Summary:

When Samantha Vichy arrived for work in the morning, she was not at all prepared and not at all dressed for the assignment about to be thrust into her lap. Often neglecting her personal needs and languishing in her professional life, she is far from the model emissary of high society. Yet following the illness of a coworker, she finds herself serving as the impromptu hostess of a visiting intellectual, Nobel laureate Adrian Caspari. What begins as an intimidating professional encounter soon blossoms into much more as she comes to learn the true identity of a man half the world admires through his letters on a page. Will this thrilling prospect prove to be just one more source of frustration and inadequacy in Samantha's life, or might it offer the possibility of a new chapter? Will the encounter and its consequences be limited to the professional realm, or will things take a more personal turn? Now for the first time, read the complete series in a single volume.

Excerpt:

"Yes," I agreed slightly breathlessly. "I'm afraid Ms. Parcells has come down with a touch of illness this morning."

The radiant eyes clouded with sympathy. "I hope it is not too serious."

"No, I don't think so," I said.

"Ah, that is good. Then I will not feel so guilty to enjoy your company."

My heart leapt but my smile was shy. I was still set aback by the unexpected warmth and vitality of his manner, the force of his charisma. "Was everything alright on the flight - ?" I paused, struggling between my desire to call him by his preferred address and my terror at speaking to him with what I still felt was inappropriate familiarity.

"Yes, thank you. It was a very delightful trip. One of great benefits of being Swiss is that one must always, pretending necessity, fly over the Alps in order to get anyplace. I would fly for no other reason than such breathtaking views. But here I am boasting about my home country. You will learn I am not truly such a nationalist and so you will forgive me, I think. Is there a car?"

I led him out of the terminal lobby and towards the limo, a pace ahead of him. I was very self-conscious of my posture and stride as we walked. Do not sway too obviously, I told myself, but my body was responding to his eyes on me, yearning to catch his interest, to impress him. If I could only hear a breath of admiration, a low inhalation of surprise. At the limo, I opened the door for him and leaned imperceptibly towards him, inhaling again of his aroma and hoping for an incidental contact, perhaps just a brush of his elbow across my stomach or a thankful hand on my wrist. I caught myself. What was I doing? I was losing my head, is what I was doing. I was being disarmed by his easy manner, his openness and warmth, but I could not afford to forget who he was and who I was. I was to be more reserved. Be more reserved, I told myself. To think of him as a man, a man with a body no less, was frighteningly inappropriate, chillingly inappropriate. And yet, in spite of this resolve, I could not help but cast my eyes over him as he bent forward into the limo. The grey slacks sat somewhat snugly over admirable buttocks, taut and sculpted round.

My growing awareness of his body only heightened my consciousness of my own. As I sat down across from him I crossed my legs very tightly, painfully aware of how much skin I was presenting to him. I lowered my eyes, desperately wondering whether his gaze was exploring me but embarrassed to look him in the face.