Confidential: Expecting!

“Sorry.” She shook her head and, after a sip of the Merlot, added, “As much as I’d like to help you out—not to mention, keep other reporters away—I can’t reveal my sources.”

He nodded sagely. “Bad form?”

“Right up there with a magician giving away the secret to how he saws his assistant in half,” she said with sham seriousness.

His smile turned boyish and was all the more charming for it. “I’ve always wanted to know how that’s done.”

“I do,” she couldn’t help bragging. “Just after college I was assigned to do a feature on a guy who did a magic act at a local nightclub. After the interview, he showed me.”

“But you won’t tell me, will you?” Logan guessed.

“And ruin the illusion?”

“Right.” Logan chuckled. “So, are you hungry?”

“I’m getting there,” she replied casually.

In fact, Mallory was famished. She’d barely picked at her lunch, and breakfast—a toasted bagel with cream cheese eaten at her desk just after dawn—was a distant memory now.

“Good. I went ahead and made dinner.”

Her mouth actually watered. “The marinated flank steak you mentioned at the luncheon?” When he nodded, she said, “Do you mean you actually cooked it here?”

“I cooked the meat topside on that portable gas grill, and the rest was prepared below deck.”

The meal he’d described earlier seemed the sort one would make in a gourmet kitchen, so her tone was dubious when she asked, “You have an actual stove down there?”

He smiled. “Quarters may be a bit tight, but you’ll find my boat has all the amenities of home.”

Why did that simple sentence send heat curling through her veins?

“A-all?” she stammered, then cleared her throat. In a more professional tone, she inquired, “How is that possible? I mean, this thing is just—what?—thirty feet long.”

“Thirty-one, actually. But you’d be surprised what can be fitted into that amount of space using a bit of ingenuity. Want a tour?”

“I’d love one,” she said, even though the idea of moving below deck with him suddenly made her nervous. It wasn’t Logan who made her wary. Her concern had more to do with herself. Story, she reminded herself for what seemed like the millionth time since meeting him.

Luckily she was given a reprieve. “Can you wait until after dinner?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “I’m in no hurry.”

Mallory sat at the table and let Logan serve her since he seemed to have everything under control. More than under control, she decided, when he reappeared from below deck a few minutes later carrying two plates of artfully arranged food. The meal looked like something that would be right at home on the cover of Bon Appetit.

“Wow. If this tastes as good as it looks, I’ll be in heaven.”

She meant it. Even though unmasking Logan’s qualifications in the kitchen would never earn her a Pulitzer, much less her editor’s forgiveness, it was hard not to admire a man who could whip up a five-star meal aboard a boat in the late afternoon heat and barely break a sweat as evidenced by his dry brow.

Logan settled onto the chair opposite hers. “Thanks.”

“Mmm. Heaven, definitely,” Mallory remarked after her first bite of the marinated meat. It melted in her mouth like butter. Afterward, she raised her glass. “I have to toast the chef. I’m impressed.”

“That’s quite a compliment coming from you. I get the feeling you’re not the type of woman who is quick with the accolades.”

“Only when they’re earned.”

He smiled and sipped his wine. After setting it aside, he said, “Then, I can’t wait until you taste the cinnamon apple torte I made for dessert.”

“That good?”

“Better,” he assured her with a wink that scored a direct hit on her libido. “Forget accolades. You just might be rendered speechless.”

“That would be a first.” She laughed. “But then, you’ve already proved you’re a man of many talents.”

“Yes, and I’m looking forward to introducing you to another one of them later.”

Heat began to build again. “Oh?”

“The sail.” But Logan’s crooked smile told Mallory he knew exactly which direction her thoughts had taken and that he enjoyed knowing he could inspire such a detour.

As their meal progressed, the conversation veered—or was it steered?—to her personal life. Mallory didn’t like to talk about herself, but as a reporter she’d found that divulging a few details about her past often helped her sources loosen up. So, when he asked if she was a Chicago native, she told him, “No. Actually, I’m not a Midwestern girl at all. I grew up in a small town in Massachusetts.”

“That explains the flattened vowels.” He smiled. “What brought you to Chicago?”

Nothing too personal here. So she said, “College. I attended Northwestern on a scholarship.”

“And then you were hired in at the Herald,” he assumed.

“Eventually. I spent the first three months after I graduated working gratis as an intern in the hope the editors would notice my work and offer me a full-time job. At the time, even though the Herald had no posted openings in its newsroom, competition in general was fierce.”

“You wanted to be sure you had a foot in the door. That was very industrious, if a bit risky.” Still, he nodded in appreciation. “What did your parents think of your decision to work for free?”

She sipped her wine. “It’s just my mom and she thought I’d lost my mind.”

“Why would she think that?”

Laughter scratched her throat. “I didn’t mean that literally, Doctor.”

“Good, because I’m not on the clock. Well?”

More than being direct, his gaze made her feel…safe. That brought heat of a different sort. She felt as if she could tell him anything and he wouldn’t judge her the way her mother always had. And still did.

“My mother thought I was being a fool. She wanted me to be financially independent and she didn’t see how working for free was going to get me anywhere.”

“Reasonable goal,” he allowed.

“Yeah, except it was a mantra she beat me over the head with after my folks divorced.”

“I…I guess I thought your father was no longer around. When I asked what your folks thought, you said it was just your mom.”