LITMIR.BIZ

      ONE

      She needed to quit daydreaming about the guy downstairs.

      Brienne Fox dropped her pen onto the table, barely hearing it roll off the edge and clatter onto the linoleum. The half-finished grocery list in front of her vanished from her thoughts like so much smoke. All she could hear was the key in the door, the footsteps...and the murmur of that dark, silken voice as he greeted what she assumed must be his cat. Not that she’d spent too much time thinking about what might or might not be in his apartment. Or what he did while he was in there.

      Or anything.

      Brie closed her eyes and dug her hands into her hair, resting her elbows on the table and slumping a little as she castigated herself. Every day was the same. She was a perfectly normal, well-functioning human being until that car pulled into the driveway they shared. But as soon as she heard the steady hum of his sleek little sedan’s engine, all of her functioning brain cells dropped whatever they were doing to focus on one thing, and one thing only.

      Him. Or more specifically, him naked and in one of a wide variety of compromising positions, all of which involved her.

      It wasn’t exactly productive, since Alistair Locke had barely given her the time of day the few times she’d managed to bump into him. When speaking was almost out of the question, a torrid affair didn’t seem all that likely.

      Brie pushed back her chair, got up and wandered over to the window to look out at the fresh tire tracks in the snow-dusted driveway. Alistair’s car would be parked by her sand-and—salt spattered SUV, as it always was, in the old carriage house that had been converted into a garage. Just as she had boxes of stuff next to his in the upper level of the garage. Unfortunately, her possessions got more time with him than she did. There was plenty of space for two people here—almost too much.

      She hadn’t been sure about renting an apartment in such an old house, no matter how beautiful it was. She’d had visions of lousy heat, electrical and plumbing issues, and of course, a resident ghost that would doubtless terrorize her into leaving anyway. But the place had sucked her in, from the high ceilings and gleaming wood floors to the big window that looked out on the wide street lined with old trees and stately old Victorians much like this one.

      The upstairs was hers, apparently ghost-free, and she loved it. It was the perfect hiding place for somebody like her, a working writer who thrived on a certain amount of quiet and personal space. Of course, having Alistair downstairs had provided a little too much fodder for what was already an overactive imagination.

      If she hadn’t been so boringly normal in every other way, she might have been really concerned about herself instead of just uneasy. She’d liked guys before. She’d lusted after plenty of them. But this didn’t feel quite...normal.

      Brie’s eyes rose to the sky, and she found herself momentarily diverted. The snow clouds that had hung heavily on the horizon all day had darkened to an ominous slate-gray, and they seemed to be moving in swiftly. They were predicting that the massive nor’easter would start hitting by early evening. She’d promised herself she’d get to the grocery store before the snow started falling, just in case. With luck, the power would stay on. Without luck...well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

      And of course, Alistair had the only working fireplace in the house in his apartment....

      Brie squared her shoulders and headed back to the table to grab the grocery list. Food first. She’d just figure the rest of it out as she went. And along the way, it would be nice if her mind could focus its energy on something actually productive, instead of creating scenarios with her neighbor that involved firelight and a soundtrack loaded with songs by Enigma.

      Minutes later she was headed out the door and down the stairs, cozy in bulky boots and a heavy coat. She purposely avoided looking at the door to Alistair’s apartment. He never came out when she was around, and he wasn’t going to—

      Oh God, there he is.

      The door opened, and well over six feet of dark, shaggy, antisocial male walked out. Brie stopped short three steps from the bottom, so startled she could do nothing but stare. She rarely got this close to him...which was a shame, because up close, he was even more delicious than he was from a distance.

      Then again, considering the sudden pounding heart and lightheadedness, a little distance might be the healthier thing. She just wanted to climb him like a tree, wrap her legs around him, and bite.

      Brie’s eyes widened in horror at the images that flickered, unbidden, though her mind. Biting? What the hell?

      Alistair froze for a moment when he realized he wasn’t alone, and they stared at each other in the silence. Brie drank him in, unable to help herself. He was wearing all blacks and grays, which seemed to be a habit of his—black peacoat, gray-and-black scarf, black pants, all covering a long, lithe form that moved with sensual, effortless grace. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, and seemed less to be cut in an actual style than simply overlong. It waved slightly, falling around a face that was a study in hawkish beauty. His cheekbones were high and sharp, a perfect match for his blade of a nose. Handsome was probably the wrong word for him, Brie thought. Compelling was probably a better one.

      Alistair’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line as he watched her. His eyes—big, thickly lashed, and the blue of the deepest ocean—seemed to exert a gravitational pull that she had to struggle to resist. And she would keep struggling, Brie thought as she collected herself as best she could. Because she was reasonably certain that Alistair was not thinking “Please, hurl yourself at me right this instant,” no matter what his eyes looked like..

      “Miss Fox,” he said, his deep, cultured voice making a formal address sound more like a lover’s endearment.

      “Mr. Locke,” she replied, her lips curving up into a small smile despite herself. He couldn’t be much older than she was, early thirties maybe, but he’d never addressed her by her first name. The combination of his British accent

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