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dared to disregard the warning on her front door. But as the knocking continued, she mumbled, “Can’t you read?”
    She’d put the Do Not Disturb sign up at noon, feeling optimistic that she’d spend the afternoon actually writing. Maybe she’d even do something as adventurous as get dressed in real clothes. Or—to the ultimate shock of everyone—actually go out.
    It hadn’t happened. Instead, she’d surfed the day away, still wearing the sweats she’d donned after her shower. Somehow, since the moment a judge with emotionless eyes had signed a document ending her marriage, she hadn’t felt like Miss Get Up and Go. These days, Miss Got Up, Went, and Got Her Ass Handed Back to Her was content to stay right where she was.
    Fortunately, the day hadn’t been totally wasted. She had found inspiration for tomorrow night’s column for her site, samthespaminator.com. But while researching, she’d also cruised blogs, played a few—okay, ten—hands of Spider Solitaire, and stumbled across stories here and tidbits there that grabbed her attention. Still, she’d finally gotten down to business and the piece was coming along nicely. At least, it had been until the arrival of the person at the door, whose voice brought her irritation level up a notch.
    “Ma’am, please answer the door.”
    Fat chance . There was research to be done on a new phishing scheme targeting Facebook users. She had an interview to do for a tech blog. And she had about three dozen e-mails to answer. Not much time for chitchat. Not much time for life, even.
    Yet she’d surfed away many of her working hours.
    “Loser,” she muttered.
    “Miss Dalton? We really need to talk to you,” the voice said.
    If she had a real office, rather than working out of the living room of her Baltimore apartment, she might have been able to continue ignoring the intrusion. But as it was, she had no escape. So Sam saved her file, then trudged to the door.
    Glancing through the peephole and seeing a man wearing a suit, she figured she was in for some soul saving or a high-end sales pitch. Or both. “What is it?” she snapped, yanking the door open.
    The man had his hand raised, ready to knock again, and her first impression was that he had big hands. Big fists. Strong-looking fingers. Her second was that if door-to-door salesmen now looked like this, lots more women would be lining up to buy vacuum cleaners and magazine subscriptions. Female shoppers all over the world were probably clamoring for deliveries.
    Not her, though. She wasn’t buying. Especially not from men who looked like him.
    “I’m sorry to disturb you,” the man said. “It’s quite important.”
    The face was handsome—square jawed, strong featured, with heavily lashed eyes and hollowed cheeks. Handsome enough to put Sam’s guard up. She didn’t trust handsome men, not after Samuel Dalton Jr. Her ex had been movie-star gorgeous.
    Sam and Sam. God, why hadn’t someone slapped her when she’d accepted his proposal?
    As he stepped closer, Sam had to tilt her head back. He was tall, easily topping her five-eight by several inches. Broad shoulders seemed to fill all the empty space between one side of the door frame and the other. With blondish-brown hair and a friendly gleam in the pale green eyes, she’d have expected a natural smile on his nicely shaped lips. But there was none. His expression remained polite but entirely neutral.
    Absolutely the only thing that said he wasn’t one hundred percent professional was the way his stare lingered for half a beat too long on her mouth. Which instantly made her want to lick her lips, even while she mentally cursed herself for the reaction.
    “You are Miss Dalton? Samantha Dalton?”
    “Mrs. Dalton,” she clarified, strictly from habit. Technically, she was no longer a Mrs. Dalton, not since her Mr. Dalton had found a Miss Slut-face to shack up with instead. Sam and Ashley. So much better . But she’d found the moniker useful in dealing with