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cheeks. The presents never arrived on her birthday, never at Christmas. Never when she was expecting them. Never anything that was suitable to be opened in one’s office, even if one locked the door and pulled the shades over all the windows…
    One peek inside the box and the pulse in her throat went into double time. She glanced up nervously to make sure the door was closed before carefully unfolding the treasure. The camisole was designed like a Victorian corset, the old-fashioned kind that cinched up the figure.
    Except that there was no whalebone to viciously sever breath. Just satin, a luscious oyster-colored satin, and a low bodice tucked and gathered to deliberately display the wearer’s breasts so brazenly that she would certainly catch a cold.
    Unconsciously, she stroked the soft folds, her palms stroking the luxurious satin, the fabric whispering a subtle, erotic call to her senses. Her rational mind, of course, was already crisply cataloging objections. The gift was terribly inappropriate. Anne’s choice of lingerie was not unfeminine, but always simple and practical. Lace and satin—she just wasn’t the type. Jake knew that. And yes, it was from Jake. She didn’t even need to look at the card.
    No one else would have given her a gift that was so blatantly a sexual invitation. No one else persisted in inviting her to be the kind of woman she simply wasn’t. Very rapidly, she folded the camisole back into the box, feeling oddly breathless. When the lid was back on, she caught her breath again. If anyone had seen him bringing that in…
    She buried the wrappings in her wastebasket, praying no one would knock on her door until she was done, and then hastily picked up the envelope. The note had been boldly scrawled in black ink. “Since I must have missed you, love, I went to see your Mr. Laird. All I wanted to know, was if you were free for lunch. He said you were free to come to Idaho with me for two weeks.”
    She had to read it twice, because the first time she had obviously misunderstood. Jake would never have gone to see Laird, not even as a joke. Jake was unscrupulous and arrogant and, God knew, impulsive, but their affair had always been strictly private; he had always shown a respect for her that Anne had never questioned. She read the note a third time, sank back in her desk chair, closed her eyes and murmured to herself, “I am a mature, rational, practical woman in full control of my life.” One could not feel stalked unless one allowed oneself to become prey. She was not prey. For anyone. There was no logical reason she should feel a shudder of primitive fear dance up her vertebrae.
    The thing to do was…open her eyes. Get up, for heaven’s sake, and hide the camisole in the bottom drawer of her file cabinet, bury the note in her purse… Those things done, she straightened an imperceptible wrinkle in her skirt and opened the office door.
    She negotiated carpet, linoleum, elevator and more carpet all in the four and a half minutes it took to reach Mr. Laird’s door, truly a record pace in her high-heeled spectators. Her tap was polite, perfectly in control.
    “Come in.”
    She felt better the moment Mr. Laird offered her his usual distracted smile. Her boss intimidated half the people in the bank with those ice-blue eyes of his. He tolerated no inefficiency, would fire anyone he knew to be disloyal, and ruthlessly dictated policies that were not always popular. Anne had always gotten along beautifully with him. She also knew him well enough to realize that the distracted smile was a favorable augury. “Actually, I was going to call you earlier, Anne, but then I got hung up with a phone call. The White estate—I liked the way you handled all of it.”
    “I…thank you, Mr. Laird.” Anne propped herself on the edge of the leather chair in front of his desk. Her nerves were all set to relax again when her boss handed her the White file, leaned back in his chair and started chuckling.
    Mr.