front door to find the fire still burning cheerily in the fireplace and nobody in the living room or the front hall. Lupe headed for the stairs. B.J., oh-so-casually, fell in behind her, hoping to reach the safety of her room without Buck suggesting another outing—one with just the two of them this time.
She made it halfway up.
“B.J.”
With a sigh, she turned and looked down at him. Their eyes met. Zap. There went that disgusting hot little thrill coursing through her.
Really, he was much too attractive—an attractiveness consisting of more than mere good looks. He had a certain…energy about him. An energy that radiated off him and kind of filled up the space around him with excitement, with a sense of expectation.
And why, oh why, was she thinking about how attractive he was? She really had to watch herself or she’d be falling into bed with him all over again.
And she wasn’t going to do that. She really, truly wasn’t.
He said, “I want to take you to dinner.” He glanced beyond her at Lupe, who had paused at the head of the stairs. “Lupe, you’re officially not invited.”
Lupe shrugged. “So I’ll check out the club scene.”
“Bars, Lupe. They’re just bars.”
“Leave me my fantasies, at least.” She turned for her room.
Buck waited until the photographer disappeared from view before insisting, “Dinner. In an hour. We’ll walk over town.”
More eating. So not her favorite thing lately. And eating with Buck, as well. That would mean an hour, at least, of sitting across from him, counting his eyelashes, thinking stupid thoughts like how no other man smelled like him, or laughed like him, or looked at her in such a dangerously delicious kind of way.
She was in trouble here.
No doubt about it.
Then again, there was the interview. She should concentrate on that. The sooner she got the material she needed, the sooner she could get back into her Manolos and away from Buck and New Bethlehem Flat. “I’ll bring my tape recorder.”
“One hour. No excuses.”
She turned and left him without actually saying yes, though both of them knew she’d be ready. On time.
In her room, using the push-button phone, B.J. called Giles, who was still at his desk, bless his ambitious little heart, though it was well after seven at night in New York.
He listened patiently to her long list of notes and suggestions, then told her that everything was going fine. “Not a crisis in sight.”
“That’s not normal.”
He laughed. She pictured him tossing those thick blond locks of his and felt homesick—for the city, for her office, for her own world where she could so easily avoid dealing with Buck.
“B.J.,” Giles chided. “You worry too much.”
“Call me. The minute there’s any kind of problem, any time you need advice…”
“I will, I will.”
“Use this number.” She rattled it off. “Cell phones don’t work here. And forget the Internet. It’s not happening, either.”
“Okay, okay.”
“If I’m out of the room, you can leave a message. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Makes sense to me. And I mean it. There is zero to worry about.”
The call was over too quickly, leaving her standing in her cozy little room at the Sierra Star B & B, staring out the window at the rough, silvered reflection of the moon on the river, wondering what she was doing there—and silently vowing to pull the damn article together fast and get the hell out of New Bethlehem Flat.
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