Книга - You Sexy Thing!

You Sexy Thing!
Tori Carrington


Hunky sex therapist Dylan Fairbanks is looking forward to his upcoming book tour–until he learns he's been paired up with his rival, gorgeous Grace Mattias. The woman is too outrageous, too uninhibited…and way too sexy! Dylan can't seem to focus on anything but getting Grace into his bed. And she isn't playing hard to get….Grace Mattias can't remember when she's enjoyed a tour more. Dylan is so stuffy, so sensible and so very, very knowledgeable. One explosive encounter leads to another, and suddenly the concept of monogamy is sounding pretty good. Only, Dylan isn't willing to risk becoming one of Grace's kiss-and-run casualties. He might want to keep Grace in his bed–but he intends to ask another woman to be his wife….









Dylan walked into his room, only to find steam billowing from the bathroom


He turned the corner to investigate…and discovered a woman he’d never seen in his entire life taking a shower, the curtain thrown all the way open.



Dylan’s mouth went dry.



Mere feet away from him, a very tall, very…well-developed woman stood under the oscillating spray. Water clung to rounded breasts, then cascaded over dusky, erect nipples to slide down a wonderfully toned stomach. He swallowed hard, powerless to stop his gaze from venturing farther.



He dug his fingers into his palms, vaguely aware of the way they suddenly itched. He was suddenly tempted to join her and explore every inch of flawless skin the water touched. Finally, sanity set back in and he brought his gaze up to her face.



She was watching him.



“Imagine that. My own personal Peeping Tom.” A smile flittered across her lips. “You don’t mind locking the door on the way out, do you, Tom?” Her voice fell to a husky murmur. “I mean, after you’ve looked your fill, that is…”







Dear Reader,



Our favorite books have always been ones that focus on emotionally mature, innately sexy and wonderfully bold characters who test the boundaries both in and out of the bedroom. That’s why we jumped at the chance to write for the new Blaze series. And soon afterward, we found our characters, Dylan and Grace, jumping all over each other!



In You Sexy Thing!, sex therapist Dylan Fairbanks has faced his share of opponents, but Dr. Grace Mattias gets him hot under the collar—and other places—when he’s pitted against her time and again while on a promotional book tour. High on flirting, provocative behavior and obeying the spark of attraction, Grace’s beliefs conflict with Dylan’s more traditional ideology that unanimity between the brain and the body is the key to sexual health. Only, his own brain goes on a permanent sabbatical when Grace decides to try out her theories on him….



We hope you enjoy Dylan and Grace’s sizzling journey. And we’d love to hear what you think of our first Blaze novel. Write to us at P.O. Box 12271, Toledo, OH 43612, or visit us on the Web at www.toricarrington.com. And be sure to check out www.tryblaze.com.



Happy (and hot) reading,



Lori & Tony Karayianni aka Tori Carrington




You Sexy Thing!

Tori Carrington







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This one’s for all of you who like your books hot! And for our editor, Brenda Chin, and senior editor and editorial coordinator, Birgit Davis-Todd. Continued thanks for giving us the perfect forum to write the books we love. And for encouraging us to surprise even ourselves!




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue




1


New York City

“GEE, THANKS, BUD, you’re a regular Donald Trump.”

Dylan Fairbanks folded back the magazine he was reading and frowned at the hygienically challenged cabby. Did that mean he had tipped the driver too much or too little? Hard to tell. That was the problem with New Yorkers. Their sarcasm cut both ways. He shrugged, deciding a two-dollar tip was more than generous. Especially considering that they’d left his stomach—and his notes for today’s appearance—somewhere on the Queensboro Bridge. The autumn breeze had snatched the notes out of his hand and carried them through the half-open window. Unfortunately, the breeze had left behind the stench he’d been trying to clear out in the first place.

A valet opened the door and Dylan climbed out, looking over the fifth hotel he was scheduled to stay at in as many days. It was certainly larger than the one he’d stayed at in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, the night before. Good. He could use the basic creature comforts like a laptop connection and virtual anonymity to catch up on his correspondence and see to work that he’d fallen criminally behind on since leaving San Francisco last week.

But first he had to find his publisher’s PR rep, Tanja Berry. She had disappeared sometime last night with little more than a brief note saying she’d meet him here this morning. He scanned the people bustling in and out of the revolving brass-framed door, wondering exactly when she had planned to meet him. Since no one sported her purple-tipped short black hair, he guessed it wasn’t now.

Where was she? He glanced at his watch. She had better show up soon or else they’d never make it to the radio station in time for his interview.

“Dr. Fairbanks?”

Dylan freed his overstuffed suitcase from the revolving monster that doubled as a door then grimaced at a uniformed young man with bad acne. “It depends on what you want.”

The guy looked puzzled, Dylan’s halfhearted attempt at humor skimming right over his head.

He sighed. “Yeah, that would be me.” A prospect that usually left him pretty satisfied with himself and his life, but right now made him want to trade his doctorate for a teamsters membership card.

“You’re already checked in, sir.” The concierge-in-training handed him a room key, then wrestled him for his one suitcase. “It’s Room 1715. Miss, um, Berry suggested you go on up. She’s already there.”

“Very good.” He tugged on the handle of his suitcase, battling the youth for control. “And I can see to this. Thank you.” He finally gained possession and nearly fell over backward for his effort.

Miss Berry had likely already given the kid a generous tip for scouting him out. He wasn’t about to pay him any more. He brushed away the pang of guilt and told himself he was being savvy. But the simple truth was that he had grown up with very little money of his own, and now that he had money, he was hesitant to part ways with it. You never knew what the future held. And over the course of the promotional tour he was coming to think he was in the wrong business. He was convinced hotel employees made more per annum than he did. He headed for the glass-encased elevators. This was one less entry he’d have to make on his expense sheet. And that was always a plus.

Dylan punched the up button next to the elevators and stood back to wait. And wait. And wait. He ran his hand over his face. Only five days into his three-week promotional book tour and he wanted to change his name and move to someplace where nobody knew his name. Where no one called him “the world’s greatest sex expert.” Where people didn’t know he’d written a book, much less two—the latest one bearing the misleading title Reaching New Heights—Advice on How to Obtain Ultimate Sexual Pleasure. Having men sidle up to him at book signings to ask what tips he could give them to drive the opposite sex wild—wink-wink—had lost its patina long ago. And so had the women of all ages and socioeconomic backgrounds who slipped him hotel room keys that he immediately threw into the wastebasket he always kept under the signing table.

If his “fans” had bothered to look beyond the racy cover copy, they would have already had the answers to their bawdy questions. No, he couldn’t give anyone tips on how to drive women wild. However, if they were looking to satisfy their spouses, then maybe he could give them advice. As for the hotel keys…well, anyone who’d actually read his bio would know that he had been celibate by choice since his divorce four years ago. Any woman who openly propositioned him, no matter how lovely or innocent looking, immediately forfeited a spot on his very short list of prospects for “the next and last Mrs. Fairbanks.” In fact, the list was so short it held only one person.

Speaking of which…

He released the handle of his suitcase then fumbled in his inside jacket pocket for his cell phone. A glance at his watch told him it was not only too early to reach Diana at work on the West Coast, but that he was running seriously late. If this damn elevator—

Ding.

Sighing, he slipped his cell phone back into his pocket and stepped inside the empty, moving fishbowl that served as an elevator. Staring at the unmarked plastic key, he tried to remember the room number. Seventeen-fifteen. He punched the button for the seventeenth floor, only vaguely noticing that the button for the sixteenth was already lit though the elevator was empty. He stepped to the glass and watched as the lobby grew farther and farther away. People milled around the large open area as he grasped his cell phone again. He hit a preprogrammed number then glanced at the magazine he still held, listening to the line ring.

Sex Doctor Grace Mattias Leads the Way into a Brave New Sexual Frontier.

Dylan stared at the headline. “‘Brave new sexual frontier,’ my narrow behind.” It looked like she was recycling the same old line of BS carried over from the sixties. The left sidebar held a cartoon of a redhead in a tight, short dress holding condoms in one hand, a monstrous vibrator in her other. His gaze drifted to the other page. The caricature there—presumably of him—showed a dark-haired guy holding his hands in front of his crotch with a horrified expression on his face like some male virgin from the Regency period. What the caricature didn’t say, the headline did. Doctor Fairbanks Declares Monogamous Marriage Only Path to Sexual Fulfillment.

If he had known the features editor had planned to pit him against someone else, much less this apparently graceless Grace Mattias, he never would have agreed to the interview. Sure, his message was there. Couched between below-the-belt jabs at his conservatism and purposely provocative counterpoints provided by Mattias. Not exactly his most stellar appearance.

The line stopped ringing. “Hello—”

“Diana. I’m glad I caught you. I’ve—”

“You’ve reached the residence of Diana Evans…”

Dylan stared at the phone then grimaced. He’d gotten her answering machine enough times in the past two days, he should have been ready for the deceptive pause between Diana’s greeting and her regrets. But he’d been fooled every time. Which made him feel like an even bigger fool.

Pressing the disconnect key, he distantly wondered where she was so early in the morning. It was only five in the morning in San Francisco. Much too early to have left for her job as junior partner at Coulter, Connor and Caplain, Attorneys-at-Law. He’d been hoping to make contact with her to share the decision he’d made before leaving for his trip. Well, not share it share it. He wanted to arrange for her to meet him in Miami later next week. It was late enough in the year for the north to be chilly and he’d thought balmy Florida would be the perfect place for him to propose to her.

He frowned, looking down at his naked ring finger. Sometimes he swore he could still make out the tan line where his last wedding ring had been. His imagination, of course. It had to be, because he hadn’t worn the ring for four years. And then it had only been for a meager four months.

Well, okay, maybe he’d kept it on for a year. He’d been so shocked when Julie had filed divorce papers he hadn’t thought to take the blasted thing off for at least eight months. It had taken his mother’s threat to sandblast the sucker off in his sleep to make him twist the simple gold band down the length of his finger. Of course his mother, Sharon—who preferred to be called Moonbeam—had objected to the visual symbol of possession—even during the short time he and Julie had been married. She’d had her own wedding rings melted down to a charm in the shape of an eagle over thirty years ago, shortly after she and his father had married. She wore it on a clinking bracelet that bore other mutilated remnants of what she called her “formal, materialistic life.”

Dylan didn’t even want to think about what his father had done with his ring. Especially since his latest interest included body piercings.

Thirty-six years of marriage and his parents still acted like flower children left over from some long-forgotten era. Hell, he hadn’t even introduced Diana to them yet. A niggling part of him still thought his parents had played a role in Julie’s sudden defection. It was awfully coincidental that five days after he and Julie had gone for an overnight visit to El Rancho, his parents’ communelike spread in northern California, she’d packed her bags and left.

He absently rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn’t really blame his parents for what had clearly been his fault. No matter how tempting. Or how easy. He and he alone had been responsible for that fiasco. He’d let his libido dictate a lifetime decision, one that was better made over time. Like the amount of time he’d taken to develop his relationship with Diana.

Sure, he’d known the moment he met Diana sixteen months ago that she was the perfect matrimonial choice. For one thing, she was the complete opposite of Julie. In place of Julie’s wild brunette good looks Diana was sleekly blond. Where Julie had preferred tight-fitting primary colors, Diana chose loose-fitting earth tones. Where Julie had wanted to run off and get married in Vegas within hours of their first meeting, Diana seemed to prefer to allow him to take his time to make decisions, never breathing a word about matrimony unless he broached the subject.

Dylan straightened. This time when he uttered the words “till death do us part,” he intended to see them through to the utter end.

Of course it would help if he could actually get Diana on the line.

The elevator doors behind him finally slid open. Grasping the handle of his suitcase, he exited, then followed the arrows toward room 1715…no, 1615. There. He slid his card key in, waited for the red light to turn green, then turned the handle. Nothing.

Damn. What else could possibly go wrong on this trip?

He tried again more slowly. Then again, more rapidly. The door refused to give.

He stepped back in exasperation. The bellboy obviously had given him the wrong card.

He stared down the long hall that would take him back to the elevator, then down at his watch. He was really running late. The faint sound of Latino music caught his attention. He spotted a maid’s cart a couple of doors down. Without thinking twice, he started toward it, reaching for the cash in his pocket. He wondered how much it would take to get the maid to let him into his own room.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take much doing. The young woman opened the door for him, then actually held her hand up and said something in Spanish. She walked away without taking his money.

Dylan slowly tucked the cash back into his pocket. I’ll be damned. Maybe his day was starting to look up.

He stepped into the room to find steam billowing from the bathroom on his left. Probably as-immodest-as-they-came Tanja was catching a quick shower before the interview. He turned the corner, intent on knocking on the door and reminding her of the time, only to find the door wide-open. And a woman he’d never seen in his entire life taking a shower, the curtain thrown all the way open.

Dylan went completely, utterly, speechlessly still.

Mere feet away from him, a very…tall…very…well-developed woman stood under the oscillating spray. Water clung to perfectly rounded breasts then cascaded over dusky, erect nipples, to slide down a wonderfully toned stomach. He swallowed hard, powerless to stop his gaze from venturing even further. Crystalline droplets clung to the red-gold, curly thatch of hair between her slender thighs.

Dylan dug his fingers into his palms, vaguely aware of the way they suddenly itched. To his surprise, he found himself jealous of the water. He wanted to be the one to explore every inch of flawless skin the water touched.

His mind finally kicking back into gear, he brought his gaze up to her face.

She was watching him.

“Imagine that. My own personal Peeping Tom.” A smile flitted across her lips. “You don’t mind locking the door on your way back out, do you, Tom? I mean, after you’ve looked your fill.”

Dylan felt his skin grow hotter than the steam coating him. “I can’t believe… I have no idea… I am so very sorry. I must have the wrong room.”

He somehow backtracked his way to the hall, his feet moving though he didn’t recall sending them the order to do just that. He stood staring at the room that looked like any other as the automatic locking door slowly began closing. What in the hell had just happened? A scant second before the door could close completely, he stuck a hand out to stop it, then reached in to tug his suitcase out.

He collapsed against the door and closed his eyes, dragging in deep breaths to even out the hammering of his heartbeat.

He supposed this was the way kids felt after they walked in on their parents having sex for the first time.

He groaned at the comparison, then moved away from the door, as if just touching it was somehow…immoral.

He’d made an honest mistake. That’s all. He’d gotten into the elevator. Got distracted thinking about the lack of sex in his life. He swallowed again. No, no, the limbo status of his life. Then got out on the floor that had already been pressed before he even entered the damn thing.

He’d never been so embarrassed…so humiliated in his entire life.

Well, okay, there was that one incident when he was twelve when his mother had stripped him of his swim trunks in the pool, trying to teach him the finer points of nudism. But this ranked a very, very close second.



GRACIE MATTIAS TUCKED a thick white towel around her body then padded quickly toward the door. A cautious glance around and down the hall outside told her that her uninvited guest was long gone.

She closed the door then stared at the locks. There was the automatic one. The double bolt. The security chain. One by one she locked and checked all of them, not surprised that her fingers were trembling. It wasn’t every day that one got surprised in the shower like that. She realized the logic of her statement, and the unlikely chance that it would happen again in this lifetime, then sighed and undid all the locks again. She forced herself to turn and stalk into the living area of the sumptuous suite. She refused to live her life in fear of what might happen. Or spend every spare moment looking over her shoulder for lurking degenerates. Or check the back seat every time she got into her car. For heaven’s sake, she counseled people on how to overcome such emotional fears. She couldn’t begin to cater to them herself.

She swiveled on her heel, then secured every damn lock again.

There was fearless and there was stupid. And no matter how adorably dumbfounded the man was who had turned her normal shower experience into something to remember, the simple fact was she didn’t know him from Jack the Ripper.

She stepped back into the living area, picked up the phone and dialed a room number.

“Very funny, Rick,” she said when her personal assistant answered. Suddenly she wondered why he had a room three floors away from her. Shouldn’t he be next door? Ready to protect her honor should some Peeping Tom burst into her room for an eyeful while she was in the shower?

She grimaced. Give her a minute and her subconscious would recreate the infamous shower scene from Psycho. She really needed to get a grip.

Something thudded on the other end of the line. “What’s funny?” he said.

Gracie sank into the king-size mattress and switched the receiver to her other ear. She’d chosen her assistant for his organizational skills, not for his sense of humor. It didn’t hurt that he was five years younger than she was and could double for Leonardo DiCaprio. Of course she’d have to nip his comedic tendencies in the bud right now if she was to remain sane during the next two weeks of her promotional tour. “I know I said I was getting bored with this trip. But did you have to send me a Peeping Tom to liven things up? Certainly even you are more imaginative than that.”

Rick’s long-suffering sigh sounded over the line. “Grace, what are you blathering on about now? Peeping Tom? You’re sixteen floors up. Unless you’re talking about someone looking at you through binoculars from the building across the street—”

“I’m talking about the guy who just walked into my room while I was taking a shower.”

“Aah.”

“So you did have something to do with it,” she said with relief, picking up a copy of her book, which lay on the bed next to her.

“Nope.”

“Rick, I’m going to hang up now.”

“I think you’re losing it, Dr. Mattias.”

“You’re just catching on now? Rick, I lost it way back when you were still calling your penis a pee-pee.”

His laugh tickled her ear. “You know, this sex-talk stuff is taking some getting used to.”

“This from someone who hears it every day. Anyway, we’re not anywhere near indulging in sex talk, Rick. I merely called an important part of your anatomy by its proper name. I could ask you what you call it.” Grace fanned her thumb against the three hundred and some pages of her hardcover book. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that she had had the discipline to sit down and write such a tome on human sexuality. Other times, she remembered every single word in there and flushed, horrified that she’d actually said one thing or another.

As long as the media never found out she was a fraud.

Well, she wasn’t really a fraud. Exactly. It was just that all of her advice was based on 812 case studies rather than personal experience. Which was as it should be. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that putting her theories into practice would have allowed her a more…intimate insight into what she was suggesting others do with their love lives.

She flipped the book over to gaze at the back of the dust jacket. She hadn’t wanted to include a picture of herself. But there one was. Funny, the woman smiling into the camera appeared very sexually experienced.

She tossed the book onto the floor then curled her toes around the edges.

Another muffled sound filtered through the telephone line, reminding her that she was still talking to her assistant. “Rick, what are you doing?”

“Would you believe me if I said your Peeping Tom just paid me a visit?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.” He chuckled, though somehow Grace got the distinct impression it wasn’t meant for her.

Crossing her legs, she switched the receiver to her other ear. “Are you messing around on company time, Rick?” she asked curiously.

She realized she knew very little about her assistant’s private life. Not that she wanted to, mind you. But it suddenly struck her as odd that he would have one. And so soon after their arrival in New York.

She glanced over her shoulder, toward the monumental view out her window, and wondered what life would be like if she had someone in her room with her right now. Preferably a tall, dark and sexy someone who could fool around with her while she was on the phone. Take a long, breathtaking walk with through Central Park. Go see a Broadway play with. Someone to sip cappuccino with at one of those cozy coffee-houses all over the place.

A shiver shimmied down her spine, reminding her just how long it was since she’d been with someone.

Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t had breakfast.

Let’s see, a tall, dark and nameless man, or her kitchen with all her shiny appliances and her refrigerator full of food? She twisted her lips. Tough call. Then again, there was no plausible reason she couldn’t have both….

“Has there been a time I haven’t been there for you, Gracie?” Rick said, offering up a non-answer sort of answer that made her smile. “Look, how serious was this incident? Do you want me to contact security and report the guy? Have them change your key card code?”

Her fingers tightened around the receiver. “No, I really don’t want to go through all the hassle. My mind may be telling me I just survived a close call with death, but my gut says the poor jerk just got the wrong room. Anyway, reporting the incident will only distract me from the interview.”

“Speaking of which, I hope this call means you’re ready, because my phone message light is blinking. It’s probably the car the station sent to pick us up.”

Grace yelped and jumped up. She wasn’t anywhere near ready. She eyed the daring, bright pink number she and Rick had settled on for the outrageous radio talk-show host, then lifted a hand to her still wet hair. “See you downstairs in five.”

More like twenty, but he didn’t have to know that.



“YOU’RE LATE.” The junior producer of WDRT’s morning radio show descended on Dylan and Tanja like a swooping crow complete with curved nose and clipboard. Through speakers set up in every corner, a clip of seemingly unending commercials poured over the airwaves. Dylan felt hands on his shoulders. He tensed.

“Sheesh, Doc, I’m just trying to take your coat,” Tanja said.

“Oh.” He allowed her to tug the tan overcoat down the length of his arms, then grasped the new set of notes he’d put together in the cab on the way over.

Tanja leaned closer, one of the spiked, purple tips of her hair nearly taking out an eyeball. She lowered her voice. “Are you okay? You’re wound up tighter than a seventeen-year-old virgin on prom night.”

He grimaced. “Thanks for the comparison, Tanja.”

The instant he’d met the young PR rep his publisher had sent to accompany him on his tour, he was convinced his editor had gone out of his way to make sure he found someone the total opposite of Dylan’s character. Dylan could see Charlie Hasseldorf getting quite a chuckle out of the situation. Then Dylan had landed in New York and discovered that here, nearly every professional Tanja’s age…well, looked like Tanja.

The producer clapped his hands impatiently. “Look, I don’t have time for any prep so you’re just going to have to play it by ear, Doc. The other doc’s already in there.”

“Other doctor?” Dylan choked, looking at Tanja.

She shrugged and smiled, but it was hard for her to look innocent when she appeared to have just stepped out of a tattoo parlor. “I haven’t a clue.”

“Well, isn’t it your job to find out?”

“We don’t have time for this now.” The producer fairly shoved him toward the door. “After you, Dr. Fairbanks.”

Dylan righted himself. What other doctor? And why hadn’t he been told of this beforehand so he could adequately prepare? By now he was used to having his theories challenged by local whackos, but at least he’d been able to do a bit of research before he actually faced the smirking individuals he guessed were chosen more for their disbeliefs than their beliefs.

He was led down a long white hall with various doors leading off it. Dylan straightened his suit jacket and eyed the jeans the other guy was wearing. Perhaps he should have taken Tanja’s advice and dressed down for the occasion. It didn’t matter that it was radio and the listeners couldn’t see him, Tanja had told him. The shock jock could see him. And absolutely nobody wore suits to radio shows.

“Just seat yourself to the right,” the producer said, opening a glass door. “Headphones will be on the counter in front of you.”

The first thing Dylan spotted in the dimly lit room was a camera.

Damn.

Obviously Tanja had also forgotten to tell him they were being filmed.

He grasped the producer’s sleeve before he could vanish along with the PR rep. “Is this being televised?”

“Haven’t you seen the show before, Dr. Fairbanks?”

Dylan frowned. “Seen? I thought this was a radio show.”

“It is. But snippets of celebrity interviews are put together for a nightly half hour show on a cable access channel. Yours will probably air in a week or two, depending on our schedule.”

Dylan stiffened. He didn’t like the way he came across on the small screen. An image of that magazine caricature came to mind. He immediately unclasped his hands where they rested in front of his groin.

For Pete’s sake, it was an entertainment show. Certainly he could handle it. Anyway, it was too late to back out now.

He stepped into the room, bringing into view the radio host, his blond head bent over something an assistant held out to him. Then he spotted the table he was supposed to seat himself at. Eyes focused on the padded headphones, he seated himself then slid them over his head, his gaze constantly flitting back to the camera perched in the corner like an all-seeing, critical beast.

“Hi,” a female voice spoke into his ears. “I’ve heard a lot about you, but I don’t believe we’ve actually met.”

Dylan’s eyebrows popped up as he listened to the low, positively humming voice. He glanced toward a glass enclosure, but the brunette inside—the show’s co-host, he guessed—appeared engrossed in her notes and knocking back coffee.

“I’m Gracie Mattias.”

An odd, swirling sensation began in the pit of his stomach.

“Here. I’m right next to you. The other side.”

Dylan swiveled to his right. Indeed, she was right next to him. And the odd sensation in his stomach pulled into a complicated, inexplicable knot.

The cartoon rendition of her he’d seen in the magazine earlier did absolutely no justice to Dr. Grace Mattias, sex therapist, live and in the flesh. Flesh being the operative word. Generously endowed, alluring flesh. And hair. Fiery, coppery red hair that curled all over the place. He couldn’t fathom why, but he thought of her hair wet. Probably because he had showers on the brain since his unfortunate encounter earlier. Or maybe because when wet the red mass would likely skim down her back to tickle the dimples just above her bottom. And she would indeed have dimples. Decadent, deep indentations that would perfectly complement her perfect body and would beg to be explored by a man’s tongue.

Dylan swallowed…hard.

Then he silently berated himself for such a completely physical reaction to the woman sitting next to him. His adversary. His opposite in every way.

He didn’t know what was with him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen an attractive woman before, much less an attractive female colleague. But attractive didn’t begin to cover Grace Mattias. In fact, nothing much seemed to be covering Grace Mattias. His gaze slid over the hot-pink clingy material of her deep-veed jacket, down, down, to where her skirt barely skimmed the tops of her delicious thighs. Legs that could rival a model’s went on and on until he found himself staring at the highest, strappiest sandals he’d ever seen in his life.

Catching himself, he snapped his gaze back to her face. Her pink, pink lips pursed as she gave him the same thorough once-over. “Actually, I think we have met, Dr. Fairbanks.”

Dylan managed to shake his head, not trusting himself to speak for fear it would come out sounding like a preadolescent squeak.

She tapped a pink-tipped fingernail against her full, luscious mouth. “Uh-huh. In fact, I’m sure of it.” She smiled, revealing nicely ridged teeth that hadn’t fallen prey to a dentist’s sander. “Though I believe I know you as Tom.”

Dylan chuckled, relaxing a bit. “Now I know we haven’t met before. I’d never have misrepresented myself as someone else….” Even as he said the words, a low alarm went off in a part of his brain that still worked.

Her smile widened as she folded her arms under her breasts, causing them to pop up even further. “Yes. As in Peeping Tom,” she finished.

Oh, shit.

It couldn’t be.

It wasn’t possible he’d blundered into another situation with the same woman twice in one day. The law of averages completely went against such an improbability.

Yet here he was. Staring at the water nymph from the shower earlier that morning.




2


DYLAN WATCHED as Grace Mattias pulled her hair back, revealing the lightly freckled, even planes of her face. “Picture me without makeup…and clothes.”

He closed his eyes tightly and uttered a pungent curse.

“Dr. Fairbanks?” A male voice said into his ear phones. “The FCC frowns on the use of such language.”

He grimaced and forced himself to face forward, well away from the provocative woman next to him and toward the radio host. How bad could it get? This was a morning show, right? Certainly there were guidelines the show had to follow. “Are we on the air?”

“Not yet.” This time it was the radio host who spoke. And Dylan didn’t like the width of his predatory grin. “But we will be in three, two, one…welcome back everybody. This is Baxter Berning on WDRT and you’re listening to America’s most popular syndicated talk show. Boy, are you ever in store for a tasty treat today. If you’ve just tuned in, don’t worry about what you’ve missed. If you’ve stuck around, then you’re about to hit pay dirt. I’d like to begin this segment by introducing two of the foremost experts in the area of sex.” He drew out the word with suggestive flair then picked up a book Dylan didn’t recognize because it wasn’t his own. Baxter introduced Grace. Then he homed in on Dylan, ignoring the copy of his book at his elbow as he leaned forward.

Bad news. Whenever they overlooked his book, it meant they were about to go off on a tangent, outside the list of acceptable interview questions Tanja had provided the producer. Worse news.

“Now let’s see if I can get this straight, Dr. Fairbanks. Am I to gather from your conversation with Gracie—can I call you Gracie?”

The redhead next to him nodded, causing all that red hair to shimmer under a warm spotlight. Then she leaned closer to her mic, almost as if about to kiss it, and said, “You can call me anything you’d like, Baxter. Just don’t call me late for bed.”

Dylan cringed. This was a doctor? He didn’t know any doctors who spoke like that. Okay, there were his parents, but for all intents and purposes, they weren’t real doctors anymore.

The host reacted. “Ooo. For my listeners, I’d like to point out that Gracie is every bit the sex kitten she sounds like. This is one interview you’ll want to check out when it airs on TV.” He leaned forward. “Anyway, back to you Dr. Fairbanks.”

“Call me Dylan, please,” he said, uncomfortably tugging on the lapels of his jacket.

“Right. Anyway, am I correct in assuming that you, um, played Peeping Tom to Gracie’s sexy victim this morning?”

Oh, God. It was one thing to have suffered through the unfortunate event in the first place. To be humiliated before a national audience was altogether different. “Not by design, I assure you,” he said, then cleared the high-pitched panic from his voice. “It was a simple misunderstanding. I mistook Dr. Mattias’s hotel room for my own, and by innocent accident let myself into her room.”

“I was in the shower,” Grace clarified.

Dylan jerked to gape at her. She didn’t have to share that. He cringed and prayed Diana wasn’t listening to the show in San Francisco.

“Uh-huh. I’ve heard of wanting to get a peek at the competition, Doc, but this is fantastic.” The host sat back, dragging his mic with him. “So tell us, does the female sex doc look as good out of her clothes as in?”

Dylan’s collar felt like a tightening noose as he slanted another gaze Grace’s way. Oh, boy, did she, his own body responded. But to Baxter he said, “I’m afraid I didn’t get a good look.”

“Didn’t get a good look,” the host repeated. “Now that’s the biggest load I’ve ever heard. Are you human, man? I mean, just look at her. That’s a piece even the Pope would look twice at. You can’t tell me you didn’t take advantage of the prime opportunity and devour that tight little body with your eyes.”

“If that was a compliment, thank you, Baxter.” Grace’s voice practically purred in Dylan’s ears.

He hit his chin on the mic. “I’ll be the first to admit that Dr. Mattias is…attractive.”

“Trust me, you’re not the first, and you won’t be the last, Doc.”

Grace laughed, a throaty sound that made the swirling in Dylan’s stomach slink lower. “I’m afraid you’re making Dylan uncomfortable, Bax. If you’d read his book, and believe me, I have, then you’d know that he doesn’t buy into the whole chemistry theory. He believes the human anatomy was designed solely for reproduction purposes and that only within the confines of a monogamous relationship—”

“Marriage,” Dylan corrected, regaining his bearings, and unendingly grateful his colleague had shifted the conversation back to solid ground. If they stuck to their books and medical terminology, he’d be fine.

She smiled at him. “All right, then, marriage. As I was saying, Dr. Dylan believes only within the bonds of marriage should sexual, um, attraction be explored.”

The host’s gaze bore into Dylan. “Does that mean you’re still a virgin, Doc?”

He nearly choked. “No. No, of course not.”

The shock jock snapped his fingers in front of his microphone. “Then you’re one of those, oh, what’s the term they’re throwing around like yesterday’s paper? I got it. A born-again virgin. Are you a born-again virgin, then?”

Dylan hated the term, though by the host’s definition, he suspected his situation fit within the wide parameters. “No comment.”

“Come on, Doc, just look at her. Are you telling me that you don’t just totally want to bang her brains out? Whip out ol’ George and get down to introductions? For crying out loud, Gracie is a walking wet dream.”

Explicit pImages** flashed through Dylan’s mind. Visions of Grace standing under the shower stream, the water sluicing over her womanly curves, her nipples hard and begging for attention, her thighs warm and wet with an altogether different moisture.

Get it together, Dylan. Now was not the time or the place to explore his most untoward thoughts of the woman next to him.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t get me wrong. As I point out in Chapter Four of my latest book, Reaching New Heights—Advice on How to Obtain Ultimate Sexual Pleasure, attraction between a man and a woman plays an important role when they first meet. But it’s a mere pebble in the foundation of a solid, fulfilling relationship.”

The host made a face, obviously not getting the response he wanted. He opened Grace’s book and flipped through the pages. “Seems yours and the sex doctor’s beliefs are completely contrary then.” He grinned at Grace. “It says here that you suggest your patients go out on sexual safaris.”

“Some patients,” Grace said, straightening her headphones, then fluffing all that red hair back around them. “Those without a dark, painful sexual past who are merely in need of finding themselves…sexually. An awakening of sorts, if you will.”

Sexual safari? Dylan thought. It was only when the voices in his headphones went silent that he realized he’d made the remark aloud.

“You were saying?” the host asked.

Yeah, he was saying. Dylan sat up a little straighter, speaking into the mic at an angle as he looked at Grace. “Define sexual safari, Dr. Mattias.”

“I’m crushed you haven’t read my book,” she said, giving him a playfully sexy little pout that made that…feeling slide even lower. “A sexual safari is where I recommend the patient respond to basic, fundamental human need. No asset-probing, spouse-hunting, car-perusing behavior allowed. Rather, the patient is encouraged to act on urges society has taught us to ignore or suppress in the name of pseudomorality and human decency.” She smiled. “In essence, I tell these particular patients to act with their hearts rather than their heads.”

The host emitted a low whistle. “Baby, let me go get my camouflage underwear and oil my elephant gun.”

Dylan ignored him, instead locking gazes with the woman next to him. “So you counsel your patients to have one-night stands. Promote promiscuity. Is that what you’re saying, Dr. Mattias?”

“No. I encourage these particular patients to cut loose at least once in their lives so there are no relationship-ruining ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could have beens’ later on in life. I counsel them to connect with their sexual selves, learn what pleases them without the heavy complications serious relationships entail. You know, the whole, ‘will he think I’m too fat,’ ‘am I pleasing her’ scenario. If you set out to please yourself and yourself alone, then you’re in a much better position to know what pleases others, either in that relationship, or in the one that will stand the test of ‘until death do you part.’ And even you have to admit, Dr. Dylan, that sexual satisfaction is an important element in any healthy marriage.”

“Yes, but only within the bonds of matrimony. As for the other, growing sexually aware of yourself, there are better, more…principled ways to go about achieving that goal. And abstinence, or delaying acting on that purely physical, animal attraction makes for an even sweeter, more satisfying experience, wouldn’t you agree…Gracie?”

The host fanned himself with Grace’s book. “And tell me, Dr. Hottie, do you go…man-hunting often?”

For a long moment Grace held Dylan’s gaze as if she was unable to look away. He noticed the lick of pure, undiluted sensuality in the velvety brown depths of her eyes. The telling dilation of her pupils. Finally she smiled, then slowly looked toward their host. “I think I’ll follow my colleague’s lead and answer a demure ‘no comment.”’

“Oh, don’t go coy on me now, baby,” Baxter crowed. “We have a caller on line four. John, you’re on. Do you have a question you’d like to ask one of our guests?”

“Am I on the air?”

“Yes, sir, you are. Shoot away.”

“Okay, um…I’m having a problem and I was, you know, hoping one or both of your guests might be able to help me with it.”

The host sighed heavily into the mic. “John, if it takes you this long to get to the point, no wonder you’re having problems.”

Dylan leaned toward his own mic. “Go ahead, John.”

“Yes, well, um, my wife and I have been married for five years now and…”

A long silence ensued.

“And,” the host prompted.

“And, well, I’m lucky if we have sex once a month. There, I said it. What can I do about it?”

Dylan opened his mouth to ask for more details, but Gracie’s voice, sounding infinitely less like a porn star’s and more like a professional, filled his ears. “Were you two sexually active before you were married, John?”

Dylan grimaced. “With all due respect, Dr. Mattias, I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything. The fact is that they are married, and they’re currently experiencing…marital difficulties.”

The host laughed. “Yeah, I’d say not getting any is a marital difficulty.”

Grace looked at him, a flash of something he couldn’t identify lighting her eyes. “I wasn’t going to suggest that the couple regress back to the time before their marriage, Dr. Dylan. I was merely trying to ascertain whether or not they’d found themselves individually, sexually, before they took their business in front of a priest or a pastor or a rabbi.” She turned her head away from him. “John, do you and your wife have any kids?”

“Um, no.”

“So there’s no reason you can’t turn your entire house into a sexual playground then, is there?”

“Sexual playground?”

“Yes, John. This is what I suggest you do. First of all, you’ll want to talk to your wife. Find out what her secret fantasy is. If she hasn’t shared it with you in the five years you’ve been married, this may take some time. But once you do find out, act on it. Transform your house to reflect this fantasy. Cater to her every whim. Let her know that her emotional and sexual happiness mean as much to you as your own desire to, in our honorable host’s words, get some.”

Chuckles filled Dylan’s ears as he sat back, grudgingly impressed with the advice, though her immediate rejection of his own opinion stung like a son of a bitch. While he wouldn’t have suggested the construction of a “playground,” sexual communication was always important, making her basic advice sound.

Baxter came back, “Sounds like good advice to me. Thanks for calling, John. And good luck with the old lady.” There was a tiny click. “We’re going to break for a minute or two to let the sex doctor’s advice sink in. We’ll be right back to ask our guests where they stand on masturbation. You won’t want to miss that. I sure don’t.”

The sound of commercials filtered through the headphones and Dylan followed everyone’s lead in taking his off. The host, so tuned in to him and Grace only moments before, was conversing with the producer, leading him to believe his entire interplay with Grace was for entertainment purposes only.

“So where do you stand on the topic of masturbation, Dr. Dylan?”

He shifted to find Grace Mattias crossing her long, long legs and smiling at him suggestively.

Despite his best intentions, Dylan couldn’t help grinning at her. He pushed the microphone away to make sure this little encounter wasn’t used for ammunition when the commercials were over. “Oh, beyond a doubt, it leads to blindness.”

Her instant laughter was spontaneous, warm and contagious. He laughed along with her, his muscles relaxing at the release of some of the tension between them. But he recognized that a whole different kind of tension had just shot up a notch.

“You probably already know where I stand, anyway, seeing as you read my book.”

She nodded. “So long as it’s not used instead of sex, your marital partner doesn’t know about your extracurricular activities and it doesn’t involve sex toys, you’re all for it.”

“In moderation,” he added.

“And with the ultimate amount of discretion.”

“Very important.”

“So you don’t think the act of, um, watching…your significant other bring herself to climax can be…sexual stimulating?”

Dylan stared at her. An image of one amazingly sexy and gloriously naked Gracie Mattias stretched across a king-size bed, her thighs open, her engorged womanhood clearly in view, flashed across his mind. Her pink-tipped fingers first cupped her breasts, plucking at her erect nipples, then slid down the toned length of her stomach, toward—

He shook his head, banishing the erotic thought from his mind. “I think masturbation is an intimate matter best kept between one’s hands…and oneself.”

“Okay, guys, we’re back in ten seconds,” the producer said, indicating their headphones.

Dylan carefully readied himself and repositioned the mic in front of his mouth, wondering if he’d be able to even think of the word masturbation again without connecting it to one wildly sexy Gracie Mattias.



GRACIE STEPPED OUTSIDE and took a deep, satisfying breath of the polluted New York City air. The smell of car exhaust mingled with the scents emanating from a nearby diner and the crisp scent of fallen leaves. If she tried hard enough, she imagined she could make out the slight tang of the ocean not far away.

A drop of water landed on her upturned forehead. Another on her chin. She opened her eyes to realize that it wasn’t the ocean she smelled, but an impending rainstorm. Ah, an unseasonably warm autumn day in New York City. In a matter of seconds, it would probably start pouring. But she couldn’t bring herself to care. She felt…electrified somehow. So vividly alive. Her skin tingled with excitement. She was gloriously aware of every sweet nuance that made her human. The feel of her breasts pressing against the thin tank top under her jacket, the skirt hugging her hips and bottom, made her feel every inch a woman.

The downpour began.

She hailed a taxi then climbed in, laughing when she found herself soaked straight through.

She shrugged out of her jacket, told the driver which hotel, then settled back in the seat. “Take the scenic route through the park. I’ve always loved the park.”

“Lady, do you know what kind of traffic we’re going to run into this time of day?”

She smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “Yeah.”

Right now she couldn’t care less if it took her two hours to get back to her hotel room. Rick was out running errands for her, the radio talk-show host had asked her for her phone number and she’d just experienced one of the more stimulating challenges of her life in the shape of one super-sexy Dr. Dylan Fairbanks.

An image of Dr. Dylan crowded out all other thought and she smiled. Just thinking about him made her hungry for an unnamable something. She didn’t try to name the feeling. She didn’t want to. Not yet. She wanted to enjoy the curious warmth spreading through her belly and settling between her tingling thighs.

She stuck her hand into her purse and fished out an extra-large packet of peanuts, compliments of the hotel. While the salty morsels couldn’t hope to satisfy her recently awakened hunger, they could at least satisfy her stomach.

She absently crunched on the nuts. Professionally speaking, she couldn’t have asked for a better setup. Rick had agreed, telling her postinterview that her choice of attire had worked wonders on the host, distracting him even while she drove each of her points home with a solid rubber mallet. No, she hadn’t expected Dr. Fairbanks to be there. But given his expression when he first spotted her sitting next to him, she guessed that he hadn’t, either. And when she realized he’d been the one to accidentally walk in on her in the shower that morning…well, suddenly this tour wasn’t half as boring as it had been.

Of course, a few of her racier comments later on in the show would have singed her mother’s eyebrows. Had her mother been listening. Which Gracie doubted. But Dylan’s choked reactions somehow had been more satisfying.

She couldn’t have asked for a better way to prove her theories than going nose-to-nose with one of the country’s premier masters of sexual inhibition.

A delicious shiver began just below her earlobes and traveled down to her toes. She stretched her feet out as far as they could go, then reached into her monster bag and fished out Dr. Dylan’s book. Nowhere to be found was a photo of him. Only a very brief bio outlining his professional experience. Which was impressive indeed. She had expected him to be a fiftyish, balding, overweight guy in glasses who got into spouting off about morality because he didn’t have a chance in hell of leading a more interesting life. But the real Dr. Dylan Fairbanks…well, he had turned out to be sexier than sin.

She remembered the way he had looked at her. Both this morning at the hotel, then at the station when they had indulged in off-air conversation. Something about him seemed to sizzle. He had an almost visible red aura that tempted her closer, made her want to see if all his professional doctrines could be put to better use with sexual expertise.

Her chewing slowed.

Was he a hypocrite? She’d run into her share of alpha males who preached to her about values with their mouths, while seeking her leg under the table with their hands. Behavior that always earned the offending male a meeting with the sharp prongs of her fork. She stuffed the book back into her bag next to a copy of her own. She didn’t think Dr. Dylan was that type. To the contrary, he appeared to adamantly believe every last word he’d written in his sexually repressed book. She leaned her head against the seat and stared up at the skyscrapers through the back window. Looking at the rain coming down that way seemed somehow surreal, magical.

Her cell phone chirped in her purse. She let it ring.

“Hey, lady, you gonna get that or what?”

“I was thinking or what.” Despite her response, she brushed the salt from her hands, then fished the noisy piece of plastic out. Rick, the display read. She punched the talk button. “I’m paying an arm and leg for a taxi drive through the park, Rick. This had better be good.”

“You should have told me you wanted to see the city. I could have gotten you on one of those Grayline Tours, or whatever they’re called. Anyway, this is good. More than good. I just got a call from the radio station. You’re not going to believe this. The number of callers was through the roof. Among the highest they’ve ever received.”

She slipped her shoes off, indulging in a wide smile. “Really?”

He laughed. “All that education and that’s the best you can do? You disappoint me, Dr. Mattias.”

“Hey, I’m enjoying the moment.”

“As well you should. I, of course, took the liberty of passing on the news to your publisher. They’re very happy.”

“Sure they are. More money for them.”

“More money for you.”

Grace’s smile slipped. The rain clouds soaking the city seemed to descend from the skies and settle around her shoulders.

Money had dictated so much of her life. Which were the best schools for her to attend? What latest designer was the most fashionable? Whose children were the best to be seen with? Her parents had tried to drill into her from a young age that money and success were all that mattered in life. She had spent much of that same life determined to prove them wrong. She’d dyed her hair green when she was eleven. Hung around with the “out” crowd. Majored in courses designed to make her mother’s lips disappear with disapproval.

She was well into her teens before she realized she was behaving like a spoiled little rich girl. Worse, she was committing a sin as bad as her parents’ by practicing reverse discrimination.

Since then, she had striven to base her judgments solely on the individual or the situation, not the balance of his or her bank account.

And she’d discovered that her major in human sexuality was something she enjoyed purely for the sake of enjoyment. Not because her parents choked whenever she discussed her studies at the dinner table.

She cleared her throat. “This isn’t about money, Rick. It never was.”

A heartbeat of a silence. “Then increase my salary. I won’t mind.”

She laughed and ran her toes along the sensitive bottom of her other foot.

“Enjoy your ride through the park, Gracie.”

“I fully intend to.”

She pressed the disconnect button and started to slip the phone back into her bag. Then she changed her mind and dialed her mother’s number. A glance at her watch told her it was past eleven. After brunch with the church ladies. Before lunch at whatever auxiliary meeting.

“Mattias residence.”

“Hõla, Consuela. It’s Grace. Is Mom around terrorizing the place?”

A soft giggle, then, “Just this morning she sez to me, ‘Consuela, I found wrinkle in bedspread. Completely unacceptable behavior. From now on make beds twice.”’

“Sounds like Mom all right.” All too much like Mom. A woman with a formidable education who had traded a career for her husband and daughter…and counting wrinkles in bedspreads. Gracie had never needed to look beyond her own mother for the reasons why she never wanted to marry. Her identity was too high a price to pay for a pair of warm feet to cuddle up to in bed at night. She’d always told herself she’d get a dog if she felt the need for constant companionship. Her parents’ marriage was proof positive that men asked for too much and gave up too little. It was enough to pick up her own socks. She didn’t want to have to pick up a husband’s, as well.

She leaned back and smiled, watching the vivid colors of autumn in Central Park sweep by as Consuela filled her in on a punctuation-challenged litany of her mother’s recent complaints. All of them nitpicky issues that probably would never have entered her mind if she looked beyond her house and husband and had a career of her own.

Consuela finally sighed, indicating she’d vented as much as she was going to that day. “You want you should talk to her?”

Gracie hesitated then bit her bottom lip. Not because she didn’t want to talk to her mother. But because the view outside her window was absolutely breathtaking. Only in New York could you blink your eyes like Samantha on Bewitched and move from city chic to abundant nature so quickly. She sighed. “Yeah, put her on. I haven’t done my bad deed for the day yet. I figure making her late for lunch should do it.”

Consuela told her to hold the line.

Grace trailed a finger down the steamed inside of the taxi window. Once, when she’d been home for spring break in her second year of college, she’d had the temerity to ask her mother if she’d ever achieved an orgasm. Despite her ongoing attempts to shock both her parents to the point of sputtering, she’d asked the question out of curiosity. Her parents had never seemed to share a physical closeness. They spent more time apart than together. And when they were together, they seemed occupied talking about which party to attend and who they should be seen with. The only time Gracie saw her mother actually touch her father was when she was picking invisible lint off his jacket before they left for social events. Even then, she did it in such a way so that no more than her fingertips brushed the material. When Gracie’s course material had concentrated on sexual frigidity, it was only natural that Gracie thought of her mother. Only natural that Gracie would want to apply her recently acquired knowledge to everyday life.

Her mother’s answer to the orgasm question had been the only time Grace had been slapped.

“Good heavens, Consuela, can’t you even see to the simple task of asking who it is?” Gracie heard her mother’s voice come over the line, followed by, “Hello?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Gracie!” A fumbling of the phone. “Consuela, it’s Gracie.”

Gracie didn’t want to cause any more trouble for the good-humored housekeeper by pointing out to her mother that Consuela and she had already spoken, but it took mammoth effort.

“Hi, darling. What a surprise it is hearing from you. You’re never up this early.”

“I’m working, Mom. I’m on that promotional tour, remember? I did a radio interview this morning in New York.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. I must have forgotten.”

Gracie tucked her chin into her chest and bit her lip. She wasn’t sure if her mother actually did forget half the details of her only child’s life, or whether she preferred to ignore them.

“So are you nervous? No, pretend I didn’t ask that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous. Besides, you have that radio show you do every week. Why would you be nervous?”

“Actually, Mom, this was a different format, so I was a bit nervous. It’s over though, so I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself.” Gracie turned her head, watching as a young mother fastened the hood of a child’s raincoat. She smiled wistfully. Had her mother ever stood out in the middle of a downpour completely unprotected to make sure she had her coat fastened securely? Not that she could remember. Sounded like something she’d have the nanny or housekeeper see to.

She blindly reached again into her monster purse. Bypassing the bag of peanuts, she instead slid out a copy of her book. “Have you received the book yet?”

“The book…oh, right! I’m sure we have. In fact, I’m positive that we have. It must be around here somewhere. Why just this morning I’m sure I saw Consuela sneaking a peek between the covers.”

Ah, the self-protective reversion to “we” that her mother fell back on when she couldn’t quite face things on her own. Gracie wondered exactly who “we” encompassed. Her mother and her father? The entire household? Or the entire city of Baltimore? Gracie slowly ran her finger over the raised lettering, wondering at the hypersensitivity of her fingertip. “And you? Have you read it, Mom?”

A pause. Then a sigh. “No, dear, I’m afraid I haven’t. And I don’t think I will, either, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It isn’t all the same to me, Mom. I sent that copy especially for you. Not Dad. Not Consuela. It…” She sat up then straightened her skirt. An impossible task given its shortness. “It would mean a lot to me, Mom. I’d really like your input.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Grace. What good would my input do now? You couldn’t possibly change anything.”

“I don’t want to change anything. I just want you to read it. Can you do that for me?” Grace leaned her forehead against the glass, then rolled the window down and took a deep breath of the cool, damp air. Finally she laughed, then said, “Never mind, Mom. I wouldn’t want to make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

“That’s my girl. I knew you’d come around if we talked about it, dear.”

But we haven’t talked about it. I’ve talked, you’ve stone-walled. Just another day in the life and times of Grace and Priscilla Mattias.

At any rate, she supposed she should be grateful she hadn’t gotten the usual “Grace, your biological clock’s ticking…there’s only a small number of suitable men out there and they’re all being snatched up by other women…are you ever going to settle down and give me grandkids” speech that punctuated most of her conversations with her mother.

“If it makes any difference, I’m glad your interview went well, Grace. And I’m happy that things are going the way…well, the way that you want them.”

What went unsaid was that “things” weren’t going the way her mother wanted them. “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate you saying that.” She leaned back into the seat and grabbed for her peanuts. Things were going just the way she wanted them. Her first book was taking off. She had her new bayside condo in Baltimore that was now being renovated. And she was enjoying every moment of making her own decisions without someone constantly breathing down her neck and asking her just what in the hell she thought she was doing.

She smiled to herself. Yes, she was very happy with her life, indeed. She popped a few peanuts into her mouth. “So tell me, Mom. Which problem do you hope to throw money at during lunch today?”




3


CHOPPED LIVER. That’s what he felt like after his bout with Dr. Gracie Mattias, pure and simple and bloody raw. Dylan cast a glance around the lobby. Tanja wasn’t even around for him to vent at. She’d abandoned him outside the radio station, claiming she had family in the area and had scheduled to meet a friend for lunch, did he mind? He’d wanted to tell her yes, he did mind, but hadn’t. He was afraid he’d sound too…demanding? Unbending? Whiny?

He cringed at the last description, realizing that’s exactly what he was doing. He was whining. Just like a five-year-old who had his bike stolen, training wheels and all.

It was ridiculous, really. Overall the interview had gone well. Toward the end he had even begun to enjoy himself, giving as good as he got when it came to trading digs with the sex doctor.

Jesus, had he really just thought of her as the sex doctor? If so, what did that make him? The anti-sex doctor?

He didn’t want to begin to analyze that bizarre train of thought.

Dylan poked at the elevator button again, somehow managing a half-assed smile in the general direction of a young couple who had just stepped in from the rain to stand next to him. Their cheerful, attentive-to-each-other disposition made his disposition even darker.

“This is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

Dylan grimaced, then nodded at the young woman to show he had heard.

“We just got married.” The man looped his arms around the woman and tugged her closer. “This is the first day of our honeymoon.”

“Congratulations.” Dylan forced a close-mouthed smile then turned back toward the elevator.

Kissing noises sounded beside him. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering where the stairs were, and whether he was up to climbing seventeen floors. “Uh,” he began, interrupting the couple from their amorous pursuits. “A word of warning. When the elevator stops, you may want to make sure it’s actually on the floor you want.”

The couple looked at him, then each other, sporting quizzical expressions he had been sorely tempted to bestow on a few of his more…interesting patients. Like the one who got into wearing women’s silk stockings under his Brooks Brothers business suits when he appeared in Superior Court.

He cleared his throat. “I found out the hard way that they don’t always do that. The elevators. You know, stop on the floor you want. Creates a bit of a…mess.” Although he really couldn’t call what had happened this morning a mess. An unfortunate mishap, maybe. A wild accident. But definitely not a mess. Not when a man got to take a peek at a woman of Gracie Mattias’s caliber.

“Um, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Finally, a ding. The elevator doors opened. Dylan stepped in and to the back, automatically making room for the couple. He reached around them and pushed the button for his floor.

“Hold that elevator!”

Dylan clenched his jaw and covertly reached around the couple to punch the close button. All he wanted was to get back to his room, shrug out of his damp clothes, then review his schedule for the next two weeks. Make a list of things to have Tanja see to. First and foremost, making sure that he knew exactly who he was going to be up against in coming interviews.

“Thanks.” A breathless someone stuck her hand between the closing doors, then slid in between them.

Dylan stood a little straighter, willing the doors to close before someone else could delay his ascension to his room and sweet peace.

“It’s you.”

Dylan jerked to stare at the late arrival. And nearly dropped to his knees. Which wouldn’t have been an inappropriate response given the woman he was staring at. He hadn’t noticed at the radio station, but Dr. Grace Mattias was tall. Nearly as tall as he was at six foot. A goddess. No, no, Galatea in the Pygmalion tale. Galatea, the statue Pygmalion had crafted of the perfect mate. Aphrodite had taken pity on the poor guy and brought the statue to life because of Pygmalion’s deep love for the inanimate object. That’s who Grace reminded him of. Even more with her damp hair curving against the skin of her cheeks and neck. Tiny droplets plopped against her soaked white tank, drawing his gaze to the hardened tips of her breasts.

Heat, sure and swift, swept through his groin and he fought the urge to groan aloud. Gracie Mattias wasn’t destined for wife and motherhood as Galatea had been. No, she was put on earth solely to torture men like him with her oozing sensuality and provocative ways.

She cocked her head slightly to the side and gave him a hesitant smile, as though trying to analyze what was going on in his head. He’d be better off remembering that Gracie was completely capable of doing just that. He immediately snapped straighter.

“Don’t look so shocked,” she said. “I think we’ve already, um, established that we’re staying at the same hotel.”

The couple with their arms wrapped around each other looked their way. “In separate rooms,” Dylan pointed out.

“Of course in separate rooms. We don’t even know each other.”

Dylan grimaced. “From the sound of it, that’s not necessarily something that would stop you.”

“Ooo, that was a low blow, Dr. Dylan. We’re not on the radio show anymore. You can put the jabs away now.”

He dipped his chin and managed a wry grin. “Sorry. That was kind of a cheap shot, wasn’t it?”

“Bargain basement.”

He slanted her a gaze from the corner of his eye. She seemed completely unconcerned with her disheveled appearance. This was at odds with her carefully put together front for the radio host. She didn’t make apologies and utter some inane comment about how she must look. She didn’t move to get a hairbrush from the depths of the huge handbag slung over her shoulder. And she didn’t try to repair her makeup. He wondered exactly how long she had been out in the rain.

He took a deep breath, pulling in a subtle, tangy scent that hovered somewhere between juicy, overripe oranges and tart, green apples. Her shampoo, maybe. Though it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that she, herself, naturally smelled like the succulent fruit.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I take a look?”

Dylan blinked at the young woman standing in front of him. The bride was gesturing toward the window behind him that overlooked the vast lobby as they moved upward.

“Sorry. Sure, go ahead.”

She did. And took her new husband with her.

Dylan stood ramrod straight in front of the closed elevator doors. Gracie joined him.

“Newlyweds,” he said quietly.

“Ah.”

A dull thump sounded from behind him. Dylan looked over his shoulder to find that the newlyweds had apparently taken in enough of the view and were now taking in each other. His eyes widened as the woman practically climbed up on the man. The man’s hand skimmed her side then cupped her behind the knee. In a smooth move, he lifted her leg then thrust his body against her softness.

Dylan jerked back to face the elevator doors.

“Exhibitionists,” Gracie whispered.

He looked at her blankly. “Rude.”

She tossed her head back and laughed. “Come on, Dr. Dylan, I should think that since they’re married almost anything should go in your book.”

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Nowhere did I write that this was acceptable behavior.”

Gracie’s deep, deep brown eyes held amusement. “I meant figuratively, not literally.”

“Oh.”

She held up a finger. “Speaking of which.” She began rummaging through her bulging bag, then tugged something out with a little resistance. “Here.”

He stared at the book she held as if he was afraid it might bite. Seeing as it was her book, he wasn’t taking any chances.

“I had one left over from the stack my publisher sent to the station. Go on, take it.”

He did.

“I figure that you were caught at a bit of a disadvantage this morning. You know, having not reviewed my theories and all.”

He held up the magazine tucked under his arm still opened to the page focusing on her. “I wasn’t as uninformed as you think.”

“Oh my God! Can I see that? How did you get a hold of a copy so quickly? Rick, that’s my assistant, hasn’t said a word about its release.”

Dylan reluctantly let the magazine go. He stood silently wishing the elevator would get to his floor already as Gracie silently read the piece. He tensed at her little bursts of laughter, trying to ignore the low moans coming from the couple behind them. Then she flipped the magazine over to where he was featured. Dylan gave in to the urge to work his finger inside his overtight collar.

“Says here you’re married.”

“Divorced.”

“Oh, baby,” the bride moaned.

Dylan noticed that Gracie sneaked a glance at the couple, her brows jumping high on her forehead. She turned forward again, color touching her cheeks. Dylan didn’t even want to think of what it would take to shock the shocking sex doctor. She leaned closer to him, giving him another whiff of her fruity scent. “Um, I wouldn’t look back there if I were you.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

The elevator finally drew to a stop. There is a God. The doors slid open and Dylan immediately began to step out. Away from the groping newlyweds. Far, far away from the enticing Dr. Mattias.

Gracie slapped the magazine against his chest. “This is how you got yourself in trouble the last time. This is my stop, remember?” Her smile held mischief and amusement as she got out then held the doors open with her hand. “Would you like to know what my recommended course for therapy would be for you, Dr. Dylan?”

His gaze drifted to where her breasts pressed against the flimsy material of her tank, the lace of her bra clearly visible beneath the damp fabric.

“I mean, given what I know about you so far, which isn’t a whole lot outside of your book.”

He jerked his gaze back to her face. “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

“Good, because I’m going to tell you anyway.” She flipped her wet hair over a mostly bare shoulder. “What you need is a nice, traditional wild turn in the sack. And I’d recommend you see to it posthaste.”

Dylan nearly choked on whatever response he would have made as she waggled her fingers at him then sashayed down the hall. And sashay was the word for it. Finally the doors slid shut. He closed his eyes and swallowed as an article of clothing he didn’t even want to try to identify landed next to his left foot, no doubt compliments of the couple behind him.



WILD TURN IN THE SACK, INDEED. Dylan set about the nerve-calming, erotic-image-banishing task of unpacking his solitary suitcase. Something he would have had a chance to do earlier had he not accidentally interrupted Gracie Mattias’s shower that morning. Something he would be doing efficiently now if not for her inflammatory words. With quick, irritated movements, he rehung his blue shirt next to his navy slacks, well away from his tan jacket. Not that it mattered. He was scheduled to be in New York for only another day anyway. Tomorrow afternoon he was scheduled for a brief interview with a reporter from a top psychology magazine, then he was flying to St. Louis.

He decisively closed the closet doors then sat down to take off his shoes. Only then did he grow aware of his semiaroused state. He closed his eyes, determined to ignore the physical messages his body was sending him. He stripped out of his damp clothes and put on the hotel robe. There. He felt better already.

His sexual reaction to Gracie didn’t surprise him. He was only human after all. And she was one hundred percent female in heat. It’s how he acted on that basic, fundamental response that differentiated him from a mindless animal. Humans, in general, had the ability to make conscious decisions. While many still subscribed to the “I couldn’t help myself, it was an accident” philosophy when it came to extramarital affairs, the argument had never held much water for him. A man could always help himself. There was nothing accidental about falling into bed with a woman. In fact, whenever one of his patients tried using the excuse on him, he usually came back with something along the lines of “Right. So what you’re telling me is that you just tripped and fell right into her vagina.”

He carefully hung his suit on the towel warmer in the bathroom, smoothed out the wrinkles, then walked back into the other room. He sat down at the desk, eyed his laptop, the phone, then settled his gaze on Gracie’s book. Sex is Not a Four-Letter Word—Smashing Sexual Conventions. The title was spelled across a glossy white cover in pink and gold raised lettering. He pushed it aside and picked up the telephone receiver instead. Maybe he’d be able to get through to Diana.

A brief knock sounded at the door, then Tanja breezed right in. “Can you believe this rain? Isn’t it awesome?”

“My words, exactly.” Dylan grimaced at her. “You know you might want to think twice about just walking in here like that. You never know when you might catch me…in various stages of undress.”

“I should be so lucky.” She stopped in the middle of the room, hands on slender hips, even the purple spikes of her hair seeming to radiate energy. “Come on, Doc, you’re not the type to walk around your own apartment in your birthday suit, so there’s no real danger there, is there?”

“Coulter, Connor and Caplain, Attorneys-at-Law.”

Dylan stopped glowering at Tanja then asked to be put through to Diana. He drummed his fingers against the desktop, then slid Gracie’s book into the drawer before the PR rep could spot it. Four rings, then he was put through to Diana’s voice mail.

Tanja pried the receiver from his hand and soundly hung it up. “You can call whoever that was back when we get to Chicago.”

“Hey! I was just about to leave the number where I could be contacted.”

“It’s changing so what’s the point.” She swung the closet doors open, eyed the contents, then took out his suitcase and launched it toward the bed. Moments later, his clothes followed.

“What do you mean Chicago? We’re supposed to be going to St. Louis next. And that’s not until tomorrow.”

“Change in plans.”

“Change in plans?” He caught another launch of his neatly pressed clothes and tried to save them further wrinkling. “Don’t I have a say in that?”

Tanja stared at him, tapping her black-painted nail against her lips. “Nope.” She chose a couple of items from the pile and thrust them against his chest. “Get dressed. Our plane leaves in an hour.”

“What about the interview tomorrow?”

“Small-time.”

Feeling stupid, he turned to follow her thorough and completely shameless invasion of his privacy. “What’s in Chicago?”

Tanja stopped hooking his toiletries into his bag and grinned at him. “Only the most popular televised talk show in the country.”

“I thought that was Rosie.”

“Yeah, but Rosie wouldn’t give us the entire hour.” She stuffed the shaving bag into his arms. “With one condition.”

He frowned, clutching his things for dear life. “What condition?”

“That you share the spotlight with one very controversial Dr. Grace Mattias.”

For the second time in an hour, Dylan found himself sputtering for a response. “No way…not a chance in hell…over my dead body…” The objections tumbled from his mouth one right after the other, having little or no impact on Tanja as she put his laptop away.

“Come on, Dylan, you guys made quite the team this morning. Everyone loved you. You pulled in some of the highest ratings the show has ever seen.”

His brows shot up. “We did?” He’d never gotten high ratings in any of his promotional efforts before. Hell, he hadn’t been able to give away his first book, and it had never gone to a second printing. The thought that he may have reached not just someone but a wide range of someones today…well, that was what this was all about, wasn’t it? It might mean a turning of the tides. Instead of days filled juggling patients with teaching, he could reach a nationwide audience. Command impressive fees for speaking appearances. Prove once and for all that his parents were wrong and he was right.

Tanja smiled at him and added his briefcase to his overloaded arms. “You did.” She turned him around, then patted his bottom. “Now get a move on, Doc. We’ve got a plane to catch.”




4


Chicago

A KITCHEN.

Well, maybe not a kitchen, but definitely a kitchenette. One of those kinds that you could barely move around in but held all the basic necessities, like a new microwave, an old stove and an empty refrigerator. Gracie was vaguely aware of the door closing after the bellboy as she stood staring at the cramped space immediately to the left in the enormous Chicago hotel room. She’d come across a place like this once before, in Fort Lauderdale. Likely this wing used to be an apartment complex that had been converted to a hotel. A quick glance around the spacious living-dining area, and the bedroom and bath to the right, fueled her speculation.

The strap to her laptop-carrying case slid off her shoulder. She allowed the case to drop slowly to the floor, enraptured with her new find. She hadn’t had grains of salt under her fingernails since she began this crazy promotional tour. She opened and closed cabinet doors, peered into the empty but cold refrigerator, eyed the limited number of pots and pans, all with a ridiculous grin on her face. Someone watching might have thought she’d unearthed Atlantis instead of a chipped old stove, but she was beyond caring. She’d been in dire straits ever since she and Rick had caught dinner at a poor excuse for a Thai restaurant last night in New York and she had itched to get back into the restaurant kitchen to show the clueless Greek owner how it should be done. Instead, Rick had guided her out of there before she irreversibly embarrassed someone. Like herself.

Gracie ran her hand across the clean counter then straightened the miniature coffeemaker. Okay, so the place didn’t even come close to resembling her own state-of-the-art kitchen in Baltimore, but it was workable. Truth be told, she’d done a lot with much less in her first apartment, right after she’d graduated from college. Back when she had been determined to strike out on her own, pull her own weight and ignore the checks from her father’s accountant that piled up, unopened, on the scratched desk near the door that bore at least three dead bolts and countless chains and security devices. She’d never been prouder than when she’d made that little one-room place home. And she’d learned the finer points of making do with what one had. A trying but immensely gratifying experience. Especially when all her hard work had landed her a spot with a midlevel psychiatric practice before branching out on her own four years later.

She leaned against the wall and tapped a finger against her lips. A list. She had to make a list of what she needed from the store. The essentials were here. She wouldn’t have to invest in salt and pepper or sugar. The hotel had provided coffee and a small selection of teas, though she always traveled with her own supply ordered specially from Arizona.

What should she make? Something simple, requiring the fewest ingredients. But something that would fill the small place with a delectable aroma and would go with a good bottle of red wine. No, white. Fish. She was in Chicago, wasn’t she? Surely they would have a good selection of fish. Waking up to the smell of fish would remind her of home if not endear her to her neighbors.

A brief call to the concierge gave her directions to a small family-owned grocer a couple of blocks away. She hung up the phone on his offer to have an order placed on her behalf, then grabbed her purse and headed for the elevators.

A small cowbell above the advertisement-covered door announced her arrival at the grocer. No larger than the hotel room she had just left, the neat grocer had a good selection nonetheless. And plenty of fresh produce. As she happily made her selections, she allowed her mind to wander at will. Although only after five p.m. central time, darkness enveloped the street, weaving a web of billowed intimacy Gracie embraced. Chicago’s climate was similar to New York’s, albeit windier, earning the architecturally rich city its name, but it had an altogether different atmosphere. The unique, laid-back flavor of the mid-west was laced throughout despite the city’s valiant efforts to shrug it off. And the people weren’t as cynical, the lapping waves of Lake Michigan against the coast seeming to lull them into a feeling of peace.

“Can I see the trout, please? Yes, that one. To the left.” Grace accepted the paper-protected fish from the woman behind the counter and examined the clear condition of the eyes and the pinkness of the gills. She stared down into the open mouth, the sight comically reminding her of Dr. Dylan Fairbanks’s reaction when she’d told him he needed to get laid.

She handed the fish back. “I’ll take it.”

She added the item to her basket and turned toward the produce section. While Dr. Dylan’s facial expression had resembled that of the trout, she had the distinct impression that he was anything but a cold fish. Something elemental lurked in his green eyes. A maturity, an intensity, an innate sexuality that made it difficult to meet his gaze head-on initially, yet held you captive thereafter. An intriguing paradox that reminded her how her skin had tingled after their meeting at the radio station. How verbally sparring with him had made her wonder what going a couple of rounds with him in bed might be like.

He was a sex therapist, so she didn’t doubt he’d know all the exciting little details. But there was a difference between knowing and practicing. And she suspected that Dr. Dylan would put into practice everything he’d learned.

A shiver shimmied down the length of her spine, making her feel suddenly warm in her light raincoat.

Absently adding a couple of lemons to her basket, she moved on to pick through lettuce. An idea danced along the fringes of her thoughts and she unsuccessfully tried to grasp it. She envisioned her book. No, no, it didn’t have anything to do with her mother’s refusal to read it. She made a face, banishing the image of Priscilla’s tight-lipped face before it could spring roots. She moved to the tomatoes, testing them and adding a couple to her groceries. Rick? Did it have anything to do with her assistant and his mysterious company that morning in his New York hotel room? No, that wasn’t it, either. Although the idea of a couple struggling against twisted sheets did ring a distant bell. Either that, or someone else had just entered the grocery store.

She edged along peppers and mushrooms then came to a halt before a large display of cucumbers. She slowly picked one up.

The bell rang louder. And along with it came a vivid image of Dr. Dylan Fairbanks’s grinning face when they’d discussed masturbation.

Stumbling right in on the heels of the image was her sheer terror when the radio shock jock had asked Dr. Dylan whether or not he was a born-again virgin. She’d barely registered his response, so afraid that the host would shine that “virginal” light on her. Thankfully, he hadn’t. But that did nothing to assuage her longstanding fear that someday, someone would ask her the question, despite her carefully made-up appearance of being one hundred percent hot tamale who practiced the very advice she preached. And then where would she be? Not that she was a virgin by any stretch of the imagination. But she wasn’t what she pretended to be, either.

Leading up to the promotional tour, she’d been petrified of being fingered for a fraud. Her theory on the need for sexual safaris was the greatest of her unpracticed advice. She remembered seeing an interview once with a marriage counselor who had never been married. The host had virtually thrown the psychologist’s advice right out the window, despite her years of backbreaking field research. Of course it had been one of those late-night, openly televised forums where the host made a point of going for the cheap shots. But the fact remained that if her limited sexual experience were to come to light, her hope of getting her word out would be little more than a car left abandoned at the side of the road with its hood up.

She absently ran the pad of her thumb over the prickly exterior of the cucumber, the innocuous movement sending a thrill of awareness over her skin. There was no denying that she was attracted to Dr. Dylan, though she firmly limited her attraction to him to physical attributes. What other reasons were there for being attracted to him? She didn’t know him. She knew some of his stuffy opinions, but that was a far cry from knowing the full man.

Who wouldn’t be attracted to him physically? He was tall, enigmatic, handsome as all get-out, and downright sexy.

And the concept of a sexual safari with him posed a decadently intriguing challenge, indeed….

She stood stock-still for a full minute, staring blindly at the cucumber she still held, her mind growing sluggish as it put two and two together. Then everything snapped together. Her heart did an erratic flip in her chest as she tripped straight over the path her subconscious had been trying to lead her down for the past few minutes.

That was it! She needed to put on her safari gear and bag one sexy prey in the shape of Dr. Dylan Fairbanks. Mussing some bed sheets with him would put an end to her feelings of being a fraud.

The earth began rotating again, and along with it a show of thigh-quivering mental pImages**. A bare, sculpted torso. Strong, hair-covered legs. Ragged breathing. Soft, needy cries. Slick, sweat-covered skin. A pulse-throbbing erection pressed against soft flesh, preparing to enter.

Gracie’s breath caught as she swallowed against the saliva gathering at the back of her throat. She shakily patted her hair. Okay, the prospect of sleeping with Dylan clearly wasn’t offensive. She gave a feeble laugh. Who was she kidding? She was practically wetting herself just thinking about it.

Trying to get a grip on herself, she considered that sleeping with Dr. Dylan could have some drawbacks. After all, he wasn’t a nameless, handsome face picked out at random in a neutral gaming zone.

She put back the cucumber she held and picked up one of the larger ones.

She would get the once-in-a-lifetime chance to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dr. Dylan Fairbanks and his ancient, out-of-whack philosophies were way off base.

She added the cucumber to her basket, and couldn’t help noticing the suddenly rubbery condition of her knees, and the anticipatory searing heat that rushed through her bloodstream.

Yes. Hunting Dr. Dylan was exactly what she needed to do…



DYLAN OPENED THE DOOR to the small grocer’s, grimacing at the sound of the cowbell announcing his arrival. Right now he just wanted to blend in with the background. Carve out a little privacy so he could start thinking straight again. Not that the hokey cowbell prevented that. Rather the bright yellow V-necked sweater and olive-green cargo pants he had on pretty much ruled out blending in with the background.

He tugged at the too-snug shirt material, telling himself for the fifth time since leaving the hotel that he should have left his suit on. But after the soaking it had taken in New York, then the wrinkling on the plane, he wasn’t sure it was salvageable, much less wearable. The morning’s mishaps had slid into a day full of disasters—the latest debacle being the loss of his luggage—and he had little choice but to allow Tanja to go shopping for him. Why didn’t it surprise him that the PR rep had completely ignored his express instructions to find something suitable, something he would buy for himself and instead bought him a temporary wardrobe more suited for a teenager than a responsible adult?

He felt like a…break-dancer.

He cringed. Boy, he’d just dated himself there, hadn’t he? In all honesty, he had no idea what a kid on the cutting edge of fashion was called nowadays. And he’d had no idea what to do when Tanja had given him a tart little wave and disappeared on him…again.

At least one thing was going in his favor. The instant he’d discovered the kitchen in his hotel room, he found the perfect opportunity to temporarily place his budget and himself on a diet. Though it had been years since he’d had to worry about money, and weight had never been a problem, waste was something he’d never been very good at. A habit that stemmed directly from his parents.

Finally freeing a pint-size cart from the one it was attached to, he turned the corner and promptly bumped into an older gentleman. He was rerouting a path around him when he realized the guy was eyeing the prophylactics section. He did a double take, not wanting to see the man who was old enough to be his grandfather read the back of a package that touted the words “colored,” “ribbed.”

“Sorry,” Dylan said under his breath, and headed down the next aisle.

He reminded himself that his foul mood wasn’t the result of what he’d just seen—although it hadn’t helped any. His foul mood had gotten worse when he’d taken his seat on the plane to Chicago and found himself sitting across the aisle and one row back from one Miss Hottie. A woman who not only hadn’t seemed to notice him, but kept crossing her long, long legs in a way that had been…well, downright distracting. He hadn’t checked, but he was certain he had a bruise from where the businessman sitting next to him kept elbowing him in order to get a better look.

He checked the price for a box of shredded wheat, frowned, then put the box back. He pushed the crippled cart down the aisle, idly wondering what the sex doctor had on tap for tonight. And who those plans included.

He slowed in front of the frozen food section. Only two freezers, but the essentials for the single professional on the move were all there. And a good deal more affordable than the box of cereal he’d just placed back on the shelf. Not that he didn’t have money. But given the way he was raised…well, he wanted to be frugal. On occasion that meant forgoing his favorite cereal for a cheap TV dinner.

He reached in and grabbed the brand on sale and tossed it into his cart, telling himself he’d only succumb to buying it if nothing else popped out at him.

He resumed warring with the uncooperative cart. It didn’t help matters that every time he moved, the metal thingies on the side pockets of the unfamiliar pants clinked. He glanced down, wondering how much damage he would do if he just ripped them off. Who wanted to make so much noise? A young woman with a small boy watched him as he passed. He managed a polite smile. Just barely. He wished something else would hurry up and grab his attention before he gave up and went back to the hotel to nuke the frozen dinner.

He had turned the corner to the produce section when something grabbed his attention all right. More accurately, someone.

He tried to pull the cart to a halt, only to have the front wheels fight him and end up crashing against a display for canned beans. Dylan hardly noticed. Despite the fact that Grace Mattias had her back turned to him, there was no mistaking all that red hair. Did the woman always dress like that when going to the market? While he couldn’t make out much of her legs, he’d recognize those shoes anywhere. And her white raincoat was cinched tightly at the waist, emphasizing her trim figure.

He glanced around, trying to determine if she was alone. Judging by the basket she carried, and the absence of any hovering, panting male, he surmised she probably was.

Though why he should care, he didn’t want to begin to explore. Lord knows, he was the last man who wanted to be hovering or panting over a woman like Gracie.

Still, he found himself watching her as she picked up a pear, running her fingertips along the odd-shaped fruit, then lifting it to her nose. He swallowed hard at the thorough, thoughtful inspection, then opened his mouth, as if about to take a bite of the fruit she held himself. He caught himself and snapped his teeth together. She put the pear back on the display, then began to turn. Dylan quickly pretended interest in the items next to him. Peaches. Figured.

There was no reason to think Grace would recognize him. Hell, he didn’t even recognize him. He couldn’t have looked more different from this morning had he tried. Which, of course, he hadn’t. But maybe Tanja’s bad taste had its advantages. The last thing he wanted was to engage in conversation with Gracie Mattias so soon. It was bad enough he’d have to appear with her tomorrow after what she’d said to him before leaving the elevator in New York. To have her see him here, alone…well, he could only imagine what she’d have to say about that.

“Why, if it isn’t the world’s most prominent sex expert.”

Dylan nearly crushed the overripe peach in his hand at the sound of Gracie’s voice. He fought the desire to play it off, glance around as if to question who she was talking to. But the way she’d addressed him left no doubt to whom she was speaking. And pretending otherwise would only make him look…more desperate.

He turned his head, managing surprise. Which wasn’t difficult because a scene from an Al Pacino movie suddenly sprang to mind. Pacino had met the heroine-slash-suspected-serial-killer at a small market just like this one. She’d also been wearing a raincoat…and had nothing on underneath it.

Something warm and wet dripped between his fingers. He glanced down to find he’d pulverized the peach.

To his chagrin, Grace’s smile widened. “Don’t tell me. You have a kitchen, too.”

“Kitchen?” he repeated dumbly, reaching for a handkerchief that wasn’t there. What good were so many pockets if they didn’t hold anything?

She handed him a paper towel she’d torn from an overhead holder. “Yes. My hotel room has a kitchen. Well, a kitchenette really, and I decided to cook. I naturally assumed that was the reason you were here as well. We must be in the same…hotel. Again. Which only makes sense if the show’s putting us up.”

She made a production of looking into his cart. Which made the fact that the only item in there was a frozen dinner that much worse.

“Sense. Yes.” Dylan wondered if sleep was going to be anywhere on his itinerary of things to do now that he knew Gracie would be showering…er, sleeping under the same roof.

She straightened, shifting her full basket from one hand to the other. “You know, since you’re obviously eating alone—” she gestured toward the cart “—and I have plans to…eat alone, why don’t we eat alone together?” Her smile had the strangest effect on him. “I’ll even let you get the wine. After all, it’s not like either of us has to drive home or anything.”

“Wine…”

It suddenly slammed into him that Gracie Mattias was actually inviting him to her place, her room, for dinner.

It also occurred to him that she was coming on to him stronger than Limburger cheese.

But why would she be coming on to him? Yes, there had been a certain provocative quality about their conversations thus far, but they’d seemed harmless enough. And when she’d suggested in the elevator that he needed a wild turn in the sack, she hadn’t indicated she saw herself as a player in that particular scenario.

She reached around him to sample the peaches, giving him an undiluted whiff of her subtle perfume. He found himself fighting a groan.

“Um, I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

She turned her head to glance at him, putting her enticing mouth mere inches away from his. “What wouldn’t?”

He gestured helplessly, his words lost somewhere between his chest and his mouth. “The peaches,” he said finally. “They’re never as good as when they’re in season.”

Well, that didn’t make much sense. He’d meant to say he didn’t think it would be a good idea if they had dinner together. Alone. In one or the other of their hotel rooms.

He stood straighter. And why wouldn’t it be a good idea? Because Gracie was wildly attractive? Certainly even he was adult enough to keep his libido in check during something as innocent as dinner. He hadn’t been looking forward to spending the night alone. Over the past five days, he’d had his fill of alone. He could do with a little company. And if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that keeping company with Gracie Mattias was anything but boring.

Wasn’t this what he had signed on for when he’d decided to write his latest book? To sway people to his way of thinking? What better method to do that than by having dinner with his leading adversary? He’d certainly had his share of tough sells. She couldn’t be any tougher than those he’d encountered thus far. He’d tried to prove Gracie wrong on the public front. Perhaps a more private one would do the trick.

“My place,” he said, giving her a room number. “You bring the food, and I’ll supply the wine.”

“Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

He gave her a grin of his own. “Yes, well, I got the impression that you don’t like to do anything the old-fashioned way, Dr. Mattias.”

“Then your powers of observation are better than I thought.” She nodded. “Okay. But that means you have to supply dessert.”

Dylan’s stomach dropped to his groin. The way she said the word made him think all sorts of decadent thoughts that included—but certainly weren’t limited to—licking whipped cream off sexy Gracie’s mouth…and other more sensitive places.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea….

Grace began walking away. “See you in an hour, Dr. Dylan. Oh, and make that white wine, will you?”



DYLAN TORE OPEN the package of assorted cookies, cursing when they flung to the far corners of the counter, everywhere but on the plate he had put out to hold them. Cookies and milk, he’d decided, was as wholesome a dessert as ever there was. Gracie didn’t have to know it had taken him longer to chose the dessert than it had to find a decent bottle of wine. Anything involving strawberries, sticky chocolate, or that had a smooth consistency, he’d instantly ruled out. Day-old, crunchy cookies were the only thing that had fit the bill.

He piled the cookies onto a plate then angled into the dining area. He’d set the small table a little earlier but now stood staring at it. The whole setting looked somehow too intimate, too…suggestive. Too much like a scene for seduction.

Wrong.

He’d agreed to this little meeting solely to try to bring her around to his way of thinking. Placing the cookies on the table, he decided the overhead light wasn’t bright enough. He circled around the room, flicking on every lamp in the place, then flicked on the television and tuned in CNN. A quick trip into the kitchen found the wine he’d been letting breathe on the table resting instead on the counter. After he’d propped his briefcase along with his laptop onto the dining table next to the place settings, he stood back. There. Everything looked more casual. More businesslike. More like the last thing on his mind was sampling Gracie Mattias instead of her food.

He grimaced and rubbed his stubble-covered chin. If that was the last thing on his mind, then why did it spring forth so quickly?

The phone rang on the table in the corner, breaking his thought cleanly in two. He glanced at his watch, then stepped to pluck up the receiver.

“Dylan, it’s Tanja.”

He frowned, wondering at the sound of pulsating music in the background. “She lives.” And apparently better than he did, if the music was any indication.

“Look, I just got a call from your editor. Is your cell phone switched on?”

Dylan glanced toward his briefcase where the instrument in question lay silent on top of some papers. “I don’t think I turned it on after the flight. Why?”

“Because that Diana you’ve been trying to contact has been trying to call you, that’s why.”

“Oh, shit.” Dylan glanced again at the time. He firmly told himself that he hadn’t forgotten Diana. After all the day’s disasters, and last-minute change in plans, he’d just been…distracted, that’s all. And his state of mind had absolutely nothing to do with Grace Mattias. At least not on a personal level. His interest in her was strictly professional.

The sound of a brass horn through the receiver nearly deafened him. “Tanja, where are you?”

“At a jazz joint, of course. Have you never been to Chicago before, Dylan?”

Oh, he’d been to Chicago. Several times. But he’d never even thought about going to a jazz joint.

He found the idea strangely appealing now.

He raked his hand through his hair. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for tomorrow? Seeing as all this sprang up at the last minute—”

“Everything’s taken care of, Dylan. Leave it to me.”

He grimaced. He’d left more to her than he should have and look where that had gotten him. Holed up in a Chicago hotel room in clothes that made him want to turn on rap music. “Tell me why I’m not reassured.”

“Because you’re a control freak, that’s why.” Her laugh took some of the sting out of her words. “Have a good night, Doc. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dylan began to tell her not to hang up, but couldn’t get the words out before the dial tone buzzed in his ear. Slowly he replaced the receiver in its cradle. A jazz joint? Any hardworking PR person would be mapping out a list of approved questions for tomorrow’s host to ask. Working on a briefing strategy so that he would come away from the interview looking his best. Oh, but not his PR rep. Tanja was too busy hanging out at a jazz joint to do something as tedious as her job.

Stepping to the dining table, he took his cell phone from his briefcase. He had, indeed, neglected to turn it back on after the flight. He pressed the auto dial for Diana’s number in San Francisco at the same time a knock sounded at the front door. Listening to the line ring, he pulled open the door to find Gracie standing in the hall smiling at him.

“Room service,” she said, breezing past him into the room.

Clutching the phone to his ear, he turned to watch her walk by. Her form-fitting white tank top skimmed over generous breasts. And her very short skirt fit across her pert little bottom.

Dylan nearly dropped the cell phone when it stopped ringing. “Hello.”

“Hi—”

“You’ve reached the residence of…”

He yanked the phone away from his ear and stared at it. He’d fallen for it again. Turning from where Grace watched him curiously, he finished listening to Diana’s directives, then left a brief message outlining where he was and where she could get a hold of him. When he glanced back at the table, he found Grace had unpacked the food she’d brought along and sat inelegantly munching on a chunk of fresh French bread. “Phone tag, huh?”

Dylan stepped to the table and tossed his cell phone back into his open briefcase. “Yeah.”

She tucked her long, curly red hair behind her ear and smiled up at him. “Always fun.”

Dylan’s gaze was still plastered to her ear and the hair she had tucked behind it. Diana’s hair was blond and short and neat. Gracie’s was red, curly and…wild. Still, he’d never stared at Diana’s hair this way. “Yeah…fun.”

She didn’t seem to notice his inattention and her smile took on a decidedly teasing quality. “Hope it’s not anything important.”





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