lying flat on her back, Ben on top of her. She barely noticed his grimace of pain for the feel of him pressed against her.

"Oh," she managed over the rapid beat of her heart.

She couldn't begin to explain what this man did to her. His body had an unerring ability to undo her.

He, on the other hand, was an entirely different story.

But right that second she wasn't thinking about personalities. She felt the hard press against her thigh, and desire slid through her, making a very convincing case that there were times when personalities could or should be ignored. Just looking at Ben Prescott, she'd bet the house he could make her purr like a kitten.

And maybe, she reasoned, having a tiny little taste of what he had to offer wouldn't be so bad. . . .

Her teeth clenched. Absolutely not.

She cut desire off like she'd taken scissors to her Neiman Marcus credit card. She was supposed to be helping him, giving him a place to stay until his brother returned. She was not supposed to seduce him,

then inevitably break his heart. And if she gave in to the all-too-tempting orgasm train that beckoned in his eyes, that's what would happen. Because that's what she did. She broke men's hearts. Always.

Chloe would kill her if she broke so much as a hair on this man's head.

So she'd leave him alone.

"Okay," she said, trying to ignore his body pressing seductively against hers. "You win. You've proven

that you are a manly man. Now let me up so I can take off your pants."

"Promises, promises," he muttered.

But he rolled away and couldn't hold back a groan.

What energy he had left deserted him. In seconds, she was standing, then seconds after that she had the

soft 501 Levi's tugged down around his ankles. The hard-on that had pressed against her seconds before

was gone, though he was still impressive. But that wasn't what caught her eye.

A large white bandage butted up against his white Jockey shorts. From the looks of it, he'd nearly been shot in the groin.

"Oh, my stars," she breathed.

He snorted, but didn't say a word. He managed to get himself farther onto the bed, his muscles rippling

with effort, the lines of his face strained, and finally settled back. He was sound asleep as soon as his head dented the feather pillow.

She could hardly believe it. He really was asleep. And remarkable. And wounded.

"That has got to hurt," she whispered. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She waited a second, but didn't get a reply.

Carefully, she tugged the French-milled sheets and flannel blankets up over his shoulders. She told herself

to leave the room, to leave him in peace. And she would, really. Just as soon as she gently brushed away the stray locks of dark brown hair that had fallen on his forehead.

Back in her study, Julia sat down, crossed her legs, and tapped the end of a pencil against her cheek. She decided she would call a truce with Ben. She was going to be a gracious hostess. No more thinking about hard steel weaponry and the orgasm train. By the time he left the house, maybe they'd even be friends.

"Friends," she said out loud. "Friends with a man," she added, surprised at the newness of such a thought. But she liked the sound of it. She could be his friend. They could coexist in this space without thoughts of sex, beds, dating, or any of the other complicated issues she had no interest in delving into with this man. To make the prospect even more appealing, when Chloe returned from Nevis, she would be thrilled that Julia had been nothing but sweet and was getting along with her new brother-in-law. It was the least Julia could do for her best friend.

Confident in her new plan, she turned her attention to the computer screen just as the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Is Ben there?"

A woman's voice, sounding pathetically hopeful. Not to mention, how did a woman know that Ben was

there?

"He's asleep right now. Can I take a message?"

"Oh."

The disappointment was palpable.

"No, that's okay. I'll call back. Do you know when he'll be awake so I can talk to him then?"

"Is there some sort of an emergency that I can help you with?"

"Emergency? No." The woman sighed. "I just wanted to see Ben. Everyone's talking about him getting

shot. A friend of his told me he was staying with you. Do you think it would be all right if I came over to see him?"

The woman sounded breathless. Were women really this desperate?

"That's a question for Ben. If you'd like to leave your name and number, I'll have him get back to you."

The woman did as asked. "Please ask him to call."

Julia hung up, only to have the phone ring again. And again. Over the course of twenty minutes, she took

a slew of adoring phone messages for Ben, and she didn't get a bit of work done. After the last woman

begged her to wake Ben, Julia politely declined, then took the phone off the hook.

She had to focus, not play secretary for the derelict down the hall. No, not derelict, she reminded herself quickly. He was her new friend. Yes, friend.

Feeling pleased, she Googled reality shows, pouring over each in hopes of an idea hitting her.

There was The Bachelor. The Bachelorette. Joe Millionaire. My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance. Hello? What were these people thinking? But she could guess. The producers must have been in the exact same position she was in right then. She, like they, needed something new and different. The difference

between them and her was going to be that when she actually came up with something, it would be fabulous.

She continued on to American Idol, Survivor One Zillion. Then she saw a whole slew of makeover

shows.

She gasped at the thought. She loved makeover shows.

In fact, who didn't love makeover shows? She could go out and find women to make over.

She grimaced. That wouldn't be fresh or new or anything that would knock Sterling's socks off when

he returned.

That's when it hit her. She should make herself over.

The thought sent shock waves through her, utterly horrifying shock waves. But riding on the waves like

a California surfer was intrigue.

"Make over me?" she wondered aloud.

The truth was, this business of her whole life turning upside down had thrown her. Her world had

changed so drastically that she hardly recognized it. So why shouldn't she change as well?

She went very still. When she leaned forward, she caught a glimpse of cleavage revealed by her blouse.

She had been a bad girl for so long it was hard to imagine not showing a good bit of her figure. What would she do without her tight pants and short skirts?

She glanced down at her four-inch stiletto heels and grimaced with very real pain at the thought of doing without her shoes.

But that was what she needed to do, she realized with a start. Start over, start fresh, make herself over into the new, improved Julia Boudreaux.

A shiver of excitement raced through her, because truth to tell, life as a femme fatale was exhausting. The hair, the clothes, the makeup. The shopping was enough to wear a weaker woman down. Keeping up with the trends was a nightmare. You had to know what was hot, what was not. God forbid a girl get caught carrying last year's Prada bag.

There were people who thought Texans were only concerned with horses, Hee Haw, and bales of hay. But they were wrong. If she ranked style-conscious states in order, New York would win hands down-all those rich East Side matrons and runway models. California would easily come in second- all those movie actors and wannabe starlets. But Texas would place a respectable third. Heavens, Neiman Marcus was founded in Dallas, Texas.

But the hardest part of being a bad girl was dating so many delicious men. People thought it would be nothing but nonstop fun and excitement. It wasn't. It was exhausting. Keeping their names straight, making sure she didn't run into one date after she had just left another. Sometimes there just weren't enough days in the week.

She remembered Ben's crack about her being good at taking off men's pants. She hadn't wanted to admit how the remark had actually hit its mark. It had hurt, which surprised her. For some reason the thought of this man thinking she was easy didn't sit well.

Granted, she liked sex. She wasn't afraid to admit that. But she didn't sleep with men in hopes of getting them to like her, or in hopes of finding some elusive comfort, either. She had sex because she enjoyed it. End of story.

On top of that, the fact was she didn't sleep around nearly as much as people assumed. She was no celibate, but she was not a one-night-stand sort of woman.

Regardless, she was ready to start fresh, make herself over. She felt a startling need to become a picture of respectability. She would be a bad girl gone good!

Purpose pumped through her veins. For the first time in months she felt excited, with a sense of purpose. She loved the idea of starting over, loved the thought of being given a clean slate.

For a second, she considered making her transformation into a show. Certainly she could document the process. Though she couldn't imagine turning her own situation into a television program. Not only did it feel self-serving-Look at me, world, I'm cleaning up my act-but she had never been one to share her private feelings. She had always been the party girl without a care in the world. She wasn't going to start showing the new her for ratings.

Nope, her transformation was for herself only. But for a show, she would turn her eye to makeovers for other people. Though the question still plagued her. Who?