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Secret Games
Jeanie London


Marriage counselor Maggie James has a problem–she doesn't believe in commitment! So when her patients claim that a sexy resort has cured their commitment woes, she decides to uncover the resort's secret–for her patients…and for herself. But to get in she'll need a lover–a pretend lover. And she can't think of a better man for the job than her best friend, Sam Masters.Sam has loved Maggie for years, but he could never bring himself to tell her. Now he has a chance to show her. He'll stimulate her senses…then seduce her senseless! He'll prove to her just how incredible the sex between them can be. Maggie may think this is just a weekend of play, but Sam knows that with the right moves, their sensual game can be for keeps….









“We need some sort of game plan, Sam.”


Maggie’s words tumbled from her lips in a nervous rush. “Some strategy to find what I’m looking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m looking for.” His voice husky and sure, Sam crowded her against the wall.

His touch was so warm, so startling, she could only stand there motionless. He hooked his thumbs beneath her chin and nudged her face upward. She caught the slight smile curving his mouth as his face lowered, pressing soft kisses along her neck. His breath lingered around her ear, doing crazy things to her insides.

This couldn’t be happening. This was Sam. Her best friend, Sam.

Sam who was suddenly trailing a path of fire down her jaw with his warm velvet mouth. Sam who was suddenly kissing her. Sam whose mouth was hot, sweet…intense. And demanding.

“We’re not going to pretend to be a couple,” he whispered, that delectable mouth just a hairbreadth away. “We’re going to be a real couple…sex and all.” He brushed her lips with his. “And it’s going to be incredible. Trust me.”







Dear Reader,

Somehow it always works out that my family and friends jet-set around the globe while I remain at home, waiting to “ooh” and “aah” over the photographs of their trips. Just this thing happened—yet again!—when my cousin Marietta returned from Niagara Falls. I “oohed” over the magic of the falls—which even one-dimensional was pretty awesome—and “aahed” over her journey into the mist wearing a raincoat, and understood why so many lovers visit there. I wanted to visit, too.

Enter Maggie and Sam. Maggie’s a woman who’s not afraid to follow her instincts, no matter where they may lead—even if she winds up in Niagara Falls observing the effects of sensual games on lovers. Sam’s a man who knows exactly what he wants, and observing sensual games isn’t on his wish list. Not when he could be playing them with Maggie.

Blaze is the place to explore red-hot romance, and I’m excited to join the ranks of wonderful Harlequin authors who share their inspired journeys to happily ever after. I hope Secret Games brings you there, too. Let me know. Drop me a line in care of Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada. Or visit my Web site at www.jeanielondon.com.

Very truly yours,

Jeanie London

P.S. Check out the special Blaze Web site at www.tryblaze.com!




Secret Games

Jeanie London







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my very own romance hero, Rick—always.

And a special thanks to Brenda Chin

for believing in my story, and me ;-)




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue




1


SEX HAD CURED THEM?

The question played over and over again in Maggie James’s mind as she left her office. She nodded at a passing colleague, plastered a smile on her face even though she knew the blush scorching her cheeks spoiled the effect.

Sex had really cured them?

Blushing was not a normal state of affairs for Maggie. First off, it was prickly, uncomfortable business. Second, she was a relationship counselor. As such, she spent her days listening to the most intimate details of her patients’ lives and had long ago learned to school her reactions to unexpected revelations. This, coupled with her own rather…expansive relationship history, meant Maggie didn’t blush easily.

But she was blushing now. No, not because she was embarrassed. She wasn’t. Astonished, maybe. Perplexed, definitely. She’d thought the Weatherbys’ relationship suffered from the result of too much stress, but apparently they’d been suffering from a lull in their sex life, instead.

How could she have misdiagnosed such an obvious problem?

Maggie didn’t have a handy answer. She’d spent her three years in practice establishing herself as a competent therapist; in fact, her more experienced colleagues often consulted her about family counseling—dealing with blended families, divorce, children and the like.

Fanning her face with the brochure she clutched tightly in her fist, Maggie swept down the empty hallway, chanting, “Maintain, maintain, maintain.”

Just because the Weatherbys had spent their abbreviated therapy session answering her questions while groping each other like two unsupervised teens was no reason to come unglued.

Maybe not, but Maggie sure felt the aftereffects of witnessing their passion at such close range.

The switchboard droned behind her, and the buzz of voices from the reception area suggested a busy night. With so many people working long hours nowadays, she and the other counselors who made up Baltimore Healthcare adjusted their schedules accordingly.

Thankfully, she wasn’t pulling a late night. She honestly didn’t know if she could regroup sufficiently to see patients right now.

A sharp rap on the door marked Lyn Milhausser, Ph.D., earned her a quick invitation inside, and Maggie found her friend and mentor seated behind the desk, poring over the contents of several manila file folders.

Lyn was intimately acquainted with the details of all Maggie’s cases, not only because she’d been Baltimore Healthcare’s program coordinator for well over a decade, but also because she’d supervised Maggie’s college internship.

They’d grown close, becoming self-proclaimed sisters by love, if not by blood. Lyn had hired Maggie before the ink had dried on her diploma, and if anyone could help her sort through this mess, it was Lyn, whose years of counseling experience had always steered Maggie in the right direction.

“Sex cured them,” Maggie said, and the explanation sounded absurd, even in the unbiased quiet of Lyn’s office.

“Excuse me?” Lyn glanced up, but her welcoming smile quickly faded. “You look ruffled. Is everything all right?”

Maggie considered the question, then sank into the winged armchair before the desk. “No. Everything’s not all right. I just finished my last session with the Weatherbys.”

“They’ve resolved their issues, then. How wonderful.”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

Meeting Lyn’s confused stare, Maggie elaborated. “What was supposed to have been a normal session turned into a ten-minute explanation of why they no longer needed relationship counseling. Judging by how neither of them could keep their hands off each other for even that short time, I didn’t bother trying to convince them otherwise.”

“They claim sex is responsible for their recovery?”

“Not just sex—incredible sex. Apparently there’s a big difference.”

“I wouldn’t argue, would you?”

Lyn grinned, but Maggie didn’t appreciate the attempt at humor. She was too busy vacillating between disbelief over the Weatherbys’ miraculous recovery and worry because she hadn’t accurately recognized their symptoms. Now was not the time to ruminate on her own lackluster sex life.

“They claim that visiting a superclub has cured them of their problems handling emotional stresses. After a week at this, this superclub—” she waved the brochure wildly “—he’s not shutting down when they try to talk and she has stopped feeling resentful.”

“Wow. A superclub cured all that? A superclub is one of those resorts that cater to newlyweds and lovers, isn’t it?”

“The very same.”

Lyn stood, holding her glasses in place on the bridge of her nose. “Is that a brochure for the place? Let me see.”

Maggie half sat on the edge of the desk and spread the brochure before them. She squinted at the blurb.

Fantasy, role-playing…titillating sex.

The words might have been illuminated in neon the way they leaped off the page, but as bold as the advertising was, she had to admit, the superclub looked, well…romantic.

Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast.

Falling in bed, hmm. She could definitely see that happening. With its steep Mansard roofs and white gingerbread trim, Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast was a place from another era, so picture-perfect it might have been a movie set designed to fire the imagination about what took place behind those sparkling paned windows.

Maggie could easily envision women garbed in bustled gowns, heels clicking over polished wooden floors, and men smiling debonair smiles, as they danced the candlelit nights away at grand balls and fetes. Lovers drifting into shadows for stolen moments, unconcerned as they gazed at each other with the sort of longing the Weatherbys had displayed in full view of her, Baltimore Healthcare’s office staff and the waiting patients.

A place designed for lovers.

Men would whisper extravagant compliments and seduce their ladies with simple, but longing caresses. The graze of eager fingers against a smooth cheek. The intimate brush of knees while gliding effortlessly over a ballroom floor. Hushed breaths and lingering kisses and passion. Love. Romance.

Maggie smiled despite herself. Her entire career was built on the reality of relationships, not these whimsical imaginings of melodramatic avowals of devotion and happily-ever-afters.

Lyn must have been similarly affected, because she asked, “You don’t believe a visit to this superclub and lots of good sex helped the Weatherbys overcome their issues?”

“I’m not saying sex didn’t help, but it can’t be that simple. You know as well as I do relationship issues aren’t diseases to be eradicated with a round of antibiotics.” Maggie glanced back at the picture of the romantic resort. “Or miracles, for that matter. Relationships require work. Men and women are different creatures, and if they don’t respect those differences and keep the lines of communication open, their relationships run the risk of failure.”

“That’s all very true, Maggie, but sex plays an important part, too. Apparently, the Weatherbys were suffering from a lull. They’ve been married for years. It happens. If a superclub helped them put some passion back into their lives, I say good for them.” She hesitated. “So what’s the problem?”

Maggie let her eyes drift shut for the barest of instants, rallying the courage to force the awful truth past her suddenly tight throat. “I was working them through their differing reactions to stress. He’d become emotionally absent and she responded with anger. I didn’t recognize that they needed intimacy to help them become available to each other again. I had them journaling, but they came up with sex to communicate.”

“You’ve earned more of a highly regarded reputation in your three years of counseling than most therapists enjoy after decades in this business. But if you’re expecting perfection from yourself, you’re bound to be disappointed.”

“Not perfection, Lyn.” Maggie huffed, sinking back in the chair. “All right, maybe perfection. I believe in high expectations. Shoot for the stars and all that.”

“There’s something to be said for setting realistic, attainable goals, Maggie. You can’t attain perfection.”

“Apparently not this week, I can’t. This episode with the Weatherbys has me thinking about Angie and Raymond.”

After several years of living together, Angie Westlake and Raymond Mueller had been referred to Maggie for help sorting through some poor communication habits that were hindering them from making their relationship permanent. They professed to the same goals of a stable marriage and children and seemed to have love and dedication on their side.

Maggie had believed she could guide them through this rocky spot in their relationship, but after several months of counseling sessions—and practically every trick in her repertoire—she was forced to admit to an abysmal lack of progress. She genuinely liked the couple and worried they’d soon lose heart and decide to part ways.

“We all win some and lose some.” Lyn correctly identified Maggie’s dismay. “And you haven’t lost Angie and Raymond yet.”

“But I’m going to.” She exhaled sharply. “Maybe I should refer them to you, or someone else with more experience in this area, since I obviously have a weak spot in my therapy.”

“You’ve already suggested involving an associate to get another viewpoint on their problem. They’re the ones uncomfortable with the idea.”

“But I’m not helping them.”

“You might not be able to keep them together,” Lyn corrected. “But you are helping them discover whether or not they should undertake a marriage. Think of how complex their lives will be if they have to drag children through a divorce later on.”

Maggie couldn’t argue the point, but such a skinny ray of sunlight couldn’t penetrate the storm clouds gathering inside her. “I’m well aware I can’t keep all my couples together, but I don’t want to lose Angie and Raymond. They belong together.”

“Then let’s figure out how to strengthen your weakness with lulls in long-term relationships so you can help them.”

Lyn’s pragmatism propelled Maggie from her pity party. It was definitely time to reevaluate her strategy. She needed research into this topic and knew exactly where to get it.

“I’m going to Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast.”

Lyn blinked. “Exactly what are you planning to do there?”

“Research. Observation. Expand my knowledge base by getting ideas I can suggest to my patients. I’m going to research renewing passion in long-term relationships and I’m going to research it at the source.”

Lyn emitted a very unladylike snort. “Research and observation? What do you think you’re going to observe? These superclubs have doors on their rooms, don’t they?”

Maggie opened her mouth to argue, but ended up staring as Lyn’s words penetrated and understanding dawned. “But the foreplay should be enough to give me ideas, don’t you think?”

“No. Foreplay isn’t going to mean diddly to someone who has never uttered the words long, term and relationship in the same sentence when she’s referring to herself.”

“What does that mean?”

Lyn rolled her eyes. “Be real. You’re talking about knowledge bases and you don’t have one. When have you ever been involved in a relationship long enough to hit a lull?”

Maggie winced. Her immediate impulse was to defend herself, but Lyn’s raised brows forced her to drop the pretense. After losing the Weatherbys, Maggie had no pride to be salvaged. Not tonight, at any rate.

“All right, so I haven’t been involved in many long-term relationships. What can I say? I’m unlucky in love. That’s why I kick yours and Charles’s butts at poker every other Saturday night.”

“Many, ha! Name one long-term relationship you’ve been in, and I’ll up the ante from silver to bills the next game.”

Maggie certainly wouldn’t mind winning that pot. Finances had been tight all through school and didn’t hold the promise of loosening up any time soon with all the college loans she had to repay. She mentally reviewed the list.

“And I don’t count,” Lyn said, as if Maggie needed the reminder. “I’m talking about a relationship with a male.”

Maggie frowned, discarding name after name of the ex-boyfriends who’d contributed to her unfulfilling relationship experiences since her first ill-fated romance at seventeen.

Hmm. Not good. She couldn’t come up with a single one who might plausibly qualify as a contender in the long-term department…. Then, with an inward sigh of relief, Maggie latched on to someone, the only someone she could think of.

His image sprang easily to mind. He was tall, dark and irresistible, judging by the way females had been throwing themselves at him ever since middle school. Not only was he athletic and charming, he was gallant, never casually availing himself of the multitude of feminine opportunities at hand.

“Sam,” she said proudly.

Lyn tossed her glasses on the desk in obvious exasperation. “Cheater. Sam’s just your friend. He doesn’t count.”

“Why not? I’ve known him since the fourth grade and we’ve been living together since my third semester in college.”

“The only reason you live with him is because he had the second floor of his house renovated into an apartment after his parents died so your sorry butt wouldn’t end up in the street. Unless you can tell me with a straight face that you’ve slept with Sam Masters, he doesn’t count.”

Argh! Maggie would have given their next poker game’s entire pot of real money to wipe that look of superiority from Lyn’s face with one emphatic yes, but not even for the sake of her pride could she tell such a whopper.

She’d never dream of sleeping with Sam…. Okay, she may have had a few dreams through the years, but they were very private dreams that would never see the light of day.

Sinking back in the chair, she avoided Lyn’s smug smile. It was one thing to admit a deficiency in the long-term relationship department to herself, but entirely another to admit it aloud. She wasn’t about to explain that most of her sexual encounters had been wanting.

Making impulsive decisions had gotten Maggie into more trouble during her life than she cared to recall, but there was one area where she was never impulsive—in bed. She never had sex with a man until taking the time to become acquainted and see if there was chemistry.

And all her uncharacteristic caution hadn’t made one bit of difference. Sex was invariably the kiss of death for her relationships. The minute sex became involved, expectations followed, then the push for unrealistic promises, then the inevitable disappointments and hurt feelings….

“All right. All right,” she finally said. “I concede the point, but this isn’t my therapy session. What am I going to do to help Angie and Raymond?”

“Not observation and research.” Lyn reached across the desk and flipped through the brochure.

“Then what?”

“If you’re serious about visiting this superclub, you need practical application.”

“Practical application? But how does that translate into—”

“Test out the theory behind the place. Look, they’re talking about fantasy role-playing and other sexual fun stuff. Try this superclub out, then let me know what you think. Maybe I’ll book a room, too.”

“Lyn, I’m trying to increase my knowledge base here.”

“There’s no reason why I can’t benefit, too. This place sounds great, and Charles has a thing for leather.”

Envisioning the very dignified and well respected Dr. Charles Milhausser doing anything that involved leather proved too much for Maggie. “Stop! I don’t want to hear this.”

“But you need to. There’s a whole world of sexual experiences you’ve been missing out on because you never keep a guy around long enough to get comfortable. Trust me, Maggie. Go to this superclub for practical application. You won’t be sorry, and not only for your patients’ sake, either.”

“But I’m not involved in a long-term relationship, and if I wait until I cultivate one, I’ll lose Angie and Raymond.”

“Improvise.”

“I’m not even dating at the moment.”

“Anyone in the queue?”

“No.”

Maggie wished Lyn didn’t look quite so surprised. Sure, she’d had her share of casual relationships, but she really hadn’t had that many.

“Well, what about Will Reynolds? If I remember correctly, you parted on decent terms.”

Maggie shook her head, not quite certain where Lyn was going. Surely she wasn’t suggesting that Maggie call up an ex-lover and invite him on vacation to act out sexual fantasies. “He met someone shortly after we broke up. Last I heard he was looking for groomsmen.”

“Mike Jacobs?”

“He came out of the closet.”

“Oh, honey. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Maggie grimaced. That answer should be obvious.

“What about Troy Carver?”

“He found God. He’s almost a preacher.”

Lyn’s eyes opened wide. “Oooh, that good-looking man. Well, he won’t work then, either.”

Maggie leaned forward, propped her elbows on the desk, and stared hard at her friend. “Exactly what do you think I’m going to do with an old boyfriend? Say, �Excuse me, would you mind dropping your drawers and hopping into bed, so I can test out some different positions?’”

Lyn chuckled. “Theory isn’t the same as application. You need experience to identify the problem and talk the talk.”

Maggie would be the first to admit there was a world of difference between reading about sex and actually participating, but this was therapy, for goodness sake. She didn’t actually need to become depressed to know how to help someone who was suffering depression. “Observation will work fine. I’ve already figured out I’m misdiagnosing relationship lulls, so I’ll read up on the subject and keep my eyes open for the symptoms. Now I need ideas to help my patients through their lulls. Especially Angie and Raymond.”

When Lyn frowned, Maggie asked, “What’s the option? I’m not involved in any relationship right now, let alone a long-term one.”

“What about Sam, then?”

“What about him? Wait a minute….” Maggie stared at Lyn. “You’re not suggesting I invite Sam?”

“Why not? You’re without a guy du jour, and Sam’s perfect. He’s the closest thing you’ve got to a long-term relationship. You’re comfortable with him, and he cares about you. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.” Lyn lifted her eyebrows suggestively.

After being forced to accept that her therapy needed help that her own extensive, but abysmal love life couldn’t provide, Maggie couldn’t handle this type of reasoning. Sex with Sam? This was not something she could tackle in the light of day.

Snatching the brochure off the desk, she shot to her feet. “Sam is my best friend. I can’t have sex with my best friend.”

“Why ever not? I have sex with my best friend at least three times a week. Four, if you don’t show up to play poker.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that.” Maggie beelined toward the door, knowing she’d never be able to step foot inside Lyn and Charles’s town house again without feeling guilty for curtailing what might have otherwise been a steamy evening.

“Seriously, Maggie.” The earnestness in Lyn’s tone stopped her before she escaped. “Give Sam some thought. Sleeping with him might be the smartest thing you ever did. The minute you get close to a guy, you freak out and start finding reasons to dump him. You won’t have a reason with Sam. You already know the good, the bad and the ugly about him.”

Maggie winced at hearing her behavior whittled down to such unforgiving terms, but she didn’t argue. Couldn’t. “Even if I was attracted to Sam, which I’m not, he’s totally not my type.”

Fantasies didn’t count while the sun was up.

“What type is that?”

Maggie waved her arms while she tried to find the right words to describe Sam. “He’s stable, loyal, predictable.”

Lyn stroked her chin, clearly considering. “Stable is good. Loyal is good. We could work on predictable, but that’s no tragedy. He’s a nice guy.”

“Yes, he is.”

“So what’s wrong with nice? Last I heard we were recommending nice to our patients.”

Nothing was wrong with nice guys, except it never seemed to matter whether they were nice or naughty—she always ended up by herself. Sinking back against the wall, Maggie blew a strand of hair from her eyes with an exasperated breath. Sam was definitely a nice guy, the nicest guy she’d ever known. That’s what made him special. That’s what made him off-limits. How could she possibly explain her feelings about him to Lyn?

They’d grown up together. Experienced so much. Both good and bad. Ever since Sam and his parents had moved into the house next door when she’d been in the fourth and he in fifth grade, they’d been connected.

They’d been there for each other through disappointing report cards and a host of parental punishments. She’d stuck by him when he’d broken his leg skateboarding and couldn’t run with the neighborhood kids. Sam had cradled her and Hambone in his arms when her elderly Maltese had peacefully exited from life.

He’d proven himself the best of friends by helping her cope with the ugliness of her parents’ divorce and the emotional fallout afterward. She’d led Sam through the process of funeral arrangements after his parents had died in a car accident and remained by his side during the long dark months while he’d dealt with his grief.

They’d survived her stint with vegetarianism and his fascination with home beer brewing. Sam was her friend, her anchor, her lifeline when life got crazy.

He was the only man in the world with whom Maggie could be herself. The only man she could count on not to turn his back when the going got tough. Through good times and bad, through changes of jobs, schools, friends and lovers, Sam was always there. Maggie trusted him in a way she’d never trusted another man. Not even her father. Especially not her father.

Sam was her ideal, the yardstick she held all other men to. Sex with Sam would mess things up completely.

“He’s too important to me,” she finally said. “Sex complicates things, and I won’t risk ruining the special relationship we have, or risk losing him. Not to address the weak link in my therapy. Not for anything.”

“Sex doesn’t have to complicate things. It can add depth to a relationship and make it even stronger.”

“With my track record? Please. The only reason my relationship with Sam works is because we stay out of bed.”

Maggie clung to the doorjamb, longing to propel herself into the hallway, snuffing out the sound of Lyn and her too-close-for-comfort observations. All right. Maybe it was high time she took a long look at why she couldn’t stay in a relationship past the time it took her guy du jour to memorize her phone number. Was her problem recognizing trouble in long-term relationships symbolic of her own inability to stay in one?

“I’ll think about whom I might invite, Lyn. That’s the best I can do.”

“Ask Sam.”

“Even if I was willing, Sam wouldn’t be. He dates, but he doesn’t do one-night stands. He’s only had three long-term relationships in the entire time I’ve known him. And to my knowledge, he’s never even had a quickie.”

“Then you won’t run the risk of catching anything.”

How Lyn delivered that statement with a straight face, Maggie would never know. “Very funny.”

“You need practical application, Maggie, my friend. Accept it and ask Sam. He’s your best choice for the job. You can’t go to this superclub alone and whoever you take is bound to have sex on the brain. At least you and Sam are long-term. Taking him will serve a purpose.”

Lyn had a point. If Maggie spent most of her visit to Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast circumventing sexual advances, she wouldn’t have the time or the energy to observe the interplay between other couples.

Perhaps Sam was the best choice for the job. Sex didn’t factor into their relationship, so he wouldn’t be distracted by the sexual theme of the place.

“I think I will ask Sam to come with me,” she said, taking an inordinate amount of satisfaction when she wiped the smile from Lyn’s face by adding, “to observe.”

“Now you’re back to unrealistic expectations,” she scoffed. “I’ve spent enough time with you and Sam to safely guess he isn’t suffering from an inactive libido. If you take the guy to a sex club, he’s going to want to have sex.”

“Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast is not a sex club—it’s a romance superclub—and Sam won’t want sex. He’s my friend.”

“Charles is my friend, too.”

Maggie scowled. “Observation, Lyn. Not practical application. I’m going home now.”

And not to ask Sam to have sex. Observation, only. Though, if Maggie were completely honest with herself, Sam wasn’t the one she should be worried about. Those late-night fantasies of hers didn’t need any encouragement.

But she’d already had enough honesty today, thank you.




2


TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP, pause, tap-tap.

The sounds vibrated from Sam Masters’s antiquated heater in a series of harsh taps that jarred the midnight quiet. Sam smiled. The crude, but familiar melody translated into a secret code. Though he never consciously hoped to hear it, he was always glad when he did.

Are you alone? Got time to talk?

He set down the mug of coffee he’d been nursing while reviewing a client’s investment portfolio and made his way into the living room. A miniature replica of a judge’s mallet hung by a leather loop from the side of the furnace heater.

Though Maggie always improvised with her own rendition of the Morse code he’d taught her when he was still in Boy Scouts, Sam adhered to the formal rules of the dots, dashes and spaces. Retrieving the mallet, he hammered out the word yes.

Tap-tap, tap-tap, pause, tap, pause, tap-tap-tap.

He waited.

Tap-tap. On my way.

Within seconds, Sam heard the tread of Maggie’s footsteps loping lightly down the bare wooden stairs. He opened the door to their shared hallway just as she stepped off the last riser.

“Hi.” Her bright-green gaze caught his, a welcoming smile clicking her expression to high beam. “Not too late, is it?”

“I was working.”

Chuckling, she swept past him and through the door he held open. “You always are.”

Though her laughter sounded silvery and light, Sam knew with one glance why she’d come for a visit.

Maggie had a problem.

Her gaze was a little too bright. Her creamy skin a shade too pale beneath the sprinkling of pale-gold freckles across her nose. Her smile rested easily on her pretty pink mouth, too easily. She seemed relieved to see him.

Throughout the years, Sam had experienced all sorts of Maggie melodrama. He’d survived nerves about dance recitals and ice-skating competitions. Worries about bum finances. Meltdowns about unfair grades. Angst about boyfriends. Way too much angst about boyfriends.

Sam recognized the symptoms, all right. She may sail into his living room with that breezy, devil-may-care attitude, but Maggie didn’t fool him for an instant.

As always, that tough-it-out veneer she wore over her vulnerability did crazy things to him, made him want to wrestle her troubles to the mat. And her, too.

As always, Maggie didn’t have a clue.

Sam pulled the door closed, before all the heat in his apartment could escape. Before Maggie could escape. She was his now. For a while, at least.

Though she was only of average height, her slim curves made her seem taller, almost lanky. The top of her red-gold head barely brushed his chin, and he was treated to a whiff of the scent he’d associated with Maggie for as long as he could remember, a scent that reminded him of orange blossoms.

There was a certain innocence about the fragrance that brought to mind a young Maggie, dabbing drops behind her ears from a girlish perfume bottle with ribbons. The years hadn’t tarnished that innocence, but had made it a unique part of the woman standing before him.

To ward off the winter cold, she wore a white robe over gray jersey long johns and a pair of Gumby slippers that had seen the better part of a year’s wear. Holding his glasses in place on the bridge of his nose, he noted that the green fuzz had been worn shiny in patches, and the protruding Gumby heads flopped limply with every step. Maggie didn’t seem to notice their sorry condition. Or care.

“I owe you a new pair,” he said.

“They’re comfy.”

“They’re falling apart.”

Giving Maggie a pair of cartoon character slippers was a tradition that began when Sam had been ten years old. He’d wanted to give a special Valentine to the young neighbor girl who’d been so instrumental in helping him make friends after his move to a new neighborhood.

The standard boxed fare had been too generic, and neither flowers nor candy had occurred to his fifth-grade brain. His mother had stepped in, deeming a pair of Bugs Bunny slippers—a character Maggie adored—perfect. She’d been right.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, more out of reflexive civility than necessity, since Maggie had already deposited a folded sheath of papers on his end table and was situating a steaming mug onto a coaster.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. Just wanted to say hi.”

Maggie up at midnight? A cup of what he presumed to be herbal tea? Did she really think she was fooling him?

“Let me grab my coffee.”

Sam nuked the dregs, parked his mug next to hers on the end table, and then settled himself in the recliner. Maggie, curled into a ball on the corner of his couch with her feet tucked neatly beneath her, watched him silently.

Even if he couldn’t read the symptoms, Sam would have known Maggie was troubled simply because she wasn’t chatting away about whatever was on her mind.

There was a high-strung sort of agitation about her that reminded him of the tense moments between a flash of summer lightning and the explosion of thunder.

“So how’s it going?” He attempted to get her started.

“Fine, and you? Make lots of money on the stock market today?”

“My clients won’t complain.”

“Good.” But a tiny frown creased her delicate brows. Work trouble, then.

“So, how was your day? Solve all your patients’ problems?”

Her gaze pierced the distance between them, wide, worried, yet misty with recognition because she realized that Sam already suspected something was up. He held her gaze steadily, drew in an expectant breath, and waited.

This was all the urging Maggie needed. She exploded, just like a clap of thunder, launching into a jumbled and breathless account of losing patients to sex and split-ups, of nice guys and superclubs and observation versus practical application.

Sam watched as Maggie’s cheeks reddened with agitation, or lack of oxygen, and her gesticulations grew wilder. He slid the mugs closer to his side of the table after she missed nailing one by mere inches.

He made a valiant effort to follow the threads of her disjointed tirade, but his own head was spinning by the time she’d braked hard on the emotions clearly racing inside her, stopped, and stared at him.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, winded.

He hesitated, unsure if she wanted his opinion about her choice in men or if she should take a research trip to some place called a superclub.

He must have hesitated too long because suddenly she was eyeing him accusingly, as though he hadn’t been listening well enough to answer her question.

Latching on to the last thing she’d said, Sam gave his opinion. “I’m for the trip. You should go.”

Jackpot.

Her narrowed gaze relented, and she said earnestly, “You really think so?”

“No doubt about it.” But he did have doubts. He still wasn’t clear on the correlation between sex and the so-called superclub. He’d stand a much better chance of getting her to clarify if he didn’t come straight out and ask.

“If you can get the experience you need to help this couple and get away at the same time, the trip will be considered job training. You’ll be able to write it off next year’s taxes as a business expense.”

She smiled, looking relieved. “Oh, Sam. You do have a gift for boiling things down to black and white.”

He only inclined his head at her compliment, but was pleased he’d made her smile.

“You really think observation is the way to go?”

“Well, I think getting away will do you good, and with your crunched finances, you can use a write-off. Elaborate on this observation for me. I’m not clear on the details.”

Staring into her mug, Maggie sipped before answering. “There’s a couple I haven’t been able to help, because I didn’t recognize that they needed to put sparks back in their long-term relationship. I don’t have much knowledge of long-term myself.”

Now there was an understatement. With her pale red-gold hair and creamy skin, Maggie was gorgeous in a natural, unaffected way that made men trip over themselves for her attention. That none ever managed to keep her attention for longer than it took the Dow Jones Average to dip was an occurrence he couldn’t entirely ascribe to her dates.

“How does a superclub translate into long-term experience?”

She huffed in obvious exasperation. “Think about it, Sam. I can’t just snap my fingers and miraculously get experience, so I have to improvise. I’ll visit one of these superclubs to observe the effects on couples. I’ll get all sorts of ideas to help Angie and Raymond, and others, too.”

Sam rubbed his temples beneath the arms of his glasses, certain it wasn’t the late hour but Maggie’s reasoning that encouraged this headache. She was infamous for her harebrained schemes and this one qualified as more harebrained than most. And who was she planning to take to this superclub? Last he’d heard, her current loser had already gotten his walking papers.

Man, this was exactly what he didn’t want to think about tonight. Maggie running off to some hotel with another guy. When was she going to learn? Better yet, when was he?

He’d had years to reconcile himself to the reality that Maggie didn’t think of him as anything more than a brother. By rights, the reconciling should be getting easier. No such luck.

“So your research trip is actually a visit to some sort of pleasure palace?” He was getting a clearer picture of what she was talking about and couldn’t keep the disapproval from his voice. “Does that about sum it up?”

“No!” Maggie cried indignantly. “This isn’t a pleasure palace. It’s a romance superclub.”

Which sounded like a classy name for a pleasure palace.

Sam could tell by the way Maggie straightened her spine and lifted her chin that he was about to be treated to an in-depth explanation of the differences. Slipping the sheaf of papers from the end table, she sank to her knees beside him and spread what he recognized as printouts of a Web site over his lap.

Steeling himself against the brush of her fingers on his jean-clad thigh, he made a valiant effort to focus on the papers she brandished at him, tried to concentrate on her words rather than the wispy hairs fringing her cheeks.

“I went online and researched these tonight. Superclubs are the hottest travel destinations right now. They cater to newlyweds and lovers for weddings, honeymoons and vacations. Long-term couples go to get away from the daily grind and put romance back in their lives. I found one that’s perfect.”

With one casual graze of her fingers, she hooked the errant strands of hair behind her ear. She wasn’t making this easy on him, but Sam knew Maggie had no idea she was providing him such distraction and undermining her own sales pitch in the process.

When she ran a painted pink fingertip over the page, he forced himself to follow its path, wrangled his unruly thoughts into compliance and read about the club’s more unique features.

Fun, active and romantic, our superclub is unique, the perfect escape for energetic—and slightly wicked!—couples. After all, the point is to honeymoon or reignite the spark.

Romance-themed suites are also available, including the lush Roman Bagnio, Victorian Bordello, Sultan’s Seraglio, Warlord’s Tower, Wild West Brothel, Demimondaine’s Boudoir, Roaring Twenty’s Speakeasy, Sixties’ Lovenest, Red-light District and the Space Odyssey.

Specialty shops offer a variety of romance enhancements designed to drive your partner wild.

“Jeez, Mags. Perfect? Leave it to you to find this place. What’s it called?” He scanned the page for a name. “�Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast, the perfect place to experience love in the mist.’ That fits. What’s the mist? Some steamy sauna room with a water bed?”

Maggie rocked back on her haunches and exploded in laughter. “No, silly. The mist stands for Niagara Falls. There are superclubs everywhere—Vegas, Aspen, even in the Bahamas. The closest are in Niagara Falls and the Poconos. Since I’ve always wanted to see the Falls…”

Her voice trailed off, but Sam was only half listening. Visions of Maggie dressed in a harem girl’s costume grabbed his attention. Her long, slim curves revealed through the sheerest whisper of silk. Flashes of firm breasts and smooth belly. She had an innate sense of movement, polished with years of dance lessons, and he could envision her dancing for him so vividly, the tinkle of finger cymbals rang in his ears.

Then another of the superclub’s unique features caught his eye and snapped him from his fantasy.

Each superclub offers a variety of free services, including wedding coordination—let someone experienced in the ways of love help plan your special wedding.

Which led straight back to the question Sam didn’t want to dwell on: who was Maggie taking on this erotic research trip? His head pounded harder, but he knew better than to ask. Knowing the bum-of-the-month’s name would not make a difference.

Besides, Maggie wouldn’t be planning a wedding on this trip or any other, as near as he could tell. Given her inability to commit, he couldn’t see her being persuaded to take the plunge.

Then again, Maggie was one of the most impulsive people Sam knew. What if this turned out to be the one time she let her heart rule her head?

“So, who’s the lucky guy?” The question popped out, despite his determination not to ask. Out of the frying pan, he thought morosely, and into the fire. “Forget what I said about a tax write-off. Whoever he is, he should be paying.”

To Sam’s surprise, though, Maggie averted her gaze and hurriedly folded the superclub’s printout, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Well, actually, I’ve been giving some thought about who to take.”

The uncertainty in her voice stopped him. The black temper responsible for this dull ache in his head receded. Miracle of miracles. Maggie didn’t have a date.

Grabbing his mug, Sam slugged back the remains of cold coffee. Maggie retreated to the corner of the couch again, curled tight in her little ball, sipping tea that, like his coffee, had to be stone cold.

“What kind of thoughts?” he asked.

“About how to convince him. I’m not sure he’ll go.”

Sam found that hard to believe, but apparently not Maggie. She seemed fidgety and had an uneasy look in her eyes. He wondered if she was feeling the effects of discussing sex. Though they’d shared different aspects of their various relationships before, the details never included even vague references to the bedroom. What took place between lovers had, by mutual, unspoken consent, been off-limits.

Sam had always assumed Maggie needed to keep the stable parts of her life—mainly her home and their friendship—separate from the more transient aspects and wasn’t comfortable blurring the boundaries. He knew she was no virgin, but in all the years she’d lived above him, she’d never had a date spend the night. She’d hosted plenty of dinners and get-togethers, but no man had ever walked down those stairs the morning after.

Sam knew because he’d been watching.

Maggie may need a push to think of him as more than a friend, but Sam had been thinking about it ever since he’d kissed her in their high school production of Rogers and Hammerstein’s Carousel.

Not only had he been watching Maggie, he’d been watching closely, keeping her near at hand, and fitting into her life wherever he saw an opening.

He hadn’t had a new opening in a long, long time.

“When are you taking this trip?” he asked to get her talking. Who was this guy who had Maggie so reluctant to talk?

“Valentine’s Day, of course.” She burst from her silence with a dramatic sigh. “The ancient celebration of amore. It’s perfect.” Then she grinned. “Besides, Lyn and Charles are closing the office on Monday for a long weekend, and I can’t afford to miss much work. I don’t know if there’s availability, though. I couldn’t find more information on the Web site.”

“You’ve still got two weeks. You might luck out.” He set his mug back on the table.

They lapsed back into silence, Maggie looking even twitchier than before. Then she drew a deep breath—steeling herself for the confession, Sam guessed.

She unfolded her legs, the ridiculous Gumby heads flopping wildly as she planted her feet on the floor and eagerly leaned toward him. “Sam, I’d like you to come with me. I can’t go alone, so I want you to be my cover, help me observe how couples reignite their passion at this superclub.”

Observe. He’d like to observe all right. Visions of harem girl Maggie flickered in his head again, earning a physical response from his body and kicking in his pride. A lethal combination. His instincts were up. And Sam had based his entire career on his instincts.

“You won’t be distracted by the sexual atmosphere. Not to mention that I trust your judgment. And since you’re familiar with long-term relationships, your input will be invaluable.”

Sam didn’t need a sexual atmosphere to be distracted by the idea of having sex with Maggie. He’d been preoccupied with that subject for years. He’d even tried to bridge the distance between friendship and romance before. One near miss in high school. Maggie had never put two and two together. What she’d dismissed as his temporary lapse of sanity had actually been his amateurish attempt to pursue her. Their friendship had emerged unscathed that go-around.

He hadn’t been so lucky in college.

That time experience had been on his side, but good fortune hadn’t. While he’d learned the nuances of seduction by then, Maggie had been horrified. His plans to woo her at the Fall Harvest Celebration had quickly become aborted plans, when she told him he was too good of a friend to risk losing with a romance that, given her track record, would end in disaster.

Maggie believed their relationship survived because sex wasn’t involved. Here was an opportunity to change her mind.

She watched him breathlessly, hands clamped before her, perched so far on the edge of the couch she’d probably fall off if he touched her. Her eyes glowed with excitement, and she looked so alive, so totally beautiful that he almost didn’t mind the possibility of making a fool of himself again.

“Sam?” she urged. “Come at this from the vacation angle. All you do is work. You’re long overdue a break, and here’s the perfect opportunity.”

The perfect opportunity, all right, to convince her they could be much more than friends.

The bottom line was, Sam had devoted years to insinuating himself into Maggie’s life, trying to prove he wasn’t as erratic as her dad, who was far too preoccupied with his fourth wife to make time for his daughter. Time to risk another crash for a high-yield gain. He was damned tired of trying, and waiting. He wanted a return on his investment.

He wanted Maggie, not just as a friend, but as a lover.

“I’ll go,” he said, pointedly ignoring the icy feeling of déjà vu that made his heart kick harder.

“You don’t mind pretending to be a couple? You won’t have to do anything except be my escort, enjoy the facilities and watch people. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Not a problem.” But he planned to be more than an escort.

“Then it’s a deal.” Her sweet pink mouth curved in a smile as she extended her hand.

Sam captured it, lifted it to his lips. He pressed his mouth to her skin. “It’s a deal.”

His words came out no more than a gravelly whisper against the silky flesh of her wrist. The faint hint of orange blossoms mingled with the fragrance that was Maggie’s alone, and the moment became charged. His senses shot to life, his blood practically humming through his veins.

She tasted warm and sweet and feminine. Maggie. The woman he intended to make his own. And while his own needy reaction to their closeness didn’t surprise him, Maggie’s did.

She shivered. There was no denying that she recognized the connection between them. She couldn’t hide the surprise in her wide eyes, the goose bumps that rippled along her skin.

He smiled, pleased. They’d be magic together, as good as lovers as they were everywhere else in their lives.

Maggie blinked, visibly coming to her senses, and Sam let her hand slip away. He would let her go. For now.

This would be his best Valentine yet, because by the time their weekend was over, Sam vowed to have discovered every creamy nook where Maggie dabbed that orange blossom perfume.




3


“WELCOME TO Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast, ma’am.”

Maggie handed the car keys to the valet, estimated him to be around eighteen or nineteen. He probably parked cars on holidays to pay his college tuition. Or maybe to afford one of the romance-themed suites inside.

Did he get an employee discount?

The less analytical part of her brain wondered if he thought she’d come to the superclub to have sex. She felt an absurd urge to explain she was here to observe, not participate, but suspected this young man couldn’t have cared less. His mind was probably engaged elsewhere.

Like on what he might do inside one of those romance-themed suites with his own girlfriend.

As far as superclubs went, Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast appeared as picturesque as the brochure had led her to believe. Clearly a tribute to the Northeast style of architecture with its steep roofs and canted bay windows, the superclub also had a wraparound veranda that would make gazing out over the park surrounding the Falls an incredible experience in any season.

Her original impression of the superclub had been right. The hotel and grounds combined looked like a movie set come to life. Or perhaps she’d stepped through the movie screen into another era. When the valet drove off in Sam’s car, Maggie had the odd sensation that the twenty-first century had disappeared into an unseen parking garage right along with it. Or maybe it was her last link to reality that sped away.

A recent snowfall had enameled the grounds beneath a glaze of white and Maggie knew Sam would have insisted she fly if he’d suspected a storm. Luckily, she’d bypassed any difficult weather and her trip had been uneventful.

But Niagara was definitely a winter wonderland. Snow embossed the landscaping, creating glistening tiers of the frozen bushes and flower beds below. Lawn lights became icy rosettes that marked the walkway, and with the icicles hanging from the gingerbread trim along the eaves, Maggie thought the superclub looked like a giant wedding cake.

The air was filmy with moisture, the sky the color of pebbles, a combination, she supposed, of stormy weather and mist from the nearby Falls. Each exhalation formed smoky tendrils of breath, but it wasn’t the cold that made her breathless. It was the atmosphere of the place. The aura of romance was tangible.

She made her way up the steps while a mature bellhop with grizzled hair wheeled her bags up a tastefully hidden access ramp. Bitter wind nipped at her cheeks, and somehow, the moment seemed symbolic, as if each step brought her closer to an unknown and uncertain future.

The doors ahead swung open, held wide by a smiling, well-bundled doorman. “Welcome to Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast.”

Sweeping across the veranda, Maggie inclined her head at the doorman, firmly tamping down any last-minute doubts that dared to surface. She’d just spent the past nine hours and five hundred miles driving to give herself a chance to come to grips with what she had to do.

She had couples to observe and a knowledge base to build. She would not be obsessing about sharing a romance-themed suite with Sam.

Though it would have made sense for her to fly into Niagara with him, Maggie had needed the long drive to formulate her game plan. Sam hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of her making the trip alone and had offered to cancel his meetings and drive with her. But just the thought of sitting sandwiched together in the cramped interior of a car for so long was too much forced closeness for Maggie to deal with.

At least until she had a firm grip on her imagination.

Truth was, she’d had sex on the brain ever since Sam had agreed to help her. When she’d met him in their hallway for a trip to the grocery store, their lovely polished-wood foyer had seemed to shrink to the dimensions of a peanut shell. Though she’d stood in that foyer with Sam a thousand times, Maggie never once remembered almost strangling from the lack of air.

When they’d bumped into each other at her twice weekly workout at the ice-skating rink, she couldn’t help imagining what he would look like divested of all that bulky hockey gear. And when she’d glanced up to find him watching her from the bleachers, she’d been so rattled that she’d tripped on her toe pick and skidded across the ice.

While at work, her overactive imagination had been sufficiently occupied, but Maggie had spent the rest of her days staving off guilt for all the erotic pImages** she’d conjured up during the nights.

Oh, the nights. They’d been the worst. Lying awake with Sam in the apartment below, imagining him in his bed, wondering what he was dreaming about.

Of course, she would never admit any of this to him, but after several barely lucid, and very lame excuses, he’d gotten the hint and backed off, giving her the time she needed to put all errant thoughts of sex out of her mind. His compromise had been that she drive his late-model, reliable car and allow him to make the return trip with her.

“I’ll take your bags to your suite, ma’am,” said a voice deep with the unmistakable burr of Scotland, when the bellhop reappeared by her side.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, making eye contact with the man whose nose and cheeks had caught the bad end of the bitter cold, judging by their reddened tips.

The gold-trimmed sable uniform jacket sat stiffly on the bellhop’s shoulders, as though he spent more time shrugging out of it than wearing it. A glance at his name badge revealed why—he was the maintenance supervisor. Why he was doubling as the bellhop, Maggie could only guess, but she smiled in greeting.

“I haven’t checked in yet, Mr. Longmuir, but my…” How should she refer to Sam? Pretend lover, boyfriend, gigolo? “My friend should be here. Sam Masters. Just take them to his suite.” She would head that way herself soon.

“Just call me Dougray, lassie,” he said with a toothy grin that revealed a good bit of silver in those very same teeth. “I’m the jack-of-all-trades around here. If you have a trouble, with anything mind, press 19 on any house phone, and I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

“Thank you, Dougray.”

“Now, they’re getting antsy for you at the front desk, lassie. You’d best get over before they accuse me of gibbering with the guests.” Abundant gray brows dipped together in a scowl that bisected the older man’s forehead and reminded Maggie of what Sam always jokingly referred to as a unibrow.

She followed Dougray’s gaze to the front desk, where several clerks snapped to attention and quickly busied themselves with various tasks. Hiking her purse higher onto her shoulder, Maggie smoothed her skirt, wondered why she was attracting such an inordinate amount of attention.

She decided she really didn’t want to know. “I, uh, think I’ll look around a bit before I check in, Dougray.”

“Press 19 on the house phone, lassie. Remember that.”

“I got it—19.”

With a respectful nod, Dougray retreated.

Maggie should let Sam know she’d arrived safely but decided the arrival of her bags would serve the same purpose. Taking off in the opposite direction of the front desk, she eagerly toured the lavishly appointed lobby. Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast was nothing if not lavish.

The soft glow of light from a collection of cut-crystal chandeliers overhead enhanced the fabulous New England antiques arranged in welcoming, accessible clusters. The walls hosted several paintings of what appeared to be good-old-days scenes depicting the turn-of-the-century hotel and added to Maggie’s impression that she’d stepped into another era.

While artful floral arrangements with wintry ivy and bright-red roses lent the room a charming Valentine’s Day ambiance, the ten-foot tall Victorian topiary in the shape of three tiered hearts, immediately captured her interest.

She made her way toward it, passing a huge fireplace with a roaring fire that cast much appreciated warmth, and admired the unusual topiary, enjoying the sheer whimsy of the design. The hearts had been filled with huge white spider mums, then decorated with twinkling red lights, ribbons, hearts, and…

Maggie caught sight of a shiny ornament, a fragile glass likeness of a Rubenesque nude, one hand casually cupping a breast, the other positioned coyly between ample thighs. She inspected its neighbors with growing amazement.

Whoa.

Female nudes. Male nudes. Nude couples. While none was doing anything that might qualify for an entry in the Kama Sutra, all were clearly enjoying the effects of fondling themselves and each other. Maggie’s surprise faded as suddenly as it had appeared.

Whoever had invented the name Falling in Bed, and Breakfast hadn’t been kidding.

Time to move on. She glanced at the front desk again, but those clerks thought she was here to spend the weekend indulging in sex. Incredible sex, she remembered the Weatherbys’ distinction, and decided there was no real hurry to check in.

Continuing her tour, she noticed for the first time grinning Cupids hanging everywhere. So many Cupids, in fact, she suspected management was encouraging the mischievous son of Venus to aim at guests the minute they walked through the door.

She kept walking the promenade of specialty stores, peering into shop fronts, not seeing much more than a blur. Until a display of lovely gift baskets caught her eye.

Arranged on platforms of all different heights and angles, the bright-colored baskets with festive ribbons contained what appeared to be bath and body items. Maggie paused, intent upon discerning the names on the assortment of jars and bottles, not surprised to identify champagne bubble bath in a replica of a champagne bottle and Treasure of the Sea bathing gels in a clever collection of seashell-shaped jars.

But Joy Jelly, Motion Lotion and Peterbutter? She leaned closer to inspect the silver-embossed labels which read, An Edible Lubricant with No Artificial Colors. Available in chocolate, espresso, butter rum or peanut butter.

Sexual props would be the first entry into her idea journal, and remembering Lyn’s comments about practical application, Maggie swallowed back a bubble of laughter.

Observation was definitely the key here.



“I WANT YOU ALL to nap during the staff meeting,” Mary Johnson, general manager and stockholder of Falling Inn Properties, Inc., explained to her crew of dogs. “I’ll take you out for a walk as soon as I’m through with the meeting.”

The dogs, a motley collection that included an English bull, a boxer and two teacup poodles, all made their way into the corner with a compliance honed by years of living in hotels. While they were usually relegated to the confines of her suite, the storm had made them restless. Mary had brought them into the offices today for a change of scenery.

Without a backward glance at her obedient crew, she pulled her agenda for the weekly five o’clock staff meeting from her organizer and glanced at the heading.

Worldwide Travel Association

The words figured in bold letters at the top of the page, emphasizing the importance of an arrival that needed no emphasis. The Worldwide Travel Association, better known as WTA, was the largest travel organization in the world, and they would be sending a representative to judge her property on how well they met the criteria for a prestigious industry award. An award her property desperately needed to win.

“Hey, hey, Ms. J.” Dougray swaggered in, greeted her by the nickname she’d long ago acquired from her staff.

“Good afternoon, Dougray. I assume the heat pump in the west wing is cooperating now that you’ve worked your magic.”

“’Twas the storm that pushed her past the edge, but she’s purring like a kitty again.”

Mary inclined her head in confirmation of a job well-done and recited a silent plea for any other mechanical or electrical failures to restrain themselves until after the WTA judge’s departure. An unrealistic wish, given the size and age of the property, but she saw no harm in making the request.

After welcoming each of her department heads as they filed into the conference room, she watched from her seat at the head of the table as each settled into their respective places.

Silent for the most part, they acknowledged her before nodding casual greetings to each other. They all knew the drill because, with the exception of Laura, the special events coordinator freshly out of college, all of them had followed Mary to this property from the various hotels she’d managed during her thirty years in hospitality management.

They were her best staff ever. Not only were they competent in their positions, but they’d also willingly hocked their life savings and signed their futures away to leverage a buyout of this historical property when the previous management company had gone defunct.

Now Mary was in the unique position of overseeing a staff made up of corporate stockholders. Though a new company had partnered them in the endeavor, she and her staff held the majority shares. This circumstance had changed the gestalt of their situation considerably by placing a great deal of responsibility on her. She cared about every one of these people, and hoped to secure their futures.

“Has Cupid’s Couple checked in?” she asked, beginning the meeting without preamble.

“Cupid’s Couple,” as Sam Masters and Maggie James had been nicknamed during one of the umpteen meetings in preparation for WTA’s judging, was the only unmarried couple booked over the holiday. Their names had come to Mary’s attention via the reservationist, who knew she was looking for some way of edging out the other nominees for the Most Romantic Getaway award.

Cupid’s Couple had provided the perfect way.

Annabelle Simmons, the no-nonsense director of sales, gave a decided shake of her steel-gray curls. “He checked in shortly after three. The last I inquired, she hadn’t arrived yet.”

“The lassie’s here,” Dougray said. “About a quarter hour past. I took her bags to the Tower, but she went sightseeing on the promenade. Saw her peeping in windows just before I came to staff. I don’t think the laddie will stay in his room long, now that he knows she’s here. He seemed twitchy to see her.” Dougray patted the black-encased radio fastened at his waist. “Front desk will call when he comes down or she heads up.”

“Excellent. So we’re prepared to get underway.” Mary cut a glance around the table. “Are we ready?”

A few stoic nods of assent, a muttered “yes,” and one very enthusiastic “as ready as we’ll ever be,” from an excited Laura.

“Have we heard from WTA’s judge yet?” Mary asked.

“He, unfortunately, confirmed an early check-in tomorrow morning.” Annabelle’s possessive scowl compressed her stern features like a balled-up fist.

“Unfortunately?”

“I’d hoped for a woman.” She impatiently rattled papers before her. “They’re much easier to sell on romance.”

Mary had hoped for a woman, too, but didn’t disclose that tidbit. Annabelle was a crack salesperson. Her hardcore pragmatism ensured that guests’ expectations were always enthusiastic and reasonable, but it could also have a sobering effect when the staff needed something to hope for. “Then we’ll just have to work harder to sell him.”

While an air of expectancy lingered over the table, Mary’s staff appeared determined, and she felt certain her casual acceptance of their new judge had had the desired effect. No last-minute panicking. They’d come this far, and she wouldn’t allow them to trip at the finish line.

“Think of this as the opportunity it is,” Mary said. “We’ve been nominated as the most romantic getaway. This is the toughest industry award and the one carrying the biggest prize. We’ve earned this nomination. I want you all to keep that in mind, when the pressure is on.”

Bruno, the former head chef and current restaurant supervisor, spread his hands in entreaty. “Five other properties have been nominated, too.”

“But we’re the only fully fledged romance superclub,” Laura pointed out, with an enthusiasm Mary suspected was taught as a requirement in college hospitality management courses. “The other nominees are out of their league. They don’t stand a chance, because we’re owned and operated by our staff. We’ve got the edge. We’re motivated. We’re—”

“Desperate,” Dougray said, cutting in.

Bruno issued a heavy sigh. “Yes, desperate.”

“Not desperate.” Mary halted the discussion. Not exactly.

While Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast wasn’t down-and-out, it wasn’t far from it. Winning the prestigious Most Romantic Getaway award during this all-important first year as both a privately owned property and a romance superclub was essential for their continued existence.

The new management company hadn’t thrown in with the employees to buy the 120-year-old property out of the goodness of their hearts. They’d done so to place themselves in a category that increased their credit limit to allow for both the buyout and a multimillion-dollar renovation of the historic property into a superclub.

There was an opportunity for substantial profit with the venture. There was also an opportunity for loss. While the management company could simply reorganize through bankruptcy in that eventuality, the staff would wind up losing everything down to and including the shirts on their backs.

Mary would do everything in her power to keep that from happening, starting with winning the million-dollar multimedia advertising campaign that was part of WTA’s grand prize. The revenue generated by those promotions would effectively carry them all the way through next year’s off-season.

“We have a unique opportunity here,” she said. “We’re off-season, yet we’re close to running at full capacity. This isn’t Florida, so we can’t attribute those reservations to the weather. Our guests must have come to enjoy our amenities, and we’re staffed to handle them. We’re prepared, organized and completely capable of winning this award on our own merit.” She steepled her hands before her and moved her gaze around the table. “And…we’ve got our ace in the hole.”

Cupid’s Couple.

The way Mary saw it, Ms. James and her escort were both successful businesspeople, young enough to be attracted to a superclub, yet old enough to know what to do with the unique services a superclub offered.

A few well-placed phone calls had revealed that this couple also had a long history between them and, as Mary—stepping into her role as Cupid—had summarily decided, a bright future.

Cupid’s Couple didn’t know it yet, but they were about to be struck by one of Cupid’s golden arrows. They would be bombarded with opportunities for romance this weekend, to fall completely in love and decide to get married, all under the guidance of her staff and the watchful gaze of WTA’s judge.

Their path to love would personalize Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast in a way that would give her property the edge it needed to win the Most Romantic Getaway award.

Or so the plan went.

“What do you say, Dougray?” Laura asked. “Think we can really pull this off?”

Dougray waved his hand in a gesture of dramatic impatience. “With this incredible superclub? With all of us playing matchmakers?” He rolled his gaze toward the ceiling and gave an exasperated snort. “Cupid’s Couple doesn’t stand a chance.” He patted his hip reassuringly. “I’ve got me radio fixed tight to me belt, Ms. J. Front desk will call as soon as Cupid’s Couple steps into the elevator.”

Mary smiled. “Keep your eyes open for any opportunity to encourage romance. Phase one underway.”

“Phase one underway,” the staff chorused, a salutation.

Everyone knew the plan. Phase one would see Cupid’s Couple exposed to every unusual amenity the superclub had to offer and ensure they were given a chance to avail themselves of those amenities fully.

Each member of her staff would handle his or her job competently. Luck would handle the rest.

And it just so happened that Mary had been born on Saint Valentine’s Day, the luckiest day for love. The way she saw it, she had every right to play Cupid.



“MAGGIE!”

Sam’s voice came at her out of nowhere. Getting caught with her nose pressed to the glass wasn’t exactly the way Maggie had hoped to greet Sam, but her disappointment scattered at the sight of him. Of course, she’d expected to see him, but something about him seemed so unexpected, so…changed.

Long-limbed and leanly muscled, he took each stride brisk and sure, smiling easily as he approached. His sooty black hair shone in the glow of the chandelier’s light, the swoop in his bang that would grow into a full-fledged wave if he didn’t keep up with his trims just beginning to show.

He still wore a suit, as if he’d headed straight to the airport from his last consultation and hadn’t yet bothered to change. Though she’d seen him dressed for work practically every day since he graduated college, there was something different about his crisp white collar and butter-soft Italian leather shoes. So different that the breath tightened in her chest as he drew near.

Then the real disparity struck her. “Your glasses. You’re not wearing them.”

She tipped her head back to stare into his face, into dove-gray eyes that gazed so much more potently without the shield of clear lenses and wire frames.

He kissed her cheek in a casual greeting. “The arm snapped off. As fate would have it, glue wouldn’t work.”

“Your optometrist couldn’t repair them?”

“Afraid not. The arm snapped below the joint. And I couldn’t find my spare pair. I must have accidentally thrown them in with that last Goodwill trip.”

“Oh, are you wearing contacts?”

Maggie knew he would have never seen her from across the lobby without some sort of corrective lenses. More likely he would have tripped over an ottoman.

“My optometrist had to order the frames I liked, but he was able to get these in a few hours. I suspect a conspiracy, though. He’s been trying to sell me on disposable lenses for a while.” Sam squinted myopically. “Have to admit they work. I can see fine.”

She’d seen him without his glasses before, so Maggie couldn’t figure out why his face—such a strong study of planes and angles that in themselves were not noteworthy but created a very striking whole—suddenly seemed so commanding and bold.

Or why catching her breath seemed to be a problem. She must be reacting to the pressure of the past few weeks. Wanting to help Angie and Raymond resolve their issues had weighed heavily on her, and now here she was, ready to implement her plan. She needed ideas, and she only had the weekend to fill up the blank pages of her journal. No wonder she was stressed.

Of course, Sam would notice. Understanding flickered deep in his gaze. He knew her well enough to know she was edgy.

“I checked in and went straight to our suite, so I haven’t had a chance to look around,” he said. “Mind if we do?”

Whew! “No problem.” She wasn’t ready to tackle the sleeping arrangements just yet.

“Here, let me take your coat.” Circling in front of her in a fluid stride, he caught the strap of her purse when she slid it from her shoulder.

But the cold must have affected her more than she’d realized because unfastening the buttons of her pea jacket beneath Sam’s steady gaze proved beyond her abilities. To her profound embarrassment, she seemed to have sprouted ten thumbs.

Of course, Sam would notice that, too. But like the gentleman he was, he took command of the situation. Sliding her purse into the crook of his elbow, he brushed aside her fingers and worked the button at her throat.

He didn’t say a thing. Then again, he didn’t have to. His sparkling eyes conveyed amusement loud and clear.

His eyes.

It wasn’t stress or the cold that was unsettling her. His eyes were the problem. Without his glasses, Sam didn’t seem at all like Sam. The omission had transformed him into a stranger. A very handsome stranger with soft gray bedroom eyes, who was further unraveling her already high-strung self.

Too taken aback to decide if this development would bode well or ill for the weekend ahead, Maggie simply avoided his gaze as she twirled around and let him tug her coat away.

“Thanks.”

Returning her purse with a smile, he flipped her coat over his shoulder and inclined his head toward the shop front she’d been caught peering into. “Want to take a look in there? See something you liked?”

“Nothing especially.” Although she should ask the salesclerk whether younger couples purchased Peterbutter or older couples, who’d had years to learn their partners’ sexual preferences.

And what would Sam think about Peterbutter? Would the espresso flavor have a stimulating effect on him? Would the peanut butter flavor make him stick to the roof of her mouth?

Oh, my!

Maggie swallowed hard. She hadn’t even been inside the romance-themed suite yet and she was already developing a serious case of naughty thoughts.

A fact that became increasingly obvious as they strolled along the promenade in silence. This moment was markedly different from any in memory. Sure, she and Sam had gone shopping together before. But pricing washing machines for the basement that doubled as their laundry room hadn’t prepared her for walking so close beside him, so aware of their arms barely touching, staring into windows with the knowledge that somewhere above them a suite with one bed awaited.

Get a grip, Maggie.

Or she’d never survive this weekend. What she needed here was a firm hold on the reins. She always told her patients if they acted in control, they soon would be. Now it was the counselor’s turn to test the theory behind the advice.

“So, how’s our suite?” she asked.

“Medieval.”

“The Warlord’s Tower?”

“Our other choices were the Wild West Brothel or the Sultan’s Seraglio. As much as I liked the idea of you dressed up as I Dream of Jeannie, I couldn’t get past the fact that those romance novels you read all have knights on the covers.”

He’d thought of her dressed up like a harem girl? Maggie wasn’t sure what to make of this confession, and the only thing that saved the moment was the realization that here was classic Sam, thinking of her before himself. He wasn’t her best friend and the most stabilizing influence in her life for no reason.

She actually managed to make her voice work. “I Dream of Jeannie? Really?”

“Really.” A dimple flashed, and she couldn’t find a shred of anything that even remotely resembled self-consciousness in his face.

Which was probably a good thing, considering she was experiencing enough self-consciousness for the two of them.

“Don’t worry. Maggie, the warrior princess, works just as well.” His finger tapped the bottom of her chin, and the mouth she’d let fall open snapped shut. “Or will I get to meet Maggie, the damsel in distress?”

Love-’em-and-leave-’em Maggie a damsel in distress? That wasn’t how she wanted Sam to think of her, but by the time she’d rallied her thoughts enough to think of a reply, he’d arched a dark brow in a familiar expression that had never before made her stomach swoop.

“Maggie the damsel in distress, I think. You’re the one who needs the favor, which means I’m coming to your rescue. So, Mags, am I your knight in shining armor?”

She stood there gawking at him, one small part of her brain cursing herself for not only letting go of the reins, but allowing them to be dragged beneath the horse.

Who was this man bantering about sex with her? Maggie had no idea. When she’d arrived in Niagara, she’d expected to meet nice, safe Sam. Where was he? And who was this man leading her into a store that looked like the embodiment of a designer lingerie magazine?

Sam’s sexy twin?

He came to a stop so abruptly that Maggie ran into him. Absently, he steadied her with a hand on her shoulder, his gaze fixed above her head. “Now that doesn’t look comfortable.”

Following his gaze to the half mannequin on the wall, Maggie felt her heart stop in midbeat.

Fitted around the half mannequin’s pelvis was a bright-red leather apparatus suggestive of a pair of medieval panties.

“Leather Chastity Belt,” Sam read from the display card propped on the stump of the mannequin’s thigh. “�Keep your treasures under lock and key. Supple high-quality leather harness with fully adjustable waist strap and T-back for a comfortable fit. Available in Valentine-red, shell-pink, lavender-purple, mint-green and canary-yellow.’” He paused, considering. “Definitely not canary with your hair, but the shell or mint would work. What do you think?”

He glanced down at her, so obviously trying to contain his laughter that Maggie couldn’t help but smile. Damsel in distress, indeed.

“Definitely shell,” she said, and to her amazement, not only did her voice sound almost normal, she actually felt better. “Pink’s one of my better colors.”

Sam gave her hand a quick squeeze, before dragging her onto the next display, and then the next. By the time they reached the men’s undergarments and saw the briefs that proudly proclaimed one double entendre after another, their wisecracks had grown so raucous and loud that they drew the saleswoman’s attention.

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked with a knowing smile, as though they weren’t the first couple to come unglued in her establishment.

“We’re just looking, thanks.” Sam edged Maggie toward the door, while whispering, “Candy condoms. Not good for protection—”

“But a very tasty treat,” she finished.

They’d barely made it to the promenade and out of earshot before dissolving into gales of laughter.

The ice was broken. Maggie felt back in control again.

“Thanks,” she said, gulping air and massaging the stitch in her side.

“You’re welcome.”

He didn’t even have to ask what she referred to, and that’s how it always was between them, natural, relaxed. That was her strongest reason for asking Sam to come to Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast—who else could make her feel comfortable while she observed sexual interaction between couples?

Only Sam.

“Ready to head upstairs?” he asked.

Her tummy did that crazy swooping thing again, but Maggie ignored it. “Let’s go.”

But once they were sealed inside the elevator and headed toward the fifth floor, their antics in the sex shop became a distant memory in the shadow of Sam’s six-foot-plus presence, swallowing up all the air in the cramped space.

“We really should talk, Sam. Some sort of game plan. Don’t you think? We should have an idea of how to go about everything, and you need to know exactly what I’m looking for.” The words tumbled from her lips in a rush he couldn’t possibly have understood.

But whether Sam understood her words or not seemed moot, because the elevator suddenly ground to a halt, somewhere between the third and fourth floors.

“Ohmigosh, what happened?”

“Looks like elevator trouble,” he said unnecessarily. “Probably just a glitch. This is an old hotel. I’m sure we’ll be moving in a minute, but in the meantime…”

Maggie’s surprise died a swift death as Sam crowded her against the paneled wall.

The elevator’s lights threw misty shadows across his face, made it appear changed, so very different from the man she’d known forever. He had her off center, and her impulse was to laugh and push him away, put things back to normal between them. But there was nothing normal about the boldness in his gray eyes. Her laughter dissolved in her throat.

“Sam, what—what are you doing?” she asked, a feeble attempt to regain control over this crazy moment, to sidestep his unexpected move.

He arched a dark brow, visual confirmation that she should be able to guess what he had planned, even if she chose to deny it. He let her coat drop to the floor with a soft whoosh. It lay at their feet unheeded. Indeed, how could she heed anything but the strong fingers he slipped around her neck?

His touch was so warm, so startling, she could only stand there motionless. As far as touches went, this one should have been innocuous. They were standing in an elevator and he was only touching her neck, after all, but Maggie could feel the warmth of his fingers as though each had been dipped in hot wax.

When he hooked his thumbs beneath her chin and nudged her face upward, Maggie’s breath shuddered audibly. She caught the slight smile curving Sam’s mouth as his face lowered toward hers. Then dark silk hair and faint traces of aftershave kicked her senses into overdrive as his lips grazed her ear.

“I’ve got a good idea how to go about everything, and I know exactly what I’m looking for.”

His voice was husky and sure, and she mouthed a silent, “Oh,” while her knees turned to jelly.

She could only stare, waiting for him to back off now that he’d delivered his powerful message. He didn’t. His breath lingered around her ear, doing crazy things to her insides, urging the breath to remain clamped tightly in her chest.

He traced her lips with his thumbs, deliberately, purposefully, as though he’d wanted to touch them forever and that alone gave him the right.

But that couldn’t be. This was Sam. He may have tried to segue their friendship into romance once upon a time, but Maggie knew he’d only been experiencing a knee-jerk reaction to their closeness. They’d known each other for so long that testing out the romantic waters had seemed the next logical step.

And even if he had wanted to try sparks for a while, he’d been just as content to go back to their friendship. Hadn’t he?

Yes!

He simply hadn’t dated in a while and was caught up in the sensual atmosphere. That was all. She needed a favor, and as always, he’d been willing to help. He was also getting a weekend away in the mix. Though he’d insisted on making the reservation, Maggie fully intended to cover the cost of the suite at checkout. This wasn’t a date; it was a favor.

And this was Sam, she reminded herself desperately. Sam her best friend. Sam who couldn’t possibly know she’d entertained a few fantasies about him through the years. Sam who was suddenly trailing a path along her jaw with his warm velvet mouth. Sam who was suddenly kissing her.

The world as Maggie had known it swerved off-kilter.

His mouth was hot, sweet…intense.

And demanding. He deepened his kiss with a bold stroke of his tongue, and suddenly, without consciously willing it to happen, Maggie was kissing him back.

Their tongues tangled and teased, as effortless as getting wet in the rain. His warm breath caressed her mouth and that crazy swooping in her tummy rippled like a steamy wave downward, puddling between her legs. The ache, as unbidden as it was unexpected, made Maggie gasp.

Catching the sound with his kiss, Sam apparently considered her reaction an invitation to press on with his lusty assault, because he speared his fingers into her hair and tipped her head slightly, demanding even more.

Another gasp slipped from Maggie’s lips, only this gasp sounded more like a sigh.

Suddenly, she was sliding her arms around his neck, drawing their bodies close, until every muscle and ridge of his body pressed hard against hers. His legs braced wide, drew her into the cradle of his thighs, anchored her there, two bodies melting together, sharing the rhythm of sprinting heartbeats.

His hands traveled her neck in a downward path, unhurried, exploring, so intensely intimate for the way he savored their closeness, secured her against him. The shield of clothing proved a ridiculous barrier as his body heat warmed her, cajoled a responding warmth that weighted her breasts, drew her nipples tight, urged her to press even closer.

Maggie didn’t resist the urge, couldn’t, because each demanding stroke of his tongue chased away all thoughts, focused her on the fact that he was quite enjoying the moment, too. The rock-hard bulge pressed against her tummy only proved it….

When he drew away, his mouth lingering long enough to reveal his reluctance to go, Maggie just stood there, eyes closed and body vibrating, stunned by his kiss and by her own powerful reaction.

Wow.

Blinking open her eyes, she found him smiling down at her, his satisfaction unmistakable.

He’d leveled her with that kiss, and he knew it.

Pointing to an ornament of Cupid hanging from the rafter overhead, he smiled as though the mischievous son of Venus had been responsible for his crazy behavior.

But this was Sam, she grasped at the wispy thread of reason. Nice, safe, reliable Sam. Sam, who was always available with a listening ear and practical advice. Sam, who’d agreed to play her lover because she’d been in a pinch. Sam, the classic nice guy, who should have been safe to come to a romance superclub with.

There’d been nothing safe about his kiss.

This hadn’t been an I’m-doing-you-a-favor type of kiss, but an I’m-hungry-for-you kiss.

Maggie knew the difference.

What she didn’t know was why he’d kissed her that way. She didn’t know this commanding side of him. Nor did she know why the need to press against him, to feel his heat fill the trembling hollows of her body, had grown so insistent.

The biggest puzzle of all was why his kiss had felt so completely…right.

“We do need some ground rules, Mags,” he said, his voice husky and distressingly strong, when Maggie could barely catch a decent breath, let alone manage a sentence. “I’m all for research and observation, but practical application will work here, too. I’m uncomfortable with the fake couple thing. I want to give being a real couple a try.”

A real couple?

No, wait, this wasn’t right. This was her project, and she was supposed to be in control. “But—”

He held a fingertip to her lips. “Think Cupid and Psyche.”

His gaze lifted to that stupid grinning Cupid, and her world canted wildly, though the elevator hadn’t budged. What did he mean? Did he want to slip into her bed late at night and make love to her in the dark? Just the thought scrambled Maggie’s thoughts, and she struggled to focus on his next words.

“You’re looking for ideas about how to put sparks back into long-term relationships and I’m your perfect solution. We’re long-term and I wouldn’t mind sparks.”

“Sparks?” She finally found her voice. “Since when?”

“Fall Harvest.”

Sam didn’t have to say another word. Fall Harvest during Maggie’s freshman year at college had been a weekend filled with events to celebrate a last fling with decent weather, before the snow came and the winter forced everyone indoors.

It had also been the weekend when Sam had tried to turn the corner on their friendship. He’d said he wanted…sparks, but she’d thought it nothing more than a whim.

Fall Harvest had been ten years ago.

“Oh.” Maggie felt weak, suspected that if he hadn’t been crowding her against the elevator wall, she’d have slid into a puddle on the floor.

“No pressure.” He brushed his finger over her bottom lip, and to Maggie’s shock, she trembled in reply. “Let’s just go with it and see what happens.” His smile deepened. “You won’t be sorry.”

One glance into his melting gray eyes revealed the promise of his admission. She supposed on some level she should have known he would still be amenable to sparks. She hadn’t. “But sex will ruin everything, Sam. We’ll never be the same.”

“We can be even better. Trust me.”

Her mouth still tingled with the aftereffects of his kiss, and for the first time since the fourth grade, Maggie questioned whether he was entirely trustworthy.

She’d certainly never seen any indication that such hot blood ran in a man who lived a nice orderly life.

Had she just never looked closely enough?

This was a question to consider…when she didn’t have Sam staring at her with those bedroom eyes, awaiting an answer. Right now she needed to decide whether or not she could hand him the reins. Would he renege on their deal if she didn’t?

She didn’t think so, not because he didn’t get his way. Not Sam. He’d bailed her out too many times to abandon her now.

Trust me.

She did.

“What if it doesn’t work out?”

“We’ve weathered worse.”

No arguing that. “But—”

“No pressure, Mags. Let’s just explore what’s between us. There’s something here. Something great.” He traced her bottom lip, a gentle caress that held a world of sensual promise. “For the weekend.”

“Just for the weekend?”

He inclined his head.

“And you swear that you won’t get all weirded out and stop being my friend once we get home?”

A smile tugged at his lips, but he made a valiant effort not to make light of her need for reassurance. “I swear. No matter what happens, we’ll still be best friends.”

She searched his face and those unfamiliar bedroom eyes for some sign that he could be swayed from this reckless plan if she pushed hard enough. He looked disturbingly resolute.

The simple fact was she needed to be at this superclub, and she had to have an escort to be here. What could some practical application hurt?

Maggie couldn’t come up with a single disadvantage. Research was good, but application could be even better.

If Sam wanted control, she’d give it to him. “Okay.”

He smiled. “You won’t be sorry.”

She closed her eyes and whispered a silent plea that she wasn’t making the biggest mistake in her life. Goodness knows she’d made some doozies.

Sam clearly didn’t think this was one of them, though, and he’d been privy to them all. She found that in itself reassuring. When he moved toward the elevator’s control panel, she found herself breathing a little easier.

He popped open the emergency panel and lifted the receiver from the cradle.

“Try 19,” she suggested. This crazy turn of events qualified as trouble, didn’t it?

He punched in the numbers and someone must have picked up on the other end on the first ring, because Sam was suddenly explaining their predicament and hanging up the phone before Maggie’s racing heart had slowed its rhythm.

“Are they coming to rescue us?” she asked, trying to keep her voice casual and unaffected.

“That bellhop sounds just like Scotty from the Starship Enterprise. He said he’d have us moving in a minute.”

“Dougray is the maintenance supervisor.”

“I thought he was the bellhop.”

“Jack-of-all-trades, he said.”

Sam glanced askance, a look that clearly revealed his lack of surprise that she knew so much about one of the superclub’s male department heads before she’d even checked in.

Love-’em-and-leave-’em Maggie. Damsel in distress. The relationship counselor who’d had loads of dates, but no long-term experience whatsoever. Except for Sam.

Maggie had some work to do on her image, but she didn’t have time to consider ways to affect the necessary changes, because true to Dougray’s word, the elevator lurched into motion almost immediately. Sam retrieved her coat from the floor and handed it to her, his strong fingers lingering on hers until she lifted her gaze to meet the promise in his.

“You won’t be sorry, Mags.” The lusty assurance in his voice sent a shiver through her.

“So you keep saying.”

Life as Maggie had known it had just taken the most incredible turn. Her friend Sam Masters had vanished, leaving behind this brazen, possessive and very intriguing man to take his place.




4


THE ELEVATOR FLOOR rumbled beneath Sam’s feet, then lurched into motion, lifting them toward the fifth floor and the top of the superclub. He shifted uncomfortably, the seam of his slacks biting in exactly the wrong place as he subdued his firebolt response to kissing Maggie.

Beside him, she tried to look calm and unaffected, but to his eyes, she managed only pale and uncertain. Her chest rose and fell with sharp breaths, and she eyed him askance, as though the Swamp Thing had suddenly materialized by her side.

He resisted the urge to wrap an arm around her shoulders, draw her close, and reassure her that her long-term friend still resided inside the man who’d just kissed her.

But he couldn’t let her in on that secret just yet. He needed her off balance and off guard, otherwise his plan to tear down her defenses would never get off the ground.

And he planned to go for broke this weekend.

Maggie thought she was an authority on relationships, both from her education and personal experience, and while she might be, she didn’t know a thing about romance and intimacy. He’d convinced her to give him chance, because he intended to show her the difference.

Though he possessed no psychology credentials, Sam knew Maggie would never tackle a commitment until she was willing to acknowledge that she spent her life fixing relationships because she didn’t believe they could work. He’d witnessed the events leading to her family’s breakup and wasn’t surprised by her lack of faith, but it was high time she put the past in the past and got on with her future. A future that included him. But for Maggie to look squarely at her own behavior, she needed incentive. Serious incentive.

Sam had an invitation, a bed and a weekend to provide it. He would use seduction to wear down her defenses until she lost herself to passion. And to love.




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