Scion of Hollywood royalty, Rory Kincaid has ambitions--for the perfect job, the perfect woman, and the perfect reputation. Too bad curvaceous, rule-flouting Jilly Skye keeps getting in his way.

Excerpt from THIS PERFECT KISS:

When a woman stands five-foot-two inches, a hundred-and-ahem pounds (the ahem mainly located below the neck and above the waist) it's a bad idea to attend an afternoon business meeting in a low- cut, flesh-colored evening gown. Throw in spaghetti straps and a few gold sequins, and the fact that it was the most crucial business meeting of said woman's career--make that her life--and the bad idea turned downright calamitous.

Jilly Skye realized this. But she also realized she didn't have a choice. Not if she wasn't going to be unforgivably late. Still, she hesitated before pressing the intercom button this side of a pair of black, we-mean-business ironwork gates. They were the last in a long line of hurdles she'd scrambled over since early this morning, when Rory Kincaid had agreed to meet with her. Thanks to a buddy's tip, she knew Rory wanted to dispense with a house crammed full of old clothing and costumes. Jilly was a vintage clothing dealer who wanted into that house. Badly.

Madly.

Despite tight-fitting chiffon, Jilly's stomach executed several rabbit-worthy hops. Madness was the word all right. Because even though the emcee of this morning's charity fashion show had rambled the event into an hour overrun, even though Jilly's assistant left with all the clothing that her shop, Things Past, had brought to the show, including the business suit Jilly had intended to change into, even though her frantic phone calls to Rory Kincaid to explain her hold-up had only resulted in a disinterested busy signal, nothing was going to keep Jilly from this meeting with Rory, and from this job. Too much was at stake.

Determination renewed, she reached through her car window to press the intercom button. But her whole hand was quaking so she snatched it back. "Calm down, calm down," she muttered to herself. "This is no way to get a job. Take a deep breath." But her obedient inhale turned into a gasp when her ahems threatened to pop over the dress's deep decolletage.

Oh, my. Pinching the top of the bodice to pull it up, she wiggled all the strategic body parts back down. Her cheeks went hot. What had seemed fun and fanciful to model at a for-women-only fashion event now seemed almost . . . scary.

Darn Rory Kincaid! Her predicament could be partially blamed on him, too. If she'd been able to cut through that irritating busy signal and reach him this afternoon, she could have made time for a crucial wardrobe stop.

What the heck was he doing on the phone so long? The only thing that kept a number tied up that continuously was a long-distance romance or some heavy Internet surfing. It was bound to be the Internet. This Rory Kincaid was supposed to be some kind of software mogul. Like Bill Gates, he was young, successful, and rich.

Hey. Bill Gates! Jilly's heartbeat slowed a smidgen. Bill Gates. She mouthed the name to herself again and her nervousness was reduced by a few more degrees. Maybe this afternoon wasn't heading for disaster after all.

When she pictured Rory Kincaid as someone like Bill Gates-- someone bespectacled, shaggy-haired and more interested in floppy disks than fashion statements--she could feel nearly confident that this meeting was going to work out just fine. If cliche could be believed, techie-nerds lost track of time--well, practically all the time. And certainly he wouldn't care what she wore. If she didn't say anything about the evening gown, he probably wouldn't even notice it.

The Bill Gates idea worked better than Alka-Seltzer. Stomach settling down and heart feeling light, Jilly stuck her arm out the car window and confidently jabbed the intercom with her forefinger. This job was hers. She lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders. As the gates slowly opened, she pressed on the gas pedal, all the while mentally chanting her brand-new mantra, BillGatesBillGatesBillGates.

Her car slowly climbed past the empty gatehouse and up the steep, curving driveway. She shifted in her seat, trying to wiggle herself more securely into the almost-nude evening dress. Yes, she told herself, this meeting was going to be just fine, as long as she held onto that BillGatesian image of Rory Kincaid. BillGatesBillGatesBillGates, she whispered silently, willing the idea to take deep root.

Just fine, she assured herself once again. A guy like she was picturing probably wouldn't even notice she was a tad over--or under--dressed.