Lily gave herself a mental shake. Well, sometimes things didn't work out; no one knew that better than she. That didn't mean she intended to go off half-cocked and storm out without a plan. Mimi would undoubtedly let her camp out on her couch for a few days, but she wanted to reserve that option as a last resort. First, she'd check out the ads to see what was available without a lease.

Merely thinking about it made her tired, though, so she flipped open her luggage on the bedspread and began filling it. She'd start with something a little less stressful.

She was piling most of her collection of pretty lingerie into one corner of the case, thinking she really ought to rummage through the three-car garage for some boxes, when her gaze was caught by an envelope sticking up out of one of the suitcase's little gathered pockets.

Her hands stilled for a moment over the heap of silkies and lace. Funny, she didn't remember tucking anything away in there. Then she shrugged. It was probably an old greeting card that had gotten swept up and tossed wily-nilly into the case when she was snatching up stuff last night. Since she rarely hung on to things— a habit left over from her days of keeping extras to a minimum—it was likely not even hers.

She was just reaching for it to check it out when a knock sounded at the door. She whirled to face it, the card promptly forgotten. "Go away," she snapped, her heart renewing its pounding rhythm as if it had never slowed down. "I'm through talking to you."

"It's John Miglionni, ma'am. Please. I won't take up much of your time, but I'd like to speak to you for a moment."

She crossed the room and yanked the door open. Folding her arms militantly beneath her breasts, she glared up at the man on the other side of the threshold. "What makes you think I'm interested in anything you have to say?" Then she blinked. She'd been so furious with Zach earlier she'd barely gotten more than a quick impression of his friend. Seeing John clearly for the first time, she murmured, "What is this place, anyhow, Testosterone Central?"

Then she gave him a second, closer inspection and wasn't sure where that first impression had come from. He didn't look so tough. He was an inch or two over six feet, and aside from muscular shoulders, looked as lean and lanky as a young Jimmy Stewart beneath his pricey silver-gray silk T-shirt and impeccably pressed black slacks. Even the brawny shoulders appeared somehow less powerful than she'd first thought when she looked at him slouched against the doorframe.

He was dark-skinned and had hair so black and shiny it contained blue highlights even in the dim hallway. He wore its thick length pulled back in a ponytail, a style that accented his high cheekbones, hawklike nose, and the spare angularity of his face. But it was his dark eyes and smile that grabbed her—both were as bashful and self-effacing as a monk's.

"I don't know about the testosterone," he said softly, "but I do want to apologize for Zachariah. He's been under a lot of pressure lately, and he's worried sick about his little sister, but that's no excuse to treat you so rudely. He was completely out of line, and I told him so."

His soft-spoken apology was balm to her offended sensibilities, and her combative pose eased. "That's very gallant of you."

He ducked his head. "Not at all, ma'am. Zach's insinuations were insulting, and I wanted you to know that although he's my friend I don't endorse his behavior." Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders and shot her a glance full of shy, male interest. "Are you from around here?"

The movement starkly defined the sinews of his arms for a moment, and Lily realized there was more muscle to him than she'd thought. Silky black hair feathered his forearms, and a small patch of color on his left one caught her attention. "I guess you could say I'm from everywhere," she admitted slowly, shooting what was undoubtedly a tattoo a covert glance to see if she could figure out what it depicted. "But for the past seven years I've lived in—" Sudden comprehension chopped her sentence in two.

Oh. He was good. She should have remembered the quick impression she'd gotten in the kitchen of intelligent, watchful eyes, but his polite, soothing manners and low-key interest had suckered her completely.

"Well," she continued smoothly, flapping a dismissive hand. "You don't care about that."

"Of course I do. I'd love to hear everything about you."

"You're awfully kind. It's just so nice to talk to a gentleman after dealing with that horrid—" She grimaced. "I'm sorry. I forgot for a moment he's your friend."

"Don't worry about it." He dug a shoulder into the doorjamb and smiled that monk's smile at her. "You were going to tell me about all those places you've been and how the last seven years you've lived in… ?"

"Oh, let's not talk about me." She gave him an aren't-you-just-the-sweetest-thing look. "Where are you from?"

"I've been all over, too." He leaned a little closer. "Maybe we've been to some of the same places."

"Gee, do you think? That would be something, wouldn't it?" With a glance up from under her lashes, she murmured, "John is such a nice, strong name. What's your sign?"

"Aries. How about you?"

"Oh, dear, not one that's compatible with yours. And you seemed so perfect, too." With a regretful sigh, she started to close the door.

"Wait!" Straightening, he gave her a self-deprecating smile. "You can't hold that against me. Heck, you don't even know what house my moon is in, or anything. It could make all the difference."

"Why, that's true. What time were you born?"

He told her and she gave a thoughtful, "Hmm," then reached out to touch his wrist. "What do you do for a living, John?"

"I'm an accountant."

Her brow furrowed. "Oh."

"And a financial planner."

" Really . Oooh, I just love money." Leaning against the edge of the open door, she slid her hand up the smooth wood until her arm curved overhead, her palm flat against its interior panel. "So tell me," she said, watching him eye the outside curve of her breast that the pose exposed. "When it comes to long-term investment, what mix of high, medium, and low caps do you recommend for a stock portfolio? And what's your take on index mutual funds?"

His gaze snapped up to meet hers. "Uh…"

"Don't," she admonished gently, "confuse blond hair and breasts with stupidity."

He gave her a perplexed look. "Ma'am?"

"At least Zach's up front in his enmity. The next time you try out your aw-shucks-golly routine, I suggest you cover up that." She nodded at the mostly red tattoo on his arm, which his change in position had made clearly visible. Outlined in black, it contained the words Swift, Silent , and Deadly on three sides of a white skull with black and yellow markings, and 2d Recon Bn inscribed across the bottom. Looking up into eyes gone abruptly hard, she assured him crisply, "It truly does detract from the image." Then, giving the panel beneath her hand a push, she closed the door in his face.

She had a feeling her blood pressure was in the red zone. As if things weren't bad enough already, the lousy ratfinks were double-teaming her! Too restless to go back to her packing, she paced her room for several tense moments.

Then she abruptly stopped in the middle of the room. She had to get out of here before she did something stupid like scream her head off. A walk on the beach would cool her down, but if she wanted to kill two birds with one stone she should probably grab a newspaper and head up the coast highway to the Koffee Klatch, where she could read the apartment listings in peace. A nice, nonhostile environment sounded like just the ticket. She grabbed her purse from the dresser top where she'd tossed it a short while ago and let herself out of the room.

When she let herself back in several hours later, the sun had disappeared over the horizon in a blazing ball of orange and red, and she was calmer—if no closer to having another place to stay than when she'd left. There had only been one apartment in the ads worth pursuing, and by the time she'd gotten over to check it out someone else had already snatched it up.

Well, there was always the internet, but she'd get to that later. The walls of her room were already closing in, and unwilling to act as if she had anything to hide, she marched down the hall, braced to brave the duel condemnation of Zach and his underhanded friend. But the kitchen was empty and the entire house had a deserted feel. She dished up a bowl of ice cream and took it into the den, where she settled into a chair and turned on the news. A short while later, she turned it off again. Beyond a fleeting impression of an impending air-traffic controllers' strike and a murder-suicide inNewport Beach, she had no idea what she'd just viewed. She cleaned her dish in the kitchen, then went out on the terrace to listen to the surf.

Usually she found the susurrus of waves against sand a hypnotic lullaby, but tonight it failed to soothe her, and she decided to call it a day. Tomorrow would be soon enough to log on to the internet to see what it offered in the way of rentals. At the moment she desperately needed the oblivion of sleep.

It wasn't until late the following morning, as she was transferring most of the items she'd packed the day before into some boxes she'd found in the garage, that she remembered the envelope in the suitcase. She dug it out and extracted a single sheet of stationary. Unfolding it, she began to read.

Nooo! She abruptly sat down on the edge of the bed, and for one of the few times in her life, she wished she were a swearing woman. Her few, pitiful expletives simply didn't cover the depth of her feelings. But, poop!