Revealed. Joanne Rock

singing telegrams, as last week’s unsuccessful audition proved.

      Still, she wondered how she’d gotten suckered into this last-minute singing assignment when all she’d wanted to do tonight was recharge her creative batteries and develop some new song concepts. She’d had an idea rattling around in her brain—some rough lyrics for a new diet soda commercial she would polish and put on her demo tape. But the Zing-O-Gram office temp had sounded so desperate when she’d called, Jackie had no choice but to cover tonight’s late-breaking gig.

      Just her luck, she had to be the only Zing-O-Gram employee on call without a date lined up for a Friday night. Nothing new there. Sure she had plenty of offers. Heck, the cat getup on its own could usually elicit a few dinner invitations in the course of an evening.

      But never from the right sort of guys. Jackie wanted a man who knew how to have a good time—someone who cared more about following his heart and his dreams than the Almighty Buck. Boston was full of gorgeous men, but they all seemed to be on a relentless career fast-track that Jackie refused to enter.

      Too bad.

      So she would locate Gregory the birthday boy, sing him a cute song for his special day, and be on her way back to her solo Friday night. She’d be fine without a man in her life, and she’d be fine getting through tonight’s performance.

      Assuming she didn’t burst a seam on this two-sizes-too-small cat costume first.

      Jackie took slow, shallow breaths to ensure the black fuzzy suit stayed in place. She could handle this as long as she kept her song in a manageable octave. Those high notes had been known to strain even the best of seams—she sure as heck wasn’t about to try shattering any glass outfitted in this feline shrink-wrap. She’d just keep the tune in a comfortable range and she’d have no problem staying in her garb.

      She was singing a simple ditty at a birthday party for a six-year-old boy. What could possibly go wrong?

      “MAYBE SHE GOT THE address wrong,” Greg De Costa shouted into the cell phone. He couldn’t hear a damn thing over the music set at full blast in a back room of Flanagan’s.

      Struggling to keep the phone against his ear while he wrestled open a new bottle of champagne, Greg ducked out of the way of a rogue dart sent sailing through the bar by a soused partygoer. He didn’t mean to hassle the office worker at Zing-O-Gram, but the stripper he’d ordered for his brother’s bachelor party was almost half an hour late.

      Where was she?

      The masses were starting to get restless. If he didn’t produce a naked woman soon, he’d definitely lose his audience. As the general manager for one of Boston’s major television stations, Greg couldn’t abide any event—televised or otherwise—that didn’t hold its own in the ratings. He would dance on the tables himself before he lost his viewers.

      Although, no doubt, a naked woman would probably capture a larger share of the bachelor party market.

      After grilling the harried woman at Zing-O-Gram for a few more minutes, Greg folded up the phone and popped another cork just as his brother stepped out of the crowd.

      Mike De Costa—future bridegroom—claimed an open bottle of top-shelf champagne and proceeded to drink it as if it were a longneck. He grimaced at the label. “Since when do bachelors chug drinks with bubbles?”

      “Since they have something big to celebrate, like marriage to a woman who’s nice enough to put up with you.” Greg had known Mike’s bride since kindergarten. Hannah Williams was as sweet as they came—and far too good for a guy determined to charm his way through life like Mike.

      Mike swung his arms, sloshing champagne in a wide arc around himself as he did. “But look at what a catch she’s getting,” he protested.

      “All six feet, two inches of burning ambition and refined taste,” Greg acknowledged, rolling his eyes.

      Mike called up a belch from his toes and grinned. “You probably got me on the refined taste thing,” he admitted. “But not every woman cares about burning ambition, you know.”

      “No?” Greg popped the cork on the last champagne bottle and handed it over to the waiter filling a tray of glasses.

      “No.” Mike exchanged his half-finished liter bottle for a beer. “But obviously women like that are a foreign species to you.”

      “I never met a species of woman I didn’t like.” Greg mopped off the bar with the waiter’s towel, a habit engrained long ago, in another bar, in another life. “I’m just not about to get serious with anyone who doesn’t understand how important it is to get ahead.”

      “Then you’re a confirmed bachelor until you find an MBA-carrying superwoman. You’ve been trying to get ahead ever since the first moment you cut in front of me in line at the candy store.”

      “Not this time,” Greg corrected him, reaching for Mike’s vacated bottle of champagne. “You’re ahead of me in the matrimony department with a wedding coming up in three weeks. You’re more than welcome to stay in first place.”

      Truer words were never spoken. Greg needed a serious relationship like he needed his old bartending job back.

      Not in this lifetime. Greg’s job was the envy of all his friends. He’d worked his butt off to carve a niche for himself among Boston’s business elite, and entanglements with the female persuasion only seemed to complicate things. What woman wanted to stick around while he worked until midnight in the studio to get just the right sound for a new commercial or wined and dined clients every weekend? After too many failed relationships and pissed-off women, Greg had learned to keep relationships simple and…brief.

      His gig as a network general manager was a coup he planned to enjoy to the fullest—something he didn’t have any intention of risking for the sake of a woman.

      The bachelor life couldn’t be any sweeter. To toast that fact, Greg gladly tipped the bottle to his lips, savoring the perfect finish of good champagne.

      A ruckus on the other side of the bar caught his attention. Flanagan’s had a dining room at one end, a big bar in the middle, and a back room with a pool table for private parties. From his vantage point near the dartboard, Greg spied a small sea of turning heads, heard the slow rise of collective wolf whistles over the blaring music.

      Greg couldn’t see the sudden center of attention with the throng of men to block his view, but he guessed either the stripper had arrived, or someone had smuggled a sexy power tool into the bar for his friends to admire.

      Chances were, Zing-O-Gram had finally come through for him.

      Downing another short swig from the champagne bottle—his last sip for the night so he could keep a clear head to stay in control of the party—Greg said a mental thank-you to the new arrival. Now that the stripper was here, he could move the evening along and hopefully salvage a few hours afterward to go over some demo tapes at home. As much as he wanted to ensure his brother had a good time, Greg hadn’t risen to the top of the heap at the television station by putting in the standard forty-hour work weeks. He had to review a three-mile-high stack of audio demos in a search for some fresh voice-over talent.

      No sooner had he formed the thought than his senses were bombarded by the sexiest voice he’d ever heard.

      “But I’m looking for Gregory…” a sultry feminine alto protested. “Is Gregory here?”

      Howls of laughter emanated from the horde of males.

      “Sure he’s here, honey.” Mike stepped into the fray. “He’s going to be real happy to see you.”

      “I am supposed to deliver a Zing-O-Gram here, right?” Her gorgeous voice sailed over Greg’s senses. She had the sexy rasp of a torch singer.

      Mike smiled, attempting to straighten his lopsided tie as he flashed her a killer grin. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

      Greg slid off the bar stool, still squinting into the crowd to get a glimpse