As she’d left the apartment, Sarah had given Charlie a snuggle and a scratch behind his ears. Then, with Charlie draped over her shoulder impersonating a fox stole and purring like a tractor, Sarah had switched on the TV to the cats channel and set the volume on low. “There you go. Your favorite show, Charlie, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Sarah gazed at the flat landscape whizzing past. Part of her was already in Vegas sorting out her marital status. The other half of her was missing her makeshift apartment and her temperamental cat already. Hopefully they would return tomorrow, but even if they got delayed, they would certainly be back in LA by Thursday night, or Friday morning at the latest. And then Mick would be flying to New York for a press junket and the premiere, as his new movie was opening that following Thursday.

Sarah liked watching Mick’s hands on the wheel, tanned, sure, and strong. His fingers were blunt-tipped with fingernails cropped short and clean. A beam of sunshine forced its way through the tinted glass and caused the sprinkling of hair on his forearms to turn golden, like Rumpelstiltskin turning mundane everyday straw into pure spun gold.

Mick glanced over, as if he had felt her eyes on him. “What were you thinking just then?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Mick shrugged, a rueful smile on his face. “Curious, I guess. The director in me.” He shrugged again, the tips of his ears flushing as if he regretted the question the moment it escaped his mouth. And there was something about his sudden vulnerability that had her answering honestly, even though she had honed her skill at keeping people at bay.

“The sunshine on”—she smoothed her fingertips along her own forearm so she wouldn’t be tempted to reach out and skim them lightly along his—“on your forearms makes the hair look almost golden.” She smiled. “Reminded me of an old fairy tale my mother used to read to me when I was a little girl. Rumpelstiltskin.”

When Mick laughed, the low sound rumbled through her like a fast-passing train, filling her belly with warmth. “Rumpelstiltskin, am I?” He shook his head, still laughing. “Slick move, Rainsforth. Way to polish my ego. Isn’t he a malevolent, tiny, hunched-over creature with a big belly and large bugging-out eyes who spun straw into gold?”

“Yes, but that’s not”—it was hard to get her explanation out because her own laughter was bubbling forth—“what I meant.”

“Woooooweee. I’m coming up in the world!” Mick grinned happily as he shook his hand in the universal sign for hot. “Keep with the flattery and my swelled head will suck up the remaining oxygen in this car.”

Still giggling, she waved her hands toward his arm. “I was talking about the hair on your arms—”