Two to Tangle. Leslie Kelly

for her room number, in case she got cold feet and decided not to come tonight after all.

      “She’ll come,” he told himself. Remembering the sight of her standing in the rain, he knew the woman was a risk-taker at heart. Much like himself. She’ll come.

      AT 10:05, CHLOE STOOD IN her hotel room, chewing a hole into her lip, staring at her own reflection above the bathroom sink. Troy hadn’t shown up at the dinner banquet, so it had been several hours since she’d seen him. Yes, she’d had several hours in which to totally chicken out on their date in the bar.

      “You can’t do this. You know that, right?” she told the mirror.

      It’s just a drink.

      “Baloney, it’s not just a drink. You were there—you felt the heat, Chloe Weston. You meet him tonight and you might be with him until tomorrow morning.”

      Is that such a bad thing?

      “Yes. It’s a bad thing. You can’t get involved with your boss. This job is too important. Losing it could very well mean dropping out of school and getting a day job to make rent money.”

      So when does living get to be as important as working?

      That was the question of the hour. When did she get to live? Chloe had borne the emotional responsibility for her mother’s and sister’s well-being since she was twelve years old, right after her mother’s second husband had walked out. That had been the worst year, when Chloe and Morgan had been separated from their mother for months. Once they got back together, Chloe had been determined they’d never be parted again.

      So Chloe was the one who’d learned to fake a communicable disease when the landlord came to call. The one who’d bartered baby-sitting services with the owner of the kids’ consignment store up the street to keep Morgan clothed. Through the other husbands, boyfriends, towns, people and jobs, Chloe had never let herself forget one thing: she was the one who had to keep it together. Morgan was too young and Jeanine too unpredictable.

      Following her heart—or, in this case, her libido—was not something Chloe usually allowed herself to do. So why not do it…just this once? You know you want to. Don’t be a chicken.

      “Oh, shut up,” she muttered aloud to the insidious voice. She sometimes pictured a little cartoon devil, complete with horns and a tail, sitting on her left shoulder whispering in her ear when she contemplated doing something really stupid. On her other shoulder, there perched not an angel, but a two-inch-tall version of Sister Mary Frances.

      The sister had been her second-grade teacher during Chloe’s single year at a parochial school—a year prompted by one of her flaky mother’s religious experimentation periods. That was before her real father had split, when they’d had something of a normal life. Chloe had spent most of second grade sitting in a corner until she learned how to behave like a proper young lady. Instead of learning patience and obedience, she’d actually used the time-outs to imagine ways to get even with the Penguin, as the kids called her. So the Sister Mary Frances voice seldom won out.

      Finally, sick of having a conversation with her own sun-pinkened face in the mirror, she grabbed her purse and slammed out of the room. The mental arguing continued, however. She talked to herself in the empty elevator all the way down to the first floor, then right up until she reached the bar entrance. The place was crowded, so she stopped mumbling and cast a quick glance around. She nearly convinced herself he wouldn’t be here anyway, so it wasn’t worth getting so hyped up about.

      Then she spotted Troy waiting for her in a corner booth. Any thought of turning chicken, slipping out the door and running to her room like a scared little virgin evaporated. Not just because he’d seen her. No, it was because of that look in his eyes as he stood and walked toward her. Not a Troy look. Not a confident, I-never-doubted-for-a-minute-you’d-show-up look.

      No, this look was relieved. Appreciative. Anticipatory. “I was afraid you were going to stand me up,” he said, his voice husky and intense as he reached her side.

      “I almost did.” Oh, gee, nothing like a little honesty to start an evening off right.

      “What changed your mind?”

      Brushing a stray wisp of hair off her face, she struggled to seem nonchalant. “I was thirsty.”

      “I’m glad you were thirsty,” he said with a teasing smile. “I was afraid you might have cold feet.”

      “My feet could sink the Titanic,” she admitted ruefully.

      He chuckled as he led her back to the intimate back-corner table, which was even more hidden by a few hanging plants and an indoor garden area, complete with softly gurgling fountain.

      Candlelight. Flowery plants. Shadowy secluded corner. Chloe Weston, turn those wobbly three-inch heels of yours toward the door right now.

      “Back off, Sister,” she whispered under her breath.

      He obviously noticed her sudden anxiety. “Is this all right? I asked for a quiet table so we could talk.”

      She gulped. “Uh, sure. Fine.”

      After pulling out her chair for her, he sat down opposite her. “Please, relax. I haven’t got the wrong idea. I know you’re here on business, you didn’t come here for this. You never planned to meet with a man you don’t really know in a hotel bar.”

      “A dark, candlelit hotel bar with low, sultry, danceable music,” she muttered. His eyes widened and she shook her head. “No. This is so not me. I’m usually so boring. No adventures in hotel bars in my recent history. I’m an open book. A boring, what-you-see-is-what-you-get book.”

      Sitting across from her, he reached out and caught one of her hands, which she’d just lifted to again nervously brush back her hair. “I doubt that. I saw you by the pool, remember? I think there are some deeply hidden facets of you I’d very much like to explore,” he said, his voice a seductive whisper.

      Okay, that’s it. You’re in trouble now, missy.

      As if he hadn’t noticed her heart beating so wildly she thought the veins on her temples were about to explode, he continued. “Let’s forget about who we ‘usually’ are for a while.”

      Chloe stared at him, trying to gauge his meaning. Obviously Troy knew something about hiding his real identity—he did such a good job of it even she hadn’t caught a glimpse of the real tire-changing man beneath the business suits in the past few weeks. He’d obviously become adept at living a double life, slipping off his at-home persona as easily as he slipped off his sexy little gold stud earring.

      Why shouldn’t she give it a try?

      He must have seen the indecision in her eyes. “Forget all the standard reasons we shouldn’t be here together. You don’t do this, I don’t do this, we don’t know each other. Just let it go. Tonight we’re two people sharing an interesting evening together, getting to know each other. That’s all.”

      “That’s really all?”

      “Yes.” His voice lowered, his stare grew more intense. “Unless we both decide we want it to be more.”

      Heck, she wanted it to be more already. Get out now, Chloe.

      He glanced toward the table, at her hand, which still held tightly to her purse. Chloe knew he realized she was poised to flee at a moment’s notice. “So will you stay?”

      Taking a deep breath, Chloe consigned the picture of Sister Mary Frances to the depths of her subconscious, briefly closed her eyes and nodded. “I’ll stay.”

      “I’m glad.” He reached over and gently tugged the purse free of her fingers, pushing it to the side of the table, still within reach, but not clutched like a lethal weapon.

      He held a hand up, waving to a waitress. “How about a rum punch? It seems appropriately tropical. Okay?”

      “Yes, but only one or I’ll be dancing on the