2

      JORDAN CHECKED his watch, then set aside the designs he’d been studying for most of the afternoon before rubbing at the tension building in his neck. Going into business for himself hadn’t turned into the profitable venture he’d imagined, but he had a decent beginning, and that was just fine with him. The desire to work for no one other than himself had been too strong to ignore, and he couldn’t complain about the progress he’d made since returning to San Francisco, even if he wasn’t yet blazing any trails. He’d done the architectural-firm route in Los Angeles and had been burned, which convinced him he was ready to fly solo. If he’d learned anything during his eight years with Lawrence and Brooks, it was that he wanted his successes, or his failures, to be his own in the future.

      Lifting the drawing toward the light, he carefully compared the sketches to the preliminary model for the chain of strip malls planned along the central and northern coast. His presentation for the developer wasn’t for a couple of days. He needed to wrap this up as soon as possible so he could start on the actual plans for the Wyndhaven Town House restoration project he’d just been awarded. He’d be buried in meetings with the developer and contractor in another couple of weeks, and he still wanted to bid on a new high-rise complex for downtown. He had some ideas he felt fairly confident about, and the added commissions would give him the capital he needed to hire an assistant and locate reasonably priced office space.

      Office space wasn’t his only real-estate concern. He and Austin owned the house, but with Austin married, the last thing the newlyweds needed was him around cramping their style. Selling the prime real estate was out of the question. The house had been in the family for three generations, and neither he nor Austin were willing to sell. They could have done so years ago when things had been tough, but they’d made a pact never to jeopardize the house. There’d been times they’d had to survive on canned soup and peanut butter and jelly for weeks, but in the end, the sacrifices more than made up for the cash the house could have brought them. Moving out of the Victorian for Austin and his new bride was Jordan’s only logical choice. What he needed to do was find his own place, but he was going to be around until the escrow on his Santa Monica condo closed in a couple of weeks, unless he wanted to throw money away on a rental.

      The thought of money brought him back to what he’d been trying to avoid thinking about all afternoon.

      Cait Sullivan.

      He had a few ideas on how to fulfill her Valentine fantasy, but he still couldn’t understand why a woman as attractive as Cait felt she had to pay for the services of a total stranger. She’d mentioned not wanting any entanglements, so perhaps she was recovering from a bad relationship. Anything was possible, he decided, adding another Canary Island pine to the model.

      His mind refused to remain focused on his work. Cait and her black-seamed stockings continued to intrude. With a disgusted sigh, he tossed the small pine tree back onto the table. He’d never get any work done at this rate.

      He flipped off the light over his desk, and left the upstairs room he’d commandeered as his temporary office space. His real-estate concerns would have to wait until at least next week. His calendar had been filled by a sexy redhead with a fantasy. And for the price he’d been paid, he’d better deliver.

      CAIT SNEEZED, dropped the fingernail file, then sneezed again from the dust cloud caused by her vicious filing. She nearly had the length of her new nails down to something she could live with, but her arm ached from the constant, repetitive motion.

      Time for a break, she decided, tossing the nail file on the glass end table. She reached for the cardboard container of shrimp fried rice from Mr. Wong’s she’d picked up on her way home from the paper. The shrimp was cold, and she blamed it on her nails. They were a serious impediment to her life-style. Not only did she have trouble typing, which was a problem since she wanted to add a few more notes to her story, but attempting to fasten the button fly on her favorite pair of faded Levi’s had been impossible. After a ten-minute struggle, she’d given up and slipped into a pair of sweats instead, deciding that if she was going to function and perform the everyday tasks necessary to basic survival, she’d better shave a few millimeters from her fingers first.

      She bit into another cold piece of shrimp and thought about the story she was convinced would change the course of her career onto the path she’d craved since she was a little girl. When she’d told Jen her plan, her friend had called her a certifiable idiot, then continued with a list of reasons why she might fail, not to mention a lecture on the danger she was placing herself in by attempting to seduce a total stranger. At the time, she’d waved Jen’s concerns aside, but as she dug through the container in search of more shrimp, she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps she was letting her ambitions cloud her judgment.

      Her plan wasn’t exactly foolproof, and she knew it. Like, how did she get around actually having sex with her fantasy date? She’d worry about that later. A good investigative reporter took risks. Woodward and Bernstein had taken a monumental risk in exposing the Watergate scandal, and for a time, their lives had been in danger. Would the savings-and-loan scandal have been exposed if a reporter hadn’t ignored the risks involved? Or what about the reporters who put their lives on the line every day to bring news from Kosovo or other war-torn areas? Did those reporters worry about the risks?

      No. The story came first. The story always came first, and her philosophy was no different from the greats’ before her. She knew she’d have to be alone with Jordan, especially since she planned to make it perfectly clear to him that she was on the prowl for seduction. She couldn’t very well convince the man that she was ripe for the picking in a roomful of people, especially with her family hovering around her. She’d have to find a way to be alone with him, and although she’d need to brush up on her seductress skills to pull this off, she knew she could do it. In the name of investigative journalism, in honor of the great reporters of years past, she could and would expose Fantasy for Hire.

      Setting her shrimp fried rice aside, she picked up the industrial-strength emery board and continued to work on shortening her nails while listening to the evening newscast. More rain was predicted for the Bay area later that week, but the meteorologist promised clear skies by the weekend for Valentine’s Day in the most romantic city in North America. She smiled. Not even Mother Nature would dare spoil her parents’ anniversary party.

      After finishing her nails and waiting for the coat of clear polish to dry, she snapped off the television and flipped on Brian’s elaborate stereo system. She found a rock station she liked, then sat down at her laptop computer and popped in the disk containing her notes on Fantasy for Hire.

      She carefully read what she’d written during her meeting with Louden Avery. So far, he appeared to be correct in his allegations. The fact that Jordan McBride had taken the huge sum of money she’d offered him led her to believe there was some truth to the claim of money in exchange for sex. Of course, it was up to her to prove the claim, but she wasn’t too worried about that, even though she had no experience with seducing a man. Flirting, yes. She could handle flirting,