Free Smooth Talking Stranger by Lisa Kleypas

guy.”
    It occurred to me as I listened to Jack that he and Dane had one rare quality in common: each man knew exactly who he was, and was entirely comfortable with it.
    “I started working at a management company out of college,” Jack continued, “and eventually got a loan and bought the business.”
    “Did your dad help you?”
    “Hell, no.” A rueful grin. “I made mistakes he probably would have steered me away from. But I didn’t want anyone saying he’d done it for me. I took responsibility for all the risk. And I had a lot to prove, so I sure as hell didn’t want to fail.”
    “Obviously you didn’t.” I studied him. “Interesting. You seem like the alpha male type, but you’re the middle son. Usually middle children are more laid-back.”
    “For a Travis, I am laid-back.”
    “Eek.” I grinned and began on my chocolate cake. “I’m kicking you out after dessert, Jack. I have a long night ahead of me.”
    “How often does the baby wake up?”
    “About every three hours.”
    We finished dessert and the rest of the wine. Jack went to the phone, dialed for room service to collect the table, and picked up his jacket.
    Pausing at the door, he looked down at me. “Thanks for dinner.”
    “You’re welcome. And I warn you, if you back out of the doctor’s visit after this, I’m going to take out a hit on you.”
    “I’ll pick you up at nine.” Jack didn’t move. We were standing close, and I was disconcerted to feel my breath quicken. Although his posture was relaxed and easy, he was so much bigger than me that I had a subtle sense of being physically dominated. What surprised me was that the feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
    “Is Dane the alpha type?” he asked.
    “No. Beta all the way. I can’t stand alphas.”
    “Why? Do they make you nervous?”
    “Not at all.” I gave him a mock-threatening glance. “I eat alpha males for breakfast.”
    There was a spark of mischief in his dark eyes. “I’ll be over here early, then.” And he left before I could manage a reply.

SIX

    I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but my second night with Luke was even worse than the first. The glow of contentment I’d gotten from an amazing steak dinner, fine wine, and lively conversation was completely gone by the second feeding. “You’re a real mood-killer, Luke,” I told the baby, who didn’t seem concerned in the least. I lost count of how many times he woke and how many diapers I changed, but it seemed like I didn’t get more than twenty minutes of continuous sleep. When the wake-up call came at seven-thirty, I crawled painfully out of bed and staggered to the bathroom to brush my teeth and to take a shower.
    A fifteen-minute shower and two cups of stale-tasting coffee from the miniature countertop coffeemaker revived me somewhat. I dressed in khakis and a light blue shirt with elbow-length sleeves, and flat braided-hemp sandals. I debated whether or not to blow-dry my hair, afraid the noise would wake the baby, and then I decided grimly that he would damn well have to cry.
    After drying my hair into a smooth bob, I switched off the appliance.
    Silence.
    Had something happened to Luke? Why was he so quiet? I rushed into the bedroom and checked on him. He was lying peacefully on his back, his chest rising and falling, cheeks watercolor-pink. I touched him just to make sure he was okay. He yawned and closed his eyes more tightly.
    “Now
you want to sleep,” I muttered. I sat beside him, staring at the remarkably fine skin, the delicate lashes, the tiny drowsing features. His eyebrows were so sparse and silky, they were almost invisible. He looked like Tara. I could make out the resemblance in the shape of the nose and mouth—although the hair was inky-dark. Like Jack Travis’s, I thought, fingering the soft strands.
    Leaving the bed, I went to detach my cell phone from its plug-in charger. I dialed my cousin Liza.
    She picked up immediately. “Hello?”
    “It’s