“Don’t be naïve,” he snapped. “Any man with two eyes would be interested in you.”
“You’re not.”
Her words, soft and sad, punched him square in the gut. Not interested? Not interested? Oh, but she couldn’t be more wrong.
She gasped when he cradled her face. Her lips parted in unintentional anticipation, their surface slick and shining. He ran his thumb across the edge, earning a whisper of a sigh. The noise turned his blood hot. He dragged his gaze from her eyes to her mouth and back, only to find the blue darker. Losing himself in the colour, he felt that falling sensation again, leading him to a place warm and safe.
This time there was nothing to stop him. He lowered his mouth to hers, taking the comfort he so badly wanted. For a few moments he forgot his damaged soul and lost childhood in the taste that was uniquely Delilah.
When the kiss ended he pressed small kisses to the corners of her mouth. “Still think I’m not interested?” he whispered against her skin.
The Man Behind the Mask
Barbara Wallace
BARBARA WALLACE is a lifelong romantic and day-dreamer, so it’s not surprising that at the age of eight she decided to become a writer. However, it wasn’t until a co-worker handed her a romance novel that she knew where her stories belonged. For years she limited her dreams to nights, weekends and commuter train trips, while working as a communications specialist, PR freelancer and full-time mum. At the urging of her family she finally chucked the day job and pursued writing full-time—and she couldn’t be happier.
Barbara lives in Massachusetts with her husband, their teenage son and two very spoiled, self-centred cats (as if there could be any other kind). Readers can visit her at www.barbarawallace.com and find her on Facebook. She’d love to hear from you.
To my fellow Harlequin Romance writers, a group of women as supportive as they are talented, and to my two favorite men, Pete and Andrew, who make life worth living.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
“YOUR BOSS MADE the paper again.”
Plop! The folded tabloid landed smack in the middle of Delilah St. Germain’s desk, sending papers flying. “Hey! I just organized those.”
She threw the two women standing in the doorway of her cubicle a good-natured glare. “Some of us have work to do.”
“Some of us would like to point out it’s seven-thirty in the morning,” Chloe Abrams replied. “We’re the only people in the office.”
Without waiting for an invitation, she and Larissa Boyd grabbed a pair of chairs from the empty cube across the aisle and sat down. “Besides, we brought coffee.”
“Oh-my-God-I-love-you-where?” Spying the two large paper cups in Larissa’s hand, she snatched one. “You have no idea how badly I need this.”
“No,” Larissa said, “but we could guess. How you been, stranger? We haven’t seen you all week. You still working on that client pitch?”
“Bartlett Ale? Not at the moment.” The potential account had her burning the candle at both ends the past couple of weeks. “But I’m behind on everything else.” She lifted off the cup lid and breathed deep. It was still warm, too. “You two are lifesavers.”
In more ways than one. Chloe and Larissa had been her best friends since corporate orientation four years ago. Delilah was pretty sure she wouldn’t have survived her move to the Big Apple without them.
“Hey, what are friends for if not to keep you caffeinated when you’re overworked?” Chloe replied. “What time did you get here anyway?”
“Not that long ago. Six-thirty, seven.” Earlier than usual.
Her two friends shook their heads. “There are easier ways to impress the boss than making sure you’re in before he is,” Chloe told her.
“I’m not trying to impress the boss,” Delilah immediately shot back. Not too much anyway. “And you two should talk. I don’t see either of you sleeping in.”
“Hey, this hour of the day is the only time I can get any wedding planning done, since Tom is always hogging the Wi-Fi,” Larissa pointed out. “I came in to surf for bridesmaid dress ideas.”
“And I like to beat the line at the coffee shop,” Chloe replied.
“So she can have plenty of time to flirt with the barista,” Larissa shot back.
“You’re just jealous because he gave me a free size upgrade.”
“I could so make a joke about that comment right now.”
“Please don’t,” Delilah said. “I already have the image in my head.”
Speaking of images.... She reached for the paper Chloe dropped on her desk. Sure enough, there was Simon Cartwright, a third of the way down the column, a beaming blonde draped on his arm.
“Finland Smythe again,” Chloe read over her shoulder. “She’s lasted a while.”
“Two months.” Longer than most. Their boss tended to collect girlfriends the way Delilah’s grandmother used to collect souvenir spoons. Fashion models, actresses, would-be fashion models and actresses, a literal parade of
