Stryker's Wife. Dixie Browning

been anywhere near a manicurist.

      At least not in a professional capacity.

      “Hey, you want something to eat? Sandwiches? Cheese crackers?”

      “Yuck.” It occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten since supper the night before, and very little even then. “I mean, no, thank you.”

      He smiled. He had nice teeth, too. Square, white but not quite perfect. She felt a vague stirring of excitement and put it down to the mixture of canned cola and French champagne and not enough food. It had to be that, because she was far too sensible to be distracted, much less attracted, by another man right now, no matter how nice his smile and his…

      Well—that, too.

      She had a book to finish and some major decisions to make concerning her future. In two brief years, her entire outlook on life had changed, and now she was ready to move forward. This time without any blow-dried jerk who wore silk underwear, Italian suits and too much cologne. A jerk who’d once made her feel like an idiot simply because she’d referred to his wristwatch as a Rolodex.