"I beg your pardon? I thought the additional information caused you to turn down the loan."

Mr. Peters chuckled. "I mean the additional additional information. The loan has been approved."

Melanie was glad she was sitting. Otherwise she would have fallen down with an unladylike splat.

"What information is that?" she asked in a weak voice.

"Why, the information about the dozens of private catering jobs you have scheduled over the next twelve months. I must say, Miss Gibson, when Mr. Waxman faxed me these job orders, it changed the entire complexion of your loan application. Obviously, the Pampered Palate is doing very well and growing fast in the private catering arena. Under those circumstances, Guardian Savings and Loan is happy to assist you. If you'll stop by the bank tomorrow morning, we'll sign the necessary papers. Is that satisfactory?"

Melanie jarred herself out of her stupor. "Yes, Mr. Peters. That's fine."

"Excellent. See you tomorrow. Good-bye."

"’Bye." Melanie slowly replaced the receiver.

Apparently she looked as dazed as she felt because Nana said, "By the look on your face, I'm guessing that was Ed McMahon telling you you're a Publisher's Clearing House winner."

Melanie blew out a long, slow, calming breath. "Even better. That was Mr. Peters from the bank. My loan was approved."

Nana's eyes bugged out. "I thought you said-"

"I did. But he changed his mind." She jumped up and twirled around. "He changed his mind!"

Nana scratched her head and frowned. "That's great, honey. But did he say why?"

Melanie stopped spinning. "He said something about the dozens of catering jobs we have scheduled for the next twelve months."

"What catering jobs?"

Melanie came back to earth with a thump. Good grief, if this was some kind of mistake and Mr. Peters was going to take away the loan, she was going to scream.

"I don't know," Melanie said, "but I'm calling Glenn Waxman. He's the one who told the bank about them."

She dialed Glenn's number, hoping he'd be working late so she wouldn't have to wait until morning for the answers she wanted.

"Glenn Waxman," came a masculine voice.

"Glenn, Melanie Gibson here. I just heard from Mr. Peters at the bank. He said my loan was approved."

"Hey! Congratulations. I'm happy for you."

"He said he changed his mind based on additional information you gave him. Something about future catering jobs?"

"Well, yes. I simply told him about them and faxed him copies of the work orders."

As much as she wanted to remain silent, take her loan, and slink away, Melanie couldn't. Even if it meant losing the loan, she couldn't accept it under false pretenses.

"Glenn, I have to be honest with you. I have no idea what you're talking about. What catering jobs?"

She heard him shuffling papers around. "Let me see," he said. "There's the anniversary party for Mr. Walter Rich and his wife the first weekend in September, a birthday party for Mrs. Lorna Bishop the second weekend in September, a baby shower-"

"Did you say Lorna Bishop?"

"Yes. That's Chris's mother. There're twenty-seven orders in all. Chris faxed them to me from LA this morning."

Once again, Melanie gave thanks that she was sitting. What on earth had Chris done? Guilt hit her like a brick to the back of the head. Good grief. Clearly he felt so bad that she'd lost the loan, he'd made up some elaborate story about her having catering jobs lined up.

She felt awful. Horrible. He'd compromised himself to save her. She loved him for it, but she couldn't let him do it.

"Glenn, there's been a mistake. I know nothing-"

"There's no mistake, Melanie. I spoke to half the people on these job orders-hell, I know half the people on these orders. In fact, I am one. You're booked up the first Saturday in December for my daughter's sweet sixteen. These are legitimate catering jobs. You should start receiving deposit checks within the next couple of days. If you stop by the office tomorrow morning, I'll give you my copies."

"Uh, okay. I'll be there."

"Great. See ya then. 'Bye."

"’Bye." Melanie hung up and stared at Nana. "You're not going to believe this," she said.

"Sure I will. I'm a gullible old lady. I'll believe anything."

Melanie repeated her conversation with Glenn.

"Well," said Nana, a smug look on her face. "How do you like that? Your Chris is not only a hunk, he's a hero, too. Swooped right in and saved his damsel in distress. What do you say about that?"

"Say? What can I possibly say? That I'm a dope and completely misjudged the most wonderful man I've ever met?"

"That's a pretty good start," Nana said with brutal frankness.

"Do you think he'll forgive me?"

Nana thought for a few seconds, then answered, "Seems to me a man who would go to all the trouble of booking two-dozen catering gigs is a man truly in love. I'd say chances are he'll forgive you." A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Of course, if he's as smart as I think he is, he'll make you suffer a bit first, so you'd better be prepared."

A shiver of anticipation zinged through Melanie at the thought of "suffering" at Chris's hands. "Hmmm. Yeah. Got any suggestions?"

"The best defense is always-"

"A great offense?"

"That's right. And take it from someone who's been around the block a few times, a woman's best offense is sexy lingerie. Those sweatpants you wear to bed don't qualify."

A plan-a fiendish plan-took root in Melanie's mind. "I have an idea, Nana."

"I knew you would, honey."

"Wanna help?"

"Does it involve hog-tyin' that handsome sucker?"

Melanie chuckled. "Something like that."

"Count me in, babe. Count me in."

Chapter 17

Chris unlocked his condo door Friday night and dropped his suitcase in the foyer. Closing the door, he leaned his back against it and closed his eyes.

God, he was tired.

And miserable.

But at least he was home, even if, thanks to his delayed flight, it was after midnight.

Pushing off from the door, he walked into the kitchen and checked his answering machine. No messages. Everybody's worried sick about me.

He'd hoped Melanie might have left him a message. Of course, he'd hoped she would call him in LA, but she hadn't. Then he'd hoped she might meet him at the Atlanta airport, but again, she hadn't.

He knew her loan had been approved. He'd spoken to Glenn Waxman, who'd filled him in on his conversation with Melanie.

So even though she'd gotten her loan, she still hadn't called. Obviously she was still angry with him.

Well, damn it, she was just going to have to get over it. He loved her too much to lose her. Now that there weren't three thousand miles between them, they would talk face to face and straighten things out. If she refused to listen to reason, he'd just Velcro her stubborn ass to the sofa until she changed her mind.

That settled, he headed toward his bedroom, loosening his tie on the way. He opened the bedroom door and froze.

Dozens of candles in every size, shape, and color, covered his furniture, bathing the room with soft, flickering light. A trail of fragrant flower petals led from the doorway toward the adjoining master bath.

As if in a trance, he followed the trail to the bathroom door, which stood slightly ajar. He gently pushed the door open.

He actually felt his jaw drop. Thank God it was attached to his face, or it would have fallen on the floor, taking his teeth with it.

More candles adorned the counter and surrounded the bathtub. Melanie reclined in the tub, surrounded by a mountain of fluffy bubbles. Her hair was piled on her head with several corkscrew tendrils surrounding her face. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket on the floor with two crystal glasses next to it.

"It's about time you got home," she murmured in a low, sexy voice.

He had to swallow to moisten his bone-dry throat. "My, ah, flight was delayed."

"I know. I called the airline."

Because his collar suddenly felt too tight, he ran his finger around the neck to loosen it a bit. A fragrant puff of steam filled his nostrils, rendering him almost light-headed.

He cleared his throat. "Not that I'm complaining, but what are you doing here?"

A slow, wicked smile touched her lips. She lifted one long, soapy leg from the water. "I'm taking a bath."

Chris's gaze riveted on her shapely upraised leg. "I see that. Does this mean you're not angry with me anymore?"

"You could say that. I spoke to your brother today. He still had his key and he let me in." She ran a sudsy hand up her leg. "I hope you don't mind."

"Ah, no. I don't mind." Chris made a mental vow to give Mark everything he owned in thanks.

Chris watched, glued in place as she slowly stood up. White bubbles left silky trails in their wake as they meandered down her body. His blood pressure spiked and his heart practically stalled when she crooked her finger at him.

"Come here," she whispered.

He supposed his feet must have moved, because the next thing he knew, he was standing next to the tub.

"We're having a party," she said, reaching out her wet hands to unknot his loosened tie, "and you're waaaaay overdressed."

Chris stood perfectly still, his eyes fastened on hers, while she pulled his tie from around his collar and dropped it on the floor. Then she set to work unbuttoning his dress shirt.

Slipping the top button free, she said, "It occurred to me that we never went skinny-dipping." The second and third buttons opened. "While I realize this isn't a pool, it was the best I could do. We have all the skinny-dipping essentials-you, me, naked, water. And it does keep with our getting-wet tradition."