Balancing Act by Fern Michaels

you.” Easily, she entered into conversation with him. With Twigg it was always so easy. Occasionally, he directed his questions to Ian who found himself joining in the light repartee.
    Soon, Rita suggested that perhaps Ian might find another market for Twigg’s articles, and it was the agent who expressed interest in seeing something on paper.
    “It won’t mean much without the pictures to accompany it,” Twigg told him. “The assignment I’m doing for National Geographic naturally required photos, and they’re damn good if I say so myself.”
    Ian seemed immediately interested. This was a man with high qualifications. An assignment from National Geographic was something to boast about, and he’d heard recently that one of the major publishers was looking for subjects to print into what Ian liked to call “coffee table books.”
    Relieved that the two men seemed to be getting on so well despite the uncertain beginning, Rita quietly excused herself and went into the kitchen to start the dinner dishes. A little while later Twigg came in for another beer, followed by Ian carrying his empty wineglass. The conversation had now progressed to having Twigg send Ian a portfolio of his photos and text.
    As though it were the most natural thing in the world, Twigg took up a dish towel and began drying as Rita washed, still continuing his conversation with Ian. If the older man was a little surprised by this action, he said nothing. When it came to business, Ian was a dynamo, and the last in the world to alienate a prospective and profitable client.
    It was past midnight when Ian stood and announced he was going to bed. Rita offered to call him at five thirty so he could beat the rush-hour traffic on Interstate 80.
    “Good night, Ian,” Rita said softly, refusing to meet those accusing hazel eyes that asked when, if ever, she was going to abide by propriety and send this young rascal, Peterson, home.
    “Good night, dear.” He kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek and warmly shook hands with Twigg. “I’ll be watching for your stuff, Peterson. Don’t wait too long to get it together. I have a saying ‘strike when the iron’s hot.’ ”
    “I’ll do that,” Twigg assured him, sitting down on the floor beside Rita’s chair.
    “You certainly handled him efficiently,” Rita complimented after Ian had left them alone.
    Twigg raised a brow. “Efficiently, is it? That’s succinct and descriptive. I’ll have to use that myself.”
    Rita laughed. Twigg knew exactly what she was talking about only he didn’t think it worth discussing. Ian had been prepared to dislike Twigg and instead had offered to help him find a market for his work. Amazing. She liked the way Twigg had handled himself. Self-confident without seeming to be too brash and cocky, at least to the slightly stuffy Ian. She knew Twigg would fit into almost any group of people, being well liked as well as admired. Just look at the way he had charmed her!
    Silently, Twigg drank his beer, covertly watching Rita. He wanted to drag her off to his bed, to hold her, touch her, hear her whisper his name as she tumbled over the edge of pleasure. She had lovely legs, he had noticed. Slim, gracefully turned, and teasingly revealed by the slit-hemmed skirt she wore. He had been conscious of the deep, open neck of her blouse all evening and of the shadow of cleavage it revealed. He wanted to bury his face between her breasts, breathe in the scent of her. Tenderly, her hand touched his head, running her fingers through his hair.
    “Penny for your thoughts,” she said softly.
    Turning, he looked up into her face. “I was just thinking I’d like to throw you over my shoulder and carry you down to my cottage and make mad, passionate love to you.”
    For an instant, Rita’s eyes glanced in the direction of Ian’s room. Then, turning back to Twigg, her eyes smiled down at him. “What are you waiting for?”
    His smile was dazzling, his gaze smoldering, and she was lost