Do You Believe in Magic

chapter THREE



A loud banging on her door pulled Francie out of a deep dream in which she and Clay were definitely alone, with no eyeglasses, no camouflage, and absolutely no artificial barriers between them. She fought with the sheet as she struggled to determine what the noise was all about and why Clay had vanished from her arms. Groaning, she opened her eyes and glanced over at the alarm clock.

Seven o’clock.

In the morning.

Saturday morning. Who on earth . . .?

Tamara. Of course, coming to check up on her date with Clay.

Francie hauled herself out of bed, threw on a robe, and staggered barefoot into the hall. “I’m coming,” she muttered as her tormentor beat on the door and also poked the doorbell to add the ding-dong to the din. At the front door, she peeked blearily out the peephole. Yep, Tamara.

With her eyes barely open, she opened the door and slumped against the frame. “What, Tamara?”

“Good morning!” The petite redhead bounced in, holding up a delicious-smelling bag she waved under Francie’s nose. “I brought you some croissants and a piece of the apple torte you like so much. Close the door and let’s put on the coffee, and you can tell me all about your date.” She headed for the kitchen without waiting for a response.

Mumbling under her breath imprecations against people who woke up both early and horrendously cheerful, Francie stumbled in pursuit. She sagged against the kitchen door and watched her friend bustle around, fixing coffee and setting the small round table in the window nook. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked around a yawn.

“Sure, but I wanted to talk to you before I had to go to the shop. I knew you wouldn’t let him stay the night, not on the first date, even if he is the best-looking man I’ve seen in a long time. Now sit down, and spill it. How was the date? Where did you go? What time did he leave?”

“Tamara, please.” Francie sat, put her head in her hands, and massaged her scalp to wake herself up. She hoped vaguely she was wiping those disturbing dreams out of her mind at the same time. “You know I can’t talk until I’ve had some coffee.”

“All right, Miss Non-Morning-Person. You have until the coffee’s ready and you’ve had three swallows.”

Tamara blessedly kept her mouth shut while the coffee dripped, and true to her promise, until Francie had the promised three swallows. She didn’t even say anything when Francie finally looked up from contemplating the rich brown brew as though it could foretell the future. She didn’t have to; her raised red brows made her point eloquently.

“All right,” Francie said after a fourth sip. “I think I’m beginning to wake up.” She took a bite of the apple torte and another sip. “We went to that restaurant on lower Westheimer you and I always talked about going to. It was very nice. The calamari was cooked just right, and he ordered a California chardonnay that went wonderfully with the meal. We both had fish, but I had grilled red snapper and he had sea bass sautéed in butter and wine. I had a scrumptious chocolate cake for dessert, but he didn’t have any, just a bite of mine. We both had coffee. We came home. End of evening.” She recited the events in what she hoped was a calm, thoughtful manner.

“Frrrannnncie! You know I don’t care what y’all ate, for crying out loud. C’mon. The juicy stuff.”

“Tamara, there was no ‘juicy stuff.’ We just talked about our families and computers.”

“Families and computers! Well, of course, computers. What else is there?” Tamara waved her hand in the air dismissively and leaned across the table intently. “So, what’s he really like? Does his mind live up to his great bod? The man must be successful. He had to have his gorgeous suit custom hand-tailored. Do you have any idea how much that outfit he had on last night cost?”

Francie took another bite and another sip as she tried to decide how much to say. Tamara had always shared tales of her own dates; it was only to be expected she would want Francie to do the same. But Francie couldn’t tell her everything, especially about Clay’s little tracking program or Kevin’s treachery. Hoping her thoughts didn’t show on her face, she hid behind her cup. Oh, why did she agree to do this?

“Well,” she finally said, thinking furiously. “He’s very nice, despite his looks.”

“Yesss! A breakthrough! You’ve never said that about a date before,” Tamara interrupted, pumping her fists in the air. “Keep going.”

“He has two sisters, one’s a management consultant and the other does something with plants, owns a plant nursery with their mother, I think. His father’s a consultant, too.”

“What else did you talk about? You couldn’t have spent all dinner on those subjects alone.” Tamara had a look on her face that told Francie the redhead wouldn’t give up until she knew more.

“We talked about computers, of course, and books, and movies. It turned out we like lots of the same things. He has an offbeat sense of humor, and we laughed a lot.”

“What about when he brought you home?”

“He wanted to see what kind of computer I had,” Francie said, just to be on the safe side in case Tamara had seen the two of them in her home office when she was peeking out her window.

Tamara just shook her head and rolled her eyes. “No matter what he looks like, a computer jock is always a computer jock, I guess. But that’s not what I want to know. Do you like him? Are you seeing him again? Did he give you a good-night kiss?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tamara. Can’t I have a little privacy?”

“No.”

“All right. Yes, I like him. Yes, I’m seeing him again.”

“When?”

“Tonight. He’s taking me to Wicked and dinner.”

“Great! What are you going to wear?”

“I don’t know. Probably my brown dress with the jacket.”

“Ugh! That awful thing?” Tamara made a face clearly indicating her displeasure with Francie’s choice. “No, you’re not. Get dressed. We’re going over to the shop right now and find you something. A nice little blue outfit just came in. It will look wonderful on you, and it’s perfect for a theater date. And don’t tell me you can’t afford it,” she continued as Francie opened her mouth to object. “You make good money, and you might as well enjoy it.”

“Do you bully all your customers this way?”

“Only the ones I care about.” Tamara turned serious and put a hand on Francie’s. “I can’t tell you how happy I am you had a good time last night, and you’re seeing him again. It’s past time for you to forget Walt. Just because he was a sleazeball doesn’t mean all men are.” She put up a hand as Francie started to reply. “I know, you don’t like to talk about it, so we won’t. You just go get dressed.”

Francie sighed. It would be easier to surrender to Tamara’s demands than to argue. It made a good diversion also. With any luck, Tamara would forget her third question. Francie had no intention of mentioning Clay’s kiss, or her determination to resist him, or those dreams—especially those dreams. “All right,” she said, rising to pour herself another cup of coffee. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Good. That blue dress will knock his socks off. You’ll have him eating out of your hands in no time.”

Francie escaped to her bedroom with the idea of Clay without his socks—and other items of clothing—insinuating itself into her head. You idiot! she told herself. She would have liked to sit down and analyze what was happening, work out a more coherent approach to Clay and the effects he had on her. She couldn’t do that, however, with Tamara around.

So she put thoughts of her problems aside. Instead, she focused on the here and now and concentrated on the tasks she had to accomplish before going out tonight. Putting on her bra, she looked carefully at the end of her sternum, but could see no indication as to why it was itching so much.





That night, Francie studied her reflection in the mirror. Tamara had been correct: the outfit looked great. The deep blue dress clung in the right places and made her hair look blonder. The collarless, buttonless jacket hung to just the right length. Her upswept hair in its neat twist, her pearl necklace and earrings, gave her an air of sophistication—she hoped. The makeup she had applied, again following Tamara’s instructions, worked to enhance her eyes—with or without her glasses. Somewhat self-consciously, remembering Clay’s admonition against them, she put on the eyeglasses and took them off again. She couldn’t help feeling vulnerable without the comforting frames.

She looked over at her open closet, hanger after hanger full of drab browns and dull greens and dingy rusts and faded yellows, not to mention the beiges and grays. Funny, she hadn’t realized until this moment how much she missed wearing brighter colors. Or dressing to look good. Look good for herself, she amended. Certainly not for a man. Certainly not to attract a man. Certainly not for Clay Morgan. You’re not going to let yourself get hurt or be made a fool of again, she silently reminded her reflection. Resolutely she closed the closet doors.

She glanced at the clock. Only a quarter to seven. She hoped he would be on time. What could she do for fifteen minutes? Her apartment was tidy, the plants were watered, and she had read the newspaper. Her eyes fell on the book on her bedside table. It would have to do as a distraction from fidgeting; she needed to get started on it anyway for the discussion group. As she reached for the book, however, the doorbell rang. She automatically put on her glasses and picked up her purse before heading for the front door.

A smiling Clay, resplendent in a gray pinstripe suit, greeted her as she opened the door.

“Hi, I hope you don’t mind, I’m a little early.” The truth was, he had been driving around for half an hour until he finally said to hell with it and just went to her. What was this woman doing to him? He knew he was always relentlessly prompt, and he didn’t like to rush his dates in their preparations, but he couldn’t wait to see Francie, ready or not. Now that he was standing in her entryway, he decided he had done exactly the right thing.

“You look wonderful,” he told her, sliding his gaze down and up the long length of her. When his eyes reached her face, however, he frowned. “Uh-uh,” he stated, shaking his head.

Francie blinked, and her face went from a welcoming smile to a look of puzzlement and wariness at his disapproval. “What’s the matter?”

“These,” Clay stated, reaching up to remove her glasses. “Did you forget our deal?”

“Oh. No, actually, I didn’t. I had them in my hand when you rang the bell and just put them on out of habit, I guess.”

“Well, okay, I’ll let you get away with it this time.” He handed the glasses back with a small bow and an expression of mock censure, and she turned to place them on a nearby table.

Clay looked at the wisps of hair just tickling the nape of her neck and contemplated kissing that spot and around to her delicate earlobe and . . . Giving himself an enormous mental shake, he dragged his mind back to the business at hand. “Do you think Tamara’s watching us?”

“No. She’s probably still at the shop. She said something about Kevin picking her up there for their date tonight. I guess that means he won’t be on my computer this evening.”

“Probably not,” he answered. “We’ll have to give him a shot at it soon, however, if for no other reason than to frustrate him more with his inability to crack the Brazos system and to soften him up for me. We can discuss the possibilities on the way. Shall we?” He ushered her out, waited for her to lock the door, and let her precede him down the stairs.

Once in the Jeep and headed for downtown, he brought up the subject again. “I’ve been thinking about how to get to Brenner. What are your plans over the next week for being away from home during the evening?”

“None really. I have something to do after work on Tuesday, but I’ll be home by eight, eight thirty at the latest. Nothing at work is critical, so I wasn’t planning on working late this next week.”

“What about Tamara? Is she away during the evenings, besides out with Brenner? As I understand the situation, he uses your computer only when both you and Tamara are out because she can see in the window by your desktop from her apartment.”

“Well, she keeps the shop open later on Thursday, till nine. She usually gets home about ten, after tallying up her sales and dropping by the night-deposit box at the bank.”

“Can you find out if she’s following her usual schedule and at the same time let it slip that you have to work late on Thursday? In time so Kevin will know the computer’s free then?”

She sighed as she said, “I guess so. I don’t know if she’ll tell Kevin, though.”

“That’s okay. It’s been a while since he had access to your machine, so he might be looking for a chance to use it.” He heard her sigh again. Flicking a glance at her, he put a hand on the fingers she had clasped together on top of her purse in her lap. “I know how hard this is for you, Francie. You feel like you’re betraying your friend. But I honestly don’t know any other way to catch Brenner.”

“I keep hoping she will get tired of him sooner rather than later, or have a fight and break up. I hate duplicity of any kind, and just the thought of lying to her . . .”

Clay gave her hands a reassuring squeeze before releasing them. “Don’t think of it as lying. In fact, you’re not lying to her at all. You’re just not telling her all of the truth about her boyfriend, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m lying to her about you, aren’t I?” she said, turning toward him.

“In what way?” he asked, eyebrows raised, but he didn’t take his eyes off the road.

“The idea you and I are dating, becoming a couple, that you’re sweeping me off my feet.”

He grinned and shot a look from the traffic to her face and back again. “I thought I was doing a pretty good job. Is there something else I need to do?”

“You are. I mean, no, . . . that is . . .” Francie’s voice petered out as she realized what she had been about to admit—despite her resolve, she was becoming more and more attracted to him. This whole reaction was so unlike her. How could what she was feeling have happened so fast? Only her distress and anxiety had kept her from shivering under his touch on her hands.

“You know as well as I do, Clay, this is all just business. I meant what I said yesterday. It’s all pretend.” She made her tone as brisk and as positive as she could. She couldn’t let him get away with his arrogant statement.

“Is it?”

“Yes, of course.” She nodded sharply to emphasize her opinion.

“Let’s take it easy here, Francie, and see how it goes, okay? Let’s simply go to the theater and have a good time,” he suggested calmly.

His request wasn’t exactly an agreement with her assessment, and she almost opened her mouth to push for one, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. He was right. They had to get through this evening, and at least one other evening as well. At some point she had to introduce him to Kevin. She had to keep control of herself, guard her heart, and not succumb to a handsome man’s charms.

“I’ve read a couple of good reviews for this show,” she said to change the subject. She certainly didn’t want to continue this one.

Clay gave her a quick glance. This relationship didn’t have to be and wouldn’t be purely business. Not if he had anything to say about it. Damn. He didn’t want to have a conversation about this attraction between them in a moving vehicle, when he couldn’t look her in the eyes or touch her or concentrate totally on what her body and eyes were really telling him. For now, she had accepted his suggestion to keep things light, so he followed her lead for something else to talk about. “Daria and her husband saw it and recommended it.”

They discussed the musical for the remainder of the trip. At the show, by mutual—if unspoken—agreement, they made only inconsequential conversation, mostly about books they had read as children.

For dinner after the show, he took her to a French bistro on Montrose Boulevard, not far from the Museum of Fine Arts. Both of them still avoided any mention of what had brought them together. Instead they went off on a sports kick and found a mutual interest in basketball.

“I played point guard on my high-school team, but not college,” Clay said. “Didn’t have the interest or the drive it took to compete at an almost semi-pro level. Didn’t want to spend the time on it, either, I guess. I was happiest in the computer lab. How about you?” He didn’t say he’d been team captain or the team had won the state championship. It seemed too much like bragging. So did mentioning his winning team at the Downtown YMCA. Little disgusted him more than guys who relived their teenaged athletic careers as though it made them special. They often hadn’t done a thing to be proud of since.

“Where’d you go to college?” Francie asked.

“MIT. How about you?”

“Texas at Austin. I had the height for center on the women’s team, but didn’t play after high school, either, except on some intramural teams,” she answered. “I had academic scholarships, so I concentrated on my studies.” She didn’t mention she’d been on the All-State Girls’ Team or that her high school had been state champions. She also didn’t mention her university intramural team had been champions in their league or that she continued to play in the women’s league at the Downtown YMCA. It seemed too much like bragging. Besides, she didn’t like being seen as only a jock who couldn’t possibly have a brain in her head. Or worse, a body to be lusted after with no thought as to the woman who inhabited it. Clay wouldn’t treat her like either one of those. She knew that deep down, somewhere in her middle, but she didn’t have time to dwell on the revelation as he asked another question and led her thoughts elsewhere.

They went on to discuss basketball, the NBA and the Houston Rockets, the WNBA and the Houston Comets. Francie maintained the women played a “purer” form of ball, running plays, cooperating as a team, instead of “hot-dogging” like the men did. Clay, because he discovered he liked arguing with her, defended the men’s style vigorously, extolling the speed, the play above the rim, and the magic of the superstars. They finally agreed to disagree.

As they rose from the table, Clay asked, “Would you like to go to a Rockets or Comets game some time? The NBA season will be starting soon, and I have a friend who can get us good tickets.”

“That sounds like fun,” she replied. “I’ve never seen the pros play in person.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He didn’t mention the implication they’d be seeing each other after the hacker mess was over. Neither did she.

It was just past midnight when Clay drove up to Francie’s apartment. The witching hour, he thought. Apropos because he was already under her spell, and she wasn’t even a practitioner. He had never been able to talk with a date, practitioner or not, the way he had with Francie. They had covered so many topics. She had interesting viewpoints and cogent reasons for her opinions.

And to find out, of all things, that under her hard shell of god-awful clothes and computer earnestness lurked a basketball player. He’d have to get her out on a court sometime and see what kind of moves she had. As he rounded the car to open her door, he almost groaned at the thought of their bodies touching, bumping, sliding when one of them went around the other’s guard for a basket.

But now he had to say good night. His hardening body let him know exactly how it wanted to end the evening. His mind—or something—told him to take it easy. Francie wasn’t ready for it yet, and they still had to concentrate on the hacker problem. Despite her protestations, however, he couldn’t see why he couldn’t have a good-night kiss. After all, he hadn’t agreed to her request. As if in agreement, his magic center vibrated.

As they walked up the stairs, he glanced across the courtyard at the dark windows of Tamara’s apartment and asked, “Do you think our observer is at home?”

Francie stuck her key in the lock and opened her door. “I doubt it,” she answered. “She and Kevin usually stay out much later than this.” She stepped inside and turned around toward him, clearly nervous again, clearly debating with herself if she should ask him in.

He took the decision out of her hands by moving forward, closing the door behind him. She backed up automatically into the dimly lit apartment. He put his hands on her waist and drew her forward. “Time to practice,” he murmured.

“Practice what?” she asked as her hands went to his biceps.

“Sweeping you off your feet,” he answered, lowering his head, his gaze fixed on her lips.

She opened her mouth to protest, but his mouth stopped any utterance and his tongue took advantage of the opening to tease and coax and explore.

She stiffened at first, but relaxed as he kept the kiss light, tasting, nibbling, sipping. When her arms wound around his neck to draw him closer, he rejoiced. Wary though she might be, she couldn’t resist their attraction any more than he could. Then he deepened the kiss, taking her mouth as he wanted to take her body. The heat between them escalated to a flash point, and Clay felt her take fire in his arms.

She returned his kiss with one of her own, one that demanded as well as offered, gave as much as took. He answered by wrapping one arm around her waist, pressing them together from thighs to shoulders, while his other hand slid up her back to entangle itself in her hair and send hairpins scattering to the floor.

She gave a little growling purr, and the sound vibrated through him, reverberating in his very bones. Her scent, a combination of peachy tones and pure Francie, enveloped him, making him so light-headed he would have staggered if not for her support. Her hips pushed against his, a subtle brush that instantly overwhelmed all his senses.

Clay suddenly felt as if he were swimming in the Gulf on the edge of a whirlpool of desire, fighting the roaring current straining to pull him in while colored lights flickered in the distance. He was no stranger to lovemaking; he’d been in these waters before. But here in Francie’s arms, they were incredibly deeper and more turbulent than he expected, he realized somewhere in the back of his mind, as his body hardened to the point of pain. How easy it would be to dive in, be swallowed up in the rush of need and want, surrender to the maelstrom of passion in her embrace.

He knew what it was to want a woman, but the strength of this yearning, this craving for her that burned in his body surprised him. He knew what it was to kiss a woman, to hold her in his arms, to make love with her until they were both exhausted. But never before had anything felt like this kiss, so all-consuming, so all-encompassing, so demanding of . . . more.

It wasn’t enough, he would never be able to get enough of her. Again his mind’s eye conjured up the whirlpool beckoning him deeper, he felt the vortex sucking at him, and his arms tightened even more around her, his siren and lifeline all in one.

Only some primitive feeling of self-preservation, or maybe hereditary caution, or a practitioner’s innate intuition, or, hell, he didn’t know what, made him pull himself back from the abyss. He ended the kiss but held her close to his chest for a long moment, struggling to sort out his feelings and control his body.

When she took a shaky breath, he realized how tightly he was holding her and loosened his arms. He drew back so that he could see her eyes, and she blinked at him in a dazed fashion. “Did I hurt you?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, all he could manage from tortured lungs.

She shook her head slowly, but said nothing, her eyes still on his. The smoky brown of her irises was almost obscured by her dilated pupils, and she looked as stunned as he felt.

He put trembling hands on her shoulders to brace them both and stepped back. His body protested the separation, but he ignored it. “I think we’ve got this backward, Francie,” he said in a low, grating tone.

“Wh-what?” She took a deep breath and swallowed. She looked at his mouth and frowned slightly, as if he were speaking a foreign language and she was trying to understand him.

“About who’s sweeping who off whose feet.”

She licked her kiss-swollen lips, and he almost groaned at the sight. He had to get out of her apartment before he took advantage, too much advantage of her. It wasn’t yet time to take her to bed. Not that he didn’t want to, and not that she was in any state to deny him. But somehow he knew it was too soon, and the last thing he wanted was for her to regret their lovemaking.

“I’ll call you tomorrow night,” he said, as he released her shoulders.

She swayed, but steadied. “Tomorrow,” she repeated in a husky voice.

The need to kiss her again flashed through him so strongly he could have howled, but he summoned the strength from somewhere and opened the door. “Tomorrow night,” he confirmed. He walked out and closed the door behind him. After one deep, deep inhalation of much-needed air, he forced himself to keep going down the steps and to his car.

Once inside the vehicle, Clay sat for several minutes, waiting for his body to relax enough so he could drive home safely. “Holy hell, where did all that come from?” he muttered later as he lay in bed, slowly rubbing the itch that seemed to emanate from under his breastbone. Exhausted, he slept.





After Clay left her apartment, Francie staggered to the couch and collapsed on it. Several minutes passed before her bones solidified again and she was able to sit upright. She ran her hands through her hair, and a few remaining hairpins fell into her lap. She held her head tightly and forced her mind to focus.

“Good Lord, what was that?” she breathed out loud.

Her mind had no answer. Her body, however, relived every moment from the first light touch of his lips on hers. The small, insignificant brush of his mouth had flung her mind into turmoil and her body to his. His deeper kiss had obliterated thought, leaving only the certainty she was in a hurricane, then swallowed up in a tornado. She could have sworn colored lights flickered and whirled all around them. She’d become giddy, dizzy with desire. She couldn’t get close enough to him, not enough to cool the heat or halt the lightning zinging through her body.

She’d had no control whatever, neither mental nor physical. He could have done anything to her, anything in the world. Ravished her on the floor. Torn her clothes off and taken her against the wall. Carried her into the bedroom and . . .

“No!” she cried aloud. Yes, her body reveled at the idea.

But he hadn’t done any of it. In fact, he’d calmly ended that devastating kiss and walked out the door. Cool, composed, unmoved. He’ d just walked out the damn door.

How dare he?

How dare he leave her in this . . . state, or . . . condition, or . . . whatever it was? How dare he reject her?

How dare he not give her a chance to remind him of their agreement? To tell him she wouldn’t kiss him again? To reject him first?

“Whatever it was” transformed itself into anger—hot, seething anger—and she beat her fists on her knees in frustration.

Didn’t the arrogant bastard feel anything at all? After reducing her to a pile of storm debris, how did the man have the gall to leave, saying only he’d call her tomorrow night?

Wait a minute. What was she thinking?

“Oh, God! Oh, damn, damn, damn.” As her brain finally clicked into its analytical gear, she realized how she was reacting. She wasn’t thinking straight. She hadn’t meant for another kiss to happen at all.

What was she angry about? Had he, in fact, rejected her? Why should it matter to her? She should be angry not at him, but at herself, for cooperating in that kiss. She hadn’t secured his actual, verbal agreement to her no-kisses rule, and the SOB had ignored her demand. And she’d given in.

What had happened to her willpower? Was she falling for another handsome, charming man? Was this going to be Walt all over again?

The last question galvanized her, stood her on her feet, and propelled her toward the bedroom. She told herself, “No,” several times down the hall, and she fussed and fumed while she removed her clothes, put on her nightgown, and washed her face.

Rubbed her breastbone, which was now aching, not itching. Aching, with little sharp pinpricks of pain every so often. Just what she needed, another problem.

“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered again through the toothpaste foam as she brushed her teeth and her mind traveled right back to Clay. She’d had such fun this night, enjoyed his company so much. And the things they’d talked about. She hadn’t had a chance to talk basketball with anybody in a long time. Her computer buddies didn’t care much about sports, and Tamara liked to watch the men, not the game.

But she and Clay together as a couple couldn’t go on, wouldn’t after they caught Kevin.

She couldn’t take many more kisses like the one tonight. Not and remain sane. Not and remain her own woman. Not and keep Clay where he firmly belonged, in the business side of her life. She had to end this confusion between her mind and body.

She could not let him touch her again when they were alone. Not let him kiss her. She would arrange the double date with Tamara and Kevin so Clay could meet the smarmy bastard. After that, she wouldn’t need to have anything to do with him. She’d tell Tamara they’d broken up.

That would do it, she told herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked at her image and realized she was rubbing that spot right between her breasts again. She had to stop; she was only making it more sore. She busied her hands putting the toothpaste away.

Once in bed with the light out, however, her body reminded her again of its pleasure at being in Clay’s arms, of its certainty of being exactly where it was supposed to be, of its longing to be there again.

And her memory conjured up his words, “I think we’ve got this backward. About who’s sweeping who off whose feet.” And the look on his face, silver eyes so intent on hers; and his muscular body, so hard against her soft one; and the strength of his desire, so evident pressed against her aching sex. He had been as breathless and aroused as she was.

Good. Let him stew for a while. The pleasure that idea brought made her smile in the darkness. It even seemed to lessen the discomfort in her chest.

Maybe she was mistaken in her original conclusions. Maybe he had been affected. She was an analyst; she could look at the evidence, plot the sequence of events, map the procedure. He’d been breathing hard also. His voice had sounded like he had trouble getting the words out. And she remembered the way his hands had trembled on her shoulders. Separating their bodies had been as hard on him as it was on her.

Maybe his honor and integrity had stopped him from . . . from what? Pushing her over the edge? Taking her where she had implied she didn’t want to go? She’d been the one who wanted to keep it all businesslike, and she’d told him so.

But he’d been the one with willpower. How had he known to stop? Why had he? Thank goodness he had. She wasn’t ready for more. Wasn’t she? Would she ever be?

Her body told her it was ready now. Her mind just wallowed around in confusion, as if it had been possessed by aliens. And the pain in her solar plexus seemed to come and go on its own schedule. At this rate she’d be a candidate for the loony bin in no time.

Francie snorted at herself and punched the pillow into a more comfortable position. For a woman who’d always prided herself on her ability to think and act clearly, she certainly wasn’t doing any of that now. She’d come in a complete circle, from frustration to rage to frustration of another sort.

What was she going to do about Clay Morgan?

Put a stop to his kisses, somehow. Keep her distance. Live through this debacle.

Survive.

Hoping daylight would bring respite from her problems, she closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow. Her last memory of the effect the kiss had on Clay caused a small smile of satisfaction to cross her face before sleep overtook her.