So Herb Melville had called her in for an interview, remarked with a smile that she was very, very pretty, and then filled her in on the details of what she would be doing up there in the mountains with the most important men in the company. And so here she was.

When she drove with Herb through the gate of the house, she gasped. Here, set in the midst of the forest, high in the mountains, with the noon sun of June filtering through the leaves of the trees, was a beautiful house with four wings, three stories, and a wide veranda flanked by stone columns. Cherie got out of the Mercedes and mounted the stairs while a man in work clothes carried in her suitcases. And then, as she walked through the front door, with Melville behind her, she ran full into the hard masculine chest of the handsomest young man she had ever seen. Tall and blue-eyed, with smooth skin, classically chiselled features, and light brown hair, his eyes sparkled when he saw her. Their eyes met, deeply, and she caught her breath.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Ron Wolter."

Cherie had seen him before, at the office, as he hurried by in the performance of his duties, and she had often wished he would notice her and speak to her when she broke out in a blush of excitement and that spot between her legs began to burn. The truth was that she had harbored a crush for this handsomest of men and now she found herself in the same house with him – at last – and for a whole week, it appeared.

She paused, trying to find words, then said lamely, and simply, "I'm Cherie Daventry."

They stared at each other a long time before they noticed that Herb Melville was standing behind her, waiting patiently to pass.

"Well, hurry up," Melville said, in mock irritation, "and ask her to dance."