He’d probably regret it, but before he left the next morning, he wanted to see her. “Have dinner with me tonight?”
“What time?”
“Seven okay? And, Allison, please leave your recorder and your notebook in your room. This will be a social occasion; journalist and author will be nowhere in sight.”
“You serious?”
He could imagine her brows knitted in perplexity. “I’m always serious.”
“Even when you’re supposed to be teasing?”
He kicked off his other shoe and stretched out on the bed, warming up to the inquisition that he knew would come. “Why not? You’re so skittish that I don’t dare use plain English, and if I spoke frankly, you’d accuse me of being unprofessional.” He wished he could see her face, because he could imagine her dilemma as to how sharply she should zing him.
“Well, thank you for not using the word abuse.”
He laughed. “Ah, Allison, I could—”
“You could what?”
“If I thought you wanted to know, you wouldn’t have to ask.”
“All right. I don’t want to know, but I’m stubborn. Tell me.”
He didn’t believe in self-destruction and told her as much. “If the day comes when I think you can handle it, I’ll tell you.” She didn’t have to be told, he realized, when he heard her softly seductive reply.
“And if I come to that conclusion before you do, I’ll hasten the day. But don’t wait for it. Meet you downstairs at seven. Oh, and, Jake, what was the name of that cologne you wore on Monday? I liked it.”
So she’s decided to get fresh and shove him back into his place, has she? Well, he’d show her. “I never wear cologne,” he shot back, “and from what you just said, I take it nature did a decent enough job.” He hung up and headed back to the shower, Seven o’clock wouldn’t come fast enough.
* * *
What did he mean, he never wore cologne? She’d swear in open court that he’d been wearing a cologne so seductive that she’d been tempted to walk right up to him and sniff. She put on off-black stockings, a short red-beaded dinner dress, black silk slippers in size ten-and-a-half-B, picked up a small black silk purse, and glanced in the mirror. What she saw didn’t please her, so she removed the combs from her hair and brushed it out, then applied Arpège perfume in strategic spots, threw on a light woolen stole, and went to meet him. He’d said it was a social occasion; well, when she went to dinner with a man, she dressed.
What she wouldn’t have given for a camera. She’d never have expected to see his bottom lip drop, and the evidence was fleeing indeed, but drop it he did. He recovered quickly and stepped toward her as she walked out of the elevator.
“Lovely lady, have we met somewhere?”
“My dear man,” she retorted, head high and shoulders back, “if I had ever seen you, I wouldn’t have to ask that question.” With half-lowered eyelids, she let her gaze travel slowly from his feet to his head, allowed a half smile to curve her bottom lip, gave the appearance of being well satisfied with what she saw, and stepped ahead of him, a queen who didn’t doubt that her subject would follow. A glance in the wall mirrors revealed his wide grin and his delight in her frivolity. She swallowed a laugh when it occurred to her that she didn’t know where they were going and that she’d have to stop and wait for him. She spun around. The devil. That explained his amusement.
His head went back, his eyes closed, silent laughter seemed to ripple through him, and his grin glistened as though a bright beam had settled on his mouth. “I have a car waiting. We’re going to The Golden Slipper. Does that suit you?”
She nodded in appreciation of his choice. “It’s a lovely place, but how did you know I’d dress?”
“Because you wouldn’t pass up the chance to go one up on me. I said this would be a social occasion, and I knew you’d show me what that meant.”
“I am not transparent,” she grumbled as they got into the car.
“No,” he agreed. “You aren’t; you’re consistent. You’re also beautiful.” His voice dropped a few decibels when he added, “Very beautiful.” She hid her pleasure at his sensual, barely audible whistle.
“Up to now, I’ve been enjoying my social evening with you, Jake.”
“But being sweet is getting the better of you. Right?”
Allison tossed her head, shrugged, and ignored his question. The limousine pulled up the curb, and the uniformed doorman opened the door and helped her out. When they reached the top of the stairs, Jake gave the maître d’ his business card and followed the man to a secluded table. A bouquet of red roses adorned their table, and she was glad she’d chosen her red dress.
He didn’t speak until after the maître d’ lit the candles and left them. “We aren’t author and journalist this evening, Allison, but we do have to deal with what those identities mean to us. Something is bubbling between you and me, just beneath the surface, and it could explode like hot lava from a live volcano. I don’t like surprises. I know what I want out of life, and I long ago decided what I would and would not sacrifice in order to achieve it. That’s something a person should know early on.”
She settled in the chair that was upholstered in avocado-green silk damask, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at him, seeing the man, thankful that the celebrity was absent. “What wouldn’t you sacrifice, Jake?”
He dipped a shrimp into its sauce, held it to her lips, and let a smile light his eyes. Surprised and pleased by his gentle gesture, she ate it, rimmed her lips with her tongue like a contented feline, and waited for his answer.
“I won’t trade having a family of my own, not even if I have to go back to wearing hand-me-down clothing, splitting wood with an ax, and cleaning the floors of a canning factory as I did during my teens.”
Her lower lip dropped, and she knew her eyes widened. This man had known pain, and she hurt for him. Every feminine part of her wanted, needed to soothe him. In an effort to brush it aside, shaken, she sat forward and blurted out, “If you want to see your children grow up, seems to me you should have some by now. Why haven’t you married?”
He leaned toward her and placed both hands on the pristine linen cloth. “My point exactly. I’m single because I want a family. What about you?”
She lowered her gaze. He had a penchant for shifting the questions to her, but she’d never tell him that she had pushed aside everything in quest of fame as a journalist, even the realization of her desire for a family of her own. Oh, but she wanted that, perhaps more than he. She shifted the question back to him.
She glanced at the elegance surrounding them, thought of his facile acceptance of it, of how much a part of him it seemed, and remembered his having said he’d turn his back on it rather than sacrifice his dreams.
“I hadn’t realized that you were... That, as a child, you might have had a difficult life,” she said, and tried to keep the sympathy she felt out of her voice. His easy smile didn’t fool her; nobody took pleasure in being poor. “How was it for you as a child?” she asked, her voice gentle, but not solicitous. His pause suggested uncertainty of her motive for asking, as if he were being careful not to reveal himself, and suddenly she wasn’t certain that she could handle the answer.
He shaped his hands into a pyramid, the tips of his index fingers resting beneath his chin, and the smile that flashed across his face bespoke loving remembrance. “We were poor, Allison, but I was not underprivileged.” His voice held unmistakable pride.
She hadn’t known that her hands gripped the edges of the table until a numbness drifted up her fingers. “Would you mind elaborating on that? My family had material things to throw away, but I used to think all of my friends were better off than I. Sounds fanciful, I know, but as an adult I’ve learned that kids have a clear understanding of the relationship between them and other people.”
&nb
sp; “Weren’t you close to your folks?”
She shrugged, wary of his personal questions as, once again, he turned the inquiry back to her. “To my brother mainly. I’m not sure why, but we can almost read each other’s minds. We’ve been that close for as long as I can remember.”
“But not your parents?”
“Oh, they love my brother and me, but they’re so devoted to each other, to their causes and their place in the community, that they sometimes forget us.”
A tenderness in him reached her when his hand covered hers, draping her in a blanket of warmth and security.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “My parents lived for us—the whole family including me, I mean—and when my father died, my mother turned to me and said, ‘It’s just us now, but he left us a wonderful legacy.’ She’s strong, and so was he; I want what they had.”
Jake didn’t know the details, but he had understood what she hadn’t even voiced to her beloved brother, Sydney. She looked into the stroking tenderness in his hazel eyes, warm centers of beguiling sweetness, and had to lower her gaze. She didn’t want to care, didn’t want to need him, but he pressed her hand, and her fingers threaded themselves through his. Immediately, she tried to remove them. They had agreed to a social evening, but she was still a reporter, and he was her assignment.
“Look at me, Allison. What we’re feeling is not going to bring the world to a crashing end, and it may prove uplifting for us both.”
Maybe. She wasn’t so sure.
* * *
Jake walked out of the restaurant slightly behind Allison, his senses alive to her radiant beauty and carriage, his nostrils filled with her elegant scent. Something like lilacs or jasmine. He splayed his fingers at the small of her back, stifled an urge to wrap his hand around her waist and bring her body to his. How had he veered so far from his earlier thoughts, when he’d been certain—had sworn to himself that, despite her powerful attraction for him, he wouldn’t get involved with her? He had never been an irresolute man; he evaluated a situation, decided his course, and stuck with it. But each time he saw the softness in her or, as happened tonight, when he learned more about the person in her that she so successfully hid, he came a little closer to needing her.
“Want to stop by The Realm for an hour or so?” he asked her. “They have a great house band. How about it?” He wondered at her hesitation.
“Well, for a little while,” she agreed as their car pulled away from the curb. “I’ve never been there.”
He noticed that she left plenty of space between them, and a smile floated over his features; old habits died hard. The band was just completing a show tune as they entered the supper club, but by the time they’d seated themselves, an alto saxophone had begun its wailing statement of unrequited love in the finest example of jazz. He stood, extended his hand to her, and with an expression of resignation covering her face, she looked from his hand to his eyes and back. Then she took his hand and went into his arms, and they joined the dancers to the provocative rhythm of “Help Me Make it Through the Night.”
Her body gave itself over to the throbbing music. He wouldn’t have believed it if his eyes hadn’t seen it. Voluptuous. Sensuous. “You’re a fine dancer,” he said, imagining what it would be like to have her in his arms on a regular basis.
“Thank you, but I’m not that great. It’s simple enough to dance well when one’s partner guides so smoothly,” she said with not a little diffidence.
He looked down at her and grinned. “Thanks for the compliment.”
Chapter 4
Allison had had as much of his mercurial personality as she could handle in a single evening. If she was going to keep passion out of their relationship, she’d have to limit the time she spent with him to their working hours.
“It’s well deserved,” she said, forcing herself to adopt an offhand manner, and added, “We’d better go. I’ve been losing too much sleep on this tour.”
A smile settled on his face, and he winked, intentionally or not, she couldn’t tell. “I’d never have guessed. You look good to me.”
“Thanks.” She inspected a spot beyond his shoulder and chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m using up energy that could be better spent otherwise.” Why did he always seem to have the upper hand?
His grin broadened, and he reeked of self-assurance. “Really? I’d like to... Okay. We’ll leave if that’s what you want.”
* * *
Allison told Jake good-night in the lobby of their hotel, grateful that he’d judged her mood correctly and hadn’t insisted on seeing her to her room door. She took the ever-present flashlight from her pocketbook in case a maid had extinguished the light she’d left burning. Once inside the door, she had pangs of remorse for having left Jake so early, but quickly banished them. Her work had priority, and passion for Jake Covington, real or imagined, could only derail it.
I don’t have to stick to him every minute, she told herself, deciding to interview people who had lived or worked with him. She opened her laptop computer and looked up Jake Covington on the Internet. Strange. The only entry appeared as author of For the Sake of Diplomacy. She couldn’t locate a biography, none of the encyclopedias listed him, and he didn’t have a web page. Where did he work? Who were his friends and acquaintances? The eerie feeling that gripped her quickly shifted into suspicion. Absence of information about such a famous man meant that he or someone deliberately withheld it.
She dialed Jake’s room with the intention of leaving a message, but to her surprise he answered.
“Covington.”
“Hi, Jake. I’ve got some errands to do tomorrow morning. Think you can get along without me?”
His long silence was evidence that she’d surprised him. “Well, sure. I...I’ll catch you sometime in the afternoon. Right?”
“You will? I thought you were leaving town tomorrow morning right after your seven o’clock TV interview.”
“Don’t worry. It’s only postponed. See you later.”
“Right,” she quickly answered, relieved to have the time to herself. “Have a good day.”
The next morning, Allison was at the New York Public Library when it opened, but her search of the library’s catalogue for information on Jake proved futile. Not even the notations about his book held a clue to the man, and he hadn’t written it as a personal memoir, the catalogue noted, but as a report on the experiences of many diplomats. No help there. From the back of her mind, she recalled her promise to write only of his professional activities on the tour, but what kind of story could she write? At the moment, she could tell her readers his age, that he was born in the sticks somewhere near the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, had a commanding presence, and possessed a wink that made her blood race.
Discouraged, she stood to leave. Was that...? She sat down, certain that the man at a table nearby was the one she’d seen at the restaurant and later at Rockefeller Center. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Furthermore, the man behaved suspiciously. She’d turned her head and found him peering at her over the edge of a newspaper. Furor boiled up in her. Bill Jenkins had sunk as low as a person could. How dare he hire a man to spy on her! She grabbed her briefcase and headed for a telephone.
“Jenkins speaking.”
The calm of her voice belied the state of her temper. “You sent a man up here to spy on me? When I take a job, I—”
He interrupted. “Hold on there. I haven’t sent anybody after you. What makes you think some guy’s spying on you? And why would he? Make sense, babe. This call is costing me.”
A wave of apprehension clutched at her. “You’re telling me you haven’t put a tail on me?”
“Hell, no. This story’s costing me enough as it is. I don’t care what you do as long as you bring me a first-rate story on Covington. And I mean first-rate. You got that?”
“Gue
ss I made a mistake.”
She hung up and stared at the phone, momentarily baffled. That man hadn’t been there by accident. She raced up the stairs to see if he was still where she’d left him, and as she’d expected the chair he’d occupied was empty. Nor was he elsewhere in the reading room. She took the elevator to the first floor and stood in line at the exit while an employee examined everyone’s bags, including women’s pocketbooks. As casually as she could, she strolled down the stone steps that were flanked by the famous lions and stopped. The same man. He paused at a refuse basket, threw a newspaper in it and hurried up Fifth Avenue. Allison waited until he was half a block away, retrieved the paper, and quickly shoved it into the outside pocket of her briefcase. She walked rapidly in the opposite direction, past the vendor of imitation designer handbags, darting through the thick lunchtime crowd—an obstacle that would test an athlete—and got a taxi to the Drake Hotel. A Spanish language newspaper. No help there, but she’d keep it in case.
Allison walked into the hotel lobby, and shock reverberated through her as her gaze landed on Roland Farr. “What do you want, and how did you find me?” she asked with the barest civility, although she knew almost at once that Farr was Bill Jenkins’s emissary. What had she ever seen in the man? Had he always been so lacking in character, and had his eyes always been so vacant?
“Loosen up, Allison. Your boss told me where to find you. I’m opening a new hotel, the poshest place in D.C., right on the corner of Connecticut and Kalorama, and he says he’s sending you to cover the event. I want to make sure I can count on you.”
“Not on your life. Find another gullible woman.”
“I didn’t do one thing to you, doll. What happened was your own doing. So can we sit here somewhere or go to your room so I can fill you in on my plans for the opening? The place will be crawling with celebrities.”
So he wanted another cover-up, did he? “Yes, Roland. What happened was my fault with a lot of help from you. I don’t need a job badly enough to cover that story, and you can tell Bill Jenkins that for me. I’m a big girl now, and I had some hard years in which to learn my lesson. If Jenkins insists I take that assignment, I’ll go for the jugular, and you’ll think your veins have been turned inside out.”
Last Chance at Love Page 7