The Man Most Likely. Cindi Myers

items opposite the entrance and have tables set up along the sides. We’ll definitely want room for dancing,” she said. “And will there be a coat check available?”

      “Yes, we can arrange for that, no problem.”

      “That would be perfect.” Her smile, in conjunction with that killer voice, would have stopped any conscious man in his tracks.

      Bryan took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the scent of Angela’s subtle floral perfume wrapped around him, further dazzling his senses. Forget the two-dimensional fantasies he’d conjured earlier. The flesh-and-blood woman before him had his expectations—and his libido—in a tailspin. Was he merely responding to the novelty of a plus-size siren, or was there something else at work here?

      A stocky man with closely cropped black hair bustled into the room. “I am Marco Casale, the catering manager,” he said.

      “Marco, this is Angela Krizova. She’ll be working with you to arrange the community theater fund-raiser.”

      Marco took one of Angela’s hands in both of his and fixed her with a dazzling smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Krizova,” he said. “You perhaps do not remember me, but we spoke several months ago regarding a special order of chocolates you created for a wedding I catered.”

      “Of course I remember.”

      Marco’s eyes glazed slightly as Angela’s voice worked its magic, and Bryan felt a completely unexpected pinch of jealousy in his gut. He hadn’t realized quite how much he’d enjoyed being the focus of Angela’s attention until he had to share it with another man.

      Marco moved in closer, still holding her hand. “We should meet privately sometime soon to discuss the menu for your gathering,” he said, his Italian accent more pronounced than usual. “I have some special dishes I have been saving.”

      “That’s great. Why don’t you fax her a menu?” Bryan clamped his hand on Marco’s shoulder. “Don’t let us keep you. I know you have a lot of work to do.” Their eyes met in the kind of mute challenge men engage in when physical dueling would be crossing the line into outright incivility.

      Marco was the first to blink, and with obvious reluctance released his hold on Angela and backed away. “I will call you,” he said to Angela, before sending a last withering look toward Bryan and leaving.

      Angela watched his departure, the dimple to the left of her mouth deepening as her lips curved in a hint of a smile. When she and Bryan were alone again, she turned to him. “I almost forgot this,” she said as she opened her purse and took out a small, gold foil box.

      “What is that?” he asked, watching her untie the ribbon that secured the box lid.

      “I brought samples.”

      “Samples?”

      “Of my chocolates.” She selected a truffle from the box and held it up for his inspection, the shiny pink lacquer of her nails contrasting sharply with the velvety blackness of the sweet. “Dark chocolate raspberry,” she said, and offered it to him.

      He popped the confection into his mouth and was instantly rewarded with the smooth sensation of melting chocolate, the bitterness of the cocoa and the sweetness of the raspberries in perfect harmony. “Delicious,” he mumbled.

      “I’m glad you like it.” She licked the tip of her index finger, where the heat of her body had melted the fragile chocolate. The innocent, unself-conscious gesture sent a jolt of arousal straight through him, rocking him back on his heels. Then she smiled at him and said in that voice, “Would you like another?”

      Could I survive another? “Maybe you could leave them for me to enjoy later,” he said.

      “Of course.” She replaced the lid on the box and handed it to him. “How long have you been working for the hotel?”

      “Not very long.” The last he’d heard, the oddsmakers in town had given him three months before he cried uncle and fled to his former slacker ways. He’d passed that mark two weeks ago, but they still treated his new career as a passing fancy, something he was bound to give up on sooner rather than later.

      “And what did you do before that?”

      “Different things,” he hedged. Of course, if she was really interested, five minutes spent talking to any of his friends would give her the full, if not necessarily flattering, picture of his past. He’d arrived in Crested Butte seven years ago this month, intending to spend the rest of the winter snowboarding before heading to New York or Chicago or Dallas to put his hotel management degree to use.

      As soon as he’d pulled onto Crested Butte’s snow-packed main drag and seen the funky shops and even funkier people, he’d gone into a kind of trance from which he’d only recently awakened. “How long have you had your candy shop?” he asked, anxious to change the subject.

      “Three years,” she answered. “The first night I was here I tried to buy chocolate and the only thing I could find was a two-month-old Hershey’s bar. I knew then I’d found my destiny.”

      He was amazed she’d known so quickly what she wanted to do, while it had taken him years to figure it out. She had an air of confidence and serenity he hadn’t seen in most of the more conventionally beautiful women he’d dated.

      “Is something wrong?”

      The question made him realize he’d been staring at her. He looked away and reminded himself of the reason they were standing here in the first place. “How many people do you expect to attend?” he asked.

      “About a hundred and fifty. We’re charging fifty-five dollars each or a hundred dollars a couple for tickets. There will be a silent auction as well as food, a cash bar, music and dancing. And chocolate, of course.”

      “Of course.” He returned her smile. She had a great smile, one that radiated her enjoyment of the moment. “It sounds like fun.”

      “I hope you’ll join us,” she said. “There’ll be a lot of local people there.” They left the ballroom and started toward the front lobby. “Have you seen any of our productions?”

      He admitted he had not. Until recently, theater tickets weren’t part of his budget or his scope of interest.

      “We’re rehearsing now for I Hate Hamlet,” she said. “We’re always looking for volunteers and it’s a great way to meet new people.”

      “Maybe I’ll do that.”

      “Our next rehearsal is tomorrow night. We meet at the Mallardi Cabaret, upstairs from the Paragon Galleries, at Second and Elk. You ought to stop by.”

      They paused near the front desk. “Thanks for the chocolates,” he said. “It was good to meet you.”

      “Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you.” She gave his hand an extra squeeze on the word pleasure. Struck dumb, he stared after her as she sashayed across the lobby and out the door. Several heads turned to watch her departure. She may not have been skinny, but Angela definitely had style.

      “It looks like Ms. Krizova’s been sampling a few too many of her own creations.”

      He turned and saw the hotel receptionist standing at his elbow. Rachel was about his age, slim and stylish and part of the crowd of young people who frequented the clubs around town. He usually enjoyed talking to her, but the catty remark about Angela rubbed him the wrong way. No matter that he’d thought much the same thing when he first laid eyes on her. Half an hour in her company had given him a different impression entirely. “Did you need me for something?” he asked.

      She arched one carefully plucked eyebrow at his brusque tone. “The Chamber of Commerce called about a donation for the Al Johnson Memorial Ski Race,” she said. “Mr. Phelps said you’d take care of it.”

      “Sure.” He took the memorandum from her and turned toward his office.

      “Some