She got her Kahlua and cream and retreated to a quiet spot on the side of the room. She watched the maneuvering going on in various groups, with this business person trying to woo that one, and women and men alike trying to hook up with some target of the opposite—and, in a few cases, same—
sex.
Did she miss it? She pondered that as she sipped her drink. It had been only a few weeks, but she noticed a lack of tension in her middle, like a tightly coiled spring, ready to sproing into action at the slightest provocation. She didn't have to be "on" anymore, prepared to snag a new client or investor or, occasionally, partner.
One of those former partners caught her eye and saluted her with his own drink. Sophie gave a friendly but non-40
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inviting smile back. She'd engaged in an occasional dalliance with a few members of The Club, most of them typical playboys living off their parents' money or their parents'
nepotism, looking for the next good time. They were fun for a few days or weeks, but not what she was ultimately looking for.
Biff stood near the front of the room and raised his hands for attention. Only a few words pitched slightly higher than the general noise quieted the group. Sophie had to be impressed by his presence. He oozed leadership.
When he spoke, explaining the purpose of the Cornwall Foundation and thanking the attendees for their support, Sophie closed her eyes and tried to determine if Biff and Parker were the same person.
Biff's voice seemed less deep, less rich. Parker's was more mellow, less self-congratulatory.
She didn't know why it bothered her so much to think they could be the same guy. Parker was just a voice in her headphones. She knew nothing about him. She wasn't interested in dating him.
Liar, a voice—her sister's voice—echoed in her head. Okay, so if she was mildly interested, and Parker was Biff, there was no hope. Biff was so not her type, she thought, studying him.
Okay, he was cute. Despite his polish, his hair usually did its own thing and his suits often—like now—were a bit askew.
Remembering him on the golf course, she acknowledged that Polo did stretch rather nicely over his lean pecs, and though he didn't have much beef on him, what he had was well done.
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Geez, she couldn't believe she was thinking like that! The fact remained, Biff Cornwall was a playboy. He dated a variety of beautiful women frequently, used his money to have fun, and passed them off when he was done.
Not that Sophie had heard many complaints. She could see three women from where she was standing who had dated Biff in the last year. Two were happily married—one already pregnant—and the third preparing the wedding of the year for next month.
Weddings. A pang hit Sophie in the chest, hard enough to annoy her. She deposited her glass on an end table and snuck out the French doors that led to the garden.
The cool air was typical of the Boston spring. The sun sat just above the horizon, lighting memories of its warmth earlier in the day. Sophie wandered among the gilt-edged flowers, feeling finally at peace. Except for the unexpected chill that pebbled her arms.
"Kinda cool to be out here in that dress."
Sophie closed her eyes. It was That Voice, accompanied by warm, rough hands on her shoulders. Hands that made That Voice seem like a triple-A battery. The golden electricity running through Sophie now was nine-volt.
She turned, stunned to see Biff. Hadn't she just decided he wasn't Parker? But what about the voice? The electricity? She narrowed her eyes at him.
"Who are you?"
His eyebrows formed an unconvincing V over his oh-so-concerned eyes. "Sophie, are you okay? I'm Biff Cornwall. You turned me down flat a few weeks ago?"
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"I know who you are. I mean, I know who I know you are.
But are you someone else, too?" God, she sounded like Darlene the Dimwit. But she refused to get flustered and because she maintained eye contact, she saw a flash of maybe-guilt in Biff's eyes.
"Have you been calling my show?"
He shrugged. "Have you had any callers named Biff?"
It was a non-answer, but Sophie didn't feel inclined to pursue it. If she didn't, she could hold on to the illusion of an exciting stranger at least a little longer.
"Why won't you have dinner with me, Sophie?" His voice was low in the deepening twilight and she shivered again. It drew his attention to her chest, where her flimsy dress clearly exhibited her hardened nipples. The shiver worked its way downward, a phenomenon new to Sophie. She fought the urge to accept his invitation and explore these new sensations.
"I told you, Biff, you're not my type." Maybe he wouldn't hear the wistfulness in her voice, she thought. She hugged her arms as the breeze picked up. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going back to my date." She turned back toward the building.
"Your date has abandoned you for a twenty-two-year-old socialite." Biff dropped his jacket over Sophie's arms and she instantly warmed. His scent wafted up from the expensive fabric and she couldn't help but inhale deeply. She couldn't date someone whose scent she didn't like.
She loved Biff's scent.
His hand pressed her gently toward a marble bench. "Sit with me a minute."
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"Why?" But she sat.
He shrugged. "Just to enjoy the night."
The garden was silent and Sophie acknowledged that it was nicer to be out here with someone than to be here alone.
Biff stretched out his legs in front of him. Sophie leaned her folded arms on her crossed knees and wondered how the hell she could find a penny loafer and black dress sock sexy.
"So tell me how you got to be a VP at such a young age,"
Biff said.
She pushed back her usual annoyance at the question.
She'd heard it way too often. "It's a young company," she said. "MMT was a technology startup before technology startups were cool. Luckily, Dave and Chuck had some business savvy and built a strong company instead of playing around with other people's money."
Biff snorted and she wondered if he thought that was a dig at him. Well, it could have been, so she smiled over her shoulder and continued. "I started out in customer service, an area that has very high turnover. I moved up to manager in only six months when our old manager defected to a competitor. I was good at appeasing people, so they just kept promoting me. Which meant.... "She paused when he leaned forward and took her hand. Just lightly held her fingers between his fingertips and thumb, but enough to set off a sparkler in her hand.
"Which meant," he continued, "more and more of the same old stuff."
"Right." Hm. He was insightful. Interesting twist on the playboy stereotype. "And it got old. Very old."
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"Which is why you now Rant and Rave," he finished for her, making her think again that he probably was her favorite caller.
"Now I Rant and Rave. You listen?"
"I caught a show."
"What did you think?" For some reason, his answer was more important than any of the people's inside.
He shrugged. "It has potential. Maybe people will call you instead of shooting guns on the freeway."
"I hope so. I also hope the second half of the show will help people focus on the positive."
"If they listen that long."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"People tend to listen to the carping and ignore the gushing."
"My callers do not gush!"
He just looked at her. Sophie remembered one woman on her second show who called about her neighbor's grass. She had definitely gushed.
"Okay, one gushed. But it's not always like that."
"Too soon
to tell. But it might go better if you intersperse the ranting and raving."
"I thought of that," Sophie admitted. "But I'm afraid no one will get to rave. I really don't want four hours of complaining. That's what most general talk shows do."
Twilight had settled firmly over the garden by then, and Sophie reluctantly stood. She slid Biff's coat off her shoulders and handed it back. "Thanks for the loan."
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"You're welcome." He took the jacket, but didn't stand.
"So, will you have dinner with me?"
Sophie considered. One dinner was no big deal. She'd done more than that with playboys who had more notorious reputations. But she liked Biff for some reason, and he represented everything she didn't want in a potential partner.
There was no sense starting something casual at this point in her life.
"I'm sorry, Biff. It was a nice, friendly conversation, but you're still not my type."
He stood and jerked on his coat. "Okay, fine. I won't ask again."
If he'd been anyone else, she would have said she'd hurt his feelings.
* * * *
"Good afternoon, and welcome to Rant and Rave. I'm your host, Sophie Macgregor, and today's theme is pets. What do you hate about your pet? What do you love? Call now and voice your opinion to someone who really wants to hear it."
She rattled off the phone number, now memorized, and went on.
"We're going to try something new today. Instead of two hours of Rant followed by two hours of Rave, we'll switch back and forth. One hour Rant, one Rave, then one Rant, then one Rave. Let us know what you think of the new format via e-mail, snail mail, or telephone. Melina, who's our first caller?"
"Joe is on line one."
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"Hello, Joe, what's your rant?"
"Hi, Sophie, how ya doin'?"
She tried to keep her sigh inaudible. Every caller asked how she was doing. "Fine, Joe. Thanks for asking. What do you want to rant about today?"
"Cats."
"Cats. Can you be more specific?"
"What more is there to say? I mean, cats are rude, man.
They ignore ya, unless they want you to pet them, then they bug ya until you've got fur flying all over the place. Yeah, that's another thing. Fur all over the place."
"I don't have a cat, but isn't there anything good about having one? Isn't it nice to have a warm kitty curled up next to you while you watch TV?"
"Huh. Sometimes. Mine bites, though. And the stinkin'
litter box. My wife doesn't clean it every day, ya know? On account of that toxoplasmo whatever thing cat stuff has. You know. She has to wear gloves and stuff."
"Wait. You're wife is pregnant?"
"Yeah."
"And you're letting her clean the litter box?"
"Heck, it's her cat."
Sophie wavered between lecturing and not badgering listeners. But she couldn't let it go.
"It may be her cat, Joe, but it would be better if you cleaned the litter box. You don't want the baby to have birth defects, do you?"
"'Course not." His voice turned plaintive. "Can't I just get rid of the cat?"
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Sophie laughed. "That's between you and your wife.
Thanks for calling. Next caller."
"Sophie, this is Marie. I can not believe that guy. He has got some nerve, making his woman clean that litter box."
Marie was the first of many callers who had something to say about Joe and his potential parenting skills. The ranting evolved very satisfactorily until the end of the first hour.
Sophie broke for a commercial and ran out to grab some water.
"Great show, Soph!" One of the salespeople waved at her.
"Thanks! You selling time?" One of the signs of a successful show was sponsors and advertisers wanting space on it. They wouldn't know ratings on her show for a while, so they were feeling their way.
"Slowly but steadily."
"Great."
She ran back into the studio in time to explain again that the second hour was for raving.
Sophie knew who the first caller of the hour was before Melina opened her mouth. The mischievous look on her new friend's face gave it away. Sophie felt her own face—and other parts of her body—warming.
"Parker, welcome to the show."
"I promise I won't talk about golf today."
"Hallelujah!"
He chuckled. "My complaint is of a different sort entirely."
Sophie tsk-tsked. "Parker, I'm hurt. You weren't paying attention. We're raving this hour. You have to compliment, not complain."
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"Well, good. I was having a hard time coming up with a complaint about you."
She laughed delightedly, a carefree, casual sort of laugh that perfectly suited the comment. Inside, though, she had completely melted. The groan she fought to contain filled that now-empty space.
"Really," Parker said, "I guess since the topic of the day is pets, I should start things off with a rave about pets. But I don't know what to say."
"Oh, there's plenty to say. Pets lower high blood pressure, de-stress the most stressful days, provide companionship to lonely people, give kids an opportunity to learn responsibility—"
"—ruin neighbors' lawns, chew your good shoes, leave presents where you don't want presents."
"We covered all that last hour. Come on, come up with something nice to say or I'll have to disconnect you."
"Let's see. Something nice to say about pets. Let me think."
Sophie heard a distinctive whine as he downshifted and knew he drove an expensive car. She'd been in enough performance vehicles to recognize the sounds. He was definitely rich.
The silence stretched. "Tell me, Parker, do you find pleasure in courting resistant women in twilit gardens?"
Oh, Lord, where had that come from? She had had no intention of confronting Parker or Biff with her suspicions, but the need to prevent dead air had loosened her control on her brain. Before she could recover, though, he responded.
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"Depends on the woman. And the circumstances. Are there pets around?"
"None."
"Thank God!"
She took the opportunity to redirect the subject. "So you don't like pets?"
"They're okay. My sister has a dog. A hot dog."
"A dachshund."
"Yeah, he's tiny. Named him Moose. He loves the kids, but take one step toward him and he goes flying up the stairs.
Coward."
"He sounds sweet. Dachshund's are my favorite, especially the miniatures. Can a dog get any smaller?"
Sophie saw that four minutes had passed. That was too much time for one caller when she had six lines waiting. And she was probably boring the listeners to death.
"Well, thank you for your call, Parker. It's always interesting talking to you."
"Ditto, babe."
"Babe!" She disconnected his line. "That guy needs some tutoring on political correctness. Not to mention a reduction in his flirting hormone."
She went on to other callers, but the short conversation stayed in her mind all afternoon and into the evening. It had almost been a "getting to know you" kind of chat. She wondered what kind of guy courted a woman on the radio.
A guy who wasn't her type?
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CHAPTER 4
Parker dissected their conversation the rest of his way home from New Haven, Connecticut, where he'd spent a few days on business. He had missed the first hour of Sophie's show before he came within range of the signal, and that had disrupted his plan completely.
She'd especially floored him with her question about courting resistant women in twilit gardens.
She was on to him.
On to what, though? What was he really trying to accomplish with these phone calls? A chance to get to know Sophie, let her get to know him, without their preconceived notions in the middle?
Okay, her preconceived notions. He'd been intrigued by her for a long time. She thought he was an empty-headed jerk who couldn't be serious about important things.
But he wasn't like that, and he wanted her to know it. The only way he could see showing her was anonymously.
Maybe he'd start sending her flowers at the station. Or...
He grinned, spinning into his parking garage with an extra flourish. He had just the thing.
* * * *
"Yes, Pamela, I think we can all agree that's rare. Thanks for calling. Our next caller—"
Sophie was cut off as the door opened, an action punishable by the honey-on-an-anthill torture. She stared at 51
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her boss when he came into the studio, making no effort to be quiet. She'd never seen such a gleeful smile on Stevie's face.
Mindful of the open mike, Sophie leaned back to it, keeping her eyes on the hole-punched box Stevie held. It was wiggling. "Sorry folks, we got distracted here a bit. Our program manager just came into the studio with something
... odd."
Stevie stepped closer to the guest mike. Sophie quickly flipped the "on" switch. "Sophie, a present just arrived for you, and I thought your listeners would like to hear you open it."
An ominous scratching sound came from the box. Stevie rounded the console and set it on Sophie's lap.
"Well, I'm speechless."
Melina cut in. "First time since the show began, I think.
No, wait. There was one other time, wasn't there?"
Sophie glared at her. She didn't need to be reminded of her glandular responses to their most frequent caller. "The present Stevie handed me is in a plain brown box, about the size of a picnic basket. It's very light. And it moves." She tugged at the interlocked flaps on the top of the box. "I'm opening the top."
What Sophie at first thought was a kitten burst out of the box, bounced off her shoulder, and landed on the counter next to her with three excited yips.
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