Practice Makes Pregnant. Lois Faye Dyer

but when his boss had asked him to stand in for him, Jorge couldn’t refuse. He liked Ross and he doted on Ross’s two kids, Ben and Sarah. When the children cornered him and begged him to go in Ross’s stead so their father could take them sailing for the weekend, he’d given in.

      So here he was, dressed in an Armani tux instead of faded jeans, chatting with city council members, sidestepping the not-so-subtle advances of a Hollywood starlet hanging off the arm of a local hotel tycoon, and fielding questions from a Times reporter about the details of the latest murder case.

      What a way to spend the weekend.

      He glanced at his Rolex and calculated that he ought to circulate for another thirty minutes before he could legitimately tell his hostess good-night without being considered rude.

      Behind him he heard the starlet’s tinkling laugh, and he swallowed a groan. Without looking over his shoulder, he eased around the laughing group ahead of him, snagged a champagne glass from a passing waiter and kept walking until he reached the relative safety of the back wall. He leaned his shoulder against a convenient marble pillar and let his gaze drift over the room.

      He recognized many of the people from the days when his ex-fiancée had dragged him to parties like this one several times a week. The engagement hadn’t lasted and neither had his regular attendance at this sort of function.

      Bored, he glanced idly over the throng, mentally ticking off minutes. The crowd shifted and abruptly parted to frame a woman directly across the huge room. Boredom fled, his attention caught, riveted by the sight of her. Auburn hair gleamed beneath the subtle gold lighting, her shape willowy inside a slim tube of black lace. She stood with her back to him, and he silently willed her to turn. He needed to see her face.

      Come on, he urged silently. Turn around.

      When she did, he felt sucker-punched, his muscles tightening with a swift rush of adrenaline.

      She was incredibly beautiful. In a room filled with expensive, manicured, designer-dressed and jewel-draped gorgeous women, she stood out like a glowing candle. Black lace cupped shoulders that gleamed ivory above the low neckline, her throat a slim column accented by a single strand of gold. Wisps of auburn hair curled against temple, cheek and nape, while the rest of the rich, deep red mass was caught up in a loose gathering of curls that looked about to tumble to her shoulders with her slightest movement.

      She turned away, facing the lecturer, and the movement shifted her dress, exposing the length of her thigh and calf, pale against the shimmering black of her skirt.

      Who the hell is she? Jorge knew most of the people in the room, if not by sight, then by reputation. He was sure he’d never seen the beautiful redhead before. He would have remembered.

      The crowd shifted yet again, cutting off his view of her.

      Come on. Come on. He stared at the slice of auburn hair and black dress still visible and willed the chattering throng to move apart.

      The laughing, gossiping crowd moved again, groups splitting apart and reforming, the floor of the ballroom reflecting the ebb and flow of the sea the decorator had sought to replicate.

      She came into view again. Muscles tense with anticipation, he waited for her to turn and look at him. She glanced over her shoulder, a tiny frown between her brows as her gaze swept the crowd as if searching for someone.

      Her gaze met his. Jorge felt the connection as surely as if an electrical current surged between them. He couldn’t tell what color her eyes were from this distance, but he saw them widen, saw her body go still.

      He bit off a curse as the crowd shifted, blocking his view of her, and he pushed away from the pillar to make his way across the crowded floor. Closer now, he realized that she’d left the group clustered around the lecturer. Swiftly he scanned the crowd, catching a glimpse of auburn hair as she slipped through the French doors onto the terrace. He quickly altered direction, moving around the perimeter of the room, briefly pausing to collect a nearly full bottle of champagne and two flutes from a friendly waiter before stepping out onto the terrace.

      He saw her immediately. She leaned against the balustrade, head tilted back, gazing up at the night sky. Standing just outside the soft circle of light cast by the French doors, the black of her gown nearly blended into the shadows. The fair skin of throat, shoulder, arms and face, however, gleamed pale against the darker night.

      Jorge moved slowly toward her, taking the opportunity to observe before being seen.

      “It’s too bad we can’t see the stars.”

      She went still. Then she turned her head, looking over her shoulder at him.

      Her eyes were amber, smoky as well-aged scotch, and filled with a wariness that belied the sophistication of the black lace gown and upswept hair.

      Jorge immediately abandoned any thought of glib pickup lines.

      Even before she looked over her shoulder and met his dark gaze, instinct told Allison that the deep drawl belonged to the man from the ballroom. For one moment, sheer panic threatened to engulf her. But then he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, the nearly black irises reflecting the warmth of his smile, and the grip of fear that often accompanied her dealings with men eased.

      He moved closer, halting a decorous four feet away, and looked up at the sky.

      “Air pollution,” he commented.

      “Air pollution?”

      His gaze met hers briefly before returning to the dome of hazy, not-quite-dark sky. He gestured at the city below and around them, the soft glow of lamplight from inside the ballroom glinting briefly off the crystal flutes in his hand.

      “Maybe it’s more accurate to call it light pollution.” He took a step nearer, leaned one hip against the balustrade and handed her a flute, then filled it. “Did you know that the astronauts only see the darkness of night in the less populated sections of the United States, like North Dakota or Montana? On the east and west coasts the population is so dense and the use of electricity so high that astronauts see them lit up at night, not dark.”

      “Really?” Allison sipped her champagne, tense muscles slowly relaxing as he continued to lean casually against the low stone edge and made no attempt to close the distance between them. He was tall, well over six feet, his shoulders wide beneath the black jacket of his tuxedo.

      “Really.” He grinned, the corners of his mouth curving upward, his eyes laughing at her. “Are you interested in astronomy?”

      “Um…” Allison realized that she was staring in fascination at the curve of his lips and had no clue what he’d said. “I beg your pardon?”

      “Astronomy,” he said gently. “Are you an astronomy fan?”

      “I was as a child, but I haven’t had time for star-gazing since I moved to New York,” she responded absentmindedly, wondering if the golden tone of his skin was natural or if he spent a lot of time outdoors.

      “And how long ago was that?”

      “Several years.” Allison suddenly realized that he was asking questions and she was answering without thought because she was so fascinated by him. Each time he smiled at her, she was more aware of the slow, heavy throb of her pulse and the swift kick of sexual attraction. For the first time in her life, she found herself physically attracted to a man. Even more startling was her complete lack of fear. She felt oddly safe with him. He’s the perfect man to flirt with, she realized, remembering her earlier promise to the woman in the mirror. Tonight I’m going to flirt and have fun.

      She smiled in anticipation. He smiled back, his gaze narrowing, growing more intense.

      “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten to introduce myself,” she said politely, holding out her hand. “I’m Allison Baker.”

      “Pleased to meet you, Allison.” He took her hand in his and stepped closer. “I’m Jorge.”

      His hand engulfed hers, the fingers and palm faintly rough,