Exposed. Julie Leto

as she walked. “I know my way around a kitchen.”

      “What about bedrooms?”

      She stopped beneath the archway. Damn, but anything the man said sounded like a come-on, with that deep, raspy voice of his. She was suddenly glad they hadn’t exchanged more than a few dozen words over the past two years or she’d have ended up in his bed a long time ago.

      Nevertheless, so long as he was asking about bedrooms, she might as well find out exactly what he had in mind. She stepped slowly to the edge of the couch. Leaning forward, she braced her hands on the armrest on either side of his bare feet.

      “What do you want to know about bedrooms?”

      A lock of her hair fell forward, brushing over his toes. His lips opened as if to answer, but no words came out.

      “Max?”

      “Sweats. I could use a pair of sweats.”

      She nodded and smiled, then headed back toward the kitchen. “I’ll see what I can do.”

      Again, the room lit up the moment she entered, and like the living room, the light gleamed off polished white surfaces. She searched first for the coffee and a pot to brew it in. Then she’d think about his bedroom.

      His bedroom. Dangerous territory.

      She had no idea if his request for sweatpants had been what he’d originally intended to ask for, but she didn’t doubt that he’d chosen a safer topic by requesting the change of clothes. He had no way of knowing that her knowledge of bedrooms was essentially limited to the art of sleeping in one. Her sexual experiences from her marriage—more specifically, the first few weeks of her marriage—seemed a lifetime ago rather than just a few years. She vaguely remembered the sex between her and her husband to be wild in the beginning, but even then she hadn’t had much of a reference from which to draw comparisons.

      She’d married as a virgin, sheltered by a family and community who clung to strict codes of feminine conduct—codes she’d wanted to rebel against for a very long time, but hadn’t had the courage until her nineteenth birthday. She’d packed her bags and bought her plane ticket without telling a soul. Only after she was securely on her way to live with Uncle Stefano in San Francisco did she call her parents from her layover in Atlanta. She hadn’t wanted a big scene. She just wanted to experience life on her own, with her own rules.

      Her first goal had been to meet some gloriously sexy man and have a whirlwind affair. And she’d actually met Rick while waiting for a cab at the airport. A musician with his guitar slung over his shoulder, shaggy blond hair and kind eyes, Rick had captured her sensual imagination with his first smile. He’d offered to share the cab, and on the twenty-minute ride to the Wharf, they’d chatted and laughed and flirted and fallen in love.

      But it was the wrong kind of love. The kind of love that didn’t last. The kind of love exchanged by people who had little in common but lust. The kind of love that destroyed her second goal—the restaurant she finally now had just within her reach.

      She’d learned the difference between lust and love the hard way, even if she’d never really experienced the latter emotion firsthand. Working with Stefano and Sonia, even intermittently before her aunt’s death, taught her that what she’d had with Rick wasn’t even close to what she deserved. She’d confused lust and love once. She certainly wouldn’t do so again.

      After her divorce, she realized that maybe if she’d just slept with Rick a few times before the quick wedding ceremony at the courthouse, the magic might have worn off long enough for her to see that they weren’t in the least compatible. His goals included fame, fortune and, ultimately, a move to Nashville where he now lived and performed. At the time, her only goal had been independence, complete freedom from her family and the chance to run her own business. Marriage pretty much canceled both out. She’d inadvertently traded one controlling force for another. Once Rick was completely out of her life, she’d realigned her goals, recaptured her dream of being in charge.

      But her personal goals? Her private wants? Until tonight, until she’d glanced through that magazine, she hadn’t allowed herself the luxury of those. Such an unattainable, dangerous dream could spin her in the wrong direction yet again. So she limited her fantasies to when she was sleeping, or when the romance and rattle of the cable cars worked a sly magic on her tired, lonely heart.

      Until tonight, she hadn’t had time for a lover, even a temporary one. She worked twelve to sixteen hours at the restaurant every day of the week. Her one indulgence to pampering herself was practicing tai chi with Mrs. Li, her landlady, and sharing an occasional tea and conversation with the women who gathered in the shop below her apartment.

      If she’d learned one thing about men in the past eight years—heck, in her whole life—it was that they demanded attention. Men like Max Forrester needed either a dutiful, socially acceptable wife to cater to his every need, or taffy-like arm candy—sweet and pliable to his slightest whim. She couldn’t allow herself to be either. She’d end up investing herself in her lover rather than in her own future. She’d done it before and damned if she’d do so again.

      She found and set up the coffeemaker, impressed at the organization she found in the cabinets and drawers. Either Max was completely anal-retentive or he had an incredibly efficient housekeeper. Probably a combination of both.

      While the coffee perked and popped, emitting an enticing aroma that reminded her that she’d had nothing to eat since lunchtime, she decided to search his bedroom for the clothes he wanted. The staircase she’d taken to the kitchen continued upward and she figured the master suite more than likely took up the greater portion of the top and final floor.

      The house reacted to her entrance by engaging the lights again, but this time the glow was slight from a single lamp at the bedside. The lampshade’s geometrically cut, stained-glass design reflected hues of gold and amber, with a touch of ruby red that reminded her of fire. Where the bottom floor reflected cold class and wealth, his bedroom was all male heat and casual comfort, though the lingering smell of money still teased her nostrils like aged wine or hand-rolled tobacco.

      The walls were paneled with rich wood—not the cheap stuff her father had in his den back home, but thick, carved planks of teak that reminded her of the opulence of a castle—the sort of room a knight or duke might entice his lover to. The paintings, from what she could make out with the individual lights above them unlit, captured outdoor scenes—listing cutters with fluttering sails on an angry ocean, a majestic lake surrounded by snowcapped mountains, a single aquamarine wave rolling in on a honey beach.

      And the bed—the California king, with a simple sleigh headboard and footboard—was huge and, most likely, custom-made. The fluffy comforter, half-dozen pillows and coordinating shams picked up the blues and greens from the paintings and swirled them with just enough gold to brighten the dark space to a subtle warmth. A pair of gray sweatpants had been tossed across the perfectly made and arranged linens. This was Max’s room. The real Max. The Max she had wanted to seduce.

      Truth be told, the Max she still wanted.

      She grabbed the sweatpants, then thought to bring him a T-shirt as well. With a shrug, she carefully opened the drawers in his dresser, smirking when the top drawer yielded an interesting collection of party favors he’d obviously gotten from Charlie’s bachelor blowout: a package of cheap cigars shaped like penises, chocolate lollipops sculpted like breasts, several foils of condoms with doomsday sayings about marriage printed on the packages.

      She hadn’t exactly planned and prepared for this evening’s possible seduction, so in the interest of safe sex, she grabbed the square with the least offensive message and tossed it on the bed before resuming her search for a shirt. After grabbing one with Stanford emblazoned on the front, she moved to return to the kitchen, but stopped when she noticed the wall of heavy drapes facing the bay. Curious after remembering his comment about the best view being from the third floor, she fumbled behind the thrice-lined curtains until she found the right button. One click and the window treatments slid aside, a mechanical hum accompanying her awed gasp.

      The entire wall was a window—sliding