With a smug smile, Shannon strutted away.
Pauline, her eyes flashing with vengeance, leaned closer. “That b-i-t-c-h has his private number.”
“Too bad I don’t,” Rebecca sighed. She glanced at the fistful of phone messages Pauline handed her. “George called again. We keep missing one another. He’s sweet and sexy, but sometimes dull. I must talk to him about our dinner date at RL’s. Harry called already? We’re supposed to get together for lunch. I need to call to confirm that.”
Pauline leaned even closer, her green eyes bright. “Kate told me David Sumner was at Allen’s last night and you met him. She said he was very handsome. Is he really dreamy?”
“As my granny would have said, ‘Dreamy is as dreamy does.’ So far he’s been a nightmare for me.” Seeing Pauline’s face pale in concern, like it did when she was worried, Rebecca smiled and shrugged. “He was . . . attractive. As Tim says, we’re all on the same team, so I’m sure we’ll all have a fabulous time working together once we get to know him better. Which I can’t wait to do. I’ll talk to you later.”
Fifteen minutes later, Rebecca’s phone rang.
“Oh, I hope I did the right thing. I know you’re eager, so I put through the number you wanted,” Pauline whispered.
Surprised, Rebecca laughed. “Sweetheart, that’s fine. Thanks.” She settled back in her awful chair to vent to Harry. “Hi, darling. What a night! After you dropped me off I didn’t sleep a wink. Why did you let me drink so much champagne? Of course I needed it after my ordeal.”
“Rebecca?”
David’s deep voice shot through her like a hot spike. She gripped the edge of the desk to keep from falling off the ancient swivel chair. Instinct screamed to hang up. Common sense warned he had caller ID. No choice but to brazen it through again.
“I’m sorry, David. The office lines must have gotten crossed.” She tried to sound as sincere as possible.
“Evidently this happens quite often.”
If Shannon causes problems for Pauline, I really will hurt her.
“Au contraire,” Rebecca purred through clenched teeth. “Pauline is absolutely indispensable. Everyone who calls remarks how fabulous it is to talk to a real person. The Daily Mail switchboard is the lifeblood of the organization.”
“I appreciate your passionate input.” He sounded amused.
Good. End it with humor.
“Fabulous! Again, I’m sorry for the confusion. Good- bye—”
“Rebecca,” he interrupted.
Her heart raced in dread.
Surely he won’t have the bad taste to mention last night?
“Last night Shannon shared information with me about certain letters that have come to the newspaper concerning your recipe column.”
“My goodness, has Shannon been getting my fan mail?” She glanced around, glad Kate couldn’t see her childishly sticking her finger down her throat.
“Not exactly. I have no doubt there will be more letters about Wednesday’s chicken breasts.”
Is he laughing at me? Dear God, what is he plotting against me now?
David tried to school his voice, but every time he thought about the chicken breast flipping around on a dance floor, he laughed.
“We need to discuss your current work in the Food section,” he finished as smoothly as he could muster.
“David, I’d love to discuss my current work with you.”
Insincerity dripped off her every syllable, and again David tried to keep the amusement out of his voice. “Where would be the best place to talk about food with you?”
She laughed lightly. “Over a delicious dinner, of course.”
From what he’d now seen of Rebecca, he knew she was thinking the most outrageously expensive restaurant in town. Time to spring the trap.
“Thank you, Rebecca. I look forward to sampling your cuisine. When do you want me?”
“Want you?” She gasped.
“Us. Dinner. Your place.”
He smiled, listening to her take a deep breath. “I know you’re terribly busy. I understand if tomorrow won’t work for you.”
Satisfaction rushed through him. “Seven o’clock?”
“Perfect! I look forward to it. Good-bye.”
David flipped closed his cell phone and lay down on the bed in his suite at the Peninsula hotel. Smiling, he stared at the ceiling, remembering the way Rebecca had tried to handle him by suggesting dinner and how he’d outmaneuvered her by getting her to cook for him. Now he only had to wait until tomorrow night to test his theory about Rebecca Covington, gourmet chef. Not that it really mattered if she was for real or not, since her column was a moneymaker for the newspaper. But what did matter was that he was so intrigued he’d invited himself to dinner at her place.
He stood and paced to the windows to look out at Chicago spread below him. It was a beautiful city with the lake, like a blue sea, lapping at the beaches. More beautiful than he’d thought it would be.
Like Rebecca.
He’d wanted to meet her because she kept surprising and amusing him. He hadn’t expected to feel such desire when he’d first seen her across the room last night. God knew there had been many women the last three years, but he couldn’t recall one who had stirred such an instantaneous reaction; he couldn’t take his eyes off her or stop wanting to touch her.
He rammed his hands into his pockets, a dead giveaway he was confused by his reactions. Ellen used to tease and warn him about it before every important business meeting. And dinner tomorrow with Rebecca was business. That was his plan, and he would stick to it.
As arranged, Rebecca arrived at Harry’s at noon to plot strategy for the rapidly approaching celebrity cook-off. His kitchen had been restored to pristine perfection after her three-hour ordeal preparing Baja Chicken for Wednesday’s column.
She pulled out the food-spotted, frayed-edged recipe card from her IU college days for “Not Low-Cal Triple Orgasmic Fudge Pie.” It was the only thing she’d saved from her married life. The rest she’d burned or given to the Salvation Army.
“This can’t be messed up,” she promised. “Not even by me. But we need to practice. Do you get the Food Channel on your cable? We could watch and learn.” Talking a mile a minute, she ransacked his neat cupboards, looking for a pie pan. “If we undercook the pie it has a yummy molten center. If we overcook it tastes like the chewiest delicious brownie you’ve ever consumed. The only possible place for error is with the shell.”
At last she pulled out a pretty blue and white painted ceramic pie pan. “We can cheat and use an already prepared crust in this. If we’re careful, no one will ever know we didn’t make it ourselves.”
The zealous glint in Harry’s eyes worried her. “No, sweet pea. We won’t cheat.” He removed the pan from her viselike grip. “I’ll prepare the pastry.”
“But, Harry, you don’t cook, either!”
“I’ve been experimenting since we started this madness. Trust me.” His Roman-god face, with cheekbones women would kill for—or have Harry implant for them—grew rigid with concern. Gently, he clasped both her hands. “Now tell me what’s truly bothering you.”
“David Sumner is coming to dinner tomorrow night,” she blurted out at last.
“My God, how did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me immediately!” He led her to a chair and she plopped down on it, putting her elbows on the glass breakfast table and burying her head in her hands.
“I was too embarrassed to tell you. Maybe it was the dreaded hormone fluctuations that all women fear that made me so stupidly slow. Simple truth. He outmaneuvered me!”
“I’d say so. For this, you need food, sweet pea.” Meticulously, he arranged Brie, stone-ground crackers, and organic red seedless grapes on a plate and put it on the table in front of her. “Champagne?” he asked, holding up a chilled bottle of her favorite.
She shuddered. “My head is still pounding from what I drank last night. Besides, I need to keep my wits about me. If I have any wits left.�
��
Harry sat down across the table from her and popped grapes into his mouth, watching while she fed her stress. She crammed cracker after cracker piled high with cheese into her mouth.
“What are you planning to do?”
“Originally, I planned to be stricken by a serious, non–life threatening but extremely contagious illness at noon tomorrow.”
Harry lifted one dark eyebrow.
“I know. I know. Too obvious. Besides being cowardly. So I called Cathy Post, hoping to get more info on David that could help me.”
“Perfect. Cathy knows her dirt. Anything interesting?”
“David mourned his late wife for two years and dedicated two parks in her honor for children in depressed city areas. He volunteers at both of them. At one he’s the Little League coach.”
Harry stopped eating. “Noble, don’t you think?”
It was noble; in fact, she’d felt a strange powerful warmth in her chest when Cathy told her. “Then he started dating women the same age as his sons. So get that grin off your face, Harry. Tomorrow night is strictly business with little old me.”
“Are you a tiny bit piqued if that is true?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“I’m a lot worried about what is left of my career. Why did he maneuver dinner at my place? Does he somehow know I can’t cook? Is this his way to finally get me off the paper? I can’t figure him out, and if I can’t figure him out, how am I ever going to convince him to give me back ‘Rebecca Covington’s World’?”
Harry rolled his long-lashed eyes. “The other day in this very room you declared David was like every other CEO you know. And that you would dazzle him with your brilliance. That he’d be dough in your lovely, delicate hands. Your insecurities are showing.”
Wounded, she stared at him. “Best friends are supposed to make best friends feel better when they’ve been horribly wrong.”
Smiling, he clasped her fingers before she could reach out for the last comforting bite of Brie. “You weren’t wrong. You can dazzle him. By being your charming, wonderful self. I can read sexual vibes. You’re what the man wants.”
“The man wants dinner, Harry.”
He leaned closer. “Then we’ll give him dinner. He would be charmed if you served him one of the recipes you’ve whipped up for the new column. How about the quesadillas?”
She closed her eyes against the horrible memory. “Never! I’ll never make those ghastly things again. Although . . .” She opened her eyes to find Harry smiling at her. “The idea of using recipes from the column appeals to me. I can do the spinach soup ahead. If we start early enough we can make Baja Chicken. Maybe serve it over rice?” At his nod, she became inspired. “I’ll finish with a selection of fresh fruit and whipped cream. I’ll impress him and use my granny’s Staffordshire china and the family silver. Thank you, darling. I’m already feeling better.”
“What are best friends for?” He pulled her to her feet. “Now we must go shopping. We have to cook the chicken here because of your unfortunate oven situation. The rest can be done on your stovetop.”
Rebecca meekly followed along as Harry prowled slowly through Whole Foods, the way she did at Saks Fifth Avenue. She felt guilty that she hadn’t confessed everything.Why didn’t I tell Harry about that five- second-too-long hand holding with David?
Because there is nothing to tell, she sternly reminded herself. The aha moment, the sensual current drawing her across the room to David, the tingle along every nerve ending when they touched were all a figment of her stressed imagination. Brought on by oxygen and sleep deprivation. But then what was that thrill on the telephone today? She shook her head in denial and stuck to her story. Tomorrow night was strictly unavoidable business with David Alan Sumner. The first step in figuring out how to convince him to give her back her real job.
Chapter 10
Rebecca zipped up the third little black dress she’d tried on for this dinner with David and stared at herself in the full-length mirror on the inside of her closet door.
Why is it when I’m dreading an event it comes way too quickly, but when I’m eager, time creeps along? Tonight I can’t figure out if I’m eager or anxious.
“All I know is I want this dinner to be over with!”
“Are you talking to me, sweet pea?” Harry called from the kitchen.
“I’m talking to myself,” she shouted back.
“Bad habit.” His laughter drifted to the bedroom, along with delicious aromas. “Hurry! It’s almost seven o’clock.”
“Don’t I know it,” she spoke again to her reflection. She slammed the closet door.
This is as good as it gets. I don’t care if the dress is too tight or too low cut, because it’s too late.
Disgusted, she slipped into her Brian Atwood slingbacks, clasped Granny’s pearls around her neck, and fastened on the matching earrings.
When she walked into the kitchen, Harry picked up a beautifully wrapped package from the counter. “You look perfect. Here is the finishing touch.”
“Harry, you shouldn’t have.” She kissed his cheek and opened the present. “An apron.” Casting him a rueful glance, she laughed. “Exactly what I’ve always wanted.”
“Exactly what you need for tonight. Let me help you.” He flicked the folded apron open so she could see the deep ruffle along the bottom.
Once he’d slipped the apron over her head and tied the wide sash in the back, she studied the pristine white cotton. “It looks new. Shouldn’t it have a food spot or two on it?”
“Donna Reed’s aprons were always clean. Or was it the Brady Bunch cook?” He shook his head. “One of those early domestic goddesses on Nick at Nite.” He studied her with his surgeon’s eye before pushing some short hair behind her left ear. “There. A little disheveled from preparing dinner for the media mogul. Now I must go. Wouldn’t do to be caught in the kitchen. Remember, be yourself. He’ll be enchanted.”
The minute Harry and his optimism were gone, Rebecca started fretting again. She wandered around the condo making last-minute adjustments. Since it was one of those rare perfect fall nights in Chicago, she opened the doors to the narrow terrace.
We’ll have drinks out here.
Harry had re-created the table setting from a picture in one of his late aunt Harriet’s Carolyne Roehm home- living books. He’d used Granny’s antique linen tablecloth, the large blue Venetian glasses, and the blue and white Staffordshire china. In the center he’d placed a white soup tureen full of dahlias in reds, ranging from Bordeaux to champagne. At the base of the large tureen, he’d mounded red grapes and plums. Rebecca backed away, not wanting to shift even a napkin, spoon, or flower for fear of messing up its perfection.
She wandered back into the kitchen.
There’s something wrong with this picture. Too neat if David comes in here.
She lifted the lid on the soup, dipped in the ladle, and dribbled a few green drops along the burner.
Much better.
Still unsatisfied, she opened the refrigerator and took out the bowl of whipping cream for the fresh strawberries. Two smears on the countertop looked right.
The phone rang and, her heart pounding, she answered it. “Mr. Sumner to see you, Miss Covington,” her doorman, Malcolm, announced.
“Please send him up. Thanks.” She just had time to put the whipped cream back in the refrigerator and light the candles on the table before her doorbell rang.
It feels like my heart jumped into my throat. Stop. I’m not afraid of anything.
To prove it, she opened the door on David’s first ring.
He didn’t look quite as much like Pierce as he had at first glance across Allen’s dance floor, but he possessed enough movie star looks to make any healthy woman’s pulse flutter.
Even if he is the enemy.
“Hello, David.” Feeling breathless again, she ushered him into the tiny mirror-lined foyer.
“Hello, Rebecca.” His mouth curling in his slow, sexy smile, he handed her a large b
ouquet of pink roses in various stages of bloom and a bottle of chilled Cristal champagne.
The dimple dented his cheek as he removed the white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket. “May I?” he asked and touched her cheek. “Dessert, I presume.”
His touch sent hot shivers along her skin. She was surprised the chilled champagne bottle she clasped didn’t start sizzling. Catching sight of her flushed face reflected again and again in the mirrors, she tried to regain control.
“Yes. Dessert.” She twirled away. “Make yourself comfortable on the terrace. I’ll bring you a drink.”
Stop trembling! Put roses in water. Fix his scotch on the rocks. Open champagne. Pour into glass. Place drinks on tray. Like a robot, she went through the motions of a good hostess while wrapping her mind around the fact she’d definitely felt something real when David wiped whipped cream off her cheek.
Pulling herself up to her full height, she held the tray carefully in front of her and marched out of the kitchen. David had followed orders and retreated to the narrow terrace. When he saw her, he took the tray and placed it on the small iron-and-glass table next to the large pot of golden mums.
He handed her the champagne flute and held up his scotch. “I’m impressed. You know my drink.”
Their eyes connected and Rebecca felt light-headed again.
Did I eat today?
“You’d be surprised what I know about you, David.” She tried to sound mysterious while sending a silent thanks to Cathy Post. “If you stand right in this spot”—she shifted so they could change places—“you’ll have a view of Lake Michigan.”
“That flash of blue between the John Hancock and Water Tower Place? Nice.”
God, he has a great smile.
For a second she lost her train of thought. It came searing back when they both moved at the same time and her breasts made contact with his arm. “Dinner is nearly ready. Make yourself at home.”
She escaped back into the safety of the kitchen.
Get a grip.
She plopped down on a chair, closed her eyes, and practiced five deep yoga breaths. After the final ohm, she poured herself another glass of champagne and gulped half of it. Better. She flew around the kitchen, pulling out her granny’s bowls and cream from the refrigerator, while drinking champagne.
Talk of the Town Page 8
