by Nancy Warren
“I’ll make you a bet.”
“A bet?” Mike leaned forward.
“I bet you that I’ll have a front-page story printed before you will.” Tess was going to get a story so hot it would burn his feet.
A sly grin lit his face. “Tell you what. Whoever wins cooks the loser dinner.”
She had a bad feeling about this. “And what does the loser have to eat?”
“Crow. That’s the bet. Take it or leave it.”
“Oh, I’ll take it. I’m not afraid of you.”
Mike put his hand on the doorknob, then suddenly turned. “Maybe you should be.” He pulled her into his arms.
With a moan, Tess gave in to it, in to him, welcoming the onslaught of emotions as his tongue plunged inside her mouth. She met him need for need, tangled in the warmth and strength of him.
When he broke the kiss, she stared at him with blank shock, his own surprise mirrored back.
“Oh, my,” she said. “This could complicate things.”
“Count on it.”
Dear Reader,
I love movies. My favorites are still the old black-and-white romantic comedies. It Happened One Night, His Girl Friday and Roman Holiday are just three that spring to mind where the hero is a newspaper reporter.
I’m a former newspaper reporter myself and I still have fond memories of those deadline-crazy days. I thought it would be fun to write my own romantic comedy about a pair of competitive newspaper reporters after the same big story. And I was right. It was fun.
Tess Elliot and Mike Grundel are mismatched lovers from the opposite ends of the social spectrum, but they share a love of the movies and a keen nose for news. This is the first of three books, all written about the same two rival newspapers in the fictional town of Pasqualie, Washington. Watch for the sequels, A Hickey for Harriet and A Cradle for Caroline, in Harlequin Duets in April 2003.
It always makes my day when I hear from a reader. You can drop me a line at Nancy Warren, P.O. Box 37035, North Vancouver, B.C. V7N 4M0, Canada. Or come visit me online at www.nancywarren.net.
Happy reading,
Nancy Warren
Books by Nancy Warren
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
838—FLASHBACK
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
19—LIVE A LITTLE!
47—WHISPER
57—BREATHLESS
HARLEQUIN DUETS
78—SHOTGUN NANNY
HOT OFF THE PRESS
Nancy Warren
This one’s for Susan Lyons, a fellow writer and a good friend. With thanks.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
1
Excerpt from “Screen Notes” by Tess Elliot, The Pasqualie Standard, February 10:
Two new movies opened this weekend: A Country Wedding and Boneblaster III. A Country Wedding is an intelligent, warm and visually entrancing film based on the nineteenth century novel. I highly recommend this sensitive portrayal of a woman caught between the restrictions of the class system and the desires of her heart.
If you prefer to watch steroid-enhanced, testosterone-pumped lunks chase silicone-puffed bimbos while blowing up a lot of stuff, you’ll love Boneblaster III.
Excerpt from “Mike’s Movie Picks” by Mike Grundel, The Pasqualie Star, February 10:
Boneblaster fans, the movie we’ve been waiting for blasted onto local screens this week, and wow! BBIII is the best yet. Hans Grosskopf annihilates outer space commandoes with awesome artillery, saving the world and bedding babes in black leather. When he stands over the smoking ruins of his warrior foes and says, “You had it coming, scumbags,” you can feel that line going down in movie history. BBIII gets a big high-five from Mikey.
Also new this weekend a real groaner of a snooze-fest, A Country Wedding. A bunch of snotty English folks spend three days getting married. I mean, come on. Nobody heard of a Reno quickie over there? A Comatose Wedding gets this week’s Rotten Tomato. Until next week: “You had it coming, scumbags!”
MIKE GRUNDEL sauntered into the movie theatre and the smell of popcorn hit him like a left hook to the gut.
Lunch had been an apple and a Babe Ruth bar on the fly while he’d tried to nail down a source—a source who didn’t want to be nailed—on the Cadman story. Dinner—well, that would be popcorn. His stomach grumbled like a nagging mother reminding him he wasn’t eating properly as he joined the concession line.
In front of him stood a hottie in snug jeans. He tried to take his mind off his growling hunger by admiring her splendidly rounded rear and long legs. He smiled to himself, some of his frustration evaporating as he edged nearer. He’d know that body anywhere.
Almost touching her elegant back, he eased close enough to distinguish the subtle color variations in the strands of her shoulder-length hair: gold, wheat, hints of platinum. Close enough to smell the citrusy aroma of her shampoo. She never smelled of perfume—he assumed she didn’t use the stuff. Fine by him. He preferred the scent of woman.
As always, he resisted the urge to touch that glorious hair, though he indulged himself in one last whiff of citrus that overlaid the pungent smell of popping corn like a silk veil over gaudy fabric.
“Hey, babe,” he said. “Come here often?”
Tess Elliot turned, her hair swinging, giving him another tantalizing hint of lemon. Gentle humor sparkled from clear gray eyes. “Don’t you have any original lines?”
He shrugged, deliberately cocky. “Don’t usually need them.”
She choked on a laugh. “I’m amazed you can stagger around with an ego that size.”
“You keep it trimmed,” he told her, more truthfully than she could possibly realize. Or maybe she saw more than he’d intended for her gaze widened and the zing of attraction they both persistently ignored crackled through the air.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here tonight,” she said softly.
“If it’s a new movie, and it’s opening in Pasqualie, I’ll be here,” he said, wishing it weren’t the truth. Getting demoted from hard news to movie reviews had been a slap in the face that he’d taken for his own reasons. Still, it rankled.
Amusement flickered across her face. “I may be going out on a limb here, but I predict you’ll hate tonight’s film. It’s a chick flick. Nothing gets blown up.”
He moved deliberately nearer, chasing the amusement from her expression and turning it to wariness. At this range he saw that the pearly perfection of her skin had nothing to do with cosmetics. “The kisses will be blown up,” he all but whispered, then watched, with his own lazy amusement, as a tinge of pink bloomed in her cheeks.
As always when he and Tess were together, the heat between them ran just below the surface. He toyed with it as a kid might toy with a kite string, pulling it closer, letting it out, but never reeling it all the way in. That would spoil the game.
Or would it? What would the very proper daughter of the very rich and important Walt Elliot do if a recently demoted reporter from a no-account family took it into his head to follow his instincts and kiss her?
Intriguing thought. So intriguing, Mike dropped his gaze to her plump pink lips, almost shockingly sensual in the patrician face. He wondered what her father would do if he found a guy from the wrong side of the tracks making time with his daughter. Mike pictured his cojones hanging from the rearview mirror of Walt Elliot’s fancy car lik
e a rich man’s fuzzy dice and jerked his gaze back up.
No, thank you. The heat between him and Tess was simply the result of seeing a lot of each other. As soon as he got his real job back, he’d forget all about Tess and her big gray eyes, kiss-me-baby lips and body that begged to be explored.
They’d been staring at each other for a moment too long. Another second and he’d lose what little sense of self-preservation he had left. He’d drag her to him and kiss the breath out of her. Forget her powerful father, forget pulling the tatters of his career back together, forget everything but the feel of her hair running through his fingers, her scent surrounding him and the taste of her on his lips.
“Next?” snarled the impatient teen manning the concession.
Tess blinked and turned to the counter.
Mike released the breath he didn’t remember holding. It was as though he’d let the kite out, but the string still stretched, taut with tension. What he ought to do was pull out a machete and cut Tess Elliot loose, out of his dreams. It was only because he was between women that he thought about her so much. As soon as he bagged Cadman, he’d get back in the game and Tess would fade into insignificance.
Her voice was as cool and softly musical as an alpine stream as she gave her order. “Club soda, please.”
Club soda, he thought with a mild stab of irritation. He could have guessed. No greasy popcorn for Tess Elliot, no sugary cola. Didn’t she ever get her hands messy or her diet unbalanced? “Most people think a movie without popcorn is like sex without an orgasm,” he told her as she collected her colorless, calorie-less drink.
She turned and gazed at him with faintly raised brows, princess to peasant. “Rather like attempting an intelligent conversation with you.” Drink in hand, she turned toward the theater.
She rarely let him get away with anything, which naturally drove him crazy. How could he help himself wanting her? She was smart, gorgeous, sexy and had a mouth on her that constantly challenged him. He watched her go, her back finishing-school straight, top-to-toe class.
Then it was his turn with the snarly teen. Except the girl simpered when she saw him, light dancing off her tongue stud. A woman like Tess would crush him beneath her Prada heel, but to a teen with a tongue stud and acne, he was hot stuff. Great. “Jumbo popcorn, please, extra butter,” he said loudly enough for Tess to hear. “And a large cola, extra calories.”
If it wasn’t bad enough he’d been demoted—condemned—to write movie reviews, insult had been heaped on insult when he discovered the rival paper’s reviewer was a dewy-eyed debutante whose daddy had bought her a job.
Mike probably wouldn’t have minded so much if she was homely. A hundred extra pounds or so and maybe a bushy moustache or a few well-placed zits and he might have gone easy on her. But damn if the cub reporter didn’t remind him of Grace Kelly—and one of the secrets no one, but no one, knew about Mike Grundel was this thing he had for Grace Kelly.
She was cool, sophisticated, unapproachable, but hints of fire glinted beneath the icy surface.
Tess had that quality, only she was more uncertain with it. The Ice Princess in training to be the Ice Queen. The first time he’d seen her he’d almost swallowed his tongue. He’d imagined thawing the ice until she was melting with heat—right under him.
It wasn’t going to happen, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t play mental footsie. What was the harm in that? He slipped into the darkened theater and noticed her about halfway down, perched on an aisle seat. She had a notebook already open and a pen poised above it.
She was so green, he grinned. Who brought a notebook to the movies? Somewhere on his desk he had a press package with all the names spelled properly and glossy stills from the film. As if he’d ever use them. There was even a plot summary in case he fell asleep.
The seat across the aisle from Tess was vacant. He plopped into it, scattering popcorn.
She’d noticed him. He could tell by the way she stared at the blank screen as though all thirteen episodes of The Jewel in the Crown were being broadcast simultaneously.
As did many cities, Pasqualie, Washington, had two daily newspapers. The Standard was a broadsheet; big on commentary and in-depth analysis, it liked to think of itself as the serious paper. Even Tess’s movie reviews featured analysis and pseudointellectual commentary.
But his paper, the Star, was a tabloid—the common man’s rag. From the scantily clad Star Gal on page three to the big coverage on single moms, union grievances and local crime, the Star stayed true to its readers. Star stories were short, punchy and dramatic. So were Mike’s reviews. He pretty much could have written this one without bothering to darken the theater door, but he had his professional pride. Besides, Tess was here.
Her pen started to tap the blank paper on her knee. Was she analyzing the movie already, before it even started?
What was tonight’s flick called again? Something about Paris. Mike leaned in her direction. He assumed a falsetto. “A Day in Paris is a simply delightful romantic comedy. Poor little Monique has lost her dog Fifi’s diamond collar from Cartier. Luckily, Prince Christian Dior will fight the evil Pierre Balmain for the collar and win Monique’s heart, thus showing the eternal struggle of woman to pick the right designer.”
Tess gazed at him for a moment, then she leaned across the aisle toward him, close enough that he smelled the citrus scent of whatever she used on her hair. Her lips were glossy as though she’d just licked them, and they parted slightly as she closed the distance between them, her eyes fluttering to half-mast in the classic kiss-me pose.
Mike felt his own eyes widen, his blood begin to pound and he nearly choked on his popcorn. If reciting a few designer names made her kiss him, maybe he could lure her into his bed with a Tiffany’s catalog. Did Tiffany have a catalog? he wondered fuzzily as he leaned forward to meet her halfway.
But she didn’t kiss him. Instead she spoke, her nasal drawl sounding like Rocky after a few too many rounds. “Dis here movie, We’ll Always Have Paris, is nothin’ but crap. I’m tellin’ yez. What do they want wit’ Paris? There’s nothin but foreigners there. Save yer money. Wait till Debbie Does Paris.”
She smiled sweetly. Straightened and turned back to the blank screen.
TESS WISHED Mike would leave her alone so she could get over her embarrassing crush in peace. But not as much as she wished he’d spirit her away on the back of his Harley and do all the things to her she’d fantasized about.
He was her secret ideal man. A heart-thumpingly sexy, motorcycle-riding bad boy with a brain. He was so different from most of the men she knew. In her world, men rode in limousines and most of their brains had been bred out of them.
As she watched furtively, Mike tipped his head back against the seat, presumably for a prefilm doze. As his shoulder-length black hair swung behind him, she caught the glint of a silver earring. She wondered what it would feel like to run her hands through his hair, if the strands were silky to the touch.
She jerked her attention back to the screen while she reminded herself of the obvious: Mike Grundel might be gorgeous, and the kind of fearless investigative journalist she admired, but he insulted her in the deepest way it was possible for anyone to insult her. He didn’t take her seriously. He might tease and flirt with her, but he clearly thought she was a little rich girl toying with a job until she married a stuffed shirt with a hyphenated last name.
How dare he look down on her? He was hardly in a position of superiority, professionally or personally. He was suffering from a major career setback after a recent bit of investigative reporting had been a little too fearless. After a blistering attack on local developer and philanthropist Ty Cadman, Grundel’s only quoted source claimed to have been misquoted and the Star, famous for never, ever apologizing, was forced to print an apology on the front page.
Instead of being fired, as everyone in the news community had assumed, Mike Grundel had been demoted to covering the movies and writing innocuous features. At first she’d read hi
s reviews eagerly, wondering where he and she would agree on films and where they’d differ. It didn’t take her long to realize they agreed on nothing. It had become almost humorous, and over the months his reviews had become more outrageously guy-centered, and she’d begun to slant her reviews to her readership. She hadn’t meant to, it just happened.
The movie was about to start so Tess put Mike—and her wobbly efforts at unbiased movie reviewing—out of her mind and gave her full attention to the screen. Not even journalism school cynicism and six months of reviewing every foot of celluloid that made it to Pasqualie had dampened Tess’s love affair with the screen.
Maybe that’s what had made Mike Grundel so attractive to her initially. He’d reminded her of Rhett Butler, with blue eyes that dared the devil, a grin that could charm a rattlesnake and a bullheaded determination to get what he wanted, whatever the cost. In this case, the cost had included his reputation.
He appeared to be taking his demotion on the chin. He’d taken his movie reviewing gig and turned it into a platform for beer-guzzling macho men everywhere. He took gleeful delight in his chauvinistic reviews. And, she had to admit, she’d begun to counter his attacks with her own brand of feminism. She wondered if he flipped to her reviews the second he got his copy of the Standard as eagerly as she turned to his when the Star arrived.
Of course, she’d be boiled in oil before she admitted she ever read his stuff.
We’ll Always Have Paris was her favorite kind of film. Glamorous actors, glamorous clothes, glamorous Paris. After a few moments she forgot about Mike Grundel snoozing across the aisle and lost herself in the story of unlikely lovers, mistaken identities and a stolen Rembrandt.
She was completely caught up in the movie, giggling helplessly at times, when she noticed a rich chuckle coming from opposite her seat. It couldn’t be. But sure enough a quick glance confirmed that Mike Grundel, Boneblaster fan, was enjoying a romantic comedy.