Iwas draped over the arm of one of the most beautiful men I'd ever seen, and he was staring into my eyes. "Think. Brad Pitt," I whispered. The dark brown eyes still regarded me with remote interest. Okay, I was on the wrong track. I pictured Claude's last lover, a bouncer at a strip joint. "Think about Charles Bronson," I suggested. "Or, um, Edward James Olmos." I was rewarded by the beginnings of a hot glow in those long-lashed eyes. In a jiffy, you would've thought Claude was going to hike up my long rustling skirt and yank down my.
