Wherever they stood, sat, or wandered, they talked. Primarily women, he observed, some of them dressed for business, others drooping from travel. And all, he thought, studying the heaped luggage carts, with enough suitcases for a six-month stay.

As he maneuvered out of the way, two women streaked toward each other over the shining tile and met with squeals and embraces. Several others were eyeing him. Not that he particularly minded being ogled, but being so completely outnumbered, he chose discretion as the better part of valor and contemplated retreat.

Then he saw her, and there might not have been another woman in the room. She carried a clipboard tucked atop a fat file. Her hair was pinned up, smoothed somehow into a neat, professional twist. She wore a simple black suit that even one with a fashion-impaired eye could see was painfully expensive.

For his own pleasure, he let his gaze wander down to her legs. And gave thanks to whatever sadist had convinced women to wear those skinny high heels.

Though she was deep in conversation with the conference chair and frantically sorting out details in her head, Laura felt a flush of heat, a tingle at her back.

She shifted, struggled to ignore it, and at last glanced over her shoulder.

In the midst of all those women—many of whom where rolling their eyes behind his back—he stood with his thumbs tucked in the front pocket of his jeans. Smiling at her.

“Ms. Templeton? Laura?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, Melissa, I’m going to check on that right away.”

The conference chair was as busy, as harried, as Laura. She was also as human, and she felt a quick tug as she looked across the room. “My, my.” Grinning, she blew out a breath. “You sure do grow them fine in Monterey.”

“Apparently. If you’ll excuse me a minute.” Tucking her clipboard under her arm, she hurried toward Michael. “Welcome to bedlam. Did you come by to see Byron?”

“I had no idea corporate executives were so sexy.” He lifted a hand, flicked it over a glittering heart pin on her lapel. “Cute.”

“All the staff are wearing them. It’s a romance writers’ convention.”

“No kidding?” Intrigued, he surveyed the crowd, met several pairs of equally intrigued female eyes. “These women write those books with all that steam?”

“Romance novels are an enormous industry that accounts for more than forty percent of the paperback market and provides enjoyment and entertainment for millions while focusing on love, commitment, and hope.”

She reached around to rub the back of her neck. “Don’t get me started. I used to read because I liked a story. Now I’ve become an advocate. Byron’s in the penthouse. The elevators—”

“I didn’t come to see Byron, though I might swing by. I came to see you.”

“Oh.” She turned her wrist to glance at her watch. “I’m awfully pressed just now. Is it important?”