by Nancy Warren
“Isn’t that kind of obvious?”
He shrugged. “You’re right. Stealing’s better.”
She huffed out a breath. “While you plan a life of crime, I’ll get back to making dinner.”
That caught his attention. “Sounds good. What are we having?”
“I am having salad.”
He followed her to the kitchenette and leaned against the single bank of cupboards while she went back to chopping. “That’s an awful lot of salad for one person,” he said, snagging a snow pea.
He was incredibly cute when he wheedled, plus she felt that a brainstorming session might be exactly what they needed. “You can stay if you do the dishes.”
“Great. Do you have any steak or anything to go with all that green stuff?”
She raised her eyebrows, gave him a don’t-push-it look and went back to chopping.
“No. Really. You need some more meat on your bones.”
She sighed. Wheedling and begging—how could they be so endearing? “I’ve got some free-range chicken breasts.”
“Do you have cornmeal?”
“Pardon?”
But he was already opening her cupboards. “Corn-bread.” He pawed through packets and jars and she heard a groan. “Does everything in your kitchen have to be organic?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any organic cornmeal?”
“No.”
“Ah, flour. No time for yeast. Scones. Do you have cheese?”
His muttering amused her. Did he really think she was going to make him scones? She didn’t even think she had a recipe. She started to answer, but he was already in her fridge pulling out cheese and eggs.
“I’m not cooking you scones,” she said.
“I’m cooking you scones.”
And, much to her surprise, he started, showing a skill and comfort in the kitchen that amazed her.
As she continued with the salad, he rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands and went to work. He leaned around her to turn on the stove and his arm brushed hers. She couldn’t prevent the shiver of awareness as her body felt his heat and her nostrils recognized his scent.
For a long moment he didn’t move but stayed behind her, rigid, his breath stirring the hair on the back of her neck so it felt like a caress. She waited, instinctively sensing the tension within him, wondering if it would crack and he’d drag her into his arms. Wondering what she’d do if he tried.
He hadn’t in any way acknowledged the passion that had flared between them, and even though it had kept her awake at night, she refused to broach the subject. But she wasn’t a convenient body whenever he felt like a little extracurricular nooky; she hoped she’d have the strength to prove it by rejecting his advances.
Her heart rate picked up and she licked her lips, but her resolve wasn’t put to the test.
He retreated to his eggs and mixing bowl. “While you suck up to the bird people, I’m going to take a drive to Spokane.”
All thoughts of kissing fled as she turned to stare at him. She was a rule follower, and to her mind stalking a man merely because he’d played golf with Mr. Cadman was bending the rules to breaking point. “Mike, you’re not—”
“Yep. I’m going to visit Mr. Nathan Macarthur. I think I’ll buy some insurance.”
While the scones were baking, he grilled the chicken breast in her toaster oven, then delved back into her cupboards and pulled out the walnut oil she’d bought for something or other. “Do you have any wine vinegar?”
She gave up being shocked, or insulted, that he’d taken an invitation to dinner as a chance to play guest chef in her kitchen. “Cupboard above the fridge.”
When they sat down to dinner with fresh steaming scones and a chicken dish that looked as if it came straight out of a gourmet cooking magazine, she decided to let it go. When she bit into the flaky scone she almost moaned with pleasure and forgave him completely. “When did you learn to cook?”
“When I figured out it was the fastest way to get a woman into bed.”
She chuckled. “I thought your charm alone would do the trick.”
He shook his head sadly. “Women are tougher than you think.” He shot her a teasing glance, but something hot sizzled beneath it, making her stomach curl. “Look how long we’ve been seeing each other. Haven’t had you falling into bed with me.”
There was a pause while the temperature in the room seemed to rise. She finally managed to speak, but her voice wasn’t her own. “Don’t think a few scones are going to do the trick.”
He laughed and helped himself to more salad, breaking the moment. But she had to wonder, if he put his mind to seducing her, how long she’d hold out. After the way they’d behaved the other night, she wouldn’t put money on her own chances of remaining unseduced. And the scones, delicious chicken and salad dressing had nothing to do with her weakness for him. She took another bite of scone, flaky and warm, the butter she’d spread just melting—Well, they didn’t have much to do with it.
To change the subject, and her train of thought, she said, “Margaret Peabody’s back in town. We’re meeting tomorrow.”
“Great,” he said around a mouthful of chicken, “I’ll come with you.”
“No, you won’t. Are you crazy? She already reported you to your boss.”
He shook his head. “Wasn’t Margaret. That was her not-so-better half. Look, Tess. No offense, but you don’t know how to do an interview. You’ve got no experience at this kind of thing. You have to read body language, delve beyond the obvious, ask the tough questions. Listen to what’s not being said.”
“Thanks for the lesson,” she said with frigid politeness. “And once again, no. You can’t come.”
“This is my story, too. I’m willing to go to jail for it. You can invite me to tea, can’t you?”
She shrugged. “We’re meeting at Café Trieste for coffee. You can sit at a nearby table and watch her body language.”
He made a face. “Café Trieste? That’s that grotesque yuppie place where your kind hangs out.”
“You got it.”
“I’m not—”
She raised her hand. “That’s as big a concession as you’re getting. And if you try anything smart, the whole deal is off.”
“All right.” He groaned. “Café Trieste, where coffee has forty-seven names, costs nine bucks, and none of it tastes like coffee.”
“So stay home.”
He scowled at her. “What time tomorrow?”
6
Kick It made me wish the P.I. heroine would kick the sexy-but-dim-witted police officer hero out of every scene but the bedroom ones.
TESS ARRIVED at the coffee shop ten minutes early, wanting to be certain of securing seats. She was lucky enough to nab one of the prize window tables since she arrived just as a couple was leaving. The woman was speaking into a cell phone, the man checking e-mail on his Blackberry.
Mike was going to hate it here, she thought smugly as she pulled a notebook out of her bag, thinking she’d work while she waited. She shoved it in again. No reason to remind Margaret Peabody she was a reporter. Instead, she ordered a cappuccino and dug into her bag once more, this time for the Wall Street Journal.
The pages rustled importantly, but she didn’t read. She mentally rehearsed the things she wanted to find out from her mother’s friend. She felt a little guilty using the family connection as a ruse to gain information, but, she reasoned, she was a reporter. She had to toughen up. Besides, Margaret Peabody wouldn’t be hurt. It was Ty Cadman Tess and Mike were after.
Giving up on an article about the national economy, she sat back and simply enjoyed her coffee. She loved this place. It smelled of espresso and chocolate, steamed milk and biscotti, while the constant shush and spurt of the coffee bar sounded like a steam engine chugging through the Italian Alps.
Café Trieste was owned by a Tuscan family and the coffee jockeys called out their instructions in Italian. The walls were burnt umber, the floor terra-cotta tile, and
the china hand-painted with stylized flowers on twining green stems. It hardly took any imagination at all to transport herself to the Tuscan hills.
She smiled at the idea of really being there. If she saved diligently maybe she could take a trip to Italy next summer. Of course, she could dip into her trust fund—there was nothing her grandmother would love more than for Tess to return to Europe—but it had become almost an obsession to live her life on her own terms and to manage on her salary.
She licked foam from her lip. Perhaps she was taking pride a bit far, but everything was sweeter when she earned it herself. Besides, she did manage to save money. She could afford a European vacation. Not at five-star hotels, but if she bought a rail pass, kept her eye out for cheap air tickets and found budget accommodation, she could squeak out a couple of weeks in Italy.
Excitement began to build. She’d visit Rome and wander around pretending she was Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. Of course she’d have no Gregory Peck. She leaned back in her chair. He’d been a reporter in that movie. Audrey’d been a…a princess.
All at once she imagined herself and Mike in Rome, but she envisioned not the Colosseum or the Trevi Fountain, not the Sistine Chapel or the catacombs. What came to mind was a cozy double bed with white cotton sheets in a simple room with shutters. And what she saw happening on that bed made her heart thump.
As though her erotic fantasy had conjured him, Mike strode through the door, black hair loose around his shoulders, black jacket open to the waist, black helmet hanging from his fingers. He scanned the room, caught sight of her and winked.
The wide cup rattled as she hastily set it down. If he could read her thoughts…
He made no other sign of recognition, but approached the coffee bar. She held back a smile when the young man handed him a mug painted with flowers. He rolled his eyes and took himself off to the long wooden counter with stools that gave him a good view of her table.
Back to the Wall Street Journal and the nation’s finances. She felt his presence, felt his gaze on her, even as she tried once again to concentrate. Two full readings of the article and she still didn’t have a clue whether the gross domestic product was in good shape or bad.
“Here I am, Tess. I hope I’m not late.” Margaret Peabody’s voice couldn’t have come at a more welcome time.
“No. You’re not late. It’s nice to see you.” Tess smiled as she folded the paper and rose to air kiss her mother’s friend. For as long as she could remember, Margaret Peabody had smelled of Chanel No. 5—she used the soap, the body powder and the perfume.
But today she smelled like a new woman. Something exotic and spicy.
“You changed your perfume,” Tess said before she could stop herself.
Mrs. Peabody didn’t seem offended by the personal comment. She beamed. “Yes. I needed a change.”
Only now, when Tess pulled away, did she note that perfume wasn’t all that was different. The woman’s hair was blond and cut into a stylish, tousled crop that made her look years younger. She wore a scoop-necked blouse, a leather skirt and knee-length leather boots. “You look great.” Tess said weakly, wondering what had happened to the real Margaret Peabody, the one who looked old enough to be Harrison’s mother. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“Just herbal tea, thanks. Perhaps something with ginger in it.”
“The almond croissants are fantastic.” She knew Mrs. Peabody’s sweet tooth and had sought to butter her up, quite literally.
The blond head shook. “I’m dieting,” she whispered.
Returning a few minutes later with a second cappuccino for herself and the herbal tea, she caught Mike staring at her guest. The woman didn’t look a bit like the middle-aged rather frumpy woman of Tess’s description, which wouldn’t improve his opinion of her observational powers.
She set the drinks on the round table and decided to start right in on the excuse she’d come up with for this meeting. “I’m stumped. Mother’s birthday is in a few weeks and I haven’t got a clue what to get her. I was hoping you might have some ideas.”
“Oh, goodness. It is difficult, isn’t it? The woman has everything.” Mrs. Peabody sipped her tea, then set her cup down.
Since Tess already had her mother’s gift—a Victorian scarf pin with garnets and seed pearls that she knew her mom would love—she let her guest ramble on.
“Her garden’s lovely, and you know how she prizes her roses, but I don’t think there’s room for a single new stem.”
“No. The gardener’s already threatening to dig up the older roses.” She glanced up, feeling Mike’s gaze burn into her, warm and distracting.
“She loves Victorian trinkets. You might try an antique shop.”
“Oh.” She loosened her collar, feeling suddenly warm. “What a great idea! Thanks.”
“Or it’s always nice to make a donation to a charity in the person’s name. Especially when it’s for someone who has everything.”
Tess could have kissed Mrs. Peabody. Keeping her voice casual she said, “That’s a fantastic idea. Is there a particular charity—or cause—you like to support?”
“Oh, indeed.” She nodded firmly.
Yes, yes, yes! Tess waited for a mention of eagles and B.I.B.
“My women’s group raises money to help educate young girls in Third World countries.” She shook her newly blond head sadly. “I think your mother already donated quite heavily this year.”
“That’s a wonderful cause,” Tess agreed, but not the one she wanted to talk about at the moment. She ran her index finger around the lip of her coffee cup as she gazed intently at the other woman. “I recently joined an environmental organization called Bald is Beautiful.”
“Really? I think we support that one, too.”
Tess’s pulse kicked up as she worked on keeping her face and voice calm. “You do? What a coincidence.”
“Someone recommended it, I can’t remember who. One of the young people at the club. It might have been Jennifer Cadman.”
Ty Cadman’s daughter. She glanced at Mike again, as though for inspiration, but of course he wasn’t close enough to hear.
They chatted a bit about mutual acquaintances and how Harrison was enjoying his job in his father’s bank. “Harrison invited me to the opening of the new opera center, you know. We had a very nice time. Mr. Cadman stopped and chatted for a few minutes.”
She watched over the rim of her cup. Was it her imagination? Did Mrs. Peabody twitch a bit at the mention of Ty Cadman. “Did he? I found the leads a little weak, but the costumes were lovely.”
No, no, no! Tess didn’t want to talk about singers and costumes. She wanted dirt on Cadman. She tried again. “Isn’t the building gorgeous?”
“Oh my, yes. Difficult to be tasteful with so much marble, but I think Ty managed it nicely.”
Beneath the table Tess crossed her fingers. “I wonder what he’ll work on next?”
“He’s always busy. I believe he’s working on a casino, a hotel and he mentioned something about a planned community he’s involved with.”
Tess’s eyes almost bugged out at the unexpected news. “A casino? And a planned community? What, here?”
“Oh, not the planned community. No.” Margaret Peabody shrugged her recently slimmer shoulders. “Ty helped us buy some land as an investment somewhere near the city. He says it will increase in value because of the hotel and casino project. He’s always been good like that, passing on tips. Of course, it’s all hush-hush at the moment.”
“Oh, naturally.” She smiled. “That sounds interesting. Why does he think the land will rise in value?”
“Pardon?” Margaret Peabody frowned slightly. Of course, this wasn’t exactly typical coffee chat for women such as them.
Tess waved the Wall Street Journal, delighted she’d brought it with her. “I have to start thinking of my own financial future. I was reading about the state of the economy before you arrived.” She swallowed, hoping Margaret Peabody hadn’t added an interest in n
ational finance to her new hobbies. “Who knows what the future holds?”
“Perhaps you should talk to Ty. I know he has quite a bit of land. He’s putting together a syndicate to develop a hotel complex. It’s on the river so there will be fishing and nature activities.”
“And, I believe you mentioned a casino.”
“Yes. I don’t care for gambling myself, but people seem to like it.”
Tess’s mind was racing. Could he possibly be planning to put a casino in a wildlife refuge? She sipped her coffee absently, and found it had gone cold.
She smiled at her companion. “You’ve been a great help,” she said. “I think I’ll hit the antique shops this afternoon and find something for Mother.”
“My pleasure, Tess. Thank you for the tea. I’ve got to run now. I’ve got an appointment with my personal trainer.”
They rose and air kissed once more. After which Tess stood rooted to the spot staring after the swishing, leather-clad hips of a woman older than her mother. A woman who used to look like her grandmother and could now pass for her sister. Personal trainer?
“You didn’t tell me your mom’s friend was a hottie,” came a deep voice from behind her.
“She wasn’t last time I saw her,” Tess replied, stuffing her newspaper back into her bag and gathering her things to leave.
Mike waited for her. “I’ll walk you out.”
“How polite.”
He snorted. “Cough up the goods.” He opened the door and she passed through.
Cough up the goods, indeed. She decided to tease him a little first. “Well, my mother’s birthday is coming up. Mrs. Peabody had some excellent sugg—”
“Dammit, there’s Mel.” Suddenly, Mike grabbed her hand. She was so astonished she turned to gape at him. He tried to drag her back into the coffee shop but an older Italian gentleman was coming out. “Mi scusi,” he said, edging around them and then Mike’s managing editor was in front of them, staring at their clasped hands.