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      THERE WASN’T MUCH he liked about Prudence Trueheart. But he had to admit, he liked the way she moved.

      Pete Beckett braced his arms along a low cubicle wall on the far side of the Bullpen, resting his chin on his hands. All around him, the employees of the Herald’s sports department rushed to make the noon deadline, frantically typing copy on computer terminals, the click of keys creating a familiar din. As a syndicated columnist, Pete met earlier deadlines, and his column was already out on the wire. And since he hadn’t decided on tomorrow’s subject, he found himself with nothing to do except ruminate on the physical attributes of the Herald’s uptight little etiquette columnist, Prudence Trueheart.

      Though she always dressed in a tidy little suit and a prissy white blouse, starched board stiff, the body beneath the suit refused to comply with the outward image. To match the clothes, one might expect a ramrod-straight spine and a clipped gait, heels clicking on the floor, mouth pinched in a permanent expression of disapproval.

      But the assumption would not be correct. Prudence possessed a fluid grace, her hips swaying ever so slightly with each step, her neck arched and her chin tipped up in subtle defiance. Her arms swung gracefully at her sides and her long fingers were delicately tipped in a conservative shade of cotton-candy pink.

      And her mouth. Well, there was something about that mouth that made words of admonishment a waste of a pair of perfectly tempting lips. No matter how hard she tried to look like a Sunday School teacher, Pete couldn’t get past the urge to pull every last bobby pin from the knot of pale hair at her nape. Or maybe yank her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Or at least suck on a few of those pretty fingertips.

      “Giving Prudence the evil eye will not get you that corner office.”

      Pete turned to find Sam Kiley standing beside him, his gaze fixed on the same target. “Do you ever wonder what she’s like outside the office?” Pete asked. “I mean, does she wear those suits to bed? And is that little bun on the back of her head a permanent thing, or does she let her hair loose when she walks in the front door of her house?”

      Prudence disappeared into her office, and Pete craned his neck to see inside the open door. He just couldn’t figure the contradiction. How could a woman with so much sensual presence, such an abundance of feminine appeal, be such a royal pain in the butt? This question had been bothering Pete for a long time, and though it begged an answer, he wasn’t about to get close enough to the prickly Prudence to find out what