Strokes of Midnight

by Tarr, Hope

  Napkins and cutlery in hand, she walked over to the stove. “It smells good.”

  He looked up from shaking a canister of dried rosemary over the pot and shrugged. “I hope so. We’ll see.”

  Becky hesitated. This was a lot harder than she thought. “About last night, I know you probably still don’t believe me, or maybe you don’t even care at this point, but for what it’s worth, I really didn’t set you up.”

  His blue eyes brushed over her face, and for the first time since she’d arrived, she saw a flicker of the previous day’s warmth. “I believe you. I don’t know why, but I do.”

  * * *

  Two glasses of wine and one very full stomach later, Becky laid her cutlery down with a satisfied sigh. “You really can cook.”

  He glanced at her bowl. Aside from the china pattern, it was scraped clean. “For someone who wasn’t hungry, you didn’t do too badly.”

  “I guess I was hungrier than I thought. I didn’t really get breakfast.”

  Actually she’d had breakfast, in a manner of speaking—she’d had Max. Around sunrise she’d woken up horny as hell, slipped beneath the sheet and gone down on him. He’d been sound asleep when she’d slid her wet lips over him, tight as a vise. Ravenous, she’d licked and laved and sucked him, milking him until he’d come in her mouth. She’d never known a man could be so incredibly delicious. Even now that she knew who and what he was, her mouth watered at the memory—and at the thought of doing it all over again—which was most definitely not going to happen.

  “More wine?” He picked up the almost-empty bottle.

  “No, thanks.” She shook her head, which felt wobbly and heavy all at once. She’d only gotten a few hours sleep the night before and now the two glasses of wine, okay, two and a half, were hitting her bloodstream hard. She was way more relaxed than she should be, and they still hadn’t settled their business.

  “You should know that when it comes to the book, I’m not taking no for an answer, at least not until you hear me out.”

  “Are you always this bull-headed?”

  She could have pointed out that stubbornness went both ways. Instead, sensing some concession on his part, she said, “Only when I’m right. I read your last book on the trip up here, and I think I’ve come up with a concept that might mesh our strengths.”

  “In that case, pitch me.” He leaned back in his seat as though settling in to be entertained, perhaps even amused. “Let me have it.”

  Oh, Becky wanted to let him have it all right. The hubris of the man was almost beyond belief. He acted as though she was some newbie writer and he was the agent or editor interviewing her to see if she had the right stuff.

  “I’m a multipublished author who has won several fiction awards. I shouldn’t have to pitch you. We should be able to discuss this like colleagues. You know, back-and-forth, brainstorm.”

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugged and reached for his wineglass. “I’m a late sleeper, so you’ll have to let yourself out in the morning. Just watch that the dog doesn’t slip out past you. Scout is old but wily. Can you find your way back to the interstate or do you need me to give you a map?”

  Becky threw her hands up in the air. “Okay, okay, you win. I’m thinking a sort of Sleepless in Seattle setup where we have Angelina and Drake connecting emotionally but not necessarily physically—not until later in the book. To make it really clean and to give the protagonists equal weight, we can alternate chapters in each character’s point of view, showing them in their element, powerful and yet missing that special something only the other can provide. Interleaving the story arcs will be the biggest challenge, but it’s doable.” Out of breath and out of ideas, she lapsed into silence.

  He folded his arms and stared back at her. “Is that all you have?”

  Becky felt her shoulders falling forward in defeat. He wasn’t going for it. There was nothing more she could do or say to change his mind. Because of his bestselling track record, disappointing sales on one book wasn’t going to break him as it was her.

  Dejected and angry all at once, she shook her head. What the hell, she had nothing more to lose at this point. “No, as a matter of fact it’s not. The truth is I need this coauthorship. I really need it. You might even say my career is riding on it.” Suddenly holding back, for pride’s sake or anything else, was no longer an option. “You know this business better than I. Midlist authors like me are only as good as our last book. Mine didn’t sell so well and unless I can bring my numbers up fast, I may be a research consultant again for real. I know I’ve drunk too much wine, and I probably wouldn’t be telling you this if I hadn’t, but what I’m telling you isn’t coming from the bottom of a glass. It’s coming from the bottom of my heart.”

  She stopped for breath, looking away so he wouldn’t see the tears spilling from her eyes. A year ago when she’d run into Elliot and his new girlfriend, she’d managed to hold back from crying until she’d reached her apartment. Showing weakness in public, or in this case in front of a semistranger, wasn’t any more like her than having sex with him the night before had been. That horoscope had really played with her head—along with the sadness and desperation that went with starting out another year still single and alone.

  Max clearing his throat had her brushing her hand across her eyes. Dropping her hand, she turned back to face him.

  He pushed back from the table and stood. “We can call Pat and set up a schedule in the morning. For now, let’s get you to bed.” His eyes and voice held traces of the tenderness she recalled so vividly from the night before.

  Sniffing, Becky couldn’t believe she’d heard him correctly. Without thinking, she reached out to him, fingers slipping over his forearm. “Wait a minute, what are you saying? Are you…you’ll do it?”

  He hesitated, and then admitted, “Your pitch needs some fine-tuning, but it’s good. Better than good—I think it has bestseller potential. I’m willing to give working together a shot, a one-week trial period. If we can manage to mesh our writing styles and our characters, you’ll stay here until we get through the rough draft at least. I don’t know about you but for me that means about two months. Afterward, we can handle the revisions by e-mail, but for the actual writing, I’m going to need you here.”

  He paused and Becky realized he was waiting for her to answer. “O-okay. I—I can do that.” She wasn’t sure how, but she’d figure out the details tomorrow.

  Looking down on her, the momentary softness in his face solidified. “But if it doesn’t work out, you’ll pack your bags and leave by the end of the week after you join me in telling our mutual editor that we tried but the collaboration was a no-go. Do we have a deal, Ms. St. Claire?”

  Becky wondered what had made him change his mind, her pitch or her crying or both, but she wasn’t about to risk looking a gift horse in the mouth by asking. For the moment, at least, her career was saved.

  She held out her hand and his big, broad one closed around it, sending warmth surging through her. Doing her best to shake it off, she looked up into his blue eyes and said, “Yes, Mr. Maxwell. We have a deal.”

  Chapter 8

  “How many times do I have to say I did not lie to you before,” Angelina demanded. “I merely omitted the bit about my being a spy. The rest of what I told you is straight on.”

  Standing on the opposite side of their shared shanty, Drake shrugged. “Omitting, lying, they’re flip sides of the same coin. But in the interest of saving the free world, what do you say we set aside our differences and move forward with our mission?”

  Angelina arched one black brow and stared at him. Even knowing she’d set him up, he still wanted her. “My mission, don’t you mean? You’re only the hired help.”

  “The hired help? You need me to get you to those caves, you said so yourself.” Drake shook his head. “Like it or not, love, we’re in this together.”

  * * *

  Once becky fell into bed in one of her host’s many guest rooms, she’d been too excited
to go to sleep right away despite being tipsy and exhausted. Still, she woke up the next morning at her usual seven o’clock. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, ear cocked for some sound that Max might be stirring. Other than hearing what had to be the clicking of Scout’s doggie toenails on the uncarpeted hallway floor, the house was silent.

  She tried closing her eyes and slipping back to sleep but it was no use. Her body might be tired and stiff and her brain fried, but she was also wired, thoughts racing, anxieties on the upswing as she asked herself just what teaming with Max might mean as far as daily life went. He obviously had no further interest in sleeping with her. The bedroom he’d given her was on the opposite side of the house from his, and when he’d delivered her suitcase to her room a few minutes after getting her settled, he hadn’t lingered, though she’d half hoped he might. Instead he’d spoken to her through the closed door and had left her luggage in the hallway outside.

  Now that they were colleagues, his standoffishness ought to come as a huge relief—it was a huge relief—and yet she wasn’t sure how she was going to handle spending the next weeks alone with him. He might not be attracted to her anymore, but unfortunately she was far from being able to say the same. Last night at dinner she’d caught herself stealing glances at his broad-backed hands, his strong forearms and his supersexy mouth. Even though he’d spent most of the tension-packed evening scowling at her, she’d still wanted to kiss him. Who was she fooling? She’d wanted to do a lot more than just kiss.

  Another kink yet to be worked out was how she was going to manage her situation back home. Assuming the partnership worked out, she’d be gone two months. There were bills to be paid and plants to be watered, but most importantly there was her cat to be cared for. She’d boarded Daisy Bud at the vet before leaving town, but that wasn’t a long-term situation. It wasn’t good for a pet to be caged for weeks on end, especially one as catered-to as hers. Boarding over the long haul was also expensive. It was a lot to ask, but maybe after the trial week was up, Sharon could drive into D.C., pick up Daisy Bud, and take her back to Fredericksburg until Becky got back. Because of her rottie-mix, Minnie the demon dog, she’d have to close Daisy off in her spare bedroom, not ideal but still better than a prolonged stay at the vet’s.

  Becky slipped out from beneath the Shaker quilt and padded across the hooked rug to where her cell phone was charging. Amazed she’d had enough functioning brain cells the night before to remember to plug the thing in, she disconnected the phone and carried it back to the bed.

  Shivering, she sat on the side, pulling the quilt over her bare legs. God, it was cold here. The New England winter weather was one of many things she’d have to get used to in the coming weeks.

  Sharon answered on the third ring. “Hey, Becks, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. How did things go in the Big Apple? How many pairs of shoes did you come back with this time?” Despite Sharon’s chirpy tone, her voice sounded husky as though Becky had woken her. It was a weekday and her friend would usually be getting ready to go to work. Maybe she had a cold.

  “Listen, Shar, it’s a long story, but my editor wants me to coauthor a book with this other author, Adam Maxwell, and, well, let’s just say I don’t have a choice. I’m calling from his house in New Hampshire.”

  “You’re staying with him at his house?” Husky tone or not, there was no missing Sharon’s surprise.

  “Yeah, but it’s not what you’re thinking.” Actually it had been exactly what her friend was thinking, only not anymore. “It’s looking like I’m going to have to hunker down here for the next month at least, maybe two, while we bang out the draft.” Bang—a Freudian slip if there ever was one. “I know it’s a huge favor to ask but is there any way you could drive into D.C. this weekend and pick up Daisy Bud from the vet’s and take her back to Fredericksburg with you?”

  There was a long pause, and Becky chewed on her bottom lip. Thinking she might have pushed the bounds of their friendship, she started backpedaling. “Listen, don’t worry about it. It’s a lot to ask, and I’ll figure something else out. The vet can probably recommend a pet sitter or…” She broke off when she realized Sharon was crying. “Sharon, sweetie, are you okay?”

  “Not…really. Minnie…died yesterday.”

  “On New Year’s?”

  Sharon sniffled. “Uh-huh.”

  “Oh, no, I’m so sorry.”

  “I found her when I came downstairs. A heart attack in her sleep, the vet thinks. I couldn’t bring myself to sign off on an autopsy to know for sure. She was getting up there, I guess, but, oh, Becky, the house is so empty without her.”

  Having lost her beloved cat, Gabby, a few years before, Becky could more than understand. “I know, I know. It’s terrible. The worst…”

  In between Sharon’s snuffling, more bad news spilled out. “I called in to work a while ago to say my dog had died and I was too upset to make it in. My boss gave me shit about it and, well, to make a long story short, I quit.”

  “You quit?”

  “It’s been coming for a while, and to tell you the truth I think I need a change of scene. This detective guy I’ve been seeing, well, that’s not going so good, either. My rental is up in a month, and I’m seriously considering relocating. The only good thing about this dump was I could have a dog, and now I really feel like I need the vibe of a big city for a while. What would you think about me apartment-sitting for you? I could forward your mail and water the plants and take care of the cat while I job-hunt and figure stuff out.”

  Becky hesitated but only for a fraction of a moment. “That’s a great idea.”

  If the deal with Maxwell fell through, she’d be back to D.C. in one week rather than two months. Even if that were the case, though, she didn’t mind Sharon bunking in with her. The company would probably do her good. Who knew, they might make it a permanent thing. At that point, she’d need a roommate to make the monthly rent.

  They spent the next few minutes working out details, and she gave her friend Max’s address. Becky clicked off on the call, pulled on her sweatpants, and padded into the room’s private bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair. The conversation with Sharon had certainly put her current “problems” into perspective. She might not be thrilled at the prospect of coauthoring the book with Maxwell—Max—but in the big scheme of things it wasn’t a tragedy. As far as their romantic interlude went, nothing had really changed there, either. It had started out as a one-night stand and that was exactly what it had turned out to be. That might not be the romantic ending she would have written for her character, but for her real-life self it was definitely for the best. At this point, she really needed to focus all her energy on salvaging her career. She couldn’t afford a distraction.

  Thinking of the six feet plus of blond, blue-eyed distraction with his butt apparently still planted in bed, she glanced at herself in the mirror and shook her head. Work-out clothes and jeans were pretty much her writing uniform, but before there’d been no hunky writing partner to see her. Their sexual association might be over, but that didn’t mean she wanted to walk around looking like crap in front of him. As soon as Sharon settled in, Becky would ask her to courier a few essential items from the apartment. She’d also ask Max where the closest shopping mall was and try to carve out the time to do some basic shopping, emphasis on basic. Now that she was in a place where people had to wear snow boots three-quarters of the year, she doubted she’d run across any Jimmys or Manolos to tempt her.

  She tiptoed downstairs in search of coffee. At home she was used to bopping down the two city blocks to her local Starbucks whenever she pleased. The little treks were a big part of her self-reward system, but she knew from driving in the other day that there were no Starbucks or shops of any kind for miles.

  After several wrong turns, she found her way to the kitchen. Sighting the coffeemaker on the marble-topped counter, her spirits brightened. Apparently Max drank coffee, too, but then of course he must. When they’d first met, he’d
asked her to have coffee with him. What a long time ago that seemed.

  The top bank of cherry cabinets presented a daunting prospect, hung too high for her to reach. Feeling like an interloper, she reminded herself she was searching out coffee and coffee accoutrements, not family secrets or hidden jewels. She dragged over a stool and climbed up to open the first cabinet door. Voilà, she found the cone filters on the lower shelf and brought out the box.

  “I see you’re making yourself at home.”

  Becky started. She dropped the box, scattering filters to the four corners of the slate-tiled floor.

  “Easy. No more falling, remember?” Max was beside her in a minute, laying steadying hands on her waist. “If you’re this jumpy without caffeine, maybe you should consider switching to decaf.” Without asking, he lifted her down.

  “Not on your life.” Glad to have the floor beneath her feet, but shaky from the brief but intimate contact, she darted a quick glance at him. She’d never seen him in the morning, at least not with clothes on, in this case a belted blue terrycloth bathrobe that had seen better days. With his short hair mussed and sticking up at the back, he seemed almost boyish, certainly more approachable than he had the night before at dinner—and even sexier.

  She caught him staring and realized he must be checking her out, too. Self-conscious, she glanced down at the drawstring of her baggy pink sweatpants. “I know it isn’t exactly Victoria’s Secret but what can I say, it’s comfortable.”

  He smiled, the corners of his very blue eyes crinkling in that sexy, endearing way. “No, that’s not what I thought. It’s…” He glanced down at her feet. “I guess I’m not used to seeing you without high heels.”

  Becky followed his gaze downward, feeling really dumpy, not to mention really short. She’d put on a pair of gym socks to buffer the cold coming up from the floor. “As much as I love my Manolos and Jimmy’s, even I don’t sleep in them—or wear them to breakfast in the house.”