Bachelor's Bought Bride / CEO's Expectant Secretary. Jennifer Lewis

Bree examined her carefully made up face in the mirror. Gavin was due any minute—again. They’d seen each other every other day for the past two weeks, walked nearly a hundred miles around the city, eaten countless meals and even—gasp!—held hands.

      But not a single kiss on the lips. He brushed her cheek lightly with his lips when they said goodbye, but that was it.

      Maybe he wasn’t attracted to her, after all?

      She should be exhilarated after her shoot. Despite a late start, everything had gone smoothly and the proofs were to die for. The star was every bit as charming and polite as she’d imagined, and she’d managed not to blush and stammer like a teenager in his presence. She even showed him her portfolio so he’d have some idea of who the heck was taking his picture, and he’d asked all kinds of questions and seemed genuinely enthusiastic about her work.

      She should be over the moon. Her first professional assignment was safely under her belt and she had another date with the most gorgeous man in San Francisco.

      So why did she feel so … uneasy?

      Gavin seemed to be interested. Something twinkled in his eyes when he looked at her, and she’d caught him sneaking glances at her cleavage, which had been on display more over the last couple of weeks than ever in her life.

      He laughed at her jokes and appeared intrigued by all the odd anecdotes she’d picked up over the years. At one point, in the quiet gloom of an abandoned Alcatraz cell, she could almost swear he was going to step forward and kiss her. Tension hummed in the air like whispered voices of the people who’d been captive there. Her skin tingled at his nearness and she hoped with bated breath that he’d reach out to her.

      But he didn’t. And once again, after the ferry ride back, he said goodbye by pressing his lips gently to her cheek.

      Good old Bree. Not really the kissable type. Perhaps he saw her more as a friend. Or a sister, even, as that catty woman at his office party had suggested.

      A sharp knock on the door tugged her back to the present. Her heart pounded under her latest clothing purchase, a stylish blouse with fine green and gray stripes. She added an extra hint of gloss to her lips for luck. Maybe he’d notice them and want to put his own lips on them tonight. If not, she might have to take matters into her own hands.

      As if she had the nerve for that.

      She pulled open the door and, as usual, her lungs squeezed with excitement and a big goofy grin pulled at her lips. “Hi, Gavin.”

      “Hi, Bree.” The chaste cheek kiss he gave her still made her knees weak. How could a man smell so good after a long day at the office? Like wind and sea air and adventure. He’d changed into a pale blue shirt and faded jeans that hugged his thighs like a lover. “How do you feel about a walk to the Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill?”

      “Great.” Yeah, just great. The most popular proposal spot in the city and she was going to go there and maybe hold hands if she got lucky.

      Unless …

      She swallowed hard. No. Gavin Spencer was not going to propose to her tonight. This was the twenty-first century, not the eighteenth. A man did not ask a woman to marry him after accompanying her on a few bracing walks.

      “There’s a neat little Italian restaurant nearby, too, so we could grab some dinner.”

      “Sounds lovely.” Her reply came out sounding a bit forced.

      Gavin cocked his head. “Are you sure? Because we don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

      “No, really, I’d love to.” She reached down to grab her bag.

      “And I was thinking that afterward, if you’d like, you could come back to my place for a nightcap.”

      “Oh. Sure, that would be great.” Suddenly she was all breathless excitement. Her cheeks heated. He surely wouldn’t ask her back to his place unless he intended to …

      Butterflies unfurled in her stomach. What exactly did he have in mind? Possibly quite a bit more than a kiss.

      “Let’s go.” He held out his hand and she took it. The door slammed behind her with a resounding thud.

      They walked briskly through the streets to Telegraph Hill, where the pale spire of the tower rose above the surrounding houses. The climb up the hill toward the tower left Bree panting. “I can’t believe you haven’t even broken a sweat.”

      “I work out regularly.” Gavin squeezed her hand. “I enjoy a good climb. Want me to carry you?” He raised a dark brow.

      “The situation isn’t that desperate yet. But there are steps inside the tower, too. I may take you up on it then.” At the top of the hill, they admired the view of the Bay Bridge and Gavin suggested that maybe they’d climbed far enough.

      “No way. You think I can’t hack it, don’t you?” She flexed her muscles under her new striped shirt. “I’d be a lousy date if we didn’t even make it in to see all the murals. Did you hear the rumor that the tower was designed to look like a giant fire hose nozzle? Supposedly the lady who donated the land and the money to build the tower was a big fan of the local firehouse.”

      Gavin chuckled. “I can see a resemblance. I’m sure Sigmund Freud would have some other suggestions for things it looks like.”

      “You’re not the first person to have made that observation, either. A giant phallic symbol rising over San Francisco. On that note, shall we go in?” She grinned and Gavin chuckled.

      Inside the rotunda of the tower, he slid his arm around her waist as they looked at the murals painted during the depression: rural scenes of people picking crops, a San Francisco street scene complete with a pickpocket and a nasty car accident, a poor family panning for gold while a rich family looks on. “These were all painted during the depression, to provide work for artists, under the Works Progress Administration.”

      She enjoyed the warm sensation of his big arm around her, heating her skin through her thin blouse. “I know. Aren’t they’re stunning? I guess something good comes out of even the worst disasters.”

      “That’s a very positive perspective. I fully approve.” He squeezed her slightly as he turned to answer. Their faces hovered close for a second. Bree held her breath, sure he was going to lean in and kiss her.

      But he peeled his arm gently from around her waist and moved away to peer at a detail in one of the paintings.

      She rocked back on her boot heels and sucked in air. If he didn’t make a move soon, she was going to go out of her mind.

      After they had a delicious dinner and walked the short distance back to Russian Hill, Bree eased herself into the passenger seat of Gavin’s sports car with a growing sense of anticipation and terror.

      What if he didn’t try anything? She might just die.

      Gavin’s gray gaze drifted from her hot cheeks to her rather dramatic cleavage and back again, with enjoyment that made excitement sizzle in her belly.

      She could hardly believe how intimate and easy their conversation had become over the last few dates. Weren’t men supposed to be difficult and mysterious and hard to understand? Gavin was easier to talk to than her girlfriends.

      His apartment was in a tall white building on Stockton Street, and they parked in the lot underneath.

      “This is very convenient.” Bree pressed the elevator button that Gavin said would take them from the garage up to his apartment. “I hardly feel like we’re in San Francisco. Shouldn’t you have to throw on the parking brake and hike up a hill to get home?”

      Gavin grinned ruefully. “Until I met you, I’d been missing out on a lot of the city’s charm. I moved in here so I’d be close to work. I’ve been in this apartment since I first came from L.A. five years ago.”

      Gavin stepped into the small elevator after her, his nearness intimate in the