He flashed a smile. Good night, my wild woman of the vineyards.

Ginger's spine stiffened. He smelled of herher pussy! She'd told him'out loudthat it belonged to him! Her head pounded with confusion. Her limbs tingled with the remnants of the pleasure. What the hell had just happened? Had she fantasized so intensely that she'd conjured Lucio from the night shadows? Or had he been waiting for her, watching heragain? Either way, it had ended with her feeding her most intimate body part to a man she barely knew! And now he was seeing her to her room, as if the whole thing had been a non-event. Maybe in the world of Lucio Montevez it was, but not in her world.

Do not look so perplexed, guapa. Lucio brushed the underside of her chin with his fingertip. Back there, you called out to me. I answered. But it is late and you are not in your right mind at the moment, so we must stop.

Ginger's mouth hung open. Whaa?

I do not wish to take advantage of you.

Huh?

Lucio's smile widened, and his teeth were blinding white in the porch light. Loneliness and wine can make us do crazy things. So I will say good night. He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles. He kissed the fragile bones and tendons of her hand. Then he turned her wrist over and kissed the skin stretched over her wild pulse. It was all intensely sensual. Mind-numbingly sexual. Ginger tried to think clearly but failed. She was swooning! Swooning! Up until now she hadn't even understood what that word meant!

What is happening? She raised her gaze to his, whispering her question. Lucio's eyes met hers, endlessly deep and dark and probing. He really did possess the eyes of a sexual panther, but at some point he'd also acquired the manners of an Eagle Scout. Honestly, she'd never been more disappointed in her life.

But you said you wanted more of me, Ginger said, the words so heavy with frustration it embarrassed her.

Lucio chuckled softly. I must take a rain check. He pulled a pair of panties from his pocket and shoved them in her hand, adding, You shouldn't leave these lying around just anywhere.

Then he turned her by the shoulders, gave her bottom a gentle pat, and sent her through the guesthouse door.

Ginger stared at the stark white piece of San Francisco Herald stationery in her unsteady hands, perplexed. Why did they call it a pink slip if it wasn't pink? Not a shade of salmon, or rose, or even a soft coral. Her termination notice was in stark black and white, seventeen years of her life wiped off the map in two paragraphs.

This truly sucks, Bea said, falling into Ginger's chair with a thud. I have no other skills except sports editing. And only newspaper editing. I wouldn't even know where to start in broadcast or Internet journalism, or even Titterlating or whatever it's called.

Bea! Ginger snapped in annoyance as she folded the termination letter and shoved it in her bag. This is my pink slip. Not yours. I just lost my job. Not you!

Bea popped up from the chair, hugged Ginger quickly, then patted her back a little too hard. Right. Sorry. Shit, Ginger. What are you going to do? Do you have any other skills?

Ginger laughed. Of course she had skillsshe was a divorced mother. She could do pretty much anything.

She could make a mean pot roast. She could iron a man's dress shirtincluding the heavy starchin five minutes. She could paint a ceiling, transport a soccer team, change the oil in a lawn mower, and manage an investment portfolio. She could apply eyeliner at a stoplight. She knew instinctively which handbag went with which outfit.

Bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan was nothingtry bringing home an Associated Press First Place Award for special section editing and springing your kid from the juvenile detention center. Now that would put hair on your chest!

Ginger gasped, suddenly certain all the stress of the last few years had caused her to sprout chin hairs like the ones her grandmother Ola had. She reached a hand up to her jaw, finding nothing but smooth skin, and said a silent prayer of thanks. She might be an unemployed, love-starved woman, but at least she wasn't an unemployed, love-starved woman with chin hair.

You look pretty freaked out by this, Bea said, concern in her voice. What are you thinking?

Just that I could handle any job I'm offered, Ginger lied.

That's the attitude, Bea said, giving her another slap on the shoulder. Have you updated your resume?

Ginger bit her lip, knowing her resume didn't reflect a wide range of abilities. In fact, it was downright one-dimensional, because she'd spent her entire working life at the Herald.

Ginger had started right out of school as a city desk general assignment reporter, working day and night to prove her mettle. After her maternity leave, she became a feature writer. And, for the last eight years, she'd been editor of the Herald' s house and garden section.

It was ironic. For nearly a decade now, Ginger hadn't even needed to work. Once Larry had made it out of med school and his residency, he made good money as a private-practice urologist and medical school professor. They could have afforded to have Ginger stay home. But she chose to stay at the Herald. She never wanted to have to choose between her work and her kids. She wanted to build a career while she built a family, and saw no reason why she couldn't do both.

So when Larry had dumped her for a girl half her age, Ginger thanked the gods she'd remained in the workforce. At that moment her job became the longest-lasting relationship of her adulthood. But as of ten minutes ago, she had nothing to show for her wise decision except that familiar lump of rejection in her gut and a two-paragraph souvenir.

Ginger put her hands on her hips, scanning the chaos in the features department. She was one of six employees let go that morning, and there was a lot of crying and swearing going on, despite the fact that they'd all known it was coming, sooner or later.

Let's go down to circulation and see if they have any boxes, Bea said helpfully. I'll help you clean out your desk.

Ginger shook her head. Don't bother. Misty told me there's been a run on cardboard boxes and they're out.

Both Bea and Ginger turned to watch Misty McGinty throwing the contents of her desk drawers into industrial-sized plastic garbage bags. The petite fashion and beauty reporter was working up a sweat in her designer ensemble, cursing loudly and with creative abandon. And she was naming names. Names that belonged to the managing editor. The publisher. Her immediate boss. Who cared? What was the worst that could happen to hershe'd get fired?

Poor kid, Bea said.

Poor everybody. Ginger sat on the edge of her desk, crossing her arms over her chest. This is a damned shame.

Bea ran a hand through her short spiky hair in exasperation. I'm worried about Josie. What if she gets back from her honeymoon and finds out she's been canned?

Ginger looked at Bea like she was nuts. Josie can do anything she wants with her life now, including nothing at all. She just married the gazillionaire CEO of a pet store chain!

This is true, Bea said, nodding. I just wish they'd ax all of us at once instead of dragging it out like this, week after week. It's like eliminations on a bad reality show. Bea snatched a pen from Ginger's desk and pretended it was a microphone. Stay tuned to see which sorry-assed loser will be going home this week!

Ginger winced.

Not you. I didn't mean you.

Well, I'm taking my sorry ass home, and right now. Ginger rose from the desk and grabbed her bag. It's like a funeral in here. I'll come back tomorrow with boxes from home.