The Baby Connection

“With you?” Noah Stone gave her a friendly once-over. “Oh, I’m down.” He was clearly teasing, but sparklers went off in Mel’s stomach all the same.

The blonde gave her the evil eye. Who the hell are you?

“I’m your driver,” Mel clarified, her cheeks a bit hot. She’d jumped at the chance to escort the J-school graduation speaker to his hotel, but didn’t want anyone to think she was propositioning the guy.

Cálmate, chica. Keep your dignity. She was no silly fan girl. She’d just graduated with highest honors and had a job at a prestigious newspaper, starting Monday. She and Noah Stone were now colleagues. The short drive ahead gave her precious minutes to glean secrets from a journalist at the top of his game.

Noah’s reporting was incisive, searing, brilliant. She knew that. What she hadn’t known was how flat-out hot he was.

Ay, Dios.

His publicity photos didn’t convey the knowing gleam in his caramel eyes, the friendly tweak of his mouth that let you in on a private joke, how he pulled you close with his voice, and that small dimple that peeked out when he truly smiled. The guy was mid-thirties, but looked more her age, twenty-five, and—

“Happy to meet you, uh…?” He paused, waiting for her name.

“Mel. Mel Ramirez.”

“A pleasure.” He offered a firm grip, warm and solid. “So you’re going to tuck me in?”

Tuck him in. Oh. Wow. She sucked in a breath. He’d read her as okay with a friendly come-on. Good. “More or less,” she said, determined to match him, flirt for flirt.

“I vote more. You?”

The question stalled her thoughts, so she was relieved when Paul Stockton, one of her professors, approached, buying time for a comeback to occur to her.

“Torturing one of our top graduates?” Professor Stockton shook his head in mock disapproval. The two men had been J students at ASU ten years before. Professor Stockton told stories about Noah Stone in his classes. Even as a student, Noah had been known for risk-taking and relentlessness.

“I hope not.” Noah shot his gaze to her, concerned. “Was I out of line, Mel?”

“Not at all.” She smiled.

“This whole show has thrown me off my game. My good friend here asks me to be his fill-in speaker, then introduces me like I’m some celebrity.”

“You don’t think a Pulitzer means star status?” Paul asked.

“I do my job, that’s all. I got lucky with a few stories.”

“It was great you could fit us in before Iraq,” Mel said. On Monday, Noah would start his embed with the last of the troops in Iraq. Professor Stockton had convinced him to detour to Phoenix to speak to the graduates of the Walter Cronkite School of Communications as a personal favor.

Noah turned to her, as if surprised she knew his plans, so she continued, “And what you said about self-censorship being more dangerous to investigative journalism than shrinking news staff was important for us to hear.”

“I was quoting Carl Bernstein, not me.” He smiled.

“Congratulations on the job, by the way,” Paul said to her. “You’ll like it at Arizona News Day. The pay’s modest, but the circulation’s huge and some pretty big names cut their teeth there.”

“You, for instance,” Noah said. “You won, what, two Virg Hills?” The Virg Hill was the top journalism prize in the state. “Which was why National Record was hot to hire him.”

“You got me that job, Noah. Don’t be modest.” National Record was the magazine Noah worked for.

“And then—poof—you torpedoed your career.”

“He means, I got married and started a family,” Paul said.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Noah added.

“Man plans, God laughs.” Paul shrugged, clearly not bothered by his friend’s jabs. “And now I get to spend time with remarkable students like Mel.”

“I’m jerkin’ his chain,” Noah said. “Paul’s wife and daughter are great. They put me up last night. Or, I mean, put up with me.”

ASU had paid him an honorarium and hosted two nights at a hotel, she knew. He’d evidently come earlier to spend time with Paul.

“You made Cindi laugh, which she needs these days. The guesthouse is yours anytime the in-laws aren’t using it.”

He nodded, then homed in on Mel. “So you nailed a job already?”

“Yep. I start Monday. I’m a photographer.” The award-winning alternative weekly had a rare opening in the art department. “It was your recommendation that got me there,” she said to Professor Stockton. “Thank you again.”

“I only got you the interview. Your portfolio got you the offer.”

Noah’s gaze seemed to linger on her face, then he glanced at the dwindling crowd. “So, Paul, if you’re okay with me cutting out, I’d like to take Mel up on her offer of a ride to the hotel.”

“No problem.” Paul paused. “Good luck over there, Noah.”

“Thanks.” The two locked eyes for a quiet moment, then hugged farewell.

Noah watched Professor Stockton walk away. “They don’t come more solid than that guy.”

“He’s a great teacher. Everyone loves him.”

“No doubt.” He drew his attention to her again. “So where were we? Waiting for you to vote on tucking me in, I believe.”

Her long-neglected libido voted yes, oh, yes, but the rest of her had some discretion.

Noah stood close and looked even closer, so clearly interested that if he were interviewing her, she’d want to spill her guts…or take off her clothes. Settle down, muchacha. You’re his driver. Nothing more.

Yet. Oh, she was tempted. Mel had put herself through school by working full-time at a department store photo studio, which left little time to date. Sex was a misty memory.

Picking up her hesitation, Noah’s dark eyes went gentle. “I’m being obnoxious. Your job is to drive me to my hotel. If you’d do that, I’d be grateful, Mel.”

Damn.

“Do you have bags?”

“Right here.” He reached under a table for a scuffed black leather backpack covered in stickers from different countries. When he placed a friendly hand on her back, the touch burned through her blouse like a brand.

You melt from one touch now? she chided herself. Clearly, her sex drought had gone on too long.

“You coming to the bar?” a girl from her internet journalism class called to her from a group, eyeing Noah as though he’d be dessert.