"Oh." He looked back up into her face. "Why?"

Typical. She knew he wouldn't understand. Heck, her own family didn't understand. "I don't like having large b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They're heavy and get in the way. It's hard to find clothes that fit me, and I get back and shoulder pain."

He stood and reached for the towel still around his neck. "How small would you go?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "I'm thinking a full C."

He nodded and wiped the side of his face. "C's a good size."

Geez. Was she really talking about her breast surgery with Mark Bressler? A man, and he wasn't howling about the travesty of going smaller? "You don't think it's a bad idea?"

"What do you care what I think? If your back hurts, and you can do something about it, you should."

He made it sound so reasonable.

"How big are you now?"

She stared at the floor between his shoes. "I'm a double D."

"On someone taller that might not be a problem, but you're a small girl."

She looked up. At him standing a few feet away. Big and bad and half naked. His damp hair sticking to his head and chest. If she didn't know Mark, didn't know what a surly jerk he could be, she might be in danger of falling in love with him. Of throwing herself against his hot, sticky chest and kissing him full on the mouth. Not for how he looked, which was pretty d.a.m.n good, but for understanding how she might feel.

"What?"

She shook her head and glanced away. "My family doesn't want me to do it. They all think I'm impulsive and will regret it."

"You don't strike me as all that impulsive."

She looked back at him, and her lips parted. All her life she'd been told she was impulsive and needed direction. The urge to kiss him full on the mouth just got a little stronger. "Compared to everyone else in my family, my life is chaotic. Out of control."

He tilted his head to one side and studied her. "Things around you might be chaotic, but you're in control." One corner of his mouth lifted a little. "My life used to be like that. Now it's not."

"You look in control to me."

"That's because you didn't know me before."

"Were you a control freak?"

"I just liked things done my way."

Of course he had.

"I lost control of my life the day I woke up in the hospital hooked up to machines and strapped down to a bed."

"Why were you strapped down?"

"I guess I was trying to pull the tube out of my throat."

Even seeing the scars, it was hard to look at him now and see how sick he'd been and how close he'd come to dying. He was strong and in control more than he thought.

"Have the surgery if that's what you want." He shrugged one bare shoulder. "It's your life."

"Bo thinks it's mutilation."

"You're not Bo."

"I know but..." How could she explain it to someone who wasn't a twin? "When you live your whole life looking like someone else, changing that is scary. Weird."

"You're talking about b.o.o.bs. Not your face." He reached for his cane leaning against the weights. "But maybe I'm the wrong person to give my opinion. I'm a thigh man." The cane fell from his hand and landed on the carpet with a soft thud. "s.h.i.t." He grabbed on to the weights for balance and slowly lowered himself.

Without thinking about it, Chelsea moved forward and knelt on one knee. She grabbed the cane and looked up. His face was just above hers, and something dark and intense entered his brown eyes.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said, his voice a rough whisper against her cheek.

"Do what?"

He rose and towered over her. "Rush around treating me like I'm helpless."

She stood also, so close that nothing but an inch of air separated the front of her lacy blouse from his hard chest and fine dark hair.

He stared into her face as he reached for the cane. His hand wrapped around hers, and his warm, strong grasp sent a tingle up her wrist to her elbow. "I'm not a child."

She was so close she could see a darker line around the edges of his irises and all the little variations within the deep brown of those eyes surrounded by those thick, enviable lashes. "I know."

His hand squeezed around hers. His gaze lowered to her lips. "I'm a man."

Yes. Yes he was. A half-naked man with big sweaty muscles and smoldering eyes. Suddenly she felt kind of hot and light-headed. Probably from all the testosterone she was inhaling. "I know."

He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something. Instead he dropped his arm to his side and walked around her. She had a feeling that if he could have run, he would have sprinted from the room.

"Don't you want to see the real estate listings I've put together for you?" She grabbed the papers off the workbench and took a few steps toward him.

"I don't need to. You know what I'm looking for." He stopped in the doorway, practically filling it with his broad shoulders. "Set something up and call me."

"You want me to call you about real estate showings?"

"Yes." He placed a hand on the white door frame and turned his face to one side. Light and shadow cut across his profile. "You have my cell number. There's no need for you to wander around looking for me again."

Her gaze lowered from the back of his dark hair to the indent of his spine. "I don't mind."

"I do."

"But..." She shook her head. "What if you're just in the next room? Should I still call?"

"Yeah. We don't need to talk in person."

What? Had she missed something? How had the conversation gone from her wanting to kiss his face to her wanting to smack him in the head?

And why wasn't she the least bit surprised?

Chelsea called him five times that day. Mostly just to annoy him.

"Do you have an aversion to maroon carpet?" she asked. "I found a house you might be interested in, but it has maroon carpet."

"Just set up a showing." Click.

She waited a half hour, then called again. "Do you need your suit taken to the dry cleaner's?"

"No." Click.

At noon she dialed and asked, "How about a sandwich?"

"I can make my own d.a.m.n sandwich!"

"I know." She smiled. "I just thought if you were making one for yourself, you could make me one too. I like ham and cheese. Lettuce on the side with a dab-"

Click.

He never appeared with her sandwich, which annoyed her even further when she heard him in the kitchen loudly banging around. She answered more letters on the computer and waited until two to phone him again. "There's a squirrel in your driveway."

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?"

"No. I'm looking at it."

"You're calling me about a f.u.c.king squirrel?"

"Yeah. Sure. Do you want me to get an exterminator to put out some rodent traps? Squirrels have been known to carry rabies, you know."

He muttered something about her being nuttier than squirrel s.h.i.t, then-click.

Shortly after that, a shiny red truck pulled into the driveway, and Mark sped away in it. Probably with one of his hockey buddies at the wheel. She called his cell but it went directly to voice mail. Jerk had turned off his phone.

The next morning when she arrived at work, she called to see if he'd turned it back on. This time she did have something important to tell him.

"I've set up three house showings for Monday after your dentist's appointment."

"I hate the dentist."

"Everyone hates the dentist." She flipped through the notes she'd taken when she'd spoken with the Realtor. "There's a four-bedroom in the Queen Anne district. A five-bedroom on Mercer Island, which I'm told isn't all that far from where you live now. And a stunning six-thousand-square-foot home in Kirkland."

"Fine. Is that it?"

"No. I think you should look at a condo on Second Avenue. I know you said you didn't like the noise downtown, but you really need to see it."

"No." Click.

She waited a half hour and called. "I brought some grapes. Do you want some? They're really fresh and delish."

Click.

She waited an hour and then: "What does it mean to fall head over heels? If you fall, shouldn't it be heels over head?"

He swore so loudly it sounded like he was in the room. "I'm going to kill you," he said from the doorway.

Chelsea jumped and spun around in her chair. "c.r.a.p!" She clutched a handful of Pucci dress above her heart.

"I swear to G.o.d, I will strangle you with my bare hands if you call me with bulls.h.i.t just one more time." He looked like he meant it too. His eyes were squinty yet shooting fire at the same time. He wore jeans for a change with his white T-shirt. A pack of smokes rolled up in one sleeve would have completed the look.

She slid her fingers to the side of her throat and felt her racing pulse. "You scared me to death."

"I'm not that lucky." He gave her a hard stare for several moments, one that she was sure he'd used on his hockey adversaries. One that she was sure worked. "I'm expecting a call on the house phone in about fifteen minutes. It's my agent. Don't pick it up." He walked away, and his voice trailed behind him. "And for the love of G.o.d, don't call my cell."

She wisely bit her tongue. She reminded herself that she wanted this job. Needed it. For the rest of the day, she kept herself busy. She scheduled an appointment for an appraiser to come look at Mark's house next week, right after the cleaning crew left.

At three, the real estate agent called Chelsea's phone. A house in Bellevue had just been put on the market within the past hour. It wasn't even listed yet, but she was sure once it was, it would go fast. Probably before Monday. After Chelsea hung up with the agent, she stared at the cell in her hand. She didn't want to die. She didn't want be strangled...but if she didn't tell him about the house, she wasn't doing her job. And the new listing wasn't a "bulls.h.i.t" call. She took a deep breath and dialed fast. It rang somewhere in the house but he didn't pick up. She dialed again and followed "American Woman" around the stairs and toward the back of the house.

She found Mark asleep in the leisure room. Once again, the sound on the television was turned way down and he lay on the wide chaise asleep. She stood near the doorway and called his name. "Mr. Bressler."

He didn't stir and she moved toward him. His right hand was resting on his chest, and he wasn't wearing his splint. "Mr. Bressler." He scratched his chest through his T-shirt but still didn't wake up. She leaned over and touched his arm. "Mr. Bressler. I need to talk to you."

Slowly his lids lifted and he looked up at her. Confusion knitted his brow and he asked in a voice all rough and smoky from sleep, "Why are you dressed again?"

Chelsea froze with her hand on his shoulder. "Huh?"

"That's okay." A beautiful, sweet smile curved his lips. He looked at her as if he was actually pleased to see her-as opposed to how he'd looked at her earlier-ready to kill. Seeing his smile reach his eyes, she could almost forgive him anything.

"I need to talk to you, Mr. Bressler."

"And I need to talk to you." He reached for her. One second she was looking down at him, and in the next, she was on the chaise next to him, looking up into his face.

The wind left her lungs with a soft oomf. "Mr. Bressler!"

He gazed down at her from beneath heavy lids. "Don't you think it's time you call me Mark? Especially after all the things you let me do to you?"

"What things?"

He chuckled and lowered his face. "This," he said just above her mouth. "Here." His lips slipped across her cheek and he whispered into her ear. "Everywhere."

They hadn't done this. She'd remember if he kissed her. Especially "everywhere." She raised her hand to his shoulder to push him away. Beneath her palm, his hard muscles bunched and turned rock-hard.

"Yes," he whispered against the side of her neck. "Touch me again."

Again? His soft breath caressed her skin and spread warmth across her chest. He kissed her just below her ear, and it felt good. Nice. Like slow, lazy s.e.x on a hot summer day. Definitely something she shouldn't be feeling for her employer. "I thought you didn't like me very much."

"I like you too much." He opened his wet mouth against the side of her neck and softly sucked her skin.