# Emmy And The Boss

Penny McCusker

He Always Gets What He Wants… Efficiency expert Emmy Jones plans everything down to the last detail. But when her fiancé dumps her–leaving her wedding list and orderly life in tatters–she wonders if she'll ever find someone to love. It certainly can't be the tall, dark, much too attractive stranger who's making a beeline for her table! And He Wants Her!Nick Porter needs Emmy to save his company. But who's going to save him from the adorable blonde with the flyaway curls who's keeping Nick's mind on anything but business? Behind Emmy's clipboard and stopwatch is a woman who wants the same things he does. She just doesn't know it yet!

## Emmy and the Boss. Penny McCusker


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## Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

## Chapter One

Emmy Jones loved lists. You could, in fact, say that lists were her life. In her estimation nothing was quite as satisfying as knowing exactly what needed to be done and checking the tasks off one by one until the list was complete, then filing it away in the neat folder in the drawer where she kept her completed lists.

Organization was big with Emmy, too.

Lists and a good filing system couldn’t fix her wild blond hair—a tub of gel and a professional to apply it couldn’t get her curls to lie flat and sleek—or tone down her freckles or shrink her to a more moderate height than her lanky five-foot-nine. But lists could keep her life in order, and order was something that had been in short supply in Emmy’s formative years.

She believed in lists.

Lists had never failed her, and she’d never failed them. Until today.

Today, her fiancé had dumped her, making it practically impossible for her to finish her wedding list, which ended, obviously, with the actual wedding. The easiest way to solve the problem would have been to get Roger back, but she refused to do that. There were some things more important than lists—not caving in to a man who called her names, for instance. That was more important.

Rigid, he’d called her. Inflexible. She’d refrained from pointing out that those two words meant the same thing and the least he could do if he was dumping her was not waste her time by repeating himself. But then, it didn’t take long to fling out a couple of accusations and walk out the door. Or much courage.

“I’m better off without him,” she said to her best friend in the whole world, Melinda Masterson, who’d dropped whatever legal-eagle busy work she was doing to hurry into downtown Boston and keep Emmy from drinking herself into a stupor—which would have taken exactly two drinks. “He’s a boring, insensitive, egotistical, boring—”

“You said boring twice.”

“He’s twice as boring as most people.”

“I thought that was what you liked about him.”

“I liked that he was dependable.”

“Well, he was so dependable you could count on him to carry every conversation. Talking about himself.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Personally, I’m looking forward to forgetting him.” Lindy took a healthy swig of her martini to kick off the process, at least in the short run. “You should be, too, Emmy. You didn’t really love him.”

“I kept the ring.” Emmy turned the white gold engagement band with its single conservative diamond around and around on her finger, feeling her first sense of loss at the idea of taking it off. Maybe she hadn’t loved Roger, but she’d liked him. He was a nice, steady, unassuming man who never demanded more of her than she was willing to give. Until this morning. Suddenly he’d wanted to know why they never held hands or spent Sunday afternoon cuddled together on the sofa. He’d wanted longing looks and secret smiles. He’d wanted sex to last more than ten minutes. She wasn’t exactly the one ringing the bell on that particular alarm clock, and he thought she could do something to keep him on the job longer? Well, maybe he was right.

“He met someone else,” she concluded wondering why she hadn’t seen it right off the bat. He’d found a woman who’d made him realize he wanted more than the pleasant, comfortable rut they’d dug together.

“I could sue him for breach of contract. I am your lawyer.”

“It’s not worth the aggravation.”

“And you don’t really have any damages to claim, because if you ask me, he did you a favor.”

“Then I guess I should give him the ring back.”

“I say we hock it and fly to Vegas.”

“I can’t,” Emmy said, actually wishing, if only for a moment, that she could.

Lindy was everything she wasn’t. Petite, beautiful, wonderfully spontaneous. Emmy might have occasionally yearned to borrow Lindy’s spur-of-the-moment, completely worry-free philosophy toward life, but the truth was if she hadn’t been motivated to change for the man she’d intended to marry then she must be hopelessly set in her ways. “I have a new client,” she said, feeling her world shift back into place again. “And it’s a long way from Boston to Vegas. Hocking this ring will only get us halfway.”

“True.” Lindy gave the ring a look that couldn’t have been more disdainful if she’d had a degree in gemology and a loupe up to her eye. “When you were describing Roger you should have substituted cheap for boring.” Both times, the tone of her voice said. “So what are you going to do? Besides work, I mean.”

“I don’t know. There’s the hall, and the photographer—”

“And your list says you’re getting married in three weeks, so…What? You’re going to find some other guy? And if he’s the same size as Roger, the tuxedo will fit him so that’s one less detail that’ll need to be dealt with?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emmy said, “the tuxedo can be changed right up to the last minute.”

Lindy laughed, which was what Emmy had intended. She’d been joking, of course. But there really should be something besides losing a deposit on the hall driving her to hang on to a fiancé who didn’t want her. Love was the obvious reason, but she wasn’t sure she believed in love—another saddlebag she was carrying around from her childhood. Not a lot of love floating around in the foster-care system. Mostly the people did it for the money. For herself, Emmy would settle for compatibility and affection. “How hard can it be to find another fiancé?”

“The guy at the end of the bar is kind of cute. You could slip something in his drink, or hide in an alley and coldcock the first likely man that comes along.”

“I could hit you over the head and then I wouldn’t have to finish this conversation.”

Emmy waited, but there was no smart-aleck retort from Lindy. She’d frozen with her martini glass to her mouth, staring over the rim.

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“I found him.” The glass thunked onto the tabletop, sloshing vermouth and gin over the rim.

Lindy tended to be a drama queen, but it had to be something earth-shattering for her to waste good alcohol, so Emmy turned around, peering through the midafternoon gloom of the hotel barroom. “The guy by the door? Tall, dark and disheveled?”

“He’s yummy.”

“He’s messy.” His hair looked like it had been attacked with a hacksaw, he sported a pair of worn-out jeans and a long-sleeved Henley shirt that had seen better days, and he needed a shave. “It’s the middle of the afternoon on a workday and he’s dressed like a bum.”

“He could change his clothes, or better yet take them off entirely.”

“He’d probably leave them on the floor.”

“You’re no fun.”

Roger had accused her of that, too, Emmy recalled. It was harder to ignore the comment coming from her best friend, even though she knew Lindy wasn’t serious.

Emmy had never pictured a man with his clothes off, but once she tried it she discovered some definite advantages—and not the ones she might have suspected. She hadn’t considered herself a judgmental person either, but she realized she had a tendency to jump to conclusions about people based on what she saw on the outside. Once she ignored the packaging, all she saw was a tall man with dark hair, a five o’clock shadow, and a smile that lit up his entire face and threatened to spill over into the room. She knew that because he’d turned that smile on her, full wattage, and she definitely felt brighter. And warmer.

She mentally slapped the worn jeans and ratty shirt back on him before her temperature increased to a point where she risked setting off the overhead sprinklers. “Okay, maybe you have a point.”

“And you didn’t even have to make a list. Go talk to him.”

“I have a client meeting me here…fifteen minutes ago.”

“He’s probably not coming. And since you have the next forty-five minutes dedicated to speaking with a man, why don’t you see if this guy is willing to fill in?”

“My client is late, that’s all.” Not everyone had her sense of punctuality—hence the need for an efficiency expert. “He’ll show up.”

“Not before that guy does.”

Sure enough, the man at the door was threading his way between the tables aiming, unmistakably, for theirs. And now that he was closer, Emmy could see his eyes. If his smile was trouble, his eyes were pure catastrophe, brown and warm and…interested. In her.

She grabbed Lindy’s martini and downed what was left of it in one long gulp.

“Uh-oh. What was that for?”

“That was in case I do something stupid. Then when I wake up tomorrow morning I’ll have something to blame it on.”

“Sounds promising. Are you planning to wake up alone?”

“Yes.” Absolutely. Not having anything to do with this man. When he got to the table she’d let Lindy do all the talking. But if he kept looking at her like that, there was no telling what would happen. Because when he looked at her like that she couldn’t think of a single reason why she shouldn’t ditch Lindy and her client and spend the rest of the day figuring out why this complete stranger knocked the lists right out of her head.


SHE WAS the wrong woman. Nick Porter knew that, even if he couldn’t seem to keep his feet from carrying him in her direction. Sure, she had blond hair and blue eyes, which was the description he’d been given, but the blond hair was a head full of flyaway curls and the eyes were as blue as…something really, really blue.

There was more than one blond woman in the hotel bar, but this was the one Nick wanted to meet, which was convenient since he found himself standing beside her table. Unfortunately, his brain wasn’t routing anything to his mouth so all he could do was stare at her, while she looked back at him with a quizzical, slightly amused expression on her face.

“Mr. Right?”

“What?” Nick glanced toward the sound of that voice, realizing for the first time there was another woman sitting at the table. The only response that came to mind was “you’re in my seat,” so he turned his attention back to the blonde and let the sight of her chase that rude comment out of his brain.

“That’s my cue to leave,” the second woman said. “I stand corrected, Emmy. It may be as easy to replace Roger as you think. And you get to trade up, too. Why did I ever doubt you?”

“The lists never fail,” Emmy said.

“I don’t think it’s the list. I think it’s testosterone.”

Nick filtered their exchange through the impact the blonde’s smile had on him, only picking up necessary information, such as her name. Emmy.

“Here, Mr…”

“Porter,” he said absently, taking the chair the other woman vacated. “Nick Porter.”

“Oh,” Emmy said.

“You don’t like my name?”

“Your name is fine. It just means you’re my client.” She watched her friend make her way to the door, and when she turned to him again, she’d traded in her resigned expression for one that was pleasantly blank. Businesslike. “I’m Emily Jones. Jones Consulting.”

“Emmy,” he corrected before the rest of her introduction battered its way through the brick wall of attraction he felt toward her. “You’re the efficiency expert?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” he asked again, because he couldn’t quite believe it. No self-respecting efficiency expert would go around looking so adorable. Efficiency experts carried clipboards and stopwatches and dressed in neat suits, not skirts and sweaters that tried for conservative without any real hope of pulling it off. They didn’t slam back martinis, they nursed gin and tonics to make sure they didn’t consume more than one ounce of alcohol per hour. And they were supposed to be all about work, not about driving every thought of it from a man’s mind.

“I’m the efficiency expert,” she insisted.

She was dishonesty in advertising is what she was, Nick decided. All that soft-looking blond hair and those big blue eyes, and she expected him to focus on business? But he took the hand she held out and immediately he was fine with that. “So you’re the efficiency expert,” he said. “Good.” Now he didn’t have to feel guilty for almost blowing off his meeting. Okay, so there wouldn’t have been a whole lot of guilt, since one of his best friends from college—also known as his banker—had strong-armed him into this thing to begin with. It was that or no loan, and he really needed a loan.

The company he’d taken over from his father had been showing a little red ink lately, but it was just a temporary downturn in business. A loan would do the trick, Nick had decided, help Porter and Son last until the slow economy got back on its feet. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy as that. He’d been turned down by nearly every bank in Boston. Except the bank where his friend worked, and even that approval came with a condition. Hire a consultant, get a turnaround plan and use the loan to put it into practice. Nick had no choice but to follow those instructions, at least until he got the damn loan. Then he’d put his own turnaround plan into place. He wasn’t sure exactly what that plan might entail, but he knew that he was going to get his father’s company back on track. And it wasn’t going to take any efficiency expert to do it. All he needed was a great group of employees who’d been with the business for years, and some good old-fashioned hard work and determination….

He looked into Emmy Jones’s sparkling eyes and forgot all about his plans and his objections and his need to dig deep and find some determination inside himself before it was too late. He forgot about his banker/friend and his employees and the weight of his father’s legacy. When he looked at Emmy Jones his mind went on vacation and the rest of him was left to run the show. Not good. He’d come here to get rid of the efficiency expert; kissing her wouldn’t exactly accomplish that goal. And he wanted, badly, to kiss her. At least for starters.

“Why don’t we go over the contract?” she suggested.

Nope, Nick didn’t want to do that, but they had to talk about something or he was going to do something they’d both regret—all right, he wouldn’t regret it, but he’d probably get slapped. “Who’s Roger and why do you have to replace him?” he asked, seizing on the first thing that popped into his head that didn’t have anything to do with his job. Or hers.

“Roger was my fiancé.”

“Was?”

“He backed out of our wedding.”

“So you came here to replace him?” Nick asked, not wasting his time on sympathy since she didn’t sound too upset. “Maybe you should play the field a little before you jump into another serious relationship. I could help you with that.”

“Lindy was only joking,” she said. “And even if she wasn’t, you’re a client and I never mix business and personal. And you were late.”

“Late would have been after the wedding.”

She frowned at him and even that was cute. Odd, Nick thought, that he should have this strong a reaction to a woman he’d only just met, but the more she tried to set a professional tone for their conversation the more determined he was to get some sort of personal response from her.

“I’m sorry I was late,” he said, realizing belatedly that he should probably apologize. “Time kind of got away from me.”

She reached across the table, and took his hand—not to mention his breath. She pushed his sleeve up and brushed her fingers across the back of his wrist. Little black spots danced in front of his eyes.

“Buy a watch,” she said.

“Huh?” he croaked.

“You’re not wearing a watch. It’s hard to be on time if you don’t actually know what time it is.”

Nick pulled his arm back. “How do you know it’s not on my other wrist?” And how was she not affected by touching him?

“You’re right-handed, which means you wear your watch on your left wrist.”

She sounded calm and efficient. But she wasn’t meeting his eyes anymore. Further investigation revealed the pulse pounding wildly in the hollow of her throat. His ego did a few cartwheels. Until he reminded himself that she was clearly a woman who made a decision and stuck to it. And she’d decided not to be interested in him that way.

So he’d have to change her mind.

“About your business, Mr. Porter…”

“We’re not going to have any fun at all if you don’t call me Nick.”

There she went, frowning again, as though she didn’t know what fun was or how to have it. Maybe she didn’t resemble an efficiency expert on the outside, but she definitely had the inner workings of one. “Look, Emmy, I’m a pretty laid-back guy most of the time. But my dad left me that business, and I…promised him I’d keep it going. It was suggested that I hire an efficiency expert, and you came highly recommended.” By a guy who held Nick’s fate in the palm of his hand. In truth, she’d been foisted on him, Nick decided, because foisting was what happened to you when you had no choice. Nick decided to keep that to himself, though, verbally and, he hoped, expression-wise. It wasn’t much of a challenge, since having Emmy foisted upon him didn’t feel like such a hardship.

She studied his face for a moment, then, apparently convinced of his sincerity, she opened a ruthlessly organized briefcase and extracted two copies of the contract they’d drawn up and traded via fax. “‘Streamline assembly operations,’” she read. “‘Redesign workflow, organize the office.’ That’s what we agreed on, correct?”

Nick chewed on all that for a moment. To a man who didn’t so much as plan his next meal in advance, Emmy’s sense of order was astounding. And just a little scary.

Scary or not, his decision had already been made. He pulled the contract over in front of him, searched his breast pocket and came up empty—probably because there wasn’t any pocket. After a brief and futile internal debate he plucked the pen out of her hand.

She watched him calmly, and when he slid the paperwork back to her she looked at the illegible scrawl that passed for his signature beneath her precisely written name. “Here’s your copy,” she said, returning one of the signed contracts to him, “and this one is for my files,” and back it went into her briefcase.

Nick rubbed his damp palms on his thighs and put the contract out of his mind, and so what if it felt as if he was hiring her under false pretenses? They were both getting something out of the deal—his loan, her consulting fee. And more importantly he got to see her again, because as little as he was looking forward to having an efficiency expert underfoot at Porter and Son, having Emmy Jones under…No, he probably shouldn’t finish that thought, or the mental picture that went along with it. As it was, it would be hard enough to face her on Monday morning. In more ways than one.

## Chapter Two

Promptly at 8:00 a.m. the following Monday Emmy pushed through the door of Porter and Son, Inc., Practical Jokes and Everyday Gags, and presented herself at the desk of the receptionist. Her name plate said Stella, the expression on her face said she sampled the company’s products on a regular basis and found them highly entertaining, and she was eager to help, which she displayed by saying, “Can I help you?” and folding her hands together as if she were praying Emmy would say yes.

She was so bubbly Emmy took an involuntary step backward, worried the woman might overflow cheerfulness all over her new gray suit. “I’m here to see Nick Porter,” she said, and she handed over a business card—which was where the day began to go south.

Emmy knew her day had just headed south because this was the point at which her first day on a new job always began to go south. The instant they found out who she was.

Stella read the card, then turned it over as if she expected to see a smiley face on the back. And when she didn’t find a “just kidding,” or a disclaimer, or a mitigating explanation of any kind, she looked up at Emmy, mouth agape, eyes wide and filled with horrified fascination, not quite believing anyone was brazen enough to walk bald-faced into a perfectly respectable place of business with a card that read—

“Efficiency Expert,” Stella said, her personality morphing from bubbly to…another word that started with b. “Mr. Porter isn’t here.”

Emmy consulted her watch. Eight-oh-five. No surprise there. “I’ll wait,” she said, hoping Nick would make an appearance soon. Stella looked as though she was sucking on a pickle, and she’d already proven herself the kind of woman who didn’t come equipped with a filter between her feelings and the rest of the world.

“It could be some time before Mr. Porter shows—uh, arrives,” Stella said, frowning when Emmy appropriated one of the faux-leather lobby chairs for her briefcase and the other for her backside. “In fact, I’m almost sure Mr. Porter is out of the city this morning. Far out of the city. Visiting our rubber supplier.”

Emmy lifted her eyes from the paperwork she’d pulled out of her briefcase. “Rubber supplier?”

“Whoopee cushions, balloons, paddle balls. Rubber. What did you think I was talking about?”

A joke that took nine months to get to the punch line. “Nothing,” Emmy said.

“Perhaps you’d like to come back another time. Or better yet, you could call and speak with Mr. Porter. If he’s interested, he’ll set up an appointment.”

Yeah, like that call would go through. “We have—we had—an eight o’clock appointment today.”

A fact he obviously hadn’t shared with his secretary, and if he wasn’t going to tell anyone why he’d hired an efficiency expert, then neither was Emmy. There was no point in trying to ingratiate herself, anyway. No matter what she did, it wouldn’t put a dent in the hostility factor. Employees generally took an immediate dislike to efficiency experts, thinking they came equipped with pink slips and a one-track mind when it came to prettying up a company’s bottom line.

In the current climate of corporate downsizing Emmy could understand the paranoia, but her job was to make the company run more efficiently. It was up to management to decide how to deal with the results. To her mind, the best way to use up the extra capacity that came along with running more efficiently was to increase sales. Unfortunately that took time, and most owners chose to trim payroll until they reached a point where increased sales demanded additional help. And wasn’t it convenient to have an efficiency expert right there to blame?

Nick Porter didn’t seem like that kind of guy, although Emmy had no idea how in the world she’d come up with that assessment of his character after a half-hour-long meeting that had started off strange and grown stranger. Toward the end of it she’d begun to wonder exactly why he’d hired her. At best he’d seemed ambivalent about signing the contract. On the other hand he’d seemed a little too eager to have her around—and not in a professional capacity. He definitely hadn’t looked at her like a man who was hiring a consultant.

She must have lost her mind—she had lost her mind—but she’d really liked the way he’d looked at her.

“He has a girlfriend.”

Emmy wiped the dreamy smile off her face, adding way too observant to Stella’s list of character traits, and crazy to her own.

She had no business thinking about Nick like that when she was still dealing with the aftermath of Roger—Okay, she allowed, that was a bit of an overstatement. She hadn’t thought of Roger more than once or twice in the last couple of days, and she couldn’t say she was all that broken up. It was more of an irritation, actually. Her real problem was the wedding guests. She didn’t know what to tell them. She’d thought about that a lot—until it occurred to her that almost all of them were from Roger’s side, and he could deal with his own friends and relatives.

That harmless bit of retribution felt so good she’d decided to take it another step, namely the wedding itself. She’d made all the arrangements for the ceremony and reception, and since Roger was the one who’d backed out, and the deposit checks had been written against his bank account anyway, he could unarrange it all. And since she was going to dump that unpleasant task on him, the truth was Roger didn’t really leave much of an aftermath.

But she had learned something from him. Stay away from men. She could barely form lasting friendships with women. What made her think she could have an actual long-term relationship with a man? Men were a whole other species.

Not that it was going to be an issue, because she’d already decided to keep her interaction with Nick Porter on a strictly business level. Polite but firm, that was the ticket. Cool and competent and professional. And the next time he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world, or smiled at her like she was the fulfillment of all his fantasies, she was going to tell him—

Nick walked through one of the two doorways beyond Stella’s desk, stopped in front of Emmy, and looked at her with that unnerving intensity. She couldn’t have finished her thought with paste-on letters and explicit instructions.

“Good, you’re here,” he said, and when she simply sat there, he gathered her papers and briefcase, took her by the elbow, and ushered her through the other door behind Stella’s desk. It led to his office, and he talked the whole way. “Tripod went missing this morning. He’s my next-door neighbor’s dog and he only has three legs—the dog, I mean. My neighbor has the usual two.”

He paused expectantly, but Emmy was speechless, and it had nothing to do with the combined leg count of Nick’s neighbor and his dog. She’d forgotten how darned handsome he was. And how warm she felt when he smiled at her.

“Anyway,” he continued, “by the time Tripod turned up I was blocked in because the Martins across the street were getting new dining-room furniture, and I didn’t have the heart to make them move the truck. They’ve been waiting forever for that furniture, so I figured it would be faster to help them unload it instead. And then I had to take another shower.”

And the truly amazing part, at least to Emmy’s mind, was that Nick knew the names of all his neighbors, and their pets and their furniture-buying habits. Nor was it confined to his neighbors.

“When I finally got here I realized Marty Henshaw was late—probably trouble with his car again—so line one was down, and I filled in for a half hour.” He sniffed at his armpit. “Do you think I need another shower?”

“No, you smell pretty…” she said before she could stop herself. “Uh, you’re fine.”

“Pretty fine,” Nick said. “I’ll take that.”

Okay, don’t look at him, Emmy lectured herself. Eye contact with Nick Porter wasn’t in her best interest. Concentrating on work was. “This person who was late—”

“Marty Henshaw. Gosh you look pretty this morning.”

Emmy tried to hold it together, but a sigh slipped out. This situation called for drastic action. She took a sheet of paper from her briefcase and handed it to him. “This is a basic questionnaire, Mr. Porter—”

“Nick.” He brushed a curl off her forehead, his finger grazing her skin.

She began to tremble. And panic. “We have to get a couple of things straight. I’m here to do a job. There’ll be no more compliments and no more touching. And no more smiling.”

He wiped the smile off his face, but the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously. Emmy got the distinct impression he wasn’t taking her seriously.

“How about after hours?” he asked. “Can I smile then?”

“After hours you can smile at anybody you want. But it won’t be me.”

That did it. The smile was gone completely. Emmy missed it. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

His eyes began to warm up.

“But I meant it,” she said. “We have to keep business and…”

“Pleasure separate? No problem.”

“No pleasure,” she said firmly, adding watch my words to her mental list of rules governing how to deal with Nick Porter. “There’s only going to be business.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have. I don’t want to get involved in anything personal, and since my reasons are, well, personal,” not to mention confusing, even to her, “I’m not getting into them.”

“It’s Roger, isn’t it?”

No. Definitely not Roger. But if she said that, Nick would want to know the real reason. Emmy didn’t know the real reason, but she knew there was fear involved. A lot of fear. And if something about Nick Porter scared her that much, it could only be in her best interest to keep her distance. “I’m madly in love with Roger, and he broke my heart,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair to get involved with anyone else.”

“Nope. That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You only think it’s because of Roger, but really it’s because of me.”

“Because of you?”

“I’m irresistible.”

Emmy knew it would only encourage him, but she couldn’t help laughing.

“It’s true,” he insisted. “Look at me.”

He spread his hands and she followed directions. It wasn’t eye contact, but it wasn’t any less dangerous. He was attractive, no doubt about it, and he was tall which, being tall herself, Emmy considered a definite plus. And he obviously kept in shape; he wasn’t exactly dressed for the executive suite, but if he looked that good in Dockers, he’d be killer in a suit. And she’d be dead meat.

But it wasn’t just his face and body. Nick Porter had that thing, that indefinable quality that made actors movie stars and pretty girls supermodels. You just wanted to be around him, Emmy concluded, and talk to him and look at him. It didn’t make any sense, but that was why they called it the X-factor. There weren’t any words descriptive enough to give it an actual name.

“I’m entertaining, too,” he said, taking her long perusal and the resulting silence as agreement. “I’m funny and dependable—”

“No, you’re not. We’ve only met twice and you’ve been late both times.”

“You’re right, I just said that because I thought it would appeal to an efficiency expert. But punctuality is highly overrated. There’s more to life than work.”

“I know.” She just didn’t like any of the other parts. “But work is what we’re supposed to be doing right now. Besides, you have a girlfriend, and I doubt she’d appreciate your efforts to appeal to me.”

“Let me guess, Stella told you that. She thinks every woman I meet is after my money.”

“You don’t have any money. Your business is in debt.”

“I know. That’s why you’re here. Who would’ve thought being broke would turn into such an advantage? Although I have to admit I’m not actually broke. I have a trust fund.”

“So women are after your money.”

“Sometimes. But the important thing is you’re not, and since I’m not currently dating anyone except you—”

“We’re not dating.”

“Yet. We will be. Eventually I’ll wear you down, and before you know it you’ll be introducing me to your parents. Once I meet your mom you’re toast. Moms love me.”

Emmy didn’t say anything, but she made sure her expression was blank. She didn’t exactly dwell on her childhood, or the foster homes, but she didn’t have any trouble with the memories, either. Her parents—her mother especially—was the one area of her past she couldn’t bear to think about. It hurt too much.

“I said something wrong.”

“My parents are dead.” It looked as though he might reach for her, so Emmy eased away from him. “It happened a long time ago. I barely remember them, and it’s personal. I’m here to talk about your business. Do you want to save it?”

For a minute she didn’t think he was going to respect her boundaries—or agree with her. But then he nodded and she was able to relax. As much, she figured, as she’d ever be able to relax around Nick.

“Good, then let’s get started.”

## Chapter Three

Emmy spent the rest of the day observing Nick’s employees. Nick spent the rest of the day observing Emmy. The employees didn’t care much for being observed. Emmy was oblivious to everything but work. Nick had the time of his life.

She was so cute with her clipboard and stopwatch, brow furrowed in concentration, tucking her flyaway blond hair behind her ear every other minute. That hair gave him real hope where she was concerned. If she’d been as no-nonsense as she claimed to be, she’d have tamed her hair back into some kind of ugly, efficient bun. Nick couldn’t think of anything worse than that, so it was a relief that she was still wandering around with a head full of wild Shirley Temple curls.

And she was surprisingly good with people—or she would have been if she’d let them in. She asked questions, and she listened so intently to the answers that whoever she was speaking with couldn’t help but be flattered despite themselves. But every time talk strayed to the personal, she shut down, the person on the other side of the conversation backed off, and Emmy moved on to the next work station, personal involvement rolling off her as though she walked around in a Teflon isolation bubble. She’d done the same thing when he mentioned her mother, Nick remembered, only the bubble hadn’t been made of Teflon, it had been made of sadness.

Well, he was just the guy to burst her bubble—and where the heck had that thought come from? Nick wondered. Being attracted to her was one thing, anything else was moving way too fast, and Nick made it a point never to move too fast.

Yet there was something about Emmy Jones. Part of it was knowing she’d lost her parents at a young age. Nick could sympathize; his mother had died before he was twelve years old, and he remembered that time with perfectly awful clarity. There was something more drawing him to Emmy, though, a level of curiosity and fascination that pushed him beyond his normal take-it-as-it-comes approach to romance. He was so anxious to see her that he was actually on time the next morning, waiting in the parking lot for her. Emmy was late.

“There you are,” he said when she finally pulled up and was climbing out of her car. “I guess I can call off the St. Bernards.”

“Are those the dogs that carry little kegs around their necks? Because I could use a drink about now.”

And he could use a cold shower. She reached into the front seat to gather her purse and briefcase, her skirt hiked up high enough to show about a mile of leg, and Nick could practically feel brain cells dying from lack of oxygen. Fortunately he didn’t care because most of his attention was focused way south of his brain.

“Considering how my day started, it’s probably best if I don’t remember any of it,” she mumbled from the car’s interior.

She straightened, but Nick’s brain was slow to keep up. “There are other ways to forget.”

“I’ve tried ice cream already.”

“For breakfast?”

“Trust me, this was the kind of unforeseen event that called for drastic measures. But Roger is too much for even triple chocolate fudge to banish.”

Nick tore his eyes off her legs and checked back in to the conversation. “Roger, as in the guy who dumped you? What did he want?”

She walked around him and headed for the building. “He wanted to get his things.”

“And you couldn’t tear yourself away?”

“I had to stick around and guard my furniture. It turns out Roger has a pretty inventive memory when it comes to what he brought with him when he moved in.”

“I could talk to him for you.” Or punch him.

She took in the expression on his face and the curl to his fingers. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you and Roger to interact.”

“Funny, I’m having the same thought where you’re concerned.”

Emmy rolled her eyes. Nick would have been insulted if she didn’t look so adorable doing it.

“Here’s the report I wrote up last night,” she said, “some preliminary observations about the way your business runs, and some areas we can study for possible efficiency improvements.”

Nick took the neat manila folder she handed him and completely ignored it. There was some serious heat jumping around inside him, and he had two choices, punch Roger or kiss Emmy. He took one look and decided punching Roger wasn’t going to cool him off. Kissing Emmy wasn’t going to cool him off, either, but at least he wouldn’t hurt his hand.

For the moment, though, she was only interested in work so he had to humor her. And control himself.

She didn’t make it easy.

When they got to Nick’s office, Emmy took the file folder from him and set it on the desk. “Point one. Starting and quitting times have to be enforced,” she read, still standing so Nick had no choice but to follow along over her shoulder. He stood as close as he thought he could get away with, but not so close that his brain checked out. “Do you think that’s realistic?”

She brushed the back of her neck where his breath had washed over her skin, then she moved away. Nick let her because he’d seen the list. It was long. Plenty of time and opportunity to be close to her.

“Every other company in the world seems to find it perfectly acceptable to ask their employees to come in at a specific time,” she said.

“I’ve known most of these people since I was a kid. They’re more like aunts and uncles and cousins than employees.”

“Okay, but if you go out of business all your relatives will wind up in the unemployment line.”

“You’ve got a point.” And since her suggestion was basically harmless, it wouldn’t hurt to play along. “I guess I could talk to them about getting to work on time. But people have problems. School buses are late, babysitters are sick, exfiancés come back to steal furniture.”

For a second Nick thought she was going to smile. She pressed her lips together and tapped the paper instead. That was an invitation if ever he’d seen one, so he moved in behind her again.

“Point two,” he read. “Cross-training.” Cross-training was a pretty self-explanatory concept, but Nick let her talk so he could watch her.

“You should make sure your employees are trained on each other’s jobs,” she said. “That way if someone is late or sick, another employee can fill in, and you can rotate the employees to keep the line running. You won’t get full production, but you won’t be dead in the water either.”

She kept talking. Nick nodded and made understanding noises so it seemed like he was following along, but he’d given up listening for watching. Efficiency was a necessary evil for him, but he loved the way Emmy’s eyes lit up when she got into the subject. And she was really getting into it, moving around, gesturing, pushing her hair off her face. He loved it when she did that. And he loved the trim little suit she was wearing. He loved it that she was tall and passionate. All her passion was channeled into her work, but he could expand on that.

“Point seven,” she said, “find a way to get Nick to concentrate on business while he still owns one.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding and smiling. She came over to stand in front of him and he just naturally stood a bit straighter. Okay, so he liked her tallness, as long as he was taller. He was old-fashioned about that sort of thing.

“You’re not listening to me,” she said.

“Yes, I am.”

“Tell me what I just said.”

Nick racked his brain for all of two seconds and then he grinned. “You said you’d love to go out to dinner with me tonight.”

“I don’t have time for dinner.”

“You’re an efficiency expert. Don’t you sit down promptly at 8:00 p.m. and eat all the food groups balanced in accordance with the current FDA nutritional pyramid?”

“And I schedule exactly 23.6 minutes every evening so I can chew each bite forty times. Unfortunately that means I don’t have time for restaurants and meaningful conversation.”

Translation, she didn’t have time for Nick.

She tucked her list of observations back into the manila folder and handed it to him. “If it’s any consolation, I will go out with you now, to your factory floor.”

He shrugged. “It’s a start.”

The factory was a cavernous, well-lit space, big roll-up doors open to the let in the warm spring cross-breeze. Yesterday it had been decorated in industrial chic—safety posters, calendars, gray lockers, fake-wood-grain tables and metal chairs in the lunch room. Today it was decorated in Emmy Jones. Pictures of her hung everywhere, on the walls, from the rafters, on the fridge in the break room, on the sides of the conveyors. A couple of Nick’s employees even had them taped to their backs, and all of the pictures had big red targets over her face. As soon as she stepped around Nick, and the employees caught sight of her, she was greeted with a ragged chorus of whoopee-cushion raspberries.

“I’m sorry,” Nick said to Emmy.

“No need to apologize. This is normal.”

“It’s normal for people who want you dead.”

“They don’t want me dead. They’re just comfortable with the way things are. Once they understand that I’m here to make their jobs more secure, they’ll stop hating me.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Trust me, this is nothing compared to some of the things that have been done to me.”

Even if she hadn’t been touching him voluntarily, her words would have stopped Nick. The idea of anybody doing anything mean to Emmy got his hackles up. It was a new experience for him. Except for wanting to pound Roger. “Like what?”

“Lots of stuff has happened to my car. My tires were glued to the parking lot once, and when I worked at the forklift company it was—”

“Up in the air.”

“Forty feet. They made really big forklifts.” She smiled and shook her head. “It’s been filled with packing peanuts and shrink-wrapped.”

Nick laughed. “Pretty inventive.”

“So are these guys,” Emmy said. “They got pictures of me from somewhere.”

“Camera phone probably.”

“That explains all the wonderful poses. I particularly like the one where my mouth is open and one eye is shut. I look drunk.”

“You look beautiful.”

“That’s because the bull’s-eye hides most of my face.”

“Nope, that’s not it. I can see your face just fine.” And he kind of liked the target. It summed up his intentions; he had her in the crosshairs and she wasn’t getting away. He might not be the most focused or driven guy in the world, but when he went after something he wanted, he generally got it. And he wanted Emmy Jones.


WHEN Emmy’s doorbell rang that evening, she checked her watch. She already knew what time it was. She always knew what time it was. She checked her watch because she wasn’t expecting anyone, and no one ever called on her unexpectedly, not at seven fifty-eight in the evening. She looked out her peephole and saw Nick Porter. Mystery solved.

Nick Porter didn’t know the meaning of appointments or calling ahead or work versus personal. Nick Porter didn’t know the meaning of the word no. She could leave him standing out there until he figured it out, or she could open the door and explain it to him. She opted for the second choice, because she didn’t want him loitering on her doorstep all night—she didn’t have any doubt he’d understand why she refused to let him in, but he’d be too stubborn to go away.

“Go away,” she said as soon as she opened the door.

He didn’t say anything. In fact, he stared at her for so long she became self-conscious, adjusting her hooded sweatshirt, feeling her sweatpants for holes in strategic places. And when she didn’t find any she got freaked out. “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s not me, it’s you.”

She covered her mouth. “Something in my teeth?” Or her nose! She moved her fingers northward, talking through them. “Be specific.”

“You’re not wearing a suit.”

“Okay.” Weird. “But I’m completely clothed, and I’m not working—that is, I’m working at home.” If he thought she wasn’t busy he’d never leave. “I change my clothes when I get home from work, just like normal people.”

“I miss your legs,” he said, easing her aside and stepping into her entryway. “I like looking at them.”

And she liked that he liked them. Bad, very bad. “They’re still there, under the sweatpants. I was going to exercise. Yoga.”

“That explains the great legs,” Nick said. “I’ll bet you’re really flexible, too.”

“Not so much. I’m just a beginner. I used to do aerobics, but lately I’ve been kind of…restless. I thought maybe yoga would have a calming effect.” And why she felt a need to explain that to him she had no idea. Nervous rambling, that was it. He was looking at her in that intent way he had, and she was letting her mouth run because it was better to babble than throw herself into his arms, which was what she really wanted to do.

“Go ahead, don’t mind me.”

“What? Oh, yoga.” Right, Emmy thought, like she was going to do Downward-Facing Dog with him around. Getting sweaty didn’t hold any appeal, either, at least not getting sweaty alone. “I think you should leave.” She held the door open, but he stuffed his hands in his pockets and grinned. And she gave up. “How’d you get my home address?”

“Your friend, Lindy. She called looking for you. She wanted to know if you were available tonight, but I told her you already had a date with me.”

“We don’t have a date.”

“Sure we do. I asked you this morning, and you didn’t say no.”

“I’m saying it now.”

“But you don’t mean it.”

“Yes, I do.” At least she wanted to. And once he left she’d be relieved. “We have a working relationship, Nick. That’s all.”

Nick studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment, his expression, for once, inscrutable. When he pulled the door open, she thought he’d finally gotten the message. But he didn’t walk out. Instead, he crowded her back behind the door, blocking her in with his body.

She should have felt threatened. She was scared to death, but not of being hurt by him. At least not physically. “You really need to go home.”

“I will.” Instead of backing off, though, he leaned forward.

Emmy leaned away. “You can’t just show up at my house and—”

“I’m spontaneous,” he whispered, his lips a breath away from hers. “It’s part of my appeal.”

Of all the things that appealed to her about Nick Porter, spontaneity was pretty much last on the list. She liked things budgeted, itemized, organized and timed down to the last second. Nick Porter was an undisciplined, disorganized wild card. Nick Porter blew her schedules right out of the water, and threatened to drown her self-control. She had the insane urge to fist her hands in his shirt and drag him against her, lips and all.

She planted both hands on his chest and locked her elbows instead. Her palms began to tingle, and the tingle spread all the way to the crown of her head and the ends of her toes, lingering at all the obvious places in between. And it didn’t stop at a tingle. There was heat, too. Emmy pushed him away before the heat and tingle could gang up on her self-control and make her do something that she’d regret.

Nick stared at her for a second, looking as shell-shocked as she felt. “I’m going to kiss you, Emmy,” he said, adding, “not tonight,” when she stepped up the pressure against his chest. “I’m going to kiss you when you least expect it. And you won’t push me away.” Then he walked out the door. He bounced off the doorjamb first, but eventually he made it outside and wobbled off toward the street.

Emmy didn’t find her voice until he was long gone and she heard someone shouting at her.

“Emmy? Are you there? Emmy?”

She stared at the phone in her hand, wondering how it had gotten there and when she’d dialed. “Lindy?”

“Emmy. What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“No. Why did you give Nick Porter my address?”

“So that’s why I hear panic in your voice. I thought that would be your reaction to him.”

“Then why—”

“Because you can use his kind of panic.”

And that was why Emmy heard smugness in Lindy’s voice. “He tried to kiss me.”

“Tried?”

“I almost let him.”

“Why didn’t you, Emmy? I think this guy is the guy for you. Your soul mate.”

“You don’t believe in soul mates.”

“For me. I think they’re fine for everyone else. And even if Nick Porter isn’t your soul mate, it’s about time you had some fun. You deserve it after Roger.”

“Fun is highly overrated. You have fun all the time, Lindy, and frankly you don’t seem completely satisfied with your life.”

“Oooh, the claws are out.” Lindy laughed, but there was a note of strain beneath the amusement.

“I’m sorry,” Emmy said. “That was mean.”

“It was also true, but we’re not talking about me. You’re afraid of Nick Porter, and you have good reason to be.”

“What good reason?”

“You’re going to have to figure that out for yourself.”

“Thanks, Lindy. Someday I’ll return the favor.”

She broke the connection, but she wasn’t really angry with Lindy. Because Lindy was right. Nick Porter scared Emmy. A lot. And it wasn’t as much of a mystery as she claimed. She liked the way he looked at her and the way he smiled at her, as if she were special. She’d never been special to anyone but Lindy—not to a man, anyway. Definitely not to Roger. Roger had left her each morning with a dry peck on the lips and a list of tasks he expected her to perform. Pick up the dry cleaning, reschedule his dental appointment, and wouldn’t it be nice to have meat loaf for dinner.

When Nick smiled at her, she could tell she was the only item on his list, and he didn’t want anything from her. Okay, he wanted something. The problem was she wanted it too. But she couldn’t have it. Getting involved with Nick would be a mistake for too many reasons to itemize.

She popped the yoga video out of the VCR and put in the most frenetic aerobics tape she could find. As tense as she was, it would take the Dalai Lama himself to meditate her into a state where she had any hope of sleep. Since she doubted he’d come down from his mountain to help her work off a case of hormonal overload, a couple of hours of exhausting exercise might do the trick. Or it might not. Maybe the only thing that could help her work off this much tension was the man who’d caused it.

Nick Porter, however, was the one remedy she didn’t dare try.

## Chapter Four

Most of the week passed in a blur. Emmy spent it hunched over her clipboard, nose to the grindstone, observing Nick’s employees and ignoring their commentary. Nick spent it behaving himself. Their paths crossed every now and again, but he made himself scarce to the point that when Friday afternoon arrived, and her weekly progress report was due, she had to go in search of him.

For the first time in her life, Emmy saw the advantage in procrastination. There really wasn’t any progress to report, she told herself, unless she counted the rise in the hostility level. She’d worn jeans and an oxford shirt, hoping she’d fit in better. The only way she’d attract more attention was if she’d decided to show up naked.

She’d ditched her clipboard in favor of her briefcase, laying it open on the high table where the shipping clerk signed in raw material and checked out finished goods. She ought to at least pretend to be busy, she decided, maybe take notes or something. So she retrieved a pen and pad of paper from her case and meandered aimlessly, stopping to lean one hip against a pallet of boxes, watching the activity and letting her mind wander. The employees were bustling around, pausing every now and again to shoot her fulminating glares. They didn’t bother her. What bothered her was Nick, and not in the way she’d expected.

The last four days had been all about business. The few times she and Nick had interacted, he hadn’t mentioned the night at her house. Neither had she. He wasn’t making passes, he wasn’t trying to kiss her, or touch her hair or anything. He even listened politely to what she had to say about the company, although he didn’t do anything to implement change, and his employees had only become more sullen and resistant. But at least he was listening.

Emmy was the one whose mind kept wandering.

“Emmy.”

She jumped, spinning around, one hand plastered over her suddenly pounding heart. Nick was standing a bit behind and to one side of her, just out of her peripheral vision before she’d turned around. The sight of him didn’t do a lot to calm her down, the upheaval just affected different parts of her. “How long have you been there?” she asked when she could manage to string words together and make them sound normal.

He shrugged, smile polite, eyes distant. “Couple of minutes.”

No wonder the death glares she’d been getting from the employees were worse than usual.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said.

She turned and set the pad on top of the pallet. Bad idea.

Nick came over to stand beside her. He wasn’t touching her, or looking at her, or smiling, but the parts of her that hadn’t gone all soft and melty were tensed so tightly she was on the verge of a head-to-toe charley horse. Not that she was complaining, because the tense parts of her were keeping the other parts from jumping him.

His comment about kissing her when she least expected it was getting to her. Not only was she expecting it constantly, she was on the verge of kissing him so she could get it over with before she went completely insane. Okay, that wasn’t the only reason she wanted to kiss him. The more she thought about it…

And that was exactly what he wanted. Her thinking about it, wondering, giving in to the inevitable. He had no idea just how stubborn she could be.

She blinked a couple of times to get her eyes to focus, unlocked her jaw and opened the file. “R-raw materials,” she stuttered out, her body slower to get with the program.

Nick moved closer, still not touching her. But she could tell he was amused. And smug.

It was that last reaction that put the steel into her backbone. “I’ll need a list of your raw materials, where they come from, how they’re ordered, how much at a time and how they’re delivered.” She made the mistake of looking up at him. Eye contact had always been big with Emmy, but she forgot that eye contact with Nick was dangerous to her self-control.

Nick wasn’t immune, either. “Emmy…” he said, leaning in, voice low, all his employees stopping what they were doing to gawk like commuters at a traffic accident.

“You’ll need to increase sales,” Emmy continued, writing down Increase Sales next to 1 on her pad. “Either spend more time yourself or hire someone to focus exclusively on selling.”

“Can’t afford that,” Nick said, frowning but not moving off.

Emmy cut her eyes to their audience, and Nick got the idea. More importantly, he took a step back.

“If you don’t want to increase your payroll, you could send out a mailing,” Emmy said. “Or you could do it yourself. Face-to-face is best anyway, and you’re so personable and persuasive, all you have to do is waltz in with that face and that smile—”

Nick grinned wider with each compliment.

“—and you shouldn’t have any trouble increasing your sales,” Emmy finished. “Especially if you’re selling to a woman.”

The grin only got wider. “Is that jealousy I’m hearing?”

Emmy caught herself on the verge of denial, and shrugged instead. “If it increases your sales, do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“So if I wanted to flirt with them?”

She looked him straight in the eye, and so what if she didn’t like the thought of him flirting with other women. “No harm in that.”

“What if I take them out to lunch?”

“Lots of people do business lunches.”

“And dinner?” He eased toward her, crowding her back between the pallet of boxes she’d been leaning against and another about two feet away.

She held her ground—okay, there was a wall behind her, but refusing to back off was more of a statement that she could resist his charm. So what if he’d come so close she was practically nose-to-chin with him, and she caught herself thinking about how easy it would be to raise up onto her toes, lay her mouth on his and put herself out of her misery? She looked around but the place was devoid of workers, break-time being more attractive than spying on the boss and his loathsome efficiency expert.

“And business dinners,” she said, telling herself to get a grip. “And sporting events, and concerts, although those are kind of expensive undertakings with your current budget constraints.”

“What if we had dinner at my house?”

Her gaze shot to his, but she was seeing him in candlelight, with another woman. Mere feet from his bedroom. “Do you always have trouble drawing a line between business and personal?”

“I was trying to get a rise out of you,” he said.

“I know.” And she’d been trying to deflate him. They’d both been successful. She was still struggling with resentments toward strange and completely innocent women, and for once Nick looked something other than laid-back and foolishly happy with life. He looked angry.

Emmy started forward. He stepped in front of her, trapping her in the narrow aisle. She couldn’t go around him, and she couldn’t get by him. She wanted to keep right on going until she ended up against that nice, firm chest she remembered—or at least her palms remembered, judging by the way they were tingling. And the tingle was spreading so fast she was in danger of becoming one big mess of quivering nerve endings.

There’s a remedy for that, a little voice whispered, a little voice she wouldn’t shush because she was a realist. She wanted him to kiss her, there was no getting around it. But you didn’t always get what you wanted, and even if you did, what you wanted wasn’t always good for you. She’d learned that a long time ago. Apparently, what she hadn’t learned was how to hide her feelings.

“You want me to kiss you,” Nick said.

“No. Absolutely not. No way.”

“All week you’ve been waiting for me to try to kiss you, but I haven’t and you’re disappointed.”

“I am not disappointed,” she said with absolute conviction because what she was was ticked off. Maybe when she got past that she’d have room for disappointment, but at the moment she was riding high on outrage and pure unadulterated lust. Who did he think he was anyway, getting her all stirred up and then not coming through? “I don’t want you to kiss me.”

“But you want me to try.”

She huffed out a breath and crossed her arms. Yeah, absolutely she wanted him to try. But that was only ego. And libido. And she certainly wasn’t telling him that.

“You don’t want me to try?”

Emmy stayed mum, but the reason she didn’t have an answer was because Nick sounded so…hurt. And she felt guilty. Even though she hadn’t exactly welcomed his attentions, outright rejection just seemed cruel.

“Nick—” Emmy began.

This time Stella saved her from saying something she’d regret, which was probably the last thing Stella would have wanted to do. Emmy caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and when she turned around there Stella was, standing by the shipping counter where Emmy had left her briefcase.

“Can I help you?” Emmy asked her.

Stella’s hands shot to her hips, and her eyes narrowed. Clearly she wasn’t happy, and she wasn’t talking to Emmy. “You have a phone call, Mr. Porter,” she said to Nick.

“Take a message.”

Stella downgraded her expression to sour-pickle. Emmy considered throwing herself into Nick’s arms just to see how cranky Stella could get, but she’d probably give the woman a stroke. And she probably wouldn’t be able to stop at just being in Nick’s arms. And Nick would definitely misconstrue her motives.

Stella scuttled back into the office. Emmy took advantage of Nick’s distraction, slipping by him and walking over to check out her briefcase. She didn’t know what Stella had hoped to find, but there were no big secrets in there, no clandestine meetings, no international spying. No secret plans outlining her designs on Nick. Just the file containing the progress report, lying half on top of her day planner, which was still open to that day, work at Nick’s, dinner with Lindy.

“What were you going to say?” Nick asked, coming over to join her and craning his neck to see over her shoulder.

Emmy snapped her day planner shut. “Nothing I haven’t said before, and you didn’t listen any of the other times.”

“I listened. I didn’t believe you.”

And in case she didn’t get the message, he was crowding her again. Emmy refused to back off. She was a mess of physical and emotional agitation, the scant inch of air between them was scorching with heat and humming with tension, but retreat would be the same as admitting he was getting to her, and that would be as good as telling him he was right to keep pushing.

“If you really want me to give up, I will,” Nick said.

Emmy handed him her progress report, shut her briefcase and headed for the big door that led out to the parking lot and her getaway vehicle.

“Fine, just walk away,” Nick snapped at her.

Emmy couldn’t resist a look over her shoulder. Yep, Nick was angry. He was frustrated too, and there was something else on his face. It took her a moment to recognize it as determination, and that was new for him—well, not new, but she’d bet it was pretty damn rare.

## Chapter Five

Men were slime, Emmy thought. And for once she wasn’t thinking about Roger. Or Nick.

She was sitting in a crowded restaurant in the Leather District, a conglomeration of old leather factories that had been turned into businesses, lofts, restaurants and any other trendy, touristy use that could be found for them. Emmy would have preferred neighboring Chinatown, less fashionable but more relaxing. But here she sat at her best friend’s insistence, nursing a cranberry martini, avoiding eye contact, waiting for Lindy to arrive. The prevailing demographic of the place seemed to be men, ranging in age from barely legal to one-foot-in-the-grave. She’d always considered men another species anyway; tonight she’d classify them as homo erectus rather than homo sapiens. That brought a smile to her face, and she had to drop her eyes to her drink before any of the Neanderthals took it as encouragement.

What was it with men anyway? When you wanted one to stick around, he left, and when you wanted one gone, you couldn’t get rid of him. She looked around. And when you swore off men in general, they all seemed hell-bent to change your mind. Hopefully Lindy would show up soon. Or she could just leave, and the more she thought about it, the more appealing that sounded. She signaled the waiter, dug her cell phone out of her purse and speed-dialed Lindy, keeping a wary eye on the mood of the crowd in case any of these guys suspected she was about to bolt and worked up the courage to do more than ogle.

“I’m not really up for dinner tonight,” she said when Lindy picked up.

“Uh-oh, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m not hungry, and the only reason we were having dinner anyway is so I’d have an excuse for Nick.”

“And here I thought it was my sparkling wit and sunny personality.”

“You know what I mean, Lindy.” They’d been out every night that week just in case Nick fell off the wagon and showed up at her house. “I appreciate you putting up with me all week, but I’m sure you have things to do. Or should I say men?”

Lindy snorted softly. “The only briefs in my life lately have been the legal kind, but you have been kind of cranky the last few days. Tonight you just sound depressed. Wouldn’t be because of Nick, would it?”

“Nick isn’t bothering me anymore.”

“Yes, he is. Maybe not in the way you expected, but he’s bothering you.”

Emmy sighed.

“See? Case closed.”

“Okay, so he’s bothering me. He’s not going to be the only one in a minute.” Emmy had accidentally made eye contact with one of the cavemen and there was a definite shift in the mood of the crowd. If she didn’t do something drastic…

Lindy walked in, took one look at Emmy’s face and said, “if you kill me, who will represent you at the murder trial?”

“Actually I was thinking about giving you a big, wet kiss.”

Lindy did a double take, then looked around, rolling her eyes as she took her seat. “If you’re trying to put these hounds off with a little girl-on-girl action, think again,” she said, shutting off her phone and dropping it into her purse. “You and your tongue come anywhere near me and we won’t be able to beat them off with a stick. And what am I saying? I’ve been trying to attract a little male attention.”

Emmy disconnected and put her phone away, too. “Is that why you picked this meat market?”

“Of course. You may have taken yourself out of the game, but I haven’t. And speaking of games, what’s the deal with Nick?”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” Emmy opened the menu and pretended she had an appetite. “You’re just going to argue with me.”

“Fine, let’s talk about Roger. We agree about him.”

Emmy looked up, caught Lindy smirking. “He called today. How did you know?”

“It was only a matter of time, Emmy. He wanted you back didn’t he?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t return his call.”

“Good, don’t. And since we’re through with Roger, we can get back to Nick.”

Emmy sighed again before she could catch herself. “I’m just tired,” she said before Lindy could put the look on her face into words. “It’s been a long week.”

“You’re not tired, you’re lonely. I’m not the solution to that problem, Em, but I’m here so you’re stuck with me…Hello.”

Emmy shifted in her seat so she could take in Lindy’s field of vision. The busboy was heading for them, or rather for the circular booth next to their table. He bent to retrieve dishes and clean the tabletop, giving Lindy an up-close-and-personal shot of his really excellent backside. And she was enjoying it.

“He’s about twelve,” Emmy whispered behind her menu.

“He’s at least twenty.”

“And you’re not really interested in him.”

Lindy shrugged. “I can look can’t I? It’s never good to take life too seriously. I learned that the hard way—and you’re changing the subject.”

“You changed it first.”

Lindy waved that off, which was just like her—now. She’d been nose-to-the-grindstone in college, all work and no play, until she’d broken under the weight of her own expectations. She’d had to go away for a while, to learn how to depressurize her life. Now she worked when it was time to work, and had fun everywhere else.

To those who didn’t know Lindy, she’d seem like one of the most well-adjusted people in the world. The breakdown had left permanent damage, though. Lindy figured if she was such a perfectionist that she got that messed up over her career she’d better not risk love, let alone marriage and family. So, she’d become a serial dater, never hanging on to a relationship long enough to let it get serious. Emmy was one of the few who saw through her act, to the sadness and loneliness beneath.

“We were talking about Nick,” Lindy reminded her.

“We were talking about me,” Emmy said, because Lindy wouldn’t thank her for turning the tables.

“It’s the same thing, since he’s the problem you’re having.”

“He’s not a problem. He hasn’t tried to kiss me again, and today he snapped at me.”

“Oh, this is good.” Lindy sat back in her chair and grinned—which was hardly the reaction Emmy had been going for, but the waiter arrived, and she decided to let it go.

“I’ll have the chicken pasta.”

“I’ll have a double martini,” Lindy said.

“You’re not eating?”

“There are olives in the martini.”

Emmy rolled her eyes.

“All right, I’ll eat.” Lindy smiled dazzlingly up at the waiter. “You choose for me,” she said to him. “I’m sure whatever you give me will be incredible.”

He froze for a few seconds, his eyes on Lindy, but Emmy had to give him credit for hanging on to his professionalism because he finally nodded and said, “Of course, ma’am.” His words were a bit strangled, he wasn’t breathing quite right, and his upper lip was sweating, but at least he didn’t trip over his own feet the way she’d seen some men do after Lindy unleashed herself on them.

Emmy shook her head, but she was smiling, and it felt good. Trust Lindy to pull her out of the doldrums. “That man is never going to be the same.”

“But my meal will be fabulous. Now, where were we? Oh, right, I was enjoying your upheaval.”

“And I was about to call you a b—”

“Don’t say it, you’ll only feel terrible later.”

“Not this time.”

Lindy laughed off Emmy’s scowl. “You have no reason to complain,” she said. “Roger was considerate enough to go away before getting rid of him involved, well, hiring me. And five minutes later a drop-dead-gorgeous man walked into your life, stumbling all over himself the minute he laid eyes on you. If that wasn’t lo—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Fine,” Lindy huffed out, “but I’m using the other L-word because at the very least it was lust at first sight, and that’s a pretty good place to start. If you had any sense you’d drag Nick Porter home, lock yourself in the bedroom with him for the next couple of weeks and see where it goes from there. My money’s on happily ever after.”

“No such thing,” Emmy said.

“Then why were you marrying Roger?”

Emmy thought about that a minute, then did a hands-up. “The reason escapes me now.”

“It doesn’t escape me.” Lindy took her martini out of the waiter’s hand, barely sparing him a glance this time in favor of taking a big, fortifying swallow. “You don’t want to be alone, but you don’t want to take any emotional risks. You didn’t love Roger, so he wasn’t a threat. If you came home one day and found him gone, you wouldn’t care.”

“I’d care if he took all my furniture.”

“And doesn’t it mean anything to you that you’d miss your end tables more than your fiancé?”

“They’re really nice end tables.”

“Give me one good reason why you can’t get together with Nick,” Lindy said, the soft, wistful tone of her voice more compelling than all the exasperation that had gone before it.

Emmy picked up her drink and took her time fishing out the cherry.

“Well?”

“I’m thinking,” she said. But everything she came up with was either ridiculous or something she couldn’t say out loud. There was nothing wrong with Nick, unless you counted his low ambition quotient, and that was only a flaw to an overachiever like her. The only real problem she had with him was that he made her want things she hadn’t wanted in a long, long time. If she said that to Lindy, they’d be right back to exasperation because Lindy was a stop-griping-and-deal-with-it kind of person. Emmy didn’t want to deal with this. She’d been lugging around her emotional baggage for years, and it hadn’t gotten in her way. She didn’t see any reason to unpack it now.

“You can think all you want,” Lindy said, “but you won’t come up with anything.”

“Roger is gone, and Nick isn’t taking his place.”

“That sounds really convincing, but what are you going to do about you?”

Emmy shrugged.

“No, you don’t,” Lindy said, not letting her duck the subject. “Being a foster kid—”

“That’s the past.”

“Not if you keep letting it affect the present.”

“I’m not going there tonight,” Emmy warned.

“You never go there and it’s unhealthy. One of these days you’re going to wake up in a rubber room, missing a few months of your life.”

“Do I get to pick which ones I want to forget?”

“No, and trust me, I know how it feels. I ignored my garbage until I was forced to deal with it. If you’re smart, you’ll deal with yours before that happens.”

“I’m handling it fine.”

“First you agreed to marry Roger for…I don’t know the reasons, but I can tell you they were the wrong ones.” Lindy leaned forward, keeping her voice down, “and now you’re turning your back on a nice guy like Nick. Doesn’t sound like dealing to me. It sounds like sticking your head in the sand.”

“Whatever. It’s working.”

“For the time being,” Lindy, the voice of doom, said.

Emmy looked away. She could tune Lindy out so she didn’t hear the disapproval, and if she didn’t look at her, she didn’t have to see it, either. But she couldn’t escape her own feelings—and suddenly she was feeling a whole lot. “You asked me to give you one reason why I shouldn’t get together with Nick,” she said. “How about he’s scum?”

“No, he’s not. You’re just saying that because—”

“He’s standing over there with a redhead,” Emmy said, disgusted with herself more than Nick because she hated that he was standing there with any woman but her. “I told you he didn’t want me anymore.”