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elevator. She had wanted him all right, but only a kiss—a simple kiss. She exhaled. “It was that last Kamikaze. Those things are dangerous. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
    “Well, that makes two of us.” He combed his fingers through his hair and headed for the bathroom. “We can’t change what’s already been done,” he said before he looked back at her wistfully, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. “If it’ll make you happy, we’ll just pretend it never happened.”
    His chest was like a magnet. She had to use all of her inner strength not to look at him as if she’d never seen a man before. “Okay,” she said, trying to keep her composure.
    As he headed for the bathroom, she plopped down on the edge of the bed and said, “It never happened.”
    “Fine.”
    “Dominic,” she said before he disappeared inside the bathroom.
    He turned, looked at her, waited.
    “Did we use protection last night?”
    “Of course.”
    “Good.”
    “Yeah.” The door clicked shut behind him.
    When she heard the shower, she fell back on the mattress. Bits of last night flashed in her mind. They had definitely made love. At the time, she’d thought it was a crazy, romantic dream. Everything had been so perfect. His lips on hers, their bodies melded, Dominic telling her over and over again how beautiful she was. She’d never had a man tell her she was beautiful before, cute and spunky maybe, but never beautiful.
    No matter how wonderful last night was, sleeping with DeMarco had been a huge mistake, with an emphasis on huge . Unless she thought of last night as research—good old-fashioned hands-on research.
    That was it. She had slept with DeMarco in the name of research. She forced a smile. How the heck could any decent reporter write a mostly true investigative story about a man unless she knew every intimate detail? Last night may have been a never-to-be-repeated hazy blur of blissful lovemaking, but she would forgive herself this one lapse of judgment and chalk it up to research. She let out a long, deep sigh of relief.
    Dominic had good instincts, she recalled. He’d been right when he’d guessed that her heart had been broken before. She wasn’t willing to put herself out there again. Not yet, and certainly not with a man like him. She wasn’t a naïve little girl any longer.
    She straightened.
    She and DeMarco had signed a contract. Three months and this whole marriage business would be over.
    End of story.
    And yet, the thought of what she’d done last night still didn’t sit well with her. Get over it, Sam. You slept with him. Within twenty-four hours, you gave it all up. She hit her fist on the mattress. Damn. It was those sneaky martinis, because Dominic DeMarco really wasn’t all that great. Take away the amazing body, mesmerizing eyes, dimples, great singing voice, and the whole gentleman act at the reception, and what was left? A jerk. She was not going to fall for him. Doing so would merely be asking for another big dose of heartbreak.
    From here on out, she would think of the story at all times. She needed to stay focused. For the next three months, his every word and his every action needed to be stored in her memory banks until she could legally put words to paper.
    She glanced at the nightstand. A light on the hotel phone was flashing: messages. She picked up the receiver, pushed the message button, and listened. The first message was from the hotel concierge. They had her luggage and she was to call when she wanted her things brought to the room. The second message was from Ben, telling them to be in the lobby by noon. It was already ten-thirty. That didn’t give her much time. She hung up the phone, rang the concierge and asked for her luggage. Then she ran to the closet, slipped on a hotel robe, grabbed her wedding satchel that contained a tube of lipstick, and waited until she heard the water shut off before she knocked on the bathroom door.
    “Who is it?”
    “It’s me,” she