"No. I haven't."

"There. I rest my case." Leaning back in the chair, she placed her hands on the armrest and the skirt moved another inch up her thigh. "There's definitely something about this skirt. Now that I know that, I'm sure I can deliver three articles about my adventures wearing it and about the problems of being single in Manhattan."

"Let me get this straight. You're proposing to write about a man-magnet skirt?"

"Exactly."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Why would anyone want to read about it?"

"Because people are lonely, especially single people, and they're looking for relationships."

"I'm single and I'm not looking for a relationship."

Chelsea waved a hand. "Neither am I. But most people are. And in a big city like Manhattan, it's hard to find one. The dating scene can be really brutal."

"And you think writing about a skirt can change that?"

"It can give people hope."

"That's ridiculous. Your skirt is perfectly ordinary."

"Then why can't you take your eyes off of it?"

She had a point. Quickly, he tore his gaze away and looked her directly in the eye. "Your proof is far from conclusive. I could argue that I'm looking at you, not the skirt. And I didn't almost get into a fight because you were wearing this particular skirt. I almost got into a fight because your dresser Daryl had his head up it."

Chelsea lifted the hem and rubbed it between her fingers. "Daryl was fascinated because of the material. He designs clothes and he'd never seen anything like it before. Here, feel it." She lifted the hem and waited for him to take it between his fingers. The moment he did, he caught her scent, delicate...exotic. It made him think of islands with white, sandy beaches stretching out endlessly in the moonlight.

"Not that I'm surprised Daryl had never seen anything quite like it before. My friend Torrie bought it on some tiny little island that is really off the beaten track."

As she continued talking, Zach rubbed the thin, silky material between his thumb and forefinger and thought of lying on that sandy beach with Chelsea beneath him as the waves pounded.... He tried to push the image out of his mind, but he was finding it hard to concentrate while his fingers were only inches away from that pale, smooth skin.

Maybe it reminded him of an exotic flower that he'd come across in Maui-or in the rain forests of Puerto Rico. He was finding it very hard to concentrate with his fingers only inches away from that pale smooth skin....

You'll never let her go.

The instant the words drifted through his mind, Zach shook his head. Where in the world had his aunt's words come from? He shook his head again, but he couldn't seem to eliminate the scent.

"The material in this skirt is woven from the fibers of a special plant. Supposedly, because it's been kissed by moonlight it has a very powerful effect on men."

Zach dropped the hem of the skirt and this time when he shook his head, the scent grew fainter. He shifted his gaze to stare at Chelsea Brockway. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about? Are you claiming that this skirt has some kind of magical power."

"Not magic. No, I wouldn't go that far." Chelsea began to twist the ring on her finger. "You have to admit, it does seem to have a definite effect on men. Do I look like the kind of woman that Pierre would offer a table to when he's booked solid? And I'm certainly not the kind of woman you would ever ask for her phone number. Not that I wanted you to. I didn't."

Her chin lifted as she drew in a deep breath. "I know that my phone number isn't relevant to...or has anything to do with..." She waved a hand and her ring fell to the floor and rolled under the desk. Zach dropped to his knees at the same time that she did and his hand covered hers when she reached for the ring.

"I'm sorry. Whenever I get nervous, I start to babble. Just tell me to shut up."

"Shut up," Zach said as his gaze slid to her mouth. It was close, barely an inch away, and her lips were slightly parted. And moist. He only had to move to taste her. A warning bell sounded in some part of his mind. He was a man who preferred to look before he leapt, but from the moment he'd first seen her in that bar, he'd been thinking and wondering...

Just one taste. One, he told himself as he closed the distance and covered her mouth with his. Impossibly sweet was the first sensation that poured through him. But beneath the initial rush of flavor was a tartness that beckoned to him to taste again. Still cautious, he drew back and watched her eyes open slowly. They were a dark, rich green-beckoning, bewitching. Desire twisted sharply as needs began to battle within him. He should never have kissed her. He was going to kiss her again.

Though she hadn't moved away, he settled his free hand at the back of her neck to hold her still as he once more took her mouth with his. This time beneath the tartness he tasted a hunger that matched his own.

As the heat of it swelled within him, he could have sworn that the carpet shifted beneath his knees. He knew that thunder rumbled its way through the concrete and gla.s.s behind him, just as certainly as he knew that one taste of Chelsea Brockway was never going to be enough.

ALL CHELSEA knew was the pressure of his mouth against hers. She should have pulled back at that first tentative brush of his lips. There was always a price to pay for throwing caution to the winds and this time she was sure it would be high. As he deepened the kiss and the flavors exploded on her tongue, thoughts swirled through her mind. This was what the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden must have tasted like. This was what Paradise was lost over. Sensations shot through her body until she was sure she would drown in them. She could feel the hard press of each one of those fingers against the back of her neck, the impossible heat of those lips and the flavors on his tongue, too many to separate. But she wanted the time to try. She needed to try and identify them so that she would remember....

As his fingers slid into her hair, she moved her hands to his shoulders, not to push him away, but to grab on and cling. Then he shifted his mouth to nip at her bottom lip and an arrow of pleasure shot through her, so sharp, that she began to tremble. When she felt him suddenly stiffen and start to draw away, she pressed her fingers into the muscles in his shoulder to urge him closer.

THE SHARP KNOCKING at the door penetrated Zach's mind only seconds before he heard someone clearing her throat. Dropping his hands to Chelsea's shoulders, he eased her away from him and helped her to her feet. Then he turned to find Esme Sinclair standing at the office door.

"I'm sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to know if the problem we talked about has been resolved?"

Zach felt the same way he had when he was five and he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't in his father's office. Shoving the uncomfortable wave of emotion aside, he dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back from Chelsea. "Not yet," he managed to say before he turned and circled to the back of his desk. Not only hadn't he solved it; the problem was growing bigger.

When Esme moved to leave, he waved her into the room. "Come in. I think it will be better if you're here while I try to explain our position to Ms. Brockway." Stalling a moment, Zach opened the file that Esme had given him earlier. He would concentrate on the facts. "These articles on the...on that skirt, won't suit the new direction that I want to take the magazine in."

"Why not?"

He glanced up in surprise to see Chelsea frowning at him. Her eyes were clear and he couldn't see any trace of the pa.s.sion that he'd been feeling, that he'd thought she was feeling, too. "As I explained to my staff this afternoon, I'm cutting all the fluff. From now on Metropolitan is going to expand its intellectual and cultural appeal in an attempt to increase its readership." He glanced down at the file. "Features on hotties and man-magnet skirts don't mesh with my goals."

"Well, they should. My first two articles sold copies of your magazine."

"I like to look at things in terms of pluses and minuses. On the plus side-"

"Why?"

Zach stared at her. "Why what?"

"Why do you like to look at things in terms of pluses and minuses?"

"Because it allows me to make intelligent and informed decisions." When she said nothing, he continued. "On the plus side, your articles have drawn in new readers. On the minus side, these are not the readers I want. In fact, if I continue to publish you, I have a good chance of turning away the very reader I want to attract."

"But your emphasis on including only highbrow, intellectual stuff in Metropolitan is going to turn my readers away. And they've actually been buying the magazine. Ms. Sinclair told me that newsstand sales have jumped over thirty percent since my first article."

Zach's eyes narrowed. He hadn't expected an argument from her, especially not an articulate and well-framed one. He decided to change tactics. "I'm willing to make you a very generous offer to buy your contract back."

Chelsea folded her arms in front of her. "No."

He raised his brows. "You haven't heard my offer."

"I don't want the money. What I want, what I need, is the exposure. I want my name out there so that readers can get to know it. That's the plus I'm after and you can't give me that with a check."

"You can take the money and sell the articles to another magazine. Get the exposure some place else."

Chelsea shook her head. "That's not a sure thing. Ms. Sinclair liked my writing and she was willing to take a chance on the skirt thing. I may not find another editor willing to take that kind of risk." She waved a hand at him. "You're certainly not."

Zach sat down on the edge of the desk and began to enjoy himself. He hadn't gone through three years of studying law without a love for argument. Chelsea Brockway was a surprisingly able opponent. "Look, the bottom line is I'm not going to publish your articles. Just how hard do you want to make this?"

Moving forward, she pressed her hands flat on the desk and leaned toward him. "I want to make it impossible. I signed that contract in good faith."

"I can find a loophole in it."

For a moment she merely looked at him. Anger lightened the shade of her eyes to the color of emeralds, the kind with hints of fire in their depths. But even as he saw the flame, she managed to bank it. Straightening, she said, "Neither one of us wants me to sue."

He nodded, almost disappointed that she was about to concede. "Correct. Litigation would only end in some kind of settlement. Name a fair figure and I'll write a check."

"Wait." She raised a hand. "Your position is that the articles are 'fluff,' that the skirt really doesn't have any effect on men. To borrow your word, the idea is ridiculous. Therefore, it doesn't make the intellectual or cultural cut to be included in your magazine, right?"

Zach studied her for a moment, then nodded. "That's one way of putting it."

She put her hands on his desk and leaned toward him again. For one second he caught that exotic scent again.

"Have you ever gambled, Mr. McDaniels?"

"Sure."

"How about a bet? If I can convince you that the skirt works, you'll print the first article. If I can't convince you, you can tear up the whole contract. I won't ask for a cent."

When Esme cleared her throat, they jumped apart and turned. Zach had completely forgotten that anyone else was in the room.

"I just wanted to mention that your first article is due on my desk tomorrow. You'll have to convince him pretty quick."

Turning back to Zach, Chelsea held out her hand. "No problem. You can follow me to Flannery's and we'll see what happens. Do we have a deal?"

Never bet when it looks like you can't lose. It was one of the many lessons Zach had learned the hard way at boarding school. But his hand seemed to grasp Chelsea's of its own accord. "We have a deal."

4.

"I'D LIKE TO KNOW how you talked Bill Anderson out of handing in his resignation."

Chelsea shifted her glance to the slender, light-haired man who sat directly opposite her in the booth. Hal Davidson wrote a regular column on the political scene for Metropolitan. He had smooth features and a practiced smile that probably served him quite well in his work.

She smiled right back at him. "I didn't do anything except suggest that he might want to sleep on an important decision like that."

Hal shook his head. "Well, you must be very persuasive. Before he walked into McDaniels's office, he had everyone fired up to resign. When he came out, he'd completely changed his tune."

"You sound disappointed."

Hal shook his head. "No. Merely surprised."

"I also suggested he might want to discuss it with his wife and daughter." Chelsea glanced down to the end of the booth where Bill Anderson sat in a chair. In the short time since she'd arrived at Flannery's, she'd observed that the sports editor clearly had a lot of influence over the other staff. She'd barely had time to take in the wood-paneled room and the mahogany bar trimmed in bra.s.s before Bill had spotted her and waved her over to the booth to introduce her to everyone as Esme's protegee, the one who'd written the articles on hotties. Since then she'd been wedged between a staff photographer named Chuck and the entertainment editor, a rather formidable-looking man in his early sixties named Carleton Bushnell.

The discussion at the table was centered mostly on the new boss and two things were very clear. They'd been very loyal to his father even when the magazine had begun to lose readers, and they didn't trust Zach. Bill Anderson and Hal Davidson were his most vocal critics. Their reasons ranged from his being too young to the fact that at the age of thirty, he'd hopscotched through several careers. First he'd gone to law school, then instead of going into practice he'd moved all over the country writing freelance for several newspapers and magazines.

Letting the conversation hum around her, Chelsea looked around the bar. Flannery's was a six-block walk from the Metropolitan offices at Rockefeller Center, and it was nearly filled with what looked like an after-work crowd, mostly men and a few women in suits. Even the four men who spoke with definite Texas drawls at a nearby table struck her as business travelers rather than tourists. The scent of whiskey, beer and popcorn filled the air, and in a corner a jukebox played the blues.

Each time the heavy, beveled gla.s.s door was pushed open, she glanced toward it, but so far Zach McDaniels hadn't arrived. The good news was he hadn't missed anything. The bad news was he hadn't missed anything. So far the skirt hadn't gotten much attention. Of course, it was a little difficult for it to have much of an effect on anyone when it was completely hidden by a table and the staff of Metropolitan.

"Bill said you have absolute faith in McDaniels."

The moment Chelsea realized Hal Davidson was talking to her, she dragged her gaze from the door back to him.

"You've known him for a while, I take it?"

"Well," Chelsea paused when she realized that everyone in the booth was looking at her. She couldn't very well tell them that she'd told Bill that on the spur of the moment to defuse a fight. "Not that long. But he seems to be a man who knows how to get what he wants."

"Yeah, but what he wants could easily sink this magazine," Hal pointed out.

"If you think he's wrong, why don't you tell him so?" Chelsea asked.

Hal reached for his gla.s.s, the ring on his pinky catching the light. "Are you going to be doing any more articles?"

"Three more, I hope."

Hal stared at her in surprise. "Not in the same vein as your last one, I'll bet."

"Actually, I'm writing about my adventures when I wear this skirt one of my college roommates gave me." Pausing, she leaned forward and pitched her voice lower. "It's supposed to attract men."

"You're kidding," Carleton Bush.e.l.l said, turning to her. "You can't think a piece of clothing possesses special powers."

"Who knows?" Chelsea said. "Don't all of you have something that you think brings you luck-like a special tie that you always wear to an interview?"

Carleton narrowed his eyes and she noticed that once more all of the men at the table were looking at her. Some of their expressions were skeptical; others were thoughtful. Bill Anderson was the one who finally spoke. "I have a special hat I always wear when I go fishing."

"There you go." Glancing around the table, she decided to push her advantage. "Think about your wives and girlfriends. Don't they have something that they wear that you like a whole lot, something that sort of gives off a signal?"

Carleton Bushnell chuckled. "Well, if young McDaniels is going to print an article like that, maybe the shift he's making in the magazine won't be as drastic as he outlined this afternoon."

"Well, I'm-" Chelsea began, intending to tell them that she was still trying to convince Zach to publish the articles, but Carleton Bushnell had turned to Bill Anderson.

"I think you were right to hold off on that letter of resignation. Perhaps we ought to tell the guy what we think and then cut him a little slack. We all know that some changes have to be made. The magazine's been losing subscribers ever since the old man got ill. Could be that a new direction is what we need."

"Yeah, but what direction? That's the question," Bill Anderson said.

"He's hardly going to increase sales numbers by turning Metropolitan into a literary magazine," Hal pointed out.

"Well, this young lady isn't exactly writing literature, and young McDaniels is buying her articles." Carleton winked at Chelsea. "You got any tips for someone my age."

Bill let out a whoop of laughter. "There isn't a fire hot enough to heat you up, Bushnell."