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Dear Rita
Simona Taylor
In a battle of the sexes…If agony aunt Rita Steadman ever received a letter asking for advice about a man like Dorian Black, she'd tell the writer to run for the hills. Every inch of the impeccably dressed, arrogant divorce lawyer spells trouble. Which makes it all the more frustrating that she can't stop thinking about his gorgeous smile, broad shoulders and mesmerizing eyes!Will love come out on top?On paper, Rita's antiman advice column convinced Dorian they were a match made in hell. In person, there's a spark neither can deny, one that draws them together again and again….



Dorian was still standing so, so close,
right here, in her bedroom.
And even as she was being engulfed by this ridiculously unexpected and totally unwarranted attraction, her rational mind reminded her that this was the same man who had been getting on her very last nerve just an hour before. But the warm, woodsy scent of him made those thoughts irrelevant.
Why didn’t he do something? Why didn’t he make a move, say something or lean forward and…touch her? Rita felt her body sway toward him a little. She lifted her eyes to his and found that he was not looking at her, but was staring at the ceiling, in the attitude of someone praying, or at least consulting the heavens for guidance….
“Rita,” he began.
“Yes?”
“I’d better go before…” His eyes were on her mouth again. “I’d better go now.”
Without another word, he turned abruptly and headed out her front door.

SIMONA TAYLOR
lives on her native Caribbean island of Trinidad—a fertile place for dreaming up scorching, sun-drenched romance novels. She balances a career in public relations and a family of two small children and one very patient man while feeding her obsession for writing.
Simona lives under the spell of her muse, or, as they’d say on her island, the writing “jumbie.” At the end of the day, when her son and daughter—her little matched set of salt and pepper shakers—are safely in bed, after school bags are packed, the laundry done, the kitchen cleaned and the toys put away, she indulges in her latest writing project with a sense of anticipation usually reserved for chocolate.
A sensual setting is half the pleasure to be found in reading—and writing—a book. While Simona loves to show off the charms of Trinidad and its sister island, Tobago, she has also set her romances in the south of France, Barcelona and the fictional city of Santa Amata in the eastern United States.
When not dreaming up drool-worthy heroes, she updates her Web site, www.scribble-scribble.com, which, as thousands of visitors have found out, is a fun place to visit, read her novel excerpts and her blog and have a good laugh.
She has also published three works of women’s literary fiction under her real name, Roslyn Carrington, but it is her passion for romance that most consumes her.

Dear Rita
Simona Taylor


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
Dear Rita was one of the hardest books I’ve ever had to write. Why? Timing, timing, timing. I started it on August 16, 2005—when my daughter, Megan, was eight weeks old.
I vaguely remember starting that first chapter, sitting in a haze of exhaustion. Snatching half an hour while my baby slept.
And that’s how Dear Rita has been shaped. In dribbles and bits; in stolen half hours and precious whole hours that were too few and too far between. I wrote on my lunch hour, dividing my attention between the book and my ringing phone, my boss passing by my desk to have a word and the blip of e-mails.
At night, while Megan slept and my three-year-old, Riley, read quietly in his bed (or hollered at the top of his lungs for Mommy), I wrote a little more.
The days in which I was able to write ten, fifteen hours a week are gone. Now, 4 or 5 hours a week are a miracle. But I don’t begrudge my babies the time they’ve taken from me. They’ve added a whole new dimension to the person that I am, and I love them dearly.
I hope you enjoyed Dear Rita . In spite of the constraints, I enjoyed writing it.
I look forward to hearing from you. You can e-mail me at roslyn@scribble-scribble.com, or drop by my Web site at www.scribble-scribble.com. My snail mail address is:
Roslyn Carrington
8190 NW 21st Street
Suite T-926
Miami, FL 33122
Dedicated to Mrs. Leeba Deo La Roche
Thanks for your enthusiasm and your encouragement.
Thanks for being you. You make me laugh every time we meet. And thanks for the loving care you’ve shown toward my children, and, very importantly, for keeping them out of my hair long enough for me to write this book.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22

Chapter 1
S pam.
Delete.
Spam.
Delete.
Spam…How in the world did people dream up half this stuff? And who in the world was crazy enough to buy it? Rita held down the Delete key and shook her head. She had no intention of buying cheap aphrodisiacs online, had no cellulite to speak of and was quite happy with the extra eight pounds or so she carried around on her five-foot-six-inch frame. After all, on the scale of the universe, what was an extra eight pounds?
But spammers certainly made life difficult, especially when her job involved spending hours online each day. People out there relied on her, women who were hurting and confused, who needed her help. Clearing junk mail took longer and longer every day, and when you worked freelance, time was money.
She settled into her Starbucks seat, glad that she had come early enough to bag her favorite, a comfy, funky one near the window, and slurped on her thick, aromatic White Chocolate Mocha. Rita knew her frailties, and coffee was one of them. She could start the day without food. She could start the day without air, if it came to that. But caffeine? Noooo.
She patted her mocha mustache with a napkin and got down to work. A dozen e-mails down, she found a likely prospect.
Dear Rita,
My husband and I share a computer. Last night I was surfing the Net when I began to type in the address of a Web site I wanted. Guess what? The Auto-complete feature was on, and before I could finish typing, another address popped up. It was a singles Web site specializing in girls under thirty. My husband is fifty-two, and we’ve been married twenty-nine years. Rita, I’m devastated. My husband’s registration dates back almost a year, and he’s been using another name, claiming that he’s only forty-one, and single.
What do I do?
Is it just a phase?
Hopeful
Washington D.C.
Dear Hopeful,
What do you do? Try to figure out his password (it usually isn’t all that hard), go into his account with the Web site and cancel it. Then look through his History, dig around in his cookies and Temporary Internet Files, and try to find out where else he’s been. If he has memberships in any other sites, cancel those. Then sit back and wait.
Next time he tries to access the site, he’ll know you know. The measure of the man is what he does next. Either he’ll stay quiet, in which case he’s a coward as well as a cheat, or he’ll ’fess up, in which case he’s honest—for a stinking cheat, that is.
Either way, any man who passes himself off as being ten years younger just to chase women has issues. Is it a phase? Probably. Should you sit back and accept it? No. Either thrash it out before he gets lost in cyberspace, or toss him in the Recycle Bin. Your choice. But I’ve got to tell you, honey, in your shoes, I’d cut the stinker loose and go find a Web site that specializes in men under thirty…
Rita
Rita took another swig of coffee and sighed. Every day she was confronted with the pain of other women’s love lives. They claimed they were coming to her for advice, for her to steer them in the right direction, but most of them knew, deep down in their hearts, what to do. What they were coming to her for, more than anything else, was a sympathetic ear.
And that was why she loved the Dear Rita job. Niobe, a glossy, chatty magazine for women, came out in hard copy monthly. With a wide ethnic base and a decent print run, it was chock-full of everything a women’s magazine should have: fashion, makeup, financial advice, contests and giveaways and an advice column. Her advice column.
Even better, her column ran weekly in the online version of Niobe, creating four times the income for her, and four times the chances to provide a sympathetic ear for sisters in need. It didn’t get much better than that.
She opened up another e-mail.
Holler at ya Rita girl!
Big-ups on your column! You’re a hoot! I have to ask you something. I’m seventeen and still in High School. I’ve been going with a college junior for five months, and he is totally phat!!;-) I’m a virgin and I want to save myself for marriage. (Don’t laugh, my Grandma is a preacher and she’d kill me!) He says he understands.
Thing is, he’s been having sex with other girls. He told me so himself. Not a whole lot. Only once a week or so. He says he loves me and all, but he’s a grown man and has needs.
My girlfriends say he’s a dawg and he could get me sick and I should kick him to the curb, but I love him so awful much, and plus he is so, so cute!!;-)!
What d’you think?
Desperately in Love,
Miami
Rita tapped out an answer, wishing she could thump the girl on the head while she was doing so.
Dear Desperate,
I think your friends are right.
Rita.
She hoped the silly little girl took the hint, but she wasn’t banking on it. What was it with these young women nowadays? Why were they in such a hurry? Was there no more room in the world for friendship rings and promise pins, she groused to herself, feeling a good sixty years older than the twenty-seven she really was.
From deep in the recesses of her coat pocket, her cell phone rang. She fumbled, trying to fish it out, and dropped it on the floor. It survived, but by the time she retrieved it, it had stopped ringing. She recognized the number at once. Beatrix.
She took a few deep breaths. The right thing to do would be to call her mother back. But the idea of it brought a twinge of anxiety to the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t spoken to her mother in, what, a week, maybe two?
She could ignore the call, at least for a day or so, and then plead deadlines, but that would be a bug-eating lie. She was on top of her deadlines for the time being, and it wasn’t as though her social calendar was all penciled in. Besides, the daughter’s rulebook said that a mother’s call had to be returned, even if it amounted to buying an economy-sized bag of trouble at the discount store. She hit Recall.
Her mother picked up. “Rita! Sweetheart! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I just—”
“Glad to hear it. I thought you’d fallen off the edge of the Earth. And you didn’t take my call just now! Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, I was—”
“Sure I’m not interrupting anything?”
“No, Mom, I was just—”
“Bea,” her mother corrected her automatically. If there was one thing Beatrix hated, it was being called Mom. It made her feel old. She’d been discouraging Rita from doing that since she was fourteen.
Rita started over contritely. “No, Bea, you weren’t interrupting anything. I’m in the coffee shop, actually.”
“With someone?” Beatrix sounded hopeful.
“No.” Rita tried not to sound too sharp. It was just that whenever she and her mother—or her father, for that matter—talked, the conversation always swung around to Rita’s rank among the unattached. Every time she asserted her loner status, the response was surprise and disappointment. Beatrix, especially, seemed to think that Santa Amata was a metropolitan version of Temptation Island, throbbing with sexy young singles just waiting to hook up. It was downright ridiculous. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, Beatrix remained hopeful that once, just once, Rita’s story would be a little more titillating. She was like an older sister who sat up on a Saturday night waiting for her younger sister to come home from a date with the boy next door, hoping that the news would be juicy.
But neither of them was a teenager, and there was no boy next door, or high school sweetheart, or football hero, or break dancer or biker boy. As far as Rita was concerned, Beatrix needed to grow up.
“I hate to disappoint you, Bea, but I’m alone.”
“Well, a coffee shop’s not so bad. Lots of young businessmen fueling up on their way to work. Nice and creative ad execs. Pinstriped suits from Banker’s Row. Yummy. You should start up a conversation with one or two. They’re not as stuffy as you’d think, you know. Trust me.” She could almost hear her mother wink.
“I’m writing,” Rita answered pointedly. “It’s how I get paid. I haven’t got time to throw myself at strangers.”
She thought she heard her mother mumble, “Might do you some good.”
“What?”
“Nothing, kiddo.” Bea went quiet for a while, then sighed. “Well, if ever you need—”
“No, thanks,” Rita said hastily. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what Beatrix had on offer this time.
“Because, you know, speaking of writing…”
Rita braced herself. Moving from her dismal, manless state to her abysmal writing was only the second verse in an all too familiar song.
“I read your column last week…”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I was thinking…”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Bea,” her mother answered impatiently. This time, Rita didn’t correct herself.
Bea went on. “I was just thinking, you know, sweetheart, if you ever need a few pointers…For example, what you said to Fidgety in Phoenix? Well, I don’t agree with you. This poor woman was having serious sexual issues, and I don’t think you took the right approach. You had the wrong perspective. Not that you probably could have had the right one, given the fact that you choose to live your life in cloisters.”
“I do not,” Rita managed. “And there’s nothing wrong with what I said to Fidgety.” Her throat was tightening up, and it was the kind of automatic response that even a swig of her favorite coffee couldn’t fix. Being a relationship writer, seeking out the right words with which to say the right things, was enough of a challenge. Being a relationship writer, and living in the shadow of parents whose two blockbusters on sex and relationships had taken up permanent residence on every bestseller list in Christendom, and whose names were buzz words on the talk-show circuit, was a different story. Beatrix was a sexologist with a collection of erotic art that made her cocktail parties a hit. Her father was an anthropologist whose doctoral thesis on the primal nature of human sexuality was still one of the most requested documents in half the universities on the East Coast. As proud as she was of them, it didn’t cheer her up to know they scrutinized every word she wrote.
Beatrix was undeterred. “Feel free to run your column by me next time. It wouldn’t be a problem. Torrance and I—” Torrance was her father. He insisted that Rita call him by his first name, too “—we’d be happy to help. And by the way, when’re we seeing you? We’re home for a whole week. After that, ah…”
Rita jumped on the small conversational bone. “You’re off again?”
“As usual. No rest for the wicked.” Beatrix laughed. “We’ve got a whole week of signings in the southwest. Three or four radio programs, couple of TV spots. Most of them cable,” she added dismissively. “But we are looking forward to being back in Vegas again. You know how much your father loves the cabaret. He finds it…inspiring.”
Ick, Rita thought. Here it comes….
“Last time we hit the clubs, your father ordered champagne and strawberries up to our suite the minute we got back. I don’t have to tell you, most of the champagne wound up in the hot tub—”
“Mom!” Rita pleaded. Beatrix relished regaling strangers with stories about her erotic adventures with her husband, but it wasn’t the kind of thing a daughter needed to hear about her father. Why couldn’t she just have a mother who played mahjongg and a father who liked golf?
“All right,” Bea gave in. “Have it your way. Wouldn’t want to traumatize you. But that offer still stands, okay?”
“Okay, Bea. Thank you. I will,” Rita promised, scanning the sky for flying pigs. “But I really have to go. I’ve got a deadline.”
“Say no more, I read you loud and clear. I’m hanging up, okay? But I’m aching to set eyes on you. Don’t forget we live in the same town, all right?”
Rita smiled. “All right. I’ll see you soon. Maybe over the weekend.”
“Looking forward to it. Love you, baby.” And before Rita could return her mother’s air kisses, the line went dead.
The conversation left her feeling as though she’d done two rounds in the ring with Tyson. Rita slumped forward, resting her forehead on the cool tabletop, and took several deep breaths. Ah, parents. Couldn’t live with ’em….
But there was work to be done. She went back to her e-mails. Junk…more junk…and then the next few messages in her In-box made Rita pause and frown. There were five e-mails, all coming from the same address, all sent within the space of three minutes, sometime yesterday. The first thing that came to her mind was that they were more of the much loathed spam, but something stopped her before she could wipe them off her screen. The subject lines of all the messages were identical: Dear, dear, dear Rita. That was puzzling. Spammers didn’t yet have the ability to identify each of their targets individually. That technology just did not exist…did it?
Cautiously, she opened the first message.
Dear Rita,
Bet you think you’re real smart.
A.F.
Rita pursed her lips. A lot of her mail came from readers, rather than people with questions. Fan mail. Some were complimentary, even fawning. Some were from men wanting to date her. A lot of it came from men in prison—all wrongfully convicted, of course—who swore they had nothing but love and respect for their “strong Nubian sister.”
But not all of it was that good. Frustrated individuals, readers offended by a column or bored Web surfers looking to start a flame war—she’d had to deal with them all.
She moved to delete the other four, assuming they’d be more of same, but stopped in mid-action, morbidly curious to see what else this person had to say. She opened up another. I bet you think you’re all that.
Someone needed to lighten up. Resisting the other three e-mails was impossible; she opened them all up at the same time. Don’t you? read the third, and the fourth, in bold caps, DON’T YOU???
Unease replaced amusement. She opened the final message with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. It was cryptic—and a little too threatening for comfort.
Are you afraid of heights?
A.F.
Rita felt her skin crawl. If this was a joke, it wasn’t funny. She took another look at the e-mail address, but it was simply A.F., the same as the writer’s signoff, coming from one of those generic mail hosting Web sites that everyone used when they preferred to keep their regular one private. She had one herself. That wasn’t much help.
She hit the Delete key a little harder than necessary, sending the offending messages into the ether, and leaned back in her chair. This called for another chug of coffee. She lifted her cup, but it was empty. She left her possessions where they were. After all, she’d been a regular here for years. It wasn’t as if she thought anyone would touch her stuff for the few seconds it took to go to the counter and back. She ordered another coffee, keeping it simple this time. Plain, with the tiniest squirt of hazelnut in deference to the aforementioned, lamentable eight extra pounds. She went back to her table, sat and downed half the steaming cup before returning her attention to the glowing screen before her.
A new e-mail had come in.
It was from A.F.
Even the coffee wasn’t enough to keep the chill out of her blood. She opened it at once, and stared at the unblinking words before her. How’s the coffee?

Chapter 2
R ita felt the hair at the back of her neck snap to attention. She put her hands to the base of her skull, tugging at the long, dark brown double-stranded twists that fell about her shoulders. How’s the coffee? How could this man, whoever he was, know where she was, and what she was drinking? The possibilities nauseated her. Either someone knew her habits so well that he could make an educated guess as to her whereabouts at seven every morning, or she was being watched. Right at this very moment.
Wildly, she looked around, unable to keep the movement casual and circumspect. Had she been followed? Could someone be right there, in Starbucks, quietly watching her? She glanced from table to table, her heart feeling uncomfortably large in her chest.
But all she could see were the regulars, caffeine addicts just like her who turned up every morning, just as she did, to sit in companionable, familiar surroundings while they had their morning fix. Rita knew them so well, she even had names for them.
Across from her, there was the tall, agonizingly thin man who wore business suits and smelled of expensive cologne. Every day he carefully withdrew the financial section of the papers to read over his coffee, then left as silently as he came, abandoning the rest of the paper in a neat heap for whoever occupied his seat next. She privately called him William Wadsworth, Senior.
Closest to her was an older man, who wore a cable-knit cardigan and tweed jacket whatever the weather, and who took plain coffee and a cheese sandwich every morning. No variations. No substitutions. He arrived at the same time, had his breakfast and left at the same time. Sometimes he timidly invited her or one of the other regulars to sit at his table, but whenever she accepted he never said much, just had his coffee and threw her the occasional shy smile. He always left a fifty-cent tip on the table. Rita felt sorry for him. She thought of him as Uncle Harold.
Then there was the strange Goth girl who, like her, always took the same seat if she could get it, near the window. She was about eighteen, although it was hard to tell under the mass of black, greasy hair that fell over her face. Her skin was the color of oatmeal, and the thick, smudged kohl rimming her eyes made her look as though she was losing out on a lot of sleep. She wore the same black hoodie, dark gray jeans, black socks and black high-top Converse sneakers every day. The only hint of color about her was the dozen or so plastic bracelets on one arm, and an oversized silver pendant, representing some arcane symbol, between her small breasts.
She was hunched over her PDA, thumbs flying as she moved the controls to her game, head bobbing to the rhythm of the music being piped into her ears via noodle-thin wires. Rita had decided that her name was Drucilla.
A few joggers were buying drinks at the counter, and a young couple she hadn’t seen before were wrapped up in each other, sharing a chair made for one. Otherwise, the coffee shop was quiet.
The staff, then? Could someone behind the counter have discreetly shot off an e-mail, and were they now covertly watching her, enjoying her reaction? That would be hard to believe. She glanced in their direction, but they were engrossed in their duties, hurrying to and fro in their green aprons, getting ready for the morning rush. Unless the brace-faced youngster fiddling with the digital register was also logged on to the Net at the same time, the scary note hadn’t come from inside the coffee shop.
That left someone outside. The prickling of her scalp morphed into a throb at her temple. She looked furtively out the window, wondering queasily which of the dozens of pedestrians hurrying down Independence Avenue could be the one. But nobody so much as glanced inside. Served her right for sitting at the window. Making a sitting duck of herself. Tomorrow she was sitting against the farthest wall, facing the door.
The coffee tasted bitter and cold to her now, although it was neither. She set it down and packed up her computer.
Outside, in the mild autumn air, she turned west on Independence and followed it a few scant blocks before turning north onto Jubilee, where her apartment sat midway along the short street. It was an aging building, a sedate brownstone that only rose to a height of five stories, so that the nearby buildings towered over it, cutting out much of the natural light. Carved busts of angels once adorned the facade, but, after the first one worked free of its moorings and fell, the landlords took the rest of them down. Pale, angel-shaped scars remained on the wall, ghostly outlines etched into the grime.
Real estate agents euphemistically described the building as “reminiscent of its former glory,” but she liked its charm. Elaborate brickwork decorated the doorway and windows, the tilework throughout was spectacular, and the hot water worked most of the time. Besides, when you considered what they were charging for rent in Santa Amata, she was getting a bargain.
As she ran up the five steps to the main door, she glanced at her watch. She was ten minutes late for her daily jogging date with her best friend, Cassie, thanks to her distraction back in the coffee shop. Hurriedly, she took the stairs to the third floor, not bothering to wait for the elevator, opened up her apartment, tossed her computer and newspaper onto the couch and left again. There was no need to change as she was already in her sweats.
By the time she made it to their regular meeting place, the convenience store around the corner, Cassie was there, leaning against a parking meter and doing stretches, bringing her knee up to her chest and holding it for counts of twenty. Considering her more-than-generous bustline, which dwarfed Rita’s fairly substantial C cups by several sizes, this was not quite as easy as it seemed.
“You’re late, Steadman.”
Rita began her leg bends. “I know. Sorry. I was, uh….” She wondered if she should say anything about the nasty e-mails. Was it worth getting into? She did get them from time to time, so it wasn’t a big deal. Although there was the eerie possibility that A.F. had known where she’d be this morning, she decided to forget it. “I was answering mail,” she said instead, quite truthfully.
“And pumping your body full of poison,” Cassie countered. As a penance for keeping her waiting, she loped off, not affording Rita the time to warm up.
Rita caught up with her, even though the mild throbbing at her temples persisted. Maybe a jog was just the ticket to make the beginnings of a stress headache go away. Cassie was one of those health food evangelists who took pleasure in pointing out the dietary transgressions of others. She thought eating red meat was a crime and had to know exactly which spring her water came from. In spite of this, her curves were not those of a fervent dieter, but Cassie dismissed her bustline and bottom as hereditary, and left it at that.
Rita defended her drug of choice. “The detrimental effects of coffee are greatly exaggerated. It’s good for you, actually.”
“Says who?”
“Says the May issue of Niobe. If there’s anybody who should remember that, it should be you.” Apart from being Rita’s best friend, Cassie was also a senior editor at the magazine.
Cassie blew a raspberry. “The opinions expressed therein are not necessarily those of management.”
Both women laughed.
“Speaking of which,” Rita said as they found their stride, “how’s work?”
Cassie rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask. I had the awfulest, awfulest day yesterday. The art department sent up the new cover layout, and it’s a joke. The model weighed about twenty pounds! Does anyone around there ever listen to what I say? Niobe is a magazine for real women, not scarecrows! I sent it back and told them to get me a model with some flesh on her bones. Someone who looks like she’s had a meal this month. You know?”
“Just wait ’til the scarecrows’ union gets on your back.”
“Oh, yeah? Ha! Your mom’d be proud of me. You know how she’s always raving on about a positive body image for women—never mind she’s still a perfect size six at her age.”
At least that would make her proud of someone, Rita thought. “She called me this morning.”
“Yeah? Speak of the devil. What are Ma and Pa Kinsey up to this time? Nude boogie-boarding in Ibiza?”
“Close enough. They’re off to Vegas. Signings, lectures, interviews, the usual.”
“I heard Bea on the radio the other night. She was a riot! Is it true she had male strippers at her book signing in Denver?”
“That’s what she told me. And I wouldn’t put anything past her.”
“Aw, Rita, don’t be like that. You have no idea how lucky you are to have them as your parents. When I was young, my folks threw a fit if I bought a skirt that showed off my knees. Yours have got to be two of the most modern, forward-thinking sixty-year-olds around. It must have been so cool growing up in their house.”
So you’d imagine, unless you actually had to do it, Rita thought. But she trotted along, pretending she had to take her pulse. Cassie didn’t push it, and they both fell silent.
They jogged in perfect synchronicity with the ease of two people who had done this for a very long time, dodging commuters and other joggers, keeping up the rhythm by running in place at traffic lights, all the way down to De Menzes Park, the pride of Santa Amata. The spread covered several acres of prime, gently undulating land. At the turn of the last century, it had been a horse farm, owned by one of the founding fathers of the small east-coast city. After the grandson of the patriarch died in the late 1950s, his widow donated it to the city. They turned it into the site of choice for a host of community activities, from Girl Scout bake sales to Little League games to summer kite-flying contests to outdoor yoga classes.
They entered by the eastern gate and took their favorite footpath, the one that led to the enormous man-made lake that took up almost a quarter of the park’s area. The trees that ringed the lake had begun shedding their leaves, which crunched under their pounding feet like musical accompaniment.
Cassie cleared her throat. “Rita…” she began.
Rita was too engrossed in the pleasing rustle of the leaves to pick up on the note in her friend’s voice which, under other circumstances, would have set off alarm bells. “Yeah?”
“You know how I’m always saying you should get out more often?”
“You know how I’m always saying I’m happy with my life just the way it is? Dateless?” she joked back.
Cassie didn’t laugh. “Well,” she began, and then stalled. She tried again. “Well…”
This time, Rita heard that note loud and clear. “Well, what?”
“I have a favor to ask you.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. “Tell me you’re going away for the weekend and need your plants watered.”
“No, it’s not that.”
She was almost afraid to ask. “What, then?”
“I need you to go out on a date with me.”
“Sorry, I’m not that sort of girl.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse, and you know it. I need you to go on a double date with me.”
Rita halted, shoes scraping on the footpath. “You’re kidding, right?”
Cassie, who had stopped a few yards farther down, turned and jogged back to her side. “No, I’m dead serious.” She jogged on the spot, keeping her rhythm, even though Rita was standing stock still.
“Cassie, we’re two sane, adult women. I haven’t been on a double date since I was seventeen. Why, for heaven’s sake? Is my lack of a love life that pathetic? Because, let me tell you, I’m perfectly—”
“Perfectly happy being single. I know. It’s not that. I need you.” She stopped her on-the-spot trot and faced Rita.
“Okay,” Rita gave in wearily. “Out with it.”
“Remember last week how I told you about this guy who chased down a purse snatcher for me?”
“Ah, yes, your knight in a three-piece suit.”
“His name’s Clark.”
“Okay, Clark. What about him?”
“Well, he asked me out.”
“You talked to him for ten seconds and he asked you out?”
“Well, uh, it was more than ten seconds. After this total stranger chases down my purse for three blocks and brings it back, I feel like I owe him a few moments of my time, you know? So I thank him, and the next thing I know we’re chatting. About the weather and the news and the Middle East and what we do for a living. Then what d’ya know? We’ve been standing on the sidewalk for more than half an hour. He apologizes for keeping me, and says he’d better let me go. I say, nice meeting you. And then we go on talking for another fifteen minutes.”
“You stood on the sidewalk in rush hour traffic talking with a stranger for forty-five minutes?”
“He brought me back my purse!”
“Thank him, slip him a twenty, and go your separate ways.”
Cassie was scandalized. “You don’t slip a twenty to a lawyer in a fifteen-hundred-dollar suit!”
“Lawyer, huh?” Cassie and a corporate man? Could’ve blown her down. Cassie’s idea of a thrill was a galaxy away. Her men tended to sport do-rags, wear way too much bling, and drive hand-detailed, ten-second rides. Most of them had jobs that paid by the fortnight.
“Yeah. His name’s Clark. Got his own company, on Temple Street. Niiiice. He’s involved in the negotiations for that new mall they’re putting up on—”
Cassie had a tendency to ramble. Rita reeled her back in. “What about the date?”
Cassie came back to the subject without any further prodding. “He called me up and asked me out.”
“You gave a stranger on the street your number?”
“Not exactly. I told him I was a magazine editor, and he tracked me down. Not many magazines come out of this neck of the woods, I guess.”
“Not that many. But don’t you think that someone tracking you down, calling around blind and asking for you, was kind of creepy?”
“No! It was romantic!”
“Ah. Romance.”
Cassie pouted. “Well, it was!”
Rita didn’t bother arguing. “So, you like him?”
Cassie’s dark skin glowed prettily. “Uh-huh.”
“Go out with him, then.” It wasn’t the kind of thing she herself would have done, but Cassie was different. Cassie walked around with magenta hair.
“I will, but you gotta come, too.”
“Why?”
“Because he could be wacko.”
“What makes you think he’s wacko?”
“I don’t think he’s wacko, I said he could be wacko.” Cassie’s large brown eyes were pleading. “Rita, please. You know how things have been with me. After what happened and all…”
Rita softened at once. The left sleeve of Cassie’s lime-green sweat top hid a long, ugly scar, inflicted a little less than a year ago by an ex-boyfriend just days after she’d tried to call it quits. The man had begged her not to end the relationship, peppered her with calls and unwanted visits, before his passion turned to rage. He stormed into her office drunk, calling her every name he could think of for dumping him, while at the same time begging for a second chance. When Cassie refused, he went after her with a letter opener. Only the intervention of a security guard had prevented a tragedy.
The fact that her jealous lover had been put away did nothing to erase Cassie’s fear. It killed Rita to watch her, a natural flirt who gravitated toward men and loved going out, withdraw from male company. Her friend hadn’t been on a date since. Now she’d met someone she liked, and was afraid.
“Let’s walk,” Rita said gently. She didn’t much feel like running anymore. They fell into step along the footpath. “Tell me more.”
“Well, he calls me up at the office yesterday and apologizes for hunting me down like that. I say okay, no problem. He says he really wants to see me.”
“And you said?”
“I say I’d like that. But if he wants a date, it’s got to be a double. He says okay, he understands. Please, Rita. Just one date. Just so I can get to know him better. And you can give me your opinion on him. You know I value your advice.”
“Dear Rita,” she quoted, smiling, “can you tell me if I should see this man again?”
“Exactly.”
Rita stopped walking again and looked out onto the lake, buying herself a few seconds. The reds, oranges and yellows of the changing leaves were reflected in the rippling water, and the clear blue of the sky filled the middle. Why not? It was only one night. That was what friends were for.
“So,” she said, “who’s the frog your prince is bringing along?”
“He’s not a frog. He’s a very good friend of Clark’s. His partner, in fact.”
“Another lawyer?” Ick. She wasn’t one for the corporate type, either.
“Uh-huh. Clark says he’s smart— and good-looking.”
“Ah, a smart, good-looking lawyer. Let me at him.”
“Rita!” Cassie protested. “You never know, you might like him. Like your dad says, sometimes serendipity doesn’t just happen. Sometimes you have to hunt it down.”
“My dad says a bunch of things,” Rita said briskly. “But I don’t need to like this guy. I don’t even care if I do or not. I’m in, but just for you, okay? Does this catch of a guy have a name?”
“Dorian. Dorian Black.”
“Dorian Black? What, is he Dorian Gray’s evil twin?”
Cassie made a face. “I know! Sounds like a joke, but that’s what Clark said.”
“Does he have a cursed painting in his basement, too?”
“Attic,” Cassie corrected.
“Huh?”
“Dorian Gray’s cursed picture was in his attic.”
“Oh. Right. And when and where are we going to have the pleasure of their company?”
“Tonight.” Then Cassie added, sheepishly, “Clark suggested Vimanmek Palace.”
“You hate Thai food. You think curry is a toxin and coconut milk causes heart attacks. You told him so, didn’t you?”
Cassie gave her a level look. “I told him that sounded lovely.”
Rita tried not to roll her eyes. “So my favorite feminist is willing to gulp down cuisine she thinks is sure to kill her rather than admit to a new guy she doesn’t like it.”
“That’s pretty much it, yeah.”
“The sisterhood of feminists will miss you,” Rita couldn’t resist teasing, but put her arm around her friend. “Don’t worry. We’ll have a nice evening. I’ll scope out your guy, and I’m sure that by the end of the evening his report card will be glowing.”
Cassie hugged her gratefully back. “Thanks, girl.”
“Don’t ever say I don’t love ya.”

Chapter 3
D orian Black set his mouse down on the polished surface of his desk. The desk was the most imposing thing in his office. He only kept it because it had been a gift from his father who had spent way too much money on it the day his son began to practice. It was massive, made out of dark oak, with brass handles on the drawers. His dad had half-seriously called it “a power desk for a soon-to-be very powerful man.” It was hardly the kind of furniture he would have bought himself, but it was a gesture born of paternal love and pride, and that made it precious.
The rest of the office was less daunting. It was painted a warm honey, with a few line drawings Dorian had brought home from a trip to the Sudan a few years before, comfortable visitors’ chairs set around the low coffee table where he held most of his conversations with his clients, a small bar that contained, instead of alcohol, a variety of coffees, plain and flavored teas, cookies and Fig Newtons (his favorite snack), all to be served to his guests on simple stoneware. He understood that a visit to a lawyer’s office was probably one of the most traumatic experiences most people had to face. Anything he could do to make that experience a little more bearable was worth it.
He swiveled in his chair to face his partner, Clark, who was staring out of the widepane glass window of his office, down onto Temple Street. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cuss. “ This is my blind date?” He pointed at the Niobe Web site up on the computer screen.
Clark tore his attention away from the view. He had covertly been watching Dorian, reflected in the glass, waiting in silence as he read. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Apart from the fact that I don’t do blind dates, and I especially don’t do double dates, I’ve read through the last few months of her archives and I’ve arrived at the only possible conclusion.”
“What’s that?”
“This Rita woman hates men.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “Maybe because every single bit of advice she’s given is anti-man.”
Clark came over to perch on the edge of Dorian’s desk, gently moving aside a sheaf of documents. “Maybe it’s not so much anti-man as pro-woman,” he suggested.
“Nice try.” Dorian shook his head. “Have you read this stuff? For every woman that takes her advice, there’s one more man out in the cold. She’s just one more love guru who isn’t about love at all. She’s about a woman’s need to always be right.”
Clark peered at the screen and read the correspondence open in Dorian’s Web browser. “Seems to me, a couple of these guys had it coming. Look at this one—stealing from his poor girlfriend….”
“Maybe this one,” he conceded, “but—”
“Dorian,” Clark interrupted, “it’s just for one night. Just one meal. I’m not suggesting a marriage of convenience. If you don’t like Rita, just stick out the evening and you two can go your separate ways. I’m asking this as a favor.”
To Dorian, it sounded like madness. This was the twenty-first century. What woman over eighteen insisted on dragging her best friend along on a first date? And Clark hardly looked as though he were trying out for the lead role in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III. He was one of the most buttoned-down men Dorian knew. He had his hair cut once every three weeks, did his nails every fortnight, bought new suits twice a year, owned three or four identical shirts in each color and had his underwear dry cleaned. Clark was as harmless as it was possible to be and still be breathing. “Why’s she so insistent on this gruesome foursome?”
Clark shrugged. “She didn’t say much, other than that she was naturally cautious. I don’t blame her. It’s a scary world out there.”
Dorian snorted. “I’d have thought that chasing down a purse snatcher half your age on her behalf would have been enough of a character reference for any woman.”
Clark looked bashful. “It was just one of those things. She was standing next to me when this guy knocked her over. Next thing I knew, she was yelling about her purse. I just reacted. If I’d thought about it, I probably wouldn’t have run him down. He could have been armed.”
“But he wasn’t, and good won out over evil.”
Clark peered at Dorian for traces of sarcasm. “I guess.” He took on a more optimistic tone. “So you’re doing it, right?”
Dorian smiled. Clark was his friend, partner and mentor. What was one evening? He’d have done much more, if Clark had asked, and they both knew it. “Of course I will.”
He took another look at the screen, examining the small photo that accompanied each article. “Dear Rita” was a good-looking woman with skin that made him think of warm cinnamon. She looked less than thirty, with a mass of fine, dark brown corkscrew twists pulled back into a bun at the top of her head. He wondered if that, together with the stylish glasses she wore, were merely affectations in an effort to look more mature and agony-auntish. The glasses did nothing to obscure the clarity of her honey-colored eyes. Even in the tiny photograph, those eyes were disarming. They at once drew him in and made him squirm. Her cheekbones were wonderful, and her shapely lips tinted by a conservative but attractive shade of lipstick. It was little more than a head and shoulders shot; just enough to enable him to see a hint of cleavage under the beige blouse.
From over his shoulder, Clark observed, “She’s cute.”
“She is,” he agreed. He added slyly, “As cute as your Cassie?”
“Nope,” Clark said immediately. “But you could do worse.”
Dorian laughed. “I suppose I could. You can drop the sales pitch now. I said I’d go. You picked a restaurant?”
“Vimanmek Palace, that new Thai place. It got rave reviews in the Food and Beverage section of The Register last month. We have reservations for seven-thirty.”
Dorian let out a bark of surprised laughter. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Dead serious.”
“But spicy foods make you sick. You can’t even take Tabasco in your Bloody Mary.”
He looked abashed. “I don’t know what got into me. One minute I was asking her out, the next minute I was suggesting a Thai restaurant. I guess I wanted to sound more adventurous. I’m a boring man, Dorian. My idea of a culinary adventure is dinner at TGI Friday’s.”
Dorian was quick to leap to his friend’s defense, even from a self-inflicted attack. “You’re not boring. You are one of the most intelligent and educated human beings on the face of the Earth.”
“If that isn’t boring, I don’t know what is.” Clark smiled wryly. “But at least she sounded keen. Said she’d been dying to try it, too.”
“That’s all that matters. Chug a bottle of antacid before you get there, and you’ll be all right.”
“Want us to leave together, from here?”
“I doubt I’ll make it back into the office today. You go ahead, I’ll meet you there.”
“Seven-thirty, right?” Clark still looked anxious, despite Dorian’s promise.
He must really like this girl. Dorian did his best to reassure him. “My word is my bond.” He glanced at the heavy platinum watch on his left wrist, rose, took up his jacket from over the back of his chair and shrugged it on. “Got to go now.”
“Elcroft Green?” Clark guessed.
“Yep. Gonna be a long one.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” He’d need it. Although the name Elcroft Green sounded like a day spa, it was, in fact, a large medium-security men’s prison in the worst part of town. There was nothing green in it or around it, just a forbidding expanse of concrete walls, watchtowers, twisted barbed wire, gun turrets and metal bars, all designed to keep the dregs of society inside while they paid their debts. Dorian did eight hours there every two weeks, taking on some of the toughest cases pro bono.
The law he practiced was not criminal law, though, but family law. In the case of these men, he mostly handled custody battles, visitation rights and other unjust situations regarding their children. It was a sad fact that many of these men, the vast majority of whom were black, lost not only their freedom but access to their children as a result of their sentencing. Disgruntled and often vengeful mothers sought to deprive them of their parental rights not just for the duration of their sentence, but even after their release.
This was wrong. Just because a man made some mistakes, it did not mean that he should lose the right to be a dad. There were too many children in the world growing up fatherless. That, in itself, was a tragedy. As long as a prisoner had never been convicted of a violent crime or a crime against children, he was willing to take on any custody or visitation rights case for free.
In fact, he had single-handedly lobbied the warden, and later the governor, to ensure facilities for non-violent prisoners to meet and play with their children in a simulated home environment, just as women prisoners were allowed to do. The visiting house on prison grounds, with a playground that featured swings, slides, jungle gyms, and even a basketball hoop, was the result of his badgering. Dorian considered it the finest victory of his career. His work at Elcroft Green was not a job, it was a calling.
As he put his hand on the doorknob, he sought to reassure Clark one final time. “I’ll see you there tonight.” He couldn’t resist adding, “I can’t wait to meet this Cassie you’re so entranced with. And I certainly can’t wait to meet Dear Rita!”
Rita woke up with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. The apartment was in darkness, which was a good thing, because even a sliver of light right now would be a dagger between her eyes. The nagging headache that had begun that morning had exploded into a full-on migraine sometime during the day, with all the pain, nausea and light sensitivity the devil could visit upon her. After popping more than the recommended dose of pain pills, she’d given up the battle and taken to bed around three in the afternoon, and lay there moaning, with a cold compress on her forehead and her face pressed against the wall.
Now something had woken her up, an inner alarm clock that would not be silenced. Still under the bewildering effects of sleep, she searched her mind for that thing, that very important thing she needed to do right this minute, but came up empty.
Why was she up? Was it a sudden noise, a vicious jolt of pain or the subconscious knowledge that she was supposed to be doing something? She put her hand to her head, and the touch sent waves of pain through her.
Then she remembered.
Cassie.
Oh, God.
She threw herself to the other side of the bed and her fingers frantically sought the clock. Turning it around, she could see the green glow of large digits. It was ten to seven. Cassie was coming to get her in about ten minutes, and Cassie was never late.
She toyed with the idea of calling to say she was sick, but the thought itself was a betrayal. Cassie meant everything to her. If Rita had been lying in the woods with her leg caught in a bear trap, she’d have gnawed it off in order to make it tonight.
She clicked on the bedside lamp and winced. She stripped, dashed into the shower and was out again after barely getting her skin wet. Her legs needed shaving and her hair could have done with a quick shampoo, but neither project was plausible. She toweled herself down, dragged on mismatched underwear, and threw open her closet door, cursing herself for not having decided in advance what she would be wearing. She chose a faithful old standby: a slim-fitting, warm burgundy skirt that reached mid-calf (thus solving the problem of the unshaven legs) and a sheer champagne top with a neckline that showed cleavage without plunging all the way to her belly button.
She didn’t have time to pile her twists up onto her head as she liked to do when dining out, so she satisfied herself by smoothing them so that, at the very least, they didn’t look like a fright wig. Now, for makeup—
Her phone rang. Rita snatched up the receiver. “Cass?”
“I’m outside, babe,” Cassie chirped.
Rita glanced at her dresser, strewn with pots of color, lipsticks and brushes, and hesitated. “Uh….”
“Ready, right?” Cassie asked, but her question was not a question. It was a statement that demanded an affirmative response.
Rita hesitated. Her reflection in the dresser mirror wore no makeup. Her brows needed neatening and her forehead was just a tad too shiny. She was going out on a blind date looking, if not like something the cat dragged in, at least like something the cat would have given serious consideration to.
But Cassie was a bundle of nerves and a tangle of excitement, and Rita didn’t have the heart to keep her waiting a moment longer. After all, it wasn’t as if this was a real date, with prospects for dates in the future. This was a favor for a friend, an evening to be endured, to be ended with relief. Her “date,” this Dorian Black, was probably as reluctant as she was to be dragged along as third and fourth wheels. If he wasn’t, if he thought this was anything more than it seemed, he was a bigger nerd than she expected him to be.
“Rita?” Cassie’s anxious voice was tinny in her ear. “You there?”
“Uh, yeah.” She regained control of her scrambled thoughts. “I’m here. I’m on my way down.”
“Good.” Cassie sounded relieved. “I was afraid….” She didn’t finish.
“On my way,” Rita repeated, and hung up. Pausing only to slip on a pair of pumps that were almost the same shade as her skirt, and to snatch up her purse and a light coat for the cool evening, she darted through the front door and raced downstairs. Her head pounded with every footfall.
Someone had tried very hard to create an ambience of soothing, almost trance-like calm at Vimanmek Palace. As soon as Rita and Cassie walked in, they were greeted by the tinkling of brass and the trickling of water through bamboo pipes. The interior was decorated throughout with shades of avocado, gold and a warm red, with rich wall tapestries and rows of bronze statuettes, the largest of which, a benevolent Buddha, dominated the lobby.
They were escorted into a reception area by a Thai girl clad in silk wraps of hummingbird colors: gold, emerald, turquoise and rose pink. Despite her headache, Rita was entranced by the grace with which the girl moved, and the butterfly flutters she made with her slender hands as she gestured to a corner of the room before she bowed and disappeared.
Standing there, looking nervous, was a slightly-built man in a silver-gray suit, with sandy, thinning hair, pale gray eyes and a hopeful half smile. He had been staring intently at the doorway, and when he saw them, his face brightened.
“That’s him,” Cassie hissed.
Rita’s brows shot up. “You didn’t tell me—”
“That he’s white?” Cassie interrupted defensively.
“That he’s old, ” she responded, just as quickly.
“He’s fifty-one,” Cassie retorted. “That’s not old.”
Your dad’s fifty-four, Rita would have reminded her, but they were within earshot now and Clark stepped forward, both hands outstretched. “Cassie! I’m so glad you came. You look lovely!” He blushed madly as he said it and grasped Cassie’s hands in his.
Rita looked at Cassie properly for the first time this evening. She did look lovely. Her short natural hair gleamed as though washed in sunshine. Her makeup was flawless, as was her manicure. She wore a deep green wrap dress with long sleeves and a high collar, a surprising choice for the normally unconventional Cassie. She even had a large silver brooch pinned over her left breast. Although it did little to disguise her outrageous figure, it made her look several years older. She tried not to feel too weirded out by the fact that Cassie was disguised as her own mother, and allowed herself to be introduced.
“This is my best friend, Rita Steadman.” Cassie indicated her with a sweep of her arm. “Rita, this is Clark Burrows.” She added unnecessarily, “He’s the guy I told you about.”
Clark engulfed her hands in both his warm ones. “Rita. Delighted, delighted! Cassie has told me so much about you.”
“Really?” Rita murmured the standard response. “I hope it was all good.”
“Oh, it certainly was.” He beamed. “We talked on the phone for hours yesterday, and trust me, half the conversation was about what a great friend you are, and how much you’ve been through together.”
Rita cast a glance at Cassie, who was doing nothing but standing there, smiling. She’d known that Clark had called yesterday, but she had no idea that the conversation had gone on for hours.
There was an awkward silence, where everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to say or do something. Clark rushed in to fill it. “I think we’d better have a seat, ladies. Dorian called—that’s Rita’s date.” He smiled reassuringly at Rita. “He said he’d be a little late. He suggested we go ahead and order, and he’ll be here as soon as he can.”
She couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated. She’d made the effort to come along on this little caper, even though she was halfway through death’s doorway. So why couldn’t this Dorian guy?
Their table was large and ornate, laid with gold-rimmed china and bright silk napkins, and brushed by feathery fronds that hung down from potted plants on the wall. A water feature tinkled nearby, and small brass chimes swayed idly overhead, even though there was no discernible breeze. Rita accepted the chair that Clark held out for her, and, glad for the distraction, began to peruse the menu. She listened with mild amusement as Cassie and Clark discussed the choices, knowing full well that Cassie was doing rapid calculations in her head about fat grams, sodium content and such. She pitched in with suggestions of some of the more innocuous items on the menu for their communal dishes. Eventually, they agreed upon several simple dishes, although Clark did persuade her to order a spicy green curry to share with Dorian, promising that Dorian was a more adventurous eater.
Over hot lemongrass soup, the conversation became more relaxed. Rita found herself liking Clark. Though hardly a sparkling wit, he was charming in a Midwest farm boy sort of way. Even his nervousness was endearing.
But by the time the main courses arrived and there was no sign of Dorian, Rita’s irritation rose again. It was an awkward, left-at-the-altar kind of situation, made more uncomfortable by the fact that Cassie and Clark kept trying to draw her into their conversation, as though they felt sorry for her sitting alone like the cheese. She was thankful, but inwardly she seethed. If this Dorian person thought she’d be all sugar and spice when he did turn up—if he turned up at all—he had another think coming.
As sweetly as she could, she asked Clark, “Are you sure nothing’s happened to Dorian?”
He frowned slightly, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. “He’s usually not this late, but you can’t always put a time frame on legal matters. If you forgive me for using the phone at the table, I’ll give him a call.” He withdrew a small cell phone from his breast pocket and was just dialing it, again murmuring apologies, when he looked up, past Rita’s shoulder, and smiled. “There he is now.”
In spite of herself, Rita turned in her seat, toward the entrance, wondering if she would be able to guess which of the patrons entering through the doorway would be him. Would her date for the evening turn out to be another soft-spoken, homegrown Idaho farm boy old enough to be her father? But there was just one man standing there, and this was no Idaho farm boy.
The man in the doorway was so tall, he had to dip his head slightly in order to clear the low-hanging silken ropes curving down from the lintel. His skin was darker than dark, and as he drew closer she could see that so, too, were his hair and eyes. One image ran through her caffeine-addicted brain: coffee…black. The man’s skin made her thirsty.
Rita sat up straighter in her seat.
The breadth of his shoulders gave balance to his height, and the sedate navy of his suit was offset by a shirt the exact color of a cloudless winter morning sky. He walked quickly without seeming rushed, and made his way directly to their table, where Clark was already on his feet with his hand extended. The two men shook hands warmly, with Dorian uttering apologies as fast as Clark could brush them aside. Introductions were quickly made, and Rita found her hand engulfed in Dorian’s huge one. Closer now, she could examine his features in greater detail.
His brows were dense and arched, and unbelievably black eyes were framed by lashes as thick as moth’s wings. A shapely nose drew her eyes downward to a wide mouth that was saying something she could not hear, as the tinkling of the fountain nearby had become in her ears as loud as a pounding surf.
Unfashionably late or not, Dorian Black was easily one of the best looking men she had ever met.
This was not a good thing.

Chapter 4
D orian looked down into the face of the woman he had been shanghaied into having dinner with. Her eyes were even clearer and more honeyed than they had appeared in the little photograph that accompanied her column. With her hair let down (and a little messier than he would have expected for such an occasion) she looked younger, too. She appeared flustered, almost as though she hadn’t expected him to actually turn up. He was, after all, forty-five minutes late. For someone who didn’t understand how trying his prison visit day could be, and how insane things got behind those high stone walls, such lateness would seem unforgivably rude.
He repeated his apologies, this time, directly to her. “Sincerely sorry for keeping you waiting, Miss Steadman. Please forgive me.”
She looked even more flustered. “It’s, uh, Rita.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Rita, then. It’s a lovely name,” he added, more for want of something pleasant to say than out of any particular affinity for the name, which was a perfectly run-of-the-mill one, as far as he was concerned.
“Thank you.” She accepted the compliment as though she knew he hadn’t really meant it.
There was an awkward moment, the kind that usually falls between two people who have been thrown together against their wills. She motioned for him to sit. As he sank onto padded satin, he wasn’t even aware he was sighing. He was drained, not just from the pressure of having to discuss so many different cases with so many different prisoners in one day, but from the emotional toll that delving into the lives of these men took on him. He needed to remind himself that it was worth it. Sometimes his work brought disenfranchised fathers joy. Often, though, in spite of everything he could do, all they suffered was more heartache and rejection. Most nights after leaving Elcroft Green, all he wanted to do was go home, sip a solitary drink, shower and pull the covers over his head.
But the occasion demanded good cheer, so he listened attentively as Rita led him through the array of dishes, describing each one as though she had memorized the menu. Tofu rolls, fish in cucumber sauce, steamed seafood salad, roasted duck smothered in cashews, chicken in green curry, wild boar simmered in coconut milk, assorted vegetable dishes, two kinds of rice, two kinds of noodles and cups generously filled with rice wine. He wondered how poor Clark was managing. His joking advice about chugging antacid seemed inadequate. After a meal like this, Clark would need a medic.
“Are you sure there aren’t four more people coming to help us finish this?” He piled his plate with food kept warm by small heating trays under each platter.
Rita smiled, and he noticed how perfect her teeth were and how white they appeared, even though she wore no lipstick to throw them into contrast. Alluring, he mused, but as he glanced at the perfectly made-up face of her friend, he wondered how it was that she had not used so much as a little lip color or blush. He wasn’t the sort to expect that women be exquisitely painted at all times, but he was an observant man, one who made his living trying to get to the bottom of a person’s personality, discerning their motives and characteristics. Was the lack of makeup a matter of artlessness, disinterest or a political statement? His mind went back to her columns, and the men-are-dogs, women-are-goddesses spirit of them, and decided that the reason was probably behind door number three.
Again, he glanced across at Cassie, trying to get a handle on her without being too obvious about it. He’d known Clark for ten years. First, Clark had been his professor at law school. Then, when Clark grew bored with teaching and returned to private practice, Dorian had moved from summer intern, to wet-behind-the-ears employee, and finally, to full partner and trusted friend. In all that time, he didn’t remember Clark ever acting so impulsively.
She didn’t seem to be his type. The racial difference between the two was not surprising, even though he had never known Clark to date black women, because Clark was one of the most unbiased and unbigoted people he knew. It was more a matter of the age difference, which was twenty years if it was a day, and the vivacity that rolled off her in waves. Even though it was obvious that she was trying to dress older than she really was, he could sense by the way she moved and talked, the arresting color of her hair and the aura she had about her that she was much more unconventional than she was trying to look.
But the two were entranced by each other, chatting away and laughing as though they were alone. He couldn’t remember when last he’d seen Clark so animated. Even though from time to time he remembered his role as host and tried to encourage Dorian and Rita to take part in the conversation, it was obvious that he had eyes and ears only for the lovely, curvaceous young woman across from him.
Dorian wished him well.
He returned his attention to Rita, who was staring intently down at her plate, and kicked himself for having the bad manners to let his mind wander and leave her out of the loop. He tried to initiate some idle chatter. The only thing he knew about her was her work, so he decided that that was as good a place as any to begin.
“Do you just write your column, or do you do other things as well?”
She seemed relieved to have something to talk about. “Mainly the column, but I write commentaries and investigative pieces for Niobe as well, when I come up with an idea they’re willing to buy.”
“Pieces about what?”
She shrugged. “Women’s issues. Relationship articles, stories about families, and the difficulties they have staying together. Or how hard it is when things go wrong.”
“So, your background is in counseling or psychology?”
She looked at him in surprise, as though she had never considered that. “No. Actually, my college degree is in classical literature.”
He thought again about some of the cutting remarks he read from her that morning, and his brows lifted. Shelling out advice to the lovelorn without a solid backing was like dispensing medicine without a permit. What made her think she had the right to tell other people how to conduct their love lives? Unable to stop himself, he probed. “I always thought of agony aunts as being matriarchs in their sixties, who have a whole lifetime of experience—good marriages, bad marriages, kids and grandkids, fights and breakups—to rely on when they give advice. What do you base your advice on? You hardly look old enough to be a shoulder for the lovelorn to cry on.”
She bristled visibly, and he couldn’t help but notice how cute she looked doing it. The color in her cheeks made the absent blusher unnecessary. “I’m not that young!”
Maybe not, but she was hardly the Oracle of Delphi. Her indignation was endearing. Like a cat with an irritated mouse, he tweaked her some more. “Besides, it seems to me that your advice hardly ever gives the man in question a fighting chance. Women’s magazine or not, I’d have expected a column like that to be less biased.”
“Most of the women who write me know that their men are bastards. They don’t need me to tell them that. They just want someone to agree with them.”
“So you think your role is to confirm their poor opinion of men, rather than to provide them with a more balanced view?”
She twirled her noodles around her fork, but didn’t bring it to her mouth. “They want confirmation, not balance. And anyway, if their men were nicer to them, they wouldn’t need to write me.”
“Don’t you get letters from women who, despite the problems they’re having, beg you to help them find a way to keep their men?”
“Sure.”
“And what do you do?”
“Help them see the light. Try to show them that, if they’re being disrespected, they need to assert themselves. And their men need to shape up or ship out. No sense clinging to something if it’s only going to do you harm.”
“And do you ever get letters from men who are the injured parties? Men whose women have done them wrong?”
She thought about it. “I guess.”
“And what do you do?”
“I try to be fair.”
He doubted it.
She added hurriedly, “Look, I don’t hate men.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You’re thinking it,” she insisted.
“I’m thinking nothing of the sort,” he assured her smoothly, although that was pretty much the idea he was forming. “I was just trying to get an idea of what your work was like. It’s not often I get to meet a real writer. I’m fascinated.”
The flattery worked. She seemed mollified. “Okay, I just didn’t want you to…” She didn’t finish her thought.
He pressed again, curious to penetrate her mind even further now that her defenses were down. “And what about the men, these husbands and boyfriends who were put in their place on your say-so?”
She looked perplexed. “What about them?”
“Do you ever get letters from these rejects? Doesn’t anyone ever complain or react to your role in their downfall? Hasn’t anyone ever threatened to get even?”
She flinched as though she’d been hit, and immediately he regretted his flippant question. “I…I guess so. Sometimes they’re…angry…” She rubbed her temple as though it were sore.
Dorian immediately sensed that he’d gone too far. “I’m sorry. Did I step into something I shouldn’t have?”
“No,” she said shortly, but he knew she was lying. “Nobody’s ever reacted in a way I can’t handle. I get a few ugly letters, no big deal. You can’t be a writer if your skin’s not thick enough to handle a few bad reviews.” She swirled her rice wine around in its little cup, took a sip and switched from defense to attack. “What about you? Is your name really Dorian Black, or did you make it up because it sounds interesting?”
He’d endured enough teasing about his name not to mind a little more. “It’s all mine. My mother had an unusual sense of humor. But I promise you there’s no cursed picture hidden away in my house, getting old and gray while I stay young and beautiful—” at that, she cracked a smile “—and I certainly haven’t sold my soul to the devil for a shot at immortality.”
“That’s good to know. That devil is one tricky fellow.”
Dorian nodded. “You said it. I’m sure even I couldn’t find a loophole in one of his contracts.”
His work was as good a conversational gambit as any when two people had run out of other things to say. “So, property law must be as rife with drama as the agony aunt business, huh? Buying and selling buildings. I bet you’ve made a whole slew of enemies.”
He took no offense at her sarcasm, but set her straight on one point. “Actually, property law is Clark’s specialty, not mine. My area is family law. More specifically, divorce and child custody cases.”
She squinted a little. “You’re a divorce lawyer?”
She said the word divorce as though it tasted bad. He was used to the reaction, so it rolled off his back. “I guess you could call me that. And before you even think about it, I think I’ve heard just about every lawyer joke in the book.”
“I wasn’t planning on joking,” she informed him. “I don’t think breaking up marriages is funny.”
He shook his head. “We don’t break marriages up. We try to find ways to dissolve marriages that have already broken down, as equitably and as painlessly as possible.”
Rita snorted. “Equitably? Painlessly? If I had a buck for every woman who’s written to me to complain about her husband using a fancy, high-priced lawyer to shaft her out of what’s rightfully hers…”
His calm before the courts was legendary, but this unwarranted attack in the most innocuous of places, the dinner table, by a woman he’d known fifteen minutes, got under his skin. He answered sharply. “I can’t speak for every lawyer out there, but I can tell you that I have never shafted anyone—”
“Nah. I’ll bet you fall all over yourself to make sure that every woman who walks into your office walks away with a nice, cushy settlement…so long as you get a big cut, right?”
Her distrust for his profession was one thing, but her personal indictment rankled. “Actually, our fees are quite moderate by industry standards, and we offer the best service we can to every client. We work very hard, and we’re entitled to be paid for our labor, just like anyone else.”
“I’m sure you must charge a whole lot of very moderate fees to be able to afford a suit like that.”
He looked down at himself in surprise. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing a suit. He’d been toying with the idea of stopping home after he left the jail to change into something less stuffy and more appropriate for the evening, but was running so late that he’d decided not to. He could have explained that, but perversely said, “I don’t need to apologize because our practice is performing well, and I certainly don’t need to feel bad about what my clothes cost. I dress appropriately for my job. My clients expect me to be well groomed. It’s no different from a surgeon wearing scrubs or a fireman wearing his gear.”
She was as intent on needling him as he was on needling her. “Sure, your practice must be performing well. You people look out for yourselves. Just yesterday I got a letter from a woman whose husband, and his lawyer, practically ruined her. They’re probably divvying up the loot right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But there are as many men out there who have been ruined by wives set to break them, more out of malice than financial necessity. A last shot fired at the end of a bad marriage.”
“So, you’re saying your male clients suffer as much during a divorce as your female clients?”
He thought about that for a second, wondering how to respond, and then said, “Divorce is painful for everyone, but to be honest, I don’t have a whole lot of female clients.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re saying you don’t represent women?”
“I represent anyone who walks through my door. But I’ve developed a reputation for being receptive to men and their special legal needs.”
She put her knife and fork down and scowled at him. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means,” he explained slowly, even though it was obvious to him, “that I have many more male clients than female clients.” He couldn’t resist reminding her, “Men are entitled to legal representation under our constitution, you know.”
“So you spend your days huddled with other members of the Boys’ Club coming up with ways to make sure that, after years of devotion to their husbands, women are left without a penny after their husbands dump them?”
Dorian’s head hurt. He resisted the urge to rub it, wishing he had an ibuprofen tablet or two in his pocket. It hadn’t been a good day. He’d been battling one cause or the other since he’d set foot in Elcroft Green, and now he was sinking deeper and deeper into a new battle with a stranger.
It made no sense, but instead of calling a halt to the madness, he fired back irritably. “Not all divorces are the fault of the man, and if you think so, you’re sadly deluded, sweetheart. And furthermore, despite what your readers might tell you—and Lord knows why they’d want to spill their guts to an inexperienced slip of a girl like you, except perhaps because they’re sure that they’re only going to hear what they want to hear, and not necessarily something that makes a lick of sense—not all wives are devoted. No divorce I’ve ever worked on was the sole fault of one party. It takes two to tango.”
Indignation at being called “an inexperienced slip of a girl” was written all over her face, and the result was comical. He pressed on. “Furthermore, if there is a Boys’ Club, I’m not a member, and I don’t sit around scheming with other men to rob women, either of their money, or their children—”
She gasped. “Children?”
Maybe she hadn’t been listening. “As I said, I specialize in divorce and custody cases.”
“You take children away from their mothers?” The look she threw him could have bent steel.
“Most of the time, I negotiate for fair sharing of custody and visitation rights, depending on what’s best for everyone involved, especially the children. I’ve won custody battles for my male clients, but I’ve won them for my female clients, as well. I don’t win them all—nobody does. But I’d like to think that I help families adjust to a rocky period in their lives.”
“Help? How, exactly, does it help, tearing children out of their mothers’ arms?”
“No child is ever ‘torn out of their mother’s arms,’ as you put it, and I’m sure that even someone as biased as you would admit that not every woman is Clair Huxtable. There are mothers out there who aren’t at the stage of their lives where they can raise children as they deserve to be raised. Some can’t because they’re unemployed, or holding down too many jobs, or drink too much, or have issues to deal with. Some are simply bad mothers. And there are fathers out there who are aching to raise their kids right. Don’t tell me that you think it would be wrong to award custody to the man under those circumstances?”
When she hesitated, he knew he had her cold. It was a minor victory, but as sweet as any he’d won under judge and jury. He waited for her to say something, anything, to demonstrate that she was giving up her unwarranted attack in the face of his inescapable logic.
She did say something, but it certainly was no concession of defeat. “Lawyers!” she grunted, and attacked her cashew-covered duck.
“Feminists!” he threw back, and stabbed his pork.
It was several moments before he noticed two pairs of eyes on him. Clark and Cassie were watching with open curiosity. “Is everything okay?” Cassie asked.
Their spat had been louder than he’d thought. Tom-toms banged in his head, but he fibbed politely. “Everything’s fine.”
“Peachy,” Rita agreed, but didn’t look up from her plate.
“Good,” Clark said, but sounded doubtful, making Dorian feel ashamed of himself. Rita was getting on his nerves, but it wasn’t his night out, it was Clark’s. And in spite of her prickles, she was a cute little thing. Maybe he should lighten up and not spoil the evening for everyone. He smiled warmly at Cassie to put her at ease and tried to smile at Rita, as well, but she was studiously avoiding looking at him.
“What about dessert, then?” Clark suggested with forced heartiness.
Dorian tried not to groan. Although Cassie and Clark had finished their meal, neither he nor Rita had eaten much. He looked down at his plate. On one hand it would be a relief not to have to finish it off, on the other hand, he was reluctant to move on to the next course. Thai dessert would certainly not consist of something light and frothy and easy to slide down into the corners. It would be along the lines of sweet dumplings in sticky sauce or something equally filling. He was wondering if he could get away with suggesting just coffee when Rita spoke up.
“Actually, Clark, Cassie, I feel really awful about this, but I have a terrible headache, and I don’t think I’m being good company.” She threw an apologetic glance at Dorian. “I hate to duck out on you like this, but it really would be best if I just went on home.”
Good one, Dorian telegraphed. A graceful way to make a speedy exit. Who challenged anyone on an imaginary headache? It would work out best for everyone. Cassie and Clark were obviously having a great time in each other’s company; whatever Cassie’s little hang-up had been about being alone with Clark was overcome. They’d probably relish the idea of finishing their date as a twosome instead of a reluctant foursome. And he and Rita could sneak out, end this disaster, and go their separate ways.
Cassie was immediately solicitous. “Oh, poor baby! Is it really, really horrible?”
Rita grimaced and nodded. “It really, really is.”
Cassie threw a wistful look at Clark. “Maybe I should drive her home, Clark…”
That, he wouldn’t stand for. Just because he and Rita hadn’t hit it off didn’t mean his friend should cut his date short. He stepped in smoothly.
“Rita, if you haven’t any transport, I’d be happy to drive you home.”
Rita looked so aghast he wondered if the idea of a few more moments in his company would really be as bad as she thought. She blathered, “No, no! I won’t think of it. I can get the doorman to stop a cab—”
“But you’re sick,” Cassie interrupted, looking as concerned as if Rita had announced she’d contracted the Hanta virus. “You can’t go by cab if you’re sick!”
“I can, and I will,” Rita began, but Dorian decided to put an end to this silliness once and for all.
He got to his feet. “Nonsense. If you’re not feeling well, it would be stupid to try to get yourself home. Not to mention unforgivably rude of me. Come on, let me make sure you get to your door okay. It’s not often I get to play the knight in shining armor.”
Before she could protest, he reached out and took Cassie’s hand in his. “Cassie, it was a pleasure to meet you. Now I see why my partner was so taken by you. You have my word that you’re in good hands for the rest of the evening.” She beamed at his compliment.
He turned to Clark and the two men briefly shook hands. “Enjoy the rest of your meal, Clark. See you in the morning.”
Clark nodded. “Take care, Rita. I hope you feel better. Sorry you had a bad time.”
“I had a lovely time,” Rita said wanly, but was unable to keep herself from shooting a dark look at Dorian. It was so baleful, he tried not to laugh. “I hope we meet again.”
Clark glanced at Cassie. “I hope we will,” he said fervently.
Dorian took control of the situation by slipping his hand under Rita’s elbow and guiding her away from the table and out to the main doors. She kept pace with him silently, not even looking his way, until they had retrieved their coats and were standing on the sidewalk, under a crisp, bright autumn sky. Then she wrenched her elbow out of his grasp and spun on her heels.
“My car’s this way,” he told her, somewhat perplexed. “Where’re you going?”
“As I said, I’m going to have the doorman stop a taxi.” She signaled to the doorman, who was elaborately costumed in a silk tunic, pants and small hat. The man nodded, understanding her request, and stepped off the curb, peering down the street in search of a flash of yellow.
She couldn’t be that anxious to get away from him. “Don’t be silly,” he said firmly. “I said I would get you home, and I will.”
“Thanks,” she answered primly, “but I can take care of myself.” She ignored him for several moments, until a cab drew near. The doorman, a broad smile on his face, held the door open for her.
He could have let her get in without another word, but for some indefinable reason he hated the idea of it. They’d snarled at each other for the brief portion of the meal they’d shared. She’d gotten on his nerves virtually from the moment he’d taken his seat. But something, something, made him want the evening to end differently. Not this way, growling their goodbyes and parting company on a street corner. Maybe it was vanity. Maybe he was loath for her to leave with a lousy opinion of him, just because he’d had a bad day and had been all too happy to take it out on her. He put one hand on the door of the cab just as she was about to climb in. “Rita, don’t.”
Her eyes were wide. “What?”
“Let me take you home. There’s no reason for you to take a cab when I’m parked right here.”
She looked doubtful. “My apartment’s a long way off,” she said falteringly.
“All the more reason why you shouldn’t be making the trip alone. Come on. I promised Cassie I’d see you home safely. Don’t make a liar out of me.” He couldn’t resist adding with a smile, “I know you probably think that, as a lawyer, lying would be second nature to me, but it’s harder than you think.”
To his surprise, she smiled back, and the smile actually reached those beautiful eyes of hers, setting them afire. “But I’ve already hailed him…”
“I’ll handle it.” Moving quickly to deflect the cab driver’s impatience, he withdrew his money clip from his pocket and slipped him a bill, apologizing as he did so. Bored, the driver shrugged, accepted the money without a word and pulled away. He tipped the doorman, who was observing the entire exchange with a slightly perplexed look, and then gestured. “This way.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly, and was silent while he led her to his vehicle. To have called it a car was a bit of a stretch. It was, in fact, a hunter green four-wheel-drive twin-cab piece of space age engineering that came with just about every doohickey an outdoorsman would crave, from the tow-bar at the back to haul around his fishing boat, to the rack on top that could hold everything from a white-water raft to a tent. Her look of surprise pleased him.
“Teach you not to judge a book by its suit-and-tie cover.”
“Consider me schooled.”
Her humorous response made him relax. Maybe the drive back to her place wouldn’t be as tense as dinner. He helped her inside, as the running board was a little high, and her slim skirt, though it showed off her attractive curves, wasn’t much good when it came to climbing. He made sure she was comfortable, then came around to the driver’s side and hauled himself in with ease. The engine started with a soft murmur, and as soon as she gave him her address, he pulled away from the curb.
Rita still wasn’t saying much. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that she had closed her eyes and was massaging her temples with the tips of her fingers.
“You can drop it, you know,” he told her gently.
Her face was the picture of puzzlement. “Drop what?”
“The I’ve-got-a-headache act. I know neither of us was having a great time back there, and you did manage to get us out of it without hurting anyone’s feelings, but really, you don’t need to go on for my sake. I understand. We didn’t hit it off. No hard feelings.”
Then he noticed something he hadn’t before: a glimmer of moisture in her eyes. “Are you crying?”
“Not exactly,” she answered sharply.
“What the—why?”
“Nothing. It’s not an act.”
“What?”
“My headache. It’s not an act. I get these migraines sometimes, and this one’s…pretty bad. I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the head. And the nausea…it’s awful…”
He felt like a genuine heel. He’d all but accused her of lying, when, if he’d taken the time to really look at her, he’d have seen that she was in real pain. “If you feel like you need to throw up, let me know. I’ll pull over.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t throw up all over your precious Weekend Warrior Mobile.”
“That’s not what I meant at all!”
She covered her face with her hands and slumped forward in her seat. “Fine, whatever you say.”
Still ashamed of himself, he fiddled with the stereo. “Anything you’d like to listen to?”
“Silence would be great,” she told him from between cupped hands.
He snapped the stereo back off again. “You got it.”
Silence was just what he gave her, all the way to her apartment. He liked this part of town. It was old-fashioned and nostalgic without being run-down. It reminded him of the neighborhood he’d grown up in. He pulled up before her building, squinted at the brass plate fixed to the wall to ensure he had the right place, and alighted before she could bestir herself and try to get out without his help.
They stood on the sidewalk, solemnly regarding each other. “Got your keys?” he asked her.
She looked perplexed for a moment, as though seeing him through a blur of pain, and then rummaged in her purse. “Yes, got them.” She held them up, jangling them as proof. Then she turned toward the stairs. “Thank you for bringing me home.”
She wasn’t getting away that easy. He fell into step with her, locking his car and shoving the keys into his pocket. “I’m walking you inside.”
“You don’t have to,” she began hastily.
“Oh, yes I do. You’re not feeling well. I’m not driving off and leaving you until I know you’re safely inside.”
“I don’t need—” she began, a spark of indignation rising out of the mist of her pain, but just then she stumbled, and he caught her deftly and righted her.
“See? You can’t even make it to your own door.” He took her hand, which was limp, clammy and unresisting, in his. “Come.”
“But, Dorian…!”
Her protest was half-hearted, and he ran over it effortlessly. “But, nothing. A promise is a promise. I’m seeing you inside.” She gave no further resistance, so he unlocked the door to the main entrance and led her to the elevator. “Floor?”
“Third.”
He punched in the number. Once on the third floor, he looked around. There were just four apartments on each floor, and she wearily pointed out her own. By now, pity was consuming him, and he wanted urgently to get her inside so that she could rest. He selected the key that looked like it would fit the lock to her front door and began to insert it into the keyhole…
But the door yawned open before them without any further bidding.

Chapter 5
R ita stared in shock as her door opened at the lightest touch of Dorian’s hand. A creepy sensation overcame her, like worms crawling along the back of her neck. How could that be?
Dorian gave her a wary look. “You have a roommate?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No!”
“Anyone have a key to your place?”
She frowned, her migraine making it difficult for her to think. “Cassie keeps my spares for me, but….”
“Stand back,” Dorian instructed, one arm moving her protectively to one side, with her back against the wall so that she was screened off from the entryway by both his broad body and the door. He bent forward, inspecting the keyhole and the lock. “Not even a little scratch,” he commented. “Nothing to suggest that the lock was picked.” He lifted his head to look at her. “You certain you locked up securely?”
Normally, she would have bristled at the suggestion. Did he really think she was enough of a knucklehead to have left her front door unlocked? But as memories of the evening tumbled upon each other, she tried to piece together their fragments. She’d left home in one heck of a hurry. Too much of a hurry to do her hair or put on some makeup, even. That thought made her run her fingers self-consciously through her messy corkscrews. Cassie had been downstairs in the car, waiting. Lord knew, Cassie had enough lip on her to make it very clear that she didn’t like to be kept waiting. So she’d hurried. But had she left in such haste that she had forgotten to lock up?
Dorian was still looking at her, waiting for an answer. “Rita?”
It was ridiculous. There they were, standing in the hallway, with her door agape, nothing inside but quiet darkness…and, perhaps, something, or some one else. She shivered again.
Dorian called her name again, more softly this time.
She looked at him, foolishly wasting precious seconds thinking how awesomely handsome he was, in spite of the concern that was wrinkling his brow. She found herself stuttering. “I…I…have no idea. I wasn’t feeling well, and I’d been a-a-asleep when Cassie came to get me. I rushed out to meet her.” She laughed self-deprecatingly. “I didn’t even have time to do my hair. I know I look a mess.”
His onyx eyes swept over her, once, and then again, more slowly, but if she was expecting a compliment, she was sorely disappointed. “Enough of a rush to forget to lock up?”
She was stumped on that point, but forgetting to lock the door was the better of the two options. “I don’t know.”
He straightened up and expelled air through his nose, shaking himself determinedly. “In any case, it’s pointless for us to stand here staring at the lock. I’m going in. Wait here.”
Was he serious? “I’m not waiting anywhere. I’m coming in with you.”
He gave her a long, sober look. “If someone broke in to your place, they could still be in there.”
A scary thought, but she insisted, “It’s my place. I’m going in with you.”
He sighed again. “Well, stay behind me. If I say to run, run all the way downstairs and outside, and don’t look back.”
She stifled a nervous giggle. “You planning to take a bullet for me?”
He threw her a dark look. “That was not funny.”
She had to concede that it wasn’t. “Sorry.”
She followed him inside, heart thumping. Her own apartment seemed alien to her, lit throughout only by the eerie glow of the bedside lamp she’d left on. Shapes loomed as their dense shadows made bogeymen out of everyday objects. To still her lurching stomach, she flicked on the lights as she followed Dorian from room to room, taking his advice and staying well behind him, even as she cursed herself for her cowardice. For once, she was willing to admit that if there was one thing that men were better at than women, it was hunting down skulking burglars.
They made their way to the last room, the study where she did most of her writing, and stopped. Dorian’s eyes were bright, his nostrils flared from the tension, and his deep chest rose and fell heavily. He stated the obvious. “Nobody here.”
“Maybe I did leave it open after all,” she mused. “You said yourself there were no marks on the lock or anything.”
“Not necessarily. They could have got in somewhere else, and used the door to leave.”
He was making no sense. “Got in where?”
“We’ll see.” Her study and her bedroom, which were side by side, faced the street. Along the far wall, which she had painted a deep teal, a color that helped her to relax and write, were three small windows. He checked them; they were all securely locked. Without saying anything, he returned to her bedroom, also painted teal. Three identical windows lined the wall, interspersed with small framed sepia drawings of men and women making love, their limbs so intertwined that it was almost impossible to tell where one body began and the other ended. Their huge, kohl-lined, almond-shaped eyes, full berry-colored lips and glossy black hair made them so exotic that he did a double take. His lifted brow asked a silent question.
“Those are, uh, recreations of ancient Buddahist drawings. It’s supposed to represent Tantric, uh, sex.” She felt fire in her cheeks. “My mother bought those on a trip to Calcutta. They’re not exactly my type of thing, but I, uh, didn’t want to offend her. So I put them up in here.”
He gave the drawings a slow once-over that left Rita squirming, before saying, “Your mother’s very progressive.”
“If only you knew,” she couldn’t stop herself from saying.
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing.” She wished the damn drawings would spontaneously combust. It wasn’t every day a girl found herself standing in her bedroom with a stranger who didn’t like her, examining erotica on her walls. She wondered how to diplomatically remind him of his reason for being in her room in the first place. “Dorian…”
He took the hint. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat and focused on the windows, checking one lock, and then the next. The third was not only unlocked, but slightly ajar. He gave her a significant look. “You keep these locked?”
“Usually,” she said defensively. It was growing clearer and clearer to her that she’d screwed up and forgotten the door. She wasn’t happy about admitting that she went about leaving windows unlocked, too.
“Maybe they got in through here,” he suggested.
“From three floors below?”
As he shrugged, that suit she had so criticized pulled against his broad shoulders, drawing her attention once again to his heavy, beautifully shaped chest. He pointed downward at the old, elaborate columns decorating the facade of the building. They were old and worn, dating back to the same era as the carved angels that had been stripped off. “Somebody crazy enough to risk it could use that scrollwork as footholds.”
Maybe. She looked at the window again. It was divided into four-by-two metal bars in the shape of a cross. She pointed at the small spaces left by the bars. “A trained monkey might be able to get through there.” She pointed. “But not a person.”
He nodded speculatively, inspecting the lock and the window. “A trained monkey or an eight-year-old kid.”
“What?”
“Determination can make quick work of little obstacles like a narrow opening.”
“Even so,” she argued, “what would an eight-year-old kid be doing in my bedroom?”
“Whatever the grownup that’s controlling him forces him to do.” He said this with a grimace of bitterness.
“You’ve got to be joking!”
He gave her a glance that said she had no idea what she was talking about. “It’s a mean, nasty world out there, and people do lots of mean, nasty things to each other. Including children.”
“Why would anyone want to do that to me?”
“Simple burglary, most likely. Unless….” He stopped, thought for a while, and then went on, “Unless someone has it in for you. As we were discussing over dinner, your writing stands a good chance of making you enemies.”
Her mind was yanked backward several hours, past their disastrous dinner, to that chilly online encounter back in the coffee shop. Are you afraid of heights?
The look on her face must have told him something, because he stepped forward and placed both hands gently on her shoulders. He had to dip his head somewhat to look her in the eye.

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