LITMIR.BIZ

      1

      “YOU NEED A MAN.”

      “Rachel!” Paris Sommers choked on her wine and scrunched lower into the booth. She would have preferred a quiet slide into oblivion, but since that wasn’t possible, poor posture would have to suffice.

      “I’m serious,” Rachel continued. “All we need to do is find you an able-bodied male. You use him for one night. Bingo. Problem solved. Just pick one, already.”

      Paris scanned the dimly lit Irish pub nestled in the heart of Manhattan. Thankfully, most of the patrons seemed uninterested, studying their pints instead. Some looked up, but then laconically turned away. Only a nearby waiter seemed even the slightest bit intrigued, and Paris caught his eye before he turned back to gathering dirty glasses from an adjacent table.

      Pulling herself up, Paris leaned over the polished tabletop until she was nose to nose with Rachel. “Let’s lay off the men talk, okay?” She cast a meaningful glance toward the waiter. “People might misunderstand.”

      “Afraid he’ll think you’re looking to get laid?”

      “Stop it,” hissed Paris, knowing he must have overheard. Sure enough, his head tilted just a little so he could watch them. Despite the shadows, Paris swore she saw the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he moved away to wipe down another table.

      The muted lighting prevented her from getting a good look at him, but what she could see, she liked. Strong features, a nice smile and just a hint of charisma. Well, that figured. A gorgeous guy looks her way and she’s having a ridiculous conversation about getting laid.

      She frowned. Rachel Dean might have been her best friend since kindergarten, and her literary agent for the past six years, but she could still be a royal pain.

      “Come on, Paris. Half your characters parade around in tiny bikinis on the arms of virile government agents. You’d think I could say ‘laid’ without you blushing.”

      “That’s why they call it fiction.”

      “Yet another reason you really do need a man.”

      “Unlike some people, I have standards.”

      Rachel pointed to herself and raised her eyebrows. “Moi? I have standards. Male. That’s a standard.”

      Paris rolled her eyes. Rachel might not be a saint, but she was still a far cry from the sophisticated, experienced vixen she tried so hard to appear to be. “Maybe so, but the mere existence of a Y-chromosome doesn’t do it for me.” She wanted more. A lot more.

      “No. You want Alexander. What would you do if he walked through that door? You’d jump him and have your wicked way with him right in front of us law-abiding bar patrons.”

      Paris felt the telltale warmth of a blush creep up the back of her neck. Rachel knew her far too well.

      “Au contraire, my friend,” she said, trying to cover. “I’m much too refined.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes and smiled sweetly. “The floor’s way too hard.”

      Rachel downed the last of her beer. “Got news for you, kiddo. It ain’t gonna happen. And meantime, your diaphragm’s collecting cobwebs.”

      “Of course it’s not happening, because I am not waiting for Alexander,” Paris insisted, adding a little extra emphasis, more for herself than for Rachel. Hadn’t she told herself over and over to let go of the fantasy that someone as delicious as Alexander would suddenly sweep her off her feet?

      Trouble was, Alexander was a rare breed, a hard man to give up. Sophisticated, yet witty. Cold as steel

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