Simply Sex

by Dawn Atkins

  In the morning when she woke, though, Cole was gone. Relief rushed through her. The knocked-over silk flowers were back on her bureau, her bedspread folded at the foot of the bed, the scattered pillows placed neatly on the bedside chair, and she smelled French roast in the air. He’d made coffee, bless his heart.

  And written her a note, she saw when she padded to the kitchen. Thanks for a lovely encounter. Good luck in L.A., Cole.

  What a thoughtful guy. She liked his handwriting, with its heavy, even strokes. They reminded her of—her gaze snagged on the grocery list she’d clipped to her refrigerator—her own handwriting. They wrote the same.

  She felt a sharp jab in her side. She missed him, for heaven’s sake. So silly. Probably due to the fact that she was moving away, which had unsettled her in secret ways, she’d bet.

  She would miss Janie, for sure, though she’d been too busy with K. Falls PR to spend much time with her sister. Janie had been consumed by Personal Touch, too, for that matter. Kylie would miss her business, too. Candee, her assistant, a part-time student, planned to go to school full-time, so she would be fine when Kylie closed her doors. But Kylie would miss her and her clients, her office, the work itself.

  Pointless nostalgia. She had a plan and a purpose and she would stick with it. The great sex had just caught her off guard, softened her defenses. She poured coffee and sipped the musky brew—Cole liked his coffee strong, too—and grabbed a pint of low-fat yogurt for energy. She had to get busy.

  Her mind wandered to the night before.

  That was impressive for a first time. Oh, yeah. She remembered his fingers on her body and an electric chill raced through her. If only he were still here.

  Eh, eh, eh. Be sensible, girl. She prided herself on that. Going to L.A. was sensible, too. Cole had agreed with her. He’d put it perfectly: You have to make short-term sacrifices for long-term gains. Just a few words from him had boosted her confidence in her decision. Cole understood ambition and hard work, making plans and implementing them.

  The flickering doubts that licked at her had to be the uncertainty of starting over somewhere new, along with the fear of screwing up at S-Mickey-B. The stakes there were high. Janie, with her psych degree, would be proud of Kylie’s insight.

  Now about Kylie sleeping with Cole…Janie would not be pleased. It was pretty outrageous and Kylie would not leak a word of it. She’d been a stand-in date several times. But none of the other guys had been like Cole.

  Her mind wandered to a memory of him looking up into her eyes while he touched her sex, and she shivered. That had been delicious. She’d have to send Janie some fresh roses as a secret thank-you for the gift she’d accidentally given her—great sex with a fabulous man and no complications.

  Well, except for this tickling wish to see him again. Would he call? Did he remember her firm’s name? He could always call Janie and ask for her number. But that would tip her sister off—a bad idea. Maybe she should call him first. What was the name of his firm?

  Stop it. She’d had a rejuvenating one-night stand, and that was enough.

  Benjamin, Langford and Tuttleman. She remembered. Damn.

  4

  JANIE GALLOPED around her office, spritzing air freshener like a mad woman skywriting in scent. Her last client, Tony of Tony’s Import Auto Repair, had trailed the aroma of gasoline, and she needed the perfect atmosphere for the magazine writer due any minute. His story would rescue her company, she hoped, so the place had to smell like success. Or at least not like a garage.

  She took a deep sniff. Still a tang of metal. Candles! Candles would fix it! In seconds, she’d arranged a rose-cinnamon pillar and three lilac-rosemary votives in an attractive clump on the far corner of her desk.

  The first two wooden matches snapped in half and the next two burned out, but the fifth worked and soon four golden flames glowed in red and lilac pools of wax. She brushed the match stubs into the wastepaper basket, then waved the Arizona Weekly over the candles to spread the aroma before dropping the newspaper into the trash, too—it was a competing publication, after all.

  The candles’ scent radiated outward, but too slowly, so she grabbed the stepladder out of her supply closet and climbed it to mist the AC vent with freshener.

  A tap at the door to her left made her jump down, but before she reached the knob, the door flew open, revealing her visitor—a man holding a notepad, a camera over his shoulder. Definitely the reporter from Inside Phoenix.

  “Sorry to bust in,” he said. “There was no one out front.”

  Gail chose the worst times to disappear. At least when she returned she generally brought in a new client or two.

  “No problem. I’m Janie Falls.” She switched the spray to her other hand and reached to shake his.

  “Seth Taylor.” He had a nice grip and startling blue eyes that gave her an up-and-down just this side of decent, which sent a charge straight through her.

  He was handsome, with a cocky smile, longish hair and the beginnings of golden stubble emerging from a strong jaw. Why did he have to be hot? She needed full focus to give him the best possible impression of Personal Touch.

  “Have a seat,” she said, managing to sound gracious. She motioned toward the guest chair beside her desk.

  He headed there with a lazy grace, his washed-out jeans cupping his behind like friendly hands. He sat and rested a foot in worn athletic shoes across his other thigh. Confident, carelessly groomed and sexy as hell. In short, he was just her type. He reminded her of Jason, the firefighter who’d headed for Alaska when things got comfortable between them.

  She’d declared a moratorium on dead-end relationships for as long as it took to get Personal Touch in good shape and until she was emotionally mature enough for the real thing. She had no idea how long that might take.

  Her reaction to the reporter was just a vestige of the old urge. An automatic physical response. Nothing she could do about that. She headed for her desk, determined to show no crack in her armor.

  Just as she passed him, the reporter said, “Uh, Jane?”

  She turned.

  “You might want to…” He motioned at her behind.

  At first, she was offended at his nerve until she saw that her slip was on full display. The back of her gauze skirt had brushed up when she jumped off the ladder, no doubt. She shoved it down, blushing.

  “Purple’s your color,” he said with an easy smile. No need to freak. We’re good.

  “Thank you,” she said primly. So much for her armor, she thought, watching Seth flip back a page on his steno pad with long, strong fingers. She had a thing for men’s hands. Certain men. Certain hands.

  She forced her eyes up to his face and swallowed across a dry throat. “Are you single, Seth?” Please be married, please be gay, please be leaving for the Arctic.

  “Am I single? Yeah, but—” Her question had startled him. Great. That put her more in charge.

  “Good, because I thought the best way to show you how Personal Touch works is to give you a dry run of a client’s experience. Just a sample.”

  “That’s not necessary. Your press kit is very complete.”

  “We’ll compress the time, don’t worry. We’ll do a Personality Profile inventory, I’ll interview you, show you some Potentials in one of our quarterly magazines, and—”

  “Thanks anyway. I just have a few questions and I need to take your picture.”

  “But if you want to capture the Personal Touch atmosphere…” Speaking of which, the air had begun to reek of something burning. Something besides candles.

  She glanced to the far side of her desk, where a wisp of black smoke rose above the wastepaper basket. Heck, oh dear, she’d started a fire!

  The paper towel Tony had tossed in the trash must have contained oil. Her discarded matches and the newspaper were heat and fuel. She lunged for the basket, intending to run it to the bathroom, but her movement made the fire lick at her loose sleeve. The gauze lit up like tissue paper.

 
; Seth was there so fast she hardly had time to panic. He grabbed the trash out of her hand, upending it, then whipped off his jacket to smother her flaming sleeve. After that, he bent to pound out the embers with the bottom of the basket while she examined her arm under the flash-fried fabric.

  He rose. “Are you hurt?”

  “Only my pride.”

  He acknowledged her joke, but he gripped her wrist and turned her arm to examine it for himself. “Maybe ice it.”

  It stung a little, but she was too mortified to dwell on that. She pulled out of his grip, shook her tattered sleeve into place, aware of how close he stood. “It was stupid to run. Thanks for saving me.”

  “No problem.” He shot her a wry smile. “When a woman’s on fire, I’m always ready to kill the flame.” Did he have to be self-deprecating, too? The needle of her bad-boy meter shot into the red zone.

  They both bent to scoop the charred debris back into the trash. The combination of candles and burned paper made her office smell like a burning gift shop, but beneath the stink she picked up Seth’s mix of soap—Irish Spring?—coconut shampoo and worn leather. Her favorite smells on a man.

  Seth plopped the basket over the burn marks that now marred her pastel-flowered Oriental rug. “Good as new.”

  “For now, I guess.”

  They both rose, standing close together. His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “You were saying something about atmosphere?”

  She grimaced. “How about if you wipe this from your mind?” She waved her arms as if to clear the smoke and the memory.

  At that moment, Gail burst in the room. “Did that reporter ever get here?” She caught sight of him. “Oh, good. I was at the Macy’s sweater sale and got to talking. You’ll be happy to know that the women’s wear sales staff includes two divorcées, a widow and three women with Singles-Bar Burnout. Expect appointments this week.”

  “That’s great, Gail. Thanks.”

  Gail scrunched her nose. “Bad incense, hon. Smells like burning tires and candy apples.”

  “I had a little incident.” She lifted her sleeve, which looked like it belonged on a pirate, postpillage.

  “Criminy Christmas, Janie, be careful.” She turned to Seth. “She was so nervous about you coming.”

  “You were nervous?” Seth asked her. More twinkling.

  “No. I—”

  “Extremely,” Gail inserted. “This story is vital to us.”

  “Uh, Gail, we don’t want to tie Seth up.” But can I offer you a gag? “Will you hold my calls?” Janie attempted an eyebrow move meant to convey a plea for cooperation.

  “Hold your calls?” Gail blinked. Janie wanted Personal Touch to seem thriving but they hadn’t even had the usual quota of wrong-number perverts since Seth had arrived. Finally, Gail caught on. “Oh, you bet. I’ll do my best to keep those calls at bay. It’s not easy, let me tell you. It’s wild out here on the switchboard.” If anything was worth doing, Gail believed in overdoing it.

  After she’d gone, Janie smiled at Seth. “Gail’s very enthusiastic. She was my first client, you know.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Seth listened politely while she explained how she’d matched Gail and her husband, but took no notes.

  “Maybe that would be a good sidebar?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job.” Was she irritating him? He hadn’t responded to any of her ideas so far. Her skin itched from tension, and the spots where the fire had touched her arm stung like crazy. “So, how did you envision capturing Personal Touch for your readers?”

  “Envision?” He smirked, but kindly. “I don’t know if I intended anything so lofty, but how about a photo of you?” He lifted his camera.

  “You’re a photographer, too?”

  “When I have to be.” He didn’t seem too happy about it.

  “Okay. Where do you want me?”

  His eyes sparkled at her words. You really want to know? Then he surveyed her office. “Man, it’s pink in here. Looks like a dollhouse.”

  “I chose this look to reassure our clients. The flowers, the soft colors and the lace convey the idea that dreams can come true.”

  “You check that theory with men? Looks pretty girlie to me.”

  “Men want romance, too, Seth. Along with logic. And that’s why Personal Touch is unique. We mix the pragmatic with the romantic.”

  “Sure. I get it.” But he thought she was dishing out a sales pitch and he didn’t buy a word. “So, back to the photo.”

  “How about here?” She rushed to the table under the lace-curtained window, where a vase of fresh pink roses rested. Kylie, who’d declared live flowers too expensive, had inexplicably sent her a dozen dewy blooms.

  Seth considered the scene. “Kind of a cliché, but why not?” He moved closer and snapped a quick shot, studying it for a sec in the viewfinder. “Looks great.”

  “Did I blink? I don’t think I was smiling.”

  “See for yourself.” He turned the digital camera for her to look in the viewfinder. In the photo she looked startled and nervous and wore a faint smile.

  “Pretty eyes, nice smile, see?” he said, and she was too swamped by the crinkles around his eyes, his scent, and his strong fingers clutching the camera to object. “Just a few questions and I’ll get out of your hair.” He started toward his chair.

  “But I want you to take all the time you need. The computerized personality profile would take just ten minutes. That’s your angle, by the way. I have a trademark on the software, which is unique to the industry.”

  He turned to stare at her, his impatience palpable, though he was clearly trying to appear relaxed.

  “I know your time is valuable….”

  He studied her while the antique clock behind her desk clicked off five seconds. “I give,” he said finally. “Show me your software.” His tone was teasing and low, the way he’d ask a lover to reveal something even softer.

  There was a zing of connection between them. Gratifying, but not good.

  “It’ll be quick, I promise,” she said, swallowing past the knot in her throat. She went to her desk and clicked open a fresh Mate Check computer file. Seth stood behind her and looked over her shoulder, his gaze warm on her skin, that lovely mix of coconut and leather filling her head.

  Keeping her voice steady, she described the six areas of compatibility and opened the first set of questions, her fingers a little shaky on the mouse. “So, how would you describe your temperament, Seth?”

  He didn’t answer immediately.

  “How about…?” She checked the box for I’m usually easygoing, but when I’m angry, I blow. She was being generous. He struck her as irritable and a bit gloomy.

  “Close enough.”

  She guessed at three more questions.

  He nodded. “Okay. What if I lied?”

  “Like any good psychological test, this one includes questions designed to detect inconsistencies. And the profile is only part of the Personal Touch process.”

  “I get it. All very scientific.” He returned to his chair, evidently finished. “And you also make videos, right? Close-Ups? I’ve looked at your Web site. What else?” He prepared to write.

  “There are networking parties, of course, and—”

  “The magazine. Can I see one of those?”

  She found the summer Book of Possibles and handed it to him.

  He flipped through it, scanning the pages. “My favorite things are calico cats,” he read from one listing, “and the smell of the desert after a rain.” He shook his head, then flipped forward. “I can’t wait to swirl snifters of brandy with you in front of a roaring fire in my custom-built Prescott cabin.” He looked at her. Do you buy this?

  “The magazine piques interest, Seth. I handpick the matches based on my analysis of all the data I gather.”

  “And you’re a good judge of character?” He returned the magazine to her, holding her gaze.

  “No one’s infallible, but I m
ust be doing something right, since my success rate is—”

  “Eighty percent, yeah, I read that. Impressive for a year-old business.”

  “We think so.” Now they were getting somewhere. At least he’d done some advance reading.

  He made a note, then raised his eyes. “So, describe your average client.”

  “I have no average clients. Each and every one is special.” She smiled, pleased at her line, though Seth didn’t react.

  “But we’re talking professionals, right? CEOs, doctors, lawyers. People rich enough to pay your fees?”

  “I charge the same as less-customized services, Seth, and I have teachers and builders and bankers and secretaries, too.” Her reasonable fees were partly why she was in financial doo-doo. “My clients find that if they tally their expenditures on dead-end dating, personal ads and barhopping, Personal Touch saves them money.”

  “Sure,” he said, a half smile lifting his lips.

  “Many of my competitors merely serve as a video library. Clients view tapes until their eyes glaze and they give up in despair. We share only the videos of the top Potentials, hand selected by me.”

  “For the ‘personal touch.’ Got it.”

  The distance in his eyes told her she was sounding like an infomercial again and her heart sank.

  “So, what do you do with the homely guy who wants a stacked blonde? Or the gold digger looking for a sugar daddy?”

  “I ask them to look beneath the surface to what really matters.”

  “I bet they love that.” His eyes twinkled at her, inviting her to let him in on something juicy.

  “Externals are minor when you’re looking for a soul mate.”

  “But you do credit and fingerprint checks, right? So externals must mean something.”

  “As a measure of client integrity, yes. And at first people do look at the superficial. I mean, no one walks into a dating service looking for someone poor, fat or ugly.”

  “That’s a good one.” He smiled and scribbled.

  “I meant to say that you can’t judge a person by appearance or checkbook.” That had come out wrong. Her stomach tensed and her chest tightened.

  “Poor, fat or ugly. Much better. Trust me.”