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  Laila's cheeks burned. "Of course it is. Hal did what I hired him to do, and now he's on his way back to Pennsylvania. I'll send the check to the agency next week and that's the end of it."

  "That's not the end," Bubbe said firmly with a wag of her finger. "You're too crazy about that man, Laila Alster."

  "Hal's a nice guy," Laila said stiffly, not wanting the conversation to go any further. "But there's nothing between us--"

  "And he's bonkers about you, doll," Bubbe cut in. "It was all over his face. I never saw a man more enthralled with a gal than him over you."

  "You're wrong," Laila said, feeling the tears threaten her again.

  "No?" Bubbe asked. "How can you be so sure?"

  Because of the way I treated him, Laila thought. Because she'd used him and hurt him, and even if there had been some feelings between them, they'd certainly been destroyed now. Hal had done his job, and that was all.

  "I'm sure," Laila whispered.

  "You wait and see," Bubbe said with a pat to Laila's hand. "You give him a second chance."

  Laila wished she could believe her grandmother. Then she remembered the look on Hal's face just before he'd walked away. There would be no second chances. And why should there be? After the way she'd treated him, she didn't deserve any.

  Hal didn't feel like fighting the sweet, old lady with the knitting bag for the window seat. Despite her kindly smile, she looked as though she could be nasty with her needles. Hal slid into the aisle seat with a resigned sigh, though the window seat had been his first choice.

  "Rule number one," the old lady advised him as he sat. "Never go to the bathroom on a bus."

  Hal looked at her. "What's rule number two?"

  She shook her needles at him. "Don't eat at the taco stand when we make the rest stop. Otherwise you'll have to break rule number one. Frequently."

  She chuckled loudly at her own joke, slapping her leg with the hand not holding the lethal looking needles. "Oh, I crack myself up."

  Hal didn't feel like smiling. He just nodded and stretched his legs as much as he could, easing the seat back from its uncomfortable position to one only marginally more restful. He thought he might sleep. Night had fallen and the bus was dark.

  Until, that was, the old lady who'd stolen his seat turned on her light. "Musta dropped a stitch," she muttered, fingering the pile of pink yarn in her lap. "Dang. Why's that always happen?"

  She shoved the straggly mess toward Hal. "Here. Can you see if there's a hole in there anywhere?"

  Hal squinted half-heartedly at the mess and shook his head. "No. Sorry."

  "Huh." His seatmate grunted. "Dang."

  She turned off the light. Hal closed his eyes and tried to sleep. His mind whirled with thoughts of Laila.

  The lady turned on the light again. "Sonny, c'mon. Help an old lady out. If I don't get this stitched up right my Poochie's gonna be wearing a sweater with only three legs."

  Gritting his teeth, Hal snatched the sorry looking pile of pink yarn and squeezed it. "There. Is that what you're looking for?"

  "That's it, all right." The old lady nodded vigorously and began unraveling her creation. "Perfect."

  Hal leaned back again. The clack-clacking of the needles next to him was soothing. Despite the annoying overhead light, he began to drift.

  "What's her name anyway?" his seatmate asked abruptly.

  Hal's eyes flew open and he sat up. The old lady kept clacking contentedly. "What?"

  "The name of the lady who done made your face turn so sour." She peeked over at him with a wry grin on her wrinkled face. "There is one, ain't there? A lady?"

  "I'm trying to sleep," Hal said unkindly.

  "Sure, sure," said the old lady without offense. "Just thought you might like to talk about it, that's all."

  Hal settled further into his uncomfortable seat. Another four hours on this bus seemed unbearable. Maybe he'd get lucky and they'd hit some sort of freaky time warp or something.

  Time Warp. Laila. He thought of her singing that ridiculous song, and he groaned.

  "C'mon, sonny," prompted the old lady. "Tell me all about her. She's pretty, I'll bet."

  "Yes," Hal said reluctantly. "Very pretty."

  "But you walked away from her." The clacking paused, and she reached down to the bag between her feet and pulled out a skein of orange yarn. Her needles flashed as she started knitting again.

  "It was what she wanted," Hal said.

  "But not what you wanted?" She looked at him shrewdly. "You couldn't change her mind?"

  "It's not that simple," Hal said. He thought of trying to explain the situation and found he couldn't.

  "Ain't much in this world that is, sonny." The lady chuckled again, knitting furiously. "Ain't much that is."

  Hal finally fell to sleep with the sound of her needles clacking in his mind. He didn't dream, or if he did, they were bland and forgettable. When he woke, it was in the Harrisburg station.

  "Don't look so down, sonny," his seatmate advised him as he helped her off the bus. "Thing's always work out for the best."

  The best would be if Laila had told him what he wanted to hear. Since I don't have that, Hal thought, I'll just have to hope something else comes along.

  The morning sun was just beginning to break when he finally got home. The cab driver offered to help him wrangle the overstuffed suitcase up the stairs to his apartment building, but Hal didn't have enough money to tip the guy any more. He said he'd do it himself.

  "Take care, buddy," the driver said with a tip of his hat. "Get some sleep. You look like you need it."

  As much he might seek to avoid thinking of Laila in the solace of sleep, he wasn't tired. He set about unpacking his case by tossing the entire contents onto his bed. Of everything he'd packed, he'd used only a few things.

  "So much for being prepared," he said to the empty room.

  His voice practically echoed, and for the first time, Hal took the time to really look around. He'd lived in this apartment for a year now. The walls were still bare and dingy white, without so much as a cheap, framed print to brighten them. The furniture, what little he had, was a jumbled mix of Salvation Army bargains and expensive items he'd managed to salvage from his divorce. His bed was nothing more than a bare mattress and box spring laid on the floor, his linens mismatched and ugly.

  Hal sat on his pitiful excuse for a bed and rested his head in his hands. He didn't miss the fancy house, the car, the luxury vacations. Truthfully, he didn't even miss Cassie. But living like this was just damn depressing.

  His gaze fell on the dented metal filing cabinet he was using as a nightstand. He had paperwork to fill out for LoveMatch. He pulled out the forms and began checking off the necessary boxes. When he got to the section titled "extraordinary circumstances," he stopped. Falling in love could be considered extraordinary. His pen hovered above the stark lines, so black against the unforgiving whiteness of the paper. Then he wrote "none."

  Chapter 10

  "I'm sorry, dear." Muriel Whitehead's nasal voice sounded sympathetic. "But Hal left LoveMatch three weeks ago."

  Three weeks ago. That meant he'd quit immediately after returning from Bramblewood. Laila felt incredibly stupid for even having called. "Oh, I didn't know. Can you give me his home phone number?"

  A long silence met her request, and Laila knew the answer was going to be no. Ms. Whitehead sighed heavily into the phone. "It's against LoveMatch policy. It's to protect our escorts."

  "I understand," Laila said. "So giving me his address is out, too."

  "I'm sorry, honey. We sign confidentiality agreements for all our escorts." Ms. Whitehead really did sound sorry, but that wasn't going to help Laila find Hal. She could practically hear the woman squirming though the phone.

  "Okay. Thanks anyway." For nothing, Laila thought.

  "No problem, honey. And if you ever need another escort--"

  "Thanks, but I don't think I will." Laila disconnected the call and sat back in her chair.

/>   Rain pattered against her windowpane and she'd turned on the gas fireplace. Soft music played from the stereo. She'd poured a glass of wine. The mood was romantic, except for one thing. She was alone.

  Laila went to the kitchen and dumped her wine down the drain. She flicked the stereo off with one finger, leaving only the sound of the rain to serenade her as she curled up in front of the fire again. The curling, writhing flames mesmerized her.

  For three weeks she'd fought against thinking of Hal. She'd paid the bill when it came from the agency, wincing at the amount. The trip had cost her more than just the amount she wrote on the check. She didn't want to think about how much.

  Her family, for once, was keeping their distance. Even Bubbe didn't ask about Laila's love life during her weekly phone calls. For Laila, the unaccustomed restraint only made the problem worse. Instead of helping her forget Hal , the obvious way they ignored the subject meant she couldn't stop thinking about him.

  When she found herself in the convenience store clutching a package of hand warmers and biting her lip to keep from crying and laughing at the same time, Laila knew she could no longer ignore her feelings. She wanted--needed--to talk to Hal. She had no real hope that things between them might be resolved, but she had to try.

  It was easy to make the decision, but hard to work up the courage to follow through. After reaching the LoveMatch voice mail this evening, she'd almost backed out. But the message clearly stated to contact Muriel Whitehead in case of emergency, and so Laila called the woman at home.

  Not that she'd been any help, Laila thought sourly. Confidentiality agreements! For the escort's protection? She grudgingly admitted the possibility of a client taking a date too far, pursuing her escort off duty and becoming a menace. Still, the policy had really thrown a monkey wrench in her plans.

  "She could've at least told me she’d pass along a message to him," Laila said aloud, grumbling. Her legs were stiffening, and she stretched them out, wishing for a massage. That thought reminded her all too clearly of Hal's massage, and the lovemaking which had followed.

  "Damn!" she cursed, pounding her thigh. She had to find him. If for no other reason than to tell him the truth. Yes, she had hired him to serve her purpose, but everything else had come from her heart.

  Suddenly an idea sprang fully formed into her mind. It was so ludicrous, so insane, that it just might work. Grinning wildly, Laila picked up the phone.

  "Ms. Whitehead?" she said, barely suppressing a crazy chuckle. "I've changed my mind. I need an escort after all."

  "Yo, Kessler!" It was Rick.

  "Rick," Hal said without enthusiasm. "How's it going?"

  "They're hanging low, buddy." Rick guffawed, reaching over the bar to slap Hal on the arm. "We miss you around the stud barn."

  "Sure. Miss you guys too," Hal said, unconvinced. "What'll you have?"

  Rick named an import beer and tossed a handful of pretzels in his mouth. "How long you been working here?"

  Hal topped off the glass and pushed it across to Rick. "About two-and-a-half weeks."

  "Sweet." Rick surveyed the bar and tossed back half his beer. "Classy place."

  Hal managed not to roll his eyes. The place was hardly upscale.

  "You on a date?" Hal asked, praying Rick's answer would be yes. That meant he wouldn't have to suffer the other man's presence very long.

  "Oh, yeah, man." Rick waggled his eyebrows. "We're going here for drinks, then to some charity function."

  "Sounds nice," Hal said noncommittally. He looked down the bar, hoping for another customer so he could leave Rick. The place was dead, though.

  "So what's up with you anyway?" Rick asked, suddenly serious. "Why'd you leave the biz?"

  Surprised by Rick's interest, Hal thought about his reply. "I got tired of it."

  The brief moment of intellect faded with Rick's reply. "Man, are you an idiot. Give up all the dough and the parties? And the action? They'll have to drag me away from this job."

  Hal shrugged, wiping the bar with a damp cloth. "Not me."

  "Ah, man." Rick downed the last of his beer, then wiped the foam from his lip with the back of his hand. "You let one of 'em get to you, huh?"

  "What?" Hal stopped wiping, stunned at Rick's unexpected insight.

  Rick shook his head, frowning. "Dude, you can't do that. You--you--" He gestured in the air as though wanting to form a thought, but not quite able to. "They're just women, Hal. You can't let them get inside you, man. Sure, they tell you you're the best lover they've ever had. They buy you expensive stuff. They take you to great places and tell you how great you are. But it's not real, man."

  Rick sighed heavily, voice filled with a depth of emotion of which Hal would have thought him incapable. "Man, these babes will mess you up." He looked around circumspectly. "You know the worst ones? The ugly ones, dude. They're so glad to be seen with you, they tell you all this nice stuff, get you thinking you're something special, but when it comes down to it, man--they only want you for one thing. Your body."

  Hal might have laughed if Rick wasn't being so obviously truthful. "Sorry to hear that...dude."

  "Dude." Rick nodded. Hal poured him another beer and Rick drank that. The men sat in silence for a moment, contemplating women and their fickle natures.

  "That what happened to you?"

  There'd been no expensive gifts. Laila hadn't told him how great he was, or that he was the best lover. He'd let her inside him, though, hadn't he? Let her crawl right in there and, as Rick so aptly put it, mess him up?

  "Yeah," Hal said. "Hell, yes. That's what happened to me."

  "And that's where I learned to mambo." Laila's escort smiled suavely and ran his fingers through his dark, slick hair. "Care to try?"

  "Uh, no." Laila smiled. "No, thanks, Derek."

  Derek shrugged lightly. "It's your night."

  Laila stifled a groan. It sure was. From the cocktails to the appetizers and then to dinner, not to mention the LoveMatch fee. It was all hers. Right out of her checkbook and into the LoveMatch coffers.

  Derek was her third LoveMatch date in two weeks. He was a handsome man. Well, they all were. He was well-groomed and attentive. Even, Laila admitted, well-spoken. His manners were near perfection, and he listened to her as though he actually cared about what she had to say. If she wasn't paying an arm and a leg to have him sit across from her, Laila might have been flattered.

  "Derek, do you like what you do?" she asked as the waiter brought their desserts.

  He seemed taken aback by her question. "I certainly do."

  "Why?"

  He gave her the same answer Hal had, only his came with a smarmy grin that completely turned Laila off. "I like to spend my time in the company of attractive ladies like yourself."

  "Have you been working for LoveMatch a long time?"

  Now he seemed disconcerted. "Laila, is this really what you want to talk about?"

  "Yes," she said firmly, heading for some specific information, but knowing she couldn't just come right out and ask. "Do you have a problem with it?"

  Derek forked a bite of chocolate cream pie into his mouth and chewed slowly, then swallowed. "No. But usually my ladies like to talk about themselves."

  "I'm really interested," Laila said.

  "I've been an escort for three years," Derek said finally.

  So he'd have known Hal. "Is there a lot of turnover in the company?"

  If he found her questions strange, he was well-trained enough not to show it. "Sure. We get a lot of guys through who just need money for a while. Or they think it's going to be some great sex gig--" Derek paused and looked embarrassed. "Sorry. We're not supposed to talk about that."

  "I won't tell," Laila promised. "Do you guys ever hang out when you're not working?"

  Now Derek looked a little scared. "Why do you ask?"

  "Just curious." Laila bit her own chocolate pie, which was like sawdust in her mouth. It would be so much easier if she could just come right out and ask him if he kn
ew Hal, but she'd learned the hard way from date number one that the LoveMatch confidentiality agreement was incredibly revered. None of the escorts wanted to be tracked down by desperate, lovesick clients.

  "We hang out at the gym sometimes." Derek pushed his pie away, as though he no longer could stomach it. "Yeah, sometimes we get together for drinks. Watch the game. Stuff like that."

  Now she was getting somewhere. "Anybody you particularly like to hang out with?"

  Derek's gaze grew wary. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Who sent you?"

  "What?" Laila had no idea what he could mean.

  Derek's fingers clutched at his napkin. "Did Brandon send you?"

  "Who?" All of a sudden Laila felt like she'd stepped into a big pile of something warm. And not chocolate pie.

  "He did, didn't he?" Derek sat back, jaw clenched. "I told him it's just a job!"

  "Whoa, wait a minute." Laila was getting the picture, and it was one she didn't particularly want in her mental photo album. "You and Brandon are--"

  "He's my boyfriend," Derek said, as though she should know. "You mean he didn't send you to spy on me?"

  Laila shook her head. Now Derek looked chastened and a little scared. His fingers folded the cloth napkin nervously.

  "It's okay," Laila said. She had an idea that Derek's regular clientele might not be too thrilled to learn what she just had. "Brandon didn't send me. I'm just trying to get some information about one of your former co-workers."

  Derek looked so relieved, Laila thought he might kiss her. "Why didn't you just ask?"

  "Confidentiality," Laila whispered.

  Derek leaned across the table and Laila caught the scent of his cologne. Something spicy and insolent. Sexy. He flashed her a look with his dark eyes and smiled a slow, sensuous grin that she knew was contrived. She felt it ripple through her anyway.

  "I'll keep yours if you keep mine," he said.

  "His name is Hal," Laila said. "And I want to find him."

  "I'll have another one of these." The attractive blonde sitting at the bar tilted her head toward her drink. She plucked the sodden paper umbrella out of it and twirled it between her fingers. "Please."