Too Hot To Handle. Barbara Daly

burdened and visibly harassed, from the exits.

      His New York business acquaintances occasionally sent him gift baskets from the place. They sold several things Alex was crazy about—the most thinly cut smoked salmon in town, fresh cream cheese, a lemon tart that had had a walk-on role in one of his dreams and boxes of chocolate-chip cookies that were close enough to homemade to fool somebody like him, whose mother wasn’t into cookies. He should go in, buy them out of those cookies and surprise his staff with them on Monday morning.

      It really would be a surprise. He wasn’t what you’d call a chocolate-chip-cookie kind of boss.

      As this thought went through his mind, a woman came out of the shop carrying two of the distinctive green-and-white shopping bags. She set them down for a moment to set a brown leather handbag more firmly over her shoulder. She was reed-slim in narrow jeans, the dark-blue ones Alex had decided must be the fashion this spring. A loose white shirt floated over her arms, barely touching her body down to her waist where she’d tucked it in. High-heeled sandals added four inches to her already considerable height.

      She was an extraordinarily striking woman. He felt drawn to her, a stranger, as he rarely felt drawn to the women who decorated his life as fleetingly as the bouquets of fresh flowers Burleigh routinely ordered for the round foyer table in Alex’s Pacific Heights home. Just seeing her there gave him an oddly familiar surge of desire to penetrate a softness and warmth that felt too real to be a figment of his heated imagination.

      She turned directly toward him for an instant, and he saw with the crystal clarity of cherished memories the fine skin, the blond hair that floated in the same ethereal fashion as her shirt, the generous mouth. His eyes opened wide. His lips parted. He breathed a single word.

      “Sarah.”

      And then, as she took off like the Concorde, as comfortable on those high heels as if they’d been sneakers, he came to life. He couldn’t shout her name. Men like him didn’t shout women’s names in public places. They didn’t follow women up the street, either, but this was Sarah he was following, and he could not, would not, let her get away.

      HURRYING NORTH, Sarah congratulated herself on how well the weekend was going. The evening before, she’d had drinks at the latest trendy bar—those ratings could change overnight—in Chelsea with Rachel and Annie, two friends from work. She’d chatted with an appealing man, an actor with a charming smile and high hopes, who’d auditioned the day before and had just gotten a callback.

      A man for whom she had high hopes.

      They’d agreed to meet for breakfast at a coffee shop in the West Village. He’d arrived with his lover, an equally appealing—but jealous—man.

      However, while she waited for him, she’d shared the sports section of the Times with a better prospect, a lawyer with one of the city’s large firms. They’d exchanged cards, and she fully expected to find a message from him on her answering machine when she got home. In the meantime, she’d prepared herself for whatever the evening—and the next morning—might bring.

      Balducci’s stocked a plentiful array of hors d’oeuvres and prepared foods, and she’d bought enough to manage dinner in case going out suddenly lost its charm. This afternoon she would make a dessert—a hazelnut torte, perhaps, or a flourless chocolate cake, or both.

      She swung right onto Twelfth Street. Her bags also held bagels, smoked salmon, cream cheese and juice from apparently rare and valuable grapefruit, judging from the price. She would check the answering machine, then put her purchases away. Then, with everything in a state of readiness, she’d slip out onto the fire escape to let the sunshine and cool breeze arouse her to fever pitch. Her sixth sense told her the lawyer would be up to whatever level of passion she chose to demand of him.

      She’d reached her building and started up the walk when she heard, “Sarah!” She froze, unable to move, unwilling to turn around. Her imagination was playing tricks on her, ugly, painful tricks. She heard footsteps behind her, and filled with dread, she slowly spun to face Alexander Asquith-Emerson, all grown-up.

      “Sarah.” He sounded out of breath. “It’s Alex. Saw you coming out of Balducci’s. It was just too amazing a coincidence.” The rush of words coming from his mouth, a mouth that quirked up at one corner in an all-too-familiar way, suddenly halted.

      Inside she was quaking so violently she was sure it showed on the outside. His hair was as thick and dark as ever, and his shoulders were broader in his well-tailored navy blazer than they’d been when he was eighteen. His eyes flashed dark, mysterious messages as they always had. An ache rose through her body that recalled the past even as it demanded recognition of the present.

      “Fuhgeddaboudit,” they said in Brooklyn. And, of course, she already had forgotten about it. A long time ago.

      “Well. My goodness. After all these years. Alex Asquith-Emerson.” Her spine felt like cold steel. She was proud of it for holding her up so firmly.

      “Just Emerson.” His full lower lip curved in a smile. “I dropped the Asquith. Too pretentious for the States.”

      His face held an expectant expression that frightened her. “Well,” she said again, wishing she could bring her deceased vocabulary skills back to life. “It was good of you to go to all this trouble just to say hello.”

      “I didn’t. Go to all this trouble just to say hello.”

      She waited, unable to move toward him or away from him. The ache had traveled up to her throat, making it impossible for her to answer.

      “I’ve been trying to find you for years, Sarah. And suddenly, there you were.”

      He still had a faint trace of an upper-class English accent, and the rich quality of his voice had intensified with time. He had always been able to dissolve her with a word, merely her name spoken as only Alex could say it, but she was an adult now, immune to his manipulation.

      “I’ve been here for the last five years,” she said. “I own my own company. A graphics design firm.” She wanted him to know she was in control of her own life and getting along just fine.

      “I’m in and out of New York a lot. Wish I’d known you were here.” He went on rapidly. “Well, now that I’ve found you we must get together sometime. I’ve filled up this weekend with business, I’m afraid, and have to head back home after lunch tomorrow…”

      Sure, Alex, business.

      “…but I’m coming back next weekend. Have dinner with me Friday night?”

      I’d like to have you for dinner Friday night, you bastard. She forced breath into her lungs, forced her lips to move. “Sorry, I’m busy Friday.”

      “Saturday?”

      “Busy Saturday, too. And I never go out on Sundays.” She hoped he’d felt the point of the knife she’d just jabbed into him. “But it was great to see you.” She turned away, longing for the safety and comfort of her own space, any space that didn’t have Alex in it.

      “Sarah.”

      The old deep, slow rhythm slowed her steps. She couldn’t help herself.

      “Here’s my card. Call me if your plans change.”

      She took the card, tried to focus on it. She saw a San Francisco address. “You went back to California.”

      “Yes.”

      “Your mother?” She let her gaze rest on his face.

      His wry smile added a touch of reality to the painful dream Sarah floated in. “In England. In excellent health, as impossible as ever and slowly killing husband number five. And your aunt Becki?”

      The flood of sorrow rose inside her, as it always did. “She died. Eight years ago, while I was still in school.”

      “Oh, Sarah, I am sorry.”

      “Well.” She gave him a bright, social smile as she gathered up her bags and