Hot to the Touch. Isabel Sharpe

cinnamon and tahini sauce. Pizza with cheese and sausage or with ground lamb, diced red peppers and halloumi cheese. Iceberg salad with shredded cheddar, croutons and ranch dressing or romaine with toasted pita and feta, dressed with olive oil, garlic and mint.

      After a terrible time deciding, she succumbed to the lamb pizza and the romaine salad. The bartender brought her a small bowl of olives, a few tiny round loaves of pita, about the diameter of tangerines, and a dish of a soft creamy white cheese with the tang of yogurt.

      Darcy poured water into her arak, which turned it pearly-white, and added a few cubes of ice. She took a small gulp and sighed in pleasure. The anise flavor was clear and light, beautifully refreshing. A few sips later, she mingled the taste with a mouthful of bread stuffed with cheese and an olive. Heaven.

      As usual, the experience of good food relaxed her, and she felt ready to check out her surroundings. Good crowd for a Wednesday night. A few couples on dates, a few single men at the bar, groups of guys out for a guy-time, one table of women. Most were neat and presentable, not too different from the crowd she attracted to Gladiolas. Neighborhood people out for the night. What crowd would Raoul get with his fancy backer and address? High prices would mean clientele with money to burn and similarly situated friends who had friends, who had friends …

      Movement caught her eye, and she realized she’d been staring at a good-looking guy in a red shirt drinking with friends; he leered and toasted her with his beer.

      Ugh. The last thing she needed was some guy thinking she was out trolling for the same thing he was.

      Her food came, a happy distraction. The aroma made her stomach growl and her hand reach eagerly for a slice of the pizza, which she immediately launched toward her mouth.

      Mmm. The crust was charred appetizingly around the edges, the lamb and peppers fragrant and subtly spiced, the cheese tender, mild and sparingly used so its bland richness didn’t overwhelm the dish.

      Delicious. After a few more ravenous bites, she gathered a forkful of the fresh-looking salad, preparing to dive in.

      “So I was wondering …” A man’s shape entered her peripheral vision. Red shirt. Ugh again. He leaned on the bar next to her, too close, talking too loudly. His too-sweet aftershave intruded on her smell and taste. “Has anyone ever mentioned that you look like Catherine Zeta-Jones?”

      “Yes.” She glanced at him witheringly. “And they didn’t get anywhere, either.”

      “Hey, now, don’t be like that.” His ingratiating grin didn’t falter, if anything he was talking louder. She became aware that they were attracting interest from Pink-Faced Sissy-Drink two stools to her right, and from the guy’s table of friends; she wanted to drop to all fours and growl threateningly. “Give me a break here. I’m a nice guy.”

      “I’m sure you are, but I’m only interested in food tonight.”

      “Aw, c’mon. Help me out here, beautiful. I bet my friends that I could buy you a drink.”

      “Really?” She picked up her arak, sipped it leisurely. “Sorry, you lost that one.”

      “I’m Jay.” He winked. “And I never lose.”

      “First time for everything.”

      He chuckled and leaned in. “Seriously, I’m harmless. Just want to buy you a drink. You won’t regret—”

      “I already do.” She turned deliberately toward him. “Go away.”

      “Wow.” He stared at her for a few seconds, then gave a bitter chuckle. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”

      “Yup.” Darcy held his gaze calmly. “But it’s better than being a buttwipe.”

      He left, but not before he called Darcy another of her least favorite words. What a jerk.

      She turned back to her dinner, having to force herself to resume eating, which was the jerk’s worst offense, because the food was damn good. Halfway through the pizza and salad, two-thirds of the way through her arak and undisturbed further, she managed to regain her composure.

      “I’m outta here.” The pink-faced guy seemed to be talking to no one in particular. He moved off his stool and for a second, Darcy expected him to hit the floor, slumped like a sack of potatoes. Miraculously he managed to stay upright.

      The bartender reached to shake his hand. “See ya, Fred.”

      “See ya tomorrow.” Fred wobbled behind Darcy toward the door. She hoped he wasn’t driving.

      “Another arak?”

      Darcy looked up to decline, but while the bartender was standing in front of her, he was asking the guy who’d been sitting three chairs down, just to the right of Pink-Faced Guy. Darcy turned to see who else was drinking the ambrosia of Lebanon.

      He was dark, but his features looked too Waspy to be Arabic. Handsome, several years younger than she was, she’d guess mid-twenties, dressed in a dark shirt and black jeans that showed his body to be tall, lean and nicely shaped. Well, well. Male candy. Too bad she’d put herself on a diet.

      The bartender put a new glass of arak in front of him. He lifted the carafe of water to pour with very nice hands, strong-looking, fingers long and masculine, nails blunt and clean. Definitely an attractive—

      He turned and met her eyes. Darcy froze with her arak halfway to her mouth. An electric storm sprang to life in her chest, spread to her stomach, down her torso, tingling through her arms and legs. Immediately, she glanced away. Then back, unable to resist. He was still watching her; his impossibly dark and deep eyes made it tough to breathe or think. What the hell was that?

      She forced her attention back to her meal, but could only gaze at it, as if waiting for the food to rise up and eat her instead.

      Instant lust, instant attraction. Sure Darcy had experienced those before, but never like this. She must be feeling particularly vulnerable tonight? Tired? On edge? Ovulating? She wanted to look again, felt almost compelled to, but there was fear she’d be giving something away, something very important she had to keep.

      Like mental stability.

      A deep breath, and she made herself eat salad, fragrant with mint, bold with garlic. The bite of vinegar and the soothing fruit of olive oil grounded her. This was real. This was what she’d come here for. Another bite of pizza, and she managed to finish the slice, finish the salad, finish her drink, feeling the man’s pull throughout, fighting her desire to look again, to see if he was watching her. To see if he’d felt even half of what she had.

      She pulled out her wallet, resisting the urge to order another drink, to linger and taunt herself with what could be possible. It was late. Another long day tomorrow.

      “Leaving?”

      Darcy’s hand stilled in the act of pulling out her credit card. She turned, braced this time for the impact of those eyes. The preparation didn’t help much. She felt as if her body had gone into overdrive. Shaky overdrive. Shaky, helpless overdrive. “Thought I would.”

      “Can I buy you another drink instead?”

      She didn’t move. If he bought her a drink, they’d start talking. She’d get a pretty serious buzz from more arak, dangerous around this powerful chemistry. She’d want to spend the night with him. Inevitably, the sex would be hot, satisfying and for one night her problems could be pushed aside, along with her responsibilities. For one night she’d be part of something bigger than just herself.

      But then she might wake up with that horrible empty longing again, the grief she never admitted to anyone she’d had, the one she didn’t even like to acknowledge to herself. Last time the morning after had been so hard, she’d promised herself no more one-night stands. Sex was lovely, but she wouldn’t die without it. Though now that she’d met this man, she might.

      “No?”

      Darcy blinked, aware she was taking an absurdly