Breakfast At Bethany's. Kathleen O'Reilly

      “I don’t care if you’re Superjournalist—” he swore at that “—you have to ask my permission.”

      “All right. Tonight was more of a trial run, anyway. When do you want to do the interview? Is now good?”

      Beth pulled off her blouse and hung it up right next to her skirt. “No. I’m getting ready for bed.”

      “Well, throw on a robe. You had a cup of coffee. You’re not going to sleep for another two hours.”

      “Wait a minute,” she said, putting down the cell phone.

      A wicked impulse had her bypassing the standard issue, worn-out sleep shirt and heading straight for the good stuff. She began rifling through her lingerie drawer, looking for her sexiest sleepwear. Slowly she pulled on the transparent peignoir, brushed her hair until it shone, then put on the necessary skin-care regimen. She stared in the mirror, pleased with the siren that appeared.

      Finally, she retrieved the phone. “Spencer, you wanted to come over now?” she asked, making her voice low and husky.

      He coughed. “It’s best to strike while the information is right there at the top of your head.”

      She played with the silk ribbons, even daring to touch herself through the thin material. “I’ll see you in the morning. Nine a.m., just like we planned,” she said, still smiling.

      “If that’s what you want.” She heard her own regret echoed in his voice.

      Metaphorically speaking, he was the biggest slab of dark chocolate ganache she’d ever seen, a total caloric nightmare. She’d polish him off and be left with nothing more than fat thighs and an empty plate.

      Tempting, but no.

      After he hung up, she turned on the television in her bedroom and collapsed onto her bed. It wasn’t until two hours later, when Cary Grant kissed Ginger Rogers, that she finally fell asleep.

      HE WAS THERE EARLY the next morning. Not surprising, since he’d never really got to bed. After discovering work was useless, and then tossing and turning, trying to sleep, he’d finally taken matters into his own hands and dispensed with the aftereffects she had left him with. Then he’d managed to sleep, for a full three hours.

      Joy.

      The morning was cold and the sidewalks were damp with post-Thanksgiving slush. If he wasn’t really excited about his article, he wouldn’t be trudging through the mess at 9:00 a.m. Or so he told himself.

      Eventually she showed up at the coffee shop, looking fresh and well-rested and with that damn smile on her face. Why was she always smiling? What the hell did she have that made her so happy all the time?

      He stood when she came over and joined him.

      “Good morning,” she said, as if birds were perched on her shoulder, waiting to burst into song.

      “If you’re into those sorts of things,” he said, surlier than usual.

      “Are those circles under your eyes? Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

      Spencer, whose sense of humor was absent on most days, had almost no patience for her games right now. “Are you trying to tease me just to see how far I’ll go? Do I look like the neighborhood mongrel who you’re going to poke at with a stick until he bites back? You’ve never been bitten, have you?”

      The smile cooled a few degrees. “No.”

      “Then I suggest you take your stick and put it away.”

      Her eyes cooled, as well. It could have been guilt he was experiencing, or so he told himself.

      “That little lapse is best forgotten—pardon the breach. So where do we start now? You want to know about the date?” she asked, then proceeded to tell him every detail about the previous evening. He took notes, paying close attention to the exact moment when the smile crept back onto her face.

      “When’s your next date?” he asked, hating date number one with an unexpected passion.

      “Tuesday evening. The Morton Arboretum is having a talk on flowers that bloom in the winter.”

      “Sounds very educational,” he replied, thinking a root canal would be more fun. Chicago men seemed to be lacking in panache and creativity. If he were taking her out…

      Damn.

      He packed away his notebook and pen and took care of the check. “Great work. I’ll see you on, when, Wednesday morning or Wednesday afternoon?”

      “I’ve got to open up Wednesday morning, at 6:00 a.m.”

      “What about Wednesday evening?”

      She winced. “Can’t. Have a date. What about Tuesday night?”

      He raised a brow. “I thought the post-date postmortem was off-limits?”

      “Since it’s my schedule that’s causing the problem, I’ll make an exception. Where do you want to meet?”

      “There’s a restaurant a few blocks from here.”

      “You know, why don’t you just come over to my place? That way we don’t waste time with the commute, and I do have to be up early the next morning.”

      The words were innocent enough, and her eyes showed no sign of ulterior motives, but he was fast learning that she was a much better actress than anyone could guess.

      Little Bo Peep did nothing without an ulterior motive. Maybe it was another one of her little poke-the-dog games. Maybe he didn’t care.

      The room got very quiet and an electric current began to crackle in the air. A gazillion megawatts. Enough to light up the shoreline of Chicago—and Detroit, too.

      Spencer stood, and if she noticed the electric charge that was currently tenting his pants, well, good for her.

      She picked up her purse and followed him out. “I’ll see you Tuesday night.”

      He met her eyes, but chose to remain silent. A man lived by his words, but he could die by them, as well.