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Grayson Alexander never made bets he could lose.

      3

      From: Laine Blackwell

       Sent: Monday To: Angie Keller; Kathy Baker Subject: Men To Do and (ack!) Old Boyfriend Returns

      First things first, I’ve decided that hanging out in bars is not going to get me my Man To Do. Too iffy, too expensive, too dangerous. And I’ve either met or dated all my friends’ available male friends, so no point going that route. Therefore (drumroll and trumpet flourish), I’ve been cruising NYdates.com. Can’t say for sure I won’t find any weirdos there, but I figure if I can thumbs-up pictures that attract me and thumbs-down men who can’t put two sentences together (or punctuate, what is up with that?), then I’m ahead of the game.

      And, well, what do you know, I have found a few possibles, one in particular, Antonio, a dark and very sexy-looking Italian (attached is the link to his profile and photo), who fits my height and punctuation requirements and who sounds totally full of himself, which I’m thinking would classify him as…let’s say…the Vain Foreigner. I’ve e-mailed him, so we’ll see what happens.

      Woohoo! This summer is going to be so incredible! I’ve signed up for a yoga class and a cooking class, and I found this skydiving company in N.J. and a tap-dancing class and I’m going to take a French class, too, and I’m so into this!

      Okay, I better go. In a very short while, Grayson shows up. I’m excited about seeing him and, okay, nervous and not really sure what it will be like. I mean we were sort of obsessed with each other for a lot of years even after we broke up. It took him moving to Chicago to finally get him out of my head, not to mention my bed. But he’s definitely out and will stay out of both! So we’ll see.

      ’Bye!

      Laine

      P.S. Of course I’ll give the full report if my Vain Foreigner writes back.

      GRAYSON STRODE DOWN the dark, stuffy, narrow eighth-floor hallway of Laine’s apartment building, carrying his overnight bag, briefcase and laptop, and clutching the enormous bouquet Roger the doorman had asked him to bring up. Apparently some guy named Ben was sending Laine flowers on a regular basis. Grayson did not like the sound of that, not that he had a claim on her anymore. Not yet at least.

      Eight-K, 8-L… He reached 8-M before his brain kicked in that he was going the wrong way to get to 8-C. He let out a groan and turned around, wanting to wipe away perspiration at his temple, but too impatient to drop everything to take care of it.

      What a day. Disaster meeting at Borg Engineering, a cancellation at ETJ Hutchins, which they hadn’t bothered to mention until he’d shown up, and now he found the idea of this guy sending Laine flowers damned irritating. A lot of money to be spending on a woman who wasn’t interested if what Roger said was true. Grayson wasn’t so sure. A guy would have to be nuts to invest that kind of money and energy into anything but a sure lay.

      No point wasting time sniveling about it. Grayson was going to be spending time with her—intimate, everyday-living time. If this guy wanted her, he was going to have to do a lot better than dialing his florist.

      Eight-A, 8-B and bingo, 8-C. He grinned at the number and jabbed the buzzer—four short, one long, two short, one long—Morse code for S-E-X, a silly game they’d started in college. It was going to be so good to see her. He wouldn’t be surprised if the sight of her induced the rush it always had, even when he saw her every day.

      The door swung open and she stood there smiling. Yeah, the same rush hit him, maybe twice as hard for all the years he’d been without her.

      “Laine.” He bent to ditch his laptop, overnight bag and briefcase, and gathered her in for a one-armed hug, inhaling her scent, wishing he could drop the damn vase to hold her the way he wanted. She always managed to smell as if she’d just come home from a day in a field of wildflowers. Total aphrodisiac.

      He released her only far enough to bring her face into focus. Five years older, but only more beautiful. Blue eyes shining under straight, dark hair, perfect skin—to hell with getting reacquainted; he wanted to drag her off to his cave right this second. “It’s much too good to see you.”

      She pulled away, laughing and flushed, and took the flowers he handed her. Immediately he missed her warmth and energy and wanted them back.

      “Wow, are these from you, Grayson?” She lifted the vase, teasing already. She knew the odds of him thinking to buy her flowers were about one in several hundred million.

      “Aren’t they always?”

      “Um, no?”

      “Some guy named Ben apparently makes this a habit.” He watched her closely. “Friend of yours?”

      “Not really.” She darted a glance down and back. “A friend of my cousin’s. He’s just—”

      “Trying to get in your pants? Or thanking you for having been there.” He registered the sharp edge in his voice at the same time she did and wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised. Down, boy. Stay cool.

      “Oh, for—” She threw up her free hand in a typical Laine gesture of exasperation. “Still thinking with your other head, I see.”

      “It’s my favorite.” He shrugged, all innocence.

      She grinned unwillingly. “Ben’s harmless. Zero interest on my part, I even told him so. Right now he’s just my self-appointed protector and florist.”

      “You told him you weren’t interested, and he’s still sending you flowers?”

      She nodded and inhaled rapturously over the blooms. “He’s a very sweet man.”

      “No one’s that sweet.”

      “Hmm.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Not that I would expect you to know anything about the concept, but apparently some men are.”

      “Ha!” He grinned and put his hands on his hips, studying her, the tension of the day falling away, the energy she’d always been able to light in him strong as ever. “It’s damn good to see you, Laine.”

      “You, too, Grayson.” Her gaze lingered and softened. “You look great.”

      “Not as great as you.” He meant it. She was still his every fantasy of woman—city sexiness and sophistication layered over this elusive country-fresh thing she had going. His very first glance at her clingy midthigh skirt and knit sleeveless top told him her body was still strong and lean. And he knew what she could do with every square inch of it.

      But he supposed suggesting they retire immediately to her bedroom for some naked gymnastics would be pushing it.

      “How are your folks?” He reached to her forehead to brush aside hair that wasn’t out of place.

      “Fine. Terrific. Whatever.” She lifted her arm, let it drop down against her thigh. “I’ve lived here for eight years—Mom still tells me I better come home where I belong and did I know Geoffrey Wrango was divorced and he’s always asking after me, and my sister is expecting her gazillionth child next month and aren’t I worried about getting too old? Because I can have a career anytime, but the longer I wait the greater my chances of having a kid with Down’s or not conceiving at all, plus at my age the good men are going fast, and by the way my father isn’t going to last forever and how hard could it be to jump on a plane back to Ohio and blahblahblahblahblah.”

      She took a huge breath to replenish. “In other words, nothing new. Yours?”

      He didn’t answer right away, actually he couldn’t. Or didn’t want to. He stood there, grinning at her, letting delight wash over him. And even though delight was a total girly emotion, damned if she didn’t delight him. He hadn’t felt this buzzed since…the last time he’d seen her. Only clinching a big deal came close to a Laine high.

      “Hello?” She quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward as if to inspect his skull for some sign

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