It was causing Zach business troubles. And it was causing her heart trouble. It all boiled down to the fact that she wanted Zach to want her even without the influence of the skirt.

And she was pretty sure he didn't. Wouldn't.

With a sigh, she turned her key in the mailbox and removed its contents. Was this the way Cinderella felt when she finally got home from the ball that night and had to huddle on the hearth in her old rags? Did she torture herself wondering if the prince would still love her as she really was-without fairy G.o.dmothers and magic?

Her plan when she'd left Zach's office this morning was to go home, tear up her contract, put the skirt in a box and mail it off to Kate or Gwen. Then she wouldn't be tempted to use it again for another article-or for Zach. That way he and his brother could find some common ground.

But after Harrison Marsh had actually smiled at her, Miranda had made her promise to wear the skirt to the Christmas ball. If there was any chance that it could help Zach...

Tossing three circulars and two winning magazine sponsored lottery numbers into a nearby basket, Chelsea headed toward the elevator. Two of the remaining envelopes were bills and the third was a letter addressed to her. Tearing it open, she stepped into the waiting car and pressed a b.u.t.ton. She was shooting upward when the cut out letters on the page registered in her mind.

Stop peddling s.e.x. This is your last warning.

An icy sliver of fear shot down her spine, chilling her even more than the bl.u.s.tery December wind that had pushed her into the building. But as she stared down at the note, something else began to replace the fear, something hot that bubbled up from her core.

She was not going to run from someone who was so cowardly he couldn't sign his own name. Her anger buoyed her up and carried her all the way to the door of her apartment.

She was flipping through the keys on her ring when she noticed that the door wasn't closed tight. Her first thought was that Ramn had left for work in a hurry. Then she noticed that part of the doorjamb had splintered. This time the fear was even icier than before, numbing her throat, her lungs. Even as she stood there frozen, she thought she heard a faint sound from the other side of the door. The creak of a floorboard.

Dread filled her, sudden and sure. Someone was waiting for her in the apartment. She knew it. Not Daryl and not Ramn. They would be at the restaurant. Even as the panic bubbled up, she heard another creak, faint but unmistakable and something else-the brush of fabric against a wall? In her mind she pictured someone creeping slowly forward, moving down the short, narrow hallway, then stepping into the tiny foyer.

Chelsea focused all her energy on taking one careful step backward.

Whoever it was must have been waiting for her, listening. A deaf man could hear the elevator groan its way up five floors. Then he must have heard her fiddling with her keys.

He must be wondering right now why she wasn't inserting it in the lock and pushing the door open.

To fill the silence, she rattled her key ring again as she took another careful step back. Baby steps, she told herself. Take another and another. She knew how to do this, she'd done it hundreds of times when she'd played hide-and-seek with her younger brothers.

They'd never once caught her.

Three more steps and she reached the door to the stairs. It would creak, a noisy, earth shattering sound. Whoever it was waiting on the other side of that door would know that she knew.

Chelsea risked a quick glance over her shoulder. The elevator doors were shut, but the five b.u.t.ton was still lit. She breathed out a little prayer. The old car was noisy and slow, but it would still get her to the lobby faster than running down five flights of stairs. It would get a pursuer there faster, too.

It was the last thought that freed her to make a sprint for the elevator and press the b.u.t.ton. The moment the doors started to open, she slid through them sideways, then waited an eternity before they shut again and the car let out a groan. Another eon pa.s.sed before she stepped out into the lobby. She took one quick look around before she tore across it and pushed through the double set of doors into the street.

AT ONE O'CLOCK, Zach finally made his way out of the staff meeting. It hadn't gone well. They'd all seen or heard about Chelsea's interview on Good Morning, New York. They all knew that they could vote on whether or not their boss was a hottie simply by accessing WNY's Web site.

How could he have expected the meeting to go well when his entire staff wondered what in the h.e.l.l he was doing with their magazine?

And it was theirs. He really hadn't given enough consideration to that. Esme had been standing at the head of the conference table where she'd obviously been running the meeting since he'd been late. She'd only moved when he'd sat down in the head chair, forcing her to take the one to his right.

One quick look around the room had allowed him to freeze-frame in his mind the expressions on the faces of his staff. Carleton Bushnell's face had been split by a wide grin. He thought that being voted a hottie was a great advertising ploy. But he stood alone in his delight.

Esme's face had been, as always, impa.s.sive. Hal Davidson had pointed out that Metropolitan was in danger of being cla.s.sified as a tabloid. Was that the direction he intended to take them in? But it was Bill Anderson who'd asked him bluntly if he intended to resign at the emergency board meeting on Tuesday.

His negative reply hadn't pleased anyone that he could see.

He'd spent the next hour dodging more bullets. His denial that he had arranged Chelsea's interview hadn't placated them at all. They saw it as evidence that he wasn't in control.

From their point of view, he was single-handedly ruining their livelihood. He'd told them one thing and seemed to be doing another. That was not a stellar quality in a leader.

The meeting had ended on a final unhappy note-news that three longtime advertisers had canceled their ads because they no longer wanted to be a.s.sociated with Metropolitan.

The only plus that he could see was that no one had resigned-yet. They probably didn't want to go home jobless three days before Christmas.

"Mr. McDaniels."

As he pa.s.sed the water cooler, Ms. Parker fell into step beside him.

"Sorry, sir. I was just touching base with some of the other secretaries. You know, everyone in the office has voted."

"Voted?"

"On WNY's Web site. We want to make sure you win. The last time I checked, there were only a few negative votes. You know...it's kind of exciting to be working for someone who is..."

Zach's frown had her sentence trailing off.

"Did you make the arrangements with that security firm?" he asked.

She nodded as she moved behind her desk and turned his appointment calendar toward him. "A Mr. Romano will be meeting you here at seven-thirty tonight. That was the soonest that he could fit you in. He would have preferred to wait until after Christmas, but I told him that it was an emergency. I thought meeting here in the office would be more convenient for you since you usually work late."

"Fine. Did he a.s.sign someone to Ms. Brockway?"

Ms. Parker shook her head. "I told him that's what you wanted, but he said he'd be setting all that up after you talked."

Zach's frown deepened. He didn't like it, not one bit. "Where is Ms. Brockway now? Has my aunt called in?"

"Oh, yes. She said you're not to worry. She took Ms. Brockway back to her apartment in a taxi. Her building has a fine security system."

"Get Ms. Brockway for me," Zach said.

The phone rang just as Ms. Parker reached for it.

"Zach McDaniels's office. Yes, Ms. Brockway. He's right here."

He took the phone.

"Zach."

The thread of fear in her voice had his stomach knotting. "Are you all right?" She was calling him. She had to be fine.

"My apartment. Someone..."

"Where are you?"

"In a coffee shop. I panicked and ran."

He drew in a deep breath. Her words hadn't come quickly enough to prevent the image from flooding his mind-he could imagine her just as easily walking right into her apartment and...

He breathed deeply again and forced his voice to remain calm. "Good. You're safe." It helped to say the words aloud. "Tell me what happened."

"Someone was in my apartment. I think. The door was ajar-just a little-and the jamb was splintered. I thought I heard a noise. That's when I ran."

"Smart girl," Zach said, stifling several curses that were running through his mind. "Have you called the police?"

"No. I didn't think. I called you."

Other feelings washed through him, dissolving some of the fear.

"I should have called them. I'll do it right now."

"No, I'll take care of it. Tell me exactly where you are." Taking the pencil and paper that Ms. Parker pushed toward him, he jotted down the address.

"Now, I'm going to give you my cell phone number and I want you to call me right back on that phone." As soon as he'd rattled off the numbers and hung up the receiver, he began to count the seconds. He was at fifteen-plenty of time to imagine what might have happened to her in that apartment if she'd gone in, plenty of time to worry that something, someone was stopping her from calling back. Then his cell phone finally rang.

"Zach?" Her voice was much stronger this time.

It was his own that sounded thready with fear when he said, "I'm on my way."

SHE'D THOUGHT she was prepared. Zach had insisted that they wait until the police arrived before they went back into the building, so she'd had lots of time to steel herself for what lay behind her apartment door.

Still, she hadn't pictured this. In the face of the destruction, she was only able to absorb certain details-the cookies that Ramn had slaved over had been dumped out of their containers. The Christmas tree had tipped over on its side, the ornaments Daryl had been collecting for years lay smashed and scattered throughout the room. The mantel over the fireplace had been cleared. It was the one s.p.a.ce in the room that wasn't littered with debris.

"Who?"

She hadn't realized how cold she was or how stiff until Zach pulled her into his arms and she felt his warmth. It was only then that the icy ball of fear that had formed in her stomach like a tight hard fist began to melt. Leaning into him seemed so natural, so right.

Uncurling her fingers, she pressed her palm flat against his chest. The steady thud of his heart began to relax her. Slowly, she began to absorb other sensations. The press of his hand as it moved up her spine, the hardness of his body as he molded her more closely against it. And his scent-he smelled like... Zach. For just a moment, she promised herself. She would let herself need this, depend on this.

As the seconds ticked away, she was aware of footsteps as the two detectives searched the other rooms. She could hear the apartment manager's intermittent mumbling and the squeak of his tennis shoes as he tagged after them. But the sounds seemed to come from far away. Chelsea felt as if an invisible protective shield had risen up around her and Zach. She couldn't put a name to the feelings seeping through her. But she wanted to hold on to them. She wanted to hold on to Zach.

"Have you got any enemies?"

The words pierced the bubble, but for a moment she still didn't move. It was Zach who stepped back, his hands gently turning her so that she finally faced the stocky detective who had spoken. Perez. He'd introduced himself as Detective Perez.

"Chelsea?" Zach's hand tightened on hers.

"No. No enemies. Certainly no one who would do this. At least I didn't think so."

"Think about it," he said as he fished a notebook and pencil out of his coat.

"No thing like this ever happen before." The voice came from the apartment manager, a short balding man who had entered through the archway to the kitchen. Wringing his hands, he shot her an accusing glance. "No burglaries in this building for five years. I tell them."

"Is that true?" Zach directed his question at the detective.

The man grunted. "Could very well be. This isn't a high-crime neighborhood. But whoever did this wasn't a pro." He directed his own accusing glance at the manager. "Even a rookie could have picked the locks on these doors. He made a mess of it."

"This is secure building," the manager said, wringing his hands again. "This never happen here."

"Yeah, well, this place isn't exactly Fort Knox. It doesn't take a high-tech security expert to buzz apartments until he finds a sucker to let him in."

Chelsea found herself wanting to hug the rumpled-looking detective. The manager was beginning to remind her of a Greek chorus stuck on one gloomy refrain.

Perez bent down to pick up a crumpled bill from the floor. It was only as he unfolded the twenty that Chelsea recognized the shards of pottery that lay beneath it as Daryl's piggy bank. "Whoever it was missed this," he said.

"That's all there was in the bank," she said.

The detective met her gaze. "You telling me the perp broke the bank but left the money?"

"He must have. There was only one twenty in it. It was mine."

"A burglar who wasn't interested in money. Curiouser and curiouser," said the detective.

"This never happen before."

"Right," Perez said, moving toward the manager. "Why don't you go back downstairs and call the owner. He'll want to be contacting his insurance company, don't you think?" After closing the door, he turned back to Chelsea. "It doesn't have the look of a robbery, either. It looks personal."

"It gets even more personal in the bedrooms," said his partner as she entered through the archway.

Chelsea guessed the woman detective to be in her mid-twenties and she was as neatly pressed and put together as her partner was rumpled.

"The clothes have been pulled out of all of the closets, but only the woman's have been slashed," she said.

"They slashed my clothes?" Chelsea asked, but when she started toward the bedroom, Zack tightened his grip on her hand again.

"Do you have any idea why someone would do that?" the woman asked.

"No. I don't even know who," Chelsea said.

"Are you her boyfriend?" Perez directed his question at Zach.

"No," he said. "I'm her boss."

"You're not dating?" the detective asked.

"We have a date tomorrow night," Zach said.

"It's not really a date," Chelsea said quickly. "We're going to his aunt's Christmas ball."

"So you're not really dating him. But you're going to a ball with him tomorrow night?"

"That about sums it up," Zach said.

Chelsea could hear the laugh in his voice and she found she had to bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. It wasn't funny. There was nothing to laugh at. But standing there, being grilled by a detective who reminded her of an old TV rerun, she felt a sudden kinship with Zach-as if they had both been hauled into the princ.i.p.al's office to face the music.

"Okay, who is your real boyfriend?" the detective asked. "What's his name?"