No Stopping Now. Dawn Atkins

Brody’s tab, no doubt.

      When Brody returned to her, his smile was so gracious she wondered if she’d imagined the naked exhaustion she’d seen in that unguarded moment.

      “Shall we?” He put a hand to her back and led her to the table, fingertips light, the contact easy and natural on her body.

      At the table, every head swiveled Brody’s way, every pair of eyes turned to him. The king was back.

      “I hate to break up the party, guys,” Brody said, “but we need some alone time.” His tone held a hint of sexual suggestion.

      “Fo’ sho,” one guy said.

      “Brody swings…he scores,” said another, clinking beers with a third man. Two women cut Jillian glares, the message clear: You’re not that hot.

      Donegan’s sexual pretense irritated her, but it worked. After a flurry of female kisses, male backslaps and handshakes, Brody and Jillian were suddenly alone.

      Surveying the mess of abandoned martini glasses and beer steins, he sighed. “We’ll be more comfortable in the lounge,” he said and took her to a white leather couch in an alcove.

      He sat just inside her personal space and studied her as if she were fragile or a work of art, his eyes a soulful brown that invited you in for a swim. If you had to drown, where better than warm chocolate?

      Not Jillian’s usual thoughts about men or their eyes, but Brody Donegan was an unusual man. In person, she saw that he was more boy next door than bad boy. Maybe bad boy next door?

      “Are you hungry?” he asked. “What would you like to drink?”

      “I’m fine as far as food. Club soda to drink, please.”

      “Club soda?” He gave her look of mock disappointment. “Come on. You’re out with Doctor Nite. You need something with a kick. Unless you’re twelve-stepping it, JJ? Are you?”

      “Twelve-stepping…? Oh. You mean, am I in recovery? No, no. I mean, I’m not an alcoholic—” She caught herself. “Not that that’s bad. I mean, I know many people…” Her words trailed off.

      “Some of your best friends are alcoholics?” He grinned.

      “That came out wrong.” She was falling on her first-impression face here.

      “Don’t be nervous, JJ. I don’t bite. At least, not hard enough to leave a mark.” He winked. “As to a drink, Andre mentioned this tricky little Australian Shiraz that I wanted to try. How’s that sound? One glass? You’re not driving, are you?”

      “No. I came in a cab. One glass sounds fine.”

      The waiter appeared like a whispered breath and took Brody’s order of the wine and an appetizer sampler. “Maybe you’ll want a taste,” he explained to her, throwing his arm across the back of the sofa and shifting his body her way.

      She became aware of his broad shoulders and long legs, the expensive cologne he wore, the hint of stubble that on most men looked scruffy, but on him looked dead sexy.

      Get a grip, Jillian.

      She sat on the edge of the couch, her back straight, which was a technique she suggested for news interviews because it made you seem alert and prepared. “About the job…” she said, forging ahead. She intended to emphasize her experience, flexibility and the fact she was a quick study.

      “Ever been here before?” he asked, his eyes full of mischief and fun. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get to the point.

      “No. I’ve heard of it, though.” She forced herself to relax, take it easier, enjoy the conversation, despite how her heart thrummed and her brain pushed her to spit it out, get to the point, get the job. “It seems like a Doctor Nite kind of place.”

      “Exactly.” He shot her a quick grin. “Tonight, though, I’m here for my agent. He’s trolling for new clients and I knew we’d run into people he should know better.”

      “Did it work?”

      “I think so. These things have to percolate.”

      “That was quite a crowd. Your agent and friends? Fans?” Lovers? The jealous daggers the women had zinged her way suggested they had been or intended to be.

      “Friends, mostly. Some fans. Acquaintances. Industry people.” He smiled. “The lines blur. Do you have friends you’re close to?”

      “Several, yes.”

      “You stay in touch…?”

      “Sure. By phone and e-mail. Dinners and drinks. A movie or music somewhere when we can.”

      “The occasional slumber party? S’mores and pillow fights in your nighties?”

      She laughed at the tease, despite her nervousness and urgency. “Sorry, no. Our schedules sometimes make it hard to find the time to get together in person.”

      “Does your work consume you, JJ? Are you like that?”

      He’d batted her an easy lob she could direct toward the interview. “I do get so caught up in my work I forget everything else, yes.” My biggest flaw is perfectionism. Which was true, but would sound like bragging.

      Before she could say more, the runner arrived with their food—a tiered dish holding lobster ravioli, tenderloin satay and confit duck rolls that looked incredible.

      “You forget to eat, too?” Brody asked.

      “Sometimes,” she said, her mouth watering madly. She’d thought she was too nervous to eat. Brody had charmed her stomach, too.

      The waiter appeared with the wine and poured it for Brody to sip. He nodded his approval, and when both glasses were full, held one out to her. “Now tell me what you think.” His gaze stayed with her while she sipped the smoky blackberry wine with a bright finish. “Very nice,” she said. “I like it.”

      “Andre never steers me wrong. Now for the food.” He rubbed his hands together, then stabbed a ravioli with his fork and held it out to her. “Give it a try?”

      She leaned forward and allowed Brody to feed her the square of pasta, his hand beneath her lips to catch any drips. The intimate gesture seemed completely normal coming from Brody.

      The bite exploded in a lush blend of rich shellfish, creamy sauce and delicate pasta. “Oh, my God,” she said.

      “Heaven, huh?” He watched her closely as she chewed.

      “Mmm-hmm.” She licked her lips to catch a smear of sauce and Brody’s gaze locked on.

      She stilled, her tongue midlip.

      “Hmm,” he said, then cleared his throat and leaned for a satay stick. He dipped the meat into the sauce, then held it for her. “It’s peanut-ginger, but light. Try it.”

      She tugged a bite of beef from the stick and savored the blend of meat and tangy sauce. “Incredible.”

      “I know.” He seemed so happy about her pleasure. “The chef plays hard to get with the recipe. I’ve tried everything, even mentioned him on the show.”

      “So you cook?”

      “When I have time.”

      “Does that mean you’re consumed by your work, too?”

      “In a way. The show’s about what I do for fun, so I guess I’m always thinking about it, planning it, working. Like I said, the lines blur.” He swirled his wine thoughtfully, then added, “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He smiled at her. “How about you? Would you want to be different?”

      “Not really. No.” He sat so close and the way they were talking made this feel like a date, not an interview. She had to stay on track. “It’s late and I don’t want to take up more of what free time you have. So, should we get to the