Mitch in San Francisco?
Heart-rate quickening, Laura Johanssen leaned over the mezzanine railing separating her from the elegant hotel lobby below and stared. It can't be, it just isn't possible, she reassured herself, yet she took a second, longer look to make sure.
Cities weren't his turf; he needed open skies and space. She almost hoped the man standing with a group of businessmen was a lookalike, but there was no mistaking that nose. Once, long ago, she'd teased him about it, and he'd laughed and smoothed his hand over her bare hip. "Nobody better mess with Mitch Buchanan." She'd sassed him and their make believe wrestling match had turned into a much more intimate, satisfying tussle.
Now, gold sparkled at his cuff as he gestured. She studied his well-tailored business suit and smiled. The old Mitch wouldn't have been caught dead in a suit and tie. He'd lived in worn jeans and work shirts, but she'd preferred him nude, his tanned body the fuel to her fantasies. It wasn't hard to imagine him naked again, his shoulders and torso well muscled and solid, his belly rock hard, and his cock standing erect and hungry for her.
Laura moistened her lips and scooted her club chair closer to the railing and watched him. It was silly, she told herself.
It was also risky.
All he had to do was look her way and she'd be caught with her mouth hanging open. She didn't want that; there was no room in her life for old memories. She smiled faintly at the irony: now that she'd made peace with herself, had pushed the longings away and stopped looking for him in every tall, rugged blond she met, now he showed up. Now that she didn't need him any more, here he was, as big and tanned as ever.
She studied him openly. Looking as beautifully fit as he had at twenty-five, carrying his height and solid build easily, he directed his devastating smile at one of his group. Chuckling, the man with him glanced up and noticed her interest. He gestured in her direction.
Oh, no! She watched Mitch turn slightly, scanning the crowd above him. Jerking back, she drew away from the railing. The motion drew his attention. She saw him focus on her, eyes narrowing in concentration, then saw them widen. She felt his shock rising in waves to wash over her as she sat immobile, caught in a situation she wasn't prepared to face.
He said something to his associates and started toward her. His purposeful stride, still sinuous and proud, made short work of the lobby. Keeping his eyes on her, his face intent, he climbed the half-flight of stairs to the mezzanine bar.
Not now! She needed time to get used to the idea, to coach herself through it, to think of something to say. By the time he narrowed the last few feet, she trembled.
"Laura?" His uncertain look changed to joy. "It is you! I couldn't believe it when I looked up—"
"Mitch," she breathed, reaching for control.
"After all this time..."
She stood uncertainly, wondering whether to put out her hand or run for the door.
Mitch solved her predicament. He hugged her, drawing her into his arms. For a heartbeat, Laura was transported back to the time when they belonged around her. She closed her eyes, breathed in his scent, and let herself believe, just for an instant, that nothing had changed. That any minute now, he would touch her breasts, caress her nipples before bending to suck them, that he would kiss her hard and deep enough to make her forget everything but the passion between them.
He stepped back a pace to look at her. "Laura, you look fantastic. The years have been good to you. How long has it been? Fifteen, sixteen years?"
The illusion vanished. "About that, I guess." Her heart pounded even as she plastered a social smile on her mouth. "What are you doing here?"
"Business. And you?"
"The same. Well, business and shopping." Uneasily, Laura gestured at the extra chair at her table.
They sat down, studying each other. He looked marvelous, even better than she remembered. Never a classically handsome man, his features too rugged, Mitch's leonine looks still attracted her. The years had polished some of the rougher edges; he looked every inch a successful man. A man to turn women's heads.
Seen up close, his nose, broken once too often, no longer dominated his face. His blond hair, previously worn fashionably long in a tawny mane, was now clipped medium short and styled. Under the discreet lighting, she noticed that the paler color shading his temples weren't sun streaks as she'd thought, but white. It only made him more attractive, more rugged. Her breath caught in her suddenly tight throat.
"How have you been?" he asked.
What a loaded question! Did he expect her to answer it? Looking away from his green eyes gleaming with curiosity, Laura paused until the flare of resentment faded. "Fine, just fine. And you?"
"Ditto."
She glanced away, taking comfort in the refined nuances of happy hour at the St. Francis Hotel. The Compass Rose lounge, tasteful and sophisticated with its fluted Greek columns and scalloped drapes, was one of her favorite people-watching places. Once Mitch would have felt uncomfortable here. Now he looked fully in command. How and when did that change?
The little silence became awkward. "Mitch," she began, just as he said, "Laura."
They laughed nervously. She toyed with her gold bracelet, all the while feeling his gaze like a stroke from head to foot.
"You first," he invited.
She declined with a shake of her head.
"Strange, isn't it?" Mitch straightened his fashionable tie and cleared his throat. "I've thought about you a lot over the years. When you disappeared like that..."
Laura stiffened. "Old history."
"What I mean is, you owe me an explanation—"

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