by Lori Foster
“Promoting the art of reading,” she said, tossing the motto of the English department back in his face.
Belkin turned magenta and sputtered something rude, but shut up when the dean gestured.
“Delaney, we’re not casting judgment on your extracurricular job decisions.” Delaney quirked a brow toward Belkin. The dean grimaced and gave an infinitesimal shrug. “We’re here to discuss the promotion and your future in the department.”
Her stomach clenched. Future? Oh, hell. Had this all been a mistake? She swallowed the fear clogging her throat and took a deep breath. Two more in and out, and she was back in control.
No. The makeover was the best thing that had ever happened to her. The TV show was the best thing she’d ever made happen. And Nick? She wouldn’t trade Nick, their relationship—even if it was over—and, yes, their bets for anything in the world. She’d learned to value herself. To stand up and be noticed. To be visible, in more than just a physical way.
“Do you, personally, have an issue with my reviewing?” Delaney asked.
Her father frowned at her taking control of the conversation. He stared, respect slowly taking root in his eyes. Then he shook his head. “No. As you know, I don’t watch TV myself, but one of the professors had—what do you call it? used TiVo to record a few segments. Just as I am when I watch you teach in the classroom, I was impressed with your passion and ability to bring the student, or in this case the viewer, into your excitement for the topic.”
He was proud of her? Shock kept her silent for five seconds.
“What are your feelings about this particular topic?” she dared to ask.
“Popular commercial fiction?”
She nodded.
“As you said, it serves a purpose. And you make that point quite skillfully. Unfortunately, your name is so well known in the commercial field now, Professor Belkin is concerned it will detract from your ability to teach your classes.”
Of course he was. Delaney spared the snob a glare. “Do you agree with him?”
Delaney realized that while her father’s opinion mattered, it wouldn’t make a difference in how she felt. She was proud of herself.
“Actually, no. I’m of the mind that your sideline causes no issue. But that isn’t my decision to make. It will be yours, though.” Irritation was clear on his face when he looked at Professor Belkin. Then, with a pride-laced smile, he nodded to Delaney. “The hiring committee has chosen to offer you the job as assistant head of the English department.”
Shocked triumph surged through her as Delaney bit back a shout of excitement. Her father raised a brow, then continued, “On the condition that you agree to desist any and all reviews, television programs or the like.”
Her stomach sank. Give it all up? Her reviews, everything? Delaney looked at the man who she’d spent her life trying to please. For the first time, he was giving her his entire attention. And it wasn’t because of her makeup or her reviews. It was because, simply by believing she deserved it, she’d commanded that attention.
For the first time in her life, she was in total control. It was the wildest feeling. Delaney swallowed a triumphant laugh and flicked a dismissive look at Professor Belkin. Him, she didn’t need. But her father? They were about to come to an understanding. One she’d always wanted and now knew she’d have.
It was time to be proactive and turn her life into exactly what she wanted.
“It’s an honor to earn this promotion,” she told her father. “There’s no decision to make. My choice is clear.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MONDAY MORNING DELANEY sat in front of the blinking red light and smiled at Sean.
“Delaney, we’re thrilled to have you as a regular part of Wake Up California,” Sean said. He looked at the camera and gave the viewers his boy-next-door grin. “Not only is Delaney signing on permanently, we’ll be expanding ‘Critic’s Corner’ to five days a week. Stay tuned after the commercial break for the results of the Delaney Conner and Nick Angel bet.”
The light went blank and Sean gave Delaney’s knee an absent pat before hurrying off to answer the producer’s summons. Seated on her now permanent set, Delaney smoothed a hand over her Burberry skirt, the soft gray plaid a sedate curve over her hips. She’d paired it with a stereotypical white button-up shirt, but hers had lace at the cuffs and on the camisole peeking out over the top button. Black suede boots hugged her calves, giving her a sense of fashion and control.
A far cry from brown tweed, yet still her.
Just like this job. She’d been amazed at how her father had taken her decision. He’d actually grinned. Six months ago, she’d have told herself it was because he was glad to be rid of her. But she was over the self-pity trips and knew his smile had been pride, pure and simple.
Now she had it all. Or—she glanced at Nick’s latest book displayed on the table next to her—almost all. The only thing missing was Nick. And that was her own fault.
She’d finally admitted to herself when she’d arrived on set this morning that she’d used Nick’s anger, his hurt, as an excuse to run away. Sure, she’d left in a grand show of bravado, but the reality was she’d figured she was better off leaving than waiting for him to end things today when they officially announced the bet results.
But that was before. Now? Now she was Delaney Conner, Super Reviewer. Savvy, sexy and commanding, she’d be chasing her man down as soon as today’s taping was over.
Feeling like she could take on the world, Delaney smiled at the blinking red light and welcomed the viewers back. Three minutes into her spiel, there was a flurry of whispers and rustling of people on the set.
“What spurs change, in life and in fiction, is action. We see powerful examples of this in both modern and classical literature,” Delaney continued without a hitch. “Take Wuthering Heights, for example. It was Heathcliff’s love and loss of Cathy that turned him into a man of action. Dark actions, granted. But actions all the same. His primal response to her death pulls the reader into his psyche, lets them feel his pain. It shows, better than any inner monologue the writer could have sketched out, the depths of his emotion.”
Not breaking verbal stride in her lecture, Delaney scanned the set.
Well, well. A slow smile curved her lips as she took in the most welcome sight she could imagine. Delaney took a deep breath, but knew it wouldn’t stop her pulse from racing. Not when faced with the sexiest man she’d ever met. Gorgeous. Pure male perfection.
Nick Angel.
His midnight hair waved back from a face that she saw in her dreams. Piercing eyes, a vivid blue that saw clear through to her heart, narrowed when they met hers. He quirked his brow in challenge, letting her know that he might be here, but she wasn’t off the hook.
He’d come, his gaze said, ready to rumble.
Delaney swallowed. Then she lifted her chin, her message clear. Bring it on.
“I’m delighted to announce we have a special guest today,” she said as he came close. The camera panned back to get them both in the frame. “New York Times bestselling author Nick Angel. Let’s see if we can get his take on the subject.”
His look assured her he’d have a great deal more to discuss. Anticipation made her grin as he took his seat and clipped on a mic.
“Do you mind if I ask a question, first?” Nick asked, his tone making it clear he’d ask anyway. He leaned back in his chair, a wicked grin on his face, one arm along the back of the seat as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Delaney knew better. The sharp blue of his gaze told her she’d better stay on her toes. Fine with her, that’s why she’d worn the killer heels.
“Ask away,” she told him.
“You talk about these darker actions as if there is no choice. Don’t you agree that we, as humans, are always free to accept or reject those unsavory urges.” With a taunting grin, he added, “Or, to make it simpler, to accept or reject any emotion.”
Delaney narrowed her eyes. She’d ask what he knew about emotions, but the depth
s he’d tapped in his last manuscript said he knew plenty. Yet he still ran from them.
“I agree there are choices. Usually. But not always. Fear could be considered a darker emotion, couldn’t it? And our reaction to it is instinctive.”
“Fight or flight,” Nick agreed with a nod. “Yet, even in that, there’s a clear choice. Run or stand your ground.”
Delaney pursed her lips. Which one, exactly, was he accusing her of?
“So in your opinion, there is always a choice?” she countered. “Most would say that one doesn’t choose to fall in love, it simply happens. Usually at a very inopportune time.”
A small smile played at the corner of Nick’s mouth, sexy and teasing.
“Again, there’s a choice. A character can walk away from love.”
“I agree to a point,” she said slowly. Her eyes searched his face for a clue. Was he here to tell her he was choosing to walk away or face love? There was so much riding on this debate, her brain was stumbling over words. “Choices are mandatory in fiction. A character that refuses to act is a character that the reader quickly loses empathy for.”
“To throw your own example back at you, what if the character is afraid to act?”
“Growth comes from facing those fears, from overcoming our personal conflicts,” Delaney pointed out. “Or, of course, accepting that we’re too weak to face it,” she said with a taunting smile of her own.
The producer hopped up and down, practically doing the potty dance as he pointed to his watch. They were almost out of time. He mouthed the word bet and Delaney nodded.
“You say that like you’re an expert,” Nick commented.
“An expert on what works in fiction, yes. Unquestionably.”
“I suppose you’d say your reviews support that claim,” he said after a glance at the producer.
“I think I’ve shown that to be true, don’t you?” she asked. A part of her worried that he was irritated at losing. But she couldn’t back down. She couldn’t ever be less than she was, less than important. Not even for Nick.
Delaney paused while the producer indicated they were showing the review results to the viewers. The voters on Wake Up California’s Web site had agreed with four of the six book reviews she’d posted. Not a landslide win, but it definitely proved that she did, in fact, speak for the average viewer. Or at least 66.6 percent of them.
Her eyes met Nick’s, trying to read his reaction. But he was an expert at hiding his emotions, and his face was blank. She sighed as the producer pointed to her, indicating she was live again. She loved winning, but not at Nick’s expense.
“I’m sure you’ve all followed my bet with Mr. Angel on whether or not my reviews hold weight,” she stated, looking into the camera as if she were talking to a group of friends. The entire set was silent, everyone staring intently at the drama unfolding in front of them. Delaney noted a few snide looks aimed at Nick, but there were just as many lusty, drooling ones. “And as the poll shows, viewers agreed with four of my six assessments. Which, according to Mr. Angel’s parameters, should confirm that my views represent the average reader.”
Nick’s eyes gleamed and a small smile played at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t say anything.
“What you don’t know,” she said slowly, “is my summary of this exercise.”
All eyes were on here again, including Nick’s.
“While the reviews were the basis for the bet, the actual topic of debate was emotion versus lust.” She met Nick’s gaze. “In examining Mr. Angel’s views on the topic, I’ve come to realize that despite the obvious lure of emotions, lust is just as empowering.”
Nick frowned. She didn’t take her eyes from his.
“Lust, especially as portrayed in Mr. Angel’s writing, requires an element of honesty. Real lust isn’t just a quick, simple urge. It isn’t easily slaked, nor is it something that fades quickly. Real lust has power. It requires intimacy. It’s dark, real, intense. It is, I’ve come to find, just as real an emotion as the ever-touted love.”
Delaney hesitated when Nick frowned. But, unable to give up now, she continued.
“Emotions—especially the grander ones like love and intimacy—make us feel good. As humans, we’re hard-wired to seek connections, to find reflections of ourselves in others. It makes us feel good to give nice names to those reflections. Lust, obviously, isn’t a nice name. We want to pretty it up, make it sound good, but sometimes, in life and in fiction, lust is the answer. Thanks to Mr. Angel, I learned the power of lust this last month. In literature of course,” she added.
“And what about in real life?” he asked. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if it was just another question to debate. But the intensity in those blue eyes, the tight set of his jaw, told her the answer was crucial.
Delaney stared, her heart beating wildly. It took her five seconds to realize the producer was gesturing to cut.
“And with that,” she told the camera, “we’ll break for commercial.”
“Cut.”
Without a word, she and Nick unhooked their mics, and he silently followed her as she headed for her dressing room. Her permanent dressing room, she noted as she saw her name on the door. She’d come a long way. As she opened the door, she tossed a look over her shoulder and asked, “So? You’re here to take me up on that bet?”
His grin was fast and appreciative. His steps into the room were slow and measured. Delaney felt as if she were being stalked by a very sexy, very powerful cat. One that planned to eat her up in slow, savoring bites.
“Why don’t we conclude our last bet first, hmm?”
“Lust versus intimacy?”
“That’s the one.”
Delaney swallowed hard when he stopped within touching distance. It was all she could do to keep her fingers to herself instead of letting them trace the hint of stubble darkening the curve of his jaw.
“I’ve already shared my views on that bet,” she said slowly, trying to quiet the nerves in her stomach. Everything, she knew, was riding on this confrontation. Earlier, she’d been impatient to hunt him down and force the issue, but now that he was here, she wished she’d had more time to prepare.
“Then it’s my turn to share and your turn to listen, isn’t it?” he said, taking that last step to close the gap between them. The hard wood of the makeup table dug into her back as Delaney sucked in a shallow breath. If she so much as moved to the left or right, her breasts would brush against his chest.
Pure temptation. But one she knew she needed to ignore. At least until he’d made his point.
So she kept her body still as her eyes met his.
“You were right,” he said. Then he stopped, either for her to take over, or to gather his thoughts.
She raised a brow, waiting. He grimaced. His shrug sent tremors of desire through her body as his chest brushed her breasts.
“I was chicken. I was afraid to accept the emotions between us, to trust them or you. Or, actually, myself.”
Her jaw dropped. Holy shit. When he’d admitted she was right, she’d figured he meant her critique of his manuscript. Delaney’s stomach climbed into her throat, nerves shivering down her spine.
“And now?” she asked in a whisper.
“Now, I’m still afraid,” he admitted, reaching out to finger the collar of her shirt. His eyes met hers and he pulled a face. “Like you said, opening up means the possibility of rejection. It’s one thing to put my words out there, my stories. But putting my heart out there is harder, you know?”
Her breath caught in her chest at his admission. What did that mean? That his heart was involved? With her? A little or a lot? Was there an etiquette to asking someone for clarification when they were pouring out their emotions? She almost laughed. For all of her pushing for the concept, she had no idea how to deal with it.
“Rejection scares me, too,” she admitted. She met his gaze, her eyes tracing his features. He was so gorgeous, would he even understand? Did it matter?—she had to be honest.
“You were right, I was hiding things from you. I didn’t want you to turn away. I didn’t know how you’d react if you knew the real me.”
“How could you think you wouldn’t measure up, Delaney? You’re not only one of the smartest women I’ve ever known, you’re the most gorgeous. I can’t believe you’d think I’d care if you were a teacher instead of a TV personality.”
“It goes a little deeper than that,” she admitted.
“Honestly, after I got past the anger at feeling used, I wasn’t surprised by your job,” he continued. “Your brain is one of the most beautiful things about you. It’s a turn-on to debate with you, to watch you think.”
She wanted to grin at the warm, fuzzy feeling his words gave her, but she was stuck on his first statement.
“You thought I used you? How?”
“For some promotion.” Nick explained how he’d read her e-mail that night. Realization dawned, like a smack upside the head. He’d been pissed over feeling used, not freaked to see her in her red sweats and greasy face. Delaney couldn’t hold back a slightly hysterical giggle.
“I didn’t use you,” she told him. “At least, not like that. The only things I took before the board were my teaching qualifications. I didn’t bring in our bet or my stint on Wake Up California.”
He nodded, his expression making it clear that it really wasn’t an issue. “We had a bet, a very public one, which you could have used without compunction,” he told her. “I jumped on it as an excuse to justify my fear, to push you away and deny how I was feeling.”
Then, as if unable to hold out any longer, he slid his hands down her waist and grasped her hips to pull her against him. He gave her a wicked grin and asked, “So if not that way, how did you use me?”
“For the great sex, of course.”
Nick’s laugh filled her with joy. Delaney wrapped her hands around his shoulders, loving the feel of him back in her arms. Before she could let herself sink into the sensation, though, she had to know.
“I was worried…” She took a deep breath and opened up completely. “Am worried about your reaction to how I looked before the Risqué magazine makeover.”