He touched her cheek with a single, gentle finger. "I'm sort of at a loss for words," he said, a sheepish smile tilting one corner of his mouth.

Melanie swallowed. "Yeah. Me, too." Say good-bye. Say have a nice life. Get out of the car. Her mouth and feet refused to cooperate with her brain. She remained silent and motionless.

Taking her hands, he entwined their fingers. "This was the most incredible weekend of my life," he said in that soft, husky voice that sent chills up her spine.

Melanie nodded. She wanted to agree with him, but she couldn't speak. Tears were on their way, and it took all her concentration to hold them at bay.

"I'm leaving on a business trip tomorrow afternoon," he said, "and I won't get back until late Friday night." He squeezed her hands. "How about I pick you up Saturday morning and take you out for breakfast?"

"Chris, I-"

"I want you to spend the night again. The whole weekend." A sexy grin touched his lips. "We still have some skinny-dipping to do."

"I can't." There. She'd said it.

"Why not?"

Good question. "I, ah, can't sleep over."

"Sleeping wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

The tears hovering close to the surface threatened to spill over. Sure, that was fine. He had nothing to lose. A few weeks of sexual fun and games, then he'd move on to the next woman.

And that was the way it was supposed to be for her, but her heart was involved, damn it. Even though she'd firmly ordered it not to, her heart had jumped into love faster than ice melted in July.

"Listen," she said, "last night was fun, but-"

"No buts. As I recall, you owe me a cooking lesson. You're not trying to welsh on your promise, are you?"

"I never promised-"

"Because I deal with promise-welshers very harshly." His tongue traced a warm path up her palm, and a legion of pleasurable tingles skittered up her arm. "You'd find yourself on the receiving end of a severe tongue-lashing."

"Oh, my." Clearly his definition of a tongue-lashing was not the one that appeared in Webster's Dictionary. The mere thought evaporated her concentration like a puddle in the Sahara.

"And then there's the matter of the tennis match you want to play," he murmured against her palm. "How's your game?"

"Ah, quite good. Why?"

"There's a guy at work I wouldn't mind trouncing on the court. You up for the challenge?"

She looked into his dark blue eyes-eyes that somehow managed to be teasing and serious at the same time-and knew she couldn't refuse. Not when her hormones and every bone in her traitorous body had joined forces with her heart and ganged up on her. She didn't stand a chance.

Adopting what she prayed was a casual smile, she said, "You've got yourself a tennis match. And since I'd never let it be said that I'm a promise-welsher, I'll teach you how to cook something. Any requests?"

A half smile curved his lips. "Lots of them."

"I meant for our cooking lesson."

"Oh. Anything, as long as it's not complicated. You have a very bad effect on my ability to concentrate." Cupping her face between his palms, he kissed her long and deep, until she could barely recall what planet she lived on. "See what I mean?" he whispered against her lips. "I can't remember what we were just talking about."

"Tennis lesson. Cooking match," she whispered back. Whew. What a relief. He didn't affect her concentration at all.

Not one little bit.


* * *

On Monday afternoon, Chris sat on a Chicago-bound jet and tried to focus on the spreadsheet illuminated on his laptop screen. But his mind refused to cooperate.

All he could think about was his early morning conversation with Glenn Waxman about the vacant store across from Pampered Palate, and how that conversation would ultimately affect Melanie's loan.

Glenn hadn't known about the proposed restaurant. Chris squeezed his eyes shut and stifled a groan. Well, he knows now, thanks to me. In fact, Glenn had been very grateful for the information, explaining that if the review had gone to the bank missing such pertinent facts, the firm would have looked foolish.

Chris had pointed out that since he'd merely overheard the conversation, there was always the chance the info was incorrect. Glenn had promised to verify the facts before adding them to the review.

It won't matter. She'll still get the loan.

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, a sick ball of dread cramped his stomach and refused to budge. Glenn had said the review should be finished by the end of the week, which meant Melanie would hear from the bank by the middle of next week.

Since she'd only worry, he decided there was no point in telling her what he'd done until Glenn had verified the information and she knew the bank's decision. We're only talking about a few days. By remaining quiet, I'll save her from getting an ulcer. After she heard from the bank, he'd tell her. If the loan was approved, he had nothing to worry to about.

If it wasn't, he'd simply explain why he'd done what he had.

And pray he didn't lose her in the process.


* * *

When the doorbell rang at nine A.M. Saturday morning, Melanie inhaled a calming breath and forced herself to walk slowly down the stairs. She knew Chris stood on the other side of the door, and she didn't want to appear overly anxious.

Not that she was overly anxious to see him. Not a bit. After all, she'd just seen him five days ago. She huffed out a breath. Had it only been five days? It had felt like five years. Five long, dreary years in solitary confinement.

Get a grip, Melanie. Hadn't he called twice from Chicago? Yeah, but both calls had been brief, and they had left her aching for him. For his touch, his arms around her, his kiss-

Tossing in the towel, she ran down the last few steps and threw open the door.

Before she could even say hello, his arms were around her, his lips crushing hers, his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth. Every cell in her body melted and sighed, welcome home.

Nipping tiny kisses along her jaw, he said, "Boy, I'm sure glad it wasn't Nana who opened the door."

A breathless laugh escaped Melanie. "A kiss like that and poor Nana would pass out. I'm feeling a bit faint myself."

The sexy grin she loved eased over his face and her pulse jumped. "Faint, huh?" He dropped a kiss onto her nose. "That sounds very promising, but you'd better buck up 'cause we're playing tennis in forty-five minutes."

"Forty-five minutes! I thought we had a breakfast date. I'm starving." I want to stay here and kiss you. All day.

"Change of plans. We can grab a bagel and coffee on the way to the courts." His gaze roamed over her cherry red shorts and matching tank top. "You look great, but you might want to change into your tennis gear." He glanced at his watch. "Not to rush you, but you have about three minutes. We're playing another partner in my firm, Dave Webber, and his girlfriend-of-the-moment, whose name escapes me. Dave's beaten me the last three times we've played and he's pretty insufferable about it. I really want to wump him today."

Disgruntled, Melanie led him into the house. He leaned against the door and she stomped up the stairs, muttering under her breath.

Darn man. Who did he think he was, kissing her like that then calmly announcing tennis plans as if he hadn't just rocked her world? And how the heck was she supposed to "wump" anybody at tennis if she didn't eat breakfast first? Why should she-

"Melanie?"

She turned and gazed down at him, standing at the bottom of the stairs, his expression serious, looking more beautiful than any man had a right to. "Yes?"

"I missed you."

Her annoyance evaporated instantly. She'd missed him, too. Constantly. Of course, it wasn't necessary that he know that. Mimicking his earlier words, she said, "That sounds promising, but I need to buck up. There's a tennis match to play, you know."


* * *

It took Melanie all of two minutes to agree with Chris that Dave Webber was indeed insufferable about his previous victories on the tennis court. Dave's girlfriend, Jenni, sported an innocent smile and a killer forehand. Not good indications for a wumping.

The first set began with Dave, Melanie, then Jenni all holding serve. Chris's first serve landed in the net, as did his second one, resulting in a double fault. He switched court sides, and promptly double faulted away another point.

Melanie switched courts again and looked back at him from her position near the net. "You okay?"

He frowned and nodded. And promptly double faulted again.

Melanie walked back to the baseline. "What's wrong?" she asked in an undertone. "Are you nervous? You served beautifully in the warm-up."

"I'm not nervous," he said in a distinctly annoyed voice.

She raised her brows at his tone. "Then what's with you? You said you wanted to beat this guy, and I don't blame you. He's totally obnoxious. May I remind you that the idea is to hit the ball over the net? That expression 'nothing but net' is for basketball, not tennis."

"I know that."

"Could have fooled me. If you're not nervous, then what's wrong?"

"Your ass."

She stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Your ass. That damn short tennis skirt. Those long legs staring me right in the face. You look incredible. I can't concentrate. Every time I try to serve, I see you up at the net, half bent over, and I lose it."

"As much as I appreciate the compliment about my, er, ass, we have a whole match to play here. If you can pull yourself together, we can hand this guy the thrashing he deserves."