Moonstruck In Manhattan. Cara Summers

a hand into his pocket, he drew out a small notebook and a pen. “What’s your number?”

      “Oh, I didn’t mean… I mean I can’t give you my phone number. I just meant that it’s great that you asked.”

      His gaze narrowed. “Then why can’t you give it to me?”

      “Lots of reasons,” she said, stifling a sigh of relief—certainly not regret—as a taxi pulled up to the curb. “My roommates and I made this pact not to date, for one thing. And then there’s this skirt.”

      “A skirt?”

      “It’s a long story, much too long to go into right now. You wouldn’t believe it anyway. I didn’t myself until just a few minutes ago.” Pausing to get a breath, she frowned. “And it might be a fluke, but you have to admit that something happened in there. Which means it’s much better for both of us if we never see each other again. Believe me.” With the skill of a New Yorker, she scooted behind the man alighting from the taxi and slid into the seat.

      “Wait,” he said as she pulled the door shut.

      As soon as the taxi lurched away from the curb, she looked back to see that he was scribbling something down in his notebook. The license plate of the taxi? Was he going to try to trace her that way? As she felt a wave of excitement wash over her, she told herself that it was because the skirt was evidently working! But she kept looking back until the taxi finally swerved around a corner to speed uptown.

      AT TWO-THIRTY, Zach stood behind the desk in his father’s office staring out the window. The tinted glass offered a gloomy view of Rockefeller Center complete with its landmark Christmas tree. Thunder grumbled overhead and gray-as-soot rain pounded against the pane.

      It was a good thing that he didn’t believe in omens, Zach thought, because in a matter of a few hours the day had turned as dark as the faces of the editorial staff who’d streamed out of the conference room a few minutes earlier. The meeting had taken less time than he’d anticipated and not even his Aunt Miranda had seemed enthused about the specifics of the plans he’d unveiled for Metropolitan magazine.

      The real meeting was taking place now. As he’d followed the staff members out of the conference room, they’d managed to corner his aunt and drag her into one of the nearby offices—for a private venting party, he supposed.

      Frowning, Zach shoved his hands into his pockets. What exactly had he expected? None of the editorial staff had seen him in years. It was ridiculous to suppose that they might trust him on sight. The last time he’d visited his father’s office, he’d been twelve.

      No. Turning, from the window, Zach’s frown deepened as he glanced around the room. This wasn’t his father’s office anymore. It was his. How could he expect his employees to accept that until he did?

      Moving toward the desk, he gripped the back of the leather chair. His glance fell immediately on the small ceramic Christmas tree sitting on one of its corners. His first impulse had been to remove it. He didn’t like reminders of the season. But he recalled the day he and his mother had brought the small tree to the office. He’d been five and his mother had let him sit at the desk while they waited for his father to join them. His gaze shifted to the gold-plated pen, still in its stand. He ran his finger over the engraved inscription. It had been a gift to his father from the president of the United States.

      He’d been using the pen to draw pictures when his father had walked in. What Zach remembered most clearly about the incident was not his father’s anger. His childhood had been littered with occurrences when he’d failed to behave the way a McDaniels should and his father had lashed out at him. No, what he recalled most about that fateful day were the tears his father’s lecture had brought to his mother’s eyes. She’d taken him skating at Rockefeller Center right after they’d left the office. It had just been the two of them and it was the last memory he had of his mother.

      Pushing away from the chair, Zach turned back to the window. He rarely let himself think of his mother, yet it was the second time today that she’d popped into his mind. Earlier, he’d been reminded of her when the taxi with that woman in it had pulled away from the restaurant. For a moment, he’d thought of another taxi, one that had taken his mother away to the hospital that fateful day while he’d stood helplessly watching from the curb.

      Ridiculous, he thought as he firmly pushed the image away. The childhood nightmare hadn’t plagued him in years. And he hadn’t been helpless this time. He’d copied down the license plate of the departing taxi.

      Pulling his notebook and pen out of his pocket, he flipped it open and looked down at the numbers. If he hired a P.I., he could find out exactly where his mystery woman had gone. All he had to do was make a phone call. If he couldn’t trace her that way, he’d have the investigator approach her dresser and her other champion in the chef’s hat. One way or the other, he could see her again—if he wanted to.

      He’d be much better off worrying about the fact that he did want to see her again than about some childhood memories that were much better off forgotten.

      What exactly had gotten into him at the restaurant? That was the question his aunt had asked him the moment he’d returned to the table. He hadn’t had an answer for her. He could hardly believe he’d nearly gotten into a fight in a public place over a woman he’d never met before. He rarely acted on impulse.

      Indeed, he prided himself on thinking things through, weighing all the pluses and minuses before he acted. But he’d had an overpowering urge to protect that woman in the bar. Then he’d acted on impulse again when he’d asked her to join him for lunch.

      He didn’t know anything about her, only that she was different from the type of woman he was usually drawn to. He’d always been able to read them, predict what they would do. Not one of them would have thrown herself between three men who were about to start throwing blows!

      His frown deepened. She needed a keeper. And that was just the kind of woman he always avoided. Still, he’d found her almost…irresistible.

      Moving back to the desk, Zach frowned down at the license number. In his head, he could list all the minuses of getting in touch with her. He couldn’t afford the time for any kind of relationship right now, not when his dream was within reach. It was his body that was giving him problems. His body wanted to see her again.

      Hell, he wanted her. He had from the moment he’d walked down the steps into that bar and gotten a good look at her. And he didn’t even know her name—yet. His frown deepened as the significance of the yet sank in.

      “Well, you certainly are lost in thought.”

      Zach glanced up to find his aunt Miranda facing him across his desk.

      “I knocked, but you didn’t answer,” she said studying him. “Are you all right?”

      Smiling, he closed his notebook and tucked it back into his pocket. “I should be asking you that. You’re the one they attacked after the meeting.”

      “They’re upset,” she said. “Change has that effect on people.”

      “And you’re upset too, aren’t you?”

      “Me? Whatever gave you that idea?”

      “You looked as if you were in pain during the meeting.”

      Miranda waved a hand. “That was because of my feet.” Sinking into a chair, she stretched her legs out in front of her. “I should have insisted we take a taxi from the restaurant. These boots were definitely not made for walking!”

      “You’re avoiding a direct answer. Were you upset by some of the plans I unveiled for the magazine?”

      Miranda raised her perfectly arched brows. “First I’m cross-examined by your staff and now you.”

      “Answer the question.”

      “And to think that I was the one who encouraged you to go to law school.”

      This