The sudden heat engulfing her had nothing to do with her bathwater. Annoyed that he could affect her like this over the phone, she asked in a bored drawl, "Who is this?"

"It's Chris. I can't stop thinking about you," he repeated in a husky whisper that caused a jillion and one goose-bumps to pop out on her overheated flesh. After a pause he asked, his voice sounding distinctly annoyed, "Who the hell did you think this was?"

Melanie was tempted to make up a name, any name, but she couldn't. There was no sense pretending. "I knew it was you."

"Good." He waited several heartbeats before continuing. "I have several things to say to you."

Melanie gripped the phone with her soapy fingers, half terrified, half delirious with anticipation. "I'm listening."

"First, I want you to know that the reason I didn't say much to you today was because I was only there as a favor to Glenn Waxman. He's the partner on your account. He'll be signing off on your review. I was just observing, making sure Bob got everything he needed."

"What difference does it make which partner does my review?" Melanie asked, confused.

"It matters. Glenn can do it. I can't. Conflict of interest."

"Conflict of interest? I don't understand."

He blew out a breath. "It would compromise my firm and your chances of getting your loan if I signed off on a review for someone I'm involved with. So you'll be dealing with Bob and Glenn from now on."

Melanie sat up so quickly, water sloshed over the side of the tub. "What do you mean, involved? You and I are not involved."

"Wanna bet? I am most definitely involved. And if you're honest with yourself, you'll admit you are, too."

"Am not."

"Are, too. I saw the way you were looking at me today."

"I wasn't looking at you!"

"Like hell. I caught you staring at me like you wanted to stick me between two slices of rye bread and have me for lunch."

Melanie's temper kicked in. Conceited dope. And boy, was he wrong. In truth, she'd been staring at him like she wanted to stick him between two slices of sourdough bread and have him for lunch. Shows what he knew.

"Well?" he asked, when the silence stretched on. "What do you have to say?"

"I'm taking the fifth."

"If you won't talk to me over the phone, I'm coming over."

"No!" Melanie gripped the receiver so tight her knuckles turned white. "Don't come over."

"Why not?"

"I'm in the bathtub."

She heard him take a deep breath, then exhale a groan, and she couldn't squelch the momentary zing of feminine satisfaction that washed over her.

"You're killing me, Melanie. You really are. In the bathtub. Jesus. Now I've got that picture in my mind. How the hell am I supposed to sleep tonight?"

He cut loose with a growl. "Listen, I only called to tell you that my strictly businesslike behavior today was to avoid any conflict of interest. And if you think we're not involved, you're nuts. Maybe you don't want it, and I certainly don't want it, but it's there, and it's not going away."

"It will if we ignore it."

"Not an option," he stated firmly. "I've been trying that since we met, and it doesn't work."

"This is ridiculous," Melanie said, pushing her damp hair out of her eyes. "If you hadn't taken Mr. Waxman's place tonight, we never would have seen each other again."

"Do you really believe that?" The soft, husky question raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Before she could even think of a reply, he continued, "We absolutely would have seen each other again, Melanie. I would have made sure of it."

It was a good thing she was sitting down, because the sexy undertone in his deep voice melted her insides like a flame to wax. If she wasn't careful she'd slip under the water and drown, a boneless, quivering mass of feminine flesh.

"You're not saying much," he said, "so I'll take that as a good sign. At least you're not arguing. So, on to the next thing. What are you doing Friday evening?"

"Friday evening? Why?" Good grief. Was that squeaky noise her voice? She coughed to clear her dust-dry throat.

"I'd like to have dinner with you."

"Dinner? You mean like a date?"

"That note of horror I hear in your voice is pretty deflating to my ego."

"We've been through this. I don't date. And even if I did, I don't want to date you."

"I don't want to date you either. Something we have in common. And since you don't date, I guess that means you don't have plans Friday night. I'll swing by and pick you up at eight."

"But-"

"I'll be out of town for the rest of the week, so you won't be able to reach me-just in case you're considering backing out."

"There's nothing to back out of. Listen, you can't fool me. I know your type. Smooth. Good-looking. Good-looking guys are nothing but trouble, and that makes you trouble with a capital T."

"So you don't want to have dinner with me because-"

"You're too handsome. That's right."

"I have to say, I've never been turned down for that reason before."

A snort escaped her. "Ha. I bet you've never been turned down, period."

"Have, too."

"Really? When? Second grade?"

He chuckled. "No. Third grade."

"Any turndowns prior to puberty are null and void. Besides, if-what was her name? The one in third grade?"

"Betty Waterhouse."

"If Betty Waterhouse could see you now, she'd kick her own ass black and blue."

"I had a blind date a few months back who hated me," he said in a low, sexy, confiding tone that prickled her heated skin.

"Hated you? Why?"

"She doesn't like accountants. Bad experience with the IRS. She practically broke out in hives when I told her I'm a CPA."

Melanie's eyes narrowed. "You planning to audit me?"

"Only if you want me to."

His tone was so suggestive, she almost dropped the phone into the bathwater.

Before she could find her voice he continued, "C'mon, Mel Gibson. Whaddaya say? You. Me. Dinner. I can do ugly. Really. Totally grunge."

Melanie rolled her eyes. "Oh, sure. You probably look good when you wake up in the morning."

"Hmmm. There's one way to find out."

"Forget it. Besides, I thought accountants were nerdy guys with leaky pens in their shirt pockets who wore high-water pants, white socks with black shoes, and held their glasses together with safety pins. You're not an accountant. You're a menace to female hormones."

"No menace. No audit. Just dinner. Maybe a movie."

"You'll be ugly?"

"Totally gross. Promise."

A sigh escaped her. "Are you always this persistent?"

After a long pause he said, "No. Actually, I'm never this persistent. Friday night. Eight. Dress casual. 'Bye, Melanie."

The dial tone sounded in her ear. Melanie held the phone away from her and stared at it as if it were the Loch Ness monster come to life in her tub. Dazed and confused, she clicked the OFF button and carefully laid the instrument on the bathmat. She had a date. With Christopher Bishop. Friday night.

Sufferin' succotash, how had that happened?

Probably because I didn't open my mouth and say no. But Melanie had a feeling that Chris wouldn't have taken no for an answer anyway, a fact she should have found annoying but instead found utterly romantic. And exciting.

Nana stuck her head in the door. "’Bout time you got off the phone. I was getting a crick in my neck from pressing my ear against the crack in the door."

Melanie buried her hands in her face. "You heard?"

"Only your side. What's the scoop?"

Melanie sighed heavily. "We have a date Friday night."

Nana stuck two fingers between her lips and let loose an ear-piercing whistle. "Praise the Lord! It's about time you came out of mourning over that two-timing gigolo Todd. Hot damn! A date with the hunk. I might even get me some great-grandchildren to spoil."

Melanie almost choked. "Nana! It's only a date. One date. That's it."

Nana regarded her steadily through very wise eyes. "If that's what you think, honey, then you'd better brace yourself, because one date is not what that young man has on his mind."

"I have no intention of getting involved," Melanie said with a sniff.

"Intentions, inschmentions," Nana said, shaking her head. "Your heart doesn't listen to intentions. His won't either." Leaning down, Nana patted Melanie's waterlogged hand. "Sweetie, don't close yourself off from someone who might bring you happiness just because your last beau was an idiot. Sometimes the least-expected path is the one that leads to the treasure." After uttering those sage words, Nana left the room, closing the door behind her.

Treasure. Phooey. Melanie pulled the plug and stepped out of the tub, wrapping herself in a thick pink towel. Christopher Bishop wasn't a treasure. He was a hazard. Granted he was sexy, yummy, and goose-bump-inspiring-but he was a hazard just the same.

And she had a date with him Friday night.

God help her, she couldn't wait.

Chapter 7

The week passed by in a blur for Melanie. Each day at work was busier than the last, but in spite of the hectic demands on her time, she loved every minute of it.

And she hardly thought about Chris and their upcoming date at all.

Yup. Hardly at all.

Except every time she inhaled.

Thursday proved to be one of the busiest days in the Pampered Palate's brief history. Three midtown offices had made large lunch orders based on recommendations from other clients, a group of Japanese tourists wandered in, and an outdoor arts-and-crafts festival drew dozens of walk-ins.

Melanie peeled potatoes at lightning speed for her famous red potato and dill salad and kept one eye on the apple cobblers through the glass oven door. Nana was a veritable whirling dervish, flitting from the stove to the refrigerator to the oven without missing a beat.