"Nice," I said blandly, turning to hide my hot cheeks. I closed the tool kit and set it on the floor beside my desk.

Vanessa stayed at my desk until everyone else had gone back to work. I could feel her gaze on the back of my head. I ignored her, blindly studying my laptop screen.

"You really are bad with men, aren't you?" I heard her say in an undertone that no one else could hear. "I could have gotten him to give me something a lot better than that."

I convinced myself that the only decent thing to do was to thank Hardy for the gift. So I went up to his apartment after dinner that night, hoping he would be gone. My plan was to leave a bottle of wine and a note on the threshold, and avoid any actual contact with him.

But as I walked out of the elevator on the eighteenth floor, I saw Hardy punching the combination code on the door lock. He had just finished a workout — he must have gone to the fitness center on the sixth floor — and he was wearing sweatpants and a damp T-shirt that clung to every line of his body. He was built but not beefy, just . . . powerful. Ripped. I could see indentations of muscle all down his back. His biceps strained the sleeves of his shirt. The hair at the back of his neck was sweat soaked. A sheen of exertion covered his skin.

He was a big, steaming male, and I could almost smell the salt and fresh sweat and hot skin from where I stood. I felt the confusing, opposing pulls of repulsion and craving. I wanted to taste him. I wanted to put my mouth on him, any part of him. I also wanted to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

I managed to smile, clutching the bottle of wine against my front, as he turned to glance at me over his shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly, his gaze locking on mine.

"Hey." It seemed to take an absurdly long time to reach him, as if the hallway had become a conveyor belt moving In the opposite direction. When I finally got to him, I held out the wine bottle in an awkward motion. "Thank you," I said. "For the present. I love it." He pushed the door open. "Come in."

"No, thanks, I just wanted to give you this — " Our fingers touched as he took the bottle from me, and I jerked my hand back.

He looked amused, a flicker of challenge in his eyes. "Don't you want to see how Todd's decorating turned out?"

"I . . . yes, I guess I could come in for a minute." I followed Hardy into the apartment. He switched the lights on, and I almost gasped at the change in the place. It had been transformed into a rustic but sophisticated retreat. The rich earthy tones of the wood and upholstery played off the abundant row of windows. The furniture had been kept to a minimum, a few comfortable oversized pieces, including a deep sofa and chairs and a low, flat ottoman upholstered in caramel-colored leather. A stylized three-panel painting depicting a cattle drive had been mounted on one wall. Perfect.

"Whatever you paid Todd," I said, "it was worth it."

"That's what he told me." Hardy looked at the bottle appreciatively. "Napa. A mountain wine. I like those, especially the cabs."

"Did you ever end up going to a wine tasting?" I asked, flushing as I remembered how he had hoisted me up to the table in the wine cellar and stood between my —

"A few." Hardy set the bottle onto the counter. "I've learned a little here and there. Never got the retro-olfaction, though."

"It's very subtle. Sometimes it helps if you hold the wine in your mouth and let it warm to your body temperature . . . " As Hardy moved closer, I completely forgot what I was saying. My gaze went to the tanned skin of his throat, the damp hollow at the base of it.

"So . . ." I said, "I need to get going. I'll let you take your shower now." The idea of him naked, with hot water running over all that hard flesh, all that compressed energy, frayed my composure even further.

"You haven't seen the rest of the apartment," he said.

"I'm sure it's great."

"You should see the bedroom, at least."

I saw a dance of mischief in his eyes. He was teasing me. "No, thank you."

Hardy leaned over me, all brawn and hormones, bracing a hand on the wall. "Has anyone ever told you," he asked conversationally, "that your eyes are the exact color of Dr Pepper?"

I laughed, disarmed. "Do you get far with lines like that?"

He seemed to relish my amusement. "Far enough, with the right woman."

"I'm not the right woman."

"You and Todd . . . you been friends for a long time?" I nodded. "Since middle school."

A frown wove between his dark brows. "You ever go out with him?"

"You mean on a date? No."

His expression cleared, as if my answer confirmed something he'd been wondering about. "He's g*y, then."

"Well, no. Todd's sort of 'anything goes.' He's had relationships with men and women. He's open to any possibility, because to him the outside of a person is just packaging. It's a pretty enlightened point of view when you think about it."

"I'm not enlightened," Hardy said flatly. "I'm only interested in packaging that includes br**sts." And his gaze dipped briefly to my chest with an interest I found somewhat unwarranted, considering my lack of volume. He looked back into my eyes. "Haven, there's this thing I'm going to tomorrow night . . . they're reopening a theater —

"The Harrisburg?" The nationally renowned theater had undergone a year-long reconstruction after the subterranean level had been destroyed by flood waters. The reopening would be attended by local and national celebrities, not to mention the Texas political and social elite. "I'm going to that with Todd."