Project Director Zane Caldwell has a major problem -- a charming, go-getter hotshot from Chicago named Ford Trionni, recently hired at Widdley Finch Inc., a Connecticut-based marketing research company. The man, whom the secretarial pool nicknamed "The Italian Stallion" based on his stunning good looks and sexual aura, has also gained the reputation of a superstar in the industry due to his innovative analytical techniques. The trouble is, the man wears his accolades like a badge on his lapel, strutting around the office like a peacock.<br><br>Ford's self-centered, lofty attitude drives Zane to utter distraction. Even worse, the man seems to know it, intentionally using his sizzling sex appeal to tie Zane's patience and libido into knots while giving off mixed messages of mutual attraction. But from what Zane can tell, Ford's already involved in an intense relationship with someone else, and the last thing Zane wants is to fall for a guy who not only treats him like a peon instead of an equal, but intends to make him a side dish to his current love affair.<br><br>Yet as he works with Ford on an important account, Zane begins to realize there's more to Ford than the man lets on, and all may not be what it seems. As the heat between them builds into an inferno despite their contrary work relationship, Zane vows to get to the bottom of Ford's confusing behavior once and for all. Is the man playing games with Zane's job and his heart, or is there a chance they might actually discover they're the perfect partners?

And the Survey Says

“When did you start that again?” Dandy asked as we strolled toward the building.


“In about ten seconds,” I replied, stuffing a cigarette between my lips.


When I struck a match, the humid summer breeze nearly snuffed out the flame, as if also disapproving of what I intended to do. But I managed to shelter the match and defiantly lit the tip of the cigarette anyway. When I took a deep drag of the mentholated smoke, I barely noted the stale taste. I’d found the half-empty pack of cigarettes hidden away in one of my desk drawers. It had been there since the day I’d kicked the habit, nearly six months earlier. For some unknown reason, I’d crammed the cigarettes into my pocket before heading out to lunch. Old habits didn’t die hard, they refused to die altogether.


“First the booze, now the smokes,” said Dandy as we resumed walking toward the building. “What comes next? Playing hooky from work? Now I know something’s wrong with you.”


“As I said, it’s just been one of those days.”


Chapter 7