Fast Courting

by Barbara Delinsky

  Nia knew that she had to do something to break the verbal deadlock, for her own composure’s sake if not for purposes of her mission. For a woman who usually controlled an interview, she felt sadly deficient. “Uh,” she looked around, then gestured toward the chair she’d left in such fury earlier, “would you mind if I sat down?” Where had that fury gone? It seemed to have been supplanted by an unexpected perplexity. For the first time she asked herself who Daniel Strahan really was. Without doubt, her curiosity was piqued.

  The object of her musings nodded his permission, waited for her to sit, then walked around his desk and slowly slid into his own chair. His eyes barely left hers. “Now, what can I do for you, Miss Phillips?”

  “It’s Mrs. Phillips,” she corrected, not knowing why she had added that when it was truly irrelevant. “But I’d rather you called me Antonia.”

  “Mrs.?” His gaze flicked to her bare left hand in obvious challenge.

  “I’m divorced.”

  He nodded, lifting steepled fingers to his chin in a pensive pose accentuated by the dark, dark brown of his eyes. At that moment he reminded Nia more of a thinker, a man of letters, than an athlete. She wondered what he did in his spare time. Then she chided herself; she, of all people, knew that there was precious little spare time in the world of professional sports. Aside from the off-season, which was often filled with camps, appearances, practices and the like, the professional athlete lived a life on the run. Hadn’t David’s life with the Breakers been much like that? There had been basketball, basketball and more basketball. Then, when that was over, there was always basketball.

  “David Phillips.” As though he had reached a profound conclusion, Daniel’s deep voice bluntly offered up the very name that had been in Nia’s mind seconds earlier.

  She stiffened. “Excuse me?”

  “David Phillips. Were you his wife?”

  “David Phillips?”

  “He covered the team during most of my playing years. I vaguely recall hearing something about a wife…” He frowned, confused, then shook his head. “Forget I said that. It couldn’t have been you.”

  Overcoming her initial shock at his mention of David, Nia yielded to curiosity. “Why not?”

  Daniel spoke more softly, but without hesitation. “For one thing, he was much older than you are. For another, he was too much of a ladies’ man to be married to someone with your good looks. If he’d been married to you, he never would have wandered.”

  The compliment did nothing to take the edge off the bluntness of Daniel’s assessment. Nia had learned the hard way about David; even now, so long after the divorce, the sting of his infidelity seared her. Whether it was the haunted cast of her eyes or the sudden pallor of her skin that gave her away, she was never to know. But Daniel instantly sensed his faux pas.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he offered in a surprisingly gentle tone. “He was your husband?”

  “He was,” she whispered.

  “I am sorry, Antonia.”

  “For what?” She mustered her poise and produced a hollow laugh. “For my being married to David or for your having pegged him so accurately in front of me?”

  “Both.” He took a deep breath, hesitated, then slowly smiled. “Did I pronounce the name right this time?”

  More than anything that had come before, Daniel Strahan’s smile took her breath away. It was like a magic door, inching open to reveal a wealth of warmth beyond. There was an honesty about it, as well as equal shares of strength and vulnerability. Above all it was human—a far cry from the superstar image she had been prepared to meet.

  Momentarily tongue-tied, she struggled to recall what he was talking about. “Uh, yes, you said it right. Actually, my friends call me Nia. It simplifies things.”

  “Antonia is beautiful.” His eyes were as intense as they’d been before, but with a wholly different sheen. “It fits you.”

  Against her will, a pink flush crept to her cheeks, adding innocent pleasure to her face. Just as his praise brought a return of her color, it bolstered the ego that was always rebruised at mention of David. Either Daniel Strahan was an expert at handling the press or, contrary to her original assertion, he was a whiz with women. It occurred to her that he had read her perfectly, understanding in those brief instants what she must have suffered. Once more she wondered about his private affairs and the course of events that had led to his being “eligible.” Which reminded her of her purpose. This was as good a time as any to broach it, while his defenses were down.

  Self-conscious beneath his continued stare, she cleared her throat. “Mr. Strahan, as I said, I’m with Eastern Edge.” At her mention of the magazine the shutters closed, rendering him the carefully controlled head coach once more. “The reason I’ve tried to reach you…the reason I stopped by today…is that we’re running a feature in the June issue for which we’d like to interview you.”

  His voice was kind but firm. “I don’t give interviews.”

  “Of course you do!” she argued, her spirit miraculously and fully reinstated. “You give televised interviews before and after every game, not to mention your talks with the sportswriters.”

  His gaze was level. “That’s what I’m paid to do.”

  “How does that differ from my request?”

  “You tell me,” he commanded. “Is it basketball you’re writing about?”

  Earlier he had seemed to trap her physically. Now the snare was intellectual. “No.”

  “Then…what?”

  “You.”

  His smile this time was a ghost of the other, a mere formality. “So, we’ve come full circle. I repeat: I don’t give interviews.”

  Nia had no intention of accepting defeat so easily. While she had originally fought with Bill against the feature, here she would champion it for all she was worth. “Any special reason?”

  “Many.”

  “How about one,” she coaxed him softly.

  Dropping his hands to his lap, Daniel leaned back in his chair, as though protectively immersing himself in the surrounding memorabilia. “My private life is my own. It has no place here.”

  “You don’t think that your fans would like to hear about it?”

  He inclined his head. “I’m sure they would.” His terseness bore a finality Nia was committed to resist.

  “You don’t enjoy pleasing them?”

  “On the contrary. I do enjoy pleasing them. On the court. That’s what they pay for when they buy a ticket. That’s what the ownership pays for when I sign a contract. I’m a basketball coach. The public can ask the basketball coach any question it wants; the man, however, is off limits. There’s nothing in my contract that says I have to bare my soul to the media.” A muscle in his jaw worked, betraying the vehemence behind his sober vow.

  “Do you go by the strict letter of your contract? No give, here or there?” Her naturally inquisitive nature had taken over; the reporter had emerged, whether Daniel Strahan liked it or not.

  He did not. His voice lowered, weighed down with tension. “Not when it comes to my personal life.” His eyes were as dark as they’d been at the start; all warmth had vanished. “Tell me,” he grew more pensive, “have you ever been interviewed?”

  “Me?” She smiled, turning a slim forefinger on herself. “Uh-uh. I’ve always been on the other side of the notebook, thank goodness.”

  “You’re relieved?”

  “Yes,” she answered quickly, then wised up to another trap. “I love asking questions. I love incorporating the answers into an intelligent piece.”

  “But suppose, just for the sake of argument, someone wanted to write a feature on a successful feature writer. How would you feel?”

  Nia sensed the coiled readiness in her opponent and chose her words carefully. “If that successful feature writer was me? Very flattered.”

  The corner of his lip tightened at her evasion. “Would you give the interview?”

  “That would depend on the soliciting pu
blication.”

  “What if it were Eastern Edge?”

  Nia couldn’t help but begin to share his subtle enjoyment of the verbal exchange. “I work for Eastern Edge. They’d never want to interview me.”

  His sigh was an exaggerated one. “Obviously. Take any other magazine of a similar caliber. Would you give the interview?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “Well, think about it now. Would you?”

  “I suppose it would hinge on the purpose of the feature.”

  The rhythm of the dialogue was broken by Daniel’s silence. His eyes held hers, locked in wordless challenge. Nia was a willing captive, held prisoner by her own curiosity as much as by his visual command. He was certainly a far cry from the egocentric character she’d anticipated interviewing when Bill had first given her the assignment. There was a keen mind at work here and a depth of personality to be plumbed. But Nia sensed also that Daniel Strahan would, in fact, refuse her; that thought made her all the more determined.

  “You really won’t do it, will you?” she asked quietly.

  He knew precisely what she was talking about. “No.” He leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair and propped a fist against his jaw. It was a more nonchalant pose, more relaxed.

  “Am I boring you?” she asked sweetly.

  “No.”

  “You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you? I understand that, with the hectic schedules you fellows follow, you grab sleep whenever you can.”

  “Did David tell you that?”

  It stunned her to realize that he must have. How else would she have known? Taking pity on her sudden alarm, Daniel ignored his own question as he shifted to a more attentive position.

  “It’s not necessarily true, at any rate. On the road, with midnight flights and periodic jet lag, your sleep schedule gets pretty messed up. The fellows often doze on the plane and take naps before games. But even though the schedule may be grueling for the players, it’s not necessarily hectic. There’s a good deal of free time at every stop. That can be frustrating in itself.”

  “Free time? Is there?” she asked, unaware that her mask of detachment had slipped again to reveal her own past personal involvement.

  “Sure.” He scrutinized her sharply as he spoke in a low, even pitch. “Most games are played at night. During the day there may be a practice or a team meeting or a film of the team we’ll be playing that night. But all told, there are hours at a stretch when each man is on his own.”

  Nia chewed the inside of her lip and frowned. That wasn’t exactly the picture David had painted over the years. He had spoken of the nonstop life, the sheer exhaustion of the team, its sportswriter included. She had always assumed…but she knew better now. David’s fatigue had been only in part a consequence of his work.

  A sudden movement jarred her. Looking up quickly, she saw that Daniel had risen from his desk and approached her. Her eyes held the question he brusquely answered.

  “Let’s go. Interview’s over.” He seemed abruptly and inexplicably stern, as though his patience with the media had come to a sudden end. She half expected him to clamp his fingers around her arm and forcibly lead her from the room. It was a surprise when he gently took her coat from her lap and held it for her.

  Slowly, she recovered, stood, and slid her arms carefully into the sleeves of the reefer. She was acutely aware of Daniel’s tall presence behind her. His hands rested fleetingly on her shoulders before he stepped back.

  Nia sent him a sheepish grin. “So I’m being kicked out?” She felt a light hand at her back and went with the movement toward the door.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “What?”

  “It’s nearly one-thirty. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Uh…I—I hadn’t really thought about it,” she stammered. She hadn’t. If her stomach had growled, she’d been too engrossed in coping with Daniel Strahan to notice. “But I really should be getting back to the office.”

  Daniel guided her down the hallway, retracing the path she had taken earlier. “Then you won’t have lunch with me?”

  “Lunch?” Her gaze snapped sideways and up, focusing on the strong features of her escort.

  “I do believe that’s what we were discussing.”

  “We were discussing the demise of this interview.”

  “Let’s discuss it over lunch.”

  “You mean,” she asked, more hopeful in an instant, “that there’s a chance you’ll change your mind?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  They had reached the straightaway that led to the exit. Daniel paced his stride to more comfortably match hers, yet Nia still felt winded. Perhaps it was hunger, after all.

  “Then what’s the purpose of lunch?”

  “I’m hungry.” He held the door for her to pass.

  “I don’t think you need me to deal with that,” she taunted as she moved by, too late catching the double entendre. A hand on her arm halted her.

  His voice was deeper, different. “I’d argue with you on that score if you weren’t one of them. But I like to keep the press under my thumb, not in my bed. It’s much safer that way.”

  For the first time Nia was aware of this man solely as a sexual being. As such, he was dangerous, dark and powerful. And his implication infuriated her. Throwing caution to the winds, she took the offense. “You take a lot for granted!” she seethed. “What makes you think I would jump into bed with you? Are you propositioned that often?”

  His jaw tensed. “It has happened.”

  “Well,” she said with a glare, “I don’t work that way! I don’t proposition men, for one thing. And, for another, you could no more get me near the game of basketball again than you could coax me into a pit of rattlers. I didn’t want this assignment to begin with!”

  From somewhere deep within she found the strength to pull her arm free of his grip. Driven by anger—at Daniel for having provoked her, at herself for having been provoked, and at Bill for having put her in the situation at all—she wheeled away and headed for her car at a fast clip. The March wind whipped at her hair, catching the edges of her coat and flaring them out to the sides. She had reached the car and was fumbling with the lock when the brass ring was taken from her fingers and those same fingers were enclosed in the pervading warmth of Daniel’s hand.

  “Let’s take my car,” he said with a firmness that brooked no argument and a gentleness that precluded protest. To her astonishment Nia found herself being led toward, then tucked into, the front seat of a sporty Datsun 280Z. Not knowing quite what to say, she remained silent while Daniel circled the car and slid behind the wheel. His grace was an extension of the coordination she’d witnessed on the court earlier.

  The purr of the motor was far smoother than her shaky mood. Staring out at the empty parking lot, she brooded. The self-satisfied, sexist overtone of his comment had rankled her, though she had to admit that her reaction had been unusually strong. What was it about Daniel Strahan that inspired such fire? Perhaps she felt threatened, she mused grudgingly; after all, he was more of a man than she’d come across in ages. Or was it the air of mystery about him?

  They were on a back road headed west before Nia forced herself to speak. “Where are we going?”

  “There’s a small place not far from here where we can get something to eat. Italian. OK?” He spared a mere second to dart a glance at her, otherwise keeping his eyes glued to the road, and missed Nia’s shrug.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, calmed by the steady motion of the car and the passage of luxuriant greenery by the roadside.

  “Taking you to lunch?” He paused. “I owe you.”

  Her head swung around. “For what?”

  In profile, there was an angularity about him, from the even plane of his forehead beneath its brush of dark hair and the straight line of his nose to the firm set of his lips and the squared-off angle of his chin. “For failing to return your calls all week and
causing you to make an unnecessary stop out here today. The least I can do is to feed you.”

  “Anything to keep the press happy, is that it?” she snapped, clinging to the last of her dissipating anger with something akin to survival instinct.

  Again, he shot her a fast glance. “No. Actually, this is more person to person.”

  Better that than man to woman, she thought. “But aren’t you afraid,” she couldn’t resist a jibe, “that in the course of a lunch you might inadvertently spill some little private tidbit that I’ll greedily snatch up?”

  “I trust you.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t. I may be with Eastern Edge as an editor, but first and foremost I’m a writer. A reporter, if you will. Don’t you know that reporters are slimy creatures who will seize upon anything for the sake of a story?”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re with Eastern Edge, for one thing. That magazine doesn’t print ‘tidbits’; it only goes in for complete, well-planned and skillfully executed articles.”

  “If you believe that, why won’t you agree to my interview?”

  He showed no emotion. “Because I have nothing to say.”

  “God, are you stubborn!”

  “No more so than you,” he stated as fact.

  “Then why in the world are we here?” Nia bristled. He had turned off the road and was now pulling up to a small group of stores, one of which was a charmingly sleepy-looking restaurant. “I didn’t ask to be taken to lunch. You can easily turn around and take me back to my car.”

  Daniel angled the Datsun into a space, stilled its motor and uncoiled himself to step outside. When he reached Nia’s side, opened her door and offered his hand, she took it. They were in the restaurant and seated opposite one another at a quiet booth before she was able to speak.

  “I have no idea why I do it.” She spoke half to herself, shaking her head in slow dismay. Her violet eyes clouded as they sought a solution.

  Daniel frowned. “Do what?”

  “Go right along with you…against my better judgment. It’s happened three times now in the span of an hour.” Her lips thinned. “I must be a masochist when it comes to men and basketball.”