"I would have gone sooner," Jack, Chris's dad, often claimed, "but you know how long it takes your mom to get ready for anything."

Upon hearing this Beth, Chris's mom, would always laugh. "I seem to remember someone who wouldn't let me out of bed long enough to get dressed."

Jack and Beth Renshaw had scandalized their families, dumbfounded their friends, and, forty years later, were as much in love and devoted to each other as they had been after that one look back in 1968. The only flaw in their relationship was the fact that they had never been able to have a child together, but they had solved even that problem by adopting Chris.

As much as the story of her parents' speedy romance charmed Chris, she was a realist. She had never felt that kind of passion, and her personal desires rarely played any role in her decisions. Whatever was necessary to meet her goals, solve the situation, and get the job done, she did. Someday there would be time enough for love; until then she allowed neither her emotions nor her needs to run her life.

Yet here she was, standing at the lobby entrance of the Armstrong building, looking up at the top-floor windows and wondering about the man who lived behind them.

Who is he, and how can he afford this?

Chris eyed the doorbell panel. A single neatly typed label listed what evidently was the building's only occupant: ARCHER ENTERPRISES, INC.

"If you wish to gain entrance," a familiar voice said over the panel's speaker, "you must press one of those buttons to indicate that you are at the door."

She looked into the lens of the closed-circuit security camera above the panel. "But you already know I'm here." She didn't touch the buttons. "Have you been watching for me all this time?"

"No. I've been too busy on my knees praying. Come up." An electronic buzz released the entry lock.

Chris didn't like being rushed. She preferred time to think over what she was doing, analyze her motives, and base her choices on the most prudent course of action. Out of nowhere, a cold draft made her skin shrink and sent a jolt up her spine, as if the warm summer night had turned winter-icy.

The truth was that she didn't know this man; in reality he could be anything from a sexual sadist to a serial killer. Despite her training and confidence, she had no business placing herself alone in an intimate situation with him. And he'd made it very clear what he wanted, so any further voluntary contact on her part would virtually be the same thing as giving her consent.

… it must be what you want.

The buzz mocked her, rushed her, demanded she ignore her common sense and go to him. She knew that if she went inside she would be risking a great deal more than her personal safety. Her boundaries of behavior existed for very good reasons. She had come to this city to do an important job, one that would probably make or break her career. She had debts to settle and a reputation to restore. In the wake of the scandal, catching the Magician constituted her only real chance of redemption. She didn't have time for one-night stands.

Then make this one count.

A split second before the buzzer switched off, Chris opened the door and walked inside.

Reds, golds, and browns dominated the color scheme of the interior lobby, which had been cleverly arranged around a massive dark walnut reception desk. Several Michael Tischler prints of the Catskills hung on the walls behind crescent-shaped clusters of red leather chairs and love seats. Large tables were surfaced with mandalas of hubcap-size polished agates seated on wood bases carved to resemble tree stumps. The ebonized floor tiles diffused the amber beams streaming down from a series of enormous, sphere-shaped brass lighting fixtures in the high, coffered ceiling.

Welcome, madam, the lobby said, as if it were a snooty English butler. If you have to inquire about price, then it is likely that you can't afford it.

Chris knew interior design and how much it cost to achieve this level of quiet, glowing affluence. If Rob owned Archer Enterprises, he had serious money and wasn't afraid to spend it.

She paused in front of the elevator doors. A small table there held a quintet of ivory tree peonies sprouting from a shallow, crimson glass bowl. She touched the delicate petals, not terribly surprised to discover they were real. They reminded her of the brush of his silky black hair against her cheek as they danced. That had been as much of a jolt as the feel of the hard-toned muscles under his clothes, and the impact of those gorgeous violet eyes watching her. Rob seemed almost too beautiful to be real.

Like this place. Like this night.

Chris knew she had only advantage left. She could turn around and walk out right now. He couldn't stop her. She'd never meet him again. No harm, no foul.

"Are you coming up," Rob's voice asked, "or should I return to my prayers?"

This time Chris didn't see the speaker or security camera. "You're very impatient."

"If I were," he said, "I would never have survived our first dance." His tone softened. "You've nothing to fear, love. I promise you." The elevator silently slid open, beckoning to her as he did: "Come to me."

She stepped over the threshold. The elevator closed and began to rise, soundlessly rushing past twenty-six floors before a low bell chimed and it came to a smooth stop. She expected to see Rob on the other side of the doors, ready to grab her and go to town, but found only an empty corridor.

He meant it. It has to be what I want.

Chris knew what she wanted. She walked past a forest of trompe l'oeil ferns hand-painted on sandstone to the only door, a wide panel of gleaming fruitwood inlaid with dozens of small brown birds. This one didn't open automatically for her, and knocking on it seemed foolish. Before she could find another hundred reasons to turn around and hurry back to the elevator, she let herself in.

If the lobby said, Welcome, you can't afford this, now get out, the penthouse merely said, Hello, there.

In Chris's experience, penthouse suites were exalted places with sweeping vistas and cold, obvious displays of wealth. Rob's home had the million-dollar views—she could see most of downtown Atlanta through the endless walls of arched windows—but everything else inside murmured more of comfort and atmosphere than grand impression-making and strategic investment.

Sectional furniture, positioned both to exploit and to ignore the spectacular prospects of the city, sat waiting for occupation. Books that had obviously been read and enjoyed marched in uneven rows across long stretches of freestanding shelves. A massive fireplace, definitely an incongruous touch here so far in the South, burned what appeared to be real wood and threw flickering light over a rectangular pit of velvet and satin pillows.

And everywhere she looked, vases, baskets, and pots of lush, green plants and small trees spread their shoots, limbs, and leaves in near-wild abandon.

A rich man's tree house, Chris thought, turning around to appreciate the entire effect. In the middle of Atlanta.

"I have no ginger ale to speak of," Rob said, appearing on the other side of the room. He'd shed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and he was barefoot. His straight black hair hung loose and somewhat disheveled around his unsmiling face. "But there's wine, tea, or water, if you'll have it."

On some level Chris had been convinced that Rob wouldn't be as attractive as he had seemed in the uncertain lighting back at the club. He wasn't. He was magnificent, all sinuous limbs and elegant muscle, a visual feast from the silky jet mane of hair to his long, arched feet.

Beautiful beautiful man.

"I'm not thirsty." Chris put her purse down, took off her own jacket, and carefully draped it over the back of a love seat. She'd never done anything like this, so she felt awkward handling the preliminaries. First I put down my stuff, then we sit and talk, and then I lose it completely, drag him to floor, tear his clothes off, and ride him until he begs for mercy or dawn, whichever comes first.

Chris wondered if she could skip the sitting-and-talking part. If she did, she'd probably brand herself forever in his memory as a sex-starved slut—if coming to his apartment like this hadn't already done that.

Jesus Christ, just get on with it.

Rather than approach her, Rob moved around the room, his bright eyes intent on her. "Are you hungry? I could order some food. Or some entertainment. Musicians. Acrobats. Fireworks. Whatever you desire."

She shook her head as she began untying the knot in her scarf.

"Talk to me, Christine."

She watched him as she drew the length of her scarf from her throat. "My name isn't Christine." The pink silk slithered through her fingers, but then Rob was there, catching it before it touched the ground. "It's just Chris."

She found out that the intriguing scent she had attributed to his wine back at the nightclub didn't come from his breath; it rose from his skin, too warm and pervasive to be cologne. Chris, who had never cared for strong fragrances, especially on men, found herself breathing him in deeply, as if she had to imprint his scent deep inside herself, where she could recall it at will and never forget this man.

Something already told her that she never would.

"Just Chris." He straightened and draped her scarf around his own neck. His amethyst eyes—surely the most stunning eyes she'd ever seen in anyone's face, man or woman—took on a burnished sheen. "Is it a singular name, then, like Madonna, or Jewel?"

"It's… easier to remember than the long version." She took his hand and brought it to her face. "Chris. It rhymes with this." She brushed her lips, whisper-soft, against the center of his palm.

Rob closed his eyes for a moment, and then bent as if to slide his arm under her knees and lift her off her feet.

"Wait." She touched his shoulder. "Dance with me again."

He slowly straightened. "There's no music."

"I don't care." She stepped closer.

Rob took her in his arms, enfolding her this time as she rested her cheek against his shoulder. Here, alone with him, with no one around them, she could finally do as she pleased for once. This once.