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this particular evening she doubted she would get anything accomplished. “Very often I spend an hour before work looking over my cases for the day. I’m an early riser anyway, and I’m freshest in the morning.”
    She sidestepped her desk with care, mindful of her flub that afternoon. Sloane hadn’t moved from the door. “You look totally fresh right now. Are dinners with clients part of the normal schedule?”
    With a tug she hoisted the shoulder strap of her purse, then lifted the briefcase, only to have it as quickly removed from her fingers when Sloane stepped forward. She released it graciously. “No. This is a surprise. Particularly” —she eyed him cautiously—“since you really aren’t
my client. As a matter of fact, I’m not quite sure why Dan suggested I join you all. I know nothing about your operation.”
    Sloane flipped off the lights as they left the office, then moved beside her toward the deserted reception area. “That, my dear, can be easily remedied.” It was a perfect Clark Gable imitation, yet uniquely Sloane Harper. Nothing about the man, she mused, smacked of imitation. He was one of a kind—certainly in the profound effect he had on her senses.
    Now, as they left Ivy, Gates and Logan behind and stood waiting for the elevator, she was acutely aware of those senses and the messages they conveyed. There was a strength about him as he stood tall, a rough six feet four to her five feet eight, and a dignity in his stance that fell short of arrogance. He was masterful in silence, exuding an aura of self-confidence which challenged her. The faint hint of his morning’s dose of aftershave was pleasingly light, as was the warmth which radiated from his lean lines.
    â€œThen, tell me,” she began, groping for a diversion from these subtle, sensual messages, “tell me about CORE International.”
    â€œFrom scratch?” he asked, boyishly pleased.
    Justine grinned shyly. “From scratch. I am one of the totally ignorant.” The arrival of the elevator delayed the story as they stepped inside and began the long downward glide. Alone with this silver-haired man in the plush and polished elevator, Justine was infinitely grateful that an impersonal subject had been chosen.
    Sloane began softly, his keen eye following the course of the lights on the elevator panel. “The company began as a small operation twenty years ago. My father was its founder, working out of Atlanta, primarily along the southeastern seaboard. When I joined the company twelve
years ago, then took over command three years later, we began to expand.”
    â€œWas your training in business?” she asked, unwittingly delving into the man as a person. The elevator stopped at the garage level, and Sloane smoothly guided her toward the spot where his car was parked.
    â€œI have an M.B.A. from the Tuck School at Dartmouth, but most of what I do is intuitive.”
    Before Justine could question him further, he paused beside a small blue Mazda, dug into a pocket for the keys, then opened the door for her.
    â€œHmmm,” she commented, “I can see why you didn’t offer to take the others. Not much room, is there?” The car was a two-seater, well appointed though far from luxurious.
    His answering drawl was close by her ear as he leaned in to straighten a seat belt. “Not much.”
    A quiver snaked its way through her before she was jolted by the slam of the car door beside her. Moments later Sloane let himself into the driver’s side, then turned to face her. The garage was dimly lit, casting a halo effect around the silver cap of his head. An angel, she mused, but far from a saint, if his effect on her was intentional.
    â€œIt is intimate, I suppose,” he said softly, smiling.
    Justine sought sanity by making light of the definite seductiveness of his tone. “I’ll say! It’s a good thing you don’t have