for God’s sake, just have a friend?
She saw no likely candidate in the room. Derek and Brad from the city room kept looking at her with gazes of hopeful lust—not quite the sentiment she wanted to inspire in men.
She glanced longingly at the door. Her feet moved toward it without volition. Her thoughts were focused on the small red car made by an Italian manufacturer with an unpronounceable name. It was in the garage, gassed up and gleaming. She wished she hadn’t drunk so much champagne and ditched her contacts for the night, because she really wanted to get in the car and just drive. Fast and far. Until she came to a place where the name Madeleine Langston meant nothing.
She wanted to do something wild and totally out of character. To lose control, for once in her life. Or even more intriguing, to surrender control to someone else, someone she could trust. Someone who would sweep her off her feet.
I wish, she thought. I wish … She closed her eyes and tried to will away the yearning, but she couldn’t. She knew such things didn’t happen in real life, but still …
Her hand closed around the doorknob. She was surprised to feel it turn from without, and she stepped back, marshaling her excuses. Too glad to see you, darling, but I simply must run, she rehearsed silently. We’ll do lunch.…
The door opened.
The excuses died in Madeleine’s throat. She stepped back and stared, suddenly certain beyond any doubt that she had died and gone to heaven.
He stood well over six feet tall, even after he removed his black Stetson to reveal a wealth of glossy dark hair. “Hi, darlin’,” he said easily, handing her a familiar card. “This got me past the doorman. Will it get me past you?”
“Not if I can help it,” Madeleine murmured before she could stop herself. Her awed gaze took in his beautifully groomed hair. Candlelight created russet highlights in the waves that spilled over the starched collar of his snowy shirt and sleekly cut jacket. The garment made a dark, enticing sculpture of his broad shoulders. He wore it open to reveal Florentine buttons down the minutely pleated front of his shirt and black dress slacks that hugged his narrow waist and hips. The toes of his black cowboy boots were narrow enough to stomp a roach in a corner of the Flatiron Building.
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