by Floyd, Jacie
She loved her stepdaughter and enjoyed her company, but Annabel looked forward to the graduating teen’s departure with more anticipation than dread. As soon as Carly left for Ohio State, Annabel planned to cut loose and make her own dreams come true.
Some of her plans involved work goals, sure, but they also included increasing her social life. All right, make that developing a social life. With an all-new, daring, and spontaneous attitude, she wanted to flit off to a weekend in Belize… go skydiving… date guys with tattoos.
Since she didn’t want Carly feeling as if Annabel itched to get rid of her, she hadn’t mentioned any of her secret desires to her stepdaughter. But now Annabel could see the advantages of opening up a bit more. She’d remedy that issue immediately after today’s show.
Carly’s sweet gesture revealed a misguided need to repay Annabel for her love, and Annabel would never hurt the girl’s feelings by refusing the gesture. She considered the possibility of easing herself into her new ready-for-anything persona with two vetted, chaperoned, on-camera dates. How bad could they be?
Smothering a sense of impending doom, she summoned her courage long enough to sign the release forms Justine handed to her. Within moments, she found herself taking a deep breath and stepping center stage. Her eyes adjusted to the glaring lights while she waited for her cue.
“Carly took great care in choosing a man who shares common interests with her stepmother. You’ll recognize him as WKLK’s most popular and handsome investigative reporter. These two already know one another, but let’s see if sparks fly when they’re paired up for romance.” Tess and the camera turned toward Annabel. “Let’s Talk is pleased to welcome Annabel Morgan and her lucky date, Max Williams!”
The introduction barely registered in Annabel’s head before a tall, muscular form bounded out from stage right. He turned her with a hand on her arm and planted a kiss on her check.
Stunned, she reared back to confirm her misfortune. The shock in his eyes mirrored hers.
Under cover of the applause, they objected in unison, “Not you!”
The following Saturday night, Max arrived on Annabel’s front porch in Hyde Park. With his favorite cameraman in tow, he looked around at one of Cincinnati’s oldest and stodgiest neighborhoods. Sturdy brick houses lined the quiet, residential street. Subdued shutters bordered windows with overflowing flower boxes. Tidy yards sported geometric mower grids. Traditional, conservative, established, and settled. All things Max preferred to avoid.
Grinding his teeth, he cursed his current circumstances and the unapologetic people responsible for it. If given the chance, he’d banish meddlesome teenage girls to a world without cell phones or teenage boys.
He’d blast Tess Hartley to an unending life of flat hair, tabloid journalism, and bad ratings.
He’d send all judgmental, uninteresting women to an island far, far away, where they could bore one another to death with their rules, restrictions, and lack of original thoughts.
And he’d reserve a special circle of hell composed of angry advertisers, prolonged power outages, and drunken weathermen for Charley Asherton, the usually-sensible station manager who had included Max’s name in a pool of eligible bachelors for Let’s Talk without notifying him first.
How he’d let Tess and Charley talk him into participating in such an asinine waste of time, Max couldn’t explain. He’d thought it a joke when he received the message to appear for the first-round interviews. But he hadn’t stood a chance against the innocent wiles and harmless demeanor of the young girl who singled him out. If he’d known she’d matched him up with Ms. Frostbite of Cincinnati, he would have pulled a no-show for the actual program.
Tess would pay for this. Due to their brief, steam-up-the-sheets, personal history half-a-dozen years ago, he’d expected her to let him out of his arranged date. When a conspiratorial smile and the promise of a future favor hadn’t worked, he explained that Annabel didn’t want to go out with him any more than he wanted to go out with her.
The ratings-minded diva just laughed and insisted he keep his part of the bargain. She’d even had the nerve to goad him over the fact that he’d finally met a woman who didn’t worship at his feet. Tess had also suggested he look on winning Annabel over as a challenge—one the show would pay for and record—as the “relationship” unfolded. Relationship, hell. Disaster was more like it. And Tess had licked her glossy lips over the possibility.
Ever conscious of the camera, the reporter in Max erased the scowl and put on his game face. He shot the sleeves of his suit into place, then smoothed his hair and straightened his frigging tie.
“Quit primping, Casanova, you look fine,” Roger said from behind him. He lifted the video-camera to his eye. “Now, ring the bell. No, wait. The doorknocker seems more forceful, more masculine. Use that.”
“More masculine.” Max snorted but banged the knocker as instructed. “Masculinity’s wasted on Annabel. Why do smart women like her favor those limp-wristed sensitive types who drink lattes and go to poetry readings?”
“Why do you care what kind of men she likes?”
“I don’t. I’m just saying, she’s not my type.”
“Yeah, I can see why the combination of smart, nice, gorgeous, and talented wouldn’t work for you,” the cameraman muttered.
When the door swung open, Max faced the beaming teenager who’d gotten him into this mess.
“You’re here!” Carly clapped her hands.
Despite his annoyance, Max grinned at her enthusiasm. “Hey, kid. How’s it going?”
She peered over his shoulder to the street, then leaned out the door to view the driveway. His Jeep Cherokee elicited a frown. “Where’s the limo?”
With the Porsche in the shop, he’d been tempted by the station’s offer of transportation, but he hated that kind of fancy crap. Besides, he and Annabel weren’t two pimply-faced, sweaty-palmed teenagers on the way to the prom. “I prefer to drive myself.”
Carly planted her hands on her hips. “But what about what Anna prefers?”
“When we talked yesterday, I asked her if she wanted to show off with a car and driver.” He shrugged. “She said she didn’t care.”
“Well, if you put it that way, what else could she say?” She glared at him with disapproval. “Besides, I care. I want this to be so special for her.”
“Maybe next time, kid.” Of course, there would be no such event. The terms of the show indicated he could dictate when and where they went on their second date, if he wanted to see her again. In a rare moment of agreement, he and Annabel had decided this would be a one-shot deal. She would have to be the one to break the news to Little Ms. Blue Eyes here.
Carly accepted the disappointment with a grudging sigh. “Come on in, then. Anna’s almost ready.”
He stepped across the threshold of the Morgan home, suppressing the urge to sneeze. The place smelled like a damn flower shop. Fresh roses decorated a table in the foyer. Potpourri sat in little dishes around the living room. They probably even sprayed the air with floral perfume.
In about two minutes, he’d break out in hives from the cloying scent combined with the rampant middle-class-values decor. Family pictures lined the mantle in the living room. Knick-knacks rested on frilly lace things. He’d bet his Porsche that coasters bloomed automatically under every beverage.
Structured, neat, and fragrant, a reflection of Annabel herself.
Everything in the house whispered its good taste in monotonous neutrals. Nice, he supposed, if he went in for this sort of Boy Meets World, mom, and apple-pie hominess.
Which he didn’t.
Not that he had any reason to dislike sitcom-perfect domesticity. But growing up without a mother present, he’d never experienced it. This whole scene existed as the polar opposite of his childhood and adulthood. Both had teemed with loud and boisterous chaos.
He’d never lived anywhere that remotely resembled this house or neighborhood, and he’d never dated a woman with as little fire an
d flash as Annabel.
Roger trailed him inside. “Would you go out and come back in again? The lighting in here isn’t what I expected.”
“Forget it,” Max said. “We’re not staging anything or doing any retakes.”
“If you’re willing to settle for a pasty image that makes you look like one of The Walking Dead, fine by me.”
Annabel’s stepdaughter chewed on her thumbnail and creased her forehead as she eyed Roger from head to sneaker. Max empathized with her concerns about the two-hundred-twenty-pound free spirit sporting a ponytail, eyebrow piercing, forearm tattoos, scruffy jeans, and a concert T-shirt. He attempted to set her at ease. “Roger’s the chaperone-slash-shooter for tonight. Even though he’s misguided enough to worship the Dave Matthews Band instead of real rock ‘n’ roll, he’s harmless when he’s not obsessing about things like camera angles and lighting.”
“If you say so.” Carly took a small step back, as if reluctant to give them the benefit of the doubt. “Please take a seat in the living room. Anna said to offer you something to drink and let her know when you got here.”
A footstep at the top of the stairs alerted Max to his date’s presence before he could decline the offer. In spite of himself, he watched Annabel descend.
A nervous smile flickered and softened her expression before it dimmed and faded into the more familiar lines of stern disapproval. And he hadn’t even done anything to annoy her yet. That he knew of.
Roger stepped forward. He adjusted the camera to zoom in and capture her entrance.
Waiting at the foot of the stairs, Max assessed her appearance. She’d reverted to full-on Ice-Princess mode. Black suit jacket buttoned up to her chin, and skirt hem hanging down past her knees. Sensible, boxy looking shoes. Hair slicked back so tightly at the nape of her neck he was surprised her eyes didn’t cross.
“Anna, I thought you were going to wear your hair down.” Carly’s artless comment inserted a drop of sweetness into the awkward moment.
Annabel smoothed her fingers over the sides of her hair, as if to harness any rebellious strands that dared to escape from their prison. “I’m more comfortable with it up.”
“You look gorgeous.” Roger panned the camera between the woman and girl. He nudged Max in the ribs, then pulled back to record Max and Annabel’s first greeting. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous? Give her a little kiss.”
Max’s gaze skimmed over Annabel’s body again. The classy, understated style suited her. Too prim and proper for my taste. Although the suit did hug her figure nicely. The slit up one side of her skirt showed an enticing bit of shapely leg and thigh when she walked. And that mouth with the peek-a-boo smile playing around the edges almost begged for a kiss.
But the expression of alarm that crossed her face sure didn’t. Or the backpedaling she employed as he reached for her.
“Oh, my.” She fluttered her fingers like crazed bats. “I guess I’m not very good on this side of the camera.”
“Just pretend I’m not here,” Roger said as if it would be possible to overlook a supersized gorilla with a forty-thousand-dollar camera glued to his face.
“Then quit trying to direct everything,” Max told him. “Just let things happen. And don’t worry,” he said to Annabel. “I’ll make him stay ten paces behind us at all times.”
“No, no, he’s fine. He’s just doing his job. Getting a taste of my own medicine will make me more sympathetic to my subjects in the future.” She flashed the cameraman an elusive smile.
She excluded Max from the offering of goodwill. Okay, he got the message. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You ready to go?”
“Yes.” She turned to retrieve some kind of flimsy wrap from the closet. “Do you know where we’re going?”
“Nope. I was only told where and when to show up—and what to wear.” He pulled at the knot on his necktie again. Damn thing. He hated having to wear one on his day off.
“We have a reservation at Ernesto’s at six.”
Ernesto’s. The kind of restaurant Max tended to dodge. A stuffy, over-priced, pretentious place in Mt. Adams that served prissy little portions of nouvelle cuisine. Sighing, he resigned himself to the choice and tried not to yawn.
“From there, we’ll go to the symphony. I hope you like Wagner.”
He chuckled, assuming she was kidding. But when he checked, her expression revealed nothing but seriousness. “Wagner? Really?”
“His music’s quite stimulating. My husband and I used to have season tickets for the symphony. I gave them up when he—” She stopped and bit her lip. “I gave them up a few years ago.”
The symphony. Stimulating? Ri-ight. She must be older than he guessed. What decade had she been born in anyway? Oh, well, maybe he could catch up on his sleep.
And he’d given up his poker night for this.
Chapter Two
Since the camera recorded and magnified every emotion, Annabel attempted to hide her irritation from the high-powered lens hovering a few feet away. She glanced toward Max on the other side of the table and found herself viewing only the menu propped up against the floral centerpiece.
She didn’t need to see him in his flawless Italian suit to know he looked sinfully delicious. His rugged physique, gorgeous face, and observant eyes oozed sensuality—damn him—in that casual, devil-may-care way of his. But as her mother used to say, “Handsome is as handsome does.”
And so far, Max’s behavior had resembled a toad’s.
From his outrageous reputation with women, she’d expected more charm. He’d remained almost mute on the ride over. She wasn’t exactly thrilled to be on this date either, but at least she tried to be pleasant.
“What looks good?” she said, just to break the silence.
Max closed the menu and dropped it on the table before tucking his cell phone into his inside suit pocket. “Sorry, did you say something?”
He’d been texting someone or checking his messages? What an insensitive jerk! She sniffed back her disapproval. “I asked you what looks good.”
“The exit,” he muttered.
Offended even further, Annabel’s spine straightened automatically. “What?”
“Sorry, again.” He stuck a finger in his collar and pulled it away from his neck. “This isn’t my kind of place.”
Candles and ferns, crisp white linens and gleaming crystal filled the room. Music from a harpist in the corner drifted around them and enhanced the cool ambience of the pale green and silver decor. The overall effect was lovely and—in the right company—very romantic, but Max’s grimace spoke volumes about his disapproval.
“Oh, right.” She leaned forward and tried to produce a sincere-looking smile. “I guess you’d be more comfortable in some smoke-filled dive with peanut shells on the floor and a runway for strippers.”
“That does sound appealing.” His eyes lit up before he shrugged in resignation. “But I’d settle for a menu that’s written in English and a meal that won’t leave me hungry five minutes after it’s over.”
Annabel nodded with feigned sympathy. “I considered making a reservation at one of those places that sizzle up plate-sized sirloins while you graze at a salad bar with fifteen different kinds of bean and Jell-O concoctions. But then, I remembered this was supposed to be my dream date, not yours.”
“You got that right.”
Stung by his disapproval, her defenses rose along with her temper. “Listen, buddy, this debacle is as much your fault as mine. After the show the other day, you said you could get us out of this deal.”
He spread his hands wide. “I tried.”
“Not hard enough.”
“Hey, you could have refused, too.”
True, she could have. But when she saw Carly’s bright eyes, thrilled with the success of fixing her up with one of the best-looking, most-famous guys in town, the girl’s excitement held her back. Annabel bit her lip to keep from bursting her stepdaughter’s bubble by revealing that Mad Max Williams was as well-known for hi
s off-camera escapades as for his news reporting. Some of the gossip that swirled around him could be dismissed, but not all of it. Not when Annabel had glimpsed the results of his deplorable behavior firsthand.
She took a deep breath and reined in her annoyance, silently repeating her chant of the past week. It’s just one date. And to be fair, Max had explained when they’d talked on the phone that he’d been suckered into the gig, too.
A starchy waiter materialized beside them, drawing Annabel’s attention away from her personal dilemma and back to the meal.
“Are you ready to order?” Starch asked in nasal tones.
“Ladies first.” Max waved his hand toward her.
Annabel’s stomach growled. Obviously, skipping lunch had been a mistake. She ordered bruschetta with a gorgonzola tapenade, Greek salad, risotto with caramelized pumpkin and chorizo along with glazed Mediterranean vegetables.
“Very good, madam. And for you, sir?”
Max frowned. “I know what I don’t want.”
“And what would that be?” Starch narrowed his eyes down a long nose at Max. He probably doesn’t get that look of disapproval pointed at him very often.
“I don’t want anything bruschetta, frittata, polenta or Florentine.”
Starch sniffed as he gathered the menus and tucked them under his arm. “Might I recommend the New York strip steak without the piquant Pepper Coulis that normally accompanies it?”
“That sounds more like it.” Max rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Rare with a shot of hot sauce, a baked potato, plenty of sour cream, and a house salad with ranch dressing.”
Pokering up even more, Starch gestured toward Roger at the next table. “And for the other gentleman?”
“You want the same?” Max asked.
The cameraman held up his ham-sized hand, then pointed at Max before answering. “The station’s paying, right?”
Max nodded. “Yep, live large.”
Roger’s gleeful smile exposed a mischievous dimple. “If the steaks are less than ten ounces each, I’ll have two.”