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journalist, she reminded herself. He was accustomed to keeping his emotions under check. But he didn’t seem to be suffering any of the shock, self-consciousness, awareness, or simple embarrassment she was at being thrown back together.
    “What happened to your flute?” he asked quietly.
    She stiffened, not wanting to go down that road. “Nothing. It still plays just fine.”
    “You didn’t join an orchestra after all?”
    “Nope.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I went into communications instead,” she said briskly and changed the subject. “How did you find me?”
    He didn’t answer right away. She could see him calculating just how far he could push her before she chased him out. Finally, he said, “Coincidence. A colleague on the paper happened to mention you. Don’t worry,” he added with a quick smile, “I didn’t let on about our ‘past.’ She said I might talk to you about publicity. Here for the past ten years I’ve been picturing you in a concert hall with your flute and a black dress, and it turns out you’re a publicist.”
    Mollie wasn’t sure if she detected a note of disdain for her profession or if she was simply being defensive. Jeremiah was hard news all the way. He would consider publicists roadblocks thrown between him and the truth.
    “She warned me your client list is a little weird,” he said.
    “Weird?”
    “She said unusual. Same difference.”
    Mollie set her mug in the sink and regarded him with a cool, measured look. He was lying. Flat out, one hundred percent, no doubt in her mind. The only question was, what was his motive? He would, she knew, have a reason. “So why would a hard-hitting, award-winning investigative journalist like yourself want to join such a list?”
    His eyes narrowed on her abruptly, a shock, an almost physical reminder of this man’s relentless drive and intensity. Then it was gone, and he sat back, everything about him relaxed and even somewhat amused. “Seems you doubt my sincerity, Miss Mollie.”
    “And why would I?”
    “Because you hold a grudge against me for ten years ago,” he said flatly.
    “No, because you didn’t come here to hire me, you came here because you couldn’t stand not to. You saw me last night, and you couldn’t resist. You did your reporter thing, found out I’d set up shop as a publicist, and had to see for yourself.” She took a breath. “And I haven’t thought about you in ten years.”
    “Ah. Then you don’t believe a colleague put me onto you.”
    “Jeremiah, I want to be there the day, one, you want to hire a publicist, and, two, you find one who’d take you on as a client.”
    He grinned, entertained. “Think you know me pretty well, don’t you?”
    “Some lessons I never forget.”
    The phone rang, and Mollie snatched up the kitchen extension, prepared to get rid of whoever was on the other end. But it was Boca Raton magazine returning her call, and she knew she had to take it. She looked at Jeremiah. “This is someone I’ve been trying to reach for two weeks. I need about two minutes. Would you mind—”
    “No problem.”
    He slid off the stool and headed into the den off the back of the kitchen. It was usually off-limits for business, but she didn’t bother directing him to her living room-office. Instead she put him out of her mind and focused on her call. “Hi, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been—”
    The den!
    Mollie choked and gripped the phone, calling upon every ounce of professionalism and her limited experience as a performing artist. “Excuse me, something’s just come up. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
    She hung up, steadied herself, and rushed into the den.
    She was too late.
    Jeremiah glanced back at her from his position in the middle of the room. His eyes gleamed with humor, and his straight mouth twitched. “Haven’t thought about me in ten years, have you, Mollie?”
    She stood very still. The den was small and cozy, with simple, comfortable furnishings.