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No.” Dansant shook his head a little. “I am sorry. I do not mean live here in the restaurant.” He gestured toward the ceiling. “Upstairs, there are two flats. One is empty.”
    Maybe he didn’t understand the concept of I’m broke . “And what does the landlord want for rent?”
    “Nothing.”
    Her brows rose. “There’s no such thing as a free apartment, pal.”
    “There is when I am the landlord.” He smiled briefly. “My partner and I own the entire building.”
    “Nice.” She glanced up to keep from drooling over his teeth, which were of course as dazzling white and perfect as the rest of him. “You’d let me stay there for free, when you could rent out the apartment to someone who could pay?” The way he kept touching her, maybe he meant to handle rent another way. “You thinking of taking it out in trade?”
    He was staring at her face again. “What is this trade?”
    “You know.” She let her gaze drift down the length of him, pausing to study the excellent fit of his khakis to his strong thighs and lean hips before looking into his eyes again. “You give me an apartment; I give you what you want. Trade.”
    “What do you think I want, Rowan?” He didn’t sound offended or angry; now there was something like pity in his eyes.
    She’d spent years in bars hustling pool tables and getting hit on by beer-soaked Romeos; she’d heard every come-on in existence. She had few illusions about her looks. The only reason a guy hit on her was because he was plastered or desperate.
    But Dansant wasn’t drunk, and if he was hard up for a woman she’d eat her helmet. As spectacular as his looks were, he was also kind and gentle, and had tended to her as if she were some stray kitten he’d found in the alley. She had no right to think he wanted her to pay the rent on her back; he hadn’t made one move on her. She looked at his hands again, and saw how immaculate and well shaped they were. The evocative scent of jacqueminot warmed her lungs, as if she was standing in some unseen garden. One where she could happily spend the rest of her days.
    He’d definitely been shopping in the wrong cologne department. . . . Isn’t there someone waiting for you at home? So beautiful and clean and perfectly groomed, Dansant was, right down to his manicured fingernails. My partner sleeps to dawn.
    Oh, hell. Suddenly it all made sense. He’s gay.
    “Nothing. I was wrong.” She ducked her head. “Sorry.” And she was, for herself and all her sisters in the world who would never have a chance with the man. “You’re sure about this?” Still a little heartbroken, she glanced up. “I mean, giving me a job, letting me stay here?”
    “Oui.”
    He’d said only one of the apartments was empty. “Do you live in the other one?”
    He shook his head. “The man who lives there is a mechanic. I think he will know how to repair your motorcycle.”
    A job, a place to live, and a neighbor who could fix her bike. That was a hell of a lot more than she had waiting for her in Boston.
    “Well, you may be crazy, Dansant, but I’m not. All right.” She grinned at him. “You’ve got yourself a new tenant tournant .”
    The special analysis lab in the Atlanta headquarters of GenHance, Inc., had been given many names since being built. Administration identified it as “the clean room.” The few technicians cleared for limited, supervised access quietly referred to it as “the pressure cooker.”
    The janitorial staff, who were not permitted inside, called it “Area 51.”
    In reality the room was an enormous, two-thousand-square-foot sealed, sterile space, with its own air lock, power grid, security system, and complex, multifiltered air supply. Until they submitted to a full-body scan, no one who was authorized access could enter the room. Each day security personnel performed similar, intensive scans on the surgical steel walls, floors, and equipment inside the lab.
    Nothing was brought into the room that was not