Melanie groaned and covered her eyes with her hands, but Chris just smiled. He leaned close to Nana's fire-engine red hair and said, "I think I'm going to charm her out of some more chicken, then see if I can talk her into parting with some cheesecake."

Nana laughed and slapped her knee, sending her knee-high stocking down to her ankle. "Well, good luck, son. Mel hasn't parted with any cheesecake in quite a while. I keep telling her to loosen up a little, but does she listen to me? No. All she does is work, work, work."

She turned to Melanie, who felt as if the fires of hell were burning in her cheeks. "I'd hold onto this one if I were you. He's cute, smart, and he's got a great butt. Needs some new pants, though. I don't care for this fashion of lettin' your drawers hang out of holes in your pants. At least the hole's in the back, otherwise his-"

"Thank you, Nana," Melanie broke in hastily. "Why don't you head back to the kitchen? I'll be right there."

Nana fixed Chris with a stern glare. "You fix up those britches, young man, before you call on my granddaughter."

Chris gave a smart salute. "Yes, ma'am."

"And clean that barbecue sauce off your ass," Nana said over her shoulder.

Melanie smothered a chuckle, not sure what amused her more-Nana's remark or the look on Christopher Bishop's face.

He cleared his throat. "Your nana is…"

"Outspoken? Irrepressible?" Melanie supplied.

"Actually, I was thinking she was pretty great." He smiled, and it did odd things to Melanie's knees. "She reminds me of my mom. Keeps forgetting I'm not six years old."

Melanie laughed, but her laughter slowly faded as she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in the bright light. His good looks were no illusion caused by darkness or rain. He was a veritable DNA masterpiece.

Whatever gene pool he swam out of deserved its own display at the Smithsonian. Thick, wavy mahogany brown hair beckoned her fingers to ruffle through it. His dark blue eyes reminded Melanie of her favorite color from her childhood Crayola crayons, midnight blue. His mouth was sensuous, his lips full and firm. An unbidden image of him kissing her flashed through her mind. Full-blown lust slammed into her so hard she gasped.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Do I have chicken stuck between my teeth?"

An embarrassed laugh escaped her. "No. I was, er, just…"

"Staring." He took a step closer to her, and Melanie's heart shifted into overdrive. "You were staring at me."

Melanie averted her eyes, ready to deny his words when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass door. Her short, curly hair stuck up from her head at all angles-like hundreds of tiny vacuum cleaner hoses had sucked it up. No shoes, torn stockings, wrinkled shirt. And her face. Good grief, her face.

Just her luck. Here she stood, looking like the creature from the black lagoon, with the winner of the GQ "Man of the Year" contest. Story of my life. I've got permanent when-my-ship-comes-in-I'll-be-at-the-airport syndrome, while he looks like he'd never miss the boat.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Melanie shook her head. "I just caught a glimpse of myself. Yikes. I'm surprised you didn't run screaming from the store the moment we arrived."

He stepped closer and tilted his head, studying her like an art patron assessing a Picasso. "You look like a raccoon," he pronounced.

She pasted a sticky-sweet smile on her face. "Thanks. I guess I won't take offense, since the source of that opinion is a guy whose ass is hanging out of his pants."

"Touché." Laughing, he touched a finger to the black smudge under her right eye. "I have three sisters. I'm used to this look." He smiled at her. "Besides, I bet you clean up pretty good."

Melanie tried to swallow and couldn't. The moment he touched her with that single gentle finger, all the spit in her mouth dried up and left her tongue feeling like dust.

He glanced at his watch and frowned. "Listen, it's late and I need to go before I fall asleep on my feet." He picked up the two boxed dinners she'd set aside. "Thanks for the chicken."

Melanie cleared her throat. He was the most gorgeous man she'd ever met, and he was leaving. She'd never see him again. Good. Fine. She didn't have time for men anyway. Men were nothing but pains in the tush. She knew that all too well. Yes, indeed. She could thank her ex-fiancé for that lesson. Todd Jenkins had taught her all she needed to know about men. And the better-looking they were, the worse they were. This guy probably had more notches on his bedpost than Mick Jagger. Yup, it was a good thing he was leaving. She wanted nothing to do with-

He touched her arm. "Okay?"

She stared at him. Clearly he'd been talking to her while her thoughts ran away. "Huh? Okay what?"

"You must be more tired than I am. I said I have to go." He held out his hand. "It was, er, interesting meeting you. Thanks again for the dinner."

"Thanks for the ride."

Melanie thought she sensed a momentary hesitation in him, almost as if he was reluctant to leave. She discovered she was holding her breath. Was he going to ask her out? Oh, sure. I look like something the cats dragged in that the kittens wouldn't eat. Not that it mattered. She didn't want a guy cluttering up her life.

"Good luck with your car." He flashed her a smile. "Brush your hair, okay?"

Smart aleck. "Change your pants, okay?"

He laughed. "Deal." Balancing the boxes in one hand like a professional waiter, he walked out the door. Melanie stood rooted to the spot for a good two minutes.

"Jiminy Cricket," said Nana from behind her. "He's a real hunk."

Turning around to face her grandmother's knowing eyes, Melanie adopted what she hoped was a casual air. "I suppose a certain type would find him attractive."

"What type is that?"

Melanie sighed. "The female type."

"So why'd you let him get away?" Nana smacked her lips. "I woulda hog-tied that sucker and made him my love slave."

Melanie couldn't help but smile. "I'm not looking for a love slave. I'm not looking, period. A man is the last thing I need."

"Phooey. A man is exactly what you need. A little passion, a little lust, they're great for the soul."

Maybe. But Melanie had a sinking feeling that a little passion and a little lust would not be the problem where Christopher Bishop was concerned.

Thank goodness she would never see him again.

Chapter 2

Chris entered his sparsely decorated Buckhead condo and breathed a sigh of relief. He plopped his briefcase in the ceramic-died foyer and was half undressed by the time he reached his bedroom. Leaving his ruined clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor, he stepped into the shower and allowed the stinging spray to massage away his stress-induced aches.

It didn't take long for his neck and shoulders to feel better, but there was one ache that he couldn't seem to wash away-the ache brought on by Mel Gibson's lush body pressed up against him. He shook his head. He was definitely going to have to call her Melanie. If anyone got wind of the fact that he was having erotic thoughts about Mel Gibson, he'd have some explaining to do.

He turned off the shower and grabbed a towel. Rubbing his hair dry, he tried to recall the last time a woman had turned him on so much so fast, and couldn't think of one. Not one of the women he'd dated in the last several years had ignited more than a fleeting spark.

And neither had any of the women his determined-to-see-her-single-son-married mother constantly threw in his path. He shuddered, recalling the last "perfect girl" Mom had introduced him to. Turned out Miss Perfect was looking for a candidate to father her child. She had a thing for accountants and was anxious to discuss "loopholes." He'd barely made it away from her alive.

He pushed away the unpleasant memory and pulled on a clean pair of sweats, then headed toward the kitchen. Popping the top on a beer, he settled in at the built-in snack bar with his Pampered Palate dinner.

Pampered Palate. He stared at the blue and red logo on the container and frowned. That name set off a chorus of bells in his mind, but he still couldn't pin down the source.

His gut told him it was work-related, but his memory refused to cooperate and tell him why the Pampered Palate and the name Melanie Gibson struck a familiar chord in him.

Melanie Gibson. Hmmm. Chris washed down a bite of cole slaw with a swig of beer and shook his head. By all accounts he should be furious with her. The woman and her dilapidated car had headache written all over them. The next stop for his new suit was the dumpster, and his shoes would probably suffer the same fate.

But something about her had prompted him to offer her a ride. Maybe it was her forlorn expression when her car died the second time. Or maybe it was because if one of his sisters had been in a similar fix, he'd want someone to give them a hand. Maybe it was simply her fabulous fried chicken.

He thought of her, in those wet, clinging clothes, sprawled across his lap, trying to unsnag his pants, and he blew out a breath.

Fried chicken. Yeah. Right.

He'd taken one look at her delectable curves, those big mascara-smudged eyes, and those moist, full lips and lost his mind. Lust had smacked him with the force of a two-by-four to the face. She was cute, funny, and unassuming-definitely very attractive in spite of her disheveled appearance. And he really liked the way she'd laughed off her raccoon eyes and Bride of Frankenstein hair. Something about her strummed a chord in him-a note no one had plucked in a long, long time.

But the timing stank.

His life was just beginning to be uncomplicated. He reflected on the difficulties he'd faced since becoming "man of the house" after his father's sudden death twelve years ago. He'd struggled to put himself through school, then spent the last eight years helping his mother put his sisters and brother through college. The youngest, his brother Mark, had finally graduated two months ago. Chris made partner soon after that, and now his life, and his finances, were finally unencumbered.

And for the first time in two years he didn't have his brother for a roommate. Mark had moved out right after graduation. No more worrying about walking in on each other while a date was there. No fighting over the bathroom or the remote. And Mark was a neat freak. They got along fine, but Chris was secretly relieved that he could finally leave a dirty dish in the sink without receiving a lecture.

He loved his family, but he was thirty years old and he wanted to play. He wanted to leave his socks on the floor, let dust bunnies grow under the sofa, blast his stereo. He imagined popping off to the Caymans for a weekend, having a beach fling, hanging out with his buddies.

But it seemed that being partner at Waxman, Barnes, Wiffle, and Hodge left little time for jaunts to the Caribbean. Worse, the women interested in beach flings bored him, and his buddies were either married or shortly due to wander down the aisle. Still, he'd waited a long time to live the footloose, fancy-free bachelor life, and by damn he was going to!

Unfortunately Melanie Gibson didn't strike him as a one-night stand sort of girl. No, she was not at all the type of woman he wanted to meet now. Maybe in five years. She had long-term written all over her, and for now he wanted his long-term to be no more than two hours. Three hours tops.

Still, it hadn't been easy to walk away from her. He swallowed a mouthful of baked beans and found himself wondering what she was going to do about her car.

Shaking his head, he forced his thoughts into another direction. He wanted to date sleek, blond, model types. Why would he want a lunatic brunette who drove a rusted-out '77 Dodge?

An image of Melanie sprawled across his lap flashed in his mind and he groaned. Okay, he knew why he would want her, but he had to forget her. He'd never see her or her dilapidated car again. That was good. Definitely very good.

The phone interrupted his thoughts, and he snatched up the receiver. "’Lo."

"Christopher, how are you, dear?"

"Hi, Mom." He bit into a chicken thigh and prayed Lorna Bishop wasn't going to announce that she'd fixed him up with another of her friends' daughters.

He should have known better.

"Guess what?" she asked.

Chris's warning antennae immediately rose. He knew that innocent voice, that innocuous question all too well. He stifled a groan.

"Can't imagine, Mom."