“Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele,” he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from

behind the counter, but really I’m concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet – my

legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I’m so glad I decided to wear my best jeans

this morning.

“They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” My voice is a little too bright. I

glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he’s handsome. I blush.

“After you,” he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured

hand.With my heart almost strangling me – because it’s in my throat trying to escape from

my mouth – I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Portland?

Why is he here at Clayton’s?And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain – probably

located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells – comes the

thought: he’s here to see you.No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beauti-

ful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of

my head.

“Are you in Portland on business?” I ask, and my voice is too high, like I’ve got my

finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool Ana!

“I was visiting the WSU farming division. It’s based at Vancouver. I’m currently fund-

ing some research there in crop rotation and soil science,” he says matter-of-factly. See?

Not here to find you at all,my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush

at my foolish wayward thoughts.

“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” I tease.

“Something like that,” he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.

He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton’s. What on Earth is he going

to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across

the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He

bends and selects a packet.

“These will do,” he says with his oh-so-secret smile, and I blush.

“Is there anything else?”

“I’d like some masking tape.”

Masking tape?

“Are you redecorating?” The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires

laborers or has staff to help him decorate?

“No, not redecorating,” he says quickly then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling

that he’s laughing at me.

Am I that funny? Funny looking?

“This way,” I murmur embarrassed. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”

I glance behind me as he follows.

“Have you worked here long?” His voice is low, and he’s gazing at me, gray eyes con-

centrating hard. I blush even more brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me?

I feel like I’m fourteen years old – gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front Steele!

“Four years,” I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select

the two widths of masking tape that we stock.

“I’ll take that one,” Grey says softly pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him.

Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve

touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere

dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.

“Anything else?” My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly.

“Some rope, I think.” His voice mirrors mine, husky.

“This way.” I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.

“What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope… twine…

cable cord… ” I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow.

“I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope please.”

Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware

that his hot gray gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-

conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it

neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with

my knife.

“Were you a Girl Scout?” he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don’t

look at his mouth!

“Organized, group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Grey.”

He arches a brow.

“What is your thing, Anastasia?” he asks, his voice soft and his secret smile is back. I

gaze at him unable to express myself. I’m on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Ana,

my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.

“Books,” I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing!

I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas above its station.

“What kind of books?” He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?

“Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.”

He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer.

Or perhaps he’s just very bored and trying to hide it.

“Anything else you need?” I have to get off this subject – those fingers on that face are

so beguiling.

“I don’t know. What else would you recommend?”

What would I recommend? I don’t even know what you’re doing.

“For a do-it-yourselfer?”

He nods, gray eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own

accord to his snug jeans.

“Coveralls,” I reply, and I know I’m no longer screening what’s coming out of my

mouth.

He raises an eyebrow, amused, yet again.

“You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing,” I gesture vaguely in the direction of his

jeans.

“I could always take them off.” He smirks.

“Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of the communist

manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.

“I’ll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing,” he says dryly.

I try and dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.

“Do you need anything else?” I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.

He ignores my inquiry.

“How’s the article coming along?”

He’s finally asked me a normal question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing

double talk… a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if were a life

raft, and I go for honesty.

“I’m not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Kavanagh. My roommate, she’s the writer.

She’s very happy with it. She’s the editor of the magazine, and she was devastated that

she couldn’t do the interview in person.” I feel like I’ve come up for air – at last, a normal

topic of conversation. “Her only concern is that she doesn’t have any original photographs

of you.”

Grey raises an eyebrow.

“What sort of photographs does she want?”

Okay. I hadn’t factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don’t know.

“Well, I’m around. Tomorrow, perhaps… ” he trails off.

“You’d be willing to attend a photo shoot?” My voice is squeaky again. Kate will be

in seventh heaven if I can pull this off. And you might see him again tomorrow,that dark

place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought – of all the

silly, ridiculous…

“Kate will be delighted – if we can find a photographer.” I’m so pleased, I smile at him

broadly. His lips part, like he’s taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction

of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic