Simply Sex

She turned.

“You might want to…” He motioned at her behind.

At first, she was offended at his nerve until she saw that her slip was on full display. The back of her gauze skirt had brushed up when she jumped off the ladder, no doubt. She shoved it down, blushing.

“Purple’s your color,” he said with an easy smile. No need to freak. We’re good.

“Thank you,” she said primly. So much for her armor, she thought, watching Seth flip back a page on his steno pad with long, strong fingers. She had a thing for men’s hands. Certain men. Certain hands.

She forced her eyes up to his face and swallowed across a dry throat. “Are you single, Seth?” Please be married, please be gay, please be leaving for the Arctic.

“Am I single? Yeah, but—” Her question had startled him. Great. That put her more in charge.

“Good, because I thought the best way to show you how Personal Touch works is to give you a dry run of a client’s experience. Just a sample.”

“That’s not necessary. Your press kit is very complete.”

“We’ll compress the time, don’t worry. We’ll do a Personality Profile inventory, I’ll interview you, show you some Potentials in one of our quarterly magazines, and—”

“Thanks anyway. I just have a few questions and I need to take your picture.”

“But if you want to capture the Personal Touch atmosphere…” Speaking of which, the air had begun to reek of something burning. Something besides candles.

She glanced to the far side of her desk, where a wisp of black smoke rose above the wastepaper basket. Heck, oh dear, she’d started a fire!

The paper towel Tony had tossed in the trash must have contained oil. Her discarded matches and the newspaper were heat and fuel. She lunged for the basket, intending to run it to the bathroom, but her movement made the fire lick at her loose sleeve. The gauze lit up like tissue paper.

Seth was there so fast she hardly had time to panic. He grabbed the trash out of her hand, upending it, then whipped off his jacket to smother her flaming sleeve. After that, he bent to pound out the embers with the bottom of the basket while she examined her arm under the flash-fried fabric.

He rose. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride.”

He acknowledged her joke, but he gripped her wrist and turned her arm to examine it for himself. “Maybe ice it.”

It stung a little, but she was too mortified to dwell on that. She pulled out of his grip, shook her tattered sleeve into place, aware of how close he stood. “It was stupid to run. Thanks for saving me.”

“No problem.” He shot her a wry smile. “When a woman’s on fire, I’m always ready to kill the flame.” Did he have to be self-deprecating, too? The needle of her bad-boy meter shot into the red zone.

They both bent to scoop the charred debris back into the trash. The combination of candles and burned paper made her office smell like a burning gift shop, but beneath the stink she picked up Seth’s mix of soap—Irish Spring?—coconut shampoo and worn leather. Her favorite smells on a man.

Seth plopped the basket over the burn marks that now marred her pastel-flowered Oriental rug. “Good as new.”

“For now, I guess.”

They both rose, standing close together. His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “You were saying something about atmosphere?”

She grimaced. “How about if you wipe this from your mind?” She waved her arms as if to clear the smoke and the memory.

At that moment, Gail burst in the room. “Did that reporter ever get here?” She caught sight of him. “Oh, good. I was at the Macy’s sweater sale and got to talking. You’ll be happy to know that the women’s wear sales staff includes two divorcées, a widow and three women with Singles-Bar Burnout. Expect appointments this week.”

“That’s great, Gail. Thanks.”

Gail scrunched her nose. “Bad incense, hon. Smells like burning tires and candy apples.”

“I had a little incident.” She lifted her sleeve, which looked like it belonged on a pirate, postpillage.

“Criminy Christmas, Janie, be careful.” She turned to Seth. “She was so nervous about you coming.”

“You were nervous?” Seth asked her. More twinkling.

“No. I—”

“Extremely,” Gail inserted. “This story is vital to us.”

“Uh, Gail, we don’t want to tie Seth up.” But can I offer you a gag? “Will you hold my calls?” Janie attempted an eyebrow move meant to convey a plea for cooperation.

“Hold your calls?” Gail blinked. Janie wanted Personal Touch to seem thriving but they hadn’t even had the usual quota of wrong-number perverts since Seth had arrived. Finally, Gail caught on. “Oh, you bet. I’ll do my best to keep those calls at bay. It’s not easy, let me tell you. It’s wild out here on the switchboard.” If anything was worth doing, Gail believed in overdoing it.

After she’d gone, Janie smiled at Seth. “Gail’s very enthusiastic. She was my first client, you know.”

“Oh, yeah?” Seth listened politely while she explained how she’d matched Gail and her husband, but took no notes.

“Maybe that would be a good sidebar?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job.” Was she irritating him? He hadn’t responded to any of her ideas so far. Her skin itched from tension, and the spots where the fire had touched her arm stung like crazy. “So, how did you envision capturing Personal Touch for your readers?”

“Envision?” He smirked, but kindly. “I don’t know if I intended anything so lofty, but how about a photo of you?” He lifted his camera.

“You’re a photographer, too?”

“When I have to be.” He didn’t seem too happy about it.

“Okay. Where do you want me?”

His eyes sparkled at her words. You really want to know? Then he surveyed her office. “Man, it’s pink in here. Looks like a dollhouse.”

“I chose this look to reassure our clients. The flowers, the soft colors and the lace convey the idea that dreams can come true.”

“You check that theory with men? Looks pretty girlie to me.”

“Men want romance, too, Seth. Along with logic. And that’s why Personal Touch is unique. We mix the pragmatic with the romantic.”

“Sure. I get it.” But he thought she was dishing out a sales pitch and he didn’t buy a word. “So, back to the photo.”

“How about here?” She rushed to the table under the lace-curtained window, where a vase of fresh pink roses rested. Kylie, who’d declared live flowers too expensive, had inexplicably sent her a dozen dewy blooms.