LITMIR.BIZ

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for the rest of her life.

      “Do you often throw impromptu candlelight suppers in the middle of the night for strange women?”

      “I might make it a habit after tonight.” He considered her carefully. “So far, no signs that you’re a deranged killer…are you?”

      “Ah, no. I gave up deranged killing. Hell on a girl’s nails. And those dry-cleaning bills…” She made a tsk-tsk noise and shook her head.

      “I hear you.” He pulled up another stool close to hers, so what could she do but wiggle around until she faced him? “I’m glad you showed up.”

      “Really?” Fishing, fishing, she was shameless.

      “Really.” He poured himself champagne, topped hers off and put the bottle back in the fancy chill-thing, which undoubtedly kept it at the perfect temperature. “Since I left my party early, the evening didn’t feel finished. I’m glad to have company to salvage it.”

       I Need a Woman: Billionaire’s Sad Tale of Deprivation.

      He clinked his glass to hers. “Dig in.”

      Maybe she shouldn’t have, maybe she should have at least hesitated and spent another minute or two contemplating the plight of the poor, but she didn’t. She dug.

      Oh my. Dug again. And again, and where was her shovel? If D. G. Jackson could see her, he’d never stop saying told-you-so. She’d deserve it, too.

      “Caviar?” He passed it, amusement in his eyes.

      Caviar…who knew? She’d had the jarred preserved stuff from the supermarket once and decided the fish should have been able to keep it.

      “Foie gras?” The amusement became a smile.

      Foie gras…she’d cheerfully gain forty pounds on the stuff given the chance.

      “Prosciutto with figs?” This time he was outright smirking.

      Prosciutto with fresh figs…sign her up for that action every day. And on and on, while they talked about the food she was eating: him discussing the various types of caviar, she bringing up overfishing in the Caspian Sea; he regaling her with memories of his first taste of foie gras, her mentioning the controversy involved in force-feeding the geese and ducks; him painting a picture of the summer he spent in Lebanon and the fig tree outside his bedroom window from which he could pick ripe figs first thing in the morning, to which she had no politically correct objections. All the while their champagne glasses were emptying and refilling until finally she couldn’t eat or drink another bite and what a horrible shame that was.

      “I have reached my absolute limit.”

      He drained the last of the bottle into her glass. “C’mon, I dare you.”

      “Oh, you Satan.”

      He picked up her practically licked-clean plate, grinning triumphantly. “Enjoyed it?”

      “Ya think?” She gathered up dishes and bowls and placed them in the sink. “I’ve never had a feast like that. I’m not much of a luxury foods person.”

      “Ah.”

      Something about the way he spoke made her glance at him suspiciously, though he was concentrating apparently innocently, on rinsing plates. What was that about? Had she disgraced herself with her greed? Maybe, but everything was so good she couldn’t regret it. And he’d been eating quite healthily himself. Best of all, with Mr. Jack Brattle’s notorious aversion to publicity, this multidollar-binge could remain her guilty secret.

      “I feel like I should run about five miles to atone for those calories.”

      “There’s a pool if you want to do laps.”

      Of course there was. “No suit.”

      “I’m sure you’d look great in one of mine…”

      She giggled and blamed it on the champagne. “Um. Minor coverage problem.”

      “If you’re sure…”

      “No women in the house?” She tried to ask casually, and succeeded. She thought.

      “Not for a long time.”

      “Are you divorced?” A natural question, wasn’t it?

      “No.” He walked toward her, drying his hands.

      “Never married?”

      “Never. You?”

      “Never. Girlfriend?”

      “No. Boyfriend?”

      “No.”

      And there they stood. If he was feeling anything like what she was feeling, the obvious circumstances of their proximity and their mutual singlehood were suggesting a number of delightful possibilities. Unfortunately there was that damn ethics thing because getting romantic with a man and then publishing an article about him was taking kissing and telling way further than she was comfortable taking it. But ohh, his mouth was so tempting, his lips full and sharply drawn, surrounded by the faint masculine gray of stubble-to-come.

      A song came on, a smooth velvety jazz lullaby sung by a female artist whose voice she didn’t recognize.

      He took a step forward and she took one, too. His arms went up, one at her shoulder height, one at her waist. “Dance with me, Hannah.”

       Jack Brattle: All the Right Moves.

      “Love to.” Mmm, she hadn’t been in a man’s arms since Norberto, the smooth-tongued, talented-in-bed, charming, absolute cheating idiot creep jerk butthead…

      Okay, she’d ignored all the warning signs and leapt happily into his arms and gotten her heart smacked down yet again. She should have known better.

      But now, Jack Brattle smelled soooo good. And he moved like a dream. Under her hand, his shoulder was solid and warm, his chin also warm and smoothly close-shaven when it occasionally brushed her forehead. His fingers held hers lightly, but he kept his body close.

      Hannah should know better right now. She’d have to crash down into reality all too soon. Somehow that seemed so deliciously far away, though, and he was so deliciously near.

      “You dance divinely, Ms…what?”

      “O’Reilly. Thank you. As do you, Mr…?”

      She knew he wouldn’t answer, but she lifted her head from where it had pillowed itself on the smooth comfortable front of his shirt and looked up expectantly.

      “…Brattle.” He stopped their dance. Looked down intently.

      Her reaction was perfect, since she was actually shocked and could do a convincing double take. She couldn’t believe he’d told her. What about keeping himself such a tremendous secret all those years? All that trouble to stay hidden, and now he was telling her, a complete stranger who’d already joked she was a reporter and had been asking all kinds of questions?

      Why would he do that?

      Her treacherous imagination immediately supplied the kind of answer that was always getting her in trouble. Maybe he’d fallen for her, same as she’d fallen for him and therefore he had given her this incredible gift of trusting her with his identity.

      She sighed. Nice story, but it never happened. At least not to her.

      Something was definitely odd about the confession, but her brain discarded those thoughts because he was still inches away, their hands were still on each other’s bodies, champagne fizzed through her veins, and since somewhere there must be someone for whom the name Jack Brattle rang only the faintest of bells, she decided the best possible course of action was to pretend to be that person, go on tiptoe and kiss him.

      Of course, of course he kissed like a dream. The first was soft and quick, probably a surprised response to her typical lack of self-control. Then

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