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way out.”
    That was how Steph came to be driving down Highway 400 in the middle of the afternoon with a Casting for Recovery brochure in her hand. The women in the pictures weren’t leggy athletes or trim, clear-skinned models; they were middle-aged women packing a few extra pounds and wearing khaki vests and hats trimmed with fuzzy fishing lures. It was their faces that captured her—their beaming smiles and bright eyes. And there was a whole lot of hugging going on.
    Was that what she needed? Strangers hugging her?
    Puleeze . Steph already had hugs aplenty. Kid hugs and sister hugs and brother-in-law hugs and good friend hugs. The collage of hug memories that flitted through her mind suddenly included big, strong arms… She could feel herself being pressed against a hard chest, and melting into the sun-drenched warmth of a male body. A certain male body.
    Shaking the image away, she found herself near the Lennox Square Mall and impulsively turned off the freeway. A mile down Lennox Road, she pulled into the parking lot of Damon’sSporting Goods and sat there for a minute, looking from the brochure to the front of the store and back again.
    Shortly after, she was striding through the late spring sun and into the shade of the cavernous retailer. There was a hum in the air, voices and equipment and the sound of falling water blending to create a sense of anticipation. She paused by the natural rock waterfall at the center of the store to read the signs pointing out the various departments, and then struck off for the fishing section, which turned out to be big and busy.
    The rows of fishing rods propped upright looked like a bizarre forest of überskinny trees. Along the far walls were cases filled with reels, specialized knives, pliers, wooden stands and pretied flies of all kinds. Behind those were shelves of boxes, tackle, nets and spools of line. At one end were roundels of waders and sun-protection shirts. Capping it off were hats, boots, storage gear, and a nice looking young man dressed in khaki camping casual.
    “Can I help you find something?” He raised an eyebrow as he took in her four-inch Kate Spade heels. Strangely, not one other customer in the department was wearing them. “Looking for…a present for someone?”
    “Not really. I—I’d like to learn a bit more about fly-fishing. A friend of mine offered to teach me, but I don’t want to look like an idiot the first time out. I mean, exactly what is fly-fishing, anyway?”
    The guy smiled and extended a hand to steer her toward the posters of fish hanging not far away. “You’ve come to the right place. This Friday is the start of our annual fishing clinic. Fly-fishing uses lures that imitate the look and action of flies. Literally. There are certain kinds of fish that go for low flying insects and water-top larvae.” He pointed to several species pictured there. “Cold water fish like trout, salmon and steelheads go for flies, and down here in the warm waters of the southland it’s mostly bass .”
    He showed her the basics of casting, and then rods and reels and lures and waders, trying to match her interest level to her pocketbook in a way that set her at ease. The guy could probably have sold her swampland in the Everglades, but by the time they were done, she’d made a surprisingly modest contribution to Damon’s Sporting Goods’ bottom line. And as she walked out with her arms full of equipment, she had the wickedly delicious feeling that she’d just stolen a glimpse of Finn Hartley’s world.

Chapter Four
    Finn stared at the security monitor as Stephanie Steele walked out the door with an armload of fishing gear. He massaged his chest, wishing he could make his heart quit doing those spastic jerks and thuds.
    What the hell was she doing here, buying fishing gear? She hated fishing. It was boring, unproductive and a complete waste of time. Direct quote. It was not something a successful businessman indulged in, unless public relations