“Mommy! Come an’ see the beach Joe’s got!” Theo burst into the kitchen and skidded to a stop. “C’mon!” He grabbed Liv’s hand and she allowed him to pull her outside. Saved by a child, she thought, letting Theo drag her to where the grass gave way to sand near the water’s edge.
“Now this is what I meant by water,” Joe said, coming to stand behind her. “Want to wade?”
“Now?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
A giggle swept up inside her. “Why not?”
“Really, can we?” Ben asked and let out a whoop of joy when he saw his mother kick off her sandals and join Joe, who had already rolled up his pant legs and was walking through the water.
Wading, of course, was not where it ended, as Liv suspected it would not. First Stephen splashed Ben, who retaliated and in the process soaked Joe.
“Like that, is it?” Joe laughed and clapped his hands together in the water sending a geyser of water over everyone. Especially Liv.
Her halter clung wetly to her breasts and she felt his gaze on her, warmer than the sun and burning, and scooping up a double handful of water, she poured it down the front of his shirt. “That’ll cool you off,” she promised, chortling until he came after her. “No! Joe, stop! No!”
But there was no stopping Joe until he had grabbed her and lifted her high in the air, then waded out waist deep where he promptly sank, submerging them both.
“Joe!” she spluttered, hair streaming in her face.
“Cooled you off too, didn’t I?” he smirked.
But he was still holding her against him and she could feel the hardness of his body through the wet jeans and see the unquenched passion in his face. “Not really,” she said honestly. He went suddenly still, his breathing rapid as he studied her assessingly, and Liv wondered if she should have been so forthright. Then he set her down about six inches from him so the water lapped between them, and he took a deep breath.
“No, not really,” he agreed. “But there’s not much I can do about it here and now.” He shot a significant glance at the kids lined up on shore like spectators at a swimming match. “The audience wouldn’t approve.”
“Nor would I,” Liv said shakily, shifting her gaze away from his bare chest where rivulets of water coursed through dark, glistening hair.
“Oh?”
“No.” She wouldn’t let herself, couldn’t let herself. They were just friends, nothing more. She waded briskly toward the shore. “Come on, gang. Time to go home.”
“Can we come back tomorrow?” Ben questioned.
“I don’t think—” Liv began, but Joe cut her off,
“Off course. Ride over on your bikes. It’s not much more than a mile.”
“I don’t want them to be a bother,” Liv protested.
“No bother. I don’t invite people I don’t want.”
His words were terse. It wasn’t possible to construe them as mere politeness. He meant it; she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his tone. He was looking at her intently. Not the way one friend looks at another. She could still feel the imprint of his body against her own. Gulping, she looked away, wondering what in the world she was letting herself in for.
“You mean they’re all gone?” Joe could hardly believe it. He was the last one out of the shower, and when he emerged and glanced around the living room with its definite signs of youthful habitation, he couldn’t see any youths at all.
“They’ve gone out with their father,” Liv told him from where she sat on the arm of the chair, surveying the wreckage. “Every Saturday that I can manage it, Tom takes them. Even if it’s only for dinner.”
“What do you mean, if you can manage it?” He was tempted to go over and pull her off the chair and take her into his arms. But sanity prevailed, and he sank down instead on the couch and picked up a Frisbee, spinning it idly on his finger.
“When we were together, Tom and I,” she said quickly, as though the memories were distasteful or painful, “I never minded having the kids around all the time. There was enough of me to go around. Or so I thought.” She laughed somewhat bitterly at that, and Joe ached just hearing her. “Apparently Tom didn’t, but that’s not the point. Anyway, now that I am the sole parent in residence, I find that I need a break. If only for a while.” She gave him a tentative smile. “I’m sorry. This must be boring for you.”
“Not at all.” And amazingly enough, it wasn’t. He didn’t care the slightest bit about the domestic tribulations of anyone else, but Liv was different. He wanted to know everything about her, what made her happy, sad, silly, depressed. She intrigued him, tantalized him. He didn’t even know why. Because she seemed indifferent to his fame, his reputation? Perhaps. Because she didn’t fall into bed with him at the first hint of a pass? Maybe. Whatever it was, he wanted more. And with no kids in sight, he stood a better chance of getting it. “I like the idea of being alone with you for a change,” he said, regarding her over the top of the spinning Frisbee.
She started when she heard that. The realization that the kids’ going with Tom had left her not just free but alone with Joe Harrington apparently just hit her. “Er, would you like me to drive you back to your new house?” she asked, bouncing to her feet as though he were a salesman just begging to be shown to the door.
“What I would like is to have dinner with you. Just the two of us.”
“I know a nice little Greek place that has—”
“No Greek place.”
“Mexican? La Golondrina is—”
“Not Mexican either.”
“Well, there is McDonald’s, but—” Liv faltered.
A grin split Joe’s features. “Your place or mine?” he invited.
“I… I…”
He sprang lithely to his feet and crossed the room to stand in front of her, wanting to make himself clear. “This is not a proposition,” he explained. “Not exactly,” he added. As much as he would have liked to drag her off to his lair and ravish her, he found that he wanted more than that. Linda Lucas wasn’t a scintillating companion. Liv was. He didn’t only want to go to bed with her. He wanted to talk with her, tease her, listen to her, touch her.
“What is it, then,” she asked, “if it’s not a proposition?” She wet her lips nervously.
“A simple request for your company at dinner. At your place or mine, because I don’t like the notoriety of going out. That may sound conceited—it probably is conceited—but I can’t ever seem to get a meal in a restaurant without giving autographs or having some starstruck waitress drop soup in my lap. And, well, I’d just like to be alone with you.” He gave her one of his famous grins, but it didn’t seem faked. Rather it seemed spontaneous, special, just for her. As if he’d never smiled at another woman. And if you believe that, he'll sell you the Brooklyn Bridge, she thought. But it didn’t stop her giving in.
“Your place,” she told him, more daring than she would have thought possible. “It’ll be a nice change from mine.”
“Terrific. I’ll cook. You relax.” He was bundling her out the door as if he thought she'd change her mind, reaching behind him long enough only to grab his battered suitcase, which she had avoided mentioning ever since she’d seen it in her living room that morning. Good, she thought now, relieved, at least he isn’t intending to spend the night in my bed. Fears quieted, however temporarily, she started to relax.
“You go in,” Joe told her as he drove them to the supermarket parking lot She looked at him, puzzled, and he gave an embarrassed shrug. “I’d probably cause a riot,” he explained, red-faced.
He might, too, she realized as she pushed her cart up to the check-out counter and saw his face staring at her from one of the weekly magazines. What would the checker think if Joe Harrington himself plunked down two steaks, potatoes, lettuce, peppers and tomatoes in front of her? Liv picked up the magazine and flipped through it.
There he was with his arm around lovely starlet Linda Lucas at some Beverly Hills party. And there was another shot of hi
m with producer Luther Nelson, who was trying to get him to agree to star in another film as adventurer hero, Steve Scott. On the next page she saw a helicopter view of his “hideaway” above Malibu. Lord, Liv thought, staring at it, what does he need a place here for? She scanned the article as the checker rang up her purchases. It didn’t tell her anything about Joe Harrington that she didn’t already know, being only a rehash of earlier articles set up with a few new photos. Only the last sentence hung in her mind: “Harrington’s a man of mystery, a very private man whose public antics on and off screen have led millions to think they know him well, when, in fact, they don’t know him at all.”
True, true, true, Liv thought, gathering up her purchases and stepping back into the heat of the lovely June evening. How many millions would guess that at this moment the famous Mr, Harrington was sitting in a rusty VW bus, nose buried in a three-month-old Soccer Digest, waiting for nobody-reporter and mother of five, Olivia James, so he could take her down to his rented house and cook her dinner?
“Hi. Took you long enough.” He looked up giving her a warm, friendly smile that made her glow.
She handed him the bags and climbed in “I know. But not as long as you would have taken. Nobody asked for my autograph.”
“True.” He peered into the sacks. “What’re we having?”
“Steak, potatoes, salad. Can you manage that?”
“Definitely. I’m a whiz. Especially good at hash browns. I hope you don’t want baked.” He looked at her as Theo did when he was trying to convince her that rocky road ice cream was far better than vanilla.
“Hash browns would be great.”
He looked pleased, starting up the engine and waiting patiently for a break in the traffic. Liv watched him, liking the way he handled her car, liking the way his glasses perched on his nose, making him look scholarly as well as sexy, liking the way his jeans hugged the contours of his thighs. She removed her gaze from his pants and watched him shift gears. He had strong hands, capable ones with long, slender fingers sprinkled with dark hairs. She glanced at the man driving the car next to them. He was laughing at something the woman in the car with him had said. They looked like a happily married couple. Like us, she thought suddenly, and blushed.
How fanciful that is, she chided herself. Joe Harrington was not any old married man, nor was he likely to become one. Especially not with her. Just because he looked ordinary enough didn’t mean she ought to be getting ideas about him. This man raked in millions yearly making movies and providing hot copy for all the latest personality magazines.
“I saw what you meant,” she told him as they wound their way back to Joe’s new house on the lake. “You were all over the covers of the magazines I saw.”
Joe groaned audibly. “And don’t believe a word you read of it. It’s all ‘JOE HARRINGTON WAS MY LOVER—AGING STARLET TELLS ALL,’ or ‘JOE HARRINGTON—IS HE REALLY LIKE STEVE SCOTT?’ or ‘JOE HARRINGTON’S BIGGEST SECRET.’ ” He shook his head wearily. “It makes me sick. Which one did you see?”
“It wasn’t too awful. Just a rehash of your early interviews.” Then she felt the color creep into her cheeks as she realized that she had admitted to having read all his early interviews. “And pictures. Lots of pictures,” she added quickly.
“I can imagine,” Joe said dryly.
“You and Luther Nelson.”
“Yeah. He’s not a bad guy, except when he wants something from you.”
“You and Linda Lucas," Liv went on, hating the catch in her voice.
“Hmmmm,” Joe replied, whatever that meant. It certainly wasn’t a denial of involvement with her. Liv knew she could hardly expect one. Joe had never been a saint. Still, she would have liked to know if he was still seeing her. Or anyone else. He was probably an expert at dangling four or five women at a time. Damn, she thought fiercely, why do I even care? Why am I letting myself be one of them?
The answer to that was increasingly obvious. She couldn’t seem to help herself. No willpower, she thought glumly. No self-discipline. A living example of the expression “putty in his hands.” If only he weren’t Joe Harrington she would feel a lot better about the way he attracted her. Joe Harrington’s biggest secret, she thought wryly, was how he could make normally sane, intelligent women forget their common sense and fall for him even against their better judgment.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked. “You should see the expressions on your face.”
“About Joe Harrington’s biggest secret.” She grinned.
He laughed softly, then his eyes grew serious though he still smiled. “We’ll have to talk about that,” he promised. “Later.” And her heart quickened in response. “Right now I’m starving. And I bet you are, too.”
True to his word, the moment they arrived at his house, Joe settled her into a leather-covered armchair, propped her feet on the hassock and handed her a glass of wine, saying, “Now, relax and enjoy it and watch the master chef at work.”
“Those are daring words,” Liv countered. “Especially from someone who’s never cooked in this kitchen and doesn’t know if there’s a frying pan to be found.”
There was. And Joe proceeded to amaze her with his ease in the kitchen. Another side of the man to like, damn it, she thought as she sipped her wine and watched him move about humming to himself. She was getting in deeper and deeper, sinking fast, and she couldn’t seem to help herself. The wine made her ears warm and her mind slightly muzzy, and she lay her head back and closed her eyes wondering if it were all a dream.
“Did you think to pick up some salad dressing?” Joe asked, glancing at her across the polished wood bar that separated her armchair from the kitchen.
“Sorry, no. But I can make some Olivia James’s Secret Salad Dressing if you can find some oil, vinegar and spices,” she offered, hating to get up, but looking forward to working alongside him in the kitchen.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “My expertise doesn’t run to salad dressing. Never took a class in that.”
“You learned to cook in a class?” That didn’t seem to fit his character at all.
“Naw. My mother thought I ought to know how to cook. She said it wasn’t just girls who needed to get around in a kitchen. My father didn’t agree, but she won out. Now he complains that my independence in the kitchen has contributed to the fact that he doesn’t have a daughter-in-law.” He was grinning, but she heard a hard edge to his voice.
“And is that the truth of the matter?” she asked from her kneeling position in front of one of the cabinets.
“Could be.” He chopped the potatoes quickly and plunked them into the sizzling skillet, stirring them with a fork.
“That’s a story,” she laughed, “JOE HARRINGTON COOKS—DOESN’T NEED A WIFE.”
“I’ll suggest it next time a reporter is looking for an angle on a story.” He poured some more wine in her glass. “Here, drink up.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Would it help?”
She considered the matter seriously, studying the way the soft blue denim creased at his knees. “I think it might,” she said slowly.
He dumped her wine in the sink.
“What are you doing?” she yelped, grabbing his hand.
He set the glass back on the counter and resumed stirring the potatoes. “I want you to know what you’re doing,” he said, eyes intent on the frying pan.
Liv’s expression was bemused. “You mean you’re not going to ply me with liquor and drag me off to the bedroom?” she asked, expressing both her greatest fear and a disappointment she wished she didn’t feel.
Joe shook his head, his mouth crooked.
“Why not?”
Joe stared, fork in midair. “What did you say?”
“I said, why not?”
“I don’t know,” he said after a long moment during which she was wishing she hadn’t asked. Oh, why was she so fuzzy-minded all of a sudden? “Pour me another glass of win
e, will you?” he muttered.
She did, still amused that he wouldn’t let her have any, and even more so when she saw him lift the glass and drain it in one long swallow. He shoved the glass toward her for a refill. She shook her head.
“I’m not plying you with liquor either.”
He slanted her a glance. “I suppose you won’t be dragging me off to bed, either. Will you?”
Liv’s mouth curved into a smile. “Well,” she dropped her voice suggestively and saw his hands clench on the counter.
“Stop it,” he said sharply. Suddenly he was all concentration, totally absorbed in meal preparation, blocking her out completely. Chastened and, on a moment’s reflection, knowing that she had been playing with fire, Liv followed suit, fixing her attention on the salad dressing. By the time the dressing and hash browns were done, Joe bent to open the broiler and speared the steaks. He flung them onto the waiting platter and strode across the room to set it on the table. “Let’s eat,” he said briskly.
Liv followed his example silently, sitting down across from him and beginning to eat. It was a good thing he didn’t let me have that wine, she thought, or who knows how idiotically I might have acted! Had she really been baiting him? She looked up guiltily, but Joe was intent on cutting his steak. Obviously he was immune to her. She thought she was relieved, but she wasn’t sure.
“It’s good,” she offered tentatively.
He nodded, mouth full. “Thanks. So’s your dressing.”
The tension abated a bit, and he began telling her about his two weeks’ journey all over the country, giving speeches. She was impressed again by the seriousness of his commitment. There was no money in it for him, no great publicity. Some people even disliked him for speaking out. She thought again of the magazine’s comment about people not knowing the real Joe Harrington at all and was glad that she’d been given a glimpse.
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