The longer Chas knew her, the more he wanted to know about her. Watching Miranda's moods shift was like watching a storm roll in across the Sound, never knowing where the next lightning strike would be. She was hard-headed, inquisitive, hesitant, and flirtatious by turns, as if she just couldn't decide what she wanted—from him or from herself. Luckily one of them was clear-headed on the subject. He knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted her.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Miranda asked, watching him pour the last of the wine into her goblet.

“No. If you get drunk, you'll have done it to yourself. Why do you ask?” He leaned back in his chair. She'd definitely lost some of her edge, but that could have been a result of his deliberately light conversation or the cozy setting as much as the wine, which she'd only sipped.

“You can never get anything nice by the glass. So, no more cop stories. I get to ask some questions now.”

“Check, please,” she said, looking around for the waiter.

He smiled. “Excellent. Interrogations always go much better when the suspect is nervous.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

He smiled. “Nope. But I'll go easy on you.” He picked up his wineglass and asked over the rim, “How long have you been writing?” She sat as far back in her chair as it would allow and flipped a handful of long dark hair over her shoulder. “Seriously for about eight years. I dabbled before that. My first book came out six years ago. My sixth will be released in March.”

“So you write one a year? Unlike—who was it that writes ten books a year?”

“Nora Roberts. I write one and a half to two in a year, actually. In between books there are things like revisions to do and book tours to go on and ideas to pitch. And down time, both planned and accidental. I doubt I could ever do ten, but I could probably do two to three a year if I pushed myself.” She shrugged. “It all depends on how much I love the story and what else is going on in my life at that moment.” She smiled. Her hazel eyes were calm and deep for a change.

Chas leaned forward slowly, folding his arms on the table. “What's going on in your life at this moment?”

She didn't move, but he watched, intrigued, as her pupils dilated and her irises turned green. A second later, she dropped her eyes and picked up her wineglass, then twirled it by the stem, making Chas wonder why the question—or the answer—made her uncomfortable. He added it to the growing list of things he wanted to know about Miranda Lane. It was already a damned long list.

“I came up here to work on a new proposal—”

“What's that?”

“The framework of a story that you send to an editor with the hope that she'll pay you lots of money to write the rest of it.”

“You don't send a book?”

She shook her head. “I don't. I'm trying to pull together a synopsis and a few chapters.”

“But.”

She glanced up at him, then went back to studying the stem of her wineglass with a slight frown. The green had faded from her eyes. “But I have a new editor and she wants some pretty extensive revisions to the book that's coming out in March. It should be in production already, so I have to work on those first.”

“How long will those take?”

“More time than I have to do them.”

And yet, here we are. “In other words, I'm cutting into your writing time?”

She smiled and took a small sip of wine instead of answering.

“How long are you going to be in town?”

“Three more weeks. I'm leaving the day before Thanksgiving.”

“And between now and then you'll spend your days writing?”

“And most of my nights. I have to if I'm going to hit my deadline.” Vivid green eyes flicked to his, then away.

She was guilty as hell. But of what? He said nothing, and didn't allow his expression to change. It achieved the desired effect.

“I usually write from about eleven in the morning until about four, and then again from about eight until midnight or so. When I'm on deadline, it really can run straight through the day.” Unable to put any more distance between them without leaving the table, she lifted the wineglass to her lips again but didn't take a sip. “Right now, I'm trying to write any time that I'm not answering the door to let in workmen, or entertaining Paxton, or being stopped by Stamford police officers.” She glanced up at him again. “Or being kidnapped by them.”

He smiled and shifted in his chair, leaning back as if he was settling in. “Now who's flirting with whom?”

“I've heard that turnabout is fair play.”

“You're honest. That's good,” he lied with a smile. It was disconcerting how much he wanted her but what was more disconcerting was that he wasn't doing more in the way of acting on it. Getting a woman horizontal didn't constitute much of a challenge these days. As skittish as Miranda was, he could have done that last night if he'd applied himself. He didn't because, while it would have been enjoyable, it wouldn't have been satisfying. He wanted to get past the attitude, past the sarcasm, past the guilt—no, to the bottom of that, actually—and see what was real and what was bravado. How much might be shyness or insecurity hidden by overcompensating boldness.

That desire to learn her was part of the reason he'd chosen this restaurant. It was expensive, out of the way, and overrated, but, in the event a breakthrough occurred, it never hurt to be prepared. The other side of the building housed an historic inn with cozy, tastefully romantic rooms, an excellent wine list, and twenty-four-hour room service.

She gave a small, nervous laugh, then took a small sip of wine. He waited.

“Don't congratulate yourself too soon, Chas. My honesty may be situational. After all, you're trained to spot a liar, aren't you? Maybe I'm just not willing to be found out yet.”

Something in her manner changed then, causing her to put down her wineglass and lean forward on her elbows. “Why did you agree to a blind date, Chas? Is Paxton trying to marry you off or help you through a broken heart?”

“Those are the only two possibilities?” He leaned forward on his elbows to put his face within a foot of hers and watched her immediately pick up her wineglass again, this time as a shield rather than a distraction. But she didn't lean away from him. “Tell me why you care.”

“I don't care,” she said with a forced smile. “I'm curious.”

“Neither. Any more, anyway.”

“She's not trying to marry you off any more or you're no longer nursing a broken heart?”

“For someone who doesn't care about the answer, you're particular about its precision.” He let his eyes roam over her face before continuing. She was beautiful. Aroused and beautiful and trying damned hard not to be sexy. Chas wondered if she knew just how miserably her efforts were backfiring. “I'm not interested in marriage and my heart doesn't break. That makes me the quintessential ‘spare man’, something every society hostess craves. In return for completing her table now and then, Paxton has introduced me to quite a few nice women.”

“Do you end up dating them?”

Despite the boldness of the question, he smiled and shrugged. “I went out with some of them once or twice.”

“That's it? Why?”

Still amused but getting annoyed by her line of questioning, Chas paused to take a sip of wine. “Not everyone is cut out to date a cop.”

“So you don't want to get married and you don't have relationships and it's all because of your career. How intriguing. Will that change when you become a lieutenant? Or is it a separate issue?”

He put down his wineglass and met her eyes again. “Forgive me for pointing this out, but your questions are becoming what my grandmother would call impertinent.”

She laughed, which wasn't the response he was expecting or looking for. “What would you call my questions?”

“Nosy.”

She laughed again and inched forward conspiratorially. “I apologize, Chas. Like I told you last night, I've totally abandoned my manners since I met you. Every Southern grandmother shelling peas on heaven's front porch is surely looking down upon me in horror and shame. But, heaven help me, I'm intrigued, is all. I've never met a man who was so up-front about not getting involved with women.”

He paused, still torn between irritation and amusement. “It's only relationships that include certain expectations that I avoid. And the decision has nothing to do with my rank. Satisfied?”

She didn't flinch. “It sounds complicated.”

“Quite the contrary. It's extremely simple, Miz Miranda,” he replied in a deliberate parody of her drawl. “I avoid commitment. On purpose. Intentionally. Openly. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“According to Paxton, you've re-entered single life fairly recently, but according to what you said a few minutes ago, it sounds like you don't have much of a social life.”

She smiled. “Some girlfriend she is, giving you the low-down like that. I'm going to have to remind her of the rules. Well, you're right. I don't have a social life when I'm on deadline.”

“You're on a deadline now.”

“Don't tell my editor, but I occasionally have to get things done. Like fulfilling my civic duty and eating lunch.”

Enough was enough. The bill had been paid, the dishes had been cleared, the conversation had turned into sexual banter, and all he could think about was—He stood up and walked around the table to her chair. “It's time to get you back to the pumpkin patch, Cinderella.”

“Scullery.”

Bedroom. “Whatever.”

He resisted the temptation to touch her as they left the restaurant but by the time they had crossed the large, empty gravel parking lot, putting more and more distance between themselves and those deep feather beds a couple could lose themselves in, touching her was all he could think about. He opened her door then walked around to the driver's side. As he settled in his seat, it felt as though the inside of the small car had gotten smaller or their personal spaces had expanded. Either way there didn't seem to be any room for withdrawal.

Knowing there was a very good chance he could end up with a black eye or worse, Chas leaned toward her slowly, captured her chin and lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips were soft and parted in surprise. She tasted of Chardonnay and coffee, of warm, strong, passionate woman and of infinite possibilities. After only a few seconds, she began to kiss him back, tentatively.

Tentative was fine. For the moment. He moved closer, slid his hand into that silky mane of hair and was about to deepen the kiss when she stiffened. A second later he felt her hand against his chest.

“Stop,” she whispered against his lips.

“Why?” he whispered back, then took her lips again, wet them, traced them.

“Chas.”

He took his hand away and lifted his head, and she turned immediately toward the window. Then she took a deep breath and he knew two things: everything she would say in the next thirty seconds would be a lie, and the game was over. For now.

“Chas, you're not my type of guy,” she began haltingly and he glanced at his watch. “I'm here on business, just for a short time. I don't want—” She took another breath. “With Paxton and all, things could get complicated and I don't want that. You were right this morning, I do like you, but not like that. Not like this.”

All that in only twenty seconds. Not bad. He eased back into his seat, giving her some space. “Is that five reasons or six?”

It didn't surprise him when she didn't answer.

“Which is the real one?” Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine.

“My old boyfriend and I are sort of—” She sighed. Thirty. “I just can't, Chas. I won't.”

He fought the urge to shake his head, to shake her for lying. He took a deep breath and decided to let her talk herself into a corner, or out of one. “If you're back with your boyfriend sort of, why did you kiss me back?”

“I'm not sure, but it won't happen again.”

“I can guarantee it won't,” he replied evenly. “I don't like women who cheat.”

As expected, she bristled and turned those sparking green eyes on him. “I'm not cheating. You kissed me. I don't remember extending an invitation.”

“You kissed me back, Miranda. It was an option. You exercised it.” He pushed in the clutch and turned the key, gently bringing the powerful engine to life. “That's against the rules. If you're spoken for, you're obliged to tell me before anything happens.”

She let out an annoyed breath. “I'm not spoken for. A parking space is spoken for. A table at a restaurant is spoken for. I am not spoken for. And I can make up my own mind about whom I kiss and when.”

He turned to her, looking her straight in the eyes. He kept his voice low and calm and even. “Then make up your mind. Right now.”

She didn't move an inch, didn't even blink. “What do you mean?”

“Me or him.”

She didn't hesitate. “Him.”

“Why was that so difficult to remember two minutes ago?”

“It wasn't.”

“Good.”

God Almighty, he wanted her more than ever. Putting the engine into gear, he pulled slowly onto Route 7. Silence reigned.

“What if I'd said you?” she asked ten minutes later.

You'd be naked and breathless, lost in a sea of French goose down. He slowed down into blind curve, then shot forward as he cleared it. “I knew you wouldn't.”

“Nonsense.”

“You're not the devil-you-don't type of woman. You like things safe.”

“There's no way Paxton said anything like that about me.”

“She didn't have to. I read your books, remember?”

“I told you I'm nothing like my heroines.”

“I'm not saying you are. But I've read three of your books and all the heroes are the same guy. Obviously, that's the type of man you prefer.”

“If you mean they're fully evolved, you're right,” she snapped.

“I mean they're wimps.” Not hiding his smile, he decided that rendering her speechless held a certain satisfaction.

“They are not wimps,” she protested. “You're not qualified to say that anyway. My books aren't written for you—”

“That's irrelevant. Here's a newsflash, Hotshot: men understand how romance works.”

She paused, and took a breath. “Tell me why—”

“Your heroes don't have a clue. They're totally passive. They feel your pain. They hug. They delay their own gratification. Hell, they're not only wimps, they're complete fantasies.”

She swiveled her shoulders to face him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes held the full heat of a nicked ego but her voice was smooth and cool. “Another cheap shot,” she said with a forced smile. “Maybe that's what I should start calling you, since you call me ‘Hotshot’. Which, by the way, I wish you'd stop.”

He could tell that his laughter surprised her. “You're absolutely right, Miranda. It was a cheap shot. I apologize.”

She took another deep breath, which did nothing to calm her down. “Apology accepted. So let's get back on point. You have a degree in Comparative Literature, yet calling my heroes ‘fantasies’ is the best reason you can come up with for calling them wimps? All I can say in response to that is, duh, Chas. Of course they are. Fantasies, I mean. Do you think romance novelists write about reality? Who in their right mind would want to read about a pot-bellied boor who can remember the stats on every player in the NFL but can't remember his wedding anniversary? Or his kids' birthdays? Or the fact that his wife likes lilies and can't stand roses? Reality is what people want to escape, and with good reason.” She turned back to the window.

“All men aren't like that,” he said and let her settle for a minute. “It sounds like you're saying that you know all your books go over the top.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“No man defers his own gratification as many times as that dorky Reed did.”

She swung her entire body toward him this time, unbuckling the seatbelt when it proved unyielding.

“Put that back on,” he ordered quietly before she could get a word out. She snapped the buckle into place without argument but she was as wired as if she had a high-voltage current running through her. Her eyes, which never left his face, were laser hot.

“Excuse me,” she said in a voice low and aching with the strain of her control. “But women love Reed. Women from all over the world wrote to tell me how much they liked Reed and how they wished their men were like him.” Turning to face the windshield again, she took a slow, deep breath and regained some of her composure. “Why should you care what kind of men I write about anyway, Chas? Is this conversation some sort of payback because I didn't want to kiss you?”

“No. You did want to kiss me. In fact, you did kiss me.” Cursing the rugged Connecticut countryside for demanding his concentration, he swept his eyes over her face then dragged them back to the curving road ahead. All that passion going to waste. “And I know you're lying about why you didn't continue kissing me, but I'm not going to lose any sleep over it.”

“Good,” she snapped. “By the way, it doesn't matter whether you think I'm lying or not because I don't owe you a reason. I assume you've heard the expression ‘no’ means ‘no’?”

He knew it was a reasonable comment but under the circumstances it sent a riff of annoyance shooting through him. “Oh, give me a break, sweetheart. This isn't prom night and I'm not trying to get into your panties. It was just a kiss, and the only reason it bothers you is that I'm under your skin already.”

She turned back to the window. “That's utter, ego-driven nonsense,” she said tightly. “I suggest we call it a draw and just write off this whole exercise as a few bad coincidences and leave it at that.” He just shook his head as they sped down the entrance ramp to the Merritt Parkway.

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