by Jackie Braun
What exactly did that mean? Men, she knew firsthand, defined relationships differently than women did.
“Any other questions?” Logan asked.
Mallory had dozens of them, and the man, her prime-rib ticket to workplace redemption, was offering her the opportunity to ask them. Unfortunately, with him looking at her in that assessing way, her mind had gone blank. She shook her head slowly, thankful when their entrees arrived and saved her from appearing tongue-tied, which, for the first time in her professional life, she was.
They ate their rubber chicken and overcooked rice pilaf in virtual silence; all the while Mallory recalled his mention of grilled marinated flank steak. It was almost a relief when the servers cleared away their plates and the award program began. Except that, as the president of the women’s club blathered on about the recipient’s many virtues, from the corner of her eye, Mallory spied Logan watching her.
What on earth was he thinking?
Logan studied Mallory. He’d meant it when he’d told her she was bright, interesting and attractive.
Attractive. Hell, she was downright lovely with all that rich brown hair framing an oval face that was dominated by the most amazing pair of big dark eyes he’d ever seen. Despite her physical beauty, it was her personality that captivated him. He liked smart women. The smarter the better. Add in pretty and, well, it was a lethal combination as far as he was concerned. Mallory certainly hit the mark. That in itself was a problem.
Logan had met her kind once before, years ago. He’d fallen hard at the time, so hard he’d almost made it to the altar, ready and willing to promise his undying love and devotion. A month before their nuptials, however, his fiancée had called off the wedding. Felicia had claimed to need time and space. She’d needed to think, to reflect. What became clear was she hadn’t needed him. She married someone else.
It had been nearly a decade since then. Logan had heard from her only once, just after her wedding. She’d sent him a letter, the postmark read Portland, Oregon. In the brief note, she’d asked him to forgive her, but even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t. She’d included no forwarding address or phone number. He’d taken the hint. He’d been wary of commitment ever since.
That didn’t mean he didn’t like women or spending time with them. It just meant he didn’t let things progress into anything serious.
He glanced over at Mallory. She was scribbling down notes, seemingly absorbed in the award recipient’s less-than-exciting speech. As he watched her, his interest, among other things, was definitely piqued.
Rabid pit bull.
Logan’s agent had been adamant that he should steer clear of this particular reporter. Mallory had a reputation for ruining people, Nina Lowman insisted. Maybe it was the masochist in him that considered her reputation a challenge. Besides, he could handle himself around reporters. He’d been doing it enough since his radio call-in program had staked out the top spot in the ratings.
So, as the luncheon wrapped up, Logan leaned over to Mallory and asked, “Since turnabout is fair play, I have a question for you.”
“Oh?”
“What are you doing later this afternoon?”
She blinked, before her eyes narrowed. Why was it he found her suspicion sexy?
“Filing a story. Why?”
“How long will that take?”
“For this?” Her lips twisted, showing her distaste. It wasn’t the first time he wondered why a reporter with her reputation had been sent to cover a minor story. “I need a couple of quotes from the winner, a quote from someone on the award committee and to tap out a couple of paragraphs summing up why the winner was selected.”
“In other words, you could write it in your sleep,” he concluded.
She rewarded his blunt assessment with a smile. “Once I do a couple of brief interviews it should take me half an hour, tops. Why?”
Logan was playing with fire, which wasn’t like him. While he liked challenges, he wasn’t one to take unnecessary risks. Still, he heard himself ask, “Have you ever seen the city from the water?”
“No,” she said slowly.
“Well, if you want to, I dock my sailboat, the Tangled Sheets, at the yacht club. I’m planning to take her out around five.”
Something flashed in her dark eyes. Interest? Excitement? Briefly he wondered whether it was the reporter or the woman responsible for whatever emotion it was. To his surprise, he found he didn’t care.
“Which yacht club?” she asked.
Logan wasn’t willing to make it too easy for her. So he stood and, giving her a salute, walked backward a few steps toward the exit.
Just before turning he called, “You’re a reporter, Mallory. If you really want to meet me, you’ll figure it out.”
CHAPTER TWO
DESPITE changing into a lightweight blouse and a pair of cropped trousers, Mallory was wilting in the late-afternoon heat by the time she arrived at Logan’s slip at the Chicago Yacht Club. It didn’t help that she’d nearly jogged the half-dozen blocks from the El stop. She had a car, but she often found public transportation less of a hassle than trying to find a place to park.
After leaving the luncheon, she’d hurried through her story, filing it after only a cursory second read and a run of her computer’s spellchecker. It wasn’t like her to rush, especially for a man. But then Logan was far more than that to her. He was a story.
Her story took her breath away when she caught sight of him standing with his feet planted shoulder-width apart on the deck of a sailboat. Behind him sunlight reflected off the smooth, aquamarine surface of the lake, making him look like something straight out of a fantasy.
His back was to her, a cell phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, so she took her time studying him. He’d changed his clothing, too. Instead of the pricy suit he’d worn earlier, he was attired in a short-sleeved shirt that showed off a pair of muscled arms and casual tan slacks that fit nicely across a very fine and firm-looking butt. Mallory fanned herself. Damned heat. Though it was only June, the mercury had to be pushing one hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the shade.
On the barest wisp of a breeze, Logan’s side of the conversation floated to her.
“You don’t need to worry…No. Really. Do you know the saying ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?” His laughter rumbled deep and rich before he continued. “Exactly…Yeah, I’ll call you.”
He said goodbye and flipped his phone closed. As soon as he turned and spotted Mallory, male interest lit up his eyes and a flush of embarrassment stained his cheeks.
He coughed. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Obviously.”
His flush deepened.
Mallory could have pretended not to have overheard anything. That would have been the polite thing to do. But she was a reporter, which meant curiosity trumped politeness.
“So, which one am I?” When he frowned, she added helpfully, “Friend or enemy?”
She gave him credit. Logan pulled out of his flaming, death spiral with amazing speed and agility. But then, he was a veteran of talk radio and live broadcasts, which meant he was good at thinking on his feet.
Walking to the rail, he asked, “Which one do you consider yourself?”
“Ah. Very clever, turning the question around. Is that what they teach you to do in psychiatry school?”
“Among other things,” he allowed.
Whatever remained of his embarrassment had evaporated completely by the time his hand clasped Mallory’s to help her aboard. His palm was warm against hers, pleasantly so despite the heat. It seemed a shame when he removed it, though she supposed it would have been awkward if he had continued the contact.
“So,” she said, filling in the silence.
“So.” One side of his mouth lifted, but he backed up a step, and she liked knowing that she could keep him as off balance as he made her. Tucking his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, he said, “I wasn’t sure you were coming or that you’d be able to fin
d me.”
Though the city had more than one yacht club, it hadn’t taken much effort. His boat was registered. Besides, the Chicago Yacht Club, which dated to the late eighteen hundreds, was exclusive. It seemed the most likely spot for an up-and-coming celebrity who cherished his privacy.
Mallory nodded toward the bottle of red wine that was open and breathing on a small table topside. “I’d say you knew that I would.”
He shrugged. “I was hopeful. Besides, I was banking on your journalistic instincts.”
“I bank on them, too, since they rarely fail me.”
“Should I be nervous?”
“You tell me,” she replied.
“I guess that depends on why you’re here.”
“I was invited,” she reminded him.
“So you were.”
In truth, Mallory was still perplexed by Logan’s spontaneous offer of an afternoon sail. It was one of the reasons she’d come. What exactly did the man have in mind?
“Why?” The question rent the silence with all the delicacy of a gull’s cry.
“Excuse me?”
“Why did you invite me?”
“Well, that’s blunt.” He chuckled.
Mallory shrugged. “I don’t believe in beating around the bush.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would.” With an index finger, he tapped his cell phone. “You know, my agent wanted to know the answer to that very question, too.”
“What did you tell her, besides not to worry?”
His brows furrowed. “Actually, I didn’t have an answer for her.”
“Besides the friends-and-enemies adage,” Mallory remarked.
“Besides that,” he agreed. “So, why did you come? And, yes, I’m turning the question around.”
“Curiosity,” she replied honestly. “How could I decline when I find you so intriguing?”
“I’m flattered, I think. Especially if that’s the woman speaking rather than the reporter.”
“They’re one and the same, remember?”
Logan’s gaze intensified. “Are you sure about that?”
She was, or at least she had been until he’d pinned her with that stare and baldly asked. The boat moved under her feet, a slight rolling motion that reminded her of the water bed she’d had as a teenager. She’d slept like a baby back then. These days she was lucky to snatch a few hours of uninterrupted slumber before her eyes snapped open and her mind began clicking away like a slide projector, flashing the items on her current to-do list at work along with the goals related to her long-range career plans.
“I’d love a glass of that wine,” she said, opting to change the subject.
“I wouldn’t mind some myself.” As he poured it, he said, “How exactly did you find me? I only ask so I can prevent others from doing the same.”
“Sorry.” She shook her head and, after a sip of the Merlot, added, “As much as I’d like to help you out—not to mention, keep other reporters away—I can’t reveal my sources.”
He nodded sagely. “Bad form?”
“Right up there with a magician giving away the secret to how he saws his assistant in half,” she said with sham seriousness.
His smile turned boyish and was all the more charming for it. “I’ve always wanted to know how that’s done.”
“I do,” she couldn’t help bragging. “Just after college I was assigned to do a feature on a guy who did a magic act at a local nightclub. After the interview, he showed me.”
“But you won’t tell me, will you?” Logan guessed.
“And ruin the illusion?”
“Right.” Logan chuckled. “So, are you hungry?”
“I’m getting there,” she replied casually.
In fact, Mallory was famished. She’d barely picked at her lunch, and breakfast—a toasted bagel with cream cheese eaten at her desk just after dawn—was a distant memory now.
“Good. I went ahead and made dinner.”
Her mouth actually watered. “The marinated flank steak you mentioned at the luncheon?” When he nodded, she said, “Do you mean you actually cooked it here?”
“I cooked the meat topside on that portable gas grill, and the rest was prepared below deck.”
The meal he’d described earlier seemed the sort one would make in a gourmet kitchen, so her tone was dubious when she asked, “You have an actual stove down there?”
He smiled. “Quarters may be a bit tight, but you’ll find my boat has all the amenities of home.”
Why did that simple sentence send heat curling through her veins?
“A-all?” she stammered, then cleared her throat. In a more professional tone, she inquired, “How is that possible? I mean, this thing is just—what?—thirty feet long.”
“Thirty-one, actually. But you’d be surprised what can be fitted into that amount of space using a bit of ingenuity. Want a tour?”
“I’d love one,” she said, even though the idea of moving below deck with him suddenly made her nervous. It wasn’t Logan who made her wary. Her concern had more to do with herself. Story, she reminded herself for what seemed like the millionth time since meeting him.
Luckily she was given a reprieve. “Can you wait until after dinner?”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “I’m in no hurry.”
Mallory sat at the table and let Logan serve her since he seemed to have everything under control. More than under control, she decided, when he reappeared from below deck a few minutes later carrying two plates of artfully arranged food. The meal looked like something that would be right at home on the cover of Bon Appetit.
“Wow. If this tastes as good as it looks, I’ll be in heaven.”
She meant it. Even though unmasking Logan’s qualifications in the kitchen would never earn her a Pulitzer, much less her editor’s forgiveness, it was hard not to admire a man who could whip up a five-star meal aboard a boat in the late afternoon heat and barely break a sweat as evidenced by his dry brow.
Logan settled onto the chair opposite hers. “Thanks.”
“Mmm. Heaven, definitely,” Mallory remarked after her first bite of the marinated meat. It melted in her mouth like butter. Afterward, she raised her glass. “I have to toast the chef. I’m impressed.”
“That’s quite a compliment coming from you. I get the feeling you’re not the type of woman who is quick with the accolades.”
“Only when they’re earned.”
He smiled and sipped his wine. After setting it aside, he said, “Then, I can’t wait until you taste the cinnamon apple torte I made for dessert.”
“That good?”
“Better,” he assured her with a wink that scored a direct hit on her libido. “Forget accolades. You just might be rendered speechless.”
“That would be a first.” She laughed. “But then, you’ve already proved you’re a man of many talents.”
“Yes, and I’m looking forward to introducing you to another one of them later.”
Heat began to build again. “Oh?”
“The sail.” But Logan’s crooked smile told Mallory he knew exactly which direction her thoughts had taken and that he enjoyed knowing he could inspire such a detour.
As their meal progressed, the conversation veered—or was it steered?—to her personal life. Mallory didn’t like to talk about herself, but as a reporter she’d found that divulging a few details about her past often helped her sources loosen up. So, when he asked if she was a Chicago native, she told him, “No. Actually, I’m not a Midwestern girl at all. I grew up in a small town in Massachusetts.”
“That explains the flattened vowels.” He smiled. “What brought you to Chicago?”
Nothing too personal here. So she said, “College. I attended Northwestern on a scholarship.”
“And then you were hired in at the Herald,” he assumed.
“Eventually. I spent the first three months after I graduated working gratis as an intern in the hope the editors would notice my work and offer me a full-time job. At the t
ime, even though the Herald had no posted openings in its newsroom, competition in general was fierce.”
“You wanted to be sure you had a foot in the door. That was very industrious, if a bit risky.” Still, he nodded in appreciation. “What did your parents think of your decision to work for free?”
She sipped her wine. “It’s just my mom and she thought I’d lost my mind.”
“Why would she think that?”
Laughter scratched her throat. “I didn’t mean that literally, Doctor.”
“Good, because I’m not on the clock. Well?”
More than being direct, his gaze made her feel…safe. That brought heat of a different sort. She felt as if she could tell him anything and he wouldn’t judge her the way her mother always had. And still did.
“My mother thought I was being a fool. She wanted me to be financially independent and she didn’t see how working for free was going to get me anywhere.”
“Reasonable goal,” he allowed.
“Yeah, except it was a mantra she beat me over the head with after my folks divorced.”
“I…I guess I thought your father was no longer around. When I asked what your folks thought, you said it was just your mom.”
“It is and has been.” She had to work to keep the bitterness out of her tone. “My dad’s not dead. He’s a deadbeat.”
“Ohh.” He grimaced. “Sorry. How old were you?”
“Eleven. My mother had been a stay-at-home mom with no marketable job skills when their marriage ended. She had a hard time finding work. She didn’t want me to wind up depending on a man.”
Mallory reached for her wine, if for no other reason than that taking a sip would shut her up. The only other person she’d ever mentioned this to was Vicki, her college roommate, and then only after a few too many margaritas.
Because she had a good idea what Logan must be thinking, she decided to say it first. “That’s not the reason I’m married to my job, though. I happen to really enjoy what I do.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He sipped his wine, too.
It was time to shift the conversation’s focus. “What about your family? Siblings?”