.

It felt so good that she rested her butt on the bottom rail and closed her eyes, relishing the sensation.

      But as much as she wanted to concentrate on only the cool of the grass on her sore, hot feet, she couldn’t stop her mind from picking at the tangled mess she’d made today. She’d gone a little overboard on the protecting-herself thing. She’d been unprofessional. She’d been stupid. She’d been the queen bitch from hell, basically. And she wasn’t particularly proud of herself.

      She had a lot of excuses lined up: he pushed all her buttons, reminding her of age-old resentments and ancient insecurities. He was the epitome of so many of the values she’d fought against all her life. And, to her everlasting embarrassment, she had a crush on him that she knew would never be reciprocated.

      But none of it was good enough when put in the balance against her poor behavior. Beneath all the sass and the attitude and the Bette Davis drawl, she was a fair woman. She owed him an apology. Big time.

      Her eyes were still closed when she heard the sound of a car approaching and slowing to a halt. Even if she hadn’t recognized the distinct burble of the Corvette’s engine, she would have known it was Mac by the way all the small hairs on her arms stood on end.

      Secretly, she’d been hoping he’d relent and return for her. It had taken him nearly an hour, but he had. It didn’t escape her attention that she’d kept him waiting for an hour back in the office, too. He hadn’t looked as though he cared, but he had. He’d just bided his time and waited for an opportunity to serve her up some of her own medicine.

      Clever.

      Swiveling, she ducked her head beneath the top rail and peered at him.

      “Ready to go home now?” he asked.

      He’d pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and there was a distinct challenge in his gaze. Her eyes dropped to the Popsicle he was holding in one hand. While she’d been vandalizing her shoes, he’d been snacking.

      A wry smile found its way to her mouth. He knew how to rub a woman’s face in her wrongdoings, that was for sure.

      “That would be very nice, thank you,” she said, determined to show him she’d learned her lesson.

      Crouching and easing through the rails, she stepped back over the drainage ditch. He pushed the passenger door open for her, but she hesitated before crossing the threshold.

      “Before I get in—I owe you an apology,” she said uncomfortably. She was eternally grateful for her sunglasses—at least they afforded her a tiny skerrick of protection from his bright, hawkish gaze.

      “I’m listening,” he said.

      She took a deep breath. “I have been beyond rude all day. I’m sorry. It was entirely my problem—nothing to do with you—and I took my bad mood out on you,” she said, fudging the last part but figuring he really didn’t need to know that the reason she’d been such a harpy all day was because she hated herself for finding him almost irresistibly attractive.

      There was a long pause before he reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out a second Popsicle, still in its wrapper.

      Offering it to her, he jerked his head. “Get in,” he said.

      He’d bought her a treat. Bewildered, she slid into the car, unconsciously wincing as one of her blisters brushed the carpet. He frowned.

      “Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.

      “Blisters,” she explained, too busy tearing the wrapper off her Popsicle to elaborate.

      His glance dropped to her broken shoe, lying on the floor.

      “And you broke your shoe?” he said.

      “It’s repairable.” She shrugged, taking a big, deliciously cool bite of tangy raspberry ice.

      He gave her an intent look before signaling and pulling back out onto the road.

      She polished off her treat and he silently passed her a travel pack of tissues to wipe her sticky hands.

      “Thank you.” She hesitated a moment, then reminded herself that she still had some ground to make up. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” she asked, forcing herself to be light.

      He shrugged. “It depends.”

      “On what?”

      “On whether you’ll have dinner with me tonight.”

      Grace jerked her head around to look at him. “You’re kidding.”

      “That’s my price for pretending today never happened,” he said, eyes hidden behind his own sunglasses now.

      “Why would you want to have dinner with me when I’ve been a total bitch all day?” she asked honestly.

      He didn’t take his attention off the road. “We need to have a decent working relationship,” he said.

      “Okay, I agree with that. But dinner really isn’t necessary, is it?” she asked. The thought of spending more time with him—of sitting opposite him for a meal, being unable to avoid looking into that stunning, unforgettable face—was too, too overwhelming.

      “I think it is.”

      She could hear the determination in his tone. He’d offered his deal—forgiveness for dinner. She closed her eyes. Why-oh- why hadn’t she picked someone completely outside her world to be her fantasy lover? Hell, why hadn’t she picked someone really safe, like Elvis or Jim Morrison?

      She opened her eyes again. “Okay. Where do you want to meet?”

      “I’ll pick you up,” he said.

      This time, she didn’t even bother trying to argue.

      GRACE WELLINGTON was a revelation. The thought crossed his mind somewhere between their appetizers and main courses that evening.

      By the time he’d arrived at her low-rise art deco apartment block to collect her, he’d had two hours to regret his impulsive invitation. Why prolong the misery of a genuinely shitty day by extending it into dinner? But he’d always been unable to refuse a challenge—and Grace was definitely challenging.

      The moment she’d opened her door to him, most of his doubts had turned to dust. Somehow, in the time between dropping her off at the production offices and navigating his way to her Venice Beach apartment, he’d forgotten how striking she was. The smell of her heavy, musky perfume smacked him in the nose even as his eyeballs boggled at all the delights they were being offered. Her breasts looked incredible in a fitted, high-necked-but-still-sexy pale-yellow dress featuring about a million little buttons down the bodice. Her hips got their fair share of attention, too, since her skirt hugged her curves like nobody’s business. Her toes peeped out from between the straps of a pair of elegant red-suede stilettos and he’d felt an instant surge of desire as she brushed past him.

      The feeling had only intensified when she’d slid into his car and run an unconsciously sensual hand along the upholstery. It wasn’t until they were halfway to the intimate little restaurant he’d chosen in Malibu that he’d realized she was half lit. Not actually drunk, but definitely…relaxed. At first he’d been annoyed, but then she’d started to let her guard down. And now he was officially intrigued.

      The cold-eyed, hard-nosed sourpuss of earlier in the day had been replaced by a lighthearted woman with a quick wit and a ready laugh. It was as though the earlier Grace had been sketched in black and white and at last he was being treated to the Technicolor version.

      “I love mushrooms,” she purred now as her main course was delivered. “They’ve got everything—aroma, texture, taste. Don’t you think?”

      He wondered if she was aware that she was running her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. And if she knew what it was doing to him.

      “I’m a big fan of the pea, myself,” he countered.

      “The