Simply Sex
Dawn Atkins
When Kylie Falls agrees to a last-minute date with one of her sister's clients, she'd never have guessed that a man in need of matchmaking services would be as deliciously hot as Cole Sullivan. Too bad she's soon on her way out of town for a bigger and better career.Of course, she does have a few weeks and he seems more than open to a brief fling.They both agree their insatiable appetite for each other is temporary–the result of too much work and not enough fun. Except that the more time they steal from their schedules to meet between the sheets, the tighter the sexual tension gets. And with Kylie's departure looming, Cole makes her an offer she knows she should refuse…even though she's tempted to accept.
Everything was completely under control
Kylie reassured herself as she knocked on Cole’s door. They had business to conduct, so their lust would take a backseat. Work first, play later.
Then Cole opened the door and she melted like chocolate in a warm fist. “Hi,” she whispered, ready to drop her briefcase and dive into him.
His face lit with joy, but he stepped back to let her in instead of grabbing her into his arms.
“Maybe we should rethink what we’re doing,” Cole said.
Oh, no. If he got sensible, she was sunk. She so needed another night with him, making love, feeling that release, not to mention discussing her projects. She had to reason with him.
“We’re getting carried away, right? I know. But I have the solution. We work first.” Kylie threw her briefcase on the table, struggling to get it open. She’d crammed so much into it, the clasp was stuck.
Suddenly it sprang open, spewing items: a file, a notepad, her toothbrush, her sexy lingerie and two packets of honey, similar to the ones they’d made sexy use of the other night.
Cole picked up one packet and a slow smile spread across his face. “You had something in mind?”
Dear Reader,
The perfect match. What a dream. Wouldn’t we do anything to find that one person? Isn’t that what matchmaking services—with their profiles—provide?
Of course, there’s more to finding a lifelong love than can be recorded on a chart or a bubble test. There’s that extra something…the heart and work and compromise of it….
That started me thinking about a character who isn’t interested in any kind of match. Meet Kylie Falls. She’s on her way to a big future in L.A. when she trips over Cole Sullivan. How inconvenient. Try as she might to keep things casual with Cole, she learns there’s no such thing as simply sex.
I hope you enjoy this story…and that someone you love is reading a book beside you right now. Or else you’re about to bump into him at the bookstore or the Laundromat or a Starbucks—he’s out there, I know it.
Let me know what you think of the story, at dawn@dawnatkins.com. Visit my Web site for upcoming releases—www.dawnatkins.com.
Yours,
Dawn Atkins
Simply Sex
Dawn Atkins
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To David, my own perfect match, and to my sister Diana—he’s out there!
Acknowledgments
All my gratitude to Lynda Johncock-Henkel, a real-life matchmaker who’s brought happiness to many Arizona couples. Lynda, keep the happily-ever-afters coming!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
1
“YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS, but the guy on line one just asked me to kiss his willy.”
Kylie Falls and her sister Janie looked up at Janie’s receptionist, standing wide-eyed in the doorway.
“He asked you to kiss his what?” Her sister’s face went pale.
“His hoo-hoo…johnson…whatever, Janie. I’m not saying what he called it.”
“What did you tell him?” Janie asked.
“I told him no, of course—heavens, what do you think? And now he wants a refund.”
“A refund? Is he a client?” Janie’s matchmaking service was one year old and struggling and she’d called Kylie with her PR expertise to help turn things around.
“God, no, he’s not a client. He thinks we give phone sex.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Janie picked up the handset and punched the flashing button. “Sir? I’m afraid you’ve confused Personal Touch with another kind of, um, touch. We arrange committed relationships and—excuse me?”
Color flooded Janie’s face. Was the guy saying something mean or gross? Kylie stood, ready to tell the jerk where he could stick his wagging weenie, but Janie’s words were calm.
“You’ve obviously read the wrong ad, sir. Hang on.” She palmed the mouthpiece. “Grab the Arizona Weekly, Gail.”
Gail fetched the free entertainment paper for the Phoenix metro area, folded to an inside page and handed it to her boss, her gypsy bracelets tinkling.
Janie examined the paper, then looked up at Kylie in dismay. “They put our number in the phone-sex ad!” She handed her the tabloid.
Sure enough, PT’s number was also in a boxed ad with the headline “Let’s Get Personal.” An easy mistake for an overworked ad rep to make, but a disaster for her sister’s business.
“What do I say to this guy?” Janie asked Kylie.
“I’ll handle it.” Gail grabbed the phone, pasted on a smile and spoke sweetly. “Sir, I’m afraid you’ve reached the wrong number, but this is your lucky day. Instead of anonymous encounters with unseen strangers, why not get the personal attention of the best matchmaker in the valley?”
Kylie stifled a laugh. Gail had been Janie’s first client and was her biggest fan. There wasn’t an unattached adult Gail didn’t believe wouldn’t benefit from “a happily ever after with The Personal Touch.”
The guy must have said something harsh, because Gail slammed down the phone. “Be that way, Mr. Hoo-hoo. Your loss.”
“I’m afraid you’ll be fending off willy whackers all week,” Janie said on a sigh. “Though that’s the least of our problems.” She turned her worried face to Kylie, her breathing labored. Janie’s childhood asthma flared when she was under stress and circling the bankruptcy drain definitely caused stress.
“Take a slow breath, Janie,” Kylie said softly, waiting for the soft inhalation before she shifted into business mode. “We’ll get a correction and a free extension, don’t worry.”
“Tell me what to demand,” Gail said.
Kylie rattled off concessions and Gail jotted notes, then headed off to do battle with the classified department, earrings and bracelets jingling merrily.
“I’m just so glad you’re here,” Janie said. She came around her spindly antique desk to smother Kylie in a flappy-sleeved hug. “Thanks for not saying I told you so.”
“There’s no point in that.” Kylie believed in moving on, not dwelling on mistakes. It was no secret she thought a matchmaking service was a waste of Janie’s psychology degree and a risky place to invest her half of the trust their parents had provided, but she’d done some research and discovered Janie’s customized approach filled a unique niche in the volatile dating-service market.
“I’m sorry to interfere with your plans.” Janie had insisted on handling everything herself until this financial crisis hit. “What about your new job?”
“I’ll ask for a later start date.” When her sister had sent out her S.O.S., Kylie had been busy closing down K. Falls PR, since she was due to start work in two weeks at a top agency in L.A. She hated to disappoint Garrett McGrath, a titan in the business, who’d asked her to join his firm, but it couldn’t be helped.
“What would I do without you?” Love and relief shone in Janie’s eyes and she hugged Kylie again. “At least it’s for a good cause. You’re helping me save people years of flailing around in the singles sea. Doesn’t that make you feel good?”
“It makes me feel seasick.”
“You don’t mean that. Why do you act so tough?”
“That’s just me.” And always had been. She’d been the strong one through all the moves of their childhood. Their father’s food-service company sent him all over the country and Kylie’s job at each new place was to ensure her shy, frail sister felt safe, secure and content wherever they landed—from Philadelphia to Fresno and all major cities in between. Kylie scouted the best routes to schools, scrounged up the playmates and playgrounds and planted the familiar garden.
“People make too much of romance,” she said. “If they’d just focus on living full lives, they wouldn’t need someone else to feel complete.”
“It’s not being incomplete. It’s sharing your life with someone, being part of something bigger than yourself—a couple, then a family.” Janie’s pretty eyes glowed with mission.
Kylie admired her sister’s commitment—she was dedicated to preventing others from making the romantic mistakes she’d made over the years—and her resilience. Her heart must feel like the last bruised apple in the gunnysack after her string of bad boyfriends, but she remained convinced love was worth it.
Kylie wished like hell that Janie would find a man good enough for her. Or stop wanting one so much.
“Trust me, Kylie. You are making a difference.”
“Whatever.” No sense getting all mushy. Clearheaded strategies were what they needed now. “So I’ll get the Web site fixed, pitch some feature stories, work up a promotion, place a few ads, and barter a business plan from the guy who did mine.”
“And cut costs, right?” Janie said.
“Yeah. You’d better drop the party hall lease—we can do inexpensive networking parties. What else can we lose?” She surveyed the office, lush with romance—lace curtains on the window, doilies on the fussy antiques, pink-striped wallpaper, red velvet chairs. “Stop buying those.” She pointed at the vase of fresh roses under the window. Janie changed them every week.
“Roses warm the room and offer hope.”
“Get some silk ones.” She studied the Victorian-era secretary on which they rested. “And how about eBay for that?”
“I won’t dismantle the welcome center. That’s false economy.”
“Maybe you’re right.” She was being too harsh perhaps. Maybe it was the saccharine Muzak overhead. “I Will Always Love You,” blended into “You Look Wonderful Tonight,” to be followed by “You’re the One…” “My Only You…” “It Had to Be You.”
Blech. A person could drown in that sea of syrup.
But why was she so cranky about it? She didn’t begrudge anyone the search for love or schmaltz. She knew why. Lack of sex. Months and months and months of drought. If only she had a bed-buddy for the occasional booty call. Or the chutzpah to waltz into a watering hole and snag a hottie for one sweaty night. Lately, she’d been too busy to sleep with anyone.
She sighed. “So, I’m on it.” It didn’t seem as bad as Janie had made it sound on the phone. Three weeks, maybe, and all cookbook stuff. No need for creativity, her secret Achilles’ heel. She’d zip in and zip out—a one-woman marketing SWAT team—and juggle her own plans, too. If all it took was hard work, she could handle it. She knew how to work.
There was that piercing fear that Garrett McGrath might rescind the incredible job offer or, worse, rethink his high opinion of her, but she’d deal with that. She had to. Janie was counting on her. Work over worry was the philosophy she shared with her father.
“So, that’s it, right?” she asked, just to be sure.
A pink sunrise flared in Janie’s cheeks.
Uh-oh. There was more. “What else?” she said, dread rising.
“There is one thing….” Janie reached into a drawer and handed over a sheaf of legal papers.
Kylie read over the first page of the packet and her heart sank. “You’re being sued by a client?”
Janie nodded miserably. “I found him some wonderful Potentials, but he wants women completely inappropriate for his maturity and intellect.”
“You mean he’s a comb-over who wants a bimbo? Preferably stacked? Isn’t the customer always right?”
“I find life mates, Kylie, not ego boosts. If a man wants a midlife crisis, he can buy a Mazda RX-8 or become a ski instructor. I cannot allow him to drag some poor young woman into his morale morass.”
“Yes, I know.” Janie had better standards than some of her clients, no question, and all the integrity in the world.
“I know you can fix this problem like that,” Janie said, snapping her fingers so that her gauzy sleeves flapped like butterfly wings. She looked at Kylie the way she had as a child, standing at the door to a new school, squeezing her hand, smiling up at her. I know you’ll make things right for me.
The knot in Kylie’s stomach turned into a fist. What if she couldn’t do it this time? “I’ll do my best,” she said.
A lawsuit was big. A few whiz-bang promotions wouldn’t make a dent in that expense. Unless she found the right legal help in a hurry or somehow appeased the disgruntled client, her marketing SWAT swoop couldn’t save Janie’s business. She’d need more than creativity. She’d need a miracle.
THE PLACE WAS way too pink, Cole Sullivan thought uneasily as he sat in a plush chair waiting for Jane Falls. He’d chosen Personal Touch for its pragmatic approach—fingerprint and credit checks and a computerized personality inventory—but her rose-filled, doily-decorated office made him feel foolish, instead of practical. Hiring a matchmaker was like hiring a headhunter. He was saving time, pre-screening for compatibility, just as he would in the search for a new law firm. Marriages were partnerships, after all.
Who was he kidding? This was no business decision. He was lonely. There was something of the treadmill to his life, a hollow ring to his days that he figured marriage would fix. That was practical, right? So he was practical and foolish. He guessed he belonged in this Pepto-Bismol fairyland, after all.
He sensed movement behind him and turned to find a woman walking—no, floating—his way. Glenda the Good Witch, minus the bobbing bubble, tiara and wand.
He had a fleeting fear that, in a syrupy voice, she’d command him to click his ruby wingtips together three times, except she held a no-nonsense clipboard and wore a serious expression. “Janie Falls,” she said, reaching to shake his hand, her voice direct and syrup-free. “I’m happy to meet you in person, Cole.”
“Likewise.” Her handshake was as solid as her voice. She was pretty, with wavy blond hair that hung down her back, but not his type, really, even if it were ethical to date one’s matchmaker.
She glanced at her clipboard. “I see we have your Check Mate profile already in our database.”
“Yes.” He’d appreciated the after-hours convenience of taking the inventory online. It asked him to evaluate his temperament, conformity level, career ambition, affection needs and attitudes toward religion and finances—all issues Jane claimed were predictors of compatibility. Made sense.
“So, today we do your interview and your Close-Up. Have a seat.” She gestured at the red velvet chair where he’d been sitting, then went to sit behind her desk.
The video he dreaded. He patted his pocket to be sure his prepared remarks were there. He was short on time, so maybe he could skip the interview. “The profile was pretty comprehensive. Could we just do the video?”
“The face-to-face provides subtle details, Cole, so that my intuition kicks in. I find that’s how I make the best matches.”
“I never argue with success.” She claimed over a thousand clients and something like an eighty-percent match-up rate, convincing him to choose her service over several others. If more personal information brought the right woman into his life, he’d read his childhood diary to her. If he had one.
“So, tell me about your most recent relationship.”
“It’s been a while,” he said, feeling himself go red.
“Was it serious?”
“No. Casual.” Sheila had been irritated that they spent most of their brief hours together in bed. She liked the bed part, but wanted more time. Which he didn’t have. “Because of my schedule.” He’d hated disappointing her. And Cathy before her, who’d pick a fight if he didn’t call her every day. In the end, he’d given up dating altogether. He couldn’t stand the pressure.
“Have you ever been serious with a woman?”
“Not until now. In college everyone was casual. And I worked a lot. To help my parents and pay my way through law school.”
“Tell me about your parents’ relationship.”
“They’ve always been very close.”
“And is that what you want? What your parents have?”
“Absolutely. They’re devoted to each other. To their careers, too. They’re both high school teachers.”
“But you went into law?”
“Yes. I enjoy the law. The puzzles, the complexity.” He’d chosen challenging work. His parents had pounded into him the need to use his intellect in whatever career he chose. “I enjoy helping clients. Meeting their needs.”
“You work very hard.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, I do.” Be the best, never quit. His life blood.
“Tell me more about why that is.”
He fiddled with the crease of his slacks, feeling sweat trickle inside his shirt. He wasn’t much into self-analysis. But he babbled on about the prestige of his job, the satisfaction of hard work well done.
“And the money?” she prodded.
“Money matters, sure.” He’d worked all his life—through high school, college and night law school. Those low-skill jobs had showed him how easy it was to lose economic ground and end up living hand-to-mouth like many of his co-workers were forced to. He had a way out and he vowed to make the most of it. He appreciated his good fortune more than his trust-funded colleagues, who’d gone straight from college to law school and never felt the pinch of poverty.
Even his parents, with master’s degrees and thirty years of teaching experience, struggled to make ends meet. He never wanted that. In fact, he intended to make their lives easier as soon as he was in a stronger position at the firm.
Janie listened closely, writing an occasional note, honing in on him with her gaze, working him over with her intuition. God, he wanted this finished. He ran his finger under his collar.
“What about outside interests? What are your passions?”
Hell. He couldn’t say work again. “I used to play baseball for a parks and rec league. I rode with a bicycle club. Also, photography. I won some prizes.”
“But that’s not recent?”
“I’m on a partner track.”
“Sure,” she said, but she pursed her lips in mild disapproval.
“I went skiing two weeks ago,” he blurted, though it was for the firm and he’d mostly schmoozed with clients or worked in his room. He’d only managed one ski run.
“What leisure activities will you share with the woman in your life?”
“I thought we’d eat out, go to movies, plays, all that.” That sounded lame. “Maybe hike?”
“Relationships take time, Cole,” she said gently. “If you’re not in a good place with your career…”
“I’m prepared to budget the time.” Benjamin, Langford and Tuttleman could spare a few of the sixty hours a week he gave them so that he could advance the greater good—their mutual future.
“Dates are not billable hours.”
“I realize that.” Not billable, but an investment in his career, all the same. A settled life with an appropriate wife would edge him into the partner slot over his competitors—two notorious womanizers. Which was why he was subjecting himself to a critique from this steel-eyed fairy.
That and the empty echo in his life.
“And I’m shifting my priorities. In fact, I’ll be taking care of my neighbor’s dog for a few weeks. I see it as practice in accommodating another being into my life.”
“That’s something,” she said. He felt her rooting for him, like a dear friend or a sister, and that touched him.
“I’ll make it work, Jane. I promise.”
“Tell me what you hope for in a relationship.”
“A partner. Someone to share my life.” He pictured Sunday mornings in bed reading interesting tidbits to each other from the New York Times before he headed to the office to put in a few hours.
She’d be okay with him leaving, of course, since she’d have her own plans. He’d bring home takeout or she’d cook. He would cook, too, when time allowed. The best marriages were egalitarian.
Janie asked more questions. Did he want children—he did. What were his goals beyond making partner—to grow with the firm, to make his mark, perhaps open his own firm, make a good life for his family. Finally she closed the folder and regarded him critically.
Now what? He felt like he’d been through therapy.
“Did you bring something to change into for your Close-Up?”
He looked down at his gray suit, red tie and starched white shirt. “Why?”
“You’re a tad formal. We want to emphasize the whole you.”
He just looked at her.
“Yes, I know. That is the whole you.” She sighed. “At least take off your jacket and tie and roll up your sleeves.” She gentled the command with a weary smile.
He stood and shrugged out of his jacket, then dug at the knot of his tie. “How long will this take?”
“Not long, but, as I said earlier—”
“I know, I know. I’ll make the time.”
“Let’s go, then.” She led the way and he followed, rolling his sleeves as he went, to a small room with a video camera on a tripod pointed at a stool.
She motioned for him to sit, then drew down a photographic backdrop of a forest, the trees grainy and blurred from too much enlargement. He sat, managing a smile, despite how goofy he knew he looked in his dress clothes—like an SUV ad of Mr. Corporate escaping civilization into the woods.
She looked at him through the viewfinder. “Lean a little forward, Cole…that’s it. Give me a relaxed smile…more…too much…okay, that’ll do.”
He adjusted himself on her command, tension mounting.
“Now, imagine the camera is the love of your life.”
Great. He tried to feel warmly toward the device, but he was too literal-minded and it was cold glass surrounded by black metal.
“You have five minutes before fate separates you,” she continued cheerily. “Tell her what she must know about you.”
“No pressure there.” He tried to laugh, but it turned into a rasp over his dry throat. He patted his pants pocket for his notes, then remembered he’d left them in his jacket. “My speech is in the other room.”
“Spontaneous is better, Cole.”
“Spontaneous?” Sweat dribbled down his temples. This was way more nerve-racking than he’d expected.
“Just relax, be yourself, and speak from the heart. Go!”
Oookay. “Yes. Well. I’m Cole. I’m an attorney—business law, specializing in mergers and acquisitions. Benjamin, Langford and Tuttleman, or ‘BLT, hold the mayo,’ we like to say.” He laughed—which came out in a snort—and felt like an idiot. His cell phone chimed from his breast pocket. He lifted a hand. “One sec.”
Janie shot him a look, but when he heard Rob Tuttleman’s voice, he was glad he’d taken the call. Tuttleman wanted to meet with Cole and Trevor McKay, one of his competitors for partner, about an important case that had fallen through the cracks. A crucial break for Cole. “Terrific…looking forward to it,” he said into the phone. “We can meet as soon as I get back in about…” He glanced at his watch, then at Jane, who looked stern. Dates aren’t billable hours. “I’ll buzz you when I get back.”
He hung up, determined to hurry this along. “Sorry. Where was I?”
“Holding the mayo. Let’s talk about you as a person, not a lawyer. Go.”
“Let’s see. I’m dependable…loyal…faithful. Hell, I sound like a St. Bernard. What else? I’m looking for a woman who wants to join her life with mine.” That sounded hopelessly drippy.
The clink of jewelry signaled the arrival of the receptionist—Gail was her name, he thought—and he was relieved by the interruption.
“Sorry, but I have Harold Rheingold from Inside Phoenix on the line, Janie. It’s about the article.”
“Oh. I should take this.” She looked apologetically at him.
“I can do the Close-Up,” Gail said, bustling to the camera, her large bosom jostling for air behind a tight purple blazer.
Jane looked uncertainly at him.
“We’ll be fine,” he said, figuring the woman couldn’t possibly have Jane Fall’s intensity, sense of mission or intuition. He’d get Gail to cut it short.
Once Jane was gone, Gail pushed a pencil into her piled-up red hair and looked at him over half-glasses trimmed in rhinestones. “You’re one lucky man to have Janie Falls on the case. She found my husband for me, you know.”
“You were a client?”
“Nope. I was interviewing for the receptionist job and Wayne, the light of my life, was installing phones. Before he could say ‘Can you hear me now?’ Janie had matched us. And Wayne is the song in my heart, let me tell you. She’ll find you yours.”
“I hope so.” He did. He craved a bond with one special person. Yeah, getting married would help his career, but what he really wanted was someone to grow old with. Someone to stand side by side with, facing life’s challenges, enjoying its triumphs. A soul mate, corny as that sounded, though he’d never say that out loud to anyone.
Gail bent to study him through the viewfinder, making him feel like a bug under a microscope.
“I think I should explain what I’m looking for in a mate,” he said to hurry her along. If they knew what he wanted, the women could self-select. He didn’t want to disappoint anyone.
Gail tapped a finger to her lip. “Not sure that’s compelling, but we can always edit it out. Okay…action!”
Action? They were in Hollywood now? “I’m hoping for someone comfortable enough in her career that she can be flexible about mine. There are social events and charity projects related to the firm, so she should enjoy that. She should also be an independent thinker, a self-starter and a team player.”
“Hon, do you want her to marry you or work for you?”
“Oh. Sounded like a job description?” On the other hand, too many couples got caught up in chemistry and learned later their lives didn’t mesh.
“You’re not putting in an order at the Wife Factory. Try selling her on you.”
“So I should explain that I’m—”
“Not the ‘self-starter, team player’ bit. Give me something tender and sensitive.”
“Yes, but—”
“Even independent, self-starting team players want roses and poetry. I’ll walk you through it, don’t worry.”
Gail swung into action, directing every aspect of his performance, from his body angle, facial expression and vocal quality to the words he used. She yelled “cut” and “action” until he had a headache, before finally declaring it a “wrap,” and offering to show him the “rough cut.”
He didn’t have time. He was hopelessly late for the meeting with Tuttleman and McKay. Besides, he couldn’t bear seeing what she’d gotten him to say. He’d blurted the Sunday-morning-and-the-Times fantasy and confessed his deepest hopes. What sensible woman wanted a sweaty, desperate lawyer blathering on about melding two lives into one?
He’d need a redo. With Jane, this time, not Gail Ford Coppola, who kept saying, “Go deeper, no, deeper, give me the inner Cole.” He hoped to hell his computerized personality inventory netted him Potentials, because all the inner Cole would earn him was therapy.
2
“OF COURSE I’ll come out for the retreat,” Kylie said to Garrett McGrath, her future boss, swerving to miss a minivan. “And the account meetings are no problem.” Her heart pounded high and tight from the near-accident and the stress of easing the impact of her delayed start date in L.A. Plus, if she didn’t get the artwork on her front seat to the printer in ten minutes, her client’s grand opening would be ruined.
“Just think of me as a satellite office for these few extra weeks,” she said, wishing Garrett had waited just an hour to return her call. Who knows what other promises she’d make in her frantic effort to survive the drive and make him happy? She’d already promised two trips to L.A. and an entire weekend for the firm retreat.
“That sounds workable,” Garrett said in the melodic drawl that had been the voice of America’s cushiest toilet paper in the eighties. She’d mollified him, thank God, but how would she manage all he’d asked, along with closing out her own clients and rescuing Janie?
“We need your fresh voice in the room, Kylie.”
Hearing those glorious words from the genius of Simon, McGrath and Bellows, she knew she’d do it if it killed her. She honked at a woman applying mascara at a green light, then barreled after her on the yellow.
She’d come to Garrett’s attention by winning a national ad award for her campaign for an effective handgun-locking device. He’d searched her out and offered her the chance of a lifetime.
Saying yes had meant closing down her two-year-old agency, but the honor had been too great to reject. The professional validation was enormous and she hoped to learn tricks to compensate for her weaknesses. Besides, she told herself, with the prestige of a few years at S-Mickey-B, as the firm was affectionately known in the marketing world, she’d draw clients like flies when she reopened her practice later on. The month-to-month financial struggle had been more daunting than she’d expected. She wasn’t that sure of herself.
“Just clear your conflict fast,” Garrett said, “so we can have you all to ourselves.” His words made her heart swell with pride and squeeze with pressure. Her already-knotted stomach turned inside out with all she had to do.
At least she’d made progress promoting Personal Touch over the past week, including scoring a profile at a trendy rag with the right demographic, but neither she nor Janie had yet gotten the suit-happy client on the phone. Soon she’d have to look at hiring an attorney. Big bucks they didn’t have, dammit.
She shifted her gaze from the traffic to her dashboard clock. Seven minutes before Sun Print closed and her client, Dagwood Donuts, was out of luck.
“I’d like your thoughts on a campaign for Home Town Suites,” Garrett continued at the leisurely pace of someone not braving murderous traffic with a cell phone pressed to her ear and a client’s future on her passenger seat. “Maybe you can sketch some ideas when you have time.”
Time? Time? She had no time. A Crystal Water truck screeched to a stop in front of her. “Damn!” She slammed on her brakes.
“Excuse me? Is that a problem?” Garrett said.
“I was swearing at traffic, not you, Mr. McGrath.” A collision with the mountain of water before her seemed welcome at the moment. It was October, but the desert heat hung on like desperate fingertips on a ledge. Her suit was lightweight, but dark blue—chosen to reinforce her authority—and it was baking her alive.
She let Garrett rattle on about branding and niche marketing, while she wove through traffic like James Bond, praying any passing police would be too awed by her technique to ticket her. Wrapping up the conversation at last, leaving Garrett content and her overloaded, she scored a neighborhood shortcut and roared into a Sun Print parking spot just in time. She grabbed the artwork CD and raced inside.
Twenty minutes later, she exited, mission accomplished. Shaky with relief, she smiled at the dropping sun and slid behind the wheel, noticing she’d gotten ink on her fingers from admiring some freshly printed flyers—you had to compliment the pressmen. They were where the ink met the paper in her biz.
Glancing in the mirror, she saw her blouse collar had black fingerprints, too. Ruined. Along with the pricey panty hose she’d snagged along the way. Collateral damage was inevitable when you worked as hard as she did.
She was on the street headed home when her cell emitted the music she’d assigned Janie’s calls. Unwilling to risk another accident, she zipped into the closest parking lot to call her back. Fleetingly, she noticed the marquee above her head: Totally Nude. All You Can Eat Businessman’s Buffet. She’d parked at a strip club. Yuck. Middle-aged salesmen ogling boob jobs while they inhaled ambrosia salad and bean dip. Strip clubs seemed so desperate.
Of course, sexual frustration made her do strange things, too—pant over Cosmo’s naked chefs issue, devour erotic romance novels and think wicked thoughts about cucumbers. Masturbation was a pale second to the joys of a warm and willing man. Where was one when she needed him?
“I need your help ASAP,” Janie said when she answered, her voice thin with tension.
“Take a slow breath, Janie Marie.”
“I’m okay,” she said, but she sounded like someone had wrapped a rubber band around her vocal cords.
“Breathe, Janie. Consider it a personal favor.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” She huffed in a couple of irritated breaths. “There. Are you happy?”
“Yes, I am. Now what’s up?”
“I need you to fill in on a date.” Over the past few weeks, as problems mounted, Kylie had stood in for missing matches a number of times. There’d been a mistake on the Web site which had married couples appearing as available and Gail had double-booked a few people. Kylie’s job was to be polite and genial and noncommittal and keep the client around until the right match could be made.
“What happened this time?”
“Gail got overly enthusiastic. Turns out the client’s match is in London right now.”
“I love Gail, but she’s not much of a receptionist. She’s never at her desk, for one thing.”
“She’s my entire sales force. Everywhere she goes she pitches Personal Touch.”
“When the money turns around, hire a real receptionist, okay? Let Gail do what she’s good at full-time.”
“Will you do the date?”
“Just tell the guy there’s been a mistake.”
“He’s a lawyer. Unhappy lawyers file lawsuits. This is his first date with us and he’s barely squeezing in the time. I’m afraid he’ll bail. You’re so good at smoothing. The woman in London is his perfect match.”
Someone honked at her from behind. She looked in her rearview to see the guy motioning her forward. What the…? Then she spotted the low Jack-In-The-Box sign beside his car and realized she wasn’t parked in the strip club lot. She was blocking the fast-food drive-thru lane next door.
“Just a sec,” she said to Janie, then rolled forward to order a mint-chocolate-chip milkshake. Might as well get something out of the mistake, right? “Tell me about this guy,” she said on a sigh.
“Thank you, thank you, Kylie! His name’s Cole Sullivan and he’s smart and serious and handsome. You’ll love him.”
“I’m going to apologize to him, not marry him, Janie,” she said, reaching to take the milkshake from the clerk.
“You have twenty minutes to get there.”
“Twenty minutes? It’s tonight. Now?” In her alarm, she squeezed the cup and icy green sludge slid down her jacket and plopped onto her navy blue lap. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Don’t swear at me. I won’t ask you again. Jeez.”
“I’m not swearing at you, Janie. I’m swearing at the mound of ice cream in my lap.”
“The what?”
“Never mind.” She dabbed at the mess with a wad of napkins and planned out her best route through rush-hour traffic. The things she did for love. Someone else’s love, that is.
DEBORAH RAMSDALE was twenty minutes late, Cole realized, glancing at his watch. Not a good sign on a first date. She was an attorney—international law—so she knew the value of a minute. He couldn’t help wondering if she’d seen his desperate video and changed her mind altogether.
He’d taken Gail’s word that this lawyer was perfect for him, since he’d been unable to check out her video at Personal Touch. Brunette with a breezy cut, medium height, a tad tense, but you’ll fix that, was how Gail had described the woman when she’d called him. Gail was a trip.
But the tense brunette with the breezy cut was getting later by the minute. Cole swallowed his disappointment. At noon he’d zipped out to buy a new casual shirt. The salesgirl at Neiman Marcus had declared it flattering against his skin, letting her fingers linger on his shoulders longer than was strictly necessary to check the fit.
He’d had hopes that Deborah would let her fingers linger, too. He’d cut out of the office an hour early to change into the shirt and black jeans and to do a quick pickup at his apartment, even changing his sheets, just in case they ended up at his place and things…progressed.
If she didn’t show, he’d go home and work, he reasoned. With no date, he’d get more sleep and head into the office early Saturday morning. Larry Langford, the non-golfing partner, was usually there by eight, so he’d score some dedication points. Not so bad, after all.
Except his neighbor Betsy was bringing her dog Radar over in the morning. So, he’d bring the dog to the office with him. Betsy had assured him that Radar was cheerfully self-sufficient, but he didn’t want to leave the poor thing alone in a strange apartment on the first day.
Convinced he’d been stood up, he rose to leave, then noticed a woman had just walked in. She searched the room, taking in each table, rejecting each in turn, until she caught sight of him and their gazes locked. For just a second, he thought he heard bells, but it was only a cash register ringing up a bar bill.
She shot him a relieved and radiant smile and headed his way, weaving quickly among the tables, catching all eyes—especially male—as she went. She looked…famous…important…and very pretty.
So this was Deborah. He hadn’t counted on beauty, but he wasn’t sorry. Wow.
She’d been held up at work, he concluded, since she wore a business suit over a great figure. Or maybe changing a tire, he amended when she got close enough for him to see black smudges on her cheek and collar. Then he noticed blotches of pale green on her jacket and skirt. A food fight perhaps?
“Cole?” Her smile overcame every shred of dishevelment. “So sorry I’m late. Traffic was bad and I was clear across town.” Her eyes, a sparkling green, were the shiniest he’d ever seen, and he thought he saw a flicker of attraction. Jane was good. Talk about “potential.”
“Deborah?” he said.
“No, but I’m here on her behalf.” She made as if to sit, so he pulled out a chair. She scooted in so fast he was left holding thin air. A take-charge woman. He liked that. Except—
“You’re not Deborah?” His soaring hope sank like a stone. He sat across from her.
“Let me explain. I’m Kylie Falls.”
“Falls? Are you related to—?”
“Janie? Yes. We’re sisters.”
“You don’t look alike.” Janie was tall and blond, while this woman was petite with short, dark hair. Not medium, not brunette, and more intense than tense. She seemed to have gathered the loose energy around them, like reining in wild horses, turning them into a team in her hands.
“Deborah was called away to London, Cole. Gail will reschedule when Deborah returns and I just want to apologize on Janie’s behalf for the mix-up and the delay.”
A cell phone tinkled. She lifted a finger, smiled apologetically, then whipped the phone out and to her ear. “Candee?” She turned slightly away for privacy. “I made it, but barely. Watched them load it myself. It’ll make the Sunday circulars and ValuPak drops… Mmm-hmm… That’s why I get the big bucks. Send four-dozen Dagwood glazed for the crew at Sun Print, please. Thanks.”
She smelled good, too, he noticed. Something light, not sweet. Sporty, he thought, was what the magazines called it. No wedding ring. She’s not Deborah, he reminded himself.
“Gotta run. I’m at dinner… No, as a matter of fact, I’m not alone.” She glanced at Cole, then dropped her gaze. “I do too have a life. Say goodbye, or I’ll ruin yours.”
She put the phone away and he couldn’t help watching her breasts move beneath her jacket. “Sorry. My secretary. I had a last-minute thing to take care of.” Catching him mid-ogle, she glanced down at herself. “I’m a mess.”
He cringed at getting caught drooling, though she’d had the grace to pretend he was noting her grooming. Classy lady.
“Never drink and drive. Or at least, not a mint milkshake.”
“You look fine,” he said. Good enough to eat. He changed the subject. “Sounded like your secretary was surprised you weren’t alone.”
“I’m more or less a workaholic and Candee cuts me no slack.”
“Me, too, but all attorneys are workaholics, so no one cuts anyone slack.”
“And we know you carved out time for this date, Cole. Janie deeply regrets the error and we’d like to treat you to dinner.”
“That’s not necessary.” He had a frozen pasta thing in his freezer and the Littlefield work in his briefcase.
“I insist.”
The stubborn flicker in her eyes intrigued him and made him say, “Only if you’ll join me.”
“Of course.” He could tell she’d half hoped he’d let her escape with just the bill. “Janie would never forgive me if I left and some beautiful woman snatched you up before Deborah gets back.”
“That’s not likely.”
“Sure it is. You’re a very attractive man.” Sexual interest flared again in her face, sparking a pointless heat in him that he enjoyed immensely.
She looked at his empty martini glass. “Gin, vodka or something more elaborate?”
“Gin, neat, olives.”
“Ah. A traditionalist.”
The waiter appeared on cue and she ordered another for him and one for her before Cole could object.
Not that he wanted to. He intended to work when he got home, but how could he pass up the sting of gin while looking over a frosted glass into this woman’s shiny eyes? “I’d arm wrestle you for the check, but something tells me I’d lose.”
She jammed her elbow onto the table, braced for forearm battle. “Want to try me?” Her tone held mischief and challenge. Go for it, big guy.
“Too many men watching you. My ego couldn’t take the hit if you beat me.”
“Come on.” She seemed to think he was just flattering her.
“I’m not kidding. Every man in the room is sneaking glances.”
She blushed, which had the effect of making her eyes look greener. “They can’t believe I haven’t been kicked out as a transient.” She brushed at her stained jacket.
“Trust me, that’s no problem. But you do have a little…” He brushed at his cheek to show her where a smudge remained.
She scrubbed the spot. “Gone?”
“Not quite.” He reached out a finger, then thought better of it and dampened his napkin in his water glass to wipe her cheek. Their eyes locked. Energy surged between them.
“Thanks.” She dried what remained of the water with a finger and they both took a shaky breath.
“So, Deborah’s in London,” he said, reminding himself why they were smiling and breathing at each other.
“She’ll be back in four weeks. On the fourth.”
“A month?”
“Sounds long, I know. Maybe Janie could connect you two by phone.”
“I can wait. This was a dry run on making time for a social life and it hasn’t exactly been easy.” He regretted leaving work to buy a new shirt and changing sheets for Deborah. Though he wasn’t quite sorry about meeting Kylie, even if it was a waste of time.
When their drinks arrived a second later, he raised his glass. “Here’s to a happy mistake.”
“Absolutely.” Her eyes gleamed more richly. She seemed relieved he wasn’t angry about the mix-up, but there was delight there, too. She wasn’t sorry, either.
He took a sip of the drink, relishing the chill, the burn, the smell of juniper and Kylie’s eyes. “So,” he said, setting down his glass, embarrassed that he couldn’t take his eyes off her. “You work for Personal Touch?”
“Oh, no.” She almost shuddered. “I have a PR and marketing business. I’m just helping Janie out with some promotions. And I want you to know this mistake is not typical.”
“No need to apologize again. I’m paid up through the year.” He touched her hand. The contact was electric and his entire being lit up. Ridiculous. He’d just met the woman. But he’d been celibate for a long time.
She took a harsh breath, so he knew the reaction had at least been mutual. “So, you enjoy the law?” she asked, clearly changing the subject.
“Very much. I’m in corporate law. Benjamin, Langford and Tuttleman. Mostly mergers and acquisitions.” Then he caught himself, remembering his video ordeal. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my work.”
“Oh, yes I do. Talk to me about it.” She wiggled into her chair, resituating herself as if she anticipated some thrilling tale of due-diligence derring-do.
Her breasts swelled under the ice cream–stained jacket, reminding him how hot she was, but he forced himself to talk about the all-important Littlefield case and was soon engrossed in the topic. She asked good questions and he found himself jotting down an idea or two she sparked in him.
Somewhere in there the waiter took their orders of steak and the restaurant’s signature Caesar salad. Kylie selected a terrific pinot noir—a prime selection in Wine Spectator, he recalled—proving she had taste as well as intelligence and beauty.
He hoped Deborah Ramsdale was like her. He’d love evenings spent this way, with time zipping by, words flying, warmth and connection growing. Maybe his time would have been better spent working at home, but he didn’t give a damn. It was more than the loosening effect of the second martini. He plain liked Kylie.
“So, you have your own PR firm,” he said. “How did that happen?” He settled in to listen to her describe with animation and energy how she’d come to start K. Falls PR, who her clients were, what campaigns she’d created.
Then she told him she was closing it down and moving to L.A. in a month. He felt a punch of regret. As though he’d caught the tail end of something wonderful about to tear out of his world. The woman was a stand-in, here to apologize and buy his dinner. They would never see each other again.
“What’s wrong?” Kylie stopped herself in the middle of gushing over the S-Mickey-B offer. Cole Sullivan was looking at her as if he’d lost his best friend all of a sudden.
“It’s stupid,” he said. “Just that you’re leaving town. And I’m enjoying this…the dinner…and you.”
He blushed the most adorable pink. The guy was a hottie, with a sturdy and graceful face, warm brown eyes ready to sparkle at the slightest pleasure and her favorite mouth—sensuous, but masculine. Lucky Deborah Ramsdale.
“Me, too,” she said, flattered by his reaction. “I’m enjoying you, too.” The thrill of attraction had every nerve tight and she liked the guy, felt as if she knew him far better than she actually did. He was a workaholic and a good listener, just like her. If she weren’t leaving town, she’d want more dinners like this. Hell, she’d want more than that. She wanted him. That sexy mouth, those strong hands, those amused eyes drinking in her naked body.
Stop, stop. She was simply crazed with sexual frustration. The first attractive man she’d met in a while had her wiggling in her chair ready to meet him under the table for some mad groping.
“Tell me about this award you won,” he said, sounding embarrassed by his admission. So, she told him about Lock-It and its success and how Garrett McGrath had searched her out and about why it made sense to put her company on hold while she built her success. She almost admitted her doubts about making it on her own, her sense that she lacked the brilliance required to really succeed.
He seemed deeply interested in her ideas. His comments were pertinent and insightful. He wasn’t just waiting for a chance to talk again. And he kept smiling as if she delighted him.
And that turned her on. In a way, her reaction was odd. She deliberately hooked up with guys who were different from her—laid-back, easygoing, with jobs, not careers. Cole was very much like her—ambitious and driven—so she would expect to feel kinship, not passion.
But she was feeling more than comradely. The warm tickle between her thighs had become a steady throb. She crossed her legs to control it, feeling like a girl in the throes of a crush.
“More wine?” Cole lifted the bottle.
She nodded and when they both reached for her glass, their fingers brushed. Heat shot through her and she took in a violent gasp. Lord, what a weakling she was. “Hiccups,” she lied, faking a second harsh intake of air. She watched him pour the last of the bottle into her glass, the light gleaming off the magenta liquid, and realized the sad truth: Dinner was over. They would part soon. Forever.
She sighed. She couldn’t help it.
“What’s up?” he asked, his tone as affectionate as a friend, his expression as attentive as a lover.
Lover. The word sent chills through her.
“Nothing,” she managed. “I just haven’t done this in a while. Gone to dinner with someone for fun.” She squeezed her crossed thighs tight, trying to quell the relentless throb. She couldn’t act on the feeling. Her purpose was to soothe Cole, not seduce him. It plainly wasn’t healthy to go so long without physical release. Now she’d latched onto the first wonderful, interesting, smart, funny man she’d met.
Cole Sullivan was a find, though, no question. Any woman would react to him. She was human. She had needs.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief, and she was pretty sure he shared the sexual frustration, too. “I’m Cole,” he said somberly, “and I’m a workaholic.”
“Hi, Cole,” she said, but then she thought she should be serious for a second. “I don’t think we should have to apologize for working hard. We have goals. You’re fighting for partner. I’m pushing for recognition. When we’re ready to kick back, we will, right?”
“Right.” He grinned with relief. “Exactly. I’m glad you said that.”
“Except you’re looking for a wife, so you must intend to make some changes.” She was curious why he’d paid a matchmaker when he was hot enough to attract plenty of women.
“Some changes, though I hope to find a woman at a point in her career that fits with where I am. Someone who’s willing to help with the social duties that come with being a partner.”
“Ah. You want a corporate wife.” She hoped he wasn’t expecting the adoring little woman, circa 1950, who would meet him at the door naked, wrapped in Saran Wrap, holding a Tom Collins mixed his way. Cole seemed better than that.
“You don’t approve?”
“Some women are okay with that, I guess. My mother gave up an architectural business to go with my dad wherever he got transferred. She never complained, but I think she has regrets about sacrificing her career.”
“I don’t want a woman to give up her work for me, just make room for mine.”
“That makes sense.” It did, she guessed, for the right woman. She hoped Cole found her. Maybe it was Deborah, whom Janie had declared a perfect match.
But here he was with Kylie now and they were sipping the last of their wine and staring at each other in a silence thick with arousal. Maybe just a kiss. The idea roller-coastered through her and her stomach plunged.
“Enough about my marriage plans,” Cole said softly, his flicking cheek muscle signaling the desire she read in his eyes. Her heart began to beat so fast she put a hand to her chest.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asked wearily.
They both started at the interruption. They’d had dessert and coffee, paid their bill, and their table had been cleared long ago. They’d dragged this out impossibly long.
“No, no. We’re fine,” she said.
Cole sipped at his empty wineglass, putting up a pretense of still having something to consume. She was glad he seemed no more inclined to say goodbye than she was. Their connection felt condensed, as though they’d swallowed their friendship as a bullion cube instead of sipping cups and cups of broth.
“It’s hard to believe you need Personal Touch,” she said.
“I take it you don’t approve of dating services.”
She realized how he might take that. “It’s not that. And Janie’s the best. If you need help. But you don’t seem…”
“Like a loser who has to pay someone to get him a date?”
“That didn’t sound right.” She blushed. “I just hate the taste of shoe leather, even flavored with mint and chocolate.”
He chuckled lightly. “I figure I owed the love of my life the same energy I’d invest in a career search. I see Janie as my relationship headhunter. I don’t have time to hit bars or parties, so I see this as a practical answer to a time-consuming problem.”
“It’s efficient, I guess.” When he put it that way it made sense. “If I ever want to settle down, I might do the same thing.” Janie had offered her services many times.
“So, no boyfriend?” His face went from pink to bright red.
“Not right now. I’m too busy. And it gets too…”
“Complicated?” When she nodded, he said, “I’ve been out of circulation for going on two years. Gets lonely.”
“No kidding. I miss sex.” She swallowed hard.
Cole laughed. “That’s cutting to the chase.”
“Why be subtle?” She flamed with a blush all the same.
“Good point. Sex can be a problem for workaholics. The last woman I saw wasn’t happy that I only had time for, well, for—”
“Quickies?”
He grinned sheepishly.
“Boy, do I know what you mean. You have a nice evening—great sex—but you need sleep. Except the guy wants waffles and strawberries in the morning, then there’s more sex and before long the weekend’s lost. So you try to catch up working late all week, but he feels neglected.”
“Exactly. It’s a drag to disappoint someone.”
“I keep hooking up with guys with a lot of spare time and they want to hang out, go to games or concerts or camping or sailing. What little free time I have I like to spend—” she leaned closer and whispered “—watching TV.” She winked. “I’m a secret TV junkie.”
“Me, too. Comedy Central is my favorite.”
“Oh, I live on that station.” The cable network featured stand-up comics, quirky sketch shows and humorous talk shows.
Cole grinned, delighted, she could tell. “I hustle all week so I can watch Friday Night Stand-Up.”
“Bingo,” she said and laughed. He joined her, his eyes twinkling, then settling into something much hotter.
A silence fell. It was clear that neither wanted to leave, but the tables were all empty, the waiters were putting up chairs and somewhere someone vacuumed. Under the table, she felt as if her body were on fire.
“Why can’t sex be simple?” she said softly, wanting very much to take this heat between them somewhere they could quench it. “Why can’t it be a lovely physical encounter between two people who want each other?”
“And afterward they go about their lives,” Cole said, his voice husky with emotion, his gaze level.
“Exactly.”
“We should leave.” Cole nodded at the waiters standing at the bar, shooting them go-home-now looks.
“We could go to my place and…talk.”
“Yeah,” Cole said slowly. “Let’s talk.”
They would do more than that, she knew, by the gleam in Cole’s eye, her pulsing sex and the tension vibrating between them like a note held too long.
This was exactly what she needed—simple sex. A glorious hookup. For one night. Safe and easy. Except for one thing.
“What about Deborah?” she blurted. Would Cole’s perfect match mind sharing him with her?
“Deborah’s the future. This is now. Tonight.”
“I’m so glad you feel that way,” she said, relieved. And a little worried about herself.
It wasn’t like her to jump into something like this. She had a plan, every hour laid out, timed to the minute. Tonight she needed sleep. She had major work tomorrow.
But she didn’t care. Just like accidentally parking in the fast-food lane, she’d turn this mistake into a mint-chocolate shake. And not ruin a suit doing it.
3
WHAT THE HELL are you doing? Cole asked himself, accelerating to keep up with Kylie’s pale blue Accord. She was zipping down the nearly empty streets as though they were in a car chase. He’d like to think she was hell-bent on getting her hands on him, but he was pretty sure her usual pace was breakneck.
They’d only met a few hours ago, but he felt as though he’d known her for years. Toward the end, they were finishing each other’s sentences. They were surprisingly alike. They were even both big tippers. She’d scrutinized the gratuity he’d insisted on paying and it turned out they’d both done stints waiting tables and knew how hard the work was.
Now desire pounded through him like a heartbeat. He glanced up at the moon shining through his sunroof—big and round and so bright it looked fake. He wanted to howl at it like some randy beast. He squeezed the cool leather of his steering wheel and kept driving.
Somewhere in North Scottsdale, he caught the pale flash and bright blink that signaled Kylie had turned into a residential area. He followed, winding through a complex of red tile-roofed townhomes. He pulled into the empty space next to where Kylie parked and noticed the dashboard clock said midnight. It was very late and he had lots of brain work on the Littlefield file in the morning. This was all pretty hasty. Not like him at all. Maybe he should suggest an end to the night, he thought, climbing out of his car. They both needed sleep. She’d understand. Probably be glad.
But she’d leaped out of her car and was heading his way, gaze level, stride determined, and he knew he wasn’t leaving until he’d held this amazing woman in his arms, kissed those lips, touched her everywhere he wanted to touch her.
She was here now. Tonight. How could he pass her up?
She came to him and, without a word, cupped his face in trembling palms, drew his mouth down and brushed her lips against his so softly it was barely a kiss, full of questions like her eyes in the moonlight when she pulled back and looked at him. Do you want this? Should we do this?
She obviously wasn’t as casual about sex as she’d sounded in the restaurant. He was aware of her ribs stretching and subsiding under his palms with each uncertain breath. His cock, hard against her body, knew exactly what it wanted.
“What are your doubts?” he asked her.
“It’s so late.”
“I won’t stay long. You’ll still get sleep, I promise.”
She smiled. “What if it gets complicated?”
“We won’t let it. It will be—what did you call it?—a lovely physical encounter between two people who want each other.”
“And only one night?”
“Not even that. Couple of hours.”
“No expectations? No hurt feelings?”
“None and none,” he said, running his tongue along the edge of her ear, relishing her shiver and quiet murmur. She trembled in his arms.
“What about birth control?” She was struggling to speak. “I’m on the pill…are there health issues?”
“None for me.”
“Me, either. Good.”
She had the shiniest eyes he’d ever seen. He couldn’t even figure the exact color for the gleam. Green, but some brown, too. Smart eyes. Sparkling and intense. And she wanted the same thing he did—sex. He felt a rush of freedom. He was a lucky man.
He slid his mouth over hers and she opened to him, surrendering, melting against him with a sigh. He kissed her deep, wanting in. And she met him with the same urgency.
Desire tightened in him. He shoved a hand between their bodies to flick open her jacket and get at her breast, running his thumb over its knotted tip under the blouse and her bra, moving fast, frantic.
She squirmed against him, then gripped him through his pants. He moaned into her mouth. They staggered a little. They were groping each other, moaning, gasping, knees buckling, acting as if they hadn’t had sex in a long time.
Which they hadn’t.
She broke off the kiss. “If we don’t get inside, my neighbors will call the police…or start videotaping.” She grabbed his hand and he let her tug him forward to her back door and into her kitchen. “Do you want coffee or a drink or some water?” she gasped, pulling at him.
“No. You?”
“God, no.” She hurried them onward. He got an impression of granite counters, glass-fronted cabinets and smelled cinnamon, coffee and some summer fruit, musky and sweet.
Kylie led Cole down the hall toward her bedroom, feeling carnal and wild, just rushing to bed like this. Maybe they should talk a bit. She turned to speak, but Cole kissed her desperately, as if they’d traveled too far without contact, and her doubts slid from her mind like butter from a hot knife.
Cole took charge, nursed the lust, feeding it like a fire so that it swelled and roared between them. Hot chills raced up and down her body and her knees gave way. She needed something to lie on. The bed. If she could…just… make it…there.
She broke off the kiss and tugged him the few remaining feet to her bedroom and then to the bed.
Cole shoved her jacket off her shoulders and to the floor, then grabbed for her blouse buttons. Normally, she’d want to show off the lovely peach-lace bra and panties ensemble she wore, but not now. A primitive message pounded through her… Clothes off…now. Lie on bed… now. Through him, too, it seemed by the way his fingers shook and his breath came harsh and quick. He unclipped her bra, ripped it off and flung it to the floor, then cupped both breasts in his hot hands. The man wanted her so badly he’d practically torn her clothes to get at her. That made her feel powerful.
And weak with lust. She had to get horizontal. She leaned back to fall onto the bed. Cole caught her, though, and reached below her to toss open the bedspread, making pillows fly. One knocked the silk arrangement from the bureau, another made the lamp wobble. “Sorry,” he said.
“I don’t care.” Wreck the place…whatever. The part of her that was careful and thorough and efficient and thrifty seemed to have drowned in desire. She fell to the bed and dragged Cole with her, yanking at his shirt, while he massaged her breasts and she squirmed under him.
In the end he had to unbutton his shirt for her. He tossed it into the darkness, tipping something over, but she didn’t care. She had what she wanted—his naked chest hot against her breasts. He kissed her mouth again in that slow building way, then went lower to run his tongue across a sensitive nipple, one blessed bump at a time.
Oh, oh. Wow. She wanted more of this. More sucking, more licking, more kissing, more nudity. There were still so many clothes, she realized in despair. They’d kicked off their shoes in the earlier madness, but Cole still wore pants and they had her skirt, hose and panties to contend with.
Cole lifted her torso to get at her zipper, but it jammed. This was the one that got stuck.
“Just rip it,” she gasped. “It’s broken.” Well, nearly. And it would be after this.
He looked at her, dark eyes lust hazy, making certain she meant what she’d said.
“Do it. Really.” The faulty fastener stood between them and blessed nakedness.
Holding her gaze, Cole jerked the skirt with both hands. The zipper gave with a dangerous-sounding rip.
“Good,” she said and his eyes flared.
He yanked her skirt off her body, dragging her stockings, too, deliberately using force. He was stripping her. As if nothing could keep his hands off her—not a polyester sure-lock zipper, not Hanes Her Way control top panty hose, not her satin panties, which would have to be cut off, but she did not want him away from her body for a single second. Even though she knew exactly where the scissors were.
He jerked her panties down—almost as satisfying as if he’d shredded them with his teeth—then studied her sex, slowing everything down.
She trembled under his attention, the pleasure in his gaze conquering her anxiety about the way her stomach retained fluid and tended to look bloated, no matter how many crunches she did.
He ran his fingers down her stomach and brushed her pubic hair, setting her newly on fire. She had to touch him, too, but he still wore pants. She went at his belt. He helped her and after a few fumbling seconds, she gripped the lovely length of him.
He moved into her palm, solid velvet. “That’s good,” he said, his dark eyes host to an electrical storm, lightning strikes of lust crackling in their depths.
He slid a finger gently into her cleft, along the side of her clitoris with perfect indirect pressure. Men sometimes rushed to get there and startled the poor thing. He coaxed her higher and tighter and she squirmed under him.
“I want you inside me,” she whispered, longing for that full, tight, glorious sensation.
“I want you on top so I can watch,” he said.
“Sounds like a plan.” She loved how easily they’d declared what they wanted. She rose on her knees, aware of his anticipation, the appreciation in his gaze, and guided him into her slick interior.
He went deliciously deep, filling her to her cervix and she moaned, a long, desperate sound that didn’t even embarrass her. Instead, she did a slow twist on his cock, pushed forward, then back, in an erotic rhythm that made him close his eyes with a groan.
When he opened them, they were on fire. He reached for her breasts, so she bent forward to give them to him. “You’re so beautiful…you feel so…good.” He was fighting to speak, she could tell, struggling to reassure her, which was thoughtful.
When he sucked a nipple into his mouth, she could only make noises and half words, riding his shaft with frantic jerks. The sensation was exquisite—the tight, wet pull on her nipples, the full friction of his shaft moving in and out, brushing her swollen clitoris. It was wet and wiggly and wonderful and almost more pleasure than she could stand.
He gripped her hips and guided her faster, moaning, his eyes rolling back, though he was trying to maintain eye contact with her. She loved that she’d made him crazy, so that he jammed into her with all his might, banged her cervix with sweet force, dug into her hips with his fingers.
She felt him tighten like a stallion collecting its power for a jump, so she knew he was about to come. She increased her pace, wanting to push him over the edge, wanting the power of forcing him to climax.
But he stilled and looked up at her, holding her with his gaze while he deliberately pressed his thumb to her button.
“Oh, oh, oh.” She stilled, then rose high and jammed downward, pierced by a new heat. She pivoted wildly on him and her climax tightened, ticked, ready to explode. Cole was in charge and she was surprised she didn’t mind at all. In fact, it was a relief to just let go and let him do her, stroke her, push her over the edge.
She opened her eyes to look at him, to let him know how grateful she was, how surprised.
“Kylie.” The way he said her name made something inside her give way. Like a breath she’d held too long, a muscle she’d tensed to the point of pain.
Her climax arrived, distracting her, and she cried out, rocking helplessly, lost in sensation, in release, in joy. At the same moment, he pulsed into her. Their climaxes collided like storm-brewed whitecaps that collapsed into a rolling wave that swelled, then lapsed into ebbing ripples of pure bliss.
Kylie fell onto Cole’s chest, panting for air. “That was incredible,” she said, feeling his heart pound against her ear.
“Incredible? Is that all?” His voice was husky with amazement and humor. “I think we violated the laws of physics in there somewhere.”
“I think you’re right.” She snuggled into his chest, slid a leg between his, their mingled fluids making their bodies deliciously slippery.
He wrapped his arms across her back in a soft caress. She wiggled in, eager for a few moments of rest. “I really needed that,” she said, the proof in the deep, pleasurable peace she felt. “I’ve been under a lot of strain lately.”
“I can imagine. With closing out your business.”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever…” Had sex this good. Felt this comfortable with a man. Something about Cole tempted her to blurt intimate truths. She remembered how he’d said her name, the look on his face. I’ve found you, Kylie. You belong to me. We belong to each other. Worse, she’d liked it. She’d wanted to rest in his arms, let go of something. What? What was she holding on to so tightly?
“You don’t know that you’ve ever…?” Cole repeated. She realized his fingers, which had been tickling her skin, had stilled.
“…been so ready,” she finished lamely. She’d been thinking crazy thoughts.
He released a breath. Was he disappointed? Then he chuckled. “Then let me say how lucky I feel to have been handy.” He shifted so he lay on his side looking at her. She did the same. “That was impressive for a first time.”
“It was, wasn’t it? We were in perfect synch.” It was so startling she almost felt like she’d dreamed it.
Feelings crossed his face like wind-blown clouds. You amaze me. I want you again. What’s going on here?
She felt the same. And it scared her.
Cole’s lips moved, about to say something too personal, she’d bet.
Please don’t ruin this. We had a deal, she thought.
“I should let you get some sleep,” he said matter-of-factly, relieving her of that worry. He shifted as if to get up.
She had to grin. She’d used that line herself to escape to her own bed. “Don’t rush off on my account, Cole. We could go again in a bit.”
She watched the idea register. That would be great. Followed quickly by, Better not. “I promised you just a couple of hours,” he said and kissed her before leaning across her to squint at her clock. “One-thirty. You can be asleep by two, and get five hours of sleep before seven.”
“Lie here at least until your heart stops pounding. I don’t want you to pass out in my driveway.”
“Sounds nice.” He smiled down at her, his eyes crinkling with pleasure, his breath soft on her face. In the late-night blackness, his face seemed familiar, like someone she’d looked up at in the dark for years.
He rolled onto his back and pulled her onto his chest, wiggling into the mattress. “This feels good.” He made it sound like a guilty pleasure. Which was exactly what it was.
She cozied onto his chest, feeling more relaxed than she’d felt in months. A man like Cole could be a joy to have around. They were as compatible in bed as they’d been in conversation. She could get used to this.
Again, that odd pain speared her. Sadness. Loss. Where did that come from? Then she remembered. She’d been five and they were moving away from her best friend Patti. It hadn’t been the first move, just the first that hurt. And the last.
That final day she and Patti had played all day. All their favorite games, breakfast through dinner at Kylie’s, joined at the hip, giggling hysterically at everything, squeezing out all the fun they could to the very last minute. Then Patti’s mother came to pick her up. They’d looked at each other and burst into tears. Please don’t go, Patti had cried desperately, her face scrunched with pain. I can’t stand you to go.
Kylie had felt so lost and helpless in the face of her friend’s agony, which mirrored her own, that she felt a sharp pop inside her, like the sound of the garden beans she snapped for her mother. Don’t let it in, don’t let it hurt. That had been the lesson. Kylie had learned it well.
She must be stressed if she was drumming up childhood hurts while lying in a delicious postcoital doze with a lovely man who’d loaned her his body for these few glorious hours.
She kissed his cheek and nestled in, but her tension was back. What if he fell asleep and stayed all night? She had work to do. They’d made a deal.
In the morning when she woke, though, Cole was gone. Relief rushed through her. The knocked-over silk flowers were back on her bureau, her bedspread folded at the foot of the bed, the scattered pillows placed neatly on the bedside chair, and she smelled French roast in the air. He’d made coffee, bless his heart.
And written her a note, she saw when she padded to the kitchen. Thanks for a lovely encounter. Good luck in L.A., Cole.
What a thoughtful guy. She liked his handwriting, with its heavy, even strokes. They reminded her of—her gaze snagged on the grocery list she’d clipped to her refrigerator—her own handwriting. They wrote the same.
She felt a sharp jab in her side. She missed him, for heaven’s sake. So silly. Probably due to the fact that she was moving away, which had unsettled her in secret ways, she’d bet.
She would miss Janie, for sure, though she’d been too busy with K. Falls PR to spend much time with her sister. Janie had been consumed by Personal Touch, too, for that matter. Kylie would miss her business, too. Candee, her assistant, a part-time student, planned to go to school full-time, so she would be fine when Kylie closed her doors. But Kylie would miss her and her clients, her office, the work itself.
Pointless nostalgia. She had a plan and a purpose and she would stick with it. The great sex had just caught her off guard, softened her defenses. She poured coffee and sipped the musky brew—Cole liked his coffee strong, too—and grabbed a pint of low-fat yogurt for energy. She had to get busy.
Her mind wandered to the night before.
That was impressive for a first time. Oh, yeah. She remembered his fingers on her body and an electric chill raced through her. If only he were still here.
Eh, eh, eh. Be sensible, girl. She prided herself on that. Going to L.A. was sensible, too. Cole had agreed with her. He’d put it perfectly: You have to make short-term sacrifices for long-term gains. Just a few words from him had boosted her confidence in her decision. Cole understood ambition and hard work, making plans and implementing them.
The flickering doubts that licked at her had to be the uncertainty of starting over somewhere new, along with the fear of screwing up at S-Mickey-B. The stakes there were high. Janie, with her psych degree, would be proud of Kylie’s insight.
Now about Kylie sleeping with Cole…Janie would not be pleased. It was pretty outrageous and Kylie would not leak a word of it. She’d been a stand-in date several times. But none of the other guys had been like Cole.
Her mind wandered to a memory of him looking up into her eyes while he touched her sex, and she shivered. That had been delicious. She’d have to send Janie some fresh roses as a secret thank-you for the gift she’d accidentally given her—great sex with a fabulous man and no complications.
Well, except for this tickling wish to see him again. Would he call? Did he remember her firm’s name? He could always call Janie and ask for her number. But that would tip her sister off—a bad idea. Maybe she should call him first. What was the name of his firm?
Stop it. She’d had a rejuvenating one-night stand, and that was enough.
Benjamin, Langford and Tuttleman. She remembered. Damn.
4
JANIE GALLOPED around her office, spritzing air freshener like a mad woman skywriting in scent. Her last client, Tony of Tony’s Import Auto Repair, had trailed the aroma of gasoline, and she needed the perfect atmosphere for the magazine writer due any minute. His story would rescue her company, she hoped, so the place had to smell like success. Or at least not like a garage.
She took a deep sniff. Still a tang of metal. Candles! Candles would fix it! In seconds, she’d arranged a rose-cinnamon pillar and three lilac-rosemary votives in an attractive clump on the far corner of her desk.
The first two wooden matches snapped in half and the next two burned out, but the fifth worked and soon four golden flames glowed in red and lilac pools of wax. She brushed the match stubs into the wastepaper basket, then waved the Arizona Weekly over the candles to spread the aroma before dropping the newspaper into the trash, too—it was a competing publication, after all.
The candles’ scent radiated outward, but too slowly, so she grabbed the stepladder out of her supply closet and climbed it to mist the AC vent with freshener.
A tap at the door to her left made her jump down, but before she reached the knob, the door flew open, revealing her visitor—a man holding a notepad, a camera over his shoulder. Definitely the reporter from Inside Phoenix.
“Sorry to bust in,” he said. “There was no one out front.”
Gail chose the worst times to disappear. At least when she returned she generally brought in a new client or two.
“No problem. I’m Janie Falls.” She switched the spray to her other hand and reached to shake his.
“Seth Taylor.” He had a nice grip and startling blue eyes that gave her an up-and-down just this side of decent, which sent a charge straight through her.
He was handsome, with a cocky smile, longish hair and the beginnings of golden stubble emerging from a strong jaw. Why did he have to be hot? She needed full focus to give him the best possible impression of Personal Touch.
“Have a seat,” she said, managing to sound gracious. She motioned toward the guest chair beside her desk.
He headed there with a lazy grace, his washed-out jeans cupping his behind like friendly hands. He sat and rested a foot in worn athletic shoes across his other thigh. Confident, carelessly groomed and sexy as hell. In short, he was just her type. He reminded her of Jason, the firefighter who’d headed for Alaska when things got comfortable between them.
She’d declared a moratorium on dead-end relationships for as long as it took to get Personal Touch in good shape and until she was emotionally mature enough for the real thing. She had no idea how long that might take.
Her reaction to the reporter was just a vestige of the old urge. An automatic physical response. Nothing she could do about that. She headed for her desk, determined to show no crack in her armor.
Just as she passed him, the reporter said, “Uh, Jane?”
She turned.
“You might want to…” He motioned at her behind.
At first, she was offended at his nerve until she saw that her slip was on full display. The back of her gauze skirt had brushed up when she jumped off the ladder, no doubt. She shoved it down, blushing.
“Purple’s your color,” he said with an easy smile. No need to freak. We’re good.
“Thank you,” she said primly. So much for her armor, she thought, watching Seth flip back a page on his steno pad with long, strong fingers. She had a thing for men’s hands. Certain men. Certain hands.
She forced her eyes up to his face and swallowed across a dry throat. “Are you single, Seth?” Please be married, please be gay, please be leaving for the Arctic.
“Am I single? Yeah, but—” Her question had startled him. Great. That put her more in charge.
“Good, because I thought the best way to show you how Personal Touch works is to give you a dry run of a client’s experience. Just a sample.”
“That’s not necessary. Your press kit is very complete.”
“We’ll compress the time, don’t worry. We’ll do a Personality Profile inventory, I’ll interview you, show you some Potentials in one of our quarterly magazines, and—”
“Thanks anyway. I just have a few questions and I need to take your picture.”
“But if you want to capture the Personal Touch atmosphere…” Speaking of which, the air had begun to reek of something burning. Something besides candles.
She glanced to the far side of her desk, where a wisp of black smoke rose above the wastepaper basket. Heck, oh dear, she’d started a fire!
The paper towel Tony had tossed in the trash must have contained oil. Her discarded matches and the newspaper were heat and fuel. She lunged for the basket, intending to run it to the bathroom, but her movement made the fire lick at her loose sleeve. The gauze lit up like tissue paper.
Seth was there so fast she hardly had time to panic. He grabbed the trash out of her hand, upending it, then whipped off his jacket to smother her flaming sleeve. After that, he bent to pound out the embers with the bottom of the basket while she examined her arm under the flash-fried fabric.
He rose. “Are you hurt?”
“Only my pride.”
He acknowledged her joke, but he gripped her wrist and turned her arm to examine it for himself. “Maybe ice it.”
It stung a little, but she was too mortified to dwell on that. She pulled out of his grip, shook her tattered sleeve into place, aware of how close he stood. “It was stupid to run. Thanks for saving me.”
“No problem.” He shot her a wry smile. “When a woman’s on fire, I’m always ready to kill the flame.” Did he have to be self-deprecating, too? The needle of her bad-boy meter shot into the red zone.
They both bent to scoop the charred debris back into the trash. The combination of candles and burned paper made her office smell like a burning gift shop, but beneath the stink she picked up Seth’s mix of soap—Irish Spring?—coconut shampoo and worn leather. Her favorite smells on a man.
Seth plopped the basket over the burn marks that now marred her pastel-flowered Oriental rug. “Good as new.”
“For now, I guess.”
They both rose, standing close together. His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “You were saying something about atmosphere?”
She grimaced. “How about if you wipe this from your mind?” She waved her arms as if to clear the smoke and the memory.
At that moment, Gail burst in the room. “Did that reporter ever get here?” She caught sight of him. “Oh, good. I was at the Macy’s sweater sale and got to talking. You’ll be happy to know that the women’s wear sales staff includes two divorcées, a widow and three women with Singles-Bar Burnout. Expect appointments this week.”
“That’s great, Gail. Thanks.”
Gail scrunched her nose. “Bad incense, hon. Smells like burning tires and candy apples.”
“I had a little incident.” She lifted her sleeve, which looked like it belonged on a pirate, postpillage.
“Criminy Christmas, Janie, be careful.” She turned to Seth. “She was so nervous about you coming.”
“You were nervous?” Seth asked her. More twinkling.
“No. I—”
“Extremely,” Gail inserted. “This story is vital to us.”
“Uh, Gail, we don’t want to tie Seth up.” But can I offer you a gag? “Will you hold my calls?” Janie attempted an eyebrow move meant to convey a plea for cooperation.
“Hold your calls?” Gail blinked. Janie wanted Personal Touch to seem thriving but they hadn’t even had the usual quota of wrong-number perverts since Seth had arrived. Finally, Gail caught on. “Oh, you bet. I’ll do my best to keep those calls at bay. It’s not easy, let me tell you. It’s wild out here on the switchboard.” If anything was worth doing, Gail believed in overdoing it.
After she’d gone, Janie smiled at Seth. “Gail’s very enthusiastic. She was my first client, you know.”
“Oh, yeah?” Seth listened politely while she explained how she’d matched Gail and her husband, but took no notes.
“Maybe that would be a good sidebar?”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job.” Was she irritating him? He hadn’t responded to any of her ideas so far. Her skin itched from tension, and the spots where the fire had touched her arm stung like crazy. “So, how did you envision capturing Personal Touch for your readers?”
“Envision?” He smirked, but kindly. “I don’t know if I intended anything so lofty, but how about a photo of you?” He lifted his camera.
“You’re a photographer, too?”
“When I have to be.” He didn’t seem too happy about it.
“Okay. Where do you want me?”
His eyes sparkled at her words. You really want to know? Then he surveyed her office. “Man, it’s pink in here. Looks like a dollhouse.”
“I chose this look to reassure our clients. The flowers, the soft colors and the lace convey the idea that dreams can come true.”
“You check that theory with men? Looks pretty girlie to me.”
“Men want romance, too, Seth. Along with logic. And that’s why Personal Touch is unique. We mix the pragmatic with the romantic.”
“Sure. I get it.” But he thought she was dishing out a sales pitch and he didn’t buy a word. “So, back to the photo.”
“How about here?” She rushed to the table under the lace-curtained window, where a vase of fresh pink roses rested. Kylie, who’d declared live flowers too expensive, had inexplicably sent her a dozen dewy blooms.
Seth considered the scene. “Kind of a cliché, but why not?” He moved closer and snapped a quick shot, studying it for a sec in the viewfinder. “Looks great.”
“Did I blink? I don’t think I was smiling.”
“See for yourself.” He turned the digital camera for her to look in the viewfinder. In the photo she looked startled and nervous and wore a faint smile.
“Pretty eyes, nice smile, see?” he said, and she was too swamped by the crinkles around his eyes, his scent, and his strong fingers clutching the camera to object. “Just a few questions and I’ll get out of your hair.” He started toward his chair.
“But I want you to take all the time you need. The computerized personality profile would take just ten minutes. That’s your angle, by the way. I have a trademark on the software, which is unique to the industry.”
He turned to stare at her, his impatience palpable, though he was clearly trying to appear relaxed.
“I know your time is valuable….”
He studied her while the antique clock behind her desk clicked off five seconds. “I give,” he said finally. “Show me your software.” His tone was teasing and low, the way he’d ask a lover to reveal something even softer.
There was a zing of connection between them. Gratifying, but not good.
“It’ll be quick, I promise,” she said, swallowing past the knot in her throat. She went to her desk and clicked open a fresh Mate Check computer file. Seth stood behind her and looked over her shoulder, his gaze warm on her skin, that lovely mix of coconut and leather filling her head.
Keeping her voice steady, she described the six areas of compatibility and opened the first set of questions, her fingers a little shaky on the mouse. “So, how would you describe your temperament, Seth?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“How about…?” She checked the box for I’m usually easygoing, but when I’m angry, I blow. She was being generous. He struck her as irritable and a bit gloomy.
“Close enough.”
She guessed at three more questions.
He nodded. “Okay. What if I lied?”
“Like any good psychological test, this one includes questions designed to detect inconsistencies. And the profile is only part of the Personal Touch process.”
“I get it. All very scientific.” He returned to his chair, evidently finished. “And you also make videos, right? Close-Ups? I’ve looked at your Web site. What else?” He prepared to write.
“There are networking parties, of course, and—”
“The magazine. Can I see one of those?”
She found the summer Book of Possibles and handed it to him.
He flipped through it, scanning the pages. “My favorite things are calico cats,” he read from one listing, “and the smell of the desert after a rain.” He shook his head, then flipped forward. “I can’t wait to swirl snifters of brandy with you in front of a roaring fire in my custom-built Prescott cabin.” He looked at her. Do you buy this?
“The magazine piques interest, Seth. I handpick the matches based on my analysis of all the data I gather.”
“And you’re a good judge of character?” He returned the magazine to her, holding her gaze.
“No one’s infallible, but I must be doing something right, since my success rate is—”
“Eighty percent, yeah, I read that. Impressive for a year-old business.”
“We think so.” Now they were getting somewhere. At least he’d done some advance reading.
He made a note, then raised his eyes. “So, describe your average client.”
“I have no average clients. Each and every one is special.” She smiled, pleased at her line, though Seth didn’t react.
“But we’re talking professionals, right? CEOs, doctors, lawyers. People rich enough to pay your fees?”
“I charge the same as less-customized services, Seth, and I have teachers and builders and bankers and secretaries, too.” Her reasonable fees were partly why she was in financial doo-doo. “My clients find that if they tally their expenditures on dead-end dating, personal ads and barhopping, Personal Touch saves them money.”
“Sure,” he said, a half smile lifting his lips.
“Many of my competitors merely serve as a video library. Clients view tapes until their eyes glaze and they give up in despair. We share only the videos of the top Potentials, hand selected by me.”
“For the ‘personal touch.’ Got it.”
The distance in his eyes told her she was sounding like an infomercial again and her heart sank.
“So, what do you do with the homely guy who wants a stacked blonde? Or the gold digger looking for a sugar daddy?”
“I ask them to look beneath the surface to what really matters.”
“I bet they love that.” His eyes twinkled at her, inviting her to let him in on something juicy.
“Externals are minor when you’re looking for a soul mate.”
“But you do credit and fingerprint checks, right? So externals must mean something.”
“As a measure of client integrity, yes. And at first people do look at the superficial. I mean, no one walks into a dating service looking for someone poor, fat or ugly.”
“That’s a good one.” He smiled and scribbled.
“I meant to say that you can’t judge a person by appearance or checkbook.” That had come out wrong. Her stomach tensed and her chest tightened.
“Poor, fat or ugly. Much better. Trust me.”
“But that sounds harsh and judgmental. Please don’t use that.”
“It’ll be fine.” He winked.
Her uneasiness intensified.
“So how do you keep out the married guys looking to cheat?”
“We certify marital status, of course, but most people mean well. That’s a myth, by the way, that—”
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