“I’ve been trying to read this book for three months. I will never finish it, only I have to before I return to Santa Barbara.”

“Why do you hate the book?”

I crinkle my nose. “It’s Chekhov. Everyone hates Chekhov. I picked it because it was short, which is completely stupid logic because long and enjoyable is better than short and yuck.”

Did I really just say that? Yep, I can tell by the shimmers in Alan’s eyes that I did. My cheeks burn.

Alan laughs in a lazy, loose way. “Yes, I can see how long and enjoyable would be preferable to a girl.”

I have no choice. I hit him with the book. “You are so obnoxious. Do you know that?”

He makes a contrite face and turns to look at the book cover. Those black eyes lock on me intensely. “Do you want me to help you with your short and yuck?”

Now the color has moved down my cheeks, across my neck to the swell of my breasts. Exactly what is he suggesting here?

“Can’t you ever just be nice?”

“I am being nice.”

His fingers snake through my hair. In the blink of an eye, everything about him, the way he looks at me, the way he touches can switch into a total turn-on.

“Do you want me to help you, Chrissie?”

I nod.

He looks at the page I’m on. He leans into me. “I suppose I am dreadfully guilty, but my thoughts are muddled, my soul is in the grip of a kind of apathy, and I am no longer able to understand myself. I don’t understand myself or other people...I should like to tell you everything from the beginning, but it’s a long story, and such a complicated one that if I talked till morning I couldn’t finish it...”

I let out a ragged breath. All that just to quote to me Chekhov. His theatrics are really starting to wear on me and I can tell he knows how effective they are. I’m certain it’s just a game he plays with girls, though I don’t know why he’s playing it with me. He could have had me last night, no effort, if he had wanted another notch for his bed.

I push him out of my lap. “Ha, ha, ha. And you got it wrong. You skipped a bunch.”

He sits up, with an adorable half-smile on his face. “I can quote it line by line. And I skipped for theatrical affect.”

“I’m yellow carding you. You can’t quote Chekhov line by line.”

“Pick another page.”

I do. And he begins to quote that damn book line by line, word for word, in that exquisite voice that could draw me into bed with him if he ever used it to do so.

I make a face when he’s done. “No, that was wrong. You missed a whole bunch of words.”

He holds out a hand. “I did not. I can quote line by line an eclectic collection of classic literature. It is what we did as a family instead of having conversation.”

For a moment, I stop to wonder if that’s true. I know nothing about his upbringing, where he is from beyond what his accent tells me. Strange, but there is never anything in print about Alan from before he was famous, his family or his history.

I shake my head. “You did it wrong.”

In a second, he’s wrestling me for the book and I’m doing a darn good job of keeping it away. What is this? A point of pride for him? And then, very quickly, without the slightest idea how it has happened, I’m lying beneath him on the blanket, and we are laughing.

It all happens so fast—one minute we’re laughing, and the next he is kissing me, from only mildly aware of me into completely into me. His lips are knowing and slow, the sweet gentleness so potent that it’s painful, and I feel my muscles inside clench violently. I moan into his mouth and he takes full advantage of the slight parting of my lips. The tongue that touches mine is dancing and erotic, all about sensation and drawing me into him.

Without breaking the kiss, he turns until he’s lying back on the blanket with me on top of him. His fingers move in a feather-like touch, up my neck, my jaw, my chin. I don’t care that we are in Central Park. I don’t care if people are watching. He’s pulling me into him and I am desperate to go there.

It all stops. He pushes away from me in the blink of an eye, leaving me hanging with my heart rate through the roof. Other than the aggravated hand he jerks through his black shoulder length hair, he looks calm, disinterested, and suddenly focused on something other than me.

He stands up and holds out his hand for me. “I’m tired of the park, Chrissie. We’re leaving.”

We are, are we? I sit up and hug my legs with my arms. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say, shaking my head in absolute frustration. I pick up my book and I struggle to keep my eyes from him.

“We’re not staying here,” he says and oddly his voice sounds mildly urgent. I glance up at him. Those burning back eyes lock on me and he lowers until we’re at eye level. “Let’s go to bed and be good to each other.”

My eyes flutter wide as I look at him, wondering if this is more theatrics, and hating that it doesn’t feel like a game in my flesh. Is he serious? I thought it would be different the first time a guy asked me to bed. Something clear, something in focus, something I knew what to do with.

I don’t even know if he’s really asking me to bed, yet there is an alarming sense that that is exactly what he’s intending.

He holds out his hand.

“Nope, as tempting as you make it sound, I think my answer is no,” I say petulantly to cover my confusion. “I don’t want to go to bed with you. You’re too much of a weirdo. ”

“Yes, you do. It’s why you can’t stop thinking about me,” he says softly. His voice is hypnotic.

It’s the truth, and worse, I can see in his eyes that he knows it’s the truth. Crap! I have no idea what to do. Right or left. I haven’t the faintest clue how to deal with him, but the prospect of returning back to Jack’s apartment alone with my internal mess growing only more insistent is not a wise thing.

I shove my stuff jerkily into my bag and take his hand. Alan doesn’t say anything and I’m glad he doesn’t. He is impossible to read and I don’t need even one more ounce of confusion.

I’m filled with trepidation as we walk back toward the apartment. Does leaving with him mean I’ve said yes? And a part of me is a little disappointed in how this is unfolding. I always thought it would happen the first time in one of those heated, From Here to Eternity type moments, or in the least with me drunk so I could stay out of my own way until it was over.

Butterflies fill my stomach. Maybe we are just leaving the park, nothing more. It might have all been drama. His actions are impossible to process logically.

I slant a look at him and some of my anxiousness wanes. He doesn’t seem the slightest bit aware of me. Even walking side by side, anyone who looked at us would probably think we’re not even together.

The doorman has the lobby doors open and Alan’s hand stops me.

“No, not here. I want to go to my apartment.”

His apartment? I flush.

“I want you to spend the night with me at my place.” His gaze is intense.

“Oh.” The world has ceased to be beneath my feet. That was direct enough. We aren’t just leaving the park. Alan is taking me to bed.

Once in the car, I realize there is no turning back. I remind myself that I’ve been obsessing about him for days. I don’t know why this is so difficult.

It is a short drive to Alan’s apartment. In only a few minutes we’re slowing down. Jeez, why did it have to be so short, so quick? I need time to think. Time to calm myself.

His residence is in Central Park West. As the car rolls to a stop, I realize that I am only a few blocks from Jack’s apartment, and I can make a run for home should anything happen that I don’t feel completely comfortable with. That last thought makes me even more frustrated with myself.

Once through the building doors there is an impeccably dressed attendant waiting to serve him. Inside the elevator, Alan leans back against the polished, mirrored wall and studies me, while the attendant remains carefully invisible.