by Nancy Warren
She all but slumped to the couch and sipped her very real Chardonnay, reminding herself she was in Pasqualie, not Paris. Then she sipped again, a nice big chilly gulp that shivered its way down her throat and gave her the courage to begin. “I asked you in because I want to talk to you about something.”
“I wondered when we’d get to the you-being-mad-at-me part.” He sat beside her, six inches closer than she would have liked, took a swig of wine and set the glass on the table. “Shoot.”
But when he gazed at her, those eyes completely focused on her and with no smirk on his face or snide comment on his lips, she found it difficult to begin. For a second her breath hitched and she found herself staring at his mouth.
It was just about the sexiest mouth she’d ever seen: wide, an arrogant tilt to the corners, a bottom lip that was full and sensual. Her gaze followed a fascinating thin white scar that bisected the lower lip and traveled down to disappear into darkish stubble on his chin. She wondered what injury had left him scarred, and if she’d be able to feel it if she kissed him.
Her quick anger had passed and now she fervently wished she’d left him on the street when she’d had the chance. She didn’t want to think about kissing him. She didn’t want a memory of him lounging on her couch with his eyes focused on her.
“I…um, think you should take me more seriously,” she said in a suddenly husky voice. Oh, yeah. That should do it.
“I take women like you very seriously. You’re dangerous.”
He was misinterpreting her, probably deliberately, but she kind of liked the part about him thinking she was dangerous. He reached out and touched her hair, sifting it through his fingers, stroking her cheek in a gesture that could be friendly or seductive. She wasn’t sure how he meant the gesture, but she didn’t feel friendly. She felt seduced.
She was having trouble concentrating with his face only a few inches from hers. Breathing had suddenly become an issue, and she could have sworn the pulse in his throat kicked up a notch.
Beneath heavy lids, his deep blue gaze clouded. He leaned in, so slowly she could swear he was fighting himself.
“We got off to a bad start,” he said huskily, running his fingers through her hair.
“Yes. Yes, we did.”
“We should start over.”
“Start over?”
“Yes.” His lips eased closer, hovering a mere inch from her own. She smelled the spicy, warm scent of a healthy adult predatory male. Felt his warmth and the stir of air as he moved in on her slowly.
She had plenty of time to pull away, but she didn’t have the smallest desire to evade that sensual mouth. Her heart began to pound and she licked her lips in anticipation. For months this attraction had been like a quiet hum between them, never openly acknowledged, never completely ignored. Maybe it was time to see where it led. She tingled with the anticipation of his kiss.
But it didn’t come.
He jerked to his feet so quickly his knee knocked the edge of the old steamer trunk she used as a coffee table, causing his wineglass to wobble.
In seconds he was leaning back against her computer desk, about as far away from her as he could get. His face was carefully expressionless, but from the way his knuckles were clamped to the desk edge, she’d guess he was deliberately holding himself in check.
“If you’ve got something to say, say it,” he snapped, the sexy drawl gone from his tone. “I’ve got a review to write.”
“Why don’t you like me?” Argh. She could have bitten off her tongue the minute she spoke. He’d rattled her so she couldn’t think straight. Her voice sounded both wistful and peevish—about as mature as a bullied six-year-old.
Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. He rubbed a hand across his face, grimacing. “Who says I don’t like you?”
Her mouth would have dropped open had she not taken deportment lessons at private school. “You were just about to kiss me, then you leaped to the other side of the room.”
A huffy sigh escaped his lips. “Do you know how many media jobs come open in this part of the country?”
Her brow creased. What did that have to do with anything? “Not many.”
“You’re damn right. Not many. And yet you, with no experience, nothing to recommend you but your father’s influence and money, scoop one of the plums when there are seasoned reporters out there working as car salesmen and construction workers to support their families.”
“I graduated top of my journalism class. I—”
“Journalism class.” He made it sound like something you’d step around in the street. “You don’t learn about news sitting in a classroom. You put your nose to the ground and start sniffing. You wouldn’t recognize news if it bit you in the ass.”
Indignation, swift and fierce, consumed her. “I can’t help it that my father’s rich. But this is my career and I will not be patronized by a slob who thinks Boneblaster III is great art.”
She wanted to tell him about her other job offers, but that would involve explaining why she’d returned to her hometown, and she wasn’t sure she could explain it.
It was as though she needed to prove to everyone—mostly herself—that she could become a top reporter on her own. It wouldn’t have meant as much in another city. For some reason, she had to prove herself here in Pasqualie.
If she could convince the arrogant but talented Mike Grundel that she was a real journalist then maybe she’d finally taste success.
“This is discrimination, you know,” she said to him. “You made up your mind without giving me a chance. And—” she narrowed her eyes, going for the jugular “—if you’re such a great newshound, what are you doing on the entertainment page?”
He flushed darkly. “That’s different. I had a source choke on me.”
“I can imagine how that feels. And I want you to know I understand how circumstances could put you in that position and that I don’t hold it against you in the least.” Was she good or what? “I have an open mind.”
After a short struggle with himself, he grinned. “I give you this round. But I’m telling you, you’re in a tough business. You can’t take the heat, get out of the newsroom.”
Ooh. She was going to get a story so hot it would burn his feet as he raced to catch up. She set her wineglass down with a snap. He was always challenging her, one way or another. This time she decided to pick up the gauntlet and slap his face with it. “I will make you a bet.”
“A bet?” He straightened and leaned forward, his mouth quirking.
“Yes. I bet you that I will have a front page story printed before you will.”
His eyes sparkled with challenge. “I play to win, princess.”
“Then you’ll have no objection to taking my bet. Hard news story only, on the front page. Whoever gets it first, wins.”
“What are the stakes?”
“I…” She hadn’t thought of that. She was impressed enough that she’d come up with the idea in the biggest display of bravado in her life. “I don’t know.”
A sly grin lit his face. “Tell you what. Whoever wins cooks the other one dinner.”
“Whoever wins cooks? That doesn’t seem fair.”
“The loser has to eat it.”
She wrinkled her brow, getting a bad feeling about this. “And what does the loser have to eat?”
“Crow.”
She might have known he’d pick something gross and juvenile. “Crow.”
“That’s the bet, babe. Take it or leave it.” He was heading for the door as he said it, as though he really didn’t care.
“Oh, I’ll take it.” She rose and followed him, to find him already shrugging into his coat. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He put his hand on the doorknob then suddenly turned. “Maybe you should be,” he said, and pulled her into his arms.
Surprise and a tiny spurt of panic shot through her as his mouth took hers. It felt as though he folded her into the kiss. Bending her here, arching her there, as he f
it their bodies together. His lips covered hers with passion, firmness and a hint of frustration.
As the panic and surprise ebbed, desire took their place. She felt the quick splurge of pleasure at being in the arms of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And exactly what she needed.
The quiet hum built to a roar as blood pounded in her ears, echoing the rhythm of her heart. With a moan, she gave in to it, in to him, welcoming the onslaught of emotions as his tongue plunged inside her mouth with more demand than finesse.
She’d been kissed with finesse plenty of times, but never with such raw, unabashed wanting, and she found herself responding ravenously. Her hands clutched his shoulders, then, unable to resist the temptation, dove into his hair, pulling him closer against her.
She met him need for need, tangled in the warmth and strength of him, wanting more, pressing closer. He felt so good, so hard and male, even though she was dimly aware that this was a very bad idea.
He must have concluded the same thing, for he eased her out of the kiss with a lot more finesse than he’d plunged into it, softening and toying, giving her a moment to tamp down the lust that spiked through her. It wasn’t easy to back away when she felt as though something cataclysmic had just occurred.
When at last he pulled away, she stared at him with blank shock, his own surprise mirrored back at her.
“Oh, my,” she said, raising a hand to her heart. “This could complicate things.”
He opened the door and stepped out into the hall. “Count on it.”
3
What is it with the French and sex? They spend so much time talking about it…
MIKE’S FINGERS PAUSED over the keys. Thinking about sex had the image of Tess popping into his head. He’d almost tugged the kite all the way in last night. It had been one of the toughest things he’d ever done to walk away from her. She’d been hot, and sweet, and willing, making him want her with a fierceness that stunned him. No woman had affected him that way in a long while. Maybe ever.
He cursed under his breath.
There were stars in her eyes. He knew the type. She equated sex with love, love with marriage, and marriage with his-and-her golf carts at the club.
He shuddered at the thought. Tess Elliot was most definitely not his type. If Pasqualie had royalty, she was it. A distant and cool Ice Princess, as beautiful as she was unattainable.
Thanks but no thanks. He liked his sex hot, sweaty, with no hard feelings when he was on his way. Not a commitment in sight.
She was something, though, and damn if she wasn’t tougher than he’d figured. A little friendly rivalry over a news story should put one more sorely needed barrier between them. One more reason for him not to jump her most delectable aristocratic bones. She’d thrown out quite a challenge, and he was looking forward to cooking up that crow and making her eat it.
A silent chuckle shook him. He was an excellent cook, a fact not many people knew. It had started when he was a kid fending for himself when the old man was on a bender. His mom was long gone by then. Mike sometimes wondered if she was a good cook and he’d inherited the gene from her. Hard to tell since she’d left before he had started school. Whatever the reason, he’d taken to the kitchen and figured his battered copy of Joy of Cooking had scored him a lot more action than his much less battered copy of Joy of Sex.
He’d cook up a nice quail or a Cornish game hen, sauced and stuffed to perfection. And he’d make Tess clean her plate. Watching her choke down the “crow” would add a bonus to getting his real job back.
He shouldn’t have taken Tess’s bet; he was an experienced journalist with a few years under his belt and a keen nose for scandal. She was a society princess who’d spent her life pampered and sheltered from all the good stuff that made front-page headlines. If she hadn’t got under his skin with her comment about his demotion, he wouldn’t have accepted her challenge.
Oh, hell. Who was he kidding? Of course he would have. Saving spoiled little rich girls from their own foolishness wasn’t his job.
He stood. Getting his job back was his job—and maybe the princess’s little bet was just the poke he needed to make it happen.
Leaving his review half completed, he strode to the managing editor’s office and barged in. “Mel, you’ve got to give me a break from these movie reviews, I can’t stand it anymore.”
Mel glanced up from her computer and ran her fingers through brutally short white-blond hair, causing further disarray. “Just the man I want to see.”
His heart leaped. Yes, she was putting him back on news.
“Take a look at these.” She riffled through the piles of paper on her desk until she found what she was looking for. “The results of our latest reader survey. Check out page six.”
Mike took the paper-clipped bundle and flipped. Readers randomly surveyed were asked, “Do you read Mike Grundel’s movie reviews?” and “Do you agree with him?”
He shrugged. “So what? Half the people like what I write and half the people hate it.”
“Come on, Mikey, look again.” Mel’s frequent cigarette breaks had worn off most of her lipstick, leaving a red pencil line around her thin lips. Those lips were smiling—always a bad sign.
“For what?”
“Look at the readership figures. Ninety-eight percent of those surveyed said they ‘always’ or ‘often’ read your movie column. And check out the reader responses. Who likes you?”
Mike glanced through the material again and made the obvious connection. “Men like my stuff, women don’t.”
“Women don’t just dislike your stuff, hon. They hate it.” Her scratchy two-pack-a-day voice resonated with glee.
He tossed the papers back onto her desk. “You can’t please everybody. Assign the reviews to another reporter. I’ll go back to news.”
“You’re still missing the point. Women read your reviews every week to remind themselves that men are pigs. Men read the same reviews and start beating their chests. You probably cause as many arguments in Pasqualie households as sex and money. That, my boy, is controversy. And that sells papers.”
“Look, Mel. I know I blew it on the Ty Cadman story. I thought my source would come forward when I needed him.”
Her lips tightened and the smile went south. “And I thought you had other sources. You made us all look like idiots.” She ground her teeth audibly. “I hate printing apologies.”
“But that bribery story was true.”
“There was no story without other sources to back it up and you know that.”
“Okay, so I put my tail between my legs and did movie reviews like a good boy—”
“And they saved your butt. Today, in the management meeting, was the first time Joel didn’t ask why I haven’t fired you yet.”
If the publisher wanted him fired, he’d been in deeper water than he thought. He owed Mel, but he was still the best reporter she had, and he was wasted on the stupid movie beat. “I’ve paid my dues. Come on. I’ve got to have a break.”
She turned back to the computer.
“Don’t make me beg.”
Her fingers started flying over the keys.
“Okay, okay. I’m begging you here, Mel.”
She turned back to him. “Well, now we know everybody reads your reviews I’m putty in your hands.” She dug through the pile again and handed him more paper. “Here.”
He stared down at the letter and attached tickets, horror buckling his stomach. He glanced up at Mel to see if she was joking, but there was no grin on her face. “Opera tickets?”
“That’s right. You’ll be taking in the opening night of La Traviata at the new opera house.”
His tie felt too tight. And he wasn’t wearing a tie. “But that’s Cadman’s place.”
“Right again. Built by upstanding citizen Ty Cadman for the people of Pasqualie. There’s a story for you, Tiger. Go get it.”
“But we don’t do stories like this,” he argued feebly.
Her voice was granite-hard
. “We do when we’re kissing up.”
Mike left Mel’s office before he did something stupid, such as quit his job. He wasn’t a quitter, never had been. And besides, he had a score to settle with Mr. Tyrone Cadman. Maybe he’d been too quick to go to press, but the story was true, he knew it in his bones.
Mike wasn’t leaving Pasqualie, or the Star, until he had the story. Airtight, watertight, sue-proof. Then, once he had his reputation back, he’d be out of this backwater faster than you could say “civic corruption.”
But first he had to get Cadman.
THE CAVERNOUS marble foyer buzzed with talk and restrained laughter. Champagne glasses clinked among small, elegantly dressed groups. Tess shivered, feeling her shoulders begin to goose bump in the strapless evening gown.
Harrison Peabody placed a tuxedo-clad arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Would you like me to get your wrap?”
“No, thanks.” But his hand was gone and Harrison was already on his way to fetch it. Harrison was one of her oldest friends, but the man made a doormat look as if it had backbone.
While Harrison was gone, Tess listened to the string quartet, savored the opening-night excitement and the see-and-be-seen comings and goings of the well-dressed crème de la crème of Pasqualie society.
Her parents were across the foyer, both looking elegant and successful, in a group that included Harrison Peabody’s parents. She caught her mother’s eye and they exchanged a wave. Tess was conscious of conflicting feelings. She loved her parents and admired them, but didn’t want to think she was looking across the foyer at her future.
A waiter offered her a tray and she took a flute of champagne with a sigh. Maybe she shouldn’t have come back to Pasqualie.
Feeling herself under scrutiny, Tess turned and her breath seemed to catch in her throat.
Mike Grundel in a tuxedo?
She gave a discreet tug to the underwire bra responsible for her cleavage; maybe it was too tight. She had to be hallucinating.
As she watched, Mike ran a finger under his black bow tie as though he was also having trouble breathing. Their gazes remained locked and she wondered if, after the steamy kiss they’d shared the other night, she’d started making him appear, rather like a particularly sexy genie, whenever she needed to remind herself that she was young, with her own life to lead. If he presented her with three wishes, she wondered where she’d begin.