But his large hands closed over hers to stop them. “I mean after I leave.”

“You’re leaving?”

He kissed her forehead. “I didn’t come here to seduce you, Sinclair.”

Suddenly, she wished he had.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m going to paint for a while, or we’ll never finish.”

“I can paint later.”

His finger brushed over her lips to silence her. “The price of being a guy. Your mission is to get all glammed up and frou frou. My mission is to give you the time to do that.”

Then he winked, and left the room, clicking the door shut behind him. And Sinclair shifted her attention to the deep, claw-footed tub.

It looked decadently wonderful. He’d set out the shampoo, bath gel and lotion. And he’d obviously poured some of the Luscious Lavender foaming oil into the water. She’d spent the last six months thinking about the artsy labels, the expensive magazine ads, the stuffed sample gift baskets for the ball, and the retail locations that needed some extra attention promotions-wise. Funny, that she’d never thought much about the products themselves.

The water steamed, and the lavender scent filled the room, and the anticipation of that luxurious heat on her aching shoulders was more than tempting.

She peeled off her T-shirt, unzipped her jeans, then slipped out of her underwear. She eased, toe-first, into the scorching bathwater, dipping in her foot, her calf, her knee. Then she slowly brought in her other foot, bracing her hands on the edges of the tub to lower her body into the hot water.

After her skin grew accustomed to the temperature, and her shoulders and neck began to sigh in pleasure, her thoughts made their way to Hunter. He was on the other side of that thin wall. And she was naked. And he knew she was naked.

She pictured him opening the door, wearing nothing but a smile, a glass of wine in each hand. He’d cross the black and white tiles, bend to kiss her, maybe on the neck, maybe on the lips. He’d set down their glasses. Then he’d draw her to her feet, dripping wet, the scented oil slick on her skin. His hands would roam over her stomach, her breasts, her buttocks, pulling her tight against his body, lifting her-

Something banged outside and Hunter swore in frustration. Clearly, he wasn’t out there stripping off his clothes and popping the wine cork. She was naked, not twenty feet away, and he was dutifully painting.

She sucked in a breath and ducked her head under the water.

Four

By the time Sinclair emerged from her bathroom, wrapped in a thick, terry robe, her face glowing, her wet hair combed back from her face, Hunter had cleaned up the paint and ordered a pizza. The smell of tomatoes and cheese wafted up from the cardboard box on the breakfast bar while he popped the cork from his housewarming bottle of wine.

“How did you know sausage and mushroom is my favorite?” she asked as she padded across the paint splattered tarps.

“I’m psychic.” He retrieved two stools from beneath the tarp, then opened the top of the pizza box.

“How’d it go in there?” he asked her, watching her climb up on one stool.

She arranged the robe so that it covered her from head to toe, and he tried not to think about what was under there.

She smiled in a way that did his heart good. “I’m a whole new woman.”

“Not completely new, I hope,” he teased as he took the stool facing her. The covered breakfast bar was at their elbows.

She grinned. “Don’t worry. I saved the best parts.”

“Oh, good.” He poured them each a glass of the pinot. “So, are you ready to move on to makeup?”

She reached for a slice of pizza. “You planning to help me with that, too?”

He took in her straggled hair, squeaky clean face and oversized robe. If he had his way, he’d keep her exactly as she was. But this wasn’t about him.

“I don’t think you want to arm me with a mascara wand.”

“But you’ve done such a good job so far.” She blinked her thick lashes ingenuously.

“We could call one of the Bergdorf ladies.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

She hit him with an impatient stare. “It’s not that I can’t put on a lot of makeup. It’s that I don’t put on a lot of makeup.”

“Oh.”

She chewed on her slice of pizza, and he followed suit. After a while, she slipped her bare feet off the stool’s crossbar and swung them in the air while they ate in companionable silence.

“What about clothes?” he asked.

“I’ll call Kristy and get some suggestions.”

He nodded his agreement. Having a sister in the fashion design business had to help. “Sounds like you’ve got everything handled,” he observed.

She shifted on the stool, flexing her neck back and forth, wincing. “It’s not going to be that big of a deal. I’m a pretty efficient project manager. The only difference is, this time the project is me.”

Hunter wasn’t convinced project management was the right approach. There was something in the art and spirit of beauty she seemed to be missing. But he was happy to have got her this far, and he wasn’t about to mess with his success.

She lifted her wineglass and the small motion caused her to flinch in obvious pain.

He motioned for her to turn around.

She glanced behind her. “What?”

“Go ahead. Turn.” He motioned again, and this time she complied.

“You painted too long,” he told her as he loosened her robe on her neck and pressed his thumbs into the stiff muscles on her shoulders.

“I wanted to finish.”

“You’re going to be sore in the morning.” He found a knot and began to work it.

“I’ll live. Mmmmm.”

“That’s the spot?”

“Oh, yeah.”

He’d promised himself he’d stick to business, and he would. But his body had reacted the instant he’d touched her. Her skin was warm from the bath, slick from the bath oil, and fragrant from the water and the candles. But he scooted his stool closer, persisting in the massage, determined to keep this all about her.

To distract himself, he glanced around at the freshly painted room. It was small, but the windows were large, and he could see that it had potential to be cozy and inviting. In fact, he preferred it to the big, Osland family house on Long Island.

He stayed there whenever he was in town, but with just him and a couple of staff members, it always seemed to echo with emptiness. Right now, he wished he could invite Sinclair over to fill it up with laughter. “Have you always lived in New York?” he asked her instead.

She nodded. “Kristy and I went to school in Brooklyn. You?”

“Mostly in California.”

“Private school, I bet.”

“You’re right.”

“Uniforms and everything?”

“Yes.”

She tipped her head to glance up at him. “You must have looked cute in your little short pants and tie.”

“I’m sure I was adorable.” He dug his thumb into a stubborn knot in her shoulder.

“Ouch. Was that for calling you cute?”

“That was to make you feel better in the morning.”

She flexed her shoulder under his hands. “Did you by any chance play football in high school?”

“Soccer and basketball. You?”

“I edited the school newspaper.”

“Nerdy.”

“Exciting. I once covered a murder.”

He paused. “There was a murder at your high school?”

She gave a long, sad sigh of remembrance. “Mrs. Mitchell’s goldfish. Its poor, lifeless body was found on the science table. Someone had cruelly removed it from its tank after hours. We suspected the janitor.”

Hunter could picture an earnest, young Sinclair hot on the trail of a murder suspect, all serious and no-nonsense, methodically reviewing the evidence.

“Did he do it?” Hunter asked.

“We couldn’t prove it. But it was the best headline we ever had. Broke the record for copy sales.” She sounded extremely proud of the accomplishment.

“You were definitely a nerd,” he said.

“I prefer the term intellectual.”

“I bet you ran in the school election.”

“True.”

“There you go.” He’d made his point.

“Billy Jones beat me out for class president in ninth grade.” She put a small catch in her voice. “I was crushed. I never ran again.”

“I’d have voted for you,” said Hunter.

“No. Like everyone else, you’d have fallen for Billy’s chocolate coconut snowballs-”

“His what?”

“Chocolate and coconut on the outside, marshmallow cream on the inside. He brought five boxes to school and handed them out during his speech. I didn’t have a chance.”

“Marshmallow cream, you say?”

Sinclair elbowed him in the chest. “Quit salivating back there.”

“I’d still have voted for you.”

“Liar.”

He chuckled at her outrage and eased her back against his body. “Oh, I’d have eaten the snowball. But it’s a secret ballot, right?”

“Traitor.” But her muscles relaxed under his hands, and her body grew more pliant.

Finally, he stopped massaging and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I bet you were a cute little nerd.”

She rested her head against his chest. He didn’t dare move. He barely dared breathe. All it would take was one kiss, and he’d be dragging her off to the bedroom.

She tipped her head to look up at him, all sweetness and vulnerability.

“Hunter?” she breathed, lips dark and parted, eyes filled with passion and desire.

He closed his, fighting like hell to keep from kissing her lips. “I don’t want to be that guy,” he told her, discovering how true that was. Because he didn’t want to screw up their budding friendship.

“That guy?”

“That guy with the bath and the candles and the shoulder massage.”

“I liked that part.”

He opened his eyes again. “It’s Seduction 101 for losers.”

“Are you calling yourself a loser?”

“I’m saying if I make love with you, I’ll feel like I cheated.”

“There’s a way to cheat?”

He reflexively squeezed her tight. “I cheated, and you never had a chance.”

“As in, I don’t know my own mind?”

“Is there an answer for that that won’t get me in trouble?”

“Not really.”

He ruthlessly ignored the feel of her in his arms. He wasn’t willing to risk that she might regret it in the morning.

“You’re tired. You’re vulnerable. And we haven’t thought this through. We turn that corner,” he continued, “we can’t turn back.”

“I know,” she acknowledged in a soft voice.

He leaned around her, placing a lingering kiss on her temple. “I’ll see you at the office?”

“Sure.”

He forced himself to let go of her. Then, using every ounce of his strength and determination, he stood up and walked away.

By 7:00 a.m., Sinclair was in her office.

After Hunter left last night, she’d lain awake, remembering his soft voice, his easy conversation, and the massage that had all but melted her muscles. She would have willingly made love with him. But, he was right. They hadn’t thought it through. It was hard enough ignoring what had happened six weeks ago, never mind rekindling all those memories.

Hunter was a thoughtful man. He was also an intelligent man, and she’d spent some time going over his professional advice. He saw Chantal as her competition. And he saw Roger in Chantal’s corner. Sinclair realized she had to do this, and she had to do it right. It was time to stop fooling around.

So, she’d arrived this morning with a plan to do just that. She submitted an electronic leave form, rescheduled her meetings, plastered her active files with Post-its for Amber, and left out-of-office messages on both her voice mail and e-mail.

She was working her way through the mail in her in-basket when Roger walked in.

“What’s this?” he asked, dropping the leave form printout on her desk.

“I’m going on vacation,” she answered cheerfully, tossing another piece of junk mail in the wastepaper basket.

“Why? Where?”

“Because I haven’t taken a vacation in eight years. Because I’m entitled to vacation time just like everybody else. And because I’m not currently needed on the Valentine’s Day ball file.”

“Of course you’re needed on the file.”

“To do what?”

Roger waved his arms. “To make plans. To order things.”

“Plans are made. Things are ordered.” She rose from her chair and smiled at him. “You’ll be fine, Roger. You’ve got Chantal on the case. She can oversee things.”

“But, where are you going?”

“Chapter Three, Section Twelve of the employee manual. Employees shall not be required to disclose nor justify their vacation plans. All efforts will be made to ensure employees are able to take leave during the time period of their choosing. And leave shall not be unreasonably withheld.”