Unless he was watching. Heart pounding, Greer whirled around to face the living-room windows, but the draperies were closed. Or nearly. There was a thin strip of darkness where they didn’t quite meet, and she rushed over to pull those ends together.

Fresh moisture brimmed in her eyes. Grabbing Truce and a bag of knitting, she let herself out of the apartment, leaned against the bare white wall in the hall and took one calming breath after another. Why do you persist in believing you’re safer out here?

Because safety wasn’t the issue. This was a matter of putting distance between herself and that white wall phone, that man. And the caller was a man. She knew the sound of a man’s deep breathing.

With a loud, emphatic sigh, she sat on the hall carpet with her legs tucked under her and grabbed her knitting needles and a long strand of pale green yarn from her tapestry bag. Click, click. She sniffed. More click-clicks, until an entire row of Robin’s sweater was finished, that row a little tear-blotched but basically straight.

When the hall door opened at the bottom of the steps, she jumped three feet, still sniffing.

“Greer?”

Before she could blink, Ryan’s work boots had bounded up the steps and settled in front of her. She did not want to see him. The man had run her through an emotional maze all week, darting in and out of her life as if he belonged there. Depending on him was asking for trouble. And that was half the darn problem anyway. He was incredibly easy to depend on.

“Hey.”

He was also difficult to ignore. “Hi,” she said brightly.

His long legs bent at the knees, jeans straining to accommodate the muscles in his thighs. Apart from jeans and work boots and a blue work shirt, he was wearing impatience like an outer garment. She couldn’t see his face, since she was busy click-clicking with her knitting needles, but she could smell his mood, the way a fawn could sniff a hunter’s closeness. “You wear jeans more often than any engineer I ever heard of,” she remarked casually, and refrained from sniffing one last time. Furiously, she blinked away the last hint of tears. “And don’t you ever keep regular hours? You realize it’s nearly midnight?”

He didn’t move toward her. He didn’t touch her, but he didn’t move so much as an inch away, either. “You’re all right?”

“You told me one time that mechanical engineers are high-class grease monkeys. How did you put it? ‘A mechanical engineer plays with a drawing board half the time. The other half he has to figure out why,’ I quote, ‘his half-assed designs didn’t work.’” Knit-purl, knit-purl. “Is that why you’re so late?”

“Because of a half-assed design? In a way.” He paused, and then his voice continued, as soothing as butter, calming, reassuring. For a moment. “They can teach you a great deal in school about mathematical precision. Nothing about the human factor of blending man and machine. Efficiency, safety, timing-those problems can’t be solved on the most brilliant man’s drawing board. Exactly why I opted for the mechanical end of engineering. And you’re excellent at doing that,” he added abruptly.

“Doing what?”

“Getting a man to talk about his favorite subjects. But you can stow it with me, Greer; I’m no Daniel. Now what the hell are you doing out here? As if I didn’t know.”

“It was hot in the apartment. Something’s wrong with that air conditioner again.”

“You’ve been crying.”

“You’d cry, too, if you’d just dropped four stitches.”

“How many times has he called today?”

“No one has called,” Greer assured him, salvaging another straggly length of yarn that Truce was trying to paw.

“Would you stop that?” he said irritably. “Look at me.”

“Nope.”

He almost smiled at the stubborn tilt to her chin. He’d seen her when she left for work that morning, all crisp efficiency in her white blazer and white pumps, her hips swinging briskly in the tan-and-white A-line skirt on the way to her car. Her outfit hadn’t changed so drastically since then, only her expression. Now, she looked crisp, efficient, and stubborn.

He’d seen that look a lot this week. In terms of attire, he’d seen her in her bag-lady gear, dressed alluringly for a date, in the pastel business suits that showed off her legs, and that once he wasn’t likely to forget, naked. Greer was a lot of women in one, but the image that was undoubtedly going to drive him over the edge was the slightly irrational woman with the big brown eyes and the stubborn streak.

If he’d been a less obstinate man, he might have given up over the past seven days. As if he could have stopped himself from falling in love with her. Her quick humor, her compassion, her keen mind, her love-every-day spirit…she gave so much to him, without half trying.

That Greer was his, he already knew. Convincing her of that was proving a battle of wits, only Ryan was just beginning to realize that the harder she fought, the more success he was having. It had been tough understanding that. His engineer’s rational brain rejected the off-the-wall premise as illogical, but then he’d had to try to think a little like Greer.

Silently rising to his feet with a frown, he disappeared inside his apartment and returned moments later with a small box. He hunched over and started setting up a marble chessboard.

Greer flicked the yarn over her needle, only mildly shaking her head when she saw what he was doing. “First of all, that’s not necessary. It’s past midnight and you must be tired. Second, contrary to outward appearances, I do not require a babysitter. And last, you really don’t want to play chess.”

“Why not?” Ryan had won tournament after tournament in college. He might be a little rusty, but he was good enough so she’d never know when he let her beat him.

In the first game, Greer beat him in fifteen minutes. In the second game it took her nearly twenty minutes. And when Ryan set up the board a third time, he had that distinctly sour look that men get when they’ve been bested in any competitive sport-by a woman.

“You don’t play rationally,” he told her.

“I’ll try to improve-that is, if you’re not giving up?”

“Your move,” he said flatly. His eyes met hers, and her lashes quickly lowered. She understood that he wasn’t giving up. Not in chess, and not in the fancy little game of neighbor-friend they’d been playing for almost two weeks.

Ryan waited, carefully. In the process of concentrating on the game, her tears had dried, and the pinched look had left her features. She was getting a disgustingly innocent little spark of triumph in her eyes. He’d sat cross-legged for the game. Greer, after fidgeting with her skirt, had gradually given in to comfort and was lying on her stomach, her legs swinging in the air behind her, her chin cupped in her hands between moves.

A half hour into the third game, he saw the rare opportunity to steal her rook and did.

Greer glanced up. “How could I have been so stupid?” she asked mournfully.

“You aren’t. You’re trying-most insultingly-to throw the game. Probably out of pity.”

“I was not. I’ve never thrown a game in my life.”

“Fine.” He whisked one of her bishops off the board with his next move. “Did you call the police?”

She tensed up like a taut rubber band. “Ryan, there is nothing else I can do. There is nothing else anyone can do. I’ve had my phone number changed twice now, and I refuse to have the line tapped for the rest of my life. Now I have no choice except to ignore him.”

“You have to find out who’s doing it.”

“I’ve tried figuring that out, dammit.” She slipped his queen off the board with her knight and then looked up guiltily. “Sorry.”

“That queen was wide open. Don’t apologize.” Ryan wasn’t even looking at the board. “Someone is making those calls, Greer. Some man. Maybe a neighbor, maybe one of the men upstairs, maybe someone you work with. You must have some idea-”

“Well, I don’t. And we’ve been through this.”

“On the surface. We never got down to the nitty-gritty.” He leaned over the board and touched her chin to make her look up at him. “Cards on the table now, and don’t fuss. Maybe a man you refused to sleep with? A man you turned down who’s trying to get back at you?”

She pushed his hand away from her chin and pulled herself up to her knees, concentrating fiercely on the chessboard. “For heaven’s sake,” she said in a low voice, “if every man that I’d refused to sleep with called me up to harass me… I’ve dated my share of men, for heaven’s sake. Was I supposed to say yes every time I was asked?”

Very quietly Ryan said, “I don’t think you’ve said yes to any man since you divorced your husband.”

Greer sucked in a little air. Her lungs seemed to need it. “How many men I’ve slept with has nothing to do with-”

“It could have a great deal to do with it, Greer.”

“It doesn’t have to be a man anyway,” she said crossly.

“You believe it is, or you wouldn’t be scared out of your wits every time the phone rings.” When she didn’t answer, Ryan let out a mental sigh. He watched her fingers tremble as they moved a pawn, and said very gently, very firmly, “You’re staying at my place tonight.”

She dropped the pawn. “Don’t be silly.”

“All right. Then I’ll stay with you at your place.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.” Greer gave up trying to follow the game. “You caught me in a little crying jag, I admit that. That hardly means I’m falling apart. In fact, that cry was delightful.”

“Delightful?” The word clearly took him by surprise.

“It happens. Not often, but every once in a while. An occasional good cry can let out an awful lot of excess emotional baggage. This day was the pits. My breather’s been driving me nuts. Now, I don’t know what men do when they’ve just plain had enough-throw temper tantrums? Hurl things against the wall? Surely everyone’s entitled to a simple rotten mood?”