The Longest Night
Kathleen O'Reilly
Sexy, single…and stacked. That's how most men in the Windy City would describe the infamous Cassandra Ward. And Cassandra is happy to play along–providing her men follow her rules. No touchy-feely emotions. Just white-hot sex. But when Noah Barclay, heir to the family empire, propositions her at a wedding, he's got more on his mind than a quick fling. He wants her totally and completely.For Noah, Cassandra is the woman of his dreams–literally. In fact, he can't get the image of her dark mane, voluptuous curves or kissable lips out of his head. But her gorgeous body is just the start. He knows Cassandra is in need of some TLC, but will a kiss and one sizzling night, which leave her breathlessly begging for more, be all that it takes to convince her?
“I never joke about sex,” Cassandra declared
Noah didn’t think he joked about sex either, but this took that to a whole other level. “Look, I don’t mind about the condoms and the physical. That’s good thinking, but the rest? It sounds like some sort of business arrangement.”
“It is. Sort of. Sex is definitely business—don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I’ve never believed in masking it with all that lovey-dovey kitsch.”
Noah had never thought of himself as a believer in romantic ideals, but now he felt sort of…insulted. “That lovey-dovey kitsch is the best part of a relationship.” Then he realized what he’d said. “Okay, the sex is good, too.” He noticed she raised her brow at that. “But you can’t just rip out all the other stuff.”
“Yes, I can.”
Noah sighed. “You never compromise? You never make a promise, or ever stay faithful? What about the other rules?”
She shook her head and the dark hair brushed against her full breasts. What she was proposing was a one-night stand. A cheap roll in the hay. Wham, bam, thank you Noah.
Could he do it? How could he not?
Dear Reader,
Well, this is it. The last book in THE BACHELORETTE PACT miniseries. Cassandra’s story. This one required a lot of thinking until I could get everything suited for who she really is. I knew the image that she reflected to the world, but the vulnerabilities, the darker parts that lurked inside her took a while to bring to the surface. Meanwhile the hero, Noah, just showed up right from Day One. He’s the attentive man who’s so smart that he sees through Cass’s bravado from the start. Gotta love a man who’s that bright. And this is their story.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the miniseries. Please write to me and let me know your thoughts at kathleenoreilly@earthlink.net or Kathleen O’Reilly, P.O. Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960.
All the best!
Kathleen O’Reilly
Books by Kathleen O’Reilly
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
889—JUST KISS ME
927—ONCE UPON A MATTRESS
* (#litres_trial_promo)967—PILLOW TALK
* (#litres_trial_promo)971—IT SHOULD HAPPEN TO YOU
* (#litres_trial_promo)975—BREAKFAST AT BETHANY’S
HARLEQUIN DUETS
66—A CHRISTMAS CAROL
The Longest Night
Kathleen O’Reilly
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my editor, Kathryn Lye.
I couldn’t have done this without you.
Contents
Chapter 1 (#ucfc2a9ab-aa61-5d48-9057-b32c337c8527)
Chapter 2 (#uca63faeb-3d4d-5de8-ac46-19b732108cde)
Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
1
CASSANDRA WARD studied the subject in the chair, considering the shadows, the facets, and yes, even the flaws. But there was a beauty hidden inside, a beauty waiting to emerge, and now it was up to her, the artist at work, to expose it.
She took a step back, tracing slow circles at her temple while she considered the exact way to begin.
Carefully she adjusted the lights and watched the way the shadows fell. Thinking, analyzing, planning.
Finally it was time. As she smiled at Beth in the mirror, she cracked her knuckles. “You’re going to look fabulous.”
Beth frowned, obliviously not comprehending the talent that was at Cassandra’s disposal. “I don’t want to look like a tramp. I’m getting married today, not heading out for drinks.”
Cassandra rolled her eyes, exquisitely made up in shades of silken taupe and almondine. “Does my makeup ever look trampish?”
Beth met her eyes in the mirror; she actually appeared to be thinking about it. “No,” she answered at last.
They were alone in the church dressing room, two hours to the ceremony, and Cassandra was ensuring that one of her best friends was going to look beautiful.
She settled in to work. “Tell me why no one ever believes me.”
First she dug into her makeup case and pulled out her secret weapon. Seaweed mask. “You’re going to turn green, but don’t worry. It’ll exfoliate the skin and cleanse the pores, or exfoliate the pores and cleanse the skin. Not quite sure, but exfoliation and cleansing are definitely involved. You’ll love it.”
“After all that exfoliating and cleansing, I will return back to a normal skin color, right? What if I get some icky rash or something?”
“Trust me.”
Beth sighed. “All right. Do your worst.”
Cassandra spread the goo over Beth’s face, covering the crucial areas in the T-zone. Then, while the mask was settling, she brought out her bag of cucumber slices and placed them on Beth’s eyes. “This is to get rid of wrinkles. I buy cucumbers by the dozen.”
Behind the cucumbers and seaweed, Beth laughed. “And here we thought it was for something else.”
“Honey, there’s no need for vegetables when able-bodied men are as close as the nearest speed dial.”
While Beth was sitting in the chair, cucumbers on the eyes, face turning a healthy shade of green, Cassandra took out the extra two slices of cucumber and sat in the chair next to Beth. Just this morning she had noticed two new lines at the corner of her eyes. She didn’t know if early onset of crow’s feet ran in her family, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
From the chapel area she could hear the pianist and the soloist practicing, some beautiful aria sung in a foreign language. Beth was going all-out for this wedding. Chicago would never see anything like this one again.
However, now the bride-to-be sat in the chair, quiet. Too quiet.
“Getting nervous?” Cassandra asked.
“Mmm, hmm.”
“You shouldn’t be. You’re going to have the life you’ve dreamed up.”
Beth worked her lips free of the mask. “No flowers or vacation on isolated beach.”
Sometimes Beth didn’t realize what she had. “He would if you asked him to.”
“No fun.”
“Wandering into the land of second thoughts?”
A smile cracked in the mask. “None.”
“That’s my girl.”
There had been four bachelorettes at one time—four college friends, approaching thirty. They were single, they were happy, so they’d sworn to stay single forever. The Bachelorette Pact.
Cassandra frowned, which made for more wrinkles. She didn’t frown often, but nobody was watching right now. Two bachelorettes were married, one was hours away from walking down the aisle.
And then there was one.
Cassandra “Eternally Single” Ward.
Not that she was complaining. Much. Jessica had married Adam, who was as big a competitor as she was, not that there was anything wrong with that. Mickey had married Dominic, an undercover cop who mingled with the dregs of Chicago society, and who needed that? Now Beth was marrying Spencer, a prize-winning journalist who, despite his love for Beth, still needed to learn some manners.
Her friends could have them all, because as far as Cassandra was concerned, the perfect man was nothing but a figment.
In the business of gems you had to spot the imperfections and cleave and saw and polish until all the flaws were gone. It was great for diamonds, but hell on men.
“You get married?” Beth said, struggling to talk through the quick-drying mask.
Cassandra shook her head, her nose filling with the scent of cucumber. “Never.”
“You were go marry Benedict.”
“I was young, impulsive…and stupid,” said Cassandra.
Benedict O’Malley had taught her many things, most important among them, you can never escape who you are. She thought Benedict had seen something more than her body when he looked at her. Yeah, right. Cassandra was cheesecake—every man’s favorite fantasy, so over the past eight years she’d perfected the fantasy into a fine art.
“Can’t sex forever.”
Insidious thoughts of falling boobs and lengthening crow’s-feet crept into her mind, but today she was not going to feel sorry for herself. “Can, too,” she answered, ripping the cucumbers from her eyes.
Beth shook her head.
It was a conversation they’d replayed many times. No one believed that Cassandra enjoyed her life. No one believed that a woman could indulge in sexual dalliances strictly for the pursuit of pleasure without any messy emotional complication. Yeah, well, no one knew what they were missing. No worries, no panicking about relationships torpedoing. No thank you, sex was strictly physical.
Cassandra practiced her own set of rules when it came to sex. Rule No. 1: no promises. That way she stayed disappointment-free. Rule No. 2: no option on exclusivity. If a man wanted an exclusive, he was shown the door. No man was worth that kind of loyalty. Rule No. 3: certain sexual behaviors were required, certain ones were allowed and certain ones were verboten. No threesomes, no dressing up in weird costumes and no bondage. Never bondage. Rule No. 4: a man must be factory inspected for disease. A piece of paper from the lab made it so much easier to keep things physical. And last, but most important, was Rule No. 5: no sex without Mr. Safety in place.
“I gonna fine you man,” said Beth.
“Your mask is tightening up nicely. Just a few more seconds,” answered Cassandra.
“You can hide.”
“Time’s up.”
She warmed up a washcloth and began to wipe away the remains of the mask. Eventually, Beth emerged looking just as fresh-faced and glowing as normal, no crow’s-feet, no laugh lines. By all rights, Cassandra should have hated her, but she didn’t. Go figure.
“Now we’re going to start with the base. Something pale for your complexion, but not cakey. Can’t have you looking like the creature from the wax lagoon.” She dug into her makeup box and brought out Powdered Bisque.
Beth sat still while Cassandra sponged on the base. But she knew that wouldn’t last forever. And sure enough, Cassandra was right. “Spencer doesn’t know many guys. There’s Noah, but well, we already know that won’t work out.”
Cassandra stopped in midsponge. Just a moment, not enough for anyone to notice. She didn’t want Beth to notice the telltale shaking in her hands. Steady, steady, steady. “Spare me from the Jimmy Stewart types.” The Jimmy Stewart types who had already shot her down once.
“I’m going to talk to Jess and she’ll talk to Adam. All those corporate types are connected, they know a lot of guys.”
“Yeah, but they’re all unemployed.”
Adam was a reformed operational efficiency expert. He had been known as the “Ax-Man,” before Jessica had turned him around.
Beth cast her a sharp look. “Well, what does that matter since you’re not going to get serious anyway?”
Cassandra moved on to blush. Rose Shadows. “It doesn’t. Why don’t you leave my love life alone, hmm? I appreciate the thought, but I’m doing fine.”
“It’s wrong. There, I’ve said it. Morally, what you’re doing is wrong.”
Cassandra took a step back. It was a judgment she would have expected from Mickey, but never Beth, who didn’t like to step on ants and had never swatted a mosquito in her life. “Why? I’m not getting married, so I’m expected to live like I’m stuck in some convent? Honey, my ticker is working just fine.”
“I don’t think it’s wrong, you just make it so…cold-blooded. Sex shouldn’t be that way.”
“Men handle it just fine. It’s all about the release. Nothing more. It’s great exercise, clears up the complexion and relieves stress. Tell me how something that does all that and manages to make me feel good, could be bad for me?”
“I’m not saying it’s bad for you,” Beth started, then stopped. “Okay, I am, but why don’t you try having a normal relationship for once?”
Cassandra snapped the blush case closed. “I wasn’t built the way the rest of you were.” It was true. She had the body of a stripper and men just didn’t get “normal” female thoughts about her. She got the howlers, the whistlers, the grabbers and the droolers.
Beth met her eyes in the mirror. Her blond eyelashes were next on the list.
“Don’t blame this all on your…” Beth couldn’t bring herself to say it, so instead eyed meaningfully in the direction of Cassandra’s chest. “Don’t tell me you haven’t had thoughts about getting a regular boyfriend. Don’t you ever get lonely?”
No, she never got lonely, because she had perfected the art of being alone. “Let’s move on to your eyelashes.”
“I’m not done.”
Cassandra shot her a hard glance. “I can put a mask on your mouth, too.”
Beth held up a hand. The bride had finally remembered that today was supposed to be all about her. “Fine. Have it your way.”
Cassandra pulled out the wand of mascara, soft brown, waterproof, because the last thing Beth needed to worry about was tears.
Cassandra didn’t have to bother with waterproof. “No tears” was one of her rules, as well.
NOAH BARCLAY rolled in his bed, feeling the warm body right beneath his hands. She was there, her dark hair a thick curtain over her face. God, he loved her hair. He moved inside her, deep, deeper, and her legs tightened around his waist, taking him further inside. Then she smiled up at him and cocked her head. She was taunting him. He leaned down and kissed her, long and thorough, and when he drew back, she surprised him by pulling his head down again. This time she was biting his ear. Pleasure, pain.
He started to laugh. So she wanted to play? He could do that. He began to pound inside her, watching her dark eyes widen first with surprise, then pleasure. Her lashes were so long, thick, a mask she hid behind. He wouldn’t let her hide from him. He brushed back the hair from her face, and still he pounded.
Pounded.
Pounded.
Damn!
Noah sat upright in his bed, the pounding noise still there.
What the hell?
He looked at his clock: 11:07. He’d slept in late this morning, but then, that was what happened when you returned from conducting business two continents from home.
Shaking off the remains of sleep, he pulled on a pair of boxers, noticed the swelling down below, then hastily reached for a pair of jeans, adjusting everything so that the pants would fit.
Back to reality. But, man, he wanted to go back to that dream.
For the past six months the dream had always been variations on a single theme: one beautiful woman, one desperate man and the kind of love-making that could bring a guy to his knees.
Noah gave himself a firm head-slap. Daylight was here, and there was an incessant knocking on his front door.
“What?” he snapped as he swung the door open.
It was Joan—the woman he normally called his sister. Today the label of choice was nuisance.
“You’re not awake?” Joan asked, swaggering into his apartment with that awful perfume.
“Go away,” growled Noah, thinking that if he didn’t get too close to Joan, he could return to bed and finish the dream.
“You can’t keep these sorts of hours, Noah. Look at you, circles under your eyes, and your hair, well, your hair looks terrible. You have a wedding tonight and I have a full list of items that I will need you to report on.”
“I’m not going,” he shot back, now sadly realizing that all hope of the fantasy replaying was gone.
She pulled her face into one long frowning line of disapproval. It was a look that he never fully appreciated until he’d cut through a camel market in his travels abroad. Definite similarities. “You have to go. You promised me.”
“I said I would think about it. I did. No.” He looked around the room. “God, I need coffee. Where’s my coffee?”
“It’s in your kitchen. For heaven’s sake, wake up.”
Noah glared and then wandered into the kitchen, trying to remember where he kept the coffeepot.
“You have to go,” called Joan from the other room.
Noah put the coffee in the filter, rinsed out the pot, put it on the launchpad and then flipped the switch.
Nothing.
Well, what the—water.
He needed water.
He filled up the coffeepot, poured it through the top grid, then snapped the pot back in place. Happily, the gurgling started.
Eventually there was enough for a cup and he held it to his nose, inhaling the caffeine, letting it soak through his blood.
He wandered back into the living room, taking his first hit. Ah, much better. His blood started moving. He stared at Joan. Why was she here? Oh, yeah. The wedding.
“I have to know how many guests there are, the details of her dress, attendants, if you could get the name of the florist that would be wonderful, too,” she intoned.
That was when he knew she’d read one too many bridal magazines.
“Aren’t you over Spencer? You wanted the divorce. Hell, you’re getting married, and Harry is really nice, by the way. Don’t screw this one up.”
“You think this is about Spencer?”
Noah took another sip of coffee. God, he really didn’t need to have these conversations in the morning. “Yes.”
“It’s about her.”
“Her?”
“Beth,” she said, spitting out the name. “She wants the wedding of the season when I have the rightful claim. No way will she rob me. Spencer always told me, ‘City hall, darling. It’s romantic.’ What does she get? Stained-glass windows by Tiffany and a caterer imported from New York. It’s a war, Noah, and I’m going to win.”
“I’m not going. Goodbye,” he repeated, yet still not awake enough to open the door.
“Please,” she said, using her wheedling tone, a tone she had used when they were little, and he would be the one to inevitably end up in trouble. It still bothered him.
“No.”
“Most of Chicago’s city council will be there, Noah.”
Noah stopped. Okay, that was tempting. He had been trying to get onto the list of bidders for the new transportation project. For fourteen years he’d done construction work overseas, but this would be his first project in the U.S. His first project since he’d come home. “How would you know who’s been invited?”
Joan smiled and lifted an eyebrow. “It only takes one well-greased request to the wedding planner and you’d be surprised what you can find out.”
If it had been any other female, he would have been shocked. Unfortunately, Joan was his sister. His only sister. He knew her good qualities, her bad qualities and her worse qualities.
So, the city council would be there. Alderman Brown, Alderman Showalter and Alderwoman Weller among them. Spencer, aka the groom, covered the city beat for the Herald so it wasn’t a surprise.
“Why don’t you want to go?” asked Joan.
Noah shifted in his seat. “I don’t like weddings,” he said. It was a good answer, but not the right one. He didn’t want to go because he knew exactly who would be there and that worried him.
Not the Chicago city council. Not the state of Illinois’ biggest politicos. No, he was worried about one Cassandra Ward. The Windy City’s original party-girl. Vamp extraordinaire, she could seduce a man with a single look. Breasts like B-32s, but it was her mouth that took on mythical proportions.
He had turned her down once and he wasn’t man enough to do it again.
“The groom is your brother-in-law,” Joan said, ripping him away from thoughts of long, leisurely nights with Cassandra.
“When you divorced him, he officially became not-my-brother-in-law.”
Joan shrugged. “Don’t split hairs. He’s family. You need him.”
What Noah didn’t need was the raging erection he got every time he thought about Cassandra. And then there were the dreams. Wet dreams were supposed to stop with adolescence. Noah blamed it on lack of sex.
There were plenty of women available. All nice, all lookers, but they just didn’t fire his blood. Six months ago Cassandra had ruined him for any other woman. If he saw her again, he’d be ruined for another six months. No woman was worth a full year of celibacy.
Damn.
He sighed, pulled out a tattered copy of the Herald, and pretended to read.
“So?” asked Joan, not taking the hint.
He knew he’d go, but he wasn’t going to tell her yet. Let her worry. Noah wanted to make her pay. He was still ticked off about being woken up because he had really, really wanted to finish that dream.
THE SOLOIST was already singing when he slipped into the back of the chapel. Five minutes late wasn’t so bad. The church was full. Five hundred heads or so, he guessed. Of course, according to Spencer, the bride had been planning this wedding for seventeen years, so it wasn’t that much of a shocker.
The bridesmaids started down the aisle. Some new faces. Some not.
The first was cute and teary-eyed. Behind her was a tall, nervous-looking one in geeky glasses.
The last one was Cassandra.
They had put her in a demure dress, deep maroon, long sleeves, no cleavage. It wouldn’t have mattered. The color made her hair darker, made her eyes more mysterious. She had kept her hair loose, falling in big curls to her waist. God, she could make a man want.
Currently, he wanted. He should have been terrified by the thought. One look in those deep pools of brown and a man turned to stone, or at least the important parts did.
Deliberately, Noah turned away and began to studiously examine the toes of his shoes. He had never been one to run with the pack, instead choosing his own way, and damn if he was just going to be another notch on her lipstick case.
He kept his eyes downcast as she walked past, but he didn’t need to look to remember. He had every curve of that perfect body committed to memory.
Yeah, him and the rest of Chicago.
That was the big drawback to Cassandra. Her body was the sort that haunted men and she was the sort of woman who loved to act on it.
Not that he was going to judge her, but Noah had always been proprietary. What was his, stayed his, and all his life he’d stayed away from the girls who were busy on Friday nights. He knew men who had gotten burned by obsessing over Cassandra. Noah knew better.
He looked up and his hot gaze followed her as she walked down the aisle. But sometimes just knowing better wasn’t enough.
THE RECEPTION was a beautiful thing, with a string quartet and a bubbling champagne fountain. Each table was covered with white daisies. Cassandra smiled from her table located in a back corner. The ceremony had been exquisite—the perfect mix of style and heart. Beth had cried like a baby, exactly like they had all known she would. Beth could be a sentimental fool, but Cassandra always had a soft spot for her anyway.
Mickey made her way across the room and sat down in an empty chair next to Cassandra. Mickey was not nearly as sappy as Beth, although sometimes the brainiac tortoise-shell lenses misted into a soft shade of rose. “What you doing?”
Cassandra pointed to her plate of desserts. “I’m eating my way to exercise class tomorrow.”
Mickey snorted. “Hand me one of those,” she requested, snagging a cream puff.
“You need to try the éclairs,” said Cassandra, who believed that dessert belonged predinner rather than post. “Where’s Dominic?”
Dominic was Mickey’s husband and the subject of a large percentage of Mickey’s goofier moments. “He’ll be here in a minute,” she answered, polishing off the dessert. “Had to go and make a call. Why didn’t you bring a date?”
“No one was worthy,” offered Cassandra with a shrug. She hadn’t brought a date to any of her friends’ weddings. It didn’t seem right. Her men fell into one category, her friends into another. And Cassandra didn’t believe in category mixing.
“Off week, huh?”
“Never,” she said, flashing her mysterious smile. She liked building upon the Cassandra mystique. And the more her best friends coupled up, the more Cassandra played it up. Maybe it was shallow, but she wanted to remind them that single life really did have its own rewards.
“There are some eligibles here, by the way. A couple of men from the Herald, plus, all Beth’s waiters are here.”
Cassandra scoped out the hotties who were tending bar and laughed at the familiar faces. Thomas, Seth and Charles. Beth had opened a tearoom, highbrow and staid, except for the waiters in tuxes that made it smolder, Chicago-style.
“They’re just babes in the wood,” answered Cassandra, though she had actually considered it at one time.
“Beth told me who Noah was. Quite conveniently we noticed that he’s alone.”
Cassandra tapped a fingernail on the table as her sole concession to Noah Barclay. “Why don’t you go find your husband? I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t want company?”
“It’s nice to sit and think, remember all the good times we had.”
“It’s a wedding, not a funeral,” said Mickey, using her glasses for the full egghead effect.
Cassandra leaned back, watching the matrimonial circus in front of her. “It all depends on your perspective.”
2
IT SADDENED NOAH that his sister had been right. The James-Von Meeter wedding hosted a hotbed of Chicago politicos. So far he had discussed the finer points of a chocolate layer wedding cake with Alderman Frederick H. Brown from the Eighteenth Ward, not to be confused with Frederick T. Brown from the Fourth Ward. He’d asked Alderwoman Margaret Watson from the Twenty-second Ward to dance, only to discover that she was on crutches. And he’d rescued Judge Roscoe Warren from dunking his head in the punch bowl. Judge Warren was a two-fisted drinker, and not a steady one at that. It was a lot of work for Noah, who didn’t feel comfortable mingling among the artificial ingredients of society.
Having had quite enough of that, Noah escaped to the relative safety of the bar. He watched Cassandra as she sat by herself, drinking a vodka martini. Judging from the vibration at her throat, he thought she might be humming.
It didn’t seem normal to see her sitting there alone. In his mind, she was always surrounded by a pack of men as the goddess granting favors while the mortals genuflected at her feet.
Thoughts like that kept him firmly at the bar, nursing his whiskey.
At this rate he was going to end up with another three years of celibacy. God, six months had been bad enough. He sighed and deliberately turned away just as two men approached.
“I’m going to go see if she needs another drink,” one said in a cocksure voice, with lust deep in his mortal heart.
Two guesses whom they were talking about.
“You think she’d let me take her home?” asked the shorter one, younger and less worthy of a good beating.
“She’s drinking martinis, right? Load her down with a couple and you’ll be on your way to paradise. Did you read about the time after the Blackhawks post-season party? I heard she was there.”
Noah swallowed his drink, then swallowed the anger that rose in his throat. Stay out of it. It isn’t your place.
As he watched, the two men made their way across the room to flirt with her. She laughed at some stupid joke. Probably a dirty one. But it was none of his concern.
While he kept his distance, she tilted back her head, clearly having a great time. The next thing he knew, the tall man was handing her another martini.
Bastard.
He really didn’t want to interfere; he’d wait until she sent them on their way.
The minutes ticked by and she didn’t.
They were pricks on the prowl. Couldn’t she tell? Well, for tonight, there was a new sheriff in town.
With his mind made up, he walked over to the table. His fantasies and his more noble aspirations started to merge until, in his mind, she was swearing her undying gratitude, even as he was ripping off her dress.
“Hello, Cassandra,” he said, betting her golden-tanned skin was golden-tanned all over—it was in his dreams. While he was still contemplating the seductive vision, he realized he had nothing else prepared to say. He usually thought faster on his feet, instead, he was staring hot-eyed and openmouthed, just like the other two pricks on the prowl.
He wondered if she had forgotten that he’d once rejected her offer. He’d been polite, nice, but firm. And stupid.
Then she looked up, met his eyes square on, and he flinched at the ice he saw there. “Noah.”
Okay, so she remembered. So maybe things were going to be a little more difficult than he’d planned.
“Do I get to meet your friends?” he asked, willing to persevere because this was for her own good. Sorta.
Another cold smile. “Noah, meet Daniel and Bruce.”
Noah held out his hand, which everyone ignored. “Nice to meet you gentlemen.”
Bruce, the one with the flagrant hard-on in his eyes, just looked pissed. Too bad, buddy. Deal with it.
Noah looked at the empty chair on the other side of Cassandra. “You mind?”
She shot him a hell-yes look, but shrugged one languid roll of the shoulder. “It’s a free country.”
“So, Danny, what do you do?” he asked.
“Daniel.”
“Daniel.” Dickhead. “What do you do?”
“I work for the Herald. Sales.”
“Are you in sales, too, Bruce?” asked Noah, who as a rule never liked salesmen anyway.
Bruce nodded, but didn’t say a word.
Noah turned to Cassandra, content to cut the other two out of the conversation. “What’s up in the lapidary business?”
“We cut, we grind, we polish, we sell. It’s all the same, day in, day out.”
Noah leaned on his palm. “I think that’s fascinating. Don’t you, guys? I mean, how do you know where to cut?”
She smiled at him, showing perfect white teeth. “I’m very good with a saw.”
So, she wanted to make rescuing difficult. However, Noah was of the firm belief that sometimes people didn’t know what was good for them. He pushed forward. “If I was in the market for a diamond, what advice would you give?”
“Go to South America.”
God, he was a masochist.
Finally, Bruce couldn’t take any more. “Listen, Noel—”
“It’s Noah.”
“Yeah, Noah, then. I’m not sure the lady’s really interested in your company, if you get my meaning? Maybe you could focus your charm on someone else.”
Noah coughed, indicating he was finished with polite games. “Isn’t that the second martini, dickhead? Looks like you’re no closer to paradise than you were when you started. In fact, I think you could give the lady thirty martinis and she still wouldn’t go home with you.”
Bruce got up, looking to intimidate. “It’s not polite to easedrop, friend.”
Noah stood and went chest-to-chest with the guy. Bruce was big, but Noah was bigger. “I’m being plenty polite, considering. And don’t call me friend.”
That finally brought a reaction from Cassandra. She straightened, the chin lifted and the cold, dark eyes fixed on Bruce and Danny-boy. “Get away. Now.”
The men realized paradise was not the place for mortals and slunk back to the more earthly planes of the bar.
Noah, pleased to have finally gotten this rescue thing right, smiled and sat down, waiting for her word of gratitude.
“And you, too,” she said, not sounding thankful at all.
“Excuse me? I thought you would at least thank me?”
“Thank you. Now please leave.” She looked pale. Her sinful red lips were tightly pursed.
He wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. “You know, I could have just left things alone, let those two jerks ply you with alcohol and then damn the consequences, but I chose to interfere. Do you understand? I chose to interfere for you. I thought you might care.”
The dark gaze lifted in his direction, but now her expression showed only fire. “You worried for no reason. No man takes advantage of me unless I want him to. I appreciate your interference, but I don’t need it. Go practice your knight-errant shtick someplace else.”
Now was the time to escape. Go away, Noah, you’re not invited here. In fact, he started to get up, but then he sat back down because he was curious. “Don’t you care?”
“About what?”
“The way people talk.”
She looked up, her eyes empty and still. “The only person I hear talking is you.”
Her complete isolation tugged at him. She looked so tough, so above everyone else. The goddess alone. Noah had always been surrounded by family, friends or by co-workers and had never stopped to wonder if he would like being alone. He didn’t think he would.
“Can I keep you company?”
She raised a brow. “The word no seems to be a word you don’t understand, so I’ll save my breath.”
“So…you’re friends with Beth?” he asked. He already knew the answer to his question, and he knew that she knew he knew the answer to it, but the ice caps in her eyes were shrinking so he pressed ahead—Titanic-style.
She nodded and Noah continued.
“She seems nice. I don’t know why she’s marrying Spencer, but there’s no accounting for taste.”
Hesitatingly, her lips curved up. It wasn’t much, but he labeled it progress. Soon, he’d have her right where he wanted her. It was only a matter of time.
“They get along well,” she said quietly.
“I guess,” he said as he studied her.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a headache and I need to say good-bye to the bride before they go. Then I’m sneaking out, as well.”
She was leaving?
She obviously hadn’t read his plan for this relationship.
Hell, most women in the great state of Illinois would fight for his company. Noah didn’t consider himself vain, just a realist. The Barclay name and the legendary bank accounts gave him an extra advantage that an ordinary man didn’t have. And the fact that he had a full head of hair didn’t hurt.
One thing his father had taught him about the Barclays: they always got what they wanted. Sometimes it took patience, sometimes it took money, sometimes it was a well-placed rumor and sometimes it was hard-earned luck. But they always got what they wanted, and Noah was a Barclay through and through. An easygoing smile could hide a lot.
“Go out with me,” he heard himself say.
“You told me you weren’t interested.”
“I lied.”
She studied her nails. “Lying will not score you points here.”
“You know, I thought you might have trouble with that.”
“Mr. Barclay, on any one night I have my pick of men to go out with—” Just then her cell phone rang. “Excuse me.”
She pursed her lips, this time completely on purpose, and laughed into the phone. He listened while she cooed over “Christoph.”
“Oh, honey, I can’t tonight. Got this wedding thing. After? No. I don’t do weddings well, so I think I’m heading home to wash the scent of honeysuckle and amore right off of me.
“Yes, alone,” she said in a throaty whisper designed to send Christoph into fantasyland.
He took the phone away and hung up on Christoph.
She wasn’t pleased. “That was rude.”
“That was a marvelous performance.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head and picked up her hand. Lovely skin. It was soft, her scarlet nails shone like water.
She started to pull her hand away, but he raised an eyebrow and her movements stilled.
“You don’t do weddings, huh?”
“Too much sugar makes me nauseous.”
“Go out with me.”
“I’m sorry, but I believe your exact words were, ‘You’re a nice girl, but not tonight.’”
“I don’t like being used,” he said resolutely. Of course, half a year without sex could melt the strongest resolution, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Six months ago, how much of the tartlet performance at the gala was for my benefit and how much of it was to piss off your old boyfriend?” he asked.
“I don’t do tartlet performances,” she started. Though she didn’t deny the piss-off-your-old-boyfriend part at all, which irked him, because he liked to think that on that one night six months ago she had felt the slow burn between them.
“Too old?” he questioned, mainly because he was irked.
Her dark brows furrowed in anger. He held up the hand of peace. “Apologies. You bring out the worst in me.”
“An auspicious way to start a relationship, Mr. Barclay. I would think you’d be running hard and fast in the opposite direction. Some repressed need for self-punishment, perhaps?”
He balanced his chin on his hand, content to drink in her face. It was like pouring one-hundred-and-forty proof right onto his crotch. He’d never met a woman who was so completely aware of her own power.
“I’m not giving up,” he said.
“Cocky, aren’t we?” she asked with a cold look in her eyes that should have kept him away.
“Cocky? You’ve been stuck up here for the past six months,” he said, pointing to his head. “I can’t look at another woman, I can’t sleep because of the dreams, and I didn’t want to come tonight because I knew what would happen.”
“What?” she asked quietly.
“It’ll start all over again. You’ll ruin me for another six months, only now, well, it’s worse. So I’m thinking it’s now going to be at least a year. Yeah, I see that smile. You think this is funny, but I don’t. This is all about survival, sweetheart. Mine.”
There. He’d told her. It wasn’t the sophisticated approach he probably should’ve used, but he hadn’t had much sleep lately and it was all because of her.
Then she got up to leave. He’d blown it. His one shot. Gone. She glanced around the room and cast one anxious glance in his direction. “The store. Tuesday,” she whispered, and then quickly walked away.
ON SUNDAY MORNING, Cassandra was up early. She always squeezed in a workout before she started the day, but last night she’d had very little sleep, and it was all Noah Barclay’s fault.
Everything had been fine until she’d looked deep into his dark, tortured gaze. This was a man who looked to be in pain, and she’d put him there. There was the usual victory dance of power in her head, but this time the victory dance wasn’t nearly as much fun.
In fact, this time the victory dance was completely unfun.
It was that complete lack of fun that prompted her to give him a second chance. That, and the fact that the man had the most mesmerizing eyes. Honest and completely unsmarmy. She’d actually checked. But there was no telltale hand over the mouth or the shifty-eyed marker of dishonesty. He’d met her gaze square-on and she’d gotten a jolt that she hadn’t been expecting.
Okay, sue her, she was attracted to the man. She would give him a shot, then he’d show his true colors and, yeah, she’d seen the end of this movie before.
Cassandra picked up her mop from the broom closet and jabbed at the floor with more anger than precision. Nothing like a little housework to ease frustration.
She lived in a little, two-bedroom, one-tiny-bath, no-garage in Hardwood Heights. It was her sanctuary and she loved it. The community had strict rules about noise and behavior, so it was always quiet. Peaceful.
So peaceful that it was unnervingly loud when she heard a scratching noise at the front of her house.
That was odd, she thought as she peered through the glass in her front door. No one was there. But then the scratching started again.
She flung open the door. Still nothing.
Then she looked down.
Some people might have called it a dog. Cassandra was horrified, and slammed the door on it.
She hated dogs.
The scratching started again.
Her fingers drummed against the wood door frame, knowing that if that stupid animal didn’t stop, her brand-new, seven-hundred-and-eighty-six-dollar door was going to be ruined. It was a honey, too. Golden oak with beveled glass that just dressed her place up so nicely.
No way was that dog going to ruin it.
She marched to the kitchen and filled a pitcher with water. Then she opened the door and doused him.
The mutt retreated to the lawn and sat on his haunches, fur bunched and smelly—now a wet smelly—and glared back.
“You’re a stupid dog, aren’t you?”
She slammed the door and waited. The scratching started again.
Darn it. He wasn’t leaving.
Where did the thing belong? Maybe a neighbor had lost it? Not that she thought anyone was going to claim it. Something that huge and that old and that ugly wasn’t going to be popular anywhere. Worst of all, it had big, mean teeth.
After gathering her courage, she threw on some shoes and went outside. She was prepared to confront the monster, using the back door of course.
She clapped her hands in what she thought was an anti-dog manner. “Go home.”
The dog growled at her.
Okay, let’s try something new. Kindness. “Here, buddy,” she sang, snapping her fingers.
The dog growled at her.
“You are a stupid, stupid animal,” she announced, and the dog promptly went and curled up on her porch. Not that her porch was large, mind you. In fact, the dog took up the entire space.
“No, no, no. You belong to someone else. This is not your home. Bad dog, bad dog.”
The dog opened one lazy eye and showed his teeth in a twisted-looking grin.
“Where’s Timmy, boy?”
The dog yawned.
Okay, this was getting her nowhere. She gave him the eye as she walked next door to Mrs. Mackenzie’s place. Mrs. Mackenzie was an elderly woman who, to Cassandra’s knowledge, had no pets, but maybe that had changed. After all, it was never too late to gain a pet.
When Mrs. Mackenzie answered her door, Cassandra smiled politely. “Did you lose a dog?” she asked with hope in her voice.
Mrs. Mackenzie squinted, her mind creaking. She was a dear old woman, but a little slow. “No. Can’t say that I did.”
“Do you know anyone in the neighborhood who’s lost a dog recently? Big, ugly, black and gray.”
Mrs. Mackenzie shook her head. “No, dear. The neighborhood board frowns on dogs. Don’t know anyone around here that has one. Sorry. Would you like some pie? I just made a fresh cherry. With ice cream.”
Cassandra shook her head, depressed at the fifty-pound spawn of Satan that had just been dumped in the lap of her lawn.
Still determined, she went door to door, covering thirty-seven houses in five blocks. And all she got for her trouble was seven chocolate-chip cookies and three lewd propositions. Damned perverts. Somebody out there was dog-less, probably crying and worrying.
She made her way home, munching the last cookie, thinking that maybe the animal had disappeared while she was gone. No such luck. As she rounded the corner, there he was, curled up in a big, ugly black ball on her porch. At least he had stopped the scratching. She stood at the end of her walkway, considering her approach. She really didn’t like dogs.
This one growled, showing really big teeth.
“Shoo. I’m going inside now.”
The dog ignored her.
“I’m walking to the door now,” she said, taking two slow steps.
The dog still ignored her.
“I’m coming closer. Don’t upset me, dog, or you’ll be sorry.”
The dog opened one sleepy eye.
Two more steps and he began to growl.
“Don’t mess with me.” And almost, almost, almost…
He jumped to his feet and started barking.
Not.
She blew out a breath and stared the dog down.
He glared back, showing more teeth. God, she hated those teeth.
As she made her way to the back door, she cursed all dogs, cursed all dog puppies, and decided that immediately when she made it to safety, she was calling Animal Control.
When she walked into the living room, she glanced outside. Spawn was still there.
“Fine. It’s your doggie hide.” She looked up the number for Animal Control, dialed, and got a recording. Due to budget constraints, they were closed on Sundays. So she left her name and number and hung up.
Then she opened the front door and yelled at the animal. “I’ll say this for you, you’re one lucky dog. You’ve got twenty-four hours and then the police are coming for you, Spawn.”
The dog lifted his big head and growled.
“If you think I’m going to feed you, you’re nuts.”
Later, after the sun had gone down, she peeked outside, just to see if he was still there. There he was, sleeping the deep sleep of the innocent—while trespassing on her property. He looked kind of thin, though, so she crept outside to look closer. She should feed him. Bad nutrition could cause all sorts of problems, like poor skin and weak bones. And Animal Control would be here in the morning and they’d take him away, so what harm was there in giving the mutt some food.
He didn’t stir when she approached and she noticed his ribs clearly showing through. Anorexic dog. Then she bent and put the rice cakes and chips on the ground. Not that close, cause she still didn’t trust him. Just as soon as she was done, she ran back inside.
After she left, the dog opened one eye and stared. Then he wolfed down the food and just as quickly went back to sleep.
ON MONDAY MORNING, Animal Control appeared before Cassandra had even done her makeup, so she shoved a baseball cap on and pulled it low. Spawn was still happily curled on her porch, oblivious to his impending doom.
The Animal Control guy, Gus, was very nice. Cassandra asked him all sorts of questions about what would happen with the dog, merely because she was ignorant about how these things worked. Spawn had a thirty-day shot at adoption and, if he was voted off the island, then they’d put him to sleep.
It seemed harsh, but the city was cutting back. She considered the big monster, realized that if there was an island castoff, he was it. Nobody would adopt this dog. Finally she shook her head. He didn’t deserve this, not with those teeth, and his owner could still be out there, searching.
“Let him stay here for now.”
Gus frowned. Obviously he didn’t like having his power of life and death usurped. “You’ll have to get him shots and tags. It’s illegal for him to be without them. And watch the noise. Too much barking and I’ll be back.”
She smiled and easily summoned a thousand watts of sexuality—guaranteed to weaken the strongest man’s will, even without her makeup. “I’ll take care of it today, assuming that I can get in to see a vet.”
“There’s a new place on Cedar Avenue. They’ll do him. And Tuesday night he stays open until nine. If you decide to keep him, get him neutered. Pet population—it’s all our responsibility.”
She tugged at the brim of her cap. “Of course. Thank you for your help, Gus. Sorry to have dragged you out here for nothing.”
“You brightened my day, ma’am. That’s enough.”
After the Animal Control truck pulled away, Spawn lifted his massive head and eyed her.
She narrowed her gaze. “Don’t think I was being nice, you understand? You’ve got twenty-four hours to find your owner. Twenty-four hours, that’s it. After that, you’re on your own.”
FOR THE FIRST TIME in her thirteen years in the diamond biz, Cassandra was the sole proprietor of Diamonds by Ward & Ward. Jozef Ward, her father, had left for the summer. His destination: the lake cabin in Minnesota. Thereby leaving Cassandra solely in charge. His last words before he left were, “Don’t let the power go to your head. I’ll be back.”
Before he’d gone, Jozef hired Kimberly for the summer help. Heavy accent on the word “summer” and light on the word “help.” The girl had brains, her father wouldn’t have hired her otherwise; however, Kimberly also had attitude in spades. And if Cassandra hadn’t felt minor sympathy for her—the girl was a fashion train wreck—she would have fired her after two weeks.
Cassandra dug under the papers on the counter, searching through the notepads that had been so nicely organized before she’d taken her day off. Her one day off, thank you very much. Then she came back and everything was a mess.
“Kimberly, did you see the notes I took for Mr. Amesworth? He’s got an appointment on Thursday and I wanted to pick out a few stones for him.”
“Did you check on the counter?”
Did you check on the counter? Cassandra mimed to the god of patience. “Yes, I did.”
“Haven’t seen it,” yelled Kimberly from the back.
“Can you help me look for it?”
Kimberly appeared in the doorway to the front area, in full confrontational stance with her fists on hips and jaw set tight. It was more pity than fear that struck Cassandra. She shook her head at the loose brown shirt, faded brown jeans and wiry brown hair. The girl needed a renewed body outlook, that was for sure.
“I haven’t seen it. By the way, Mr. Liepshutz was by yesterday, looking for you.”
Cassandra stopped looking. She didn’t like Sidney Liepshutz. Didn’t want to be alone with Sidney Liepshutz and Kimberly knew it. Kimberly smiled a screw-you smile. “I told him you’d be working today.”
Cassandra was about to start yelling when the door buzzer sounded and a construction worker came in. Mark, Matthew—he had some “M” name that Cassandra had forgotten. The twenty-two-year-old boy-toy had developed a crush. On her.
He doffed his hard hat, a rather sweet gesture, and coughed. “Miss Ward, I just wanted to tell you that we’ll be working on the water lines again today.”
Which translated to: the power was going to be cut. “How long will you be working today?”
“All day, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard on you.”
“I’m sure I’m not the only one,” she said with a faux smile. The last thing she needed was for the power to go out. The store’s locks were electronic and when there was no power, there was no business. She turned, ready to ask Kimberly about the appointments for the day, but Kimberly wasn’t paying attention to Cassandra. No, Kimberly was in a trance. Change that to starstruck. She was starstruck at the sight of Mark, Matthew or whatever the boy’s name was.
Interesting. She looked almost nice when she was in the throes of lust.
Every woman had her weakest point, usually tied to a man, and finally Cassandra had found one in Kimberly. Mark, Matthew or whatever.
“Kimberly,” said Cassandra, and Kimberly jerked out of her reverie.
“Yes?”
“Can you get Mr. Pipe Fixer some water? And be quick about it. It hit ninety degrees yesterday. Whew. These summers can be hot.” She drew a hand over her forehead for effect. “I’m going to check in the back for the order form.”
“His name is Mark,” grumbled Kimberly.
“Oh, yes.” Cassandra glowed in Mark’s general direction. “Suck up some air-conditioning, Mark,” she said, and then disappeared. “I have to work.”
She plastered herself to the door and then listened to Kimberly’s monosyllabic tones, shaking her head. The conversation was about as scintillating as the stock market report. Eventually Mark disappeared—a less sensitive woman would have said “ran”—the electric door beeping behind him.
Kimberly slunk into the back room, shoulders drooping, traditional rejection pose.
For a second, only one short second, Cassandra identified with Kimberly. Women could be such suckers for men.
Finally, she sighed. What would it hurt? “You know, we could make a deal,” said Cassandra.
“What sort of deal?”
“You want Mark?”
“No,” the girl said, lying through her teeth.
“I can help you there, if you’ll help me.”
“I don’t need your help.”
Cassandra knew that laughing wouldn’t advance her cause, so she choked it down her throat. “Can I tell you something, woman to woman?”
Kimberly shrugged her shoulders, an ungainly move that accentuated her bad posture.
“You could have him eating right out of your hand.”
“Not in this lifetime,” said Kimberly, dripping sarcasm.
“I’m serious.”
“Uh, no. I don’t look like you, Miss Ward.”
And how it must have pained her to admit that. Cassandra shook her head again. “It’s all about the illusion, Kimberly. How you look has very little to do with it.”
“I don’t want your help.”
Cassandra went on, “Do you know how many people have asked me my secret? Tons. I could have my own infomercial and make a mint, but it’s no good if you tell everyone what it is. But here I am, offering you a gesture of friendship, offering to share my most valuable insights regarding the weaker sex, and you’re turning them down. I think that’s rude, Kimberly.”
“I don’t want to be rude,” muttered Kimberly.
“I didn’t think so. You’re not the type. Let me help you.”
“You just feel sorry for me.”
“Maybe. But I need your help this summer, and I don’t want to have to tippy-toe around the store, trying to figure out what to say, what not to say, it’d be très awkward. This is my first summer in the store alone, and I need to keep things in order while Dad is gone. You can understand that, can’t you?”
Kimberly shrugged.
“We’ll start with the basics today. Flirting and Body Language 101. Tomorrow I’ll bring in some clothes and makeup.”
“You really think you could turn me into something else?”
Cassandra dragged Kimberly over to the mirror and planted her in front. “Smile.
“Now pull up your chin—
“Shoulders back—
“One foot in front of the other—
“Hand on hip, fingers splayed—
“Now what do you see?” Cassandra asked.
“I do look better.”
“It’s nothing but confidence. It’s the most potent weapon in a woman’s arsenal, so don’t leave home without it. Now go out to the front and find the order from Mr. Amesworth.”
“But I don’t know where it is!” Cassandra shook her fingers. “Nuh-uh-uh. Shoulders back, chin up. Just remember, confidence.”
DIAMONDS by Ward & Ward was on Wabash Street right in the middle of Jeweler’s Row. It was Chicago’s very own version of 47th Street. Window after window was filled with fiery gold and diamonds. Diamonds that could fill a woman’s eyes with tears just as fast as they could empty a man’s bank account.
Noah walked in, expecting, hoping to see Cassandra; instead he found a frumpy female digging through papers.
“Is Cassandra here?”
She held up a hand and pulled out a document from the bottom of the pile. “Aha! Got it. Wait a minute. I’ll get her.”
Noah didn’t quite follow that, but he stayed silent as the girl disappeared into the back.
While he waited, he looked in the display cases, noticing the myriad stones that winked back at him. Most were set in rings or bracelets, but some had been scattered loosely on velvet-covered trays. White diamonds, red diamonds and yellow diamonds.
When he lifted his head, she was there, framed in the doorway.
Noah had to hand it to her—the woman could make an entrance. Her low-slung jeans were just a hair shy of decency, hugging centerfold curves. She wore a simple long-sleeved shirt. If any garment that hugged that magnificent chest could be considered simple. They were clothes you’d see every day on the streets of Chicago, but no other clothes sent him from flaccid to rock-hard in under three seconds flat.
He coughed.
“Mr. Barclay. I’m surprised you remembered the invitation.”
“Surely we’ve progressed beyond last names?”
“Noah.”
He liked the way she said it, almost a whisper, her perfect mouth caressing his name. Her eyes looked softer today. The anger was gone. It was a good sign.
“Do a man a favor?” he asked.
The perfect mouth pulled into a tight line and the eyes grew sharp. He had a feeling that Cassandra Ward, society-page sex kitten, had taken his comment the wrong way. Oops. He was ready to apologize, but just as he opened his mouth, the sharpness was gone—like it’d never been there at all.
Her laugh was throaty and full, and her nails raked his hand—a teasing touch. “Hold that thought. I need to write something down before I forget.” Then she pulled a pen from the drawer and leaned down on the counter, and Noah found himself staring in the valley of her breasts. A man could lose his soul there if he wasn’t careful.
She scribbled down some notes. There was a name he couldn’t read. Then she straightened, pen in one hand.
“Now. What sort of favor were you thinking of?” she asked, capping the pen and pointing it at him.
Noah swallowed. He had been ready to ask her to lunch, but she was fogging his brain.
“Something with just the two of us?” she asked, her eyes focused directly on his mouth, and he wondered where that girl was and why she wasn’t rescuing him. He knew this was a bad idea, but he couldn’t think rationally. All he could focus on was the liquid plumpness of her mouth and the thousand years of sin that were reflected in her eyes. Already he had a hard-on, a couple more seconds and he was going to explode.
She smiled at him, reading his thoughts, and leaned a hip against the counter, which meant six inches closer to him. And six inches closer to touching him. Then she slid the pen deep into the V of her shirt and he watched as it disappeared between sun-kissed skin. He licked his lips, and just when he was ready to go diving for the pen, she pulled it back out, tilted her head back and laughed.
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