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  The video came to an end and she hit Rewind and watched it again. The third time she stopped it in the middle, shutting off both the VCR and the TV because she couldn’t take another second of the miserable feeling that she’d messed up in ways she’d never be able to fix.

  She let the darkness consume her, let herself grieve, because it had to be done. Going back to work tomorrow seemed an impossible feat. She couldn’t imagine not having Jacob in the office, appearing out of nowhere as if he knew she’d been thinking about him.

  Her head lolled back against the sofa cushions and she closed her eyes and breathed. God, was there any way to fix what had gone so horribly wrong? The silence of the condo wrapped around her coldly; she shivered and pulled her nana’s afghan from the corner of the sofa around her shoulders, deciding this was where she was going to sleep. Moving required more strength than she’d ever have again.

  Seconds later, her mind drifting, she heard the music begin to play. Her file of dance numbers, the one she’d stripped to that first time for Jacob, the one they’d made love to that amazing afternoon in his loft. Her heart raced when she finally realized the sound wasn’t in her head but coming from the back of her condo.

  With the afghan still around her shoulders, she made her way silently down the hall, treading softly in stocking feet. The rear was as dark as the front, the only lights shining those of clock LCD displays and bathroom night-lights and the PC monitor in her workout room.

  She found Jacob there in the oddly lit darkness, sitting on the floor with his back to the pole, his legs pulled up, his wrists draped over his knees. His dark eyes flashed hotly when she moved into the doorway, as if he’d been waiting for her a very long time.

  “What are you doing here?” She didn’t care how he’d got in; he knew exactly where she kept her emergency key. “How long have you been here?”

  “Which question do you want me to answer first?” he asked, his voice low and throaty, a gruff sort of bark that made her wary of his bite.

  There was only one question to which she truly needed an answer. She wrapped the afghan tighter as she moved into the room. “Why the tape? Why didn’t you tell me that what I’d seen was all wrong? Why did you let me think what I was thinking about you?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s three questions.”

  “I can’t count.” She came even closer, feeling stirrings of hope she’d never expected to feel. Tentative feelings, but tentative was better than nothing when minutes ago what she’d felt had been despair. When his silence continued, she offered, “I can narrow them down to one.”

  He shook his head. “What were you thinking about me?”

  “Thinking about you?”

  He nodded, keeping eye contact while pushing himself up to his feet. The music continued to thrum in low sultry tones. Jacob’s voice remained low, as well. “You asked why I’d let you think what you were thinking. I want to know what it was.”

  Honesty and trust and nothing else. Minutes ago she’d given up hope. But now…now…She shook her head.

  Even if his eyes hinted that this might turn out the way she wanted, she couldn’t prevaricate her way there. “I wasn’t thinking. Not thinking straight, anyway. If I had been, I would’ve known you weren’t capable of what I thought you were doing.”

  “Which was?”

  “Putting a sensationalistic spin on the show.” It took her a moment to gather the rest of her thoughts, a moment during which Jacob came toward her, his steps on the wooden floor thudding louder in her ears than the music’s hard beat. “Using gIRL-gEAR as the means to an end—no matter the means. And no matter what might have well been the end of us.”

  At first he appeared sad, sad enough that her heart began to race furiously. Surely this wasn’t going to be the end. He wouldn’t have come here and waited for her if that was all he wanted. He was too smart and he knew her too well not to have guessed where her outburst had come from.

  Except she was still having trouble accepting the conclusion to which she’d jumped when she stopped to consider all she knew about him. She hadn’t stopped to consider anything except what on the surface had appeared to be a threat. That was her single-minded career tunnel vision at work, and she’d been so amazingly stupid.

  Now, however, as she looked at him, as she saw that smile she’d come to love and the lights in his dark espresso eyes, now she saw an acceptance, as if he understood where she’d been coming from and shared rather than cast any blame.

  “And why would you think that?” he asked.

  She looked down at her toes, which peeked out from beneath the trailing afghan. “Because you’ve said more than one time how important this project is to your career.”

  “But you know better than that, don’t you?” He took hold of the crocheted coverlet where she held it together. “Which is why my career isn’t the real reason.”

  She looked up again, hardly able to see him clearly through the tears in her eyes. “It’s always been about the company for me. I thought if I didn’t have gIRL-gEAR, I wouldn’t have anything.”

  “Some things we have to figure out for ourselves.”

  “And what have you figured out?” she whispered, surprised she was able to get that much out.

  “C’mere.” He wrapped his arms around her, afghan and all.

  She leaned her forehead against his chest, pulling in a sob that refused to stay contained.

  He held her tighter. “It killed me to think you thought what you did—”

  “Shh.” She pressed her fingers to his lips. “I was stupid, putting the company first the way I’ve done for so many years instead of listening to my heart.” She slid her hand around to cup his cheek, loving the prickly feel of his whiskers on her wrist. “I should’ve used my heart.”

  He turned his head, kissed her palm. “It’s hard to use something that’s been pretty much a nuisance for most of your life. At least it’s been hard for me.”

  She touched the center of his chest where his heart was beating as madly as hers. “This heart?”

  He gave a humorous snort and pulled her even closer. “Yeah. That one. It’s all yours, Melanie. All yours.”

  “Oh, Jacob.” He was giving her his heart. And all she could do was nuzzle her face into the soft skin there at the base of his throat. He smelled wonderful, sweet and warm like the man she knew better than anyone, her best friend and her lover, and she would never let him go. “I love you, too.”

  “So?” he asked gingerly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “What do we do now?”

  She absolutely adored his nervousness. “You know what I’d love to do—and I know this is going to scare the crap out of you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Talk.” She looked up, again holding his face. She would never get enough of looking at him. She’d had no idea she could actually be this happy. “Without any interruptions for days on end if we want. There’s so much I want to know about you.”

  “I think you know most of what’s important. I love you.”

  “Oh, Jacob, I love you, too.” And she kissed him. “Still…how about a weekend at a quiet bed-and-breakfast? I happen to have one paid in full that I’ve never used.”

  He took a moment to consider, then teasingly said, “As long as room service will deliver the breakfast, because I plan to take full advantage of the bed.”

  “Well, as long as you take full advantage of me, then you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-5332-6

  STRIPTEASE

  Copyright © 2003 by Mica Stone.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road,
Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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