Kiss A Handsome Stranger. Jacqueline Diamond

inside the gallery. “Shakira Benjamin, right?”

      “Yes. Some of her work might suit you,” Daisy said. “You’re welcome to stop by. We’ll have wine and cheese, and our regular clients are interesting people.”

      She sounded all business. Chance respected professionalism in a woman. But he wished the invitation were for something a little more personal.

      Daisy stared out her window as the flat, grid-pattern streets of the city flew by and they eased into the suburbs. She made no attempt at idle conversation.

      Chance remembered what Elise had said about Daisy’s medical condition. He hoped she wasn’t in pain.

      A man wanted to protect people he cared about. Especially women, and especially one as open-spirited and vulnerable as Daisy. He was particularly sympathetic to her fears about infertility.

      Kids were precious. Chance didn’t have a strong urge to become a father anytime soon, but he treasured the future possibility.

      Of course, Daisy and the man she married could adopt children if she were unable to conceive. In the adoption cases Chance had handled, he’d been impressed by how quickly love and bonding occurred.

      Startled, he realized that he’d once again associated Daisy with marriage. Was there such a thing as a male biological clock?

      This whole attraction might be a simple matter of timing. But he doubted it.

      Twenty minutes later they reached the suburb where he lived. Custom designed on a large lot secluded by low walls, the home had been on the market a year ago and he’d had to outbid two other would-be purchasers.

      They passed through the gate and followed the curving driveway between low granite boulders and clumps of desert vegetation. The low-lying house might have sprung up by itself, so naturally did its red-tiled roof and salmon stucco walls fit into the landscape.

      “It looks different in daylight,” Daisy said. “I didn’t realize how well the colors blended with the desert.”

      “I’ve had the landscaping updated around the front and in the courtyard.” Chance parked beneath a carport. “The previous owner had tropical tastes that wasted a lot of water.”

      “I see what you mean about putting everything into a larger picture.” Daisy scampered out of the car while he was still unfolding his long legs.

      He caught up with her in front of the house and they strolled past relaxed plantings of golden yarrow and white blackfoot daisies. Loose material crunched underfoot. One of the first things Chance had done was to tear out the stark sidewalk and replace it with a naturalistic path of crumbly decomposed granite.

      “You could use a bit of height out here,” Daisy said. “I know several sculptors whose work would fit right in. In fact, we’ve got an exhibit in one of our galleries that might appeal to you.”

      “I’ll take a look during the opening tomorrow.”

      He unlocked the wide door and they stepped into the tile entryway, off which opened an expansive sunken living room. Beyond it, vertical blinds gave a striped glimpse of a walled rear courtyard.

      “You’ve got a great setting for a sculpture garden,” Daisy said. “This could be a real showplace. I presume that’s what you have in mind?”

      “Absolutely.” At least, it had been in his mind—until she walked into his home.

      Now Chance found it difficult to concentrate on anything except her scintillating presence and the memory of a night two months ago when they’d made love, starting right here in the front room.

      He forced himself to pay attention to Daisy’s insights about his home as they walked through the airy rooms. From time to time Daisy stopped to open her portfolio and show him photos of artists’ work. Paintings, weavings, sculpture, ceramics.

      She understood the effect he wanted and was able to articulate it in a way Chance couldn’t, because he lacked the vocabulary of color and texture. She also noted where a love seat, small table or other furniture would fit into the scheme.

      “If you want custom furniture, I know craftsmen who can make it for you,” she said.

      “I’m impressed. Did you always have an instinct for art, or did you have to study?”

      “Both.” Now that they’d completed their circuit, Daisy lowered the portfolio onto a table. They were standing where the family room joined the kitchen. “I studied design and ceramics at community college, but I’ve always been around artists. My mother designs and makes costumes. She dyes her own fabrics, too.”

      “Let’s take a look at the rest of that portfolio,” he said, and pulled a chair out, offering it to Daisy.

      Her cheeks flushing with enthusiasm, Daisy flipped open the heavy book. Beneath clear plastic sheets, the photographs showed artists, their studios and a sampling of available pieces.

      Many of the sculptors, Chance learned, were willing to create a piece on commission to fit the scale of a space or environment. He would be able to approve preliminary sketches and models.

      Collecting art wasn’t as simple as walking into a store and making his selections, he realized. It was far more exciting and personal.

      Daisy lived and breathed art and understood her business. Chance would have been grateful to find her even if she didn’t make his heart beat faster.

      But despite his interest in the portfolio, he had a hard time not focusing on the fullness of her lips as she spoke. And on the swell of her breasts beneath the ivory blouse, close to where his hand rested on the table.

      Daisy’s presence and the lingering June sunlight made him forget the time, until his stomach reminded him. It was, Chance saw by his watch, nearly six o’clock.

      “I’ll contact the artists,” he said. They’d decided on half a dozen people whose visions suited his taste.

      “Just let me know what you order so I can follow up. Some artists have a tendency to get distracted,” Daisy said. “I’ll handle the billing, as well.”

      “Of course.” It was time to take her home, but he didn’t want to. “How about dinner? I’ve got salmon steaks we could grill, and I’ll make one of my famous salads. Did Elise tell you about them?”

      She shook her head. “I’m intrigued. But you don’t have to feed me, especially not twice in one day.”

      “I’ve got to eat, too,” he said. “And I prefer company.”

      Apparently he’d hit the right offhand tone, because she smiled instead of beating a retreat. “What can I fix?”

      “How are you at microwaving baked beans?” he asked. “That’s what I had in mind for a side dish.”

      Daisy flexed her forefinger. “I work out on the microwave daily.”

      Chance took her hand on the pretense of examining her finger muscles. It felt warm and dry and small in his big one. “You’re in prime shape, I can see.”

      “Speaking of prime shape…” Her gaze lingered on the white shirt clinging to his chest. He’d removed his jacket and tie earlier, relieved to be free of the constraints. “I didn’t see a home gym, but you must work out.”

      “I wear weights while I jog every morning,” he said. “And I’ve got a routine of push-ups and sit-ups. You don’t need special equipment for that.”

      She tore her attention away. A pinkish tone to her cheeks indicated she realized she’d been staring at him.

      Chance’s body responded with an infusion of heat and tension. It seemed so artificial, this gulf between them, when they were already lovers. Yet anything he said or did to change the situation was likely to spook her.

      “Let’s start cooking,” he said. “I’m starved.”

      “You