Mistletoe Over Manhattan. Barbara Daly

up from the keyboard.

      “Oh.”

      Mallory appeared beside him, looking less like a harried traveler with a lot on her mind but just as cute. “Do I need to sign for my room?” she said.

      “My secretary booked us a suite,” Carter said, deciding to brazen it out. “Separate rooms and baths with a sitting room we can use as an office. Sound okay to you?”

      She blanched, and he knew it wasn’t okay. He stiffened his spine and waited to be blasted straight through the plate-glass windows.

      IT’S NOT OKAY AT ALL. But not for the reasons he was probably imagining. She’d thought the worst was over, that in a short time she’d be ensconced in her own room with her laptop up and running and no earthly need to torture herself with the sight of Carter until tomorrow. She’d skip lunch, spend the afternoon working, take a long, cool shower, order dinner from room service, snuggle up in her weightless travel robe that folded into its own pocket and spend the evening in splendid solitude. By morning, she’d have herself pulled together.

      What if he suggested they have dinner?

      What if he smiled at her when he suggested it?

      Her knees almost buckled.

      “You all right?” Carter said.

      “Just fine,” she lied. All she needed was time alone to gird her loins for the next day.

      She wished the word loins hadn’t come to mind. Hers were aching, and girding wasn’t what they were aching for. She’d probably stay awake all night wondering if he snored. She wouldn’t mind if he snored. She’d love to sleep wrapped in his arms with a soft snore vibrating against her hair. Or her throat. Or whatever his head was resting on at the moment. But not on her travel-garb-catalog wash-and-wear gown. On something silk. On naked skin.

      Her head spun. She was going crazy.

      She couldn’t go crazy. Trents coped; they did not go crazy. What in the world was wrong with her?

      She counted to ten really, really fast. “I’m fine and the room arrangement is fine,” she said smoothly. “It will be convenient for working late on the case.”

      “It’ll be just like being back in law school, studying together all night,” Carter said.

      With a sinking feeling, she realized how desperately she didn’t want it to be anything like those nights of all work and no play.

      “Here are your keys,” said the clerk. “The porter will be up with your bags in a minute.”

      “HONEYMOONERS?” THE porter asked, settling Carter’s bag on a luggage rack in one of the bedrooms of a suite that was probably larger than most New York apartments. He winked at Carter.

      “Professional colleagues,” Carter growled, flexing his biceps. He leaned toward the man. “Legal counsel to the National Rifle Association,” he improvised.

      “Oh, sorry,” the porter said hurriedly. “Um, I’ll show you around the place. Now here you have your thermostat…”

      At that moment Mallory stepped out of her room to put her laptop down on a desk in the living area. She’d shed her jacket and was wearing a sleeveless black top tucked into her black trousers. The trousers were loose and pleated, but they fit her just great, Carter thought unexpectedly. And she had really pretty arms. Touchable arms. Arms to slide your hands up and down.

      Carter noticed that the porter was looking at Mallory, too, and his spiel had trailed off. He whipped his gaze away from Mallory and onto the man again.

      “And,” the porter squeaked, “here you have your kitchen.”

      His voice warbled on. Carter actually looked at the place. He’d expected a living room in the middle and a bedroom on each side, a standard suite. Instead, there were hallways, arches and hidden entrances.

      The porter, who had been in the small kitchen nervously flicking switches off and on, reappeared in the living room babbling, “…laundry service and shoe-shine service. Just put your shoes outside the door at night and they’ll be there in the morning, all shined up. Fitness center’s in the basement. Business center’s on the second floor…”

      The suite was decorated in flowered stuff and velvet and Oriental rugs and crystal chandeliers. It was a home away from home—not as big as his home, but a hell of a lot neater without his stuff scattered all over it.

      He was going to be shut up in here for a whole lot of nights with a woman he’d just discovered was a lot prettier and a lot sexier than he’d remembered. The stab of heat that inflamed his groin startled him. Respect was what he wanted from Mallory, and he sure wasn’t going to get it if he tried to jump her bones.

      “…room service twenty-four hours a day,” the porter finished up. “Never have to leave the place if you don’t want to.”

      At Carter’s sharp look, he said, “But of course you’ll want to, and the St. Regis offers the finest dining in New York. There’s the five-star restaurant on the…”

      Carter whipped out a bill and thrust it toward him.

      “Oh, no need, sir,” the man said, wiping sweat off his forehead. “It was my pleasure. May I get you some ice? Extra towels?”

      Carter tucked the bill in the porter’s breast pocket. “Leaving would be a good idea,” he said.

      With numerous muttered “yessirs” the man backed out of the room.

      “What did you do to that poor man?” Mallory said, sticking her head out the door of her room.

      “I threatened to shoot him with an unregistered gun,” Carter said.

      “What?”

      “Nothing. Just kidding.” He dusted his hands together. “Want some lunch?”

      “No, thank you. I filled up on the plane.” She looked thoughtful. “It wasn’t good, but it was enough.”

      “Yeah…” He was feeling thoughtful, too. “You won’t mind having dinner alone, will you? I made some dates, women I’ve known for a while, thought they’d be hurt if I didn’t give them a call. Athena tonight and Brie tomorrow night for starters.”

      “And Calpurnia Thursday night? What’s your plan, to start with A and work through the alphabet?” She made herself smile as if she were teasing.

      His face reddened. “Um, yes.”

      “Maybe we’ll settle before you get to Zelda.” She might have known. Carter would spend his days working hard, but at night he’d be messing around with women named Athena and Brie. Had she actually been hoping he’d ask her to have dinner with him? Otherwise, where did this stab of disappointment come from? “Of course I don’t mind,” she lied. “This arrangement mustn’t make either of us feel we have to spend any time together socially.”

      “I didn’t mean…I mean…I didn’t…”

      “In fact, I have plans tonight, too,” she said. While you cavort with Athena, I’ll have weird food with my weird brother. The last time she saw Macon, he’d been into Tibetan cuisine. He’d read about it on the Internet.

      “You’re going out?”

      “Yes. And I’ll be going out other nights, too. So don’t think I’m going to cramp your style. We’re here to work together,” she summed up.

      It seemed to stop him cold, which was fine with her, because she’d gone cold all over with a sudden sense of purpose that was building up inside her and had nothing whatever to do with the Green case.

      She spun on one heel and went back into her room. Dialing Macon’s number netted her the same advice she’d gotten from his message the night before—send him an e-mail. Muttering under her breath, she opened her door, and as Carter was apparently in his room unpacking, she