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  "Good. I'm sure hungry."

  "You're always hungry," Claire said. "And I don't know where you put it." She eyed Peachey's willowy figure.

  "I put it here," Peachey said, grinning, as she patted her rear. "That's where black chicks always put it."

  Claire rolled her eyes. "You're crazy. There's not an ounce of extra fat on you. Most women would kill for your figure." She leaned against the kitchen counter as Peachey languidly set the small round table in the corner of the kitchen. Every movement was graceful. Even if Claire hadn't known that Peachey was a top model, she would have guessed it from the way her friend moved, like a finely tuned instrument, all economy of motion, all fluid grace.

  She was so beautiful, Claire thought. A show-stopper face, a tall, elegant body—what more could any woman ask for? In addition, her skin was gorgeous—a wonderful shade of milk chocolate—complemented by high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes, a look that was enhanced by the sleek, shining head of black hair that Peachey normally wore pulled straight back from her face and twisted into a thick knot at the crown of her finely molded head.

  As Peachey turned and met Claire's appraising eyes, she grinned and said, "What you lookin' at, girl?"

  "I'm looking at you."

  "Why? Did I suddenly sprout two heads?"

  Claire laughed. "I like looking at you."

  "Well, don't you be starin', white girl. You're makin' me nervous," Peachey drawled with an exaggerated accent.

  "Knock it off, Hall. Don't start with the white girl routine, okay? I'm trying to conduct a serious conversation."

  Peachey did an intricate jazz step, then leaned over to pull out the broiler pan and sniff at the two sizzling steaks. "Yum yum," she said, "don't they smell good? Hand me that platter, would you, Claire?"

  Claire smiled and picked up the stoneware platter, handing it to Peachey who deftly transferred the aromatic steaks from the broiler to the platter. "I see the accent disappeared as soon as you started talking about the food," she said dryly.

  "Food is serious business."

  "This situation with Nick Callahan is serious business, too." Claire carried the salad bowl and rolls to the table.

  Peachey stopped clowning. "Sugar, I just don't see what you're so all fired up about." She offered the paper napkins and Claire took one. "Unless there's something you haven't told me?"

  Her mouth pursed thoughtfully as she studied Claire.

  Claire's hands stilled over the salad bowl. For a moment she stared at Peachey. Then she took a deep breath, dumped salad into her salad bowl, and said, "No, not really." She avoided Peachey's eyes as she poured Italian dressing over her salad.

  "Hey," Peachey said. "Turn those baby greens my way, girl."

  Claire looked up slowly.

  Peachey's eyes gleamed brightly. "You're hiding something."

  Claire shook her head. "No, I'm not. It's just . . . well, I get the oddest feeling when I'm with him, Peachey. It's nothing you can put your finger on, but something about the way he looks at me really gets to me." Once more the image of the wolf and Red Riding Hood slid into her mind. She laughed selfconsciously, knowing her words were going to sound melodramatic. "He makes me feel as if he's the hunter and I'm the little baby deer."

  Peachey grinned. "No wonder you're nervous." She spread her napkin over her lap. "How old is this dude, anyway?"

  Now Claire grinned. Dude. What would Nick think about being called a dude? "He's forty-two, according to his official bio." Suddenly Claire felt better. Just having voiced her fear and having Peachey treat it seriously somehow diminished it in Claire's mind. "I'm probably imagining the whole thing. He probably looks at everyone like he's considering adding them to his trophy collection."

  "Hm ... I don't know. Most of the powerful men I've met don't automatically do that. They only act that way if they want something. If you have nothing to offer them, they simply look right through you. No, I think you're right. Your boss does want something from you . . . something more than a story. The question is, what?"

  "My lily-white body?"

  "Honey, if he wanted your lily-white body, I doubt he'd go through the elaborate build-up."

  "You're probably right."

  "Besides, a man like Nick Callahan can have all the lily-white bodies he wants." Peachey laughed.

  Although Claire laughed, she knew Peachey's observation was close to the truth. The same thought had occurred to Claire more than once in the past two days. She was sure most women would knock each other down in their haste to offer Nick Callahan anything he wanted—in bed or out of bed. "Then what could he want? I've thought and thought, but I can't think of anything else."

  Peachey cut a piece of steak, then popped it into her mouth, chewing with gusto. She stabbed a forkful of salad and held it up, then said, "Maybe he's really interested in you. You know, seriously interested." She chewed slowly, watching Claire as she did.

  Claire put down her fork. "That makes no sense."

  "Why not?"

  "Because, as you said, he can have any woman he wants. Why would he be interested in me? I'm absolutely ordinary. In fact, I'm dull."

  Peachey frowned. "Claire, honey, I'm tired of hearing that bull. You are not ordinary. And you are not dull. So knock it off."

  Claire smiled. "You're hardly objective."

  Peachey looked exasperated. "Why are you putting yourself down? You're a beautiful woman. You're also smart, and when you're not feeling sorry for yourself, you can be a lot of fun. All in all, you're a pretty fabulous megababe."

  Claire chuckled at the private pet name she and Peachey had adopted.

  "And—" Peachey paused, amusement putting a twinkle in her eyes, "you are extremely fortunate to count another fabulous megababe as your best friend!" Grinning, she added, "So why wouldn't he want you? He'd be crazy not to."

  Claire felt a rush of warmth. Peachey could always make her feel good about herself. "Thanks."

  "Okay, we've settled that. But I do think you'd better be very careful around him, Claire. I've met a lot of men like Nick Callahan through my modeling, and I know the type. He's had a lot of experience with women. If he does have designs on you and your body, he'll know all the right buttons to push."

  "Oh, I know that. I've already seen him in action. But I'm prepared, Peachey. He's not going to take me off guard."

  "Don't be too sure."

  Claire was almost sorry she'd told Peachey her misgivings. "I don't want you to worry about me. I'm probably imagining most of this." But remembering the disturbing glints in Nick Callahan's brilliant blue eyes, Claire knew she hadn't imagined anything.

  "Maybe," Peachey conceded. "But don't forget what I said. And watch your back. That's where surprise attacks come from."

  * * *

  At 11:45 the next morning, Peachey's warning still lurked at the back of Claire's mind when Kim Michaels, the secretary Claire shared with Betty O'Neill, buzzed her on her intercom.

  "Claire? Mr. Callahan is on line three for you," Kim said, excitement in her voice.

  "Thank you, Kim," Claire answered calmly, ignoring the sudden fluttering in her stomach. She hadn't seen Nick this morning. He'd had a meeting with his lawyer, and he'd left word with his secretary that he'd call Claire when he returned to the building. She'd used the time by asking central files to send up any press clippings or articles they had concerning Nick or the company. She'd just finished reading the last article in the stack and felt much better equipped to ask some pertinent questions for the article she would write for C.E.O. She picked up line three.

  "Claire Kendrick."

  "Lunch will be ready in my private dining room in fifteen minutes."

  Claire bit back a retort. What if she'd had plans for lunch? Was she supposed to devote every minute of her time to him?

  "I hope you're hungry," he continued.

  "As a matter-of-fact, I am." She heard the coolness in her voice and wondered if he would react.

  "Well, why don't you come
on up then?" He hung up, but not before she'd heard a chuckle. Half angry at his perfect self-assurance, half amused at her own reaction to him, she took out her compact to check her hair and lipstick.Claire tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach as she walked into Nick's office. It irritated her that she couldn't seem to relax in his company, that she always felt she had to be on guard, and Peachey's warning hadn't done anything to alleviate that feeling. In fact, now Claire felt more uneasy than ever.

  Nick had been standing looking out the window with his back to the room, but he turned as she walked toward him.

  The first thing she noticed was the admiring gleam in his eyes as his gaze raked her, taking in her simple black dress and teal jacket. "Let's go straight into the dining room," he said. Then he glanced down at her briefcase. "I see you came prepared to work." His eyes met hers, and for a moment she felt hypnotized by their brilliance. "I thought I told you no business during meals."

  "If you needed me after lunch I didn't want to have to go back to my office," she explained, fighting to hold on to her irritation and against the pleasurable glow brought on by his admiring glance.

  All during lunch, she had to keep fighting the urge to relax, to give in to the desire to simply enjoy this experience. She had to keep reminding herself that she was way out of her league with this man. But it was very hard because Nick seemed set upon charming her. The lunch was more the type of meal you'd order if you wanted to impress a woman and put her in a romantic mood. No ordinary chicken breast and salad for Nick Callahan. He'd ordered crepes filled with scallops and cheese accompanied by a romaine salad accented with mandarin oranges and almonds and dressed with a honey/poppyseed dressing. When dessert came, it was raspberry sorbet in a crisp, sugary tart.

  All of this was accompanied by an excellent Reisling, which Claire declined.

  "I get sleepy in the afternoon if I drink wine at lunch," she said.

  "I insist." As he bent over to pour her wine, his fingers brushed her skin. The touch sent a dart of pleasure through her. His mouth curved into a lazy smile as he leaned back into his chair and lifted his wine glass in a silent toast.

  He knows I'm nervous around him. To distract him and erase that knowing look, she said, "This is a lovely room." The dining room, adjacent to his office, was small and intimate, holding only one round table which would seat no more than six people. One wall was entirely made up of windows overlooking the downtown skyline, one wall held a beautiful fake fireplace, and the other two walls were adorned by two magnificent Monet paintings.

  Claire couldn't help contrasting today's lunch with her usual lunchtime regimen of a tuna salad sandwich and an apple eaten sitting on the stone wall around the reflecting pool in front of city hall. What must it be like to live like this? she wondered. Able to conjure up anything you liked simply by asking for it.

  For the rest of the afternoon, she kept a tight rein on her thoughts. She sat in his office, she asked questions, she made notes, she listened to his phone calls—which he unhesitatingly switched to the speaker so she could hear both sides of the call—and she was filled with reluctant respect for him by the time the afternoon ended. He was tough—the phone calls proved it—but he was also fair. And he listened. She'd been around some executives who just rolled right over people, never listening to what they had to say.

  But Nick listened. He listened thoughtfully and quietly, interjecting a comment now and then. Once the other person finished with his point, Nick explained his position. It didn't surprise Claire that Nick's point usually swayed his caller to his way of thinking.

  At five-thirty Nick said, "Let's call it a day."

  Claire closed her notebook and picked up her briefcase. "What's on the agenda for the rest of the week?"

  "Tomorrow I'll be tied up in meetings with customers all day, so you'll have a free day." Apparently noticing her puzzled look, he added, "I thought about having you sit in, but there's nothing to be gained by it. We're going to be discussing contractual differences— nothing I'd want in the article, anyway."

  "Actually, that'll work out well. I need to sort through my notes and do an outline. I guess I'll see you on Monday then?"

  "Sooner than that. Saturday night I'll be attending a reception at River Oaks Country Club in honor of the British consul general. I'd like you and Tim to accompany me."

  Claire tried to hide her surprise. Although she should have, she hadn't realized he might want her company during the weekend.

  If he had noticed her surprise, he didn't comment. "As far as I know, I won't need you on Sunday, though."

  Claire's mind raced. What on earth could she wear Saturday night? "Is the reception formal?"

  "Yes." He stood, and the afternoon sun slanting through the window lit his dark hair and bathed him with golden light. Claire thought he looked like a warrior prince, strong and invincible.

  "Any other questions?" he said.

  "No." Peachey would help her out. Although Peachey was taller than Claire, they both wore a size six, and Peachey had dozens of dresses that were cocktail length. Maybe one of them would work. If not, Claire would think of something. She did have a long black velvet skirt. Maybe all she'd need from Peachey would be a good-looking top. And Peachey's fox jacket, Claire amended, thinking of her own five-year-old cloth coat.

  "Then," he continued, walking around to the front of the desk so that they were only a few feet apart, "on Monday afternoon, I'll want you to fly to New Orleans with me. The company plane will leave from Hobby Airport at two o'clock. We'll come back on Wednesday."

  As casually as she could, Claire said, "Will Tim Sutherland be going along?"

  "Not this time."

  Excitement and fear warred together in her mind. The prospect of spending two days with Nick in New Orleans couldn't help but excite her, but it was also a scary proposition. Peachey's warning echoed in her mind and Claire wondered what her friend would think about this trip.

  * * *

  On Saturday night as Nick pushed the button to the right of Claire's door, he wondered how she would act during the reception. So far, in all the time he'd spent with her, she'd been on her guard against him—hiding her feelings. Unless she blushed. He smiled, thinking of her blushes. They were charming, he'd decided. Charming and refreshing. She was the only adult woman he knew who actually blushed.

  Her apartment complex was pleasant, he thought. Looking down at the tree-filled courtyard below and the orderly grounds, he decided it wasn't a bad place to live at all. Although the complex was small and located on a short, one-block street in far west Houston, his driver had had no trouble finding it.

  Her door opened, and light spilled out behind her. His breath caught as he got a good look at her. She looked beautiful. She was wearing a long, black velvet skirt, and as she moved aside to allow him entry into the apartment, Nick saw that the right side of the skirt was slit up past her knee, allowing a glimpse of silk-stockinged leg. With the skirt, she wore a cream-colored lace blouse with a low, rounded neckline. Around her neck was a narrow velvet ribbon from which hung a small cameo. Her butter-yellow hair had been swept up, and Nick had a sudden urge to touch the little hollow at the back of her neck, to slide his fingers up under her hair and bury his face in her soft, scented skin.

  His hands itched as she moved to pick up her coat from the back of a chair and he caught another peek of long leg. How could a woman look both cool and as sexy as hell? As he helped her into a short fox coat, he wondered how she had managed to buy it. With her financial burden there couldn't be anything left for luxuries.

  He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew he was aware of her situation. He suspected she was proud, that she wouldn't like him knowing. He liked that. He was the same way.

  Yes, he thought as he assisted Claire down the steep outside stairs toward the waiting limousine that looked so incongruous in the parking lot of the apartment complex, he was fairly certain he'd made the right choice with this woman, and the way things went
in New Orleans should be the deciding factor.

  The reception wasn't as bad as Claire had thought it would be. She'd expected to feel nervous, but her only nervous moment came when she was introduced to the British consul general and his wife. But once those few minutes passed, Claire actually started to enjoy herself.

  The country club was magnificent, she thought, as she looked around at the sumptuous furnishings and the beautifully gowned and bejeweled women. The colors of their dresses were a feast for the eyes: vivid emerald and royal blue and purple and scarlet as well as black and white. The chandeliers glittered, the music was soft and tasteful, the laughter and conversation floated around her.

  Nick seemed to know everyone, and Claire watched intently as he played the part of the perfect guest, complimenting each woman he talked with and sharing some anecdote or observation with the men. It amused her to watch him in action. He was like an actor with each movement or speech carefully rehearsed before it was shown to his audience. She wondered how he'd feel if she were to write that about him in the article. She suppressed a grin at the thought. He'd probably pin her with those bright, knowing eyes and tell her to get her Ph.D. if she wanted to practice the art of analysis.

  Tim Sutherland interested her, too. Tonight he actually seemed human and, although he still wasn't exactly friendly, at least he wasn't throwing his usual verbal darts.

  The only bad moment came after the three of them were at the reception for about an hour. A couple strolled up to Nick, and the woman—a beautiful redhead with a lush figure—said silkily, "Why, Nick! I didn't expect to see you here tonight. I thought, you'd be too busy."

  Nick turned toward the couple. "Hello, Heather." He nodded at her escort, a handsome, dark-haired man with black eyes. "Armand." He turned back to the woman. "Didn't you? I left a message for you with your secretary."

  "Did you?" Her tawny eyes blazed.

  Claire could sense the tension in the air, and she wondered who the woman was and what she meant to Nick. An unexpected pang of envy pricked her.