After That Night

Sunset was over, but night had yet to claim the streets completely. The air was soft, full of the promise of rain and a dozen different city scents. They passed bookshops and travel agencies and restaurants too numerous to count. Honky-tonk music drifted out to them from a cowboy bar, beckoning the sinful.

Jenna drew in a deep lungful of air. “I love this time of day, don’t you? All the anxiety and tension you’ve struggled with all day suddenly seem rounded out and smoothed over.”

“Yes,” he said. “It does seem to put all the complexities of the day into perspective.”

She hadn’t meant to remind him of any earlier unpleasantness. To change the subject, she touched the top of her FTW file. “You know, I’m really not a journalist.”

“You’re not?” he replied with no attempt at all to sound sincere.

She pressed the file against her face, grimacing. “I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all you. Tell me I didn’t disgrace myself.”

“You didn’t. Regardless of the way it ended, I enjoyed it. I don’t think I’ve ever been interviewed in such an inventive manner.”

She turned her head to look at him, trying to read his features, trying to interpret the play of light and shadow on his face. The slight breeze had tossed his dark hair into a sexy, windblown tangle. She managed to swallow and find her voice.

“I’m an accountant,” she admitted. “A partner in the magazine, but a number cruncher at heart.” Briefly she explained why she’d been given the task of interviewing him, leaving out how desperately she’d tried to avoid the assignment in the first place. “Vic is going to scissor me up when I tell her there’s no article.”

“That’s hardly your fault.”

“True. Actually, I think it’s yours. We didn’t really get to finish the interview, you know.”

“I do business with several of the men that were on that list.” He touched the corner of her file. “One of them is about to announce his engagement to a very hot Hollywood actress. Maybe I could persuade him to give your magazine an exclusive.”

She halted abruptly. Turning, she looked at him in amazement. “Why would you do that for me? I mean, for us?”

“Because you’re right that we didn’t get to complete it. And because you deserve it,” he answered simply.

They traded a long, silent look. She had no idea what to say. A few people detoured around them. She must have swayed a little, because he stepped closer and took her arm.

When he pulled her into the stream of foot traffic and took her hand in his, she didn’t try to pull away. They continued to walk, hand in hand like lovers. The odd thing was how right and natural it felt.

Jenna’s senses were completely muddled now, afloat in rum-soaked, guilty delight. It wasn’t until they went through the revolving doors of the Belasco Hotel that she came suddenly back to earth.

“This is your hotel,” she said.

“Yes.”

Automatically she moved toward the direction of the hotel dining room. Mark steered her toward the elevators, instead. “Actually, I was thinking of my suite.”

She came to a dead stop and frowned up at him. “I can’t go up to your suite!”

“Why not? You were up there earlier.”

“That was different.”

“I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to feed you.”

“Oh.” She dropped her chin to her chest, thinking hard, then lifted her face to eye him with renewed suspicion. “No ulterior motives?”

“Not right now,” he said with a smile. He didn’t look a bit perturbed or offended. “Maybe later, after you’ve sobered up.”

“I’m not drunk. Pleasantly buzzed, maybe. But not drunk. So what’s wrong with going to a restaurant?”

“Nothing. Except…”

He glanced away, as though debating something, then turned back to her. “Look,” he said with a long sigh. “Believe it or not, upstairs is a dining room full of balloons, a huge spread of food, a waiter to serve everything and a chef who, by now, is no doubt pouting. Having dinner with me in my penthouse will probably save my life.”

Maybe she was more buzzed than she thought. None of his words made much sense. She settled on trying to sort through something easy. “Why do you have balloons in your dining room?”

“Because before this afternoon’s fiasco, Shelby had asked the hotel to plan a private dinner for the two of us. She evidently forgot to cancel it. Once I saw all the preparation going on, I just walked out. I sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to celebrate anything. Then I found you. Now I’m thinking it would be a shame to see it go to waste.”

The idea of spending more time in Mark Bishop’s company held a lot of appeal. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to do it surrounded by a bunch of party decorations meant to celebrate the engagement of this man to another woman. “A celebration?”

“Actually—” he grinned, and for the first time looked a little embarrassed “—today is my birthday.”

Taken aback, she stated sternly, “It is not.”

His grin became almost wicked. “You’re right—you are a lousy journalist. Check your file,” he said, tapping the folder that was clutched back to her breast again. Somehow during the course of this conversation she’d lost his hand. “My birth date should be in there. Thirty-three today.”

Quickly she flipped open the file and found the date on the back of his picture. She gasped. “Oh, my gosh, it is! Happy birthday.”

He lifted her chin with one finger. She thought she saw amusement in the gray depths of his eyes—not at her, but at the situation, possibly even at himself. “Now will you come up? Save me from self-pity? Not to mention a chef with a bad attitude and a meat cleaver.”

How could she refuse such a charming appeal? Caution flew away like a bird let out of its cage. “When you put it that way…”

The penthouse dining room was just as he’d said. The table was surrounded in a sea of burgundy and blue balloons, gleaming with cutlery and china that was finer than anything Jenna had ever seen, much less eaten from. The waiter snapped to attention the moment they walked in, and a few moments after Mark entered the kitchen, Jenna heard him calming the temperamental chef.

Trays of artfully arranged hors d’oeuvres covered the coffee table in the living room. From the look on her face, Mark must have realized how little she wanted to be part of Shelby’s elaborate plans for a celebration. He wisely suggested they skip the formal dinner and have a champagne picnic on the terrace. Jenna went outside, settled into one of the comfortable chairs at the patio table and kicked off her shoes.

A few minutes later Mark appeared with two huge plates in hand, followed by the waiter. In no time, a champagne bucket, place mats, glasses and cutlery were added to the table. The waiter disappeared behind the glass doors without a word.

The moonlight was sweetly romantic, but not very illuminating. While Mark popped the cork of the champagne, Jenna tried to make out what he’d brought her. Oysters still on their shell. Caviar-stuffed celery that she wrinkled her nose at. The rest was a mystery. Pretty to look at, but a little too fancy for her tastes.

Mark pointed to the various delicacies. “Citrus salmon. Red-curry braised duck. Crabmeat on avocado. Squab liver pâté.” He frowned, catching sight of her still-empty plate. “What’s the matter?”

“I make it a habit never to eat anything my cat would fight me for.”

He laughed and speared a marinated shrimp on his fork. “Let’s start with something simple and work our way up.”

They ate, sharing and comparing, and eventually Jenna’s nerves settled. Mark had a quality of quiet self-containment that made him easy to be with. They talked about everything and nothing, even the challenges she faced with her overprotective family. He didn’t try to force his opinions on her—a refreshing change from her relatives.

The Rum Blasters had worn off. She’d had only one glass of champagne, and she was pleased to see that he didn’t try to press more on her. It occurred to her that she’d told this man far too much about herself.

They both settled into a companionable silence and gazed up at the night sky. The moon was a pale, watery disk. Jenna had slid down in her cushioned seat and her bare feet were propped on an empty chair. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, savoring the moment, feeling relaxed.

“Do you want to move closer to the railing?” Mark asked from beside her.

She turned her head back and forth against the back of the chair. “Afraid of heights,” she said.