A Winning Battle

by Carla Neggers

  She snorted in self-disgust. “What difference does it make if he is?”

  She crumpled the note and shoved it in her handbag.

  She’d fumed all day. All day. She’d permitted her anger at being stood up to dominate her thoughts. She’d wondered if he’d showed up after all, just late. She’d debated calling her apartment to see if he was there. She’d considered calling his apartment to find out what had happened to him. She’d thought up a host of new names to call him.

  In short, she’d stewed.

  But she’d felt an electric current coiling up her spine as she’d deciphered his handwriting. More games? Again, she thought, what difference did it make? Despite her stewing, she had been able to take a cold clinical look at the facts—or at least the fact, the one she could no longer ignore: Christopher O. Battle was a threat to her hard-won stability. Not a potential threat, but an actual threat. Who was more at fault or who wanted to go to bed with whom were no longer the salient points.

  She had to regain control over her own life.

  There was no sign that he’d been inside her apartment. No footprints on the rug, no coffee mug in the sink, no forgotten jacket or scrap of paper. Nor was there a message from her on her machine. All she had was the note. She dug it out of her handbag and read it again, just to be sure she’d gotten it right.

  I didn’t call you because I was lying in bed naked thinking about making love to you and didn’t want to embarrass you.

  She picked up the phone and called him.

  “Battle,” he said after five rings.

  “Did you know it was me and not want to pick up the phone?”

  “Couldn’t find the phone. I dumped it on the floor so I could spread out my research on a new column I’m working on. Did you get my note?”

  “What note?”

  “You lie, Page. You lie poorly, I might add, but you do lie.”

  How could a man so completely her opposite see through her so easily? She flipped the note over so she didn’t have to look at his provocative scrawl. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The envelope I gave the security guard didn’t have the key in it and he said he’d given it to you. So I just threw my old note away. You’d written a note to me on it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What did it say? Anything important?”

  “Don’t bait me, Page B. It won’t work.”

  Maybe not, but she did love baiting him. She could feel herself beginning to smile, energy coursing through her after her day of fuming. “Well, I suppose it’s neither here nor there. Did you come upstairs and have your look around?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “No fun if you’re not there.”

  “But you’ve seen me. It’s my office you need to see now to complete your column.”

  “None of this has anything to do with my column, and you damn well know it.”

  “But—”

  “Give me an hour to finish up here. You and I are having dinner together tonight. If you haven’t read the note, dig it out of the trash and read it. If you have, read it again. You and I are going to talk.”

  “Look here, who died and made you boss? You stood me up this morning, and I’m not going to sit around for another hour waiting for you to show up.”

  “I’ll be there, Page. Count on it.”

  “No, that’s the whole point. I’m not going to put myself in the position of having to count on you and—” She took a breath and abandoned her explanation. “Just don’t come.”

  She hung up, banging down the receiver as hard as she could.

  Ten seconds later her phone rang. She let her message machine take care of it. Chris Battle’s rich, sexy voice said, “Page B., did you forget? I have a key.”

  She dove for the phone, but he’d already hung up.

  It was 4:35. If he wasn’t there by 5:35, she would go stay with Millie Friedenbach for a few days and have all her locks changed. To Chris Battle, being late or not showing up might not mean much. To her, it was a symbol of irresponsibility, disorganization, selfishness, laziness—and just not caring. Good intentions meant something, but not enough.

  Thoughts of Millie reminded her of last night’s Bruins game and William Norton. Glad for the diversion, Page called her friend.

  “Hey, there, friend,” Millie said, laughing, “I’ve been meaning to phone you all day. Thanks for putting William Norton onto me. What a sweetie he is. We’re having dinner tonight, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, we’re leaving it open. I’ll give him a call in a few minutes and find out what’s happening with his schedule. Maybe I’ll get him to come to the gym with me. He’s got a few pounds he could work off.”

  “But you like him?”

  “Yeah, he’s a nice guy.”

  “And he likes you?”

  “Seems to.”

  So much for revenge, Page thought. Not that she’d owed Millie a bad night, but Millie Friedenbach had been known to do nearly anything to get free hockey tickets.

  Millie went on. “It’s refreshing to meet a guy who doesn’t get all weird when he finds out I know as much about hockey and stuff as he does.”

  “He’s a friend of Chris Battle.”

  “Yes, dearie, I know. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s a point in William’s favor. What’re you and Battle up to?”

  “We’re having dinner tonight... I think.”

  “Relax, Page. Be spontaneous for a change and go with the flow.”

  “I’m not even sure he’ll show up.”

  “How long’s he got?”

  She glanced at the clock. “Forty-seven minutes.”

  “Hey, be bold and give him fifty.”

  “Millie—”

  “I’m not making fun of you, Page. I just don’t want you to wreck a potentially good thing here. William thinks Chris has ‘romantic inclinations’ toward you— you believe he actually talks like that? Don’t be so picky, all right? I mean, who’d have ever thought I’d be smitten by a guy with a mushy middle? If there is such a thing as Mr. Right, I wouldn’t want to meet him. Life would be boring.”

  And with that shaky philosophical pronouncement, Millie wished Page a good night.

  During the next forty minutes Page took a quick shower, dabbed on a light perfume and changed into a pink knit dress. She took pains with her cosmetics to make her face appear natural; she wasn’t the sort of woman who could just slap on eyeliner and lip gloss and look fantastic. As with most things, she took great care in choosing the right look for her pale skin and deeper colored hair, which, fortunately, required two minutes of work. Her contact lenses were feeling glued in, so she took them out and put on her pink-framed glasses. All in all, she thought, examining herself in the full-length mirror, not bad. Not free-spirited, not funky, but not uptight, either.

  So you’re dressing up for this guy, is that it?

  “Yes,” she said aloud, “I guess it is.”

  But since he wasn’t going to show up, anyway, why worry?

  At precisely 5:35 her doorbell rang. She couldn’t believe it, but when she looked through her peephole, there was Chris. She opened the door.

  He grinned. “I’ve been out here for five minutes, but I wanted to show up on the dot. Here.” He thrust a bouquet of spring flowers at her.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Flowers—daffodils, irises, couple of tulips. I don’t know what that frothy stuff is. Some kind of filler, I guess.”

  “Baby’s breath. But why?”

  “For being a jerk.”

  She laughed. “I’ve never received flowers for being a jerk.”

  She saw surprise reach his eyes, and then he smiled at her, and she let him inside. They went to the kitchen, where Page got out a vase. Chris watched from the doorway as she filled the vase with water, snipped off the ends of the flowers and added them. She set the arrangement on her small kitchen table.

  “Very nice,”
she said, meaning it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. You dressed up for dinner?”

  “Not really.”

  He moved into the kitchen toward her. “Why is it you can lie freely to me, but when I lie to you, all hell breaks loose?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Because you don’t have as hot a temper as I do?”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “Then because your lies are important and mine are... defensive. To keep you at a distance.”

  “Is that what you want? Me at a distance?”

  He was standing very close. She’d turned to face the flowers and had her back to him but could hear his footfall directly behind her. He’d lowered his voice, and she could almost feel his breath on her neck. Or maybe not almost. Maybe she actually could, and she just didn’t want to admit it.

  “Part of me says I should,” she said, not turning.

  “Because of the column?”

  “No. Not at all. I believe you when you say you’re not going to do it. It’d be unethical. Whatever anyone’s said about you, you’ve never been accused of being unethical. Wrongheaded, cynical, nasty, mean spirited, tough—”

  “But not unethical. Is that a compliment?”

  Now she did turn, and he was even closer than she’d imagined. Close enough to brush up against. Close enough, in fact, that she had no other choice. She lost her balance for an instant, nearly tripping over his feet, but caught him by the arm and steadied herself. Her gaze locked with his, and she nodded. “Yes,” she said, “it is.”

  “But it’s not really the column standing between us,” he said.

  It wasn’t a question, but she shook her head. “It’s difficult to explain.”

  “Will you try?”

  There was a sensitivity in his expression, a desire to understand that she hadn’t seen before. With one finger he brushed a bit of flower from the shoulder of her dress. His touch, ever so brief and unconscious, sent sensations radiating through her. She nodded. “Over dinner?”

  “Sure. Where would you like to go?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s just walk outside and see where we end up.”

  He grinned, a teasing grin, but one without ridicule and that touch of superiority she’d detected the first day they’d met. “How spontaneous, Ms. Organizer.” She laughed. “Downright daring.” “There’s one thing I’ve got to do first.”

  “Check out my office? It’s color-coded, you know, and—”

  “I don’t give a damn about your office. It’s this.” They were still standing close, and he scooped an arm around her waist and threw her balance off so that she stepped on his toes and catapulted against him. She had to swing both her arms around him to keep from falling, but apparently that had been the whole idea. She heard herself take a sharp breath as she felt the warmth and hardness of his body against hers. His arm stayed around her middle. She liked the weight of it on the small of her back, liked the way it helped to keep her pushed up against him.

  “I’ve been wanting to hold you like this for weeks.” She gave a small, breathless laugh and tried to come up with something witty, something that wouldn’t tell him the effect he was having on her.

  She said lightly, “The greatest rewards go to those who are patient.”

  “Who the hell says I’ve been patient?” He wrapped his other arm around her, and they snuggled even closer. She loved the smells of him—no-nonsense soap and hard work—and could have stayed in his arms for the rest of the evening.

  “No,” he said, bringing his mouth toward hers, “patience has nothing to do with it.”

  He touched her lips briefly with his, as if trying to make it enough but already knowing it wouldn’t be. He was also giving her that instant to pull back. But she didn’t. She opened her mouth in invitation, and his mouth seized hers, his tongue plunging in at once, its every movement, its sheer heat, betraying the same kind of ache that overwhelmed her.

  His fingers dug erotically into her buttocks, and he moaned softly as he pressed her against him. She could feel just how aroused he was and felt a stab of panic. She pulled back from the kiss. “Chris...Chris, are you sure this is making you feel better?”

  He smiled at her, his eyes half-closed. “The potential for feeling better is definitely there. You?”

  “I’m... hungry.”

  “So I gathered,” he said, deliberately misinterpreting her. But he didn’t press his point as he dropped his hands from her hips and stood back. “Dinner?”

  She nodded, relieved. “I’ll get my coat. Tell me... if I hadn’t let you in, would you have used your key?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Isn’t that unethical?”

  “Work and romance have different sets of rules, Page B. There’s not much I wouldn’t do for work. But for romance ... hell, who knows what I won’t do?”

  Chapter Seven

  The warm evening, by Boston standards, had lured a sizable portion of the population out onto the streets and into the restaurants, which were very crowded. Chris and Page had to wait in line at the inexpensive no-frills side to Legal Seafoods, but Chris didn’t mind. People were in the kind of giddy mood that came with the first days of spring after a long, cold winter. He decided that was something people in the Sun Belt missed: that inexplicable, overwhelming pleasure—the sheer relief—at hearing the first robin, seeing the first crocus, feeling the first breath of warm air. To experience that thrill was enough reason to endure winter, except, of course, for those couple of weeks he liked to spend in Jamaica.

  The wait in line also gave him a chance to clear his head, and Page to clear hers. He sensed she was as caught up in the feverish emotions of spring as he was. They talked about things that didn’t matter too much, such as whether they’d eat shark—Page would, he wouldn’t—and sushi. “If it blinks,” he maintained, “it gets cooked.” That led to a discussion of what animals didn’t blink—were there any?—and if he’d eat them raw, until Chris finally told Page not to be such a perfectionist.

  “You know what I meant,” he said.

  “Well, yes, but you’re a journalist, right? I should think you’d want to be precise about language.”

  “I am just making idle talk while waiting in line for dinner. Don’t you believe in idle talk?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He knew he was in for a lecture and watched her with amusement as she geared up.

  “Actually,” she said, “you’d be surprised at all you can accomplish while waiting in lines. Many of my clients can’t stand waiting, but it’s a fact of urban life. Instead of becoming frustrated, I suggest they use the time to empty their minds and relax, to observe people, to read a magazine, even to problem solve. The trick is not to focus on having to wait.”

  “You have a system for everything?”

  “No, but I guess it might seem like that.”

  “It does. Anyway, that’s what we’re doing now—not focusing on having to wait.”

  She nodded. “Right.”

  “Then we agree?”

  “That this is an idle conversation designed to make the wait more bearable? Yes, definitely.”

  He laughed. “So who the hell cares if lobsters blink?”

  “I don’t. I’m just saying—”

  “No, don’t. You’re arguing for the sake of arguing, which, I might add, is a waste of time.”

  “Not necessarily.” She spoke airily, but he knew she was goading him and enjoying their pointless discussion as much as he was. “Arguing can be highly productive, even when there’s no need or hope of victory. It sharpens one’s communications and logic skills and—”

  “And thank God we’re next in line.”

  They sat at a table overlooking the street, Page’s back to the window, and debated the specials, shark being among them. Page settled on simple broiled scrod, Chris on salmon, and they ordered a bottle of dry white wine. Chris noticed that between their kiss and her baiting him, most of her rich, burnished-loo
king lipstick had rubbed off. Her lips were full, and he liked the way she sometimes bit down on one side; it made him think of taking a nibble himself.

  Their wine and a basket of crusty rolls arrived. Page broke a roll in half and skipped the butter. Chris shook his head at her as he slathered his roll with two pats of high-fat, cholesterol-rich, one-hundred-percent pure creamery butter. He figured what the hell, he was having heart-healthy fish for dinner, wasn’t he? “Don’t you have any vices?”

  She surprised him by laughing. “An attraction to chocolate and—” She waved her fingers. “Never mind.”

  “You can’t say never mind. It’s not fair. Anybody who doesn’t put butter on her rolls and color-codes her office and admits she has not one but two vices...well, I have to know.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I’m a relentless journalist, remember?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “I may not be on the job, but the personality traits are still there—curiosity, nosiness, an undauntable need to know, all of which, mind you, get worse when I sense someone’s trying to avoid telling me something I ought to know. You don’t want me to be unbearable all evening, do you?”

  “I don’t mind. You’re naturally unbearable.”

  He was fairly sure she was teasing him, but with Page B. sometimes it wasn’t easy to tell. But he persisted. “An attraction to chocolate and what?”

  She bit into her roll, having to tear a little with her teeth to break off the crust. To Chris, it was very erotic. He had to look away for a second and focus on the flood of traffic on the wide street outside. When he looked back at her, she was concentrating hard on his question as she licked a few crumbs off her lower lip. Deadly. Chris almost forgot what the hell he’d asked.

  “Unsuitable men,” she said.

  “An attraction to unsuitable men? You?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. And apparently they have an attraction to me, as well.”

  “And that’s a vice?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Exactly what’s an unsuitable man?”

  “Unsuitable men cross all economic, political and social lines.”