Jane wore all black. Or rather, the black wore her

Displayed her. Intimately. Right down to the hot-pink hoochie-mama sandals on her feet.

Dazed, Dom focused on her hot-pink toenails, and then ran his gaze up every luscious curve to her hot-pink siren’s lips. Say something. The message flashed to his muddled brain. “You’re late.”

Her chin rose. “Yes. You have a problem with that?”

He slowly shook his head. His eyes moved from her lips to her breasts: gifts from the gods, cruelly covered.

He lurched helplessly on his bar stool and forced his curiously rubbery legs to the ground. Dom peeled his dry lips apart. “You’re dressed to kill.”

Her mouth curved. “It’s appropriate for the occasion.”

Oh man, oh man. She’s here to lose on purpose! As soon as he’d shown her who was boss and tossed her out of his life, she’d come back apologizing and now she wanted him badly enough to lose at a game of pool.

Dom grinned, displaying every tooth he owned, feeling in control again. “Well, then. Let’s get this game over with.”

Dear Reader,

Have you ever found yourself thinking, “That guy would be perfect if only…”? Maybe it’s his attitude. Maybe it’s his clothes or his posture. Maybe it’s his table manners. Something stops him from being that man of your dreams.

Well, I sure have! And in this world of being able to upgrade a flight to first class, a room to ocean view, or your wardrobe to fabulous—I wondered, wouldn’t it be great if we could also upgrade our men?

That’s how I came up with the concept behind my new miniseries, THE MAN-HANDLERS—women who make over their men. Who’s on Top? is the story of lovable control freak Jane O’Toole and alpha male Dominic Sayers, two incredibly strong-willed people who are each determined to best the other. Watch as the sexual sparks between them blaze a trail from the office to the bedroom! And place your bets on the winner. You’ll be the final judge of who’s on top! I hope you enjoy getting to know Jane and Dom as much as I enjoyed creating them.

And I love to hear from readers! Visit me at my Web site at www.KarenKendall.com, where you can enter my monthly contest and find information about upcoming releases. Or you can write to me in care of Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

Happy reading!

Karen Kendall

P.S.—Look for the next book in the series, Unzipped?, Blaze #201, coming in September 2005!

Who’s on Top?
Karen Kendall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my husband, Don, who has resisted most of my attempts to upgrade him—because, of course, he is perfect! And to my wonderful editor, Wanda Ottewell. Thanks for everything.

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

1

IF ONLY MONDAY WERE A HOT, half-naked man, I wouldn’t mind starting every week with it. Jane O’Toole yawned.

Whether you’re a sanitation worker or a CEO—or in my case, both—Mondays just…suck.

She emptied the last wastebasket into the trash bag, tied a knot into the top of the bag and set it outside the office door, breathing deeply of the crisp October air.

Farmington, Connecticut, was at its most beautiful in autumn, nestling among the fall foliage under royal-blue skies. A town of twenty-one thousand, Farmington personified New England, abundant with neat Cape Cods punctuated with maple, oak and elm trees. Window boxes hadn’t yet lost their colorful blooms to the winter, and the wind sang through leaves of spectacular gold, rich tawny cinnamon, eggplant and even burgundy.

Such a gorgeous day to be stuck in the office. She left the door open to let the sunshine in, bathing the room and its antique-reproduction furniture in gold. Wryly Jane noted that the light also illuminated every dust mote stuck to the dark wood. And the once-pristine arrangement of dried roses on the coffee table looked…hairy.

Is it possible to dust dried flowers? she wondered. If she blew on them, she’d sneeze. If she vacuumed them, she’d be left with headless stems. And surely the duster in the closet would only add blue feathers to the unappetizing hair.

Jane dreamed of a cleaning service one day, but the business was too fragile, too new, to justify the expense right now. She’d conceived Finesse a year ago, while working at her miserable job in corporate employee assistance. Her M.A. in psychology had qualified her to be a glorified babysitter and paper pusher, and after eight years she’d had enough. So had her friends Shannon Shane, a would-be actress, and Lilia London, who’d been a receptionist for a law firm.

Jane had envisioned a business of their own: a training center for personal and career enhancement. Open now for nine months, Finesse did consulting on employee management issues and some general counseling (Jane’s specialty), image/communication (Shannon’s) and business etiquette (Lilia’s).

Thanks to hard work and tireless marketing, they’d enjoyed great success so far—though like any business in its fledgling stage, they had loans to pay off. And salaries? Actual salaries for each of them were still a dream on the horizon.

Jane put off donning those snappy pink rubber gloves and heading for the bathroom. Ugh. She’d do it after she had a doughnut.

She listened with half an ear to Shannon and Lilia discuss the pros and cons of…thong underwear? Yes, she had heard right.

“I don’t see how you can stand it,” Lilia said to Shannon with a shudder. Lilia’s dark hair was demure, as usual, clamped at her neck with a conservative clip. In her well-cut gray silk suit, she looked every inch the etiquette consultant.

Shannon marched to an altogether different drummer. In fact, Jane was pretty sure she had an alternate orchestra. She didn’t look anything like an image consultant—unless it was for rock stars in L.A.

“A thong eliminates the pantie-line problem.” Shannon shrugged, winding her long, curly blond hair into a knot on her head. Her motorcycle jacket hid most of a screaming-orange tank top—just not enough of it for Jane’s taste.

“I haven’t tried them,” Lilia said, “but I’ve heard those new boy shorts hide pantie lines, too.”

“Nope—they crawl.” Shannon was indisputably the authority on undies.

“Better a little ‘crawl’ than…than…rope burn in a private place!” Lilia stood her ground.

“Thongs are really not uncomfortable,” said Shannon. “The only problem I have with them is that I’m forever putting them on sideways, since they’re your basic isosceles triangle.”

Lilia shook her head. “Never. I just can’t go there. Thongs are so…slutty.”

Shannon exchanged a glance with Jane and both started to laugh.

“Ah,” Jane responded in a dry voice. “It’s so much less slutty to wear nothing under your stockings, for fear of those dreaded pantie lines.”

Lilia colored. “That’s not the same thing at all—”

“No,” Shannon chortled in between mouthfuls of a Krispy Kreme doughnut. “It’s worse! Lilia, you fallen woman, you.” She turned to Jane. “Now, execu-babe, tell us all about your unmentionables.”

Jane grinned, dried her just-washed hands and helped herself to what was left of the Krispy Kremes. “The only thing you need to know about my underwear has to do with maintenance. You go into Vicky’s Secret, and let’s say you choose beautiful lace tap pants. Or some sheer panties in chiffon. You feel pretty the first time you wear them. Then you toss them into the washing machine—’

“You didn’t!” gasped Lilia. “Surely the salesgirls told you to hand wash—”

“Yes, like I have all the time in the world to gently swish each of my freakin’ undergarments in the sink. Get real.”

Lilia tsk-tsked.

“So I threw them into the machine. And now they’re wound around the bottom of the post thingy in the washer and I can’t get them out! I’m also afraid to use the darn machine in case they destroy it or set it on fire or something.”

Shannon laughed.

Lilia stated the obvious. “You should call a repair guy.”

“Sure, Lil. You try explaining to a guy your father’s age that the problem lies with your ruby-red lacy tap pants. That it’s going to take a blowtorch and some needle-nose pliers to get them unstuck.”

Lilia’s lips twitched.

Jane mock-glared at her friends before rounding on Shannon. “By the way, thanks for leaving me only the squashed glazed doughnut and significantly less than half of the chocolate-frosted one!”

Shannon rolled her eyes. “I have two adages for you. ‘First come, first served.’ And ‘It’s for your own good, honey.’ Be glad they’re on my hips and not yours.”

“Why?” Jane muttered. “Why have I maintained a twenty-year friendship with the two of you? Not to mention going into business with you. Next Monday I’ll eat all the crème ones before reaching the first traffic light, and you’ll be sorry you treated me this way.”

Lilia said, “Now, girls.”

Shannon stuck her tongue out.

“Speaking of panties and Vicky’s Secret,” Jane went on, stalking to the prissy camelback sofa and retrieving a catalogue. “How on earth is anyone supposed to wear—” she flipped through some pages “—this? It’s only got a—”

Suddenly Shannon made a weird face, rolling her eyes wildly, and Lilia coughed and waggled her index finger behind her ear.

“—string of pearls for a crotch!” Too late she noticed their odd expressions.

Both her business partners closed their eyes and winced.

Slowly Jane lowered the catalogue and looked gingerly behind her, only to behold a Hugh Jackman type in pinstripes—her first client of the day. Oh. My. God. His shoulders filled the doorway and he gazed down at her from a height of at least six foot two. His dark hair was cut short in an attempt to restrain a tendency to curl. Dark eyes gleamed at her over Serengeti shades that he’d tugged down just a bit. Besides his suit, he wore a quizzical expression, and his eyebrows formed two interested, sex-charged squiggles.

She cleared her throat; resisted putting her hands up to her incinerated cheeks; looked at her watch. “You must be Mr. Sayers. I wasn’t expecting you…quite so early.”

DOMINIC SAYERS FROZE IN HIS tracks. String of pearls for a crotch? The concept was undeniably appealing—he was only human, after all. But he could not possibly be in the right place. Had he stumbled into an upscale escort service? He took a step back; looked up at the discreet, silver wooden letters. Huh. He raised a brow and returned his gaze to the rosy cheeks of the woman before him.

“Jane O’Toole? Of…Finesse?” He didn’t try to conceal his irony.

The color in her cheeks deepened to burgundy, but other than that she didn’t bat an eyelash. He was, however, too irritated to admire her composure. He didn’t want to be here.

“Yes, that’s right.” She raised her chin and stuck out her right hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sayers.”

“Oh, I doubt it.” His gaze, which he’d meant to keep cool and distant, roved over her body without his permission, dipping into the neatly buttoned but still provocative valley where the plackets of her blouse met—and downward from there. Hmm, pearls…

She blinked. “If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll get you started on some paperwork. Just some simple questions. Your employee ID number for Zantyne Pharmaceuticals, their billing address—that type of thing.”

“Ah, yes. The paper trail,” he said, returning to reality and not bothering to hide his bitterness. But he sat and accepted the pen and file folder she handed to him.

Arianna “the piranha” DuBose was no doubt furiously adding as much as she could to the paper trail that would indicate he should be fired.

The trail would not include certain important information: that Arianna had lied, backstabbed and schmoozed her way into her current position as his boss; that she was extremely threatened by Dom and didn’t want him around to expose her or show her up; and that she’d deliberately picked a fight with him so she could get him some “help” for his “negative attitude” and “tendencies toward insubordination.”

He shouldn’t have fallen for her tricks. Damn it, he knew better. What had gotten into him? Why had he let her anger him? And why hadn’t he made sure someone else was in the room during the entire standoff?

The only blessing Dom could count was that Arianna-the-piranha hadn’t accused him of sexual harassment.

Still, he was here in Jane O’Toole’s office to be evaluated—probably to commence “sensitivity training,” anger management and who knew what else. General kowtowing, he supposed.

In the meantime, he had a market analysis due, the regulators breathing down his neck and the licensing agreements to sign off on. Arianna would be nosing around every step of the way, erasing the dots from his i’s and smudging the crosses on his t’s. Anything she could use to trump up a case against him—she’d latch on to it with those flesh-eating fangs of hers.

Dom realized that Jane O’Toole was saying something to him. “What?” he asked gruffly. “I didn’t catch that.”

His eyes went from her mouth to her neckline, where she was fidgeting with—hoo, boy—a string of pearls. Again his male radar perked up. Hmm…

As soon as she followed his gaze, she dropped them as if they were hot.

He lifted a corner of his mouth. He didn’t mean it as a sneer exactly, but she seemed to take it as one, since she stiffened.

She was extremely attractive, with a mess of dark curly hair. This was cut at a sensible chin length and offset by huge brown eyes. Her cheekbones weren’t high but soft and rounded, blending into a surprisingly strong square chin.

She had plenty of interesting curves, too, though they were mostly hidden by a dark green pantsuit. He had a suspicion that lush, heavy breasts nestled against the lucky lining of her jacket. If Dom had met her in a bar—not that he usually went to bars, except to play pool—well, hell, he might have stiffened, too. So to speak.

His eyes strayed once again to the pearls at her neck, and he fought off an image of them in a darker, duskier place—attached to a scrap of silk.

“I asked you if you’d like a cup of coffee, Mr. Sayers.” The flush in her cheeks had spread down to her neck now, providing an interesting background for her pearls.

“Coffee would be great,” he said. He accepted it with thanks, omitting sugar or cream. He focused on the hot, black stuff and not Jane O’Toole’s possible tastes in lingerie. Grow up, Sayers. But hell, he felt all of thirteen, having been sent to the principal’s office.

Ms. O’Toole mixed her own coffee with as many cancer-causing substances as she could scrape together and stirred the disgusting brew with a long stick, which she tossed into the trash. “Why don’t we go into my office?”

The other two women involved in the kinky undies discussion—a six-foot Harley babe and a prim china doll—had vanished behind their respective doors. Dom shrugged and followed Principal O’Toole into her den of discipline. They might as well get on with his knuckle rapping.

“Have a seat,” she told him. She walked to a filing cabinet and bent over the second drawer, retrieving a sheet of paper from a manila folder. “This is a permission form—I always videotape my first session with a client. Then I’ll make a couple of tapes midway through our course together and one during the very last meeting. It’s just to document progress. I don’t release them to anyone, under any circumstances. But I do need you to sign off on the form.”

Dom folded his arms across his chest and told her he didn’t like the idea at all.

“Why not?” she asked calmly. “Is there something about being taped that threatens you?”

“No, Ms. O’Toole. I don’t feel threatened. But I would like to discuss a few issues with you and I don’t necessarily want them on record.”

She sat in her cushy leather chair opposite him and crossed her legs. Then she folded her hands across a leather-bound notebook in her lap. A pen emerged from the bundle of fingers, punctuating her air of cool disapproval like an exclamation point. Damn Arianna. He’d already been tried, judged and found lacking. But all Jane O’Toole said was, “Fine.”

“I want you to know that I’m not a behavioral problem,” he said. He could hear the anger in his own voice; saw her note it. “I do not have insubordination issues. I am not a chauvinist jerk who is unable to work for a woman. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she said. “So now that you’ve told me what you’re not, how about telling me what you are?”

“I’m a red-blooded American guy who doesn’t enjoy being manipulated by a power-hungry bitch.”

Her jaw dropped open and he heard her teeth click together as she shut it. Gotcha.

“Mr. Sayers, I’ve been called a lot of things during the course of my career, but that is a first.”

“I meant Arianna DuBose, not you!”

“I’m relieved to hear it. So tell me more about your working relationship with Ms. DuBose.”

A nice open-ended question. Gave him lots of rope to hang himself. Well, what the hell. He already had. “Ms. DuBose is an ambitious sociopath, and I happened to get in her way.”

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do. I was in line for a promotion and should have been a shoo-in. Suddenly the other regional managers were eyeing me uneasily, and Arianna got the job. Now she’s got it in for me. She wants me gone.”

Jane O’Toole took a careful sip of coffee and set her cup down on a side table. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, unconsciously exhibiting lean, muscular calves. “So you’re battling a certain resentment that Ms. DuBose was promoted ahead of you. I can see how that would make you angry.”

She didn’t believe him. Of course she didn’t. It all sounded like sour grapes to his own ears. And paranoid, to boot. Dom felt tension growing in every muscle, fresh anger seeping through his veins. Arianna had him just where she wanted him: by the short and curlies. But by God, he wasn’t going to let her win. He had to get through to this O’Toole woman.

Charm. Where had his charm gone hiding? He almost growled out loud. Due to the sheer injustice of the situation, his charm had been squished beneath his heel like an old piece of gum. But he’d better figure out how to scrape some off and resurrect it into a nice big pink bubble, or Jane would unwittingly help Arianna destroy his career.

Ugh. The harder Dom thought about charm, the more it eluded him. He was mad, damn it. Justifiably so. And worse, he was embarrassed. How dare Arianna send him to this woman, like a rowdy child in need of a paddling?

He got up out of his chair and paced Jane’s office a couple of times. She just watched him out of those brown eyes, schooled carefully to be dispassionate. But he could sense her judgment, and it wounded his pride.

“Ms. O’Toole, it’s very clear to me that you think I’m a swine.”

The lashes fluttered over those baby browns and she bit her lip. “No, of course not.”

He snorted, walked back to the chair he’d been sitting in and pounded the back of it with his fist. “Come off it. You think I’m a pig.”

She raised a brow. “Your choice of words, not mine.”

Dom bared his teeth at her. “And you’re right. I am angry. But not for the reasons you think. However, I’m too irate to discuss all of this with you at the moment, so I’m going to put an end to our session.” He turned on his heel, walked to the door and opened it.

Jane sat in her chair and made a couple of notes. Then she got up and followed him to where he was standing gazing down at the catalogue she’d tossed on the sofa by the door. He was unable to look away from the tiny silk G-strings available in hot-pink or midnight-black, the ones with the—

He heard the click as she clutched at her necklace. Turned to see the red flash into her cheeks once again. He raised a brow, knowing that he shouldn’t voice the words even as he said them. “It’s always best…not to dangle pearls before swine, Ms. O’Toole.”

JANE REACHED HER LIMIT WITH this comment. She banished the blush from her cheeks and removed her hand from her necklace. “No one dangled anything in front of you, Mr. Sayers. You rooted out the mud all by yourself. And it’s clear to me that you’re trying to knock me off balance so that I’ll let you run away.”

He froze. The faint devilry and arrogance that had risen with his mocking eyebrows disappeared, and his lips flattened. “Run away?”

She nodded and continued on the offensive. “As fast as you can get your snout out the door.” It was the only way to get him back into her office and address the issues at hand.

Sayers’s shoulders seemed to grow wider and a definite glint shone in his eye. “I don’t run from anything, Jane O’Toole. Not sociopathic bosses and not smug little psych majors with an ambition to fix what ain’t broke. Understand?”

Oh, but I will fix you, Mr. Attitude. You just don’t know it yet. All men need to be fixed! “Yes, Dominic Sayers, I believe I do. Now, since we’ve established that you’re not running away, let’s step back into my office—shall we?” Ha! I’ve got you now.

His eyes narrowed. He couldn’t walk out the door and still retain any self-respect. And he knew it. She restrained a smile. Was it her imagination or did every faint pinstripe on the man’s suit indicate a bullet trajectory—all of them aimed right at her?

Jane smiled at his back as he stalked once again toward her office. Hostility and annoyance buzzed around them like a thousand angry horseflies.

She dropped into her chair and made a couple more notes. This made her look official and professional and gave her a moment to think. Continue on the offensive, she told herself. Just take the bull by the horns. Maybe that way he’ll smash some excellent psychological china….

“So, Mr. Sayers. How long have you entertained hostile thoughts toward women? Does this date back to your childhood?”

He fixed her with an extremely black, dangerous stare—and then he began to curse. She ignored the actual words and just let him vent. But in the meantime she couldn’t help but admire the way he filled out his suit, the jump of the muscles in his stern jaw as he got pithy with her and the truly miraculous bone structure of his face. The man had cheekbones that would make a sculptor weep.

When he finally stopped with an insult to her profession, she said graciously, “I’m so glad we’ve had this time together,” and opened her appointment book. “I’d like to visit you at the office on Monday, all right? Nine-ish, shall we say?”

Sayers appeared to choke on that breath he was taking. “Lady, are you out of your mind?”

“No, I’m certainly not. Let’s identify what just happened here. Since you were too proud to walk out that door, when I asked you a question you resented, you exhibited enough hostility that you hoped I’d be horrified and back out of working with you. I’m not going to do that. Of course, again it’s your choice. You can retreat from the battlefield and refuse to work with me.” She watched him carefully for a moment. “But then I’ll have to log that in my evaluation. And if what you say about the, uh, sociopathic Ms. DuBose is true, then won’t you just be playing into her hands?”

2

BY THE TIME DOMINIC SAYERS left her office, Jane was smug in the knowledge that she’d won the round. Oh, yes indeed—he was down for the count, with her high heel firmly planted between his handsome shoulder blades. It was a darn good feeling—but she couldn’t help questioning how long it would last. Dominic would be armed and dangerous next time they met. She had to prepare herself. And she had to get him to talk to her.

Besides being angry, who was this man? She didn’t have many clues. And if she couldn’t figure out who he was, how was she going to figure out how to fix him?

She stared at the obnoxious, broad, dark back of Sayers as he walked to his hunter-green Jaguar and unlocked it. The guy didn’t saunter exactly. He just walked casually, with confidence radiating off what she had to admit were exceptionally nice shoulders. She wondered fleetingly what he looked like in a snug T-shirt before her gaze dropped to his backside, which was so fine that she could watch it like a television. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if strange women pinched it on the street….

That’s when he caught her, acknowledging her stare with one of his own.

Annoyed at herself, she turned on her heel, only to have her gaze fall on the glossy Vicky’s Secret catalogue that had launched some of the trouble between them. Because there was trouble between them, no doubt about it—layers of disturbance that had to do not only with a battle of wits but also with an underlying resistance to each other. Jane didn’t like this one bit. Because the flip side of resistance was…attraction.

How could she be attracted to a foul-mouthed self-professed swine? Well, truth to tell, he was more of a grizzly bear.

Jane had always loved a good fight. And she usually won—just as she had today. But she was attracted to Sayers, God help her.

Ugh. There it was, lying out in the open for her to deal with. But how?

She snatched the offending lingerie catalogue off the sofa and stuffed it into the nearest circular file.

The planet was littered with Vicky’s Secret catalogues. Bombarded with bras, plastered with panties. She was so used to seeing them, modeled by half-naked nymphets, that she hadn’t thought to hide the damned catalogue in the depths of the cleaning closet.

And out of all the possible selections in such a catalogue, Mr. Sayers had to have caught her looking at that one. Jane clutched the pearls at her neck and let her fingers slide along the smooth orbs, trying not to imagine how they might feel slithering into dark, sensual crevices. She shifted from one foot to the other, feeling heat blossom on her skin at an unbidden image of Sayers trailing his fingers after them….

Then she slapped herself in the forehead. What was wrong with her? Jane stuck her foot in the wastebasket and stomped on the damn catalogue just to make herself feel better.

Shannon’s door opened behind her. “Now that’s a good look for you, O’Toole.”

With dignity, Jane removed her foot from the container.

“Almost as good a look as the beet-red on your face an hour ago.”

Jane shot her a look that communicated two words: bite me.

“So what’s up with him, and why do you look like you just ate a nail sandwich?”

Jane sighed. “He doesn’t want to be here. Remember how thrilled I was to hear from that female VP? The one from Zantyne?”

Shannon nodded.

“Well, she’s the one who sent Mr. Sunshine this morning. And he does seem to have an attitude problem. He’s going to be a tough client.”

“Not to mention a hot one!”

Jane ignored the comment completely, as well as the smirk on her friend’s face.

“But if you do well with him,” Shannon guessed, “we could get a lot more business from Zantyne—business that we need if we want to break even this year, service the business loans and hire a receptionist.”

“Exactly.”

Shannon tapped a long fingernail against her teeth. The fingernail was purple. Yesterday it had been blue.

“Hey, Shan? Your nails aren’t going to be green tomorrow, are they? I mean, we—”

“Have a corporate image to uphold, yes, I know. Trust me, once I have my first clients in here next week, the claws will be short and neutral. But until then I’m a free spirit, honey. And green’s not a bad idea…MAC has a new metallic mint color out. Thanks for reminding me.”

Jane looked down at Shannon’s toes, which gleamed—alternately striped and polka-dotted with silver and purple. She shook her head. “Where do you find the time?”

“Exactly where you find the time to run on your treadmill like a gerbil on a wheel. Back to this hunky guy with the eyebrows. Convince him that he can use you for his own purposes, and then he’ll relax.”

Jane nodded slowly, trying to ignore the dirtier connotations of being used for Sayers’s own purposes. Stop that! He’s a client.

Shannon might have a few nuts in her center, but she was often unexpectedly brilliant. “I think you’re right,” Jane said in her best crisp and professional tones. “He’s not the kind of personality who will accept help. He needs to be in control.”

Shannon smirked. “Hmm. Kind of like some other people I know…”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I’m a Virgo. I was born that way.”

“No, I think you dictated the exact date and time you exited the womb. You also took notes, cc-ing the doctor and your parents.”

Jane was smart enough to check the door this time for roving clients before shooting the finger at Shannon. Oh, yes, she had Finesse.

SHE WAS DRAWN BACK INTO HER office by the ringing phone and she could still smell Dominic Sayers’s scent as she picked up the receiver. “Jane O’Toole.”

“Hi, honey.”

Her heart turned over at the sound of her father’s voice, monotone and depressed, as he was most of the time. She worried about him constantly. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“Gilbey got himself fired again. Don’t know what to do with that boy.”

Jane plopped into her leather chair, squishing all the air out of the seat cushion in an indelicate whoosh. She slipped off one brown leather pump and rubbed the arch of her bare foot against the toe of the other. “What happened this time?”

“Some BS about how the foreman doesn’t like him, wrote him up for being a minute late, yada yada.”

She’d heard it all before—many times—which was probably why she was allergic to the blame game. Her brother Gilbey, just like Dominic Sayers today, always had a boss who was out to get him. And conveniently for Gilbey, the boss always did. Then Gil didn’t have to work while he “searched” for his next job. It was all very convenient. Jane sighed.

“Dad, he’s not going to grow up if you don’t kick him out of the house. He’s going to remain mentally seventeen forever—and he’s twice that age!”

Her father muttered something.

“You know I’m right. Do you want me to talk to him again?”

“Can’t hurt. And maybe you can help line him up some other prospects.”

“No.” Her voice was firm. “I can’t recommend him to anyone when I know what he’s like.”

“He’s your brother, Janey.”

“Yes! He’s my brother, and therefore my own reputation is on the line when I put in a good word for him. It’s embarrassing when he gets fired.”

“Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

I am thinking about it. That’s why I’m slowly going insane. “So how are you doing, Dad? Are you cheering up a little?”

“Well, you know. Darn weeds keep growing in the walkway, no matter what I put on ’em. Got moles in the front lawn. And the Jets are gonna get the snot kicked out of them tonight, you mark my words.”

“I’ll bet the hardware store has something to take care of the weeds and moles. I can’t help you much with your team, though. You just might have to pick a different one.”

“I’m no fair-weather fan, Janey. I stick with my boys!”

I know, and your loyalty is one of the things I love most about you. But judging by their current stats, that means you’re going to be depressed until basketball season starts up.

She didn’t say it aloud. “Why don’t you get out into the sunshine and take a walk, Dad? It’ll make you feel better.” And how about some nice Prozac?

“Unnh.”

“Really.”

“Unnh.”

Well, this is progress. “What would you like me to bring for dinner on Sunday?”

“Unnh.”

“Meat loaf? With mashed potatoes and peas?”

“Unnh.”

Jane decided he’d answered in the affirmative. “Okay, then. I’ll see you Sunday.”

She placed the receiver back in its cradle, and her thoughts returned to Dominic Sayers. Unfortunately the thoughts were not of a professional nature: he was shirtless, displaying a tan, six-pack abs and a wicked grin. He was also beckoning her to come sit on his lap—which she did very happily, disengaging his buckle, pulling off his belt and using the leather to strap him to the chair he sat in. Then she—

Jane O’Toole, get a grip on yourself! You’ve obviously been working too hard and are in desperate need of a date.

She tried to remember how long it had been and then decided she didn’t want to think about that.

Wiping her mind clean, she opened a new file on her laptop and stared at the blinking cursor for a moment before typing in his name. Under it she wrote:

Attitude problem. Bullheaded. Seems to thrive on confrontation. Blames others (boss) for current predicament. Arrogant. Aware of physical attractiveness. Competitive streak several miles wide.

Treatment plan:

1. Exploit and then control subject’s hostility; get him to relax and open up.

2. Establish more about subject’s background. Does he have an underlying anger at women?

3. Observe subject in office environment. Gather examples to show him how his behavior negatively impacts his relations with coworkers. Pay special attention to interaction with females.

4. Bring up these examples in a nonthreatening way and explore alternate scenarios for subject to employ next time.

5. Using the above examples, get subject to admit he has a problem and that he can solve it.

6. Do not allow subject’s looks or your own libido to sway you from your objectives!

Jane stared at the computer screen. Now where had number six come from? She needed to remember that Sayers was not a nice guy. He had likened himself to a pig.

That scent of his wasn’t at all porcine, though—woodsy, male, a hint of clove—and it still hung in her office. Jane spun in her chair to face the credenza, from which she pulled a can of Lysol. She depressed the nozzle and walked it around the room on full blast.

Take that, Sayers. I’ll figure you out. And then I’ll fix you like a bad habit.

SUNDAY DINNER WAS ITS USUAL barrel of laughs. How could you love two people so much and be so frustrated by them? Jane reminded herself that even a graduate degree in psychology couldn’t answer a question like that.

“The potatoes are dry,” her dad muttered. Gilbey said nothing as he helped himself to a slab of meat loaf, placing it in the center of a lake of ketchup on his plate.

Jane contemplated what this said about her brother as she methodically scraped her father’s portion of mashed potatoes back into the serving bowl and added butter and cream. As she reached into a cabinet for the electric beaters, her dad said, “Now don’t make ’em too fattening, Janey.”

She plugged the beaters in. “Adding water won’t make them taste very good.” The noise drowned out any possible response from her dour dad. When she was done, Jane scooped a healthy portion of mashed potatoes back onto his plate and watched with satisfaction as he began to eat them with obvious enjoyment—not that he could allow himself to acknowledge it.

“Probably’ll gain five pounds,” he groused between bites.

She just smiled. He was on the skinny side and had abnormally low cholesterol. She wasn’t worried.

Her gaze returned to Gilbey, who was now turning his plate to make sure the meat loaf was truly centered in the ketchup. “Perfect,” he announced to nobody in particular.

Did he want a compliment for his skill? “You know, Gil, most people put the meat loaf on the plate first and then the ketchup on top.”

“I’m not most people.”

Truer words had never been spoken.

“Why do you do it that way?”

“Because it works better.”

Jane shook her head, but as she watched him eat, she was struck by the fact that it did work better—at least for him. Gil had a hard time with accepted structure. He was always questioning traditional ways of doing things. She’d called him stubborn and exasperating many times. But maybe he was just creative.

Gilbey, in his own way, was as unique as Shannon. But if Shannon marched to an alternate orchestra, Gil shambled along to an alternate grunge band.

Jane stuck a piece of meat loaf into her own mouth and tried to catch her brother’s gaze, but he wouldn’t look at her. He was ashamed at the loss of another job. Well, he should be, darn it!

“Your critical side is not your most attractive side,” she heard her mother say in her head. Jane all but rolled her eyes. Yeah, but you can’t be blind to people’s faults, either.

She fought against her judgmental side, she really did. She used it to help people, to fix their problems. She was good at that. She’d founded a company to do it. Her critical side would end up being her most lucrative side. Most companies steadily lost money for the first three years they were in business. Thanks to her, Finesse was close to breaking even in nine months.

Jane’s thoughts turned to her mother again, now dead of breast cancer twelve years. Mom would never have bought meat loaf and mashed potatoes. She’d have made them—and not the powdered kind either, as Jane suspected these were.

Dad hadn’t been surly and depressed when she was alive, and Gilbey hadn’t been quite such a mess—she’d had him doing all kinds of landscaping for her, even building a rock waterfall by hand. Jane still remembered him then, totally absorbed in his task, working twelve hours a day with only a twenty-minute lunch break. Gilbey loved to work with his hands. She understood that.

That’s why the last three jobs she’d gotten him had involved manual labor. But he’d walked off the construction job, put all the parts together backward on the assembly-line job and butted heads with the foreman on this latest one, a position in an electronics company.

What am I going to do with you, Gil? It simply never occurred to her that he wasn’t her problem.

On the other side of the table, her dad put down his fork and rubbed his belly. “Feel like I swallowed a bowling ball.”

“Did you enjoy the meal, Dad?”

“Unnh.” But he nodded.

She picked up his plate and wished that men of his generation would acknowledge the arrival of feminism and do their own dishes. Yeah, right. Dad would clean up the kitchen the same day he mowed the lawn en pointe, in a pink ballerina tutu.

In that one regard, it was a good thing that Gilbey still lived with him. Jane took the plates to the sink and rinsed them. To the mental list in her head she added: antidepressants for Dad, another job for Gilbey. The men in her life always needed help.

That night, to her shame, Jane dreamed of a hot, naked Dominic Sayers who needed help finding his clothes. Funny, but she refused to give them to him.

In fact, she had hidden them herself and she taunted him with a single sock…for which Dominic had to chase her down. Laughing, he pinned her against the wall and demanded his things, threatening to take hers if she didn’t return them.

When she refused, he opened her blouse with his teeth, scattering buttons across her bedroom floor. Next he pulled down her bra, wedging it under her breasts and taking the nipples into his mouth.

Jane moaned and tried to free her hands, but he wouldn’t let her go—just captured both her wrists in his right hand and pulled up her skirt with his left. Then his fingers crept under her panties, skimming over hidden curls and caressing, teasing, rubbing her most secret places. He cupped her with a warm palm and slid back and forth, back and forth….

Jane shuddered, gasped for breath and awoke disoriented, breathing heavily. It was dark. The clock read 3:33 a.m., and her body vibrated with—no other word for it—horniness. She ached with lust. Her brain felt foggy. And no way in hell would she fall back asleep before dawn. Crazy though it was, she’d inhaled Dominic Sayers like a virulent flu. Would she recover anytime soon?

3

JANE STOOD IN HER OFFICE, hands on her hips, in front of the hairy flower arrangement. There had to be a way to dust the darn thing without making it disintegrate. The coffee was brewing, and this was her challenge of the moment—the one she felt she could triumph over before having to follow the annoyingly sexy, butt-headed Dominic Sayers around his office like a Labrador retriever. Well, a Lab with opposable thumbs, a notepad and a definite agenda.

She went to the closet that held cleaning supplies and stood there looking at the array of possibilities for cleaning flowers. Furniture polish? Soft soap? Disinfectant spray? Nope. And she’d already ruled out the vacuum. Could she swish the flower heads around in the toilet? I don’t think so.

Finally her gaze settled on a mini fan, which she pulled out and set on the floor near the offending arrangement. She plugged it in, turned it on and aimed it satisfactorily. The flowers began to rattle in the breeze, and a gazillion dust motes swirled into the air in a mini tornado. There!

The door opened to admit Lilia, who took one look and assumed an expression of kindly tolerance for the insane.

“Did you bring doughnuts?” Jane asked hopefully.

“Of course. I have a dozen in my four-by-six inch pocketbook.”

The article in question was a little quilted number that hung from Lilia’s shoulder by a thin gold chain. Definitely no edibles in there, darn her sarcasm.

“If we ate doughnuts more than once a week, we’d all be barn-size, Jane.”

Yeah, well. Barns were peaceful. They lounged about on golden prairies under blue skies and didn’t have to tangle with dangerous, sexy, six-foot-two attitude problems. Barns didn’t worry about depressed relatives, cash flow, client referrals or hairy flower arrangements.

“But I didn’t get any of the crèmes,” she heard herself whine.

Lilia shook her head at her. “Would you like some coffee? I’ll bring you some.”

“Thanks. Travel mug, please. I have to head to Zantyne today and evaluate that client in the workplace.”

“Well, I hope you have better luck there than with that vase of dried flowers. What exactly are you trying to achieve?”

“I’m dusting them,” Jane said proudly.

“Mmm.”

The tone of Lilia’s voice suggested that she check on her project. Jane squinted in disbelief. The fan had taken care of the dust, all right. But it had also blown off all the petals and leaves on the left side of the flowers, leaving the ones on the right intact. They looked partially shaved, and she had a huge mess to clean up off the floor and coffee table.

Jane switched off the fan, turned the bald side of the flowers to the wall and threw the appliance back in the closet. She determined to write a letter to HGTV right away, begging for their advice. There just had to be a way to dust dried flowers.

THE CONNECTICUT HEADQUARTERS of Zantyne Pharmaceuticals was a rectangular brown monstrosity that reminded Jane of a monumental loaf of bread. Clearly extra funds were channeled into R & D and not atmosphere.

The inside walls of the place were painted the shade of provolone cheese, and the reception desk was a mossy green. Jane decided she’d stepped into a rather unappetizing corporate sandwich. She asked politely for Dominic.

“Mr. Sayers?” said Zantyne’s receptionist into her headset. “Ms. Jane O’Toole to see you.” She paused, then nodded. “I’ll do that.”

Jane wondered if her unwilling client had issued orders to kick her butt right out the door. She unconsciously braced herself for two burly men in security uniforms to appear, but it didn’t happen. The sleek blonde got to her feet and said, “Right this way.”

Jane followed the pink-clad, entirely too pert globes of the receptionist’s rear end as they twitched through a set of wide double doors and down a taupe-carpeted hallway, until she stopped at an office on the right. Miss Pink flipped her hair over her shoulder and gushed, “Here she is, Dom. Can I get you two anything?”

Oh, maybe a couple of pistols, thought Jane. Or better yet, lances—so we can run each other through with more gore.

“Thanks, Jeannie, but I think we’re all set.” Dom flashed her a surprisingly tusk-free smile as he stood up from his desk, his powerful sex appeal sending much of Jane’s blood rushing south.

With a little moue of her lips that made a couple of cute dimples appear, the receptionist wiggled back to her post. Jane was positive Miss Pink had practiced that lip thing in a mirror. Hmm. Maybe she should try it?

Sayers turned the smile upon her now. “Jane!” he said warmly. “Good to see you again. How are you today?”

She stared at him, wary. Embarrassed that you managed to star naked in my dreams last night. “Uh, fine,” she said. “How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better, thanks.”

Did someone spray happy mist in your Wheaties this morning? Add amphetamines?

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee?”

She shook her head, unable to look away from a sexy little mole in the middle of his left cheek.

“Tea?”

“No, thank you.” And don’t say “me” next, either. Where is your evil twin? The one I met yesterday?

Today’s Dominic was even dressed in a happy-colored pale yellow button-down and khakis, not the funereal pinstripes of the day before. His eyebrows looked less menacing. And dark, curly hairs beckoned to her from his open neckline, cranking up his sex appeal factor even more, if that were possible. Uh-oh.

Me, Tarzan, those little curly hairs crooned. You, Jane. Wanna swing to nirvana on my big, thick vine?

Huh. She averted her eyes from the danger spot and reminded herself that the man in front of her was nothing more than a chest-thumping primate who needed to be civilized.

She considered asking him to pull his anger out of the nearest file cabinet so they could get on with examining it but decided to go ahead and explore this warm and fuzzy aspect of his personality—since, after all, it was probably a mask. He’d let it slip sooner or later.

“I’m guessing you just want to follow me around and observe me, correct?”

“Yes. I may tape some conversations, too—with your permission.”

“Of course!” he said in genial tones.

Who are you?

“To start with, I have a staff meeting in five minutes. You can meet my team and see that I actually play quite well with others.”

We’ll see about that.

But it was true. Five people filed into the room, including his marketing coordinator, two analysts, an assistant product manager and a PR specialist. Three of them were women, two men. They all seemed to have an easy camaraderie with “Dom,” as they called him.

He introduced every person to her by name, joking that Jane was there to help him mind his p’s and q’s. They all looked puzzled but carried on with various reports to him.

When Jackie, the marketing coordinator, had finished, he thanked her graciously. “And how’s Tommy doing?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Kid’s gonna drive me crazy, whining about that cast on his arm.”

Dom shook his head in sympathy. “Well, tell him he’s lucky he didn’t break it in the summertime. A cast gets even hotter and itchier then, believe me.”

She nodded.

“Your Buccaneers are looking good, Tim.” Dom said to one of the analysts.

The guy flashed a big white grin at him. “Yeah. Gonna kick the he—uh, hoo-ha outta the Falcons.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Whatcha got for me?”

Tim made his report while Dom nodded thoughtfully.

Jane taped the meeting and took notes with growing incredulity. But they couldn’t possibly have all gotten together and rehearsed beforehand. No, these people actually liked Sayers. And that didn’t add up.

Hmm. She tapped her pen on her nose. And so, clearly, had the company receptionist. But while she’d written that off to a sweet young thing’s infatuation with his looks, she couldn’t write off the interactions in this meeting. It was all very peculiar. For an instant she wondered if just maybe he’d been telling the truth in her office. That he was being set up by a power-hungry boss.

But no—that was ridiculous. She knew Arianna DuBose, was a member of the Kiwanis Club with her and the local women executives’ networking group, too. She’d never seen Arianna be anything other than charming, articulate and beautifully dressed. And the woman was in a position of power already—so there was no need for her to backstab or get Machiavellian.

Sayers was an educated white male of a certain age, with certain expectations. And he’d felt anger when a woman was promoted over him—plain and simple. It didn’t take her behavioral psych degree to figure that out.

Why, then, did he seem to get along so well with the women in this room? Oh, lightbulb, Jane. They work for him. Not vice versa. It’s easy to be gracious when you’ve got the power. Satisfied, she stopped hitting her nose with her pen and capped it, ignoring the quirk of Sayers’s lips. Go ahead and smirk at me, you yutz. You’re not stumping me by this charming behavior. I’ve got you figured out.

While he took in another report, she allowed herself to assess his looks again from the corner of her eye.

Nice tapered waist. Long thighs. Solid, athletic-looking knees—no skinny knobs visible through the pants. So he probably had good legs, not chicken sticks. She peeked at the chest hair again, which was a bad idea, since it got her wondering about the broad chest underneath.

Jane, get a hold of yourself! You cannot have a fantasy about the man right in front of him.

Aw, but I’ve got such a good one, her libido whined. Listen: it involves a furry rug before a roaring fire on a cold, winter night…and he licks melted chocolate and marshmallows off your—

Stop it! She noticed that she was again tapping on her nose with her pen. She recapped it for the second time. Usually she tapped on the earpiece of her glasses, but she’d been curiously reluctant to put them on in front of Dominic.

He looked over at her and now both corners of his delectable mouth turned up.

Trying to sucker me? Not a chance. She returned his gaze coolly and waited for the meeting to be over, which it soon was. Her stomach growled audibly as he turned to her.

“Care for some lunch?”

Should she go to lunch with him? She hesitated. Well, she could observe him further with other people. Why not? “Okay,” she said. “I just need to run to the ladies’ room first.”

“Good thing,” Dominic responded.

Good thing? Why would he possibly care that she took a tinkle? Bizarre man. Jane hitched the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder and marched down the hall to the relevant door. She availed herself of the amenities, still puzzling.

It was when she went to wash her hands that she figured it out. Blue pen marks adorned her nose, making her look like a refugee from the Bic warrior tribe.

She stared at them with growing mortification. How long had they been there? Why hadn’t one of the other six people in the room said something? And how was she going to get them off?

Jane dropped her briefcase on the floor and went to town with the pink liquid soap and a brown paper towel, only succeeding in removing all the makeup from the lower half of her face. The pen marks, however, still remained.

She might as well draw a mustache on her lip or add kitty whiskers. No wonder Dominic Sayers had smirked at her!

The score between them was temporarily even, but she’d fix that—and him. There was no doubt in her mind, no doubt at all, about who was going to end up on top….

4

DOMINIC OBSERVED JANE quizzically as they moved their trays through the salad buffet at a local restaurant. The skin on and around her nose seemed extremely…thick. And very…nonshiny. Powdered. But somehow red underneath. His deductive powers told him that she had scrubbed her skin vigorously and then applied almost an entire jar of makeup to the offending area, and he pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Because underneath it all, he could still detect faint bluish lines.

In spite of them, she was still beautiful, even with that schoolmarm’s pout on her pretty lips. He ran an appreciative gaze over her curves, lingering again on her breasts. Damn that jacket. The things ought to be outlawed for women….

Miss Bic squinted, peered and then selected carefully from the salad offerings. No iceberg lettuce. Only red leaf. And only the freshest-looking pieces. Anything with even a suspicion of brown went right back into the large steel lettuce bin. Miss Bic seemed highly irritated by the clear plastic barrier over the salad bar. She peered through it, eyes again squinted, and steamed it up with her breath.

“Forget your glasses?” Dom asked.

“No. How do you know I wear glasses?”

“Oh, just a guess.” Because you’ve just about flattened your nose against the Plexiglas, there, sweetheart. And if only I’d met you in a different context, I’d love for you to get that close to me.

She straightened but squinted even more as she wielded the salad tongs over a container of cherry tomatoes and snatched one.

“That one’s squishy,” Dom told her. A characteristic to be avoided in tomatoes but sought after in breasts.

She dropped it and glared at him. “Thank you.” She scrunched her eyes and hunched over the clear plastic again, nearsightedly fishing for perfection.

“Would you like me to help you?” Dom asked.

“No, I’m fine.”

“That one on the far right, in the corner, is Without Flaw. No green edges, no wrinkles, no dark spots, no puckering.”

She deliberately took a different one, and Dom shook his head. Exactly four others joined their buddy on her plate.

Miss Bic bypassed the next container completely—no fatty pepperoni for her—but picked precisely five quarters of marinated artichoke from the next bin. And then five slices of cucumber, followed by five slices of red pepper, which, he supposed, color-coordinated with the five cherry tomatoes. For protein she chose small slices of grilled chicken: five.

What was with the magic number? Dom was almost disappointed when Jane used only one ladleful of fat-free Italian dressing.

He took his own tray and followed her back to their table, unloading his heaping bowl of chili and massive iceberg lettuce salad under her gaze.

Her eyes widened as he added a few shakes of hot sauce to the chili, and he grinned. “Don’t worry—I used exactly five shakes.”

Spots of pink appeared in Jane’s cheeks and spread to her ears, which he could see now since she’d stuffed her hair behind them. They were very cute ears. He’d really like to lick one—just taste it.

“So what’s with the number five?” Dom asked.

Jane shrugged. “I don’t know. I just like it.”

“It’s a nice, clean number,” Dom mused. “Half of ten.”

Jane started to look annoyed.

“No extra digits to mess it up. No ambiguity about it. It’s reasonable. Not too high, not too low. Right in the middle.”

“I thought I was supposed to be analyzing your behavior,” Jane said.

“Turnabout’s fair play.” He spooned chili into his mouth and tried not to stare at the blue lines still visible to the right of her nose.

She touched the area self-consciously. “I don’t know what it says about me, but the number five has always been my favorite. We have five fingers on each hand. Five toes on each foot. We have two arms, two legs and a head. If you connect those five points in a continuum, you make a circle.”

“Da Vinci,” he said.

“Exactly.”

He waited.

She fidgeted. “And…oh, I don’t know. Five times five is twenty-five, which is point two five of a hundred, one clean quarter…” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “You probably think I’m a crazy woman.”

“No.” Dom held his spoon wrong side up, the curve of it against his bottom lip. “I think you’re a very precise, analytical woman. You draw logical conclusions. You’re no fuss, no muss and you make decisions based on orderly sets of facts.”

Jane stared at him. “And how else are you supposed to make decisions? Isn’t that the right way?”

“Aha,” Dom said. “So according to you, there’s a right way and a wrong way to make a decision, then.”

Jane stabbed a piece of red pepper and stuck it in her mouth. Simultaneously she took a deep, deliberately calm breath. Both multitasking and playing for time, Dom thought. Efficient. Intelligent. Rigid.

And dangerous to him. He’d already given her too much ammunition to draw conclusions about him—especially if she was a rigid personality. He hoped this morning’s meeting had shown her that he wasn’t as much of a jerk as he’d appeared to be in her office.

But maybe she’d decided that it was all a dog and pony show for her benefit. Or worse, that he was some kind of split personality. Oh, great…he could just see himself explaining to her. “Oh, that guy you met at first? That was Dirk, my mean side. But he only pops out every once in a while. Dominic, the nice guy? He’s around the majority of the time. He’s the one you want to evaluate, not Dirk.” And then there’s Drew, the horny goat-man who’d like to back you up against a wall and…

Uh-huh. Was it better to have Miss Bic think he was a pig or just a garden-variety psycho? Dom spooned some more chili into his mouth and wondered how he’d arrived at this point in his life. He also wondered how he was going to convince Miss Bic that Arianna was the split-personality psycho, not him.

JANE CRUNCHED DOWN ON HER vegetables and pondered the corner into which Dominic Sayers was trying to back her.

If she admitted that yes, she did feel that there was a right way versus a wrong way to make a decision, then his next step would be to show her that she had drawn erroneous conclusions about him, based upon skewed logic. And really, any logic could be turned upon its ear if you messed around with it long enough…because logic was based on assumptions. Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!

Jane decided right then that she strongly disliked Dominic Sayers. Because of him, she had drawn blue marks around her nose. Because of him, she had not put on her glasses, and still refused to put them on, even though she needed them to see and they were in the side pocket of her purse. And because of him, she hadn’t slept much last night and was now questioning her ways of thinking.

Because of Dominic Sayers, she was being silly, vain and illogical. And she was none of these things on a normal day under normal circumstances. The abnormality was him, Dominic Sayers. There was nothing wrong with her. He was the one who needed help.

Jane, now firmly back on the comfortable cushion of her superiority, refrained from slapping herself in the forehead. Of course Sayers was trying to force her to question herself. He wanted to challenge all of her assumptions about him. He wanted to con her into thinking he was the very model of a modern management man.

Which he isn’t. He obviously had issues about answering to women, and she was, after all, a woman. To whom he had to answer. So he wants to get my panties in a wad. And he’s made a good start, darn it.

Jane took another bite of her salad and aimed a pleasant smile at Dom. “How’s your chili?”

“Full of beans.” He looked at her with a bland expression.

Jane narrowed her eyes, but he gazed back without a blink. Full of beans, huh? He’s referring to my profession, and not his food. But she let it pass.

“Dominic,” she asked, “why did you invite me to lunch?”

“It was the polite thing to do,” he said with a quirk of his lips. “And I’m a polite guy.”

“You weren’t polite the last time we met.”

“True. But I hadn’t planned on being stuck with you then.”

Her mouth opened in surprise at his candor, and without planning to, she laughed. “But since you’re stuck with me now…?”

“I might as well charm you. After all—” he smiled winningly “—charming you is in my best interests, you will agree.”

Again her mouth opened. This time she covered it with her hand to smother the laugh. He’s incorrigible.

“Oh, don’t do that.” Dominic grasped her fingers in his large paw—zing!—and pulled them down to the table. “You have a beautiful smile. Don’t hide it.”

Where had the zing come from? Being touched inappropriately by a grizzly bear should not produce a zing, darn it. Jane reclaimed her hand from under his paw and wrapped her fingers around her fork, wielding the utensil like a weapon.

She stabbed a piece of grilled chicken and waved it at him. “Do you really think I’m that easy to manipulate?”

“Oh, no—don’t assume that I’ve underestimated you. I think you’ll be a real chore to manipulate.” His eyes danced.

She gaped at him again. How did he think he could get away with saying such things? Part of her was offended. Yet part of her admired his honesty—even though it bordered on the obnoxious.

“Listen, Sayers.” Though she couldn’t help but respond to the twinkle in his eyes, she kept her tone firm. “You cannot charm me into a positive evaluation. I’m a professional, not an eighteen-year-old coed. And I’m not looking at how you interact with me. I’m observing your behavior in the workplace.”

He nodded. “Understood. So I’m only exercising my charm around you to stay in practice.” Sayers dug back into his chili while she stared at him, fighting the desire to bang her forehead on the table.

He leaned the underside of his spoon against his lower lip again, gently tapping, and she saw her face reflected in it upside down, contorting like taffy and looking utterly ridiculous.

The fingers grasping the spoon dwarfed it, but Sayers’s hand wasn’t really like a paw at all. It possessed an unexpected elegance, a teasing masculinity that crept somehow under her skin and set her nerves aflame.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, thought Jane. I refuse to envy a spoon. I refuse!

But those fingers of Dom’s, the zing fingers, wrapped all the way around the stainless steel, caressing it. Leaving faint whorls printed on the metal.

She wondered what his fingertips would feel like on her skin, and an unbidden image of them stroking down her spine produced a delicious shiver.

Which of course he noticed. Dom quirked an eyebrow at her. “Cold?” he asked, lips still against the bowl of the spoon.

She shook her head, instructing herself to look away from his mouth. How curious that she’d never really examined the human mouth…the web of tiny lines and miraculous tissues and curious curves that created a lip. Two lips. What had inspired God to create the human lip?

Eat. Your. Salad. Logic and professionalism said it to her. You. Brainless. Bimbo. Lips, for God’s sake! If she didn’t snap out of this, she might as well pull her own upper lip all the way over her head and go home.

Jane forked up a slice of cucumber and waved it through the air at Dom. Say something, idiot! But she landed it back in her bowl like a little UFO on a practice run.

“Let me guess,” prompted Dom. “That piece of cucumber has more than five seeds, which renders it unacceptable.”

“Huh?”

He was openly laughing at her now. “Or is it a little too green? At least eat your chicken, Jane. You need protein to sustain this level of neurosis.”

She tossed her napkin on the table and glared at him. “Sayers, you’re presuming a familiarity between us which does not exist and will not exist. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you’re attempting to tease me and not outright insult me, but we need to get that clear. I am not neurotic. I just happen to like fresh vegetables, okay?”

“I stand corrected and chastened, Jane.” He looked anything but. “And I would never dare to get familiar with you. Unless of course you wanted me to.” He grinned.

His words sent a flash of heat through her and she shifted in her seat uncomfortably. She didn’t dare acknowledge it, but the heat grew as she pictured Dominic getting familiar with her…right under the restaurant table…with a bare foot, his fingers or, even more shocking, his tongue?

She almost gasped out loud at the image and she knew she needed to recover now, immediately, or he would read her thoughts; sense her state of arousal.

“Is this how you behave around Arianna DuBose?”

Dominic’s eyes flashed. His nostrils flared. His lips flattened into a thin line. His jaw tightened. “No.”

He picked up the check and fished his wallet out of a back pocket, then slapped the bill down with a credit card.

“You’re not paying for my lunch,” Jane said evenly.

“I am.”

She pulled her purse onto her lap and dug out her wallet, catching the corner of her glasses with the flap. They clattered onto the tabletop and she felt herself flush dark red.

Ignoring them and avoiding his sardonic gaze, she pulled a twenty out of her wallet and placed it on top of his credit card.

“We’ll go Dutch. I don’t want any questions raised about the objectivity of my evaluation.”

He stood up. “Did I understand correctly? That must mean you haven’t already made up your mind.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

Pig. Jane stood up, too. Then she jammed her glasses onto her nose and marched out of the restaurant ahead of him.

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