Greg had every intention of kissing Jackie

He’d been dying to taste those lips ever since she’d strutted through the restaurant.

Just when he’d been sizing up the situation, taking in her every curve and nuance so he could wring out every possible bit of pleasure from it for both of them, Jackie plastered herself against him for the most mind-blowing kiss he’d ever experienced.

She was like a sensory explosion, swamping every inch of him with tantalizing sensations. Her lips swayed over his in slow undulations, leaving him no choice but to seek entrance to her mouth for a more thorough taste.

Sweet and complex. Jackie tasted like a dessert wine and left him hungering for more.

But all the while he tried to drink in her taste, she was tormenting his chest with the soft nudge of her breasts. He could envision those breasts, those upturned nipples, perfectly.

And the image was killing him.

“Jackie?” He pulled away in slow degrees. They were in the middle of the sidewalk, for crying out loud. He kissed her one last time before backing up a step. He wanted to go upstairs with her and unveil her body at his leisure, not maul her in full view of her neighbors.

She smiled before she opened her eyes. “Hmm?”

“Do you mind if I come inside?”

Dear Reader,

A bachelor party seems an unlikely place to find romance, until the best man runs off with the reluctant stripper….

Ever had a mortifying moment that makes you wish you could rewind for just a few minutes? Jackie Brady, heroine of Revealed, runs into a doozy! I hope you enjoy her bachelor party mishap and the classy way she maneuvers herself out of the situation.

Because this gutsy, unconventional woman appealed to me on so many levels, I had to make it up to her somehow. Please let me know if you think I was sufficiently kind in sending sexy Greg De Costa her way! Greg is as committed to the fast track as Jackie is determined to forge her own path, however, so don’t expect their road to romance to be smooth.

While you are reading, I’ll be busy putting the finishing touches on my upcoming May 2003 Blaze title, Wild and Wicked, the sequel to Wild and Willing, Blaze #54. Visit me at www.JoanneRock.com to learn more about my future releases or to let me know what you think of this book. I’d love to hear from you!

Happy reading!

Joanne Rock

Books by Joanne Rock

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

863—LEARNING CURVES

897—TALL, DARK AND DARING

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

26—SILK, LACE & VIDEOTAPE

48—IN HOT PURSUIT

54—WILD AND WILLING

Revealed

Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my brother Neil, who reads Kant and Nietzsche, and now me! Thank you for caring about my work.

And to Dean, for providing endlessly entertaining insights into the male perspective.

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

JACKIE BRADY STARTED TO panic when her tail fell off for the third time. Thank God for duct tape or her fuzzy pants could have well been down around her ankles before she danced her way into the restaurant.

She finished her costume adjustments and smoothed her glued-on whiskers just as the elevator doors slid open. Careful not to tread on her ailing tail, she stepped into the penthouse-level eatery of a downtown Boston brownstone. Now all she needed to do was locate the birthday boy, sing her telegram song, and then she could reclaim her Friday night as her own.

So what if her stint as a singing telegram wasn’t exactly rocket science? It paid more than her daytime work as a copywriter. Both jobs were only a means to an end anyway. She was prepared to abide a few sacrifices to achieve her dream of composing children’s music.

Besides, there was a certain nobility in any job that involved making people happy. A nobility that could scarcely be diminished by the kitty ears perched on her head.

The squeak of her tennis shoes on the polished wooden floor resounded throughout the dining area. Patrons paused between bites of mozzarella sticks and greasy chicken wings to note the cat woman strolling in their midst.

Not that Jackie cared.

But then, she’d been causing too much commotion all of her life. There was the time she decided to sing the elements of the periodic table for her science fair project. Sure she’d ruffled the feathers of all the kids who’d made robots, but she’d taken second place at the state competition. Then, just last week she’d gone out on a limb at a singing audition by transforming a rendition of a melodic herbal store jingle into a semituneful Tarzan-inspired jungle cry.

Jackie was no stranger to turning heads. Or taking risks. Sometimes they paid off, like the science fair victory. Sometimes they landed her back on the pavement singing telegrams, as last week’s unsuccessful audition proved.

Still, she wondered how she’d gotten suckered into this last-minute singing assignment when all she’d wanted to do tonight was recharge her creative batteries and develop some new song concepts. She’d had an idea rattling around in her brain—some rough lyrics for a new diet soda commercial she would polish and put on her demo tape. But the Zing-O-Gram office temp had sounded so desperate when she’d called, Jackie had no choice but to cover tonight’s late-breaking gig.

Just her luck, she had to be the only Zing-O-Gram employee on call without a date lined up for a Friday night. Nothing new there. Sure she had plenty of offers. Heck, the cat getup on its own could usually elicit a few dinner invitations in the course of an evening.

But never from the right sort of guys. Jackie wanted a man who knew how to have a good time—someone who cared more about following his heart and his dreams than the Almighty Buck. Boston was full of gorgeous men, but they all seemed to be on a relentless career fast-track that Jackie refused to enter.

Too bad.

So she would locate Gregory the birthday boy, sing him a cute song for his special day, and be on her way back to her solo Friday night. She’d be fine without a man in her life, and she’d be fine getting through tonight’s performance.

Assuming she didn’t burst a seam on this two-sizes-too-small cat costume first.

Jackie took slow, shallow breaths to ensure the black fuzzy suit stayed in place. She could handle this as long as she kept her song in a manageable octave. Those high notes had been known to strain even the best of seams—she sure as heck wasn’t about to try shattering any glass outfitted in this feline shrink-wrap. She’d just keep the tune in a comfortable range and she’d have no problem staying in her garb.

She was singing a simple ditty at a birthday party for a six-year-old boy. What could possibly go wrong?

“MAYBE SHE GOT THE address wrong,” Greg De Costa shouted into the cell phone. He couldn’t hear a damn thing over the music set at full blast in a back room of Flanagan’s.

Struggling to keep the phone against his ear while he wrestled open a new bottle of champagne, Greg ducked out of the way of a rogue dart sent sailing through the bar by a soused partygoer. He didn’t mean to hassle the office worker at Zing-O-Gram, but the stripper he’d ordered for his brother’s bachelor party was almost half an hour late.

Where was she?

The masses were starting to get restless. If he didn’t produce a naked woman soon, he’d definitely lose his audience. As the general manager for one of Boston’s major television stations, Greg couldn’t abide any event—televised or otherwise—that didn’t hold its own in the ratings. He would dance on the tables himself before he lost his viewers.

Although, no doubt, a naked woman would probably capture a larger share of the bachelor party market.

After grilling the harried woman at Zing-O-Gram for a few more minutes, Greg folded up the phone and popped another cork just as his brother stepped out of the crowd.

Mike De Costa—future bridegroom—claimed an open bottle of top-shelf champagne and proceeded to drink it as if it were a longneck. He grimaced at the label. “Since when do bachelors chug drinks with bubbles?”

“Since they have something big to celebrate, like marriage to a woman who’s nice enough to put up with you.” Greg had known Mike’s bride since kindergarten. Hannah Williams was as sweet as they came—and far too good for a guy determined to charm his way through life like Mike.

Mike swung his arms, sloshing champagne in a wide arc around himself as he did. “But look at what a catch she’s getting,” he protested.

“All six feet, two inches of burning ambition and refined taste,” Greg acknowledged, rolling his eyes.

Mike called up a belch from his toes and grinned. “You probably got me on the refined taste thing,” he admitted. “But not every woman cares about burning ambition, you know.”

“No?” Greg popped the cork on the last champagne bottle and handed it over to the waiter filling a tray of glasses.

“No.” Mike exchanged his half-finished liter bottle for a beer. “But obviously women like that are a foreign species to you.”

“I never met a species of woman I didn’t like.” Greg mopped off the bar with the waiter’s towel, a habit engrained long ago, in another bar, in another life. “I’m just not about to get serious with anyone who doesn’t understand how important it is to get ahead.”

“Then you’re a confirmed bachelor until you find an MBA-carrying superwoman. You’ve been trying to get ahead ever since the first moment you cut in front of me in line at the candy store.”

“Not this time,” Greg corrected him, reaching for Mike’s vacated bottle of champagne. “You’re ahead of me in the matrimony department with a wedding coming up in three weeks. You’re more than welcome to stay in first place.”

Truer words were never spoken. Greg needed a serious relationship like he needed his old bartending job back.

Not in this lifetime. Greg’s job was the envy of all his friends. He’d worked his butt off to carve a niche for himself among Boston’s business elite, and entanglements with the female persuasion only seemed to complicate things. What woman wanted to stick around while he worked until midnight in the studio to get just the right sound for a new commercial or wined and dined clients every weekend? After too many failed relationships and pissed-off women, Greg had learned to keep relationships simple and…brief.

His gig as a network general manager was a coup he planned to enjoy to the fullest—something he didn’t have any intention of risking for the sake of a woman.

The bachelor life couldn’t be any sweeter. To toast that fact, Greg gladly tipped the bottle to his lips, savoring the perfect finish of good champagne.

A ruckus on the other side of the bar caught his attention. Flanagan’s had a dining room at one end, a big bar in the middle, and a back room with a pool table for private parties. From his vantage point near the dartboard, Greg spied a small sea of turning heads, heard the slow rise of collective wolf whistles over the blaring music.

Greg couldn’t see the sudden center of attention with the throng of men to block his view, but he guessed either the stripper had arrived, or someone had smuggled a sexy power tool into the bar for his friends to admire.

Chances were, Zing-O-Gram had finally come through for him.

Downing another short swig from the champagne bottle—his last sip for the night so he could keep a clear head to stay in control of the party—Greg said a mental thank-you to the new arrival. Now that the stripper was here, he could move the evening along and hopefully salvage a few hours afterward to go over some demo tapes at home. As much as he wanted to ensure his brother had a good time, Greg hadn’t risen to the top of the heap at the television station by putting in the standard forty-hour work weeks. He had to review a three-mile-high stack of audio demos in a search for some fresh voice-over talent.

No sooner had he formed the thought than his senses were bombarded by the sexiest voice he’d ever heard.

“But I’m looking for Gregory…” a sultry feminine alto protested. “Is Gregory here?”

Howls of laughter emanated from the horde of males.

“Sure he’s here, honey.” Mike stepped into the fray. “He’s going to be real happy to see you.”

“I am supposed to deliver a Zing-O-Gram here, right?” Her gorgeous voice sailed over Greg’s senses. She had the sexy rasp of a torch singer.

Mike smiled, attempting to straighten his lopsided tie as he flashed her a killer grin. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Greg slid off the bar stool, still squinting into the crowd to get a glimpse of the woman behind that incredible voice. After having cut his professional teeth in radio, Greg could recognize a memorable set of pipes. The anonymous stripper had them.

The sea of men approached Greg and Flanagan’s back room wearing interchangeable goofy grins. Greg had the feeling from their expressions that he was going to get his money’s worth for tonight’s performance. The stripper must be pretty hot to inspire such fawning before she’d wriggled out of her dress.

Mike reached Greg first. He clapped his brother on the shoulder and winked, then reached into the crowd. “Here’s Gregory, honey. He’s the man responsible for the party. I think he’s ready for the show.”

Mike pulled a female from the crowd. Men parted to make room for her and her…tail?

Greg took a quick inventory of the performer he’d ordered to please tonight’s bachelor party crowd. Weathered black kitty ears nestled into the woman’s silky, cinnamon-colored hair. Bright green eyes peered back at him over long black whiskers that were slightly askew. A pink triangle artfully painted over the woman’s nose completed the feline aspect.

She might have looked like she’d danced straight off the Barney set if she hadn’t been wearing an R-rated cat costume that hugged every curvy nuance of her body.

Greg swallowed as he took in the exposed tops of her breasts, thrust up high by an outfit that had to be too small for this generously endowed creature. The only place she seemed to have any breathing room was around her waist, a tiny curve that nipped in substantially from her rounded hips.

Who knew how long his eyes lingered over those hips. Why was it the furry black getup looked sexier than any showy combination of lace and satin?

Maybe it was the tail that wound around one hip and settled along her thigh, all the way down to her…tennis shoes. Hell, he saw Nike stock in his future. The long rope of black fur seemed to stroke and caress her leg with every breath the woman took.

Meow.

Perhaps he’d taken too long admiring her…outfit. Before he could introduce himself, the cat woman stuck out her hand.

“Hi.” She squeezed his fingers in a cool, professional grip. “I’m Jackie, the entertainment. This is your party?”

Her voice slithered over him, reminding him of smoky blues cafés and sultry jazz singers.

He nodded. He’d hired her after all. “I’m Greg.” Technically, it was Mike’s party. But her bill no doubt had Greg’s name on it. Besides, he wasn’t quite ready to turn her over to Mike’s friends just yet.

There was something compelling about Jackie the cat woman-stripper. Some classy, complex edge that her whiskers and kitty ears couldn’t diminish.

She frowned for a moment. “I see. Zing-O-Gram has been a bit overloaded this week. Sorry about the confusion.”

“Not a problem,” Greg assured her, honestly. Her late arrival hadn’t thrown off his schedule too much. “You’re here now and that’s all that matters. Can I get you a drink or anything else before you get started?”

Why did he find himself wanting to delay her show? Sure he was wildly curious about the body she was hiding underneath that kitten costume. But the notion of her being so completely revealed in a bar with all of Mike’s horny friends looking on suddenly disturbed him.

He’d heard of college students earning money for their tuition this way. Is that what had convinced Jackie to don the cat suit?

Jackie licked her lips, a gesture that seemed to suit her feline garb.

Greg tracked the progress of that small, pink tongue and found his own mouth had gone dry as dust.

“I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.” She glanced longingly at the bar.

Twenty guys shouted to the bartender for water.

Jackie shuffled on her tennis shoes as if nervous. Her tail seemed to twitch in response, drawing his attention unerringly to her long legs.

If Greg didn’t know better, he’d swear he was drunk. Since when did a stripper in a two-bit cat costume turn him on to this extreme? He was twisted in knots before she’d shed so much as a glove.

He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to work out one of those knots. Maybe he’d just been working too hard lately. He hadn’t been out on a date since his disastrous break up with the lady meteorologist…three months ago?

Obviously he was sex-starved. He just hadn’t realized it until Jackie had strutted her way into his life.

But he had no intention of acting on an impulsive attraction to a seductive pussycat.

Poor choice of images.

He tried in vain to staunch the blatantly sexual thoughts bombarding his senses. He needed to give Jackie her water and then allow her free rein to do her show.

Surely once she launched into her practiced routine of seduction, Greg would lose interest. Then he could get his mind off her…tail, and back on business.

JACKIE TUCKED HER TAIL closer to her body and gulped down her water gratefully.

The cat costume had never felt blatantly erotic until Greg De Costa had looked at her in it.

The man had her overheating, inside and out, and the soaring temperature didn’t have anything to do with being embarrassed at her birthday party snafu.

No. Jackie didn’t care that a bunch of overgrown boys had hired her to sing at their friend’s birthday party. She was used to being the center of attention and their ogling stares didn’t ruffle her fur in the least.

But Greg De Costa was another story.

One look at the man had her hyperventilating—not a good thing in a costume held together with duct tape.

He was handsome in a Tom Cruise sort of way—he had the look of a cocky Boston business exec, all charm and smooth talk and control. He wore a crisp white shirt tucked into navy-blue trousers with burgundy-striped suspenders. A matching wine-colored tie hung around his neck, but he’d loosened the knot at his throat and unbuttoned the collar.

Jackie had to admire the way his suntanned skin and dark-brown hair contrasted with that pristine white shirt. He probably summered on Martha’s Vineyard and wintered at Vale. She knew the type well. Heck, she’d grown up surrounded by overprivileged men and couldn’t find all that much to recommend them.

But those guys hadn’t possessed Greg De Costa’s penetrating brown eyes.

The charismatic birthday boy didn’t look at her with the standard I-know-what-you-look-like-underneath-that-cat-costume stare. His frank gaze was at once more respectful and more intimate. He peered at her like he knew she’d rather be at home writing stanzas.

And like he’d rather be there with her.

The notion unsettled her far more than any obvious, meaningless ogling from the other twenty-some guys in Flanagan’s.

She needed to shake Greg’s mesmerizing stare, sing her song, and flee the bar before she did something stupid like wrap herself around him and start purring.

“I’m ready,” she announced, taking the situation in hand. She’d already spent too long soaking up the heated vibes of attraction zipping between her and Greg. “Shall I set up over here?” She walked to a small dance floor in the corner of Flanagan’s back room.

She could perform most anywhere, but she’d learned to take charge of her environment in this business. She liked a wall behind her, her audience in front of her. Besides, she felt more in control when she named her parameters.

The throng of men attending the party moved as one into the back room, dutifully situating themselves right where she wanted them.

She could do this. They really were as well behaved as the six-year-olds she usually performed for, even if they had greeted her with wolf whistles. At least they hadn’t tried pulling her tail.

Greg was the last man to fall in line. He prowled the perimeter of the crowd, his eyes never leaving her.

“Do you need us to set up some music?” he called over the heads of his friends as they seated themselves at cocktail tables all around her.

“I’m the music,” she announced, allowing her artistic pride to get the best of her for a moment.

She was no lip-synching performer, after all. Jackie wasn’t here to dance around in a cat costume. She was here to sing.

No room full of overgrown boys was going to make her forget it. Though heaven knew, Greg De Costa was doing a damnably good job of trying.

She closed her eyes for a moment, willing away the sensual magnetism of Greg’s eyes. She took a deep breath and quickly regretted it as the duct tape along her seam shifted under the pressure of expanding lungs.

Panic welled up in her at the thought of flashing a room full of men. She hadn’t even been able to stuff a bra underneath her too-tight costume. If the duct tape gave, her audience would be in for an eyeful.

Jackie hummed out a middle “C,” allowing the pure musical note to center her.

Three minutes and she’d be out of here. She could make it another three minutes without bursting out of her costume.

The musical note grew, reverberating through her. She relaxed and breathed, nearly forgetting about the duct tape, but not quite forgetting about Greg De Costa.

“Happy birthday to you…” Jackie launched into her song, a slightly revamped version of the birthday classic.

Was it her imagination, or did the room still once her voice hit the airwaves? Her audience grew less leering, more attentive as she belted out her song in perfect pitch.

Nothing like a good performance to soothe her nerves.

She vocalized her way into the last refrain, more confident with every note that she was going to make it out of Flanagan’s back room with kitty costume and her dignity intact.

Then her eyes collided with Greg’s.

His warm-coffee gaze wasn’t offering up heated glances anymore. Unless you could call his intense, enraptured stare heated.

He liked her voice.

She knew it as surely as if he’d spoken the words aloud. Her vocal chords were her one and only vanity, the lone genetic gift from her prodigy parents.

Men—being such visual creatures—rarely recognized her single outstanding quality. But Greg De Costa knew it, heard it, admired it.

Her heart started pounding in a way that threatened her furry shrink-wrap. Blood pulsed through her, flushing every last inch of her body with liquid heat.

Oh no.

Desire swamped her along with the closing notes of her birthday song.

“Happy birthday, dear Gregory…” Dear God, had she just called him Gregory again? She’d meant to sing it as Greg.

Nervous embarrassment joined the swirl of musical notes and sensual hunger building in her veins.

“Happy birthday to…” Her chest hammered against fuzzy black fur as her song reached its final crescendo. The duct tape strained and stretched to hold the material of her costume together.

If she had any sense she would have risked singing off-key to save her outfit.

Damn her musical pride.

“…you!” Arms flung wide, she belted out the last note like a certified opera diva.

And froze in horror as her kitty costume slid all the way to her knees.

2

GREG HAD BLOWN OUT LOTS of candles in his day, but he’d never had a birthday wish come true so fast as tonight.

Sure, he’d wanted to see Jackie naked, but he’d been so hypnotized by her phenomenal voice, it took him a minute to realize she’d ditched her whole outfit in a bolder move than he’d ever seen any stripper attempt. No one else sang their way out of their outfit, of that much he was certain.

She’d stunned the crowd so much the guys around him forgot to whistle for one long moment. Hell, Greg forgot there was even anyone else in the room as he took in her completely bared breasts. Taut pink nipples tipped slightly upward, free from any bra or those little tasseled cups some strippers wore.

The only garment she sported underneath the fallen cat clothes were flame-red panties so small they could have served double duty as a postage stamp.

Despite the panties, she couldn’t have looked any less like a stripper. She had curves in all the right places, but they probably weren’t as generous as most women in her profession. Every inch of her creamy skin was perfect, without a beauty mark or false eyelash anywhere to detract from it.

But most unstripper-like of all—she appeared absolutely mortified to be on display in front of thirty salivating men.

One lone wolf whistle pierced through the crowd and shattered the silence along with Greg’s greedy catalog of her every feature.

The sound seemed to jar the mostly naked cat woman as much as it startled Greg. Jackie folded her arms over herself to shield her body from her audience, giving Greg all the proof he needed that she didn’t want to go through with her striptease.

Screw the audience approval ratings.

Ignoring the rapidly multiplying catcalls and whistles, Greg yanked a fresh tablecloth off of a nearby busboy’s cart, disrupting at least ten glasses of champagne. With the flick of his wrist, he unfurled the white linen and cloaked Jackie’s body in a crisp blanket.

A chorus of boos echoed through the crowd of Mike’s half-baked friends.

Jackie turned grateful eyes toward Greg, cinching the makeshift cape around herself with slightly fumbling hands.

Some moron shouted from the back of the private room. “Take it off!”

An even bolder moron pushed his way to the front of the group, crunching broken glass under his feet from the disrupted bus boy’s cart. “What the hell kind of striptease was that?”

“Show’s over.” Greg kept his body between Jackie and the inebriated masses, wishing like hell he had the option of just cutting to a commercial.

He reached for Jackie, figuring the best thing to do would be to whisk her out the back entrance.

“That was not a striptease,” Jackie announced, standing on her toes to look over Greg’s shoulder at her accuser. She was obviously recovering from her bout of stage fright. “ That was an accident.”

The vehemence in her voice seemed to catch the guy off guard as much as Greg.

“I’ll say it was an accident.” The guy turned his bleary-eyed attention toward Greg, lucky for his sorry butt. “You’re trying to tell me that’s all we get from the stripper?”

“I am not a stripper.” Tennis shoes squeaked in a flurry of restless movement as Jackie fairly bristled right out of her tablecloth.

An unwelcome sense of relief washed over Greg. Why should he care whether she was or wasn’t a stripper?

“Who are you?” Greg prompted, wondering what woman in her right mind would walk into a bachelor party clad as a cat.

She drew her compact self up to her full height. Her kitty ears just reached his nose but she packed a powerful glare with intense green eyes.

“I am the Zing-O-Gram.” She enunciated every word with slow precision.

Greg bit his tongue to staunch the automatic laughter rising in his throat. He doubted anyone could make a Zing-O-Gram sound like a force to be reckoned with, but Jackie was doing a damn good job.

Even the drunken guy looked cowed before he stalked off toward the pool table, muttering under his breath until they couldn’t hear him anymore.

The rest of the crowd had failed to disperse however, and Greg didn’t like the rumblings of discontent. He needed to get Jackie out of here, fast.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so.” She hitched at the tablecloth around her shoulders, the black leggings of her costume still visible from her knee down. Apparently she had knotted the rest of the fallen outfit around her waist somehow. “Thanks to you.”

Could he help it that her words made him stand taller? “You’re really not a stripper?”

“I think I’m a few alphabets short of the right cup size to be an exotic dancer.”

His natural inclination was to allow his gaze to wander over the breasts that had received more than a passing grade from him, but that didn’t seem in keeping with his attempt to rescue her from a room full of horny bachelors. Greg closed his eyes instead, willing away memories of Jackie’s perfect body.

He was surprised when he sensed her lean closer. Soft strands of her hair slid across his shoulder. A clean, sexy perfume teased his nose.

“That means no,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m not a stripper.”

A very happy circumstance, in Greg’s book. Not that he hadn’t dated a stripper—make that exotic dancer—or two in his day. He just had a difficult time reconciling Jackie to that kind of lifestyle.

Besides, he rather liked knowing she hadn’t shared that perfect body with innumerable bachelor parties.

Greg peered around Flanagan’s until he found an exit door in the back. He nodded toward the potential escape route.

“I vote we blow this joint. Do you mind if I walk you to your car to make sure you get there safely?”

“I’m with you.” She squeezed the tablecloth to her body with determined fingers and squeaked her way across the polished wooden floor in her tennis shoes, head held high.

Greg followed in her wake glaring back at Mike’s disgruntled friends as they grumbled over losing their entertainment.

Jackie’s exit proved to be as memorable as her entrance. The cat woman might not be a stripper, but her sense of showmanship could give a seasoned stage veteran a run for the money as she sailed out the door, linen cape flying.

Greg noticed her ramrod straight posture deflated a bit once they’d made it through the exit and into a cramped stairwell, however. The slump lasted all of five seconds before Jackie turned on him and flashed him a sunny grin.

“I can handle it from here, Greg.” She offered her hand as if to seal a bargain. “Thanks for helping me out of an awkward situation.”

The strength of her citrusy perfume kicked up a notch in the small, dim space. Or maybe Greg was only more aware of her.

“I’d like to walk you to your car, if you don’t mind.” He wasn’t just saying it because he was attracted to her and her mile-long legs. No woman should navigate the streets of Boston in a shredded cat costume and a tablecloth.

“That’s okay. If you could just point me in the direction of the ladies’ room I’ll try to make some repairs to my outfit.” Her whiskers twitched as she spoke.

Greg fought the urge to smooth his fingers over them, to trace them from their tips to their source at the top of her full upper lip.

“I don’t think your costume is in any shape to be repaired.”

“Well, I can’t exactly ride the metro in a tablecloth.” Her crooked grin set the whiskers at a jaunty angle. “Besides, I need to retreat somewhere to check in with the Zing-O-Gram desk. I have the feeling our new office temp sent a stripper out to a six-year-old’s birthday party and I’d like to make sure she doesn’t unveil as much as I did tonight.”

He had trouble focusing on her words. He was in a darkened stairwell with a half-naked woman and her perfume was driving him out of his mind. Greg found himself leaning closer, trying to catch a stronger whiff of her fragrance.

Too bad she was already retreating down the stairs.

“Bye.” She managed a little wave, releasing the tablecloth with one hand for all of a nanosecond. “Thank you so much for coming to my rescue.”

Confusion jolted him out of his mission to track her scent. She was leaving?

“Wait.” He didn’t know what he was going to say next, or how he was going to make her stay.

But Greg De Costa knew one thing for certain.

No matter that Jackie the Cat looked like walking mayhem, he wasn’t ready to let her saunter out of his life just yet.

JACKIE PAUSED AND TURNED back, knowing she’d be hard pressed to deny the Adonis in corporate clothes just about anything. Had a tie ever looked so good slung around a man’s neck? Jackie’s eyes kept returning to the enticing hollow at the base of his throat, the hint of skin unveiled by one neglected top button.

He looked way too out of her league—the kind of man who dated women in understated Calvin Klein couture, not misfits in polyester kitty fur. Guys like Greg appreciated women who worked for Fortune 500 companies, women whose golf game was as low as their IQ was high.

Jackie, on the other hand, prided herself on always choosing the road less traveled or the man least likely to conform.

And Greg wasn’t exactly a rabble-rouser. She barely knew him, but his designer tie and suspenders told a story of their own.

“Yes?” She could at least see what he wanted, however. Sure, he was all wrong for her. But he had saved her from extreme mortification in the bar.

Maybe he wanted to know her whole name.

Or her number.

Or maybe a night in her bed as compensation for his gallant tablecloth rescue—a thought that didn’t deter her as much as it should have.

He loomed over her, taller than her to start with, and now he stood two steps above her in the narrow stairwell. His eyes were so dark she could no longer discern their color, but they glistened back at her in the dim light.

“Let me at least drive you home.”

“I’ll be okay.” The offer tempted her, but how could she accept a ride from a man she barely knew? A man who might have only been nice to her because he thought she’d be grateful. “But thank you.”

“Do you know someone who can come pick you up?” Greg’s brow furrowed as he frowned, the gesture adding all sorts of interesting lines to his face.

Jackie shook her head before realizing she should probably just say anything to extricate herself from this awkward social situation politely. The man was proving difficult to shake, but some part of her responded to his concern for her, too.

Jackie had always been good at drawing attention to herself—whether she’d intended to or not. But she’d never mastered the art of holding an audience’s interest, and Greg’s continued attentiveness had her feeling a little light-headed.

“Then let’s scout out a ladies’ room and I’ll tell you my plan.” Greg nudged her forward before she had the chance to register what he was saying.

His hand hovered around the small of her back, not quite touching, yet Jackie was keenly aware of its proximity.

“You need to find the ladies’ room, too?” she asked as they moved down three flights to the ground floor. Nervousness gave her the tendency to be flip.

“No. I’m sending you into the ladies’ room with my shirt so you can pull yourself together minus the tablecloth.” He was already unbuttoning his way down the crisp cotton of his white dress shirt. The intimate action sent a wave of unexpected longing through her.

Jackie couldn’t have stopped herself from peeking if she’d tried. Too bad it was so dark in the stairwell or she would have inspected every new inch of bronzed flesh on the corporate Adonis.

His tan made her own skin look ghostly pale in comparison. And the hints of muscles in the V of that unbuttoned shirt…

Jackie swallowed.

Surely the shadows were playing tricks on her.

“What will you wear home?” she asked mostly just to distract herself from thoughts she had no business thinking.

Namely her lips tracing a path along ridges of muscle defining his abs.

In the middle of that image, a vision growing more explicit by the second, Jackie remembered a popular musician’s myth that you couldn’t create works of great passion until you lost your virginity.

A silly superstition of course. But the musician’s counterpart to an old wives’ tale was well known to those in the business. She’d had a fading diva for a music teacher once who’d told her she wouldn’t be able to sing until she’d screwed.

Jackie had written off the bawdy advice with a laugh. Funny how that wisdom came roaring back in her ears as she stood drooling over Greg’s very male physique.

What was the matter with her?

“I’m a guy. I don’t need to wear a shirt home,” Greg assured her. “Besides, I live two blocks from here.”

Jackie shook herself to ward off a sudden onslaught of sexual images. She’d never suffered from too much drooling over any man, or really regretted her doggedly persistent virginity either, for that matter.

But the pangs of awareness shooting through her now had her wondering if maybe she’d been saving it up for a little too long.

They’d reached the bottom of the stairwell, and Greg shouldered his way through the heavy door onto the street. Darkness had fallen, but the streetlights still made it seem brighter outdoors. They stepped out into a short alleyway, a few feet from the street that ran along the front of the bar.

“No ladies’ room here,” Greg observed. “There must not be any access to the rest of the building from this side. Did you want to go back in the front doors?”

No. No. And hell no.

How did she get herself into these fixes? She truly did have a formidable IQ. And she had managed to ace college with a summa cum laude stamp of approval on her degree. Why did things like this always happen to her?

“No. I’ll just go with the tablecloth, thanks.” She wondered if she looked as ridiculous as she sounded. Whiskers, a tail and a tablecloth. No doubt she looked twice as ridiculous. “I can drop it by the restaurant Monday after I have it cleaned.”

A crowd of frat boys singing some college fight song stumbled out of the bar, passing the alleyway. They never noticed Jackie and Greg, but Greg stood between her and the street just in case.

She didn’t know much about this guy, but she had to admit he seemed like a gentleman. She knew lots of men who would have been more than happy to let her bumble her way out of the shredded kitty suit incident without benefit of table linens. Greg had been really nice to charge to the forefront for her.

“Look, Jackie…it is Jackie, right?” He lifted one eyebrow in query.

“Jacquelyn Brady. Jackie for short.” She offered her hand again, clinging to normal rules of polite society for a change. She seemed to have broken too many rules in one evening to be anything less than well bred for the rest of the night. “Nice to meet you.”

“Greg De Costa.” He shook her hand and flashed her a wicked grin along with a mouth full of pearly whites. “Likewise.”

Was it her imagination, or did the name sound familiar? Jackie was bad with names, but she never forgot a face. And she was positive she’d never run into Greg before. She wrote off the twinge of recognition she’d felt upon hearing his last name.

“Now that we’ve covered the introductions, I really think I’d better go.” She had auditions in the morning. She had a song to write tonight.

Mostly, she needed to escape Greg De Costa and his way too seductive chest before she did something she regretted. Like inch down her tablecloth and plaster herself to him for a good-night kiss he wouldn’t soon forget.

Greg dug into his pants pocket and emerged with a cell phone as thin as a credit card. “Do me a favor and call Zing-O-Gram first to be sure Gregory doesn’t get the surprise of a lifetime at his birthday party.”

How could she refuse? Jackie hated to think somewhere a six-year-old boy was getting an eyeful ten years too early. Almost as bad was the thought that somewhere in Boston there was a six-year-old boy whose special surprise never arrived.

Jackie would stay with Greg just long enough to straighten out the mix-up before she went home. Then she’d put her tennis shoes in high gear so she could put some serious space between her and a slick charmer like Greg De Costa.

She needed to escape those dangerous abs.

And those sexy suspenders.

And the stupid voice in her head that kept suggesting the time had arrived to follow her old music teacher’s advice and unleash the power of her singing voice.

3

GREG WATCHED JACKIE conduct her half of the phone conversation, admiring the way she could cradle the receiver, gesture wildly to express herself and still hold the tablecloth in a death grip.

How could he not admire a woman who possessed the body of a goddess and the ability to multitask?

He had to admit, Jackie Brady was very appealing, even if she spoke “disaster” with the fluency of a second language.

But he was only going to try and convince her to let him drive her home.

And maybe angle for a good-night kiss.

He just wanted one taste of those cat-woman lips and then he’d be able to walk away. No doubt a woman like Jackie with her penchant for trouble could have a man chasing his own damn tail in no time.

No way was Greg getting sucked into that again. He had recently dated a co-worker who thought Greg could help her advance from weather girl to head meteorologist. She’d ended up broadcasting a hurricane update with a picture of Greg’s face glued in the eye of the storm and had nearly cost him his job. Then there was the lady lawyer. A safe enough choice right? She’d chased ambulances right along with Greg’s camera crews, only too happy to have an “in” on late-breaking news.

So, even though Jackie happened to have the most phenomenal breasts he’d ever seen, the most tantalizing voice he’d ever heard, he didn’t have any intentions of pursuing anything with her. He was swearing off women until he could get his professional life back in order. He could settle for a kiss though, couldn’t he?

The door to the stairwell opened behind them just as Jackie hung up the phone. His brother stepped halfway into the alley, propping the heavy exit door with one shoulder.

“The real stripper is here,” Mike announced, scarcely articulating the words around a pink rose clamped between his teeth. He shot a sheepish grin at Jackie. “No offense to you, of course, miss.”

Jackie smiled right back at him, sparking a pang in Greg he could only guess was jealousy.

“None taken.” She tweaked the stem of Mike’s flower. “I’m glad to see Rosie is back on track at the right assignment.”

“And how.” Mike clutched his heart as if he’d fallen in love all over again. “Rosie’s a beauty, Greg. You coming upstairs?”

“No thanks. I’m taking Jackie home.” Greg knew without a doubt any other woman would pale in comparison to Jackie, no matter how many more alphabets Rosie boasted for a cup size.

Mike offered up a drunken salute while Jackie made a strangled sound and started backing away.

Greg had to jog to catch her. “Wait up, Jackie—”

She turned on him in a flurry of red hair and white linen. “Why? So you can take me home?” Her green eyes sparkled fire like some sort of 3D-animated video game warrior woman. “Don’t men even ask permission first? Or I suppose you just assume that because I flashed you a bit more than I’d intended that I must want company for the night.”

“Hey wait a minute—”

“No, you wait a minute.” She pointed at him with one unadorned finger, one unpainted fingernail. “I am definitely not interested, so you can take your suspenders and your muscles and all the charming chat and you can find someone else to bring home with you tonight.”

Greg had to remind himself he was not a fan of histrionics or furious females. For a moment, he regretted the fact because Jackie Brady definitely had a knack for the dramatic.

Although her diatribe probably fell somewhat short of her desired impact given that she was still wearing the kitty whiskers. The fuzzy ears. The pink nose painted over her own.

When she stomped off in her tennis shoes, however, Greg pulled himself together and chased after her.

Careful to keep his distance, he ran alongside her, layering on the “charming chat.” He’d never had any woman refer to his blunt manner of speaking as anything remotely close to charming.

“Jackie.” He waited until she shot him an evil glare. Was he so totally sick that the green daggers she shot his way turned him on? “I won’t apologize for being interested, because I am.”

She harrumphed and tugged her tail closer, checking the street for a cab that probably wouldn’t appear at this hour.

“But I only meant to say I wanted to escort you to your home, to make sure you got there okay.” He watched her as she thought over his words. He could practically see her recount their conversation mentally, her eyes darting across the landscape, unseeing, as she reviewed the exchange in her mind.

She slowed to a stop. “You meant you wanted to take me home…to my home?”

He halted in front of her, still careful not to crowd her. “Yes.”

“So you didn’t mean to imply for a minute that you were spending the night with me?”

Was it his imagination, or did she sound vaguely disappointed?

“I just don’t like the idea of you wandering around the city in that torn getup all by yourself. You might attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“Then I appreciate the offer.” A smile spread across her whole face.

“My car is just up here on the left—”

“I never accept rides with strangers though.” She rocked back and forth on the heels of her tennis shoes. “I don’t know you that well.”

“But how can I see you home if you won’t let me drive you?” He looked up and down the street. “I haven’t seen a cab since we left the bar.”

“You uptown boys.” Shaking her head in mock despair, she reached underneath the folds of her oversized toga and came up with two silver coins. Tokens in fact. “Welcome to my world, Greg. You’re going to love the metro.”

Great. Just great.

He’d known Jackie for all of half an hour and already she was making him revisit a past he wanted to leave far behind. How could a woman turn his life upside down so fast?

Still, he was powerless to say no. Some die-hard notion of honor told him he couldn’t leave Jackie until he knew she was safe. He squeezed his eyes shut for a bracing two seconds, then plucked one token out of her hand.

He had the feeling he was in for the ride of his life.

JACKIE SWITCHED HER tail from one hand to the other, watching Greg sway along with the green line subway train. She’d secured her pants and buttoned Greg’s shirt as high as it would go, but she still wore her tablecloth as a shawl for good measure. They’d already changed trains once, and now they were headed toward Jackie’s apartment near Boston College.

What a night.

She couldn’t believe she was being escorted home by Mr. Way Too Corporate, Greg De Costa. She still thought his name sounded familiar. Maybe she’d just read about him in the business pages of the Globe or something.

He looked incredibly out of place here. After he’d insisted she wear his dress shirt, he’d bought a Boston Bruins shirt for himself from a street vendor near the subway station. The black and yellow shirt made for an interesting contrast with his pleated dress pants. He’d stuffed his tie in his pants pocket.

But even with his offbeat garb, Greg managed to look worlds apart from the Friday night subway crowd. Jackie had laughed when he whipped an old-fashioned monogrammed handkerchief out of his pocket and dusted off a seat for her before she sat down.

Greg was all class and manners, the sort of man her parents would adore. The sort of man Jackie normally avoided more than tea parties.

Of course, staying away from Greg would be a lot easier if he didn’t look so appealing even in the tackiest tourist T-shirt.

Jackie hugged her arms closer to her body.

“Warm enough?” Greg asked, tugging on a corner of the tablecloth.

Given the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra, Jackie had thought it would be best to keep something more than Greg’s cotton dress shirt between her and the rest of the world. Just knowing that he’d worn the same shirt an hour ago over his own bare chest did shivery things to her body, especially with the woodsy notes of his cologne teasing her nose.

She nodded, her voice rusty in her throat. She could not afford to catch a chill the night before auditions. Not to mention, she kept hoping for a big callback on Monday from WBCI, Boston’s biggest network affiliate station. She’d made a killer demo tape for them last week, and they were supposedly eager for new voice-over talent.

The voice-over work could be her long-awaited big break, especially given that she’d probably blown the audition for the herbal store with her impromptu jungle-themed song.

Oh well. Win some, lose some. Jackie lived by her own luck, and she had a good feeling about the network job.

“The next stop is Boston College,” Greg reminded her, swiveling in his seat to catch a glimpse of the signs outside the window as flashes of light zipped past them in the darkened tunnel. “Is that where we want to get off?”

His leg brushed hers as he moved, the rattle of the train car pushing them together all the more. The summer-weight wool of his pants scratched lightly against her thigh and what remained of her fuzzy leggings. She’d tied the leftover top of her shredded costume around her waist to serve as a belt, but Jackie kept checking and rechecking the knot. It wouldn’t surprise her if she lost the pants, too. It had been that kind of night.

“Yes, this is me.” Jackie stood carefully, clutching a pole for support as the train’s brakes hissed to a stop. “But you don’t need to walk me home, Greg. I’m just glad I didn’t have to ride the metro by myself like this.”

He glared at her with a look that said she was being more difficult than she had any right to be, a look her parents had perfected a long time ago. Was it her fault she didn’t do everything in life with perfect aplomb?

“I’m coming with you,” Greg reproved her, following her off the train and into the subway station.

A lone guitarist strummed a lively tune, entertaining a small crowd who’d been waiting for the green line. As the musician lost his audience to the train Greg and Jackie had just departed, Greg tossed several bills into the guy’s hat.

“That was very nice of you,” Jackie whispered as they walked away across scuffed ceramic tiles. The train groaned into motion behind them, drowning out the guitar as they climbed the steps to street level.

“Subway entertaining is a tough field,” Greg informed her, surprising her with his empathy for a guy who looked like he hadn’t washed in several days.

Greg appeared to scope out the street scene around them, then situated himself between the traffic thoroughfare and Jackie. She wondered what he thought of her neighborhood. Did it look old to his eyes? Or were the sturdy brownstones full of character to him the way they always had been to Jackie?

He scarcely touched her as they strolled through the warm spring night, but his presence loomed all around her as he steered her around a few late-night pedestrians, nudged her forward when lights changed from “Do Not Walk” to “Walk.”

“Have you ever entertained in a subway?” Jackie asked, easily slipping into “flip” mode now that she was nervous and combating attraction full steam again.

“No. But I spent a summer entertaining in a rowdy bar, so I can project those difficulties multiplied.”

The battalion of flip remarks dried up on her tongue. The image of Greg as a nightclub performer didn’t match her impression of him at all. Maybe he was an artist in disguise. A fact that would make a fling with him more of a real possibility.

She wouldn’t risk dating some corporate yes-man who ignored his own dreams in deference to the almighty dollar, but maybe she could take a chance on an artist who supported himself with a day job.

“You? Barroom entertainment?” Some of her nervousness vanished as she reprocessed her vision of Greg De Costa. Maybe he wasn’t as highbrow as she’d initially thought. Maybe he wouldn’t shudder at the thought of a little adventure in life. Or misadventure, as so often was the case with Jackie.

“It was a long time ago.” Greg looked up at the buildings as they trekked down Jackie’s street. “What did you say your number was?”

“Three sixty-three.” She didn’t want to go home just yet. She was only just starting to find out the interesting stuff. “What kind of entertaining did you do?” The flip demon made a small resurgence. “Were you a stripper?”

He shook his head, but he couldn’t hide the beginnings of a grin. “Hardly.”

“A guitarist?”

“I played piano.”

Nothing could have doused her interest faster. Both her mother and father played classical piano, touring with various philharmonics and orchestras when they weren’t teaching out of their palatial Back Bay home.

Jackie played everything but the piano. Her favorite instruments were things like banjos and steel guitars. Instruments that drove her parents insane and proved to Jackie she wanted different things out of life than what they’d already achieved.

“I see.” She started hunting for her building in earnest, realizing she’d been foolish to think Mr. Corporate would appreciate something outside the traditional realm. He probably had a Steinway in his living room, first class all the way.

“I take it you don’t like the piano?” Greg asked, his pace slowing as they drew toward Jackie’s door.

Her brownstone was the only one on the block with a burgundy-colored door and big bushes of purple heather out front. Both were her touches, little extras her elderly landlord was only too happy to receive.

The street was quiet. There wasn’t much activity on Jackie’s block, even on the weekends. The college students lived a few blocks over, far enough away to keep the noise level down, close enough to support lots of inexpensive restaurants and artsy pubs.

Right now, the only noise she heard was Greg’s silky baritone and the soft hum of the streetlights.

She shrugged. “I like the piano.”

“Let me guess, you prefer the piccolo. Or maybe a big set of cymbals.” Greg stuffed his hands in his pockets and tilted one shoulder into a nearby streetlamp.

“As it happens, I love a good pair of cymbals. And I can play a mean kazoo.”

“Do you always take the road less traveled, Jackie Brady?” He studied her with the aid of the streetlight, his brown eyes probing hers for answers she wasn’t ready to give.

“What does it look like?” She twitched her whiskers by scrunching up her nose and maneuvering her lips.

“It looks like you’re hell-bent for mayhem, lady.” He lifted himself away from the lamppost and walked closer to her. Slowly. Steadily.

Her heart picked up a jaunty beat, drumming heat through her in an insistent rhythm.

Jackie was ready. Willing. Hungry for a taste of Greg.

What did it matter if he could play piano? If he lived in corporate paradise and liked to stick to the rules? Jackie could still kiss him.

She could still see where a kiss led.

She could still fantasize about losing her virginity to a man who could unlock her passionate nature and free the artist inside her.

He paused a foot in front of her, his square shoulders and tanned arms making her insides turn warm and liquid.

She was probably supposed to wait for him to kiss her, but Jackie had never been one to play by the rules.

Especially not when a risk this tempting was so close at hand.

GREG HAD EVERY INTENTION of kissing her.

He’d been dying to taste those lips ever since she’d strutted through Flanagan’s in whiskers and cat ears.

He just hadn’t planned on doing it so fast.

Just when he’d been sizing up the situation, taking in the details of her curves and nuances so he could wring out every possible bit of pleasure from it for both of them, Jackie dropped her tablecloth. Before he could fully appreciate the view of her braless body underneath his shirt, she plastered herself against him for the most mind-blowing kiss he’d ever experienced.

She was like a sensory explosion, swamping every inch of him with tantalizing sensations. Her lips swayed over his in slow undulations, leaving him no choice but to seek entrance to her mouth for a more thorough taste.

Sweet and complex. Jackie tasted like a dessert wine and left him hungering for more.

But all the while he tried to drink in her taste, she was tormenting his chest with the soft nudge of her breasts. No elaborate contraptions of Lycra or spandex hid her from him, only the cotton of their shirts. Taut crests peaked against him, reminding him of what she looked like naked. He could envision those breasts, those upturned nipples, perfectly.

And the memory was killing him.

“Jackie.” He pulled away in slow degrees only because he had to. They were in the middle of the sidewalk for crying out loud. “Jackie?”

He kissed her one last time, or so he told himself it would be one last time, before backing up a step, still holding her hands. He wanted to go upstairs with her and unveil her body at his leisure, not maul her in full view of her neighbors.

He hadn’t counted on seeing her eyes still closed, her lips still thrust forward even after his retreat.

Something inside him turned to mush at the sight. He hoped like hell it was only his brain.

“Jackie?” He squeezed her fingers in his hands.

She smiled before she opened her eyes. “Hmm?”

The sound of a window opening somewhere in the building behind them reminded Greg of their public surroundings.

Greg stepped close again, more than willing to continue this inside her apartment even if they were as compatible as oil and water. They obviously had serious chemistry going despite being as different from one another as night and day.

He always did have a hard time learning a lesson.

He could take one more chance on a woman without getting overly distracted, right? He’d go to work in the morning, listen to his desk full of demo tapes, and crawl back into bed with Jackie. A relationship didn’t have to interfere with his work, damn it.

“Do you mind if I come inside?” It didn’t seem like that big of an assumption in light of the kiss she’d just given him.

“What?” Her green eyes sharpened into focus immediately.

“I mean, do you want me to come upstairs with you?”

Greg was surprised to realize he was practically holding his breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted a woman this bad. Had he ever wanted a woman this much?

“Maybe we’d better not.” The flash of innocence in her eyes as she declined sent warning bells clanging in his head.

Greg ignored them.

Jackie released his fingers, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d just shot him down harder than anyone else ever had.

She scooped her tablecloth off the sidewalk and wrapped it around her.

“But maybe we could see each other again?” she prompted, her throaty voice practically purring with feminine satisfaction.

She wanted to see him again.

His breath returned, clearing his head in time for him to form a response.

“How about next weekend?” He had to be careful not to ask her out for tomorrow. As much as he wanted Jackie, he could not afford to let any woman twist his life around and make him forget his priorities. Not now when he finally had the world by the tail.

Tail.

His eyes dropped to Jackie’s feline accoutrements, amazed how his every thought already twined with images of her.

“Sounds good.” She nodded, a small smile curling her perfect lips.

He couldn’t be sure in the dim light, but he thought maybe she blushed.

Digging in his wallet for his business cards, he thought maybe she was just an old-fashioned girl. He’d heard they still existed. Women who didn’t sleep with someone on the first date. Women who still blushed.

Greg definitely approved. He just hadn’t pegged outrageous cat woman Jackie as one of those women.

He scribbled down her number on the back of one card and gave her another one in case she needed to reach him.

Who knew? Maybe she’d change her mind midweek and decide she couldn’t wait for the weekend.

Fat chance.

Greg had the feeling he’d lucked into meeting a woman who would be well worth a little time away from the office. A woman who wasn’t into playing games—despite the fact that she favored painting her nose pink and strutting through town wearing cat’s ears.

“You’re okay from here then?” Greg asked, not wanting to lose gentlemanly points this late into their evening together.

“I’m okay from here.” She backed toward her front steps, smiling.

No repeat good-night kiss. Greg couldn’t help the surge of disappointment. He’d been hoping maybe there’d be one more kiss to seal the deal.

Still, he wanted to roar with satisfaction that there would be more kisses, and who knew what else, in store. He had the feeling he’d have a hard time concentrating on his demo tape review tomorrow after the way she’d just set his veins on fire. But he only had a week to go to see her again.

Until then, he planned to stock up on dessert wine.

FROM THE SAFETY OF HER building’s well-lit foyer, Jackie tracked Greg’s progress down her street until she couldn’t see him anymore.

She’d made a date with Mr. Corporate and she was feeling pretty damn giddy about it. The memory of his touch would taunt her until next weekend.

She looked down at the business card in her hands, scarcely daring to believe her good luck. Flipping it over, she read the words printed there.

Greg De Costa. General Manager.

WBCI, Channel Twelve.

The card wavered in her suddenly trembling hand.

Oh no.

Jackie watched her fledgling career crash and burn right before her eyes.

Her bachelor party hero had turned out to be more than a ritzy member of Boston’s business elite. No, that would have been far too tame for her. She’d flashed her breasts at the man who held her professional future in his hands—the veritable god of the commercial jingle world, the Zeus of recording contracts in Boston.

No wonder his name had sounded so familiar to her. Jackie had just mailed him a copy of her demo last week.

Before she’d fawned all over him. Before she’d fallen out of her kitty costume and shown him more than any man had ever seen.

Before she’d totally blown her credibility as a serious commercial talent.

What was he going to think when he opened her application materials and discovered her name on a new demo? He was going to think what any man would think—that Jackie had gone out of her way to put herself in his path today. That she’d put on a show for him to help land a job.

Maybe she hadn’t been so lucky tonight after all.

Jackie squeezed her eyes shut, knowing she was going to have to do some serious tap dancing to maneuver her way around this disaster. But after failing at one career—her cherished dream of composing more complex music—Jackie refused to screw up another.

Later, she’d figure how she could still land the voice-over slot without looking like she’d manipulated Greg.

But first things first. She didn’t stand a shot in hell at that job if Greg unearthed her tape now. Before she did anything else, she needed to make a trip to WBCI to get her demo back.

Good thing Jackie was used to turning heads and causing a commotion. She had the feeling she’d have to do a little of both if she wanted to straighten out this mess.

4

WBCI SAT ON THE outskirts of Boston, a high-tech television studio in a less than stellar part of town.

Greg didn’t mind the long commute. His car had state-of-the-art German engineering to smooth the back roads full of potholes, and today, he had a gorgeous woman on his mind to occupy his thoughts.

What he didn’t have was a new voice-over talent for the station.

That failing clouded his mood as he pulled into his primo reserved parking space in front of the building. He hefted his briefcase out of the car, the dozens of nixed demo tapes inside adding considerably to its weight.

What he hadn’t heard on any of these demo tapes was a voice like Jackie Brady’s. Had his listening ear been prejudiced after the sweet seduction of her perfect pitch? Or had there genuinely been no good candidates for the station’s in-house voice-over vacancy?

He mulled over the question on the way to his office. The penthouse in this relatively short building was only on the sixth floor, but it didn’t matter to Greg, who preferred to spend time getting work done as opposed to gazing out the window.

Of course, no matter how much Jackie’s singing voice haunted his dreams and possibly biased his professional opinions, Greg had to be grateful there was no chance they would ever be working together. He’d seen firsthand how detrimental a personal relationship could be to a professional one. Ever since the meteorologist incident, Greg made sure not to mingle his personal and professional lives.

Therefore, no matter how much he kept thinking Jackie would be a great voice-over talent, he counted his blessings she was safely involved in another career. He would keep her and her cat whiskers in his private life and figure out another way to solve his station’s dilemma.

Exiting the elevator into the sixth-floor lobby, Greg sensed trouble brewing. More than half the seats in the small reception area were occupied by WBCI employees. Every single one of those employees looked up expectantly as he sought his office.

He almost had the door unlocked when the barrage of questions began. Ten seconds later he was swarmed.

The engineer from the editing room pushed her way to the front of the pack. She was poker buddies with the lady meteorologist who’d caused Greg so much grief and she didn’t waste any opportunity to give him a hard time. “Greg, I’ve got to polish up the department store commercials this week to show the client. Any word on an in-house person for the voice-over, or do you want me to freelance it out?”

“Same here, Greg,” called one of his right-hand producers from the back of the crowd. “I need a voice for the Pink Lady Club and you told me you didn’t want one of our news anchors to fill in for a risqué spot like that. Didn’t you say you’d have some talent contracted by today?”

Greg worked the lock behind his back while he doled out smooth assurances. “I’ve just got to iron out the contract details.” As the lock gave, he backed his way into his private offices. “Give me a couple of hours to nail things down and I’ll have a name for you this afternoon.”

He hoped.

Assuming he could put Jackie’s voice behind him for a few hours and concentrate on the few remaining tapes that might have filtered their way onto his desk over the weekend. If that didn’t work, he’d dig through the pile of demos in his briefcase all over again until he found the right sound.

Tossing his keys across the desk and stabbing a few computer keys, Greg assured himself he could do this.

He just needed total focus and concentration.

What he didn’t need was a body lying on his camel-colored leather office couch.

Holy…

“Hey, Greg.” His brother Mike rose out of the tangled chenille throw blanket and a rumpled dinner jacket he had obviously tossed over his body, then propped himself up on an elbow. “Hope you don’t mind I crashed here last night.”

Greg dropped his briefcase to the floor with a thud. “How did you get in?”

“You gave me a backup key when you took this job, remember?” Mike shrugged, the casual gesture belying his shell-shocked expression. “I hope it wasn’t a big deal. Hannah dumped me last night and I—didn’t feel like going home.”

Son of a…

Greg sank into his oversized leather office chair, allowing the news to roll over him. “What do you mean she dumped you? You’re getting married.”

“I guess one of the waitresses at Flanagan’s used to work in the cafeteria where Hannah teaches school. Hannah got wind of the naked women at the bachelor party and she lost it. Told me I’ve only got eyes for other women—Jesus, Greg, you know that’s not true.”

“Yeah I know, but how the hell does Hannah know? You’ve got a tendency to lay on the charm with females.” Mike had a reputation that went back to high school.

“I’m a gentleman, damn it. That’s why I’m nice to women in general. That’s why I don’t—indulge myself—with my future wife. I’m showing her some respect.” Mike tugged down his shirt cuffs to straighten his sleeves, not making eye contact.

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