Книга - Going to Extremes

Going to Extremes
Dawn Atkins


Ten days together is going to be sensual torture. Kathleen Valentine and Dan McAlister have been thrown together as a publicity stunt to promote their books written from very different viewpoints.Sparks definitely fly when the sensualist takes on the moderate. But that chemistry has its roots in their shared past–their very hot, sexy shared past. And if anyone ever found out about that long-ago steamy affair, Kathleen and Dan would be completely discredited.Too bad the time spent together is rekindling old desires. Soon they have their hands all over each other–in private–and are going to extreme measures to get back into each other's bed. Now they have yet another secret to keep….









He was a professional therapist—he could handle this


As Dan waited for Kathleen to finish her shower, he tried to ignore how much this seemed like old times. Waiting heightens the intensity, she used to say about sex. She would slow down, pull away, make him wait until he was nothing but pounding lust, his focus narrowed to her breasts, her mouth, her moans, her softness, being inside her…all the way.

Relax. Settle down, he coached himself, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. This tour wasn’t about their secret past. It was about promoting his book, showing the world that moderation and balance worked.

“Dan!”

He jerked open his eyes and saw Kathleen. Naked. Dripping wet.

Heat and ice washed over him at the sight of her body, just as she had appeared in so many guilty dreams. He turned away quickly, but he’d caught it all…every sexy inch of her. Desire spiked in him, and the only thought running through his head was how much he wanted her.

There was no way he could handle this!









Dear Reader,

Have you ever been so in love you scared yourself? That happened to the people in this book, and the experience sent them careening onto opposite paths—Kathleen to ever more intense sensual experiences and Dan to a life of careful restraint and self-discipline.

The last thing they expected was to meet again and, worse, to feel exactly the same after ten years. They’d grown up, gotten wise, right? Surprise! I love it when love opens up people’s possibilities and changes their views of themselves.

Both Dan and Kathleen share a focus on living an aware life. This is something I strive for. In fact, the research for this book helped me live each day more deliberately. Now I try to squeeze the juice out of every berry, or, as Kathleen would say, use the guest towels, the antique teapot and the real silver (okay, so that means regular polishing, but so what?). I hope Dan and Kathleen inspire you to enjoy every moment of your life.

Happy reading and my best to you,

Dawn Atkins

P.S. Let me know what you think of the story at dawn@dawnatkins.com. Please stop by my Web site, www.dawnatkins.com.




Going to Extremes

Dawn Atkins





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


To David for helping me remember that a balanced life is different from a balancing act




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




1


“WHY WOULD I go on a book tour when my book’s not even written yet?” Kathleen Valentine asked her agent, JJ Norris, who was puffing away on her usual coffin nails. They were in JJ’s Manhattan office surrounded by her curvy wood-and-black-leather furniture, African tribal art, spindly tensor lamps and three walls of shelves jammed floor-to-ceiling with books.

“That’s the beauty of it,” JJ said, leaning against the sofa arm—that had to be painful. Kathleen sat on the softer middle cushion, though she didn’t like leather sofas. She preferred her leather in jackets, bustiers and miniskirts, not furniture, which was supposed to hug and comfort you. Leather was too cool and smooth. Mental note: Bring brocade pillows for poor JJ’s S and M sofa when next in New York.

“The other publisher wants you because you’re famous,” JJ continued. “They want you for sparkle, for contrast with their author and because the media love you.”

“They want me because misery loves company.” Kathleen leaned forward to straighten the blooms she’d brought—cut flowers were her calling card. “Book tours are brutal. Insane pace. Crack-of-dawn talk shows. Toxic airplane food and air. Uncertain mattress quality. Pure torture.”

“Torture, Kath?” JJ scraped a fleck of tobacco from her lip with a French-tipped nail and shifted her position—to ease the pain, no doubt—making the leather squeak. Now the sound of leather Kathleen loved. It sounded…promising.

“Maybe not torture, but punishment. Severe punishment. Speaking of which, I’ll bring pillows for this sofa so you won’t cripple the other clients you seat here to browbeat.”

JJ rolled her eyes. “Please. The cool deal is that because it’s Cunningham Publishing’s author’s launch, they’re paying the tab.”

“Look, I’ll be glad to help the author with tips, even a perfect neck pillow for the plane, but I’m not, not going on book tour. Especially not someone else’s book tour. That is not the kind of excess I’m known to be queen of.”

“It’ll be a breeze. Ten days and five cities. You can do it in your sleep.”

“I’ll have to, since I won’t be getting any at night.”

JJ ignored the jab. “It’s the usual—signings, readings, a couple of college appearances, a media satellite tour or two and some radio and TV talk shows in New York, Chicago, Phoenix and L.A. The extra dollop is a pop-psych jamboree in San Francisco at the end. Talk about a visibility boost. High-end crowd of book buyers. I mean these people have to buy shelves to go with all the books they buy at these conferences.”

“It sounds exhausting.”

“You need this, hon.” JJ tapped Kathleen’s knee with a sharp nail to emphasize her point. “The Princess of Pleasure needs this. Sensual Living III tanked.”

“Don’t say tanked. It slouched a little is all. There was that political tell-all out at the same time. And I’m busy on the next one,” she said, feigning more confidence than she felt.

“Sorry to be an ice bucket, hon, but how’s that going?”

“It’s incubating.”

JJ rolled her eyes, sucked on the cigarette, then snorted out twin streams of smoke like a cartoon bull.

JJ wasn’t the only one blowing smoke. Kathleen’s current book wasn’t incubating, it was at a dead stop. Temporarily. Which was scary, since her first two books, Sensual Living and Sensual Living: The Daily Pleasures, had flowed like music. The first had been a how-to, exploring Kathleen’s philosophy of sensual awareness, which she called Healthy Hedonism. It gave list after list of ways to enhance appreciation for the gifts of the body.

Her second book contained a workbook and a calendar with practical exercises and monthly to-do lists, along with the most popular section—success stories of converted readers…weary souls reborn to life through Kathleen’s ideas.

Sensual Living III, an update of the first book, had felt as flat to Kathleen when she wrote it as its subsequent sales chart. The problem had been her life at the time—so full of speaking engagements, interviews and, yes, book tours, she’d neglected to refresh her own personal well of sensory appreciation. And it had showed.

This fourth book had to reverse the trend of dwindling sales. Tentatively called Sensual Living: Roots and Rhetoric, it would explore the underpinnings of her theories. But it had stalled. Kathleen had stalled. Fear jabbed her soul with an insistent finger.

She wasn’t used to feeling afraid. Whenever she got scared, she just pushed through, brazened it out. Nothing kept her down for long. Until now. Now she felt…shaky.

An ache swelled behind Kathleen’s eyes. She’d slap on a wintergreen eye-pack tonight for sure. Otherwise she’d end up with black sausages under her eyes. Unacceptable. Buck up, girl. Shine it on, keep moving.

“The tour will get you back in the groove, warm your backlist and boost your buzz,” JJ said, using her silkiest coax. That meant that even her hard-bitten agent was worried.

Kathleen had hired JJ for her instincts—nearly as good as her own—so she knew the woman was dead-on. Which made Kathleen cranky. “So whose book tour are you trying to drag me onto anyway?”

JJ’s eyes lit with triumph. “I’ll show you his book.” She did a suck-whoosh on her cig, put it out against one of the serenity candles, then sprang for her desk.

Kathleen closed her eyes against the travesty of tobacco touching the Peaceful Breeze pillar, which she’d brought on her last visit as the perfect counterbalance to JJ’s frenetic style. She sighed. You could lead a harried soul to sensual pleasure, but you couldn’t make her drink it in.

Now JJ was mauling one of the trio of book towers that littered her gigantic desk. “I had it right here,” she muttered, while the stack wobbled…leaned…tilted…At the last instant, JJ righted it and started on another. She had uncanny instincts.

JJ’s secretary, Moira, ensconced in an alcove across the open space of the office, waved away JJ’s smoke with an exaggerated gesture. Years before the smoke-free workplace act was passed, JJ had declared her office no-smoking, even though she was the only one with a habit and now she risked a $200 fine for breaking the law. Maybe more, since Kathleen thought she’d gotten caught once already.

“You have to stop smoking,” Kathleen said. “If not for Moira or your flash-fried lungs, for your poor skin. You want to turn into Leather Face? I’ve got the name of a hypnotist who’s magic with smokers.” She reached into the roomy satchel she used as a purse for her contact notebook, fat with business cards, price lists and scribbled tips on personal care, health and entertainment.

“Ah-ha!” JJ said, whipping a book from the bottom of a stack like a magician yanking a tablecloth from under plates. She returned to Kathleen and thrust the book at her. On a teal background the title appeared in huge gold letters: The Magic of Moderation, by—

Oh, God, no. “Dr. Daniel McAlister?” Kathleen said, raising shocked eyes to JJ.

“You know him?”

Know him? Ten years ago she’d been madly in love with him. But she wasn’t about to tell JJ that. “I’ve, um, heard of him.” To buy herself some calming heartbeats, she busied herself fishing the cigarette butt out of the melted candle wax. “This is unsavory, JJ.” She held up the wax-coated butt, then placed it on a coaster.

JJ shrugged off her concern, but at least she’d forgotten Kathleen’s reaction. “They call him Dr. Moderate and he’s very hot right now.”

He’d been hot back then, too, but not the way JJ meant. Back in college she’d been Kathleen Dubinofsky, journalism major, not Kathleen Valentine, celebrated arbiter of taste, variously known as the Princess of Pleasure, the Queen of Excess and the Pied Piper of Hedonism. So many lovely names, so little time to prove them all true.

How could it be Dan? Of all the people in the world. The man who’d broken her heart and temporarily torpedoed her confidence. Her lungs squeezed so she couldn’t take in a full load of air.

“He’s a therapist specializing in behavioral issues,” JJ went on. “And he stands for everything you oppose—self-discipline, restraint, the absolute flatline of experience.” She handed Kathleen the book.

It didn’t surprise her that Dan had retreated into restraint. At times, she’d called him Ice Man—partly because of his icy blue eyes, but also for his too-cool-for-school affect. Her intensity had shaken him up.

Now he was Dr. Moderate? He’d been studying clinical psychology when they’d met as seniors and now he was a Ph.D. She’d changed her name and he’d earned a doctorate. Figured.

Had he suffered over the breakup? Doubtful. He’d dumped her, after all. He’d probably shrugged her off like an ill-fitting jacket and moved on.

“There was a puff piece about him in Publisher’s Weekly, I think,” JJ said, lighting another cigarette. “Hang on.” She bounced up and over to Moira’s desk. “Have you seen the last PW?”

“In the pile.” Moira faked a cough. “And that’s the fourth cig in twenty minutes. Watch out. I’ll call an inspector in here.”

“We’re having a crisis.”

No kidding, Kathleen thought.

JJ launched a search for the magazine, leaving Kathleen with Dan, who stared up at her from his photo, wearing an outdated turtleneck, his face hardly marred by the coffee ring JJ had branded him with.

There was the same intellectual’s high forehead, the same crackling blue eyes. Chilly and serene as an arctic lake. But no glasses now. Nothing to lessen the impact of those icy blues. How she’d loved to tug off his glasses and kiss away the pink dents they’d made on his straight, straight nose. Those tender marks made him seem more human somehow, more open to her.

His brows were fierce and his jaw strong, but his lips were soft and full. The contrast of severe features and sensual lips had made her system hum. Especially when he talked. The luxurious excess of his lips contradicted his spare words—the sexy little secret that only she knew.

He’d been irresistible to her. Uncovering his wild side had thrilled her. She got a little quiver remembering that she’d reached him, gotten through, made the Ice Man tremble with desire.

“Dr. McAlister lives in Vermont,” she read below his photo, “where he maintains a private psychology practice and enjoys quiet contemplation, peaceful sails and moderation in all things.”

No wife. No kids. Not even a dog? Is that what moderation did for you? He didn’t look lonely. He wore the wry expression she’d disliked—as if he found the world amusing, but not quite worthy of his involvement.

She’d conquered that look for a while. Dig in to life, wallow in the lovely mess. That had been her message to him.

And he’d gone along with her. It had been a rush like the best drugs were supposed to deliver. Until he’d lost his nerve and left, conking her over the head with her own vulnerability.

She should have known better. Her mother’s mantra had always been to count on herself, to be her own best friend, not to expect anyone else to make her happy. She’d operated that way until Dan. And after him, too. Somehow, he’d swooped in under her radar—so steady, so stable, so rock solid that she went for it, fell in love. Counted on him. On them.

Just thinking about it brought back the empty feeling that had scared her so much—the hollow numbness that was way too much like how she’d felt after the childhood accident. It was as if someone had shut off the lights inside. Pure dark. Echoing and empty.

Way too scary.

And now JJ was asking her to spend ten days with the man who’d pushed her into that humiliating crash-and-burn? No way. Kathleen had to get out of the tour. She’d built a wall around those memories and had no interest in putting in a window.

“Here it is!” JJ waved a magazine in the air.

“Watch it!” Moira shoved a foam cup under the ash flaking from JJ’s swooping cigarette.

JJ madly flipped pages, found what she wanted and marched it over to Kathleen. Beside another photo of Dan looking smug was a short article Kathleen pretended to read, then handed back with a dismissive sound, her fingers trembling only a little. “A tour with this guy would be a waste of my time. He’s obviously a wrongheaded jerk.” She kept her voice steady, but her knees quivered, so she smashed them together, determined not to give herself away to JJ.

“All the better to take him down a notch. Or is that a peg?”

“Notch, peg or even iota, no thanks.”

“He’s cute for a wrongheaded jerk, though,” JJ mused, studying the face Kathleen couldn’t forget. “I sure wouldn’t kick him off my tatami mat, or whatever the hell he sleeps on—a bed of nails?”

“Not my type.”

JJ considered his picture. “I bet he seethes with inner heat.”

“I doubt it. Can’t you see? He’s so cut off from his emotions he wouldn’t know lust if it gave him a lap dance.”

“You have quite the opinion there.” JJ gave her a speculative look and tapped a nail on her bottom lip.

Kathleen had overstated the case. “The point is that I’m not interested in him—as a man or as a mate on the Good Ship Book Tour.”

JJ and her instincts honed in on Kathleen’s face.

To avoid detection, she pretended to sniff the flowers, inhaling the cool green of the carnations, the thick syrup of the sweet peas, the dense musk of the roses. Flowers packed a lovely sensory wallop.

“What’s up?” JJ said. “Do you see him as a threat?”

“How could I? He’s completely wrong.”

“So, show him the error of his ways. It’ll be an experience. Experience is your whole modus operandi.”

“Now you’re giving me Latin?” she said, though JJ was right about her focus on experience. Her column in PulsePoint magazine, which had launched her career, had been called “Experience It!”

In it, she shared her views and adventures with all things sensual—food, music, art, fashion, recreation and sex. If it felt good, she’d done it…and written about it in dripping detail.

In love with the column, JJ had sought her out as a client. With JJ’s bulldog support Kathleen had zoomed to the top of the bestseller lists with her first book. Also the second. The third had wilted. And the fourth, unwritten, was in limbo. Was she bored? Burned out? Had she exhausted her topic? Her life? She refused to believe that.

“The point is that he’s a streaming comet, book-wise, Kath. Hook your cart to his tail and tag along for the sky ride.”

“Does he know about this?” Kathleen said, seizing on the hope that Dan would nix the plan from his end. She’d been the dumpee, so he’d be more embarrassed than freaked about seeing her again. He hated interpersonal tension, though, so he would surely dread the reunion. “I can’t imagine he’d want me to steal his thunder.”

“His agent said he was hesitant at first, but, being new, he didn’t understand how important a tour is in terms of publisher support.”

Hesitant, huh? She wished she’d seen his face when he heard the news. Even the Ice Man must have gasped. He obviously hadn’t revealed their past or JJ would have said something. What would people think if they knew Dr. Moderate had had an earth-scorching affair with the Queen of Excess?

For that matter, what would Dan have to say for himself after all these years? She was curious, now that she thought about it.

Then she caught herself. This was Dan. She didn’t want to face him again. “I can’t do it, JJ. Dr. McAlister and I are anathema to each other.”

“Anathema? You mean where Disneyland is? I can’t believe you’d make fun of my Latin, little miss word-a-day. Your anathema-ism is the very reason they want you. Reporters love conflict. Two appealing experts at polar extremes? What could be more delicious?”

“A million things. Can’t happen. No way.”

But JJ didn’t flinch, didn’t even shake the lengthy ash from her cigarette, and her eyes said, Yes, way. “After the lag, this is a gift, Kath. You need this.”

“What I need is a writing retreat. No phone, no Internet. Just a laptop and the beach house at Gualala.” But the idea gave her a desolate feeling, as if her writer’s heart had been swept as clear of ideas as a beach at low tide.

“You’ve been there, done that and come up with bupkis.”

“So, I need a little more time,” she bluffed.

“No point arguing.” JJ finally tapped the snake of ash into her palm and leveled Kathleen a look. “It’s happening.”

“It is?”

“It is.” JJ sucked in smoke, blew it out. That meant Herman Maxwell, her publisher, had spoken.

She swallowed hard. “I’m sunk?”

“Sinking. But we’ll turn this around.” JJ picked up her gold cigarette case, opened it and tilted it at Kathleen, as if for sustenance.

Kathleen waved it away. Things were really bad if JJ was offering her a smoke—like a prisoner before a firing squad. Which didn’t feel that far wrong.

“You need to shake things up, Kathleen. This will do that.”

Oh, yes. Dan McAlister could shake her up, all right.

She took a deep breath, gathering her strength, her determination, her sense of humor. If she had to do this tour, and it looked as though she did, then she’d make it work. Meet Dan head-on and not miss a step.

That would not be easy, since she was no poker player when it came to emotions, but she’d manage. She had too much pride to do otherwise.

At least she knew she wouldn’t be attracted to him. She’d learned her lesson. Repressed guys were way too much work when there were so many available sensualists in the world. She had a lovely romantic life. Well, except for the odd emptiness that had crept into her lately. But she wouldn’t think about that now.

She had enough on her mind, what with her blocked writing, her possibly sinking career and being forced to spend ten days in close quarters with the man who’d delivered her one and only broken heart.

Dr. Anathema himself.




2


HIS AGENT had declared it a coup, but Dan McAlister wasn’t happy about this book tour with Kathleen Dubinofsky. Make that Valentine. She’d changed her name. Probably for her career, but maybe just for fun, knowing Kathleen. Kathleen had fun built into her soul. And whimsy. For Kathleen, anything worth doing was worth overdoing.

But Valentine? That was kind of silly. When he’d known her, she’d wrung every ounce of delight out of every moment, but she’d never been silly.

He checked out the view from the window of his New York hotel room. This place, world-famous for its luxury, had no doubt been selected with Kathleen in mind, since she’d built a career out of her passion for extravagance. Smart of her, really, to turn her inclinations into a source of income. He’d always admired her savvy, her directness, her purposefulness, even when she was making him nuts.

And now she was famous enough that his publisher wanted her on his book tour.

He became aware that his heart was racing again. Every time he thought about her, his system flooded with adrenaline. Being with Kathleen had brought him face-to-face with a side of his character he disliked—his wild side—and which he’d successfully wrestled to the ground. Just thinking her name brought it all back.

They were to meet their agents and his publisher’s publicist for dinner in two hours, but he wanted to speak to her privately first, confirm what they’d agreed upon via an e-mail—that they’d keep their past a secret.

She’d sent a quick reply. “The irony of our relationship would certainly detract from our credibility.” The oddly dispassionate words made him wonder if she’d changed from when he knew her. She’d always been fiery and outspoken. The irony of their relationship? Even he, whom she’d called Ice Man, wouldn’t use that word to describe their affair. Wrenching and life-altering maybe, but never ironic.

He hadn’t been crazy about the book tour even before he’d heard Kathleen would be with him—too much fuss and hassle—but his agent insisted it would build “buzz,” whatever that was. So, he’d agreed. If he gained more readers, reached more people with the ideas that had saved him and helped so many of his clients, then it was worth every bit of awkward embarrassment.

In his practice, he specialized in overcoming self-defeating patterns, and he found it extremely rewarding. He’d developed checklists that allowed his clients to analyze the sources of immoderation in their lives, along with willpower boosters and self-control builders—tools with which to reshape their behavior in more positive directions.

Grateful clients had urged him to write a book, and over the past two years he’d done so. He’d been honored when first an agent, then a top publisher had seen the value of his work. Publishing The Magic of Moderation was an opportunity to reach more people with his ideas. Fame made him uncomfortable, but it was a means to an important end.

Then he’d learned about Kathleen and the world had shuddered to a stop for a while. He knew about her work, had even bought her first book, but seeing her was the last thing he’d expected. Or wanted.

The e-mail exchange had been too impersonal and brief. He had to see her, get the first meeting over without witnesses. They were adults, of course, and college was a decade ago, but their relationship had reverberated through his life and he wasn’t sure how normally he could act around her.

Again his heart sped up and his breathing went shallow. Get a grip. There was no reason to expect the worst. In fact, the trip might be healing for them both. He could apologize for his immature behavior, how out of control he’d been and the abrupt way he’d broken it off. They could acknowledge the power of what they’d shared, experience closure and, perhaps, end up friends.

He straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair—God, he was primping—and stepped out into the hall.

Her room—a named suite, actually—was unnervingly next door. He saw that a waiter was attempting to drag a cart with an ice bucket of champagne into the room. Champagne had been her favorite liquor, he recalled—not easy to afford on a student budget, but she’d managed. Some things are worth the sacrifice, she’d say. He smiled at the memory. To this day, the bubbly liquid made him think of her.

These days, he rarely drank, and never champagne, which gave him an instant headache. Or it had since Kathleen—a psychosomatic reaction no doubt.

Dan held the door for the waiter, stepped in after him and found himself in a large sitting room, dotted with huge arrangements of exotic flowers. He could hear water running. Kathleen was in the shower. She loved water.

“It’s Dan,” he called out, not wanting to startle her.

“Be right out,” she called back, not sounding surprised. Maybe she’d expected him to drop in.

The waiter handed him the bill, which he signed, distracted by the complex scents that filled the room—creams, perfumes, powders, candles and mists. So Kathleen. He searched for her smell underneath all the commercial fragrances. He’d liked that scent best.

The waiter departed and he waited for Kathleen by the champagne. Condensation dribbled down the silver bucket like the sweat sliding down his body inside his shirt.

This was a familiar situation. In the old days, he’d spent lots of time waiting for Kathleen.

Waiting heightens the intensity, she used to say about sex. All true, of course. She would slow down, pull away, make him wait until he was nothing but pounding lust, his focus narrowed to her breasts, her mouth, her moans, her softness, being inside her…all the way. Around her, he was as shaky and enthralled as a kid on his first time.

An erection threatened. Over a memory, for God’s sake! Relax. Settle down, he coached himself, squeezing his eyes tight. Focus on what matters.

Which was his book—and figuring out how he and Kathleen would approach this tour. He was a professional therapist, dammit, but he felt like Tom Hanks in Big—a thirteen-year-old abruptly swimming in an adult’s baggy suit and grown-up life.

“Dan!”

He jerked open his eyes and saw Kathleen—naked, dripping and shocked. Embarrassment shot across her face, but she banished that with a sharp smile. She’d always pushed through awkward moments with bravado. She gave a light laugh that squeaked at the end, betraying her distress.

Heat and ice washed through him at the sight of her body, just as she’d appeared in so many guilty dreams. He turned away quickly, but he’d caught it all—her round, high breasts, pink nipples and that triangle of hair, golden against her pale skin. At least his mortification had iced down his erection. With his back turned, he explained himself. “I came in with the waiter. I called, but you must not have heard me. I’ll let you get dressed.” He started for the door.

“Don’t go. It’s fine.” She had the same husky voice—a whiskey voice in the vernacular of detective novels—and it warmed him like a quick shot. “I thought you were my agent JJ. I just popped out for my robe.”

He stayed with his back to her while a suitcase zipper scraped, a clasp rattled and fabric rustled.

“There. All covered, Dan,” she said, sounding amused.

He turned and found her wrapped in a black silk robe that clung to her breasts and ended high on her thighs. She was a voluptuous woman with a figure that rivaled Marilyn Monroe’s, except she was taller. She was a presence, a gathering of female energy that drew male eyes wherever she went.

He had the familiar impulse to touch—her skin, her silk-covered breasts, her shiny golden hair, loosely swept up on her head. Completely insane, of course. But the way he felt about Kathleen had never made much sense.

“I just wanted to touch…base…before we officially got together.” He felt himself redden.

“Good idea,” she said, her eyes restless on his face, then gone. That wasn’t like her. She’d always contemplated him carefully, soaking up every detail, every reaction.

He held out his hand to shake—as stupid as that seemed.

“Oh, please.” She lunged forward and threw her arms around him. But she held her body away from his and kissed the air beside his cheek—a gesture for show.

He was relieved. And stupidly disappointed.

She moved to a sofa thick with overstuffed pillows and patted a spot beside her. “Let’s talk. We’ve got time before JJ gets here. She’s always late. Just like me.” She laughed nervously again, which made him want to say something reassuring.

“You look the same. Beautiful as ever.”

“You look good, too. Losing the glasses was a good decision.”

“Thanks. They got in my way.” He was preoccupied with trying not to look at the curve of one breast visible through a gap in her robe. She had great breasts. A firm handful with nipples that had tightened into plump knots whenever he touched them. She’d loved him to spend time there. He’d loved it, too. What was not to love?

He moved his gaze, only to have it sink to the dark space between her legs, where the hem of her robe separated. Control yourself, man. “Why don’t you get dressed? I can wait.”

“No, no. I’ve got time,” she said, “Unless I’m making you uncomfortable…?” She was acting cool, sliding a red-painted nail along the edge of her robe, but the finger trembled and her breath was shaky and she still wouldn’t quite meet his gaze.

“If you’re fine, I’m fine,” he said, determined to manage his reactions. Her toenails matched her fingernails, he noted inanely, watching as she curled her toes around the edge of the table’s glass.

“How about some champagne? I was going to drink it with JJ, but she won’t mind if we get started. This is a kind of celebration, after all. The first time we’ve seen each other in, what, ten years?” She jerked the champagne bottle brusquely from the bucket, spilling ice on the floor, betraying her nervousness. This was new, too. Above all else, Kathleen had always been confident.

With her so jittery, he couldn’t refuse the drink. “Sure. For old time’s sake.” He leaned forward to help her hold the bottle that was now shaking in her hands.

“This is so symbolic,” she said. “We’ve taken different paths and now, ten years later, they’ve converged.” She popped the cork and her green eyes jumped at the sound. “Seems like kismet.”

He smiled. Or karma. A chance to make up for hurting her. He watched her pour the liquid into two tall, elaborate glasses.

“Don’t you just love these flutes? Hotels use those terrible saucers that allow the bubbles to zip away. I travel with these.” She was obviously chattering out of that nervousness.

“Very beautiful,” he said, feeling protective of her.

“Aren’t they?” She admired her brimming glass. “Made from a single piece of blown glass in a little shop in Italy. Perfect weight and balance. Just holding one of these makes me feel better.” She did seem calmer and she gave him the glory of one of her open smiles. This one almost lit her eyes, but not quite.

“To us,” she said, extending her glass. “To the past…which shall remain our dark secret.” She regarded him over the bubbles that misted above the rim. What did she want? She used to grab him with a look. He should be beyond that now, but he felt the tug like pain in a phantom limb.

I’ve missed you. The words formed in his head, but there was no point in saying them. It would just make things more awkward. “To the next two weeks.” He intended to tap her glass with his, but instead their fingers bumped.

Her eyes widened, and he felt a surge of heat, which he attempted to douse with a quick swallow of champagne. The stuff tasted almost otherworldly. Kathleen had that power over things. When they were at Arizona State together, she used to make every moment a celebration. Mimosas for the first sweet blast of citrus blossoms in March, a desert walk after every rain, marshmallows toasted in a chimnea for the first winter chill, the entire apartment filled with candles for something called Candlemas, homemade brownies—complete with a whipped-cream fight—for the end of finals.

She arranged every detail to intensify the moment, to make everything seem more significant than it was. He’d asked her about the source of that inclination—were her parents so celebratory? It’s just me was all she would say. But there was more to the story, he knew. With Kathleen, there always was.

“So, what do you think?” she asked him, playful now.

“I think it’s great you’ve done so well.”

“I meant the champagne. But thanks. I’ve been lucky.”

“It’s very nice. Very pink.”

“Exceptional, really. The tiny bubbles are the mark of a fine champagne. This one’s been fermented slowly in wood for a fuller bouquet, allowing the pinot to turn it rosé. It’s a myth that rosé champagne is sweet. This is a brut, which I prefer. You?”

“Champagne’s your drink, Kathleen. What did you used to say? ‘I am drinking stars’?”

“Actually, that was Dom Perignon. I just happen to agree.”

“I hope this isn’t as expensive as it tastes. I have plebeian preferences, you remember. An occasional beer does me fine.”

“It’s never too late to refine your palate.” Some devilment flashed in her eyes. “Actually, what would people think of the Master of Moderation swilling champagne before five? Très extravagant.”

“No doubt.” He’d only been in the room with her for ten minutes and he was acting out of character. He put the glass on the table.

“Come on, enjoy it, Dan. I’ll never tell.” She touched his hand, just a brush of fingers, but a feeling shimmied through him like tires on ice.

“So,” she said, “you wanted to get together to get our stories straight?” She raised brows as delicate as Japanese calligraphy. “That we met for the first time here? That we know each other’s work…not each other’s…everything?”

He grimaced at the deception. “I know that sounds bad, but I thought it would be best.”

“You’re right.” She gave him a steady look. “If people knew about us, the focus would shift to us as a couple, not us as authors, which is what matters on this tour.”

He’d always liked the way Kathleen cut to the chase.

The mischief returned to her green eyes. “I mean, we wouldn’t want anyone to know that Dr. McAlister once spent an entire weekend in bed, only going to the door for pizza, right?”

“Lord, no.”

“Or that he once had sex in an apartment hot tub?”

“That either,” he said, wincing at the memory.

“No one would believe it if I told them.”

“I hardly believe it myself.”

“Exactly.” She paused, unfathomable emotion in her silence. “Talking about what happened wouldn’t help my credibility, either.” She snatched her lip between her teeth—a sign of hurt—and guilt seized him.

“I’m sorry, Kathleen, about how it ended. I was abrupt and I know that I hurt you.”

She held up her hand. “Don’t apologize, Dan. It was time. We were done.” She stuck her chin up, pride bright in her eyes. “I know I was too intense for you.”

“We were young.”

“And clueless.” She managed a choked laugh. He tried to read her expression, but she wouldn’t hold his gaze. She tipped the delicate glass to her lips and swallowed fast—also not like her. Kathleen took her time with champagne.

He watched her pretty throat undulate, felt the old desire rise in him. Ten years had passed, but he felt the same.

They’d brought out the worst in each other, gotten completely swept away. The whole world shrank down to the size of the two of them and their bodies. Toward the end, Kathleen had gotten irritable and elusive, which had made him even more single-minded in pursuing her. He’d failed classes, let his practicum patients down, couldn’t think of anything but being with her. Not even academic probation had scared him. In the end it had been an inappropriate jealousy that made him realize that he’d let his life spin out of control.

He remembered it all, sitting here, watching her put down her empty glass, lick her soft lips and give him that look—the one that held both challenge and promise, the one he’d sunk into, lost himself in.

He yanked away his gaze and drained the glass as if it held beer on a sunny day. He extended it for a refill. He shouldn’t be drinking so much—and certainly not champagne—but this was a special occasion, right? He’d cut himself some slack this once.

She poured champagne into both their glasses, lifted hers and looked him straight in the eye. “To being older and wiser.” She ticked her glass against his, the delicate ring a warning bell in his head. “And to keeping our secret.”

As the champagne headache kicked in, he wasn’t sure the first was true or the second would be easy.



JUST DESSERT to go, Kathleen thought, gritting her teeth as the dinner with Dan, their agents and Rhonda Lockhart, the publicist from Dan’s house, eased to a close. She’d achieved her goal—behaved with her usual flair and kept JJ off the trail of any dynamic between her and Dan. Dan had managed just fine—cool as gazpacho fresh from the fridge. Sometimes she’d kill for some of his restraint. Her skin itched, her stomach jumped and her heart skittered in her chest like a hockey puck.

At least she didn’t have that hollow feeling that had started that night with Troy, the last man she’d been with. Something was definitely amok with her, which added another knot to the string of knots she’d been tying in her stomach since she’d agreed to this book tour.

Rhonda—their scheduler, media hound and general gofer for the tour—had chattered nonstop, which helped Kathleen hide her feelings. Rhonda reminded Kathleen of Reese Witherspoon—all perky and bouncy and blond, a regular publishing cheerleader. Kathleen could practically hear her pom-poms swish. Go, book tour, go. Win, book sales, win.

Rhonda had gushed over their books, passed out the tour itinerary and asked Kathleen to choose, then sample, her entrée as well as make dessert selections for the entire table.

Which Kathleen was happy to do, since it reminded her of all the joys in the world she loved. Once the desserts were ordered, she excused herself for the ladies’ room for some recuperation time.

Inside the flower-filled, mirrored anteroom, she flopped onto an elegant chaise. Just a few moments all alone was all she needed.

As if on cue, JJ strode in.

Damn.

“Oh, my God, that man has such a thing for you.” JJ plopped into the facing chaise and lit a cigarette, its end glittering like her eyes, hot with her scoop.

“Dan’s agent? Not my type,” Kathleen said, attempting a feint.

“Please.” JJ snorted smoke and flicked the mouth-end of her cigarette with her thumb.

“You mean the waiter?” Kathleen tried, all innocence.

“Don’t insult my vibe meter. I’m talking about you and Dan McAlister. Sparks were flying both ways, hon. I may be a narcissistic workaholic, but I’m not blind. Besides, the waiter was gay and Dan’s agent is dullsville.”

“We were just being polite to each other.”

“When you passed the rolls to him, your fingers touched and you practically dropped the basket.”

“I was weak from hunger.”

“And when you were tasting everyone’s food—”

“That was Rhonda’s idea, not mine.”

“Whatever. The point is that while you were doing it and moaning, he stared at you like you were having a climax.”

That made her breath hitch. JJ had hit on something. She did make similar sounds when she came. And, of course, Dan knew that. Which explained that extra gleam in his eyes.

“Speaking of that, does Dr. Moderate approve of recreational sex? Oh, who cares? Just sleep with the man. I don’t buy all that serenity bullshit.”

“JJ! Are you crazy? Why would I want to sleep with him?” She sat on her hands to hide the way they’d begun to shake.

“To show him he’s human. On general principles. Though…you know…what a book that would make. Kathleen Valentine, Pied Piper of Hedonism, converts Dr. Moderate to her religion of the senses. Herman would be ecstatic.”

“You’re insane, JJ.” Her heart tripped into double time.

JJ took a deep puff of her cigarette and blew it out through her smile. “Come on. You have to admit he’s hot.”

“If you go for that type.”

“The handsome, brilliant, sensitive type? What’s the prob?”

“JJ…we’re supposed to be opponents, polar opposites, remember?”

“Where there’s friction, there’s fire.”

“Even if I were interested, which I’m not, he would never do it.” Her heart started a rolling rumba.

“He’s a man. What man can resist Kathleen Valentine?”

“You’re flattering me.”

JJ shrugged.

“If you’re so hot for him, JJ, come on the tour and you sleep with him.”

“If only…”

“Come on. You hate tours as much as I do.” Kathleen would never sleep with Dan, but she was annoyed to notice that the rumba her heart was doing had added a maraca rhythm.

“You’re thinking about it,” JJ said, a dog with a bone. “You’re all pink.”

“That’s the wine. Wine stimulates circulation. You’re flushed, too. Just look at yourself.”

JJ stared into the mirror, then ran her fingers roughly through her bobbed hair. “God, I look like an ancient diner waitress. I should start calling everyone ‘hon.’”

“You already do.” Kathleen leaned in to study her agent’s face. “There are incipient wrinkles developing. Let me give you my cell-plumping cream.” She extracted the excruciatingly expensive tube from her satchel and handed it over to JJ. “The Web site’s on the label to order more.”

Wrinkles weren’t JJ’s only problem, she saw. “You need more vitamins.” She picked up a strand of her hair and rubbed it between her fingers. “Not enough protein. Are you eating?”

“Not so much. Barry and I are on the outs.”

“Barry the Brooder? No wonder. You have to take care of yourself, JJ. You’re in charge of your own happiness.” That was one truth she knew from the inside out.

She took out her business-card holder and extracted a card she gave to JJ. “This is a food delivery service—homemade stuff, all fresh and vitamin-rich. Set yourself up for a month to see how you like it.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Then consider it an early birthday gift from me.”

“I just had my birthday. You’re making me feel guilty. Here I send you on this book tour and you’re giving me gifts.”

“Just take care of yourself and forget the guilt. Guilt is unhealthy. Talk about producing wrinkles. Oh, and here's that hypnotherapist's card. For the smoking.”

“You’re too good to me,” JJ said, taking the card, her face warm with an affection that made Kathleen feel uncomfortable.

She liked JJ a lot, but it was best to keep things professional. “I’m buttering you up so you’ll get me an even better deal on my next book.”

“Easy breezy if you do a Converting Dr. Moderate book. Let’s get back to the table before somebody scarfs up my bananas Foster. Bananas have calcium, right?”

“Potassium. But that’s good, too.”

“What’s with you, Kathleen?” JJ said. “You look funny.” She stubbed her cigarette in one of the pots of cut flowers. Kathleen grimaced.

“Just feeling the pain of those poor blooms. Let’s go.”

She went for the door before JJ saw right through her.




3


THE NEXT NIGHT, Dan held the door so Kathleen could climb into the back seat of the car-service limo. They’d just finished the launch party at the Barnes and Noble on Fifth Avenue, which Rhonda had informed them was “the best, most star-studded bookstore in Manhattan.”

Kathleen’s smile as she slid into the seat sent heat through him. He was so easy. He joined her, cramming himself against the far door to nix the urge to bury his nose in her thick hair, which she’d worn his favorite way—loose and wavy.

How could he advise his patients to control their urges, when he was ready to jump the woman? Damn this book tour. Damn the way her skirt rode high on her thigh. Damn him for noticing.

Kathleen drummed her fingers on the book in her lap—his book, back cover up, showing his photo with that chilly, superior expression on his face Kathleen used to criticize in their quarrels. Like you’re above us mere mortals.

That wasn’t fair. Sure, he reflected at length on problems and assessed all factors before making a decision. Did that make him dispassionate? Hardly. But he wasn’t surprised Kathleen hadn’t understood that. She was all impulse and urge.

And heat. Lots and lots of heat.

She’d been generous, too, and kind. Like tonight when she’d bought his book and stood in line for him to sign it—a gracious gesture he’d been too dazed to duplicate. Book-signings and their attendant rituals were a new and mortifying experience.

Kathleen sighed a rich sigh and wiggled into the seat, as if to get comfortable, then turned her head on the headrest and looked at him. “I love fabric seats, don’t you? I have black velvet in my car. Pimpish, I know, but it feels so good against bare skin.”

Bare. He didn’t want to think of that word around Kathleen, let alone hear it come out of her silky lips. Her wiggling around had shifted her skirt up a bit. Nothing obvious and she was clearly unaware of it. He wondered if she was wearing panties.

Ouch. “I never really thought of it that way.” The over-warm car seethed with her perfume. He watched her pulse throb softly in her neck, wanted to press his lips there, taste her skin with his tongue. “Stuffy in here,” he mumbled and rolled down his window.

Rhonda barreled into the front seat beside the driver, slammed her door and looked at them over the seat. “That was fabulous. Great turnout. You two were a hit. Everyone was there.” She rattled off the news outlets in attendance, practically bouncing in her seat.

“Sounds good,” Dan said. He was used to speaking at small workshops, so he’d been rigid with tension at the crowd.

“We sold tons of books,” Kathleen said. “Good job, Rhonda.”

“Thank you, Kathleen. You were a joy to work with.” Rhonda beamed at her. “You, too, Dan. Absolutely.” She cleared her throat. He’d been tongue-tied and sluggish, he knew.

Kathleen had gleamed like a jewel as she bantered with reporters and with him when they were formally announced and invited to speak. She’d been lively and engaging and he’d been awed by her performance.

My advice is to buy both our books and decide which makes you feel better, she’d said. Of course, my books come with a coupon for a sample of imported chocolates. She’d turned to him then. I don’t suppose you supply any coupons, Dan? That would be too indulgent, correct? She’d offered him a bonbon, eyes twinkling with mischief and delight.

He’d declined, awkward as a kid at his first dance…which pretty much nailed his whole performance. He’d sold far more books than Kathleen—hers had been out for a while, after all—but she’d ruled the event, start to finish. Somehow, that seemed right.

“You need to loosen up, Dan,” she said to him now. “Next time, take the chocolate I offer you and say something about falling off the wagon.” She leaned into his shoulder, then pulled away. The tiny moment of pressure lingered on his skin. He was such a fool.

“If you’d like, I can do some prep with you, Dan,” Rhonda said. “Some Q and A rehearsal for media? If that would help?”

“Sure. That would be fine,” he said, though he instantly had second thoughts, knowing Rhonda’s penchant for chatter.

“So, Dan, can I ask you a question?” Rhonda said.

“Sure.” He was grateful for the distraction from the claustrophobia he felt sitting so near Kathleen.

“In your book, there’s a self-control checklist. What if a person scores high except when they’re in a relationship? What would you say to that person?”

“I’d say that’s good self-awareness,” he said, glancing at Kathleen, who wore a half smile. Make it good, Dan.

“The person would need to determine whether the immoderation came from within—fear or insecurity—or without—the partner’s behavior or attitude.”

“Oh, yeah. Use that Insecurity Meter in your book?”

“Yes. But if the immoderation is external, a discussion would be needed with the partner, who’d have to change.”

“But what if the, um, partner, won’t change?”

“Some relationships are emotional landmines and must be sidestepped.”

“Oh.” Rhonda was not happy with the answer. No one ever was. Love was the biggest danger zone for most of his clients.

“Or,” Kathleen said sharply, “you could go with your feelings, Rhonda, and not catastrophize. Worrying doesn’t fix tomorrow’s problems. It only zaps today’s joy. The point of life is to live it. And where can you feel more alive than in the arms of someone you love?”

“Good point,” Rhonda said with a heavy sigh.

I feel alive in your arms. Kathleen had used those exact words on the afternoon he realized he was losing control of his life. He’d blown off an important meeting with his advisor, frantic to see Kathleen, waited for her to emerge from a news-writing class, then pulled her into a nearby soda-machine alcove and kissed her until he was blind with the need to be inside her.

I love when you want me so much, she’d said, tugging him with her into the narrow space between the machine and the side wall, where anyone close enough to buy a Coke would hear, if not see, them. The machine had been new, the space clean—perfect for two people desperate to make love now—and when she’d unzipped him and offered her warmth, he’d slipped inside before he knew it, helpless with lust and lost to her. He’d gripped her thighs as she rode him, her eyes flashing with need and demand, and they’d both moaned with pleasure.

Footsteps approached, but she held on. We’re almost there.

He’d lunged into her faster, as hard as she could take, caring only about her sounds, her needs, her climax and his release. They’d shuddered to an orgasm seconds before the person dropped coins into the slot. They’d grinned at each other, listening to the tinkle of quarters, the clunk of the soda, the snap and fizz of the can being opened, then feet shuffling away.

I love you like this, Dan, she’d said, while they leaned against the warm machine catching their breath. I love that you lose control with me. Her eyes were tender and he’d let that be enough. He’d refused to see that he’d lost all sense, narrowed his life to Kathleen alone.

Abruptly, Rhonda thrust her arm over the seat between them. “Will one of you please pinch me?”

“Excuse me?” Dan said.

“So I know this isn’t a dream. I can’t believe I get to hear your ideas up close and personal.”

“This isn’t a dream,” Dan said. This was real, all right. Too real. Kathleen was really beside him, her heat and scent and voice and body all he could think about.

Kathleen, on the other hand, seemed completely self-possessed tonight. Last night she’d been nervous. That didn’t surprise him. She’d been far less bulldozed by their affair than he. Too restless to stay with anything long, she would have ended it soon, if he hadn’t acted when he did.

Right now, he wished he could end this tour, fly home to Vermont for some peace and quiet on the lake, take whatever professional fallout came of it. Just get away from her.

He was a man of his word, though, and he could surely master this. If he couldn’t, what did that say about his theory that practice and focus could conquer extreme appetites?

When the driver stopped in the hotel portico, Rhonda suggested a nightcap, but they both declined.

“Oh.” Rhonda’s smile dimmed for an instant, then clicked back into high beam. “No problem. We’ll have lots of drinks over the next ten days. I have such a good feeling about this tour.”

“It’ll be great,” Kathleen said, sounding as weary as he felt.

He climbed out of the car and helped Kathleen out, liking the feel of her hand in his—warm and strong, but soft, too. Like the woman.

“I asked them to put the tea you like in your room,” Rhonda said to him, leaning out the front window of the car.

“Please don’t bother on my account.”

“And the double pillow top for you, Kathleen.”

“You’re spoiling us,” Kathleen said.

“If you need anything or have any questions, call me any time, I mean it,” Rhonda said. “And charge everything to your rooms—breakfast, late-night snacks, in-room massages, movies, whatever. And use the minibar. That’s what it’s for.”

“We’ll be fine, Rhonda, thank you,” Dan said.

“I’ll be here with the car for the airport at nine,” she called to them, waving out the window as the driver pulled away.

“She wears me out,” Dan said, sagging with relief.

“Oh, me, too,” Kathleen said. “She’s like a class-three rapids when you want a bubbling stream.” She shot him a rueful smile that he returned. “We’re just lucky she has a cat waiting at home, or we’d be playing pinochle here with her tonight. Good luck with that media training she’s going to give you, Dan.”

“Lord.”

Her expression warmed with honest pleasure and kind commiseration. He liked this smile much better than the theatrical one she’d worn at the signing. This smile was direct, energetic, mischievous and a little shy, too.

This was the smile that had drawn him the day they met. Along with the fact she was about to be smashed to the ground by the gigantic mattress she was jamming through her apartment door. He’d just moved into the same complex and had rushed to help her get the thing into her bedroom.

I can’t afford this bed, she’d said in her whiskey voice, looking down at the mattress, which filled the small bedroom wall-to-wall. But once I lay down on it, oh, my good glory, I was done for. It said, ‘Sleep on me, enjoy me, use me ’til I sag.’ What could I do? I’d been had.

Before long, he’d been had, too. By Kathleen and how she swept away his defenses, his restraint, his carefully structured days and comfortable routines. She awakened an impulsive intensity in him he preferred dormant. Or dead. He’d lived a quiet, studious life until he’d stumbled upon Kathleen and her bed.

“You okay?” Kathleen said now, as they headed across the lobby for the elevator.

“Me? Fine. Just thinking.”

“How can you? I’m completely wiped. The mattress last night was…bumpy.” The excuse sounded hasty, as if to cover the real reason for her exhaustion.

“You were pretty perky at the signing.”

“All an act, Dan.” Her heavy tone told him there was more acting going on than she intended to reveal.

He understood. He was acting, too—just not very convincingly. She’d surely picked up on his tension, though she was classy enough not to mention it.

They rode the elevator to their floor and headed down the hall, managing small talk about the signing and the tour and laughing companionably. Anyone seeing them would assume they were long-time lovers headed for bed. But it was all an act, as Kathleen had observed.

A moment later, they stood before the doors to their adjoining rooms. “So this is good night then,” he said.

“Yep. I’ve got new bedside reading.” She raised his book, back cover facing him, but upside down, so that he appeared to be standing on his head. How appropriate.

“Thanks for buying that. I should have bought one of yours, but I was…I already had one, so I didn’t—”

“Really? You have one of my books?”

“Of course. I have it with me. In fact, will you sign it?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“No. I insist. I’ll bring it right over.”

She started to object, but he cut her off. “Kathleen, I want to.”

“Okay, then. Suit yourself.” She slid her key card into the slot and breezed inside, but not before he caught the wisp of a smile that told him she was delighted.

Which made him far too happy.

He would breeze into her room, sign the book, say good night and be back in his room in an easy ten minutes.



SHE COULD have signed the book tomorrow, for heaven’s sake, but the delight that Dan had read it had overridden Kathleen’s good sense. Now she was stuck. One more minute of acting witty and cool when she felt shaky and confused and her over-wound nerves would snap through her skin.

She needed a long, hot bath to soothe herself. Her reaction to Dan alarmed her. The animal in her had nosed out the positive changes in his physique. He was stronger, broader, more physically confident than he’d been in college. He used to envelop her so tightly that she felt wrapped up in a big Dan blanket. How would he feel now? Even more secure, no doubt. More masterful and carnal.

Cut it out. She didn’t want the man anymore. How tiresome his life must be, with all the rules and repression he swore by. Her reaction was pure biology. An example of the female’s genetic drive to connect with a virile male to propagate the species with sturdy offspring. That was how she would explain the importance of male physical prowess to female arousal in the sexuality chapter in Roots and Rhetoric. When she wrote it, that is.

But she was uneasily sure that genetic drives didn’t completely account for her reaction to Dan. Physical stuff had gotten weird on her lately. Take what had happened with Troy just three weeks ago.

She’d met him at a wine tasting and he was exactly her type: classy, sensual, funny, smart, sexually confident and not the least intimidated by her reputation.

They’d returned to her place after an exquisite dinner. Soon they were in her bedroom, where the air was aromatic with cinnamon candles and a hint of the lusty Bordeaux she’d opened, the light golden and dim. There was Troy in her bed, covered to the waist in her black satin sheets, his bare chest promising, his look predatory…everything just the way she liked it.

She’d stepped toward him, but was swept by a wave of exhaustion so overwhelming she’d stopped moving. Her whole being felt the way skin feels when it’s been stroked too long on the same spot—chafed, burned and aching.

She’d forced herself to sit on the bed beside Troy and put her hands on his chest, hoping the contact would banish the peculiar sensation.

But it hadn’t. Troy moved to kiss her, but she stopped him. Her lips had gone numb and rubbery—the way they’d felt after the accident. She’d pulled away, apologizing like mad.

Troy had been disappointed, of course. And puzzled.

She was, too. Especially by how happy she was to have sent him away. The minute he left, she’d cheerfully wrapped herself in a microfiber throw and gotten absorbed in a black-and-white historical movie, where the brush of a man’s lips on the back of a woman’s hand practically produced a climax. She’d felt like a guilty child allowed to stay up past her bedtime.

Now she slid off her shoes, undid her garters and peeled off her stockings, digging her toes into the lush sponge of the dense carpet.

She didn’t feel numb now. She felt fully alive, zings and pings firing joyously all up and down her body—a stalled engine finally coming to life.

Not good. Not good at all. She was done with Dan. Except while she waited for him, she tugged at her ear and breathed in hungry little pants—signs of sexual anticipation. She hadn’t felt like this in a long time.

Dan knocked at her door with crisp, evenly spaced raps as rational and matter-of-fact as the man. He was so different from her that she wondered what she’d seen in him.

She opened the door and remembered. His kind eyes, sensuous mouth, the intelligence in his face and that smile—knowing and mysterious—that promised more. Much more.

He held her book in his hand and tilted it at her.

“Come in.” She led him to the couch and he sat beside her, placing her book on her lap.

It was her first. Many times she’d wondered if he’d read her magazine column or any of her books. It was childish vanity, but she wanted him to see what she’d gone on to accomplish…and what he’d given up.

She looked into his blue eyes. They held an emotion that she, as usual, couldn’t read. Curiosity? Sadness? Regret? Desire?

Did you miss me? Did you suffer without me? Those were the mucky, wounded-ego questions she wanted to ask. If their time together had been important to him, if the breakup had been difficult for him, too, then she wouldn’t feel like such a weak fool. Maybe if she asked, she’d stop feeling so strange.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. What if his answer made her feel worse? “Do you have a pen?”

He looked at her quizzically.

“Because if you don’t, I do. I have a special signing pen that I love. It has a tip so smooth it makes the words come out like liquid thought,” she babbled. “You’ll want something like that…a special pen, I mean…”

Dan ended her torment by whipping a pen from his suit-coat pocket and handing it to her, still warm from his body.

“Great.” She clicked it on, then set to her task. When she lifted the pristine cover of her book, the binding crackled and the first few sheets were attached at the edges. “Have you even read a page?” she asked, trying to sound amused, not hurt.

He reddened. “I bought it to support you, Kathleen. It wasn’t my thing.”

“How do you know if you haven’t looked past the cover?”

He shrugged. “I just know.”

“You used to at least try things,” she said. He used to say that she was a bad influence on him, but she’d assumed he was joking, been certain he enjoyed the pleasures she exposed him to. “Remember karaoke night?”

He groaned and shook his head. “Lord. What a mistake.”

“Come on. You had fun. And ‘Born to be Wild’ was the perfect song for you to sing.”

“I sounded like an idiot—an off-key idiot. I don’t know how you talked me into that.”

“I had legendary persuasive powers,” she teased.

“True.” He shot her a smile. “And I’d never met anyone like you.”

“You lived like a monk in that sad little apartment. And your roommate. Religious studies, right? Such a somber dude. He always looked like he was writing a funeral sermon.”

“Oh, he usually was.”

“I was good for you. Admit it.” She used a teasing tone, but she was deadly serious.

Dan stayed silent. He thought she was bad for him? Really? She felt obliged to defend herself. “You had three different kinds of antacids in your medicine cabinet when we met. You never touched them after we got together. Plus you had insomnia before me. I helped you sleep.”

“You wore me out,” he said dryly.

At least that. “Not to mention how I fixed up your apartment. Or should I say prison cell. Bare cupboards, no dishes, not even a shower curtain. Nothing pleasant or comfortable or soft.”

“I was poor, you may recall.” His voice had been warmed by the memories.

“So was I, but I had my priorities.”

“You bought me silverware and plates.” He smiled. “Even sheets.”

“I had to. You were desperate. And they were on sale.”

“And then you had to borrow money for textbooks.”

She shrugged. “It was a short-term cash-flow problem.”

“And I wasn’t desperate. You were. To change me.”

“It was better, don’t you think?”

“It was different.” Then he seemed to soften. “It made you happy and that’s all I cared about at the time.”

“I remember.” An odd warmth seeped up from her toes at his words. She hated that. It confused her. She broke off her gaze and balanced his pen on her finger. “Evenly weighted. Good grip. You have taste in writing implements.”

“At least that.” He smiled.

“One little thing we still have in common.” She sighed, then opened to the title page and wrote in bold letters the first words that came to her: “To past pleasures. Read and reconsider, Dan. Ever yours, K.” Ever yours? What the hell did that mean? Impulse was not her friend tonight.

Dan leaned close to read over her shoulder, his breath tickling the tiny hairs on her neck. She fought a shiver, closed the book with his pen on top and handed it to him.

He took it, but held her gaze, wondering, no doubt, what she’d meant by the inscription.

She shrugged. “What? It’s better than what you wrote in mine—‘Everything in moderation…Dan McAlister.’ Pretty impersonal, don’t you think?”

“I was caught off guard. I was a little stunned.”

“I know. I’m teasing. Everybody has that deer-in-headlights reaction to their first signing.”

“I could have written more, you know, in the book. Lots more.”

“I know.” Their eyes met and she felt that rush of being recognized, that joy of mattering so much to one man that the whole world shrank down to the size of his smile.

“We were something else, huh?” she said without thinking.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Sparks and fireworks.” Which were starting up again in her stomach and all parts below.

“More like scorching flame.”

“We were intense.”

“You were intense. I was…bewildered.”

“We had good times, Dan.” Maybe they weren’t right for each other, but their affair had been powerful and vivid and remarkable.

“Yes, we did,” he said, his tone reassuring her that she wasn’t alone. “And I’m glad to see you again. I thought of you. A lot.”

“I thought of you, too.” Entirely too much, replaying every moment in her mind. She hated remembering how insecure she’d been after he left—a blob of needy jelly instead of the strong, independent woman she was proud to be.

“If I had to go on a book tour, I’m glad it’s with you.”

She smiled. Was this okay? Could they be friends again? No hard feelings and all that jazz?

Something, some undercurrent of distress, told her it shouldn’t be that simple. And how come he was so damned comfortable letting go of the past?

“Take a peek at my book,” she said, tapping it. “It could change your whole perspective.”

“But I’ve staked my career on my perspective.”

“Mmm. Then this is too dangerous for you.” She took the edges of her book and tugged gently.

“I can handle it.” He tugged back, letting her feel his strength, the stretch and recoil of his muscles.

Holding his gaze for one more teasing moment, she let go. “Okay…I only hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I, Kathleen.” He gave her a lovely, self-mocking smile that made her melt.

To hide that fact, she led him to the door.

In the doorway, he seemed reluctant to leave. “So, tomorrow we head to Chicago?”

“Yep. Cheerleader Rhonda and the car will be here at nine. Wonder when she’ll give you that media training session.”

He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’m not sure I’m up for that.” An idea seemed to dawn on him. “Couldn’t you do it? You were good with the reporters.”

“Me?”

“You’ve had more experience than Rhonda.”

“I suppose I could give you some tips…sure. Maybe we should plan how to handle the upcoming appearances. Why not?” Because this is Dan, you dope. And because the possibility put a hitch in her heart rate.

“I’d like that. I’ll tell Rhonda I don’t need the prep session, after all.” He kept standing in the doorway, looking at her. “Shall I wait for you in the morning?”

“If you’d like.”

He didn’t move and his gaze was restless on her face, circling her features, hovering at her eyes, nose, chin, finally settling on her mouth.

“Is there something else?” You missed me desperately? You thought you’d die without me? You want to kiss me senseless?

“I don’t want you to think I didn’t learn from our time together,” he said, his cool blues maddeningly earnest. “Because I did. I learned what I needed in my life. Our affair was…pivotal.”

Pivotal? What the hell did that mean? “That’s supposed to be a good thing?”

“Of course.”

What, he expected her to be pleased? Oh, Dan, thank you. As long as I was pivotal, then it was all worth it. She managed a smile. “Good night, Dan.”

“Good night.” He shifted ever so slightly, leaned an inch or two closer so that she knew he intended to kiss her. But his face was tense and she knew it would be the kiss equivalent of the awful hug she’d given him when they first met—a tight peck she never, ever wanted to get from Dan—-so she wiggled her fingers in farewell. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“Sure. You, too.” He looked both disappointed and relieved when she slowly closed the door.

She stared into space, musing, fuming. She was irritated, resentful, sad and hot for him, damn it all to hell.

Pivotal, my little pink behind. So their relationship had provided a philosophical catharsis for him? A learning experience?

It had been more than that to her. They’d been dragging themselves up a dangerous emotional cliff together, hanging on to the rope for dear life. Then, abruptly, Dan had let go, just let her tumble to the canyon floor, while he dusted himself off and hiked happily onward without a backward glance.

Get over it, she told herself, crossing her sitting room, distracted for a second by the squish of the thickly padded carpet beneath her bare feet. He can’t apologize for what you never told him he did. The last thing she wanted him to know was how badly he’d hurt her.

Grow up. Be grateful. After all, the shock of the breakup had jolted her into much-needed changes. She’d left ASU, transferred to a small college in California, shifting her major from journalism to liberal arts and while still in school, started writing the freelance entertainment pieces that led to her column at PulsePoint magazine, which led to her book career.

So Dan had been pivotal for her, too.

And she’d been careful with men ever since, kept things friendly and sexual, and that had been plenty satisfying. Much better than an unhealthy bonding and the agony that went with its inevitable end.

She’d been stupid and naive with Dan. Ten years later, she was savvy and successful, confident and self-assured.

And Dan was still an uptight guy. She’d pushed him out of his comfort zone, but he’d raced right back to it and then some, going for hyper-restraint and extreme control. He was the last guy she’d ever want.

Get over it, Kath. Close the book, brick the wall. She blew out a breath. Make the most of every moment. That was her creed. She would live it on this tour, too, despite Dan’s presence. She would experience the best of the tour and ignore the worst.

Maybe Dan would be pivotal again—jolt her into action on the new book. So far, she’d been bored by the research and frightened by her computer cursor blinking like a heartbeat on the blank screen.

For now, she’d get some sleep. She put on her slipperiest nightgown, relishing its cool slide over her skin, grabbed the lilac linen spray from her comfort suitcase, which held her lotions, special pillows, aromatic oils and other necessities, and misted her sheets.

Opening one of the small champagne bottles she brought on trips for nightcaps, she curled into bed with Dan’s book. She’d see what the buzz was about and remind herself why the breakup had been the best thing that had happened to her.

She scanned the chapter titles until one caught her eye. “The Excesses of Youth” started out in italics:

A young man of my acquaintance fell head over heels with a woman who considered sensual pleasure her religion.

Hmm, that sounded familiar.

Being young and naive and uncertain of himself, he was soon drowning in the whirlpool of her passion. He couldn’t be away from her, began failing classes, avoiding his friends, until he had nothing else but her. In short, he completely lost sight of his identity, his needs and his life goals.

This was about Dan and her, no question. Electricity rushed through Kathleen. She skimmed ahead.

Of course, inexperienced as he was, the young man was unable to recognize the psychological problems with which his lover struggled. Her obsession with pleasure kept her from recognizing real emotion. Sex was like a drug to her. The young man’s intense reaction—she’d forced him into her world of excess and extremes—affirmed her sense of herself and her importance in the world. Her narcissism made it hard for her to see the damage she was doing to the man she believed she loved.

Luckily, the young man had enough self-knowledge to realize what was happening before it was too late. After a terrible incident of anger and jealousy, he broke away from the woman before her emotional recklessness destroyed him.

Oh. My. God. So much for Dan’s “We were young…I was bewildered” bullshit. He thought she was narcissistic, unbalanced, immature and emotionally reckless?

She’d accept immature and unbalanced. Maybe even reckless. But she’d been crazy over him, too. A little scared, but mostly because of how jealous and possessive he’d acted at the end. In his book, he sounded noble and brave, standing up for himself against the depraved nymphomaniac.

Oh, this was outrageous. Anger pulsed through her in thick clots, thudded against her skull, pounded at her temples. She would talk to him right now. Straighten him out, once and for all. She launched herself out of the bed and marched across her suite, her feet barely touching the carpet.

At her door, she stopped. If she burst into his room and yelled at him, she’d look like an emotional maniac. Any person would be upset—no, enraged—at being maligned, even anonymously, in a book to be read by thousands. Tens of thousands if their promotional tour had its intended impact.

But she would not give Dan the satisfaction of seeing her yell or cry. She would calm down first and rationally explain how dead wrong he was.

She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, dizzy with fury. She clenched her fists, then forced herself to release them. Calm, calm, calm. You can handle this. But her anger wouldn’t go away that fast. She began to pace, stopping each time just as she reached for the door to go to him, spinning on her heel and marching the length of the suite again, like a caged leopard—a caged, furious leopard…the source of her fury just outside the bars.

Dan McAlister was not above the sexual fray. Maybe he could fool his readers, his clients, the Rhondas of the world, but he couldn’t fool Kathleen. She knew him. That way.

For some reason, JJ’s words came to her: So sleep with him. Show him the error of his ways. No. Absolutely not. Sex was a beautiful physical connection between two caring people, dammit. It should never be an act of revenge or anger.

Besides, how could she sleep with a guy she wanted to deck?

No, she would talk to him. Gently explain in her most sensible voice what a wrongheaded, self-centered dick he was.




4


THEY’D BARELY checked in to the hotel in Chicago, when someone banged on Dan’s door. He had a whole hour before dinner with Kathleen and Rhonda, and he needed every second to recoup, relax, meditate and do some writing.

Through the peephole, he saw it was Rhonda. Better than Kathleen, at least, who’d been oddly irritable all day—in the car to the airport, on the plane and at the book-signing, shooting him angry glances and eye rolls and delivering unnecessary jabs about his work. He expected their after-dinner media training to be similarly unpleasant.

What the hell had happened overnight? He’d thought they’d had a nice closure moment, agreeing that they were both better off after the affair. She’d given him an odd look with a spark of resentment, and she’d waved away his good-night kiss as though he had bad breath. Maybe he’d sounded smug. He tended to do that when he was self-conscious. And around Kathleen, he was nothing but self-conscious.

Maybe she’d slept poorly on the hotel bed, even with the extra padding Rhonda had arranged for her. She was the princess and the pea when it came to beds. He knew that from college.

Meanwhile, here was Rhonda. On the plane she’d asked his advice for a “friend who might be seeing an old boyfriend.” Evidently, Rhonda had an ex in Chicago.

With a sigh, he opened the door and Rhonda breezed in, looking earnest and upset, holding a foam cup, a bakery sack and a small tin box. “Can we talk?”

“Of course.”

“I hope you can help me.” She handed him the cup. “It’s a chamomile-lemon blend. Not your favorite, but variety is good, too, right? No, wait, that’s Kathleen with the variety stuff. You’re with ritual and habit.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Taste it before you thank me.”

He took a sip, feeling her eyes on him. The tea had a medicinal lemon and herb flavor. “I like it.”

“Great. Here’s more.” She handed him the tin, then swept past him to fling open his curtains, washing the room in late-afternoon light. She sank into a chair at the table under the window and dug into the pastry bag for two large muffins, extending one to him. “They’re healthy, don’t worry. Bran and oatmeal.” She took a huge bite of her muffin. “I only eat when I’m anxious.”

Dan put the tea tin and the cup she’d brought him on the table and sat across from her.

“Dry as dust.” She made a face, then glanced at his tea. “Mind if I make myself some tea?”

“No, no. Make yourself at home.”

She busied herself at the refreshment area and, while the water percolated through, talked about room service and how stale the in-room tea usually was. “Practically fossilized. I use raw sugar in mine. Sure you don’t want some more?”

“No, no. I’m fine.”

“I always add cream. It cancels the tannic acid, which can be a carcinogen. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t.”

“It’s in Kathleen’s book. Kathleen knows so many fascinating things.” She returned and sat, dunking her tea bag methodically in the mug while she talked. “So, anyway, what I wanted to talk about… Aren’t you going to eat your muffin?”

“I’d rather wait for dinner.” He rarely ate between meals, preferring a gentle hunger that made him appreciate each bite of food.

“I wish I had more self-control. I’m weak with food and love.” She sighed. “I have to tell you that the friend with issues is really me.”

“I kind of got that idea.”

She smiled sheepishly. “I’m obvious, huh?” She tucked her hair behind both ears and folded her arms across her body, holding in both anxiety and excitement, he could tell. “Anyway, the guy’s name is Dylan and he lives in Chicago. I did, too, two years ago. We were in love. At least I thought we were. But then Dylan started disappearing on me.”

She gulped more tea, ate more muffin and kept talking. “He claimed he was just out with his friends, but then he got a message on his answering machine from a woman.”

“And you overheard it?”

She blushed. “I figured out his check-messages code, so I’d been anticipating a problem. You know, to brace myself? Checking now and then. Well, every day. Sometimes twice.”

He just looked at her.

“I know. Unhealthy sign, but my instincts were dead-on. There was a woman. I confronted Dylan, but he said I was trying to put him on a choke chain like a dog. I told him he was a dog—a bad, bad dog—but he said I should enjoy the time we had, we only have the present moment and other existential blah-blah.”

“So, what did you do after that?”

“I couldn’t hack it. Smelling another woman’s perfume in his place or finding a forgotten hair band on the sink just brutalized me. So I broke up with him. There was this amazing job in New York, so I went.”

“So, you made a decision to take care of yourself.”

“What else could I do? I was miserable, eating my roommates out of house and home. I would tell them to hide the good stuff, but I’d hunt it down and eat it anyway. Totally out of control.” She finished her muffin, then glanced at his.

“Help yourself,” he said.

“If you’re sure.”

He nodded. “So, you moved on…” he prodded her.

“Yes. To New York. And that’s been awesome. I love my job. I have friends. And I’m dating this guy Mark. He’s not exactly my type, but he’s always buying me gifts and flowers. And he listens to me. Dylan never listened. I think Mark wants to get serious. Which is all good…” She made another face. “This muffin is even drier than mine.” She tossed it into the trash basket.

“Mind if I check out your minibar?” she asked.

“By all means. Like you said, that’s what it’s there for.”

She shuffled through the contents of the small refrigerator and emerged with a packet of Lorna Doone cookies and a bag of Raisinettes. How did she keep her weight under control? Maybe she didn’t do anxious eating often.

She ripped open the candy bag and offered him some.

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, right. Waiting for dinner.” She put a few raisins on the cookie and wolfed it down. “Where was I?”

“It was all good?”

“Yes. But just before we left New York, I called Dylan to tell him I was coming. And he was so happy about it. And I do want to see him again. So much. I’m afraid that going to New York was just running away from our problems. But maybe that’s fooling myself and I should let it go.”

“That’s a serious dilemma that many people—”

“It’s like sticking your tongue in a sore place on your cheek, you know? How you can’t leave it alone?”

“In my experience, after a breakup, there is a tendency to want a chance to revisit the relationship.”

“That’s from the ‘Love…the Ultimate Imbalance’ chapter in your book, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and—”

“But maybe until I say goodbye to Dylan, I can’t say hello to Mark. Does that make any sense?”

“That’s a possibility, but—”

“But I could be rationalizing. Except Dylan sounds so different. People can change, can’t they?”

He opened his mouth, but she kept going.

“I know. People are basically who they are. If Dylan is toxic to me, I’ll get my heart broken again.”

While she paused to prepare another raisin-topped cookie, he managed to say, “So, you’re concerned about how it will be to see him again?”

“Yeah and I know you’ll tell me not to sleep with him.” She took the cookie in one bite and washed it down with tea.

“If it distorts your sense of self and direction, then—”

“Don’t do it. Right.” She spilled the last of the cookies from their package onto the table and dunked one in the tea. “Except our best times were in bed, Dan. How will I know we’re over if I don’t sleep with him?”

He didn’t speak. What was the point? His role seemed to be sounding board and refreshment source.

“So I should use the willpower mantra from your book—‘Stop, challenge and decide’—when I’m with him, huh?”

He waited to be sure she actually wanted him to answer, then said, “And take your emotional pulse from time to time.”

“So I’ll get some self-control practice at least.”

“Sounds like it.” He resisted the urge to say more. She’d clearly decided what to do.

“Thanks, Dr. McAlister,” she said, emotion shining in her eyes. “I know, call you Dan, but this has been therapy, so I owe you a doctor or two, don’t you think?” She dunked the last cookie into the tea and inhaled it, then looked at her watch. “Sheesh. It’s dinnertime and I’m full.” She shook her head, then looked at him, sheepish now. “Do you mind if we do the media prep session in the morning? I kind of told Dylan we’d get together after dinner. If it’s all right with you and Kathleen.”

“Not a problem. I don’t think I’ll need help.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” Though right now, he’d prefer Rhonda’s chit-chat to another cranky encounter with Kathleen. Too bad she didn’t have an old boyfriend in Chicago to visit. Besides him.



THIS WAS RIDICULOUS, Kathleen thought, rushing around her suite after dinner refreshing the flowers and lighting new candles for Dan’s arrival. She was acting as though this was a date, not a disagreement.

But bustling kept her from stewing, which she did every time she thought about the section she’d practically memorized in Dan’s book.

She regretted being testy with Dan today. She needed to behave rationally if she expected to convince him that he was as much responsible for how crazy things got as she was. No matter what, she would not yell or make snide remarks…

Or threaten him with nail scissors.

Her heart thudded against her ribs as though it was doing the bunny hop on speed. What was going on here? Her desire for Dan and her anger at him were mixing dangerously, like the two parts of nitroglycerin—separately serene, but explosive together.

To enhance the moment and reduce her distress, she’d ordered a selection of desserts from room service, chilled drinks—champagne for her and flavored mineral water for him—put a soothing instrumental on her CD player and misted the room with lavender-rosemary for its calming effect.

For comfort, she wore her stretchiest T-shirt and a pair of jersey shorts so soft they felt like a second skin. How things felt—and smelled and tasted and sounded—meant everything to her. She’d been that way since childhood. Mostly since the accident. A memory she usually avoided. Being around Dan brought up lots of disturbing memories.

She’d been ten and her father had allowed her to ride her bike on the big street—usually against the rules, but he had a client coming and wanted a quiet house. She’d had a blast and felt so grown-up and adventurous riding over to her friend’s. On the way back, she’d misjudged a corner and been hit by a car.

Spinal damage caused much of her body to go numb. Her limbs felt the way an arm does when you sleep on it. Except without the tingles that promised life would return to the bloodless limb.

She would tell herself to lift her arm and watch it rise, but it didn’t feel like part of her. It was strange and surreal and terrifying. Especially because, at first, the doctors weren’t sure she would get the sensations back.

After three weeks, though, tingling started here and there—wisping along her nerves like an ice cube down the back. Her first real awareness was of the weight of a book her mother had braced on her stomach with a pillow. Kathleen had grabbed its edges, squeezed its corners, rubbed its smooth surface and burst into tears of relief.

She’d appreciated every moment of her recovery. It was as if someone had opened her up and poured new life into her.

After that, all sensations took on an unexpected vividness—the nothingness had made her appreciate every bodily reaction. Not just touch, but also taste and smell and sight and sound. In a way, the accident had set her on her life course.

It had done other things that weren’t so good—like led to her parents’ divorce—but she preferred to focus on the positives.

She hadn’t written about the accident in her column or any of her books. Unlike Dan, she didn’t feel compelled to confess painful seminal moments—not even disguised as a “young woman of my acquaintance.” Her philosophy stood strong and fine without explanation. Besides, the story was far too intimate.

She pushed away the memories and focused on displaying the desserts to their best advantage…much more satisfying than a walk down a mucky memory lane.





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