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happen, scout’s honor.”
    Of course, he was never a scout. But they don’t know that. He also knows that his large brown eyes are lighted up by the dim overhead lamps into a rich liquid golden, and they are at their most alluring. Besides, he is devastatingly handsome in his tux.
    The redhead says doubtfully, “Well . . . I was here to visit a friend . . . and I’ve got to really be getting back . . . ”
    “To a husband? Boyfriend? Laundry service?”
    “No.”
    Brian holds his hands up. “Well, when you get back to your significant whatevers smelling of lasagna, don’t say I didn’t offer to get you cleaned up.”
    Nothing like the seeming withdrawal of an illicit promise to get their juices churning.
    The redhead pauses. “Well, OK. You got detergent?”
    “I have a silk bathrobe.”
    He punches the button of the private penthouse elevator again. The smile is still on his face as they step in together.
    In a corner of the ceiling, the roving security camera is trained on them.

10
     
    Brian pushes open the front door of his penthouse; aware that only minutes ago, he had made up his mind to be more careful about letting strangers into his home. Still, what can an itsy-bitsy girl like her do to a big, strapping man like him?
    “Come on in,” he says.
    “Wow.” Her dark eyes sparkle.
    This is the reaction he always gets when he brings someone back to his apartment for the first time. It’s designed to wow. The entrance opens up to a lounge bedecked with a plush Persian carpet that cost him a hundred thousand dollars. OK, it was a gift from his aunt. Tasteful Italian furniture is set in artful arrangement, and the centerpiece is a grand piano.
    “You play?” she asks.
    Has he heard her voice before? Something about her seems awfully familiar.
    “Only with one finger.”
    “And you have a whole grand piano just for that finger,” she teases.
    Oh, she wants him all right.
    “I’ll promise not to tell you where that finger has been if you promise not to tell anyone I can’t play.”
    She laughs. “I guess I’d better ask you to promise to point me the way to the bathroom.”
    “The swimming pool is out there just in case you need a larger body of water.”
    She gives him a knowing look and disappears in the direction of the guest bathroom.
    He shrugs his tuxedo jacket off and goes to the bar. An array of liquor bottles greets him. He wonders what she would like. Something hard? Or maybe a little wine? He picks up a shot glass and pours himself some bourbon.
    She reappears – in his white silk bathrobe. Her cleavage is pronounced in between the lapels, and she has the sash loosely tied around her waist. He can see that she has an amazing body under the robe. Her red hair falls prettily around her shoulders. She carries her partially wet green dress.
    “Bourbon?” he asks her.
    “No, I think I will have myself some vodka.”
    “I’m Brian Morton, by the way.”
    “Delilah.”
    Fetching name, he thinks.
    He puts down his drink on the bar. “Well, Delilah, if you don’t mind, I think I will change into something more comfortable before I get bourbon all over my dress suit.”
    “Do you have a tumble dryer?”
    “It’s over that way in the laundry room, which is behind the kitchen.” He points her in the direction. “Make yourself at home.”
    When he comes back to the lounge, in jeans and a grey sleeveless tee which shows off his shoulder muscles to maximal effect, she is seated on his black leather sofa, sipping vodka. She pushes an identical glass towards him.
    “I don’t like to drink alone,” she says.
    Her eyelashes bat suggestively at him. So she’s also a predator. He likes that. He wonders what she would be in bed with her hair all mussed up and sprawled gloriously upon the pillow.
    A fleeting image of Sam graces the top of his mind, but he pushes it away. This was their deal, after all. They are just ‘hanging out’. No obligations, no commitments, no regrets. The way they