"I think, for your thirtieth birthday, you should seduce a man."

Kristin Prescott blushed and said a little thank you prayer that the only other occupant of the steam room had vacated moments before Kirby's declaration.

Kristin tried to sound flip. "It's your birthday, too, you do the seducing."

"My darling sister, I have a vibrator, I don't need a man. You, on the other hand--"

"I don't need a vibrator or a man." Okay, so maybe she needed both, the man definitely more than the vibrator.

Sweat dripped off Kirby's nose, steam pumped from the valve, and the overpowering scent of eucalyptus made it hard to breath.

Kirby went on. "You've got to repair your self-esteem."

"My self-esteem?" A nasty tell-tale squeak laced her voice.

"Kristin, you're sadly lacking in the confidence department."

"I've got plenty of confidence." Not.

"Sure, in your job, you do. But get you around a pack of hot looking guys, and you let yourself fade into the wallpaper."

Kristin rubbed perspiration from her forehead. "You've got me there, sister darling. I can't deny it."

"That's why you haven't been on a date since Russell...left."

"You can say he dumped me." Her fiancé had given her the heave-ho six months ago. It wasn't that Kristin wasn't over him, she was, it was just...

"I haven't found anyone interesting."

Except Ross Sloan. Her boss. But all he noticed were her flawless memos and intricate spreadsheets. She didn't think he even knew her first name.

Kirby snorted, but didn't comment on Kristin's little, no, big fib. "Did I ever tell you what an asshole your ex-fiancé was?"

The sisters thought differently about sex, career, marriage, everything, but Kirby was loyal.

"And I love you for saying that."

Still, Russell's parting shot had slipped beneath Kristin's skin like a nasty sliver. The harder she dug, the deeper it went, until now it festered like an infected wound.

Why can't you be hot and sexy like your twin sister?

The answer was right beside her. Kirby, naked, stretched out on her stomach, her towel draped over the tile beneath her; Kristin, primly seated on the step above, her own towel wrapped tightly, covering her from armpits to thighs. They were identical twins, but in looks alone; their manners and personalities were completely opposite.

She didn't dislike sex the way Russ had accused. In fact she'd imagined...yes, she could say the words in her head, she'd thought of going down on Mr. Sloan. In his office. So there.

"Well, forget the little bastard."

She didn't think her boss would turn out to be little in any sense of the word. Oh! Kirby was still talking about Russell.

"He was too short for you anyway. And balding. You were way too good for him." Image was all-important to Kirby. "You've just let that whole business beat you down.

"He didn't beat me down," Kristin protested.

He'd merely pointed out the truth. But in her fantasies, she was like her sister. She did all sorts of toe-tingling sexual things. With her boss. And those thoughts actually made her hot, wet even.

"In my fantasies, I'm multi-orgasmic."

Kirby studied her, as if mildly considering the outrageous thing she'd just said. "Have you even had one orgasm? Ever?"

"Sure. Lots." A few, but none particularly memorable.

Except the ones she'd had fantasizing about Mr. Sloan, no vibrator necessary.

"Bet Russ the Prick never gave you one, did he?"

True, true. "He was just always so...quick with everything."

Kirby didn't answer, instead, rolled onto her back, crossed her legs at the ankles, not an ounce of embarrassment with her nudity.

"Kristin, we've got to break out of the rut we're in."

"We? What is it you want to change?"

"My wardrobe."

"Your wardrobe?" Kristin echoed, suddenly confused.

"Yes. I'm going to throw out that little red dress. You know, the one you salivated over at Neiman Marcus last New Years."

"I didn't salivate." She had.

And she still wondered if she'd have gotten "The Russell Dump" if she'd given in to temptation.

"You said it cost too much--"

It had.

"--but you know you just thought it was too sexy for you. Which is ridiculous."

"If I'd worn it, I'd have been ridiculous. It was too red, too glitzy, too...not me."

She'd wanted that dress badly; only she hadn't bought it, because she'd been comparing herself unfavorably to Kirby. Again.

"Well, you can have it if you want it. Otherwise, I'm sending it to the consignment store."

Now that was a lie. Kirby was using reverse psychology here.

"But if you take it, you have to wear it to our birthday party Friday night."

Ah, the punchline. It was really Kirby's birthday party, she was throwing it herself. But she'd added Kristin's name to the invitation. Kristin had chosen the half-day celebration she and Kirby were having right now. Brunch. A good facial. A steam bath. And no need for a stunning red dress.

"I couldn't wear it." Could she?

She took in a deep breath of eucalyptus. If push came to shove, maybe. She needed a push. And a shove.

"There's going to be tons of gorgeous men there. You can practice your seduction techniques."

"I don't have any techniques."

But she could use the stuff of her fantasies. If she found a man who reminded her of Ross.

Kirby grimaced. "You'll learn PDQ. If you've got any balls when it comes to men, that is."

Kristin would have laughed if Kirby's words hadn't been so on target. "I have tons of...cajones."

Liar, liar pants on fire. She was turning thirty, and she didn't even have the courage to put on a sexy dress. Pitiful.

"Chicken," Kirby couldn't seem to resist adding.

How long could she go on being afraid of a little red dress? A year? Ten years? Fifty years living with nothing but fantasies, her body aging, gravity taking over, biological clock in overdrive? Oh. No. The thought was more debilitating than the idea of seducing a room full of Kirby's gorgeous men. She wouldn't be just an old maid, she'd be a shriveled husk. God forbid.

"All right, I'll wear the dress." She'd find the cajones somewhere. "And I want to borrow the shoes that go with it, too."

Maybe someday she'd even have the courage to wear it to work to see if Ross Sloan finally noticed her. Maybe, just maybe, his eyes would pop out and he'd ask what her first name was.

* * *

"Here's the R&A analysis you asked for, Mr. Sloan."

"Thank you, Miss Prescott."

Besides being the best damn secretary Ross Sloan had ever had, Kristin Prescott had the most amazing set of calves; he'd been staring at them for the entire six months she'd worked for him. Of course, she'd never caught him at it. In today's politically correct environment--and because he respected a woman's right not to be ogled if she didn't want to be--he'd kept his behavior exemplary. When she was looking.

She wasn't looking now. Sitting back in his big leather chair, he watched her glide. Tall, elegant even in low-heeled, sensible pumps. A rump that wiggled instead of jiggled. He'd have loved a glimpse of the rest of her legs, but her skirts never rose above her knees. He'd fantasized about them instead.

"Ah, Miss Prescott, one more thing."

He'd let her get all the way to the door before calling her back, feeling a bit like a teenage boy rather than a thirty-six-year-old CFO. But there was something...exhilarating about his watching, about her, something that excited him in a way he hadn't been for a long while.

"Yes, Mr. Sloan?"

He glanced down at the spreadsheet she'd left on his desk. "Any thoughts on Cooper's work here?"

She returned to the side of his desk, leaning over and bracing herself with one hand. He angled the report towards her.

"Well..."

She tucked a stray lock back into her otherwise tidy bun. Masses of rich russet hair. He'd never actually seen it down, but he'd sure as hell imagined it falling all over his lap.

"Go ahead," he encouraged, breathing in the fresh peach scent of her hand lotion.

She had beautiful hands, long slender fingers, and today, a fresh manicure.

She pointed a coral-tipped nail to one particular number. "Cooper thinks we're over-reserved on this one, but he seems to have forgotten introducing the QX at the beginning of the quarter. I don't think we've seen the fallout of new product returns yet."

Damn, she was good. She'd have made one fine accountant. Her quick head with numbers allowed him to give her assignments far beyond the capabilities of most secretaries.

Which was why she was far too important for him to lose over a brief fling. He'd certainly thought about it, but however enticing the idea of her long fingers clasped around his cock in the middle of the night might be--

His watch beeped loudly. Miss Prescott gave a little start, almost as if she'd walked in on his thoughts.

Damn. His appointment. Or rather, his date with Samantha Johnson.

"Have to run, Miss Prescott. Can you email me the soft copy of the analysis?

"I already did, and I forwarded Cooper's email, too."

Everything, she took care of absolutely everything for him. Almost.

Too bad she couldn't take care of his little problem with Samantha.

* * *

Ross Sloan walked out the door, waving a negligent hand. He didn't turn, didn't say good night, didn't look at her. Just that meaningless wave.

She'd bet a year's paycheck he'd have done more than wave at her if she'd been wearing that slinky red dress.

The sexy little thing Kirby had given her, complete with sequined purse and heavenly spike-heeled shoes, sat in a box on the floor by her chair. She hadn't lost her bravado in the time it took to get from the steam room to Kirby's to work right after lunch. She might not feel totally natural in short, red, and sequined, but she would by Friday's birthday party. If she didn't lose her nerve in the next two days.

Oops, negative thought. She squashed it immediately and straightened the folders on Mr. Sloan's desk. That done, she had no other business being in his office. Except for those fantasies of hers.

How many times had she imagined Mr. Sloan making love to her on that big mahogany desk? Or in that cushy leather chair? Against the door?

Goodness, maybe she did need to buy a vibrator.

Or a pair of red thong panties to go with that red outfit. There was a Victoria's Secret in the mall just down the street.

The phone suddenly chirped, making her jump. She snapped up the receiver. "Mr. Sloan's office. Miss Prescott speaking."

"Is he there?" A woman's voice, with a definite edge.

"Mr. Sloan's left for the day."

"Damn. I need to get hold of him ASAP."

"You could try his cell phone."

"Fine. What's the number?"

"I'm sorry, I can't give that out." One of Mr. Sloan's dictates. Upon pain of death, don't give out the cell number.

"I already have it, just not with me at the moment. This is Samantha Johnson. You must know who I am."

Of course she did, but perversely Kristin answered, "No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"This is ridiculous. Are you his secretary?"

She imagined Miss Johnson with too much dark hair above her upper lip. The image fit perfectly with the woman's demanding tone. Kristin pursed her lips. "I'm his administrative aide."

"Whatever." Kristin could almost see the heedless flip of the woman's hand.

"We had a date tonight," Ms. Johnson went on, "but I'm stuck in a meeting that's going to last at least another two hours."

"I'm sorry. But I still can't give you his number."

A puff of irritated breath. "He's going to hear about this. In the meantime, you can find him to tell him I can't make it."

Kristin narrowed her eyes, but kept her voice polite, like any good little secretary. "I can certainly try to do that for you, Miss Johnson. When and where were you supposed to meet him?"

"The bar at the Ambassador Hotel at 6:00."

"I'll call him on his cell." Kristin liked the parting shot.

"Fine." Click. Extra hard click.

So now she was his social secretary, too. She had half a mind to let him wait in the bar of the Ambassador Hotel.

Okay, so that was a bit bitchy.

The truth, Mr. Sloan used her that way only in emergencies. He was actually a good boss, treating her with respect, saying please and thank you, complimenting her work. A patient mentor. And he didn't sexually harass her. Much as she wished he would.

She punched the speaker phone and started dialing his cell.

Then she saw his cell phone on his desk. He'd forgotten it. Which wasn't like him at all. Must have been the fact that he thought he'd be late. For Samantha. Yuck. How could he drink champagne with a woman who had a mustache, even if the lip hair was only in Kristin's imagination?

She glanced down at her watch. 5:55. The Ambassador was only across the street. She could drop by before catching her bus, save him the embarrassment of being stood up.

She snapped off his desk light, left the office in darkness. Yanking her purse from her bottom drawer, she was almost out the door before she remembered Kirby's "present." Darn, she couldn't traipse through the Ambassador hauling the huge box. To keep it safe, how about her locker down in the gym on the fifth floor?

Or, she could wear it to the hotel and give her boss the shock of his life. The brilliant idea stopped her dead. Practice for Friday night. No, Friday was practice, this was the real thing. Ross might think she had a hot date. He might even think she was a hot babe like Kirby, whom he'd met a couple of times when she'd stopped by the office.

Maybe he'd think she was Kirby.

She held her breath until she felt dizzy. What a concept. Kristin suddenly knew exactly what she wanted for her birthday.

Mr. Ross Sloan. Even if it meant pretending to be Kirby.

* * *

Ross saw her the minute she entered the hotel bar. Miss Prescott. His Miss Prescott. In an exceptionally short red dress with an unbelievably gorgeous pair of thighs to match those calves, better even than he'd imagined. Jesus. Reality certainly surpassed fantasy. Damn. That red dress...

It didn't matter. In the morning, she'd still be his secretary. And he needed her.

She turned, her gaze traveled over the cluster of tables flanking the small dance floor. The bar was by no means full, and if she'd been looking, she couldn't have missed him sitting at the far end of the bar.

But she never looked.

Just as well, it allowed him to observe every curve revealed by the brevity of her skirt. Her russet hair cascaded over shoulders covered only by the thin red straps of her dress. Oh, yeah, it was exactly the stuff of his fantasies, a full rich shade, curling softly over the tops of her breasts. Speaking of breasts, if he'd seen her like this in his office, he'd never have been able to keep his hands off her.

His heart stopped as she touched the red and black beaded choker at her throat. Just a brief caress. His eyes tracked the brush of her fingers down the slender line of her throat, leading his gaze to the soft swell of a plump breast. Magnificent. His smart, efficient secretary was sexy as all get out.

His temperature rose by degrees as she moved to the bar and slid onto a free stool, crossing her legs. Endless legs. The red dress rode up her thigh. She signaled the bartender, and the man jumped to attention as if she'd handed him twenty bucks. Ross understood the feeling, he'd jumped to attention himself.

She ordered, and when her wine came, lifted the glass to her delicious red lips. She raised a finger and slid it across her bottom lip, trapping a droplet. He barely suppressed a groan, closing his eyes briefly, just to find his sanity.

This couldn't be his Miss Prescott. He opened his eyes.

Oh, but it was. Beneath the chatter of voices, the laughter, and the thrum of elevator music, the soft chink of her nails against the glass floated down the length of the bar. His groin tightened. God, there was something about that sound. It sent him into orbit.

He forgot his boredom of late. His Miss Prescott was a breath of fresh air from the stuffy executive offices he'd been inhabiting, both professionally and personally. He forgot Samantha was over half an hour late. In fact, he thanked her for it. He even thanked God.

He was so damn tired of women like Samantha, overconfident career women whose need to dominate the boardroom carried straight into the bedroom. Sure, he loved the woman-on-top position; but some women, like Samantha, just couldn't seem to do it any other way.

And variety, in position and anything else, was the spice of a sex life, wasn't it?

The tap tap of Miss Prescott's long, lightly painted nails beat deep inside. A soft shade of coral, he'd noticed her fresh manicure this afternoon. Suddenly parched, he took a swig of his scotch and soda. She had long slender fingers. He imagined them on him, scratching his back, kneading his shoulders. All over him. Ah, God. He stood, then picked up his drink.

Limits, political correctness, and the employee handbook be damned. He wanted her. Always had. And he sure as hell wasn't going to let the date she was obviously dressed to kill for get to her first.

"Miss Prescott, I almost didn't recognize you," he lied smoothly as he took the seat next to hers. Not a chance he'd have missed her.

His knee brushed hers, then came to rest against her thigh. She didn't move away, simply stared at him with those big green eyes.

"Mr...uh...Sloan?" Her fingers continued tapping, his blood pulsed in time.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten my name in the space of..." He flipped his wrist to look at his watch. "An hour?"

Something flickered in her eyes, an unreadable flash. She bit her bottom lip. A deep breath lifted her breasts.

"I do believe you've mistaken me for my sister, Mr. Sloan."

Shit. It couldn't be. No. "Your sister?"

She smiled, just a slight curve of her mouth. "You must think I'm Kristin."

"But you're..."

Damn, he couldn't even remember the sister's name, the twin. Christ.

"Kirby."

"Ah yes, sorry, I'd forgotten." He lifted his drink, took a swallow, moved his knee away from her thigh.

"Well, that's not very gallant."

What? Moving his leg or forgetting her name?

He didn't feel gallant, in either case. He felt gutted.

"My apologies," he managed.

Her eyes shone. "I'd almost think you were disappointed, Mr. Sloan."

Flirty, teasing, she didn't sound like his Miss Prescott at all.

She finished the last sip of her wine, set the glass down, and her fingers immediately began tapping the stem. Nerves?

He stared at her nails. He was positive that was the same shade of coral Kristin wore today. Wasn't he? Yes, dammit, positive. The sister was the fire engine red type, if he remembered correctly. Like the dress.

She crossed her legs the other way, moving her thigh even farther from his, then looked around the bar. "I'm afraid I must have missed my friends. I was running a tad late."

He swallowed the dark liquid in his glass. Nice pickup line. She licked her lips and didn't quite meet his gaze. Nice exit line, too, if he decided to take it that way. Not a chance.

"Then I suppose it's also my good fortune that my date stood me up."

Her eyes widened, first surprise, then a flash of something else. Guilt?

Finally, she said in a mocking tone, "A man admitting he's been stood up. That's a first."

"May I buy you a fresh one?" He indicated her empty wine glass and added a distinct, "Kirby?"

She hesitated, then said, "Thank you."

He crooked a finger at the bartender, ordered the same for her, another for himself. "Would you join me at a table?"

A table, where there'd be time enough to figure out what game she was playing. And a game it was, he was sure, because he'd bet his last dollar the woman with her tasty thigh two scant inches from his was his Kristin. Not her sister Kirby.

And he wasn't about to let her get away.

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