Книга - Cover Me

Cover Me
Stephanie Bond


I remember the day when my life began to spin out of control…Without going into too much detail, it was the day that a birthday cake, a very naughty gift, an incredible one-night stand and a "cover curse" at the magazine I work for all came together….Now I'm heading to Nowheresville, U.S.A., to man-sit Sam Long, the hunky veterinarian I slept with last night, all under the cover of a job assignment! How I'm supposed to maintain a professional distance at this point is totally beyond me! But my career (and his safety) depend upon it. Since I've never left New York City, I guess I should look at this as an adventure. I can only hope that while I'm out covering my job (and my boss's behind), someone will cover me. And if I play my cards right, that person might just be Sam….









“My name’s Sam. And you are?”


“Just leaving,” I said with a tight smile. It was for my own good. My friends had told me to make a play for the sandy-haired hunk, but it just wasn’t in me to pick up a man in a bar. The girls had bought me a drink for my birthday, given me a ridiculous gift and now it was time to follow their example and head home.

Even though Sam’s shiny brown bedroom eyes made the moisture evaporate from my mouth.

He seemed disappointed by my response, but accepting. “Well, nice almost meeting you.”

I gathered up my present and had turned to go when he called, “Hey. You forgot something.”

I turned back and, to my horror, saw him bending to retrieve the pink sheet of paper containing directions for my present, the “Make Your Own Dildo” kit. The subhead “The Only Set That Lets You Cast It from the Real Thing” seemed to jump off the page. I lunged for the paper, but Sam was too quick. When he lifted his gaze from the sheet, a mischievous smile curved his mouth and his eyes danced. “Looks like fun.”

Hmm. On second thought, maybe I did have one more birthday present coming to me.




Dear Reader,

It’s Harlequin Temptation’s twentieth birthday and we’re ready to do some celebrating. After all, we’re young, we’re legal (well, almost) and we’re old enough to get into trouble! Who could resist?

We’ve been publishing outstanding novels for the past twenty years, and there are many more where those came from. Don’t miss upcoming books by your favorite authors: Vicki Lewis Thompson, Kate Hoffmann, Kristine Rolofson, Jill Shalvis and Leslie Kelly. And Harlequin Temptation has always offered talented new authors to add to your collection. In the next few months look for stories from some of these exciting new finds: Emily McKay, Tanya Michaels, Cami Dalton and Mara Fox.

To celebrate our birthday, we’re bringing back one of our most popular miniseries, Editor’s Choice. Whenever we have a book that’s new, innovative, extraordinary, look for the Editor’s Choice flash. And the first one’s out this month! In Cover Me, talented Stephanie Bond tells the hilarious tale of a native New Yorker who finds herself out of her element and loving it. Written totally in the first person, Cover Me is a real treat. And don’t miss the rest of this month’s irresistible offerings—a naughty Wrong Bed book by Jill Shalvis, another installment of the True Blue Calhouns by Julie Kistler and a delightful Valentine tale by Kate Hoffmann.

So, come be a part of the next generation of Harlequin Temptation. We might be a little wild, but we’re having a whole lot of fun. And who knows—some of the thrill might rub off….

Enjoy,

Brenda Chin

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Temptation




Cover Me

Stephanie Bond







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




A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR…


I love “fish out of water” stories. There’s no better way to see the kind of stuff a person is made of than to plunk them into a situation where everything they believe to be true not only can’t help them, but sometimes can even get them into more trouble!

Meet Kenzie Mansfield, a label-conscious, career-minded city girl who has to temporarily relocate to a small town to thwart a magazine “cover curse.” Kenzie can handle just about anything—or so she thinks!

I hope you enjoy this story, written from Kenzie’s point of view as she deals with rural mishaps and tries to maintain a professional distance from the handsome veterinarian she is sent to keep an eye on. Too late, Kenzie realizes this cover assignment might leave her caught between her job and her heart!

Happy reading, and don’t forget to tell your friends about the wonderful romantic stories between the pages of Harlequin novels. Visit me at www.stephaniebond.com.

Much love and laughter,

Stephanie Bond


For Brenda Chin, a fearless editor who keeps raising the bar




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

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue




1


“I’M ALLERGIC to men,” I announced to my three girlfriends between forkfuls of my wickedly garlicky Caesar salad.

Being accustomed to my somewhat obscure proclamations, their vigorous chewing proceeded unchecked. I looked from face to face to see who would cave first. My gaze stopped on Denise and she gave me an eye roll. I could always count on Denise to nibble at my conversation tidbits, however begrudgingly.

“Okay, Kenzie, I’ll bite. Are you talking allergic in literal terms, or figurative?”

“Literal,” I declared. “I am physically allergic to the male gender.”

Cindy squinted. “Like ragweed?”

“Exactly.”

Jacki shook her head. “You are hopeless. You’re allergic to feathers, mold, pollen, dairy products, rubber and now men?”

“Don’t forget pet dander,” I said.

Jacki pointed with her fork. “Kenzie Mansfield, you are a hypochondriac.”

Admittedly, I was. My copy of Disease and Diagnosis was as dog-eared as were most women’s copies of Kama Sutra. At different times in my life, I had been sure I’d had an enlarged spleen, Tourette’s syndrome and a brain tumor. Even though those ailments had all been disproved by various and sundry tests, my extensive allergies were documented and real, so I clung to them.

“If I’m a hypochondriac, then you are delusional, Jacki,” I said defensively. “You with your theory of choosing men by the shoes they wear.”

Jacki bristled. “Hey, it worked for me. Ted and I have been going strong for two months. Plus Cindy and Denise have both met guys while testing my shoe theory.”

The girls nodded with enthusiasm, and I bit into my lip. I’d missed out on a lot of fun with my friends while working crazy-long hours at Personality magazine. They all had boyfriends with nice footwear. I had no boyfriend and seemed to be developing an itch that I suspected was a result of inadvertent contact with our burly Italian waiter.

Jacki gave me a censoring look. “Besides, my theory is simply an extension of human tastes. I never claimed it was scientific—unlike this cockamamie allergy hypothesis.”

“But me being allergic to men makes perfect sense,” I insisted. “Instead of being attracted by male pheromones, my body now goes haywire. My sinus passages close up, my skin gets all blotchy—both of which are medically recognized clinical reactions, by the way.”

Jacki was unmoved. “Did you develop this allergy before or after James dumped you?”

My back straightened. “I dumped James. But now I think my growing aversion to him was actually the onset of the man allergy.”

One of Jacki’s eyebrows shot up. “Personally, I think your growing aversion to James was the onset of sanity.”

“That, too,” I conceded. “But toward the end, I couldn’t bear the smell of him, even after a shower.” I wrinkled my nose. “And every time he came near me, my neck and chest got all blotchy.”

“Do the men you work with give you a reaction?” Denise asked, clearly humoring me, probably to aggravate Jacki.

But I’d given that topic some thought. “No, but most of the men I work with are gay—I don’t think they’re emitting pheromones directed at me.” I pulled a notebook from my purse and flipped through the pages. “For the past two weeks, I’ve been keeping track of my reaction to all men I come into close contact with—cab drivers, doormen, strangers on the elevator—and it seems that the more macho the guy, the more severe my reaction.”

Our handsome dark-haired waiter materialized to leave more bread at the table. He winked at me, and I clawed at the instant skin irritation that developed. He hurried away.

“See,” I said, extending the white underside of my arms, now red from scratching, as irrefutable proof of my rant.

My friends still seemed dubious.

“So, let me get this straight,” Jacki said. “You’re allergic to big, strong, alpha men?”

“Exactly.” I sank back into my chair, relieved that she finally understood.

Jacki nodded thoughtfully. “There is a name for what you’re describing.”

I did a double take. “There is?”

“It’s called being a lesbian.”

Denise and Cindy cracked up, but I wasn’t amused. I was, however, feeling a little desperate to explain myself. “Don’t you see? I’m always attracted to the same type of guy—big and physical—and those relationships have all been disasters. My body has obviously developed this allergy to protect me from my own urges. It’s nature’s way of telling me that I need to settle down with a nice, quiet, unsexy guy.”

The girls looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. If so, I hoped the new head had better hair than the first.

Then Jacki stabbed a chunk of romaine and scoffed. “I think you’re freaking out because your birthday is on Thursday and you don’t have a man in your life.”

My uterus contracted. “That’s ridiculous. I’m trying to explain what might be a revolutionary evolutionary concept. This development could change the human mating process as the world knows it!”

They stared.

“Besides, I forgot all about my birthday,” I lied.

In truth, turning thirty-one loomed more menacingly than any previous anniversary of moi. And the only explanation I had for the anxiety was that the year had flamed by so quickly, I was afraid to let it go. Since becoming an assistant to Helena Birch, editor-in-chief of Personality magazine, it seemed as if my unremarkable life was slipping through my worked-to-the-bone fingers. A typical day had me leaving my apartment in the dark and arriving home in the dark. If I was lucky, I got to see a sliver of daylight when I delivered towering stacks of reports to Helena’s office on the thirteenth floor of the Woolworth Building. (My own office was a closet off a dark hallway.) Today was the first time in eons that I’d had lunch with my friends at our favorite sidewalk café. My indoor arms were ghostly pale next to their sun-kissed limbs, and I had to wear sunglasses against the unfamiliar reflective glare from the sidewalk. My entire body was under assault from the sunshine. And the handsome waiter.

“Well, we didn’t forget your birthday,” Denise said. “We’re taking you to Fitzgerald’s if you can get away from the office Thursday at five.”

I conjured up a smile, already dreading that conversation with Helena. My boss was determined to make Personality magazine number one in our demographic (young professionals earning over $45,000 per annum who spend a disproportionate amount of income on clothing and cars). Just yesterday we’d learned that we had clawed our way from number nine to number seven in circulation. Good thing, too, because this morning when I’d stared glassily into the mirror brushing my teeth, it had appeared for one brief second as if my eyes were turning nocturnal pink—ergo my spontaneous lunch invitation to my gal pals: my social life simply had to improve. “I’ll be at Fitzgerald’s,” I promised.

Jacki smirked. “Good. But don’t forget your antihistamine, Kenzie, just in case you meet a man.”



BY THE TIME I had walked back to the Woolworth Building, I had arrived at two conclusions: (1) I felt certain my man allergy would steer me toward a durable guy, and (2) Helena wouldn’t fire me if I left early Thursday to celebrate my birthday with friends. Probably not. I’d been working like an android and sleeping with my pager. I had forgone lunches and evenings and weekends. I had turned Helena’s desk and schedule into an efficient, well-oiled machine. And maybe my belief that I was indispensable to my boss was more a product of my daylight-deprived mind than it was a reality. After all, equal parts of me were resentful and gleeful that Helena seemed to begin every sentence with the word Kenziewouldyou.

I opted for the stairs to extend my lunch hour a wee bit, then realized with a sparkle of alarm that my pager was dead. I trotted up the last two flights, telling myself that nothing dreadful could possibly have happened during my mere sixty-two-minute absence. But when I walked into the lobby of Personality, Helena stood in front of a cowering receptionist, flailing her thin arms.

Helena Birch had all the trappings of a superbitch editor-in-chief—she was tall and angular, with laser-blue eyes and a surgical tongue. She was an explosive genius and a social maven, unmarried and unapologetic. I had been duly terrified when I had interviewed for the position of her executive assistant, but strangely enough, we had clicked, and our relationship had grown to resemble what I imagined the bond with my ambitious, strong-willed mother might have been if she were still alive: I lived to please Helena and Helena lived to please no one.

The harried receptionist glanced up and pointed in my direction. “Here’s Kenzie now, Ms. Birch.”

Helena whirled. “Where have you been?”

I took a deep breath. “Helena, I told you I was going to meet friends for lunch.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “You did?”

“Yes.”

“Well…” She recovered and crossed her arms over a crisp periwinkle-blue Marie Gray jacket. “You didn’t answer my pages.”

As always, I was torn between anger and flattery. “My battery died. What do you need?”

I began walking toward her office, and she fell into step next to me, her hands agitated. “Something came up and I can’t make an appointment. I need you to go in my place.”

I perked up—cover for Helena? Until now, she’d never asked me to do more than cover her behind. I was momentarily dazzled by her confidence in me. “Sure, Helena, I’d be happy to.”

My mind spun with the possible exposure and what it could mean for my career. A Chamber of Commerce meeting? A symposium on periodicals at the Guggenheim? An advertising think tank? I was relieved I’d worn a decent suit and shoes—both a half-season old, but passable if I snagged a Hermès scarf from the prop department. “Just tell me where.”

Helena smiled, all congenial and girl-friendly now. “I can always count on you, Kenzie. I have everything ready for you in my office.”

My stride was instantly longer, my posture two inches taller, and I fought to control the giddy grin that threatened to burst over my face. Helena was finally making good on her promise to delegate visible assignments. If this one involved Donald Trump or the mayor, I’d simply have to endure my man allergy for the afternoon for the sake of my new assignment. A girl had to make sacrifices to get ahead.

Helena swung open the door to her office and I followed, but my elongated stride was cut short by the sight of the visitor sitting in Helena’s leather guest chair. A little dog covered with hair longer than mine sat on her pretty little haunches, took one look at me, and yawned. A bad feeling settled on top of my Caesar salad.

“This is Angel,” Helena sang, scooping up the pooch and bringing it close enough for me to see that the pink ribbon between its pointy little ears was silk. And Versace. “This is Kenzie,” Helena cooed to the dog.

The only thing that surpassed my surprise over seeing the frou-frou dog in Helena’s pristine office was the sound of my boss speaking in baby-talk. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“I bought her last night at a pet store on Fifty-Third. Isn’t she adorable?”

“Adorable,” I agreed.

“She’s a Yorkie, a former show dog,” Helena gushed. “Her ancestors belonged to royalty.”

“Ah.” I extended my hand for a trial stroke, and Angel emitted an un-angelic growl. I withdrew my hand.

Helena laughed. “Oh, she didn’t mean that—Angel is as tame as a stuffed animal. She just needs to get to know you better. By the time you get back from Tatum’s the two of you will be fast friends.”

I stared at the creature that resembled a miniature version of Cousin It from the “Addams Family.” “This—” I swallowed and started again. “This is the appointment you can’t make?”

“Uh-huh,” Helena said ruefully. “I just got a thank-you call from the mayor’s office about the public service ads we ran last month on tourism—they want to get a handshake picture, and of course I couldn’t say no. But Angel has an appointment at Tatum’s, the most exclusive grooming salon in the city, and if I miss this appointment, they’ll blacklist her.”

I’d lived in Manhattan long enough to know that those things did happen—even the animals here had a social circle. Still, as far as executive assistant duties went, dog-sitting went a little beyond the normal tasks of picking up the dry cleaning, getting theater tickets and making dinner reservations. “Helena, I’m not a concierge. You said you were going to give me an assignment that would make a difference in my career.”

Helena nodded. “You’re so right, Kenzie, and I promise the next big assignment that crosses my desk will be yours. Just do me this one teensy favor.”

I looked at the little mutt and groaned inwardly. “But I’m allergic to pet dander.”

“I’ll owe you one,” Helena said in her most cajoling voice.

I sighed. “In that case, I’d like to leave the office early on Thursday.”

She pursed her perfectly penciled mouth. “How early?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“I mean…it’s a deal.” Helena recovered with a magnanimous smile, then shoved Angel into my arms.




2


“SO WHAT did you have to do to get out of the office early?” Jacki asked me over the top of our sweet and sour margaritas. Over the past couple of years, my girlfriends and I had gone through a martini phase and a Cosmopolitan phase and now were back to good old tequila…although we had graduated to El Tesoro Platinum. Olé.

I didn’t want to admit to the girls that I’d been reduced to a dog valet (simply thinking about the horrid afternoon at the pet salon made me flinch), so I shrugged. “Helena isn’t as evil as everyone thinks. She has a soft spot.” For her pooch, I didn’t add. When I’d delivered news from the groomer that Helena should consider having Angel’s wings (i.e., ovaries) clipped, my boss had been outraged. I suspected her reluctance to fix Angel had something to do with Helena’s own well-publicized struggle with the onset of menopause.

And I promised myself this would be the last time I would defend my boss until the career-altering project she promised materialized. In truth, a festering resentment against Helena had been building inside me all week, and today I was feeling defiant of her and of life in general. I was thirty-one, and Thirty-One Candles was not the title of a movie because, as birthdays go, it was an unremarkable milestone. But I was decidedly restless and looking to be liberated from my six-month career marathon. Plus tequila always made me a tad horny. Olé.

I did a slow scan of the bar—between the regrettable one-year stint with my ex James and my new job, I’d been off the market for a while. Among the sea of faces, a boyish grin caught my eye. A sandy-haired man was chatting with the bartender and tossing back a handful of nuts. He looked out of place—woodsy almost, with his L. L. Bean T-shirt (I knew T-shirts) and sunburned cheeks. That was no tanning salon tan. He seemed to be comfortably alone—no guy (or girl) friends on the periphery, and he wasn’t looking up every few seconds to see if anyone was on the make.

Like me, for instance.

“So how’s your man allergy?” Cindy asked, jarring me out of my reverie.

Darn, I’d almost forgotten. “Active,” I murmured, realizing that the man at the bar was just the kind of guy I normally went for. Which meant he’d probably throw my body into metabolic chaos.

“Don’t tell me you’re still hanging on to that pitiful excuse for not meeting men?” Jacki said.

“I’m telling you, it’s for real,” I insisted. “And it’s for my own good.”

“Well, you’re going to have to risk an outbreak,” Denise said, then exchanged devilish grins with Cindy and Jacki. “At least for one night.”

I squinted. “What are you three up to?”

“Happy Birthday,” Denise shouted, then plopped a gaily wrapped package onto the table. “It’s from all of us.”

“You shouldn’t have,” I said, but I welled with pleasure.

In my lifetime I had experienced a high rate of friend turnover because I and everyone I knew seemed to be in perpetual motion—every apartment and every job seemed eerily temporary, a pit stop to somewhere potentially more fulfilling. I had met Denise, Jacki and Cindy when we all worked for a textbook publisher over four years ago. From there our careers had taken different paths, but we had managed to stay in touch. I treasured the low-maintenance, high-gossip bond I shared with these three women.

I dutifully read the humorous card, then tore into the package thinking jewelry! Perfume! Handbag! The girls always knew just the right gift.

When the paper revealed a description of the box contents, however, I decided they must have run out of good ideas. “A Make Your Own Dildo kit?”

“Isn’t it great?” Denise asked, squealing.

I stared at the box, which portrayed a woman from the waist up. Her hands were out of sight, and she looked pleased with herself. “M-make my own? I’m not much of an artist.”

Jacki scoffed. “You don’t sculpt the dildo—you make a cast.”

“From what?”

“From the real thing, silly.”

I gaped. “You mean…?”

They all screamed with laughter, nodding. “Since you’re allergic to sexy men,” Jacki said dryly, “we thought we’d buy you something that would kill two birds with one stone.”

“First,” Denise said, “you find a hot one-night stand who’s willing to be commemorated in silicone.”

“Then,” Cindy continued, “you’ll have Mr. Hot and Sexy’s likeness to keep you company when you find Mr. Nice and Unsexy to settle down with.”

Although their words made tequila-hazy sense, there was an error in their collective logic that I felt compelled to point out. “I’ve never had a one-night stand.”

“Well, Kenzie,” Jacki said, lifting her glass, “you’re not getting any younger.”

I was prevented from answering by the appearance of one of the most horrific sights a woman can imagine—a small cake ablaze with what appeared to be the correct number of candles. My friends burst into an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and I felt the eyes of everyone in the bar turn my way while a few tipsy bystanders chimed in. I hid the dildo kit on my lap, thinking maybe I could donate it to the Goodwill store in the red-light district.

The poor waitress nearly set her crop-top on fire as she parked the torch on our table. Since I was already light-headed, I inhaled as deeply as I dared and managed to blow out most of the candles. Cheers sounded all over the bar.

My cheeks burned as I glanced around with a smile to simultaneously thank the strangers for their attention and apologize for the interruption. At the bar, the sandy-haired nut-eating guy had turned his engaging grin in my direction. My own smile went all watery, and when I realized that I was making way too much eye contact, I wrenched my gaze away.

But Jacki had noticed. “Quarry spotted, girls—Eagle Scout, two o’clock.”

Before I could tell them not to look, they all had twisted in their seats. I sank lower in mine.

“He’s perfect,” Denise oozed.

“And he’s looking at you, Kenzie.” Cindy fluttered her hands.

I closed my eyes briefly. “Because he hasn’t seen this kind of spectacle since sixth grade.” I picked up a table knife. “Why don’t I cut the cake?” Or an artery.

Thankfully, butter-cream icing diverted the girls’ attention. I cut wedges of the yellow cake and passed them all around, and there were a few extra slices for spectators who eyed the free food like starving coyotes.

I ate the cake with my hands and savored the fats and sugars that sang to my tastebuds—despite my best dietary intentions, I had a vigorous sweet tooth. I was licking the icing off my fingers when I realized that if the guy at the bar was watching, he’d think my manners were wanting…or that finger-licking was my method of bewitching a man into asking me out. My eyeballs hurt from the strain of not looking back to see if he was looking back to see if I was looking back to see if he was looking back at me, but I had discipline. I had devoured only one piece of cake, hadn’t I?

I pushed the man from my thoughts and ordered us all another round of drinks. For the next hour, the girls and I dished about work and music and movies, agreeing that recycled office air was ravaging our skin, Josh Groban was the best thing that had happened to serious music in a long time, and The Thomas Crowne Affair was the sexiest movie of all time. Once or twice I accidentally glanced toward the bar and noticed that Eagle Scout was still there. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave, lingering over a steak and watching a sports channel on the TV over the bar. Something about the casual, athletic way he held his body spoke to me. I told myself a guy who looked that good had to be taken.

On the other hand, I wasn’t chopped liver, and I was sleeping alone.

At that precise moment, he looked up and caught me staring. A hint of a smile curved his mouth and my heart went kaboom. I had never been so instantly and unjustifiably attracted to a man, so I blamed it on the alcohol coursing through my bloodstream and the urge to be disobedient on my birthday. I readied my most flirtatious smile, then was assailed by a violent itch on my neck that reminded me why I was still single at thirty-one—I kept picking the same kind of guy.

So I pretended to be looking at something behind the guy’s broad shoulder, and rejoined my friends’ conversation about the best long-lasting lipstick.

“We did a piece last month on a lady in Boston who specializes in cosmetic tattooing,” I offered. “Permanent lip-liner, beauty marks, even eyebrows.”

Everyone paused in consideration, then winced and shook their heads. I agreed, but I wondered if I’d warm up to the idea of permanent makeup a few birthday candles down the road.

When Jacki glanced at her watch, I realized that she probably had plans with Ted later and that I should wrap things up and let her off the hook.

“Thanks for everything, girls.” I glanced around at the women who had been constants in my life for over four years and felt a mushy mood coming on.

“Open the dildo kit before we leave,” Denise urged.

The mushy mood vanished. “Here?”

“Just the directions,” Cindy said. “I’m dying to know how this thing works.”

Not wanting to seem unappreciative, I set the box on the table and, while covering as much of the wording as possible, broke the seal with my thumbnail. I raised the lid a couple of inches and studied the innocuous looking white containers and cardboard cylinder. It had all the trappings of a science project. I withdrew a pink sheet of paper with the ominous words Before Making Your Dildo, Read These Directions Carefully printed across the top.

The girls huddled close, and I was reminded of the time in fourth grade when I’d stolen the insert from my mother’s box of tampons and scoured it with a friend on the school bus. In a low voice, I read the step-by-step instructions to mix the casting agent with tap water, pour the mixture into the cardboard cylinder that was closed at one end, then have the properly prepped “caster” insert his member into the cylinder, and the casting agent would harden almost instantly, creating a perfect cast when he withdrew. The final step was to fill the cast with tinted silicone, let it set for two hours, then pop out the replica dildo and “enjoy.”

While the girls hugged themselves with laughter, I scanned the rest of the directions. After “enjoying,” the dildo could be cleaned by placing it in the top rack of the dishwasher. Olé.

“This is going to be great,” Jacki said, nodding. “You have to promise to show us the end product.”

I shrugged. “Sure, but I have to warn you—I don’t see any ‘casting’ parties in my near future.”

“I don’t know,” Denise sang. “The guy at the bar is still looking over here.”

I refused to look, but I couldn’t hold back a frivolous smile. “Really?”

“But if you’re going to have a one-night stand,” Jacki said, “you have to know the ground rules.”

“I’m not having a one-night stand,” I insisted, shaking my head. Then I squinted. “There are ground rules?”

Jacki nodded. “You have to let a friend know who you’ll be with.”

“That’s so if you’re strangled, we’ll be able to give the police a description,” Cindy added solemnly.

“Ah.”

“But don’t worry—I could describe him with my eyes closed,” Denise said, then closed her eyes. “Brown hair, chinos, T-shirt, cowboy hat.” She opened her eyes. “How’d I do?”

“You got the T-shirt right,” I offered.

Denise frowned and twisted for another steely observation. “Damn, why did I think he was wearing a cowboy hat?”

“Because he has that look,” Jacki said. “Like he might lasso something.” She looked at me. “Or someone.”

I scratched. “This is not going to happen.”

“Don’t take him back to your place, and don’t go to his,” Cindy said.

“Right,” Denise added. “It has to be somewhere safe and neutral—like a hotel room.”

“That way he won’t know where you live.”

“Oh, and lie about where you work, in case he’s a stalker.”

“And don’t give him your real last name.”

“Or your real phone number.”

I was dizzy from looking back and forth. “Let me get this straight—assuming the man and I have a conversation before falling into bed, I’m supposed to tell him a pack of lies?”

“Right,” Denise said.

“Is he allowed to talk?”

“Sure,” Jacki said. “But assume he’s lying, too.”

“And if you spend the night, leave before he wakes up,” Denise said.

“That way you can avoid the whole awkward morning-after scene,” Cindy said.

“Although leaving something for him to remember you by is a nice touch,” Jacki added. “I once left an earring.”

“The little rose from my bra,” Cindy said dreamily.

“A garter belt,” Denise admitted.

I laughed, incredulous. “If it’s so much work, why bother?”

“Good sex,” Jacki said.

“Great sex,” Cindy said.

“Fabulous sex,” Denise said. “It’s very liberating to get down and dirty with someone you’ll never see again.”

“Right,” Jacki said. “Sex with someone you love is the best, but sex with a stranger is right up there near the top of the list.”

“It’s kind of like being a man for one night,” Cindy said. “Having great sex with no emotional attachment, no strings.”

They were all nodding, and I felt ridiculously left out. A liberating experience might be just what I needed to mark an unremarkable birthday. I glanced toward the bar and the sandy-haired guy was still there, watching TV and sprawled loosely in his chair. I felt myself begin to salivate. Of course, entertaining a naughty thought was one thing—acting upon it was something else entirely. Segues had always been a problem for me. I didn’t mind taking chances, but I could never seem to do it elegantly.

“Assuming I were to have a conversation with the guy, and assuming that he’s available and willing to have a one-night stand—” I ignored the round of snorts “—how does one broach the subject of making a cast of a man’s penis?”

Jacki shrugged. “A man is always looking for an interesting place to put it.”

“Yeah,” Cindy said. “Tell him he’ll be immortalized in silicone, and try to stop him from poking into that plaster.”

“Or,” Denise added, pointing to the sheet of paper I held, “just show him the directions and ask him if it looks like fun.”

Jacki glanced at her watch. “I have to take off. Cindy, Denise, want to share a cab?”

“Sure,” they said in unison, and reached for their purses.

“I’m not staying here alone,” I cried, scrambling to gather dildo kit, card, gift-wrap debris and my own bag.

Jacki made a protesting noise. “Kenzie, he isn’t going to talk to you if we’re in a huddle. Goodbye.” The girls waved and strode toward the door.

I glanced in the direction of the bar and the guy seemed to have noticed the commotion. He leaned forward slightly, as if he was trying to decide whether to make his move. I panicked and stood to follow my friends. But when I hit my feet, the tequila hit my adenoids and sent an air bubble to my brain. I grabbed for the table, and all my belongings fell to the floor. Something heavy hit my shoe, but I was too light-headed to do more than wince. Slowly the sparkly feeling subsided and I blinked the Eagle Scout into view. If anything, he was even nicer looking up close.

“Are you all right?” he asked in a warm, husky voice.

Thick hair the color of antique brass, wide cheekbones, sun-bleached eyebrows…and shiny brown bedroom eyes. The moisture evaporated from my mouth, and pure desire bolted through me. “I…yes.”

He flashed that killer smile, and my knees turned to elastic. At the same time, we bent to gather my wayward items. Thank heavens the dildo kit box had landed facedown, but its contents—canisters of the casting agent and the silicone—had rolled away. He retrieved them with long, tanned arms, and handed them to me. When our fingers touched, my heart raced, and my ears rang like wedding—er, church bells. Spending time with this man would be hazardous to my plan of finding a nice unsexy guy to settle down with. I was already half in love with him and I didn’t even know his name.

While covering the words on the box, I stuffed the canisters inside and stood, trying to act as nonchalantly as possible. “Thank you, um—”

“Sam,” he said.

Nice name. “Thank you. Sam.” His friendly eyes held an invitation that promised to have me on an antihistamine drip.

“And you are?”

“Just leaving,” I said with a tight smile. It was for my own good.

“Oh.” He seemed disappointed, but accepting. “Well…happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“Nice almost meeting you.”

I experienced a pang of regret because the man emanated sexual vibes that my body honed in on. “Nice almost meeting you, too.”

I turned to go, telling myself I might meet my nice unsexy settling-down guy while I waited for a cab.

“Hey,” he called. “You forgot something.”

I turned back and, to my horror, saw him bending to retrieve the pink sheet of paper with the Make Your Own Dildo directions written on it. The subhead—The Only Kit That Lets You Cast It from the Real Thing—seemed to jump off the page. I lunged for the paper, but Sam was too quick for my tequila-diluted mobility. When he lifted his gaze from the sheet, a mischievous smile curved his mouth and his eyes danced. “Looks like fun.”

Desire gripped me and I mentally reviewed the ground rules for a one-night stand. Olé.




3


WHEN I JERKED AWAKE, sunlight was streaming through the crack in the curtains of the hotel room and Sam’s warm breath bathed my shoulder blade. I enjoyed two seconds of blissful afterglow until panic seized me like a giant hand, squeezing the air out of my lungs. What time was it? I bolted upright and a tiny tequila bomb exploded inside my head. I carefully raked the hair out of my eyes, searching for a clock. Next to me, Sam moaned and reached out an arm—presumably for me. I put a pillow under his hand, and he seemed content to pull it close and fall back into a dead sleep.

So much for being irreplaceable.

Holding my head, I left the bed, trying not to disturb him, and trying not to shriek in my mounting fear that I was probably late for work. The air-conditioner vent was blowing like an arctic breeze—I was naked and freezing and my thigh muscles screamed from overuse as I limped around the room looking for my watch, my underwear and my mind. What had I been thinking to spend the night with a stranger in his hotel room? I felt like a…dirty girl.

I found my watch on a table under a pile of clothes, and nearly swallowed my tongue—I had ten minutes to dress and get to work on time. Helena would have my head.

I scooped up the pile of clothes and my bag that doubled as briefcase and purse, then sprinted into the bathroom, closing the door behind me before flipping on the light. I stared blinking into the mirror, horrified at my reflection—my blond hair stood on end and my eyes were mascara-rimmed. Worse, with my kiss-swollen mouth and heavy-lidded eyes, I looked as if I’d just had the best night of sex in my life.

Which was true.

Except my swollen lips and heavy eyes were actually manifestations of the allergic reaction that had claimed my body—they perfectly complemented the hives raised on my neck and chest. I was allergic to big Sam, big time.

While I ran enough water in the sink for a quick wash up, I tried not to dwell on the image of Sam’s bronze body wrapped around mine, and the amazing things he’d done to me. Granted, not dwelling was easier said than done considering that sitting on the sink vanity was the cardboard cylinder that held the cast we’d made of Sam’s…you know. Hardened flesh-colored silicone seeped from the end of the cast impression, and I was dying to see how the dildo had turned out, but getting ready for work took priority.

I downed aspirin from my handbag and willed it to kick in quickly. With soap and a washcloth, I gave my body a quick once-over, then rummaged in Sam’s leather toiletry bag for deodorant. The sporty scent might raise a few eyebrows, but it was better than the alternative. I pulled makeup basics from my purse, and applied it all in record time, then squirted perfume on my wrists. The hives were itching like crazy, but I knew scratching would only make them worse.

I pulled my haphazard hair back into a twist and secured it with the only clasp I could find in my purse—a banker’s clip. It would have to do until I could grab something from the prop room at work. Then I sorted through the clothes with dread in my stomach. If I showed up wearing the same clothes I’d worn yesterday, I might as well wear a sign that read I Got Laid Last Night. I opted not to wear the same pair of panties, reckoning that my pantyhose would be enough of a barrier between me and my slacks for decency’s sake. But my blouse was stained with makeup from yanking it over my head last night, and I hadn’t worn a jacket.

I eyed the closet next to the shower and peeked inside to find a beautiful tan-colored suit, white dress shirt, and geometric tie hanging under plastic. I was surprised because Sam didn’t seem like the suit type—he’d told me he was a doctor visiting from out of town, but hadn’t Jacki said to assume he was lying? I had certainly lied, as instructed, including telling him my last name was Moore.

With murmured apologies, I slid the dress shirt from the plastic, shrugged into it, rolled up the sleeves, secured it wrap-style, and tucked it inside my navy slacks. I used the geometric tie as a belt, then glanced into the mirror. Not bad for a ten-minute session—as long as no one looked too closely.

I stuffed my makeup bag, blouse and panties into my bag and prepared to dash out the door when I remembered the “cast.” Since I’d never see Sam again, I was definitely taking that souvenir with me. But when I hefted the cardboard cylinder that held the hardened cast, I realized it was too heavy to lug around and would take up too much room in my bag. So I slipped my fingers under the mound of silicone at the base of the cast, and after a couple of tugs, pulled out the dildo with a pop.

I gasped. Granted, the kit had said the dildo would be lifelike, but…damn. It was indeed an exact replica of Sam’s finest physical asset. A splendid springy, firm, flesh-colored replica that brought tingly memories flooding back to various parts of my body. I had lucked out when I’d chosen Sam as the “caster.” This baby was going on display in my china cabinet.

After a couple of appreciative strokes, I shoved the homemade dildo into my bag, flipped off the light, and opened the door as quietly as I could. In the semidarkness, Sam was still snuggled up to the pillow. I conceded a stab of desire just looking at his long lean body in the twisted sheets. The chemistry between us had been magical, but I knew that the intensity of our lovemaking had more to do with the fact that we’d never see each other again than with any kind of kismet. Besides, the unbearable itching on my chest was proof enough that my body would be in a constant state of chaos if I spent any time at all with the man.

Still…the romantic in me wanted to believe that our one-night stand was better than any one-night stand in history. I had the overwhelming urge to push the hair off his forehead and kiss him goodbye, but gave myself a mental shake. I did, however, recall what Jacki said about leaving a memento. I needed my earrings to look halfway put together, my bra didn’t have an embroidered flower, and I didn’t own a garter belt.

But in my bag I had a pair of pink imported French panties that had held Sam’s attention for quite a while before he’d removed them with his teeth. The expensive un-dies seemed like a fair trade for the dress shirt.

I dropped the panties on the side of the bed I’d slept on, glanced around to make sure I had my belongings, and walked to the door as soundlessly as I could. I looked back at Sam’s sleeping form and experienced a twinge of regret that I hadn’t shared enough information about myself or found out enough about him for us ever to connect again. And even though it was probably against the rules, I blew him a wistful kiss.

I wasn’t very good at this one-night-stand business.

And I was late for work. I took the elevator to the lobby and dashed through it with my head down, sure that everyone knew what I’d done. I walked faster and faster, which only brought into play more and more muscles that I’d overworked last night and aggravated my booming headache. And apparently Sam liked heavy starch—the collar of his shirt chafed my neck, and the fabric was wreaking havoc on my hives. Some part of me, though, felt as if I deserved to be miserable after what I’d done. Mind you, I’m not a virginal prude, but deep down I still wanted to believe that sex was a special, intimate experience with emotional fallout. To realize that I had so enjoyed the purely physical encounter left me questioning what I knew to be true about myself.

I hailed a cab and slid into the lobby of the Woolworth Building a mere fifteen minutes late, but I felt as though the day had started without me. My nerves clanged and I wondered what Helena had manufactured for me to do today to make up for the fact that I’d left early yesterday. Fridays were notoriously busy so that those who would be working over the weekend could get the assignments that they had to complete for Monday morning. I wasn’t surprised when I walked into my closet-office to the tune of my phone ringing.

I set my bag on my desk and yanked up the receiver. “Kenzie Mansfield.”

“Well?” Jacki asked.

One side of my mouth slid back. “Well, what?”

“Well, how was the Eagle Scout?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have left you that message.”

“It was the safe thing to do. Did you spend the night?”

I sighed. “Yes.”

“And how was it?”

“Great,” I admitted.

“You don’t sound too excited. Did he refuse to be cast?”

I glanced toward my bag where the lifelike dildo resided. “Uh, no, he was…up for the job.”

“And?”

“And it worked perfectly.”

“I’m going to order a kit for me and Ted as soon as I hang up.” She paused. “Why are you so glum—was he…petite?”

I laughed and dropped into my chair. “No, he was not petite. I’m just feeling out of sorts. My head is hammering, I woke up too late to go back to my apartment, I had to wear his shirt to the office—”

“You weren’t supposed to talk to him this morning!”

“I didn’t.”

“You stole the guy’s shirt?”

I mourned my pink Lejaby panties. “More like traded for it. Anyway…I don’t know, Jacki, it was really weird to sleep with this guy and just get up and leave, knowing I’ll never see him again.”

“Maybe you will run into him again.”

“He said he’s from out of town.”

“He probably lied. For all you know, he could work in the mailroom of your building.”

“Running into him would be even worse. How awkward would that be?”

“Pretty awkward if he has you arrested for stealing his shirt. Wait a minute—do you have feelings for this guy?”

I blinked. “No—unless itchy feelings count. I have hives.”

“That sounds attractive.”

“Let’s just say I don’t think I’ll be having any more one-night stands.” I fiddled with one of the buttons on Sam’s shirt. “I guess I want what you have with Ted.”

“And you’ll find it,” Jacki said. “Last night was just an exercise to jumpstart your social life.”

“I hope you’re right,” I mumbled.

“And look on the bright side—you have the guy’s silicone portrait to remember him by.”

I was minutely cheered. “I have to admit it’s one beautiful dildo.”

A shadow darkened my door and I looked up to see Helena standing there, holding a stack of file folders. Wondering how much she’d heard, I fixed my face into a serious expression and adopted a professional tone to pretend I was on a business call. “I’ll have to look into that and get back to you later.” I hung up, made a bogus note on scratch paper, then turned a sunny smile toward my boss. “Good morning.”

“You’re late.”

“I…was caught in traffic. Sorry.”

Helena squinted. “Is that a banker’s clip in your hair?”

I stood and pointed to the files. “Something I can take off your hands?”

Helena gave me a suspicious look, then nodded and handed me the files. “Could you please take a look at these circulation reports and have a summary for me by this afternoon?”

I blinked because I didn’t realize the word please was in Helena’s vocabulary. “Sure, I’ll have a report for you ASAP.”

Helena started to go, then turned back. “Kenzie, did you enjoy your time off yesterday?”

I smiled at her cordial tone. “Yes, I did.”

“Is there anything you’d like to…share?”

My throat constricted. Was it that obvious that I’d recently crawled out of a strange bed and sponged the sex off my body before donning stolen clothes and sliding into the office late? “I…no.”

She gave me another wary once-over, then turned and strode away. I was shaking when I rummaged in my desk drawer for an antihistamine tablet. Helena could be a demanding boss, but I admired her and wanted her respect. I didn’t have to consult a shrink to know that I had some kind of maternal projection complex where the woman was concerned. On the other hand, having a moral compass in one’s life wasn’t such a terrible thing.

I was a bad, bad girl.

But I’d had a good, good time.

In fact, I could still feel Sam’s hands on my body, the rough texture of the calluses on his broad fingers—one of the reasons I’d doubted his story about being a doctor, although I couldn’t argue on the subject of his dexterity. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to relive his kisses and his attention to detail—James had never made love to me like that.

Of course, James and I had never had a one-night stand. Maybe men simply performed better during one-night stands without the pressure of a repeat performance hanging over their heads. In fact, there was probably a woman out there who’d had a one-night stand with James and sat in her office with her eyes closed, fantasizing about his freakishly small hands.

Or maybe not.

The break room was on the other end of the department, but I dragged myself over there to fill a huge insulated mug with strong, hot coffee. The milk container in the mini-fridge was empty, so I braved the brew straight. My spirits lifted, though, when I spotted a lone powdered sugar doughnut on a plate. My stomach howled and I wondered if Sam had ordered room service.

“What are you smiling about?”

I turned to see April Bromley coming into the room, smothering a yawn. My hackles raised. April was the executive assistant to the creative director, Ron Castle, and she was always trying to usurp what scrap of authority I had. She was a dark, exotic goddess and was not above using her considerable curves to further her ambitions. We didn’t like each other, and we didn’t hide it.

“I’m smiling because I love my job,” I said sweetly.

“So do I,” she returned just as sweetly. “But I could never do your job, Kenzie—I don’t like dogs.”

A flush climbed my face as a triumphant smile crawled over hers. Apparently word of my stint as a dog-sitter had reached the water cooler.

April grabbed the doughnut I’d had my eye on, took a bite, and shrugged prettily. “I need energy for the meeting that Ron asked me to sit in on this morning. If we need any copies made during the meeting, I’m sure Helena will buzz you.”

I looked for something to buzz her with, but she’d already flounced out. Ooh! That woman knew how to push my buttons, knew that Helena never invited me to sit in on the creative meetings. And since I had to write that summary report, this morning didn’t seem like a good time to hint for an invitation.

That’s why I was shocked when about thirty minutes later, while I was elbow-deep in circulation reports, Helena called and asked me to sit in on the creative meeting.

“You’re one of my most valued employees, Kenzie. It’s time that you became familiar with what the other departments are doing.”

So Helena was feeling guilty about the dog-sitting gig—good. I could only imagine the look on April’s face when I walked into the meeting, but I tried to keep the elation out of my voice and still sound conscientious. “What’s on the agenda?”

“Ron is finalizing the cover for an upcoming issue.”

A sore spot with Helena—after several incarnations, she still wasn’t happy with the cover look for Personality. From my perspective, finalizing a cover was one of the more interesting steps in producing a weekly news magazine. Still, I manufactured a thoughtful noise. “That sounds great, but I’d like to finish the summary report first.”

“Oh.”

Helena was caught off guard—she thought I’d be frothing at the mouth to join the meeting. I was, but she didn’t have to know that.

“The meeting will last until noon. Join us in the west boardroom when you can.”

“I will.” I hung up the phone feeling pretty pleased with myself and at least a birthday wiser. Helena was definitely treating me differently today. Maybe last night had been a turning point for me—a bon voyage of sorts to my immature fantasy of what the world was like. Goodbye multiple orgasms, hello functional sex. So long French panties, hello sensible underwear. It was time to advance my career, and find a marriageable man.

I suddenly felt very grown-up.

I pulled out my Palm Pilot and called up my to-do list for the following Monday. Using the stylus, I wrote “Start looking for a nice guy” on the screen, then stabbed the tiny enter button as ardently as possible, breaking a nail. Still, I was resolute.

I finished the reports five minutes before the meeting started, but I decided to wait another fifteen minutes before making my entrance. I lifted the lapel of Sam’s shirt and was happy to see that the hives had all but disappeared. After refilling my drum of black coffee, I gathered a fresh pad of paper and a pen, and walked to the meeting room.

A hum of voices floated through the closed door. I checked my clothing and smoothed a hand over my hair. My heartbeat was clicking away, and I prayed I could make at least one intelligent remark over the course of the meeting. I twisted the doorknob and entered as quietly as possible (I was doing a lot of sneaking in and out of rooms today), taking mental stock of the attendees—Helena, Ron Castle, April and a dozen others from production, photography, editorial and marketing. I claimed the closest empty chair, tucking myself in and turning toward the speaker, Ron.

He paused and gave me an inquisitive look akin to “What are you doing here?” A flush scorched my cheeks as all eyes landed on me. April smirked.

“Everyone knows my assistant, Kenzie Mansfield,” Helena spoke up. “I asked Kenzie to sit in because I’d like to begin exposing her to more activities in various departments.”

I circulated a respectful smile, stopping short of April, then Ron picked up where he’d left off.

“As I was saying, I think the hometown hero issue is going to be a big success in terms of attracting new readers—high-earning blue-collar workers who might not normally pick up a copy of Personality will be attracted by the all-American appeal of this issue.”

“The advertising department is on board,” offered Nita, the marketing manager. “Banks, insurance companies and car manufacturers are lining up for this issue.”

“The difficult part,” Ron continued, “was finding just the right person for the cover.” Then he smiled. “But I think we’ve found a winner—a volunteer firefighter from Jar Hollow, New York.”

“Where’s that?” Helena asked.

“It’s a speck of a town between Albany and Syracuse, genuine mom-and-pop stuff. This guy rushed into a nursing home fire and saved a dozen patients.”

Nathan from production snapped his fingers. “I heard about him on TV—the governor’s giving him some kind of medal.”

“The governor offered,” Ron corrected, “but the guy wouldn’t accept it. Said he was just doing what any American would do.”

“He sounds perfect,” Helena said. “Tell me he’s marginally photogenic.”

Ron glanced at his watch. “I’ll let you judge for yourself if he ever gets here. April, could you run down and check with the receptionist to see if Mr. Long has arrived? And while you’re at it, could you make an extra copy of the agenda for Kenzie?”

I wanted to cackle, but I schooled my face into a sedate expression. April’s eyes shot daggers in my direction, but she skedaddled like a good little go-fer.

“We’ll have some convincing to do,” Ron said. “This Long guy isn’t keen on all the attention he’s been getting.”

“Nonsense,” Helena snapped. “Everyone likes attention. He’ll do it.”

Since everyone knew Helena got whatever she wanted, the matter seemed closed. Ron and the marketing director then passed around alternative layouts for the upcoming issue.

“I think the configuration with fewer words is cleaner,” Ron said.

“It really makes the cover image pop,” Nita added.

Helena studied the new look, then slid the mock-up in my direction. “Kenzie, what do you think?”

The silence was profound, although no one in the room was more surprised by her question than I. Still, the fact that it was the first time I’d been asked in a public forum for my opinion did not mean that I hadn’t been saving up. I took a deep breath.

“The more words, the better—it makes the buyer feel as if there’s a lot of content. Mix up the fonts and colors to entertain the customer’s eye, but reduce the font size of the price so it seems insignificant. Using multiple colors for the magazine title would be a nice change of pace—maybe red, white and blue for this issue. Adopting an exclamation mark at the end of the magazine title could be an effective visual cue. And an occasional short-fold cover would be an attention-getter, not to mention adding premium space for advertisers.”

I exhaled into the hush of the room, but as I glanced from one bemused face to another, I fervently wished for a rewind button. “Or not,” I murmured.

The door opened, and as much as I disliked April, I was glad for her timely return.

“I found our cover model,” she gushed. “Everyone, this is Mr. Samuel Long.”

A well-suited man with hair the color of antique brass stepped in the room and flashed an engaging grin. My vital signs stalled. It couldn’t be.

Oh. But. It. Was.




4


“WELCOME, Mr. Long,” Helena said, standing and extending her hand. “I’m Helena Birch, editor-in-chief here at Personality.”

“Actually, it’s Dr. Long,” Sam said with no trace of conceit. Indeed, he seemed a bit flustered by all the attention. “I apologize for the delay—I’m afraid I had a bit of a wardrobe predicament this morning.”

It was then that his gaze landed on me. I knew my eyes were as big as Ping-Pong balls, so I was thankful that he had the presence of mind not to say, “Hey, look, it’s my one-night stand.” A slight lift of his eyebrow was the only indication that he recognized me. Was that amusement in his eyes? Then his gaze lowered to my shirt—er, make that his shirt.

“A wardrobe predicament?” April tossed her hair. “Nonsense—you look terrific.”

I frowned. Down, girl. Indeed, Sam had compensated rather nicely for his missing dress shirt. Underneath his creamy tan-colored suit, he wore a brown L. L. Bean T-shirt (I knew T-shirts). He pulled his gaze away from our shirt and gave April a little smile. “Thank you. If I’ve learned nothing else from being a small-town veterinarian, I’ve learned how to be resourceful.”

“Dr. Long,” Helena said, “allow me to introduce some of my staff.” She made the rounds, with those closest to Sam rising to shake his hand. Including me.

“This is my assistant, Kenzie Mansfield.”

“Ms. Mansfield,” he said, clasping my hand in his.

The brush of his wonderfully callused fingers against mine sent a pang of nostalgia to my thighs. “Welcome, Dr. Long.”

His eyes danced and a corner of his mouth jerked. Beneath his shirt, my hives were being resurrected. Afraid that I might start panting aloud, I withdrew my hand.

“I’m happy to be here,” Sam said, then turned back to April. “But there must be some kind of mistake, because when we walked in I thought I heard you say I was a cover model?”

Helena stepped up and offered a dazzling smile. “We’ve been discussing our upcoming small-town-hero issue, and you would be perfect for the cover, Dr. Long.”

A frown marred his handsome face. “I don’t know—”

“Think of the exposure it will bring to you and your town.”

He scratched his temple and emitted a little laugh. “I believe I might have had enough exposure to last a while.”

His glance flitted in my direction, and I suspected he regretted volunteering to have his wing-ding cast for posterity. I glanced around the room for an escape route. The window looked inviting.

“You don’t have to make a decision now,” Helena cajoled. “Let us take a few photos and finish your interview, and we’ll discuss it again later after you’ve had time to consider the advantages.”

“Dr. Long,” Ron said, “April will assist you this morning during your photo shoot and interview.”

April perked up like a cheerleader, and thrust her big, round pom-poms in Sam’s direction.

“Ron,” Helena said. “I’d like for Kenzie to join April and Dr. Long. It’ll be good experience.”

Alarm took hold of me. I wasn’t sure what terrified me the most—spending the morning with April or with Sam. A choking noise erupted from my throat, but I managed to turn it into a hacking cough. “I have…something…planned this morning that I…can’t get out of.”

Helena pursed her mouth. “Kenzie, why don’t you and I get some more coffee?”

I picked up my gigantic coffee mug that was still full and followed her out of the boardroom, but we stopped a little short of the break room, as I suspected we would.

Helena crossed her arms, and pinned me to the wall with her stare. “Kenzie, earlier this week you were begging for assignments that would further your career, and when I give you one, you manufacture an excuse to get out of it. Is something wrong?”

What could I say? “No.”

“Then what do you have planned that’s more important than broadening your experience at the magazine?”

She was right. “Nothing.”

Helena nodded. “Good. Then I expect that you and Dr. Long and April will have an enlightening time.”

“Of course,” I murmured. “Thank you.”

Uncrossing her arms, Helena flicked nothing off her sleeve. “By the way, you had some clever ideas in there regarding the magazine’s cover. Put it all in a memo and have it on my desk Monday.”

Taking advantage of my speechlessness, she turned to go back to the boardroom.

“Oh, and Kenzie?”

I looked up. “Yes.”

“Try to keep April from devouring Dr. Long. We’re a newsmagazine—the last thing we need is a scandal that we’re offering compensation to our sources.”

I broke out into a warm sweat that tested my sport-scent deodorant. “Will do.”



TWENTY MINUTES LATER, April and Sam and I were on our way to photography, me lagging behind. I was a nervous freaking wreck, and April’s chattering made things worse. She hung all over Sam, and Sam looked like an animal with its leg caught in a trap. I could feel his gaze on me, and I could feel his effect on my body.

“So,” April oozed, “you’re a fireman.”

“No, I’m a veterinarian,” Sam said easily. “I’m a volunteer fireman in my spare time.”

April flapped her long, curly eyelashes. “So are there a lot of fires to put out in Jar Hollow?”

Sam grinned, warming up to the attention. “Um, thankfully, no.”

“But you saved all those people—that’s so cool.”

Two steps behind them, I rolled my eyes.

“I was in the right place at the right time,” he said, then slowed and looked back, apparently determined that I should catch up.

I picked up my leaden feet and fell in step next to them. I walked on one side of Sam, April on the other, making a big, juicy Sam sandwich. Sipping lukewarm coffee from my mug, I tried to force from my mind the image of his naked body sliding against mine. I decided it might be a good idea to join the conversation. “I assume you didn’t expect to become such a media sensation, Dr. Long?”

He shot a surprised glance my way. “She speaks.”

I flushed because he knew good and well that not only did I speak, but on occasion, I screamed.

Sam smiled and shook his head. “You’re right. Beyond the local media, I didn’t think about it. Then a freelance writer called and said he’d like to do an interview for a possible segment in your magazine. We talked on the phone for a while, but when I didn’t hear anything else, I assumed the story wasn’t picked up.” He shrugged. “Then two days ago I received a call and a plane ticket, asking me to come to the city to finalize details. So, here I am.” He looked at me with brown eyes that were so deep, I felt a bout of vertigo coming on.

“Is this your first trip to Manhattan?” April asked.

“Yes,” Sam and I answered in unison.

Sam bit back a smile, and April frowned in confusion. I scrambled to cover my gaffe. “I think I read that somewhere.”

“And how do you like the city, Sam—may I call you Sam?” April asked adorably.

“Sure,” he said. “The city is…interesting. More so even than I expected.”

“Will you be staying a few days?” April’s tone indicated she hoped so.

He shook his handsome head. “I arrived yesterday and I’m leaving this afternoon.”

April pouted. “I hope you did something fun last night.”

I lifted my coffee mug for a deep drink.

“Well,” he said, his voice caramel-coated, “the evening started out slow, but it ended with a bang.”

I inhaled sharply, and got coffee instead of air, which my body expelled with a painful snough (sneeze-cough). Worse, I spilled coffee down the front of my—er, his—snowy-white shirt. The brown stain spread like a virus until it was the shape of the state of Texas and nearly as big.

“Sam, I’m so sorry,” I said, wiping futilely at the stain with my hand. “I’ll have it cleaned.” Then I froze and lifted my gaze. “May I, um, call you Sam…Sam?”

He pushed his cheek out with his tongue. “Sure.”

April was looking at me as if I’d gone mad. “Kenzie, I’m sure Sam couldn’t care less about your shirt.”

“I m-meant that I’m sorry to have caused such a mess.”

“That’s okay,” Sam said, then made a rueful noise. “Too bad about the shirt, though. It looks custom-made.”

I balked. “It is? I mean—it is. But I’ll contact the tailor and order another one.” As soon as I could afford it.

Sam smothered a smile and nodded toward the restrooms we were approaching. “Do you need a moment, Ms. Mansfield?”

I needed a drink, but a moment would have to do. “Thank you.” I race-walked into the ladies’ room and leaned into the vanity, trying to pull myself together. I could get through this. The man could have blown my cover a half-dozen times by now, and he hadn’t—there was nothing to fear.

So why was my heart racing like a bike messenger’s?

Because I had assumed I’d never see him again, much less at work.

Work—that eighty-hours-a-week pastime that paid for groceries, rent, medical insurance and the occasional Dior accessory. I really needed not to be fired for fraternizing with an upcoming feature.

I puffed out my cheeks and studied my reflection—big-eyed and blotchy, wearing an exceptionally stained, stolen shirt, my hair skimmed back with a banker’s clip. I had looked better. I poured my coffee down the sink drain—no more caffeine for me—then I practiced a few deep-breathing techniques. I needed to calm down, or Sam might think that last night had meant something to me. So our one-night stand had turned into a one-night-and-next-day stand—so what? A few more hours, then I would never see him again.

I splashed cold water on my wrists, tried to blot out the stain, then walked out feeling refreshed if not relaxed. April stood in the hall alone. I had a panicky thought that Sam had spilled the beans and vamoosed.

“Dr. Long had to make a phone call,” April said.

Oh, God—he was calling the police.

“Some kind of animal emergency,” she added in a bored voice, then inspected her manicure. “Listen, Kenzie, if you want to bow out, I’ll make your excuses when Sam comes back.”

I had to hand it to her—she had the innocent act down pat. “Nice try, April, but you heard what Helena said. She wants me to learn more about the business.” And to chaperone.

April’s innocent act vanished and she gave me a pitying look. “I guess this is a step up from dog-sitting.”

I gritted my teeth.

“But keep your hands off this puppy,” she warned. “He’s mine.”

I was, oh, so tempted to tell her that not only had I had already put my hands on this puppy, but I had a duplicate of his bone in my bag upstairs. Still, I couldn’t resist asking, “What makes you think Dr. Long is even available?”

“Every man is available.”

“He’s leaving after lunch.”

“Plans change,” she said, her voice shrill. “Besides, I think he likes me.”

Jealousy tweaked me. I couldn’t stand April, but from a male point of view, what was not to like? She was gorgeous and voluptuous—and did I mention gorgeous? If April had been at Fitzgerald’s last night, Sam would have stepped over me to get to her.

“It’s never good to mix business with pleasure,” I said, knowing how lame my words sounded. And hypocritical.

April gave me a look of disgust. “When was the last time you got laid, Kenzie?”

A cough sounded behind us. We turned to see that Sam had returned. I closed my eyes briefly—how much had he overheard?

“Sorry about the interruption,” he said. “Minor emergency back home.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Fine, thanks. Jeremy Daly’s pig swallowed a spoon, but it’s no big deal—I can take care of it tomorrow.”

Spoon-swallowing sounded serious to me, but he looked cheerful enough. “Alrighty then—shall we proceed to the studio?” I sneezed ferociously—three times.

Sam removed a handkerchief from an inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. “Are you getting a cold?”

“Allergies,” I mumbled.




5


“I THINK I’m in love,” April breathed.

Looking around the studio, I decided that every single person present was mesmerized by Dr. Sam Long, hometown hero. The photo director had decided it would be a good idea for editorial to finish the interview during the shoot, so the pictures would look more natural. I was happy for the chance to see a staff writer in action, but I had to admit that I was also perversely interested in the information being drawn out of said subject.

“I grew up in upstate New York. I went to Cornell to study veterinary science, and after I graduated, I wound up in Albany specializing in equine research.” His engaging smile then faltered a bit. “I loved my work, but the pace was hectic. A couple of years went by and I began to have chest pains. I was diagnosed with a faulty heart valve.”

I felt an inexplicable stab of alarm.

“Did you have surgery?” the writer asked.

“No. The problem is inoperable, but my doctor said I’d be fine as long as my lifestyle improved.” He lifted his arms in an appealing shrug and the photographer clicked away. “So I looked for a small town where I could start a vet practice, and Jar Hollow was the place I found.”

“Sounds like Mayberry.”

He nodded. “It’s a quiet lifestyle, but I enjoy it.” Then he laughed. “Actually, I started feeling as if I had too much time on my hands, which is why I became a volunteer firefighter.”

“That doesn’t present a problem with your heart condition?”

“Not for as infrequently as I’m called,” he said. “My doctor said the real danger is constant, prolonged stress.” He grinned. “That’s why I’m still single.”

A round of laughter sounded, and the photographer clicked more shots. I swore his gaze flickered in my direction.

“He looked at me,” April said, sitting up straighter. “I told you he was interested.”

I glanced sideways at her. “It would never work out between you two.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t like dogs, remember?” I made a mock regretful noise.

She smirked. “Probably just as well—with a heart condition, he wouldn’t last one night in bed with me.”

I frowned. How could she do that—insult me without even knowing she was insulting me? I decided I would have to tell Jacki to add a new ground rule: determine if your one-night stand has a heart condition before signing on.

“Tell me about the nursing home fire,” the writer said to Sam.

“I was in town picking up supplies. I drove by the nursing home, saw the smoke, and called 911. But the building is an old wooden structure, so I knew I couldn’t stand by and wait for the fire truck to arrive.”

“What did you do?”

“I had my gear in the back of my pickup—”

“He drives a pickup,” April whispered. “Isn’t that exotic?”

“Shh,” I hissed.

“—so I began the evacuation.”

“You make it sound routine,” the writer said.

“It was,” Sam said easily, “until some of the patients became confused. I went in and led them to safety.”

“Again, you’re very blasé about it.”

Sam shrugged. “I’m not trying to make light of a serious situation, but I only did what anyone would have done under the circumstances. I’m just very glad that everyone is okay.”

“Correction,” April said with a moan. “I know I’m in love.”

I might have been ready to swoon myself, if I hadn’t been wound up as tight as a twisted rubber band. I looked at my watch, willing the hands to speed along. Every minute I spent in this man’s company, I grew more and more antsy. I couldn’t look at him, and I couldn’t look away. I vacillated between wishing last night had never happened, and wishing it could happen again—which was absurd. Oh, sure, the more the man talked, the more I admired him. But the more he revealed about his life, the more he painted a picture of a world vastly different than mine. Plus my body’s defense mechanisms had kicked in—my nose ran and my eyes watered painfully. Still, snatches of scenes from the night before replayed in my mind, as if I were pushing a feel-good button over and over.

By the time the session ended, I was a mess. I was tempted to bail on joining them for lunch, but April was so worked up after Sam put on a fire helmet and yellow jacket from the props department, I was afraid she might set herself on fire just to get him to douse her with something. Besides, Sam would be leaving after lunch, so our time together was almost up. And I had to admit that a small part of me was hoping I would get to talk to him in private, to say…well, something brilliant, I hoped.

“I need to drop by my office to get my bag,” I said.

“I’ll go with you,” Sam said.

April looked at us suspiciously.

My mind raced. “Yes…and I’ll take you to speak with Helena about the cover.”

We maintained a tense silence as we stepped off the elevator and April reluctantly veered toward her office with the promise to meet us in twenty minutes. I counted, and he waited a full six seconds before breaking the silence with a hammer.

“Was this a setup?”

I stared. Of all the things I’d imagined he’d say when we were alone, that wasn’t on the list. “Excuse me?”

“Did you know who I was when you saw me last night?”

“What? No!” My nervousness fled and irritation landed on my head. “Trust me, no one was more surprised than I was when you walked into that meeting this morning.”

His expression was wry. “‘Trust me,’ says the woman who pilfered my dress shirt.”

I crossed my arms. “I left you…something.”

“I know. And while they were lovely and special, I couldn’t very well wear them to the meeting.”

A flush started at my knees and worked its way up. The elevator doors opened and three people alighted, talking amongst themselves. I lowered my voice. “Let’s continue this discussion in my office, shall we?”

I led him to my office and waves of humiliation rolled over me as I gestured for him to step inside the cramped closet-sized space. There was barely room for the both of us and my desk. I don’t know that I would have consciously remembered the musky clean scent of him, but when it reached my nose, my body responded like one of Pavlov’s dogs. His smile wavered and I had the feeling that he, too, was remembering how intensely our bodies had connected last night. I tried to remember what we had been talking about in the hall, but I seemed to have left my brain out there. Absently, I reached up to play with my shirt collar, and remembered.

“I’m sorry about taking your shirt. I overslept and my blouse was stained, and I…”

His eyes danced. “Didn’t want everyone to know you hadn’t been home?”

I shrugged, cheeks flaming. “I guess I’m not very good at…this.”

“Don’t worry about the shirt,” he said, giving it a once-over. “Even stained, it never looked so good.”

My mouth went dry.

“I could get used to having you around.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

He gestured to my pristine desk and hanging file system. “My home office is a wreck. I need your organization skills.”

“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “Listen, Dr.—Sam. You have to believe me that I didn’t know who you were when I…met you last night.”

He pulled on his chin. “Okay. What happened to the science project?”

I involuntarily glanced toward my purse, then back.

He followed my glance. “So you took that, too.”

I squirmed. “It was my birthday present, after all.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He picked up my favorite pen lying on my desk and studied it with little-boy fascination. “And did it turn out…accurately?”

I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress my smile. Samuel Long, Cornell grad, veterinarian and bona fide hero, was still a man. “I’d say that it is a reasonable facsimile.”





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