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  Leaning close, she lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Just one more thing before I show you the apartment."

  Rich leaned forward, as well. "Yes?"

  Lana grabbed him by the jacket collar and pulled his lips against hers for an experimental kiss. From her point of view, the kiss was pleasant—nice moisture, good firmness, with a full bouquet. But no zing, no electricity, no promise. Distantly she heard the bell on the door.

  When Lana pulled back, Rich was wearing an amused smile. "I was under the impression you were looking for a gay roommate."

  Satisfied, she grinned. "Don't move. I'll be right back." She stood and turned a bright smile in the direction of her customer, but faltered when she met Greg Healey's smirking gaze.

  10

  WHEN GREG WALKED into the coffee shop, a strange gnawing attacked his stomach. It could have been hunger pains triggered by the wonderful aromas inside the shop, but he had a sneaking suspicion the sensation had something to do with seeing Lana Martina engaged in a kiss with the man seated at the table. A "boyfriend" probably, from her ad. After all, Coffee Girl was nationwide.

  "Hi, Greg," she said, offering him a sunny smile. "This is a surprise."

  Obviously. He steeled himself against her powerful allure, but she was radiant in a violet-colored sweater that complemented her eyes. She didn't appear to be armed—the guy at the table must be a better kisser.

  Unreasonable anger sparked in him. "I was on my way in to the office," he said in his boardroom voice, "and thought I'd see if we could set up a time to meet."

  "You're working on a Saturday?"

  He wasn't in the mood for conversation—not with her boyfriend watching from five feet away. Besides, he had to bite his tongue to keep from telling her that her filibuster of the rezoning proposal meant extra work for him. "Yes, I'm working today. How about lunch?"

  She looked regretful. "Lunch is one of my busiest times. How about dinner, instead?"

  "Dinner?" He tried to mask his surprise—and the unexpected flutter of pleasure.

  "Oh, you probably already have plans."

  "No," he said quickly, then recovered. "I mean, I'd like to get the ball rolling as soon as possible."

  "Super—"

  Her smile made his heart jump.

  "Give me a minute to make sure someone can cover for me this evening."

  Greg watched her disappear into the back room, hips swaying. Lust clutched his stomach—the woman had a fabulous rear view. When he made himself look away, the Kissing Man at the table gave him a knowing smile. Warmth crept up his neck. He acknowledged the man with a curt nod, then busied himself studying the large room.

  The tables were surprisingly crowded. A funky, upbeat station played over the speakers on the drooping stage at the far end of the room. Students lounged on couches and in overstuffed chairs, pretending to study for upcoming final exams. They looked so young and carefree, he experienced a pang of envy. His own college years seemed like a lifetime ago, and not nearly so happy-go-lucky. In hindsight, his father's pressure to perform had chafed him like a saddle—

  "Good news," Lana said behind him.

  He dragged his mind back to the present.

  "I can get away around eight for a couple of hours."

  "Great," he said, almost smiling before he realized what he was doing. "How about Brady's?"

  "I'll meet you there."

  "I'll pick you up."

  "No," she said sweetly. "I'll meet you there. Can I offer you a cappuccino—on the house?"

  "I'll…I'll take a raincheck," he said, mesmerized by her eyes. "And I'll let you get back to—" he gestured toward Kissing Man "—work."

  "Okay. Later," she said with a little wave.

  Her smile stayed with him until he drove right past the parking garage for his office building. Since he'd already missed his turn, he somehow found his way down to the courthouse. The place would be relatively quiet on a Saturday.

  He entered the echoing halls of the building, staring at the pictures of great judges who'd come before, dredging up memories of his collegiate aspirations. When the rumble of raised voices reached him, he followed the noise down a corridor where a trial was taking place. With his heart pounding in anticipation, Greg slipped inside the half-empty courtroom and took a seat on the back bench. Quickly he was transported from the world of contracts and hours-long conference calls into the cogs of the legal machine he had revered for as long as he could remember.

  When the judge's gavel came down to adjourn court, Greg realized with a start that the entire afternoon had slipped away. The To Do list in his office seemed even more unappealing than it had this morning. With regret, he left the courtroom, but was infused with a powerful energy he hadn't experienced in ages. What a curious turn his life had taken in the past few days—Will's unexpected quest for a girlfriend, the prospect of financial freedom, and Lana Martina's peculiar intersection with both issues.

  Somehow over the next few weeks he would win her over to his side. Perhaps he could appeal to the woman's sense of community obligation, or maybe…Greg pursed his mouth as Will's words over breakfast came back to him. Be nice to her. Maybe he could win her over the old-fashioned way. He puffed out his cheeks in a noisy exhale. And that meant he had to be charming. Damn.

  Regardless, the sooner the rezoning proposal passed, the sooner contracts with developers would be signed, and the closer he would be to spending his days in the courtroom.

  When a brother's security and a person's own lifelong dreams were at stake, a man had to do what a man had to do.

  "YOU'VE GOT YOURSELF a deal," Rich Enderling said.

  Lana accepted his hand in a friendly shake and squealed. "You can't imagine how happy I am that this worked out."

  Her new roommate gave her a teasing grin. "Isn't going from kissing to a handshake considered a step backward?"

  A blush warmed her cheeks. "Sorry about that. I had to make sure that—well, you know."

  "That I'm gay?"

  She nodded.

  "Hey, I was fine with the kiss, but I got the feeling that the guy in the coffee shop wasn't."

  She frowned. "What guy?"

  "Dark hair, Brooks Brothers clothes."

  "Greg Healey?"

  He smiled. "I didn't catch his name, and when I saw he only had eyes for you, I didn't bother."

  Lana held up her hands. "Hold on. Greg Healey is the man trying to shut down my coffee shop by rezoning the property. The only thing he has eyes for is my unemployment."

  He shrugged. "I guess I was wrong. I thought I saw some sort of history between you two. Listen, I need to take care of some things before I start unloading my stuff."

  She was still pondering his observation. "Um, sure."

  "Great. See you," he said on the way out the door.

  Lana sighed in relief. At least one of her problems seemed resolved. Of course, there was that little matter left of saving her business.

  FROM HIS SEAT AT A TABLE inside the bar at Brady's, Greg glanced out the window for the fiftieth time to catch sight of Lana Martina coming down the sidewalk. His finger tapped against his glass. The unplanned sojourn into the courtroom today had fueled his fever to practice law, and this rezoning project was his escape hatch from a lifetime of obligation. He did sympathize with the business owners who leased the property he owned, but this was, after all, the United States of America, where the person who owned the land was typically given a voice on what to do with it. He simply needed to neutralize—

  He blinked as a red scooter zipped by, the helmeted driver wearing a telltale black-and-white spotted coat. Lana Martina pulled up to valet parking, put down the kickstand, hopped off, then removed her helmet. She said something to the suited valet before bounding toward the entrance. Greg shook his head in wonder, as the man climbed on gingerly and drove the cycle away.

  She created a bit of a scene, walking into the upscale restaurant wearing that ridiculous coat, carrying a blue helmet and fluffing her pale h
air. Desire, thick and heavy, pooled in his stomach.

  "Hi," she said breathlessly. "Sorry I'm late."

  With some effort, he dragged his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Nothing serious, I hope."

  "No, just a minor glitch at the shop."

  Her cheeks glowed, her eyes shone—and his body reacted accordingly. Greg jerked his thumb toward the window. "Don't tell me that souped-up bicycle is your primary mode of transportation."

  "It's a moped," she corrected him. "And if more people drove mopeds instead of gas-guzzling luxury cars, the city wouldn't have to worry about high auto emissions."

  One corner of his mouth lifted. "Touché." He stared at her, desire still throbbing inside him and wondered what about this woman spurred him to unusual behavior, then decided he didn't want to delve too deeply. "Our table is ready." Following her to the hostess station, Greg silently repeated his goal: to secure her cooperation.

  "Check your coat?" he asked, then helped her out of the dalmatian look-alike garment.

  "I'm afraid I'm underdressed," she said, looking around at the elegantly clad patrons. She smoothed a hand down the sleeve of the pink ruffled poet's blouse with a neckline so plunging that it stole the moisture from his mouth.

  "You look great," he managed to say. Surely she was wearing a bra. With much effort, he tore his gaze from her cleavage. The rest of her slender body was clad in black jeans with embroidery running down one leg. Jingle-bell earrings with tiny green ribbons swung from her delicate earlobes. Her hair was arranged in that messy style that women were paying a lot of money for these days, although he suspected that Lana Martina might have been the person who started the look because it seemed so…right on her.

  The sleek hostess apparently disagreed, based on the dubious glance she bestowed on Lana when Lana wasn't looking. At the woman's snub, protective feelings bloomed in his chest, much like when Will was slighted by others. Greg stepped closer to Lana, and his hand involuntarily snaked to her back. She stiffened, but he simply pressed her forward, the warm skin between her shoulder blades burning through the thin layer of fabric into his palm.

  Greg summoned strength. The woman was playing dirty. She was definitely not wearing a bra.

  11

  HE MAINTAINED steady pressure against her back, while they threaded between round tables adorned with candles and flowers, and spaced for privacy. He liked touching her, but he suspected the feeling wasn't mutual.

  "I knew this was a nice place," she said, as he pulled out her seat. "I just didn't realize how nice."

  He acknowledged with a nod the white tablecloth, the fine crystal, the gleaming china. Orchestral holiday tunes floated around them. "Your first time here?"

  She nodded, opening the menu. "This kind of place really isn't my bag. A little pricey for my budget."

  "Dinner is my treat, of course," he said quickly.

  "No, thank you. I'm not out of a job yet."

  Greg frowned. "I'm not trying to put you out of a job."

  She set aside her menu. "But that's exactly what will happen if the rezoning proposal passes as is. For me and a lot of other people."

  He looked at her over the top of the wine list. "I was hoping we could have a nice meal before we got down to business."

  She looked as if she were about to argue, then her expression changed. "You're right."

  Her relenting smile coincided with the arrival of the waiter. "Something from the wine list, sir?"

  "Split a bottle of pinot noir with me?" Greg asked her.

  "Wine goes straight to my head," she said, then turned to the waiter. "Do you have cranberry juice?"

  The man seemed surprised, then nodded.

  Greg bit back a smile. "Then make that a carafe of pinot and a carafe of cranberry juice."

  "Very good, sir. Would you like appetizers?"

  Lana pressed her lips together, then shook her head.

  Suspecting she was calculating the check in her head, Greg had the urge to order one of everything for her, but he swallowed words he knew she would resent and told the waiter he would pass, as well.

  She sneaked a look at her watch, which had some kind of cartoon character on its face. "Would it be all right if we placed our entrée orders now?"

  A tiny frown flitted across the waiter's face, but he acquiesced. Greg was vaguely disappointed that she was already anticipating the end of their date—er, meeting. Maybe she had something planned with the Kissing Man. She ordered pasta and roasted tomatoes; Greg opted for steak and asparagus.

  "Are you a vegetarian?" he asked, when the waiter left.

  "Reformed," she said.

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning I don't eat red meat, but I don't like to wear plastic shoes, either."

  He laughed in spite of himself. "And do you champion other causes?"

  She gave him a self-deprecating smile. "Recycling, fuel conservation, water management, and a few others."

  "Let me guess. You were in the Peace Corps?"

  "No, as a matter of fact, I graduated from UK a few years behind you. Accounting and French."

  Another surprise. "And how did accounting and French lead to owning a coffee shop?"

  "I did my time at Ladd-Markham, then moved on to better things."

  "Ladd-Markham?" He drew back. "Somehow I can't see you in a navy suit and starched white shirt."

  "The seven longest years of my life. When the company offered severance packages a year ago, I jumped on it. Best Cuppa Joe had been a favorite hangout of mine since college, so when I found out it was for sale…" She shrugged. "It probably sounds crazy to you, leaving a high-powered corporate job to pursue something so esoteric."

  A slow wonder crept over him, and his mouth went curiously dry. "You might be surprised."

  Their drinks arrived, and Greg did the pouring honors while his head swam with new revelations. "A toast," he said, raising his glass. "To noble motivation."

  He clinked his wineglass to her glass of cranberry juice.

  Greg savored the dry wine on his tongue before swallowing. His senses seemed heightened, poised for stimulation. Lana unwittingly obliged with her intense eye contact.

  "Speaking of motivation," she said, "what's yours regarding the rezoning project?"

  Determined not to reveal how squarely she'd hit a nerve, he shrugged. "I want what's best for the city."

  "And your bank account?" Her fingers slid up and down her glass in a caress.

  "My family's bank account. And in this case, what's good for one is also good for the other. I'm running a business, the same as you."

  "I wonder if it's the only thing we have in common," she said lightly.

  Again their gazes connected, and the sight of her glowing in the candlelight stole the breath from Greg's lungs. The cranberry juice had stained her lips crimson. Her earrings tinkled when she moved. The memory of their kiss hit him again, and he was overwhelmed with the urge to touch her.

  From inside his jacket pocket, his phone emitted a muted ring, breaking the moment. "Excuse me," he murmured, then withdrew the phone and glanced at the tiny display screen. "It's Will," he said. "Otherwise, I wouldn't bother."

  "Would you like some privacy?"

  He shook his head as he flipped open the mouthpiece. "Hey, buddy, what's up?"

  "I'm sorry to bother you, Gregory. Are you busy?"

  "As a matter of fact, I'm having a meeting with Ms. Martina."

  "Really? I bet she looks pretty, doesn't she?"

  He glanced across the table where Lana was buttering a roll. She discreetly licked the tip of her index finger, then blushed when she realized he'd caught her.

  "Gregory, did you hear me?"

  He cleared his throat. "Er, yes, Will. Yes, you're right. Did you need something?"

  "Yvonne and I are decorating the Christmas tree, and I can't find the angel for the top. Do you know where it is?"

  Greg smiled into the phone—Will and that angel. "When I was in the storage closet this summer, I
believe it was on the top shelf, behind the ski equipment."

  "Thanks, Gregory, I'll go look. But I'll wait until you get home before we put the angel on top."

  "Sure, pal."

  "Tell Lana hello for me. And don't forget—you're supposed to be nice to her."

  "I will be. Goodbye."

  "Goodbye, Gregory."

  He hung up the phone, and accepted the bread basket Lana handed him.

  "And how is Will?" she asked.

  Her sincerity loosened his tongue. "He has a crush on you."

  She grinned. "Ah, that's why he asked me the other evening if I had a boyfriend. He's a real gem."

  "Yes," he said carefully. "I'd hate for him to be hurt by…anyone."

  She tilted her head. "I could never hurt Will."

  He could lose himself in her eyes. Did she realize the power she wielded with a flutter of those sooty lashes? "Maybe not intentionally, but he's more sensitive than most people."

  "I could see that," she murmured. "There's quite an age difference between you, isn't there?"

  "Ten years."

  She smiled. "I suppose you've always looked out for him."

  Sediment swirled in the bottom of his wineglass. "Except for the time he followed me up a tree and fell twenty feet to the ground—" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted them back. He never talked about the accident. When he lifted his gaze to see the sympathy in her eyes, he considered leaving.

  "When was that?" she asked softly.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. "I was fourteen, he was four." In the silence that followed, he drained his glass and refilled it.

  "It wasn't your fault, Greg."

  He manufactured a dry smile. "Will has said that a thousand times."

  She smiled so deeply, that elusive dimple emerged. "He knows when you're hurting. You're very lucky to have Will for a brother."