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  Greg removed his handkerchief and mopped at the perspiration on his brow. Jesus, why hadn't he simply walked away?

  "My name is Lana Martina," she said, her voice strong, her projection good. "I run a coffee shop in the proposed zoning area. In fact, I just discovered that I'm the parking garage."

  The crowd tittered.

  "I lease the building from Mr. Healey," she continued, then turned and gestured in his direction. "Although I didn't realize my landlord was an actual person until this evening."

  The crowd laughed outright, and his face burned.

  She turned back to the council members. "I'm speaking on behalf of thirteen Hyde Parkland shop owners. Part of the reason we're here tonight is that the ownership of the property is so deftly hidden in holding companies and leasing agents, we simply couldn't find the owner." She bestowed a magnanimous smile upon the council and the audience. "I'd like to believe that our being shuffled around like a deck of cards was simply an oversight, but I doubt it."

  She knew how to work the crowd. A couple of the council members shot a disapproving glance in Greg's direction. He bit down on the inside of his cheek—he'd had no idea any of the shop owners had been misled or ignored.

  Lana Martina plunked her own transparency on top of the rezoning map. "What Mr. Healey didn't tell you was that around the vacant buildings here, here, and here, are over a dozen viable businesses whose owners have a considerable investment in their locations and who will lose their livelihood if they're forced to move."

  He frowned.

  She whipped out another transparency, this one with statistics. "This graph shows that similar downtown rezoning projects in Dukeville and Franklin resulted in a decrease in city taxes because the residential buildings could not be filled and eventually were turned into low-income housing. The reason the residential buildings could not be filled to capacity was that the retail area, the character of the city, had been decimated, and there weren't enough attractions left to draw potential buyers downtown."

  He blinked.

  Forty minutes later, he'd lost count of the pie charts and bar graphs, not to mention handouts of the possible negative economical effects of his plan if 1) interest rates rose, 2) unemployment increased, or 3) property taxes jumped. She had projected housing costs, population growth and the effect on the city's declining sewer system, which was currently costing the city such-and-such in fines every day because untreated water was being dumped into a nearby lake.

  "So as you can see," Lana said with a flourish, "the proposal before the council is far more than a simple rezoning project. You, ladies and gentlemen, might be held accountable for passing a proposal that would lead to the decline of the entire downtown economy simply to line the coffers of Regal Properties and—" she shot him a pointed look "—the pockets of Mr. Greg Healey."

  The shop owners burst into applause, and Greg shifted in his chair. Despite the woman's emotional argument, however, he felt confident the city council would side with him. After all, leaving the zoning as is would only lead to more decline.

  "Is that all, Ms. Martina?" the council president asked.

  "Just one more thing," she said in a charming voice.

  Greg's heartbeat thrashed in his ears. She was going to spill her guts about their encounter.

  Leaning closer to the microphone, she said, "I'd like to go on record, saying that even the timing of the proposal is suspect, considering this is the busiest time of the year for those of us who run our own retail businesses." She sent a stinging look in his direction. "One might conclude the owner was trying to sneak this rezoning project by the shop owners and the city council."

  A decidedly suspicious mood descended over the audience, and it was all directed toward Greg.

  "Thank you for listening," she closed in a solemn tone typically reserved for eulogies.

  Greg closed his eyes briefly, as the crowd once again erupted in applause. Christ, she was good. Everyone in the room either wanted to hire her or sleep with her. Except him, of course. And she'd as good as painted a bull's-eye on his back.

  LANA GATHERED UP her papers, her heart beating a relieved tattoo that she'd gotten through the presentation. Actually, she felt an incredible rush of satisfaction, a sensation that lasted until she made eye contact with Greg Healey as she returned to her seat. The man's jaw was clenched, and his eyes were dark. Gone was the carefree Science Club guy she'd shot the breeze with on the way to her apartment. Here was the real Greg Healey, and he was the kind of person she loathed—powerful and greedy. She lowered herself into the chair, positioning herself on the edge farthest from him. The meeting couldn't end soon enough as far as she was concerned.

  But there were more speakers: a few private citizens who wanted to voice their opinions, and two politicians who simply wanted to get their name and face in front of potential voters. At the end, the president called for a fifteen-minute recess so the members might confer. Lana's nerves jumped with the knowledge that her life as she knew it could be over in mere minutes. Oh sure, she might have six months to clear out. But the loans—holy Chapter 11, she'd have to return to the corporate world just to make a dent in her debts.

  Before she could worry about what, if anything, to say to Greg Healey during the recess, Alex and her other friends gathered around, showering her with accolades while shooting barbed glances over her shoulder at the enemy. His energy prickled the skin on her back.

  "I have to leave," Alex murmured, her eyes brimming with questions. "But call me tomorrow and tell me what the devil is going on."

  "If I figure it out myself," she whispered back. As Alex slipped away, the council members filed back in, and the president banged for quiet.

  "The members have considered the arguments presented this evening. A formal vote will take place the second week of January, but the council is not convinced that this proposal has been properly investigated. We will reconvene two days before the vote for final arguments on both sides. In the meantime, the council charges Mr. Healey and Ms. Martina to work together to come up with a compromise that will benefit both parties."

  "But—" Lana said.

  "But—" Greg said.

  The banging gavel interrupted their protests. "Meeting adjourned."

  8

  LANA WAS STRUCK SPEECHLESS. Work with Greg Healey to come up with a compromise? Her mind reeled with the new development, her consolation being that he looked as displeased as she, his handsome face caught somewhere between bewilderment and mortification.

  A week ago she hadn't known this man existed, yet in the space of a few days their paths had intersected at rather bizarre crosshairs. She'd read about these kinds of coincidences, something about the inevitability of two souls crossing that were destined to meet from the beginning of time. Her fingertips tingled. Did he feel it, this…mystique that reverberated between them?

  He leaned in close, and she held her breath.

  "Did you set me up?" he demanded.

  She gaped. "Excuse me?"

  "I don't believe in coincidence."

  So this was the real Greg Healey—condescending, arrogant. suspicious. Lana crossed her arms over her stained sweatshirt. "Haven't you heard, Mr. Healey—it's a small, small world. Or are you always this paranoid?"

  The man's ears twitched.

  She smirked. "Listen, about the other day—"

  "Stop," he cut in, causing her to blink. "If you mention what happened the other day to anyone, I'll slap a civil suit on you for assault."

  Maybe it was the fact that she knew he cooked a mean omelette, or that she knew he liked astronomy, or that he'd told her she was the most desirable woman he'd ever met—but this man did not scare her. In fact, she realized she had this puffed-up Richie Rich right where she wanted him: off balance. A warm, fuzzy feeling of feminine power infused her chest.

  "Oh, please sue me. Then I can tell the court how I had to defend myself with a bottle of hair spray from an unwelcome advance."

  His expression
was incredulous. "You invited me back to your apartment! You even talked about money, for heaven's sake."

  "The only thing I charge for, Mr. Healey, is coffee."

  "Really? Does 'four hundred a month' ring a bell?"

  She shook her head and snorted softly. "Like I was trying to tell you earlier, there was a mix-up in the ads."

  "Mix-up?"

  "There were two ads, Mr. Healey, and I realized later that our wires got crossed. I thought you were answering my ad for a roommate."

  He balked, and she actually enjoyed watching the color leave his face. "Room…mate?"

  "Which was why I was giving you a tour of my apartment."

  He shook his head. "I'm supposed to believe you were running two ads—one for a roommate and one for a…playmate?"

  Lana hesitated. If she told him that her employee Annette had run the ad, would he arrange to meet Annette again? Annette didn't need this man trampling on the fairy-tale image of Mr. Right she had conjured up in her head. And despite Lana's warning, Annette might throw caution to the wind and agree to meet him, just because Lana had told her he was good-looking. And a smooth talker like Greg Healey might even talk Annette into giving up her fiercely guarded virginity, to no good end.

  "Yes," she lied. "I ran two ads."

  He looked dubious. "I think you made up this cockamamy story about two ads to save your pride."

  Her laugh of outrage was genuine. "Deposit? Pay by the end of the month? If I were a prostitute, Mr. Healey, I'd be charging more than four hundred a month, and I wouldn't be offering term payments."

  His ears moved again—how did he do that? She could tell he was starting to believe her. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  "But don't worry," she added, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I won't tell anyone that you shop the singles ads for sex."

  His face turned a mottled crimson. "You—"

  "Mr. Healey and Ms. Martina?"

  She turned to see council president Wheeler walking toward them.

  The older woman lifted an eyebrow. "I'm going to take the fact that the two of you are already talking as a good sign."

  Greg cleared his throat and Lana extended a forced smile. Talking, yes, but the woman would probably faint if she knew what they'd been talking about.

  "I'd like to check in with you both before we meet again, just to make sure everyone is working toward a resolution." The woman maintained a pleasant expression, but her eyes glittered a warning at Greg. Lana realized that president Wheeler was the friend of Alex's father who had been informed of the owner's lack of communication with the tenants. Not enough to sway the woman's vote, much less the entire council, but at least she was putting Greg Healey on notice.

  "Of course," Greg said cordially, then removed a business card from an expensive-looking holder. As if as an afterthought, he extended one to Lana, as well.

  She took it, her fingers carefully avoiding contact with his. His intense gaze skimmed over her, and she wished she could read his mind. Was he contrite? Shamed? Angry? Lana glanced away to rummage through her bag for her own business card and wound up dumping the contents on the floor before coming up with a handful. Greg Healey glanced at the neon-orange card cut in the shape of a coffee cup before he dropped it into his jacket pocket.

  "Very original," president Wheeler said of the card. "And may I congratulate you on an impressive presentation, Ms. Martina."

  "Thank you."

  "I'm aware that you've taken a leadership role in many community issues, and I applaud your involvement. How do you feel about working directly with Mr. Healey on this matter?"

  Caught off guard, Lana chanced a glance in his direction. His thick eyebrows came together and he shook his head ever so slightly.

  "I—"

  "Ms. Wheeler," Greg cut in with a disarming smile, "I've been thinking that my manager, Ms. Hughs, would be a more appropriate person to handle this project."

  The woman shot Greg a stern look. "Mr. Healey, I think you are the appropriate person to handle this project. If that's agreeable to you, Ms. Martina?"

  Lana pursed her lips and shrugged. "I'm nothing if not agreeable." She added a broad smile for emphasis.

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. "In that case, I'm certain that Ms. Martina and I will be able to reach a friendly compromise for the good of the city."

  Lana swallowed at the unfriendly way the man said "friendly."

  "I'm betting on it," the president said, her tone bordering on parental. "Now if you'll excuse me…"

  And the next thing Lana knew, she was alone with Greg and a big, fat, awkward silence.

  "Well," she said, clasping her hands and rocking back on her heels.

  "Well." The muscle in his jaw ticked again.

  She sighed. "Look, what happened was pretty darn embarrassing for both of us, so why don't we just forget about it?"

  Tic. "Fine with me."

  The firm set of his mouth conjured up memories of the ill-fated kiss, pricking her senses. The roar of voices around them swelled, insulating them in a cocoon of awareness. In his black suit and ultraconservative tie, dark-headed, dark-eyed Greg Healey was quite possibly the best-looking man she'd ever seen. She wet her lips. Pity he had so many issues.

  "Gregory?"

  She turned to see the big man who'd given her his seat approaching. Her heart squeezed when she remembered he had clapped for his brother.

  "Gregory, you were great."

  And right before her eyes, Greg Healey transformed back into Science Club guy. "Thanks, pal."

  "You were good, too," the brother said to Lana.

  "Thank you." She extended her hand. "I'm Lana Martina."

  He grinned. "I'm William Healey. But you can call me Will."

  His good mood was like a breath of fresh air in the stifling atmosphere. "It's very nice to meet you, Will. Thank you again for giving up your seat. Are you interested in city politics?"

  He shook his head. "I came because Gregory said there would be girls here."

  She shot an amused expression toward "Gregory," who seemed less amused, but more tolerant of his brother than of…anyone else.

  "Will, I'm sure Ms. Martina isn't interested in our private conversations."

  "I'm riveted," she assured them with a little laugh, "but I really must get back to work. Good night, gentlemen."

  "Do you need a ride?" Will offered.

  She hadn't driven her moped because of the rain, and, in truth, she was dreading trying to find a taxi, but she wasn't about to test that look of warning on Greg Healey's face. "Thanks, anyway."

  "But we have the big car," Will continued. "And plenty of room, don't we, Gregory?"

  Greg poked his tongue into his cheek and nodded.

  Suddenly gripped with a wicked urge to provoke the man, Lana brightened. "Well, since you have the big car…"

  GREG WATCHED AS Will tucked Lana into the front passenger seat, holding an umbrella over her so she wouldn't melt. Greg slung water from the sleeves of his all-weather coat, then swung behind the wheel. His mind still reeled from her pronouncement that when she'd taken him back to her apartment, the only thing she'd been offering was a room to rent. Damn, she must think him a pervert. No wonder she'd gone on the attack.

  Embarrassment coursed through him at their proximity. For such a slender woman, she seemed to fill up the roomy cab.

  But in his own defense, damn it, she'd heard him call her Coffee Girl—she should have known which one of her ads he'd been responding to. Jeez. Looking for love in one ad, and looking for a roommate in another. Complicated.

  She sighed musically, as if he needed to be reminded that she was within arm's reach. He kept his gaze straight ahead, wondering what about this woman had made him forget himself that day to the point of considering paying her to sleep with him. Good God. On hindsight, the idea seemed so ludicrous, he should have known something was wrong. He'd never before allowed his lust for a woman to override his good sense.

  For some rea
son Greg couldn't yet pinpoint, this woman was hazardous to his judgment, and right now all he wanted to do was put as much distance between himself and Lana Martina as possible. He'd sort things out at home. Alone. He latched on to the steering wheel with a grip meant to drain some of his frustration. His brother, on the other hand, was grinning like a fool as he closed the door and climbed into the back seat.

  "This certainly is a big car," Lana said, surveying the interior of the four-door Mercedes.

  "It was our dad's," Will said, leaning forward to stick his head between their seats. "He died seven years ago."

  "I'm so sorry."

  "Will," Greg chided as he turned over the engine. "I doubt that Ms. Martina wants the history of the Healey brothers." He'd never seen his brother so talkative around a stranger.

  Her white teeth flashed in the dark. "Since we're going to be working together, why don't you call me 'Lana'?"

  She smelled sweet, but then so did rat poison. "Okay," he murmured through gritted teeth. "Lana."

  "Since you own a coffee shop, Lana, you must like coffee, huh?" Will asked.

  Concerned about the potential direction of the conversation, Greg cleared his throat noisily as he set the car in motion. "Will, why don't you sit back?" The last thing he needed was for his brother to find out she was Coffee Girl—his "intended."

  But Lana's pleasing laugh filled the car. "Actually, Will, I have a confession to make."

  Will's eyes bugged. "What is it?"

  Greg pulled out into the traffic, mentally mapping the shortest route to The Best Cuppa Joe. "Will, sit back, please."

  He did, for which Greg was thankful, although he remained riveted on their passenger. "What's your confession, Lana?"

  "I don't like coffee."

  "Really?"

  Greg scoffed. "You're kidding."

  "Nope. I drink tea."

  "Don't you think it's a little hypocritical not to consume what you sell?"

  "It's not just coffee that I sell," she protested. "I sell an experience—the aroma, the crowd, the gaming tables, the music. That's what my customers pay for when they buy a cup of coffee."