Going to Extremes. Dawn Atkins

Kathleen was happy to do, since it reminded her of all the joys in the world she loved. Once the desserts were ordered, she excused herself for the ladies’ room for some recuperation time.

      Inside the flower-filled, mirrored anteroom, she flopped onto an elegant chaise. Just a few moments all alone was all she needed.

      As if on cue, JJ strode in.

      Damn.

      “Oh, my God, that man has such a thing for you.” JJ plopped into the facing chaise and lit a cigarette, its end glittering like her eyes, hot with her scoop.

      “Dan’s agent? Not my type,” Kathleen said, attempting a feint.

      “Please.” JJ snorted smoke and flicked the mouth-end of her cigarette with her thumb.

      “You mean the waiter?” Kathleen tried, all innocence.

      “Don’t insult my vibe meter. I’m talking about you and Dan McAlister. Sparks were flying both ways, hon. I may be a narcissistic workaholic, but I’m not blind. Besides, the waiter was gay and Dan’s agent is dullsville.”

      “We were just being polite to each other.”

      “When you passed the rolls to him, your fingers touched and you practically dropped the basket.”

      “I was weak from hunger.”

      “And when you were tasting everyone’s food—”

      “That was Rhonda’s idea, not mine.”

      “Whatever. The point is that while you were doing it and moaning, he stared at you like you were having a climax.”

      That made her breath hitch. JJ had hit on something. She did make similar sounds when she came. And, of course, Dan knew that. Which explained that extra gleam in his eyes.

      “Speaking of that, does Dr. Moderate approve of recreational sex? Oh, who cares? Just sleep with the man. I don’t buy all that serenity bullshit.”

      “JJ! Are you crazy? Why would I want to sleep with him?” She sat on her hands to hide the way they’d begun to shake.

      “To show him he’s human. On general principles. Though…you know…what a book that would make. Kathleen Valentine, Pied Piper of Hedonism, converts Dr. Moderate to her religion of the senses. Herman would be ecstatic.”

      “You’re insane, JJ.” Her heart tripped into double time.

      JJ took a deep puff of her cigarette and blew it out through her smile. “Come on. You have to admit he’s hot.”

      “If you go for that type.”

      “The handsome, brilliant, sensitive type? What’s the prob?”

      “JJ…we’re supposed to be opponents, polar opposites, remember?”

      “Where there’s friction, there’s fire.”

      “Even if I were interested, which I’m not, he would never do it.” Her heart started a rolling rumba.

      “He’s a man. What man can resist Kathleen Valentine?”

      “You’re flattering me.”

      JJ shrugged.

      “If you’re so hot for him, JJ, come on the tour and you sleep with him.”

      “If only…”

      “Come on. You hate tours as much as I do.” Kathleen would never sleep with Dan, but she was annoyed to notice that the rumba her heart was doing had added a maraca rhythm.

      “You’re thinking about it,” JJ said, a dog with a bone. “You’re all pink.”

      “That’s the wine. Wine stimulates circulation. You’re flushed, too. Just look at yourself.”

      JJ stared into the mirror, then ran her fingers roughly through her bobbed hair. “God, I look like an ancient diner waitress. I should start calling everyone ‘hon.’”

      “You already do.” Kathleen leaned in to study her agent’s face. “There are incipient wrinkles developing. Let me give you my cell-plumping cream.” She extracted the excruciatingly expensive tube from her satchel and handed it over to JJ. “The Web site’s on the label to order more.”

      Wrinkles weren’t JJ’s only problem, she saw. “You need more vitamins.” She picked up a strand of her hair and rubbed it between her fingers. “Not enough protein. Are you eating?”

      “Not so much. Barry and I are on the outs.”

      “Barry the Brooder? No wonder. You have to take care of yourself, JJ. You’re in charge of your own happiness.” That was one truth she knew from the inside out.

      She took out her business-card holder and extracted a card she gave to JJ. “This is a food delivery service—homemade stuff, all fresh and vitamin-rich. Set yourself up for a month to see how you like it.”

      “I’m fine. Really.”

      “Then consider it an early birthday gift from me.”

      “I just had my birthday. You’re making me feel guilty. Here I send you on this book tour and you’re giving me gifts.”

      “Just take care of yourself and forget the guilt. Guilt is unhealthy. Talk about producing wrinkles. Oh, and here's that hypnotherapist's card. For the smoking.”

      “You’re too good to me,” JJ said, taking the card, her face warm with an affection that made Kathleen feel uncomfortable.

      She liked JJ a lot, but it was best to keep things professional. “I’m buttering you up so you’ll get me an even better deal on my next book.”

      “Easy breezy if you do a Converting Dr. Moderate book. Let’s get back to the table before somebody scarfs up my bananas Foster. Bananas have calcium, right?”

      “Potassium. But that’s good, too.”

      “What’s with you, Kathleen?” JJ said. “You look funny.” She stubbed her cigarette in one of the pots of cut flowers. Kathleen grimaced.

      “Just feeling the pain of those poor blooms. Let’s go.”

      She went for the door before JJ saw right through her.

      3

      THE NEXT NIGHT, Dan held the door so Kathleen could climb into the back seat of the car-service limo. They’d just finished the launch party at the Barnes and Noble on Fifth Avenue, which Rhonda had informed them was “the best, most star-studded bookstore in Manhattan.”

      Kathleen’s smile as she slid into the seat sent heat through him. He was so easy. He joined her, cramming himself against the far door to nix the urge to bury his nose in her thick hair, which she’d worn his favorite way—loose and wavy.

      How could he advise his patients to control their urges, when he was ready to jump the woman? Damn this book tour. Damn the way her skirt rode high on her thigh. Damn him for noticing.

      Kathleen drummed her fingers on the book in her lap—his book, back cover up, showing his photo with that chilly, superior expression on his face Kathleen used to criticize in their quarrels. Like you’re above us mere mortals.

      That wasn’t fair. Sure, he reflected at length on problems and assessed all factors before making a decision. Did that make him dispassionate? Hardly. But he wasn’t surprised Kathleen hadn’t understood that. She was all impulse and urge.

      And heat. Lots and lots of heat.

      She’d been generous, too, and kind. Like tonight when she’d bought his book and stood in line for him to sign it—a gracious gesture he’d been too dazed to duplicate. Book-signings and their attendant rituals were a new and mortifying experience.

      Kathleen sighed a rich sigh and wiggled into the seat, as if to get comfortable, then turned