The process had kept Lena heart-whole for nearly thirty years. She had no desire, and no intention, of putting herself into a man's hands. Metaphorically speaking, she thought with a smirk as she painted her lips.

She liked being in the right man's hands well enough, when she was in the mood to be handled.

A woman who didn't enjoy sex, in her opinion, just didn't know how to pick her partners cannily enough. A smart woman culled out men who were willing and able to be shown how that woman wanted to be pleasured. And a woman pleasured tended to give a man a good, strong ride.

Everybody ended up winning.

The problem was, Declan had the talent for putting her in the mood for sex all the damn time. She was not in the habit of being guided by her hormones.

The wisest, safest thing for a woman to do about sex was to be in control of it. To decide the when, the where, the who and how. Men, well, they were just randy by nature. She couldn't blame them for it.

And women who claimed not to try to stir men up were either cold-blooded or liars.

If she'd believed she and Declan were headed toward a simple affair that began and ended with a mutual buzz, she wouldn't have been concerned. But there was more to him than that. Too many layers to him, she thought, and she couldn't seem to get through them all and figure him out.

More, and much more worrying, there was another layer to her reaction to him than simple lust. That, too, was complicated and mysterious.

She liked the look of him, and the Yankee bedrock sound of his voice. And then he'd gone and hit her soft spot with his obvious affection for her grandmama.

Got her blood heated up, too, she admitted. The man had a very skilled pair of lips.

And when he wasn't paying attention, a wounded look in his eyes. She was a sucker for hurting hearts.

Best to take it slow. She arched her neck and ran the crystal wand of her perfume bottle over her skin. Slow and easy. No point in getting to the end of the road unless you'd enjoyed the journey.

She trailed the wand over the tops of her breasts and imagined his fingers there. His mouth.

It had been a long time since she'd wanted a man quite this … clearly, she realized. And since it was too late for a quick, anonymous roll in the sheets, it would be wise get to know him a little better before she let him think he'd talked her into bed.

"Right on time, aren't you, cher?" she commented aloud at the knock on her door. She gave her reflection a last check, blew herself a kiss, and walked to the front door.

He looked good in a suit. Very classy and GQ, she decided. She reached out, ran the stone-gray lapel between her thumb and fingers. "Mmm. Don't you clean up nice, cher.”

"Sorry, all the blood just drained out of my head so the best I can come up with is, wow.”

She sent him that sassy, under-the-lashes look and turned a slow circle on stiletto heels. "This work okay for you, then?”

The dress clung, dipped and shimmied. His glands were doing a joyful jig. "Oh yeah. It's working just fine.”

She crooked her finger. "Come here a minute.”

She stepped back, then slid a hand through his arm and turned toward an old silver-framed mirror. "Don't we look fine?" she said, and her reflection laughed at his. "Where you taking me, cher?”

"Let's find out." He picked up a wide, red silk scarf, draped it over her shoulders. "Are you going to be warm enough?”

"If I'm not, then this dress isn't working after all." With this she strode out on her little gallery. She started to hold out a hand for his, then just stared down at the white stretch limo at the curb.

She was rarely speechless, but it took her a good ten seconds to find her voice, and her wits. "You buy yourself a new car, darling?”

"It's a rental. This way, I figure we can both have all the champagne we want.”

As first dates went, she thought as he led her down, this one had potential. It only got better when the uniformed driver opened the door and bowed her inside.

There were two silver buckets. One held a bottle of champagne and the other a forest of purple tulips.

"Roses are obvious," he said and pulled a single flower out to offer her. "And you're not.”

She twirled the tulip under her nose. "Is this how you charm the girls in Boston?”

He poured a flute of champagne, held it out to her. "There are no other girls.”

Off balance, she took a sip. "You're dazzling me, Declan.”

"That's the plan." He tapped his glass to hers. "I'm really good at seeing a plan through."

She leaned back, crossed her legs in a slow, deliberate motion she knew would draw his gaze down to them. "You're a dangerous man. You know what makes you really dangerous? It doesn't show unless you take a good look under all the polish.”

"I won't hurt you, Lena.”

"Oh, hell you won't." But she let out a low, delightful laugh. "That's just part of the trip, sugar. Just part of the trip. And so far, I'm enjoying it.”

He went for elegant, Old-World French where the waiters wore black tie, the lighting was muted, and the corner table was designed for intimacy.

Another bottle of champagne arrived seconds after they were seated, telling her he'd prearranged it. And possibly a great deal more.

"I'm told the food is memorable here. The house is early twentieth century," he continued. "Georgian Colonial Revival, and belonged to an artist. A private home until about thirty years ago.”

"Do you always research your restaurant's history?”

"Ambience matters. Especially in New Orleans. So does cuisine. They tell me the caneton a l'Orange is a house specialty.”

"Then one of us should have it." Intrigued, she set her menu aside. He wasn't just fun, she thought. He wasn't just sexy and smart. He was interesting. "You choose. This time.”

He ordered straight through from appetizers to chocolate souffli with the ease of a man accustomed to fine dining in exclusive restaurants.

"You have good French, at least for ordering food. Do you speak it otherwise?”

"Yes, but Cajun French can still throw me.”

"Have you been to Paris?”

"Yes.”

She leaned forward in that way she had, her arms folded on the edge of the table, her gaze fastened to his. "Is it wonderful?”

"It is.”

"One day I'd like to go. To Paris and Florence, to Barcelona and Athens." They were hot, colorful dreams of hers, and the anticipation of them as exciting as the wish. "You've been to those places.”

"Not Athens. Yet. My mother liked to travel, so we went to Europe every year when I was growing up. Every other to Ireland. We still have family there.”

"And what's your favorite?" She rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her laced fingers. "Of all the places you've been.”

"Hard to say. The west coast of Ireland, the hills in Tuscany, a sidewalk cafi in Paris. But at the moment, right here is my favorite place.”

"There's that silky tongue again. All right then, tell me about Boston.”

"It's a New England harbor city of great historical importance." When she laughed, he sat back and soaked it in. "Oh, that's not what you meant.”

"Tell me about your family. You have brothers, sisters?”

"Two brothers, one sister.”

"Big family.”

"Are you kidding? My parents were pikers in the go-forth-and-multiply area. Mom has six brothers and sisters, my father comes from a family of eight. None of their siblings had less than five kids. We are legion.”

"You miss them.”

"I do? Okay, I do," he admitted reluctantly. "From this nice, safe distance, I've realized I actually like my family.”

"They'll come visit you?”

"Eventually. Everyone will wait for my mother to start actually speaking to me again. In our house if it's not one thing, it's your mother.”

She sampled the appetizer he'd ordered for her. She wore no rings, and he wondered why. She had lovely hands, slim, elegant, delicate. The silver key rested against that smooth, dusky skin, and there was a glint of silver at her ears. But her fingers, her wrists were bare. Beautifully bare, he realized, and wondered if the lack of ornamentation was some sort of female ploy to make a man notice every line, every curve, every sweep of her.

It was sure as hell working that way on him.

"You think she's mad at you? Your mama?”

He had to blink himself back to the threads of conversation. "Not mad. Irritated, annoyed, baffled. If she was really angry, she'd be down here in my face, chipping away until I crumbled to her terrifying will.”

"Does she want you to be happy?”

"Yes. We love each other like idiots. She'd just be more satisfied if my happiness aligned with her point of view.”

Her head angled, and again he caught that wink of silver through the thick, dark curls of her hair. "Why don't you let her know she hurts your feelings?”

"What?”

"If you don't let her know she hurts them, how is she going to stop?”

"I let them down.”

"Oh, you did not," she replied, with a kind of impatient sympathy. "You think your family wants you to be miserable and unfulfilled? Married to a woman you don't love, working at a career that you don't want?”

"Yes. No," he answered. "I don't honestly know.”

"Then it seems to me you ought to ask them.”

"Do you have any siblings?”

"No. And tonight we're going to talk about you.

We'll save me for another time. Did you find what you wanted at your antique shops?”

"And then some." More comfortable talking about acquisitions than family, he gave her a blow-by-blow that took them into the main course.