“Let me think about this,” he drawled. “A beautiful lady with long blond hair wants to proposition me over lunch. How can I say no?”
“You can’t.” She had made a bad choice of words, but gritted her teeth and somehow injected a smile into her voice. “I’ll meet you at the Brasserie Americaine at one o’clock tomorrow if that’s convenient.”
“Make it two o’clock, sugar, and I’m available.”
“By the way, I really enjoyed your question-and-answer session at the Rose Center,” she said, buttering him up now that she had him hooked. “You did a superb job of handling an unfriendly audience.”
He laughed. “So you noticed the atmosphere was somewhat strained?”
“Only for about three questions. After that, even Peter Burke couldn’t destroy the general good will.”
“Burke usually knows better than to confront me directly. I’m sure you were unable to resist reporting that little contretemps in your article.”
“Controversy sells,” Charlie said, stung by his unflattering assumption. The fact that she had included part of their dramatic confrontation in her article only made his insult worse.
“I can think of something else that sells even better, but we’ll talk about that over lunch,” he said, his voice slowing and deepening. “See you then.”
Charlie slammed the receiver down, making Major jump and Twinkle dash for the bedroom. “Sorry, guys. But that man is infuriating. And I have to be nice to him.”
“I can’t do this,” Charlie said, staring at the mirror. “I look like a hooker.”
She was wearing the white silk blouse the dry cleaner had salvaged after Major’s rescue and a straight blue skirt that stopped a modest couple of inches above her knees. The problem was her hair.
If she left it down, it looked like an invitation.
If she put it up, she lost the softening effect it might have on Jack’s attitude.
She rooted around in her dresser drawer and found a tortoise shell barrette. Scooping up the front part of her tresses, she draped them in loose curves over her ears and clipped them at the base of her neck.
“Half up, half down. Let’s see what you make of that, Jack Lanett.”
As soon as he saw her at the restaurant, his lips curved into a sardonic smile. Although his gaze slid down her legs appreciatively, all he said was, “Hello, Ms. Berglund.”
He must buy his polo shirts in bulk. Today he was wearing a navy blue one under a tan suede jacket with an expensively soft drape. She was tempted to reach out and stroke the jacket sleeve, but he shrugged out of the coat and dropped it over the back of his chair before sitting down.
The waiter took their orders and Charlie plunged right in. “I have a proposal for you I think could benefit both of us.”
“Ah, now it’s a proposal,” he said as he buttered a slice of French bread. “I’m not interested.”
She disregarded his interjection. “I’ve got two editors at competing publishing houses bidding to publish a book about Sahara-Mars and how you found it. Think of what the publicity could do for your business.”
“I assume that you would be writing this book.”
“Yes. So you would have a sympathetic author…”
Jack raised an eyebrow at that, but Charlie ignored him. “And I’d include a chapter on the buyer of the achondrite,” she threw in his meteorite’s classification to impress him, “as well as discussions of its significance by scientific authorities. I think it could hit the Times bestseller list. You’ll be the best-known meteorite hunter in the world.”
“Has it occurred to you that I might not want to be the best-known meteorite hunter in the world?” he said.
“Why not?”
“I value my privacy.”
“This book is about your business, not you.” Charlie nonchalantly shifted so her hair streamed down over the front of her shoulder. “As a businessman, you can’t afford to pass up such a great opportunity—”
He leaned across the table and twisted her hair into a makeshift rope, using it to gently but inexorably pull her face close to his. “As a businessman, I prefer to conduct my transactions with a certain amount of discretion. A single article in the New York Times is one thing; an entire volume on the subject is another. I’m not interested in your proposal,” he said decisively, then softened his tone as he tugged her just a little closer. “How about trying a proposition?”
She couldn’t help herself; she looked at his lips.
“That’s more like it, sugar,” he said, flicking his eyes downward too.
For an insane moment, Charlie was tempted to close the distance between his mouth and hers, just to see if his kiss was as deep and rich as his voice. As she shifted infinitesimally, the tines of a salad fork jabbed her forearm, blessedly bringing her to her senses. “Please let go of my hair.”
He did so instantly, and she nearly fell back onto the banquette. While her hair uncoiled and she collected her scattered wits, her companion sipped his water, watching her over the rim of the glass.
“I would rather have your cooperation,” she said with a resolve she was far from feeling. “But I can write this book without it.”
“I wouldn’t try that if I were you.” He put his glass down with such force that several drops of water splashed onto the tablecloth. “I would make it very difficult for you to talk with my clients and associates.”
“What are you afraid I’ll find?” Charlie asked, genuinely puzzled by his attitude.
“Nothing at all. I’m just protecting my clients’ anonymity and my ability to travel freely.” He picked up the butter knife again, absently twirling it between thumb and forefinger. “You strike me as an intelligent and fairly decent human being.” Then he added, “For a journalist. I’m surprised you would pursue a subject who is clearly unwilling.”
“We all have our obsessions. One of mine is rescuing stray animals. Another is pestering antisocial meteorite hunters.”
“Well, I won’t be a meteorite hunter much longer. After the auction, I’m retiring so your book will be out-of-date.”
“Not at all. What better time to reflect on the highlights of an illustrious career?” Charlie pointed out.
“There won’t be time for basking in past glories; I plan to return to school.”
“To school?”
“I never finished college. Hell, I never even started college.”
The waiter interrupted the conversation by delivering lunch. Charlie jabbed a shrimp with her fork and jumped back in. “You seem to know just as much as the scientists who authenticate your rocks.”
“It doesn’t matter. You need those initials after your name.” He was neatly cutting his steak when he asked, “So what drives you?”
“Me? The usual: money, fame, immortality.” Charlie wasn’t interested in a change of focus.
“Tit for tat, Ms. Berglund. Give me a real answer.”
He put down his flatware and waited.
Charlie found another shrimp that needed spearing while she considered her answer. “I’m tired of writing short pieces that disappear into the recycling bin within a month. I want to write something with some depth, to make a more lasting contribution.” That sounded pretty darn good.
“Cut the B.S. and try again, sugar.”
She almost choked on her shrimp.
“Fine,” she said after a hasty gulp of water and a brief inner debate. “You really want to know? I’m trying to adopt a baby from China as a single parent. I’ve been in the process for over a year, and my new social worker is worried about my occupation. I need to prove I can earn a living without going on potentially risky expeditions. How’s that for a reason?”
“It has the merit of being truthful,” he said, as he picked up his fork again. “However, I’m having a hard time picturing you with a dirty diaper in one hand and a baby bottle in the other. You seem better suited for climbing Mt. Everest or flying fighter jets.”
Suddenly, she was back in the
hospital bed after her third miscarriage with her ex-husband Greg’s voice searing through her brain. “Face it, Charlie, you just weren’t meant to be a mother.” Lowering her gaze to the remains of the salad on her plate, she felt the pain of her loss all over again. But she was meant to be a mother! She could change diapers and boil bottles as well as anyone. She just couldn’t give birth herself.
She raised her eyes to challenge Jack straight on.
“I’m not willing to wait any longer for this. I want that baby, and I’ll do whatever is necessary to get her. You can either help or hinder me, but I’m going to write the book.”
I believe her, Jack thought as he walked back to his apartment.
He even admired her refusal to be turned aside from her goal.
But adoptive maternity struck him as a strange goal for a woman who had once been the cover girl for Xtreme Adventure magazine. She could just as easily be the cover girl for Maxim and fulfill a lot of male fantasies, he thought with a wolfish smile. Yet she had looked downright stricken when he had paid her what he considered a compliment. What the hell was that about?
He shrugged away his own question; it didn’t matter.
He didn’t trust her to be content with just the information he fed her, and he couldn’t afford to have a determined journalist poking around in his personal history. No matter how confidential records were, a really good reporter—and after some research, he had concluded she was good—could get into them. So he needed to come up with an alternative solution for her problem, something that would eliminate all thought of the book from her mind. He shoved his keys back in the pocket of his jacket and bypassed the entrance to his building, heading instead for a long, contemplative walk in Central Park.
“You didn’t really expect him to cooperate, did you?” Isabelle asked as she ladled carrot-ginger soup into two china bowls in Charlie’s kitchen.
“I suppose not,” Charlie sighed. “But I didn’t expect him to threaten me with stonewalling my other sources either. You know, all my instincts are telling me he’s afraid I’ll find out something he doesn’t want the world to know.”
“Like shady business dealings?”
“I’m not sure, but I couldn’t find even a hint of that in my research. I think it’s something more personal.”
“Did you use your hair?” Isabelle asked pointedly.
“Not enough, obviously,” Charlie said with a grim laugh. “I can’t tell if he has real intentions along those lines, or if he’s just trying to distract me.”
“Call his bluff.”
“What? You mean jump into bed with him? I’m not that desperate for the book.” The telephone rang. “I’d better get that in case it’s my agent,” Charlie said, pushing back her chair.
“May I please speak with Charlotte Berglund?” Jack’s voice seemed to slide through the phone like melted butter.
“Hello, Jack. Have you changed your mind about the book?” Charlie’s brisk tone counterattacked his seductive drawl.
“Maybe. I have to do a little more thinking first. Will you be free to talk tomorrow at about four o’clock?”
“Four o’clock? Sure, call me here,” she said, quickly flipping her calendar open to double-check. Fortunately, nothing had to be canceled.
“I’ll talk with you then, sugar.” He hung up.
“Right.” She walked slowly back to the kitchen trying to absorb the sudden about-face. And trying to ignore the little frisson of pleasure she felt every time he called her “sugar.”
“He’s phoning tomorrow at four to talk about the book,” she told Isabelle.
“The hair worked!”
Six
When Charlie drove into Winter Circle the next afternoon, she noticed a big, boxy green Land Rover with Wyoming license plates parked halfway around the cul-de-sac. As she carried her purchases into her house, she wondered who had visitors from so far away. Major was lying in the swath of sun by the back French doors and stood up to greet her. Twinkle watched from atop the refrigerator.
“Have you guys given up on the fireplace rug?” she asked, giving the dog a pat. Inspired by the glorious spring day, she had bought a pink geranium in a plastic pot for the back porch and walked out to put it on the tile-topped table.
“Nice view you have here.”
She yelped and dropped the pot, making Major jump out of the way.
“My apologies,” Jack said, rising from the rocking chair he had been sitting in. He bent down to scoop up the pot and hand it back to her with a slight bow. “We did have an appointment.”
“You’re early, and I thought you were going to call me.” Charlie hugged the pot to her chest in an attempt to subdue her racing heartbeat.
His smile didn’t help her. The dimple was out in full force, and he was wearing a polo shirt faded to the exact shade of his eyes. Even his short sleeves bothered her because they drew attention to the play of muscle in his forearms.
“Oh no, sugar. A proposal needs to be presented in person.”
“What kind of proposal is that?” she asked as she pretended to inspect the geranium for damage.
“The usual sort: a proposal of marriage.”
“Right,” she snorted, centering the pot on the table with great precision.
As she turned, he reached out and took both of her hands in his. “Ms. Berglund, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She stared at him for a moment. “Has radiation from your space rocks scrambled your brain waves?”
“I see gallantry is wasted on you.” He released her hands.
“It was a pretty bad Rhett Butler impersonation.” She crossed her arms and tucked her hands safely out of his reach. “What did you really come to talk about?”
“Marriage.”
“Right. And then you’ll tell me you were abducted by aliens who experimented on your mind—”
“Charlie, I need and intend to keep your pretty nose out of my private affairs. I figure the best way to do that is to provide you with a reliable income to show your caseworker. The easiest way to do that is to marry you.”
“You have a very odd view of marriage if you think a wife keeps her nose out of her husband’s affairs,” she replied lightly, although she was beginning to think he wasn’t joking.
“This is merely a convenience for both of us; a mutually beneficial business partnership, if you will,” he said.
“All right,” she agreed, to humor him as she narrowed her eyes to give him her most astute businesswoman look. “How reliable is the income of someone who makes his living selling rocks that fall out of the sky?”
“I’ve made some investments in things other than rocks,” he said with an edge in his voice. “I don’t live entirely on my income from meteorite hunting anymore.”
A returning fishing boat honked, and Charlie absently raised her hand to wave a greeting.
“In fact, my investments are good enough that I would want you to sign an agreement waiving any claim to my property in the event of a divorce. Which, by the way, we can get in about eighteen months without any difficulty.” He sat down and stretched his legs out, tilting the rocking chair back with the ease of a man who has solved all his problems.
Charlie overcame the urge to stomp on one of the rockers to knock him off balance. “You’ve thought this through, I see.”
“Planning is one of my strengths.” He smiled.
“Have you planned on hanging your clothes in my closet and showing up when the social worker comes for the home study?”
“Is that necessary?”
“Do you think I can just announce I’ve acquired a husband without producing one? And you’d have to go to China with me to pick up the child.”
He stood up and came close enough to her that Major rumbled a soft growl.
“I’m not going to strangle her, dog, despite the temptation,” he muttered. “You can put some of my clothes in the closet, and I’ll meet the social worker. I have contacts in China so the trip wo
n’t be wasted.”
“I thought you were retiring.”
“I might freelance for Miguel.”
“You’re actually serious about this?”
“Deadly serious.” Then the molasses was back in his voice. “You know, I’m not such a bad bargain as a husband.”
“You have your good points,” she said, stepping backward to slowly scan him from head to toe.
“And you don’t even know me yet,” he murmured, moving close again.
Major wedged his body between them, and another fishing boat tooted.
“Are you on speaking terms with every goddamned sea captain on the East Coast?” Jack asked, as Charlie turned away to wave even more enthusiastically than usual.
“I’m sort of the unofficial welcome home for the fishermen. They like having someone notice their return.”
“They like having a tall blonde notice their return.”
Charlie decided to get the discussion back to business. She took two long steps away from him before she turned. “Let me get this straight. You’re offering me a…a marriage of convenience in exchange for what exactly?”
“For dropping the book idea permanently, and telling the editors to drop it too.”
“I can’t guarantee they’ll do that.”
“I’ve seen your powers of persuasion in action. You can convince them I’m an unsuitable subject for a book.”
“I’ll do my best.” Charlie shook her head and leaned back against a wooden column. “This is the strangest offer I’ve ever had.”
“It’s better than the chief’s sister-in-law, two camels and a tent.”
He was smiling again, and Charlie felt the corners of her mouth turning upward in response. “That’s not a bad deal,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to ride a camel and a tent would come in handy.”
“But the sister-in-law only had three teeth and made the camels look good.”
He sauntered toward her, eyeing her in a way that made her wish her shorts weren’t so short and her blouse weren’t so thin. Bracing a hand on the column above her head, he treated her to the unfamiliar experience of having a man tower over her.
Nancy Herkness Page 6
