Jack wanted to kiss her

Eve saw it in the intensity of his look. And she wanted to kiss him back. Badly. So when the elevator doors opened, Eve tugged him inside. Jack caught on quickly, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling the side of her neck as his erection nudged her thigh.

“Where do we go from here, Eve?” he asked, his breath hot on her skin.

“Wherever we want, Jack.”

Then, suddenly, desperately, as if a dam had been released, her hands were in his hair, their lips fused, their hips together. She strained closer, grinding her mouth against his, waging a war with her tongue. Somewhere along the way, this had changed from a sexy, flirtatious encounter into a moment of consuming need. Eve ached for him to fill her, to satisfy this craving.

“Jack, where’s a condom?” she said huskily, breaking the kiss.

He pulled a foil packet out of his wallet, and Eve quickly plucked it from his fingers, tearing the cellophane with her teeth.

“Unzip your pants. You promised me short and to the point.”

Jack took the condom from her and gave her a grin that stole her breath away. “Honey,” he said, shaking his head, “I offered brief. But never short.”

Dear Reader,

In times of stress, or even great joy, I often turn to comfort food. And unfortunately for me, that means chocolate. Sure, I like apples, carrots and celery sticks, but they don’t cut it when you need a pick-me-up. Give me Godiva any day of the week. And if I’m trying for semihealthy, I don’t mind if the manufacturers stick a piece of fruit or a nut in there, as long as they cover it with rich, dark chocolate.

Eve Carmichael—intelligent, strong, independent, driven—shares my weakness. According to Eve, nothing is better than chocolate. Of course, under the right circumstances, this opinion is subject to change. And Eve’s corporate rival Jack LaRoux is a tall, dark and dangerous one-man circumstance waiting to happen….

So sit back and enjoy watching Jack convince Eve that some things are, indeed, better than chocolate….

I’d love to hear from you. You can write me at P.O. Box 289, Hiram, GA 30141.

Enjoy,

Jennifer LaBrecque

Books by Jennifer LaBrecque

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

886—BARELY MISTAKEN

904—BARELY DECENT

952—BARELY BEHAVING

HARLEQUIN DUETS

28—ANDREW IN EXCESS

52—KIDS+COPS=CHAOS

64—JINGLE BELL BRIDE?

Better Than Chocolate…

Jennifer LaBrecque

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Brenda Chin, for your seemingly infinite patience, keen eye and insight, and unfailing encouragement.

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

1

“JACK LAROUX with his pants off. Now there’s an interesting thought. I’ve heard he’s yumm-o,” Andrea Scarpini declared from her end of the park bench.

“That’s definitely not what I meant when I said I’d beat the pants off LaRoux.” Eve Carmichael laughed, tilting her head back to soak up the early-spring sun filtering through Manhattan high-rises. Although, it was an interesting thought, and one she’d entertained fairly frequently. Eve was pretty sure it meant she needed a life outside of work. But she had no intention of sharing that tidbit with Andrea. “And I don’t care if he’s yumm-o or Quasimodo, I’ll beat him fair and square with sheer talent.”

“And what if our boy Jack doesn’t play fair? He didn’t earn the nickname Jack the Ripper by being a nice guy,” Andrea said.

Rumors had circulated about Jack LaRoux, Eve’s counterpart at Hendley and Wells Advertising San Francisco office in the six months he’d been onboard. Descriptions had included arrogant, extremely talented and ruthless. Oh yeah, and yumm-o. Nice, however, never entered the picture.

Eve quirked her brow at Andrea and opened her bottled water.

“Uh, nice doesn’t come into it, does it?” Andrea said. Arguably one of the best graphic artists in the city, Andrea abhorred the high-stakes competitive nature of Eve’s job. “I mean they don’t call you Eve the Avenger because you’re nice.”

Eve bit back a smile. No, they didn’t. She’d earned that nickname ostensibly because she never let anything get the best of her. No one crossed her unscathed. Besides, it had a nice cadence to it.

Meanwhile, Andrea was talking herself into another one of her infamous corners. “I mean, I think you’re nice because you’re my friend, but not everyone…” She trailed off, squirming on her end of the bench. “You know what I mean.”

Eve relented and laughed, tugging Andrea out of the corner she’d backed herself into. “I do know what you mean. It’s okay. Do you know what you call a nice account executive?” She took a long swallow of water.

“What?”

“Unemployed.”

Andrea wrinkled her nose. “Very funny.”

“Nah. Just sorta funny. But listen, it gets even better. I got an e-mail from Kirk Hendley this morning. Whoever wins the Bradley account gets the marketing vice presidency over both the New York and San Francisco offices.”

“So, your professional fate rests on farm equipment and lawn mowers?”

“Not terribly glamorous, is it? Lucky for me, I’ve got one of the best teams in the business working with me.” She grinned across the space at her friend and team graphic artist.

Andrea nodded at the compliment. “So, if Jack won he’d have to move to New York?”

“Yes. But Jack doesn’t need to worry about moving. I’m going to show him just what our New York office is made of.”

“It’s only fair to warn you there’s already a pool going in the art department whether you or LaRoux will get the job,” Andrea said.

Neither the pool nor the fact that a confidential memo she’d seen only three hours ago had already leaked surprised Eve. Office gossip was the local pastime at Hendley and Wells. “Who’s the favored winner?”

She took another swallow of water and closed her eyes briefly, reveling in the warmth of the sun on her face and the cool sweetness of the water sliding down her throat. She was only mildly interested in the art department’s predictions about who would win the vice presidency. She knew she would.

“The bets are running close to even,” Andrea said. Eve opened her eyes and leveled a stare. Andrea couldn’t lie worth anything. Flustered, Andrea caved. “Oh, what the heck. Okay, LaRoux’s favored two to one because he’s a man and Bill Bradley has a reputation for being a good old boy. And because, farm equipment is, well, man stuff.”

Eve threw back her head and laughed, earning a dirty look from the couple one bench over. “Man stuff? Jack LaRoux lives in San Francisco. Unless he’s some off-the-farm prodigy, he’s probably never been any closer to a tractor than I have. Consider this an insider tip. Put your money on me, ’cause I’m going to win.” Eve wanted that vice presidency so bad she could taste it. Correction. She didn’t want it, she needed it. Maybe that meant she needed to get a life, but it was the bottom line—this promotion meant everything to her. “I don’t expect Jack the Ripper to play nice. And if he wants to step outside of fair, I’m more than willing to take him on there as well.”

“I think it’s kind of sick and weird that Kirk Hendley’s dangling this vice presidency over your heads like a carrot, making you and Jack compete against each other for it,” Andrea said.

“Seems like good business sense to me,” Eve countered. “We’ve both got outstanding track records….” That was no boasting, just fact. “And we’ll both turn ourselves inside out to come up with something awesome. Kirk and the client wind up with a kick-butt campaign and one of us winds up with a vice presidency. It’s beautifully logical. Guess that makes me sick and weird too.”

“Nah. You were that way before now,” Andrea teased. Then she sobered. “But what if you lose, Eve?”

“I won’t.”

“Our team is good, but so is his. What if—”

“Losing is not an option.” As a middle kid with an older and younger brother, Eve had discovered at a young age that absolute conviction was the necessary ingredient to winning whatever you wanted, be it an ice-cream cone or a vice presidency. And as a girl, she’d learned to try even harder.

Eve also possessed a perverse streak. The more someone told her she couldn’t or shouldn’t want something, the more determined she was to get it. Her parents, much as she loved them, had sought to quell her ambition from an early age. As their only daughter, it was okay for her to marry an “ad man” but certainly never aspire to be one.

“You know, you’re a little scary when you get that look in your eye.” Andrea held her hands up in surrender. “Okay, so, you’re going to win. When does the battle commence? Monday? Where’s the preliminary meeting? Here in New York or San Francisco?”

“Neither. We’re meeting on Bradley’s home field—Chicago. Technically, we’re both supposed to arrive Monday morning and meet that afternoon. I checked with the travel agency as soon as I got the memo.” She smiled. “That’s why I rebooked my flight for Friday night after work. Who’s to say I can’t enjoy a weekend of rest and relaxation on my own dollar?” Eve opened the plastic lid on her salad and squeezed a lemon half over the green leaves.

“And get a jump on the competition?” Andrea asked, unwrapping her steak-and-cheese hoagie.

“Maybe. I might pick up a few things during my weekend of R and R.” Namely a competitive edge. She was always on her game with a good eight hours of sleep behind her.

Pencil-thin Andrea looked from her hoagie to Eve’s pathetic excuse for a salad. “How can you eat that?” she asked, biting into her sandwich.

The scent of warm onions wafted over to torment Eve. For a second she fantasized about taking a bite of the juicy steak, melted cheese, grilled peppers and onions on a warm, crisp roll. Instead she stabbed her fork into the crunchy green leaves in her salad bowl.

It was a good thing she and Andrea were close friends, otherwise she’d have to hate the waiflike creature scarfing down the sandwich next to her. Eve tugged at her skirt’s too-tight waistband. “I had three choices. Eat the salad and lose weight, buy a new wardrobe or go naked. The first option struck me as the best plan.”

“Perry and Godiva?” Andrea asked.

“Yep. Insult to injury. Some women might’ve lost weight. Not me. I find my boyfriend diddling my secretary on my desk and I binge on Godiva, gain five pounds and wind up with a zit the size of Delaware on my forehead.”

“More the size of Rhode Island and it’s gone. And you’re working on the five pounds. But Perry definitely wasn’t worth it.”

“Perry’s a rat bastard,” Eve said without vehemence. She still didn’t want to talk about the Perry debacle, even with her best friend. Not because she was brokenhearted. No, it was just so damn embarrassing.

And tawdry. Eve’s bare-assed boyfriend and her bare-breasted secretary going at it on Eve’s desk. Her desk. Ugh. Perry, the cheapskate, couldn’t even shell out the bucks for a motel room. Eve had needed an entire canister of antibacterial wipes before she’d felt comfortable sitting at her desk again.

Clearly they hadn’t expected her to miss her flight and return to the office. Delores had still been gasping for air and Perry searching for a lie when Eve had calmly picked up their clothes—Perry’s carefully draped Armani suit and Delores’s size-two skirt—from her guest chair and walked back out the door.

Perry had screamed bloody murder but hadn’t followed her down the hall. Too many people worked late for him to give chase with his johnson catching wind. And Eve would bet they were also pretty surprised when security showed up shortly thereafter based on an anonymous tip. Perry had called the next day, not to apologize but to demand his suit back. She’d referred him to the Goodwill she’d passed on the way home.

Getting mad was a waste of energy. But getting even was definitely satisfying.

“He could’ve told me he wanted to see Delores. It was the deception that bothered me.” She tugged at the waistband of her skirt. It wasn’t a size two. It was a twelve and it was tight. Too tight.

“Sorry, babe. He was doing more than seeing her. Delores is a skinny tramp,” Andrea said. Andrea was a good friend.

“Bimbo.”

“Floozy.”

Eve basked in the satisfaction of name-calling for a few seconds. It was almost as satisfying as a steak-and-cheese hoagie. Well, not really, but it’d have to do.

“Delores might’ve been a bimbo, but she was a great secretary. I definitely miss her more than I miss Perry.” Eve was still getting used to LaTonya, Delores’s replacement.

“You know the whole thing’s turned you into something of a legend. The women revere you and the men fear you. Eve the Avenger, superhero to women around the world.”

Eve indulged in a little eye-rolling. “I hope they write better copy for the Bradley ad.” She tried to bring the conversation back to her latest assignment. Perry was old news. Embarrassing old news.

“Hey, they can only work with the material they’re given.” Andrea tore open the wrapping on a Twinkies. “You ought to have a little weekend fling while you’re there. You know, clear out Perry’s bad karma.”

“I’m not a fling kind of gal. And Perry didn’t leave any karma there.” Things hadn’t progressed beyond a few dinner dates and a couple of lukewarm kisses. Despite the surprise element, she’d kept her wits about her and was able to size things up when she’d caught Perry naked. Unless he was extremely good at making the most of what he had, she hadn’t missed much.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“But—”

Andrea held up her hand, interrupting Eve’s rebuttal. Eve shut up. No one in their right mind talked to Andrea’s hand. “Eve, you are a genius at work. But you’re lousy at picking men. Do yourself a favor. Have a fling.”

Eve had Godiva’d her way to the same conclusion—not the fling part, but the bad choice in men. Chocolate hadn’t helped and she didn’t see that Andrea’s advice would, either. “Is a fling going to improve my lousy judgment?”

“No. I personally think you pick those guys to avoid commitment. They’re losers, so it’s a good reason to dump them. You know, like in Moonstruck when Cher tells Nic Cage he’s a wolf who’d rather gnaw off his own leg than get caught in a trap.”

Eve knew the scene well since she and Andrea had seen the movie about a dozen times since they’d been friends. Andrea had serious Nic Cage fever.

“I do not deliberately pick losers in order to avoid serious relationships.” She didn’t, did she? That would be seriously warped. “So, tell me again why I should hop into bed with a stranger this weekend?”

Andrea wore a dreamy expression. “Think ‘Strangers in the Night,’” she sang the title to the Frank Sinatra classic. Andrea, who’d grown up in Brooklyn, with her grandmother sharing her parents’ house, had been weaned on Sinatra, Nat King Cole and Ella Fitzgerald. Andrea was a quixotic mixture of uptown sophisticate and romantic neighborhood girl, virgin extraordinaire still waiting on a man with an equally romantic soul. They, however, were in short supply. “Think romance. It would be fun.”

“The only fun I’m interested in is winning that promotion and beating LaRoux.”

“I’m just interested in who winds up on top,” Andrea said, a teasing glint in her eye.

JACK LAROUX LEANED against the hotel’s black marble counter, impatience lurking behind his nonchalance. He needed a swim, a shower and a Scotch. Not necessarily in that order. All three were a mere check-in away.

According to Neville, Jack also needed to get laid. But then again, his assistant considered sex of tantamount importance ninety-nine percent of the time. From day one Jack’s perpetual reserve had never inhibited Neville’s outrageous tongue.

While he waited on his key card, Jack checked out the bar tucked into a corner on the first floor, visible from the lobby mezzanine. Not crowded yet. Not surprising at seven forty-five on a Friday night. He could probably pick up a Scotch and Neville’s prescribed lay in the bar. If that was what he’d wanted. Instead, he’d order the Scotch poolside after his swim.

“Here you are, Mr. LaRoux,” said the desk clerk. Meg, according to her name tag, offered a smooth, professional smile along with his key card. “You’re in Suite four-fourteen. Is there anything else I can help you with? Do you need a hand with your bag?”

“I can handle it.” He picked up the garment bag and the black leather attaché housing his laptop, compliments of Hendley and Wells, and smiled across the desk at her. “Thanks, Meg.”

Meg blushed and tucked her hair behind one ear, flustered. Who was he to question why women responded to his smile that way? But they did, and it made his life much easier. Most of the time. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. LaRoux.”

“Thanks.” Jack shouldered his bag and headed for the bank of elevators, anxious to dump his things in his room and head to the pool. He had energy to burn and swimming laps inspired some of his best thinking.

He rode the glass-fronted elevator to the third floor. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of his footsteps as he walked down the hall.

His cell phone buzzed. Neville’s office extension flashed on the caller ID. Jack flipped it open with one hand. “Hi, Nev.”

“You will not believe who just called the office looking for you,” Neville announced with typical dramatic flair.

“Don’t leave me hanging.” Jack keyed open his suite door and padded across the thick carpet. He deposited his laptop on the desk.

“LaTonya Greer.” Neville paused for effect.

The redhead he’d met at the art gallery opening last week? No. Her name was Leslie or Laura or maybe it’d been Leanne. It wasn’t LaTonya. He crossed the sitting room to the bedroom and hung his garment bag in the closet. “Am I supposed to know LaTonya Greer?”

“Hel-lo. Assistant to Eve the Evil One.”

“Hmm. I hope LaTonya Greer doesn’t torture her boss with hyperbole.”

Neville sniffed on the other end. “You’d better hope she’s not as good at her job as I am. Of course, she couldn’t possibly be.”

Jack grinned at Neville’s pretended effrontery and juggled the cell phone on his shoulder as he shrugged out of his jacket. “No one’s as good at their job as you are—hyperbole or otherwise. What did Ms. Greer want with me and what did you tell her?”

“It was some nonsense about confirming information for Monday’s meeting. I told her you were in a meeting.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Good. That’s it? Don’t you wonder what she’s up to?”

Neville possessed excellent intuition regarding advertising, but he tended to be a tad dramatic, seeing intrigue where none existed.

Jack shrugged, even though Neville couldn’t see it over the phone. “I’m sure you handled it with your usual aplomb.”

“I did, thank you. Now, what’s on the agenda for tonight?” Neville’s voice carried that let-us-digress-to-sex tone.

“After I hang up with you I’m going to check out the pool.”

“Laps and a Scotch?” Nev asked with a sigh.

Neville sounded as if Jack might break out knitting needles next. It didn’t mean he’d grown boringly predictable, it just meant he’d developed a method that worked. Sipping Scotch after a hard swim sparked his creativity.

“I should be poolside—” he checked his Rolex “—in about ten minutes.”

“Swim your laps and then check out the bar. All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy. Find yourself a playmate for the weekend.”

“I’m not into—”

“Then you should be,” Neville interrupted. “You’ve been wound up way too tight lately. Think of it as relaxation therapy. You know, all those endorphins released by good sex. Consider it priming the pump for doing your best work on Monday.” Neville was nothing if not tenacious. Arguing with him was a waste of breath.

“Sure, Nev,” Jack said.

“You’re humoring me.” Jack should’ve gone for a more convincing tone. “I’m dead serious about those endorphins.”

“I’ve been busy.” And bored. All the women he met seemed the same.

“Nobody should be that busy. Speaking of bitches, when’s the Evil Eve blowing in on her broom?”

They’d been speaking of bitches? Not in his conversation. Jack shook his head. “You supplied the itinerary forwarded by the travel agent. She’s expected the same time I was supposed to be here, Monday morning.”

“I’ll want a full report on the Avenger.”

Eve the Avenger. Or simply, Evil Eve as Neville preferred. She had a hell of a buzz going, not only in the company but in the industry. He’d studied her most recent projects. She was good, borderline brilliant.

“I’m looking forward to meeting her. I admire her work and respect her reputation.” He’d even pictured her a couple of times in his head. Tall, thin, distant, cool. Okay, maybe he even had a bit of a fantasy thing going for her.

“Courting the enemy. That is so Machiavellian,” Neville said.

“Not particularly. It’s just good business. And I wasn’t planning to court her, simply meet her. When I get the new position, she’ll be an asset to the team.”

When he moved into the vice presidency, he’d welcome her talent. And he would win that promotion. He knew he was damn good at what he did. And a vice presidency was the kind of success a man like his father recognized.

Henri LaRoux, with icy disdain, had predicted Jack would fall flat on his face when he left the family business to make his way in the advertising world. Henri hadn’t understood Jack’s driving need to excel outside of the commercial real estate industry and his family’s considerable influence. Jack could hardly wait to throw his visible success in his father’s face.

Not only did he want the vice presidency for himself, he wanted it for Neville, also. Neville had worked long and hard, giving up the security at his old firm to follow Jack to Hendley and Wells. It was nearly seven on a Friday night and Nev was still at the office.

“She’s good, Jack. I’m not so sure about this one.” Nev always got this way on a project, antsy and uncertain. But that was okay. Jack was sure enough for both of them. Nothing, or in this case, no one, was going to stand in the way of that promotion.

“Don’t worry, Neville. Beating Eve Carmichael is going to be like taking candy from a baby.”

EVE DROPPED her towel onto a lounge chair and walked to the edge of the nearly deserted rooftop pool. A couple sat in the hot tub perched a few steps above the pool. Well, they weren’t exactly sitting—it was more as if they were devouring each other. Low lighting cast the tables scattered around the stone patio into shadowed intimacy.

To the left, a small bar stood empty except for the bartender and a cocktail waitress chatting at the counter. The waitress looked at Eve to make sure she was okay. Eve signaled with a small wave. She’d swim first, drink later. Smooth jazz floated from hidden speakers. Despite the glass walls and roof, Eve could almost feel the caress of the night air.

She curled her toes over the cool edge of the tiled pool. Underwater lights illuminated the water. Odd how pools looked different at night.

And thank God, this one was practically deserted. She tucked her hair into a swim cap, a carryover from her high-school swim-team days. She’d rather look funky now than have the chlorine wreck her foil job. Green highlights weren’t in vogue, and she was going to be at her absolute mental and physical best come Monday morning.

Leaning forward, she sliced into the warm water. Ah, heavenly. She flutter-kicked to the surface and rolled to her back. Mmm, she could easily stay this way, buoyed by the water, watching the night sky beyond the glass ceiling, lulled by the sultry saxophone solo.

But that wasn’t doing squat for the extra five pounds of Godiva residing on her thighs. Unfortunately, the women in her family not only shared lousy judgment in men, but also had a tendency to carry a few extra pounds. Equally unfortunate, they also tended to eat their way through an emotional crisis—and they weren’t stuffing themselves with fresh fruit. No, they preferred rich, dark, fattening chocolate. Aunt Nelda’s backside, jiggling in sweatpants, flashed through her head.

Ugh. Atonement time. Resigned, she rolled to her stomach and struck out with a breast stroke. After the first couple of laps, the rhythm took over and her mind wandered, thinking of nothing, thinking of everything. Some people sat cross-legged on the floor to reach a meditative state. Eve swam.

Stroke, kick, breathe.

Stroke, kick, breathe.

Pool wall, flip.

Thirty laps later, Eve climbed out of the pool. The hot-tub pair were still going at it—she didn’t want to know what was going on beneath the swirling water—while the waitress was now engaged in deep conversation with the bartender. For all intents and purposes, she was alone.

She pulled off the rubber swim cap and shook her head, sending her hair tumbling to her shoulders. She finger-combed it—damp, but mercifully not green.

Eve began to towel herself dry. The thick cotton felt great against her damp skin and wet bathing suit. Warm and soft, almost like a touch. Yowza, it’d obviously been too long since she’d actually been touched if a saxophone, a little starlight and a warm towel affected her this way.

“You missed a spot.” A man spoke from the darkened area behind her. The mixture of amusement and sensuality in his baritone voice sent a shiver down her spine.

Eve started and the man stepped out of the shadows.

Holy guacamole.

At a glance he was drop-freaking-dead gorgeous. Slightly above average height, black hair, lean, towel casually draped around his neck, a drink in one hand. He was amused sophistication with a killer smile and her heart slammed against her ribs.

“What?” Well, that was marginally better than huh with her mouth hanging open.

“You missed a spot,” he repeated, taking another step forward. His brows, dark slashes that angled up at the end, lent him a decidedly wicked, sexy look. He caught the end of her towel between his lean fingers and dabbed it against her bare skin, along her collarbone. Her skin quivered and her breath hitched in her throat. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed when his fingers didn’t brush against her. He dropped the towel and it fell back against her breast.

Eve gathered her wits and laughed. He was self-assured arrogance and she was an idiot. “I bet you come with your very own warning label.”

For a second he looked startled, and then he laughed, too, a low, sexy rumble that skittered along her nerve endings and settled into a nice cozy warmth in her stomach. He raised his glass in acknowledgment, his lips quirked into a wry smile. “If I do, I’m unaware of it.”

Hmm. She thought he was very much aware of it. How many women had melted, just like her, when he had turned that smile on them? She’d bet most.

She shrugged into a cover-up, slid her feet into her mules and picked up her straw bag. “Thanks for making sure I didn’t walk around with a wet spot.”

“Would you care to join me for a drink?”

She didn’t miss the challenge in his eyes that underscored his invitation. Eve hesitated. Was she going to heed that warning label she’d slapped on him?

She’d made it her personal philosophy to never date any man who looked better than she did, a realistic outlook in her opinion. She wasn’t exactly a dog, but she wasn’t Angelina Jolie either. Extremely good-looking men and average women weren’t a winning combination. She’d seen it before. Not only did other women snipe behind Ms. Average’s back that her man could do better, but they were bold. They felt free to hit on a hot guy who was with a not-so-hot chick.

Of course, he’d invited her for a drink, not a date. And quite frankly, Eve had never been able to resist a challenge.

“Sure. Why not? I’d love a drink.”

2

THE WOMAN COULD DEFINITELY control her enthusiasm. And she’d definitely captured his interest. Jack found her lush curves at odds with the driving determination that put her through thirty laps in thirty-five minutes. He’d counted.

There had been something terribly sexy about the way she’d pulled off her swim cap and shaken out her hair. Sexy, because she hadn’t known she had an audience. And then when she’d begun toweling herself—it’d been time for him to make himself known and gain control of the situation.

His smile had flustered her—just for a moment and then the damnedest thing had happened. She’d put him in his place with a laugh.

He indicated a table close to the bar’s muted light. “How about here?”

“This is fine.”

He placed his glass on the table and pulled out a chair for her. She took the seat with a murmured thank-you and crossed her legs. Dark nail polish gleamed against the pale length of her toes.

Jack sat next to her and caught the waitress’s eye, motioning her over. What would she order? He dismissed Sex on the Beach or Screaming Orgasm. Too obvious. Maybe a white wine or a piña colada with one of those paper umbrellas on the glass’s rim.

“Hi. I’m Jasmine. What can I get for you?” the waitress asked.

“Scotch. Neat.”

Okay. He was doubly intrigued. A woman who swam marathon laps and drank a real drink.

The waitress turned to him. “Anything for you, sir?”

“A fresh Glenlivet. A short one.”

“Both of these on your tab?”

He smiled. “Yes. Thank you, Jasmine.”

“No,” the woman said at the same time. “Put my drink on a separate bill and I’ll sign for it.”

He couldn’t get a read on her. “But I invited you for a drink.”

“And I plan to have a drink with you. But it doesn’t mean you’re buying.” Her teeth gleamed in a pleasant, resolute smile.

“Separate tabs it is then.”

Jasmine nodded and looked between Jack and the woman as if sizing up her competition.

“I’ll be right back.” Jasmine flashed Jack a smile and turned back toward the bar. He recognized her look. He could have more than a drink, if that’s what he wanted, when her shift was up. Jasmine was a known, familiar quantity.

He turned back to the woman at his table. Flickering candlelight painted her in sepia tones. Amusement danced in her wide-set eyes. What color were they? It was impossible to tell in the semidarkness. And he really wanted to know.

“You don’t even have to try, do you?” She leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers beneath her chin, watching him.

Women often watched him, but not with this detached amusement as if he were some specimen in a jar. “No. Not really.”

“I bet you’re lethal when you put effort into it,” she said, more speculation than come-on. Which made it even more of a come-on for him.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever really tried.” But maybe I will now. The thought hung unspoken between them.

She shook her head, her hair brushing the slope of her shoulders. “It’s a shame to never reach your true potential. That’s what happens to people when things come too easy.”

Jasmine returned with their drinks and saved him having to answer. And quite frankly he was at a loss as to how to respond—an unusual state for him.

Jack studied the woman next to him. Not beautiful, but attractive. What was it about her that had gotten under his skin? In a flash, he realized it was her utter lack of coyness. One of the most boring aspects of the women he’d met lately was the studied coyness they adopted—Cosmo devotees who’d read that they should drop their head, bite their lips and then glance through lowered lashes up at their targeted man.

He recognized the moves because he skimmed Cosmo, along with a host of other magazines, on a regular basis to keep his finger on the consumer pulse. And because he was a detached observer of life and its participants.

“Can I get you anything else?” Jasmine asked.

“No,” they both demurred and, after a moment’s hesitation and another glance his way, Jasmine slipped away.

The woman lifted her glass and sipped. She had a wide, generous mouth, perhaps a shade too large, but still quite lovely with plump, full lips.

“Mmm. Very nice.”

Jack resisted the urge to lean forward and taste the Scotch on her lips.

Instead he contented himself with a sip from his glass. “There’s nothing quite like a good single-malt Scotch, is there?”

“I like it, but it is something of an acquired taste.” Her arms gleamed in the candlelight, the muscles still delineated from her earlier swim. She pushed her hair back from her face and a faint whiff of perfume teased from beneath the unmistakable chlorine clinging to her hair and skin.

Jack found it refreshing that the woman didn’t attempt to fill the silence with chatter.

He ran his finger along the smooth curve of the glass. “Have you been in Chicago very long?”

“No. I just arrived today. Tonight actually. How about you?”

“Tonight as well. I’m unwinding before a business meeting next week. I’m traveling alone,” he volunteered, anticipating she’d reciprocate the information.

“I could tell.”

He raised his brow questioningly.

“You haven’t glanced over your shoulder even once,” she said. “If you were here with someone, you would’ve checked to see if they’d shown up at some point.”

Clever. “Neither have you. So, you’re here alone as well?”

She finished her drink. “I’m here on business,” she answered. She motioned to Jasmine for her tab.

Did she dispense with everything with that same slight ruthlessness? Swimming laps. Her drink. Him.

Jack realized she was about to leave. And he didn’t want her to leave. Not only was he not used to being dismissed, he found her total lack of seduction, well, utterly seductive.

“There’s no jealous husband at home to mind if I ask you to join me for a late dinner?”

“And I presume you don’t have a wife who would object to you inviting a woman to dinner?”

Once again, she ignored his question and posed one of her own.

“She wouldn’t mind at all.” He smiled at her start of surprise, delighted he’d finally managed to get one up on her. Then he relented. “I’m not married. Or divorced. Or attached to a significant other.” Jasmine arrived with the bills and promptly left. The woman reached for one tab.

What was her name? Where was she from? And what did she look like in the light? She’d piqued his interest and that hadn’t happened in a long time. “Would you join me for dinner?”

She hesitated, obviously undecided. Women didn’t usually hesitate. It took Jack a second or so to realize the knot in the pit of his stomach was nervousness. He wanted her to say yes quite badly. “I promise I don’t bite,” he added.

“I’ll make a note of that. Actually, I need to shower and change out of this damp suit.” She signed her bill and tucked a copy into her bag.

“That’s not a problem.” In his head, he slowly peeled her suit off, over the curve of her breasts, along the line of her back, past the indent of her waist, beyond her hips, down those luscious legs.

She pushed away from the table. “Give me forty-five minutes.”

His usual dates would’ve demanded an hour and a half. Jack stood when she did. “The restaurant off of the lobby?”

“Yes.”

“Forty-five minutes then.”

She walked away and Jack realized he didn’t even know her name. “Wait.”

She turned around.

“What’s your name?”

“Eve,” she tossed over her shoulder. She didn’t ask for his name in return. Actually, she didn’t hang around long enough for him to tell her.

Eve?

She’d disappeared into the building and Jack pulled her bar tab into the light, checking the signature line where she’d signed for her drink.

Blue ink and plain, bold script.

Room 325.

Eve Carmichael.

ANDREA WOULD’VE FOUND something more exciting to wear, Eve acknowledged, checking her reflection in the elevator on her way down. But then again, Andrea wouldn’t have had to worry about the Monday meeting. Still, Eve should’ve listened to her friend and tossed in a couple of sexy outfits. Instead, she’d made the best of business casual, ditching the jacket that went with her dress.

At least the sleeveless, short black dress covered her Godiva thighs and showed off her taut arms and legs. Then again, Mr. Gorgeous had already seen her in a swimsuit, and a swim cap no less, and he’d still asked her to dinner. Stranger things could happen.

Eve stepped off the elevator. Her pumps clicked against the polished tile as she crossed the lobby to the restaurant. At least her shoes had a decent heel on them.

The man stood outside the restaurant, one shoulder casually propped against the wall, his legs crossed, his attention focused on a handheld piece of electronic equipment. Polished. Sophisticated. Remote.

He looked almost as good dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a black silk polo as he had in swim trunks and a towel. Eve’s heart stalled a beat and then raced to catch up. Pull yourself together, girl. He put on his pants the same way any other man did—he just looked better doing it. Andrea’s latest hottie simile came to mind—yumm-o.

“Hello,” she said as she approached him.

He glanced up and a slow smile curled his lips. He pocketed his Blackberry. Another workaholic. She had, of course, checked her e-mails before she left her room.

“Eve.”

Her name rolled off his tongue and trailed warmth through her like a sip of smooth Scotch. His eyes held hers and the same attraction she’d felt earlier at the pool surged between them again. Was that a hint of relief in his eyes? Had he thought she’d stand him up? Amazing. Women didn’t stand up a man like him.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked.

“Not at all.” He paused, his gaze sweeping her. “You’re lovely.”

His words trailed across her skin and shivered through her.

“Thank you. So are you,” she said, tossing the compliment, which was actually an understatement when she considered how gorgeous he was, back at him, determined not to be thrown off balance.

“Thanks.” She almost laughed at the surprise that flickered across his face.

“The high-maintenance women you date never tell you that?”

“No. Not in so many words.” He slanted his head to one side and looked at her, casual male elegance personified. The light gleamed in his dark hair. “Why do you think I date high-maintenance women?”

In a moment of perfect timing, a couple exited the restaurant and walked past. The woman, a willowy blonde with exquisite makeup, hair and clothes glanced back over her shoulder at him. She obviously hadn’t slapped herself together in half an hour.

Neither Eve nor her dinner date missed the fact that the school-of-high-maintenance graduate had checked him out.

Eve arched an amused brow. “Lucky guess.”

He shrugged off the woman’s interest, a gesture that only confirmed for Eve that it was the norm. “Are you high maintenance?”

He had to ask? Please. Eve had a penchant for nice jewelry and lingerie, but aside from that, she bought her clothes and shoes on sale at discount stores. Her lack of interest in Jimmy Choo or Manolo Blahnik appalled Andrea. Eve splurged on the occasional spa visit, but didn’t have the time or budget to make it a regular part of her life. “What do you think?”

“Not overtly.”

That begged an explanation. She raised a questioning brow.

“You don’t impress me as needing a constant stream of adoration to feel good about yourself. But I think you don’t suffer fools gladly. I’d say you’re a woman who speaks her mind and does exactly as she pleases. And the result is very, very sexy.” His voice dropped an octave on the last observation and took her breath with it.

Eve’s heart repeated that stop-and-race trick. If he kept this up, she’d begin to believe she was closer to Angelina Jolie than she realized. He had the speaking-her-mind and doing-as-she-pleased parts down pat, but she was, quite frankly, surprised he found it sexy. It intimidated most men. But then again, from what she’d seen thus far, he wasn’t most men.

“And you strike me as a man who does what he wants and is used to getting what he wants. And that, too, is very, very sexy.”

And it was. Eve wasn’t so sure that she particularly liked this man. He was arrogant, far too handsome, and he set her on edge. But she was incredibly attracted to him.

“Perhaps we have more in common than you think, Eve.”

Caught up in the intimate way her name rolled off his tongue, it took a moment for his comment to register. There was an implied intimacy, almost a hint that he knew something she didn’t. Did she know him? Had she met him before? One of her brothers’ college buddies? Someone from last year’s national conference? Definitely not. A woman would never forget meeting this man. But something about him struck a chord of recognition.

“Do I know you? Have we met before?”

He shook his head. “We’ve never met before.”

Then why did she have this weird, nagging sense of the familiar? Aha. Jack LaRoux.

He reminded her of Jack. Not that she’d ever met Jack, but this man was everything she’d imagined her nemesis to be, possibly because she’d had some antagonistic, sexual fantasy thing going in her head around Jack LaRoux for the past several months. Sex and power were inextricably intertwined, and there was definitely a power struggle going on between her and Jack the Ripper. And she was definitely attracted to this man.

She’d come to Chicago early. Had Jack come early as well? He could have, except Eve had read an e-mail ten minutes ago from LaTonya. Jack had been in a late-afternoon meeting when LaTonya had contacted the San Francisco office earlier. Not even the West Coast Wonder Boy could manage to be in two places at one time.

“Hello. I think you’ve gone somewhere else,” he said

“Sorry. You remind me of someone I know.”

Annoyance tightened his face and flashed in his eyes. He quickly masked it with the detached air of urbane amusement he wore so well.

“Ready?” Obviously he didn’t like being compared to someone else.

“Yes.”

They stepped into the restaurant. A bird-of-paradise display in a large vase dominated the entry. A late-dinner crowd filled two-thirds of the white-linen-draped tables. Nice. Very nice. Minimalist, sophisticated decor. A jazz quartet, tucked into a corner, offered a dinner concert. A handful of couples swayed to the music on the small dance floor.

The maître d’ appeared. “Two for dinner?”

“Yes. Do you have something with a view?”

“A table with quite a nice view just opened. This way please.”

Eve’s companion brushed his fingers against her arm, ushering her ahead of him in a gesture she’d experienced countless times before. But, unlike all those other times, his warm fingers against her bare flesh set her heart racing. Far from being impersonal, his touch echoed through her. Evocative. Sensual.

The subtle scent of his expensive cologne tantalized her. It was incredible how a mere touch and a whiff of fragrance could so thoroughly entice and arouse.

The maıˆtre d’ seated them. Framed by the window, the city’s skyline and dark sky juxtaposed against the reflection of crisp linens, intimate lighting, and them.

The man across the table studied her.

“You have beautiful eyes. I’ve spent the last hour wondering what color they were.”

“Thank you. You could’ve asked at the pool.”

“It wouldn’t have been the same thing,” he said. “What would you have told me?”

“Blue-green.”

“Ah. That’s my point. They’re not simply blue-green. They’re an amazing blend of crystal blue and translucent green, like a natural spring. Beautiful. Bottomless.”

She’d heard before how unusual her eyes were, but never had anyone been so eloquent. It was a line. A really impressive line, but a line nonetheless.

“Do you always have such a way with words?”

“Only when I’m suitably inspired…which is seldom.”

He definitely knew how to deliver a compliment. And he was definitely just what the ego-doctor had ordered. She mentally gave Perry the finger.

At least five women had eyed him since they’d entered the restaurant. Eve had once gone out with a guy who’d spent their evening dividing his attention between Eve and all the other women in the room. It had been the date from hell. But this gorgeous man seemed oblivious to anyone but her.

The saxophone’s husky notes added a layer to the sensual mood, lending a fantasy quality to the evening.

“Eve?”

She looked at the other major player in her unfolding fantasy. “Hmm?”

“Aren’t you interested in my name? Who I am?”

The “Strangers in the Night” refrain came to a screeching halt. No, no, no. Not just when her fantasy was cranking up.

Andrea had prescribed a fling. Eve was eight hundred miles from home in a city where she didn’t know anyone. Fate had delivered this guy. Who was she to shut the door on opportunity when it knocked?

But why should they pretend to look each other up next week? Why make one more bad decision regarding a guy? Besides, she was on the verge of taking on one of the most important projects in her life. She didn’t need complications. She didn’t want to exchange phone numbers, then wait on a call that never came. Bottom line, she didn’t want a relationship. She wanted a memory. Did she want to know who he was?

“No.”

“You can be tough on an ego,” he said.

Right. His ego seemed fully intact. “Maybe I don’t want to spoil this evening by finding out your name is Bert and you manage a tampon factory in Boise.”

“Most domestic tampon production is in Detroit.”

She’d been tongue-in-cheek with her example but totally serious in her reluctance to kill the night’s fantasy. Had she, in one of those weird cosmic turnarounds, hit the nail on the head? “Are you…”

He smiled. Heat suffused her face and neck as she realized he’d got her.

“No. I just made that up. I’m not from Boise or Detroit, and my name isn’t Bert. If you don’t want to know who I really am…” He leaned forward and brushed his thumb across the back of her hand. A warm, melting heat flowed through her. “Why don’t you give me a name? Who would you like for me to be, Eve?”

If she was going for fantasy, why not just go all out?

“Why don’t I call you Jack?”

“JACK IT IS.” He managed a neutral expression despite his surprise. Was she playing him for a fool? Had she discovered his identity much the same way he’d stumbled on hers? Had the whole Bert from Boise been a clever ruse to throw him off track? “Can I ask, however, why Jack?”

“It suits you.” A hint of animosity shadowed her amazing eyes, but unless she was the world’s consummate actress, she really didn’t seem to know who he was.

“You said earlier I reminded you of someone. Is his name Jack?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

Damn. Everyone had a past. Why should it annoy him that Eve’s past included another Jack. “Ex-husband? Former lover?”

“Nothing so…intimate.” The way her low voice caressed the word knotted his gut. “A co-worker if you will. Actually, a rival.”

He was the Jack in her past? Life was stranger than fiction. They’d never met before, yet he reminded her of himself. “I see. I don’t want to be your rival this evening,” he said on behalf of both Jacks, Jack the Imposter and Jack the Rival. And amazingly he didn’t. Certainly, if she had anything business related to divulge, he’d listen. But he found himself fascinated by Eve—the woman and the Avenger.

“Poor choice of words. He’s my counterpart.”

She could backpedal all evening, but the truth as she saw it lay in her initial response. Ethically, he should speak up and admit his true identity. He’d actually tried to earlier, but she had turned down his offer. And he was much more likely to gain insight into her and her plans if she didn’t know who he was. An even more compelling justification for keeping his mouth shut was that Eve wasn’t likely to stay for dinner if she knew he was Jack LaRoux. At least not on the terms he wanted her to stay. All told, self-interest far outweighed ethics.

“Counterpart sounds like a much more interesting position than rival,” he said.

“Perhaps.”

“Oh?”

“A truly interesting position would be to become both.” Sensuality threaded her voice.

This was the way he’d seen her, fantasized about her even. She was his equal, yet also his rival, and they were locked in a struggle for domination. Arousal, swift and intense, arrowed through him.

Unfortunately, the waiter arrived for their drink order. Or perhaps it was fortunate, as it gave him a chance to recover his equilibrium.

They ordered coconut prawns and a bottle of wine, sommelier’s choice.

Jack wasn’t hungry for prawns or anything else on the menu. Dinner had merely been a way to get her to see him again. And that was even before he knew who she was. Eve was the most enigmatic, self-possessed women he’d ever met. His younger sister, Marta, would crucify him as a sexist pig, but the truth was, most of the women he knew couldn’t wait to tell him all about themselves. He’d never met a woman more closemouthed—or one he wanted to know about more.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

He shrugged. She hadn’t shown overwhelming enthusiasm when he offered the invitation. “I hoped you would.”

Skeptical amusement lit her eyes. “Have you ever been stood up?”

He smiled. Busted. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Hmm. I can’t imagine you have many first experiences left open.”

“There’s enough.” He’d had his fair share of sexual experiences, but he had a feeling making love to Eve would be something truly unique.

“Such as?” she asked.

Probably best not to bring up making love…yet. “I’ve never been married or engaged. I’ve never forfeited a handball game.” He smiled. “There’s a whole range of first experiences waiting for me.” Including you.

The waiter arrived with the wine. After the obligatory sniff and taste test, he poured two glasses of the pale drink and left.

Eve traced the glass rim with a neat, unpolished nail and picked up their conversational thread. “How about love? Have you ever been in love, Jack?”

Ah, the irresistible topic of love. “No. I’ve never succumbed to the power of Aphrodite.” He paused as she raised the wineglass to her full, generous mouth and sipped. “But then again, Aphrodite’s a myth.”

“Delicious,” she said, complimenting the wine and regarding him over her glass rim. “Love’s a myth?” She didn’t display feminine outrage, merely amused interest.

“Love’s a shadow puppet. People hide their real emotions and motivations behind it. Lust, passion, obsession, manipulation. Cloak them in the guise of love and all’s right with the world.” For her, for now, he would pretend to be himself, which worked out because he drew the line at pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

Eve tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “It must be difficult.”

“What?”

“To view the world through such a dark shade of cynicism,” she said, her tone more amused than mocking.

He shrugged. “I manage.” He was what he was. “What about you, Eve? Have you ever been in love?”

“No.” She didn’t hesitate. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

Unflappable. Composed. She stared at him with those beautiful eyes. “Ah. Are you that delicious garden variety who considers herself one lucky date away from destiny?”

She laughed, a low chuckle that strummed through him. “Perhaps…but not tonight, Jack.”

“Touché.” And that was good news. Wasn’t it?

“What? Aren’t you relieved?”

“Absolutely.” He didn’t buy into that destiny nonsense. But he did believe in the strong attraction sizzling between them. Her emotional distance spurred his desire to hold her close. He held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

She put her hand in his and stood. Energy pulsed between them. He led her to the floor and drew her into his arms. She fit perfectly…at least for the night.

Her subtle scent and warm flesh teased him. He glanced into her eyes, crystal-clear pools alight with humor and intelligence, and a touch of mockery. She was warm, fluid, graceful and totally unreachable, even though he held her in his arms.

His intense reaction to Eve surprised him. What was it about her? She wasn’t overly beautiful, accomplished, or even particularly well dressed. But the fact remained, he wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman in a long time, perhaps ever. There was the element of the forbidden, the unattainable, about her. Perhaps he wanted her for the same reason she wanted to call a stranger Jack. The thought of this self-possessed woman as a conquest…His cynicism didn’t exclude himself and Jack always got what Jack wanted.

The song ended and they returned to the table. During their dance, the waiter had delivered their orders.

“You’re quite a good dancer,” he said. And she was—with a strong partner. Otherwise she would’ve slipped into the lead.

“Thanks.” Eve forked a plump, succulent shrimp. “My mother insisted all of us have ballroom dance classes. Learning to tango at Arthur Murray Dance Studio qualified as teen torture, but it’s paid off. Except I do have a tendency to try and lead….” She smiled and then neatly bit the shrimp in two.

He couldn’t contain an answering smile, charmed by her self-assessment. “I noticed.”

She grimaced. “I’m sure you did. My instructor used to say dancing with me was more work than pleasure.”

His body still held the imprint of her heat, her scent, her soft curves. “Then he obviously never danced with you once you’d grown up.”

She smiled. “I’ve changed a little bit since I was fourteen. What about you? Where’d you learn to dance like that?”

“It was a required course at boarding school. I got top marks in my class.”

He sounded like a desperate adolescent trying to impress the pretty girl who refused to be impressed. He’d witnessed it countless times, but he’d never been in the position himself. Not until now. He didn’t relish the role.

“It shows,” she said.

“If you’re going to do anything, you should do it well. I go for top marks every time.” And she’d do well to remember that.

“Everything?” Husky innuendo underscored the challenge.

“Everything.”

“My older brother once told me that beautiful girls weren’t as good in bed because they felt like it was enough of a treat for the guy to simply be there with them.”

Jack laughed, startled by her candor. He’d drawn the same conclusion on more than one occasion. But he’d be damned if he’d ever had a date voice it. Once again, she wrestled the upper hand from him.

“Are you warning me or is that a general observation?”

“Neither. I’m quizzing you. Is that the way it is with men?” How did she manage to be so blunt and bold, yet remote? As if he amused her, for the moment.

“I don’t know. I’ve never slept with a beautiful man and I don’t intend to start. Not even to satisfy your curiosity.” He delighted in misconstruing her meaning.

“There are far better ways to satisfy my curiosity as to whether breathtakingly handsome men try as hard.”

Jack’s ability to visualize was one of his greatest assets in his job. And right now he could visualize very clearly Eve naked beneath him, her ankles hooked over his shoulders, his hands gripping her thighs, while he proved just how hard and thoroughly he could convince her.

“I’m sure I could satisfy…your curiosity. As I said before, I go for top marks in everything.”

“Interesting. We do seem to have a lot in common. I, too, have a compulsion to be the best. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. To show my competitor that there’s only one spot at the top and it’s mine.”

“Jack? Your rival?”

“Jack.”

“So this is business?”

“Monday it’s business. This weekend is pleasure.”

The way pleasure rolled off her tongue brought out the best of Jack’s visualization skills again, arousing more than his intellect.

“You like being on top?” he asked. Instant image—her astride him. Instant erection.

“Absolutely.”

“And how do you think Jack will take you being on top?” he asked softly.

She shrugged one nearly bare shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll take it like a man.” A slow, wicked smile crooked her mouth. “How would you take it, Jack?”

As much as he hated being predictable, he was a man and her provocative choice of words tightened his entire body. “I’d uphold my end of the deal…until I could reverse positions. What if you don’t come out on top, Eve? What if Jack gets that spot?”

“He won’t.”

Jack recognized bluffing when he saw it. Eve wasn’t. She spoke with absolute conviction, as if she already owned the equipment account.

He’d seriously miscalculated. When he won the vice presidency, Eve wouldn’t be part of his team. Now that he’d actually met her, he knew she’d never work under him. Eve the Avenger was as good as gone.

Which left him free to do what he’d wanted to all evening—kiss her remarkable mouth until her composure shattered to hell and back.

3

JACK WANTED to kiss her. Eve saw it in the intensity of his look. And while she wasn’t sure that she particularly liked him, she did want to kiss him. Badly. Actually, she’d like to have her wicked way with him until they were both singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” But the telling would be in the kiss. Sometimes reality simply didn’t live up to fantasy’s expectations.

She looked for a conversational opener other than, Would you like to explore how hot things can get between us? “Would you like a prawn?” she asked.

He pushed his plate away with one finger. His eyes fastened on her mouth. “No. I’m not hungry for the prawns,” he said, his voice low and soft.

Anticipation blossomed deep in her belly and pooled between her thighs. She returned the look, letting him see the want that surged through her.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Jack signaled the waiter, who promptly appeared with the bill. After paying the check, Jack rose to his feet and pulled out Eve’s chair. It was a gallant gesture very few men bothered with and something about it struck Eve as sexy. Well, actually, right now, anything short of seeing toilet paper stuck to the bottom of Jack’s shoe would probably strike her as sexy.

They wound their way through the tables. His fingers rested at the indent of her waist and seared her through the fabric. His scent, expensive and unmistakably masculine, seduced her.

Her pulse was thundering and she wanted to kiss him quite desperately. And if the look in his eye was a barometer, he felt the same.

Urgency sent them ducking through the first unmarked door outside the restaurant. Jack tugged her into a small hallway behind him. Despite the haze of desire surrounding her, Eve had the presence of mind to notice a service elevator to the left and the muted sounds of the busy kitchen partially contained by a door straight ahead.

Jack turned to Eve and bracketed her shoulders with his hands. “I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you at the pool.”

His head lowered by slow degrees, plenty of time for her to protest or twist away. Instead, she slid her arms around his waist and murmured a breathy yes.

Anticipation coursed through her, heightened her awareness of his hands on her, his scent, the hint of wine clinging to his warm breath as he leaned closer.

His lips settled against hers. Sure. Firm. Commanding. He tasted of warm male and cool, crisp wine. And detachment. There was something very contained about his kiss that she wanted to let loose. She’d seen the heat behind his droll air. She’d felt it rush to fill the space between them, around them, within her.

He lifted his head. His dark gray eyes held a slightly dazed look and Eve reconsidered. Perhaps he wasn’t as contained as he seemed.

For a second she questioned the fairness of using this stranger as a fantasy stand-in. Then she dismissed the idea. They were just two strangers in the night. For all she knew, she was his stand-in for someone else as well.

He stroked her arms, featherlight caresses that weighted her limbs with a heated lethargy and chased away all other thought. He rained equally light, teasing kisses along her jaw.

Eve closed her eyes and absorbed the sensations. The faint scrape of his beard. The mingled scents of expensive cologne, professionally laundered clothes, and wine. His warm mouth maddening against her skin, her body alternately tightening and softening with desire.

“Oh, Jack.” She plied her fingers along his lean back.

Beneath his silk shirt, his muscles grew taut under her fingertips.

“Eve…” His husky murmur stroked through her.

She pulled him close and nibbled at his mouth with small, sucking kisses. He groaned and plowed his fingers into her hair, wrecking her loose upsweep. Some of his detachment tumbled along with her hair. Yes. Much better. Eve smiled her satisfaction around the kisses she delivered.

He molded his fingers against her scalp and ground her mouth to his for a no-holds-barred, devouring kiss.

Heat flashed through her. Need consumed her—the need to touch and be touched, to simultaneously sate and tempt. She wrapped her leg around his, feeling the hard line of his thigh and his jutting erection pressing against her. He smoothed his hands over her back and cupped her buttocks, pulling her tighter, harder against him. Her breasts strained against the hard wall of his chest. His scent, one she would forever associate with intense, piercing arousal, surrounded her.

In the recesses of rational thought, a ding registered. Barely.

“Excuse me.”

Eve and Jack broke apart. A uniformed staff member stood expectantly with a room-service cart. Eve realized she and Jack were blocking his exit. Tugging her dress down, Eve moved aside so the waiter could pass.

Once upon a time, like pre-tonight, she might’ve been mortified to be caught in a semipublic makeout session. Now she was simply caught up in the throes of heavy-duty lust with no room for embarrassment.

“Sorry about that,” she apologized as she moved aside.

“No problem.” The blushing waiter trundled past and pushed his cart through the kitchen door.

Jack turned to her. “We should probably find a less public place.”

“I know just the spot.” Eve hit the call button and tugged him into the elevator with her when it opened. “Are you claustrophobic?” she asked over her shoulder as she pressed the close button.

“No, I’m not.” Jack stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind. Eve pushed the stop button and leaned back into his lean body. He nuzzled the side of her neck and the back of her shoulder, his arousal nudging between her buttocks.

“Mmm.” Eve sighed her approval.

“Where do we go from here, Eve?” he asked, his lips never leaving her bare neck.

“Wherever we want it to take us.” She turned in his arms to face him. Leaning in close, she let her voice drop to a husky octave. “Where do you want to go, Jack?”

“What destinations are available?”

“Paradise. But it’s not a one-way ticket. We can’t stay and we’ll end up back where we started. But it should be an interesting trip with a few excursions along the way.”

“Are you sure you want to offer this trip?” he asked. She saw how much he wanted her, in the harsh lines of his face, the heat in his eyes; felt it in the hard ridge of his arousal, the brush of his lips. Yet he’d offered her the chance to change her mind. It was charming, sweet even, and altogether too romantic for a one-night stand.

“Positive. As long as you realize it’s a one-time offer,” she said.

“What if I enjoy paradise so much I want to go back?”

“Return fare isn’t an option.” No way. She wasn’t making another bad man decision. Besides, she was already thinking of a more immediate problem. She had never had a one-nighter and she wasn’t sure of safe-sex etiquette. “When visiting a foreign place, safety precautions are a necessity. Are you suitably equipped?”

He offered a wry smile. “I’m ready for travel.”

Thank God. “Then what’s your room number, Jack?” Going to his room kept her in control of the situation. Then she didn’t have to worry about getting him out of her room afterward.

“How do you know I’m not Jack the Ripper?”

She started. How did he know LaRoux’s nickname? Then she dismissed the notion. Of course he didn’t know Jack. It was a standard play on the Jack of infamy.

She got the impression he wasn’t used to picking up women for one night either. At least not successfully, given all the opportunities he kept offering her to back out.

“I’m a black belt. I can take care of myself.” Her mother had insisted she have every obscure training known to man. As a result, Eve knew a little bit about a lot of things but was a master of none. Technically she was only an orange belt, but he didn’t need to know that. He, however, should be more careful picking up strange women. “How do you know I’m not that crazy woman from Fatal Attraction?”

“Even if you were, I don’t have a wife or a bunny. Besides, a woman who doesn’t want my real name isn’t likely to stalk me.” His warm breath brushed against her neck. And then his mouth was doing the most incredible things to the tip of her earlobe, a nibbling/laving combination that feathered sensation down her spine.

“Oh…” she sighed. She thumbed his flat, male nipples through his shirt and his entire body tightened against hers.

“Eve…”

“Jack, we’ve got about one minute before someone checks out why this elevator’s stopped.” She would be mightily bent if this fantasy were interrupted now….

He reached around her and pushed a button, rendering the elevator operational again. “I want more than a minute to satisfy your curiosity.” He clasped her hand in his and brought her hand to his lips. His warm breath and firm lips grazed the sensitive flesh of her palm. She shuddered. “You do remember when the topic came up, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes.” Her hip pressed against him and she laughed, a low husky chuckle she barely recognized as her own. “And it’s still up.”

“Well, I’m going to try very hard. I think it will probably take more than once. Sometimes brief and to the point is good. Other times a lengthier, more in-depth approach brings greater satisfaction. I think we should try both and see which you prefer.”

“I’d like to start with brief and to the point. I’m not sure I have the patience to make it through the longer version. But I do think we need to get to your room.”

Jack reached around her and pushed the button for the fourth floor. Finally, they were on their way. Eve buried her fingers in his hair and tugged his mouth down to hers for another melting kiss.

This man, or perhaps it was the circumstances, had stirred a hunger in her that she’d never felt before. Except maybe those fantasies she’d contrived around Jack LaRoux.

The doors slid open and Jack dragged his mouth from hers with flattering reluctance. He kept his arm wrapped firmly around her, his hand intimately branding her hip as they left the elevator. He paused, obviously disoriented. “Oh, yeah. It’s this way,” he said.

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