The only person Kate hadn’t connected with was Johnny.

She was a nervous wreck around him. All he had to do was look her way and smile, and she’d drop whatever was in her hand. She consistently stuttered when giving him his messages and tripped over the ripped carpet edge in his office.

It was pathetic.

At first, Kate figured it was his looks. He was Irish-Catholic-boy perfect, with his black hair and blue eyes, and when he smiled his whole face crinkled in a way that made her breath catch in her throat.

She’d assumed her infatuation wouldn’t last, that in time, as she got to know him, his looks would be less arresting for her. At the very least, she thought she’d develop an immunity to his smile.

No such luck. Everything he said and did tightened the noose around her heart. Beneath his cynical veneer, she’d glimpsed an idealist, and even more: a wounded one. Something had broken Johnny, left him here, on the fringes of the big story, and the mystery of it tantalized her.

She went over to the corner, where a stack of tapes lay in a heap, waiting to be put away. She’d just picked up an armful when Johnny appeared in the doorway of his office. “Hey,” he said. “Are you busy?”

She dropped the stack of tapes. Idiot. “No,” she said. “Not really.”

“Let’s grab a real lunch. It’s a slow news day and I’m sick of deli sandwiches.”

“Uh . . . sure.” She concentrated on the tasks in front of her: switching on the answering machine, putting on her sweater, picking up her purse.

He came up beside her. “Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

She walked alongside him down the block and across the street. Now and then his body brushed against hers, and she was acutely aware of every contact.

When they finally got to the restaurant, he led her over to a table in the corner that overlooked Elliott Bay and the shops at Pier 70. A waitress showed up almost instantly to take their orders.

“Are you old enough to drink, Mularkey?” he asked with a smile.

“Very funny. But I don’t drink on the job.” At the words, which couldn’t have sounded more prim, she winced and thought, Idiot, again.

“You’re a very responsible girl,” he said when the waitress left; he was obviously trying not to smile.

“Woman,” she said firmly, hoping she didn’t blush.

He smiled at that. “I was trying to compliment you.”

“And you chose responsible?”

“What would you prefer?”

“Sexy. Brilliant. Beautiful.” She laughed nervously, sounding more like a girl than she would have wished. “You know: the words every woman wants to hear.” She smiled. This was her chance to make an impression on him, get his attention as he’d gotten hers. She didn’t want to blow it.