There were two messages. Her mother wanted to know if she should contact the FBI. Surely Becca was being held against her will? What else could explain the fact that she hadn’t called back yet? Becca rolled her eyes. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours since her mother’s first call. Good thing she wasn’t waiting to hear from Paul. The next message was from Anthony. Did Ms. Shemansky know that they were spraying on Monday? Spraying? Spraying for what? She eye-balled the area with an uneasy shudder, then decided that ignorance was bliss, especially when it came to vermin.

Finally, she hung up the phone and faced facts. Paul hadn’t called. Today was his deadline, though he didn’t know it. If he called tomorrow she would blow him off. As a matter of fact, Becca decided, pouring a glass of Merlot, she was finished with guys like Paul—muscle-bound, guinea-tee types, in plastered-on jeans. She was ready for a "real" man—loyal, sensitive, honest, reliable—a guy whose definition of responsibility didn’t begin and end with his engine’s oil change. And looks were irrelevant.

Becca sipped her wine and watched Fur Ball devour his dinner. She was thirty-six (although she would only admit to thirty-four). The big 4-0 was staring her down. And what would she have when she got there—a career and an old pissed-off cat? She wanted something more than dating men with retention problems. What Becca wanted, she suddenly realized, was someone to come home to. It was really as simple as that.

She fell into bed that night an enlightened woman, with a whole new agenda.

It happened again the next day, only this time Ben was going in and Becca was coming out. The collision was inevitable. Or perhaps it was fate. Squaring her shoulders, Becca prepared for battle.

But Ben’s husky whisper melted her armor. "We have to stop meeting like this."

Becca picked up his glasses, as sheets of copy paper rained down around them. Suddenly his chocolate eyes melted into hers, and she stared at him, tongue-tied. A jolt of electricity raced along her spine, as if she had just been plugged into an electrical socket.

"Maybe," he suggested, "we could try meeting somewhere else ... like Russo’s, tomorrow night for dinner—sans the copy paper, of course."

His mouth formed a sensuous smile that left Becca breathless. Standing there like a mute, her brain raced to process this recent turn of events. When had Ben Cross become ... a hunk? Dressed in his white shirt and pin-stripped suit, he was way more appealing then bare-armed, muscle-bound Paul. But what really hooked her were his eyes, which held her gaze like magnets on metal.

"I think," he tilted his head, "that Napoleon defeated Europe in less time than it’s taking you to respond."

The glasses were back on his face, and as their eyes locked, Becca felt a wave of intense physical attraction wash over her. Ben’s expression assured her that the feeling was extremely mutual. And in that instant, she knew they had crossed an invisible line.

Pulling herself together, she smiled, and gestured at the floor. "I guess this is pretty funny."

Ben shook his head. "Not if you happen to be the custodian."

Becca laughed. "Right. About tomorrow .... were you serious?"

Where can I pick you up?"

"Can I meet you—say sevenish? I have to stop at my mother’s first."

He tossed her that smile again, slow and sensual. "Seven. Tomorrow. At Russo’s. I’ll make the reservation."

Becca spent the rest of the day in a fog, thankful that Judith was away on business.

Someday -3 (Continue)