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Claire nodded. A shaft of sunlight slanted across Nick's desk and the gold watch at his wrist glinted. She could see fine dark hairs curling around the band. His wrist looked solid and strong.

The clock on his credenza chimed the quarter hour, breaking her thoughts.

"The meeting will start promptly at ten," he said. "It's going to be in the board room. Wanda usually puts coffee and sweet rolls out about now. Since we're finished, why don't you go on in and have some coffee and relax until the meeting starts?"

Claire put her pad and pen back in her briefcase. "All right, but what exactly do you want me to do during this meeting?"

"Watch, take notes, see if there's anything you can use for the article. Then, when the meeting's over, I'll take you to lunch and we'll talk."

The meeting went smoothly under Nick's guidance. He listened intently as each divisional manager gave a report on his department. Then current projects were discussed, centering on problems with the construction of a floating methanol plant and the bid on an offshore pipeline project. There was only one incident that marred the even flow, an incident that reinforced Claire's belief that Nick Callahan's surface charm and mild manner would disappear in seconds if his will was challenged. Bert Girard, the young financial vice president, disagreed with an expenditure Nick advo-cated. When Girard's opposition took the form of sarcasm, Nick's eyes narrowed and his voice hardened. "I don't need your approval, Bert. Shall we go on?"

The atmosphere was thick with tension for a few seconds, then Girard nodded, and the moment passed. Claire decided she wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of Nick's displeasure.

At eleven-thirty, Nick interrupted Hank Conti, who was listing the pros and cons of bidding on a new chemical plant project.

"I have a lunch reservation for noon, so I'd like to wrap this up fast. Can you sum up in five minutes, Hank?"

Ten minutes later, all but a few of the men had already left the conference room. Nick strode over to where Claire still sat. "Ready?" He smiled and his eyes were warmly admiring as he looked down at her.

Claire swallowed. She knew she should remain objective and businesslike with him, but she suspected his smile would be her undoing. Even though she knew the smile masked a tough will and determination to get his own way; even though she knew he used it to achieve his objectives and disarm his opponents; even though she knew he was deliberately turning on the charm; she could feel herself succumbing to its seductive appeal. Unfortunately, Nick Callahan and his dangerous smile made her all too aware of herself as a woman.

"Yes, I'm ready." She stood, picking up her briefcase and smoothing down her skirt.

"Let's go, then." He led the way to the elevator, and when it came a few minutes later, he waited for her to precede him. "I hate elevators," he confided with a self-deprecating smile. "I get claustrophobic in them."

It amazed Claire that the self-assured Nick Callahan—a man who instilled fear in other men—could himself be prey to such an ordinary fear. "Really?"

"Don't you believe me?"

"You seem like the type of person who isn't afraid of anything."

"I'm only human."

She smiled. "That's good to know. Can I put that in my article?"

"It's your article," he said. Just then the elevator doors opened noiselessly. Two laughing women entered and said, "Hello, Mr. Callahan."

"Hello, Renee . . . Shelley."

Claire saw the admiring glances the women gave him. No wonder they admired him. Most of the men Claire knew couldn't compare to Nick Callahan. And it wasn't just his polished looks or the way he dressed; his magnetism stemmed from his aura of importance and power. Very simply, he was a man you couldn't ignore.

The elevator doors glided open and he took her elbow, steering her through the throngs of lunch-goers in the lobby. Several men spoke to him as he and Claire made their way out the door and Nick responded pleasantly but didn't linger, even when one of them would have stopped him.

"Not now, Sandy," he said. "Call me later this afternoon."

As they emerged from the revolving doors into the bright January day, Claire took a deep breath. Today's weather was her favorite: clear, cold, and sunny. She didn't even mind the slight wind that whipped at her skirt, although she buttoned her jacket against the chill.

Nick took her arm once more as they descended the flat stone steps to the street level. It was only then that Claire noticed the black limousine waiting at the curb with a uniformed driver holding the rear door open.

Claire felt like Cinderella in her fairy-tale coach as she was assisted into the plush interior of the limousine. She nestled back into the plump cushions as Nick entered and sat beside her. She was so rarely pampered; she might as well make the most of this, she thought.

He turned to her. "Hungry?"

She nodded.

"Good." He leaned forward and spoke to the driver, who nodded and skillfully pulled away from the curb and into the stream of traffic on Louisiana Street.

Nick turned back to her, and Claire's heartbeat accelerated as his riveting blue eyes studied her. "So, what are yours?" he asked softly.

"What are mine?" What on earth was he talking about? She could see the smile lurking at the corners of his mouth and hovering in his eyes. Momentarily confused, Claire dropped her eyes. When she once again raised them, he chuckled, and her heart bounced at the warm, resonant sound.
Careful,
she cautioned herself.
This man is your boss. This is not a date.
But his nearness, and the warmth in his eyes, were impossible to resist. Betty had been right, Claire thought distractedly, as her pulse raced and her silly heart skipped under his flattering attention. He
does
positively ooze sex appeal.

"I told you my hang-up," he said. "I think it's only right you should tell me yours."

She forced herself to laugh and keep her voice casual. "I'm the one who's supposed to be interviewing you, not vice versa."

"Humor me," he said.

Although his voice still held a teasing note, Claire knew he was serious. Suddenly, she was reminded of the wolf in "Red Riding Hood," and how he said, "The better to see you with, my dear." The sense of uneasiness that had been so strong yesterday came flooding back. This man was too slick, too accustomed to controlling and manipulating both people and events. And although she still wasn't quite sure what he wanted from her, she knew instinctively that she'd have to stay on her guard at all times. She would have to keep her head and her wits about her, which meant she'd better fight as hard as she could against the attraction she couldn't deny. An attraction that, if she gave in to it, could only mean trouble.

"Well, let's see," Claire said lightly. "I'm afraid of the dark; I always keep a night light on. I don't like driving at night—actually, I'm not fond of driving, period. I'm terrified of spiders and I get positively crazy when I see a cockroach. Other than that, I'm your normal, garden-variety coward."

"I don't believe that for a minute," he said.

Something in his tone alarmed her. For a minute she almost thought ... no, that wasn't possible ... no one at work knew her personal situation, not even Betty O'Neill. Claire had never said a word about Kitty to any of her co-workers. She knew her hope that Kitty's condition would change, that she would become the same woman she had been before the accident, was irrational, but still she hoped. Plus, she hadn't wanted people to feel sorry for her. Too much sympathy would be almost as bad as none.

Shaken, Claire looked out the window in an effort to gain her equilibrium. She was startled to see they were cruising west on Memorial Drive, leaving the downtown skyline behind.

"Where are we going?" she asked, finally meeting his eyes again, feeling their force.

"To one of my favorite places."

Ten minutes later the limousine swept into the curving driveway that was the entrance to the Stardust Lodge. Claire had never been inside the restaurant, but she'd heard about it from Peachey, who had been wined and dined there often.

With a speed and personal attention that couldn't help but impress Claire, she and Nick were guided upstairs to a small, private dining room that held a fireplace with a cheerful blaze. Glass-paned doors led to a small balcony shaded by enormous oak trees. The table for two had been placed in front of the fireplace, and Claire sighed with pleasure as she looked around her. "This is a beautiful setting," she said.

"Yes," he agreed.

"It's like a piece of the 19th century in the middle of all the bustle and energy that's Houston," Claire said, noting the authentic furnishings and antiques.

After the waiter had taken their order, Nick said, "What did you think of the meeting?"

"I thought it was interesting. There were projects discussed that I didn't understand, though, and I'd like to ask you about them." She reached for the notebook in her briefcase.

He shook his head. "No business talk during lunch."

"But—"

"I mean it. Put that notebook away."

With a flash of irritation, Claire bent down and stuffed the notebook back into her briefcase. How could she hope to do a thorough job when he seemed determined to inject a personal element? She couldn't. He would set the tone because he was her boss. Her determined, manipulative boss. Someone totally accustomed to getting his own way. Claire's sense of self-preservation kicked into overdrive.

"So, tell me what you do for fun," he said, leaning back in his chair as their waiter served them small Caesar salads.

"Mr. Callahan—"

"Nick." Amusement danced in his eyes like blue flames dancing in a gas fire.

Claire sighed. "Why do you want to know?"

"Over the years I've discovered it's useful to know everything there is to know about people—whether they're friends, employees, or adversaries. That way, I'm never surprised."

Although he said it lightly, Claire was sure he meant every word. "We're not here to talk about me," she said. "What do
you
do for fun?"

"I asked you first."

He wasn't going to give up. Resigned, she said, "Well, I read a lot."

"That's it? You can't read all the time." He buttered a piece of French bread and took a forkful of salad.

"I don't read all the time. There are lots of other things I like to do."

"Such as?"

Their conversation ceased as the waiter appeared to refill their water goblets. Then Nick said, "I'm still waiting. What else do you do besides read?"

For a minute Claire considered telling him it wasn't any of his business. "I like to cook and I like gardening and I like to go to the movies."

"No physical exercise? How do you stay in such good shape?" His eyes boldly assessed her.

Mentally squirming, Claire said, "I walk every day and I roller skate."

"Roller skate!"

"Sure. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," he said as he reached for another piece of bread. "It's just that you don't look like the roller-skating type."

Claire couldn't help smiling, even though she was still irritated with him and with the entire conversation. "And what type is that?" She took a bite of her salad, savoring the crisp Romaine lettuce and the excellent dressing.

"Oh, you know," he said, "big and muscular and tough looking."

"You're talking roller derby, I'm talking roller skating at a neighborhood rink." Her smile expanded to a grin at the expression on his face. "It's fun. You should try it sometime. Inexpensive and great exercise."

"Okay," he said quickly. "You talked me into it. Let's go roller skating Saturday night."

Alarm streaked through her. Pretending he hadn't suggested the outing, she said, "Saturday night at the roller rink is kids' night." Then, quickly, before he could answer, she said, "It's your turn. What do
you
do for fun?"

He waited as the waiter cleared their empty salad plates, replacing them with their entrees. "I ski. Sky dive. Climb mountains. Fly."

Her heart beat with a slow thud as their eyes locked. "You like to live dangerously, in other words."

His mouth slowly curved into a full-of-the-devil smile. "I guess you're right." His eyes glinted as he watched her. "I also like to gamble."

Claire's pulse quickened at the undercurrents she sensed behind his casual admission.
Are you gambling now, Mr. Callahan? Gambling that you'll charm the socks off me
—
that this luxurious treatment and flattering attention will completely disarm me
—
so that whatever it is you really want from me will be yours for the taking?

As if he'd read her mind, his face sobered, and his gleaming blue eyes pinned hers.

Claire stared back at him. Her mouth was dry with excitement. "Do you ever lose?"

"Not often," he said. "Not bloody often."

"The steaks are almost done," Peachey Hall said as she turned the two strip steaks under the broiler. "How's the salad coming?"

Claire looked over her shoulder at her friend and smiled. "It's ready."

"Good. I'm sure hungry."

"You're always hungry," Claire said. "And I don't know where you put it." She eyed Peachey's willowy figure.

"I put it here," Peachey said, grinning, as she patted her rear. "That's where black chicks always put it."

Claire rolled her eyes. "You're crazy. There's not an ounce of extra fat on you. Most women would kill for your figure." She leaned against the kitchen counter as Peachey languidly set the small round table in the corner of the kitchen. Every movement was graceful. Even if Claire hadn't known that Peachey was a top model, she would have guessed it from the way her friend moved, like a finely tuned instrument, all economy of motion, all fluid grace.

She was so beautiful, Claire thought. A show-stopper face, a tall, elegant body—what more could any woman ask for? In addition, her skin was gorgeous—a wonderful shade of milk chocolate—complemented by high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes, a look that was enhanced by the sleek, shining head of black hair that Peachey normally wore pulled straight back from her face and twisted into a thick knot at the crown of her finely molded head.