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wasn't too heavy. It had been such a long time since she'd felt anything even remotely close to the kind of warmth he was so easily building in her. He leaned down and very gently touched his lips to hers. "I'm glad you've got a seven-foot sofa," he said against her mouth.
    "I can't even think of a raunchy pun to go with that," she said. He kissed her again. "Are we necking yet?" she asked with a Transylvanian accent, and nibbled at his throat.
    "No," he said slowly, "I don't think so." He paused a moment, then asked in a very intense voice, "Chelsea, do you ever get serious?"
    "You have very white teeth."
    "I know. Do you? I mean, do you ever respond to things in an appropriately serious manner?"
    "Of course, but things rarely call for seriousness. You, on the other hand, probably go overboard with seriousness."
    He said stiffly, "I certainly never laugh my way into a woman's bed."
    "I wasn't aware that we were in anyone's bed. Besides, I doubt you could laugh your way into the shower!"
    "We are, nearly," he snapped, pulling back from her, "and the shower is probably just where you belong."
    Chelsea could only stare at him. "You mean you want heavy breathing and perhaps readings from Shakespeare's sonnets?"
    "You're really quite immature," he said. "Quite immature." He swung off the sofa and rose, standing over her.
    She still couldn't believe he was serious. "Shall I go dress in black?" she asked him, pulling her sweater back into its demure place. "Or perhaps I could just stuff a stocking in my mouth so I wouldn't lacerate your serious sensibilities with my immature humor."
    He shoved his fingers through his thick hair. "Look, Chelsea, a sense of humor is all well and good, but when one is supposed to be serious … and involved, one doesn't want to make the other person feel that what he's doing is something to joke about."
    "I don't believe you," she gasped. "Let me add that that convoluted sentence you just managed to string together is neither a Mark I or a Mark II thing to say. That's a stuffed-shirt-Eastern-pseudointellectual bit of garbage! No wonder your wife divorced you! You are the most full-of-it man I've ever met! And you can't even play poker decently!"
    David felt more frustrated than angry. Damn it, she was a frivolous, silly California twit, with no pretense to anything but a cute butt, and her big mouth certainly took the attraction away from that attribute.
    "And I am not immature," Chelsea said, scrambling up from the couch. "Just because I don't swoon all over you and sigh when you make your stupid male pronouncements, or moan with great seriousness when you kiss me—"
    He shook his head, cutting her off sharply with, "Damn it, you drive me crazier, in a shorter amount of time, than any female I've ever known. Good night, Chelsea. Since you're trying to find a man, I'll be glad to keep my eyes open for you—but I doubt there's any male silly enough to endure your biting his throat like a vampire when he just wants—"
    "Vampire! You idiot! If I were looking for a man, you, Dr. Great, wouldn't have gotten a second glance. And just wait a minute," she hollered after him. "I didn't finish my sentence! My sentence before this one!"
    "Put it in your next novel! I'm sure you can think up a sufficiently revolting male villain to say it to."
    "I'm going to kill you, George," Chelsea gritted, the slammed door rattling on its hinges. "I'd rather be bored than put up with that stuffed shirt."

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    Chapter 4
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    " D amn it, Elliot, I even called her to apologize yesterday, and she had the nerve to hang up on me!"
    "Then what did you do?" Elliot Mallory asked with great interest, although he knew full well what had transpired. Between taking care of Alex and visits from Chelsea, George was going nuts, and she had told him everything.
    "I called her back. I asked her to go to dinner with me. And she told me she had a deadline and no time to waste! That fluff-headed woman needs a keeper!"
    "I like the keeper