Robin knew exactly what she’d do to prove herself!

She inched one knee onto the red upholstered seat, close to the stranger’s jean-clad thigh, never breaking eye contact. Pressing her torso forward, Robin pulled the rubber band out of her ponytail, then ruffled her fingers through her hair.

His cool blue eyes flickered with hot flames. She had his full attention.

In a rush of movement, Robin leaned down and planted her lips on his. At his moan, she pressed her mouth harder against his and gripped his chin to hold him in place. The muscles in his jaw bunched, then loosened under her massaging fingertips. Good, she was taming the wild beast…who now was molding his lips to hers, teasing the underside of her top lip with his tongue. He was kissing her back!

“Oh, baby,” he murmured in a rugged, husky voice that turned up her inner temperature about a thousand degrees.

Something exploded between them. The next thing she knew, she was almost on top of the man. Fiery sensations rocketed through Robin’s body and she suddenly wanted much more….

Dear Reader,

Don’t we all have that fantasy guy from our past who once rocked our world? And don’t we sometimes secretly wonder what would happen if he strolled back into our lives again?

That’s what happens in Tongue-Tied when Johnny Dayton, the hometown bad boy, appears years later in Robin Lee’s life. Only, Robin doesn’t realize it’s Johnny until after she’s darn near hijacked the guy with a mind-melding kiss on top of a late-night-diner table!

How she handles this hot surprise, and better yet, how Johnny handles Robin, made this a fun, sexy book to write.

I love to hear from readers. You can tell me how you liked Tongue-Tied by contacting me through www.colleencollins.net or writing to me at P.O. Box 12159, Denver, Colorado 80212.

Happy reading!

Best wishes,

Colleen

Books by Colleen Collins

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

867—JOYRIDE

HARLEQUIN DUETS

10—MARRIED AFTER BREAKFAST

22—ROUGH AND RUGGED

30—IN BED WITH THE PIRATE

39—SHE’S GOT MAIL!

Tongue-Tied

Colleen Collins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Matt, for being my rock.

To my nephews, Sean and Robbie, for being a well of laughter and love.

And to the memory of my father, Dale Collins, for being a role model of integrity and grace.

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

1

“YO, HOT STUFF, it’s almost closing time. Grab some java, make the rounds, and pick up the tab at table two.” Al, the short-order cook, barked the orders without looking up as he industriously scraped the metal spatula across the grill. The air smelled of grease and onions, lingering reminders of the dozens of meals Al had fried and grilled that evening at Davey’s Diner.

Robin Lee stopped wiping down the wooden butcher block in the back of the kitchen, a chore that was part of her nightly clean-up ritual, and stared at Al. For the four months she’d known him since starting her tenure as kitchen prep at this Denver eatery, he’d reminded her of a Santa Claus gone bad—rotund, gruff and moody. If words were gifts, he gave out few. And of those few, she never thought she’d hear him call her something sassy like “hot stuff.” Not quiet, industrious Robin who Al had never seen in anything other than one of her four white rayon, wash-and-wear outfits. Add her white sneakers, fine blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a slash of pink lipstick that sufficed for makeup and she was hardly the image of a “hot stuff.”

Al typically said it like it was, and truth was a trait she admired above all others. So she chalked up his endearment as an attempt at charm. And he definitely needed to slather on plenty of charm—even more slathering than he did with the butter he smeared on every-thing—if he wanted her to play waitress.

“Move it, hot stuff,” he repeated. “With Dottie gone, I need you out dere.”

Charm mystery solved. After Al’s fight tonight with Dottie, the fifty-something waitress who’d stomped out of the diner while mumbling a few choice words about control-freak cooks, he was obviously trying to butter up Robin by calling her “hot stuff.” He needed her to finish Dottie’s few tables so they could close. What Al didn’t realize was that no matter how many terms of endearment he concocted, no way was she going “out dere.” In fact, she wished desperately she’d never come “out here” to Denver because she’d never been comfortable in the big city. An uncomfortableness that bordered on unbearable after what had happened today.

Tonight of all nights, she wanted to keep to herself, do her kitchen thing and not get involved in potential conversations with anyone, especially total strangers slugging down the remnants of their coffee at midnight in a diner. No way, no how. Not after the worst day in the life of twenty-six-year-old Robin Lee.

Okay—just in case she was being overly dramatic, which her mom often accused her of—if this hadn’t been the worst day in her life, it ranked in the top five, hands down. As she rinsed the rag she used to clean the butcher block, she mentally calculated, for the umpteenth time, everything that had gone wrong. First, her lifeline to the world—her beloved ten-year-old Jeep she’d nicknamed “Em” for Emily Dickinson, her favorite poet—had been towed because she’d parked on the street-cleaning side of the street. Then she’d spent fifteen precious dollars taking a taxi to DU, Denver University, only to tear into the lecture hall twenty minutes late. But what absolutely skyrocketed today into the top five had been when the professor, who loved to lecture tardy students on the principles of punctuality, decided to make an example out of Robin.

She cringed, reliving the horror of it all. She’d barely sat down before Professor Geller called her to the front of the room and instructed her to tell the class about the key points of last night’s homework assignment. She’d read the homework, a novel by Sherwood Anderson, which had been far more than an “assignment”—it had been a privilege because she loved literature. She wanted desperately to earn a literature degree because her goal was to one day be a book reviewer—a lofty goal, but one that got her through life’s ups and downs. Got her through being older than the rest of the students—something she didn’t regret because she’d wanted to stay home and take care of her mom after the accident—got her through being the painfully quiet girl dressed in funky secondhand clothes.

And, she hoped, it would also get her through this hideous moment, being called upon to speak in front of an auditorium filled with snickering students. She needed this class for her English lit major. After quickly mulling over her options, she decided her best tactic was to approach the professor and whisper her cartowing story, then try to explain that speaking in front of that auditorium would be an extremely painful experience for not only her, but everyone in that room.

But she’d barely whispered the word tow to him when he stepped back and pointed to the podium. Worse, he upped the stakes. In a loud voice, he informed Robin that if she didn’t speak, he’d knock her grade down a notch.

She had no choice—she took the challenge. This will soon be over, she reminded herself. In her mind, she assimilated a few facts about one of Anderson’s characters and how the author used a small-town spinster to poignantly expose the protagonist’s true nature—then Robin would sit down and never, never be late to class again.

She stepped up to the podium, took a deep breath, and leaned toward the microphone. “Sherwood A-A-A…” The vowel stuck, its relentless repetition making a prolonged, strangled sound that reverberated hideously throughout the room. A sea of eyes looked at her with pity and horror while she just kept stuttering, stuttering…hopelessly tongue-tied.

She glanced back at the professor. His bushy white eyebrows were pressed together, as though intellectually analyzing how to handle this situation.Jerk. At that moment, in a jolt of gut-deep understanding, Robin realized professors might have the intellect to influence human thinking, but not the common sense to enforce human civility.

Clamping shut her mouth, she scrambled away from the podium, tripping and catching herself as she ran down the steps off the stage. She speed walked up the aisle—avoiding the sea of pitying eyes—made a beeline for the exit and shoved open the doors, gulping lungfuls of fresh, cool September air.

Then she kept walking.

She pumped her arms and let her feet smash the dry autumn leaves.Let them crack, crush into nothingness. Just like my dreams. Because she might as well face it now than later…in a week she was supposed to give an oral report to her psychology class, then there were those “open questions” in her composition class where the professor randomly called on students to verbally respond, plus she had no doubt Professor Geller would make an example of her again if she were tardy…so why put up with it any longer? Why not just admit she’d never make it through?

Fortified with that brutal awareness, she’d headed straight for the administration office and dropped out of school. Because no way, no how, was she ever going to face the humiliation of speaking—or trying to—in public again.

“Hot stuff, when I said ‘move it,’ I didn’t mean just your little pinkie!” Al jabbed a fat thumb at the coffeepot. “Finish serving the tables.”

Al’s barked command punctured this morning’s painful memories. She’d lost enough today—she couldn’t risk losing this job, too. Robin glanced over the grill into the dining room. There were only two occupied booths, one by a couple and the other by a guy. She squinted. Funny, for a moment he looked like Johnny Dayton, the megahunk from her small Colorado home-town of Buena Vista. Johnny had been her older brother’s pal, the tough kid from the “terrace”—the county-subsidized apartments for the poor. But everything else about Johnny had been rich—from his dark good looks to his smooth-as-velvet charm. Robin had been six years younger and utterly besotted every time Johnny came over to visit.

“Let’s mo-o-ve it!”

Al had missed his calling as a prison guard. Taking a deep breath, Robin yanked off her stained apron, grabbed the slick plastic handle of an almost-full coffeepot off the burner and headed into the dining area with the stoicism of a death-row convict.Soon this will be over. Soon this will be over. Her tennis shoes squeaked as she crossed the cracked linoleum floor. Approaching the booth with the couple, she watched them break a lingering kiss to stare at her feet. Damn these sneakers anyway. When the couple raised their gazes, Robin held up the pot, indicating did they want more coffee? But instead of responding “yes” or “no thanks” the girl squealed, “It’s you! The girl who…”

The girl who stutters. Robin had dealt with people’s curiosity, and sometimes their rudeness, all her life. Once, when she’d been ten, and a kid had teased her about stuttering, Robin had blurted out that stuttering made her unique and what was his specialty? When she got angry, really angry, her words could flow effortlessly. But getting red-faced livid wasn’t Robin’s everyday style. Unfortunately. Because if it was, things would sure be easier.

Robin stared into the heavily made-up eyes of Jill Marcum, the popular student who was in several of Robin’s university classes, including Professor Geller’s class today where Robin had humiliated herself in front of a gazillion peers. Jill, the girl who always spoke up in class. Jill, the girl who flaunted her great grades the way she flaunted her great body in flamboyant, form-fitting clothes.

But tonight Jill had outdone herself. She’d encased her Vogue bod in some sleek leather number that hugged her skin so tight, Robin was amazed the girl could breathe.

Trying not to dwell on her own shapeless white rayon dress, and determined to get this fiasco over with, Robin forced the corners of her lips to curl upward in what she hoped passed for a professional “May I pour your some coffee?” smile. She raised the coffeepot another notch, a silent gesture to back up the “more coffee” smile. Robin was a master at the wordless gestures. Too bad she couldn’t find a job as a mime.

“What?” asked Jill, cocking an overplucked eyebrow.

Darn it all anyway. Jill was forcing Robin to talk. She’d failed in front of Professor Geller’s class, but she refused to now. Refused to end this day feeling like more of a loser than she already did. Robin sucked in a shaky breath.

“Would you like some more cof-cof-cof…” Her mouth kept moving, stumbling and stuttering over the word, as though somebody else were speaking. These moments were sheer hell—there was nothing Robin could do to stop the stuttering momentum except to clamp shut her mouth, which she did, pressing her lips together so hard they hurt.

In the following silence, Robin realized her feet were shuffling, as though desperate to walk, run, escape this situation, but no way she’d let Jill see her run away again from a humiliating situation. As Robin’s feet shuffled, her soul shook loose all the feelings she’d managed to suppress—humiliation, hurt, disappointment.

In her fantasy, she’d eloquently say things to Jill that she’d pass on to the other students. How Robin wasn’t just some shy, awkward stutterer…how she had dreams and goals…that Robin Lee was more than just a quitter. Instinctively, Robin opened her free hand and extended her fingers wide as though reaching for all the dreams just out of her reach, all the things she wanted out of life….

But the look of pity on Jill’s face stopped Robin cold. She’d already faced a sea of such looks today in class, and no way was she going to look at one more.

Closing her free hand into a fist, Robin sloshed some coffee into a cup and turned away in frustration, not wanting Jill to see the pain on Robin’s face that said more than a thousand words.

“Poor thing,” Jill whispered to her male companion.

Robin headed toward the other booth where the guy sat by himself, not wanting to hear anything else Jill had to say. But Robin would’ve had to be deaf to not hear Jill whisper loudly, “No wonder Robin never had a boyfriend—after all, what would they talk about?”

Robin squeaked her way to the other booth, wrestling an onslaught of emotions. Just because Robin didn’t wear body-molding clothes and shellac her face with makeup didn’t mean she didn’t have what it took to grab a guy’s attention. Heading toward the man sitting solo in his booth, intently reading some papers, she decided to show Jill that Robin Lee, the tongue-tied wonder, had more heat, more va-va-voom than a hundred Jills could ever hope to have. Let Jill tell that to the other students!

To help matters along, Robin undid the top two buttons of her rayon dress. Reaching his table, she leaned over—way over—and heaving a sultry sigh, she aimed the pot to pour coffee into his cup.

“Is that decaf?” he asked absently, not raising his gaze from his papers.

Robin looked at him through the steam rising from the angled pot. Funny, he did sort of look like Johnny…but not really. Johnny had always greeted people with a dazzling smile and a glint in his eye—as a kid, she’d thought he’d absorbed more than his share of sunshine. This guy, on the other hand, had a dark, guarded demeanor, although his brooding, angular looks made her tummy do small flip-flops.

He looked up. “Decaf?” he repeated.

She shrugged, unsure what pot she’d grabbed. She leaned over a little farther, determined to get his mind off decaf and on to a debuttoned view of cleavage.

“Because regular makes me jittery,” he continued, his words slowing as his gaze dropped. He puffed out a breath when he caught the glimpse of cleavage. His gaze shot back up, his mouth cocking in a halfway grin that made her jittery.

She held the pot midair. Dottie would’ve probably said, “It’s decaf,” not caring if it was or not, and left it at that. But Robin was a stickler for the truth and she hadn’t the vaguest what she’d just poured. Besides, her hand holding the pot was shaking so hard, if she didn’t set this coffee down soon, she was going to slosh this stuff all over the place, getting the guy really hot, and not in the way she wanted!

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jill staring at her, mouthing something to her boyfriend. Probably stuff like, “That’s the girl who couldn’t talk in front of class today—couldn’t deal with the pressure and stormed out!” The girl who couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t…

Suddenly, Robin wanted to do one thing successfully. One thing to prove to herself—and nosy Jill—that Robin Lee could do something. That she could compete with the best of ’em. Even compete with Jill in the hunky male department! A moment ago, Robin had simply wanted to flash some va-va-voom. Now she wanted to do more…a lot more….

And Robin knew exactly what she’d do to prove herself! When Al had called her “hot stuff,” he’d been teasing her. Well, she’d show him and Jill just how much “hot” there was in this package of “hot stuff.”

She slammed the coffeepot on another table, never taking her eyes off Mr. Decaf. Behind his glasses, his eyes widened. Robin inched one knee onto the red upholstered seat, close to his jean-clad thigh, never breaking eye contact. Pressing her torso forward in the way she’d seen Elizabeth Hurley do in a movie, Robin pulled the rubber band out of her ponytail, then ruffled her fingers through her fine, straight hair. For maximizing boob effect, she took in a lung-bursting breath.

It worked. Those cool blue eyes now flickered with hot flames. The guy looked down, then quickly back up, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his straight-lined, nostril-flared nose.

He frowned. “Uh, do I know you—?”

He was going to blow it for her! If Jill heard him asking Robin who she was, that would ruin everything!

In a rush of movement, Robin leaned down and planted her lips on his to stifle anything else he might blurt. As she held her mouth against his, she fumbled for the table to keep her balance…and slid her fingers into something gooey. Out of the corner of her eye, she realized her fingers had merged with the guy’s half-eaten piece of apple pie. Darn it all anyway. She’d have to spring for the pie, and here she was trying to save enough to get her car out of hock. She was debating what to wipe her fingers on when he groaned.

Groaned?

Or maybe he was yelling for help. She pressed her mouth harder against his and, with her non-apple-dipped hand, gripped his chin to hold him in place. The muscles in his jaw bunched, then loosened under her massaging fingertips. Good, she was taming the wild beast….

The wild beast who was molding his lips to hers and teasing the underside of her top lip with his tongue….

Holy cow, this guy was kissing her back! Robin’s mind started going into overdrive, panicking that she’d ambush kissed some late-night-diner psycho, but a sane corner of her brain reminded her that she couldn’t fail now. Couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t.Relax, keep kissing, let Jill see you being the wildest beastess this side of the Rockies. She’ll tell everyone at school and the rumors will shift from dropout Robin to hot-stuff Robin.

Better check that Jill is still looking.

Robin slid her mouth off the man’s, replacing her lips with her apple-gooed fingers in case he tried to say anything. She nuzzled his earlobe while sneaking a peek over his shoulder. Jill was sitting ramrod straight, staring at them, openmouthed.

Yes! Robin, the Love Goddess, rules!

“Oooo!” Robin squealed, feeling warm, wet lips suck her fingers. Shocked, she reared back and watched as the stranger damn near consumed her hand. His mouth was wet and hot and about the best sensation she ever experienced in her whole life. Heat skittered down her fingers, flowed down her arm, building in intensity until it flooded to the pit of her stomach where it flamed like liquid fire. And when he raised his head and cocked her a “you like it, don’t you” look, she thought she would combust right there.

She leaned forward and removed her fingers, slowly. She opened her mouth to say something, maybe “Thanks for playing along”—after all, she’d given enough of a hottie show for Jill to fuel rumors for at least a year, maybe a decade—but when Robin parted her lips to talk, words escaped her. In fact, all she was able to do was hunker over him, panting…

“Oh, baby,” he murmured in a rugged, husky voice that turned up her inner temperature about a thousand degrees.

Something exploded between them. Later Robin tried to remember exactly what happened…either he tugged her head closer and she went for it, or she went for it all on her own. Whatever happened, next thing she knew, she was damn near on top of the man, sucking face like a woman who’d just landed from a faraway planet inhabited only by females and had just discovered her first, live, hot male.

Robin pawed at his jacket, making small, needy mewing sounds, while in the background she heard small, squeaky sounds—which, in her heat-drenched moment, she vaguely realized were from her feet trying to get traction on the floor. In the failure to do so, she was nearly moon-walking in place, causing the rubber soles of her sneakers to squeak mercilessly against the linoleum floor.

Must…stop…squeaking. Pulling away for a gulp of air, she shifted her body and hitched one hip onto the table. At this higher position, her breasts were at his eye level, and he clearly enjoyed the view. He raised his hand in a half motion, and in that moment she saw his fingers twitch as though he’d virtually fondled her. Fiery sensations rocketed through Robin’s body and she lowered her head, wanting more…

He angled his lips toward hers, and when his tongue again teased the perimeter of her lips, she opened her mouth a bit wider, inviting him inside. Suddenly she didn’t care if she mewed or squeaked…didn’t care if they were in public…didn’t care if two or two zillion people were nearby. All that mattered was this man, his lips,her needs…

His hand slid up her waist to a spot just below her breasts, causing her to ache for his touch. With a moan that bordered on a growl, she gripped the soft, buttery leather of his jacket with both hands and pressed herself against him, showing him she wanted his fingers to roam, to feel, to tease her as she’d never been before. Hell, maybe she hadn’t spoken up for her car or for her university education, but by damn, Robin Lee, without a single word, was using her body to speak up now!

Her lips found his again and she plunged her tongue into that hot, wet cavern. He tasted delicious. Like sin and heat. Like all those forbidden, lusty bad things a good girl was never supposed to want. Oh, God, she wanted all those things…wanted to experience more, more, more…

“Hold still, honey,” whispered the man. “You’re about to fall off the table.”

“Huh?” Robin fluttered open her eyes and stared into those dangerously blue eyes…had she noticed those thick, black lashes before?

“The table,” he whispered again. “You’re about to fall off.”

She looked down, barely registering that the lower half of her body was nearly lying across one end of the table, her feet dangling. Her rayon dress had scooted up to an indecent place somewhere beneath her thigh. She released her death grip on his jacket with one hand and weakly tugged on the hem of her dress.

Strong arms lifted her and set her onto her feet. She felt woozy, weak. When his arms pulled away, she teetered, then fumbled for the edge of the table. Gripping the hard edge, her only concrete link to reality, she looked at the object of her kiss. In their torrid connection, she hadn’t really seen the entire man she’d been so focused on his parts—his lips, his eyes, his wonderfully errant hand…. He was one sizzling sight to behold. Rumpled hair—had she done that? Thick lashes that fringed lethal blue eyes—hadn’t he been wearing glasses a minute ago? Funny, without them, he almost looked like Johnny again….

She cut a glance to her right—Jill and her boyfriend were gone. Good. Mission accomplished. Releasing her breath in a forced stream, Robin feebly smoothed her dress. Then, she looked back at the handsome stranger with whom she’d become wordlessly intimate.

She licked her lips, wishing she wasn’t shaking so badly. “Coff-coffee?” She aimlessly pointed in the general direction of the steaming pot sitting on the other table.

The man’s smile kicked up a notch. “Is it as hot as you?” He winked.

Hooo boy. Robin gulped, pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and shook her head no.

His grin kicked up a notch. “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he murmured.

And I’ve gone with you. Nothing,nothing had ever affected her like the last few moments—which could have been hours, days, a small eternity for all she knew. She’d fallen, body and soul, into a time warp of liquid passion where she felt delicious heat, tasted forbidden pleasures…And if she didn’t leave at this very moment she’d hurl this damn coffeepot across the room, throw any remaining shreds of decorum out the window, and jump this guy’s bones with the fervor of a pent-up, been-without-sex-for-five-years-and-counting woman.

Panting, she stared at him, wondering if he’d read her mind because those sparkling blue eyes of his looked very, very intrigued.

Part of her wanted to suggest they meet again, make a saucy suggestion about getting together for more than a tabletop tryst, be sassy like Dottie or Jill or other hot babes who teased their men with words. But no doubt Robin would start to speak and his look of heated interest would cool before she’d stammered out the first word.

That sobering thought also cooled her overactive libido. Best to leave this situation, now. Leave this guy with the memory of the “mystery waitress” who almost laid more than silverware on his table because he’d never see her again. Even if he came back, she’d be in the back, prepping the kitchen.

With a swivel, she turned, snatched the handle of the pot, and walked stiff-kneed back to the kitchen, the soles of her shoes squeaking relentlessly against the linoleum floor.

As she passed Al, he said with a snort, “I told you to serve coffee, not yourself!” With a shake of his head, mumbling something about having thought he’d seen it all, Al continued getting the grill and utensils ready for tomorrow’s new day of work.

Robin became super busy doing her own nightly routine, which consisted of turning off the coffeemaker, cleaning the pots, stocking tomorrow’s glasses and silverware. Flustered, and still sizzling herself, she fussed and cleaned things she normally left alone—she wiped the outside of the toaster, refolded several kitchen towels, straightened the kitchen rubber mat at least four times. After ten frenetic minutes of hyperactivity, she sneaked a look at the dining room. The stranger’s booth was empty….

She tried not to feel disappointed. After all, it was just a crazy kiss, not a date.

But in her heart, she knew it was more than just a crazy kiss. She’d had crazy kisses in high school. Pecks on the lips. Awkward, fumbling kisses. Prolonged make-out kisses that, at best, fired a spark….

This had been different.

This crazy kiss had been a mind-melding, body-bonding, life-altering kiss. Before Robin had walked out onto that floor, she’d known adolescent passion.

Now, she was a woman aching for all the experiences she’d never had. And if she were back home, she’d confess all this to her mother, then refute her mom’s suggestions that Robin was once again being overly dramatic. Because, for the first time in her life, Robin had tasted sinful heat—so hot, the rest of her experiences seemed lukewarm if not plain cold.

She glanced at the clock. Twelve-thirty. Going-home time. Robin donned her sweater, the one with colorful kitties crocheted into the threads, for the walk to her nearby apartment. Al was in the back, calling somebody on the pay phone. He glanced up when she waved bye, and although he said good-night in the same gruff voice he always did, he gave her a funny look. Probably a “Try to behave tomorrow night” look. She smiled. She’d have the reputation as a hottie at DU and Davey’s Diner. Not a bad way to end the worst day of her life.

Walking out the door, the night air had a hint of fall—a teasing cool breeze that traced the late-summer darkness. Above, a full moon hung suspended, like a promise.

“Robin.”

A man’s voice. She looked down. Not just any man, that man. The stranger she’d kissed. Her heart leaped in her throat. How’d he know her name?

“You don’t remember me.”

She looked at him under the streetlight, observed how the light spilled over him in a silver haze. It filtered through his dark, tousled hair, poured over his black leather jacket. Under the light, his face was cast in light and shadows. He looked at her intently, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slouched as he leaned against the lamppost.

Heat shot through her. “Johnny,” she whispered.

2

JOHNNY WATCHED Robin stand there, gaping at him. She looked as cute as she had back in grade school. Straight, flyaway blond hair and those big gray-green eyes that took in everything. Those eyes he’d almost recognized back in the diner before he’d been hit with that blast of passion that had melted his logical, rational thoughts…the kind of thoughts that normally filled his mind as Jonathan Dayton, CEO of OpticPower. Which is who he’d been back at that diner, a CEO—well, a CEO in disguise—intently reviewing legal papers for the upcoming board meeting.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, this young, fiery woman damn near burned his logical brain to smoldering ashes.

He looked into her face, trying to read the look in her eyes. If they were inside, under the bright fluorescent lights, he bet he could read what she was thinking right now. He’d been able to do that years ago, back home, anyway. Back then, he guessed her thoughts by the sparkle in her eye—and most of the time, he’d been right. And he’d been able to sense her emotions, too. Hurt darkened her eyes, clouding them over like a distant storm. Joy lightened them to a sparkling green, like sunlight on the sea. A hundred thoughts, emotions would be racing through her, and she’d think keeping her mouth shut meant no one knew.

He knew.

But back then, it was easier to stay focused on her eyes. Now it was damn hard.

The gangly legs had turned shapely. Like the rest of her. She had one of those curvaceous figures that reminded him of early twentieth-century illustrations by Charles Gibson where women were round and pink and womanly. Back in the diner, he’d liked how she felt, how her body pressed against his. Liked even better how she kissed.

He still wasn’t certain at what moment he’d been fully aware this hot encounter was with the Robin Lee he’d known. Maybe when he’d caught a determined glint in her eyes, and he’d flashed on a similar look in a girl’s eyes back home….

But those thoughts had melted when the kissing heated up. And what a kiss. Hot, intense, full of surprises. One moment she was nibbling and suckling his lip, the next she was doing that squeaking thing with her feet as though one part of her body had decided to dance while the rest of her made love to him. And he’d gone along, at first a bit stunned, then warming up until he was gorging on the sensations, like a starved man sitting down to a feast. An indulgence he never experienced in his logical, business-centered life.

Then afterward, when they’d disentangled themselves, and she stumbled over the word “coffee,” the pieces of her personality fell together. Had to be Robin Lee, the kid sister of his childhood pal. But just now, when she’d whispered his name—a soft, awe-filled “Johnny”—that’s when he knew for certain. He’d heard that same awe-inspired tone from her as a girl. He’d thought it was endearing back then. Now it was downright intoxicating.

Curious as to what lay behind her unique assertiveness-training techniques, he’d hung outside, waiting for her to leave. But now, he realized he’d waited outside for another reason. Knowing it was Robin was like reacquainting himself with his past, a time when life was purer. Not necessarily easier, but purer. Less complicated, more understandable. The life he often wished he could step back into again, even while knowing it was too late.

“I—I’m sorry,” Robin whispered.

He paused. “Because you kissed me?” He’d leave out the pie-dipped fingers and the writhing on the table.

She nodded.

He waited. Although it appeared she was bursting to speak, she remained silent. He knew she could be chatty as all get-out—he’d seen it many times with her family. But outside her home she clammed up. If only there was more light, he could read the thoughts and emotions in her expressive eyes.

“I don’t regret you kissing me,” he said gently. He could have said more. Confessed that no woman had kissed him the way Robin had tonight—a kiss tendered with the years of a heart-struck kid turned woman. A kiss that tasted like something sweet turned mouthwatering delectable. And he thought he’d experienced every possible kiss available. Especially after Denver’s slick 5280 magazine had nominated him one of the top ten “Most Eligible Bachelors of the Year” two years running, Johnny had had his share of lip-locks. He could almost categorize them. There were the “Good night, will I see you again?” kisses, the “I promise you a good time” kisses, even the “I want to get married” kisses.

But none compared to being blindsided by Robin’s sizzlingly sweet, hitched-up-on-the-table, I’m-gonna-take-you kiss. Hell, she was a category unto herself.

But it didn’t take an idiot to see that this thunder-struck woman was obviously chastising herself for her spontaneous whatever-it-was moment back there in the diner. She’d surprised him, but he was a master at playing people and situations—and this one he’d play with a sense of humor. Get her to lighten up a little.

“You always serve customers like that?” he teased.

She shook her head rapidly back and forth. A wisp of her blond hair fell across her eye, which she shakily brushed back.

Okay, cool it with the lightening-up approach. Robin Lee had been a stutterer, and from what little she’d said to him tonight, she still struggled with talking.

But damn talented with words. The written ones, anyway. It was as though all that creativity flowed from her soul down to her fingertips as she wrote her essays and short stories. And for one of those she’d won a prize at school. He remembered the day well—she’d been twelve, he eighteen. Johnny had cut classes to hunt for his kid brother Frankie who was fast believing that the solution to poverty was to shoplift and hot-wire cars.

Only instead of finding Frankie, Johnny had found Robin dawdling in a park. It had taken some coaxing, but she’d finally admitted she was playing hooky so she wouldn’t have to accept a writing award. After Johnny bought her a chocolate shake at a local pharmacy, she admitted she desperately wanted the award, but she didn’t want to accept it in front of an auditorium filled with people because she’d have to say something—and what if she stuttered?

So Johnny had made a pact with her. He’d be there, front row, and all she had to do was look at him and say “thank you” into the microphone. And that afternoon, he’d shown up as promised, and watched as a proud and happy Robin stepped up to the podium, accepted the plaque and while leaning into the microphone and looking directly into his eyes, whispered, “Thank you.”

All these years later, he felt as though she were looking at him again with that mix of shyness and steely determination. Only this time instead of the child, he was returning the gaze of a woman.

Shifting his stance, more to hide his body’s obvious reaction to her, he checked out the parking lot. It was empty except for a dilapidated green pickup with a broken driver’s-side mirror. “I’ll see you to your truck.”

She shook her head. “I—I’m walking.”

He looked up and down the street. Except for a bar a block away, this diner was the sole business with its lights still on. The other buildings were apartment complexes, duplexes, an occasional one-story home. And all had bars on their windows and doors. “Walking in this area of town, at this hour? Are you crazy?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, broken by an apologetic, pixielike smile that finally broke on Robin’s face. She shrugged and nodded in the affirmative. “M-my car’s…” She blinked slowly, not wanting to start a conversation. She never knew when she’d stutter, and considering she was stumbling through words already, she’d just stop here.

He gave her such a look of understanding, she smiled in relief.No words are necessary.

“Then I’m walking with you. I took the light-rail, so I don’t have my car.” Whenever he felt burdened or troubled, he liked to try and recapture how it used to be, years ago, when life was simpler.

Plus, tonight he hadn’t wanted to stay home because Penny would call and call, just as she did every time she dumped him. Only this time he’d told her she was right, no use in their staying together because he didn’t want to tie the knot. But as usual, she hadn’t liked his response. Even when he’d explained,again, that he wasn’t the marrying kind because marriage meant trouble. Like the kind he’d grown up with—an alcoholic father, a delinquent brother and a home filled with the kind of furniture most people threw out.

So rather than answer the phone, and rehash the marriage thing all over again, he’d done what he always did when life crowded him—he returned to his past. Or tried to. He’d left the Jaguar at home and jumped on public transportation, hopping off at some coffee shop or diner where he could blend into the crowd as Johnny Dayton, a person he used to be.

And it’d been years since anyone or anything had reinforced that person…until tonight. Until Robin had whispered “Johnny.” Hearing his old name had felt sweet, but painful. Like a knife plunging into him. Slicing deep, but not finding the man she thought he was.

And yet,she believed him to be that man….

He clamped tight his jaw, refusing to admit to Robin he was no longer that man. He’d never tell her how he’d changed, who he’d become.

He raised his eyebrows, realizing she hadn’t responded to his question. “Is it all right that I walk you home?” Maybe she had someone waiting for her there, like a boyfriend or husband. An irrational jolt of jealousy shot through him.

“It’s all right,” she said softly. And in the stray light from the diner’s windows, he caught her blushing. A reaction so innocent, it nearly knocked him off his feet. Penny never blushed. For that matter, none of the women he’d dated these past number of years had blushed. They’d seen too much, knew too much….

Which made Robin all the more rare.

He turned slightly and said, “Okay, let’s go. You lead…” he looked over his shoulder “…which I know you can do.”

The first block they walked in silence. Johnny was aware of the moonlight-glazed world, the congestion of parked cars along the narrow streets, the late-summer scents of roses and lavender…but mostly he was aware of Robin walking next to him, seemingly lost in her thoughts. For a woman who’d damn near attacked him in public, she was certainly acting shy now that they had some privacy. Not such a surprise, though, when he thought back to the girl who was expressive inside her home, but withdrawn outside.

He slowed his pace, almost imperceptibly, positioning himself slightly behind his walking companion to better observe her. Her head bobbed in time to her determined gait. Her rayon dress swished as she walked, and his imagination wandered, wondering what lay beneath that sound. In his mind’s eye, he again envisioned the kind of curves reminiscent of those early-twentieth-century paintings where a woman was soft, rounded…where flesh was alabaster and pink. He’d always had a keen interest in that era—maybe it was the businessman in him, intrigued with the revolutionary changes brought by electricity and the automobile. And as a man, he’d been just as intrigued with what he viewed as the last romantic woman—the Gibson Girl with her long hair curled in a luscious heap on her head, the long lacy feminine clothes, the petal-pink lips curved in secretive smiles….

He stared at the long wisps of Robin’s hair and wondered how those glossy locks would look curled on top of her head. He imagined one escaped ringlet falling seductively down her pale neck. She was the type of woman who’d be a lady on the outside, but not such a lady in the bedroom….

He nearly ran into Robin when she stopped abruptly. In the moonlight, he could barely make out her facial features, much less decipher the look on her face, but she was definitely staring at him. Intensely.

“Something wrong?” he finally asked, wondering in some kind of insane way if she’d been reading his thoughts. He, who always felt he had the upper hand with people, suddenly felt awkward, as though his mind had been caught in the hot cookie jar.

Silence. More staring. Nearby, a dog barked.

A light breeze lifted a lock of her hair, the moonlight playing wicked tricks as it glinted silver off the blond strands. Impossible to see her eyes, which were in shadow, so he couldn’t translate the dead-on stare she was giving him. Years ago, a younger Robin Lee hadn’t had such difficulty speaking to him. Maybe she just needed time to feel comfortable with him again.

Or maybe there was something she wanted to tell him. He’d heard from a buddy that there’d been a car accident several years ago in Buena Vista, one involving Robin and her mother, but Johnny hadn’t heard much more. Besides, Robin seemed fine….

So why had she stopped? He looked over his shoulder at a square building with layers of windows. “Is…that your building?”

She shook her head no, then turned and kept walking down the sidewalk. He kept up with her, wondering how long they’d continue on this silent journey.

Robin bit her bottom lip, mentally beating herself up for being the most boring walking companion in Denver, if not the entire world. How many times as a kid had she fantasized about being with Johnny, being able to be the one and only girl in his world, and finally she gets that chance and how does she act? Like some kind of robot.Silent robot. Okay, maybe she couldn’t compete with women who teased with words, but surely she could do more than march along beside him! She had wanted to confess as much a moment ago when she’d stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at him…but words had failed her.

Even when he’d asked her a question. But rather than try to explain what was going on inside of her, she’d just continued walking.

The only redeeming factor to this embarrassing stroll was that her shoes weren’t squeaking on the cement.

Finally, they reached her building. She turned, quickly walked up a narrow cement path, and headed up the stairs to her second-story apartment. Behind her she heard his steps following. And with each step, her heart thundered, her breath heaved. Maybe verbally she wasn’t speaking to him, but if only he could hear her body! It pulsed and throbbed and vibrated like some kind of human Geiger counter.

On the second-level landing, she turned right and headed down the dimly lit hallway toward a wooden door with the tarnished silver letters 2B. She’d been in Denver a year, but this was the first time she’d brought anybody to her place, and here she was bringing Johnny Dayton home.

A crazy quote flitted through her mind. “To be or not to be.” Now was the moment to be or not to be. Stopping, she fumbled in her sweater pocket for the keys.

Johnny stopped, but not too near. He looked so darned confused, she felt a twinge of remorse. She didn’t mean to run hot and cold—it’s just when it came to words, she didn’t always trust herself. But he had to know that about her. How many times had the teenaged Johnny Dayton hung out at their house, swigging pops with her older brother, talking about school, cars, girls…and Robin had dawdled nearby, occasionally chiming in when the mood struck. Within the comfort of her home, she had always felt more comfortable opening up, talking….

But then Johnny knew that, too. That day he’d found her hiding out in the park, afraid to go to school because she didn’t want to make a speech, she’d told him why. And he’d encouraged her, told her he’d be there, and because of him she had one of the greatest memories of her life—the day she won the middle-school first-place prize for her short story.

Looking at Johnny all these years later, she wanted to pour out everything in her heart. Tell him how he was her first and only crush, how no man compared to the incomparable Johnny…how he stood for everything she admired in the world—truth, integrity, guts. Everyone in Buena Vista knew he’d had it tough—a father who spent more time at the local bar than at home, a kid brother who seemed determined to end up in jail.

But despite his home life, Johnny kept his cool. Never let circumstances drag him down—or never let it show, anyway. She quickly glanced up and down, sizing up how far he had come. The worn leather jacket and rumpled good looks were like the old Johnny. But he was different, too. The gold watch on his wrist looked expensive. And the wary look in his eyes was new, too. How she’d like to ask what had happened over the past fourteen years…

…and how she’d like to tell him today had been the worst day of her life. And explain that crazy, hot moment at the diner. She’d tell him how desperately she’d wanted to one-up Jill, end the day as a success instead of as a loser, so Robin had seized the moment, so to speak.

Forget the diner. In a rush of insight, Robin suddenly knew that if she went inside her apartment without seizing this moment, without letting Johnny know the feelings and needs that lay within her heart, this day would truly be the very worst in her life.

She’d really be a loser, all the way around.

Blinking, she turned, and looked at him. I’m not a loser. She took his large, warm hand and raised it to her lips, which trembled as she pressed a kiss into his palm. His skin was warm, his scent masculine. She let her lips linger, move imperceptively against his palm as her heart whispered its secrets.

“Robin,” he murmured, more astounded by this simple act of affection than the fiery kiss at the diner. And when she looked up, with that beseechingly sweet look on her face, heat spread through his body, as though radiating from her.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, closing the space between them and filling his arms with her. He nuzzled her hair, her cheek, and inhaled her scent. A hint of lavender teased his senses and he thought how it reminded him of her. Bright, fragrant, wild…the real Robin underneath her quiet exterior.

He hugged her close, relishing the feel of her softness against his body. He kissed her forehead, her nose, and inched his lips to her mouth…but didn’t kiss her. Instead, he lingered at the corner of those luscious lips—those luscious, petal-pink lips—and savored the puffs of sweet, heated breath against his cheek.

He pulled back and stared into her half-closed eyes. “What do you want, Robin?”

She licked her plump, moist lips.

That did it. A primal need erupted within him and he backed her against the door, clamping his mouth on hers. Earlier he’d felt like a starving man at a feast cut short, and now he made up for it with a savage hunger. He plunged his tongue into her mouth, devouring its flavors.

She eagerly reciprocated, accepting his kiss with a ferocity that made it damn hard for him to keep control. She kissed with the passion he’d tasted back in the diner. Hot, needy. A flower turned inside out, opening herself and her desires fully to him.

He nipped her neck and she groaned. He proceeded farther, tracing her collarbone with his lips, kissing and licking a path along her silky skin. He tasted her sweat, her fragrance…And when he reached the opening of the front of her dress, where every single pearl-size button was demurely fastened, he knew her clothing made a liar out of her. Those fastenings were a front, showing a woman seemingly tight, contained when he knew damn well that underneath this dress was fire and passion. He pulled away, his fingers lingering on the button.

Her gray-green eyes glinted with need as she leaned back, the movement releasing his hold on that single button. For a moment, she simply watched him, her shoulders pressed against the door, her hips thrust forward ever so slightly. Then, slowly, her hand moved up her dress, flat-palmed, sliding over her torso, up between her breasts, until she gently touched the top button which she rolled seductively between her fingers, watching him watching her.

He never thought he’d lose it over a button. But at this moment, he was in such erotic pain, it took all his willpower not to tear that damn rayon number off her.

She undid the button, slowly. Her lips moved, almost imperceptibly, and she whispered something….

He could barely hear through the blood roaring in his ears. He positioned his head close to her mouth, straining to hear her breathy tones.

“More,” she whispered. “More…”

“Oh, God, yes.” The soft ache in her voice fired his need. He gently pulled her hand off the button, then lifted her arm and pressed it against the door, pinning it over her head. He fit her other hand into the held one. With his free hand, he took his sweet time undoing the second button…gently pulled back the material to expose her skin.

He sucked in an appreciative breath. Her skin was pink and alabaster, just as he’d imagined. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, then opened them.I shouldn’t take it further.

As though picking up on his thoughts, she arched her back, thrusting her breasts against him. Such a natural, primitive gesture, almost innocent in its desire. And when she moaned his name, softly, he lowered his head and kissed the skin exposed at the opening to her dress. She tasted silky against his tongue. Smelled erotically sweet, like ripened fruit.

With a guttural groan, he undid the third button with his teeth, playing with the hardened button, imaging it to be her taut nipple. Opening the top of her dress wider with his free hand, he slid his tongue over the white lace that skimmed the top of her bra, gliding his lips over the soft mound of one breast, then the other…

A prolonged, scratchy sound fractured the moment.

Robin? Was he hurting her?

Johnny reared back and looked into Robin’s surprised expression.

Another scratchy, tormented sound. Accompanied by a heaviness on one of Johnny’s feet.

He quickly glanced down at a chubby cat, covered with more fur than he thought possible, perched on his right foot! The cat looked up, opened its mouth and emitted another long, scratchy me-e-e-e-o-ow.

With a groan, Robin sank down, her body still plastered against Johnny’s, and scratched the cat on its head. “Otto, why aren’t you inside your own home?”

Johnny held his breath, his body aflame. Robin had spoken, fluently, which moved him. Obviously she knew this furry feline very well—it probably belonged to one of her neighbors. But in the back of Johnny’s mind, he had a crazy hope that maybe her fluency was because she felt more comfortable with him.

Robin lifted the rotund cat and cradled it into her arms. Nuzzling its head with her chin, she scratched it behind its ear. The cat closed its eyes in bliss and purred so loud, it sounded like an engine chugging to life. Damn, he knew just how that cat felt right now.

“You can stay with me tonight, you silly thing.” Offering a slight smile to Johnny, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. She took a deep breath, her back to Johnny, hugging the cat tightly against her. Now was her moment.Ask him inside. Let him stay the night, too.

Damn, she was shaking just thinking about Johnny being inside her home, touching her, kissing her…savoring a night of love…something she’d never done with any man. Romps in the back seat of her hometown boyfriend’s car ended after a few hours, so she’d never known what it was like to have a man hold her the entire night. She could only imagine the sensation of her and Johnny’s bodies curled around each other, all night long, then watching the next day dawn on their new relationship as lovers.

And what would that relationship be? Maybe he had no intention of spending the night, and she’d wake up alone. Was there a girlfriend in the picture? There was definitely no wedding ring, but Johnny had always been good—no, make that dynamite—with women. Maybe he was playing the field, and she’d be just another woman in his menagerie….

Only when Otto squirmed in her arms, emitting an irritated meow, did Robin realize she was squeezing the poor cat to her chest, holding on to it like a furry life raft.

Instead of worrying, she needed to cut short tonight’s visit. She wished she could grab a piece of paper and write, “It’s happening too fast…let’s take our time, figure out what’s going on between us…” But instead she just stood and stared at him, her eyes growing moist with all the pent-up needs and emotions storming within her. Maybe he’d return…but she knew she shouldn’t count on it. This was, after all, an unusual reunion.

Johnny stared into her eyes, which glistened with emotions that confused him, and wondered what to do. He, who prided himself on knowing just how to read and play people, especially female people—digressed into an awkward teenager, unsure what his next step should be. Was she taking the cat and Johnny inside for the night? He felt a gut-deep yearning like he hadn’t experienced in years as he wished, damn near prayed, that he got visiting rights, as well.

Robin held the cat close, and for a moment, Johnny hated that cute, furry creature. So close to Robin’s silky, flower-scented skin, cuddled and cooed over.

Getting what Johnny wanted, bad.

A twittering sound came from somewhere behind Robin. She looked over her shoulder, then back to Johnny. “I—I have a bird.”

He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. Instead, after a funny little shrug of her shoulders, she blinked rapidly—yet despite her nervous gestures, he swore he read that look in her eyes. Swore she wanted to ask him inside.

“G’night,” Robin mouthed and shut the door.

Well, he couldn’t have sworn that was going to happen.

Johnny remained standing on her doorstep for what seemed a small eternity, half tempted to meow pathetically like Otto in the hope Robin would reopen the door and take pity on him.

Right. I know how to read and play people. I’m standing outside a woman’s apartment in the middle of the night, contemplating doing animal impersonations so she’ll open the door. He heaved a lungful of cool air, willing the chilled air to temper his fierce physical need. Willing himself to get his head on straight even if his body was out of control. It’s sweet Robin Lee, he reminded himself.Take a step back, buddy. Take it easy. Get to know her better before you jump her bones. Maybe he’d call her over the next few days. They’d visit. He’d talk to her…well, try to. Ask to see some of her writing. Ask to see pictures of her family.

The sound of a car cruising down the street reminded Johnny about the light-rail. He flicked his wrist, checked the time. The rail had stopped running a good hour ago. He needed to find a taxi or bus so he didn’t end up walking all the way back to Cherry Creek. With tremendous effort, he turned and headed down the stairs, remembering how Robin had clutched that poor cat so hard, its eyes were damn near bulging.

Johnny chuckled under his breath, recalling the image. And what had her last words been? “I have a bird.” He crammed his hands in his jacket pockets, fighting the urge to laugh out loud. He’d stood on his share of ladies’ doorsteps, but never had one of them said that before closing the door.

“I have a bird,” he whispered under his breath, hunching against the cool evening breezes, relishing a passing scent of lavender. “I want one, too,” he murmured. “A Robin.”

3

“CHRISTINE SLAYTER to see you, Mr. Dayton.”

Johnny sat in his leather swivel desk chair, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of lofty Denver skyscrapers against the distant jagged Rockies. He’d just been enjoying the view, taking a moment to savor the world outside work—something he rarely did anymore—and now he had to deal with Christine. It was like he’d been soaring through the clouds and now he’d crash-landed.

He wished to God he’d never made her a vice president—she seemed to think that meant he liked her more then he really did. But, as his advisors kept reminding him, it made good business sense to give her the title—it was an incentive for her to continue delivering projects under budget, with minimal carcasses in her wake. She was like an imperious queen in that sense—when a project faltered, she went hunting, looking for someone to blame. And inevitably, that person met a gory death—which in business parlance meant she fired the poor bastard on the spot. So far, Human Resources and the legal department had found legitimate backing for Christine’s infamous firings, but even Johnny knew that Christine couldn’t keep going this way. She would calm down with a bigger, better title—or so she’d whispered to him right after the promotion.

He mistrusted words—those spoken in meetings or whispered in his ear. Robin’s expressive eyes flashed in his mind—he trusted what he saw there more than any hollow assurances.

His thoughts returned to Christine, who waited outside his door. Despite her overachiever mentality, he regretted approving that damn promotion because ever since then, Christine had let him know repeatedly that she was available for more. Much more.

But he was also personally to blame for that headache.Never, ever kiss a woman after two martinis. Women like Christine took such slightly inebriated overtures to mean there was hope. Forget that it happened a full year ago, the result of a long day’s work that turned flirtatious after a few drinks…an overture that went from hot to cold within seconds. For Johnny, anyway.

Blowing out a gust of air, he turned his head slightly toward the intercom. “Thanks, Shelia, let her in.” Shelia’s physical appearance reminded him of that English actress, Judi Dench. Mature, professional and punctual Shelia had organized his work, and often his life, since he founded OpticPower five years ago.

The door opened with a swoosh and in blew Christine, dressed in one of her designer suits—this one so purple, he imagined her as one of the irises in that Van Gogh painting. An iris topped with blond-streaked hair and a too-toothy smile. “Good afternoon, Jonathan.”

His butler William called him Mr. Dayton, like most OpticPower employees. Christine and her peers called him Jonathan. No one had called him “Johnny” in years…until last night. For a moment, he could even hear Robin’s voice, soft and full of surprise, when she’d stepped outside the diner and found him waiting.

He watched Christine swagger toward him, a quasi-masculine movement that looked funny on her scrawny frame. She eased herself into one of the leather guest chairs that faced his desk, and slowly sat down. Her face was overpowdered, caking in the lines around her mouth. For a moment, he wondered where those lines came from. Couldn’t be from laughing.

Never breaking eye contact, she crossed one leg slowly over the other, a move obviously intended to give him a flash of her black satin garters.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the finer attributes of womanhood—or the flash of skin against lace or satin—but being inappropriately manipulated, whether by words or gestures, was one of his hot buttons. Although he hadn’t felt manipulated last night when Robin slammed down that coffeepot and zeroed in for a kiss.That was a gloriously spontaneous act, full of passion and want….

“You seem…distracted.” Christine looked peeved.

“I was…going over some figures in my head.” A very luscious, curvy figure. “You wanted this meeting—what’s up?”

A look of hurt shadowed Christine’s eyes. Straightening in her seat, she said crisply, “It’s the Nexus project. Teresa sidestepped the end-to-end test and now we have a noncompliant test process on a critical delivery.”

Johnny leaned forward on his desk, hands folded in front of him. “It’s not like Teresa to bend rules—”

“Brad repeatedly put up roadblocks, so she was forced to create her own test environment.”

Sometimes managing managers was like running a day-care center. Not that he’d ever done that, but he sure as hell could after being CEO of OpticPower. Teresa was a senior manager, as was Brad, and yet their ongoing squabbles were hurting a critical project, which in the long run, could hurt the company. And Johnny’s priority, always, was to protect the company. “You undoubtedly have a plan.” Christine always did. Slap a long black wig on her, and she could be that cartoon character Natasha, Boris’s manipulative, conniving sidekick.

She leaned forward, planting an elbow next to a carved wooden mask that sat on Jonathan’s desk. He’d bought it on a trip to Africa several years ago because he liked its mythological story, how tribes in the Congo believed it transformed its wearer into the “Wise Protector and Healer.”

“Brad’s got to go,” Christine said, gazing intently into Johnny’s eyes. “He’s not a player, he’s a problem. I want to replace him with Scott, who works seamlessly with Teresa. It’s the only way we’ll get the test situation resolved and back on track.”

A pungent scent, like spicy orchids, assaulted Johnny’s nose. He recognized the French scent, but most women dabbed it on their skin. Christine must have poured the stuff on. He wondered if she always sloshed on perfume when in the killing mood. “How long before the test can get back on track?”

“A week.”

She hadn’t even paused to breathe before that quick response. Oh, yeah, Christine had already planned this, down to the last gory detail. He mulled it over for a moment. He had no real data on this situation, but then he wouldn’t. He hadn’t built this multimillion-dollar business by micromanaging every single management employee—he’d built this monumental success by focusing on the big picture. And by protecting its vested interests and employees. His stomach knotted. If only he’d been half as successful protecting his own family—a family for whom he’d been more the father than his own dad had been.

“I’d like your buy-in,” urged Christine.

Of course she did. It gave her license to kill. Johnny had dealt with these power plays before—he’d give his response just the right spin.

“Before you can Brad, talk to him. He’s a valuable asset—let’s try to make the situation work before losing a key player.”

Christine’s eyes widened. “I said he’s not a player, and yet you used that word—” She immediately pursed her lips and Johnny realized where those lines around her mouth came from. “I know what you’re doing. You’re saying one thing, but thinking something else. And no one can ever figure out what that is because you’re—” She pursed her lips again.

“Don’t stop now.”

She tugged at the lapel on her jacket, and Johnny noticed the new Rolex on her wrist. Probably treated herself to an expensive bauble after the promotion. No way was she going to say the wrong thing, although she’d admitted enough by her overreaction. He scratched his cheek, mainly to hide a smile that threatened to break. Must be tough being a newly promoted vice president these days.

She dropped her hand into her lap. “I was going to say,” she said, infusing her voice with phony goodwill, “that you’re inscrutable, that’s all. Actually, that’s an admirable trait. We shouldn’t be able to read your thoughts. What kind of CEO would that be?”

A stupid CEO. He’d learned long ago that business was like playing cards—best tactic was to always keep a poker face. “You don’t like my not immediately agreeing with your plan of action?”

She paused. “What kind of vice president would I be if I liked you saying ‘no’ to me?” That phony tone again.

“Actually, I don’t think you like anybody saying ‘no’ to you.” It was a dig, but she deserved it for flashing that garter. “Please give Teresa’s feedback to Brad,” Johnny instructed. “After that, if he and Teresa still can’t work together, you and I will talk again.”

Christine nodded, halfheartedly, and stood. But she didn’t move. Instead she stared at the mask on his desk.

“I’ve never understood why you like that…ornament.” She looked around the room. “Everything else in this room is elegant, sophisticated.” Her gaze traveled across the strategically lit gray walls, the charcoal couch under the oil painting with bold slashes of color, his polished oak-and-chestnut desk. Then her gaze returned to the mask, peering at it as though some hideous little creature had crept into this sanctuary.

Johnny leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “When no one’s in here, I put it on and dance around the room.” The horrified look she gave him was worth the ridiculous comment. He straightened. “On your way out, please ask Shelia if she’d order in lunch. The usual.”

Christine was still staring at him as though he might start dancing any moment. Then she turned and walked briskly to the door, but stopped abruptly when she reached it. “Oh, by the way,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “there’s a dinner tonight. Len’s department is celebrating the release of several products—care to go?”

Len ran the global products division, and Johnny was fully aware they’d hit their release schedule ahead of time, with customer satisfaction high. He’d already ensured every employee in that division got a little extra thank-you in their next paycheck.

But that thank-you didn’t extend to being Christine’s date. “I have another engagement. Give Len and his team my best.”

Christine hesitated, her tiny eyes glinting with the unvoiced question “what engagement?” Despite his determination to maintain an even countenance, Johnny caught himself smiling at the thought of seeing Robin again. Because at this instant he suddenly knew he really did have an engagement, even if the lady didn’t know it yet.

And he kept smiling, even as the door clicked shut.

“YO, DOTTIE, grab some java, make the rounds.” Al barked the order to the waitress, who stood behind the kitchen sink, sneaking a puff off a cigarette. On the chipped plaster wall behind her hung a red-and-white No Smoking sign.

Dottie blew out a thin stream of blue smoke. “Who died and made you boss?”

Al cocked one bushy eyebrow at Dottie. “It’s almost quittin’ time, and you need to finish your tables.” He gave his head a shake, as though he were talking to a petulant child and not a middle-aged waitress. “And put out that cancer stick. You know the rules.”

Dottie made a great show of stubbing out her cigarette, then shot a look at Robin. “Did Mr. ‘I Run the Show’ order you around last night, too?”

“Order her around?” Al snorted loudly. “I had to do more than that! She’s been eighty-sixed from serving coffee in the dining room!” He guffawed, then tossed a wink at Robin over his broad shoulder. “But that’s between her ’n me.” He swerved his gaze to Dottie. “Right now,you need to finish your tables.”

“I’ll finish you if you keep this up,” Dottie sassed back, checking her makeup in a small handheld mirror that she kept on a corner of the sink.

“I heard that,” said Al.

She set the mirror down. “You were supposed to.” Dottie crossed to the coffee machine, grabbed a pot and took her sweet time walking to the dining area—with Al watching her every undulating movement.

Robin wiped her hands on her apron, enjoying the show. Yesterday, after Dottie and Al had argued, Dottie had stormed out with a few choice observations about Al and his kitchen guerilla tactics. Robin thought she’d never see Dottie again and then Dottie had shown up for work today at 5:00 p.m. sharp—not her usual fifteen-or-so minutes late—acting as though nothing had happened.

But Robin would have had to be blind to believe that! Something had happened. Dottie wore a new short black skirt, tighter than what she usually wore, and her brassy blond hair was in a new curly ’do that gave her features a softer, sexier look. Robin had wondered what brought about the change in the older, tough-as-nails waitress…and got an inkling to her answer when Al sauntered into work wearing a freshly washed and ironed white shirt, a new pair of chinos and a big grin. Not only were both on time, Robin guessed they were starting to make time, too.

They still bickered and quibbled over everything, but now the exchanges had a teasing edge. Robin loved it—and also felt a bit envious. To use words that way must be absolutely divine. To verbally play with them, toy with them, seduce with them…Who needed sex shops? Robin glanced over the grill and saw Dottie heading back from the dining room, her red glossy lips smiling suggestively at Al the whole way. Poor guy. He was scraping his spatula across the grill double-time. Robin figured it was best if she left work pronto—that way, the two of them could close up alone.

But as she tossed her apron into the dirty-linen bin and grabbed her sweater for the walk home, Robin felt a pang of nostalgia. Here she was going home alone, the way she did every night. But last night, for a lovely, passionate interlude, she hadn’t been solo. She’d been part of a couple, the way Dottie and Al were tonight. The way the whole darn world seemed sometimes. Her mom often told her if she’d just stop shying away from guys, show them that she was interested, she’d have more beaus than Scarlett O’Hara.

What Robin felt her mom never understood was that it wasn’t about shying away—it was about speaking up. But because she was quiet with most people, they took it to mean that she wasn’t interested. That’s one of the reasons Robin admired Emily Dickinson. From what Robin had read about the famous poet, they were alike—quiet on the outside, passionate inside.

Robin’s mind flitted back to last night. Maybe her voice had been quiet, but her body had spoken volumes! And Johnny—the fantasy man of her childhood dreams—had heard every nuance. Words hadn’t been necessary. Their bodies had conversed and interacted in a way she never had with any other guy. She touched the top button of her white rayon dress, remembering how Johnny had suckled and nibbled that button—for a heat-drenched moment last night, she’d thought he was going to rip it off with his bare teeth, then devour her dress, her slip…

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