by Peggy Jaeger
Tiffany came down off her toes slowly and removed her hands from his neck to rest them on his chest. His heart pounded against her flattened palms. “You don’t look too happy about this.”
He took a deep breath and removed his hands from her waist. “It isn’t a done deal, Tiff. Network approval is needed, along with sponsor endorsement. Plus...”
“Plus?”
His sigh floated in the breeze gamboling around them. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket and jerked his head away from her to gaze off into the distance. “I don’t know if I want a desk job. I’m too used to living out of suitcases, sleeping in airports, eating in a different place every night, a different country every weekend. I don’t know if I’m cut out to be an anchor. I don’t know if I’m willing to make all the sacrifices in my life I’d need to for the chance. Give up traveling, be at the beck and call of the network. Forced to attend the need-to-be-seen-at social events. I like reporting the news, telling the story my way.”
He started walking again, tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm, and pulled her along with him. Their pace was slower now, more thoughtful.
“Isn’t it easier to do that from the anchor chair?” she asked. “I mean, right now you do one story for a long period of time. You’re gone for months. As anchor, you’d report all the news happening in real time, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s not the same.” He shook his head. “I would be telling what happened, instead of being there, living it. I’d be going through the motions secondhand, not right in the middle of the action. It’s different. Very different.”
For a few minutes, they walked in silence.
Mike’s life had changed dramatically when he’d become the network news anchor. He was home more often, not as exhausted, and happier overall. But he was a different man than his nephew. Mike Woodard had been grounded in stability, weaned on security, and tutored in steadfastness. He’d devoted his life to his career, and then, when tragedy struck, he’d become Cole’s legal guardian. With that responsibility, he’d looked for an alternative job so he could be home and more available for his nephew, and had been given the cohost spot of the network’s morning program. After that, the nightly news anchor, the job he’d always wanted and worked toward.
Cole was another story.
Even at the age of six Tiffany sensed his daring nature, the reckless spirit that absorbed him. Always responsible, yet that underlying feeling of not wanting to be pinned down, but to be where the action was, filtered through him. Journalism was the proper field for him, as everyone who knew him agreed, but she could easily have imagined him as an itinerant cowboy or even a roadie. Someone who never stayed in one place for very long.
How else could he explain the fact he’d never rented an apartment for more than a few months at a time?
No, a desk job might not be the best thing for Cole and his wanderlust. It would be the perfect thing for her and the life she wanted to build with him, though.
But would he be happy? Would the sacrifice of a life he loved be worth it just to be together?
All this ran through her mind as they made their way across town to her apartment.
What Cole was thinking, she didn’t have a clue. His expression remained closed and unreadable.
When they arrived outside her building, Tiffany remembered something. “Where’s your luggage? I thought you said you left it with the security people at the Garden.”
“I brought it over after my meeting at the network. I haven’t unpacked yet.”
The uniformed doorman greeted them.
“Good afternoon, Miss Tiffany, Mr. Greer. Welcome home, again.”
“How’s Lucy doing, Peter?” Tiffany stopped to ask.
“Much better, thank you. The doctor said she’s almost back to normal.”
“Good. Give her a kiss from me.”
“I will, miss, thank you.”
“Who’s Lucy?” Cole asked, once they were in the elevator.
“His cat. She got out last week during a rainstorm and caught pneumonia. Poor thing. She’s barely out of the kitten phase. I sent Peter home with Addie’s recipe for chicken soup. He said Lucy really enjoyed it.”
Cole leaned back against the wall and laughed. “You’re incredible, you know that? Only you would give chicken soup to a sick cat.”
She lifted her nose in the air and threw him one of the looks he’d always called “Her Highness smelling an onion.”
“Do I detect derision?”
“None.” Cole placed a hand over his heart. “I meant it purely in the best sense. Ever since you were a kid, you’ve always gone an extra mile for animals. An extra carrot snuck to the horses, your table scraps for Seamus and Serena’s dog Rob Roy. I even remember the time I found you in the pond grove, stroking an injured robin. You made me drive you straight over to Seamus’s office to get the bird’s wing splinted.”
She nodded. “That little darling did very well. Went back to his nest within two weeks.”
“See? Incredible. You’re always on the lookout to help. Despite what you show to most people, Tiff, you’re a ridiculous softie at heart.”
Tiffany’s heart flipped at his words, spoken with what she knew he didn’t recognize as genuine love.
“Excuse me, but what are you referring to?” she asked in her best queen’s voice as they ascended.
Cole laughed again, and, shocking Tiffany to her core, reached out and pulled her into a fierce hug.
While her heart stopped, he rubbed her back and said into her hair, “Oh, Tiff, you don’t know how good it is to see you, how good it is to be home.”
Tiffany wrapped her arms around him and responded to the hug, choking back tears of longing and frustration.
“Come on,” she said when the elevator door opened on their floor. “I’ll make us something to eat. You must be starving.”
His boyish grin charmed her. “I’m always starving.”
“I know. A walking appetite.”
Chapter Three
The sound of pounding startled him awake.
Gunfire.
Mortar shells.
Close. Too close.
He was surrounded. Trapped.
Disoriented, Cole shot up from the bed, bathed in sweat, and listened. After a few seconds, reality washed through him.
He was in his own bed.
Home. Not Sudan.
He fell back onto the pillow and dragged his hands down his face. After a few deep breaths he stared up at the ceiling.
What was that unholy pounding?
Then he remembered the studio above the apartment. Years ago it had been a painter’s loft for Tiffany’s aunt, Serena Cleary. It was now used as a practice dance studio for Tiffany.
He looked at the clock and saw the ridiculous time of 0600 stare back at him.
Since sleep was now impossible, he rose and dragged on the jeans he’d thrown to the floor the night before. Shirtless, he headed for the studio.
His memory of the last evening was sketchy, a result of the lack of sleep he’d had for the prior forty-eight hours. Long delays at international airports hadn’t helped his mood either, as he’d been forced to spend endless hours in a cold and dinky airport in Morocco, waiting for a connecting flight to Spain, and then on to New York.
The lack of sleep, the lousy food he’d eaten, and the gallons of airport coffee he’d drunk had all taken their toll soon after he and Tiffany arrived home. He hadn’t even unpacked, just tossed his suitcases into his old room.
Tiffany had done her best to feed him, and he had to admit the sparse meal she’d cooked hadn’t been half bad. But he’d been cranky and tired and suddenly wanted nothing but sleep. And now, when he still needed it, he’d been ripped from his slumber by the hammering coming from the floor above him.
Cole walked through the kitchen and, to his surprise, found the coffeemaker on, a full pot waiting. He was warmed by the gesture, knowing Tiffany only drank tea.
He fil
led a mug and then imbibed half the scalding liquid in one long draught.
When the roaring volume above him lowered, Cole drained the remainder of the mug. Leisurely, he walked up the spiral staircase to the studio and opened the door. Blazing sunshine poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows and smacked him squarely in the face.
A slow Whitney Houston ballad echoed through the room. The floors, once covered with paint splotches, had been refinished. A pale oak, buffed and polished to a high sheen, lined the room, and a ballet barre crossed the middle of a mirror-covered wall.
Unnoticed by the dancers, Cole hung back and just watched.
The gray-haired man was Patrick Gianfranco, the choreographer who’d created the routine with which Tiffany’d won her second Olympic gold medal.
But it was to the small form in Patrick’s arms Cole’s attention was focused.
She was clad in white tights, white ballet flats on her feet, and a skintight black, sleeveless bodysuit that hugged her form like a second skin. She’d secured her hair on top of her head, the same way it had been for ice practice. The morning sun lighting through the windows glazed over her skin and frame, haloing her silhouette as she moved to the music.
For one brief moment, Cole’s heart stopped beating.
When had she developed this body? This totally alluring, completely sensual, and womanly body?
The quick bullet of desire that shot through his system unnerved him. This was Tiffany. Desire wasn’t an emotion equated with her. Because his hands started to shake, he thrust them into his jeans pockets.
The dancers continued to glide across the floor. When Patrick spun Tiffany around by her waist, only to rope her frame back to his body, Cole’s breathing ceased. With her back lying flat against the man’s chest, they looked like two lovers embracing. Their arms, torsos, and legs touched so intimately, so seductively, Cole was blinded by an emotion he’d never possessed before.
God, he couldn’t be jealous. This was just a dance routine.
Then why were the emotions brewing inside of him at war with one another? The song ended and the dancers parted.
“That was great, Tiff.” Patrick grinned down at her and gave her a quick hug. “Sean certainly has had fun with it.”
The small groan that came from her was comical. She pulled her face into a pout and said, “All at my expense, I can assure you. You should see the throw he added. My legs shudder at the memory.”
Patrick laughed and turned to grab a towel from the barre. It was then he noticed Cole.
“We have an audience,” he told Tiffany.
Her green eyes brightened when she found him standing, hands in his pockets, at the doorway.
“Well, you’re awake,” she said. “I was wondering if you’d put in an appearance today after the way you went comatose last night.”
“I was hoping to sleep a little longer, but the pounding wouldn’t let me,” he said dryly.
She squinted in confusion, and then he saw the realization dawn. “Oh, Cole, I’m sorry. I forgot the studio runs the length of the bedrooms.”
She crossed to him, embarrassment cruising on her face, and touched his arm. “Patrick and I only have the early mornings to practice. You remember Patrick, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
The choreographer nodded at him.
“Sean wants me at the arena by eight thirty every day,” Tiffany continued, “so we have to do our rehearsing this early. There’s never anyone in the apartment but me. I’m really sorry. I know how tired you were.”
The genuine concern in her eyes touched him. He took her hand and rubbed the knuckles absently with his fingers. “It’s okay, Brat. I guess I had enough sleep.”
“I’ve gotta go, Tiff.” Patrick slung his rehearsal bag over his shoulder. “I have class in an hour.” He kissed her cheek. “See you Wednesday?”
“Yup.” Her gaze stayed on Cole.
“Greer.”
It was Cole’s turn to nod as Patrick left the studio.
All of a sudden he was acutely aware the two of them were alone. He was half-clad, and she was barely covered in her leotard. A leotard that seductively outlined every curve and angle of her body.
“Well,” she said, “the least I can do to make amends for waking you is fix you breakfast.”
“I still can’t get used to you cooking,” he said, brows furrowing. “Addie tried for years to teach you. If I remember correctly, she always said you were hopeless.”
“Hopeless and impossible were the exact words.” A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth while she gazed up at him, her eyes moist and amused.
The jump Cole felt in his midsection every time she looked at him was becoming a familiar sensation.
“All her efforts paid off, though, especially with Aunt Serena’s help. Like I told you yesterday, I can do a mean steak and some great breakfasts. Want to give me a try?”
The innocent question knocked him back a few paces. While she’d been speaking, she’d begun loosening her hair from its topknot, tugging at the combs holding it in place. When it was finally free, she shook her head, and the mass of curls waved down her back.
Cole’s mind went blank. All he wanted to do was grab a handful of the glorious mane, yank Tiffany to him, and mold her body to his.
Without thought, he gave into the feeling, reached out with one hand and lazily fisted it around a tangle of curls. “You’ve always had beautiful hair, Tiff. Even as a kid. I remember how Addie used to brush it all the time, trying to tame these wild curls.” He grinned while his fingers caressed them. “She was never able to, though. It’s still wild when you let it down like this, but on you it looks perfect. Like a redheaded gypsy.”
Tiffany’s body stilled the moment his fingers laced into her hair. She stared up into his eyes while Cole counted the tiny freckles across her nose. He’d always loved those freckles. Mesmerized, he moved closer, cutting the distance between their bodies. Her natural feminine scent, clean and fresh, mixed with the aromatic rose infused shampoo she habitually used, drifted up to him. He’d recognize the fragrance anywhere in the world and immediately be reminded of her.
He looked down into the green eyes he’d known for an eternity and found something he’d never seen before. He couldn’t put a name to it, but something so strong, so urgent, pulsed through them. In one swift moment he conjured an image of the two of them in his mind, naked and making love on her big canopy bed.
And cursed himself for thinking it.
This was not a woman to trifle with, to have a good time with and then leave.
This was Tiffany. His Tiffany.
When he’d come to regard her as just that, he couldn’t remember. She was little more than a child. True, she had a woman’s body, a woman’s face, maybe even a woman’s needs, but she was still so fresh, so pure. Cole didn’t want to think of her any other way. He refused to.
Brusquely, he released his hold on her hair. His jaw tightened, and he ground the hard edges of his back teeth together.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look angry. I told you I’m sorry I woke you up so early.”
Confusion and even a little hurt washed over her face, and he cursed himself again.
“Geez, Cole, if you’re this grouchy in the morning, I’ll rehearse at the arena. Either that, or you can stay at a hotel or something until you get settled. I’ve got to get ready to leave.” She pushed past him through the open door. “Sean is a maniac when I’m late, and I’m in no mood to be yelled at today.”
“Tiff, wait.” Cole reached out and grabbed her upper arm. “I’m sorry.”
She turned back to him.
“I guess I’m still just tired from the trip.”
He lost himself in the delicious feel of his hand on her skin. “I’ll take you up on breakfast, if you have time to make it.”
Her delicate eyebrows creased together, and Cole watched the debate play itself out on her face.
After a few moments,
she shook her head. “How does a ham and cheese omelet sound?”
“Like heaven.”
Chapter Four
“Marina’s timing is a little off today,” Tiffany said, as the ebony-tressed beauty skated around the rink with Bryan. “She missed that last turn by at least two seconds.”
Sean’s watchful stare followed the duo. “Aye. She’s not concentrating. She should know this routine cold by now.”
“There. She fell this time.”
“There’s nothing wrong with m’eyes, lass. Stop. Stop!” Sean called, as he pressed the off button on the sound machine. “What the hell’s going on, girl? You’re totally off in this number.”
Both skaters glided over to the barrier, Bryan’s fists sat on his hips, his head down. In contrast, Marina carried herself with regal stiffness, her spine straight and tall.
“Care to explain?” Sean asked.
Both skaters looked at one another, but it was Marina Pavlov who spoke.
“The dance. It is too, what is the word? Tiresome? Many spins too close together. No time between breaks. I do not have time to pull back to Bryan.”
Sean’s response was cut off by Tiffany’s caustic laugh. “I can’t believe you. This routine is the easiest one in the show. A seven-year-old with one year of ice time could do it. And without falling.”
The frigid air in the arena dropped a good ten degrees as iceberg blue eyes bore coldly at Tiffany.
Marina’s mouth curled back in disgust as she arched one excessively over-plucked eyebrow. “How dare you? You think you are so special, so gifted. Never making mistake, never falling.”
“I fall,” Tiffany stated, simply. “I just try not to do it in front of an audience. You blew the easiest jump in the whole routine. Maybe you should concentrate more on practicing and spend less time clubbing every night.”
A stream of unintelligible Ukrainian flew from the skater’s lips. Eyes wide and bulging, mouth pinched, Marina pushed forward, arms outstretched, ready to do battle.
Bryan was closest and grabbed her as Sean wedged himself between the two women.