Sarah Malcolm was late.  This was nothing new.  She'd tried all the techniques for timeliness out there.  Setting the clock ahead fifteen minutes, mapping out alternate timesaving routes, wearing two watches.  Still, she'd never been prompt. 

     Citrus Grove Bank was her last chance at keeping her restaurant, Taste of Home open.  And if she was late, she was pretty sure, Mr. Max Tucker wouldn't be impressed by her abilities to run a tight ship.  Tucker wouldn't give money to someone who couldn't even be on time.

     This was the end.  She'd have to give up the business, and take two jobs just to support herself and her siblings, eighteen-year-old twins.  On the plus side the twins would be leaving for college next September and they did have full scholarships.  But that was almost a year for her to keep things together.  To give them the home her parents had wanted for them.

     The beginnings of a headache started at the base of her neck.  She wished she'd checked in with the Magic 8 ball this morning before leaving.  But there hadn't been time.  She'd wanted to check her horoscope as well but she'd had to cancel her newspaper subscription.

     A limousine coasted to a stop right in front of her.  Sarah blinked; sure she was imagining it.  A short, slightly rotund man emerged from the front.  He wore a pair of casual pants, a dress shirt and a tie with, of all things, angels on it.

     It looked out of character on the balding man.  His shirt stretched tight across his belly.  He had an olive complexion and beard stubble despite the early hour.  He stopped in front of her car. 

     "Hey, babe.  Flat tire?" he asked, with a Jersey accent. 

     "I wish."  He made her smile with his self-assured grin and easy manner.

     The back door to the limo opened and a second man emerged.  He was tall with blond hair, and he moved toward them with a purpose.  His eyes were a bright gray that cut right through her.  She knew by looking at him that this second man commanded a different type of power.  His clothing was straight from GQ, from his hand-sewn Italian shoes to his Armani suit.

     As he came closer, she sucked in her breath.  His features were too sharp to be termed handsome but he was attractive.  She wished she hadn't learned long ago that there was no such thing has fairytales because he looked a lot like her version of Prince Charming.  But she'd dated enough frogs to know that P.C. didn't exist except in childhood dreams.  And it had been a long time since Sarah Malcolm had been a child.

     "What's the problem?" he asked.  His suit was navy and he wore a striped shirt underneath.  His tie was dark, understated.  She smiled as he moved closer to her, realizing his tie had small sharks, swimming with their jaws open on it.

     "I don't know," she said.

     He glanced at his watch then at his limo driver.  "Can we drop you somewhere?"

     What a gentleman, she thought.  It seemed like all those candles she'd been lighting at church had finally paid off.  She'd been praying for a man to come into her life.

     "That would be great.  I've called a tow truck but they won't be here for a half-hour.  I'm due at the Citrus Grove Bank over on Kaley in fifteen minutes."

     "Then let's get going," he said, pivoting to walk back to the car. 

     Sarah hesitated.  She wasn't sure she should just hop into a limousine with two strange men.  True, she'd been asking for a man.  But she'd been doing that since she'd turned eighteen and Paul had decided life with two six-year old twins wasn't what he wanted from life.  So far the guys who'd come along hadn't been that splendid.

     "On second thought I think I'll wait for the tow."

     The chauffeur stopped and looked straight at her.  There was something in his eyes that reassured her.  But then she'd heard Ted Bundy had nice eyes. 

     "Sorry," she said.

"No problem.  I'm bonded," he said.  He pulled a card from his back pocket and handed it to her.  Bella Notte Limousine Services.  The card had a state certification number as well as the driver's name--Ray King. 

     "Thanks."  She glanced at the man who disturbed her on a deep emotional level.  He walked back toward her, stopping a discreet distance away.

     "Harris Davidson," he said, sticking out his hand.

     "Sarah Malcolm."  She took his hand, pumped it three times and let it drop.  But her palm still tingled from the contact.  His nails were manicured, but she was sure she felt calluses on his hands.  She filed the incongruity away for later.

     "Now that we're old friends, can we please go?" he asked.

     Was that sarcasm in his voice?  She wasn't sure, so she smiled up at him the way she did at her accountant when he gave her news she didn't like. 

     "Sure.  Thanks for giving me ride," she said to Harris.

     Sarah slid into the car, taking a seat on the far bench.  The divider was up between the driver's area and the back.  She wondered if the driver had made the decision to stop on his own.

     "Thanks for stopping."

     "You're welcome," he said.

     She realized he wasn't going to talk to her again until they got to the bank.  That was fine.  She could respect his wishes.  She glanced at her watch, whispered a fervent prayer that time would slow down a little and she wouldn't be late.

     "Do you live around here?" she asked.  She hated silence, particularly with strangers.  It was one of her faults.  Her brother teasingly called her Mouth-of-the-South because of it.

     "No.  California," he said.

     "Where?  San Diego, Los Angeles or San Francisco?" she asked.

     He finally looked away, clearing his throat.  "L.A.--Belaire actually."

     "Really?"

     He inclined his head and lifted one eyebrow.  He had a tendency to react with an acerbic wit, she realized, even when he didn't speak.

     She knew he wanted her to leave him alone.  But he was a distraction and she really needed one.  There was something about him.  The aloofness he portrayed made her want to needle him.  To keep talking until he had no choice but to respond.

     "Do you know any movie stars?  I've always wanted to visit, but I've never had the chance."

     "I don't know any movie stars," he said, picking up the Wall Street Journal from the seat next to him, snapping it open. 

     She knew it was a hint.  A pretty blatant one considering he lifted the paper until she couldn't see his face.  She glanced out the window; they were coming closer to the bank.  Any minute now, she'd be placing the restaurant's fate in Mr. Tucker's hands.  What if he denied her expansion loan?

     "Do you like living there?" she asked, needing to distract herself.

     "I guess so," he said from behind the paper.

     Sarah liked a challenge.  She waited a few minutes.  "Could you live anywhere else?"

     He lowered a corner of the paper.  "Not without relocating my business.  I like LA.  I deal mostly with the Asian market."

     "What do you do?"

     "Ms. Malcolm--"

     "Call me Sarah," she said with a smile.

     He set the paper on the seat next to him and leaned forward, arms braced against his knees.  His jacket fell open and she noticed the muscles under his dress shirt as the fabric stretched tautly.

     She wondered what he'd look like without his shirt on.  Okay, she'd definitely been alone too long.  Time to start dating again.  In fact, when she got back to the restaurant she'd call Marcus, her accountant, and take him up on his standing invitation for dinner.

     "Do I make you nervous?" he asked.

     His question startled her.  Did she seem nervous?  "No, why?"

     "Do you always talk so much?"

     "I'm afraid so.  My brother teases me mercilessly about it."

     "I'm not your brother," he said.

     "Believe me, I noticed," she said before she could stop herself.

     He cocked his head to the side, watching her with an intensity that made her acutely aware of her femininity.

     The limo stopped in front of the bank and Sarah gathered her stuff to get out.  Harris stopped her with a hand on her arm.  "Don't go quiet on me now."

     "I thought that was your fondest wish."

     "Maybe you don't know everything."

     "There's no maybe about it."

     "I like a woman who's not afraid to admit she doesn't know everything."

     "Most men do.  It makes them feel superior," she said, with a wink.