Pillow Talk. Kathleen O'Reilly

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      An SUV pulled in front of him and he slammed on the brakes. The Porsche slid to a halt and Adam swore under his breath.

      “Sorry, Ma. I forgot.”

      This time the voice in his head didn’t reply.

      3

      AFTER WORK, Jessica always jogged on the path that ran along the lake. Two miles on a normal day and three miles when her thighs got extra dimply, which was usually after having dinner with Cassandra, who liked her desserts.

      Today was a good Wednesday. No crisis at the office, the weather was a perfect sixty-five degrees, and the runner in front of her had the most motivating physique she had ever had the sheer pleasure of running after.

      Somewhere between mile marker number two and mile marker number three she realized the identity of that motivating physique.

      He was right ahead of her. He was going to win. She picked up her pace. Not many people could beat her on a quarter-mile sprint, and she prayed Mr. Adam Taylor wasn’t one of them.

      Time for round two.

      Her feet pounded against the caliche track as she found her rhythm. She began to gain on him, noticing the efficient way he moved. Very smooth.

      The powerful muscles worked in his legs, and his back flexed as he ran, making it look easy. His torso was bare, the better to be ogled, my dear.

      Jessica stumbled, more caught up in leering than concentrating on the track in front of her. That just made her mad, so she kicked up to the next gear.

      “Afternoon, Adam.”

      He glanced over at her, his eyes taking in her sports bra and shorts. “Afternoon.”

      “You’re pretty good.”

      “Ditto.”

      He matched her pace and they ran on in silence, bounded by the skyscrapers of the city and the still waters of Lake Michigan. She concentrated on keeping her breath even and slow.

      “How far do you usually go?” he asked, not even winded.

      “Five,” she answered, sneaking an extra gasp. “You?”

      “Five.”

      “What’s your time?” she asked, trying for a casual tone.

      His gaze flicked in her direction. “Fifty-five is the usual. I can shave off eight minutes when I’m concentrating. You?”

      He had stepped right into her trap. “I can beat that.”

      “I don’t know. I’ve got a report that I need to turn in before morning.”

      “Chicken?” She pulled ahead.

      “Now you’re just talking trash.”

      She didn’t reply except with vaguely unprofessional, yet extremely satisfying, clucking noises.

      He pulled alongside her. “That is such a pretty ass. Seems a shame to watch you lose it.”

      “You think so, farm boy?”

      “Oh, yeah.”

      “Care to bet on that?”

      He laughed. “What are we playing for now? I would love to see you in a little, black—”

      “No.”

      “Spoilsport,” he said with a heated look that indicated he was still off in fantasyland.

      Jessica almost lost her stride. “It’s got to be something more meaningful.”

      “Sex can be meaningful. Great sex can be life-altering.”

      She snorted in a completely unfeminine manner. “You are such a man. Loser buys dinner.”

      “Cooks, not buys.”

      “And a chauvinist, too. I bet you can’t cook.”

      “You can’t even begin to imagine.”

      “You’re just trying to get me alone.”

      He clutched a hand to his extremely well-formed, sweat-glistened chest. “Gee, she sees right through me.”

      “Buys dinner. Public place. Ready?” She shot forward before he could reply. “See you at the finish line.”

      They kept even for three miles, but the fast pace started to get to Jessica. He didn’t look winded at all, chest pumping in even rhythm. Was he slowing his pace just to let her win?

      That demeaning thought got her through another one and a half miles. By the time they reached the last half-mile marker, Jessica thought her heart was going to explode. Still she ran, concentrating on putting one foot forward. Finding the zone.

      Adam started to pull ahead. Two lengths, then three.

      No way.

      She blocked out everything. This was the man who thought he could beat her. Had already beaten her once. Not again in this lifetime. She focused on nothing but his black silk running shorts covering his mighty fine—

      Stop it, Jessica. Her pace picked up.

      The final marker loomed ahead, the shadowy clump of trees and the water fountain that sparkled like a desert oasis. Almost there.

      She fell in beside him.

      He pulled ahead.

      No.

      Not just no, but hell no.

      Adam took the lead.

      He smiled at her, slow and sure. A victory smile.

      Calling on every ounce of her reserves, she shot forward, leaving him behind.

      He almost caught her, but she was determined.

      There it was.

      One more length.

      She felt his breath hot on her back. Still she ran.

      There.

      There.

      She zoomed past the marker, two strides ahead of Mr. Hotshot. “There.”

      He came to a stop next to her, and she was grateful to see his bare chest pumping wildly, the sweat dribbling down between sharply-defined pecs. “You are good,” he murmured, almost to himself.

      Jessica forced herself to look away.

      “In all things, Taylor.” She leaned against the tree, sucking much-needed air into her starving lungs. The world spun four times before it righted itself once more. She swept a hand through her hair, wiping the sweat off her forehead.

      His thumb brushed against her lower lip. “You missed a spot.”

      Her lashes drifted down, and she fought the urge to taste him. A frightening thought. Instantly the warm touch was gone and she stepped back into reality. “You owe me dinner.”

      “You beat me, Barnes. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at eight.”

      For a second he sounded pleased, as if he had planned the whole thing. Suspicion tainted the moment. She stood, hands on hips, and studied his face. He looked exhausted and tousled, in a “hey baby, come jump me” kind of way. Once again, she felt the taste of victory. And it was sweet. The suspicion was gone. “717 West Patterson, apartment 2285. Think you can remember that, Taylor?”

      “Don’t underestimate me, Barnes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      JESSICA PUT her key in the lock to 87 Spruce Avenue, turned the latch and pushed inside. Home. Her mom shouted a greeting from the kitchen, followed by the familiar rapid-fire barrage of requests. Set the table, chase the cat from the back bedroom and bring the clean laundry up from the basement. Jessica breathed in the