed like freshwater pearls, and it was hard to keep his gaze from straying to her full crimson lips or dwelling on her exotically tilted eyes.

Fortunately, there was plenty of action down south to keep him fully occupied. The smooth, creamy skin of her face gave way to an expanse of smooth, creamy neck and chest that finished in a crescendo of bosom—two firm, proud breasts that strained at the confines of the floral sundress she was wearing. Hollywood being Hollywood, there was every chance they were the work of the men at Dow Corning, but his baser self hoped they were the real deal. They looked warm and soft and silky, and he caught himself wondering if her nipples were a dusky pink to match her pale skin tone.

The air in the room shifted, and his tingling man senses told him that not only had Ms Wellington finally decided to make eye contact with him, she’d also busted him ogling her chest like a horny teen.

He met her gaze as openly as he could, reasoning with himself that anyone with such spectacular assets was used to having them admired. She stared back at him coldly.

“Look, sorry if I stepped on your toes before, asking to see the script before it’s finished. Guess I must have broken some secret writer’s rule, huh?” he asked lightly.

He was used to making people like him. It was his stock in trade. He threw in a smile for good measure.

Her lips pursed slightly, and she leaned back in her chair, looking over her glasses at him like a disapproving librarian. The schoolmarm effect was dissipated somewhat, however, by those red, red lips and those amazing— Well, he’d already gotten in enough trouble in that direction already.

“There’s no rule, as such. It’s just that handing over a rough draft for a writer is the equivalent of you leaving the house without your massage, wax and facial. No one wants to be caught with pillow-face, do they?” she said.

His back stiffened. Where the hell had that come from?

It had been a long time since Mac hadn’t been liked by someone—or at least since someone had stopped sucking up to him long enough to let him know it. He was surprised by how much it annoyed him. To his knowledge, he’d never done anything to merit the dagger-eyes she was currently sending him.

He wondered what her problem was. Was she one of those precious people who resented actors moving into other areas of production? They were out there, he knew— writers and directors and producers who figured actors who were trying to parlay their time in the limelight to time behind the camera were asking for more than their fair share of pie.

He’d already copped a few sideways glances from a few of the other Boulevard directors. He even suspected a couple of the long-term regulars on the cast weren’t too thrilled to see him dabbling with direction. The same thing had happened when he’d been trying to break out of soap acting. People had wanted to keep him in a clearly defined box. But Mac knew now that if he didn’t get out of that box, he’d be buried in it.

“Given the time constraints we’re under, I think the best thing to do is to set a deadline for viewing the two prospective sites,” Grace said briskly, flicking through a diary. “What if we both agree to have looked over the two options by the end of the week? Then we can reconvene and discuss things.”

She glanced up at him, her face set, impassive.

“I was under the impression that Claudia wanted us to go out together. It being a collaborative thing and all,” he said.

She shrugged one shoulder. “I was planning on checking out the vineyard this afternoon since I’m ahead on edits, but that probably won’t suit you.”

She flicked at a piece of invisible lint on her dress. He didn’t have to be a genius to read the subtext of her body language—be gone, pesky man, be gone.

He’d never taken well to being dismissed.

“You know, it must be our lucky day—I’ve got the afternoon free as well,” he said easily. In reality, he had a swathe of lines to learn for tomorrow’s rehearsals—but that was what late nights and strong coffee were for.

She didn’t look pleased. Which only confirmed his suspicions about her. She didn’t think he was up to the job. All his earlier doubts about taking on such an important project evaporated. There was no way he was walking away now. Flashing another one of his red-carpet smiles, he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the boardroom table—just because he knew it would piss her off. Her gaze flickered to his legs and back again and she sat a little straighter in her chair.

“Why don’t you go grab your bag and we’ll get going?” he suggested.

Her full lips compressed into a thin, ungenerous line.

“I have some things to take care of first. Why don’t I meet you out there?” she countered.

His moment of amusement faded as he had a sudden vision of how the next few months were going to be if he was fighting against this woman every step of the way—it would be a bloody battle for each square foot gained. He was a straight-up kind of guy at the end of the day. As amusing as it was to egg Grace on, he figured it was better to call her on her attitude now, get whatever it was out of the way and sorted before it affected the show.

Then she stood up.

Hubba hubba.

It was the only coherent thought that came to mind as he took in the rest of the package that was Grace Wellington. He’d been too busy talking to Claudia to get a full head-to-toe on Grace when she walked in, but now his eyes tracked from the fullness of her breasts to her tiny waist and out again to her curvy hips and butt, all of it showcased by a dress that would have looked right at home on Doris Day in her heyday.

She had an old-fashioned pinup girl’s body, that was for sure. And she dressed in an old-fashioned style that accentuated all the good bits in a really, really…good way.

He frowned as she gathered her notes, trying to piece together the different signals he was getting from this woman. She didn’t like him, seemed uptight, but dressed in a fun, flamboyant, sexy style that belied the cool little voice and condemning glances over the top of her ugly glasses.

Realizing she was about to walk off, he dragged his gaze from her va-voom curves and concentrated on winning this first battle of wills.

“I can hang around. Doesn’t make sense to take separate cars all that way,” he said.

She blinked, her back stiffening.

“I might be a while,” she countered.

He shrugged. She stared at him. He stared back. He wasn’t going to back off just because she did a good line in bitch. Finally, after a long, tense silence, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned on her heel.

He watched her butt all the way out of the room, only letting out the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding when she stepped out of sight. It was also when he registered the tightness in his jeans. He stared down at his straining boner.

Great. Just what he needed—the return of his libido at the most inappropriate time possible.

GRACE LINGERED. Then she loitered. She even lurked a bit. She went to the bathroom twice. She sorted through her in-tray. She made a couple of pointless phone calls to freelance script writers. She cleared out her junk e-mail folder.

And still Mac sat there. He’d taken up position in one of the random chairs placed throughout the open-plan outer- office and was just waiting her out. She swung between being irritated with him for being such a stubborn bastard and feeling stupidly breathless and dizzy at his proximity.

Every time she glanced up from her “work” and caught sight of his tall, powerful body sitting outside her office, waiting for her, she had to fight the urge to melt into a puddle beneath her desk.

It made her feel so weak and stupid. Which in turn made her angry with herself—and Mac Harrison for having won the genetic sweepstakes that made him so irresistible to her.

Finally, however, she was out of tricks. It was already more than evident that she’d been stalling and, after an hour of time-wasting, she gave in, snatching up her handbag and notepad and stalking out of her office.

“I’m ready. Unless something else has come up…?” she suggested hopefully.

He eyed her steadily and pushed himself to his feet. She suppressed a shiver as he loomed over her. He was so close— just like in her fantasy the other night. If she took a step forward, she’d be able to reach out and run a finger down his chest. She’d need to rip his shirt off first, of course, for it to be an accurate re-enactment of her fantasy, but she had strong hands….

The jangle of car keys snapped her out of the pheromoneinduced daze she’d sunk into.

God, she was so pitiful. Lips pressed together, she marched toward the exit. She could feel him following her, and she felt absurdly conscious of the wiggle of her hips. He probably hadn’t seen real hips for years, living in Hollywood. All the actresses on the show had visible ribs and chicken wings sticking out of their backs from their no-carb, no-fat, no-life diets. He probably thought she was obese by comparison. The thought spurred her to put a little extra sass in her walk.

“Over here,” Mac directed as they exited the building, and she turned toward the guest parking. And stopped abruptly.

“That is not your car,” she said disbelievingly, her eyes caressing the pristine curves of a Venetian-red-and-white 1957 Corvette soft-top with whitewall tires and red leather upholstery.

He shrugged. “We can put the roof up if you’re worried about your hair.”

She stared at him, then resolutely resisted the urge to glance toward the far corner of the lot where her own parking space was located. The last—the very, very last—thing she needed was for him to see her car. She’d been restoring her own ’57 Corvette for nearly two years, but it was a long, slow process. Compared to his shiny, showroom-condition dream machine, her baby looked like a very tired, very ugly duckling.

The story of her life.

It was almost enough to make her hate his car, too. But that would be taking things too far.

Wordless, she slid into the passenger seat and reached for the scarf and sunglasses she habitually carried in the side pocket of her handbag.

“The seat-belt catch is a little tricky…” Mac began to explain, but Grace had already snapped hers shut.

While he occupied himself with starting the car, Grace deftly tied the scarf over her hair and swapped her office frames for the cat’s-eye sunglasses she’d inherited from her grandmother.

Then she turned her face away from him, signaling her absolute lack of interest in any conversational gambits he might choose to throw her way.

For the hour and a half it took them to drive to Santa Clarita, it appeared he didn’t choose to throw anything her way at all. After the first five minutes of silence, he simply reached across and flicked on the stereo. She noted out of the corner of her eye that he’d had a suitably low-key CD player installed so as not to destroy the original dash. It was the same model she’d been eyeing for herself for the past six months, trying to justify the expenditure when there were other, more mundane things to fix on her car.

Damn him.

Her irritation only grew when she recognized the track he’d put on. Nina Simone’s “Sinner Man.” One of her favorites.

It was no wonder that she was feeling particularly snippy by the time she stepped out of the car at the winery. So far, he’d managed to subvert all of her preconceptions about him, and she was finding it very disconcerting. She was also quiveringly aware of him. Every breath he took, every shift of his hands or body—she was blindsided by how attractive she found him…and how vulnerable that made her.

Shedding her scarf but keeping her sunglasses, she didn’t bother looking behind herself to see if he was following as she headed for the front doors of the winery. Let him keep up, if he could.

She realized instantly that he wasn’t—she’d become so damned attuned to him so quickly that the absence of his presence behind her was like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. She paused in the shadows of the entranceway to check on him discreetly and saw that he had stopped to take shots of the location with a small camera.

Humph. A good idea, she supposed. Maybe he was more than just a life-support system for a whole lot of muscle.

Determined to get the inspection over and done with, she stepped into the coolness of the interior and began to look around. The entrance hall was attractive but small. She couldn’t help but wonder how it would translate on-camera. Following the signs, she walked through to the main tasting room and gift shop. Again, it was pleasant, but she wondered whether the art department would be able to dress it to the level of glamour required for the special.

She knew the moment Mac joined her and watched him survey the space out of the corners of her eyes. He snapped off a couple of shots, and she tensed as he moved toward her.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s nice. Homey and cozy,” she said.

He nodded neutrally and looked around some more. He had such a great profile. She wanted to reach out and run her finger along his nose, rub her palm against his five o’clock shadow, run her tongue along the full curve of his lower lip.

“What’s wrong—not enough bling for your liking?” she asked coolly, furious at herself for staring at him.

He took his time answering, his blue gaze pinning her for a long beat. She had no idea what he was thinking.

“It’s cozy, like you said. But Gabe comes from money. The wedding needs to be lavish, over the top,” he said, turning to study the room again.

Even though she agreed with everything he was saying— or perhaps, because of it—Grace found herself defending the location.

“I know it’s probably not up to your own personal high standards, but I’m sure we can get a hot tub installed and borrow some of the bunnies from the Playboy mansion,” she said sweetly.

He raised an eyebrow, then shot her a slow, appraising look.

“I’m going to go look at the grounds,” he said, “and then you’re going to tell me exactly what stick you have up your ass.”

Grace spluttered angrily but he just walked away. She glared after him, unable to resist the lure of that perfect butt, even though he’d spoken so rudely to her.

Kind of the same way she’d been speaking to him. She was painfully aware of the fact that she’d regressed to elementary-school sexual politics to cope with her stupid awareness of this man: be mean to the handsome boy and he wouldn’t guess that she liked him. It was petty and immature.

But it was all she had—and by God, she was clinging to it.

MAC TOOK DEEP BREATHS of the fresh, earth-scented air. It had taken all his willpower not to tear into her back there. He’d hoped to disarm her, befriend her, find some common ground during their drive. Instead, she’d given him the silent treatment. And now she was taking shots at him again.

He didn’t consider himself a hot-tempered kind of a guy, but he had his limits. And she was straining at them.

What really pissed him off was the fact that he still found her attractive. He didn’t kid himself—while his face was on national TV, he was never going to have a problem getting laid. But it had been a long time since he’d gotten any buzz out of that aspect of his fame. He’d had his share of relationships and flings with women in the business—mostly actresses, although his only long-term relationship had been with a makeup artist, Kerry, with whom he’d lived for several years. Keeping a relationship alive was tough enough at the best of times, but when the shifting sands of Hollywood vagaries were added into the mix, Mac figured it was pretty much impossible. Most of the women he met were beautiful, with tanned, sculpted bodies. They all wanted fame in some way—be it through notoriety, association or their own achievements. Why live in L.A. otherwise? Not even a dyed-in- the-wool L.A.-lover would claim it was a beautiful city. Nope, L.A. was a city where dreams and ambition came first and love a pale, sickly second.

He didn’t even know if he believed in love any more. He’d seen so much greed and ugliness over the past few years that cynicism was practically a religion for him. He had a couple of regular lovers who he saw on and off—more off than on lately, if he was being honest with himself. His sex-drive was at an all-time low. Yet, here he was, faced with the obvious disdain and contempt of a rude, sharp-tongued shrew and his gonads were trying to get in on the action. How goddamned contrary was that?

Running a hand through his hair, Mac squinted off into the distance and forced his mind to the matter at hand. Pulling his slim-line digital camera from his pocket, he fired off a few shots, but his heart wasn’t in it. His gut told him this was not the location to make the episode sing. He might not be the most experienced director in the world, but as an actor he’d played his part in innumerable soap weddings. This place just wasn’t right.

The sound of full-throated feminine laughter cut through the silence, and he looked over his shoulder to see Grace approaching, arm in arm with a gray-haired guy who looked to be in his late fifties. Grace was laughing up into his face, her cheeks rosy, hips wiggling as she walked with him.

It was like getting a peek behind the curtain during an audience with the Great and Powerful Oz. The hard-nosed witch he’d been dealing with all day was gone and in her place was a sparkling eyed, fun-loving woman who radiated charm.

So why was he getting the Alexis Carrington treatment?

As though on cue, Grace’s smile slid from her face as she spotted him and her body stiffened.

Mac grit his teeth. He was getting a little sick of feeling as though he had a personal-hygiene problem.

“I’ve just been talking to your lady friend,” the older man said. “Name’s Rusty. I’m the winemaker here.”

“Rusty took me on a tour of the winemaking shed,” Grace said coolly.

“Great,” Mac said. “You’ve got a lovely place here.”

“Oh, I’m not the owner. I just work here,” Rusty explained.

Grace patted Rusty’s arm confidingly.

“Don’t worry about Mac—he figures that because his life is like a game of Monopoly, the rest of us are all land barons and heiresses.”

Mac’s nostrils flared and he shot her a hard look. She gazed off over the marching rows of vines as though she’d done nothing more contentious than comment on the weather.

“Actually, the wife’s a big fan, Mr. Harrison,” Rusty said, ruddy color staining his cheeks. “Do you think you’d mind…?”

Mac smiled, ignoring the hyena on Rusty’s arm. It wasn’t the winemaker’s fault that Grace was a bitch.

“Not a problem, it’d be my pleasure.”

Rusty pulled a small diary from his pocket and offered up an empty page.

“What’s your wife’s name?” he asked.

“Alison,” Rusty said, craning his head to see what Mac was writing.

Finishing his inscription, Mac signed his name neatly.

“There you go.”

“And, also…?” Rusty asked, producing his cell phone with built-in camera.

Signaling his agreement, Mac waited while Rusty handed the phone over to Grace so he could pose with Mac. A smile, a click and Rusty was offering up his sheepish thanks before heading back to his work.

As one, he and Grace began walking back toward the car. They hadn’t taken two steps before she tilted her head slightly as though she was contemplating a difficult riddle.

“I’m surprised you don’t keep head shots on you,” she drawled. “You’re taking an awful risk—what if someone snaps you on a bad-hair day?”

The sunlight glinted off her dark cat’s-eye sunglasses and the last shreds of Mac’s patience evaporated.

“Right, that’s it,” he said tightly, grabbing her arm and hauling her the last few feet to the Corvette.

“Do you mind? Get your hands off me!” Grace said, outraged. She twisted her arm in his grasp, trying to escape.

He just tightened his grip.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re being such a grade-A bitch. And before you say ‘bite me,’ you might want to think about how long a walk it is back to L.A.”

Finally she succeeded in pulling her arm loose.

“Would you like me to shine your shoes after I’ve finished kissing them? That’s what you’re used to, isn’t it?” she sniped.

“Have it your way.”

Without another word, Mac got into his car, gunned the engine and left her for dust.

3

THE THING ABOUT STILETTOS was that they looked great. They elongated the leg, transformed the calf muscle and gave a girl an extra few inches in height. They were sexy, stylish fashion must-haves, essential additions to any woman’s arsenal.

And they were totally unsuitable for a two mile trek on a gravel road.

Pride was a terrible, terrible thing Grace admitted after the first blister had burst on her heel. She could have walked the handful of steps required to take her back into the winery so she could use their phone, having discovered she’d left her own cell phone at work. Even now she could be lounging in shady comfort, chatting with Rusty over a nice glass of red while she waited for a taxi. But pride had dictated that she instead make her way down the long driveway to the main road and then traverse the apparently short distance to the craft shop she’d remembered passing on the way in so that no one at the winery knew that her handsome, famous escort had blown her off and driven away without her.

The first blister blossomed halfway down the drive. By the time she’d reached the main road, it had burst and been replaced by brothers and sisters on both feet.

Striking out to her left, she made it another hundred feet before the spike heel on her left shoe snapped off in an ant hole. Swearing like a trooper, Grace whipped off her shoe to examine the damage. It was a clean break, and she heaved a sigh of relief. She knew a shoe wizard who would be able to resuscitate her prized vintage Roger Vivier green-suede peeptoes— some solace, at least.

Tugging off her other shoe, she let out a gasp of pure ecstasy as she flexed her overheated foot. Her relief was short lived—by the time she’d traversed another fifty feet she was hobbling from walking on the sharp gravel.

The worst thing was, she had no one to blame but herself. She wanted to blame Mac—oh, how she wanted to—but she knew that she was the only one responsible for her current situation. She’d been a sniping, vitriolic, sarcastic cow all day and the man had copped her abuse like a gentleman. But even gentlemen had their limits, and now she knew Mac’s.

After ten more minutes of cursing and pain, Grace shook her head. There was no way she was going to make it to the shop. It wasn’t even a speck on the horizon—it was obviously miles off. She looked toward the vineyard, biting her lip. There really was nothing for it but to walk back and eat a large slice of humble pie before asking Rusty to call her a cab. But before she went anywhere, she was giving her poor, tortured feet a break. A rail fence separated the road from the open pastureland that fed into the rows of vines, and she stepped over a drainage ditch and climbed between the top and bottom rails so she could sink her feet into the cool grass. It felt so good that she rested her butt on the bottom rail and closed her eyes, relishing the sensation.

But as much as she wanted to concentrate on only the cool of the grass on her sore, hot feet, she couldn’t stop her mind from picking at the tangled mess she’d made today. She’d gone a little overboard on the protecting-herself thing. She’d been unprofessional. She’d been stupid. She’d been the queen bitch from hell, basically. And she wasn’t particularly proud of herself.

She had a lot of excuses lined up: he pushed all her buttons, reminding her of age-old resentments and ancient insecurities. He was the epitome of so many of the values she’d fought against all her life. And, to her everlasting embarrassment, she had a crush on him that she knew would never be reciprocated.

But none of it was good enough when put in the balance against her poor behavior. Beneath all the sass and the attitude and the Bette Davis drawl, she was a fair woman. She owed him an apology. Big time.

Her eyes were still closed when she heard the sound of a car approaching and slowing to a halt. Even if she hadn’t recognized the distinct burble of the Corvette’s engine, she would have known it was Mac by the way all the small hairs on her arms stood on end.

Secretly, she’d been hoping he’d relent and return for her. It had taken him nearly an hour, but he had. It didn’t escape her attention that she’d kept him waiting for an hour back in the office, too. He hadn’t looked as though he cared, but he had. He’d just bided his time and waited for an opportunity to serve her up some of her own medicine.

Clever.

Swiveling, she ducked her head beneath the top rail and peered at him.

“Ready to go home now?” he asked.

He’d pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and there was a distinct challenge in his gaze. Her eyes dropped to the Popsicle he was holding in one hand. While she’d been vandalizing her shoes, he’d been snacking.

A wry smile found its way to her mouth. He knew how to rub a woman’s face in her wrongdoings, that was for sure.

“That would be very nice, thank you,” she said, determined to show him she’d learned her lesson.

Crouching and easing through the rails, she stepped back over the drainage ditch. He pushed the passenger door open for her, but she hesitated before crossing the threshold.

“Before I get in—I owe you an apology,” she said uncomfortably. She was eternally grateful for her sunglasses—at least they afforded her a tiny skerrick of protection from his bright, hawkish gaze.

“I’m listening,” he said.

She took a deep breath. “I have been beyond rude all day. I’m sorry. It was entirely my problem—nothing to do with you—and I took my bad mood out on you,” she said, fudging the last part but figuring he really didn’t need to know that the reason she’d been such a harpy all day was because she hated herself for finding him almost irresistibly attractive.

There was a long pause before he reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out a second Popsicle, still in its wrapper.

Offering it to her, he jerked his head. “Get in,” he said.

He’d bought her a treat. Bewildered, she slid into the car, unconsciously wincing as one of her blisters brushed the carpet. He frowned.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.

“Blisters,” she explained, too busy tearing the wrapper off her Popsicle to elaborate.

His glance dropped to her broken shoe, lying on the floor.

“And you broke your shoe?” he said.

“It’s repairable.” She shrugged, taking a big, deliciously cool bite of tangy raspberry ice.

He gave her an intent look before signaling and pulling back out onto the road.

She polished off her treat and he silently passed her a travel pack of tissues to wipe her sticky hands.

“Thank you.” She hesitated a moment, then reminded herself that she still had some ground to make up. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” she asked, forcing herself to be light.

He shrugged. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’ll have dinner with me tonight.”

Grace jerked her head around to look at him. “You’re kidding.”

“That’s my price for pretending today never happened,” he said, eyes hidden behind his own sunglasses now.

“Why would you want to have dinner with me when I’ve been a total bitch all day?” she asked honestly.

He didn’t take his attention off the road. “We need to have a decent working relationship,” he said.

“Okay, I agree with that. But dinner really isn’t necessary, is it?” she asked. The thought of spending more time with him—of sitting opposite him for a meal, being unable to avoid looking into that stunning, unforgettable face—was too, too overwhelming.

“I think it is.”

She could hear the determination in his tone. He’d offered his deal—forgiveness for dinner. She closed her eyes. Why-oh- why hadn’t she picked someone completely outside her world to be her fantasy lover? Hell, why hadn’t she picked someone really safe, like Elvis or Jim Morrison?

She opened her eyes again. “Okay. Where do you want to meet?”

“I’ll pick you up,” he said.

This time, she didn’t even bother trying to argue.

GRACE WELLINGTON was a revelation. The thought crossed his mind somewhere between their appetizers and main courses that evening.

By the time he’d arrived at her low-rise art deco apartment block to collect her, he’d had two hours to regret his impulsive invitation. Why prolong the misery of a genuinely shitty day by extending it into dinner? But he’d always been unable to refuse a challenge—and Grace was definitely challenging.

The moment she’d opened her door to him, most of his doubts had turned to dust. Somehow, in the time between dropping her off at the production offices and navigating his way to her Venice Beach apartment, he’d forgotten how striking she was. The smell of her heavy, musky perfume smacked him in the nose even as his eyeballs boggled at all the delights they were being offered. Her breasts looked incredible in a fitted, high-necked-but-still-sexy pale-yellow dress featuring about a million little buttons down the bodice. Her hips got their fair share of attention, too, since her skirt hugged her curves like nobody’s business. Her toes peeped out from between the straps of a pair of elegant red-suede stilettos and he’d felt an instant surge of desire as she brushed past him.

The feeling had only intensified when she’d slid into his car and run an unconsciously sensual hand along the upholstery. It wasn’t until they were halfway to the intimate little restaurant he’d chosen in Malibu that he’d realized she was half lit. Not actually drunk, but definitely…relaxed. At first he’d been annoyed, but then she’d started to let her guard down. And now he was officially intrigued.

The cold-eyed, hard-nosed sourpuss of earlier in the day had been replaced by a lighthearted woman with a quick wit and a ready laugh. It was as though the earlier Grace had been sketched in black and white and at last he was being treated to the Technicolor version.

“I love mushrooms,” she purred now as her main course was delivered. “They’ve got everything—aroma, texture, taste. Don’t you think?”

He wondered if she was aware that she was running her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. And if she knew what it was doing to him.

“I’m a big fan of the pea, myself,” he countered.

“The pea?” She smiled, ready to be amused. He liked that about her.

“Why not? It’s small, it’s green, it rolls. Design, color, movement—the pea has a lot to offer.”

She shook her head and looked vaguely annoyed. “There you go again, surprising me.”

“Let me guess, you had me pegged as a potato kind of guy?” he asked.

She took a slug of her wine and shook her head for the second time. One of her elbows found its way onto the table and she leaned forward to accentuate her point.

“You’re an actor. You’re supposed to be one-dimensional. We’re supposed to be talking about how great you are,” she said.

There was just the slightest slur in her words, enough to make him shake his head subtly when the waiter approached, wine list in hand, hoping to secure an order for a second bottle.

“But, instead, we’re talking about vegetables. And music. And architecture. And our favorite movies,” she said.

She sounded put out.

“This bothers you?” he asked, slicing into his panfried snapper.

“Yeah, it bothers me. The way I figure it is this—some people in life get the looks, others get the smarts. You can’t have both.”

“Why not?”

She looked genuinely outraged. “It’s not fair. Good looks and smarts—there’s no defense against that,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows and reached for the lemon wedge on the edge of his plate.

“Defense? Is there some kind of war going on that I don’t know about?” he asked, squeezing lemon juice over his fish.

“Oh!” she said suddenly, jerking back.

He glanced up and realized that his lemon wedge had misfired and squirted her in the eye.

“I’m sorry—are you all right?” he asked, half standing and leaning forward.

She pulled her glasses off and blinked a few times. Then she smiled.

“Nice shot,” she said, tongue in cheek.

Smooth, really smooth, he chastised himself. The only time she’d unwound with him all day, and he tried to blind her. Feeling guilty, he plucked the heavy black frames from her fingers.

Her eyes widened. “It’s okay, I can clean them myself,” she said when he began drying them on his pristine napkin.

“At least allow me to exorcise my guilt,” he said, caught in the unobscured magic of her green gaze.

He’d noticed her eyes before—their exotic tilt, their color—but her glasses had always provided a chunky barrier to her thoughts. Now he felt as though he could see straight through to her soul.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, tugging at the neckline of her dress uncomfortably.

“You have amazing eyes,” he said, staring into them intently. “What color is that? Like sea foam. But greener.”

“Moldy green,” she said dismissively. “That’s what my sisters used to call it.”

“Jealousy is a curse,” he said.

“Oh no, they’re not jealous of me,” Grace quickly corrected him, reaching for her wineglass again. “They’re stunning, all of them.”

He shrugged, unconvinced. In his experience, brothers and sisters only took shots at the qualities they most envied in their siblings.

“They are,” Grace defended. Her long earrings brushed the creamy skin of her neck. “They even get paid to be beautiful— Felicity’s a weather girl, Serena is an actress and Hope’s a model. So there’s nothing for them to be jealous about where I’m concerned.”

For the first time, he sensed vulnerability beneath her tough-broad demeanor. First she was sexy and amusing, now she was vulnerable. He felt as though he was being treated to the dance of the seven veils, except it was Grace’s disguises that were dropping away instead of veils.

“Felicity, Serena, Hope and Grace. Let me guess—your Mom’s Catholic?” he asked. He’d long since finished cleaning her glasses, but her eyes were too beautiful to hide. He set the frames on the table. If she wanted them, she could ask for them—in the meantime he was going to enjoy the view.

“As Catholic as it gets,” Grace said, rolling her eyes. “I still blame Dad for not stopping her with the names.”

“Are you close to your sisters?” he asked, knowing he was pushing it. Grace had already proven she was a very private person.

She shrugged, looked away. “Sure.”

He saw a flash of unhappiness in her eyes and wondered.

“What about you? Do you have a big family?” she asked.

“Two younger brothers,” Mac said. “Both of them happy-as- pigs-in-mud married with kids.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Now you sound jealous.”

“Absolutely. They’re the smart ones—knew what they wanted, went out and got it, and now they’re in clover. Why wouldn’t I be jealous?”

For a long time, he’d viewed his brothers as having mundane lives full of routine and obligation. Only lately had he begun to realize that they were content, even fulfilled, in a way that he’d never been.

She made a disbelieving raspberry noise. Quite a loud one, thanks to whatever she’d had to drink before he picked her up and the lion’s share of the bottle of wine they’d been enjoying. The couple at the next table looked across with a frown. Mac hid a smile behind his napkin.

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