Isabel Blackwell’s head had hardly hit the pillow when the hotel alarm went off. The fire alarm.
Frustrated and annoyed, she sat up in bed and shoved back her sleep mask while the siren droned on out in the hall. This was getting old. The luxury Bacharach New York hotel had been her home for nearly two weeks and this was the fourth time the fire alarm had sounded. She’d intentionally gone to bed early to try to sleep away her difficult day. Her brother, Sam, had convinced her to take on a legal case she did not want—saving Eden’s Department Store from a man with a vendetta and a decades-old promissory note. So much for the escape of a good night’s rest.
“Attention, guests,” the prerecorded message sounded over the hallway PA system. “Please proceed to the nearest fire exit in an orderly manner. Do not use the elevators. I repeat, do not use the elevators. Thank you.”
“Do not use the elevators,” Isabel mumbled to herself in a robotic voice. She tossed back the comforter, grabbed her robe, shoved her feet into a pair of ballet flats and dutifully shuffled down the hallway with the other guests. It was not quite 10:00 p.m., so she was the only one in her pajamas, but she refused to be embarrassed by it. Hers were pale pink silk charmeuse and she’d spent a fortune on them. Plus, if anyone should be feeling self-conscious, it was the hotel management. They needed to get their property under control.
She followed along down the stairs, through the lobby past the befuddled and apologetic bell captain, and out onto the street. Early December was not an ideal time to be parading around a Manhattan sidewalk in silk pj’s, but she hoped that by now, the hotel staff had finely honed their skills of determining whether there was an actual fire.
The manager shot out of the revolving door, frantic. “Folks, I am so sorry. We’re working as fast as we can to get you back inside and to your rooms.” He fished a stack of cards from his suit pocket and began doling them out. “Please. Everyone. Enjoy a complimentary cocktail at the bar as our way of apologizing.”
Isabel took his offering. She wasn’t about to pass up a free drink.
“What if you already have one waiting for you?” a low rumble of a voice behind her muttered.
Isabel turned and her jaw went slack. Standing before her was a vision so handsome she found herself wondering if she had actually fallen asleep upstairs and was now in the middle of a splendidly hot dream. Tall and trim, the voice had a strong square jaw covered in neatly trimmed scruff, steely gray eyes and extremely enticing bedhead hair. It had even gone a very sexy salt-and-pepper at the temples, pure kryptonite for Isabel. She had a real weakness for a distinguished man. “You had to leave a drink behind?” she had the presence of mind to ask. “That’s a very sad story.”
The voice crossed his arms and looked off through the hotel’s glass doors, longingly. “The bartender had just poured the best Manhattan I’ve ever had. And it’s wasting away in there.” He then returned his sights to her, his vision drifting down to her feet, then lazily winding its way back up. As he took in every inch of her, it warmed her from head to toe. “Aren’t you freezing?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I run hot.”
A corner of his mouth curled in amusement, and that was when she noticed exactly how scrumptious his lips were. He offered his hand. “Jeremy.”
“Isabel.” She wrapped her fingers around his, and found herself frozen in place. He wasn’t moving, either. No, they were both holding on, heat and a steady current coursing between them. It had been too long since she’d shared even an instant of flirtation with a man, let alone a chemistry-laden minute or two. Her job was always getting in the way, a big reason she disliked it so much.
“You weren’t kidding,” he said. “How are you so warm?”
How are you so hot? “Lucky, I guess.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the hotel manager announced, poking his head out of the door. “Turns out it was a false alarm. You may go back inside.”
“Looks like you can go rescue your Manhattan,” Isabel said to Jeremy.
“Join me? I hate to drink alone.” He cocked his head to one side and both eyebrows popped up in invitation.
Isabel had been fully prepared to go back upstairs and simply take a few thoughts of dreamy Jeremy for a spin as she drifted off to sleep. “I’m in my pajamas.”
“Don’t forget the sleep mask.” He reached up and plucked it from her hair. “Do these things really work?”
She smoothed back her hair, deciding this was only a good sign—he’d invited her to have a drink with him when she looked far less than her best. “They do work. Once you get used to it.”
“I’ve never tried one. Maybe I should. I don’t sleep that well.”
Isabel fought back what she really wanted to say—that she wouldn’t mind having the chance to make him slumber like a baby. Instead, she took the mask from his hand and tucked it into the pocket of her robe. “If you can stand to be seen with me, I’d love a drink.”
“You could be wearing a potato sack and I’d still invite you for a drink.” He stepped aside and with a flourish of his hand, invited her to lead the way.
Oh, Jeremy was smooth. For a moment she wondered if he was too much so. In her experience, men like that were only interested in fun. She’d moved to New York for a fresh start, so she could pursue a less unsavory line of legal work—adoption law, to be specific—and finally get serious about love. At thirty-eight, she was eager to get on with her life. Still, it was silly to judge yummy Jeremy by a few words in their first conversation. “Good to know your standards.” Isabel marched inside and crossed the lobby, stopping at the bar entrance. Despite the generous disbursement of drink coupons from the manager, the room was sparsely occupied, with only a few people seated at the long mahogany bar. It was an elegant space, albeit a bit stuck in time, with black-and-white-checkerboard floors and crystal chandeliers dripping from the barrel ceiling. “You’ll have to let me know where you left your drink behind.”
“Over here.” Jeremy strolled ahead and Isabel took her chance to watch him from behind. The view was stunning—a sharp shoulder line atop a towering lean frame. His midnight-blue suit jacket obscured his backside, but she could imagine how spectacular it must be. He arrived at a corner table, and sure enough, there was his drink, along with a stack of papers, which he quickly shuffled into a briefcase.
“You really did leave in a hurry,” she said. “Is this your first night staying here? I don’t take the fire alarm all that seriously anymore. Most of the time it’s nothing.”
“I’m not a guest. I just had a meeting. I actually live in Brooklyn, but I thought I’d grab a drink before I headed home.” He slid her a sly look. “Now I’m glad I did.”
Isabel knew she should ask what he did for a living, but that would only lead to discussion of her own occupation. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about being a lawyer, a career she’d once dreamed of but that had since turned into a bit of a nightmare, another reason for moving away from Washington, DC. She’d somehow gone from earnest attorney to a political “fixer,” cleaning up the personal messes of the powerful. She was good at it. Very good, actually. But she’d grown weary of that particular rat race. And in Washington, everyone was a rodent of one form or another.
“What would you like to drink?” Jeremy asked, pulling out a chair for her.
Isabel eased into the seat, which was sumptuously upholstered in white velvet with black trim. “I’ll have a gin and tonic, two limes.” She reached into her robe and pulled out the drink coupon, holding it out for Jeremy.
“Save that for a rainy day. It was my invitation. I intend to buy you a drink.”
Isabel had to smile. It’d been a long time since a man had treated her nicely and actually made an effort. She’d been starting to wonder if gentlemanly behavior was a lost art. “Thank