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turned on his heel, strode over to the bar and dumped the contents of one of the glasses into the stainless steel bar sink. "What are you doing?" Lauren asked.
    His voice was filled with amused irony. "Adding some gin to your tonic."
    Lauren burst out laughing, and he glanced over his shoulder at her, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Just out of curiosity, how old are you?"
    "Twenty-three."
    "And you were applying for a secretarial position at Sinco—before you threw yourself at our feet tonight?" he prompted, adding a modest amount of gin to her tonic.
    "Yes."
    He carried her glass to her and nodded toward the sofa. "Sit down—you shouldn't be standing on that ankle."
    "It doesn't hurt, honestly," she protested, but she obediently sat down.
    Nick remained standing in front of her, regarding her curiously. "Did Sinco offer you a position?"
    He was so tall that Lauren had to tip her head back in order to meet his gaze. "No."
    "I'd like to have a look at your ankle," he said. Putting his drink on the glass coffee table, he crouched down and began unbuckling the thin strap of her sandal. The mere brush of his fingers against her ankle sent amazing jolts of electricity shooting up her leg, and she stiffened with the unexpected shock.
    Fortunately, he seemed not to notice as his strong fingers carefully explored her calf, moving slowly down toward her ankle. "Are you a good secretary?"
    "My former employer thought I was."
    With his head still bent, he said, "Good secretaries are always in demand. Sinco's personnel office will probably call you eventually and offer you a job."
    "I doubt it," Lauren said with an irrepressible smile. "I'm afraid Mr. Weatherby, the personnel manager, doesn't think I'm very bright," she explained.
    Nick's head jerked up, his gaze moving with frank, masculine appreciation over her vivid features. "Lauren, I think you're as bright as a shiny new penny. Weatherby must be blind."
    "Of course he is!" she teased, "Or else he'd never wear a houndstooth jacket with a paisley tie."
    Nick grinned. "Does he really?"
    Lauren nodded, and for her the companionable moment became strangely charged with an unexplainable, deepening awareness. Now, as she smiled at him, she saw more than just an extremely handsome male. She saw a mild cynicism in his eyes that was tempered with warmth and humor; the hardbitten experience that was stamped on his strongly chiseled face. To Lauren it made him even more attractive. There was no denying the power of his sexual magnetism, either. It emanated from every rugged, self-assured inch of his body, pulling her to him.
    "It doesn't feel swollen," he commented, bending his head toward her ankle again. "Does it hurt at all?"
    "Very little. Not nearly as much as my dignity."
    "In that case, by tomorrow your ankle
and
your dignity will probably be fine."
    Still crouching, he cupped her heel in his left hand and reached over to pick up her sandal with his right.
    Just as he was about to slip the sandal onto her foot, he glanced up at her and his lazy smile sent Lauren's pulse racing as he asked, "Isn't there some fairy tale about a man who searches for the woman whose foot fits into a glass slipper?"
    She nodded, her eyes bright. "Cinderella."
    "What happens to me if this slipper fits?"
    "I turn you into a handsome frog," she quipped.
    He laughed, a rich, wonderful sound as their gazes held, and something flickered in the silver depths of his eyes—a brief flame of sexual attraction that he abruptly doused. The companionable bantering was over. He buckled her sandal, then stood up. Picking up his drink, he drained it quickly and set the glass down on the coffee table. It was, Lauren sensed, an unwelcome signal that their time together was at an end. She watched him lean over, pick up the telephone on the far side of the coffee table and punch a four-digit number. "George," he said into the phone, "This is Nick Sinclair. The young lady you were chasing as a trespasser has recovered from her