Last Chance at Love

“Surprised?”

She nodded. “I am, indeed.”

He winked. Voluntarily or not, she couldn’t tell. “Yep. I was born in Reed Hollow, Maryland, about a mile from the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. I was wondering when you’d get around to asking. Couldn’t be that you intend to stick to my present daytime activities, as you promised?”

She glanced down at her long, perfectly manicured fingers. “As a man of the world, you ought to know the folly of whetting a reporter’s appetite. The obvious is far less interesting than that which is obscure or hidden.”

She felt the tension in him, as one feels a speeding object just before it hits, and wondered at his anxiety. “Don’t get antsy. I promise to write nothing but the truth.” She watched in astonishment as he withdrew.

“Another person’s truth isn’t necessarily yours to tell. A man’s privacy is sacred.”

She refused to give quarter. “Public figures have to forgo some of their cherished privacy.”

He eased into the corner, away from her. “And the public has a right to know, damn the individual and what disclosure does to him. Right?”

Stunned, her breath lodged in her throat, and she stared at him. When she regained her equilibrium, she told him, “I’m not a monster, and I never write lies. Never.”

But her words evidently didn’t placate him, for he stared straight ahead, his expression grim. “That’s more than I’ve come to expect from reporters. Some of you can twist the truth to the point that...that love of country seems like a crime. I want to see your text as you go along, and if at any point it’s out of line, this deal is off.”

“In your dreams, mister,” she sputtered. “Not even my editor sees my copy until I’ve finished it.”

“We’ll see about that” was his dark reply.

Allison figured she’d better check in with her boss, though as always she dreaded talking with him.

“Jenkins.”

“Just checking in, Bill. We’re at the Drake.”

“We? Now you’re talking. Squeeze everything out of him. I’ve never yet seen a man that couldn’t be had if a woman played her cards right.”

She swallowed hard. Didn’t he ever elevate his mind? “I called to let you know where I am. My room number is eleven-B, and I believe Mr. Covington is in sixteen-H.”

She imagined his look of incredulity when he said, “You’re joking. I gave you credit for more than that.”

“I hope I didn’t misunderstand what you said, Bill.”

His snort reached her through the wires. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m in the business of scooping other papers. Play it any way you choose. Just bring me a good story, and if you find out that the guy smokes opium or sniffs coke, it had better be in your story.”

She didn’t know why she laughed, because his words hadn’t amused her. When she could control it, she asked him, “Have you ever met Jacob Covington?”

“No, and never wanted to. Why?”

“He’s a gentleman. If he’d heard your reaction to our room arrangements, he’d probably cancel this deal; he doesn’t trust The Journal. If you want this story, you’d better ease up and let me handle it my way.”

His long silence told volumes, but she waited. “I’ve been in this business thirty years,” he said at last, “and you’re a lamb born yesterday, but you know it better. Do what you please, but you get me that story just like I want it.”

A sense of foreboding seeped through her, and she wished she hadn’t called him.

While Jake met privately with his editor, Allison reviewed her notes in the publishing company’s waiting room. Keeping her mind on her work proved difficult; the friction between Jake and herself worried her because she sensed that they had on their hands an attraction that could erupt into full-blown passion. And she didn’t want that, at least not until she’d turned in her story. It was never far from her thoughts that she’d lost her first job because she’d fallen for Roland Farr, on whom she’d been assigned to write a story. She hoped Jacob Covington didn’t have any secrets and that, if he did, she didn’t find out about them, because whatever she discovered was going in that story. After covering for Farr, a gesture that had almost ruined her life, she had learned a painful lesson.

Chapter 2

Allison watched Jake fold his papers and prepare to leave the store after the first book signing. “You certainly know how to work a crowd,” she told him. “I never saw so much easy charm in my life. How could you smile nonstop for three hours?”

She supposed it was human to appreciate compliments, but his broad grin and warm flush suggested that her remark meant more to him than she’d anticipated.

“When people say nice things to me, I’m a sweetheart,” he offered in an apparent attempt to cover his embarrassment. Then he winked, not once but twice. “A real pussycat. Try me; you’ll like me.”

She had to laugh. This man had many sides to his personality, and every element of it fascinated her. “Try to stay humble, Jake,” she teased. “It won’t be easy, I know, with hundreds of women lining up for a glimpse of you and the chance to own your unreadable signature. But try. Otherwise, you might sail right up into the clouds, and I’ll be unable to reach you.”

This won’t be easy, she cautioned herself, as he continued to smile with hazel eyes that gleamed with pleasure. Worse still, she had to finesse his mesmerizing gaze while the scent of his tangy cologne teased her nostrils. Well, she was a big girl; she’d just make herself ignore it. Fat chance. Could that wink possibly be beyond his control, as he’d said? Built-in sex appeal, she thought, when he winked twice—a half smile playing around his full bottom lip, reinforcing his impact.

“You can reach me anytime you want to,” he assured her, responding to her comment. “And if you think you’re having problems finding me, just let me know and I’ll tell you exactly how to get to me. Come to think of it, you don’t need any advice about that.”

Her gaze took in his rough masculinity, set off with those mesmerizing eyes, rich tan skin, and thick black wavy hair. She feigned displeasure.

“Don’t you ever stick to the subject? No matter what I say, you manage to give it a double meaning.”

His left shoulder lifted quickly, as though by reflex. “I got where I am by taking advantage of every opportunity, and I haven’t found a reason to break the habit.” He stared directly into her face. “Oh, yes. And you’ll find that I’m a patient man. I’m willing to wait for what I want, but that doesn’t mean I’m not busy ensuring that I get it. If you’re ready, we can leave.”

He’d just given notice that he controlled his life and a good deal of what happened to him, and he’d apparently had more success at that than she’d had. She looked around, glad for the opportunity to release herself from his gaze.

“Let me get that bag of books I bought,” she said. “They’re behind the counter over there.”

The light pressure of his fingers on her arms sent heat spiraling through her body. God help her if she was going to react that way every time he touched her.

“I’ll get them,” he said, and left before she could reply.

“How many did you buy, a hundred?” he asked as he walked back to her with the bag. She reached for it, but he added her laptop computer to his burden and started off.

“Wait a minute. I can carry my stuff,” she called after him. He was not going to treat her as if she were helpless.

He stopped, turned, and looked at her, an expression of incredulity masking his face. “Allison, if you think I’m going to walk up Madison Avenue with a woman who’s struggling under thirty or forty pounds of whatever, while I carry my four-pound briefcase, you’re a few bricks short of a full load. Please be reasonable.”

“I’m not going to let you treat me as though I’m an incompetent little something or other. Hand me my things, please.”

He smiled in that special way of his that seemed to bless everything around him. “You have to realize that my father didn’t let my mother lift anything heavy, and he taught me to be protective of her and all other women. I can’t ignore my upbringing just because you’re out to prove you’re the equal of, or better than, any of The Journal’s other reporters. I’m carrying this stuff, and if you don’t like that, next time don’t bring it. What do you say?”

“Okay.” She said it grudgingly. “But I like bossy people about as well as you like contentious ones. And you don’t have to make such a big thing out of this, either. I wouldn’t want you to disobey your parents.”

“What?” His deep laughter rolled with merriment. She loved the sound of it, and if she knew how, she’d keep him laughing.

“I’m thirty-five years old,” he reminded her, “and at this age, I obey selectively. Does this mean you’re going to stop bickering with me and let us be friends?” The gleam in his eyes told her she’d be foolish to react, that he had her number and needled her out of devilment.

She laughed, though she was less assured than her manner suggested. “Bees will stop stinging long before we get chummy, pal.” If only she could be sure of it.

His gaze sauntered over her but, apparently not satisfied that his eyes had telegraphed his message, he told her, “Lie to the world if you must, but tell yourself the unvarnished truth. Self-deception can be dangerous.”