Better Than Chocolate...

Leaning forward, she sliced into the warm water. Ah, heavenly. She flutter-kicked to the surface and rolled to her back. Mmm, she could easily stay this way, buoyed by the water, watching the night sky beyond the glass ceiling, lulled by the sultry saxophone solo.

But that wasn’t doing squat for the extra five pounds of Godiva residing on her thighs. Unfortunately, the women in her family not only shared lousy judgment in men, but also had a tendency to carry a few extra pounds. Equally unfortunate, they also tended to eat their way through an emotional crisis—and they weren’t stuffing themselves with fresh fruit. No, they preferred rich, dark, fattening chocolate. Aunt Nelda’s backside, jiggling in sweatpants, flashed through her head.

Ugh. Atonement time. Resigned, she rolled to her stomach and struck out with a breast stroke. After the first couple of laps, the rhythm took over and her mind wandered, thinking of nothing, thinking of everything. Some people sat cross-legged on the floor to reach a meditative state. Eve swam.

Stroke, kick, breathe.

Stroke, kick, breathe.

Pool wall, flip.

Thirty laps later, Eve climbed out of the pool. The hot-tub pair were still going at it—she didn’t want to know what was going on beneath the swirling water—while the waitress was now engaged in deep conversation with the bartender. For all intents and purposes, she was alone.

She pulled off the rubber swim cap and shook her head, sending her hair tumbling to her shoulders. She finger-combed it—damp, but mercifully not green.

Eve began to towel herself dry. The thick cotton felt great against her damp skin and wet bathing suit. Warm and soft, almost like a touch. Yowza, it’d obviously been too long since she’d actually been touched if a saxophone, a little starlight and a warm towel affected her this way.

“You missed a spot.” A man spoke from the darkened area behind her. The mixture of amusement and sensuality in his baritone voice sent a shiver down her spine.

Eve started and the man stepped out of the shadows.

Holy guacamole.

At a glance he was drop-freaking-dead gorgeous. Slightly above average height, black hair, lean, towel casually draped around his neck, a drink in one hand. He was amused sophistication with a killer smile and her heart slammed against her ribs.

“What?” Well, that was marginally better than huh with her mouth hanging open.

“You missed a spot,” he repeated, taking another step forward. His brows, dark slashes that angled up at the end, lent him a decidedly wicked, sexy look. He caught the end of her towel between his lean fingers and dabbed it against her bare skin, along her collarbone. Her skin quivered and her breath hitched in her throat. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed when his fingers didn’t brush against her. He dropped the towel and it fell back against her breast.

Eve gathered her wits and laughed. He was self-assured arrogance and she was an idiot. “I bet you come with your very own warning label.”

For a second he looked startled, and then he laughed, too, a low, sexy rumble that skittered along her nerve endings and settled into a nice cozy warmth in her stomach. He raised his glass in acknowledgment, his lips quirked into a wry smile. “If I do, I’m unaware of it.”

Hmm. She thought he was very much aware of it. How many women had melted, just like her, when he had turned that smile on them? She’d bet most.

She shrugged into a cover-up, slid her feet into her mules and picked up her straw bag. “Thanks for making sure I didn’t walk around with a wet spot.”

“Would you care to join me for a drink?”

She didn’t miss the challenge in his eyes that underscored his invitation. Eve hesitated. Was she going to heed that warning label she’d slapped on him?

She’d made it her personal philosophy to never date any man who looked better than she did, a realistic outlook in her opinion. She wasn’t exactly a dog, but she wasn’t Angelina Jolie either. Extremely good-looking men and average women weren’t a winning combination. She’d seen it before. Not only did other women snipe behind Ms. Average’s back that her man could do better, but they were bold. They felt free to hit on a hot guy who was with a not-so-hot chick.

Of course, he’d invited her for a drink, not a date. And quite frankly, Eve had never been able to resist a challenge.

“Sure. Why not? I’d love a drink.”

2

THE WOMAN COULD DEFINITELY control her enthusiasm. And she’d definitely captured his interest. Jack found her lush curves at odds with the driving determination that put her through thirty laps in thirty-five minutes. He’d counted.

There had been something terribly sexy about the way she’d pulled off her swim cap and shaken out her hair. Sexy, because she hadn’t known she had an audience. And then when she’d begun toweling herself—it’d been time for him to make himself known and gain control of the situation.

His smile had flustered her—just for a moment and then the damnedest thing had happened. She’d put him in his place with a laugh.

He indicated a table close to the bar’s muted light. “How about here?”

“This is fine.”

He placed his glass on the table and pulled out a chair for her. She took the seat with a murmured thank-you and crossed her legs. Dark nail polish gleamed against the pale length of her toes.

Jack sat next to her and caught the waitress’s eye, motioning her over. What would she order? He dismissed Sex on the Beach or Screaming Orgasm. Too obvious. Maybe a white wine or a piña colada with one of those paper umbrellas on the glass’s rim.

“Hi. I’m Jasmine. What can I get for you?” the waitress asked.

“Scotch. Neat.”

Okay. He was doubly intrigued. A woman who swam marathon laps and drank a real drink.

The waitress turned to him. “Anything for you, sir?”

“A fresh Glenlivet. A short one.”

“Both of these on your tab?”

He smiled. “Yes. Thank you, Jasmine.”

“No,” the woman said at the same time. “Put my drink on a separate bill and I’ll sign for it.”

He couldn’t get a read on her. “But I invited you for a drink.”

“And I plan to have a drink with you. But it doesn’t mean you’re buying.” Her teeth gleamed in a pleasant, resolute smile.

“Separate tabs it is then.”

Jasmine nodded and looked between Jack and the woman as if sizing up her competition.

“I’ll be right back.” Jasmine flashed Jack a smile and turned back toward the bar. He recognized her look. He could have more than a drink, if that’s what he wanted, when her shift was up. Jasmine was a known, familiar quantity.

He turned back to the woman at his table. Flickering candlelight painted her in sepia tones. Amusement danced in her wide-set eyes. What color were they? It was impossible to tell in the semidarkness. And he really wanted to know.

“You don’t even have to try, do you?” She leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers beneath her chin, watching him.

Women often watched him, but not with this detached amusement as if he were some specimen in a jar. “No. Not really.”

“I bet you’re lethal when you put effort into it,” she said, more speculation than come-on. Which made it even more of a come-on for him.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever really tried.” But maybe I will now. The thought hung unspoken between them.

She shook her head, her hair brushing the slope of her shoulders. “It’s a shame to never reach your true potential. That’s what happens to people when things come too easy.”

Jasmine returned with their drinks and saved him having to answer. And quite frankly he was at a loss as to how to respond—an unusual state for him.

Jack studied the woman next to him. Not beautiful, but attractive. What was it about her that had gotten under his skin? In a flash, he realized it was her utter lack of coyness. One of the most boring aspects of the women he’d met lately was the studied coyness they adopted—Cosmo devotees who’d read that they should drop their head, bite their lips and then glance through lowered lashes up at their targeted man.

He recognized the moves because he skimmed Cosmo, along with a host of other magazines, on a regular basis to keep his finger on the consumer pulse. And because he was a detached observer of life and its participants.

“Can I get you anything else?” Jasmine asked.

“No,” they both demurred and, after a moment’s hesitation and another glance his way, Jasmine slipped away.

The woman lifted her glass and sipped. She had a wide, generous mouth, perhaps a shade too large, but still quite lovely with plump, full lips.

“Mmm. Very nice.”

Jack resisted the urge to lean forward and taste the Scotch on her lips.

Instead he contented himself with a sip from his glass. “There’s nothing quite like a good single-malt Scotch, is there?”

“I like it, but it is something of an acquired taste.” Her arms gleamed in the candlelight, the muscles still delineated from her earlier swim. She pushed her hair back from her face and a faint whiff of perfume teased from beneath the unmistakable chlorine clinging to her hair and skin.

Jack found it refreshing that the woman didn’t attempt to fill the silence with chatter.

He ran his finger along the smooth curve of the glass. “Have you been in Chicago very long?”

“No. I just arrived today. Tonight actually. How about you?”

“Tonight as well. I’m unwinding before a business meeting next week. I’m traveling alone,” he volunteered, anticipating she’d reciprocate the information.

“I could tell.”

He raised his brow questioningly.

“You haven’t glanced over your shoulder even once,” she said. “If you were here with someone, you would’ve checked to see if they’d shown up at some point.”

Clever. “Neither have you. So, you’re here alone as well?”

She finished her drink. “I’m here on business,” she answered. She motioned to Jasmine for her tab.

Did she dispense with everything with that same slight ruthlessness? Swimming laps. Her drink. Him.

Jack realized she was about to leave. And he didn’t want her to leave. Not only was he not used to being dismissed, he found her total lack of seduction, well, utterly seductive.

“There’s no jealous husband at home to mind if I ask you to join me for a late dinner?”

“And I presume you don’t have a wife who would object to you inviting a woman to dinner?”

Once again, she ignored his question and posed one of her own.

“She wouldn’t mind at all.” He smiled at her start of surprise, delighted he’d finally managed to get one up on her. Then he relented. “I’m not married. Or divorced. Or attached to a significant other.” Jasmine arrived with the bills and promptly left. The woman reached for one tab.

What was her name? Where was she from? And what did she look like in the light? She’d piqued his interest and that hadn’t happened in a long time. “Would you join me for dinner?”

She hesitated, obviously undecided. Women didn’t usually hesitate. It took Jack a second or so to realize the knot in the pit of his stomach was nervousness. He wanted her to say yes quite badly. “I promise I don’t bite,” he added.

“I’ll make a note of that. Actually, I need to shower and change out of this damp suit.” She signed her bill and tucked a copy into her bag.

“That’s not a problem.” In his head, he slowly peeled her suit off, over the curve of her breasts, along the line of her back, past the indent of her waist, beyond her hips, down those luscious legs.

She pushed away from the table. “Give me forty-five minutes.”

His usual dates would’ve demanded an hour and a half. Jack stood when she did. “The restaurant off of the lobby?”

“Yes.”

“Forty-five minutes then.”

She walked away and Jack realized he didn’t even know her name. “Wait.”

She turned around.

“What’s your name?”

“Eve,” she tossed over her shoulder. She didn’t ask for his name in return. Actually, she didn’t hang around long enough for him to tell her.

Eve?

She’d disappeared into the building and Jack pulled her bar tab into the light, checking the signature line where she’d signed for her drink.

Blue ink and plain, bold script.

Room 325.

Eve Carmichael.

ANDREA WOULD’VE FOUND something more exciting to wear, Eve acknowledged, checking her reflection in the elevator on her way down. But then again, Andrea wouldn’t have had to worry about the Monday meeting. Still, Eve should’ve listened to her friend and tossed in a couple of sexy outfits. Instead, she’d made the best of business casual, ditching the jacket that went with her dress.

At least the sleeveless, short black dress covered her Godiva thighs and showed off her taut arms and legs. Then again, Mr. Gorgeous had already seen her in a swimsuit, and a swim cap no less, and he’d still asked her to dinner. Stranger things could happen.

Eve stepped off the elevator. Her pumps clicked against the polished tile as she crossed the lobby to the restaurant. At least her shoes had a decent heel on them.

The man stood outside the restaurant, one shoulder casually propped against the wall, his legs crossed, his attention focused on a handheld piece of electronic equipment. Polished. Sophisticated. Remote.

He looked almost as good dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a black silk polo as he had in swim trunks and a towel. Eve’s heart stalled a beat and then raced to catch up. Pull yourself together, girl. He put on his pants the same way any other man did—he just looked better doing it. Andrea’s latest hottie simile came to mind—yumm-o.

“Hello,” she said as she approached him.

He glanced up and a slow smile curled his lips. He pocketed his Blackberry. Another workaholic. She had, of course, checked her e-mails before she left her room.

“Eve.”

Her name rolled off his tongue and trailed warmth through her like a sip of smooth Scotch. His eyes held hers and the same attraction she’d felt earlier at the pool surged between them again. Was that a hint of relief in his eyes? Had he thought she’d stand him up? Amazing. Women didn’t stand up a man like him.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked.

“Not at all.” He paused, his gaze sweeping her. “You’re lovely.”

His words trailed across her skin and shivered through her.

“Thank you. So are you,” she said, tossing the compliment, which was actually an understatement when she considered how gorgeous he was, back at him, determined not to be thrown off balance.

“Thanks.” She almost laughed at the surprise that flickered across his face.

“The high-maintenance women you date never tell you that?”

“No. Not in so many words.” He slanted his head to one side and looked at her, casual male elegance personified. The light gleamed in his dark hair. “Why do you think I date high-maintenance women?”

In a moment of perfect timing, a couple exited the restaurant and walked past. The woman, a willowy blonde with exquisite makeup, hair and clothes glanced back over her shoulder at him. She obviously hadn’t slapped herself together in half an hour.

Neither Eve nor her dinner date missed the fact that the school-of-high-maintenance graduate had checked him out.

Eve arched an amused brow. “Lucky guess.”

He shrugged off the woman’s interest, a gesture that only confirmed for Eve that it was the norm. “Are you high maintenance?”

He had to ask? Please. Eve had a penchant for nice jewelry and lingerie, but aside from that, she bought her clothes and shoes on sale at discount stores. Her lack of interest in Jimmy Choo or Manolo Blahnik appalled Andrea. Eve splurged on the occasional spa visit, but didn’t have the time or budget to make it a regular part of her life. “What do you think?”

“Not overtly.”

That begged an explanation. She raised a questioning brow.

“You don’t impress me as needing a constant stream of adoration to feel good about yourself. But I think you don’t suffer fools gladly. I’d say you’re a woman who speaks her mind and does exactly as she pleases. And the result is very, very sexy.” His voice dropped an octave on the last observation and took her breath with it.

Eve’s heart repeated that stop-and-race trick. If he kept this up, she’d begin to believe she was closer to Angelina Jolie than she realized. He had the speaking-her-mind and doing-as-she-pleased parts down pat, but she was, quite frankly, surprised he found it sexy. It intimidated most men. But then again, from what she’d seen thus far, he wasn’t most men.

“And you strike me as a man who does what he wants and is used to getting what he wants. And that, too, is very, very sexy.”

And it was. Eve wasn’t so sure that she particularly liked this man. He was arrogant, far too handsome, and he set her on edge. But she was incredibly attracted to him.

“Perhaps we have more in common than you think, Eve.”

Caught up in the intimate way her name rolled off his tongue, it took a moment for his comment to register. There was an implied intimacy, almost a hint that he knew something she didn’t. Did she know him? Had she met him before? One of her brothers’ college buddies? Someone from last year’s national conference? Definitely not. A woman would never forget meeting this man. But something about him struck a chord of recognition.

“Do I know you? Have we met before?”

He shook his head. “We’ve never met before.”

Then why did she have this weird, nagging sense of the familiar? Aha. Jack LaRoux.

He reminded her of Jack. Not that she’d ever met Jack, but this man was everything she’d imagined her nemesis to be, possibly because she’d had some antagonistic, sexual fantasy thing going in her head around Jack LaRoux for the past several months. Sex and power were inextricably intertwined, and there was definitely a power struggle going on between her and Jack the Ripper. And she was definitely attracted to this man.

She’d come to Chicago early. Had Jack come early as well? He could have, except Eve had read an e-mail ten minutes ago from LaTonya. Jack had been in a late-afternoon meeting when LaTonya had contacted the San Francisco office earlier. Not even the West Coast Wonder Boy could manage to be in two places at one time.

“Hello. I think you’ve gone somewhere else,” he said

“Sorry. You remind me of someone I know.”

Annoyance tightened his face and flashed in his eyes. He quickly masked it with the detached air of urbane amusement he wore so well.

“Ready?” Obviously he didn’t like being compared to someone else.

“Yes.”

They stepped into the restaurant. A bird-of-paradise display in a large vase dominated the entry. A late-dinner crowd filled two-thirds of the white-linen-draped tables. Nice. Very nice. Minimalist, sophisticated decor. A jazz quartet, tucked into a corner, offered a dinner concert. A handful of couples swayed to the music on the small dance floor.

The maître d’ appeared. “Two for dinner?”

“Yes. Do you have something with a view?”

“A table with quite a nice view just opened. This way please.”

Eve’s companion brushed his fingers against her arm, ushering her ahead of him in a gesture she’d experienced countless times before. But, unlike all those other times, his warm fingers against her bare flesh set her heart racing. Far from being impersonal, his touch echoed through her. Evocative. Sensual.

The subtle scent of his expensive cologne tantalized her. It was incredible how a mere touch and a whiff of fragrance could so thoroughly entice and arouse.

The maıˆtre d’ seated them. Framed by the window, the city’s skyline and dark sky juxtaposed against the reflection of crisp linens, intimate lighting, and them.

The man across the table studied her.

“You have beautiful eyes. I’ve spent the last hour wondering what color they were.”

“Thank you. You could’ve asked at the pool.”

“It wouldn’t have been the same thing,” he said. “What would you have told me?”

“Blue-green.”

“Ah. That’s my point. They’re not simply blue-green. They’re an amazing blend of crystal blue and translucent green, like a natural spring. Beautiful. Bottomless.”

She’d heard before how unusual her eyes were, but never had anyone been so eloquent. It was a line. A really impressive line, but a line nonetheless.

“Do you always have such a way with words?”

“Only when I’m suitably inspired…which is seldom.”

He definitely knew how to deliver a compliment. And he was definitely just what the ego-doctor had ordered. She mentally gave Perry the finger.

At least five women had eyed him since they’d entered the restaurant. Eve had once gone out with a guy who’d spent their evening dividing his attention between Eve and all the other women in the room. It had been the date from hell. But this gorgeous man seemed oblivious to anyone but her.

The saxophone’s husky notes added a layer to the sensual mood, lending a fantasy quality to the evening.

“Eve?”

She looked at the other major player in her unfolding fantasy. “Hmm?”

“Aren’t you interested in my name? Who I am?”

The “Strangers in the Night” refrain came to a screeching halt. No, no, no. Not just when her fantasy was cranking up.

Andrea had prescribed a fling. Eve was eight hundred miles from home in a city where she didn’t know anyone. Fate had delivered this guy. Who was she to shut the door on opportunity when it knocked?

But why should they pretend to look each other up next week? Why make one more bad decision regarding a guy? Besides, she was on the verge of taking on one of the most important projects in her life. She didn’t need complications. She didn’t want to exchange phone numbers, then wait on a call that never came. Bottom line, she didn’t want a relationship. She wanted a memory. Did she want to know who he was?

“No.”

“You can be tough on an ego,” he said.

Right. His ego seemed fully intact. “Maybe I don’t want to spoil this evening by finding out your name is Bert and you manage a tampon factory in Boise.”

“Most domestic tampon production is in Detroit.”

She’d been tongue-in-cheek with her example but totally serious in her reluctance to kill the night’s fantasy. Had she, in one of those weird cosmic turnarounds, hit the nail on the head? “Are you…”

He smiled. Heat suffused her face and neck as she realized he’d got her.

“No. I just made that up. I’m not from Boise or Detroit, and my name isn’t Bert. If you don’t want to know who I really am…” He leaned forward and brushed his thumb across the back of her hand. A warm, melting heat flowed through her. “Why don’t you give me a name? Who would you like for me to be, Eve?”

If she was going for fantasy, why not just go all out?

“Why don’t I call you Jack?”

“JACK IT IS.” He managed a neutral expression despite his surprise. Was she playing him for a fool? Had she discovered his identity much the same way he’d stumbled on hers? Had the whole Bert from Boise been a clever ruse to throw him off track? “Can I ask, however, why Jack?”

“It suits you.” A hint of animosity shadowed her amazing eyes, but unless she was the world’s consummate actress, she really didn’t seem to know who he was.

“You said earlier I reminded you of someone. Is his name Jack?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

Damn. Everyone had a past. Why should it annoy him that Eve’s past included another Jack. “Ex-husband? Former lover?”

“Nothing so…intimate.” The way her low voice caressed the word knotted his gut. “A co-worker if you will. Actually, a rival.”

He was the Jack in her past? Life was stranger than fiction. They’d never met before, yet he reminded her of himself. “I see. I don’t want to be your rival this evening,” he said on behalf of both Jacks, Jack the Imposter and Jack the Rival. And amazingly he didn’t. Certainly, if she had anything business related to divulge, he’d listen. But he found himself fascinated by Eve—the woman and the Avenger.