Stylish, arty, and female, he decided. Not delicate-little-trinket female but bold-unique-fascinating female.

The walls were a deep, rich rose, a strong background for the paintings. She favored antiques, or reproductions that looked enough like the real thing to pass. Soft fabrics and sleek sculpture.

And everything tidy as a shiny new pin.

It smelled female, classily so, from the lilies and the dried flower petals that women were forever putting in bowls. And, he supposed, from the woman herself.

She had music on low. What was that . . . Annie Lennox, crooning slyly about sweet dreams.

It seemed to Flynn that the entire place spoke of very specific, very high-toned taste.

He wandered over to a painting of a woman rising up out of a dark blue pool. There was a sense of speed about it, of sexuality, and of power.

“She’s beautiful. Does she live in the sea or on the land?”

Malory arched her brow. At least he’d asked an intelligent question.

“I think she has yet to choose.” She pondered him as he wandered around. He seemed more . . . well, male, she supposed, here in her place than he had on the sidewalk or stalking around the largely unfurnished room in his own house.

“What are you doing here?”

“First, I came because I wanted to see you again.”

“Why?”

“You’re really pretty.” Because he found it both relaxing and entertaining to look at her, he hooked his thumbs in his front pockets and did just that. “You might think that’s a shallow reason, but I like to think it’s simply basic. If people didn’t like looking at attractive things, we wouldn’t have any art.”

“How long did it take you to think of that one?”

His grin was fast and appreciative. “Not long at all. I’m pretty quick. Have you had dinner?”

“No, but I have plans. Why else are you here?”

“Let’s do this part first. You haven’t had dinner tomorrow night yet. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Because you’re annoyed with me? Or because you’re not interested?”

“You’re pretty annoying.”

Those lazy-river eyes flirted. “Not once you get to know me. Ask anybody.”

No, she had a feeling he wouldn’t stay annoying. He’d be entertaining and interesting. And trouble. Plus, however attractive he was, he was anything but her type. “I’ve got enough on my plate without dating a man who has terrible taste in furniture and questionable taste in pets.”

She glanced toward the patio as she said it, then couldn’t stop the laugh as she saw Moe’s ugly face pressed hopefully against the glass.

“You don’t really hate dogs.”

“Of course I don’t hate dogs. I like dogs.” She angled her head to study the furry face. “I don’t think that is a dog.”

“They swore he was when I got him from the pound.”

Her eyes went soft. “You got him from the pound.”

Aha, a chink in the defensive wall. He stepped over so they could study Moe together. “He was a lot smaller then. I went in to do a story on the shelter, and he sort of came, well, gamboling up to me, looked at me like he was saying, Okay, I’ve been waiting for you to show. Let’s go home. I was a goner.”