Slow Hands

day could have gone downhill so rapidly. No more words came out of her mouth. Her brain had just emptied, probably because the whole reason she’d attended the bachelor auction was to keep her father’s wife out of this man’s bed.
    Jake stood, saving her from having to say anything. But when he spoke, Maddy wondered whether he’d done her any favors at all.
    “I’m not an appointment,” he said, smiling at her father, comfortable and at ease as he rose to extend his hand. “I’m Madeline’s date, and I’m here to take her to lunch.”
    * * *
    “I THINK your father likes me.”
    Jake didn’t have to hear the annoyed, huffy little sound Madeline Turner made to know she wasn’t happy about that. He could still picture the mortification on her face when her father, the very well-known Jason Turner, had practically pushed her out the door with her lunch “date” after offering Jake a hearty handshake and a broad smile.
    Funny, he’d have thought coming face-to-face with one of the wealthiest men in Chicago would have been at least slightly intimidating. Jason Turner might not be known nationwide, but there wasn’t a person in Chicago who hadn’t heard of the rich philanthropist, a man who was as well-known for his charitable works as for his stormy love life.
    Jake hadn’t been intimidated, though. Maybe it was because he’d seen enough accident scenes, helped enough crime victims, responded to enough tragedies, that he realized all the money in the world didn’t mean a damn thing when it came to stopping a bullet or avoiding flying through the windshield of a car.
    Everyone bled the same—red. There was no such thing as blue blood. Which was, perhaps, why he also felt entirely at ease in his pursuit of Madeline Turner, who the society pages liked to call the Ice Queen of the Financial District. He’d found that out in the two days since the auction. He’d been doing some research.
    Personally, she wasn’t a bit icy. Confident and a little unreachable? Sure. But not cold.
    Professionally? Well, he really didn’t give a damn what she was like behind that fancy desk at work. He didn’t want her for her connections to a major Chicago bank. He wanted her for the excitement he’d felt in his gut from the moment he’d peered at her from behind the black drapes at the auction the other night. And he wanted to know what had been behind her tension and her determination, which hadn’t been able to disguise her innate earthy sensuality.
    “Don’t let it go to your head,” she said as they reached the corner of Madison and State, heading for the closest lunch café. “Despite his business reputation, my father is a hopeless romantic, who’d love to see me settle down. He’d be happy if an intoxicated mime in full makeup came to take me to lunch, as long as he was single and breathing.”
    “I hate mimes.”
    “Who doesn’t?”
    “I mean, what kind of kid thinks ‘Gee, when I grow up, I wanna paint my face and annoy people for a living.’”
    She raised a droll brow. “One who wants to be a clown?”
    “I think I’d feel better if my kid said he wanted to be a lawyer.”
    “Perish the thought,” she said with an exaggerated shudder.
    “I’ve never seen a drunk one, though. That might be entertaining.”
    “You obviously don’t lunch at the Chicago Club with all the rest of the high-priced defense attorneys.”
    “I meant the mime,” he explained, enjoying sparring with her, liking the smart comebacks and that smile lurking on her mouth. What he most wanted now was a full frontal attack of those gorgeous dimples and that light laugh he just knew was hiding behind the twitching lips and the twinkling eyes.
    “Watching them fall and not be able to get up in their invisible box might be fun.”
    It finally worked, he got her to relax. “You’re right.” A tiny grin appeared, finally widening into that brilliant smile, complete with a flash of those dimples. God, she had the kind of smile that could stop traffic. She was absolutely made for it.
    Among other things.
    Feeling even more confident about his sneaky way of getting her to have lunch with him, he took her arm as the light changed. Instinct. Good manners toward females had been hammered into him from the time he was old enough to understand what the words put the seat down meant.
    One good thing—she didn’t flinch. A second one—she didn’t pull away, either. It was something, at least.
    “So your dad’s a real