by Jackie Braun
“That’s rather dramatic,” he drawled. “Besides, I thought you said Mallory was a pit bull? Sharks and dogs are two different species, you know.”
“Logan—”
He sat up fully and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Look, Nina, as touching as I find your concern, my personal life is just that…personal.”
“I guarantee you that Mallory doesn’t see it the same way. If she finds out something about you that can help sell newspapers, she’s going to use it. And unless it’s out and out false and maliciously published, we won’t be able to do a damned thing about it because you’re a public figure.”
His agent was right, of course. As a celebrity, he was fair game. If Mallory sniffed out a story, she would write it. What did it say about him that he didn’t care? Besides, he rationalized, what did he have to hide?
So he told his agent, “There’s no need to worry. She’s curious about the syndication deal. She’s not the only reporter who is.”
Maybe he would give her an exclusive when the terms of the contract had been hammered out.
“In the meantime,” he continued, “there’s nothing Mallory Stevens is going to discover about me personally that’s exciting enough to grace the front page of her newspaper or any other. As much as I hate to admit it, Nina, my life is pretty damned pedestrian.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’m positive.”
CHAPTER FIVE
NOTHING.
After scouring the clip files that was exactly what Mallory had found. She’d even returned to the newspaper morgue late Saturday for wedding announcements through the end of that calendar year. Again she came up empty-handed. Even if Logan and Felicia’s planned fall wedding had wound up delayed for several months—and why would that happen?—no record of it appeared in the Herald.
Record or no record, something told Mallory she was on the right track. She decided to press on. Monday morning, between writing advances for a couple of alternative-art exhibits, she searched the state’s vital records for a certificate of marriage. Nada. If the couple had married, they had not done so in the state of Illinois.
On a hunch, Mallory checked the records for Felicia’s name alone. Bingo!
She could have saved herself a lot of time and effort if she’d done so first, she realized. Miss Felicia Ann Gable had been a fall bride after all. She’d wed another man, Nigel Paul Getty. The nuptials were performed by a justice of the peace. This probably explained why no wedding announcement had appeared in the newspaper. When a bride threw over her groom for another man just before they were to say I do, flaunting it in the media was bad form.
Poor Logan.
The sympathy Mallory felt for him far outpaced her excitement over the discovery. She told herself it was because she didn’t yet know if this lead would pan out. Besides, she knew how it felt to find out your significant other was cheating. Two years post-Vince, Mallory still felt like a fool for not having put two and two together sooner. It would have helped her save face among their mutual friends, many of whom apparently were privy to the fact he was two-timing.
Her telephone rang as she mulled over what to do next. “Mallory Stevens,” she said distractedly into the receiver.
“Just the person I was hoping to reach.”
The aggrieved groom in question was on the other end of the line. Mallory stared at the photograph of his lovely former fiancée, feeling oddly guilty and fighting the urge to apologize.
“Logan, hi. What…why are you calling?”
“I need a favor,” he replied.
“What sort of favor?”
“I’ve been invited to a dinner this Thursday evening at the Cumberland Hotel. It’s a benefit to raise funds to send children with life-threatening illnesses to summer camp.”
“And you’re hoping to get a mention of it in the Herald,” she guessed.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d agree to come with me.” He chuckled dryly. “Good cause notwithstanding, these things can be tedious.”
“You want me to go with you,” she repeated in surprise.
“Not interested?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No. But neither have you said yes,” Logan pointed out.
“Yes.” Even though Mallory had spent the weekend reminding herself of ethical boundaries and the danger of mixing business with pleasure, the answer slipped easily from her lips.
“Terrific. Dinner is at seven with cocktails and appetizers starting at six. Would five-thirty be too early for me to come by and collect you?”
She’d have to leave work a bit before her usual quitting time to reach her apartment and be ready on time, but she didn’t hesitate before saying, “That’s fine.”
“Good. And, Mallory?”
“Yes?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
She pictured him grinning and her skin grew warm. Despite all of her internal lectures to focus and be professional, Mallory knew Logan wasn’t the only one filled with anticipation.
Between Monday and Thursday, Mallory put in more than a dozen hours fleshing out what she knew about Logan’s failed relationship. Felicia not only had hurriedly remarried, she’d moved out of state a few months later. She and her husband relocated to Portland, Oregon, where they’d had a son, who was either premature or conceived before they were wed. This, Mallory figured, was the reason for Felicia’s defection.
A year after that, Felicia and Nigel Getty were divorced. These days, Felicia was a businesswoman, though perhaps not for much longer. Barring an infusion of cash, her upscale fragrance boutique would soon be in Chapter Eleven.
What went around came around.
Thursday started out bad and continued downhill for the rest of the day. Mallory forgot to set her alarm clock, missed her El train and then spilled half of her first cup of coffee down the leg of her ecru trousers while waiting for the next one. Unfortunately, she had no time to return home to change clothes, so she arrived at the Herald wearing spotted pants that smelled like Arabica beans.
As Mallory slunk to her desk, Ruth Winslow, the Lifestyles section editor glanced up from her computer and then consulted the large wall clock.
“I wasn’t aware you had an interview this morning,” Ruth remarked.
“I didn’t. My alarm clock…” Ruth’s steel-colored eyebrows rose, cutting off the rest of Mallory’s explanation. “Sorry.”
“I’ll expect a list of story ideas by noon for the special pullout tab on street festivals that’s going to run next Sunday, and I’ve got a couple of advances for you to write. I need both by the end of the day.”
“Sure.” Now would not be a good time to ask to leave early, Mallory decided.
When Mallory spilled a second cup of coffee on her clothes half an hour later, she began to wonder if Logan’s ex wasn’t the only one getting smacked by karma.
Given the way her day had gone, she didn’t find it surprising that she was running late. Logan was leaning against her apartment door when she arrived home.
“Have you been here long?” she asked as she balanced her oversize shoulder bag on one knee and dug through it for her keys.
“Fifteen minutes or so.”
Mallory glanced up and winced. “Sorry.”
He cast a considering look. “That’s all right. I’m guessing you’ve had a bad day.”
“That obvious?”
A smile played around the corners of his mouth. “Let’s just say your clothes tell a story.”
When her fingers wrapped around the keys, she sighed. “They only offer the abridged version, believe me. I felt like the poster child for Murphy’s Law today.”
“Sorry to hear that. If you want to cancel, I’ll understand.”
As tempting as she found his offer, she waved it aside. “That’s kind of you, but no. Of course, if a natural disaster strikes while we’re out tonight don’t say that I didn’t give you fair warning.”
“I won’t,” he
replied on a laugh.
Mallory opened the door and invited Logan inside, grateful that the place looked presentable. Housework tended to rank low on her list of priorities, especially when she was in hot pursuit of a story.
“I have a decent bottle of Merlot in the kitchen if you’d care for a glass while I’m getting ready,” she told him as she toed off her shoes.
“Should I pour some for you?”
She sent him a wry look. “Given my track record today with beverages that stain, I think I’d better pass.”
Mallory’s apartment was small, easily a third the size of Logan’s condo, but glancing around, he decided it offered a huge insight into the woman. Her music collection included CDs by Duke Ellington, Miles Davis and Fats Waller, making her a fan of jazz. The bold red wall that served as a backdrop for a piece of oversize geometric art said she wasn’t afraid of color. And her eclectic sense of style—Asian-inspired pieces were mixed in with a boxy modern couch and more traditional leather recliner—told him she didn’t believe in following someone else’s rules.
She also liked to read. A built-in bookshelf to the left of the television boasted lengthy tomes by some of the country’s leading political commentators, classic literature by the likes of E. M. Forster, William Faulkner and Sylvia Plath, as well as the newest thriller from Tami Hoag. There were no self-help books, he noted, unless he lumped the one on basic home repair into that category. No surprise there. Mallory was self-reliant, self-sufficient.
A survivor.
When the uncertainty he’d experienced on his sailboat niggled again, Logan decided to take her up on the offer of wine.
Her kitchen wasn’t much bigger than the galley on his boat, but since Mallory had already admitted she didn’t cook, he doubted she thought it deficient. He found a corkscrew in one of the drawers and located a wineglass in a top cupboard. As he sipped Merlot, he glanced at the snapshots and other clutter stuck to the front of her refrigerator. One in particular caught his attention. It was of Mallory and another young woman. They were sitting on a split-rail fence wearing cowboy hats and silly grins. Mountains peaked in the background, making it clear the photo had not been taken locally. A vacation? Whatever the occasion, she looked so open and uncalculating. No questions to be asked. No agenda.
Would she ever be that way around him?
“That’s my college roommate, Vicki.”
Logan turned at the sound of Mallory’s voice and nearly fumbled his wine at the vision that greeted him. “Roommate?” he managed.
“Yes. She lives in Chicago, too, and we’ve remained close since graduation. Once a year she talks me into going on some wild adventure. She claims it’s good for me.”
“I think I like her already.”
“Last year, it was working a cattle drive. That picture was taken before our first grueling day in the saddle. Hence our smiles.”
She motioned toward the photograph, but Logan’s gaze was taking in the pale-gold cocktail dress she wore. Cap sleeves showed off a pair of toned arms and a short hem highlighted her killer legs. The flirty jeweled sandals on her feet caught the light and shot off sparks.
Logan swore he felt some of them land on him.
“You look amazing.”
It was no empty compliment he paid. In the amount of time it took most of the women he knew to apply their makeup, Mallory had changed clothes, done something sexy with her hair and added a bit of drama to her eyes. She was pretty before, lovely. She was dangerously gorgeous now, and he wasn’t sure whether he should be grateful or nervous.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be the envy of every man there.” He meant that, too. Her unconventional looks turned heads even when she wasn’t also wearing something sexy.
Mallory brushed the compliment aside. “Let’s not get carried away.”
Because he wasn’t a man given to hyperbole, Logan persisted. “You’re gorgeous.”
“I’m not.” She expelled a breath, not so much exasperated as flustered, which he found interesting, endearing.
“Who told you that?” he asked.
Her brows beetled. “No one told me that. I’m not fishing for a compliment here. I’m not ugly. I’d even go so far as to say I’m attractive. But gorgeous? No.”
“Why?” he countered.
“I have a mirror.”
Logan didn’t care for her explanation. Generally speaking, Mallory didn’t suffer from low self-esteem. Hell, he’d never met a more confident, self-possessed woman…when it came to her profession. But someone definitely had made her feel lacking when it came to her appearance. Who? Why? The answers would have to wait. But this couldn’t.
“Then you must not look in it very often.” He took her by the shoulders and steered her to the foyer, where an oval-shaped one hung on the wall over a small table that was stacked with junk mail. “See?”
Mallory studied herself for a moment, but then offered a dismissive shrug. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Will you?”
This time it was his reflection she surveyed. Logan let his hands slide from her shoulders to her hands, releasing one so he could turn her around.
“Well?”
She leaned forward slightly before stepping away. “We’d better get going. We’re already late for your party.”
“Fashionably so,” he assured her, even though generally speaking Logan was a stickler for punctuality. “A few more minutes won’t hurt.”
But she shook her head. “I just need to go grab my handbag and a shawl. You go on ahead. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Logan was still standing in the foyer when she returned from her bedroom. After taking the gauzy wrap from her hands and settling it around her shoulders, he took her arm and escorted her downstairs to his waiting car.
The hotel’s ballroom was crowded with people—entrepreneurs, politicians, celebrities and members of Chicago’s social elite. Some had come out to support a worthy cause. Others had come out to be seen supporting a worthy cause. Mallory recognized many of them, including the alderman who was rumored to be taking bribes from a development firm. Another time she would have been tempted to corner him and ask a few questions to see what she could get him to say on the record. This evening, however, the only person she found herself curious about was Logan…and it had nothing to do with a story.
He looked incredible. No surprise there, of course. The man not only could afford to wear Armani, his broad shoulders and lean, muscular build did the suit justice. But there was more to Logan than Hollywood good looks. She’d never doubted his intelligence, but he was deeper and far more complex than she’d first realized.
He fascinated her not because she was a reporter, but because she was a woman.
Gorgeous? Did he really think so? And those manners of his, opening doors, helping her with her shawl. He made her feel as if she’d just fallen into a fairy tale.
“Mallory?”
She blinked, becoming aware that the man in question had been speaking to her while she’d been gazing at him. She could only hope she wasn’t wearing some sappy expression on her face.
“Sorry. My mind strayed.”
“And here I thought you were hanging on my every word,” he teased. “I was just saying that the seating isn’t assigned. Do you have a preference?”
She glanced around. At this point all of the tables had at least two or more occupants, which meant introductions would be necessary, small talk, too. Usually she enjoyed meeting new people. As for small talk, Mallory was good at it, and even better at getting folks to open up about themselves. But suddenly she didn’t want to socialize or chat or look for possible stories. She wanted to be alone with Logan, picking up where they’d left off in her foyer.
“Would you mind sitting at a table near the back of the ballroom?” she asked.
His brows notched up at the suggestion. “So we can leave early without causing much of a disturbance?”
“Exactly.”
; When he smiled, it caused another sort of disturbance, especially when he asked Mallory, “Am I to assume you have something in mind for us later?”
“Maybe,” she allowed.
What was she getting herself into? She didn’t know. She didn’t care, which was totally unlike her.
She was off her game completely, she realized a moment later when she failed to notice Sandra Hutchens until it was too late to avoid her.
“Hello, Mallory. I wondered who was here for the Herald.”
The other woman’s gloating snarl turned to bewilderment, however, the moment she recognized Mallory’s escort.
“You’re…aren’t you…?”
“Yes.” Logan took the hand Sandra was pointing in his direction and shook it politely. “I’m Logan Bartholomew. And you are?”
“A pain in my butt,” Mallory muttered at the same time Sandra gave her name.
“Mallory and I work together.”
“Are you here covering the benefit?” Logan asked, unaware—or was he?—of how insulting the senior reporter found the question.
“No. I have a beat that allows me to write actual news stories.” Sandra sniffed. Her gaze shifted to Mallory then, and the malicious triumph in her expression was impossible to miss. “I’m here tonight as the guest of Larry Byram. You remember him, don’t you Mallory.”
Oh, she remembered Larry, all right. Her teeth clenched. Larry was one of the mayor’s top aides and the weasel who’d fed Mallory the bogus story and quotes that ultimately had led to her demise.
“How is Larry?” she asked sweetly.
“He’s good. And enjoying a promotion.”
No doubt he was also enjoying Mallory’s demotion. “How nice for him,” she managed.
“I’ll tell him you said hello,” Sandra offered with ill-concealed delight.
“Yes, please do.”
“Would you excuse us for just a moment?” Sandra said to Logan. She grabbed Mallory’s arm and dragged her a couple of feet away without waiting for his reply. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Stevens,” she hissed the moment they were out of earshot.