He couldn’t tell her the truth, couldn’t possibly admit that he was staying because of her. Because she was in danger. Because she’d fought him and confronted him and disliked him—and yet still kissed him as if she needed his breath to survive. Because she was, right now, rubbing the soft pad of her thumb against his, sending frissons of sensation through him as he imagined all the other ways, other places, he wanted her touch.

So he settled for replying, “It’s where I need to be, and you can’t pay me back, so I’m making the best of it.”

She blinked rapidly, nibbled her lip and pulled her hand away to clench it with her other one. Finally, as if not quite believing she was saying it, she agreed.

“All right, then. If you’re completely sure, I guess you’ve got yourself a place to live for the month. But just until the New Year.”

Actually, he didn’t have quite that much time. He’d lost days in travel, and would on the way home, too. So he had only a little over three weeks before he’d have to start heading back to Elatyria. Less than one month of freedom before his responsibilities would take over his life.

Not much time to find the woman of his dreams, one he could love for the rest of his days.

Or, in case he’d already found her, not much time to make her fall in love with him in return.

ALTHOUGH PHILIP WAS certain Claire was the only woman he wanted to get to know, his two compatriots insisted he follow his original plan to meet as many as possible before pursuing anyone. He’d had to keep an open mind and at least allow the possibility that he’d meet someone else who interested him more.

So, despite wanting to do nothing but find reasons to bump into the lady, which he did a few times—or better yet, find reasons to kiss her again—he had to leave the apartment and get out and about in New York. He visited museums, rode the subway, consumed horrible coffee in dingy cafés and excellent Scotch in swanky restaurants. He was flirted with, propositioned, and even argued over by two women at a club—yet his heart didn’t so much as skip a beat for any other female he set eyes on. Only her.

Whenever he wasn’t out fulfilling his obligations to his kingdom and his family, he was at the apartment, fulfilling his vow to protect Claire. She didn’t know the Elatyrians were on guard. It seemed American women were touchy about being protected by a man.

Philip kept watch from the stairs, or the back alley, or from across the street. Shelby had complained incessantly, especially about the cold, but Teeny was happy to help, since being a bodyguard was his job and his favorite thing to do. He would love for something to happen so he could crush someone, and Philip had had to physically drag him away from a taxi driver who’d paused in front of Claire’s shop for too long.

After a few days, Philip began to relax his guard, feeling fairly confident they hadn’t overlooked any scurrilous characters lurking around, and he released his friends from their duty. But he didn’t release himself. He kept watching, not only because it was still possible she could be in danger, but because he’d rather stay here, getting to know her moment by stolen moment, than exchange a word with anyone else.

Guarding her had given him the chance to see her in so many guises. Claire was always smiling and friendly toward her customers, patient with her annoyingly perky clerk. She looked happy when hanging colorful holiday decorations in the window, and he’d heard her humming Christmas tunes when closing up at night. She always bent down to eye level when a child entered the shop and usually slipped the little ones a free chocolate if their parents approved.

Every morning, after the early rush and before the lunch-hour one, she would sit at the same small table in the front window. She’d slowly sip a cup of coffee, staring out at the world with a dreamy expression on her face, as if for those few minutes she was allowing herself to let go of her responsibilities and thinking only lovely thoughts.

He liked those moments especially. Claire looked young and fragile and almost carefree, when usually she was so strong and hardworking. But always beautiful.

Sometimes, though, she looked utterly weary. Like right now.

Philip stood at the top of the staircase, watching from the shadows. Though not on constant vigil, he did like to keep an eye out after she closed up, wanting to be there when she made the short walk down the darkened hall from her store to her small apartment. Since she usually kept the back door to the building unlocked during the day for deliveries, he was always tense about these transition times and wanted to make sure she got there safely.

Tonight, she looked exhausted, having worked a long, ten-hour shift by herself. Her eyes were shadowed, her face pale. She hadn’t even finished locking the shop door behind her before she was reaching up to tug at the clips in her bun, letting the thick mass of dark hair tumble down over her shoulders. It fell in a sea of curls to midway down her back, luscious and inviting, like the richest chocolate she sold.

Philip made a small sound of approval, not even realizing he’d done it until she jerked her head and peered up into the shadows, her eyes wide, a little frightened.

“Pardon me, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, walking down the stairs toward her.

“Oh, it’s you,” she replied, her voice holding a tremor. He wondered if she’d had a few sleepless nights, waiting for her brother’s unsavory friends to pay a visit. “What are you doing?”

Philip lifted a bag of rubbish that he’d brought along in case they bumped into one another. “Just taking this out.”

“Okay.” She lifted a hand, self-consciously smoothing her hair, as if uncomfortable about having taken it down.

“It’s beautiful,” he told her sincerely, though he wished the hallway wasn’t so shadowy, so he could see all the variations of color. What he’d originally thought was simply a dark, rich brown appeared to have lighter streaks, but he couldn’t be sure. “Keeping it up and hidden away is criminal.”

There was a brief hesitation while she stared at him, as if unsure how to respond. He sensed she was unused to compliments. Which told him men here were not only blind but stupid.

Finally, she chuckled softly. “Tell that to a customer who finds a long strand of hair in his candy. Eww.”

Philip conceded the point. “When you are not working, then.” Reaching out, he smoothed an errant strand, fingering its softness, then tucked it behind her ear.

She sucked in a breath. Philip dropped his hand. The air in the cramped hallway seemed to grow hotter by the second as awareness and tension flowed between them.

He knew what attraction felt like, knew the lure of sexual heat, and right now it was building like a huge, tangible presence between them.

“So, are you settling in okay? I’ve heard you guys moving around a lot, but haven’t seen much of you over the past few days. I’ve never even met your friends.”

Her voice held the tiniest hint of wistfulness. A less confident man might not have heard it, or might have misinterpreted, but Philip recognized it.

He mentally kicked himself. After the kiss they’d shared, she had to have been wondering if he had romantic intentions toward her. In fulfilling his obligations—continuing his bride hunt—for the past four days, he’d ignored the one woman he actually wanted.

Well, that was something he intended to remedy. Very soon.

“We’re fine,” he assured her. “We’ve just been getting our living quarters established. There is a lot to do.”

She sighed and ran a hand through her thick hair. “I know. I’m sorry. I should have come up and offered to clean—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not a maidservant.”

“No, but I could have at least made sure there were no dead bugs all over the floor.”

“There aren’t.” A tiny grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “Anymore.”

“Gross,” she said with a reluctant laugh. “I suck at this landlady thing.”

“As I recall, it wasn’t a job you chose.”

“True.”

“Speaking of which, have you heard from your brother?”

Her lips tightened. “Not a single word.”

Not surprising. The cheerful young man hadn’t looked like the type who would enjoy being confronted by anyone, especially an angry sister. “I’m sure he’s all right.”

She growled. “He won’t be after I feed him a batch of fudge with a laxative icing.”

Philip didn’t know exactly what she meant, but got the feeling it didn’t bode well for Freddy. “Poisoning your sibling isn’t very nice,” he said, while privately conceding her brother likely deserved it.

“He won’t die,” she insisted.

He laughed softly. “Bloodthirsty, are you? I didn’t think you capable of murder, Claire.”

“You should have seen me after you left Sunday night.”

He had seen her. Every time he closed his eyes.

She leaned against the hallway wall. “So, have you gotten out at all to see New York?”

“A bit.”

He told her of his adventures with the subway, hearing her chuckle as he admitted he’d ridden the thing for four hours straight one day, being unsure where to get off. She gave him a few tips, talked about her own favorite things to do in the city… and gave him an idea for his next move.

Now wasn’t a good time. She looked exhausted, having worked alone all day. Plus he had some plans to make. But very soon, he would, as they said here, take his best shot.

“I should let you get inside,” he told her when he saw her struggling to hide a yawn. “You look most weary.”

“You can say that again. Making ten dozen truffles really shouldn’t be such backbreaking work.”

The days to come would be better; she wouldn’t have to work so hard. He’d make sure of it, even if he had to send Shelby to sell sweets in the store and set Teeny to baking in the kitchen, so Claire was able to take a break now and then. Picturing such a thing, he smiled.

“What?”

“I’m just imagining my… friend Teeny working in your kitchen, making delicate chocolates. ’Tis not a pretty picture.”

“Bull-in-the-china-shop sort?”

“More like a mastodon.”

She chuckled, as if visualizing it. “I’m afraid I can’t give him a job right now, anyway. I can barely make payroll for my salesclerk, who I can afford only four days a week.”

Hmm. How much, he wondered, would a kitchen assistant require? And could the salesclerk be persuaded to work a few more hours for money slipped to her on the side?

“Well, I should go in,” Claire said.

“Yes, of course. Good night,” he told her, resisting the urge to touch her again.

But he would, very soon. He just had a few things to work out. In the meantime, he would get to know her, be someone she could rely on. He would befriend her, with courtesy and politeness. And see what happened.

“Good night, Philip.”

Her smile was gentle, sweet, and his heart clenched as she nodded and walked to her door. After she unlocked it and let herself inside, he listened for the click of the bolt. Once he was sure she was safely locked in, he made his way back upstairs, but didn’t go into his cold, lonely apartment just yet. Instead, he stood on the landing for several long minutes, thinking about that smile, that laugh, that naughty gleam in her eye. Thinking about that hair. About sinking his hands into it and feeling it brush against his bare skin… his chest, his throat, his stomach.

That was when he acknowledged that he’d wasted enough time looking for someone else. The only woman he wanted lived right downstairs from him. He could walk around for days, find ways to be introduced to a hundred more single woman and still not be drawn to anyone the way he was to Claire Hoffman.

And so as soon as he could arrange it, his courtship of her would begin in earnest.

CLAIRE HAD BEEN TELLING herself for several days that she didn’t mind that her handsome tenant hadn’t sought her out in private after that first night. Yes, he’d kissed her. Yes, he’d rocked her world in the process. Yes, he’d left her dazed, confused and dreaming fantastic dreams every night since. But he hadn’t promised anything.

Maybe in Spain, deep tongue kisses meant “Nice to meet you.”

After she’d finally had another conversation with him, outside her apartment Thursday night, however, she was forced to admit the truth to herself. She’d been bothered that he hadn’t pursued her. Seriously bothered. She was attracted to the man in a way she’d never been attracted to anyone. She just didn’t know what she was going to do about it.

As ridiculous as it seemed, she tried to intentionally run into him again throughout the next few days. She lingered in the hallway during her breaks. She hovered at the bottom of the stairs, or at the entrance to the building a few times. She certainly heard noises from upstairs, or sometimes from the hallway, when they were hauling in furniture that looked like it had come from the dump or the junk store.

And her plan worked; she did see him and talk to him. But never with the intimacy of the night they’d met, or the time he’d been taking out the trash. Now when they bumped into each other Philip was polite and courteous, insisting on opening doors for her, and once helping her move a stack of boxes to the stockroom. She tried not to notice the way his shirt pulled tight against his arms and shoulders when he moved. But that would be like trying not to notice a tsunami roaring up the Hudson.

Beyond that, though, they’d been nothing but cordial. Like real neighbors. Mr. Tall, Dark and Sexy was the perfect tenant—which was a good thing, right?

Wrong. Because she felt she was missing out on something every time he was cordial, when she wanted him to be flirtatious. Every time he held the door, when she wanted him to hold her.

Now, she probably wouldn’t even have that much. Christmas was exactly two weeks away, and she would be incredibly busy with the store. Though, she conceded, not as busy as she’d feared. To her surprise—and delight—an older lady who’d once owned a candy shop and was looking for something to do now that she’d been widowed, had come in looking for a job on Saturday, and had gone right to work. Mrs. West had insisted on working for a low salary to “get back in the game” as she called it, and had quickly become indispensable. Not only was she wonderful in the kitchen, she had a sharp mind for business and had made several great suggestions.

What a godsend. And not only that, Jean, her part-time salesperson, had said she needed a few more hours, and had agreed to let Claire pay her every two weeks instead of weekly so it would be easier for her to make payroll. Businesswise, things were going well.

Personally? Not so much.

It wasn’t just Philip. Claire also hadn’t seen or spoken with her idiot, soon-to-be-seriously-smacked-if-she-had-anything-to-say-about-it brother. Freddy hadn’t been coming around, nor had he returned any of her dozen messages. Probably because he knew she would, A) want to do violence on his person; and B) demand that he give her the five thousand dollars he’d scammed off Philip so she could pay back the man’s security deposit when he moved out.

She had no idea how she was going to do that, and found herself half hoping they’d decide to stay another month so she could tell him he didn’t have to pay, that she’d take the rent out of the deposit. Then she could write it off and call it even. Even if they stayed, that wouldn’t allow her to recoup the money she’d had to pay to get the utilities turned on upstairs, but it was better than trying to come up with five “large.”

That, she promised herself, was the only reason she wanted Philip Smith to stick around. It had nothing to do with his looks or his smooth voice, his sexy smile, or, oh, God, that incredible kiss.

“Are you okay?” asked Jeannie, who, like Claire, had been working like a madwoman during the late afternoon rush on Tuesday. Word was spreading about I Want Candy and people were constantly calling or coming in to place orders for specialized holiday gifts. Claire had gone through so much red and green icing, she wished she owned stock in Dixie Kane sugar. “You’re so quiet.”

“I’m fine, just thinking,” Claire admitted. “I’ve barely had time to do that lately.”

She’d looked at the clock during a lull that afternoon, and then three hours had passed in a blur of customers and phone calls. It was nearly six now, almost closing time and already dark out, if Midtown Manhattan could ever be called dark. Especially at this time of year, with all the twinkling lights and holiday decorations brightening even the gloomiest of nights.

“Hey, I finally met one of the new guys.”

“New guys?”

“One of the dudes from upstairs. Talk about a hottie.”

Claire immediately turned and busied herself filing some cleared order forms. “Oh?”

“He’s very gentlemanly, too. Treated me like I was all highbrow and stuff.”

Jeannie cracked her gum. So highbrow.

Claire had already talked to her about that habit, among others, but the young woman, while a hard worker, and smart, sometimes seemed to have the attention span of a three-year-old on Pixy Stix. Which was a good thing when it came to her energy level and enthusiasm, but a bad one about stuff like follow-through.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Is he single?” Jeannie asked.

Claire’s hand tightened on the top receipt and she found herself crumpling it, then forced her fingers to relax. “I have no idea.”

If not, he’s got some explaining to do about that kiss.

“I mean, I assume he is, since it’s just guys up there. Unless they’re… You don’t think they’re gay, do you?”

She barked a laugh. “Definitely not.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so. He’s supergentlemanly and all, but he didn’t set off my gaydar.”

What a joke. The man’s testosterone had testosterone. He was utterly male, masculine, confidently sexual, sensual and dangerous as hell to any woman who was the least bit susceptible to dark, mysterious strangers.

Which Claire wasn’t. Right?

“Oh, wow, there he is now,” Jeannie said, pointing toward the front of the shop.

Her heart lurching, Claire glanced at the door and saw a dark-haired man entering. But it wasn’t the one who made her pulse race and her underwear dampen.

“Hey, handsome,” said Jeannie with a simper.

“Good evening,” the stranger replied, his voice slightly accented, as Philip’s was. He was also similarly featured, and good-looking, but something about the way his chin and nose were held higher than absolutely necessary told Claire he wasn’t much like the man she’d met in her kitchen.

Still, better this man—who didn’t confuse and attract her—than his friend—who did.

Claire had just breathed a sigh of relief that she wasn’t going to come face-to-face with the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about when the door swung open again, sending in a blast of cold air and hot man.

Oh, boy, here we go.

It was him. Big, strong, so unbelievably handsome, his hair windswept, his mouth curved in a smile that could stop traffic.

Panty-dampening time. Damn it all.

She turned and began shoveling chocolates molded into wreath, bell and Santa shapes from one tray to another. Then she put them back. Busy hands made a clean mind, or something like that. Actually, all her busy hands made was smeary chocolate.

“Hello, Claire,” he said, his voice smooth, silky. Close.

She spun around, to find him standing directly in front of her on the other side of the counter. “Uh, hi. How’s it going?”

“How is what going?”

She took a deep breath and tried again, wondering why this guy so easily flustered her. She’d never had trouble talking to a man before, but Philip left her unsure of herself and a little dizzy.

“How are you doing? Is everything all right upstairs?”

He nodded once. “All is well. Quite comfortable, though I did have to bring someone in to fix the heating apparatus.”

Oh, great. Something else she owed him for.

“Shelby is most happy that it is working now.”

“How could anyone survive this climate without it?” called Philip’s companion—Shelby?—obviously overhearing. Then he went back to flirting with Jeannie, whose attention appeared to have drifted from her original hottie to the inferno who was now speaking to Claire. She was staring back and forth between them like a kid in a… well, whatever.

“Sorry about that,” Claire said. “If you give me the receipt for the service call, I’ll pay you back.”

“No need, it was quite inexpensive. And I wasn’t truly bothered by the cold, though we do come from a warm climate,” Philip said, that purr in his voice making her think of all kinds of warm, sweaty things.

“Oh. Well, I can see how that would be different. It does get pretty cold here,” she mumbled.

Reduced to talking about the weather? Was this really the best she could do? Her late mother, once a noted femme fatale, would be rolling over in her grave.

Her mom had given up on Claire having any grace or feminine wiles by the time she was ten and hit five-eight. Claire had been all lanky build, clumsy feet, gangly arms and legs. Nothing like her petite, delicate mother, the ballerina, who’d been adored by men all over the country once upon a time. That was when Claire had finally been allowed to quit ballet lessons—which she’d loathed. She’d then focused on the one thing she’d loved to do since she’d been old enough to beg her grandmother to let her help in the kitchen: bake.

“And you? You are well?” her tenant asked.

“I’m fine.”

“There have been no… incidents?”

“Incidents?”

“No strangers bothering you?”

Realizing what he was talking about, she shook her head. “No. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about anymore.”

“Not even this Mr. Nutcracker?”

Claire chuckled under her breath as she remembered she’d thought this man could be a thug. She replied, “He’s not going to be a problem. Your rent money took care of that issue.”

“As long as your brother paid off the people he owed.”

Her jaw dropped.

“It truly wasn’t difficult to figure out what had happened, and why he would have rented your property without your permission,” Philip said, touching his index finger to her chin and pushing her mouth closed.

Claire swallowed hard, affected by that simple contact far more than she should have been. Shaking off the reaction—Mexican jumping beans in her stomach—she spoke: “He made a mistake. He’s young and stupid.”

“That much younger than you?”

No, not really. Only five years. But in terms of maturity? She and Freddy had been worlds apart. Claire had had to grow up quickly the first time she’d found their mother passed out from having taken too many pain pills. She’d called 911, then had to go alone to drag her father home from a nearby bar to tell him about it.

She’d been eleven.

“Maybe not in terms of years.”

“The real question is, did your brother use the money to pay back his creditors?”

“I’m sure he did.”

“Positive?”

“Of course.” Oh, she wished her voice held more conviction. Clearing her throat, she added, “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe he wanted to use it to go away, escape his problems?”

She gulped. She hadn’t heard from Freddy, but assumed it was because he was too much of a chickenshit to face her. Not that he’d… He wouldn’t have… Oh, God, would he?

“Sorry.” Philip sounded sincere. “You hadn’t thought of that.”

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