A romance writer, Simone Beauvais, had seen her hero many times before. And, she'd written about him, she confessed. He was there in One Enchanted Evening, his long lean body sprawled across the rug in front of the fireplace. He was there in A Time for Loving, curled around her heroine's body after he'd seduced her and loved her until she begged for mercy. Then again in Just the Thought of You, as he'd made love to her heroine under a harvest moon, held in the circle of his arms as they'd listened to the rhythm of the surf kissing the shoreline. And in Your Loving Arms as she'd been beneath him on a secluded beach, moving with him in the night, the taste of salt on his skin as her lips brushed his neck, the moonlight streaming down on them. Even now she could feel the gentle rasping stroke of the beaded grains of sand on her back just the way she'd written it in her book. Only, what was she supposed to do now that she sat across the booth from him? She wanted to leave right away. No, she wanted to stay. Sigh, she didn't know what she wanted. Or did she?