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  Funny, but everyone had always said that Will was lucky to have him. Lana's words resounded in his heart. "Yes, I am." He squared his shoulders, grateful for the graceful exit she'd given him. "Do you have brothers and sisters?"

  "No."

  The one word reverberated with a sadness that surprised him. "Are your parents living?"

  She nodded. "But they're divorced. My father moves around a lot, and Janet lives in Florida."

  "Janet?"

  Her laugh was self-conscious. "My mother looks young for her age, so she doesn't like to be called 'Mom.'"

  So she had one of those mothers. Maybe that explained why Lana was so…complicated.

  "But she's coming to spend an old-fashioned Christmas Eve with me." Her voice was childlike in her mother's defense. "How will you spend Christmas?"

  He shrugged. "At home with Will and Yvonne." It was a quiet ritual he took for granted. If Will found a woman, all their routines would change—holidays, vacations, perhaps even living arrangements.

  "Yvonne?" She seemed intent on removing a spot from the side of her glass.

  "Our housekeeper. She was also a friend of my mother's."

  "Oh. Your mother is deceased, too?"

  He nodded.

  "I'm so sorry," she murmured, her voice catching in such a way that he wished they hadn't ventured into personal territory. "You're very young to be alone."

  "Well…I'm not alone," he said, flustered. "I mean, like you said, I have Will."

  "And he has you."

  "Yes."

  "That's nice," she said, nodding. "Brothers should stick together. Have either of you ever been married?"

  "No." He hadn't meant to sound so vehement. "You?"

  A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "No. The single life suits me. I love my business, and I spend most of my free time on causes I believe in. I don't see marriage in my future."

  One of those bald-faced lies that women told, he noted sardonically. Designed to trick a man into thinking he wasn't being silently measured for a tux. He decided to call her bluff. "If that's the case, then why would an attractive, successful woman like you place a singles ad?"

  She stared at him for the longest time, her mouth pursing and unpursing, then she leaned her elbows on the table. "And why, Mr. Seriously Confirmed Bachelor, would an attractive, successful man like you answer one?"

  Now he'd painted himself into a corner. Once again he considered telling her the truth—that he'd been checking her out for Will. Now that she'd met Will, surely she would understand his motives. But if he admitted he'd gone on Will's behalf, wouldn't he also have to admit that he'd chucked his brotherly concern in the face of his raging libido? Debating the lesser of two evils, Greg chose silence.

  And by some miracle, their food arrived to relieve the awkward lapse.

  She was either just as hungry as he, or just as reluctant to revisit the subject of their first meeting, because she ate in relative silence, dividing the black olives from her pasta into a forlorn little pile on the side of her plate.

  "I take it you don't like olives?"

  She blushed like a schoolgirl. "Well, I don't lie awake thinking about them, no."

  He leaned one elbow on the table. "What do you lie awake thinking about?"

  She played with the stem of her glass. "Oh, the usual—world peace and clean air."

  "Seriously?"

  She nodded. "Sometimes." She smiled into her drink. "And sometimes I lie awake thinking about people I care about, wondering what they're doing."

  He held his breath, wondering who belonged in that privileged circle.

  She turned a pointed look in his direction. "And sometimes I lie awake thinking about meeting my business loan payments."

  Greg lifted his glass. "Then it's safe to say we lie awake thinking about the same things. Sometimes." Of course, for the past couple of nights he'd lain awake thinking about her.

  Lana pushed aside her half-empty plate and withdrew a notepad from her purse, the pages crammed with handwriting. "I have to relieve an employee in an hour, so if you don't mind…" She leaned forward, inadvertently giving him a gut-clutching glimpse inside her pink blouse.

  He dropped his napkin in his plate. "I'm looking—er, listening."

  Her smile was conciliatory. "First of all, I don't deny that I'm trying to save my business," she said. "But I also don't want to see the character of the downtown area sacrificed for cookie-cutter condos and town homes."

  He refilled both of their glasses. "The residential area doesn't have to be cookie-cutter. And I don't think you're looking at the proposal objectively."

  "Well, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black."

  He attributed her seductive laugh to the fact that he'd drunk too much wine. Greg's frustration climbed, partly because they were getting nowhere, and partly because it was the first time in months he'd had dinner with a beautiful woman, and they were talking business. "You'd prefer that I let my investment decay?"

  "Of course not. The timing is lousy, but I'm glad the subject has been raised. You see, I live in the city, so I have a vested interest in what happens to it."

  "Yes, but I own property in the city, so I have more of a vested interest."

  She cocked her head at him. "Is that so? Do you shop in Hyde Parkland?"

  He shifted in his seat. "Occasionally."

  Her laugh was dubious. "The day we met was the first time you'd even been inside my shop, wasn't it."

  "Yes."

  "And can you tell me what is on either side of my shop?"

  He squinted, trying to remember, but it was so hard to concentrate when she was looking at him like that, her eyes on fire, her color heightened. And that blouse—good grief, he was only human. "I don't remember."

  She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. "I don't believe this. You're not even familiar with your own property?"

  "The company owns dozens of parcels of property. I can't be expected to know about each one in detail."

  "Oh, really?" Wearing a conspiratorial smile, Lana waved her hand and called, "Waiter, our checks, please."

  "But we're not finished," Greg said, gesturing to his wineglass. In truth, he wasn't ready for the evening to end. Not even close.

  "We're finished here," she assured him. "Drink up. I'm taking you on a little tour."

  12

  "I DON'T BELIEVE I'm doing this," Greg said near her ear.

  Lana laughed at his self-consciousness. "Just try to blend. If the police see that you're not wearing a helmet, you'll get a ticket."

  "Oh, great. Why can't we just go in my car?"

  "The gas-guzzler?"

  "Dad left the Mercedes to Will. I drive a…"

  "A what?"

  "A Porsche," he muttered. "But it gets decent gas mileage," he added, as if the car's fuel economy made up for its obscene price tag.

  Lana threw a smirk over her shoulder. "Slumming will be good for you."

  "I feel ridiculous."

  "Relax," she said. "You look ridiculous, too. Hang on."

  Not that the moped had an engine that would tear a person's head off, but balancing could be a bit tricky riding double. She goosed the gas, and after an initial protest at the unaccustomed load, the cycle chugged forward. Carefully, she pulled from the parking lot onto the quiet, dark side street, and soon they were humming along at top speed—around thirty miles an hour—with a nippy wind blowing over them. Her cheeks stung and her eyes watered, but the night riding exhilarated her. At least she thought it was the night riding that had her blood pumping so efficiently.

  "This is as fast as the thing goes?"

  "What do you expect?"

  "Somebody could practically run up beside you and have a conversation."

  "Another plus," she agreed.

  He was hanging on to the bar behind the seat, but his body was tucked up close around hers, emanating warmth she consciously had to avoid sinking back into. At the first light she stopped for, he
put his feet down to help her steady the bike. But when the light turned, their push-off was so uncoordinated, Greg lost a shoe. Turning the moped around was difficult because her arms were weak from laughing. He, on the other hand, had an expression that would have rivaled the Grinch's.

  "Careful, your face will get stuck that way," she chided, as he leaned over to scoop up his shoe.

  If possible, his scowl deepened.

  "Of course, in your case," she continued dryly, "it might save you time in future." She zoomed off the minute he slid the shoe onto his foot, gratified at the yelp he gave before he got a handhold.

  Laughter bubbled in her stomach. The dour man was so easy to provoke, and doing so gave her the most wicked sense of delight. But even as she smiled to herself, mixed feelings coursed through her—a faint pang of disappointment that this man seemed too stiff and unwieldy to enjoy simple pleasures, and relief that if not for The Best Cuppa Joe, she might still be rooted in a job she hated, with the same narrow view of the world: cynical and clinical. Holy high heels.

  But even though she carried a reluctant passenger tonight, the streets were beautiful, awash with twinkling lights and strung with banners heralding the holiday season. The air was as cool as peppermint in her throat and lungs. People moved along the sidewalks in clusters, leaving restaurants and visiting shops that had extended their hours for Christmas. On impulse, she detoured a few blocks to buzz by Tremont's department store and take in the lit window displays—looping trains and animated dolls and spinning tricycles. Pure magic.

  "My father brought me here every year to look in the windows when I was little," Lana said, slowing at the corner to relive the memories.

  "Mine, too," he said, his voice thick.

  Surprised at his admission, she tried to imagine Greg as a child. Solemn, brooding, temperamental. "And afterward, we'd have hot cider from a street cart," she added.

  "With cinnamon sticks to stir."

  His words triggered a smile. "Yes!" How extraordinary that they shared a memory. But when she turned her head to say so, his face was closer than she'd expected. The wind had whipped his dark hair over his forehead, concealing the furrows there. Her pulse picked up at the glimpse of a more carefree Greg Healey. A faint smile licked at the corners of his strong mouth. Then his eyes went wide.

  "Watch out!"

  She jerked her attention back to the road and swerved to avoid a metal trash can that had rolled into the street. They nearly wiped out, but Greg saved the day by assuming their weight, first on one foot then the other, as she fought for control. Finally Lana yanked the cycle toward the curb and braked to a stop. They promptly fell over, bike and all, spilling onto the sidewalk, a knot of arms and legs and handlebars. She lay still for a few seconds, taking stock of her limbs and joints. Actually, the impact hadn't been that bad.

  A grunt sounded beneath her, explaining why the impact hadn't been that bad. "Are you all right?" she asked.

  "I will be when you get off me," he muttered, his voice menacingly calm.

  She was suddenly very aware of his big, firm body beneath hers, warm and accommodating. The sensation wasn't wholly unpleasant, but she couldn't very well lie there enjoying it when the man obviously didn't share her opinion. She flailed her arms, but her efforts were futile in the bulky coat. Beneath her, his body jerked, and she realized she heard laughter. The shocking sound started her laughing, too, and their voices blended in the clear air.

  "You folks need a hand?"

  She sobered and looked up into the face of a middle-aged stranger. "Uh, no. No, thank you."

  The man shook his head and moved on.

  She burst into giggles and tried again to get up, but succeeded only in grinding her body against his—to noticeable effect. Finally, Greg grabbed her arms and rolled her off his body.

  She stopped laughing when she realized he was practically on top of her now. His head was bent close, and his torso covered hers. His labored breath puffed out in little white clouds. Hers might have, if it hadn't been trapped in her chest. Lust stabbed her low and hard. Shadows swathed his face, but his eyes glinted with…desire? Her lips parted, and she realized that she wanted him to kiss her again. He swallowed audibly. The absurdity of the situation was overridden by the unmistakable chemistry that resonated between them, even when heavily clothed, helmeted and lying on freezing pavement.

  "Are you okay?" he finally asked, his voice a bit unsteady.

  "I think so." If she could think. "You?"

  "I think so." He pushed himself up, rubbed his shoulder, then extended his hand to help her. His fingers were long and strong and warm, even through her thin driving gloves. The passionate moment lingered between them. Confusion clogged her mind because she couldn't reconcile her dislike of the person with her attraction to the man.

  "I—I'm sorry about, um, crashing." She thought it wise not to mention the source of her distraction. "I'm not used to having another person along."

  But if possible, his eyes grew even more serious. "That makes two of us."

  She realized with a start that His Uptightness was being philosophical on a cold night standing in the middle of a sidewalk. She didn't like this side of him because it…messed up her plans.

  Averting her gaze, Lana noticed a tear in the sleeve of his suit jacket. "Oh, no, your jacket is ripped." She fingered the expensive fabric, seized by a curiously domestic urge to fix it.

  He glanced down and brushed his hand over the tear, then grinned. "Do you realize that I've walked away from every encounter with you bearing a battle wound? I can't decide if you're bad luck or if you're trying to get rid of the competition."

  She managed a grin as she tightened the strap on her helmet. "I think I'll keep you guessing. I am sorry about the jacket, though. I'll have it repaired."

  "That's not necessary," he said, righting her moped with one hand.

  "No, really," she said as she straddled the bike. "I have this employee who's a whiz with a needle and thread." It was Annette's fault that she and Greg had gotten off to such a rotten start in the first place. "Believe me, she owes me one."

  He was standing with his arms crossed.

  "Aren't you going to get on?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Oh, come on, I'll be extra careful."

  He shook his head. "Not unless I can drive."

  "What? No way."

  "Yes way. I'm driving, or I take a taxi back to the restaurant."

  Lana frowned and looked around. They were only about four blocks away from her shop. "Okay," she said, climbing off to give him access to the handlebars. "But if you demolish my bike, you have to provide me with another mode of transportation."

  "I'm sure Will would loan you his horse," he said, his voice almost teasing, except the man didn't tease. He threw one long leg over the moped, turned the key and wrapped his big hands around the grips.

  "I'm afraid of horses," she said with a little laugh. He looked preposterous, twice as big as the bike, dressed in suit and tie, his legs winged out to the sides. She climbed on behind him, her mood lighter than in recent memory. "But I might take that little Porsche until my bike got out of the shop."

  "Hypocrite," he said over his shoulder.

  "Bully."

  "Hang on."

  He accelerated so quickly, she grabbed his waist, and when he didn't resist, she leaned into his warmth to give him directions. "Turn here. Okay, go straight." He had a few problems changing gears, and he was heavy on the brakes, but they moved along at a fairly consistent pace and finally reached the Hyde Parkland section.

  "Slow down," she urged, and he slowed until the bike was barely moving. "There's Marshall Ballou's place. He was at the council meeting. Marsh has built quite a following."

  "Used clothing?" he asked, his voice dubious.

  "Vintage clothing," she corrected. "Just another way to recycle. Over there is Vic's Barber Shop. He's been in that location for longer than you and I have been alive."

  He grunted ack
nowledgment. They wound around a couple more streets, dodging cars illegally parked.

  "And over there is Paige Hollander's gift shop—she has a herb garden in the back where she serves sandwiches and tea. And two doors up is Maxie Dodd's bakery—she makes the best sourdough in town. I'll bet the restaurant where we ate tonight buys their dinner rolls from Maxie."

  She pointed out another half-dozen mom-and-pop shops before they turned onto Hunt Street

  and headed toward her own business. "There's a rare-books store on one side of my shop, and a T-shirt business on the other side. Do you mind if I stop by my shop to check on things before taking you back to your car? It'll give us a chance to talk, too."

  "Fine with me. I could use a hot cup of coffee."

  Too late, she realized she'd have to let Annette in on her plan to butter up Greg Healey. Otherwise, the woman might take one look at him and decide that he wasn't a loser, after all, then spill the beans that she was Coffee Girl and they were destined to be together.

  He wheeled into a tight spot and came to a too-abrupt stop, jamming her up against his shoulder blades. "Sorry," she murmured, tingling with awareness.

  He turned his head. "I'm not."

  They were still for an agonizing few seconds. To her dismay, she didn't want to let go, didn't want their intimate ride to end. In that split second, she wished she and Greg weren't embroiled in a sticky business fray—but things were what they were. Besides, the complications forced her to maintain a respectable distance from a man who was completely wrong for her. He'd seemed duly unimpressed with the causes she thought were important.

  Lana eased back and dismounted, then quickly secured the cycle, her heart still pounding over his provocative statement. I'm not. Hadn't Alex warned her about letting her lust lead her astray?

  While walking inside, she chided herself—she couldn't afford to become emotionally involved; she just needed him to ease up on the rezoning issue. Just a little flirting. Maybe a kiss or two.

  He held open the door the way her father used to—so she'd have to pass under his arm. The gesture made her feel strangely protected, but she didn't have long to savor it. Her jaw dropped to see her friend Alex working behind the counter, her mussed hair and flushed face indicative of her frazzled state. "Alex, what are you doing here?"