He reached for his jeans, but they were caught under the rollers on the chair.

"Miss Julia!" the woman called out again. "There is a visitor here to see you!"

That's when he heard two sets of footsteps coming down the hall.

"Great!" Julia cried in a frantic whisper, tugging the sweater over her head. "You've got to hide."

"I do not hide from anyone," he stated firmly, wrestling with the denim.

"Yes, you do!" she hissed, pushing at him to get under the desk. "You owe me after I saved your sorry

ass, dragging you to the hospital-"

"I am not going to-"

"Miss Julia, it's a Mr. Folly here to see you."

Julia gasped. "The new station manager! My new boss!" She cocked her head. "Me, with a boss." Then

she blinked and focused. "You owe me, Prescott. Get under the damn desk."

"At least let me hide in a closet."

"Hello?! Do you see any closets?"

"Fuck."

Then he disappeared under the massive expanse of hand-carved walnut just as Julia got her sweater

adjusted and made a dash for the door. But she was too late.

"There you are, querida," the woman said, clasping Julia's cheeks with command as if she were still running the Boudreaux household. "You look hot. Are you sick?"

"No, no. I'm fine. Really."

Zelda tutted, then added, "Lucky I got here and found this nice man at the door. He was about to leave.

He says he's the new boss of the station."

The man Julia had seen in the resume photo appeared in the doorway.

"Ah, Julia, I'm Andrew Folly."

"Andrew-"

"Sit, sit," Zelda instructed as she always had. "I'll bring something to drink."

"Zelda, that really isn't necessary."

Andrew Folly didn't agree. "That's very nice of you. A cup of tea would be nice," the man said.

Zelda headed down the hallway, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the hardwood. Ben was sure he

heard heavier footsteps come into the office even farther. "So this is Philippe Boudreaux's inner sanctuary."

There was perfect silence after that.

"Oh, I apologize, Julia. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry for your loss."

Ben had wondered about her father. Julia said she had been close to the man. But something didn't add

up.

"You didn't upset me, Mr. Folly. Let's go into the living room."

Instead the heavier footsteps walked closer, and there was a squeak of leather as the man sat down in

one of the chairs opposite the desk. "I won't be here that long. Just a question or two."

Ben could feel Julia's ire.

After a long, tense pause, she walked over to the desk and sat in the swivel chair.

Ben would have been pissed at being stuck there, his jeans still caught under the wheels of the chair, if

he hadn't gotten an amazing look at her legs that disappeared up into the dusky recesses underneath that

pleated skirt. He was glad she hadn't worn pants today. If he had to hide like a wimp under a desk, then

he damn well was going to enjoy it.

"We'll need to make it quick, Mr. Folly."

Suddenly she was all formality. And really pissed.

"Okay, fine. We need tp discuss your . . . situation at the station."

"What situation is that?"

"The type of show you're developing. I really have to insist that you tell me your intentions."

Julia's heart pounded so hard in her chest that she felt light-headed from the rush of blood-this on the heels of one of the most erotic encounters with a man, the experience no doubt compounded by her abstinence from so much as a kiss over the last week and a half.

All of a sudden, Andrew stood and came over to look at a row of photographs on the wall. Quickly, she scooted her chair forward, and her knees ran into Ben.

"Fuc-"

"Ssh!" she hissed.

"Pardon?" Andrew said, turning back from the line of autographed pictures of her father with famous people.

"I didn't say anything," she said with a tight smile. Then she had no choice but to spread her knees if she didn't want to sit far back from the desk. Which would look odd-not to mention she'd run the risk that Folly would see Ben.

She was all too aware of the tiny wisp of thong she wore, and while she had never been shy, she wasn't a Penthouse sort of girl, who spread her legs to give a show. She prayed it was dark under there.

Though if it was that dark down there, Ben was playing Helen Keller.

"Ack!" she squeaked, slamming her thighs together when she felt his finger tracing the seam of her underwear.

"Ugh" was his muffled response when she no doubt caught his head between the vise of her knees.

"What?" Andrew asked, a frown marring his pale features.

"Ugh, ugh, ughly," she managed, casting him a big fake smile. "I just think that those photos are . . .

well . . . ugly. That's it." Then she shook her head. "This really isn't a good time, Andrew. Let's

schedule something, then we can discuss-"

The words cut off, as did her breath, when Ben ran his finger between her legs and over the material, brushing erotically along the most intimate part of her. She drew in a ragged, gasping breath.

"Is something wrong?" Andrew asked.

"Asthma," she managed.

She tried to lever her knees together, but Ben had them firmly propped apart. All she could do to stop

the sensual torment would be to jerk away from the desk. But between Ben underneath and the pair of

men's jeans tangled at her feet, she wasn't willing to take that chance.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Andrew said. "And I'm sorry that this isn't a good time for you to talk.

Unfortunately, this can't wait." He returned to the chair across from the desk.

She felt skewered on the double prongs of need-the need to strangle the man across from her and to yell at the one who was toying with her under the desk. Toying with her in a way that made her head spin and her knees want to widen traitorously.

Then she felt the thong disappear, the sheer material ripped away in one easy stroke. She really couldn't breathe when she realized what was coming next.

Despite the foolish anticipation, her body rocked when she felt Ben's finger against the seam of her. She also felt how she instantly got wet.

Her fingers clutched the edge of the desk and her head came back. Andrew's eyes went wide. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Okay?"

Ben's finger slid between the folds and she could no longer talk, speak, or even think.

Andrew must have taken her okay as an okay to talk, because he launched into a spiel about numbers and demographics. She barely caught words like change and younger, hip. Like this twenty-four-year-old who dressed and spoke so formally knew the first thing about hip.

But then Ben's finger slid even deeper and all she could think about was her hips and the way they were straining to move.