Mad About You

of the old man."
    Ladden's gaze bounced back and forth between the rug and the ceiling several times.
    "What's wrong?" she whispered.
    "Never mind," he said. "I'll get rid of him."
    But when they turned back to Gene, he was gone.
    "He's a kook," Ladden said, pivoting all around. "But he's a slippery kook."
    "He certainly went to a lot of trouble," she said, surveying the table.
    A beige lace tablecloth had been draped over a small Queen Anne table, its corners gathered and tied with large, pale yellow bows. More lace tablecloths tied with similar bows had turned mismatched chairs into special creations. A complex table service for two had been created from many different antique china patterns and silverware, with domed silver lids covering the top plate. The crystal wineglasses and water glasses sparkled, reflecting the flames dancing atop the elaborate silver candelabra. A huge green vase held white and purple striped lilies, and a bottle of white wine chilled in a pewter bucket.
    "Are all these things from your store?"
    "Besides the flowers and the wine, yeah, although you'd never recognize them," he said, peeking under a tablecloth.
    Jasmine lifted one of the domed lids. "Oh, my. This is not peanut butter and jelly."
    Ladden craned his neck, his eyes widening. "Rack of lamb?"
    "One of my favorites," she breathed.
    "Mine, too," he said, lifting the other lid to find the same.
    "And mushrooms!" she squealed.
    He grinned at her, igniting desire low in her stomach. "We agree on two foods, it seems. Let's eat."
    Ladden pulled out her chair, which made her a little nervous. When she'd planned her evening, sharing a romantic dinner with Ladden Sanderson had not been on the list. With his hair so neatly shorn, he looked boyishly handsome, a direct contradiction to his well-developed physique. The single most vivid impression she'd carried away from their encounter at the party was that she'd never felt so protected, so wanted, so cared for as she did standing in the circle of Ladden's arms.
    "Wine?" he asked, uncorking the bottle.
    She nodded and watched, mesmerized, as he filled her glass with the pale liquid. The dancing candlelight distorted the collection of furniture lining the walls, projecting immense images on the ceiling. The effect was slightly spooky and very intimate. "If someone walked in," she said softly, "this would be hard to explain."
    Filling his own wineglass, he said, "I've given up trying to explain things lately." He raised his glass toward hers. "To magic."
    But Jasmine stubbornly refused to believe the fantastic things the little old man had described, despite his uncanny accuracy. Cautiously, she touched her glass to his. "Coincidence maybe."
    After a deep sip of wine, he said, "Gene's right—you're a tough nut to crack."
    Jasmine drew the sweet, cool liquid into her mouth and swallowed. "No, I just stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago."
    At her serious words, he met her gaze. Her body responded instantly to the desire in his eyes, remembering all too well the feel of his lips on hers. But above the nearly palpable physical attraction, she felt an odd connection with Ladden, an unconditional attachment so strong, it felt... ancient.
    "Jasmine," he said quietly, "a few days ago, I would have agreed with you. But after this week—" He broke off, shaking his head. "For just a few hours, let's allow ourselves to believe that anything is possible."
    Except it was dangerous to pretend—to be lulled into a soft, make-believe world where the harsh outline of reality was blurred. She knew that was true because here in the warm cocoon of their private dinner, living and loving the rest of her life with Ladden Sanderson not only seemed plausible, it seemed desirable.
    "Okay," she whispered. "For just a few hours."
    And as if they had indeed been thrust into a dimension where perceptions and expectations were abandoned, she allowed herself to be vulnerable to what Ladden had to offer. The sexual energy bounding between them unleashed itself in the room, enveloping them so completely, they might have been moving in slow motion. Suddenly, the simple act of eating seemed fraught with innuendo—every smooth slice and urgent bite of the delectable lamb, every savored swirl of the heady wine, every musky mouthful of the black mushrooms.
    When Ladden deserted his half-eaten meal with a clatter of abandoned utensils and reached for her, Jasmine was hungry for him. Their mouths came together almost