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  The information she had given Gilly was reassuring. The rest of what Gilly wanted was a little stickier. “I was wondering, Abbie, if you would do me a favor—well, not so much do a favor as...er...well, not do something.” At Abbie's puzzled look, Gilly sighed and confessed quickly before she lost her nerve. “You know where I work, but I'd really appreciate it if you didn't mention that to Mr. Brandt. He's under the impression that I work for FS&G.”

  “Oh?” One thinly penciled eyebrow rose above the trifocals.

  Abbie wasn't going to help her out here. Gilly struggled on, knowing her face was getting as red as the wild rosebuds on Gwendolyn's milky sea of white velvet. “Well, I sort of gave him the wrong impression—not that I don't plan to correct it; but...well, I'd rather do it in my own time.” Like by getting that job at FS&G.

  “I never gossip, Gillian,” Abbie replied primly.

  Before Gilly could speculate whether or not that meant the librarian would keep quiet, Jeff came ambling over to them. “All done?”

  “Yes. I have my notes complete.”

  “Good. Do you want to get that coffee, maybe a sandwich?”

  They thanked Abbie for her help and left the cavernous library. Once again braving the icy streets, they walked quickly to a nearby greasy spoon on Forty-Second Street.

  The place was small and crowded. Here, too, everyone seemed to know Jeff. The waitress, a frowsy, mid-fortyish blonde, handed them laminated menus that looked only slightly newer than the Dead Sea Scrolls.

  “The cheeseburgers are very good, but the chili dogs are my personal favorite,” Jeff said while the blonde scribbled his order.

  “I've always had a weakness for cheeseburgers—with Swiss, if you have it?”

  The waitress looked at her as if she'd asked for fois gras, then nodded curtly and wrote up the order, adding the two cups of black coffee they requested. Gilly was careful to place her tote with the Gleeson manuscript on the floor where Jeff couldn't see it. Gwendolyn's working title was Cuban Ecstasy.

  “So, when will you take the bar exam?” she asked.

  “My coursework should be wrapped up by the end of this year. I'm planning to take a few months to review everything, then go for it.”

  “Got to make that ten-percent cut.” She nodded, sipping the steaming coffee the waitress had deposited on the chipped Formica table a moment earlier. “It must be very exciting to have a top-level law firm interested in you. I imagine your family is really proud.”

  He looked down into his cup, then took a swallow before replying. “Yes. BT&L has always been my father's dream.”

  Was there something in the tone of his voice, a faint hint of irony? Gilly couldn't be sure, but she was curious. No more involvement with mystery men who had relatives—like wives and children—about whom she knew nothing. “Do your parents live nearby?”

  “Scarsdale,” he said dismissively. “I don't see them often. It's much more...convenient to stay close to school. I live in Manhattan, near NYU in the Village. Share a pad with another law student named Karl.”

  “I know,” she blurted out, then blushed. “Er, Abbie mentioned it. Tell me about your family. Any brothers or sisters?” Any wives or children?

  “One sister. Older, married. Two kids and a husband who's a broker on the Street.”

  His answers might have been a little on the laconic side, but it was quite apparent that he came from money. “Let me guess. Your dad's a lawyer, too?”

  “Definitely yes, but retired now. He and my mother travel a lot. Right now, they're in Bermuda.”

  “Sounds wonderful on a dreary Manhattan day like this. I'd love to travel if I had the time.” And the money.

  “It's greatly overrated. I saw a lot of the world during my tour of duty. Everyplace from Taiwan to Rio. The rich play, and the poor starve. Just like home.”

  Gilly cocked her head and smiled. “Do I detect a strain of social activism here? It may be passé now, but I like it. Sort of fits you.”

  He grinned. “How so?”

  “Goes with the long hair and wire-rimmed glasses, not to mention the beat-up old Adidas and the necklace.” She eyed the tooled leather with elaborate beadwork hanging partially revealed at the open collar of his shirt. Swallowing, she looked away before the sight of the dark chest hair peeking out around the odd piece of jewelry had her any more flustered. God, I'm acting like one of Gwendolyn's virgins!

  “This?” He held up the small pouch, smiling. “It was a gift from a friend, David Strongswimmer, an Iroquois construction worker. His father is a shaman. He makes these to keep the wearers safe from harm.”

  “If they work high iron, I can see the need,” Gilly said, shivering. “Personally, I get a nosebleed on the observation deck of the Empire State Building.”

  Jeff was not too keen on heights either, and he had given up a really well-paying job with Dave and his dad because of it. But he didn't want to talk about his jobs any more than he did his family. Instead, he switched the conversation back to her. “Tell me about Gilly. You aren't a native New Yorker.”

  “My Midwestern accent gives me away, doesn't it? I graduated from Oberlin six years ago and came to the Big Apple to set the publishing world on its ear.”

  “Seems like you've done a pretty fair job so far,” he said, taking a huge bite out of his loaded chili dog.

  They'd agreed jokingly on ordering onions ahead of time, since he loved them chopped on his hot dogs and she couldn't imagine a cheeseburger without a slice. It was a mutual passion, he'd said, laughing as they trudged through the slush to the coffee shop. Gilly took another bite of her burger, using her fingers to catch the stringy wisps of Swiss cheese before they stuck to her chin. “I want to be an editorial director someday.”

  “You'll make it,” he replied, lifting his coffee mug in a toast to her.

  When he asked her about her family, she debated. Then, remembering that his father was an attorney from Scarsdale, she reverted to the story that made life a little easier for her. The story she'd told everyone in New York. “My parents are dead now. I have a sister living out on the West Coast. I'm afraid we're not very close.” No lie about her and Liv, that was for sure. “I was born and raised in a little town in northwest Ohio—you know, picket fences, apple trees, and Fourth of July parades. Pretty dull stuff to a native New Yorker.”

  “Oh, I don't know. There is a certain appeal to living a quiet, traditional life. And Scarsdale's not all it's cracked up to be.” His dark eyes studied her intently over the rim of his cup, noting the way her pale reddish-blond hair curled in spite of the heavy woolen hat she'd pulled off when they entered the warm coffee shop. Probably natural curl and color. It fit with her light green eyes and the faint sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of that adorable little dumpling of a nose. “Any current relationships?” he asked, surprising himself.

  “N-no.” She cleared her throat. “I broke up with my fiancé six months ago.”

  “And haven't replaced him?” He looked dubious.

  “No time.” Not to mention no heart, since Frank had pretty well fractured what little was left of it.

  “So, a lady married to her career.” His smile could have melted the polar ice caps.

  Her heart did a funny little flip-flop as she raised her mug in return. “Here's to passing the bar.” Gilly, girl you're in deep, and this barely even qualifies as a first date!

  * * * *

  “So, he's a real babe,” Charis mumbled through the mouthful of bagel she was wolfing down.

  Self-consciously, Gilly looked around the crowded deli where she and her friend usually grabbed a bite before they went to work in the next block. Once they were at their desks, there was seldom time for lunch. She still found it disconcerting that New Yorkers could sit two feet from a person and completely ignore the most private conversations. “No, he's not a ‘babe.’ I don't go for the ‘babe’ type.”

  “Reminds you too much of cover model hunks, huh?”

  Gilly rolled her
eyes in disgust. “Just because I mentioned that he had longish hair. Believe me, he bears not the faintest resemblance to ‘The Blond One.’ He's going to be an attorney. His family's from Scarsdale, for Pete's sake. He's scholarly and...” She groped for the right word.

  “Sexy,” Charis supplied helpfully.

  Gilly sighed. “He's too good to be true, Charis. We talked for hours in that coffee shop. He's sweet, very bright, ambitious, and has a great sense of humor.”

  “Must be fate.”

  “I don't know. My track record with men has pretty much stunk my whole life.”

  Charis nodded. She knew all about Gilly's family background, as well as her ill-fated love life. “I'm not saying fall on the guy and grope him after one date. Just give him a chance. Get to know his family. It's a real plus that they live so nearby. No wives or fiancées hiding in the closets if he takes you home to Mama.”

  “We're hardly at that stage. He only asked me to take in a movie tonight.”

  “Hey, it's a beginning. Lighten up, Gil. This may be the one.”

  * * * *

  It looked as if he was. Over the course of the next few weeks, Gilly and Jeff went to see films and plays and ate dinner in ethnic restaurants. They discovered they both loved old Bette Davis movies, Robert Browning's poetry, and tandoori cooking.

  On the first Friday night in December, they saw The Barretts of Wimpole Street at a small art theater on Second Avenue. The city remained unseasonably windy and bitterly cold, although the snow had finally melted. They found a small Italian restaurant more notable for its dimly lit corners than for its food, but neither was hungry...for food. They lingered over glasses of Chianti, discussing the romantic old film, poetry, and history—everything but what was really on their minds.

  “I know it's an old line, but candlelight does become you,” he said softly.

  “Isn't the line ‘moonlight’?” Gilly was suddenly breathless when he took her hand and held it over the checkered tablecloth. His large fingers worked the pulse point of her wrist with maddening delicacy, slowly circling the slim expanse. She knew he must be able to feel her blood racing. Then, he raised her hand to his lips and leaned forward to brush her knuckles.

  “This table's too big,” he murmured, even though it was tiny. He stood up and stepped from behind it, never relinquishing her hand. He slid in on her side of the secluded booth. “Now, where were we...?”

  “The table was too big,” she replied helpfully, amazed that she could even remember his last words, much less repeat them. The heat of his thigh seemed to be searing hers. Their shoulders brushed, and Gilly was aware of how large and hard his frame was compared to her own slenderness. She could feel the tension coiled in that big body as he leaned nearer, but he pressed no farther, giving her the opportunity to withdraw.

  “I think I want to kiss you now. What do you think?” His light caressing of her fingers continued, his thumb working that magic circle on her wrist as he drew her hand once again to his mouth.

  The feeling of his warm breath on her skin made her practically salivate. “I think it's a great idea...absolutely sensational...brillian—”

  His mouth moved closer to hers, and she raised her face, eyes closed, as their lips met. The pressure was light as gossamer at first, warm, very faintly moist. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to respond as he drew her closer in his arms and pressed her back against the wall in the dimly lit booth. Gilly's arms just naturally fit around those broad shoulders, pulling him closer, her fingertips kneading hard muscle.

  His lips traveled from the edges of her mouth up to her blissfully closed eyelids, pressing soft kisses against the fluttering lashes, then moving over to one small ear. His tongue scalded it with a swift whorl, then retreated, moving downward to her neck. He’s a devil for finding pulse points—should've been a doctor, not a lawyer. The thought flitted through her mind but evaporated when he returned his concentration to her mouth, which by now was open, breathlessly panting.

  He tasted of the Chianti, spicy and mellow and male. She grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled him closer, giving him some tongue in return. When he growled low and intensified the kiss, Gilly felt her head spin. Whoa! Too much wine...too much man, the Ohio side of her brain reminded her. However, the New York side, a side she had until now never had much occasion to notice, utterly ignored it.

  Gilly ran one hand through his hair, twining her tongue with his, darting it into his mouth, as her other hand glided down his neck to the open collar of his shirt. Her fingers sank into the thick black hair that had so tantalized her. Before she realized what she was doing, several of his shirt buttons were undone, and her hand slid inside. His skin was as hot as a tenement roof in July, and his heart pounded against her palm.

  When he slid his hand up under her sweater and cupped one breast, she moaned and arched against him. Dark little restaurant or not, Gillian Marie Newsom had never in her life put on such a display. And she was loving it! They twisted and writhed with wild abandon until the obligatory wicker-encased bottle with the candle in it began to wobble precariously on the tabletop.

  Jeff came up for air just as the waiter, an elderly Italian man with bushy white eyebrows and a sweet, gold-toothed smile, cleared his throat. He stood patiently with the bill in his hand while the young lovers quickly uncoiled. When he reached nonchalantly to steady the bottle, Gilly felt like slithering under the table with embarrassment. Her sweater was pushed above her waist, and her bra was unfastened! Damn, Jeff had clever hands. She could feel her face flame as he paid the check and the little old man disappeared.

  “I think we'd better put ourselves together and leave so Signor Monserra can close up,” he said, refastening his shirt buttons. All the while his eyes never left her face.

  She could feel the scorching heat of them as she fumbled with her bra, then smoothed down her sweater. “Believe it or not, I don't usually get so...engrossed...at least, not in public.”

  He grinned. “I'm relieved to hear you don't rule out in private. Next time we decide to do this, let's pick a better place.”

  But since he lived with a roommate, they had no better place. Gilly's apartment in Yonkers was small, cheap, and dingy—all she could afford on an assistant editor's pay. She kept meaning to fix it up but never seemed to have the time. Even if it had been beautiful, like Charis and Bill's Park Avenue penthouse, Gilly was still wary of becoming involved too deeply before she found out more about Jeffery Brandt. Already, he had far more control over her senses than any other man she'd ever been with—of course, there had not been all that many.

  Gilly didn't like to think of herself as a prude. Even if Charis said she was one. After all, she had been the only girl in her high school to reach her senior year still a virgin. Ken Planzer had taken care of that one night in the backseat of his father's Olds 98. That had been enough to get her to swear off sex until her sophomore year at Oberlin. The two guys she'd become involved with in college were no great shakes as lovers, although after Ken, they seemed better than they were by comparison. Then she met Frank Blane and knew, for the first time, sexual gratification. Oh, Frank had been practiced all right—with good reason. But he'd taught Gilly a valuable lesson. She wasn't going to fall for a guy again just because he sent her hormones into overdrive.

  So she and Jeff had settled into a pattern of meeting when she got off work and he finished studying. Sometimes, they spent evenings working in the library, then went for a quick bite at the coffee shop down the street. Whatever they did, the fiery interlude in the Italian restaurant was not repeated. Maybe Jeff, too, was having second thoughts about becoming romantically entangled. That thought did not console Gilly one little bit.

  But what would happen if they really were right for each other? She'd told him a series of whoppers. Admittedly, they were the same sort of fabrications she'd resorted to with most people she'd met in New York. Frank Blane was the only man to whom she'd told the truth. The irony of that did not escape her. She wo
uld just have to wait and see what happened between her and Jeff.

  * * * *

  One brisk, sunny Sunday afternoon Gilly and Jeff strolled casually along a path in Central Park when a jogger approached with two big Rottweiler's trotting obediently beside him. “I'd love to have one of those.” Gilly sighed as the dogs passed by.

  “You had Rotties back in Ohio?”

  “Not exactly, although I'm sure there was some Rottweiler in Belvedere—he had a little of everything mixed in.”

  “Belvedere?” Jeff's tone was teasing. “You are a serious literary type.”

  She shrugged, kicking a pile of ice-crisped leaves. “I was twelve years old and had just finished reading Morte d'Arthur. I figured he'd be the last dog I had before I left home.”

  “You had lots of dogs growing up?”

  “Three, counting old Rufus, who died when I was a toddler. I don't remember much about him except that he licked off the food smeared on my face. Then, there was Spike. He liked to chase cars. What about you? Any pets allowed in Scarsdale?”

  “My mother raised Afghans.” She made a face, and he laughed. “Okay, so they aren't the brightest creatures, but I had an English sheepdog once that was smarter than some of my law professors. Come to think of it, Raleigh was smarter than most of them.”

  “I miss having a dog. That's one of the tradeoffs for living in the Big Apple, I guess.”

  “Why? Surely you could get a small dog of some kind. Look around you. There are people with dogs all over the place,” he said, indicating a sprinkling of various breeds, leashed and unleashed, roaming around the park with their owners.

  “True, but they don't have Danny DeVito in drag for a super.”

  Jeff burst out laughing. “This person I'd love to see.”

  “No, you wouldn't. She's just like Louie on Taxi, only not nearly as nice. And she hates dogs. Says they bark and wake up the other tenants.”