More so in spite of her confusing behavior and his infuriated humiliation when he’d learned she’d lied to him. To his surprise, he genuinely liked talking to her, loved the slow break of her smile. He knew details about her she didn’t even realize, and he hungered for more.

Cupping her face, he bent forward and claimed the kiss he’d wanted ever since she’d bolted from his hotel room. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, pulled back just enough to grin down at her. “Tart.”

Her eyes were wide amber pools. “You kissed me,” she protested.

He frowned, then threw his head back and laughed as her meaning set in. “Your lip gloss is tart.”

“Oh. Pink lemonade,” she informed him.

“It’s different.”

“Different, bad?”

When she would have wiggled away, he gently tightened his hold. “Not sure. I’m still forming an opinion.” He lowered his mouth to hers.

She kissed him back thoroughly. Trustingly. It would be so easy to keep going, to lay her down on the couch and explore her delectable body. At the back of his mind was the dim echo of Nick’s words, that Chloe didn’t know how lovely she was. I could show her. Dylan could make her feel every inch a sexy goddess, deserving of lavish adoration.

At least, he could if she ever told him the truth about herself. She owed him that. Now that his initial anger had abated and he was enjoying her company so much, he was starting to genuinely care for her. Did she care enough about him to admit what she’d done? Regretfully he let his hands slide from her shoulders.

“Does this mean you’ve formed your opinion?” she asked, her voice low and entirely too tempting.

“Yes. In my opinion, you’re addictive.” He stood, not trusting himself to look at her because he’d probably reach for her again. “I should probably give you a tour of the rest of the place.”

“Okay.” She rose, too, and he hid a grin when he noticed she seemed a bit wobbly on her feet. Whatever else he might be confused about, he loved the idea that his kisses weakened her knees.

Dylan lived in a four-story building that had been erected in the late 1920s and had been revamped in recent years to make each story its own condo. An elevator from the parking garage led to interior entrances, but there were also back doors to the individual apartments, available by outside stairs. He had the top floor. The view wasn’t that exciting since his windows just looked out at the sides of taller buildings, but he liked not having to worry about upstairs neighbors tromping around overhead.

His apartment was a big space, bisected by a slim foyer. On one side was a huge master bedroom. The kitchen, full bath and living room took up the other half. He led her to the kitchen first, and watched her scrutinize the stainless-steel appliances and gleaming white cabinets and counter.

“I have to hand it to you-you don’t suffer from clutter. But don’t you find it a bit…sterile?” she ventured. “A plant in here would do wonders, even if it was artificial. You know Nat runs the flower shop in town? I’ll bet she could make some great suggestions. Or a few color accents would help. In feng shui, all colors have meanings, usually tied to the five Chinese elements-earth, fire-”

“Wind?”

She frowned at the interruption, looking adorably like a librarian shushing a rowdy patron. All that was missing from the picture were a pair of wire-rim glasses perched on her nose and maybe a pencil behind her ear.

“No,” she corrected. “Earth, fire, metal, wood and water. Also known as the five transformations.”

What the hell had she done? Memorized a feng shui textbook? Four days ago, he would have sworn she didn’t know the first thing about the topic. Irritation flared. She was supposed to be backing down, floundering over her head and confessing her ruse. Once she apologized, he could magnanimously forgive her. Instead, she’d thrown herself wholeheartedly into the charade.

Waxing philosophical about colors, she didn’t realize she’d temporarily lost her audience. “And then there’s red, which is often thought to be the most powerful-”

“I’ll say.” Even annoyed he couldn’t help admitting, “Seeing you in the hotel lobby, in that red dress, stopped me in my tracks. The fact that we were both there for the reunion was sheer luck. I would have been compelled to come talk to you even if I’d never seen you before in my life.”

She swallowed, her throat rippling with the motion. His eyes trailed downward. Had he ever found a woman’s collarbone sexy before Chloe? He didn’t let himself dwell on any of the tantalizing places lower. He wanted this woman. But not until she owned up to what she’d done. Growing up with a learning disability, with Michael Echols for a father, Dylan had been made to feel like a fool far too many times. Chloe had deliberately deceived him, made him feel stupid, and there had to be some kind of consequence for that.

“No one’s ever been moved to cross a room just to get to me,” she said.

He would have pegged her words as more guile than truth if not for that jackass Petey Grubner’s comments. Klutzy Chloe? A book nerd who never left her computer monitor? Was the male population of Mistletoe freaking blind?

“Men have noticed you,” he told her, thinking of his friend Nick. “Maybe you just weren’t sending the right signals to encourage their approach.”

“Signals?” She cast him a dubious smirk. “You mean like tight tank tops or asking a guy what his sign is?”

“Please. Has anyone actually used a line like that since the seventies?” Although he wouldn’t necessarily complain if she wanted to wear a skimpy top. “I meant body language. It’s not that different from feng shui. You have to decide what your intentions are, what you’re open to, and put that energy out there.”

Instead of mocking what had sounded far lamer out loud than it had in his head, she nibbled at her lower lip, pondering his advice. Funny. He’d never been the type of person people came to for personal guidance. Jokes, yes. Pitching tips, maybe. Anything resembling wisdom, no.

“Your body language right now?” He met her eyes. “Very inviting.”

“How so?”

“An open stance, angled ever so slightly toward me. Parted lips. Frequent eye contact, dilated pupils.”

“Could just be the lighting,” she quipped.

His mouth quirked in a half grin. “Could be.” He lowered his gaze briefly to the rise and fall of her chest. “A change in your breathing.”

“Could be a respiratory condition.”

He shook his head at her even as he chuckled. “And you wonder why some guys might not have the courage to pursue you?”

“Point taken. But didn’t we establish that, as a client, you-”

“Potential client. You know, just to keep the boundaries clear, we should settle that once and for all.” He reached for a kitchen drawer, pulling out the checkbook he kept there. Time to take this up a notch. “How much is your retainer fee or whatever decorator’s call the initial deposit?”

Alarm flared in her eyes. “Oh, it’s too soon for that. What if you hate my ideas? You-”

“I insist. Like you said, my space, my decision. So what’s the name of your company? Or do I just make this out to Candy Beemis?” he challenged.

“C. W. Designs.” Since she said it without a trace of hesitation, he figured it really was the name of her self-owned business.

“Not C.J. or C.B.?” he pushed. Or C.M., Ms. Malcolm?

“It’s C.W.,” she repeated, seeming unaware of the faint sarcasm in his voice.

“So what’s the W stand for?”

She looked past him, her gaze unfocused as she smiled. “Wheezy. I actually did have a respiratory condition. I was born premature and had several lung problems and childhood asthma. So my aunt called me Wheezy.”

“That’s horrible!” Right up there with an adult calling a dyslexic kid an idiot. His free hand fisted involuntarily.

“No, you don’t get it. It wasn’t insulting.” Chloe shook her head adamantly. “It was more…I don’t know. I hated having asthma. I felt different from the other kids. Limited. And I dreaded being teased about anything. By turning it into a term of endearment, Aunt Jane took the sting out of it. It was liberating.”

“Oh.” He relaxed his fingers against his side, realizing he must have looked foolish, wanting to ride to her rescue years after the fact and pummel anyone who’d wounded her feelings. He half wished Petey Grubner was handy just so he could slug him. “That sounds like a healthy attitude.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She took a sudden keen interest in her manicure. “Not all of my coping strategies have been quite that well-adjusted, I’m afraid.”

“Such as?” He lowered the pen and stared at her, trying to radiate empathy and understanding. Tell me. You can tell me.

He was angry that she’d lied to him last weekend, but he was beginning to see a bigger picture. Her favorite aunt had just died, and Chloe was acting out; she’d been at a reunion with people who’d apparently mocked her throughout high school while he’d been too busy with baseball-okay, and redheads-to notice the social angst of people around him. It was an unscrupulous thing she’d done, pretending to be Candy, and he’d never had any tolerance for cheaters.

Yet the more he learned about Chloe Malcolm, the more he unwillingly sympathized. How had she felt when he’d mistaken her for Candy? Had he somehow cemented Chloe’s fear that people saw her first and foremost as a nerd and not as the lovely woman she’d become?

Shifting her weight, she nodded toward the checkbook. “I’m here on your dime. We’re supposed to be talking about what you want to do with your place, and I’m treating it like a free therapy session. Why don’t you show me the other rooms.”

He gestured toward the microscopic hallway. “Not much else to show. The bathroom and bedroom are both right through there. With me, it’s ‘what you see is what you get,’ C.J.”