Breakfast At Bethany's. Kathleen O'Reilly

      Then her buzzer rang and she realized Spencer was here.

      Showtime.

      Silently she repeated her hands-off mantra, but as she passed her reflection in the mirror, there was a smile on her face. It didn’t scream Hands off! It was whispering Hands on.

      SHE TOOK HIS COAT and hung it in the closet, noticing the bits of snow that were still mixed in his hair. It was such a casual look for a man who you’d never think would have a hair out of place. Her hand itched to brush it away, but that was too familiar a move.

      “Need something to drink? Tea, coffee, hot chocolate?”

      “I don’t suppose you have any scotch?”

      She entered the kitchen, sensing he was following her, and pulled a bottle from behind the marshmallows. No one could ever say she wasn’t a perfect hostess. “Of course. Michel Couvreur.”

      “You drink that?” he asked, with the beginnings of a smile on his face. She should have guessed it would take twelve-year-old scotch to make him smile.

      “When the occasion calls for it,” she answered, pulling out the appropriate old-fashioned bar glass.

      He leaned a hip against the counter, reminding her exactly how small her kitchen really was. “What occasion calls for it?”

      “When it rains,” she said, watching the dark gold liquid splash into the glass. There was nothing as lonely as rain.

      He took a sip and then wandered out of the kitchen, making himself comfortable on the couch.

      “So, you want to know about Michael?” she asked, courting trouble by sitting next to him. But not that close.

      He pulled out his notebook and pen. “Go ahead.”

      So she told him about the date. He laughed when she talked about the storefront windows, and not in a good way. When she mentioned Michael’s talent for singing, he rolled his eyes. “It’s pathetic what men will do to get women into bed.”

      “Did you ever think he might just like to sing?”

      “No.”

      “So, Spencer James, why don’t you give me a peek into the male psyche? Why couldn’t a man just like to sing?”

      “Men are programmed to want sex. It’s very simple. When around a woman like yourself, every movement, every word, every note is a calculated ploy to further their own immortality by implanting themselves inside you.”

      Is that all this is? she wanted to ask. A ploy? A big drama to further his own immortality? She held her tongue, because the look in his eyes was sharp and intent, and it scared her.

      “Are you going to see him again?” he asked, the pen tapping against the coffee table.

      Beth nodded. “Sure. He’s nice, a regular gentleman.”

      “A gentleman who sings,” he said mockingly.

      He did that so well—made fun of everything that might possibly be sincere. She twisted the green fringe on the edges of her throw. “According to you, that means he wants me. I should be flattered.”

      The pen flew off the table, and he swore when it rolled beneath the couch.

      “I’ll get it,” she said, but it was just beyond her reach. She threw the afghan aside and slid off the couch onto the floor at the same that he did.

      There they were, a whisper apart. She could see the pulse beating in his throat, smell the tangy soap that he used on his skin. Suddenly her mind was bombarded with the bits and pieces that made up Spencer James. At that moment, he ceased being a remote challenge and instead became something much more elemental.

      She held her breath, waiting to see what he would do.

      His gaze rested on her mouth, but he didn’t touch her. Instead he reached under the couch, groping for his pen.

      As he pulled it back out, his hand brushed against her breast. It wasn’t quite an innocent mistake, because she was lying too close to him and they both knew it. Instantly her nipples peaked and she drew in a quick breath.

      The next time, his fingers were slower, more precise, his thumb flicking against her breast as the edge of the pen stroked against the topside of her soft flesh.

      The pressure between her thighs fired quick and hot, and she clenched her muscles to prolong the pleasure.

      His eyes flickered, his golden lashes masking the need she had glimpsed.

      Before she could react, it was over. The bit of accidental intimacy disappeared before it even started.

      He climbed up onto the couch and took a long drag of scotch, then placed the pen on the table in a very exact manner. The message was clear. Not going to drop that pen again.

      It wasn’t the message she wanted. She wanted to sleep with him, wanted to see those cold eyes burn right into her. Normally she stayed away from men without that marriageable look in their eyes, but not him. Hands-off was no longer an option. Surely, if meaningless affairs worked for Cassandra, they could work for Beth, too.

      Oh, God.

      Beth shot him a nervous smile and adjusted her shirt, longing to borrow a sip of his drink to calm her nerves. However, her training in social situations kicked into play, and she cleared her throat. “Well, what else do you need to know?”

      It was as if they were strangers. His voice was more clinical than usual, his eyes remote, never meeting her gaze.

      Less than ten minutes later she was retrieving his coat and handing it to him. In one quick move, he pulled it on, and his hand was on the doorknob, pulling the door toward him.

      “When’s your next date?” he asked.

      “I’ve got another one on Friday with Michael.”

      Spencer paused, a brief frown on his face, but then he recovered. Too telling. “How about I meet you Saturday morning? We could have a cup of coffee.”

      It was the frown that gave her courage, that split second of temper she read in his face. What caused a man without emotion to become angry? She knew it would be hands-on eventually. “I’ve got to work on Saturday morning. Opening again. Why don’t you just come over on Friday night after I’m home? We’re going dancing, so I’d be back by midnight.”

      The silence was deafening. Big faux pas, Beth. However, she noticed that he didn’t drop his things and run.

      “You’re sure?” he asked, his eyes dark and questioning.

      It was only a bit of a lie. She didn’t work until noon on Saturday, but he would never know, and she liked the confined intimacy of him being here, of knowing that if she dared she could just reach out and touch him.

      She smiled and nodded, her head buzzing from the hot chocolate. She told herself it was a sugar rush, but that was another lie.

      THE OFFICE WAS BUSY on Friday, and Spencer was cursed with having to do his time in the Tempo section rather than his usual beat on the city desk. He had taken over the cubicle of an associate staffer out on maternity leave and used her computer to enter his latest story. “The Best of Chicago Dining” stared back at him from the screen. Yawn. Only a few more weeks until he’d be back where he belonged.

      Harry came up and peered over his shoulder. “Savoir Faire. I’ve heard of that place. Can’t afford it, but it looks pretty. Covered any fashion shows lately?”

      “Coming to gloat?” said Spencer as he finished typing his article.

      “No. I was thinking—”

      “Dangerous.”

      “—I think we need to grab a beer, hoist a few. Guys’ night out. Last night, I was covering the Bulls game and I came up dry. Completely ran out of red-blooded words. Annihilated. Destroyed. Trampled. Shipwrecked.