“In a pig’s eye. Why don’t you go after O’Donnell?”
“O’Donnell wasn’t heading the appropriations committee when the contract got let. You were, and your buddies got the job without even trying. Seems to me like the public ought to know. I wanted to be fair and give you a chance to air your side, though. You could set the record straight. Or should I just call for an audit? You got some state and federal bucks for the project, didn’t you?”
“You piranha.”
Gil grinned. “Can I quote you on that, Nash?”
“You can quote me on this.” When the line clicked, Gil chuckled. Merrily, he tapped away, listening to the hubbub of the newsroom outside his office door. In these, the waning hours before deadline, the room was gripped with a feverish purpose, everyone working as quickly as they could to get the paper together and out the door. Not the least of which was him, given that he’d been trying to fill in for two people ever since Mark’s father had had his fatal heart attack.
“I need that streetcar story.” Ron Bates, his copy editor, stood at the door impatiently. “And the Willamette pollution story and the Logan piece.”
“The streetcar story should be in your in-box.”
“What about the other two?”
“Soon,” Gil promised.
“How soon?”
“Gee, let me get my magic wand out and see. Look, I’m going to need at least fifteen minutes to go through them.”
Ron glowered. “You make me miss deadline and the press manager will be coming after me. Which means I’ll be coming after you.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re beautiful when you’re angry, Ron?”
“Kiss my ass,” his copy editor said, and turned away.
Grinning, Gil picked up the ringing phone. “Reynolds.”
“Gil, this is Alan. Alan Barrett? You know, your college buddy who’s getting married tomorrow? The guy whose rehearsal started half an hour ago? That guy?”
Gil snapped his head around to stare at the clock, which had somehow vaulted forward an hour and a half since he’d last checked it. He uttered a heartfelt curse.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Hell, Alan, I’m sorry. One of my reporters just lost his dad and I’m filling in while he’s gone. I lost track of time. Deadlines are biting my ass today.” Gil sent off the first of the articles.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a deadline here, too. And a fiancée who’s working on an ulcer. You thinking about gracing us with your presence any time this year?”
“I’ll be there in—” he calculated quickly “—twenty minutes. Twenty five.”
Now it was Alan’s turn to curse. “Forget about the church. We’d be leaving by the time you got here.”
“I’m really sorry, Alan.”
“I know. Look, come to the dinner, at least, so you get a chance to meet everyone. It’s at the Odeon. You know, the new McMillan’s place?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Chapter Two
One thing Jillian could say for Alan, he knew how to throw a rehearsal dinner. Forget about a discreet restaurant back room. Instead, he’d taken the upper balcony of the Odeon Tango Theater, the newest in the McMillan brothers’ chain of brewpub hotels. The old Thirties movie palace had been completely renovated, from the trompe l’oeil and molded-plaster ceiling to the gold-leafed moldings to the deep burgundy curtains that covered the stage.
The tables on the balcony were arranged to accommodate the wedding party and the various out-of-town relatives and friends of Alan’s who’d been invited. At the gleaming walnut bar against the wall, the bartender pulled pints of the McMillan’s award-winning beers. On the tables, bottles of champagne chilled in ice buckets, readily at hand for the rash of toasts that were already taking place.
That was fine with Jillian. In her current mood, it was easy to substitute sipping champagne for conversation. Not that it was necessarily a smart move, especially since drinking wasn’t normally her thing. Champagne, even with its effervescent bubbles, wouldn’t banish the loneliness. Champagne wouldn’t banish the memory of the pang she’d felt when she’d walked back up the aisle all alone, toward the laughing crowd of paired-up bridesmaids and ushers. Sure, it was just the wedding rehearsal, but in a way it was a reflection of her life. She wasn’t a part of the laughing crowd, she wasn’t a part of a pair.
She never had been.
When, she wondered with a thread of desperation, would it change?
When you make it change.
She knew the textbook explanation for why she kept people at arm’s length—raised in squalor, abandoned at four with her twin brother, David, by their mother, neglected by their stroke-ridden grandmother, raised to feel unimportant, unloved, unwanted.
Unworthy.
She knew it was irrational. And as a therapist, she knew how difficult it was to root out feelings grown from the seeds of childhood trauma, however irrational the adult knew them to be.
As a therapist, she also knew that sometimes you had to go out of your comfort zone first to make yourself change. That had been Lois’s point; Lois, who had known Jillian since the Logans had adopted her. At a certain point you needed to move on with your life. Drinking champagne wouldn’t change the fact that she was alone. Doing something different would. If being alone hurt, then she needed to open the gates that she kept locked shut against the world.
I’m afraid.
It was ridiculous, of course, she thought, watching Carrie Summers laugh with her husband, Brian, watching Lisa and Alan as they leaned in for a kiss. What was there to fear? They were glowing with happiness, with the sheer wonder of being parts of a whole.
And suddenly, desperately, Jillian wanted to know what that feeling was like.
An intelligent woman would do something about it. That was what the therapist side of her would suggest if she were in a session with herself. Make a plan and execute it. Go on a blind date. Ask someone she knew to fix her up. Hell, say hello to a guy once in a while.
Of course, if she were in a session with herself, it might be time to consider medication for multiple personality disorder, she thought. And she surprised herself with a hiccup.
A couple of places down from Jillian’s spot at the end of the table, Lisa turned, eyes wide. “Was that a hiccup I just heard?”
“It’s nothing,” Jillian told her, surprised that she had to work just a bit to make the words come out clearly.
Down on the stage, the curtains parted to reveal a stunningly beautiful brunette partnered with a man dressed in a black shirt and trousers. They stood, pressed against one another and, slowly, they began to dance.
She never touched anyone, Jillian thought. Oh, she hugged her mother and her sister, Bridget, now and again, or maybe a girlfriend. That was about it. Her world was so small: don’t touch, don’t look too hard at anyone, don’t make eye contact for too long in case it’s too much. Because without the freedom of having that one person into whose eyes she could gaze, that one person she could hold on to without worrying, all contact with other people seemed perilously complex. How much was too much? How much would inadvertently cross the line because she no longer knew where that line was?
When she was at work, in sessions, she felt confident. Anywhere else, forget it.
The dancers whirled in the tango, twining around one another in the choreographed seduction of the dance. Even up in the balcony, Jillian could feel the heat, the sexuality. What must it be like to want and be wanted? She was thirty-three and she’d never been intimate with a man. Kisses, yes. She’d even felt a man’s hands touch her body, if you could call the clumsy college boy she’d fooled around with one night a man. She’d read about sex, she’d even counseled patients, but she knew nothing about it from personal experience.
She knew nothing about relationships, at all.
It wasn’t right, Jillian thought suddenly, watching the dancers. It wasn’t right that she didn’t know, it wasn’t ri
ght that she hadn’t even tried to change things. She was a social worker, a skilled therapist. She should do better.
Why not? she thought, feeling suddenly bold, and tossed off the rest of her champagne. Why not try going after what she wanted?
It’s your turn now.
“Hot, huh?”
Jillian turned to see Lisa’s maid of honor, Ariel, looking as mischievous as Peter Pan with her spiky brunette pixie cut and her sparkling eyes.
“They’re pretty amazing,” Jillian said. The flow of dancers’ bodies, their silky-looking touches gave her a little flicker of excitement just watching. “I’d love to learn.”
“Oh, me, too. I think they give lessons after the show. We ought to come sometime when we can try it out.”
“What if I don’t have a partner?”
Ariel laughed. “Like that’s a problem? Just smile at a guy and grab him by the arm.”
Jillian looked at Ariel in admiration. Was it really that simple for her? It seemed extraordinary. There was no way Jillian could ever work up that much nerve, not immediately. Smiling, maybe. She could start with smiling. Whereupon she’d probably be standing around forever. “They should set it up like one of those dime-a-dance places from World War II. That way you wouldn’t have to worry.”
“Dime a dance? Try a five spot, at least.” Ariel’s eyes brightened. “Ooh, just imagine if it was like one of those vending machines where you use the lever thing to pick out exactly who you want. Just put your money in the slot and—”
“Darn it!” Jillian slapped her forehead.
“What?”
“I totally forgot. I’ve got to go feed my meter. I didn’t have any change when I parked,” she explained, digging in her purse for a dollar. “I meant to go right back out.”
“Drinking champagne will do that to you. Anyway, why are you worried? This late, no one cares.”
“It’s only six-thirty.” Jillian rose. “And trust me, if anyone’s going to get a parking ticket at six fifty-nine, it’ll be me.”
Downstairs, she walked out the front door and through the old-fashioned half-moon movie-house entryway with its central ticket booth. On the street, the late afternoon was bleeding into June dusk as the sun dipped toward the horizon. The clouds of the morning had burned away. The air felt soft and welcoming.
She’d taken off her jacket inside and the breeze fluttered through the claret silk tank she wore beneath. It felt good to move. It would have felt good to dance, if she’d only known how. She felt a sudden, restless urge for something new.
Her meter, she could see from a few cars away, was firmly over into redline territory. But she was less interested in that than the guy a bit beyond, walking down the sidewalk toward her. Tall, dark, moving with an easy assurance, he wore a jacket and tie and sunglasses. The breeze blew his dark hair onto his forehead; he raised an impatient hand to rake it back.
This was it, Jillian thought. She wanted to make a change? Now was her chance. Just a small change. All she had to do was glance at him and smile. Simple enough. Something millions of women did every day. Once she got used to that behavior, she’d move on. For now, just a smile. That wasn’t much, was it?
So why was her heart hammering?
Jillian stood at her meter, fumbling with her coins. He was closer now. Almost time. It wasn’t as if it was a military operation, she thought impatiently. She just needed to look at him and do it, as if it was natural. Natural.
Hah.
She glanced up, preparing to smile. And froze.
Handsome was the wrong word. Handsome was too tepid, a description for men with perfect Ken-doll looks. His was a face that was more about purpose and intent, pure force of personality. Strong bones, straight nose, a chin that looked as though it knew how to take a punch. His eyes were hidden by his sunglasses. His mouth was straight and wide and far too intriguing.
And then he smiled and the coins slipped through her suddenly nerveless fingers.
With a noise of frustration, Jillian bent to grab for them, trying fruitlessly to capture the rolling disks before they went over the curb and through the grate beyond.
“Need some help?”
Adrenaline vaulted through her system. He’d stopped. The guy had stopped and now he was bent down by her meter, trying to retrieve the coins. “I think they’re all on their way to the Columbia River by now,” she said.
“Slippery devils,” he said, pushing up his glasses and grinning.
She could hear her pulse thudding in her ears. His eyes were black, she saw, his dark brows quirked now with just a hint of humor.
He handed her a quarter. “There’s one, anyway.”
Her hand was shaking as she took the coin from him. Okay, this was more than she’d planned. It was supposed to be a smile and glance, not a whole discussion. She wasn’t sure she was up for a full discussion, especially after all the champagne.
She rose.
“What about your other quarter?” He nodded at the meter as he stood. “One won’t take you through the witching hour.”
“I guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”
“Feeling lucky, huh?” He grinned, and she felt something in her stomach flip. Lethal smile, absolutely lethal. And without warning she found herself staring at his upper lip and wondering just what it would be like to kiss him.
Lucky? “I guess I am,” she said. It was the champagne, she told herself. Starting up her own personal perestroika campaign was one thing, picking up men on the street was another.
But he was already rummaging in his pocket to pull out a handful of coins.
“You can’t pay my meter,” she objected.
“Sure I can,” he said as he picked through the change for a quarter and put it in. “It’s good karma. After a day like I’ve had, I could use it.”
“Uh-oh,” she said. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Uh-oh, is right. If you see a lynch mob coming out of the Odeon, they’ll be looking for me.”
“Is that where you’re going?” she asked, falling in step beside him as they walked the dozen yards to where the light from the theater’s marquee spilled over the sidewalk.
“Yep. How about you?”
She nodded.
“I’d offer to buy you a drink but I’m here for a party. Actually, I’m late for a party,” he corrected. “Really late.”
“That’s okay, I’m here with—” She broke off and gave him a suspicious stare. “What kind of a party?”
“Me?” He held the door for her. “A rehearsal dinner, for a wedding. Why?”
She walked through, the little buzz of excitement fading. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Gil, would it?”
“Guilty as charged. And you are?”
“Jillian Logan, the bridesmaid you left at the altar. Nice of you to finally join us.”
Gil’s lips twitched as he followed her into the lobby. “Left you at the altar, huh? Did I have a brain fade? Were we getting married?”
“I’m not likely to marry the kind of guy who’d show up—” she checked her watch “—over an hour late to his best friend’s wedding rehearsal.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I never proposed, then. It was touch-and-go out there.”
She gave him a look from under her brows. “You know, you had the bride wearing a groove in the carpet pacing over you? Lisa’s got enough going on right now without one more thing to stress about.”
His amusement dipped a bit. “I know, trust me.”
She folded her arms, a bit like a teacher scolding a wayward student. “Not to mention the fact that we were all standing around waiting.”
“Not to mention,” he agreed. And she was ticked. Protective of Lisa and just a little ticked about waiting around. Or maybe the altar thing. He wasn’t sure just why he found that appealing. Maybe it was because he found her appealing. Her mouth for a start, full and tempting, the lower lip just a bit sulky now. It had been the first thing he’d noticed when he first saw her.
When she’d smiled at him by the meter, he’d felt the hit down deep.
And those eyes of hers, the color of good whiskey. They looked enormous and he didn’t think it was just tricky makeup. They were turbulent now with challenge, enough to promise she’d give him a run for his money. And she had that thick, dark hair with the red undertones of good mahogany. The kind of hair a man could bury his hands in.
Her chin came up a bit as she noticed him staring. He didn’t bother to fight the smile. She was tall for a woman, slender enough that at a glance a person would judge her fragile. It was an impression he was betting drove her nuts. She didn’t look like the type who wanted to be taken care of. She looked like the type who liked being in control.
Funny, so was he.
“I guess I started off on the wrong foot with you here. Except for the quarter at the meter,” he added. “I should get some points for that.”
“It’s going to take more than a quarter to make up for missing the wedding rehearsal,” she told him.
“And leaving you at the altar. I could escort you up the stairs,” he offered as they skirted the velvet rope that blocked off the balcony. “That’s a start.”
She glanced at his arm. “I can make it up the stairs on my own.”
“I bet you can,” he said, resisting the urge to linger a bit behind her and admire the view. “It would be more fun with me, though.”
She rolled her eyes. “Are you always like this?”
“You’re going to break down and laugh sooner or later. You may as well give in to the inevitable.”
She turned to him at the top of the stairs. “And that is?”
He gazed down into those whiskey-gold eyes. “I’ll let you know.”
And suddenly, as she stared back at him, the joking slipped away and something else flashed in its place, a hard, deep pulse of wanting that momentarily banished everything else. Something hummed between them, like a subsonic vibration that he could neither hear nor see, but only feel.
And the flicker in her eyes told him she felt it, too.
Always A Bridesmaid (Logan's Legacy Revisited) Page 2