by Tarr, Hope
In the midst of her nervousness, Becky felt the corners of her mouth kick up. As far as she knew, there’d been no remake of the classic 1962 epic film. Impressive, though, that they even knew who Peter O’Toole was, let alone were setting aside a Saturday to hang out at a refurbished Art Deco movie theater. She was liking these kids more by the minute.
Remembering the twenty she’d stuck in her pocket to pay for coffee, she said, “What would you say to twenty bucks for one ride around the block?”
The boy’s eyes popped. “Are you serious?”
“Totally.”
He looked over at his girlfriend and asked, “Mind?”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “It’s no big deal. We can always catch the last show.”
He swung his head back to Becky. “You’re on.”
He introduced himself as Nathan and the blonde as Lisa. Lisa let her borrow her helmet and gave her a few pointers about balancing on the bike. “When he turns the corner, lean in, don’t jerk back. He won’t go fast but you should borrow my jacket, too, just in case. You never know what kind of shit—I mean stuff—will fly up from the road.”
Heart racing, Becky slid her arms through the sun-warmed leather and strapped the helmet onto her head. Stepping back, she divided her gaze between them and asked, “How do I look?”
It was a stupid question with an obvious answer. Thinking back to when she’d been their age, she remembered how anyone over thirty had qualified as, if not exactly ancient, certainly solidly middle-aged. So much for thirty being the new twenty….
Nathan surprised her by giving her a thumbs-up. “You look really good, Miss Stone.”
“Hot,” his girlfriend added, and Becky suddenly felt a warm, confident feeling override her nervousness.
“In that case, let’s rock ’n’ roll.” She mounted the bike behind him, swinging her leg over the seat in one fluid motion that would have done even Angelina proud.
“Hold on tight, Miss Stone.”
She wrapped her arms around the kid’s slender waist and leaned ever so slightly in. He revved the engine and they took off, Springsteen’s “Born to Run” rocking inside Becky’s head.
* * *
A half hour later, Becky walked back inside her apartment with windblown hair and chapped cheeks. The motorcycle ride around the block had been so exhilarating she’d cajoled Nathan into taking her around a second time. She doubted she was in danger of becoming a biker babe anytime soon—glancing into the bathroom mirror, she decided the whole helmet-head scenario was probably a deal buster—but daring to try something she’d always secretly wanted to do felt like a step in the right direction. Even if it was only a baby step, it was a step forward all the same.
She was pulling her hair back into a ponytail when the phone rang. Ordinarily she screened her daytime calls so as not to break her train of thought when she was writing, but she hadn’t gotten back to work yet. Still buzzing from her recent adventure, she hoped the caller was Sharon. Her friend had decided to stay in Fredericksburg for the time being, a development Becky suspected had to do with an upswing in her romance with a certain sexy detective.
Instead of Sharon on the phone it was Pat. Becky felt her glow fading. She hadn’t spoken to Pat since she’d overheard the phone conversation between Max and his agent. Ordinarily her editor preferred communicating any editorial changes by e-mail unless there was something substantive to discuss.
“Becky, it’s Pat. I have some fabulous news for you.”
Well, at least this time a phone call really did mean something positive. Relaxing, Becky said, “That’s great. What is it?” She held her breath, half hoping Pat’s “fabulous news” had something to do with Max.
Indeed it did. “I just got the call from Harry Goldblatt. His coagent out in L.A., the one who handles film rights, called to say that Spielberg picked up a three-year option on your and Max’s book. We’re not talking a TV movie of the week but a major motion picture. The news is all very hush-hush for now, though, so don’t tell anyone, not even your mother. We want to make the announcement at the book launch party.”
Having overheard Max on the phone with his agent, the news didn’t come as a complete surprise. Still, Becky felt overwhelmed. “Back up and tell me what book launch party?”
“It’s two weeks from today. Publicity’s booked the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center. Everything’s going to be first-class all the way. Everyone who’s anyone in publishing will be there, including the media.”
Becky hesitated. “That sounds great but I…I don’t think I can make it.”
“Why the hell not?”
She seized on the one excuse every editor should respect. “I have a deadline, remember?”
“Consider yourself granted a week’s extension—two weeks if you need it.”
“My, er…pet sitter is going to be out of town. I don’t have anyone I can trust to take care of Daisy Bud.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Daisy would be fine at the boarding kennel at the vet’s as long as the stay didn’t extend beyond a few days. But hard-bitten New York editor that she was, Pat was also a huge animal lover. She had a pair of standard poodles, a cockatoo and a tank of tropical fish all crammed into her midtown west one-bedroom.
“So board her or ask a neighbor to look in on her. We’re talking one day away, two days tops. She’ll be okay.”
Back to the proverbial wall, she fished, “I guess Max will be there?”
Pathetic, Becky, really bad. Pat worked for a publishing house, not a dating service. Manuscripts were her business, not matching lonely hearts.
“Now we’re getting down to it.”
She’d wondered how much Pat knew about her and Max’s personal relationship, and her editor’s tone alone answered that question. She must know everything more or less.
“What has he said to you? I mean it, Pat, I want to know.”
“To me, he hasn’t said a word. Other than e-mail, I haven’t spoken to him in a month. He’s apparently back in hermit mode, though Harry’s sworn on a stack of Bibles that he’ll be there for the party.”
Max. How could she possibly face him, let alone face him in front of a roomful of members of the publishing elite, reviewers and camera-popping paparazzi? Even after a month apart, the memory of the very Elliot-like way he’d betrayed her still really hurt.
Pat wasn’t taking no for an answer. She spent the next few minutes doing her usual sales job, citing all the good publicity Becky going to the party would bring and finally making it clear Becky didn’t have a choice—again.
“Cheer up, kid. This is your big break. The kind of break most writers only ever dream about. You’ve worked too long and too hard to blow it now because some macho male writer made you cry.”
As much as she hated to admit it, Pat was right. She was acting like an infant. If anyone should feel embarrassed about showing his face, it was Max, not her. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She had no reason to hide.
And yet, when she clicked off the cordless and replaced it in the phone cradle, the irony of her situation hit her like a pie in the face. Her big break had finally come around—and wouldn’t you know it, the only thing she felt breaking was her heart.
Chapter 14
“Mind you don’t move so much as a muscle, Falco, or I’ll blow your bloody head off.”
With her nemesis caught in her rifle’s crosshairs, Angelina found herself missing Drake, not only his weapon backing her up but his warm blue eyes and sexy smile. Even when you were an internationally sought-after sleuth turned secret government agent, life worked better with a partner.
Hands in the air, Falco advanced, more than six feet of trained-killer male sheathed in a black Ducati leather jacket and matching chaps. It had been almost a year since she’d lured him back to her hotel room, seduced him and tied him up, all to get him to give up the whereabouts of the stolen missile plans. Now that she and Drake had recovered them, she was free to act on her own behalf. Encount
ering him out of the blue in a pub in London’s Haymarket theater district was a dazzling opportunity she didn’t mean to waste.
Smile cocky, Falco dropped his hands and edged menacingly closer. “Angelina, love, you’re bluffing—again. You wouldn’t harm me, not after that amazing night we spent in Chelsea.”
“Is that so?” Angelina pulled back on the trigger—and blew the bastard to kingdom come.
* * *
Becky caught an early train from Washington’s Union Station to New York on the morning of the party. Once there, she treated herself to a nice lunch, a strictly necessary pilgrimage to Saks for a kick-ass dress and finally a soothing massage in the hotel day spa.
The Chelsea was booked when she called to make her reservation, which was probably for the best. As much as she loved the place, she wasn’t sure she was ready to go back just yet. Besides, Max was probably staying there in his usual suite. It was hard enough knowing she’d be seeing him later that night. Bumping into him in the lobby or, worse still, the lounge, didn’t feel like something she wanted to sign up for just now.
Instead she booked a single room in the Hilton on Avenue of the Americas. Though she generally didn’t like big hotels, she couldn’t fault the location. The hotel was within easy walking distance of Rockefeller Center where that night’s book launch gala would be held.
She had a few hours to kill before she needed to get ready and as badly as she wanted a pre-event glass of wine to calm her nerves, she also wanted a walk. It was spring and springtime in New York wasn’t to be missed. And yet when she stepped out the front of her hotel, she couldn’t bring herself to start down Avenue of the Americas where she’d literally run into Max. She thought his agent had an office somewhere close by. Either way, she didn’t think she could handle any more “coincidental” meetings. So far her horoscope predictions from January had both come true. She had indeed gotten more than her share of “fresh starts” and “dazzling opportunities.” What she hadn’t gotten was a happy ending, at least not when it came to love.
So she headed around the corner and cut down to Seventh Avenue on the outskirts of the Theater District. Rosie O’Grady’s was a steak and seafood house in the tradition of the venerable turn-of-the-century New York saloons. On weekdays the street-level bar was a popular watering hole, drawing patrons from the after-work office crowd, as well as tourists from the nearby hotels. If she were lucky maybe she could snag a table to herself and get not only a glass of wine but a snack, too.
She walked inside and bypassed the hostess stand for the bar—and found herself staring straight ahead at the tall silver-haired man who’d once broken her heart. Elliot. What the hell was he doing in an Irish bar in midtown Manhattan? Sure, he came to New York from time to time, but the trendier bars in the Village or Alphabet City were more his style. Hoping he hadn’t seen her, or that if he had he would stick to treating her as though she was invisible, she whipped around and headed for the door.
“Becky. Becky Stone!”
The slightly husky voice she remembered all too well stopped her in her tracks. Bracing herself to face him, Becky turned around.
He left his buddies at the bar and sauntered over to her. “Becky, I thought that was you. You look…you look amazing.”
He slid his gaze slowly over her, taking in every detail, missing nothing. If she had any thoughts his remark might be empty flattery, the open admiration in his deep-set dark eyes confirmed it. She must look pretty damn good—make that amazing.
The last time she’d been alone with him, he’d left her wrapped in a bath towel, a sex flush and a cocoon of false hope. But then the universe had a funny way of seeing that loose ends were tied up, or so it suddenly seemed. She’d imagined this moment so many times, prayed for it even, and now that it had materialized, instead of facing him weak-kneed and stammering, she was able to lift her chin and meet his gaze head-on.
“Thanks, Elliot. You look good, too.”
Tall, broad-shouldered and prematurely gray, he was more or less his same handsome self. Staring up at him, all macho self-confidence and cool, practiced smile, she realized he didn’t have nearly the effect on her he’d once had. Instead she found herself studying him with a critical eye. The bridge of his nose was wide, really wide. Funny how she’d never noticed before. It was such a prominent feature. And the lines on his forehead were more deeply chiseled than she remembered, or maybe they’d always been that deep and she’d overlooked them until now. And how was it possible that she could have missed the cruel curve to his mouth or the soulless vacancy to his deep-set brown eyes? A year ago that tall, broad-shouldered body had driven her crazy, but now he struck her as too thin, borderline gaunt. And she remembered that he waxed his chest. When they’d been together, she’d written off the practice as an L.A. thing, but now it struck her as really vain.
“I was just having a drink with some friends from the studio.” He gestured over his shoulder to the handful of men who, like him, wore designer dark suits and silk ties. Turning back to her, he said, “Why don’t you join us? I’ll introduce you to some people.”
Amazing how he hadn’t bothered to speak to her the last time he’d seen her in public but now that they’d met again by chance and he happened to be dateless he seemed to have all the time in the world.
She shook her head. “I can’t. I have to get ready for an event—a launch party for my new book, actually.”
Rather than congratulate her or ask what she was working on these days, he said, “That’s too bad. We could have had dinner and relived old times.”
Even at the height of her hormone haze, she’d recognized he had a supersized ego, but now she sensed his behavior bordered on narcissism. Still, she couldn’t really regret the six months she’d spent under his spell. Yes, he’d hurt her, deeply and profoundly, deliberately and cruelly, but looking at him now she suddenly understood that his hurting her was part of the gift. It had freed her to love someone else, the right someone else. Because of him, she’d been free to love Max.
Max. Finding herself face-to-face with Elliot brought the contrast between the two men into even sharper relief. Whereas Elliot was all about himself, Max was more interested in hearing about other people. Unlike so many writers at his level, he rarely if ever let his ego get in the way of the work. He was so low-key about publicity, he’d gotten a reputation in the publishing world as a hermit, whereas Elliot loved the camera entirely too much.
The more she thought of it, the harder it was to believe Max had betrayed her. Thinking back to the phone conversation she’d overheard, she tried telling herself she was only making excuses for a man’s bad behavior once again but something just didn’t…well, it just didn’t feel right. Now that she’d started trusting her intuition again, she couldn’t dismiss the sense of unease. Even with the damning dialogue echoing in her ears, running off had been a big mistake. Until she confronted him, she’d never have closure. Fortunately, tonight’s book launch party would provide her with the chance to get to the heart of the matter once and for all. It was time for Cinderella to stand tall and dig in her heels rather than run away.
Elliot’s lowered voice pulled her back to the present. “I feel really badly about how things ended between us.” Leaning closer, he confided, “I must have written you a dozen e-mails I never sent.”
Uh-huh. Sure you did. She must have honed her judgment over the past year because her ex struck her as transparent as glass. Were she to meet him as a stranger again, she didn’t think she’d be so easily taken in.
She shrugged, sensing a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it, Elliot. Looking back, I figure you did me a favor.”
He’d never made her happy, not really, and now he’d lost the power to make her miserable ever again. Looking up at him with eyes wide open, she saw him for what he was, just another player with a fake smile and a smooth pickup line—and a hollow heart.
If she hadn’t seen him with the twentysomething in D.
C., she might still be on the hook waiting for him to call, making plans she knew in her heart he wouldn’t keep, darting gazes around a party wondering if he hadn’t found someone younger or prettier or both to sneak off with. That was no way to live. It wasn’t living at all. Remembering how much of her energy that relationship had drained, she could appreciate her time with Max. With Max, she’d always felt energized and upbeat and good about herself on all levels.
His tense look relaxed, and he flashed his signature smile, the one she’d once found so irresistibly sexy but which now struck her as smarmy. “I’m coming into D.C. later this month. Maybe we could get together for dinner or…something.”
Becky wasn’t even tempted. “Thanks, Elliot, but no thanks. You take care of yourself, though.” She reached out and patted his arm as though he were a puppy.
Leaving him staring after her, she turned and walked out of the restaurant, a spring in her step. The smile breaking over her face barely waited for her to clear the threshold. Grinning from ear to ear, or at least that’s what it felt like, she walked back up Seventh toward her hotel. She did indeed have a publishing party to attend—and unfinished business with Max to settle once and for all.
* * *
Feeling like a reluctant Cinderella, Becky stepped off the elevator to the Rainbow Room later that night, her new hair and evening gown props to set the scene and cover her nervousness. She’d chosen the floor-length chocolate taffeta halter dress with care and, she realized, Max in mind. Looking into the Saks dressing-room mirror earlier that day, she’d thought the rich shade worked well with her hair and eyes. Usually she shied away from wearing long dresses, feeling that they made her look even shorter, but in this case the straight skirt with its flared hem flattered her petite figure by giving her a longer, leaner line while the deep V-neckline and knotted front made the most of her small breasts. And of course, she had on a killer pair of satin-covered Manolos and carried a beaded Kate Spade evening bag to set the whole thing off.