The Playboy's Protegee. Michele Dunaway

would peg me for a lot of things that I’m not,” Megan said. She looked ahead at the wall in front of her. The fabric was an interesting pattern of blue. Please don’t let him be a chatty seatmate.

      “So tell me then about the real Megan MacGregor. You know, the things that aren’t on your résumé.”

      “Most of them are none of your business.” To her delight she realized that sitting in first class meant having an extra-wide armrest. At least she wouldn’t need to jostle with Harry for that.

      Next to her, Harry shrugged. “We have two hours to kill.”

      Megan heard the rumbling of the engine as the plane began to back away from the gate. “Didn’t you bring a magazine? Business paperwork? My briefcase is in my carry-on. I have plenty to do.”

      “Like you’ll be able to pull that out and get to it. ’Course, the show was pretty good.”

      She felt her face flush. There never was a dull moment with Harry, was there? “I have a magazine in my purse.”

      “Let me guess. Vogue? Mademoiselle?”

      From his tone she knew he was poking fun at her. “For your information it’s U.S. News and World Report. I also have a book.”

      His blue eyes twinkled. “A romance?”

      “No, a mystery by Sue Grafton.”

      “Yeah, I didn’t think it would be romance. Although with your prim-and-proper facade you could secretly harbor stacks of those sweep-me-off-my-feet historicals at home. You know, the ones with the half-naked guy on the cover.”

      “I do not,” Megan retorted. She preferred contemporary romance, not that she’d tell him that.

      “Do you even have a romantic bone in your body?”

      “Harry!”

      “She calls my name.”

      The plane began to accelerate down the runway, thrusting them back into their seats. So engrossed in their conversation, they’d missed the security lecture. She made a mental note to remember where the exits were, something she’d been taught to do on an Oprah show on surviving disasters. But Oprah hadn’t known about Harry Sanders. He could have been a show all by himself.

      “It won’t crash,” Harry said as if reading her mind. “I’ve never had a bad flight.”

      Of course the golden boy wouldn’t. The skies wouldn’t dare misbehave for him. “Yes, but with my bad luck, today might be the first. Look at the proof. We got stuck with each other, didn’t we?”

      He smiled, giving her the grin that she knew had melted hearts for miles. “The more I think of that, the more I think how lucky you are, in the good sense. I’m a Jacobsen.”

      “So? That just means you got your foot in the door. Personally, I would have rather had Lyle McKaskill.”

      “Really? He’s fifty. But then, I forget you like them older.” Harry’s smile had faded.

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      But the plane had launched itself into the air, and, instead of answering, Harry turned his attention out the window as the city of Saint Louis began fading from view.

      Megan fumed. Dig and rip. What did he mean anyway with that crack? Did he know how absolutely infuriating he was? He was a cad. A jerk. A first-class…Mentally she ripped on him, but it did nothing to assuage the conflicting feelings now going through her.

      She’d always avoided being this close to Harry Sanders. The man was a walking pheromone, a womanizer. And she wasn’t as immune to him as she’d always thought she was. Sitting next to him she could smell his cologne. He smelled of wilderness, of something wild and primal. His short blond hair looked silken, eminently touchable. She could picture running her hands into the golden strands, and grabbing hunks of his beautiful hair as he thrust into her. She’d pull his lips back down to hers and…

      Stop right there! That was not a picture or a fantasy she needed. The last thing she needed was to have any type of sexual harassment charges drummed up on her, or for her to send any sort of subliminal sexual messages to Harry.

      The man was one hundred percent pure playboy. He ran through women like water.

      The last thing she needed was to lose her focus. Harry Sanders was, for better or worse, her mentor. This was business. That was all. Her career could be made or broken on this trip. She couldn’t screw it up with thoughts she didn’t need to be having about Harry Sanders.

      HARRY WATCHED Saint Louis fade into the ground below. They’d gone westward, and then circled back, heading east over the northern end of the city on their way to New York. From his seat by the window he was able to look southward and see the Gateway Arch as the plane cut through the scattered remnants of high cirrus clouds. It was a beautiful day for flying.

      So focused on his thoughts, he barely heard the captain’s announcement that they’d reached their cruising altitude of thirty-something thousand feet. Had it been thirty-two or thirty-four? Maybe it had been thirty-six. The ground could be seen intermittently. He thought about asking the flight attendant for a moment, but then dismissed that idea. There was no point.

      He knew the damage to his psyche and concentration was already complete. The irritating Megan MacGregor had wormed her way under his skin.

      He couldn’t believe it when she’d almost missed the plane, and worse, he had actually found himself worried about her! What was wrong with him? He’d been glad to see her! Her missing the plane would have been a godsend; she would have proven once and for all how irresponsible she truly was, and how she wasn’t what she seemed. But she’d made it just in time.

      And she’d taken his advice. She’d bought new clothes. The saleslady who’d helped her ought to be shot. Megan had gone from a prim, proper and frumpy man-eater to a sexy, irresistible siren in a blue suit. And underneath her silk deep-V shirt she’d worn cream-colored lace.

      No man needed to see that, and Harry had been only inches from being able to bury his face right into the ripe breasts that the lace did nothing to conceal.

      Thank goodness she hadn’t gotten Lyle McKaskill for her mentor. The man was married, but that wouldn’t have stopped Megan. Harry winced slightly. No guy stood a chance, not even him.

      Maybe Megan was the type that a man needed to sleep with once. Not that Harry planned on sleeping with her, of course, but he comforted himself on knowing what she’d be like—a quick fling. Then afterward he would discover that she wasn’t worth it—that the fire was in the chase, not the capture.

      But it was tempting. He’d told Grandpa Joe that Megan was a sexual harassment case waiting to happen. He had to make sure it wasn’t with him.

      “Are you going to explain your comment from earlier?”

      Her voice cut through the haze of his thoughts and he turned to face her. She sat a scant eighteen or so inches from him. To kiss her, all he’d have to do was lean over. “What comment?”

      She sighed, her full red lips puckering with mild distaste. “Never mind. Perhaps we should discuss the upcoming meetings. Why don’t you give me your thoughts on what we’re up against.”

      “I could,” Harry said, and then he drew himself up. “Why not?”

      After all, they did have two hours to kill. He proceeded to fill her in. She listened attentively, her expression never changing as he outlined the new Jacobsen Enterprises strategy.

      “Who came up with that?” she asked.

      “Jill Benedict and Alan Dalen. If you want to discuss the presentation with them, they’re right behind us, three rows back, right before the partition. Their mentors are seated across from them. Aisle five.”

      “No. I don’t need to talk to them.” The shake of Megan’s