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on.”
    He tilted his mug back and finished his chocolate. Her stomach flip-flopped when he licked the residue from his upper lip. She could have done that for him. Really.
    “Where were you born?”
    “In Salt Lake.”
    He nodded. “All right. Family and some of the vital statistics are out of the way. What’s your profession?”
    Oh, dear. If she said freelance journalist, she was dead in the water. She didn’t want to lie, so maybe she could downplay it. “I’ve done a lot of things. At the moment, I’m a professional house-sitter. It keeps me from starving while I write.”
    Curran raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. What are you writing at the moment?”
    Time to divert the conversation. “No, you see, at the moment I’m supposed to be writing, but instead I’m killing time sucking down incredible hot chocolate and playing the Getting to Know You version of twenty questions.”
    She smiled at him, allowing herself to enjoy the sparkle in his eyes. The attention felt good.
    The diversion didn’t last long. Curran shifted toward her, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Seriously. What sort of writer are you?”
    The ice beneath her feet thinned and cracked a bit more. For a man who’d been out of the media spotlight for what, over a year, he was still plenty skittish. She’d have to tread lightly. As casually as she could, she said, “Right now, I have clients hiring me for website copy, ghostwriting, that sort of thing. And I’m trying my hand at a novel, but it’s intimidating me beyond belief.”
    “What’s it about?” He sounded genuinely interested, and slightly relieved.
    “It’s kind of a quirky love story, about a man and woman who keep meeting at various stages of their lives but each time is a near miss for them getting together.” She heard the enthusiasm in her voice, a little embarrassed about how gung-ho she sounded.
    “Do they ever get to happily ever after?”
    “Yes, when they’re about seventy.”
    He grinned. “Better late than never.”
    She swirled the remains of the cocoa in her mug, acutely aware of his gaze on her. The kitchen suddenly felt very warm. He slid one hand across the table, brushed his fingertips across hers, then gently disengaged one hand from her mug and held it in his own. It was the first time he’d touched her without gloves on and the electricity sparked by his calloused hands screamed up her arm and jump-started her pulse.
    Now she was in trouble.
    Victoria tried to stay objective. He’d probably used this question-and-answer format with dozens of women before. He was likely affecting her precisely the way he intended to, a well-practiced assault on her guard so she’d end up in his bed. Or was it? Didn’t his name or his charisma or both usually get him whatever he wanted from women without much additional effort?
    He leaned across the table and her heart jumped in response. His voice dropped to a rumbling whisper. “Victoria, your kiss stayed on my lips for weeks. I know this sounds terrible and I’m going way too fast, and it’ll likely insult you, but if I don’t kiss you again soon, I’m going to lose my mind.” He gave her hand a gentle tug.
    A battle rose inside her, one side crying for her to run, to avoid this at all costs, to remember why allowing anything to happen again was such a very bad idea. The other side soaked up every flicker of interest in his eyes like raindrops on parched earth, craving his attention with an intensity that stole her breath. Fantasy. It was just a fantasy, and all she wanted was one more little taste before she walked away. She shoved away the fear clawing at her. Heart racing, she eased forward to meet him.
    The front door of the house opened and a woman’s voice called, “Hi, honey, I’m home.”

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Three
     
    Curran sighed as Victoria bolted back to her side of the table. So much for timing.
    The flash of frost in her eyes told him exactly what assumption she’d made when she heard