LITMIR.BIZ

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she wasn’t finding a wife for Alex Antonides. He was someone else’s problem.

      He kept his gaze on the drawing. “Maybe. I’m going out with another one tonight.”

      “Another one?” That fast? Where was the “matchmaking” in that? It sounded more like trial and error.

      He glanced around. “Amalie—that’s the matchmaker—has got a whole list.”

      A list. Daisy wasn’t impressed. “Is she French? Or fake?” she added before she could help herself.

      Alex raised a brow. “Her mother’s French. Is that a problem?”

      Daisy raised her camera again, refusing to admit she was taking refuge behind it. “Of course not. I just wondered. I suppose she’s introducing you to French women then.” It made sense. He spent a good part of every year in Paris.

      “Career women,” Alex corrected. “And I’m not looking for a French one. I live here now.”

      That was news. Daisy stayed behind the camera. She kept moving.

      Alex picked up the drawing and rolled it up. Whether she was finished or not, it was clear that he was. “She has a list as long as my arm,” he reported. “She said I need options.”

      Daisy grunted noncommittedly. She didn’t think much of “options.” But then, when she helped people find the right mate, she was trying to find their soul mate, not a sex partner who was willing to share a mortgage.

      “So,” Alex said, “I just have to find the right one.”

      Good luck with that, Daisy thought. But she kept her skepticism to herself. If she expressed it, he’d tell her she should do it herself.

      “All done,” she said, and began disassembling her camera and stowing it in her bag. “I’ll get to work editing these early next week. I’m going to be out all day tomorrow, and I’m not working this weekend. If you’ll give me your business card, I’ll email you when I’ve finished. Then you can let me know whether to send you a disk or email you files or send them directly to the magazine.”

      Alex fished a card out of his wallet, started to hand it to her, then took it back and scribbled something on the back before pressing it into her palm again. “You can reach me at this number anytime.”

      Not likely. But Daisy just pocketed it and smiled as she zipped her bag shut, stood up and hoisted it onto her shoulder. Then, deliberately, she stuck out her hand to Alex for a businesslike shake. “Thank you.”

      He blinked, then stared—at her, at her hand. Something unreadable flickered across his face. Then in slow motion, he reached out and took her fingers in his. Flesh on flesh.

      Daisy tried not to think about it. But his palm was warm and firm and there were light calluses on it, as if he didn’t only sit in his office and draw. She remembered those calluses, those fingers—the way they had grazed her skin, had traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her hip, the hollow of her collarbone. Other lines. Other hollows.

      She swallowed hard.

      Still he held her hand. Then abruptly he dropped it. “Thank you, too,” he said, his voice crisp. As businesslike as she hoped hers was.

      “Goodbye.” One more polite smile and she’d be gone.

      Alex nodded, his gaze fixed on hers. The phone on his desk rang. He grimaced, then picked it up. “What is it, Alison?” There was barely concealed impatience in his tone. Then he grimaced again. “Right. Okay. Give me a sec.” He turned back to Daisy. “I have to take this.”

      “Of course. I was just on my way.”

      She was down the steps and out the door without looking back. There. She’d done it—beard the lion in his den.

      And survived.

      Just like she’d told Cal she would.

      Staring at the skylight in his ceiling in the dark didn’t have much to recommend it. There were stars. There were a few small clouds scudding along, silvery in the moonlight.

      There was Daisy.

      Alex flipped over and dragged the pillow over his head. It didn’t help. She was on the insides of his eyelids, it seemed.

      The whole day had been a bloody disaster. Well, no, that wasn’t true. Before 3:00 p.m., things had been pretty normal. He’d been a little distracted, there had been a lot to do, but he’d got some work done.

      And then Daisy had shown up. Exactly as he’d planned.

      She was supposed to come, take her photos, and leave again. He was supposed to smile and look professional and competent and disinterested, and see her on her way. Asking her to take the photos was supposed to settle things between them, put them on a business footing.

      It was supposed to pigeonhole her—and convince Alex that he wasn’t really attracted, that he hadn’t been thinking about her fifty times a day since he’d seen her again, that she didn’t draw his gaze more than any other woman, that he was perfectly happy to watch her walk out of his office and out of his life.

      The operative word was supposed. The truth was, well, something else altogether.

      And the day hadn’t been all that normal before three o’clock, either. He might have got some work done earlier in the day, but shortly before Daisy was due to arrive, he’d found himself walking over to look out the window every few minutes. It was a nice day, sunny, brisk. He was enjoying perfect fall weather. No more, no less.

      So why had his heart kicked over at the sight of her down there on the sidewalk, pointing her camera up at his building? Why had he stopped Steve abruptly halfway through a question to go down and intercept her before she came in? Why had his fingers itched to reach out and touch her? And why had he had to fight to suppress the urge to kiss her when she’d turned and bumped straight into his chest?

      She drove him crazy. She got under his skin. The minute he saw her, he couldn’t seem to focus on anything or anyone else.

      The feeling persisted the whole time she was there—this desire to touch her, to smooth a hand over her hair, to pull her against him, to touch his lips to hers. His heart had begun hammering the moment he’d seen her, and it was still banging away when he’d had to take that phone call and she’d left.

      He’d wanted to stop her, to say, “Hang on. Wait,” because it was too soon, there had been so little time, he had not had enough of her yet.

      But at the same time, he knew it was stupid—he was stupid.

      Daisy Harris—Connolly!—was not what he wanted—or needed—in his life.

      And it didn’t matter that she was divorced now. She still apparently wanted things he didn’t want. Wanted things he wasn’t prepared to give. So the one bit of common sense he had, had kept his mouth shut.

      He hadn’t said, “Wait.” Hadn’t stopped her or called her to come back.

      It was better she had left. And better still that he had had a date that night with one of Amalie’s “options.”

      Whoever she was, she would erase Daisy from his mind.

      Except she hadn’t.

      Her name was Laura or Maura or Dora. Hell, he couldn’t remember. She had been pleasant enough in an airheaded sort of way. But he’d spent the evening making mental comparisons between her and Daisy.

      Suffice to say, Dora/Maura/Laura had come up short on all counts.

      She didn’t have Daisy’s charm. She didn’t have Daisy’s ability to listen. She didn’t have Daisy’s smile or Daisy’s sparkling eyes or Daisy’s eager enthusiasm.

      She wasn’t Daisy. He was bored.

      He’d been polite enough. He’d listened and nodded and smiled until his jaw

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