She glared. “I insist. You’ve said you can get me great dates. However, I think we need to define the terminology we’ll be using. Great for me indicates a man who is handsome—”

“Aha! Looks are important.”

Her knife was calling to her. “Intelligent,” she grated out between clenched teeth. “Sensitive. And not a boor.”

“Then you’ll have to change things around.” He pulled a folder from his briefcase. “Instead of saying ‘Looking to meet good man’ say ‘Are you worthy?’ It implies you’re confident and above clichés.”

“‘Looking to meet good man’ is not a cliché.”

“It’s the most cliché of clichés.”

Beth threw her napkin over her knife, just to eliminate temptation. “Let’s move on.”

“Romantic walks.” He shook his head. “It means you’re fat.”

The napkin came off the knife. A knife that had cut through approximately twenty-seven Weight Watchers points’ worth of food. “I’m not fat.”

“No, but a man will read between the lines. It implies that you don’t want to do anything to break a sweat. Including having sex. No wonder you’re having problems here.”

“I understand,” she said, suddenly comprehending why his wife had divorced him.

“The ‘good wine’ bit isn’t bad.”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence.”

He continued on, ignoring her. “If you’d said martinis or cosmopolitans, you might get a livelier crowd. Just as long as you don’t mention beer.”

“Why?”

“Beer means you’re fat.”

“I hate beer.”

He looked her over. “And it shows.”

Quickly she changed the subject. “Old movies? I suppose I should say action movies, right?”

“No, the average single man will read ‘old movies’ and think that he can put up with it, and then get laid on the couch. Old movies are a great aphrodisiac.”

“Do you think old movies are a great aphrodisiac?” she asked, suddenly curious.

He frowned for a moment, as if he’d never considered the idea of aphrodisiacs. “No.”

She folded her hands together gracefully, the image of calm. “Ah, but you’re not the average single man.”

“God forbid.”

She polished off the last of her wine. No dessert tonight. It was getting late, and she was feeling fat. “So how would you rewrite my ad?”

He looked up in the air, his pen twirling idly. Then he focused on her and frowned. The pen twirled again. “Are you worthy? Sexy blonde who savors a great cabernet wants to wile away hours with a man. Life is hectic enough. I need someone who appreciates a classic movie and a lazy Saturday night. Dave Eggers fans need not apply.”

It was good. And he really thought she was sexy? Not that it mattered, of course. All she wanted was great dates with someone other than him.

And so it came to pass. Beth smiled and held out her hand. “Mr. James, I believe we have a deal.”

Sexy blonde is looking for Mr. Right Now. Could that possibly be you? Need someone who knows how to laugh and is smart enough to make me smile.

HIS APARTMENT WAS CURSED.

For over an hour he’d been trying to work, but his concentration had been shot to hell. The constant buzzing of his cleaning woman’s vacuum was driving him batty.

“Sophie!”

Still the buzzing continued. How the hell was he supposed to work in a war zone?

“Sophie!”

God bless it, the buzzing ceased.

Sophie appeared in the doorway to his study, clad in her latest red spandex jogging shorts, which accentuated curves she didn’t need to advertise. Sophie, however, was a woman who’d never recovered from the eighties. “You rang, Mr. James?” she asked in the clipped English accent she used when she was feeling unservile.

“Can you please keep it down to a moderate level? Ten decibels? I’m trying to work here.”

“That’s interesting, Mr. James, because you’re paying me to clean, and well, here I am, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, cleaning my little heart out. Now you want me to be quiet. If you’re determined to work, I can go into the living room and sit and wait. I’ll just turn the TV down really, really low.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Spencer asked. Usually Sophie wasn’t the most cooperative of cleaning ladies. That’s why she was cheap.

“Not if I’m still on the clock. And, Mr. James, I’m still on the clock.”

Now why had he thought she’d suddenly become human? Someday he was going to hire a real cleaning service. Anonymous little elves who would clean and then disappear into the immaculately dusted woodwork. Someday.

“Vacuum,” he snapped. “Vacuum until your little toes are sucked right off.”

“Mr. James, are you flirting with me?”

Spencer shot out of his chair and growled. She grinned back at him and he slammed the door in her face.

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, his stomach rumbled and he realized he’d missed lunch—and dinner. All afternoon he’d been listening to the interview tape, pretending to take notes, but so far the page was blank. When she spoke, you actually could hear her smile in her voice.

Spence rubbed his eyes. Next thing, he’d be buying her flowers, and then maybe taking her on a date, and before you knew it, they’d be headed to divorce court and he’d be forced to endure fifteen more years of Sophie’s slipshod work.

Hell would freeze first. Besides, Mr. Right Now was somewhere out there, just waiting for her, waiting to be graced with that careless smile, waiting to taste her strawberry kisses.

Well, Mr. Right Now could have her.

Not willing to go further down that strawberry-laden path, Spencer pushed himself back from his desk and walked over to the refrigerator. Now to play the new and exciting what’s-for-dinner game.

Leftover pasta from Thursday night at Via Concetta. No. Leftover chicken from Wednesday night at Via Concetta. No. Would his luck change in the freezer? Frozen pizza. Frozen lasagna.

The lasagna wins, the crowd goes wild.

He popped the package into the oven, set the temperature and then slammed the door just as the doorbell rang. Odd. He hadn’t buzzed anyone up. “You’re going to have to wait. Don’t embarrass me now,” he said to his stomach.

Spencer didn’t get many visitors. He tried to discourage the practice of stopping by without calling first. It tended to disrupt his concentration, and he’d forgotten how to make small talk, not that he really cared.

The bell rang again. It was most likely another salesman who couldn’t read the No Soliciting sign. He should use a bigger font. Prepared to deliver his standard I’m-just-the-house-sitter line, he opened the door.

It was his onetime best friend, Harry, who mostly wrote sports for their paper.

“Spence, got three tickets to the Bulls game tomorrow. Want to come?” Harry said, shrugging out of his coat and slinging it over the chair.

“It’s too early for April Fools, and too late for Halloween. Tell me you’ve just been drinking.”

Harry collapsed on the couch and then stared up with that who…me? look he did so well. It was how he met all his women. “It was a genuine offer of hospitality.”

“I’ve got plans for dinner already,” said Spence, resigned to having company.

“Via Concetta?”

Spence flashed him a rude gesture often seen in the wilds of Los Angeles. “You can leave now.”

Harry, who had never been to the wilds of Los Angeles, elected to stay. “I worry about you. This aloneness can’t be good. The next thing you know, you’ll be getting a cat.”

Spencer shot out of his seat, the veins hammering away in his head, the pain only making him angrier. “First off, since you are the primary reason that I’m suffering from all this aloneness, your concern smacks of hypocrisy. And I’m not getting a cat. Not even a dog. Not even a hamster. The little beasts are nothing more than glorified rats.”

Harry shook his head in a mournful manner. “You’re never going to meet another woman with that sort of attitude. You need to get back in the saddle.”

“I can get back into the saddle anytime I want. You tell Joan that. In fact, I’ve got a date tonight,” snarled Spencer, mainly to salvage what was left of his ego.

Never one to practice the fine art of subtlety—damn sports writer—Harry began to laugh. “A date? Returning a favor?”

“No.”

“Mother’s dentist’s niece?”

“No,” Spencer snapped.

“Some friend of Joan’s that I haven’t met yet?”

“Since you’ve been sleeping with her longer than I was married to her, that’s highly unlikely.”

“I waited four months. It seemed acceptable. Does this still bother you?”

“No.” Spencer sighed. “Why don’t you marry her?” he asked. Then he could at least save the alimony. Fifteen hundred a month, which was galling, since Joan’s father could buy Spencer several million times over. Unfortunately, Mr. Barclay didn’t believe in passing along his wealth to his daughter until he was dead, so now it was Spencer who was footing the bill.

Harry picked up the latest New York Times and began to read. “I’ve tried. She says no. It breaks my heart that her desire for revenge is bigger than her love for me. But you inspire that in women, Spence.”

The phone rang, sparing Spencer a reply. “I bet that’s my date now.” In one smooth move he picked up the phone and opened the door for Harry to exit. “James here.”

“Spencer, it’s Beth. Beth Von Meeter.”

After listening to her voice all afternoon, he still found it sent a tingle to places he thought were long dead. He turned his back on Harry, intimating intimacy. “Yes, I was hoping you would call.”

“I think you’re on to something. I’ve gotten four responses so far. Oops, make that five. And they all sound amazing.”

Did she actually doubt his skills? “Of course.”

“You wanted me to check in with you after I set up my first date, right?”

“Yes, I’ll need to see you as soon as possible. Can you excuse me for a moment?”

“Certainly.”

Spencer turned and glared at Harry. “Out,” he said, arm stretched toward the door. If his arm were long enough to make it to hell, he’d have pointed there, too.

Harry gestured to the phone, then made pornographic hand signs, but he did pick up his coat and make his way to the door. Spencer walked over and slammed it right after him.

Then he took a deep, calming breath. “I’m sorry, Beth. You were saying?”

“We’re going to see a play at the Steppenwolf tomorrow.”

“Oh. What time will you be done?”

“It’s a date, Mr. James, not a business appointment.”

“You’re right. What was I thinking? I’ll meet you at one a.m. There’s a coffeehouse across the street.”

“I’m not dumping my date, who might be the most fabulous man I’ve met in my entire life, in order to go through the third degree with you.”

As if he were just some two-bit stringer from Pomona. Spencer slammed his hand on the counter, immediately bruising his palm. Stupid moves like this were the prime reason he was healthier staying away from the human race. “As the man responsible for you meeting the most fabulous man you’ve ever met in your life, I would think some gratitude would be in order.”

“Gratitude is not the emotion of the day. Try again tomorrow. I’ll meet you Sunday morning.”

Defeat came and smacked him on the head. “I’ll meet you at nine. Where do you live? We can find someplace nearby.”

“All right,” she replied, and then gave him her address. It was an apartment two blocks from his. Cheap, but safe and serviceable. Sad that an award-winning journalist was placed in the same caste as a coffee shop barista. Damn Joan. Why couldn’t she just marry Harry?

“What’s your date’s name?” Spence asked, mainly because even while he was condemning his wife to alimonial purgatory, he was lining up lemming-style to be pushed over the edge again.

“Donald. Donald Hughes.”

She sounded thrilled, as if the love of her life was going to be standing behind door number one. She’d been married before. How could she be so goddamn excited about the idea of doing it again?

“Wonderful,” was all he said before he hung up.

Inside of him, there was the usual burning he felt at the start of every good story. Today there was something else. A different kind of burn, deep inside him.

A severe case of lust could do that to a man.

THAT EVENING, Beth spent two hours wheeling and dealing on eBay, before sending an IM message to Cassandra. The temporary money pinch she was in was improving and the man shortage was definitely improving in spades. Hallelujah!

Beth says: “You there?”

Cassandra says: “Yes.”

Beth says: “Are you alone?”

Cassandra says, while inhaling the soothing scent of lavender: “If I’m entertaining, I’m not going to be sitting at the computer.”

Beth says defensively: “I thought I’d ask. It’s Friday night. Why are you sans a date?”

Cassandra says casually, too casually: “I felt like being alone.”

Beth says: “You heard, didn’t you?”

Cassandra says, shrugging: “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Beth says: “Benedict.”

Cassandra says: “Eggs.”

Beth says: “You know exactly what I mean.”

Cassandra says: “Yes, I heard.”

Beth says: “What are you going to do?”

Cassandra says: “There is no rope painful enough to hang him from, so that’s out. There’s no river wide enough to ensure that he’d drown—so that’s out.”

Beth says: “Still feeling hostility for the former boyfriend, huh?”

Cassandra says: “Of course.”

Beth says, because she’s an optimist and a romantic: “He’s going to show up. You know he will.”

Cassandra says: “I’ll handle it when he does. Are you going to the Christmas gala?”

Beth says: “It’s family stuff. I have to go. You?”

Cassandra says: “Much too boring.”

Beth says: “Lots of cool guys. You should go. And now to transition to all about Beth: Got a date tomorrow, got a date tomorrow, got a date tomorrow.”

Cassandra says: “Stop the presses. Who’s the latest?”

Beth says: “Personal ad person.”

Cassandra says, while holding up thumb and forefinger: “Loser.”

Beth says: “Hey, I resemble that remark.”

Cassandra says: “No, you don’t. We’ve had this discussion before.”

Beth says: “You’re right. This is the new, improved, no longer directionally challenged me.”

Cassandra says: “Knock ’em dead, tiger.”

Beth says: “You betcha.”

DONALD HUGHES WAS a nice guy. He had a decent job—civil engineer for the city—was attractive and funny. In short, he was the ideal man. Beth kept checking him out during the play, casting quick glances just to see if he truly existed, or if she was overcompensating on his behalf and he was truly a wuss. No, he seemed to be real. A couple of times he caught her peeking, and smiled. The last time, he actually reached over and held her hand. It was the most romantic thing that had happened to her in almost eight months.

The play was very nice, but slightly depressing in that genuine Tennessee Williams manner. Afterward, he took her to a restaurant where she actually ordered dessert and coffee.

“I loved your ad. As soon as I read it, I thought, that’s the kind of woman I want to meet.”

“Thank you,” she said, trying to look confident and modest all at the same time.

He launched into a discussion of wines. Boring. Then he started in on politics. Boring. After the discussion on the current state of the education system, her cell phone rang.

Uh-oh. Technically, she should have turned it off. But what if she got an important call?

She looked at the caller ID, but it wasn’t familiar. Not that it mattered, because the discussion was really going nowhere. She wrinkled her nose at Donald. “Just a minute. Let me get that.”

“Beth, it’s Spencer James.”

She hung up.

He called back. However, she wasn’t mad enough to not answer.

“Don’t hang up. You need to look more entertaining. You just look bored.”

“Where are you?” she asked, realizing that the hair on her neck was now standing on end.

“Second table to the left, just at the edge of the kitchen.”

She looked. He lifted a discreet hand.

She hung up.

The phone rang. Donald looked at her with confusion. “Are you having problems?”

“No,” she said, laughing in that you-really-don’t-want-to-know manner.

“You could turn your phone off,” said Donald, full of wisdom.

Beth debated. In fact, her finger wavered over the power button. But when she glanced at Spencer, he shot her that arrogant look he did so perfectly. The phone rang again. “Just a minute,” she said sweetly to Donald. “What?” she snapped at Spencer.

“You look bored. Smile at him. You’re never going to get a man panting after you if you look like you’d rather be filling out your 1040 form.”

Beth smiled in an absolutely enchanting manner—at Donald. “Happy?” she said into the phone.

But he had hung up.

DONALD DROPPED HER OFF about an hour later. He wanted to see her again, and she said okay, mainly because she knew it would be stupid not to give him a chance.

He kissed her, two and half stars on the Von Meeter kissing meter, and then left her alone. A true gentleman.

That made her sigh, but immediately after kicking off her shoes, she picked up her cell phone and dialed.

“Don’t you ever follow me again without telling me,” she exclaimed, even before Spencer said hello.

“I wanted to see where he would take you, watch the interaction between the two of you, see if there were electrical currents.”

“Of course there were currents. A gazillion megawatts of currents. And if you hadn’t been there spying over my shoulder, there would have been even more. Enough to light up Lake Michigan.”

“Hmm. I didn’t get that impression. Let me write that down. ‘Currents. Gazillion megawatts of currents. Lake Michigan.’”

Beth never liked to be mocked, but she was capable of fighting dirty, too. She began taking off her skirt. “Look, Mr. James, I’m aware that you’re used to doing things your way, but this is my life. I’m not going to be part of your own personal reality TV series.”

Neatly she hung up her skirt on the hanger.

“I’m a journalist.”

“I don’t care if you’re Superjournalist—” he swore at that “—you have to ask my permission.”

“All right. Tonight was more of a trial run, anyway. When do you want to do the interview? Is now good?”

Beth pulled off her blouse and hung it up right next to her skirt. “No. I’m getting ready for bed.”

“Well, throw on a robe. You had a cup of coffee. You’re not going to sleep for another two hours.”

“Wait a minute,” she said, putting down the cell phone.

A wicked impulse had her bypassing the standard issue, worn-out sleep shirt and heading straight for the good stuff. She began rifling through her lingerie drawer, looking for her sexiest sleepwear. Slowly she pulled on the transparent peignoir, brushed her hair until it shone, then put on the necessary skin-care regimen. She stared in the mirror, pleased with the siren that appeared.

Finally, she retrieved the phone. “Spencer, you wanted to come over now?” she asked, making her voice low and husky.

He coughed. “It’s best to strike while the information is right there at the top of your head.”

She played with the silk ribbons, even daring to touch herself through the thin material. “I’ll see you in the morning. Nine a.m., just like we planned,” she said, still smiling.

“If that’s what you want.” She heard her own regret echoed in his voice.

Metaphorically speaking, he was the biggest slab of dark chocolate ganache she’d ever seen, a total caloric nightmare. She’d polish him off and be left with nothing more than fat thighs and an empty plate.

Tempting, but no.

After he hung up, she turned on the television in her bedroom and collapsed onto her bed. It wasn’t until two hours later, when Cary Grant kissed Ginger Rogers, that she finally fell asleep.

HE WAS THERE EARLY the next morning. Not surprising, since he’d never really got to bed. After discovering work was useless, and then tossing and turning, trying to sleep, he’d finally taken matters into his own hands and dispensed with the aftereffects she had left him with. Then he’d managed to sleep, for a full three hours.

Joy.

The morning was cold and the sidewalks were damp with post-Thanksgiving slush. If he wasn’t really excited about his article, he wouldn’t be trudging through the mess at 9:00 a.m. Or so he told himself.

Eventually she showed up at the coffee shop, looking fresh and well-rested and with that damn smile on her face. Why was she always smiling? What the hell did she have that made her so happy all the time?

He stood when she came over and joined him.

“Good morning,” she said, as if birds were perched on her shoulder, waiting to burst into song.

“If you’re into those sorts of things,” he said, surlier than usual.

“Are those circles under your eyes? Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Spencer, whose sense of humor was absent on most days, had almost no patience for her games right now. “Are you trying to tease me just to see how far I’ll go? Do I look like the neighborhood mongrel who you’re going to poke at with a stick until he bites back? You’ve never been bitten, have you?”

The smile cooled a few degrees. “No.”

“Then I suggest you take your stick and put it away.”

Her eyes cooled, as well. It could have been guilt he was experiencing, or so he told himself.

“That little lapse is best forgotten—pardon the breach. So where do we start now? You want to know about the date?” she asked, then proceeded to tell him every detail about the previous evening. He took notes, paying close attention to the exact moment when the smile crept back onto her face.

“When’s your next date?” he asked, hating date number one with an unexpected passion.

“Tuesday evening. The Morton Arboretum is having a talk on flowers that bloom in the winter.”

“Sounds very educational,” he replied, thinking a root canal would be more fun. Chicago men seemed to be lacking in panache and creativity. If he were taking her out…

Damn.

He packed away his notebook and pen and took care of the check. “Great work. I’ll see you on, when, Wednesday morning or Wednesday afternoon?”

“I’ve got to open up Wednesday morning, at 6:00 a.m.”

“What about Wednesday evening?”

She winced. “Can’t. Have a date. What about Tuesday night?”

He raised a brow. “I thought the post-date postmortem was off-limits?”

“Since it’s my schedule that’s causing the problem, I’ll make an exception. Where do you want to meet?”

“There’s a restaurant a few blocks from here.”

“You know, why don’t you just come over to my place? That way we don’t waste time with the commute, and I do have to be up early the next morning.”

The words were innocent enough, and her eyes showed no sign of ulterior motives, but he was fast learning that she was a much better actress than anyone could guess.

Little Bo Peep did nothing without an ulterior motive. Maybe it was another one of her little poke-the-dog games. Maybe he didn’t care.

The room got very quiet and an electric current began to crackle in the air. A gazillion megawatts. Enough to light up the shoreline of Chicago—and Detroit, too.

Spencer stood, and if she noticed the electric charge that was currently tenting his pants, well, good for her.

She picked up her purse and followed him out. “I’ll see you Tuesday night.”

He met her eyes, but chose to remain silent. A man lived by his words, but he could die by them, as well.

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