“I want you,” Zach said. “But there’s no room. We can’t.”

“Oh, but we can,” Chelsea corrected, drawing his mouth to hers.

Sensations flooded through him as her mouth moved on his, her tongue probing. Her heat, her scent, her taste, swirled in his head until he couldn’t separate them. All night long, he’d watched while she danced in other men’s arms. Now she was his. Slipping his fingers beneath the thin straps on her shoulders, he began to push them aside.

“No.” Chelsea drew back. “You can’t take off my top. I’m sewn into it. If you loosen it, the skirt won’t stay up.”

“Damn the skirt,” Zach said. “I need to touch you. I’ve been waiting to touch you all day. And you dragged me into this closet….”

“To have my wicked way with you.” Settling back on the shelf, Chelsea grinned seductively. Then, taking his hands, she ran them along her thighs, pushing the skirt out of the way. “Now, Zach, don’t tell me you’re complaining….”

Dear Reader,

What happens when a single girl navigating her way through the dating scene in a big city gets a little help from a skirt that has the power to draw men like a magnet?

That’s what the heroine of Moonstruck in Manhattan is about to discover!

Sick of the singles scene in the Big Apple, Chelsea Brockway has sworn off dating, period! From now on, she’s just going to write about it. And she sees her friend’s supposed man-magnet skirt as her ticket to a lucrative contract with Metropolitan magazine. All she has to do is prove to Zach McDaniels, the sexy new editor-in-chief, that the skirt works. And it does, all too well….

If you enjoyed Moonstruck in Manhattan, don’t miss the rest of the SINGLE IN THE CITY miniseries: Tempted in Texas by Heather MacAllister in January 2002, and Seduced in Seattle by Kristin Gabriel in February 2002. In the meantime, I hope Zach and Chelsea’s romantic adventures will brighten your holiday season.

Happy Holidays!

Cara Summers

P.S. I love to hear from readers. Write to me at P.O. Box 718, Fayetteville, NY, 13066. And check out our Web site at www.singleinthecity.org!

Books by Cara Summers

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

813—OTHERWISE ENGAGED

HARLEQUIN DUETS

40—MISTLETOE & MAYHEM

56—THE LIFE OF RILEY

Moonstruck in Manhattan

Cara Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my Aunt Kathleen—for introducing me to Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins when I was seven. And for always being there for me—in the best of times and in the worst of times.

To my Uncle Jimmy, too—and to the romance that you and Aunt Kathleen have lived together.

I love you both.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Prologue

“THE BRIDE is not going to throw her bouquet.” Chelsea made a wide sweep with her foot under the table and located the sandals she’d kicked off earlier. Her feet were killing her. Getting married on a California beach at sunrise sounded romantic. But it wasn’t so much fun when the bridesmaids had to walk around the rest of the day with sand in their shoes.

“What are you talking about? She has to throw her bouquet!” Gwen said. “Torrie is the most conventional person I know.”

“I might even get up the energy to make a try for it. That is if I could believe catching a bunch of posies would get me a decent date,” Kate said.

“A date? What’s that?” Gwen asked.

“It’s been that long, huh?” Chelsea asked and then joined in the laughter. After rooming together during their senior year in college, she and Kate and Gwen had each gone on to pursue career goals in separate cities. But they’d managed to keep in touch by phone. Chelsea couldn’t help recalling how often they’d had similar conversations over the years, discussing the dating wasteland they’d encountered in the big city. And the dangers, she thought as a little band of pain tightened around her heart.

Loud cheers and whistles drew their attention to a raised platform at the far end of the dance floor where the groom was removing the garter from the bride’s leg.

“You’ve got to be wrong, Chels,” Kate said starting to rise from the table. “The bouquet comes right after the garter.”

Chelsea grabbed her arm. “But it’s not the bouquet she’s going to toss. It’s the skirt.”

Her two friends stared at her, comprehension, surprise and finally amusement flickering across their faces.

“Not the man-magnet skirt?” Gwen asked.

“The one she picked up on that island during her cruise?”

“You got it,” Chelsea said. They’d all listened countless times to the story of how Torrie’s cruise ship, blown off course by a storm, had dropped anchor at a small out-of-the-way island, and how she’d found this little shop where an elderly seamstress had sold her a special skirt. According to the woman, each spring, the old ladies of the island gathered on a moonlit beach to spin the fibers of the lunua plant into thread. Any woman who wore a garment woven out of this thread that had been supposedly “kissed by moonlight” would draw men like a magnet. And one of those men would be her soul mate.

Privately, Chelsea had always wondered if those island women had been sitting on that beach smoking the fibers and spinning stories instead of thread. While the skirt was a great basic black that fit Torrie perfectly, none of them had ever been able to see anything special about the “fibers” or the “thread.” Still, Torrie swore by it, crediting the skirt with attracting men every time she put it on. And now she claimed it had brought her new husband to her.

“You’re putting us on,” Gwen said, glancing at the bride and groom. “She’s not going to toss the skirt. She doesn’t even have it up there with her.”

“She’s wearing it,” Chelsea said. As if on cue, Torrie began to hike up the yards of satin cascading from her waist. “She told me she wasn’t going to take it off until he said, ‘I do.’”

When the three of them pushed back their chairs and rose as one, Kate said, “This is not a very good testimonial to being single in the city. We’ve all got to be desperate to believe in a moon-kissed skirt!”

“I want to catch it,” Chelsea said.

Gwen and Kate turned to stare at her.

“You? We thought you’d sworn off men after Boyd the bum.”

Kate’s elbow cut Gwen short. “We’re not going to mention his name ever again. Remember? A low-life cad like that does not deserve one more minute of our time. And I think it’s great that you’re going to throw yourself back into the dating jungle, Chels. At least one of us should be out there.”

“Oh, but I’m not…I mean…,” Chelsea paused, touched by the concern she saw in her friends’ eyes. Truthfully, she didn’t want the skirt to attract men. She had entirely different plans for Torrie’s man-magnet skirt. But Kate and Gwen looked so happy for her…

“You go, girl.” Gwen said. “If she tosses it our way, we’ll swat it to you.”

“Love you,” Chelsea said, throwing her arms around them for a quick, three-way hug.

By the time they’d elbowed their way in front of the other single women who’d crowded onto the dance floor, Torrie’s wedding dress was back in place and she’d begun to swing the skirt over her head like a lasso.

As Chelsea watched it move in a circle, she thought she saw a silvery flash of light like the glitter of the moon on the rippling surface of the sea. Then suddenly, the skirt was sailing through the air. Leaping high, she snagged just the edge of the fabric between her fingers.

A cheer went up around her and a funny little tingle shot through her as she clutched the skirt close to her chest.

A special plant and the kiss of moonlight? Ridiculous. However, a skirt that supposedly acted like a magnet on men was just the kind of gimmick she needed to sell her next article to Metropolitan magazine.

Glancing down at it, she thought she caught just a glint of silver again, and an image filled her mind—she was sitting behind an editor’s desk at Metropolitan, pen in hand, writing a regular column.

That was her dream.

It was just her imagination that for a split second she’d seen a man in that chair with her.

1

“TAKE IT OFF. Take it all off!” Leaning over the top of the bar, Daryl shot Chelsea one of his five hundred-megawatt smiles.

She stared at her roommate as she pulled her coat more tightly around her. “Right here? In the middle of the restaurant?” She waved a hand toward the wall of windows separating them from a steady stream of pedestrian traffic. “With half of Manhattan looking on?”

“Sweetie, you said it couldn’t wait until I got off work.”

“It can’t,” Chelsea said. “I wouldn’t have bothered you here if it wasn’t an emergency. Couldn’t you take a break and we could go into one of the private dining rooms?”

Daryl rolled his eyes as he swiped a cloth over the top of the gleaming bar. His long dark hair was pulled back and fastened at the nape of his neck and small gold hoops hung from his ears. “Christmas is exactly a week away. And while I know that it’s not your favorite holiday, the rest of the world goes all out for it. The private dining rooms are booked solid. If you want my help with that skirt, you’re going to have to unveil it right here, right now, before the place gets really busy.”

Tearing her gaze away from Daryl, Chelsea glanced quickly around the trendy eating spot. At eleven-forty-five in the morning, the bar was still empty. In the main dining room, a few of the tables were already filled, and the maître d’ was seating a couple at a nearby table.

“Chels,” Daryl prompted. “It’s not like I’m asking you to strip. Just take off your coat. Isn’t it time that you gave that man-magnet skirt a little test drive?”

Still, Chelsea didn’t remove her coat. As ridiculous as it might be, the whole idea of wearing the skirt in public made her a little nervous. It had hung in her closet for three weeks, ever since she’d gotten home from the wedding. She hadn’t even tried it on until this morning when she’d gotten the phone call from Metropolitan magazine. The editor had asked her to wear the skirt when she came in to sign the contract.

Could a “lucky” skirt help a single girl attract men in Manhattan?

That was the question that had sold not one, but three articles. Now it had a bubble of panic growing in her stomach. She wasn’t quite sure what bothered her most—the slim possibility that the skirt might actually work or the more certain probability that it wouldn’t.

“What’s up, Chels?” Ramón asked, wiping his hands meticulously on a towel as he hurried toward them. “I’m in the middle of creating a soufflé, but I got the message that there’s some kind of emergency.”

“Chelsea has a skirt problem,” Daryl explained.

“A skirt problem!” Ramón—her cousin who had sworn her to secrecy about the fact that he had been born Raymond—narrowed his eyes and glared at her. Standing at six feet three inches and weighing in at over two hundred pounds, he looked as though he’d be more comfortable wearing shoulder pads and a football jersey. But Ramón was perfectly at home in a chef’s hat and apron. His four years in the marines allowed him to run his kitchen like a well-oiled military machine. “You dragged me away from my soufflé to solve a skirt problem?”

“Calm down. I need you to take my place behind the bar so that I can work a little fashion magic,” Daryl explained. “You know what a fanatic our friend Pierre is.”

Ramón glanced at his watch. “I can give you sixty seconds. No more.”

Winking at Chelsea, Daryl exchanged places with Ramón. “You may be able to run your kitchen like a boot camp, but we artists can’t be rushed.”

Chelsea bit down on the inside of her cheek to prevent a grin. In spite of the fact that they were total opposites and reminded her of Neil Simon’s odd couple, Daryl and Ramón were the best of friends. She’d met Daryl while waitressing at a tiny Italian restaurant in the village. Ramón had fixed her up with the job when she’d first arrived in Manhattan.

Ramón had been a line cook and Daryl had been bartending part-time while taking classes at the fashion institute. Soon, the three of them had begun spending most of their free time together, talking about their dreams of making it big in New York. Six months ago, each bearing scars from their battles in the Manhattan dating scene, they’d moved into an apartment together and formed a “singles club.” For the length of time that it took them to establish themselves in their chosen careers, they’d each sworn to steer clear of any serious relationships. If they even went out on a date, they had to pay a twenty-dollar fine.

“Okay. Off with the coat!” Daryl said, snapping his fingers. “And stand over there by the windows so that I can get the full effect.”

Chelsea shot one more glance around the dining room. Besides the man and woman seated a short distance from the entrance to the bar, there was a group of four women just arriving at the maître d’s desk. It wouldn’t be long before the restaurant was filled, so it was now or never.

If only she didn’t feel so torn about the skirt. In spite of what she’d let Gwen and Kate believe, the last thing she wanted in her life right now was a man. She hadn’t been able to forget that strange feeling that had run through her when she’d caught the skirt—nor the image of that man sitting in the chair with her.

“Fifty seconds and counting,” Ramón said.

Drawing in a deep breath, Chelsea pulled off her coat and tossed it on a bar stool. When she glanced down at the skirt, her stomach plummeted. It looked just as bad as it had in the mirror that morning, sagging at her waist and falling well below her knees. A man magnet, it wasn’t! Men were much more likely to take one look and run in the opposite direction. That was not going to give her the three articles she’d promised to deliver to Metropolitan.

“It’s too big,” Ramón announced. “And you now have forty seconds.”

“Stop making me feel like I’m on Cape Canaveral,” Daryl said as he circled Chelsea. “I think if I just nip it in at the waist and shorten it about six inches…”

“No, you can’t make any permanent alterations. The island woman who sold it to Torrie said that might interfere with the skirt’s power.”

Daryl’s brows shot up. “I thought you didn’t believe in all that moonlight and magic mumbo jumbo?”

“I don’t. I mean, I don’t really believe it, but I’ve just been offered a three article contract with Metropolitan magazine, and it would be nice if something happened when I wear this skirt.”

“You sold your idea!” Daryl gave her a quick, hard hug. “Hooray for you!”

Keeping one eye on his watch, Ramón gave her a thumbs-up salute. “Way to go, Chels! Thirty seconds.”

“Lighten up, Ramón. We should be opening a bottle of champagne.”

“No, he’s right, Daryl. You both have to get back to work, and I’m on my way over to Metropolitan to sign the contract right now. I just thought before I did, I should try the skirt on—” Pausing, she glanced around the restaurant again. The couple the maître d’ had seated were totally engrossed in their conversation, and the only people even looking at the skirt were her two roommates. She breathed a small sigh of relief. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a bust,” Ramón said. “If that skirt has any special power, wouldn’t Daryl and I be affected by it?”

“Heavens no,” Daryl said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m not attracted to women and you’re her cousin, Ramón. I’m sure that makes a difference.”

“The secret to any successful endeavor is planning. Perhaps you should have tried the skirt out before you sold the idea, Chels.”

The sympathetic look that Daryl shot her nearly made her smile. Ramón’s little planning lecture was one they’d both heard before. Frequently. And it certainly had merit. If she ever found the time to follow Ramón’s advice, she wouldn’t have to go through life improvising her way out of scrapes. Like the one she was almost in right now.

“Torrie said it didn’t have the same effect on all men.” She glanced down at the skirt again. “Right now, I’d be happy if it could elicit something other than raucous laughter. I look pathetic in this.”

“Not to worry,” Daryl said as he slipped his hands beneath her sweater. “We’ll just use a runway model trick. Hand me the stapler, Ramón.”

Ramón grabbed the stapler from its position near the computer and slapped it into Daryl’s hand. “Twenty seconds.”

“A little tuck here…now one on this side…and one in the back. The trick is to make sure the tucks are small so they’re not so noticeable. There.” Daryl passed the stapler back to Ramón. “Now the tape.”

Ramón slapped the tape dispenser into Daryl’s hand. “Ten seconds.”

“This part would be easier if you could slip the skirt off,” Daryl said to Chelsea.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

With a shrug, Daryl dropped to his knees and reached up under her skirt.

“Enemy approaching at three o’clock,” Ramón said in a stage whisper.

Chelsea and Daryl turned in unison to see the maître d’ bearing down on them. He was a short man with a receding hairline and a mustache that curled up at the ends even when he was frowning. He reminded Chelsea of Hercule Poirot.

“What is going on here?” he asked in an accent that Chelsea pegged as wannabe French.

“Just a little fashion emergency, Pete,” Daryl said.

“The name is Pierre. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“We’ll be done in a sec.” Ripping off a piece of tape, Daryl folded up a section of Chelsea’s skirt and secured it.

“Stop that right now. First you’re fondling her under her sweater, and now you have your hand up her skirt! What will the customers think?” Pierre asked, then raised his eyes to pin Chelsea with a glare. “Miss, I’ll have to ask you to…”

Even as his sentence trailed off, Chelsea glanced past him to the couple seated just beyond the entrance to the bar. The woman wasn’t staring at her. But the man was. On second thought, he was scowling. She felt Daryl’s hands reach under her skirt again.

“Daryl, I think you’d better—”

“Miss,” Pierre paused to clear his throat. “I’d like to apologize for the behavior of our bartender. If you would allow me the pleasure of seating you at one of our best tables, I can offer you a complimentary lunch.”

Chelsea stared at the maître d’. A moment ago, he’d been frowning. Now he was beaming a smile at her and offering her a free lunch.

“Turn,” Daryl said as he ripped off another strip of tape.

“Customers are looking at us. I don’t want you to get fired,” Chelsea said in a low tone. She didn’t want him to get hurt either. The scowling man was beginning to look dangerous.

“I just have one more section to fix. Turn.”

Even after she did as she was told, Chelsea felt the scowling man’s eyes boring into the back of her neck. Her skin had started to prickle. She could have sworn she felt that gaze move right down her body to where Daryl was fastening the last bit of tape to her hem.

“YOU HAVEN’T HEARD a word I’ve said.”

Zach tore his gaze from the woman at the bar and fastened it on his favorite aunt. He was sure that Miranda McDaniels would have been his favorite hands down, even if she hadn’t been his only aunt. From the time he was a child, she had personified the word flamboyant to him. She was also one of the kindest and most generous people he knew. “Yes, I have. You’re trying to convince me that—”

The rest of his reply was cut off by the arrival of a waiter to take their drink orders. Zach managed to suppress a smile when his aunt ordered a martini straight up with a cherry. The waiter never missed a beat as he scribbled it on his pad.

“And you, sir?”

“I’ll have bottled water.”

As soon as the waiter had moved away, Zach grinned at Miranda. “Let me guess. The cherry will go with your outfit.”

“Exactly,” Miranda said. “Not to mention my nails.”

Not many women could carry off the bright red wool suit and the wide-brimmed hat, but his aunt could. On impulse, he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

“You’re trying to distract me.”

“Am I succeeding?”

Miranda sighed. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”

“You’re trying to make me believe that my father really intended for me to run Metropolitan magazine. But it’s not going to work. The bottom line is that he left it to you in his will because he was sure that I couldn’t be trusted with it.”

Miranda McDaniels sighed and shook her head. “You’re a lot like him, you know. Stubborn, opinionated—” She broke off her sentence to follow the direction of her nephew’s gaze. “Well, well. No wonder you aren’t paying two cents worth of attention to anything I’ve said. She’s very pretty.”

“The bartender would agree with you,” Zach said. “He hasn’t been able to keep his hands off her since she took her coat off. Of course, that skirt hides nothing. She might as well be naked.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? She’s fully clothed. In fact, that skirt is too long.”

“Can’t you see her legs?” Zach asked. They were much longer than he’d imagined and he’d been thinking about them quite a bit since she’d taken off her coat and stepped toward the window. With the light behind it, he could see right through the thin material of the skirt. She wasn’t very tall, but below her waist she was all legs. A little fantasy of just how those legs might feel wrapped around him had begun to play and replay itself in his mind. He couldn’t seem to shake it loose. He felt exactly the way he had several times as a teen, totally paralyzed by a hormone surge.

“I’ve heard of men undressing women with their eyes, but this is the first time I’ve actually witnessed it taking place,” Miranda said.

Zach tore his gaze away from the woman at the bar to find his aunt laughing at him. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks. That hadn’t happened since he was a teenager, either.

She leaned closer to him. “If you’d like I could make a quiet exit stage left and you could go introduce yourself to that young lady.”

Zach frowned but he couldn’t prevent his eyes from returning to the woman in the bar. “A lady would hardly be wearing a skirt like that. Nor would she allow a man to fondle her in a public place.”

Miranda’s eyes widened. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak about a woman in quite that judgmental way before. You sound like your brother.”

“Ouch!” The corners of his mouth curved as he pantomimed pulling an arrow out of his heart. “Way to hurt a guy.”

“Drastic measures were called for. One stuffy prude for a nephew is all I can handle.”

“Speaking of Jerry, how does our esteemed congressman feel about your decision to put me in charge at Metropolitan magazine?” Zach was sure it must have come as an unpleasant shock to his older brother that Miranda was going to do what his father had failed to do—hand the publishing part of his empire over to the black sheep of the family. “He must have given you a hard time at the board meeting.”

“On the contrary. He had no choice but to support my recommendation. If he’d made any strenuous objection, it might have looked as if he was stabbing his brother in the back.” Miranda’s lips curved. “You have to be very careful not to do that when your campaign for public office is based on restoring family values.”

“And they all agreed to let me break the news to the editorial staff?”

“Absolutely. It’s your magazine now. You call the shots.”

My magazine. He played the phrase over in his mind, liking the sound of it. Running Metropolitan had been a dream of his since he’d been a child. Unfortunately, it had not been part of his father’s dream for him. Jeremiah McDaniels, Sr. had wanted his sons to run for public office. He could train people to run his businesses, he said. He wanted his sons in positions of power. Zach’s brother had gone along with the plan. He hadn’t. “Jerry can’t be happy.”

Miranda shrugged and smiled. “He didn’t like it much when you made Harvard Law Review either. That was one distinction that eluded him. Your father was proud of you that day.”

“One day in thirty years.” Zach shook his head. “But he wasn’t proud enough of me to give me a job at Metropolitan after I graduated. And he definitely wasn’t proud of me when I turned down the position he’d lined up for me at that prestigious law firm.” He could still recall his father’s exact words, ones that he’d heard over and over as he’d been growing up. Can’t you do anything right? “Let’s face it, Aunt Miranda, there just isn’t enough evidence for you to win your case here. My father did not want me at Metropolitan.”

“All right.” She threw up her hands in surrender. “I give up. Serves me right for trying to argue with a Harvard law man. From now on, I’m just going to enjoy having lunch with my favorite nephew.”

Zach reached for her hands. “I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful, Aunt Miranda. I know that you really had to go to bat for me with the board. They can’t have liked all the job-hopping I’ve done since law school.”

“You don’t need to thank me. What might look like job-hopping to some looks entirely different to me. I’m sure that while you were consulting for those newspapers in San Francisco, Chicago and Atlanta, you were gaining experience and making contacts that will prove very valuable to Metropolitan.”

Zach’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “What makes you think that?”

Miranda squeezed his fingers before releasing them. “I’ve known you since you were a little boy. Even then you were a planner—never making a move until you weighed all the options. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve planned for the magazine. It’s been going downhill since your father became ill, I’m afraid.”

“I’m going to make changes—in the focus, even in the intended audience.”

Miranda threw back her head and laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

Zach leaned toward her. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, but Dad would never have allowed it. He always thought power lay in the hands of the government. But the real power is in ideas. I want Metropolitan to become a forum where the respected writers and thinkers of our time can discuss ideas.”

Miranda lifted her water glass in a toast. “Then go to it. And see if you can catch the eye of our waiter. We should be toasting this with the drinks we ordered.”

Zach shifted his gaze to the bar and stared. The bartender had his hand up the woman’s skirt again. “Look at that. Someone should put a stop to it.”

“TURN ONCE MORE,” Daryl said, fastening a final piece of tape in place. “There. That should do it.”

Taking a step back, Chelsea glanced from Daryl to Ramón. “What do you think?”

“I need to get back to my soufflé,” Ramón said.

“I think I’m falling in love,” Daryl said.

Chelsea stared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t.”

“Not with you, sweetie. It’s this fabric. It’s quite unique. It looks black at first, but there’s a thread running through it that reflects the light.” He rubbed the material between his fingers.

Chelsea heard someone draw in a deep breath. Raising her eyes, she saw that Pierre, the maître d’, had raised his hand to his chest as if he’d just taken a blow. He was still staring at her with a bemused expression on his face. “Miss, I…”

Just then, she felt Daryl lift her skirt again. Glancing down, she saw that his head had disappeared beneath it.

“Daryl! What are you doing?”

“I have to know what material this is.” Daryl’s voice was muffled. “There has to be a tag somewhere with care instructions.”

“Enemy approaching at one o’clock,” Ramón announced.

Chelsea glanced up to see that Pierre was still staring at her. Beyond him, the scowling man was doing more than stare. He was striding across the bar toward them.

Quickly, she reached out and grabbed her coat from the stool. “Get up, Daryl. I don’t want to get you and Ramón in trouble.”

Daryl pulled his head out from beneath her skirt and made a quick assessment of the situation. “I think I’ll stay right here. It’s harder to hit a man when he’s already on his knees.”

Daryl had it right. The tall stranger certainly looked as if he wanted to hit someone. Quickly, she tried to shrug into her coat.

“Are you crazy?” Daryl said under his breath. “Don’t cover up that skirt.”

“What do you mean?” Chelsea asked.

“Take a look at Pierre. He’s clearly smitten. Let’s hope it works its spell on the white knight who is riding to your rescue.” Picking up the edge of the skirt, Daryl waved it in the approaching stranger’s direction.

“Stop that,” Chelsea hissed.

When Daryl didn’t drop her skirt, the man said, “The lady asked you to stop that.”

2

CHELSEA FELT the soft brush of the skirt against her leg as Daryl released it, but the rest of her attention was totally focused on the man who stood three feet away. Though she was aware of the rugged good looks—the dark hair that grew past his collar and the nearly faded scar on his chin—her eyes never once left his.

They were the dark blue color of sapphires and right now there was a look in them that spelled danger. Beneath the sleek lines of that designer suit, this was a man poised for a fight.

The other men sensed it, too. Daryl shifted on his knees, Ramón swung around the end of the bar and Pierre cleared his throat. “Sir…”

“Come here.”

Chelsea took a step forward, responding to the command in the stranger’s voice before the words even fully registered in her mind. Immediately, a nightmare began to unfold before her. Rising to his feet in one smooth movement, Daryl assumed an attack stance.

“Back off, buddy,” Ramón said, springing from one foot to the other just the way he did when he was working out in the boxing ring at the gym. “The lady’s with us.”

“Guys,” Chelsea began. Not one of them so much as glanced her way.

“I don’t like to see women fondled in public,” the man said. “She’s coming with me.”

“Wrong,” Daryl said, shifting his weight to his back foot. Chelsea recognized the move instantly. She’d seen Daryl practice it often enough in the living room of their apartment. The chivalrous stranger was about to have a foot planted smack in his chest—unless Ramón’s right cross flattened him first.

“Stop!” Quite aware that she was trapped in a bubble of testosterone about to explode, Chelsea threw herself in front of the stranger and faced the three other men. “Stop it right now.”

“Get out of the way, Chels,” Ramón said.

“This will only take a second,” Daryl assured her.

As they both moved forward, she threw her arms out to the side and took a quick step back into a rock solid chest. It occurred to her briefly that she might have chosen to defend the wrong person.

“I’ve got it, Daryl,” Ramón said, bouncing closer. “I can still get one in over her head.”

Suddenly furious, Chelsea drew herself up to her full height and fisted her hands on her hips. “What are you thinking? You can’t cause a scene. Do you want to lose your jobs?”

It was the four-letter word—jobs—that caught their attention. Ramón stopped bouncing from foot to foot and something in Daryl’s eyes flickered. Pierre gasped and began to wring his hands.

Pressing her advantage, Chelsea continued, “Ramón, you have a soufflé waiting for you. Daryl, your bar’s unattended. Pierre, there’s a line of people waiting to be seated.” She held her breath then and waited.

Daryl was the first to slip out of attack mode. “You going to be all right, sweetie?”

“A lot better than if you had started a barroom brawl!”

He flicked a glance over her head at the man behind her, then turned and hurried back to his workstation. Ramón and Pierre quickly followed suit.

Chelsea waited, hoping that her would-be rescuer would leave also. But as she counted off five seconds, he remained right where he was, close, his body nearly brushing against hers. Her skin prickled from the proximity and she couldn’t recall ever being so aware of anyone before. Drawing in a deep breath, she took a careful step away and turned to face him.

His eyes were even bluer than she had realized, his gaze more intense. For a moment, she felt her mind go completely blank. All she knew was the heat of his gaze as it moved from her eyes to her mouth and back. The only thought she could latch onto was that she was trapped in another bubble, only it wasn’t testosterone this time. It was something hotter and much more dangerous.

Licking her lips, she discovered that they were warm, almost as if she were running a fever. She would have taken another step back, but she wasn’t sure her legs would work.

“Daryl—is he your lover?”

Chelsea blinked. “Daryl? No… I mean…that’s none of your business.”

His brows lifted. “I nearly started a barroom brawl because he was poking his head and his hands up your skirt. I think I have a right to be curious.”

She frowned. “He was just shortening it. My skirt, I mean. He’s my…” she searched for a word, “dresser.”

“I see.”

“I believe your friend is waiting for you…at your table.”

His lips twitched, and she watched his eyes lighten. She didn’t think of sapphires this time, but of the clear blue of the sea on a hot summer day.

“I was wondering when you’d get around to dismissing me the way you did the others. You’ve had some experience defusing fights, I take it?”

“Three brothers,” she said. Staring into those eyes for any length of time made it difficult to concentrate. Drawing in a deep breath, she narrowed her eyes and focused. “But I haven’t been very successful in dismissing you.”

This time his lips curved in a smile. “Perhaps because I don’t have a sister to boss me around. Why don’t we try this?” He took her arm and retrieved her coat from the floor where she’d dropped it trying to stop the fight.

“What are you doing?” she asked as he drew her up the stairs.

“I’m letting you get me out of the bar.”

She shot him a glance. “You don’t have to hold on to me. I can walk by myself.”

He dropped his hand immediately and studied her for a minute. His eyes had gone very intense again and the smile faded from his face. “I want to ask you to have lunch with me.”

“I can’t. I’m on my way to an appointment. If you’ll just give me my coat.” Without another word of protest, he helped her into it. Chelsea told herself it was relief she was feeling, certainly not disappointment. Then his hand was beneath her arm, guiding her through the group of men in suits who were waiting for Pierre to seat them and out onto the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” she said. Scanning the street for a taxi and not immediately spotting one, she risked looking at him again. “Thanks for…” In daylight, his eyes reminded her of the blue of the ocean at its deepest—fascinating, tempting.

“At least give me your phone number.”

She blinked. “My phone number?”

“I’d like to see you again.”

She blinked again as it suddenly struck her. The man had nearly gotten into a fight over her and then he’d invited her to lunch. Now he was asking for her phone number. Could the skirt actually be working? She beamed a smile at him. “That’s great!”

Slipping a hand into his pocket, he drew out a small notebook and a pen. “What’s your number?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean… I mean I can’t give you my phone number. I just meant that it’s great that you asked.”

His gaze narrowed. “Then why can’t you give it to me?”

“Lots of reasons,” she said, stifling a sigh of relief—certainly not regret—as a taxi pulled up to the curb. “My roommates and I made this pact not to date, for one thing. And then there’s this skirt.”

“A skirt?”

“It’s a long story, much too long to go into right now. You wouldn’t believe it anyway. I didn’t myself until just a few minutes ago.” Pausing to get a breath, she frowned. “And it might be a fluke, but you have to admit that something happened in there. Which means it’s much better for both of us if we never see each other again. Believe me.” With the skill of a New Yorker, she scooted behind the man alighting from the taxi and slid into the seat.

“Wait,” he said as she pulled the door shut.

As soon as the taxi lurched away from the curb, she looked back to see that he was scribbling something down in his notebook. The license plate of the taxi? Was he going to try to trace her that way? As she felt a wave of excitement wash over her, she told herself that it was because the skirt was evidently working! But she kept looking back until the taxi finally swerved around a corner to speed uptown.

AT TWO-THIRTY, Zach stood behind the desk in his father’s office staring out the window. The tinted glass offered a gloomy view of Rockefeller Center complete with its landmark Christmas tree. Thunder grumbled overhead and gray-as-soot rain pounded against the pane.

It was a good thing that he didn’t believe in omens, Zach thought, because in a matter of a few hours the day had turned as dark as the faces of the editorial staff who’d streamed out of the conference room a few minutes earlier. The meeting had taken less time than he’d anticipated and not even his Aunt Miranda had seemed enthused about the specifics of the plans he’d unveiled for Metropolitan magazine.

The real meeting was taking place now. As he’d followed the staff members out of the conference room, they’d managed to corner his aunt and drag her into one of the nearby offices—for a private venting party, he supposed.

Frowning, Zach shoved his hands into his pockets. What exactly had he expected? None of the editorial staff had seen him in years. It was ridiculous to suppose that they might trust him on sight. The last time he’d visited his father’s office, he’d been twelve.

No. Turning, from the window, Zach’s frown deepened as he glanced around the room. This wasn’t his father’s office anymore. It was his. How could he expect his employees to accept that until he did?

Moving toward the desk, he gripped the back of the leather chair. His glance fell immediately on the small ceramic Christmas tree sitting on one of its corners. His first impulse had been to remove it. He didn’t like reminders of the season. But he recalled the day he and his mother had brought the small tree to the office. He’d been five and his mother had let him sit at the desk while they waited for his father to join them. His gaze shifted to the gold-plated pen, still in its stand. He ran his finger over the engraved inscription. It had been a gift to his father from the president of the United States.

He’d been using the pen to draw pictures when his father had walked in. What Zach remembered most clearly about the incident was not his father’s anger. His childhood had been littered with occurrences when he’d failed to behave the way a McDaniels should and his father had lashed out at him. No, what he recalled most about that fateful day were the tears his father’s lecture had brought to his mother’s eyes. She’d taken him skating at Rockefeller Center right after they’d left the office. It had just been the two of them and it was the last memory he had of his mother.

Pushing away from the chair, Zach turned back to the window. He rarely let himself think of his mother, yet it was the second time today that she’d popped into his mind. Earlier, he’d been reminded of her when the taxi with that woman in it had pulled away from the restaurant. For a moment, he’d thought of another taxi, one that had taken his mother away to the hospital that fateful day while he’d stood helplessly watching from the curb.

Ridiculous, he thought as he firmly pushed the image away. The childhood nightmare hadn’t plagued him in years. And he hadn’t been helpless this time. He’d copied down the license plate of the departing taxi.

Pulling his notebook and pen out of his pocket, he flipped it open and looked down at the numbers. If he hired a P.I., he could find out exactly where his mystery woman had gone. All he had to do was make a phone call. If he couldn’t trace her that way, he’d have the investigator approach her dresser and her other champion in the chef’s hat. One way or the other, he could see her again—if he wanted to.

He’d be much better off worrying about the fact that he did want to see her again than about some childhood memories that were much better off forgotten.

What exactly had gotten into him at the restaurant? That was the question his aunt had asked him the moment he’d returned to the table. He hadn’t had an answer for her. He could hardly believe he’d nearly gotten into a fight in a public place over a woman he’d never met before. He rarely acted on impulse.

Indeed, he prided himself on thinking things through, weighing all the pluses and minuses before he acted. But he’d had an overpowering urge to protect that woman in the bar. Then he’d acted on impulse again when he’d asked her to join him for lunch.

He didn’t know anything about her, only that she was different from the type of woman he was usually drawn to. He’d always been able to read them, predict what they would do. Not one of them would have thrown herself between three men who were about to start throwing blows!

His frown deepened. She needed a keeper. And that was just the kind of woman he always avoided. Still, he’d found her almost…irresistible.

Moving back to the desk, Zach frowned down at the license number. In his head, he could list all the minuses of getting in touch with her. He couldn’t afford the time for any kind of relationship right now, not when his dream was within reach. It was his body that was giving him problems. His body wanted to see her again.

Hell, he wanted her. He had from the moment he’d walked down the steps into that bar and gotten a good look at her. And he didn’t even know her name—yet. His frown deepened as the significance of the yet sank in.

“Well, you certainly are lost in thought.”

Zach glanced up to find his aunt Miranda facing him across his desk.

“I knocked, but you didn’t answer,” she said studying him. “Are you all right?”

Smiling, he closed his notebook and tucked it back into his pocket. “I should be asking you that. You’re the one they attacked after the meeting.”

“They’re upset,” she said. “Change has that effect on people.”

“And you’re upset too, aren’t you?”

“Me? Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You looked as if you were in pain during the meeting.”

Miranda waved a hand. “That was because of my feet.” Sinking into a chair, she stretched her legs out in front of her. “I should have insisted we take a taxi from the restaurant. These boots were definitely not made for walking!”

“You’re avoiding a direct answer. Were you upset by some of the plans I unveiled for the magazine?”

Miranda raised her perfectly arched brows. “First I’m cross-examined by your staff and now you.”

“Answer the question.”

“And to think that I was the one who encouraged you to go to law school.”

This time Zach said nothing. He merely waited.

“I still say you would have made a much better attorney than your brother if you’d decided to practice law. I would have loved to have seen you in a courtroom.”

“You’re stalling, Aunt Miranda.”

She sighed. “I wasn’t upset, merely surprised that you’re making so many changes all at once.”

Zach’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I’m nuts to want to change the focus of the magazine to include other cities besides New York?” That had been a big problem for some of the editors at his meeting.

Miranda shook her head. “Not at all. It’s bound to increase your subscription numbers because it will appeal to more readers.”

“Then what is it that you’re tap dancing around? I’d rather you came right out with it. You didn’t seem to object to my idea to change the tone of the magazine and to attract a more intellectual audience.”

“Good heavens, no. I’m all for a magazine that makes me think. It’s your father who wouldn’t have approved of that. He’d have told you that if you appeal to the eggheads, you’ll be slashing your sales by fifty percent.”

Zach studied her. “But you’re not saying that.”

“Not at all. I told you at lunch. Metropolitan has been in trouble for the past two years, even before your father became ill. Some changes are essential and I think that if anyone can turn it around, you can.”

“But?”

Miranda wrinkled her nose at him. “There’s no but. Really. I’m just a little concerned that Bill Anderson will turn in his resignation. He has a very short fuse, and he has a lot of influence over the rest of the staff.”

“How many others will follow suit?”

Miranda thought for a moment. “Hal Davidson will send out his résumé and make sure he has a firm offer before he leaves. And Carleton Bushnell is so grumpy all of the time, it’s hard to read him.”

Bill Anderson had been covering the New York sports scene for almost twenty years while Hal Davidson’s field had been politics. He’d rather not have to replace them, but it could be done. “What about Esme Sinclair?” Zach asked. A rather tall woman who dressed like a fashion plate and wore her steel gray hair pulled back tightly into a ballerina’s bun. Esme had always intimidated him. She reminded him of the strict housemistresses he’d run up against in the boarding schools he’d been sent to.

“She’ll stay. She’s been with the magazine almost from the beginning. I think your father relied on her quite a bit.”

“But I’m planning to eliminate the fashion and gossip stuff,” Zach pointed out.

“That’s the kind of stuff I frequently pick up a magazine to read,” Miranda said and then quickly slapped a well-manicured hand over her mouth. “Sorry! Forget I said that. I promised myself I wouldn’t.”

Zach studied her for a moment. “That’s the but you wouldn’t talk about earlier, isn’t it?”

Miranda sighed again. “I wasn’t going to say it—but women do read a lot of magazines. And Esme has printed a couple of articles lately that have not only been highly amusing, but they’ve increased newsstand sales.”

Zach’s eyes narrowed. “I’m surprised that you approve of them. ‘What Makes a Man a Hottie?’”

“Did you read it?”

“No. And I didn’t read ‘How to Hook a Hottie’ either. Selling sexual innuendo is definitely not the way I want to go with the magazine. I can’t imagine what Esme was thinking. I was rather hoping that she would consider retiring.”

“Esme’s been running the magazine since your father’s illness. It’s only been under her watch that the sales figures have picked up a bit.”

Zach frowned. He hadn’t known that. “I thought you were the one who had taken over for Father.”

“Me?” Miranda pressed the palm of her hand against her chest. “I’ve never put in an honest day’s work in my life.”

Zach shook his head. “You’ve been on the board of McDaniels Inc., since it was founded.”

“A figurehead position.”

Zach knew better. He also knew that it was usually a waste of time to argue with his aunt. “I suppose your various charitable organizations run themselves?”

“They’re run by people I’ve handpicked to do the job. That way I never have to lift a finger.” Rising, Miranda took a tentative step toward him and winced. “Now that I’ve handpicked you to save Metropolitan magazine from collapse, I can go back to my apartment and get out of these killer boots. What we women endure for our vanity.”

“I’ll never be able to thank you for trusting me, Aunt Miranda,” Zach said as he moved around his desk to put his arms around her.

“As far as thanking me goes, I’ll expect to see you at the Christmas ball I’m hosting next Saturday.” When he started to say something, she took his hands in hers. “I know that you don’t like to celebrate the season, but I have a feeling your Mom would want you to.”

“Aunt Miranda—”

“I’ve reserved two places at my table. Bring a guest.”

Zach’s brows shot up. “That sounds like an order?”

“It is. I know someone who’d be very happy to go with you,” Miranda said.

Zach raised his hands, palms out in surrender. “I’ll come to the ball. But no date. Aren’t you ever going to give up trying to match me up with my soul mate?”

“Never.”

“She doesn’t exist.”

Miranda tapped a finger against his chest. “You just haven’t found her yet. When you do, you’ll never let her go.”

“No date, Aunt Miranda.”

“Fine.” Miranda sighed, a small pout replacing the smile on her face. “You won’t find yourself a date. You’ll come by yourself and you’ll be too bored to stay once the dancing starts.”

Zach grinned at his aunt as he took her arm and led her to the door. “I’ll be bored from the moment they serve the appetizer and I’ll be catatonic by the time the last course is removed. However, I will be there.” When he opened the door, he found himself facing Esme Sinclair.

“I’d like a moment of your time, if I’m not interrupting,” Esme said.

“You’re only interrupting my failed attempt to persuade my nephew to let me find him a date for my Christmas ball. I’ll get right out of your way.”

It was with a certain amount of envy that Zach watched his aunt wave a hand and walk quickly toward the open door of an elevator. He found himself stifling an annoying impulse to bolt. He wasn’t a child anymore and Esme Sinclair wasn’t an old housemistress. Ushering her into the room, he closed the door, then moved to stand behind his desk.

Esme reached for the switch on the ceramic Christmas tree.

“I’d prefer that you didn’t turn it on,” Zach said.

Her hand stilled, then dropped to her side. “Sorry.”

“What can I do for you, Ms. Sinclair?” Zach asked.

“Not a thing. I’m going to do something for you. I know that you want to immediately eliminate what you termed the fluffy sections of the magazine, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible, at least for the next three issues.”

Zach’s eyebrows rose. “Why not?”

“I have a young lady in my office who’s written two very fine articles for us recently. I bought them in an attempt to expand our audience among younger readers and the sales figures have gone up accordingly. This morning, before I was informed of your appointment, I had her sign a contract to provide us with three more articles. Her proposal is right here and I’ve also included copies of her other articles. I think they all fit into the fluff category.” Handing him a folder, she continued, “The legal department says our best bet is to honor the contract.”

“Or offer to buy it back,” Zach said as he opened the folder. He recognized the name on the contract immediately. Chelsea Brockway was the writer he’d just been discussing with his aunt—the one whose articles on “hotties” were selling magazines. The last thing he wanted was to print any more of her work. He glanced up at Esme. “Why don’t you arrange for me to speak with her?”

“I called her right after our staff meeting. She’s waiting outside,” she said as she moved toward the door.

It was the legs that Zach recognized first when the woman stepped into his office. Backlit by the lights from the hall, he could have sworn that they went right up to her waist.

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